A Time For Justice (26 page)

It all went according to plan.

Corelli and his aide collected their bags from the conveyor
belt.

Corelli had a small sports bag, his aide a large suitcase and
flight bag. They placed them on a trolley and headed to the green
channel.

The Customs officer with the detectives spoke quietly into his
radio. The uniformed officers in the green channel nodded at their
boss’s instructions which they received via their
earpieces.

Corelli and his man came into view.

The two armed cops were clearly visible.

Seconds later Corelli had been drawn to one side and directed
to a long table where another Customs officer awaited them with a
smile. The table was directly in front of the screen which Henry
and Donaldson were behind, giving them, as planned, an excellent
view of the proceedings.

Corelli and his man were smiling, as though they expected this
to happen. They were patient and courteous, and carried out the
requests of the Customs officer without rancour. Not once did they
show irritation or annoyance.

‘
He’s fuckin’ enjoying this,’ hissed Donaldson. He was the one
showing irritation and annoyance. ‘I just wanna put one on him. I
really do.’

‘
Obviously something he’d foreseen,’ said Henry, less
bothered.

He studied both men through the one-way window.

Corelli was about fifty years old and overweight. He was short
and rotund, but carried his poundage quite well. His face was wide
and his skin dark, betraying his Mediterranean origin. He had eyes
which were lit with humour and a beguiling smile which he flashed
regularly as he shared a joke or two with the Customs officers. He
reminded Henry more of an accountant or bank manager - or maybe a
successful salesman. He looked ordinary, decent, law-abiding,
middle-aged and fat. He wouldn’t have drawn a second glance in a
street.

‘
Know anything about the other guy?’ Henry asked Donaldson.
‘Lots. He’s Corelli’s main bodyguard, trusted right-hand man, but
not a policy adviser or anything like that. He organises Corelli’s
personal protection and anti-surveillance. Name of Jamie Stanton.
An ex-cop, actually - did about five years with the NYPD before he
went bad. Got busted for selling drugs to fellow officers, then
moved into the security business, personal protection mainly.
Worked with one or two controversial businessmen and union
organisers before gravitating to Corelli. I think he’s probably
very good - so good that he hasn’t been tested in any situation
yet, and he’s made Corelli very surveillance-conscious. We’ve wired
his home twice - both times sussed and he never uses his own phone
to do business, unless he can’t help it because they’re nearly
always tapped. He’s also a fitness freak. Jeez’ Donaldson shook his
head, ‘if he came across, it’d be gold for us, but that’s just
wishful thinking. He’s dedicated to Corelli and paid very, very
well.’

Henry saw that Stanton was a tough-looking man in his
mid-thirties who oozed violence coupled with intelligence. A
dangerous combination. He was chunky, strong-looking, with
shoulders like a swimmer. He did fit the stereotype, Henry thought
with relief. His eyes were watchful. His movements were those of a
man accustomed to reacting quickly should the need arise, but
otherwise he conserved energy, a bit like a cat. Everything was
held back for that vital thrust. Yet he too was smiling and
cheerful, though on closer inspection his countenance wasn’t as
convincing as Corelli’s. He’d been told how to react if stopped and
didn’t really like acting the pleasant man. Henry made a mental
note to watch him very carefully should their paths ever cross. He
hoped they wouldn’t.

The baggage search was over, the clothing and toiletries - for
that’s all there was - had been replaced.

Before moving away Corelli looked past the shoulder of the
Customs officer at the one-way window behind which Henry and
Donaldson lurked. He gave a cheerful wave of acknowledgement. Then
he and Stanton - who scowled - walked towards the arrivals
hall.

‘
Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ Donaldson uttered, wringing his
hands in frustration.

‘
Suddenly I feel very small,’ said Henry. He thrust his hands
deep into his pockets. ‘I don’t now think this was a good idea, to
have him searched. ‘

‘
Why the fuck not? It inconvenienced him, didn’t
it?’

