A Time For Justice hc-1

by Nick Oldham

  This is an absolute piece of cake, Henry thought, alternately watching the tracking monitor fitted to the dash, the road ahead, the road behind. He’d only managed to get hold of the tracker by a combination of accident and theft early that morning. In their tiredness, another RCS team, going off-duty after an unsuccessful night’s work, had forgotten to lock it away. So Henry nicked it.

  He was alone in his car. Terry was still off sick with his broken thumb and Henry didn’t really feel inclined to be working with anyone else at that stage. He wished to avoid talking about the bomb and its unpleasant aftermath. He just wanted to be at work, doing something, chasing someone, taking his mind off it. He did have a constant dull headache he couldn’t rid himself of, though, due to the bump on his temple. That was reminder enough.

  When the bomb exploded, the surveillance operation on the dealer had obviously gone to rat-shit. They had lost him for the time being and it had taken Henry and his team the best part of that day to relocate him and his car in Manchester and then get into position once the tracker had been fitted.

  The tracker had proved to be a godsend once the target had started to move, about 8p.m. The team had followed him without a hitch around Manchester for about twenty minutes and eventually onto the motorway network. He’d taken the M61 out of the city, picked up the M6 north and cut left onto the M55 where he was now, at two minutes to nine.

  Henry hadn’t a clue what he was up to, nor where he was headed. Because of the bomb they were starting from scratch again.

  Presumably he’d sold on his Ecstasy tablets. Henry hoped he was going into Blackpool to do some wheeling and dealing in the pubs and clubs where perhaps he could be caught red-handed.

  It would be nice to arrest him in Blackpool, Henry thought. That way he could go straight home. See his wife and children. Even if it was late. He hadn’t given them much time recently and he wanted to change that. They all needed a holiday and he vowed that as soon as he could arrange some leave they’d scoot off to sunny Spain.

  On the final few miles into Blackpool, where the MSS narrows into a normal two-lane road, they hit the tailback of slow-moving Illuminations traffic, inbound to Blackpool. Hundreds of cars crammed full of families, all drawn by the world-famous lights fantastic. Everyone, including the Porsche, was forced to a snail’s pace.

  Henry decided the time had come to move up into visual contact with the target. He accelerated, executed a few hairy overtakes, causing some swerving, swearing, fist-shaking and angry horn blasts, and slotted in two cars behind the target.

  Leaning forwards, he pushed the button to switch on the car radio. It was 9 p.m. He hadn’t heard any news today. He tuned in to Radio Lancashire and almost crashed into the car ahead when the announcer calmly reported the deaths of three police officers in a firearms incident in Blackpool where the person responsible had managed to evade capture; the same person, incidentally, wanted for questioning in connection with the M6 bombing.

  It was 9.30 p.m.

  The public house on the promenade was busy, packed to the doors. Henry Christie squeezed in, his eyes roving the bar, searching for his man who he was sure had come in here. He shuffled sideways in between the crush of people, ensuring his left arm always lay tight across the revolver in his shoulder-holster. His compact Sig Sauer which he’d lost in the river had been replaced temporarily by a more bulky short-barrelled. 38, which in comparison felt like a bazooka stuck under his arm. He would be glad when his new Sig arrived.

  The smell of sweat, beer and cigarettes intermingled with the sound of raucous laughter, banter and loud music blasting from the video jukebox. Two huge screens hanging precariously from the ceiling showed the group Take That strutting their pectorals. It was a typical youngsters’ pub. A good place to buy and sell gear — drugs, that is.

  Henry still couldn’t see his man but was sure he was in there somewhere.

  Since he’d parked his Porsche some ten minutes earlier in one of the back streets behind the promenade, Henry, in a panic, had ditched his own car and tracked the man on foot.

  On the face of it, the target seemed unaware that he was being followed. Unfortunately this indicated to Henry that he wasn’t up to anything unlawful — yet.

