by Nick Oldham
‘ Importing crack into the UK. Basically taking over the British market,’ intercut McClure. ‘Big money.’
‘ Millions,’ affirmed Donaldson. ‘Money that Corelli wasn’t happy losing. The rumour is that Corelli put out a contract on Carver — but I stress it’s only a rumour.’
Karen checked her watch impatiently.
‘ What we intended to do,’ Donaldson said hurriedly, ‘was to nail Carver, which wouldn’t have been too difficult because he’s a sloppy operator. Then we’d promise him immunity from prosecution, a new life, new I.D. — y’know, full-blown witness protection — in exchange for him testifying against Corelli. Might’ve worked,’ he mused.
‘ Anyway,’ he concluded, ‘we fixed up this transatlantic cooperation exercise between the FBI and the Greater Manchester police — with the blessing from your Home Office… and it was all going well until yesterday. Carver was — ’
‘ What happened yesterday?’ Karen interrupted.
McClure took over. ‘We’d had Carver and Brown under obs for a couple of weeks. We knew they’d holed up in an hotel in Lancaster with a couple of call girls. It was our intention to pick up their tail yesterday morning, but we were late arriving at the hotel because we got snarled up in motorway roadworks. By then, both of them had gone.’
‘ How careless,’ sneered Karen. ‘This is very interesting, but what has it got to do with me?’
‘ According to the management,’ said Donaldson, ‘Carver had left in a Daimler with one of the hookers and Brown had gone off in a Beemer with the other girl.’
‘ A Beemer — what’s that?’
‘ Sorry — a BMW,’ explained Donaldson. ‘Next thing we know — BOOM! Carver has a bomb up his ass.’
‘ Hang on. So you’re saying that the car that blew up causing the M6 tragedy, had Danny Carver in it — and you might know who killed him and why?’
‘ Not exactly,’ Donaldson stressed. ‘I am saying that Carver was in the Daimler. I’m surmising that he was killed by a hit man who works for Corelli, because he’d usurped him on a big business deal.’
‘ How can you be sure that this Danny Carver was in the Daimler? There’s nothing identifiable left in the car. It’s not even recognisably a Daimler. ‘
‘ Just adding up the scores on the doors,’ said McClure.
‘ Talk evidence,’ Karen insisted.
‘ OK,’ said Donaldson. ‘Firstly we know that Carver was booked on a flight to Miami from Manchester yesterday. He didn’t get on it — we checked.
‘ Secondly we have a video tape here from the hotel’ — he held up the cassette — ‘which shows Danny Carver getting into a Daimler with a girl and being driven away. We’ve watched your tapes of the explosion from the freeway camera and it looks like the same model of Daimler. I’ll bet when your forensic team get their results together they’ll find the remains of three bodies.’
‘ I am definitely intrigued,’ said Karen, beginning to squirm a little with excitement.
Donaldson went on, ‘I saw a man in the hotel lobby yesterday who I recognise as having some Corelli connection — but the great thing is that the hotel video cameras pick him up arriving in a car, parking it, walking past Carver’s limo and bending down next to it.’
‘ Really!’ exclaimed Karen, barely suppressing her glee. ‘Can you see exactly what he did?’
‘ No, because the film is a bit blurred. It needs enhancing. However, we can see that his suitcase drops open next to the car. He bends down to pick his clothes up and quickly reaches under the limo.’ This was said by McClure. ‘Good stuff, eh?’
Fucking bloody ace, Karen thought, but didn’t allow herself to smile.
‘ Add to that the rumour about the contract,’ said Donaldson, ‘and I think we’re onto something, don’t you?’
‘ Possibly,’ Karen said.
‘ Once you get a Technical Support Unit to enhance the number plate from the motorway video we’ll know for sure if it was Carver’s Daimler or not.’
‘ I already have the number,’ Karen said triumphantly, and read it out aloud from her notes.
‘ That’s the one!’ McClure confirmed. ‘If TSU can do the same for the hotel video and lift the registered number from this guy’s car, we could be well on our way.’
