Nightmare City (38 page)

Of course I fucking have, Rider wanted to scream. He tried not
to let his face mirror his thoughts. He shook his head.
‘No.’

‘
Well, this is a matter for the police now. Two people dead
and deliberate seats of fire. It’s a murder enquiry - as if they
haven’t got enough on this week.’

Chapter Sixteen

Friday. 6 a.m. They were all in position.

Henry, Siobhan and two members of the firearms team - Dave
Bevan and Jack Philpot - were ensconced very uncomfortably in the
back of a surveillance van parked on St George’s Quay, Lancaster.
The van was, purposely, a rather careworn Ford Transit, bearing the
logo of a fictional electrical company.

All four officers were perched on narrow wooden seats in the
rear of the van, squirming in an effort to keep the blood flowing
to their extremities in the cramped conditions. It seemed the seats
had been designed to make arses numb within minutes. They were
certainly not made for comfort and relaxation.

Their combined breath condensed on the inside of the van and
because it was so cold, froze in tiny globules on the metal
surface. Henry guessed it was only a matter of time before
stalactites formed. The heater had packed up and the extractor fan
wasn’t working. The joy and glamour of surveillance work, Henry
thought gloomily. He hoped that the target, Terry Anderson, would
do the honour of appearing soon.

Henry looked at the small chemical toilet and speculated as to
who would be the first person brave enough to use it.

The van was parked about one hundred metres away from a
converted warehouse in which Anderson was supposed to have a small
flat. Through the one-way windows which allowed them to look out
and no one else to peer in, they could see anyone entering or
leaving the flats.

Four other officers were covering the rear. They were hidden
behind a wall and Henry was extremely sorry for them. They must
have been really suffering in the cold. The outside temperature was
below freezing, but at least it wasn’t snowing or raining. Hardly a
comfort, though.

The remainder of the firearms team were parked in an unmarked
van, tucked away in a mill yard about a quarter of a mile away down
the quayside.

It was assumed with reasonable certitude that Anderson was not
at home. The surrounding streets had been scoured for any signs of
his Shogun.

Henry hoped that if he did turn up, he wouldn’t drive in by
the route which would take him past the mill yard. The firearms
vehicle, albeit unmarked, had a definite aura of ‘police’ about it.
Any self-respecting villain would clock it immediately.

There were two other routes to the flat. One from the main
road which ran through Lancaster, the other around the perimeter of
a nearby housing estate. Observers in unmarked cars were parked
unobtrusively on these routes, watching for Anderson’s
arrival.

Henry was under no illusions about their prey.

Anderson was a very violent, professional criminal. He was
very shrewd and ultra-suspicious. It wouldn’t surprise Henry if he
spent some time reconnoitring the area, checking for any signs of
police activity, before he thought it safe enough to stop. If
anything seemed out of place or spooked him, he would bolt and they
would never catch him. Henry hoped the man wanted to get home
desperately - for a shit, or something - anything which would make
him less switched on.

The fact that the surveillance van was parked in such an
exposed position, in eyeball contact with the front of the
warehouse, didn’t help matters. Because of the geography of the
location - right on the riverside - there was nowhere more subtle
to position it. Fortunately it looked a pretty genuine
electrician’s van and didn’t stand out like too much of a sore
thumb.

Henry glanced at his companions.

Dave and Jack, the two firearms officers, sat in thoughtful
silence with bored expressions on their faces. They were dressed in
dark blue overalls, body armour, ballistic caps and black lace-up
boots. Each had an HK MP5 across his chest and a pistol in a holder
around the waist.

‘
OK?’ Henry enquired.

They both nodded, said nothing. Strong silent
types.

Henry looked at the far more appealing Siobhan Robson, his
partner.

She was in tight jeans, a tracksuit top and a fleece-lined
zip-up jacket. Her hair had been pulled into a pony tail and tucked
under a dark green woollen cap. With her hair thus taken up, her
ears were going blue with cold. It didn’t stop them being nice
ears, though. She stuck the tip of her tongue out at Henry and
smiled with her eyes.

He responded with a quick grin, then raised his eyebrows and
looked out through the window, mulling over the plan of action if
Anderson turned up. It had been decided that he should be allowed
to park his car, get out and walk to the front entrance of the
warehouse. There he had to key a number into a pad to gain entry to
the building. The teams should hit him just as he was doing this,
grab him, flatten him, cuff him, search him, arrest him.

At least that was the plan. Everyone seemed to understand it
and that in itself was a bonus.

He shivered and clamped his teeth together to stop them making
a clattering noise like badly adjusted tappets.

Of course there was a good chance Anderson would never turn
up. Ever.

It was five past six.

At which time John Rider was climbing into bed, having spent
the night at the scene of the fire. He had made a comprehensive
statement to the police, being as honest with them as he thought
necessary. Yes, he had recently fallen out big-style with someone,
but he wasn’t about to tell them that. What had happened was beyond
the ability of the law to deal with. It was for him to sort out
now, once and for all. To put an end to this madness with perhaps
one more act of madness.

Munrow would have to die.

There was no other option now, he believed.

Isa had been with him throughout the night, watching him
closely, trying to judge his mood, guess his intentions. But Rider
was good. He showed nothing, kept a straight face, kept his anger
controlled. Turned inside himself.

They had returned to the basement flat a little before six,
both gritty and grubby from the smoke. They shared a shower in
which they soaped each other down and washed each other’s hair.
Shortly after six they climbed into bed and Rider made ferocious
love to Isa in a way which brought her to a wonderful multi-orgasm,
but which also left her feeling slightly afraid.

