Nightmare City

Chapter Five

Once Conroy had gone, Rider sat and ate a late breakfast at the bar. Croissants and tea.

For the first time in his life, Rider was content with his lot. He liked the club and the ‘guest-houses’, as he preferred to call them, rather than DSS doss-houses. His basement flat underneath the first property he’d bought was an oasis of sheer luxury in a desert of basic living. It was his permanent home, the first he’d ever owned. He had the financial means to buy a luxurious detached house, but he’d grown accustomed to the flat which was perfectly large enough for him and his occasional guests. He had never put roots down anywhere before and he was loath to upstakes just for the hell of it. There was no need to.

He thought bleakly about his criminal past.

Back then his life had been a continual series of moves from one house to the next; to some dive of an hotel room to some flea-pit flat, then maybe a night in the back room of a pub. All in the mean streets of Manchester or some depressing East-Lancashire mill town.

Even when he’d started making real money from drugs, guns and lending money, the lifestyle didn’t change, just the quality of places he could afford. One thing he vividly remembered about it all was the constant indigestion, probably brought about by stress, though he didn’t realise it at the time.

He could never recall spending a full year in anyone place because the whole nature of the existence made continuous movement a necessity.

Standing still in those days meant you became an easy target, maybe of the law, or some toe-rag with a score to settle — and there was always plenty of them about.

He sipped his tea. Christ, he thought with disgust, twenty years of living like that.

In the end it got to him. Never knowing where he would be sleeping, or with whom; but always sure that once he was settled in and feeling comfortable, he’d have to get up and leave.

It was no good.

As a young man, fresh out of borstal it had been exciting. A life of hands-on crime, living solely off wits, strength, intimidation and violence. Building up a criminal empire which stretched throughout the whole of East Lancashire and parts of Manchester, based on gambling, prostitution, loan sharking, gun dealing and the biggie — drugs.

In the end it wore him down, and his outlook on life slowly changed. Gradually he found he wanted ‘normal’ things, such as somewhere static to live, a woman, kids maybe. Time to sit and read a book once in a while.

It hit him one day as he was edging his car through a McDonald’s Drive-Thru after a morning collecting debts during which he’d smashed the kneecap of one guy who’d missed a couple of repayments. He found himself staring at a family of four and he discovered he was jealous.

That was one of the reasons for pulling out.

There were plenty of others.

He’d become an alcoholic and such a big drug-abuser that he made some of his clients look clean. The habits were costing him a grand a week — big money — and whittling away mercilessly at his profits.

He also found that he came to hate people being afraid of him all the time. Always, at the back of their eyes, he could see uncertainty and fear. He had traded on the ability to instil terror when he was younger, but he found his reputation to be an impediment as he got older and his values changed. Most people he came into contact with were shit-scared of him and he didn’t like having that effect.

The formation of the NWOCS also played a part in his departure. The fact that the cops had set up such a squad sent out its own message: Gangsters were not going to be tolerated. Rider knew of Conroy’s cop connections, but was not naive enough to think the protection Conroy enjoyed extended to him and Munrow. He knew Conroy wanted things his own way, to be in control, but by that time, with a drug and booze-sodden brain, Rider was past caring. As far as he was concerned, Conroy could have it all.

The final and biggest reason was that he, Conroy and Munrow were not operating as a team any more.

Conroy had big, strategic ideas.

Munrow was a thug with little or no finesse.

And he was a complete shambles who could only see as far as the next fix.

They were in constant conflict with each other and Rider knew that if he didn’t get out, sooner rather than later, he would have killed both the bastards.

So he made the decision, pooled all his cash and left.

Somewhat smugly, and from a safe distance, he found himself proved right on one thing. Soon after he quit, the cops arrested Munrow and several other bit players following an armed robbery. Conroy remained free as a bird (and Rider had his own ideas as to why) and flourished. Munrow, meanwhile, didn’t manage to wriggle at all.

It could so easily have been Rider. He had been expected to take part in the robbery.

Now he was as happy as he’d ever been. He enjoyed Blackpool, running legitimate businesses, employing a few people and keeping his nose clean. He hadn’t found a woman — not a regular one — but he was prepared to tread water.

