by Nick Oldham
‘ Is that a proposal of marriage?’
‘ Yup, I suppose it is,’ he said shyly.
‘ Mm,’ she said, pursing her lips thoughtfully. ‘So let me get this clear in my head. You’re asking me to marry you, right?’
‘ Sure am,’ he said more confidently.
‘ In that case, I accept. But… ‘
‘ But what?’
‘ Between now and whenever the wedding day is, we’ve got a hell of a lot of fucking to make up and I’m going to get a piece of it right now.’
Driving exhaustedly from Lancaster to Blackpool in his Metro, which was constantly buffeted by heavy goods vehicles as they thundered past on the motorway, Henry Christie started to do ‘nodding dog’ impersonations. He opened a window and let the cool night breeze waft him into wakefulness. He didn’t particularly want to end up squashed under the back wheels of a lorry.
Unfortunately, the fresh air had the effect of revitalising his senses and by the time he reached the outskirts of Blackpool he was very much awake. It was almost two o’clock in the morning, but he knew that even if he went to bed now he would be unlikely to sleep.
So he went cruising up and down the promenade and around town until somehow, he found himself driving into the back yard of the central police station.
He was about to turn around and head out when he thought, sod it. While I’m here I might as well have a look in, see a few people. He parked and locked his car and walked to the rear entrance of the building.
Though it was the early hours the place was still buzzing. The holiday season was underway and the influx of tourists had had the usual effect of increasing every officer’s workload. Henry wandered through the corridors and into the CID office where a couple of night-duty detectives were sat at their desks, ties removed, scribbling away. They were glad to see him and get the inside story on Hinksman and the escape. Henry, in turn, was happy to impart his knowledge.
Eventually he yawned. Tiredness welled over him. He stretched, said good night, and took his leave.
A couple of minutes later he stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor and walked down the short corridor to the rear exit. As he emerged, the cage door of the custody suite on his right opened and a female tottered out in front of him. She had a high-heeled shoe in one hand, the other being on her foot, and a charge sheet in the other.
‘ You’re all fucking wankers,’ she screamed back through the door. ‘Every single one of you.’
‘ You keep that up, my dear, and you’ll end up back in a cell,’ came the calm voice of the Custody Sergeant. ‘So piss off.’
Muttering obscenities, she turned and tried to put her shoe on in the same motion. She lost her balance and careered into Henry who caught her and placed her upright.
‘ Let go, you cunt,’ she said absently, then: ‘My God! It’s Henry Christie, isn’t it?’
‘ Well hello, Jane. Long time no see. Still plying the same old trade?’
‘ How else would I make me livin’,’ she said mockingly, ‘other than on me back — or in any other position required of me?’
They had walked down the rear yard past all the parked police cars until they reached Henry’s battered Metro.
‘ This heap yours?’ laughed Jane. He nodded. ‘Gone down in the world, ain’t ya?’
‘ Certainly have. Don’t you read the papers?’
‘ No, why? Here — you goin’ my way, Cuntstable? I could do wi’ a lift,’ she stated cheekily.
‘ You still living in that same dump?’
‘ Yep, the same one where you busted me for that speed. God, how long ago were that?’
Henry calculated. It had been when he was a PC. ‘Eight years?’ he estimated.
‘ Fuck me,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Don’t time fly when you’re having fun!’
Henry unlocked the car. ‘I’ll take you as far as I’m going — then you’ll have to walk the rest of the way.’
‘ You’re an absolute gent,’ she said, creasing herself into the passenger seat.
Once within the confines of the small car, Henry began to regret his generosity. She smelled quite awful. The mixture of body odour, cheap perfume, fish, chips and spirits nearly knocked him out. He wound a window down.
‘ What were you locked up for this time?’
‘ Oh, the usual,’ she said unconcerned. ‘Y’know — leopard never changes its spots. But I don’t do drugs any more, thanks to you. I learned me lesson. Evil things.’ She shuddered.
‘ At least I’ve done some good in my life,’ he observed quietly to himself. He actually didn’t know whether to believe her or not.
