Nightmare City

by Nick Oldham

  Initially he was very impressed.

  Taking witness statements was a skill most police officers, whatever the department, get good at. Luton considered himself to be above average, as was expected of a CID officer - but the statements taken by the guy Tattersall from the NWOCS he was working with were superb - packed full of detail, and reading like a story.

  Tattersall even got the witnesses to sign some blank statement forms so that there would be no need to revisit when they were eventually typed up. Not usual practice, but a time-saver.

  The statements had been taken from four witnesses who had seen the first robbery at the newsagents in Fleetwood, the one the gang had done before heading south to massacre the people in Blackpool. They were all very similar.

  In fact, the statements were so good that when he got the chance, Luton took a quick photocopy of the originals for future reference. Copying material he judged to be good quality was a habit he had acquired early in his service. He kept everything in a binder and often referred back for guidance, though as his experience grew he went back less and less and the binder was relegated to his locker.

  A couple of days into the investigation, Luton began to have vague, nagging doubts about the NWOCS.

  He raised some of the questions which Henry had posed on the night of the shooting, that fatal Saturday, because he felt they weren’t being addressed. Or he wasn’t aware of them being addressed.

  Questions such as: How did the robbers get from one shop to the other so quickly?

  It was possible they could have done it - but only if traffic was virtually non-existent on the roads.

  When he put it to them, he was fobbed off with, ‘In their fucking car, how d’you think?’

  Questions like: Why should the gang suddenly revert to murder? They were violent, yes, probably capable of murder. But killing six people? Luton was patronised.

  ‘Drugs,’ he was told. ‘We believe they were on speed.’

  Then he asked if the possibility of two separate gangs operating had been considered.

  That really got their backs up. Luton found himself shut out completely, ending up with a lame duck job doing house-to-house enquiries along the supposed route of the gang from one shop to the other. A job for uniforms.

  And he couldn’t understand why.

  He didn’t specifically link it to the nooky questions he’d been asking.

  No one said anything to him, so when he asked he was told it was to give him experience of all aspects of a murder enquiry, which he had to accept. At the back of his mind he had a nasty feeling he’d upset somebody, but didn’t know who, how or why.

  Late that Tuesday evening, three days after the shootings, Luton was alone in the murder incident room at Blackpool police station. The usual 9 p.m. debrief of the day’s activities had been done and everyone involved in the job had either gone for a drink or gone home. Moodily, Luton had stayed behind, kicking his heels, drifting aimlessly around the silent room, pissed off with proceedings.

  He was pretty sure the NWOCS had a lead on the gang and that only their officers were following it up, keeping it very much to themselves. He was annoyed that he wasn’t being allowed to do anything in that direction.

  In one of the baskets next to a HOLMES terminal, having already been inputted, was a thick stack of witness statements. They were all now neatly typed.

  Absently, he picked up the top one and glanced at it. He recognised the name of the witness as one of the people he and Tattersall had interviewed about the Fleetwood robbery. Luton’s eyes zigzagged down the page, not specifically reading it closely, until something jarred him into concentration.

  He had been present when the statement had been taken and he remembered it quite clearly. This particular witness had been very precise in his recollection of events and had given a quality statement.

  Holding the statement in two hands, Luton sat down on a typist’s chair and with a very puzzled brow, began to read it through again - very carefully this time. He hadn’t realised that he had been holding his breath until at the end he exhaled long and unsteadily.

  Then he read it again. Just to make sure.

  After that he flicked through the statement tray to see if he could find the original. It wasn’t there.

  He knew where he could find a copy.

  Leaving the typed statement on the desk next to the computer terminal, he got up and walked out of the room. He ignored the lift - too slow - and shot down the stairs three at a time until he reached the CID floor where his locker was situated.

  With a cold expression, Jim Tattersall had been watching Luton’s activities from the door of the incident room. As the young detective stood up, he twisted quickly out of sight into a darkened office, from where he saw Luton almost run to the stairs.

  When the stairs door closed, Tattersall walked swiftly into the incident room and went to the seat Luton had been using.

  He saw the typed statement on the desk.

  Tattersall’s face hardened as he realised that Derek Luton had discovered something he should not have done.

  The photocopy Luton had made of the original statement was in a binder at the bottom of his locker. He unhooked the binder and pulled it out, together with the three other statements he had witnessed being given. He hurried straight back upstairs, arriving there breathless.

  The incident room was still empty. Good.

  He crossed quickly to the desk where he’d left the statement, sat down and compared it with his photocopy of the original.

  He nearly choked. It was different! Somewhere in the translation from longhand to type it had been changed, only slight changes, but crucial ones.

  Suddenly the room seemed airless and hot. He could not believe what his eyes were telling him.

  Statements had been doctored.

  He ran a hand over his face. Once again he compared them. In the original, the time of the robbery in Fleetwood had been written as 7.10 p.m. The typed copy stated 7.01 p.m. Luton could easily have forgiven this as a typing error and maybe it was. Pretty bloody elementary, though.

  No way could the next change have been down to a mistake of fingers. It was much more fundamental, but still quite subtle.

