A Time For Justice

by Nick Oldham

  He paused, letting his words sink in, then resumed, his voice hard: ‘Thing is, if you don’t cooperate, Janine, you’ll get no smack and we will push hard for a custodial sentence. Just think - five years in prison, a lovely girl like you. We’ll tell the court what a bitch you were - obstructive, violent, all that sort of shit. Get the drift? So, you can come out of this a winner or a loser. Choice is yours, babe.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  It was 4.15 a.m. when Dave August awoke. He felt terrible. He needed to wash his face and gargle with a minty mouthwash, which he did at the washbasin in his little sleeping annexe next to the office.

  As he dried his face he looked at the camp bed. It hadn’t seen much activity since Karen had left him. Bitch. Served her right. Without a shred of conscience, nor even the merest idea that he might have committed rape - after all, how could it have been rape after she’d let him fuck her all those times before? - he strolled back into his office, feeling more or less ‘with it’.

  The files on his desk were in disarray. He straightened them up and turned back to the one he’d been reading just prior to falling asleep.

  As he skimmed through it again, feeling much more alert, he came across an old 1974 descriptive form - a piece of police bumf that is completed when someone is arrested - which related to a man called Dakin. August wasn’t too sure about Dakin’s role in the scheme of things (Chief Constables only ever want to know the wider picture not the ins and outs of investigations), and he wasn’t too bothered. He speed-read the form without undue interest. It was an old-style form from Strathclyde police in Scotland, containing much more detail than the newer forms, even down to the colour of Dakin’s socks.

  August was about to add it to the pile when he paused. Something was triggered in his mind.

  Firstly, it was a Scottish form. Interesting.

  There was something else too, but he wasn’t sure what.

  He read it again, slowly. The officer who had filled it in had been very thorough, even to the point of describing and drawing the tattoo which Dakin had on the back of his left hand. It was in the shape of a heart with a skull superimposed on it.

  August stared at the little drawing. His mind swirled back. The factory floor. The shotgun rammed into his neck. His face pressed into the floor, eyes tightly closed except for one millisecond when he’d squinted upwards and seen...

  Heart and skull.

  And the man with the tattooed hand had a Scottish accent. Time to find out more about Lenny Dakin.

  ‘Do you actually have the power to do what you said?’ Donaldson asked Henry. ‘Getting the charges dropped?’

  They were back on the M6 motorway, speeding north, Henry at the wheel.

  ‘Probably not,’ admitted Henry. ‘But I did get some smack to her and I’ll do my best. If I can’t pull anything off, so what? She’s just a junkie. I won’t be too concerned.’

  ‘You’re all heart,’ said Donaldson with a short laugh. ‘By the way, do you always break the rules? That interview wasn’t really legit, was it?’

  They both cracked up laughing.

  ‘We don’t ever break the rules in the States,’ Donaldson went on. ‘We can’t afford to.’

  ‘Neither can we,’ said Henry bleakly.

  The consequences of what he’d just done were too horrendous to contemplate if it came out. He’d lose his job and probably get prosecuted for supplying controlled drugs to a person in custody. A very serious offence. A very serious understatement.

  He hoped that both Janine and the airport detective would keep quiet about it. Realistically, though, he knew it was probably too much to hope for.

  They passed the turn-off to Blackpool and stayed on the M6. In less than fifteen minutes they’d be back at Lancaster.

  ‘What d’ya reckon to all that blabbering about screwing your Chief Constable?’ Donaldson yawned.

  ‘Puzzles me,’ said Henry. ‘Perhaps it’s one of her fantasies.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put anything past him,’ said Donaldson.

  ‘Which reminds me,’ said Henry. ‘What’s happening about that ... business between him and Karen?’

  ‘It’s in the pipeline. That’s all I can say.’

  By 6.15 a.m. everyone was assembled in the gymnasium at Lancaster police station in readiness for a briefing.

