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.’
He let Rider’s head drop with a dull thud into the edge of the pavement. A second later he passed out.
Chapter Nine
After four fitful hours’ sleep, Henry found himself standing in front of a large squad of police officers, cups of tea in their hands. It was 5.45a.m. and they were in the canteen at Accrington police station. The reason for meeting here was that five out of the six addresses they had uncovered in relation to Dundaven were in East Lancashire, and Accrington was central for them all. The sixth address was in Bury, just over the Greater Manchester border.
There were forty-eight officers, eight for each address. Four Support Unit, two CID and two firearms. The Support Unit were specialists in entering premises quickly and also in search techniques for buildings and persons. The plan that morning was to get in quick on the warrants Henry had sworn out the day before, take no crap, search thoroughly and if necessary, make arrests.
Henry cleared his throat and called for attention. The room fell immediately silent as all eyes turned to him.
He briefed the officers about what they should search for, reminded them of their powers and the law, begged them to cause as little damage as possible, try not to shoot anyone unless absolutely necessary, and wished them luck.
They separated into their various teams whilst Henry marvelled at the sheer size of some of the Support Unit officers. He was no pygmy himself, but some of them towered over him. Even the women. They all checked their equipment — door openers, dragon lights, extending mirrors, various tools, guns and CS sprays.
