Nightmare City hc-2

by Nick Oldham

‘ Yeah, Detective Sergeant Perfect by all accounts,’ said Conroy snidely.

  Morton went on, ‘A good investigator, bit of a ruthless touch, but straight as a dye… Think about it.’

  Conroy was first to catch on. ‘Just the sort of honest detective you’d want on your elite squad.’

  ‘ Exactly — and funnily enough, we have a vacancy for a Detective Sergeant right now. The last one died on the job.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Henry Christie’s ears were not burning. He was far too busy to even contemplate that others could be talking about him, as once again his sleep pattern had been very much interrupted. It was past midnight when he finally got into bed, having spent much of the evening cruising the streets, seedier pubs and guest-houses in Blackburn with Lucy Crane to try and find some of Marie Cullen’s colleagues who might be able to add a bit of background to the dead girl. It was a fruitless and frustrating night.

  A uniformed cop knocking on his front door at 6.30 a.m. had been the precursor to another horrendous day in Blackpool.

  Henry, in a deep, dreamless sleep, had been the only member of his family to hear the knocking, or at least the only one to respond to it. He dragged himself downstairs, feeling like the man in the toothpaste advert with halitosis-laden germs dancing a jig on his furred tongue.

  When he opened the door his heart dropped. He thought he was about to be given bad news concerning Nina. He had phoned the hospital from home before going to bed and was told she had taken a turn for the worse: critical-likely to prove. Henry assumed the Police Constable was here to tell him the news personally. He steeled himself for the punch.

  He expected an upper cut from the right.

  The head-butt to the bridge of his nose caught him completely by surprise and toppled him over, figuratively speaking.

  He had to make the PC repeat it three times because his brain refused to take it in.

  Derek Luton dead? Found shot to death on his front doorstep? Looks like his brains have been blown out? Wife almost catatonic? Derek Luton?

  Dead?

  Henry couldn’t get his head round the enormity of it. Not enough sleep. Head’s a shed. Too much going on in too short a space of time.

  Degsy Luton dead?

  Henry finally raced upstairs, threw on yesterday’s gear, underwear included, then got into his car and drove directly to the scene, Luton’s house in Blackpool north shore, which had not yet been touched by scenes of crime.

  Yep, Henry could confirm it. He had had his brains blown out. What a fucking mess. Henry had to steady himself as a flash of memory snapped into his mind’s eye — another world away, but still vivid and recurring — of a man who had had his brains shot out right in front of him.

  He took a deep breath, pulled himself together and got to work — directing, delegating, informing those who had to be told, going into automatic crime-scene management. He was aware, again, that his acting rank meant that everyone was waiting for him and that as senior detective on the scene, he was in charge. It gave him a slight feeling of excitement and, if he’d been questioned about it, he would have admitted enjoying it. The role, that is. Not this particular situation.

  Once everything was underway, he went next door to where Annie was being comforted by a policewoman and a neighbour. A GP had administered some calming drugs to her, with a prescription for more. The doctor was just leaving when Henry arrived.

  He sat down next to Annie on the edge of the settee. Luton’s widow stared blankly ahead, her fingers twisted into tight fists. A mug of tea, untouched, was on the coffee table.

  ‘ Annie,’ he said softly. He placed an arm around her shoulder. She jumped as if she’d been pinched, looked at Henry and realised who he was. She turned into him, gripping him, burying her head into his chest. She released a wail-cum-scream which shook her whole being from head to toe and held on tighter to Henry as the tears began to pour out. Henry held on, too, making reassuring noises, stroking her hair and trying not to cry himself.

  He spent much of the morning with her, not wishing to delegate this particular unenviable task to anyone else. Not that he was a great one for dealing with grief. Actually he was very poor at it.

  In over six hours’ gentle coaxing, Annie did not say anything which was of any use to Henry. She was a bubbling wreck, unable to string two words together without bursting into tears. Henry did not push. That would have been counter-productive. By the same token it meant the police were getting nowhere at a fast rate of knots. And Annie was the only witness they had at that moment in time.

