Nightmare City (3 page)

Once again he thought his eyes were playing tricks on
him.

He found a light switch, turning it on by pressing it with his
thumbnail.

Fluorescent lights pinged on, flooding the hallway with eerie
brightness.

He saw the police firearms cap.

He saw the body armour with the word
Police
stamped across the chest. He
saw the 9mm Sig next to the body.

And the face blown away beyond recognition.

In that instant Henry knew that, as bad as it had been to
begin with, this whole crime had taken on a much darker, murkier
complexion.

He blinked.

Somewhere in the distance, getting closer, was the wail of an
ambulance siren.

Not much point in you coming, he thought bitterly.

Henry stood on the pavement outside the shop, watching the
uniformed cops push the public back and begin to string out a
cordon.

‘
Right back,’ he shouted, confirming his words with a sweeping
gesture of his hands. ‘Right back. That’s it.’

Derek Luton appeared by his side.

‘
What’ve you got so far then, Degsy?’ Henry knew Luton had
been asking questions.

Luton consulted the scrap of paper he’d used to write on. ‘Two
witnesses saw three big guys leaving the shop armed to the back
teeth. Got their names and addresses here...’

‘
Oh good, let’s go and arrest them.’

Luton looked at Henry slightly nonplussed for a second. ‘No,
no . . . I mean the witnesses’ names and addresses.’ He didn’t
quite see the joke and carried on. ‘All wearing white hats, masks,
T-shirts. They piled into a car which could’ve been a Peugeot 405
or Cavalier, something like that, colour uncertain. Drove off
without undue haste. Cool bastards. Sounds like the crew who’ve
been hitting the newsagents for the last couple of
months.’

Luton was referring to a vicious armed gang who had robbed six
newsagents in the last nine weeks, all in the Fylde area of
Lancashire. They were getting to be a real headache for the police
who had warned that it was only matter of time before someone got
killed.

‘
Mmm, sounds like,’ Henry agreed.

‘
And apparently it looks like they blagged another shop in
Fleetwood before doing this one.’

‘
Oh?’ Henry perked up. ‘Where did you hear that?’

Luton cocked his thumb at the female officer who’d been first
on the scene. ‘Just came over the PR when I was chatting to
her.’

‘
Any details?’

‘
Round about seven-ten, seven-fifteen. A newsagents.
Discharged a shotgun, but no one got shot. Helped themselves to the
contents of the till, seven hundred quid or so. Usual MO. Usual
dress. Same lot, I’d say.’

‘
Then they’ve been busy,’ commented Henry. He considered what
Luton had told him. His eyes narrowed while his brain chewed it
over. ‘Hang on . . . like normal, they rob a shop and fire the
shotgun, like they’ve done on every job, then they tear-arse eight
miles down the road like shit off a shovel to do this one? They
steal money from up there, like they normally do, yet murder
everybody in sight here - and apparently leave all the cash in the
till. Fucking odd, if you ask me. And if that guy in the body
armour really is a cop, what the fuck was
he
up to?’ Henry shook his head.
‘I’m not saying it’s not possible, Degsy, but. . .’

Several cars were pulling up outside. Henry’s boss, a
Detective Chief Inspector, got out of one; the others disgorged a
mixture of policemen including Detective Chief Superintendent
Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, known colloquially as FB, Head of Lancashire
CID, and Brian Warner, Assistant Chief Constable
(Operations).

Henry’s gaze returned to Luton. ‘Looks like the circus has
arrived and here come the clowns. Let’s give’ em what we’ve got and
retire with good grace. I doubt if I’ll be involved in this
investigation, which is a shame. Looks like being a juicy one. But
you might get a shot. I’ll see what I can do.’

Chapter Two

Henry and Luton spent another two hours at the scene before
finally handing everything over and returning to Blackpool Central
to book off duty.

Henry was correct: he would not be forming part of the team
assembled to investigate the murders. He’d been told by FB to
continue with the reactive CID work which was his normal job. This
was no surprise. Someone had to hold the fort. Other crimes did not
stop being committed and they had to be dealt with. In truth he did
not mind too much. As Acting DI he had the responsibility for
running the CID office whilst the real DI was off sick. Henry
intended to apply for promotion later in the year; his proven
ability to manage a busy department was something positive to tell
the Board.

Luton, however, was told he would be going on the squad. Henry
smiled when he saw the young detective’s reaction. Although he had
been involved in a couple of domestic murders and one night-club
stabbing, this was Luton’s first major enquiry. Henry was pleased
for him. It would be invaluable experience.

Henry patted him on the back and congratulated him. Inside he
was envious. Having been on many major murder enquiries himself, he
knew what a real buzz it was to be part of such a team.

In the car on the way back to the office, Henry asked Luton to
keep him abreast of all developments. Luton promised he
would.

Back at Blackpool, Henry declined Luton’s offer of a quick
drink in the club on the top floor. He wanted to get home, shower,
put his feet up and watch
Match of the
Day
with the assistance of a large Jack
Daniel’s and his wife, Kate.

Luton waved good night and left. Henry was alone in the
deserted office. He sat down at his desk and quickly shuffled
through the mountain of paperwork and scanned the array of yellow
post-it stickers which desecrated his desk top. There was nothing
that couldn’t wait.

Yawning, stretching, he stood up to go. The phone rang
shrilly.

It was Eric Taylor, the Custody Sergeant.

‘
Glad I caught you, Henry. Thought I’d better let you know:
that lad, the one with the flick-knife?’

‘
Shane Mulcahy,’ said Henry.

‘
You really should’ve written something on the custody record,
like I told you to.’

