by Nick Oldham
The change in Conroy was visible. One moment he was hard-faced, the next bright and happy on hearing of the death. ‘Hoo-fucking-ray,’ he cheered. ‘Rider?’
‘ We can only presume so,’ Morton said. ‘Unidentified male blew his head off in a Debenhams changing room. Could be Rider from the description.’
‘ Looks like my little ruse worked. Yes!’ He punched the air. ‘What the hell was he doing in Debenhams?’
‘ Buying clothes presumably,’ Morton answered.
‘ And what about Rider?’ Conroy asked. ‘He could do with stitching up for that. Any chance? If he was out of the game, we could have his club.’
Morton gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
In his mind he was already formulating a course of action which involved the newest detective on his unit.
The sharp knock on the door made them jump.
Conroy opened it.
Scott Hamilton walked in.
Henry parked the NWOCS car at Blackpool and dropped into the station to see if there had been any developments in the investigations he had so happily left behind for a quick move onto a new squad. A move which had already got him shot and into a compromising position. All in one day. Not bad going by any standards.
Nothing seemed to be moving on anything.
Particularly in respect of Marie Cullen; the case seemed to have come to a standstill with the death of the man supposed to be her pimp.
Working on the assumption that his short secondment to the. NWOCS was virtually over, Henry decided that he’d do a few things with it next week. Maybe if there was a push, it might lead them properly to McNamara, millionaire bastard — and friend of Tony Morton…
Henry frowned.
He recalled the photos on Morton’s wall. Him and McNamara looked pretty close buddies. One of those horrible queasy churnings moved through him like a bad case of wind.
Surely not..? He banished the thought.
A note had been scribbled out and left on his desk asking him to call round and see Annie, Derek’s widow. She had something for him, apparently. Henry pulled his nose up at the thought of revisiting her. Then his sense of responsibility overpowered this. He would call in for five minutes on his way home.
At least it would delay seeing Kate. It was going to be difficult to face her and act normal, knowing that he had as good as committed adultery for the second time in their marriage.
Was it technically adultery when another woman sucked your cock? Or if you went down on her? Surely it had to be full intercourse?
It was a fine line, to be sure. But he knew one thing for certain; Kate would be blind to the semantics. If she ever found out.
‘ I am trying to understand the situation,’ Hamilton was saying. ‘We all have difficulties from time to time. In fact, I recently had a couple of FBI agents snooping around the Jacaranda. One was eliminated by two good friends who were staying with me at the time; they made it look like a drunken accident.’
‘ And the other?’ Morton enquired.
‘ Beaten to within an inch of his life,’ he boasted. Not quite true, but these three didn’t have to know that.
‘ Who are your friends?’ That was Conroy.
‘ Professionals. And should you ever need their services, contact me. They are very, very good. One hundred per cent track record. As messy or as clean as you like. Don’t mind killing cops… but we digress. The problem we now have is that the agent acting on behalf of the buyer is arriving soon and we have no goods to display because they are in the hands of the police.’
‘ That’s about the long and short of it,’ McNamara said.
‘ Do we know where these guns are at the moment? Are they accessible?’
‘ Yes and no,’ said Morton firmly. ‘We’re not busting them out of the police store.’
‘ Who said bust them out?’ Hamilton said.
The three waited.
‘ Why not borrow them and then return them — and no one is any the wiser? It solves the problem of me having to arrange to bring more into the country from Madeira. Simply borrow them for a couple of hours.’
Morton sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. Now why hadn’t he thought of that one? ‘Possible,’ he said, chewing it over. ‘Just possible.’
Chapter Nineteen
Police Sergeant Eric Taylor’s financial trouble could be traced back over twelve years — to the 1984 miners strike, actually. One of the longest and most bitter strikes ever to hit the UK, lasting for over a year, it had a major spin-off for the police officers who were required to police it: by working the excessive amounts of overtime needed, they made plenty of extra money. This particularly applied to officers who had to travel from their own force areas to the trouble spots to support their colleagues. These travelling officers often found themselves working away from home for weeks on end, and their pay packets reflected this, with up to double their usual earnings.
Some officers, it was said, taunted the striking miners by waving their hefty pay cheques at the picket lines. Others sent postcards from far-flung places around the globe to the miners’ leader Arthur Scargill, thanking him for the money which had paid for the holiday of a lifetime.
Another downside to the money was that some officers found themselves in debt when the strike ended and the wage slips returned to normal.
Eric Taylor had made a great deal of money out of the strike.
He was one of those who was always available to go, and over the year he spent about seventeen weeks away from home, policing the miners, earning a relative fortune.
But, like so many others, he failed to plan ahead and the end of the strike caught him by surprise.
A new car, conservatory, new three-piece suite, a couple of holidays abroad — all still needed to be paid off once the strike was over.
And he was still feeling the ramifications to this day.
He had had to borrow to service his borrowings — and then borrow to service those borrowings. At least a third of his salary went out to pay for loans taken on board twelve years earlier.
And he was a bitter man.
His wife left him, taking their two children and a large percentage of his remaining salary in maintenance payments.
A long-term woman friend also took him to the cleaners.
