Nightmare City (9 page)

She clocked the two men as detectives straight
away.

‘
What do you want?’ she asked cautiously, appraising
them.

‘
We’re investigating a death,’ Henry told her, having to raise
his voice to compete with the baby-TV combination. ‘Could we have a
word, please? Inside.’ He showed his warrant card.

‘
I don’t know nothin’ an’ I haven’t done nothin’,’ she said
nervously, juggling the baby up and down. The child picked up her
tension and the volume from its lungs increased by several
decibels.

‘
We’re just after some information, that’s all,’ Henry
informed her. ‘We won’t keep you long - honest.’ He
smiled.

She tutted, put the door to, unhooked the chain and let the
two detectives come into her living accommodation. It consisted of
three tiny rooms: a bed/living room with a mattress covered with
grimy sheets in one corner, a couple of big, second-hand armchairs
and a good quality TV set on top of a small cupboard; a minuscule
bathroom, and a kitchen with a three-ringed cooker, sink and no
fridge. In overall area, the flat was no bigger than a small towing
caravan but was much less luxurious.

A large amount of baby clothing littered the place; in one
corner of the room was a high pile of unused disposable nappies.
The room smelled of sick and pooh with just a hint of
cannabis.

What a fucking life, Henry thought. She must be all of
seventeen. ‘And you are?’ he asked.

‘
Jodie Flew.’

‘
You alone here?’

‘
At the moment, yes,’ she answered tartly. ‘What d’you want?’
She brushed back a strand of greasy hair from her face. The baby’s
volume decreased. Seymour crossed to the TV and switched it
off.

Henry told her, gave a description of the dead girl and asked
Jodie if it were possible she knew her, or if she lived in one of
the flats.

‘
Well, maybe. Dead, eh?’ Jodie was not too concerned by the
news. ‘A new tenant moved into one of the flats upstairs, day
before yesterday, don’t know which one, but I only seen her a
coupla times in passing. Could’ve been her, from the description.
Hard to say. You spoken to the landlord?’

Henry shook his head.

‘
He lives downstairs.’ She pointed to the floor. ‘If he isn’t
in, he’ll be at his club, that one on Withnell Road.’

Henry thanked her and made to leave.

‘
Any idea where that bastard of a boyfriend of mine is?’ she
asked as they stepped out.

‘
Should we?’

‘
Well, he’s always in trouble for something or other. He went
to the match yesterday and he hasn’t come back yet. I know he gets
pissed up an’ all, but unless he got himself nicked, it’s a long
time to be away, even for him.’

‘
What’s he called?’

‘
Shane Mulcahy.’

Henry blanched at the mention of the name. He knew Shane
hadn’t given this as his address, otherwise he wouldn’t have
knocked on the door in the first place. ‘Does he live
here?’

‘
Most of the time. Sometimes crashes out at his
mum’s.’

‘
Did he give you that?’ Henry nodded at her.

‘
What? The kid or the black eye?’

‘
Whichever.’

‘
Both.’

Henry regained his composure and said, ‘No, don’t know. Why
don’t you give the nick a ring and ask the Custody
Sergeant?’

‘
What with? I don’t have a phone and I don’t have any spare
money until the Giro comes. That bastard took it all with him
yesterday. I’ll ring his soddin’ neck when he comes
back.’

She slammed the door behind them. Henry heard the chain slot
back, then the TV get turned up.

Seymour said, ‘Isn’t that the one you kneed in the
knackers?’

‘
You make it sound like an unprovoked assault, Dave. It was
self defence.’

They went outside and trotted down the steps to the basement
flat.

Henry rapped on the door.

‘
There’s one thing about it,’ Seymour said dryly. ‘There’s a
one hundred per cent chance of him giving her a black eye again,
but only a fifty per cent chance of him fathering another little
Shane Mulcahy.’

The front entrance to the club was a pair of large wooden
doors, gloss painted a deep shiny maroon.

Henry looked at Seymour with a surprised expression when the
doors had been virtually closed in their faces by Jacko with a
curt, ‘You’ll have to wait here while I get the boss.’

‘
Interesting reaction,’ said Seymour. He leaned on the
doorbell as though pushing it hard would make it ring out in a more
official tone.

‘
Something to hide?’ mused Henry.

They both waited for the ‘boss’ to arrive.

En route to the club, Henry had asked comms, via his PR, to
see what could quickly be unearthed about a John Rider on the PNC
and Indepol, Lancashire’s own crime intelligence
computer.

There was no response for a few minutes. He and Seymour had by
then arrived at the club and were obliged to park outside whilst
waiting for the reply. Parked up in front of them was Rider’s
Jaguar.

Checking up on people was pretty standard for Henry, no matter
who he was dealing with. If they had ever been of interest to the
police, he wanted to know.

After a tedious five minutes, the radio operator got back to
him. ‘From the PNC - two previous, both over ten years old. Want
details?’

‘
Affirmative.’

‘
Nineteen seventy-nine, armed robbery in Blackburn. Two years.
Hijacked a security van. Nineteen eighty-two, again in Blackburn,
living off immoral earnings. Two thousand pound fine, eighteen
months suspended. Received?’

‘
Yep.’

‘
Not a lot on Indepol. There’s an old “target” file for him in
existence somewhere, probably Manchester. There’s an RCS and NWOCS
reference. That’s it . . . and PNC is flashing a warning signal.
Apparently, if it’s the same guy, he uses firearms and is
violent.’

‘
Thanks,’ Henry acknowledged, as usual not using radio
terminology such as ‘Roger and out,’ because it made him feel
slightly foolish. ‘Pimp and blagger,’ said Seymour.

‘
Firearms and violent,’ added Henry. ‘All very well to
know.’

