Nightmare City (17 page)

Rider held his breath. The two youths looked at each other and
nodded reluctantly after weighing up the odds.

It was all too easy, but Rider’s relief clouded his judgement.
Perhaps after all they were not the sort of people he believed them
to be. Maybe they were just kids flexing their muscles.

Angrily they shouldered their way to the exit, accompanied by
Rider and Jacko. They left peaceably.

‘
What about the damage?’ Jacko said into Rider’s ear
again.

‘
Chalk it up to experience.’ Rider held up a finger when Jacko
began to say more. Jacko shook his head disgustedly and made some
under-the-breath remark about ‘every Tom Dick and Harry thinking
they can get away with it from now on.’

Rider ignored him.

When he was sure they’d gone, Jacko returned to the bar. Rider
stood alone at the club doors. He lit a cigarette, noticing his
hands were shaking. Whether it was drink or nerves he wasn’t
sure.

Puzzled, he tried to figure out what that had all been about.
At least they’d gone without a fight. He blew out a lungful of
smoke and turned back into the club.

Karl Donaldson walked slowly along the sea-front in Funchal,
the port on his right, towards the marina and restaurants. The
night was cool and fresh, pleasant for walking.

He was dissatisfied by the way things had gone. Sam had died
tragically -
accidentally
- and he could not prove otherwise.

Hard to accept.

What he really wanted to do was bring in a team and get a real
investigation going with real detectives. He knew it was an
irrational desire and that he’d never get the go-ahead for it. What
he was trying to do, as Santana had rightly hinted, was blame
someone for her death, just like a grieving relative.

But there was no one to blame. Sam had died accidentally and
that was an end to it. It hurt him to think he hadn’t known her as
well as he thought. She could well have been a secret drinker, an
alcoholic ... and yet somehow that wasn’t Sam.

All that remained for him to do was arrange for the body to be
flown back to the States, tidy up the loose ends here
paperwork-wise, and fly home to London and his wife. He missed her
like mad.

‘
You speak English?’ a female voice said to him.

‘
Yes, I do,’ he replied without thinking.

‘
You’re American,’ she said, picking up on the accent
immediately.

Donaldson held back a swearword. He’d been so wrapped up in
his melancholic thoughts, he’d walked straight into it without
realising. The timeshare tout. That dreaded disease, now a
worldwide plague which had even reached the tiny island of
Madeira.

‘
Yes - and I’m not interested, thanks.’

‘
I’m not selling anything,’ she persisted pleasantly,
smiling.

‘
Of course not.’

‘
Please,’ she said as he began to outpace her. ‘Give me a
minute of your time.’

Fuck, what did it matter. He was going home tomorrow. And ever
the sucker for the pretty face - which the girl did have, along
with other attributes - he gave in. Within five minutes he had
promised to visit a timeshare development (although the words
‘time’ and ‘share’ never reared their ugly heads), had been given
some literature, and was on his way.

He turned down onto the marina and wandered past the series
of restaurants there, finally plumping for one where he received
least hassle from the salesmen-cum-waiters. He ate a good meal.
Tomato soup and onions with a poached egg floating in it, followed
by
espada,
the
island’s very own fish which looked like a creature from a horror
movie, and a bottle of Vinho Verde.

Ninety minutes later he emerged full, light-headed and
completely resigned to Sam’s fate to be branded a closet
drinker.

He was back in his room fifteen minutes later, emptying his
pockets and undressing with not much coordination. The wine had had
more effect on him than he’d imagined. His eyes managed to focus
very briefly on the leaflet the timeshare tout had foisted on him.
He was about to screw it up and bin it when he stopped, laid the
paper out on the bedside cabinet and thought for a moment,
difficult though this was.

Out of curiosity, he went over to where Sam’s belongings had
been piled up and dug out a flight bag; he unzipped it and pulled
out a money pouch, the type worn around the waist. He remembered
Sam wearing it on the Lake District trip. Inside was all the money
she had left in her possession - about five hundred pounds in
sterling travellers’ cheques and six thousand
escudos.
There were other bits of
paper folded up: restaurant and bank receipts, a receipt for a
coach tour of the island - for tomorrow - and the thing Donaldson
had been looking for. . . the same timeshare information leaflet he
had been given.

He unfolded it carefully and laid it next to his on the
bedside cabinet.

Yes. Exactly the same. Other than the time and date of the
visit, written in by the tout. He sighed heavily. So
what?

Then he turned the sheet over and saw that Sam had written two
extra words on hers - two words which he had missed when he’d
originally gone through her belongings. Donaldson recognised her
writing - big, loopy, almost child-like.

Scott Hamilton!!!!
The exclamation
marks were Sam’s.

Donaldson, after removing his socks, visited the bathroom.
Whilst he sat there he thought, Maybe timeshare
is
for me, after all.

11 p.m. Monday. A continuous tour of duty of seventeen hours.
At last, Henry Christie wrapped up his day. He was fast approaching
a state of zombie-dom.

He rechecked his ‘to do’ list in front of him, hoping that
everything which needed to be done, had been.

Dundaven had been charged with some firearms offences, bail
refused. He would be up before the Magistrates tomorrow, when the
police would apply for a remand in custody for seventy-two hours,
otherwise known as a ‘three day lie-down’. This would enable
Henry’s team to question him at a more leisurely pace and complete
further enquiries. Several addresses had come to light in the east
of the county and they were all going to be hit at six the next
morning. Everything was arranged for that: firearms teams, Support
Unit officers and detectives. All coordinated by Henry, who sensed
something big and nasty lurking behind Dundaven.

