by Nick Oldham
Henry went slowly down to the custody office. It was a painful journey, not only because of the soreness of his body (his chest and ear were hurting dreadfully) - but because of the dead weight on his shoulders.
How had they done this in such a short space of time?
How had he fallen for it so easily?
Fool.
Yet, in retrospect, there had been nothing tangible to suspect. Odd twinges, niggles, some bad feelings, yes. Other than that, nothing. A bit like a bogus gas official knocking on your door. You’re not completely happy, but you let him in, he leaves and then you find your life savings have gone.
Happens all the time. People get conned. Even the ones who would never imagine in a million years they could be a victim of such a crime.
And all because he had rattled a few cages without even realising there were tigers inside them. The NWOCS - and Tony Morton in particular had close ties going back many years with Harry McNamara. It was obvious that he was being protected. And now the ‘Conroy connection’ had been revealed by Karl Donaldson and those photographs taken by MI5. A proper little triumvirate. Conroy, McNamara and Morton. All protecting one another, no doubt. All in each other’s pockets.
And FB too.
Henry shivered at the thought.
Frightening.
He reached the custody office and booked himself a set of tapes out for the interview. Eric Taylor walked into the room from the cell corridor.
‘Why?’ whispered Henry.
‘To help you, of course.’ Taylor moved in close to Henry so they were within earshot only of each other.
‘How much did they pay you?’
‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘How much did they fucking well bribe you to alter that custody record, Eric?’
‘Don’t you mean - how much did YOU bribe me?’
A PC walked in, whistling. The two men drew apart from each other, a look of loathing on Henry’s face. ‘I want to interview Rider,’ he said, now businesslike. ‘I’ve booked a set of tapes out.’
Taylor flicked open the current custody record binder and went to Rider’s.
‘He says he wants someone telling he’s here and he wants to make a phone call.’
‘He can have what the hell he wants,’ Henry said.
‘Sign here.’ Taylor’s forefinger pointed to the space in Rider’s record where Henry had to sign to take responsibility for the prisoner. ‘Last time I gave a prisoner to you, you kicked him in the balls,’ Taylor said.
‘Allegedly.’
They found the first address in Fleetwood. Donaldson parked outside the house, which was a semi-detached council house.
‘What’ve we got here, honey?’
She had the relevant statements on her knees. ‘This man witnessed the robbery. He was in the shop when the gunmen burst in and fired the shotgun into the ceiling. He gave a pretty good account and some detailed descriptions which have been watered down on the amended statement.’
‘How are we gonna approach him? He ain’t gonna like it a whole bunch when he finds out his statement’s been tampered with.’
‘Let’s just play it by ear.’
She kissed him on the cheek and alighted from the Jeep.
Rider sat up straight when he heard the key in the lock of his cell door. The gaoler, a young PC with less than two years’ service, beckoned him. ‘You’re going to be interviewed now.’
Rider half-thought of being awkward. The idea of a few hairy-assed coppers laying into him with feet and fists, however, did not appeal to him. Ten, fifteen years before, they would have had to drag him from the cell screaming and kicking and he would have taken great delight in whacking a few of the boys in blue in the process. Times had changed. He wasn’t the hard man he once was and the events of the last few days had proved that, even though he had killed a man. It hadn’t been easy to do and as soon as the trigger had been pulled he had regretted it.
Not that he was about to bare his soul to whoever interviewed him. They would get nothing from him.
Rider stood up wearily.
The PC stepped to one side, allowed him past and followed him down the cell corridor.
He was taken to an interview room where Henry Christie was waiting for him.
Rider sat down on the chair on the opposite side of the table to Henry. At one end of the table, next to the wall, was the double tape machine. Stuck to the wall above it was the mike. The sealed tapes and various documents were on the table.
The gaoler left the room on a nod from Henry.
Henry opened his mouth to speak, but closed it when the door reopened and Siobhan Robson entered the room. She sat down next to Henry with a smile. ‘Just want to see how a professional operates,’ she whispered to him.
Henry sighed. He unpacked the tapes and slotted them into the machine.
Obviously they were going to make sure he did as he was told.
The witness was good.
Karen began by showing him a copy of the ‘amended’ statement and asked him to read it carefully. He obliged. When he had finished he looked up at them and said, ‘It might be my bloody name on top, but I didn’t say that.’ He was very precise and pointed out the discrepancies.
She showed him Degsy’s copy then. He glanced through it quickly and declared, ‘That one’s mine.’
She and Donaldson exchanged a glance of quiet triumph.
‘What’s this all about? Why has it been changed?’ the witness asked.
‘We’re not sure,’ Karen answered. ‘But would you mind making a further statement, telling what’s just gone on now? I know it’s a real imposition and it’ll take a while to do, but we think it’s very important.’
She looked at the witness with her big wide eyes and a smile which could have melted granite. He immediately said, ‘Yes, no problem.’
