by Nick Oldham
Recent Titles by Nick Oldham from Severn House
BACKLASH
SUBSTANTIAL THREAT
DEAD HEAT
BIG CITY JACKS
PSYCHO ALLEY
CRITICAL THREAT
CRUNCH TIME
THE NOTHING JOB
SEIZURE
HIDDEN WITNESS
FACING JUSTICE
FACING JUSTICE
A Henry Christie Novel
Nick Oldham
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First world edition published 2011
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2011 by Nick Oldham.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Oldham, Nick, 1956–
Facing justice. – (A Detective Superintendent Henry Christie novel)
1. Christie, Henry (Fictitious character) – Fiction.
2. Police – England – Blackpool – Fiction. 3. Intelligence
Officers – United States – Fiction. 4. Detective and
mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
823.9′2-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-139-2 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8075-8 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-374-8 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
To Belinda, my love
ONE
Massey was amazed to wake up alive. He was certain he’d be dead, that the horrific beating he’d endured – the fists, boots, sticks and bats – would have, should have, killed him. He’d obviously been lucid at the start of it, expecting to get a good hammering, basically what he deserved. But, only a short way into the assault, he realized this was much more than a punishment beating. He could tell by their faces and their eyes and their determination. And he knew this would be the last time he would ever be assaulted by anyone. But there had been nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t protect himself or fight back in any way. Being securely gaffer-taped to a chair ensured that.
Then the pain took over, followed by the distortion of sight, sound and thought. Next the in-and-out of consciousness, vision blurring as though he’d opened his eyes deep under murky water, unable to see, then unable to feel, then unable to breathe. And then the merciful blackness of what he assumed was his death.
As consciousness returned, his eyelids fluttered but he didn’t open them. Just lay there on the cold, gritty surface and explored how his body was feeling. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe he would have fooled his captors into thinking he was still out of it. He knew he’d moved, knew he’d groaned, knew his breathing was in a different rhythm, but he didn’t care. If they wanted to start on him again after they’d realized they hadn’t killed him – which must have been their intention – eyes open or closed would not make one bit of difference.
Searing pain arced through his cranium, starting at a place just behind his eyeballs and radiating out in agonizing pulses, like a migraine times a thousand. Did this mean he had a fractured skull? He recalled the vicious stomp on the head that must have been the origin of the pain. That was when they’d got really carried away and lost it, after the chair had toppled over and one of them had jumped on him. His whole face had been forced out of kilter, distorted like a kid standing on a balloon.
Massey ground his teeth and moved the tip of his tongue along the back of them. Many were loose, hanging there in the gums, barely connected any more. There were two big gaps and he recalled spitting out fragments of crushed teeth when the men had heaved the chair back upright. He’d spat out the broken teeth and blood and squinted at the men through his pus-swollen eyes, then seen the baseball bat arcing towards him.
Now he did open his eyes. At least as far as they would open in the liquid-filled sacs of swellings now encasing them. He coughed, swallowed blood, and pain tore at his chest. Broken ribs? He moved a fraction, convulsing at the pain in his knees from the blows delivered by the bat.
He tried to control his breathing as a deep, long shudder passed like a ghostly shockwave through the entire length and breadth of his body.
He was in darkness, unable to work out where he was. So he lay still, moving his ankles and wrists slightly, realizing he was no longer taped to a chair, nor was there any duct tape binding his arms or ankles. He was lying on a hard floor now. He wondered if they thought they had succeeded in killing him, whether they had ripped the tape off and dragged him to this place that was like a basement of some sort. Somewhere to stash the body before disposing of it?
Massey brought up his legs, a movement that made him gasp. Then he eased himself very slowly and painfully up until he was sitting on his backside, still trying to control his breathing as if by doing so he could control the agony. He swayed a little, not wanting to move. What he wanted were painkillers and then to close his eyes and reawaken in a week’s time, having healed.
Keeping his body as still as possible, he squinted at his location, and saw that he was definitely alone. They were not waiting for him to sit up just so they could begin again.
From what little light there was, it seemed as though he was in a basement room of some sort. A square room, not much bigger than a police cell – and he’d been in plenty of those in his time – with rough-hewn concrete flooring and inner walls constructed of breeze block. There was a tiny window, maybe a foot square, high up on one wall. Massey could see it was made from opaque, reinforced glass with three iron bars set into the window ledge.
And yes, he was definitely alone.
And there was a door.
Massey inched his head around and slowly tried to focus on it. It was steel-reinforced – another reminder of a cell, even down to the inspection hatch just below eye level. At ground level there was also a flap in the floor through which a food tray could be slid, something which puzzled Massey faintly. His eyes, though watery and swollen, were starting to work better now, seeing things more sharply even though he could not open them any wider than slits. The door had no handle on this side, so its locking was controlled from the outside. Again, just like a cell door, not a basement door.
