A Time For Justice Page 3

  He looked pretty bad with his head partly shaved and eight stitches in a wound which seeped blood. His eyes were dark and circled, his skin pale and sickly, his clothes dry now, but crumpled and dirty. What he needed more than anything else was a drink - something very alcoholic.

  As ever, Terry was ahead of him, sitting in the back of the traffic car detailed to take them home. His hand was in plaster and his demeanour reflected Henry’s.

  They were driven home by a traffic PC who sensed that any conversation would be less than beneficial to his health.

  Eventually, Henry said, ‘I lost my gun in the river.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said Terry.

  These were the only words spoken on the journey.

  Henry walked up the drive to his new home on the outskirts of Blackpool. He’d recently part-exchanged his old home for this ‘executive’ one - new, soulless, on an unfinished estate of similar houses.

  The front door opened.

  His daughters stood there, mute and fearful, as they watched his approach. It was too much for the youngest, Leanne, aged nine; she broke cover and dashed to meet him, clinging to his legs. He rubbed her hair, bent down stiffly and picked her up, almost squeezing the breath out of her.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ she said in his ear. He could feel the wetness of her tears on his cheek.

  ‘You should be in bed.’

  Mummy said I could wait up for you.’

  His wife, Kate, appeared in the hallway as he reached the front door.

  She had been crying too. Henry thought she looked very beautiful in her sadness.

  ‘They said you’d been hurt but were all right. They told us to stay here and wait for you,’ she explained, shrugging her shoulders.

  Henry nodded. Leanne slid down him, but clung to his hand.

  ‘We saw you on telly,’ his eldest daughter, Jenny said. She was thirteen, dressed somewhere between a punk and a Sloane Ranger. Henry noticed she was wearing one of his shirts.

  He was puzzled. ‘Telly?’

  ‘Yeah, pushin’ that reporter into the mud. Deserved it, he did.’

  ‘He was only doing his job, I suppose,’ Henry admitted.

  They all stood and eyed each other.

  ‘Oh, Dad!’ Jenny burst out suddenly. ‘It must have been so awful.’

  Her arms went round his neck and she sobbed into his chest. ‘Those poor kids.’

  ‘It’s all right, lovey, it’s all right.’ He patted her.

  He reached out for his wife’s hand and drew her towards him. He was dying to get hold of her and squeeze her tight. Tighter than ever before. So tight ... God, he needed her ... tight, tight, tight.

  Chapter Three

  As usual after a kill, Hinksman was in a state of euphoria. He drank too much in several pubs until he found himself sitting at the bar of a strip joint near the Winter Gardens complex in Blackpool.

  He was happy. He’d negotiated two and a half million dollars for Carver and the Englishman, and he knew - because he’d checked - that the second third of the money had already been wired into his Cayman Island account and, as per his instructions, immediately redeposited in Jersey. Tomorrow one half of it would be in Switzerland. Corelli was an honourable man. That’s why he liked working for him. Honourable and generous - but noisy!

  So, one more kill and the balance of the money would be deposited. Then, unless Corelli had anything urgent for him, he’d take some time off. Get out of the gangsterland rat race and travel a little. Australia seemed a good idea. Maybe he’d buy another house - or an apartment. Miami beckoned. He could buy an apartment in the same block as Don Johnson. Perhaps they’d become pals. Yeah, that sounded good. Me and Don Johnson getting legless, snorting together, scoring together, racing our Ferraris down the Keys.

  Hinksman smiled at the thought.

  He looked around the club. It was a seedy, smoky place, well attended by a cross-section of humanity. Drinks were cheap but the strippers were past the first flush of youth. There were many similar places in the States and Hinksman felt comfortable in these surroundings.

  For a while he watched the strippers then became bored and concentrated on getting drunk. He wondered if there was a drug dealer in the place.

  Just before midnight there was an interval and people gravitated to the bar. Hinksman, who disliked being crowded, withdrew to an empty table.

  Within moments he was joined by a woman who sat boldly down without an invitation. Hinksman thought he recognised her and when she introduced herself it clicked.

