A Time For Justice

Chapter Twenty-Seven

At the same time as Henry and Karen had entered the bedsit, the national and international news had just finished on BBC1. A couple of minutes of local news followed; the lead story concerned the death of John Abbot in a police pursuit. The item showed a clip of FB being interviewed about the incident, recorded earlier on the steps of Blackpool Central police station. FB was fairly vague about everything, though he did state that Abbot had been driving a stolen Metro which actually belonged to a police officer. FB offered no explanations as to the cause of the explosion. ‘We’re keeping an open mind at the moment,’ he said. ‘We don’t really know anything for sure until tomorrow.’

The reporter pressed him for details of why the Bomb Squad were looking at the car.

‘ Just routine,’ he said patronisingly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me… ‘He walked out of shot, revealing the officer who was standing directly behind him: Henry Christie, looking rather ill.

Hinksman, sprawled in a chair in the safe house in Blackburn, sat bolt upright. Up to the point where Henry appeared on screen he hadn’t really been taking too much notice.

‘ Motherfucker. You’re still alive then.’

He threw himself back into his chair in frustration, clenching and unclenching his fists angrily. Finally, however, he couldn’t help but laugh.

‘ You’re a lucky son of a bitch, Sergeant Christie,’ he said to the ceiling. ‘But I ain’t finished with you yet.’

There was a knock at the front door. For a second, Hinksman froze. He checked through the curtains before answering and letting Lenny Dakin in.

Dakin looked flustered and agitated.

‘ It’s tomorrow. The ship’ll be coming through tomorrow. We’ll meet it in the Irish Sea, collect my consignment and hand you over. From there it’ll sail to Eire and you’ll be able to get a flight from Dublin to Paris, then to New York. It’s all arranged — false passports, money, everything.’

‘ Good.’

‘ What a fuckin’ day I’ve had,’ breathed Dakin. He helped himself to a Scotch and soda. ‘I’ve had cops crawling all over my property looking for you. It’s a damn good job I didn’t put you up at the farmhouse.’

‘ Have they got you all worked up?’ Hinksman chided.

‘ You bet they fucking have!’

‘ I thought you were a no-nonsense big-time criminal who could handle the pressure,’ he teased.

‘ I can handle the pressure when necessary, but this isn’t. You are a right royal pain in the arsehole at the moment and I’ll be glad to get shut of you. You be here at nine tomorrow and you’ll be picked up, OK?’

‘ No.’

‘ No? What the fuck do you mean?’

‘ Things to do, people to see… lives to wreck,’ smiled Hinksman sweetly. ‘You just tell me where and when you’ll be sailing and I’ll be there, probably with a passenger.’

‘ What?’ screamed Dakin. ‘Who? Are you fucking mad?’

Hinksman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t call me mad.’

By the time Dave August got back to his office at police headquarters it was midnight. He’d had a long, tiring day visiting grieving relatives, being bombarded with tears, questions and disbelief. He was worn out by the effort of appearing sympathetic on the surface whilst having to deal with his own inner turmoil at the same time. Once or twice he’d had the urge to blurt out, ‘Blame me — I’m the one responsible.’

He’d been informed of John Abbot’s death during the evening but had left it to FB and the ACC (Operations) to deal with. He’d look at it tomorrow. He couldn’t believe it — what the hell else could happen? He was presently the head of a police force under mounting pressure and it didn’t help that he was going through his own agonising crisis.

August sat down at his desk. He pulled a small bottle of Bell’s out of a drawer and took a sip. The heat of the spirit seemed to revive him. He looked at the large pile of papers in front of him which constituted Hinksman’s file. He opened the first folder and began to read by the light of his table lamp.

Somewhere in here, he hoped, was the answer.

At five minutes past midnight, a delayed flight from Miami touched down at Manchester Airport. It was some eight hours behind schedule, held up by ‘technical problems’ — a vague term which did not endear the company to the passengers in any way.

Tired and disgruntled, they disembarked and filed woodenly through the terminal building towards Passport Control.

Near to the front of the queue was a middle-aged woman who was in heated, but subdued, conversation with her timid husband. They were having a disagreement of sorts. She wanted him to do something, and as usual he didn’t want to get involved. All he wanted to do was I get home and get to bed.

