Nightmare City

by Nick Oldham

  From that inauspicious start an empire grew.

  Soon afterwards, Conroy started supplying McNamara with women in payment for certain favours. A couple of these women mysteriously disappeared. Conroy asked no questions, but warned McNamara. No more disappeared - until Marie Cullen.

  When McNamara became an MP and, for a short time, a big noise in the Foreign Office, it wasn’t long before Conroy urged him to look into the possibilities of dealing in guns. Towards the end of the 1980s Conroy, who had always dabbled in the British underworld scene of arms dealing, had a flourishing trade based on selling arms stolen in America or bought in Eastern Europe to warring African countries. He’d made a real killing selling to Ethiopian warlords. They always seemed to have enough money to buy guns and whisky.

  In essence, McNamara used his position of influence whilst in the Foreign Office to bring about arms deals, usually right under the nose of the PM, who had a soft spot for him. There were many photographs of the Premier shaking hands with overseas dignitaries - usually African - whilst in the background McNamara could be seen standing next to a government official, smiling, chatting, arranging deals.

  In his own constituency McNamara was a staunch proponent of law and order and policing issues. When gang warfare came to Lancashire and Manchester in the mid-1980s, it was McNamara’s pressure and his mouth to the PM’s ear, that the Home Office should fund a regionalised unit, an extension of the Crime Squads, to tackle the problem head on.

  And who better to run it, McNamara recommended, than that excellent detective with a wealth of experience in dealing with gangsters - Tony Morton, then a Detective Superintendent.

  Fully dressed, Henry said, ‘Which car are we going to Blackpool in?’

  ‘I don’t give a shit. Use which you want. They’ve all got their keys in the ignition. I’m not coming with you.’

  ‘Yeah. . . Look, I’m sorry, Siobhan. Nothing personal.’

  ‘Fuck off, Henry,’ she said sourly.

  He nodded. Tight-lipped, hot and flustered, he went swiftly down the stairs to the garage below. He opened the electrically controlled doors and got in the first car he came to. There was a piece of material in the driver’s seat which reminded him of a bikini bottom. He tossed it into the passenger footwell and then adjusted the driver’s seat which was pulled forwards for a short person. Then he reached for the ignition key. It wasn’t there. He checked the sun visors. Not there either.

  Siobhan rapped her knuckles on the window.

  ‘Not this one,’ she said in a tone which made him feel stupid. ‘It’s a stolen car, been seized for evidence.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ he said. How was he supposed to know? Where was the property label that should be prominently displayed on it?

  ‘Use that one,’ she said, pointing to the next one along, a Vauxhall Vectra.

  He got out, sidled past the stolen one, wondering how he could ever have mistaken an Alfa Romeo for a police car.

  Minutes later he was on the road, heading west out of Blackburn. Away from Siobhan and a big mistake that might have been.

  ‘Right about now he should be getting his end away, if it’s all going to plan,’ Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton declared after checking his watch. ‘And,’ he added with aplomb, ‘I have no doubt it is going to plan.’

  ‘I’ll believe it when I know it for sure,’ said McNamara. ‘He’s not stupid,’ he went on, referring to Henry Christie. ‘He might just suss what’s going on.’

  ‘Naah.’ Morton shook his head. ‘My woman detective is very good. She’ll fuck his brains out before he knows what’s hit him. She’s done it before.’

  ‘At least he’s getting sorted,’ Conroy said. ‘Make sure you do a proper job, that’s all, Tony.’

  ‘Worry not. By tomorrow night he won’t know his arse from his tit.’

  ‘Hm,’ McNamara muttered through closed lips. ‘What’s happening with Marie Cullen’s murder, that’s what I want to know.’

  ‘It’s going nowhere, rest assured. Particularly now that Saltash is out of the picture, as it were.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said the MP, not appreciating the play on words relating to the pimp’s demise underneath a portable TV set. ‘What about that Gillian, the one who did it? Where is she? She’s the one I had at our last meeting, if you recall.’

  ‘Is she?’ Morton hadn’t realised that. ‘Does that cause you a problem? The cops wanted to talk to Saltash and he was a link to Cullen. Now he’s gone, what’s the fuss?’

  The look on McNamara’s face made Morton ask, ‘What’s the fuss?’ again, this time firmly.

  McNamara opened his mouth to say something. He quickly clamped it shut.

  ‘Spit it out, Harry,’ Morton commanded.

  ‘Shit ... if the police catch her and interview her, she might tell them about me.’

  ‘Why should she? Her killing Saltash, and her clients are two different things.’

  ‘I said something stupid, I think, when I was with her. Something incriminating. She might use it.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Conroy, listening, closed his eyes despairingly.

  McNamara shrugged as though it were nothing. ‘I made reference to Marie.’

  A long, pissed-off sigh exhaled from Morton’s lungs.

  Conroy exploded. ‘Are you a complete fucking nutcase? You must be short of something up here.’ He tapped his head. ‘What the hell happens to you when you get an erection? Does all the blood come out of your brain, or something, because it’s fucking obvious it goes into neutral.’

  Morton rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘You are really going to have to get yourself sorted out. You’re becoming a weak link.’

