A Time For Justice (48 page)

‘
You still living in that same dump?’

‘
Yep, the same one where you busted me for that speed. God,
how long ago were that?’

Henry calculated. It had been when he was a PC. ‘Eight years?’
he estimated.

‘
Fuck me,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Don’t time fly when
you’re having fun!’

Henry unlocked the car. ‘I’ll take you as far as I’m going –
then you’ll have to walk the rest of the way.’

‘
You’re an absolute gent,’ she said, creasing herself into the
passenger seat.

Once within the confines of the small car, Henry began to
regret his generosity. She smelled quite awful. The mixture of body
odour, cheap perfume, fish, chips and spirits nearly knocked him
out. He wound a window down.

‘
What were you locked up for this time?’

‘
Oh, the usual,’ she said unconcerned. ‘Y’know - leopard never
changes its spots. But I don’t do drugs any more, thanks to you. I
learned me lesson. Evil things.’ She shuddered.

‘
At least I’ve done some good in my life,’ he observed quietly
to himself. He actually didn’t know whether to believe her or
not.

‘
I’m tryin’ to give up whorin’,’ she said dreamily. ‘Too
fuckin’ dangerous this game now. D’you know how many times I’ve
been hammered? Six. Gettin’ like America, this place. In fact, the
last one who gave me a twattin’
was
a Yank. An absolute cunt, he was. Wild eyes. Mad
as a hatter. Liked hittin’ better than sex. Mind you, he was better
at hittin’. Anyway, I ripped the fucker off good an’ proper...’ She
turned to Henry who was only half-listening, his thoughts, though
he didn’t know it, on the same American. ‘I’m tellin’ you this off
the record, OK? Pinched a rake of cash off him and did a runner.
But he beat me up bad and I think he would’ve done worse if I
hadn’t legged it. Serves him right, and that smelly Italian
landlord of his. Anyway, what I got off him was the start of me
nest egg. Buildin’ up nicely now, stashed away safe ‘n’ sound,
thank you very much.’

By the time she’d finished wittering, Henry had arrived at the
street where his flat was located. He pulled into a parking space
about 100 metres away.

‘
You’re a luv,’ Jane said, levering herself out of the seat
and slamming the door shut. Her voice seemed to be at megadecibel
level; it made Henry squirm. ‘Remember - if you ever want a freebie
blow job, just call round. Best gob in town.’ She slithered her
tongue in and out a few times, gave a quick wave and turned,
clattering away down the pavement on her dangerously high
heels.

He watched her walk away, a smile playing on his lips.
It
was definitely an offer he wouldn’t be
following up.

There was a bang, then the sound of voices.

Hinksman awoke with a start. For a moment he thought he was
still in the sub-zero darkness of the Iraqi desert, part of the
Delta Force Scud-busting squads, sleeping in the shell of a
burned-out tank. Then it all came back to him. He cursed himself
for being so careless as to doze off.

He was actually lying on the cold metal floor in the rear of a
stolen Ford Escort van parked near Henry Christie’s flat. He raised
himself an inch at a time so that he could see out of the front
windscreen. Fifty metres away from him stood Henry Christie and
walking towards him was the prostitute, Jane.

Must be my birthday, he thought, gloating.

He quickly dropped back onto the floor of the van and waited
for her to pass. The click-clack of her heels approached, grew
louder, drew level with the van and then receded. As her footsteps
faded, Hinksman pushed himself back up.

Henry had disappeared to the back entrance of the vet’s
surgery.

Hinksman’s mind worked quickly. He was in a quandary. He had
been parked there for most of the evening, awaiting Henry’s arrival
home. Hinksman had expected him to be alone and it had been his
intention to kill him in the back yard of the surgery. He’d been
relishing the prospect of getting up close to the bastard and
killing him face to face because in the short time he’d been
acquainted with Henry he’d come to loathe him. He wanted to be
right there at the death, not standing 100 metres away, shooting
him. No. He wanted the feel of the knife going in, jarring the
ribs, piercing the heart, twisting. That was what he
desired.

