by Nick Oldham
A Time For Justice
By Nick Oldham
Published by Nick Oldham at Smashwords
Copyright 1996 Nick Oldham
Smashwords Edition License Statement
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously
Nick Oldham was born in April 1956 in a house in the tiny village of Belthorn – mums were very hardy in those days – up on the moors high above Blackburn, Lancashire. After leaving college then spending a depressing year in a bank, he joined Lancashire Constabulary at the age of nineteen in 1975 and served in many operational postings around the county. Most of his service was spent in uniform, but the final ten years were spent as a trainer and a manager in police training. He retired in 2005 at the rank of inspector.
He lives with his partner, Belinda, on the outskirts of Preston.
This book is dedicated to my dad, Edward Vincent Oldham, who has been my rock. Mum knows and approves.
For more information on Nick and his books visit www.nickoldham.net or ‘Nick Oldham Books’ on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Nick-Oldham-Books/134265683315905
A TIME FOR JUSTICE is the first in Nick Oldham’s fast paced, highly acclaimed crime thrillers featuring Henry Christie and is now available for the first time in e-format...
As far as mafia hitman Jimmy Hinksman is concerned, working in Britain is a piece of cake. In his opinion, the police are unarmed amateurs and security is nowhere – at least that’s what he tells his boss, Mr Corelli. Which is how Hinksman can clamp a Semtex bomb to a Daimler in a Lancaster hotel car park unobserved. The Daimler is due to take two associates of Mr Corelli to Manchester airport – Mr Corelli does not intend them to get there in one piece.
The car is in heavy traffic on the M6 when the explosion takes place. Seventy-two vehicles are involved in the carnage. The death toll is in double figures. Unfortunately for Hinksman, only one of them was intentional – his other victim was too busy with a girlfriend to start the journey.
Now Hinksman himself is a target, wanted by every cop in the force. And if he doesn’t complete the job he’s begun, Mr Corelli will be after him too.
Hinksman is also about to discover that not all British security is a joke and not every British copper a clown.
Especially not disgraced detective Henry Christie, a man with a point to prove and - after the M6 bombing – nothing left to lose...
Praise for Nick Oldham
‘For sheer grab-you-by-the-throat readability, A TIME FOR JUSTICE takes some beating. Nick Oldham’s high-speed thriller is the genuine article – a tale from the cutting edge of law enforcement that is utterly authentic. This new author is a real find’ – Mystery and Thriller Guild.
‘Chilling authenticity ... a gripping tale’ – Manchester Evening News.
‘A dark, broody thriller, packed with stomach-churning suspense’ – Dorset Evening Echo.
‘Oldham can out-plot and out-grisly most of his hard-boiled brethren’ – Kirkus Reviews on Hidden Witness
‘Like everything good in life, a fast-paced, old fashioned shoot-’em-up is hard to find. Fortunately we have Oldham’s latest novel to remind us what it’s all about’ – Publisher’s Weekly on Backlash
Also by Nick Oldham in the ‘Henry Christie’ series
Nightmare City
One Dead Witness
The Last Big Job
Backlash
Substantial Threat
Dead Heat
Big City Jacks
Psycho Alley
Critical Threat
The Nothing Job
Crunch Time
Screen of Deceit
Seizure
Hidden Witness
Facing Justice
Instinct
Chapter One
Hinksman never intentionally set out to kill innocent people. Not that he ever lost sleep when it did happen, but it was something he tried to avoid.
With that in mind, he set the timer on the bomb for thirty minutes after the car was due to leave for the airport. That way, he figured, even if there was a delay, the Daimler would be on the motorway when the bomb went off. The possibility of killing some other sucker was still there, of course, but at least it was minimised ... to a degree.
And it was only a small bomb. That’s all it needed to be - a block of Semtex no bigger than a slim paperback with a detonator pushed into it and a timer strapped on with insulation tape. The timer was nothing more than the switch-and-circuit-board mechanism from an automatic dog-feeder he’d bought the day before, cannibalised and adapted to his needs. It was powered by a small AAA battery. A ring magnet was attached to the bomb by superglue.
The result was a plain, simple, home-made bomb. Just the right size to blow a Daimler limousine to smithereens.
It took Hinksman only seconds to put the bomb into place.
He’d parked his hired Ford Mondeo in one corner of the Posthouse Hotel car park near Lancaster and waited patiently for the Daimler to appear. It arrived on time.
The driver left it unattended and went into the hotel.
Hinksman had been counting on this; as he climbed swiftly out of the Mondeo, he sniggered. Security in this country was a complete joke! In the States, no car would ever have been left without a minder, even for a moment. Here in England, things were just so lax. So amateur.
As he walked alongside the limo his suitcase flipped open and the contents spilled out onto the tarmac. He cursed aloud, bent down and began to collect up his clothes. At the same time he clamped the bomb with a satisfying clunk firmly on the underside of the car, near to the petrol tank.