  The original statement had been quite specific about the descriptions of the men responsible. The witness had a very clear memory of events. He had described all the men as being quite small, about five foot six to five foot eight. And though they had all worn masks, he described their hair colours and even guessed at possible ages - seventeen to twenty-three. All young men.

  The typed statement changed this to: ‘They were all of medium height’ - and the individual descriptions of the men had been amended too, making them much more general than specific. The age range had also been changed: ‘anything from seventeen to thirty-seven’.

  One of the men had spoken during the raid and the witness had described his voice as ‘gruff, with a local accent, and I would probably recognise it again.’ The typed statement read, ‘He had a Lancashire accent and I probably wouldn’t recognise it again.’

  The changes meant that the men could have been anyone of a quarter of a million males in the north-west of England and were evidentially worthless.

  Another slight but significant change was the time that it took to rob the place - reduced from four minutes to two. This meant that the men had left the premises at the new time of 7.03 p.m., giving them ample time to make it to the newsagents in Blackpool ... if, in fact, the men who had robbed the shop in Fleetwood were the same ones responsible for that subsequent, appalling crime.

  Luton sat back and allowed his head to flop backwards so he was staring at the ceiling.

  What was going on here? he asked himself. What did all this mean? Had other statements been changed too?

  ‘DC Luton, isn’t it?’

  Luton sat bolt upright and spun round on the chair.

  ‘Oh, hello, sir.’

  It was Tony Morton, Head of the NWOCS, and Jim Tattersal
l.

  ‘Working late? I won’t be approving the overtime,’ Morton said with a short laugh. There was no humour behind it. He and Tattersall were standing at the door. Luton panicked inside as he wondered how long they’d been there watching him.

  They walked towards Luton who, easy as he could, rotated back to face the desk. He picked up the typed statement and dropped it casually back into the basket, then rolled up his photocopies with shaking hands.

  ‘So ... what’re you up to?’

  Luton faced them again. A wave of intimidation gushed through him. Like nausea.

  ‘Uh - nothing,’ he stammered. ‘Just having a read of a few statements. Seeing where we’re up to . . .’ His throat was arid, constricted, but he could I not understand why. He felt as if he’d been caught doing something naughty, yet here was the perfect opportunity to tell Morton - in the presence of Tattersall - exactly what he’d found: someone had been tampering with witness statements. It was his duty to do so.

  Fuck that, he thought. These two looked like they were in this together.

  ‘We have statement readers for that sort of thing,’ announced Morton.

  Tattersall loomed silently and menacingly behind him.

  ‘Yes, I know, sir. Just interested, that’s all.’ He tried to slip the rolled-up photocopies smoothly into the inside pocket of his jacket. Actually there was nothing smooth about the way he did it because his nerves got the better of him. For a start, there were about a dozen sheets of A4-size paper, not specifically designed to fit into inner jacket pockets, especially when there is a wallet, diary and two pens in there already. Basically the statements did not fit, but he made them go in by crushing them up and forcing them. The result was a huge bulge like a rugby ball in his pocket.

  ‘What’ve you got there?’ Morton asked.

  Luton stood up. ‘Nothing, sir. Just some of my notes. If you’ll excuse me.’

  He made to walk past Morton who held out a hand, placed it across Luton’s chest and prevented him walking away. Luton thought for one horrible moment he was going to reach into the pocket and grab the statements.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ he asked, eyebrows raised. Luton nodded dumbly. ‘Any problems, you can come to me with them.’ He looked Luton squarely in the eyes and Luton was certain Morton must be able to feel the beating of his heart; the organ was thrashing around in his chest like a crazy man locked in a cell.

  ‘No, no problems,’ croaked Luton.

  Morton removed his hand. Luton said good night, sidestepped Morton and Tattersall and walked coolly to the door, where he then bolted.

  He hit the stairs, he calculated, at somewhere approaching 100 m.p.h. and threw himself down them like a pin-ball. Within moments he had descended to the level of the CID office - which was as deserted as the incident room had been.

  He needed to see his role model. But his role model wasn’t there.

  ‘Henry, where the shite are you when I need you?’ he chunnered under his breath. He went to Henry’s desk, picked up the phone and dialled Comms. No, they had no idea where the Acting DI was. He dialled Henry’s home number. Kate answered.

  ‘Kate, sorry to bother you. Is Henry there, it’s Derek Luton here.’

  ‘No, he’s not back yet,’ said Kate. ‘Are you all right, Derek? You sound a bit strained.’

  ‘Absolutely fine. Just breathless from the stairs,’ he said oddly.

  ‘You want to leave a message or anything?’

  ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll catch up with him later,’ he said in what he vainly hoped was a more controlled voice. ‘Bye.’ He hung up.

  ‘What to do, what to do,’ he said to himself whilst he danced on the spot like someone on hot coals, opening and closing his fists. Then: ‘Get a grip, you knob,’ he remonstrated. He quickly scribbled a note for Henry on a yellow post-it and stuck it prominently in the middle of the desk blotter, as opposed to around the edge where the rest of them were stuck like flags. He hoped Henry would see it straight away.

