Nightmare City

by Nick Oldham

  Across the room, Gallagher and Siobhan sat quietly, waiting for instructions.

  Morton looked up. ‘Get down to the custody office now and do something before they both walk out of here!’ he shouted. ‘If Conroy falls, we fall too. I don’t need to tell you what that means.’

  ‘What shall we do?’ cried Siobhan.

  ‘Fucking think of something.’

  Henry and Rider had to queue up at the custody desk. Four other prisoners and their arresting officers were ahead of them.

  ‘Just what we don’t need,’ Henry moaned, looking at the queue. He was feeling jumpy and very, very vulnerable. They had to get out of here as soon as possible.

  One of the prisoners ahead began to complain loudly to the Custody Sergeant about how badly he was being treated.

  Eric Taylor read his statement through very carefully. He placed a firm full-stop at the end, signed his name and initialled one or two corrected errors.

  ‘That’s it then,’ Karen said. ‘For your own sake don’t tell anyone else you’ve made this statement - not yet, anyway. These are very dangerous people we’re dealing with here, and we need to keep this under wraps until the rest of the operation bears fruit - which might be a couple of days yet.’ She spoke to give the impression there was an organised investigation on-going.

  ‘I understand.’ He pushed the money-filled briefcase across the coffee table towards them. ‘Take it. I’m sick of looking at it.’

  ‘We need to count it and give you a receipt.’

  ‘Fair enough. But I can assure you it’s all there - all five thousand pounds of it.’ Taylor didn’t bat an eyelid when he said this, but a trickle of sweat ran down the middle of his back and made him cringe a little inside.

  There was only one prisoner ahead of them now.

  Siobhan strolled casually into the custody office.

  Henry stiffened and suddenly felt like a schoolboy who’d been caught smoking by the cycle sheds. He actually blushed.

  ‘What’s going on, Henry?’ she asked.

  ‘Just about to take his fingerprints,’ he replied quickly. ‘That is all right, isn’t it?’

  She surveyed him through slitty eyes. Her mouth hardened. But even so, there was no doubt about it. She was totally desirable. Once again Henry experienced regret at not having gone all the way.

  ‘You can forget them. He has to be taken to Preston.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the officer in charge of the investigation is screaming at Tony Morton to bring him over,’ she lied crisply. ‘That’s where he should be lodged anyway, as you well know. The crime happened there.’

  ‘Doesn’t usually bother you that procedures aren’t followed,’ Henry pointed out.

  She gazed blandly at him. ‘We’ve borrowed a section van - so get him booked out and we’ll meet you out back. Make sure he’s handcuffed.’

  ‘It’s a uniform job, transferring prisoners.’

  ‘We’re going to do it this time, so stop messing about and be ready to roll in five minutes.’

  She spun on her heels and exited.

  ‘At the first opportunity in Preston I’ll get you released,’ Henry said quickly to Rider. ‘We’ll go along with them for the time being. Don’t want to make them suspicious.’

  The prisoner in front had been dealt with. Henry presented Rider to the custody officer, who firmly believed, because the NWOCS had told her, that Henry was suspected of corruption in a big way. That was why it had been necessary to bug the interview room. But just act natural. Don’t let him see you suspect him of anything, they had instructed her.

  Gillian laid a hand on the shoulder of the other woman in a consoling .gesture.

  They made an unusual pair, one which attracted inquisitive glances from the other customers in the pub. The young black girl, dressed provocatively in a cheap, bust-revealing blouse, micro skirt and long leather boots contrasted with the slim, anxious white woman in her mid-thirties dressed conservatively, but expensively, in a black suit by Dior.

  ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ Gillian said inadequately. And she meant it. Never in a million years would she, as a prostitute, contact the wife of one of her clients, no matter how sick and depraved the man was. And she’d met some real weirdos in her time who would probably have been perfect gentlemen with their wives. Sickos she could handle. But this was completely different. Here was a man who, she was certain, had murdered her friend and it would only be a matter of time before he killed again.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do, but I had to do something. I couldn’t go to the police because. . .’ Gillian broke the sentence and paused hesitantly. Because I’ve killed my pimp and the cops‘re after me, was what she almost said. ‘For certain reasons,’ she eventually said. ‘It’s been going around and around my head for days, ever since he . . . stuck a knife next to my cunt.’

  The other woman squirmed with distaste at the last word. Even Gillian winced, but it was a word she used every day and she couldn’t think of anything less offensive. She was what she was.

  The other woman’s head was bowed in shame. She was trembling all over. Tears poured out. She looked up. ‘Don’t apologise,’ she said. ‘I’ve suspected for so long ... prostitutes ... but murder?’

  ‘He told me Marie was going to go public about their relationship unless he paid her big bucks. He didn’t actually say he’d killed her, but said he’d made her suffer. Like he’d make me suffer if I told anyone. That was when he did his demonstration with the knife. I’m sorry, Mrs McNamara. I didn’t know what else to do.’

  Rider held out his hands. Henry snapped on the rigid cuffs, not too tightly, letting them be as comfortable as handcuffs could be.

  The Custody Sergeant gave Henry Rider’s custody record, having made a copy for filing. The original always went with the body.

  Donaldson’s bleeper informed him to phone the Legat in London, which he did as soon as he and Karen returned to Henry’s house after taking the statement from Eric Taylor. He was told to ring an international number. He dialled it immediately after clearing it with Kate.

  His heart leapt as he recognised the language spoken at the other end Portuguese. He falteringly told the woman his name. He was reconnected successfully.

  ‘Santana,’ came the gruff voice.

  ‘George, Karl Donaldson here. What’s happening?’

  ‘Your friend Hamilton ... we have been sticking to him like glue since he returned to Madeira. He spent little time here and then boarded a plane to Lisbon where we were able to keep up with him. He met a man there at a hotel. Our men have watched them carefully.’ Santana sounded proud of his achievement. ‘They are both booked onto a flight to Manchester tonight.’

  ‘Who is the man?’

  ‘We don’t know, but we have taken photographs of him. They are good quality. Maybe I could send them to you?’

  ‘Yeah, sure, hold on. . .’ Donaldson clamped a hand over the receiver and said to Karen, ‘Honey, can we use one of the fax machines at a police station hereabouts?’

  ‘Yes, shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll need to find a number, obviously.’

  ‘You can send a fax to this number,’ Kate interjected. ‘Not to that actual phone, but to the one that’s plugged in upstairs. Henry bought it for some reason and never used the thing, but it works.’

  ‘Great.’ Down the phone he said to Santana, ‘You can fax the photos to this number and send the real ones by DHL to the Legat in London. Gotta pen?’ Donaldson recited the number. ‘Put the flight details on it, willya?’

  Santana said he would. ‘There is something more. While Hamilton was in Madeira, we followed him to the docks in Funchal, to the container depot. He checked the contents of a container which was resealed. I swore out a warrant and broke the seal.’ Santana laughed.

  ‘George, you have something to tell me, I feel sure.’

  ‘It was full of guns of all descriptions, as well as hand-held missile launchers. Many, many weapons.’


  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Resealed the container and arrested a Customs official whom we suspected of being involved. He is singing like a baby. Mr Hamilton is a very bad man.’

  The fax came through fifteen agonising minutes later. They were good, clear photos of the man who had met Hamilton in Lisbon. When he saw the face, Donaldson blew a sweet kiss to Sam Dawber, because without her, he would never have been able to identify the man. Thanks to her memory games with mug-shots, Donaldson recognised him immediately as Raymond de Vere - a man wanted by several police forces throughout Europe. He made his living buying weaponry for terrorist organisations worldwide.

  Karl let out a long, satisfied sigh. ‘Kate, d’ya mind if I make another call?’

