Nightmare City hc-2

by Nick Oldham

  ‘ OK George, I know you ain’t impressed by my gut feelings about this, but I ask you, implore you, to keep an open mind about it. Keep your ear to the ground — don’t just forget it once me and Sam get on board that silver bird tomorrow. I’m sure Sam was onto something and it obviously involved Hamilton. And if you do find anything out, let me know soonest… and really give that Romero some pain.’

  Santana nodded. He laid a hand on Donaldson’s shoulder. ‘I will, my friend. Trust me.’

  Yeah, thought the American. What you’re really sayin’ is, ‘Get off my island and leave me in peace, you Yankee busybody.’ Once I’ve gone, you won’t give me a second thought, will you — and whoever killed Sam’ll get away with it.

  A jolt of pain leapt through his jaw. He cupped his face gently in his hands and his thoughts turned to Francesca. The words he’d said to her stuck in his craw and tried to choke him.

  You can trust me.

  Liar.

  ‘ Right, people,’ said Henry, addressing the small team of officers who were dealing with the Dundaven enquiry. It was 10.30 p.m. They were all raring to race off for a drink; Henry was ready to go home and sink into bed, but not before he’d said one or two things.

  ‘ First of all, well done re today’s work. We’ve started making some inroads into this man Dundaven and I’m sure that if we stick at it, we’ll turn up some real dirt and it’ll snowball… if you see what I mean. But there’s still a lot of questions need answering. What was he really doing in Blackpool? What were his intentions if he hadn’t got pulled? What was he going to do with the guns? Where have they come from, where are they going to? Who is the bastard answerable to? In other words, who is his boss?

  ‘ From tomorrow I think the important thing is to get the prosecution papers sorted out, get the file right, ensure there’s no loopholes anywhere. In that respect each of you review the file critically and then get me, then CPS to do the same. Let’s make it watertight.’

  There was a general nod and murmur of consensus.

  Henry saw the female detective, Siobhan Robson from NWOCS at the back of the room listening. She had a smile playing nicely on her lips. Henry acknowledged her with a quick nod.

  ‘ At the moment, Nina is alive and making some progress, but still critical. They’ve operated on her again today and she was in surgery for four hours. The doctors say it was a success, but there’s more to come. She’s young, strong and brave and there’s every chance she’ll pull through.’ One or two of the detectives showed by their faces they were relieved to hear the news. ‘So, tomorrow, first thing, we’ll charge him with Attempted Murder on her… but if she doesn’t pull through, we’ll simply amend it to Murder. He’s been charged with McCrory’s murder already.

  ‘ We need to start rooting around into McCrory’s background too, which might be easier than Dundaven’s. So far we’ve only found his mum, bless her soul. She thought he was an angel.’

  ‘ He is now,’ chirped one voice. There was a titter of laughter.

  Henry smiled too. ‘Let’s find out about his connection with Dundaven. That could maybe open some chinks… So what I’m saying is there’s a bloody long way to go with this yet. This is just the start, OK? Right, thanks again, everybody. See you all in the morning… unless there’s any questions?’

  ‘ How’s Guy the gorilla?’

  ‘ Doc says he’s doin’ just fine.’

  They had all been standing around the office. They shuffled slowly out past the figure of Siobhan Robson, who looked at Henry, gave him another smile, then left herself.

  Henry watched her go with interest. She was very, very nice indeed

  … but he was above those sorts of thoughts. He sat down heavily.

  Whatever happens, mass murder, terrorist attack, suicide bombing, I will not be coming into work one single minute before nine tomorrow, he thought. Wild horses won’t even be able to drag me out of my pit before 8.15.

  He’d thrown his pager into a drawer and was thinking of the delights of his duvet when one of the DCs who had been working on the murder of Marie Cullen came into the office.

  Her name was Lucy Crane. ‘Hi, Luce.’

  ‘ Boss,’ she said, chewing gum. She was a no-nonsense detective with an air of toughness about her which belied her five-and-a-half foot frame. She was also a lesbian. ‘Summat pretty interestin’,’ she said in her broad Lancs accent. ‘Could be summat, could be nowt.’

