A Time For Justice

by Nick Oldham

  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.

  The bottle of brandy found its way back to his mouth. The liquid gurgled down his gullet as though he were swigging back a pint of milk.

  He only stopped when he began to choke.

  Still he shivered. His whole body shook, convulsed.

  Still he couldn’t erase the vivid nightmare which had thrown him violently awake. Faces. Fingers. Clawing. Water.

  The brandy went to his mouth again. Empty. He let the bottle slip out of his fingers onto the carpet and reached for the Bell’s. The whisky went down neat on top of the brandy. Almost three quarters of a bottle.

  The room began a slow, sickening spin. Moving up, moving down, all in one flowing, churning motion. The petrol taste flooded back. He gulped it down again.

  He slumped sideways on the sofa, breathing heavily, mind reeling like a roller-coaster, everything going round and round, him in the middle of it, unable to act, unable to stop it all and get off; drunk, shivering ... then suddenly it all became ten times worse.

  The dream surged relentlessly back. Those frightened faces, pressed against the glass. The rushing river. His failure. The muted screams. His failure.

  Blackness came with a piercing, wailing sound and a bang-bang banging from somewhere inside him.

  The last blurred image he had before passing out was that of his eldest daughter standing by the door in her night clothes, a terrified expression on her uncomprehending face.

  Chapter Seven

  Joe Kovaks found the faxes from England wedged halfway down the pile in his pigeon hole. Drinking bitter black coffee from a plastic cup and grimacing with each mouthful, he looked at the photos. They were not brilliant reproductions but were clear enough to make an I.D. The prospect of sifting through thousands of photographs of Corelli and his cronies wasn’t remotely appealing.

  He was about to fetch Corelli’s file when another fax was slapped down on his desk. It was the set of dabs lifted from the Posthouse Hotel room in Lancaster.

  Kovaks scribbled a note marked Urgent and pinned it to the fax. He hurried down to the Fingerprint Bureau.

  The atmosphere here was quiet and scholarly. Rows of computers, all logged into Printrak, filled the room. At each desk sat a fingerprint expert, dressed in shirt, tie, slacks and spectacles, the uniform of every fingerprint expert the world over, including the women. No one was smoking, so Kovaks took a final drag of his Marlboro and stamped it out on the corridor floor before crossing the threshold.

  As he entered the room he wondered why anyone in their right mind would want to do this for a living.

  He made his way over to a man peering at a magnified fingerprint on his computer screen. Blown up, it looked like the relief map of a mountain.

  ‘Hi, Damian.’

  The man spun round and squinted myopically at Kovaks. ‘Joe, for heaven’s sake, don’t do that.’

  ‘Oh, did I disturb you?’

  ‘I was lost in a dreamworld of loops and whorls.’

  ‘Sounds like a computer game.’

  ‘But much more exciting,’ Damian said. ‘What can I do for you, Agent Kovaks?’

  ‘Need a favour. It’s urgent.’

  ‘Always is with you. I suppose you want me to drop everything else and do your bidding. ‘

  ‘Absolutely.’

  He sighed good-naturedly. ‘What the heck.’

  ‘Thanks, Damian.’ Kovaks gave him the fax.

  Back in the office, Kovaks was surprised to see his partner from the previous night. Today she smelled quite sweet, but Kovaks noted the damp patches already beginning to form in her armpits.

  ‘Hi, Sue,’ he said amicably.

  ‘I phoned Chrissy. She said you’d come in early, so here I am too.’

  Kovaks groaned inwardly. This would mean trouble at home. Although he’d described his temporary partner to Chrissy, she’d had a look in her eyes which said, ‘I don’t believe you.’ She was convinced Kovaks was working with a curvy blonde bombshell who was a weapons expert, karate black belt and had the sexual appetite of Pussy Galore. And now she’d heard her on the phone for the first time, which would only confirm her suspicions - on the phone Sue Mather sounded like a bimbo.

  ‘I’m just doing something for Karl,’ he explained. ‘He phoned me from England.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  A flash of inspiration.

  ‘Yeah, you can actually. I need to check Corelli’s file but I’ve got to go and see the SAC. Do you mind?’ He handed her the faxes and explained the task. ‘Long-winded, I know. But very important.’

  ‘Sure, Joe, anything.’ She blinked clumsily at him in an attempt to flutter her eyelashes, but thank Christ she didn’t pass wind.

  He left her to it.

  Two hours later Kovaks found Sue sitting at his desk drinking coffee and eating a doughnut. Eight cigarette stubs were in the ashtray, and another smouldered on the edge of the desk, threatening the woodwork.

  She looked up, and waved. Kovaks stormed across the office.

