Nightmare City hc-2 Read online

  Nightmare City

  ( Henry Christie - 2 )

  Nick Oldham

  Nick Oldham

  Nightmare City

  Chapter One

  It had been a hectic afternoon and looked set to become a bloody night.

  The custody office at Blackpool Central police station, always busy even at the quietest of times, was full to bursting. Since noon, over sixty prisoners had lurched through the door. Usually fighting, either between themselves or with their arresting officers, the majority were drunk and often covered in blood, vomit, snot or beer or a combination of all four. They were all males with an age range between sixteen and twenty-four. And all of them were connected with the football match which had taken place that afternoon between Blackpool and Bolton Wanderers at the Bloomfield Road ground.

  What had started as a trickle of prisoners before the match became a raging torrent when the visiting side went ahead and won convincingly. Miffed, the home supporters reacted in the only positive way they knew. With violence.

  When the final whistle blew, the crowd surged out of the ground and a series of running battles between opposing fans broke out, culminating in a massive head to head confrontation on a large car park adjacent to the football ground. This was only broken up when officers in riot gear waded in and got the message across: the police were not taking any shit today.

  Despite numerous arrests from that one incident, the fighting continued unabated. This was because Blackpool, unlike most other towns, has countless attractions which make visitors reluctant to leave until at least a few have been sampled. Thus the Bolton supporters would not be departing until the early hours of Sunday when the night clubs kicked out; it also meant that Blackpool fans would harry them until they went.

  All in all, a recipe for trouble.

  The fighting gravitated away from the Ground into the town centre pubs and cafes. The police, even though reinforced from across the country, were stretched to their limits.

  In the custody office, Acting Detective Inspector Henry Christie was up to his eyeballs in prisoners. He and a team of three Detective Constables had been assigned to help process and interview any prisoners suspected of committing more serious offences.

  The majority of youths had been arrested for run-of-the-mill matters such as minor assaults, public order offences and drunkenness. Henry and his team could therefore have spent a relatively stress-free afternoon had he so wished; however he was uncomfortable when it became apparent that the large number of prisoners were keeping uniformed officers off the streets where their presence was desperately needed.

  Eventually, after listening to the personal radio going berserk without respite, Henry made an unpopular decision. He volunteered his detectives to assist with any prisoner, no matter how trivial the reason for arrest. This would speed up the process and release uniforms back outside as quickly as possible.

  His DCs were disgruntled by the gesture.

  ‘ Not our fuckin’ job,’ one of them moaned bitterly, ‘bein’ a fuckin’ gaoler.’

  ‘ Just do it,’ Henry said shortly, ‘and I’m sure it’ll reflect in your next appraisal.’

  Henry took his jacket off, rolled up his sleeves and knuckled down to the task. When his reluctant team saw this, they also got down to it without further dissent.

  Two hours later, without having had the opportunity to finish a cup of tea, he’d taken so many sets of fingerprints and mug-shots, charged so many prisoners and flung so many bodies into cells, that he’d lost count.

  He’d had his fill of skin-headed, foul-mouthed, smelly, lager-bloated youths who wanted to hit him or spit at him. In fact, he was surprised he hadn’t decked several of them already. He was proud of his remarkable, but waning, self-control.

  He began to hope that the few football supporters who were still at large would do something horrendously bad — like machete each other to pieces — so that he and his team could be liberated.

  Anything to get out of this hell hole.

  Prior to hitting the shop they cruised the dark January streets in a stolen Alfa Romeo 164 3.0 Super, scouring the area for any signs of blue uniforms. They also had a scanner tuned into the local police frequency.

  Nothing seemed untoward. The meagre resources of law and order were concentrated on rampaging football supporters, making the chance of a stray PC drifting by virtually nil; it would also mean that the response time to incidents would be vastly increased when the alarm went up. Which it would. Very shortly.

  They were feeling good, hyped-up and buzzing. Adrenalin and speed coursed through their veins and sinuses like white water, pushing them up to a high plateau from which they felt they could take on the world.

  As in the past — and their Modus Operandi detailed this — all four of them were expensively and identically dressed in Dolce amp; Gabbana casuals: white tennis tops with black collars and cuffs, the letters DG clearly visible on their left breasts, grey slacks and two-tone (black and white) shoes. On their wrists they wore identical Dunhill watches.

  The weapons they carried, and had shown they were prepared to fire, were a frightening combination which seemed to have been purposely chosen to complement their designer clothes. Each carried a semi automatic 9mm ‘Baby Eagle’ pistol in a shoulder holster; the three who would actually do the business had an Italian SPAS 12 sawn-off shotgun and two mini-Uzis between them.

  Whilst driving around they handed a carton of Lucozade to each other which was tossed out of the window when empty. They had found that the bubbles assisted the speedy percolation of the amphetamines into their bodies.

  It was 7.27 p.m. Saturday evening. The perfect time.

  They were ready to roll.

  ‘ We know what we have to do,’ the man in the front passenger seat said, whipping up enthusiasm. ‘Let’s get it done.’

  ‘ Yeah, let’s fuckin’ do it,’ voiced one of the others.