‘ You are useless!’ she told him — and not for the first time.

When they reached the desk and handed their passports over, the woman said icily to her husband, ‘Well, if you won’t, then I shall have to.’ She looked at the Customs officer and leaned towards her with a conspiratorial air. ‘Is there someone I can talk to?’ she hissed, so that other passengers would not overhear. ‘In confidence?’

‘ Yes, of course, what about?’

‘ One of the other passengers, who I think is on drugs.’

Henry Christie and Karl Donaldson completed their witness statements relating to John Abbot’s death at about one o’clock that morning. The process had taken a couple of hours over numerous cups of sweet white coffee. Both men were exhausted, Henry in particular. He hadn’t slept properly for almost two days and his mind was beginning to play tricks with his eyes.

He finished rereading his statement, blinked repeatedly and said, ‘I’ve got to get some kip. My head’s a complete shed.’

‘ Me too,’ agreed Donaldson, yawning and stretching. His clothing reeked of smoke.

They were sitting at desks in the deserted CID office at Blackpool Central. Karen had left them about an hour before, completely wrecked herself.

Henry stood up. His joints creaked and clicked like an old man’s. He walked across to a window, rolling his shoulders. He watched his reflection as he approached; he hardly recognised himself, wasn’t sure I who he was seeing. A stranger. Someone who had changed drastically in the last eight months. A man who’d gone from being happily married with two beautiful daughters and a beautiful wife, a contented lifestyle and good job, to a rundown adulterer who hardly saw his kids and lived like a hermit in a shit-hole of a flat that smelled of cat piss.

The only constant was that he still had the same job.

He tried to pinpoint the exact moment at which his life had changed for the worse. He reckoned it was that bomb on the M6.

He gazed blankly out of the window; in his mind’s eye was every detail of that explosion and the faces of those kids. He knew now they were images that would stay with him for ever. And now he’d come full circle. Another explosion. Another motorway. And the link was I the same two men: himself and Hinksman.

You’re out there somewhere, he thought, and I want to find you. I want to hunt you down, but I don’t know where to start.

He sighed and turned back to Donaldson. ‘Where do we go from here?’

Before the FBI man could reply, the phone on the desk where he was sitting started to ring. Henry walked across and answered it. Two minutes later he hung up.

‘ Delete that last question,’ he quipped. ‘I might just have the answer to it. C’mon, grab yer coat.’

‘ Just one of those lucky things, really, if it turns out to be of any use that is,’ the detective said to Henry and Donaldson as, forty minutes later, he led them through Manchester Airport to the police holding area.

‘ Initially we just thought she was a run-of-the-mill punter — y’know, trying to get a bit of stuff through. We searched her luggage and found some coke, a bit of crack, some heroin. Then we searched her body orifices. Well, not me personally, but I’m told there wasn’t anything there that shouldn’t have been.’

‘ So why call us?’ Donaldson asked. He was beyond exhaustion. Really irritable.

The detective wasn’t to be fazed. He had a bit of a story to tell and he was going to tell it, no matter what. ‘Anyway, it was while a couple of female officers and a doctor were trying to search the girl that she started dropping names. She was scratching, kicking, all that shit, see, and she had to be forcibly restrained. Now she’s threatening them, saying they’ll get wasted for this, that she knows a hit man. A lot of rubbish on the face of it, but not when the names start coming.’

‘ Names like?’ asked Donaldson.

The detective smiled. ‘Hinksman? Well, we didn’t attach much importance to that one. Every bugger in Britain knows his name. But then she was bawling about Corelli, Dakin, Stanton, you, Sergeant Christie, someone called Kovaks and you, Mr Donaldson.’

‘ Oh,’ Henry and Donaldson said together.

‘ Starting saying things like the Mafia are giving you the run around. It was a lucky chance, really — she could easily have slipped into the system. It’s just that one of the female officers she was wrangling with remembered the names from the last time you two guys were down here.’

‘ And what’s the prisoner’s name?’ Henry asked.

‘ Er, Janine something-or-other. Fit little piece. If she wasn’t a druggie, I’d give her one.’

‘ Has she said anything else?’ asked Henry.

