A Time For Justice hc-1

by Nick Oldham

  ‘ Problems?’ asked Baines. ‘Politics?’

  ‘ With a capital "P",’ said Henry. ‘But I can handle it. If you’re ready, let’s get on with it.’

  ‘ Lights… camera… action!’ said Baines. His knife descended towards the polythene wrapper.

  The post mortems carried out by Dr Baines were thorough and remarkably smelly.

  Death, thought Henry, has a peculiar tang all of its own. Always the same — musty, dirty, clinging to clothing for hours, even days after. That was why he hated having to attend post mortems.

  He was not physically sick, nor had he ever been. He knew of cops who couldn’t face PMs even after a dozen years. But it was no big deal, nothing to be ashamed of.

  Once, early in his career when he’d been a PC, he had sat through four in a row, one after the other. He’d not been remotely affected by any of them, despite the fact that one had been a road accident victim and another a child.

  All he hated was that damned smell.

  Today’s PMs were not even as bad as some he’d had to attend, of people who’d been dead for weeks, gone bloated and bad. Today’s victims had bellies that had been slit open and thus all the gases which normally accumulate had been able to disperse. Even so, they reeked strongly.

  It took Baines four hours of hard toil to complete the task. He was sweating heavily when he finished.

  Once he’d scrubbed himself down, he and Henry adjourned to a nearby public house for a confab.

  The doctor was a troubled man.

  ‘ The bullets killed them both, as you saw. Massive brain damage. No doubt in a couple of days’ time you’ll have the exact calibre of weapon and other information from ballistics.’

  ‘ Couple of months, more like,’ said Henry.

  ‘ Both were mutilated after they were shot, and very skilfully too. Sharp instruments, good technique. You’ll never get a match on dental records and you’ll never be able to build up models of their facial features. The only leads you’ve got are the bullets that I recovered from the woman and the man’s tattoos. I think that’s where the killer made his mistake — by wrapping them in polythene and dumping them where he did. The circumstances have acted to preserve the outer skin, which is fortunate for you.’

  ‘ And the missing hands suggest they might have criminal records,’ said Henry. ‘LCRO are checking files re the tattoos. We might get lucky, but I think it could be a long slog. Smacks of a London gang killing, this. Could be a real ball-acher.’

  ‘ Yeah,’ said Baines. He took a sip from his glass. He was drinking bitter. ‘I reckon they were murdered and then passed on for someone else to chop up. Someone who is good at it. It’s relatively easy to pull a trigger, but to dismember a body takes certain skills. Know what I mean?’

  ‘ Like a sicko?’

  ‘ Or a doctor.’

  ‘ Or a pathologist. You’re pretty sick.’

  ‘ Yeah,’ laughed Baines. ‘I am.’ He sighed and dredged his brain. ‘Something rings a bell, but I’m not sure what.’ He thought, but came up with nothing. ‘Nope… it won’t come, Henry.’

  He drank the last of his pint. ‘I’ll let you have a full report on the PMs, probably late tomorrow.’

  Henry nodded. ‘If you do recall anything at all, will you let me know personally?’

  ‘ Sure, Henry.’

  The detective stretched and yawned.

  ‘ Henry, can I say something?’

  ‘ Fire away.’

  ‘ Don’t let this thing overburden you. You look pretty worn out to start with and I know what you’ve been through recently. I’m not preaching or anything like that, but watch yourself, OK? And that’s from a friend and a doctor.’

  Henry said, ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m as tough as old boots.’

  The funeral was a miserable affair, made worse by the incessant drizzle which rolled in from the Irish Sea like a fine cloud. There were just a handful of people in attendance and the ceremony only lasted as long as it had to. The coffin, bearing the murdered body of Pepe Paglia, was lowered into the ground with a thud as it touched the bottom of the sodden grave. Within moments of the soil being scattered on it — earth to earth — the mourners began to move away, relieved it was over.

  Two men strolled to a Rolls-Royce parked nearby. A chauffeur rushed out of it, opened the rear doors for them and when they were settled, the big car pulled sedately away.

