A Time For Justice

by Nick Oldham

  He was past struggling and allowed everything to happen without trying to stop it. He knew he was doomed.

  Two floors below, a supermarket belonging to Dakin had just finished trading for the day. The office staff had all gone home, as had the staff from the shopfloor. One or two members of the cleaning team were still there but, with the two hard men posted outside the door, there was little chance of an interruption.

  Cathy looked at Reeve through half-closed eyes. He caught her gaze and thought, ‘Bitch. If I’m going down, so are you.’

  The two men seated Reeve on a chair in the centre of the room prepared ready for his arrival.

  His head lolled forwards, chin on chest. He didn’t have the strength or the desire to lift it and look around him. He just wanted to get it over with.

  Cathy pressed the button on the intercom and said, ‘He’s here.’

  A couple of seconds later the door to Dakin’s office opened and the man himself strutted out. He strode across to Reeve and lifted his head, careful not to get any blood on his hands from the wound at the back which was now crusted over.

  ‘Hello Gerry, old mate,’ said Dakin.

  ‘Lenny,’ was all Reeve could manage to say.

  ‘Good, good,’ said Dakin soothingly. ‘At least you’re with us. I told them not to hit you too hard. My, though, that’s a nasty cut. Does it hurt, buddy?’

  ‘You could say that,’ slurred Reeve.

  ‘Well, that’s the name of the game, innit? You make a decision and you open a door. You have to accept what comes through it, doncha? Agree?’

  Reeve’s head shook drunkenly, but he made no reply.

  ‘Do you agree, Gerry?’ Dakin’s voice rose. Then he struck him across the face, putting his whole weight behind the blow. Reeve was lifted bodily off the chair and crashed to the floor. As he picked himself up he realised it wasn’t a carpet he’d fallen on, but a polythene sheet. The type used by painters and decorators to keep paint off the carpets. Or by executioners to keep blood off them.

  Reeve groaned inwardly.

  ‘Sit him back up,’ Dakin ordered his men.

  They heaved him back into the chair.

  Reeve rotated his jaw. It was already swelling up from the blow. ‘Now then Gerry, let’s have a tete-a-tete, eh?’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say.’

  Dakin guffawed. ‘Now that’s not altogether true, is it?’

  Reeve looked contemptuously up at his tormentor, his breathing short, laboured. He remained defiant, said nothing.

  ‘OK, have it your way,’ sniffed Dakin, ‘but I want to tell you this, Gerry’ - he wagged a finger as though he was giving a ticking-off to a schoolboy- ‘I know everything: you and Browney and that stupid American. In fact, you were all stupid. Doing the deal without me was bad enough, but crossing a Mafia godfather? Tut, tut. Now that strikes me as the very height of stupidity, Gerry. Men like Corelli don’t forgive - whereas I do have that capacity.’ He held his hands over his heart in an angelic gesture.

  ‘Bollocks,’ spat Reeve. ‘It’s fuckin’ obvious you’ve made your mind up. You ain’t going to forgive me for nothing. Otherwise why the sheet, eh? You cunt.’

  ‘Gerry, I’m affronted. I was going to paint the room.’ Dakin could hardly contain his own laughter.

  ‘Yeah, with my fuckin’ brains. I’ve seen Lethal Weapon Two, as well,’ said Reeve. ‘So come on then, how did you know? I didn’t tell anyone, nor did Browney. It was a fuckin’ secret.’

  Dakin sighed, shook his head sadly. ‘Pillow talk. It’s amazing what a man will tell a woman at his weakest moments, Rocket Man.’

  Reeve closed his eyes in despair as it all dawned on him. Janine. The bitch.

  ‘So now you know what it’s like to be double-crossed, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, I do have one thing to say,’ Reeve spouted. ‘It’s about that slag there.’ He nodded in Cathy Diamond’s direction. With satisfaction he saw her sit upright. A worried look crossed her once-smug countenance.

  ‘Browney screwed the arse off her - behind your back. They were laughing at you. Best blow job ever, he said.’ Reeve raised his eyebrows and gave a short laugh. ‘“Know what it’s like to be double-crossed, eh?’" He mimicked Dakin’s Scottish accent.

