Nightmare City (44 page)

‘
I’ll come to the point quickly, Sarge. We’re here on behalf
of Henry Christie. He’s asked us to come and speak to you to ask
for a favour.’

Taylor perked up. He was listening now. His eyes narrowed
slightly. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘
You were the Custody Sergeant last Saturday evening when DS
Christie allegedly assaulted a youth then stupidly forgot to enter
it up on the record.’

Taylor said nothing.

‘
Well, Henry’s looked through the custody record and noticed
that you were the last person to make any entries on it up to and
including the point where this youth was taken to hospital. There
are no entries after that because he was subsequently released from
custody and reported for summons for the offence he had
committed.’

Taylor watched Gallagher closely, hardly able to believe what
was being said.

‘
Henry wondered if you’d do him a favour. See, he’s in a lot
of trouble over this - or could be - and it’s hanging over his head
and, well, the thing is, without an independent witness to back him
up, it looks like he could be in for some rough times
ahead.’

‘
Tough. And I’m not sure I like what I’m hearing,’ Taylor said
stonily.

‘
OK ... but let me finish, please. Henry wondered if you’d be
willing to . . . how shall we say? ... amend the custody record in
his favour to say you witnessed the whole thing.’

Taylor’s heart, by now, was ramming against his ribs. He
almost expected it to break them and splurge out. His face
tightened up. ‘How dare you?’ he demanded.

Gallagher held his hands up, palms out, defensively. ‘We
understand your initial reaction, Sarge.’

‘
Look, you bastards, are you setting me up or something? Are
you wired up? I’m an honest cop and this is completely out of
order.’ His voice rose as he began to rant. ‘I don’t know what
you’re trying to pull, but as far as I’m concerned you can fuck
right off out of my house. I’m going to complain about you both -
and Henry Christie! Though I can hardly credit he would have sent
you. It’s not like him. For a start, he’d do his own dirty
work.’

‘
He’s in trouble, Eric,’ Gallagher said earnestly. ‘A
colleague in trouble and he’s asking a friend to do him a favour,
that’s all.’

Taylor remained steadfast. ‘No.’

‘
And that’s your final word on the matter?’

‘
Yes.’

‘
I believe you have some money problems, Eric.’

‘
And that’s fuck-all to do with you, pal.’

‘
We are prepared to help you, if you help Henry in return. No,
don’t say anything.’ Gallagher reached for the briefcase which he
had put down by the chair. He placed it on his knees and flicked
the catches, opening it so Taylor could not see into it. He took
out an A4 sheet of paper which the Sergeant instantly recognised as
a custody record. Gallagher laid this on the smoked-glass coffee
table which was between them.

Eric’s anger bubbled. It was the custody record he had filled
in last Saturday, one of over fifty that day, but one he remembered
well. The name on the top was Shane Mulcahy.

He glared at Gallagher.

‘
Get out,’ he spat.

Gallagher held a finger up. ‘One second,’ he said.

He placed the open briefcase on the coffee table next to the
custody record and slowly swivelled it round so Taylor could see
what it contained.

On top of the contents was a note, printed in capital letters.
It read: THERE IS £10,000 IN USED BANK OF ENGLAND NOTES IN HERE.
YOU MAY COUNT IT IF YOU WISH. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO TO RECEIVE THIS
MONEY IS TO ALTER THE CUSTODY RECORD AND HELP A FRIEND IN NEED.
ERIC, PLEASE HELP ME. The signature could have belonged to Henry
Christie. Taylor wasn’t sure.

He looked at the note and the money underneath it.

Then his eyes met Gallagher’s over the lid of the
briefcase.

Gallagher gave him a quirky smile.

It was a lot of money, for not much effort.

‘
You’ve made me leave, John,’ Isa said. Glassy tears were
twinkling in her eyes. ‘I wanted to love you ... I do love you ...
but you’ve spoilt it.’ She bent down and picked up her
suitcase.

‘
There was absolutely no need to do what you did. No rhyme, no
reason, no excuse. Cold-blooded murder.’ She shook as she said the
words.

‘
I didn’t have a choice, Isa,’ Rider said simply. They were
standing in the lounge area of his basement flat, the bedsits
above. There was a huge crash from the room above which juddered
the whole ceiling. Probably the couple in the ground-floor flat
having one of their usual domestics. Rider was not bothered by what
was happening above. It was his own, fairly subdued domestic
dispute which was his problem at the moment. He was very tired now.
The action of the day had sapped everything, including his resolve
to keep Isa. He was too weary to put up much of a fight, although
he knew what was happening was very important. He wished it could
be put off until tomorrow when he was feeling stronger.

‘
Everybody has a choice. You made yours without even thinking
about me - and after what we said, promised each other, only hours
before.’

‘
He killed innocent people. They burned to death on my
property. I was responsible for them.’

‘
Did he kill them? How the hell d’you know that for sure?
Where’s your evidence? It could just as easily have been one of
your crack-crazed residents out of his tiny mind. Those idiots are
capable of anything.’

As if to confirm what she said, there was another crash from
upstairs. They both looked at the ceiling, then at each
other.

‘
Why didn’t you tell the police? You had the
opportunity.’

‘
Because they’re useless, corrupt bastards. Munrow would have
paid them off, like Conroy does. You know what I think about
cops.’

‘
John, you are a fool,’ she said sadly.

‘
So is this it?’

‘
Yes.’ It was a quiet, almost inaudible word. One she did not
wish to utter.

She walked to the door, opened it and went through without
looking back. Rider made no attempt to stop her, even though
something inside him was willing him to do so. He knew he was being
pig-headed and stupid.

He heard the front door close softly and saw Isa walk up the
steps past the net-curtained window.

Maybe tomorrow.

