Nightmare City

Chapter Ten

Doctors are supposed to have a sensitive touch, but the consultant who, at ten o’clock the next morning, was probing along John Rider’s ribcage with fingertips like pieces of dowling must have been the exception that proved the rule. Rider flinched each time he was touched.

After the ribs the doctor moved to the skull, handling it like a rugby ball. Equally roughly he pulled up Rider’s eyelids one at a time with his thumb and shone a penlight torch into his pupils. Then he listened to Rider’s heart and lungs by planting a stethoscope on his chest which felt like it had been left in a freezer. The doctor made a few muttered comments about giving up smoking and drinking or death would not be far away. After this he tested Rider’s blood pressure — which was extremely high — with a tourniquet so tight Rider thought his arm might drop off.

The consultant stood up and sniffed haughtily. A nurse handed him a set of X-rays which he held up to the light and inspected. He hummed, muttered to himself and handed them back to her.

Then he regarded Rider over the frame of his pince-nez which were balanced precariously on the tip of his bulbous, pitted nose.

‘ How do you feel?’

‘ Like shit,’ said Rider honestly.

‘ Only to be expected. You had a rather severe beating, but although you’re black and blue, it doesn’t seem to have done any permanent damage. Two of your ribs are broken, but they’ll heal in their own good time. Your spine is bruised, but will improve once you get mobile. And, of course, the cheekbone under your left eye is fractured. The rest is superficial bruising. Your skull is OK. The reason you were kept in was because you passed out. Basically, you’re fine. The most dangerous thing for you at the moment is your blood pressure and the state of your lungs. Give up smoking, Mr Rider. It kills, especially at the rate you smoke.’

‘ I know, I know.’ Rider sulked like a schoolboy.

‘ You don’t wish to make a complaint to the police, I hear.’

‘ No. Wouldn’t be any use. They had balaclavas on.’

‘ Your decision,’ said the consultant. ‘But you really must cut back on the fags — that’s my medical advice to you.’

Rider nodded.

‘ You are now discharged from hospital.’

Isa and Jacko collected the invalid twenty minutes later and helped him down the corridor to the car park where the Jag was waiting. Rider rolled painfully into the back seat and Jacko drove him back to the basement flat. Throughout the journey Isa leaned back over the front seat and looked with concern at Rider who winced with every bump they hit.

Between winces, he glared back at her accusingly.

‘ You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you,’ she said bluntly. ‘I can see it in your face.’

‘ Depends on your definition of stupid.’

‘ My definition? OK — my definition of stupid is someone who can’t control his emotions, someone who has done well for himself and dragged himself out of the gutter of violence, but then steps back into it at the first opportunity because he wants revenge. That’s my definition of stupid — an idiot who wants revenge because that’s all he understands. That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it? Get revenge.’

He said nothing with his voice, but his expression said yes.

She closed her eyes in despair and held back the tears because she didn’t want him to see her cry.

‘ Please don’t do it, John,’ she appealed quietly. ‘There won’t be any winners from it.’

‘ Isa,’ he began with a dangerous tone, ‘those two guys nearly fucking killed me. All they needed to do was say to me, “Don’t get involved”, that’s all. I didn’t actually need telling, truth be known. I wasn’t going to get into some fucking gang war that has nothing whatsoever to do with me. But they went well OTT. They were fucking out of order. There’s no way I’m gonna let this pass. No way. Jacko — turn in here.’

‘ Eh? The zoo, you mean?’

‘ Yes, the fucking zoo I mean, you moron,’ he growled.

‘ But why?’

‘ Will you just do what you’re fucking told to do! I want to see if that gorilla’s OK — all right?’

‘ Anything you say.’ Jacko slowed the car and headed up the driveway to the zoo. ‘Barmy if you ask me,’ he mumbled.

Despite the agony attached with movement, Rider leaned forwards between the seats. His mouth was only inches away from Jacko’s ear. ‘If you ever call me barmy again, Jacko, I’ll fucking kill you. D’you understand?’ he rasped hoarsely.

Isa stared at him, completely dumbstruck.

Jacko’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t dare look at Rider. As a barman, the same threat had often been uttered to him by drunken, violent customers, but it had meant nothing. Rider’s words, however, shook him to the core. He was very frightened of the man who was now his boss.

Rider gave Isa a warning glance and leaned back in the leather seats. His face bore the beginning of a sneer. His top lip quivered. His eyes seemed to change to deadly, emotionless orbs. There was a cruel, determined look on his battered features. A look that Isa hadn’t seen for ten years, one she had never wanted to see again, one which meant deadly trouble.