  The only problem Henry now had was that his mini personal radio, strapped to his belt at the small of his back and wired up to a discreet earpiece, a tiny mike pinned on the collar of his windjammer and a transmit button on the palm of his left hand, had packed up. In other words the battery had lost its charge, the bane of every policeman’s life; and like most cops Henry hadn’t brought a spare. So he was alone without any immediate means of contacting the rest of his team. All they could do was pinpoint the Porsche and sit on it until the target returned. Henry knew they would do this as a matter of course, but he cursed his own stupidity and short-sightedness for insisting on working alone, just because he felt like Greta Garbo.

  He circled the room feeling more and more ancient by the minute as he brushed past young girls who looked no older than his thirteen-year old daughter Jenny. He half-expected to see her face in the crowd.

  Then he spotted his man.

  Henry froze. He’d almost walked right up to him. He took a step back and a group of youngsters spilled into the vacuum he’d created.

  The target was actually sitting in one corner of the room, in an area separated from the rest of it by a fancy wrought-iron, thigh-high railing. He was at a table together with another man and a woman. Lounging on the wall behind them were two casually dressed gorillas, whose eyes constantly scanned the room. Bouncers? Bodyguards?

  Interesting, whatever.

  Henry pushed his way to the bar. After an interminable wait he bought a bottle of Bud, declining the glass offered because it seemed to be the fashion to drink it straight from the bottle. Must be hip, he thought, and hiply took a cool, refreshing, fizzy swig. He then engineered a position by the edge of a slot-machine where he could see his target yet remain unseen himself.

  The area the three sat in was like a total exclusion zone, even though there were two vacant tables. When a young couple innocently decided to sit at one of the tables, the gorillas swooped down from their tree and blocked the way menacingly.

  Unwisely the young man remonstrated. He must have said a few harsh words; one of the gorillas responded by punching him hard and low in the stomach. Bent double with pain, he was quickly led away by his girlfriend. The gorillas loped back to their station.

  The other people in the pub who’d witnessed the incident looked in another direction, not wishing to get involved.

  Henry’s eyes narrowed. An over-the-top reaction for no reason at all, he thought. They were certainly a nervous crew behind that wrought-iron fence. But what worried him most was the glimpse of a firearm when the jacket of one of the bodyguards inadvertently swung open. A bulge under the jacket of the other told Henry he was similarly tooled up.

  The detective’s attention moved to the man in the middle. He was obviously the boss.

  Henry didn’t know him, his face rang no bells, but suddenly he found himself very interested.

  He was quite a young man, in his early thirties, fit-looking with jet-black hair, a neatly trimmed moustache, a swarthy complexion and the dark, all-seeing eyes of a predator. His clothing was casual but expensive; Ralph Lauren polo shirt, beautifully cut chinos and loafers. No socks. A slim, understated watch was attached to his wrist and a chunky gold chain encircled his tanned neck. He was good looking, exuding an air of confidence, wealth and violence. It seemed to Henry that he would have looked more at home on the Costa del Crime, rather than here in Blackpool, the Costa del Shite… because there was one thing Henry Christie did know about this man, simply by looking at him: he was a top flight criminal, a major player. Henry would happily have bet his next month’s expenses cheque on the fact.

  Yet, despite the outward appearance of calm, something in his manner, a fraction below the surface, told Henry he was unsettled. His non-verbal signals
betrayed him.

  The girl who sat next to him was positively gorgeous — a black chick who looked young enough to be jailbait. One of her hands rested provocatively at the top of the man’s thigh and she stuck close to him as though superglued, laughing in all the right places. Her short, low-cut dress left little to Henry’s imagination and he soon found himself unconsciously trying to peer up her legs.

  But this was no girlfriend. Everything about her screamed hooker; expensive hooker. And she looked uneasy, too. Her brown eyes never stayed still for an instant. Her shoulders were taut. She was very, very nervous.

  Henry finished off his Bud and returned to the bar. This time he had a less fashionable bottle of non-alcoholic lager which tasted bitter after the slightly sweet American brew.

