by Nick Oldham
‘Firstly, sir, I know you’re a Chief Constable. Secondly, I or any other police officer could arrest you, so don’t make that mistake. You are not above the law. However, if you would be willing to accompany us voluntarily so that we can interview you about the matter, that would suit us. No unpleasantness. That said, I must caution you.’ And he recited it, word perfect.
August replied with a sneer in his voice. ‘Her word against mine. You’ll never prove anything.’
‘Please, sir, don’t jump to that conclusion.’
‘You mean you have evidence other than her say-so?’ He looked astounded as he watched the two men nod simultaneously. ‘Such as?’
‘Suffice to say there is more than just her say-so, as you put it.’
‘Bollocks! Anyway, I’m too busy to be bothered with this at the moment. On the way out, make an appointment with my secretary for some time next week and we’ll discuss it then. Goodbye, gentlemen.’
Cool, unflustered, DCS Runshaw said, ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of raping Karen Wilde, and may I add that I don’t give a rat’s arse that you’re a Chief Constable. You could be the fucking Prime Minister for all I care. You’re coming with us - now. Understand?’
For the second time that morning, as the enormity of what was happening hit him, Dave August’s career tumbled before his very eyes like a ton of bricks off the back of a lorry. Whatever happened now, he was a goner. The combination of the arrest and the newspaper headlines had well and truly sunk him, professionally and personally.
He sat back slowly in his big comfortable leather chair and nodded apparent acceptance of the situation. But his mind was racing.
‘Could you just give me five minutes?’ he asked. ‘Obviously I have numerous things to sort out and I can’t just leave them in mid-air. I’ll need to tell my secretary and staff officer what’s going on; then have a quick word with an ACC to hold the fort. Will you let me do that?’
Runshaw looked at his DI and gave him the eye. ‘DI Tandy will come with you, sir. I’ll wait here if you don’t mind.’
‘No problem.’
August walked out of his office with Tandy on his heels.
‘Jean,’ he said, ‘I’ll be back shortly to let you know what’s going on.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she nodded worriedly, completely mystified by the events of the morning.
In the corridor outside the office, August said, ‘I need a wee.’
‘I’ll come with you, sir.’
‘Suit yourself, but I’m not going to do a runner.’
He led Tandy to the gents toilet on the same corridor. There was no one else inside. Tandy hung back by the door whilst August relieved himself. He washed his hands meticulously and dried them under the hot-air machine. Standing there, rubbing his hands as instructed, flexing his fingers, he made a rash decision which in his present lightheaded, unreal frame of mind seemed totally rational.
Might as well go out in a blaze, he thought.
He smoothed his jacket down and with a resigned smile on his face, sauntered towards Tandy, giving the DI no warning of what was to come.
It was a wonderful punch. Low, hard and rising, right in the solar plexus. He couldn’t have placed it better if ‘X’ had marked the spot.
The wind hurricaned out of Tandy. He doubled up with an agonised gasp. August then grabbed hold of the scruff of the detective’s neck, and drove him headfirst into the wall. The DI flopped to the floor, dazed, gurgling incoherently. For good measure August kicked the unfortunate man twice on the head. The first kick knocked him cold, the second meant that Tandy would lose the use of his left eye for ever.
August then dragged him across to one of the cubicles where he dumped him, folded him up on the floor around a toilet and closed the door.
In his haste to leave the gents, August almost slipped headlong on the trail of blood across the tiled floor.
Outside, the corridor was clear.
He turned and sprinted towards the stairs, propelling himself down them three at a time. Within seconds he emerged in a ground-floor corridor. Here he paused and composed himself.
‘Fucking career’s ruined, life’s ruined, what’s it fucking matter?’ he chunnered to himself.
A couple of people walked past him and nodded at him. He smiled benignly at them. Pulling his jacket together he walked briskly in the direction of the garage where his car was parked, passing the armoury as he did so.
The door was slightly open; someone was working inside. August did a quick sidestep, unable to believe his good fortune. ‘Play it cool,’ he told himself.
