by Nick Oldham
‘ Fine.’
He could see the flawless complexion, the finer than fine silky hairs.
‘ I like webbing,’ she said throatily, a smile playing on her lips. She eased her fingers around the straps of the holster, pulled herself onto tiptoe and kissed his mouth quickly, then drew away.
Henry was dazed into statuesque immobility.
She hoisted herself back up, kissed him again, and whilst doing so, sunk her teeth into his bottom lip, drawing a small squeak of pain/pleasure from him. His arms looped around her, crushing her body into his. Their groins ground together and her slinky wet tongue slid into his mouth.
It took a few seconds before reason triumphed over lust.
‘ Whoa… hold on.’ He pushed her firmly away.
‘ What’s the matter?’
‘ I’m sorry, that shouldn’t have happened.’
‘ Why? Didn’t you enjoy it?’
‘ On the contrary.’ In fact the surge of pleasure he’d experienced was almost overwhelming.
‘ Because you’re a married man?’
‘ That’s one reason.’
‘ Any other?’
‘ We’re work colleagues. I’m a supervisor. Recipe for disaster. I don’t want to do anything foolish.’ Like I’ve done in the past, he did not hasten to add.
She looked disappointed, but gave him a rueful smile and nodded. ‘All right, I accept that.’ Unoffended. But before she turned away she gave him an eye-to-eye which said, in no uncertain terms, there was unfinished business here.
Henry picked up the gun and slid it into the holster — only it didn’t go in as he’d anticipated. He hadn’t realised it was an upside-down holster — a type he had seen, but never used before.
He gave himself a mental warning to remember that, if he had to draw the weapon.
Otherwise he might shoot himself in the heart.
They made love twice in the following hour. The first time was fast, with little style, completely driven by desire. It lasted only minutes as they tore desperately at each other, biting, sucking, pushing, shoving, basically devouring each other in a frenzy. They came together in a tangled, panting, damp mess, then picked themselves up from the bathroom floor. Clinging tightly, not wanting to let go, they stumbled through to the main bedroom where they simply lay together, holding each other and realising their love in small murmurings.
When they were ready, the second time was much slower and considered. They explored each other, caressed, probed, rubbed and brought each other to the height of ecstasy.
They reached their second orgasm with Isa on top, riding slowly, her full breasts swinging gracefully above his face, until she felt him become harder and harder and his thrusts became more urgent. Then she ground herself onto his pelvic bone, taking him deep inside, and they both came with a long, deep climax which shook them to the core.
Exhausted, she collapsed on top of him, head buried in his chest; he stayed inside her, running his fingers up and down her spine, making her quiver delightfully.
‘ That was gorgeous,’ she said languidly, breathing in long and pleasurably through her nose.
‘ Mmm,’ he managed to reply.
They both drifted into a contented sleep until they were interrupted rudely by the shrill phone next to the bed. She rolled off him and he answered it.
It was the cops.
Bad news. Could he turn out? Now. The block of bedsits he owned near to the Pleasure Beach was burning down. People were trapped. Some could be dead. It looked like arson.
There were four fire-tenders, three police cars, a couple of ambulances and the road had been cordoned off. The noise of the engines of the tenders was deafening, a sort of roar and whine combined. The sound of radios transmitting and receiving, people shouting to each other and running all over the place simply added to the cacophony.
By the time Rider arrived the building was a shell. Massive amounts of fire and smoke damage had been caused to the ones on either side. The windows were all missing, blown out by heat and flames, and dense black smoke billowed out into the night, accompanied by the occasional flash of flame, though generally the fire was under control.
The fire brigade relentlessly pumped gallons of water into the building. Two people had been unable to get out.
They had died.
One had burned to a crisp. The other had died through smoke inhalation.
Rider pushed his way through the crowd of enraptured onlookers and ducked under the cordon tape. A uniformed cop approached him to block the way. Above the din of the incident, Rider introduced himself and asked to be directed to the Chief Fire Officer at the scene.
The cop pointed. Rider thanked him.
He trod carefully over several layers of hose pipes which lay across each other like a convention of boa constrictors.
The CFO was removing his breathing apparatus. Rider waited until he removed his face mask which left a clean area of skin around his nose, eyes and mouth. The rest of his face and neck was smoke-charred black.
‘ Deliberate,’ the CFO told Rider confidently.
‘ Can you be sure at this stage?’
‘ Yes,’ he said with authority. ‘There are several seats of fire throughout the building. It looks like whoever started it worked his, or her, way down from the upper floors, lighting fires as they descended. That’s not official yet, by the way, but I can tell. I’ve been to enough fires to know.’ He wasn’t bragging. ‘Any clue who might have done this?’
Of course I fucking have, Rider wanted to scream. He tried not to let his face mirror his thoughts. He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘ Well, this is a matter for the police now. Two people dead and deliberate seats of fire. It’s a murder enquiry — as if they haven’t got enough on this week.’
Chapter Sixteen
Friday. 6 a.m. They were all in position.
Henry, Siobhan and two members of the firearms team — Dave Bevan and Jack Philpot — were ensconced very uncomfortably in the back of a surveillance van parked on St George’s Quay, Lancaster. The van was, purposely, a rather careworn Ford Transit, bearing the logo of a fictional electrical company.