  ‘Hello, luv,’ she said in broad Lancashire. ‘Me name’s Jane. Did y’like me act?’

  ‘Ahh,’ he said, remembering. He lied, ‘Yes, very much.’

  He’d seen her prance onto the small stage, thought she had flat feet and no rhythm and had turned back to his drink without watching her remove any items of clothing.

  He looked closely at her now. Thirty going on forty, with crow’s feet around her heavily made-up eyes, a multitude of broken capillaries on her cheeks that no amount of foundation would conceal and a slight double chin. No doubt she’d once been good-looking, he mused, but time and her profession had taken their toll.

  ‘Drink?’ he asked.

  She smiled. Hinksman wished she hadn’t. Her teeth were crooked and discoloured.

  ‘Luv one. Champers?’

  ‘You can have white wine,’ he said.

  She shrugged happily and beckoned a waiter.

  When the drinks came she said, ‘Thirsty work’, put the glass to her lips and swigged three-quarters of it in one. Hinksman winced. She’s so goddamned vulgar, he thought. What the hell, I need some stress relief

  ‘You a Yank?’ she asked.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Y’all alone in town?’ she leered in her best, mock-American accent. He nodded.

  She tilted her head. ‘Well?’

  He nodded again. The deal had been struck.

  ‘Forty quid,’ she said, businesslike.

  He nearly choked on his drink. He wondered how much Danny Carver’s whore had cost - God rest what was left of his splattered soul. A little more than forty pounds sterling. Even so, Hinksman quibbled. She was probably riddled with disease.

  ‘I wouldn’t pay that for a good-lookin’ broad. Twenty-five. Take it or leave it.’

  Unoffended, she bargained.

  ‘Thirty-five.’

  ‘Twenty-five. ‘

  Seeing it was his one-and-only offer she accepted it with good grace. ‘OK - but up front.’

  ‘And anything I want.’

  ‘So long as I don’t get hurt. I’m not into that.’

  ‘Deal ... waiter! A bottle of champagne to take out.’

  In the taxi Hinksman handed Jane a slim wad of five-pound notes. She stuffed them away in one practised movement, then moved a hand to his lap. As she unzipped him, and bent her head to the task, he suddenly yanked her upright by her hair.

  ‘Wait,’ he said.

  ‘Ow, that fuckin’ ‘urt,’ she wailed, rubbing her head. He glanced sideways at her and smiled.

  She shivered. She didn’t like the look in his eyes at that moment. She thought he had the eyes of a madman. Suddenly she had serious doubts about the wisdom of this transaction.

  ‘This couldn’t have come at a better time,’ Karen Wilde said to the Chief Constable. ‘The way we handle it is very important.’

  She was being very matter-of-fact, despite having removed her blouse and bra. She eased her skirt down her thighs and folded it neatly over the back of a chair, brushing a hair off. She stepped out of her knickers and stood there naked but for stockings and a suspender belt - totally impractical and uncomfortable, but the Chiefs favourite. As she unpinned her blonde hair and shook it out of the constricting school-marm bun, she went on, ‘If we play it right - media-wise and result-wise - this could be your final stepping stone to the Inspectorate.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Dave August.

  ‘You’ve got to take control of this,
make it yours, grasp the nettle.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he gasped.

  He was lying completely naked on the single bed in the en-suite room which adjoined his first-floor office at headquarters. It was a room specifically designed to be used by the Chief should he or she need to work long hours or stay the night. Previous Chiefs rarely used it, preferring the detached police house which was in walking distance within the headquarters’ grounds. However, August had never even furnished the house. It might have encouraged his wife and kids to stay and he liked to keep them at arm’s length - in the house he owned in Cheshire.

  Karen walked across the small room and sat astride the Chief. She wriggled provocatively. He gasped again.

  ‘The biggest crime since Lockerbie,’ she mused, ‘and it’s happened on our patch. It’s got great potential.’

  ‘And so have you,’ he breathed. ‘Now c’mon, stop thinking about it for a while. That’s an order, you scheming little minnie.’

  She took no notice.

