Nightmare City (55 page)

‘
Who will that be?’

‘
Probably my Chief Constable.’

Rider sat back. ‘That’s not enough. These are dangerous
people. They kill.’

‘
I know.’ Henry marshalled his thoughts for a few seconds.
‘I’ll guarantee that, if you want, you’ll get put on a witness
protection scheme. Isa too, if you like. New identities, new
locations, some cash, new job ... whatever we can do. That is my
second promise to you.’

Rider nodded thoughtfully. His eyes locked into Henry’s. ‘And
what about you? Just ‘cos you’re a cop doesn’t mean you’re not a
target.’

‘
I imagine,’ said the detective, ‘that we’ll probably both end
up stacking shelves in Asda in Newcastle in our new lives.’ He
grinned. ‘So what about it? It’s a lot to ask.’

‘
Fucked if I do, fucked if I don’t,’ Rider said pragmatically.
‘Having said that, I’m not sure how much help I’ll be to you. Ten
years ago I knew everything. A lot of what I know now is
third-hand.’

‘
Just start blabbing. I’ll be the judge of what’s useful and
what’s not.’ Henry produced the hand-held tape recorder out of his
pocket and placed it on the table. ‘Let’s have a quick preliminary
chat here ... just to get going.’

And the tiny radio mike which had been secretly fitted
underneath the wall microphone of the official tape machine picked
up everything that was said and relayed it to the speaker and tape
recorder in Tony Morton’s temporary office.

He was expecting it, but when the knock came Eric Taylor
nearly jumped out of his skin. He trailed reluctantly to the door
and opened it. He recognised Karen Donaldson immediately from her
Lancashire days.

‘
Ma’am,’ he said nervously. ‘Come in.’

She stepped across the threshold accompanied by her husband
who nodded curtly at Taylor.

‘
This is my husband, Karl Donaldson. He’s with the FBI in
London. He’s assisting with this matter.’

Glumly Taylor nodded.

‘
Where’s the money?’ Donaldson asked.

Taylor picked up the briefcase he’d been given and opened
it.

‘
Sit down, Sarge,’ Karen said.

All three sat. Taylor alone in the middle of the settee, the
others on chairs.

‘
What we need to do here, Eric, is come at this from a
different perspective than you simply taking a bribe, even though
that’s the bottom line, isn’t it?’

Taylor remained tight-lipped. He wriggled his shoulders
pathetically.

‘
In order to clear your good name,’ her voice was sweet and
hypnotic in its rhythm, ‘we need to apply some creative thinking,
don’t we? I suggest we go from the premise that you simply played
along with these people who "bribed" you, because, in fact, you
were acting on our behalf by gathering evidence of corrupt and
improper practice. Do you get my general drift?’

‘
You mean I was sort of acting for you?’

‘
Spot on. You’re a bright boy,’ Donaldson said
impatiently.

‘
Henry won’t suffer, will he?’ Taylor said. ‘I feel really bad
about that.’

‘
No, because he’s doing the same thing - working to expose
corruption at high level. Now, all you need to do is make a
detailed written statement outlining your role in this
investigation and then what happened and who gave you the money.
Simple.’

‘
What if I don’t do it?’ His eyes narrowed as he tested the
waters.

‘
You’re fucked,’ Donaldson rasped darkly.

Henry knew he was taking a risk by spending so much time
talking to Rider. Siobhan could come down at any time. Still, he
reasoned, the time for inaction had gone. If he wanted to get out
of this thing, then a risk it would have to be.

Rider told a good story. It covered his early years and
association with Conroy and Munrow which blossomed in the late
1970s, early 1980s, based on drugs and guns. By 1982 they had a
big, lucrative empire which was growing in all directions, legit
and otherwise. But when the gangland territorial wars started,
catching the attention of the forces of law and order, the empire
began to crumble.

Rider left.

Munrow got busted.

And Conroy saw it as an opportunity to expand even further,
this time protected properly by his police and political friends
who he had been nurturing and working alongside for years. Rider
named names.

‘
I hadn’t seen Conroy for a good while,’ he explained, ‘though
I kept tabs on what was happening. I never wanted to go back to
that life, so Ronnie and his activities didn’t bother me one way or
the other - until last weekend, when he contacted me and asked for
a meet. He wanted to get a toehold into my club - for drugs, I
thought. I told him to piss off.’

‘
He wanted to sell drugs through your place?’

‘
That’s what I thought originally ... then I saw that thing
about Dundaven in the paper the other day and put two and two
together.’

‘
Whoa, hold on,’ said Henry. A light dawned. ‘You mean Conroy
and Dundaven are connected?’

‘
Yes - I thought you’d know that.’

‘
Only sort of.’

‘
And instead of drugs, I think he wanted to store those
weapons at the club, probably as far away from himself as
possible.’

Henry shook his head in disbelief.

‘
That meeting between me and Conroy took place at the zoo,
incidentally.’

‘
When?’ Henry blurted. ‘Last Sunday? When Boris got
shot?’

‘
Yeah ... proper sad, that.’

After twenty minutes Henry had enough to be going on with. He
switched the tape recorder off.

‘
Now what?’ asked Rider.

‘
We go to the Custody Sergeant and I’ll tell her that there’s
no evidence against you, and you are to be released immediately.
Then we’ll get out of here as quickly as possible. Pick up Isa, my
wife and kids, then we run to the Chief Constable - hopefully
before we get a bullet each in the brain.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

De la Garde had developed a speciality which ensured that,
occasionally, just to supplement his drug-derived income, he made a
nice bonus.

His specialism was drive-by shootings.

He was a gun for hire.

