A Time For Justice (14 page)

‘
They do know who I am and what’s more, they know
where
I am.’

And not only that, Hinksman thought as he looked at Paglia,
you know far too much about me.

Chapter Nine

The briefing was over. The team was ready to move.

Karen had been as honest as she could be about the situation,
which pleased them all. Normally briefings were couched in
half-truths, downright lies and need-to-know, which could put team
members in unnecessary danger. Here, she laid it all on the line,
laid it on thick that Hinksman was a killer out of the top drawer,
who knew how to kill well, had been trained to do it efficiently
and probably enjoyed it too.

They got the message.

‘
Do you have any further questions?’ she asked as she packed
her notes together.

The team leader, Sergeant Macintosh, a well-built officer over
six feet tall, who looked as if he would take no messing from
anyone, asked: ‘Where has the information about the hotel-keeper
come from?’

Karen looked at Donaldson.

He coughed and replied, ‘From a reputable Mafia source in
Florida - a man who’s presently serving time.’

‘
And how much do we know about this Paglia fellow?’

‘
Very little, other than he’s been in this country for thirty
years, generally in the hotel or restaurant trade. He’s got a
family connection with a Mafia boss we’re currently investigating -
and family connections mean a lot to these people. It would appear
that over the years he’s given refuge to many Mafia members en
route from either Italy or the States.’

‘
So what do you think, Sarge?’ Karen asked.

‘
Ideally, I’d like to seal off the whole area, evacuate the
surrounding buildings and then go in, preferably with a floorplan
of the hotel ... I mean, we don’t know how many other guests there
are, how many staff, even if our man is there.’

‘
I know, it’s a far from ideal situation,’ agreed Karen, ‘but
we need to move quickly and get to him before he’s
alerted.’

Macintosh nodded and pursed his lips. He consulted a
large-scale map of the relevant area of Blackpool. Everyone in the
room had a copy.

‘
In that case,’ he said, ‘we’ll back and front the place. I’ll
send a couple to the rear of the premises and, once they’re in
place, we’ll hit the front and take it from there.’

‘
I’ll leave it up to you, Sarge. You’re the pro.’

‘
Thanks,’ he said with a trace of irony. ‘OK guys and gals,
let’s move.’

The firearms team were parked up three streets away in their
‘battle-bus’: an armoured personnel carrier with one-way
bulletproof windows which enabled occupants to see out but no one
else to see in, giving the vehicle a sinister
appearance.

Karen’s car drew up behind.

In the back seat Donaldson and McClure were poring over one of
the street maps, muttering to each other.

Over her shoulder, Karen said, ‘What the hell are you two
prattling on about?’

‘
Prattling?’ asked Donaldson.
‘Prattling?
A peculiarly English
term, is it?’

Karen managed her first smile in several hours.

‘
We’ve been trying to think like Hinksman,’ said McClure.
‘He’s hardly likely to park his car outside the hotel, so we were
just wondering where it might be - if he’s still got the same hire
car, that is.’

‘
I think we’ll have a mosey through the highways and byways in
this area,’ said Donaldson, circling an area of the map with his
finger, tilting it so that Karen could see. ‘It’s near enough to be
in walking distance, but far enough away ... if you know what I
mean?’

‘
Mosey? What the hell is mosey?’ she said with another grin.
‘It’s a long shot,’ she added dryly.

‘
It’ll give us something to do while the boys and girls are
playing Cowboys and Indians,’ said Donaldson.

The side door of the battle-bus opened. The team
disembarked.

They were all tooled up to the back teeth.

‘
They look like a SWAT squad,’ remarked Donaldson. ‘And I
thought England was s
-o-o-o
backward.’

On a word from Macintosh they sprinted away. The team leader
gave Karen a quick thumbs-up and followed.

The operation was underway.

Karen’s stomach churned over. The colour seeped from her face
as she thought, What have I done?

