Nightmare City (27 page)

The lift rose to a creaky halt. They got out and walked into
the CID office which was abuzz with activity, subdued chatter and
some tears. Luton would be sorely missed. His enthusiasm had been
infectious.

They walked to Henry’s desk. He perched on the corner of it
whilst he continued his conversation with FB.

‘
If we could make some connection it would be great, because
then it would give us something to chip away at. But at the moment,
they are three completely separate jobs. The DS in the newsagents,
whatever the reason for him being there - and I’m sure it’ll come
out in the wash – was in the wrong place at the wrong time; Nina
got shot because she was being a good cop and shit like that
happens occasionally, comes with the territory. . . but as for
Derek, I am completely stumped, boss. Maybe it was a burglary gone
wrong, or one of his previous prisoners bearing a grudge against
him. Maybe mistaken identity. Dunno. We’ll have to look at all
angles.’

He shook his head sadly. A wall of tears was building up
inside behind his eyes when he thought of the wretched figure of
Degsy Luton sprawled out in his hallway, head blown apart, brains,
blood and bones on the carpet and up the wallpaper, all the way
down into the kitchen. Grotesque and so very, very
wrong.

‘
Basically no leads,’ said FB.

‘
No.’ Henry’s mouth twisted bitterly. ‘And as for Boris, I
haven’t even started on that one. That’s gone well-cold. Fuck!’ he
said angrily. ‘Anyway, perhaps when Annie comes down from her
trauma she might be able to help - with Degsy, that is, not
Boris.’

‘
Right,’ said FB. He drummed his fingers on his thighs. He
tapped his feet, bit his bottom lip and made a clicking sound in
the back of his throat. FB’s decision-making process was in action.
‘Couple of things. Firstly, how far are you with
Dundaven?’

‘
He should have been in Magistrates by now and remanded in
custody. Nothing came of the raids, really. I personally think
there’s a long way to go with it yet - but as far as Dundaven
himself is concerned, it’s boxed off. He won’t see daylight except
through bars for a long time now.’

‘
Do you want to continue with it? Will it be worth
it?’

Henry nodded. Actually he didn’t have a clue if anything more
would come of it, but he wasn’t about to admit that to FB. ‘I’d
like to keep four detectives on it for a month and then reappraise
it.’

FB considered this. Then, ‘You can use two.’

Thanks a bunch,
Henry wanted to say.
‘And Derek?’

‘
Full team from this afternoon, unlimited overtime - within
reason for up to two months. Authorised by the Chief.’

Wow!
Henry almost choked, so
impressed was he. Then he remembered the implications so far as he
was concerned. Because Inspectors did not receive overtime
payments, he would earn nothing extra financially, but experience
all the other drawbacks. Long hours. No sleep. So what else was
new?

However, he held back the urge to grovel in front of FB and
plead to be dropped down a rank. He had to look on the positive
side of things. It was all good promotion-board material. Juggling
three plates at once, having the responsibility to keep them
spinning. He hoped he had the ability to stop them from crashing
around his ears. ‘Oh, jolly good,’ he said.

FB lowered his voice and moved slightly closer to Henry.
‘There is something else we need to discuss, and that’s the other
murder - the prostitute on the beach.’

‘
Oh?’ said Henry guardedly. He had been expecting some
repercussions, but even so he could not resist making one of those
remarks which so often put him firmly in the bad books of his
bosses. Mischievously he threw FB’s quote back in his face. ‘You
mean the one who deserved what she got?’

The look on FB’s face told Henry he’d hit a bum note. FB’s
eyes narrowed and he said, equally mischievously, ‘Just remember
one thing, Henry, if you go for promotion this year, I’ll be on the
other side of the desk, so don’t be so fucking cheeky.’

‘
Fair enough.’ Henry knew what side his bread was buttered on.
‘So, what about her?’

‘
Two things. Firstly, because of Derek’s murder I’m going to
scale her enquiry down.’

There’s nothing to scale down, Henry thought. He made no reply
but his body language told FB exactly what he thought of that
one.

‘
Henry, you and I both know we haven’t got a million
detectives to play with. It’s a question of priorities and she’s
way down on the list.’

She’ll be glad to hear that, Henry thought, but kept his mouth
closed again. He stopped his foot tapping which betrayed his
annoyance.

‘
Secondly, we’ve had a very irate ex-MP on the blower to
Headquarters, shouting and bawling, demanding to speak to the
Chief. . . no, she didn’t. . . threatening to sue the living shit
out of us. He actually got to speak to the ACC, Brian Warner, and
told him you’d been harassing him, making false claims, suggesting
he was the one who murdered the girl.’

‘
Never actually got to that stage.’

‘
Even so, that ex-Mp, and you know who I mean, is one very
powerful and influential person with friends in very high places.
He needs careful handling.’

Henry cut in angrily. ‘I won’t compromise the search for a
killer just so I don’t upset some rich bastard who chums around
with the great and the good.’ He folded his arms
haughtily.

‘
Henry,’ said FB patiently, ‘I’m not saying you should. Just
watch him, that’s all. Do everything by the book. Record
everything. Justify everything. Watch your back, in other words -
that is, if you’re going to have any further dealings with
him.’

‘
I will have,’ said Henry. He had made that decision because
of what FB had just told him. It particularly annoyed him when
people like McNamara started throwing their weight around after
being justifiably and reasonably dealt with by the police. ‘In
fact, I’m going to arrest him on suspicion of murder now because
he’s really got my “mad” up.’

FB groaned inwardly. ‘C’mon, let’s grab a brew.’

Henry stood up, brushed his rumpled clothing down. He needed a
shower and a change. His underpants were notably
uncomfortable.