  Whilst Henry was grappling with the problem of having to draw information out from a distressed witness, another problem which he had wrongly assumed might have gone away reared its head in the form of an ugly skinhead called Shane Mulcahy.

  Since his discharge from hospital, Shane had spent the last remnants of his and his girlfriend’s dole money on a concoction of drink, drugs and a Chinese takeaway — this despite her protestations that they needed the money to buy food for them and the baby. He’d simply smacked her open-handed across the face, then given her a kick up the arse when she hit the floor. ‘Don’t fuckin’ tell me how to spend our money.’

  For fourteen hours he had been in a state of inebriation coupled with the combined whizz-bang effect of amphets and the monosodium glutamate in the sweet-and-sour chicken. ‘Near total bliss’ would have been Shane’s poetic attempt to describe his condition; however, there was little that was poetic about Shane and he chose to describe it as, ‘Great, been outta my fuckin’ ‘ead.’

  He awoke face down on the bare floorboards of the bedsit he shared with Jodie Flew and their offspring. His nose was pressed against the hard wood with dribble having collected in a pool around his cheeks. He wiped his face as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He felt rougher than a bear’s arse — a comparison he often used because it suited his sense of humour — and in his mouth there was a taste he could not quite place: somewhere between vomit and sugar. A pain bolted across his head behind his eyes, like a surge of electricity between two electrodes. He swore.

  It did not occur to him to wonder why he was on the floor. It was a position he often awoke to.

  Jodie was asleep on the mattress.

  The baby gurgled happily in a cot in the corner of the room. Shane heard it fart.

  He tried to stand up. When he moved he winced. His lower abdomen felt as though a scalpel had been left in by the surgeon. But in comparison to the previous day, the pain was ebbing.

  He dressed himself in the jeans he’d worn for the last two months — he was proud of their unwashed state — found a crumpled T-shirt underneath the TV set and put his denim jacket and stolen Doc Marten boots on. Ready for the day ahead. He left the meagre living accommodation without bothering to disturb Jodie or the baby. He didn’t really want to have anything to do with either of them.

  Next stop was his solicitor.

  The stop after that was Blackpool Central police station.

  It was busy at the enquiry desk. Lots of press and TV people seemed to have camped out there, covering the spectacular crime wave which was coursing through Blackpool that week.

  Shane and his legal representative were kept waiting for twenty minutes. The skinhead became increasingly agitated. When at last the Civilian Public Enquiry assistant beckoned to him, he stalked across, leaned on the counter and put his aggressive face right up to hers. His red-raw eyes were wide and menacing, his features distorted into a snarl, examples of which had been captured by media photographs of skinheads many, many times over the years. ‘I want to make a complaint of assault against the police, luv,’ he said.

  She recoiled in disgust from his pungent breath and body odour and the threat of violence. ‘I’ll get the Duty Inspector,’ she said. Her nose was screwed up because there was a bad smell under it.

  ‘ So that leaves Munrow,’ Conroy said. ‘I mean, what’s the fucking judicial system coming to these days? That bastard got nineteen years, f�
�fuck’s sake. Shouldn’t nineteen mean nineteen? The guy is a menace to society — and that’s a quote direct from the judge himself.’

  ‘ That’s what you paid him to say,’ interjected McNamara with a laugh. He was feeling better now that some action was going to be taken on his problem.

  ‘ Yeah, he did a good job, God rest his soul. Pity we didn’t have any influence on the prison board,’ whined Conroy. ‘So,’ he said, turning to Morton, ‘come on, Mister Problem-solver Extraordinaire — put your mind to this one.’

  ‘ He either needs to be brought into the fold, rather like Henry Christie, or possibly paid off — or eliminated,’ Morton responded, counting his fingers as he ticked off the choices.

  ‘ Well, I can’t talk to the man. He makes me wanna stick an iron bar around his head as soon as I see him, so the first one’s out of the question,’ Conroy replied, using his own fingers. ‘Secondly I don’t want to pay him one single chuffin’ cent, so you can forget that one.’ He held up three fingers. ‘I like the sound of the third option — kill the cunt.’

  ‘ But you’ve already said you haven’t got anyone capable of going up against him,’ McNamara pointed out.

