Nightmare City hc-2

by Nick Oldham

  Siobhan led Henry to the main building and after tapping in another number, this time of six digits, on a key pad, she pushed the door open. Once inside, the warning beeps of a burglar alarm pinged out. She went to the alarm control box in the hallway and tapped in yet another sequence of numbers. The pinging stopped.

  ‘ Goes straight to Blackburn police station, the alarm,’ she explained. She ran the side of her hand down a pad of light switches. The interior of the building came alive and four strategically placed permanent outer lights came on too. ‘Welcome to our humble little abode,’ she said, opening her hands in a theatrical gesture. ‘Come on through.’

  She took him up a set of stairs and along a landing. ‘Tony’s office, that one,’ she said, passing a closed door. She turned next left into a large, fairly open-plan office. It had been completely updated since Henry had last seen it nearly twenty years ago. The range of desks, PCs, filing cabinets and lumbar-friendly chairs was impressive. Police offices were usually kitted out with tatty furniture, broken chairs, telephone lines crossed dangerously all over the place… a Health and Safety nightmare. Not this place. There was even a coffee machine and a pure water dispenser.

  ‘ Nice,’ remarked Henry, pouting with admiration.

  One thing which resembled police offices everywhere was the phenomenal amount of paper stacked everywhere in baskets, and the walls which were plastered with notes, intelligence bulletins, photographs of crims and all sorts of other non-essential rubbish.

  ‘ This is where our team hang out,’ Siobhan explained. ‘The other team are downstairs.’

  ‘ You’ve got two teams?’ Henry asked, surprised. She nodded. ‘Why’s that? I thought it was all one big happy family.’

  ‘ Oh, we’re all happy enough, there’s just two teams,’ she shrugged.

  Henry accepted the fact with a nod. He wasn’t about to question it. At least he was on the same team as Siobhan Robson.

  ‘ This is where Geoff Driffield sat.’ She pointed to the only desk devoid of paper. ‘I… er, suppose it’ll be yours when you get on the squad.’

  Henry gave a short laugh at the assumption. The phrase ‘Dead men’s Doc Martens’ sprang to mind. However, it looked a nice desk. Dead man’s desk. And it hadn’t taken them long to clear it. What a damned ruthless organisation the police is, he thought.

  ‘ That’s the radio cupboard.’ She waved in the direction of a large steel cabinet in one corner of the office. ‘Here’s the key. I’ll just go and get you a bulletproof vest. They’re kept in the store over the garage. Book yourself a radio and a couple of charged batteries out.’

  She swished away. Henry heard her footsteps fading down the corridor, then the stairs, the front door slamming. He walked to the office window which overlooked the car park and watched her cross to the garage.

  He unlocked the radio cupboard, assembled a PR and grabbed a couple — of extra batteries. He knew what it was like to be unable to transmit because of dud batteries, and he had promised himself he would never be caught out again.

  As with all police equipment, there was a book to record Issue and Return; he opened it and signed out the radio.

  His eyes could not fail to notice the entries for the previous Saturday and the fact that, according to the sheet, Geoff Driffield had signed a radio out at 1700 hours. As had four other officers — Tony Morton, DS Tattersall, DJ Gallagher and DC Robson. All at 1700 hrs — 5.00 p.m.

  Henry considered this.

  Siobhan had said Driffield was a loner who had gone out alone, presumably armed with details of where and when a robbery was going to take place, with the intention of arresting the culprits himself and claiming the glory. Yet the sheet suggested a different story. Driffield appeared to have been on duty at 5.00 p.m. that afternoon — two and a half hours before the robbery — and he’d signed out a PR with four others. They surely would have noticed him sneaking off alone, wouldn’t they? Maybe asked him where he was going? Shown a bit of interest?

  Henry glanced out of the office window. The lights were on over the garage. He could see her moving about.

  He looked down at the radio book again and frowned. Something very fucking strange was going on, Henry concluded. The entry in the radio book posed an awful lot of nooky questions for the squad. He ran a hand over his face, trying to rub some intelligence into his brain. The activity did not seem to work. Again he was tired beyond belief, definitely operating on one amp.

