A Time For Justice

Chapter Twenty-Three

The jury reached its verdicts at lunchtime on Tuesday. The Crown Court was reconvened and the elected foreperson was asked to read the verdicts out, whether the accused was guilty of murder, manslaughter or not guilty as the case might be.

Henry was sitting in court alongside Donaldson and Karen. FB sat in the row of seats in front of them, surrounded by all the detectives directly involved in the case.

The court was full to the brim; Henry noticed that Lisa Want was among the journalists. She’d been noticeable by her absence recently. Henry held back the urge to leap across the court and break every bone in her beautiful body.

The foreperson was a lady in her mid-thirties. She spoke in a shaky, faltering voice.

The court clerk led her through the charges.

Hinksman was found guilty of the M6 murders.

A murmur of approval chunnered around the room.

Then he was found guilty of the murder of Ken McClure. Someone almost clapped. The Judge looked sternly at that person.

Henry had a quick glance at Donaldson. A tear was running down the American’s cheek. Henry saw that his and Karen’s hands were intertwined. He felt happy for them. He turned his attention back to the court proceedings.

Henry began to grow tense. He wasn’t sure how he’d react if Hinksman was found not guilty of the charges he had brought against him.

Manslaughter verdicts were brought for the killings of the police officers who had raided Pepe Paglia’s guest-house to arrest Hinksman.

A stony silence greeted these verdicts.

He was found not guilty of the murder of Pepe Paglia.

That drew a gasp of disbelief.

He was also found not guilty of the murder of the arms dealer in Rossendale.

A few shrugs went round the court. That had been half-expected, but was a disappointment nevertheless.

Then, much to Henry’s relief, he was found guilty of all the murders in the alley.

A roar of approval went up from the court. Donaldson, next to Henry, patted his knee.

It took the Judge a few minutes to bring order to the courtroom. She was clearly annoyed at the disruption.

The foreperson resumed and found Hinksman guilty of the manslaughter of the woman on the promenade who had unfortunately stepped into the line of fire between Henry and Hinksman.

Hinksman had also been charged with numerous firearms and explosives offences, most of which were proved.

He was going to go to prison for a very long time.

The foreperson sat down, relieved to have done her duty in the spotlight. She looked like she was having a hot flush.

Hinksman stared over at Henry and shook his head sadly.

Then the Judge said, in her most authoritative tone, ‘The accused will stand.’

Hinksman didn’t move. He looked at the vaulted ceiling and whistled. It was something the Judge had been counting on. ‘Officers,’ she said to his guards, ‘bring the prisoner to his feet.’

Henry whispered to Donaldson, ‘The administration of justice is a wonderful thing, don’t you agree?’

‘ Sure do,’ said Donaldson. They shook hands.

Karen, who had heard the remark, leaned across Donaldson and said, ‘There’s more justice to be administered yet.’

‘ What do you mean?’ asked Henry.

She tapped her nose. ‘Wait and see.’

They looked to the front of the court as the Judge began to comment on the case and then to pass sentence.

‘ It’s over,’ Henry said down the phone to Kate.

‘ I’m glad,’ she said.

‘ Life sentences. Judge recommended that he never be released.

And on top of it, two months for contempt of court for some of the gestures he made during the trial. It was highly amusing. And the Judge commended me for bravery — and others. She said some good things.’

‘ So what happens now?’

‘ Well, he gets taken to Strangeways and we’re all going for a knees-up.’

‘ I didn’t quite mean that.’

‘ Oh.’

There was a sudden silence as if the line had gone dead, as if someone had pulled the plug.

‘ You still there?’ Kate asked.

‘ Yeah,’ he gulped nervously. ‘How’re the girls?’

‘ Fine. They’ll see you at the weekend.’

‘ Excellent. Good. Look… er, did you mean what happens next to us?’

‘ That’s exactly what I meant.’

‘ I do love you, y’know.’

‘ Do you?’ she sighed.

‘ Yes. And I miss you like mad. And I need you.’

‘ I love you too, Henry.’

‘ Can I come home?’

‘ We need to talk about it. I’m still not sure. I need some reassurances, some promises. You hurt me very badly. All my faith was rocked when you betrayed me. Everything I valued counted for nothing. I want you to come home, but I am frightened by the prospect.’

‘ Me too,’ he admitted. ‘I’m sorry… Look, I’m having a day off tomorrow. Perhaps I could come round in the evening; we could talk then.’

‘ The girls would be in the way. I have a better idea.’

‘ Go on.’

‘ I’ll take a day off too. Then we’ll have all day to chat, see how we feel, what we can resolve.’

Henry’s heart leapt.

‘ Yeah, yeah, good idea,’ he said eagerly. ‘What time should I come round?’

‘ Ten?’

‘ I’ll be there.’

The pips started to go.

‘ I love you, Kate,’ he managed to say before the line went dead. He hung the receiver up slowly with a wide smile on his face, juxtaposed with a feeling of trepidation in his guts. At last, he said to himself. At last.

As he turned away from the payphone which was in the Crown Court building, he bumped into Lisa Want who was standing directly behind him. His smile dropped; his face became a mask of contempt. He tried to shoulder past her but she stood her ground.

