Nightmare City

Chapter Three

At ten o’clock the following morning, Sunday, John Rider emerged unsteadily through the front door of his basement flat situated in the South Shore area of Blackpool.

He walked stiffly up the steps to pavement level, then turned and surveyed the building which towered above his flat.

In its better days it had been an hotel, but over the past thirty years had undergone a series of changes — to guest-house, back to hotel, to private flats, back to guest-house… until in the early 1980s it had been completely abandoned, quickly becoming derelict. By the time Rider saw it advertised for sale, deterioration through damp and vandalism had set in and the building was nothing more than a shell. He bought it for almost nothing and set about refurbishment with as little outlay as possible. He turned it into a complex of twelve tiny bedsits and, after getting a Fire amp; Safety certificate, filled the rooms with unemployed people drawing dole who needed accommodation and breakfasts, but who always paid the rent. Or to be exact, had the rent paid for them by the Department of Social Security.

So, in colloquial parlance, the newest metamorphosis of the building was a ‘DSS doss-house’.

This had marked the beginning of a new and lucrative career for Rider, who had subsequently bought three similar properties and converted them into little gold mines.

Though he had done well out of the business, the lifestyle was nowhere near as exciting as the one he used to have. But it was safe and divorced from his past. The most difficult things he had to deal with these days were the damage to his property, caused usually during drunken squabbles between his tenants, or drug-taking by the same people — a pastime he abhorred and clamped down on firmly, sometimes violently.

Looking up at his property that morning he was pleased to see that there didn’t seem to be any windows broken, the usual for Saturday night.

Glad about this, Rider walked across to the only remnant he possessed of his previous life. It was a maroon-coloured Jaguar XJ12, bought new in 1976. A real gangster’s car which had seen much better days.

He and the car complemented each other. Both were slightly tatty, worn at the edges — ravaged, even — with a rather cynical air about them and an aura of aloofness which had a sinister undertone of danger and power.

And both of them smoked and drank too much and took a long time to get going first thing in the morning.

The engine fired up after a prolonged turn of the ignition. The twelve cylinders rumbled unevenly into life, coughing and spluttering until they caught fire and settled into a steady, burbling rhythm.

Rider let the car warm up for a few minutes. Realising he had forgotten to bring his cigarettes, he slid the ashtray open and poked distastefully through its overflowing contents until he found a dog-end which contained at least one lungful of smoke in it. He lit it with the electric lighter and took a sweet, deep drag.

He pressed the button on the console and the driver’s window creaked open, jamming halfway down as always. He blew out the smoke from inside his chest, flicked the fag-end out onto the pavement and set off.

He drove down onto the Promenade, turned right, heading north. It was one of those clear, crisp January mornings with a fine blue sky, no clouds and a silver sea.

The Promenade was quiet. A few grimy locals meandered around. Traffic was light. A council truck lumbered down the inner promenade, emptying dog-shit bins.

He turned off at Talbot Square and headed inland, picking up the signs for the zoo, where he’d arranged to meet Conroy.

It was actually Conroy who wanted the meet. He who suggested the zoo. More informal, more natural and convivial, he’d said. And he hadn’t been to a zoo since he was a kid.

Rider, out of curiosity more than anything, had agreed.

It had been a long time since he’d seen Conroy and although he’d no wish to re-open old wounds, he was intrigued.

He wondered exactly how ‘convivial’ the man would be. To the best of his memory, conviviality was not one of Ronnie Conroy’s strongest points.

Henry arrived for work at 8 a.m. that morning. He immediately went to check Shane Mulcahy’s custody record. With a bitter twist on his lips he read it and saw there was nowhere for him to add an entry.

He also learned that Shane was still in hospital and was being operated on later to remove a severely damaged testicle which had apparently split like a plum.

So that was the situation. Nothing he could do about it but wait, cross his fingers and pray. No point thinking If only… Too damn late for that.

Disgusted with himself he tried to put it to the back of his mind and concentrate oil the day ahead.

The screen on the custody office computer — coupled with screams and shouts from the cell complex — told him the cells were full. He was relieved to be informed that there was only one overnight prisoner for the CID to deal with, although he would not be fit until he sobered up — conservative estimate being midday. Sounded like a good job for the detectives coming on at two.

He left the custody office and drifted up to the communications room where he read the message pad which logged all incoming calls and deployments. It had been a busy night in Blackpool. Henry was glad his days as a patrol officer were long gone. It was a dog’s life at the sharp end.

