Nightmare City hc-2

by Nick Oldham

She looked at the witness with her big wide eyes and a smile which could have melted granite. He immediately said, ‘Yes, no problem.’

  Hunt keyed in Tony Morton’s mobile number into his own and pressed the send button.

  ‘ They’ve just come out of the house, boss,’ he said. He gave the address to Morton and said, ‘What d’you want me to do?’

  ‘ Stick with ‘em,’ ordered his Chief Superintendent. ‘I want to know what the fuck’s going on — if anything.’

  ‘ Will do.’

  Donaldson’s Cherokee pulled away from the kerb. Hunt dropped the mobile onto the passenger seat and followed.

  Morton looked at the address given by Hunt with a puzzled expression. It meant nothing to him and he wondered if the two people were simply making house-calls to friends.

  Hunt had also given him the registered number of the car he was following. Morton tapped the number for a second or two before picking up the internal phone and dialling down to the communications room where there was a PNC terminal.

  The first interview was concluded. Rider had declined the offer of a solicitor, waiting until he knew what sort of evidence the cops had on him.

  Henry, of course, was pissing in the dark against a pretty strong wind because he knew next to nothing about the case and would need to know an awful lot more about it, Rider, Munrow and their antecedents before he really began to probe.

  Throughout, Rider had been non-committal. He was not exactly obstructive, but he wasn’t helpful and the interview achieved nothing.

  After Rider had been taken back to his cell, Siobhan dragged Henry back into the confines of the interview room. Once behind the closed door, she cut into him. ‘You’ll have to do a damned sight better than that, Henry, if you want to keep your nose clean.’

  ‘ I’m new to this game. I might’ve been known to bend the rules in the past, but I’ve never actually fitted anyone up before. I’m just learning,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You’re the fucking expert.’

  ‘ And here’s some tips, baby,’ she snarled. ‘Let’s begin with the arrest.’

  ‘ I’m listening.’

  ‘ Verbal him up.’

  ‘ What? “It’s a fair cop, guv, you’re too good for me” kinda thing?’

  She nodded. ‘Something like that. I’ll back you up.’

  ‘ You weren’t even there.’

  ‘ So?’ she shrugged. ‘And what about the journey back to the nick?’

  ‘ He didn’t say a word.’

  ‘ Yes, he did — he kept blabbing about how sorry he was, how he’d set Munrow up, how he’d shot him. Didn’t you hear him, Henry?’

  ‘ No,’ he said bleakly.

  ‘ I think you did… and what I suggest you do is go away and write your arrest statement to include these things. Then let me have a look at it. Then you can really start to get into the bastard’s ribs. He really did it, y’know?’

  ‘ He may well have done — but there’s no evidence against him.’

  ‘ There will be, Henry,’ she reassured him. ‘You just need to get creative.’

  ‘ How the hell do you sleep at night? Christ! How many times have you done this?’

  ‘ A few, Henry… and very well, actually.’

  ‘ What’s this all about, Siobhan?’ he pleaded. ‘How far does it go?’

  ‘ You don’t need to know, Henry. Not yet, anyway. Maybe when you’ve settled into your role, accepted the inevitable, shown you can be trusted. Maybe then, but for now, all you need to worry about is getting Rider charged with murder — and making it stick.’

  They had problems finding the next house. The map didn’t seem to make sense and they drove down a few wrong turns before they eventually pulled up outside.

  ‘ Men don’t listen…’

  ‘… and women can’t read maps.’

  They laughed. It was one of their favourite personal jokes, often quoted to each other after they had attended a seminar of the same name. Today it seemed totally appropriate.

  The night was drawing in quickly. Lights were coming on. The rain made it darker than ever.

  ‘ At least it’s confirmed something to me, all this chasing our tails up and down the mean streets of Fleetwood.’

  ‘ Oh — what?’

  ‘ That we’re being followed.’

  ‘ Can’t seem to work out the number of the house they’ve gone into,’ Hunt was saying to Morton via the mobile. He told him it was on Douglas Place. Morton wrote it down at his end.