Fuck, he thought bitterly. I hope to hell-shit Munrow doesn’t rope me into this nonsense.

Conroy had not been very precise when he’d talked about the ‘war’, but it sounded bad. Munrow was out of prison, wanted what he believed to be rightfully his and Conroy was reluctant to give it to him. Naturally. So things had started bubbling… and Conroy was worried.

‘ I’ve moved on in a lot of ways,’ he’d said to Rider. ‘Like you,’ he added, making Rider wince. ‘I’m a corporate player now. I run a tight business — none of that hands-on shite like we used to. Too fucking dangerous by half. Keep everything at arms’ length now, just rake in the profits. Not like Munrow. He’s still in a time warp. I’ve expanded into new fields, built up new contacts and I’m on a very big deal. Munrow’s on the verge of ruining it.’

He refused to divulge anything more to Rider, including the reason for his interest in the club.

He’d left shortly afterwards, leaving Rider brooding over breakfast.

A thought struck him. ‘The bastard,’ he said out loud. ‘He didn’t even thank me for saving his life!’

Smeared blood covered the inside of the strengthened glass, making it difficult for Henry to see through to the sole occupant of the enclosure.

‘ I couldn’t believe what I was seeing,’ a zoo official called Draycott was telling him. ‘There were only four customers in the zoo at the time… it’s very quiet just now, and all they wanted to do was shoot each other. A bloody shoot-out, right here, in Blackpool Zoo. It was like a scene from a film or something.’

He had already described what he’d witnessed to Henry and now he was in the process of coming to terms with it. Henry let him speak, asking occasional questions to clarify things.

‘ So one knocked the gun away from the other’s head and it went off?’

‘ Yeah, that’s right. Moved really quick. Really impressive. Next thing it was in his hand and he was in charge.’

‘ And what happened at the point when the gun first went off’?’

‘ Boris here,’ he thumbed at the gorilla, ‘was sitting in his tree watching these guys, and when the gun went off he just tumbled out of the branches, right spectacular-like, and thudded to the ground. Shot by mistake, obviously. I thought he was dead at first.’

‘ And the-men?’

‘ Bit confused there.’ Draycott screwed up his nose. ‘The one who originally had the gun jumped to one side and shouted something, don’t know what, and the one who grabbed the gun — if you see what I mean — shot his mate in the leg.’

‘ Very confusing,’ Henry agreed.

‘ Oh yeah, very. Anyway, I shouted to them and they scarpered, basically, flashing guns at us.’

‘ All together?’

‘ Separate. First two legged it pretty quick; second two were a bit slower because one’d been shot. The girl in the entrance booth saw their cars and wrote the numbers down.’

‘ That should be helpful,’ Henry said. He knew the girl was presently giving a statement. ‘And the poor gorilla?’

‘ Yeah,’ said Draycott. ‘He’s my main concern now. He dragged himself in here, sat down in one corner and bled like a stuck pig. His keeper went in but got attacked. Then he did this with the blood, wiping it all over the glass as you can see.’

‘ So it looks like he got shot in the shoulder?’

‘ Definitely. Looks a bad wound.’

Henry bent low to where there was an area of glass free from blood. He peered through.

The gorilla was sitting in one corner of the enclosure, nursing his left shoulder with his right hand, rocking backwards and forwards, chuntering to himself He was a magnificent animal. Heavy and thickset with a short, broad torso. His head was large and wide, forehead massive and low, overhanging his eyes which were close together, small, deepset and black. His arms looked very muscular. Henry had to admire anyone who had the courage to step in with him, even when he was uninjured and in a playful mood. He suspected the keeper had been lucky to escape with his life today.

The gorilla’s coat was matted with blood in a swathe which ran from his left shoulder, right the way across his chest to his stomach. He had lost a good deal of blood.

The wound was still bleeding profusely. Henry could see a sliver of jagged white bone sticking out between the gorilla’s fingers. It was an injury which needed treatment quickly.

