by Nick Oldham
Chapter Twenty-Two
The town of Garstang lies midway between Lancaster and Preston on the A6. A couple of miles north of Garstang is a layby. At 7.30 p.m. that same Monday evening, Dave August drove sedately into the layby in his own car and parked up. He switched the engine off, unlocked all the doors and rested his hands on top of the steering wheel so they were visible - as instructed.
He stared dead ahead. Afraid.
The digital figures on his watch moved to 7.35.
Briefly he considered starting up, slamming the car into gear and speeding away. But suddenly the passenger door was wrenched open and a man seemed to fall from nowhere into the seat next to August. The Chief Constable jumped. He hadn’t seen anyone coming. No one had pulled up in a car. The man must have sneaked up from the hedge.
August faced the intruder, and didn’t know whether to laugh or scream: the man was wearing an Oliver Hardy mask. In the end he did neither because a heavy, dangerous-looking revolver was pointing straight at his belly. Behind the mask August could see the eyes and the deep red slit of a mouth which, when it moved, sickened him.
The voice was hollow, distorted. ‘Drive north.’ The man obviously had no time for small talk. ‘Keep your speed to forty.’
‘Look-’ August began plaintively.
‘NO! Don’t talk - just drive,’ he snapped. ‘Or some cunt’ll find a dead Chief Constable in a layby. Now fuckin’ drive.’
A few seconds later August and his companion were travelling the A6 in the direction of Lancaster.
Just before they reached Galgate, south of Lancaster, the man ordered, ‘Turn in here.’
August nodded. His hands gripping the steering wheel were weak and perspiring. He pulled into a car park by the side of the road, overlooking the Lancaster canal. A large number of pleasure cruisers were moored by a quay below them, but there was no one around. It was very quiet, tranquil.
The man dangled something in front of August’s face. It was a small hessian bag with a drawstring fastener. ‘Put this over your head.’
He obeyed meekly, slipping the rough-textured material over his head, down over his face, blocking out all light. It was harsh and unpleasant against his skin. The man pulled the drawstring tight and fastened it with a knot.
A hand touched August’s shoulder. He was told to swing his legs out of the car and stand up. As he rose unsteadily he caught his head on the doorframe but managed to struggle to his feet.
Another vehicle drew up.
He was manhandled into the back of this vehicle - a Ford Transit van - and lying on his side in the foetal position, was frisked by heavy hands. The back doors of the van were closed and the van drove away. He had orders not to move, otherwise he would be thrown out.
August tried to keep track of his journey.
He could tell that they turned right out of the car park, so they were heading back towards Garstang. After a couple of minutes the van slowed and went left. This was the motorway junction. If there was another left turn they would be heading north up the M6. There wasn’t. August could tell from the acceleration of the van and the way it leaned that they were looping around the junction to travel south, back towards Preston.
They were on the motorway for about fifteen minutes - continuous, straight-line, high-speed travel. No one spoke on the journey, yet August sensed there were two men.
The van slowed and came off the motorway.
August was fairly certain this was the Preston north turn-off. Soon after, he lost his bearings as they hit Preston proper, and ten minutes later, they stopped.
He heard some doors slide back.
The van lurched and stopped again. The engine was switched off.
They had driven into a building of some sort.
In his blackness he heard hollow footsteps. The building doors sliding back again. Murmuring voices. A laugh. Then the back doors of the van were opened. He was heaved out and dragged for a few metres, then forced down onto his knees, then onto all fours and then completely onto his front. The ground was cold and hard. Concrete.
Soon, he thought, I will see them. This is their weak time. He was wrong.
A voice said, ‘I am going to remove the bag from your head, do you understand? Because I am a civilised man and we are going to have a conversation. However, when I do this you will look at the ground, your nose will be pressed to the floor and you will keep your eyes closed. Do you understand?
‘Yes.’
