taken. Then he sent a traffic cop down to Staffs to inspect the tachograph to see what clues it could provide as to the possible location of the robbery. Even Henry, a non-traffic-orientated cop, knew that anyone with a bit of knowledge of tachographs could retrace journeys quite accurately.
That was done by 7.30 a.m., at which moment a grumpy FB walked in, not pleased at having been woken several times during the night.
Henry briefed him quickly. After that FB made the decision that, subject to the views of Staffordshire police, Lancashire would pick this up and run with it, as everything pointed to something big having gone down on their turf. If it later transpired it had happened somewhere else, then it would be handed over with alacrity.
When Henry asked FB who the SIO would be, the older man fixed him with one of his famous stares, designed to ensure the recipient’s anus twitched.
‘ You are that man,’ FB said. ‘It would be crackers to bring anyone else in, even though it’s still early doors. You have all the information, the holistic view, the experience and above all’ — here FB smiled thinly — ‘I trust you to get results.’
‘ I should’ve stayed off sick.’
‘ Don’t be a fucking Nancy — get on with it.’
Things began to move when he walked — still shell-shocked — back into the Incident Room in the LEC building to tell Danny the news. Before he could speak she waved a message pad under his nose, just received from the police in Morecambe.
Henry read it, took it in, murmuring the words out loud: ‘“Four bodies found apparently shot to death in a warehouse on the White Lund Industrial Estate. Two identified (not formally) from documents found on them. One: Gary Thompson. Two: Graham “Gunk” Elphick.”’ Henry raised his head and swallowed. ‘Gunk,’ he repeated, stunned by the news. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘ Yeah,’ Danny said.
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘We need to have a look at this now,’ he decided, whilst experiencing a very unusual feeling down in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Gunk’s name and the possibility he might now be dead. He was slightly ashamed to discover the feeling was one of high elation.
They were at the scene within the hour.
Even from first glance, Henry worked out that a tremendous gun battle had taken place. The question was — had anybody survived and left the scene? And additionally, was this slaughter connected with the theft of twenty million pounds?
‘ If it isn’t,’ Henry mused to no one in particular, ‘then I’m a monkey’s uncle.’
He was able to identify the bodies of the other two dead people immediately.
Nikolai Drozdov and Don Smith. But no Billy Crane, Henry thought.
He paused over Gunk’s body, wondering whether to kick it.
Even as they were inspecting that blood-splattered scene of carnage, having great fun working out what had gone on, testing out theories, angles and the like, another message came from the police at Carnforth, a small town to the north of Lancaster. A stolen HGV had been discovered that morning on a lorry park on the A6, near to Junction 34 of the M6. The police officer who attended the report soon found the lorry was empty — with the exception of four dead bodies on the trailer, all shot, and all dressed in the uniform of security guards.
The convoy came slowly down the gravel driveway. Two motorcyclists were leading, followed by a plain car, a liveried traffic car and another plain car bringing up the rear. The plain cars were carrying the firearms team — eight officers in total — and the traffic car, driven by a PC accompanied by a detective from the Murder Squad, was carrying the dignitary. On this occasion, a Russian gangster.
At the last moment, the motorcyclists peeled away and zoomed back up the drive to seal the entrance. The remaining cars stopped in the mortuary car park.
The firearms team poured out of their cars, each officer taking a pre-determined point to protect the traffic car, MP5s at the ready, their eyes roving surrounding buildings and open spaces for possible threats. Henry had briefed them first thing that morning and was empathetic to their feelings. Despite body and head protection, they were very vulnerable indeed. Drozdov was the class of target that if anyone seriously wanted to take him out, a bunch of armed cops, however well-trained, would not be able to stop them.
Henry now felt vulnerable. He wore no protection — but, he thought wryly, if someone did take a pot shot, there was no way he would be throwing himself into the line of fire.
One of the rear doors of the traffic car opened and a huge bear of a man with a beard got out.’ He was much younger than Henry had anticipated, which was puzzling. Henry offered his hand in greeting, but the man blanked him out, went to the opposite door and opened it.
The bear gently assisted out a small, frail old man and set him on a pair of very unsteady feet; he held him there and reached into the car for a walking frame which he unfolded and placed in front of the old man.
This, Henry realised, was Alexandr Drozdov, grandfather of Nikolai. He could not have been over five-two tall, was incredibly wizened, his skin pure white, but not albino; he was hunched over with a pronounced curvature of the spine. He looked a hundred years old. Henry gawped stupidly at him, unable to imagine this pensioner as a ruthless gangland warlord with a worldwide business empire. He did not look capable of taking a deep breath. Looked like a good meal would kill him. Not for the first time, Henry’s stereotypical expectations of what a gangster should look like were dashed.
Henry held out his hand again.
The old man’s eyes flickered up and that gave the game away. Henry firmly believed the eyes were the window to the soul, and Drozdov’s pair of steel blue ones made Henry freeze inside. His bony, almost transparent hand, which Henry could easily have crushed, was in direct contrast to the fire which burned behind the eyes.
‘ Mr Drozdov,’ Henry said slowly, ‘I’m-’
‘ I know who you are,’ Drozdov cut in sharply, speaking perfect, accentless English. His voice was forceful and authoritative, belying — again — his appearance, which was that of a doddering old man. ‘Detective Inspector Henry James Christie. You are the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of the investigation into the death of my grandson.’ He watched Henry’s reaction and smiled. ‘I make it my business to know such things. Now let us proceed. Serov,’ he said to his huge companion, ‘stay with us.’
‘ Yes, that is the body of my grandson, Nikolai Drozdov,’ the old man said. Henry saw him intake breath sharply and steady himself on his walking frame. Then Drozdov shuffled out of the identification room, backed by the huge bear-man. Henry drew a white linen sheet over Nikolai’s face and stepped out after Drozdov.
‘ I must speak to you,’ he insisted.
‘ Why? What can you do for me that I cannot do for myself?’ he responded, not pausing on his unsteady route back to the traffic car.
‘ Mr Drozdov,’ Henry said sternly, ‘I am investigating the murder of your grandson as well as that of seven other people. You must talk to me. If nothing else I need to inform you of the legal procedures and give you details of when you can expect to be allowed to take Nickolai’s body back to Russia.’
‘ Allowed?’ Drozdov snorted, stopping in his tracks, turning slowly, but angrily on Henry. ‘Allowed? My grandson will accompany me back to Russia now.’
‘ No, he won’t. This is England and you will abide by our rules, regulations and laws. You do not call the shots here like you do on the streets of Moscow. Nikolai’s body will remain in this country until released by the coroner — and believe me, I have a great deal of influence in that decision.’
‘ Are you trying to intimidate me?’ Drozdov rallied.
‘ Merely stating facts.’
Astonishingly, the old man wilted like a daffodil, hanging his head. Serov reached out, ready to catch him if he fell. Then Drozdov pulled himself together.
‘ Nikolai was my only living blood relative.’ A tear formed in the old man’s eye. Henry’s heart went out to him fleetingly, but he spoke to him in the same, measured tones he had used before.
‘ In that case you will be eager to take him home at the earliest opportunity.’
‘ You are a hard man, Detective Christie.’