  In the back yard of the police station it was brass monkeys. After these past few pleasant days, the January nights had turned harsh and bitter. Luton strode out of the ground-floor rear entrance and headed towards his car at something approaching a jog, all the while looking over his shoulder, but feeling completely stupid for doing so.

  He got to his car in one piece. Stop overreacting, dickhead, he told himself. Why should anyone want to do anything to you? Complete crap.

  However, when he was in the driver’s seat, he made damn sure all the doors were locked before starting the engine.

  Instinct was telling him two things.

  One - you’ve just uncovered something very smelly indeed. And two - watch your back, pal.

  When Luton had gone from the room, Morton walked over to where he’d been sitting and picked up the top statement from the file.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘What the hell is this doing here, for everyone to see?’ He looked hard at Tattersall.

  ‘I came back to put them away,’ he replied. ‘That’s when I found him.’

  Morton’s nostrils flared angrily. ‘We cannot afford to take chances,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘D’you think he’s sussed it?’

  ‘He’s sharp. Think about all those questions he’s been asking. I’d say yes, he’s sussed it.’

  After a thoughtful pause, Morton spoke. ‘As I said, we can’t take any chances.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  Luton did not have to wake up to check the clock. He was already awake and knew it was 2 a.m.

  Annie, his wife of six months, had been asleep; not as deeply as usual. His tossing and turning and sweating meant she could not get comfortable. It was like sleeping with a restless dog.

  ‘What time is it?’ she groaned groggily.

  Luton told her.

  There was another knock on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Dunno.’ He slid out of bed, covering his nakedness with a dressing gown.

  He went to the bedroom window and peered out, shading his eyes with his hands like goggles. The weather had really turned and sleet was blasting down the avenue on an icy wind. Luton could make out the dark shape of a man at the front door, huddled up against the elements. He couldn’t see who it was. ‘Might be Henry,’ he said. ‘I left him a note to contact me.’

  Annie turned over and disappeared underneath the quilt. ‘Well, tell him to get stuffed,’ she murmured. Seconds later she was back in the land of snooze.

  Luton let the curtain fall back into place. He slid his feet into his moccasin slippers and went downstairs. The front door was solid with just one pane of mottled glass in it. He pushed his face up to it, peering out, flattening his nose. ‘Henry?’ he called.

  Luton could not identify the person properly but when there came a muffled, ‘Yeah,’ in reply he breathed out in relief. Despite the time, Luton was pleased Henry had turned up. There were some burning issues to discuss.

  He slid the chain off, pulled back the two bolts, unlocked the mortise and opened the door. A strong gust of Arctic cold wind whipped in around his bare legs and gripped his testicles.

  The figure outside had his back to Luton, standing in shadow.

  ‘Henry?’

  The figure turned. Luton recognised the face immediately and registered the gun in the man’s right hand. It had a bulbous silencer on it.

  A hushed Thk! hardly made an inroad into the sounds of the night. The bullet drove into Luton’s forehead, spun like a missile through his brain and exited out of the back of his skull.

  He was dead. Standing, but dead.

  His legs buckled like a sucker-punched boxer. They collapsed under him and he toppled over, blood gushing in a torrent all over the hallway.

  Just to make sure, the man leaned forwards, placed the gun at Luton’s temple and put two more in because it was surprising how some people lived if you didn’t make certain.

  Annie woke for some reason, not quite sur
e why. She shivered. It was ever so cold in the bedroom. Her arm, which had been out of the quilt, was like a block of ice.

  She rolled over, pulling the cover over her head, and reached out for her husband - who was not there.

  Startled by this, she came fully awake and opened her eyes. It was still dark. She focused on the digital clock-face on the bedside cabinet. 6.20. God, it was so cold. And where was he? What was Derek doing up at this time of day?

  Somewhere in the recess of her mind she recalled the two o’clock knock on the door.

  Four hours ago. Surely Henry had gone home!

  She climbed out of bed and hastily grabbed her fluffy dressing gown and bunny-rabbit slippers.

  It was bloody freezing on the landing. Real penguin temperatures. A gale was blowing, as if the front door was open. She switched the landing and hall lights on.

  She’d almost reached the foot of the stairs before she realised what she was looking at, lying in a lake of congealed blood and half-covered in wet slush.

  She sank to her knees, her hands covering the silent scream.

  She was unable to do anything, but stare.

  Then she found her voice and started an unworldly, inhuman wail of horror.

  Chapter Eleven

  The three men met at an exclusive golf and country club set in the high, lovely countryside between Blackburn and Bolton. This was where all their meetings took place. The club was owned by one of the men and the other two held small, but profitable stakes.

  The owner made the arrangements for the meetings with the management of the club (which was scrupulously operated) to ensure they would not be disturbed for at least two hours while they used the pool and the sauna. It was a good atmosphere in which the men could relax and unwind and discuss business matters.

  The meetings usually concluded in the same way: girls were brought in for two of them, and a young man for the third.

  They always arrived and departed separately, at least twenty minutes apart.