Nightmare City

Chapter Fifteen

Detective Constable Dave Seymour was a raving homophobic. He could not countenance the thought of men ‘doing it together’. Despite Equal Opportunity training, which sought to raise his awareness in such matters, gay men left him cold. ‘Shit-shovellers’ he called them.

The thought of lesbians was a completely different matter. When he visualised two women rolling around naked, frigging each other off, he was quite turned on. To him, a lesbian was just a woman who hadn’t found the right man yet, whereas gays were dangerous, perverted individuals who should be put to death.

Which was why he wasn’t too concerned to be taken off the Dundaven enquiry at short notice and drafted onto the Marie Cullen murder case, where he was teamed up with Lucy Crane. Lucy was a lesbian — a well known fact because she had openly ‘come out’, and Seymour felt that, although married, he could be the right man for her.

‘ Once you’ve tasted the real stuff, you’ll never go back,’ he told her. ‘A quality piece of meat is a million times better than any dildo.’

Lucy was driving; he was passenger. And ever since they had set off from Blackpool to go to Blackburn, he had never once let up with his sexual banter. By the time they hit the M6, she was heartily sick of it.

‘ Dave, shut up, will you?’ she ordered him. ‘You’re getting on my tits.’ As soon as she’d said it, she knew it was the wrong phrase to use.

‘ If only I was,’ he cut in with a sly grin.

‘ And if you don’t keep quiet I’ll make a complaint against you for sexual harassment.’

‘ You’d never prove it,’ he said smugly. ‘My word against yours.’

She sighed deeply. ‘Guess what, Dave? I’ve got a voice-activated tape recorder in my pocket and I’ve recorded your nonstop innuendo, requests for sexual favours and digs about my sexuality ever since we set off — and I’ll use it if you don’t shut your effing mouth. Yes, I’m a lesbian, I’m open about it and quite happy. No, I don’t want to suck your cock. End of story. Let’s get on with the job, shall we?’

Seymour had nothing to say. He glared nastily at her, grated his teeth for a moment and then mouthed the word, ‘Bitch.’

He didn’t know whether or not to believe her about the tape recorder. He wouldn’t take any chances until he knew for sure.

The journey continued in silence, the atmosphere between them as thick as fog.

They were en-route to see if they could find some more of Marie Cullen’s colleagues in the profession of prostitution.

Prostitutes! Seymour hated ‘em.

The infrastructure of the British police service is riddled with bureaucracy. It has a slow, mechanistic structure within which it can take an eon for decisions to be made and then acted on. The militaristic lines on which the service is operated are being slowly whittled away as the police respond positively to the ever-changing society they serve; certain ranks have been abolished and the management structure has been flattened. But it is still slow, painfully so.

Except on the occasions when it wants to move quickly.

Particularly when high-ranking officers want to make things happen.

Which is why lowly Henry Christie felt he was in a world of unreality when Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton and his old bosom-buddy Bob Fanshaw-Bayley beckoned him into an empty office, sat him down and revealed the good news.

‘ Henry,’ Morton began. ‘As you already know I’ve earmarked you as a possible future member of the NWOCS. As such I’ve had a word with FB here to sound him out about it.’

Henry waited. Both senior officers were smiling.

‘ I know about your reputation and now I’m interested to see how you work first-hand,’ Morton continued. ‘So I went down on bended knee to Bob’ — here the two high-rankers exchanged a glance — ‘and begged him to let me borrow you for a few days to give us a chuck-up with this newsagents job.’

‘ And I agreed,’ declared FB ‘Depending on your feelings, that is. We’re not pushing you.’

Henry thought about it. He winced sadly. ‘I’ve got too much on my plate at the moment. Otherwise I’d jump at the chance. It’s happening a bit quick.’

‘ Henry, I like you. You know that. If you come and help us out now, then I can fix up a further six-month secondment, starting in April. That could possibly become permanent. Not possibly — definitely. I’ll ensure it.’

‘ I’d like to, but there’s Marie Cullen’s murder, Dundaven… Derek Luton… I feel responsible. I couldn’t really leave them in mid-air.’

‘ I understand that,’ said Morton empathetically, ‘but we’re close to cracking the newsagents job. I’d like to see you working alongside my men just for the next few days, by which time we’ll have a result. Then you can go back to your own stuff. Apart from anything else, this’ll give you a chance to be in at the kill, as it were. And give me a chance to assess your suitability for the squad.’

‘ You’ll only be absent for a few days,’ FB pointed out. ‘I’ll keep an eye on your work, make sure it doesn’t dry up.’

Henry leaned back. It sounded good.

‘ Think about it, Henry,’ Morton said.

He didn’t need to. A grin cracked across his face.

Morton held out his hand. ‘Welcome to the squad, the cream of the crop.’ His grip was firm and dry and he had the look of an angler who’d just netted a black marlin.

Completely bemused, Henry made his way back to his desk, chuffed to hell and back.

And yet… slightly disconcerted. Steamrollered was a word which sprang to mind.

Think this through, he told himself. What are the implications, professionally and personally?

Professionally, going on the squad would probably affect his chances of promotion. But he had always been in two minds about going for Inspector anyway as it would take him one rung further up the ladder away from ‘real’ policework. He’d have to talk management issues and strategies, all that crap. Stuff like that bored him shitless. He liked being operational, hands on, arresting people.

Going onto the squad would give him the opportunity to stay at this level and yet deal with high-class criminals. And maybe it would give him the time and space to delve into Dundaven and try to find the remainder of those firearms, the details of which Karl had sent him.