  He closed the radio book and locked the cupboard.

  On the table next to the door was an A3-sized book with the words Duty States imprinted on the brown cover. This was where officers booked on- and off-duty. Most officers in Lancashire now recorded their duties on a computer, but some specialist departments, not on the mainframe, were still obliged to use good old pen and paper. The fact that NWOCS used written Duty States did not surprise Henry. He opened the book and had a quick look at last Saturday’s entry. Same story: Geoff Driffield and four others had booked on at 5.00 p.m.

  With his tongue making a thoughtful clicking noise at the back of his throat, he closed the book, feeling uncomfortable.

  A glance across the car park. Siobhan was still moving around over the garage.

  Henry stepped out of the office, twisted into the corridor and tried Tony Morton’s office door. It opened.

  There is a term in policing circles for what he did next. It is called ‘Dusting’. ‘Dusting’ is where, out of normal office hours, you sneak into a boss’s office and search the place from top to bottom in the hope of finding anything of interest. ‘Dusting’ is a pastime in which many officers on night duty indulge, flitting through offices like burglars, hoping to uncover some dirt on anyone except themselves.

  Henry was restricted by being unable to switch the lights on; however the car-park lighting cast sufficient for him to be able to conduct a cursory search.

  He found nothing.

  Then he looked at the walls. One was covered in an array of photographs and framed certificates, all relating to Tony Morton, his career and his qualifications; it was sometimes known as an ego-wall. Tony Morton had a big one.

  Henry peered closely at the photographs, many of which were of Morton’s classes in various police learning institutions throughout the years. One fairly recent one was of a Senior Command Course at Bramshill and Henry chuckled when he saw Karen Donaldson sat in the middle of the front row, named as Course Tutor.

  One photograph showed Morton shaking hands with the Princess of Wales, another with Margaret Thatcher.

  Two others particularly grabbed his attention. Actually grabbed it by the bollocks.

  The first one was a large framed photograph of the front page of the Lancashire Evening Telegraph, bearing the headline: POLICE SQUAD FOUND NOT GUILTY. A story followed, which Henry vaguely remembered, about an investigation into the activities of the NWOCS six years ago, following allegations of corruption.

  A team headed by an ACC (one from Lancashire called Roger Willocks, now retired) had been tasked to investigate the squad, some members of which were supposedly feeding information to criminals about police operations. Nothing was ever proved and a six-month enquiry produced zilch by way of evidence. A photo of the ACC showed a very frustrated, pissed-off-looking man. Underneath the photo was a quote from him about what a superbly run unit the NWOCS was, and how it should be held up as a model for all such similar units. There was some incongruity between the picture and the words. They didn’t seem to gel.

  By counterbalance, there was another picture next to the ACC of a beaming Tony Morton; he was quoted as saying that the unit had been open, frank and helpful to the enquiry and was delighted to be completely exonerated of all allegations.

  The next photograph, taken in 1993, Henry found both interesting and disquieting. It showed Morton shaking hands with the current Prime Minister and in the background lurked the bulky figure of Sir Harry McNamara. The caption, underneath was about the PM visiting the NWOCS which had been established fo
r some seven years and had produced some sterling results in terms of arrests and convictions.

  Sir Harry McNamara. Suspect in a murder case which Henry was no longer investigating.

  He heard the outer door slam, then the sound of Siobhan’s footsteps running up the stairs. Shit!

  Rider stretched out in the bath in his basement flat. The water was too hot, and could have been doing terrible things to his arteries. But it was bliss, laced as it was with Sainsbury’s bubble bath. Things happen after a Sainsbury’s bath, he thought languidly.

  His body was a mass of bruises from the beating he had received. They were on the turn colour-wise, being a few days old, from livid purple to a manky sort of green which reminded him of cow-pats.

  He had brought some reading material in with him. A novel he’d been intending to devour for some while and a couple of old evening newspapers. He went for a newspaper first, wanting to catch up on local news. The headline screamed about the shooting of a policewoman and the subsequent arrest and charge of a man called Dundaven, who was found to be in possession of a large number of firearms. An accompanying photograph showed the latter displayed on a table with the detective leading the hunt stood behind. Henry Christie.

