A Time For Justice (16 page)

When the bomb exploded, the surveillance operation on the
dealer had obviously gone to rat-shit. They had lost him for the
time being and it had taken Henry and his team the best part of
that day to relocate him and his car in Manchester and then get
into position once the tracker had been fitted.

The tracker had proved to be a godsend once the target had
started to move, about 8p.m. The team had followed him without a
hitch around Manchester for about twenty minutes and eventually
onto the motorway network. He’d taken the M61 out of the city,
picked up the M6 north and cut left onto the M55 where he was now,
at two minutes to nine.

Henry hadn’t a clue what he was up to, nor where he was
headed. Because of the bomb they were starting from scratch
again.

Presumably he’d sold on his Ecstasy tablets. Henry hoped he
was going into Blackpool to do some wheeling and dealing in the
pubs and clubs where perhaps he could be caught
red-handed.

It would be nice to arrest him in Blackpool, Henry thought.
That way he could go straight home. See his wife and children. Even
if it was late. He hadn’t given them much time recently and he
wanted to change that. They all needed a holiday and he vowed that
as soon as he could arrange some leave they’d scoot off to sunny
Spain.

On the final few miles into Blackpool, where the MSS narrows
into a normal two-lane road, they hit the tailback of slow-moving
Illuminations traffic, inbound to Blackpool. Hundreds of cars
crammed full of families, all drawn by the world-famous lights
fantastic. Everyone, including the Porsche, was forced to a snail’s
pace.

Henry decided the time had come to move up into visual contact
with the target. He accelerated, executed a few hairy overtakes,
causing some swerving, swearing, fist-shaking and angry horn
blasts, and slotted in two cars behind the target.

Leaning forwards, he pushed the button to switch on the car
radio. It was 9 p.m. He hadn’t heard any news today. He tuned in to
Radio Lancashire and almost crashed into the car ahead when the
announcer calmly reported the deaths of three police officers in a
firearms incident in Blackpool where the person responsible had
managed to evade capture; the same person, incidentally, wanted for
questioning in connection with the M6 bombing.

It was 9.30 p.m.

The public house on the promenade was busy, packed to the
doors. Henry Christie squeezed in, his eyes roving the bar,
searching for his man who he was sure had come in here. He shuffled
sideways in between the crush of people, ensuring his left arm
always lay tight across the revolver in his shoulder-holster. His
compact Sig Sauer which he’d lost in the river had been replaced
temporarily by a more bulky short-barrelled .38, which in
comparison felt like a bazooka stuck under his arm. He would be
glad when his new Sig arrived.

The smell of sweat, beer and cigarettes intermingled with the
sound of raucous laughter, banter and loud music blasting from the
video jukebox. Two huge screens hanging precariously from the
ceiling showed the group Take That strutting their pectorals. It
was a typical youngsters’ pub. A good place to buy and sell gear -
drugs, that is.

Henry still couldn’t see his man but was sure he was in there
somewhere.

Since he’d parked his Porsche some ten minutes earlier in one
of the back streets behind the promenade, Henry, in a panic, had
ditched his own car and tracked the man on foot.

On the face of it, the target seemed unaware that he was being
followed. Unfortunately this indicated to Henry that he wasn’t up
to anything unlawful - yet.

The only problem Henry now had was that his mini personal
radio, strapped to his belt at the small of his back and wired up
to a discreet earpiece, a tiny mike pinned on the collar of his
windjammer and a transmit button on the palm of his left hand, had
packed up. In other words the battery had lost its charge, the bane
of every policeman’s life; and like most cops Henry hadn’t brought
a spare. So he was alone without any immediate means of contacting
the rest of his team. All they could do was pinpoint the Porsche
and sit on it until the target returned. Henry knew they would do
this as a matter of course, but he cursed his own stupidity and
short-sightedness for insisting on working alone, just because he
felt like Greta Garbo.

