Nightmare City

by Nick Oldham

  After only a few metres he realised that the car would be going no further. It was limping sadly along like a cripple. He drew in and raced round the back where he saw that the two rear tyres were as flat as two-day-old beer.

  He swore and pulled his jacket up around his neck.

  ‘Bastards!’

  Henry Christie faced John Rider across the interview-room table for the second time that day.

  Siobhan sat frostily to one side.

  The tapes were running.

  ‘When you were arrested, you said to me, “What the fuck am I meant to have done?”’ Henry said levelly to Rider, referring to his notes. The interview had been going forty minutes. Henry had given Rider the opportunity to admit the killing, but the prisoner was not forthcoming. Henry had therefore switched gear and gone into ‘verbal-up’ mode. ‘I then told you and you replied, “Yeah, you’re fucking right. I shot the bastard. He well deserved it”. What do you say to that, John?’

  Henry’s voice was affable, unflustered, but underneath he was churning. His stomach felt like someone was dragging a rake around inside it. His hands, though visibly calm, were on the verge of trembling. His nerve ends tingled at the lies he was putting to Rider.

  Rider made no reply, but folded his arms and glowered contemptuously at his captor. So this is it, he thought. The beginning of the fit-up. The opening salvos in what would probably be his downfall. Rider had been confident there was no evidence against him and now they were resorting to these tactics.

  ‘Both myself and DC Robson here heard you. Do you deny you said those words?’

  No reply. No response.

  ‘During the journey back to the police station, I reminded you that you were still under caution and that it was in your interests to be quiet until we reached the police station where an interview would be conducted formally. However, you continued to talk throughout the journey, though we did not invite you to do so. You said, and I quote - because DC Robson made notes of the unsolicited remarks – “I had to kill the bastard. He would have done me in otherwise. It were him or me and I made fucking sure it were him. I blasted him in those changing rooms and he didn’t have a chance in hell. Bang fucking bang! Dead Munrow”. Any comment John?’

  As if.

  Henry persisted with this for thirty further minutes, having to change the tapes partway through. Not surprisingly he got nothing out of Rider, who at the end of the interview declared he wanted a solicitor for the next one and refused to sign the tape seal when he was invited to do so.

  They led him back to the custody office and handed him back to Sergeant Taylor. Henry said, ‘Interviewed in accordance with PACE and the Codes of Practice. No admissions made.’

  Rider was taken back to his cell.

  Siobhan linked her arm with Henry’s and drew him to one side. ‘Well done, Henry. I’ll tell the boss you’re trying.’

  ‘I feel like dirt.’ He pulled his arm away.

  She smiled. ‘You’d better start thinking about finding some evidence at his place now. Like a ski mask, or something, maybe splattered with blood.’ She left the custody office.

  Henry walked back to the charge desk where Taylor was scribbling in a custody record.

  ‘Eric?’

  Taylor looked up defiantly. He placed his pen down.

  ‘How much did they give you?’

  ‘You should know, Henry.’

  ‘Don’t talk shit. You know I never sent that money. I just don’t operate like that. I’d rather get convicted of assault than pervert justice.’ Which he knew was rich coming from someone who was in the process of doing just that to another person.

  ‘Five grand in a briefcase.’

  ‘And where would I get that sort of money from? I haven’t got five hundred in the bank.’

  ‘How do I know?’

  ‘Have you still got it?’

  Taylor nodded.

  ‘I suggest you keep it very, very safe, Eric, while I think of how we can both get out of this mess and still be in employment. Understand?’

  Henry was astounded by the level of threat in his voice. It frightened him a little as he said, ‘Because if it disappears, I’ll throw you off the Tower, Eric, and I’ll enjoy watching you fall and splat onto the shops below. And I mean it.’

  Their faces had got closer as if they were hypnotising each other. The gaoler came back from the cell corridor and broke the spell. ‘Rider says he wants to see you, Sarge,’ he said to Henry.

