by Nick Oldham
Nightmare City
By Nick Oldham
Published by Nick Oldham at Smashwords
Copyright 1997 Nick Oldham
Smashwords Edition License Statement
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously
Cover photography/design: Belinda Cookson
About the Author
Nick Oldham is the author of the ‘Henry Christie’ series of crime novels set in the northwest of England. He was born in April 1956 in a house in the tiny village of Belthorn – mums were very hardy in those days – up on the moors high above Blackburn, Lancashire. After leaving college then spending a depressing year in a bank, he joined Lancashire Constabulary at the age of nineteen in 1975 and served in many operational postings around the county. Most of his service was spent in uniform, but the final ten years were spent as a trainer and a manager in police training. He retired in 2005 at the rank of inspector.
He lives with his partner, Belinda, on the outskirts of Preston.
For more information about Nick and his books visit www.nickoldham.net or ‘Nick Oldham Books’ on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Nick-Oldham-Books/134265683315905
NIGHTMARE CITY is the second of Nick Oldham’s fast paced, highly acclaimed and well reviewed thrillers featuring Henry Christie.
Gang warfare ... police corruption ... criminal conspiracies ... crazy car chases ... and Boris the Gorilla ... welcome to the world of Henry Christie...
It’s the world’s brashest, trashiest seaside resort, alive with daytime fun and night-time thrills ... Blackpool, city of dreams. And for some, like Detective Inspector Henry Christie, a city of nightmares.
Match day is never enjoyable for the police, their hands are full of petty crime and the cells full of yobs. So it’s a good time for serious villains to pull a stroke. But a shooting at a newsagents and killing a police officer demands priority action. Even though the local police are first on the scene, the elite North West Organised Crime Squad are called in. Henry would be jealous of missing out on such a juicy case if he weren’t so bust trying to stem the tide elsewhere.
There’s a multitude of problems to deal with - like the murder of a prostitute, found washed up on the beach. The wounding of a policewoman trying to question a motorist. A crazy car chase which causes mayhem all the way to Manchester. And the case which raises most public concern – the accidental shooting of Boris the gorilla in Blackpool Zoo.
What Henry doesn’t yet realise is that these incidents are linked together by a conspiracy that is about to spread indiscriminate pain. Gang warfare and official corruption are a threat to every citizen’s life ... especially those of cops who value their honesty – like Henry Christie.
Praise for Nick Oldham
‘A rattling good crime saga’ – Bolton Evening News
‘Every detail in this gripping, fast-paced story of police corruption and gang warfare has the ring of truth’ – Bradford Telegraph & Argus
‘Oldham can out-plot and out-grisly most of his hard-boiled brethren’ - Kirkus Reviews
‘Oldham writes multilevel crime stories in multiple voices, which adds to the suspense and gives an immediacy to the gritty violence’ – Library Journal
‘Chilling authenticity ... a gripping tale’ – Manchester Evening News
‘Oldham believes in a bloody good time ... and several dandy plot twists’ – Kirkus Reviews
‘Skilful writing, a tautly woven plot, plenty of unexpected twists, and a main character who’s both intelligent and appealing add up to a fine read’ - Booklist
Also by Nick Oldham in the ‘Henry Christie’ series:
A Time for Justice (available as an e-book on Smashwords)
One Dead Witness (available as an e-book on Smashwords)
The Last Big Job (available as an e-book on Smashwords)
Backlash
Substantial Threat
Dead Heat
Big City Jacks
Psycho Alley
Critical Threat
Screen of Deceit
The Nothing Job
Crunch Time
Seizure
Hidden Witness
Facing Justice
Instinct
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Chapter One
It had been a hectic afternoon and looked set to become a bloody night.
The custody office at Blackpool Central police station, always busy even at the quietest of times, was full to bursting. Since noon, over sixty prisoners had lurched through the door. Usually fighting, either between themselves or with their arresting officers, the majority were drunk and often covered in blood, vomit, snot or beer or a combination of all four. They were all males with an age range between sixteen and twenty-four. And all of them were connected with the football match which had taken place that afternoon between Blackpool and Bolton Wanderers at the Bloomfield Road ground.
What had started as a trickle of prisoners before the match became a raging torrent when the visiting side went ahead and won convincingly. Miffed, the home supporters reacted in the only positive way they knew. With violence.
When the final whistle blew, the crowd surged out of the ground and a series of running battles between opposing fans broke out, culminating in a massive head to head confrontation on a large car park adjacent to the football ground. This was only broken up when officers in riot gear waded in and got the message across: the police were not taking any shit today.