‘ And all I have to do is catch him,’ Karen said. She looked expectantly at Donaldson. ‘So, what’s the guy’s name?’
‘ That’s the problem. I don’t know. There is another problem too. I believe he’s only fulfilled part of his contract. If we don’t get him quick, he’ll kill again.’
In spite of her tardy entrance to an already delayed briefing, Karen Wilde handled the start of her first murder investigation with the assurance of a seasoned professional.
She stepped onto a raised platform at one end of the gym and called for quiet.
Within minutes she had them eating out of her hand. The irritability of the officers soon evaporated as she directed her considerable public-speaking skills at them. She concluded by naming the pairings of detectives and asking them to see the Allocator for their tasks in half an hour.
The investigation was underway at last.
Before leaving the platform she said, ‘Is DS Christie here?’
‘ Yes, ma’ am,’ he said from the back of the room.
‘ My office — ten minutes,’ she clipped and stepped down.
‘ Lucky you,’ someone said to Henry.
‘ Why?’
‘ Spanking.’
Henry chuckled.
He knocked on the office door and entered. Karen was sitting behind her desk reading the initial pathology and forensic reports.
‘ Sit down,’ she said, briefly looking up then returning her attention to the paperwork.
He sat on a chair opposite her and waited, wondering what job he was going to be given. He speculated. Must be interesting if she was giving it to him personally.
Eventually she stacked the papers neatly in front of her and looked at Henry.
‘ DS Christie,’ she said at length.
‘ Yes.’
‘ How are you? You look awful, if you don’t mind me saying.’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t feel too bad, just sore. Can’t wait to get going with this, though.’
She frowned. ‘Hm,’ she said.
Henry’s eyes narrowed. Something was wrong here.
There was a pause, then: ‘Can you tell me how it is that within the space of a few minutes yesterday you performed an action which reflected great credit on the force, followed by one which has brought us equal public disgrace?’
Henry’s mouth sagged open. He clamped it shut with a clash of his teeth.
‘ Your action at the scene of the bombing in trying to rescue those children was commendable. Shortly afterwards, in an incident which was broadcast on nationwide TV, you threw a reporter down the riverbank. What do you have to say?’
Flabbergasted, Henry shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘ Well, I can tell you that an official complaint has been made by the BBC. It alleges assault, abuse of authority, discreditable conduct and such-like. Here…’ She handed him a form.
It was the notorious Form 14, a Discipline and Complaints form. On it were set out the allegations in detail.
Karen cautioned Henry and asked him if he had anything to say. He shook his head sadly, on the verge of tears.
‘ D and C will be looking into it,’ Karen said. ‘In the meantime you can return to your normal duty.’
‘ I’m not on the investigation then?’
‘ No — you’re too personally involved. It wouldn’t be right, for your sake. Before you go, though, would you write out a detailed statement about what happened yesterday and submit it to the statement reader. OK, that’s all.’
Chapter Five
Hinksman drove his hired Mondeo east across the county to Rossendale, an area of high moorland, deep valleys and towns clinging precariously to the hillsides like clusters of weath
er-beaten barnacles. He was making for a remote farmhouse situated high above Bacup which had fantastic panoramic views across the Tops towards the ugly sprawl of Greater Manchester in the south.
The house had been renovated and modernised and owed little to its agricultural origins. Now it was the type of house a wealthy accountant or stockbroker might have bought as a place in the country: private, exclusive, yet within commuting distance of work.
Hinksman looked around admiringly as he drove up the steep, winding track to the house.
He’d been there only four days previously. He’d hoped that a return would be unnecessary but… such is life.
He stopped at the large wrought-iron gates and pressed the button on the intercom.
‘ Yes?’ came a metallic voice.
‘ We met last week,’ Hinksman said. He glanced up whilst talking and waved at the camera discreetly lodged in the branches of a tall tree. ‘You sold me some almonds.’ The word ‘almonds’ referred to the smell given off by Semtex.
‘ I thought we’d finished our business.’
‘ You were wrong,’ said Hinksman.