  She threw a piece of paper down in front of him with a name scrawled across it.

  ‘ Locked up one year ago for kerb crawlin’ in Blackburn. The prostitute who was showing her fanny for him was Marie Cullen, arrested at the same time.’

  ‘ Very interesting,’ said Henry. He reread the name just to make sure he hadn’t misread it. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate. ‘Any up-to-date connection between the two?’

  ‘ Haven’t got that far yet.’

  ‘ Who else knows about this?’

  ‘ Just me.’

  ‘ Keep it that way for the time being.’

  ‘ Reet, boss.’ She was unfazed but she’d had longer to get used to the idea than Henry, who now found he wanted a drink.

  ‘ C’mon, let me buy you a pint,’ he said. Kate and his bed would have to wait just a little while longer.

  Chapter Ten

  Doctors are supposed to have a sensitive touch, but the consultant who, at ten o’clock the next morning, was probing along John Rider’s ribcage with fingertips like pieces of dowling must have been the exception that proved the rule. Rider flinched each time he was touched.

  After the ribs the doctor moved to the skull, handling it like a rugby ball. Equally roughly he pulled up Rider’s eyelids one at a time with his thumb and shone a penlight torch into his pupils. Then he listened to Rider’s heart and lungs by planting a stethoscope on his chest which felt like it had been left in a freezer. The doctor made a few muttered comments about giving up smoking and drinking or death would not be far away. After this he tested Rider’s blood pressure — which was extremely high — with a tourniquet so tight Rider thought his arm might drop off.

  The consultant stood up and sniffed haughtily. A nurse handed him a set of X-rays which he held up to the light and inspected. He hummed, muttered to himself and handed them back to her.

  Then he regarded Rider over the frame of his pince-nez which were balanced precariously on the tip of his bulbous, pitted nose.

  ‘ How do you feel?’

  ‘ Like shit,’ said Rider honestly.

  ‘ Only to be expected. You had a rather severe beating, but although you’re black and blue, it doesn’t seem to have done any permanent damage. Two of your ribs are broken, but they’ll heal in their own good time. Your spine is bruised, but will improve once you get mobile. And, of course, the cheekbone under your left eye is fractured. The rest is superficial bruising. Your skull is OK. The reason you were kept in was because you passed out. Basically, you’re fine. The most dangerous thing for you at the moment is your blood pressure and the state of your lungs. Give up smoking, Mr Rider. It kills, especially at the rate you smoke.’

  ‘ I know, I know.’ Rider sulked like a schoolboy.

  ‘ You don’t wish to make a complaint to the police, I hear.’

  ‘ No. Wouldn’t be any use. They had balaclavas on.’

  ‘ Your decision,’ said the consultant. ‘But you really must cut back on the fags — that’s my medical advice to you.’

  Rider nodded.

  ‘ You are now discharged from hospital.’

  Isa and Jacko collected the invalid twenty minutes later and helped him down the corridor to the car park where the Jag was waiting. Rider rolled painfully into the back seat and Jacko drove him back to the basement flat. Throughout the journey Isa leaned back over the front seat and looked with concern at Rider who winced with every bump they hit.

  Between winces, he glared back at her accusingly.

  ‘ You’re going to do something stupid, aren’
t you,’ she said bluntly. ‘I can see it in your face.’

  ‘ Depends on your definition of stupid.’

  ‘ My definition? OK — my definition of stupid is someone who can’t control his emotions, someone who has done well for himself and dragged himself out of the gutter of violence, but then steps back into it at the first opportunity because he wants revenge. That’s my definition of stupid — an idiot who wants revenge because that’s all he understands. That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it? Get revenge.’

  He said nothing with his voice, but his expression said yes.

  She closed her eyes in despair and held back the tears because she didn’t want him to see her cry.

  ‘ Please don’t do it, John,’ she appealed quietly. ‘There won’t be any winners from it.’