Stuffing his belongings untidily back into the case, he was suddenly aware of someone standing over him. He looked up and smiled.
‘Damned suitcase,’ he said.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ It was the chauffeur, eyeing him with suspicion.
‘No, no,’ he said in the clipped English accent he’d been perfecting. ‘Clasp’s broken, have to get a new suitcase. Thanks anyway.’
He stood up and walked across to the hotel, aware that the chauffeur’s eyes were piercing into his back all the way. It was hard not to glance over his shoulder - but that would have given the game away. He kicked himself mentally for not noticing the man’s return; it was only a small mistake, true, but big enough to have got himself killed. ‘Shape up,’ he told himself. ‘Just because you’re in England that’s no reason to get slack.’
He booked into the Posthouse Hotel under false details and went immediately to his room.
Ten minutes later he was back in the foyer, drinking coffee, reading a newspaper and waiting for his targets to leave. He wanted to see the Englishman and the American off on their final journey. He was sentimental like that.
The two men were agonisingly late coming down to check out. When they eventually did appear, the reason for the delay became obvious they each had a devastatingly beautiful woman clinging to their arm, and no doubt had been saying their goodbyes to them in time-honoured fashion.
Hinksman did not begrudge the men their last moments of pleasure. They had probably paid handsomely for it, judging by the quality of the women. These were no cheap whores, thought
Hinksman.
The chauffeur met them at Reception and took their suitcases out to the Daimler while the men settled their accounts, in cash.
There were smiles, laughter and handshakes between the men and the hotel staff. Evidently they had been generous guests.
Hinksman took the opportunity to study them discreetly. This was the first time he’d actually seen in the flesh the two men who’d become a thorn in his boss’s side. They didn’t look anything special, but they’d begun to spread their activities in all directions without telling Mr Corelli or giving him his fair share - and therefore Mr Corelli was not pleased. They had been warned several times to get into line, but they seemed to be deaf. A somewhat unfortunate ailment.
And now they’d had the audacity to go into business full-time.
They’d fixed up a deal right under Mr Corelli’s nose.
Even though he was impressed by their acumen and daring, Mr Corelli was not a happy man.
He wanted them dead.
And what Mr Corelli wanted, he got.
Which was where Hinksman came in.
After the pleasantries, the group stepped out of the hotel into the damp morning. Hinksman checked his watch. The bomb was due to go off in sixteen minutes. By then they would be on the motorway racing to Manchester Airport. The flight to Miami left in ninety minutes and the American was due to be on it.
The chauffeur saluted and opened the rear door of the limo but only one of the men, the American - and his female companion - slid onto the plush back seat. . . leaving the two others on the kerb, holding hands like newlyweds.
Hinksman frowned.
The driver clunked the door shut, walked smartly round the vehicle and got in behind the steering wheel. He drove elegantly away, turning out of the car park towards the M6.
Leaving the Englishman behind.
Hinksman said, ‘Shit’, softly to himself.
A few moments later, a 7-series BMW with tinted windows drove into the car park and picked up the Englishman and his companion. This car turned in the opposite direction to the motorway.
Hinksman put his paper down and cursed.
120 mph. Henry Christie looked up from the speedo at the profile of Terry Briggs, his partner in the pursuit of crime. Terry, concentrating on the driving, was completely relaxed; his hands rested lightly on the wheel, his head against the head-rest. His eyes, though, took in everything. They darted about continuously, checking the mirror, the road ahead, then the mirror again. All the time reading the traffic, anticipating.
Terry was a brilliant driver, and Henry Christie felt as safe as was possible under the circumstances. For the past eight years, ever since they had been PCs in uniform on crime patrol together, Henry had trusted the driving to Terry and never been let down.
A quarter of a mile ahead, a red Porsche 9II Turbo pulled out into the fast lane. Henry put the binoculars to his eyes. A puff of smoke from the exhaust and the Porsche became an even smaller speck.
‘He’s put his foot down again,’ said Terry. ‘If I do the same he’ll clock us for sure ... if he hasn’t already done so.’
‘True,’ said Henry, lowering the binos, amazed - as ever - at Terry’s vision. Eyes like a shit-house rat was the phrase which sprang to mind.
Following someone down a motorway wasn’t easy at the best of times. It was even harder when the target was surveillance-conscious, was probably scanning police airwaves, and had about a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of Ecstasy tablets on his back seat. He was also believed to be armed-with a Smith & Wesson .38 special, according to their intelligence.
‘He’s no fool,’ said Henry, rubbing his eyes. It had been a long job.
Two nights with no sleep chasing all over Scotland, dodging and hiding all the time. And now this, a hectic drive down from Glasgow ... to where? Manchester, probably. Or Birmingham. Henry yawned. He was knackered, needed a shit, a shave and a shower, and was all too aware of his armpits.
‘Drop back,’ he said. ‘Let Jim go through.’