He had metamorphosised before her eyes. He had reverted to type.

Rider looked out of the car window, his nostrils flaring angrily. He was aware of the change, too. Like a monster had been reawakened inside him; or some dreadful death-bearing virus, perhaps. Part of him wanted to fight and neutralise it, to destroy it for ever, but it was growing with every second, becoming an unbeatable force, taking over his whole being and personality, driving him on.

A force that meant he would extract revenge.

The worst thing about it was that he was quite enjoying the sensation. Rather like injecting a controlled drug. Something he knew he shouldn’t do, but once it was done and the euphoric sensation was creeping through his veins, it was great. Like he’d been asleep for ten years and had now risen from the ashes.

Those bastards didn’t know what they’d unleashed.

He saw the tears forming in Isa’s eyes. Ignored them.

But before he went over the edge, there was one last good thing he wanted to do.

About twenty minutes after seeing John Rider, the consultant visited another of his patients on the morning round. The name of the patient was Shane Mulcahy and two days before, the consultant had been forced to remove a severely damaged left testicle.

Throughout Shane’s short stay in hospital, the only period he had been quiet and pleasant was when he’d been under general anaesthetic. Otherwise he had proved himself to be the stereotypical lout, minus the lager. Nothing was good enough for him. The food was ‘shite’. He would have preferred beef burgers and chips all the time. He was rude to the nurses, whom he called ‘tarts’, to the doctors, of whom he was slightly afraid, and his fellow patients, who he thought were all silly old bastards.

In short, he had been a complete arsehole.

‘ Well now, how are you feeling, young man?’ the consultant asked, checking the notes.

‘ How would you fucking well feel if you’d had one of your bollocks kicked off?’

‘ Not terribly well, I imagine. Having said that, I’d probably be much less of a pain in the arse to everyone.’

Shane sneered up at him, folded his arms and looked away, his lips muttering silently, his face in a sulk.

‘ Let’s have a look then.’

A nurse drew the curtains around the bed, pulled back the bedclothes and removed the dressing.

‘ Like what you see?’ Shane sniggered, trying to cover his embarrassment in a show of bravado.

The nurse took a deep breath, looked coldly at him and said, ‘I don’t like anything about you.’

‘ Twat,’ he hissed.

The consultant bent over and inspected the shaved and swollen genital area. He probed around more harshly than necessary. Shane let out a yelp of pain and a tear formed in his eye.

‘ Sorry,’ said the consultant.

‘ Like fuck you are.’

‘ You’re fit to go. Make an appointment at Out Patients for Friday. A couple of weeks and you’ll be as right as rain. It won’t affect your manly functions in any way.’

‘ Good. An’ I want you to be a witness against the cops for me. I’ll be seein’ me solicitor as soon as I get out of here and I’m gonna sue those bastards for every penny they’ve got.’

‘ I shall do what I have to,’ the consultant said. He wrote something on the notes and hung them back over the end of the bed. ‘Though I deplore what happened to you, I would make the observation that you probably deserved what you got.’

At 10.30 a.m. they were in an unmarked CID car heading east out of Blackpool along the M55. Henry was driving; Lucy Crane was passenger. ‘What do we know about this guy?’ Henry asked.

He actually knew as much as Lucy, having discussed the man at length in the bar the night before, but wanted to hear it all again.

Lucy riffled through the papers on her knees and extracted a photocopied entry from Who’ s Who. She read out a few salient points, ad-libbing occasionally, about Sir Harry McNamara, multi-millionaire businessman.

‘ Educated Lancaster Grammar,’ she was saying, ‘then Oxford… blah blah… owns a big transport company, worldwide business… went into politics mid-80s… became an MP in ‘83, but retired in ‘87 to pursue his business interests. Supposedly donated lots of money to the Tories and is a good friend of the former Prime Minister, who visits him privately from time to time. Lives in Lancashire. Has homes in London and the Channel Islands.’

‘ Rich bastard in other words,’ commented Henry. ‘Not that I’m envious, you understand.’

‘ Nor me.’ She turned up some newspaper cuttings and skimmed through them. ‘Second wife an ex-model… been linked with a couple of glamour pusses — and prostitutes. Weathered a storm a couple of years back linking him with a hooker. Wife stood by him and they declared their undying love for each other… how touching… arrested in Blackburn last year for kerb crawling and drink driving.’ The last piece of information came from police reports.

