The Last Big Job (17 page)

‘
No, I didn’t know. I thought he was working on some kind of
project ... sorry to bother you, Kate.’

‘
Danny,’ Kate said quickly before she could hang up. ‘If you
do hear from him before me, will you tell him to get in touch? I
know nothing bad will have happened to him, but I’d like to speak
to him.’

‘
Yes, of course I will, Kate.’

Danny leaned back in her chair, mulling over the conversation.
Working for NCS, she thought. Well, that explained some things to
her. But what the hell was he doing?

No matter how hard he tried, Spencer was unable to repeat his
performance and get a second erection that evening. Try as
she
might, from oral,
vaginal, mammarial and manual stimulation, Cheryl could not help.
With a sigh of frustration she rolled to one side and lit another
cigarette, blowing lazy smoke rings towards the ceiling.

Spencer sat up and hitched himself into his underpants. He
tramped into the kitchen where he opened another can of beer. He
came back and sat down by Cheryl. She had pulled a cushion across
her stomach.

The rush of weed and alcohol had waned.

‘
What’s the chances of someone coming round here to collect
what they’re owed?’ Spencer asked her. He leaned back against the
settee.

‘
Fucked if I know, but I’m worried, Spence. There was a lot of
gear in that suitcase and bastards like them always come and
collect debts one way or another.’ She took a few long drags of her
cigarette and stumped it out into the already overflowing ashtray
on the floor. Propping herself up on one elbow, she suggested,
‘Spencer, let’s get out of here, at least for the time being. It’d
be safer, it’d be sensible. I mean, we can be unemployed
anywhere.’

‘
You’d be on the run from the cops.’

‘
The cops aren’t what bother me. Cops don’t kill you or beat
you up. Pissed-off drug dealers do.’

‘
What about dosh?’

‘
That never bothered us before. We hardly have any money
now.’

He chewed the idea over. ‘We could become like Bonnie and
Clyde, robbin’ an’ thievin’ an’ killin’ all over the place. Might
be a good laff.’

‘
Or Mickey and Mallory,’ Cheryl added enthusiastically.
Natural Born Killers
was
their favourite film of all time.

‘
Yeah, shootin’ and killin’. Sounds really fucking ace.’ He
farted and a nauseous smell erupted from his backside. ‘Money!
Money! Money! Fast! Faster!’ he quoted his favourite line from the
film.

‘
Come on then, let’s do it,’ she urged him.

‘
What, now?’ he laughed, unsure whether or not to believe
her.

‘
Yes, now. Let’s get going. You nick a car, we’ll rob an
off-licence and then hit the road.’

The prospect of actually getting dressed and leaving the
confines of the warm flat at that exact moment suddenly had no
appeal to the future Public Enemy Number One, Spencer Grayson. ‘No,
I can’t be arsed,’ he grunted. ‘I’ve had too much bevy. I can’t
even get a stiffy up. I just need to get to bed. Maybe tomorrow,
eh?’

Cheryl flopped on to her back, drew up her knees and folded
her arms across the cushion in a huff ‘Well, thank you very much.
Shows how much you care about me - NOT!’

‘
Oh, quit whingeing.’ Spencer stood up and headed towards the
bedroom. ‘I’m going to get some zeds.’ At the bedroom door he bent
his knees, pointed his rear end at Cheryl, exposed his backside by
pulling down his underpants and emitted a massive fart in her
direction ... a noise which coincided with the front door of the
flat being smashed down.

The meal progressed equably. The main course was consumed.
Small talk dominated. It was an opportunity for Billy Crane to get
updated on gossip. He had been out of the North-West criminal
mainstream for four years. It was good to talk.

They reached the end of the meal at 9.30 p.m. Smith paid with
his credit card, adding an extravagant tip for the service which
had been good - but not that good. The two men left the restaurant
and exited the hotel through the revolving doors. Smith waved a
hand. A few moments later a black Ford Granada drew up at the foot
of the steps. They climbed into the rear and the car pulled
smoothly away, out on to the promenade, heading north.

‘
This better be good, Don. I don’t want to spend any more time
than necessary in this fucking country. I’m freezing my balls off
already.’

‘
Billy, I promise you, it is good. You’d be well upset if I
hadn’t brought it to your attention.’

Crane eased back into the plush seat.

‘
Don’t get comfy,’ Smith warned. ‘We ain’t staying in this
motor. It’s a bit too flashy, wouldn’t you say?’

‘
Depends on what you’re doing and who you’re doing it
with.’

They cut inland at Gynn Square, heading east out of Blackpool
on the A585. At a lay-by on Garstang Road, the Granada drew in
behind a battered-looking Vauxhall Carlton. A man was sitting at
the wheel, the engine ticking over.

‘
Come on.’

Smith and Crane jumped out of the Granada and dived into the
rear of the less salubrious saloon.

‘
Move it,’ Smith uttered to the driver as soon as the doors
slammed shut. Without a word the man released the clutch, looped
the car into a U-turn and headed back into Blackpool. The Granada
set off and continued east. The change over had taken only a matter
of seconds.

‘
You never know,’ Smith said.

‘
Can’t be too careful,’ Crane sighed. He was becoming
agitated.

Smith saw Crane’s expression in the light cast by the
streetlamps. ‘You’ll know soon enough ... and I guarantee you’ll
like it.’

‘
Yeah, right.’ Crane stared out of the window, grating his
teeth.

Less than five minutes later they were back in Blackpool,
motoring south down the promenade then driving into a car park at
the rear of a pub in South Shore. It was an establishment
controlled, though not owned, by Smith. He took the profits from
the bandits and the drugs. The landlord kept his mouth shut, ran a
tight ship as far as the law could see, and got a cut big enough to
keep him happy.