Personally… well, Kate should be told immediately, but he didn’t dare pick up the phone. She would go ape. Henry decided to keep it until he went home that night so he could break it gently to her, face to face. That would be better than a phone call.

‘ DS Christie?’

Shaken out of his reverie, Henry jumped up at the mention of his name by DC Robson, the female detective on the squad whom he had briefly met before.

Henry had never been in a position to inspect her from close quarters. With her standing next to him, he had to admit that she was stunning. Black hair in a well-cut bob, shining brown eyes, small nose and a wide, soft mouth which needed to be kissed forcefully. He was aware that her complexion was porcelain perfect, dabbed with only the hint of make-up which made her high cheekbones stand out even more prominently. She was wearing a practical work suit — jacket, blouse and skirt — but it was nicely tailored and expensive.

The jacket swung open near to her shoulder and inadvertently his eyes crossed her lovely breasts and registered they were secured in a white, frilly bra which he could see through her blouse. She reminded him of a younger version of Kate. His heart gave a pathetic flutter.

Her intoxicating perfume almost overpowered him into a swoon.

‘ Hello. Siobhan, isn’t it?’

‘ Yes. Well-remembered.’ She smiled easily at him. Her tongue ran onto her top lip in a gesture that was thoughtful rather than erotic. Even so, it made Henry’s guts jump.

He swallowed. ‘What can I do for you?’

She held out her hand to be shaken and said those three memorable words.

‘ I’m your partner.’

‘ Is this it?’ Seymour peered through the windscreen as the wipers, on double speed, worked overtime in an effort to clear the heavy rain which was bucketing down.

Lucy Crane pulled into the side of the road. She wound her window down and looked across at the high-rise development of council flats. She checked the note in her hand. ‘Think so.’ She rolled the window closed. ‘You coming?’ she asked Seymour.

‘ Suppose so,’ he said with great reluctance. Their relationship had not improved and they spoke only when necessary.

They had got a list of all the women in Blackburn who had come to the attention of the cops in connection with prostitution in the last eighteen months. It was a fairly short list and quite repetitive. This was their third visit of the morning. It was a dull and tedious task trying to find someone who knew Marie Cullen and could maybe fill in some background for them. Two dead ends so far.

Also on the list were the names of two convicted pimps who operated in the area. Once they’d finished with the workers, they’d be moving onto the managers.

By the time they ran over the road and reached the entrance to the flats, they were both drenched.

‘ He had such an enjoyable time, he wants you again this afternoon,’ Saltash said with a wicked smile on his face. ‘So c’mon, get your well-fucked black arse into gear and let’s get going. There’s good money to be made in this for us both.’

‘ No, I’m not going. I don’t like him, I don’t like what he does and I can’t stand the thought of going with someone who might have murdered Marie.’

Saltash didn’t have the time or patience to argue. ‘Get up, get your coat on and stop messin’ around, Gillian, otherwise I’ll have to slap you — and I don’t wanna do that, honey.’

The black girl was sitting on the settee in her small lounge. She drew her knees up and presented a defiant face to her pimp. She shook her head. Her lips were taut and eyes blazing. Her body language screamed, ‘Make me!’

Over the years Saltash had had many dealings with reluctant whores. Sometimes they didn’t know how lucky they were when he looked after them. They could have been on the streets, facing all sorts of threats, whereas he ensured that all the business he put their way was inside hotels or homes, places where they could give their full potential in a bit of comfort. Not down some dogshit-laden back alley or car.

When he had problems with them, he always resorted to the same well tried and trusted remedy.

‘ You refuse to go, eh?’

He lurched across in an attempt to grab her black hair. Gillian ducked and he found his fingers groping for thin air. She squirmed off the settee with the intention of running into the bathroom and locking the door.

Saltash recovered quickly. He dived at her, rugby-style, wrapping his arms around her waist and bringing her down to her knees.

She struggled wildly. Her elbows jabbed backwards. One caught the side of his face, next to the eye-socket, with such force that he released his grip and his hands went up to protect his face. ‘Fucking cow!’ he screamed, reeling away.

Gillian dragged herself to her feet. She was angry. Instead of doing the sensible thing and bolting while she had the chance, she twisted round and launched a frenzied attack on Saltash, kicking and scratching him remorselessly, pummelling him with her fists.

He succumbed to the onslaught, trying to protect himself with his hands, parrying the blows which rained down on his head without a break.

‘ OK, OK, you win, you win,’ he tried to tell her. She didn’t listen, or if she did, she was past caring. As far as she was concerned, she was fighting for her life. She drove him back across the room. He turned to crawl away, all the fight having seeped out of him, giving her the chance to kick him properly. It hurt him. She was wearing Doc Marten boots.

‘ Jesus, Jesus, OK… Ahh… you’ve made your point!’

Gillian got her balance properly and aimed a perfect kick into his ribs. The force of it flicked him over and sent him rolling across the room, sprawling underneath the dining table where he lay on his back, panting, his arms clutched across his chest.

From this position he glowered at her. ‘You’ll pay for this, you stupid cow.’

She was unable to stop her head from shaking. ‘No, I won’t, no, I fucking won’t, you bastard. I’ve had it with you and your snotty ways. You’re supposed to look after us, but what happened to Marie, eh? You let her get killed, you bastard. I’m not going to finish up like her.’

Saltash attempted to ease himself into a sitting position. The pain which shot across his chest like a whiplash laid him back out again. ‘C’mon honey, help me up.’ He held out a hand and tried to look pleading. ‘We’ll work something out, I promise.’

