by Nick Oldham
Carefully he stepped over the shopkeepers and went to inspect what he truly hoped was the last body.
Once again he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him.
He found a light switch, turning it on by pressing it with his thumbnail.
Fluorescent lights pinged on, flooding the hallway with eerie brightness.
He saw the police firearms cap.
He saw the body armour with the word Police stamped across the chest. He saw the 9mm Sig next to the body.
And the face blown away beyond recognition.
In that instant Henry knew that, as bad as it had been to begin with, this whole crime had taken on a much darker, murkier complexion.
He blinked.
Somewhere in the distance, getting closer, was the wail of an ambulance siren.
Not much point in you coming, he thought bitterly.
Henry stood on the pavement outside the shop, watching the uniformed cops push the public back and begin to string out a cordon.
‘ Right back,’ he shouted, confirming his words with a sweeping gesture of his hands. ‘Right back. That’s it.’
Derek Luton appeared by his side.
‘ What’ve you got so far then, Degsy?’ Henry knew Luton had been asking questions.
Luton consulted the scrap of paper he’d used to write on. ‘Two witnesses saw three big guys leaving the shop armed to the back teeth. Got their names and addresses here…’
‘ Oh good, let’s go and arrest them.’
Luton looked at Henry slightly nonplussed for a second. ‘No, no.. I mean the witnesses’ names and addresses.’ He didn’t quite see the joke and carried on. ‘All wearing white hats, masks, T-shirts. They piled into a car which could’ve been a Peugeot 405 or Cavalier, something like that, colour uncertain. Drove off without undue haste. Cool bastards. Sounds like the crew who’ve been hitting the newsagents for the last couple of months.’
Luton was referring to a vicious armed gang who had robbed six newsagents in the last nine weeks, all in the Fylde area of Lancashire. They were getting to be a real headache for the police who had warned that it was only matter of time before someone got killed.
‘ Mmm, sounds like,’ Henry agreed.
‘ And apparently it looks like they blagged another shop in Fleetwood before doing this one.’
‘ Oh?’ Henry perked up. ‘Where did you hear that?’
Luton cocked his thumb at the female officer who’d been first on the scene. ‘Just came over the PR when I was chatting to her.’
‘ Any details?’
‘ Round about seven-ten, seven-fifteen. A newsagents. Discharged a shotgun, but no one got shot. Helped themselves to the contents of the till, seven hundred quid or so. Usual MO. Usual dress. Same lot, I’d say.’
‘ Then they’ve been busy,’ commented Henry. He considered what Luton had told him. His eyes narrowed while his brain chewed it over. ‘Hang on… like normal, they rob a shop and fire the shotgun, like they’ve done on every job, then they tear-arse eight miles down the road like shit off a shovel to do this one? They steal money from up there, like they normally do, yet murder everybody in sight here — and apparently leave all the cash in the till. Fucking odd, if you ask me. And if that guy in the body armour really is a cop, what the fuck was he up to?’ Henry shook his head. ‘I’m not saying it’s not possible, Degsy, but…’
Several cars were pulling up outside. Henry’s boss, a Detective Chief Inspector, got out of one; the others disgorged a mixture of policemen including Detective Chief Superintendent Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, known colloquially as FB, Head of Lancashire CID, and Brian Warner, Assistant Chief Constable (Operations).
Henry’s gaze returned to Luton. ‘Looks like the circus has arrived and here come the clowns. Let’s give’ em what we’ve got and retire with good grace. I doubt if I’ll be involved in this investigation, which is a shame. Looks like being a juicy one. But you might get a shot. I’ll see what I can do.’
Chapter Two
Henry and Luton spent another two hours at the scene before finally handing everything over and returning to Blackpool Central to book off duty.