‘ The Marie Cullen connection… makes you wonder,’ sighed Henry.

‘ Doesn’t make him a killer,’ Lucy warned him.

‘ Makes him a good starting point.’

They came off the M6 and headed towards Blackburn.

After having kicked it around the office for a while, Henry and Lucy had decided on the direct approach, to treat McNamara as if he was nobody special, just another member of the public who knew the murdered girl.

Henry had considered making an appointment to see him, but chose not to. Like all witnesses, he wanted to catch him unprepared. Judging by what little he knew of the man, the element of surprise would probably be short-lived anyway. McNamara was no one’s fool and he would recover quickly — in seconds, probably. Henry wanted to savour that tiny stretch of time before McNamara became the overbearing, obnoxious sod he apparently was when dealing with ‘lesser’ people.

Prior to setting off Henry had phoned Blackburn police and by pure luck managed to speak to the officer in the plain-clothes department who had arrested McNamara.

The officer recalled the incident vividly.

McNamara had been one of the most difficult prisoners he had ever dealt with. He had demanded to speak to the Chief Constable, belittled the officer, threatened legal action and refused to be searched. He stalled, demanded every right — which he got — spoke to some high-flying Manchester solicitor who gave him ‘certain advice’. Then he played the system. He claimed himself to be unable to give a specimen of breath because of a lung infection, unable to give blood because of a medically documented fear of needles and unable to give a specimen of urine because of a bladder infection. He vehemently denied the kerb crawling, stating he was having car trouble.

Eventually he was charged and bailed with both offences.

In court he was represented by a barrister who specialised in drink driving legislation; he produced two doctors who testified as to his medical conditions and a motor mechanic who swore blind that McNamara’s Bentley was having mechanical problems that night — something to do with a fuel-line blockage.

Rent-a-witness.

The charges were dismissed by Magistrates who did not believe a word but had no choice other than to accept the expert opinions.

McNamara then instituted civil proceedings against the police for a variety of matters, ranging from malicious prosecution to assault and a myriad of other things. As civil claims tend to, it was still going on.

‘ All in all,’ the officer admitted to Henry, ‘it amounts to the fact he’s got money, power and influence. If you’re dealing with him for anything, watch out. He’s a slippery sod and he bears grudges.’

Henry thanked the officer. He and Lucy then began their trek across the county, intending to combine an on-spec visit to McNamara with a few enquiries around Blackburn about the dead girl.

They skirted Blackburn on the arterial road. Henry picked up the B6232 Grane Road, which would take them up onto the moors.

Five minutes later they pulled into the long driveway which led up to McNamara’s farmhouse. Henry said to Lucy, ‘Just so you know, I’m dropping the word "Acting" when I introduce myself. Plain “Detective Inspector” rolls off the tongue better and he has no reason to know I’m really just a Sergeant.’

‘ OK,’ she smiled. ‘Delusions of grandeur, maybe, but OK.’

The bulky figure of Sir Harry McNamara, former MP for the South Blackburn and Darwen constituency, stood thoughtfully at the conservatory doors of his restored farmhouse on the moors overlooking Blackburn. It was another clear winter’s day, no cloud or mist, and he could see the Lancashire coastline some forty miles to the west and the little blip that was Blackpool Tower.

Usually days like these made him appreciate what a wonderful part of the country he lived in, with scenery to rival anywhere else in Britain, indeed the world. And he had seen much of both.

He placed the expensive, bulbous cigar between his fat lips and took a long draw, blowing the resultant smoke out into the atmosphere where it wisped away.

Today, however, he was not considering the countryside. He was thinking deeply about the conversation he’d had with a police Chief Inspector from Blackburn who had earwigged a phone conversation between the cop who arrested him last year and some detective from Blackpool. The police in Blackpool, it would appear, were investigating the murder of a prostitute and McNamara’s name had cropped up.

He stepped out of the conservatory and walked across the patio to the edge of the lawn. Even though the grass had not been mown since the onset of cold weather, it looked well. He dropped the cigar butt onto it and crushed it to death with the sole of his shoe.

Philippa, his second wife, who was twenty-two years younger than him at thirty-five, appeared in the conservatory. She had picked up his mood following the phone call and — as other minions did (and she was under no illusion that she was anything more than just another minion) — had withdrawn to a safe distance. She was wary of her husband’s temper, which could be violent at times. This time, however, there was something different in the air. He was angry, that much was obvious, but there was fear there too.

‘ Harry,’ she called sweetly, ‘can I get you anything?’