‘ Look, I’d like to say I’m sorry,’ she told him. ‘I heard you giving evidence — I hadn’t realised what you’d been through, OK?’

He snorted in disbelief. ‘I have no doubt in my mind that you do not have a conscience, and if you ever get the opportunity to shaft someone, you’d do the same thing all over again. Goodbye, Miss Sleaze-bag.’ And he edged carefully around her, as if to avoid contamination, and strode towards the exit.

‘ Ungrateful son of a bitch!’ she uttered, and stamped her feet angrily like a child.

Outside the court building the victorious team of detectives, including FB, but not Donaldson and Karen, were waiting for Henry. They cheered as he appeared. He modestly acknowledged this with a bow, then they all moved off towards the city centre, where it was their intention to take over a pub and get riotously pissed out of their heads.

Just as they reached the prison gates, they encountered a crowd of journalists and sightseers. A buzz of expectation went through them as the prison gates were flung open and the convoy taking Hinksman to Strangeways roared out and sped down the hill.

Some of the detectives gesticulated rudely at the rear of the prison bus.

Henry merely stood there, hands thrust deep in his pockets, staring at the back window. He was sure that Hinksman would be looking at him through the one-way glass. He allowed himself another smile and thought, Goodbye, you bastard. I hope you rot in hell.

Henry had probably smiled more times that day than on any other in the last six months.

The bus and escort were out of sight within seconds, the sirens accompanying them becoming less distinct.

Henry then shivered with a sense of foreboding. Something was wrong. His smile dropped. What was it? He looked up into the sky. The force helicopter clattered overhead, moving with the convoy.

The gang of detectives surged down the road. Henry caught up with them and tapped FB on the shoulder.

‘ Boss?’

‘ Henry, what is it?’

‘ Er… nothing, I hope. It’s just… I’ve suddenly had a very bad feeling. ‘

‘ You’ll be all right,’ said FB, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘C’mon, you just need a drink inside you. There’s a lot to celebrate.’

‘ Yeah, sure,’ said Henry. But as much as he tried, he couldn’t rid himself of that feeling of impending doom.

Lisa Want watched the detectives strut down the hill like a group of lager louts. She was utterly furious with Henry: it was the first time ever that she’d apologised to anyone for a piece she’d written, and the last.

But she did have to admit that the guy was right: she would do it again. It was in her blood.

A nondescript man approached her.

‘ Lisa Want?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘This is for you.’ He handed her a package; she noticed that he was wearing gloves. ‘The man in it is the Chief Constable of Lancashire. The woman is a hooker. You don’t need to know her name.’

Then he was gone, leaving Lisa holding the tape.

The police convoy — two cars to the front and rear of the caged prison bus containing Hinksman — sped down the hill away from Lancaster Prison and the crowd of onlookers. The traffic-lights at the bottom of the hill next to Waterstone’s bookshop were set on green for them. The convoy should have turned left and gone into the one-way system which rings Lancaster; however, a few minutes before the convoy had left the prison, the last police operation for the trial had come into effect. Officers had stepped into all relevant junctions and stopped all traffic, enabling the convoy to turn right against the flow of traffic.

It worked smoothly.

Within a minute the convoy was travelling south towards Galgate along the A6. Once south of Galgate, the plan was to get onto the M6 and drive like the clappers to Manchester and Strangeways.

A grim-faced Hinksman sat sullenly in the back of the van, subdued and angry. His hands were secured in front of him by rigid handcuffs. The inane chatter of the two officers who sat in the cage with him only served to fuel his anger. Captured by a pathetic detective whom he had grown to hate and vowed to kill, then beaten by British justice, Hinksman was a killer with a grudge.

He rocked back and forth as he thought about his predicament.

Sent to prison for life — and no one had made any attempt to free him. What the hell was going on? What had happened to Corelli, and to Lenny Dakin — the two men who had most benefited from his skills and abilities at causing mayhem and death? Where were they now, he asked himself.

Lenny Dakin was actually parked up in a stolen Jaguar XJS with false number plates on the slip road leading up to Lancaster University.

He was contemplating how easy it had been to snare August. The manager of his casino in Blackpool always kept him abreast of ‘interesting’ people who used the facilities on a regular basis, and August had been a regular for about four months.

Not being one to miss out on any opportunity, Dakin had set him up twice with women. If he’d wished, he could have had pictures then, but he hadn’t bothered. He’d simply put August on the back burner for when he really needed to exploit him.

Then it had been very easy indeed.

Dakin sniggered and peered out of the front windscreen of the Jag.

He had a fairly good view from that position up the A6 towards the city. Suddenly the convoy came into view. He glanced up into the air: the chopper was there. A handset from a CB radio was resting in the palm of his hand. He pressed the transmit button and said coolly, ‘We’re on.’

The village of Galgate lies astride the A6, south of Lancaster. There is a set of traffic-lights at a crossroads in the centre of it, where a country road crosses the A6 at right-angles. A pub is situated on one corner, shops on the others.

It is a quiet place, not particularly picturesque and to be honest, not somewhere you’d normally stop for anything.

But it is a place where, with a little thought and planning, a gang of professional criminals who specialise in springing prisoners from custody could ambush a police convoy if they so wished.