All four officers were perched on narrow wooden seats in the rear of the van, squirming in an effort to keep the blood flowing to their extremities in the cramped conditions. It seemed the seats had been designed to make arses numb within minutes. They were certainly not made for comfort and relaxation.
Their combined breath condensed on the inside of the van and because it was so cold, froze in tiny globules on the metal surface. Henry guessed it was only a matter of time before stalactites formed. The heater had packed up and the extractor fan wasn’t working. The joy and glamour of surveillance work, Henry thought gloomily. He hoped that the target, Terry Anderson, would do the honour of appearing soon.
Henry looked at the small chemical toilet and speculated as to who would be the first person brave enough to use it.
The van was parked about one hundred metres away from a converted warehouse in which Anderson was supposed to have a small flat. Through the one-way windows which allowed them to look out and no one else to peer in, they could see anyone entering or leaving the flats.
Four other officers were covering the rear. They were hidden behind a wall and Henry was extremely sorry for them. They must have been really suffering in the cold. The outside temperature was below freezing, but at least it wasn’t snowing or raining. Hardly a comfort, though.
The remainder of the firearms team were parked in an unmarked van, tucked away in a mill yard about a quarter of a mile away down the quayside.
It was assumed with reasonable certitude that Anderson was not at home. The surrounding streets had been scoured for any signs of his Shogun.
Henry hoped that if he did turn up, he wouldn’t drive in by the route which would take him past the mill yard. The firearms vehicle, albeit unmarked, had a definite aura of ‘police’ about it. Any self-respecting villain would clock it immediately.
&nb
sp; There were two other routes to the flat. One from the main road which ran through Lancaster, the other around the perimeter of a nearby housing estate. Observers in unmarked cars were parked unobtrusively on these routes, watching for Anderson’s arrival.
Henry was under no illusions about their prey.
Anderson was a very violent, professional criminal. He was very shrewd and ultra-suspicious. It wouldn’t surprise Henry if he spent some time reconnoitring the area, checking for any signs of police activity, before he thought it safe enough to stop. If anything seemed out of place or spooked him, he would bolt and they would never catch him. Henry hoped the man wanted to get home desperately — for a shit, or something — anything which would make him less switched on.
The fact that the surveillance van was parked in such an exposed position, in eyeball contact with the front of the warehouse, didn’t help matters. Because of the geography of the location — right on the riverside — there was nowhere more subtle to position it. Fortunately it looked a pretty genuine electrician’s van and didn’t stand out like too much of a sore thumb.
Henry glanced at his companions.
Dave and Jack, the two firearms officers, sat in thoughtful silence with bored expressions on their faces. They were dressed in dark blue overalls, body armour, ballistic caps and black lace-up boots. Each had an HK MP5 across his chest and a pistol in a holder around the waist.
‘ OK?’ Henry enquired.
They both nodded, said nothing. Strong silent types.
Henry looked at the far more appealing Siobhan Robson, his partner.
She was in tight jeans, a tracksuit top and a fleece-lined zip-up jacket. Her hair had been pulled into a pony tail and tucked under a dark green woollen cap. With her hair thus taken up, her ears were going blue with cold. It didn’t stop them being nice ears, though. She stuck the tip of her tongue out at Henry and smiled with her eyes.
He responded with a quick grin, then raised his eyebrows and looked out through the window, mulling over the plan of action if Anderson turned up. It had been decided that he should be allowed to park his car, get out and walk to the front entrance of the warehouse. There he had to key a number into a pad to gain entry to the building. The teams should hit him just as he was doing this, grab him, flatten him, cuff him, search him, arrest him.
At least that was the plan. Everyone seemed to understand it and that in itself was a bonus.
He shivered and clamped his teeth together to stop them making a clattering noise like badly adjusted tappets.
Of course there was a good chance Anderson would never turn up. Ever.
It was five past six.
At which time John Rider was climbing into bed, having spent the night at the scene of the fire. He had made a comprehensive statement to the police, being as honest with them as he thought necessary. Yes, he had recently fallen out big-style with someone, but he wasn’t about to tell them that. What had happened was beyond the ability of the law to deal with. It was for him to sort out now, once and for all. To put an end to this madness with perhaps one more act of madness.
Munrow would have to die.
There was no other option now, he believed.
Isa had been with him throughout the night, watching him closely, trying to judge his mood, guess his intentions. But Rider was good. He showed nothing, kept a straight face, kept his anger controlled. Turned inside himself.
They had returned to the basement flat a little before six, both gritty and grubby from the smoke. They shared a shower in which they soaped each other down and washed each other’s hair. Shortly after six they climbed into bed and Rider made ferocious love to Isa in a way which brought her to a wonderful multi-orgasm, but which also left her feeling slightly afraid.
Afterwards, before they fell asleep, Isa asked him the big question.
‘ Are you going to kill him?’
A terrible, faraway look came into Rider’s eyes which made Isa’s skin crawl.
He nodded, rolled over and within minutes was asleep.