  He looked at what he’d written. Next to it was the result of the PNC check which told him that the vehicle was a Jeep Cherokee, owned by someone called Donaldson who lived in Hartley Wintney in Hampshire. The owner’s name meant nothing to him, but he knew exactly where Hartley Wintney was — not five minutes away from the Police Staff College at Bramshill where he had attended several courses for high-ranking officers. And from where he had extended his business interests with likeminded detectives who were happy to feather their nests for comfortable retirements by supplying Morton with details of police operations which might affect him and Conroy.

  ‘ Donaldson, Donaldson…’ He worked the name through his mind. Nothing came to mind, other than the Bramshill connection.

  The cell door opened.

  Rider had been dozing on the plastic mattress, a very hairy blanket drawn up to his chin. He sat up and scratched his head. There was something very flea-like about the cell which made him itch all the time.

  It was the custody officer, Sergeant Taylor, who had been most fair with him during his stay.

  ‘ I know you said you didn’t want one,’ Taylor said apologetically, ‘but a solicitor has turned up saying that he is acting for you. If you don’t want him, I’ll tell him to sling his hook. But, to be honest, mate, in was in your position, I’d have one. You need all the help you can get.’

  Rider rubbed his eyes.

  He hadn’t been banged up for long, but already he was aware of his own bodily odours. As much to escape them, the cell and his solitude, he stood up and said, ‘I’ll see him.’

  The solicitor’s interview room was bare, functional and not a place in which to linger. There was a table (screwed to the floor) and two chairs.

  Rider entered the room and the solicitor got to his feet. He proffered a hand and introduced himself as Pratt.

  When the custody officer had reversed out and closed the door, Pratt said, ‘You’re probably very surprised to see me.’

  ‘ Considering I hadn’t asked for a brief yet — yes,’ admitted Rider. ‘Amazed would be more accurate.’

  ‘ I’ve been asked to represent you by a third party, on the proviso that you do something for that third party first.’

  ‘ I’m intrigued. Who is this third party?’ He expected to be told it was Isa or Jacko and he had to vow to go straight, or something ridiculous. The name he heard made his flesh creep.

  ‘ A Mr Conroy. I believe you know him?’ Pratt took a second or two to compose himself and the words he was about to say. ‘Firstly, I can promise you that if you do this one thing for Mr Conroy, you will be released from custody immediately.’

  ‘ And that is?’

  ‘ Sign the ownership of your club over to him.’

  The hairs on the back of Rider’s neck bristled.

  ‘ If you do this, I guarantee this allegation against you will go no further.’

  ‘ And how can this guarantee be given?’

  ‘ It can, believe me. Mr Conroy has influence.’

  ‘ How do I know he’ll stick to his word, once I’ve signed whatever I need to sign?’

  ‘ You don’t,’ Pratt said blandly. ‘Having said that, if you refuse to sign, Mr Conroy guarantees that you will serve a life sentence for murder.’

  ‘ Does he now?’

  For Pratt, the next second or so happened in very slow motion. Rider’s tightly bunched and very large, hairy right fist drove through the air towards his nose like a piston. It began at normal size, but as it homed
in grew very quickly to ginormous. Then it connected with an almighty crunch. Pratt’s nose broke. The energy from the blow was transferred from fist to nose and reverberated right through to the back of his skull.

  He went backwards over his chair, legs shooting upwards into the air like a massive ‘V’ sign to Rider. He crashed onto the floor and rolled to one side, both hands clutching a nose from which blood torrented.

  Rider came round to him and bent down to speak into his ear.

  ‘ Just tell Mr Conroy that if I get out of here, he’s a dead man.’

  Karen and Donaldson were admitted into the house by a pretty young lady about thirteen years old. She was the witness.

  She showed them into the living room where her parents were glued to the TV watching one of those early Saturday evening knock-about shows which always foxed Donaldson. It was something to do with embarrassing the fuck out of the general public. Very popular, apparently.

  Grudgingly the girl’s father went into the dining room with them. His presence was required because of her age.

