A Time For Justice

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Look, I’ve been out of the country for a few days. I thought it best. I’ve only just been given the news. I’ll look into it, OK?’

  ‘I want him to have the best legal representation available. Do not spare expense. You will fund it.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Dakin. ‘So when are we likely to meet?’

  ‘I have heard the sad news that one of my relatives has recently died quite tragically in Blackpool. He will be buried in about four days’ time. I will be coming for the funeral. Maybe then ... I will try, but I have some business to attend to over here first.’

  ‘Until then.’

  Corelli hung up. Dakin was left holding a dead phone to his ear for a few seconds before he realised there was no one else at the other end. ‘We are on a roll, honey,’ he said enthusiastically to Cathy.

  ‘Sweetie,’ she purred.

  ‘Don’t spare the horses, James,’ Dakin instructed his driver.

  The Bentley slid onto the motorway and its speed soon hovered around the 100 mph mark.

  Lenny Dakin was forty years old. He was a Scot, born and raised in the slums of Glasgow. Right from the start he had gone into crime, establishing a gang of young hoodlums who terrorised the neighbourhood, putting old people and shopkeepers in fear of their lives and property.

  In his teenage days he had had two run-ins with the Scottish police which resulted in prosecutions; one was for petty theft for which he was convicted and the other was for a robbery where he got off at court. He was fifteen then and hired one of the best, and most bent, criminal lawyers in Scotland, showing how successful he was, even then. He was arrested on numerous other occasions, but with no end result.

  By the time he was twenty, Lenny had become one of those self-styled gangland bosses for which Glasgow is famous. For a good eight or nine years he was very much the king of his wing of the castle. He was into everything in a small-time way: bribery, extortion, prostitution, burglary, theft and handling stolen goods. It was all pretty unsubtle stuff. He controlled his part of town very nicely thank you, but he didn’t reckon on the big boys moving in. Which they did in ruthless style.

  There was a bitter underworld feud between Dakin’s gang and two others who had come together to oust him. It was the time of the ‘Clyde Murders’, as the press liked to call them. Eight people were found dismembered throughout Scotland, all villains, and not one murderer caught, but each body linked to Dakin and his sordid war.

  In the end it got too much for him. He had a lot of muscle, but not as much as the other two gangs put together. Dakin knew when he was beaten. He held a summit meeting in secret with the other two gang leaders and came to an agreement - namely, that he would give up the struggle, put his men under their control, cut his own losses and split. Alive.

  He’d realised he was close to becoming another one of the Clyde bodies.

  He moved south to Manchester where his sphere and scale of operations expanded dramatically.

  In a loose partnership with Brown, whom he’d met previously (the criminal underworld is a small underworld), he embarked on a series of violent armed robberies throughout the north-west of England, mainly with Securicor vans as targets. It was very big stuff, as Dakin intended it to be, netting them more than two million pounds in a period of less than nine months.

  This was to be the financial bedrock of their empire.

  Dakin had previously decided where the true fortunes were to be made in crime - drug dealing. And he set about achieving his goals with a vengeance.

  He and Brown made several journeys to Australia and the Far East where they established contacts, couriers and routes. After some initial blunders, mainly as a result of not bribing the right officials, business began to boom. Their first ever deal grossed them a profit of over one million pounds. By the end of their first two years in operation they had amassed over five million pounds each.

  This time Dakin planned everything carefully.

  He was never in a position where he could be compromised, and if he ever felt he was in any danger he dropped the deal or made a killing. Three doubtful couriers who knew too much and talked too loudly got bullets in the back of the head.

  He also invested wisely in legitimate businesses with real profits, real management structures and good accountants who were paid excellent money to launder drugs profits through these businesses and offshore companies that existed in name only. He owned a small chain of supermarkets, six chemists, a dozen newsagents, several specialist wine importers, four pubs and a discotheque.

  But his business relationship with Brown was always on shaky ground.

  Their characters were not really compatible.