Dakin watched the convoy speed by from his position near the University. His heart began to beat quickly and he became very excited. He’d heard about this team, read about their exploits in the newspapers and now — after a great deal of difficulty in actually tracking them down through intermediary after intermediary — had hired them himself. And they didn’t come cheap. He hoped they were worth their fee. He was about to find out.

The traffic-light control box was easy to break into with a small jemmy. The man had done it many times before. It took him only a matter of seconds and no one saw him do it anyway. Not that anyone would have thought much about it, because he was wearing a Lancashire County Council boiler suit and looked official, like he knew what he was doing with that tool bag at his feet.

The control panel was no different nor more complicated than thousands of others. The man leaned nonchalantly on the control box, whistling, and cast his eyes up the road.

When the convoy was about 200 metres away, he pressed a button. All the lights at the junction went to red and stayed there. He pulled a ski-mask on, reached into his tool bag and pulled out a light submachine gun.

This was the signal for another man who had been sitting patiently behind the wheel of a large furniture removal van, parked a few metres into the crossroad opposite, with the engine idling. He too pulled a mask on, released the brakes and then let the clutch out in such a stuttering manner that the huge van kangarooed out across the junction at right-angles to the approaching convoy, stalled, and stopped dead.

The convoy screeched to a halt. They had actually slowed down as they’d approached the lights, but weren’t intending to stop.

Behind the last police car in the convoy, two masked men leaped out of the back of a Ford Escort van which was parked up by the roadside. They were dressed in overalls and wore running shoes. One carried a machine gun ready for use; the other an infamous Sa-7, surface-to-air missile in a launcher, a type beloved by guerrilla and terrorist groups around the world. He aimed at the helicopter.

For an instant the police drivers couldn’t be sure whether this was for real or not. Was it an ambush? Or was it just an unfortunate incident?

When the rear door of the furniture van dropped open like a drawbridge, slammed down with a clatter and two men emerged from within, again masked, dressed in overalls and carrying weapons, they knew it was for real.

They reacted as they’d been trained. Screaming into their car-to-car radio, ‘Ambush! Ambush!’ the drivers crunched the gears into reverse. There was chaos. The passengers drew their guns in readiness.

None of the police cars got anywhere to speak of.

The man holding the SAM pulled the trigger. With a deadly whoosh! the rocket streaked towards its target in the sky.

The other man who’d leapt from the stationary van at the back of the convoy had already run the few metres towards the rear police cars. No one saw him coming. He sprinted past the cars, spraying them with bullets which smashed through the windows and bodywork with ease, killing all the occupants within seconds.

It was a similar story with the two leading cars; these were dealt with in the same manner by the two men who’d come running from the rear of the furniture van. The only difference was that one police officer, reacting faster than the rest, opened his door and rolled out and got up into a firing position. Before he could aim properly, however, the man who’d sorted the traffic-lights had virtually cut him in half with a sweep of his machine gun.

The pilot of the helicopter and the crew of police officers didn’t stand a chance. The rocket slammed into the under-belly of the hovering machine and there was a massive explosion of blue and orange flame and black smoke. Literally shot out of the sky, the helicopter twisted towards the ground, plummeting down onto the railway line which ran behind the village.

The driver of the prison bus was petrified — literally. He sat in his seat, numb, his hands tightly holding the steering wheel. The policeman next to him was babbling incoherently into the radio. Fortunately the radio operator at force headquarters was a cool customer who had already dispatched assistance and alerted his supervisors.

The driver of the furniture van raced past the two leading police cars holding a double-barrelled shotgun. He stopped at the front of the prison bus, took aim at the engine block and fired both barrels into the radiator. The engine cranked to a mangled stop.

Inside, Hinksman smiled at his two captors and held out his hands. ‘Beaten, I think,’ he said smugly. ‘I think it’s in your interests to let me go.’

‘ No fuckin’ chance,’ one of the cops said. He reached out and grabbed Hinksman’s handcuffs and twisted them. Hinksman screamed and fell forwards off the bench seat and onto his knees. One of the advantages of the rigid handcuff is that there is total control — via pain — of the prisoner, no matter how big, tough or strong he is. ‘If I’m gonna die,’ the officer hissed into Hinksman’s face, ‘I’m gonna hurt you first.’

He twisted the cuffs again. They bit into the flesh and nerve endings of Hinksman’s wrists. A little more pressure and the bones would break.

The traffic-light man sprinted to the rear of the bus and efficiently clamped six tiny explosive charges to the doors — one at each hinge and two near the lock and handle. Then he retreated a few metres.

The two officers who were trapped in the space between the inner cage where Hinksman was held and the back doors cowered. They had their guns in their hands.

The charges all detonated together, blowing the doors cleanly off their hinges. The noise ricocheted around the interior of the bus, like thunder in a confined space, deafening and disorientating everyone.

The officers were uninjured by the blast but were winded by the explosion and overcome with smoke. They tumbled out of the back of the bus into the open air, gasping, choking, coughing and confused. They were shown no mercy. As their feet touched the tarmac they were mown down.

All that remained was to get the inner cage door open.

