Nightmare City (7 page)

‘
Thanks,’ said Henry. He’d been jotting down a few notes in
his unofficial pocketbook. He closed it and slid it into his pocket
which began to chirp like a bird, making him jump. He extracted the
pager with an apologetic look on his face and walked to a corner of
the room where he picked up the phone on the wall and dialled
Blackpool Communications.

‘
I know you’re busy with that suspicious death,’ the woman
said, ‘but do you recall that other job I mentioned to you?’ Henry
said he did, but thought it had been a joke of some sort. ‘No, no
joke,’ the comms operator said. ‘Can you possibly attend? There’s a
uniformed patrol there and a Detective Sergeant who’d like you to
go. Apparently there’s more to it.’

Henry hesitated. For evidential reasons he felt he should stay
for the post mortem, but it wasn’t strictly necessary. ‘OK, I’ll
go,’ he said and ended the call.

Baines and Jan were standing on either side of the corpse,
whispering to each other about the plan of action for the PM. They
looked at Henry as he finished the call.

‘
I’ll have to leave you with this for the moment,’ he
apologised. ‘Got to have a quick look at another job, then I’ll be
back.’

‘
Anything interesting?’ asked Baines.

‘
Someone’s shot a gorilla up at the zoo.’

‘
Really? Never done a PM on a gorilla.’

‘
Sorry to disappoint, but I think it’s still alive - just
severely pissed off.’

Chapter Five

Once Conroy had gone, Rider sat and ate a late breakfast at
the bar. Croissants and tea.

For the first time in his life, Rider was content with his
lot. He liked the club and the ‘guest-houses’, as he preferred to
call them, rather than DSS doss-houses. His basement flat
underneath the first property he’d bought was an oasis of sheer
luxury in a desert of basic living. It was his permanent home, the
first he’d ever owned. He had the financial means to buy a
luxurious detached house, but he’d grown accustomed to the flat
which was perfectly large enough for him and his occasional guests.
He had never put roots down anywhere before and he was loath to
upstakes just for the hell of it. There was no need to.

He thought bleakly about his criminal past.

Back then his life had been a continual series of moves from
one house to the next; to some dive of an hotel room to some
flea-pit flat, then maybe a night in the back room of a pub. All in
the mean streets of Manchester or some depressing East-Lancashire
mill town.

Even when he’d started making real money from drugs, guns and
lending money, the lifestyle didn’t change, just the quality of
places he could afford. One thing he vividly remembered about it
all was the constant indigestion, probably brought about by stress,
though he didn’t realise it at the time.

He could never recall spending a full year in anyone place
because the whole nature of the existence made continuous movement
a necessity.

Standing still in those days meant you became an easy target,
maybe of the law, or some toe-rag with a score to settle - and
there was always plenty of them about.

He sipped his tea. Christ, he thought with disgust, twenty
years of living like that.

In the end it got to him. Never knowing where he would be
sleeping, or with whom; but always sure that once he was settled in
and feeling comfortable, he’d have to get up and leave.

It was no good.

As a young man, fresh out of borstal it had been exciting. A
life of hands-on crime, living solely off wits, strength,
intimidation and violence. Building up a criminal empire which
stretched throughout the whole of East Lancashire and parts of
Manchester, based on gambling, prostitution, loan sharking, gun
dealing and the biggie - drugs.

In the end it wore him down, and his outlook on life slowly
changed. Gradually he found he wanted ‘normal’ things, such as
somewhere static to live, a woman, kids maybe. Time to sit and read
a book once in a while.

It hit him one day as he was edging his car through a
McDonald’s Drive-Thru after a morning collecting debts during which
he’d smashed the kneecap of one guy who’d missed a couple of
repayments. He found himself staring at a family of four and he
discovered he was jealous.

That was one of the reasons for pulling out.

There were plenty of others.

He’d become an alcoholic and such a big drug-abuser that he
made some of his clients look clean. The habits were costing him a
grand a week - big money - and whittling away mercilessly at his
profits.

He also found that he came to hate people being afraid of him
all the time. Always, at the back of their eyes, he could see
uncertainty and fear. He had traded on the ability to instil terror
when he was younger, but he found his reputation to be an
impediment as he got older and his values changed. Most people he
came into contact with were shit-scared of him and he didn’t like
having that effect.

The formation of the NWOCS also played a part in his
departure. The fact that the cops had set up such a squad sent out
its own message: Gangsters were not going to be tolerated. Rider
knew of Conroy’s cop connections, but was not naive enough to think
the protection Conroy enjoyed extended to him and Munrow. He knew
Conroy wanted things his own way, to be in control, but by that
time, with a drug and booze-sodden brain, Rider was past caring. As
far as he was concerned, Conroy could have it all.

The final and biggest reason was that he, Conroy and Munrow
were not operating as a team any more.

Conroy had big, strategic ideas.

Munrow was a thug with little or no finesse.

And he was a complete shambles who could only see as far as
the next fix.

They were in constant conflict with each other and Rider knew
that if he didn’t get out, sooner rather than later, he would have
killed both the bastards.

So he made the decision, pooled all his cash and
left.

Somewhat smugly, and from a safe distance, he found himself
proved right on one thing. Soon after he quit, the cops arrested
Munrow and several other bit players following an armed robbery.
Conroy remained free as a bird (and Rider had his own ideas as to
why) and flourished. Munrow, meanwhile, didn’t manage to wriggle at
all.

It could so easily have been Rider. He had been expected to
take part in the robbery.

Now he was as happy as he’d ever been. He enjoyed Blackpool,
running legitimate businesses, employing a few people and keeping
his nose clean. He hadn’t found a woman - not a regular one - but
he was prepared to tread water.