He had his back to her and did not do her the courtesy of turning. Just shook his head, made no verbal response.

‘ Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’ she persisted gently.

He closed his eyes momentarily in a gesture of impatience. Still not turning he said, ‘No,’ firmly.

She left.

When he was sure she was out of earshot, he pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled a local number.

‘ We need to have chats, soon,’ he said.

‘ When?’

McNamara gave a time and date. No location because the venue was always the same. He ended the call abruptly.

He spent as little time as possible on mobiles. Handy though they were, they were also dangerous. He knew he could very easily be a target for journalists with scanners, particularly with his reputation. He preferred the old-fashioned landline where possible.

‘ Harry,’ McNamara’s wife called from the conservatory door.

‘ I said I don’t want anything!’ he barked.

‘ I know,’ she said, ‘but the police are here — two detectives. They want to see you about something. Harry, what is it?’

‘ How the hell should I know?’

Brushing roughly past her, he mooched over to the house and went to the entrance hall where, indeed, two detectives were waiting to see him.

‘ Sir Harry McNamara?’ the male detective said politely, a smile on his face. He held out a hand. McNamara shook it. ‘I’m sorry to bother you at home, but we need to have a chat with you. Hope you don’t mind, hope it’s not inconvenient. Oh, by the way, this is DC Crane and I’m Detective Inspector Christie. We’re from Blackpool CID.’

‘ Come into the study,’ McNamara said. ‘I hope this won’t take long. I’m rather busy and need to go out shortly to a business meeting.’ A lie, but these two cops wouldn’t know.

‘ I can’t make any promises about how long it’ll take. Depends on what you tell us,’ Henry informed him.

McNamara nodded and led the detectives to the study which was off the hall. Henry caught sight of McNamara’s wife standing in the kitchen. It was only a brief glimpse of a tall, sad-looking woman, lonely and quite beautiful.

The officers were not asked to sit, nor were they offered refreshment. McNamara made it clear he was doing them a favour. It was an imposition for him.

‘ What do you want?’

Lucy did the talking, Henry the watching.

‘ We appreciate this might be quite delicate,’ she began. ‘We’re investigating the murder of a young woman in Blackpool. We think you knew her and we’re obviously speaking to everyone we can find with connections to her. As a matter of routine.’

‘ No, I don’t know her,’ McNamara said immediately. ‘I don’t know anyone in Blackpool.’

‘ She’s not from Blackpool, she’s from Blackburn and her name is Marie Cullen.’

Henry watched McNamara’s face, which flushed like a toilet.

‘ No. The name means nothing to me.’

‘ She was a prostitute and was arrested for soliciting about a year ago in the King Street area of Blackburn. You were arrested at the same time for kerb crawling and drink driving. She was seen to get in your car.’

‘ And as you two probably know, I was acquitted of the charges at court. The poor woman who was embroiled in the same incident was not known to me then, nor now. I did not, nor do not, know her. It was just an unfortunate set of circumstances for which the police will be paying dearly when it reaches civil court.’

‘ You’re saying you don’t know Marie Cullen?’ Lucy asked.

‘ Yes. That is what I’m saying, so I suggest we stop at this point. I have never seen the woman since that night and if you even begin to make out that I have done, I’ll sue you. Now I’m asking you to leave.’

They were ushered out and moments later were climbing silently into the CID car. Henry started the engine.

Then they looked at each other. Simultaneously they both said the same word and burst out laughing.

The word was ‘Guilty’.

Once on the road, Henry said, ‘I think he knew we were coming, Luce, which I find pretty worrying. Let’s bob into Blackburn police station and have a nose around, maybe speak to the officer who dealt with him again.’

‘ Good idea.’

The top ten worst moments of my life, thought Karl Donaldson. I’m not exactly sure which one this has replaced, but I think it’s definitely sneaked into the top five.

He was certain the number one spot would never be breached — the time when he’d held the dying body of a friend and colleague who’d been cruelly gunned down by a mafia hit man. That had been a hell of a bad moment, which still hurt two years later.

But this was pretty damned bad too.

The casket containing the post mortem mutilated body of FBI operative Samantha Jane Dawber was taken from the hold of the GB Airlines plane which had just touched down at Heathrow from Madeira. It was transferred under Donaldson’s watchful eye onto the back of a small flat back truck with big tyres, an amber flashing light and a curious sounding horn, across the apron on what seemed like an interminable journey to the British Airways New York flight.

He watched it while it was loaded into the belly of the huge jet, amongst all the other luggage.

