always, was thorough. It took half an hour, by which time his three colleagues had reported in.
They had a quick brew in the refreshment room.
Halfway through his cup of tea, Hodge stood up suddenly and said, ‘Jeez!’ He held his stomach and winced painfully. ‘Had a curry last night down at the Star… urgh… it’s not agreeing with me at all. I’ve been shitting through the eye of a needle.’ After he had spoken these poetic words, conjuring up such a romantic image, and much to his workmates’ amusement, he rushed to the toilet.
The ‘curry’ story was all part of the act. He had not eaten Indian the night before, but he needed to set the scene for the day ahead.
Nevertheless he did have to go to the toilet in a hurry because his bowels were a maelstrom of fearful turbulence. It was the big day. The one he had dreamed of and planned for, the one which would end his relative poverty for good.
He only just reached the toilet in time.
As industrial estates in Lancashire go, White Lund, on the outskirts of Morecambe on the Lancaster boundary, is pretty big. Hundreds of businesses operate from it, from well managed, prosperous, totally legitimate concerns, to seedy operations run by seedy operators down dingy dead-end roads — and everything in between the two extremes.
It was to one of these seedy operations that Don Smith drove Billy Crane later that morning.
Crane had managed to get back to sleep after his earlier bout of insomnia and was surprised to find Smith waking him at 8 a.m. They had strolled down to the promenade at Morecambe and devoured a big, fat boy’s breakfast at one of the sea-front cafes. Thus fortified, they returned to their lodgings, picked up their car — hired under false details and later to be destroyed — and drove up to White Lund.
They were using the warehouse owned by a guy who was predominantly dodgy. The man dealt in huge volumes of smuggled cigarettes, alcohol and perfumes from the continent, brought in either via the south coast ports or through Heysham, near Morecambe, by way of Southern Ireland. He supplied numerous independent retailers, mainly off-licences, chemists and market-traders with goods at rock-bottom prices. He made a very tidy living. He had been warned off by Smith and well-paid to take a day’s holiday.
Smith now had the keys and the alarm code.
‘ This looks good,’ Crane commented as they drew up in front of the high steel gates outside the warehouse. The gates formed part of a twelve-foot-high fence which encircled the premises. Opposite the warehouse was a wide tract of spare land and no other business nearby had a direct line of sight to the warehouse, which is probably why the owner picked it in the first place, so business could be conducted unobserved.
The warehouse was low and long and big. There were three doors at the front, two roller doors, one of which opened into a loading bay, and a normal door.
‘ That’s why I chose it,’ Smith smiled. He jumped out of the car and unlocked the gates. Crane slid behind the wheel and drove the car into the yard, leaving it parked there. It was 9 a.m. People would begin arriving soon.
Forty miles to the south, Henry Christie pulled off the A59 and drove slowly through the entrance to Lancashire Constabulary Headquarters at Hutton, near to Preston. He flashed his badge at the security man who waved him through impatiently and with the minimum of formality. Briefly Henry wondered about the level of security, not just at police headquarters, but at all police establishments. It was pretty lax, but he was reassured to have been told that in the not too distant future a perimeter fence was to be built and a proper procedure for entering and leaving the place introduced. However, before he could pursue any critical thought, the question of security left him as quickly as it had arrived, like a bubble bursting, and his mind segued back into the state of numbness which had been its feature over the last couple of weeks.
Automatically he turned first left after the gatehouse into Hutton Hall Avenue. On his left were former police houses, all now offices for various departments, including Discipline amp; Complaints and Performance Review. He trundled slowly past the rugby field on his right. As ever it was superbly maintained and looked wonderful in the early morning sunshine. Henry had played regularly on it in his younger days having, in fact, been rather a star of the county team for a couple of years in the late 1970s.
There would be no game that morning.
The windsock was out in one corner of the pitch, drooping obscenely in the breeze-free day and a huge letter ‘H’ had been unrolled, on one half of the pitch. That meant the Force helicopter would be landing later. Henry drove past, not really registering anything, then turned on to the driveway of the house which now belonged to the Occupational Health amp; Welfare Unit (OHWU).
He sat in the car for several minutes, blinking absently. The cassette-player was turned up loud, blasting out the latest studio album by the Stones. The songs perfectly matched the way Henry was feeling, particularly the loud rocker called ‘Flip the Switch’; in it, over Keith Richards’s harsh guitar chords, Mick Jagger sang sneeringly about a guy being executed by electric chair, encouraging the authorities to get the power turned on so that he could get into the filthy pit of hell… into which Henry firmly believed he was stuck at that moment in time.
He reached over to the passenger seat and picked up a bottle of water, took a mouthful. For a few seconds, whilst rushing the cool, apple-flavoured drink around his tongue, teeth and gums, his mouth felt fresh. He swallowed; within moments the taste had returned, making him retch.
Henry switched the engine off and got lethargically out.
The sleek BMW was next to pull in through the gates of the warehouse yard. Smith was operating the roller door, yanking the chain quickly, making enough of a gap for the German car to drive in. The door rolled shut as he released the chain.
Billy Crane directed the car across to the far side of the warehouse.
Thompson, Elphick and Drozdov climbed out and walked back towards Crane and Smith.
All were dressed in dark clothing and trainers. They looked mean and ready for business, exuding the smell of danger.
Crane eyed them through slitted lids, wondering, his nostrils flaring, a sense of unease in him… He shook it off, smiled and offered his hand to each of them in turn, welcoming them. He led them into the office where he made coffee.
‘ How goes it?’ Thompson enquired.
‘ No problems,’ Smith replied. He checked his watch. ‘Plenty of time yet.’
Not many minutes behind Henry Christie, Danny Furness also arrived at Headquarters, driving her nippy little Mazda MX-5, a car she had purchased following an insurance payout on her last car which had been stolen and torched. She turned left, as Henry had done, and drove past the OHWU just as Henry was walking up the driveway towards the door of the unit. He was the last person Danny expected to see. She thought he was still away working U/C. She saw him, slammed on and pipped her horn to attract his attention, waving madly — delightedly — at him. He frowned, a puzzled expression on his face — and Danny covered her mouth in shock. He peered towards her for a few moments, then realised who was honking at him. He waved listlessly and approached her like it was a chore, almost dragging his feet.
Danny wound her window down. She did her utmost to keep her smile bright, when in fact she was severely appalled by the sight of his face. He looked ten years older, haggard and very drawn and grey. His skin hung loosely off his facial bones, his eyes were surrounded by purple bags. His clothing seemed loose too, like he’d lost an enormous amount of weight very quickly.
‘ Hi, Henry, what’re you up to?’ she asked brightly. The question seemed to faze and embarrass him and throw him all at once. He looked edgily round as though he needed to find a way of escaping the situation, like a trapped animal.
‘ Mmm?’ he responded vaguely. It was obvious he could not think of anything to say. Danny hoped her horror was not betrayed by her expression. It was like being in the presence of an Alzheimer’s sufferer. ‘I’m just going for one of them Healthline checks,’ he said weakly. He was referring to the free, complete health and fitness check offered by the OHWU to members of the Force.
‘ Oh, right — good idea. I could do with one of them,’ Danny said. She knew Henry was telling lies.
He pulled himself together a little. ‘You?’
