Nightmare City hc-2

by Nick Oldham

  Saltash didn’t have the time or patience to argue. ‘Get up, get your coat on and stop messin’ around, Gillian, otherwise I’ll have to slap you — and I don’t wanna do that, honey.’

  The black girl was sitting on the settee in her small lounge. She drew her knees up and presented a defiant face to her pimp. She shook her head. Her lips were taut and eyes blazing. Her body language screamed, ‘Make me!’

  Over the years Saltash had had many dealings with reluctant whores. Sometimes they didn’t know how lucky they were when he looked after them. They could have been on the streets, facing all sorts of threats, whereas he ensured that all the business he put their way was inside hotels or homes, places where they could give their full potential in a bit of comfort. Not down some dogshit-laden back alley or car.

  When he had problems with them, he always resorted to the same well tried and trusted remedy.

  ‘ You refuse to go, eh?’

  He lurched across in an attempt to grab her black hair. Gillian ducked and he found his fingers groping for thin air. She squirmed off the settee with the intention of running into the bathroom and locking the door.

  Saltash recovered quickly. He dived at her, rugby-style, wrapping his arms around her waist and bringing her down to her knees.

  She struggled wildly. Her elbows jabbed backwards. One caught the side of his face, next to the eye-socket, with such force that he released his grip and his hands went up to protect his face. ‘Fucking cow!’ he screamed, reeling away.

  Gillian dragged herself to her feet. She was angry. Instead of doing the sensible thing and bolting while she had the chance, she twisted round and launched a frenzied attack on Saltash, kicking and scratching him remorselessly, pummelling him with her fists.

  He succumbed to the onslaught, trying to protect himself with his hands, parrying the blows which rained down on his head without a break.

  ‘ OK, OK, you win, you win,’ he tried to tell her. She didn’t listen, or if she did, she was past caring. As far as she was concerned, she was fighting for her life. She drove him back across the room. He turned to crawl away, all the fight having seeped out of him, giving her the chance to kick him properly. It hurt him. She was wearing Doc Marten boots.

  ‘ Jesus, Jesus, OK… Ahh… you’ve made your point!’

  Gillian got her balance properly and aimed a perfect kick into his ribs. The force of it flicked him over and sent him rolling across the room, sprawling underneath the dining table where he lay on his back, panting, his arms clutched across his chest.

  From this position he glowered at her. ‘You’ll pay for this, you stupid cow.’

  She was unable to stop her head from shaking. ‘No, I won’t, no, I fucking won’t, you bastard. I’ve had it with you and your snotty ways. You’re supposed to look after us, but what happened to Marie, eh? You let her get killed, you bastard. I’m not going to finish up like her.’

  Saltash attempted to ease himself into a sitting position. The pain which shot across his chest like a whiplash laid him back out again. ‘C’mon honey, help me up.’ He held out a hand and tried to look pleading. ‘We’ll work something out, I promise.’

  Gillian ignored the outstretched fingers. She knew that if she yielded she would suffer. Firstly at Saltash’s hands, then at McNamara’s. That would not happen. She had to break free, one way or another. She had boiled over, put up with enough degradation. Her eyes searched the room and alighted on the portable TV set in one corner. She stepped across to it, unplugged it and lifted it as high as possible in her hands. She staggered across to Saltash who could not fathom out what was happening until it dawned on him in the split second before the TV crashed down onto his head. Everything went blank — with just a pinpoint of light at the middle of it. Then the light disappeared too. Saltash’s TV set had been turned off.

  She picked up his car keys and ran.

  The two detectives consulted the address they had on their piece of paper and realised they had taken a wrong turning, were on the wrong floor, going in the wrong direction. Seymour tutted as though it was Lucy’s fault. A great deal of self-control ensured she held back from punching him very hard.

  They about-turned as a black woman appeared at the foot of a flight of stairs which led up to the next landing. The woman saw them, spun away and walked quickly down the concrete corridor. Neither of the detectives got a good look at her or thought anything of it, but made their way upstairs.

