Nightmare City

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was approaching 3.30 p.m. by the time Henry returned to work. Technically his lunch-break should have been only three-quarters of an hour long, but he couldn’t care less about that. Being caught out for taking a long lunch was way down on his worry list.

He found a tight space for his car in the almost overflowing car park at the rear of the police station.

Hoping that none of the NWOCS spotted him, he jogged down the rear yard with the carrier bag Annie Luton had given him in his hand. Once inside he opted for the stairs in preference to the lift and climbed them slowly, emerging on the floor where the murder incident room was situated.

This was the problem area.

He needed to get into the incident room unseen, find the typed statements and photocopy them. He also had to make copies of the written statements in the carrier bag.

He pushed the stairs door open wide enough to allow him to peep through the crack into the corridor.

Empty.

He stuck his head out and looked both ways. Clear.

All the while he expected Gallagher or Morton to appear. If they caught him before he completed his task, he was finished.

He stepped into the corridor.

Morton’s office was around the corner. The door to the incident room was directly ahead. Three strides saw him inside.

Two HOLMES operators were working at their computers. Neither looked up. No one else was in the room.

First things first.

Whistling tunelessly, he walked confidently to the copier. He almost screamed when it sensed his approach, clicked on and the message on the control panel told him he had to wait five minutes for the warm-up. A wave of frustration jittered through him. Five minutes is a long time to stand next to a machine, looking guilty.

Better fill the time constructively.

He slid across to the statement reader’s desk where there were three big fat ring-binders bursting with statements. He grabbed one of the folders marked Fleetwood and went back to the copier.

Please wait 4 minutes. Warming up.

Henry snarled at the machine then set to work scanning through the folder. He found one of the statements very quickly and removed all four pages.

Please wait 3 minutes.

‘ Bastard,’ he hissed. He continued to flick through the pages, knowing that each passing second put him in greater jeopardy. He found another, three pages long, and yanked it roughly out of the binder.

2 minutes, the copier taunted.

Henry twitched. Somebody walked past the door.

He found the third and fourth statements he was looking for.

Ready, the copier declared with a prim beep.

‘ At last,’ he breathed.

He stacked the four statements to one side and picked up the plastic bag, pulling out the creased photocopied originals. Because they had been screwed-up and flattened out, Henry did not dare feed them into the copier for fear of causing a jam. He would have to do each sheet one at a time. A slow process, especially when there was a total of nine one-sided and four double-sided sheets.

When the paper tray ran out halfway through the third statement, Henry nearly sank to his knees and cried.

He looked around wildly for more paper and saw a stack of it in one corner of the room, behind a flip-chart stand.

As he was unwrapping a ream, Gallagher appeared at the door.

Henry quickly leaned sideways, putting the flip-chart stand between him and his tormentor, became still and prayed.

Gallagher called something to one of the HOLMES operators, who laughed.

Then he was gone.

Shaking, Henry ripped the wrapping paper away from the A4 sheets, returned to the copier and stacked the paper in the relevant tray, which he slammed back into place.

‘ C’mon, y’bastard — work,’ he hissed at the machine.

Moments later it was ready to restart.

Henry fed the remaining sheets through.

He placed the new copies into the carrier bag, slotting them in amongst all the other papers.

He had originally intended to photocopy the typewritten statements too, but decided to steal them from the binder and hope they would not be missed. He slid them and Derek’s highlighted copies into anA4 envelope, together with a batch of blank statement forms.

As he turned out of the room, Gallagher was coming towards him. ‘Henry. I thought I saw you come in. What’ve you been up to?’

‘ When — now? Or over lunch? If you mean over lunch I’ve been crying in my soup, if you must know. Just now I’ve been to the accounts department to drop my expense sheet off for last month. It’s overdue, you see, and they’ve been on my back to get it in as soon as poss. Life goes on even when you’re corrupt, you know.’

‘ Let’s hope you’re not screwing the system. I’d hate for you to make false claims about anything.’

‘ Gallagher, why don’t you just shove it. You’ve got me by the balls, I accept that, but unless I have to, I don’t really want to have to talk to you.’

