A Time For Justice

by Nick Oldham

  He began to use the murder enquiry as an excuse for not going home. He was genuinely working long hours, but could have got home every night if he wished. He didn’t wish. Often he would book into a motel in the east of the county and Natalie would come across and stay the night with him.

  It all felt so right. At least he made himself believe it did.

  He didn’t give Kate and the kids a second thought. They simply became unimportant to him as he began to lose his sense of values and judgement.

  His judgement went on the back-burner at work, too.

  Even though he had been ordered not to hand out overtime, he did so. By the end of the first month each man had worked in excess of eighty hours, totalling over eight hundred hours which had to be paid from somewhere.

  And yet the investigation seemed to get nowhere.

  He was losing all control of it; couldn’t keep his mind on it. He regularly had to confront a sea of blank faces as detectives under his direction floundered and turned to him for inspiration - inspiration which never came.

  The pressure grew on him from all sides.

  Family - work; wife - daughters; Detective Constables – Detective Chief Superintendent; wife - lover.

  All breathing down his sweaty neck.

  He did not know which way to wriggle for the best.

  Yet he thought he had a bolt-hole of sanity to escape to, or so he believed.

  He eventually left home after a particularly fraught period with Kate when, at the end of it, he confessed everything. She took it all with great dignity and poise. She cried, of course. She was devastated. Her life had suddenly crumbled around her, although if she were ruthlessly honest with herself, she had seen it coming but had avoided it.

  She forgave him immediately. She knew that you didn’t just fall out of love with someone, but he couldn’t see that. She held him in her arms that night and rocked him gently as he cried too. But he found he could not stay. His betrayal had been too great and the cracks it had caused too wide to paper over. And he loved Natalie.

  ‘We can’t ever go back to what it was,’ he remembered telling Kate.

  ‘But we can go forwards,’ she insisted.

  He was having none of that. His foolish stubborn streak could not be shaken.

  He moved in with Natalie.

  Bliss. Initially.

  Then the nightmares started again as the stress of his marriage bust-up and the disintegration of the murder investigation crept clammily on to and all over him.

  He woke up with a start, sweat pouring down him.

  He’d seen the faces again. Those children clawing at the windows. Begging him for help. Fish caught in a bowl. Yet he couldn’t help them. He had been powerless and they had died.

  There was something new, too.

  The head of that drugs dealer exploding all over his chest. Brain and snot and blood. The way his head had been distorted before finally bursting open. Frame by frame, in slow motion.

  Then Ralphie’s execution by the wall. Then that breathless chase down Blackpool Front, his clothing splattered with blood.

  The woman taking the bullet meant for him.

  Pointing that shaking gun at Hinksman - then having to fire it.

  In his dream he could see his forefinger curled around the trigger, pulling it. He could see the hammer going backwards, the cylinder slowly revolving and the hammer falling and bang! He had shot someone.

  He woke with the sound of the gun going off reverberating around his cranium like thunder.

  At first Natalie was wonderful and understanding. She couldn’t do enough for him. Comforted him. Held him. They made ferocious love after that first nightmare and he slept well afterwards, drained of all his strength. It was a black sleep.

  After a dozen nightmares the sheen began to wear off for Natalie. She wasn’t so wonderful after all. She grew tired and irritable and told Henry to pull himself together. She began to wonder exactly what she’d taken on here, as though she’d been deceived. A man possessed by demons? He was supposed to be tough. He was a hero, wasn’t he? Not a wimp.

  The love-making after the nightmares fizzled out. Instead she turned over and yanked the sheet over her head. He would lie there awake, dreadfully tired, but terrified of sleep.

  Then he would get up and tiptoe to the tiny lounge of her flat where he would slide into the warmth of a bottle of whisky - and remain there.

  In the end Natalie asked him to leave. She didn’t understand, as it turned out, didn’t want to understand. She had her life to live and didn’t want the burden of a man verging on middle-age, who actually hated going to nightclubs if the truth were known, and who was probably having a nervous breakdown.

  He moved into the flat over the vet’s surgery. It was small, cheap, adequate, warm, slightly smelly, furnished.

  Here he could indulge himself without infringing on other people’s needs or emotions. Here he began a life clouded by alcohol and cheap sex whilst considering the question - Am I having, or have I had, a nervous breakdown?

  Never having had one before, he couldn’t be sure.

  When FB called him to his office at Force Headquarters and dismissed him from the murder enquiry, and also told him he was being transferred from RCS back to normal CID duties, Henry broke down.

  He cried like a baby in front of FB.

  The astounded Detective Chief Superintendent immediately called the Force Welfare Department who dispatched a counsellor to FB’s office. Within minutes she confirmed Henry’s worst suspicions.

  ‘You mean I have had a shed collapse?’ he blurted. ‘That’s a relief. I thought I was going barmy.’

  Henry was allowed to park outside the Crown Court after his car had been searched for bombs.

  After several further searches of his person, he entered the building and settled himself down in the Shire Hall to wait for the trial to begin.

  He truly believed he had got over the worst of it. The nightmares were still there occasionally, but they were less of a problem now and much more vague, less real.