‘I will hold a double-barrelled shotgun to the back of your neck.’ The voice was male with a Scottish accent and sounded as though it was being reasonable. ‘If you open your eyes and try to look round, or do anything silly or make a sudden move, I’ll pull both triggers and blow your head off your shoulders. There will be nothing left of your head. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
Then August felt the cold barrels of the gun pushed into his neck, just below his hairline. He wanted to be sick. He swallowed something that tasted of vomit.
The hessian sack was yanked off his head and he lay there face down, nose to the ground, shivering with fright. Before he could stop them, his eyes had flickered open for a nanosecond, and he nearly whined in terror. But no one seemed to have noticed. He squeezed them firmly shut, enclosing and sealing the memory of that face...
There was a cough, a clearing of the throat, the shuffle of feet. ‘So, Mr August, what did you think of the video? Good, wasn’t it? Very classy. Make a fortune on the porn market, that.’
‘What do you want?’ said August tightly. He wasn’t sure how much more he could handle.
‘Straight to the point,’ said the voice. ‘I like that. All right, we’ll play it your way. There’s something you possess that we want. Knowledge. You’re a Chief Constable. You know many things - and what you don’t know, you can find out.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ August was almost in tears.
‘But you do, you do,’ the man assured him.
‘What?’
‘A man is presently at court facing murder charges. He will soon be convicted. A man called Hinksman.’
August groaned. ‘So? I can’t stop that.’
‘I know - and he’ll be convicted. Stupid bastard deserves to be ... However, that doesn’t concern us. He’ll be taken by police escort from Lancaster to another prison, won’t he? Probably Strangeways.’
August did not respond. He waited for the bombshell.
‘What I want you to do is tell me when the escort will be setting off from Lancaster, how many of them are armed and with what sort of weapons ... you know, that sort of thing. But I want you to do something else for me as well.’
‘What?’ said August, deep in a nightmare.
‘Ensure that the convoy takes a particular route - one which I will supply to you. There - simple, isn’t it?’
‘But why?’
The man jabbed the shotgun roughly into the back of August’s neck. ‘Why d’you fuckin’ think?’
Joe Kovaks had made his first visit to Laura at seven-thirty in the morning. He had got home just in time to run Chrissy to the hospital for ten. By the time he hit the sack an hour later he was exhausted, with only four hours to sleep before getting up and collecting Chrissy. He was due back on duty at six, when he planned to ditch Tommo, his partner, and go straight to see Laura and get his plan underway.
He felt excited. Corelli’s time was ticking away.
Laura looked 100 per cent better that evening - in other words, marginally better than a corpse.
Kovaks sat on the stool next to the bed and placed a bag of mixed fresh fruit on the cabinet.
She gave him a weak smile, said ‘Hi,’ then closed her eyes. The brush with death had taken its toll.
‘We need to get Corelli,’ Kovaks said softly. ‘How many more lives will he destroy?’ He spoke in a low, hypnotic voice. He knew she was susceptible right now. This was the time to strike, to get into her mind and influence her way of thinking. He was being a ruthl
ess bastard and he knew it. ‘Look at what he’s done to you and Whisper. He killed Whisper, not me, Laura. He had him knifed to death and his tongue cut out because he had the courage to talk to me. And then he made you suffer. He’d been making you suffer anyway. Using you as a source of income. Making you use your body and your mouth. How many men did you fuck, Laura? One hundred? Ten thousand? How man men did you suck off? Twenty thousand? He abused you, destroyed you, forced you onto drugs so that you’d be dependent on him for everything - money, junk, somewhere to live. I know you did it for the baby, I know it was the only way. I’m not judging you, honey. All I’m doing is stating facts, Laura... and then what happened? When he’d had enough of you, he kicked you out onto the streets, out of your home. The cunt! Not much of a home, I know but it was your place nevertheless.’
She began to cry softly, eyes closed in shame. Kovaks was bang on target. He couldn’t stop a triumphant grin from spreading across his face. This might be easier than he’d feared.