  They all fitted their white porkpie hats onto their heads and pulled on surgical face masks, including the driver.

  The Alfa pulled up unspectacularly outside the newsagents.

  The shop was owned by a couple of middle-aged gay men, formerly actors who had bought it between them when they came to the sad conclusion that if they weren’t careful they would spend the rest of their thespian days as soap-opera extras. They had been running the shop about four years, building it up from nothing into a thriving, profitable business.

  Since the advent of the National Lottery, trade had boomed as they were the only Lottery retailer in that particular area of Blackpool. Like other newsagents they had taken to staying open late on Saturday evenings in order to catch as many last-minute players as possible.

  Today the shop had taken in nearly two thousand pounds of extra revenue, as a treble rollover and a forty million pound jackpot had brought out punters in ever-hopeful droves.

  Three men stepped casually out of the Alfa, leaving the driver sitting at the wheel. They trotted without undue haste across the pavement and filed into the shop.

  Inside, two people were queued up at the till, eagerly hoping to get their lottery slips through the machine before the 7.30 p.m. deadline. Another customer was browsing idly through a woman’s magazine in the rack by the door. She looked up unconcerned when the first of the men came through the door. It took a second for her eyes to register with her brain that he was carrying a shotgun. Her mouth popped open. She began to scream.

  With an absolute cold lack of compassion the lead man nonchalantly pulled the trigger back and blasted the left side of her face off — cheek, eye and ear. She spun backwards into the magazine rack, toppled over to one side and, in an instinctive gesture, reached out and grabbed a card stand which overturned as she fell to the floo
r, covering her with rude birthday cards.

  By this time all three men were in the shop, facing the remaining customers and owners.

  With a burst of low fire from an Uzi, the two customers who were standing side by side at the till were virtually sliced in half. As the bullets punched them full of holes, their writhing torsos, spitting and gushing blood, were thrown together against the counter. From there they quivered to the floor, where for a few moments they appeared to be fighting each other in a grisly conflict which was actually their death throes.

  The owners had not moved. Terror, like a vice, gripped them, constricted their throats and held their hearts in a claw-like embrace.

  The cacophony of bullets echoed away, leaving silence.

  Three violent men faced two gentle men.

  No one spoke until the man holding the shotgun stepped forwards. He brought the weapon up and pumped the action. He aimed it straight into the face of one of the owners, less than two inches away from his nose.

  ‘ Get that bastard in the back out here now,’ he said quietly. The sound of his voice was muffled by the face mask, making it more sinister and deadly. ‘Otherwise you’re next.’

  He was smiling behind the mask.

  He spun the barrel of the gun towards the other man. ‘You go and get him — now!’ His aim returned to the first man. ‘Or I’ll kill this fucker.’

  At 7.40 p.m. Henry slumped wearily back against the cell corridor wall. He was completely shattered. The prisoners kept coming. All the cells now contained a minimum of three and it was proving a logistical nightmare to ensure that opposing fans didn’t end up in cells with each other. It was likely that by the end of the night there would be five in every cell.

  ‘ C’mon Shane,’ Henry urged the sallow youth who was washing the fingerprint ink off his hands in a wash basin. He had been arrested early in the day (and had missed the match) for slashing a Bolton fan across the face with a Stanley knife. He had been completely uncooperative throughout his period of detention. ‘I haven’t got all night,’ Henry geed him up.

  ‘ Why don’t you just fuck off,’ responded Shane, speaking into the basin. He pulled the plug. The dirty water belched away.

  Henry bridled. The temptation was to smash Shane’s shaven head against the wall and say the young man had attacked him without provocation. There was no one else in the corridor, no one else to see them, one word against the other. Henry’s patience was so paper-thin that, for a fleeting moment, this was a realistic option.

  Then he shrugged it away. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said with a wicked smile, ‘but I’ll lay odds that remark has completely ballsed-up any chance you had of bail. Looks like court on Monday for you.’

  With his back still towards Henry, Shane stood upright. With the exception of his red Doc Marten boots which had been removed and were outside his cell door, Shane was dressed exactly as he’d arrived in the custody office: in a pair of loose-fitting jeans and nothing else. He’d lost his jacket and T-shirt long before his arrest.

  He was a thin boy, no muscle, and the lily-white skin of his back was streaked with scratches and grazes where he’d been rolling around on the ground, fighting. He’d also been drinking heavily, but having been in custody for almost seven hours, he’d sobered up somewhat. The process had left him with a bad head and a mean disposition. Henry’s remark about bail rankled him.

  Still facing away from the detective, he appeared to pull his jeans up, fiddling with the button and the fly for an inordinate length of time.

  Henry tutted and raised his eyes.

  Just then Shane spun quickly round, catching Henry unawares. In his hand was a slim flick-knife which had been concealed in the waistband of his jeans.

  The silver blade shot out, locked into position.

  He lunged at Henry.

  At the very last moment Henry saw him coming. With a curse on his lips he pivoted out of the way. The knife plunged into thin air. Shane stumbled clumsily, slashing wildly with the blade.

  Henry didn’t have time to think, only react.