  ‘I asked you to do a job for me,’ he hissed. ‘Not sit there filling your fat face.’ The words tumbled out spontaneously and he regretted them almost immediately.

  Her goo
d humour visibly evaporated. She had the look of a puppy kicked by its master for no reason other than bad temper.

  Kovaks took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said quickly.

  Totally inadequate. ‘I didn’t mean what I said.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ she said petulantly. ‘I may be fat but I don’t need reminding of it.’

  This was ground Kovaks didn’t wish to cover.

  ‘Forget it, huh? I’m sorry, honest.’ He shrugged his shoulders and wore a suitably regretful look. ‘Can we get back to square one? Pretty please?’

  She sighed through her nose, her large shoulders rising and falling.

  A glimmer of a smile played on her lips. She nodded. ‘OK.’

  ‘Good. I take it you made some progress.’

  ‘Sure have,’ she said brightly. ‘Here.’ She rooted through some papers on the desk and pulled out the faxes. Attached to them was a black-and-white photograph. It was blurred, obviously taken from a moving vehicle, but clearly showed Corelli sitting at a table in a pavement cafe with another man - the same one as in the faxes. It was dated four years previously. Around the border was written: Corelli dining with unidentified male. Carmel, Calif. No I.D. ever made.’

  ‘Well done.’ Kovaks patted her fleshy shoulder.

  ‘Found it within five minutes,’ she admitted. ‘Then I got bored waiting for you, so I pigged out.’

  ‘Of course, it doesn’t really get us anywhere,’ Kovaks brooded out loud. ‘All it does is show us that Corelli once sat at a table with this guy. Not proof of very much, is it?’

  ‘What exactly are you trying to prove?’

  ‘Something big.’ Kovaks picked up the photo and faxes and said, ‘Come on, let’s go and see a man about a don.’

  As they walked away from the desk the phone began to ring.

  Kovaks groaned, but snatched up the receiver. It was Damian.

  ‘Joe - got something for you. Haul your ass in here.’

  Kovaks chuckled at Damian’s dramatic turn of phrase as he hurried to the Fingerprint Bureau. He’d never heard the other guy say a bad word like ‘ass’ before.

  As ever, Damian was sat at his station. His computer screen showed a set of prints.

  His tie, however, was discarded over the back of his chair.

  Heyyy, this had to be big, Kovaks thought. The guy had taken his tie off!

  ‘What have you got for me?’ he said.

  Damian looked round. His short-sighted eyes lingered for more than a moment on Sue before returning to Kovaks.

  ‘A match is what I’ve got. Several matches in fact,’ he announced.

  His voice quivered with an undercurrent of delight.

  Kovaks pulled up a chair and indicated for Sue to do likewise.

  ‘You asked me to compare the fingerprints from England with the partial prints we have from the mob killings you and Karl are investigating. ‘

  Kovaks nodded.

  ‘I can confirm they match.’

  ‘You certain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wow. I take it we still don’t know the guy’s identity?’

  ‘Whoever he is, he’s not on record.’

  ‘Oh well, can’t have everything. Pity. Thanks, Damian. I owe you.’ Kovaks shrugged and began to rise.

  ‘There is something else, actually.’ Kovaks re-seated himself. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Just out of professional interest I did a further search with the prints from England and found some intriguing matches with partial prints from other crime scenes. This guy’s been pretty busy.’

  ‘Damian, don’t keep me in suspense.’

  ‘Well, I looked at the bombings, which as you know have happened all over the States. Here, Memphis, LA ...’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Kovaks testily.

  ‘So I wondered if there’s been any other crimes committed in the same places, on or around the same dates, that could’ve been perpetrated by the same man but weren’t linked because we only had partial prints.’

  ‘And I take it there were,’ said Kovaks.

  ‘Yep.’ Damian smiled cheekily and raised his eyebrows at Kovaks and Sue. The smile for Sue lasted a fraction longer than it should. She giggled girlishly.

  ‘Damian, just fucking tell me, OK?’

  ‘Joe!’ Sue rebuked him. ‘There’s no need to talk like that! He’s only trying to help. And you really must stop swearing.’ She beamed at Damian, who beamed back.

  ‘Sorry,’ Kovaks said contritely. ‘Damian, do go on.’

  ‘Thank you. You might be pleased to know that I’ve linked this man to seven other murders. The victims are prostitutes. All left with broken necks and killed at more or less the same time as the bombings. As well as being a professional hit man, your guy kills for fun too.’

  ‘A serial killer,’ breathed Kovaks. ‘That’s all we need.’

  ‘The cops in England are on this guy’s tail, but unless I can find out something more for them - and fast - they’ll lose him and we’ll all be back to first base,’ Kovaks explained to Sue as they ran down the steps to the ground floor.

