A Time For Justice

Chapter Twenty-Two

The town of Garstang lies midway between Lancaster and Preston on the A6. A couple of miles north of Garstang is a layby. At 7.30 p.m. that same Monday evening, Dave August drove sedately into the layby in his own car and parked up. He switched the engine off, unlocked all the doors and rested his hands on top of the steering wheel so they were visible — as instructed.

He stared dead ahead. Afraid.

The digital figures on his watch moved to 7.35.

Briefly he considered starting up, slamming the car into gear and speeding away. But suddenly the passenger door was wrenched open and a man seemed to fall from nowhere into the seat next to August. The Chief Constable jumped. He hadn’t seen anyone coming. No one had pulled up in a car. The man must have sneaked up from the hedge.

August faced the intruder, and didn’t know whether to laugh or scream: the man was wearing an Oliver Hardy mask. In the end he did neither because a heavy, dangerous-looking revolver was pointing straight at his belly. Behind the mask August could see the eyes and the deep red slit of a mouth which, when it moved, sickened him.

The voice was hollow, distorted. ‘Drive north.’ The man obviously had no time for small talk. ‘Keep your speed to forty.’

‘ Look-’ August began plaintively.

‘ NO! Don’t talk — just drive,’ he snapped. ‘Or some cunt’ll find a dead Chief Constable in a layby. Now fuckin’ drive.’

A few seconds later August and his companion were travelling the A6 in the direction of Lancaster.

Just before they reached Galgate, south of Lancaster, the man ordered, ‘Turn in here.’

August nodded. His hands gripping the steering wheel were weak and perspiring. He pulled into a car park by the side of the road, overlooking the Lancaster canal. A large number of pleasure cruisers were moored by a quay below them, but there was no one around. It was very quiet, tranquil.

The man dangled something in front of August’s face. It was a small hessian bag with a drawstring fastener. ‘Put this over your head.’

He obeyed meekly, slipping the rough-textured material over his head, down over his face, blocking out all light. It was harsh and unpleasant against his skin. The man pulled the drawstring tight and fastened it with a knot.

A hand touched August’s shoulder. He was told to swing his legs out of the car and stand up. As he rose unsteadily he caught his head on the doorframe but managed to struggle to his feet.

Another vehicle drew up.

He was manhandled into the back of this vehicle — a Ford Transit van — and lying on his side in the foetal position, was frisked by heavy hands. The back doors of the van were closed and the van drove away. He had orders not to move, otherwise he would be thrown out.

August tried to keep track of his journey.

He could tell that they turned right out of the car park, so they were heading back towards Garstang. After a couple of minutes the van slowed and went left. This was the motorway junction. If there was another left turn they would be heading north up the M6. There wasn’t. August could tell from the acceleration of the van and the way it leaned that they were looping around the junction to travel south, back towards Preston.

They were on the motorway for about fifteen minutes — continuous, straight-line, high-speed travel. No one spoke on the journey, yet August sensed there were two men.

The van slowed and came off the motorway.

August was fairly certain this was the Preston north turn-off. Soon after, he lost his bearings as they hit Preston proper, and ten minutes later, they stopped.

He heard some doors slide back.

The van lurched and stopped again. The engine was switched off.

They had driven into a building of some sort.

In his blackness he heard hollow footsteps. The building doors sliding back again. Murmuring voices. A laugh. Then the back doors of the van were opened. He was heaved out and dragged for a few metres, then forced down onto his knees, then onto all fours and then completely onto his front. The ground was cold and hard. Concrete.

Soon, he thought, I will see them. This is their weak time. He was wrong.

A voice said, ‘I am going to remove the bag from your head, do you understand? Because I am a civilised man and we are going to have a conversation. However, when I do this you will look at the ground, your nose will be pressed to the floor and you will keep your eyes closed. Do you understand?

‘ Yes.’