The three days would give a clearer indication of Nina’s
condition. Whether she lived or died would affect further charges.
Murder or Attempted Murder? In any case, Dundaven was going to be
charged with McCrory’s murder.

The other enquiry on his plate - the dead girl on the beach -
seemed to be pretty slow. She had been identified from fingerprints
and some documentation found in her bedsit.

Marie Cullen had been a prostitute, working on the streets and
in the clubs of Blackburn. Other than that, the police had very
little to go on. Two detectives were going east in the morning to
do some spadework. Henry thought this one would be a toughie.
Prostitute murders usually were.

He had a stinking headache, his sinuses acting up as though
they had been clamped with alligator clips.

He opened his desk drawer and sifted through the contents to
find some Paracetamols. He was sure he had some. Whilst doing so he
noticed the statement he’d drafted about the incident with Shane
Mulcahy. He pushed it to the back of his drawer and hoped it would
go away. He found no tablets.

Derek Luton, looking tired and haggard, wandered into the
office, stretching and rolling his neck.

‘
Degsy - you got any headache pills on you?’

‘
No. That’s why I came in here myself. Got a real
splitter.’

‘
Ah well,’ said Henry resignedly, ‘we’ll just have to suffer.
How’s it going?’

‘
Good. Yeah. Excellent, in fact. Really interesting. I’ve been
out taking witness statements with a Detective Sergeant from the
Organised Crime Squad, guy called Tattersall.’

‘
And are you getting anywhere?’

‘
I think they have some sort of line on the gang, but they’re
keeping it close to their chests at the moment. They seem to have
really got in the driving seat now, because it was one of their lot
who got it. FB is letting Tony Morton run with it.’

‘
What’s the name of the cop who got killed?’

‘
A DS - Geoff Driffield. From Manchester, on secondment to the
squad.’

‘
Can’t say I know him. What the hell was he doing in that shop
all kitted out and tooled up and all alone?’

‘
That remains a mystery,’ said Luton. ‘Apparently he was a bit
of a loner. His days on the squad were numbered because he wasn’t a
team player - more of a glory-seeker. Theory is, he got some gen
about the gang, discovered where they were due to hit and wanted to
make a name for himself. Backfired.’

‘
That’s a fucking understatement.’ Henry glanced at his watch.
‘Gotta go, bud, early start tomorrow.’

The club never cranked up that night. Hardly anyone ventured
in after pub closing time. Rider shut up shop shortly after
midnight. No point flogging a dead horse. By 12.30 he and Jacko
were the only ones left inside. The customers had drifted away
without complaint, as had the remainder of the staff. Isa had
kissed Rider on the cheek and gone to bed in the guesthouse
opposite the club where she was staying.

After washing and drying the glasses, Jacko locked up the bar.
He hated leaving a mess because it was always depressing to return
to. He set the alarm for that area, gave Rider a quick wave and
sauntered out into the night.

Rider was alone.

He savoured the peace for a few moments whilst drawing the
last few puffs out of his cigar. He stubbed it out and after
checking all the likely places a burglar might hide, he too
left.

They hit him as he walked to the car.

Two of them. Balaclavas. Baseball bats, or maybe pick-axe
handles.

They came from the shadows, giving him no time to
react.

The first blow landed on his back, right on the kidneys. A
surge of pain, like a bolt of lightning, scorched up through him.
But he didn’t have too much time to savour this because the second
blow, from the weapon wielded by the second man, connected with his
lower stomach.

The blows were only milliseconds apart.

They had the effect of putting severe pain into him, winding
him and disorientating him. His body didn’t know what to do. Part
of it screamed to him to stand upright and respond to the pain in
the back; another part wanted him to bend over double. The
compromise meant that his body contorted to pay homage to both
blows.

By which time more violence was being used.

The sticks flashed, raining blow after blow on Rider:
shoulders, arms, ribs, stomach, arse, upper and lower
legs.

Rider was driven callously to the ground in such a manner he
was unable to scream or respond in any way which might have brought
him some assistance. All screams became gurgles, all shouts
whimpers. All he could do was take it, roll up in a ball, cover his
head and hope that oblivion was not far away.

In a beating, thirty seconds is a long time, especially for
the party receiving it. During that time, Rider’s body probably
took in excess of forty well-delivered hard blows.

Then they stopped.

Rider groaned pathetically. His whole body felt like it was on
fire. A raging, searing, Great Fire of London type of fire - one
which destroyed everything in its path.

His cheek was pressed against the cold pavement. His mouth
sagged open. A horrible gungy liquid dribbled out: a combined brew
of snot, blood and whisky.

In agony he pushed himself up onto all fours. His breathing
was shallow, laboured, painful.

Then it all began again.

The first blow of this renewed attack smashed into the base of
his spine.

This time he did emit the beginnings of a scream - but the
sound was cut short when the next blow connected with the side of
his head. This sent him spinning across the pavement towards the
front wheels of his car and mentally into a void.

They stopped before he lost consciousness.

He was face down, half in, half out of the gutter, his nose
pressed into a grid. The sound of the drains below belched into his
subconscious. The smell of shit invaded his nostrils. In a flash of
clarity he wondered if he had soiled his own pants.

One of his attackers grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked
his face upwards, almost tearing the hair out by the roots. He
shook Rider’s head until his eyes half-opened.

‘
Just a message, this,’ hissed the man from the cover of his
balaclava. ‘You choose very carefully who you side with, OK? It’s
in your interests not to get involved. D’you understand me, Mr
fucking-tough-nut Rider? Next time you’re dead.’