  All the detectives involved in the ‘escape’ enquiry were there, wearing scruffy clothes as requested, together with a heavily armed firearms team, dog-handlers and uniformed Support Unit officers. Also present was the Superintendent in charge of the division and a couple of communications operators.

  Henry, Donaldson, Karen and FB were at the front of the room. Donaldson and FB kept a healthy distance between each other, despite FB’s apparent acceptance of Karen now, he and Donaldson still did not see eye to eye. The American tended to bear grudges for a long time, especially where women and their treatment were concerned.

  Henry gazed with mounting excitement tinged with trepidation at the tired but expectant faces in front of him. This was it. Somehow he knew it in his guts. This was going to be the real thing. No way could it turn out to be a wild-goose chase.

  Karen had been tasked to do the briefing. When she asked for quiet, the room hushed immediately.

  ‘Good morning, everyone. Thanks for turning out at such short notice. We are very impressed by your eagerness and I think that it will be rewarded today.

  ‘OK. . . we all know about the escape from custody of a man called James Clarkson Hinksman three days ago after he’d been found guilty of the M6 bombing and the murders of several police officers and others. The escape was perpetrated by a ruthless professional gang who specialise in such jobs. It involved incredible violence, leaving many of our colleagues dead for no good reason. Obviously since then we have been working at full tilt to recapture Hinksman and apprehend this violent team.

  ‘It’s no secret that netting the team will be a long and difficult process as we believe they’ve probably dispersed abroad by now. However, with regard to Hinksman we have had a major breakthrough. This is why you’re all here this morning.’

  A murmur went round the room. Karen allowed it to settle before continuing.

  ‘As most of you know, DS Christie and I have headed the part of the investigation aimed specifically at Hinksman. This morning DS Christie and Special Agent Donaldson of the FBI - who has been working closely with us on this - have received some Class A information which leads us to believe two things. Firstly, Hinksman is still in Lancashire. Secondly, he’s going to leave the country today. We know how and where, but we don’t exactly know when, other than it’s today sometime. So I’ll warn you now, this could be a very long day, but I’m confident that at the end of it we’ll have a result. Any questions so far?’

  There were none. But there were plenty of smiles on plenty of faces.

  On the wall behind Karen was a large-scale map of Lancaster and its environs. She stepped to one side and turned to it.

  ‘The information we have received today is this...’

  She pointed to the map and began to reveal the police operation that had been hastily put together.

  Dave August had everything from the Lancashire police files on Lenny Dakin: intelligence reports, photographs, more up-to-date descriptions, known associates, suspected involvement in crime, estimated wealth etc. There were copies of several surveillance operations which had been run jointly between Lancashire and other forces, but all these had been unsuccessful. He was a very careful man, very surveillance-conscious. One detective referred to him as the ‘canny Scot’.

  So, pondered August, he was a big-time criminal, of that there was no doubt. He read through an intelligence report submitted by Henry Christie, reporting that Dakin had picked up the American gangster Corelli at Manchester Airport. Christie surmised that the two were in cahoots, probably planning ways to bring drugs into the country. He also surmised that Dakin had probably set up Danny Carver and Jason Brown to meet t
heir deaths at the hand of Hinksman - but he had no evidence to back that up.

  He may be Mr Big, August thought, but more importantly, this morning I have identified him as the man behind everything that has gone wrong with my life recently. This is the bastard who preyed on my weakness and exploited it.

  When August’s secretary Jean came in, he realised, much to his surprise, that it was 8 a.m. He was still sat there in the uniform he’d been wearing for the last twenty-four hours. He needed a shave and a shower.

  Jean had a worried look on her face.

  She walked across to August’s desk and placed a newspaper on top of what he was reading.

  ‘I think you should see this, sir,’ she said without a smile. ‘And there’s a journalist outside asking to see you, an American called Lisa Want.’ She spun round and left.

  August frowned. This was not a newspaper he had ever read or would ever consider reading. It was complete trash.

  Then the headlines hit him.

  Chief Constable In Sex-And-Drug Orgy With Hooker!