The traffic-light man stepped up into the back of the bus, a small chain saw in his hands. Within seconds he had removed the door. He flung it, complete, out of the back of the bus onto the road with the assistance of one of his colleagues.

Throughout all this, the officer who had decided to inflict as much pain as possible on Hinksman had more or less hung onto his man. When faced with overwhelming odds he sensibly let go of the cuffs.

Hinksman held out his damaged hands. The saw neatly parted the cuffs.

‘ Give me a gun,’ he said to one of the masked men.

He was immediately handed a pistol.

He turned on his captor and held the gun to the officer’s head.

‘ No one gets away with causing me pain and aggravation,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘No one.’ He pulled the trigger twice and most of the back of the man’s head splattered through the cage onto the driver, passenger and windscreen.

Then he turned on the other officer who had also been his gaoler. ‘Just remember what I’ve said — and pass it onto Henry Christie.’ He shot the man twice in the lower stomach, figuring that he would stay alive long enough to tell the story.

‘ C’mon,’ the traffic-light man said, tugging at Hinksman’s sleeve. Hinksman nodded and jumped out behind him. They ran towards the traffic-lights and turned right where their transport awaited — a huge, powerful motorcycle with no rear number plate.

Hinksman was handed a crash helmet. Moments later, as the backseat passenger, he and the traffic-light man were accelerating away from the scene down winding country roads.

The rest of the ambush team had gone too. No one who saw the incident — and there were many witnesses — could exactly say where to. The men had gone, disappeared like ghosts, their shock tactics having had the desired effect.

Only two police officers were uninjured — the ones in the front of the prison bus. They climbed slowly out when they thought it was safe, both covered in the contents of their fellow officer’s skull. One of them looked around at the carnage, sank down to his knees at the kerbside and allowed his head to flop into his hands. He was too numbed to cry. The other wandered up and down the road, peering into the cars, knowing that he could do nothing. He sat down on a wall, and lit a cigarette. In the distance was the sound of approaching sirens.

One hundred metres further back, Lenny Dakin got into his XJS which he’d parked on a side street.

That had been fantastic, he thought proudly. Fucking fan-tas-tic. Money well spent. Worth every fucking penny. The most exhilarating two minutes three seconds he had ever experienced.

And Hinksman was free.

‘ He has to die.’

‘ I know, Joe, I know. I just don’t know if I can do it.’

‘ It’s not a case of can, it’s a case of must. Don’t worry, you’ll be protected. I’ll be there — I’ll see you’re OK. Trust me.’

‘ I don’t know… ‘

‘ Don’t you trust me?’

‘ Yes, I do, Joe.’

‘ Don’t I give you everything you need? Don’t I feed your habit?’

‘ Yes, yes, yes.’

‘ So what’s the problem? I’ll look after you, Laura. He needs to die and we need to do it. He’s the enemy. The destroyer. The user. Every other way of dealing with him has been tried, but justice has failed. It’s failed you badly, it’s failed me badly. Now we’re going to administer the justice… you and me… you and me… you.’

‘ Yes, but-’

‘ What’s he done for you? Nothing, absolutely nothing. He used Whisper, then killed him. He used you and you almost died. There are thousands more like you, thousands who need justice… and just think what’ll happen when it’s over. You’ll get your baby back! The Social Services have promised me. And you’ll be free… and that’s everything you want, isn’t it?’

‘ Yes, Joe. Me and my baby.’

‘ And all the dope you need.’

‘ Yes, yes… have you got some?’

‘ Only if you kill him.’

‘ I will.’

‘ Promise?’

‘ Yes. When? How?’

‘ Soon. Very soon, I promise.’

‘ Here, take this.’

It was a small plastic sachet containing white crystals of crack, one of the most addictive drugs known. And she was addicted. It wasn’t her baby she wanted, not really. It was crack. She would do anything to satisfy her need for it. Murder included.

Henry had just taken a sip of his second pint of lager. It tasted good, as had the previous one. He was looking forward to the next ones. He felt good and was going to enjoy the celebration first and worry about getting back to the flat thirty miles away in Blackpool second. He glanced around the pub. It was small and narrow with a bar in the centre of the room. The atmosphere reminded Henry of pubs he’d visited in London. Most congenial.

He saw the uniformed Constable appear at the front door, helmet on, a worried expression across his face. A roar of disapproval went up from the assembled detectives who’d all begun to front-load Boddington’s Bitter as though it was going out of fashion. The officer ignored them. His eyes roved the room and found their target. He walked quickly across to FB.

Once more Henry had that bad feeling in his guts. He placed his beer down on the bar and watched as the Constable and FB drew to one side, out of the hubbub. The Constable began to talk earnestly to FB, whose face dropped in stages: happy and carefree, all the way, step by painful step, to serious, concerned, deeply unhappy, shocked.

He patted the Constable reassuringly on the shoulder for the man seemed deeply upset by the information he’d imparted. FB then gave him some instructions, after which he left hurriedly.

FB looked across the room, his face pale and drawn. His eyes met Henry’s, and he beckoned him over.

‘ What is it, boss?’

‘ Bad, very fucking bad,’ said FB gravely. ‘Hinksman’s out. Free.’