‘ I will hold a double-barrelled shotgun to the back of your neck.’ The voice was male with a Scottish accent and sounded as though it was being reasonable. ‘If you open your eyes and try to look round, or do anything silly or make a sudden move, I’ll pull both triggers and blow your head off your shoulders. There will be nothing left of your head. Do you understand?’

‘ Yes.’

Then August felt the cold barrels of the gun pushed into his neck, just below his hairline. He wanted to be sick. He swallowed something that tasted of vomit.

The hessian sack was yanked off his head and he lay there face down, nose to the ground, shivering with fright. Before he could stop them, his eyes had flickered open for a nanosecond, and he nearly whined in terror. But no one seemed to have noticed. He squeezed them firmly shut, enclosing and sealing the memory of that face…

There was a cough, a clearing of the throat, the shuffle of feet. ‘So, Mr August, what did you think of the video? Good, wasn’t it? Very classy. Make a fortune on the porn market, that.’

‘ What do you want?’ said August tightly. He wasn’t sure how much more he could handle.

‘ Straight to the point,’ said the voice. ‘I like that. All right, we’ll play it your way. There’s something you possess that we want. Knowledge. You’re a Chief Constable. You know many things — and what you don’t know, you can find out.’

‘ I don’t know anything,’ August was almost in tears.

‘ But you do, you do,’ the man assured him.

‘ What?’

‘ A man is presently at court facing murder charges. He will soon be convicted. A man called Hinksman.’

August groaned. ‘So? I can’t stop that.’

‘ I know — and he’ll be convicted. Stupid bastard deserves to be

… However, that doesn’t concern us. He’ll be taken by police escort from Lancaster to another prison, won’t he? Probably Strangeways.’

August did not respond. He waited for the bombshell.

‘ What I want you to do is tell me when the escort will be setting off from Lancaster, how many of them are armed and with what sort of weapons… you know, that sort of thing. But I want you to do something else for me as well.’

‘ What?’ said August, deep in a nightmare.

‘ Ensure that the convoy takes a particular route — one which I will supply to you. There — simple, isn’t it?’

‘ But why?’

The man jabbed the shotgun roughly into the back of August’s neck. ‘Why d’you fuckin’ think?’

Joe Kovaks had made his first visit to Laura at seven-thirty in the morning. He had got home just in time to run Chrissy to the hospital for ten. By the time he hit the sack an hour later he was exhausted, with only four hours to sleep before getting up and collecting Chrissy. He was due back on duty at six, when he planned to ditch Tommo, his partner, and go straight to see Laura and get his plan underway.

He felt excited. Corelli’s time was ticking away.

Laura looked 100 per cent better that evening — in other words, marginally better than a corpse.

Kovaks sat on the stool next to the bed and placed a bag of mixed fresh fruit on the cabinet.

She gave him a weak smile, said ‘Hi,’ then closed her eyes. The brush with death had taken its toll.

‘ We need to get Corelli,’ Kovaks said softly. ‘How many more lives will he destroy?’ He spoke in a low, hypnotic voice. He knew she was susceptible right now. This was the time to strike, to get into her mind and influence her way of thinking. He was being a ruthless bastard and he knew it. ‘Look at what he’s done to you and Whisper. He killed Whisper, not me, Laura. He had him knifed to death and his tongue cut out because he had the courage to talk to me. And then he made you suffer. He’d been making you suffer anyway. Using you as a source of income. Making you use your body and your mouth. How many men did you fuck, Laura? One hundred? Ten thousand? How man men did you suck off? Twenty thousand? He abused you, destroyed you, forced you onto drugs so that you’d be dependent on him for everything — money, junk, somewhere to live. I know you did it for the baby, I know it was the only way. I’m not judging you, honey. All I’m doing is stating facts, Laura… and then what happened? When he’d had enough of you, he kicked you out onto the streets, out of your home. The cunt! Not much of a home, I know but it was your place nevertheless.’

She began to cry softly, eyes closed in shame. Kovaks was bang on target. He couldn’t stop a triumphant grin from spreading across his face. This might be easier than he’d feared.