  Dakin, tough, businesslike, careful; Brown, flash, unpredictable, volatile, careless and unprofessional.

  Some of these things Dakin could forgive, but he suspected Brown of two serious transgressions, neither of which he could prove.

  One was that he short-changed on deals.

  The other was that he had bedded Cathy Diamond.

  Brown’s lack of professionalism was his undoing; things came to a head during negotiations with Corelli.

  Dakin had realised that even more money was to be made by dealing with the Colombian drug cartels. They were much more organised than the Asian drug barons, whom Dakin could never truly bring himself to trust. Something about their manner. He always expected a knife in the back.

  Feelers put out amongst the international criminal fraternity led him and Brown to Corelli’s organisation, which acted as wholesalers for Colombian operations in Florida.

  Talks began slowly and tentatively between Corelli and the Britons, though they never actually spoke to the big man himself, only his distant intermediaries. One of these was Danny Carver.

  It was during the course of these negotiations that Carver struck up a friendship with Brown. They were very much alike, sharing the same taste in cars, women and gambling.

  Neither was happy with his lot.

  Carver was ambitious to make it alone.

  Brown was continually getting pain and grief from Dakin for the smallest thing and he’d grown to hate the man. He wanted out.

  The result was they engineered a side deal which failed to include either Corelli or Dakin.

  When Dakin discovered the deception - and the amount of money involved - he secretly flew to Florida where he had an urgent meeting with Corelli. Here, he told him the facts as he knew them: behind their backs, Carver and Brown were about to make twenty million pounds sterling, conservative estimate.

  Corelli had nodded sagely. He knew of Carver’s disloyalty. It had been going on for some time now. Other deals had been struck and Carver had been warned several times, but this was the last straw. Corelli had shown remarkable restraint so far. Now it was time to act. Corelli promised to dispose of both Carver and Brown, for the sake of the business, nothing personal, then to resume talks with Dakin.

  He had been true to his word.

  Dakin was impressed and a little overawed. Now it was up to him to show Corelli that he was also a man of his word and get the best criminal lawyer in the country to act for the hit man. Fuck the expense.

  Firstly, though, he had a little problem of his own to sort out.

  The Bentley was driven to Dakin’s modernised farmhouse in the Ribble Valley, set high on the banks of the river, overlooking the ancient Roman fort of Ribchester.

  The first thing Dakin did was call his solicitor, to whom he paid a great deal of money as a retainer. After a polite threat from Dakin ‘I’ll cut yer articles off’ - the less than enthusiastic solicitor promised he would make his way to Blackpool and engage himself to act for Hinksman.

  After this brief conversation, he summoned his driver and said one cold sentence to him.

  ‘Get me Reeve.’

  Gerard Reeve, dressed in only his underpants, held back the curtains and peered out of the hotel window. It was mid-morning and the Lake District village of Grasmere was milling fairly busily with its
tourist trade, most of which centred on its main asset - William Wordsworth.

  Just below the village, the lake itself lay gently and serenely, like a sheet of smoke-blue glass, unruffled and beautiful.

  Reeve stared intently out, searching for something that could give him a clue. Anything. A car which did not seem to fit, a man perhaps, who did not give the impression of being a tourist. Anything to warn him that Dakin had caught up, because he knew that Dakin was after him. He did not have to be told he was on the run, and until he could leave the country he would always be in danger.

  His sharp eyes roved and flickered once more, nervously taking everything in.

  But there was nothing. Yet. He knew he would soon have to move. ‘Come away from the window.’

  He allowed the flimsy curtain to fall back into place and turned to face the female who lay stretched out naked on the bed. This was the third time that morning he’d been to the window.

  ‘He’ll never find you here,’ she said.

  Reeve did not actually agree with her. Dakin had very long, sticky tentacles and he never underestimated him.

  ‘You don’t even know if he’s after you,’ the lady went on, ‘so come back to bed, eh? Let’s have a good time.’