  ‘ Doesn’t mean I don’t want the bastard rotting in hell,’ Conroy said sullenly.

  Silence descended on the room and the three men watched each other thinking.

  ‘ He does need to be sorted,’ Morton said. ‘One way or the other, for the sake of credibility. No one’s going to do business with us if we can’t keep our house in order.’

  They fell silent again.

  McNamara lit another cigar. Morton poured a coffee. Conroy bit his nails and played with his pony tail.

  ‘ How about a professional?’ suggested McNamara.

  ‘ Be just my luck to hire an undercover cop. To be honest with you, boys, I don’t actually know any professionals, believe it or not. I know people you can pay as little as five hundred dabs to. They’re ten a penny in Salford, and any nigger in Moss Side’ll have a crack — but they’re all so fuckin’ unreliable. Munrow would probably drop them first. The only person I know who could do it properly, if he was wound up enough, would be John Rider. But he doesn’t want to get involved. He’s gone completely cuckoo. In his day I would’ve put him on a par with Munrow, maybe above for being a violent sod. Now he’s a bit of a wreck, really.’

  ‘ He saved your life,’ McNamara said.

  ‘ True, true.’

  ‘ If he had a reason to kill Munrow, do you think he would?’ Morton asked.

  ‘ What d’you mean?’ Conroy looked puzzled.

  ‘ What I’m saying is — give him a reason and he might just do the job for you. But give him a reason. Quick.’

  ‘ This is getting to be Nightmare City,’ said Detective Chief Superintendent Fanshaw-Bayley. He and Henry were walking down the rear yard at Blackpool police station. ‘I appreciate you’ve got a lot on your plate at the moment, Henry, but you need to pull out the stops and solve this one PDQ. The Chief Constable is going berserk. Seems to be an open season on cops in this town this week and she wants results, like yesterday. And she’s ordered two more ARVs into town to go high profile. I’m gonna bring Ronnie Veevers in to head this one.’

  ‘ You’d better throw resources at it,’ Henry said. He’d once been the victim of FB’s penny-pinching ways (or so he thought) and this time he didn’t want to start out at a disadvantage. ‘That’s the only way you’ll make progress on this one.’

  ‘ Is there any reason to think all these shootings are connected?’ asked FB. They entered the ground floor of the station and walked towards the lift.

  ‘ It shouldn’t be ruled out,’ Henry ruminated, ‘but so far I can’t see a link.’ The lift arrived eventually and they stepped into the small space. ‘The DS in the newsagents; I don’t know a great deal about it, but I’m pretty uncomfortable with what I know, but it’s not my pigeon, thank God. Then Nina getting shot by Dundaven… now Derek. What could be the link? The only one I can think of is the North-West Organised Crime Squad. The DS was on it, Nina was shot by someone who was one of their targets and Derek was working along with them. And let’s not forget the gorilla in the zoo which has generated more media interest than all three of those put together. Poor old Boris. Shot out of his tree.’

  ‘ Is the NWOCS linked to that one in some way?’ asked a mystified FB.

  Henry gave a short laugh. ‘Not unless Boris was working undercover for them, too.’

  ‘ But other than Tony Morton’s crew, there’s really no connection — so far.’

  ‘ So far, no. Even the NWOCS’s connection is clutching at straws. There’s nothing to say that all three got shot because of their dealings with it. It just happens to be there, that’s all.’

  The lift rose to a creaky halt. They got out and walked into the CID office which was abuzz with activity, subdued chatter and some tears. Luton would be sorely missed. His enthusiasm had been infectious.

  They walked to Henry’s desk. He perched on the corner of it whilst he continued his conversation with FB.

  ‘ If we could make some connection it would be great, because then it would give us something to chip away at. But at the moment, they are three completely separate jobs. The DS in the newsagents, whatever the reason for him being there — and I’m sure it’ll come out in the wash — was in the wrong place at the wrong time; Nina got shot because she was being a good cop and shit like that happens occasionally, comes with the territory… but as for Derek, I am completely stumped, boss. Maybe it was a burglary gone wrong, or one of his previous prisoners bearing a grudge against him. Maybe mistaken identity. Dunno. We’ll have to look at all angles.’