He took his finger off the button and returned to the Mondeo. He’d left the engine running.
After a short delay the gates swung silently open. He nosed the car up the drive, and came to a halt on the gravel at the front of the house. He got out and leaned on the bonnet of the car for a moment, admiring the view and the other two cars parked there, a Bentley and a Ferrari. I’ll treat myself to a Ferrari one day, he thought. It’s a real good idea. Me and Donny blasting down the Keys together. Sure thing! The picture in his mind’s eye made him smile again.
Footsteps crunched behind him. The man who was walking towards him from the house was about fifty, six feet tall and upright like the ex-soldier he was. Hinksman knew him only as Gaskell. He was an arms dealer, legit and properly registered with the local cops.
‘ You shouldn’t have come here again,’ said Gaskell, clearly worried. ‘It’s far too risky, and as far as I’m concerned, my business with you is concluded. I did a favour for Corelli because he’d done one for me many years ago; now we’re even. I don’t particularly want to be associated with someone who indiscriminately kills women and children.’
‘ But you are associated, buddy,’ replied Hinksman. ‘You gave me the explosive and the detonator. You’re in it just as deep as I am — if I choose to make it that way.’
Gaskell looked hard at Hinksman, who returned the stare with the glimmer of a smile.
‘ But all those people!’ Gaskell said, pained.
‘ Unfortunate, but it happens. Casualties of war.’ Hinksman shrugged. He did not care.
Gaskell shook his head bitterly. ‘I knew you were an evil bastard when I first saw you.’
‘ I do a job, that’s all.’
‘ What do you want this time?’ Gaskell asked after a pause, resigned to his fate. He knew he was trapped.
‘ Handgun. And ammunition.’
Gaskell sighed. ‘You’d better come in.’
He led Hinksman through the house to a study on the ground floor at the rear. The walls were lined with leather-bound books. A plush desk with an inlaid leather top was situated in the bay window; on it was a PC — keyboard, monitor and printer, very state of the art. It hummed quietly. On one of the book-shelves was a TV which gave a split screen recording from cameras which protected the house. There were views of the front and rear. A VCR whirred dully underneath the TV.
Hinksman hadn’t been here before. Their last transaction had taken place outside.
‘ Very nice,’ he admitted.
Gaskell made no reply. He unlocked a desk drawer and took out a set of keys. He indicated for Hinksman to follow him.
Gaskell opened a door in the kitchen and went down a flight of steps. There was another door in the basement, this of steel construction with high quality locks. In one corner of the door was a stamp from one of the country’s leading safe manufacturers.
Gaskell unlocked it and pushed it silently open. He reached inside and flicked a light switch.
Twenty metres away two soldiers with rifles appeared out of the gloom, charging noiselessly towards them.
Hinksman was impressed. ‘Your very own firing range.’
‘ Yes,’ said Gaskell. ‘Inspected and certified by the Army and police. I test a lot of small-arms down here. I have a bigger range at the warehouse.’
He smacked a button on the wall. The targets at the end of the range clattered out of sight. The soldiers were charging no more.
Hinksman wandered down the range as Gaskell opened a steel cabinet in the safe area, behind the firing line.
He took another key out of this cabinet and bent down to pull back the carpet in the corner of the range, revealing a floor-safe. This he opened and heaved the lid off like removing a manhole cover. He drew out a heavy holdall which he placed with a thud on a table. He unzipped it. Inside was a collection of handguns — revolvers and pistols.
By this time Hinksman had returned from his stroll down the firing range.
‘ Everything in here is untraceable,’ Gaskell told him. ‘And nothing has been used in a crime before.’
‘ How can you be sure?’
‘ I’m sure.’
Gaskell pulled out four guns, two revolvers, two pistols, and laid them side by side on the table for Hinksman to inspect. ‘All cleaned and oiled. Here’ — he offered Hinksman a pair of plastic disposable gloves from a box.
Hinksman shook his head, declining.
‘ I like to feel a gun,’ he said.
He picked up a model 469 9mm Smith amp; Wesson autoloading pistol with a 12-shot magazine which he slid out. Empty.