Donaldson desperately wanted to be on that flight too, in order to accompany her all the way home and hand her over to her Mom and Pop. To be able to tell them everything he knew about her life and death; tell them what a fantastic person she was, a wonderful caring friend, a dedicated professional. And tell them he’d arranged for another autopsy to take place because he wasn’t remotely satisfied with the one already done.

The hold was locked.

Donaldson said, ‘Bye, Sam, look after yourself.’

It was hard to hold back a tear and a sob, but he did. He was sad that he would miss the subsequent funeral, but he knew Sam would understand because something told him he would be busy at this end, unearthing stuff about Scott Hamilton and maybe getting to grips with the real reason for Sam’s death. And, of course, the other death he felt totally responsible for — Francesca’s.

Karen met him at the other end of Customs.

When he melted into her arms he allowed himself that tear. Karen too had obviously been in a state of denial. They cried silently for a few moments, holding each other tight, oblivious of the gawping stares of everyone else.

Eventually they let go. Time to look at each other properly.

‘ Your face is a terrible mess,’ she said, looking at the dirty chain-mark and black eye.

‘ It’ll heal.’

‘ And you look completely whacked.’

‘ And you look completely gorgeous.’ He glanced down at her stomach, which was just beginning to show signs of expansion. He touched it and said, ‘How’s your belly?’

‘ Full of arms and legs,’ she smiled, ‘but fine.’

‘ Long hot bath and a good night’s sleep is what I need,’ he said, taking her hand and walking towards the exit.

She looked at him critically. ‘Hope that’s not all you want. I mean, there is absolutely no way I can get pregnant now. We should take advantage of that sort of situation, don’t you think?’

‘ Then I suggest we get home as soon as possible.’

Detective Constable Derek Luton was extremely proud of himself.

He had been a police officer for only six years, spending five on uniformed patrol duties at Blackpool. During those years he had dedicated himself to becoming a detective and he had achieved his aim far sooner than he had anticipated.

From his appointment onto the branch, he had been working on Henry Christie’s team and had set himself to learn everything he could from Henry who, it was quietly considered, was a cracking detective.

Not because he broke the rules (though it was rumoured he had once given a prisoner cocaine in return for information); nor was he oppressive to prisoners, nor was he a maverick, but because he was thorough, occasionally a genius, occasionally very brave… and he had a bit of a reputation too, which added to his general aura.

Henry himself would have cringed at this last bit. Eighteen months earlier, he had stupidly become involved with a young policewoman. His marriage to Kate had only just survived it and Henry had learned a salutary lesson: keep your dick in your pants. He didn’t like to be reminded what an ass he’d been.

But Luton worshipped Henry, who had taken him willingly under his wing. He knew he had a lot to learn from Henry’s vast wealth of experience. And now Henry had let him get involved in Blackpool’s biggest-ever murder case. Five civilians, one dead cop.

Brilliant.

‘ The Lottery Killings’, as the media had dubbed it.

Not only that, by pure chance Luton had been paired up with a seasoned detective from the North-West Organised Crime Squad.

Bliss!

Luton had aspirations of being much more than a local CID officer. In the fullness of time he wanted to move to the Drugs Squad, then Regional Crime Squad and ultimately, la creme de la creme, the NWOCS, the gangbusters. Fuckin’ magic, they were, he thought enthusiastically.

The murder investigation — which NWOCS had bulldozed their way into and taken over — would, Luton hoped, provide some sort of insight as to how they operated. Maybe even get him noticed as a potential future recruit.

Initially he was very impressed.

Taking witness statements was a skill most police officers, whatever the department, get good at. Luton considered himself to be above average, as was expected of a CID officer — but the statements taken by the guy Tattersall from the NWOCS he was working with were superb — packed full of detail, and reading like a story.

Tattersall even got the witnesses to sign some blank statement forms so that there would be no need to revisit when they were eventually typed up. Not usual practice, but a time-saver.

The statements had been taken from four witnesses who had seen the first robbery at the newsagents in Fleetwood, the one the gang had done before heading south to massacre the people in Blackpool. They were all very similar.

In fact, the statements were so good that when he got the chance, Luton took a quick photocopy of the originals for future reference. Copying material he judged to be good quality was a habit he had acquired early in his service. He kept everything in a binder and often referred back for guidance, though as his experience grew he went back less and less and the binder was relegated to his locker.

A couple of days into the investigation, Luton began to have vague, nagging doubts about the NWOCS.

