Nightmare City hc-2

by Nick Oldham

  The man holding the gun ground the muzzle into Shane’s cheek. He thumbed the hammer back. Shane closed his eyes tightly and lay there paralysed with fear. Tears formed in his eyes.

  The man with the baton walked over to the TV set which was perched on a small table. He tapped the screen with the tip, lined himself up like a golfer before a tee shot and swung it into the screen, which exploded.

  Jodie let out a gasp.

  The baby in her arms jumped and started to cry.

  Their TV had been destroyed. The TV set Jodie was tied to for all her entertainment. It had been her lifeline.

  The man then kicked it off the table. It crashed to the floor.

  Shane’s eyes strained in their sockets to look up at what had happened. He watched the man with the baton take a couple of steps over to him. The man with the gun, keeping it firmly implanted in his cheek, stood up, relieving the pressure on Shane’s spine.

  It was a short-lived relief. Shane was then given much the same treatment as the TV set with about a dozen well-aimed, hard blows across his back and ribs.

  When he’d finished, Shane lay curled up on the floor, emitting horrible grunting noises.

  The gun was still in his ear. The man holding it said, ‘You may wonder what this is about, Shane.’

  The baton man then demolished the stereo with a series of expertly wielded strikes, destroying a cheap but perfectly acceptable system which, again, Jodie relied on for her sanity. Her whole pathetic world was being decimated and she was unable to do anything to save it. As with the TV set, the stereo was kicked to the floor where it landed with a loud crash, the plastic parts splintering all around the room.

  The man returned to Shane and tapped him gently a few times on the knee-caps and shins. Shane’s thin legs would have been very easily broken and probably damaged for ever. The baton man let the tip rest against a shin whilst the gunman spoke.

  ‘ Now then, Shane,’ he said reasonably. ‘Listen very carefully. All you have to do is this: tomorrow morning, you go into Blackpool police station and present yourself very smartly at the front desk, with your solicitor if you like… with me so far?… and be very nice and pleasant and say that you wish to retract the complaint you made against me, Detective Sergeant Christie. Now that’s all you have to do Shane, pal, old buddy, old mate. And don’t even think of mentioning this little get-together here, because if you do…’ His voice sank to a terrifying whisper. ‘Do you understand?’

  Shane nodded.

  ‘ Good.’

  The baton man gave Shane a loving tap on his shin.

  The gunman stood up.

  Both crossed to the baby’s cot, picked it up and between them and threw it against the wall where it disintegrated into matchsticks.

  Then they left.

  In the hallway outside the flat, they turned right and ran for the rear exit, pulling their hoods off as they went.

  Neither one of them saw the figure of John Rider ascending the darkened staircase which led up from the basement flat below.

  Chapter Twenty

  There was an air of jubilation in the murder incident room next day when Tony Morton announced that all three men arrested yesterday were going to be charged with the murder of Geoff Driffield and the other people in the newsagents. The one they had failed to arrest would be circulated as wanted.

  In just one week they had a major result, and all the detectives and uniformed police officers involved in the case were invited to a celebration that evening in the club upstairs. 5 p.m. start. It would be a long, boozy evening.

  Henry experienced a certain degree of satisfaction. He had been instrumental in the arrest of the gang leader, Anderson, and had nearly died for his trouble.

  As the officers cleared the room, Henry caught sight of Siobhan talking earnestly to Tony Morton, occasionally glancing across at him. She looked upset, on the verge of tears. Henry wondered if she’d had some distressing news or something. He did not even begin to think she could be upset about last night and the coitus interruptus. He had reflected on her behaviour and concluded he did not really blame her

  … but on the other hand she had said some nasty things. Threats, almost.

  She and Morton walked out of the incident room towards the office he had been allocated for the duration of the investigation.