Gillian ignored the outstretched fingers. She knew that if she yielded she would suffer. Firstly at Saltash’s hands, then at McNamara’s. That would not happen. She had to break free, one way or another. She had boiled over, put up with enough degradation. Her eyes searched the room and alighted on the portable TV set in one corner. She stepped across to it, unplugged it and lifted it as high as possible in her hands. She staggered across to Saltash who could not fathom out what was happening until it dawned on him in the split second before the TV crashed down onto his head. Everything went blank — with just a pinpoint of light at the middle of it. Then the light disappeared too. Saltash’s TV set had been turned off.

She picked up his car keys and ran.

The two detectives consulted the address they had on their piece of paper and realised they had taken a wrong turning, were on the wrong floor, going in the wrong direction. Seymour tutted as though it was Lucy’s fault. A great deal of self-control ensured she held back from punching him very hard.

They about-turned as a black woman appeared at the foot of a flight of stairs which led up to the next landing. The woman saw them, spun away and walked quickly down the concrete corridor. Neither of the detectives got a good look at her or thought anything of it, but made their way upstairs.

When they found the flat door open and the body of a man laid out on the carpet with a Sony portable smashed over his head and a pool of hot blood spreading slowly across the carpet, they were advanced enough in their deductive powers to put two and two together.

As fast as his bulky frame would allow, Seymour raced after the black woman whom they had good reason to believe was Gillian Sharrock, prostitute, with three convictions for soliciting and one for GBH, and also the person responsible for breaking a perfectly good TV set on some poor dead bastard’s head.

She had disappeared into the rain.

The incident room was in darkness. The slide projector whirred, a slide clattered into place and the photograph of a man was thrown up onto the white screen at the far end. Slightly out of focus initially, the operator DI Gallagher — brought the man up sharp and clear using the remote button.

The photo was obviously one taken covertly, probably from a pinhole camera in a button or maybe a briefcase. It showed a man sitting at a bar. It was good quality, demonstrating how much surveillance equipment had improved recently.

‘ Target One: Terry Anderson, also known as Terence Andrews, Tel Anderson,’ said Gallagher, consulting his notes. ‘Aged twenty-three, last known address believed to be a flat in Lancaster on St George’s Quay. He is a fully paid-up member of the travelling fraternity — a gypo in other words, if you’ll excuse me being non-PC.’

A titter went round the assembled group of detectives, which included Henry Christie.

‘ Works as a car-dealer and property-repairer, cash only, therefore no company records. Drives a Shogun and seems to have money to throw around. Has previous for armed robbery, bogus official jobs and a lot of violence. Tough individual. Known to carry firearms and is wanted for shooting at police officers in Lincolnshire a few months ago when he was disturbed on a burglary. Very nasty individual indeed. Lives off the proceeds of crime. All the details are in this folder.

‘ Henry — your team are responsible for him… we’ll go into the details of the operation shortly. We believe he leads the gang who’ve been robbing the newsagents throughout the area and we have informant intelligence to that effect. He’s the one who wields the shotgun, and he’s the one, we believe, who blew our colleague away.’

Gallagher paused and allowed everyone to remember Anderson’s face. ‘Target Two…’ Gallagher pressed another button. Another face appeared on the screen.

Henry smiled with undisguised satisfaction. Transferred, albeit temporarily, with the speed of light, and now given the responsibility of leading the team tasked to bring in the gang leader. He couldn’t credit his good fortune! Back in a fully operational role, straight into the bosom of the NWOCS whose members greeted him like a long-lost brother. And straight away, without any animosity from anyone, in a position to make a name for himself. Absolutely wonderful!

He wondered how Morton had twisted FB’s arm to allow this to happen so quickly.

He treated himself to a quick look at Siobhan Robson, sat next to him. She caught the look and her mouth fluttered a brief smile which Henry saw in the light of the projector. She looked forwards again. Henry’s eyes closed tight and briefly in an expression of heavenly lust, then he tried to concentrate on Target Three, having completely missed Target Two. He was exquisitely aware that Siobhan’s right thigh was touching, nay, actually resting against his left one. Totally innocent, he knew, but it still sent a tremor of excitement through him.

Pull yourself together, you idiot. You’ve got form for adultery and you weren’t very good at it then, he remonstrated internally. And a girl like Siobhan is hardly likely to be interested in an old buffoon like you.

He cleared his throat, sat upright and put a gap between their thighs. Until her leg, not his, closed the gap.

This time he ignored it — ish.

Target Four was being introduced by Gallagher.

The bloke on the screen now, in Henry’s estimation, was a particularly sour-faced git. Another gypsy, as were all the men. Henry was sharply reminded of Shane Mulcahy. Both their features were quite similar. Shane was made to look like a choirboy, however, when Gallagher read out Number Four’s antecedents.

The four men — youths really — were a very bad bunch of people and Henry could readily believe they had turned from pure terrifying violence to killing in a moment. They all had the capability. It had only been a matter of time before the robberies became killing zones.

After the presentation the lights came back on.

Tony Morton took the floor. ‘Now you know who we want to arrest. And please — don’t let there be any cock-ups on this at all. No heroics, no gun battles, no shooting — just in and out and get’ em. Grab them before they have a chance to fart. We don’t want any dead heroes like Geoff Driffield, who was trying to prove something to himself and the rest of the world.’

He took a breath. His eyes surveyed the faces of the detectives in front of him. ‘And that’s all I have to say. DI Gallagher will talk you through the operation itself. So… good luck.’