  Dakin swallowed. His lips pursed. ‘Kill him.’

  One of the gunmen stepped forwards, a silenced revolver in his hand.

  It was over in a second. Reeve’s body lay sprawled out on the polythene, the back of his head virtually removed by the bullets, a sea of hot blood lapping around him.

  Dakin regarded the body a few moments prior to turning slowly and walking towards Cathy Diamond. She sat rigid, terrified. She’d dropped her nail file and polish at Reeve’s revelations and her hands hadn’t moved since.

  As Dakin approached her she shook her head desperately. ‘It’s not true, Lenny. It’s not true.’

  He leaned across the desk, grabbed her by the hair and pounded her face repeatedly into the desk top, his anger overflowing. When he’d finished his frenzied assault her features had been mashed to a gory pulp. She was barely conscious, moaning. He let her head drop onto the desk.

  He looked at the gunmen, pointed at her and cocked his thumb like the hammer of a gun, then left the room.

  At the end of its journey the boat berthed back at Bayside. Ritter was last off, pausing long enough to ensure that no one was waiting to give him a reception. He watched the girl walk towards the shopping complex. He’d made no effort to speak to her further during the remainder of the trip, though he had watched her, wondering who she was, why and how she was involved with Corelli. Then he wondered how and why he himself was involved. Easy answer. Greed.

  He glanced up at the replica of the Bounty moored further up the quay, the one used by MGM for the film Mutiny on the Bounty. Quite appropriate, he thought wryly.

  Once on the quayside he made his way into Bayside, twenty-five thousand dollars richer. One step closer towards a prosperous retirement which he proposed to take as early as decency would allow. His fund consisted currently of an apartment in the Caymans, a small boat, and three hundred thousand dollars which was earning steady interest in the Cayman Islands. As soon as it reached the half-million mark he’d retire with a good pension, the interest on the capital, and hit the Caribbean. It was all worked out.

  He failed to notice a happy couple sat on a low wall near to the waterfront. They were very much engrossed in each other and the picnic they were sharing.

  As Ritter walked smartly past them the woman looked up purely by chance.

  Puzzled, she said, ‘Isn’t that..?’

  ‘Who?’ said the man.

  ‘Naah, can’t be. What would he be doing here?’

  ‘Who?’ asked the man again.

  ‘I’m sure that was Eamon Ritter.’

  ‘Well, so what? Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t,’ said the man, doing what he thought was a passable imitation of a Jew.

  She burst into a fit of giggles, her big fat shoulders shuddering with laughter. It was nice to be in love, laughing at things that would have been blatantly unfunny otherwise. She took a huge bite of her pastrami on rye sandwich, the mayonnaise dripping delightfully down her double chin.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Four days later Hinksman was discharged from hospital into the eager hands of waiting detectives.

  The doctor said he was fit to detain, but must be allowed frequent rest periods and breaks during interviews, and must take his medication as and when prescribed. If he felt faint, complained of dizziness or was physically sick, the police surgeon should be called out or he should be brought back to hospital immediately. The impatient detectives raised their eyes to the heavens, but there was no way they were going to jeopardise this one by breaking the rules. For a start, too many cases had been lost in recent years by over-zealous cops bending the law and secondly, Hinksman was accompanied by his solicitor.

  Hinksman was taken under armed escort to Blackpool Central police
station.

  Around the perimeter of the station were armed patrols who had been detailed to guard the building twenty-four hours per day whilst Hinksman was held there. Their MP5s were clearly visible, held openly across their chests for everyone to see and be warned. The police were taking no chances on this one.

  At the station he was presented to the custody officer, who, after hearing the circumstances of the arrest, authorised Hinksman’s detention to secure and preserve evidence and to obtain evidence by questioning. He booked him into the computerised custody system and gave him his rights: the right to free legal advice, the right to have someone informed of his detention and the right to consult a copy of the Codes of Practice.

  Because he was with his solicitor, Hinksman did not choose to exercise his other rights at that time.