Suddenly the gorilla stopped rocking and became still and silent. His eyes flickered up and saw Henry looking through the glass. For a second their eyes locked in a kind of primeval gaze. Then the gorilla’s lips drew back into a fearsome snarl, revealing a powerful set of teeth which were capable of ripping a man to shreds. A deep bark of annoyance, followed by an angry roar, boomed from the gorilla’s throat, making Henry’s stomach somersault. The animal then flung himself across the enclosure towards Henry, battering the glass with his raging fists.

Henry drew back instinctively. He knew he was safe with that thick glass between him and the beast, but he could have sworn the glass bowed when the animal pounded almost 340 kgs of sheer muscle against it.

The air rushed out of Henry’s lungs in a gasp. He was speechless for a moment. Eventually and rather inadequately, he said ‘Wow.’ He could feel his heart pounding, could taste the quick rush of adrenal in which had gushed into his body. He closed his mouth, pulled himself together and smiled shamefacedly at Draycott. ‘Some beast.’

The attack on the glass had been brief. Boris had now slunk back to the comfort of his corner. He sat down and began to shiver uncontrollably, shock setting in.

‘ Where the hell’s that vet?’ Draycott begged to know.

The statement taken from the girl at the turnstile was not really worth the paper it was written on. She had not noted any numbers, and all the statement contained was a vague description of two cars which the men had boarded, their colour and a very partial registered number which she’d dredged from memory. Evidentially pretty crap.

Henry handed it back to the PC who had taken it.

There was little else for him to do at the zoo. The only real way forward would be if the wounded man turned up in a casualty department, or dead somewhere.

But, bearing in mind the nature of the incident — a hit that went awry, or so it seemed — even if he did turn up at a hospital there would be little hope of him talking. Henry favoured the latter possibility anyway: he’d more than likely turn up in a ditch somewhere having bled to death. That way there would definitely be no chance of him speaking to the cops.

Henry’s stomach panged with hunger.

It was 2.30 p.m. and apart from some toast that morning, he’d eaten nothing all day. He walked to the zoo cafeteria, ordered a sandwich and a coffee and sat down to eat before returning to the mortuary to catch the tail-end of the post mortem.

As he sipped the brew he had difficulty in focusing his mind on anything other than the look which had passed between himself and the gorilla before it charged him. He knew he was probably overplaying the significance, but hell, it had been just like looking into the eyes of another human being. There had been intelligence and knowledge. Henry shook his head and felt very sorry for such a creature having to live in captivity. He hoped Boris would pull through.

The last thing he wanted was to be investigating the murder of a gorilla.

‘ You look serious.’

Standing next to Rider at the bar was Isa. He hadn’t heard her arrive. She was staying in a guest-house opposite the club. He had been deep into the club’s books, trying to make some elusive figures balance. A struggle. He pushed the calculator to one side.

‘ Life is serious,’ he said, forcing a false smile which then metamorphosised into a real one. Isa always had the capacity to cheer him up.

‘ I could make it more fun for you, John,’ she said and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

‘ No doubt you could, hon,’ he conceded, ‘but afterwards it’d still all be there.’

‘ Must be bad.’ She laid a hand on the back of his head. He could smell her lady-scent through her clothes. It made him slightly woozy for a moment. He pulled her towards him and hugged her gently, then released her. She stepped away.

Rider missed the look of longing in her eyes. They had always been good friends, other than for one night when a little flirtation went too far and they ended up making love. But it had proved to be a one-off, much to Isa’s frustration, because she had been hopelessly in love with Rider for longer than she cared to mention. He seemed to continually miss the signs and she didn’t have the guts to tell him. Because above everything else — at least from his perspective — they had been and were once again, business partners. ‘I think I saw Ron Conroy being driven in his Merc. Am I right?’

Rider nodded.

‘ He’s the reason you look like you’ve seen your arse, isn’t he?’

‘ Yeah, but let me worry about him. My problem. No need for you to get involved.’ He slid off the bar stool before she could say anything and stood up. ‘So, what do you think about this place now you’ve had a good look around, got the feel of it?’