He stepped smartly off the platform and left the room, Gallagher taking his place. The latter checked his watch. ‘In a few minutes, a firearms team will be coming to join us, together with some Support Unit personnel. There’s no point in progressing this until they arrive, so I suggest you hang loose and be back here for three-fifteen prompt.’

‘ Tell me about Geoff Driffield.’

They were in the canteen which, apart from a couple of traffic wardens taking a mid-afternoon break from harrying motorists, was deserted. They were sat next to a window which gave a good view of Blackpool, the Tower in particular. They faced each other, hunched over cups of tea, in postures which were almost intimate. Anyone watching them would see they were easy in each other’s company.

Siobhan sighed and collected her thoughts. At length she said, ‘Driffield was always pushing for a result. He wanted glory all the time, and he wanted it all for himself. He must have cultivated some good snouts, and obviously he came up trumps with this gang — but then he didn’t share it with anyone, poor stupid sod.’

‘ But going it alone? Crazy, even for a glory boy, isn’t it?’

Siobhan turned the cup on the saucer and stared into it.

Henry looked at the top on her head. He could see the shiny hair right down to the roots. It was healthy and he wanted to touch it. Slowly, she shook her head. ‘I think it’s exactly what he wanted to do. In the past he’d had some good results going it alone, but he’d taken some stupid risks. I think that lying in wait for an armed gang was just a natural progression for him. He wasn’t a team-player, and on a squad like this, you need team players. You need to support each other, in more ways than one…’ Her brown eyes rose to meet Henry’s. They seemed to dance for him, a sort of seductive lambada.

‘ What happened on Saturday night, then?’ he asked with difficulty.

‘ Geoff came on before anyone else and took off without leaving any details of where he would be. Next thing we knew, we were being contacted by your lot — we were on a surveillance job in Bury — and we got the news.’

Her eyes had not left Henry’s face. She was taking in every detail, every contour and he likewise with her.

‘ H-how long have you been on the squad?’ he asked her. He coloured up whilst he tried not to think about what it would be like to bury his face between her breasts and… well, he tried not to think about it.

‘ Six years. I’m from Greater Manchester originally.’

‘ Enjoy it?’

‘ Best job I’ve ever had.’

‘ Seems a long time to be in a specialist post.’

‘ Tony, the boss, likes to keep people who fit in well, support the aims of the squad, are prepared to work hard and who get results.’

‘ So you’ve got to toe the party line or else you’re out, is that it?’ Henry probed playfully.

For the briefest fraction of a moment a look of something like suspicion crossed Siobhan’s face. So fleeting it was almost unnoticeable, but Henry caught it, and it disturbed him. What was it that the question stirred in her? Only later — much later — would he find out.

Her normal, natural look resumed. She tossed her head back with a laugh, shook her hair and ran her long fingers through its silky strands. Her lovely neck was exposed to Henry’s eyes.

‘ No, nothing like that,’ she said lightly. ‘But Tony likes people who’re with him rather than against him.’

‘ I’d better not rock the boat,’ Henry said dubiously.

‘ No, better not.’

Tony Morton was seated in the Officers Mess at Blackpool police station, chatting to a uniformed Inspector. Gallagher came in and poured himself a coffee from the pot on the hot-plate.

Morton excused himself from the lower-ranking officer and went across to Gallagher. They moved to one corner of the room, out of earshot of anyone else.

‘ He’s like a dog with two dicks,’ Gallagher said triumphantly.

‘ Good. I thought he would be. The guy has difficulty keeping his keks up, apparently, where there’s the slightest possibility of getting his end away. What about the other areas we discussed? We need to force those issues as soon as.’

Gallagher nodded. He floated a couple of ideas past his boss who immediately approved them.

The briefing which followed was very detailed, professional and thorough. Henry did not like Gallagher for some reason, but he was impressed by the way in which he had planned and delivered the meat and bones of ‘Operation Cabal’.

No reason was given as to why the operation was so-called, and Henry did not ask. Nor did he actually know what the word ‘cabal’ meant. He made a mental note to look it up when he got home, whenever that would be.

An hour after starting Gallagher was winding up. ‘OK, that’s about it, men,’ he announced, failing to include the four women present in the room, three being members of the firearms team. ‘Because we’ve all been on duty for almost eight hours already, the Operation will commence proper at 6 a.m. tomorrow. This is to ensure you all get a good night’s sleep, because it may go on for a very long time indeed. Don’t be surprised if you’re working fourteen-hour shifts — or more — once we’re up and running. We’ll do it until we catch them. So tell those loved ones at home. Right, any questions?’

There were none.

‘ Good. You must be in your ob points at 6 a.m. — so be there.’ His face broke into a smile. ‘Now go home, get some quality sleep and be ready to roll. That’s it, folks! Henry, chats please.’

With Siobhan at his side, Henry made his way over to Gallagher, who handed him a small laminated business-size card. It was an authorisation to carry firearms.

Henry was stunned. He blinked. ‘But I haven’t carried a gun for nearly two years and I certainly haven’t kept up my shooting skills.’

‘ Don’t worry,’ said Gallagher. ‘Needs must. You’ll be OK. I want you to go back with Siobhan to our offices in Blackburn where you can sign a weapon and a radio out and get some body armour from our store. You’re almost one of us now, so you might as well use our equipment. You need to be armed for this thing, Henry. We’re dealing with some real nutters here and I want everyone protected properly who’s likely to come into first contact with them.’

One of those quivers of unease shimmered through Henry. The thought of a gun. Last time he’d held one in his hand he’d killed somebody. Deliberately. An act of self- defence.

