A Time For Justice

by Nick Oldham

  Damian had decided to surprise Sue.

  He’d taken a few days’ leave in order to visit his mother in Clearwater because she claimed to be seriously ill and close to death. Seriously mad, Damian thought as he drove east along Highway 41 towards Miami and home in his battered Chevvy.

  Two days with her had driven him nuts. He had originally planned to stay until Sunday, but her crazy ways decided him to return early, surprise Sue and have a weekend of debauchery.

  The thought of her body - a body he had come to love even though she was immense - spurred him to press down a touch more on the gas pedal. The car surged ahead and at the same time he experienced a pleasant sensation at his groin. He reached forwards and turned the volume of the radio up a touch as the Stones cut into Honky Tonk Women.

  The chimes on the front door of the apartment tinkled. Sue pulled on her thin pink cotton dressing-gown, the one Damian liked - especially when she was damp and it clung to her - and trotted happily to answer it. She peered through the spy hole and stepped back, puzzled but unafraid.

  She unlocked and opened the door. ‘Mr Ritter,’ she said. It was more of a question.

  ‘Hello, Sue.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I think we need to talk.’

  ‘About what?’ She felt suddenly vulnerable and tugged the belt on her gown tighter.

  ‘I actually think you know,’ Ritter said, raising his eyebrows. ‘May I come in? We can hardly conduct a civilised conversation out here, now can we?’

  Reluctantly she allowed him in, but only because he was an FBI agent and wouldn’t be foolish enough to try anything stupid. He sidled slowly past her into the living room, brushing his arm against her breasts.

  ‘Nice place you have here,’ he commented. He went to the kitchen, then the bedroom and looked into both. ‘Nice bed. I’ll bet you and Damian do some megafuck work on that.’

  Sue’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t quite believe what she’d just heard.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Ritter?’ she said coldly, deciding to ignore it, just in case she’d misheard.

  He spun round from the bedroom door and pointed at her. ‘What can you do for me? First of all you can sit down.’

  Something about the way he said those words made Sue’s legs go weak. There was some sort of trouble brewing here. ‘I’d rather stand. This is my home - I’ll do as I like. And I’m asking you to leave. Goodbye, Mr Ritter.’

  He covered the space between them in a couple of strides, moving so fast that Sue was unable to defend herself from the powerful blow that sent her spiralling backwards onto the couch. It had been a well timed, well-connected slap - with all his might behind it.

  She sat up, shaking her head. ‘Damian,’ she called out. ‘Get in here!’

  Ritter laughed. ‘Maybe when he comes back from Mommy’s. You’re all alone, Sue. I know these things. I check - I’m a pro.’

  ‘You’re a madman,’ she hissed. She was sure her jaw was broken. She started to clamber to her feet, intent on hitting back, but she was too slow. Where was Damian?

  Ritter grabbed her hair and rammed her face down onto his up-thrusting knee. Her nose burst with a distinct crack and he tossed her back onto the couch.

  ‘You really are obscene,’ he said, standing over her, looking dispassionately down at her exposed body: her gown, covered in blood, had sagged open and ridden up.

  But Sue was past modesty. She had never felt such incredible pain before. She whimpered like a kitten: ‘What do you want?’

  He smiled benevolently. ‘That day at Bayside - why were you there? Were you watching me, seeing who I was meeting? Is that why you were there?’ His questions were relentless.

  ‘I was having a picnic,’ said Sue.

  ‘Liar!’ His foot lashed out and he kicked her shins hard. She screamed in pain. ‘Now - why were you there?’

  ‘Having a picnic ... boyfriend...’

  Oh God Damian, where are you? Come to my rescue.

  ‘You’ve been following me, haven’t you? Building up a dossier. Who I meet, who I speak to. The boat I own - do you know about that too? What about my condo? Have you checked my bank accounts? I bet you have, you accountancy cunt. You know all about me and Corelli, don’t you?’

  ‘No, no, no,’ she cried desperately. ‘You’re wrong, wrong. Oh, please Damian, help me.’

