Nightmare City hc-2

by Nick Oldham

  ‘ Fucking aggravation,’ he said out loud as he dived under the water. It was getting like old times.

  Action needed to be taken.

  He surfaced with a gasp, did the crawl to the edge of the pool and dragged himself out, showered, stripped and stepped into the sauna where things were very, very hot.

  Twenty-two minutes after Conroy had arrived, the second member of the trio drove up to the country club in a less conspicuous motor. Had the registered number been checked on the Police National Computer it would have revealed that the registered keeper was of ‘blocked’ status. This meant that information about the owner could only be passed over landline, not by radio, and only to police officers. This was often the case with vehicles used by the police for undercover work, particularly on specialist units. The computer screen would have also told the operator that this particular car belonged to the North-West Organised Crime Squad, based in Blackburn. It did not go on to say that the car was allocated to Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton for his exclusive use.

  Morton parked up and went into the club by a side entrance, ensuring he didn’t have to pass through Reception.

  He went towards the pool where at the door he was faced by Conroy’s two guards. He submitted bad-naturedly to their body search with a sneer on his face. Then he changed, showered and went directly to the sauna.

  Conroy sat there naked and unashamed, sweat streaking down his body, his limp penis resting on his thigh like a pet.

  Morton nodded to him, threw a ladle of water on the coals and hopped onto the top bench and laid out full-length.

  Although Karl Donaldson had been offered FBI-owned accommodation in London, he had declined, choosing instead to live in the small town of Hartley Wintney, about half an hour’s train journey from the capital. It was also within minutes of Karen’s workplace — the Police College at Bramshill — where she was seconded to the teaching staff.

  Living in Hartley Wintney meant early starts and late finishes for Donaldson, but the unhurried lifestyle and surrounding countryside made it worth the effort. One of the great pleasures in his life had come to be getting off the train at Winchfield, the nearest station to home, at the end of a long day to be greeted by Karen and driven home to their little rented cottage. It was like living in some sort of Noel Coward time warp. He loved it to bits. A stereotypical American’s view of the English way of life, spoiled perhaps by the Jeep Cherokee he had bought so he could keep just a faint grip on America.

  He allowed himself a late start that Wednesday morning, sleeping for almost twelve hours. It was after ten when he arrived at the FBI office in the American Embassy.

  His chain-beaten appearance and black eye caused much interest, as did his story about Sam and her death. After a short conference with his colleagues he went to his desk with the intention of writing up a very detailed report and a strong recommendation that the matter should not rest there: a full investigation should be set up with the cooperation of the Portuguese authorities.

  After that he intended to contact New York and set about finding out everything he could about Scott Hamilton.

  Those were his good intentions.

  What he hadn’t bargained for was the multi-storey building of paper work which had accumulated on his desk during his absence. It looked like he’d been away for six months, not a few days. He experienced a vague tinge of annoyance that someone else hadn’t taken it on.

  He shrugged. That was life in any office, he guessed.

  His first instinct was to sweep all the papers off into a bin. Very, very tempting. He sighed and screwed his professional head on. He eased himself stiffly into his chair. His bones and body were still feeling bruised and battered. He took the top item from the pile and perused it.

  Within minutes he felt as if he’d never been away from the place.

  Half an hour later, the final member of the trio arrived. His car was the biggest, flashiest of all three — a Bentley Brooklands which had set one of his companies back just short of a hundred grand.

  He wasn’t too concerned about walking in through Reception and who might possibly spot him. He was a regular there, well-known to be a part owner and believed he could be seen with whom he damn well liked.

  The other two were sitting in opposite corners of the sauna.

  Conroy was still naked, but Morton had a towel neatly folded across his lap, covering his dignity.

  The third man burst in. He was completely naked, his large loose stomach hanging down over his pubes. He sat somewhere midway between the others.

  ‘ I think we’ve got problems,’ Sir Harry McNamara said.

  They adjourned to one of the plush conference rooms. A large picture window overlooked the golf course and beyond to the moors which swept away towards Bolton. On a clear day the view was magnificent. Today the weather had worsened and slanting snow reduced visibility to a matter of metres.