After this he had a quick cup of tea and a piece of toast in the canteen before descending to the CID office and his cluttered desk, where he began to draft out a careful statement regarding his interaction with Shane while it was fresh in his memory.

Throughout the morning he was disturbed by a stream of detectives who had been brought on duty to form the murder squad. Many were old friends from across the county.

The first briefing was to be at 11 a.m. in the incident room.

Henry decided, if he had time, he would go in and listen. He had not yet heard who the dead body dressed in police kit was, and curiosity nagged away at him.

Conroy’s big fat Mercedes was the only car in the zoo car park.

Rider drove his Jag past, made a big loop and pulled alongside with a scrunch of tyres on gravel. By this time Conroy was out and standing there, awaiting Rider who climbed creakily out of his car.

Conroy was a vision in cream, with a woven silk three-piece suit by Hermes, off-white T-shirt, and a pair of white canvas trainers by Converse. He’d seen the outfit in Esquire and decided he liked the look. It was him. It had set him back over a thousand pounds.

The two men shook hands. Conroy gave an almost imperceptible nod to his driver and the Mercedes moved away.

‘ I’ve told him to come back in an hour. That OK?’

‘ Fine by me,’ Rider said indifferently, ‘but what’ll we talk about for that length of time? Your fashion sense?’

Conroy laughed guardedly and patted Rider on the shoulder. ‘We’ll think of something… but John, how are you? Nice to see you. You look bloody rough actually and you smell like a fuckin’ brewery. Did you drown in a bottle of gin last night? Christ, it’s a good job the cops didn’t pull ya — you’d still be over the limit.’

Rider glared at him through narrowed eyes, already wound up by a man he hadn’t seen for five years, although he’d tried to keep abreast of his nefarious activities.

‘ And you look like some pathetic ageing rock star in that suit and with that pony tail,’ he retorted.

‘ Whoa, come on, John,’ the other said placatingly. ‘Let’s have a walk and a talk, take a look at some animals, maybe do some business

… yeah?’

Rider didn’t really want to be here with someone who represented much of what was bad about his past, yet his innate curiosity had been aroused. What did this bastard want? He nodded reluctantly.

‘ Good man.’

They walked towards the zoo entrance.

A lone car pulled onto the far side of the car park, catching Rider’s eye. A white Jap thing. Two people on board — men, staring in their direction. They looked as out of place as Conroy and Rider. But although he noticed the car and experienced a vague disquiet, Rider didn’t pay it much heed. He wasn’t a gangster any more, so why should he?

Henry found himself in exalted company, sharing a lift with a dying breed of officer. Two Chief Superintendents, the rank being one of those abolished in police shake-ups of recent years. There were a few left, but not many.

One was Fanshaw-Bayley, Henry’s ultimate boss. The other was the Head of the North-West Organised Crime Squad generally referred to as the NWOCS, Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton.

The NWOCS were an elite team of detectives whose sole brief was to investigate organised criminal activity in the north-west of England, from Cumbria to Cheshire. They were based in Blackburn, Lancashire. The squad had been in existence for just over ten years and under Morton’s direction had been responsible for some of the biggest, most spectacular busts and arrests ever seen in the north-west.

Morton — his home force was Greater Manchester — was a very sharp detective indeed. Henry knew he had begun his career on the hard, mean streets of Salford and Moss Side, and worked his way up the ladder of promotion through sheer hard work and uncompromising thief-taking. Henry had a great deal of respect for the man, who was in many ways a role model for him.

When Henry stepped into the lift, the two Chief Supers glanced quickly at him and resumed their conversation. They talked in hushed tones but were not trying to hide what they were saying.

Morton was speaking. He was clearly upset.

‘ I am totally fucking devastated, Bob… so all I’m saying is that you can have every single member of my squad for this job for as long as it takes. Me too. We’ll drop everything and give this priority. Catch the bastards — catch’ em and crucify’ em! It’s a real blow to us, I can tell you. Christ, I can hardly think straight.’

FB placed a reassuring hand on Morton’s shoulder.

‘ I understand, Tony. If it’d been one of mine, I would’ve felt the same — gutted.’

‘ Yeah, thanks, Bob.’

The lift came to a halt on the floor where the incident room was located. FB gestured for Morton to step out ahead of him. Henry stayed in, finger on the doors-open button. When they were clear he took his finger off.

The last thing he caught was Morton saying, ‘What I don’t understand is what the hell he was doing there by himself, all tooled up. It doesn’t make sense, though he was a bit of a loner.’