  ‘Right,’ Henry nodded, eyes on Taylor. ‘Put it down in his custody record that I visited him and spoke to him through the cell hatch on an unrelated matter.’

  Rider’s face was pressed into the hole in the door.

  ‘Henry fuckin’ Christie.’

  ‘My middle name’s James, actually.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, Henry, but I don’t even speak like that! I mean: “It were me or him, I made sure it were him”! I might be a toe-rag to you, but my English grammar is just as good as yours.’

  ‘So? What’re you getting at?’

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that if you want to stitch me up.’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ Henry said coldly.

  ‘I thought not, but I’ll tell you something.’ Rider changed the position of his face. ‘I’m surprised at you. I don’t like you and I’ve only known you a week, but I’d thought to myself, “Here’s an honest cop. A bastard, but honest”. And I respected that - but you’ve let me down. Big style. What does it feel like to be someone’s puppet, doing someone else’s bidding? How does it feel to be out of control?’

  They met at midnight in the conservatory. Kate had gone to bed, leaving Henry, Karen and Donaldson.

  ‘Two out of four ain’t bad for a first strike,’ Donaldson said quietly. He took a sip from a cool can of Colt 45. He was referring to the fact that the other two witnesses had been out. ‘We’ll get ‘em tomorrow.’

  Henry was tired. His chest was sore and he had made his ear bleed again by fiddling with the dressing. He sat back in the bamboo chair and took a sip of the malt whisky he only brought out on special occasions. It flowed silkily down his throat and put up a temporary barrier against the pam.

  ‘We were followed,’ Donaldson told him. He recited the registered number of the car and the make.

  ‘Tch,’ Henry uttered. ‘Sounds like an NWOCS car.’

  ‘It means they’re onto us, Henry,’ Karen said quietly. There was a note of warning in her voice. ‘They might have figured out what we’ve been doing.’

  ‘And it means you’d better watch your step, Henry, because if they’ve put it together, they may act on it . . . which could mean you might be in real danger.’

  ‘Don’t make it sound so dramatic, Karl,’ Henry said in an attempt to shrug it off. However, Donaldson’s words were not to be ignored. Two cops had been wasted already. A third wouldn’t make much difference.

  ‘You might be targets, too,’ Henry said bleakly.

  ‘So in that case we’d all better be careful and we better make sure we get that evidence together tomorrow. Quick.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Conroy, Morton and McNamara assembled the morning after - Sunday - at their usual place. The time - 8 a.m. - was pretty unusual.

  It was a business breakfast. They were served with eggs, bacon, tomato, mushrooms, toast, orange juice and fresh coffee.

  Two of Conroy’s men sat outside the room, having been provided with coffee and bacon sandwiches.

  The three men were dressed casually. Conroy and McNamara intended to play nine holes of golf after the meeting, using Conroy’s men as caddies.

  ‘How do things stand?’ Conroy enquired.

  ‘Christie’s been well and truly done over and he knows there’s no way out for him but to give in,’ Morton said. ‘Having said that, I don’t think we’ll keep him down without a fight. Something’s going on, but I’m not sure what. I’ll follow it up later.’

  ‘Expand,’ McNamara said.


  Morton shook his head. ‘Just a funny feeling. If there is anything, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘If there is anything,’ said Conroy, opening his mouth and dropping a rasher of bacon into it, chomping as he spoke, ‘Henry Christie should be iced. We’ve spent enough time farting around with him and we shouldn’t spend any more. At least if he’s dead he won’t be able to tell tales.’

  ‘He might say more dead than alive,’ Morton retorted. ‘If there’s a way of dealing with things which means people don’t get killed, we should do it that way, even if it means a bit of dancing on our feet. Killing’s easy, as we’ve shown already. The repercussions are difficult. That’s why we’re working so damned hard in Blackpool, covering our backs.’

  ‘Fair enough - for the time being.’ Conroy took a swig of coffee. ‘But if he gets difficult, don’t hesitate: do him.’

