Nightmare City (34 page)

‘
Once you’ve tasted the real stuff, you’ll never go back,’ he
told her. ‘A quality piece of meat is a million times better than
any dildo.’

Lucy was driving; he was passenger. And ever since they had
set off from Blackpool to go to Blackburn, he had never once let up
with his sexual banter. By the time they hit the M6, she was
heartily sick of it.

‘
Dave, shut up, will you?’ she ordered him. ‘You’re getting on
my tits.’ As soon as she’d said it, she knew it was the wrong
phrase to use.

‘
If only I was,’ he cut in with a sly grin.

‘
And if you don’t keep quiet I’ll make a complaint against you
for sexual harassment.’

‘
You’d never prove it,’ he said smugly. ‘My word against
yours.’

She sighed deeply. ‘Guess what, Dave? I’ve got a
voice-activated tape recorder in my pocket and I’ve recorded your
nonstop innuendo, requests for sexual favours and digs about my
sexuality ever since we set off - and I’ll use it if you don’t shut
your effing mouth. Yes, I’m a lesbian, I’m open about it and quite
happy. No, I don’t want to suck your cock. End of story. Let’s get
on with the job, shall we?’

Seymour had nothing to say. He glared nastily at her, grated
his teeth for a moment and then mouthed the word,
‘Bitch.’

He didn’t know whether or not to believe her about the tape
recorder. He wouldn’t take any chances until he knew for
sure.

The journey continued in silence, the atmosphere between them
as thick as fog.

They were en-route to see if they could find some more of
Marie Cullen’s colleagues in the profession of
prostitution.

Prostitutes! Seymour hated ‘em.

The infrastructure of the British police service is riddled
with bureaucracy. It has a slow, mechanistic structure within which
it can take an eon for decisions to be made and then acted on. The
militaristic lines on which the service is operated are being
slowly whittled away as the police respond positively to the
ever-changing society they serve; certain ranks have been abolished
and the management structure has been flattened. But it is still
slow, painfully so.

Except on the occasions when it wants to move
quickly.

Particularly when high-ranking officers want to make things
happen.

Which is why lowly Henry Christie felt he was in a world of
unreality when Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton and his
old bosom-buddy Bob Fanshaw-Bayley beckoned him into an empty
office, sat him down and revealed the good news.

‘
Henry,’ Morton began. ‘As you already know I’ve earmarked you
as a possible future member of the NWOCS. As such I’ve had a word
with FB here to sound him out about it.’

Henry waited. Both senior officers were smiling.

‘
I know about your reputation and now I’m interested to see
how you work first-hand,’ Morton continued. ‘So I went down on
bended knee to Bob’ - here the two high-rankers exchanged a glance
- ‘and begged him to let me borrow you for a few days to give us a
chuck-up with this newsagents job.’

‘
And I agreed,’ declared FB ‘Depending on your feelings, that
is. We’re not pushing you.’

Henry thought about it. He winced sadly. ‘I’ve got too much on
my plate at the moment. Otherwise I’d jump at the chance. It’s
happening a bit quick.’

‘
Henry, I like you. You know that. If you come and help us out
now, then I can fix up a further six-month secondment, starting in
April. That could possibly become permanent. Not possibly -
definitely. I’ll ensure it.’

‘
I’d like to, but there’s Marie Cullen’s murder, Dundaven ...
Derek Luton ... I feel responsible. I couldn’t really leave them in
mid-air.’

‘
I understand that,’ said Morton empathetically, ‘but we’re
close to cracking the newsagents job. I’d like to see you working
alongside my men just for the next few days, by which time we’ll
have a result. Then you can go back to your own stuff. Apart from
anything else, this’ll give you a chance to be in at the kill, as
it were. And give me a chance to assess your suitability for the
squad.’

‘
You’ll only be absent for a few days,’ FB pointed out. ‘I’ll
keep an eye on your work, make sure it doesn’t dry up.’

Henry leaned back. It sounded good.

‘
Think about it, Henry,’ Morton said.

He didn’t need to. A grin cracked across his face.

Morton held out his hand. ‘Welcome to the squad, the cream of
the crop.’ His grip was firm and dry and he had the look of an
angler who’d just netted a black marlin.

Completely bemused, Henry made his way back to his desk,
chuffed to hell and back.

And yet ... slightly disconcerted.
Steamrollered
was a word which
sprang to mind.

Think this through, he told himself. What are the
implications, professionally and personally?

Professionally, going on the squad would probably affect his
chances of promotion. But he had always been in two minds about
going for Inspector anyway as it would take him one rung further up
the ladder away from ‘real’ policework. He’d have to talk
management issues and strategies, all that crap. Stuff like that
bored him shitless. He liked being operational, hands on, arresting
people.

Going onto the squad would give him the opportunity to stay at
this level and yet deal with high-class criminals. And maybe it
would give him the time and space to delve into Dundaven and try to
find the remainder of those firearms, the details of which Karl had
sent him.

Personally ... well, Kate should be told immediately, but he
didn’t dare pick up the phone. She would go ape. Henry decided to
keep it until he went home that night so he could break it gently
to her, face to face. That would be better than a phone
call.

‘
DS Christie?’

Shaken out of his reverie, Henry jumped up at the mention of
his name by DC Robson, the female detective on the squad whom he
had briefly met before.

Henry had never been in a position to inspect her from close
quarters. With her standing next to him, he had to admit that she
was stunning. Black hair in a well-cut bob, shining brown eyes,
small nose and a wide, soft mouth which needed to be kissed
forcefully. He was aware that her complexion was porcelain perfect,
dabbed with only the hint of make-up which made her high cheekbones
stand out even more prominently. She was wearing a practical work
suit - jacket, blouse and skirt - but it was nicely tailored and
expensive.