He raised some of the questions which Henry had posed on the night of the shooting, that fatal Saturday, because he felt they weren’t being addressed. Or he wasn’t aware of them being addressed.

Questions such as: How did the robbers get from one shop to the other so quickly?

It was possible they could have done it — but only if traffic was virtually non-existent on the roads.

When he put it to them, he was fobbed off with, ‘In their fucking car, how d’you think?’

Questions like: Why should the gang suddenly revert to murder? They were violent, yes, probably capable of murder. But killing six people? Luton was patronised.

‘ Drugs,’ he was told. ‘We believe they were on speed.’

Then he asked if the possibility of two separate gangs operating had been considered.

That really got their backs up. Luton found himself shut out completely, ending up with a lame duck job doing house-to-house enquiries along the supposed route of the gang from one shop to the other. A job for uniforms.

And he couldn’t understand why.

He didn’t specifically link it to the nooky questions he’d been asking.

No one said anything to him, so when he asked he was told it was to give him experience of all aspects of a murder enquiry, which he had to accept. At the back of his mind he had a nasty feeling he’d upset somebody, but didn’t know who, how or why.

Late that Tuesday evening, three days after the shootings, Luton was alone in the murder incident room at Blackpool police station. The usual 9 p.m. debrief of the day’s activities had been done and everyone involved in the job had either gone for a drink or gone home. Moodily, Luton had stayed behind, kicking his heels, drifting aimlessly around the silent room, pissed off with proceedings.

He was pretty sure the NWOCS had a lead on the gang and that only their officers were following it up, keeping it very much to themselves. He was annoyed that he wasn’t being allowed to do anything in that direction.

In one of the baskets next to a HOLMES terminal, having already been inputted, was a thick stack of witness statements. They were all now neatly typed.

Absently, he picked up the top one and glanced at it. He recognised the name of the witness as one of the people he and Tattersall had interviewed about the Fleetwood robbery. Luton’s eyes zigzagged down the page, not specifically reading it closely, until something jarred him into concentration.

He had been present when the statement had been taken and he remembered it quite clearly. This particular witness had been very precise in his recollection of events and had given a quality statement.

Holding the statement in two hands, Luton sat down on a typist’s chair and with a very puzzled brow, began to read it through again — very carefully this time. He hadn’t realised that he had been holding his breath until at the end he exhaled long and unsteadily.

Then he read it again. Just to make sure.

After that he flicked through the statement tray to see if he could find the original. It wasn’t there.

He knew where he could find a copy.

Leaving the typed statement on the desk next to the computer terminal, he got up and walked out of the room. He ignored the lift — too slow — and shot down the stairs three at a time until he reached the CID floor where his locker was situated.

With a cold expression, Jim Tattersall had been watching Luton’s activities from the door of the incident room. As the young detective stood up, he twisted quickly out of sight into a darkened office, from where he saw Luton almost run to the stairs.

When the stairs door closed, Tattersall walked swiftly into the incident room and went to the seat Luton had been using.

He saw the typed statement on the desk.

Tattersall’s face hardened as he realised that Derek Luton had discovered something he should not have done.

The photocopy Luton had made of the original statement was in a binder at the bottom of his locker. He unhooked the binder and pulled it out, together with the three other statements he had witnessed being given. He hurried straight back upstairs, arriving there breathless.

The incident room was still empty. Good.

He crossed quickly to the desk where he’d left the statement, sat down and compared it with his photocopy of the original.

He nearly choked. It was different! Somewhere in the translation from longhand to type it had been changed, only slight changes, but crucial ones.

Suddenly the room seemed airless and hot. He could not believe what his eyes were telling him.

Statements had been doctored.

He ran a hand over his face. Once again he compared them. In the original, the time of the robbery in Fleetwood had been written as 7.10 p.m. The typed copy stated 7.01 p.m. Luton could easily have forgiven this as a typing error and maybe it was. Pretty bloody elementary, though.

No way could the next change have been down to a mistake of fingers. It was much more fundamental, but still quite subtle.

The original statement had been quite specific about the descriptions of the men responsible. The witness had a very clear memory of events. He had described all the men as being quite small, about five foot six to five foot eight. And though they had all worn masks, he described their hair colours and even guessed at possible ages — seventeen to twenty-three. All young men.

The typed statement changed this to: ‘They were all of medium height’ — and the individual descriptions of the men had been amended too, making them much more general than specific. The age range had also been changed: ‘anything from seventeen to thirty-seven’.