  ‘He won’t help you,’ sneered Ritter. ‘He’s miles away, with Mommy. So, who else knows all this?’ he demanded.

  ‘No one ... you’re insane.’

  He grabbed her by the hair again and yanked her into a sitting position. Then leaned down and glared into her eyes. ‘Who ... else ... knows?’ he repeated slowly. Spittle ran from the corners of his mouth. ‘Where is the file?’

  ‘There is no file. I know nothing about you or Corelli,’ she said.

  He flung her back contemptuously, revealing her shaking folds of flesh.

  ‘Oh, you really are gross,’ he said disgustedly. ‘It’ll be like sticking a pig.’ And he pulled a knife out of his pocket.

  Sue tried to scream but no noise would come; she tried to get up and run away, but fear had driven all responses from her body.

  Ritter plunged the knife into her chest, piercing her heart. By the time he’d removed it and plunged it in a second time, she was as good as dead. This didn’t stop him from stabbing her in a frenzy of utter blind madness another thirty-eight times. And that was just the beginning.

  Joe Kovaks drove into Liberty City at nine that evening and cruised the streets slowly, making sure that he wasn’t being followed. He couldn’t afford to be caught out on this one, either by his own side or the other. This was his little operation and its success depended on no one else knowing about it.

  Kovaks looked cynically at the streets where in 1980 the whole world had been made aware of Miami’s race problems; four days of rioting had left eighteen people dead. A white face here was still unwelcome. Now, even though he was streetwise, unafraid and armed, he kept his windows closed, door locked and never stopped at a traffic light.

  Once he was satisfied he was alone, he drove out west to a rundown motel just on the edge of Liberty City and made straight for Room 103. After knocking in a particular way, he let himself in with his own key.

  The room was untidy, but at least the bedclothes were clean. Laura lay motionless in the bed with the duvet wrapped tightly around her head. She hadn’t heard him either knock or enter.

  In the corner of the room a TV set blared out. Fast-food cartons, their contents half-eaten, were strewn on the floor. Kovaks switched the TV off and went into the kitchenette where, after clearing and wiping the work surface, he emptied the bag of groceries he’d brought into the relevant cupboards.

  As he was doing this, Laura surfaced. Wearing only a pair of panties she sat up, head in hands, rubbing her face.

  ‘Joe, you got it? I need It, Joe!’ she said through her fingers.

  ‘I got it. Be patient.’

  ‘Come on, man. I need it. You promised.’

  ‘I always keep my promises.’ Kovaks returned to the bedroom. ‘But first you gotta do something for me.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, anything, Joe.’

  ‘Clear the fucking place up or you get nothing - understand?’

  It took a few seconds for his order to reach her brain. Then, without a murmur of dissent, she got to it. In a matter of minutes the room had been tidied. The fast-food cartons were in the bin, the bed was straight, clothes and shoes were put away.

  Kovaks sat on one of the two easy chairs and watched her scurrying about the room. He’d always known about the power that pimps and dealers had over drug addicts, but had never imagined how easy it was to get in such a position of dominance. You had what they wanted and they’d do anything for you to get it. A very simple equation. Power went to the people who had the drugs and were not users themselves. People like Corelli.

  Kovaks had always found it difficult to understand addiction
, but thanks to his short association with Laura he was learning fast. In her lucid moments, the black girl was bright, intelligent and articulate. What had been her downfall was circumstance, lack of money, lack of guidance.

  But he didn’t really care about that. He had decided to use her and use her he would. He exerted power over her now and that’s what mattered. She would do anything for him, just to feed her habit.

  ‘There,’ she said, standing up, pushing her dry hair back, ‘done.’

  She moved in front of Kovaks and stood there. Her body was still painfully thin. Her ribs protruded through her skin and her knees stuck out gnarled and unsightly. ‘Anything else? I need it, Joe. Come on, man.’

  He took hold of her wrist and pulled her gently down towards him.

  Her thin body was easy to bend.

  ‘How much do you want it?’ he teased.