  The lack of any alcohol in his system was the only thing that saved him. It meant he could move quicker and with better coordination than Shane. And his six foot two, fourteen stone body (slightly overweight, but modestly fit) gave him the edge as regards power and strength.

  For a brief instant, Shane was at right angles to Henry, who punched the young man on the side of the head, just below the ear.

  Shane staggered away, but recovered quickly. He turned and charged at Henry, running the knife at him as though he was holding a bayonet, screaming, ‘You’re dead, you cunt!’

  But the move was telegraphed, giving Henry ample time to sidestep again, like a matador. Had he wanted he could have allowed Shane to run past him, put a boot up his backside and sent him sprawling like the stupid lad he was.

  But the ‘red mist’ — the police officers’ worst enemy — slotted down over his eyes like a visor.

  He knew he shouldn’t. Knew it was wrong. But he’d been so wound up that afternoon that he shrugged the angel off his left shoulder and nodded conspiratorially to the devil on his right.

  He parried the knife to one side with the palm of his hand, grabbed Shane’s wrist and twisted. A yelp of pain shot out of Shane’s mouth, his fingers opened, and the knife clattered harmlessly to the floor. Henry continued to apply the pressure, twisting until he was almost at the point of breaking the wrist, then he yanked Shane towards him so they were nearly face to face.

  Shane’s breath reeked of stale alcohol and vomit.

  Henry gave a hard, dry smile, pulled down on the wrist like he was pulling on a toilet chain and at the same time drove his right knee up into the young man’s testicles. An animal-like howl of agonising pain burst up from the deepest recesses of Shane’s abdomen and exited via his mouth. Henry let go.

  Clutching his privates with both hands, Shane collapsed weeping to the floor. Moaning. Crying.

  Henry picked up the knife. He touched the release catch with his thumb and the blade slid harmlessly back into the handle.

  The ‘red mist’ lifted. He hoped — belatedly — he hadn’t done too much damage.

  The Custody Sergeant, Eric Taylor, appeared in the corridor. ‘Henry! What the fuck’s going on here?’

  ‘ Nothing I can’t handle… but whoever searched this prisoner wants their balls chewing off.’ He handed the flick-knife to Taylor who looked at it, then at the writhing body on the floor.

  ‘ Make sure you put an entry on the custody record to cover it, will you? For your own safety. Then go up and see comms. There’s a big robbery come in, firearms job — somebody shot, I think. They want you to turn out to it.’

  ‘ With respect, Eric, as much as I’ve enjoyed myself today in the dungeons — thank God for that!’ He walked off down the corridor, stopped and turned back. ‘Oh, and by the way, don’t give him bail. He got me really mad.’

  The first officer on the scene had done all the right things. She had quickly checked for any signs of life, found none, but requested comms to call an ambulance anyway, just to be on the safe side. She retraced her steps carefully to the front door of the shop, bundled several gawping members of the public away, stepped outside and closed the door behind her. The scene was effectively sealed off.

  Onlookers had already begun to gather. She ordered them back. Then as calmly as she could, after taking a deep quavering breath, she relayed a situation report over her PR and asked for help. Quickly, please.

  Henry Christie and a Detective Constable called Derek Luton were the next officers on the scene, arriving before the ambulance.

  Before going in, Henry got the story from the female officer.

  With trepidation, and not a little disbelief, he opened the door, ensuring he didn’t spoil or leave any fingerprints on the gloss-painted wood.

  One of the first things he’d been taught as a young copper was that there was only one occasion when it was acceptable for a police officer to be seen
by the public with hands in pockets. That occasion was at the scene of a crime. It was OK because it prevented an officer touching and possibly tainting evidence which is all too easy to do.

  Let your eyes do the walking, he’d been told. Take it all in for a few minutes, then take your hands out.

  It was a piece of advice which had stood him in good stead for many years. Apart from anything else, it was a way of preventing panic rising at a particularly violent or messy crime. Like this one.

  He stood just inside the door of the newsagents. Luton was one pace behind him.

  ‘ Christ!’ breathed the young detective into Henry’s ear.

  Henry pursed his lips and gave a silent whistle. It was an effort to keep his hands pushed in his pockets. He wanted to rub his eyes because they could not believe what they were looking at.

  ‘ Do you see what I see, Degsy?’ he asked Luton.

  ‘ Er — yep, think so,’ he replied unsurely.

  ‘ You stay here and don’t move,’ Henry told him. ‘And make sure no one else comes through that door.’

  ‘ You got it.’

  Taking care not to step in the blood — difficult because there appeared to be gallons of the stuff — he moved around the body of the female shopper covered in birthday cards. He took a couple of long strides to the counter where he squatted down briefly to look at the bodies of the two customers. Both still clutched their lottery slips. Some jackpot, Henry thought.

  He stood up, walked behind the counter.

  The bodies of the two shopkeepers were lying in an untidy pile, one on top of the other. They seemed to be clinging to each other in a final embrace. Both had massive head wounds. They had obviously been blasted against the shelves behind the counter and the contents had tipped over them. Packets of cigarettes, cigars, matches, were scattered everywhere.

  At first Henry did not spot the other body lying in the semi-gloom of the hallway which connected the shop to the living area beyond.