By which time the doors had closed and the lift was ascending towards the canteen.

With interest, Henry mulled over what he’d just heard.

At least it confirmed one thing: it was a cop who’d been gunned down — a member of the NWOCS.

Next question for Henry: Who?

‘ I think sometimes you should revisit your past, don’t you? Does you good. We get so caught up with ourselves as grown-ups we forget simple pleasures like zoos.’

Conroy was doing the talking as they walked around, pausing briefly at each cage or enclosure to examine the exhibits. Other than themselves, the zoo was empty, and it seemed a cheerless place on that fine, but cold morning.

Rider was actually mildly impressed with the place. Though small and unspectacular, it was well tended and the animals seemed in good health.

He wasn’t really taking in what Conroy was saying because most of it was drivel. But then he moved up a gear and got Rider’s attention.

‘ I hear you bought a club recently.’

‘ You heard right. Doesn’t news travel fast?’ It was only last week he’d completed the full transfer, though he’d actually been operating the place for about a month.

‘ It’s a small world we inhabit,’ Conroy commented.

They leaned on the outer rail of the lion enclosure and looked through the wire mesh at the sleepy inhabitants. One of the big cats rolled onto its back. A lioness glared at the two humans and licked her lips.

‘ You inhabit,’ Rider corrected him. ‘A small world YOU inhabit. So, yeah, I’ve bought a club.’

‘ What sort of place is it, exactly?’

Rider started walking again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the lioness stand up, stretch and pad towards them.

‘ Exactly? A grotty rundown disco with a bar and a late-night food licence… and if I put some money in it I might make some back. Eventually. What’s your interest?’

They were now strolling side by side along the enclosure.

Walking next to them, staring at them and grunting frighteningly was the lioness, her muscles tensing with each step under the tawny coat. Rider couldn’t tell if she was feeling playful or hungry, but the size of her massive jaws and paws made him relieved there was a strong fence between them.

‘ Partnership,’ stated Conroy.

Rider stopped in his tracks. Conroy carried on a few steps before realising he was alone.

The lioness stopped too, lifted her black nose and looked down its length through haughty black eyes.

‘ Fuck off!’ blurted Rider. ‘Why should I want to go into partnership with you?’ He pointed at the lioness who had settled back on her haunches to watch the discussion like a tennis umpire. ‘I’d rather climb in with her.’

‘ Oh, come on,’ began Conroy.

‘ I’ll head back to the car, if that’s all you came to say.’

Rider walked away, leaving Conroy open-mouthed and on the edge of anger. The lioness growled at him, emitting a sound which seemed to emanate from her belly, gathering momentum as it passed through her throat into her mouth. Conroy jumped. He stuck two fingers up at her and said, ‘You can fuck off too.’

He stormed after the disappearing Rider. No one had walked away from him whilst he was talking in the last ten years. People listened to him. If they didn’t, they got something broken.

By the time he caught up with Rider, he’d adopted a pleading tone of voice which held just the merest hint of threat in it. Rider knew his way of speaking well.

‘ Look, John, I expect you’re wondering why I want a piece of action up here, by the sea.’

‘ To peddle drugs, I imagine, which is your main source of income,’ Rider said through the side of his mouth, still walking.

‘ John, stop and fucking listen to me!’ Conroy took hold of Rider’s arm and yanked him to a standstill. Rider halted abruptly, faced Conroy and looked dangerously down at the hand which was wrapped around his upper arm. Then he stared into Conroy’s eyes.

The hand dropped away.

‘ Sorry,’ mumbled Conroy. Good, Rider thought. He’s still afraid of me. ‘I want to explain something.’

‘ You gotta minute.’

‘ I need to expand. I own the east of this fucking county, all the way up from Blackburn to Colne. Clubs, pubs, council estates. All mine, but I need to move on. They’re poor people across there, only so much money. I’m stagnating and Blackpool has got to be the place for my next move. So what better, eh, John? You’ve got a club, and those doss-houses you run… let’s get back together again and make some fucking bread.’

Rider folded his arms defensively and looked into the enclosure at which they were now standing. There was a high wall surrounding a dry moat and a circle of grass with a few trees in the middle of it. On one of the trees sat a huge, Silverback gorilla, arms folded like Rider’s.

Rider couldn’t help but smile.

‘ This place has great potential. Eighteen million visitors every year. Pubs, clubs… that gay scene — those twats love the speed — no real organised stuff here, just two-bit villains with no strategic mind like me. We’ll make a fucking killing. Me and thee… like the old days.’

