As is so often the case in such matters, the actual laying of hands on Billy Crane was a very subdued affair, an anti-climax. He was roused from bed by four armed officers and submitted dazedly to their pidgin-English instructions. He offered no resistance, but maintained his silence other than to demand the services of a lawyer. At Tenerife he was incarcerated awaiting extradition proceedings. His slick brief, a man who was used to representing British felons in Spain — usually on the Costas — presented all types of delaying tactics. Henry doubted whether he would see Crane in the UK this side of six months.
The location of the stolen money remained a mystery. Despite the efforts of Lancashire Constabulary’s Financial Investigators and those from the Metropolitan Police and Interpol, and a raiding party on all the bank accounts belonging to Billy Crane, the money was not recovered. Crane’s accounts did reveal?3.1 million from drugs dealing, and proceedings were instituted to freeze the money and ultimately seize it. As the weeks went by, though, the likelihood of finding the money from the heist seemed less and less probable.
What did seem likely was that Lawrence Brayfield, once he had recovered from his shoulder wound, would leave Tenerife, go into a witness protection programme and in the due course of time — after he had successfully given evidence against Crane — receive his reward money.
It was during the course of one of Henry’s many conversations with Loz that he was reminded, purely by chance, of the existence of Nero the lion. Henry had charged out of the hospital ward and raced to Uncle B’s where he found the emaciated, barely-living animal, surviving against the odds in a disgusting shit-hole. The Spaniards immediately wanted to have him destroyed, but Henry was in no mood for another unnecessary death, nor the possibility of litigation that might follow; the police had a duty of care for prisoners’ property and the destruction of Nero could easily have been used as another delaying tactic by Crane’s legal eagle.
A place was found for Nero in a private zoo on Lanzarote where after only a few days’ recuperation he established himself as the dominant male in the resident pride, beat the living daylights out of the incumbent king, and claimed several lionesses in a mad whirl of sexual domination… so there was one happy ending at least.
And while all this was going on, the internal structure of Henry Christie, delicately balanced at the best of times, was close to collapse.
He was only grateful that he had to spend a great deal of time commuting backwards and forwards to Tenerife. Time spent with his wife and daughters was proving so difficult for him. Kate remained supportive but slightly aloof and he once caught her looking at him, on one of his infrequent visits home in those weeks, rather contemptuously. He wondered if she knew, or suspected, about him and Danny. Had she guessed? Or had it been so obvious that a blind person could have read the signs?
The time he had in Tenerife was busy, but this was the only opportunity he had to be alone to grieve for the woman who, rightly or wrongly, had grown on him and with whom he had fallen in love. His hotel rooms became places of retreat, for crying, for heavy drinking, for thinking and coming to terms with her death, knowing he could never tell anyone about their relationship; knowing he somehow had to pick up the pieces of his life and make a decision about the future and leave Danny behind. Easy to say, not so easy to put into practice — particularly having discovered something that completely blitzed his mind during Danny’s autopsy, something he prayed would not become general knowledge.
She was cremated one week after her body had been flown back from Tenerife, six weeks to the day after her death. The service took place in a crematorium outside Burnley in East Lancashire, the town of her birth, not far away from the dinosaur-like bulk of Pendle Hill. There was a huge police presence. The Chief Constable attended and several of the ACCs, including Fanshaw-Bayley. Karl Donaldson, Henry’s friend from the FBI office in London, also came, having met Danny previously on another enquiry.
Henry was relieved when it was over. Kate sidled up next to him, hugged him and looked up with a hesitant smile. There were tears in her eyes. Henry responded with a weak grin. He knew things had moved on too far for him to slip back into his old life. He had fallen deeply in love with Danny, and her death had devastated him. Some major decisions were now due to be made about his future. Being with Kate felt wrong, somehow — for both of them — but in his grieving state, the phrasing of the sentence with the word ‘divorce’ in it eluded him.
Most of the police contingent from Blackpool had come to the funeral by coach. As is the fairly cold culture of the police on such occasions, they stopped off on their way back at a pub on the outskirts of Blackpool to pay their last respects to Danny by way of alcoholic consumption. Henry, Kate and Donaldson — who was staying overnight at the Christies’ — having driven across to Burnley by car, decided to join them. Kate generously offered to drive the rest of the way home so that Henry had the chance to have a few drinks.
By the time they arrived, the coach had de-bussed and there was a deep throng of thirsty people crowded round the bar of the unsuspecting pub. Somewhere amongst them FB could be heard demanding that he be bought drinks by his detectives.
After getting their own drinks, Henry, Kate and Donaldson claimed a quiet spot in the bar where they could hear themselves talk. Kate excused herself and went to the Ladies’. After a few moments, Donaldson needed to go too — and suddenly Henry found FB sitting next to him, a drink in each hand.
‘ Quick chat, Henry.’ Someone put some money in the jukebox and loud music began to pound. FB leaned towards Henry’s right ear. ‘Just want to bring you up to date with Rupert Davison.’
In the scheme of things, Davison had receded to mean nothing to Henry. In fact, he had virtually forgotten the man. However, he feigned interest in what FB was saying.
‘ Suspended on full pay,’ the ACC informed him. ‘Big internal enquiry going on — the missing interview tapes and all that. Apparently the rubber heel squad’ — by which FB meant Complaints and Discipline — ‘did a telephone check on him for the night you got blown out of the water by Elphick. Davison made a call to Gary Thompson’s mobile number. Obviously we don’t know what was said, but it’s pretty incriminating; and there’s also video tape footage of him stealing the tapes from the Custody Office, from the camera in there, so the Custody Sergeant’s in the clear and Rupert’s in the shit. Add that to what he said to you in the LEC and I think he’s for the high- jump.’
‘ And no doubt he’ll end up getting a slap on the wrist and a transfer to some piss-easy office job,’ Henry growled bitterly.
‘ You’re such a cynic, Henry. Anyway, don’t be surprised if you get called as a witness against him at some stage.’
‘ I won’t. Thanks for letting me know, boss.’
FB took a swig of one of his drinks. ‘By the way…’ He tapped his nose. ‘I got to see the full post-mortem report of DS Furness.’ He looked Henry squarely in the eye. ‘Secret’s safe with me.’ He gave Henry a big wink, stood up and walked away.
Kate Christie hated using lavatories in public houses, but at least the cubicle she entered was clean. As she locked the flimsy door and sat down, she heard two women come into the toilets. She did not recognise their voices, but it was obvious they were part of the police contingent from Blackpool, probably two policewomen. They had come in to freshen up, not to pee, and they stood at the wash-basins, preening themselves in the mirrors as they chatted.
The memory of the conversation Kate Christie overheard remained clear in her mind long afterwards, and formed the basis of the divorce papers which were later served on Henry Christie, her cheating husband.
This is what Kate heard.
‘ God, that was really, really sad.’
‘ Yeah, tragic. Dead nice she was, Danny.’
‘ What a way to go, though.’
‘ Yeah, ‘orrible. Really, really sad.’
‘ At least she died happy.’
‘ Why do you say that?’
‘ Well, I head she was having an affair with Henry Christie. So — she was out in Tenerife with him and they must’ve combined work with shagging.’
‘ God, I didn’t know that… but he is a bit of all right, isn’t he? I’d let him fuck my brains out.’
‘ Me too. He’s shagged a few, y’know… and I’ve heard something else too — but you mustn’t tell