‘ There was one thing. She said she’d fucked your Chief Constable’s brains out. A lot of crap, like I said.’

‘ Let’s talk to her,’ said Henry.

The detective shook his head. ‘She’s still floating in the stratosphere.’ He pointed up to the sky. ‘Not fit to be interviewed.’

‘ But this is urgent,’ Henry said.

‘ Then you’ll need a Superintendent’s authority.’

Henry turned to Donaldson. ‘Karl, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Superintendent. Do you accept this?’

‘ I do.’

‘ May I interview the prisoner?’

‘ You may.’

Dave August was getting nowhere slowly. He had spent over an hour leafing through the Hinksman paperwork, and his eyes were getting gritty, his concentration drifting.

He closed the folder he was reading and picked up the next one, headed Unused Material. It contained all sorts of scraps of information, intelligence and musings even, which hadn’t been used in the court prosecution. It was a real mish-mash of stuff.

August swore softly and flicked through the contents with a grimace on his face. Then he closed the file, clasped his fingers, knuckles down, palms up on the desk-top and laid his forehead on the soft cushion they formed.

Within moments he was asleep.

The interview room had three chairs and a sturdy table with a tape recorder on it. Janine was sitting on one of the chairs with her elbows on the table, hands held loosely over the sides of her face and ears. Henry sat down opposite her. Donaldson remained standing, arms folded, like a sentry.

Henry placed an unopened pack of tapes on the table, together with a sealed plastic bag containing the drugs seized from her. ‘Janine, we’d like to have a chat with you.’ He spoke softly, seductively.

‘ Who the hell are you?’ she demanded.

‘ We’re here to help you.’ Henry noticed, with pleasure, that her hands were shaking. She was coming down.

‘ I’m up shit creek,’ she said. ‘I’ll go down for this — importing or whatever. You can’t do fuck-all for me.’

‘ Oh yes, we can,’ countered Henry. ‘But you’ve got to help us first. You see, this isn’t a recorded interview.’ He held up the unopened tapes. ‘It’s totally off the record.’

She gazed defiantly at him. ‘Oh yeah?’ she said disbelievingly. ‘So what can you do?’

‘ Two things actually,’ Henry said, matter-of-fact. ‘First we can give you a fix — I can see you need one — and the custody officer needn’t know about it; secondly, we can get all the charges against you dropped.’

Her eyes seemed to come alive. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘ Trust me, Janine, we have the power. All you need to do is answer some questions. When you’ve done that, we’ll slip you a fix. When we’ve verified what you say is correct, we’ll arrange for you to be released without charge.’

He paused, letting his words sink in, then resumed, his voice hard: ‘Thing is, if you don’t cooperate, Janine, you’ll get no smack and we will push hard for a custodial sentence. Just think — five years in prison, a lovely girl like you. We’ll tell the court what a bitch you were — obstructive, violent, all that sort of shit. Get the drift? So, you can come out of this a winner or a loser. Choice is yours, babe.’

‘ What do you want to know?’

It was 4.15 a.m. when Dave August awoke. He felt terrible. He needed to wash his face and gargle with a minty mouthwash, which he did at the washbasin in his little sleeping annexe next to the office.

As he dried his face he looked at the camp bed. It hadn’t seen much activity since Karen had left him. Bitch. Served her right. Without a shred of conscience, nor even the merest idea that he might have committed rape — after all, how could it have been rape after she’d let him fuck her all those times before? — he strolled back into his office, feeling more or less ‘with it’.

The files on his desk were in disarray. He straightened them up and turned back to the one he’d been reading just prior to falling asleep.

As he skimmed through it again, feeling much more alert, he came across an old 1974 descriptive form — a piece of police bumf that is completed when someone is arrested — which related to a man called Dakin. August wasn’t too sure about Dakin’s role in the scheme of things (Chief Constables only ever want to know the wider picture not the ins and outs of investigations), and he wasn’t too bothered. He speed-read the form without undue interest. It was an old-style form from Strathclyde police in Scotland, containing much more detail than the newer forms, even down to the colour of Dakin’s socks.

August was about to add it to the pile when he paused. Something was triggered in his mind.

Firstly, it was a Scottish form. Interesting.

There was something else too, but he wasn’t sure what.