  ‘Just suppose,’ she pondered out loud, ‘you put me in charge of the investigation.’ She wriggled.

  ‘But you’ve only ever done short secondments to CID. You’d be way out of your depth. And I need someone of at least the rank of Superintendent to head it.’

  ‘I’ve given that some consideration,’ she smiled.

  ‘And ...?’

  ‘That Detective-Super from commerce branch is on long-term sick. I could become Acting Superintendent ... and anyway, running it wouldn’t be that hard. Just a case of being a good manager. It’s all done by computer these days.’

  Before August had a chance to reply, she kissed him. Wet. Long. Lots of tongue. She swayed her hard nipples across his chest then ran her hand his belly, grasping him firmly.

  ‘How about it, boss?’ she asked, rising for air. ‘Can I? The media will love me.’

  August chided himself. He wished he was big enough to say no. But she was bargaining from a position of strength.

  ‘Would you take a fuckin’ look at that, man!’ whistled Agent Donaldson.

  He dabbed the button on the hand-held remote control and rewound the video tape taken from one of the overhead cameras on the M6. Then he played it forwards one frame at a time. Even so, the explosion was so fast and devastating that the camera didn’t really take it in. It wasn’t designed to do so.

  In one second the car was moving down the middle lane.

  In the same second a huge flash filled the screen and the car was gone, replaced by chaos, death and confusion, with no discernible gap between the scenarios.

  He and McClure watched it a few more times, mesmerised.

  The picture quality wasn’t that good. The tape had probably been reused a million times. But it showed that the car was definitely a Daimler. And no doubt Danny Carver was in the back of it.

  The Technical Services Unit would spend time enhancing the tape. They promised wonderful things. The picture would be made clear with pin-sharp images and using their electronic wizardry they’d able to enlarge selected segments of the screen. That way the number on the registration plate could be read and the faces of the people in the car might be identified (but don’t hold your breath, they said). And TSU could also speed up the tape to ‘mega-fast’ (their description) and that way the explosion could be watched and analysed, conversely, in slow motion, bit by bloody bit.

  With a phtt the screen on the TV fizzled out to blank, and Donaldson handed the remote back to the Control Room Inspector.

  He and McClure left the Control Room together and walked across car park at the front of the headquarters building.

  ‘This certainly cocks the job up,’ McClure said.

  ‘A peculiarly British understatement, I would say,’ remarked the American. ‘But you’re right, with Carver in pieces I’m back to square with Corelli - and it was going so damned well.’

  ‘All may not be lost,’ said McClure airily.

  ‘How d’ya mean?’

  ‘Well, if you’re right and this has Corelli’s backing, then all we need to do is catch the killer, put him under pressure and we could have a lever to get to Corelli through him.’

  ‘You make it sound so simple.’

  ‘What about the guy you saw at the hotel?’

  ‘A glimpse of someone I may have recognised isn’t exactly evidence that he’s a killer, even for British justice.’

  ‘It’s a start though, so don’t forget that face. Think hard about it and keep it in your mind’s eye. I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Tell you later,’ said McClure as they reached their car. He leaned for a second on the roof. ‘If this is down to Corelli, then it shows what an evil bastard he is.’

  ‘Evil?’ Donaldson laughed briefly. ‘In the last two years Corelli’s put at least eight of his rivals out of business - that we know of. Another three are still missing, presumed dead. There’s no evidence to link him, of course, just hearsay and bar talk. But they’re down to him and he stays whiter than white. You’ve heard of the untouchables? He’s fuckin’ totally untouchable.’

  ‘So who’s doing the killings?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Donaldson shrugged his shoulders. ‘Someone very good, someone we don’t even know. Probably the guy who did this one. But I do know one thing...’

  McClure waited, arms folded.

  ‘If I was Danny Carver’s English partner, I’d be shitting in my pants right now.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘We expected both of them to be in that limo so it’s safe to assume the killer expected the same. He’s only done half a job.’

  A grunting noise made them turn and look up at the building.

  A dim light shone behind a curtain on the first floor.

  ‘Someone’s up late,’ said Donaldson. He climbed into the car.