‘ You ain’t got much choice, pal.’

Henry eyed him. He wanted to hit him very hard. Instead he shoved the plastic bag into his chest and said, ‘Here, I believe you wanted this stuff’?’

Gallagher took it from him.

‘ Have you been through it?’

Henry took a deep breath. ‘If there’s anything in there that tells me more about your squalid little set-up, then I don’t want to read it. I know more than enough now, thanks.’

‘ Hey, this is just the beginning, Henry,’ the DI sneered. ‘You’re on board now, one of us. You’ll get to like it. Then you’ll start reaping the benefits. It’s not all bad.’

‘ Yes it is,’ said Henry. ‘I hate bent cops.’

‘ Then you must really despise yourself. I mean, all those nasty things you’ve done in the last few days. Makes me look like a beginner.’ Gallagher snorted.

Henry had had enough. ‘Finished?’

‘ Tony Morton wants to see you. Got a little job for you.’

‘ He’ll have to wait.’

Henry shouldered his way angrily past the smirking DI and made his way to the stairs. Gallagher was delving in the carrier bag, not watching Henry, who twisted into the stairwell, then ran down to the public enquiry counter. He opened the security door and handed the envelope through to Karen who was waiting on the other side. She gave him a forced smile, deep concern visible behind her eyes, then left.

With an empty feeling, Henry turned back into the police station and dragged himself unwillingly up to the murder incident room, dreading what might be in store for him next.

‘ Something odd happening, boss.’ It was the voice of an NWOCS detective called Hunt who had been told to keep Henry under surveillance. He had trailed Henry home and then back to work after lunch. He was now parked up outside the police station, talking on a mobile phone to Morton, who was in his temporary office.

‘ What do you mean, odd?’

‘ I followed him home and waited for him to reappear. There was another car in his drive when he arrived. Later he came out with two other people, a man and a woman — not Christie’s wife. Christie got into his own car, they got into the other and followed him back to the nick. The guy stayed in the car. The woman went to the enquiry desk and reappeared after about ten minutes with a large envelope in her hand. Whoa, the car’s just moving off now… What d’ya want me to do?’

‘ Could be nothing. Stick with them. Let me know what they’re up to.’

The call ended at the exact moment Henry knocked on the door and entered the office.

Morton clicked off his mobile.

‘ You wanted to see me?’

‘ Yes, got a good job for you, Henry.’

John Rider stood on the Promenade at South Shore. He wasn’t dressed for the weather, being in jeans, trainers and a flimsy blouson. The rain was plastering his hair flat on his head and rolling down his face, intermingling with the tears he had thought himself incapable of crying.

He had fucked up everything.

The chance of a settled, normal life, with a woman who loved him and had done so for years. And he had been unaware of it, so obsessed had he been with his macho gangster image, his drink, drugs and other women.

In the space of a couple of days he’d been given the opportunity of a real life, but instead he’d reacted to a difficult situation like the Rider of old, which Isa could not handle.

Straight to Violence. Do not pass Go.

A wave crashed against the sea wall and broke over him, drenching his soul with its icy, salty blobs.

He hardly noticed.

He wanted to drown. To throw himself into the dangerous water.

But he didn’t have the courage even to do that.

‘ It’s good to be working with you again, Henry — honestly.’

Siobhan was sitting in the passenger seat whilst Henry drove the NWOCS Vectra. His face was stony and unresponsive. He couldn’t believe that Morton was making him work with her again. Humiliating him, rubbing it in.

‘ I was really disappointed when you didn’t fuck me, you know. I was really looking forward to it. I’d have come as soon as you got your dick in me, then lots of times after that. You missed a real treat. I’m so easy to satisfy.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘All these problems and you didn’t even get a jump for your trouble. Poor Henry.’

They had reached their destination. Henry drew the car into the side of the road, stopped and kept the engine running. The windscreen wipers were on double speed to cope with the downpour. He kept his hands firmly on the steering wheel, rotated his head slowly and glared down his nose at her.

‘ I’d just like you to know that the decision not to screw you was made because I’m a married man and your supervisor. There is another reason why I didn’t even entertain shoving my clean cock into you. I was frightened of catching something nasty.’

