Nightmare City

by Nick Oldham

  That Wednesday morning was an emergency meeting.

  It had snowed overnight and the hills were covered with a white blanket. It was not pleasant flaky snow, but wet and slushy and grimy.

  The first of the men to arrive was the owner of the club, Ronnie Conroy.

  He had learned his lesson from Blackpool and now, as well as his driver, he was accompanied by two armed goons. No one was going to sneak up on him again.

  The big Mercedes purred up the long driveway, past a couple of snow-covered trees and greens, stopping outside the grand entrance to the club.

  Conroy walked straight into the club, striding quickly through the reception foyer and into the manager’s office. After checking the arrangements had been made, he went to the changing rooms and got into his swimming gear. He dived into the heated pool and swam a few slow lengths whilst he considered matters.

  Ronnie Conroy was a worried man.

  There are perhaps a hundred and fifty to two hundred people, all men, who are the top operators and control eighty per cent of the UK drugs trade and they lead lives of lavish wealth, often in communities far away from their trading heartlands. They are far removed from street dealers and the day-to-day violence of bars, housing estates and night clubs upon which they shower their product.

  With a few exceptions, these men all reside in houses with swimming pools, stable blocks and acres of grounds. They own race horses, private planes or helicopters and homes abroad; the ones with children send them to private schools. Many are active within their adopted communities, living apparently blameless lives, supporting churches, charities and often find themselves on school boards.

  They all own legitimate businesses which act as a front for their more nefarious activities; they are usually cash based businesses, more often than not in retailing.

  Ronnie Conroy, one-time partner of John Rider, had grown into one of these top operators.

  What Conroy really imagined himself to be was a businessman, not a gangster. The words Company Director were proudly displayed on his passport. The fact that the bulk of his company’s profits came from supplying drugs, prostitution and selling guns was something he never mentioned in polite company. In fact, his neighbours in Osbaldeston, a leafy village on the outskirts of Blackburn, believed he was a car dealer.

  Conroy had been connected to Rider for many years, and another man called Munrow. The three of them had bonded professionally, though their personalities often clashed, and had built up an empire of criminal activity in the east of Lancashire and Manchester which had operated for well over ten years from the mid-seventies. Hard, violent years. Much of their time had been spent kicking the shit out of other would-be’s to keep their own heads out of the sewage.

  The profits had been good, but not as substantial as they could have been in a more peaceful, cooperative regime.

  Conroy had realised this, but his pleas to Rider and Munrow to make peace with other gangs fell on deaf ears. They were both highly feared individuals who got pleasure from inflicting pain, intimidating others and ruling -literally - with iron rods, unless they were using pick-axe handles instead.

  Their heavy tactics simply fuelled fires. Then halfway through the 1980s, there was an explosion of blood as gang fought gang for supremacy.

  When the North-West police forces formed a dedicated squad to combat this menace, Conroy had been one of the first to see the light ... and things fell very neatly into place for him just at the right time.

  Rider seemed to lose his nerve. He ran and never returned.

  Munrow was an awkward bastard. He wouldn’t run from anyone. For safety’s sake, he had to be sacrificed one way or another - and Conroy was just the man to do it.

  Without ever knowing the real truth - that Conroy had informed the cops - Munrow was arrested halfway through a robbery in Accrington. He and a gang of three armed men were surrounded by a heavily armed police contingent who had been briefed that the gang were ruthless and dangerous and should not be given any quarter. One of the four tried running. He was gunned down with a complete lack of mercy.

  Munrow surrendered quickly, suspecting, but never being able to prove, that Rider - who should have been the fifth member of the gang - had grassed on him. Subsequently he was jailed for nineteen years. This was the longest sentence even a judge who had been bribed could realistically run to. Even that had been a push to justify, but in his summing up he damned Munrow as a ‘menace to society’, ‘evil’, and other epithets. The promise of a villa on the Costa del Sol can work wonders, even to the judiciary.