  Coffee, sandwiches, biscuits and brandy had been brought in. A Do Not Disturb sign hung on the outside of the door — rather pathetically as no one would have countenanced disturbing them. The two apes with big bulges under their arms and sloping foreheads saw to that.

  McNamara was doing the talking.

  ‘ I don’t need to tell you both that things are reaching a critical stage here, and the last thing we need is to have our equilibrium rocked in any way.’ He dunked a ginger biscuit deeply into his coffee, immersed it for a good few seconds to allow it to soak, then placed the whole soggy mess into his mouth. ‘My part of the negotiations have gone extremely well and my contact — my very nervous contact — will be here soon to view the samples.’ He sighed grimly and looked with undisguised scorn at Conroy. ‘Only we don’t have anything for him to look at, do we?’

  ‘ It was just fucking unfortunate that Dundaven got picked up,’ Conroy snapped defensively.

  ‘ What were you thinking of, taking them to Blackpool in the first place?’

  Conroy stiffened. ‘You’re the one who wanted them stashed well away from your warehouse, just in case. Rider’s club seemed as good a place as any. I shouldn’t have given the bastard any choice. I should’ve just told him I was going to use it… and, of course, those two guys turning up with shooters complicated matters, threw me off-course a bit, y’know?’ He touched the side of his face. ‘Having a gun stuck into the back of your head, then going off next to your ear ain’t pleasant. My ear still rings like fucking chapel bells… It was a bad fucking day all round.’

  ‘ And that’s another thing,’ McNamara latched onto. ‘What’s the position with you and Munrow? We won’t be doing business with anyone unless we can show we’re in control. What’s the current state of play?’

  ‘ I have no fucking idea at all. It’s a waiting game. I don’t know what his plans are. He’s an unpredictable, dangerous twat.’

  ‘ Take him out,’ said McNamara.

  ‘ Oh — like, yeah. Easier said than done. There’s not many willing to go up against him.’ Conroy turned his attention to Morton. ‘Has that bastard Rider shot in the leg turned up yet?’

  Morton shook his head.

  ‘ One big fucking cock-up, all this,’ Conroy said in dismay. ‘All at once.’

  Quietly, Morton said to McNamara, ‘Ron’s not the only one who’s got a problem, is he Harry?’

  McNamara clammed up tight. He reached for the brandy bottle and tipped more than a generous measure into his coffee.

  Conroy laughed. ‘You haven’t been picked up for kerb crawling again, have you, you daft cunt?’

  Nothing came from the millionaire.

  ‘ Shall I tell him?’ Morton said, who, when nothing came, went on, ‘The police in Blackpool are investigating the murder of a prostitute. One by the name of Marie Cullen. Ring a bell, Ron?’

  Conroy nodded and glowered sourly at McNamara. ‘You haven’t, have you?’

  ‘ She threatened to go to the press about our relationship,’ McNamara blurted under pressure. ‘She wanted money to keep
quiet. She could have ruined me.’

  ‘ You mean she’d had enough of you beating the living crap out of her every time you fucked her. Is that what you mean, you sadistic bastard?’

  McNamara placed his cup down. He rose from his chair and without warning plunged himself across the room at Conroy who was standing at the window with a drink in his hands.

  They fell into a heap, McNamara’s fists flying, rolling across the carpeted room, crashing into chairs. But, though McNamara was bigger than Conroy, his technique was lacking badly and within moments he found himself face down on the floor, nose pressed into the shag pile, with Conroy’s left hand pushing the back of his neck down. In his right was a switchblade which he pressed dangerously into the side of McNamara’s neck.

  ‘ Don’t ever try a fucking stunt like that again, or I’ll skewer you like a pig,’ Conroy panted heavily.

  Morton pulled him away. ‘Gents, gents,’ he cooed.

  Conroy released his grip and stood up.

  Spitting phlegm, McNamara drew himself onto all fours and gasped, ‘At least I’m not a little-boy shagger.’ He wiped his face.