‘ When you look beyond the shit and the sticky carpet and try to imagine it how you describe, not bad, not bad at all.’ She nodded appraisingly. Her mouth turned down at the corners as she considered. ‘Loads of potential, but it needs so much money spending on it, John. Even if you were going to run it as a straight disco it would need gutting. Those ceilings look like they’re about to come down. And I don’t have too much money to invest, not at the moment.’

‘ I do. Don’t worry about that aspect of it. I’m not asking you for anything other than your expertise and I’ll pay you well for that. But what d’you think about the plan — the north’s first lap-dance joint? Right here in Blackpool, the tackiest place in the world?’

‘ Seems a good idea and in the right town.’

‘ Good. Your job will be to provide the dancers and manage them.’

‘ Not a problem,’ she said. Isa Hart ran a respectable escort agency in Manchester, specialising in escorts for the’ Busy, discerning professional’, whatever the sex. A profitable business in itself, it also provided a sound front for many other less respectable activities including the provision of exotic dancers for the Middle East, strippers for high-class men’s clubs and one-off functions, gay dancers and, of course, where Isa had started all those years ago — running call girls.

She had known Rider for many years. They had jointly run several ventures in the strip-joint and call-girl territory, but these businesses had crumbled when Rider hit the bottle and the coke.

They both gazed down the bar, across the vast dance floor and beyond to the raised seating area which was the restaurant. Rider’s plan was to get rid of the dance floor, and build a huge circular bar on which the girls would dance to pounding rock music and relieve the customers of their money.

He could see it all. Brash. Glitzy. Rude — very rude. Yet well run, tightly policed by his staff, fun and completely in keeping with Blackpool’s image. The clientele would not be able to touch the girls and there would be no hint of prostitution. They would simply dance provocatively, virtually naked, in front of and almost in the laps of customers. Money would be handed to them and they could be ‘bought’ for individual dancing.

To Rider it was a beautiful image, which was one of the reasons he didn’t want to sell the place to Conroy.

He had a goal now, an aim in life, and he wanted to achieve it.

And he had plans for the rest of the building too. There were another two storeys above which used to be offices for the casino and although the floors were generally rotten and dangerous, he planned to bring them up to scratch and open a restaurant and pub on the first floor and convert the second into new offices.

‘ The planning application goes in next week. We’ll see what reaction it gets. Should be favourable.’

‘ You mean you’ve greased some palms?’

Rider merely smiled at her and raised his eyebrows.

The doorbell rang.

Jacko, who’d been restocking the bar, sauntered away to answer it while Rider pointed out a few more things to Isa.

A few moments later, Jacko was back, flustered.

‘ Cops,’ he said.

Rider closed his eyes despairingly as he remembered something. The bell rang again.

He dashed behind the bar, reached under the counter, rummaged for a second and pulled out the gun he’d commandeered from Curly. He shoved it into Jacko’s hands who held it like he’d been given a dog turd.

‘ Take that upstairs and hide it — hide it somewhere they won’t find it, just in case they want to search the place. Well, go on, go on!’ He shooed Jacko away. ‘Make yourself scarce, Isa.’

‘ What do they want?’ she asked wide-eyed, the sight of the gun having thrown her.

Rider did not reply. He turned and walked to the front door, grating his teeth angrily, swearing at the thought of Conroy. Today was becoming like one of the good old days, and the sad thing was, annoyed though he was by the whole debacle, he was quite enjoying it, in a sick, perverted sort of way.

After Henry had finished at the zoo, he made his way back to the mortuary. Dr Baines, the pathologist, didn’t tell him anything he hadn’t already guessed. The girl had died from multiple stab-wounds. Anyone from a total of forty could have been the fatal blow.

Baines promised a written report as soon as possible. That meant anything up to a week because of workload.

Henry thanked him, waved goodbye to Jan and gloomily returned to the office, where he immediately sought out FR His boss was in the murder room set up for the newsagents job, in deep conversation with Tony Morton. Henry had to wait to step in.

FB looked blandly unconvinced when Henry said he wanted a full team on the beach corpse.