  From that point on, with Rider and Munrow out of the picture, Conroy flourished.

  And so did his colleagues within the police force and local politics.

  He pushed a new culture of cooperation, which was fairly easy to achieve because, using information provided by him, the police in the form of the newly established North-West Organised Crime Squad were able to round up, prosecute and jail most of his rivals. The ones who escaped the legal net were killed in a series of shootings for which no one was ever captured.

  Within eighteen months of Munrow’s convictions, Conroy controlled a string of council estates throughout East Lancashire, over a dozen clubs, fifty pubs and a few schools.

  But, after eleven years of peace and prosperity, Conroy found himself facing the biggest threat to his empire ever.

  Munrow was back on the streets after serving a little more than half his sentence. He had come out of Strangeways like a bad-tempered bear who wanted his porridge back.

  He and Conroy had met to discuss things in an acrimonious encounter which achieved zilch. Conroy was not about to give him anything. Furiously Munrow had left, stating, ‘Well, if that’s your attitude, I’ll take everything.’

  He began to keep that promise.

  That was problem one.

  Then Dundaven had been arrested and there was the distant, but real possibility that police enquiries could end up on his doorstep. Problem two.

  ‘Fucking aggravation,’ he said out loud as he dived under the water. It was getting like old times.

  Action needed to be taken.

  He surfaced with a gasp, did the crawl to the edge of the pool and dragged himself out, showered, stripped and stepped into the sauna where things were very, very hot.

  Twenty-two minutes after Conroy had arrived, the second member of the trio drove up to the country club in a less conspicuous motor. Had the registered number been checked on the Police National Computer it would have revealed that the registered keeper was of ‘blocked’ status. This meant that information about the owner could only be passed over landline, not by radio, and only to police officers. This was often the case with vehicles used by the police for undercover work, particularly on specialist units. The computer screen would have also told the operator that this particular car belonged to the North-West Organised Crime Squad, based in Blackburn. It did not go on to say that the car was allocated to Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton for his exclusive use.

  Morton parked up and went into the club by a side entrance, ensuring he didn’t have to pass through Reception.

  He went towards the pool where at the door he was faced by Conroy’s two guards. He submitted bad-naturedly to their body search with a sneer on his face. Then he changed, showered and went directly to the sauna.

  Conroy sat there naked and unashamed, sweat streaking down his body, his limp penis resting on his thigh like a pet.

  Morton nodded to him, threw a ladle of water on the coals and hopped onto the top bench and laid out full-length.

  Although Karl Donaldson had been offered FBI-owned accommodation in London, he had declined, choosing instead to live in the small town of Hartley Wintney, about half an hour’s train journey from the capital. It was also within minutes of Karen’s workplace - the Police College at Bramshill - where she was seconded to the teaching staff.

  Living in Hartley Wintney meant early starts and late finishes for Donaldson, but the un
hurried lifestyle and surrounding countryside made it worth the effort. One of the great pleasures in his life had come to be getting off the train at Winchfield, the nearest station to home, at the end of a long day to be greeted by Karen and driven home to their little rented cottage. It was like living in some sort of Noel Coward time warp. He loved it to bits. A stereotypical American’s view of the English way of life, spoiled perhaps by the Jeep Cherokee he had bought so he could keep just a faint grip on America.

  He allowed himself a late start that Wednesday morning, sleeping for almost twelve hours. It was after ten when he arrived at the FBI office in the American Embassy.

  His chain-beaten appearance and black eye caused much interest, as did his story about Sam and her death. After a short conference with his colleagues he went to his desk with the intention of writing up a very detailed report and a strong recommendation that the matter should not rest there: a full investigation should be set up with the cooperation of the Portuguese authorities.

  After that he intended to contact New York and set about finding out everything he could about Scott Hamilton.

  Those were his good intentions.

  What he hadn’t bargained for was the multi-storey building of paper work which had accumulated on his desk during his absence. It looked like he’d been away for six months, not a few days. He experienced a vague tinge of annoyance that someone else hadn’t taken it on.