He swallowed and stared at the firearms authorisation, dated that day and signed by the Chief Constable.

Boy, this squad really had some clout.

The offices of the North-West Organised Crime Squad were situated in what could loosely be described as the ‘red light’ district of Blackburn, just off the main town centre in the area bounded by King Street and appropriately enough, Mincing Lane. They were offices which had originally been used by the Lancashire Constabulary Traffic Department, before over the years becoming home to a series of specialised police units until eventually the NWOCS moved in.

Money had been spent on modernising and refurbishing the rundown array of buildings, which had proved an ideal location for the unit, providing office space, secure parking and a reasonably centralised location in the north-west.

Siobhan drove Henry from Blackpool in appallingly grim, wet weather, which as they went further east towards the Pennines, turned to sleet.

Despite the rain, several prostitutes were in evidence, walking the streets in totally inappropriate gear — high heels, short skirts, low-cut tops. Whatever the weather, business had to be done.

In the early part of his service Henry had spent a few years in Blackburn. He knew the area well and was surprised to see so little change. The district was still bleak, poorly lit and slightly seedy, just as it had been way back.

Blackburn was the only town in Lancashire that had a problem with streetwalkers and their customers. Fortunately, the red-light district was situated where there were few residents to annoy.

Siobhan pulled off King Street down an unlit, badly-surfaced side street and stopped at a reinforced gate with a barbed-wire top. She opened her window and ran a swipe card through a machine, tapped a three-digit number on a key pad and the gates swung open with a clatter. She drove in. Security lights came on and flooded the car park with bright white light.

On one side was a triple garage with a couple of offices above. On another side was the main building where the majority of offices were to be found. The other two sides of the car park were high walls.

Siobhan led Henry to the main building and after tapping in another number, this time of six digits, on a key pad, she pushed the door open. Once inside, the warning beeps of a burglar alarm pinged out. She went to the alarm control box in the hallway and tapped in yet another sequence of numbers. The pinging stopped.

‘ Goes straight to Blackburn police station, the alarm,’ she explained. She ran the side of her hand down a pad of light switches. The interior of the building came alive and four strategically placed permanent outer lights came on too. ‘Welcome to our humble little abode,’ she said, opening her hands in a theatrical gesture. ‘Come on through.’

She took him up a set of stairs and along a landing. ‘Tony’s office, that one,’ she said, passing a closed door. She turned next left into a large, fairly open-plan office. It had been completely updated since Henry had last seen it nearly twenty years ago. The range of desks, PCs, filing cabinets and lumbar-friendly chairs was impressive. Police offices were usually kitted out with tatty furniture, broken chairs, telephone lines crossed dangerously all over the place… a Health and Safety nightmare. Not this place. There was even a coffee machine and a pure water dispenser.

‘ Nice,’ remarked Henry, pouting with admiration.

One thing which resembled police offices everywhere was the phenomenal amount of paper stacked everywhere in baskets, and the walls which were plastered with notes, intelligence bulletins, photographs of crims and all sorts of other non-essential rubbish.

‘ This is where our team hang out,’ Siobhan explained. ‘The other team are downstairs.’

‘ You’ve got two teams?’ Henry asked, surprised. She nodded. ‘Why’s that? I thought it was all one big happy family.’

‘ Oh, we’re all happy enough, there’s just two teams,’ she shrugged.

Henry accepted the fact with a nod. He wasn’t about to question it. At least he was on the same team as Siobhan Robson.

‘ This is where Geoff Driffield sat.’ She pointed to the only desk devoid of paper. ‘I… er, suppose it’ll be yours when you get on the squad.’

Henry gave a short laugh at the assumption. The phrase ‘Dead men’s Doc Martens’ sprang to mind. However, it looked a nice desk. Dead man’s desk. And it hadn’t taken them long to clear it. What a damned ruthless organisation the police is, he thought.

‘ That’s the radio cupboard.’ She waved in the direction of a large steel cabinet in one corner of the office. ‘Here’s the key. I’ll just go and get you a bulletproof vest. They’re kept in the store over the garage. Book yourself a radio and a couple of charged batteries out.’

She swished away. Henry heard her footsteps fading down the corridor, then the stairs, the front door slamming. He walked to the office window which overlooked the car park and watched her cross to the garage.

He unlocked the radio cupboard, assembled a PR and grabbed a couple — of extra batteries. He knew what it was like to be unable to transmit because of dud batteries, and he had promised himself he would never be caught out again.

As with all police equipment, there was a book to record Issue and Return; he opened it and signed out the radio.

His eyes could not fail to notice the entries for the previous Saturday and the fact that, according to the sheet, Geoff Driffield had signed a radio out at 1700 hours. As had four other officers — Tony Morton, DS Tattersall, DJ Gallagher and DC Robson. All at 1700 hrs — 5.00 p.m.

Henry considered this.

Siobhan had said Driffield was a loner who had gone out alone, presumably armed with details of where and when a robbery was going to take place, with the intention of arresting the culprits himself and claiming the glory. Yet the sheet suggested a different story. Driffield appeared to have been on duty at 5.00 p.m. that afternoon — two and a half hours before the robbery — and he’d signed out a PR with four others. They surely would have noticed him sneaking off alone, wouldn’t they? Maybe asked him where he was going? Shown a bit of interest?

Henry glanced out of the office window. The lights were on over the garage. He could see her moving about.

He looked down at the radio book again and frowned. Something very fucking strange was going on, Henry concluded. The entry in the radio book posed an awful lot of nooky questions for the squad. He ran a hand over his face, trying to rub some intelligence into his brain. The activity did not seem to work. Again he was tired beyond belief, definitely operating on one amp.

