too many questions, causing too many ripples. This is just a warning to you — fuck off back to England and don’t come nosying down here again, or next time, you’re a dead bitch. Got that?’
He allowed her to nod her head.
‘ Good,’ he sneered. ‘But now that we’re here,’ he went on, ‘all intimate, no point in missing a chance, is there?’ He simply could not resist. He released her hand and reached down to unzip his trousers.
Bad move on his part.
Danny had no wish to discover what delicacy lay waiting behind his flies. Nor would she ever placidly accept being sexually assaulted. She would rather have died. She did two things simultaneously. Although his bandaged hand smelled awful, she opened her mouth and sank her teeth into it; she also grabbed a handful of sand and flung it into his eyes and followed through with a punch, though it wasn’t as rock-solid as she would have liked.
Loz screamed and rolled over, not knowing whether to nurse his hand or rub his eyes.
‘ You bitch! You bitch! You bitch!’ he yelled in agony, getting to his knees.
Danny had a surge of power and energy, resources tapped from the well of self-preservation. She smacked Loz hard across the side of his head, sending him sprawling. Then she really laid into him, screaming wildly, incoherently, savagely kicking him repeatedly about the head, ribs, guts and legs. He rolled with the blows, scrambling wildly to escape from the barrage, now having lost all the advantage.
Danny was remorseless in her attack, until Loz secured a foothold in the sand, dragged himself to his feet and ran away.
Danny watched him, her eyes afire, doubled over with exertion, unable to give chase. He loped on to the promenade like a wounded animal and disappeared up a side street.
When she had regained control of her breathing and heart rate, Danny found her handbag in the sand and liberated a cigarette from it. She lit it with dithering hands.
Now she knew for certain: she really had rattled somebody’s cage. She knew she should have reported the matter there and then to the police — but the thought of dealing with the Spanish cops filled her with dread. It would turn into a bureaucratic nightmare… if anything came of this, she wanted some English-speaking back-up behind her.
Terry Briggs was feeling worried. He checked his watch. Thirty-five minutes had passed since he’d driven away from Henry and Gunk. As he had pulled away, Henry had given a thumbs-up which, in the sign language the two undercover officers had developed between themselves, meant ‘call me in half an hour if I haven’t already made contact’.
Terry had twice tried Henry’s mobile but had not been able to make a connection. It was possible Henry’s batteries were down or that his machine was switched off — but only possible, not probable. A working mobile phone was a lifeline for U/C officers these days and only a reckless one would let the mobile become inoperative. Henry wasn’t reckless.
Terry had driven out of Rochdale and taken the road across the moors towards Blackburn. He had stopped close to a pub called Owd Bett’s.
Forty minutes, then forty-five passed. Not good.
Terry weighed up the odds of cocking the job up, but decided to drive back to the industrial unit anyway. He would think up some excuse for his return if necessary.
He did a U-turn and headed back towards Rochdale. He went into Healey Dell from the opposite direction and bounced down the road towards the industrial estate. As he turned off the road, he slammed on to avoid Gunk’s Jeep which careered out of the estate, slithering and sliding on the loose ground, no lights displayed. Terry caught a glimpse of Gunk at the wheel. There was a savage expression on his features as he threw the fourwheel-drive vehicle around. Then he was gone. With trepidation Terry edged the van across the bumpy ground towards the unit.
Henry’s XJS was parked in exactly the same spot.
Terry’s stomach churned.
Terry could see a light behind the shutter door. He reached under his seat and picked up the expandable baton secured underneath. With a flick of the wrist, he cracked it out to its full length. He switched the van engine off, leaving the headlights on, then stepped slowly down. All was quiet. He could hear nothing at first, then there was something, a sort of sobbing or moaning from inside the warehouse. He approached the side door, fear of the unknown gripping him, his chest palpitating. He stepped inside. Apprehensively with the tip of the baton he pushed the next door, the one which opened out into the unit.
At the sight before him, Terry’s mouth dropped open in shock.
PART TWO
Chapter Fifteen
Through his dubious contacts in the north of Lancashire, Smith had arranged accommodation for himself and Billy Crane the night before the robbery was due to be committed in a grotty, damp-ridden flat in the west end of Morecambe, an area of town with a shifting population, where crime and drugs were facts of everyday life and strangers did not stand out because everyone was a stranger. It was a good choice of location.
Billy Crane had been unable to get any real sleep. Three a.m. saw him up and about, making black coffee for himself after having to feed the electric meter with coins. He sat on the kitchen floor next to a cold oil-filled radiator, shivering as he sipped the brew.
He moved into what was euphemistically known as the living room. The sum total of the furniture was a double-seater settee with its wiry insides protruding dangerously, and a creaky hard-backed dining chair. There was a gas fire, however, which Crane lit cautiously with a match. He half expected the thing to explode and end the biggest day of his life with a spectacular bang even before it had begun. Without switching the light on, Crane dragged the chair up to the window, sat on it and rubbed the condensation away. The street below was dark and quiet.
His mind was alive, churning with endless questions. Had he done this, arranged that, seen to this, fixed that up? Going over every possibility and scenario in his mind, desperate to seek out the weak link in the coming hours. He was experienced and cynical enough to know there would be one, but he could not put his finger on it — other than to realise that, as in all crimes, the weak link was the human element. That is what always lets you down. The grass, the greed, the weakness, could never be truly catered for.
He rolled his read. His neck cracked.
A smile grew on his lips. He was unbelievably excited by the situation. He had thought he would never again turn to crime of this nature. Robbery was so old hat and very hard to pull off without getting caught that most big time operators like himself had turned to easier ways of making a living. And yet, actually committing a crime like this was better than anything; better than sex, better than the rush of a drug. It was the ultimate experience. Nothing could touch it. He curled his right hand into a fist and gave the air a little jab. ‘Yessss,’ he whispered behind gritted teeth. ‘Fucking good.’
A cop car rolled on to the street, lights out, creeping slowly along. Instinctively Crane drew back, watched it progress past the building in which the flat was situated.
It U-turned at the end of the street and crawled back down. Then it was gone.
Crane exhaled, unaware he had been holding his breath. He could feel his heart hammering, nerves twisting his innards. He was pleased he felt like this. On edge. Therefore sharp. Therefore able to perform.
He stood up and walked into the bedroom, where Don Smith lay asleep on the rickety single bed. Crane slid into the sleeping bag on the floor and closed his eyes.
There was a long day ahead.
Colin Hodge reported for work at the Preston depot at 6 a.m. As driver for the day it was his responsibility to check over the vehicle, ensure the tank was full, it was clean, there was air in the tyres and that the electronic tracker system was working correctly; he also had to fill in the driver’s log and insert the tachograph. His check, as