‘ I’m tryin’ to give up whorin’,’ she said dreamily. ‘Too fuckin’ dangerous this game now. D’you know how many times I’ve been hammered? Six. Gettin’ like America, this place. In fact, the last one who gave me a twattin’ was a Yank. An absolute cunt, he was. Wild eyes. Mad as a hatter. Liked hittin’ better than sex. Mind you, he was better at hittin’. Anyway, I ripped the fucker off good an’ proper…’ She turned to Henry who was only half-listening, his thoughts, though he didn’t know it, on the same American. ‘I’m tellin’ you this off the record, OK? Pinched a rake of cash off him and did a runner. But he beat me up bad and I think he would’ve done worse if I hadn’t legged it. Serves him right, and that smelly Italian landlord of his. Anyway, what I got off him was the start of me nest egg. Buildin’ up nicely now, stashed away safe ‘n’ sound, thank you very much.’
By the time she’d finished wittering, Henry had arrived at the street where his flat was located. He pulled into a parking space about 100 metres away.
‘ You’re a luv,’ Jane said, levering herself out of the seat and slamming the door shut. Her voice seemed to be at megadecibel level; it made Henry squirm. ‘Remember — if you ever want a freebie blow job, just call round. Best gob in town.’ She slithered her tongue in and out a few times, gave a quick wave and turned, clattering away down the pavement on her dangerously high heels.
He watched her walk away, a smile playing on his lips. It was definitely an offer he wouldn’t be following up.
There was a bang, then the sound of voices.
Hinksman awoke with a start. For a moment he thought he was still in the sub-zero darkness of the Iraqi desert, part of the Delta Force Scud-busting squads, sleeping in the shell of a burned-out tank. Then it all came back to him. He cursed himself for being so careless as to doze off.
He was actually lying on the cold metal floor in the rear of a stolen Ford Escort van parked near Henry Christie’s flat. He raised himself an inch at a time so that he could see out of the front windscreen. Fifty metres away from him stood Henry Christie and walking towards him was the prostitute, Jane.
Must be my birthday, he thought, gloating.
He quickly dropped back onto the floor of the van and waited for her to pass. The click-clack of her heels approached, grew louder, drew level with the van and then receded. As her footsteps faded, Hinksman pushed himself back up.
Henry had disappeared to the back entrance of the vet’s surgery.
Hinksman’s mind worked quickly. He was in a quandary. He had been parked there for most of the evening, awaiting Henry’s arrival home. Hinksman had expected him to be alone and it had been his intention to kill him in the back yard of the surgery. He’d been relishing the prospect of getting up close to the bastard and killing him face to face because in the short time he’d been acquainted with Henry he’d come to loathe him. He wanted to be right there at the death, not standing 100 metres away, shooting him. No. He wanted the feel of the knife going in, jarring the ribs, piercing the heart, twisting. That was what he desired.
But now things had changed.
The prostitute. The one who’d stolen from him. The one who’d escaped with all his money. The one who’d escaped with her life.
A surge of excitement coursed through his loins. Killing Henry would be sweet revenge, there was no doubt about that, and it would give
great satisfaction. But killing the prostitute would be sheer pleasure — the kind he hadn’t experienced in a long while. It was an opportunity not to be missed.
Quietly, he opened the back doors of the van and slid out. In the distance he could still see Jane. He began to follow.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jane’s flat was a one-room bedsit on the top floor of a seedy block in the back streets of Blackpool’s south shore.
In one corner of the room was the bed — a mattress flung on the floor, covered by grubby sheets that hadn’t seen a washing machine for months. In another corner of the room was a large settee that looked like it had once been very comfortable. Now it sagged badly, and it too was marked with the stains of her profession.
The corner opposite the door was the kitchen area, consisting of a cupboard, grimy sink, a two-ringed electric cooker and a battered fridge. The grotty wardrobe was the only clean thing in the room, clean because it contained the clothes and shoes that were her obsession. It was crammed full of assorted dresses, skirts, blouses, suits and shoes, mostly loud and glitzy ones she used for work. Without exception they were stolen from the major stores in Blackpool.