  ‘I’m taking no chances, Janine. Once I’ve got all my money together, we’re away.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Spain, maybe ... dunno.’

  ‘Sounds nice, but I think you’re overreacting.’

  ‘Browney’s dead, so’s that American - plus every other poor bastard in Lancashire. And I’m next in line. I was going to do the legwork for Browney and if Dakin knew about Brown’s double-cross, he’s bound to know about me too. I’d never be able to bluff my way out of it, never.’

  He stood in the middle of the room, rubbing his chin with a hand, thinking. ‘How the hell did he find out about Browney’s plans? Fucked if I know. Who on earth could have told him?’

  ‘Come on back to bed,’ Janine said, a little too abruptly. ‘Come on, babe, I’m dying to get hold of you.’ The last thing she wanted was for Reeve to start thinking things through. He might be slow, but not that slow.

  ‘I don’t know ... I think we should fuck off.’

  ‘There’s always time for sex,’ she pouted.

  ‘OK,’ he said with a smile. ‘You win, but let’s make it quick. We’re out of here ASAP.’

  He crossed the room. She wriggled down the bed to prepare for business.

  After peeling off his underpants - which had the words Hot Rod emblazoned across them - he stood by the bed, erection swaying, deciding what he wanted.

  He stood well over six feet tall and had a build to match, large wide shoulders, flat muscular stomach, solid thighs - all areas of skin which over the years had become a canvas for wild tattoos. Hearts, daggers, girls’ names, swords, ships, guns; many brightly coloured, others merely blue outlines. Only his head and neck remained free.

  ‘Well?’ she said, eyes dancing, breasts a-quiver.

  He straddled her, letting his testicles (tattooed to resemble two leather footballs hanging in a basket) rest on her body just below her well-proportioned breasts. She cradled these balls in the palm of her hand, crushing them gently, making him hiss. Then she took his erection (tattooed to look like a rocket) in her other hand. She knew what he wanted. She began a slow, rhythmic movement with fluttering fingers along the length of his cock.

  Her experienced touch brought him to the point of orgasm many times, but she then held back from the final fast strokes that would have allowed him to shoot forth his sperm.

  It was almost agony for him.

  His penis was huge and throbbing in her hands, but she refused to let him finish.

  Then, as he approached orgasm for the umpteenth time, an axe smashed through the thin hotel door, sending splintering wood into the room.

  This time Janine rubbed for dear life.

  The axe-head was twisted round and heaved back, ripping out the panelling.

  ‘Oh come, come, come,’ Janine breathed as though she hadn’t seen or heard the interruption. She held his organs tightly in her grip, refusing to let go.

  ‘God, they’re here!’ he shouted.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she responded.

  Reeve tore himself from her grasp, painfully. He hopped across the room to where his jacket was slung over a chair. Sperm shot everywhere in uncontrollable spurts. On the bedclothes, on the bedside cabinet, on the floor.

  He fumbled for his gun which was in his jacket.

  The door was battered and burst from its hinges. Three men stepped into the room, one being Dakin’s driver, still dressed in his chauffeur’s uniform.

  The first man through the door was a small, lithe man, no bigger than a jockey. He had a baseball bat in his hands which he wielded with great accuracy across the back of Reeve’s head.

  In Miami it was almost ninety degrees. The city was sweltering under the curse of a heatwave, but on the boats taking day-trippers sightseeing around the bay there was a slight breeze coming off the water.

  ‘And over there, to your left, is the home of Gloria Estafan, Miami’s very own superstar,’ said the captain’s voice over the loudspeaker. Everyone’s attention on the boat turned to the beautiful waterside mansion of the star in the hope of catching just one glimpse of her. There was no sign of the singer, nor any sign of life, just as there had been no sign of any other of the celebrities whose homes the boat had passed on its journey.

  Eamon Ritter hadn’t bothered looking. He’d been on the bay trips many times and could easily have taken over the commentary should the captain suddenly have fallen ill.

