by Nick Oldham
Blood was everywhere. The bed was soaked, his body was drenched in it. Crimson was splashed ten feet up the wall behind the bed and’ across the floor. It had started to congeal in tar-like clods on the tiles. There were many footprints in it. It had been a frenzied attack. Kovaks was puzzled.
He looked quickly from the body to the blood splashes and back to the body. A police photographer asked him to step aside while he took more shots from a different angle. Another photographer was videoing the scene for evidential purposes.
The stills man bent down on the far side of the bed. His camera flashed. He stood upright and said, ‘Have you seen this?’ He pointed down to the corner of the room.
Kovaks walked over carefully.
A piece of thick, pink, blood-oozing meat lay on the floor skewered by a knife. The knife was thin, as long as a stiletto but with one jagged cutting edge. Kovaks had no doubt he was looking at the murder weapon.
He had no doubt, either, that he was looking at Whisper’s tongue.
The message it conveyed was not lost on him.
He turned to the local sheriff who was standing at the door. ‘I assumed he’d been killed out on the ward and his body moved here after. ‘
‘ Apparently not.’ The man shrugged. His thumbs were tucked into his gun belt. He seemed slow-witted, but Kovaks knew not to underestimate such people.
‘ I’ll be moving a team in here,’ Kovaks informed him, ‘but we’d sure appreciate your cooperation. I think that together — our skills and your local knowledge — we’ll crack this.’
The sheriff smiled. ‘Us and the FBI, working together? Sure thing,’ he said, pleased.
‘ And obviously we’d like to set up an incident room to run from your office, if that meets with your approval?’
‘ Yeah, sure. From my office. No problem.’ His smile widened even further.
‘ But first can you tell me where I can locate the nurse who found him?’
The sheriff cocked a thumb. ‘Down there. She’s pretty shook up.’
Kovaks strolled down the ward, muttering, ‘Keep ‘em sweet, keep, em sweet.’
The eyes of the patients were on him. Some sneered at the sight of the badge pinned to his lapel. None spoke. He doubted if any ever would.
The nurse was a middle-aged lady whom he’d seen earlier. She was sitting in an office, her head buried in her hands, being comforted by the bored-looking doctor whom Kovaks had also met before. As Kovaks came to the door the doctor immediately ushered him back out.
‘ She is in no condition to be interviewed yet,’ he said. ‘I’ve given her a tranquilliser to get her this calm. Her husband should be here soon to take her home.’
‘ When will I be able to speak to her?’
‘ Tomorrow at the earliest.’
Kovaks nodded. ‘OK. Can you tell me why Whisper was transferred to that side ward, doc?’
‘ To aid speedy recovery. He needed complete isolation, in my opinion.’
‘ Did you see anything that might be of use to us?’
‘ Such as?’
‘ Such as who stuck a knife into him a million times.’
‘ No, I didn’t and frankly, I don’t have the time to talk to you just now. I need to care for this nurse, then I need to get the hospital back to normal.’
‘ When can I see you then?’
‘ Ask my secretary. Make an appointment.’
Jack Crosby was still alive when he was slid on a stretcher into the back of the ambulance some fifteen minutes later, but only just. His heart and breathing had stopped at one point, but FB’s half-remembered first-aid training had saved him. For the time being at least.
Karen watched the ambulance race away, blue light flashing. She was standing at a first-floor window.
The small crowd of people who had gathered outside dispersed slowly, leaving only two standing there: a pale, shaken FB and a worried-looking Chief Constable. FB began talking animatedly, arms waving, fingers pointing, voice obviously raised.
Karen’s mouth twisted sardonically. ‘I wonder who he’s talking about,’ she said under her breath.
She watched them turn and walk into the HQ building, FB not letting up for a second.
Karen made her way to the Chief Constable’s secretary’s office and sat down to wait. A wave of tiredness enveloped her. This was the longest single uninterrupted period she had ever worked in her life. It was all she could do to prevent herself falling asleep.
