Nightmare City (16 page)

Seymour closed his eyes in despair. ‘You wouldn’t fucking
believe it. The shitehawk’s trying to wrangle out of it and dump
everything on his dead buddy. He says McCrory asked him to drive to
Blackpool yesterday, cos he wanted to pick something up. Turns out
to be guns - from a man in a pub, would ya credit?’

Henry sniggered. ‘Oh, the ubiquitous man in a pub; we’ll catch
the bastard one day.’

‘
Yeah, well, they pick up the guns, so the fairy tale goes. .
. don’t know which pub it was, by the way. . . and Dundaven is
horrified, bless his soul. He says he’s too frightened of McCrory
to say anything - him being a real hard case, as he put it. Says
McCrory produced two shotguns and blasted Nina and dinged one off
at Rik Dean’s car.’

‘
McCrory did the shooting?’

‘
That’s what Dundaven says. Next thing, McCrory’s holding a
gun to Dundaven’s belly saying, “Let’s go”. Poor ole Dundaven has
to do whatever he’s told, but being a law-abiding citizen, what he
really wanted to do is hand himself over to us.’

‘
So why did he ram us and shoot at us?’

‘
Duress. Fear.’ Seymour shrugged. He swallowed more pie with a
forkful of peas.

‘
Bullshit,’ said Henry. ‘And the next bit? This should be
worth hearing.’

‘
It is,’ laughed Seymour, and recited: ‘So overcome with
emotion and grief is McCrory that he puts a gun to his own head,
opens the door and tops himself.’

Henry laughed out loud. ‘He expects us to believe
that?’

‘
Deadly serious about it.’

Henry stopped laughing. ‘And then?’

‘
Fear makes him continue the chase, ram the traffic car and
take a pot shot at the helicopter.’

‘
So where do we stand with all this? What can we
prove?’

Seymour had devoured his meal. He went and bought a pot of tea
and two cups. He poured one for Henry.

‘
There are no direct witnesses to refute what he says, unless
Nina pulls through. Rik Dean was sat in his car and couldn’t
truthfully say who shot her, because the car is much lower than the
Range Rover, and his view was obstructed by the spare tyre on the
back. Same for us. We couldn’t actually
see
him waste McCrory, could
we?’

Henry considered it for a few seconds. It wouldn’t be long
before the first twenty-four-hours’ detention would be up. Then for
an extra twelve he’d need the authority of a Superintendent to
carry on questioning Dundaven without charge. He decided he would
seek that authorisation and keep the pressure on
Dundaven.

He told this to Seymour and added, ‘Even if you haven’t got
any admissions from him, keep pushing him and then, as late as
possible, charge him. Throw the book at him. Charge him with
everything you can possibly think of, including the driving
offences. If there’s enough shit, some of it’ll stick.’

Donaldson was booked into the Quinta da Penha de Franca. He
had been allocated one of the sea view rooms in the new annexe.
Very nice and comfortable, with a balcony overlooking the pool and
the ocean beyond. The night was dark, tranquil and quite
chilly.

He shivered, walked back into the room from the balcony,
closed the door and drew the curtains. He stretched out on the bed,
clasping his hands behind his head and mulled over his thoughts on
Samantha Jane Dawber, whose devastated body was lying in a fridge
with all its vital organs including the brain - thrown loosely into
the torso and sewn up. Her cranium had been packed with newspaper
and her facial skin stretched back into place and stitched so
tightly that her features were stretched and distorted.

There was no respect in a morgue. Death was simply a business.
A sausage factory.

Samantha Jane Dawber.

Sammy Jane.

Sam.

She had been posted to London six months earlier and easily
fitted into the small team. She was recently divorced, but the
break-up - without kids to worry about - did not seem to have
affected her too deeply. She kept in regular touch with her ex, a
Special Agent from the New York office.

Donaldson fell into an easy working relationship with her.
When she subsequently met Karen, his wife, they too became
friends.