They were standing more or less shoulder to shoulder, looking at the gorilla as they talked, and he at them, as though listening.

‘ He could be a doorman,’ Conroy laughed.

Rider gave Conroy a sidelong squint. There was something not quite right about this but he couldn’t pin it down. ‘Ron, you’re lying about something here. I can tell when you ain’t telling the truth. Your nostrils flare when you talk.’

‘ Eh? I am not lying, John,’ Conroy said earnestly, his nostrils flaring. Instinctively he put his hand over his nose, realised what he’d done, then self-consciously pulled it away. ‘So what about it? Me and you again?’

Rider sighed, leaned on the outer wall of the enclosure, resting his weight on his hands.

‘ There’s a few things,’ he said easily. ‘First I don’t like you. I don’t like your cop connections or your political ones… they give me the creeps. I wouldn’t go into any deal with you because I don’t think I could ever trust you after the way you shafted Munrow.’

‘ Hey, business is business, John. Not that I’m saying I did shaft him. What is important is that I never shafted you.’

‘ Hm, maybe not — but whatever, I don’t like drugs and I won’t entertain them. It took me five years to get off the sods — and I still want to mainline, even now, stood here, and if I go in with you, I’ll slide back. I want to stay clean. And, as I said, I don’t fuckin’ believe you for some reason. You’re a sneaky bastard and you’re up to something. I can feel it in my piss. So the answer’s no. And you know me. I say something — I mean it.’

Conroy hardened. His jaw line tensed and relaxed a few times. ‘I want in to that gaff of yours, John. Now I’ve asked you nicely. Don’t make me tell you. Nobody says no to me these days.’

Rider stood slowly upright at this. He considered the words uttered by Conroy and their implication.

He spoke, but did not look at Conroy because he felt that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to resist tipping the bastard over the wall in with the gorilla.

‘ You’ve obviously forgotten who you are talking to. Don’t ever threaten me and don’t try something you’ll regret.’

Conroy made no response.

Rider, becoming angry, raised his eyes to the sky and said, ‘Do you understand?’

Again nothing.

Rider’s head swivelled. He looked at Conroy who was standing there as rigid as stone.

Then Rider saw the reason for Conroy’s lack of acknowledgement.

The muzzle of a gun was being pushed hard into the back of Conroy’s head, just under the point where the hair band held his pony tail. Rider, though rusty in such matters, recognised the type of gun immediately — a K frame. 357 revolver, six shot, constructed of stainless steel. He was close enough to read the words Smith amp; W esson stamped on the barrel. It was a type of gun he had once owned illegally, once used and once dealt in. He knew what kind of damage it was capable of inflicting on a human being.

Rider’s eyes followed the barrel to the hand, to the arm, to the person who was holding the gun.

He was a tall guy, youngish, dressed sportingly in a black Reebok tracksuit. He had dark, unkempt curly hair and a three-day growth on his face. Thin, gaunt, he looked as though a good meal would have killed him. His eyes were wide and watery, almost no colour in them, and he sniffed continually. He looked high and excited.

A couple of metres behind him stood a similarly dressed male who was no more than a teenager, dancing on the balls of his feet, agitated. He waved a semi-automatic pistol loosely in front of him, pointing in the general direction of Rider.

Rider’s eyes locked briefly with Curly.

‘ You finished your little speech, hard man?’ he demanded wildly of Rider. ‘Eh? Eh?’ With each ‘Eh’ he jammed the gun harder into Conroy’s skin.

‘ Yeah, finished,’ said Rider. His eyes took in both men as he half-turned to see better.

‘ Good, fuckin’ good,’ snorted Curly, really hyper.

The only thing in Conroy’s favour was that these men were at the peak of a score. People like that made mistakes. They also tended to kill other people, too.

‘ What’s happening?’ Rider said, hoping to establish a dialogue to give him time to think.

‘ Can’t you fucking see? We’ve come to kill this cunt.’ He rammed the gun into Conroy’s head again.

Conroy let out a little squeak.

‘ Oh, right. I see,’ said Rider, nodding his head. He lifted both hands in an open-palmed gesture. ‘You do what you gotta do,’ he said to Curly, who he had now sussed as a rank amateur, as was his pal behind him. Professionals don’t talk, they act. If they had been pros Conroy would be splattered by now. Rider guessed this was their first direct hit and it wasn’t easy. He knew. ‘I won’t interfere. Not my business.’ To Conroy he said, ‘Sorry, pal. Nothing personal.’