  ‘ I don’t hurt them,’ said Conroy.

  ‘ Gents, please! Come on, we’ve got problems to solve here, solutions to find,’ Morton said with patronising smoothness. ‘Let’s not make things any worse than they are.’ He helped McNamara to his feet. ‘We’ve all got problems and we need to air them reasonably, otherwise we might as well go our separate ways… and in the long term that could do us all damage, knowing what we know about each other. We need a corporate approach here. Heads together.’

  Conroy brushed himself off. The blade had disappeared.

  McNamara returned to his seat, wheezing slightly, and lit a cigar.

  ‘ Point taken,’ said Conroy.

  ‘ Harry?’ Morton probed the tycoon.

  Reluctantly the man nodded.

  ‘ Good, let’s get on with it then.’

  Conroy stalked moodily over to the window where he stood, arms folded, staring out at the snow.

  To McNamara, Morton said, ‘I’ll do what I can to help you, Harry, but I’ve got to know one thing. Did you kill her?’

  ‘ Bitch deserved it,’ McNamara spat.

  Morton sighed. ‘In that case, you do have a problem. A monumental one.’

  ‘ Why? Can’t you do anything to get them off my back? That’s what you’re paid for, isn’t it?’

  ‘ It’s not so simple in this case. I don’t hold any influence over the cops in Blackpool. I managed to get my team onto the newsagents killings because it’s one of my men who ended up dead there and we need to control the investigation. But there’s no way I can get anyone onto Cullen’s murder… I couldn’t justify it.’

  ‘ Shit,’ said McNamara.

  ‘ And you’re in a similar position too, Ron, but I might be able to get a couple of my people onto the Dundaven enquiry on the pretext that we’ve got an interest in him, just to keep a watching brief on it. That way at least I could pre-warn you of any developments in your direction.’

  ‘ I don’t see it as that much of a problem. Dundaven won’t talk. If he does, I’ll ensure he commits suicide on remand. My difficulty is getting a shitload of guns up here in time for the viewing.’

  ‘ No — you’re wrong there,’ Morton warned him. ‘If finding guns was your only problem, you’d be laughing. Both your problems are much, much bigger than that.’

  He had the rapt attention of both men.

  ‘ Your — our — problem is a very nosy, tenacious detective who doesn’t quite know anything at all just yet, but given time, knowing him and his reputation, he’s very much on the verge of discovery. And that problem,’ said Morton, ‘is called Henry Christie.’

  Long hours hunched over a desk did nothing for the small of Karl Donaldson’s back. Reading and writing in a completely ridiculous posture gave him severe pain in the lumbar region. Around lunchtime, having spent two hours sifting meticulously through the accumulated paperwork, he knew he should get up, stretch, have a walk round. Otherwise he’d be set like a statue in that position.

  He leaned back creakily and rubbed his neck.

  ‘ I’m not cut out for this crap,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘Desk jockey.’

  All this close-up work was playing havoc with his eyes too. He had a horrible feeling he might need spectacles soon. In his book that was the ultimate concession to the onset of middle age. That and a beer gut.

  He ran a hand carefully over his face, touching the chain-mark, black eye and swollen jaw. The combination pulsated continually, even though he’d now succumbed to Nurofen. Suffering pain wouldn’t bring Sam or Francesca back to life.

  He had almost reached the foothills of the mountain of paperwork. He quickly signed off an Intelligence bulletin from Madrid without reading it too carefully, then a name in one of the paragraphs caught his eye.

  It was a surname: Mayfair.

  The item referred to the fact that a sharp-eyed FBI operative who happened to be on a surveillance job at Madrid Airport had spotted two people whom he believed were the Mayfair brothers, Tiger and Wayne. They had arrived on a flight from Lisbon, both using assumed names and not travelling together. It was an unconfirmed sighting but the agent was reasonably sure it was them… the two men believed to be responsible for a number of contract killings throughout the US and Europe. Wherever they went, death seemed to follow, but as yet no law-enforcement agency had tied them evidentially to actual murders.

