A Time For Justice

by Nick Oldham

  She crawled into a sitting position, reached out a shaking hand and took the bottle from him.

  ‘Big mouthfuls,’ he insisted.

  Jane knew, somehow, that this time there would be no opportunity to escape. He was too quick, strong and determined - and experienced. He oozed death. It leaked from every pore. Yes, Death had returned and was going to complete what it had started.

  The only thing that warmed her was that he wouldn’t get his money back, not one penny, not one cent of it.

  She smiled and put the vodka to her lips again. If she was going to be murdered she might as well be oblivious to it. With the alcohol content in her body still relatively high, it wasn’t long before she was completely drunk again.

  Jane amassed all her faculties with one deep breath. Now she did not care.

  ‘YOU’RE A FUCKING BASTARD WHO CAN’T SHAG FOR TOFFEE,’ she screamed.

  Before she had finished he’d ducked down to her level, wrenched her by the hair and taken hold of her head in both his hands. His right hand held her chin, mouth and nose. His left held the back of her head. He lifted and twisted in one easy, screwing movement.

  Jane’s neck broke with a loud crack and she was dead.

  He tossed her across onto the mattress. She flopped there loosely. Hinksman wiped the fingerprints carefully off all the bottles he’d touched with a kitchen cloth and stood the bottles side by side on the sink. He stepped out onto the landing and listened. It was all quiet. He heaved Jane out onto the landing and pulled her to her feet at the top of the stairs. Her head flopped onto her chest. Spit dribbled out of her mouth. With a gentle push he let go of her and she went spinning down the steps to the landing below, arms and legs flailing everywhere. She came to an untidy bundle at the foot of the stairs.

  Hinksman followed her down, stepped lightly across her and sped down the rest of the stairs.

  Within seconds he was out of the building. Gone.

  The greyness of dawn was just arriving.

  Even though he wanted to, Henry couldn’t get to sleep. A parrot in the surgery below was squawking loudly, shouting obscenities, and in turn had set off a yapping terrier dog. The combination was unbearable. After half an hour of the cacophony he rolled off the bed and made himself a mug of tea. He switched on the, gas fire, sat down in front of it and sipped the brew while staring at the flames.

  About five-thirty the animals must have got tired and they ceased their noise. Henry sank back into the armchair, closed his eyes and, at last, nodded off.

  An hour later Henry and the animals were reawakened by a loud knocking on the door. Henry staggered down the back steps and opened it. A bright-eyed Donaldson stood there, immaculately turned out. His smile drooped when he saw the unshaven mess that was his British counterpart.

  ‘You did say six-thirty,’ Donaldson said defensively. ‘Long day ahead. ‘

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ muttered Henry. ‘Come on in, give me ten minutes. ‘

  ‘You look like something a cat’s dragged in,’ Donaldson observed.

  ‘And you look like a dog’s dinner,’ said Henry. ‘Did Karen get you dressed?’

  He had a quick shave and a shower, threw on some clothes and fifteen minutes later was sitting in the passenger seat of Donaldson’s hired car which sped down the motorway towards Lancaster. After a brief, perfunctory conversation, Henry’s eyes closed, his chin sagged onto his chest and he fell asleep, drooling.

  Donaldson laughed and tuned into Jazz FM.

  As demanded, everything about Hinksman was on Dave August’s desk at 9 a.m. sharp. The Chief Constable glanced at the boxes of files that FB had deposited and was itching to get into them, just to see if there was anything at all, anything that would guide him to the people who had made him do this awful thing.

  But it was a task that would have to wait. The day ahead held other priorities: press conferences, then a visit to the incident room. After that he planned to meet all the bereaved relatives personally at their homes. Just to give them a few minutes. To show he cared.

  That was not going to be easy, knowing that, ultimately, he was the one person responsible for their deaths.

  It was going to be a tough day.

  Joe Kovaks was at his desk by eight o’clock that morning. He ignored the mountain of paperwork that he’d allowed to accumulate there. He wanted to get two things done.

  First he wanted to see his supervisor and ask to be taken off the Corelli case.

