Nightmare City (52 page)

It was a business breakfast. They were served with eggs,
bacon, tomato, mushrooms, toast, orange juice and fresh
coffee.

Two of Conroy’s men sat outside the room, having been provided
with coffee and bacon sandwiches.

The three men were dressed casually. Conroy and McNamara
intended to play nine holes of golf after the meeting, using
Conroy’s men as caddies.

‘
How do things stand?’ Conroy enquired.

‘
Christie’s been well and truly done over and he knows there’s
no way out for him but to give in,’ Morton said. ‘Having said that,
I don’t think we’ll keep him down without a fight. Something’s
going on, but I’m not sure what. I’ll follow it up
later.’

‘
Expand,’ McNamara said.

Morton shook his head. ‘Just a funny feeling. If there is
anything, I’ll let you know.’

‘
If there is anything,’ said Conroy, opening his mouth and
dropping a rasher of bacon into it, chomping as he spoke, ‘Henry
Christie should be iced. We’ve spent enough time farting around
with him and we shouldn’t spend any more. At least if he’s dead he
won’t be able to tell tales.’

‘
He might say more dead than alive,’ Morton retorted. ‘If
there’s a way of dealing with things which means people don’t get
killed, we should do it that way, even if it means a bit of dancing
on our feet. Killing’s easy, as we’ve shown already. The
repercussions are difficult. That’s why we’re working so damned
hard in Blackpool, covering our backs.’

‘
Fair enough - for the time being.’ Conroy took a swig of
coffee. ‘But if he gets difficult, don’t hesitate: do
him.’

‘
Have you found that prostitute yet?’ McNamara
said.

‘
Still looking,’ said Conroy. ‘She’s gone to ground but we’ll
find her. I got someone on it. Bit of a loon, like, but reliable.
She’s a different problem to Christie. No one’ll miss her and the
cops won’t bust a gut to find her killers.’

They ate in silence for a while.

Conroy cleared his plate and covered some toast thickly with
butter and Tiptree Lime Marmalade. McNamara pushed his food around,
eating little. He wasn’t hungry. Morton ate most of his, but it was
coffee he craved. He had drunk three large cups of it so
far.

‘
And the other matter?’ asked Morton.

‘
Hamilton meets the buyer’s agent today in Lisbon. He’ll be
with us to view the goods tomorrow. He’ll buy, I’m sure of it . . .
then we can arrange payment details and transportation.’ That was
McNamara.

Morton: ‘Where will they be displayed? I’ll fix up to get them
out of the police store, but where are they going to? I believe
Rider was rather obstructive to your offer, Ronnie?’

‘
Well, he had his fucking chance. I’ll have that club in my
hands tonight - in a physical sense. Then I’ll exert some more
pressure on John and I’m sure he’ll sign everything over to me . .
. and then get convicted.’ He guffawed. ‘Then there’ll be no one in
my hair to bug me. Munrow gone for good, Rider gone for life. If
you do your job, that is.’

He looked at Morton.

‘
That’s just what Henry Christie is doing for you.’

Rider’s breakfast appeared on a blue plastic plate with a
white plastic spoon and red plastic mug of tea. The food was
lukewarm, having come all the way down from the canteen. It
consisted of congealed beans, a sausage and a rubbery fried egg and
one piece of toast which had looked at a grill from about six
metres. The tea was hot and sweet, tasted wonderful and he devoured
it.

He munched his sausage and took a few measly bites of the
toast.

His night’s sleep had been interrupted by the consistent
banging of other cell doors and the shouting and bawling of drunks.
Being a suspected murderer he was given a cell to himself, for
which he was grateful. Had a drunk been thrown in with him, he
would have murdered him too.

He was allowed a quick shower and a shave before being banged
up again.

A cop pushed a copy of the
People
through his hatch and Rider
thanked him genuinely. Any short escape from boredom was
welcome.

He settled down, deciding to read every word.

When the cell door opened a few minutes later he was deep into
an article about a show-jumper and a tart.

‘
You’ve got a visitor,’ the gaoler informed Rider.

Breakfast in the Christie household was a chaotic affair. The
two girls rushed around as if the house was an obstacle course,
both seemingly hyperactive after a good night’s sleep. They were
getting ready for riding lessons and moved around in various stages
of undress, finally emerging in jodhpurs, boots, whips and hats,
ready to go. Kate and Karen volunteered to take them. They went in
Donaldson’s Cherokee and the girls were delighted that, at last,
they were in a car which complemented their hobby.

The men sighed and stretched out.

‘
Great kids,’ commented Donaldson.

‘
Sell ‘em to you,’ Henry offered. ‘Nahh, they’re brilliant.
Not long for you now?’

A smile of satisfaction spread slowly across the American’s
face. Fatherhood beckoned and he was a willing
participant.

Henry drank the last of his tea and the two men finalised
their plans for the day ahead with an agreement to meet or contact
each other at 6 p.m.

They shook hands before parting.

‘
Watch your ass,’ Donaldson said. ‘Don’t trust any of the
fuckers an inch.’

‘
I won’t.’

They weren’t allowed to touch one another. It was a closed
visit. Rider sat on one side of the room with a wall and glass
panel in front of him. Isa sat on the other side. A speaker in one
corner of the glass allowed them to communicate.

She looked forlorn and helpless and he had a need to reach out
and hold her very tightly.

‘
Jacko told me,’ she said in answer to his
question.

Rider nodded. ‘I told him not to tell anyone.’

‘
He thought I should know.’

‘
I don’t deserve you,’ Rider said simply.

Her eyes misted over. She tilted her head back but could not
prevent a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘I love you, John. I can’t
stop loving you because of what you’ve done. I just want you to
know that I’m here for you and I’ll wait. Corny, but true. You’re
all I’ve wanted for years and I’m not going to let you
go.’