He circled the room feeling more and more ancient by the
minute as he brushed past young girls who looked no older than his
thirteen-year old daughter Jenny. He half-expected to see her face
in the crowd.

Then he spotted his man.

Henry froze. He’d almost walked right up to him. He took a
step back and a group of youngsters spilled into the vacuum he’d
created.

The target was actually sitting in one corner of the room, in
an area separated from the rest of it by a fancy wrought-iron,
thigh-high railing. He was at a table together with another man and
a woman. Lounging on the wall behind them were two casually dressed
gorillas, whose eyes constantly scanned the room. Bouncers?
Bodyguards?

Interesting, whatever.

Henry pushed his way to the bar. After an interminable wait he
bought a bottle of Bud, declining the glass offered because it
seemed to be the fashion to drink it straight from the bottle. Must
be hip, he thought, and hiply took a cool, refreshing, fizzy swig.
He then engineered a position by the edge of a slot-machine where
he could see his target yet remain unseen himself.

The area the three sat in was like a total exclusion zone,
even though there were two vacant tables. When a young couple
innocently decided to sit at one of the tables, the gorillas
swooped down from their tree and blocked the way
menacingly.

Unwisely the young man remonstrated. He must have said a few
harsh words; one of the gorillas responded by punching him hard and
low in the stomach. Bent double with pain, he was quickly led away
by his girlfriend. The gorillas loped back to their
station.

The other people in the pub who’d witnessed the incident
looked in another direction, not wishing to get
involved.

Henry’s eyes narrowed. An over-the-top reaction for no reason
at all, he thought. They were certainly a nervous crew behind that
wrought-iron fence. But what worried him most was the glimpse of a
firearm when the jacket of one of the bodyguards inadvertently
swung open. A bulge under the jacket of the other told Henry he was
similarly tooled up.

The detective’s attention moved to the man in the middle. He
was obviously the boss.

Henry didn’t know him, his face rang no bells, but suddenly he
found himself very interested.

He was quite a young man, in his early thirties, fit-looking
with jet-black hair, a neatly trimmed moustache, a swarthy
complexion and the dark, all-seeing eyes of a predator. His
clothing was casual but expensive; Ralph Lauren polo shirt,
beautifully cut chinos and loafers. No socks. A slim, understated
watch was attached to his wrist and a chunky gold chain encircled
his tanned neck. He was good looking, exuding an air of confidence,
wealth and violence. It seemed to Henry that he would have looked
more at home on the Costa del Crime, rather than here in Blackpool,
the Costa del Shite ... because there was one thing Henry
Christie
did
know
about this man, simply by looking at him: he was a top flight
criminal, a major player. Henry would happily have bet his next
month’s expenses cheque on the fact.

Yet, despite the outward appearance of calm, something in his
manner, a fraction below the surface, told Henry he was unsettled.
His non-verbal signals betrayed him.

The girl who sat next to him was positively gorgeous - a black
chick who looked young enough to be jailbait. One of her hands
rested provocatively at the top of the man’s thigh and she stuck
close to him as though superglued, laughing in all the right
places. Her short, low-cut dress left little to Henry’s imagination
and he soon found himself unconsciously trying to peer up her
legs.

But this was no girlfriend. Everything about her screamed
hooker; expensive hooker. And she looked uneasy, too. Her brown
eyes never stayed still for an instant. Her shoulders were taut.
She was very, very nervous.

Henry finished off his Bud and returned to the bar. This time
he had a less fashionable bottle of non-alcoholic lager which
tasted bitter after the slightly sweet American brew.

As he glanced casually around the room, Henry spotted another
man watching the trio. He was mid-height, with blond hair and a
moustache. Pretty nondescript, though he looked vaguely familiar. A
moment later the man had gone. Henry thought nothing of it, resumed
his position by the bandit and took a long drink from his bottle.
Ugh. All the flavour brewed out with the alcohol.