  Then he wanted to visit Laura and tell her about his change of heart. Killing Corelli wasn’t the way forward, he now knew, and he had to convince her of that - which wasn’t going to be easy. He’d spent enough time brainwashing her; now he had to try and reverse the process. The prospect was daunting. But the little sachet of white powder in his jacket pocket should make things easier.

  For the first time in years his supervisor arrived late for work. Kovaks had been pacing the man’s office like a cat.

  ‘Hello Joe,’ he said, removing his coat. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Hi, look, sorry to be so blunt Arnie, but can I make an urgent request?’

  ‘Sure,’ said the puzzled supervisor.

  ‘I want off the Corelli case, as of now. The case papers are all up to date. That OK?’

  ‘Fine by me, but why now? You’ve put a lot into this over the years. You in trouble or something? Someone leanin’ on ya?’

  ‘Not in trouble, but someone is leaning on me, yeah, but in a nice way. Can I tell you later, boss? I don’t want to appear rude but I have an urgent meet with an informant. After that I’ll come back and have a chat. OK?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ the supervisor said, completely flummoxed.

  ‘So I’m off the case?’ Kovaks confirmed.

  ‘As of this moment.’

  ‘I love ya,’ said Kovaks. He took the man by the shoulders and kissed his cheek. Before anything more could be said, Kovaks had turned and left the office.

  Quickly the supervisor wiped his face dry, disgusted at the thought of being kissed by another man.

  Car theft is a growth area in crime in Britain. It is a big headache for the police. There are always some people who leave their cars unlocked with the key still in the ignition.

  People like Henry Christie.

  When he’d parked in the early hours he’d been so tired, had so much on his mind and had been so busy chatting to Jane that he’d simply got out of his car, left the key in the ignition and forgotten to lock it.

  Even if he’d remembered he wouldn’t have been distressed. After all, who would want to steal a car which even the owner described as a ‘heap o’ shit’.

  The answer was a young man called John Abbot. Aged fifteen, he was once again playing truant from school, engaged in his favourite pastime of robbing cars.

  The ‘robbing’ was either stealing from them - which he did mostly - or, if the opportunity arose, driving the cars away and abandoning them somewhere when he got bored. Usually on the beach in the face of an incoming tide.

  Abbot was one of Blackpool’s most prolific car-crime experts and was verging on becoming a professional. He made over three hundred pounds per week selling the goods he stole from cars, and wrecked about ten thousand pounds’ worth of cars each month, just for pleasure. He was rarely caught.

  He was strolling through the streets of the south-shore area, trying car doors as a matter of course, when he came across Henry’s Metro.

  He couldn’t believe his luck when he saw the key in the ignition. He had a quick glance around the interior and sneered at the state of it: torn seats, worn carpets and a radio which was just that - a radio. Not even a cassette player! No one would want to buy that.

  ‘This car deserves to be trashed,’ he said. He slid in and reached for the key.

  The engine fired at the third attempt and ticked over lumpily. He dipped the accelerator a few times and revved it gleefully. He selected first and moved off. There was a big smile on the young criminal’s face.
/>   He was not to know that this was the last car he would ever steal.

  It was a long time since Joe Kovaks had felt so happy, certainly not since the letter bomb. It was like a new beginning, and he was looking forward to the road ahead. If this is what love feels like, he thought, give me more.

  He almost skipped through the office to his desk. One or two people looked up quizzically from their work as his tuneless humming reached their ears.

  The phone rang as he sat down.

  ‘Joe Kovaks, Special Agent. May I help you?’ he answered brightly. ‘Joe, it’s me,’ came a weak voice.

  Reality flattened Kovaks back into his chair. ‘Damian, where the hell are you?’ he hissed urgently. He’d almost forgotten about Sue’s murder.

  ‘Look, I can’t talk on this line, you know that.’

  ‘Hang on, hang on.’ Kovaks fumbled in his jacket for his electronic diary. ‘I gotta number here you can use.’ He pressed a few buttons. ‘Damian, you still there?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said tiredly.