Conroy’s mouth sagged open in fear. His eyes were bursting out of their sockets. ‘You twat,’ he managed to breath.

Rider shrugged.

Curly’s thumb went to the spur of the hammer and pulled it slowly back.

Rider watched it, fascinated. He saw the firing pin come into view, the cylinder rotate the next bullet into position.

This was the only chance. He took it.

At the exact moment the hammer locked into place he lunged at Curly.

With his right hand he palmed the gun away from the back of Conroy’s head as though he was slamming a door shut.

What he couldn’t prevent was Curly’s forefinger from pulling the trigger, but this happened as the muzzle of the gun cleared the danger area of Conroy’s skull. The bullet discharged just inches away from Conroy’s ear.

Rider continued with his self-propelled momentum, pushing the gun further away, his fingers closing over the top strap and cylinder of the gun, gripping tightly, and twisting it easily out of Curly’s hand. At the same time he stepped into a position which put Curly between him and the other gunman.

Suddenly disarmed and disorientated, Curly staggered back a couple of steps. This should have been a simple hit, no complications. Now things had changed.

For a start, there was no gun in his hand any more.

Behind Rider, Conroy sank to his knees, holding both his hands over his left ear. From such close range the shot had almost burst his eardrum.

Rider eased the gun into the palm of his hand and looked down his nose at Curly, in the way the lioness had earlier surveyed him.

Before he could say anything, Curly made a bad decision.

He threw himself to the ground and yelled, ‘Shoot ‘em, Jonno. Shoot the cunts!’

Jonno, his almost-adolescent companion, was as bewildered as Curly. He dodged and weaved on the spot, trying to get a shot in without hitting Curly — but was slightly off-balance and wide open.

To be on the safe side, Rider shot Jonno once.

He didn’t want to kill the poor kid — even though he knew that if the gun was loaded with magnum shells it wouldn’t matter where the hell he hit him, he’d probably die from shock if nothing else — so he aimed in the general area of the youngster’s legs.

It wasn’t a magnum. He could tell from the recoil.

The. 357 slug slammed into the outer part of Jonno’s right thigh with an audible ‘slap’ as the flesh burst, ripping through the muscle and lodging by his thigh bone.

Jonno screamed and dropped his gun. His hands went to the leg and clamped round the wound as he lowered himself to the ground. Blood spurted out between his fingers. He was shivering already as the shock waves pounded up through his abdomen.

Curly looked up at Rider, who pointed the gun at him.

‘ No, don’t, please,’ he gasped desperately.

Rider was about to enjoy some sport with Curly, but this was quickly curtailed when someone shouted, ‘Oi!’ from a distance. Two people who looked like zoo officials approached cautiously.

Deciding enough was enough, Rider ignominiously heaved the half-deaf Conroy to his feet and dragged him out of the zoo whilst waving the revolver about so people would keep their distance.

There were one or two questions Rider wanted to put to him.

Henry leaned back in his chair, laid down his pen and picked up the statement he had written about his little altercation with Shane. He reread it thoroughly once more. If it came to the crunch, he hoped it would answer all the questions.

He was satisfied with the content, but winced when he came to the feeble excuse for not putting an entry onto the custody record. It wouldn’t hold water if the Police Complaints Authority ever got involved.

‘ Morning, Sarge — sorry, Inspector.’

Henry glanced up. Derek Luton was standing there, smiling and very smartly dressed.

‘ You coming to the briefing, Henry?’

‘ Yep, certainly am.’ Henry laid the statement carefully in his desk drawer and stood up. ‘All psyched up for this, Degsy?’

‘ Can’t effing wait,’ he said, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically.

Henry slid his jacket on. They walked towards the door. ‘I hear it was a detective from NWOCS that got blasted,’ Henry said.

‘ Yeah, believe so.’

‘ Name been released yet?’

‘ At the briefing, I think,’ said Luton.

‘ I heard Tony Morton telling FB he would deploy his whole team for this. You could end up working with one of the elite.’

‘ I’ll try not to wet my keks,’ laughed Luton.

Just before they reached the door the phone rang on Henry’s desk. ‘Shit. I’ll see you up there.’ He about faced and walked slowly back, hoping it would stop ringing before he got to it. It didn’t.

Rider was in the bar of his newly acquired club. It was dark and cool but smelled of old tobacco and spilled beer, beer which had permeated into the carpet, making each tread a sticky one. The whole place was suffering from neglect and bad management, needing gutting and refurbishing.

