Nightmare City hc-2

by Nick Oldham

  He unfolded it carefully and laid it next to his on the bedside cabinet.

  Yes. Exactly the same. Other than the time and date of the visit, written in by the tout. He sighed heavily. So what?

  Then he turned the sheet over and saw that Sam had written two extra words on hers — two words which he had missed when he’d originally gone through her belongings. Donaldson recognised her writing — big, loopy, almost child-like.

  Scott Hamilton!!!! The exclamation marks were Sam’s.

  Donaldson, after removing his socks, visited the bathroom. Whilst he sat there he thought, Maybe timeshare is for me, after all.

  11 p.m. Monday. A continuous tour of duty of seventeen hours. At last, Henry Christie wrapped up his day. He was fast approaching a state of zombie-dom.

  He rechecked his ‘to do’ list in front of him, hoping that everything which needed to be done, had been.

  Dundaven had been charged with some firearms offences, bail refused. He would be up before the Magistrates tomorrow, when the police would apply for a remand in custody for seventy-two hours, otherwise known as a ‘three day lie-down’. This would enable Henry’s team to question him at a more leisurely pace and complete further enquiries. Several addresses had come to light in the east of the county and they were all going to be hit at six the next morning. Everything was arranged for that: firearms teams, Support Unit officers and detectives. All coordinated by Henry, who sensed something big and nasty lurking behind Dundaven.

  The three days would give a clearer indication of Nina’s condition. Whether she lived or died would affect further charges. Murder or Attempted Murder? In any case, Dundaven was going to be charged with McCrory’s murder.

  The other enquiry on his plate — the dead girl on the beach — seemed to be pretty slow. She had been identified from fingerprints and some documentation found in her bedsit.

  Marie Cullen had been a prostitute, working on the streets and in the clubs of Blackburn. Other than that, the police had very little to go on. Two detectives were going east in the morning to do some spadework. Henry thought this one would be a toughie. Prostitute murders usually were.

  He had a stinking headache, his sinuses acting up as though they had been clamped with alligator clips.

  He opened his desk drawer and sifted through the contents to find some Paracetamols. He was sure he had some. Whilst doing so he noticed the statement he’d drafted about the incident with Shane Mulcahy. He pushed it to the back of his drawer and hoped it would go away. He found no tablets.

  Derek Luton, looking tired and haggard, wandered into the office, stretching and rolling his neck.

  ‘ Degsy — you got any headache pills on you?’

  ‘ No. That’s why I came in here myself. Got a real splitter.’

  ‘ Ah well,’ said Henry resignedly, ‘we’ll just have to suffer. How’s it going?’

  ‘ Good. Yeah. Excellent, in fact. Really interesting. I’ve been out taking witness statements with a Detective Sergeant from the Organised Crime Squad, guy called Tattersall.’

  ‘ And are you getting anywhere?’

  ‘ I think they have some sort of line on the gang, but they’re keeping it close to their chests at the moment. They seem to have really got in the driving seat now, because it was one of their lot who got it. FB is letting Tony Morton run with it.’

  ‘ What’s the name of the cop who got killed?’

  ‘ A DS — Geoff Driffield. From Manchester, on secondment to the squad.’

  ‘ Can’t say I know him. What the hell was he doing in that shop all kitted out and tooled up and all alone?’

  ‘ That remains a mystery,’ said Luton. ‘Apparently he was a bit of a loner. His days on the squad were numbered because he wasn’t a team player — more of a glory-seeker. Theory is, he got some gen about the gang, discovered where they were due to hit and wanted to make a name for himself. Backfired.’

  ‘ That’s a fucking understatement.’ Henry glanced at his watch. ‘Gotta go, bud, early start tomorrow.’

  The club never cranked up that night. Hardly anyone ventured in after pub closing time. Rider shut up shop shortly after midnight. No point flogging a dead horse. By 12.30 he and Jacko were the only ones left inside. The customers had drifted away without complaint, as had the remainder of the staff. Isa had kissed Rider on the cheek and gone to bed in the guesthouse opposite the club where she was staying.

