Nightmare City hc-2

by Nick Oldham

  No way could the next change have been down to a mistake of fingers. It was much more fundamental, but still quite subtle.

  The original statement had been quite specific about the descriptions of the men responsible. The witness had a very clear memory of events. He had described all the men as being quite small, about five foot six to five foot eight. And though they had all worn masks, he described their hair colours and even guessed at possible ages — seventeen to twenty-three. All young men.

  The typed statement changed this to: ‘They were all of medium height’ — and the individual descriptions of the men had been amended too, making them much more general than specific. The age range had also been changed: ‘anything from seventeen to thirty-seven’.

  One of the men had spoken during the raid and the witness had described his voice as ‘gruff, with a local accent, and I would probably recognise it again.’ The typed statement read, ‘He had a Lancashire accent and I probably wouldn’t recognise it again.’

  The changes meant that the men could have been anyone of a quarter of a million males in the north-west of England and were evidentially worthless.

  Another slight but significant change was the time that it took to rob the place — reduced from four minutes to two. This meant that the men had left the premises at the new time of 7.03 p.m., giving them ample time to make it to the newsagents in Blackpool… if, in fact, the men who had robbed the shop in Fleetwood were the same ones responsible for that subsequent, appalling crime.

  Luton sat back and allowed his head to flop backwards so he was staring at the ceiling.

  What was going on here? he asked himself. What did all this mean? Had other statements been changed too?

  ‘ DC Luton, isn’t it?’

  Luton sat bolt upright and spun round on the chair.

  ‘ Oh, hello, sir.’

  It was Tony Morton, Head of the NWOCS, and Jim Tattersall.

  ‘ Working late? I won’t be approving the overtime,’ Morton said with a short laugh. There was no humour behind it. He and Tattersall were standing at the door. Luton panicked inside as he wondered how long they’d been there watching him.

  They walked towards Luton who, easy as he could, rotated back to face the desk. He picked up the typed statement and dropped it casually back into the basket, then rolled up his photocopies with shaking hands.

  ‘ So… what’re you up to?’

  Luton faced them again. A wave of intimidation gushed through him. Like nausea.

  ‘ Uh — nothing,’ he stammered. ‘Just having a read of a few statements. Seeing where we’re up to…’ His throat was arid, constricted, but he could I not understand why. He felt as if he’d been caught doing something naughty, yet here was the perfect opportunity to tell Morton — in the presence of Tattersall — exactly what he’d found: someone had been tampering with witness statements. It was his duty to do so.

  Fuck that, he thought. These two looked like they were in this together.

  ‘ We have statement readers for that sort of thing,’ announced Morton.

  Tattersall loomed silently and menacingly behind him.

  ‘ Yes, I know, sir. Just interested, that’s all.’ He tried to slip the rolled-up photocopies smoothly into the inside pocket of his jacket. Actually there was nothing smooth about the way he did it because his nerves got the better of him. For a start, there were about a dozen sheets of A4-size paper, not specifically designed to fit into inner jacket pockets, especially when there is a wallet, diary and two pens in there already. Basically the statements did not fit, but he made them go in by crushing them up and forcing them. The result was a huge bulge like a rugby ball in his pocket.

  ‘ What’ve you got there?’ Morton asked.

  Luton stood up. ‘Nothing, sir. Just some of my notes. If you’ll excuse me.’

  He made to walk past Morton who held out a hand, placed it across Luton’s chest and prevented him walking away. Luton thought for one horrible moment he was going to reach into the pocket and grab the statements.

  ‘ Is everything OK?’ he asked, eyebrows raised. Luton nodded dumbly. ‘Any problems, you can come to me with them.’ He looked Luton squarely in the eyes and Luton was certain Morton must be able to feel the beating of his heart; the organ was thrashing around in his chest like a crazy man locked in a cell.

  ‘ No, no problems,’ croaked Luton.

