A Time For Justice hc-1

by Nick Oldham

  Oh fuck — he’d been hit.

  He landed awkwardly, twisting his left wrist, then life went blank

  … The bullets stopped. Their echoes ricocheted around the tarn and drifted away to nothingness, like spirits leaving the world. Silence descended. All birdsong had ceased.

  It’s hard enough for a person to get a hand up their own back at the best of times. For Henry, lying on his front, pinned down by a sniper, with a painful wrist and a sore head from his blundering fall, and a bullet wound in the back, it was near sodding impossible.

  He probed bravely around to find the wound; it seemed to be a deep groove, about four inches long, in the muscle below his left shoulder-blade. Though there was extreme pain he had no trouble shifting about.

  He thought, it hasn’t gone in! It’s nicked me and stings like buggery, but it hasn’t gone in. He laughed in relief. ‘Thank fuck for that,’ he breathed happily.

  Sweat dripped into his eyes. He brushed it out with a blood-soaked hand, making it worse. Nearby was a large clump of fern leaves. He ripped them out of the ground and wiped his face and hands with them.

  A burst of fire clattered dangerously over his head, only a matter of inches above.

  He tried to think clearly, logically. He was still in danger, but he was here, in a better position strategically, and the odds had evened up slightly, even if the man with the gun still remained the clear favourite.

  He snaked further into the trees. When he thought he was completely safe he raised himself to his haunches and started to make some progress around the tarn. Anger kept him going. Nobody takes pot-shots at me and gets away with it, he thought viciously.

  A good twenty minutes later with half a mile’s rough travelling through trees behind him, he was within metres of where he believed the gunman had been laid out. He peered through the foliage. Saw nothing.

  Taking out his Swiss Army knife, he unfolded the longest blade with shaking hands. Now he was hunting for real, not for sport, and another man was the target. Mild-mannered Henry Christie had become a predator.

  He tested the sharpness of the blade with a finger. Satisfied, he edged forwards on all fours, an inch at a time, dead slow.

  It had all been in vain. The would-be assassin had gone.

  Henry stood up and walked over to where the man had been lying down, the grass flattened by his weight. He’d even left his gun there.

  Henry picked it up. ‘Jesus,’ he whistled, ‘a fucking Kalashnikov.’

  As he studied the gun, a twig cracked behind him.

  He cursed, dropped the gun — it was no use without a magazine in it — and spun round wielding his pathetic knife.

  Too slow.

  The man charged into Henry from the undergrowth like a rhino from a thicket, bowling him backwards. The knife went flying from his grasp. Suddenly high foliage and sky swept past Henry’s eyes and he found himself on his back, face up, with an immense guy on top of him, the man who’d tried to shoot him.

  The man’s head reared back and then rocketed towards the bridge of Henry’s nose. In that instant Henry saw he had wild, demented eyes and a twisted smile on his face.

  Henry flicked his head to one side and held the man back as best he could with one hand.

  The head-butt deflected into the edge of Henry’s right eye-socket.

  At least he hadn’t got a broken nose.

  Once more the man reared back.

  Henry smacked him hard in the mouth with his right fist, but he was only stunned for an instant. He got a grip of Henry’s arms, straddled all seventeen or eighteen stones of himself across Henry’s chest, and almost tenderly placed one arm at a time under each of his knees.

  Henry was like a butterfly pinned to a board.

  ‘ I’m going to kill you,’ the man informed Henry.

  Henry believed him.

  One of his hands went to Henry’s throat, and his fingers closed unhurriedly on the windpipe. Slowly, but surely, Henry was being throttled by a man who was enjoying his work.

  He gasped, gurgled, struggled for air. His vision misted over. Blackout, followed by death, wasn’t far away.

  It was amazing what such a realisation could do to a person. Everything that Henry had left went into what he did next.

  He smashed his right knee up into the man’s backside.

  He’d wanted to connect with his privates, but that would have been physically impossible. However, the effect was just as good. The impact sent him shooting over Henry in a messy forward roll.