Despite numerous arrests from that one incident, the fighting continued unabated. This was because Blackpool, unlike most other towns, has countless attractions which make visitors reluctant to leave until at least a few have been sampled. Thus the Bolton supporters would not be departing until the early hours of Sunday when the night clubs kicked out; it also meant that Blackpool fans would harry them until they went.
All in all, a recipe for trouble.
The fighting gravitated away from the Ground into the town centre pubs and cafes. The police, even though reinforced from across the country, were stretched to their limits.
In the custody office, Acting Detective Inspector Henry Christie was up to his eyeballs in prisoners. He and a team of three Detective Constables had been assigned to help process and interview any prisoners suspect
ed of committing more serious offences.
The majority of youths had been arrested for run-of-the-mill matters such as minor assaults, public order offences and drunkenness. Henry and his team could therefore have spent a relatively stress-free afternoon had he so wished; however he was uncomfortable when it became apparent that the large number of prisoners were keeping uniformed officers off the streets where their presence was desperately needed.
Eventually, after listening to the personal radio going berserk without respite, Henry made an unpopular decision. He volunteered his detectives to assist with any prisoner, no matter how trivial the reason for arrest. This would speed up the process and release uniforms back outside as quickly as possible.
His DCs were disgruntled by the gesture.
‘Not our fuckin’ job,’ one of them moaned bitterly, ‘bein’ a fuckin’ gaoler.’
‘Just do it,’ Henry said shortly, ‘and I’m sure it’ll reflect in your next appraisal.’
Henry took his jacket off, rolled up his sleeves and knuckled down to the task. When his reluctant team saw this, they also got down to it without further dissent.
Two hours later, without having had the opportunity to finish a cup of tea, he’d taken so many sets of fingerprints and mug-shots, charged so many prisoners and flung so many bodies into cells, that he’d lost count.
He’d had his fill of skin-headed, foul-mouthed, smelly, lager-bloated youths who wanted to hit him or spit at him. In fact, he was surprised he hadn’t decked several of them already. He was proud of his remarkable, but waning, self-control.
He began to hope that the few football supporters who were still at large would do something horrendously bad - like machete each other to pieces - so that he and his team could be liberated.
Anything to get out of this hell hole.
Prior to hitting the shop they cruised the dark January streets in a stolen Alfa Romeo 164 3.0 Super, scouring the area for any signs of blue uniforms. They also had a scanner tuned into the local police frequency.
Nothing seemed untoward. The meagre resources of law and order were concentrated on rampaging football supporters, making the chance of a stray PC drifting by virtually nil; it would also mean that the response time to incidents would be vastly increased when the alarm went up. Which it would. Very shortly.
They were feeling good, hyped-up and buzzing. Adrenalin and speed coursed through their veins and sinuses like white water, pushing them up to a high plateau from which they felt they could take on the world.
As in the past - and their Modus Operandi detailed this - all four of them were expensively and identically dressed in Dolce & Gabbana casuals: white tennis tops with black collars and cuffs, the letters DG clearly visible on their left breasts, grey slacks and two-tone (black and white) shoes. On their wrists they wore identical Dunhill watches.
The weapons they carried, and had shown they were prepared to fire, were a frightening combination which seemed to have been purposely chosen to complement their designer clothes. Each carried a semi automatic 9mm ‘Baby Eagle’ pistol in a shoulder holster; the three who would actually do the business had an Italian SPAS 12 sawn-off shotgun and two mini-Uzis between them.
Whilst driving around they handed a carton of Lucozade to each other which was tossed out of the window when empty. They had found that the bubbles assisted the speedy percolation of the amphetamines into their bodies.
It was 7.27 p.m. Saturday evening. The perfect time.
They were ready to roll.
‘We know what we have to do,’ the man in the front passenger seat said, whipping up enthusiasm. ‘Let’s get it done.’
‘Yeah, let’s fuckin’ do it,’ voiced one of the others.
They all fitted their white porkpie hats onto their heads and pulled on surgical face masks, including the driver.
The Alfa pulled up unspectacularly outside the newsagents.
The shop was owned by a couple of middle-aged gay men, formerly actors who had bought it between them when they came to the sad conclusion that if they weren’t careful they would spend the rest of their thespian days as soap-opera extras. They had been running the shop about four years, building it up from nothing into a thriving, profitable business.