  ‘Have you found that prostitute yet?’ McNamara said.

  ‘Still looking,’ said Conroy. ‘She’s gone to ground but we’ll find her. I got someone on it. Bit of a loon, like, but reliable. She’s a different problem to Christie. No one’ll miss her and the cops won’t bust a gut to find her killers.’

  They ate in silence for a while.

  Conroy cleared his plate and covered some toast thickly with butter and Tiptree Lime Marmalade. McNamara pushed his food around, eating little. He wasn’t hungry. Morton ate most of his, but it was coffee he craved. He had drunk three large cups of it so far.

  ‘And the other matter?’ asked Morton.

  ‘Hamilton meets the buyer’s agent today in Lisbon. He’ll be with us to view the goods tomorrow. He’ll buy, I’m sure of it . . . then we can arrange payment details and transportation.’ That was McNamara.

  Morton: ‘Where will they be displayed? I’ll fix up to get them out of the police store, but where are they going to? I believe Rider was rather obstructive to your offer, Ronnie?’

  ‘Well, he had his fucking chance. I’ll have that club in my hands tonight - in a physical sense. Then I’ll exert some more pressure on John and I’m sure he’ll sign everything over to me . . . and then get convicted.’ He guffawed. ‘Then there’ll be no one in my hair to bug me. Munrow gone for good, Rider gone for life. If you do your job, that is.’

  He looked at Morton.

  ‘That’s just what Henry Christie is doing for you.’

  Rider’s breakfast appeared on a blue plastic plate with a white plastic spoon and red plastic mug of tea. The food was lukewarm, having come all the way down from the canteen. It consisted of congealed beans, a sausage and a rubbery fried egg and one piece of toast which had looked at a grill from about six metres. The tea was hot and sweet, tasted wonderful and he devoured it.

  He munched his sausage and took a few measly bites of the toast.

  His night’s sleep had been interrupted by the consistent banging of other cell doors and the shouting and bawling of drunks. Being a suspected murderer he was given a cell to himself, for which he was grateful. Had a drunk been thrown in with him, he would have murdered him too.

  He was allowed a quick shower and a shave before being banged up again.

  A cop pushed a copy of the People through his hatch and Rider thanked him genuinely. Any short escape from boredom was welcome.

  He settled down, deciding to read every word.

  When the cell door opened a few minutes later he was deep into an article about a show-jumper and a tart.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ the gaoler informed Rider.

  Breakfast in the Christie household was a chaotic affair. The two girls rushed around as if the house was an obstacle course, both seemingly hyperactive after a good night’s sleep. They were getting ready for riding lessons and moved around in various stages of undress, finally emerging in jodhpurs, boots, whips and hats, ready to go. Kate and Karen volunteered to take them. They went in Donaldson’s Cherokee and the girls were delighted that, at last, they were in a car which complemented their hobby.

  The men sighed and stretched out.

  ‘Great kids,’ commented Donaldson.

  ‘Sell ‘em to you,’ Henry offered. ‘Nahh, they’re brilliant. Not long for you now?’

  A smile of satisfaction spread slowly across the American’s face. Fatherhood beckoned and he was a willing participant.

  Henry drank the last of his tea and the two men finalised their plans for the day ahead with an agreement to meet or contact each other at 6 p.m.

  They shook hands before parting.

  ‘Watch your ass,’ Donaldson said. ‘Don’t trust any of the fuckers an inch.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  They weren’t allowed to touch one another. It was a closed visit. Rider sat on one side of the room with a wall and glass panel in front of him. Isa sat on the other side. A speaker in one corner of the glass allowed them to communicate.

  She looked forlorn and helpless and he had a need to reach out and hold her very tightly.

  ‘Jacko told me,’ she said in answer to his question.

  Rider nodded. ‘I told him not to tell anyone.’

  ‘He thought I should know.’

  ‘I don’t deserve you,’ Rider said simply.