He was about to make a phone call into the Blackpool
Communications Room for them to pass on his present position by
radio to his team when the three got slowly to their
feet.

They were on the move.

Henry swore.

The boss man nodded to his gorillas. One of them took the
lead, forging a way through the throng. The three slotted in behind
with the other gorilla taking up a position at the rear, his right
hand hidden underneath his jacket. They went out of a door at the
rear of the pub. Henry gave them a few moments, then
followed.

Karen answered the door in her bath-robe.

She’d had a long hot soak and a shower. Nothing could shake
the sense of disaster in her mind, but at least she was now clean
and ready for bed. She’d just rolled the quilt back on her double
bed when the doorbell rang.

She was tempted to ignore it, but found she
couldn’t.

Dave August stood there, swaying slightly. His official car,
the Jaguar, was parked with one wheel on the kerb, unattended.
Obviously he’d driven there by himself. Yet he smelled of alcohol.
His eyes were watery and bloodshot.

‘
What the hell do you want?’ Karen asked.

‘
To explain?’ he said meekly. Then: ‘Oh, come on, Karen. You
owe me that at the very least.’

‘
Do I?’ she asked resolutely.

‘
Look, can I come in, or shall we continue to conduct our
business in public?’ He was having a little difficulty stringing
the words together.

She considered slamming the door in his face then relented,
allowed him to enter.

She followed him into the lounge. He knew the way. It was a
beautifully furnished room, much money having been spent on the
tasteful decor.

August turned to her as she came in behind him. ‘Karen,’ he
began, his arms outstretched.

‘
Not so fast, David,’ she told him coolly. ‘You said you
wanted to explain something. If you think you’re going to get a
fuck after the way I’ve been treated, you’re well off the
mark.’

August backed off. ‘Very well,’ he conceded,
tight-lipped.

He plonked himself loosely down on the plush sofa and crossed
his legs. She perched on a chair-arm. Her robe fell open, revealing
her thighs. She quickly pulled it back and covered up, though not
before August had seen.

‘
Well, I’m waiting,’ she said at length.

‘
I ... I don’t really know where to begin,’ he stuttered.
‘Look, could I have a drink?’

‘
I think you’ve already had enough.’

‘
Please. ‘

Karen sighed impatiently. She fixed him a large whisky,
dropped an ice cube into it and handed it to him. ‘Thanks,’ he
said. Most of it then hit the back of his throat. ‘That’s
better.’

Karen’s mouth twisted into a line of disapproval.

‘
You know I’m suspended, don’t you? Barred from entering any
police station in the county. Even had to hand my warrant card in.
I feel so humiliated!’

August nodded. ‘Yes, I know. I sanctioned it.’

‘
You
sanctioned it? I don’t believe
this.’ She stood up and paced the room. ‘I should’ve
realised.’

‘
I was under pressure to do something. Can’t you see, after
all that’s happened?’ he pleaded.

‘
From Fanshaw-Bayley, no doubt.’

August dropped his gaze and stared at the gas fire, confirming
Karen’s words. ‘I’d been backed into a corner. I had to do it. I
didn’t want to ... I just had to.’

‘
You’re the fuckin’ Chief Constable, for God’s sake. No one
can make you do anything you don’t want to. You’ve simply kow-towed
to FB and the CID again, haven’t you? You weak-kneed
bastard.’

‘
It was nothing personal, honestly Karen. Purely
professional.’ He pronounced it ‘perfeshinall’. ‘I have to distance
myself from you.’

Karen had had enough. ‘Get out, Dave. Now. I don’t want you or
any other copper in my house.’ She began to sob. ‘Just get out and
stay out!’

He stood up, exhibiting all the classic signs of a drunk:
unsteady on his feet, eyes glazed, speech slurred. And like a
drunk, reasoning wasn’t part of his make-up.

‘
This doesn’t change anything between us, does it?’ he
leered.