by Nick Oldham
Kovaks said, ‘Remember me, Whisper?’
The big man nodded. ‘Never forget a face,’ he said. The sound of his voice, as his name suggested, was a hoarse, rasping whisper, like a knife-blade scraping stone. Kovaks knew it was the result of receiving a blow to the throat in a street fight as a teenager. The damage to his voice box made him seem all the more sinister.
Kovaks also knew that the boy who’d hit him all those years ago had taken a knife through the heart.
Kovaks pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Whisper took them without a word of thanks. He lit one - a Marlboro - inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly.
Kovaks retrieved the lighter.
‘You can keep the cigarettes.’
Whisper nodded slight acknowledgement. ‘So what the fuck d’you want, Agent Kovaks?’
‘I’d like your help.’ Kovaks knew there was no point in being coy.
‘I’ve been to see the Special Agent in charge of the Miami field office and spoken to the Deputy Director about you this morning.’
‘Lucky you,’ rasped Whisper.
‘If you cooperate with us today to my satisfaction he’ll make representations at your parole board to get the maximum reduction in your sentence.’
‘Which means that, whatever happens, I’ll still be in here for another five years.’
‘That’s true,’ Kovaks said. ‘But on the other hand, you could be in here for another twelve.’
Whisper blinked. ‘I won’t help you.’
‘You don’t know what we want.’
‘I won’t help you,’ he reaffirmed. ‘I don’t help the law, particularly Feds.’
‘Just like Corelli ain’t helpin’ you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, bud.’
‘Look, Whisper, we know you were working for him, taking all the risks for him, running the gauntlet with us and the DEA every time you came in with a plane-load of dope. And when you got caught he dropped you like a hot potato. Don’t try to deny it now. We know you worked for him, Whisper, we know.’
‘You don’t know nothing.’ Whisper’s voice grated with a sneer.
‘We know. . .’ Kovaks’ voice trailed off into thin air, leaving the words hanging there. ‘And what’s he done to help you, Whisper?’
‘I don’t know what or who you’re talking about, asshole.’ Whisper took a deep drag of his cigarette, tossed it onto the floor and ground it out. ‘End of discussion.’
He placed two hands on the table, pushed himself up. He towered briefly over the seated Kovaks. ‘Bye bye, Agent Asshole,’ he hissed. He turned and walked to the door.
Kovaks hadn’t expected such an abrupt end to the proceedings. Something had to be done.
‘Maybe he can’t do much to help you in here,’ he said to Whisper’s retreating back, ‘but he could at least help Laura out there, couldn’t he? Laura and your daughter Cassie.’ Kovaks was desperate. He was losing here and something had to be done to save the situation.
Whisper stopped in his tracks. He revolved slowly. His expression struck fear into Kovaks’ heart.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Kovaks pushed on, seeing he’d struck a chord. ‘He’s done nothing for her - other than exploit her. She was a real good-looker, your Laura. And she was clean, even though you were pushin’ those drugs. Not now, baby, not fuckin’ now!’
‘What are you saying?’
‘She’s one of Corelli’s hookers. Working downtown Miami in a sleazy club where the customer can get a five-minute blow job for fifty dollars. I’ve heard she does a hundred a night. Washes her mouth out between each one with antiseptic.’
‘Liar,’ Whisper said.
‘Now she’s a smack-head. A crack addict. With no money. Living in a shitty one-bedroom apartment over a grocery store with no amenities and your precious daughter on the at-risk register. The state is seriously considering taking her off Laura. That’s how much Corelli’s looked after your interests. He used you, now he’s using her. Why do you think she never visits you? He won’t fuckin’ let her, Whisper, ‘cos then you’ll know.’
Kovaks had pushed hard and far and he knew it. Too far, too quickly. He had heard how deadly Whisper could be; now he found out at first hand.
Whisper moved so fast he took everyone by surprise. Kovaks had walked round the table as he’d talked and there was perhaps five feet of open space and nothing else between the two men. A mistake.