  All he needed to do was get his drinking under control and then his sexual excess - not necessarily in that order - and maybe, just maybe, he could regain control of his life and get back with his wife and girls, whom he missed desperately.

  He knew that the trial would be the first test of his mental state.

  Here, he would find out if all those ghosts and devils he believed were being laid to rest would get resurrected to haunt him when he stood up to give evidence and relive those experiences once again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Agent Eamon Ritter had made a conscious, considered decision.

  He was going to kill Sue Mather.

  His life had become intolerable since she had seen him down at Bayside. He kept bumping into her, or so it seemed to him, both in the FBI building and out of it. Every time he turned a corner or came out of a door, she was there. Fat and unmistakable.

  Too many times for it to be a coincidence.

  She was definitely following him, of that he was in no doubt. And she knew, or at least suspected, he was on the take.

  Yet why hadn’t she done anything about it? Over six months had passed since Bayside. Perhaps she was tormenting him, toying with him. Then when she was good and ready, she would either bubble him or go for a piece of the action.

  He’d actually considered approaching her and offering money, but he soon put that out of his mind. Just supposing she was straight? He would have played right into her hands.

  No, he decided to stick at the viewpoint that she was upright and honest and what she was doing was building up a file of evidence against him before moving in for the kill. Bitch.

  He sat at his desk in his office, rocking back and forth, pursing his lips as he considered his position.

  There was no way he was going to give up Corelli’s money. He was tied to it.

  Firstly he had his lifestyle to maintain. It was discreet and subtly expensive, causing no one to
raise an eyebrow. His modest house was well-furnished and he and his wife had decent, but second-hand cars. It was the finishing touches which told the story - the expensive CD players in the cars, the original paintings on the walls of his house, the conservatory which could not be seen from the road, the top-of-the-range golf clubs, his designer clothes, which looked not a great deal different from off the peg - but oh, feel that quality. And the small apartment and boat on Grand Cayman which nobody in the office knew about. All these things needed money, more money than he could ever earn.

  And secondly, if he pulled the plug and said, ‘No more,’ Corelli would drop him without a moment’s hesitation to the FBI.

  He had to go on.

  The pencil he was holding snapped as he imagined his hands breaking Sue’s neck.

  The bitch had to die.

  Even when a case comes to court, the wheels of British justice turn painfully slowly. On the first day of Jimmy Hinksman’s trial, for no apparent reason, proceedings did not begin until 2.15 p.m.

  That did not seem to bother the assembled press or public in the Shire Hall, restricted in their numbers to thirty and twelve respectively. There was a buzz of excitement, an air of anticipation, and a few hours’ wait would not put a damper on that.

  However, it did serve to wind Henry Christie up. He knew he would not be called to give evidence until the later stages of the proceedings, but he wanted it to be underway. All this waiting around, killing time, was stress-inducing as far as he was concerned.

  After lunch the High Court Judge, Mrs Ellison, took her place on the Bench. She looked quite regally stunning and imposing, despite her sixty-eight years and slight frame. Her wig, red robes and stern expression told their own story. Here was a woman not to be trifled with. This was her court and she ruled it without compromise. Unless it suited her.

  The row of QCs, prosecution and defence, bowed to acknowledge her, all dressed in a similar fashion.

  It was tradition taken to extreme.

  Mrs Ellison indicated that the prisoner should be brought up.

  A hush fell across the court. A couple of artists prepared their sketch-pads and pencils.

  Henry braced himself. This was the first time he’d seen Hinksman since the committal hearing at Blackpool Magistrates Court.

  He held his breath.

  Two prison officers led Hinksman up from the holding cell below the court.

  He gazed stonily into space, allowed himself to be manhandled and sat down in the dock, flanked by the officers. His handcuffs had already been removed.

  Then his eyes began to rove around the court. From Judge to QCs to their briefs, to the security precautions ... and finally, to Henry. Their eyes met, their gazes interlocked.

  Henry felt his flesh creep.

  Hinksman sat back and, unexpectedly, his face broke into the most pleasant smile imaginable ... which quickly changed into a sneer of contempt. He kept Henry’s gaze, raised his eyebrows and mouthed the words, ‘YOU ARE DEAD.’

  There followed four days of legal submissions by the defence which were countered by the prosecution and vice versa, rather like the opening of a fencing match where the competitors were sussing out each other’s strengths and weaknesses. It was all very eloquent and polite and at the same time dull. This legal parrying bored the spectators. They weren’t interested in nitpicking points of law and procedure. A good multiple murder case was what they all wanted to hear.

  It was Friday before the jury was sworn in.

  Even that did not prove to be simple. Hinksman’s QC objected to eight of the original twelve for obscure but legally valid reasons, and they all had to be replaced by substitutes from the pool of jurors.

  In the end there were seven men and five women. Two of the men were black. One of the women was Chinese.

  At 4 p.m. everything was set to proceed.

  So the Judge adjourned for the weekend.

  Hinksman was led out of court after the Judge had left. He indicated to his QC that he wanted to speak to him.

  A few minutes later the QC, whose name was Graham, came down to the holding cage for a hushed consultation with his client.

