A Time For Justice hc-1

by Nick Oldham

  His third mistake of the day.

  The American detective was leaning with his back on the desk, supporting himself with both elbows, fingers interlocked across his chest.

  His eyes met Hinksman’s briefly. It was almost nothing — but in that almost nothing there was the glimmer of something as the detective’s eyebrows furrowed.

  Recognition?

  Hinksman went through the door. This time he didn’t look back.

  The ambulanceman draped a blanket over Henry Christie’s wet, exhausted body and ushered the shivering detective towards the back door of the waiting ambulance.

  Henry resisted. He turned to look back across the river, which was deep and fast-flowing, having been in full flood only twenty-four hours previously. The Minibus was still lying where it had landed — three-quarters submerged, the side uppermost with all its windows intact.

  A police diver surfaced and signalled to his colleagues on the riverbank. Negative. Thumbs down. He refixed his face mask and disappeared under the water again.

  Henry gritted his teeth. He looked up at the grey sky.

  ‘ C’mon, mate,’ the ambulanceman said gently, trying to steer him away. ‘You’ve done all you can here.’

  Which, in the end, was nothing, the young detective thought bleakly.

  ‘ We need to see you’re all right now.’ He indicated Henry’s head. ‘That cut’s a bad one. It’ll need stitches. And if you don’t warm up soon you’ll catch your death.’

  Henry wiped his face and looked at his hand. Blood, mud and water mixed in a paste. He sighed with resignation and nodded numbly. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a TV news crew heading purposefully towards him. A reporter holding a microphone was followed by a cameraman, lighting and sound man and a woman carrying a clipboard.

  The reporter was talking excitedly into his mike as he approached. Henry recognised him from TV. The crew stopped in front of Henry and the ambulanceman, blocking their way.

  The reporter spoke dramatically into the mike. ‘Detective-Sergeant Christie, you and your partner struggled in vain to rescue the children trapped in the Minibus. How do you feel, knowing that they’ve almost certainly perished?’

  He thrust the mike into Henry’s face.

  How do I feel? Henry asked himself. He explored his body and mind for an answer. Numb. Frustrated. Useless. Emotions tumbled through him like a pack of cards being shuffled and suddenly they all welled up into one: anger.

  His eyes blazed. ‘Parasite!’ he yelled, knocking the mike out of the reporter’s grasp and lunging at him. He grabbed him in a clinch, as if they were dancing partners and shoved him backwards down the riverbank.

  The reporter tried desperately to balance himself… but failed. He teetered, then fell into the mud with a loud scream.

  Henry turned to the cameraman who had recorded the incident. The man backed off.

  Henry was about to say something, but in a flash of clarity he recognised the stupidity of his actions and the possible future repercussions.

  Silently he walked over to the ambulance and was helped inside.

  Hinksman held the phone away from his ear. Over 3000 miles separated him from the voice on the end of the line, but Corelli still managed to boom with a force that could burst an eardrum.

  Hinksman let him shout. Mr Corelli was entitled. He was the boss.

  As the tirade began to subside, Hinksman re-entered the conversation. ‘The FBI are here too, for some reason — and I don’t like it,’ he said.

  ‘ I’ll look into it,’ Corelli promised, which meant he’d get some information from his highly placed, and highly priced, mole at the Bureau.

  ‘ So what do you want me to do?’ Hinksman asked finally, although he already knew the answer.

  ‘ I paid you to do a job. You ain’t done it yet. So go finish it, Sonny.’

  Chapter Two

  Following the bomb on the motorway, the casualty bureau at Lancashire Constabulary’s force headquarters near Preston was staffed to its maximum and working at full stretch. A barrage of phone calls from all over the country clogged up the specially installed switchboard.

  A squad of officers — sweating, ties removed — noted down details of relatives, friends and lovers who hadn’t returned or called home. They reassured callers, promised to phone back, passed on the details to be cross-checked and answered the next one.

  The dry-wipe boards on the walls told their grim stories.

