by Nick Oldham
Henry nodded. The police service’s answer to everything: set up a squad.
‘It has no parameters, no terms of reference, no rules by which to work, and most importantly of all, no control. It stood alone, ostensibly an offshoot of the Regional Crime Squad, but in reality it declared UDI. There was no one to oversee it, probably because no one thought it belonged to them. It did what it wanted to do, and still does. It continues to have good results against organised crime, but in reality those results mask something that is very, very bad. This is because the man who championed its formation and the man who runs it are corrupt and in co-hoots with organised crime.’
Henry found himself becoming angry. ‘Well, why didn’t you do something about it? It was your job, wasn’t it?’
Willocks smiled at Henry. He understood the detective’s annoyance.
‘I was asked to investigate when some doubt was cast about unsafe convictions. I looked at a handful of people the squad were responsible for convicting, and each claimed they had been framed. Some lied, of course, but some told tales which began to hold water. I delved. I was devious. I bugged places and people ... and the more I did so, the more I uncovered - until I began to realise that here was a group of police officers who were controlled by, acted with and protected criminals - particularly Ronnie Conroy.’
‘What, everyone on the squad?’
‘No. Most of them are pure, honest, good cops. But there is a nucleus of officers who are corrupt. They all circulate around Tony Morton. Never more than ten officers, I suspect, but because they’re backed by Morton they carry the weight and control and monitor what the clean officers do.’
‘So, again, why didn’t you do anything?’ Henry accused him.
‘What did they do to you, Henry?’ Willocks asked, looking directly at him, evading the question.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You said they had you by the balls. You weren’t very specific. What was it? Did they con you into taking a bribe? Set you up with a woman and film it, then threaten to tell your wife?’ Henry coloured up and the wily old man knew he had hit a nerve. ‘Does that begin to answer your question, Henry? I fell foul of them. I was naive enough to think I could pull a woman who was almost three times younger than I was. In fact, she was only fifteen. Looked nineteen. Acted thirty. And I did it, God, I did it . . . then I saw the still photos, then I saw the video footage, and then I saw the written statement complaining of rape and the doctor’s testimony to go with it . . . And then I saw Tony Morton’s face and thought about my wife. I caved in immediately.’
‘They know how to intimidate, lie, cheat, cover their tracks. They are very dangerous, completely ruthless.’
‘Do you think they’d murder?’
They were back in the living room, chatting over a cup of tea.
‘Maybe, though I never uncovered it,’ said Willocks. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me to learn that they’d murdered people to silence them. Usually they’re a bit more subtle, like they were with you and me. Put people into impossible situations, or pay them off, or frighten or harass people, do whatever suits their circumstance - and don’t forget the double-edged sword. They’ve got cops and criminals doing the work for them. It’s bad enough being leaned on by a cop. Having a criminal do it as well. . .’
‘So that’s what I’m up against.’
‘No, it’s more than that. There’s the political angle too with McNamara. He’s very influential and can bring pressure to bear in other ways.’
Henry blew out his cheeks. ‘You’ve blitzed me.’
‘I thought I might.’
‘How do they operate?’
‘They facilitate crime. They allow Conroy - who is probably one of the biggest and wealthiest criminals in the country - to operate unmolested. In return they get paid big money from his gun and drug dealing and all other sorts of criminal activities. And Conroy gives them a succession of sacrificial lambs - sometimes spectacular busts which boost the standing of the squad. Which is why it has been allowed to continue for all this time. It gets results but they are not as a consequence of police work, they’re as a result of corruption.’
‘I’m going to get them,’ Henry said firmly. ‘I’m not going to allow them to beat me.’
Willocks looked sadly at Henry. ‘Don’t put yourself in peril, lad. These men will not give up and they can destroy you far easier than you them. You tell me two cops are dead, so if you make a mistake and they find out what you’re doing, you could be dead too. In the name of justice these people need to be stopped ... but for God’s sake don’t do it at the expense of your life.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
The sky was very dark. Out across the Irish Sea, forks of jagged lightning scorched down into the water. Henry drove back slowly along the Promenade. Big spats of rain splodged onto the windscreen, slowly and almost thoughtfully at first, then grew heavier. Henry flicked on the wipers and headlights.
It was 2 p.m. He had eaten no lunch and his empty stomach gurgled noisily in accompaniment to the thunder which suddenly roared overhead.
He drew into the kerb opposite the Big One on the Pleasure Beach and sat there with the engine idling. The car which pulled in seventy metres behind him went unnoticed by Henry, for his thoughts, black as the sky, dominated his whole being. They were in a whirl of conflict and disbelief.
A police department out of control. Working alongside criminals and bent politicians for financial gain, apparently capable of killing people who got in their way. Or so it seemed.
Yet what about the trigger to this last week’s events, the murder of Geoff Driffield and others in the newsagents? What had Driffield done to incur their wrath? Had he uncovered something and had he told anyone else, or had they got to him before that and silenced him?
Henry realised he might never know.
The thunder overhead seemed to rock the small car. The rain was so dense, Henry could hardly see.
And now he was in the middle of all this corruption. He had been corrupted. Fallen hook, line and stupidity.