  ‘What’s the English angle?’ she enquired.

  ‘Long story - no time to tell it now, but amongst other things they think he killed all those people with that motorway bomb.’

  ‘Jeez,’ wheezed Sue, glad to reach the foot of the stairs. ‘So what’re you going to do?’

  This was asked as Kovaks pushed open the security door leading to the public entrance foyer of the building. ‘Well, the time for the subtle approach is long gone ... oh shit!’ He stopped in his tracks.

  He’d spotted Lisa Want, pacing the foyer like a tigress. Fortunately, she hadn’t seen him yet.

  Kovaks began to reverse through the door. In his haste, he backed right into Sue, and trod heavily on her foot, crushing her big toe under his shoe like stepping on a walnut. She yelled in agony and pushed Kovaks away with such force that he lost his balance and belly-flopped onto the shiny marble floor.

  Winded, bruised, he looked helplessly from his prone position all the way up the long, stunning, mini-skirted legs of Lisa Want.

  ‘Joe, I’m sorry,’ babbled Sue as she hobbled over to help him up.

  Kovaks shrugged himself ungratefully out of Sue’s meaty grasp and glared into the smirking face of Lisa Want, chief crime reporter on the Miami Herald.

  ‘Joe,’ she said, suppressing a giggle, ‘what a spectacular entrance. You should be a stuntman.’

  She was holding a voice-activated tape-recorder in one hand.

  ‘Whatever it is, Lisa, I’ve nothing to say to you. No comment.’

  She raised a finely plucked eyebrow. ‘I’ve not asked anything yet.’

  ‘Well, don’t, then you won’t be disappointed. Bye, Lisa.’ He walked painfully away towards the exit, Sue limping behind.

  Lisa followed. ‘Do you have any comment to make about the motorway bombing in England?’ she asked.

  Stunned for a moment, he said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. ‘

  ‘I have it on good authority there’s a stateside connection. Can you confirm this?’ She thrust the tape-recorder under his nose.

  Kovaks shook his head, pushed on towards the door.

  ‘What about the Mafia connection?’ she probed deeper.

  Kovaks still had nothing to say.

  ‘Where does Corelli come into it? And Danny Carver? I hear Danny was killed in the bombing. Is it all connected with a drugs deal they were pulling? Is this the beginning of a gang war?’

  They had reached the revolving door. Kovaks stopped. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lisa. I’ve no comment to make to you about anything. And I never will have - OK?’

  ‘C’mon Joe, give me a break. This is big stuff,’ she pleaded. ‘For old time’s sake, huh?’

  ‘It’s because of old time’s sake that I’ve nothing to say. Bye.’

  In the car park the two agents walked towards Kovaks’ Trans-am. ‘Can I ask you a quest
ion?’ Sue said.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You been sleeping with Lisa Want?’

  ‘It was a mistake,’ Kovaks openly admitted to Sue. They were being escorted through the corridors of Dade County Correctional Institute. ‘I nearly lost my job over her. We were into a relationship but all she was doing was pumping me for information. Like a fool, I gave her some ... pillow talk, and she used it as the bottom line for a scoop. It was pretty obvious where her information had come from. I got hauled before the Deputy Director and disciplined, while Lisa got the

  chief reporter’s job. I learned a lesson.’ He shrugged philosophically. ‘We split up, and now I’ll never trust another journalist as long as I live, even if they tell me they love me. They’ll do anything just for that big story. Particularly Lisa Want. She’d sleep with her own mother if she thought there was a by-line in it.’

  The prison guard in front of them unlocked the door to a visiting room. He allowed the two FBI agents to enter then locked it behind them.

  A table, screwed to the floor, stood in the middle of the room. There were three chairs. A window of toughened glass overlooked a bare exercise yard.

  The heavy metal door on the opposite side of the room led through to the innards of the prison. It was locked.

  High in one corner of the room, out of reach but protected by a wire-mesh cage, was a security camera.

  Kovaks and Sue sat down. They said nothing, looked expectantly at the door, waited.

  It was a short wait. A key turned in the lock. Bolts were drawn back. The door, well-oiled, opened silently.

  A prison warder appeared, followed by an inmate and another warder. The warders withdrew to the back of the room where they leaned against the wall, chatting quietly to each other. The inmate took the third chair.

  Kovaks considered the man carefully. He was white, in his early thirties, and big - six feet four. But he wasn’t fat. Through the ill-fitting prison garb Kovaks could see he was keeping himself in shape. The bulges were all muscle. His biceps were enormous and the veins stood out on them like strands of steel rope.