by Nick Oldham
They did not notice him enter, being far too preoccupied in their own world of thrusting and grunting.
The couple were on the bed, facing away from Rider. The woman was on her hands and knees, face buried into a pillow, groaning wildly and Munrow plunged himself into her from behind with no subtlety whatsoever. It looked like he was meting out some form of medieval torture as he grabbed her thighs with white knuckled fingers and jab-jab-jabbed into her. She didn’t seem to be complaining, meeting each of his rams with a powerful reverse thrust of her own. At the same time she was reaching backwards between Munrow’s legs, cupping and squeezing his balls in the palm of her hand.
Not that he was a good judge of such things, but Rider made an educated guess that Munrow was not a zillion miles away from his climax. Rider wondered if it would give him an even greater thrill with a gun poked in his ear.
He decided to find out.
Two strides and he was standing right behind the heaving Munrow whose arse flexed, tightened and relaxed each time he drove his cock into her.
Without warning Munrow emitted a rhino-like squeal which made Rider jump.
The reason for it was that the woman had reached further back than Munrow’s testicles and inserted the tip of her forefinger into his anus.
‘Shove it in, baby,’ he hissed. She obliged. He let out a long ‘aaargh’ - somewhere around middle C - and responded by slamming his full length into her. Rider wished he’d thought to shove the gun up there instead of in his ear. That would have been a real wheeze. Alas, the opportunity had passed.
Instead he sidled up to Munrow and stuck the muzzle under his left ear and cocked the weapon with an ominous click which always seems much louder than it really is.
In mid-forward thrust, Munrow stepped on the brakes, came to a dead halt. He contorted his head round, eyes wide, knowing exactly what he was feeling behind his ear.
Rider put more pressure on and said, ‘Don’t stop.’
‘Honey, what’s wrong?’ the woman said. She looked round and saw the hooded figure of Rider pressing a gun into her lover’s neck. She did what any normal person would have done: screamed and tried to wriggle free.
With his left hand, Rider grabbed the back of her neck and forced her face roughly down into the pillow, muffling the noise, suffocating her. He kept the gun pointed to Munrow’s head and said, ‘Shut it, you bitch, or I’ll blow his head off and then rape you in the blood.’
He hoped it sounded convincing. Personally he was not remotely taken in by the threat.
Munrow hadn’t moved.
Rider let go of the woman. She stayed where she was, ass in the air with Munrow stuck inside her. She started to shake and sob.
Suddenly Rider’s resolve petered out. There was no way he could bring himself to force Munrow to finish the job.
‘OK Charlie, we’re gonna go for a ride. I suggest you come out of there, real slow-like - unless you want to take her along too.’
Munrow withdrew with a ‘plop’. To his credit, despite everything, his manhood towered majestically, sparklingly damp, up to his belly button.
He opened his mouth.
This was no place for a debate. Not wanting to miss the chance, Rider inserted the gun into that orifice. ‘Now then, Charlie,’ he growled dangerously, ‘this is a double-action revolver with the hammer cocked, so I don’t even have to pull the trigger, just touch it, and I’ll blow your fucking brains all over this pretty wallpaper. I want you to remember that because we’re going downstairs now with this gun stuck in your mouth, so you need to be very cooperative, otherwise you’ll be brain dead and she’ll be dickless. Get my point?’
Jacko jumped. The security lights at the front of the house came on as Rider and the naked Munrow came out of the door, down the steps and walked towards the car - an old Ford Granada, like something out of The Sweeney.
Jacko could see the gun stuck in Munrow’s gob.
Nausea ripped through the barman’s insides. ‘Oh shit,’ he breathed. He coaxed the gear lever into first, released the handbrake, then the clutch gently - but could not stop the van from kangarooing the first few metres as the engine and gearbox merged into one entity. One day he’d get the clutch fixed properly.