She slapped him very hard across the face.

Or at least she tried to. This time he saw it coming. His hand whipped up and grabbed her wrist before she connected. His face displayed all the anger and repulsion he felt towards this woman.

She whimpered, ‘Let go, you bastard.’

He flung her arm away from him.

‘ Don’t ever tempt me to hit you, Siobhan. I don’t feel like I’ve got very much more to lose at the moment, and it’d give me a great deal of pleasure. A charge of assault on top of everything else wouldn’t matter a rat’s fart to me.’

He glanced into the rearview mirror. A double-crewed police car pulled up behind. Their assistance was here.

It was time to make an arrest.

Donaldson drove north up the Promenade towards Fleetwood. Karen had slipped the statements out of the envelope. On one knee she balanced Luton’s photocopies and on the other the typed statements Henry had appropriated. She read them all carefully and compared them.

‘ This is incredible, Karl,’ she said nervously. ‘The statements have been changed, but it’s fairly subtle and well done. I’d say that this DS Tattersall knew what he was going to do when he took the statement initially, so that the subsequent changes wouldn’t be easily apparent. When these come to be presented at court in six, eight, ten months’ time, whoever made them won’t know any different. They’ll just go along with what has been written. Particularly if the prosecutor is on the payroll. This really worries me. If they’ve done it for this one, how many more times have they done it? How many more people have been wrongly convicted?’

‘ How many more people have been killed?’

‘ Do you think they killed Sergeant Driffield?’

‘ It all points to it, from what Henry says.’

‘ We need to tell someone.’

‘ The problem, as I see it, darlin’, is that we don’t know who to tell. How far does this cancer spread? If we talk to the wrong people, we put ourselves in jeopardy and Henry too. Let’s just take it step by step and see what happens. Now, get that street map out, babe. I don’t know my way around Fleetwood.’

He checked his rearview and his eyes narrowed.

Hands thrust into his jacket pocket, thumbs overhanging, a very wet and bedraggled John Rider came round the corner. He had been walking against the driving rain, head down, not looking ahead. As he turned into the road where his flat was situated, the force of the rain lessened and the wind dropped because of the high buildings on either side.

He looked up.

Two uniformed cops, Henry Christie and a woman cop (he assumed) were standing in a huddle on the pavement.

Their faces lifted simultaneously and saw Rider. Christie pointed at him and shouted something that was lost in the rain. Rider did not hesitate. His finely honed survival skills clicked into place.

He ran.

Three of the four officers gave chase.

Henry let them go. He climbed back into the car and flicked the heater fan onto full blast. Normally he would have been quite happy to join the chase — but nothing was normal any more. He decided to do it from the comfort of a vehicle. No point getting too wet. After all, it was only an NWOCS job.

He executed a leisurely three-point turn and went in the general direction of the disappearing officers.

It soon became apparent they had lost Rider.

Other patrols were being called to the area to assist in the search. Over the radio, Siobhan called Henry and asked to be picked up. Henry guffawed. Some hope. Maybe when the bitch was thoroughly wet through and completely pissed off. He switched his radio off.

Revenge of some sort and quite sweet in a childish way.

Yet even though he had a desire in him not to make any effort, it was an interesting scenario.

John Rider, Henry had been told by Morton, was suspected of putting two bullets into the brain of a no-hoper gangster called Munrow who had died whilst getting a new suit in Debenhams, Preston. This interested Henry because of his previous dealings with Rider — whom he did not like very much. The man might have been involved in the gorilla-shooting in the zoo and the wounding of a man in the leg — and these things kicked Henry’s arse into gear. Even if Rider had not popped Munrow it would give Henry a chance to speak to him at length about these other matters.

Fuck! Henry cursed his conscientiousness. Once a detective, always a detective.

He combed the streets for John Rider…

… Who had panicked when he saw the cops outside his flat.

He sprinted into an alley, skidded on the cobblestones and pushed himself as hard as he had ever done, with only one thought in mind: evasion.

He concentrated on putting distance between him and his pursuers, knowing that the first couple of minutes were usually the critical ones. If they hadn’t caught you by then, your chances were pretty good.

