Nightmare City

by Nick Oldham

  The lack of any alcohol in his system was the only thing that saved him. It meant he could move quicker and with better coordination than Shane. And his six foot two, fourteen stone body (slightly overweight, but modestly fit) gave him the edge as regards power and strength.

  For a brief instant, Shane was at right angles to Henry, who punched the young man on the side of the head, just below the ear.

  Shane staggered away, but recovered quickly. He turned and charged at Henry, running the knife at him as though he was holding a bayonet, screaming, ‘You’re dead, you cunt!’

  But the move was telegraphed, giving Henry ample time to sidestep again, like a matador. Had he wanted he could have allowed Shane to run past him, put a boot up his backside and sent him sprawling like the stupid lad he was.

  But the ‘red mist’ - the police officers’ worst enemy - slotted down over his eyes like a visor.

  He knew he shouldn’t. Knew it was wrong. But he’d been so wound up that afternoon that he shrugged the angel off his left shoulder and nodded conspiratorially to the devil on his right.

  He parried the knife to one side with the palm of his hand, grabbed Shane’s wrist and twisted. A yelp of pain shot out of Shane’s mouth, his fingers opened, and the knife clattered harmlessly to the floor. Henry continued to apply the pressure, twisting until he was almost at the point of breaking the wrist, then he yanked Shane towards him so they were nearly face to face.

  Shane’s breath reeked of stale alcohol and vomit.

  Henry gave a hard, dry smile, pulled down on the wrist like he was pulling on a toilet chain and at the same time drove his right knee up into the young man’s testicles. An animal-like howl of agonising pain burst up from the deepest recesses of Shane’s abdomen and exited via his mouth. Henry let go.

  Clutching his privates with both hands, Shane collapsed weeping to the floor. Moaning. Crying.

  Henry picked up the knife. He touched the release catch with his thumb and the blade slid harmlessly back into the handle.

  The ‘red mist’ lifted. He hoped - belatedly - he hadn’t done too much damage.

  The Custody Sergeant, Eric Taylor, appeared in the corridor. ‘Henry! What the fuck’s going on here?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle ... but whoever searched this prisoner wants their balls chewing off.’ He handed the flick-knife to Taylor who looked at it, then at the writhing body on the floor.

  ‘Make sure you put an entry on the custody record to cover it, will you? For your own safety. Then go up and see comms. There’s a big robbery come in, firearms job - somebody shot, I think. They want you to turn out to it.’

  ‘With respect, Eric, as much as I’ve enjoyed myself today in the dungeons - thank God for that!’ He walked off down the corridor, stopped and turned back. ‘Oh, and by the way, don’t give him bail. He got me really mad.’

  The first officer on the scene had done all the right things. She had quickly checked for any signs of life, found none, but requested comms to call an ambulance anyway, just to be on the safe side. She retraced her steps carefully to the front door of the shop, bundled several gawping members of the public away, stepped outside and closed the door behind her. The scene was effectively sealed off.

  Onlookers had already begun to gather. She ordered them back. Then as calmly as she could, after taking a deep quavering breath, she relayed a situation report over her PR and asked for help. Quickly, please.

  Henry Christie and a Detective Constable called Derek Luton were the next officers on the scene, arriving before the ambulance.

  Before going in, Henry got the story from the female officer.

  With trepidation, and not a little disbelief, he opened the door, ensuring he didn’t spoil or leave any fingerprints on the gloss-painted wood.

  One of the first things he’d been taught as a young copper was that there was only one occasion when it was acceptable for a police officer to be seen by the public with hands in pockets. That occasion was at the scene of a crime. It was OK because it prevented an officer touching and possibly tainting evidence which is all too easy to do.

  Let your eyes do the walking, he’d been told. Take it all in for a few minutes, then take your hands out.

  It was a piece of advice which had stood him in good stead for many years. Apart from anything else, it was a way of preventing panic rising at a particularly violent or messy crime. Like this one.

  He stood just inside the door of the newsagents. Luton was one pace behind him.

