Nightmare City hc-2

by Nick Oldham

  The upstairs house lights came on. Seconds later the front door opened.

  The man stepped inside, the door closed.

  ‘ Well?’ Jacko demanded.

  Rider shook his head. ‘I’ll take a chance.’ He reached under the front seat and pulled out the revolver he had confiscated at the zoo. He held it up ominously, feeling a charge of adrenalin zip through him. His hand shook ever so slightly. Fear? Excitement? ‘Give me fifteen minutes and if I haven’t reappeared, call the cops, emergency or something. Use your imagination, ‘cos it’s likely one or both of us’ll be dead.’

  He jumped out of the van without looking at Jacko and trotted towards the house, making the first footprints of the day in the snow.

  Henry Christie’s two daughters — Jenny, fifteen and Leanne, nine — were both at an age when privacy meant a great deal to them. They had a room each and were very protective of their environments. They hated adults in their rooms, full stop.

  Both were also acutely aware of their developing bodies, Jenny more so than Leanne, obviously. Should their dad, by accident, see anything more than he should, or even see their underwear in the washing basket, there would be screams of embarrassment. Usually from him.

  His privacy and body, however, were fair game for them.

  And at the same time as John Rider stepped out of the van that morning,

  Henry was thinking how unjust the world was when he couldn’t even have a crap in peace.

  He had settled himself, quite naked, on the toilet in the en-suite adjoining his and Kate’s bedroom. He straightened out that morning’s Daily Mail and looked forwards to ten minutes of bliss. He hadn’t even had the time to digest the sports headlines when Leanne burst in without knocking, tearing into the littlest room like a chattering whirlwind in jimjams, frightening the shit out of her father. He quickly covered his private parts with the newspaper. Leanne, seemingly oblivious to his predicament, commenced to show him some drawings she’d done at school the day before.

  ‘ Mmm, yeah, lovely. Nice — that’s a good one,’ Henry said, trying to appear enthusiastic. A trapped critic. At that point he was having a few problems holding back his natural bodily functions.

  Then his eldest daughter, Jenny, appeared. ‘Hi, Dad,’ she said brightly. She came in and helped herself to a towel and a bottle of shampoo. On her way out she looked at him critically. He squirmed and coloured up. ‘You’ve put some weight on,’ she said and legged it with a giggle.

  Leanne revealed another drawing which resembled… nothing. She explained it was someone riding the ‘Big One’. With that Henry could appreciate where she was coming from.

  ‘ Ahh, yeah, great… Look, honey,’ he said tenderly, ‘your Daddy needs to have the loo to himself for a moment or two, so go and get ready for brekkie, will you?’

  She sighed heavily and collected her masterpieces which she’d scattered all over the floor. She left, closing the door behind her.

  ‘ Mercy,’ Henry said. He lifted the newspaper and Kate came in with one of her ‘faces’.

  Henry closed his eyes momentarily.

  ‘ Don’t look at me like that,’ she warned him. ‘Are you seriously going to try and get on this squad?’ It was the continuation of a discussion-cum-argument they’d begun when Henry came in from work the night before. Kate was obviously going to pursue this to the bitter end. ‘Seems a bloody dangerous job to me. Everyone who has anything to do with it ends up dead.’

  ‘ Coincidence. No connection — and an exaggeration.’

  ‘ But why d’you want to go on it?’ She crossed to the shower and turned it on. ‘I thought you wanted to be a DI? Surely it’ll put your promotion chances on the back burner?’

  ‘ Probably. But it’s such a good opportunity, Kate. It’s got a cracking reputation, the work’s real interesting and very focused… and there’s nothing set in stone that I’ll get on anyway. They’ll have to advertise the vacancy, so other people will be able to apply and everyone’ll go through the rigmarole of interviews. You know I’m crap at being interviewed. My bottle goes.’

  Kate unfastened her dressing gown and shrugged it off. Henry could not keep his eyes off her as she tested the shower temperature and adjusted the control minutely. Even after all these years and two children, he loved the sight of her body minus clothing. Recently she’d been on a pretty ruthless exercise and diet regimen which had shed pounds and toned her muscles up just enough to — well, just enough. He glanced down at his own tummy and breathed in, slightly ashamed of himself. He was in good health, but didn’t have the strength of character to stop eating things which were bad for him, and go to a gym. The result was showing around his midriff. Jenny had been right in her cheeky observation.

  Kate stood and faced him with a sad look in her eyes. She was completely unaware of her nakedness and his position on the loo.

  ‘ I don’t want you to go back on a specialised squad.’

  ‘ There’s no guarantee I’ll get promoted to Inspector. I think I should go for it. They approached me.’

  ‘ It’s not the Inspector thing. It’s the hours, days, weeks. You know what it was like when you were on Regional Crime Squad. I never knew when you were coming home next. I didn’t like it and neither did the girls.’

  ‘ I work long hours now,’ he protested.

  ‘ Yes, but at least you come home every day and you only work ten minutes away. It’s different. You’re not chasing all over the country, or Europe. It feels good having you close by, even if you work until midnight. And you virtually run that office, don’t you?’ she said, changing tack slightly. ‘Surely that’ll count towards promotion?’

  ‘ Don’t bank on it. Once you get into that interview room, everyone’s on a level playing-field.’ He paused and gave her a pleading look. Big eyes. Fluttering lids. ‘Look, I really fancy this job, Kate. It’s the chance of a lifetime. It’s like dead men’s Doc Martens.’

