‘ We’re having a big review of that triple murder and we’re down at the Training School, using their facilities. It’s one of those Where are we up to? Where’s it going? Why haven’t we solved it yet? kind of things. Going to give ourselves a good whipping, I expect. Come down after, if you fancy it. You’d be dead welcome. Your ideas would be helpful.’
‘ I might at that,’ he said. His tone of voice told Danny it was unlikely.
He tapped the roof of Danny’s car and gave her a pallid smile before turning and walking away. He did not give her a backward glance. Danny watched him go, very troubled. In that short exchange she concluded it was not the Henry Christie she knew — and loved. It was a pale shadow and she was intrigued to discover why that was. Maybe he had suffered a bereavement or something — or had he got some horrible disease? She clicked the car into first and drove on down to the training school, her thoughts bursting with Henry Christie.
Next through the warehouse gates was a beat-up Cavalier, its exterior condition belying the fact that underneath the bonnet beat a high-performance engine in prime mechanical condition. It pulled up in one corner of the yard behind the hire car; two men jumped out and made their way directly to the warehouse door which was opened for them by Smith. These were Hawker and Price, the two who had played such a big part in the abduction and murder of the unfortunate Cheryl and Spencer. They had been well remunerated for that job and had lain low since; today they expected to be paid well enough to see them through the rest of their lives.
Smith indicated the office. Hawker and Price joined the others, helping themselves to coffee.
Smith remained by the door, constantly checking his watch. If things kept going as smoothly as this, another vehicle would be arriving shortly. He smiled with satisfaction when a battered Ford Transit trundled through the gates and manoeuvred into a position ready to reverse into the loading bay. Smith already had his finger on the door-open button.
The contents of the van were delivered quickly. Within minutes the vehicle was leaving, the driver having seen only Smith, none of the others. Smith wasn’t too bothered by this. After today, remaining in England would be far too dangerous and unpredictable. He had also made plans for the future.
When the loading-bay door closed, Smith called out, ‘You can come out now.’
The rest of the team, Crane, Thompson, Elphick, Drozdov, Hawker and Price, skulked out of the office.
Smith tossed each one of them a bundle wrapped in polythene.
For Hawker, the package contained an exact copy of the uniform worn by the guards of the security firm whose van they intended to plunder later that day. It had been made to measure and was a perfect fit, including a crash hat bearing the firm’s insignia, overalls, socks and boots and bulletproof vest.
The others received their working clothes for the day ahead: bulletproof vests, overalls, light steel toe-capped boots, black ski masks and black jackets.
Smith looked at his watch again. Half an hour to the next delivery.
It came bang on time.
A very new, flashy Volvo estate drove into the yard, swung round and reversed up to the loading bay.
Again, everyone with the exception of Smith remained scarce as the contents were hauled out by him and the lone driver. There was no hanging about. Within seconds of completing the delivery, the Volvo had disappeared down the road.
Once more the team emerged from hiding and milled around Smith, gazing down at the equipment on the warehouse floor.
Guns. Ammunition. Shock batons. Person-to-person radios.
Smith, who had been basically acting as Quartermaster, distributed the weaponry between each person according to the plan he and Crane had put together. Soon each man was in his own little concentration bubble, checking and loading.
Drozdov looked up. An Uzi machine pistol hung in his hand down by one side, a pistol at the other.
‘ I think, gentlemen,’ he declared, ‘it is time we were told the exact nature of the day ahead.’
Crane nodded. Drozdov was correct. The time had come to reveal all.
The Murder Squad, under the watchful, facilitative eye of the SIO, worked hard that morning, both as a big group in the assembly hall at the Training School and in syndicates dotted around various classrooms on the campus where they focused on particular aspects of the triple murder. In essence they were having a ‘brain dump’, collating and actioning ideas, ludicrous or otherwise, in an effort to take the investigation further.
The team was willing but, as Danny noted glumly, it was fairly short of experience of jobs like this, herself included. Most members of the squad were Detective Constables, and Danny sighed a few times when she gazed round at them; there were far too many young ones for major investigations like this. One of the Detective Inspectors was on the ‘fast track’, acquiring information for his CV on the way up. Hysterically he did not even have an investigative background; such were the philosophies of a police service where it was believed entirely appropriate that if someone possessed generic management skills they would be able to manage anyone or any group of people in the Force. A completely ridiculous ethos, of course. Ask anyone who has tried to manage a team of grumpy detectives without the necessary background. Unless they were exceptional people, they sank.
Danny despaired. The whole thing needed people with the calibre, bottle, clout and experience of detectives like Henry Christie; people who played the system but had the occasional flashes of perception, intuition — whatever — that set them apart from the crowd. And got results.
She saw her chance to make representations when ACC Fanshaw-Bayley strolled cockily into the assembly hall, chatting to the SIO. Someone like FB could get Henry on board.
Danny kept surreptitious tabs on FB’s progress. When it looked as though he was about to take his leave, she moved away from the group of detectives she was working with, sidled up alongside him and gripped him.
‘ Sir?’
‘ Oh, hello young lady.’
Instantaneously she felt her skin creep. She detested the man. He always rubbed her up the wrong way — intentionally or not, she did not know. She had her suspicions that he was naturally a chauvinistic pig.
‘ Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘ Have you got a moment, sir?’
‘ For you, Danny, I have many moments.’
I’ll bet you do, she thought. Don’t you ever learn? Danny knew FB was facing an Industrial Tribunal hearing in the near future for his sexist behaviour. She cut to the chase. ‘Did the SIO give you the party line, or did you get the truth?’
‘ About what?’ He was intrigued.
‘ The state of this investigation. Did he come clean, or did he bullshit you?’
FB blinked rapidly. His voice became serious. ‘I think you should explain what you’re inferring.’
‘ OK — did he tell you that we expect to make an arrest very soon or did he tell you the truth — that we’re basically getting nowhere fast?’
FB’s political head slotted into place. ‘The conversation I have just had with the SIO is confidential, as is the conversation I’m having with you. Now what the hell are you talking about?’
‘ What I’m trying to say is that we need better people on the squad. This lot are OK,’ she gave a sweep of her hand, ‘but they’re plodders and doers. We need some new blood on this if we intend to crack it — because every day we don’t feel a collar, means that whoever murdered those three people is one step further from our grasp.’
‘ I thought you had a particularly good lead in Tenerife?’
‘ I think I have — but I need help on it. Class help. Someone like Henry Christie.’
FB snorted. ‘He’s off sick with some mysterious illness. Doctor’s note says “General Debility”… soft sod. But yeah, he would be good to have, I can’t disagree with that — but he’s off sick, as I said.’
‘ I’ve seen him at Occupational Health this morning,’ Danny said. Despite herself, she batted her eyelashes. ‘Could I ask him if he’d be interested — and would you square it with the SIO if he was?’
‘ What was he doing at Occupational Health?’
‘ Getting a Healthline check, he said.’
FB’s electronic organiser chirped tunefully in his pocket. He looked at his watch. ‘I should be with the Chief Constable.’ He started to move away from Danny, all his thoughts suddenly directed to the meeting ahead. Danny
