A Time For Justice

by Nick Oldham

  FB also told her what had happened to Henry Christie that weekend.

  She listened, appalled.

  The trial did not begin until 2.30 p.m.

  And Henry Christie was sat in court.

  He looked a mess. The eye-socket which had been head-butted stuck out as big and red as a cricket ball and his throat was a swollen mess of dirty purple bruises. His left wrist was in plaster, and held across his chest in a sling.

  He waited for Hinksman to be brought up from the holding cell. Only then did he leave the court as he was required to do.

  Only when he had made eye-contact with Hinksman.

  Only when he had made it quite clear that he would not be beaten. Everybody’s eyes were on him as he hobbled out of court.

  The Judge covered a grin and called for proceedings to begin.

  Outside the court, Henry made his way to the police room where

  Donaldson was waiting, together with Karen.

  He sat down and gratefully accepted the proffered cup of tea. ‘Now then, Henry, you old son of a gun, bring me up to date,’ requested Donaldson.

  Henry took a sip of the tea, leaned back and told them his story.

  Two uniformed Constables had guarded Henry on Saturday night through to Sunday morning - just in case he decided to run away. Henry, pumped full of blissful drugs, slept like a baby in a dark, dreamless void. He awoke refreshed the following morning, when he was discharged from hospital and taken into police custody.

  He didn’t blame them for arresting him. He would have done the same. Someone had died a violent death; explanations were needed.

  It didn’t stop it being an unpleasant experience. He was treated well and courteously, but there was no quarter given just because he was a fellow cop. He was grilled by experienced detectives whose techniques were very, very good. Henry could have played games with them, but he didn’t. He was open and honest and admitted what he’d done. He argued self-defence and everything pointed to his story being right.

  The presence of FB in the background helped, too. He came to assist as soon as he heard.

  At the end of the day after nine hours in custody, several of those hours being spent brooding in a cell, Henry was released without charge but warned that a report would be submitted to the Crown Prosecution Service for advice. Informally he was told by a Detective Chief Inspector that the ‘job was going nowhere’ - police terminology meaning that he would not be prosecuted. In his heart of hearts Henry knew that this would be the case, but it was a relief to hear it anyway.

  True to her word, Kate came for him and drove him back to his flat above the vet’s, despite his insinuations that he would be better cared for in the marital home. She was having none of it.

  Alone in his flat, with the barking of a dog recovering from a hernia operation downstairs for company, he toyed with a bottle of Scotch. In the end he binned it in favour of some analgesic tablets, a hot drink of milk and bed.

  He slept better than he would have thought possible.

  There was nothing particularly eventful about Dave August’s return to work that Monday morning. He’d spent a dull weekend with his family, and was glad to get into the office, which he did at 7.30 a.m.

  At 10 a.m. he had his usual briefing from the ACC who’d been on duty over the weekend. There was little to bring to August’s attention, other than to update him regarding Henry Christie and request protection for the jury in the Hinksman trial. It was clear that they were being nobbled.

  ‘That’s all we need!’ exclaimed August. ‘What about protecting the witnesses, too?’

  ‘That’s in hand, I understand.’

  ‘I’d be tempted to give Christie authority to carry a gun home with him under the circumstances. He may need it . . . it’s something I’ll have to consider.’

  ‘Could be a good idea.’

  ‘Hm. Anything else? No? OK, thanks for that.’

  The ACC collected his reports and left the office. August checked his appointments for the day ahead. He was quite busy. He sighed and his mind turned to Janine. They’d made no firm plans for the week ahead, but she’d said to call her whenever he felt like it. She was working in Cumbria all of this week, and when she’d dropped him off at headquarters on Saturday morning, she’d given him her mobile phone number.

  He wanted her there and then. He could imagine it - her bent forwards, holding onto the edge of the desk, him thrusting into her, both of them crying out with the pleasure of it all...