  Another man stood by the cemetery gates. He was not a mourner. He was a watcher. His hands were thrust deep into his raincoat pockets. The collar was pulled up. His hair was plastered to his head. He’d watched the arrival and departure of everyone, but his interest centred on the Rolls-Royce and its occupants.

  The big car lumbered towards him down the narrow cemetery road.

  He stepped out into its path.

  The chauffeur said, ‘Trouble, I think, Mr Corelli. What do you want me to do?’

  Corelli and Stanton leaned forwards.

  Jamie Stanton recognised the man quickly. It was his job to do so. ‘It’s that fibbie, Donaldson.’

  Corelli laughed. ‘Pull over next to him.’

  ‘ He might be armed,’ Stanton warned. ‘He might do something stupid.’

  ‘ No, he won’t. He’s in England. He can’t afford to,’ said Corelli with certainty.

  The car rolled to a halt by Donaldson, its brakes exhaling a soft sigh. Corelli’s electric window opened and he looked up at the agent in the rain.

  Neither man spoke for a moment.

  Donaldson merely stared impassively down his nose at Corelli through half-closed eyes. He was chewing gum which he masticated like a cow chewing the cud. He blew a bubble which burst with a crack.

  Corelli smiled.

  Eventually Stanton shouted, ‘What do you want, dickbrain?’

  Donaldson leaned forwards, keeping his hands in his pockets, and looked into the car, his grey eyes level with Corelli’s.

  ‘ I want you, Mr Corelli — and I shall get you. There’s nothing more certain. I’m gonna get you for all the pain, misery and suffering you’ve caused.’ His voice was level, emotionless, frightening. He felt very in control.

  Corelli blinked, but was not daunted.

  Stanton leaned over his boss. ‘Let me take the fucker. There’s a grave back there and it’s big enough for two.’

  Corelli wagged a lazy finger at Stanton. ‘No need for violence.’ He then addressed Donaldson. ‘Pass my best wishes to Mr Kovaks’ ladyfriend. I believe she met with an unfortunate accident. Perhaps you should take note of it, Mr Donaldson… and be wary yourself. Accidents are always happening.’

  ‘ You don’t even begin to intimidate me, you son of a bitch,’ said Donaldson, feeling his composure evaporating. It took a great deal of effort not to reach in and rip the Italian’s head off. He’d made a conscious decision to keep his hands firmly in his pockets for just such a reason.

  ‘ Who’s trying to intimidate whom here?’ said Corelli calmly. ‘You seem to be intent on frightening me for some reason I fail to comprehend. Me — a man with no criminal convictions who has just attended the funeral of a close relative. All I was doing was simply offering advice from one human being to another. Let’s just leave it at that.’

  ‘ I’m gonna have you. One day you’ll walk into a courtroom and never walk out again, I promise you that. From one human being to a sack of shit.’

  ‘ We’ll see,’ laughed Corelli.

  He pressed the button on his electric window. It rose slowly and the car moved away.

  ‘ Who the fuck does he think he is?’ growled Stanton, frustration boiling up in him.

  ‘ An FBI agent — one of the Untouchables. But he’s wrong. I’m the one who’s untouchable.’

  Henry sat down in the room which had been commandeered as the incident room at Rawtenstall police station, which was the only decent-sized station within reasonable travelling distance of the murder scene. The room was normally used for lectures but even so it wasn’t really lar
ge enough to house a full-scale murder enquiry. But it would have to do. After all, this wasn’t a full-scale murder enquiry.

  One HOLMES terminal had been installed in the corner of the room. All being well there would be someone to operate the damned thing tomorrow.

  It was 9 p.m. Henry had dismissed his team, with the exception of the two who’d travelled with him from Blackpool, and told them to be ready for a briefing at 8 a.m. the next day. He wanted the show to be on the road for 8.30.

  The question of overtime had been raised, as always. Cops are very money-minded. Henry had told them that there would be as much as necessary- in direct contravention of FB’s warnings. He was sure that FB had been bluffing and they had all gone home happily contemplating December’s pay cheques.