Smith led Crane in through the back door of the pub and up a
flight of stairs to a first-floor room, large enough to have a
raised stage at one end, a temporary bar at the other and a
dance-floor in between. A couple of rows of chairs and tables were
stacked up in front of the stage.

One table and three chairs were set up near to the disused
bar. In one of the chairs sat a man holding a pint glass, half full
of beer. A whisky bottle and three glasses stood on the table. One
of the glasses contained the man’s measure of the spirit which he
was drinking as a chaser. An open packet of cigarettes was next to
the bottle, resting on its tilted lid, several cigarettes poking
out, ready to be selected. The man had one in his mouth. The
ashtray indicated he had been smoking pretty heavily.

He rose cautiously as Smith and Crane entered the
room.

Smith shook his hand and patted him reassuringly on the arm.
The man’s eyes were checking out Crane all the time.

‘
I’d like you to meet my partner,’ Smith said to the man.
‘Names don’t matter at the moment. All you need to know is that
this man can make things happen.’

Just to appease Smith, Crane proffered his hand to the man and
shook his sweaty paw.

‘
This,’ Smith continued for Crane’s benefit, ‘is Colin Hodge.
Colin’s got a very interesting story to tell, haven’t you,
Colin?’

Fear made her vomit. She brought up a combination of Martini
and semen, all of which coagulated horribly on her chest and
stomach. She was still naked. They had taken her that way, but had
not touched her other than by accident. That was one of the things
which told her these guys were professionals, neither distracted
nor interested in a naked female. They had come to do a job, that
was all.

She was lying on the freezing cold, hard, concrete floor.
Shivering. Her hands were bound behind her back, attached to her
ankles by a cord. Her feet were strapped together with wide,
silver-coloured sticky tape. She could not move other than to
wriggle. She tried to see into the darkness, but there was nothing.
No movement. No points of light. No sound. She could sense she was
in a building of sorts, maybe a factory. Otherwise she was
disorientated and alone.

Oh God, where is Spencer? she thought desperately, knowing
they had taken him too.

Her mind raced back to the door of the flat flying open and
the two men bursting in.

Spencer cried out, ‘What the fuck?’ hitched up his underpants
and spun to face the intruders.

Their names were Hawker and Price, ex-military, and they moved
lightning quick. Hawker rammed a rod of some sort into Spencer’s
chest and the youth was launched into the bedroom as though at the
epicentre of an explosion; he was literally lifted off his feet by
the voltage from the shock baton.

Cheryl got to her knees, clutching the cushion across her
chest.

Price dragged her to her feet by her hair, tore the cushion
from her grasp and touched her ribcage underneath her left breast
with another shock baton, the same model that had pole-axed
Spencer.

It was like being hit by an express train as the charge of
electricity seared into her. Suddenly life went totally blank. A
huge chest-encompassing pain drove all the air out of her, sucking
it from her very toes and fingertips, sending her reeling into
inner space.

Next thing she knew she was in the back of some sort of
vehicle or another, being driven over some rough ground. She
squirmed and found she was secured by cord and tape then. When the
van slowed right down and started to manoeuvre, reverse, pull
forwards, reverse again, she heard doors opening and closing, but
could see nothing.

Then the van doors opened.

A light poured in. Cheryl looked up, blinking. The men were
not wearing any masks and they looked surprised to see she was
awake.

Another round swiftly delivered by the shock baton booted her
back into instant oblivion. . .

Then, much later, she woke on the concrete floor.

Her heart was beating irregularly. Her head was spinning
sickeningly, like a bad crack hit. She tensed. There was a noise, a
moan behind her.

‘
Spencer?’ she whispered through her dry mouth.

‘
Yuh...’

‘
Oh God, you’re alive ... what’re we going to do?’

He did not reply.

‘
I want some reassurances before I start to say anything,’
Colin Hodge announced, finding courage from the alcohol he had
consumed before the arrival of Crane and Smith.

‘
Such as?’ Smith asked.

Hodge eyed the two men, thinking he was their equal on every
level. A stupid mistake on his part. All three were sitting at the
table. Each had a drink in his hand - whisky from the bottle. Hodge
looked distrustfully at Crane - the new man on the scene, the man
with the connections, and thought, I could take you now, you cunt.
You’re nothing, absolutely nothing but a sack of shit, sitting
there with your smug expression and your suntan.

Crane’s eyes and features were impassive, giving nothing
away.

‘
OK,’ said Hodge, nodding his head, biting his lip. ‘The whole
thing is my information, my idea, my job. All you’re going to do is
to help me to sort it out. I want fifty per cent - and believe me,
that leaves a lot of money for you.’

Smith tried to give the impression he was ruminating on the
matter, even though he wasn’t. He and Crane, particularly the
latter, were the ones who made the rules and decided who got
what.

‘
I think we can live with that,’ Smith said.

‘
That’s good,’ Hodge sniffed. A victory. He glanced quickly at
Crane for a reaction, got none. Crane took a minute sip of
whisky.

There was silence.

Each man also had a cigarette. In the still atmosphere, the
smoke hung languidly just above the level of their heads, swirling
gently.

Crane had yet to say anything. He was too busy trying to
speculate what the hell he had let himself in for. At that moment
he was very unimpressed by Hodge, who he had already labelled as a
dangerous jerk. However, he kept his tongue.

Hodge shifted uncomfortably. He said, ‘No details yet, no pack
drill.’ With his fingers he wiped the spittle from the corners of
his mouth. ‘I want this to proceed at my pace, on my terms. Is that
clear to both of you?’

Smith nodded. Crane did not move, other than to flare his
nostrils. He was getting more and more irritated by this arsehole
by the second.

‘
Right,’ Hodge proceeded. ‘I work for a security firm who
collect and deliver money, to and from banks.’