‘ And you lost everything. The baby. Whisper. Your self-respect.’ He was relentless, driving it home. ‘And you almost lost your life, like he’s deprived thousands of others of theirs. While he lives like a king! He doesn’t do drugs. He’s a fucking billionaire! Owns houses, cars, boats, planes, businesses… all on the back of people’s suffering. We need to do something about him, Laura. We need to stop him. You and me. You and me. If we pool what we know, I’m sure we can do it.’

‘ How?’ she sobbed. ‘We can’t touch him.’

‘ I don’t know,’ said Kovaks. He shook his head. ‘But we can think of something.’

‘ I want my baby back,’ she cried. ‘That’s what I want.’ Her mouth twisted grotesquely as she cried. She buried her head in a pillow. ‘I miss her so much.’

Kovaks laid a hand on her bony shoulder.

‘ It’s OK Laura. You’ve got me now. You can depend on me. I’m an FBI agent, aren’t I? I can pull strings. I can get her back for you. I’m sure I can. Don’t worry, but you must promise to help me. We must get Corelli once and for all. You and me, Laura. You and me.’ His voice was hypnotic.

‘ I need my junk too,’ she said.

‘ That’s OK, I can get you anything you need.’

‘ But how are we going to get him?’

‘ I don’t know yet,’ he said.

But he had a good idea.

A further two weeks of witnesses giving evidence drove the trial into its fifth week. Much of the testimony was presented by experts — scientists, doctors etc. — and the officers who conducted the interviews with Hinksman. It was basically unchallenged by the defence. Graham put up a spirited performance, but he was rowing up Shit Creek with only his hands for paddles.

The last witness stepped down from the box at 3 p.m. on the Friday of the fifth week and the trial was adjourned for the weekend.

On the Monday of the sixth week Graham began his final speech for the defence. It lasted two days — two days in which he tried valiantly to discredit the prosecution evidence. He was very convincing, eloquent and believable — but on the whole he was fighting a lost cause; however, as he was being paid so well and had such a dangerous client, he tried his best.

He did have a good case to rubbish Henry Christie’s evidence, though. Despite the supporting forensic and ballistic evidence, Henry’s testimony was unsafe, he insisted. He referred to a famous stated case — R v Turnbull — which dealt with the subject of identification and the guidelines which the police should follow. Most of Henry’s evidence did not follow these guidelines; therefore, Graham submitted, Hinksman should be found not guilty of the murders in the alley.

On Wednesday the Judge began her careful summing up. This lasted until the Friday and was fascinating to listen to. It was as though she was telling a story around a campfire. She enthralled everyone with her turn of phrase and clear voice. She made detailed reference to Henry’s evidence and supported Graham’s submission. She told the jury that they must be very sure that Detective-Sergeant Christie’s evidence was sound. Any doubt and they must not convict.

Henry could only agree with her conclusion from a professional point of view. Personally he was extremely pissed off about it. But then again, he mused, she hadn’t told them not to convict…

However, she more or less directed the jury to convict on all the other counts.

The twelve good and true men and women then retired to consider their verdicts. By five o’clock they had not got anywhere. They had begun a process which was to last five days. Over this period they were taken to a secret location — an hotel on the outskirts of Lancaster where they were guarded by armed police and dog-handlers. The Judge instructed them to remain there until they reached their verdicts. Only then could they return to court.

Late that Friday night, the jury retired to their respective bedrooms at the hotel to get a good night’s sleep before continuing with their task the following morning.

At 6 p.m. in Miami, five hours behind British time, Sue finished her work for the day at the FBI building, collected a couple of personal belongings from her desk and made ready to go home.

She was extremely bored with the task now allotted to her — a fraud enquiry which had been ongoing for two years and which the Bureau had been unable to crack. For the last two months she had been combing balance sheets, profit and loss accounts, bank transfers and private bank accounts until figures had been coming out of her ears, but at least she had made a breakthrough. She was fairly sure how the fraud was being perpetrated, but uncertain how it could be proved in court.