Fuck, he thought bitterly. I hope to hell-shit Munrow doesn’t
rope me into this nonsense.

Conroy had not been very precise when he’d talked about the
‘war’, but it sounded bad. Munrow was out of prison, wanted what he
believed to be rightfully his and Conroy was reluctant to give it
to him. Naturally. So things had started bubbling ... and Conroy
was worried.

‘
I’ve moved on in a lot of ways,’ he’d said to Rider. ‘Like
you,’ he added, making Rider wince. ‘I’m a corporate player now. I
run a tight business - none of that hands-on shite like we used to.
Too fucking dangerous by half. Keep everything at arms’ length now,
just rake in the profits. Not like Munrow. He’s still in a time
warp. I’ve expanded into new fields, built up new contacts and I’m
on a very big deal. Munrow’s on the verge of ruining
it.’

He refused to divulge anything more to Rider, including the
reason for his interest in the club.

He’d left shortly afterwards, leaving Rider brooding over
breakfast.

A thought struck him. ‘The bastard,’ he said out loud. ‘He
didn’t even thank me for saving his life!’

Smeared blood covered the inside of the strengthened glass,
making it difficult for Henry to see through to the sole occupant
of the enclosure.

‘
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing,’ a zoo official called
Draycott was telling him. ‘There were only four customers in the
zoo at the time ... it’s very quiet just now, and all they wanted
to do was shoot each other. A bloody shoot-out, right here, in
Blackpool Zoo. It was like a scene from a film or
something.’

He had already described what he’d witnessed to Henry and now
he was in the process of coming to terms with it. Henry let him
speak, asking occasional questions to clarify things.

‘
So one knocked the gun away from the other’s head and it went
off?’

‘
Yeah, that’s right. Moved really quick. Really impressive.
Next thing it was in his hand and he was in charge.’

‘
And what happened at the point when the gun first went
off’?’

‘
Boris here,’ he thumbed at the gorilla, ‘was sitting in his
tree watching these guys, and when the gun went off he just tumbled
out of the branches, right spectacular-like, and thudded to the
ground. Shot by mistake, obviously. I thought he was dead at
first.’

‘
And the-men?’

‘
Bit confused there.’ Draycott screwed up his nose. ‘The one
who originally had the gun jumped to one side and shouted
something, don’t know what, and the one who grabbed the gun - if
you see what I mean - shot his mate in the leg.’

‘
Very confusing,’ Henry agreed.

‘
Oh yeah, very. Anyway, I shouted to them and they scarpered,
basically, flashing guns at us.’

‘
All together?’

‘
Separate. First two legged it pretty quick; second two were a
bit slower because one’d been shot. The girl in the entrance booth
saw their cars and wrote the numbers down.’

‘
That should be helpful,’ Henry said. He knew the girl was
presently giving a statement. ‘And the poor gorilla?’

‘
Yeah,’ said Draycott. ‘He’s my main concern now. He dragged
himself in here, sat down in one corner and bled like a stuck pig.
His keeper went in but got attacked. Then he did this with the
blood, wiping it all over the glass as you can see.’

‘
So it looks like he got shot in the shoulder?’

‘
Definitely. Looks a bad wound.’

Henry bent low to where there was an area of glass free from
blood. He peered through.

The gorilla was sitting in one corner of the enclosure,
nursing his left shoulder with his right hand, rocking backwards
and forwards, chuntering to himself He was a magnificent animal.
Heavy and thickset with a short, broad torso. His head was large
and wide, forehead massive and low, overhanging his eyes which were
close together, small, deepset and black. His arms looked very
muscular. Henry had to admire anyone who had the courage to step in
with him, even when he was uninjured and in a playful mood. He
suspected the keeper had been lucky to escape with his life
today.

The gorilla’s coat was matted with blood in a swathe which ran
from his left shoulder, right the way across his chest to his
stomach. He had lost a good deal of blood.

The wound was still bleeding profusely. Henry could see a
sliver of jagged white bone sticking out between the gorilla’s
fingers. It was an injury which needed treatment
quickly.

Suddenly the gorilla stopped rocking and became still and
silent. His eyes flickered up and saw Henry looking through the
glass. For a second their eyes locked in a kind of primeval gaze.
Then the gorilla’s lips drew back into a fearsome snarl, revealing
a powerful set of teeth which were capable of ripping a man to
shreds. A deep bark of annoyance, followed by an angry roar, boomed
from the gorilla’s throat, making Henry’s stomach somersault. The
animal then flung himself across the enclosure towards Henry,
battering the glass with his raging fists.

Henry drew back instinctively. He knew he was safe with that
thick glass between him and the beast, but he could have sworn the
glass bowed when the animal pounded almost 340 kgs of sheer muscle
against it.

The air rushed out of Henry’s lungs in a gasp. He was
speechless for a moment. Eventually and rather inadequately, he
said ‘Wow.’ He could feel his heart pounding, could taste the quick
rush of adrenal in which had gushed into his body. He closed his
mouth, pulled himself together and smiled shamefacedly at Draycott.
‘Some beast.’

The attack on the glass had been brief. Boris had now slunk
back to the comfort of his corner. He sat down and began to shiver
uncontrollably, shock setting in.

‘
Where the hell’s that vet?’ Draycott begged to
know.

The statement taken from the girl at the turnstile was not
really worth the paper it was written on. She had not noted any
numbers, and all the statement contained was a vague description of
two cars which the men had boarded, their colour and a very partial
registered number which she’d dredged from memory. Evidentially
pretty crap.

Henry handed it back to the PC who had taken it.

There was little else for him to do at the zoo. The only real
way forward would be if the wounded man turned up in a casualty
department, or dead somewhere.