  ‘You know how much.’

  ‘Will you do anything for me?’

  ‘Yes, I will.’ Her bloodshot eyes looked pleadingly into his.

  He had been leading up to this, never actually saying it, always insinuating it, prodding, pushing her in the right direction.

  ‘Will you kill Corelli for me?’ he whispered.

  She didn’t even have to think. ‘Yes, I will,’ she gasped.

  Kovaks couldn’t suppress a grin of triumph. Laura had lived in this motel room since her discharge from hospital and Kovaks, at his own risk and expense, had nurtured her, clothed her, fed her, provided drugs for her and now she was completely reliant on him. He was her world. She loved him. He was her provider. And he didn’t beat up on her, abuse her or want to fuck her ass.

  She didn’t know that he really did want to fuck her. But fuck her good and proper.

  Kovaks reached into his pocket. He handed her a brown bottle which contained a bright green liquid, rather like Crème de Menthe. It was methadone, heroin substitute. Twice her daily requirement, provided by a ‘doctor’ Kovaks knew who owed him a favour.

  She unscrewed the cap and swigged the contents in one, wiped her mouth and smiled at him as warmth spread into her stomach and from there into her bloodstream.

  ‘What about my baby?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m negotiating. It looks good.’ It was a lie.

  ‘Joe, I love you,’ she said dreamily. She put her arms around his neck and sank her bony frame onto his knees, curling up like a child.

  ‘I want you to kill Corelli,’ he whispered in her ear.

  ‘I will,’ she said. ‘Give me a gun. I’ll do it.’

  ‘You’re a good girl.’ Kovaks sighed. Suddenly a surge of guilt whipped through him, but then it was gone. It was the only way, he assured himself. The only way.

  Damian lay under the bed for twenty minutes before he dared to move. He was not a brave man. He’d heard the outer door of the apartment open and close but hadn’t had the courage to emerge just in case it was a ploy.

  He tried to stand up but his legs were so weak and shaky that they wouldn’t bear even his meagre weight. So, on all fours, stark naked, he crawled slowly towards the door.

  He was terrified of what he would see. The reality was far worse than anything he could have imagined.

  The living room was swathed in blood. Slashes of it swept across the ceiling and right down the walls, like some sort of modern art form. The couch was drenched in it.

  Damian gagged. Using the doorknob for support he levered himself to his feet and stood there wobbling unsteadily.

  Then he saw her.

  Sue lay on the couch, legs and arms splayed wide. Her throat was cut and the rest of her had been literally ripped apart. Her intestines had been dragged out and some organ or other was hanging, shimmering on the edge of the couch like it was still alive, ready to slither off.

  Damian sagged back to his knees, then scuttled on all fours back into the bedroom and into the en-suite bathroom, where he managed to get his head over the toilet before being horrendously sick.

  He got dressed quickly.

  At the bedroom door he composed himself for his re-entrance into the living room. He placed his hands around his eyes, like he was a kid pretending to make a diving mask, to give himself tunnel vision. Then he ran across the blood-soaked carpet, down the short hallway and out through the front door of the apartment.

  Kovaks was back at his desk by 11p.m., having left Laura in a state of drug-induced euphoria. At midnight he took a call. He grabbed his jacket immediately and within half an hour was at the front door of Sue’s apartment block.

  The senior detective at the scene was Lieutenant Ram Chander, from Homicide. He was one of the few Asian-Indians on the force, a very good detective, completely ruthless and hard to offenders yet with a genuine compassionate streak where victims and their families were concerned.

  Kovaks had worked with him occasionally, but they didn’t have any particular bond. He was surprised when Chander came down in person to greet him. They shook hands.

  ‘She was once your partner, Mr Joe?’ Chander said. He spoke with an American accent but with the odd inflection which betrayed his Kashmiri roots as well as the Indian habit of referring to people by their first names but with the preface of Mr or Mrs as appropriate.

  ‘She was,’ Kovaks confirmed.