Now he lived in a rented terraced house, alone, unhappy and ripe for corrupting.
These people were always easy targets.
He was the first of two to be visited that evening.
Whilst Henry was shuffling around Blackpool police station, DI Gallagher and DS Tattersall knocked on the front door of Taylor’s house, knowing he was off-duty and fully aware of his severe financial problems. He was unlikely to be out gallivanting.
Perfect.
A sour-faced man opened the door.
Gallagher and Tattersall held up their warrant cards and introduced themselves. Gallagher was carrying a briefcase.
Taylor recognised them. He’d seen them knocking about the station throughout the week, but he did not know who they were.
‘ Sergeant Taylor, is it?’
Taylor nodded suspiciously. He did not like being visited at home by anyone. He was always slightly embarrassed by his inferior surroundings, having once lived in a detached house with a double garage. He had really come down in the world, in his own estimation. And he was particularly wary of two detectives from NWOCS.
‘ Yeah,’ he answered shortly. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘ Could we possibly come in and have a chat?’ Gallagher asked affably enough. Tattersall remained silent, as he was to do for the remainder of the visit. He was a brooding, unsettling presence, hovering behind Gallagher. The DI noted Taylor’s look of wariness. ‘Nothing to worry about, honestly.’
Taylor accepted the words of comfort grudgingly. Not completely happy, but nevertheless, he was intrigued.
He allowed them into the threadbare lounge which was furnished like some 1970s thro
wback. Typical of cheap rented and furnished accommodation.
‘ Sit down.’
Gallagher sat. Tattersall shook his head and stood next to his boss. Taylor settled himself on the settee and waited.
Gallagher coughed and attempted to come across as fairly uncomfortable, though inside he was completely at ease.
‘ First of all,’ Gallagher began, ‘I want to reassure you that what we say from now on is completely confidential. Nothing will go beyond these walls.’
‘ I’m not sure I can give you that reassurance,’ Taylor said. ‘Mainly because I don’t know why the hell you’re here or what you’re gonna say.’
‘ I appreciate that… but I do ask you to keep it confidential.’
Taylor gave a non-committal twitch of the head.
‘ I’ll come to the point quickly, Sarge. We’re here on behalf of Henry Christie. He’s asked us to come and speak to you to ask for a favour.’
Taylor perked up. He was listening now. His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘ You were the Custody Sergeant last Saturday evening when DS Christie allegedly assaulted a youth then stupidly forgot to enter it up on the record.’
Taylor said nothing.
‘ Well, Henry’s looked through the custody record and noticed that you were the last person to make any entries on it up to and including the point where this youth was taken to hospital. There are no entries after that because he was subsequently released from custody and reported for summons for the offence he had committed.’
Taylor watched Gallagher closely, hardly able to believe what was being said.
‘ Henry wondered if you’d do him a favour. See, he’s in a lot of trouble over this — or could be — and it’s hanging over his head and, well, the thing is, without an independent witness to back him up, it looks like he could be in for some rough times ahead.’
‘ Tough. And I’m not sure I like what I’m hearing,’ Taylor said stonily.
‘ OK… but let me finish, please. Henry wondered if you’d be willing to… how shall we say?… amend the custody record in his favour to say you witnessed the whole thing.’
Taylor’s heart, by now, was ramming against his ribs. He almost expected it to break them and splurge out. His face tightened up. ‘How dare you?’ he demanded.
Gallagher held his hands up, palms out, defensively. ‘We understand your initial reaction, Sarge.’
‘ Look, you bastards, are you setting me up or something? Are you wired up? I’m an honest cop and this is completely out of order.’ His voice rose as he began to rant. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but as far as I’m concerned you can fuck right off out of my house. I’m going to complain about you both — and Henry Christie! Though I can hardly credit he would have sent you. It’s not like him. For a start, he’d do his own dirty work.’
‘ He’s in trouble, Eric,’ Gallagher said earnestly. ‘A colleague in trouble and he’s asking a friend to do him a favour, that’s all.’
Taylor remained steadfast. ‘No.’
‘ And that’s your final word on the matter?’
‘ Yes.’
‘ I believe you have some money problems, Eric.’
‘ And that’s fuck-all to do with you, pal.’
‘ We are prepared to help you, if you help Henry in return. No, don’t say anything.’ Gallagher reached for the briefcase which he had put down by the chair. He placed it on his knees and flicked the catches, opening it so Taylor could not see into it. He took out an A4 sheet of paper which the Sergeant instantly recognised as a custody record. Gallagher laid this on the smoked-glass coffee table which was between them.
Eric’s anger bubbled. It was the custody record he had filled in last Saturday, one of over fifty that day, but one he remembered well. The name on the top was Shane Mulcahy.
He glared at Gallagher.
‘ Get out,’ he spat.
Gallagher held a finger up. ‘One second,’ he said.
He placed the open briefcase on the coffee table next to the custody record and slowly swivelled it round so Taylor could see what it contained.
