Nightmare City

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Is the NWOCS linked to that one in some way?’ asked a mystified FB.

  Henry gave a short laugh. ‘Not unless Boris was working undercover for them, too.’

  ‘But other than Tony Morton’s crew, there’s really no connection – so far.’

  ‘So far, no. Even the NWOCS’s connection is clutching at straws. There’s nothing to say that all three got shot because of their dealings with it. It just happens to be there, that’s all.’

  The lift rose to a creaky halt. They got out and walked into the CID office which was abuzz with activity, subdued chatter and some tears. Luton would be sorely missed. His enthusiasm had been infectious.

  They walked to Henry’s desk. He perched on the corner of it whilst he continued his conversation with FB.

  ‘If we could make some connection it would be great, because then it would give us something to chip away at. But at the moment, they are three completely separate jobs. The DS in the newsagents, whatever the reason for him being there - and I’m sure it’ll come out in the wash – was in the wrong place at the wrong time; Nina got shot because she was being a good cop and shit like that happens occasionally, comes with the territory. . . but as for Derek, I am completely stumped, boss. Maybe it was a burglary gone wrong, or one of his previous prisoners bearing a grudge against him. Maybe mistaken identity. Dunno. We’ll have to look at all angles.’

  He shook his head sadly. A wall of tears was building up inside behind his eyes when he thought of the wretched figure of Degsy Luton sprawled out in his hallway, head blown apart, brains, blood and bones on the carpet and up the wallpaper, all the way down into the kitchen. Grotesque and so very, very wrong.

  ‘Basically no leads,’ said FB.

  ‘No.’ Henry’s mouth twisted bitterly. ‘And as for Boris, I haven’t even started on that one. That’s gone well-cold. Fuck!’ he said angrily. ‘Anyway, perhaps when Annie comes down from her trauma she might be able to help - with Degsy, that is, not Boris.’

  ‘Right,’ said FB. He drummed his fingers on his thighs. He tapped his feet, bit his bottom lip and made a clicking sound in the back of his throat. FB’s decision-making process was in action. ‘Couple of things. Firstly, how far are you with Dundaven?’

  ‘He should have been in Magistrates by now and remanded in custody. Nothing came of the raids, really. I personally think there’s a long way to go with it yet - but as far as Dundaven himself is concerned, it’s boxed off. He won’t see daylight except through bars for a long time now.’

  ‘Do you want to continue with it? Will it be worth it?’

  Henry nodded. Actually he didn’t have a clue if anything more would come of it, but he wasn’t about to admit that to FB. ‘I’d like to keep four detectives on it for a month and then reappraise it.’

  FB considered this. Then, ‘You can use two.’

  Thanks a bunch, Henry wanted to say. ‘And Derek?’

  ‘Full team from this afternoon, unlimited overtime - within reason for up to two months. Authorised by the Chief.’

  Wow! Henry almost choked, so impressed was he. Then he remembered the implications so far as he was concerned. Because Inspectors did not receive overtime payments, he would earn nothing extra financially, but experience all the other drawbacks. Long hours. No sleep. So what else was new?

  However, he held back the urge to grovel in front of FB and plead to be dropped down a rank. He had to look on the positive side of things. It was all good promotion-board material. Juggling three plates at once, having the responsibility to keep them spinning. He hoped he had the ability to stop them from crashing around his ears. ‘Oh, jolly good,’ he said.

  FB lowered his voice and moved slightly closer to Henry. ‘There is something else we need to discuss, and that’s the other murder - the prostitute on the beach.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Henry guardedly. He had been expecting some repercussions, but even so he could not resist making one of those remarks which so often put him firmly in the bad books of his bosses. Mischievously he threw FB’s quote back in his face. ‘You mean the one who deserved what she got?’

  The look on FB’s face told Henry he’d hit a bum note. FB’s eyes narrowed and he said, equally mischievously, ‘Just remember one thing, Henry, if you go for promotion this year, I’ll be on the other side of the desk, so don’t be so fucking cheeky.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Henry knew what side his bread was buttered on. ‘So, what about her?’