Henry mouthed a swearword. An empty, achy feeling spread
through his stomach. He hadn’t written anything in the record
because he’d been so eager to get out to the robbery; it had
completely slipped his mind. ‘Problem?’ he asked cautiously,
knowing there would be, otherwise Taylor wouldn’t be
phoning.

‘
You could say that. We had to get an ambulance out to take
him to hospital- and he’s still there. Looks like he might have to
have a testicle removed. If they can find it, that is. Apparently
it’s somewhere up in his throat.’ Taylor chuckled.

Henry groaned. He slumped back into his chair, closed his eyes
despairingly and slapped his forehead with the palm of his
hand.

‘
And there’s nothing on the custody record which covers what
happened between you and him. I booked him out into your care so
you could document him, then came along twenty minutes later to see
him squirming on the floor, clutching his bollocks. And you gave me
that knife and that’s all I know. I’ve had to write down what I saw
and it doesn’t look good, Henry. Sorry.’

‘
Couldn’t you have left a line or two for me to write
something?’

‘
Yeah, right, Henry. You know damn well I couldn’t do that. I
asked you to write something and you didn’t. Now he’s in hospital
with a double Adam’s apple. If he makes a complaint - and he’s just
the sort of little shit to do so - you’ve got a lot of explaining
to do. Sorry, pal.’

Jack Daniel’s did not help Henry to get to sleep. His mind
kept spinning from the sight of all that death, right round to his
complete stupidity in not carrying out such a fundamental task as
writing up an entry in a custody record. Bread and butter stuff. It
was so easy not to do it, and detectives had a poor history where
custody records were concerned. They were seen as something that
got in the way of detection, some bureaucratic tool to be treated
with contempt. But not by Henry Christie. Normally so diligent,
careful ... professional. He fully understood the possible legal
ramifications of not being meticulous and recording everything. And
he always stressed the importance of custody records to his
detectives. They protected both officer and prisoner.

He tried to make excuses for himself.

He’d been busy. He was turning out to a multiple
killing.

But if he were honest and critical, they were thin, paltry
excuses.

Now he faced the possibility of an assault complaint, followed
by a tedious investigation and maybe - he grimaced at the thought -
a court appearance facing a criminal charge.

All because he hadn’t covered himself.

The thought appalled him, but it was the worst case scenario,
he assured himself. He’d be very unlucky if it came to
that.

His wife Kate turned over and draped an arm across his
chest.

She smelled wonderful, having dabbed herself sparingly with
Allure by Chanel after her bath. He stroked her arm with the tips
of his fingers. She smiled and uttered a sigh of pleasure. She
loved to be stroked. Like a cat.

‘
I forgot to tell you,’ she murmured dreamily. ‘We won ten
pounds on the lottery.’

‘
Aren’t we the lucky ones?’

He purged all thoughts of death and prosecution from his mind,
snuggled down into the bed, took gentle hold of Kate and felt
himself harden against her belly.

Chapter
Three

At ten o’clock the following morning, Sunday, John Rider
emerged unsteadily through the front door of his basement flat
situated in the South Shore area of Blackpool.

He walked stiffly up the steps to pavement level, then turned
and surveyed the building which towered above his flat.

In its better days it had been an hotel, but over the past
thirty years had undergone a series of changes - to guest-house,
back to hotel, to private flats, back to guest-house ... until in
the early 1980s it had been completely abandoned, quickly becoming
derelict. By the time Rider saw it advertised for sale,
deterioration through damp and vandalism had set in and the
building was nothing more than a shell. He bought it for almost
nothing and set about refurbishment with as little outlay as
possible. He turned it into a complex of twelve tiny bedsits and,
after getting a Fire & Safety certificate, filled the rooms
with unemployed people drawing dole who needed accommodation and
breakfasts, but who always paid the rent. Or to be exact, had the
rent paid for them by the Department of Social Security.

So, in colloquial parlance, the newest metamorphosis of the
building was a ‘DSS doss-house’.

This had marked the beginning of a new and lucrative career
for Rider, who had subsequently bought three similar properties and
converted them into little gold mines.

Though he had done well out of the business, the lifestyle was
nowhere near as exciting as the one he used to have. But it was
safe and divorced from his past. The most difficult things he had
to deal with these days were the damage to his property, caused
usually during drunken squabbles between his tenants, or
drug-taking by the same people - a pastime he abhorred and clamped
down on firmly, sometimes violently.

Looking up at his property that morning he was pleased to see
that there didn’t seem to be any windows broken, the usual for
Saturday night.

Glad about this, Rider walked across to the only remnant he
possessed of his previous life. It was a maroon-coloured Jaguar
XJ12, bought new in 1976. A real gangster’s car which had seen much
better days.

He and the car complemented each other. Both were slightly
tatty, worn at the edges - ravaged, even - with a rather cynical
air about them and an aura of aloofness which had a sinister
undertone of danger and power.

And both of them smoked and drank too much and took a long
time to get going first thing in the morning.

The engine fired up after a prolonged turn of the ignition.
The twelve cylinders rumbled unevenly into life, coughing and
spluttering until they caught fire and settled into a steady,
burbling rhythm.

Rider let the car warm up for a few minutes. Realising he had
forgotten to bring his cigarettes, he slid the ashtray open and
poked distastefully through its overflowing contents until he found
a dog-end which contained at least one lungful of smoke in it. He
lit it with the electric lighter and took a sweet, deep
drag.

He pressed the button on the console and the driver’s window
creaked open, jamming halfway down as always. He blew out the smoke
from inside his chest, flicked the fag-end out onto the pavement
and set off.

He drove down onto the Promenade, turned right, heading north.
It was one of those clear, crisp January mornings with a fine blue
sky, no clouds and a silver sea.