by Nick Oldham
‘Criminal injuries compensation,’ she muttered, pocketing the money.
She tiptoed onto the landing above the entrance hall where Hinksman was taking the phone call. She backed into the dark recess of an alcove and waited.
‘Unfortunate,’ she could hear Hinksman saying. ‘But it’s the name of the game ... innocents do die occasionally ... so where will he be? Who? Say that again. . . Right, got that; I speak to him. Right, OK. I’ll take care of it, don’t you worry, boss. Take it as read. It’s as good as done ... OK, OK, so long.’
In the shadows Jane’s stomach tightened with fear. She prayed to a God she didn’t really believe in: Please, don’t let him spot me hiding here. She closed her eyes.
She heard him coming up the stairs.
She steeled herself to open her eyes again.
She almost let out a yelp. There he was. Less than three feet away from her! She could reach out and tap his shoulder. Surely out of the corner of his eye he must see her. Surely then he would kill her.
But Hinksman walked straight past her, yawning, massaging his neck muscles. His mind and senses were far away. She was undiscovered.
Still holding her breath, Jane gave him time to get round the corner before emerging like a ghost from the darkness and bolting down the stairs, along the hall and out through the front door - away from a man she never wanted to see again.
Sadly for her, this was not to be the case.
Chapter Four
The phone in the bedroom rang for a long, long time. Slowly it insinuated itself into Henry’s brain cells and forced him into wakefulness. It was a fight against whisky, analgesic and a crack on the head. He lay listening to the shrill noise, not knowing what it was at first. Eventually he threw off the duvet and went over to pick it up. ‘Yeah?’ he croaked.
‘DS Christie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘This is Linda in control room. If you’re fit, you’re requested to be at the murder incident room which has been set up at Preston police station at eleven o’clock for a briefing.’
‘What time is it now?’
‘Nine-o-five.’
‘Right. I’ll be there.’
‘Are you OK for transport?’
‘Yeah.’
He reeled slightly as a spell of dizziness hit him and put a hand to his forehead, steadying himself. His fingers brushed the tender stitches and shaved area on the left side of his head. He flinched at the touch. He felt old and stiff.
The house was quiet. Kate must have taken the girls to school and gone on to her part-time job at the insurance brokerage in Blackpool. She hadn’t disturbed him when she left - or at least he couldn’t recall it.
He had a long hot redeeming shower, brushed his teeth vigorously and gargled with TCP to get rid of the alcoholic residue. He emerged feeling almost alive.
He made a quick phone call to Terry - who was all right but had reported in sick - and with three Paracetamols down him (and a further supply in his pocket), a glass of skimmed milk to line his stomach, a quick peek in the mirror to remind himself how he looked - bad - he left for work just after ten, shaving as he drove with a battery-powered portable.
Hinksman was pissed off to find that the prostitute had vanished. He swore and checked his wallet. Empty. What a surprise.
He decided that if he had the opportunity, he’d track her down and hurt her. Rather more than he had done already.
As soon as his head hit the grubby pillow again he was asleep.
His heavy night, however, didn’t prevent him from waking up before his alarm and turning out for a four-mile run along the promenade. It was no easy, laid-back jog, but a hard fast work-out designed to flush his system. By the end of it he felt clear and quick again. Ready for work.
Hinksman found the hotel proprietor in the kitchen. He helped himself to a slice of toast and a cup of coffee, after which he backed Paglia into the large, walk-in pantry and spoke to him.
‘That bitch cleaned me out last night,’ Hinksman hissed. ‘I need money - pronto.’
‘No problem. Ten, twenty, thirty pounds?’
‘A grand.’
‘What! I haven’t got that sort of money.’
‘Get it,’ said Hinksman levelly. ‘This afternoon. I need to buy things.’
‘I can’t,’ he protested.
Hinksman reached out his right hand at the speed of a cobra striking, and clamped it round the little man’s throat. From there he lifted him on tiptoes and slammed him back against a tall freezer which rocked precariously; the contents clattering around inside. Hinksman’s grip tightened. Paglia struggled for breath, gagging and choking, both hands fumbling in a pathetic attempt to peel Hinksman’s fingers out of his soft skin.
‘I said get it. You don’t want to fall out with us, now do you?’ Paglia’s eyes bulged. He managed to shake his head and Hinksman set him down.
‘Good,’ said the American. ‘A very sensible person.’
Paglia coughed painfully and rubbed at his throat. Thumb and finger indentations were clearly visible on the skin.
‘Mamma,’ he whispered. ‘There was no need for that.’
‘You’re obviously a man who needs to be made to understand. Now - I want that cash by this afternoon, OK?’
Paglia nodded forlornly.
Hinksman smiled. He went out, leaving the little man in the pantry, still not having recovered from his ordeal.
Hinksman walked through the hotel flexing his fingers.
That felt rather good, he thought.
The Chief Constable’s office had a view across the sports field at headquarters. Dave August spent many a happy hour watching games from the window. Feet up, all calls diverted, all callers blocked. One of the few benefits of rank, he thought.