But now things had changed.

The prostitute. The one who’d stolen from him. The one who’d
escaped with all his money. The one who’d escaped with her
life.

A surge of excitement coursed through his loins. Killing Henry
would be sweet revenge, there was no doubt about that, and it would
give great satisfaction. But killing the prostitute would be sheer
pleasure - the kind he hadn’t experienced in a long while. It was
an opportunity not to be missed.

Quietly, he opened the back doors of the van and slid out.
In
the distance he could still see Jane.
He began to follow.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Jane’s flat was a one-room bedsit on the top floor of a seedy
block in the back streets of Blackpool’s south shore.

In one corner of the room was the bed - a mattress flung on
the floor, covered by grubby sheets that hadn’t seen a washing
machine for months. In another corner of the room was a large
settee that looked like it had once been very comfortable. Now it
sagged badly, and it too was marked with the stains of her
profession.

The corner opposite the door was the kitchen area, consisting
of a cupboard, grimy sink, a two-ringed electric cooker and a
battered fridge. The grotty wardrobe was the only clean thing in
the room, clean because it contained the clothes and shoes that
were her obsession. It was crammed full of assorted dresses,
skirts, blouses, suits and shoes, mostly loud and glitzy ones she
used for work. Without exception they were stolen from the major
stores in Blackpool.

She came up the steps to the flat with a weary but silent
tread. She had taken her shoes off right at the bottom because
she’d had numerous accidents before when negotiating the narrow,
poorly lit stairs in high heels and with drink taken.

The building was unusually quiet. Her neighbours, mostly
unemployed teenagers, single mothers, drug addicts and an old-age
pensioner on the ground floor, tended to keep odd hours. But
tonight was quiet and dark.

She pushed open her door which was not locked, never had been,
never would be, and entered her home. She was glad to see her bed.
Not that it was particularly comfortable, but it left that
rock-hard cell bed standing. She stripped off and hung her clothes
up carefully, discarding the torn blouse and laddered stockings in
a waste bin. Then she stood before the full-length mirror on the
wardrobe door and surveyed herself uncritically while scratching
her bushy black pubic mound and yawning.

Still naked, she padded across the landing to the shared
bathroom. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement down
the stairs on the landing below, but thought nothing of it.
Probably one of her oddball neighbours skulking about. Didn’t
bother her. However, she did lock the bathroom door behind her.
There were some things she liked to keep private. She emptied her
bladder then had a quick, lukewarm shower and dried herself off
with someone else’s towel. She slid back to her room shivering, but
feeling half-human again.

As she stood in front of the mirror, combing through her damp
hair, she saw the door open behind her. She guessed it was that
crank from the first floor who visited her at odd times of the day.
He was a screwball, but she had no conscience about charging him
double for a wank. She sighed. ‘Come on in, Roger, don’t be shy.
I’ve just got time before I hit the sack - but it’ll cost you
twelve quid.’ She waggled her ample bottom provocatively. Money,
after all, was money.

The man came in.

Fast and hard.

Before she knew what had happened, she was on her back on the
mattress, held down with a hand clamped over her mouth. Hinksman’s
face, glaring mad-eyed down at her, was only inches away from her
own.

‘
Hello Jane,’ he said. ‘I’m back.’

She squirmed ineffectually. The hand stayed over her mouth,
cupping her chin in its palm so that it was impossible for her to
bite. He held her easily.

‘
You stole something of mine,’ he said. ‘Didn’t
you?’

He placed the forearm of his free arm across her throat and
took hold of her shoulder for extra leverage. Slowly he forced the
forearm down onto her Adam’s apple. Just before she passed out, he
released the pressure and slightly opened the fingers of his hand
over her mouth to let air pass through.

She sucked greedily. Her pallor, which had turned pale like
cartridge paper, now turned bright red.