  ‘Two things. Firstly, because of Derek’s murder I’m going to scale her enquiry down.’

  There’s nothing to scale down, Henry thought. He made no reply but his body language told FB exactly what he thought of that one.

  ‘Henry, you and I both know we haven’t got a million detectives to play with. It’s a question of priorities and she’s way down on the list.’

  She’ll be glad to hear that, Henry thought, but kept his mouth closed again. He stopped his foot tapping which betrayed his annoyance.

  ‘Secondly, we’ve had a very irate ex-MP on the blower to Headquarters, shouting and bawling, demanding to speak to the Chief. . . no, she didn’t. . . threatening to sue the living shit out of us. He actually got to speak to the ACC, Brian Warner, and told him you’d been harassing him, making false claims, suggesting he was the one who murdered the girl.’

  ‘Never actually got to that stage.’

  ‘Even so, that ex-Mp, and you know who I mean, is one very powerful and influential person with friends in very high places. He needs careful handling.’

  Henry cut in angrily. ‘I won’t compromise the search for a killer just so I don’t upset some rich bastard who chums around with the great and the good.’ He folded his arms haughtily.

  ‘Henry,’ said FB patiently, ‘I’m not saying you should. Just watch him, that’s all. Do everything by the book. Record everything. Justify everything. Watch your back, in other words - that is, if you’re going to have any further dealings with him.’

  ‘I will have,’ said Henry. He had made that decision because of what FB had just told him. It particularly annoyed him when people like McNamara started throwing their weight around after being justifiably and reasonably dealt with by the police. ‘In fact, I’m going to arrest him on suspicion of murder now because he’s really got my “mad” up.’

  FB groaned inwardly. ‘C’mon, let’s grab a brew.’

  Henry stood up, brushed his rumpled clothing down. He needed a shower and a change. His underpants were notably uncomfortable.

  Without bothering to check his desk he followed FB towards the lift. A typist walking the other way then dumped a bundle of newly typed reports and files onto his blotter; on top of that the Admin Officer placed the remainder of the day’s other correspondence.

  The meeting concluded at 1.15 p.m., no Minutes having been taken, but certain agreements having been made. All three men were ready for their treats which were waiting in the reception foyer of the club. A fifteen year-old boy - thin, wan and pathetic-looking - for Conroy; women for the other two. High-class hookers who were going to cost a lot of money.

  Shadowed by the gunmen, the three wandered into Reception, their conversation much lighter and more relaxed than it had been. They talked about football and cars.

  A man approached them.

  Conroy’s guards stepped in between. Their hands slipped inside their jackets, a simple gesture which carried a menacing message. They didn’t seem to realise that had the man been a professional, they would all have been well dead by then.

  But he wasn’t.

  His name was Saltash and he was a pimp. He preferred to be referred to as a ‘procurer’. His business card stated I Procure the Needs of People on one side and Procurer to the Professionals on the other.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Conroy said quickly, calming his jumpy bodyguards. His men became easy and drew aside. ‘What’ve you got for us today, Saltash, you slime-ball?’

  Like an over-attentive, smarmy waiter, Saltash bowed courteously and led t
hem to his ‘products’ - another misnomer he liked to use.

  ‘For you,’ he said to Conroy. He indicated the young lad with the flourish of a magician. ‘This is Gary. . . Gary, stand up.’ Gary stood. He had a very spotty complexion and wore a sneer of contempt for Conroy. ‘Meet Mr Conroy.’

  Conroy smiled. He liked them to have a bit of spunk about them (his little joke).

  Saltash continued, ‘For you, Mr Morton, I’ve brought along Angela again - I know you like her and she adores you. Angela!’ Saltash motioned with his thumb.