At ten o’clock that morning, the day after the M6 bombing, he was behind his desk, facing into the room. Two men sat opposite him.
Here was one of the drawbacks of rank, he thought sourly. Making unpopular – and bad - decisions and having to stick with them.
The ACC (Operations), Jack Crosby, a tough no-nonsense career detective was one of his visitors. He looked grave and unhappy. He’d spent all his service with Lancashire and had been involved in over 200 murder investigations - and got a result on all but one. He’d also been involved in career manipulation and politics at the highest level of the service, and could see right through the chief’s announcement. It was obvious what he was thinking. Dick rules head.
Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, the Chief Superintendent in charge of crime, was the other visitor. Despite his fancy-sounding name and appearance, he was as tough and hard-edged as Crosby, but ten years younger. He thought he’d seen and heard everything in his time, but the Chiefs words left him gobsmacked.
August could see what effect his announcement had had, but there was no going back now.
‘So I hope you’ll give her your whole-hearted support,’ he finished weakly.
‘And there’s no doubt about it - she’s gonna need a hell of a lot,’ said Fanshaw-Bayley. He clammed up as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
The Chief kept his temper. ‘I admit she’s inexperienced, but she’s very capable.’
‘And ambitious,’ interjected Crosby. ‘Isn’t this what it’s all about - ambition?’ His Liverpool accent, normally undetectable, became more pronounced.
‘It’ll be a good challenge for her,’ August said. ‘And yes, it won’t do her career any harm.’
Crosby sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘This crime,’ he said, ‘is above career ambition. In my opinion, Ronnie Veevers is the man who should be running it. He’s got the experience, contacts and ability to run such a large investigation. He did well on the Baxter shooting and that double murder over in Colne at the beginning of the year. And he wouldn’t be heading it because he wants to become a Chief Constable - he’d be heading it because he wanted to catch the evil bastard that did it!’ His voice had risen.
‘If she
wants some experience, boss, let her run with Veevers. Be his aide, his assistant or whatever - but don’t let her have the reins. This is far too big to make mistakes.’
August sat back in his big chair. The leather creaked. He indicated Fanshaw-Bayley. ‘Robert, have you anything to add?’
‘Plenty - but not here and now, except to say I agree with everything Mr Crosby has said.’ He folded his arms and gazed past the Chief’s shoulder, out of the window.
‘In that case - meeting over,’ the Chief concluded airily.
‘What exactly does that mean, sir?’ Crosby asked.
‘It means that Miss Wilde heads the investigation.’
After they had gone Karen emerged from the en-suite. She’d been listening at the door.
‘You were brilliant, boss,’ she cooed.
‘Mm,’ he said doubtfully.
‘Typical misogynistic CID, that’s all,’ she assured him. ‘You’ve taken their toys off them and they don’t like it so they’re sulking. A boys’ club, that’s all it is. And I’ve got their ball and I’m going to play with it.’
‘Don’t you let me down,’ August warned her.
‘Would I? Moi?’ She winked at him. ‘Now, that briefing is set for eleven. I’ll put it back to two, which’ll give me time to get my hair done and sort out a few new working outfits.’
Inwardly, Dave August groaned.
Crosby and Fanshaw-Bayley walked side by side down the corridor towards Crosby’s office. The corridor of power. Anyone who was anyone had an office along here.
Once behind his own closed door, the man exploded.
‘I simply do not believe what I’ve just heard!’
He slumped down behind his desk and thumped it with his fist.
‘Wilde has no experience of police work of any description. She’s done all the secondments and training courses she needs to do to get where she is and nothing more. She’s hardly set the world on fire, just played the system and won. She’s nothing more than a competent administrator. Jesus, this is appalling. I wonder how long it is since she was last face to face with an actual villain? Or even a member of the public, come to that?’
FB listened to the tirade, nodding all the while.
‘It does help,’ he added, ‘when you’re shafting the Chief Constable at the same time.’
Crosby’s eyes narrowed. ‘We don’t know if that’s true. Let’s turn some of that rumour into hard fact before it’s too late. We don’t want this investigation falling apart round our ears. We’ll need to move fast. Can I leave it to you, FB?’
FB nodded.
McClure picked up Donaldson from his central Manchester hotel paid for by the FBI - at ten-thirty that morning. Both men looked haggard through lack of sleep, but at least McClure had had the advantage of spending the night in his own bed with his own warm-arsed wife to spoon up to.
It had gone three when Donaldson had clambered into a bed which was cold and uninviting despite the plushness of the room. He missed having someone to get to grips with in the dark hours. In fact, he had missed someone for three years. Ever since his wife had disappeared with a beat cop from Fort Lauderdale who worked horrendous hours yet came home every day. Donaldson didn’t really blame her. If he made it home once a week it was an occasion. He was thankful there were no children to worry about.
‘Put a name to that face yet?’ McClure asked as the agent slumped beside him.
‘Can’t say I have,’ sighed Donaldson, ‘but I’m sure I’ve seen it before ... in the Corelli file...’ He thought hard, screwing up his face. ‘Or a bar somewhere. . . I dunno. Anyway, I’m going to do an ET.’