Jean, the secretary, glanced up at her.
‘ I do hope he’s all right,’ she said.
‘ I do too,’ said Karen. She meant it.
‘ Is there anything I can get you? You look exhausted.’
Just a warm bed and a stiff drink. Karen shook her head, too tired even to speak.
‘ Don’t blame yourself,’ Jean said softly. ‘He’s been warned about his condition often enough. It was only a matter of time.’
Karen managed a wan smile.
FB and Dave August entered and the Chief went straight into his office without acknowledging Karen. ‘I’m not to be disturbed,’ he announced. ‘I’m going to call Mrs Crosby.’
‘ Boss…’ Karen began, getting to her feet.
‘ Disturbed by no one,’ he reiterated and slammed the door.
FB turned to Karen, ‘This is your doing,’ he said with vehemence.
‘ None of this would’ve happened without your incessant ambition.’
‘ Don’t become a bigger fool than you already are, FB. I wasn’t to know he had a dodgy heart.’
‘ It was common knowledge.’
‘ Common to whom, dickhead?’ she challenged. She sat back down and folded her arms, determined not to enter a no-win, no-profit argument.
The intercom buzzed on Jean’s desk. ‘Get a car to pick up Mrs Crosby from home and take her to hospital. Then arrange for mine to pick me up from the garage. I’m going to see him too.’
‘ Yes, sir.’
Karen came to an instant decision. ‘This is preposterous,’ she said, striding across to the Chief’s door. Jean opened her mouth to remonstrate, but Karen burst through the door before she could utter a word and crashed it shut behind her.
Blackpool Tower came into view. In ten minutes they would be at the central police station where the firearms team had been told to assemble for the briefing.
Karen sighed heavily as she thought back to her head-on confrontation with Dave August, Chief Constable and lover.
‘ I said I was not to be disturbed.’
‘ I still need a firearms team,’ she said. ‘There’s no ACC on duty now — only you can authorise it.’
‘ FB was right — you are a bitch. There’s a man lying near to death and-’
‘ And there’s also a killer on the loose who needs catching,’ she cut in. ‘Life goes on, especially in this job. So does death by murder. It doesn’t stop because someone’s ill. Now do I get the team or not?’
‘ Yes… now piss the hell off out of here.’
As she reached the door, August added: ‘And by the way, if this murder isn’t bottomed in twenty-four hours, you’re off the investigation and I’m handing it over to someone with more experience.’
They were slowing down now as the motorway narrowed into a two-lane road and they entered Blackpool.
Karen sat back and cleared her mind, concentrating on the task ahead.
Pepe Paglia mooched, hands in pockets, down the street on which his small hotel was located. He was still rather depressed at having handed a thousand pounds in cash over to Hinksman the day before. On the other hand he felt reassured that Corelli would reimburse him handsomely in the not-too-distant future. That was the good thing about family ties, however tenuous; a favour for a favour.
He entered a newsagents and picked up a copy of that day’s Sun. In the back room of the shop a TV was switched on, showing a lunchtime news bulletin. Paglia was not really paying it much attention. He was too busy choosing goodies for his sweet tooth. H
e glanced up by pure chance and saw the screen as he picked up a Mars bar. His mouth dropped open.
Paglia almost sprinted back to the hotel, arriving breathless and weak, in desperate need of a cigarette.
They commandeered the parade room at Blackpool Central police station for the briefing. The firearms team was already assembled when Karen, McClure and Donaldson arrived. There was one Sergeant and twelve Constables, including two women. All were dressed in lightweight blue overalls, ballistic vests and caps. Each wore a pair of Reebok trainers. They were checking numerous weapons between them as they waited: handguns, rifles, semi-automatic pistols, MP5s, stun grenades, CS gas launchers. They were like a small, well equipped army.
Karen stopped in her tracks and surveyed them. It was the first time she had ever seen such a team. They exuded calm, confidence and good humour. And efficiency. They were an efficient killing machine.