  Donaldson interrupted proceedings after a few moments and asked if he could go into the back garden and take some air; foul night though it was, he explained, he had to get some fresh air into his lungs. He was feeling nauseous.

  Karen was puzzled. It showed on her face.

  He winked at her.

  Five minutes later, wet and bedraggled, he was back in the house, saying he was feeling much better. There was a wide smile across his countenance.

  Karen’s eyes slitted briefly, then she returned to her task.

  The cell door slammed shut behind him. He paced the confined space like a tiger, his thoughts in mayhem, much of his anger directed at himself.

  Isa’s words flooded back to him.

  ‘ How can you be sure that Munrow is responsible for killing those people?’ she had wanted him to ask himself. Where was the proof?

  He had then acted recklessly and killed a man who probably had not set fire to the flats. Or, at least, killed the wrong man. The one who should be dead now was called Ronnie Conroy and Rider had fallen for it. Typical of Conroy. Sneaky, deceitful and, of course, brilliant.

  He wanted Munrow out of the way because he was being a pain in the arse, yet he, Conroy, didn’t have the bottle to do it himself. So why not prey on John Rider’s paranoia and make him think that Munrow was out to get him.

  Yeah, get John Stupid Rider to do your dirty work for you, then set him up with the cops.

  It was all so simple.

  And it was obvious they were tame cops too.

  Tame cops like Henry Christie who were on Conroy’s payroll.

  He continued to pace the cell and each time he reached the door he slammed the side of his fist against it.

  Trapped and doomed.

  The young girl had a good memory. When she read ‘her’ statement, she was shocked at the changes. She quickly made a further statement and promised to keep quiet about the matter. Karen laid it on thick for the father, who looked the type to be bragging it around the local pub later, that this was top secret and not a word of it should leak. This was a very sensitive matter and if things got out, lives could be at risk.

  Back in the Jeep, Donaldson said, ‘Two down.’

  ‘ They’ve taken dozens of statements in this investigation. How many more have been tampered with? In the end everyone will have to be revisited.’

  ‘ Yup.’ He started the engine.

  ‘ And where the hell did you disappear to?’

  ‘ Couldn’t resist,’ he admitted with a big grin. He held up his pocket knife with a gleeful smile.

  ‘ They’re moving away, boss,’ Hunt said into the mobile. He gave Morton the second address, then ended the call. He allowed Donaldson enough time to move off before he slipped his car into first and followed.

  After only a few metres he realised that the car would be going no further. It was limping sadly along like a cripple. He drew in and raced round the back where he saw that the two rear tyres were as flat as two-day-old beer.

  He swore and pulled his jacket up around his neck.

  ‘ Bastards!’

  Henry Christie faced John Rider across the interview-room table for the second time that day.

  Siobhan sat frostily to one side.

  The tapes were running.

  ‘ When you were arrested, you said to me, “What the fuck am I meant to have done?”’ Henry said levelly to Rider, referring to his notes. The interview had been going forty minutes. Henry had given Rider the opportunity to admit the killing, but the prisoner was not forthcoming. Henry had therefore switched gear and gone into ‘verbal-up’ mode. ‘I then told you and you replied, “Yeah, you’re fucking right. I shot the bastard. He well deserved it”. What do you say to that, John?’

  Henry’s voice was affable, unflustered, but underneath he was churning. His stomach felt like someone was dragging a rake around inside it. His hands, though visibly calm, were on the verge of trembling. His nerve ends tingled at the lies he was putting to Rider.

  Rider made no reply, but folded his arms and glowered contemptuously at his captor. So this is it, he thought. The beginning of the fit-up. The opening salvos in what would probably be his downfall. Rider had been confident there was no evidence against him and now they were resorting to these tactics.

  ‘ Both myself and DC Robson here heard you. Do you deny you said those words?’

  No reply. No response.