  Instead he made his way inside to the empty bar, ordered a beer and sat down to sip it from the bottle by a window. He gazed out at the stunning skyline of Miami and marvelled, yet again, at the foresight of Julia Tuttle from Ohio. Hardly one hundred years ago, she had bought some of the Biscayne Bay swampland and reckoned she’d build a city.

  Even she would have been surprised at the melting-pot metropolis she’d spawned.

  The door opened. Ritter looked casually round. A middle-aged woman entered the room and went to the bar. Ritter remembered she’d boarded the boat with her husband. It was unlikely that she’d be the one he had to meet.

  Ritter had earlier boarded the boat at the waterfront near to Bayside, the new shopping complex. He’d got on first and discreetly studied every other tourist who’d boarded. He couldn’t for the life of him work out which one was Corelli’s man or woman. He’d tried it every time, but failed, and been surprised when the least likely person actually approached him.

  He looked out of the window and took a sip of the beer.

  The other reason he checked everyone was to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

  ‘Upper deck, seats at the rear,’ a voice said.

  Ritter spun round. This time it was a girl, late teens, early twenties maybe. She wore big round sunglasses and had her hair pulled back tightly from her face into a ponytail. She had a nice, wide mouth, small upturned nose and was very tanned and pretty in an impish way. She was wearing a loose vest-like top which hung open around the shoulders and a pair of cut-off jeans revealing long, slender legs. On her feet were flip-flops.

  Ritter remembered her boarding, but had dismissed her as being too glamorous.

  Before he could reply to her instruction, she walked past him, out of the bar.

  Suddenly his throat went very dry and constricted, as it always did at this time of betrayal. He began to pour with sweat; his stomach knotted and butterflies danced through his intestines.

  He took a long pull of the beer, stood up and made his way to the upper deck which was laid out with seating for the tourists. There were many vacant seats. This voyage wasn’t overly crowded as it wasn’t the height of the season.

  The girl was sitting alone at the back of the boat, leaning against the railing, one leg wedged in the back of the chair in front of her. She was drinking Coke from a c
an.

  ‘Mind if I sit here?’ he asked.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she said with a sneer of uninterest as though she was fending off a pass.

  Ritter sat. He extracted his sunglasses from his shirt-pocket and manoeuvred them onto his face.

  ‘Miami’s a wonderful city, don’t you think?’ he stated. These were the words, the phrase, that meant everything was OK to proceed.

  She came straight to the point.

  ‘He wants to know what Donaldson is doing in England.’

  Without hesitation, Ritter told her.

  When he’d finished, she said, ‘How close are you to him?’ meaning the FBI to Corelli.

  ‘Donaldson and Kovaks are tasked to get him, as he already knows. It’s their main function at the moment. It’s difficult to say how close they are, but now that Hinksman’s in custody, I’d venture to tell him to watch out. It could be the beginning of the end, unless he’s careful.’

  ‘It could be the beginning of the end for you too, Agent Ritter.’

  ‘Don’t you even begin to threaten me, lady. You’re just a messenger, not a player, so do your job and messenge.’

  She gave a short laugh, then got to her feet. ‘Don’t be surprised if those agents get a warning shot.’

  ‘Then tell him not to be surprised if they bag his ass. They’re good very, very good.’

  ‘And he’s even better. Your money will be in the usual place. By the way, he thanks you for the information about Whisper and his big mouth. Excuse me.’

  She sidled past him, her crotch provocatively at the height of his nose and only inches away. He could smell her and she smelled excellent. Ritter held himself back from letting a hand brush her outer thigh. She walked away from him down the deck, her ass swaying like a cat-walk model.

  Ritter tilted his head back and emptied his beer down his dry throat.

  It was 8.30 p.m. British time. Cathy Diamond was seated behind a desk in a plush, well-appointed office, filing her already perfect nails with an emery board. She blew off the last of the shavings and was about to pick up her nail-polish when Reeve, flanked by two armed men, was led into the room.