  Henry went to the CID office and sat at his desk where he re-read a photocopy of the post-it note Derek had left for him on the night of his brutal murder. What the hell did he want to see me for? Henry asked himself. Was it the reason why he was murdered? Henry could only speculate. The note was bare and said little…

  His mind wandered back to the previous evening when he had called in to see Annie Luton on his way home. She had given him a whole package of work-related stuff that Derek had taken home over a period of time. It was all in a carrier bag.

  ‘ There’s everything there he ever brought home in relation to work,’ Annie said. ‘I’ve been round the house from top to bottom, gathering all this together. It was all over the show… he was so untidy. I even found some under our bed.’ Her eyes moistened as she talked.

  Henry glanced casually at the contents. None of it seemed to be of major importance. Copies of reports, statements… the type of bumf most young officers probably had at home. Henry had been like that years ago. Taking work home. Feeling the need to write up reports off-duty so he could spend more time out on the streets when on-duty. Yeah, he could relate to that.

  These days he took nothing home.

  He had spent about half an hour with Annie. She was very rational and together, though a desperate and tragic figure. Henry saw resilience in her and guessed that sooner rather than later her life would be back on track.

  He left with a hopeful, positive feeling inside him. The carrier bag she had given him was dumped on the back seat of his car, forgotten.

  Then he went home to Kate.

  He could hardly bring himself to look at her, so ashamed was he of his actions with Siobhan. Did Kate pick up his body language? Could she see right through him? Did she intuitively know that not long before, he had literally been on the verge of making love to another woman?

  Henry would not have been surprised.

  Wives were so perceptive about their husbands’ every little transgression.

  Thankfully she seemed far more concerned with his injuries and getting him into a hot, soothing Radox bath and subsequently to bed. She fussed around him like a mother hen, or at least someone who cared very deeply for him and to whom his wellbeing was her main concern. Inside, he boiled angrily with himself whilst on the outside he revelled in the blue water and the glass of Jack Daniel’s which Kate placed in his hand as he lay back and soaked his soul.

  He was beginning to think he had the makings of a serial adulterer, but maybe he was exaggerating the problem.

  His daughters, Jenny and Leanne, were another reason for this self loathing. With the soap bubbles covering his rude parts, they sat on their knees next to the bath, whilst Kate took a back seat on the lid of the loo, and listened wide-eyed at the story of his day, culminating in him being shot and the fight in the clothing displays of M amp; S. He proudly displayed his chest-wound for them to see. It had turned the colour of black grapes. He also carefully removed the bandage on his ear to show them how chewed it was.

  He was their hero and although he knew the truth — he had been completely terrified most of the time — he never revealed it to them. Their dad. The hero.

  The serial adulterer.

  Kate ushered them out of the bathroom after the story.

  She sat back on the loo, looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘I think you’ve got something to tell me.’

  The words hit Henry harder than the bullet.

  ‘ How did you know?’

  Were there claw-marks down his back he hadn’t realised Siobhan had inflicted on him? Teeth-marks around his foreskin?

  ‘ The fact you were in Lancaster for one thing. Then you had
a gun. And you were arresting people for that multiple killing job. You’ve already moved onto, what’s it called, North-West Crime something or other?’

  ‘ North-West Organised Crime Squad,’ he corrected her, trying to cover the relief in his voice. ‘No, I’ve just been helping them out, that’s all, so they can look at me and I can look at them. See if we like each other.’ He went on to explain the possibility of a six-month secondment, followed possibly by a full transfer, and how right he thought the job was for him.

  He didn’t mention Siobhan at all.

  ‘ OK,’ Kate said, tilting her head. ‘If that’s what you want — chasing criminals with guns all over the place, fine by me. If you’re happy at your work, I’ll be behind you. Just please don’t let it get in the way of us this time, Henry. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘ I won’t,’ he promised meekly.

  And once again, Kate, his wonderful, beautiful wife, had surprised him with her generosity. And through no fault of her own, made him feel like an absolute bastard.

  Maybe that’s my lot in life, he’d reasoned.