  After washing and drying the glasses, Jacko locked up the bar. He hated leaving a mess because it was always depressing to return to. He set the alarm for that area, gave Rider a quick wave and sauntered out into the night.

  Rider was alone.

  He savoured the peace for a few moments whilst drawing the last few puffs out of his cigar. He stubbed it out and after checking all the likely places a burglar might hide, he too left.

  They hit him as he walked to the car.

  Two of them. Balaclavas. Baseball bats, or maybe pick-axe handles.

  They came from the shadows, giving him no time to react.

  The first blow landed on his back, right on the kidneys. A surge of pain, like a bolt of lightning, scorched up through him. But he didn’t have too much time to savour this because the second blow, from the weapon wielded by the second man, connected with his lower stomach.

  The blows were only milliseconds apart.

  They had the effect of putting severe pain into him, winding him and disorientating him. His body didn’t know what to do. Part of it screamed to him to stand upright and respond to the pain in the back; another part wanted him to bend over double. The compromise meant that his body contorted to pay homage to both blows.

  By which time more violence was being used.

  The sticks flashed, raining blow after blow on Rider: shoulders, arms, ribs, stomach, arse, upper and lower legs.

  Rider was driven callously to the ground in such a manner he was unable to scream or respond in any way which might have brought him some assistance. All screams became gurgles, all shouts whimpers. All he could do was take it, roll up in a ball, cover his head and hope that oblivion was not far away.

  In a beating, thirty seconds is a long time, especially for the party receiving it. During that time, Rider’s body probably took in excess of forty well-delivered hard blows.

  Then they stopped.

  Rider groaned pathetically. His whole body felt like it was on fire. A raging, searing, Great Fire of London type of fire — one which destroyed everything in its path.

  His cheek was pressed against the cold pavement. His mouth sagged open. A horrible gungy liquid dribbled out: a combined brew of snot, blood and whisky.

  In agony he pushed himself up onto all fours. His breathing was shallow, laboured, painful.

  Then it all began again.

  The first blow of this renewed attack smashed into the base of his spine.

  This time he did emit the beginnings of a scream — but the sound was cut short when the next blow connected with the side of his head. This sent him spinning across the pavement towards the front wheels of his car and mentally into a void.

  They stopped before he lost consciousness.

  He was face down, half in, half out of the gutter, his nose pressed into a grid. The sound of the drains below belched into his subconscious. The smell of shit invaded his nostrils. In a flash of clarity he wondered if he had soiled his own pants.

  One of his attackers grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his face upwards, almost tearing the hair out by the roots. He shook Rider’s head until his eyes half-opened.

  ‘ Just a message, this,’ hissed the man from the cover of his balaclava. ‘You choose very carefully who you side with, OK? It’s in your interests not to get involved. D’you understand me, Mr fucking-tough-nut Rider? Next time you’re dead.’

  He let Rider’s head drop with a dull thud into the edge of the pavement. A second later he passed out.

  Chapter Nine

  After four fitful hours’ sleep, Henry fo
und himself standing in front of a large squad of police officers, cups of tea in their hands. It was 5.45a.m. and they were in the canteen at Accrington police station. The reason for meeting here was that five out of the six addresses they had uncovered in relation to Dundaven were in East Lancashire, and Accrington was central for them all. The sixth address was in Bury, just over the Greater Manchester border.

  There were forty-eight officers, eight for each address. Four Support Unit, two CID and two firearms. The Support Unit were specialists in entering premises quickly and also in search techniques for buildings and persons. The plan that morning was to get in quick on the warrants Henry had sworn out the day before, take no crap, search thoroughly and if necessary, make arrests.

  Henry cleared his throat and called for attention. The room fell immediately silent as all eyes turned to him.

  He briefed the officers about what they should search for, reminded them of their powers and the law, begged them to cause as little damage as possible, try not to shoot anyone unless absolutely necessary, and wished them luck.