‘ What do you mean?’

‘ He’s been sprung. The escort got hit at Galgate and the team that did it slaughtered nearly all the bobbies.’ FB was finding it difficult to breathe. ‘All but three are dead. That’s what the PC told me.’

Henry made a quick calculation. ‘Fucking hell,’ he uttered.

‘ I’m going to the scene now — there’s a car en route to pick me up. You come too, Henry.’

Henry nodded.

FB turned his attention to the detectives squashed around the bar.

He cleared his throat, called for quiet, and with tears in his eyes, made an announcement.

Laura was asleep now. Kovaks was relieved. What had been planned as a two-minute visit had taken him half an hour. And he had a partner waiting out in the car.

Kovaks closed the motel-room door and locked it with his key. Laura would be out of the game for hours now. He would re-visit her at the end of his shift.

Tommo was sitting in the Bucar, chain-smoking, eating a hamburger and sipping a coffee, all at the same time, whilst listening to a cassette which blared country music out deafeningly.

Kovaks slid in beside him. ‘You’re a slob,’ he observed.

Tommo screwed up his hamburger wrapper and tossed it out of the window. ‘Thought you said you’d only be a coupla minutes?’

‘ Sorry,’ said Kovaks, offering no explanation.

‘ So was she worth it?’

Kovaks stiffened. ‘Tommo, just shut the fuck up and drive. As I told you, it’s my sister. She’s gotta few domestic problems and she’s holed up there to get her head together.’

‘ My ass,’ snorted Tommo with a belch. He reversed the car out of its parking space and hit the road. ‘There was a radio call for ya, by the way.’

‘ What did it say?’

‘ Dunno. I said you’d radio in when you’d finished fucking your little sister. I said you’d be about two minutes.’ He cracked up with laughter.

‘ Don’t push it, Tommo,’ warned Kovaks. He reached for the cassette player and switched off Dwight Yoakam. Then he called in.

The radio operator was a sexy-voiced Texan lady.

‘ Yeah, Joe, urgent call came in for ya, ‘bout ten minutes ago. Caller said he’d call ‘gain exactly on ten-thirty.’

‘ Who was it?’

‘ Don’t rightly know. Refused all details — but he sounded scared. Thought I recognised the voice, but can’t place it.’

‘ Received,’ said Kovaks. ‘I’m on my way in.’

‘ You dickin’ that piece of ass too?’ Tommo asked with a leer. Kovaks gritted his teeth and decided to ask for another partner until Karl Donaldson came back from England.

‘ Why the hell did they go via Galgate anyway?’ Henry asked.

FB, pale, shaken, said, ‘It was the Chief’s suggestion. We had a meeting about it yesterday and we worked out the best route with the driver of the lead car.’

‘ But surely it would have made more sense to get on the motorway north of Lancaster? It’s more direct. No winding, narrow roads. No towns to negotiate…’

‘ The Chief’s argument was that if there was going to be any sort of attempt, they’d expect us to go that way. Going via Galgate was the less likely option, therefore safer.’

‘ It was a fucking stupid decision,’ said Henry.

They were both sitting in the back of a traffic car which was speeding them to the scene.

‘ Not only that,’ persisted Henry, ‘whoever sprung the bastard was expecting the escort to go through Galgate. They were all set up and ready. They weren’t just hanging about on the off-chance. Something’s not right here.’

‘ I know,’ said FB with a heavy sigh.

‘ Who actually knew that the escort would be taking that route?’

‘ Me, ACC Warner — Jack Crosby’s replacement, the driver of the lead car, and the Chief Constable. We were the only ones at the meeting yesterday. The idea was that everyone else involved — the rest of the officers on the escort and the ones manning points — would get about fifteen minutes’ notice just before the escort set off from prison.’

‘ Quarter of an hour,’ mused Henry. ‘Not long enough to put that sort of ambush operation into effect. Which means someone blabbed, someone inside the police…’

He looked at FB who had aged about ten years in the last ten minutes.

‘ I’m going to think out loud now,’ said Henry, ‘and I’m going to say something pretty uncomfortable. It’s unlikely that the driver of the lead car talked to anyone because he’s dead now, so it’s either you, the ACC or the Chief.’

The traffic car reached Galgate.

FB and Henry did not immediately get out. They sat in silence for a few moments.

Eventually FB said, ‘Well, I know one thing for sure.’ He reached for the door-handle.

‘ What’s that?’

‘ It wasn’t me.’

Kovaks was sitting at his desk poring over some surveillance reports on Corelli. There was nothing particularly interesting in them, nothing he didn’t already know about the man, but he looked through them anyway, just in case there was something important he’d missed. It annoyed him that Corelli wasn’t a man of regular habits. He needed to know where and when Corelli was going to be in a specific place and for how long, otherwise how could he plan his execution?

Corelli had many favourite haunts, but he visited none of them at a regular time. He was a butterfly. Flitting here, landing there, then taking off again. This was one of the reasons why the FBI had never caught and prosecuted him successfully.

Obviously he spent a great deal of time at his homes and places of business, but these were times when his protection teams were at their strongest and no one could get through the ring uninvited. For Kovaks’ purpose, he needed to be away from these places, out in public.