‘And you lost everything. The baby. Whisper. Your self-respect.’ He was relentless, driving it home. ‘And you almost lost your life, like he’s deprived thousands of others of theirs. While he lives like a king! He doesn’t do drugs. He’s a fucking billionaire! Owns houses, cars, boats, planes, businesses ... all on the back of people’s suffering. We need to do something about him, Laura. We need to stop him. You and me. You and me. If we pool what we know, I’m sure we can do it.’
‘How?’ she sobbed. ‘We can’t touch him.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Kovaks. He shook his head. ‘But we can think of something.’
‘I want my baby back,’ she cried. ‘That’s what I want.’ Her mouth twisted grotesquely as she cried. She buried her head in a pillow. ‘I miss her so much.’
Kovaks laid a hand on her bony shoulder.
‘It’s OK Laura. You’ve got me now. You can depend on me. I’m an FBI agent, aren’t I? I can pull strings. I can get her back for you. I’m sure I can. Don’t worry, but you must promise to help me. We must get Corelli once and for all. You and me, Laura. You and me.’ His voice was hypnotic.
‘I need my junk too,’ she said.
‘That’s OK, I can get you anything you need.’
‘But how are we going to get him?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ he said.
But he had a good idea.
A further two weeks of witnesses giving evidence drove the trial into its fifth week. Much of the testimony was presented by experts - scientists, doctors etc. - and the officers who conducted the interviews with Hinksman. It was basically unchallenged by the defence. Graham put up a spirited performance, but he was rowing up Shit Creek with only his hands for paddles.
The last witness stepped down from the box at 3 p.m. on the Friday of the fifth week and the trial was adjourned for the weekend.
On the Monday of the sixth week Graham began his final speech for the defence. It lasted two days - two days in which he tried valiantly to discredit the prosecution evidence. He was very convincing, eloquent and believable - but on the whole he was fighting a lost cause; however, as he was being paid so well and had such a dangerous client, he tried his best.
He did have a good case to rubbish Henry Christie’s evidence, though. Despite the supporting forensic and ballistic evidence, Henry’s testimony was unsafe, he insisted. He referred to a famous stated case - R v Turnbull - which dealt with the subject of identification and the guidelines which the police should follow. Most of Henry’s evidence did not follow these guidelines; therefore, Graham submitted, Hinksman should be found not guilty of the murders in the alley.
On Wednesday the Judge began her careful summing up. This lasted until the Friday and was fascinating to listen to. It was as though she was telling a story around a campfire. She enthralled everyone with her turn of phrase and clear voice. She made detailed reference to Henry’s evidence and supported Graham’s submission. She told the jury that they must be very sure that Detective-Sergeant Christie’s evidence was sound. Any doubt and they must not convict.
Henry could only agree with her conclusion from a professional point of view. Personally he was extremely pissed off about it. But then again, he mused, she hadn’t told them not to convict...
However, she more or less directed the jury to convict on all the other counts.
The twelve good and true men and women then retired to consider their verdicts. By five o’clock they had not got anywhere. They had begun a process which was to last five days. Over this period they were taken to a secret location - an hotel on the outskirts of Lancaster where they were guarded by armed police and dog-handlers. The Judge instructed them to remain there until they reached their verdicts. Only then could they return to court.
Late that Friday night, the jury retired to their respective bedrooms at the hotel to get a good night’s sleep before continuing with their task the following morning.
At 6 p.m. in Miami, five hours behind British time, Sue finished her work for the day at the FBI building, collected a couple of personal belongings from her desk and made ready to go home.
She was extremely bored with the task now allotted to her - a fraud enquiry which had been ongoing for two years and which the Bureau had been unable to crack. For the last two months she had been combing balance sheets, profit and loss accounts, bank transfers and private bank accounts until figures had been coming out of her ears, but at least she had made a breakthrough. She was fairly sure how the fraud was being perpetrated, but uncertain how it could be proved in court.
