by Nick Oldham
Conroy strove hard to keep it one of the best clubs in the north. It was the only one he ever visited. He often paid celebs to frequent it and give it the necessary credibility. You could almost guarantee to see somebody well-known, whatever night of the week. The off-chance of dancing on the same floor as a pop star or a five-million-pound footballer probably drew in an extra two hundred bodies a week.
It was a perfect target for Munrow to make his point.
From the car park they made their way in a businesslike manner to the front of the club. Staves and bats were secreted up sleeves or down trouser legs. Shotguns were held firmly under jackets.
The balaclavas went on at the last moment. Within seconds they had pole-axed the doormen and entered the club.
They rampaged through the place like a pack of wild dogs. Indiscriminately hitting innocent people, smashing tables and destroying the disco console.
Munrow made his final point by having two of the bouncers dragged onto the dance floor and laid face down.
In full view of all the customers, many of whom were drugged up to the eyeballs, he placed his shotgun in the soft flesh at the back of the left knee of one of the bouncers and pulled the trigger. He did the same to the other.
Munrow and his business associates then fled.
And not one witness, out of a total of four hundred and ten people, saw a thing.
Funny, that.
Chapter Fourteen
The avenue was wide, tree-lined and very pleasant. Extremely middle-class. On either side of the road was a grass verge which was covered with a coating of pure white fluffy snow. Behind the grass verges ran wide footpaths, behind which were the garden walls which fronted the houses. They were all detached, five- or six-bedroomed affairs with driveways which had an entrance and an exit. Set back at the rear of the houses were double garages the size of small bungalows. The gardens were all lawns and landscaping. Stockbrokers and solicitors abounded here, a good place for them to live, not far from Manchester and the towns of central Lancashire. They had their own little railway station nearby that made commuting a doddle.
Rider looked at his watch. 7 a.m. A couple of minutes before, a milkman had trundled down the avenue in one of those electrified carts, in and out of the driveways, and now the place was quiet again.
It was very dark. A real winter’s morning. It would probably be ten before the night was completely shrugged off.
The dull ache in Rider’s body became more than uncomfortable. He changed his position slightly for the hundredth time, yawned again, long and weary. It had been a long night.
He shivered and hoped it wasn’t to be an unproductive one. Otherwise he’d have to revisit a certain transvestite and drown him/her in a toilet.
Rider was sitting in the front passenger seat of a tatty Ford Transit van parked up on the avenue, underneath the overhang of some roadside trees. The van was totally out of place, exposed. Rider knew it would only take one phone call from an early-rising public-spirited resident to bring the cops sniffing around. He was living on borrowed time and the later it got, the less he had.
With increasing restlessness he was observing the front of one of the houses about a hundred metres away.
It was fucking freezing and though the engine was ticking over like there were lumps of lead in the petrol, the pathetic heater was only gasping out lukewarm air. He wasn’t dressed for the cold, only wearing his nightclub gear of thin suit and tie.
Efficient as ever, Jacko, sitting in the driver’s seat, was appropriately dressed for the winter weather in a duffel coat, thick socks, boots and cord pants. His gloved hands were resting on the steering wheel. He constantly had to wipe the screen with the back of his hand to see through the thin veil of frost which was forming relentlessly on the inside of the glass as their breath froze.
Jacko looked glum and unhappy. He did not want to be here. He desperately hoped nothing would happen.
‘You should get a decent van,’ Rider complained. ‘I’m freezing my balls off sat here.’
‘It is a decent van,’ Jacko replied stonily. ‘Is he gonna come or what?’
‘Yes.’ There was more certainty in Rider’s voice than he felt.
‘Then what?’
‘Leave it to me. My problem.’
‘I don’t like this one little bit, John,’ the other said nervously. ‘Why get involved? I know you got battered, but this is a dangerous world - and I really don’t want anything to do with it.’
‘I know. You won’t be involved. Trust me.’