  As the hands came off his windpipe, air whooshed down. Henry scrambled to his feet as quickly as possible. He staggered weakly and turned to his attacker, who was up on his knees already. Henry lurched towards him and executed a double-fisted swipe across his face that sent him sprawling again.

  Blood flowed from the man’s mouth, coupled with spittle and a tooth. He shook his head and looked meanly at Henry who stood over him. Then, suddenly, he dived for Henry’s ankles — and nearly had them. Henry managed to step smartly backwards and all the man managed to do was grab thin air.

  So Henry kicked him in the side of the head as hard as he possibly could.

  Twice.

  Henry was going to end it now. He had to.

  While the man crouched on the ground, recovering, Henry picked up a large, oval-shaped rock. Lifting it high in both hands, he brought it down with all of his fading strength on the crown of his assailant’s head. There was a horrible splintering noise and the big man was felled like an ox. He was probably as good as dead, but Henry wanted to make sure.

  He hit him again with the rock. Then he found he couldn’t stop himself. He continued to hit him. There was no point to it, but he couldn’t hold himself back. He kept hitting and hitting until he collapsed next to him, exhausted.

  It began to rain lightly.

  A lifetime later, soaked to the skin, Henry staggered through the trees, and up the path. The cabin was ahead of him, nestling innocently in the trees, the Metro parked in front.

  He stopped in his tracks, fearing the worst. Suppose the killer had visited the cabin on the way?

  He ran to the door and burst in.

  The girls were sat in front of the electric fire, contentedly playing draughts. They looked up, their beautiful faces suddenly transformed with looks of horror at what they saw.

  A man. Dirty. Bloody. Wet. Bedraggled. Not their father.

  Leanne screamed.

  ‘ Jenny,’ said Henry. His voice came straight from the hell where he’d been.

  Her mouth fell open.

  Dizziness overcame him. He teetered. His limbs weren’t working; they were suddenly jelly and couldn’t hold him up.

  He pitched headlong onto the floor of the cabin.

  Henry surfaced several hours later. He had vague recollections of flashing blue lights, two-tone horns and a sensation of speed, but nothing more. When his eyes focused they saw a nurse in uniform and a tube sticking out of his arm.

  He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t leave his voice box. His throat was very badly swollen and sore.

  The nurse smiled. ‘Carlisle Infirmary, Casualty Department,’ she said brightly, reading his mind. ‘Your children are in the waiting room with your wife and they’re fine, so don’t worry. I’ll get a doctor now and once he’s seen you he can decide whether or not you’re fit for visitors, OK?’

  Henry nodded. Well, that was everything taken care of, he thought. Nurses just seem to know everything.

  When Kate and the children came in to see him, it was clear they’d all been crying. His wife was dabbing at her eyes and the end of her nose looked red-raw from snuffling. Henry wanted to grab her and hug her. He knew, however, that she would not allow it.

  ‘ You look a bit better now, Dad,’ said Jenny, eyeing him critically. She managed a weak smile.

  He laid his good hand on her head. ‘Thanks to you, that is,’ he said. He went on slightly falteringly, ‘Well done for getting me to hospital, love. I owe you one
.’

  ‘ No, you don’t. I love you,’ she said heartbreakingly.

  He’d been told of Jenny’s cool head and quick reactions. She had covered him with a blanket, given Leanne strict instructions to stay with him and she’d run over two miles to the nearest public phone box and called an ambulance. She had then run back to the cabin where a petrified Leanne held her father’s head on her lap whilst pressing a towel onto the wound in his back. She had been sobbing and was covered in blood.

  Henry looked at Leanne. ‘And you, pet — thanks for looking after me.’

  ‘ It was nothing,’ she said bravely, her lips quivering with remembered fear.

  ‘ That’ll do,’ said their mother stiffly. ‘Now you two give your Dad a hug and a kiss and go and wait for me in the Matron’s office.’

  They reluctantly obeyed.

  Kate perched herself on the edge of the bed, near Henry’s feet and they regarded each other for a while in silence.

  ‘ You’ll have to come nearer if you want a conversation,’ said Henry. ‘I can’t talk very loud.’

