Nightmare City

by Nick Oldham

  He pressed the button on the console and the driver’s window creaked open, jamming halfway down as always. He blew out the smoke from inside his chest, flicked the fag-end out onto the pavement and set off.

  He drove down onto the Promenade, turned right, heading north. It was one of those clear, crisp January mornings with a fine blue sky, no clouds and a silver sea.

  The Promenade was quiet. A few grimy locals meandered around. Traffic was light. A council truck lumbered down the inner promenade, emptying dog-shit bins.

  He turned off at Talbot Square and headed inland, picking up the signs for the zoo, where he’d arranged to meet Conroy.

  It was actually Conroy who wanted the meet. He who suggested the zoo. More informal, more natural and convivial, he’d said. And he hadn’t been to a zoo since he was a kid.

  Rider, out of curiosity more than anything, had agreed.

  It had been a long time since he’d seen Conroy and although he’d no wish to re-open old wounds, he was intrigued.

  He wondered exactly how ‘convivial’ the man would be. To the best of his memory, conviviality was not one of Ronnie Conroy’s strongest points.

  Henry arrived for work at 8 a.m. that morning. He immediately went to check Shane Mulcahy’s custody record. With a bitter twist on his lips he read it and saw there was nowhere for him to add an entry.

  He also learned that Shane was still in hospital and was being operated on later to remove a severely damaged testicle which had apparently split like a plum.

  So that was the situation. Nothing he could do about it but wait, cross his fingers and pray. No point thinking If only ... Too damn late for that.

  Disgusted with himself he tried to put it to the back of his mind and concentrate oil the day ahead.

  The screen on the custody office computer - coupled with screams and shouts from the cell complex - told him the cells were full. He was relieved to be informed that there was only one overnight prisoner for the CID to deal with, although he would not be fit until he sobered up – conservative estimate being midday. Sounded like a good job for the detectives coming on at two.

  He left the custody office and drifted up to the communications room where he read the message pad which logged all incoming calls and deployments. It had been a busy night in Blackpool. Henry was glad his days as a patrol officer were long gone. It was a dog’s life at the sharp end.

  After this he had a quick cup of tea and a piece of toast in the canteen before descending to the CID office and his cluttered desk, where he began to draft out a careful statement regarding his interaction with Shane while it was fresh in his memory.

  Throughout the morning he was disturbed by a stream of detectives who had been brought on duty to form the murder squad. Many were old friends from across the county.

  The first briefing was to be at 11 a.m. in the incident room.

  Henry decided, if he had time, he would go in and listen. He had not yet heard who the dead body dressed in police kit was, and curiosity nagged away at him.

  Conroy’s big fat Mercedes was the only car in the zoo car park.

  Rider drove his Jag past, made a big loop and pulled alongside with a scrunch of tyres on gravel. By this time Conroy was out and standing there, awaiting Rider who climbed creakily out of his car.

  Conroy was a vision in cream, with a woven silk three-piece suit by Hermes, off-white T-shirt, and a pair of white canvas trainers by Converse. He’d seen the outfit in Esquire and decided he liked the look. It was him. It had set him back over a thousand pounds.

  The two men shook hands. Conroy gave an almost imperceptible nod to his driver and the Mercedes moved away.

  ‘I’ve told him to come back in an hour. That OK?’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Rider said indifferently, ‘but what’ll we talk about for that length of time? Your fashion sense?’

  Conroy laughed guardedly and patted Rider on the shoulder. ‘We’ll think of something ... but John, how are you? Nice to see you. You look bloody rough actually and you smell like a fuckin’ brewery. Did you drown in a bottle of gin last night? Christ, it’s a good job the cops didn’t pull ya - you’d still be over the limit.’

  Rider glared at him through narrowed eyes, already wound up by a man he hadn’t seen for five years, although he’d tried to keep abreast of his nefarious activities.

  ‘And you look like some pathetic ageing rock star in that suit and with that pony tail,’ he retorted.