‘ Sorry Henry, this takes priority in terms of manpower and resources.’ He flicked his hands at the incident room. ‘The sordid little murder of a junkie who was probably on the game and deserved what she got doesn’t even rank.’

Anger bubbled up inside him at these crass remarks, but he managed not to punch the living daylights out of FB.

‘ She actually deserves as much as anyone,’ he replied calmly.

FB gave one of his famous sneers and said, ‘That’s as maybe, but the reality is you’re gonna have to manage this one as best you can with the resources available — i.e. whoever’s left in the office.’

‘ They’re all on this sodding job. Can I have Derek Luton back?’

‘ Nope — you’ll have to make do.’

‘ Jesus,’ Henry uttered under his breath.

FB relented slightly. ‘Tell you what. I’ll give you one HOLMES terminal and an operator to go with it.’

‘ Big fuckin’ deal,’ Henry snapped.

‘ Don’t push it, Henry,’ FB warned him.

‘ Overtime budget?’

FB laughed.

And that was that.

In the CID office, the Support Unit Sergeant who had been leading the team searching the beach for evidence was waiting. He handed a small black leather-clutch bag with a gold clasp and shoulder strap triumphantly to Henry.

The find cheered Henry.

Eagerly he cleared his desk top, spread out a sheet of polythene and opened the water-sodden bag, emptying out the contents. He had been hoping that there would be something in here to give him a quick lead, even though there was nothing to suggest the bag even belonged to the dead girl.

And the contents of the bag were, at first glance, going to be of no use whatsoever in solving the murder.

A crumpled packet of Benson amp; Hedges cigarettes, three left in, a plastic throwaway lighter and a syringe with a rusty needle. Everything soaked in sea-water, the cigarettes being not much more than tobacco mush.

‘ Fuck,’ said Henry, disappointed, but not completely surprised.

It would have been nice to have tipped out a driving licence and passport with her name on and a diary detailing her most recent acrimonious split with her latest lover who had threatened to kill her

… but it was not to be.

He tipped the cigarettes out of the packet then carefully ripped out the gold paper innards. Nothing.

He looked closely at the lighter, flicked the mechanism and found it worked. It gave him nothing else.

Neither did the syringe. Inside it, though, looked to be the crystallised remains of some controlled substance.

He turned the bag inside out, finding the black nylon lining to be ripped, he probed with his fingers into the space between the lining and the bag. Nichts.

‘ Don’t suppose you found anything else?’ he asked the Support Unit Sergeant hopefully.

Negative.

Shit.

Despondently Henry picked up the bag again and twirled it around between his hands. He looked through it once more… and saw something. Tucked into the bottom corner of the mirror pocket, folded several times, was a small piece of paper.

Very easy to miss, he reassured himself.

He pulled it out, holding it tentatively between finger and thumb, laid it out on the desk. It was sodden, almost to the point of disintegration.

Using the tip of a ball-point pen he unfolded it, trying not to tear it. He ended up with a triangular piece of paper which could have been the corner of a page, possibly a telephone directory. Some words — thankfully in pencil- were written on the paper and quite legible. An address — a house number and a street name, but no town specified.

Henry made the assumption it was Blackpool.

Ten minutes later, together with another detective, he was pushing his way through the main door of a block of flats in South Shore, about to do one of the things he most enjoyed doing: knocking on doors.

It looked a likely place, and although he tried not to stereotype people, he could well imagine the dead girl to have lived in such surroundings.

He rapped his knuckles sharply on the first door he came to and looked around whilst waiting for a reply.

The hallway, which reeked of cat piss, was littered with uncollected post, milk bottles — empty, unwashed — and a baby buggy. Oddly enough, no cats were to be seen. Henry glanced over his shoulder at the tubby Detective Constable who was accompanying him. ‘See, told you. They all smell the same, these places.’

The detective, Dave Seymour, nodded. ‘I know, boss.’ He was an experienced officer with more years on the CID than Henry and only a couple to go before retirement.

Henry raised his hand to knock again just as the door opened reluctantly — but only as far as the flimsy security chain allowed. Henry could easily have put his shoulder to the door and burst through.