  Morton removed his hand. Luton said good night, sidestepped Morton and Tattersall and walked coolly to the door, where he then bolted.

  He hit the stairs, he calculated, at somewhere approaching 100 m.p.h. and threw himself down them like a pin-ball. Within moments he had descended to the level of the CID office — which was as deserted as the incident room had been.

  He needed to see his role model. But his role model wasn’t there.

  ‘ Henry, where the shite are you when I need you?’ he chunnered under his breath. He went to Henry’s desk, picked up the phone and dialled Comms. No, they had no idea where the Acting DI was. He dialled Henry’s home number. Kate answered.

  ‘ Kate, sorry to bother you. Is Henry there, it’s Derek Luton here.’

  ‘ No, he’s not back yet,’ said Kate. ‘Are you all right, Derek? You sound a bit strained.’

  ‘ Absolutely fine. Just breathless from the stairs,’ he said oddly.

  ‘ You want to leave a message or anything?’

  ‘ No, it’s all right. I’ll catch up with him later,’ he said in what he vainly hoped was a more controlled voice. ‘Bye.’ He hung up.

  ‘ What to do, what to do,’ he said to himself whilst he danced on the spot like someone on hot coals, opening and closing his fists. Then: ‘Get a grip, you knob,’ he remonstrated. He quickly scribbled a note for Henry on a yellow post-it and stuck it prominently in the middle of the desk blotter, as opposed to around the edge where the rest of them were stuck like flags. He hoped Henry would see it straight away.

  In the back yard of the police station it was brass monkeys. After these past few pleasant days, the January nights had turned harsh and bitter. Luton strode out of the ground-floor rear entrance and headed towards his car at something approaching a jog, all the while looking over his shoulder, but feeling completely stupid for doing so.

  He got to his car in one piece. Stop overreacting, dickhead, he told himself. Why should anyone want to do anything to you? Complete crap.

  However, when he was in the driver’s seat, he made damn sure all the doors were locked before starting the engine.

  Instinct was telling him two things.

  One — you’ve just uncovered something very smelly indeed. And two — watch your back, pal.

  When Luton had gone from the room, Morton walked over to where he’d been sitting and picked up the top statement from the file.

  ‘ Fuck,’ he said. ‘What the hell is this doing here, for everyone to see?’ He looked hard at Tattersall.

  ‘ I came back to put them away,’ he replied. ‘That’s when I found him.’

  Morton’s nostrils flared angrily. ‘We cannot afford to take chances,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘D’you think he’s sussed it?’

  ‘ He’s sharp. Think about all those questions he’s been asking. I’d say yes, he’s sussed it.’

  After a thoughtful pause, Morton spoke. ‘As I said, we can’t take any chances.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  Luton did not have to wake up to check the clock. He was already awake and knew it was 2 a.m.

  Annie, his wife of six months, had been asleep; not as deeply as usual. His tossing and turning and sweating meant she could not get comfortable. It was like sleeping with a restless dog.

  ‘ What time is it?’ she groaned groggily.

  Luton told her.

  There was another knock on the door.

  ‘ Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘ Dunno.’ He slid out of bed, covering his nakedness with a dressing gown.

  He went to the bedroom window and pee
red out, shading his eyes with his hands like goggles. The weather had really turned and sleet was blasting down the avenue on an icy wind. Luton could make out the dark shape of a man at the front door, huddled up against the elements. He couldn’t see who it was. ‘Might be Henry,’ he said. ‘I left him a note to contact me.’

  Annie turned over and disappeared underneath the quilt. ‘Well, tell him to get stuffed,’ she murmured. Seconds later she was back in the land of snooze.

  Luton let the curtain fall back into place. He slid his feet into his moccasin slippers and went downstairs. The front door was solid with just one pane of mottled glass in it. He pushed his face up to it, peering out, flattening his nose. ‘Henry?’ he called.

