Nightmare City (23 page)

With a cold expression, Jim Tattersall had been watching
Luton’s activities from the door of the incident room. As the young
detective stood up, he twisted quickly out of sight into a darkened
office, from where he saw Luton almost run to the
stairs.

When the stairs door closed, Tattersall walked swiftly into
the incident room and went to the seat Luton had been
using.

He saw the typed statement on the desk.

Tattersall’s face hardened as he realised that Derek Luton had
discovered something he should not have done.

The photocopy Luton had made of the original statement was in
a binder at the bottom of his locker. He unhooked the binder and
pulled it out, together with the three other statements he had
witnessed being given. He hurried straight back upstairs, arriving
there breathless.

The incident room was still empty. Good.

He crossed quickly to the desk where he’d left the statement,
sat down and compared it with his photocopy of the
original.

He nearly choked. It was different! Somewhere in the
translation from longhand to type it had been changed, only slight
changes, but crucial ones.

Suddenly the room seemed airless and hot. He could not believe
what his eyes were telling him.

Statements had been doctored.

He ran a hand over his face. Once again he compared them. In
the original, the time of the robbery in Fleetwood had been written
as 7.10 p.m. The typed copy stated 7.01 p.m. Luton could easily
have forgiven this as a typing error and maybe it was. Pretty
bloody elementary, though.

No way could the next change have been down to a mistake of
fingers. It was much more fundamental, but still quite
subtle.

The original statement had been quite specific about the
descriptions of the men responsible. The witness had a very clear
memory of events. He had described all the men as being quite
small, about five foot six to five foot eight. And though they had
all worn masks, he described their hair colours and even guessed at
possible ages - seventeen to twenty-three. All young
men.

The typed statement changed this to: ‘They were all of medium
height’ - and the individual descriptions of the men had been
amended too, making them much more general than specific. The age
range had also been changed: ‘anything from seventeen to
thirty-seven’.

One of the men had spoken during the raid and the witness had
described his voice as ‘gruff, with a local accent, and I would
probably recognise it again.’ The typed statement read, ‘He had a
Lancashire accent and I probably wouldn’t recognise it
again.’

The changes meant that the men could have been anyone of a
quarter of a million males in the north-west of England and were
evidentially worthless.

Another slight but significant change was the time that it
took to rob the place - reduced from four minutes to two. This
meant that the men had left the premises at the new time of 7.03
p.m., giving them ample time to make it to the newsagents in
Blackpool ... if, in fact, the men who had robbed the shop in
Fleetwood were the same ones responsible for that subsequent,
appalling crime.

Luton sat back and allowed his head to flop backwards so he
was staring at the ceiling.

What was going on here? he asked himself. What did all this
mean? Had other statements been changed too?

‘
DC Luton, isn’t it?’

Luton sat bolt upright and spun round on the chair.

‘
Oh, hello, sir.’

It was Tony Morton, Head of the NWOCS, and Jim
Tattersall.

‘
Working late? I won’t be approving the overtime,’ Morton said
with a short laugh. There was no humour behind it. He and
Tattersall were standing at the door. Luton panicked inside as he
wondered how long they’d been there watching him.

They walked towards Luton who, easy as he could, rotated back
to face the desk. He picked up the typed statement and dropped it
casually back into the basket, then rolled up his photocopies with
shaking hands.

‘
So ... what’re you up to?’

Luton faced them again. A wave of intimidation gushed through
him. Like nausea.

‘
Uh - nothing,’ he stammered. ‘Just having a read of a few
statements. Seeing where we’re up to . . .’ His throat was arid,
constricted, but he could I not understand why. He felt as if he’d
been caught doing something naughty, yet here was the perfect
opportunity to tell Morton - in the presence of Tattersall -
exactly what he’d found: someone had been tampering with witness
statements. It was his duty to do so.

Fuck that, he thought. These two looked like they were in this
together.

‘
We have statement readers for that sort of thing,’ announced
Morton.

Tattersall loomed silently and menacingly behind
him.

‘
Yes, I know, sir. Just interested, that’s all.’ He tried to
slip the rolled-up photocopies smoothly into the inside pocket of
his jacket. Actually there was nothing smooth about the way he did
it because his nerves got the better of him. For a start, there
were about a dozen sheets of A4-size paper, not specifically
designed to fit into inner jacket pockets, especially when there is
a wallet, diary and two pens in there already. Basically the
statements did not fit, but he made them go in by crushing them up
and forcing them. The result was a huge bulge like a rugby ball in
his pocket.

‘
What’ve you got there?’ Morton asked.

Luton stood up. ‘Nothing, sir. Just some of my notes. If
you’ll excuse me.’

He made to walk past Morton who held out a hand, placed it
across Luton’s chest and prevented him walking away. Luton thought
for one horrible moment he was going to reach into the pocket and
grab the statements.

‘
Is everything OK?’ he asked, eyebrows raised. Luton nodded
dumbly. ‘Any problems, you can come to me with them.’ He looked
Luton squarely in the eyes and Luton was certain Morton must be
able to feel the beating of his heart; the organ was thrashing
around in his chest like a crazy man locked in a cell.

‘
No, no problems,’ croaked Luton.

Morton removed his hand. Luton said good night, sidestepped
Morton and Tattersall and walked coolly to the door, where he then
bolted.

He hit the stairs, he calculated, at somewhere approaching 100
m.p.h. and threw himself down them like a pin-ball. Within moments
he had descended to the level of the CID office - which was as
deserted as the incident room had been.

He needed to see his role model. But his role model wasn’t
there.