Although pleased by the progress, she was actually bored rigid with the case. The short time she’d spent teamed up with Joe Kovaks and the Corelli Unit had been very exciting and had given her a look over the fence, where the grass was definitely greener. She longed to get back onto organised crime where the baddies pulled guns out, not pens, and it was blood that was spilled, not ink.

And she missed Joe.

After an unsteady start, to say the least, she and he had become good friends. She had managed to maintain some contact with him when she’d been transferred, but it had dwindled and she hadn’t seen him for almost four weeks now. It made her sad, but she knew he was completely immersed in Corelli, especially after the tragedy with Chrissy.

As Sue stepped into the elevator, one other person was already inside, finger on the Door Open button.

Oh God, she thought. I do not like this guy. He gives me the creeps. However, she steeled herself and said, ‘Hello, Mr Ritter,’ pleasantly.

‘ Hello, Sue,’ he said. ‘Ground or basement?’

‘ Basement, please. My car’s down there.’

‘ Mine too.’ He smiled ingratiatingly and pressed the button. The doors closed slowly with a sinister hiss and the elevator descended.

Sue stared at the doors.

Ritter lounged against the side of the elevator, looking at her. Bitch, he thought. You fucking know, don’t you?

‘ Any thing planned for the weekend,’ he asked her.

‘ No, not really. Some shopping, maybe. Catch a movie, that sort of thing. ‘

‘ Not going to Bayside, by any chance?’ He laughed nervously.

Now why ask that? She recalled seeing him there once and him denying it, but that was months ago. Obviously it meant something to him — probably out meeting some woman other than his wife — but so what? He wanted to deny it, let him deny it.

‘ Spending some time with your fiance — Damian, isn’t it, from Fingerprints?’

‘ No, he’s away,’ she said. ‘Gone to see his mother for a few days. I’ll have a nice weekend all alone.’ She-smiled at Ritter, wishing he’d shut up but not wishing to be impolite.

Fortunately the elevator stopped on the second floor and two secretaries got in. They were going to the basement, too. Sue was relieved. She exhaled a long breath.

At the basement Ritter stood by the elevator door, finger on the button, and allowed the three women to walk out ahead of him. The secretaries peeled off to the left. Sue walked straight on towards the car park.

If she turns round, Ritter thought, she knows.

Sue couldn’t help herself. She glanced quickly round and saw Ritter still in the elevator, watching her. Weirdo. She increased her pace. Why the hell did I tell him I was alone this weekend, she asked herself. She had an uneasy feeling.

Ritter pressed the button which would take the elevator to the administration floor.

In the general office Ritter managed to collar one of the clerks before she left. Ritter knew she dealt with annual leave.

‘ Have you got a moment?’ he asked.

‘ Yeah, sure, what is it?’

‘ I left a fingerprint indent with one of the experts downstairs, a guy called Damian Faber. I’ve been trying to chase him up today for a result. Turns out he’s on leave. I need to speak to him pretty urgently about it. Is there any chance you can get into your computer records and see if he’s left an address where he can be contacted? I’d really appreciate it.’

‘ Yeah, sure, no problem. Won’t take but a minute.’

She sat down by a computer terminal, switched the machine on and tapped quickly into the computerised leave records.

‘ Here we are.’ She leaned sideways to allow Ritter to see the screen..

‘ Mother’s address in Clearwater,’ said Ritter. ‘No phone number. Damn!’ He jotted down the details, which also included Damian’s home address and phone number. ‘I am very much obliged to you,’ he said to the clerk. ‘Looks like I’ll have to send the local cops round to roust him.’

‘ Looks like,’ she said, logging out and switching off. She pulled on her coat and hurried out of the office, late for her date.

Ritter phoned Damian’s home number. The answering machine clicked in.

‘ Excellent,’ said Ritter to himself with a dangerous smile. ‘He ain’t there, so he must still be at Mommy’s.’