Karen cleared her throat and moved to the front of the room, aware for the first time of the magnitude of the chain of events that she might be just about to unleash.
She introduced herself and her two colleagues.
The ceiling of Hinksman’s room had many cracks in it and some dampness in one corner. He lay on the bed, hands clasped across his chest, staring blankly up at it, when Paglia rushed in without knocking.
Even though the door had been flung open, Hinksman had reacted instinctively as soon as the handle had started to move downwards. He rolled off the bed, grabbing the revolver which was on the bedside cabinet, twisting himself onto his knees, using the bed as cover; by the time Paglia actually stepped into the room he was greeted by the sight of a black muzzle pointing directly at his chest, the hammer on its deadly backwards journey.
Paglia froze. His jaw dropped.
Fortunately, Hinksman saw who it was and eased the hammer back into place with his thumb. He stood up angrily.
‘ Jesus H Christ,’ he cursed through gritted teeth, ‘I told you knock and wait. Next time I’ll kill you. That’s a promise.’
Paglia gulped. ‘Sorry,’ he blabbered, ‘but I thought you should watch this.’
He switched on the portable TV. The top story was being wound up with an artist’s impression of the man police were after in connection with the M6 bombing. The sketch was Hinksman, of that there was no doubt. It captured his features exactly, right down to the cruel, piercing eyes. Killer’s eyes.
Hinksman watched scornfully. ‘So?’ he spat. ‘It changes nothing.’
‘ Oh,’ said Paglia, bemused by the calm reaction.
‘ Because they think they know what I look like means nothing. They don’t know my name or where I am, do they?’
‘ Right, right,’ said the hotel-keeper. ‘I thought you should know, that’s all.’
Hinksman nodded. ‘You did right.’
When Paglia had left, Hinksman switched the TV off and lay on the bed again. The drawing had been a very good likeness — and that was a niggling worry. There was no way it could have been drawn from someone’s memory. It was a lift from a photograph, Hinksman suddenly realised. But which one?
Maybe it was time to quit this Godforsaken little country after all. Get the job done and get out. In the meantime, Hinksman decided, he’d hole up somewhere else. In a city. Manchester or Liverpool somewhere he could just fade into the background.
The telephone rang in the reception area. Hinksman heard Paglia answer and then the sound of footsteps running upstairs.
This time Paglia knocked and announced himself nervously through the closed door.
‘ Come in, you idiot.’
‘ Phone for you,’ said Paglia, out of breath again.
‘ Who is it?’ Hinksman asked sharply.
‘ Only one other person knows you’re here.’
Hinksman shouldered Paglia out of the way and sprinted down to take the call.
Only a minute later he was back.
He started to pack. Quickly.
Paglia hovered at the bedroom door. ‘Problem?’
‘ Big problem,’ said Hinksman, stuffing his clothes into a holdall.
‘ They do know who I am and what’s more, they know where I am.’
And not only that, Hinksman thought as he looked at Paglia, you know far too much about me.
Chapter Nine
The briefing was over. The team was ready to move.
Karen had been as honest as she could be about the situation, which pleased them all. Normally briefings were couched in half-truths, downright lies and need-to-know, which could put team members in unnecessary danger. Here, she laid it all on the line, laid it on thick that Hinksman was a killer out of the top drawer, who knew how to kill well, had been trained to do it efficiently and probably enjoyed it too.
They got the message.
‘ Do you have any further questions?’ she asked as she packed her notes together.
The team leader, Sergeant Macintosh, a well-built officer over six feet tall, who looked as if he would take no messing from anyone, asked: ‘Where has the information about the hotel-keeper come from?’
Karen looked at Donaldson.
He coughed and replied, ‘From a reputable Mafia source in Florida — a man who’s presently serving time.’
‘ And how much do we know about this Paglia fellow?’
‘ Very little, other than he’s been in this country for thirty years, generally in the hotel or restaurant trade. He’s got a family connection with a Mafia boss we’re currently investigating — and family connections mean a lot to these people. It would appear that over the years he’s given refuge to many Mafia members en route from either Italy or the States.’
