Nightmare City Read Free Page B

to go. The phone rang
shrilly.
    It was Eric Taylor, the Custody Sergeant.
    ‘ Glad I caught you, Henry. Thought I’d better let you know:
that lad, the one with the flick-knife?’
    ‘ Shane Mulcahy,’ said Henry.
    ‘ You really should’ve written something on the custody record,
like I told you to.’
    Henry mouthed a swearword. An empty, achy feeling spread
through his stomach. He hadn’t written anything in the record
because he’d been so eager to get out to the robbery; it had
completely slipped his mind. ‘Problem?’ he asked cautiously,
knowing there would be, otherwise Taylor wouldn’t be
phoning.
    ‘ You could say that. We had to get an ambulance out to take
him to hospital- and he’s still there. Looks like he might have to
have a testicle removed. If they can find it, that is. Apparently
it’s somewhere up in his throat.’ Taylor chuckled.
    Henry groaned. He slumped back into his chair, closed his eyes
despairingly and slapped his forehead with the palm of his
hand.
    ‘ And there’s nothing on the custody record which covers what
happened between you and him. I booked him out into your care so
you could document him, then came along twenty minutes later to see
him squirming on the floor, clutching his bollocks. And you gave me
that knife and that’s all I know. I’ve had to write down what I saw
and it doesn’t look good, Henry. Sorry.’
    ‘ Couldn’t you have left a line or two for me to write
something?’
    ‘ Yeah, right, Henry. You know damn well I couldn’t do that. I
asked you to write something and you didn’t. Now he’s in hospital
with a double Adam’s apple. If he makes a complaint - and he’s just
the sort of little shit to do so - you’ve got a lot of explaining
to do. Sorry, pal.’
     
     
    Jack Daniel’s did not help Henry to get to sleep. His mind
kept spinning from the sight of all that death, right round to his
complete stupidity in not carrying out such a fundamental task as
writing up an entry in a custody record. Bread and butter stuff. It
was so easy not to do it, and detectives had a poor history where
custody records were concerned. They were seen as something that
got in the way of detection, some bureaucratic tool to be treated
with contempt. But not by Henry Christie. Normally so diligent,
careful ... professional. He fully understood the possible legal
ramifications of not being meticulous and recording everything. And
he always stressed the importance of custody records to his
detectives. They protected both officer and prisoner.
    He tried to make excuses for himself.
    He’d been busy. He was turning out to a multiple
killing.
    But if he were honest and critical, they were thin, paltry
excuses.
    Now he faced the possibility of an assault complaint, followed
by a tedious investigation and maybe - he grimaced at the thought -
a court appearance facing a criminal charge.
    All because he hadn’t covered himself.
    The thought appalled him, but it was the worst case scenario,
he assured himself. He’d be very unlucky if it came to
that.
    His wife Kate turned over and draped an arm across his
chest.
    She smelled wonderful, having dabbed herself sparingly with
Allure by Chanel after her bath. He stroked her arm with the tips
of his fingers. She smiled and uttered a sigh of pleasure. She
loved to be stroked. Like a cat.
    ‘ I forgot to tell you,’ she murmured dreamily. ‘We won ten
pounds on the lottery.’
    ‘ Aren’t we the lucky ones?’
    He purged all thoughts of death and prosecution from his mind,
snuggled down into the bed, took gentle hold of Kate and felt
himself harden against her belly.

Chapter
Three
     
    At ten o’clock the following morning, Sunday, John Rider
emerged unsteadily through the front door of his basement flat
situated in the South Shore area of Blackpool.
    He walked stiffly up the steps to pavement level, then turned
and surveyed the building which towered above his flat.
    In its better days it had been an hotel, but over the