  ‘ Literally,’ she commented gloomily.

  ‘ And as I said, I’m not guaranteed it.’

  ‘ Well, you know how I feel about it. We’ve only just got everything back to normal around here and now you want to rock the boat…’ She shrugged. Her small breasts quivered with the gesture. She turned her back on him, stepped into the shower and slid back the curtain.

  So that was really her hidden agenda. It wasn’t so much the long hours away from home, it was the temptation that went with them.

  She had a point, of course. Life at home had been incredibly good recently, following the ‘blip’ caused by Henry’s stupidity and rampant sexual urges almost two years ago. Kate had truly forgiven him and for that he was extremely grateful to her. He loved Kate like mad and didn’t want to lose her. But the guilt he carried about betraying her was always just under the surface and now, sitting on the bog, he realised for the first time that she too always had something at the back of her mind.

  Something called mistrust.

  She was obviously worried, but did not want to spell it out. Henry sensed that she equated specialist squad with adultery. All those hours and weeks she’d talked about meant temptation. Away from home. Strange places. Even stranger women, particularly the detectives.

  He understood Kate’s concerns, but was sure it would never happen again. His libido was in check.

  And he seriously wanted to get on the Organised Crime Squad. It was right up his alley, the type of work he excelled in. Chasing and convicting good-class criminals.

  Feeling unable now to concentrate either on the Mail or his bodily functions, he got off the loo and went into the bedroom to get dressed.

  Rider edged around the perimeter of the garden, aware that his flimsy shoes were no barrier against the wet. He stayed far enough away from the house so as not to activate the security lighting which was fitted all the way around. He was trying to establish which of the bedrooms they were going into before he moved in and tried to gain entry.

  The lights in a ground-floor room at the rear of the house
came on. Rider assumed it was the kitchen, but the blinds were drawn. He could see the shadow of some movement but not enough to tell him anything. Then the lights came on in another room and through the patio doors Rider could clearly see into a lounge.

  A man and a woman came into view.

  The man was Munrow.

  Rider did not know the woman, but from the brief conversation he had initiated with Toni Thomas, he had learned that she was a volunteer prison visitor and her husband was working in Saudi. Apparently she and Munrow had struck up a relationship in prison and it had spilled into the outside world.

  She obviously liked a bit of rough.

  Rider settled onto his haunches in the shadow of the back fence. Munrow and the woman — Rider could see she was good-looking — stood side by side at the patio door and looked across the garden in his direction, or so it seemed to him. They each held a glass and were talking. She wore a dressing gown. Munrow was in a black windcheater and black jeans.

  From his observation point, Rider appraised him.

  He looked as fit and as hard as ever.

  Once again, after having chosen a course of action, Rider wavered. In his condition, even if he hadn’t been beaten up, he’d be no match for Munrow in a head to head. Rider had to physically stop himself from making his way back to Jacko and saying, ‘Fuck it, we’re going home.’

  But he knew deep down in his soul that if he didn’t take positive action now in a way which Munrow understood, he’d never be able to shake the bastard off his back. Ever. Munrow would walk all over him again and again. That was the sort of person he was.

  If he dealt firmly with Munrow now, it would also send a strong message to Conroy to keep away.

  The woman put her drink down and opened the patio door. She stepped outside with only slippers on her feet. The security light came on, illuminating the whole of the back garden. Rider hunched further down into the shadows.

  In the snow she tiptoed to the bird-table and checked to see if there was any food on it. A moment later she was back in the house, patio door closed, and in Munrow’s arms.

  They attacked each other with a passion, kissing wildly, necking, tearing at clothing. She didn’t have very much to remove and within a couple of seconds her dressing gown was on the floor and she was naked. Together they removed Munrow’s clothes and she took obvious delight in peeling his boxer shorts off him, revealing what Rider had always suspected. A very big penis. Which she greedily took in her mouth as she knelt in front of him.

  Munrow’s head drooped back in ecstasy.

  The woman clawed her way back to her feet, heaved herself onto Munrow by wrapping her legs around his waist and hands clasped around his neck.

  Thus engaged, Munrow walked them both out of the room, easily holding her weight.

  When they disappeared, Rider emerged from the shadows and sprinted low to the house. He flattened himself against the wall, gun in hand.

  The security light went out. Rider moved and it came back on. He darted to the patio door and silently pushed the handle. Yes! It was open.

  He was inside the house.

  Munrow’s discarded clothing was on the floor. Rider went through the pockets and found a single car key which he slid into his own. He trod carefully through the lounge and emerged in the hallway.

  From upstairs the sounds of unbridled lust bounced down the walls. She was moaning to a rhythm, Munrow was gasping a beat behind. Oh, the din of sexual rapture, Rider thought.

  He pulled a ski-mask over his head. Not because he wanted to hide his identity from Munrow, but from her. If things went pear-shaped in the next few minutes it would be better if she didn’t see his face. He made his way cautiously up the steps to the landing, where the racket of intercourse became much louder from the bedroom second on the right.

  After checking the first bedroom and finding it empty, Rider stepped lightly to the next door, which was open. He adjusted the ski-mask and tried to control his breathing — and the urge to scream and run away, forget it all, become a hermit. He counted to three and twisted into the bedroom, gun in right hand, supported by the left.

  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.