  Henry quickly scribbled a list of lines of enquiry to action the following morning. These included finding the origins of the polythene sheet and the rope wrapped around it; the tattoos on the man, checking Missing from Home files countrywide, ballistics liaison for a quick analysis of the bullets; liaison with Surrey police who had contacted him already to say they had a similar murder — unsolved on their books, as had Northumbria and Kent; liaison with forensic to chase up the tyre-track impressions taken from the scene.

  That would be enough to get the enquiry underway.

  When the uniformed support team arrived he also had a few ideas for their deployment: house-to-house enquiries in Whitworth and a fingertip search of the scene.

  An appeal by radio, TV and the press would be launched too.

  He put his pen down and slumped backwards in his chair. This is ridiculous, he thought. Nine-thirty showed on the wall clock. Over twelve hours worked already on very little sleep and he didn’t anticipate getting much more in the next few weeks either. Travelling every day from Blackpool was going to be a hell of a strain too: something like an eighty-mile round trip every day. It was a daunting prospect. His head throbbed at the thought. He rubbed his eyes. They were becoming sore and gritty.

  He knew he should go home, get to bed and fall into a good long sleep to get himself up for tomorrow. That’s what he knew he should do for the best. But he didn’t.

  He lifted the phone and called home. Kate answered, sprightly, glad to hear from him. He made some weak excuses — lies, really — and prepared her not to expect him until the early hours. Murder enquiry, work to do, God knows when he’d finish, all the responsibility… blah blah blah. All crap.

  However guilty he felt, though, it didn’t stop him from phoning another number. Natalie answered. Yes, she’d be more than pleased to see him. He could come round at any time.

  ‘ Come on guys, let’s hit the road,’ he announced.

  The three of them went downstairs and headed out through the ground-floor communications room which was buzzing with activity. A harassed uniform Inspector looked up from a desk. Henry recognised him. He’d last seen him fifteen years before when they had both been PCs.

  Henry acknowledged him.

  ‘ You will not effing believe this,’ said the man, shaking his head.

  ‘ Try me.’

  ‘ Another suspicious sudden death. A firearms dealer has been found by one of his business associates out on the moors. Looks like he’s been murdered, shot in the head and chest. Probably been there a few days, by the sound of it. I’m just on my way for a looksee. Want to come?’

  ‘ Thanks, but no thanks,’ said Henry with an apologetic shrug. ‘Got enough on my plate at the moment.’ He joined his two colleagues who were already sitting in the car, one in the driver’s seat revving the engine.

  Henry dropped into the back seat. ‘Blackpool, my man — and give it some wellie!’

  PART TWO

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Henry Christie woke up, his head felt like it was on fire. He couldn’t remember too much about the night before, other than it had been heavy, but lack of memory wasn’t unusual these days. What he did know was that he’d drunk too much and now he was suffering from it again.

  He lay there, fully awake, keeping his eyes firmly closed, knowing that soon he would have to move. He had to go to Crown Court that morning and the vestiges of professionalism and pride which remained in him would not allow tardiness.

  Keeping his eyes still firmly shut, he swung both legs out and sat on the edge of the bed. The fire raging through his brain became a series of major explosions. He groaned, but he knew that the only way to get going with a hangover of this magnitude was by moving quickly and with purpose, rather than slowly and sluggishly which merely prolonged the pain and discomfort.

  Over the last six months Henry had become an expert at hangover recovery.

  When he eventually opened his eyes, he was surprised to find it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. The curtains were closed and the daylight filtered through them diffused and manageable. Pure daylight on tender pupils was something he knew he couldn’t have handled in his present state.

  He heard a murmur behind him. He looked sharply round.

  With some shock he saw a woman lying there asleep. He tried hard to recall some of the details, but his alcohol-riddled brain cells refused to cooperate. All he could do was stare at her rather blankly and unbelievingly.

  The sheet was around her waist. He pulled it carefully back to cover her up, still wishing he could remember how it had been, why it had been, wishing also that she wasn’t here in his bed. He sneered contemptuously at himself, then staggered, evading discarded clothing, plates, bottles and glasses, through the bathroom door and underneath the shower.

