learn from.
‘ You probably won’t remember the guy, and there’s no reason why you should, but the detective who set that whole operation up that night, the Building Society break-in…’
‘ Barney Gillrow,’ Danny offered.
‘ You do know him?’ Henry was surprised.
‘ Yeah — I haven’t come to that bit in my story yet, but you go on, Henry.’ Danny’s eyes flashed at him. God, she wanted to grab him there and then and have him across the dining table.
‘ If you think back, you’ll remember that — strangely enough — only two of the three offenders were arrested for the burglary. Billy Crane and Don Smith. We got Billy at the hospital and Smith got pulled coming out of the back door of the shop next to the Building Society.’
Danny’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the second name, Smith. She had heard it recently, but could not say where.
‘ The third guy got away. I heard it was Malcolm Fitch. He did a runner from his arresting officer, who happened to be Gillrow.’
Danny screwed her nose up. ‘I didn’t know that, but I didn’t really know very much about the job anyway. RCS didn’t tell anyone. I just remember getting a prisoner taken off me — the one who blew up the police cars in Northgate.’
‘ I only know more about it because I was on that job as an AFO and I knew a few of the RCS guys because I’d been a detective. I was only back in uniform to get myself promoted to Sergeant. The rumour was that Fitch was Gillrow’s snout and that he gave Gillrow the gen about the burglary and then participated in it on the understanding, firstly he got paid and secondly he managed’ — here Henry tweaked the first and second fingers of both hands to accentuate the word ‘managed’ — ‘to escape at some stage, which he did. Gillrow let him do a runner on the way back to the nick. Smith got locked up and so did Crane — after he’d shot Terry and Terry had winged him… and the money was never recovered.’ Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘Could have been a fourth man, maybe. Just rumour, though, I hasten to add.’
‘ Hang on, hang on,’ Danny said, holding up her hands, palms out. ‘Let me get this straight. Malcolm Fitch was an RCS informant and was handled by Barney Gillrow?’
‘ Yes.’ Henry sighed. His energy seemed to be dissipating. ‘Fitch was one of the best sources the RCS ever had in the early 1980s. He was well in touch with a number of individual crims and some major crime gangs.’
‘ That’s odd, then,’ Danny observed slowly.
Henry waited for her to continue.
‘ I’ve recently spoken to Barney Gillrow, now retired, living the life of Riley in Tenerife. He told me he hardly even recalls Malcolm Fitch.’
‘ Unless he’s suffering memory loss, he’s not telling the truth.’
Danny scratched her head. She told Henry about her visit to Gillrow, subsequently being warned off and the manner in which it was done.
‘ Then the Tenerife link needs pursuing.’ He sat back. ‘As does the link with Billy Crane and Don Smith. Crane and Smith go back a long way. They were partners in crime, served time together; real hard cases. Guys like them bear grudges for a long time. If they found out, say, that Fitch had ratted on them to the RCS, they wouldn’t be averse to putting a bullet or two in his head, even now, years later. It could be a revenge killing, tied in with drug- related murders.’ Henry shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe Crane and Smith deal drugs now, too.’
‘ Shit!’ Danny rocked forwards and pointed excitedly at Henry. ‘I know where I’ve heard that name — Don Smith. Henry, will you hang fire here for a few minutes while I make a phone call?’
‘ Nothing better to do.’
‘ You know something? I love you.’ Danny stood up, leaned over and pecked his cheek. ‘Where have you been all my life?’ She rushed out of the canteen to find a phone.
Henry touched his face where her lips had brushed him. He could feel the heat. His fingertips stayed over the spot for a long time.
The very last pick-up of the day was from a bank in Carlisle at 1.30 p.m. Slightly behind schedule, but nothing to be concerned about. Within minutes of leaving the bank they were on the M6 heading south. Colin Hodge was at the wheel of the security van. His stomach was still jittery, which was fine. It fitted in nicely with the plans. He’d already had to make one urgent, unscheduled stop and race to the toilet before shitting himself. It had been a stop where nothing untoward had happened, so a second stop would not raise eyebrows from his mates.
And that second stop would be on the southbound motorway service area near Lancaster, formerly — and more widely — known as Forton Services. It was here that Hodge would be given specific instructions to follow before continuing southwards. The robbery, he had been told by Smith, would actually take place at the gates of the security waste disposal company in Stafford, but the stop at Lancaster was necessary in order to make contact and confirm everything was going to plan.
Hodge tried to relax as he drove. He engaged in the inane banter of his colleagues and kept his mind focused on not betraying anything to them.
But try as he might, he could not keep his mind off the passport and tickets which Don Smith was holding for him which would fly him firstly to Amsterdam, then on to Rome and from there, via the Middle East, to Australia, where, twenty-five million pounds richer, he would live a life of splendour and indulgence.
Chapter Sixteen
Each year one of the main political parties comes to Blackpool to hold its annual conference, usually at the beginning of October. The policing operation which services these conferences is phenomenal, costing millions of pounds. The public only see the visible side of the operation when the conferences are up and running, when normal day-to-day life in the resort is massively disrupted. That part is only a fraction of a huge enterprise which commences many months earlier, when much repetitive, mind-blowing legwork is done.
Since the bombing of the Tory Party hotel in Brighton in 1984, the security of delegates, whether in government or otherwise, is at the top of the policing agenda. One of the ways in which this is achieved is by vetting. This means doing background checks on hundreds of people including staff employed at the Winter Gardens — which is the actual venue of the conferences — and of the employees at the main hotels where delegates stay during conference week.
It is tedious work, often producing nothing remotely exciting, but it has to be done.
At the hotels it is not only the staff who are checked out. Every guest registered in the preceding year is also checked. The rationale behind this is simple. As bomb-making technology improves, devices which can be planted months, even years, before they are due to explode can be placed in rooms to detonate during conference week, at night, when the delegates are most likely to be in their rooms.
Each guest, unless known, is a potential terrorist and needs to be checked out and vetted.
This is something that Billy Crane and Don Smith had not taken into account when the former booked into the Imperial Hotel under an assumed name and paid cash for his stay; and the latter paid for a meal with his own Barclaycard.
Every name is checked out and any which are suspect will soon start to flash red in the system.
DC Rik Dean, seconded for a six-month period to the vetting team, was sitting in a very cramped office in Blackpool Central police station, checking and cross-checking paperwork, when the phone rang next to him. He picked it up. ‘Conference Planning, Vetting Team, Rik Dean, can I help you?’ he answered blandly.
‘ Rik, it’s me — Danny Furness.’
Rik’s stomach did a hop, skip and a twirl. The back of his neck reddened. He swallowed. ‘Hello, Danny,’ he whispered timidly, mouth dry, vividly remembering leaving her high, dry, gasping and unsatisfied on her kitchen floor simply because he’d been spooked by the thought of screwing in the same location as a suicide.
Danny tried to sound bright and unconcerned. ‘How are you?’
‘ All right, I suppose.’
‘ About the other night, Rik. Forget it. No hard feelings, not a problem.’