  Rider sneered at the face, but his mind was really on Dundaven, who he knew was one of Conroy’s men, very high up in the scheme of things. He had been in Blackpool on the same day as Conroy, when the latter had been trying to get a piece of Rider’s club — presumably as a means of selling drugs. Or did Conroy in fact want to stash firearms at the club?

  There was a timid knock on the bathroom door. Rider knew it was Isa. Ever since returning from his jaunt with Jacko to sort out Munrow, she had been in a strange mood, like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Rider hadn’t given her the opportunity either because he suspected a potential ear bashing.

  ‘ Yeah?’ he said gruffly.

  ‘ I’ve got a couple of warm towels,’ she called back from behind the door.

  ‘ Just leave’ em outside, thanks.’

  ‘ Can I come in, John? I want to talk.’

  ‘ I’m in the bath, Isa.’

  ‘ I bloody well know you are,’ she replied sharply. ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’

  That was true. A long time ago on a different planet, when he was a hardened criminal with a tough body and conscience to match. ‘Come on then,’ he relented and strategically moved a mass of bubbles so as to hide his pride and joy.

  She came in and sat down on the toilet seat, dropping the towels on the floor. She was dressed in a bathrobe which was quite short and showed a good length of leg, reminding Rider how nice they were. Since Rider’s beating; she had moved out of the hotel and into the spare room in his flat.

  She looked at him, wondering how to start. ‘I hope you realise you frightened the life out of Jacko,’ she began. ‘He’s not used to that sort of thing, poor soul.’

  ‘ Nor am I,’ Rider said defensively.

  ‘ You shouldn’t have used him.’

  ‘ Point taken. Now, what else do you have to say?’

  ‘ I want to know if it’s over, your revisit to gangsterland.’

  ‘ I hope so. As far as I’m concerned, it is. I made my point, which considering the hammering he gave me, was fairly muted. I think — hope — Munrow took it.’

  Isa took a deep breath. It was as if a weight had been lifted, hearing those words.

  Rider noticed that her eyes, which were a lovely shade of hazel, were moist and sparkling. His own eyes narrowed and his brow creased. He tried to guess what was going on in her mind.

  ‘ I’m glad, I’m really glad, John, because I’ve cleaned up my business too and everything I do now is above board. I was sick of expecting the next knock on the door to be the cops or the customs people.’

  ‘ What about the girls for the club?’

  ‘ Not a problem, but what I’m trying to say is that… I wanna sound you out about something, if I may?’

  ‘ Sure — fire away.’ He was intrigued.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Don’t know where to begin. I feel all weak and shaky when I think about it. You know all those years ago when we made love?’

  Oh God, he thought desperately. His face dropped aghast. ‘I didn’t make you pregnant, did I?’ At the same time he said it, the idea of being a father gave him a warm glow.

  ‘ No, no, nothing like that.’ She waved her hands dismissively.

  He was relieved, but yet…

  ‘ So, yeah, we made love and well, even before we did and certainly afterwards, I was — am — in love with you, John. I know it’s all silly and stupid and juvenile — me, a woman who runs call girls — but it’s true. I’ve always wanted to tell you, but never had the courage and it never seemed the right time. Until now.’

  She stopped abruptly. Whilst speaking she hadn’t had the bottle to look at him directly and when she did, the look of what appeared to be abject horror on his face stopped her dead in her tracks. She gasped, ‘I’m sorry, John! I shouldn’t have said anything. What an idiot I am! I’ve been holding a torch for you all these years… I’ll go and head back home tonight. We’ll still do the club, sure. I’m sorry — what a stupid fool I am.’

  She stood to leave, tightening the belt on her robe.

  Rider had been lounging back in the bath, laid out full-length in the deep enamelled tub. Now he rose into a sitting position, water surging off him like a wreck being recovered from the deep. He held out a wet hand. ‘No, don’t go,’ he said with a weak smile.

