A Time For Justice (32 page)

Too many times for it to be a coincidence.

She was definitely following him, of that he was in no doubt.
And she knew, or at least suspected, he was on the take.

Yet why hadn’t she done anything about it? Over six months
had passed since Bayside. Perhaps she was tormenting him, toying
with him. Then when she was good and ready, she would either bubble
him or go for
a piece of the
action.

He’d actually considered approaching her and offering money,
but he soon put that out of his mind. Just supposing she was
straight? He would have played right into her hands.

No, he decided to stick at the viewpoint that she was upright
and honest and what she was doing was building up a file of
evidence against him before moving in for
the kill. Bitch.

He sat at his desk in his office, rocking back and forth,
pursing his lips as he considered his position.

There was no way he was going to give up Corelli’s money. He
was tied to it.

Firstly he had his lifestyle to maintain. It was discreet and
subtly expensive, causing no one to raise an eyebrow. His modest
house was well-furnished and he and his wife had decent, but
second-hand cars. It was the finishing touches which told the story
- the expensive CD players in the cars, the original paintings on
the walls of his house, the conservatory which could not be seen
from
the road, the top-of-the-range golf
clubs, his designer clothes, which looked not a great deal
different from
off the peg - but oh,
feel
that quality. And the small apartment
and boat on Grand Cayman which nobody in the office knew about. All
these things needed money, more money than he could ever
earn.

And secondly, if he pulled the plug and said, ‘No more,’
Corelli would drop him without a moment’s hesitation to the
FBI.

He had to go on.

The pencil he was holding snapped as he imagined his hands
breaking Sue’s neck.

The bitch had to die.

Even when a case comes to court, the wheels of British justice
turn painfully slowly. On the first day of Jimmy Hinksman’s trial,
for no apparent reason, proceedings did not begin until 2.15
p.m.

That did not seem to bother the assembled press or public in
the Shire Hall, restricted in their numbers to thirty and twelve
respectively. There was a buzz of excitement, an air of
anticipation, and a few hours’ wait would not put a damper on
that.

However, it did serve to wind Henry Christie up. He knew he
would not be called to give evidence until the later stages of the
proceedings, but he wanted it to be underway. All this waiting
around, killing time, was stress-inducing as far as he was
concerned.

After lunch the High Court Judge, Mrs Ellison, took her place
on the Bench. She looked quite regally stunning and imposing,
despite her sixty-eight years and slight frame. Her wig, red robes
and stern expression told their own story. Here was a woman not to
be trifled with. This was her court and she ruled it without
compromise. Unless it suited her.

The row of QCs, prosecution and defence, bowed to acknowledge
her, all dressed in a similar fashion.

It was tradition taken to extreme.

Mrs Ellison indicated that the prisoner should be brought
up.

A hush fell across the court. A couple of artists prepared
their sketch-pads and pencils.

Henry braced himself. This was the first time he’d seen
Hinksman since the committal hearing at Blackpool Magistrates
Court.

He held his breath.

Two prison officers led Hinksman up from the holding cell
below the court.

He gazed stonily into space, allowed himself to be manhandled
and sat down in the dock, flanked by the officers. His handcuffs
had already been removed.

Then his eyes began to rove around the court. From Judge to
QCs to their briefs, to the security precautions ... and finally,
to Henry. Their eyes met, their gazes interlocked.

Henry felt his flesh creep.

Hinksman sat back and, unexpectedly, his face broke into the
most pleasant smile imaginable ... which quickly changed into a
sneer of contempt. He kept Henry’s gaze, raised his eyebrows and
mouthed the words, ‘YOU ARE DEAD.’

There followed four days of legal submissions by the defence
which were countered by the prosecution and vice versa, rather like
the opening of a fencing match where the competitors were sussing
out each other’s strengths and weaknesses. It was all very eloquent
and polite and at the same time dull. This legal parrying bored the
spectators. They weren’t interested in nitpicking points of law and
procedure. A good multiple murder case was what they all wanted to
hear.

It was Friday before the jury was sworn in.

Even that did not prove to be simple. Hinksman’s QC objected
to eight of the original twelve for obscure but legally valid
reasons, and they all had to be replaced by substitutes from the
pool of jurors.

In the end there were seven men and five women. Two of the men
were black. One of the women was Chinese.

At 4 p.m. everything was set to proceed.

So the Judge adjourned for the weekend.

Hinksman was led out of court after the Judge had left. He
indicated to his QC that he wanted to speak to him.

A few minutes later the QC, whose name was Graham, came down
to the holding cage for a hushed consultation with his
client.

‘
I want you to arrange several things,’ Hinksman told
him.

‘
Such as?’

‘
I want you to find out the name and address of each of the
jurors. I want the address of the Judge and the addresses of all
the independent witnesses, including the cops.’

The QC pushed his pince-nez to the top of his nose, a feeling
of discomfort flooding through him.

‘
That is not something I can do. These are details which are
not disclosed by the prosecution.’

‘
Well, you’d better do it.’

‘
Why?’ asked Graham, dreading the answer.

‘
So they can be intimidated,’ said Hinksman simply, with a
smile. ‘I ... I don’t think I can do that.’

‘
Yes, you can. You’ve done it before, I know you have. If you
do, you’ll get a bonus. Two hundred grand - in five-pound notes -
paid anywhere in the world. And if you get me off these charges,
you’ll receive a million dollars, tax free again, anywhere in the
world.’

Graham shrugged. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll get them to you as
soon as I’ve obtained them.’