  Descriptions of bodies, clothing, vehicles. Names of the injured; those who could talk, those who couldn’t, their descriptions and their condition.

  Twenty-two people were confirmed dead so far — not including the kids on the bus. They had a dry-wipe board all to themselves. Nine kids, two social workers and the driver. Twelve extra — all either dead or missing. Six bodies had been recovered from the river by divers; two were still trapped inside the Minibus — undoubtedly dead. Specialist lifting gear was awaited. It was believed that the four missing bodies had been thrown from the bus and washed away down the river. The Support Unit was now searching the riverbanks, but there was little hope.

  Of the other twenty-two, twelve still remained unidentified.

  Since the bombing had hit the national news the bureau had logged over 1500 calls, and they were still coming in thick and fast. Many people were late home; their families feared the worst but they were simply stuck in the horrendous traffic jams which blocked the motorway for over twenty miles in both directions.

  The Chief Constable, Dave August, listened to the way his officers handled the calls. He did not envy them their job. He had no desire to talk to distraught relatives. He had neither the patience nor the compassion.

  Earlier he had visited the accident site by helicopter, but had quickly delegated the scene management to one of his ACCs. His job was back here at HQ, coordinating, overseeing — panicking.

  In one corner of the room a news cameraman and a reporter — not the man who had accosted Henry Christie — had set up their equipment. The camera slowly panned the room. August made his way over to them and prepared to be interviewed.

  He was in full uniform, with gold braid and sharp creases. He was the captain at the helm, steering the ship, reassuring crew and passengers alike. Secretly he’d always wanted to be an admiral.

  The arc light came on and a make-up girl dabbed at the shine on his nose. He stepped forward in front of the camera — which, incidentally, loved him.

  Next to him, one pace to his right and slightly behind, but making sure she was in camera shot, stood his aide, Chief Inspector Karen Wilde. Karen wielded a great deal of influence over her boss. Not yet thirty years old, she was a graduate entry to the force — biochemistry being her subject — who had milked the system for all it was worth. She was alleged to be a ruthless manipulator who would sleep with anyone, male or female, of any rank, who could do her good. Part of her myth — an accusation often levelled at career-minded females in the police — was that she’d been afraid of working the streets as a Constable during her two-year probation. She was supposed to have avoided this unpleasantness by long bouts of sickness, suddenly regaining full health once the probationary period was over and Bramshill Police College beckoned her to the fast track.

  Like most myths, the one surrounding Karen Wilde was a combination of truth, lies and stereotyping from jealous male officers who hated the competition.

  She had been married twice, briefly; her dedication to self advancement had left both husbands gasping for air. It would not be long before her next promotion, and it was widely speculated she could become one of the few women to attain ACPO rank in the country. To make this a reality, her first priority was to ensure that Dave August got the Home Office Inspectorate post he so desired. With him there, pushing for her, the journey upwards would be very much smoother. Ten years tops, she calculated. She did a lot of calculating.

  The Chief concluded his interview and turned to her. ‘Well, how was I?’ he whisp
ered.

  She fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘You performed well, sir,’ as always, she said cheekily. ‘However, the shipping metaphors were rather OTT.’

  ‘ When the day is done,’ he said, ‘I’ll be docking in your harbour.’

  ‘ Wanna bet?’ she said, and spun away.

  Out on the motorway it was getting dark and cold. A wind had begun to howl. The carriageways were still blocked but traffic had started to move sluggishly now that diversions were slowly coming into effect.

  Tomorrow the scene would undergo a fingertip search by specialised police, Army and forensic teams. The estimate was that motorway would be closed for up to forty-eight hours while that carried out. A major fuck-up, traffic-wise.

  Not that Special Agent Donaldson nor Detective Chief Inspector McClure gave a toss about that. They were too busy trying to find out if Danny Carver was dead or alive.

  Having confirmed that he hadn’t caught the Miami flight from Manchester, they concluded that the bomb must have gone off beneath the limousine that the hotel staff had seen him get into.