Isa buried her face in the pillow, unable to stop the tears.
Four hours later, Henry and his team in the van were beginning to warm up a little. A weak-willed winter sun poked its reluctant nose from behind the grey clouds and was making a little difference to the temperature inside the van. It had risen to freezing point, but it was better than nothing. Several cups of shared coffee from flasks were also having a positive effect on internal body temperatures. Unfortunately the liquid was having an adverse effect on the bladders of two of them, Henry being one. He was feeling an increasingly urgent need to pay a visit to a toilet, but not the chemical one fitted in the van, watched by the others.
It was becoming a predicament, one which would have to be addressed sooner rather than later.
Henry crossed his legs and gave Siobhan a lopsided grin which seemed to convey his inner torment.
To be honest, Karl Donaldson did not really expect to hear from George Santana again. So when he answered the phone he was amazed to hear the crackle of static that meant long distance, and the faint sound of Santana’s voice at the far end.
‘ I have some news for you, Agent Donaldson,’ Santana revealed after the opening exchange of pleasantries.
Donaldson waited to be told.
‘ We have been keeping your man under observation and there is nothing to report on that front,’ the Madeiran detective said. ‘However, we have learned that he has booked a seat on a charter-plane flight to the United Kingdom.’
‘ When and where does it land?’ He expected to be told Heathrow, next Monday… something like that.
‘ Around four o’clock this afternoon. Manchester.’
Donaldson closed his eyes despairingly. He scribbled down the flight details as Santana said them, thanked him and hung up.
Fucking Manchester in six hours!
Not impossible — but pretty godammed difficult to arrange for someone to greet him and drop onto his tail.
He fleetingly considered ringing Henry Christie and telling him to haul ass to the airport — like they’d done once on a previous job. Then he remembered Henry was now on local CID in Blackpool and didn’t have the roving commission that he’d had when on the Regional Crime Squad. He couldn’t come and go as he pleased any more.
It left Donaldson with a dilemma. Should he go to Manchester himself and risk being spotted by Hamilton, or should he arrange for the cops in Manchester to put a surveillance team on him?
Six hours. Short notice to get someone to drop everything and follow a man whom they did not know, who was not really suspected of doing anything. It was pretty unlikely they would wear that.
So, by a process of deduction, there was only one solution.
He reached for the phone.
Twenty minutes later, Henry was almost weeping with the agony of trying to hold it all in. He had to pass water instantaneously, otherwise he’d burst in a spectacular fashion.
‘ I need to pee,’ he declared, ‘and I’m not using that!’ He pointed accusingly to the chemical toilet.
‘ I could do with one too,’ said Philpot, the firearms officer.
‘ Right,’ said Henry. He looked out of the window. There was nothing moving on the Quay, vehicles, people, anything. He did a quick radio check using a prearranged code to find out if anyone had spotted the approach of Anderson and all came back negative. It seemed as good a time as any to break cover and dash across the road into the gap between two buildings and indulge in some blissful relief.
‘ We run across to that alley, go down to the far end of it and do it there. Then we wait for the all clear’ — he nodded towards Siobhan — ‘three clicks on the radio, and we’ll pile back into the van.’
‘ Gotcha,’ said Philpot, who for the last ten minutes had been fidgeting like he had a ferret down his trousers.
Henry opened the back door an inch. A blast of ice-cold air rushed in. He had another look to ensure it really was safe to go, dropped out of th
e van, sprinted across the road and disappeared down the alley, Philpot in hot pursuit.
They began to do what came naturally, their faces a picture of almost perfect pleasure.
Siobhan’s voice came over the radio, the words in rapid fire. ‘He’s here. Target One’s here. He’s pulled up at the front of the warehouse!’ There was a degree of panic in her speech.
‘ Fuck!’ uttered Henry. He had to finish peeing because he didn’t think he had a strong enough bladder to halt the process. Neither did Philpot. Both were in full flow, unstoppable. ‘How the hell did he get here without us knowing first? C’mon, c’mon.’ Henry urged himself. Down his radio he said, ‘You’d better get the ball rolling, Siobhan. We’ll be right behind you.’
If we can stop pissing.
Terry Anderson pulled up outside the converted warehouse in which he rented a one-bedroomed flat where he occasionally dossed down. He was driving his Shogun which bore Southern Irish number plates. He applied the handbrake and switched off the engine only seconds after Henry and his urinating colleague had disappeared down the alley. Had Anderson been less than a minute earlier he would have seen them climbing out of the van. As it was, the quayside looked safe and sound. A few parked cars. A van. No pedestrians. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He had been scanning police airwaves and again, nothing was going on which indicated a surveillance operation was underway. He caught a few officers transmitting radio checks, but it meant nothing to him.
He felt pretty secure.
The scanner was lodged on the dash of the Shogun. He leaned forwards and switched it off at the exact moment Siobhan made her hurried transmission to Henry.
Anderson did not hear it.
He did not sit for long in the car. He had parked in the residents’ bay on the opposite side of the road to the warehouse. He got out, locking the vehicle with the remote, and trotted towards the front entrance of the warehouse.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the rear doors of the van opening. Instinctively he knew he was in trouble.