His other problem was that he didn’t have the fitness or stamina to sustain himself over more than two minutes of hard running. Within the first hundred metres he started to feel a tightness in his chest as his lungs worked at a pace not experienced for probably twenty years.

Now he was over forty, unfit, with too much charcoal in his lungs and alcohol deposits in his veins.

He emerged out of the alley, did a right down the next street, crossed over and zigged out of sight into another alleyway. A quick look over his shoulder before he disappeared told him no cops in sight.

This alley ran behind a series of guest-houses, emerging into Waterloo Road, the main shopping street in South Shore, running at right-angles to the Promenade.

Dodging the cars, he crossed over and took the next right onto Bond Street. Still no cops behind.

He began to feel confident, though his body was sending out warning signals, such as: ‘Please stop, you’re hurting me!’ and: ‘Knackered body, can’t run any further.’

He tried to ignore them and jogged as far as the junction with Dean Street into which he turned left, then left again into Bright Street where he had to stop. He leaned on the gable end of a guest-house, gasping for air, his lungs desperate for a rest. He was about to heave up and vomit, he was sure. His head throbbed with the exertion and pain shot through it like a lightning bolt. His vision swam.

He bent forwards and put the palms of his hand on his knees.

He vomited.

A rush of stomach contents, mostly bile, surged through his mouth and erupted onto the wet pavement below.

He wiped his mouth, aware vaguely of a car drawing up nearby.

Hands still on his thighs he looked up, spitting the last remnants of sick out of his mouth. His face grimaced in disgust as he watched the figure of Henry Christie saunter up to him. A pair of rigid handcuffs were swinging tauntingly on the index finger of the cop’s right hand.

Rider tried to run again. His legs refused to carry him.

Without a word, Henry clamped the first cuff onto Rider’s right wrist. He twisted the cuffs in a well-practised movement. Rider screamed but was powerless to resist Henry who wrenched his right arm up behind his back, flattened the luckless Rider against the wall, grabbed his other arm and well and truly handcuffed him, his hands ‘stacked’ behind his back, one above the other. Rider’s cheek was pressed against the stone wall. A trickle of sick ran out of the corner of his mouth.

Rider eyed Henry, who smiled, gave a short nod and said, ‘You’re under arrest. Suspicion of murder.’ He tried to recite the caution, but made a hash of the wording despite the practise. Rider understood its sense and made no reply.

After a cursory body search, Henry directed Rider into the back of the Vectra, after ensuring the child locks were operative. He climbed into the driver’s seat.

‘ Bit of a wet one,’ he commented.

Rider did not respond, but slumped sideways across the seat, panting. Henry shrugged and reached for his PR.

Siobhan stood waiting on a street corner as wet as any person could be.

She pulled the passenger door open and shouted, ‘Where the fuck did you go to, you bastard!’ On the last word she saw Rider in the back seat.

Meekly she got in. ‘Where did you find him?’

‘ Coupla streets away.’

‘ How did you know where to look?’

‘ I’m a detective. It’s my job.’

From that moment on, all the way back to the police station, not another word was spoken in the car.

‘ I did my bit. You’ve got him, now it’s down to you.’

‘ Not quite so fast, Henry.’ Morton grabbed his sleeve.

‘ Look, you asked me to assist in the arrest. I did. Now leave me out of anything else. Take him to Preston and let them deal with it.’

‘ Preston aren’t dealing with him. We are, and I want you to interview him.’

‘ Why me? I know nothing about the incident and, to be truthful, I don’t even know why he’s been arrested. What evidence is there against him?’

‘ There is none — just reasonable suspicion. That’s all you need for an arrest, isn’t it?’

‘ Where’s the reasonable suspicion then?’

‘ He was tied up with Munrow in some sort of underworld deal. They are believed to have fallen out and bang bang, Munrow’s dead. Rider is prime suspect. And you’re dealing with it.’

Morton waved a file of papers in front of Henry’s face. ‘Here’s all the details of the crime itself, including ballistic reports. What I want you to do is interview him and then charge him with murder.’

