A Time For Justice hc-1

by Nick Oldham

  What a night they’d had. Pure carnal pleasure which had been increased by his introduction to cocaine. At first he’d resisted, but when he’d seen the effects on her, and been reassured that it wasn’t addictive, he’d given it a try.

  It had been fabulous.

  He dialled her number, but it came back unobtainable. Strange, he thought, but decided to try again later.

  The sight of all that paperwork in his in-tray depressed him. He scooped it up and laid it in front of him on the desk.

  A couple of reports merely required his signature. The next piece of correspondence was a large, A4-sized Jiffy envelope, addressed to him personally. It had arrived via the external mail, post-marked South Lakes. He lifted it up, interested. It was fairly heavy.

  He peeled the envelope open and shook the contents out. There was a video-tape, VHS, TDK make, with a label on it that said boldly COPY, plus a series of photographs which had been taken over the weekend, of him and Janine kissing and embracing in public.

  August suddenly felt very queasy. Typewritten on the sheet of paper which accompanied the video were the words, This is a very edited version of events. Hope you find them interesting. Will contact you in due course. NB — this tape is a copy. It is for your eyes only.

  August stood up and crossed to the TV and video-player in the corner of his office. He inserted the cassette and waited apprehensively for the picture to appear.

  Initially the screen was a lined grey haze.

  Then an image came on. Very sharp. Very clear. Very professional.

  A man and a woman. Naked. Kneeling, face to face. The woman was working his erect penis with deft fingers. The man moaned: the video had a soundtrack. His face was screwed up tight in the agony of sexual ecstasy. He came, ejaculating across the woman’s lower belly. The sperm dribbled down to her pubic hair. The man sagged exhaustedly and the couple embraced. He laid his head on her shoulder and turned his face towards the camera. The screen faded to blackness. The whole thing was less than ninety seconds long.

  The face of the woman had been erased from the video.

  But the face of the man was very clear and identifiable.

  The screen flickered back to life after a pause. This time it showed the same couple kneeling side by side over the bedside cabinet, apparently snorting cocaine.

  This was a thirty-second clip. Then it all went black again.

  August pressed the rewind button and played the tape once again. He held the last frame of the masturbation sequence for a few seconds and found himself staring helplessly into his own eyes.

  He ejected the cassette and strode back to his desk, dazed and confused. He picked up the phone and dialled Janine’s number. Unobtainable.

  August stood holding the phone to his ear, his eyes gazing out unseeingly across his beloved rugby pitch.

  All he could see was his sperm splashing across Janine’s stomach and the end of his career.

  Henry Christie drew his story to a close. Karen and Donaldson had been good listeners.

  ‘ So who was the guy?’ Donaldson enquired.

  ‘ Don’t know yet, maybe never will. Fingerprints haven’t thrown anyone up, so it’s possible he may have no previous convictions.’

  ‘ Henry — you did good,’ said Donaldson with a smile. He punched Henry on the shoulder.

  Henry looked at them. They were grinning from ear to ear, continually exchanging sidelong glances. They were obviously very happy together. Karen’s eyes were shining. She was a completely different person from the strung-out individual Henry had encountered all those months ago. The ruthless career woman who gave no quarter had been replaced by a relaxed person with no edge whatsoever.

  Henry liked the change. He had never felt comfortable with her until now.

  ‘ So what’s your news, Kar1? What’s happening on your side of the water?’

  ‘ Aww,’ he said dismissively, ‘Corelli’s still givin’ us the runaround and we don’t seem any closer to catching him. I’ll fill you in later. There’s something much more important to tell you.’

  ‘ We’re engaged to be married,’ blurted out Karen. She reached for Donaldson’s hand.

  ‘ Yep,’ said Donaldson. ‘You’re the first to know.’

  Henry was pleased for them. They were two nice people. In fact, he felt a twinge of jealousy. ‘That’s good news,’ he said warmly. ‘You’re good for each other, but isn’t there a slight logistical problem with all this?’