  Luton could not identify the person properly but when there came a muffled, ‘Yeah,’ in reply he breathed out in relief. Despite the time, Luton was pleased Henry had turned up. There were some burning issues to discuss.

  He slid the chain off, pulled back the two bolts, unlocked the mortise and opened the door. A strong gust of Arctic cold wind whipped in around his bare legs and gripped his testicles.

  The figure outside had his back to Luton, standing in shadow.

  ‘ Henry?’

  The figure turned. Luton recognised the face immediately and registered the gun in the man’s right hand. It had a bulbous silencer on it.

  A hushed Thk! hardly made an inroad into the sounds of the night. The bullet drove into Luton’s forehead, spun like a missile through his brain and exited out of the back of his skull.

  He was dead. Standing, but dead.

  His legs buckled like a sucker-punched boxer. They collapsed under him and he toppled over, blood gushing in a torrent all over the hallway.

  Just to make sure, the man leaned forwards, placed the gun at Luton’s temple and put two more in because it was surprising how some people lived if you didn’t make certain.

  Annie woke for some reason, not quite sure why. She shivered. It was ever so cold in the bedroom. Her arm, which had been out of the quilt, was like a block of ice.

  She rolled over, pulling the cover over her head, and reached out for her husband — who was not there.

  Startled by this, she came fully awake and opened her eyes. It was still dark. She focused on the digital clock-face on the bedside cabinet. 6.20. God, it was so cold. And where was he? What was Derek doing up at this time of day?

  Somewhere in the recess of her mind she recalled the two o’clock knock on the door.

  Four hours ago. Surely Henry had gone home!

  She climbed out of bed and hastily grabbed her fluffy dressing gown and bunny-rabbit slippers.

  It was bloody freezing on the landing. Real penguin temperatures. A gale was blowing, as if the front door was open. She switched the landing and hall lights on.

  She’d almost reached the foot of the stairs before she realised what she was looking at, lying in a lake of congealed blood and half-covered in wet slush.

  She sank to her knees, her hands covering the silent scream.

  She was unable to do anything, but stare.

  Then she found her voice and started an unworldly, inhuman wail of horror.

  Chapter Eleven

  The three men met at an exclusive golf and country club set in the high, lovely countryside between Blackburn and Bolton. This was where all their meetings took place. The club was owned by one of the men and the other two held small, but profitable stakes.

  The owner made the arrangements for the meetings with the management of the club (which was scrupulously operated) to ensure they would not be disturbed for at least two hours while they used the pool and the sauna. It was a good atmosphere in which the men could relax and unwind and discuss business matters.

  The meetings usually concluded in the same way: girls were brought in for two of them, and a young man for the third.

  They always arrived and departed separately, at least twenty minutes apart.

  That Wednesday morning was an emergency meeting.

  It had snowed overnight and the hills were covered with a white blanket. It was not pleasant flaky snow, but wet and slushy and grimy.

  The first of the men to arrive was the owner of the club, Ronnie Conroy.

  He had learned his lesson from Blackpool and now, as well as his driver, he was accompanied by two armed goons. No one was going to sneak up on him again.

  The big Mercedes purred up the long driveway, past a couple of snow-covered trees and greens, stopping outside the grand entrance to the club.

  Conroy walked straight into the club, striding quickly through the reception foyer and into the manager’s office. After checking the arrangements had been made, he went to the changing rooms and got into his swimming gear. He dived into the heated pool and swam a few slow lengths whilst he considered matters.

  Ronnie Conroy was a worried man.

  There are perhaps a hundred and fifty to two hundred people, all men, who are the top operators and control eighty per cent of the UK drugs trade and they lead lives of lavish wealth, often in communities far away from their trading heartlands. They are far removed from street dealers and the day-to-day violence of bars, housing estates and night clubs upon which they shower their product.