  ‘This is the number of one of the phone booths opposite the office you know, the ones we use for delicate calls?’

  ‘Yeah, I know ‘em.’

  ‘You gotta pen?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Kovaks read the number out and got Damian to recite it back.

  ‘Is this kosher?’ Damian asked suspiciously.

  ‘Yeah. Leave it five minutes for me to get down there, then call the number, OK?’

  ‘Right. ‘

  Kovaks hung up and put his diary back inside his jacket. He immediately called Ram Chander in Homicide but was unable to contact him. He decided not to leave a message.

  He glanced quickly around the office. ‘Bill, do me a favour, will ya? Call Ram Chander and tell him Damian’s recontacted me, right? Tell him I’m gonna try and make a meet with him. He’ll understand. It’s pretty urgent. Can you do that for me, pal?’

  ‘No probs,’ the other agent said, scribbling.

  Kovaks left the office quickly. Eamon Ritter stood up and followed. In his hand he had a mobile phone which he began to dial.

  Henry Christie sat staring dead ahead as Donaldson drove him back down the motorway. It was 5 p.m., and it had been a frustrating day. No progress had been made; and Henry was the subject of an official complaint, yet again.

  He’d spent most of the morning with Karen, briefing the small team of detectives which had been assigned to their line of enquiry. Their first task was to go and see a tame magistrate and swear out two warrants which were to be executed later that afternoon.

  Around lunchtime Henry walked up to the public mortuary at the hospital where Dr Baines, the Home Office Pathologist, was carrying out post mortems on the police officers killed the day before.

  Baines was deep inside a chest cavity. His gloves, sleeves and apron were covered in blood. The scene reminded Henry of MASH, except there was no one to be saved here. They nodded to each other. Baines’s hands emerged with a heart that had been shredded by bullets. He placed it carefully down by the body.

  ‘Henry! How are you, old man?’ he asked rather incongruously in a mock-Etonian accent.

  ‘As well as can be expected under the circumstances.’

  Both men looked down the room. There was a body on each slab. In one corner was a bloodstained pile of police uniforms.

  ‘Glad to see you’re fighting fit though,’ Baines said. ‘Believe you’ve had some, er, problems.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m over the worst now - I hope.’

  ‘That double murder at Whitworth never got solved, did it?’

  ‘No, we got nowhere with it. And I got kicked off the case.’

  ‘I’m damned sure I know something important about that,’ Baines said. He thought hard for a moment or two, eyebrows knitting. ‘Nope, won’t come, tried before. Anyway, must get back to work, so if you’ll excuse me . . . Perhaps we should have a meal out sometime?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’

  Henry meandered back to the station. FB was just driving into the car park.

  ‘How’s it going, Henry?’ he asked as they walked into the building and made their way to the canteen for lunch.

  ‘So so,’ Henry shrugged.

  ‘Just to let you know, just to warn you - I’ve let the Chief have copies of everything on Hinksman. He wants to know every move we make, so keep me informed please, bang up to date on everything, OK?’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘So, what’s planned for this afternoon?’

  ‘Gonna scare the shite out of Lenny Dakin.’ For the first time that day Henry’s scowl was replaced by a grin. But it was a wicked one.

  The warrants authorised the police to enter, by force if need be, two properties belonging to Lenny Dakin, and to search for a person unlawfully at large who was reasonably believed to be therein, namely Hinksman.

  One warrant was for Dakin’s home in the Ribble Valley and the other was for his flat over his supermarket in Blackburn. Henry knew of several other addresses but didn’t want to overplay his hand at such an early stage. His idea was to panic Dakin, put him under surveillance and hope that he did something stupid, like lead the cops to Hinksman.

  However, the afternoon turned into an utter shambles. Both premises were searched, but Dakin wasn’t at either of them.

  Henry and a squad of armed officers, including an unarmed Donaldson, hit Dakin’s farmhouse. Another team, led by Karen, did the rooms over the supermarket.

  As both teams reassembled back at Lancaster, a man purporting to be Dakin’s solicitor telephoned the incident room and asked to speak to Henry. He demanded to know on what evidence the application for the warrants had been based.

