Nightmare City (56 page)

Gillian laid a hand on the shoulder of the other woman in a
consoling .gesture.

They made an unusual pair, one which attracted inquisitive
glances from the other customers in the pub. The young black girl,
dressed provocatively in a cheap, bust-revealing blouse, micro
skirt and long leather boots contrasted with the slim, anxious
white woman in her mid-thirties dressed conservatively, but
expensively, in a black suit by Dior.

‘
I’m really, really sorry,’ Gillian said inadequately. And she
meant it. Never in a million years would she, as a prostitute,
contact the wife of one of her clients, no matter how sick and
depraved the man was. And she’d met some real weirdos in her time
who would probably have been perfect gentlemen with their wives.
Sickos she could handle. But this was completely different. Here
was a man who, she was certain, had murdered her friend and it
would only be a matter of time before he killed again.

‘
I didn’t know what to do, but I had to do something. I
couldn’t go to the police because. . .’ Gillian broke the sentence
and paused hesitantly.
Because I’ve killed
my pimp and the cops‘re after me,
was what
she almost said. ‘For certain reasons,’ she eventually said. ‘It’s
been going around and around my head for days, ever since he . . .
stuck a knife next to my cunt.’

The other woman squirmed with distaste at the last word. Even
Gillian winced, but it was a word she used every day and she
couldn’t think of anything less offensive. She was what she
was.

The other woman’s head was bowed in shame. She was trembling
all over. Tears poured out. She looked up. ‘Don’t apologise,’ she
said. ‘I’ve suspected for so long ... prostitutes ... but
murder?’

‘
He told me Marie was going to go public about their
relationship unless he paid her big bucks. He didn’t actually say
he’d killed her, but said he’d made her suffer. Like he’d make me
suffer if I told anyone. That was when he did his demonstration
with the knife. I’m sorry, Mrs McNamara. I didn’t know what else to
do.’

Rider held out his hands. Henry snapped on the rigid cuffs,
not too tightly, letting them be as comfortable as handcuffs could
be.

The Custody Sergeant gave Henry Rider’s custody record, having
made a copy for filing. The original always went with the
body.

Donaldson’s bleeper informed him to phone the Legat in London,
which he did as soon as he and Karen returned to Henry’s house
after taking the statement from Eric Taylor. He was told to ring an
international number. He dialled it immediately after clearing it
with Kate.

His heart leapt as he recognised the language spoken at the
other end Portuguese. He falteringly told the woman his name. He
was reconnected successfully.

‘
Santana,’ came the gruff voice.

‘
George, Karl Donaldson here. What’s happening?’

‘
Your friend Hamilton ... we have been sticking to him like
glue since he returned to Madeira. He spent little time here and
then boarded a plane to Lisbon where we were able to keep up with
him. He met a man there at a hotel. Our men have watched them
carefully.’ Santana sounded proud of his achievement. ‘They are
both booked onto a flight to Manchester tonight.’

‘
Who is the man?’

‘
We don’t know, but we have taken photographs of him. They are
good quality. Maybe I could send them to you?’

‘
Yeah, sure, hold on. . .’ Donaldson clamped a hand over the
receiver and said to Karen, ‘Honey, can we use one of the fax
machines at a police station hereabouts?’

‘
Yes, shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll need to find a number,
obviously.’

‘
You can send a fax to this number,’ Kate interjected. ‘Not to
that actual phone, but to the one that’s plugged in upstairs. Henry
bought it for some reason and never used the thing, but it
works.’

‘
Great.’ Down the phone he said to Santana, ‘You can fax the
photos to this number and send the real ones by DHL to the Legat in
London. Gotta pen?’ Donaldson recited the number. ‘Put the flight
details on it, willya?’

Santana said he would. ‘There is something more. While
Hamilton was in Madeira, we followed him to the docks in Funchal,
to the container depot. He checked the contents of a container
which was resealed. I swore out a warrant and broke the seal.’
Santana laughed.

‘
George, you have something to tell me, I feel
sure.’

‘
It was full of guns of all descriptions, as well as hand-held
missile launchers. Many, many weapons.’

‘
What did you do?’

‘
Resealed the container and arrested a Customs official whom
we suspected of being involved. He is singing like a baby. Mr
Hamilton is a very bad man.’

The fax came through fifteen agonising minutes later. They
were good, clear photos of the man who had met Hamilton in Lisbon.
When he saw the face, Donaldson blew a sweet kiss to Sam Dawber,
because without her, he would never have been able to identify the
man. Thanks to her memory games with mug-shots, Donaldson
recognised him immediately as Raymond de Vere - a man wanted by
several police forces throughout Europe. He made his living buying
weaponry for terrorist organisations worldwide.

Karl let out a long, satisfied sigh. ‘Kate, d’ya mind if I
make another call?’

The van, one of the smaller Sherpa models which Lancashire
police used as general purpose vehicles, had been reversed as close
to the rear door of the station as was geographically
possible.

Henry and his handcuffed prisoner came out of the custody
office. Siobhan opened the rear doors of the van and then the inner
cage. Rider walked ahead of Henry, ducked, and climbed in. He sat
placidly down on the bench seat.

Siobhan remained at the open door. ‘You go in with him,
Henry.’

‘
I’d rather sit up front.’

‘
Not enough room.’

Henry got in with Rider.

The cage door slammed shut behind him with a loud crash and
the spring-loaded locking bar jerked into place. Henry sat opposite
his prisoner. Rider gave him a wan smile, leaned back and rested
his head against the side of the van.

