A Time For Justice

by Nick Oldham

  ‘So what’s new?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Different this time,’ said FB. ‘I’ve been to see the Chief this morning and he’s told me we cannot afford to launch a full-scale murder enquiry on this one. Basically there’s no money left in the coffers. We feel we need to keep resources channelled into the M6 bombing so we tie up all the loose ends. And that means keeping the majority of the squad working on it for at least another two weeks. As and when it winds down, we’ll release officers to this enquiry - unless you finalise it first.’

  ‘Well, judging from this,’ Henry said, ‘there won’t be any quick result here.’

  ‘So what’s the set-up?’ asked the DCI.

  ‘You’re the head of the investigation, and Henry here will run the operation itself.’

  ‘What?’ said Henry nonplussed. ‘Shouldn’t it be a DCI at least?’

  ‘The divisional DI is off sick and I’ve no one else available,’ said FB. ‘Anyway, they’re only toe-rags, these two, crims topped by crims by the look of it. So it’s your baby, Henry. Look on it as a reward for Hinksman. ‘

  ‘Another good decision by the Chief,’ said Henry sourly.

  ‘Look,’ said FB, a hard edge coming into his voice, ‘I don’t particularly like it either. But it’s all about money these days, and that’s something the county doesn’t have much of . . . and I don’t like a DS talking that way about the boss. He’s under a great deal of pressure at the moment, what with Jack Crosby dying.’

  Amongst other things, Henry thought.

  ‘And we’re making the best of a bad job - OK?’ concluded FB.

  ‘No, not really,’ said Henry truthfully. ‘We always make do in the police. Pisses me off, it really does. But what choice do I have?’

  ‘Absolutely none,’ said FB.

  ‘How many men will I have?’

  ‘Ten detectives.’

  ‘Ten! Jesus! Impossible.’

  ‘I’ll try and get one of the support unit teams to assist too. That’ll give you another ten PCs and a uniformed Sergeant. But no overtime, either.’

  ‘Can’t be done,’ said Henry, shaking his head.

  ‘You’ll have to do it,’ insisted FB.

  ‘I am not happy, not one little bit.’

  ‘It’s not your job to be happy or not,’ said FB shortly. ‘You’ll do as I say, understand?’

  Glumly, Henry nodded. He began to realise now why Karen didn’t much like FB.

  FB turned to the DCI. ‘You keep the media sweet, OK?’

  ‘I’ll do me best, sir.’

  Creep, thought Henry.

  ‘Let’s just hope we don’t get any more murders this year.’ FB swivelled back to Henry. ‘Oh, by the way, I’m satisfied you’ve done enough background re Hinksman. Well done. I’ve spoken to the FBI office in London and told them they can take their agent back. We don’t need him any more.’

  ‘But Corelli’s landed in Manchester! I sent you a memo. He’s hobnobbing with Lenny Dakin. Karl Donaldson’s input could be crucial. We really need him and his knowledge.’

  ‘Unfortunately he’s going back to the States - tomorrow, I believe.’

  ‘So who’s going to keep an eye on Corelli then? This connection has the makings of a big one - and there are the links with the M6 bombing too. Rumour is that Corelli put the finger on Carver and hired Hinksman to do the dirty business.’

  ‘Just pass your info onto the incident room and let them handle it,’ said FB dismissively.

  ‘But we need someone in the know!’ Henry stressed.

  ‘Unlucky,’ said FB finally. ‘He’s going and that’s that. Right, I’m off now. Hope you catch someone.’

  Henry and the DCI watched FB’s car drive away.

  ‘I take it you knew this was going to happen,’ Henry suggested.

  ‘I had an inkling,’ admitted the DCI.

  ‘Thanks a bunch,’ said Henry, throwing his hands up in the air. He turned and made his way back into the mortuary, talking to himself. ‘Fine, fine, a double underworld killing, ten jacks to sort it, no bloody overtime. It’s not a problem, I can handle it, I can handle it - I’m a Sergeant, aren’t I? I should be off fuckin’ sick.’

  He felt completely overwhelmed and out of his depth. It was probably the last thing he needed at this time.