Jacko gave him a contemptuous glare from the corner of his eyes.
Rider was experiencing some guilt in roping the barman in, but he had no one else to turn to other than Isa, and she wouldn’t be much use in a situation like this. ‘I appreciate what you’re doing.’
The barman merely snorted, giving the impression he wasn’t remotely taken in by Rider’s words. He wiped the window again.
A vehicle turned into the other end of the avenue, lights blazing. It came towards the Transit. Rider got ready. But it was only the gritting lorry thundering past, showering the Transit with road salt.
‘At least there’s nothing left to rot,’ Rider said dryly.
‘One more remark about this van and we’re going,’ Jacko snapped. He meant it. ‘You could’ve used your Jag.’
‘And he might’ve recognised it . . . Hang on.’
Another vehicle turned into the avenue from the same direction, travelling slowly. A car. Instinctively Rider touched Jacko’s arm. They both sank down.
This car turned into the driveway of the house they were watching and pulled up outside the front door. The security lights clicked on and bathed the whole front garden with white light. The car lights were switched off. A man got out, went up the steps to the door and pressed the bell.
Rider’s throat constricted.
‘Is it him?’ Jacko hissed.
Rider couldn’t say for sure. He was three hundred feet away and he could hardly see sod-all through the iced-up screen.
The upstairs house lights came on. Seconds later the front door opened.
The man stepped inside, the door closed.
‘Well?’ Jacko demanded.
Rider shook his head. ‘I’ll take a chance.’ He reached under the front seat and pulled out the revolver he had confiscated at the zoo. He held it up ominously, feeling a charge of adrenalin zip through him. His hand shook ever so slightly. Fear? Excitement? ‘Give me fifteen minutes and if I haven’t reappeared, call the cops, emergency or something. Use your imagination, ‘cos it’s likely one or both of us’ll be dead.’
He jumped out of the van without looking at Jacko and trotted towards the house, making the first footprints of the day in the snow.
Henry Christie’s two daughters - Jenny, fifteen and Leanne, nine - were both at an age when privacy meant a great deal to them. They had a room each and were very protective of their environments. They hated adults in their rooms, full stop.
Both were also acutely aware of their developing bodies, Jenny more so than Leanne, obviously. Should their dad, by accident, see anything more than he should, or even see their underwear in the washing basket, there would be screams of embarrassment. Usually from him.
His privacy and body, however, were fair game for them.
And at the same time as John Rider stepped out of the van that morning,
Henry was thinking how unjust the world was when he couldn’t even have a crap in peace.
He had settled himself, quite naked, on the toilet in the en-suite adjoining his and Kate’s bedroom. He straightened out that morning’s Daily Mail and looked forwards to ten minutes of bliss. He hadn’t even had the time to digest the sports headlines when Leanne burst in without knocking, tearing into the littlest room like a chattering whirlwind in jimjams, frightening the shit out of her father. He quickly covered his private parts with the newspaper. Leanne, seemingly oblivious to his predicament, commenced to show him some drawings she�
��d done at school the day before.
‘Mmm, yeah, lovely. Nice - that’s a good one,’ Henry said, trying to appear enthusiastic. A trapped critic. At that point he was having a few problems holding back his natural bodily functions.
Then his eldest daughter, Jenny, appeared. ‘Hi, Dad,’ she said brightly. She came in and helped herself to a towel and a bottle of shampoo. On her way out she looked at him critically. He squirmed and coloured up. ‘You’ve put some weight on,’ she said and legged it with a giggle.
Leanne revealed another drawing which resembled ... nothing. She explained it was someone riding the ‘Big One’. With that Henry could appreciate where she was coming from.
‘Ahh, yeah, great. . . Look, honey,’ he said tenderly, ‘your Daddy needs to have the loo to himself for a moment or two, so go and get ready for brekkie, will you?’
She sighed heavily and collected her masterpieces which she’d scattered all over the floor. She left, closing the door behind her.