He read it again, slowly. The officer who had filled it in had been very thorough, even to the point of describing and drawing the tattoo which Dakin had on the back of his left hand. It was in the shape of a heart with a skull superimposed on it.

August stared at the little drawing. His mind swirled back. The factory floor. The shotgun rammed into his neck. His face pressed into the floor, eyes tightly closed except for one millisecond when he’d squinted upwards and seen…

Heart and skull.

And the man with the tattooed hand had a Scottish accent. Time to find out more about Lenny Dakin.

‘ Do you actually have the power to do what you said?’ Donaldson asked Henry. ‘Getting the charges dropped?’

They were back on the M6 motorway, speeding north, Henry at the wheel.

‘ Probably not,’ admitted Henry. ‘But I did get some smack to her and I’ll do my best. If I can’t pull anything off, so what? She’s just a junkie. I won’t be too concerned.’

‘ You’re all heart,’ said Donaldson with a short laugh. ‘By the way, do you always break the rules? That interview wasn’t really legit, was it?’

They both cracked up laughing.

‘ We don’t ever break the rules in the States,’ Donaldson went on. ‘We can’t afford to.’

‘ Neither can we,’ said Henry bleakly.

The consequences of what he’d just done were too horrendous to contemplate if it came out. He’d lose his job and probably get prosecuted for supplying controlled drugs to a person in custody. A very serious offence. A very serious understatement.

He hoped that both Janine and the airport detective would keep quiet about it. Realistically, though, he knew it was probably too much to hope for.

They passed the turn-off to Blackpool and stayed on the M6. In less than fifteen minutes they’d be back at Lancaster.

‘ What d’ya reckon to all that blabbering about screwing your Chief Constable?’ Donaldson yawned.

‘ Puzzles me,’ said Henry. ‘Perhaps it’s one of her fantasies.’

‘ I wouldn’t put anything past him,’ said Donaldson.

‘ Which reminds me,’ said Henry. ‘What’s happening about that… business between him and Karen?’

‘ It’s in the pipeline. That’s all I can say.’

By 6.15 a.m. everyone was assembled in the gymnasium at Lancaster police station in readiness for a briefing.

All the detectives involved in the ‘escape’ enquiry were there, wearing scruffy clothes as requested, together with a heavily armed firearms team, dog-handlers and uniformed Support Unit officers. Also present was the Superintendent in charge of the division and a couple of communications operators.

Henry, Donaldson, Karen and FB were at the front of the room. Donaldson and FB kept a healthy distance between each other, despite FB’s apparent acceptance of Karen now, he and Donaldson still did not see eye to eye. The American tended to bear grudges for a long time, especially where women and their treatment were concerned.

Henry gazed with mounting excitement tinged with trepidation at the tired but expectant faces in front of him. This was it. Somehow he knew it in his guts. This was going to be the real thing. No way could it turn out to be a wild-goose chase.

Karen had been tasked to do the briefing. When she asked for quiet, the room hushed immediately.

‘ Good morning, everyone. Thanks for turning out at such short notice. We are very impressed by your eagerness and I think that it will be rewarded today.

‘ OK… we all know about the escape from custody of a man called James Clarkson Hinksman three days ago after he’d been found guilty of the M6 bombing and the murders of several police officers and others. The escape was perpetrated by a ruthless professional gang who specialise in such jobs. It involved incredible violence, leaving many of our colleagues dead for no good reason. Obviously since then we have been working at full tilt to recapture Hinksman and apprehend this violent team.

‘ It’s no secret that netting the team will be a long and difficult process as we believe they’ve probably dispersed abroad by now. However, with regard to Hinksman we have had a major breakthrough. This is why you’re all here this morning.’

A murmur went round the room. Karen allowed it to settle before continuing.

‘ As most of you know, DS Christie and I have headed the part of the investigation aimed specifically at Hinksman. This morning DS Christie and Special Agent Donaldson of the FBI — who has been working closely with us on this — have received some Class A information which leads us to believe two things. Firstly, Hinksman is still in Lancashire. Secondly, he’s going to leave the country today. We know how and where, but we don’t exactly know when, other than it’s today sometime. So I’ll warn you now, this could be a very long day, but I’m confident that at the end of it we’ll have a result. Any questions so far?’