  ‘Oh my God,’ he groaned.

  A grainy colour photograph on the front page showed him facing the camera, standing naked with a woman kneeling in front of him. Her face and breasts, his privates and buttocks had been blacked out with a thick line, but the ecstasy on his face was horribly clear. It was a still taken from the video.

  The article accompanying it was written by Lisa Want - again on ‘special assignment’. Readers were invited to turn to the centre pages for more sensational photographs and a transcript of the soundtrack.

  With a heartbeat increased to epic proportions and a quivering hand to match, Dave August did just that. His world, which was crumbling away, began to avalanche down a precipitous mountainside.

  And there would be more to come.

  He looked out of his window towards the sports field. The day was overcast, clouds grey. Big spats of rain slapped loudly onto the panes.

  The phone started to ring.

  Both Henry Christie and Karl Donaldson received phone calls after the briefing which unsettled them. They were summoned down to the communications room on the floor below the gym and took their calls at the same time, but from different extensions.

  Karen, standing in a position between the two, watched their reactions to whatever the news was.

  ‘Daddy?’

  Henry immediately recognised his eldest daughter’s voice and the strained tone which accompanied even that single word.

  ‘Hi Jenny, what’s the matter, sweetheart?’

  ‘I don’t know, Daddy.’

  He could hear fear in her voice.

  ‘What d’you mean, you don’t know?’ he asked, keeping his own voice purposely light. He sensed something catastrophic was wrong. It wasn’t like Jenny to phone him at all; she usually tagged onto Leanne’s calls.

  ‘We got up this morning and ... oh, Dad! Mum’s not here! She’s gone. We don’t know what to do.’

  Henry felt something heavy drop in his stomach.

  Meanwhile, in the same room, not six feet away, Donaldson was taking a transatlantic phone call.

  ‘Just letting’ ya know outta courtesy, Karl,’ the faint voice 3,000 miles away at the other end of the line was saying. It was one of Donaldson’s former partners, still a good friend.

  ‘Speak up a little, Jack. Can hardly hear ya.’

  ‘Bad news, pal, bad news. It’s about Joe Kovaks... ‘

  Henry and Donaldson hung up simultaneously. Each ran a hand over his own face.

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ said Donaldson. ‘Joe’s gone missing. Last seen leaving the office ten a.m. yesterday, not called in since. Bucar’s gone too. Not like him, not like him at all. Chrissy hasn’t seen him. I know he’s a maverick, but he ain’t stupid. Don’t like it.’

  Karen laid a worried hand on the back of his head.

  Henry, stunned, said simply, ‘I think Hinksman’s got my wife.’ He closed his eyes, dropped his head and began to pray.

  A light flashed on the switchboard. One of the comms operators answered the call.

  ‘DS Christie? Call for you.’

  FB burst brusquely into the communications room. ‘I’ve just brought the Chief Constable up to date with what’s happening and where this thing’s going. He didn’t half sound strange-’ He stopped midsentence and looked at the serious faces of everyone in the room. Karen put a finger to her lips.

  All attention was focused on Henry who picked up the phone and slowly put it to his ear.

  ‘Henry, you’re one hell of a lucky son of a bitch. That bomb was meant for you, but no doubt you know that.’

  ‘It’s a conclusion I reached,’ said Henry stonily, immediately recognising the voice of Hinksman.

  ‘An’ I’m real sorry about the kid because I don’t like killing innocent people unless it’s absolutely necessary. It’s so unprofessional. ‘

  ‘So how guilty was the prostitute in Blackpool?’

  ‘Hey, some detective! I’m impressed you know about her.’ Hinksman’s voice went hard, making the hairs creep on Henry’s scalp. ‘She stole from me. She lost her status of innocence. Rather like you, Henry, when you turned my money down, then when you shot me.’

  ‘And how guilty is my wife?’ whispered Henry, feeling the nausea grip his lower abdomen like a clawed hand.