She came up the steps to the flat with a weary but silent tread. She had taken her shoes off right at the bottom because she’d had numerous accidents before when negotiating the narrow, poorly lit stairs in high heels and with drink taken.
The building was unusually quiet. Her neighbours, mostly unemployed teenagers, single mothers, drug addicts and an old-age pensioner on the ground floor, tended to keep odd hours. But tonight was quiet and dark.
She pushed open her door which was not locked, never had been, never would be, and entered her home. She was glad to see her bed. Not that it was particularly comfortable, but it left that rock-hard cell bed standing. She stripped off and hung her clothes up carefully, discarding the torn blouse and laddered stockings in a waste bin. Then she stood before the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door and surveyed herself uncritically while scratching her bushy black pubic mound and yawning.
Still naked, she padded across the landing to the shared bathroom. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement down the stairs on the landing below, but thought nothing of it. Probably one of her oddball neighbours skulking about. Didn’t bother her. However, she did lock the bathroom door behind her. There were some things she liked to keep private. She emptied her bladder then had a quick, lukewarm shower and dried herself off with someone else’s towel. She slid back to her room shivering, but feeling half-human again.
As she stood in front of the mirror, combing through her damp hair, she saw the door open behind her. She guessed it was that crank from the first floor who visited her at odd times of the day. He was a screwball, but she had no conscience about charging him double for a wank. She sighed. ‘Come on in, Roger, don’t be shy. I’ve just got time before I hit the sack — but it’ll cost you twelve quid.’ She waggled her ample bottom provocatively. Money, after all, was money.
The man came in.
Fast and hard.
Before she knew what had happened, she was on her back on the mattress, held down with a hand clamped over her mouth. Hinksman’s face, glaring mad-eyed down at her, was only inches away from her own.
‘ Hello Jane,’ he said. ‘I’m back.’
She squirmed ineffectually. The hand stayed over her mouth, cupping her chin in its palm so that it was impossible for her to bite. He held her easily.
‘ You stole something of mine,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you?’
He placed the forearm of his free arm across her throat and took hold of her shoulder for extra leverage. Slowly he forced the forearm down onto her Adam’s apple. Just before she passed out, he released the pressure and slightly opened the fingers of his hand over her mouth to let air pass through.
She sucked greedily. Her pallor, which had turned pale like cartridge paper, now turned bright red.
‘ You did steal something of mine, didn’t you?’ he repeated.
This time she managed a nod.
‘ Good. Right… I’m going to take this hand away now and I want you to talk to me in a whisper. You scream out or even talk normally and I’ll put it back and kill you. OK?’
A nod.
He peeled his hand away, one finger at a time. His forearm still rested across her throat.
‘ Where’s my money?’
‘ Spent it,’ she whispered. This was a lie.
‘ On all those dresses?’
‘ Yes.’
‘ Oh you stupid, stupid woman.’ He shook his head sadly and sighed. ‘So, what’ve you been saying to Henry Christie?’
‘ Henry Christie? What you on about?’ Jane’s eyes focused on his face as a whole. ‘Oh God,’ she uttered, ‘you’re the one who killed all those people on the motorway, aren’t you? And all those cops. I didn’t realise until now. Oh God, oh God.’
His hand clamped over her mouth again; his forearm pressed down onto her neck. The airflow was cut off quickly this time. She began to lose consciousness. Her head swam in a surfy sea, a warm, pleasant sea and it felt good to be dying.
Hinksman suddenly changed tactics. He jumped up and took hold of a bottle of Jane’s vodka, just over a quarter full.
‘ Sit up and drink this,’ he said, straddling her and handing it down to her.
She crawled into a sitting position, reached out a shaking hand and took the bottle from him.
‘ Big mouthfuls,’ he insisted.
Jane knew, somehow, that this time there would be no opportunity to escape. He was too quick, strong and determined — and experienced. He oozed death. It leaked from every pore. Yes, Death had returned and was going to complete what it had started.