  He ran the water as hot as he could bear it. The fine, hard jets worked on his salty body, dislodging the dried sweat of the night from his hair, chest, armpits and limp genitals. It refreshed him considerably. In five minutes he was almost awake; in ten he definitely was.

  After drying himself he wandered back into the bedroom, a large fluffy bath towel wrapped around his middle. He was shaving with a battery-powered portable which was losing its charge and seemed to be ripping whiskers out rather than slicing them off.

  The woman was awake. She must have heard him moving about. She was propped up on one elbow and watched him come into the room with a smirk on her face. Her hair had been combed and she’d applied some lipstick rather inaccurately. The top half of her body was exposed and the sheet was draped across the bulge of her midriff. It looked to Henry as though she’d spent some time preparing this position for him. She reminded him of a photo of a ‘reader’s wife’, rather tacky and desperately unsexy.

  He couldn’t bring her name to mind, though he knew she was one of the cleaners at the police station who’d worked there for years and had acquired a terrible reputation. Monica, he thought. Rather than ask her he just nodded slight acknowledgement and walked across to the wardrobe, still shaving. One thing he did know, because it sprang to mind, was that she was nearly ten years older than him.

  I’m not sure I believe this, he thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought this in the last few months.

  ‘ Good morning, Henry,’ she said at length.

  He grunted something in reply. His back was towards her and it must have seemed like an insult, even if he didn’t mean it that way, when he let the towel drop and bent down to pull on a pair of Y-fronts.

  Then he began to dress in his best suit.

  ‘ Well?’ she said, beginning to sound irritated. She sighed and flopped back onto the bed, her large white soft breasts suddenly losing their shape like two cakes sinking in an oven. She scrabbled the sheet furiously back and kicked it off. She became still, lying there, one leg pulled coyly up, the other straight out. Absolutely naked and unashamed. Then she allowed the leg which had been pulled up to fall to one side, giving Henry a splendid view of the pubic area.

  He went cold.

  ‘ Well, did you have a good time last night?’ she asked him playfully. ‘I certainly did.’

  ‘ Yeah, sure I did,’ said Henry. The details were hazy, but he knew they’d ha
d intercourse, after a drunken fashion. He pulled his jacket on quickly and grabbed a tie before rushing to the door of the flat. ‘Got to go to work,’ he said apologetically as he crossed the room. His hand went to the door handle, where he paused and took a deep breath. He turned to face her with the courage of a mouse.

  ‘ Look, it was a lovely night and everything, but-’

  ‘ Yeah, I know,’ she said with resignation. She pulled back the covers. Anger coupled with disappointment creased her face. ‘Same old story. All right, I’ll let myself out. And by the way, I’m called Maureen, not Monica, wanker!’

  He hesitated, his eyes unable to meet hers. A second later he was through the door and trotting down the stairs.

  The only way out of the flat was through the veterinary surgery which occupied all of the ground floor. A Doberman was on the operating table and the vet was carrying out an unsavoury operation on the dog’s bottom. She looked up and nodded at Henry as he drifted through to the back door which led out into the rear yard and then the back alley.

  Outside he came to a bone-jarring halt and caught his breath. He felt as if he were about to hyperventilate. What the hell had possessed him to pick her up, he demanded of himself.

  He shook his head in a physical attempt to overcome this early morning mental haze. His eyes felt like sandpaper as they scratched over the eyeballs beneath. He rubbed at them with his knuckles and then looked up at the day.

  The rain had stopped. A weak yellow sun was poking its nose through some broken grey-white cloud. There was some blue sky beyond. Seagulls circled overhead and the salty smell of the Irish Sea hung in the air.

  It was a nice day for the start of a major criminal trial.

  He unlocked the driver’s door of his recently acquired twelve-year-old Austin Metro and clambered into the small car. The engine fired up on the third attempt. He rattled down the cobbled back alley and pulled into the light traffic on the main road. He headed out towards the motorway, his eventual destination — if the car kept going — being Lancaster, almost thirty miles and fifty minutes away.