It was going to be a short, violent weekend for Agent Fat Bitch.

Damian had decided to surprise Sue.

He’d taken a few days’ leave in order to visit his mother in Clearwater because she claimed to be seriously ill and close to death. Seriously mad, Damian thought as he drove east along Highway 41 towards Miami and home in his battered Chevvy.

Two days with her had driven him nuts. He had originally planned to stay until Sunday, but her crazy ways decided him to return early, surprise Sue and have a weekend of debauchery.

The thought of her body — a body he had come to love even though she was immense — spurred him to press down a touch more on the gas pedal. The car surged ahead and at the same time he experienced a pleasant sensation at his groin. He reached forwards and turned the volume of the radio up a touch as the Stones cut into Honky Tonk Women.

The chimes on the front door of the apartment tinkled. Sue pulled on her thin pink cotton dressing-gown, the one Damian liked — especially when she was damp and it clung to her — and trotted happily to answer it. She peered through the spy hole and stepped back, puzzled but unafraid.

She unlocked and opened the door. ‘Mr Ritter,’ she said. It was more of a question.

‘ Hello, Sue.’

‘ What can I do for you?’

‘ I think we need to talk.’

‘ About what?’ She felt suddenly vulnerable and tugged the belt on her gown tighter.

‘ I actually think you know,’ Ritter said, raising his eyebrows. ‘May I come in? We can hardly conduct a civilised conversation out here, now can we?’

Reluctantly she allowed him in, but only because he was an FBI agent and wouldn’t be foolish enough to try anything stupid. He sidled slowly past her into the living room, brushing his arm against her breasts.

‘ Nice place you have here,’ he commented. He went to the kitchen, then the bedroom and looked into both. ‘Nice bed. I’ll bet you and Damian do some megafuck work on that.’

Sue’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t quite believe what she’d just heard.

‘ What can I do for you, Mr Ritter?’ she said coldly, deciding to ignore it, just in case she’d misheard.

He spun round from the bedroom door and pointed at her. ‘What can you do for me? First of all you can sit down.’

Something about the way he said those words made Sue’s legs go weak. There was some sort of trouble brewing here. ‘I’d rather stand. This is my home — I’ll do as I like. And I’m asking you to leave. Goodbye, Mr Ritter.’

He covered the space between them in a couple of strides, moving so fast that Sue was unable to defend herself from the powerful blow that sent her spiralling backwards onto the couch. It had been a well timed, well-connected slap — with all his might behind it.

She sat up, shaking her head. ‘Damian,’ she called out. ‘Get in here!’

Ritter laughed. ‘Maybe when he comes back from Mommy’s. You’re all alone, Sue. I know these things. I check — I’m a pro.’

‘ You’re a madman,’ she hissed. She was sure her jaw was broken. She started to clamber to her feet, intent on hitting back, but she was too slow. Where was Damian?

Ritter grabbed her hair and rammed her face down onto his up-thrusting knee. Her nose burst with a distinct crack and he tossed her back onto the couch.

‘ You really are obscene,’ he said, standing over her, looking dispassionately down at her exposed body: her gown, covered in blood, had sagged open and ridden up.

But Sue was past modesty. She had never felt such incredible pain before. She whimpered like a kitten: ‘What do you want?’

He smiled benevolently. ‘That day at Bayside — why were you there? Were you watching me, seeing who I was meeting? Is that why you were there?’ His questions were relentless.

‘ I was having a picnic,’ said Sue.

‘ Liar!’ His foot lashed out and he kicked her shins hard. She screamed in pain. ‘Now — why were you there?’

‘ Having a picnic… boyfriend…’

Oh God Damian, where are you? Come to my rescue.

‘ You’ve been following me, haven’t you? Building up a dossier. Who I meet, who I speak to. The boat I own — do you know about that too? What about my condo? Have you checked my bank accounts? I bet you have, you accountancy cunt. You know all about me and Corelli, don’t you?’

