A Time For Justice (2 page)

‘
He’s no fool,’ said Henry, rubbing his eyes. It had been a
long job.

Two nights with no sleep chasing all over Scotland, dodging
and hiding all the time. And now this, a hectic drive down from
Glasgow ... to where? Manchester, probably. Or Birmingham. Henry
yawned. He was knackered, needed a shit, a shave and a shower, and
was all too aware of his armpits.

‘
Drop back,’ he said. ‘Let Jim go through.’

Terry obediently floated the Cosworth into the middle
lane.

Henry pressed the radio transmit button on the dash and spoke,
his voice being picked up by the mike in the sun visor. Wireless
workshops had told him that his transmissions couldn’t be
intercepted on this frequency - but he rightly treated that
assurance with a pinch of salt. Too many jobs had gone wrong thanks
to careless banter over the airwaves.

‘
Eyeball to back-up,’ Henry said crisply.

There was a crackle of static. ‘Go ahead.’

‘
Back-up, make ground,’ said Henry, ‘then confirm
eyeball.’

‘
Received.’

Moments later, from nowhere, the second car in the
four-vehicle Regional Crime Squad surveillance team - a
high-powered Vauxhall Carlton - smoothed effortlessly past them.
The two detectives in it flashed V-signs at Henry and Terry, who
returned the gestures.

‘
Fuckin’ cops,’ said Terry. ‘Think they can get away with
anything.’ He dropped his speed back to a respectable ton as they
approached the bridge over the River Lune. Two miles away to their
right stood the city of Lancaster.

Henry fidgeted on his seat, adjusting the uncomfortable
shoulder-holster which held the lightweight pistol under his left
armpit. Crime Squad detectives were often armed when there was the
possibility of confronting criminals believed to be carrying
weapons - but it wasn’t something Henry felt easy about.

Danny Carver was young and ambitious but not too intelligent.
He had good looks and the muscles of a pit bull, and did not
hesitate to do any ‘sorting’ - if any had to be done. But like most
young and ambitious hoodlums who lacked the ability to look ahead,
he didn’t realise when he’d bitten off more than he could chew.
Which is why, as he settled down in the back of the Daimler,
thoughts of Corelli were far from his mind.

His mind was on one thing only - the woman sitting next to
him; Leila, aged nineteen, had cost him almost £2000 for three days
of service from a ‘respectable’ escort agency.

Two grand, he thought with a chuckle - but so what?

He could afford it. The deal he had just pulled off was going
to net him millions. And that big fat Italian bastard could just
fuck off! Who the hell did he think he was?

The Daimler sped silkily down the motorway.

Danny opened the drinks cabinet and helped himself to a
generous measure of Glenfiddich. He leaned back and stretched his
legs. There was plenty of room.

‘
Go down on me,’ he told Leila.

She smiled and got to work on him without hesitation. If she
made this one extra-special, she thought as she spied a bottle of
Taboo in the cabinet, it might be worth a bonus.

The driver checked his mirror and saw what was going
on.

He adjusted it downwards for a better view.

By the time they were approaching the Preston exit of the M6
-Junction 31- which passed over the River Ribble - Henry and Terry
were the last car of the team. They almost dawdled along at ninety,
listening to the flashes of transmissions between the three cars
ahead, all of which were well out of sight.

They still had the Porsche though. He wasn’t going
anywhere.

Leila used all her experience and know-how on Danny. Time
after time she brought him slowly to the brink, and had him
writhing in ecstasy across the back seat. Nibbling, licking,
chewing, biting, sucking, gently blowing. Stopping. Starting
again.

‘
Jeez. . . aahh. . .
Jeez!’
was all that Danny could say. He gripped her
head, her shoulders, the car seat. He wanted to explode. And he
wanted it to go on for ever.

‘
This is worth an extra two-fifty,’ he gasped in a rare moment
of lucidity.

Damn right it is,
she thought, and
reached for the bottle of Taboo.

‘
What the hell..?’ blurted Danny. She kept hold of him with
one hand and unscrewed the cap with her teeth. She put the bottle
to her full lips and swirled the liquor around like a mouthwash,
then swallowed it. She looked wickedly at Danny.

‘
You’ll like this,’ she said, lowering her head to his
lap.

Danny screamed. He shot bolt upright and banged his head on
the car roof. Leila kept a grip and would not be swayed from her
task, consummate professional that she was.

‘
God, that stings! It’s fantastic!’

He ejaculated in her mouth exactly sixteen minutes after
starting the journey.

They were halfway across the Ribble Bridge, in the middle lane
of the motorway, travelling at 87 mph, when the timer, which should
have been flicking open a bowl full of Pedigree Chum, brought
together the two contacts of the bomb which Hinksman had stuck to
the underside of the Daimler.

The device exploded bang on time. Just four seconds after
Danny’s climax.

The explosion ripped into the petrol tank, turning the fuel
into a massive fireball of white heat which vaporised everything in
its path.

The Daimler was hurled sixty feet into the air like a toy car
thrown by a child. It somersaulted a dozen times before crashing
back down onto the carriageway and then bouncing off the bridge
into the river below.

Two BMWs which had been in the process of overtaking the
Daimler on the outside were tossed like cardboard boxes in the wind
over the central reservation, right into the path of the oncoming
traffic.

On the inside lane, a Minibus containing kids from a special
school took the sideways brunt of the blast. The windows and side
panels were destroyed as the
‘whoosh’
of the explosion ripped
into it and sent it skidding on its roof across the hard shoulder,
where it smacked into the safety barrier. The barrier simply acted
like a foot, tripping the vehicle up and sending it over and down
into the river.

