Nightmare City

by Nick Oldham

  He picked up the girl’s left arm and twisted it gently outwards so he could see the soft skin on the inner elbow. He tucked the arm back and moved his attention to her legs, looking behind each knee.

  ‘Junkie?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Junkie,’ confirmed Baines. He began to count, ‘One, two, three...’ pointing as he did.

  ‘ ... Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four,’ he concluded a few minutes later. ‘So that’s twenty-four-stab wounds in the chest, stomach, upper arms, upper legs,’ he said, very matter-of-fact. ‘Probably had a knife up her vagina by the looks. Her face is a real mess too.’ He counted the number of punctures around her head and neck. ‘Twelve facial and neck stab-wounds at least. See?’ he said to Henry. ‘It looks as if the left eye socket has been repeatedly pierced. Impossible to say how many times the attacker plunged the knife in there.’

  He turned his attention to her arms again. ‘Numerous incised wounds - slash-wounds, if you like - on her arms and the palms of her hands where she tried to protect herself from the onslaught. She went down fighting for her life; if nothing else. The attack continued long after she died.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about the knife at all?’

  The doctor pondered thoughtfully. ‘Probably not.’ He bent forwards and peered at one of the stab-wounds in her stomach. ‘My guess’ll be very imprecise,’ he warned. He put a thumb and forefinger to either side of the wound and parted it gently. Henry felt slightly sick when it popped open.

  ‘Problem is,’ Baines continued, ‘skin stretches before a knife actually pierces and when the- knife is pulled out it springs back into place. Sometimes the hole can look smaller than the knife which caused it.’

  He stood slightly back and looked at the open wound which reminded Henry of a tiny, thin-lipped doll’s mouth. ‘This wound is one of the neatest on the body: the knife was plunged straight in and pulled straight out. Looks like a knife with two sharp edges - here, you can see the wound has two acute angles at each end.’

  He allowed the hole to close. ‘Probably a slim instrument, but it’ll be difficult to tell how long the blade is. Might get some indication when I open her up, but don’t hold your breath. It’ll be guesstimates. The knife has obviously been twisted about and rocked backwards and forwards in many of the other wounds. Basically, a fuckin’ mess - sorry, Jan,’ Baines acknowledged the quiet attendant, ‘but this girl died a brutal and horrific death and though it’s a cliché, it was a frenzied attack. Nobody deserves to die like this.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Henry. He’d been jotting down a few notes in his unofficial pocketbook. He closed it and slid it into his pocket which began to chirp like a bird, making him jump. He extracted the pager with an apologetic look on his face and walked to a corner of the room where he picked up the phone on the wall and dialled Blackpool Communications.

  ‘I know you’re busy with that suspicious death,’ the woman said, ‘but do you recall that other job I mentioned to you?’ Henry said he did, but thought it had been a joke of some sort. ‘No, no joke,’ the comms operator said. ‘Can you possibly attend? There’s a uniformed patrol there and a Detective Sergeant who’d like you to go. Apparently there’s more to it.’

  Henry hesitated. For evidential reasons he felt he should stay for the post mortem, but it wasn’t strictly necessary. ‘OK, I’ll go,’ he said and ended the call.

  Baines and Jan were standing on either side of the corpse, whispering to each other about the plan of action for the PM. They looked at Henry as he finished the call.

  ‘I’ll have to leave you with this for the moment,’ he apologised. ‘Got to have a quick look at another job, then I’ll be back.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’ asked Baines.

  ‘Someone’s shot a gorilla up at the zoo.’

  ‘Really? Never done a PM on a gorilla.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, but I think it’s still alive - just severely pissed off.’

  Chapter Five

  Once Conroy had gone, Rider sat and ate a late breakfast at the bar. Croissants and tea.