By the time he had pulled onto the driveway, Munrow had been forced unwillingly into the boot of the Granada which was akin to a freezer. Rider had slammed the lid down over his shivering body.
Ski-masked, gun in hand, Rider walked casually up to Jacko who wound his window down. ‘Follow me.’
‘Where we going?’
‘Fuck knows ... just follow me.’
Rider got into the Granada and pulled the mask off. He slid that and the gun underneath the seat.
The car started first time.
From the boot he could hear Munrow’s muffled banging and shouting.
There was no going back now.
The real bad weather had hit London. Public transport was at a virtual standstill. Traffic hardly moved in the heavy snow.
Even so, the conscientious Karl Donaldson crawled into his office at 7.30 a.m., having left home at 5.00 a.m. in the Jeep.
Some faxes and correspondence had appeared on his desk overnight.
One of the faxes gave the result of the second autopsy on Sam Dawber.
It came to the same conclusion as the one performed on Madeira. Some more specks of human tissue had been found underneath her fingernails and was being DNA profiled. The bruising on her body was inconclusive.
‘Goddam,’ he sighed, resigning himself even more to the fact that he would probably never be able to prove Sam had been murdered. His only hope was a lead from the tissue, but being a pessimist at heart, Donaldson doubted anything would come of it.
A large fat envelope underneath this fax was from the New York Office and contained a photocopy of everything the FBI had ever filed on Scott Hamilton. Donaldson shuffled the papers out onto his desk. The file was almost half an inch thick. He scanned through it quickly.
Hamilton’s main claim to fame was that he had trained as an accountant, had then been briefly jailed for skimming his employer’s profits, and moved on to handle the financial matters of a well-known New York hood - i.e. laundering money for him. The Feds and the DEA had blown the racket sky high. The hood had been jailed (and since escaped), but Hamilton evaded incarceration by the skin of his teeth.
He branched out into some classy white-collar crime, defrauding people who should have known better. Currency and commodity frauds were his favourites.
He had been caught for a tobacco scam which backfired when the buyers turned out to be Fibbies. In particular, one Samantha Jane Dawber.
So that was how she knew him, Donaldson thought.
Hamilton got eight months for that.
He was not considered big time, as in mafia terms, but he was wealthy and worth watching as his activities sometimes straddled state and international boundaries.
He also had a violent streak and was suspected of dealing with a rival in a fatal manner. Nothing was ever proven. He was also believed to be a fixer, arranging things for third parties such as burglaries. Again, this was only intelligence, not hard evidence.
Since his prison release for the tobacco scam, he had dropped out of sight. There was nothing on file for almost two years.
Except the FBI now knew where he was - Madeira, running a timeshare. Donaldson wondered what type of criminal activity the Jacaranda was fronting. He knew one thing for certain - it was going to be investigated ruthlessly.
He cast his eyes over the rap sheet for the cigarette fraud. Sam’s name was down as Case Officer. It was a good bust. One to be proud of.
She probably couldn’t believe her eyes when she spotted Hamilton on sleepy Madeira.
So why had she died?
Accident? Donaldson was convinced this was not right. More likely revenge for the jail sentence. Or had she stumbled across something more? And would he ever know? Probably fucking not.
The phone rang.
He closed the file and answered it.
In days of yore, Rider would have known exactly where to take Munrow for a little chat.
Times change. He had no contacts to speak of any more, owned no suitable properties of his own, so was therefore forced to play it by ear.
After half an hour’s driving he was heading up a steep winding road against merciless snow, out of the border town of Todmorden towards Bacup.
Halfway up the hill he turned off the road onto a farm track, where he pulled up out of sight of the main road. There was no sound coming from the boot. He prayed that Munrow hadn’t died of hypothermia or inhaling exhaust fumes.
Jacko drew the Transit in behind.
Rider climbed out of the Granada and opened the boot. A shivering, numb Munrow lay curled up in the foetal position, arms folded tightly around his knees which were drawn up to his chest. He looked up at Rider, full of hate.