There were none. But there were plenty of smiles on plenty of faces.

On the wall behind Karen was a large-scale map of Lancaster and its environs. She stepped to one side and turned to it.

‘ The information we have received today is this…’

She pointed to the map and began to reveal the police operation that had been hastily put together.

Dave August had everything from the Lancashire police files on Lenny Dakin: intelligence reports, photographs, more up-to-date descriptions, known associates, suspected involvement in crime, estimated wealth etc. There were copies of several surveillance operations which had been run jointly between Lancashire and other forces, but all these had been unsuccessful. He was a very careful man, very surveillance-conscious. One detective referred to him as the ‘canny Scot’.

So, pondered August, he was a big-time criminal, of that there was no doubt. He read through an intelligence report submitted by Henry Christie, reporting that Dakin had picked up the American gangster Corelli at Manchester Airport. Christie surmised that the two were in cahoots, probably planning ways to bring drugs into the country. He also surmised that Dakin had probably set up Danny Carver and Jason Brown to meet their deaths at the hand of Hinksman — but he had no evidence to back that up.

He may be Mr Big, August thought, but more importantly, this morning I have identified him as the man behind everything that has gone wrong with my life recently. This is the bastard who preyed on my weakness and exploited it.

When August’s secretary Jean came in, he realised, much to his surprise, that it was 8 a.m. He was still sat there in the uniform he’d been wearing for the last twenty-four hours. He needed a shave and a shower.

Jean had a worried look on her face.

She walked across to August’s desk and placed a newspaper on top of what he was reading.

‘ I think you should see this, sir,’ she said without a smile. ‘And there’s a journalist outside asking to see you, an American called Lisa Want.’ She spun round and left.

August frowned. This was not a newspaper he had ever read or would ever consider reading. It was complete trash.

Then the headlines hit him.

Chief Constable In Sex-And-Drug Orgy With Hooker!

‘ Oh my God,’ he groaned.

A grainy colour photograph on the front page showed him facing the camera, standing naked with a woman kneeling in front of him. Her face and breasts, his privates and buttocks had been blacked out with a thick line, but the ecstasy on his face was horribly clear. It was a still taken from the video.

The article accompanying it was written by Lisa Want — again on ‘special assignment’. Readers were invited to turn to the centre pages for more sensational photographs and a transcript of the soundtrack.

With a heartbeat increased to epic proportions and a quivering hand to match, Dave August did just that. His world, which was crumbling away, began to avalanche down a precipitous mountainside.

And there would be more to come.

He looked out of his window towards the sports field. The day was overcast, clouds grey. Big spats of rain slapped loudly onto the panes.

The phone started to ring.

Both Henry Christie and Karl Donaldson received phone calls after the briefing which unsettled them. They were summoned down to the communications room on the floor below the gym and took their calls at the same time, but from different extensions.

Karen, standing in a position between the two, watched their reactions to whatever the news was.

‘ Daddy?’

Henry immediately recognised his eldest daughter’s voice and the strained tone which accompanied even that single word.

‘ Hi Jenny, what’s the matter, sweetheart?’

‘ I don’t know, Daddy.’

He could hear fear in her voice.

‘ What d’you mean, you don’t know?’ he asked, keeping his own voice purposely light. He sensed something catastrophic was wrong. It wasn’t like Jenny to phone him at all; she usually tagged onto Leanne’s calls.

‘ We got up this morning and… oh, Dad! Mum’s not here! She’s gone. We don’t know what to do.’

Henry felt something heavy drop in his stomach.

Meanwhile, in the same room, not six feet away, Donaldson was taking a transatlantic phone call.

‘ Just letting’ ya know outta courtesy, Karl,’ the faint voice 3,000 miles away at the other end of the line was saying. It was one of Donaldson’s former partners, still a good friend.

‘ Speak up a little, Jack. Can hardly hear ya.’

‘ Bad news, pal, bad news. It’s about Joe Kovaks… ‘

Henry and Donaldson hung up simultaneously. Each ran a hand over his own face.