He closed the radio book and locked the cupboard.

On the table next to the door was an A3-sized book with the words Duty States imprinted on the brown cover. This was where officers booked on- and off-duty. Most officers in Lancashire now recorded their duties on a computer, but some specialist departments, not on the mainframe, were still obliged to use good old pen and paper. The fact that NWOCS used written Duty States did not surprise Henry. He opened the book and had a quick look at last Saturday’s entry. Same story: Geoff Driffield and four others had booked on at 5.00 p.m.

With his tongue making a thoughtful clicking noise at the back of his throat, he closed the book, feeling uncomfortable.

A glance across the car park. Siobhan was still moving around over the garage.

Henry stepped out of the office, twisted into the corridor and tried Tony Morton’s office door. It opened.

There is a term in policing circles for what he did next. It is called ‘Dusting’. ‘Dusting’ is where, out of normal office hours, you sneak into a boss’s office and search the place from top to bottom in the hope of finding anything of interest. ‘Dusting’ is a pastime in which many officers on night duty indulge, flitting through offices like burglars, hoping to uncover some dirt on anyone except themselves.

Henry was restricted by being unable to switch the lights on; however the car-park lighting cast sufficient for him to be able to conduct a cursory search.

He found nothing.

Then he looked at the walls. One was covered in an array of photographs and framed certificates, all relating to Tony Morton, his career and his qualifications; it was sometimes known as an ego-wall. Tony Morton had a big one.

Henry peered closely at the photographs, many of which were of Morton’s classes in various police learning institutions throughout the years. One fairly recent one was of a Senior Command Course at Bramshill and Henry chuckled when he saw Karen Donaldson sat in the middle of the front row, named as Course Tutor.

One photograph showed Morton shaking hands with the Princess of Wales, another with Margaret Thatcher.

Two others particularly grabbed his attention. Actually grabbed it by the bollocks.

The first one was a large framed photograph of the front page of the Lancashire Evening Telegraph, bearing the headline: POLICE SQUAD FOUND NOT GUILTY. A story followed, which Henry vaguely remembered, about an investigation into the activities of the NWOCS six years ago, following allegations of corruption.

A team headed by an ACC (one from Lancashire called Roger Willocks, now retired) had been tasked to investigate the squad, some members of which were supposedly feeding information to criminals about police operations. Nothing was ever proved and a six-month enquiry produced zilch by way of evidence. A photo of the ACC showed a very frustrated, pissed-off-looking man. Underneath the photo was a quote from him about what a superbly run unit the NWOCS was, and how it should be held up as a model for all such similar units. There was some incongruity between the picture and the words. They didn’t seem to gel.

By counterbalance, there was another picture next to the ACC of a beaming Tony Morton; he was quoted as saying that the unit had been open, frank and helpful to the enquiry and was delighted to be completely exonerated of all allegations.

The next photograph, taken in 1993, Henry found both interesting and disquieting. It showed Morton shaking hands with the current Prime Minister and in the background lurked the bulky figure of Sir Harry McNamara. The caption, underneath was about the PM visiting the NWOCS which had been established for some seven years and had produced some sterling results in terms of arrests and convictions.

Sir Harry McNamara. Suspect in a murder case which Henry was no longer investigating.

He heard the outer door slam, then the sound of Siobhan’s footsteps running up the stairs. Shit!

Rider stretched out in the bath in his basement flat. The water was too hot, and could have been doing terrible things to his arteries. But it was bliss, laced as it was with Sainsbury’s bubble bath. Things happen after a Sainsbury’s bath, he thought languidly.

His body was a mass of bruises from the beating he had received. They were on the turn colour-wise, being a few days old, from livid purple to a manky sort of green which reminded him of cow-pats.

He had brought some reading material in with him. A novel he’d been intending to devour for some while and a couple of old evening newspapers. He went for a newspaper first, wanting to catch up on local news. The headline screamed about the shooting of a policewoman and the subsequent arrest and charge of a man called Dundaven, who was found to be in possession of a large number of firearms. An accompanying photograph showed the latter displayed on a table with the detective leading the hunt stood behind. Henry Christie.

Rider sneered at the face, but his mind was really on Dundaven, who he knew was one of Conroy’s men, very high up in the scheme of things. He had been in Blackpool on the same day as Conroy, when the latter had been trying to get a piece of Rider’s club — presumably as a means of selling drugs. Or did Conroy in fact want to stash firearms at the club?

There was a timid knock on the bathroom door. Rider knew it was Isa. Ever since returning from his jaunt with Jacko to sort out Munrow, she had been in a strange mood, like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Rider hadn’t given her the opportunity either because he suspected a potential ear bashing.

‘ Yeah?’ he said gruffly.

‘ I’ve got a couple of warm towels,’ she called back from behind the door.

‘ Just leave’ em outside, thanks.’

‘ Can I come in, John? I want to talk.’

‘ I’m in the bath, Isa.’

‘ I bloody well know you are,’ she replied sharply. ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’

That was true. A long time ago on a different planet, when he was a hardened criminal with a tough body and conscience to match. ‘Come on then,’ he relented and strategically moved a mass of bubbles so as to hide his pride and joy.

She came in and sat down on the toilet seat, dropping the towels on the floor. She was dressed in a bathrobe which was quite short and showed a good length of leg, reminding Rider how nice they were. Since Rider’s beating; she had moved out of the hotel and into the spare room in his flat.