He explored his options.
The first was to carry on with what he was doing and involve the Donaldsons in a game which might get them hurt. Or perhaps he should just accept his lot, concentrate on getting Rider convicted and then plead to be freed from his obligation to them.
He rubbed his temple with forefinger and thumb. In his mind’s eye he saw Morton, Conroy and McNamara looking pityingly down at him as he made his plea. They would never willingly let him go. He was too much of a prize. Another bent cop in their pocket.
Yet Henry did not want to be a bent cop, was not a bent cop and never would be . . . He slammed the gearbox into first and accelerated out into the stream of traffic. There was no way he could allow his life to be compromised and dominated by people who had an illegal hold on him.
He would fight them.
But he knew he could not do it alone.
Five minutes later he was parking in the rear yard and walking towards the police station. He dashed up to his office and took a piece of equipment from a drawer in his desk, and after checking it worked, he went down to the custody office, avoiding any meetings with his friends from the NWOCS.
It was unusually peaceful in the charge office. The afternoon Custody Sergeant lounged in a chair behind the custody desk. Henry knew the Sergeant well, but she seemed distant and slightly wary of him.
‘You OK, Sal?’
‘I’m OK, Henry,’ she said, emphasising the ‘I’m’.
Henry shrugged off her attitude; he couldn’t be bothered. He asked to see Rider.
She made an entry in the custody record. ‘Use interview room two, will you?’
‘Sure.’
Henry waited in the room until a tired-looking, slightly bedraggled Rider was steered sleepily in.
‘I’ll lay it on the line, John,’ Henry began without preamble. ‘I want to know everything you know about Ron Conroy’s criminal activities and corrupt connections with th
e North-West Organised Crime Squad, and anything else you’ve got on him. The more I know, the more evidence I gather, the more chance we both have of getting out of this by the skin of our teeth.’
‘You’re asking a lot, mate. What do I get in return? Charged with murder, then iced by Conroy at some non-specific time in the future?’
‘No - you won’t get charged.’ Henry shook his head. ‘I’ve decided that if you do what I ask, tell me what I want to know, then I’ll stick my neck out for you. I promise that you will not be prosecuted for the murder of Charlie Munrow.’
‘Do you have the authority to make that promise?’
‘Probably not - but believe me, John, if I have the power to fabricate evidence to convict you of a crime, then I also have the power to get you off a charge. But I believe that if you come across, I’ll be supported one hundred per cent by the people I go to with the information.’
‘Who will that be?’
‘Probably my Chief Constable.’
Rider sat back. ‘That’s not enough. These are dangerous people. They kill.’
‘I know.’ Henry marshalled his thoughts for a few seconds. ‘I’ll guarantee that, if you want, you’ll get put on a witness protection scheme. Isa too, if you like. New identities, new locations, some cash, new job ... whatever we can do. That is my second promise to you.’
Rider nodded thoughtfully. His eyes locked into Henry’s. ‘And what about you? Just ‘cos you’re a cop doesn’t mean you’re not a target.’
‘I imagine,’ said the detective, ‘that we’ll probably both end up stacking shelves in Asda in Newcastle in our new lives.’ He grinned. ‘So what about it? It’s a lot to ask.’
‘Fucked if I do, fucked if I don’t,’ Rider said pragmatically. ‘Having said that, I’m not sure how much help I’ll be to you. Ten years ago I knew everything. A lot of what I know now is third-hand.’
‘Just start blabbing. I’ll be the judge of what’s useful and what’s not.’ Henry produced the hand-held tape recorder out of his pocket and placed it on the table. ‘Let’s have a quick preliminary chat here ... just to get going.’
And the tiny radio mike which had been secretly fitted underneath the wall microphone of the official tape machine picked up everything that was said and relayed it to the speaker and tape recorder in Tony Morton’s temporary office.
He was expecting it, but when the knock came Eric Taylor nearly jumped out of his skin. He trailed reluctantly to the door and opened it. He recognised Karen Donaldson immediately from her Lancashire days.
‘Ma’am,’ he said nervously. ‘Come in.’
She stepped across the threshold accompanied by her husband who nodded curtly at Taylor.
‘This is my husband, Karl Donaldson. He’s with the FBI in London. He’s assisting with this matter.’
Glumly Taylor nodded.
‘Where’s the money?’ Donaldson asked.
Taylor picked up the briefcase he’d been given and opened it.
‘Sit down, Sarge,’ Karen said.
All three sat. Taylor alone in the middle of the settee, the others on chairs.
‘What we need to do here, Eric, is come at this from a different perspective than you simply taking a bribe, even though that’s the bottom line, isn’t it?’
Taylor remained tight-lipped. He wriggled his shoulders pathetically.
‘In order to clear your good name,’ her voice was sweet and hypnotic in its rhythm, ‘we need to apply some creative thinking, don’t we? I suggest we go from the premise that you simply played along with these people who "bribed" you, because, in fact, you were acting on our behalf by gathering evidence of corrupt and improper practice. Do you get my general drift?’
‘You mean I was sort of acting for you?’
‘Spot on. You’re a bright boy,’ Donaldson said impatiently.