  When they found the flat door open and the body of a man laid out on the carpet with a Sony portable smashed over his head and a pool of hot blood spreading slowly across the carpet, they were advanced enough in their deductive powers to put two and two together.

  As fast as his bulky frame would allow, Seymour raced after the black woman whom they had good reason to believe was Gillian Sharrock, prostitute, with three convictions for soliciting and one for GBH, and also the person responsible for breaking a perfectly good TV set on some poor dead bastard’s head.

  She had disappeared into the rain.

  The incident room was in darkness. The slide projector whirred, a slide clattered into place and the photograph of a man was thrown up onto the white screen at the far end. Slightly out of focus initially, the operator DI Gallagher — brought the man up sharp and clear using the remote button.

  The photo was obviously one taken covertly, probably from a pinhole camera in a button or maybe a briefcase. It showed a man sitting at a bar. It was good quality, demonstrating how much surveillance equipment had improved recently.

  ‘ Target One: Terry Anderson, also known as Terence Andrews, Tel Anderson,’ said Gallagher, consulting his notes. ‘Aged twenty-three, last known address believed to be a flat in Lancaster on St George’s Quay. He is a fully paid-up member of the travelling fraternity — a gypo in other words, if you’ll excuse me being non-PC.’

  A titter went round the assembled group of detectives, which included Henry Christie.

  ‘ Works as a car-dealer and property-repairer, cash only, therefore no company records. Drives a Shogun and seems to have money to throw around. Has previous for armed robbery, bogus official jobs and a lot of violence. Tough individual. Known to carry firearms and is wanted for shooting at police officers in Lincolnshire a few months ago when he was disturbed on a burglary. Very nasty individual indeed. Lives off the proceeds of crime. All the details are in this folder.

  ‘ Henry — your team are responsible for him… we’ll go into the details of the operation shortly. We believe he leads the gang who’ve been robbing the newsagents throughout the area and we have informant intelligence to that effect. He’s the one who wields the shotgun, and he’s the one, we believe, who blew our colleague away.’

  Gallagher paused and allowed everyone to remember Anderson’s face. ‘Target Two…’ Gallagher pressed another button. Another face appeared on the screen.

  Henry smiled with undisguised satisfaction. Transferred, albeit temporarily, with the speed of light, and now given the responsibility of leading the team tasked to bring in the gang leader. He couldn’t credit his good fortune! Back in a fully operational role, straight into the bosom of the NWOCS whose members greeted him like a long-lost brother. And straight away, without any animosity from anyone, in a position to make a name for himself. Absolutely wonderful!

  He wondered how Morton had twisted FB’s arm to allow this to happen so quickly.

  He treated himself to a quick look at Siobhan Robson, sat next to him. She caught the look and her mouth fluttered a brief smile which Henry saw in the light of the projector. She looked forwards again. Henry’s eyes closed tight and briefly in an expression of heavenly lust, then he tried to concentrate on Target Three, having completely missed Target Two. He was exquisitely aware that Siobhan’s right thigh was touching, nay, actually resting against his left one. Totally innocent, he knew, but it still sent a tremor of excitement through him.

  Pull yourself together, you idiot. You’ve got form for adultery and you weren
’t very good at it then, he remonstrated internally. And a girl like Siobhan is hardly likely to be interested in an old buffoon like you.

  He cleared his throat, sat upright and put a gap between their thighs. Until her leg, not his, closed the gap.

  This time he ignored it — ish.

  Target Four was being introduced by Gallagher.

  The bloke on the screen now, in Henry’s estimation, was a particularly sour-faced git. Another gypsy, as were all the men. Henry was sharply reminded of Shane Mulcahy. Both their features were quite similar. Shane was made to look like a choirboy, however, when Gallagher read out Number Four’s antecedents.

  The four men — youths really — were a very bad bunch of people and Henry could readily believe they had turned from pure terrifying violence to killing in a moment. They all had the capability. It had only been a matter of time before the robberies became killing zones.

  After the presentation the lights came back on.