‘ Simple, eh? Just like that. Where’s the fucking evidence?’

‘ That’s down to you, Henry.’

‘ Meaning?’

‘ If you can’t find real evidence, then stitch him up. Fabricate evidence, get a conviction. Do whatever is needed to get this man a life sentence. This will show us that you are one hundred per cent with us now. Do this for me, do it well, and I’ll consider letting you off the hook. If you don’t do it properly, then the first thing that’ll happen is that your darling wife will get a phone callanonymously — to say you’ve raped a female officer. That female officer will then lodge a formal complaint against you. Then all that other shit will hit the fan. It’s your choice, Henry, but it would probably be in your best interests to fit Rider up. Then you have my word we’ll part amicably.’

Henry went slowly down to the custody office. It was a painful journey, not only because of the soreness of his body (his chest and ear were hurting dreadfully) — but because of the dead weight on his shoulders.

How had they done this in such a short space of time?

How had he fallen for it so easily?

Fool.

Yet, in retrospect, there had been nothing tangible to suspect. Odd twinges, niggles, some bad feelings, yes. Other than that, nothing. A bit like a bogus gas official knocking on your door. You’re not completely happy, but you let him in, he leaves and then you find your life savings have gone.

Happens all the time. People get conned. Even the ones who would never imagine in a million years they could be a victim of such a crime.

And all because he had rattled a few cages without even realising there were tigers inside them. The NWOCS — and Tony Morton in particular had close ties going back many years with Harry McNamara. It was obvious that he was being protected. And now the ‘Conroy connection’ had been revealed by Karl Donaldson and those photographs taken by MI5. A proper little triumvirate. Conroy, McNamara and Morton. All protecting one another, no doubt. All in each other’s pockets.

And FB too.

Henry shivered at the thought.

Frightening.

He reached the custody office and booked himself a set of tapes out for the interview. Eric Taylor walked into the room from the cell corridor.

‘ Why?’ whispered Henry.

‘ To help you, of course.’ Taylor moved in close to Henry so they were within earshot only of each other.

‘ How much did they pay you?’

‘ Don’t know what you mean.’

‘ How much did they fucking well bribe you to alter that custody record, Eric?’

‘ Don’t you mean — how much did YOU bribe me?’

A PC walked in, whistling. The two men drew apart from each other, a look of loathing on Henry’s face. ‘I want to interview Rider,’ he said, now businesslike. ‘I’ve booked a set of tapes out.’

Taylor flicked open the current custody record binder and went to Rider’s.

‘ He says he wants someone telling he’s here and he wants to make a phone call.’

‘ He can have what the hell he wants,’ Henry said.

‘ Sign here.’ Taylor’s forefinger pointed to the space in Rider’s record where Henry had to sign to take responsibility for the prisoner. ‘Last time I gave a prisoner to you, you kicked him in the balls,’ Taylor said.

‘ Allegedly.’

They found the first address in Fleetwood. Donaldson parked outside the house, which was a semi-detached council house.

‘ What’ve we got here, honey?’

She had the relevant statements on her knees. ‘This man witnessed the robbery. He was in the shop when the gunmen burst in and fired the shotgun into the ceiling. He gave a pretty good account and some detailed descriptions which have been watered down on the amended statement.’

‘ How are we gonna approach him? He ain’t gonna like it a whole bunch when he finds out his statement’s been tampered with.’

‘ Let’s just play it by ear.’

She kissed him on the cheek and alighted from the Jeep.

Rider sat up straight when he heard the key in the lock of his cell door. The gaoler, a young PC with less than two years’ service, beckoned him. ‘You’re going to be interviewed now.’

Rider half-thought of being awkward. The idea of a few hairy-assed coppers laying into him with feet and fists, however, did not appeal to him. Ten, fifteen years before, they would have had to drag him from the cell screaming and kicking and he would have taken great delight in whacking a few of the boys in blue in the process. Times had changed. He wasn’t the hard man he once was and the events of the last few days had proved that, even though he had killed a man. It hadn’t been easy to do and as soon as the trigger had been pulled he had regretted it.

Not that he was about to bare his soul to whoever interviewed him. They would get nothing from him.