  ‘ Well, yeah,’ admitted Donaldson. ‘We haven’t quite worked that one out yet, but we will. As the saying goes, love will find a way.’

  After lunch with a visiting ACC from North Wales, Dave August returned to his office trying to believe that the tape was all a practical joke, that Janine would phone and explain it all away.

  But once behind closed doors again, dark despair began to creep over him like a shroud of mist. Carefully, he removed the envelope he’d received that morning. Now it was in a clear plastic bag. He unfastened it, shook out the video and the photographs and gazed at them on his desk. They offended his eyes, made him feel sick.

  He again slotted the video into the player and watched the action, mesmerised. He worked out where the camera had been situated. Now he saw why it had all been so easy and what a fool he’d made of himself.

  ‘ Shit,’ he said. ‘Sex, drugs and a Chief Constable.’

  Presumably there was going to be a blackmail threat somewhere along the line. He would be ruined if the compromising material reached the people who were now considering his application for promotion to the Inspectorate. And what if members of the Lancashire police committee got hold of it? Or the press? August’s heart sank. And what about his wife? Or the kids?

  Career, marriage, lifestyle — down the tubes.

  He had everything to lose.

  He began to sweat.

  But what do I have to offer a blackmailer? he asked himself.

  I’m not rich, so it can’t be money.

  The only thing I possess is information…

  He thought about it further, but nothing specifically interesting came to mind.

  He locked his top drawer when he heard his office door open. In stepped his new staff officer — Chief Inspector Jenny Cornwall, — and announced that the discipline hearing was ready to kick off.

  ‘ Wheel ‘em in,’ he said. Some poor bastard of a PC was going to get hell this afternoon.

  Henry found himself confronted by one of the most stunning-looking women he had ever met in his life when he left court that afternoon. It was the combination of gorgeous long legs, short skirt, silky blonde hair, upturned cheeky nose, bright eyes and a haughty, confident, no-nonsense look which did it, plus a subtle perfume which assaulted Henry’s nostrils like an aphrodisiac.

  She had the particularly American way of speaking in short, punchy sentences.

  ‘ Hi, I’m Lisa Want. I’m from the Crime Bureau of the Miami Herald and I’m covering this here trial for that particular newspaper. I’d just love to do a piece about you, Sergeant Christie. Y’know the sort of thing — hero cop, dig a little into your background, et cetera. The American public just love reading about English cops, especially when they’re as good-lookin’ as you are…’

  ‘ Say no,’ said Donaldson, who had walked up behind him. ‘Don’t trust her — Joe Kovaks did and it nearly cost him his job.’

  ‘ Now don’t you go listening to that bitter an’ twisted ole FBI man,’ she purred to Henry with a pout. She flashed her eyelashes and he could have sworn he felt the draught. Her eyes moved momentarily to Donaldson and the look in them, just for a nanosecond, was pure hatred. Henry noticed it.

  ‘ It’s up to you,’ said Donaldson, ‘but I’d avoid her like the plague, scheming bitch.’

  ‘ I’m sorry,’ said Henry, and he truly was because the prospect of spending time with her was very appealing, ‘but I tend not to have a very good relationship with the media anyway.’ He shrugged sadly, and he and Donaldson walked
out of the court.

  Lisa clenched her teeth and stamped a foot on the floor, muttering ‘Karl Donaldson, you are a first-class cunt.’

  Over in Dave August’s office, the discipline hearing was drawing to a close. The officer concerned had lost. August fined him heavily for discreditable conduct, severely reprimanded him and transferred him to another station. That would teach him to fuck the cleaner on the snooker table, even if he was now living with her. There was a time and a place for everything.

  Forty minutes later August was driving through the streets of south Manchester, desperately trying to locate the house Janine had taken him to that night. But he couldn’t even begin to find it, even though he had driven there and back himself.

  He pulled into the side of the road and parked, attempting to relive the journey in his mind. It was all a sexual haze — as no doubt it had been intended to be. He’d been driving the Jag, blindly following her directions while she masturbated him; at the same time his left hand was fumbling rather inexpertly with her clitoris. Both had been in moaning ecstasy. It was a miracle they hadn’t crashed.

