Nightmare City hc-2

by Nick Oldham

  ‘ George, Karl Donaldson here. What’s happening?’

  ‘ Your friend Hamilton… we have been sticking to him like glue since he returned to Madeira. He spent little time here and then boarded a plane to Lisbon where we were able to keep up with him. He met a man there at a hotel. Our men have watched them carefully.’ Santana sounded proud of his achievement. ‘They are both booked onto a flight to Manchester tonight.’

  ‘ Who is the man?’

  ‘ We don’t know, but we have taken photographs of him. They are good quality. Maybe I could send them to you?’

  ‘ Yeah, sure, hold on…’ Donaldson clamped a hand over the receiver and said to Karen, ‘Honey, can we use one of the fax machines at a police station hereabouts?’

  ‘ Yes, shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll need to find a number, obviously.’

  ‘ You can send a fax to this number,’ Kate interjected. ‘Not to that actual phone, but to the one that’s plugged in upstairs. Henry bought it for some reason and never used the thing, but it works.’

  ‘ Great.’ Down the phone he said to Santana, ‘You can fax the photos to this number and send the real ones by DHL to the Legat in London. Gotta pen?’ Donaldson recited the number. ‘Put the flight details on it, willya?’

  Santana said he would. ‘There is something more. While Hamilton was in Madeira, we followed him to the docks in Funchal, to the container depot. He checked the contents of a container which was resealed. I swore out a warrant and broke the seal.’ Santana laughed.

  ‘ George, you have something to tell me, I feel sure.’

  ‘ It was full of guns of all descriptions, as well as hand-held missile launchers. Many, many weapons.’

  ‘ What did you do?’

  ‘ Resealed the container and arrested a Customs official whom we suspected of being involved. He is singing like a baby. Mr Hamilton is a very bad man.’

  The fax came through fifteen agonising minutes later. They were good, clear photos of the man who had met Hamilton in Lisbon. When he saw the face, Donaldson blew a sweet kiss to Sam Dawber, because without her, he would never have been able to identify the man. Thanks to her memory games with mug-shots, Donaldson recognised him immediately as Raymond de Vere — a man wanted by several police forces throughout Europe. He made his living buying weaponry for terrorist organisations worldwide.

  Karl let out a long, satisfied sigh. ‘Kate, d’ya mind if I make another call?’

  The van, one of the smaller Sherpa models which Lancashire police used as general purpose vehicles, had been reversed as close to the rear door of the station as was geographically possible.

  Henry and his handcuffed prisoner came out of the custody office. Siobhan opened the rear doors of the van and then the inner cage. Rider walked ahead of Henry, ducked, and climbed in. He sat placidly down on the bench seat.

  Siobhan remained at the open door. ‘You go in with him, Henry.’

  ‘ I’d rather sit up front.’

  ‘ Not enough room.’

  Henry got in with Rider.

  The cage door slammed shut behind him with a loud crash and the spring-loaded locking bar jerked into place. Henry sat opposite his prisoner. Rider gave him a wan smile, leaned back and rested his head against the side of the van.

  Siobhan climbed in the front passenger seat and said something to the driver that Henry could not make out.

  The driver turned and peered backwards, giving Henry a quick salute. It was Gallagher.

  Siobhan’s door opened again. She budged up and allowed space for a further person to sit next to her on the double seat.

  This was Tattersall.

  ‘ Have you got the keys for these cuffs?’ Rider asked.

  ‘ Yeah, why?’

  Coolly, as though he was simply passing the time of day with idle chatter: ‘Because I think we could have a problem here. That guy’ — he cocked a thumb at Gallagher’s back — ‘is one of the two who visited Shane Mulcahy and left him with little option but to retract a complaint against you. I’ll lay odds the other guy was his running mate.’

  Henry’s mouth dropped open. ‘You sure?’

  ‘ Saw him leave Shane’s flat and pull his ski-mask off.’

  The van moved off slowly.

  ‘ Made a real mess of the lad.’

  Donaldson and Karen moved to the dining room and spread everything out on the table.

  They had four statements from witnesses to the robbery in Fleetwood. All clearly confirmed that their original statements had been tampered with.