  What a night they’d had. Pure carnal pleasure which had been increased by his introduction to cocaine. At first he’d resisted, but when he’d seen the effects on her, and been reassured that it wasn’t addictive, he’d given it a try.

  It had been fabulous.

  He dialled her number, but it came back unobtainable. Strange, he thought, but decided to try again later.

  The sight of all that paperwork in his in-tray depressed him. He scooped it up and laid it in front of him on the desk.

  A couple of reports merely required his signature. The next piece of correspondence was a large, A4-sized Jiffy envelope, addressed to him personally. It had arrived via the external mail, post-marked South Lakes. He lifted it up, interested. It was fairly heavy.

  He peeled the envelope open and shook the contents out. There was a video-tape, VHS, TDK make, with a label on it that said boldly COPY, plus a series of photographs which had been taken over the weekend, of him and Janine kissing and embracing in public.

  August suddenly felt very queasy. Typewritten on the sheet of paper which accompanied the video were the words, This is a very edited version of events. Hope you find them interesting. Will contact you in due course. NB - this tape is a copy. It is for your eyes only.

  August stood up and crossed to the TV and video-player in the corner of his office. He inserted the cassette and waited apprehensively for the picture to appear.

  Initially the screen was a lined grey haze.

  Then an image came on. Very sharp. Very clear. Very professional.

  A man and a woman. Naked. Kneeling, face to face. The woman was working his erect penis with deft fingers. The man moaned: the video had a soundtrack. His face was screwed up tight in the agony of sexual ecstasy. He came, ejaculating across the woman’s lower belly. The sperm dribbled down to her pubic hair. The man sagged exhaustedly and the couple embraced. He laid his head on her shoulder and turned his face towards the camera. The screen faded to blackness. The whole thing was less than ninety seconds long.

  The face of the woman had been erased from the video.

  But the face of the man was very clear and identifiable.

  The screen flickered back to life after a pause. This time it showed the same couple kneeling side by side over the bedside cabinet, apparently snorting cocaine.

  This was a thirty-second clip. Then it all went black again.

  August pressed the rewind button and played the tape once again. He held the last frame of the masturbation sequence for a few seconds and found himself staring helplessly into his own eyes.

  He ejected the cassette and strode back to his desk, dazed and confused. He picked up the phone and dialled Janine’s number. Unobtainable.

  August stood holding the phone to his ear, his eyes gazing out unseeingly across his beloved rugby pitch.

  All he could see was his sperm splashing across Janine’s stomach and the end of his career.

  Henry Christie drew his story to a close. Karen and Donaldson had been good listeners.

  ‘So who was the guy?’ Donaldson enquired.

  ‘Don’t know yet, maybe never will. Fingerprints haven’t thrown anyone up, so it’s possible he may have no previous convictions.’

  ‘Henry - you did good,’ said Donaldson with a smile. He punched Henry on the shoulder.

  Henry looked at them. They were grinning from ear to ear, continually exchanging sidelong glances. They were obviously very happy together. Karen’s eyes were shining. She was a completely differe
nt person from the strung-out individual Henry had encountered all those months ago. The ruthless career woman who gave no quarter had been replaced by a relaxed person with no edge whatsoever.

  Henry liked the change. He had never felt comfortable with her until now.

  ‘So what’s your news, Kar1? What’s happening on your side of the water?’

  ‘Aww,’ he said dismissively, ‘Corelli’s still givin’ us the runaround and we don’t seem any closer to catching him. I’ll fill you in later. There’s something much more important to tell you.’

  ‘We’re engaged to be married,’ blurted out Karen. She reached for Donaldson’s hand.

  ‘Yep,’ said Donaldson. ‘You’re the first to know.’

  Henry was pleased for them. They were two nice people. In fact, he felt a twinge of jealousy. ‘That’s good news,’ he said warmly. ‘You’re good for each other, but isn’t there a slight logistical problem with all this?’

