A Time For Justice

by Nick Oldham

  Kovaks reached out and patted Damian’s shoulder. ‘OK bud, you cry, no problems.’

  ‘I haven’t been able to cry yet,’ he said when he’d pulled himself together. ‘I’ve been too frightened, watching my back all the time.’

  ‘Damian,’ said Kovaks. ‘I got to know.’

  ‘Yeah, I know you do.’ He shook his head. His red eyes moistened again and tears fell down his face. ‘I still can’t believe it myself. I didn’t do it, Joe. Honest to God. You gotta believe me. I would never have hurt Sue. She was so precious, so delicate, like a flower.’

  ‘Who killed her then?’ Kovaks interrupted.

  Damian swallowed. ‘You won’t believe me when I tell you.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Damian told him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  At the same time as this revelation was being made, a car chase was just about to commence 3000 miles to the east in Blackpool.

  The lights had just started to change; Donaldson slammed his foot on the accelerator pedal and cut dangerously across the oncoming traffic to slot in behind Henry’s Metro.

  Henry was fumbling to reach his radio which he had thrown onto the back seat. He hoped the battery was still charged up.

  Abbot was only dawdling along in the Metro. He was going to make towards the motorway and head out towards Preston. Once on the motorway, he decided, he would ‘screw the arse’ off the car and try to get the engine to explode.

  ‘The cheeky little bastard,’ Henry said as he faced forwards again, clicking the radio on. ‘Doesn’t he know he’s stolen a cop’s car?’

  ‘It’s not exactly the sort of car you associate with a cop,’ laughed Donaldson. ‘More with a scrap-metal dealer.’

  ‘Don’t you start,’ Henry warned Donaldson.

  Both men were thoroughly enjoying themselves with this diversion.

  Henry spoke into the radio. Within seconds every mobile patrol in Blackpool knew what was going on. Some were already responding and making towards the area.

  At that point Abbot checked his rearview mirror for the first time. He saw the Ford Escort close on his tail, two occupants on board, both male. He looked again more closely. The man in the passenger seat was talking into a radio.

  ‘Shit,’ he hissed, and pulled away.

  ‘He’s seen us,’ said Donaldson. The Escort was more than a match for the tired Metro, which hadn’t been serviced for well over a year and had nearly 90,000 miles on the clock. Donaldson had no trouble keeping up with Abbot, but maintained a safe distance between them in case he decided to slam the brakes on and cause an accident.

  Abbot led them a merry dance through the side streets of Blackpool, but couldn’t shake Donaldson who stuck there like a terrier.

  ‘He’ll bloody kill someone,’ remarked Henry as they rounded a tight corner on a narrow street with parked cars on both sides.

  On the next corner Abbot briefly lost control. He skittered sideways into a parked car, giving it a glancing blow and taking the wing mirror off the Metro before recovering.

  ‘Oh my beautiful car,’ said Henry painfully. ‘He’s damaged it.’

  ‘It was falling to bits anyway,’ Donaldson noted.

  ‘Oh, thanks very much. That’s my pride and joy, I’ll have you know,’ Henry said, feigning hurt. But there was a huge smile on his face. He was excited and had that peculiar empty feeling in his stomach and dryness of the mouth that he always experienced in situations like this. He put it down to adrenalin.

  The car lurched as they took another bad bend. Henry’s seatbelt snapped tight as he shot forwards. He lifted the radio, pressed the transmit button and gave out the new location and direction of travel. ‘Preston New Road, towards the motorway.’

  ‘The cavalry’s here,’ said Donaldson after a glance in the mirror.

  A large, fast, sleek Rover 825i, liveried in the orange stripes of the Lancashire Constabulary Traffic Department, blue lights flashing, horns blaring, overtook Donaldson’s car, cruised easily past Abbot and pulled in front of him. The big ‘STOP’ sign came on. It had no effect. Abbot simply refused to pull in. He flashed his own ‘V’ signs at the traffic man.

  ‘D’you know,’ said Henry, ‘I see that little car of mine in a whole new light. I didn’t know it could go so fast.’

  ‘Obviously rising to the occasion,’ Donaldson guffawed.