‘ No, no, no,’ she cried desperately. ‘You’re wrong, wrong. Oh, please Damian, help me.’

‘ He won’t help you,’ sneered Ritter. ‘He’s miles away, with Mommy. So, who else knows all this?’ he demanded.

‘ No one… you’re insane.’

He grabbed her by the hair again and yanked her into a sitting position. Then leaned down and glared into her eyes. ‘Who… else… knows?’ he repeated slowly. Spittle ran from the corners of his mouth. ‘Where is the file?’

‘ There is no file. I know nothing about you or Corelli,’ she said.

He flung her back contemptuously, revealing her shaking folds of flesh.

‘ Oh, you really are gross,’ he said disgustedly. ‘It’ll be like sticking a pig.’ And he pulled a knife out of his pocket.

Sue tried to scream but no noise would come; she tried to get up and run away, but fear had driven all responses from her body.

Ritter plunged the knife into her chest, piercing her heart. By the time he’d removed it and plunged it in a second time, she was as good as dead. This didn’t stop him from stabbing her in a frenzy of utter blind madness another thirty-eight times. And that was just the beginning.

Joe Kovaks drove into Liberty City at nine that evening and cruised the streets slowly, making sure that he wasn’t being followed. He couldn’t afford to be caught out on this one, either by his own side or the other. This was his little operation and its success depended on no one else knowing about it.

Kovaks looked cynically at the streets where in 1980 the whole world had been made aware of Miami’s race problems; four days of rioting had left eighteen people dead. A white face here was still unwelcome. Now, even though he was streetwise, unafraid and armed, he kept his windows closed, door locked and never stopped at a traffic light.

Once he was satisfied he was alone, he drove out west to a rundown motel just on the edge of Liberty City and made straight for Room 103. After knocking in a particular way, he let himself in with his own key.

The room was untidy, but at least the bedclothes were clean. Laura lay motionless in the bed with the duvet wrapped tightly around her head. She hadn’t heard him either knock or enter.

In the corner of the room a TV set blared out. Fast-food cartons, their contents half-eaten, were strewn on the floor. Kovaks switched the TV off and went into the kitchenette where, after clearing and wiping the work surface, he emptied the bag of groceries he’d brought into the relevant cupboards.

As he was doing this, Laura surfaced. Wearing only a pair of panties she sat up, head in hands, rubbing her face.

‘ Joe, you got it? I need It, Joe!’ she said through her fingers.

‘ I got it. Be patient.’

‘ Come on, man. I need it. You promised.’

‘ I always keep my promises.’ Kovaks returned to the bedroom. ‘But first you gotta do something for me.’

‘ Yeah, yeah, anything, Joe.’

‘ Clear the fucking place up or you get nothing — understand?’

It took a few seconds for his order to reach her brain. Then, without a murmur of dissent, she got to it. In a matter of minutes the room had been tidied. The fast-food cartons were in the bin, the bed was straight, clothes and shoes were put away.

Kovaks sat on one of the two easy chairs and watched her scurrying about the room. He’d always known about the power that pimps and dealers had over drug addicts, but had never imagined how easy it was to get in such a position of dominance. You had what they wanted and they’d do anything for you to get it. A very simple equation. Power went to the people who had the drugs and were not users themselves. People like Corelli.

Kovaks had always found it difficult to understand addiction, but thanks to his short association with Laura he was learning fast. In her lucid moments, the black girl was bright, intelligent and articulate. What had been her downfall was circumstance, lack of money, lack of guidance.

But he didn’t really care about that. He had decided to use her and use her he would. He exerted power over her now and that’s what mattered. She would do anything for him, just to feed her habit.

‘ There,’ she said, standing up, pushing her dry hair back, ‘done.’

She moved in front of Kovaks and stood there. Her body was still painfully thin. Her ribs protruded through her skin and her knees stuck out gnarled and unsightly. ‘Anything else? I need it, Joe. Come on, man.’

