‘… and women can’t read maps.’
They laughed. It was one of their favourite personal jokes, often quoted to each other after they had attended a seminar of the same name. Today it seemed totally appropriate.
The night was drawing in quickly. Lights were coming on. The rain made it darker than ever.
‘ At least it’s confirmed something to me, all this chasing our tails up and down the mean streets of Fleetwood.’
‘ Oh — what?’
‘ That we’re being followed.’
‘ Can’t seem to work out the number of the house they’ve gone into,’ Hunt was saying to Morton via the mobile. He told him it was on Douglas Place. Morton wrote it down at his end.
He looked at what he’d written. Next to it was the result of the PNC check which told him that the vehicle was a Jeep Cherokee, owned by someone called Donaldson who lived in Hartley Wintney in Hampshire. The owner’s name meant nothing to him, but he knew exactly where Hartley Wintney was — not five minutes away from the Police Staff College at Bramshill where he had attended several courses for high-ranking officers. And from where he had extended his business interests with likeminded detectives who were happy to feather their nests for comfortable retirements by supplying Morton with details of police operations which might affect him and Conroy.
‘ Donaldson, Donaldson…’ He worked the name through his mind. Nothing came to mind, other than the Bramshill connection.
The cell door opened.
Rider had been dozing on the plastic mattress, a very hairy blanket drawn up to his chin. He sat up and scratched his head. There was something very flea-like about the cell which made him itch all the time.
It was the custody officer, Sergeant Taylor, who had been most fair with him during his stay.
‘ I know you said you didn’t want one,’ Taylor said apologetically, ‘but a solicitor has turned up saying that he is acting for you. If you don’t want him, I’ll tell him to sling his hook. But, to be honest, mate, in was in your position, I’d have one. You need all the help you can get.’
Rider rubbed his eyes.
He hadn’t been banged up for long, but already he was aware of his own bodily odours. As much to escape them, the cell and his solitude, he stood up and said, ‘I’ll see him.’
The solicitor’s interview room was bare, functional and not a place in which to linger. There was a table (screwed to the floor) and two chairs.
Rider entered the room and the solicitor got to his feet. He proffered a hand and introduced himself as Pratt.
When the custody officer had reversed out and closed the door, Pratt said, ‘You’re probably very surprised to see me.’
‘ Considering I hadn’t asked for a brief yet — yes,’ admitted Rider. ‘Amazed would be more accurate.’
‘ I’ve been asked to represent you by a third party, on the proviso that you do something for that third party first.’
‘ I’m intrigued. Who is this third party?’ He expected to be told it was Isa or Jacko and he had to vow to go straight, or something ridiculous. The name he heard made his flesh creep.
‘ A Mr Conroy. I believe you know him?’ Pratt took a second or two to compose himself and the words he was about to say. ‘Firstly, I can promise you that if you do this one thing for Mr Conroy, you will be released from custody immediately.’
‘ And that is?’
‘ Sign the ownership of your club over to him.’
The hairs on the back of Rider’s neck bristled.
‘ If you do this, I guarantee this allegation against you will go no further.’
‘ And how can this guarantee be given?’
‘ It can, believe me. Mr Conroy has influence.’
‘ How do I know he’ll stick to his word, once I’ve signed whatever I need to sign?’
‘ You don’t,’ Pratt said blandly. ‘Having said that, if you refuse to sign, Mr Conroy guarantees that you will serve a life sentence for murder.’
‘ Does he now?’
For Pratt, the next second or so happened in very slow motion. Rider’s tightly bunched and very large, hairy right fist drove through the air towards his nose like a piston. It began at normal size, but as it homed in grew very quickly to ginormous. Then it connected with an almighty crunch. Pratt’s nose broke. The energy from the blow was transferred from fist to nose and reverberated right through to the back of his skull.
He went backwards over his chair, legs shooting upwards into the air like a massive ‘V’ sign to Rider. He crashed onto the floor and rolled to one side, both hands clutching a nose from which blood torrented.
Rider came round to him and bent down to speak into his ear.
‘ Just tell Mr Conroy that if I get out of here, he’s a dead man.’
Karen and Donaldson were admitted into the house by a pretty young lady about thirteen years old. She was the witness.
She showed them into the living room where her parents were glued to the TV watching one of those early Saturday evening knock-about shows which always foxed Donaldson. It was something to do with embarrassing the fuck out of the general public. Very popular, apparently.
Grudgingly the girl’s father went into the dining room with them. His presence was required because of her age.
Donaldson interrupted proceedings after a few moments and asked if he could go into the back garden and take some air; foul night though it was, he explained, he had to get some fresh air into his lungs. He was feeling nauseous.
Karen was puzzled. It showed on her face.
He winked at her.
Five minutes later, wet and bedraggled, he was back in the house, saying he was feeling much better. There was a wide smile across his countenance.
Karen’s eyes slitted briefly, then she returned to her task.
The cell door slammed shut behind him. He paced the confined space like a tiger, his thoughts in mayhem, much of his anger directed at himself.
Isa’s words flooded back to him.
‘ How can you be sure that Munrow is responsible for killing those people?’ she had wanted him to ask himself. Where was the proof?
He had then acted recklessly and killed a man who probably had not set fire to the flats. Or, at least, killed the wrong man. The one who should be dead now was called Ronnie Conroy and Rider had fallen for it. Typical of Conroy. Sneaky, deceitful and, of course, brilliant.
He wanted Munrow out of the way because he was being a pain in the arse, yet he, Conroy, didn’t have the bottle to do it himself. So why not prey on John Rider’s paranoia and make him think that Munrow was out to get him.
Yeah, get John Stupid Rider to do your dirty work for you, then set him up with the cops.
It was all so simple.
And it was obvious they were tame cops too.
Tame cops like Henry Christie who were on Conroy’s payroll.
He continued to pace the cell and each time he reached the door he slammed the side of his fist against it.
Trapped and doomed.