A plague in the States, but a rarity in Britain until
recently, the DBS - as it has become affectionately known - is now
a fairly common feature of the inner cities. Liverpool has
experienced its fair share, as have Manchester and Leeds.
Lancashire, trailing behind these urban areas in terms of violent
crime, had never had one - yet.

The DBS was often used as a tool to frighten and intimidate,
the message often being more important than the injury.

But De la Garde had been given specific instructions: this
time there was no message to deliver, just sudden death. ‘Ensure
that your target dies,’ he had been told in no uncertain
terms.

He had not even blinked or asked why. He was paid two and a
half grand up-front and promised the same amount on completion. Not
much, but well above the going rate for most of the killers who
roamed the streets of north-west England. It would pay for a
pleasant holiday to Jamaica he had planned for next
week.

His target was the prostitute called Gillian, the one causing
so much anguish to McNamara.

It had taken De la Garde some time to hunt her
down.

He had been patient and let it be known he was seeking her
through his contacts. She had gone to ground since killing her
pimp, Saltash, but De la Garde knew she would reappear soon. People
like her couldn’t hide for ever, nor could they run. They were
trapped on a hamster wheel and had to make a living the only way
they knew how.

So patience, shaking down a few hookers and petty drugs
dealers eventually put De la Garde on the right track and led him,
unusually, to a pub on the main road between Preston and
Blackburn.

De la Garde had been waiting in a strategic position on the
council estate in Shadsworth where Gillian lived, and the
information he had obtained proved correct. The fucking cheek of
the bitch. She was still driving around in Saltash’s car, though
she’d had the brains to change the plates.

Eventually, as he knew she would, she drove past his
observation point. He followed her to the pub, waiting for a chance
to kill her, but she managed to park up and get inside before he
could move in.

Not that he cared. Sooner or later she would come out and he
would make his money. He sighed at his driver, his usual one -
another black man who called himself Rufus T. He was the best in
the business at present, constantly in demand for shootings and
blaggings. De la Garde had negotiated fifteen hundred for him -
less ten per cent commission.

They were in an extremely hot Jaguar XJS in the pub car park,
tucked away in one corner, listening to the owner’s Abba collection
on CD.

On his knees De la Garde had laid his instrument of
death.

In this case an HK MP5.

Lovely. Light. Accurate.

Morton’s head was in his hands. The cassette player on his
desk clicked off, ending the recorded conversation between Henry
Christie and John Rider, in which Rider had blabbed everything he
knew about Conroy, his organisation and contacts, and naming a few
names including Tony Morton and Harry McNamara.

Across the room, Gallagher and Siobhan sat quietly, waiting
for instructions.

Morton looked up. ‘Get down to the custody office now and do
something before they both walk out of here!’ he shouted. ‘If
Conroy falls, we fall too. I don’t need to tell you what that
means.’

‘
What shall we do?’ cried Siobhan.

‘
Fucking think of something.’

Henry and Rider had to queue up at the custody desk. Four
other prisoners and their arresting officers were ahead of
them.

‘
Just what we don’t need,’ Henry moaned, looking at the queue.
He was feeling jumpy and very, very vulnerable. They had to get out
of here as soon as possible.

One of the prisoners ahead began to complain loudly to the
Custody Sergeant about how badly he was being treated.

Eric Taylor read his statement through very carefully. He
placed a firm full-stop at the end, signed his name and initialled
one or two corrected errors.

‘
That’s it then,’ Karen said. ‘For your own sake don’t tell
anyone else you’ve made this statement - not yet, anyway. These are
very dangerous people we’re dealing with here, and we need to keep
this under wraps until the rest of the operation bears fruit -
which might be a couple of days yet.’ She spoke to give the
impression there was an organised investigation
on-going.

‘
I understand.’ He pushed the money-filled briefcase across
the coffee table towards them. ‘Take it. I’m sick of looking at
it.’

‘
We need to count it and give you a receipt.’

‘
Fair enough. But I can assure you it’s all there - all five
thousand pounds of it.’ Taylor didn’t bat an eyelid when he said
this, but a trickle of sweat ran down the middle of his back and
made him cringe a little inside.

There was only one prisoner ahead of them now.

Siobhan strolled casually into the custody office.

Henry stiffened and suddenly felt like a schoolboy who’d been
caught smoking by the cycle sheds. He actually blushed.

‘
What’s going on, Henry?’ she asked.

‘
Just about to take his fingerprints,’ he replied quickly.
‘That is all right, isn’t it?’

She surveyed him through slitty eyes. Her mouth hardened. But
even so, there was no doubt about it. She was totally desirable.
Once again Henry experienced regret at not having gone all the
way.

‘
You can forget them. He has to be taken to
Preston.’

‘
Why?’

‘
Because the officer in charge of the investigation is
screaming at Tony Morton to bring him over,’ she lied crisply.
‘That’s where he should be lodged anyway, as you well know. The
crime happened there.’

‘
Doesn’t usually bother you that procedures aren’t followed,’
Henry pointed out.

She gazed blandly at him. ‘We’ve borrowed a section van - so
get him booked out and we’ll meet you out back. Make sure he’s
handcuffed.’

‘
It’s a uniform job, transferring prisoners.’

‘
We’re going to do it this time, so stop messing about and be
ready to roll in five minutes.’

She spun on her heels and exited.

‘
At the first opportunity in Preston I’ll get you released,’
Henry said quickly to Rider. ‘We’ll go along with them for the time
being. Don’t want to make them suspicious.’

The prisoner in front had been dealt with. Henry presented
Rider to the custody officer, who firmly believed, because the
NWOCS had told her, that Henry was suspected of corruption in a big
way. That was why it had been necessary to bug the interview room.
But just act natural. Don’t let him see you suspect him of
anything, they had instructed her.