It had been a good six months.

With her assistance (she had done most of the legwork) he had
helped the police in Cornwall to crack a long-running fraud case.
She was a good worker who took the job seriously, constantly
updating herself on criminals who drifted around the international
scene. One of her favourite games was to get the mugshot books out
- which contained hundreds of photos - remove about fifty, cover
their names, shuffle them and challenge Donaldson to name them.
Usually he might recognise five or six. Without fail she could name
every one, every time.

Sammy Jane. All-American girl. Whatever that meant.

Now dead in a way Donaldson didn’t like.

She ‘got into’ walking in a big way since coming to England.
She often dragged the Donaldsons out all over mainland Britain to
hike over hills. One memorable walk had taken place in the Lake
District over a weekend when Henry and Kate Christie had been
invited along. Donaldson and Henry had met and become friends on
the same enquiry when he’d met Karen. It proved to be a tough
walking weekend, both nights of which ended up in exhausted revelry
in way-out pubs in the middle of nowhere. He and Henry had got
extremely drunk and were watched with severe pity by the
womenfolk.

Donaldson remembered the laughter of those two days. Sam’s
giggles and wry outlook on life had been infectious.

Her visit to Madeira had been prompted by an urge to explore
the
levadas
-
footpaths running alongside irrigation channels - that crisscross
the island. That was the plan.

Donaldson sat up and made himself not cry. He shook his head,
breathed heavily and attempted to combat the sobs building up
inside him.

He won. It was a close-run thing.

‘
Phew.’ He blew out his cheeks. He rubbed his eyes and looked
across at Sam’s luggage which he’d deposited on the spare bed.
Maybe the reason for her death was amongst that lot. He hadn’t
sorted through it yet.

In his heart he was convinced she hadn’t died a pathetic drunk
in a bath. That was not Sam.

Reaching across to her suitcase, he flicked up the
catches.

John Rider coughed long and hard. He managed to clear his
chest and throat, picked up the King Edward cigar from the ashtray,
put it between his lips and re-lit it with a ‘pa-pa-pa’ until the
flame had taken properly.

He blew out a ring of smoke.

‘
You OK, John?’ Isa enquired, gently resting a hand in the
centre of his back.

He squinted sideways at her and nodded. ‘Never
better.’

‘
You should give up.’

‘
One of life’s last few pleasures,’ he said to justify the
habit.

Isa tried to hold his gaze a little longer, but he looked away
and reached for his drink. She emitted a short, dissatisfied sigh
and her mouth warped in frustration for an instant before returning
to its normal self.

She took a step to the bar and leaned on it.

Jacko gave her a mineral water and she took her first sip of
it, wishing she had the guts to tell Rider how she felt about him.
It’s ridiculous! she told herself. A woman of your age and
experience being unable to tell some two-bit ex -gangster that you
love him. Her overriding fear was that it could spoil both their
friendship and business partnership if he didn’t
reciprocate.

The club was extremely quiet. Monday. January. Blackpool.
Hardly worth opening. But Rider believed it might as well be open
as shut right up to the refurbishments starting.

Rider, perched on a bar stool, hoped he had come back to
emotional equilibrium. Yesterday had been a nightmare. That Henry
Christie. Looked quietly ruthless. Looked like he knew about the
zoo. Looked like he wouldn’t let it rest.

Then the news about the gorilla splashed all over the telly
and the papers. That had really gutted Rider, the suffering of an
animal.

Today, thankfully, had been peaceful. A couple of detectives,
not including Christie, had visited and searched the flat which
might have been the dead girl’s. They had found nothing but might
possibly have got an ID from her property and fingerprints on a
glass. Rider gave them a short statement.

And that was that. Back to square one. Normality. Or so he
hoped.

There were very few customers in the club. A few lonely souls.
A few canoodling couples ensconced in the alcoves. Later, when the
pubs closed and the disco cranked up, it would get busier. Not
much. It would close at 12.30 a.m.