  Tony Morton took the floor. ‘Now you know who we want to arrest. And please — don’t let there be any cock-ups on this at all. No heroics, no gun battles, no shooting — just in and out and get’ em. Grab them before they have a chance to fart. We don’t want any dead heroes like Geoff Driffield, who was trying to prove something to himself and the rest of the world.’

  He took a breath. His eyes surveyed the faces of the detectives in front of him. ‘And that’s all I have to say. DI Gallagher will talk you through the operation itself. So… good luck.’

  He stepped smartly off the platform and left the room, Gallagher taking his place. The latter checked his watch. ‘In a few minutes, a firearms team will be coming to join us, together with some Support Unit personnel. There’s no point in progressing this until they arrive, so I suggest you hang loose and be back here for three-fifteen prompt.’

  ‘ Tell me about Geoff Driffield.’

  They were in the canteen which, apart from a couple of traffic wardens taking a mid-afternoon break from harrying motorists, was deserted. They were sat next to a window which gave a good view of Blackpool, the Tower in particular. They faced each other, hunched over cups of tea, in postures which were almost intimate. Anyone watching them would see they were easy in each other’s company.

  Siobhan sighed and collected her thoughts. At length she said, ‘Driffield was always pushing for a result. He wanted glory all the time, and he wanted it all for himself. He must have cultivated some good snouts, and obviously he came up trumps with this gang — but then he didn’t share it with anyone, poor stupid sod.’

  ‘ But going it alone? Crazy, even for a glory boy, isn’t it?’

  Siobhan turned the cup on the saucer and stared into it.

  Henry looked at the top on her head. He could see the shiny hair right down to the roots. It was healthy and he wanted to touch it. Slowly, she shook her head. ‘I think it’s exactly what he wanted to do. In the past he’d had some good results going it alone, but he’d taken some stupid risks. I think that lying in wait for an armed gang was just a natural progression for him. He wasn’t a team-player, and on a squad like this, you need team players. You need to support each other, in more ways than one…’ Her brown eyes rose to meet Henry’s. They seemed to dance for him, a sort of seductive lambada.

  ‘ What happened on Saturday night, then?’ he asked with difficulty.

  ‘ Geoff came on before anyone else and took off without leaving any details of where he would be. Next thing we knew, we were being contacted by your lot — we were on a surveillance job in Bury — and we got the news.’

  Her eyes had not left Henry’s face. She was taking in every detail, every contour and he likewise with her.

  ‘ H-how long have you been on the squad?’ he asked her. He coloured up whilst he tried not to think about what it would be like to bury his face between her breasts and… well, he tried not to think about it.

  ‘ Six years. I’m from Greater Manchester originally.’

  ‘ Enjoy it?’

  ‘ Best job I’ve ever had.’

  ‘ Seems a long time to be in a specialist post.’

  ‘ Tony, the boss, likes to keep people who fit in well, support the aims of the squad, are prepared to work hard and who get results.’

  ‘ So you’ve got to toe the party line or else you’re out, is that it?’ Henry probed playfully.

  For the briefest fraction of a moment a look of something like suspicion crossed Siobhan’s face. So fleeting it was almost unnoticeable, but Henry caught it, and it disturbed him. What was it that the question stirred in her? Only later — much later — would he find out.

  Her normal, natural look resumed. She tossed her head back with a laugh, shook her hair and ran her long fingers through its silky strands. Her lovely neck was exposed to Henry’s eyes.

  ‘ No, nothing like that,’ she said lightly. ‘But Tony likes people who’re with him rather than against him.’

  ‘ I’d better not rock the boat,’ Henry said dubiously.

  ‘ No, better not.’

  Tony Morton was seated in the Officers Mess at Blackpool police station, chatting to a uniformed Inspector. Gallagher came in and poured himself a coffee from the pot on the hot-plate.

  Morton excused himself from the lower-ranking officer and went across to Gallagher. They moved to one corner of the room, out of earshot of anyone else.