  ‘ During the journey back to the police station, I reminded you that you were still under caution and that it was in your interests to be quiet until we reached the police station where an interview would be conducted formally. However, you continued to talk throughout the journey, though we did not invite you to do so. You said, and I quote — because DC Robson made notes of the unsolicited remarks — “I had to kill the bastard. He would have done me in otherwise. It were him or me and I made fucking sure it were him. I blasted him in those changing rooms and he didn’t have a chance in hell. Bang fucking bang! Dead Munrow”. Any comment John?’

  As if.

  Henry persisted with this for thirty further minutes, having to change the tapes partway through. Not surprisingly he got nothing out of Rider, who at the end of the interview declared he wanted a solicitor for the next one and refused to sign the tape seal when he was invited to do so.

  They led him back to the custody office and handed him back to Sergeant Taylor. Henry said, ‘Interviewed in accordance with PACE and the Codes of Practice. No admissions made.’

  Rider was taken back to his cell.

  Siobhan linked her arm with Henry’s and drew him to one side. ‘Well done, Henry. I’ll tell the boss you’re trying.’

  ‘ I feel like dirt.’ He pulled his arm away.

  She smiled. ‘You’d better start thinking about finding some evidence at his place now. Like a ski mask, or something, maybe splattered with blood.’ She left the custody office.

  Henry walked back to the charge desk where Taylor was scribbling in a custody record.

  ‘ Eric?’

  Taylor looked up defiantly. He placed his pen down.

  ‘ How much did they give you?’

  ‘ You should know, Henry.’

  ‘ Don’t talk shit. You know I never sent that money. I just don’t operate like that. I’d rather get convicted of assault than pervert justice.’ Which he knew was rich coming from someone who was in the process of doing just that to another person.

  ‘ Five grand in a briefcase.’

  ‘ And where would I get that sort of money from? I haven’t got five hundred in the bank.’

  ‘ How do I know?’

  ‘ Have you still got it?’

  Taylor nodded.

  ‘ I suggest you keep it very, very safe, Eric, while I think of how we can both get out of this mess and still be in employment. Understand?’

  Henry was astounded by the level of threat in his voice. It frightened him a little as he said, ‘Bec
ause if it disappears, I’ll throw you off the Tower, Eric, and I’ll enjoy watching you fall and splat onto the shops below. And I mean it.’

  Their faces had got closer as if they were hypnotising each other. The gaoler came back from the cell corridor and broke the spell. ‘Rider says he wants to see you, Sarge,’ he said to Henry.

  ‘ Right,’ Henry nodded, eyes on Taylor. ‘Put it down in his custody record that I visited him and spoke to him through the cell hatch on an unrelated matter.’

  Rider’s face was pressed into the hole in the door.

  ‘ Henry fuckin’ Christie.’

  ‘ My middle name’s James, actually.’

  ‘ I wouldn’t mind, Henry, but I don’t even speak like that! I mean: “It were me or him, I made sure it were him”! I might be a toe-rag to you, but my English grammar is just as good as yours.’

  ‘ So? What’re you getting at?’

  ‘ You’ll have to do better than that if you want to stitch me up.’

  ‘ I haven’t finished yet,’ Henry said coldly.

  ‘ I thought not, but I’ll tell you something.’ Rider changed the position of his face. ‘I’m surprised at you. I don’t like you and I’ve only known you a week, but I’d thought to myself, “Here’s an honest cop. A bastard, but honest”. And I respected that — but you’ve let me down. Big style. What does it feel like to be someone’s puppet, doing someone else’s bidding? How does it feel to be out of control?’

  They met at midnight in the conservatory. Kate had gone to bed, leaving Henry, Karen and Donaldson.

  ‘ Two out of four ain’t bad for a first strike,’ Donaldson said quietly. He took a sip from a cool can of Colt 45. He was referring to the fact that the other two witnesses had been out. ‘We’ll get ‘em tomorrow.’

  Henry was tired. His chest was sore and he had made his ear bleed again by fiddling with the dressing. He sat back in the bamboo chair and took a sip of the malt whisky he only brought out on special occasions. It flowed silkily down his throat and put up a temporary barrier against the pam.

  ‘ We were followed,’ Donaldson told him. He recited the registered number of the car and the make.