  ‘Whoa, come on, John,’ the other said placatingly. ‘Let’s have a walk and a talk, take a look at some animals, maybe do some business ... yeah?’

  Rider didn’t really want to be here with someone who represented much of what was bad about his past, yet his innate curiosity had been aroused. What did this bastard want? He nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Good man.’

  They walked towards the zoo entrance.

  A lone car pulled onto the far side of the car park, catching Rider’s eye. A white Jap thing. Two people on board - men, staring in their direction. They looked as out of place as Conroy and Rider. But although he noticed the car and experienced a vague disquiet, Rider didn’t pay it much heed. He wasn’t a gangster any more, so why should he?

  Henry found himself in exalted company, sharing a lift with a dying breed of officer. Two Chief Superintendents, the rank being one of those abolished in police shake-ups of recent years. There were a few left, but not many.

  One was Fanshaw-Bayley, Henry’s ultimate boss. The other was the Head of the North-West Organised Crime Squad generally referred to as the NWOCS, Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton.

  The NWOCS were an elite team of detectives whose sole brief was to investigate organised criminal activity in the north-west of England, from Cumbria to Cheshire. They were based in Blackburn, Lancashire. The squad had been in existence for just over ten years and under Morton’s direction had been responsible for some of the biggest, most spectacular busts and arrests ever seen in the north-west.

  Morton - his home force was Greater Manchester - was a very sharp detective indeed. Henry knew he had begun his career on the hard, mean streets of Salford and Moss Side, and worked his way up the ladder of promotion through sheer hard work and uncompromising thief-taking. Henry had a great deal of respect for the man, who was in many ways a role model for him.

  When Henry stepped into the lift, the two Chief Supers glanced quickly at him and resumed their conversation. They talked in hushed tones but were not trying to hide what they were saying.

  Morton was speaking. He was clearly upset.

  ‘I am totally fucking devastated, Bob ... so all I’m saying is that you can have every single member of my squad for this job for as long as it takes. Me too. We’ll drop everything and give this priority. Catch the bastards - catch’ em and crucify’ em! It’s a real blow to us, I can tell you. Christ, I can hardly think straight.’

  FB placed a reassuring hand on Morton’s shoulder.

  ‘I understand, Tony. If it’d been one of mine, I would’ve felt the same - gutted.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Bob.’

  The lift came to a halt on the floor where the incident room was located. FB gestured for Morton to step out ahead of him. Henry stayed in, finger on the doors-open button. When they were clear he took his finger off.

  The last thing he caught was Morton saying, ‘What I don’t understand is what the hell he was doing there by himself, all tooled up. It doesn’t make sense, though he was a bit of a loner.’

  By which time the doors had closed and the lift was ascending towards the canteen.

  With interest, Henry mulled over what he’d just heard.

  At least it confirmed one thing: it was a cop who’d been gunned down - a member of the NWOCS.

  Next question for Henry: Who?

  ‘I think sometimes you should revisit your past, don’t you? Does you good. We get so caught up with ourselves as grown-ups we forget simple pleasures like zoos.’

  Conroy was doing th
e talking as they walked around, pausing briefly at each cage or enclosure to examine the exhibits. Other than themselves, the zoo was empty, and it seemed a cheerless place on that fine, but cold morning.

  Rider was actually mildly impressed with the place. Though small and unspectacular, it was well tended and the animals seemed in good health.

  He wasn’t really taking in what Conroy was saying because most of it was drivel. But then he moved up a gear and got Rider’s attention.

  ‘I hear you bought a club recently.’

  ‘You heard right. Doesn’t news travel fast?’ It was only last week he’d completed the full transfer, though he’d actually been operating the place for about a month.

  ‘It’s a small world we inhabit,’ Conroy commented.

  They leaned on the outer rail of the lion enclosure and looked through the wire mesh at the sleepy inhabitants. One of the big cats rolled onto its back. A lioness glared at the two humans and licked her lips.

  ‘You inhabit,’ Rider corrected him. ‘A small world YOU inhabit. So, yeah, I’ve bought a club.’

