by Nick Oldham
Rider went down onto his hands and knees in a movement so swift that Henry thought he’d gone through the floor.
‘Look at this.’ He had found a trapdoor which he hauled open. Henry bent down onto one knee and peered into the hole.
‘This room is directly above where the main part of the casino used to be. There’s a few of these trapdoors in this room. I think the management used them to keep tabs on the tables below, using one-way glass.’
‘Bit primitive.’
‘Before the days of CCTV.’
Henry looked into the void. It was black. ‘Can’t see anything.’
‘No, you won’t be able to. That’s a false ceiling you’re looking at, and below that there’s another suspended ceiling. If we’re careful, we could remove a panel from this ceiling and try to move a panel from the suspended one, then maybe we could see down into the club, find out what’s going on.’
‘Risky, but what the fuck.’
Rider reached into the space and fumbled about. ‘Got it.’
Henry fully expected Rider to come back with a ceiling panel in his hand, but he got the shock of his life when the other man produced a revolver which had been hidden in the space between floor and false ceiling.
‘We may need this.’
‘I suppose you shot Munrow with that, did you?’
A beat passed between the two men which sent a tingle of apprehension down each one’s spine.
‘Thought so,’ said Henry, feeling sick.
‘There’s two bullets left. . .’
After a whispered debate they decided that the best time to do any messing with the ceiling would be round about 4 to 5 a.m. From Henry’s experience, this was when people were at their lowest ebb. In the meantime, they tried to get some sleep - after Henry had set the alarm on his Casio wrist-watch.
Completely drained though he was, Henry could not sleep on the dusty, uncomfortable floor. His mind whizzed and banged as it thought through his predicament from every angle.
He made one incontrovertible decision. In the morning he would seek out Karl Donaldson and with his protection he and Rider would go to Police Headquarters and demand to speak to the Chief Constable. She was his only hope of salvation and fairness. Karl was his only hope of staying alive.
He knew he could not go on the run. No doubt Rider would be able to guide him through the low-ways and by-ways of the underworld, but it wasn’t for Henry.
He believed in justice. Old-fashioned though that belief was, it had seen him through twenty-one years as a frontline cop and he wasn’t about to have those values shattered by a corrupt squad which believed itself to be beyond the law. At whatever cost he would fight. Even if it meant becoming a protected witness, a change of name and address and that job in Asda stacking shelves. He would win ... because they had made him angry. He almost laughed at the triteness of it: ‘They have made me angry.’
Talk about a fucking understatement.
As for Rider - he could do whatever he wanted.
‘Henry ... time?’ Rider asked.
In the darkness Henry could see the tip of a burning cigarette brighten as Rider sucked.
He checked his watch. ‘Four-fifteen.’
‘I take it you can’t sleep?’
‘You guessed.’
‘Ten minutes, then we’ll do some joinery.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Breakfast was conducted at a leisurely pace. Champagne, strawberries and then a choice of full English or continental. Coffee or tea to finish off with.
Morton had departed early, leaving Conroy to entertain Hamilton and de Vere. McNamara was scheduled to arrive shortly.
At 9.45 a.m. Conroy said, ‘We need to be moving now.’ He was annoyed that McNamara had not yet appeared, because part of the deal would be that his haulage company would deliver the weapons to any point in Europe requested by the client. Conroy was also dying to tell McNamara the good news about the prostitute, which he’d only just heard himself.
But there could be no further delay. De Vere wanted to see what was on offer. His customers were pressing.
On the steps outside the country club, Conroy’s Mercedes drew up, ready to take passengers. A second car drew up behind, two bodyguards on board.
De Vere and Hamilton settled in the rear seat. Conroy was about to drop into the passenger seat when his attention was drawn to a car speeding up the driveway towards the club.
The car skidded to an ostentatious stop and two good-looking young men dressed in jeans and trainers bounced out, all smiles and teeth - appearances which belied their chosen profession.
Hamilton got out of the Mercedes. ‘These are the gentlemen I told you about - the professionals: Wayne and Tiger Mayfair. Old friends of mine.’
‘Hi,’ they said in unison and with a wave.
‘Glad to meet you,’ Conroy said. He looked closely at Tiger and saw four scratches down his cheek. ‘Problem with a lion or something?’
Tiger chuckled. ‘You could say that.’ He exchanged a knowing glance with Hamilton.
‘I want these wankers out of here now,’ Morton said to Gallagher, eyeing the motley assortment of men who had made the bridgehead into Rider’s club. ‘Fucking shite.’
‘Right, lads, you’ve done your bit. Now you can fuck off. You’ll get your dosh later, as arranged.’
They trooped out of the place with fierce looks of contempt on their faces at being ordered around by cops.
‘A car stolen from Preston last night has been found in Blackpool, boss. It was nicked at the same time we were searching for Christie and Rider.’
‘So?’
‘Could be they’re here in Blackpool, lying low. There was blood on the passenger seat. We might’ve shot one of them.’
‘You should’ve shot ‘em both - in the back of the head,’ Morton said sarcastically. ‘How hard can it be?’
