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.
The young girl had a good memory. When she read ‘her’ statement, she was shocked at the changes. She quickly made a further statement and promised to keep quiet about the matter. Karen laid it on thick for the father, who looked the type to be bragging it around the local pub later, that this was top secret and not a word of it should leak. This was a very sensitive matter and if things got out, lives could be at risk.
Back in the Jeep, Donaldson said, ‘Two down.’
‘ They’ve taken dozens of statements in this investigation. How many more have been tampered with? In the end everyone will have to be revisited.’
‘ Yup.’ He started the engine.
‘ And where the hell did you disappear to?’
‘ Couldn’t resist,’ he admitted with a big grin. He held up his pocket knife with a gleeful smile.
‘ They’re moving away, boss,’ Hunt said into the mobile. He gave Morton the second address, then ended the call. He allowed Donaldson enough time to move off before he slipped his car into first and followed.
After only a few metres he realised that the car would be going no further. It was limping sadly along like a cripple. He drew in and raced round the back where he saw that the two rear tyres were as flat as two-day-old beer.
He swore and pulled his jacket up around his neck.
‘ Bastards!’
Henry Christie faced John Rider across the interview-room table for the second time that day.
Siobhan sat frostily to one side.
The tapes were running.
‘ When you were arrested, you said to me, “What the fuck am I meant to have done?”’ Henry said levelly to Rider, referring to his notes. The interview had been going forty minutes. Henry had given Rider the opportunity to admit the killing, but the prisoner was not forthcoming. Henry had therefore switched gear and gone into ‘verbal-up’ mode. ‘I then told you and you replied, “Yeah, you’re fucking right. I shot the bastard. He well deserved it”. What do you say to that, John?’
Henry’s voice was affable, unflustered, but underneath he was churning. His stomach felt like someone was dragging a rake around inside it. His hands, though visibly calm, were on the verge of trembling. His nerve ends tingled at the lies he was putting to Rider.
Rider made no reply, but folded his arms and glowered contemptuously at his captor. So this is it, he thought. The beginning of the fit-up. The opening salvos in what would probably be his downfall. Rider had been confident there was no evidence against him and now they were resorting to these tactics.