Another crash from upstairs.

Rider’s nostrils flared. Noisy bastards. He was going to throw
them out on their arses right now if they couldn’t damn well
behave.

He stormed out of the room to the door in the short hallway
which gave him access up a flight of stairs to the flats above
without having to go outside. He unlocked the several bolts and
chains and opened the door, treading carefully onto the darkened
and narrow stairway.

They burst into the flat before he knew what was
happening.

Two men. Blue boiler suits. Heavy boots. Hoods with eye and
mouth slits.

One had a straight, extendable baton.

The other had a gun.

At the moment Shane Mulcahy opened his door, the one with the
baton rammed it into his stomach, causing him to bend double; the
baton was then expertly smacked across Shane’s face, breaking his
nose with a sickening crunch of bone.

Shane was bundled back into the flat and his thin spidery body
was slammed face down onto the bare floor where the red gush from
his nose flooded out. The one with the gun knelt on Shane’s back,
one knee planted firmly on his spine just between the
shoulder-blades, the gun thrust into his cheek.

Jodie, Shane’s much-abused girlfriend, had been trying her
best to breast-feed the baby which was cradled in her arms. One
poor-looking breast and nipple were exposed. She reacted
instinctively, drawing her arms around the baby and cowering in a
chair for protection.

The one with the baton said to her, ‘If you speak or scream
I’ll whack this across your head and then the baby’s.’

Jodie did not speak because, although not having experienced
this type of scenario before, she was sufficiently street-wise to
know when to shut up. She had immediately assumed these people were
drugs dealers come to collect an unpaid debt. It was the culture
she inhabited and she knew her best chance of survival was
acquiescence.

She nodded nervously.

The baby, deprived of its meagre supply of milk, sucked air
desperately.

‘
Now then, Shane, old bean,’ the man with the gun said,
lowering his mouth near to Shane’s ear. ‘You’ve been a naughty,
naughty lad, haven’t you?’

The young skinhead could hardly breathe, let alone speak.
Blood had gagged in his throat. He coughed and choked, spitting a
fine spray of red saliva.

‘
I don’t owe you owt,’ he gurgled.

‘
Oh yes you do, you owe us a great deal.’

Despite herself, Jodie let out a wail of anguish. The stupid
idiot had obviously neglected to pay his drugs debts and from the
sound of it they had amounted to a tidy sum. Now collection time
had come and if they could not find the money, Shane’s brains might
be joining his nasal blood on the floor.

The baton arced through the air towards Jodie’s head. She saw
it coming, braced herself for the impact. It stopped a millimetre
from her left temple. Her eyes focused on the end of it.

‘
Next time,’ the man warned, ‘I take your fucking head off.
Now, shut it, bitch.’

She bit her lips and hugged her child which whimpered
pathetically, picking up on the tension in her body. She rocked
it.

The man holding the gun ground the muzzle into Shane’s cheek.
He thumbed the hammer back. Shane closed his eyes tightly and lay
there paralysed with fear. Tears formed in his eyes.

The man with the baton walked over to the TV set which was
perched on a small table. He tapped the screen with the tip, lined
himself up like a golfer before a tee shot and swung it into the
screen, which exploded.

Jodie let out a gasp.

The baby in her arms jumped and started to cry.

Their TV had been destroyed. The TV set Jodie was tied to for
all her entertainment. It had been her lifeline.

The man then kicked it off the table. It crashed to the
floor.

Shane’s eyes strained in their sockets to look up at what had
happened. He watched the man with the baton take a couple of steps
over to him. The man with the gun, keeping it firmly implanted in
his cheek, stood up, relieving the pressure on Shane’s
spine.

It was a short-lived relief. Shane was then given much the
same treatment as the TV set with about a dozen well-aimed, hard
blows across his back and ribs.

When he’d finished, Shane lay curled up on the floor, emitting
horrible grunting noises.

The gun was still in his ear. The man holding it said, ‘You
may wonder what this is about, Shane.’

The baton man then demolished the stereo with a series of
expertly wielded strikes, destroying a cheap but perfectly
acceptable system which, again, Jodie relied on for her sanity. Her
whole pathetic world was being decimated and she was unable to do
anything to save it. As with the TV set, the stereo was kicked to
the floor where it landed with a loud crash, the plastic parts
splintering all around the room.

The man returned to Shane and tapped him gently a few times on
the knee-caps and shins. Shane’s thin legs would have been very
easily broken and probably damaged for ever. The baton man let the
tip rest against a shin whilst the gunman spoke.

‘
Now then, Shane,’ he said reasonably. ‘Listen very carefully.
All you have to do is this: tomorrow morning, you go into Blackpool
police station and present yourself very smartly at the front desk,
with your solicitor if you like ... with me so far? ... and be very
nice and pleasant and say that you wish to retract the complaint
you made against me, Detective Sergeant Christie. Now that’s all
you have to do Shane, pal, old buddy, old mate. And don’t even
think of mentioning this little get-together here, because if you
do ...’ His voice sank to a terrifying whisper. ‘Do you
understand?’

Shane nodded.

‘
Good.’

The baton man gave Shane a loving tap on his shin.

The gunman stood up.

Both crossed to the baby’s cot, picked it up and between them
and threw it against the wall where it disintegrated into
matchsticks.

Then they left.

In the hallway outside the flat, they turned right and ran for
the rear exit, pulling their hoods off as they went.

Neither one of them saw the figure of John Rider ascending the
darkened staircase which led up from the basement flat
below.

Chapter Twenty

There was an air of jubilation in the murder incident room
next day when Tony Morton announced that all three men arrested
yesterday were going to be charged with the murder of Geoff
Driffield and the other people in the newsagents. The one they had
failed to arrest would be circulated as wanted.