On top of the contents was a note, printed in capital letters. It read: THERE IS?10,000 IN USED BANK OF ENGLAND NOTES IN HERE. YOU MAY COUNT IT IF YOU WISH. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO TO RECEIVE THIS MONEY IS TO ALTER THE CUSTODY RECORD AND HELP A FRIEND IN NEED. ERIC, PLEASE HELP ME. The signature could have belonged to Henry Christie. Taylor wasn’t sure.
He looked at the note and the money underneath it.
Then his eyes met Gallagher’s over the lid of the briefcase.
Gallagher gave him a quirky smile.
It was a lot of money, for not much effort.
‘ You’ve made me leave, John,’ Isa said. Glassy tears were twinkling in her eyes. ‘I wanted to love you… I do love you… but you’ve spoilt it.’ She bent down and picked up her suitcase.
‘ There was absolutely no need to do what you did. No rhyme, no reason, no excuse. Cold-blooded murder.’ She shook as she said the words.
‘ I didn’t have a choice, Isa,’ Rider said simply. They were standing in the lounge area of his basement flat, the bedsits above. There was a huge crash from the room above which juddered the whole ceiling. Probably the couple in the ground-floor flat having one of their usual domestics. Rider was not bothered by what was happening above. It was his own, fairly subdued domestic dispute which was his problem at the moment. He was very tired now. The action of the day had sapped everything, including his resolve to keep Isa. He was too weary to put up much of a fight, although he knew what was happening was very important. He wished it could be put off until tomorrow when he was feeling stronger.
‘ Everybody has a choice. You made yours without even thinking about me — and after what we said, promised each other, only hours before.’
‘ He killed innocent people. They burned to death on my property. I was responsible for them.’
‘ Did he kill them? How the hell d’you know that for sure? Where’s your evidence? It could just as easily have been one of your crack-crazed residents out of his tiny mind. Those idiots are capable of anything.’
As if to confirm what she said, there was another crash from upstairs. They both looked at the ceiling, then at each other.
‘ Why didn’t you tell the police? You had the opportunity.’
‘ Because they’re useless, corrupt bastards. Munrow would have paid them off, like Conroy does. You know what I think about cops.’
‘ John, you are a fool,’ she said sadly.
‘ So is this it?’
‘ Yes.’ It was a quiet, almost inaudible word. One she did not wish to utter.
She walked to the door, opened it and went through without looking back. Rider made no attempt to stop her, even though something inside him was willing him to do so. He knew he was being pig-headed and stupid.
He heard the front door close softly and saw Isa walk up the steps past the net-curtained window.
Maybe tomorrow.
Another crash from upstairs.
Rider’s nostrils flared. Noisy bastards. He was going to throw them out on their arses right now if they couldn’t damn well behave.
He stormed out of the room to the door in the short hallway which gave him access up a flight of stairs to the flats above without having to go outside. He unlocked the several bolts and chains and opened the door, treading carefully onto the darkened and narrow stairway.
They burst into the flat before he knew what was happening.
Two men. Blue boiler suits. Heavy boots. Hoods with eye and mouth slits.
One had a straight, extendable baton.
The other had a gun.
At the moment Shane Mulcahy opened his door, the one with the baton rammed it into his stomach, causing him to bend double; the baton was then expertly smacked across Shane’s face, breaking his nose with a sickening crunch of bone.
Shane was bundled back into the flat and his thin spidery body was slamm
ed face down onto the bare floor where the red gush from his nose flooded out. The one with the gun knelt on Shane’s back, one knee planted firmly on his spine just between the shoulder-blades, the gun thrust into his cheek.
Jodie, Shane’s much-abused girlfriend, had been trying her best to breast-feed the baby which was cradled in her arms. One poor-looking breast and nipple were exposed. She reacted instinctively, drawing her arms around the baby and cowering in a chair for protection.
The one with the baton said to her, ‘If you speak or scream I’ll whack this across your head and then the baby’s.’
Jodie did not speak because, although not having experienced this type of scenario before, she was sufficiently street-wise to know when to shut up. She had immediately assumed these people were drugs dealers come to collect an unpaid debt. It was the culture she inhabited and she knew her best chance of survival was acquiescence.
She nodded nervously.
The baby, deprived of its meagre supply of milk, sucked air desperately.
‘ Now then, Shane, old bean,’ the man with the gun said, lowering his mouth near to Shane’s ear. ‘You’ve been a naughty, naughty lad, haven’t you?’
The young skinhead could hardly breathe, let alone speak. Blood had gagged in his throat. He coughed and choked, spitting a fine spray of red saliva.
‘ I don’t owe you owt,’ he gurgled.
‘ Oh yes you do, you owe us a great deal.’
Despite herself, Jodie let out a wail of anguish. The stupid idiot had obviously neglected to pay his drugs debts and from the sound of it they had amounted to a tidy sum. Now collection time had come and if they could not find the money, Shane’s brains might be joining his nasal blood on the floor.
The baton arced through the air towards Jodie’s head. She saw it coming, braced herself for the impact. It stopped a millimetre from her left temple. Her eyes focused on the end of it.
‘ Next time,’ the man warned, ‘I take your fucking head off. Now, shut it, bitch.’
She bit her lips and hugged her child which whimpered pathetically, picking up on the tension in her body. She rocked it.