A Time For Justice (9 page)

‘
I need to speak to him urgently, Jean,’ Karen
said.

‘
He’s asked not to be disturbed,’ the secretary said. She was
one of the few who had hard evidence of Karen’s affair with her
boss and she disapproved of it.

‘
Jean,’ Karen said slowly, as though making a point to a
backward child, ‘put me through to him now or I’ll see that you end
up transferred to some poxy little backwater copshop in the east of
the county, typing up arrest reports for beat bobbies.’

‘
Very well. Hold the line.’

Joe Kovaks had spent the night cooped up in the back of an FBI
surveillance van parked opposite a nightclub in downtown Miami. His
partner for the take-out had been a fat detective with a body-odour
problem and a habit of breaking wind so spectacularly that their
position was often in danger of being compromised. It made it worse
that his partner was a woman. Had it been a man, Kovaks could’ve
said something - or shot him - but what do you say to a woman who
farts and stinks? He didn’t know, so he called the job off at 4.30
a.m. They were getting nowhere.

He crept through his apartment an hour later, so as not to
disturb Chrissy, his sleeping ladyfriend, and slid into bed,
dropping immediately into a heavy slumber.

An hour and a half later, Donaldson called him.

‘
Look, Karl, what the fuck d’you want?’ Kovaks hissed. ‘It’s
good to hear from you but I’ve been on a job all night. Only just
got to sleep, I’m shattered.’

Awoken, Chrissy rolled out of bed and padded naked to the
toilet.

Through his puffy eyes, Kovaks watched her.

‘
You been listening to the news?’

‘
On and off.’

‘
Hear about the M6 bombing?’

‘
Who hasn’t.’ Kovaks sat up, suddenly awake.

‘
Danny Carver took most of the blast. Or should I say, the
late Danny Carver.’

‘
You’re kidding me.’

‘
Absolutely not. I think Corelli had him hit.’

‘
Jeez. . . we’d heard some sort of whisper, hadn’t we?
Dog-feeder man, d’you think?’

‘
Can’t be sure yet. Forensics are still piecing things
together. Look, pal, I need you to do some digging for me. I’m
sending a fax for you to the office. Two photos of the guy we think
is the hit man. One’s reasonably good, the other has him wearing
some phoney disguise. And when I get ‘em - sometime today, I hope
-I’ll send you a set of dabs the fingerprint boys have lifted which
may be his too. Run ‘em through, will ya? See if they tie up with
our fella. With me so far, buddy?’

‘
Anything else?’

‘
I think I’ve seen this guy before, on a photo with Corelli .
. . sat in a bar or restaurant somewhere. When you get the fax, try
and root out the photo, will ya? It could be the guy we’ve been
after.’

‘
Oh, just like that? We’ve got over three thousand photos of
that fat bastard, most of ‘em feedin’ his face.’

‘
Just do it, Joe. It’s important.’

‘
Gotcha. No problemo.’

‘
What’s Corelli been up to?’ Donaldson asked.

Chrissy flushed the toilet and re-entered the room looking
dopey, bedraggled and completely fuckable. Kovaks watched her slide
in next to him.

‘
Nothing unusual,’ he answered, as Chrissy cuddled up and
squeezed him. ‘Business, eating, fishing, eating, et cetera, et
cetera. . . not always in that order.’

‘
Look, Joe, we really need to know who this hit man is. The
British cops want to get him before he leaves the country. What I’m
saying is, if the prints don’t come back positive, this may be
serious enough to approach Whisper.’

‘
Whoa! That’s a big step - a decision for the Director to
make.’

‘
Two dozen people are dead. A busload of little kids. I’d say
we need to pull out the stops, wouldn’t you? Plus, getting this
bastard could lead us right up Corelli’s ass.’

‘
Leave it with me, Kar!.’

‘
The fax is on its way.’

‘
So am I.’ Kovaks hung up and yawned hugely. Reluctantly he
prised Chrissy away from his lower body. ‘Got to go, sweetie.
Sorry.’

‘
Fuckin’ Fibbies,’ she murmured. ‘Hate ‘em.’ She turned over
and snuggled back down into the bed.

‘
I can’t make the decision for you,’ Dave August sighed. ‘No
one said it would be easy ... and I can’t authorise a firearms team
to turn out anyway. You’ll have to go through the proper channels
on this, otherwise things will start to stink even worse than they
do already.’

‘
What do you mean?’

‘
You know exactly what I mean.’

‘
So I’ll have to go creeping to that bastard Crosby for
authorisation?’

‘
No - you’ll have to put a reasoned argument to him and then,
if he’s satisfied, he’ll give you the go-ahead to use a
team.’

‘
You’re no use whatsoever.’

She slammed the phone down, fuming, but knowing he was
correct.

In Britain it wasn’t as easy as in the United States, or
anywhere else come to that, to deploy an armed police team. There
had to be good reasons for it and the authorisation had to be made
by an officer of at least the rank of Assistant Chief Constable. A
Chief Constable, being of higher rank, could give the authorisation
but procedure and protocol meant that, in practice, this would only
be done if an ACC wasn’t on duty. In this case an ACC was on duty.
Jack Crosby.

Feeling nauseated, Karen dialled Crosby’s number. Despite her
pleas, he refused the request.

She wasn’t surprised - it
was
fairly flimsy. Yet there was just the vaguest
possibility that the man they were hunting might be at the
address.

She frowned and pondered for a while.

The perfect compromise came to her in a flash.

After three phone calls she summoned McClure and Donaldson
back into her office.

From inside a nondescript car parked at the end of the avenue,
the two detectives watched the man drive past in his Audi. He
parked in the driveway of his house and let himself in through the
front door. He looked prosperous, not dangerous, but he lived alone
- that much they had gleaned - and any man who lived alone in such
a house (detached, four bedrooms, double garage) must have some
questions to answer.