Henry walked out of court a drained man. Even though the trial
had not yet started, he’d been obliged to spend the entire week
outside the Shire Hall and would not be allowed to enter again
until called in to give his evidence, which could be weeks
away.

The wait was always a nerve-racking time. Then, when the trial
actually began, you wondered what the witnesses before had said and
if you were going to make a fool of them or yourself by
contradicting them or not ‘sticking to the script’.

His week, therefore, was spent pacing the corridors of the
ancient building or putting his feet up in the police room and
chatting to the other police witnesses, overdosing on tea or
coffee; or simply wandering around Lancaster. He took some heart
from seeing that some witnesses were in a worse state than himself
- particularly the civilian ones.

He was glad to get out of it for the weekend, and looking
forward to spending it with his daughters who were over the moon
about him living above a vet’s.

An exhausted Karen Wilde arrived home that evening to the
sound of her phone ringing. She could clearly hear it as she walked
up the garden path, but she did not hurry. It couldn’t be work
calling, otherwise they would have ‘bleeped’ her. So it must either
be family or a friend, neither of whom she felt like talking to at
that moment. It had been a long week - a minimum of ten hours per
day - and she was whacked.

Her plan was bath, supper, bed, sleep.

In fact she even slowed her pace to the door and put her key
into the lock in slow motion, hoping desperately that whoever it
was would give up.

The ringing continued.

‘
Damn,’ she said, entering the house. She picked up the phone
and gave a curt, ‘Yes?’ She recognised the voice on the other end
immediately and her stomach did a yo-yo.

‘
Hi Karen, how are you doing?’

‘
Karl,’ she stuttered.

‘
So, how are you?’

‘
Fine, fine,’ she said, hurriedly pulling herself together.
‘Where are you phoning from? You sound a million miles
away.’

‘
Manchester Airport. I’ve just touched down from Miami, hell
of a flight, and I’m about to get a cab to a hotel nearby. I’m over
here for Hinksman’s trial- thought I’d see how you were
feeling.’

‘
Fine, yes. I expected to see you sooner.’

‘
Your prosecution department told me not to come until the
second week.’

‘
It’s not even started properly yet,’ said Karen. Her mind was
racing. She made an instant decision, one she knew she might
regret. ‘Look, Karl,’ she commenced hesitantly, ‘I know you’re
tired, but can you stay awake long enough for me to come and pick
you up? We could have a meal together perhaps, maybe talk, you
know?’

‘
Yeah, well, sure,’ he said, taken aback.

‘
I’ll be about an hour and a half, OK? I’ve only arrived home
this minute myself.’

‘
Yeah but-’

‘
Don’t ask, Karl. Just wait for me. I’ll be at the
International Arrivals meeting point in ninety minutes -
OK?’

‘
Why surely, ma’ am.’

‘
And do you know something, Karl? I’ve been dying to hear you
call me ma’am for ages.’

She hung up and raced to her bedroom to get
changed.

At the other end of the phone Karl hung up slowly, the
bewilderment on his face fading slowly to a broad grin. It was all
he could do to stop himself leaping into the air and shouting,
‘Yee-hah!’

‘
So how’s the crusade against Mr Corelli going?’ Karen asked
in the stilted manner which had been a feature of their
conversation so far.

They were sitting at a table in the dining room of Donaldson’s
hotel and had reached the coffee stage without either of them
having eaten or drunk very much at all.

Donaldson sighed. ‘Not well. He’s a very devious son of a
bitch. He knows all the tricks in the book - the best one being to
kill off any potential witnesses against him. Works like a dream.
We’re fairly sure he’s dealing with Lenny Dakin over here and that
it’s a good profitable business. But the where, when and how of it
constantly eludes us.’ He shrugged.

‘
How’s your partner’s partner? I heard about the letter
bomb.’

Donaldson looked into his coffee. ‘To be honest, Chrissy’s
face is all messed up - one half of it, anyway. And the upper part
of her body ... It’s heartbreaking, especially for Joe. He loves
her.’

‘
No nearer catching the offender?’

Donaldson shook his head. ‘Naw, but we’re sure it’s down to
Corelli - a warning to us, you know? Joe’s been working his tail
off ever since, but he’s getting nowhere. It’s very sad. Every
waking moment is spent either dedicated to bringing Corelli down or
getting Chrissy back together. He’s a very driven man at the
moment. His whole personality has changed. It’s like working with a
demon. He’ll crack if he doesn’t ease up, have a
breakdown.’

‘
Oh, talking of which, Henry Christie’s been at court all
week. I’ve seen him a couple of times, but we don’t talk. I treated
him quite badly.’

‘
He’s not one to bear grudges. I’m looking forward to meeting
up with him again.’ Donaldson paused, then asked, ‘Why did you say,
“Talking about which”?’

She explained Henry’s difficult last six months, most of which
she’d heard second- or third-hand.

‘
Yeah?’ said Donaldson, head tilting back as he considered the
story. ‘I can see that. He was under strain. He was on the
edge.’

‘
Weren’t we all?’ commented Karen.

‘
Yes, we were.’

They eyed each other for a second, then Karen dropped her gaze
and stared at her fingers.

‘
I tried to see you before I went back to America,’ he
said.

She nodded numbly and swallowed.

‘
I also telephoned you dozens of times from the States, left
messages on your machine. You never returned them. Nor did you
reply to my letters.’ He was accusing her, but gently, without
pressure.

She sat there blinking rapidly.

‘
Did you hear what I said when you ran into the elevator that
night?

‘
I shouted it loud enough.’