Whisper covered the gap in a movement so flowing and precise that the next thing Kovaks knew he was on his back. Whisper’s huge paw-like hands were around his throat, squeezing, and Kovaks’ eyes were bulging in their sockets.
‘Fuckin’ liar,’ Whisper said. ‘Fuckin’ liar, fuckin’ liar. . .’
His breath washed into Kovaks’ nostrils. He began to smash the back of Kovaks’ head repeatedly on the hard tiled floor.
Kovaks hit Whisper as hard as he could with a fist. It connected with the left side of his head by his ear and had no effect on the big man other than to encourage him to tighten his grip.
The prison warders moved in to assist. They tried to prise Whisper off, but he shrugged them away as easily as a man removing his coat.
Kovaks’ vision began to distort. He felt faint. He knew he was going to die here. Strangled, head smashed to pieces in a fuckin’ prison. His ears throbbed. Vaguely he heard an alarm sounding somewhere - a whoop-whoop noise. There were shouts. Screams. Footsteps running. He began to lose consciousness.
Then Whisper’s head was yanked violently back.
He gave a yelp of surprise.
Kovaks’ swimming vision took in the huge form of Sue hovering above him.
A big fist slammed down like a sledgehammer into Whisper’s upturned face. His nose squelched and burst like a tomato. The fist smashed down again. Whisper released his grip on Kovaks’ throat. His hands went up to protect his face.
The door flew open and two more warders ran into the room, batons drawn.
Now, four against one, even Whisper was defeated. He was bundled off his victim in a shower of blows, punches and kicks.
‘You pack a good punch,’ Kovaks croaked with admiration to Sue.
‘I had to do something,’ she said modestly, ‘otherwise he’d’ve killed you. Those guards were useless.’
‘I owe you one.’
‘My pleasure,’ she said meekly. She looked at the swollen knuckles of her right hand. ‘I broke his nose, y’know.’
‘You did good,’ Kovaks agreed.
They were sitting in a cubicle at the Institute’s hospital, a curtain drawn across for the sake of privacy. Kovaks had been treated and his throat had a bandage wrapped around it. No permanent damage had been done, according to the doctor. His voice was almost gone but in a few days, he was assured, everything would be fine again. Meanwhile he’d been advised not to speak too much and eat only soup and scrambled eggs.
The doctor drew the curtain back.
‘Whisper wants to talk to you,’ he announced.
Kovaks and Sue exchanged a surprised glance.
‘Where is he?’ she asked.
‘We’ve just admitted him. He’s down on the ward, first bed on the left.’ The doctor pointed.
‘How is he?’ Sue enquired.
‘He’ll live.’
Curtains had also been drawn around Whisper’s bed, denying the other occupants of the ward a view of the prison hard man beaten to a pulp. Kovaks and Sue ducked in and stood next to the bed.
Whisper looked bad. A real mess.
Other than the facial injuries inflicted by Sue, the warders had really gone to town on him. Obviously a lot of grudges had been exorcised. His left arm, wrist and all five fingers were broken; he had several broken ribs, as well as a smashed collarbone and a shattered kneecap. His face and upper body were a mass of welts, cuts, bruises and swellings. Several of the deeper cuts had been stitched and blood dribbled out of them onto the pillow and sheets.
His eyes were closed. His left had swollen up like
a boxer’s, round and big as a tennis ball, the colour purple. The other was merely bruised. He opened this one and peered sideways at his visitors.
‘You wanted to see us,’ Kovaks managed to whisper hoarsely.
‘Can’t hear you,’ the big man said.
Kovaks leaned forwards, his mouth close to Whisper’s ear.
‘You wanted to see us.’
‘Yeah ... why you whisperin’?’
‘Some bastard did my throat in.’
Whisper chuckled and winced with the pain which arced through his chest like an electric shock. When he’d reached equilibrium he said, ‘Is it true - what you said?’
‘It’s true.’
‘Fuck!’
‘Help us,’ Kovaks’ voice grated painfully, ‘and we can help her, Whisper. We’ll get her in a re-hab scheme, set her up somewhere else and give her some cash to start a new life with Cassie - away from Corelli. ‘
‘Nobody gets away from Corelli,’ said Whisper, dismissing the idea. Then, ‘But she’s a good girl. She deserves a break. Will you do what you say?’