  ‘Christ!’ breathed the young detective into Henry’s ear.

  Henry pursed his lips and gave a silent whistle. It was an effort to keep his hands pushed in his pockets. He wanted to rub his eyes because they could not believe what they were looking at.

  ‘Do you see what I see, Degsy?’ he asked Luton.

  ‘Er - yep, think so,’ he replied unsurely.

  ‘You stay here and don’t move,’ Henry told him. ‘And make sure no one else comes through that door.’

  ‘You got it.’

  Taking care not to step in the blood - difficult because there appeared to be gallons of the stuff - he moved around the body of the female shopper covered in birthday cards. He took a couple of long strides to the counter where he squatted down briefly to look at the bodies of the two customers. Both still clutched their lottery slips. Some jackpot, Henry thought.

  He stood up, walked behind the counter.

  The bodies of the two shopkeepers were lying in an untidy pile, one on top of the other. They seemed to be clinging to each other in a final embrace. Both had massive head wounds. They had obviously been blasted against the shelves behind the counter and the contents had tipped over them. Packets of cigarettes, cigars, matches, were scattered everywhere.

  At first Henry did not spot the other body lying in the semi-gloom of the hallway which connected the shop to the living area beyond.

  Carefully he stepped over the shopkeepers and went to inspect what he truly hoped was the last body.

  Once again he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him.

  He found a light switch, turning it on by pressing it with his thumbnail.

  Fluorescent lights pinged on, flooding the hallway with eerie brightness.

  He saw the police firearms cap.

  He saw the body armour with the word Police stamped across the chest. He saw the 9mm Sig next to the body.

  And the face blown away beyond recognition.

  In that instant Henry knew that, as bad as it had been to begin with, this whole crime had taken on a much darker, murkier complexion.

  He blinked.

  Somewhere in the distance, getting closer, was the wail of an ambulance siren.

  Not much point in you coming, he thought bitterly.

  Henry stood on the pavement outside the shop, watching the uniformed cops push the public back and begin to string out a cordon.

  ‘Right back,’ he shouted, confirming his words with a sweeping gesture of his hands. ‘Right back. That’s it.’

  Derek Luton appeared by his side.

  ‘What’ve you got so far then, Degsy?’ Henry knew Luton had been asking questions.

  Luton consulted the scrap of paper he’d used to write on. ‘Two witnesses saw three big guys leaving the shop armed to the back teeth. Got their names and addresses here...’

  ‘Oh good, let’s go and arrest them.’

  Luton looked at Henry slightly nonplussed for a second. ‘No, no . . . I mean the witnesses’ names and addresses.’ He didn’t quite see the joke and carried on. ‘All wearing white hats, masks, T-shirts. They piled into a car which could’ve been a Peugeot 405 or Cavalier, something like that, colour uncertain. Drove off without undue haste. Cool bastards. Sounds like the crew who’ve been hitting the newsagents for the last couple of months.’

  Luton was referring to a vicious armed gang who had robbed six newsagents in the last nine weeks, all in the Fylde area of Lancashire. They were getting to be a real headache for the polic
e who had warned that it was only matter of time before someone got killed.

  ‘Mmm, sounds like,’ Henry agreed.

  ‘And apparently it looks like they blagged another shop in Fleetwood before doing this one.’

  ‘Oh?’ Henry perked up. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  Luton cocked his thumb at the female officer who’d been first on the scene. ‘Just came over the PR when I was chatting to her.’

  ‘Any details?’

  ‘Round about seven-ten, seven-fifteen. A newsagents. Discharged a shotgun, but no one got shot. Helped themselves to the contents of the till, seven hundred quid or so. Usual MO. Usual dress. Same lot, I’d say.’