  Fifteen minutes after arrival at the station he was taken to an interview room where the first of a series of taped interviews began. On and off, with breaks, the interviews would last all day.

  The legal process had begun.

  Chrissy woke up about 10 a.m., which was quite early for her. She worked behind a bar in a hotel in Fort Lauderdale which stayed open until 3 a.m. She never generally hit the sack until gone four which wasn’t as bad as it seemed because Kovaks often finished work late (or early, depending on your viewpoint) and they often met tired, yet horny, in bed and indulged in great pre-dawn sex, which set them up for a long morning’s sleep.

  That particular morning, though, Joe Kovaks was on office hours.

  He’d left the apartment at 7 a.m. and Chrissy had the bed to herself.

  Two things had woken her.

  The first was her bladder, the second the thump of some mail coming through the door.

  She slithered out of bed and took care of the first problem before traipsing naked down the hallway to sleepily retrieve the mail.

  It was a package addressed to her from National Geographic, the size and weight of one of their excellent magazines. Which was all very nice, except she didn’t subscribe to it.

  She frowned, slipped a finger under the flap and started to open it.

  Sue was walking down a corridor in the FBI Field Office in Miami, clutching a batch of mail underneath her crossed arms. She was smiling sweetly to herself and humming as she contemplated love, life and happiness. And more particularly, Damian’s penis. Eamon Ritter was striding purposefully down the corridor in her direction.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said pleasantly to him.

  He responded with a grunt; didn’t bother looking at her.

  ‘Did you go for a sail around the bay?’ she asked as they passed, shoulder to shoulder.

  ‘What?’ he said, stopping in his tracks.

  ‘Yesterday,’ she went on innocently. ‘It was my day off. I went down to Bayside - saw you walking up from the waterfront, near to the Bounty. Just wondered if you’d been for a sail around the bay.’

  He looked coldly at her and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re mistaken!’

  ‘I’m sure it was you,’ she persisted naively. ‘In fact, you were wearing that suit.’

  ‘I said you’re mistaken.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sue, belatedly realising from his tone of voice that he wanted her to be mistaken. ‘Yes, I must be. Sorry.’

  He gave her a look which made her shiver, then turned and stalked away.

  She watched him for a mesmerised second or two, disgusted at his abruptness, and went on her way towards Organized Crime with the mail held more tightly to her bosom.

  ‘Yeah, they’ve been interviewing him all day,’ Donaldson said on the phone to Kovaks. It was 4.30 p.m., British time. ‘But he’s said nothing whatsoever. Exercising his right to silence, apparently. Won’t even state his name for the tape.’

  Kovaks sighed. ‘Only to be expected,’ he said philosophically. ‘Is he represented by a lawyer?’

  ‘Yeah. They call ‘em solicitors over here.’

  ‘An appropriate name. What’s his history?’

  ‘Connected to big-time local crims. Haven’t got any further with him, though.’

  Sue trundled into the office with a wave for Kovaks. Only a couple of other agents were in the room, sat at their desks, jackets off, deep into compiling reports. She distributed the mail around various desks, concluding with Kovaks’. ‘Thanks,’ he mouthed over the phone call and put his hand to his lips, forefinger and thumb-tips touching, indicating that a cup of coffee wouldn’t go amiss. She nodded and made her way to the machine in the corner.

  Kovaks slotted the phone in between his shoulder and left ear, leaving his hands free to deal with the mail.

  ‘So what’s your role now?’ he asked Donaldson.

  ‘Background. Working with a Detective Sergeant called Henry Christie . . .’

  ‘Ain’t he the one who arrested Hinksman?’

  ‘Yeah. Seems a good guy, but his nerves are shot to hell. We’re putting together everything I know that’s of value for the investigation over here. How’s Whisper’s murder enquiry coming along?’

  Kovaks was sifting through his mail as he talked. He flicked to one side a couple of envelopes which he knew contained intelligence bulletins, and opened another which contained a letter requiring a quick response. He finally came to the biggest envelope - one from the National Geographic.

  ‘Wall of silence,’ he told Donaldson. ‘I’m not happy with the doctor, though. He’s a creep and I don’t trust him. So, are we going to extradite Hinksman?’