Rider produced the gun. He reached for Munrow’s arm and heaved him out. He pushed the naked man roughly towards the back of the Transit, opened the doors and forced him in, climbing in behind, squatting on his haunches, gun held loosely. With immense satisfaction Rider saw that the huge throbbing erection had shrivelled to sub-acorn size. Now Rider didn’t feel quite so threatened.
‘Get out, pal,’ Rider ordered Jacko. ‘Go sit in the car.’
There was no need to tell him twice. He was gone in a flash, leaving Rider and Munrow alone.
Munrow’s whole body was shaking with the cold. His skin had turned ice-blue. His teeth chattered audibly.
‘I’ve brought you here for two reasons,’ Rider said, giving the impression this was a pre-planned halt. In truth, he was winging it.
‘Which are?’ his captive managed to stutter.
‘So you are obliged to listen to what I say and know I’m not bullshitting.’
‘Why the fuck should I listen to you?’
‘Your own interests, Charlie boy. I mean to make a point and doing it this way is the only way you’ll take it seriously.’
‘Get fucking talking then.’
‘OK. I don’t give a monkey’s ass about what’s going on between you and Conroy. I’m not involved, never was, never will be. Your guys saw me with him because he wanted something from me, not because we’re in business together. Understand?’
‘You shot one of ‘em.’
‘Self-defence,’ Rider said quietly.
‘Don’t believe you.’
‘Your choice, Charlie. But think about this. If I was with Conroy, do you honestly think we’d be having this conversation right now, especially after your two goons beat the shite out of me the other night? Your head would be in pieces and they wouldn’t find you until the snow melted ... would they?’
Rider raised his eyebrows.
Rider wasn’t sure whether he succeeded with Munrow. The other man could merely have been conning him just to get out of an awkward situation.
In the end, Rider had two choices - to kill him, or let him go and see what happened.
Rider always knew he would choose the latter. Just to make a point and ensure that Munrow realised Rider was no soft touch, he threw the Granada ignition key into a field adjacent to the lane where it disappeared in a snowdrift. He left Munrow standing there stark naked in the middle of nowhere, mouthing obscenities at him as Jacko reversed the van out of the lane, back onto the main road.
The man who only hours before had orchestrated vicious attacks on three nightclubs, now found himself helpless and freezing, scrambling over a dry stone wall into the field to search for his key.
A humiliation he would never forget for as long as he lived.
Henry’s heart went cold because he recognised the voice on the other end of the telephone line immediately.
Superintendent Guthrie. Discipline and Complaints.
Allegedly the most ruthless bastard they had in that department. A man, it was said, who dedicated his life to prosecuting police officers, who investigated each complaint with fervour. A cop who loved screwing other coppers.
‘Henry. Need to come and see you. Have a bit of a chat. Think you know what it’s about,’ Guthrie said affably in the clipped way he spoke.
‘Shane Mulcahy?’
‘Spot on. You working Saturday - say three-thirty p.m.?’
No, I’ll be in South America by then, Henry wanted to say. ‘Yes,’ he replied meekly.
‘Good. See you in your office then. Bye.’
‘Bye, sir,’ croaked Henry. He replaced the receiver. A bead of sweat trickled irritatingly down his forehead. His hands trembled ever so slightly. The investigation process had begun.
He refocused his mind. There was a busy day ahead.
The team investigating Derek Luton’s death were parading on at ten. Ronnie Veevers, the Detective Superintendent assigned to run the case, would not be arriving until noon. Henry was required to kick-start the job.
After this he wanted to see how the officers dealing with Marie Cullen’s murder were progressing and to warn them about McNamara making smells at a higher level. Henry dearly wanted to arrest the man but knew that, at the moment, there was nothing to connect him to her murder, other than gut feeling. Which would not stand up in court.