She looked at him, wondering how to start. ‘I hope you realise you frightened the life out of Jacko,’ she began. ‘He’s not used to that sort of thing, poor soul.’

‘ Nor am I,’ Rider said defensively.

‘ You shouldn’t have used him.’

‘ Point taken. Now, what else do you have to say?’

‘ I want to know if it’s over, your revisit to gangsterland.’

‘ I hope so. As far as I’m concerned, it is. I made my point, which considering the hammering he gave me, was fairly muted. I think — hope — Munrow took it.’

Isa took a deep breath. It was as if a weight had been lifted, hearing those words.

Rider noticed that her eyes, which were a lovely shade of hazel, were moist and sparkling. His own eyes narrowed and his brow creased. He tried to guess what was going on in her mind.

‘ I’m glad, I’m really glad, John, because I’ve cleaned up my business too and everything I do now is above board. I was sick of expecting the next knock on the door to be the cops or the customs people.’

‘ What about the girls for the club?’

‘ Not a problem, but what I’m trying to say is that… I wanna sound you out about something, if I may?’

‘ Sure — fire away.’ He was intrigued.

She cleared her throat. ‘Don’t know where to begin. I feel all weak and shaky when I think about it. You know all those years ago when we made love?’

Oh God, he thought desperately. His face dropped aghast. ‘I didn’t make you pregnant, did I?’ At the same time he said it, the idea of being a father gave him a warm glow.

‘ No, no, nothing like that.’ She waved her hands dismissively.

He was relieved, but yet…

‘ So, yeah, we made love and well, even before we did and certainly afterwards, I was — am — in love with you, John. I know it’s all silly and stupid and juvenile — me, a woman who runs call girls — but it’s true. I’ve always wanted to tell you, but never had the courage and it never seemed the right time. Until now.’

She stopped abruptly. Whilst speaking she hadn’t had the bottle to look at him directly and when she did, the look of what appeared to be abject horror on his face stopped her dead in her tracks. She gasped, ‘I’m sorry, John! I shouldn’t have said anything. What an idiot I am! I’ve been holding a torch for you all these years… I’ll go and head back home tonight. We’ll still do the club, sure. I’m sorry — what a stupid fool I am.’

She stood to leave, tightening the belt on her robe.

Rider had been lounging back in the bath, laid out full-length in the deep enamelled tub. Now he rose into a sitting position, water surging off him like a wreck being recovered from the deep. He held out a wet hand. ‘No, don’t go,’ he said with a weak smile.

‘ Don’t laugh at me, John, or I’ll punch your lights out,’ she warned him.

‘ I’m not laughing,’ he said sincerely. ‘Come here.’ He wiggled his fingers in an encouraging manner. ‘C’mon.’

She took his hand with a degree of hesitation. He pulled her gently towards the bath so that she was standing right next to him. ‘Come down here,’ he murmured. Slowly she knelt next to the bath until their faces were on a level, eye to eye, nose to nose, mouth to mouth.

‘ This is my last try at getting a normal sort of life,’ she said hoarsely. ‘At least as normal as it can be for people like us.’

‘ And you love me?’ he whispered.

She nodded. Her lips parted slightly. ‘Desperately.’

He ran a hand around the back of her neck and eased her face towards his and kissed her on the mouth. Softly at first. Tentatively. Then, as their mouths moulded together and both realised they had found each other at last, the kiss became more urgent and wanting.

Henry was never completely sure how he achieved it, but by the time Siobhan hit the landing he was back in the main office, standing nonchalantly next to a notice board, pretending to read an intelligence bulletin.

He tried to look surprised when she bounded in through the door bearing a gift in the form of a covert VIP protection vest, designed for discreet use. In other words — underneath a shirt. Henry cringed when he thought how uncomfortable and hot it would be.

‘ It won’t stop a sniper’s bullet,’ his partner declared, ‘but according to the manufacturer it will prevent small-arms from inflicting wounds. It’ll stop knife-slash attacks too.’

‘ Won’t stop anyone blowing your head off either.’

‘ Don’t be picky,’ she said.

He took it from her and held it up between forefinger and thumb like it was a dirty nappy.

‘ We all wear them.’

‘ Even you?’

‘ Even me — but I wear a specially designed one.’

‘ Like a Basque?’ asked Henry, rather naughtily.

He regretted the comment briefly until she retorted, ‘You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?’ and cocked an eyebrow in his direction. ‘Right — a gun.’

She led him back into the corridor and to a door marked Store. She unlocked it and behind it was something the size of a broom cupboard with a squat, grey safe set securely into the back wall. Siobhan bent down to it and whizzed out a combination on the wheel which Henry could not follow. It opened easily.

She reached in and removed a revolver with the cylinder hinged open to show it was empty, and gave it to Henry.

‘ Not much choice, I’m afraid. This is the only one available. Most of us have Glocks.’

‘ Oh, I’m quite happy with this one,’ he said generously, a statement which did not tie in with the tremble of his hand. Once again, he realised just how uncomfortable he was around guns. This was a Model No. 12 Smith amp; Wesson Military and Police with a two-inch barrel, weighing 18oz when empty. A good, reliable firearm. The. 38 special ammunition with which it was loaded could travel over 1500 metres, and in Henry’s hands was probably accurate up to about two metres. A trickle of sweat rolled down his spine and one or two demons stirred ominously in the pit of his bowels.

Siobhan gave him a box of ammunition and two speed loaders. She filled in an issue form, then asked Henry to sign it. Again, like the radio book, it recorded the issue and return of equipment — this time firearms. Henry scrawled his signature in the required space. There was another gap after his name for the authorising officer to countersign — in this case Tony Morton. Siobhan explained he would do that at a later date.