  When he’d left the house the morning after it’d been much the same scenario, except he couldn’t get a full erection. The journey from the house to central Manchester — where she had asked to be dropped off had once again been at her direction. And now, only a few days later, he couldn’t recall any of it.

  His forehead dropped onto the steering wheel.

  ‘ You complete and utter idiot,’ he snarled at himself.

  Janine settled back in the fishing boat and pulled off her long baggy T-shirt. Underneath she was wearing a skimpy bikini top and a pair of faded cut-offs. She reached down for a can of Diet Coke from the coolbox next to her and rolled the ice-cold can across her sweaty forehead. Key West was fast receding as the boat picked up speed on its way out for a morning’s fishing.

  She was aware of the sidelong looks from the two crew members, both men of Hispanic origin, as they prepared the bait and rods. She was very pale and desirable to them.

  The cabin door opened and the attention of the crew moved solely to their tasks in hand as the boss appeared from below, accompanied — as ever — by his bodyguard.

  Corelli was carrying a bottle of champagne and two fluted glasses. Janine tossed the Coke can overboard and took the glasses from him. ‘This is good stuff,’ he said. ‘The best. Don’t want to spill a drop.’ He opened the bottle carefully.

  The cork popped off and Janine held out the glasses, which he filled.

  He took one and said, ‘This is by way of thanks for the part you’ve played in securing the eventual release of my friend, the plans for which, as you know, are well advanced.’

  ‘ It was a pleasure,’ she said. They touched glasses and drank. Janine thought it tasted wonderful.

  ‘ So I believe,’ he murmured, and winked. ‘I’ve seen the video…’

  They burst out laughing.

  Joe Kovaks stood on the quayside watching Corelli’s boat which was now nothing more than a speck on the horizon, even through powerful binoculars.

  His face was grim as he lowered the glasses from bloodshot eyes. He felt like he had never laughed in his life.

  This was not the Joe Kovaks of old. In the last six months he had aged considerably. He had lost weight and his grey skin hung loosely on his cadaver-like face.

  Knowing it would be many hours before Corelli came back, he made his way to Le Te Da where he managed to secure a seat on the front balcony. It was here, in the 1890s, that the Cuban rebel Jose Marti had made speeches to raise money for the Cuban revolution.

  Kovaks ordered a light meal, coffee and orange juice.

  While waiting, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep forever.

  The worry over Chrissy, the sleepless nights, the constant vigils and the ongoing campaign to get Corelli had all taken their toll out of his energy reserves. He’d kept himself going in the circle of home-hospital-work-hospital on a concoction of sweet black coffee and adrenalin.

  And what good had it done?’

  Chrissy’s recuperation had been a painfully slow process in more than one sense.

  Although out of hospital now, she frequently returned for further treatment. She was still a mess, despite all the doctors had done. Her burned face and chest were a horrific sight, even to Kovaks, who had grown used to them. She herself wouldn’t even look in a mirror. The pain she endured was dreadful and she could only sleep under the influence of drugs.

  However, the medical side of it wasn’t the only problem. The mental side was worse.

  This once bubbly, confident and delightfully naughty lady was now a shell of fear. She was terrified of going out, of picking up the post, of doing almost anything. She spent most of her waking hours slumped in front of the TV, flitting aimlessly from channel to channel, avoiding the mainstream of life.

  Kovaks had been warned it would take a long time. Surely, though, he pondered, there should be some improvement by now?

  It was wearing him down; he couldn’t deny it. He knew he had to be strong for her, but the strain was telling on him and it was bubbling over into anger.

  Because through it all Corelli sailed on. Untouched. Untouchable.

  Kovaks knew he was dealing drugs in the UK now with the guy called Dakin. Could he prove it? Could he fuck. Just like he couldn’t prove that Corelli was behind the bomb that maimed Chrissy.

  Kovaks was tired and frustrated. Corelli was simply telling him to go to hell. And slowly but surely, this is where Kovaks was headed.