  For the first time in his life, Rider was content with his lot. He liked the club and the ‘guest-houses’, as he preferred to call them, rather than DSS doss-houses. His basement flat underneath the first property he’d bought was an oasis of sheer luxury in a desert of basic living. It was his permanent home, the first he’d ever owned. He had the financial means to buy a luxurious detached house, but he’d grown accustomed to the flat which was perfectly large enough for him and his occasional guests. He had never put roots down anywhere before and he was loath to upstakes just for the hell of it. There was no need to.

  He thought bleakly about his criminal past.

  Back then his life had been a continual series of moves from one house to the next; to some dive of an hotel room to some flea-pit flat, then maybe a night in the back room of a pub. All in the mean streets of Manchester or some depressing East-Lancashire mill town.

  Even when he’d started making real money from drugs, guns and lending money, the lifestyle didn’t change, just the quality of places he could afford. One thing he vividly remembered about it all was the constant indigestion, probably brought about by stress, though he didn’t realise it at the time.

  He could never recall spending a full year in anyone place because the whole nature of the existence made continuous movement a necessity.

  Standing still in those days meant you became an easy target, maybe of the law, or some toe-rag with a score to settle - and there was always plenty of them about.

  He sipped his tea. Christ, he thought with disgust, twenty years of living like that.

  In the end it got to him. Never knowing where he would be sleeping, or with whom; but always sure that once he was settled in and feeling comfortable, he’d have to get up and leave.

  It was no good.

  As a young man, fresh out of borstal it had been exciting. A life of hands-on crime, living solely off wits, strength, intimidation and violence. Building up a criminal empire which stretched throughout the whole of East Lancashire and parts of Manchester, based on gambling, prostitution, loan sharking, gun dealing and the biggie - drugs.

  In the end it wore him down, and his outlook on life slowly changed. Gradually he found he wanted ‘normal’ things, such as somewhere static to live, a woman, kids maybe. Time to sit and read a book once in a while.

  It hit him one day as he was edging his car through a McDonald’s Drive-Thru after a morning collecting debts during which he’d smashed the kneecap of one guy who’d missed a couple of repayments. He found himself staring at a family of four and he discovered he was jealous.

  That was one of the reasons for pulling out.

  There were plenty of others.

  He’d become an alcoholic and such a big drug-abuser that he made some of his clients look clean. The habits were costing him a grand a week - big money - and whittling away mercilessly at his profits.

  He also found that he came to hate people being afraid of him all the time. Always, at the back of their eyes, he could see uncertainty and fear. He had traded on the ability to instil terror when he was younger, but he found his reputation to be an impediment as he got older and his values changed. Most people he came into contact with were shit-scared of him and he didn’t like having that effect.

  The formation of the NWOCS also played a part in his departure. The fact that the cops had set up such a squad sent out its own message: Gangsters were not going to be tolerated. Rider knew of Conroy’s cop connections, but was not naive enough to think the protection Conroy enjoyed extended to him and Munrow. He knew Conroy wanted things his own way, to be in control, but by that time, with a drug and booze-sodden brain, Rider was past caring. As far as he was concerned, Conroy could have it all.

  The final and biggest reason was that he, Conroy and Munrow were not operating as a team any more.

  Conroy had big, strategic ideas.

  Munrow was a thug with little or no finesse
.

  And he was a complete shambles who could only see as far as the next fix.

  They were in constant conflict with each other and Rider knew that if he didn’t get out, sooner rather than later, he would have killed both the bastards.

  So he made the decision, pooled all his cash and left.

  Somewhat smugly, and from a safe distance, he found himself proved right on one thing. Soon after he quit, the cops arrested Munrow and several other bit players following an armed robbery. Conroy remained free as a bird (and Rider had his own ideas as to why) and flourished. Munrow, meanwhile, didn’t manage to wriggle at all.

  It could so easily have been Rider. He had been expected to take part in the robbery.

  Now he was as happy as he’d ever been. He enjoyed Blackpool, running legitimate businesses, employing a few people and keeping his nose clean. He hadn’t found a woman - not a regular one - but he was prepared to tread water.

  Fuck, he thought bitterly. I hope to hell-shit Munrow doesn’t rope me into this nonsense.