The man inside was a firearms instructor from the training school. He was working at a small table, checking over some handguns which were laid out in front of him. August’s eyes lit on a revolver, next to which was a box of ammunition.
‘Hello, sir,’ said the instructor, surprised, starting to rise.
August gestured for him to remain seated. ‘No, don’t get up. Just a flying visit as I was passing. All well?’
‘Yes, sir.’
August pointed towards the revolver - a 4-inch barrelled Smith & Wesson ‘38. Standard police issue. ‘Mind if I pick it up? It’s not loaded, is it?’
To anyone else the instructor would have said no. But how could he refuse the Chief Constable? After all, he was the one who signed everyone else’s permits.
August picked up the gun, gripping the barrel and cylinder as though he was going to use it as a hammer to knock in nails. In one flowing motion he whacked the heel of the butt across the instructor’s head with as much force as possible. Surprise, as much as anything else, decked him.
August loaded the revolver and pocketed the remainder of the bullets from the box.
The instructor had risen to his hands and knees, shaking his stunned and cut head, flicking spats of blood everywhere. When August left the armoury and locked the door behind him, the instructor was flat out again, this time for the count. Blood poured out of another nasty gash on the back of his head.
Turning away from the door without looking meant that August collided with a woman who was walking from the direction of the canteen, bearing a precariously balanced plate with a cream cake on top of a cup of coffee. The contents of both plate and cup went flying into the wall. The crockery smashed into little pieces.
‘Godamnit!’ the woman shouted. ‘Why don’t you watch where you’re go-’ She then saw who had bumped into her. ‘You ... you’re Dave August.’
August frowned at her and made to walk away. She wrenched him back to face her by his sleeve, yanking him to a standstill.
He brushed her hand off him, glowered angrily at her and said, ‘I’m in a hurry, if you don’t mind.’
‘And I’m waiting for an interview with you.’
‘And who might you be?’
‘Lisa Want.’
‘Oooh, the bitch who wrote that sleaze about me.’ August was in two minds whether or not to punch her very, very hard when he had another avenue of thought. His eyes narrowed. ‘How’d you like another exclusive?’
No hesitation. ‘Yes.’
‘Come with me. Quick, quick. Haven’t got time to hang around.’
‘What about this mess?’
‘Leave it.’
He set off towards the garage at a fast pace. Lisa tagged on. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘Just stay with me and you’ll see,’ he said.
In the garage he made straight for his official Jaguar. The keys were in the ignition, as always. He dropped into the driver’s seat and told Lisa to get in the other side.
The engine fired up beautifully. He accelerated out through the garage doors, round the one-way system, passed the HQ social club and bowling green, and seconds later he was out on the dual carriageway which ran by Headquarters.
‘So what’s this about?’ she asked again.
‘You got a tape-recorder?’
‘Yep.’
‘Well, put it on. I’ve got a story to tell: the downfall of a Chief C
onstable.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was a dreadful morning. Thick grey cloud had scurried in from the Irish Sea and settled low over the Lancashire coast. Rain swirled and danced like a menacing spirit in the twisting wind, heavy and very wet. Not a day to be caught out in.
Henry wrapped his hands around the mug of coffee on the table in front of him. Donaldson was sipping slowly but continuously from a mug of his own. Both men, deep in their own thoughts, were sitting in a cafe called Lantern o’er Lune, staring out at the small port of Glasson Dock in front of them.
Glasson Dock is situated on the mouth of the Lune estuary, a few miles downriver from Lancaster. In former days it acted as Lancaster’s port, but now most of its trade centred on pleasure boats.
All vessels coming in from the sea have to pass through the outer dock gates from the river into the main, deepwater anchorage. This is a manoeuvre which can only be carried out at high tide. Once inside, with the gates closed, they either tie up in the main dock to unload their cargoes, or in the case of pleasure boats, pass through a lock which lifts them to the level of the yacht basin. This process involves closing the main road in Glasson which actually passes over the lock. Once in the yacht basin - a large, square-shaped area of water with a marina in one corner - the boats either moor on the wall of the basin or in the marina itself.