Gaskell delved into the bag and came out with a loaded one.
‘ If you want to try it, feel free,’ he offered. ‘Ear protectors are hung on the wall there.’
Hinksman reached for a pair and covered his ears. ‘Can you time the targets?’
The dealer nodded.
‘ OK, six two-second exposures and vary the times when the targets aren’t visible… anything up to ten seconds.’
‘ D’you want both targets?’
‘ Yep.’
Gaskell programmed in Hinksman’s requirement as the American wandered to the 15 metre mark on the range. He shrugged his shoulders to loosen up, held the pistol with both hands, took a breath and signalled he was ready.
The delay seemed interminable, although it was only six seconds. Then both targets swung into view. Suddenly, and for two seconds, Hinksman, was faced with two heavily armed soldiers.
He reacted smoothly and quickly. His knees bent. He snapped into the weaver stance and, ‘Ba-bam!’ A double tap. The noise was incredible and so was Hinksman’s speed and accuracy. In that split second of firing he put a bullet into each target. In the chest. On the heart. Then they were gone out of sight. Two seconds later — even before Hinksman had time to breathe out or consider how good his shooting was — the targets came back round again.
Again he caught them. Again both heart-shots.
Four gone. Eight remaining.
So far it was superb shooting. Gaskell was impressed and frightened. He quickly crossed the width of the range and picked up one of the guns from the table — a Makarov self-loading pistol. The targets swung back five seconds later: Hinksman amended his aim for these, drilling a hole in the forehead of each one with chilling precision. Six gone.
Gaskell checked the Makarov. The magazine was full. He eased one up the chamber and put the safety on. He didn’t trust Hinksman. Didn’t like the way he’d reacted to his feelings about the bomb. He thought it better to be in a stronger position when he came off the range with an empty gun, just in case. He wouldn’t feel completely satisfied until the American had left.
The targets came round twice more in quick succession. Hinksman’s aim stayed as remarkable as when he’d first started shooting. Two more shots to the head adjacent to the holes already there, followed
by two more to the heart, forming a cluster any marksman would have been proud of.
Gaskell slipped the Makarov into the waistband of his trousers. He pulled his cardigan down to cover it.
There was a ten-second delay until the appearance of the targets for the last time.
An agonising wait.
Gaskell saw Hinksman’s shoulders rise and fall and rise again with his controlled breathing.
The targets spun round.
And so did Hinksman. Fast. Only a millisecond behind the targets. Still with a double-handed grip. Perfectly balanced. Wonderful pirouette. He was now facing Gaskell.
The Englishman fumbled for his gun. But stuck there in his trousers, covered by the cardigan, he had no chance. He’d hardly moved his hand before the first of Hinksman’s bullets slammed into his chest. A heart-shot: dead centre. Perfect. The second bullet entered his head a fraction later, centre forehead, just above the bridge of his nose.
The-arms dealer was almost lifted off his feet with the impact. He was thrown back against the wall where he stayed briefly pinned like a butterfly, arms high and wide, and then, already dead, he slithered into an untidy, bloody heap on the floor.
His chin lolled forwards onto his chest, exposing the gaping wound at the back of his skull where the slug had made its spinning exit.
Hinksman exhaled.
He looked at the gun and smiled. ‘You’ll do nicely,’ he said. ‘I wonder what else is on offer.’
Chapter Six
McClure and Donaldson got the registered number of the hired Mondeo from the hotel video. One PNC check later they’d got the name of the hire company to go with it.
Karen Wilde looked down at the hire documents which two detectives had seized and handed over to her in sealed plastic wallets.
It was a condition of the car-hire agreement that the person hiring the vehicle be photographed as part of the documentation process. Hinksman was no exception — but he’d worn a flat cap, glasses and a false moustache and moved his head when the receptionist pressed the button on the Polaroid. Result: blurred image.
Karen inspected the passport-sized photograph pinned to the corner of the hire agreement and compared it with the still that had been lifted and enlarged from the hotel video. Despite the disguise it was obviously the same man.