The jacket swung open near to her shoulder and inadvertently
his eyes crossed her lovely breasts and registered they were
secured in a white, frilly bra which he could see through her
blouse. She reminded him of a younger version of Kate. His heart
gave a pathetic flutter.

Her intoxicating perfume almost overpowered him into a
swoon.

‘
Hello. Siobhan, isn’t it?’

‘
Yes. Well-remembered.’ She smiled easily at him. Her tongue
ran onto her top lip in a gesture that was thoughtful rather than
erotic. Even so, it made Henry’s guts jump.

He swallowed. ‘What can I do for you?’

She held out her hand to be shaken and said those three
memorable words.

‘
I’m your partner.’

‘
Is this it?’ Seymour peered through the windscreen as the
wipers, on double speed, worked overtime in an effort to clear the
heavy rain which was bucketing down.

Lucy Crane pulled into the side of the road. She wound her
window down and looked across at the high-rise development of
council flats. She checked the note in her hand. ‘Think so.’ She
rolled the window closed. ‘You coming?’ she asked
Seymour.

‘
Suppose so,’ he said with great reluctance. Their
relationship had not improved and they spoke only when
necessary.

They had got a list of all the women in Blackburn who had come
to the attention of the cops in connection with prostitution in the
last eighteen months. It was a fairly short list and quite
repetitive. This was their third visit of the morning. It was a
dull and tedious task trying to find someone who knew Marie Cullen
and could maybe fill in some background for them. Two dead ends so
far.

Also on the list were the names of two convicted pimps who
operated in the area. Once they’d finished with the workers, they’d
be moving onto the managers.

By the time they ran over the road and reached the entrance to
the flats, they were both drenched.

‘
He had such an enjoyable time, he wants you again this
afternoon,’ Saltash said with a wicked smile on his face. ‘So
c’mon, get your well-fucked black arse into gear and let’s get
going. There’s good money to be made in this for us
both.’

‘
No, I’m not going. I don’t like him, I don’t like what he
does and I can’t stand the thought of going with someone who might
have murdered Marie.’

Saltash didn’t have the time or patience to argue. ‘Get up,
get your coat on and stop messin’ around, Gillian, otherwise I’ll
have to slap you - and I don’t wanna do that, honey.’

The black girl was sitting on the settee in her small lounge.
She drew her knees up and presented a defiant face to her pimp. She
shook her head. Her lips were taut and eyes blazing. Her body
language screamed, ‘Make me!’

Over the years Saltash had had many dealings with reluctant
whores. Sometimes they didn’t know how lucky they were when he
looked after them. They could have been on the streets, facing all
sorts of threats, whereas he ensured that all the business he put
their way was inside hotels or homes, places where they could give
their full potential in a bit of comfort. Not down some
dogshit-laden back alley or car.

When he had problems with them, he always resorted to the same
well tried and trusted remedy.

‘
You refuse to go, eh?’

He lurched across in an attempt to grab her black hair.
Gillian ducked and he found his fingers groping for thin air. She
squirmed off the settee with the intention of running into the
bathroom and locking the door.

Saltash recovered quickly. He dived at her, rugby-style,
wrapping his arms around her waist and bringing her down to her
knees.

She struggled wildly. Her elbows jabbed backwards. One caught
the side of his face, next to the eye-socket, with such force that
he released his grip and his hands went up to protect his face.
‘Fucking cow!’ he screamed, reeling away.

Gillian dragged herself to her feet. She was angry. Instead of
doing the sensible thing and bolting while she had the chance, she
twisted round and launched a frenzied attack on Saltash, kicking
and scratching him remorselessly, pummelling him with her
fists.

He succumbed to the onslaught, trying to protect himself with
his hands, parrying the blows which rained down on his head without
a break.

‘
OK, OK, you win, you win,’ he tried to tell her. She didn’t
listen, or if she did, she was past caring. As far as she was
concerned, she was fighting for her life. She drove him back across
the room. He turned to crawl away, all the fight having seeped out
of him, giving her the chance to kick him properly. It hurt him.
She was wearing Doc Marten boots.

‘
Jesus, Jesus, OK ... Ahh ... you’ve made your
point!’

Gillian got her balance properly and aimed a perfect kick into
his ribs. The force of it flicked him over and sent him rolling
across the room, sprawling underneath the dining table where he lay
on his back, panting, his arms clutched across his
chest.

From this position he glowered at her. ‘You’ll pay for this,
you stupid cow.’

She was unable to stop her head from shaking. ‘No, I won’t,
no, I fucking won’t, you bastard. I’ve had it with you and your
snotty ways. You’re supposed to look after us, but what happened to
Marie, eh? You let her get killed, you bastard. I’m not going to
finish up like her.’

Saltash attempted to ease himself into a sitting position. The
pain which shot across his chest like a whiplash laid him back out
again. ‘C’mon honey, help me up.’ He held out a hand and tried to
look pleading. ‘We’ll work something out, I promise.’

Gillian ignored the outstretched fingers. She knew that if she
yielded she would suffer. Firstly at Saltash’s hands, then at
McNamara’s. That would not happen. She had to break free, one way
or another. She had boiled over, put up with enough degradation.
Her eyes searched the room and alighted on the portable TV set in
one corner. She stepped across to it, unplugged it and lifted it as
high as possible in her hands. She staggered across to Saltash who
could not fathom out what was happening until it dawned on him in
the split second before the TV crashed down onto his head.
Everything went blank - with just a pinpoint of light at the middle
of it. Then the light disappeared too. Saltash’s TV set had been
turned off.

She picked up his car keys and ran.