‘Mercy,’ Henry said. He lifted the newspaper and Kate came in with one of her ‘faces’.
Henry closed his eyes momentarily.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she warned him. ‘Are you seriously going to try and get on this squad?’ It was the continuation of a discussion-cum-argument they’d begun when Henry came in from work the night before. Kate was obviously going to pursue this to the bitter end. ‘Seems a bloody dangerous job to me. Everyone who has anything to do with it ends up dead.’
‘Coincidence. No connection - and an exaggeration.’
‘But why d’you want to go on it?’ She crossed to the shower and turned it on. ‘I thought you wanted to be a DI? Surely it’ll put your promotion chances on the back burner?’
‘Probably. But it’s such a good opportunity, Kate. It’s got a cracking reputation, the work’s real interesting and very focused ... and there’s nothing set in stone that I’ll get on anyway. They’ll have to advertise the vacancy, so other people will be able to apply and everyone’ll go through the rigmarole of interviews. You know I’m crap at being interviewed. My bottle goes.’
Kate unfastened her dressing gown and shrugged it off. Henry could not keep his eyes off her as she tested the shower temperature and adjusted the control minutely. Even after all these years and two children, he loved the sight of her body minus clothing. Recently she’d been on a pretty ruthless exercise and diet regimen which had shed pounds and toned her muscles up just enough to - well, just enough. He glanced down at his own tummy and breathed in, slightly ashamed of himself. He was in good health, but didn’t have the strength of character to stop eating things which were bad for him, and go to a gym. The result was showing around his midriff. Jenny had been right in her cheeky observation.
Kate stood and faced him with a sad look in her eyes. She was completely unaware of her nakedness and his position on the loo.
‘I don’t want you to go back on a specialised squad.’
‘There’s no guarantee I’ll get promoted to Inspector. I think I should go for it. They approached me.’
‘It’s not the Inspector thing. It’s the hours, days, weeks. You know what it was like when you were on Regional Crime Squad. I never knew when you were coming home next. I didn’t like it and neither did the girls.’
‘I work long hours now,’ he protested.
‘Yes, but at least you come home every day and you only work ten minutes away. It’s different. You’re not chasing all over the country, or Europe. It feels good having you close by, even if you work until midnight. And you virtually run that office, don’t you?’ she said, changing tack slightly. ‘Surely that’ll count towards promotion?’
‘Don’t bank on it. Once you get into that interview room, everyone’s on a level playing-field.’ He paused and gave her a pleading look. Big eyes. Fluttering lids. ‘Look, I really fancy this job, Kate. It’s the chance of a lifetime. It’s like dead men’s Doc Martens.’
‘Literally,’ she commented gloomily.
‘And as I said, I’m not guaranteed it.’
‘Well, you know how I feel about it. We’ve only just got everything back to normal around here and now you want to rock the boat. . .’ She shrugged. Her small breasts quivered with the gesture. She turned her back on him, stepped into the shower and slid back the curtain.
So that was really her hidden agenda. It wasn’t so much the long hours away from home, it was the temptation that went with them.
She had a point, of course. Life at home had been incredibly good recently, following the ‘blip’ caused by Henry’s stupidity and rampant sexual urges almost two years ago. Kate had truly forgiven him and for that he was extremely grateful to her. He loved Kate like mad and didn’t want to lose her. But the guilt he carried about betraying her was always just under the surface and now, sitting on the bog, he realised for the first time that she too always had something at the back of her mind.
Something called mistrust.
She was obviously worried, but did not want to spell it out. Henry sensed that she equated specialist squad with adultery. All those hours and weeks she’d talked about meant temptation. Away from home. Strange places. Even stranger women, particularly the detectives.
He understood Kate’s concerns, but was sure it would never happen again. His libido was in check.
And he seriously wanted to get on the Organised Crime Squad. It was right up his alley, the type of work he excelled in. Chasing and convicting good-class criminals.