  Conroy had not been very precise when he’d talked about the ‘war’, but it sounded bad. Munrow was out of prison, wanted what he believed to be rightfully his and Conroy was reluctant to give it to him. Naturally. So things had started bubbling ... and Conroy was worried.

  ‘I’ve moved on in a lot of ways,’ he’d said to Rider. ‘Like you,’ he added, making Rider wince. ‘I’m a corporate player now. I run a tight business - none of that hands-on shite like we used to. Too fucking dangerous by half. Keep everything at arms’ length now, just rake in the profits. Not like Munrow. He’s still in a time warp. I’ve expanded into new fields, built up new contacts and I’m on a very big deal. Munrow’s on the verge of ruining it.’

  He refused to divulge anything more to Rider, including the reason for his interest in the club.

  He’d left shortly afterwards, leaving Rider brooding over breakfast.

  A thought struck him. ‘The bastard,’ he said out loud. ‘He didn’t even thank me for saving his life!’

  Smeared blood covered the inside of the strengthened glass, making it difficult for Henry to see through to the sole occupant of the enclosure.

  ‘I couldn’t believe what I was seeing,’ a zoo official called Draycott was telling him. ‘There were only four customers in the zoo at the time ... it’s very quiet just now, and all they wanted to do was shoot each other. A bloody shoot-out, right here, in Blackpool Zoo. It was like a scene from a film or something.’

  He had already described what he’d witnessed to Henry and now he was in the process of coming to terms with it. Henry let him speak, asking occasional questions to clarify things.

  ‘So one knocked the gun away from the other’s head and it went off?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. Moved really quick. Really impressive. Next thing it was in his hand and he was in charge.’

  ‘And what happened at the point when the gun first went off’?’

  ‘Boris here,’ he thumbed at the gorilla, ‘was sitting in his tree watching these guys, and when the gun went off he just tumbled out of the branches, right spectacular-like, and thudded to the ground. Shot by mistake, obviously. I thought he was dead at first.’

  ‘And the-men?’

  ‘Bit confused there.’ Draycott screwed up his nose. ‘The one who originally had the gun jumped to one side and shouted something, don’t know what, and the one who grabbed the gun - if you see what I mean - shot his mate in the leg.’

  ‘Very confusing,’ Henry agreed.

  ‘Oh yeah, very. Anyway, I shouted to them and they scarpered, basically, flashing guns at us.’

  ‘All together?’

  ‘Separate. First two legged it pretty quick; second two were a bit slower because one’d been shot. The girl in the entrance booth saw their cars and wrote the numbers down.’

  ‘That should be helpful,’ Henry said. He knew the girl was presently giving a statement. ‘And the poor gorilla?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Draycott. ‘He’s my main concern now. He dragged himself in here, sat down in one corner and bled like a stuck pig. His keeper went in but got attacked. Then he did this with the blood, wiping it all over the glass as you can see.’

  ‘So it looks like he got shot in the shoulder?’

  ‘Definitely. Looks a bad wound.’

  Henry bent low to where there was an area of glass free from blood. He peered through.

  The gorilla was sitting in one corner of the enclosure, nursing his left shoulder with his right hand, rocking backwards and forwards, chuntering to himself He was a magnificent animal. Heavy and thickset with a short, broad torso. His head was large and wide, forehead massive and low, overhanging his eyes which were close together, small, deepset and black. His arms looked very muscular. Henry had to admire anyone who had the courage to step in with him, even when he was uninjured and in a playful mood. He suspected the keeper had been lucky to escape with his life today.

  The gorilla’s coat was matted with blood in a swathe which ran from his left shoulder, right the way across his chest to his stomach. He had lost a good deal of blood.

  The wound was still bleeding profusely. Henry could see a sliver of jagged white bone sticking out between the gorilla’s fingers. It was an injury which needed treatment quickly.