  The problem was that they couldn’t find the Daimler.

  Both men stood on the hard shoulder of the motorway looking at the scrapheap-from-hell of vehicles littering the carriageways. They were not allowed to go any closer, the whole scene having been cordoned off. The centre of the area was a crater in the road surface some thirty feet in diameter, two feet deep. Smoke continued to rise from it.

  Sipping sweet strong tea provided by the mobile canteen, they were glad of the warmth the liquid provided. Their stylish suits and thin shirts offered scant protection against a wind that whipped in fast and bitter from the Irish Sea.

  In one hand McClure held a list of vehicles which creased in the wind as he tried to read it.

  No Daimler listed on it.

  No Daimler to be seen on the road.

  The official line at the moment stated that this was a sick terrorist attack aimed at killing the maximum number of innocent people, disrupting the economic infrastructure. In the absence of the Daimler, McClure tended to agree with the assumption — even though the main suspects, the IRA, hotly denied all responsibility. It was true, he agreed, that this sort of thing would do the IRA cause no good whatsoever…

  So where was the Daimler?

  It hadn’t turned up in Manchester at any of the usual haunts that were currently under surveillance.

  Puzzling.

  ‘ Maybe they split up because they knew we were watching them and they’ve met up somewhere else,’ McClure ruminated.

  ‘ Naw, I ain’t having that,’ drawled Donaldson. ‘This is too mud a coincidence — all this and the word that Corelli had put a contract out on Carver. Then there was that guy back at the hotel. I know that face, I’m sure I do.’

  They each took a sip of tea. It was burning hot. Blue and red light flashed with greater intensity as the night crept in. Mobile floodlights lit up the scene eerily.

  ‘ Perhaps there’s nothing left of it,’ McClure suggested. ‘It might be here in front of us, in a billion fragments.’

  ‘ Naw.’

  Another pause. A cold gust of wind made them shiver. Then a thought hit each man at the same time.

  ‘ It’s in the river!’ they said in unison.

  They threw down their paper cups and made for the mobile control room which had been set up about a mile away from the scene of the explosion.

  A glorified caravan with radio and telephone equipment, an inbuilt console and a toilet, the control room was a bustle of activity. People went in and out. Radios blared. Messages were passed. Action was taken. It was a warm place, a haven of comfort in an increasingly cold night.

  The ACC (Personnel) sat by one of the radio operators looking glum and tired. It had been a long day and it would be an even longer night. Times like this he wished he’d retired years ago.

  He glanced up as Donaldson and McClure knocked and entered.

  By the time the three men reached the riverbank, the crane was lifting the sad remains of the Minibus out of the water. It gushed like a sponge. The body of a child hung limply out of one of the broken windows. The crane jolted. The body was dislodged and dropped back into the water.

  A police diver, treading water nearby, grabbed it before it was washed away.

  Slowly the arm of the crane moved round and deposited the bus on safe ground. A swarm of rescue workers moved towards it like ants.

  The ACC, clearly upset, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. After pulling himself together he went to speak to the diving team.

  Two hours later they located the Daimler. The crane hauled its remnants out of the Ribble and dumped them on the bank. There was very little left of it to identify. There was nothing left of the occupants at all.

  Henry Christie tottered unsteadily through the crowded Accident and Emergency Department of Preston Royal Infirmary. Although the casualties had been split between three other hospitals — Blackpool, Lancaster and Blackburn — even now, six hours later, the staff were still having difficulty coping.

  Henry had not even reached a treatment room yet; they were all occupied. He had seen some distressing sights… people with both legs blown to tatters, horrendous head wounds. He felt guilty to be sitting there with just a cut head.

  Eventually he had been stitched up by a harassed nurse who looked no older than his teenage daughter. Henry pitied her. She told him to come back for an X-ray in a couple of days and pointed him at the exit.

