Nightmare City (51 page)

‘
I’m intrigued. Who is this third party?’ He expected to be
told it was Isa or Jacko and he had to vow to go straight, or
something ridiculous. The name he heard made his flesh
creep.

‘
A Mr Conroy. I believe you know him?’ Pratt took a second or
two to compose himself and the words he was about to say. ‘Firstly,
I can promise you that if you do this one thing for Mr Conroy, you
will be released from custody immediately.’

‘
And that is?’

‘
Sign the ownership of your club over to him.’

The hairs on the back of Rider’s neck bristled.

‘
If you do this, I guarantee this allegation against you will
go no further.’

‘
And how can this guarantee be given?’

‘
It can, believe me. Mr Conroy has influence.’

‘
How do I know he’ll stick to his word, once I’ve signed
whatever I need to sign?’

‘
You don’t,’ Pratt said blandly. ‘Having said that, if you
refuse to sign, Mr Conroy guarantees that you will serve a life
sentence for murder.’

‘
Does he now?’

For Pratt, the next second or so happened in very slow motion.
Rider’s tightly bunched and very large, hairy right fist drove
through the air towards his nose like a piston. It began at normal
size, but as it homed in grew very quickly to ginormous. Then it
connected with an almighty crunch. Pratt’s nose broke. The energy
from the blow was transferred from fist to nose and reverberated
right through to the back of his skull.

He went backwards over his chair, legs shooting upwards into
the air like a massive ‘V’ sign to Rider. He crashed onto the floor
and rolled to one side, both hands clutching a nose from which
blood torrented.

Rider came round to him and bent down to speak into his
ear.

‘
Just tell Mr Conroy that if I get out of here, he’s a dead
man.’

Karen and Donaldson were admitted into the house by a pretty
young lady about thirteen years old. She was the
witness.

She showed them into the living room where her parents were
glued to the TV watching one of those early Saturday evening
knock-about shows which always foxed Donaldson. It was something to
do with embarrassing the fuck out of the general public. Very
popular, apparently.

Grudgingly the girl’s father went into the dining room with
them. His presence was required because of her age.

Donaldson interrupted proceedings after a few moments and
asked if he could go into the back garden and take some air; foul
night though it was, he explained, he had to get some fresh air
into his lungs. He was feeling nauseous.

Karen was puzzled. It showed on her face.

He winked at her.

Five minutes later, wet and bedraggled, he was back in the
house, saying he was feeling much better. There was a wide smile
across his countenance.

Karen’s eyes slitted briefly, then she returned to her
task.

The cell door slammed shut behind him. He paced the confined
space like a tiger, his thoughts in mayhem, much of his anger
directed at himself.

Isa’s words flooded back to him.

‘
How can you be sure that Munrow is responsible for killing
those people?’ she had wanted him to ask himself. Where was the
proof?

He had then acted recklessly and killed a man who probably had
not set fire to the flats. Or, at least, killed the wrong man. The
one who should be dead now was called Ronnie Conroy and Rider had
fallen for it. Typical of Conroy. Sneaky, deceitful and, of course,
brilliant.

He wanted Munrow out of the way because he was being a pain in
the arse, yet he, Conroy, didn’t have the bottle to do it himself.
So why not prey on John Rider’s paranoia and make him think that
Munrow was out to get him.

Yeah, get John Stupid Rider to do your dirty work for you,
then set him up with the cops.

It was all so simple.

And it was obvious they were tame cops too.

Tame cops like Henry Christie who were on Conroy’s
payroll.

He continued to pace the cell and each time he reached the
door he slammed the side of his fist against it.

Trapped and doomed.

The young girl had a good memory. When she read ‘her’
statement, she was shocked at the changes. She quickly made a
further statement and promised to keep quiet about the matter.
Karen laid it on thick for the father, who looked the type to be
bragging it around the local pub later, that this was top secret
and not a word of it should leak. This was a very sensitive matter
and if things got out, lives could be at risk.

Back in the Jeep, Donaldson said, ‘Two down.’

‘
They’ve taken dozens of statements in this investigation. How
many more have been tampered with? In the end everyone will have to
be revisited.’

‘
Yup.’ He started the engine.

‘
And where the hell did you disappear to?’

‘
Couldn’t resist,’ he admitted with a big grin. He held up his
pocket knife with a gleeful smile.

‘
They’re moving away, boss,’ Hunt said into the mobile. He
gave Morton the second address, then ended the call. He allowed
Donaldson enough time to move off before he slipped his car into
first and followed.

After only a few metres he realised that the car would be
going no further. It was limping sadly along like a cripple. He
drew in and raced round the back where he saw that the two rear
tyres were as flat as two-day-old beer.

He swore and pulled his jacket up around his neck.

‘
Bastards!’

Henry Christie faced John Rider across the interview-room
table for the second time that day.

Siobhan sat frostily to one side.

The tapes were running.

‘
When you were arrested, you said to me, “What the fuck am I
meant to have done?”’ Henry said levelly to Rider, referring to his
notes. The interview had been going forty minutes. Henry had given
Rider the opportunity to admit the killing, but the prisoner was
not forthcoming. Henry had therefore switched gear and gone into
‘verbal-up’ mode. ‘I then told you and you replied, “Yeah, you’re
fucking right. I shot the bastard. He well deserved it”. What do
you say to that, John?’

Henry’s voice was affable, unflustered, but underneath he was
churning. His stomach felt like someone was dragging a rake around
inside it. His hands, though visibly calm, were on the verge of
trembling. His nerve ends tingled at the lies he was putting to
Rider.