  ‘ Isa,’ he began with a dangerous tone, ‘those two guys nearly fucking killed me. All they needed to do was say to me, “Don’t get involved”, that’s all. I didn’t actually need telling, truth be known. I wasn’t going to get into some fucking gang war that has nothing whatsoever to do with me. But they went well OTT. They were fucking out of order. There’s no way I’m gonna let this pass. No way. Jacko — turn in here.’

  ‘ Eh? The zoo, you mean?’

  ‘ Yes, the fucking zoo I mean, you moron,’ he growled.

  ‘ But why?’

  ‘ Will you just do what you’re fucking told to do! I want to see if that gorilla’s OK — all right?’

  ‘ Anything you say.’ Jacko slowed the car and headed up the driveway to the zoo. ‘Barmy if you ask me,’ he mumbled.

  Despite the agony attached with movement, Rider leaned forwards between the seats. His mouth was only inches away from Jacko’s ear. ‘If you ever call me barmy again, Jacko, I’ll fucking kill you. D’you understand?’ he rasped hoarsely.

  Isa stared at him, completely dumbstruck.

  Jacko’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t dare look at Rider. As a barman, the same threat had often been uttered to him by drunken, violent customers, but it had meant nothing. Rider’s words, however, shook him to the core. He was very frightened of the man who was now his boss.

  Rider gave Isa a warning glance and leaned back in the leather seats. His face bore the beginning of a sneer. His top lip quivered. His eyes seemed to change to deadly, emotionless orbs. There was a cruel, determined look on his battered features. A look that Isa hadn’t seen for ten years, one she had never wanted to see again, one which meant deadly trouble.

  He had metamorphosised before her eyes. He had reverted to type.

  Rider looked out of the car window, his nostrils flaring angrily. He was aware of the change, too. Like a monster had been reawakened inside him; or some dreadful death-bearing virus, perhaps. Part of him wanted to fight and neutralise it, to destroy it for ever, but it was growing with every second, becoming an unbeatable force, taking over his whole being and personality, driving him on.

  A force that meant he would extract revenge.

  The worst thing about it was that he was quite enjoying the sensation. Rather like injecting a controlled drug. Something he knew he shouldn’t do, but once it was done and the euphoric sensation was creeping through his veins, it was great. Like he’d been asleep for ten years and had now risen from the ashes.

  Those bastards didn’t know what they’d unleashed.

  He saw the tears forming in Isa’s eyes. Ignored them.

  But before he went over the edge, there was one last good thing he wanted to do.

  About twenty minutes after seeing John Rider, the consultant visited another of his patients on the morning round. The name of the patient was Shane Mulcahy and two days before, the consultant had been forced to remove a severely damaged left testicle.

  Throughout Shane’s short stay in hospital, the only period he had been quiet and pleasant was when he’d been under general anaesthetic. Otherwise he had proved himself to be the stereotypical lout, minus the lager. Nothing was good enough for him. The food was ‘shite’. He would have preferred beef burgers and chips all the time. He was rude to the nurses, whom he called ‘tarts’, to the doctors, of whom he was slightly afraid, and his fellow patients, who he thought were all silly old bastards.

  In short, he had been a complete arsehole.

  ‘ Well now, how are you feeling, young man?’ the consultant asked, checking the notes.

  ‘ How would you fucking well feel if you’d had one of your bollocks kicked off?’

  ‘ Not terribly well, I imagine. Having said that, I’d probably be much less of a pain in the arse to everyone.’

  Shane sneered up at him, folded his arms and looked away, his lips muttering silently, his face in a sulk.

  ‘ Let’s have a look then.’

  A nurse drew the curtains around the bed, pulled back the bedclothes and removed the dressing.

  ‘ Like what you see?’ Shane sniggered, trying to cover his embarrassment in a show of bravado.

  The nurse took a deep breath, looked coldly at him and said, ‘I don’t like anything about you.’

  ‘ Twat,’ he hissed.

  The consultant bent over and inspected the shaved and swollen genital area. He probed around more harshly than necessary. Shane let out a yelp of pain and a tear formed in his eye.

  ‘ Sorry,’ said the consultant.

  ‘ Like fuck you are.’