  ‘Then they’ve been busy,’ commented Henry. He considered what Luton had told him. His eyes narrowed while his brain chewed it over. ‘Hang on . . . like normal, they rob a shop and fire the shotgun, like they’ve done on every job, then they tear-arse eight miles down the road like shit off a shovel to do this one? They steal money from up there, like they normally do, yet murder everybody in sight here - and apparently leave all the cash in the till. Fucking odd, if you ask me. And if that guy in the body armour really is a cop, what the fuck was he up to?’ Henry shook his head. ‘I’m not saying it’s not possible, Degsy, but. . .’

  Several cars were pulling up outside. Henry’s boss, a Detective Chief Inspector, got out of one; the others disgorged a mixture of policemen including Detective Chief Superintendent Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, known colloquially as FB, Head of Lancashire CID, and Brian Warner, Assistant Chief Constable (Operations).

  Henry’s gaze returned to Luton. ‘Looks like the circus has arrived and here come the clowns. Let’s give’ em what we’ve got and retire with good grace. I doubt if I’ll be involved in this investigation, which is a shame. Looks like being a juicy one. But you might get a shot. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Chapter Two

  Henry and Luton spent another two hours at the scene before finally handing everything over and returning to Blackpool Central to book off duty.

  Henry was correct: he would not be forming part of the team assembled to investigate the murders. He’d been told by FB to continue with the reactive CID work which was his normal job. This was no surprise. Someone had to hold the fort. Other crimes did not stop being committed and they had to be dealt with. In truth he did not mind too much. As Acting DI he had the responsibility for running the CID office whilst the real DI was off sick. Henry intended to apply for promotion later in the year; his proven ability to manage a busy department was something positive to tell the Board.

  Luton, however, was told he would be going on the squad. Henry smiled when he saw the young detective’s reaction. Although he had been involved in a couple of domestic murders and one night-club stabbing, this was Luton’s first major enquiry. Henry was pleased for him. It would be invaluable experience.

  Henry patted him on the back and congratulated him. Inside he was envious. Having been on many major murder enquiries himself, he knew what a real buzz it was to be part of such a team.

  In the car on the way back to the office, Henry asked Luton to keep him abreast of all developments. Luton promised he would.

  Back at Blackpool, Henry declined Luton’s offer of a quick drink in the club on the top floor. He wanted to get home, shower, put his feet up and watch Match of the Day with the assistance of a large Jack Daniel’s and his wife, Kate.

  Luton waved good night and left. Henry was alone in the deserted office. He sat down at his desk and quickly shuffled through the mountain of paperwork and scanned the array of yellow post-it stickers which desecrated his desk top. There was nothing that couldn’t wait.

  Yawning, stretching, he stood up to go. The phone rang shrilly.

  It was Eric Taylor, the Custody Sergeant.

  ‘Glad I caught you, Henry. Thought I’d better let you know: that lad, the one with the flick-knife?’

  ‘Shane Mulcahy,’ said Henry.

  ‘You really should’ve written something on the custody record, like I told you to.’

  Henry mouthed a swearword. An empty, achy feeling spread through his stomach. He hadn’t written anything in the record because he’d been so eager to get out to the robbery; it had completely slipped his mind. ‘Problem?’ he asked cautiously, knowing there would be, otherwise Taylor wouldn’t be phoning.

  ‘You could say that. We had to get an ambulance out to take him to hospital- and he’s still there. Looks like he might have to have a testicle removed. If they can find it, that is. Apparently it’s somewhere up in his throat.’ Taylor chuckled.

  Henry groaned. He slumped back into his chair, closed his eyes despairingly and slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  ‘And there’s nothing on the custody record which covers what happened between you and him. I booked him out into your care so you could document him, then came along twenty minutes later to see him squirming on the floor, clutching his bollocks. And you gave me that knife and that’s all I know. I’ve had to write down what I saw and it doesn’t look good, Henry. Sorry.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have left a line or two for me to write something?’

  ‘Yeah, right, Henry. You know damn well I couldn’t do that. I asked you to write something and you didn’t. Now he’s in hospital with a double Adam’s apple. If he makes a complaint - and he’s just the sort of little shit to do so - you’ve got a lot of explaining to do. Sorry, pal.’