  He looked pretty bad with his head partly shaved and eight stitches in a wound which seeped blood. His eyes were dark and circled, his skin pale and sickly, his clothes dry now, but crumpled and dirty. What he needed more than anything else was a drink — something very alcoholic.

  As ever, Terry was ahead of him, sitting in the back of the traffic car detailed to take them home. His hand was in plaster and his demeanour reflected Henry’s.

  They were driven home by a traffic PC who sensed that any conversation would be less than beneficial to his health.

  Eventually, Henry said, ‘I lost my gun in the river.’

  ‘ Me, too,’ said Terry.

  These were the only words spoken on the journey.

  Henry walked up the drive to his new home on the outskirts of Blackpool. He’d recently part-exchanged his old home for this ‘executive’ one — new, soulless, on an unfinished estate of similar houses.

  The front door opened.

  His daughters stood there, mute and fearful, as they watched his approach. It was too much for the youngest, Leanne, aged nine; she broke cover and dashed to meet him, clinging to his legs. He rubbed her hair, bent down stiffly and picked her up, almost squeezing the breath out of her.

  ‘ Daddy, Daddy,’ she said in his ear. He could feel the wetness of her tears on his cheek.

  ‘ You should be in bed.’

  Mummy said I could wait up for you.’

  His wife, Kate, appeared in the hallway as he reached the front door.

  She had been crying too. Henry thought she looked very beautiful in her sadness.

  ‘ They said you’d been hurt but were all right. They told us to stay here and wait for you,’ she explained, shrugging her shoulders.

  Henry nodded. Leanne slid down him, but clung to his hand.

  ‘ We saw you on telly,’ his eldest daughter, Jenny said. She was thirteen, dressed somewhere between a punk and a Sloane Ranger. Henry noticed she was wearing one of his shirts.

  He was puzzled. ‘Telly?’

  ‘ Yeah, pushin’ that reporter into the mud. Deserved it, he did.’

  ‘ He was only doing his job, I suppose,’ Henry admitted.

  They all stood and eyed each other.

  ‘ Oh, Dad!’ Jenny burst out suddenly. ‘It must have been so awful.’

  Her arms went round his neck and she sobbed into his chest. ‘Those poor kids.’

  ‘ It’s all right, lovey, it’s all right.’ He patted her.

  He reached out for his
wife’s hand and drew her towards him. He was dying to get hold of her and squeeze her tight. Tighter than ever before. So tight… God, he needed her… tight, tight, tight.

  Chapter Three

  As usual after a kill, Hinksman was in a state of euphoria. He drank too much in several pubs until he found himself sitting at the bar of a strip joint near the Winter Gardens complex in Blackpool.

  He was happy. He’d negotiated two and a half million dollars for Carver and the Englishman, and he knew — because he’d checked — that the second third of the money had already been wired into his Cayman Island account and, as per his instructions, immediately redeposited in Jersey. Tomorrow one half of it would be in Switzerland. Corelli was an honourable man. That’s why he liked working for him. Honourable and generous — but noisy!

  So, one more kill and the balance of the money would be deposited. Then, unless Corelli had anything urgent for him, he’d take some time off. Get out of the gangsterland rat race and travel a little. Australia seemed a good idea. Maybe he’d buy another house — or an apartment. Miami beckoned. He could buy an apartment in the same block as Don Johnson. Perhaps they’d become pals. Yeah, that sounded good. Me and Don Johnson getting legless, snorting together, scoring together, racing our Ferraris down the Keys.

  Hinksman smiled at the thought.

  He looked around the club. It was a seedy, smoky place, well attended by a cross-section of humanity. Drinks were cheap but the strippers were past the first flush of youth. There were many similar places in the States and Hinksman felt comfortable in these surroundings.

  For a while he watched the strippers then became bored and concentrated on getting drunk. He wondered if there was a drug dealer in the place.

  Just before midnight there was an interval and people gravitated to the bar. Hinksman, who disliked being crowded, withdrew to an empty table.