Behind the door stood a thin, pale-faced female holding a screaming baby to her flat chest. Her eyes were red raw, sunken. One of them bore the remnants of a nasty-looking green bruise. From inside the flat came the sound of a TV turned up to a high volume.

She clocked the two men as detectives straight away.

‘ What do you want?’ she asked cautiously, appraising them.

‘ We’re investigating a death,’ Henry told her, having to raise his voice to compete with the baby-TV combination. ‘Could we have a word, please? Inside.’ He showed his warrant card.

‘ I don’t know nothin’ an’ I haven’t done nothin’,’ she said nervously, juggling the baby up and down. The child picked up her tension and the volume from its lungs increased by several decibels.

‘ We’re just after some information, that’s all,’ Henry informed her. ‘We won’t keep you long — honest.’ He smiled.

She tutted, put the door to, unhooked the chain and let the two detectives come into her living accommodation. It consisted of three tiny rooms: a bed/living room with a mattress covered with grimy sheets in one corner, a couple of big, second-hand armchairs and a good quality TV set on top of a small cupboard; a minuscule bathroom, and a kitchen with a three-ringed cooker, sink and no fridge. In overall area, the flat was no bigger than a small towing caravan but was much less luxurious.

A large amount of baby clothing littered the place; in one corner of the room was a high pile of unused disposable nappies. The room smelled of sick and pooh with just a hint of cannabis.

What a fucking life, Henry thought. She must be all of seventeen. ‘And you are?’ he asked.

‘ Jodie Flew.’

‘ You alone here?’

‘ At the moment, yes,’ she answered tartly. ‘What d’you want?’ She brushed back a strand of greasy hair from her face. The baby’s volume decreased. Seymour crossed to the TV and switched it off.

Henry told her, gave a description of the dead girl and asked Jodie if it were possible she knew her, or if she lived in one of the flats.

‘ Well, maybe. Dead, eh?’ Jodie was not too concerned by the news. ‘A new tenant moved into one of the flats upstairs, day before yesterday, don’t know which one, but I only seen her a coupla times in passing. Could’ve been her, from the description. Hard to say. You spoken to the landlord?’

Henry shook his head.

‘ He lives downstairs.’ She pointed to the floor. ‘If he isn’t in, he’ll be at his club, that one on Withnell Road.’

Henry thanked her and made to leave.

‘ Any idea where that bastard of a boyfriend of mine is?’ she asked as they stepped out.

‘ Should we?’

‘ Well, he’s always in trouble for something or other. He went to the match yesterday and he hasn’t come back yet. I know he gets pissed up an’ all, but unless he got himself nicked, it’s a long time to be away, even for him.’

‘ What’s he called?’

‘ Shane Mulcahy.’

Henry blanched at the mention of the name. He knew Shane hadn’t given this as his address, otherwise he wouldn’t have knocked on the door in the first place. ‘Does he live here?’

‘ Most of the time. Sometimes crashes out at his mum’s.’

‘ Did he give you that?’ Henry nodded at her.

‘ What? The kid or the black eye?’

‘ Whichever.’

‘ Both.’

Henry regained his composure and said, ‘No, don’t know. Why don’t you give the nick a ring and ask the Custody Sergeant?’

‘ What with? I don’t have a phone and I don’t have any spare money until the Giro comes. That bastard took it all with him yesterday. I’ll ring his soddin’ neck when he comes back.’

She slammed the door behind them. Henry heard the chain slot back, then the TV get turned up.

Seymour said, ‘Isn’t that the one you kneed in the knackers?’

‘ You make it sound like an unprovoked assault, Dave. It was self defence.’

They went outside and trotted down the steps to the basement flat.

Henry rapped on the door.

‘ There’s one thing about it,’ Seymour said dryly. ‘There’s a one hundred per cent chance of him giving her a black eye again, but only a fifty per cent chance of him fathering another little Shane Mulcahy.’

The front entrance to the club was a pair of large wooden doors, gloss painted a deep shiny maroon.

Henry looked at Seymour with a surprised expression when the doors had been virtually closed in their faces by Jacko with a curt, ‘You’ll have to wait here while I get the boss.’