He groaned involuntarily, spat something out that dribbled messily down his chin and on to his chest. He rocked, his head feeling as though lots of sharp stone chips were inside it.
But he was definitely alive. Of that he was certain.
Death, he now knew, had no feeling. Being alive meant sheer agony.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Then, closing one nostril with a finger, he blew down the open one, clearing it of blood and phlegm. He repeated the process with the other nostril.
His nasal passages clear, he smelled something other than his own blood and gagged at the odour. Something . . . a combination of heavy urine and dead flesh. Very strong and almost overpowering. A smell he co
uld not place even though it was familiar and he had smelled it before. Sometime in his past, many years before. Or was it somewhere else in his memory, deep-rooted and primeval?
He shivered in fear.
‘Fuck it,’ he said and slowly curled his body around and eased himself up to his knees. He didn’t stay in that position for long because his kneecaps had been hit by the baseball bat – but, as painful as they were, they had not been shattered. Then he recalled something else that puzzled him a little.
The man hitting his knees with the bat. And the other one holding him back. What had been said?
‘No . . . don’t break ’em. He needs to be able to . . .’
Massey tried to remember. Couldn’t quite put the piece there.
‘Able to what?’
‘Fuck it,’ he said again and pushed himself slowly up to his feet, then lost balance as everything inside his skull rolled loosely around. He staggered to the wall for support before he fell again, the palms of his hands holding him upright, his face just inches away from the breeze block.
He cursed and rested his forehead on the wall, then, puzzled, he drew back a few inches and made his eyes focus on a sign spray-painted on the wall. It was a diamond shape, basically an orange-coloured square tilted on to one of its corners. The word ‘EXPLOSIVES’ was written across it in thick black capitals. There was a graphic image above the word representing an actual explosion. Massey realized he was looking at a health and safety sign.
‘What the . . .?’ he started to say, thinking, explosives in a basement? But he could not be bothered continuing with the thought thread.
He inhaled another stuttering, painful breath, wincing as he felt the jagged end of a broken rib touching a lung. He turned, leaned on the wall, again exploring his current situation.
Despite the sign, the place did remind him of a basement, maybe situated under the main house. The ceiling seemed to be made of thick concrete and a light bulb dangled, unlit, on a foot-long thread of wire.
Then that smell. That odour. Where had he smelled it before? There was something horrible about it. Animal.
Using one hand on the wall for support he took an uncertain step towards the metallic door and stood in something soft. He looked down. It was shit. Despite his physical condition, Massey pulled a face and dragged his shoe across the floor to get it off his sole. He heard a click as the foot connected with and moved something.
This time it was a thick steel chain, one end sunk deeply and concreted into the wall. Massey reached for it and pulled it up. The links were heavy and strong. He ran them through his hands until he came to the end, attached to which was a leather collar two inches thick, one that would have fitted around the neck of the world’s biggest dog.
Massey inspected the collar. It was made of thick but softly pliable leather with a big steel buckle. He held it to his bloodied nose and sniffed it cautiously. Then he dropped it as his guts spun over and he suddenly remembered where he had smelled that reek before – and realized that the stupid rumours he’d heard were true.
A very basic terror gripped him. Every hair on his body rose as adrenalin rushed into his system and drew blood away from the surface capillaries.
He moved quickly to the door. Fully expecting it to be locked, he ran his fingertips down the edge opposite the hinges and pulled at it. It creaked open an inch.
Massey paused. His senses tingled, heart pounded. He half expected them to burst in now, having realized their mistake in that they hadn’t actually killed him. No one came. A cold, biting wind hissed through the gap, hitting his face with its iciness, and its freshness took away the odour of the room for a moment.
He opened the door a few more inches. Cautiously he peered out, still uncertain as to his whereabouts, but definitely not in the location in which he’d been assaulted. He edged out into a bright, moonlit, but excruciatingly cold night and seemed to be standing in the middle of nowhere. The world was completely silent, other than the sound of the wind. Not even distant traffic. And the room he had woken up in, thinking it had been a cellar under the main house, was nothing of the sort. It was the inside of a complete little building, about the size of a detached single garage. It was a sort of fortified hut, with one door, the high barred window and nothing else, with an outer perimeter twelve by twelve, maybe eight feet high and flat-roofed. The outer walls were thick stone. A sign on the door reiterated the inner warning: ‘DANGER – EXPLOSIVES!’
His beaten, befuddled brain then realized where he’d been dragged to and dumped, and what the building was, or used to be.
He waited, listened for a few seconds, hearing nothing but the crash of his heartbeat. All he could feel now, even above the pain that wracked his injured body, was complete and utter fear.