He took hold of her wrist and pulled her gently down towards him.

Her thin body was easy to bend.

‘ How much do you want it?’ he teased.

‘ You know how much.’

‘ Will you do anything for me?’

‘ Yes, I will.’ Her bloodshot eyes looked pleadingly into his.

He had been leading up to this, never actually saying it, always insinuating it, prodding, pushing her in the right direction.

‘ Will you kill Corelli for me?’ he whispered.

She didn’t even have to think. ‘Yes, I will,’ she gasped.

Kovaks couldn’t suppress a grin of triumph. Laura had lived in this motel room since her discharge from hospital and Kovaks, at his own risk and expense, had nurtured her, clothed her, fed her, provided drugs for her and now she was completely reliant on him. He was her world. She loved him. He was her provider. And he didn’t beat up on her, abuse her or want to fuck her ass.

She didn’t know that he really did want to fuck her. But fuck her good and proper.

Kovaks reached into his pocket. He handed her a brown bottle which contained a bright green liquid, rather like Creme de Menthe. It was methadone, heroin substitute. Twice her daily requirement, provided by a ‘doctor’ Kovaks knew who owed him a favour.

She unscrewed the cap and swigged the contents in one, wiped her mouth and smiled at him as warmth spread into her stomach and from there into her bloodstream.

‘ What about my baby?’ she asked.

‘ I’m negotiating. It looks good.’ It was a lie.

‘ Joe, I love you,’ she said dreamily. She put her arms around his neck and sank her bony frame onto his knees, curling up like a child.

‘ I want you to kill Corelli,’ he whispered in her ear.

‘ I will,’ she said. ‘Give me a gun. I’ll do it.’

‘ You’re a good girl.’ Kovaks sighed. Suddenly a surge of guilt whipped through him, but then it was gone. It was the only way, he assured himself. The only way.

Damian lay under the bed for twenty minutes before he dared to move. He was not a brave man. He’d heard the outer door of the apartment open and close but hadn’t had the courage to emerge just in case it was a ploy.

He tried to stand up but his legs were so weak and shaky that they wouldn’t bear even his meagre weight. So, on all fours, stark naked, he crawled slowly towards the door.

He was terrified of what he would see. The reality was far worse than anything he could have imagined.

The living room was swathed in blood. Slashes of it swept across the ceiling and right down the walls, like some sort of modern art form. The couch was drenched in it.

Damian gagged. Using the doorknob for support he levered himself to his feet and stood there wobbling unsteadily.

Then he saw her.

Sue lay on the couch, legs and arms splayed wide. Her throat was cut and the rest of her had been literally ripped apart. Her intestines had been dragged out and some organ or other was hanging, shimmering on the edge of the couch like it was still alive, ready to slither off.

Damian sagged back to his knees, then scuttled on all fours back into the bedroom and into the en-suite bathroom, where he managed to get his head over the toilet before being horrendously sick.

He got dressed quickly.

At the bedroom door he composed himself for his re-entrance into the living room. He placed his hands around his eyes, like he was a kid pretending to make a diving mask, to give himself tunnel vision. Then he ran across the blood-soaked carpet, down the short hallway and out through the front door of the apartment.

Kovaks was back at his desk by 11p.m., having left Laura in a state of drug-induced euphoria. At midnight he took a call. He grabbed his jacket immediately and within half an hour was at the front door of Sue’s apartment block.

The senior detective at the scene was Lieutenant Ram Chander, from Homicide. He was one of the few Asian-Indians on the force, a very good detective, completely ruthless and hard to offenders yet with a genuine compassionate streak where victims and their families were concerned.

Kovaks had worked with him occasionally, but they didn’t have any particular bond. He was surprised when Chander came down in person to greet him. They shook hands.

‘ She was once your partner, Mr Joe?’ Chander said. He spoke with an American accent but with the odd inflection which betrayed his Kashmiri roots as well as the Indian habit of referring to people by their first names but with the preface of Mr or Mrs as appropriate.