  ‘What sort of place is it, exactly?’

  Rider started walking again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the lioness stand up, stretch and pad towards them.

  ‘Exactly? A grotty rundown disco with a bar and a late-night food licence ... and if I put some money in it I might make some back. Eventually. What’s your interest?’

  They were now strolling side by side along the enclosure.

  Walking next to them, staring at them and grunting frighteningly was the lioness, her muscles tensing with each step under the tawny coat. Rider couldn’t tell if she was feeling playful or hungry, but the size of her massive jaws and paws made him relieved there was a strong fence between them.

  ‘Partnership,’ stated Conroy.

  Rider stopped in his tracks. Conroy carried on a few steps before realising he was alone.

  The lioness stopped too, lifted her black nose and looked down its length through haughty black eyes.

  ‘Fuck off!’ blurted Rider. ‘Why should I want to go into partnership with you?’ He pointed at the lioness who had settled back on her haunches to watch the discussion like a tennis umpire. ‘I’d rather climb in with her.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ began Conroy.

  ‘I’ll head back to the car, if that’s all you came to say.’

  Rider walked away, leaving Conroy open-mouthed and on the edge of anger. The lioness growled at him, emitting a sound which seemed to emanate from her belly, gathering momentum as it passed through her throat into her mouth. Conroy jumped. He stuck two fingers up at her and said, ‘You can fuck off too.’

  He stormed after the disappearing Rider. No one had walked away from him whilst he was talking in the last ten years. People listened to him. If they didn’t, they got something broken.

  By the time he caught up with Rider, he’d adopted a pleading tone of voice which held just the merest hint of threat in it. Rider knew his way of speaking well.

  ‘Look, John, I expect you’re wondering why I want a piece of action up here, by the sea.’

  ‘To peddle drugs, I imagine, which is your main source of income,’ Rider said through the side of his mouth, still walking.

  ‘John, stop and fucking listen to me!’ Conroy took hold of Rider’s arm and yanked him to a standstill. Rider halted abruptly, faced Conroy and looked dangerously down at the hand which was wrapped around his upper arm. Then he stared into Conroy’s eyes.

  The hand dropped away.

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbled Conroy. Good, Rider thought. He’s still afraid of me. ‘I want to explain something.’

  ‘You gotta minute.’

  ‘I need to expand. I own the east of this fucking county, all the way up from Blackburn to Colne. Clubs, pubs, council estates. All mine, but I need to move on. They’re poor people across there, only so much money. I’m stagnating and Blackpool has got to be the place for my next move. So what better, eh, John? You’ve got a club, and those doss-houses you run . . . let’s get back together again and make some fucking bread.’

  Rider folded his arms defensively and looked into the enclosure at which they were now standing. There was a high wall surrounding a dry moat and a circle of grass with a few trees in the middle of it. On one of the trees sat a huge, Silverback gorilla, arms folded like Rider’s.

  Rider couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘This place has great potential. Eighteen million visitors every year. Pubs, clubs ... that gay scene - those twats love the speed - no real organised stuff here, just two-bit villains with no strategic mind like me. We’ll make a fucking killing. Me and thee ... like the old days.’

  They were standing more or less shoulder to shoulder, looking at the gorilla as they talked, and he at them, as though listening.

  ‘He could be a doorman,’ Conroy laughed.

  Rider gave Conroy a sidelong squint. There was something not quite right about this but he couldn’t pin it down. ‘Ron, you’re lying about something here. I can tell when you ain’t telling the truth. Your nostrils flare when you talk.’

  ‘Eh? I am not lying, John,’ Conroy said earnestly, his nostrils flaring. Instinctively he put his hand over his nose, realised what he’d done, then self-consciously pulled it away. ‘So what about it? Me and you again?’

  Rider sighed, leaned on the outer wall of the enclosure, resting his weight on his hands.

  ‘There’s a few things,’ he said easily. ‘First I don’t like you. I don’t like your cop connections or your political ones ... they give me the creeps. I wouldn’t go into any deal with you because I don’t think I could ever trust you after the way you shafted Munrow.’