  They separated into their various teams whilst Henry marvelled at the sheer size of some of the Support Unit officers. He was no pygmy himself, but some of them towered over him. Even the women. They all checked their equipment — door openers, dragon lights, extending mirrors, various tools, guns and CS sprays.

  Within ten minutes they had all dispersed, leaving Henry and a Detective Sergeant sat in the canteen.

  By 6.30 the teams were all in place. Five minutes later the first door went through.

  It was a good feeling.

  The Jacaranda da Funchal was one of the most pleasant complexes he had ever seen; if he hadn’t been there for some other reason, Karl Donaldson could easily have succumbed to the hard sell which was actually disguised as a soft message.

  He had walked the two miles to it from his hotel: west out of Funchal, beyond the rather staid but magnificent Reid’s Hotel, and to an area known rather unoriginally as the Tourist Zone. It was a fairly unprepossessing part of town, much of which reminded Donaldson of a bomb site with many open tracts of wasteland, some with half-demolished buildings, others nothing but rubble and dust. Oh, and tourist hotels.

  When he found the Jacaranda it was pure oasis. Set in about ten acres of gently shelving land, it had everything someone who wished to buy a timeshare could dream of: health club, tennis courts, two pools (one indoor, both heated), and the apartments themselves were luxuriously equipped to a very high standard.

  Donaldson was very impressed. He stood there and surveyed the place, dressed in his best tourist shorts and shirt.

  The sales patter made him want to sign up there and then — but he had been trained to resist brainwashing, tough though it was.

  He could imagine Karen’s face to be told they now owned a timeshare in Madeira.

  Eventually, begrudgingly, the salesman gave up on him and handed over his free gift — a flight bag — and turned his attention to other, more responsive clients.

  Which gave Donaldson a chance to break off and wander round the complex alone.

  He was armed with the compact camera which he’d bought to photograph Sam’s body. He made his way to the posh reception area where a pretty Madeiran lady was busy behind a large desk, inputting on a PC.

  ‘ Ajude-me, por favor,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘Fala ingles?’

  ‘ Sim,’ she nodded. ‘I do.’

  ‘ Bom,’ he replied, relieved. ‘My name is Donaldson. I’m from the United States and I believe Scott Hamilton works here?’

  ‘ Yes, Mr Hamilton owns the Jacaranda.’

  ‘ Oh, great. We’re pals from way back when. I’m here on a kinda short visit and thought I’d drop by and say howdy.’

  The direct approach. He was under no illusions this would work. He expected nothing, so was pleasantly surprised when the opposite happened.

  The receptionist, Francesca, whose name was on a badge pinned to her blouse, immediately picked up the phone, punched in a short number and spoke very quickly. The name Hamilton came up several times, but Donaldson did not manage to catch much of the conversation. She put the phone down and smiled. She had pitch-black hair and her beautiful white teeth contrasted spectacularly to produce a very alluring effect which was not lost on Donaldson.

  ‘ He will come and see you,’ she said.

  ‘ Obrigado, Francesca.’ Donaldson noticed her eyes were a wonderful shade of brown which was in keeping with her lovely olive complexion.

  ‘ Please sit down.’ She pointed to a comfortable-looking sofa on the other side of reception. He obeyed, completely dominated by her — in his dreams. She returned to her console and began tapping away, occasionally glancing across at him.

  A few minutes later a man in his late twenties appeared from a door behind Francesca’s desk. He was dressed in a silk, cream-coloured, short-sleeved shirt with an open neck, blue chinos and black open-toed sandals, no socks. He wore plenty of jewellery, mainly gold. His hair was black, combed away from his face and his sideboards sloped and tapered past his ears. A minor goatee was stuck onto his chin like- a slug. He looked very slick.

  And to Donaldson, very much like a player.

  He approached Donaldson, a quizzical look on his face.

  Donaldson stood up, not wishing to be disadvantaged. He held out his hand, which the man ignored.