Without bothering to check his desk he followed FB towards the
lift. A typist walking the other way then dumped a bundle of newly
typed reports and files onto his blotter; on top of that the Admin
Officer placed the remainder of the day’s other
correspondence.

The meeting concluded at 1.15 p.m., no Minutes having been
taken, but certain agreements having been made. All three men were
ready for their treats which were waiting in the reception foyer of
the club. A fifteen year-old boy - thin, wan and pathetic-looking -
for Conroy; women for the other two. High-class hookers who were
going to cost a lot of money.

Shadowed by the gunmen, the three wandered into Reception,
their conversation much lighter and more relaxed than it had been.
They talked about football and cars.

A man approached them.

Conroy’s guards stepped in between. Their hands slipped inside
their jackets, a simple gesture which carried a menacing message.
They didn’t seem to realise that had the man been a professional,
they would all have been well dead by then.

But he wasn’t.

His name was Saltash and he was a pimp. He preferred to be
referred to as a ‘procurer’. His business card stated
I Procure the Needs of People
on one side and
Procurer to the
Professionals
on the other.

‘
It’s OK,’ Conroy said quickly, calming his jumpy bodyguards.
His men became easy and drew aside. ‘What’ve you got for us today,
Saltash, you slime-ball?’

Like an over-attentive, smarmy waiter, Saltash bowed
courteously and led them to his ‘products’ - another misnomer he
liked to use.

‘
For you,’ he said to Conroy. He indicated the young lad with
the flourish of a magician. ‘This is Gary. . . Gary, stand up.’
Gary stood. He had a very spotty complexion and wore a sneer of
contempt for Conroy. ‘Meet Mr Conroy.’

Conroy smiled. He liked them to have a bit of spunk about them
(his little joke).

Saltash continued, ‘For you, Mr Morton, I’ve brought along
Angela again - I know you like her and she adores you. Angela!’
Saltash motioned with his thumb.

Angela rose. Tall, leggy, dark, mysterious. Aged somewhere
between twenty-four and thirty-six. She was virtually lovely, but
slightly raggy around the edges. She had a deep, grainy voice with
a southern accent which made Morton’s hair tingle. And she spoke
dirty, especially when drawing breath during oral sex. Morton
adored her. She thought he was a fool.

She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘Baby ... we
need to fuck,’ she whispered.

‘
And for you, Mr McNamara . . . Gillian.’ Gillian was already
on her feet. She was as tall as Angela but had much more of
everything and she was black. She shook hands with McNamara whose
face had already hardened into a cruel mask of lust.

Saltash’s experienced eyes saw that all was OK.

‘
Usual prices?’ Conroy asked. This was always his
treat.

The procurer nodded.

‘
Usual services?’

Another nod of consent.

Conroy handed him an envelope. It was always a cash
transaction. He looked at Gary who stood there looking bolshie.
‘Get up those fucking stairs,’ he hissed.

The defiant front wilted to one of passivity and acquiescence.
Like a frightened dog, the boy did as he was told.

The other two men led their ladies upstairs.

As ever, three rooms had been put aside for their
pleasure.

Saltash went into the restaurant and ordered a three-course
meal with wine.

He thought he had a wonderful job.

The Duty Inspector hated what he was doing, taking a statement
of complaint from a youth he knew to be a troublemaker, drug user
and thief, with a string of convictions as long as a wet day in
Fleetwood. It as a good test of the Inspector’s interpersonal
skills that he didn’t get up, go round the table and complete the
job Henry Christie had started a few days before, and rip Shane’s
one remaining testicle from its moorings.

‘
I shall pass these details onto the relevant people,’ he
explained to Shane at the conclusion. ‘I shall tell our Scenes of
Crime Department to come and visit you later today to get a
photograph of your ... um ... operation scar and you will hear very
shortly from the Discipline and Complaints Department, I
expect.’

The Inspector then bit his lip as he handed Shane a leaflet
about how to complain against the police and how complaints are
subsequently investigated. He showed him out of the police station
- together with his legal adviser - as though he was a valued
customer who would receive the most favourable attention.
Please do call again.

What riled the Inspector was that was exactly how the D &
C Department would perceive Shane: a client.

It made him sick to his stomach.

But, that said, Henry had obviously gone too far.

All the enthusiasm had drained out of Henry when, twenty
minutes after having been told - informally - of Shane’s complaint
against him, he sat down heavily at his desk. On top of everything
else he was dealing with, the news had rocked him like a body
blow.

He felt deflated and threatened.

The horrible spectre of a Crown Court appearance loomed ahead,
with all its attendant publicity. As he sat there, head in hands,
he decided that if he did end up facing a judge and jury, there
were only two words he would say: ‘Not Guilty.’

All he wanted to do was sit and cry, he was so depressed. The
workload, long hours and lack of sleep over the last few days had
taken their toll; today’s additional weights - the violent death of
Derek Luton, news that McNamara was making noises in high places,
and the complaint from Mulcahy - were not far off being the last
straw. The one that broke the detective’s back.

‘
Right,’ he said to himself. ‘Let’s get this into
perspective.’

Firstly, a court appearance was the worst thing that could
possibly happen. Most complaints filed against the police fizzled
out and came to nothing. This one could be the same. Henry believed
he had used ‘reasonable force’ in order to subdue Shane who had,
after all, attacked him with a knife. It was more than likely that
when the file of evidence was submitted it would come back
with
No Further Action Recommended.
It was his word against Shane’s. The only thing
going against Henry was his stupidity in not filling in the custody
record.

Secondly, McNamara did not intimidate him. In fact, Henry
relished the prospect of taking on people in high
places.

Thirdly, Degsy’s killer had to be found and a Detective
Inspector with his mind on other matters would not achieve
this.