Rider stood up wearily.

The PC stepped to one side, allowed him past and followed him down the cell corridor.

He was taken to an interview room where Henry Christie was waiting for him.

Rider sat down on the chair on the opposite side of the table to Henry. At one end of the table, next to the wall, was the double tape machine. Stuck to the wall above it was the mike. The sealed tapes and various documents were on the table.

The gaoler left the room on a nod from Henry.

Henry opened his mouth to speak, but closed it when the door reopened and Siobhan Robson entered the room. She sat down next to Henry with a smile. ‘Just want to see how a professional operates,’ she whispered to him.

Henry sighed. He unpacked the tapes and slotted them into the machine.

Obviously they were going to make sure he did as he was told.

The witness was good.

Karen began by showing him a copy of the ‘amended’ statement and asked him to read it carefully. He obliged. When he had finished he looked up at them and said, ‘It might be my bloody name on top, but I didn’t say that.’ He was very precise and pointed out the discrepancies.

She showed him Degsy’s copy then. He glanced through it quickly and declared, ‘That one’s mine.’

She and Donaldson exchanged a glance of quiet triumph.

‘ What’s this all about? Why has it been changed?’ the witness asked.

‘ We’re not sure,’ Karen answered. ‘But would you mind making a further statement, telling what’s just gone on now? I know it’s a real imposition and it’ll take a while to do, but we think it’s very important.’

She looked at the witness with her big wide eyes and a smile which could have melted granite. He immediately said, ‘Yes, no problem.’

Hunt keyed in Tony Morton’s mobile number into his own and pressed the send button.

‘ They’ve just come out of the house, boss,’ he said. He gave the address to Morton and said, ‘What d’you want me to do?’

‘ Stick with ‘em,’ ordered his Chief Superintendent. ‘I want to know what the fuck’s going on — if anything.’

‘ Will do.’

Donaldson’s Cherokee pulled away from the kerb. Hunt dropped the mobile onto the passenger seat and followed.

Morton looked at the address given by Hunt with a puzzled expression. It meant nothing to him and he wondered if the two people were simply making house-calls to friends.

Hunt had also given him the registered number of the car he was following. Morton tapped the number for a second or two before picking up the internal phone and dialling down to the communications room where there was a PNC terminal.

The first interview was concluded. Rider had declined the offer of a solicitor, waiting until he knew what sort of evidence the cops had on him.

Henry, of course, was pissing in the dark against a pretty strong wind because he knew next to nothing about the case and would need to know an awful lot more about it, Rider, Munrow and their antecedents before he really began to probe.

Throughout, Rider had been non-committal. He was not exactly obstructive, but he wasn’t helpful and the interview achieved nothing.

After Rider had been taken back to his cell, Siobhan dragged Henry back into the confines of the interview room. Once behind the closed door, she cut into him. ‘You’ll have to do a damned sight better than that, Henry, if you want to keep your nose clean.’

‘ I’m new to this game. I might’ve been known to bend the rules in the past, but I’ve never actually fitted anyone up before. I’m just learning,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You’re the fucking expert.’

‘ And here’s some tips, baby,’ she snarled. ‘Let’s begin with the arrest.’

‘ I’m listening.’

‘ Verbal him up.’

‘ What? “It’s a fair cop, guv, you’re too good for me” kinda thing?’

She nodded. ‘Something like that. I’ll back you up.’

‘ You weren’t even there.’

‘ So?’ she shrugged. ‘And what about the journey back to the nick?’

‘ He didn’t say a word.’

‘ Yes, he did — he kept blabbing about how sorry he was, how he’d set Munrow up, how he’d shot him. Didn’t you hear him, Henry?’

‘ No,’ he said bleakly.

‘ I think you did… and what I suggest you do is go away and write your arrest statement to include these things. Then let me have a look at it. Then you can really start to get into the bastard’s ribs. He really did it, y’know?’

‘ He may well have done — but there’s no evidence against him.’

‘ There will be, Henry,’ she reassured him. ‘You just need to get creative.’

‘ How the hell do you sleep at night? Christ! How many times have you done this?’