‘A what?’
‘You know - phone home,’ Donaldson explained.
‘Oh, right,’ said McClure bewildered.
‘I’ll have someone look through the photos for me. I’m sure it’s from one taken in a restaurant or bar. It’s just tough that we’ve hundreds of Corelli in fucking restaurants.’
‘Actually I have an idea that might just help on that score.’
‘Whaddya mean?’
‘Later, later,’ said McClure. ‘Just sit back and enjoy the ride.’
The gymnasium at Preston police station had been commandeered as the murder incident room. Since the early hours, furniture and equipment had been rolled in and placed on the canvas matting which had been laid to protect the gym floor. Four HOLMES terminals (Home Office Large/Major Enquiry System) were already up and running, waiting for information to be fed into them; four more were expected. Twelve phones had been rigged up. Desks were placed around the room, all equipped with stationery and wire baskets and a sign indicating who would be sitting there: Receiver, Allocator, Coordinator, Exhibits Officer etc ... and the wall ladders around the gym were covered with whiteboards, blackboards and noticeboards.
Two coffee machines had also been installed. It was going to be a long investigation.
The room was crowded for this initial briefing. There were forty detectives drawn in from around the county, twenty-odd uniform officers mainly from the Support Unit, some traffic cops, a handful of civilians and three Coroner’s officers.
Those present were subdued but expectant and raring to go. Impatient too. After all, the first briefing at eleven had been cancelled. Valuable time was being wasted.
The atmosphere was quietly charged.
Despite himself, Henry Christie couldn’t suppress a smile. He leaned back on the wall and looked around the room. He’d worked on many murders, been in this situation many times. Dying to get going, get your teeth into it. Knowing that maybe, just maybe, you’d be the one to feel the collar.
Particularly this one. This was almost personal.
His smile disappeared.
Especially this one.
Karen Wilde shuffled her notes into order, glancing through them once more, collating all the salient facts. She knew all there was to know so far, and she also knew exactly what she was going to say in the briefing which was - she checked her watch - five minutes away.
She stood up and paced the office she’d taken over - a small one on the third floor belonging to some pen-pushing nonentity admin inspector who’d moaned pathetically when she’d turfed him out. Silly little sod.
She straightened her suit then made her way towards the lift and pressed the button. The gym was several floors up. She tapped her feet as she waited for the lift to arrive.
It came. The doors creaked open. Two men she did not know stepped out. They peered at her office pass which was clipped onto the lapel of her new jacket.
‘Chief Inspector Wilde,’ one of them said.
‘Acting Superintendent,’ she corrected him, bustling past into the lift. ‘Acting Detective-Superintendent, actually,’ she said, pressing the button.
But the lift did not move. The man had stepped across the threshold, preventing the doors from closing.
‘I believe you’re running the investigation into the M6 bombing?’
‘Correct.’
‘Big job for a little lady like you,’ said the other man. Karen noticed his American accent.
She said stonily, ‘I don’t know who you are, but I don’t care for your attitude or approach. Now, I have a briefing to give, so if you wouldn’t mind ...?’ She waved away the man who was impeding the lift.
‘We have some valuable information for you regarding the bombing,’ he said.
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’d better be quick about it, hadn’t you?’
Earlier that day, McClure had driven north up the M6. He’d had to detour round Preston because the motorway was still closed, but within an hour they were in Lancaster. He drove into the Posthouse Hotel car park.
Donaldson was mystified. McClure had refused point blank to answer any of the American’s queries.
‘This better be fucking good,’ said the FBI man, clambering out of the car.
McClure just smiled.
The two men stood side
by side. McClure, still silent, pointed up at the hotel.
Donaldson’s mouth dropped open.
Video cameras. Two of them. Each one positioned on a front corner of the building, recording views of the car park from different angles.
He spun round to McClure, grinning. ‘You brilliant bastard! How in hell did y’know about these?’
McClure shrugged modestly. ‘Just recalled seeing them yesterday, but didn’t think much of it at the time.’
‘Let’s hope they work.’
The management were as helpful as on the previous day, allowing the detectives to view the tapes in a private room. It took only ten minutes to find what they wanted. Then McClure claimed the relevant tape for evidence and gave the manager a receipt.
‘May I ask what all this is about?’ the manager asked.
‘Did the man we’ve just seen on the tape book a room?’ McClure enquired, ignoring the question.
‘Yes - he paid two days in advance.’
McClure looked quickly at Donaldson. ‘Is he still in it?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll have to ask Reception.’
‘Let’s do it,’ snapped Donaldson.
‘But what’s it about?’ the manager demanded.
McClure said, ‘The M6 bombing.’
‘Oh my God,’ the man breathed. Then he pulled himself together. ‘Right, come this way.’
Reception confirmed that the man had booked and paid for Room 111 but hadn’t returned to it since yesterday, unless he’d sneaked back without their knowledge. The key had not been returned yet.
McClure and Donaldson conferred hurriedly.