Henry was correct: he would not be forming part of the team assembled to investigate the murders. He’d been told by FB to continue with the reactive CID work which was his normal job. This was no surprise. Someone had to hold the fort. Other crimes did not stop being committed and they had to be dealt with. In truth he did not mind too much. As Acting DI he had the responsibility for running the CID office whilst the real DI was off sick. Henry intended to apply for promotion later in the year; his proven ability to manage a busy department was something positive to tell the Board.
Luton, however, was told he would be going on the squad. Henry smiled when he saw the young detective’s reaction. Although he had been involved in a couple of domestic murders and one night-club stabbing, this was Luton’s first major enquiry. Henry was pleased for him. It would be invaluable experience.
Henry patted him on the back and congratulated him. Inside he was envious. Having been on many major murder enquiries himself, he knew what a real buzz it was to be part of such a team.
In the car on the way back to the office, Henry asked Luton to keep him abreast of all developments. Luton promised he would.
Back at Blackpool, Henry declined Luton’s offer of a quick drink in the club on the top floor. He wanted to get home, shower, put his feet up and watch Match of the Day with the assistance of a large Jack Daniel’s and his wife, Kate.
Luton waved good night and left. Henry was alone in the deserted office. He sat down at his desk and quickly shuffled through the mountain of paperwork and scanned the array of yellow post-it stickers which desecrated his desk top. There was nothing that couldn’t wait.
Yawning, stretching, he stood up to go. The phone rang shrilly.
It was Eric Taylor, the Custody Sergeant.
‘ Glad I caught you, Henry. Thought I’d better let you know: that lad, the one with the flick-knife?’
‘ Shane Mulcahy,’ said Henry.
‘ You really should’ve written something on the custody record, like I told you to.’
Henry mouthed a swearword. An empty, achy feeling spread through his stomach. He hadn’t written anything in the record because he’d been so eager to get out to the robbery; it had completely slipped his mind. ‘Problem?’ he asked cautiously, knowing there would be, otherwise Taylor wouldn’t be phoning.
‘ You could say that. We had to get an ambulance out to take him to hospital- and he’s still there. Looks like he might have to have a testicle removed. If they can find it, that is. Apparently it’s somewhere up in his throat.’ Taylor chuckled.
Henry groaned. He slumped back into his chair, closed his eyes despairingly and slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.
‘ And there’s nothing on the custody record which covers what happened between you and him. I booked him out into your care so you could document him, then came along twenty minutes later to see him squirming on the floor, clutching his bollocks. And you gave me that knife and that’s all I know. I’ve had to write down what I saw and it doesn’t look good, Henry. Sorry.’
‘ Couldn’t you have left a line or two for me to write something?’
‘ Yeah, right, Henry. You know damn well I couldn’t do that. I asked you to write something and you didn’t. Now he’s in hospital with a double Adam’s apple. If he makes a complaint — and he’s just the sort of little shit to do so — you’ve got a lot of explaining to do. Sorry, pal.’
Jack Daniel’s did not help Henry to get to sleep. His mind kept spinning from the sight of all that death, right round to his complete stupidity in not carrying out such a fundamental task as writing up an entry in a custody record. Bread and butter stuff. It was so easy not to do it, and detectives had a poor history where custody records were concerned. They were seen as something that got in the way of detection, some bureaucratic tool to be treated with contempt. Bu
t not by Henry Christie. Normally so diligent, careful… professional. He fully understood the possible legal ramifications of not being meticulous and recording everything. And he always stressed the importance of custody records to his detectives. They protected both officer and prisoner.
He tried to make excuses for himself.
He’d been busy. He was turning out to a multiple killing.
But if he were honest and critical, they were thin, paltry excuses.
Now he faced the possibility of an assault complaint, followed by a tedious investigation and maybe — he grimaced at the thought — a court appearance facing a criminal charge.
All because he hadn’t covered himself.
The thought appalled him, but it was the worst case scenario, he assured himself. He’d be very unlucky if it came to that.
His wife Kate turned over and draped an arm across his chest.