  He shrugged. That was life in any office, he guessed.

  His first instinct was to sweep all the papers off into a bin. Very, very tempting. He sighed and screwed his professional head on. He eased himself stiffly into his chair. His bones and body were still feeling bruised and battered. He took the top item from the pile and perused it.

  Within minutes he felt as if he’d never been away from the place.

  Half an hour later, the final member of the trio arrived. His car was the biggest, flashiest of all three - a Bentley Brooklands which had set one of his companies back just short of a hundred grand.

  He wasn’t too concerned about walking in through Reception and who might possibly spot him. He was a regular there, well-known to be a part owner and believed he could be seen with whom he damn well liked.

  The other two were sitting in opposite corners of the sauna.

  Conroy was still naked, but Morton had a towel neatly folded across his lap, covering his dignity.

  The third man burst in. He was completely naked, his large loose stomach hanging down over his pubes. He sat somewhere midway between the others.

  ‘I think we’ve got problems,’ Sir Harry McNamara said.

  They adjourned to one of the plush conference rooms. A large picture window overlooked the golf course and beyond to the moors which swept away towards Bolton. On a clear day the view was magnificent. Today the weather had worsened and slanting snow reduced visibility to a matter of metres.

  Coffee, sandwiches, biscuits and brandy had been brought in. A Do Not Disturb sign hung on the outside of the door - rather pathetically as no one would have countenanced disturbing them. The two apes with big bulges under their arms and sloping foreheads saw to that.

  McNamara was doing the talking.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you both that things are reaching a critical stage here, and the last thing we need is to have our equilibrium rocked in any way.’ He dunked a ginger biscuit deeply into his coffee, immersed it for a good few seconds to allow it to soak, then placed the whole soggy mess into his mouth. ‘My part of the negotiations have gone extremely well and my contact - my very nervous contact - will be here soon to view the samples.’ He sighed grimly and looked with undisguised scorn at Conroy. ‘Only we don’t have anything for him to look at, do we?’

  ‘It was just fucking unfortunate that Dundaven got picked up,’ Conroy snapped defensively.

  ‘What were you thinking of, taking them to Blackpool in the first place?’

  Conroy stiffened. ‘You’re the one who wanted them stashed well away from your warehouse, just in case. Rider’s club seemed as good a place as any. I shouldn’t have given the bastard any choice. I should’ve just told him I was going to use it . . . and, of course, those two guys turning up with shooters complicated matters, threw me off-course a bit, y’know?’ He touched the side of his face. ‘Having a gun stuck into the back of your head, then going off next to your ear ain’t pleasant. My ear still rings like fucking chapel bells. . . It was a bad fucking day all round.’

  ‘And that’s another thing,’ McNamara latched onto. ‘What’s the position with you and Munrow? We won’t be doing business with anyone unless we can show we’re in control. What’s the current state of play?’

  ‘I have no fucking idea at all. It’s a waiting game. I don’t know what his plans are. He’s an unpredictable, dangerous twat.’

  ‘Take him out,’ said McNamara.

  ‘Oh -like, yeah. Easier said than done. There’s not many willing to go up against him.’ Conroy turned his attention to Morton. ‘Has that bastard Rider shot in the leg turned up yet?’

  Morton shook his head.

  ‘One big fucking cock-up, all this,’ Conroy said in dismay. ‘All at once.’

  Quietly, Morton said to McNamara, ‘Ron’s not the only one who’s got a problem, is he Harry?’

  McNamara clammed up tight. He reached for the brandy bottle and tipped more than a generous measure into his coffee.

  Conroy laughed. ‘You haven’t been picked up for kerb crawling again, have you, you daft cunt?’

  Nothing came from the millionaire.

  ‘Shall I tell him?’ Morton said, who, when nothing came, went on, ‘The police in Blackpool are investigating the murder of a prostitute. One by the name of Marie Cullen. Ring a bell, Ron?’