‘
And brought us down to his level, Karl,’ Henry said like the
critical parent. ‘We should be better than this. It’s not as though
we were likely to find anything, was it? He’d hardly have had a
case full of crack, would he?’

Grudgingly Donaldson said, ‘Suppose you’re right ... but I
still enjoyed it.’

‘
And that’s all that matters,’ Henry said sarkily. ‘C’mon,
let’s see who he meets up with.’

Out in the bustling arrivals hall they were just in time to
see Corelli and Stanton being led out of the building by a man in a
chauffeur’s uniform.

They pushed through the crowd.

When they emerged outside, all they saw was the rear end of a
large, plush saloon car pulling away from the kerb. A Rolls-Royce
with personalised number plates.

Donaldson cursed and fumbled for his pen and a piece of paper,
hoping to get a note of the number.

‘
No need,’ said Henry, laying a hand on Donaldson’s arm. ‘I
know who owns it - a guy called Lenny Dakin. RCS have run
surveillance on him a few times but got nowhere.’ He pursed his
lips thoughtfully. ‘Now I know what Jason Brown was doing in
Blackpool. Dakin has some business interests there. Looks like they
could’ve been working together, maybe. Looks like Dakin could have
set up Brown for the hit, maybe. Looks like Dakin and Corelli are
now business partners...’

‘
Maybe,’ the two men said in unison.

The charge of murder in English law is a very simple
charge.

At 10 p.m., after a full day of interviews, a detective
brought Hinksman, who was on his crutches, before the custody
officer. Also present was Hinksman’s solicitor.

‘
Just listen to what the officer has to say to you,’ the
custody officer told Hinksman.

The detective began to speak, reading from the charge forms.
‘You are charged with the offence shown below. You do not have to
say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention
now
something which you later rely on in
court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. You are
charged that at Blackpool in the County of Lancashire, you did
murder Jason Brown. This is contrary to common law.’ The detective
looked up at Hinksman. ‘Do you wish to make any reply to the
charge?’

Hinksman, who had simply stared at the wall as the charge was
read out, continued to do that. He acknowledged no one and refused
to take his copy of the charge.

‘
You’re not getting bail,’ the custody officer said, ‘because
I have reasonable grounds to believe you’ll fail to appear, or that
you’ll interfere with the administration of justice by intimidating
witnesses if you’re released. You’ll be appearing at court tomorrow
when there’ll be an application for a three-day remand in police
custody to allow us to question you about many other matters. Do
you understand?’

No response.

The custody officer beckoned two gaolers. ‘Take him back to
his cell.’

They led him down the corridor and ushered him into a cell,
slamming the door shut behind him, but leaving the inspection flap
open. One of the gaolers sat down on a chair in the corridor
outside the cell as it is normal procedure in Lancashire to keep
all persons charged with murder under constant
supervision.

In the cell Hinksman propped his crutches up and lay down on
the bench-bed. The mattress was thin and covered with tough, thick
plastic. He pulled a rough blanket over himself and stared at the
ceiling. Two thoughts circled around in his head: escape and
revenge.

Henry and Donaldson drove back to Blackpool. The American had
checked out of his Manchester hotel and moved into one in the
resort while he continued to work with Henry on the Hinksman
case.

On the journey Henry told him all he knew about Dakin, which
was precious little. He’d actually heard nothing about the man for
some time and would have to check with the RCS office in Bolton
about the current state of play. He seemed to have slipped quietly
out of the limelight.

They arrived at Blackpool Central police station just before
I0.30 p.m.

After checking the custody office to find out whether Hinksman
had been charged or not, Henry invited Donaldson up to the social
club which was on the top floor of the station. Donaldson accepted.
Both men were eager for a drink.

They sat at the quiet bar. Henry drank lager with a whisky
chaser whilst the American contented himself drinking straight out
of a bottle of Bud.