One of the men had spoken during the raid and the witness had described his voice as ‘gruff, with a local accent, and I would probably recognise it again.’ The typed statement read, ‘He had a Lancashire accent and I probably wouldn’t recognise it again.’

The changes meant that the men could have been anyone of a quarter of a million males in the north-west of England and were evidentially worthless.

Another slight but significant change was the time that it took to rob the place — reduced from four minutes to two. This meant that the men had left the premises at the new time of 7.03 p.m., giving them ample time to make it to the newsagents in Blackpool… if, in fact, the men who had robbed the shop in Fleetwood were the same ones responsible for that subsequent, appalling crime.

Luton sat back and allowed his head to flop backwards so he was staring at the ceiling.

What was going on here? he asked himself. What did all this mean? Had other statements been changed too?

‘ DC Luton, isn’t it?’

Luton sat bolt upright and spun round on the chair.

‘ Oh, hello, sir.’

It was Tony Morton, Head of the NWOCS, and Jim Tattersall.

‘ Working late? I won’t be approving the overtime,’ Morton said with a short laugh. There was no humour behind it. He and Tattersall were standing at the door. Luton panicked inside as he wondered how long they’d been there watching him.

They walked towards Luton who, easy as he could, rotated back to face the desk. He picked up the typed statement and dropped it casually back into the basket, then rolled up his photocopies with shaking hands.

‘ So… what’re you up to?’

Luton faced them again. A wave of intimidation gushed through him. Like nausea.

‘ Uh — nothing,’ he stammered. ‘Just having a read of a few statements. Seeing where we’re up to…’ His throat was arid, constricted, but he could I not understand why. He felt as if he’d been caught doing something naughty, yet here was the perfect opportunity to tell Morton — in the presence of Tattersall — exactly what he’d found: someone had been tampering with witness statements. It was his duty to do so.

Fuck that, he thought. These two looked like they were in this together.

‘ We have statement readers for that sort of thing,’ announced Morton.

Tattersall loomed silently and menacingly behind him.

‘ Yes, I know, sir. Just interested, that’s all.’ He tried to slip the rolled-up photocopies smoothly into the inside pocket of his jacket. Actually there was nothing smooth about the way he did it because his nerves got the better of him. For a start, there were about a dozen sheets of A4-size paper, not specifically designed to fit into inner jacket pockets, especially when there is a wallet, diary and two pens in there already. Basically the statements did not fit, but he made them go in by crushing them up and forcing them. The result was a huge bulge like a rugby ball in his pocket.

‘ What’ve you got there?’ Morton asked.

Luton stood up. ‘Nothing, sir. Just some of my notes. If you’ll excuse me.’

He made to walk past Morton who held out a hand, placed it across Luton’s chest and prevented him walking away. Luton thought for one horrible moment he was going to reach into the pocket and grab the statements.

‘ Is everything OK?’ he asked, eyebrows raised. Luton nodded dumbly. ‘Any problems, you can come to me with them.’ He looked Luton squarely in the eyes and Luton was certain Morton must be able to feel the beating of his heart; the organ was thrashing around in his chest like a crazy man locked in a cell.

‘ No, no problems,’ croaked Luton.

Morton removed his hand. Luton said good night, sidestepped Morton and Tattersall and walked coolly to the door, where he then bolted.

He hit the stairs, he calculated, at somewhere approaching 100 m.p.h. and threw himself down them like a pin-ball. Within moments he had descended to the level of the CID office — which was as deserted as the incident room had been.

He needed to see his role model. But his role model wasn’t there.

‘ Henry, where the shite are you when I need you?’ he chunnered under his breath. He went to Henry’s desk, picked up the phone and dialled Comms. No, they had no idea where the Acting DI was. He dialled Henry’s home number. Kate answered.

‘ Kate, sorry to bother you. Is Henry there, it’s Derek Luton here.’

‘ No, he’s not back yet,’ said Kate. ‘Are you all right, Derek? You sound a bit strained.’

‘ Absolutely fine. Just breathless from the stairs,’ he said oddly.

‘ You want to leave a message or anything?’

‘ No, it’s all right. I’ll catch up with him later,’ he said in what he vainly hoped was a more controlled voice. ‘Bye.’ He hung up.

‘ What to do, what to do,’ he said to himself whilst he danced on the spot like someone on hot coals, opening and closing his fists. Then: ‘Get a grip, you knob,’ he remonstrated. He quickly scribbled a note for Henry on a yellow post-it and stuck it prominently in the middle of the desk blotter, as opposed to around the edge where the rest of them were stuck like flags. He hoped Henry would see it straight away.