He looked away from her quickly. His eyes were unable to level
with hers.

‘
I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he babbled. ‘I really screwed up,
didn’t I?’

She forced the glimmer of a smile. ‘Yeah, so what’s new?’ she
said, but not unkindly. ‘What’s going to happen, John?’

‘
They’re trying to fit me up, but there’s no evidence. I
should walk, but you were right. I don’t think Munrow did light
that fire.’

‘
Who did?’

‘
Conroy. I was conned by Ron the Con. Munrow didn’t do it; it
wasn’t his style. I should’ve realised that. He would have met me
face to face. I should’ve listened to you, then maybe we’d still be
in bed, reading the Sunday papers ... naked.’

‘
Don’t, John,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t want to think about
it. All I want to do now is help you. How can I do that?
How?’

‘
Just do what you said you would. Be there for me. That’s all
I need. You’ll pull me through that way.’

Henry walked past Isa as she was leaving the custody office,
not knowing who she was, of course. Siobhan was waiting for him,
reading through Rider’s custody record.

‘
Ready?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. I’ve got the Duty Inspector to authorise a
search of Rider’s flat. We’ll see if we can find the gun there and
some authentic evidence. Maybe then there won’t be a need for this
charade.’

Siobhan had already booked out a set of sealed
tapes.

‘
Interview first,’ she said.

The morning custody officer walked into the office. ‘The duty
solicitor rang in about ten minutes ago to say she would be delayed
about an hour.’

‘
Thanks, Jim.’

‘
In that case, we might as well have a brew together, Henry,’
Siobhan suggested.

‘
I think not,’ he replied.

Henry took the opportunity to approach the Patrol Sergeant
who, amazingly, rustled up four bobbies to help him search Rider’s
flat. Henry knew it would be a waste of time, because if Rider did
have a gun, or a ski mask, or bloodstained clothing, it would be
gone by now. Rider was no fool. But the motions had to be gone
through.

Prior to setting off, Henry went to his desk and found his
extendable baton which he fixed on his belt in its plastic,
quick-draw pouch. Just in case there was any resistance at the
Rider household.

The little team set off in a personnel carrier, with Henry sat
in the back together with two of the Constables. The other two were
upfront, one driving.

Siobhan ran out of the back door of the station to see the van
drawing away. She shouted something which Henry could not hear, but
his lip reading skills were advanced enough to know that she was
questioning his parentage. He gave her a little wave.

They were at the basement flat within minutes and went
en masse
to the door at
the front of the steps. Henry knocked. He was looking forward to
breaking the door down, just to vent some of his suppressed
anger.

There were footsteps inside.

The door opened.

Henry immediately recognised the woman as being the one he’d
walked past in the custody office not many minutes
before.

‘
Yes?’ she said suspiciously.

Henry dangled an A5-size form in front of her eyes. ‘I’m DS
Christie from Blackpool police station. This is an authority to
search these premises - by force if necessary.’

She peered closely at the form, then closed the
door.

Henry was about to exclaim, ‘Yes!’ in anticipation, and reach
for his baton - which he had yet to use - when the chain slid back
and the door opened fully.

‘
Come in,’ she said wearily. ‘You won’t find
anything.’

Henry stood by to let the PCs pass him and commence the
search.

‘
You his wife or something?’

‘
Some hope,’ Isa said. ‘Do you want a brew? I’ve just boiled
the kettle.’

Surprised by the hospitality, Henry said yes. House searches
were usually met with resistance, not acquiescence. They were often
battles and quite good sport.

She led him into the kitchen and flicked the kettle switch
again.

‘
And you are?’ he asked.

‘
Why?’

‘
I need to make a record of people present during the search.’
It was true, he did.

‘
Isa Hart.’

He scribbled her name down on a piece of paper.

She turned to the worktop and began the tea-making process,
facing away from Henry. She was leaning on the surface with both
hands taking her weight. Henry thought she was watching the kettle
boil. Then he saw that her shoulders were shaking. Her head
dropped, chin onto chest, and she sobbed.

‘
You all right?’ he asked.

She tried to pull herself together, wiping her eyes with the
sleeve of her blouse and tilting her head back as though to get the
tears to roll back into her eyes. They would not stop
coming.

Henry reached for the kitchen stool and placed it to one side
of her.

‘
Hey, sit down before you fall down. C’mon,’ he said
gently.

She lowered herself onto the stool and blinked despairingly up
at him. Her eyes were pools of clear water and streams of tears ran
down her cheeks. She wiped them irritably away. ‘I’m sorry. This
isn’t getting the tea made.’

‘
That’s OK,’ he said, not bothered about tea. He was more
aware that quite often, valuable information, sometimes good
evidence, could be gained from emotional friends, relatives,
lovers. His pleasant bedside manner was a bit of a con trick
really. ‘D’you want to talk? I may be able to help, you never
know.’

‘
No, no, it’s all right.’ She heaved a huge sigh. ‘It’s just.
. . Oh God, he promised...’ She shook her head. ‘I’m lying, he
didn’t promise a damned thing, but he said he loved me and suddenly
we had a future, then in the next breath it’s gone.’

‘
Why did he do it?’ Henry asked.

Isa was worldly enough not to get taken in by that one, even
in her turmoil. ‘I didn’t say he did it ... but I know that he’s
been set up and now he’s told me you lot are going to make certain
he gets sent down. He doesn’t have a chance. We don’t have a
chance. Oh God, I don’t know who I feel more sorry for, him or
me.’

‘
You said he was set up?’ Henry’s ears (at least the unbitten
one) had picked up gold dust from the emotional dross.