‘ Interesting reaction,’ said Seymour. He leaned on the doorbell as though pushing it hard would make it ring out in a more official tone.

‘ Something to hide?’ mused Henry.

They both waited for the ‘boss’ to arrive.

En route to the club, Henry had asked comms, via his PR, to see what could quickly be unearthed about a John Rider on the PNC and Indepol, Lancashire’s own crime intelligence computer.

There was no response for a few minutes. He and Seymour had by then arrived at the club and were obliged to park outside whilst waiting for the reply. Parked up in front of them was Rider’s Jaguar.

Checking up on people was pretty standard for Henry, no matter who he was dealing with. If they had ever been of interest to the police, he wanted to know.

After a tedious five minutes, the radio operator got back to him. ‘From the PNC — two previous, both over ten years old. Want details?’

‘ Affirmative.’

‘ Nineteen seventy-nine, armed robbery in Blackburn. Two years. Hijacked a security van. Nineteen eighty-two, again in Blackburn, living off immoral earnings. Two thousand pound fine, eighteen months suspended. Received?’

‘ Yep.’

‘ Not a lot on Indepol. There’s an old “target” file for him in existence somewhere, probably Manchester. There’s an RCS and NWOCS reference. That’s it… and PNC is flashing a warning signal. Apparently, if it’s the same guy, he uses firearms and is violent.’

‘ Thanks,’ Henry acknowledged, as usual not using radio terminology such as ‘Roger and out,’ because it made him feel slightly foolish. ‘Pimp and blagger,’ said Seymour.

‘ Firearms and violent,’ added Henry. ‘All very well to know.’

The door opened.

‘ Mr Rider?’ Henry asked.

A nod.

‘ Your employee is very rude.’

‘ Not half as rude as I can be. What can I do for you?’

‘ Can we come in?’

‘ Do you have a warrant?’

Henry looked pityingly at Rider. ‘We have a statutory right to enter licensed premises at any time.’ Or so he thought. He wasn’t completely certain, but he sounded it. ‘We need to ask some questions about one of your tenants who was found dead on the beach earlier today.’ He wasn’t completely sure about that, either.

Rider sighed. ‘Come in then.’

Conroy’s whole afternoon had backfired very badly indeed. He slouched angrily down in the back seat of his Mercedes which sped smoothly eastwards along the M55. What an almighty fucking cock-up!

Firstly there was the matter of John ‘holier-than-thou’ Rider, who like some sort of demented religious convert had forsaken all things criminal. Conroy had expected a soft touch — a serious misjudgement.

He’d been a hundred per cent certain he would be able to walk all over Rider and make a very one-sided deal which would give him access to the club. It had been apparent though from the first moments of their encounter that Rider wasn’t the slobbering drugged-up drunk he’d been expecting to meet. He was very much the Rider of old who was not to be messed with.

It didn’t alter the plan, though.

Conroy still wanted into the club — and very soon.

All it meant was that the next approach to Rider would be more formal and if necessary backed up with force. How much force was a matter for Rider, but there would be no room for negotiation. Conroy would get what he wanted.

Then there was the other matter… Munrow.

Conroy shifted uneasily. He could still feel the muzzle of the gun pressed into the back of his head. His ear throbbed like hell. That was the last thing he needed at the moment — a fucking gaolbird starting a war just because he felt he’d had his nose put out of joint. It’d be more than his nose when Conroy finished with him. It’d be his brain.

‘ You callin’ Dunny, boss?’ Conroy’s driver asked over his shoulder, interrupting the thought process.

‘ Shit — yes.’ Conroy sprang forwards. ‘Gimme the phone.’

The driver handed the mobile over to him. Conroy punched a number in.

‘ It’s off,’ he said. ‘Yeah, you heard right. Bring the stuff back.’

The next ten minutes were very uncomfortable for all parties. Not because of the nature of the enquiry, simply because Rider hated to be in the presence of police officers, particularly detectives, and resented answering questions, incriminating or otherwise, merely on a point of principle. And he particularly resented Henry Christie, whom he disliked on sight.