‘Just bad luck.’ Gallagher pointed to his swollen eye and held up his bandaged wrist. ‘We’ll get them. It’s Donaldson who worries me now. Where did he hide those statements?’
‘I presume you searched everybody in the house?’
The look on Gallagher’s face gave the game away. ‘In view of the fact we were searching for a wanted man, I think it would have been OTT to start strip-searching folk, don’t you?’
‘No, I fucking don’t. You stupid, stupid bastard. How can I soar like an eagle when I’m surrounded by donkeys?’ he wanted to know. He took a deep sigh, but try as he might, he could not shake his sense of foreboding. Henry Christie was proving to be hard to handle.
‘Right,’ he said, consulting a piece of paper in his hand, ‘we’ve got thirty different weapons to show, so I suggest we set up about fifteen of the tables on the dance floor and put two on each with boxes of ammo. Then de Vere can wander about to his heart’s content. You do that, and I’ll go and help the others bring the gear across from the station.’
He left, fuming.
Twenty minutes later he returned with Siobhan and Tattersall. They were each carrying heavy holdalls which contained the guns. They had been removed openly from the armoury at the station because openly aroused less suspicion.
Morton directed their distribution.
Ten minutes later he walked round the tables, checking the merchandise.
At one point he stood on some grit on the highly polished surface. He scuffed his shoes in it, gave it a moment’s attention, then forgot it. His mind was consumed with other matters.
Thirty feet above, Rider and Henry peered down through the two-inch crack they had engineered in the ceiling to give them a restricted view down to the room below.
‘What are they doing?’ Rider said more to himself than anything.
‘Haven’t a clue.’
From their position, laid out side by side in the old casino office, chins hanging over the edge of the trapdoor, squinting down through the minute gap, they could see a couple of the tables Gallagher had dragged onto the dance floor.
&nbs
p; ‘Rearranging the furniture,’ Henry said.
The top of Tattersall’s head came into view. He placed something on a table with a clatter of metal. His shoulders hunched over his task, obscuring the view. A minute later he moved away, revealing two guns lying on the table. One was a semi-automatic pistol, the other a big revolver. Boxes of ammunition stood by them.
Tattersall moved to the next table within their view and left two more weapons on it. One could have been an Uzi, the other was a semi-automatic pistol. And ammunition to go.
‘A gun bazaar, I’d say,’ Rider murmured. ‘Marketing their goods.’
‘They’ve got police property tags on them too,’ Henry noted. ‘I think they’re the ones we found in the back of Dundaven’s Range Rover. The cheeky swines.’
They drove in convoy to Blackpool, the Mercedes followed by the Mayfairs and then a Mondeo driven by Conroy’s minders. They arrived outside the club at 10.30 a.m.
Morton met them at the door, then led them inside to the dance floor and main bar area. Gallagher and Siobhan were left to guard the entrance. De Vere sniffed the atmosphere huffily but said nothing. He began to browse through the display, lifting up and examining the goods closely. He was impressed.
Hamilton introduced the Mayfairs to Morton as the men who would be killing Henry Christie and John Rider.
‘I don’t think you’ll have to look far. I reckon they’re in Blackpool somewhere. That should make things easier for you.’
After ten minutes amongst the tables, de Vere turned to Conroy. ‘We need to talk money now.’
Which is exactly what Conroy wanted to hear, but he also needed McNamara’s presence because of the transport arrangements which were an integral part of the deal. ‘Just give me a second,’ Conroy said. He went to Morton. ‘Where the fuck is Harry?’
At which exact moment the man himself walked hurriedly in through the door. His face was a mask of controlled grief, though none of the men in the room picked that up. They wanted him for his contacts, not his face.
‘Ahh,’ Conroy announced with relief. ‘We wondered where you’d been hiding. Come over here. We’re talking business.’
Kate picked up the phone on the first ring. ‘It’s for you. Somebody called Kevin Summers.’ She handed it across to Donaldson, then sat down again. Her eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark circles. Karen placed an arm around her shoulder and gave her a hug.
There were only the three of them in the house. The girls had been taken to school without any explanations about what was going on.
Donaldson asked a few muted questions and hung up.
He turned to the women. ‘Developments,’ he said. Before he could expand, there was a knock on the front door. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said.
It was Detective Chief Superintendent Fanshaw- Bayley.
Ten yards above the dance floor, two escaped prisoners watched and listened as intently as possible. Only the occasional word could be made out.
Henry adjusted his position ever so slightly to relieve the pain he was feeling.
Rider’s stomach gurgled obscenely, reminding Henry how hungry he was himself. It had been a long time since both men had eaten or drunk anything warm and they were both close to starvation and exhaustion.
Donaldson and FB burst out of the front door and sprinted down the driveway to FB’s car, a Ford Probe.
FB was shouting into his personal radio, ordering all the ARV patrols to go onto channel 71, the secure radio channel to which only firearms officers had access.
‘How many teams are in Blackpool at this moment?’ Donaldson asked.
‘Three. That means six officers, all armed and dangerous.’ FB slammed the Probe into first and accelerated away from the kerb. ‘All ARV s to meet me, as a matter of urgency, on the Promenade, near to the pleasure beach, opposite the Big One. Do not use two-tones, or blues,’ he said into his radio, then repeated the message and asked for acknowledgements. He then instructed them all to prepare their weapons and don their body armour.
