another alleyway. A quick look over his shoulder before he disappeared told him no cops in sight.
This alley ran behind a series of guest-houses, emerging into Waterloo Road, the main shopping street in South Shore, running at right-angles to the Promenade.
Dodging the cars, he crossed over and took the next right onto Bond Street. Still no cops behind.
He began to feel confident, though his body was sending out warning signals, such as: ‘Please stop, you’re hurting me!’ and: ‘Knackered body, can’t run any further.’
He tried to ignore them and jogged as far as the junction with Dean Street into which he turned left, then left again into Bright Street where he had to stop. He leaned on the gable end of a guest-house, gasping for air, his lungs desperate for a rest. He was about to heave up and vomit, he was sure. His head throbbed with the exertion and pain shot through it like a lightning bolt. His vision swam.
He bent forwards and put the palms of his hand on his knees.
He vomited.
A rush of stomach contents, mostly bile, surged through his mouth and erupted onto the wet pavement below.
He wiped his mouth, aware vaguely of a car drawing up nearby.
Hands still on his thighs he looked up, spitting the last remnants of sick out of his mouth. His face grimaced in disgust as he watched the figure of Henry Christie saunter up to him. A pair of rigid handcuffs were swinging tauntingly on the index finger of the cop’s right hand.
Rider tried to run again. His legs refused to carry him.
Without a word, Henry clamped the first cuff onto Rider’s right wrist. He twisted the cuffs in a well-practised movement. Rider screamed but was powerless to resist Henry who wrenched his right arm up behind his back, flattened the luckless Rider against the wall, grabbed his other arm and well and truly handcuffed him, his hands ‘stacked’ behind his back, one above the other. Rider’s cheek was pressed against the stone wall. A trickle of sick ran out of the corner of his mouth.
Rider eyed Henry, who smiled, gave a short nod and said, ‘You’re under arrest. Suspicion of murder.’ He tried to recite the caution, but made a hash of the wording despite the practise. Rider understood its sense and made no reply.
After a cursory body search, Henry directed Rider into the back of the Vectra, after ensuring the child locks were operative. He climbed into the driver’s seat.
‘ Bit of a wet one,’ he commented.
Rider did not respond, but slumped sideways across the seat, panting. Henry shrugged and reached for his PR.
Siobhan stood waiting on a street corner as wet as any person could be.
She pulled the passenger door open and shouted, ‘Where the fuck did you go to, you bastard!’ On the last word she saw Rider in the back seat.
Meekly she got in. ‘Where did you find him?’
‘ Coupla streets away.’
‘ How did you know where to look?’
‘ I’m a detective. It’s my job.’
From that moment on, all the way back to the police station, not another word was spoken in the car.
‘ I did my bit. You’ve got him, now it’s down to you.’
‘ Not quite so fast, Henry.’ Morton grabbed his sleeve.
‘ Look, you asked me to assist in the arrest. I did. Now leave me out of anything else. Take him to Preston and let them deal with it.’
‘ Preston aren’t dealing with him. We are, and I want you to interview him.’
‘ Why me? I know nothing about the incident and, to be truthful, I don’t even know why he’s been arrested. What evidence is there against him?’
‘ There is none — just reasonable suspicion. That’s all you need for an arrest, isn’t it?’
‘ Where’s the reasonable suspicion then?’
‘ He was tied up with Munrow in some sort of underworld deal. They are believed to have fallen out and bang bang, Munrow’s dead. Rider is prime suspect. And you’re dealing with it.’
Morton waved a file of papers in front of Henry’s face. ‘Here’s all the details of the crime itself, including ballistic reports. What I want you to do is interview him and then charge him with murder.’
‘ Simple, eh? Just like that. Where’s the fucking evidence?’
‘ That’s down to you, Henry.’
‘ Meaning?’
‘ If you can’t find real evidence, then stitch him up. Fabricate evidence, get a conviction. Do whatever is needed to get this man a life sentence. This will show us that you are one hundred per cent with us now. Do this for me, do it well, and I’ll consider letting you off the hook. If you don’t do it properly, then the first thing that’ll happen is that your darling wife will get a phone callanonymously — to say you’ve raped a female officer. That female officer will then lodge a formal complaint against you. Then all that other shit will hit the fan. It’s your choice, Henry, but it would probably be in your best interests to fit Rider up. Then you have my word we’ll part amicably.’
Henry went slowly down to the custody office. It was a painful journey, not only because of the soreness of his body (his chest and ear were hurting dreadfully) — but because of the dead weight on his shoulders.
How had they done this in such a short space of time?
How had he fallen for it so easily?
Fool.
Yet, in retrospect, there had been nothing tangible to suspect. Odd twinges, niggles, some bad feelings, yes. Other than that, nothing. A bit like a bogus gas official knocking on your door. You’re not completely happy, but you let him in, he leaves and then you find your life savings have gone.
Happens all the time. People get conned. Even the ones who would never imagine in a million years they could be a victim of such a crime.
And all because he had rattled a few cages without even realising there were tigers inside them. The NWOCS — and Tony Morton in particular had close ties going back many years with Harry McNamara. It was obvious that he was being protected. And now the ‘Conroy connection’ had been revealed by Karl Donaldson and those photographs taken by MI5. A proper little triumvirate. Conroy, McNamara and Morton. All protecting one another, no doubt. All in each other’s pockets.
And FB too.
Henry shivered at the thought.
Frightening.
He reached the custody office and booked himself a set of tapes out for the interview. Eric Taylor walked into the room from the cell corridor.
‘ Why?’ whispered Henry.
‘ To help you, of course.’ Taylor moved in close to Henry so they were within earshot only of each other.
‘ How much did they pay you?’
‘ Don’t know what you mean.’
‘ How much did they fucking well bribe you to alter that custody record, Eric?’
‘ Don’t you mean — how much did YOU bribe me?’
A PC walked in, whistling. The two men drew apart from each other, a look of loathing on Henry’s face. ‘I want to interview Rider,’ he said, now businesslike. ‘I’ve booked a set of tapes out.’
Taylor flicked open the current custody record binder and went to Rider’s.
‘ He says he wants someone telling he’s here and he wants to make a phone call.’
‘ He can have what the hell he wants,’ Henry said.
‘ Sign here.’ Taylor’s forefinger pointed to the space in Rider’s record where Henry had to sign to take responsibility for the prisoner. ‘Last time I gave a prisoner to you, you kicked him in the balls,’ Taylor said.
‘ Allegedly.’