  The van, one of the smaller Sherpa models which Lancashire police used as general purpose vehicles, had been reversed as close to the rear door of the station as was geographically possible.

  Henry and his handcuffed prisoner came out of the custody office. Siobhan opened the rear doors of the van and then the inner cage. Rider walked ahead of Henry, ducked, and climbed in. He sat placidly down on the bench seat.

  Siobhan remained at the open door. ‘You go in with him, Henry.’

  ‘I’d rather sit up front.’

  ‘Not enough room.’

  Henry got in with Rider.

  The cage door slammed shut behind him with a loud crash and the spring-loaded locking bar jerked into place. Henry sat opposite his prisoner. Rider gave him a wan smile, leaned back and rested his head against the side of the van.

  Siobhan climbed in the front passenger seat and said something to the driver that Henry could not make out.

  The driver turned and peered backwards, giving Henry a quick salute. It was Gallagher.

  Siobhan’s door opened again. She budged up and allowed space for a further person to sit next to her on the double seat.

  This was Tattersall.

  ‘Have you got the keys for these cuffs?’ Rider asked.

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  Coolly, as though he was simply passing the time of day with idle chatter: ‘Because I think we could have a problem here. That guy’ - he cocked a thumb at Gallagher’s back - ‘is one of the two who visited Shane Mulcahy and left him with little option but to retract a complaint against you. I’ll lay odds the other guy was his running mate.’

  Henry’s mouth dropped open. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Saw him leave Shane’s flat and pull his ski-mask off.’

  The van moved off slowly.

  ‘Made a real mess of the lad.’

  Donaldson and Karen moved to the dining room and spread everything out on the table.

  They had four statements from witnesses to the robbery in Fleetwood. All clearly confirmed that their original statements had been tampered with.

  Then there was Eric Taylor’s statement and five grand, and the MI5 photographs of Conroy, McNamara, Morton and Hamilton.

  Finally there was the faxed photo which had recently come up the line from Santana.

  ‘Several threads here,’ mused Donaldson, ‘all interlinked by the North West Organised Crime Squad. I think there’s enough here for Henry to breathe a sigh of relief, although he still might have some explanations to make to Kate.

  ‘The bottom line is that these bastards in this squad are up to their necks in criminal activity and we’ve got enough to lay it on the table and say to them, “Answer that, assholes!”.’

  ‘What do you know about this guy?’ Karen pointed to the newest face on file.

  ‘He’s an agent and simply brings buyers and sellers together and takes his percentage. Raymond de Vere, he’s called. French background, Irish upbringing. Hence the fact that the IRA are one of his biggest clients.’

  Donaldson checked his watch.

  ‘I think it’s time Henry came in and we told him this. Then I think we need to decide what to do. My feeling is that he should take all this to his Chief Constable and then he should go into hiding, because his life will be in real danger from that point on . . . if it isn’t already.’

  De la Garde and Rufus T were patient men. Waiting was not a problem. They listened to more of the Jaguar owner’s collection of middle-of-the road music without complaint.

  Then she came out of the side door of the pub, accompanied by another woman.

  De la Garde tapped Rufus T on the leg. The driver came to attention and his hands took hold of the wheel.

  De la Garde cocked the weapon.

  The two women walked arm in arm across the car park. They had reached the prostitute’s car.

  ‘What about the other woman?’ Rufus T enquired. The music had been switched off.

  ‘Fuck her,’ growled the gunman. ‘GO!’

  The Jag slewed out of its parking spot. De la Garde had the MP5 resting out of the open window. The car accelerated at an alarming rate.

  The women looked in the direction of the approaching car. The prostitute screamed something and grabbed the other woman’s elbow to drag her out of the way.

  The Jag drew level and the MP5, in its understated way, crackled a spray of bullets across the two women.

  The prostitute went down as six splattered across her chest. She was dead before she hit the hard ground.

