A Time For Justice (44 page)

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.