  ‘ I don’t normally see salesmen,’ he said, ‘but you asked for me personally. I gotta say, you don’t look much like one.’

  ‘ I, er…’ Donaldson began. He glanced quickly at Francesca, who studiously avoided eye contact. He recovered quickly. ‘It’s always possible you wouldn’t have seen me if I’d been completely honest. You are Scott Hamilton, I take it?’

  He nodded and rolled his tongue around his mouth with a slurping noise.

  ‘ I’m Karl Donaldson. I’m an FBI agent. You knew a colleague of mine, Samantha Dawber, now dead.’

  Hamilton was totally unfazed. His bottom lip pouted while he considered the name. He shook his head. ‘Nope, I think not.’ Super fucking cool.

  ‘ She wrote your name down on a piece of paper before she died, and as she passed on in mysterious circumstances, I’m obviously investigating. I think she may well have visited the Jacaranda. She had some of your literature in her possession.’

  Hamilton shrugged. ‘Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Lotsa people visit the place. But I don’t know her anyway.’

  ‘ She obviously knew you. Otherwise why would she have written your name down?’

  ‘ I’m the manager of the place. My name’s on all the literature we produce. Not unusual. People write my name down.’

  He hadn’t spoken too many words but Donaldson gave him a Brooklyn origin, tainted and watered down by some time in LA. He also gave him credit for being a hard-nosed son of a bitch. He had a desperate urge to grab the man’s goatee and rip it out of his chin and make him squeal like a kicked puppy. In fact, he promised it to himself.

  ‘ She put four exclamation marks after it. Why in hell would she do that, pal?’ Donaldson was on the edge of losing his own cool. ‘It seems damn odd she’s gotten your name down on a piece of paper and she’s ended up dead soon after.’

  ‘ What the fuck you implying?’

  ‘ Nuthin,’ said Donaldson innocently.

  ‘ I don’t much like your tone, mister..?’

  ‘ Donaldson. Karl Donaldson. FBI. London office.’

  ‘ And what exactly is your jurisdiction in Madeira?’

  ‘ I’m empowered worldwide to investigate offences committed against American citizens on foreign soil.’

  ‘ Well, here’s one you’d better start investigating then,’ said Hamilton, leaning towards him. ‘I’m an American citizen and I’m being harassed unlawfully by the FBI. Fucking investigate that!’

  He got closer and closer to Donaldson as the words tumbled out of his mouth. The FBI agent remained impassive and said with a click, ‘Pal, you’ve just cooked your
goose.’

  ‘ Get off this property.’ Hamilton turned to Francesca. ‘Call Security. I want this man removing.’

  She scrabbled for the phone.

  ‘ I’m going,’ said Donaldson.

  Hamilton turned away and stalked towards the door.

  Donaldson called out, ‘Just one more thing.’

  Hamilton spun back, an angry look on his face — which Donaldson captured for posterity with a flash of the camera.

  Henry sat hunched at his desk at Blackpool Central police station. In true detective fashion he was easing the last crusts of a meat pie into his mouth with one hand, the other cupped underneath to catch anything that didn’t make it. Hot gravy dribbled painfully down his chin. He had nothing to wipe his mouth with, other than his hands. Then he had nothing to wipe his hands with, other than his desktop blotter.

  ‘ Acting Detective Inspector Christie, isn’t it?’

  With a mouthful he turned and looked up, and tried to stand up when he saw who it was. ‘Yeah, it is… sorry.’ He swallowed.

  ‘ No, don’t get up.’ The man perched on the corner of Henry’s desk. ‘I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton from the North-West Organised Crime Squad and this is WDC Robson, Siobhan Robson.’ He cocked a thumb at the officer, then held out his right hand.

  ‘ Yes, I know. Look, sir, I’m sorry but my hands’re a bit greasy at the moment. I’m not sure you’d appreciate me shaking yours — unless you wanted to lick it after.’

  Morton gave a short laugh and the female detective giggled brightly. The DCS withdrew his hand with a shrug and a smile.