Afterwards, before they fell asleep, Isa asked him the big
question.

‘
Are you going to kill him?’

A terrible, faraway look came into Rider’s eyes which made
Isa’s skin crawl.

He nodded, rolled over and within minutes was
asleep.

Isa buried her face in the pillow, unable to stop the
tears.

Four hours later, Henry and his team in the van were beginning
to warm up a little. A weak-willed winter sun poked its reluctant
nose from behind the grey clouds and was making a little difference
to the temperature inside the van. It had risen to freezing point,
but it was better than nothing. Several cups of shared coffee from
flasks were also having a positive effect on internal body
temperatures. Unfortunately the liquid was having an adverse effect
on the bladders of two of them, Henry being one. He was feeling an
increasingly urgent need to pay a visit to a toilet, but not the
chemical one fitted in the van, watched by the others.

It was becoming a predicament, one which would have to be
addressed sooner rather than later.

Henry crossed his legs and gave Siobhan a lopsided grin which
seemed to convey his inner torment.

To be honest, Karl Donaldson did not really expect to hear
from George Santana again. So when he answered the phone he was
amazed to hear the crackle of static that meant long distance, and
the faint sound of Santana’s voice at the far end.

‘
I have some news for you, Agent Donaldson,’ Santana revealed
after the opening exchange of pleasantries.

Donaldson waited to be told.

‘
We have been keeping your man under observation and there is
nothing to report on that front,’ the Madeiran detective said.
‘However, we have learned that he has booked a seat on a
charter-plane flight to the United Kingdom.’

‘
When and where does it land?’ He expected to be told
Heathrow, next Monday... something like that.

‘
Around four o’clock this afternoon. Manchester.’

Donaldson closed his eyes despairingly. He scribbled down the
flight details as Santana said them, thanked him and hung
up.

Fucking Manchester in six hours!

Not impossible - but pretty godammed difficult to arrange for
someone to greet him and drop onto his tail.

He fleetingly considered ringing Henry Christie and telling
him to haul ass to the airport - like they’d done once on a
previous job. Then he remembered Henry was now on local CID in
Blackpool and didn’t have the roving commission that he’d had when
on the Regional Crime Squad. He couldn’t come and go as he pleased
any more.

It left Donaldson with a dilemma. Should he go to Manchester
himself and risk being spotted by Hamilton, or should he arrange
for the cops in Manchester to put a surveillance team on
him?

Six hours. Short notice to get someone to drop everything and
follow a man whom they did not know, who was not really suspected
of doing anything. It was pretty unlikely they would wear
that.

So, by a process of deduction, there was only one
solution.

He reached for the phone.

Twenty minutes later, Henry was almost weeping with the agony
of trying to hold it all in. He had to pass water instantaneously,
otherwise he’d burst in a spectacular fashion.

‘
I need to pee,’ he declared, ‘and I’m not using that!’ He
pointed accusingly to the chemical toilet.

‘
I could do with one too,’ said Philpot, the firearms
officer.

‘
Right,’ said Henry. He looked out of the window. There was
nothing moving on the Quay, vehicles, people, anything. He did a
quick radio check using a prearranged code to find out if anyone
had spotted the approach of Anderson and all came back negative. It
seemed as good a time as any to break cover and dash across the
road into the gap between two buildings and indulge in some
blissful relief.

‘
We run across to that alley, go down to the far end of it and
do it there. Then we wait for the all clear’ - he nodded towards
Siobhan - ‘three clicks on the radio, and we’ll pile back into the
van.’

‘
Gotcha,’ said Philpot, who for the last ten minutes had been
fidgeting like he had a ferret down his trousers.

Henry opened the back door an inch. A blast of ice-cold air
rushed in. He had another look to ensure it really was safe to go,
dropped out of the van, sprinted across the road and disappeared
down the alley, Philpot in hot pursuit.

They began to do what came naturally, their faces a picture of
almost perfect pleasure.

Siobhan’s voice came over the radio, the words in rapid fire.
‘He’s here. Target One’s here. He’s pulled up at the front of the
warehouse!’ There was a degree of panic in her speech.

‘
Fuck!’ uttered Henry. He had to finish peeing because he
didn’t think he had a strong enough bladder to halt the process.
Neither did Philpot. Both were in full flow, unstoppable. ‘How the
hell did he get here without us knowing first? C’mon, c’mon.’ Henry
urged himself. Down his radio he said, ‘You’d better get the ball
rolling, Siobhan. We’ll be right behind you.’

If we can stop pissing.

Terry Anderson pulled up outside the converted warehouse in
which he rented a one-bedroomed flat where he occasionally dossed
down. He was driving his Shogun which bore Southern Irish number
plates. He applied the handbrake and switched off the engine only
seconds after Henry and his urinating colleague had disappeared
down the alley. Had Anderson been less than a minute earlier he
would have seen them climbing out of the van. As it was, the
quayside looked safe and sound. A few parked cars. A van. No
pedestrians. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He had been scanning police airwaves and again, nothing was
going on which indicated a surveillance operation was underway. He
caught a few officers transmitting radio checks, but it meant
nothing to him.

He felt pretty secure.

The scanner was lodged on the dash of the Shogun. He leaned
forwards and switched it off at the exact moment Siobhan made her
hurried transmission to Henry.

Anderson did not hear it.

He did not sit for long in the car. He had parked in the
residents’ bay on the opposite side of the road to the warehouse.
He got out, locking the vehicle with the remote, and trotted
towards the front entrance of the warehouse.