A Time For Justice hc-1

by Nick Oldham

  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 Creme 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, British 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.

  Henry was sitting in court alongside Donaldson and Karen. FB sat in the row of seats in front of them, surrounded by all the detectives directly involved in the case.

  The court was full to the brim; Henry noticed that Lisa Want was among the journalists. She’d been noticeable by her absence recently. Henry held back the urge to leap across the court and break every bone in her beautiful body.

  The foreperson was a lady in her mid-thirties. She spoke in a shaky, faltering voice.

  The court clerk led her through the charges.

  Hinksman was found guilty of the M6 murders.

  A murmur of approval chunnered around the room.

  Then he was found guilty of the murder of Ken McClure. Someone almost clapped. The Judge looked sternly at that person.

  Henry had a quick glance at Donaldson. A tear was running down the American’s cheek. Henry saw that his and Karen’s hands were intertwined. He felt happy for them. He turned his attention back to the court proceedings.

  Henry began to grow tense. He wasn’t sure how he’d react if Hinksman was found not guilty of the charges he had brought against him.

  Manslaughter verdicts were brought for the killings of the police officers who had raided Pepe Paglia’s guest-house to arrest Hinksman.

  A stony silence greeted these verdicts.

  He was found not guilty of the murder of Pepe Paglia.

  That drew a gasp of disbelief.

  He was also found not guilty of the murder of the arms dealer in Rossendale.

  A few shrugs went round the court. That had been half-expected, but was a disappointment nevertheless.

  Then, much to Henry’s relief, he was found guilty of all the murders in the alley.

  A roar of approval went up from the court. Donaldson, next to Henry, patted his knee.

  It took the Judge a few minutes to bring order to the courtroom. She was clearly annoyed at the disruption.

  The foreperson resumed and found Hinksman guilty of the manslaughter of the woman on the promenade who had unfortunately stepped into the line of fire between Henry and Hinksman.

  Hinksman had also been charged with numerous firearms and explosives offences, most of which were proved.

  He was going to go to prison for a very long time.

  The foreperson sat down, relieved to have done her duty in the spotlight. She looked like she was having a hot flush.

  Hinksman stared over at Henry and shook his head
sadly.

  Then the Judge said, in her most authoritative tone, ‘The accused will stand.’

  Hinksman didn’t move. He looked at the vaulted ceiling and whistled. It was something the Judge had been counting on. ‘Officers,’ she said to his guards, ‘bring the prisoner to his feet.’

  Henry whispered to Donaldson, ‘The administration of justice is a wonderful thing, don’t you agree?’

  ‘ Sure do,’ said Donaldson. They shook hands.

  Karen, who had heard the remark, leaned across Donaldson and said, ‘There’s more justice to be administered yet.’

  ‘ What do you mean?’ asked Henry.

  She tapped her nose. ‘Wait and see.’

  They looked to the front of the court as the Judge began to comment on the case and then to pass sentence.

  ‘ It’s over,’ Henry said down the phone to Kate.

  ‘ I’m glad,’ she said.

  ‘ Life sentences. Judge recommended that he never be released.

  And on top of it, two months for contempt of court for some of the gestures he made during the trial. It was highly amusing. And the Judge commended me for bravery — and others. She said some good things.’

  ‘ So what happens now?’

  ‘ Well, he gets taken to Strangeways and we’re all going for a knees-up.’

  ‘ I didn’t quite mean that.’

  ‘ Oh.’

  There was a sudden silence as if the line had gone dead, as if someone had pulled the plug.

  ‘ You still there?’ Kate asked.

  ‘ Yeah,’ he gulped nervously. ‘How’re the girls?’

  ‘ Fine. They’ll see you at the weekend.’

  ‘ Excellent. Good. Look… er, did you mean what happens next to us?’

  ‘ That’s exactly what I meant.’

  ‘ I do love you, y’know.’

  ‘ Do you?’ she sighed.

  ‘ Yes. And I miss you like mad. And I need you.’

  ‘ I love you too, Henry.’

  ‘ Can I come home?’

  ‘ We need to talk about it. I’m still not sure. I need some reassurances, some promises. You hurt me very badly. All my faith was rocked when you betrayed me. Everything I valued counted for nothing. I want you to come home, but I am frightened by the prospect.’