by Nick Oldham
‘You callin’ Dunny, boss?’ Conroy’s driver asked over his shoulder, interrupting the thought process.
‘Shit - yes.’ Conroy sprang forwards. ‘Gimme the phone.’
The driver handed the mobile over to him. Conroy punched a number in.
‘It’s off,’ he said. ‘Yeah, you heard right. Bring the stuff back.’
The next ten minutes were very uncomfortable for all parties. Not because of the nature of the enquiry, simply because Rider hated to be in the presence of police officers, particularly detectives, and resented answering questions, incriminating or otherwise, merely on a point of principle. And he particularly resented Henry Christie, whom he disliked on sight.
To Rider, Christie had an aura about him that the rather plodding Seymour didn’t possess. It was nothing to do with the way he dressed because for a detective, Christie dressed quite conservatively. Nor was it the way he spoke, as Christie’s voice was quite monotone.
It was that he oozed inner savvy. It was the look in his eyes, the way they constantly took measure, occasionally narrowing to a slit as they ran over Rider. The way he listened to answers, but at the same time his mind seemed to be considering something of greater importance. It was the way he assessed Rider, chewed over what information there was to be had, what information was hidden, and weighed him up. Probably coming to the right conclusion.
Basically, he unnerved Rider.
From the other side, Henry did not like Rider either. There was an immediate animosity between them. Not that Henry cared. There was friction between himself and a lot of crims. It was a good thing, he thought. Kept them on their toes.
But this man Rider. . .
As he answered the questions, Henry tried to analyse him. Something about the guy made Henry do a double-take. What the hell was it? Henry could feel there was something more to this man, who on the face of it came across as a middle-aged, overweight, seedy club and doss-house owner.
Henry took a few minutes to discover what it was.
Then he knew.
He’d only ever met a few other such people in his life and he shifted slightly on the bar stool, his arse literally twitching.
Rider was no common criminal. This man was, or had been, big time. Top notch. There weren’t too many about. Some liked to think they were, but mostly they were nothing. This man tried to cover it in bluster and bad temper, but just below the surface Henry could see exactly what he was.
And it was in the eyes, too. They always gave the game away. There was that violence lurking there which said, ‘I could kill you, cop, and not give a toss.’
But it was rusty. Henry could see that, too. This man had been out of the game for a while, but it was still in his blood. He could be very dangerous again.
Yes, thought Henry, Rider was something special. His mouth went dry at the thought.
Now he wanted to know everything about this man, the sooner the better. He cursed his lack of professionalism for not knowing already.
Rider responded begrudgingly to the detectives’ questions.
Yes, the dead girl’s description sounded like one of his new tenants.
Couldn’t remember her name at the moment; it would be on the rent book. From Blackburn, he thought. No, didn’t know very much about her. No, that wasn’t unusual. He was a landlord, not a fucking snoop. So long as the rent came, he didn’t give a toss. Yes, top flat, number twelve. Came in two days ago. Yes, they could go in and have a look round the flat. Probably wouldn’t be locked. She didn’t bring much stuff with her. She was alone. Was that all? Bye bye.
Henry thanked him. As he did he recalled the statement taken from the girl at the zoo. It mentioned a big red car taking off after the shooting. There was a big red Jaguar parked outside the club.
Henry could picture Rider involved in something like that.
‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, sliding off his bar stool onto his feet. ‘Have you visited the zoo today?’
‘No.’ Too quick, very tense all of a sudden.
‘Let’s hope you haven’t,’ said Henry, ‘because if you have and I find out I’ll be back here faster than shit off a shovel.’ He spoke very matter-of factly and in a way that Rider found intimidating.
‘Don’t know what the hell you’re on about.’
‘See you now,’ Henry said affably.
He and Seymour walked out.
Rider remained at the bar. Jacko and Isa materialised out of the woodwork. Jacko stayed behind the bar. Isa asked him what it was all about.