‘ A few, Henry… and very well, actually.’

‘ What’s this all about, Siobhan?’ he pleaded. ‘How far does it go?’

‘ You don’t need to know, Henry. Not yet, anyway. Maybe when you’ve settled into your role, accepted the inevitable, shown you can be trusted. Maybe then, but for now, all you need to worry about is getting Rider charged with murder — and making it stick.’

They had problems finding the next house. The map didn’t seem to make sense and they drove down a few wrong turns before they eventually pulled up outside.

‘ Men don’t listen…’

‘… and women can’t read maps.’

They laughed. It was one of their favourite personal jokes, often quoted to each other after they had attended a seminar of the same name. Today it seemed totally appropriate.

The night was drawing in quickly. Lights were coming on. The rain made it darker than ever.

‘ At least it’s confirmed something to me, all this chasing our tails up and down the mean streets of Fleetwood.’

‘ Oh — what?’

‘ That we’re being followed.’

‘ Can’t seem to work out the number of the house they’ve gone into,’ Hunt was saying to Morton via the mobile. He told him it was on Douglas Place. Morton wrote it down at his end.

He looked at what he’d written. Next to it was the result of the PNC check which told him that the vehicle was a Jeep Cherokee, owned by someone called Donaldson who lived in Hartley Wintney in Hampshire. The owner’s name meant nothing to him, but he knew exactly where Hartley Wintney was — not five minutes away from the Police Staff College at Bramshill where he had attended several courses for high-ranking officers. And from where he had extended his business interests with likeminded detectives who were happy to feather their nests for comfortable retirements by supplying Morton with details of police operations which might affect him and Conroy.

‘ Donaldson, Donaldson…’ He worked the name through his mind. Nothing came to mind, other than the Bramshill connection.

The cell door opened.

Rider had been dozing on the plastic mattress, a very hairy blanket drawn up to his chin. He sat up and scratched his head. There was something very flea-like about the cell which made him itch all the time.

It was the custody officer, Sergeant Taylor, who had been most fair with him during his stay.

‘ I know you said you didn’t want one,’ Taylor said apologetically, ‘but a solicitor has turned up saying that he is acting for you. If you don’t want him, I’ll tell him to sling his hook. But, to be honest, mate, in was in your position, I’d have one. You need all the help you can get.’

Rider rubbed his eyes.

He hadn’t been banged up for long, but already he was aware of his own bodily odours. As much to escape them, the cell and his solitude, he stood up and said, ‘I’ll see him.’

The solicitor’s interview room was bare, functional and not a place in which to linger. There was a table (screwed to the floor) and two chairs.

Rider entered the room and the solicitor got to his feet. He proffered a hand and introduced himself as Pratt.

When the custody officer had reversed out and closed the door, Pratt said, ‘You’re probably very surprised to see me.’

‘ Considering I hadn’t asked for a brief yet — yes,’ admitted Rider. ‘Amazed would be more accurate.’

‘ I’ve been asked to represent you by a third party, on the proviso that you do something for that third party first.’

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

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

‘ And that is?’

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

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

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

‘ And how can this guarantee be given?’

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

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

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

‘ Does he now?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karen was puzzled. It showed on her face.

He winked at her.

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

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

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

Isa’s words flooded back to him.

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

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

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

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

It was all so simple.

And it was obvious they were tame cops too.

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

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

Trapped and doomed.

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

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

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

‘ Yup.’ He started the engine.

‘ And where the hell did you disappear to?’

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

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

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

He swore and pulled his jacket up around his neck.

‘ Bastards!’

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

Siobhan sat frostily to one side.

The tapes were running.

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

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

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

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

No reply. No response.

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

As if.

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

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

Rider was taken back to his cell.

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

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

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

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

‘ Eric?’

Taylor looked up defiantly. He placed his pen down.

‘ How much did they give you?’

‘ You should know, Henry.’

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

‘ Five grand in a briefcase.’

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

‘ How do I know?’

‘ Have you still got it?’

Taylor nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

‘ Henry fuckin’ Christie.’

‘ My middle name’s James, actually.’

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

‘ So? What’re you getting at?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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