‘ I can’t believe this,’ said Donaldson. ‘Joe’s gone missing. Last seen leaving the office ten a.m. yesterday, not called in since. Bucar’s gone too. Not like him, not like him at all. Chrissy hasn’t seen him. I know he’s a maverick, but he ain’t stupid. Don’t like it.’

Karen laid a worried hand on the back of his head.

Henry, stunned, said simply, ‘I think Hinksman’s got my wife.’ He closed his eyes, dropped his head and began to pray.

A light flashed on the switchboard. One of the comms operators answered the call.

‘ DS Christie? Call for you.’

FB burst brusquely into the communications room. ‘I’ve just brought the Chief Constable up to date with what’s happening and where this thing’s going. He didn’t half sound strange-’ He stopped midsentence and looked at the serious faces of everyone in the room. Karen put a finger to her lips.

All attention was focused on Henry who picked up the phone and slowly put it to his ear.

‘ Henry, you’re one hell of a lucky son of a bitch. That bomb was meant for you, but no doubt you know that.’

‘ It’s a conclusion I reached,’ said Henry stonily, immediately recognising the voice of Hinksman.

‘ An’ I’m real sorry about the kid because I don’t like killing innocent people unless it’s absolutely necessary. It’s so unprofessional. ‘

‘ So how guilty was the prostitute in Blackpool?’

‘ Hey, some detective! I’m impressed you know about her.’ Hinksman’s voice went hard, making the hairs creep on Henry’s scalp. ‘She stole from me. She lost her status of innocence. Rather like you, Henry, when you turned my money down, then when you shot me.’

‘ And how guilty is my wife?’ whispered Henry, feeling the nausea grip his lower abdomen like a clawed hand.

Hinksman gave a short laugh. ‘She’s actually very innocent. I’ve told her it’s nothing personal, but I need to use her. What surprises me is that you didn’t take more steps to protect your family. You ain’t even got a burglar alarm on your house. I as good as let myself in — not even a dog, for Christ’s sake. And all those goodies to protect — TV, hi-fi, microwave — and those two lovely daughters.’

Hinksman allowed the words to sink into Henry’s consciousness.

‘ Had a look in at that older one, he said airily. ‘Developing a real nice pair of titties. Might come back one day and rape the fuck out of her — just to make you suffer again. Because that’s what all this is about, making you suffer for what you did to me.’ His voice grew thick. ‘I wanted to kill you face to face. I was waiting for you the other night, but I chose the hooker instead… ‘

‘ Then let’s meet,’ Henry cut in desperately. ‘Let Kate go and I give you my word, just you and me.’

‘ Love to say yes — but no can do. I’m out of here — once I’ve finished with Mrs C, that is.’ He laughed uproariously. ‘So, unfortunately I’m going to have to make you suffer by proxy. Oh, and forget about tracing the phone — I’m on a mobile. Goodbye Henry. Missing you already.’

‘ Don’t hang up,’ screamed Henry. ‘Hinksman!’ The line was dead.

‘ I told you to hold all calls, you stupid bitch. I don’t want interrupting,’ Dave August snapped down the line to his secretary. He was trapped in his office and it was getting smaller and smaller. The walls seemed to be sliding towards him like some sort of medieval torture chamber. He half-expected sharpened spears of steel to appear.

‘ Mr August,’ Jean remonstrated. ‘I’m doing my best. I felt I should let you know that the HMI has been on, as well as the Head of the Police Committee, as well as numerous others… and there are two gentlemen here to see you.’

‘ Tell them to fuck off.’ He was sweating profusely. ‘Is that bitch of a reporter still there?’

‘ Yes, out in Reception together with several others and the TV.’

‘ Tell them all to fuck off, or I’ll have them thrown out.’

‘ Mr August, I can’t do that,’ she said desperately. ‘I’m struggling out here to be as polite to everyone as I can. I’m trying to protect you so you can pull yourself together, yet all I hear from you are senseless, obscene instructions which are impossible to carry out. Mr August, I am very close to tears.’

Not as close as I am, he thought. He capitulated. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. My mind’s in a bit of a mess at the moment as you can probably appreciate.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Who are the gentlemen you refer to? Not reporters, I hope. I won’t see anyone from the press.’

‘ No, they’re officers from Greater Manchester Police. They say they have something very important to discuss with you.’