  Even the Bureau had whittled down the operation on Corelli. The team now consisted solely of him and Donaldson, Sue having been transferred to other duties.

  The waiter brought his meal.

  He opened his eyes.

  Something would have to be done; it was a desperate situation all round, requiring a desperate solution.

  It was about time to administer some justice.

  Agent Ritter was also planning his own desperate solution.

  Having made the decision to kill Sue, he had now decided where the demise would take place. So many unfortunate accidents happen in the home, he thought.

  There were only two more questions to be asked.

  When would it happen?

  How would she die?

  Soon, he thought, in answer to the first one.

  In great pain, was his answer to the next.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  At the end of the third week, the trial seemed to have gone fairly smoothly for the Crown. The witnesses had all been good and believable and had kept to their stories, even under severe provocation and pressure from Mr Graham, QC for the defence, who was performing at his peak.

  Donaldson had been up to give his evidence. It had been a harrowing experience for him to relive the death of Ken McClure, particularly when Graham questioned everything down to the last detail. Donaldson’s eyes had visibly moistened when he described the scene and last words of his friend. The jury had been right behind him and he sensed he could do no wrong. If nothing else, Hinksman would be convicted of killing McClure.

  When Donaldson was asked if the man responsible for his friend’s death was present in court, he’d lifted his hand and pointed his finger straight at Hinksman. ‘That is the man who murdered my friend, Ken McClure.’ It was a satisfying moment.

  Hinksman merely stretched and yawned.

  Graham immediately objected to the statement, saying that murder had yet to be proved. The Judge ordered him to sit back down, then she warned Hinksman that he wasn’t far from being in contempt of court. He raised his eyebrows and smiled at her.

  She made a note.

  Donaldson’s evidence was the last to be given on that Friday afternoon.

  As the trial was adjourned for the weekend, Hinksman indicated that he wanted a private consultation with Graham.

  In the interview room, Hinksman asked, ‘Well, how’s it going?’

  ‘
In truth, not very well,’ admitted Graham. ‘The prosecution have got sentiment on their side. It does help. Too many innocent people have died.’

  ‘ How strong do you think their evidence is against me regarding Gaskell, the arms dealer?’

  ‘ So so,’ said Graham, sitting securely on the fence. ‘Although there’s no direct witness testimony, there are the videos the police recovered from the guest-house which show you turning up at Gaskell’s house. Then the ballistic evidence — the fact that the gun you had with you when Christie arrested you is the one which killed Gaskell. It all looks pretty bleak, to be honest.’

  ‘ Mmm… When is Christie due to give evidence?’

  ‘ Middle of next week, I estimate.’

  ‘ Well, you make damned sure he has a hard time,’ ordered Hinksman. ‘I want his evidence and his character dragged through the mud. Hear me?’

  ‘ I hear you,’ said Graham dismally. He was unused to being given instructions on how to defend a case by his client. He knew he had to be patient with Hinksman, otherwise he’d probably get a bullet in the brain.

  ‘ And I want you to tell Dakin to move up a gear on the jury. I want them all shitting themselves this weekend.’

  ‘ I’ll tell him,’ sighed Graham. He was more concerned with the prospect of Henry Christie’s evidence next week. He knew very little about the detective or his background.

  ‘ I’m not sure I’ll have much mud to sling at Christie,’ he told Hinksman doubtfully. ‘I may be able to get into his evidence, but as to his character… I don’t know.’ He shrugged.

  Hinksman smiled an evil smile. ‘Don’t worry. By Monday morning you’ll have everything you need. Promise.’

  By its very nature this murder trial was spectacular and newsworthy. It had all the ingredients of a juicy international story. The massive bomb which killed many innocent people; the violent deaths of police officers; the links with underworld crime in England and America; the death of an American gangster and his ‘moll’; the death of a British arms dealer; the involvement of the FBI and the insinuation — nothing more — that Hinksman was a Mafia hitman, although the words ‘Mafia’ and ‘hitman’ were never to be used throughout the trial.