  With a few exceptions, these men all reside in houses with swimming pools, stable blocks and acres of grounds. They own race horses, private planes or helicopters and homes abroad; the ones with children send them to private schools. Many are active within their adopted communities, living apparently blameless lives, supporting churches, charities and often find themselves on school boards.

  They all own legitimate businesses which act as a front for their more nefarious activities; they are usually cash based businesses, more often than not in retailing.

  Ronnie Conroy, one-time partner of John Rider, had grown into one of these top operators.

  What Conroy really imagined himself to be was a businessman, not a gangster. The words Company Director were proudly displayed on his passport. The fact that the bulk of his company’s profits came from supplying drugs, prostitution and selling guns was something he never mentioned in polite company. In fact, his neighbours in Osbaldeston, a leafy village on the outskirts of Blackburn, believed he was a car dealer.

  Conroy had been connected to Rider for many years, and another man called Munrow. The three of them had bonded professionally, though their personalities often clashed, and had built up an empire of criminal activity in the east of Lancashire and Manchester which had operated for well over ten years from the mid-seventies. Hard, violent years. Much of their time had been spent kicking the shit out of other would-be’s to keep their own heads out of the sewage.

  The profits had been good, but not as substantial as they could have been in a more peaceful, cooperative regime.

  Conroy had realised this, but his pleas to Rider and Munrow to make peace with other gangs fell on deaf ears. They were both highly feared individuals who got pleasure from inflicting pain, intimidating others and ruling — literally — with iron rods, unless they were using pick-axe handles instead.

  Their heavy tactics simply fuelled fires. Then halfway through the 1980s, there was an explosion of blood as gang fought gang for supremacy.

  When the North-West police forces formed a dedicated squad to combat this menace, Conroy had been one of the first to see the light

  … and things fell very neatly into place for him just at the right time.

  Rider seemed to lose his nerve. He ran and never returned.

  Munrow was an awkward bastard. He wouldn’t run from anyone. For safety’s sake, he had to be sacrificed one way or another — and Conroy was just the man to do it.

  Without ever knowing the real truth — that Conroy had informed the cops — Munrow was arrested halfway through a robbery in Accrington. He and a gang of three armed men were surrounded by a heavily armed police contingent who had been briefed that the gang were ruthless and dangerous and should not be given any quarter. One of the four t
ried running. He was gunned down with a complete lack of mercy.

  Munrow surrendered quickly, suspecting, but never being able to prove, that Rider — who should have been the fifth member of the gang — had grassed on him. Subsequently he was jailed for nineteen years. This was the longest sentence even a judge who had been bribed could realistically run to. Even that had been a push to justify, but in his summing up he damned Munrow as a ‘menace to society’, ‘evil’, and other epithets. The promise of a villa on the Costa del Sol can work wonders, even to the judiciary.

  From that point on, with Rider and Munrow out of the picture, Conroy flourished.

  And so did his colleagues within the police force and local politics.

  He pushed a new culture of cooperation, which was fairly easy to achieve because, using information provided by him, the police in the form of the newly established North-West Organised Crime Squad were able to round up, prosecute and jail most of his rivals. The ones who escaped the legal net were killed in a series of shootings for which no one was ever captured.

  Within eighteen months of Munrow’s convictions, Conroy controlled a string of council estates throughout East Lancashire, over a dozen clubs, fifty pubs and a few schools.

  But, after eleven years of peace and prosperity, Conroy found himself facing the biggest threat to his empire ever.

  Munrow was back on the streets after serving a little more than half his sentence. He had come out of Strangeways like a bad-tempered bear who wanted his porridge back.

  He and Conroy had met to discuss things in an acrimonious encounter which achieved zilch. Conroy was not about to give him anything. Furiously Munrow had left, stating, ‘Well, if that’s your attitude, I’ll take everything.’

  He began to keep that promise.

  That was problem one.

  Then Dundaven had been arrested and there was the distant, but real possibility that police enquiries could end up on his doorstep. Problem two.