Nightmare City (43 page)

Siobhan rapped her knuckles on the window.

‘
Not this one,’ she said in a tone which made him feel stupid.
‘It’s a stolen car, been seized for evidence.’

‘
Oh, right,’ he said. How was he supposed to know? Where was
the property label that should be prominently displayed on
it?

‘
Use that one,’ she said, pointing to the next one along, a
Vauxhall Vectra.

He got out, sidled past the stolen one, wondering how he could
ever have mistaken an Alfa Romeo for a police car.

Minutes later he was on the road, heading west out of
Blackburn. Away from Siobhan and a big mistake that might have
been.

‘
Right about now he should be getting his end away, if it’s
all going to plan,’ Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton
declared after checking his watch. ‘And,’ he added with aplomb, ‘I
have no doubt it
is
going to plan.’

‘
I’ll believe it when I know it for sure,’ said McNamara.
‘He’s not stupid,’ he went on, referring to Henry Christie. ‘He
might just suss what’s going on.’

‘
Naah.’ Morton shook his head. ‘My woman detective is very
good. She’ll fuck his brains out before he knows what’s hit him.
She’s done it before.’

‘
At least he’s getting sorted,’ Conroy said. ‘Make sure you do
a proper job, that’s all, Tony.’

‘
Worry not. By tomorrow night he won’t know his arse from his
tit.’

‘
Hm,’ McNamara muttered through closed lips. ‘What’s happening
with Marie Cullen’s murder, that’s what I want to know.’

‘
It’s going nowhere, rest assured. Particularly now that
Saltash is out of the picture, as it were.’

‘
Very funny,’ said the MP, not appreciating the play on words
relating to the pimp’s demise underneath a portable TV set. ‘What
about that Gillian, the one who did it? Where is she? She’s the one
I had at our last meeting, if you recall.’

‘
Is she?’ Morton hadn’t realised that. ‘Does that cause you a
problem? The cops wanted to talk to Saltash and he was a link to
Cullen. Now he’s gone, what’s the fuss?’

The look on McNamara’s face made Morton ask, ‘What’s the
fuss?’ again, this time firmly.

McNamara opened his mouth to say something. He quickly clamped
it shut.

‘
Spit it out, Harry,’ Morton commanded.

‘
Shit ... if the police catch her and interview her, she might
tell them about me.’

‘
Why should she? Her killing Saltash, and her clients are two
different things.’

‘
I said something stupid, I think, when I was with her.
Something incriminating. She might use it.’

‘
What did you say?’

Conroy, listening, closed his eyes despairingly.

McNamara shrugged as though it were nothing. ‘I made reference
to Marie.’

A long, pissed-off sigh exhaled from Morton’s
lungs.

Conroy exploded. ‘Are you a complete fucking nutcase? You must
be short of something up here.’ He tapped his head. ‘What the hell
happens to you when you get an erection? Does all the blood come
out of your brain, or something, because it’s fucking obvious it
goes into neutral.’

Morton rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘You are really going to have
to get yourself sorted out. You’re becoming a weak
link.’

‘
What can we do about her?’ McNamara insisted on
knowing.

‘
Ronnie?’ Morton turned to Conroy, eyebrows raised.

‘
I’ll sort her out,’ he said angrily, through gritted teeth.
‘I’ll get some Salford low-life to blow her away - if we can find
her, that is.’

‘
Good,’ said Morton. ‘Now, some better news for you both.
Munrow’s been killed.’

The change in Conroy was visible. One moment he was
hard-faced, the next bright and happy on hearing of the death.
‘Hoo-fucking-ray,’ he cheered. ‘Rider?’

‘
We can only presume so,’ Morton said. ‘Unidentified male blew
his head off in a Debenhams changing room. Could be Rider from the
description.’

‘
Looks like my little ruse worked.
Yes!’
He punched the air. ‘What the
hell was he doing in Debenhams?’

‘
Buying clothes presumably,’ Morton answered.

‘
And what about Rider?’ Conroy asked. ‘He could do with
stitching up for that. Any chance? If he was out of the game, we
could have his club.’

Morton gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘I’ll see what I can
do.’

In his mind he was already formulating a course of action
which involved the newest detective on his unit.

The sharp knock on the door made them jump.

Conroy opened it.

Scott Hamilton walked in.

Henry parked the NWOCS car at Blackpool and dropped into the
station to see if there had been any developments in the
investigations he had so happily left behind for a quick move onto
a new squad. A move which had already got him shot and into a
compromising position. All in one day. Not bad going by any
standards.

Nothing seemed to be moving on anything.

Particularly in respect of Marie Cullen; the case seemed to
have come to a standstill with the death of the man supposed to be
her pimp.

Working on the assumption that his short secondment to the.
NWOCS was virtually over, Henry decided that he’d do a few things
with it next week. Maybe if there was a push, it might lead them
properly to McNamara, millionaire bastard - and friend of Tony
Morton . . .

Henry frowned.

He recalled the photos on Morton’s wall. Him and McNamara
looked pretty close buddies. One of those horrible queasy churnings
moved through him like a bad case of wind.

Surely not..? He banished the thought.

A note had been scribbled out and left on his desk asking him
to call round and see Annie, Derek’s widow. She had something for
him, apparently. Henry pulled his nose up at the thought of
revisiting her. Then his sense of responsibility overpowered this.
He would call in for five minutes on his way home.

At least it would delay seeing Kate. It was going to be
difficult to face her and act normal, knowing that he had as good
as committed adultery for the second time in their
marriage.