  Then there was Eric Taylor’s statement and five grand, and the MI5 photographs of Conroy, McNamara, Morton and Hamilton.

  Finally there was the faxed photo which had recently come up the line from Santana.

  ‘ Several threads here,’ mused Donaldson, ‘all interlinked by the North West Organised Crime Squad. I think there’s enough here for Henry to breathe a sigh of relief, although he still might have some explanations to make to Kate.

  ‘ The bottom line is that these bastards in this squad are up to their necks in criminal activity and we’ve got enough to lay it on the table and say to them, “Answer that, assholes!”.’

  ‘ What do you know about this guy?’ Karen pointed to the newest face on file.

  ‘ He’s an agent and simply brings buyers and sellers together and takes his percentage. Raymond de Vere, he’s called. French background, Irish upbringing. Hence the fact that the IRA are one of his biggest clients.’

  Donaldson checked his watch.

  ‘ I think it’s time Henry came in and we told him this. Then I think we need to decide what to do. My feeling is that he should take all this to his Chief Constable and then he should go into hiding, because his life will be in real danger from that point on… if it isn’t already.’

  De la Garde and Rufus T were patient men. Waiting was not a problem. They listened to more of the Jaguar owner’s collection of middle-of-the road music without complaint.

  Then she came out of the side door of the pub, accompanied by another woman.

  De la Garde tapped Rufus T on the leg. The driver came to attention and his hands took hold of the wheel.

  De la Garde cocked the weapon.

  The two women walked arm in arm across the car park. They had reached the prostitute’s car.

  ‘ What about the other woman?’ Rufus T enquired. The music had been switched off.

  ‘ Fuck her,’ growled the gunman. ‘GO!’

  The Jag slewed out of its parking spot. De la Garde had the MP5 resting out of the open window. The car accelerated at an alarming rate.

  The women looked in the direction of the approaching car. The prostitute screamed something and grabbed the other woman’s elbow to drag her out of the way.

  The Jag drew level and the MP5, in its understated way, crackled a spray of bullets across the two women.

  The prostitute went down as six splattered across her chest. She was dead before she hit the hard ground.

  The other woman got four across her midriff. She went down onto her backside where she sat upright for a few moments, looking with disbelief at the spreading redness over her stomach and feeling a terrible, nauseating pain. This was followed by complete blackness.

  Only feet separated the women in death.

  A chasm had divided them in life.

  But the activities of one man had drawn them together for this final, fatal encounter.

  The Jaguar was long gone, racing towards Preston, then cutting left onto the M6. Twenty minutes later it was found abandoned and burned out in Wigan.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Daylight had gone. The blackness of evening came swiftly, and with it more torrential rain which, as they travelled eastwards, turned to relentless driving sleet. Typical horrendous northern weather which looked set to continue.

  In the back of the police van it was extra dark. The light which illuminated the cage was controlled from a switch on the dash, but Gallagher steadfastly ignored Henry�
�s shouts to turn it on.

  Henry glared across at Rider who sat there with his eyes closed, his face visible only in brief flashes of fluorescent orange when they passed under street lamps.

  Fuming, Henry sat back, unable to do anything but brood and wait until they reached Preston before he told the DI what a cunt he thought he was. He folded his arms and tapped his feet, aware he was powerless to do anything other than bide his time.

  The van reached Marton Circle outside Blackpool and picked up the A583 towards Preston.

  Still restless, Henry shuffled along the bench seat until he was directly behind Tattersall and Siobhan who were squashed up on the double passenger seat. Henry peered through the toughened glass window, shading his eyes with his hands, watching the journey unfold through the poor headlights which struggled ineptly against the weather. Although the wipers worked at double speed, they were fighting a losing battle. Gallagher was forced to lean forwards constantly as though the extra inches would give him some sort of visual advantage.

  They stuck on the A583, with the town of Kirkham to their left, eventually reaching the traffic lights at Three Nooks — and the junction with the A584 — where only a week before, Henry and Dave Seymour had made a decision to go towards Preston instead of turning back to Blackpool, and then found themselves in a life-and-death car chase with Dundaven. It felt like a year ago, not seven short days.