To Rider, Christie had an aura about him that the rather plodding Seymour didn’t possess. It was nothing to do with the way he dressed because for a detective, Christie dressed quite conservatively. Nor was it the way he spoke, as Christie’s voice was quite monotone.

It was that he oozed inner savvy. It was the look in his eyes, the way they constantly took measure, occasionally narrowing to a slit as they ran over Rider. The way he listened to answers, but at the same time his mind seemed to be considering something of greater importance. It was the way he assessed Rider, chewed over what information there was to be had, what information was hidden, and weighed him up. Probably coming to the right conclusion.

Basically, he unnerved Rider.

From the other side, Henry did not like Rider either. There was an immediate animosity between them. Not that Henry cared. There was friction between himself and a lot of crims. It was a good thing, he thought. Kept them on their toes.

But this man Rider…

As he answered the questions, Henry tried to analyse him. Something about the guy made Henry do a double-take. What the hell was it? Henry could feel there was something more to this man, who on the face of it came across as a middle-aged, overweight, seedy club and doss-house owner.

Henry took a few minutes to discover what it was.

Then he knew.

He’d only ever met a few other such people in his life and he shifted slightly on the bar stool, his arse literally twitching.

Rider was no common criminal. This man was, or had been, big time. Top notch. There weren’t too many about. Some liked to think they were, but mostly they were nothing. This man tried to cover it in bluster and bad temper, but just below the surface Henry could see exactly what he was.

And it was in the eyes, too. They always gave the game away. There was that violence lurking there which said, ‘I could kill you, cop, and not give a toss.’

But it was rusty. Henry could see that, too. This man had been out of the game for a while, but it was still in his blood. He could be very dangerous again.

Yes, thought Henry, Rider was something special. His mouth went dry at the thought.

Now he wanted to know everything about this man, the sooner the better. He cursed his lack of professionalism for not knowing already.

Rider responded begrudgingly to the detectives’ questions.

Yes, the dead girl’s description sounded like one of his new tenants.

Couldn’t remember her name at the moment; it would be on the rent book. From Blackburn, he thought. No, didn’t know very much about her. No, that wasn’t unusual. He was a landlord, not a fucking snoop. So long as the rent came, he didn’t give a toss. Yes, top flat, number twelve. Came in two days ago. Yes, they could go in and have a look round the flat. Probably wouldn’t be locked. She didn’t bring much stuff with her. She was alone. Was that all? Bye bye.

Henry thanked him. As he did he recalled the statement taken from the girl at the zoo. It mentioned a big red car taking off after the shooting. There was a big red Jaguar parked outside the club.

Henry could picture Rider involved in something like that.

‘ Oh, by the way,’ he said, sliding off his bar stool onto his feet. ‘Have you visited the zoo today?’

‘ No.’ Too quick, very tense all of a sudden.

‘ Let’s hope you haven’t,’ said Henry, ‘because if you have and I find out I’ll be back here faster than shit off a shovel.’ He spoke very matter-of factly and in a way that Rider found intimidating.

‘ Don’t know what the hell you’re on about.’

‘ See you now,’ Henry said affably.

He and Seymour walked out.

Rider remained at the bar. Jacko and Isa materialised out of the woodwork. Jacko stayed behind the bar. Isa asked him what it was all about.

He gave a sneer. ‘Nothing — just one of my tenants. Nothing to worry about.’ But he was worried, and frightened. ‘Fuck that bastard Conroy!’ he said between gritted teeth and slammed the bar top with his fist. ‘Fuck him for getting me involved again.’

Out on the street Henry took the number of the Jag and radioed it through for a PNC check.

The two detectives got into their car, an unmarked Rover Two series. ‘He didn’t even ask “Why?” when I mentioned the zoo,’ Henry said. ‘I find that intriguing. I mean, if a cop asked you if you’d been somewhere, surely you’d-’

Henry’s audible musing was interrupted by a very garbled message on the personal radio. A patrol was shouting, but most of the words were impossible to make out — with the exception of, ‘Assistance! Assistance! Officer down!’