‘I will,’ said Kovaks, nodding.
‘If you don’t, I’ll kill you when I get out of here ... after I’ve killed Corelli. ‘
‘I said I will,’ said Kovaks, believing him.
‘So what d’you want?’
Kovaks held out his hand. Sue gave him the photos.
‘Who is this guy?’ Kovaks held the prints so Whisper could see them without having to move. ‘We need to know - urgently.’
Whisper looked hard at the photographs with his good eye. His breathing was painful and laboured. The analgesics were only just beginning to take effect.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘We think he killed a lotta people - including a busload of kids – on Corelli’s orders.’
Whisper winced. ‘I don’t know him.’
Kovaks stood up, disappointed. ‘Shit.’
‘I mean I don’t know him personally, but I know he’s Corelli’s top hired killer. Jimmy Hinksman, that’s his name. Corelli keeps him pretty much tucked away. Talk is he used to be Special Forces but got kicked out for some girl trouble. That’s all I know about him. Real mystery figure. Ahhh...’ He gasped as he adjusted his position slightly. He waited a moment for the pain to settle.
Someone walked down the ward and stopped near to Whisper’s bed. Kovaks heard the sounds of the doctor’s voice murmuring in muted conversation. A female voice replied - a nurse. Footsteps walked past the bed. Kovaks returned his attention to Whisper.
‘I only seen him once and I got the evil eye when I asked who he was. Real arrogant bastard. Did he do Danny Carver?’ asked Whisper.
‘How the hell did you know that?’ said Kovaks, taken aback.
‘News travels fast - even in here.’
‘Where do we find him?’
Whisper shook his head slightly. ‘In America he could be anywhere. But if he’s in England, I know somewhere you could try.’
Chapter Eight
Donaldson perched on the Allocator’s desk in the incident room, a phone cradled between his left ear and shoulder. ‘Hey, Joe,’ he was saying, ‘you done good, pal. I’m real sorry about your injuries.’
The fax machine in the corner of the room beeped into life. ‘It’s coming through now,’ Donaldson said into the phone.
At the machine, Karen Wilde and Ken McClure stood bleary-eyed.
It was 7.30 a.m. They had worked through the night interviewing the man arrested at Lytham the evening before. They had pushed to the limits allowed by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, initially denying him access to legal representation in the hope of making a quick breakthrough. They had also broken the rules during the course of the interview - by their oppressive and intimidatory conduct, but in the end they had nothing on him. His driving licence had either been lost or stolen but he didn’t know where or when. They dusted him down at 5 a.m., promised to pay for any damage caused at his home and sent him on his way without an apology. They hadn’t been in the mood to apologise to anyone.
As they packed up, the phone rang.
Kovaks.
The first sheet came off the fax. It read, With the compliments of Joe Kovaks, FBI, Miami, Florida, US. There was a little photo of him beneath the wording. Karen groaned as she saw it. Under her breath she muttered, ‘Another idiotic Yank.’
The next one came through with excruciating slowness. It was so damn slow that Karen was sure the machine had gone on the blink. She tapped her toes angrily. When the printing was complete, she grabbed the paper and read it several times before handing it to McClure.
She could hardly contain herself.
McClure read it out loud: ‘Fingerprints identified from military file as belonging to James Clarkson Hinksman.’ He looked up and grinned. ‘Got the bastard.’
Page three came off the machine. It was the photo from Corelli’s file, showing the big Italian and Hinksman at a restaurant.
Page four showed an old photograph of Hinksman, passport size, dressed in a military uniform. Page five contained brief details of a military career which had come to a halt four years previously when he was dishonourably discharged following a court martial. The next four pages were an expanded summary of his service record. The last page listed all the murders of prostitutes that the fingerprints linked him with.
There was nothing else.
‘At least now we know who we’re looking for,’ said Karen, ‘although we haven’t got a clue where he is. He may no longer be in this country.’