Rider made no reply, but folded his arms and glowered
contemptuously at his captor. So this is it, he thought. The
beginning of the fit-up. The opening salvos in what would probably
be his downfall. Rider had been confident there was no evidence
against him and now they were resorting to these
tactics.

‘
Both myself and DC Robson here heard you. Do you deny you
said those words?’

No reply. No response.

‘
During the journey back to the police station, I reminded you
that you were still under caution and that it was in your interests
to be quiet until we reached the police station where an interview
would be conducted formally. However, you continued to talk
throughout the journey, though we did not invite you to do so. You
said, and I quote - because DC Robson made notes of the unsolicited
remarks – “I had to kill the bastard. He would have done me in
otherwise. It were him or me and I made fucking sure it were him. I
blasted him in those changing rooms and he didn’t have a chance in
hell. Bang fucking bang! Dead Munrow”. Any comment
John?’

As if.

Henry persisted with this for thirty further minutes, having
to change the tapes partway through. Not surprisingly he got
nothing out of Rider, who at the end of the interview declared he
wanted a solicitor for the next one and refused to sign the tape
seal when he was invited to do so.

They led him back to the custody office and handed him back to
Sergeant Taylor. Henry said, ‘Interviewed in accordance with PACE
and the Codes of Practice. No admissions made.’

Rider was taken back to his cell.

Siobhan linked her arm with Henry’s and drew him to one side.
‘Well done, Henry. I’ll tell the boss you’re trying.’

‘
I feel like dirt.’ He pulled his arm away.

She smiled. ‘You’d better start thinking about finding some
evidence at his place now. Like a ski mask, or something, maybe
splattered with blood.’ She left the custody office.

Henry walked back to the charge desk where Taylor was
scribbling in a custody record.

‘
Eric?’

Taylor looked up defiantly. He placed his pen down.

‘
How much did they give you?’

‘
You should know, Henry.’

‘
Don’t talk shit. You know I never sent that money. I just
don’t operate like that. I’d rather get convicted of assault than
pervert justice.’ Which he knew was rich coming from someone who
was in the process of doing just that to another person.

‘
Five grand in a briefcase.’

‘
And where would I get that sort of money from? I haven’t got
five hundred in the bank.’

‘
How do I know?’

‘
Have you still got it?’

Taylor nodded.

‘
I suggest you keep it very, very safe, Eric, while I think of
how we can both get out of this mess and still be in employment.
Understand?’

Henry was astounded by the level of threat in his voice. It
frightened him a little as he said, ‘Because if it disappears, I’ll
throw you off the Tower, Eric, and I’ll enjoy watching you fall and
splat onto the shops below. And I mean it.’

Their faces had got closer as if they were hypnotising each
other. The gaoler came back from the cell corridor and broke the
spell. ‘Rider says he wants to see you, Sarge,’ he said to
Henry.

‘
Right,’ Henry nodded, eyes on Taylor. ‘Put it down in his
custody record that I visited him and spoke to him through the cell
hatch on an unrelated matter.’

Rider’s face was pressed into the hole in the door.

‘
Henry fuckin’ Christie.’

‘
My middle name’s James, actually.’

‘
I wouldn’t mind, Henry, but I don’t even speak like that! I
mean: “It were me or him, I made sure it were him”! I might be a
toe-rag to you, but my English grammar is just as good as
yours.’

‘
So? What’re you getting at?’

‘
You’ll have to do better than that if you want to stitch me
up.’

‘
I haven’t finished yet,’ Henry said coldly.

‘
I thought not, but I’ll tell you something.’ Rider changed
the position of his face. ‘I’m surprised at you. I don’t like you
and I’ve only known you a week, but I’d thought to myself, “Here’s
an honest cop. A bastard, but honest”. And I respected that - but
you’ve let me down. Big style. What does it feel like to be
someone’s puppet, doing someone else’s bidding? How does it feel to
be out of control?’

They met at midnight in the conservatory. Kate had gone to
bed, leaving Henry, Karen and Donaldson.

‘
Two out of four ain’t bad for a first strike,’ Donaldson said
quietly. He took a sip from a cool can of Colt 45. He was referring
to the fact that the other two witnesses had been out. ‘We’ll get
‘em tomorrow.’

Henry was tired. His chest was sore and he had made his ear
bleed again by fiddling with the dressing. He sat back in the
bamboo chair and took a sip of the malt whisky he only brought out
on special occasions. It flowed silkily down his throat and put up
a temporary barrier against the pam.

‘
We were followed,’ Donaldson told him. He recited the
registered number of the car and the make.

‘
Tch,’ Henry uttered. ‘Sounds like an NWOCS car.’

‘
It means they’re onto us, Henry,’ Karen said quietly. There
was a note of warning in her voice. ‘They might have figured out
what we’ve been doing.’

‘
And it means you’d better watch your step, Henry, because if
they’ve put it together, they may act on it . . . which could mean
you might be in real danger.’

‘
Don’t make it sound so dramatic, Karl,’ Henry said in an
attempt to shrug it off. However, Donaldson’s words were not to be
ignored. Two cops had been wasted already. A third wouldn’t make
much difference.

‘
You might be targets, too,’ Henry said bleakly.

‘
So in that case we’d all better be careful and we better make
sure we get that evidence together tomorrow. Quick.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

Conroy, Morton and McNamara assembled the morning after -
Sunday - at their usual place. The time - 8 a.m. - was
pretty
un
usual.