  ‘What can we do about her?’ McNamara insisted on knowing.

  ‘Ronnie?’ Morton turned to Conroy, eyebrows raised.

  ‘I’ll sort her out,’ he said angrily, through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll get some Salford low-life to blow her away - if we can find her, that is.’

  ‘Good,’ said Morton. ‘Now, some better news for you both. Munrow’s been killed.’

  The change in Conroy was visible. One moment he was hard-faced, the next bright and happy on hearing of the death. ‘Hoo-fucking-ray,’ he cheered. ‘Rider?’

  ‘We can only presume so,’ Morton said. ‘Unidentified male blew his head off in a Debenhams changing room. Could be Rider from the description.’

  ‘Looks like my little ruse worked. Yes!’ He punched the air. ‘What the hell was he doing in Debenhams?’

  ‘Buying clothes presumably,’ Morton answered.

  ‘And what about Rider?’ Conroy asked. ‘He could do with stitching up for that. Any chance? If he was out of the game, we could have his club.’

  Morton gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  In his mind he was already formulating a course of action which involved the newest detective on his unit.

  The sharp knock on the door made them jump.

  Conroy opened it.

  Scott Hamilton walked in.

  Henry parked the NWOCS car at Blackpool and dropped into the station to see if there had been any developments in the investigations he had so happily left behind for a quick move onto a new squad. A move which had already got him shot and into a compromising position. All in one day. Not bad going by any standards.

  Nothing seemed to be moving on anything.

  Particularly in respect of Marie Cullen; the case seemed to have come to a standstill with the death of the man supposed to be her pimp.

  Working on the assumption that his short secondment to the. NWOCS was virtually over, Henry decided that he’d do a few things with it next week. Maybe if there was a push, it might lead them properly to McNamara, millionaire bastard - and friend of Tony Morton . . .

  Henry frowned.

  He recalled the photos on Morton’s wall. Him and McNamara looked pretty close buddies. One of those horrible queasy churnings moved through him like a bad case of wind.

/>   Surely not..? He banished the thought.

  A note had been scribbled out and left on his desk asking him to call round and see Annie, Derek’s widow. She had something for him, apparently. Henry pulled his nose up at the thought of revisiting her. Then his sense of responsibility overpowered this. He would call in for five minutes on his way home.

  At least it would delay seeing Kate. It was going to be difficult to face her and act normal, knowing that he had as good as committed adultery for the second time in their marriage.

  Was it technically adultery when another woman sucked your cock? Or if you went down on her? Surely it had to be full intercourse?

  It was a fine line, to be sure. But he knew one thing for certain; Kate would be blind to the semantics. If she ever found out.

  ‘I am trying to understand the situation,’ Hamilton was saying. ‘We all have difficulties from time to time. In fact, I recently had a couple of FBI agents snooping around the Jacaranda. One was eliminated by two good friends who were staying with me at the time; they made it look like a drunken accident.’

  ‘And the other?’ Morton enquired.

  ‘Beaten to within an inch of his life,’ he boasted. Not quite true, but these three didn’t have to know that.

  ‘Who are your friends?’ That was Conroy.

  ‘Professionals. And should you ever need their services, contact me. They are very, very good. One hundred per cent track record. As messy or as clean as you like. Don’t mind killing cops ... but we digress. The problem we now have is that the agent acting on behalf of the buyer is arriving soon and we have no goods to display because they are in the hands of the police.’

  ‘That’s about the long and short of it,’ McNamara said.

  ‘Do we know where these guns are at the moment? Are they accessible?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Morton firmly. ‘We’re not busting them out of the police store.’

  ‘Who said bust them out?’ Hamilton said.

  The three waited.

  ‘Why not borrow them and then return them - and no one is any the wiser? It solves the problem of me having to arrange to bring more into the country from Madeira. Simply borrow them for a couple of hours.’

  Morton sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. Now why hadn’t he thought of that one? ‘Possible,’ he said, chewing it over. ‘Just possible.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Police Sergeant Eric Taylor’s financial trouble could be traced back over twelve years - to the 1984 miners strike, actually. One of the longest and most bitter strikes ever to hit the UK, lasting for over a year, it had a major spin-off for the police officers who were required to police it: by working the excessive amounts of overtime needed, they made plenty of extra money. This particularly applied to officers who had to travel from their own force areas to the trouble spots to support their colleagues. These travelling officers often found themselves working away from home for weeks on end, and their pay packets reflected this, with up to double their usual earnings.

  Some officers, it was said, taunted the striking miners by waving their hefty pay cheques at the picket lines. Others sent postcards from far-flung places around the globe to the miners’ leader Arthur Scargill, thanking him for the money which had paid for the holiday of a lifetime.

  Another downside to the money was that some officers found themselves in debt when the strike ended and the wage slips returned to normal.

  Eric Taylor had made a great deal of money out of the strike.

  He was one of those who was always available to go, and over the year he spent about seventeen weeks away from home, policing the miners, earning a relative fortune.

  But, like so many others, he failed to plan ahead and the end of the strike caught him by surprise.