‘ Right, right… give me five minutes.’

‘ I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Runshaw and this is Detective Inspector Tandy.’

August leaned across his desk and shook their hands. He had changed out of his uniform into a suit and had quickly shaved, nicking himself several times in the process. He looked a mess, but didn’t give a shit. He invited the two men to sit down with a wave of his hand.

‘ Pleased to meet you,’ he said, even though he didn’t like the look in their eyes. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘ A somewhat delicate matter,’ Runshaw admitted. ‘We’ve received a complaint from a member of your force, one of your officers, and we are investigating it following a decision by our Chief Constable in consultation with the PCA and CPS.’

‘ Oh? Sounds unusual.’

‘ It’s actually a very serious allegation that’s been made and it’s an allegation against you, sir. It’s one of rape.’

August nearly wet himself. ‘What? That’s preposterous.’

‘ A female Chief Inspector has alleged that you raped her in her home some months ago,’ Runshaw went on.

‘ That’s not true,’ said August shakily. Please, ground, he thought. Open up, swallow me…

‘ Well, sir, the allegation has been made and we’re satisfied that there’s enough evidence to make an arrest-’

‘ An arrest? Are you saying that you’re going to arrest me? I’m a Chief Constable, for God’s sake. You can’t do that, especially on some unsubstantiated allegation by a bitter woman.’

Runshaw held up his hands, palms towards August in a pacifying gesture.

‘ Firstly, sir, I know you’re a Chief Constable. Secondly, I or any other police officer could arrest you, so don’t make that mistake. You are not above the law. However, if you would be willing to accompany us voluntarily so that we can interview you about the matter, that would suit us. No unpleasantness. That said, I must caution you.’ And he recited it, word perfect.

August replied with a sneer in his voice. ‘Her word against mine. You’ll never prove anything.’

‘ Please, sir, don’t jump to that conclusion.’

‘ You mean you have evidence other than her say-so?’ He looked astounded as he watched the two men nod simultaneously. ‘Such as?’

‘ Suffice to say there is more than just her say-so, as you put it.’

‘ Bollocks! Anyway, I’m too busy to be bothered with this at the moment. On the way out, make an appointment with my secretary for some time next week and we’ll discuss it then. Goodbye, gentlemen.’

Cool, unflustered, DCS Runshaw said, ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of raping Karen Wilde, and may I add that I don’t give a rat’s arse that you’re a Chief Constable. You could be the fucking Prime Minister for all I care. You’re coming with us — now. Understand?’

For the second time that morning, as the enormity of what was happening hit him, Dave August’s career tumbled before his very eyes like a ton of bricks off the back of a lorry. Whatever happened now, he was a goner. The combination of the arrest and the newspaper headlines had well and truly sunk him, professionally and personally.

He sat back slowly in his big comfortable leather chair and nodded apparent acceptance of the situation. But his mind was racing.

‘ Could you just give me five minutes?’ he asked. ‘Obviously I have numerous things to sort out and I can’t just leave them in mid-air. I’ll need to tell my secretary and staff officer what’s going on; then have a quick word with an ACC to hold the fort. Will you let me do that?’

Runshaw looked at his DI and gave him the eye. ‘DI Tandy will come with you, sir. I’ll wait here if you don’t mind.’

‘ No problem.’

August walked out of his office with Tandy on his heels.

‘ Jean,’ he said, ‘I’ll be back shortly to let you know what’s going on.’

‘ Yes, sir,’ she nodded worriedly, completely mystified by the events of the morning.

In the corridor outside the office, August said, ‘I need a wee.’

‘ I’ll come with you, sir.’

‘ Suit yourself, but I’m not going to do a runner.’

He led Tandy to the gents toilet on the same corridor. There was no one else inside. Tandy hung back by the door whilst August relieved himself. He washed his hands meticulously and dried them under the hot-air machine. Standing there, rubbing his hands as instructed, flexing his fingers, he made a rash decision which in his present lightheaded, unreal frame of mind seemed totally rational.

Might as well go out in a blaze, he thought.

He smoothed his jacket down and with a resigned smile on his face, sauntered towards Tandy, giving the DI no warning of what was to come.