  Baines stood by the slab, smock on, plastic gloves on, cap on, mask on, dissecting-knife at the ready. An attendant stood by his side. The Scenes-of-Crime photographer was standing halfway up a stepladder, video at the ready, in a position to record the whole post mortem.

  ‘Problems?’ asked Baines. ‘Politics?’

  ‘With a capital "P",’ said Henry. ‘But I can handle it. If you’re ready, let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Lights ... camera ... action!’ said Baines. His knife descended towards the polythene wrapper.

  The post mortems carried out by Dr Baines were thorough and remarkably smelly.

  Death, thought Henry, has a peculiar tang all of its own. Always the same - musty, dirty, clinging to clothing for hours, even days after. That was why he hated having to attend post mortems.

  He was not physically sick, nor had he ever been. He knew of cops who couldn’t face PMs even after a dozen years. But it was no big deal, nothing to be ashamed of.

  Once, early in his career when he’d been a PC, he had sat through four in a row, one after the other. He’d not been remotely affected by any of them, despite the fact that one had been a road accident victim and another a child.

  All he hated was that damned smell.

  Today’s PMs were not even as bad as some he’d had to attend, of people who’d been dead for weeks, gone bloated and bad. Today’s victims had bellies that had been slit open and thus all the gases which normally accumulate had been able to disperse. Even so, they reeked strongly.

  It took Baines four hours of hard toil to complete the task. He was sweating heavily when he finished.

  Once he’d scrubbed himself down, he and Henry adjourned to a nearby public house for a confab.

  The doctor was a troubled man.

  ‘The bullets killed them both, as you saw. Massive brain damage. No doubt in a couple of days’ time you’ll have the exact calibre of weapon and other information from ballistics.’

  ‘Couple of months, more like,’ said Henry.

  ‘Both were mutilated after they were shot, and very skilfully too. Sharp instruments, good technique. You’ll never get a match on dental records and you’ll never be able to build up models of their facial features. The only leads you’ve got are the bullets that I recovered from the woman and the man’s tattoos. I think that’s where the killer made his mistake - by wrapping them in polythene and dumping them where he did. The circumstances have acted to preserve the outer skin, which is fortunate for you.’

  ‘And the missing hands suggest they might have criminal records,’ said Henry. ‘LCRO are checking files re the tattoos. We might get lucky, but I think it could be a long slog. Smacks of a London gang killing, this. Could be a real ball-acher.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Baines. He took a sip from his glass. He was drinking bitter. ‘I reckon they were murdered and then passed on for someone else to chop up. Someone who is good at it. It’s relatively easy to pull a trigger, but to dismember a body takes certain skills. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Like a sicko?’

  ‘Or a doctor.’

  ‘Or a pathologist. You’re pretty sick.’

  ‘Yeah,’ laughed Baines. ‘I am.’ He sighed and dredged his brain. ‘Something rings a bell, but I’m not sure what.’ He thought, but came up with nothing. ‘Nope ... it won’t come, Henry.’

  He drank the last of his pint. ‘I’ll let you have a full report on the PMs, probably late tomorrow.’

  Henry nodded. ‘If you do recall anything at all, will you let me know personally?’

  ‘Sure, Henry.’

  The detective stretched and yawned.

  ‘Henry, can I say something?’

  ‘Fire awa
y.’

  ‘Don’t let this thing overburden you. You look pretty worn out to start with and I know what you’ve been through recently. I’m not preaching or anything like that, but watch yourself, OK? And that’s from a friend and a doctor.’

  Henry said, ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m as tough as old boots.’

  The funeral was a miserable affair, made worse by the incessant drizzle which rolled in from the Irish Sea like a fine cloud. There were just a handful of people in attendance and the ceremony only lasted as long as it had to. The coffin, bearing the murdered body of Pepe Paglia, was lowered into the ground with a thud as it touched the bottom of the sodden grave. Within moments of the soil being scattered on it - earth to earth - the mourners began to move away, relieved it was over.