Since the advent of the National Lottery, trade had boomed as they were the only Lottery retailer in that particular area of Blackpool. Like other newsagents they had taken to staying open late on Saturday evenings in order to catch as many last-minute players as possible.
Today the shop had taken in nearly two thousand pounds of extra revenue, as a treble rollover and a forty million pound jackpot had brought out punters in ever-hopeful droves.
Three men stepped casually out of the Alfa, leaving the driver sitting at the wheel. They trotted without undue haste across the pavement and filed into the shop.
Inside, two people were queued up at the till, eagerly hoping to get their lottery slips through the machine before the 7.30 p.m. deadline. Another customer was browsing idly through a woman’s magazine in the rack by the door. She looked up unconcerned when the first of the men came through the door. It took a second for her eyes to register with her brain that he was carrying a shotgun. Her mouth popped open. She began to scream.
With an absolute cold lack of compassion the lead man nonchalantly pulled the trigger back and blasted the left side of her face off - cheek, eye and ear. She spun backwards into the magazine rack, toppled over to one side and, in an instinctive gesture, reached out and grabbed a card stand which overturned as she fell to the floor, covering her with rude birthday cards.
By this time all three men were in the shop, facing the remaining customers and owners.
With a burst of low fire from an Uzi, the two customers who were standing side by side at the till were virtually sliced in half. As the bullets punched them full of holes, their writhing torsos, spitting and gushing blood, were thrown together against the counter. From there they quivered to the floor, where for a few moments they appeared to be fighting each other in a grisly conflict which was actually their death throes.
The owners had not moved. Terror, like a vice, gripped them, constricted their throats and held their hearts in a claw-like embrace.
The cacophony of bullets echoed away, leaving silence.
Three violent men faced two gentle men.
No one spoke until the man holding the shotgun stepped forwards. He brought the weapon up and pumped the action. He aimed it straight into the face of one of the owners, less than two inches away from his nose.
‘Get that bastard in the back out here now,’ he said quietly. The sound of his voice was muffled by the face mask, making it more sinister and deadly. ‘Otherwise you’re next.’
He was smiling behind the mask.
He spun the barrel of the gun towards the other man. ‘You go and get him - now!’ His aim returned to the first man. ‘Or I’ll kill this fucker.’
At 7.40 p.m. Henry slumped wearily back against the cell corridor wall. He was completely shattered. The prisoners kept coming. All the cells now contained a minimum of three and it was proving a logistical nightmare to ensure that opposing fans didn’t end up in cells with each other. It was likely that by the end of the night there would be five in every cell.
‘C’mon Shane,’ Henry urged the sallow youth who was washing the fingerprint ink off his hands in a wash basin. He had been arrested early in the day (and had missed the match) for slashing a Bolton fan across the face with a Stanley knife. He had been completely uncooperative throughout his period of detention. ‘I haven’t got all night,’ Henry geed him up.
‘Why don’t you just fuck off,’ responded Shane, speaking into the basin. He pulled the plug. The dirty water belched away.
Henry bridled. The temptation was to smash Shane’s shaven head against the wall and say the young man had attacked him without provocation. There was no one else in the corridor, no one else to see them, one word against the other. Henry’s patience was so paper-thin th
at, for a fleeting moment, this was a realistic option.
Then he shrugged it away. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said with a wicked smile, ‘but I’ll lay odds that remark has completely ballsed-up any chance you had of bail. Looks like court on Monday for you.’
With his back still towards Henry, Shane stood upright. With the exception of his red Doc Marten boots which had been removed and were outside his cell door, Shane was dressed exactly as he’d arrived in the custody office: in a pair of loose-fitting jeans and nothing else. He’d lost his jacket and T-shirt long before his arrest.
He was a thin boy, no muscle, and the lily-white skin of his back was streaked with scratches and grazes where he’d been rolling around on the ground, fighting. He’d also been drinking heavily, but having been in custody for almost seven hours, he’d sobered up somewhat. The process had left him with a bad head and a mean disposition. Henry’s remark about bail rankled him.
Still facing away from the detective, he appeared to pull his jeans up, fiddling with the button and the fly for an inordinate length of time.
Henry tutted and raised his eyes.
Just then Shane spun quickly round, catching Henry unawares. In his hand was a slim flick-knife which had been concealed in the waistband of his jeans.
The silver blade shot out, locked into position.
He lunged at Henry.
At the very last moment Henry saw him coming. With a curse on his lips he pivoted out of the way. The knife plunged into thin air. Shane stumbled clumsily, slashing wildly with the blade.
Henry didn’t have time to think, only react.