  ‘ He’s like a dog with two dicks,’ Gallagher said triumphantly.

  ‘ Good. I thought he would be. The guy has difficulty keeping his keks up, apparently, where there’s the slightest possibility of getting his end away. What about the other areas we discussed? We need to force those issues as soon as.’

  Gallagher nodded. He floated a couple of ideas past his boss who immediately approved them.

  The briefing which followed was very detailed, professional and thorough. Henry did not like Gallagher for some reason, but he was impressed by the way in which he had planned and delivered the meat and bones of ‘Operation Cabal’.

  No reason was given as to why the operation was so-called, and Henry did not ask. Nor did he actually know what the word ‘cabal’ meant. He made a mental note to look it up when he got home, whenever that would be.

  An hour after starting Gallagher was winding up. ‘OK, that’s about it, men,’ he announced, failing to include the four women present in the room, three being members of the firearms team. ‘Because we’ve all been on duty for almost eight hours already, the Operation will commence proper at 6 a.m. tomorrow. This is to ensure you all get a good night’s sleep, because it may go on for a very long time indeed. Don’t be surprised if you’re working fourteen-hour shifts — or more — once we’re up and running. We’ll do it until we catch them. So tell those loved ones at home. Right, any questions?’

  There were none.

  ‘ Good. You must be in your ob points at 6 a.m. — so be there.’ His face broke into a smile. ‘Now go home, get some quality sleep and be ready to roll. That’s it, folks! Henry, chats please.’

  With Siobhan at his side, Henry made his way over to Gallagher, who handed him a small laminated business-size card. It was an authorisation to carry firearms.

  Henry was stunned. He blinked. ‘But I haven’t carried a gun for nearly two years and I certainly haven’t kept up my shooting skills.’

  ‘ Don’t worry,’ said Gallagher. ‘Needs must. You’ll be OK. I want you to go back with Siobhan to our offices in Blackburn where you can sign a weapon and a radio out and get some body armour from our store. You’re almost one of us now, so you might as well use our equipment. You need to be armed for this thing, Henry. We’re dealing with some real nutters here and I want everyone protected properly who’s likely to come into first contact with them.’

  One of those quivers of unease shimmered through Henry. The thought of a gun. Last time he’d held one in his hand he’d killed somebody. Deliberately. An act of self- defence.

  He swallowed and stared at the firearms authorisation, dated t
hat day and signed by the Chief Constable.

  Boy, this squad really had some clout.

  The offices of the North-West Organised Crime Squad were situated in what could loosely be described as the ‘red light’ district of Blackburn, just off the main town centre in the area bounded by King Street and appropriately enough, Mincing Lane. They were offices which had originally been used by the Lancashire Constabulary Traffic Department, before over the years becoming home to a series of specialised police units until eventually the NWOCS moved in.

  Money had been spent on modernising and refurbishing the rundown array of buildings, which had proved an ideal location for the unit, providing office space, secure parking and a reasonably centralised location in the north-west.

  Siobhan drove Henry from Blackpool in appallingly grim, wet weather, which as they went further east towards the Pennines, turned to sleet.

  Despite the rain, several prostitutes were in evidence, walking the streets in totally inappropriate gear — high heels, short skirts, low-cut tops. Whatever the weather, business had to be done.

  In the early part of his service Henry had spent a few years in Blackburn. He knew the area well and was surprised to see so little change. The district was still bleak, poorly lit and slightly seedy, just as it had been way back.

  Blackburn was the only town in Lancashire that had a problem with streetwalkers and their customers. Fortunately, the red-light district was situated where there were few residents to annoy.

  Siobhan pulled off King Street down an unlit, badly-surfaced side street and stopped at a reinforced gate with a barbed-wire top. She opened her window and ran a swipe card through a machine, tapped a three-digit number on a key pad and the gates swung open with a clatter. She drove in. Security lights came on and flooded the car park with bright white light.

  On one side was a triple garage with a couple of offices above. On another side was the main building where the majority of offices were to be found. The other two sides of the car park were high walls.