‘Henry won’t suffer, will he?’ Taylor said. ‘I feel really bad about that.’
‘No, because he’s doing the same thing - working to expose corruption at high level. Now, all you need to do is make a detailed written statement outlining your role in this investigation and then what happened and who gave you the money. Simple.’
‘What if I don’t do it?’ His eyes narrowed as he tested the waters.
‘You’re fucked,’ Donaldson rasped darkly.
Henry knew he was taking a risk by spending so much time talking to Rider. Siobhan could come down at any time. Still, he reasoned, the time for inaction had gone. If he wanted to get out of this thing, then a risk it would have to be.
Rider told a good story. It covered his early years and association with Conroy and Munrow which blossomed in the late 1970s, early 1980s, based on drugs and guns. By 1982 they had a big, lucrative empire which was growing in all directions, legit and otherwise. But when the gangland territorial wars started, catching the attention of the forces of law and order, the empire began to crumble.
Rider left.
Munrow got busted.
And Conroy saw it as an opportunity to expand even further, this time protected properly by his police and political friends who he had been nurturing and working alongside for years. Rider named names.
‘I hadn’t seen Conroy for a good while,’ he explained, ‘though I kept tabs on what was happening. I never wanted to go back to that life, so Ronnie and his activities didn’t bother me one way or the other - until last weekend, when he contacted me and asked for a meet. He wanted to get a toehold into my club - for drugs, I thought. I told him to piss off.’
‘He wanted to sell drugs through your place?’
‘That’s what I thought originally ... then I saw that thing about Dundaven in the paper the other day and put two and two together.’
‘Whoa, hold on,’ said Henry. A light dawned. ‘You mean Conroy and Dundaven are connected?’
‘Yes - I thought you’d know that.’
‘Only sort of.’
‘And instead of drugs, I think he wanted to store those weapons at the club, probably as far away from himself as possible.’
Henry shook his head in disbelief.
‘That meeting between me and Conroy took place at the zoo, incidentally.’
‘When?’ Henry blurted. ‘Last Sunday? When Boris got shot?’
‘Yeah ... proper sad, that.’
After twenty minutes Henry had enough to be going on with. He switched the tape recorder off.
‘Now what?’ asked Rider.
‘We go to the Custody Sergeant and I’ll tell her that there’s no evidence against you, and you are to be released immediately. Then we’ll get out of here as quickly as possible. Pick up Isa, my wife and kids, then we run to the Chief Constable - hopefully before we get a bullet each in the brain.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
De la Garde had developed a speciality which ensured that, occasionally, just to supplement his drug-derived income, he made a nice bonus.
His specialism was drive-by shootings.
He was a gun for hire.
A plague in the States, but a rarity in Britain until recently, the DBS - as it has become affectionately known - is now a fairly common feature of the inner cities. Liverpool has experienced its fair share, as have Manchester and Leeds. Lancashire, trailing behind these urban areas in terms of violent crime, had never had one - yet.
The DBS was often used as a tool to frighten and intimidate, the message often being more important than the injury.
But De la Garde had been given specific instructions: this time there was no message to deliver, just sudden death. ‘Ensure that your target dies,’ he had been told in no uncertain terms.
He had not even blinked or asked why. He was paid two and a half grand up-front and promised the same amount on completion. Not much, but well above the going rate for most of the killers who roamed the streets of north-west England. It would pay for a pleasant holiday to Jamaica he had planned for next week.
His target was the prostitute called Gillian, the one causing so much
anguish to McNamara.
It had taken De la Garde some time to hunt her down.
He had been patient and let it be known he was seeking her through his contacts. She had gone to ground since killing her pimp, Saltash, but De la Garde knew she would reappear soon. People like her couldn’t hide for ever, nor could they run. They were trapped on a hamster wheel and had to make a living the only way they knew how.
So patience, shaking down a few hookers and petty drugs dealers eventually put De la Garde on the right track and led him, unusually, to a pub on the main road between Preston and Blackburn.
De la Garde had been waiting in a strategic position on the council estate in Shadsworth where Gillian lived, and the information he had obtained proved correct. The fucking cheek of the bitch. She was still driving around in Saltash’s car, though she’d had the brains to change the plates.
Eventually, as he knew she would, she drove past his observation point. He followed her to the pub, waiting for a chance to kill her, but she managed to park up and get inside before he could move in.
Not that he cared. Sooner or later she would come out and he would make his money. He sighed at his driver, his usual one - another black man who called himself Rufus T. He was the best in the business at present, constantly in demand for shootings and blaggings. De la Garde had negotiated fifteen hundred for him - less ten per cent commission.
They were in an extremely hot Jaguar XJS in the pub car park, tucked away in one corner, listening to the owner’s Abba collection on CD.
On his knees De la Garde had laid his instrument of death.
In this case an HK MP5.
Lovely. Light. Accurate.
Morton’s head was in his hands. The cassette player on his desk clicked off, ending the recorded conversation between Henry Christie and John Rider, in which Rider had blabbed everything he knew about Conroy, his organisation and contacts, and naming a few names including Tony Morton and Harry McNamara.