  Half a mile later they bore left onto the dual carriageway which would take them into Preston. The River Ribble and the old docks were on their right.

  Just a few minutes from the police station now. Then Henry could voice his feelings to Gallagher. He was relishing the prospect.

  At the first set of traffic lights, Gallagher filtered into the offside lane and then into the right-hand lane specifically for vehicles turning right into Nelson Way. The lights were on red and he stopped.

  Henry could see the indicator flashing a right.

  ‘ What the fuck’s going on?’ he demanded suspiciously, alerting Rider who shook himself out of his reverie, opening his eyes at the sound of Henry’s utterance.

  The lights went to green. Gallagher let out the clutch and turned the wheel.

  ‘ We should be going straight on here,’ Henry said. He rapped the window with his knuckles and shouted, ‘What’s happening?’

  He was ignored.

  He looked quickly at his travelling companion.

  ‘ This takes us onto the shit end of an industrial estate.’

  Rider leaned forwards, concern on his face.

  Gallagher gunned the van down the road which was lit for about a hundred metres. Then nothing. It was like driving into a coal mine. Open fields were on either side.

  ‘ Get me out of these, Henry,’ Rider said urgently. He pushed his hands forwards, presenting his cuffed wrists.

  Henry looked at him, but Rider’s face was only shadow on shadow.

  ‘ Come on,’ the other man hissed. ‘If this diversion is legit, then put ‘em back on. If not, I think I’d be better hands free.’

  Henry did not hesitate. Within seconds Rider was massaging the blood-flow back into his hands.

  The van slowed down and turned. The beam from the headlights swept across the outer wall of an old factory. The van stopped about four feet from, and pointing into, the wall.

  Henry knocked on the glass again.

  ‘ Hey, what’s happening, folks?’ he shouted, trying to sound jovial and unconcerned. The reality was that he was shitting bricks.

  The interior light came on in the front cab. Siobhan handed something across to Gallagher. Something metallic. A gun.

  Rider had seen it too.

  Something inside Henry twisted like colic. He wanted to burst into tears.

  Gallagher flicked a switch and the light in the cage came on.

  With the engine still running and lights on, the three detectives stepped out of the van.

  Henry caught Rider’s expression. He was just as petrified.

  The back doors of the van opened. A burst of cold air whooshed in, making Henry shiver and feel weak.

  Gallagher, Tattersall and Siobhan pushed their faces up to the metal grill.

  Gallagher’s face, in the light given out by the interior bulb, looked evil. He smiled.

  ‘ End of the road, Henry.’

  ‘ What do you mean?’

  ‘ Exactly what I say. It’s been decided to whack you, pal — and you, mate.’ He indicated Rider and rested the muzzle of his pistol on the cage door. ‘Sorry an’ all that, but you should have taken the hint and done what you were told. Your life would have been good, with all sorts of perks, not least shafting Siobhan here as and when you liked.’

  ‘ I’d rather fuck a rusty drainpipe,’ Henry said.

  ‘ So you’re gonna shoot us, is that what you’re sayin’?’ Rider cut in.

  ‘ Yup.’

  ‘ And how you gonna explain that?’ he asked incredulously.

  Gallagher jerked a finger at Henry. ‘He knows enough about us to answer that one, don’t you, Henry?’

  ‘ Creatively, I suppose,’ Henry conceded.

  ‘ Spot on,’ Gallagher said. He shrugged. ‘Just thinkin’ off the top of my head… you’re overpowered by the prisoner in the back of the van who has secreted a knife on him. We… ahh… realise that unless we accede to his demands he’ll kill you and so we play it safe. Drive down here as he tells us and open the back door. He’s got the knife to your throat… demands our guns… he shoots you in the back of the head. We overpower him and in the struggle he gets shot dead too. Something like that. And we’ll be heroes.’

  Siobhan said, ‘Whatever the circumstances, we’ll fit a story to answer the evidence. What it boils down to is that both of you are due to die.’ She spoke with glee and a sneer.

  ‘ Like all the others?’ Henry demanded.