  By the time they reached the motorway there were three traffic cars involved in the pursuit. Once on the motorway proper they had Abbot literally boxed into the slow lane: one in front, one behind and one car at his side in the middle lane.

  But he still would not stop.

  Behind them all, Donaldson kept up. ‘He’s gotta stop now, surely,’ said the agent. ‘Don’t he know when he’s beat?’

  ‘Crazy young bastard.’

  The traffic cars edged him onto the hard shoulder. Now he was completely trapped and all they had to do was slow right down to a stop - then he was theirs. Or so they thought. He did have one avenue of escape open to him, which was to drive up the steep grass banking by the side of the motorway.

  He reckoned he could probably make it to the top of the grass, where he could abandon the car then leg it on foot across the fields. From his wide experience of traffic cops he thought this would be the best move because he knew how much they hated getting out of their big, warm, fancy cars and chasing people on foot.

  Abbot peeled away from the formation like an ace fighter pilot and gunned the car up the slope.

  The manoeuvre took the traffic officers completely by surprise, which was fortunate for them. It meant that none of them lost their lives.

  Halfway up, the steepness of the slope meant that the mercury tilt switch attached to the detonator in the half-pound block of Semtex strapped to the underside of Henry’s car was activated.

  Contact was made.

  Kovaks listened hard to Damian’s story. How he had been to his mother’s in Clearwater, but had returned early to surprise Sue. They had made passionate love within moments of his arrival and afterwards he’d gone to the en-suite bathroom to answer a pressing call of nature. Whilst in there, he’d heard someone at the apartment door, then voices in the lounge. Discreetly, he’d crept out of the bathroom and listened to what was going on. He had recognised Ritter’s voice and clearly followed the accusations he made to Sue about her knowing he was on Corelli’s payroll, then some talk about his condo and his boat. Sue had denied it all, saying she wasn’t keeping any sort of a file on him. Then things had got nasty. Sue had screamed for help. Damian had crept to the bedroom door and looked through the crack. To his horror, he’d seen a knife in Ritter’s hand plunging repeatedly into his girlfriend’s body, blood spurting everywhere. Frozen in fear and panic, unable to help her, he’d eventually scuttled under the bed where he’d hidden until it was all over, sucking his thumb, curled up in a foetal ball.

  When the attack had stopped he’d heard Ritter moving around the apartment, felt his presence in the bedroom. Then Damian had pissed in his pants.

  He’d lain there shaking, eyes closed, praying that Ritter wouldn’t find him and kill him too.

  Then he heard the front door open and close.

  And, when he was sure Ritter had gone, he forced himself to go and see Sue.

  ‘And then I was sick and then I ran.’ There were a lot of ‘thens’ in Damian’s story. ‘Every time I close my eyes, she’s there: dead,’ he said hoarsely. ‘What a mess - and all my fault.’ Tears poured down his tortured face.

  ‘Don’t punish yourself, Damian,’ Kovaks said. ‘You’re only human.’

  Damian looked up with pleading eyes. ‘Do you believe me?’

  ‘Yes, I do. One or two things have sorta slotted into place here.’ Kovaks’ nostrils dilated as he thought. ‘Yeah, I believe you.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘First we get you somewhere safe where you can get a decent meal and a shower - and a change of clothes. Then we’ll have a good long talk over
a beer, get a few things written down. Then I have to think. Probably go to the cops first, let ‘em know what’s what.’

  ‘But what if they’re in on it too?’ Damian shook uncontrollably. ‘What if Corelli has them in his pocket, like he does Ritter?’

  ‘No one could get Ram Chander in their pocket,’ said Kovaks confidently. ‘C’mon, trust me, Damian. We’ll go to my place first. Chrissy won’t mind and it should be safe enough for a few hours.’

  They started to get to their feet.

  ‘I think not,’ came a familiar voice from behind Kovaks’s shoulder. ‘Sit back down, gentlemen.’

  Kovaks reached for his gun, but before he could draw it, he felt the cold muzzle of a revolver jammed into the back of his neck.