The door opened.

‘
Mr Rider?’ Henry asked.

A nod.

‘
Your employee is very rude.’

‘
Not half as rude as I can be. What can I do for
you?’

‘
Can we come in?’

‘
Do you have a warrant?’

Henry looked pityingly at Rider. ‘We have a statutory right to
enter licensed premises at any time.’ Or so he thought. He wasn’t
completely certain, but he sounded it. ‘We need to ask some
questions about one of your tenants who was found dead on the beach
earlier today.’ He wasn’t completely sure about that,
either.

Rider sighed. ‘Come in then.’

Conroy’s whole afternoon had backfired very badly indeed. He
slouched angrily down in the back seat of his Mercedes which sped
smoothly eastwards along the M55. What an almighty fucking
cock-up!

Firstly there was the matter of John ‘holier-than-thou’ Rider,
who like some sort of demented religious convert had forsaken all
things criminal. Conroy had expected a soft touch - a serious
misjudgement.

He’d been a hundred per cent certain he would be able to walk
all over Rider and make a very one-sided deal which would give him
access to the club. It had been apparent though from the first
moments of their encounter that Rider wasn’t the slobbering
drugged-up drunk he’d been expecting to meet. He was very much the
Rider of old who was not to be messed with.

It didn’t alter the plan, though.

Conroy still wanted into the club - and very soon.

All it meant was that the next approach to Rider would be more
formal and if necessary backed up with force. How much force was a
matter for Rider, but there would be no room for negotiation.
Conroy would get what he wanted.

Then there was the other matter ... Munrow.

Conroy shifted uneasily. He could still feel the muzzle of the
gun pressed into the back of his head. His ear throbbed like hell.
That was the last thing he needed at the moment - a fucking
gaolbird starting a war just because he felt he’d had his nose put
out of joint. It’d be more than his nose when Conroy finished with
him. It’d be his brain.

‘
You callin’ Dunny, boss?’ Conroy’s driver asked over his
shoulder, interrupting the thought process.

‘
Shit - yes.’ Conroy sprang forwards. ‘Gimme the
phone.’

The driver handed the mobile over to him. Conroy punched a
number in.

‘
It’s off,’ he said. ‘Yeah, you heard right. Bring the stuff
back.’

The next ten minutes were very uncomfortable for all parties.
Not because of the nature of the enquiry, simply because Rider
hated to be in the presence of police officers, particularly
detectives, and resented answering questions, incriminating or
otherwise, merely on a point of principle. And he particularly
resented Henry Christie, whom he disliked on sight.

To Rider, Christie had an aura about him that the rather
plodding Seymour didn’t possess. It was nothing to do with the way
he dressed because for a detective, Christie dressed quite
conservatively. Nor was it the way he spoke, as Christie’s voice
was quite monotone.

It was that he oozed inner savvy. It was the look in his eyes,
the way they constantly took measure, occasionally narrowing to a
slit as they ran over Rider. The way he listened to answers, but at
the same time his mind seemed to be considering something of
greater importance. It was the way he assessed Rider, chewed over
what information there was to be had, what information was hidden,
and weighed him up. Probably coming to the right
conclusion.

Basically, he unnerved Rider.

From the other side, Henry did not like Rider either. There
was an immediate animosity between them. Not that Henry cared.
There was friction between himself and a lot of crims. It was a
good thing, he thought. Kept them on their toes.

But this man Rider. . .

As he answered the questions, Henry tried to analyse him.
Something about the guy made Henry do a double-take. What the hell
was it? Henry could feel there was something more to this man, who
on the face of it came across as a middle-aged, overweight, seedy
club and doss-house owner.

Henry took a few minutes to discover what it was.

Then he knew.

He’d only ever met a few other such people in his life and he
shifted slightly on the bar stool, his arse literally
twitching.

Rider was no common criminal. This man was, or had been, big
time. Top notch. There weren’t too many about. Some liked to think
they were, but mostly they were nothing. This man tried to cover it
in bluster and bad temper, but just below the surface Henry could
see exactly what he was.

And it was in the eyes, too. They always gave the game away.
There was that violence lurking there which said, ‘I could kill
you, cop, and not give a toss.’

But it was rusty. Henry could see that, too. This man had been
out of the game for a while, but it was still in his blood. He
could be very dangerous again.

Yes, thought Henry, Rider was something special. His mouth
went dry at the thought.

Now he wanted to know everything about this man, the sooner
the better. He cursed his lack of professionalism for not knowing
already.

Rider responded begrudgingly to the detectives’
questions.

Yes, the dead girl’s description sounded like one of his new
tenants.

Couldn’t remember her name at the moment; it would be on the
rent book. From Blackburn, he thought. No, didn’t know very much
about her. No, that wasn’t unusual. He was a landlord, not a
fucking snoop. So long as the rent came, he didn’t give a toss.
Yes, top flat, number twelve. Came in two days ago. Yes, they could
go in and have a look round the flat. Probably wouldn’t be locked.
She didn’t bring much stuff with her. She was alone. Was that all?
Bye bye.

Henry thanked him. As he did he recalled the statement taken
from the girl at the zoo. It mentioned a big red car taking off
after the shooting. There was a big red Jaguar parked outside the
club.

Henry could picture Rider involved in something like
that.

‘
Oh, by the way,’ he said, sliding off his bar stool onto his
feet. ‘Have you visited the zoo today?’

‘
No.’ Too quick, very tense all of a sudden.

‘
Let’s hope you haven’t,’ said Henry, ‘because if you have and
I find out I’ll be back here faster than shit off a shovel.’ He
spoke very matter-of factly and in a way that Rider found
intimidating.

‘
Don’t know what the hell you’re on about.’