  Angela rose. Tall, leggy, dark, mysterious. Aged somewhere between twenty-four and thirty-six. She was virtually lovely, but slightly raggy around the edges. She had a deep, grainy voice with a southern accent which made Morton’s hair tingle. And she spoke dirty, especially when drawing breath during oral sex. Morton adored her. She thought he was a fool.

  She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘Baby ... we need to fuck,’ she whispered.

  ‘And for you, Mr McNamara . . . Gillian.’ Gillian was already on her feet. She was as tall as Angela but had much more of everything and she was black. She shook hands with McNamara whose face had already hardened into a cruel mask of lust.

  Saltash’s experienced eyes saw that all was OK.

  ‘Usual prices?’ Conroy asked. This was always his treat.

  The procurer nodded.

  ‘Usual services?’

  Another nod of consent.

  Conroy handed him an envelope. It was always a cash transaction. He looked at Gary who stood there looking bolshie. ‘Get up those fucking stairs,’ he hissed.

  The defiant front wilted to one of passivity and acquiescence. Like a frightened dog, the boy did as he was told.

  The other two men led their ladies upstairs.

  As ever, three rooms had been put aside for their pleasure.

  Saltash went into the restaurant and ordered a three-course meal with wine.

  He thought he had a wonderful job.

  The Duty Inspector hated what he was doing, taking a statement of complaint from a youth he knew to be a troublemaker, drug user and thief, with a string of convictions as long as a wet day in Fleetwood. It as a good test of the Inspector’s interpersonal skills that he didn’t get up, go round the table and complete the job Henry Christie had started a few days before, and rip Shane’s one remaining testicle from its moorings.

  ‘I shall pass these details onto the relevant people,’ he explained to Shane at the conclusion. ‘I shall tell our Scenes of Crime Department to come and visit you later today to get a photograph of your ... um ... operation scar and you will hear very shortly from the Discipline and Complaints Department, I expect.’

  The Inspector then bit his lip as he handed Shane a leaflet about how to complain against the police and how complaints are subsequently investigated. He showed him out of the police station - together with his legal adviser - as though he was a valued customer who would receive the most favourable attention. Please do call again.

  What riled the Inspector was that was exactly how the D & C Department would perceive Shane: a client.

  It made him sick to his stomach.

  But, that said, Henry had obviously gone too far.

  All the enthusiasm had drained out of Henry when, twenty minutes after having been told - informally - of Shane’s complaint against him, he sat down heavily at his desk. On top of everything else he was dealing with, the news had rocked him like a body blow.

  He felt deflated and threatened.

  The horrible spectre of a Crown Court appearance loomed ahead, with all its attendant publicity. As he sat there, head in hands, he decided that if he did end up facing a judge and jury, there were only two words he would say: ‘Not Guilty.’

  All he wanted to do was sit and cry, he was so depressed. The workload, long hours and lack of sleep over the last few days had taken their toll; today’s additional weights - the violent death of Derek Luton, news that McNamara was making noises in high places, and the complaint from Mulcahy - were not far off being the last straw. The one that broke the detective’s back.

  ‘Right,’ he said to himself. ‘Let’s get this into perspective.’

  Firstly, a court appearance was the worst thing that could possibly happen. Most complaints filed against the police fizzled out and came to nothing. This one could be the same. Henry believed he had used ‘reasonable force’ in order to subdue Shane who had, after all, attacked him with a knife. It was more than likely that when the file of evidence was submitted it would come back with No Further Action Recommended. It was his word against Shane’s. The only thing going against Henry was his stupidity in not filling in the custody record.

  Secondly, McNamara did not intimidate him. In fact, Henry relished the prospect of taking on people in high places.

  Thirdly, Degsy’s killer had to be found and a Detective Inspector with his mind on other matters would not achieve this.

  And fourthly, long hours and hard work killed no one. Or so it was said.

  ‘Right,’ he said again. ‘Get a grip and deal with everything as it happens.’