  She sighed and moved closer, not allowing him to touch her when he reached out to do so. He accepted the rebuff without comment.

  ‘ Two pretty amazing kids,’ he said.

  ‘ Yes, they are… Look, Henry, what’s going on? What have you got yourself into? The doctor told me he’s called the local police in to see you, at your request, because you’d been shot. You must tell me what’s happening!’ She was afraid and confused.

  ‘ It’s tied in with the Hinksman trial, I think,’ he said painfully. ‘Silencing witnesses — intimidation. But I doubt I’ll ever be able to prove there’s a link.’

  ‘ Oh Christ! So what happened today?’

  Slowly, Henry told her everything.

  ‘ You think you killed him, then?’ she asked when he’d finished. She put her hands to her face. ‘You killed a man! I don’t believe this.’

  ‘ It was in self-defence,’ he croaked. ‘I didn’t have a choice in the matter. It was him, or me. I made sure it was him.’

  ‘ And are we in danger, I mean me and the girls?’

  ‘ I don’t know,’ he said truthfully. ‘Probably it’s only me they want. I’m the man who can do the damage.’

  ‘ So what shall we do?’

  ‘ Carry on as before, but keep a close watch on them. Tighten up security at home… I don’t really know, Kate. I just don’t know. I wish I did.’

  ‘ What’s going to happen to you now?’

  ‘ I’ll speak to the local cops and tell them what’s happened.

  Hopefully they’ll believe me, won’t be daft enough to charge me with murder. The evidence should support my story. I’ll have to see how it goes.’

  ‘ How will you get home? You can’t drive with your wrist all plastered up.’

  ‘ Dunno. I’ll find a way. Taxi. Bus. Train. Plane. Walk?’

  ‘ I’ll come up for you. ‘

  ‘ You don’t have to.’

  She heaved a weary, full-bodied sigh and looked away.

  After a pause, he said, ‘What about us, Kate? Is it really over?’

  ‘ I don’t know,’ she said heavily. ‘You betrayed me. You were unfaithful.’

  ‘ I’m sorry. I’ve said it a million times and I’ll say it a million more times, if that’s what it takes. I love you and I want to get our lives back on track. I let you down badly. I hurt you. I hurt the kids. I know all that. Don’t you think I’ve suffered, too? I’m mixed up to hell about it all… but I know where I truly belong. I miss you like hell… I want to touch you, kiss you, hold you, reassure you, make love to you, court you, live my life with you, die for you… hmph! Talk about dying. You know what the worst part is, eh? Thinking you won’t be there when I die…’

  ‘ Henry, don’t-’ She was sobbing again.

  ‘ Mr Christie?’

  Henry looked up beyond Kate’s shoulder. Two men had appeared at the foot of the bed. Well-dressed. Nice suits. Clean shaven. Short hair. Henry pinned them as detectives immediately. He smiled.

  ‘ Yes. Hello, fellas.’

  They did not smile. ‘DI Fletcher, this is DC Tumin. Carlisle CID.’ They flashed their warrant cards.

  Henry nodded, wary now.

  ‘ I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. I’m not gonna bore you by reciting that new caution, mainly because I can’t remember it. You know you don’t have to say owt, but if you do it may be given in evidence — and if you do say owt, then it’ll do any defence you might have no good. Understand?’

  Chapter Twenty

  The trial at Lancaster Castle, due to begin properly the following Monday morning, came to a standstill quite quickly, much to the smiling pleasure of Hinksman who was led back down to the holding cell.

  Several members of the jury had complained to an usher — who’d passed the complaints on to the court clerk — that strange things had been happening to them over the weekend. Two had windows broken at their homes by unidentified persons, two received unusual phone calls and three had tyres slashed on their cars. Taken separately, each incident amounted to nothing more than a minor annoyance; taken together, they were more than a coincidence. It was very sinister and unsettling. The jury was being got at.