  Conroy nodded and glowered sourly at McNamara. ‘You haven’t, have you?’

  ‘She threatened to go to the press about our relationship,’ McNamara blurted under pressure. ‘She wanted money to keep quiet. She could have ruined me.’

  ‘You mean she’d had enough of you beating the living crap out of her every time you fucked her. Is that what you mean, you sadistic bastard?’

  McNamara placed his cup down. He rose from his chair and without warning plunged himself across the room at Conroy who was standing at the window with a drink in his hands.

  They fell into a heap, McNamara’s fists flying, rolling across the carpeted room, crashing into chairs. But, though McNamara was bigger than Conroy, his technique was lacking badly and within moments he found himself face down on the floor, nose pressed into the shag pile, with Conroy’s left hand pushing the back of his neck down. In his right was a switchblade which he pressed dangerously into the side of McNamara’s neck.

  ‘Don’t ever try a fucking stunt like that again, or I’ll skewer you like a pig,’ Conroy panted heavily.

  Morton pulled him away. ‘Gents, gents,’ he cooed.

  Conroy released his grip and stood up.

  Spitting phlegm, McNamara drew himself onto all fours and gasped, ‘At least I’m not a little-boy shagger.’ He wiped his face.

  ‘I don’t hurt them,’ said Conroy.

  ‘Gents, please! Come on, we’ve got problems to solve here, solutions to find,’ Morton said with patronising smoothness. ‘Let’s not make things any worse than they are.’ He helped McNamara to his feet. ‘We’ve all got problems and we need to air them reasonably, otherwise we might as well go our separate ways. . . and in the long term that could do us all damage, knowing what we know about each other. We need a corporate approach here. Heads together.’

  Conroy brushed himself off. The blade had disappeared.

  McNamara returned to his seat, wheezing slightly, and lit a cigar.

  ‘Point taken,’ said Conroy.

  ‘Harry?’ Morton probed the tycoon.

  Reluctantly the man nodded.

  ‘Good, let’s get on with it then.’

  Conroy stalked moodily over to the window where he stood, arms folded, staring out
at the snow.

  To McNamara, Morton said, ‘I’ll do what I can to help you, Harry, but I’ve got to know one thing. Did you kill her?’

  ‘Bitch deserved it,’ McNamara spat.

  Morton sighed. ‘In that case, you do have a problem. A monumental one.’

  ‘Why? Can’t you do anything to get them off my back? That’s what you’re paid for, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not so simple in this case. I don’t hold any influence over the cops in Blackpool. I managed to get my team onto the newsagents killings because it’s one of my men who ended up dead there and we need to control the investigation. But there’s no way I can get anyone onto Cullen’s murder. . . I couldn’t justify it.’

  ‘Shit,’ said McNamara.

  ‘And you’re in a similar position too, Ron, but I might be able to get a couple of my people onto the Dundaven enquiry on the pretext that we’ve got an interest in him, just to keep a watching brief on it. That way at least I could pre-warn you of any developments in your direction.’

  ‘I don’t see it as that much of a problem. Dundaven won’t talk. If he does, I’ll ensure he commits suicide on remand. My difficulty is getting a shitload of guns up here in time for the viewing.’

  ‘No - you’re wrong there,’ Morton warned him. ‘If finding guns was your only problem, you’d be laughing. Both your problems are much, much bigger than that.’

  He had the rapt attention of both men.

  ‘Your - our - problem is a very nosy, tenacious detective who doesn’t quite know anything at all just yet, but given time, knowing him and his reputation, he’s very much on the verge of discovery. And that problem,’ said Morton, ‘is called Henry Christie.’

  Long hours hunched over a desk did nothing for the small of Karl Donaldson’s back. Reading and writing in a completely ridiculous posture gave him severe pain in the lumbar region. Around lunchtime, having spent two hours sifting meticulously through the accumulated paperwork, he knew he should get up, stretch, have a walk round. Otherwise he’d be set like a statue in that position.