  ‘Sit down, Joe, or I’ll make your brain into tomato catsup for their hamburgers. ‘

  Kovaks sat down slowly. A wide-eyed Damian followed suit. Ritter edged in next to Kovaks, and with his free hand removed Kovaks’ revolver.

  Kovaks looked at Ritter, then beyond. He was not alone.

  Ram Chander stood by the door together with two of Corelli’s goons.

  Kovaks closed his eyes.

  Henry Christie was disgusted with himself.

  Two minutes earlier he had been clinging to a toilet bowl at Blackpool Central police office and had been violently sick. Now, after swilling his face with cold water, he was looking at himself in a mirror over the washbasin..

  And he did not like what he saw.

  He should have been sick for the boy, Abbot. He should have been sick because a stupid young teenager had been blown to pieces on a motorway verge, his remains scattered far and wide.

  But he wasn’t. Henry had been sick for himself alone. A single idea dominated his thoughts.

  That bomb had been meant for him, dammit! He glared angrily at his reflection, but behind the grimace he saw pure terror in his eyes for the first time in his life.

  Hinksman was going to kill him and there was probably nothing that Henry could do to stop him.

  With that thought Henry turned away from the mirror and dashed back to the toilet cubicle.

  To the best of their abilities, the remains of John Abbot had been collected from the scene of the explosion by the police, ambulance and fire brigade. They had been bagged and sent to the mortuary where they had been unpacked and distributed over the tops of two post mortem slabs.

  Henry Christie, together with Karl Donaldson, Karen Wilde, FB, a couple of high-ranking local detectives and a Scenes of Crime officer who was recording the PM on video, watched a pathologist pacing around a third slab. She had been brought in from Merseyside as Dr Baines was still busy in Lancaster.

  Now the pathologist picked up a piece of charred flesh that could have been part of a hand or foot. She thought for a moment, surveying the reconstruction work, said ‘A-ha!’ with glee, danced round the slab and placed it. It was a foot. She was enjoying herself.

  ‘I don’t think I want to watch this,’ said Henry. The smell of burned flesh was overpowering. He ducked out of the room without apology.

  Karen followed him out.

  ‘I just want to thank you for putting my name forward for this investigation, Henry. I appreciate it. And FB’s been really nice to me too. He’s even talked to Karl.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad,’ said Henry.

  ‘You OK?’ She linked arms with him.

  Surprised but touched, Henry gave her a lopsided grin and admitted, ‘No, not really.’

  They were standing in the room where a large refrigerator took up the whole length and height of one wall. Inside it, bodies were stored on sliding trays. At the far end of the room a PC and an undertaker had just placed a body on one of the trays. The PC was writing a name on the leg with a felt-tip pen.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Henry, ‘that I didn’t really expect him to try something. It’s shocked me. And a bomb again, on the motorway. That’s just reopened a wound I thought I’d sewn up pretty well. Obviously I haven’t. I keep seeing the kids on the bus again.’

  ‘We’re dealing with a madman.’I

  ‘One who knows exactly what he’s doing,’ Henry suggested. ‘He’s dangerous rather than mad. Don’t forget, he kills people for a living. Madmen don’t.’

  They had been walking slowly towards the PC who, as they drew level with him, pulled a white sheet back over the body on the tray. Henry did a double take.

  ‘Let me see,’ he said quickly.

  The PC obliged. ‘Jane Marsden, local prostitute, shoplifter, drunk, and all-round lowlife,’ he summed up. ‘No great loss to society.’

  ‘What are the circumstances?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Found about an hour ago at the bottom of a flight of stairs in the fleapit doss house she lived in. Probably been lying there all day from the state of her. She took some major straightening out.’ The PC chuckled at the memory. ‘Looks like she fell down drunk and broke her neck. Post mortem’ll tell.’

  ‘Anything suspicious?’ Henry probed. He was trying desperately to recall some of the things Jane had been saying to him, things he hadn’t really been taking in because he’d been too engrossed in his own thoughts.

  ‘Not on the face of it. Why?’