  In the chambers, the Judge saw FB. He promised to look into the matter and told her that he would arrange for each juror — if they so wished — to be escorted home by police each evening and back to court next morning for the duration of the trial. He also said he would provide each of their homes with an alarm linked to the police radio system. Such an alarm, once activated, would immediately alert every police officer on that frequency who could respond without delay. The cost would be excessive, but would have to be borne. Better safe than sorry.

  FB also told her what had happened to Henry Christie that weekend.

  She listened, appalled.

  The trial did not begin until 2.30 p.m.

  And Henry Christie was sat in court.

  He looked a mess. The eye-socket which had been head-butted stuck out as big and red as a cricket ball and his throat was a swollen mess of dirty purple bruises. His left wrist was in plaster, and held across his chest in a sling.

  He waited for Hinksman to be brought up from the holding cell. Only then did he leave the court as he was required to do.

  Only when he had made eye-contact with Hinksman.

  Only when he had made it quite clear that he would not be beaten. Everybody’s eyes were on him as he hobbled out of court.

  The Judge covered a grin and called for proceedings to begin.

  Outside the court, Henry made his way to the police room where

  Donaldson was waiting, together with Karen.

  He sat down and gratefully accepted the proffered cup of tea. ‘Now then, Henry, you old son of a gun, bring me up to date,’ requested Donaldson.

  Henry took a sip of the tea, leaned back and told them his story.

  Two uniformed Constables had guarded Henry on Saturday night through to Sunday morning — just in case he decided to run away. Henry, pumped full of blissful drugs, slept like a baby in a dark, dreamless void. He awoke refreshed the following morning, when he was discharged from hospital and taken into police custody.

  He didn’t blame them for arresting him. He would have done the same. Someone had died a violent death; explanations were needed.

  It didn’t stop it being an unpleasant experience. He was treated well and courteously, but there was no quarter given just because he was a fellow cop. He was grilled by experienced detectives whose techniques were very, very good. Henry could have played games with them, but he didn’t. He was open and honest and admitted what he’d done. He argued self-defence and everything pointed to his story being right.

  The presence of FB in the background helped, too. He came to assist as soon as he heard.

  At the end of the day after nine hours in custody, several of those hours being spent brooding in a cell, Henry was released without c
harge but warned that a report would be submitted to the Crown Prosecution Service for advice. Informally he was told by a Detective Chief Inspector that the ‘job was going nowhere’ — police terminology meaning that he would not be prosecuted. In his heart of hearts Henry knew that this would be the case, but it was a relief to hear it anyway.

  True to her word, Kate came for him and drove him back to his flat above the vet’s, despite his insinuations that he would be better cared for in the marital home. She was having none of it.

  Alone in his flat, with the barking of a dog recovering from a hernia operation downstairs for company, he toyed with a bottle of Scotch. In the end he binned it in favour of some analgesic tablets, a hot drink of milk and bed.

  He slept better than he would have thought possible.

  There was nothing particularly eventful about Dave August’s return to work that Monday morning. He’d spent a dull weekend with his family, and was glad to get into the office, which he did at 7.30 a.m.

  At 10 a.m. he had his usual briefing from the ACC who’d been on duty over the weekend. There was little to bring to August’s attention, other than to update him regarding Henry Christie and request protection for the jury in the Hinksman trial. It was clear that they were being nobbled.

  ‘ That’s all we need!’ exclaimed August. ‘What about protecting the witnesses, too?’

  ‘ That’s in hand, I understand.’

  ‘ I’d be tempted to give Christie authority to carry a gun home with him under the circumstances. He may need it… it’s something I’ll have to consider.’

  ‘ Could be a good idea.’

  ‘ Hm. Anything else? No? OK, thanks for that.’

  The ACC collected his reports and left the office. August checked his appointments for the day ahead. He was quite busy. He sighed and his mind turned to Janine. They’d made no firm plans for the week ahead, but she’d said to call her whenever he felt like it. She was working in Cumbria all of this week, and when she’d dropped him off at headquarters on Saturday morning, she’d given him her mobile phone number.

  He wanted her there and then. He could imagine it — her bent forwards, holding onto the edge of the desk, him thrusting into her, both of them crying out with the pleasure of it all…