Henry looked quickly at Saturday’s entries.

Geoff Driffield had signed a gun out. As had four others. 1700 hours. Everything was countersigned and approved by Tony Morton.

‘ Do you want to load up?’

He went back to the office. With nervous fingers he loaded the revolver and the speed loaders, fumbling the bullets and dropping one or two in the process. By the time he had completed the task, Siobhan had returned with a shoulder holster for him.

He slid his jacket off and eased his arms and shoulders through the webbing straps. Siobhan moved close to him and assisted him to adjust it so it fitted snugly. She was only inches away from him, fussing around like a loving wife might do for a husband who was getting ready for a special occasion. He could smell her warm breath.

‘ There you go,’ she declared. ‘How does that feel? Not too tight?’

‘ Fine.’

He could see the flawless complexion, the finer than fine silky hairs.

‘ I like webbing,’ she said throatily, a smile playing on her lips. She eased her fingers around the straps of the holster, pulled herself onto tiptoe and kissed his mouth quickly, then drew away.

Henry was dazed into statuesque immobility.

She hoisted herself back up, kissed him again, and whilst doing so, sunk her teeth into his bottom lip, drawing a small squeak of pain/pleasure from him. His arms looped around her, crushing her body into his. Their groins ground together and her slinky wet tongue slid into his mouth.

It took a few seconds before reason triumphed over lust.

‘ Whoa… hold on.’ He pushed her firmly away.

‘ What’s the matter?’

‘ I’m sorry, that shouldn’t have happened.’

‘ Why? Didn’t you enjoy it?’

‘ On the contrary.’ In fact the surge of pleasure he’d experienced was almost overwhelming.

‘ Because you’re a married man?’

‘ That’s one reason.’

‘ Any other?’

‘ We’re work colleagues. I’m a supervisor. Recipe for disaster. I don’t want to do anything foolish.’ Like I’ve done in the past, he did not hasten to add.

She looked disappointed, but gave him a rueful smile and nodded. ‘All right, I accept that.’ Unoffended. But before she turned away she gave him an eye-to-eye which said, in no uncertain terms, there was unfinished business here.

Henry picked up the gun and slid it into the holster — only it didn’t go in as he’d anticipated. He hadn’t realised it was an upside-down holster — a type he had seen, but never used before.

He gave himself a mental warning to remember that, if he had to draw the weapon.

Otherwise he might shoot himself in the heart.

They made love twice in the following hour. The first time was fast, with little style, completely driven by desire. It lasted only minutes as they tore desperately at each other, biting, sucking, pushing, shoving, basically devouring each other in a frenzy. They came together in a tangled, panting, damp mess, then picked themselves up from the bathroom floor. Clinging tightly, not wanting to let go, they stumbled through to the main bedroom where they simply lay together, holding each other and realising their love in small murmurings.

When they were ready, the second time was much slower and considered. They explored each other, caressed, probed, rubbed and brought each other to the height of ecstasy.

They reached their second orgasm with Isa on top, riding slowly, her full breasts swinging gracefully above his face, until she felt him become harder and harder and his thrusts became more urgent. Then she ground herself onto his pelvic bone, taking him deep inside, and they both came with a long, deep climax which shook them to the core.

Exhausted, she collapsed on top of him, head buried in his chest; he stayed inside her, running his fingers up and down her spine, making her quiver delightfully.

‘ That was gorgeous,’ she said languidly, breathing in long and pleasurably through her nose.

‘ Mmm,’ he managed to reply.

They both drifted into a contented sleep until they were interrupted rudely by the shrill phone next to the bed. She rolled off him and he answered it.

It was the cops.

Bad news. Could he turn out? Now. The block of bedsits he owned near to the Pleasure Beach was burning down. People were trapped. Some could be dead. It looked like arson.

There were four fire-tenders, three police cars, a couple of ambulances and the road had been cordoned off. The noise of the engines of the tenders was deafening, a sort of roar and whine combined. The sound of radios transmitting and receiving, people shouting to each other and running all over the place simply added to the cacophony.

By the time Rider arrived the building was a shell. Massive amounts of fire and smoke damage had been caused to the ones on either side. The windows were all missing, blown out by heat and flames, and dense black smoke billowed out into the night, accompanied by the occasional flash of flame, though generally the fire was under control.

The fire brigade relentlessly pumped gallons of water into the building. Two people had been unable to get out.

They had died.

One had burned to a crisp. The other had died through smoke inhalation.

Rider pushed his way through the crowd of enraptured onlookers and ducked under the cordon tape. A uniformed cop approached him to block the way. Above the din of the incident, Rider introduced himself and asked to be directed to the Chief Fire Officer at the scene.

The cop pointed. Rider thanked him.

He trod carefully over several layers of hose pipes which lay across each other like a convention of boa constrictors.

The CFO was removing his breathing apparatus. Rider waited until he removed his face mask which left a clean area of skin around his nose, eyes and mouth. The rest of his face and neck was smoke-charred black.

‘ Deliberate,’ the CFO told Rider confidently.

‘ Can you be sure at this stage?’

‘ Yes,’ he said with authority. ‘There are several seats of fire throughout the building. It looks like whoever started it worked his, or her, way down from the upper floors, lighting fires as they descended. That’s not official yet, by the way, but I can tell. I’ve been to enough fires to know.’ He wasn’t bragging. ‘Any clue who might have done this?’

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.’