Conversation drifted from topic to topic as the drinks went
down. Cops all over the world find it easy to talk to each other.
They discussed their careers and enjoyed exchanging a few war
stories. Eventually the subject turned somehow to Chief Inspector
Karen Wilde. Henry was speechless when he was told about her
treatment and then her rape.

‘
But you must not tell anyone,’ Donaldson insisted. ‘She wants
it that way, wants to try and forget it and get on with her
life.’

Henry whistled softly. ‘I see her in a whole new light now,’
he confessed. ‘I completely hated her, to be honest, but I never
really considered things from her perspective. You seem to know an
awful lot about her in such a short time. You soft on
her?’

Donaldson coloured up and squirmed. He took a sip of his beer.
‘You could say that,’ he said with a slight trace of bitterness.
‘I’ve fallen in love with her, I think. But she doesn’t want to
know - which, I suppose, is fair enough at the moment.’

‘
Why have you told me all this, Karl?’ Henry asked.

‘
Dunno,’ Donaldson shrugged, looking at the bubbles in his
beer.

‘
So much has happened over the last few days, and although it
might sound a little soppy, I just needed to get some of it off my
chest. I just wanna talk to somebody and you’re the nearest ... and
you seem a pretty decent guy.’

‘
Cheers,’ said Henry doubtfully.

Two ladies who’d been sitting at the far end of the room near
the snooker tables came to the bar to buy drinks as the last orders
were called. Whilst waiting, one of them turned to Henry. He looked
at her and smiled, vaguely recognising her. She was very
good-looking and oh, so young. About twenty. She smelled
delicious.

‘
You’re Henry Christie, aren’t you?’

‘
Yes I am,’ he said. ‘And who are you?’

‘
Police Constable Natalie Atkinson and this is Alex,’ she
said, thumbing at her friend. ‘She’s a PC too. We’ve just started
here from training school.’

‘
Oh, very nice,’ said Henry. ‘I hope you have a good
career.’

‘
That’s a very nasty cut on your head,’ she said. She laid a
cool finger on his forehead.

‘
It is,’ he agreed. His stomach leapt at the touch.

‘
You’re a bit of a hero, aren’t you?’ she asked. Her eyes were
wide and bright and moist as she gazed up at him. ‘And you’ve shot
a man, haven’t you?’

‘
No to the first; yes to the second,’ he said modestly. Who
would be corrupting whom, he wondered idly, if this went any
further. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I’m not proud I shot anyone.’

‘
My friend and I are going on to a nightclub. Would you and
your friend like to come along?’

‘
Oh, I don’t know,’ said Henry, flattered. He checked his
watch. ‘What about you, Karl?’

Donaldson had picked up the gaze from Alex. ‘To be honest,’ he
said, ‘I’d like to let my hair down for an hour or two, especially
after the events of the last few days.’

‘
You’re an American!’ blurted Alex, sidling over to
him.

Donaldson nodded. ‘He’s an FBI agent,’ Henry said.

‘
Wow,’ Alex said, truly impressed.

‘
So, you coming along then, or what?’ Natalie asked. ‘We’re
going to the loo. It’ll give you a minute or two to make up your
minds.’ The ladies excused themselves.

Henry and Donaldson eyed each other uncertainly for a fleeting
moment. Both men’s faces cracked into smiles.

Henry, slightly affected by drink already, slapped his left
hand onto his right bicep and jacked up his fist.

‘
What the hell does that mean?’ asked a perplexed
Donaldson.

‘
It means I could give her one,’ said Henry
dirtily.

‘
You mean ...?’

‘
Fuck her, I believe is the international term,’ said
Henry.

‘
Doesn’t mean that in the States. It means “Up
Yours”.’

‘
Same thing,’ laughed Henry.

‘
You English, there’s no hope for y’all.’

They finished their drinks and stood up as the ladies came
back from grooming themselves. Henry felt light-headed and dizzy
and a little out of his depth, but what the hell! A bit of a razz
wouldn’t do anyone any harm, would it?