Terry obediently floated the Cosworth into the middle lane.
Henry pressed the radio transmit button on the dash and spoke, his voice being picked up by the mike in the sun visor. Wireless workshops had told him that his transmissions couldn’t be intercepted on this frequency - but he rightly treated that assurance with a pinch of salt. Too many jobs had gone wrong thanks to careless banter over the airwaves.
‘Eyeball to back-up,’ Henry said crisply.
There was a crackle of static. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Back-up, make ground,’ said Henry, ‘then confirm eyeball.’
‘Received.’
Moments later, from nowhere, the second car in the four-vehicle Regional Crime Squad surveillance team - a high-powered Vauxhall Carlton - smoothed effortlessly past them. The two detectives in it flashed V-signs at Henry and Terry, who returned the gestures.
‘Fuckin’ cops,’ said Terry. ‘Think they can get away with anything.’ He dropped his speed back to a respectable ton as they approached the bridge over the River Lune. Two miles away to their right stood the city of Lancaster.
Henry fidgeted on his seat, adjusting the uncomfortable shoulder-holster which held the lightweight pistol under his left armpit. Crime Squad detectives were often armed when there was the possibility of confronting criminals believed to be carrying weapons - but it wasn’t something Henry felt easy about.
Danny Carver was young and ambitious but not too intelligent. He had good looks and the muscles of a pit bull, and did not hesitate to do any ‘sorting’ - if any had to be done. But like most young and ambitious hoodlums who lacked the ability to look ahead, he didn’t realise when he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Which is why, as he settled down in the back of the Daimler, thoughts of Corelli were far from his mind.
His mind was on one thing only - the woman sitting next to him; Leila, aged nineteen, had cost him almost £2000 for three days of service from a ‘respectable’ escort agency.
Two grand, he thought with a chuckle - but so what?
He could afford it. The deal he had just pulled off was going to net him millions. And that big fat Italian bastard could just fuck off! Who the hell did he think he was?
The Daimler sped silkily down the motorway.
Danny opened the drinks cabinet and helped himself to a generous measure of Glenfiddich. He leaned back and stretched his legs. There was plenty of room.
‘Go down on me,’ he told Leila.
She smiled and got to work on him without hesitation. If she made this one extra-special, she thought as she spied a bottle of Taboo in the cabinet, it might be worth a bonus.
The driver checked his mirror and saw what was going on.
He adjusted it downwards for a better view.
By the time they were approaching the Preston exit of the M6 -Junction 31- which passed over the River Ribble - Henry and Terry were the last car of the team. They almost dawdled along at ninety, listening to the flashes of transmissions between the three cars ahead, all of which were well out of sight.
They still had the Porsche though. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Leila used all her experience and know-how on Danny. Time after time she brought him slowly to the brink, and had him writhing in ecstasy across the back seat. Nibbling, licking, chewing, biting, sucking, gently blowing. Stopping. Starting again.
‘Jeez. . . aahh. . . Jeez!’ was all that Danny could say. He gripped her head, her shoulders, the car seat. He wanted to explode. And he wanted it to go on for ever.
‘This is worth an extra two-fifty,’ he gasped in a rare moment of lucidity.
Damn right it is, she thought, and reached for the bottle of Taboo.
‘What the hell..?’ blurted Danny. She kept hold of him with one hand and unscrewed the cap with her teeth. She put the bottle to her full lips and swirled the liquor around like a mouthwash, then swallowed it. She looked wickedly at Danny.
‘You’ll like this,’ she said, lowering h
er head to his lap.
Danny screamed. He shot bolt upright and banged his head on the car roof. Leila kept a grip and would not be swayed from her task, consummate professional that she was.
‘God, that stings! It’s fantastic!’
He ejaculated in her mouth exactly sixteen minutes after starting the journey.
They were halfway across the Ribble Bridge, in the middle lane of the motorway, travelling at 87 mph, when the timer, which should have been flicking open a bowl full of Pedigree Chum, brought together the two contacts of the bomb which Hinksman had stuck to the underside of the Daimler.
The device exploded bang on time. Just four seconds after Danny’s climax.
The explosion ripped into the petrol tank, turning the fuel into a massive fireball of white heat which vaporised everything in its path.
The Daimler was hurled sixty feet into the air like a toy car thrown by a child. It somersaulted a dozen times before crashing back down onto the carriageway and then bouncing off the bridge into the river below.
Two BMWs which had been in the process of overtaking the Daimler on the outside were tossed like cardboard boxes in the wind over the central reservation, right into the path of the oncoming traffic.
On the inside lane, a Minibus containing kids from a special school took the sideways brunt of the blast. The windows and side panels were destroyed as the ‘whoosh’ of the explosion ripped into it and sent it skidding on its roof across the hard shoulder, where it smacked into the safety barrier. The barrier simply acted like a foot, tripping the vehicle up and sending it over and down into the river.