  ‘ You’re fit to go. Make an appointment at Out Patients for Friday. A couple of weeks and you’ll be as right as rain. It won’t affect your manly functions in any way.’

  ‘ Good. An’ I want you to be a witness against the cops for me. I’ll be seein’ me solicitor as soon as I get out of here and I’m gonna sue those bastards for every penny they’ve got.’

  ‘ I shall do what I have to,’ the consultant said. He wrote something on the notes and hung them back over the end of the bed. ‘Though I deplore what happened to you, I would make the observation that you probably deserved what you got.’

  At 10.30 a.m. they were in an unmarked CID car heading east out of Blackpool along the M55. Henry was driving; Lucy Crane was passenger. ‘What do we know about this guy?’ Henry asked.

  He actually knew as much as Lucy, having discussed the man at length in the bar the night before, but wanted to hear it all again.

  Lucy riffled through the papers on her knees and extracted a photocopied entry from Who’ s Who. She read out a few salient points, ad-libbing occasionally, about Sir Harry McNamara, multi-millionaire businessman.

  ‘ Educated Lancaster Grammar,’ she was saying, ‘then Oxford… blah blah… owns a big transport company, worldwide business… went into politics mid-80s… became an MP in ‘83, but retired in ‘87 to pursue his business interests. Supposedly donated lots of money to the Tories and is a good friend of the former Prime Minister, who visits him privately from time to time. Lives in Lancashire. Has homes in London and the Channel Islands.’

  ‘ Rich bastard in other words,’ commented Henry. ‘Not that I’m envious, you understand.’

  ‘ Nor me.’ She turned up some newspaper cuttings and skimmed through them. ‘Second wife an ex-model… been linked with a couple of glamour pusses — and prostitutes. Weathered a storm a couple of years back linking him with a hooker. Wife stood by him and they declared their undying love for each other… how touching… arrested in Blackburn last year for kerb crawling and drink driving.’ The last piece of information came from police reports.

  ‘ The Marie Cullen connection… makes you wonder,’ sighed Henry.

  ‘ Doesn’t make him a killer,’ Lucy warned him.

  ‘ Makes him a good starting point.’

  They came off the M6 and headed towards Blackburn.

  After having kicked it around the office for a while, Henry and Lucy had decided on the direct approach, to treat McNamara as if he was nobody special, just another member of the public who knew the murdered girl.

  Henry had considered making an appointment to see him, but chose not to. Like all witne
sses, he wanted to catch him unprepared. Judging by what little he knew of the man, the element of surprise would probably be short-lived anyway. McNamara was no one’s fool and he would recover quickly — in seconds, probably. Henry wanted to savour that tiny stretch of time before McNamara became the overbearing, obnoxious sod he apparently was when dealing with ‘lesser’ people.

  Prior to setting off Henry had phoned Blackburn police and by pure luck managed to speak to the officer in the plain-clothes department who had arrested McNamara.

  The officer recalled the incident vividly.

  McNamara had been one of the most difficult prisoners he had ever dealt with. He had demanded to speak to the Chief Constable, belittled the officer, threatened legal action and refused to be searched. He stalled, demanded every right — which he got — spoke to some high-flying Manchester solicitor who gave him ‘certain advice’. Then he played the system. He claimed himself to be unable to give a specimen of breath because of a lung infection, unable to give blood because of a medically documented fear of needles and unable to give a specimen of urine because of a bladder infection. He vehemently denied the kerb crawling, stating he was having car trouble.

  Eventually he was charged and bailed with both offences.

  In court he was represented by a barrister who specialised in drink driving legislation; he produced two doctors who testified as to his medical conditions and a motor mechanic who swore blind that McNamara’s Bentley was having mechanical problems that night — something to do with a fuel-line blockage.

  Rent-a-witness.

  The charges were dismissed by Magistrates who did not believe a word but had no choice other than to accept the expert opinions.

  McNamara then instituted civil proceedings against the police for a variety of matters, ranging from malicious prosecution to assault and a myriad of other things. As civil claims tend to, it was still going on.