  Her eyes misted over. She tilted her head back but could not prevent a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘I love you, John. I can’t stop loving you because of what you’ve done. I just want you to know that I’m here for you and I’ll wait. Corny, but true. You’re all I’ve wanted for years and I’m not going to let you go.’

  He looked away from her quickly. His eyes were unable to level with hers.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he babbled. ‘I really screwed up, didn’t I?’

  She forced the glimmer of a smile. ‘Yeah, so what’s new?’ she said, but not unkindly. ‘What’s going to happen, John?’

  ‘They’re trying to fit me up, but there’s no evidence. I should walk, but you were right. I don’t think Munrow did light that fire.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Conroy. I was conned by Ron the Con. Munrow didn’t do it; it wasn’t his style. I should’ve realised that. He would have met me face to face. I should’ve listened to you, then maybe we’d still be in bed, reading the Sunday papers ... naked.’

  ‘Don’t, John,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t want to think about it. All I want to do now is help you. How can I do that? How?’

  ‘Just do what you said you would. Be there for me. That’s all I need. You’ll pull me through that way.’

  Henry walked past Isa as she was leaving the custody office, not knowing who she was, of course. Siobhan was waiting for him, reading through Rider’s custody record.

  ‘Ready?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. I’ve got the Duty Inspector to authorise a search of Rider’s flat. We’ll see if we can find the gun there and some authentic evidence. Maybe then there won’t be a need for this charade.’

  Siobhan had already booked out a set of sealed tapes.

  ‘Interview first,’ she said.

  The morning custody officer walked into the office. ‘The duty solicitor rang in about ten minutes ago to say she would be delayed about an hour.’

  ‘Thanks, Jim.’

  ‘In that case, we might as well have a brew together, Henry,’ Siobhan suggested.

  ‘I think not,’ he replied.

  Henry took the opportunity to approach the Patrol Sergeant who, amazingly, rustled up four bobbies to help him search Rider’s flat. Henry knew it would be a waste of time, because if Rider did have a gun, or a ski mask, or bloodstained clothing, it would be gone by now. Rider was no fool. But the motions had to be gone through.

  Prior to setting off, Henry went to his desk and found his extendable baton which he fixed on his belt in its plastic, quick-draw pouch. Just in case there was any resistance at the Rider household.

  The little team set off in a personnel carrier, with Henry sat in the back together with two of the Constables. The other two were upfront, one driving.

  Siobh
an ran out of the back door of the station to see the van drawing away. She shouted something which Henry could not hear, but his lip reading skills were advanced enough to know that she was questioning his parentage. He gave her a little wave.

  They were at the basement flat within minutes and went en masse to the door at the front of the steps. Henry knocked. He was looking forward to breaking the door down, just to vent some of his suppressed anger.

  There were footsteps inside.

  The door opened.

  Henry immediately recognised the woman as being the one he’d walked past in the custody office not many minutes before.

  ‘Yes?’ she said suspiciously.

  Henry dangled an A5-size form in front of her eyes. ‘I’m DS Christie from Blackpool police station. This is an authority to search these premises - by force if necessary.’

  She peered closely at the form, then closed the door.

  Henry was about to exclaim, ‘Yes!’ in anticipation, and reach for his baton - which he had yet to use - when the chain slid back and the door opened fully.

  ‘Come in,’ she said wearily. ‘You won’t find anything.’

  Henry stood by to let the PCs pass him and commence the search.

  ‘You his wife or something?’

  ‘Some hope,’ Isa said. ‘Do you want a brew? I’ve just boiled the kettle.’

  Surprised by the hospitality, Henry said yes. House searches were usually met with resistance, not acquiescence. They were often battles and quite good sport.

  She led him into the kitchen and flicked the kettle switch again.

  ‘And you are?’ he asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to make a record of people present during the search.’ It was true, he did.

  ‘Isa Hart.’

  He scribbled her name down on a piece of paper.