‘
We’ll keep monitoring the radio,’ McClure said, pocketing a
personal radio which was tuned into the secure channel being used
by the team. He patted the snub-nosed revolver at his side,
arranged his jacket to cover it smoothly and climbed out of the
car.

Before joining him, Donaldson leaned forwards and laid a
reassuring hand on Karen’s shoulder. He knew she was worried about
the operation and troubled about something else, but he didn’t know
what. ‘Relax, it’ll be OK,’ he told her.

She nodded numbly. ‘Yeah, sure it will’

Events were now out of her hands. All she could do was wait.
And wait. And wait.

The two detectives confined their search to a small cluster of
roads, back streets and alleyways about 200 metres in a direct line
from the hotel. McClure had the PR in his pocket turned up loud
enough for them both to be able to hear what was going on. It
remained eerily silent for quite a number of minutes as the
firearms team moved into position using verbal and visual signals
only.

In the first few roads they checked there was no sign of
Hinksman’s car. They didn’t really expect to find it.

As they turned into another street there was a brief
transmission on the radio.

‘
Alpha in position.’

‘
Roger Alpha,’ they heard Macintosh reply. ‘We’re at the front
door now.’

McClure nodded at Donaldson, who said, ‘Knock, knock,’ in his
best John Wayne drawl.

‘
Sierra - we’re in through the front door. No
opposition.’

They were inside. It was rolling.

Everything went dead again. For ever, it seemed.

Two things then happened almost simultaneously.

McClure and Donaldson walked into a quiet side street. And
there it was: Hinksman’s car.

‘
Bingo,’ gloated McClure.

And the radio went berserk.

‘
Civilian down, civilian down. Head wounds, looks
bad.’

‘
Sierra to Alpha, Sierra to Alpha - take care at the back, he
may be coming. Get ready.’

‘
Alpha received.’

They heard Karen interrupt. ‘Superintendent Wilde – situation
report, please.’ She sounded wound-up.

‘
Sierra to Superintendent,’ Macintosh began, then was cut
off.

‘
Shit, I wonder what’s happening,’ gasped McClure.

‘
Don’t sound good,’ commented Donaldson.

Macintosh’s transmission was cut into: ‘Basement door
opening.’ It was a calm, clear message. A woman’s voice. ‘Someone’s
coming out.’

McClure and Donaldson looked at each other, neither caring to
speak.

A moment’s silence descended on the radio. Then a male voice
screamed, ‘It’s him, it’s him.’

A transmission carrier must have stuck down then. There was
the sound of footsteps running. Breathlessness. Rustling of
clothing. A shout: ‘Armed police. Stop and drop your weapon. I said
throw down your weapon!’ Panic rising in the voice. A gun shot. A
heavy, rushing noise. A groan. More footsteps. Panting. Rustling.
Then: ‘Officer down! Assistance, assistance. . .’ This was the
female voice again. Another sharp crack, like a whip, very loud,
distorted, as though next to the microphone: a gun shot close up.
Then silence. Again.

‘
Fuck!’ uttered McClure. ‘What’re we going to do?’

‘
Sit tight,’ said Donaldson firmly.

The radio traffic started again. ‘Charlie One, in pursuit on
foot.’ It was another female voice. The message became garbled.
More panting. More running.

‘
He’s gotta be making for here,’ said Donaldson. ‘Gotta be,
c’mon.’ The radio crashed to silence once more.

Donaldson grabbed McClure’s sleeve. ‘Let’s get hidden - and
get that fuckin’ gun of yours ready. It is loaded, isn’t
it?’

‘
Yes, yes,’ said McClure.

They vaulted over a low garden wall and ducked down into a
crouch behind it. Out of sight, but with a direct line of view to
Hinksman’s car.

‘
You can’t give him a chance,’ Donaldson whispered urgently
into McClure’s ear, prompting him. ‘We take him by surprise and you
shoot the bastard. Got it?’

McClure nodded.

He had the two-inch-barrelled Smith & Wesson in his hand.
His sweaty hand. His shaking hand. His slimy forefinger quivered
uncertainly on the trigger.