  ‘ Don’t laugh at me, John, or I’ll punch your lights out,’ she warned him.

  ‘ I’m not laughing,’ he said sincerely. ‘Come here.’ He wiggled his fingers in an encouraging manner. ‘C’mon.’

  She took his hand with a degree of hesitation. He pulled her gently towards the bath so that she was standing right next to him. ‘Come down here,’ he murmured. Slowly she knelt next to the bath until their faces were on a level, eye to eye, nose to nose, mouth to mouth.

  ‘ This is my last try at getting a normal sort of life,’ she said hoarsely. ‘At least as normal as it can be for people like us.’

  ‘ And you love me?’ he whispered.

  She nodded. Her lips parted slightly. ‘Desperately.’

  He ran a hand around the back of her neck and eased her face towards his and kissed her on the mouth. Softly at first. Tentatively. Then, as their mouths moulded together and both realised they had found each other at last, the kiss became more urgent and wanting.

  Henry was never completely sure how he achieved it, but by the time Siobhan hit the landing he was back in the main office, standing nonchalantly next to a notice board, pretending to read an intelligence bulletin.

  He tried to look surprised when she bounded in through the door bearing a gift in the form of a covert VIP protection vest, designed for discreet use. In other words — underneath a shirt. Henry cringed when he thought how uncomfortable and hot it would be.

  ‘ It won’t stop a sniper’s bullet,’ his partner declared, ‘but according to the manufacturer it will prevent small-arms from inflicting wounds. It’ll stop knife-slash attacks too.’

  ‘ Won’t stop anyone blowing your head off either.’

  ‘ Don’t be picky,’ she said.

  He took it from her and held it up between forefinger and thumb like it was a dirty nappy.

  ‘ We all wear them.’

  ‘ Even you?’

  ‘ Even me — but I wear a specially designed one.’

  ‘ Like a Basque?’ asked Henry, rather naughtily.

  He regretted the comment briefly until she retorted, ‘You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?’ and cocked an eyebrow in his direction. ‘Right — a gun.’

  She led him back into the corridor and to a door marked Store. She unlocked it and behind it was something the size of a broom cupboard with a squat, grey safe set securely into the back wall. Siobhan bent down to it and whizzed out a combination on
the wheel which Henry could not follow. It opened easily.

  She reached in and removed a revolver with the cylinder hinged open to show it was empty, and gave it to Henry.

  ‘ Not much choice, I’m afraid. This is the only one available. Most of us have Glocks.’

  ‘ Oh, I’m quite happy with this one,’ he said generously, a statement which did not tie in with the tremble of his hand. Once again, he realised just how uncomfortable he was around guns. This was a Model No. 12 Smith amp; Wesson Military and Police with a two-inch barrel, weighing 18oz when empty. A good, reliable firearm. The. 38 special ammunition with which it was loaded could travel over 1500 metres, and in Henry’s hands was probably accurate up to about two metres. A trickle of sweat rolled down his spine and one or two demons stirred ominously in the pit of his bowels.

  Siobhan gave him a box of ammunition and two speed loaders. She filled in an issue form, then asked Henry to sign it. Again, like the radio book, it recorded the issue and return of equipment — this time firearms. Henry scrawled his signature in the required space. There was another gap after his name for the authorising officer to countersign — in this case Tony Morton. Siobhan explained he would do that at a later date.

  Henry looked quickly at Saturday’s entries.

  Geoff Driffield had signed a gun out. As had four others. 1700 hours. Everything was countersigned and approved by Tony Morton.

  ‘ Do you want to load up?’

  He went back to the office. With nervous fingers he loaded the revolver and the speed loaders, fumbling the bullets and dropping one or two in the process. By the time he had completed the task, Siobhan had returned with a shoulder holster for him.

  He slid his jacket off and eased his arms and shoulders through the webbing straps. Siobhan moved close to him and assisted him to adjust it so it fitted snugly. She was only inches away from him, fussing around like a loving wife might do for a husband who was getting ready for a special occasion. He could smell her warm breath.

  ‘ There you go,’ she declared. ‘How does that feel? Not too tight?’