  Two men strolled to a Rolls-Royce parked nearby. A chauffeur rushed out of it, opened the rear doors for them and when they were settled, the big car pulled sedately away.

  Another man stood by the cemetery gates. He was not a mourner. He was a watcher. His hands were thrust deep into his raincoat pockets. The collar was pulled up. His hair was plastered to his head. He’d watched the arrival and departure of everyone, but his interest centred on the Rolls-Royce and its occupants.

  The big car lumbered towards him down the narrow cemetery road.

  He stepped out into its path.

  The chauffeur said, ‘Trouble, I think, Mr Corelli. What do you want me to do?’

  Corelli and Stanton leaned forwards.

  Jamie Stanton recognised the man quickly. It was his job to do so. ‘It’s that fibbie, Donaldson.’

  Corelli laughed. ‘Pull over next to him.’

  ‘He might be armed,’ Stanton warned. ‘He might do something stupid.’

  ‘No, he won’t. He’s in England. He can’t afford to,’ said Corelli with certainty.

  The car rolled to a halt by Donaldson, its brakes exhaling a soft sigh. Corelli’s electric window opened and he looked up at the agent in the rain.

  Neither man spoke for a moment.

  Donaldson merely stared impassively down his nose at Corelli through half-closed eyes. He was chewing gum which he masticated like a cow chewing the cud. He blew a bubble which burst with a crack.

  Corelli smiled.

  Eventually Stanton shouted, ‘What do you want, dickbrain?’

  Donaldson leaned forwards, keeping his hands in his pockets, and looked into the car, his grey eyes level with Corelli’s.

  ‘I want you, Mr Corelli - and I shall get you. There’s nothing more certain. I’m gonna get you for all the pain, misery and suffering you’ve caused.’ His voice was level, emotionless, frightening. He felt very in control.

  Corelli blinked, but was not daunted.

  Stanton leaned over his boss. ‘Let me take the fucker. There’s a grave back there and it’s big enough for two.’

  Corelli wagged a lazy finger at Stanton. ‘No need for violence.’ He then addressed Donaldson. ‘Pass my best wishes to Mr Kovaks’ ladyfriend. I believe she met with an unfortunate accident. Perhaps you should take note of it, Mr Donaldson ... and be wary yourself. Accidents are always happening.’

  ‘You don’t even begin to intimidate me, you son of a bitch,’ said Donaldson, feeling his composure evaporating. It took a great deal of effort not to reach in and rip the Italian’s head off. He’d made a conscious decision to keep his hands firmly in his pockets for just such a reason.

  ‘Who’s trying to intimidate whom here?’ said Corelli calmly. ‘You seem to be intent on frightening me for some reason I fail to comprehend. Me - a man with no criminal convictions who has just attended the funeral of a close relative. All I was doing was simply offering advice from one human being to another. Let’s just leave it at that.’

  ‘I’m gonna have you. One day you’ll walk into a courtroom and never walk out again, I promise you that. From one human being to a sack of shit.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ laughed Corelli.

  He pressed the button on his electric window. It rose slowly and the car moved away.

  ‘Who the fuck does he think he is?’ growled Stanton, frustration boiling up in him.

  ‘An FBI agent - one of the Untouchables. But he’s wrong. I’m the one who’s untouchable.’

  Henry sat down in the room which had been commandeered as the incident room at Rawtenstall police station, which was the only decent-sized station within reasonable travelling distance of the murder scene. The room was normally used for lectures but even so it wasn’t really large enough to house a full-scale murder enquiry. But it would have to do. After all, this wasn’t a full-scale murder enquiry.

  One HOLMES terminal had been installed in the corner of the room. All being well there would be someone to operate the damned thing tomorrow.

  It was 9 p.m. Henry had dismissed his team, with the exception of the two who’d travelled with him from Blackpool, and told them to be ready for a briefing at 8 a.m. the next day. He wanted the show to be on the road for 8.30.

  The question of overtime had been raised, as always. Cops are very money-minded. Henry had told them that there would be as much as necessary- in direct contravention of FB’s warnings. He was sure that FB had been bluffing and they had all gone home happily contemplating December’s pay cheques.