Kovaks drew up a list of the places in Miami where Corelli ate and the amount of time he spent at each one. Then he averaged the times out.

In most places he spent less than an hour. But in two restaurants he had a tendency to linger for about three hours at lunchtimes. The problem was that he hardly ever visited them. He’d been to both four times in the last two years.

It did seem, though, that whenever he did, he took his time.

Kovaks raised his eyebrows. ‘Interesting,’ he whispered to himself. ‘If I knew when he was visiting one of them, things could maybe start rolling.’

Suddenly, for no accountable reason, the image of Sue’s badly mutilated body snapped vividly into his mind’s eye. The cops had still failed to track down Damian. Why didn’t he come forward? Could Damian really be a murderer?

Kovaks found that very difficult to believe…

The phone rang, interrupting his musing.

‘ Special Agent Kovaks, can I help you?’

‘ Joe?’ came a quiet, frightened voice.

‘ Yes, who’s that?’

‘ It’s me, Damian.’

‘ Damian!’ Kovaks spluttered. ‘Where the hell are you?’

‘ Joe, I need to talk to someone I can trust. Can I trust you?’

‘ Yeah, sure you can. Where are you? I’ll come and-’

The line went dead; Damian had hung up. Kovaks looked sourly at the phone in his hand. He slammed it down and swore.

‘ This is the saddest tragedy that the Lancashire Constabulary has ever faced and mark my words, we will spare no cost and no effort to bring the perpetrators to justice. We will be relentless in our pursuit and everyone of those responsible will be caught — every single one. Now, if you gentlemen will forgive me…’

An emotional Dave August wiped a tear from his eye, and ignoring the barrage of questions from the assembled press and TV men, he strode towards the scene.

The whole of the centre of Galgate had been cordoned off in a 200 metre radius of the incident on the road. On the railway line, all trains had been cancelled for the foreseeable future. High screens had been erected around the crime scenes so that no prying eyes or lenses could see anything they shouldn’t as the forensic teams, Scenes of Crime officers and search teams began their gruesome tasks. None of the bodies had been moved yet.

August was in full uniform, looking proud and erect. He walked behind one of the screens and saw what lay beyond.

Nothing he had heard prepared him for what he saw.

What have I done? he thought frantically. Oh Christ, what have I done?

Clearly devastated by what he’d seen, he sank down to his haunches, removed his cap and wiped his sweating forehead with his sleeve. He wanted to cry. He wanted to run away. He wanted to bury his head in sand.

‘ Boss?’

August looked up. ‘FB… this is awful. My men, slain in the streets like it’s the fucking Middle East, not the north of England

… Christ!’

‘ Yes, I know,’ said FB. ‘But can I just have a quick word with you about something else?’

‘ By all means,’ August said, rising to his feet, his knees clicking, glad of the change of subject.

‘ I’ll come straight to the point. It’s already been mooted that this is an inside job, that information about the escort route was leaked from either me, you or Mr Warner. I know it’s all bullshit, that it must have got out some other way, but we should be prepared to be investigated, to allow whoever follows this up whatever access they need to our private lives, don’t you think?’

‘ Absolutely,’ said August, and thought: Is this where the shit hits the fan?

He gave FB an odd look which FB interpreted as follows: Hellfire! He thinks I did it!’

Henry stood by the front car of the escort with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, half-watching the conversation between FB and August, but not able to hear.

He stared vacantly at the killing field in front of him. This was a scene from Chicago, from the Bronx, not from Galgate, a one-horse place with a community copper who was wandering around the periphery of the scene as distraught as anyone.

His thoughts were curtailed by the arrival of FB who strutted up to him. He was unsettled, Henry thought.

‘ Y’know — I think the Chief thinks leaked this!’

Henry chuckled, despite the situation. ‘So, what’s the plan of action for this?’

‘ Twofold, as I see it. One to recapture that bastard Hinksman and one to track down the people — who did this.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his arm.

‘ They’re obviously pros,’ observed Henry. ‘I’ve heard there’s an international team operating who specialise in this sort of job. Pulled that one early this year down south when that IRA man got sprung. To the best of my knowledge the cops in Hampshire haven’t got the sniff of a result on that. It was much the same MO — but fewer dead cops. I think they did something in France too, just before Christmas.’

‘ Great,’ said FB despondently. ‘Anyway, I want you to take on the task of getting Hinksman back — if he hasn’t already left the country.’

Henry held back a smile. It was just what he wanted. ‘Can I pick one or two members for my team?’

‘ Yeah, why not. Who’ve you got in mind?’

‘ Karen Wilde and Karl Donaldson.’

Henry didn’t have to wait long for FB’s reaction. He boiled over immediately.

‘ No fucking way, Henry. That bitch killed Jack Crosby and I won’t forgive her for that. And as for that Yank, the supercilious bastard he isn’t even a cop.’

Henry waited for the outburst to subside. Calmly he said, ‘Jack Crosby killed himself. He smoked too much, drank too much, he was overweight, didn’t take any exercise, worked too hard and pushed himself too far. It wasn’t her fault he died. It was his own.’

‘ Hm,’ snuffled FB, unimpressed.