  ‘ Exactly like the others,’ she confirmed.

  ‘ Derek Luton had you sussed, altering those statements. Which one of you killed him?’

  Tattersall gave Henry a friendly wave and a smile through the cage door.

  A lurching sensation went through Henry.

  ‘ And Geoff Driffield? What about him?’

  ‘ Team effort,’ Gallagher said. ‘He thought we were going to catch that gang of gypos, poor sucker. We turned up instead. Just unfortunate they hit that shop up the road at more or less the same time as we hit dear old Geoff.’

  ‘ And what had he done to you? Looked at you wrong?’

  ‘ Got caught collecting evidence against us. He had to go.’

  ‘ You know other people are involved with me — people like the FBI?’

  ‘ We’ll deal with them as and when we need to. Anyway, I’m sick of talking now,’ said Gallagher, ‘getting pissed wet through. What I want you both to do is climb out of here nice and slowly, walk up to that factory wall and put your noses up to it, OK? I see you’ve taken his cuffs off, Henry, but it makes no odds. If you piss about, we’ll shoot you anyway, so it’s as broad as it’s long. If you want it over quick and clean, just follow orders.’

  Henry and Rider exchanged glances.

  ‘ Is that FBI shit true?’ Rider asked.

  ‘ Yeah,’ Henry squeaked.

  ‘ Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better.’

  Henry’s throat felt like his windpipe had been constricted by a boa and despite the cold, a clammy sweat had formed under his armpits.

  Siobhan smacked the release catch and the locking bar sprang open.

  The three armed detectives took a few paces back and covered Henry and Rider as they slowly descended out of the van. Henry saw Siobhan was holding some kind of machine pistol and looked very confident with it.

  ‘ Up to the wall,’ Gallagher reiterated.

  Henry’s heart-rate was incredible. He thought it had reached his limit. A myocardial infarction was more likely to be the cause of death than a bullet.

  He and Rider walked side by side to the wall. By the time they reach
ed it they were both drenched.

  ‘ Right up to it,’ snapped Gallagher.

  Henry stood with his nose pressed up to the bricks. His hands hung loose and weak. He closed his eyes despairingly and let his forehead drop onto the wall.

  ‘ Who’d like to be first?’ Gallagher offered the choice.

  Rider said, ‘Kill the cop first. At least it’ll give me some pleasure before I die.’

  ‘ But you’re both in this together,’ Siobhan argued. ‘We’ve listened to your little chats.’

  ‘ Just shoot the cop first,’ Rider insisted. ‘He’s still a cop, isn’t he?’

  ‘ Thanks,’ breathed Henry.

  Gallagher stepped forwards and placed the muzzle of the revolver at the back of Henry’s head at the point where vertebrae and cranium met.

  ‘ Don’t worry, Henry, you won’t feel a thing.’

  Terror welled up inside him and made him want to shit and vomit and scream and cry and wake up from this fucking nightmare of nightmares.

  Rider looked at Henry. ‘Always wanted to see a cop get blasted away. I’ll die happy now…’ and on the H of Happy his open-palmed left hand shot out with the intention of smacking the revolver away from Henry’s head before Gallagher fired.

  Except Gallagher was ready for this manoeuvre. He stepped smartly back a stride, pulling the gun away.

  Rider slapped thin air and found himself staring down the barrel of the revolver.

  ‘ You idiot,’ Gallagher laughed. ‘I was hoping you’d try that, because I wanted to kill you first anyway.’

  Henry’s mind clicked into gear at that moment. His right hand swung to the leather pouch on his belt which held his extendable baton. He thumbed up the catch and drew it out, making his movements smooth and unhurried.

  ‘ You’re too slow,’ Gallagher taunted Rider. ‘Do you want to see if you can bat it out of my hand now, before I blow your head off?’

  Hoping Gallagher wasn’t too far behind him, Henry swivelled at the hips and in one flowing motion pirouetted and released the catch on the baton which extended with a whoosh and a click. He turned 180 degrees with the baton swishing through the air like a sword and slammed it against Gallagher’s right forearm with all the force he could muster. Had it been a blade, Gallagher’s hand would have been sliced off.