Feeling unable now to concentrate either on the Mail or his bodily functions, he got off the loo and went into the bedroom to get dressed.
Rider edged around the perimeter of the garden, aware that his flimsy shoes were no barrier against the wet. He stayed far enough away from the house so as not to activate the security lighting which was fitted all the way around. He was trying to establish which of the bedrooms they were going into before he moved in and tried to gain entry.
The lights in a ground-floor room at the rear of the house came on. Rider assumed it was the kitchen, but the blinds were drawn. He could see the shadow of some movement but not enough to tell him anything. Then the lights came on in another room and through the patio doors Rider could clearly see into a lounge.
A man and a woman came into view.
The man was Munrow.
Rider did not know the woman, but from the brief conversation he had initiated with Toni Thomas, he had learned that she was a volunteer prison visitor and her husband was working in Saudi. Apparently she and Munrow had struck up a relationship in prison and it had spilled into the outside world.
She obviously liked a bit of rough.
Rider settled onto his haunches in the shadow of the back fence. Munrow and the woman - Rider could see she was good-looking - stood side by side at the patio door and looked across the garden in his direction, or so it seemed to him. They each held a glass and were talking. She wore a dressing gown. Munrow was in a black windcheater and black jeans.
From his observation point, Rider appraised him.
He looked as fit and as hard as ever.
Once again, after having chosen a course of action, Rider wavered. In his condition, even if he hadn’t been beaten up, he’d be no match for Munrow in a head to head. Rider had to physically stop himself from making his way back to Jacko and saying, ‘Fuck it, we’re going home.’
But he knew deep down in his soul that if he didn’t take positive action now in a way which Munrow understood, he’d never be able to shake the bastard off his back. Ever. Munrow would walk all over him again and again. That was the sort of person he was.
If he dealt firmly with Munrow now, it would also send a strong message to Conroy to keep away.
The woman put her drink down and opened the patio door. She stepped outside with only slippers on her feet. The security light came on, illuminating the whole of the back garden. Rider hunched further down into the shadows.
In the snow she tiptoed to the bird-table and che
cked to see if there was any food on it. A moment later she was back in the house, patio door closed, and in Munrow’s arms.
They attacked each other with a passion, kissing wildly, necking, tearing at clothing. She didn’t have very much to remove and within a couple of seconds her dressing gown was on the floor and she was naked. Together they removed Munrow’s clothes and she took obvious delight in peeling his boxer shorts off him, revealing what Rider had always suspected. A very big penis. Which she greedily took in her mouth as she knelt in front of him.
Munrow’s head drooped back in ecstasy.
The woman clawed her way back to her feet, heaved herself onto Munrow by wrapping her legs around his waist and hands clasped around his neck.
Thus engaged, Munrow walked them both out of the room, easily holding her weight.
When they disappeared, Rider emerged from the shadows and sprinted low to the house. He flattened himself against the wall, gun in hand.
The security light went out. Rider moved and it came back on. He darted to the patio door and silently pushed the handle. Yes! It was open.
He was inside the house.
Munrow’s discarded clothing was on the floor. Rider went through the pockets and found a single car key which he slid into his own. He trod carefully through the lounge and emerged in the hallway.
From upstairs the sounds of unbridled lust bounced down the walls. She was moaning to a rhythm, Munrow was gasping a beat behind. Oh, the din of sexual rapture, Rider thought.
He pulled a ski-mask over his head. Not because he wanted to hide his identity from Munrow, but from her. If things went pear-shaped in the next few minutes it would be better if she didn’t see his face. He made his way cautiously up the steps to the landing, where the racket of intercourse became much louder from the bedroom second on the right.
After checking the first bedroom and finding it empty, Rider stepped lightly to the next door, which was open. He adjusted the ski-mask and tried to control his breathing - and the urge to scream and run away, forget it all, become a hermit. He counted to three and twisted into the bedroom, gun in right hand, supported by the left.