When FB had finished speaking, Donaldson said, ‘Henry thinks you’re one of them.’
‘Henry’s an arsehole,’ FB muttered, negotiating a blind bend and slewing the back wheels across the tarmac.
‘And he’s been used by you, hasn’t he?’
FB slotted Donaldson a sidelong squint of contempt, then concentrated on his driving, choosing to make no reply to what was a very leading question.
After discussing the planned demise of Christie and Rider with Morton, the Mayfairs sauntered between the tables of weaponry, watched closely by Morton who did not like, or trust them very much.
They strolled until they were - accidentally - directly under the aperture in the ceiling through which the two escapees were peering. A table displaying two AK 47s was next to Tiger.
Tiger’s trainer scuffed the dusty grit on the dance floor. He bent down, dipped his fingers into it, frowned and looked up at Wayne.
The ARVs responded brilliantly. Within five minutes, each car had converged beneath the shadow of the Big One. The officers, all kitted out in their body armour, Glock pistols and MP5s, waited expectantly for FB who screeched to a halt a minute later.
There was also another car present. The nondescript occupant got out of it and approached Donaldson. They shook hands. Donaldson then introduced the man to FB. ‘I’d like you to meet Kevin Summers, FB. Kevin’s with the MI5 Surveillance Branch. He’s been doing some superb work for me.’
Coolly Summers said, ‘I think we’ve got a situation here and we should move as soon as possible with it.’
McNamara, de Vere and Conroy paused at one of the tables which was displaying .357 Ruger revolvers.
McNamara nonchalantly picked up one of the empty guns in his left hand and flicked the cylinder release whilst continuing to discuss matters of transport and money with the other two. He held a speed-loader in his right hand which was fitted with six wad-cutter bullets.
‘Yes, yes, I think so. We can arrange all that,’ he said, continuing with the conversation. ‘No problem. I’ll arrange for my company to distribute them however you require.’ He smiled, slotted the bullets into the chamber and twisted the release mechanism on the speed-loader.
Summers was succinct. His team of twelve had been tasked to pick up Hamilton and de Vere at the airport. They did so and followed them with ease to the country club where they met up with Conroy, Morton and McNamara. The team of watchers settled in for the night, even though the weather was atrociously wet, cold and slushy.
McNamara was the only one to leave the club that night. Summers took the decision not to have him followed.
In the morning, though, when Morton left early, Summers directed four of his operatives to tag him. This left eight to deal with the remaining gang. Easily enough to cope with people who were not expecting to be followed.
A good set of Polaroids taken through a long lens recorded the departure of the men from the club - and the arrival of two more players.
Summers handed the photos to Donaldson, who immediately recognised the Mayfairs. His face went white. And again he saw the scratch-marks on Tiger’s face and wondered whether it was his tissue underneath Sam’s fingernails.
Perhaps he would soon find out.
The MI5 team followed them, Conroy, Hamilton, de Vere and the Mayfairs to Blackpool, where they liaised with the four who had tailed Tony Morton and recorded his activities for posterity that morning. The four produced photographs of Morton, Tattersall and WDS Robson removing weapons from the armoury.
FB looked at the photographs and began to boil.
‘They took all these guns to a club,’ Summers said. He handed over the final shots of Conroy, de Vere and Hamilton entering Rider’s club.
‘The place is under observation by my team and they’ve told me that McNamara has just turned up.’
‘You have done some excellent work here,’ FB said genuinely. ‘Can you tune your radios onto our frequency?’
‘They alread
y are-’ Summers began, but was interrupted when the airwaves crackled to life and one of the MI5 watchers reported hearing the sound of gunfire from inside the club.
‘You did a good job with the prostitute,’ McNamara said suddenly and savagely to Conroy. The conversation about financial arrangements was brought to an abrupt close.
‘You know, then?’ Ronnie asked, slightly bemused. ‘I was going to tell you later. How did you find out?’
‘The police were waiting for me when I got home last night,’ McNamara said. ‘You also shot my wife, or at least the tosser you hired did. I had to go and identify her body last night, for God’s sake.’
Conroy had heard another woman had been hit alongside the prostitute named Gillian, but he’d assumed it was just another hooker.
He was stunned.
‘Philippa was with her. I don’t know why, but my wife was with that piece of filth.’
McNamara closed the cylinder and pointed the Ruger at Conroy’s throat.
Rider shifted uncomfortably, not realising that when he did so, more dust and grit were dislodged. They fell in a tiny cloud of particles onto Wayne Mayfair’s shoulder.
He turned slowly and casually lifted an AK47 from the table and eased a magazine into the breech. Tiger reached for a Sig 9mm on another table.
Morton approached them.
‘You got someone watching from up there?’ Tiger asked. He raised his eyebrows to the ceiling. ‘Don’t look up,’ he added with a hiss.
Morton caught on. He shook his head and thought: Rider and Christie.
‘In that case, you won’t mind if I test this gun, will you?’ Wayne announced. He stepped back, knocked the safety off and swung the barrel of the gun up.