Rider sighed and let his eyes skim over the place. It was huge — a former casino, though the last time a roulette wheel had spun was in the early 1960s. Beyond the bar, dance floor and eating areas was a warren of corridors and rooms going up three floors. Rider wondered if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. It was going to cost a lot to get it up and running properly, but the joint had real potential.

All it needed was cash and dedication.

Jacko the head barman was polishing glasses. He had come with the place — as had a few other staff — was a good worker and very proud of his territory behind the bar. It was the only area in the whole club that was spotless.

Rider had only known Jacko about six weeks but had been impressed by him from the start. He appeared honest, loyal and committed to the place. He and Jacko had taken to each other and Rider had no hesitation in keeping him on. A good bar manager could be the lynchpin to the whole operation, and Rider knew a good one when he saw one.

The rest of the staff he sacked. They were lazy, idle, incompetent and dishonest.

He drank the last of his third gin and put the glass on the bar. Jacko came, picked it up and wiped underneath it.

‘ Another, boss?’ he enquired.

Rider shook his head. He was relaxed now. He’d gone through that lightheaded, nervy phase that always seemed to affect him after a confrontation. Jacko took the glass away.

Conroy returned from the pay-phone in the entrance foyer, made his way to the bar and told Jacko to get him a Bell’s. He scowled into his drink as he tipped it back down his throat then proffered his glass for another, this time a treble. His head was throbbing.

‘ Left me fuckin’ mobile in the car,’ he said. ‘Just phoned the driver to tell him to pick me up.’

‘ How’s the ear?’

It was clanging like Big Ben.

‘ I’ll survive.’

He took a mouthful of the whisky, ran it round his mouth, swallowed and gasped. He stared at the smooth liquid for a moment and at length said, ‘Haven’t seen that move for a while, John.’

‘ Mm?’

‘ Disarming — yanking a gun outta someone’s hand. Used to be your party trick, that, dinnit?’

‘ Not especially,’ said Rider. He had done it twice before, though the gun hadn’t gone off on those occasions. He was getting slow. ‘One day I’ll miss and some fucker’ll get blown away.’

Conroy appraised Rider critically.

‘ You never lost your bottle, did you? All you did was become a drunk.’ ‘I got out of it, that’s all. I’d had enough.’

‘ Everyone said you’d lost your bottle.’

Rider squirmed uncomfortably. Conroy was getting under his skin and he didn’t like it. ‘A few things happened. I got a conscience, I got pissed off looking over my shoulder for cops all the time, wondering when you were going to grass me up. I saw how bad the whole scene was and I realised I needed to get out of it before it killed me, or I ended up as a lifer. I was thirty-five, a junkie and a piss-head. I suddenly thought, "Let’s get outta here and try to get to forty-five, preferably not in a prison or a coffin". Now I’m just a piss-head, got a life of sorts, some brass and no ties to bastards like you. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t loan people money at extortionate rates. I don’t beat people up any more just because they’ve looked at me funny, and I don’t get other people to maim or murder for me.’

‘ Very bloody deep,’ said Conroy sarcastically. ‘You sound like a complete angel.’

Rider bristled. His lips puckered angrily.

Conroy emptied his glass. He shook his head sadly as he spoke. ‘Sorry, mate, but you’ve been involved in it for too long. You owe too many people and too many still owe you, good and bad. And you wanna run from it? No chance, because it’s all just caught up with you today.’

‘ How?’

‘ Talk about ironic. Here’s you, eh? Quits the big time, wants to be left alone, get respectable — if you can call being a DSS landlord respectable. To me it stinks. Selling dope to ten-year-olds is more fucking respectable than what you do. But then today I come along — someone you haven’t seen for years — and bang!’ He pointed his right forefinger at Rider’s temple and clicked his thumb like a hammer. ‘Some bastards with a gun turn up, try to slot me and you save my life and half kill one of ‘em. Talk about ironic.’

‘ Why?’

‘ You want to know what this is all about? It’s about me and Munrow-’

Rider raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought he was still inside.’

‘ You thought wrong. The bastard’s out and he’s after my territory. They were his boys today, no doubt about that, so word’ll get back to him and you’ll be linked to me. And you know what he’s like — bull in a friggin’ china shop.’

‘ You mean you’re in dispute with him?’

‘ Dispute? That’s a pretty little word. Nah, we’re at war, John.’ He spoke through gritted teeth. ‘It’s just starting, but it’ll be big, bad and ugly — just the kinda rumpus you used to enjoy.’