He gave a sneer. ‘Nothing - just one of my tenants. Nothing to worry about.’ But he was worried, and frightened. ‘Fuck that bastard Conroy!’ he said between gritted teeth and slammed the bar top with his fist. ‘Fuck him for getting me involved again.’
Out on the street Henry took the number of the Jag and radioed it through for a PNC check.
The two detectives got into their car, an unmarked Rover Two series. ‘He didn’t even ask “Why?” when I mentioned the zoo,’ Henry said. ‘I find that intriguing. I mean, if a cop asked you if you’d been somewhere, surely you’d-’
Henry’s audible musing was interrupted by a very garbled message on the personal radio. A patrol was shouting, but most of the words were impossible to make out - with the exception of, ‘Assistance! Assistance! Officer down!’
Chapter Six
‘We’ve to take the stuff back to the warehouse - the deal’s off for some friggin’ reason,’ Dundaven said to his passenger, whose name was McCrory.
He ended the call on the mobile and tossed it onto the dashboard of the Range Rover. They had been mooching around Blackpool, killing time in amongst all the tourists, pretending to be trippers themselves, whilst waiting for the call from Conroy. The theory was that they would look less suspicious on the move rather than parked up in some back alley somewhere. Two guys sitting in a motor always attracts attention.
The mobile had chirped whilst they were driving south down the Promenade from Gynn Square, stuck in the flow of traffic.
However, McCrory breathed a sigh of relief at the news. ‘Thank fuck for that, Dunny.’ He was getting decidedly jumpy, trolling around the place with enough firepower in the back to arm a unit of the SAS. ‘Let’s get the crap outta here.’
Stopping and searching persons and vehicles is one of the most fundamental functions of a police officer. Its effectiveness in preventing and detecting crime cannot be over-stressed. Stop-searches result in thousands of arrests each year, mostly for minor criminal and drug-possession offences, as well as more spectacular ones. The Yorkshire Ripper, the Black Panther and members of the IRA responsible for planting bombs in the north of England were all arrested by officers exercising their basic powers.
Many officers stop-search using the numbers game: if enough people and vehicles are stopped, the theory goes, sooner or later there will be a result.
Some officers simply have a nose, an eye, an ear - an instinct – for pulling the right person or vehicle at the right time.
Or in some cases, the wrong time.
PC Rik Dean was one such officer. He had three and a half years’ service, but at the age of thirty-two, had another eight years’ experience behind him as a Customs and Excise officer.
Blackpool Central had been his first posting as a cop and he loved the place. The work was hectic - Blackpool never stood still - and the social life was even better now that he was divorced.
He was one of those policemen who just seem to fall over villains. He didn’t know why - it just happened. When he stopped a car, odds could be laid he’d find a hoard of stolen goods; if he pulled a person, he’d find heroin. And he didn’t know why. He’d look at someone, or a car, his brow would furrow, his head would tilt to one side and he’d say, ‘Let’s have a look at that.’
Which is what he did that Sunday afternoon.
He was working the 2-10 p.m. shift. When he paraded on duty he was given a thick wodge of arrest warrants, mainly for people who had failed to a
ppear at court, and was told to go and execute a few of them. The warrants, that is.
He was partnered with a policewoman called Nina. She was nineteen years old, had only recently finished her initial training and joined the shift, and was still wet behind the ears, slightly hesitant and shy in everything she did. Rik had decided she could execute the warrants to build up her confidence in dealing with people. At ten o’clock when the tour of duty finished, he might suggest a drink in the bar. And who knew where that could lead. . .
Apart from being a cracking thief-taker, Rik was also a serial policewoman seducer, with five so far to his credit. He couldn’t resist a woman in uniform, and they seemed unable to resist him with his trousers down.
Again, he did not know how he did it. Just happened. If he could have distilled, bottled and sold his policing and womanising skills he would have made a fortune. Or so he thought and often joked.