  Hinksman gave a short laugh. ‘She’s actually very innocent. I’ve told her it’s nothing personal, but I need to use her. What surprises me is that you didn’t take more steps to protect your family. You ain’t even got a burglar alarm on your house. I as good as let myself in - not even a dog, for Christ’s sake. And all those goodies to protect - TV, hi-fi, microwave - and those two lovely daughters.’

  Hinksman allowed the words to sink into Henry’s consciousness.

  ‘Had a look in at that older one, he said airily. ‘Developing a real nice pair of titties. Might come back one day and rape the fuck out of her - just to make you suffer again. Because that’s what all this is about, making you suffer for what you did to me.’ His voice grew thick. ‘I wanted to kill you face to face. I was waiting for you the other night, but I chose the hooker instead... ‘

  ‘Then let’s meet,’ Henry cut in desperately. ‘Let Kate go and I give you my word, just you and me.’

  ‘Love to say yes - but no can do. I’m out of here - once I’ve finished with Mrs C, that is.’ He laughed uproariously. ‘So, unfortunately I’m going to have to make you suffer by proxy. Oh, and forget about tracing the phone - I’m on a mobile. Goodbye Henry. Missing you already.’

  ‘Don’t hang up,’ screamed Henry. ‘Hinksman!’ The line was dead.

  ‘I told you to hold all calls, you stupid bitch. I don’t want interrupting,’ Dave August snapped down the line to his secretary. He was trapped in his office and it was getting smaller and smaller. The walls seemed to be sliding towards him like some sort of medieval torture chamber. He half-expected sharpened spears of steel to appear.

  ‘Mr August,’ Jean remonstrated. ‘I’m doing my best. I felt I should let you know that the HMI has been on, as well as the Head of the Police Committee, as well as numerous others ... and there are two gentlemen here to see you.’

  ‘Tell them to fuck off.’ He was sweating profusely. ‘Is that bitch of a reporter still there?’

  ‘Yes, out in Reception together with several others and the TV.’

  ‘Tell them all to fuck off, or I’ll have them thrown out.’

  ‘Mr August, I can’t do that,’ she said desperately. ‘I’m struggling out here to be as polite to everyone as I can. I’m trying to protect you so you can pull yourself together, yet all I hear from you are senseless, obscene instructions which are impossible to carry out. Mr August, I am very close to tears.’

  Not as close as I am, he thought. He capitulated. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. My mind’s in a bit of a mess at the moment as you can probably appreciate.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Who are the gentlemen you refer to? Not re
porters, I hope. I won’t see anyone from the press.’

  ‘No, they’re officers from Greater Manchester Police. They say they have something very important to discuss with you.’

  ‘Right, right ... give me five minutes.’

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Runshaw and this is Detective Inspector Tandy.’

  August leaned across his desk and shook their hands. He had changed out of his uniform into a suit and had quickly shaved, nicking himself several times in the process. He looked a mess, but didn’t give a shit. He invited the two men to sit down with a wave of his hand.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, even though he didn’t like the look in their eyes. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘A somewhat delicate matter,’ Runshaw admitted. ‘We’ve received a complaint from a member of your force, one of your officers, and we are investigating it following a decision by our Chief Constable in consultation with the PCA and CPS.’

  ‘Oh? Sounds unusual.’

  ‘It’s actually a very serious allegation that’s been made and it’s an allegation against you, sir. It’s one of rape.’

  August nearly wet himself. ‘What? That’s preposterous.’

  ‘A female Chief Inspector has alleged that you raped her in her home some months ago,’ Runshaw went on.

  ‘That’s not true,’ said August shakily. Please, ground, he thought. Open up, swallow me...

  ‘Well, sir, the allegation has been made and we’re satisfied that there’s enough evidence to make an arrest-’

  ‘An arrest? Are you saying that you’re going to arrest me? I’m a Chief Constable, for God’s sake. You can’t do that, especially on some unsubstantiated allegation by a bitter woman.’

  Runshaw held up his hands, palms towards August in a pacifying gesture.