  Suddenly the gorilla stopped rocking and became still and silent. His eyes flickered up and saw Henry looking through the glass. For a second their eyes locked in a kind of primeval gaze. Then the gorilla’s lips drew back into a fearsome snarl, revealing a powerful set of teeth which were capable of ripping a man to shreds. A deep bark of annoyance, followed by an angry roar, boomed from the gorilla’s throat, making Henry’s stomach somersault. The animal then flung himself across the enclosure towards Henry, battering the glass with his raging fists.

  Henry drew back instinctively. He knew he was safe with that thick glass between him and the beast, but he could have sworn the glass bowed when the animal pounded almost 340 kgs of sheer muscle against it.

  The air rushed out of Henry’s lungs in a gasp. He was speechless for a moment. Eventually and rather inadequately, he said ‘Wow.’ He could feel his heart pounding, could taste the quick rush of adrenal in which had gushed into his body. He closed his mouth, pulled himself together and smiled shamefacedly at Draycott. ‘Some beast.’

  The attack on the glass had been brief. Boris had now slunk back to the comfort of his corner. He sat down and began to shiver uncontrollably, shock setting in.

  ‘Where the hell’s that vet?’ Draycott begged to know.

  The statement taken from the girl at the turnstile was not really worth the paper it was written on. She had not noted any numbers, and all the statement contained was a vague description of two cars which the men had boarded, their colour and a very partial registered number which she’d dredged from memory. Evidentially pretty crap.

  Henry handed it back to the PC who had taken it.

  There was little else for him to do at the zoo. The only real way forward would be if the wounded man turned up in a casualty department, or dead somewhere.

  But, bearing in mind the nature of the incident - a hit that went awry, or so it seemed - even if he did turn up at a hospital there would be little hope of him talking. Henry favoured the latter possibility anyway: he’d more than likely turn up in a ditch somewhere having bled to death. That way there would definitely be no chance of him speaking to the cops.

  Henry’s stomach panged with hunger.

  It was 2.30 p.m. and apart from some toast that morning, he’d eaten nothing all day. He walked to the zoo cafeteria, ordered a sandwich and a coffee and sat down to eat before returning to the mortuary to catch the tail-end of the post mortem.

  As he sipped the brew he had difficulty in focusing his mind on anything other than the look which had passed between himself and the gorilla before it charged him. He knew he was probably overplaying the significance, but hell, it had been just like looking into the eyes of another hu
man being. There had been intelligence and knowledge. Henry shook his head and felt very sorry for such a creature having to live in captivity. He hoped Boris would pull through.

  The last thing he wanted was to be investigating the murder of a gorilla.

  ‘You look serious.’

  Standing next to Rider at the bar was Isa. He hadn’t heard her arrive. She was staying in a guest-house opposite the club. He had been deep into the club’s books, trying to make some elusive figures balance. A struggle. He pushed the calculator to one side.

  ‘Life is serious,’ he said, forcing a false smile which then metamorphosised into a real one. Isa always had the capacity to cheer him up.

  ‘I could make it more fun for you, John,’ she said and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  ‘No doubt you could, hon,’ he conceded, ‘but afterwards it’d still all be there.’

  ‘Must be bad.’ She laid a hand on the back of his head. He could smell her lady-scent through her clothes. It made him slightly woozy for a moment. He pulled her towards him and hugged her gently, then released her. She stepped away.

  Rider missed the look of longing in her eyes. They had always been good friends, other than for one night when a little flirtation went too far and they ended up making love. But it had proved to be a one-off, much to Isa’s frustration, because she had been hopelessly in love with Rider for longer than she cared to mention. He seemed to continually miss the signs and she didn’t have the guts to tell him. Because above everything else - at least from his perspective - they had been and were once again, business partners. ‘I think I saw Ron Conroy being driven in his Merc. Am I right?’

  Rider nodded.

  ‘He’s the reason you look like you’ve seen your arse, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, but let me worry about him. My problem. No need for you to get involved.’ He slid off the bar stool before she could say anything and stood up. ‘So, what do you think about this place now you’ve had a good look around, got the feel of it?’