It was a wonderful punch. Low, hard and rising, right in the solar plexus. He couldn’t have placed it better if ‘X’ had marked the spot.

The wind hurricaned out of Tandy. He doubled up with an agonised gasp. August then grabbed hold of the scruff of the detective’s neck, and drove him headfirst into the wall. The DI flopped to the floor, dazed, gurgling incoherently. For good measure August kicked the unfortunate man twice on the head. The first kick knocked him cold, the second meant that Tandy would lose the use of his left eye for ever.

August then dragged him across to one of the cubicles where he dumped him, folded him up on the floor around a toilet and closed the door.

In his haste to leave the gents, August almost slipped headlong on the trail of blood across the tiled floor.

Outside, the corridor was clear.

He turned and sprinted towards the stairs, propelling himself down them three at a time. Within seconds he emerged in a ground-floor corridor. Here he paused and composed himself.

‘ Fucking career’s ruined, life’s ruined, what’s it fucking matter?’ he chunnered to himself.

A couple of people walked past him and nodded at him. He smiled benignly at them. Pulling his jacket together he walked briskly in the direction of the garage where his car was parked, passing the armoury as he did so.

The door was slightly open; someone was working inside. August did a quick sidestep, unable to believe his good fortune. ‘Play it cool,’ he told himself.

The man inside was a firearms instructor from the training school. He was working at a small table, checking over some handguns which were laid out in front of him. August’s eyes lit on a revolver, next to which was a box of ammunition.

‘ Hello, sir,’ said the instructor, surprised, starting to rise.

August gestured for him to remain seated. ‘No, don’t get up. Just a flying visit as I was passing. All well?’

‘ Yes, sir.’

August pointed towards the revolver — a 4-inch barrelled Smith amp; Wesson ‘38. Standard police issue. ‘Mind if I pick it up? It’s not loaded, is it?’

To anyone else the instructor would have said no. But how could he refuse the Chief Constable? After all, he was the one who signed everyone else’s permits.

August picked up the gun, gripping the barrel and cylinder as though he was going to use it as a hammer to knock in nails. In one flowing motion he whacked the heel of the butt across the instructor’s head with as much force as possible. Surprise, as much as anything else, decked him.

August loaded the revolver and pocketed the remainder of the bullets from the box.

The instructor had risen to his hands and knees, shaking his stunned and cut head, flicking spats of blood everywhere. When August left the armoury and locked the door behind him, the instructor was flat out again, this time for the count. Blood poured out of another nasty gash on the back of his head.

Turning away from the door without looking meant that August collided with a woman who was walking from the direction of the canteen, bearing a precariously balanced plate with a cream cake on top of a cup of coffee. The contents of both plate and cup went flying into the wall. The crockery smashed into little pieces.

‘ Godamnit!’ the woman shouted. ‘Why don’t you watch where you’re go-’ She then saw who had bumped into her. ‘You… you’re Dave August.’

August frowned at her and made to walk away. She wrenched him back to face her by his sleeve, yanking him to a standstill.

He brushed her hand off him, glowered angrily at her and said, ‘I’m in a hurry, if you don’t mind.’

‘ And I’m waiting for an interview with you.’

‘ And who might you be?’

‘ Lisa Want.’

‘ Oooh, the bitch who wrote that sleaze about me.’ August was in two minds whether or not to punch her very, very hard when he had another avenue of thought. His eyes narrowed. ‘How’d you like another exclusive?’

No hesitation. ‘Yes.’

‘ Come with me. Quick, quick. Haven’t got time to hang around.’

‘ What about this mess?’

‘ Leave it.’

He set off towards the garage at a fast pace. Lisa tagged on. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘ Just stay with me and you’ll see,’ he said.

In the garage he made straight for his official Jaguar. The keys were in the ignition, as always. He dropped into the driver’s seat and told Lisa to get in the other side.

The engine fired up beautifully. He accelerated out through the garage doors, round the one-way system, passed the HQ social club and bowling green, and seconds later he was out on the dual carriageway which ran by Headquarters.

‘ So what’s this about?’ she asked again.

‘ You got a tape-recorder?’

‘ Yep.’

‘ Well, put it on. I’ve got a story to tell: the downfall of a Chief Constable.’