  Henry was brought bang into the present as the phone went, interrupting his recall. It was Karl Donaldson.

  ‘ Karl, how you doin’?

  ‘ OK, buddy,’ Donaldson said, but Henry picked up a bum note in the American’s voice. ‘I need to see you pretty urgently, Henry.’

  ‘ About what?’

  ‘ Not over the phone. Face to face. I’m gonna travel up, bring Karen along too. Settin’ off shortly. Looking at four-five hours maybe with traffic and weather. Can you accommodate us?’

  ‘ Sure, sounds important. Nothing over the phone?’

  ‘ No clues, bud.’

  ‘ I’ll see you at home then.’

  The phone went dead. Henry hung up, mystified and slightly worried. He had no time to ruminate, however. The phone warbled again.

  ‘ DS Christie — get up into my office now.’

  Rather like Siobhan’s open-handed slap last night, Henry was caught unawares by what happened next.

  He meandered down the corridor towards Morton’s office. When he was a few feet away from the door, it opened dramatically and Siobhan burst out, virtually into his arms. Tears were streaked down her face and she was heaving with loud, gut-wrenching sobs. She looked up at Henry and reacted instantly as though she had walked into the monster from hell.

  ‘ Get off me, get off me!’ she screamed, making a great show of disentangling herself from him. She was not entangled by any stretch of the imagination. She drew back, slapping the air like she was trying to free herself from Spiderman’s web. ‘Leave me alone. You’ve done enough damage.’

  ‘ Siobhan!’ Henry was wrong-footed completely. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘ You bastard! Don’t come near me again.’

  With that she ducked to one side, swept past him and scurried off down the corridor towards the ladies toilets. Henry watched her retreating back with shock. He turned. Tony Morton was standing in the doorway of his temporary office.

  ‘ What was all that about?’ Henry asked, nonplussed.

  Morton said nothing for a moment, but surveyed Henry with a calculating look which made him shiver.

  ‘ Come in and sit down.’

  Morton stayed by the door. Henry slid by him into the office. He sat down, intertwining his fingers on his lap in a gesture of submission.

  Morton closed the door softly and walked to his seat behind the desk, putting a large space between him and the Detective Sergeant and peering down at him from a greater height. Henry could not help but be awed by the old-fashioned power psychology. It always worked on him.

  What the hell was going on?

  Morton did not speak for a few moments, but allowed Henry to savour the atmosphere.

  Then he dropped the bomb.

  ‘ DC Robson claims that you have sexually harassed her and this has culminated in a serious sexual assault. Namely rape.’

  Three items appeared on Karl Donaldson’s desk just as he was in the process of packing his briefcase.

  The first was from Madeira and had come by DHL. It was the sample of human tissue taken from under Sam Dawber’s fingernails. It was in an airtight container, with Santana’s signature across the seal as well as the doctor’s who had performed the post mortem.

  The next item was a statement from an FBI scientist which contained the DNA profile resulting from the sample taken from under Sam’s nails at the second autopsy. There was a computer print-out attached which meant nothing to Donaldson. It went on to say that the FBI DNA database had been searched, but no match had been made.

  He assumed that if he got the police here to DNA test the sample from Madeira, the result would match up with the one from the States.

  He slid both items into his desk drawer and locked it.

  They would have to wait.

  He wanted to get on the road to see Henry, ASAP.

  However, the next item caught and held his attention.

  It was the photograph of Wayne and Tiger Mayfair taken on their arrival at Madrid Airport a couple of days before. Donaldson had already received a brief written report about the arrival from a field agent out there. They were good quality photographs and Donaldson was pleased by the high resolution. But it was the report which accompanied it that made him sit up. Again, from the same field agent, a guy named Moody, who had been doing a bit of digging. It briefly said that, under assumed names, the Mayfairs had now left Spain en route by air to Paris. The agent had also discovered that they had flown into Madrid from Lisbon.