The afternoon had been fruitless and frustrating, made more so by the way the station was buzzing frenetically with chatter about last night’s massacre at the newsagents and this morning’s murder on the beach. Detectives were everywhere, suffused with their own importance, carrying bits of paper, looking serious, talking in whispers, attending briefings.
And Rik was envious. He wanted to become a detective and get involved in jobs like those.
‘No reply,’ Nina said wearily. She climbed back into the passenger seat of the Maestro and dropped the warrant onto the pile in the footwell. ‘That’s eight we’ve tried with no luck,’ she complained. ‘I’m getting bored with this.’
‘Me too.’ He started up the engine and the less then elegant police car moved off. It was 4.30 p.m. and they’d been pounding on doors solidly since the start of the tour. ‘Let’s kick it in the head for a while and cruise.’
‘Yeah, good idea.’
‘If you see anything you fancy stopping, just give me a nudge, will you?’
‘Yeah, will do.’
Rik was not really in the mood to do much. His thoughts were on enquiries, arresting murderers and big-time crims.
Nina sat back, removed her hat and ran her hand through her cropped, spiky blonde hair. She heaved a deep sigh which pushed her bust tightly up against her tunic. Rik saw the rise of the material out of the corner of his eye and gulped. Nina smiled. She had ideas for ten o’clock too.
Unfortunately for both, their thoughts of a future liaison would soon get put on indefinite hold.
Rik drove down the Promenade, coming onto it from the north at Gynn Square, travelling slowly south. There was a huge amount of traffic about, as well as pedestrians. From a sluggish beginning, the brightness of this January day had attracted many day-trippers into town.
The evening was drawing in now and many were planning to leave. He drove little faster than walking pace, content to watch.
‘We’ll mosey down south, come up by Squires Gate and work back round to Marton. There’s a couple of warrants for up there,’ he said.
‘Suits me fine.’
Rik’s mind was coasting in neutral. He was not interested in working hard that afternoon. His thoughts were a mixture of how best to word his application for CID, what might happen between him and Nina, and how great it would feel to be a detective.
He saw the vehicle for the first time as he reached the junction with Talbot Square and stopped at the traffic lights at the head of the queue. From this point southwards, Blackpool’s Promenade is basically a dual carriageway, two lanes in either direction.
Rik had pulled up on the inside lane.
He was looking around aimlessly, eyes flitting about between the task of driving, glancing at female pedestrians and gazing out to sea.
Policework was way down the list.
The fact that the vehicle which pulled alongside him at the lights was a Range Rover 4.6 HSE, green with a grey flash down the side and bull-bars wrapped around the grill, did little to arouse his curiosity. He cast his eyes over it but thought nothing.
Nor did he pay much attention to the passenger, a male, early twenties, who happened to look down at him and catch his eye ever so briefly. The man turned quickly away and said something to the driver whom Rik could not see from his lowdown position in the Maestro.
The lights went to green.
The Range Rover surged ahead of the police car. Rik was not concerned about that. He was happy enough to let other cars overtake and speed along as they wished. Catching speeders was the job of the traffic department, not his.
He did notice that the vehicle had been registered in Liverpool, the last two letters of the index number being KB.
That was enough for him to ask Nina to radio in and ask for a PNC check. With the high volume of cars stolen from that area he had no qualms in checking any vehicle registered there.
The reply was that it was not stolen, but the current owner was not listed on the computer. The previous owner had notified DVLA of the sale of the vehicle two months before. Even that did not have much effect on Rik - not consciously. Thousands of vehicles were without current owners. It usually meant they had recently changed hands and the paperwork was still going through.
He drew in behind the Range Rover which had stopped at the next but one set of traffic lights on the Promenade at the junction with Chapel Street. Tussaud’s Waxworks were on their left.
Now Rik could see the driver’s face reflected in the door mirror. The man continually checked the mirror, looking back at Rik whilst speaking animatedly to the passenger.
That was probably what swung it for Rik. He hardly knew any drivers who checked their side mirrors as often as this one.