Siobhan climbed in the front passenger seat and said something
to the driver that Henry could not make out.

The driver turned and peered backwards, giving Henry a quick
salute. It was Gallagher.

Siobhan’s door opened again. She budged up and allowed space
for a further person to sit next to her on the double
seat.

This was Tattersall.

‘
Have you got the keys for these cuffs?’ Rider
asked.

‘
Yeah, why?’

Coolly, as though he was simply passing the time of day with
idle chatter: ‘Because I think we could have a problem here. That
guy’ - he cocked a thumb at Gallagher’s back - ‘is one of the two
who visited Shane Mulcahy and left him with little option but to
retract a complaint against you. I’ll lay odds the other guy was
his running mate.’

Henry’s mouth dropped open. ‘You sure?’

‘
Saw him leave Shane’s flat and pull his ski-mask
off.’

The van moved off slowly.

‘
Made a real mess of the lad.’

Donaldson and Karen moved to the dining room and spread
everything out on the table.

They had four statements from witnesses to the robbery in
Fleetwood. All clearly confirmed that their original statements had
been tampered with.

Then there was Eric Taylor’s statement and five grand, and the
MI5 photographs of Conroy, McNamara, Morton and
Hamilton.

Finally there was the faxed photo which had recently come up
the line from Santana.

‘
Several threads here,’ mused Donaldson, ‘all interlinked by
the North West Organised Crime Squad. I think there’s enough here
for Henry to breathe a sigh of relief, although he still might have
some explanations to make to Kate.

‘
The bottom line is that these bastards in this squad are up
to their necks in criminal activity and we’ve got enough to lay it
on the table and say to them, “Answer that, assholes!”.’

‘
What do you know about this guy?’ Karen pointed to the newest
face on file.

‘
He’s an agent and simply brings buyers and sellers together
and takes his percentage. Raymond de Vere, he’s called. French
background, Irish upbringing. Hence the fact that the IRA are one
of his biggest clients.’

Donaldson checked his watch.

‘
I think it’s time Henry came in and we told him this. Then I
think we need to decide what to do. My feeling is that he should
take all this to his Chief Constable and then he should go into
hiding, because his life will be in real danger from that point on
. . . if it isn’t already.’

De la Garde and Rufus T were patient men. Waiting was not a
problem. They listened to more of the Jaguar owner’s collection of
middle-of-the road music without complaint.

Then she came out of the side door of the pub, accompanied by
another woman.

De la Garde tapped Rufus T on the leg. The driver came to
attention and his hands took hold of the wheel.

De la Garde cocked the weapon.

The two women walked arm in arm across the car park. They had
reached the prostitute’s car.

‘
What about the other woman?’ Rufus T enquired. The music had
been switched off.

‘
Fuck her,’ growled the gunman. ‘GO!’

The Jag slewed out of its parking spot. De la Garde had the
MP5 resting out of the open window. The car accelerated at an
alarming rate.

The women looked in the direction of the approaching car. The
prostitute screamed something and grabbed the other woman’s elbow
to drag her out of the way.

The Jag drew level and the MP5
,
in its understated way, crackled a
spray of bullets across the two women.

The prostitute went down as six splattered across her chest.
She was dead before she hit the hard ground.

The other woman got four across her midriff. She went down
onto her backside where she sat upright for a few moments, looking
with disbelief at the spreading redness over her stomach and
feeling a terrible, nauseating pain. This was followed by complete
blackness.

Only feet separated the women in death.

A chasm had divided them in life.

But the activities of one man had drawn them together for this
final, fatal encounter.

The Jaguar was long gone, racing towards Preston, then cutting
left onto the M6. Twenty minutes later it was found abandoned and
burned out in Wigan.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Daylight had gone. The blackness of evening came swiftly, and
with it more torrential rain which, as they travelled eastwards,
turned to relentless driving sleet. Typical horrendous northern
weather which looked set to continue.

In the back of the police van it was extra dark. The light
which illuminated the cage was controlled from a switch on the
dash, but Gallagher steadfastly ignored Henry’s shouts to turn it
on.

Henry glared across at Rider who sat there with his eyes
closed, his face visible only in brief flashes of fluorescent
orange when they passed under street lamps.

Fuming, Henry sat back, unable to do anything but brood and
wait until they reached Preston before he told the DI what a cunt
he thought he was. He folded his arms and tapped his feet, aware he
was powerless to do anything other than bide his time.

The van reached Marton Circle outside Blackpool and picked up
the A583 towards Preston.

Still restless, Henry shuffled along the bench seat until he
was directly behind Tattersall and Siobhan who were squashed up on
the double passenger seat. Henry peered through the toughened glass
window, shading his eyes with his hands, watching the journey
unfold through the poor headlights which struggled ineptly against
the weather. Although the wipers worked at double speed, they were
fighting a losing battle. Gallagher was forced to lean forwards
constantly as though the extra inches would give him some sort of
visual advantage.

They stuck on the A583, with the town of Kirkham to their
left, eventually reaching the traffic lights at Three Nooks - and
the junction with the A584 - where only a week before, Henry and
Dave Seymour had made a decision to go towards Preston instead of
turning back to Blackpool, and then found themselves in a
life-and-death car chase with Dundaven. It felt like a year ago,
not seven short days.

Half a mile later they bore left onto the dual carriageway
which would take them into Preston. The River Ribble and the old
docks were on their right.

Just a few minutes from the police station now. Then Henry
could voice his feelings to Gallagher. He was relishing the
prospect.