  And into Lisbon from Madeira.

  Donaldson looked at the photograph again. Something odd about Tiger Mayfair.

  He rooted around his stationery drawer and found a magnifying glass which he held over Tiger’s head.

  Yes, there was no mistaking it.

  Donaldson laid the photo down and breathed deeply.

  Scratch-marks down his left cheek.

  Henry stumbled out of Morton’s office with a face of granite and all-pervading waves of cold fear gripping his intestines.

  Allegations of sexual harassment, followed by indecent assault and then, possibly, rape, were dreadful to be levelled at anyone. Especially when they were untrue.

  And that is what Siobhan had alleged against him.

  She had said that from the first moment they’d met, he had constantly made lewd comments to her, sexual jokes and innuendo and he had leered at her virtually all the time. ‘Active mental groping’ was the term used.

  She had gone on to tell Morton she had become physically sick as a result of his behaviour, but she felt powerless to do anything about it. After all, he was a Sergeant, she was only a Constable. But above all he was a man.

  To Morton she said that Henry had forced her to kiss him at the NWOCS office in King Street when they had been there alone, collecting equipment. He had rubbed his body up against hers but she’d managed to struggle free and tell him not to touch her again. That night, she claimed, she’d gone to bed and cried herself to sleep, petrified at the thought of doing observations with him the following morning in Lancaster.

  Things got worse after the shooting incident when, in the casualty department of all places, he had enticed her into the cubicle where he was receiving treatment and exposed himself to her.

  It all culminated at King Street, again when they were alone. This time, she alleged, Henry forced her to undress and tried to rape her. He failed to penetrate her and ejaculate because he could not maintain an erection.

  She had been terrified. Put through an horrendous ordeal by a man with power.

  And now she wanted some action taken against him.

  As the story was revealed to Henry, he simply sat there open-mouthed, unable to believe what was being said. It was all nonsense, of course. Both had been willing participants in the engagement until Henry’s head had cleared and he realised how foolish he was being — which was at the point where his very erect penis had brushed
up against the lips of WDS Robson’s vagina.

  Henry ran quickly through the legal definition of rape in his mind. Only the slightest degree of penetration needed to be proved, neither did the emission of seed have to take place. The other main thread to the offence was the question of consent. Was there true consent to the act of intercourse, or was it obtained by fear, force or fraud? Henry had dealt with enough rapes to know the pitfalls of proving it to a court; Siobhan would struggle to convince a jury she had been raped.

  It was the others elements of her allegation which worried him.

  Sexual harassment.

  Indecent assault.

  The former was strongly condemned by the police service and many male officers had lost their jobs because of it; the latter was a serious criminal offence which was often used in place of rape because it was easier to prove. It could lose him his job too — especially if he was in prison.

  And I stopped myself from shagging her just to prevent future repercussions, he thought. Now I wish I’d carried on. What the hell was behind this?

  Henry calmly relayed his side of the story.

  ‘ Whatever the truth of the matter,’ Morton said when Henry had concluded, ‘and I don’t suppose we’ll get to it anyway, this is a very serious matter, Henry. Very, very serious.’

  ‘ I realise that.’

  ‘ It affects so many others, directly or indirectly — the job, the squad, your wife, kids… God, the effect it could have on them beggars the imagination,’ Morton emphasised, making Henry squirm. ‘Your friends, colleagues. Mud sticks, old lad, even if these allegations prove to be unfounded.’

  And wives divorce you.

  And friends snub you.

  Oh, shit.

  ‘ But at the moment,’ Morton explained, ‘no one but we three know about this. Maybe there is a solution. Let me have a think about it.’

  His mind reeling, Henry made his way back to the comfort zone of his desk and slumped heavily down in the chair. His first reaction had been to find Siobhan and demand of her what the hell she was playing at, but he’d been severely warned against this course of action. Anything which smelled of intimidation or victimisation would be dealt with harshly, Morton had said.