  It was 1.30 a.m.

  Jane the stripper lay awake on the grubby sheets listening to Hinksman’s regular deep breathing as he slept beside her. The room, like the rest of the hotel, was musty and dank-smelling.

  Her top lip throbbed from a cut on the inside where it had banged against her teeth. Blood seeped into her mouth. She shuddered at the salty taste. Her right eye was badly swollen and beginning to blacken; she could hardly open it. That too throbbed - a slightly different beat to her lip.

  She moved a hand slowly up to her throat, slowly so that she would not disturb Hinksman, and massaged her Adam’s apple tenderly, remembering how Hinksman, on reaching his climax, had clamped a vice-like hand around her windpipe and almost strangled her to death in an orgasm that was a torrent of violent, uncontrollable, jerking spasms.

  The injuries to her lip and eye were punishments because she had complained about the near-murder.

  When he knocked her around the room - a cold, clinical assault she thought he got even more pleasure from the violence than from the sex. His mad eyes had really been shining.

  Hinksman moved onto his back. His mouth fell open. He snored. Crazy American bastard, she thought.

  Lying there, motionless and taut, she wondered if she would be able to get out of bed, dress herself and slide out of the room without waking him up. He’d told her that he wanted her to be there in the morning - so she could imagine what his reaction would be to find her fleeing the place: a worse beating than before. Yet to be there in the morning would no doubt entail another beating too.

  She squinted sideways at him through her good eye. He seemed well gone. She moved slightly. He groaned. She went rigid again. He didn’t wake.

  From somewhere down in the bowels of the hotel a phone started ringing.

  ‘Fuck,’ she cursed under her breath and heaved a deep sigh. Until it stopped there was no point trying anything. Escape would have to wait. She glanced at her watch - 2 a.m.

  The phone seemed to ring for ever. Then there was the mumble of a voice followed by footsteps on the stairs, getting closer to Hinksman’s room. Jane fully expected them to pass. They didn’t. There was a l
ight knock on the door.

  Hinksman continued to snore.

  The knocking persisted, growing louder. Hinksman was not disturbed.

  In the end Jane could tolerate it no longer. She tugged a sheet off the bed, wrapped it round herself and answered the door.

  An unshaven man wearing pyjamas and a stained dressing-gown stood there. Heavy bags hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. It was the hotel proprietor, Pepe Paglia.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, surprised at seeing her. ‘I want him.’ He pointed with a nicotine-stained finger at Hinksman.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she said. ‘He’s all yours.’

  Paglia went over to the bed and shook Hinksman. ‘Wake up, come on.’

  He was lifeless. A sustained effort was needed before he was finally roused; it was a fair while after that before he knew what was happening.

  The woman kicked herself. Had she suspected he was this hard to wake when drunk, she would have been long gone.

  ‘Phone call,’ said Paglia. ‘It’s. . .’ he glanced at Jane, turned back to Hinksman and whispered, ‘Miami.’

  ‘Jeez, what does he want?’

  ‘Dunno. I said you were asleep but he told me I had to get you.’

  ‘Right.’ He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the base of his thumbs, pulled on his dressing-gown and padded barefoot out of the room, ignoring the woman.

  Paglia was left with Jane. He dawdled, peered closely at her. ‘Given you a belting, has he?’ he said. ‘If you want looking after properly you can always come to me. Great Italian lover.’

  His face contorted into what could only be described as a leer. He thrust his hips forward with a jerk.

  ‘God forbid,’ she said. She wafted away his halitosic breath.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he shrugged, and left the room, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘Yuk,’ she said when he’d gone, and shivered at the thought of him.

  She dressed quickly.

  Prior to leaving, she picked up Hinksman’s wallet and quickly went through it. She couldn’t believe her eyes. It was the first stroke of luck she’d had that night - or that year, come to think of it. Apart from credit cards, six of them, and driver’s licence which she intended to sell on, there was about £1,000 in mixed Bank of England notes, and a thick wad of dollar traveller’s cheques. And he’d only paid her twenty-five quid, the tight bastard.