  ‘Well, yeah,’ admitted Donaldson. ‘We haven’t quite worked that one out yet, but we will. As the saying goes, love will find a way.’

  After lunch with a visiting ACC from North Wales, Dave August returned to his office trying to believe that the tape was all a practical joke, that Janine would phone and explain it all away.

  But once behind closed doors again, dark despair began to creep over him like a shroud of mist. Carefully, he removed the envelope he’d received that morning. Now it was in a clear plastic bag. He unfastened it, shook out the video and the photographs and gazed at them on his desk. They offended his eyes, made him feel sick.

  He again slotted the video into the player and watched the action, mesmerised. He worked out where the camera had been situated. Now he saw why it had all been so easy and what a fool he’d made of himself.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Sex, drugs and a Chief Constable.’

  Presumably there was going to be a blackmail threat somewhere along the line. He would be ruined if the compromising material reached the people who were now considering his application for promotion to the Inspectorate. And what if members of the Lancashire police committee got hold of it? Or the press? August’s heart sank. And what about his wife? Or the kids?

  Career, marriage, lifestyle - down the tubes.

  He had everything to lose.

  He began to sweat.

  But what do I have to offer a blackmailer? he asked himself.

  I’m not rich, so it can’t be money.

  The only thing I possess is information...

  He thought about it further, but nothing specifically interesting came to mind.

  He locked his top drawer when he heard his office door open. In stepped his new staff officer - Chief Inspector Jenny Cornwall, - and announced that the discipline hearing was ready to kick off.

  ‘Wheel ‘em in,’ he said. Some poor bastard of a PC was going to get hell this afternoon.

  Henry found himself confronted by one of the most stunning-looking women he had ever met in his life when he left court that afternoon. It was the combination of gorgeous long legs, short skirt, silky blonde hair, upturned cheeky nose, bright eyes and a haughty, confident, no-nonsense look which did it, plus a subtle perfume which assaulted Henry’s nostrils like an aphrodisiac.

  She had the particularly American way of speaking in short, punchy sentences.

  ‘Hi, I’m Lisa Want. I’m from the Crime Bureau of the Miami Herald and I’m covering this here trial for that particular newspaper. I’d just love to do a piece about you, Sergeant Christie. Y’know the sort of thing - hero cop, dig a little into your background, et cetera. The American public just love reading about English cops, especially when they’re as good-lookin’ as you are ...’

  ‘Say no,’ said Donaldson, who had walked up behind him. ‘Don’t trust her - Joe Kovaks did and it nearly cost him his job.’

  ‘Now don’t you go listening to that bitter an’ twisted ole FBI man,’ she purred to Henry with a pout. She flashed her eyelashes and he could have sworn he felt the draught. Her eyes moved momentarily to Donaldson and the look in them, just for a nanosecond, was pure hatred. Henry noticed it.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ said Donaldson, ‘but I’d avoid her like the plague, scheming bitch.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Henry, and he truly was because the prospect of spending time with her was very appealing, ‘but I tend not to have a very good relationship with the media anyway.’ He shrugged sadly, and he and Donaldson walked out of the court.

  Lisa clenched her teeth and stamped a foot on the floor, muttering ‘Karl Donaldson, you are a first-class cunt.’

  Over in Dave August’s office, the discipline hearing was drawing to a close. The officer concerned had lost. August fined him heavily for discreditable conduct, severely reprimanded him and transferred him to another station. That would teach him to fuck the cleaner on the snooker table, even if he was now living with her. There was a time and a place for everything.

  Forty minutes later August was driving through the streets of south Manchester, desperately trying to locate the house Janine had taken him to that night. But he couldn’t even begin to find it, even though he had driven there and back himself.

  He pulled into the side of the road and parked, attempting to relive the journey in his mind. It was all a sexual haze - as no doubt it had been intended to be. He’d been driving the Jag, blindly following her directions while she masturbated him; at the same time his left hand was fumbling rather inexpertly with her clitoris. Both had been in moaning ecstasy. It was a miracle they hadn’t crashed.