‘ And she nearly caught Hinksman last time. If she’d got the support she deserved, he would have been caught much sooner and maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t have this…’ Henry let his words sink in.

FB put his head to one side and said, ‘You’ve changed your tune about her, haven’t you? Don’t forget, she disciplined you and kicked you off the initial enquiry.’

‘ I don’t mind learning things about people,’ Henry admitted. ‘She knows as much as anybody about Hinksman, and Karl Donaldson is encyclopaedic. Let me have them. Give them a chance.’

FB nodded impatiently. ‘OK, OK, I haven’t the time to argue — but you keep me informed of every move you make, every breath you take… ‘

‘ Don’t tell me,’ said Henry. ‘You’ll be watching me.’

‘ Too fucking right I will.’

‘ Are you DS Christie?’ A uniformed Constable had sidled up next to Henry.

‘ Yes.

‘ There’s a message for you from the hospital. The PC who was shot in the guts has asked to see you. I’ve been told to pass on the message urgently. Apparently he doesn’t have much time left.’

August stood by one of the screens which protected the scene from onlookers. He was hot and sticky and worried.

I’ve really done it now, he thought. Blood on my hands. Innocent men mown down like rats because of me. Because I was desperate to protect a career and a reputation. Everything gone through one lousy night with a whore. And I walked right into it, eyes closed, cock erect. What a stupid fucking bastard I am.

August looked at the driver of one of the cars, still slumped across the steering wheel. Part of the side of his face was missing, but his eyes were intact, wide open and staring accusingly. Right at August. He tore his gaze away with a little whimper.

August’s mind raced on. They still have a hold on me, whoever they are, he thought frantically. If they want me for anything else, they’ve got me by the balls. If they gave that damned tape to the press, I’d be finished for good. Whatever happens, I must stop them being able to get at me again…

‘ FB,’ he said loudly, ‘on my desk, nine tomorrow morning, I want everything about Hinksman from Day One. I’m going to take a very personal interest in this investigation and from now on I’ll be looking over your shoulder. I shall expect daily updates on all lines of enquiry — understand? I want to know absolutely everything.’

The motorcycle was abandoned near Garstang where both Hinksman and the rider transferred to a car. Here there was time for the remainder of the handcuffs to be snipped from Hinksman’s wrists. He rubbed them gratefully and the blood flowed back into his hands.

Thirty minutes after driving sedately through country roads to Blackburn, the car stopped outside a terraced house in the Revidge area of the town. The driver handed Hinksman a key and said, ‘That’s where you’ll be lying low until the next stage, whatever that is. There’s enough food and drink for you for at least a week. Goodbye and good luck.’

Hinksman said, ‘Thanks. That’s a good firm you work for. How do I contact you if I ever need you?’

The man laughed. ‘You’ll find a way,’ he said mysteriously.

‘ Understood,’ said Hinksman.

They shook hands and Hinksman got out. The car pulled away from the kerb and Hinksman made his way to the front door of the house without looking back.

Ten minutes later he was joined by Lenny Dakin who had dumped the Jag and was now driving a legitimate car.

They greeted each other with much effusiveness and self-congratulation. A brilliant job. Superbly professional. It was as though they were discussing a Stock Market coup, not a shooting which had left more than half a dozen cops dead.

‘ I thought you weren’t going to come through,’ Hinksman admitted, ‘when my lawyer said nothing to me.’

‘ I decided it was best that way. If he got cold feet and blabbed it would’ve jeopardised the whole thing. Better safe than sorry.’

They looked at each other then embraced elatedly, slapping each other’s backs. When they came back to earth, Hinksman asked, ‘What’s next?’

‘ To get you out of the country.’

‘ How do you intend to do that?’

‘ Well, Corelli wants you back in the US as quickly as possible, but it’ll have to be done at my speed. We have a delivery due at the weekend, so what I plan to do is use the reverse route for you. That’ll get you to Eire, and from there it’s relatively easy to get to the States, maybe via Paris or Amsterdam, whatever.’

‘ Sounds good,’ Hinksman said approvingly.

‘ So in the meantime, just crash out here. You should be safe enough if you’re sensible.’

Hinksman’s nod turned smoothly to a shake. ‘I have business to attend to. A debt to repay.’

‘ Now look.’ Dakin’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve put my neck on the line for you, so don’t fuck anything up.’

‘ As if I would,’ said Hinksman reprovingly with a grim smile. ‘I’ll be careful and I’ll be back in time. Trust me.’

A hand clamped down on Kovaks’ shoulder, making him jump. He had been sitting at his desk, staring blankly into space, with the Corelli surveillance reports in front of him, ever since Damian’s phone call. He turned round and there was Eamon Ritter accompanied by Ram Chander.

‘ Hey, day dreamer,’ laughed Ritter. ‘I bumped into Ram in reception. He said he’d come to see you about Sue’s murder, so I brought him straight up. Look, I really am sorry about her, Joe. She was a damned good agent and though I didn’t know her too well, she always had a pleasant smile for me. She was your partner for a while, wasn’t she?’

‘ Yeah, she was. And thanks for the sentiment. How’s the investigation going, Ram?’