Then he needed to know the current position of other enquiries. Dundaven was in the cells on a three-day lie-down and needed to be interviewed with a purpose.
And maybe, if he could find time, he’d look into the shooting of Boris, the gorilla, and dig deeper into John Rider, see what he could unearth.
Lots to do. Not much time to do it in.
Firstly he called the hospital.
Nina had pulled through after a fraught night when they thought they were going to lose her. She had not regained consciousness, but showed slight improvement. She would undergo another operation today.
The news made Henry feel better and put his own problems into perspective.
The zoo told him Boris was much better too. But still in a real bad mood.
A cup of coffee was placed down on his desk. Henry spun round in his chair to see two smiling Chief Superintendents - FB and Tony Morton. They both looked smug, pleased with themselves - rather as if they were in co-hoots.
‘Morning, Henry,’ they said.
‘Sirs.’
‘Got some good news and some good news for you. Which do you want first?’ Morton asked, beaming.
‘I’ll start with the good news.’
Chapter Fifteen
Detective Constable Dave Seymour was a raving homophobic. He could not countenance the thought of men ‘doing it together’. Despite Equal Opportunity training, which sought to raise his awareness in such matters, gay men left him cold. ‘Shit-shovellers’ he called them.
The thought of lesbians was a completely different matter. When he visualised two women rolling around naked, frigging each other off, he was quite turned on. To him, a lesbian was just a woman who hadn’t found the right man yet, whereas gays were dangerous, perverted individuals who should be put to death.
Which was why he wasn’t too concerned to be taken off the Dundaven enquiry at short notice and drafted onto the Marie Cullen murder case, where he was teamed up with Lucy Crane. Lucy was a lesbian - a well known fact because she had openly ‘come out’, and Seymour felt that, although married, he could be the right man for her.
‘Once you’ve tasted the real stuff, you’ll never go back,’ he told her. ‘A quality piece of meat is a million times better than any dildo.’
Lucy was driving; he was passenger. And ever since they had set off from Blackpool to go to Blackburn, he had never once let up with his sexual banter. By the time they hit the M6, she was heartily sick of it.
‘Dave, shut up, will you?’ she ordered him. ‘You’re getting on my tits.’ As soon as she’d said it, she knew it was the wrong phrase to use.
‘If only I was,’ he cut in with a sly grin.
‘And if you don’t keep quiet I’ll make a complaint against you for sexual haras
sment.’
‘You’d never prove it,’ he said smugly. ‘My word against yours.’
She sighed deeply. ‘Guess what, Dave? I’ve got a voice-activated tape recorder in my pocket and I’ve recorded your nonstop innuendo, requests for sexual favours and digs about my sexuality ever since we set off - and I’ll use it if you don’t shut your effing mouth. Yes, I’m a lesbian, I’m open about it and quite happy. No, I don’t want to suck your cock. End of story. Let’s get on with the job, shall we?’
Seymour had nothing to say. He glared nastily at her, grated his teeth for a moment and then mouthed the word, ‘Bitch.’
He didn’t know whether or not to believe her about the tape recorder. He wouldn’t take any chances until he knew for sure.
The journey continued in silence, the atmosphere between them as thick as fog.
They were en-route to see if they could find some more of Marie Cullen’s colleagues in the profession of prostitution.
Prostitutes! Seymour hated ‘em.
The infrastructure of the British police service is riddled with bureaucracy. It has a slow, mechanistic structure within which it can take an eon for decisions to be made and then acted on. The militaristic lines on which the service is operated are being slowly whittled away as the police respond positively to the ever-changing society they serve; certain ranks have been abolished and the management structure has been flattened. But it is still slow, painfully so.
Except on the occasions when it wants to move quickly.
Particularly when high-ranking officers want to make things happen.
Which is why lowly Henry Christie felt he was in a world of unreality when Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton and his old bosom-buddy Bob Fanshaw-Bayley beckoned him into an empty office, sat him down and revealed the good news.