  Jack Daniel’s did not help Henry to get to sleep. His mind kept spinning from the sight of all that death, right round to his complete stupidity in not carrying out such a fundamental task as writing up an entry in a custody record. Bread and butter stuff. It was so easy not to do it, and detectives had a poor history where custody records were concerned. They were seen as something that got in the way of detection, some bureaucratic tool to be treated with contempt. But not by Henry Christie. Normally so diligent, careful ... professional. He fully understood the possible legal ramifications of not being meticulous and recording everything. And he always stressed the importance of custody records to his detectives. They protected both officer and prisoner.

  He tried to make excuses for himself.

  He’d been busy. He was turning out to a multiple killing.

  But if he were honest and critical, they were thin, paltry excuses.

  Now he faced the possibility of an assault complaint, followed by a tedious investigation and maybe - he grimaced at the thought - a court appearance facing a criminal charge.

  All because he hadn’t covered himself.

  The thought appalled him, but it was the worst case scenario, he assured himself. He’d be very unlucky if it came to that.

  His wife Kate turned over and draped an arm across his chest.

  She smelled wonderful, having dabbed herself sparingly with Allure by Chanel after her bath. He stroked her arm with the tips of his fingers. She smiled and uttered a sigh of pleasure. She loved to be stroked. Like a cat.

  ‘I forgot to tell you,’ she murmured dreamily. ‘We won ten pounds on the lottery.’

  ‘Aren’t we the lucky ones?’

  He purged all thoughts of death and prosecution from his mind, snuggled down into the bed, took gentle hold of Kate and felt himself harden against her belly.

  Chapter Three

  At ten o’clock the following morning, Sunday, John Rider emerged unsteadily through the front door of his basement flat situated in the South Shore area of Blackpool.

  He walked stiffly up the steps to pavement level, then turned and surveyed the building which towered above his flat.

  In its better days it had been an hotel, but over the past thirty years had undergone a series of changes - to guest-house, back to hotel, to private flats, back to guest-house ... until in the early 1980s it had been completely abandoned, quickly becoming derelict. By the time Rider saw it advertised for sale, deterioration through damp and vandalism had set in and the building was nothing more than a shell. He bought it f
or almost nothing and set about refurbishment with as little outlay as possible. He turned it into a complex of twelve tiny bedsits and, after getting a Fire & Safety certificate, filled the rooms with unemployed people drawing dole who needed accommodation and breakfasts, but who always paid the rent. Or to be exact, had the rent paid for them by the Department of Social Security.

  So, in colloquial parlance, the newest metamorphosis of the building was a ‘DSS doss-house’.

  This had marked the beginning of a new and lucrative career for Rider, who had subsequently bought three similar properties and converted them into little gold mines.

  Though he had done well out of the business, the lifestyle was nowhere near as exciting as the one he used to have. But it was safe and divorced from his past. The most difficult things he had to deal with these days were the damage to his property, caused usually during drunken squabbles between his tenants, or drug-taking by the same people - a pastime he abhorred and clamped down on firmly, sometimes violently.

  Looking up at his property that morning he was pleased to see that there didn’t seem to be any windows broken, the usual for Saturday night.

  Glad about this, Rider walked across to the only remnant he possessed of his previous life. It was a maroon-coloured Jaguar XJ12, bought new in 1976. A real gangster’s car which had seen much better days.

  He and the car complemented each other. Both were slightly tatty, worn at the edges - ravaged, even - with a rather cynical air about them and an aura of aloofness which had a sinister undertone of danger and power.

  And both of them smoked and drank too much and took a long time to get going first thing in the morning.

  The engine fired up after a prolonged turn of the ignition. The twelve cylinders rumbled unevenly into life, coughing and spluttering until they caught fire and settled into a steady, burbling rhythm.

  Rider let the car warm up for a few minutes. Realising he had forgotten to bring his cigarettes, he slid the ashtray open and poked distastefully through its overflowing contents until he found a dog-end which contained at least one lungful of smoke in it. He lit it with the electric lighter and took a sweet, deep drag.