Although pleased by the progress, she was actually bored rigid with the case. The short time she’d spent teamed up with Joe Kovaks and the Corelli Unit had been very exciting and had given her a look over the fence, where the grass was definitely greener. She longed to get back onto organised crime where the baddies pulled guns out, not pens, and it was blood that was spilled, not ink.
And she missed Joe.
After an unsteady start, to say the least, she and he had become good friends. She had managed to maintain some contact with him when she’d been transferred, but it had dwindled and she hadn’t seen him for almost four weeks now. It made her sad, but she knew he was completely immersed in Corelli, especially after the tragedy with Chrissy.
As Sue stepped into the elevator, one other person was already inside, finger on the Door Open button.
Oh God, she thought. I do not like this guy. He gives me the creeps. However, she steeled herself and said, ‘Hello, Mr Ritter,’ pleasantly.
‘Hello, Sue,’ he said. ‘Ground or basement?’
‘Basement, please. My car’s down there.’
‘Mine too.’ He smiled ingratiatingly and pressed the button. The doors closed slowly with a sinister hiss and the elevator descended.
Sue stared at the doors.
Ritter lounged against the side of the elevator, looking at her. Bitch, he thought. You fucking know, don’t you?
‘Any thing planned for the weekend,’ he asked her.
‘No, not really. Some shopping, maybe. Catch a movie, that sort of thing. ‘
‘Not going to Bayside, by any chance?’ He laughed nervously.
Now why ask that? She recalled seeing him there once and him denying it, but that was months ago. Obviously it meant something to him - probably out meeting some woman other than his wife - but so what? He wanted to deny it, let him deny it.
‘Spending some time with your fiancé - Damian, isn’t it, from Fingerprints?’
‘No, he’s away,’ she said. ‘Gone to see his mother for a few days. I’ll have a nice weekend all alone.’ She-smiled at Ritter, wishing he’d shut up but not wishing to be impolite.
Fortunately the elevator stopped on the second floor and two secretaries got in. They were going to the basement, too. Sue was relieved. She exhaled a long breath.
At the basement Ritter stood by the elevator door, finger on the button, and allowed the three women to walk out ahead of him. The secretaries peeled
off to the left. Sue walked straight on towards the car park.
If she turns round, Ritter thought, she knows.
Sue couldn’t help herself. She glanced quickly round and saw Ritter still in the elevator, watching her. Weirdo. She increased her pace. Why the hell did I tell him I was alone this weekend, she asked herself. She had an uneasy feeling.
Ritter pressed the button which would take the elevator to the administration floor.
In the general office Ritter managed to collar one of the clerks before she left. Ritter knew she dealt with annual leave.
‘Have you got a moment?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, sure, what is it?’
‘I left a fingerprint indent with one of the experts downstairs, a guy called Damian Faber. I’ve been trying to chase him up today for a result. Turns out he’s on leave. I need to speak to him pretty urgently about it. Is there any chance you can get into your computer records and see if he’s left an address where he can be contacted? I’d really appreciate it.’
‘Yeah, sure, no problem. Won’t take but a minute.’
She sat down by a computer terminal, switched the machine on and tapped quickly into the computerised leave records.
‘Here we are.’ She leaned sideways to allow Ritter to see the screen. .
‘Mother’s address in Clearwater,’ said Ritter. ‘No phone number. Damn!’ He jotted down the details, which also included Damian’s home address and phone number. ‘I am very much obliged to you,’ he said to the clerk. ‘Looks like I’ll have to send the local cops round to roust him.’
‘Looks like,’ she said, logging out and switching off. She pulled on her coat and hurried out of the office, late for her date.
Ritter phoned Damian’s home number. The answering machine clicked in.
‘Excellent,’ said Ritter to himself with a dangerous smile. ‘He ain’t there, so he must still be at Mommy’s.’
It was going to be a short, violent weekend for Agent Fat Bitch.