In the back yard of the police station it was brass monkeys. After these past few pleasant days, the January nights had turned harsh and bitter. Luton strode out of the ground-floor rear entrance and headed towards his car at something approaching a jog, all the while looking over his shoulder, but feeling completely stupid for doing so.

He got to his car in one piece. Stop overreacting, dickhead, he told himself. Why should anyone want to do anything to you? Complete crap.

However, when he was in the driver’s seat, he made damn sure all the doors were locked before starting the engine.

Instinct was telling him two things.

One — you’ve just uncovered something very smelly indeed. And two — watch your back, pal.

When Luton had gone from the room, Morton walked over to where he’d been sitting and picked up the top statement from the file.

‘ Fuck,’ he said. ‘What the hell is this doing here, for everyone to see?’ He looked hard at Tattersall.

‘ I came back to put them away,’ he replied. ‘That’s when I found him.’

Morton’s nostrils flared angrily. ‘We cannot afford to take chances,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘D’you think he’s sussed it?’

‘ He’s sharp. Think about all those questions he’s been asking. I’d say yes, he’s sussed it.’

After a thoughtful pause, Morton spoke. ‘As I said, we can’t take any chances.’

There was a knock on the door.

Luton did not have to wake up to check the clock. He was already awake and knew it was 2 a.m.

Annie, his wife of six months, had been asleep; not as deeply as usual. His tossing and turning and sweating meant she could not get comfortable. It was like sleeping with a restless dog.

‘ What time is it?’ she groaned groggily.

Luton told her.

There was another knock on the door.

‘ Who is it?’ she asked.

‘ Dunno.’ He slid out of bed, covering his nakedness with a dressing gown.

He went to the bedroom window and peered out, shading his eyes with his hands like goggles. The weather had really turned and sleet was blasting down the avenue on an icy wind. Luton could make out the dark shape of a man at the front door, huddled up against the elements. He couldn’t see who it was. ‘Might be Henry,’ he said. ‘I left him a note to contact me.’

Annie turned over and disappeared underneath the quilt. ‘Well, tell him to get stuffed,’ she murmured. Seconds later she was back in the land of snooze.

Luton let the curtain fall back into place. He slid his feet into his moccasin slippers and went downstairs. The front door was solid with just one pane of mottled glass in it. He pushed his face up to it, peering out, flattening his nose. ‘Henry?’ he called.

Luton could not identify the person properly but when there came a muffled, ‘Yeah,’ in reply he breathed out in relief. Despite the time, Luton was pleased Henry had turned up. There were some burning issues to discuss.

He slid the chain off, pulled back the two bolts, unlocked the mortise and opened the door. A strong gust of Arctic cold wind whipped in around his bare legs and gripped his testicles.

The figure outside had his back to Luton, standing in shadow.

‘ Henry?’

The figure turned. Luton recognised the face immediately and registered the gun in the man’s right hand. It had a bulbous silencer on it.

A hushed Thk! hardly made an inroad into the sounds of the night. The bullet drove into Luton’s forehead, spun like a missile through his brain and exited out of the back of his skull.

He was dead. Standing, but dead.

His legs buckled like a sucker-punched boxer. They collapsed under him and he toppled over, blood gushing in a torrent all over the hallway.

Just to make sure, the man leaned forwards, placed the gun at Luton’s temple and put two more in because it was surprising how some people lived if you didn’t make certain.

Annie woke for some reason, not quite sure why. She shivered. It was ever so cold in the bedroom. Her arm, which had been out of the quilt, was like a block of ice.

She rolled over, pulling the cover over her head, and reached out for her husband — who was not there.

Startled by this, she came fully awake and opened her eyes. It was still dark. She focused on the digital clock-face on the bedside cabinet. 6.20. God, it was so cold. And where was he? What was Derek doing up at this time of day?

Somewhere in the recess of her mind she recalled the two o’clock knock on the door.

Four hours ago. Surely Henry had gone home!

She climbed out of bed and hastily grabbed her fluffy dressing gown and bunny-rabbit slippers.

It was bloody freezing on the landing. Real penguin temperatures. A gale was blowing, as if the front door was open. She switched the landing and hall lights on.

She’d almost reached the foot of the stairs before she realised what she was looking at, lying in a lake of congealed blood and half-covered in wet slush.

She sank to her knees, her hands covering the silent scream.

She was unable to do anything, but stare.

Then she found her voice and started an unworldly, inhuman wail of horror.