  As he glanced casually around the room, Henry spotted another man watching the trio. He was mid-height, with blond hair and a moustache. Pretty nondescript, though he looked vaguely familiar. A moment later the man had gone. Henry thought nothing of it, resumed his position by the bandit and took a long drink from his bottle. Ugh. All the flavour brewed out with the alcohol.

  He was about to make a phone call into the Blackpool Communications Room for them to pass on his present position by radio to his team when the three got slowly to their feet.

  They were on the move.

  Henry swore.

  The boss man nodded to his gorillas. One of them took the lead, forging a way through the throng. The three slotted in behind with the other gorilla taking up a position at the rear, his right hand hidden underneath his jacket. They went out of a door at the rear of the pub. Henry gave them a few moments, then followed.

  Karen answered the door in her bath-robe.

  She’d had a long hot soak and a shower. Nothing could shake the sense of disaster in her mind, but at least she was now clean and ready for bed. She’d just rolled the quilt back on her double bed when the doorbell rang.

  She was tempted to ignore it, but found she couldn’t.

  Dave August stood there, swaying slightly. His official car, the Jaguar, was parked with one wheel on the kerb, unattended. Obviously he’d driven there by himself. Yet he smelled of alcohol. His eyes were watery and bloodshot.

  ‘ What the hell do you want?’ Karen asked.

  ‘ To explain?’ he said meekly. Then: ‘Oh, come on, Karen. You owe me that at the very least.’

  ‘ Do I?’ she asked resolutely.

  ‘ Look, can I come in, or shall we continue to conduct our business in public?’ He was having a little difficulty stringing the words together.

  She considered slamming the door in his face then relented, allowed him to enter.

  She followed him into the lounge. He knew the way. It was a beautifully furnished room, much money having been spent on the tasteful decor.

  August turned to her as she came in behind him. ‘Karen,’ he began, his arms outstretched.

  ‘ Not so fast, David,’ she told him coolly. ‘You said you wanted to explain something. If you think you’re going to get a fuck after the way I’ve been treated, you’re well off the mark.’

  August backed off. ‘Very well,’ he conceded, tight-lipped.

  He plonked himself loosely down on the plush sofa and crossed his legs. She perched on a chair-arm. Her robe fell open, revealing her thighs. She quickly pulled it back and covered up, though not before August had seen.

  ‘ Well, I’m waiting,’ she said at length.

  ‘ I… I don’t really know where to begin,’ he stuttered. ‘Look, could I have a drink?’

  ‘ I think you’ve already had enough.’

  ‘ Please. ‘

  Karen sighed impatiently. She fixed him a large whisky, dropped an ice cube into it and handed it to him. ‘Thanks,’ he said. Most of it then hit the back of his throat. ‘That’s better.’

  Karen’s mouth twisted into a line of disapproval.

  ‘ You know I’m suspended, don’t you? Barred from entering any police station in the county. Even had to hand my warrant card in. I feel so humiliated!’

  August nodded. ‘Yes, I know. I sanctioned it.’

  ‘ You sanctioned it? I don’t believe this.’ She stood up and paced the room. ‘I should’ve realised.’

  ‘ I was under pressure to do something. Can’t you see, after all that’s happened?’ he pleaded.

  ‘ From Fanshaw-Bayley, no doubt.’

  August dropped his gaze and stared at the gas fire, confirming Karen’s words. ‘I’d been backed into a corner. I had to do it. I didn’t want to… I just had to.’

  ‘ You’re the fuckin’ Chief Constable, for God’s sake. No one can make you do anything you don’t want to. You’ve simply kow-towed to FB and the CID again, haven’t you? You weak-kneed bastard.’

  ‘ It was nothing personal, honestly Karen. Purely professional.’ He pronounced it ‘perfeshinall’. ‘I have to distance myself from you.’

  Karen had had enough. ‘Get out, Dave. Now. I don’t want you or any other copper in my house.’ She began to sob. ‘Just get out and stay out!’

  He stood up, exhibiting all the classic signs of a drunk: unsteady on his feet, eyes glazed, speech slurred. And like a drunk, reasoning wasn’t part of his make-up.