Hunt keyed in Tony Morton’s mobile number into his own and pressed the send button.
‘They’ve just come out of the house, boss,’ he said. He gave the address to Morton and said, ‘What d’you want me to do?’
‘Stick with ‘em,’ ordered his Chief Superintendent. ‘I want to know what the fuck’s going on - if anything.’
‘Will do.’
Donaldson’s Cherokee pulled away from the kerb. Hunt dropped the mobile onto the passenger seat and followed.
Morton looked at the address given by Hunt with a puzzled expression. It meant nothing to him and he wondered if the two people were simply making house-calls to friends.
Hunt had also given him the registered number of the car he was following. Morton tapped the number for a second or two before picking up the internal phone and dialling down to the communications room where there was a PNC terminal.
The first interview was concluded. Rider had declined the offer of a solicitor, waiting until he knew what sort of evidence the cops had on him.
Henry, of course, was pissing in the dark against a pretty strong wind because he knew next to nothing about the case and would need to know an awful lot more about it, Rider, Munrow and their antecedents before he really began to probe.
Throughout, Rider had been non-committal. He was not exactly obstructive, but he wasn’t helpful and the interview achieved nothing.
After Rider had been taken back to his cell, Siobhan dragged Henry back into the confines of the interview room. Once behind the closed door, she cut into him. ‘You’ll have to do a damned sight better than that, Henry, if you want to keep your nose clean.’
‘I’m new to this game. I might’ve been known to bend the rules in the past, but I’ve never actually fitted anyone up before. I’m just learning,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You’re the fucking expert.’
‘And here’s some tips, baby,’ she snarled. ‘Let’s begin with the arrest.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Verbal him up.’
‘What? “It’s a fair cop, guv, you’re too good for me” kinda thing?’
She nodded. ‘Some
thing like that. I’ll back you up.’
‘You weren’t even there.’
‘So?’ she shrugged. ‘And what about the journey back to the nick?’
‘He didn’t say a word.’
‘Yes, he did - he kept blabbing about how sorry he was, how he’d set Munrow up, how he’d shot him. Didn’t you hear him, Henry?’
‘No,’ he said bleakly.
‘I think you did ... and what I suggest you do is go away and write your arrest statement to include these things. Then let me have a look at it. Then you can really start to get into the bastard’s ribs. He really did it, y’know?’
‘He may well have done - but there’s no evidence against him.’
‘There will be, Henry,’ she reassured him. ‘You just need to get creative.’
‘How the hell do you sleep at night? Christ! How many times have you done this?’
‘A few, Henry ... and very well, actually.’
‘What’s this all about, Siobhan?’ he pleaded. ‘How far does it go?’
‘You don’t need to know, Henry. Not yet, anyway. Maybe when you’ve settled into your role, accepted the inevitable, shown you can be trusted. Maybe then, but for now, all you need to worry about is getting Rider charged with murder - and making it stick.’
They had problems finding the next house. The map didn’t seem to make sense and they drove down a few wrong turns before they eventually pulled up outside.
‘Men don’t listen...’
‘... and women can’t read maps.’
They laughed. It was one of their favourite personal jokes, often quoted to each other after they had attended a seminar of the same name. Today it seemed totally appropriate.
The night was drawing in quickly. Lights were coming on. The rain made it darker than ever.
‘At least it’s confirmed something to me, all this chasing our tails up and down the mean streets of Fleetwood.’
‘Oh - what?’
‘That we’re being followed.’
‘Can’t seem to work out the number of the house they’ve gone into,’ Hunt was saying to Morton via the mobile. He told him it was on Douglas Place. Morton wrote it down at his end.
He looked at what he’d written. Next to it was the result of the PNC check which told him that the vehicle was a Jeep Cherokee, owned by someone called Donaldson who lived in Hartley Wintney in Hampshire. The owner’s name meant nothing to him, but he knew exactly where Hartley Wintney was - not five minutes away from the Police Staff College at Bramshill where he had attended several courses for high-ranking officers. And from where he had extended his business interests with likeminded detectives who were happy to feather their nests for comfortable retirements by supplying Morton with details of police operations which might affect him and Conroy.
‘Donaldson, Donaldson. . .’ He worked the name through his mind. Nothing came to mind, other than the Bramshill connection.
The cell door opened.
Rider had been dozing on the plastic mattress, a very hairy blanket drawn up to his chin. He sat up and scratched his head. There was something very flea-like about the cell which made him itch all the time.
It was the custody officer, Sergeant Taylor, who had been most fair with him during his stay.
‘I know you said you didn’t want one,’ Taylor said apologetically, ‘but a solicitor has turned up saying that he is acting for you. If you don’t want him, I’ll tell him to sling his hook. But, to be honest, mate, in was in your position, I’d have one. You need all the help you can get.’
Rider rubbed his eyes.
He hadn’t been banged up for long, but already he was aware of his own bodily odours. As much to escape them, the cell and his solitude, he stood up and said, ‘I’ll see him.’
The solicitor’s interview room was bare, functional and not a place in which to linger. There was a table (screwed to the floor) and two chairs.
Rider entered the room and the solicitor got to his feet. He proffered a hand and introduced himself as Pratt.
When the custody officer had reversed out and closed the door, Pratt said, ‘You’re probably very surprised to see me.’
‘Considering I hadn’t asked for a brief yet - yes,’ admitted Rider. ‘Amazed would be more accurate.’
‘I’ve been asked to represent you by a third party, on the proviso that you do something for that third party first.’
‘I’m intrigued. Who is this third party?’ He expected to be told it was Isa or Jacko and he had to vow to go straight, or something ridiculous. The name he heard made his flesh creep.
‘A Mr Conroy. I believe you know him?’ Pratt took a second or two to compose himself and the words he was about to say. ‘Firstly, I can promise you that if you do this one thing for Mr Conroy, you will be released from custody immediately.’
‘And that is?’
‘Sign the ownership of your club over to him.’
The hairs on the back of Rider’s neck bristled.
‘If you do this, I guarantee this allegation against you will go no further.’
‘And how can this guarantee be given?’
‘It can, believe me. Mr Conroy has influence.’
‘How do I know he’ll stick to his word, once I’ve signed whatever I need to sign?’
‘You don’t,’ Pratt said blandly. ‘Having said that, if you refuse to sign, Mr Conroy guarantees that you will serve a life sentence for murder.’
‘Does he now?’
For Pratt, the next second or so happened in very slow motion. Rider’s tightly bunched and very large, hairy right fist drove through the air towards his nose like a piston. It began at normal size, but as it homed in grew very quickly to ginormous. Then it connected with an almighty crunch. Pratt’s nose broke. The energy from the blow was transferred from fist to nose and reverberated right through to the back of his skull.
He went backwards over his chair, legs shooting upwards into the air like a massive ‘V’ sign to Rider. He crashed onto the floor and rolled to one side, both hands clutching a nose from which blood torrented.
Rider came round to him and bent down to speak into his ear.
‘Just tell Mr Conroy that if I get out of here, he’s a dead man.’
Karen and Donaldson were admitted into the house by a pretty young lady about thirteen years old. She was the witness.
She showed them into the living room where her parents were glued to the TV watching one of those early Saturday evening knock-about shows which always foxed Donaldson. It was something to do with embarrassing the fuck out of the general public. Very popular, apparently.
Grudgingly the girl’s father went into the dining room with them. His presence was required because of her age.
Donaldson interrupted proceedings after a few moments and asked if he could go into the back garden and take some air; foul night though it was, he explained, he had to get some fresh air into his lungs. He was feeling nauseous.
Karen was puzzled. It showed on her face.
He winked at her.
Five minutes later, wet and bedraggled, he was back in the house, saying he was feeling much better. There was a wide smile across his countenance.
Karen’s eyes slitted briefly, then she returned to her task.
The cell door slammed shut behind him. He paced the confined space like a tiger, his thoughts in mayhem, much of his anger directed at himself.
Isa’s words flooded back to him.
‘How can you be sure that Munrow is responsible for killing those people?’ she had wanted him to ask himself. Where was the proof?
He had then acted recklessly and killed a man who probably had not set fire to the flats. Or, at least, killed the wrong man. The one who should be dead now was called Ronnie Conroy and Rider had fallen for it. Typical of Conroy. Sneaky, deceitful and, of course, brilliant.
He wanted Munrow out of the way because he was being a pain in the arse, yet he, Conroy, didn’t have the bottle to do it himself. So why not pre
y on John Rider’s paranoia and make him think that Munrow was out to get him.
Yeah, get John Stupid Rider to do your dirty work for you, then set him up with the cops.
It was all so simple.
And it was obvious they were tame cops too.
Tame cops like Henry Christie who were on Conroy’s payroll.
He continued to pace the cell and each time he reached the door he slammed the side of his fist against it.
Trapped and doomed.
The young girl had a good memory. When she read ‘her’ statement, she was shocked at the changes. She quickly made a further statement and promised to keep quiet about the matter. Karen laid it on thick for the father, who looked the type to be bragging it around the local pub later, that this was top secret and not a word of it should leak. This was a very sensitive matter and if things got out, lives could be at risk.
Back in the Jeep, Donaldson said, ‘Two down.’
‘They’ve taken dozens of statements in this investigation. How many more have been tampered with? In the end everyone will have to be revisited.’
‘Yup.’ He started the engine.
‘And where the hell did you disappear to?’
‘Couldn’t resist,’ he admitted with a big grin. He held up his pocket knife with a gleeful smile.
‘They’re moving away, boss,’ Hunt said into the mobile. He gave Morton the second address, then ended the call. He allowed Donaldson enough time to move off before he slipped his car into first and followed.