The plane touched down at Manchester Airport at nine o’clock. The pilot handled the atrocious weather conditions with aplomb. The passengers gave him a round of applause and were glad to be alive. They disembarked and having collected their luggage, made their way through Customs. Only a couple were stopped, their cases searched perfunctorily. Scott Hamilton and his companion, Raymond de Vere, sailed through unchecked, were met by a driver at the meeting point and led immediately to a waiting Mercedes.
Behind, in front, and around them, a team of expert watchers, military and police trained so they understood all aspects of the game, slotted unobtrusively into place.
The two men didn’t have a clue.
‘ Henry should have been in contact by now,’ Donaldson announced to Kate and Karen. He looked at his watch. 9.30 p.m. He eyed his wife worriedly.
‘ What’s going on?’ asked Kate. She knew that when her two guests and husband had got into their secretive scrums the evening before, something exceptional was taking place, but she couldn’t begin to guess what it was. She wasn’t that interested, actually. Policework bored her rigid.
Karen took a deep sigh. ‘I think you need to know that Henry’s become involved in a police corruption enquiry, and there’s just the remotest possibility he could be in some sort of danger. God, it sounds corny even saying it, but it is remote,’ she tried to stress. ‘We’re involved in it too, and just waiting to get updated by Henry. He should have spoken to us by now.’
Kate’s mind homed in on the word ‘danger’. ‘Does it involve Derek Luton?’
Karen nodded.
Kate closed her eyes. ‘Christ!’
‘ Kate, does Henry normally phone in when he’s working late?’ Donaldson asked.
‘ No, not really. Sometimes… I mean, I usually see him when I see him.’
‘ So we’re probably making a mountain out of a molehill,’ Donaldson said. ‘But just to put my mind at rest, will you phone in and ask to speak to him, honey?’
She did. At the end of the conversation she put the phone down slowly, a crease of puzzlement on her face. ‘They said he’s taken a prisoner to Preston, but they sounded strange. Almost as if they didn’t want to talk to me.’
On being alerted by the NWOCS, every available police officer in the Preston area had descended on the industrial estate and a search began. The officers were told they were hunting a suspected murderer and the police officer who had engineered his unlawful escape from custody. Both were considered to be very dangerous men.
Raymond de Vere settled comfortably into his room at Conroy’s country club where wine, sandwiches, fruit and coffee were provided, followed by a high-class hooker who demonstrated an imaginative use for a banana. De Vere gratefully devoured it in situ.
In a ground-floor seminar room, Conroy, McNamara, Morton and Hamilton met up.
‘ Before we begin, Rider and Christie have escaped from custody,’ Morton announced with some trepidation. ‘And knowing what they know, leaves us with a problem. Rider has decided to grass on us.’
‘ I thought you were going to kill them,’ whined Conroy. He tugged his pony tail agitatedly. He was heartily sick of Rider and that damned detective who should have been wasted long ago instead of all this pussyfooting around.
‘ They got away. It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t there.’
‘ You should have been more ruthless in the first place,’ said McNamara, entering the bickering which looked set to spiral out of control. All three men were on edge.
Hamilton stepped in, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. ‘These two guys causing you heartache?’
‘ Heartache?’ muttered Conroy. He turned to Morton. ‘You’ve made a complete balls of this.’
‘ Whoa, gentlemen,’ Hamilton interjected, raising his hands to pacify. ‘What you need is a professional solution. If you recall, I mentioned two friends of mine who specialise in such matters. They work quickly, efficiently and cheaply. And they have a one hundred per cent track record. They are very, very high class — exactly the type you require to deal with these two people, I would suggest.’
‘ But we need them now,’ said Conroy.
‘ Would tomorrow morning do? They’re in Paris as we speak. An hour from Manchester by air.’
They all nodded.
‘ I’ll contact them,’ Hamilton said. ‘All you need to do is use your resources to pinpoint the position of these individuals and let my friends do the rest.’
An air of relief seeped through the room.
‘ That leaves us with the question of where the goods are going to be displayed.’ Morton looked at Conroy.
‘ By midnight, Rider’s club will be staffed by my people.’
Not having received any instructions to the contrary, Jacko kept the club up and running. Unusually, even for a Saturday night, the place was packed, doing a roaring trade.
Weekends were the only times doormen were employed — four bruisers not renowned for their interpersonal skills. Two kept door, two drifted around inside. They changed their roles on a regular basis.
Conroy’s men swaggered up to the front door — six of them — and confronted the two lounging by the till. There was an exchange of words and gestures and Rider’s employees acknowledged defeat. They slunk away from the doors and disappeared into the wet night, now unemployed.
The other two were located in a strategic position overlooking the dance floor. They had no qualms about joining their pals.
A bloodless coup — so far.
Jacko was a different proposition. He was bundled into the manager’s office and beaten into a messy pulp.
Almost a bloodless coup.
Now Conroy ran Rider’s club, practically if not legally. Maybe the latter would follow.
The man who had led the assault used the phone in the manager’s office to convey the good news.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
They were out of the immediate area within minutes, working their way cautiously through the industrial estate towards the retail end which was nearer to the town centre.
Henry held his left hand over his ear which was bleeding profusely through his fingers.
They skirted past a drive-thru McDonald’s and scurried through the dark car parks of Texas Homecare and Morrisons, with what used to be the docks on their right. They stayed in the blackest shadow, ducking when a car approached, rising slowly when it passed.
Henry Christie, fugitive. Unreal, surreal. He was floating through a different world and was struggling to remind himself that this was reality.
A few minutes later they were in the car park of the Ribble Pilot, a modem pub right on the dockside. Rider crouched down, pulling Henry with him. They worked their way around the parked vehicles and Rider tested every door.
One opened.
It was an old Ford Granada.
‘ I loved these motors,’ Rider whispered. He slid in and fumbled around in the wires underneath the steering wheel, until his hands expertly found the ignition wires. He ripped them out, yanked two apart to expose their metal ends, touched them and they sparked and — voila! — the engine started first time.
Henry remained on his haunches outside the car.
‘ Get in.’ Rider reached across and flicked the catch on the passenger door.
‘ We’re gonna steal a car?’ He could not believe it. This was getting all too much.
‘ Yep, and if you don’t get in, I’m going to drive off without you.’
‘ Oh my Christing God!’ Henry chunnered. He went round to the other side of the car and got in.
It was an automatic. Rider slotted it into Drive. Moments later they were back on the A583, heading towards Blackpool. Henry cowered down in the passenger seat. Aiding and abetting the unlawful taking of a conveyance. He was having grave problems coming to terms with this additional responsibility, on top of everything else. His brain was due for implosion.