Lenny Dakin owned a large sea-going motor-cruiser berthed at the marina. And if - a big IF - the information Henry had received was correct, he would be coming out to catch the tide; this meant that when he passed into the lock, he would be trapped for at least fifteen minutes.
But if Hinksman wasn’t aboard, there wasn’t much point in having him trapped.
Henry and Donaldson were wearing earpieces so they could listen to the radio transmissions from the various police officers who were hidden around the dock. Some were armed, but the main firearms team had been put on standby at a caravan site next to the road leading into Glasson, about a minute away from the dock.
So far they had been unable to say which boat belonged to Dakin. There were several good class cruisers and it could be anyone of them. They didn’t want to get in too close for a nosy just in case Dakin was spooked and the operation was spoiled.
Henry shook himself out of his reverie and consulted his watch.
‘Not long before the tide turns,’ he commented. ‘If he doesn’t go out on this one, then we’ll be here another twelve hours. Makes me wonder if this is really going to happen.’
‘It’s all we’ve got,’ said Donaldson.
‘I feel so fucking useless just sitting here,’ Henry said bitterly. He wasn’t too far from tears. ‘If Kate’s injured or hurt or worse, I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle it. I feel like cracking now.’
‘Look, if this information is good,’ Donaldson tried to placate and motivate him, ‘this is the best place to be. He’ll turn up and we’ll grab him. I’m sure of it.’
Their earpieces crackled into life.
‘Charlie Delta Two to control.’
‘Charlie Delta Two, go ahead,’ came the voice of Karen in the communications room at Lancaster. She had taken over the helm with FB by her side.
Henry and Donaldson listened carefully. This was the voice of the officer hidden in a hedge near to the roadside entrance to the marina.
‘Target One approaching site. Three on board. Repeat: Target One approaching site, three on board.’
‘Yes!’ said Henry triumphantly, clenching a fist.
This meant that Dakin had arrived at the marina in his Bentley with two other persons.
There was silence on the airwaves for another two minutes. Then: ‘Charlie Delta Six to control.’ This officer had an elevated view of the marina from binoculars on a hillside.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Confirm Target One on site in company with two others, both male ... cannot ID them but fairly sure not Target Two, repeat NOT Target Two.’
‘Damn,’ said Henry. This meant that Hinksman wasn’t either of the two others.
‘Don’t worry,’ Donaldson said. ‘He’ll come.’
‘Charlie Delta Six - all three men have left the vehicle parked up and have climbed on board a motor-cruiser. Can’t see the name. Now all out of sight.’
Karen acknowledged him. The radio went silent again.
Dakin was on board.
Henry rubbed his temples with the base of his thumbs. ‘This is doing my head in.’
‘Mine too,’ Donaldson confessed ruefully.
Five minutes of radio silence passed. The weather seemed to worsen. Rain started to drive down.
‘Charlie Delta Six to control.’ He sounded quite excited. ‘A motor-cruiser has moved off from the marina and is headed towards the lock.’
Instinctively Henry reached underneath his anorak and touched the butt of his revolver with his fingertips.
‘Patrols are reminded to keep well out of sight of the incident area,’ Karen warned sternly over the air. ‘I repeat...’ This was a warning that everyone involved should keep well away from, and out of sight of, the lock - with the exception of Henry and Donaldson who were running the show.
From their position in the cafe the two detectives had an uninterrupted view of the lock, some 100 metres away.
The lock-keeper came out of his cottage. He dropped the barriers across the road to stop all traffic, though there was none at that time. He then got to work on swinging the section of single-track road, which bridged the lock, to one side and securing it with chains. It wasn’t as hard a task as it seemed as the bridge was geared and on well-oiled runners.
As he was busy doing this, a motor-cruiser appeared at the lock gates.