  ‘I want you to arrange several things,’ Hinksman told him.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I want you to find out the name and address of each of the jurors. I want the address of the Judge and the addresses of all the independent witnesses, including the cops.’

  The QC pushed his pince-nez to the top of his nose, a feeling of discomfort flooding through him.

  ‘That is not something I can do. These are details which are not disclosed by the prosecution.’

  ‘Well, you’d better do it.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Graham, dreading the answer.

  ‘So they can be intimidated,’ said Hinksman simply, with a smile. ‘I ... I don’t think I can do that.’

  ‘Yes, you can. You’ve done it before, I know you have. If you do, you’ll get a bonus. Two hundred grand - in five-pound notes - paid anywhere in the world. And if you get me off these charges, you’ll receive a million dollars, tax free again, anywhere in the world.’

  Graham shrugged. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll get them to you as soon as I’ve obtained them.’

  Henry walked out of court a drained man. Even though the trial had not yet started, he’d been obliged to spend the entire week outside the Shire Hall and would not be allowed to enter again until called in to give his evidence, which could be weeks away.

  The wait was always a nerve-racking time. Then, when the trial actually began, you wondered what the witnesses before had said and if you were going to make a fool of them or yourself by contradicting them or not ‘sticking to the script’.

  His week, therefore, was spent pacing the corridors of the ancient building or putting his feet up in the police room and chatting to the other police witnesses, overdosing on tea or coffee; or simply wandering around Lancaster. He took some heart from seeing that some witnesses were in a worse state than himself - particularly the civilian ones.

  He was glad to get out of it for the weekend, and looking forward to spending it with his daughters who were over the moon about him living above a vet’s.

  An exhausted Karen Wilde arrived home that evening to the sound of her phone ringing. She could clearly hear it as she walked up the garden path, but she did not hurry. It couldn’t be work calling, otherwise they would have ‘bleeped’ her. So it must either be family or a friend, neither of whom she felt like talking to at that moment. It had been a long week - a minimum of ten hours per day - and she was whacked.

  Her plan was bath, supper, bed, sleep.

  In fact she even slowed her pace to the door and put her key into the lock in slow motion, hoping desperately that whoever it was would give up.

  The ringing continued.

  ‘Damn,’ she said, entering the house. She picked up the phone and gave a curt, ‘Yes?’ She recognised the voice on the other end immediately and her stomach did a yo-yo.

  ‘Hi Karen, how are you doing?’

  ‘Karl,’ she stuttered.

  ‘So, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ she said, hurriedly pulling herself together. ‘Where are you phoning from? You sound a million miles away.’

  ‘Manchester Airport. I’ve just touched down from Miami, hell of a flight, and I’m about to get a cab to a hotel nearby. I’m over here for Hinksman’s trial- thought I’d see how you were feeling.’

  ‘Fine, yes. I expected to see you sooner.’

  ‘Your prosecution department told me not to come until the second week.’

  ‘It’s not even started properly yet,’ said Karen. Her mind was racing. She made an instant decision, one she knew she might regret. ‘Look, Karl,’ she commenced hesitantly, ‘I know you’re tired, but can you stay awake long enough for me to come and pick you up? We could have a meal together perhaps, maybe talk, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, well, sure,’ he said, taken aback.

  ‘I’ll
be about an hour and a half, OK? I’ve only arrived home this minute myself.’

  ‘Yeah but-’

  ‘Don’t ask, Karl. Just wait for me. I’ll be at the International Arrivals meeting point in ninety minutes - OK?’

  ‘Why surely, ma’ am.’

  ‘And do you know something, Karl? I’ve been dying to hear you call me ma’am for ages.’

  She hung up and raced to her bedroom to get changed.

  At the other end of the phone Karl hung up slowly, the bewilderment on his face fading slowly to a broad grin. It was all he could do to stop himself leaping into the air and shouting, ‘Yee-hah!’

  ‘So how’s the crusade against Mr Corelli going?’ Karen asked in the stilted manner which had been a feature of their conversation so far.

  They were sitting at a table in the dining room of Donaldson’s hotel and had reached the coffee stage without either of them having eaten or drunk very much at all.

  Donaldson sighed. ‘Not well. He’s a very devious son of a bitch. He knows all the tricks in the book - the best one being to kill off any potential witnesses against him. Works like a dream. We’re fairly sure he’s dealing with Lenny Dakin over here and that it’s a good profitable business. But the where, when and how of it constantly eludes us.’ He shrugged.

  ‘How’s your partner’s partner? I heard about the letter bomb.’

  Donaldson looked into his coffee. ‘To be honest, Chrissy’s face is all messed up - one half of it, anyway. And the upper part of her body ... It’s heartbreaking, especially for Joe. He loves her.’

  ‘No nearer catching the offender?’

  Donaldson shook his head. ‘Naw, but we’re sure it’s down to Corelli - a warning to us, you know? Joe’s been working his tail off ever since, but he’s getting nowhere. It’s very sad. Every waking moment is spent either dedicated to bringing Corelli down or getting Chrissy back together. He’s a very driven man at the moment. His whole personality has changed. It’s like working with a demon. He’ll crack if he doesn’t ease up, have a breakdown.’