  Henry quickly scribbled a list of lines of enquiry to action the following morning. These included finding the origins of the polythene sheet and the rope wrapped around it; the tattoos on the man, checking Missing from Home files countrywide, ballistics liaison for a quick analysis of the bullets; liaison with Surrey police who had contacted him already to say they had a similar murder - unsolved on their books, as had Northumbria and Kent; liaison with forensic to chase up the tyre-track impressions taken from the scene.

  That would be enough to get the enquiry underway.

  When the uniformed support team arrived he also had a few ideas for their deployment: house-to-house enquiries in Whitworth and a fingertip search of the scene.

  An appeal by radio, TV and the press would be launched too.

  He put his pen down and slumped backwards in his chair. This is ridiculous, he thought. Nine-thirty showed on the wall clock. Over twelve hours worked already on very little sleep and he didn’t anticipate getting much more in the next few weeks either. Travelling every day from Blackpool was going to be a hell of a strain too: something like an eighty-mile round trip every day. It was a daunting prospect. His head throbbed at the thought. He rubbed his eyes. They were becoming sore and gritty.

  He knew he should go home, get to bed and fall into a good long sleep to get himself up for tomorrow. That’s what he knew he should do for the best. But he didn’t.

  He lifted the phone and called home. Kate answered, sprightly, glad to hear from him. He made some weak excuses - lies, really - and prepared her not to expect him until the early hours. Murder enquiry, work to do, God knows when he’d finish, all the responsibility ... blah blah blah. All crap.

  However guilty he felt, though, it didn’t stop him from phoning another number. Natalie answered. Yes, she’d be more than pleased to see him. He could come round at any time.

  ‘Come on guys, let’s hit the road,’ he announced.

  The three of them went downstairs and headed out through the ground-floor communications room which was buzzing with activity. A harassed uniform Inspector looked up from a desk. Henry recognised him. He’d last seen him fifteen years before when they had both been PCs.

  Henry acknowledged him.

  ‘You will not effing believe this,’ said the man, shaking his head.

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Another suspicious sudden death. A firearms dealer has been found by one of his business associates out on the moors. Looks like he’s been murdered, shot in the head and chest. Probably been there a few days, by the sound of it. I’m just on my way for a looksee. Want to come?’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ said Henry with an apologetic shrug. ‘Got enough on my plate at the moment
.’ He joined his two colleagues who were already sitting in the car, one in the driver’s seat revving the engine.

  Henry dropped into the back seat. ‘Blackpool, my man - and give it some wellie!’

  PART TWO

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Henry Christie woke up, his head felt like it was on fire. He couldn’t remember too much about the night before, other than it had been heavy, but lack of memory wasn’t unusual these days. What he did know was that he’d drunk too much and now he was suffering from it again.

  He lay there, fully awake, keeping his eyes firmly closed, knowing that soon he would have to move. He had to go to Crown Court that morning and the vestiges of professionalism and pride which remained in him would not allow tardiness.

  Keeping his eyes still firmly shut, he swung both legs out and sat on the edge of the bed. The fire raging through his brain became a series of major explosions. He groaned, but he knew that the only way to get going with a hangover of this magnitude was by moving quickly and with purpose, rather than slowly and sluggishly which merely prolonged the pain and discomfort.

  Over the last six months Henry had become an expert at hangover recovery.

  When he eventually opened his eyes, he was surprised to find it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. The curtains were closed and the daylight filtered through them diffused and manageable. Pure daylight on tender pupils was something he knew he couldn’t have handled in his present state.

  He heard a murmur behind him. He looked sharply round.

  With some shock he saw a woman lying there asleep. He tried hard to recall some of the details, but his alcohol-riddled brain cells refused to cooperate. All he could do was stare at her rather blankly and unbelievingly.

  The sheet was around her waist. He pulled it carefully back to cover her up, still wishing he could remember how it had been, why it had been, wishing also that she wasn’t here in his bed. He sneered contemptuously at himself, then staggered, evading discarded clothing, plates, bottles and glasses, through the bathroom door and underneath the shower.