‘
Henry, where the shite are you when I need you?’ he chunnered
under his breath. He went to Henry’s desk, picked up the phone and
dialled Comms. No, they had no idea where the Acting DI was. He
dialled Henry’s home number. Kate answered.

‘
Kate, sorry to bother you. Is Henry there, it’s Derek Luton
here.’

‘
No, he’s not back yet,’ said Kate. ‘Are you all right, Derek?
You sound a bit strained.’

‘
Absolutely fine. Just breathless from the stairs,’ he said
oddly.

‘
You want to leave a message or anything?’

‘
No, it’s all right. I’ll catch up with him later,’ he said in
what he vainly hoped was a more controlled voice. ‘Bye.’ He hung
up.

‘
What to do, what to do,’ he said to himself whilst he danced
on the spot like someone on hot coals, opening and closing his
fists. Then: ‘Get a grip, you knob,’ he remonstrated. He quickly
scribbled a note for Henry on a yellow post-it and stuck it
prominently in the middle of the desk blotter, as opposed to around
the edge where the rest of them were stuck like flags. He hoped
Henry would see it straight away.

In the back yard of the police station it was brass monkeys.
After these past few pleasant days, the January nights had turned
harsh and bitter. Luton strode out of the ground-floor rear
entrance and headed towards his car at something approaching a jog,
all the while looking over his shoulder, but feeling completely
stupid for doing so.

He got to his car in one piece. Stop overreacting, dickhead,
he told himself. Why should anyone want to do anything to you?
Complete crap.

However, when he was in the driver’s seat, he made damn sure
all the doors were locked before starting the engine.

Instinct was telling him two things.

One - you’ve just uncovered something very smelly indeed. And
two - watch your back, pal.

When Luton had gone from the room, Morton walked over to where
he’d been sitting and picked up the top statement from the
file.

‘
Fuck,’ he said. ‘What the hell is this doing here, for
everyone to see?’ He looked hard at Tattersall.

‘
I came back to put them away,’ he replied. ‘That’s when I
found him.’

Morton’s nostrils flared angrily. ‘We cannot afford to take
chances,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘D’you think he’s sussed
it?’

‘
He’s sharp. Think about all those questions he’s been asking.
I’d say yes, he’s sussed it.’

After a thoughtful pause, Morton spoke. ‘As I said, we can’t
take any chances.’

There was a knock on the door.

Luton did not have to wake up to check the clock. He was
already awake and knew it was 2 a.m.

Annie, his wife of six months, had been asleep; not as deeply
as usual. His tossing and turning and sweating meant she could not
get comfortable. It was like sleeping with a restless
dog.

‘
What time is it?’ she groaned groggily.

Luton told her.

There was another knock on the door.

‘
Who is it?’ she asked.

‘
Dunno.’ He slid out of bed, covering his nakedness with a
dressing gown.

He went to the bedroom window and peered out, shading his eyes
with his hands like goggles. The weather had really turned and
sleet was blasting down the avenue on an icy wind. Luton could make
out the dark shape of a man at the front door, huddled up against
the elements. He couldn’t see who it was. ‘Might be Henry,’ he
said. ‘I left him a note to contact me.’

Annie turned over and disappeared underneath the quilt. ‘Well,
tell him to get stuffed,’ she murmured. Seconds later she was back
in the land of snooze.

Luton let the curtain fall back into place. He slid his feet
into his moccasin slippers and went downstairs. The front door was
solid with just one pane of mottled glass in it. He pushed his face
up to it, peering out, flattening his nose. ‘Henry?’ he
called.

Luton could not identify the person properly but when there
came a muffled, ‘Yeah,’ in reply he breathed out in relief. Despite
the time, Luton was pleased Henry had turned up. There were some
burning issues to discuss.

He slid the chain off, pulled back the two bolts, unlocked the
mortise and opened the door. A strong gust of Arctic cold wind
whipped in around his bare legs and gripped his
testicles.

The figure outside had his back to Luton, standing in
shadow.

‘
Henry?’

The figure turned. Luton recognised the face immediately and
registered the gun in the man’s right hand. It had a bulbous
silencer on it.

A hushed
Thk!
hardly made an inroad into the sounds of the night. The
bullet drove into Luton’s forehead, spun like a missile through his
brain and exited out of the back of his skull.

He was dead. Standing, but dead.

His legs buckled like a sucker-punched boxer. They collapsed
under him and he toppled over, blood gushing in a torrent all over
the hallway.

Just to make sure, the man leaned forwards, placed the gun at
Luton’s temple and put two more in because it was surprising how
some people lived if you didn’t make certain.

Annie woke for some reason, not quite sure why. She shivered.
It was ever so cold in the bedroom. Her arm, which had been out of
the quilt, was like a block of ice.

She rolled over, pulling the cover over her head, and reached
out for her husband - who was not there.

Startled by this, she came fully awake and opened her eyes. It
was still dark. She focused on the digital clock-face on the
bedside cabinet. 6.20. God, it was so cold. And where was he? What
was Derek doing up at this time of day?

Somewhere in the recess of her mind she recalled the two
o’clock knock on the door.

Four hours ago. Surely Henry had gone home!

She climbed out of bed and hastily grabbed her fluffy dressing
gown and bunny-rabbit slippers.

It was bloody freezing on the landing. Real penguin
temperatures. A gale was blowing, as if the front door was open.
She switched the landing and hall lights on.

She’d almost reached the foot of the stairs before she
realised what she was looking at, lying in a lake of congealed
blood and half-covered in wet slush.