The seconds ticked by with a slowness that was physically
painful.

The radio stayed silent, almost as though it had all been a
nightmare. Or maybe he wasn’t coming. Had he gone in another
direction? Had they got him? Had he been arrested - or
shot?

A figure appeared out of an alleyway about halfway down the
street and walked in their direction. Seventy metres away. More of
a trot than a walk. But there was no concern in the stride. No
sense of urgency. Whoever it was didn’t seem to be in much of a
rush. A bag was being carried in the left hand. A holdall. It
couldn’t be him, surely.

‘
It’s him,’ said Donaldson.

The heads of the two detectives dipped an inch
instinctively.

‘
Let him get to the car,’ Donaldson said between his teeth,
his lips not moving. He glanced sideways at his nervous
partner.

‘
If he goes to the driver’s door we’ll have the advantage
because his back’ll be towards us.’ That was McClure thinking out
loud, his mind racing.

Hinksman got to the car, checking his shoulder as he fumbled
briefly with the key for the door. He went to the driver’s side,
dropped the holdall to the ground and slid the key into the lock.
He hadn’t seen the detectives. They rose slowly from their hiding
place.

‘
Armed police,’ shouted McClure, pointing his gun at
Hinksman’s back and stepping over the garden wall. ‘Stay exactly
where you are. Don’t move a fuckin’ muscle or you’re a dead man -
understand?’

Hinksman froze. Then nodded.

‘
Shoot him,’ Donaldson encouraged McClure. ‘Do it
now.’

McClure motioned to Donaldson to keep quiet with a chopping
action of his free hand. ‘Now put both your hands on the roof of
the car so I can see them.’

Hinksman’s left hand slid up and he placed it on top of the
car, empty, the key in the lock. His right hand was still tucked up
at the front of his body. Out of sight.

‘
Don’t give him the chance, Ken. Shoot the bastard,’ said
Donaldson, verging on sheer anger.

‘
Both fuckin’ hands,’ yelled McClure at Hinksman.

‘
OK, OK,’ said Hinksman.

McClure was moving forwards, concentrating totally on the
killer in front of him, forcing fear and everything else to the
back of his mind into a compartment to be unlocked later at
leisure.

Donaldson was a wary two steps behind him. His head was
shaking.

His eyes kept moving heavenwards. ‘Come on Ken, put him
down.’

‘
No, Karl, it’s not the way we do things over
here.’

There was one more garden wall to step over. No higher, no
broader than the last. But McClure’s concentration was so absolute
he misjudged his stride as he stepped across, snagging the top of
it with the toe of his left shoe.

He stumbled, lost his balance and crashed down onto one knee
with a yelp of pain.

Hinksman, who’d watched the approach in the wing mirror of the
car, swung round fast, the gun in his right hand hot from previous
firings.

McClure had regained his feet, but for a few seconds he was
open and totally vulnerable. These were the few seconds Hinksman
needed to loose off two rounds. They slammed into the detective’s
chest, blowing him backwards like a candle flame being snuffed out
by a gust of wind.

The impact of the bullets propelled him into Donaldson who
caught him with a hand under each armpit and, winded himself,
staggered sideways with the weight and momentum of McClure’s body.
The two detectives crashed to the ground in a macabre embrace.
McClure landed half on top of Donaldson, pinning him there,
trapping him.

As they’d fallen, McClure’s gun had skittered away out of
reach.

Donaldson desperately tried to heave McClure off.

Hinksman sauntered up to them, a smile of victory playing
cruelly on his face. His gun hung at his side, literally smoking.
He was full of confidence.

He tossed his gun across to his left hand, clicked the
magazine out and dropped it onto the ground where it tinkled
merrily on the concrete pavement. His right hand delved into his
jeans pocket and emerged holding a new magazine. He slotted it in
without looking, his eyes holding Donaldson’s in a death-warrant
gaze. He transferred the gun back to his right hand.