  He shook his head sadly. A wall of tears was building up inside behind his eyes when he thought of the wretched figure of Degsy Luton sprawled out in his hallway, head blown apart, brains, blood and bones on the carpet and up the wallpaper, all the way down into the kitchen. Grotesque and so very, very wrong.

  ‘ Basically no leads,’ said FB.

  ‘ No.’ Henry’s mouth twisted bitterly. ‘And as for Boris, I haven’t even started on that one. That’s gone well-cold. Fuck!’ he said angrily. ‘Anyway, perhaps when Annie comes down from her trauma she might be able to help — with Degsy, that is, not Boris.’

  ‘ Right,’ said FB. He drummed his fingers on his thighs. He tapped his feet, bit his bottom lip and made a clicking sound in the back of his throat. FB’s decision-making process was in action. ‘Couple of things. Firstly, how far are you with Dundaven?’

  ‘ He should have been in Magistrates by now and remanded in custody. Nothing came of the raids, really. I personally think there’s a long way to go with it yet — but as far as Dundaven himself is concerned, it’s boxed off. He won’t see daylight except through bars for a long time now.’

  ‘ Do you want to continue with it? Will it be worth it?’

  Henry nodded. Actually he didn’t have a clue if anything more would come of it, but he wasn’t about to admit that to FB. ‘I’d like to keep four detectives on it for a month and then reappraise it.’

  FB considered this. Then, ‘You can use two.’

  Thanks a bunch, Henry wanted to say. ‘And Derek?’

  ‘ Full team from this afternoon, unlimited overtime — within reason for up to two months. Authorised by the Chief.’

  Wow! Henry almost choked, so impressed was he. Then he remembered the implications so far as he was concerned. Because Inspectors did not receive overtime payments, he would earn nothing extra financially, but experience all the other drawbacks. Long hours. No sleep. So what else was new?

  However, he held back the urge to grovel in front of FB and plead to be dropped down a rank. He had to look on the positive side of things. It was all good promotion-board material. Juggling three plates at once, having the responsibility to keep them spinning. He hoped he had the ability to stop them from crashing around his ears. ‘Oh, jolly good,’ he said.

  FB lowered his voice and move
d slightly closer to Henry. ‘There is something else we need to discuss, and that’s the other murder — the prostitute on the beach.’

  ‘ Oh?’ said Henry guardedly. He had been expecting some repercussions, but even so he could not resist making one of those remarks which so often put him firmly in the bad books of his bosses. Mischievously he threw FB’s quote back in his face. ‘You mean the one who deserved what she got?’

  The look on FB’s face told Henry he’d hit a bum note. FB’s eyes narrowed and he said, equally mischievously, ‘Just remember one thing, Henry, if you go for promotion this year, I’ll be on the other side of the desk, so don’t be so fucking cheeky.’

  ‘ Fair enough.’ Henry knew what side his bread was buttered on. ‘So, what about her?’

  ‘ Two things. Firstly, because of Derek’s murder I’m going to scale her enquiry down.’

  There’s nothing to scale down, Henry thought. He made no reply but his body language told FB exactly what he thought of that one.

  ‘ Henry, you and I both know we haven’t got a million detectives to play with. It’s a question of priorities and she’s way down on the list.’

  She’ll be glad to hear that, Henry thought, but kept his mouth closed again. He stopped his foot tapping which betrayed his annoyance.

  ‘ Secondly, we’ve had a very irate ex-MP on the blower to Headquarters, shouting and bawling, demanding to speak to the Chief.. no, she didn’t… threatening to sue the living shit out of us. He actually got to speak to the ACC, Brian Warner, and told him you’d been harassing him, making false claims, suggesting he was the one who murdered the girl.’

  ‘ Never actually got to that stage.’

  ‘ Even so, that ex-Mp, and you know who I mean, is one very powerful and influential person with friends in very high places. He needs careful handling.’

  Henry cut in angrily. ‘I won’t compromise the search for a killer just so I don’t upset some rich bastard who chums around with the great and the good.’ He folded his arms haughtily.