Free Nightmare City by Nick Oldham

would make it ring out in a more
official tone.
    ‘ Something to hide?’ mused Henry.
    They both waited for the ‘boss’ to arrive.
    En route to the club, Henry had asked comms, via his PR, to
see what could quickly be unearthed about a John Rider on the PNC
and Indepol, Lancashire’s own crime intelligence
computer.
    There was no response for a few minutes. He and Seymour had by
then arrived at the club and were obliged to park outside whilst
waiting for the reply. Parked up in front of them was Rider’s
Jaguar.
    Checking up on people was pretty standard for Henry, no matter
who he was dealing with. If they had ever been of interest to the
police, he wanted to know.
    After a tedious five minutes, the radio operator got back to
him. ‘From the PNC - two previous, both over ten years old. Want
details?’
    ‘ Affirmative.’
    ‘ Nineteen seventy-nine, armed robbery in Blackburn. Two years.
Hijacked a security van. Nineteen eighty-two, again in Blackburn,
living off immoral earnings. Two thousand pound fine, eighteen
months suspended. Received?’
    ‘ Yep.’
    ‘ Not a lot on Indepol. There’s an old “target” file for him in
existence somewhere, probably Manchester. There’s an RCS and NWOCS
reference. That’s it . . . and PNC is flashing a warning signal.
Apparently, if it’s the same guy, he uses firearms and is
violent.’
    ‘ Thanks,’ Henry acknowledged, as usual not using radio
terminology such as ‘Roger and out,’ because it made him feel
slightly foolish. ‘Pimp and blagger,’ said Seymour.
    ‘ Firearms and violent,’ added Henry. ‘All very well to
know.’
    The door opened.
    ‘ Mr Rider?’ Henry asked.
    A nod.
    ‘ Your employee is very rude.’
    ‘ Not half as rude as I can be. What can I do for
you?’
    ‘ Can we come in?’
    ‘ Do you have a warrant?’
    Henry looked pityingly at Rider. ‘We have a statutory right to
enter licensed premises at any time.’ Or so he thought. He wasn’t
completely certain, but he sounded it. ‘We need to ask some
questions about one of your tenants who was found dead on the beach
earlier today.’ He wasn’t completely sure about that,
either.
    Rider sighed. ‘Come in then.’
     
     
    Conroy’s whole afternoon had backfired very badly indeed. He
slouched angrily down in the back seat of his Mercedes which sped
smoothly eastwards along the M55. What an almighty fucking
cock-up!
    Firstly there was the matter of John ‘holier-than-thou’ Rider,
who like some sort of demented religious convert had forsaken all
things criminal. Conroy had expected a soft touch - a serious
misjudgement.
    He’d been a hundred per cent certain he would be able to walk
all over Rider and make a very one-sided deal which would give him
access to the club. It had been apparent though from the first
moments of their encounter that Rider wasn’t the slobbering
drugged-up drunk he’d been expecting to meet. He was very much the
Rider of old who was not to be messed with.
    It didn’t alter the plan, though.
    Conroy still wanted into the club - and very soon.
    All it meant was that the next approach to Rider would be more
formal and if necessary backed up with force. How much force was a
matter for Rider, but there would be no room for negotiation.
Conroy would get what he wanted.
    Then there was the other matter ... Munrow.
    Conroy shifted uneasily. He could still feel the muzzle of the
gun pressed into the back of his head. His ear throbbed like hell.
That was the last thing he needed at the moment - a fucking
gaolbird starting a war just because he felt he’d had his nose put
out of joint. It’d be more than his nose when Conroy finished with
him. It’d be his brain.
    ‘ You callin’ Dunny, boss?’ Conroy’s driver asked over his
shoulder, interrupting the thought process.
    ‘ Shit - yes.’ Conroy sprang forwards. ‘Gimme the
phone.’
    The driver handed the mobile over to him. Conroy punched a
number in.
    ‘ It’s off,’ he said. ‘Yeah, you heard