  ‘I cannot discuss anything over the telephone,’ Henry said officiously. ‘I don’t even know if you are who you say you are.’

  ‘Oh, I am definitely Mr Dakin’s solicitor,’ the man said. ‘And there is also the question of compensation and theft. The front door of Mr Dakin’s house has been severely damaged by police as they entered the premises... ‘

  Henry held his breath. The door had been battered down and a joiner had been called to repair and secure it before the police left. Fortunately Henry had taken a Polaroid camera along with him for ‘before and after’ pictures.

  ‘The door is several hundred years old, an antique in fact and is valued at two thousand pounds. We will be claiming that amount in compensation. ‘

  ‘Bollocks,’ uttered Henry, declining to disclose the existence of the photographs.

  ‘And of course there is the problem of Mr Dakin’s Doberman Pinschers. Both dogs have disappeared, presumably allowed to escape by the police.’

  Henry made no comment. The Dobermans had been a problem all right; they’d bitten two detectives’ arses before being shepherded out of the house where they immediately hurtled away down the garden, over the wall, never to be seen again.

  ‘A large amount of gold jewellery has gone missing,’ the solicitor went on smoothly.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! Are you accusing me of theft?’

  ‘Not specifically you, Sergeant Christie, not yet anyway. But by a process of deduction either you or one of your team or your whole earn has stolen it. There will be an official complaint made shortly to tour Discipline and Complaints branch. I’ve no doubt that when the Police Complaints Authority is informed, you’ll find yourself deeply investigated. ‘

  ‘Not half as deeply as your client will be,’ Henry rasped.

  ‘Tsk, tsk, threats now, is it? I’ll add that to my list.’

  Henry slammed the phone down.

  Fuck Dakin to hell and back!’ said Henry.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Donaldson soothed.

  They had reached Blackpool and were driving along the promenade.

  ‘Right now, Dakin will be scared shitless,’ the American decided. ‘After all, it’s the first time he’s been implicated with Hinksman and, by association, with Corelli. Trust me. He won’t be a happy m
an.’

  Progress through traffic was slow but steady. They approached the traffic lights outside the Manchester Hotel at the junction of the promenade and Lytham Road. The lights went to red.

  Donaldson’s hands tapped the steering wheel while he waited for the green light. Idly he watched a car come down the promenade, then turn left into Lytham Road. It looked very familiar.

  ‘Just like your pile of garbage, that one,’ he said to Henry.

  Henry looked across and saw the car sail through the lights. It only took a second. Then, ‘It is bloody mine! And that little git John Abbot is driving it. Go after him,’ he yelled.

  ‘You look pretty much like death warmed up,’ Joe Kovaks commented to Damian. He sat down opposite the little man and pushed a Styrofoam cup of black coffee across the table. Damian took it with a trembling hand.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and put the cup to his lips, but he was shaking so badly he couldn’t take a drink. His eyes were constantly roving the restaurant - a McDonald’s on the beach in Fort Lauderdale. ‘You sure you’re alone, Joe?’

  The other man nodded reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, I’m alone. Now have a drink of that coffee. Go on.’

  This time Damian managed to get a mouthful. He looked terrible - thin and gaunt. Several days of stubble on his face. Eyes deeply sunken, bloodshot. Skin grey. Clothing unkempt and beginning to smell.

  ‘Where the hell have you been keeping yourself?’ Kovaks asked him gently. ‘You know that cops all over the state are looking for you, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t need reminding,’ Damian said. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Been sleeping here and there, roaming the streets during the day. Hiding when I see a uniform or cop car. Hardly eatin’, never sleepin’. Got no money left.’

  Then it all came flooding back to him. He began to cry, quietly at first, then with big body-raking sobs, drawing the attention of everyone in the place.

  ‘Jeez, Joe,’ he said through the tears, ‘I loved her so much. I was in love for the first time in my life. I loved her - I didn’t want her to die. Hell! Hell! Cut up to hell! Oh God, she’s dead. I can’t believe it still.’