Two hundred metres back, Henry Christie saw everything happen
in slow motion - images he would relive time and again in his
dreams and in his waking hours. The horror was imprinted on his
brain for ever.

Even from that distance, the force of the blast struck at
their car like an angry demon on the rampage.

Terry fought valiantly to control the steering wheel, breaking
his right thumb in the process. Despite his efforts, the Cosworth
careered across the carriageway.

Henry wasn’t sure whether he screamed or not.

They glanced off another car on the inside lane, skidded
across the hard shoulder and onto the grass verge. They were jolted
in their seats like dummies in a car commercial, held loosely in
place by seat belts whose buckling inertia reels were tested to
their outer limits. Henry cracked his head on the door jamb and on
the side window. Fleetingly he felt his scalp split
open.

Suddenly the front of the Cosworth caught something
underneath. The vehicle flipped over, rolling along the verge until
it spun back onto the hard shoulder and came to an unexpected
standstill - on its roof.

Hanging upside down, like giant bats, Henry and Terry had a
brief moment to exchange sidelong glances and check that the other
was alive, before another car clipped them. Like a movie stunt,
this car then screeched down the motorway on its side, sparks
flying, for about 50 metres before it righted itself and abruptly
stopped.

‘
Let’s get out of here,’ shouted Henry. Terry, cool as ever,
switched off the ignition.

Simultaneously they smacked their belt-release buttons and
tumbled into an untidy heap on the inner roof. They scrabbled
wildly for the door handles. Outside, they rolled onto their feet
and sprinted up the banking to a height where they felt reasonably
safe.

‘
You okay?’ Henry gasped.

‘
My thumb hurts,’ said Terry. He showed it to Henry. Already
the joint was swelling. ‘You’ve cut your head,’ he
observed.

‘
I know,’ said Henry. He touched the open wound
gingerly.

‘
And you screamed.’

‘
I thought so,’ Henry admitted.

‘
We got off light,’ commented Terry as they surveyed the
scene.

The motorway was in chaos. Both carriageways were blocked by a
mangle of vehicles of all descriptions - a total of seventy-two,
reports would say later. Bodies were strewn about. Some moved and
twitched, others did not move at all. Many were torn into bloody
pieces. People were wandering around stunned. Others, uninjured,
offered what assistance they could in the circumstances. On the
northbound side the blue flashing lights on the first police Range
Rover approached the scene.

‘
Buggerin’ ‘ell!’ said Terry, taking it all in. It was the
strongest expletive he ever used.

‘
Improvised explosive device,’ said Henry.

‘
Eh?’

‘
It was a bomb.’

Terry nodded. He was holding his thumb.

They turned and looked at each other. Henry’s face was covered
in blood; blood in his eyes, nose and mouth.

Both remembered, visualised the blast.

‘
That Minibus!’ bawled Henry. He set off running towards the
river. Terry, pain forgotten, ran behind him.

Hinksman checked his watch and smiled with a degree of
satisfaction. A good job, half-done. He finished his lukewarm
coffee, folded up the newspaper and went to the payphone in the
lobby. He inserted the phone card and dialled an international
number. While waiting for it to connect he hummed and gazed
round.

Two men in suits entered the hotel. They looked flustered.
Hinksman immediately identified them.
Cops.
He watched them stride across
to Reception.

Puzzled, he put the phone down just as it rang and walked
casually towards them.

They leaned on the desk, all bluster, business and
tension.

His intuition proved correct as one of them flashed a warrant
card and introduced himself. Hinksman heard the name - McClure -
but not the rank. His sharp eyes caught the glimpse of a revolver
in a holster at the man’s waist, hidden by the jacket. Hinksman
thought, An English cop
armed?

He clearly heard the name and rank of the other policeman as
he spoke to the receptionist, ‘. . . and I’m Special Agent
Donaldson from the FBI - in America.’ He showed his shiny badge of
office - a badge Hinksman hated. He couldn’t see a gun on
him.

‘
We’d like a word with the manager,’ McClure said. ‘Quickly,
please.’

Hinksman, trying to act naturally, turned and headed towards
the exit. As the automatic door hissed open, knowing he shouldn’t
but unable to stop himself, he turned for one last look.

His third mistake of the day.

The American detective was leaning with his back on the desk,
supporting himself with both elbows, fingers interlocked across his
chest.

His eyes met Hinksman’s briefly. It was almost nothing - but
in that almost nothing there was the glimmer of something as the
detective’s eyebrows furrowed.

Recognition?

Hinksman went through the door. This time he didn’t look
back.

The ambulanceman draped a blanket over Henry Christie’s wet,
exhausted body and ushered the shivering detective towards the back
door of the waiting ambulance.

Henry resisted. He turned to look back across the river, which
was deep and fast-flowing, having been in full flood only
twenty-four hours previously. The Minibus was still lying where it
had landed - three-quarters submerged, the side uppermost with all
its windows intact.

A police diver surfaced and signalled to his colleagues on the
riverbank. Negative. Thumbs down. He refixed his face mask and
disappeared under the water again.

Henry gritted his teeth. He looked up at the grey
sky.

‘
C’mon, mate,’ the ambulanceman said gently, trying to steer
him away. ‘You’ve done all you can here.’

Which, in the end, was nothing, the young detective thought
bleakly.

‘
We need to see you’re all right now.’ He indicated Henry’s
head. ‘That cut’s a bad one. It’ll need stitches. And if you don’t
warm up soon you’ll catch your death.’

Henry wiped his face and looked at his hand. Blood, mud and
water mixed in a paste. He sighed with resignation and nodded
numbly. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a TV
news crew heading purposefully towards him. A reporter holding a
microphone was followed by a cameraman, lighting and sound man and
a woman carrying a clipboard.