The only thing that warmed her was that he wouldn’t get his money back, not one penny, not one cent of it.
She smiled and put the vodka to her lips again. If she was going to be murdered she might as well be oblivious to it. With the alcohol content in her body still relatively high, it wasn’t long before she was completely drunk again.
Jane amassed all her faculties with one deep breath. Now she did not care.
‘ YOU’RE A FUCKING BASTARD WHO CAN’T SHAG FOR TOFFEE,’ she screamed.
Before she had finished he’d ducked down to her level, wrenched her by the hair and taken hold of her head in both his hands. His right hand held her chin, mouth and nose. His left held the back of her head. He lifted and twisted in one easy, screwing movement.
Jane’s neck broke with a loud crack and she was dead.
He tossed her across onto the mattress. She flopped there loosely. Hinksman wiped the fingerprints carefully off all the bottles he’d touched with a kitchen cloth and stood the bottles side by side on the sink. He stepped out onto the landing and listened. It was all quiet. He heaved Jane out onto the landing and pulled her to her feet at the top of the stairs. Her head flopped onto her chest. Spit dribbled out of her mouth. With a gentle push he let go of her and she went spinning down the steps to the landing below, arms and legs flailing everywhere. She came to an untidy bundle at the foot of the stairs.
Hinksman followed her down, stepped lightly across her and sped down the rest of the stairs.
Within seconds he was out of the building. Gone.
The greyness of dawn was just arriving.
Even though he wanted to, Henry couldn’t get to sleep. A parrot in the surgery below was squawking loudly, shouting obscenities, and in turn had set off a yapping terrier dog. The combination was unbearable. After half an hour of the cacophony he rolled off the bed and made himself a mug of tea. He switched on the, gas fire, sat down in front of it and sipped the brew while staring at the flames.
About five-thirty the animals must have got tired and they ceased their noise. Henry sank back into the armchair, closed his eyes and, at last, nodded off.
An hour later Henry and the animals were reawakened by a loud knocking on the door. Henry staggered down the back steps and opened
it. A bright-eyed Donaldson stood there, immaculately turned out. His smile drooped when he saw the unshaven mess that was his British counterpart.
‘ You did say six-thirty,’ Donaldson said defensively. ‘Long day ahead. ‘
‘ Yeah, yeah, I know,’ muttered Henry. ‘Come on in, give me ten minutes. ‘
‘ You look like something a cat’s dragged in,’ Donaldson observed.
‘ And you look like a dog’s dinner,’ said Henry. ‘Did Karen get you dressed?’
He had a quick shave and a shower, threw on some clothes and fifteen minutes later was sitting in the passenger seat of Donaldson’s hired car which sped down the motorway towards Lancaster. After a brief, perfunctory conversation, Henry’s eyes closed, his chin sagged onto his chest and he fell asleep, drooling.
Donaldson laughed and tuned into Jazz FM.
As demanded, everything about Hinksman was on Dave August’s desk at 9 a.m. sharp. The Chief Constable glanced at the boxes of files that FB had deposited and was itching to get into them, just to see if there was anything at all, anything that would guide him to the people who had made him do this awful thing.
But it was a task that would have to wait. The day ahead held other priorities: press conferences, then a visit to the incident room. After that he planned to meet all the bereaved relatives personally at their homes. Just to give them a few minutes. To show he cared.
That was not going to be easy, knowing that, ultimately, he was the one person responsible for their deaths.
It was going to be a tough day.
Joe Kovaks was at his desk by eight o’clock that morning. He ignored the mountain of paperwork that he’d allowed to accumulate there. He wanted to get two things done.
First he wanted to see his supervisor and ask to be taken off the Corelli case.
Then he wanted to visit Laura and tell her about his change of heart. Killing Corelli wasn’t the way forward, he now knew, and he had to convince her of that — which wasn’t going to be easy. He’d spent enough time brainwashing her; now he had to try and reverse the process. The prospect was daunting. But the little sachet of white powder in his jacket pocket should make things easier.