‘ To be honest,’ the Indian admitted, ‘we don’t seem to be getting anywhere and until we apprehend this Damian character, I don’t think we will. That is why I came to see you, Mr Joe, to see if you have heard anything more.’

Kovaks looked at Ritter and instantly decided, what the hell, he’s an agent too.

‘ Yes, I have heard something. Gotta phone call from your chief suspect not long before you walked in here. Sounds like he wants to talk to someone.’

Chander’s interest perked up. ‘Did he say where he was?’

Kovaks shook his head. ‘Said he wanted to talk to someone he could trust, then I think he panicked and hung up. I’ve been waiting for him to call back, but he may not. He knows that all calls are recorded. He sounded scared.’

Chander sighed. ‘OK, Mr Joe, if he does, please let me know immediately. Just remember, this isn’t a Federal matter, it’s my case.’

‘ Yeah, no problem,’ said Kovaks.

After Ram Chander had left, Ritter sat down next to Kovaks.

‘ I didn’t know that Damian was number one suspect,’ he said. ‘I knew they wanted to talk to him, obviously, but do you think he killed her?’

‘ No fucking chance,’ said Kovaks with feeling. ‘He wouldn’t even kill a computer virus. Maybe he knows who did it, though. Maybe he witnessed it.’

‘ He couldn’t have,’ argued Ritter. ‘Wasn’t he on leave, at his mother’s in Clearwater?’

‘ Apparently he left there and could’ve easily been back at the time of the killing.’

Ritter drew in a breath. ‘So he could have done it?’

‘ Or witnessed it.’

‘ The cunt,’ rasped Ritter. ‘Look, if you need any assistance whatsoever, just let me know, will ya? My workload’s pretty light at the moment. I’d be happy to help you in any way I can.’

‘ Thanks, Eamon.’

He died before Henry could get to him. The nurses in the Casualty Department at Lancaster Royal Infirmary were just dismantling the medical equipment from around the bed and pulling drips out of veins which no longer pumped blood. Two of the nurses had tears in their eyes. A couple of young doctors stood at the end of the bed, conversing in hushed tones. An older doctor was filling out a form on a clipboard.

Two uniformed Constables and a Sergeant stood quietly by the door, all three overawed by the circumstances.

Henry walked to the Staff Only area where a Sister was working at a desk. He introduced himself and showed his identity. Henry noticed that she, too, had red rings around her eyes. He couldn’t decide if it was tiredness or emotion.

‘ The policeman who just died,’ he said, ‘asked to see me. I wonder if you know what it was about. No one around his bed seems to.’

‘ I don’t, actually,’ she said. ‘However, he was very lucid up to the last and asked for a pen and piece of paper. He wrote a short note on it and gave it to me to give to you. I think he knew he would die before you got to see him.’ It was then Henry saw that the redness was emotion. ‘He was in incredible pain,’ she said, ‘but he was very brave and very philosophical. He’s a credit to the force.’

‘ Thank you,’ said Henry, trying not to be moved. The last thing he wanted was to be drawn into this. He needed to keep an emotion-free head. ‘Do you have the note?’

‘ Oh yes, it’s here.’ She pulled a piece of paper out of a pocket and handed it to Henry. ‘I haven’t read it.’

‘ Thanks.’

He went to the waiting room where he found a spare chair and sat down. He unfolded the note.

It looked like it had been written by a frail eighty-year-old with arthritic fingers. But it was legible.

DS Christie, he read. He’s going to come for you.

Henry read it over several times before slowly folding it up and placing it in his jacket pocket.

‘ No,’ Henry said out loud. ‘I’m going to go and get him.’

Special Agent Eamon Ritter realised that he might have made a mistake, or possibly two, or maybe even three.

The first one had been failing to ensure that Damian had actually been in Clearwater and the second was not searching Sue’s apartment properly. Now there was a distinct possibility that the little worm had witnessed the whole thing.

And what happens when you assume? he grilled himself mentally. You make an ‘ass’ of ‘u’ and ‘me’.

Standard FBI ground rules: don’t make fucking assumptions.

And now, to compound all that, he’d made a third mistake by letting it slip to Kovaks that he knew about Damian’s leave to his mother’s in Clearwater.

Kovaks was very sharp: the chances were that he was probably meditating on that same disclosure at this very minute. Drastic measures were required — and these could include the sudden deaths of another Special Agent and a fingerprint expert.

Something was bugging Joe Kovaks, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He filtered through everything that had happened during the day: the visit to Laura, Tommo’s infantile remarks, Damian’s phone call, Ram Chander’s appearance.

What the hell was it?

Twenty minutes later he still didn’t have the answer. This is no good, he thought. I’m getting nowhere fast. He decided to take the rest of the day off. Give Chrissy a surprise.

He replaced the Corelli surveillance logs into a file and tucked it under his arm. He would take them home and study them there with a beer in his hand. Removing any official documents from the building, unless approved, was strictly against Bureau rules. But like most of the rules, Kovaks thought they were bullshit and often flouted them.

On the way home he would call in and see Laura, pep her up and discuss his idea of where to waste Corelli.

As he stepped into the elevator, the phone on his desk started to ring. He did not hear it.