‘ She was,’ Kovaks confirmed.

‘ Was she a good friend?’

‘ Yes.’

‘ Then I must ask you to prepare yourself for an upsetting sight,’ Chander warned Kovaks. ‘Would you like me to describe it for you first, or do you just want to go and see?’

‘ I’ll go and see,’ said Kovaks impatiently. ‘I’ve come across some bad things in my time.’

‘ Well, Mr Joe, this’ll be one of the worst,’ sighed Chander.

Ram Chander was right.

It took Kovaks a good while to recover. Yes, he had seen worse, but when it was someone you knew lying there, cut open like a carcass at a butcher’s, it was different.

He was on the landing outside the apartment, talking to Chander. Inside was a bustle of activity. Cameras flashed, videos ran, the ME directed operations and the forensic people got to work.

Chander was telling Kovaks everything he knew.

‘ The call came in just after nine,’ Chander said, referring to his notes. ‘One of the neighbours walked past and saw that the front door was open. Thought it was suspicious, that maybe the place had been burglarised. The only time you leave your door open here is to let yourself in or out. Anyway, very brave of him, he went to have a look and found her. We arrived shortly after.’

‘ Any leads?’

‘ Most certainly,’ said Chander. ‘The boyfriend is the prime suspect.’

‘ Who — Damian?’

Chander shook his head, which actually meant yes. Just occasionally, when he got excited, he reverted to this Indian way of saying yes. Fortunately Kovaks understood the-body language.

‘ He was seen by a neighbour leaving hurriedly.’

‘ I can’t believe that,’ said Kovaks. ‘Damian wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s not big enough to kill her.’

‘ I have a detective down at your place making enquiries. Seems he was on leave and should have been at his mother’s over in Clearwater until Sunday. Mother was contacted and said he’d left early. Looks like he wanted to surprise the victim.’

‘ Come on — what would be his motive?’

‘ Until we get him, we can’t establish that. Maybe she was seeing someone else. Maybe she’d dumped him. Jealousy? Anger?’ Chander shook his head sadly. ‘It would not surprise me, Mr Joe.’

‘ Well, it would astound me, Ram. Keep me informed, will ya?’

‘ Surely — so long as you keep me informed too. The parties involved may be Federal staff, but the murder is still our jurisdiction…’

‘ No need to remind me.’

They shook hands.

The Coroner’s men were just emerging from the apartment with the very heavy body bag. Kovaks dashed past them. He didn’t want to see her being carried away.

At six o’clock, British time, on Saturday morning, six men, all hard, tough and uncompromising assembled in a yard behind a scrap-metal dealer in North London. There were three cars for them, two Jaguars and a Mercedes. They were good cars, but a few years old and unremarkable, except for the fact that they were the most powerful models in the range and they were scrupulously clean — from a criminal point of view.

The men paired off and chose a car.

Each of the cars had had some internal bodywork carried out. A special compartment had been skilfully fitted underneath the rear seats, which ran the full width of the vehicle, which was about ten inches deep and ten inches across. These compartments could not easily be found should the car ever be searched.

The men placed certain items of what they termed ‘merchandise’ into each compartment, laid the lids back on and slotted the rear seats back into place.

Then they each put a holdall into the boots of the cars.

They were ready to travel.

Each pair tossed up to see who would drive for the first half of the journey. The lucky ones curled up in the back seats to get some shuteye. As ex-soldiers, they were aware of the value of sleep.

They set off in a convoy initially and headed north towards the M1. Soon they were travelling individually because they did not want to draw attention to themselves as a single entity.

This way, if one got into trouble for some reason, the others would get away.

Each man knew his destination.

They were to meet up in Blackburn, Lancashire at noon. There was no great hurry. They would be briefed today, recce the site, see what equipment was available and what they needed to acquire, make their plans and then bide their time.

They were good at waiting. But from all accounts they wouldn’t have to wait too long.