  The other woman got four across her midriff. She went down onto her backside where she sat upright for a few moments, looking with disbelief at the spreading redness over her stomach and feeling a terrible, nauseating pain. This was followed by complete blackness.

  Only feet separated the women in death.

  A chasm had divided them in life.

  But the activities of one man had drawn them together for this final, fatal encounter.

  The Jaguar was long gone, racing towards Preston, then cutting left onto the M6. Twenty minutes later it was found abandoned and burned out in Wigan.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Daylight had gone. The blackness of evening came swiftly, and with it more torrential rain which, as they travelled eastwards, turned to relentless driving sleet. Typical horrendous northern weather which looked set to continue.

  In the back of the police van it was extra dark. The light which illuminated the cage was controlled from a switch on the dash, but Gallagher steadfastly ignored Henry’s shouts to turn it on.

  Henry glared across at Rider who sat there with his eyes closed, his face visible only in brief flashes of fluorescent orange when they passed under street lamps.

  Fuming, Henry sat back, unable to do anything but brood and wait until they reached Preston before he told the DI what a cunt he thought he was. He folded his arms and tapped his feet, aware he was powerless to do anything other than bide his time.

  The van reached Marton Circle outside Blackpool and picked up the A583 towards Preston.

  Still restless, Henry shuffled along the bench seat until he was directly behind Tattersall and Siobhan who were squashed up on the double passenger seat. Henry peered through the toughened glass window, shading his eyes with his hands, watching the journey unfold through the poor headlights which struggled ineptly against the weather. Although the wipers worked at double speed, they were fighting a losing battle. Gallagher was forced to lean forwards constantly as though the extra inches would give him some sort of visual advantage.

  They stuck on the A583, with the town of Kirkham to their left, eventually reaching the traffic lights at Three Nooks - and the junction with the A584 - where only a week before, Henry and Dave Seymour had made a decision to go towards Preston instead of turning back to Blackpool, and then found themselves in a life-and-death car chase with Dundaven. It felt like a year ago, not seven short days.

  Half a mile later they bore left onto the dual carriageway which would take them into Preston. The River Ribble and the old docks were on their right.

  Just a few minutes from the police station now. Then Henry could voice his feelings to Gallagher. He was relishing the prospect.

  At the first set of traffic lights, Galla
gher filtered into the offside lane and then into the right-hand lane specifically for vehicles turning right into Nelson Way. The lights were on red and he stopped.

  Henry could see the indicator flashing a right.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he demanded suspiciously, alerting Rider who shook himself out of his reverie, opening his eyes at the sound of Henry’s utterance.

  The lights went to green. Gallagher let out the clutch and turned the wheel.

  ‘We should be going straight on here,’ Henry said. He rapped the window with his knuckles and shouted, ‘What’s happening?’

  He was ignored.

  He looked quickly at his travelling companion.

  ‘This takes us onto the shit end of an industrial estate.’

  Rider leaned forwards, concern on his face.

  Gallagher gunned the van down the road which was lit for about a hundred metres. Then nothing. It was like driving into a coal mine. Open fields were on either side.

  ‘Get me out of these, Henry,’ Rider said urgently. He pushed his hands forwards, presenting his cuffed wrists.

  Henry looked at him, but Rider’s face was only shadow on shadow.

  ‘Come on,’ the other man hissed. ‘If this diversion is legit, then put ‘em back on. If not, I think I’d be better hands free.’

  Henry did not hesitate. Within seconds Rider was massaging the blood-flow back into his hands.

  The van slowed down and turned. The beam from the headlights swept across the outer wall of an old factory. The van stopped about four feet from, and pointing into, the wall.

  Henry knocked on the glass again.

  ‘Hey, what’s happening, folks?’ he shouted, trying to sound jovial and unconcerned. The reality was that he was shitting bricks.

  The interior light came on in the front cab. Siobhan handed something across to Gallagher. Something metallic. A gun.