A Time For Justice

by Nick Oldham

  Gaskell delved into the bag and came out with a loaded one.

  ‘If you want to try it, feel free,’ he offered. ‘Ear protectors are hung on the wall there.’

  Hinksman reached for a pair and covered his ears. ‘Can you time the targets?’

  The dealer nodded.

  ‘OK, six two-second exposures and vary the times when the targets aren’t visible ... anything up to ten seconds.’

  ‘D’you want both targets?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Gaskell programmed in Hinksman’s requirement as the American wandered to the 15 metre mark on the range. He shrugged his shoulders to loosen up, held the pistol with both hands, took a breath and signalled he was ready.

  The delay seemed interminable, although it was only six seconds. Then both targets swung into view. Suddenly, and for two seconds, Hinksman, was faced with two heavily armed soldiers.

  He reacted smoothly and quickly. His knees bent. He snapped into the weaver stance and, ‘Ba-bam!’ A double tap. The noise was incredible and so was Hinksman’s speed and accuracy. In that split second of firing he put a bullet into each target. In the chest. On the heart. Then they were gone out of sight. Two seconds later – even before Hinksman had time to breathe out or consider how good his shooting was - the targets came back round again.

  Again he caught them. Again both heart-shots.

  Four gone. Eight remaining.

  So far it was superb shooting. Gaskell was impressed and frightened. He quickly crossed the width of the range and picked up one of the guns from the table - a Makarov self-loading pistol. The targets swung back five seconds later: Hinksman amended his aim for these, drilling a hole in the forehead of each one with chilling precision. Six gone.

  Gaskell checked the Makarov. The magazine was full. He eased one up the chamber and put the safety on. He didn’t trust Hinksman. Didn’t like the way he’d reacted to his feelings about the bomb. He thought it better to be in a stronger position when he came off the range with an empty gun, just in case. He wouldn’t feel completely satisfied until the American had left.

  The targets came round twice more in quick succession. Hinksman’s aim stayed as remarkable as when he’d first started shooting. Two more shots to the head adjacent to the holes already there, followed by two more to the heart, forming a cluster any marksman would have been proud of.

  Gaskell slipped the Makarov into the waistband of his trousers. He pulled his cardigan down to cover it.

  There was a ten-second delay until the appearance of the targets for the last time.

  An agonising wait.

  Gaskell saw Hinksman’s shoulders rise and fall and rise again with his controlled breathing.

  The targets spun round.

  And so did Hinksman. Fast. Only a millisecond behind the targets. Still with a double-handed grip. Perfectly balanced. Wonderful pirouette. He was now facing Gaskell.

  The Englishman fumbled for his gun. But stuck there in his trousers, covered by the cardigan, he had no chance. He’d hardly moved his hand before the first of Hinksman’s bullets slammed into his chest. A heart-shot: dead centre. Perfect. The second bullet entered his head a fraction later, centre forehead, just above the bridge of his nose.

  The-arms dealer was almost lifted off his feet with the impact. He was thrown back against the wall where he stayed briefly pinned like a butterfly, arms high and wide, and then, already dead, he slithered into an untidy, bloody heap on the floor.

  His chin lolled forwards onto his chest, exposing the gaping wound at the back of his skull where the slug had made its spinning exit.

  Hinksman exhaled.

  He looked at the gun and smiled. ‘You’ll do nicely,’ he said. ‘I wonder what else is on offer.’

  Chapter Six

  McClure and Donaldson got the registered number of the hired Mondeo from the hotel video. One PNC check later they’d got the name of the hire company to go with it.

  Karen Wilde looked down at the hire documents which two detectives had seized and handed over to her in sealed plastic wallets.

  It was a condition of the car-hire agreement that the person hiring the vehicle be photographed as part of the documentation process. Hinksman was no exception - but he’d worn a flat cap, glasses and a false moustache and moved his head when the receptionist pressed the button on the Polaroid. Result: blurred image.

  Karen inspected the passport-sized photograph pinned to the corner of the hire agreement and compared it with the still that had been lifted and enlarged from the hotel video. Despite the disguise it was obviously the same man.

  She read the agreement which gave the address of the hirer as Lytham St Annes, a seaside town south of Blackpool on the Lancashire coast. It was a fairly exclusive area.

  McClure and Donaldson were sitting opposite her. Neither spoke as she peered at the evidence.

  Her eyes rose from the document. She nodded.

  ‘Good stuff,’ she admitted.

  ‘Yes, it’s a good lead at least,’ understated McClure. ‘How’s it going at the Posthouse Hotel room?’

  ‘Scenes of Crime are there now. He obviously didn’t spend much time there. Seems to have dumped his things, then done a runner when you two spooked him. Left his luggage behind. There could well be prints on his things, particularly toiletries. Looks like he had a drink from a glass of water, too.’

  ‘Are you going to save the luggage for forensic?’ Donaldson asked.

  ‘Why should I?’

  He looked at her like the rookie she was, but decided not to insult her. ‘Well, from the video it looks like he kept the bomb in the case before clamping it underneath the Daimler.’

  ‘So?’

  He restrained himself from an impatient sigh. ‘We now know the bomb contained Semtex; Semtex leaves traces on clothing. Could provide very good evidence.’ Don’t you know anything, he thought.

  Smart-arse Yank, she thought sourly. ‘I’ll see it gets done,’ she conceded gracelessly. ‘So,’ she went on, coming back to the hire document, ‘with luck we’ll be able to lift prints off this form and get the FBI searching their records. I don’t hold out much hope though.’

  ‘We’ll get something,’ Donaldson said.

  Their eyes locked again. Briefly. Antagonistically.

  McClure broke in. ‘I still can’t believe he had the audacity to hire a car himself - and form a company up here.’

  ‘He’s made a few mistakes,’ said Karen. ‘Yet you say he’s a pro.’

  ‘If he’s working for Corelli, he’s a pro. But even pros get careless,’

  Donaldson pointed out. ‘He’s operating outside his normal territory. He feels safe. He doesn’t have the same sort of respect for British bobbies as he does for the FBI. He doesn’t expect to get caught. He thinks it’ll all be easy for him - and if I hadn’t been here, it would have been.’

  ‘Agent Donaldson,’ said Karen, barely able to control her temper, ‘we will catch this man, with or without your help.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  McClure tried to defuse the tension. ‘What are we going to do about the address on that form?’ He pointed to the hire documents.

  ‘I’ll send a pair of detectives round.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ asked McClure.

  ‘Why not?’ she shrugged. ‘He’s hardly likely to be there. The licence he’s used is probably stolen or lost and the owner of it, who happens to be this guy’ - she tapped the form - ‘probably hasn’t noticed it’s gone or hasn’t bothered to report it yet. Either way, he’ll be sitting at home without a care in the world.’

  ‘I don’t think we should take that chance,’ warned McClure. ‘He’s made a few mistakes so far, so maybe he’s given us the address where he’s actually holed up. OK, I admit it’s unlikely but sending two unarmed lads round is a risk we shouldn’t take.’ He took a breath. ‘That’s my view, for what it’s worth.’

  Had it come from Donaldson, she would have dismissed it out of hand, but McClure’s argument wa
s reasonable in the circumstances.

  ‘Go in with guns drawn and ready - is that what you’re saying?

  ‘Don’t take a chance - that’s what I’m saying.’

  As McClure and Donaldson left the office, Karen picked up the phone and dialled an internal number. It rang and was answered quickly by the Chief Constable’s secretary.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s busy just now, Miss Wilde,’ the secretary said.

  ‘He’s meeting a member of the police committee.’

  ‘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 o
f 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.