She smelled wonderful, having dabbed herself sparingly with Allure by Chanel after her bath. He stroked her arm with the tips of his fingers. She smiled and uttered a sigh of pleasure. She loved to be stroked. Like a cat.
‘ I forgot to tell you,’ she murmured dreamily. ‘We won ten pounds on the lottery.’
‘ Aren’t we the lucky ones?’
He purged all thoughts of death and prosecution from his mind, snuggled down into the bed, took gentle hold of Kate and felt himself harden against her belly.
Chapter Three
At ten o’clock the following morning, Sunday, John Rider emerged unsteadily through the front door of his basement flat situated in the South Shore area of Blackpool.
He walked stiffly up the steps to pavement level, then turned and surveyed the building which towered above his flat.
In its better days it had been an hotel, but over the past thirty years had undergone a series of changes — to guest-house, back to hotel, to private flats, back to guest-house… until in the early 1980s it had been completely abandoned, quickly becoming derelict. By the time Rider saw it advertised for sale, deterioration through damp and vandalism had set in and the building was nothing more than a shell. He bought it for almost nothing and set about refurbishment with as little outlay as possible. He turned it into a complex of twelve tiny bedsits and, after getting a Fire amp; Safety certificate, filled the rooms with unemployed people drawing dole who needed accommodation and breakfasts, but who always paid the rent. Or to be exact, had the rent paid for them by the Department of Social Security.
So, in colloquial parlance, the newest metamorphosis of the building was a ‘DSS doss-house’.
This had marked the beginning of a new and lucrative career for Rider, who had subsequently bought three similar properties and converted them into little gold mines.
Though he had done well out of the business, the lifestyle was nowhere near as exciting as the one he used to have. But it was safe and divorced from his past. The most difficult things he had to deal with these days were the damage to his property, caused usually during drunken squabbles between his tenants, or drug-taking by the same people — a pastime he abhorred and clamped down on firmly, sometimes violently.
Looking up at his property that morning he was pleased to see that there didn’t seem to be any windows broken, the usual for Saturday night.
Glad about this, Rider walked across to the only remnant he possessed of his previous life. It was a maroon-coloured Jaguar XJ12, bought new in 1976. A real gangster’s car which had seen much better days.
He and the car complemented each other. Both were slightly tatty, worn at the edges — ravaged, even — with a rather cynical air about them and an aura of aloofness which had a sinister undertone of danger and power.
And both of them smoked and drank too much and took a long time to get going first thing in the morning.
The engine fired up after a prolonged turn of the ignition. The twelve cylinders rumbled unevenly into life, coughing and spluttering until they caught fire and settled into a steady, burbling rhythm.
Rider let the car warm up for a few minutes. Realising he had forgotten to bring his cigarettes, he slid the ashtray open and poked distastefully through its overflowing contents until he found a dog-end which contained at least one lungful of smoke in it. He lit it with the electric lighter and took a sweet, deep drag.
He pressed the button on the console and the driver’s window creaked open, jamming halfway down as always. He blew out the smoke from inside his chest, flicked the fag-end out onto the pavement and set off.
He drove down onto the Promenade, turned right, heading north. It was one of those clear, crisp January mornings with a fine blue sky, no clouds and a silver sea.
The Promenade was quiet. A few grimy locals meandered around. Traffic was light. A council truck lumbered down the inner promenade, emptying dog-shit bins.
He turned off at Talbot Square and headed inland, picking up the signs for the zoo, where he’d arranged to meet Conroy.
It was actually Conroy who wanted the meet. He who suggested the zoo. More informal, more natural and convivial, he’d said. And he hadn’t been to a zoo since he was a kid.
Rider, out of curiosity more than anything, had agreed.
It had been a long time since he’d seen Conroy and although he’d no wish to re-open old wounds, he was intrigued.
He wondered exactly how ‘convivial’ the man would be. To the best of his memory, conviviality was not one of Ronnie Conroy’s strongest points.
