Nightmare City

Chapter Nineteen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he was still feeling the ramifications to this day.

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

And he was a bitter man.

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

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

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

These people were always easy targets.

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

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

Perfect.

A sour-faced man opened the door.

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

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

‘ Sergeant Taylor, is it?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘ Sit down.’

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

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

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

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

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

Taylor gave a non-committal twitch of the head.

‘ I’ll come to the point quickly, Sarge. We’re here on behalf of Henry Christie. He’s asked us to come and speak to you to ask for a favour.’

Taylor perked up. He was listening now. His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘ You were the Custody Sergeant last Saturday evening when DS Christie allegedly assaulted a youth then stupidly forgot to enter it up on the record.’

Taylor said nothing.

‘ Well, Henry’s looked through the custody record and noticed that you were the last person to make any entries on it up to and including the point where this youth was taken to hospital. There are no entries after that because he was subsequently released from custody and reported for summons for the offence he had committed.’

Taylor watched Gallagher closely, hardly able to believe what was being said.

‘ Henry wondered if you’d do him a favour. See, he’s in a lot of trouble over this — or could be — and it’s hanging over his head and, well, the thing is, without an independent witness to back him up, it looks like he could be in for some rough times ahead.’

‘ Tough. And I’m not sure I like what I’m hearing,’ Taylor said stonily.

‘ OK… but let me finish, please. Henry wondered if you’d be willing to… how shall we say?… amend the custody record in his favour to say you witnessed the whole thing.’

Taylor’s heart, by now, was ramming against his ribs. He almost expected it to break them and splurge out. His face tightened up. ‘How dare you?’ he demanded.

Gallagher held his hands up, palms out, defensively. ‘We understand your initial reaction, Sarge.’

‘ Look, you bastards, are you setting me up or something? Are you wired up? I’m an honest cop and this is completely out of order.’ His voice rose as he began to rant. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but as far as I’m concerned you can fuck right off out of my house. I’m going to complain about you both — and Henry Christie! Though I can hardly credit he would have sent you. It’s not like him. For a start, he’d do his own dirty work.’

‘ He’s in trouble, Eric,’ Gallagher said earnestly. ‘A colleague in trouble and he’s asking a friend to do him a favour, that’s all.’

Taylor remained steadfast. ‘No.’

‘ And that’s your final word on the matter?’

‘ Yes.’

‘ I believe you have some money problems, Eric.’

‘ And that’s fuck-all to do with you, pal.’

‘ We are prepared to help you, if you help Henry in return. No, don’t say anything.’ Gallagher reached for the briefcase which he had put down by the chair. He placed it on his knees and flicked the catches, opening it so Taylor could not see into it. He took out an A4 sheet of paper which the Sergeant instantly recognised as a custody record. Gallagher laid this on the smoked-glass coffee table which was between them.

Eric’s anger bubbled. It was the custody record he had filled in last Saturday, one of over fifty that day, but one he remembered well. The name on the top was Shane Mulcahy.

He glared at Gallagher.

‘ Get out,’ he spat.

Gallagher held a finger up. ‘One second,’ he said.

He placed the open briefcase on the coffee table next to the custody record and slowly swivelled it round so Taylor could see what it contained.

On top of the contents was a note, printed in capital letters. It read: THERE IS?10,000 IN USED BANK OF ENGLAND NOTES IN HERE. YOU MAY COUNT IT IF YOU WISH. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO TO RECEIVE THIS MONEY IS TO ALTER THE CUSTODY RECORD AND HELP A FRIEND IN NEED. ERIC, PLEASE HELP ME. The signature could have belonged to Henry Christie. Taylor wasn’t sure.

He looked at the note and the money underneath it.

Then his eyes met Gallagher’s over the lid of the briefcase.

Gallagher gave him a quirky smile.

It was a lot of money, for not much effort.

‘ You’ve made me leave, John,’ Isa said. Glassy tears were twinkling in her eyes. ‘I wanted to love you… I do love you… but you’ve spoilt it.’ She bent down and picked up her suitcase.

‘ There was absolutely no need to do what you did. No rhyme, no reason, no excuse. Cold-blooded murder.’ She shook as she said the words.

‘ I didn’t have a choice, Isa,’ Rider said simply. They were standing in the lounge area of his basement flat, the bedsits above. There was a huge crash from the room above which juddered the whole ceiling. Probably the couple in the ground-floor flat having one of their usual domestics. Rider was not bothered by what was happening above. It was his own, fairly subdued domestic dispute which was his problem at the moment. He was very tired now. The action of the day had sapped everything, including his resolve to keep Isa. He was too weary to put up much of a fight, although he knew what was happening was very important. He wished it could be put off until tomorrow when he was feeling stronger.

‘ Everybody has a choice. You made yours without even thinking about me — and after what we said, promised each other, only hours before.’

‘ He killed innocent people. They burned to death on my property. I was responsible for them.’

‘ Did he kill them? How the hell d’you know that for sure? Where’s your evidence? It could just as easily have been one of your crack-crazed residents out of his tiny mind. Those idiots are capable of anything.’

As if to confirm what she said, there was another crash from upstairs. They both looked at the ceiling, then at each other.

‘ Why didn’t you tell the police? You had the opportunity.’

‘ Because they’re useless, corrupt bastards. Munrow would have paid them off, like Conroy does. You know what I think about cops.’

‘ John, you are a fool,’ she said sadly.

‘ So is this it?’

‘ Yes.’ It was a quiet, almost inaudible word. One she did not wish to utter.