They gave him ten seconds before speaking on the
radio.

‘
He’s in - let’s go,’ said McClure.

Two vehicles screeched round the corner past them.

The first, a dark blue Support Unit personnel carrier, had
darkened windows and steel grilles which protected the headlights,
radiator and windscreen. It was a riot bus and looked like it meant
business.

The second was an unmarked Rover 620i with two uniformed
officers on board.

The carrier accelerated down the avenue and skidded to an
impressive halt outside the house. Within seconds all the occupants
had debussed in a well-rehearsed manoeuvre and were sprinting up
the driveway.

Ten Constables, one Sergeant - not one under six feet tall.
Each wore a specially designed riot helmet with the visor down,
dark-blue flame-retardant overalls, leather belt, padded gloves,
shin-guards, steel toe-capped boots and a Kevlar bullet-proof vest.
All but two were equipped with short round riot shields for extra
protection.

Four men peeled off and raced down the side of the house to
the rear.

The remaining seven, including the Sergeant, communicating by
hand signals only, went wordlessly to the front door.

The two officers in the Rover got out at a more leisurely pace
and took up a position which put their car between themselves and
the house. Each held a ballistic shield in front of him.

The Support Unit Constables without the shields held a ‘door
opener’ between them which was designed to be able to lever open
any type of domestic door. They slotted the edge of the instrument
into the narrow crack between the frame of the front door and the
lock and heaved down together. The wood frame splintered and
cracked immediately. The lock gave next. With the invaluable
assistance of a size-ten boot, the door finally flew open - an
operation that had lasted all of twelve seconds.

They stepped aside to allow their colleagues to
pass.

‘
We’re in,’ the Sergeant said into the radio which was fitted
in his helmet.

Cops with shields poured into the house.

‘
We’re down the hallway. No sign yet.’

It was just before 6.35 p.m. When he came home, the owner of
the house had gone straight to the lounge at the rear and switched
on the TV quite loudly to catch a repeat of the news
headlines.

He heard nothing - until the policeman’s foot connected with
the door.

Puzzled, he stepped into the hallway and into the middle of a
nightmare. Around him surged what looked like an army from a
science-fiction movie.

‘
Subject in sight,’ shouted the Sergeant into his
radio.

The man heard a voice from under a helmet scream, ‘Come here,
you bastard!’ a moment before the mass of law and order drove him
bodily through to the kitchen.

It was like being struck by an express train.

He smashed his head against the sink as he thudded down onto
the tiled floor with the combined weight of three officers - almost
forty stones - on top of him.

Head spinning, fearing death, short of breath, totally unable
to comprehend the situation, he didn’t need to be told not to try
anything stupid.

‘
Subject overpowered and detained. No one hurt,’ breathed the
Sergeant into his radio.

Hinksman returned to his hotel room that evening, depositing a
plastic carrier bag on the bed. He switched on the portable TV
which was on the dressing table. It was badly tuned and the picture
disappeared occasionally to be replaced by static for a moment or
two. Karen Wilde was being interviewed by BBC North-West about the
progress of the M6 bomb investigation. It was a live interview
taking place on the steps of Preston police station.

Hinksman admired her looks and confidence and the way she
handled herself. Very impressive.

Yes, she said, the IRA had been eliminated. Yes, they were
following up many leads. There could be some truth in the rumour
that it was a gangland killing; police were keeping an open mind.
No, there had been no positive identification of the bodies in the
car which was carrying the
bomb. Yes,
the
bomb could have gone off accidentally,
that was always possible. Over sixty detectives were now working
full-time on the investigation. Finally (a withering look at the
reporter here), yes, the officer who had assaulted their colleague
was to face disciplinary proceedings, although no criminal charges
were to be brought. Then: thank you and good night. Karen Wilde was
a busy woman with work to get back to.

Hinksman crossed quickly to the window and peeked out. The
street was quiet. No police activity. The TV interview had made him
jumpy - but there was no way they could know about him, he
reasoned. Then he remembered the two detectives in the Posthouse
Hotel. Particularly the American.

He delved into the carrier bag and pulled out the video tapes
he’d removed from Gaskell’s house, once the arms dealer was dead.
He placed them carefully on the floor. Then took out the gun, lay
back on he bed with it held across his chest and closed his
eyes.

Henry Christie flicked off the TV. ‘Bitch!’

‘
Oh Dad, I was watching that,’ complained Jenny, his eldest
laughter.
‘Emmerdale
is on soon.’

He tossed the remote control to her, and walked out into the
back garden. It was a small, barren piece of land, all fiat lawn
and patio. A four-foot-high wooden fence was the
boundary.

The evening sky was cloudy. Rain looked likely, but it was
warmer than it had been.

His head hurt. His whole body ached dully.

Someone touched his shoulder. ‘Hi,’ his wife said. ‘You OK?’
‘After a fashion,’ he said.

‘
Still smarting?’

‘
In more ways than one.’

‘
She’s probably right, you know - keeping you off the
job.’

‘
Look, Kate, I should be on that investigation! I should be
tracking that bastard down. I deserve to be. I saw those kids
drowning. . . Jesus . . . I’d like to get my hands on
him.’

‘
Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be on the enquiry.’ She
sighed and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Why don’t you take a few days
off sick? Have a long weekend - be at home with the kids for a
change. And me. They’d understand at work.’

‘
No.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve got a drugs dealer to
catch.’

4a.m. Henry sat shivering in his front lounge as the
semi-light of early morning filtered through the curtains. His
teeth were chattering unstoppably. Yet he knew it was warm - the
central heating was on full blast. But he was cold and clammy. He
felt weak. He swallowed something back in his throat. It tasted of
petrol.