Henry arrived for work at 8 a.m. that morning. He immediately went to check Shane Mulcahy’s custody record. With a bitter twist on his lips he read it and saw there was nowhere for him to add an entry.
He also learned that Shane was still in hospital and was being operated on later to remove a severely damaged testicle which had apparently split like a plum.
So that was the situation. Nothing he could do about it but wait, cross his fingers and pray. No point thinking If only… Too damn late for that.
Disgusted with himself he tried to put it to the back of his mind and concentrate oil the day ahead.
The screen on the custody office computer — coupled with screams and shouts from the cell complex — told him the cells were full. He was relieved to be informed that there was only one overnight prisoner for the CID to deal with, although he would not be fit until he sobered up — conservative estimate being midday. Sounded like a good job for the detectives coming on at two.
He left the custody office and drifted up to the communications room where he read the message pad which logged all incoming calls and deployments. It had been a busy night in Blackpool. Henry was glad his days as a patrol officer were long gone. It was a dog’s life at the sharp end.
After this he had a quick cup of tea and a piece of toast in the canteen before descending to the CID office and his cluttered desk, where he began to draft out a careful statement regarding his interaction with Shane while it was fresh in his memory.
Throughout the morning he was disturbed by a stream of detectives who had been brought on duty to form the murder squad. Many were old friends from across the county.
The first briefing was to be at 11 a.m. in the incident room.
Henry decided, if he had time, he would go in and listen. He had not yet heard who the dead body dressed in police kit was, and curiosity nagged away at him.
Conroy’s big fat Mercedes was the only car in the zoo car park.
Rider drove his Jag past, made a big loop and pulled alongside with a scrunch of tyres on gravel. By this time Conroy was out and standing there, awaiting Rider who climbed creakily out of his car.
Conroy was a vision in cream, with a woven silk three-piece suit by Hermes, off-white T-shirt, and a pair of white canvas trainers by Converse. He’d seen the outfit in Esquire and decided he liked the look. It was him. It had set him back over a thousand pounds.
The two men shook hands. Conroy gave an almost imperceptible nod to his driver and the Mercedes moved away.
‘ I’ve told him to com
e back in an hour. That OK?’
‘ Fine by me,’ Rider said indifferently, ‘but what’ll we talk about for that length of time? Your fashion sense?’
Conroy laughed guardedly and patted Rider on the shoulder. ‘We’ll think of something… but John, how are you? Nice to see you. You look bloody rough actually and you smell like a fuckin’ brewery. Did you drown in a bottle of gin last night? Christ, it’s a good job the cops didn’t pull ya — you’d still be over the limit.’
Rider glared at him through narrowed eyes, already wound up by a man he hadn’t seen for five years, although he’d tried to keep abreast of his nefarious activities.
‘ And you look like some pathetic ageing rock star in that suit and with that pony tail,’ he retorted.
‘ Whoa, come on, John,’ the other said placatingly. ‘Let’s have a walk and a talk, take a look at some animals, maybe do some business
… yeah?’
Rider didn’t really want to be here with someone who represented much of what was bad about his past, yet his innate curiosity had been aroused. What did this bastard want? He nodded reluctantly.
‘ Good man.’
They walked towards the zoo entrance.
A lone car pulled onto the far side of the car park, catching Rider’s eye. A white Jap thing. Two people on board — men, staring in their direction. They looked as out of place as Conroy and Rider. But although he noticed the car and experienced a vague disquiet, Rider didn’t pay it much heed. He wasn’t a gangster any more, so why should he?
Henry found himself in exalted company, sharing a lift with a dying breed of officer. Two Chief Superintendents, the rank being one of those abolished in police shake-ups of recent years. There were a few left, but not many.
One was Fanshaw-Bayley, Henry’s ultimate boss. The other was the Head of the North-West Organised Crime Squad generally referred to as the NWOCS, Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton.