Nightmare City

by Nick Oldham

  ‘This is a shit-awful place,’ the young man roared.

  ‘Oi oi oi,’ shouted Jacko, running down the bar.

  ‘Hold it, Jacko!’ Rider screamed.

  The two youths turned to face Jacko and Rider, adopting the threatening pose so beloved of the British hooligan/hard case: legs apart, fingers gesturing to come forwards, eyes bulging in their sockets, rocking on the balls of their feet.

  ‘C’mon then, y’ cunts,’ one sneered.

  Normally Rider would have been happy to wade into troublemakers, but something held him back here; that nod given by one to the other which meant premeditation, not simply drink. He was wary.

  ‘Hang back, Jacko,’ Rider hissed through the side of his mouth. He was aware of Isa hovering by his shoulder and the eyes of every other punter focused on the scene, something witnessed all the time in bars throughout the world. ‘OK lads, we don’t want any trouble here. I’m sorry you don’t like the place, but you’ve had some fun. So now get out.’

  ‘Or what, pal?’

  ‘Look, if you want me to call the cops, I will. But we can call it a draw now, you can leave, nobody’s suffered and we’ll all put it down to experience.’

  ‘Boss,’ Jacko began. ‘The damage. . .’

  Rider held his hand up to silence him.

  ‘What if we don’t wanna leave?’

  ‘Yeah, pal, what you gonna do?’ they taunted.

  Rider became controllably angry. Not afraid. Still cautious.

  He pointed a finger at them. ‘If you don’t get out of here, boys, you’ll face the consequences, one way or another. If you think me and Jacko here can’t handle you, then you’re very much mistaken. We’ll lay you both out until we’re satisfied - then we’ll call the cops. It’s that simple. If you want hassle and aggro, fair enough, the choice is yours. You can call it quits or end up in a police cell with matching injuries.’

  Rider held his breath. The two youths looked at each other and nodded reluctantly after weighing up the odds.

  It was all too easy, but Rider’s relief clouded his judgement. Perhaps after all they were not the sort of people he believed them to be. Maybe they were just kids flexing their muscles.

  Angrily they shouldered their way to the exit, accompanied by Rider and Jacko. They left peaceably.

  ‘What about the damage?’ Jacko said into Rider’s ear again.

  ‘Chalk it up to experience.’ Rider held up a finger when Jacko began to say more. Jacko shook his head disgustedly and made some under-the-breath remark about ‘every Tom Dick and Harry thinking they can get away with it from now on.’

  Rider ignored him.

  When he was sure they’d gone, Jacko returned to the bar. Rider stood alone at the club doors. He lit a cigarette, noticing his hands were shaking. Whether it was drink or nerves he wasn’t sure.

  Puzzled, he tried to figure out what that had all been about. At least they’d gone without a fight. He blew out a lungful of smoke and turned back into the club.

  Karl Donaldson walked slowly along the sea-front in Funchal, the port on his right, towards the marina and restaurants. The night was cool and fresh, pleasant for walking.

  He was dissatisfied by the way things had gone. Sam had died tragically - accidentally - and he could not prove otherwise.

  Hard to accept.

  What he really wanted to do was bring in a team and get a real investigation going with real detectives. He knew it was an irrational desire and that he’d never get the go-ahead for it. What he was trying to do, as Santana had rightly hinted, was blame someone for her death, just like a grieving relative.

  But there was no one to blame. Sam had died accidentally and that was an end to it. It hurt him to think he hadn’t known her as well as he thought. She could well have been a secret drinker, an alcoholic ... and yet somehow that wasn’t Sam.

  All that remained for him to do was arrange for the body to be flown back to the States, tidy up the loose ends here paperwork-wise, and fly home to London and his wife. He missed her like mad.

  ‘You speak English?’ a female voice said to him.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he replied without thinking.

  ‘You’re American,’ she said, picking up on the accent immediately.

  Donaldson held back a swearword. He’d been so wrapped up in his melancholic thoughts, he’d walked straight into it without realising. The timeshare tout. That dreaded disease, now a worldwide plague which had even reached the tiny island of Madeira.

  ‘Yes - and I’m not interested, thanks.’

  ‘I’m not selling anything,’ she persisted pleasantly, smiling.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Please,’ she said as he began to outpace her. ‘Give me a minute of your time.’

  Fuck, what did it matter. He was going home tomorrow. And ever the sucker for the pretty face - which the girl did have, along with other attributes - he gave in. Within five minutes he had promised to visit a timeshare development (although the words ‘time’ and ‘share’ never reared their ugly heads), had been given some literature, and was on his way.

  He turned down onto the marina and wandered past the series of restaurants there, finally plumping for one where he received least hassle from the salesmen-cum-waiters. He ate a good meal. Tomato soup and onions with a poached egg floating in it, followed by espada, the island’s very own fish which looked like a creature from a horror movie, and a bottle of Vinho Verde.

  Ninety minutes later he emerged full, light-headed and completely resigned to Sam’s fate to be branded a closet drinker.

  He was back in his room fifteen minutes later, emptying his pockets and undressing with not much coordination. The wine had had more effect on him than he’d imagined. His eyes managed to focus very briefly on the leaflet the timeshare tout had foisted on him. He was about to screw it up and bin it when he stopped, laid the paper out on the bedside cabinet and thought for a moment, difficult though this was.

  Out of curiosity, he went over to where Sam’s belongings had been piled up and dug out a flight bag; he unzipped it and pulled out a money pouch, the type worn around the waist. He remembered Sam wearing it on the Lake District trip. Inside was all the money she had left in her possession - about five hundred pounds in sterling travellers’ cheques and six thousand escudos. There were other bits of paper folded up: restaurant and bank receipts, a receipt for a coach tour of the island - for tomorrow - and the thing Donaldson had been looking for. . . the same timeshare information leaflet he had been given.

  He unfolded it carefully and laid it next to his on the bedside cabinet.

  Yes. Exactly the same. Other than the time and date of the visit, written in by the tout. He sighed heavily. So what?

  Then he turned the sheet over and saw that Sam had written two extra words on hers - two words which he had missed when he’d originally gone through her belongings. Donaldson recognised her writing - big, loopy, almost child-like.

  Scott Hamilton!!!! The exclamation marks were Sam’s.

  Donaldson, after removing his socks, visited the bathroom. Whilst he sat there he thought, Maybe timeshare is for me, after all.

  11 p.m. Monday. A continuous tour of duty of seventeen hours. At last, Henry Christie wrapped up his day. He was fast approaching a state of zombie-dom.

  He rechecked his ‘to do’ list in front of him, hoping that everything which needed to be done, had been.

  Dundaven had been charged with some firearms offences, bail refused. He would be up before the Magistrates tomorrow, when the police would apply for a remand in custody for seventy-two hours, otherwise known as a ‘three day lie-down’. This would enable Henry’s team to question him at a more leisurely pace and complete further enquiries. Several addresses had come to light in the east of the county and they were all going to be hit at six the next morning. Everything was arranged for that: firearms teams, Support Unit officers and detectives. All coordinated by Henry, who sensed something big and nasty lurking behind Dundaven.<
br />
  The three days would give a clearer indication of Nina’s condition. Whether she lived or died would affect further charges. Murder or Attempted Murder? In any case, Dundaven was going to be charged with McCrory’s murder.

  The other enquiry on his plate - the dead girl on the beach - seemed to be pretty slow. She had been identified from fingerprints and some documentation found in her bedsit.

  Marie Cullen had been a prostitute, working on the streets and in the clubs of Blackburn. Other than that, the police had very little to go on. Two detectives were going east in the morning to do some spadework. Henry thought this one would be a toughie. Prostitute murders usually were.

  He had a stinking headache, his sinuses acting up as though they had been clamped with alligator clips.

  He opened his desk drawer and sifted through the contents to find some Paracetamols. He was sure he had some. Whilst doing so he noticed the statement he’d drafted about the incident with Shane Mulcahy. He pushed it to the back of his drawer and hoped it would go away. He found no tablets.

  Derek Luton, looking tired and haggard, wandered into the office, stretching and rolling his neck.

  ‘Degsy - you got any headache pills on you?’

  ‘No. That’s why I came in here myself. Got a real splitter.’

  ‘Ah well,’ said Henry resignedly, ‘we’ll just have to suffer. How’s it going?’

  ‘Good. Yeah. Excellent, in fact. Really interesting. I’ve been out taking witness statements with a Detective Sergeant from the Organised Crime Squad, guy called Tattersall.’

  ‘And are you getting anywhere?’

  ‘I think they have some sort of line on the gang, but they’re keeping it close to their chests at the moment. They seem to have really got in the driving seat now, because it was one of their lot who got it. FB is letting Tony Morton run with it.’

  ‘What’s the name of the cop who got killed?’

  ‘A DS - Geoff Driffield. From Manchester, on secondment to the squad.’

  ‘Can’t say I know him. What the hell was he doing in that shop all kitted out and tooled up and all alone?’

  ‘That remains a mystery,’ said Luton. ‘Apparently he was a bit of a loner. His days on the squad were numbered because he wasn’t a team player - more of a glory-seeker. Theory is, he got some gen about the gang, discovered where they were due to hit and wanted to make a name for himself. Backfired.’

  ‘That’s a fucking understatement.’ Henry glanced at his watch. ‘Gotta go, bud, early start tomorrow.’

  The club never cranked up that night. Hardly anyone ventured in after pub closing time. Rider shut up shop shortly after midnight. No point flogging a dead horse. By 12.30 he and Jacko were the only ones left inside. The customers had drifted away without complaint, as had the remainder of the staff. Isa had kissed Rider on the cheek and gone to bed in the guesthouse opposite the club where she was staying.

  After washing and drying the glasses, Jacko locked up the bar. He hated leaving a mess because it was always depressing to return to. He set the alarm for that area, gave Rider a quick wave and sauntered out into the night.

  Rider was alone.

  He savoured the peace for a few moments whilst drawing the last few puffs out of his cigar. He stubbed it out and after checking all the likely places a burglar might hide, he too left.

  They hit him as he walked to the car.

  Two of them. Balaclavas. Baseball bats, or maybe pick-axe handles.

  They came from the shadows, giving him no time to react.

  The first blow landed on his back, right on the kidneys. A surge of pain, like a bolt of lightning, scorched up through him. But he didn’t have too much time to savour this because the second blow, from the weapon wielded by the second man, connected with his lower stomach.

  The blows were only milliseconds apart.

  They had the effect of putting severe pain into him, winding him and disorientating him. His body didn’t know what to do. Part of it screamed to him to stand upright and respond to the pain in the back; another part wanted him to bend over double. The compromise meant that his body contorted to pay homage to both blows.

  By which time more violence was being used.

  The sticks flashed, raining blow after blow on Rider: shoulders, arms, ribs, stomach, arse, upper and lower legs.

  Rider was driven callously to the ground in such a manner he was unable to scream or respond in any way which might have brought him some assistance. All screams became gurgles, all shouts whimpers. All he could do was take it, roll up in a ball, cover his head and hope that oblivion was not far away.

  In a beating, thirty seconds is a long time, especially for the party receiving it. During that time, Rider’s body probably took in excess of forty well-delivered hard blows.

  Then they stopped.

  Rider groaned pathetically. His whole body felt like it was on fire. A raging, searing, Great Fire of London type of fire - one which destroyed everything in its path.

  His cheek was pressed against the cold pavement. His mouth sagged open. A horrible gungy liquid dribbled out: a combined brew of snot, blood and whisky.

  In agony he pushed himself up onto all fours. His breathing was shallow, laboured, painful.

  Then it all began again.

  The first blow of this renewed attack smashed into the base of his spine.