  The item went on to state that a photograph of the two was to follow, taken by airport security cameras. Donaldson skimmed through the most recent Interpol bulletins from Portugal and saw nothing which would indicate that the Mayfair brothers had been active professionally.

  He took a photocopy of the bulletin and updated the office file on the Mayfair brothers as this was his responsibility.

  Next on the pile was a teleprinter message. Donaldson read it and his eyebrows rose with pleasure on reading the name of the originator.. Acting DI Henry Christie… which was why he read the whole thing a second time. He was glad he did. He picked up the message, cleared a space on his desk, pulled his portable PC towards him and logged into the FBI system.

  ‘ The way I see it,’ Morton said pensively, ‘this is a three-sided thing. Firstly, Harry, there’s your angle: Christie’s a digger, a stubborn guy who doesn’t mind who he upsets. This means he’ll be on your case until he cracks it, or it defeats him. My guess is that he’ll crack it because it’s nothing more than a run-of-the-mill murder case. He will get you, given time.’

  McNamara winced and drew on his cigar.

  Conroy cackled with laughter, which ceased as soon as Morton turned to him and said, ‘And in your case, as Christie himself stated to me, he doesn’t like people taking pot-shots at cops. If only for that reason he’ll net you along the way.’

  ‘ Not a fuckin’ chance.’

  ‘ He will,’ Morton assured him. ‘He’s already searched all those premises and-’

  ‘ And found nothing. He’s way off the mark.’

  ‘ Just practising his aiming.’

  The three men were all now seated, in positions where they could easily see and hear one another. There was invisible tension in the room, caused mainly by Morton’s assessment of Henry Christie and his abilities.

  ‘ And how does he affect you?’ McNamara pointed at Morton.

  Morton sat back and thought for a moment. ‘Firstly, I’m pretty sure it was Christie who put the seeds into the mind of the unfortunate DC Luton about there being two gangs operating. Luton brought it up, but we laughed him out of the office. But it worried us. Then, last night, we found Luton reading through the witness statements we’d amended. I’m sure he was dealt with before he spoke to anyone else. Having said that, he seemed to be expecting Henry Christie at his front door, but that says to me they haven’t yet talked.

  ‘ Which means that Christie doesn’t actually know shit about anything yet,
but him being the person he is, it won’t take him too long to make connections… and then he becomes a problem for me, Harry, in answer to your question.’

  ‘ Then top him,’ said Conroy. ‘If he poses a threat, do him.’

  ‘ Yes,’ McNamara agreed. ‘We’ve done it before.’

  ‘ No,’ said Morton firmly. He stood up and paced the room. ‘We only take out police officers in exceptional circumstances. That’s always been agreed. It causes too much interest. Too many people want those sort of murders solved. We only get rid of the people who know too much and who are likely to cause us immediate damage. People like Geoff Driffield and Derek Luton. They were both too near.’

  ‘ But you said he’d find out,’ complained McNamara.

  ‘ Look, at this stage he knows fuck all,’ the detective said. ‘And if we kill him now there’ll be so much heat that some bugger might crack. Two cops are already dead in Blackpool; one is still in ICU. If another one gets it…’ He left the implication floating in the air like a bad smell and shook his head.

  ‘ Accident?’ suggested Conroy.

  ‘ They need to be arranged,’ Morton pointed out. ‘Not easy to do without arousing suspicion.’

  ‘ Pay him off then,’ said McNamara. ‘Pay him to look the other way.’

  ‘ Mmm, I thought about that… but I know a little about Henry Christie because of that big mafia case he was involved in a while back, and I don’t think money would work. He once turned down an offer of several million dollars to look the other way. He arrested the man who made that offer, saying he liked to be offered bribes because he enjoyed locking up the people who made them. So, no. That won’t work.’

  ‘ Put the fear of God into his family.’

  Morton looked sharply at Conroy. ‘We don’t intimidate wives and kids,’ he said.

  ‘ So what then?’ asked an increasingly irritable McNamara. ‘I want the cunt off my back — now.’

  ‘ Well,’ said Morton, ‘he’s a very talented detective.’