The lights went to green.
Once again the Range Rover accelerated away.
The Maestro, not built for speed or agility (what exactly was it built for, some officers had been known to ask) had a problem keeping up, but the volume of traffic held the bigger car back. By the time they reached the next set of lights, Rik was behind it again.
Now Nina was sitting up, taking notice. ‘Something wrong?’
Somehow the atmosphere had changed. She could sense Rik’s new alertness, like a charge of static.
He played it down, shrugged. ‘Just gonna pull this guy. D’you fancy issuing him with a producer?’ He was referring to the form HORT1 issued by police to drivers for them to take their documents into a police station to be checked within seven days.
‘Sure.’ She peered at the Range Rover but failed to see anything wrong with it. She believed the PNC check she’d done had been simply routine, nothing else. ‘But why, what’s he done?’
‘Nothing ... probably nothing,’ said Rik. ‘We’ll stop them after they’ve gone through the lights.’ His head was at a slight tilt, his brow furrowed.
The Range Rover was indicating a left turn at the lights which would take it onto Lytham Road.
When the lights changed, the big vehicle moved off as though turning left, but halfway into the junction the indicator’ went of Land the vehicle veered right and kept going straight down the Prom.
Rik thought he was in for a chase. He absently fingered the transmit button Oh his personal radio.
He flashed his headlights a few times and turned on the blue flashing roof-light and pipped his rather pathetic horn. He wished they’d fit proper two-tone horns.
Initially the Range Rover did not respond.
Rik was about to call for back-up when, drawing level with the Pleasure Beach, the Range Rover pulled into the side of the road and stopped.
Rik pulled in behind, leaving a gap of ten metres.
Neither occupant of the Range Rover got out.
‘Go and give him a chit,’ he said to Nina. She had already prepared her clipboard and put her hat on. ‘And smell his breath. He could’ve had some bevy. I’ll hang on here.’
He had a premonition that the driver might just try and speed away.
He was right.
When the Range Rover had pulled up initially alongside the police car at Tal
bot Square traffic lights, McCrory looked down to his left and nearly had heart failure. ‘Shit, Dunny,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Cops. Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
McCrory was a small-time thief and drug addict in his early twenties who was known to his acquaintances as ‘Bits ‘n’ Bats’, often shortened to ‘Bits’, due to his habit of helping himself to other people’s property, their bits ‘n’ bats. He had ingratiated himself onto the lower rungs of Conroy’s organisation without ever knowing who his ultimate employer was, and had proved himself to be a trustworthy deliverer of packages, unusually for a druggie. Never completely aware of what he was carrying, these packages ranged from drugs, the occasional handgun and cash.
Today he had been hired to assist in the delivery of what was in the back of the Range Rover to Rider’s club. As he had lumped the firearms into the vehicle he had palpitations. He had no illusions about what he’d been required to deliver in the past. He could guess at drugs, and maybe money sometimes, but he had never even considered that he might have carried guns before. Just the action of putting his hand on them made him break out into an ice-cold sweat. He felt completely out of his depth, but he was unable to back out. He’d already been hired, received half his fee, and did not have the guts to say no thanks. That would have made him appear unreliable. Maybe expendable.
The man in control - who McCrory believed to be the controller of the purse strings - was called Hughie Dundaven. He was a gruff Scot in his early thirties who had been involved with Conroy for several years. He had risen quite high in the hierarchy and ran a couple of council estates in the Burnley area for Conroy and oversaw some clubs. He had been responsible for hiring McCrory, but he was having his regrets.
‘Just fekin calm down. Relax. Be cool, we’ll be reet,’ he said.
‘Be fuckin’ cool?’ McCrory blurted. ‘Jeez, an’ how am I expected to be fuckin’ cool?’ All he wanted to do was jam a needle up his arm and escape this madness. Buckets of perspiration rolled off him. He shivered and squirmed as though he was sitting on a hedgehog.