  This time he did emit the beginnings of a scream - but the sound was cut short when the next blow connected with the side of his head. This sent him spinning across the pavement towards the front wheels of his car and mentally into a void.

  They stopped before he lost consciousness.

  He was face down, half in, half out of the gutter, his nose pressed into a grid. The sound of the drains below belched into his subconscious. The smell of shit invaded his nostrils. In a flash of clarity he wondered if he had soiled his own pants.

  One of his attackers grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his face upwards, almost tearing the hair out by the roots. He shook Rider’s head until his eyes half-opened.

  ‘Just a message, this,’ hissed the man from the cover of his balaclava. ‘You choose very carefully who you side with, OK? It’s in your interests not to get involved. D’you understand me, Mr fucking-tough-nut Rider? Next time you’re dead.’

  He let Rider’s head drop with a dull thud into the edge of the pavement. A second later he passed out.

  Chapter Nine

  After four fitful hours’ sleep, Henry found himself standing in front of a large squad of police officers, cups of tea in their hands. It was 5.45a.m. and they were in the canteen at Accrington police station. The reason for meeting here was that five out of the six addresses they had uncovered in relation to Dundaven were in East Lancashire, and Accrington was central for them all. The sixth address was in Bury, just over the Greater Manchester border.

  There were forty-eight officers, eight for each address. Four Support Unit, two CID and two firearms. The Support Unit were specialists in entering premises quickly and also in search techniques for buildings and persons. The plan that morning was to get in quick on the warrants Henry had sworn out the day before, take no crap, search thoroughly and if necessary, make arrests.

  Henry cleared his throat and called for attention. The room fell immediately silent as all eyes turned to him.

  He briefed the officers about what they should search for, reminded them of their powers and the law, begged them to cause as little damage as possible, try not to shoot anyone unless absolutely necessary, and wished them luck.

  They separated into their various teams whilst Henry marvelled at the sheer size of some of the Support Unit officers. He was no pygmy himself, but some of them towered over him. Even the women. They all checked their equipment - door openers, dragon lights, extending mirrors, various tools, guns and CS sprays.

  Within ten minutes they had all dispersed, leaving Henry and a Detective Sergeant sat in the canteen.

  By 6.30 the teams were all
in place. Five minutes later the first door went through.

  It was a good feeling.

  The Jacaranda da Funchal was one of the most pleasant complexes he had ever seen; if he hadn’t been there for some other reason, Karl Donaldson could easily have succumbed to the hard sell which was actually disguised as a soft message.

  He had walked the two miles to it from his hotel: west out of Funchal, beyond the rather staid but magnificent Reid’s Hotel, and to an area known rather unoriginally as the Tourist Zone. It was a fairly unprepossessing part of town, much of which reminded Donaldson of a bomb site with many open tracts of wasteland, some with half-demolished buildings, others nothing but rubble and dust. Oh, and tourist hotels.

  When he found the Jacaranda it was pure oasis. Set in about ten acres of gently shelving land, it had everything someone who wished to buy a timeshare could dream of: health club, tennis courts, two pools (one indoor, both heated), and the apartments themselves were luxuriously equipped to a very high standard.

  Donaldson was very impressed. He stood there and surveyed the place, dressed in his best tourist shorts and shirt.

  The sales patter made him want to sign up there and then - but he had been trained to resist brainwashing, tough though it was.

  He could imagine Karen’s face to be told they now owned a timeshare in Madeira.

  Eventually, begrudgingly, the salesman gave up on him and handed over his free gift - a flight bag - and turned his attention to other, more responsive clients.

  Which gave Donaldson a chance to break off and wander round the complex alone.

  He was armed with the compact camera which he’d bought to photograph Sam’s body. He made his way to the posh reception area where a pretty Madeiran lady was busy behind a large desk, inputting on a PC.

  ‘Ajude-me, por favor,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘Fala ingles?’

  ‘Sim,’ she nodded. ‘I do.’

  ‘Bom,’ he replied, relieved. ‘My name is Donaldson. I’m from the United States and I believe Scott Hamilton works here?’