‘Here he is,’ said Henry, sliding down low on his chair and pulling up his collar. ‘Looks like Dakin’s at the helm.’ He wasn’t particularly au fait with nautical terms. ‘I don’t recognise the two others.’
‘Gofers,’ Donaldson said dismissively.
The lock-keeper had secured the bridge and now began to push open the upper lock-gates. They opened slowly and the boat slid majestically into the lock.
Donaldson whistled appreciatively. ‘Nice boat.’
Henry agreed. ‘He’s in a profitable business - and if I can prove he bought it from the proceeds of crime, I’ll get it seized.’
The boat was a Trader 50 which Dakin had owned since new, and was laid out with four double cabins. The twin Caterpillar 210 engine gave it a good long range at IS knots. Its specification was excellent and included a generator, air conditioning, 48-mile radar, autopilot, galley equipped with three fridges, a freezer, washing machine and microwave, plus a dinghy, life-raft and awnings.
Dakin’s two gofers - dressed totally inappropriately in T-shirts and jeans - wrapped ropes around the bollards on the side of the lock opposite to where Henry and Donaldson were sitting. Dakin seemed to be shouting obscenities at them. Their faces, when Henry could see them, registered apathy, as though they didn’t want to be there.
The lock-keeper closed the upper lock-gates.
In a few moments he would transfer his attention to the lower gates, when he would open the gate paddles to allow water to flow out into the dock, out of the lock chamber.
Dakin was trapped. It would be an easy task to board the boat now. ‘Well, shall we?’ Donaldson turned to Henry, eyebrows raised. ‘You’re in charge, pal. Everyone’s waiting on you.’
Henry gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘If I knew he was on board, I’d say yes. But I don’t want to blow it, because if he isn’t, we’ve lost a good job for when Dakin comes back in loaded to the nines with drugs.’
‘Yeah. I understand the quandary-’ Donaldson was stopped in mid sentence by Henry’s hand clamping on his arm. A van had pulled up on the far side of the lock. The driver got out and walked, head bowed against the wind and rain, towards the boat. It was virtually impossible to make out his features.
Henry said, ‘It’s him,’ hoarsely. ‘It’s Hinksman.’ He was sure
. He felt his heart rate increase. ‘Where’s Kate? What the hell’s he done to her?’
‘You sure it’s him?’ Donaldson questioned, peering through the window.
‘Positive.’
Hinksman stepped across onto the boat.
‘Let’s give him a second or two,’ Henry said. He spoke into his radio to appraise everyone of the situation, telling them to hold back for his word.
Hinksman went into the cabin and started talking to Dakin.
A second car stopped on the other side of the road, near to where Hinksman had parked his van. The horn blared angrily. A man climbed out and walked to the edge of the lock.
‘Jesus Christ,’ uttered Henry in disbelief. ‘It’s Dave August, I’m sure it is.’
‘What in the name of damnation is he doing here?’ Donaldson said.
‘Dakin!’ August shouted. ‘Lenny Dakin!’
‘Fuck off,’ one of the henchmen replied.
Dakin stepped out of the cabin with Hinksman just one pace behind him. ‘What do you want?’
‘You Lenny Dakin?’
‘Aye.’
‘You know who I am?’
‘Should I?’ he replied, though he did know very well.
‘I’m Dave August. Chief Constable of Lancashire Constabulary.’ ‘Congratulations. ‘
‘You have ruined my life, Lenny Dakin.’
August’s right hand pulled out the revolver which had been tucked in his waistband underneath his jacket. He pointed it at Dakin.
‘Now I’m going to ruin yours.’
‘Let’s move - now!’ shouted Henry down the radio. The intention had initially been to give the firearms team a couple of minutes to race into position from the caravan site. That idea had gone right down the tubes. Things had definitely changed.
‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he said to Donaldson, standing up and running towards the cafe door, ‘but I think we’d better intervene.
He drew his gun as he went through the door.
August yelled something completely incomprehensible.