‘
You did steal something of mine, didn’t you?’ he
repeated.

This time she managed a nod.

‘
Good. Right ... I’m going to take this hand away now and I
want you to talk to me in a whisper. You scream out or even talk
normally and I’ll put it back and kill you. OK?’

A nod.

He peeled his hand away, one finger at a time. His forearm
still rested across her throat.

‘
Where’s my money?’

‘
Spent it,’ she whispered. This was a lie.

‘
On all those dresses?’

‘
Yes.’

‘
Oh you stupid, stupid woman.’ He shook his head sadly and
sighed. ‘So, what’ve you been saying to Henry Christie?’

‘
Henry Christie? What you on about?’ Jane’s eyes focused on
his face as a whole. ‘Oh God,’ she uttered, ‘you’re the one who
killed all those people on the motorway, aren’t you? And all those
cops. I didn’t realise until now. Oh God, oh God.’

His hand clamped over her mouth again; his forearm pressed
down onto her neck. The airflow was cut off quickly this time. She
began to lose consciousness. Her head swam in a surfy sea, a warm,
pleasant sea and it felt good to be dying.

Hinksman suddenly changed tactics. He jumped up and took hold
of a bottle of Jane’s vodka, just over a quarter full.

‘
Sit up and drink this,’ he said, straddling her and handing
it down to her.

She crawled into a sitting position, reached out a shaking
hand and took the bottle from him.

‘
Big mouthfuls,’ he insisted.

Jane knew, somehow, that this time there would be no
opportunity to escape. He was too quick, strong and determined -
and experienced. He oozed death. It leaked from every pore. Yes,
Death had returned and was going to complete what it had
started.

The only thing that warmed her was that he wouldn’t get his
money back, not one penny, not one cent of it.

She smiled and put the vodka to her lips again. If she was
going to be murdered she might as well be oblivious to it. With the
alcohol content in her body still relatively high, it wasn’t long
before she was completely drunk again.

Jane amassed all her faculties with one deep breath. Now she
did not care.

‘
YOU’RE A FUCKING BASTARD WHO CAN’T SHAG FOR TOFFEE,’ she
screamed.

Before she had finished he’d ducked down to her level,
wrenched her by the hair and taken hold of her head in both his
hands. His right hand held her chin, mouth and nose. His left held
the back of her head. He lifted and twisted in one easy, screwing
movement.

Jane’s neck broke with a loud crack and she was
dead.

He tossed her across onto the mattress. She flopped there
loosely. Hinksman wiped the fingerprints carefully off all the
bottles he’d touched with a kitchen cloth and stood the bottles
side by side on the sink. He stepped out onto the landing and
listened. It was all quiet. He heaved Jane out onto the landing and
pulled her to her feet at the top of the stairs. Her head flopped
onto her chest. Spit dribbled out of her mouth. With a gentle push
he let go of her and she went spinning down the steps to the
landing below, arms and legs flailing everywhere. She came to an
untidy bundle at the foot of the stairs.

Hinksman followed her down, stepped lightly across her and
sped down the rest of the stairs.

Within seconds he was out of the building. Gone.

The greyness of dawn was just arriving.

Even though he wanted to, Henry couldn’t get to sleep. A
parrot in the surgery below was squawking loudly, shouting
obscenities, and in turn had set off a yapping terrier dog. The
combination was unbearable. After half an hour of the cacophony he
rolled off the bed and made himself a mug of tea. He switched on
the, gas fire, sat down in front of it and sipped the brew while
staring at the flames.

About five-thirty the animals must have got tired and they
ceased their noise. Henry sank back into the armchair, closed his
eyes and, at last, nodded off.

An hour later Henry and the animals were reawakened by a loud
knocking on the door. Henry staggered down the back steps and
opened it. A bright-eyed Donaldson stood there, immaculately turned
out. His smile drooped when he saw the unshaven mess that was his
British counterpart.