She walked to the door, opened it and went through without looking back. Rider made no attempt to stop her, even though something inside him was willing him to do so. He knew he was being pig-headed and stupid.

He heard the front door close softly and saw Isa walk up the steps past the net-curtained window.

Maybe tomorrow.

Another crash from upstairs.

Rider’s nostrils flared. Noisy bastards. He was going to throw them out on their arses right now if they couldn’t damn well behave.

He stormed out of the room to the door in the short hallway which gave him access up a flight of stairs to the flats above without having to go outside. He unlocked the several bolts and chains and opened the door, treading carefully onto the darkened and narrow stairway.

They burst into the flat before he knew what was happening.

Two men. Blue boiler suits. Heavy boots. Hoods with eye and mouth slits.

One had a straight, extendable baton.

The other had a gun.

At the moment Shane Mulcahy opened his door, the one with the baton rammed it into his stomach, causing him to bend double; the baton was then expertly smacked across Shane’s face, breaking his nose with a sickening crunch of bone.

Shane was bundled back into the flat and his thin spidery body was slammed face down onto the bare floor where the red gush from his nose flooded out. The one with the gun knelt on Shane’s back, one knee planted firmly on his spine just between the shoulder-blades, the gun thrust into his cheek.

Jodie, Shane’s much-abused girlfriend, had been trying her best to breast-feed the baby which was cradled in her arms. One poor-looking breast and nipple were exposed. She reacted instinctively, drawing her arms around the baby and cowering in a chair for protection.

The one with the baton said to her, ‘If you speak or scream I’ll whack this across your head and then the baby’s.’

Jodie did not speak because, although not having experienced this type of scenario before, she was sufficiently street-wise to know when to shut up. She had immediately assumed these people were drugs dealers come to collect an unpaid debt. It was the culture she inhabited and she knew her best chance of survival was acquiescence.

She nodded nervously.

The baby, deprived of its meagre supply of milk, sucked air desperately.

‘ Now then, Shane, old bean,’ the man with the gun said, lowering his mouth near to Shane’s ear. ‘You’ve been a naughty, naughty lad, haven’t you?’

The young skinhead could hardly breathe, let alone speak. Blood had gagged in his throat. He coughed and choked, spitting a fine spray of red saliva.

‘ I don’t owe you owt,’ he gurgled.

‘ Oh yes you do, you owe us a great deal.’

Despite herself, Jodie let out a wail of anguish. The stupid idiot had obviously neglected to pay his drugs debts and from the sound of it they had amounted to a tidy sum. Now collection time had come and if they could not find the money, Shane’s brains might be joining his nasal blood on the floor.

The baton arced through the air towards Jodie’s head. She saw it coming, braced herself for the impact. It stopped a millimetre from her left temple. Her eyes focused on the end of it.

‘ Next time,’ the man warned, ‘I take your fucking head off. Now, shut it, bitch.’

She bit her lips and hugged her child which whimpered pathetically, picking up on the tension in her body. She rocked it.

The man holding the gun ground the muzzle into Shane’s cheek. He thumbed the hammer back. Shane closed his eyes tightly and lay there paralysed with fear. Tears formed in his eyes.

The man with the baton walked over to the TV set which was perched on a small table. He tapped the screen with the tip, lined himself up like a golfer before a tee shot and swung it into the screen, which exploded.

Jodie let out a gasp.

The baby in her arms jumped and started to cry.

Their TV had been destroyed. The TV set Jodie was tied to for all her entertainment. It had been her lifeline.

The man then kicked it off the table. It crashed to the floor.

Shane’s eyes strained in their sockets to look up at what had happened. He watched the man with the baton take a couple of steps over to him. The man with the gun, keeping it firmly implanted in his cheek, stood up, relieving the pressure on Shane’s spine.

It was a short-lived relief. Shane was then given much the same treatment as the TV set with about a dozen well-aimed, hard blows across his back and ribs.

When he’d finished, Shane lay curled up on the floor, emitting horrible grunting noises.

The gun was still in his ear. The man holding it said, ‘You may wonder what this is about, Shane.’

The baton man then demolished the stereo with a series of expertly wielded strikes, destroying a cheap but perfectly acceptable system which, again, Jodie relied on for her sanity. Her whole pathetic world was being decimated and she was unable to do anything to save it. As with the TV set, the stereo was kicked to the floor where it landed with a loud crash, the plastic parts splintering all around the room.

The man returned to Shane and tapped him gently a few times on the knee-caps and shins. Shane’s thin legs would have been very easily broken and probably damaged for ever. The baton man let the tip rest against a shin whilst the gunman spoke.

‘ Now then, Shane,’ he said reasonably. ‘Listen very carefully. All you have to do is this: tomorrow morning, you go into Blackpool police station and present yourself very smartly at the front desk, with your solicitor if you like… with me so far?… and be very nice and pleasant and say that you wish to retract the complaint you made against me, Detective Sergeant Christie. Now that’s all you have to do Shane, pal, old buddy, old mate. And don’t even think of mentioning this little get-together here, because if you do…’ His voice sank to a terrifying whisper. ‘Do you understand?’

Shane nodded.

‘ Good.’

The baton man gave Shane a loving tap on his shin.

The gunman stood up.

Both crossed to the baby’s cot, picked it up and between them and threw it against the wall where it disintegrated into matchsticks.

Then they left.

In the hallway outside the flat, they turned right and ran for the rear exit, pulling their hoods off as they went.

Neither one of them saw the figure of John Rider ascending the darkened staircase which led up from the basement flat below.