Rider couldn’t wait to get stuck into the place. Get the
builders in, ripping the guts out of it, giving it a full body
transplant. Transforming it into a ritzy, glitzy entertainment
spot. If the planning application was successful, the builders
would be in within six weeks. Four months after that, barring
accidents, the doors would re-open just in time for the summer
trade.

He shivered in anticipation. His eyes drifted around the
floors, walls and unsafe ceiling, seeing it all. His
baby.

Two young men at the far end of the bar caught his attention.
Initially they had been sitting in one of the booths and Rider
thought they might be gay. They had sauntered up to the bar, leaned
on it and rudely rapped bottles on it to attract Jacko’s
attention.

Rider’s bowels gave a sudden flutter.

He knew the sort. Not too far removed from the two who had
appeared in the zoo, but maybe not as far down the road as them,
being slightly younger.

Jacko served them each with a bottle of Foster’s Ice. Both
drank from the bottle, their teeth showing as they swallowed each
mouthful, almost as if it was painful. The ‘in’ way to
drink.

Rider beckoned Jacko over. ‘Know ‘em?’

Jacko knew most locals.

‘
No. Blackburn lads,’ he said. Over the years of working
behind bars in Blackpool, Jacko had learned to identify regional
accents, quite specifically in many cases. He could tell easily
whereabouts in Lancashire a person came from and his other regional
specialities were the West Midlands, Scotland and London. He was
rarely wrong. The Blackburn accent was a common one in
Blackpool.

‘
You happy with them?’

‘
They’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘
Yet.’

‘
Yet,’ agreed Jacko.

Rider glanced down at them. One eyed the other and nodded. He
held out his bottle at arms’ length and smashed it onto the floor.
It shattered spectacularly.

‘
Yet,’ said Rider again under his breath. He lowered himself
from the stool. Before he could get to them, the other one swept
his left arm across the bar top, catching half a dozen newly-washed
pint glasses, sending them crashing to the floor. As though he was
throwing a knife at a target, he lobbed his bottle of Foster’s into
the optics behind the bar. A large bottle of Bell’s and a few
glasses exploded.

‘
This is a shit-awful place,’ the young man roared.

‘
Oi oi oi,’ shouted Jacko, running down the bar.

‘
Hold it, Jacko!’ Rider screamed.

The two youths turned to face Jacko and Rider, adopting the
threatening pose so beloved of the British hooligan/hard case: legs
apart, fingers gesturing to come forwards, eyes bulging in their
sockets, rocking on the balls of their feet.

‘
C’mon then, y’ cunts,’ one sneered.

Normally Rider would have been happy to wade into
troublemakers, but something held him back here; that nod given by
one to the other which meant premeditation, not simply drink. He
was wary.

‘
Hang back, Jacko,’ Rider hissed through the side of his
mouth. He was aware of Isa hovering by his shoulder and the eyes of
every other punter focused on the scene, something witnessed all
the time in bars throughout the world. ‘OK lads, we don’t want any
trouble here. I’m sorry you don’t like the place, but you’ve had
some fun. So now get out.’

‘
Or what, pal?’

‘
Look, if you want me to call the cops, I will. But we can
call it a draw now, you can leave, nobody’s suffered and we’ll all
put it down to experience.’

‘
Boss,’ Jacko began. ‘The damage. . .’

Rider held his hand up to silence him.

‘
What if we don’t wanna leave?’

‘
Yeah, pal, what you gonna do?’ they taunted.

Rider became controllably angry. Not afraid. Still
cautious.

He pointed a finger at them. ‘If you don’t get out of here,
boys, you’ll face the consequences, one way or another. If you
think me and Jacko here can’t handle you, then you’re very much
mistaken. We’ll lay you both out until we’re satisfied - then we’ll
call the cops. It’s that simple. If you want hassle and aggro, fair
enough, the choice is yours. You can call it quits or end up in a
police cell with matching injuries.’