  However, it was with slothful reluctance that he took the top piece of paper from the pile on his desk and read it. Correspondence waits for no man. Failure to deal with it simply means more. It doesn’t stop coming just because there are other things to do.

  He began to deal.

  The procurer drove his three products back to Blackburn later that afternoon. He delivered them to various locations. Gary asked to be dropped off near to the railway station. Angel was left outside a motel on the edge of town where Saltash had another client waiting for her. Gillian wanted to be taken home.

  The whole journey had been unusually quiet. Normally the two girls were full of laughter and mischief whilst Gary, for his age, had a very inventive sense of humour. Today was different. They were all withdrawn, sullen and somewhat tense. Saltash was quite happy that there was no chatter. He was over two thousand pounds to the good - tax-free, of course - and each of his products had pocketed two-fifty plus whatever tips they had been given. That was their business.

  Gillian was the last of the three to be dropped off. She had seemed unusually distracted; it was her mood that had rubbed off on the others.

  Saltash stopped near to her council flat in Shadsworth on the outskirts of town.

  ‘Here we go,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ll pick you up here at ten tomorrow. Busy day, lots of dosh to earn.’

  She was sitting in one corner of the back seat, her long legs drawn up underneath her, coat tucked in, staring blankly out of the window. The snow in Blackburn had turned into wet, sleety rain. Very unpleasant.

  ‘Come on, Gillian, I want to get home,’ he snapped when she did not get out straight away. He twisted round and cast his eyes back at her. Slowly her head turned away from the window and she looked into her pimp’s eyes.

  ‘He was Marie’s main customer, wasn’t he?’ She wrung her hands.

  Saltash’s eyes dropped momentarily. ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘He killed her, didn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anyone could’ve killed the silly bitch. She was wild and stupid and probably got her come-uppence. But I’ll tell you one thing, Gillian; if you go mouthing off what you’ve just said to me, I’ll kill you. Understand?’ He licked his lips.

  A tear rolled down her cheeks. ‘He degraded me today,’ she said with a choked sob. ‘And he talked about Marie when he did.’

  ‘Listen, you brainless tart, you degrade yourself every fucking day by what you do. Hasn’t that sunk in yet? You make good money pandering to the whims of pathetic, rich men, so don’t knock it, babe. In five years you’ll have enough to pack it in - but if you want to go now and work for tuppence ha’penny at a supermarket check out, then fine, fuck off and do it. But don’t moan to me because a customer’s a bit kinky. Goes with the show, girl.’ He pointed animatedly at her as he spoke.

  ‘And Marie?
Does that go-with the show? Ending up dead on a beach?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said cruelly.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to protect us?’ she cried.

  He had no answer.

  ‘Oh fuck you!’ she yelled into his face, opened the car door and emerged into the sleet.

  Walking across the pavement she could still feel the sore places on her ankles and wrists where he’d tied the ropes to pin her to the bed. That she could handle. Many did that. It gave them a sense of dominance. What she found impossible to deal with was the cold knife-blade which McNamara had touched against the lips of her vagina and threatened to ram in.

  Just like he’d done with that other poor bitch.

  The phone rang. Henry grabbed it, delighted by the distraction.

  ‘Henry, you old son of a b,’ came the ebullient American accent down the line.

  He brightened up immediately. ‘Karl, how ya doin’?

  ‘Nice-ish,’ said the FBI agent. ‘I guess you heard about Sam.’

  ‘Karen phoned Kate the other night and mentioned it. Sorry to hear about it. She was a nice person.’ Henry had met her the once on that weekend trip to the Lake District.

  ‘Murdered.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. Can’t prove it, but I’ll try. You know me.’

  ‘Certainly do. Anyway, pal, business or pleasure?’

  ‘Well, it’s always a pleasure to do business with you, Henry,’ the American said genuinely.

  ‘Karl ... you’re making me blush. Now cut the crap.’

  ‘OK. Been reading a routine circulation of yours re the seizure of some firearms after a shooting up on your manor. . . manor - is that the right phrase, bud?’