  Henry ignored the question. He drew the sheet further back. There was some bruising across her throat. Then he pulled it all the way down to reveal her naked, now wax-like body. He looked carefully at it and saw further bruising on her arms. It could have happened during the fall down the steps - the post mortem should be able to establish that - but Henry wasn’t happy.

  He covered her up.

  He gazed into space and pursed his lips. ‘Did you get Scenes of Crime to photograph the body at the scene?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Right, when that officer in there has finished videoing the PM, get him to take some shots of her, will you? Point out those bruises on her neck and arms.’ The PC nodded. ‘Did you search her flat?’

  The PC shrugged. ‘Not really. Had a glance round, nothing more.’

  ‘Is it locked?’

  ‘No, couldn’t find a key.’

  ‘Henry, what’s going on?’ Karen interrupted.

  ‘This gives me the willies,’ he said. ‘I actually saw this woman last night and gave her a lift as far as my place. She walked to her own from there.’

  ‘Henry!’ Karen said, shocked.

  ‘No, I didn’t, I’m not that desperate. . . it’s just that when I last saw her, she wasn’t all that drunk. She’d actually just been kicked out of the cells at Central ... Look, something’s not quite right here. She told me some half-baked story about ripping off a Yank who’d beaten her up.’ He spread his hands. ‘Maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree, but Hinksman likes beating up and killing prostitutes. And if my memory serves me right, he specialises in breaking their necks. Probably practising a technique learned from his Delta Force days. Perhaps here,’ he pointed at the covered body, ‘he’s finishing off something he started a few months ago. I hope I’m wrong, because if I’m not, he’s committed two murders since escaping.’ He raised his eyebrows at Karen. ‘Fancy a drive round to her flat? Might answer one or two questions.’

  ‘Sure, why not? They’ll be hours in there.’

  The aroma of bedsits hit them as soon as they entered the ground-floor hallway through the open front door. It was a mixture of cigarette smoke, sweaty socks and underwear, and the unmistakable smell of lubricant used on male contraceptives intermingled with cannabis smoke. Here, in addition, was the musty tang of dampness.

  They turned into the narrow staircase and began the ascent. It was almost 9.30 p.m. and it was getting dark. The stairs were lit by low wattage bulbs operated by switches that sprang off after about twenty seconds in order to save electricity. They trod carefully, as some of the treads were carpeted; some not.

  On the last flight up to Jane’s flat Henry inspected each step carefully. This was actually the only part of the staircase on which the carpet was well-laid and fitted. There
was nothing on which a person could have tripped. Even so, the stairs were still steep and narrow, and possibly treacherous to someone who’d had a drink.

  As expected, the door to Jane’s flat was unlocked. They went in.

  ‘Very salubrious,’ remarked Karen.

  Henry stood still and allowed himself to look the room over, his eyes taking in everything: the mattress, the bottles of booze, the sink, the settee, cooker and cupboards. Eventually his attention returned to the bottles which stood side by side on the draining board. He stepped over to them, and picked one up carefully by inserting his forefinger into the neck. He held it up to the light and rotated it carefully, inspecting it at different angles. He did the same with each bottle.

  Karen was standing behind him. ‘Got something?’ she asked.

  ‘Well ... if she was drunk when she fell down the steps, it’s safe to assume she’d been drinking after she left me - presumably from these bottles. I don’t see any glasses about, so she must have swigged straight from the bottles... ‘

  He moved aside for Karen, who bent down and looked at the bottles in situ.

  ‘They’ve been wiped,’ she stated, puzzled.

  ‘Exactly. Even if she didn’t take a drink from these last night, there would have been some marks on the bottles.’

  Henry surveyed the room again. Years before he’d searched it for drugs and found some, but he couldn’t quite remember where the stash had been. His eyes lit on a ventilation cover on the wall above the cooker. He smiled. Now he remembered.

  The cover was metal with a sliding opener. He looked at it carefully and saw that there were recent marks in the screws which held it to the wall.

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a screwdriver?’

  Her reply was a wilting look.

  Tut-tutting, he opened the kitchen drawer and rummaged through the meagre collection of utensils for something suitable to remove screws. All he could find was a flimsy table knife which twisted and buckled when he put it to use.