‘Perhaps we should get his mug splattered all over the media,’ McClure suggested.
‘We will.’ Karen turned to Donaldson. He was still on the phone, scribbling something on a scrap of paper.
‘Thank your colleague for me,’ she said. ‘He’s done a fantastic job.’
Donaldson finished writing. ‘My new boss says thanks, Joe. Me too.
Great job.’
He hung up and, smiling broadly, picked up the fax of Corelli and Hinksman. ‘I knew I’d seen that face before. We have literally thousands of photos of Corelli but I remembered this one. I think I did quite well.’
‘I do too,’ Karen conceded with more warmth than she intended.
‘So, we’ve got a real top hit man on our hands. Now, what’s all this nonsense about not knowing where our Mr Hinksman is?’ He held up his scrap of paper. ‘He’s on vacation in Blackpool.’ He attempted a poor Lancashire accent. ‘Land of cloth caps, donkey rides and mucky postcards, tha’ knows, lass.’
‘Give me that!’ laughed Karen. She snatched the paper. She read it and punched the air with a fist. ‘Yes, YES, YES!’
Joe Kovaks leaned back in his chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head. He chuckled in disbelief, but consoled himself that even the best brains sometimes failed to see simple solutions to complex problems. He couldn’t believe they’d never checked the military file, yet all it had taken was the press of a button on Damian’s magic fingerprint machine and - hey presto! Mr James Clarkson Hinksman, Mafia killer extraordinary, was exposed. Jeez, how could they all have been so dumb, he thought. That bastard could have been fried over a year ago. If that harpy Lisa Want ever got hold of this, she’d have a field day exposing the inefficiency of the FBI.
He sighed at the stupidity, but wasn’t too upset because it wasn’t normal procedure to cross-check the military files.
Just then, Sue appeared in the doorway, virtually filling it. She’d just showered in the ladies’ rest-room and changed into a jogging outfit which she kept in her locker. At least she would smell all right for a while, Kovaks thought cruelly, but then regretted it. She’d more than proved her worth today.
‘Good result,’ he said pleasantly, his voice carefully low.
‘Yep,’ she agreed.
‘Good ole Damian. Workaholic, that guy.’
‘I like him,’ she admitted.
Kovaks took a deep breath and consulted his watch. ‘Look, I know it’s lat
e and all that, but would you like a drink on the way home? Just a quickie, by way of celebration.’
‘I’d love one,’ Sue said, ‘but. . . I’ve made other arrangements.’ As if on cue, Damian appeared at the office door. Hair combed, jacket brushed, tie straight. Like a nervous teenager on a first date.
‘Damian’s offered to take me home,’ Sue said apologetically.
‘Raincheck?’
Relieved somewhat, Kovaks nodded. ‘Raincheck.’
Sue danced as lightly as was possible towards Damian, breasts bouncing uncontrollably, lighting up Damian’s eyes with lust. She gave Kovaks a salacious wink, then disappeared with the slightly built fingerprint expert, arm threaded through his.
‘Rather you than me, pal,’ Kovaks said under his breath.
As he pulled on his jacket the phone chirped. It was the switchboard operator. ‘Joe?’
‘I’m just on my way home.’
‘Dade County Correctional Institute left a message for you. You went to see one of the inmates earlier.’
‘Yeah?’ Kovaks’ stomach dropped.
‘He’s been knifed to death.’
It was 11 a.m.
The unmarked police car raced at 120 mph down the motorway towards Blackpool. The driver was a PC from the motor driving school. McClure and Donaldson sat silently in the back of the car rereading the faxes from America. Karen Wilde sat in the front passenger seat, brooding, staring intently ahead. Angry.
The confrontation she’d recently undergone with Crosby and Fanshaw-Bayley had set the whole thing back several hours, although in the end she’d got her own way and a firearms team had been deployed to Blackpool for a briefing.
After receiving the information from America, Karen had decided to see Crosby face to face to ask for a team this time. She walked straight into his office. Fanshaw-Bayley was also there.
‘Ahhh,’ said Crosby looking up from his desk. ‘I was just about to summon you, miss.’