Was it technically adultery when another woman sucked your
cock? Or if you went down on her? Surely it had to be full
intercourse?

It was a fine line, to be sure. But he knew one thing for
certain; Kate would be blind to the semantics. If she ever found
out.

‘
I am trying to understand the situation,’ Hamilton was
saying. ‘We all have difficulties from time to time. In fact, I
recently had a couple of FBI agents snooping around the Jacaranda.
One was eliminated by two good friends who were staying with me at
the time; they made it look like a drunken accident.’

‘
And the other?’ Morton enquired.

‘
Beaten to within an inch of his life,’ he boasted. Not quite
true, but these three didn’t have to know that.

‘
Who are your friends?’ That was Conroy.

‘
Professionals. And should you ever need their services,
contact me. They are very, very good. One hundred per cent track
record. As messy or as clean as you like. Don’t mind killing cops
... but we digress. The problem we now have is that the agent
acting on behalf of the buyer is arriving soon and we have no goods
to display because they are in the hands of the police.’

‘
That’s about the long and short of it,’ McNamara
said.

‘
Do we know where these guns are at the moment? Are they
accessible?’

‘
Yes and no,’ said Morton firmly. ‘We’re not busting them out
of the police store.’

‘
Who said bust them out?’ Hamilton said.

The three waited.

‘
Why not borrow them and then return them - and no one is any
the wiser? It solves the problem of me having to arrange to bring
more into the country from Madeira. Simply borrow them for a couple
of hours.’

Morton sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. Now why
hadn’t he thought of that one? ‘Possible,’ he said, chewing it
over. ‘Just possible.’

Chapter Nineteen

Police Sergeant Eric Taylor’s financial trouble could be
traced back over twelve years - to the 1984 miners strike,
actually. One of the longest and most bitter strikes ever to hit
the UK, lasting for over a year, it had a major spin-off for the
police officers who were required to police it: by working the
excessive amounts of overtime needed, they made plenty of extra
money. This particularly applied to officers who had to travel from
their own force areas to the trouble spots to support their
colleagues. These travelling officers often found themselves
working away from home for weeks on end, and their pay packets
reflected this, with up to double their usual earnings.

Some officers, it was said, taunted the striking miners by
waving their hefty pay cheques at the picket lines. Others sent
postcards from far-flung places around the globe to the miners’
leader Arthur Scargill, thanking him for the money which had paid
for the holiday of a lifetime.

Another downside to the money was that some officers found
themselves in debt when the strike ended and the wage slips
returned to normal.

Eric Taylor had made a great deal of money out of the
strike.

He was one of those who was always available to go, and over
the year he spent about seventeen weeks away from home, policing
the miners, earning a relative fortune.

But, like so many others, he failed to plan ahead and the end
of the strike caught him by surprise.

A new car, conservatory, new three-piece suite, a couple of
holidays abroad - all still needed to be paid off once the strike
was over.

And he was still feeling the ramifications to this
day.

He had had to borrow to service his borrowings - and then
borrow to service
those
borrowings. At least a third of his salary went
out to pay for loans taken on board twelve years
earlier.

And he was a bitter man.

His wife left him, taking their two children and a large
percentage of his remaining salary in maintenance
payments.

A long-term woman friend also took him to the
cleaners.

Now he lived in a rented terraced house, alone, unhappy and
ripe for corrupting.

These people were always easy targets.

He was the first of two to be visited that evening.

Whilst Henry was shuffling around Blackpool police station, DI
Gallagher and DS Tattersall knocked on the front door of Taylor’s
house, knowing he was off-duty and fully aware of his severe
financial problems. He was unlikely to be out
gallivanting.

Perfect.

A sour-faced man opened the door.

Gallagher and Tattersall held up their warrant cards and
introduced themselves. Gallagher was carrying a
briefcase.

Taylor recognised them. He’d seen them knocking about the
station throughout the week, but he did not know who they
were.

‘
Sergeant Taylor, is it?’

Taylor nodded suspiciously. He did not like being visited at
home by anyone. He was always slightly embarrassed by his inferior
surroundings, having once lived in a detached house with a double
garage. He had really come down in the world, in his own
estimation. And he was particularly wary of two detectives from
NWOCS.

‘
Yeah,’ he answered shortly. ‘What can I do for
you?’

‘
Could we possibly come in and have a chat?’ Gallagher asked
affably enough. Tattersall remained silent, as he was to do for the
remainder of the visit. He was a brooding, unsettling presence,
hovering behind Gallagher. The DI noted Taylor’s look of wariness.
‘Nothing to worry about, honestly.’

Taylor accepted the words of comfort grudgingly. Not
completely happy, but nevertheless, he was intrigued.

He allowed them into the threadbare lounge which was furnished
like some 1970s throwback. Typical of cheap rented and furnished
accommodation.

‘
Sit down.’

Gallagher sat. Tattersall shook his head and stood next to his
boss. Taylor settled himself on the settee and waited.

Gallagher coughed and attempted to come across as fairly
uncomfortable, though inside he was completely at ease.

‘
First of all,’ Gallagher began, ‘I want to reassure you that
what we say from now on is completely confidential. Nothing will go
beyond these walls.’

‘
I’m not sure I can give you that reassurance,’ Taylor said.
‘Mainly because I don’t know why the hell you’re here or what
you’re gonna say.’

‘
I appreciate that ... but I do ask you to keep it
confidential.’

Taylor gave a non-committal twitch of the head.