He moved away from the building, limping, dragging himself along, knowing he had no time at all to worry about his wounds, what might be broken, damaged or bruised. Somehow he had to get away from this place. He forced himself to walk as quickly as he could across the barren, rocky ground, stumbling but managing to stay upright. He scrambled up an incline to the top of a mound of earth and stood squinting across a vast, open expanse in front of him, a huge black hole on the face of the world. But he did not pause for long. He moved on, hoping he had regained consciousness sooner than they thought he would.
He caught his foot, stumbled, fell, smacked down on to his sore knees, jarring his whole being. He cried out involuntarily and tried to muffle the noise, turning it from a scream of agony into a moan. But a noise nevertheless.
Then he was on his feet again, half sliding down a rubble-strewn slope and skidding into a wheel rut, cut deep into the clay.
Which way?
He started to follow the ruts, hoping there was some logic to this plan. Surely they would lead somewhere.
Once more he kicked a big stone and lurched. His body jarred and the broken rib touched his lung again, making him hiss with pain. He crumbled to the ground, waiting for the pain to ebb. Slowly it receded. He took a few more seconds for complete recovery.
Then, somewhere behind him, a slight scuffing sound. And another noise to accompany this: a rough, sawing cough.
The fear he felt intensified.
He rose slowly to his full height. Turned and looked into the darkness behind him. All his senses prickled. He was ready to flee.
Now he recalled what the man had said about his knees: ‘Don’t break ’em. He needs to be able to run.’ Run! That was the word and Massey now knew why his knees hadn’t been smashed and broken. It was always the intention that he would wake up. That he would live through the beating, as savage as it was. Intended that he had some ability to run, or at least hobble, on two feet. So he could take part in a dangerous race for his life.
He could not see or hear anything now. ‘So it’s true,’ he said to himself. Then shouted, ‘Come on you bastard,’ into the dark.
And then he remembered that other thing. The stench. Now he placed it and he knew what was out there in the dark just beyond the periphery of his vision.
The moon had been covered by cloud which now peeled away and cast light across the rutted ground.
There were two short coughs.
Massey spun. He had been looking in the wrong direction. For a moment he was fixed to the spot, anchored by injury and terror, paralysed. Then he moved, but too late. His ankle twisted in a tyre rut, he screamed and went down. The last thing he saw were the two almond-shaped eyes reflecting silver in the moonlight.
TWO
Flynn immediately didn’t like the guy. Smelled the stale alcohol on his breath, instinctively knew there would be trouble to come.
Had times been less harsh economically, Flynn would have told him the boat was fully booked and pointed him in the direction of one of the other charter fishing boats moored along the quay. But any charter is a good charter, Flynn’s boss had told him, especially in this day and age. The fishing business had gone pretty limp over the last few months and there had been
a rumour about mothballing some of the boats next month – January – if things didn’t pick up. That meant no income from fishing and, for Flynn, a long, unpleasant spell as a doorman at one of his boss’s clubs up in Puerto Rico’s Commercial Centre.
So, quoting a vastly inflated price for the day that did not even cause the man to bat an eyelid, and separating him from 800 euros, Flynn said, please step aboard, sir. The only good side of it was that trailing behind the guy like a petulant teenager was his scantily clad lady friend, who looked as though she would rather be anywhere else in the world than climbing aboard a sportfishing boat in Gran Canaria. Her continually rolling eyeballs and accompanying body language told their own sorry story.
Flynn introduced the customer to Jose, his Spanish crewman, who extended his bear-paw of a hand to be shaken and was completely ignored by the man. Jose, undaunted, maintained his professional attitude and kept his broad grin in place as he withdrew his hand and redirected his attention to the even less receptive girlfriend.
She teetered up the gangplank on to the deck, losing one of her flip-flops into the water, and demanded, ‘I want to be inside, I want food and booze . . . ugh, I feel sick already.’
‘Your wish is my command,’ Jose said and ushered her into the stateroom, passing within earshot of Flynn, mouthing a Spanish obscenity to him.
‘Nah then, mate,’ the customer said to Flynn, who hooked the floating flip-flop out of the water with a gaff, ‘I’m told you’re the best skip in the Canaries. Let’s see, shall we?’ He rubbed his hands and raised his face challengingly. ‘If I don’t come back having caught a blue marlin, I’ll be really pissed off.’
‘The marlin run ended late September,’ Flynn told him. ‘Won’t be much chance of catching one, I’m afraid.’
‘So what will we catch?’
‘Maybe nothing, but there’s plenty of thornbacks, stingrays and congers out there. Maybe lock into a shoal of tuna if we’re lucky. Shark are always out there, too.’