  ‘Was she a good friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I must ask you to prepare yourself for an upsetting sight,’ Chander warned Kovaks. ‘Would you like me to describe it for you first, or do you just want to go and see?’

  ‘I’ll go and see,’ said Kovaks impatiently. ‘I’ve come across some bad things in my time.’

  ‘Well, Mr Joe, this’ll be one of the worst,’ sighed Chander.

  Ram Chander was right.

  It took Kovaks a good while to recover. Yes, he had seen worse, but when it was someone you knew lying there, cut open like a carcass at a butcher’s, it was different.

  He was on the landing outside the apartment, talking to Chander. Inside was a bustle of activity. Cameras flashed, videos ran, the ME directed operations and the forensic people got to work.

  Chander was telling Kovaks everything he knew.

  ‘The call came in just after nine,’ Chander said, referring to his notes. ‘One of the neighbours walked past and saw that the front door was open. Thought it was suspicious, that maybe the place had been burglarised. The only time you leave your door open here is to let yourself in or out. Anyway, very brave of him, he went to have a look and found her. We arrived shortly after.’

  ‘Any leads?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ said Chander. ‘The boyfriend is the prime suspect.’

  ‘Who - Damian?’

  Chander shook his head, which actually meant yes. Just occasionally, when he got excited, he reverted to this Indian way of saying yes. Fortunately Kovaks understood the-body language.

  ‘He was seen by a neighbour leaving hurriedly.’

  ‘I can’t believe that,’ said Kovaks. ‘Damian wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s not big enough to kill her.’

  ‘I have a detective down at your place making enquiries. Seems he was on leave and should have been at his mother’s over in Clearwater until Sunday. Mother was contacted and said he’d left early. Looks like he wanted to surprise the victim.’

  ‘Come on - what would be his motive?’

  ‘Until we get him, we can’t establish that. Maybe she was seeing someone else. Maybe she’d dumped him. Jealousy? Anger?’ Chander shook his head sadly. ‘It would not surprise me, Mr Joe.’

  ‘Well, it would astound me, Ram. Keep me informed, will ya?’

  ‘Surely - so long as you keep me informed too. The parties involved may be Federal staff, but the murder is still our jurisdiction...’

  ‘No need to remind me.’

  They shook hands.

  The Coroner’s men were just emerging from the apartment with the very heavy body bag. Kovaks dashed past them. He didn’t want to see her being carried away.

  At six o’clock, Br
itish time, on Saturday morning, six men, all hard, tough and uncompromising assembled in a yard behind a scrap-metal dealer in North London. There were three cars for them, two Jaguars and a Mercedes. They were good cars, but a few years old and unremarkable, except for the fact that they were the most powerful models in the range and they were scrupulously clean - from a criminal point of view.

  The men paired off and chose a car.

  Each of the cars had had some internal bodywork carried out. A special compartment had been skilfully fitted underneath the rear seats, which ran the full width of the vehicle, which was about ten inches deep and ten inches across. These compartments could not easily be found should the car ever be searched.

  The men placed certain items of what they termed ‘merchandise’ into each compartment, laid the lids back on and slotted the rear seats back into place.

  Then they each put a holdall into the boots of the cars.

  They were ready to travel.

  Each pair tossed up to see who would drive for the first half of the journey. The lucky ones curled up in the back seats to get some shuteye. As ex-soldiers, they were aware of the value of sleep.

  They set off in a convoy initially and headed north towards the M1. Soon they were travelling individually because they did not want to draw attention to themselves as a single entity.

  This way, if one got into trouble for some reason, the others would get away.

  Each man knew his destination.

  They were to meet up in Blackburn, Lancashire at noon. There was no great hurry. They would be briefed today, recce the site, see what equipment was available and what they needed to acquire, make their plans and then bide their time.

  They were good at waiting. But from all accounts they wouldn’t have to wait too long.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The jury reached its verdicts at lunchtime on Tuesday. The Crown Court was reconvened and the elected foreperson was asked to read the verdicts out, whether the accused was guilty of murder, manslaughter or not guilty as the case might be.