  ‘Hey, business is business, John. Not that I’m saying I did shaft him. What is important is that I never shafted you.’

  ‘Hm, maybe not - but whatever, I don’t like drugs and I won’t entertain them. It took me five years to get off the sods - and I still want to mainline, even now, stood here, and if I go in with you, I’ll slide back. I want to stay clean. And, as I said, I don’t fuckin’ believe you for some reason. You’re a sneaky bastard and you’re up to something. I can feel it in my piss. So the answer’s no. And you know me. I say something - I mean it.’

  Conroy hardened. His jaw line tensed and relaxed a few times. ‘I want in to that gaff of yours, John. Now I’ve asked you nicely. Don’t make me tell you. Nobody says no to me these days.’

  Rider stood slowly upright at this. He considered the words uttered by Conroy and their implication.

  He spoke, but did not look at Conroy because he felt that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to resist tipping the bastard over the wall in with the gorilla.

  ‘You’ve obviously forgotten who you are talking to. Don’t ever threaten me and don’t try something you’ll regret.’

  Conroy made no response.

  Rider, becoming angry, raised his eyes to the sky and said, ‘Do you understand?’

  Again nothing.

  Rider’s head swivelled. He looked at Conroy who was standing there as rigid as stone.

  Then Rider saw the reason for Conroy’s lack of acknowledgement.

  The muzzle of a gun was being pushed hard into the back of Conroy’s head, just under the point where the hair band held his pony tail. Rider, though rusty in such matters, recognised the type of gun immediately – a K frame .357 revolver, six shot, constructed of stainless steel. He was close enough to read the words Smith & Wesson stamped on the barrel. It was a type of gun he had once owned illegally, once used and once dealt in. He knew what kind of damage it was capable of inflicting on a human being.

  Rider’s eyes followed the barrel to the hand, to the arm, to the person who was holding the gun.

  He was a tall guy, youngish, dressed sportingly in a black Reebok tracksuit. He had dark, unkempt curly hair and a three-day growth on his face. Thin, gaunt, he looked as though a good meal would have killed him. His eyes were wide and watery, almost no colour in them, and
he sniffed continually. He looked high and excited.

  A couple of metres behind him stood a similarly dressed male who was no more than a teenager, dancing on the balls of his feet, agitated. He waved a semi-automatic pistol loosely in front of him, pointing in the general direction of Rider.

  Rider’s eyes locked briefly with Curly.

  ‘You finished your little speech, hard man?’ he demanded wildly of Rider. ‘Eh? Eh?’ With each ‘Eh’ he jammed the gun harder into Conroy’s skin.

  ‘Yeah, finished,’ said Rider. His eyes took in both men as he half-turned to see better.

  ‘Good, fuckin’ good,’ snorted Curly, really hyper.

  The only thing in Conroy’s favour was that these men were at the peak of a score. People like that made mistakes. They also tended to kill other people, too.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Rider said, hoping to establish a dialogue to give him time to think.

  ‘Can’t you fucking see? We’ve come to kill this cunt.’ He rammed the gun into Conroy’s head again.

  Conroy let out a little squeak.

  ‘Oh, right. I see,’ said Rider, nodding his head. He lifted both hands in an open-palmed gesture. ‘You do what you gotta do,’ he said to Curly, who he had now sussed as a rank amateur, as was his pal behind him. Professionals don’t talk, they act. If they had been pros Conroy would be splattered by now. Rider guessed this was their first direct hit and it wasn’t easy. He knew. ‘I won’t interfere. Not my business.’ To Conroy he said, ‘Sorry, pal. Nothing personal.’

  Conroy’s mouth sagged open in fear. His eyes were bursting out of their sockets. ‘You twat,’ he managed to breath.

  Rider shrugged.

  Curly’s thumb went to the spur of the hammer and pulled it slowly back.

  Rider watched it, fascinated. He saw the firing pin come into view, the cylinder rotate the next bullet into position.