  ‘ This doesn’t change anything between us, does it?’ he leered.

  Karen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Get out — now!’ She screamed.

  ‘ But I want you.’ He moved towards her and grabbed her arm. She caught the look in his eyes — wild, unpredictable — and started to struggle.

  ‘ No, Dave,’ she begged, trying to free herself from his grip. ‘Just leave. Don’t make things any worse.’

  ‘ You bitch. You use sex as a weapon over men and you don’t like it when it’s used against you!’ He slapped her hard, open-handed, across the face.

  She reeled back, stunned by the ferocity of the blow and its unexpectedness.

  He lurched forward and took hold of one end of the belt around her robe. He wrenched. It unfastened. Her robe fell open.

  ‘ You’ve always thought you had power over me, but you were wrong,’ he said. ‘I’m the one in charge. I’m the boss. I decide what happens to you.’

  He slapped her again. She lost her balance and fell back across the sofa. Her head swam in a sea of unreality. This could not be happening.

  ‘ You owe me… for what I’ve done for you, you owe me,’ he grunted. He threw himself at her, straddling her, pinning her arms down, his whole weight on her. She struggled uselessly, pointlessly.

  He forced his mouth down onto hers.

  Chapter Eleven

  Henry cautiously poked his head out of the pub door and looked both ways down the poorly lit street. Other than for parked cars it was deserted and quiet, though he could hear the Illuminations traffic passing the front of the pub.

  To his left a narrow alleyway ran down the side of the pub, separating it from the next building along, which was a guest-house. It was a dead end, a place that smelled of dustbins and dogshit. They could be doing some sort of a deal down there, he thought. It was difficult to see into the gloom.

  As he let his eyes adjust themselves to the darkness, a big man emerged from the dark shadows just inside the alley.

  One of the gorillas.

  Before Henry had time to react, a clenched fist shot out hard, catching him on the jaw. As Henry reeled away, head hissing and humming, he became dimly aware that another man was also rushing towards him: gorilla number two.

  The men grabbed him with big, strong, no-nonsense hands, and heaved him into the alley, out of the street, so that this business could be transacted privately. They threw him down between two metal bins like a rag doll. Henry’s right shoulder connected hard with the top edge of one of the bins as he fell. It toppled over and its smelly contents covered him.

  ‘ Right, you bastard,’ he heard one of them say, ‘Stick this.’

  Henry tried to roll himself into a protective ball as the two men rained kicks into
him without mercy. When they kicked him in the face, everything went black; his brain seemed to implode. Then his senses returned as quickly as they’d disappeared, and the situation became very clear.

  He was going to die or get maimed unless he did something very quickly. Self-preservation is a wonderful motivator.

  He scrambled wildly to his feet and ran blindly between the dustbins to the dead end of the alley where he turned at the wall, facing his attackers.

  They walked slowly down towards him.

  He tried to get his breath. This was a hard thing to do, for each time he inhaled, a searing pain stabbed through his chest. He could feel blood flowing down his nose — taste it in his mouth, salty, sickly. And there was an unnatural wetness on the left side of his face. His stitches had burst open. Blood was pumping out of the newly opened wound. They came closer. Gorilla number one laughed and sneered in one. Then there were two unmistakable clicks. Henry saw the shimmer of two blades. Flick-knives. Christ. His spirits sank again. Henry was no fighter. He’d done the occasional self-defence class, was quite fit — as he had to be, to carry a firearm. He’d had his struggles and tumbles with burglars, drunks and yobs like any cop, and he’d been assaulted a few times — but he’d never faced a situation like this before, alone, terrified and without hope of assistance. Fuckin’ Greta Garbo, he thought bitterly.

  But he had one ace up his sleeve, or under his armpit to be exact.

  He reached under his soiled jacket for his gun.

  Which wasn’t there.

  It must have fallen out when he’d been thrown into the dustbins yet he was certain his holster had been fastened properly. Shite!