  When he’d left the house the morning after it’d been much the same scenario, except he couldn’t get a full erection. The journey from the house to central Manchester - where she had asked to be dropped off had once again been at her direction. And now, only a few days later, he couldn’t recall any of it.

  His forehead dropped onto the steering wheel.

  ‘You complete and utter idiot,’ he snarled at himself.

  Janine settled back in the fishing boat and pulled off her long baggy T-shirt. Underneath she was wearing a skimpy bikini top and a pair of faded cut-offs. She reached down for a can of Diet Coke from the coolbox next to her and rolled the ice-cold can across her sweaty forehead. Key West was fast receding as the boat picked up speed on its way out for a morning’s fishing.

  She was aware of the sidelong looks from the two crew members, both men of Hispanic origin, as they prepared the bait and rods. She was very pale and desirable to them.

  The cabin door opened and the attention of the crew moved solely to their tasks in hand as the boss appeared from below, accompanied - as ever - by his bodyguard.

  Corelli was carrying a bottle of champagne and two fluted glasses. Janine tossed the Coke can overboard and took the glasses from him. ‘This is good stuff,’ he said. ‘The best. Don’t want to spill a drop.’ He opened the bottle carefully.

  The cork popped off and Janine held out the glasses, which he filled.

  He took one and said, ‘This is by way of thanks for the part you’ve played in securing the eventual release of my friend, the plans for which, as you know, are well advanced.’

  ‘It was a pleasure,’ she said. They touched glasses and drank. Janine thought it tasted wonderful.

  ‘So I believe,’ he murmured, and winked. ‘I’ve seen the video...’

  They burst out laughing.

  Joe Kovaks stood on the quayside watching Corelli’s boat which was now nothing more than a speck on the horizon, even through powerful binoculars.

  His face was grim as he lowered the glasses from bloodshot eyes. He felt like he had never laughed in his life.

  This was not the Joe Kovaks of old. In the last six months he had aged considerably. He had lost weight and his grey skin hung loosely on his cadaver-like face.

  Knowing it would be many hours before Corelli came back, he made his way to Le Te Da where he managed to secure a seat on the front balcony. It was here, in the 1890s, that the Cuban rebel
Jose Marti had made speeches to raise money for the Cuban revolution.

  Kovaks ordered a light meal, coffee and orange juice.

  While waiting, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep forever.

  The worry over Chrissy, the sleepless nights, the constant vigils and the ongoing campaign to get Corelli had all taken their toll out of his energy reserves. He’d kept himself going in the circle of home-hospital-work-hospital on a concoction of sweet black coffee and adrenalin.

  And what good had it done?’

  Chrissy’s recuperation had been a painfully slow process in more than one sense.

  Although out of hospital now, she frequently returned for further treatment. She was still a mess, despite all the doctors had done. Her burned face and chest were a horrific sight, even to Kovaks, who had grown used to them. She herself wouldn’t even look in a mirror. The pain she endured was dreadful and she could only sleep under the influence of drugs.

  However, the medical side of it wasn’t the only problem. The mental side was worse.

  This once bubbly, confident and delightfully naughty lady was now a shell of fear. She was terrified of going out, of picking up the post, of doing almost anything. She spent most of her waking hours slumped in front of the TV, flitting aimlessly from channel to channel, avoiding the mainstream of life.

  Kovaks had been warned it would take a long time. Surely, though, he pondered, there should be some improvement by now?

  It was wearing him down; he couldn’t deny it. He knew he had to be strong for her, but the strain was telling on him and it was bubbling over into anger.

  Because through it all Corelli sailed on. Untouched. Untouchable.

  Kovaks knew he was dealing drugs in the UK now with the guy called Dakin. Could he prove it? Could he fuck. Just like he couldn’t prove that Corelli was behind the bomb that maimed Chrissy.