‘ So what do you think, Sarge?’ Karen asked.
‘ Ideally, I’d like to seal off the whole area, evacuate the surrounding buildings and then go in, preferably with a floorplan of the hotel… I mean, we don’t know how many other guests there are, how many staff, even if our man is there.’
‘ I know, it’s a far from ideal situation,’ agreed Karen, ‘but we need to move quickly and get to him before he’s alerted.’
Macintosh nodded and pursed his lips. He consulted a large-scale map of the relevant area of Blackpool. Everyone in the room had a copy.
‘ In that case,’ he said, ‘we’ll back and front the place. I’ll send a couple to the rear of the premises and, once they’re in place, we’ll hit the front and take it from there.’
‘ I’ll leave it up to you, Sarge. You’re the pro.’
‘ Thanks,’ he said with a trace of irony. ‘OK guys and gals, let’s move.’
The firearms team were parked up three streets away in their ‘battle-bus’: an armoured personnel carrier with one-way bulletproof windows which enabled occupants to see out but no one else to see in, giving the vehicle a sinister appearance.
Karen’s car drew up behind.
In the back seat Donaldson and McClure were poring over one of the street maps, muttering to each other.
Over her shoulder, Karen said, ‘What the hell are you two prattling on about?’
‘ Prattling?’ asked Donaldson. ‘Prattling? A peculiarly English term, is it?’
Karen managed her first smile in several hours.
‘ We’ve been trying to think like Hinksman,’ said McClure. ‘He’s hardly likely to park his car outside the hotel, so we were just wondering where it might be — if he’s still got the same hire car, that is.’
‘ I think we’ll have a mosey through the highways and byways in this area,’ said Donaldson, circling an area of the map with his finger, tilting it so that Karen could see. ‘It’s near enough to be in walking distance, but far enough away… if you know what I mean?’
‘ Mosey? What the hell is mosey?’ she said with another grin. ‘It’s a long shot,’ she added dryly.
‘ It’ll give us something to do while the boys and girls are playing Cowboys and Indians,’ said Donaldson.
The side door of the battle-bus opened. The team disembarked.
‘ They look like a SWAT squad,’ remarked Donaldson. ‘And I thought England was s — o-o-o backward.’
On a word from Macintosh they sprinted away. The team leader gave Karen a quick thumbs-up and followed.
The operation was underway.
Karen’s stomach churned over. The colour seeped from her face as she thought, What have I done?
‘ We’ll keep monitoring the radio,’ McClure said, pocketing a personal radio which was tuned into the secure channel being used by the team. He patted the snub-nosed revolver at his side, arranged his jacket to cover it smoothly and climbed out of the car.
Before joining him, Donaldson leaned forwards and laid a reassuring hand on Karen’s shoulder. He knew she was worried about the operation and troubled about something else, but he didn’t know what. ‘Relax, it’ll be OK,’ he told her.
She nodded numbly. ‘Yeah, sure it will’
Events were now out of her hands. All she could do was wait. And wait. And wait.
The two detectives confined their search to a small cluster of roads, back streets and alleyways about 200 metres in a direct line from the hotel. McClure had the PR in his pocket turned up loud enough for them both to be able to hear what was going on. It remained eerily silent for quite a number of minutes as the firearms team moved into position using verbal and visual signals only.
In the first few roads they checked there was no sign of Hinksman’s car. They didn’t really expect to find it.
As they turned into another street there was a brief transmission on the radio.
‘ Alpha in position.’
‘ Roger Alpha,’ they heard Macintosh reply. ‘We’re at the front door now.’
McClure nodded at Donaldson, who said, ‘Knock, knock,’ in his best John Wayne drawl.
‘ Sierra — we’re in through the front door. No opposition.’
They were inside. It was rolling.
Everything went dead again. For ever, it seemed.
Two things then happened almost simultaneously.