  ‘All in good time.’

  Kovaks picked up his letter-knife and slid it into the top of the envelope. He was already looking forward to a free magazine.

  ‘We’ll let the Brits go through their legal process first,’ said Donaldson. ‘They’ve got enough to stitch him up and convict whether he says anything or not. We’ll try and get him after that. Anything new on Corelli?’

  ‘Naw...’ The knife went in as if it was cutting butter. ‘Still waiting for permission to tap his house down in Key West. I think he does a lot of business down there.’

  Sue appeared in front of him, holding two plastic cups of steaming coffee.

  The envelope opened as the knife came out the other side. Kovaks saw the wires immediately. He shot out of his seat, dropped the phone, shouted, ‘Oh Jesus shit - BOMB!’ and threw the envelope across the room where it smacked on a wall and dropped to the floor. He flung himself at Sue and forced her to the floor; out of the corner of his eyes he saw the other agents in the room drop instinctively down out of sight, taking flimsy protection from their desks. The coffee Sue had been holding went everywhere as Kovaks landed on top of her. She was too surprised and winded to say anything other than, ‘Ungphf’

  Nothing happened.

  Kovaks rose slowly to his knees. ‘Keep down,’ he warned the others. He peered over the top of the desk at the envelope which lay innocently on the floor. Two wires poked out of it. Shaking, his heart pulsating to the point of bursting, he reached for and picked up the phone which dangled on its wire over the edge of the desk. He could hear Donaldson shouting at the other end. ‘Joe, Joe! You OK, Joe?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he breathed. He looked down at the prostrate figure of Sue who hadn’t moved. Her dress had ridden up to reveal her plump thighs and skimpy underclothes. ‘I think I’ve just opened a letter bomb - but it didn’t go bang. Speak to you later.’

  He slammed the phone down.

  ‘I think we’re OK, people,’ he announced. ‘If it was going to blow it would’ve done by now.’

  Gingerly the other two agents appeared from hiding. Kovaks held out a hand to Sue and heaved her into an unladylike sitting position, legs akimbo. She grinned her lop-sided grin at him and said, ‘You don’t need an excuse to throw me to the ground and leap on me, you know.’

  He chuckled with a slightly hysterical undertone, but before he could confound her with an off-the-cuff witty remark, the phone on his desk rang out. He answered it. ‘Kovaks.’

  ‘Agent Kovaks
?’

  ‘Speaking. ‘

  ‘Broward Country Police here, Fort Lauderdale. Sheriff Tomlinson.’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘You live up here with a lady called Chrissy Strand?’

  ‘Yep - why?’ Kovaks asked cautiously. His eyes flickered to the envelope on the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve some bad news, sir. She’s in hospital. Some kind of explosion at your apartment this morning ... We think it could’ve been a letter bomb. It went off in her face.’

  It was a one-room apartment over a row of sleazy shops near to Flagler Street in downtown Miami. In one corner of the room a baby cried itself hoarse in a cot. It was poorly cared for, a scrawny child, its growth stunted perhaps for ever by lack of proper feeding and loving attention. Its diaper stank and probably hadn’t been changed for twelve hours. It was soiled and wet. Underneath, the baby’s skin was red-raw and sore. And the baby was hungry, but it couldn’t have kept anything down because of a recurring stomach infection.

  But it hadn’t always been this way.

  In another corner of the room lay the baby’s mother on a low camp bed with a thin mattress and brown, stained sheets.

  She was a black girl, nineteen years old.

  She hadn’t always been this way.

  Not many months ago she had been beautiful, big and full of life.

  Now she lay there half-listening to her baby’s screams of anguish.

  But they were noises that only vaguely registered in her ears. They were miles away, of no consequence. What was immediate was that her head was swimming and she was in a different, crack-induced world.

  She was on a high, but it wasn’t all that high. She needed some more. The last hadn’t taken her far enough up. She’d seen the peak she wanted to conquer in the distant mist, but it had remained just out of reach. So she needed a lot more, but for the moment this would have to do.