  A new car, conservatory, new three-piece suite, a couple of holidays abroad - all still needed to be paid off once the strike was over.

  And he was still feeling the ramifications to this day.

  He had had to borrow to service his borrowings - and then borrow to service those borrowings. At least a third of his salary went out to pay for loans taken on board twelve years earlier.

  And he was a bitter man.

  His wife left him, taking their two children and a large percentage of his remaining salary in maintenance payments.

  A long-term woman friend also took him to the cleaners.

  Now he lived in a rented terraced house, alone, unhappy and ripe for corrupting.

  These people were always easy targets.

  He was the first of two to be visited that evening.

  Whilst Henry was shuffling around Blackpool police station, DI Gallagher and DS Tattersall knocked on the front door of Taylor’s house, knowing he was off-duty and fully aware of his severe financial problems. He was unlikely to be out gallivanting.

  Perfect.

  A sour-faced man opened the door.

  Gallagher and Tattersall held up their warrant cards and introduced themselves. Gallagher was carrying a briefcase.

  Taylor recognised them. He’d seen them knocking about the station throughout the week, but he did not know who they were.

  ‘Sergeant Taylor, is it?’

  Taylor nodded suspiciously. He did not like being visited at home by anyone. He was always slightly embarrassed by his inferior surroundings, having once lived in a detached house with a double garage. He had really come down in the world, in his own estimation. And he was particularly wary of two detectives from NWOCS.

  ‘Yeah,’ he answered shortly. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Could we possibly come in and have a chat?’ Gallagher asked affably enough. Tattersall remained silent, as he was to do for the remainder of the visit. He was a brooding, unsettling presence, hovering behind Gallagher. The DI noted Taylor’s look of wariness. ‘Nothing to worry about, honestly.’

  Taylor accepted the words of comfort grudgingly. Not completely happy, but nevertheless, he was intrigued.

  He allowed them into the threadbare lounge which was furnished like some 1970s throwback. Typical of cheap rented and furnished accommodation.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Gallagher sat. Tattersall shook his head and stood next to his boss. Taylor settled himself on the settee and waited.

  Gallagher coughed and attempted to come across as fairly uncomfortable, though inside he was completely at ease.

  ‘First of all,’ Gallagher began, ‘I want to reassure you that what we say from now on is completely confidential. Nothing will go beyond these walls.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can give you that reassurance,’ Taylor said. ‘Mainly because I don’t know why the hell you’re here or what you’re gonna say.’

  ‘I appreciate that ... but I do ask you to keep it confidential.’

  Taylor gave a non-committal twitch of the head.

  ‘I’ll come to the point quickly, Sarge. We’re here on behalf of Henry Christie. He’s asked us to come and speak to you to ask for a favour.’

  Taylor perked up. He was listening now. His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘You were the Custody Sergeant last Saturday evening when DS Christie allegedly assaulted a youth then stupidly forgot to enter it up on the record.’

  Taylor said nothing.

  ‘Well, Henry’s looked through the custody record and noticed that you were the last person to make any entries on it up to and including the point where this youth was taken to hospital. There are no entries after that because he was subsequently released from custody and reported for summons for the offence he had committed.’

  Taylor watched Gallagher closely, hardly able to believe what was being said.

  ‘Henry wondered if you’d do him a favour. See, he’s in a lot of trouble over this - or could be - and it’s hanging over his head and, well, the thing is, without an independent witness to back him up, it looks like he could be in for some rough times ahead.’

  ‘Tough. And I’m not sure I like what I’m heari
ng,’ Taylor said stonily.

  ‘OK ... but let me finish, please. Henry wondered if you’d be willing to . . . how shall we say? ... amend the custody record in his favour to say you witnessed the whole thing.’

  Taylor’s heart, by now, was ramming against his ribs. He almost expected it to break them and splurge out. His face tightened up. ‘How dare you?’ he demanded.

  Gallagher held his hands up, palms out, defensively. ‘We understand your initial reaction, Sarge.’

  ‘Look, you bastards, are you setting me up or something? Are you wired up? I’m an honest cop and this is completely out of order.’ His voice rose as he began to rant. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but as far as I’m concerned you can fuck right off out of my house. I’m going to complain about you both - and Henry Christie! Though I can hardly credit he would have sent you. It’s not like him. For a start, he’d do his own dirty work.’

  ‘He’s in trouble, Eric,’ Gallagher said earnestly. ‘A colleague in trouble and he’s asking a friend to do him a favour, that’s all.’

  Taylor remained steadfast. ‘No.’

  ‘And that’s your final word on the matter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I believe you have some money problems, Eric.’

  ‘And that’s fuck-all to do with you, pal.’

  ‘We are prepared to help you, if you help Henry in return. No, don’t say anything.’ Gallagher reached for the briefcase which he had put down by the chair. He placed it on his knees and flicked the catches, opening it so Taylor could not see into it. He took out an A4 sheet of paper which the Sergeant instantly recognised as a custody record. Gallagher laid this on the smoked-glass coffee table which was between them.

  Eric’s anger bubbled. It was the custody record he had filled in last Saturday, one of over fifty that day, but one he remembered well. The name on the top was Shane Mulcahy.