A Time For Justice (5 page)

‘
So who’s doing the killings?’

‘
Dunno.’ Donaldson shrugged his shoulders. ‘Someone very good,
someone we don’t even know. Probably the guy who did this one. But
I do know one thing...’

McClure waited, arms folded.

‘
If I was Danny Carver’s English partner, I’d be shitting in
my pants right now.’

‘
Why’s that?’

‘
We expected both of them to be in that limo so it’s safe to
assume the killer expected the same. He’s only done half a
job.’

A grunting noise made them turn and look up at the
building.

A dim light shone behind a curtain on the first
floor.

‘
Someone’s up late,’ said Donaldson. He climbed into the
car.

It was 1.30 a.m.

Jane the stripper lay awake on the grubby sheets listening to
Hinksman’s regular deep breathing as he slept beside her. The room,
like the rest of the hotel, was musty and dank-smelling.

Her top lip throbbed from a cut on the inside where it had
banged against her teeth. Blood seeped into her mouth. She
shuddered at the salty taste. Her right eye was badly swollen and
beginning to blacken; she could hardly open it. That too throbbed -
a slightly different beat to her lip.

She moved a hand slowly up to her throat, slowly so that she
would not disturb Hinksman, and massaged her Adam’s apple tenderly,
remembering how Hinksman, on reaching his climax, had clamped a
vice-like hand around her windpipe and almost strangled her to
death in an orgasm that was a torrent of
violent, uncontrollable, jerking spasms.

The injuries to her lip and eye were punishments because she
had complained about the near-murder.

When he knocked her around the room - a cold, clinical assault
she thought he got even more pleasure from the violence than from
the sex. His mad eyes had really been shining.

Hinksman moved onto his back. His mouth fell open. He snored.
Crazy American bastard, she thought.

Lying there, motionless and taut, she wondered if she would be
able to get out of bed, dress herself and slide out of the room
without waking him up. He’d told her that he wanted her to be there
in the morning - so she could imagine what his reaction would be to
find her fleeing the place: a worse beating than before. Yet to be
there in the morning would no doubt entail another beating
too.

She squinted sideways at him through her good eye. He seemed
well gone. She moved slightly. He groaned. She went rigid again. He
didn’t wake.

From somewhere down in the bowels of the hotel a phone started
ringing.

‘
Fuck,’ she cursed under her breath and heaved a deep sigh.
Until it stopped there was no point trying anything. Escape would
have to wait. She glanced at her watch - 2 a.m.

The phone seemed to ring for ever. Then there was the mumble
of a voice followed by footsteps on the stairs, getting closer to
Hinksman’s room. Jane fully expected them to pass. They didn’t.
There was a light knock on the door.

Hinksman continued to snore.

The knocking persisted, growing louder. Hinksman was not
disturbed.

In the end Jane could tolerate it no longer. She tugged a
sheet off the bed, wrapped it round herself and answered the
door.

An unshaven man wearing pyjamas and a stained dressing-gown
stood there. Heavy bags hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. It was the
hotel proprietor, Pepe Paglia.

‘
Oh,’ he said, surprised at seeing her. ‘I want him.’ He
pointed with a nicotine-stained finger at Hinksman.

‘
Help yourself,’ she said. ‘He’s all yours.’

Paglia went over to the bed and shook Hinksman. ‘Wake up, come
on.’

He was lifeless. A sustained effort was needed before he was
finally roused; it was a fair while after that before he knew what
was happening.

The woman kicked herself. Had she suspected he was this hard
to wake when drunk, she would have been long gone.

‘
Phone call,’ said Paglia. ‘It’s. . .’ he glanced at Jane,
turned back to Hinksman and whispered, ‘Miami.’

‘
Jeez, what does he want?’

‘
Dunno. I said you were asleep but he told me I had to get
you.’

‘
Right.’ He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the base of
his thumbs, pulled on his dressing-gown and padded barefoot out of
the room, ignoring the woman.

Paglia was left with Jane. He dawdled, peered closely at her.
‘Given you a belting, has he?’ he said. ‘If you want looking after
properly you can always come to me. Great Italian
lover.’

His face contorted into what could only be described as a
leer. He thrust his hips forward with a jerk.

‘
God forbid,’ she said. She wafted away his halitosic
breath.

‘
Suit yourself,’ he shrugged, and left the room, looking
pleased with himself.

‘
Yuk,’ she said when he’d gone, and shivered at the thought of
him.

She dressed quickly.

Prior to leaving, she picked up Hinksman’s wallet and quickly
went through it. She couldn’t believe her eyes. It was the first
stroke of luck she’d had that night - or that year, come to think
of it. Apart from credit cards, six of them, and driver’s licence
which she intended to sell on, there was about £1,000 in mixed Bank
of England notes, and a thick wad of dollar traveller’s cheques.
And he’d only paid her twenty-five quid, the tight
bastard.

‘
Criminal injuries compensation,’ she muttered, pocketing the
money.

She tiptoed onto the landing above the entrance hall where
Hinksman was taking the phone call. She backed into the dark recess
of an alcove and waited.

‘
Unfortunate,’ she could hear Hinksman saying. ‘But it’s the
name of the game ... innocents do die occasionally ... so where
will he be? Who? Say that again. . . Right, got that; I speak to
him. Right, OK. I’ll take care of it, don’t you worry, boss. Take
it as read. It’s as good as done ... OK, OK, so long.’

In the shadows Jane’s stomach tightened with fear. She prayed
to a God she didn’t really believe in:
Please, don’t let him spot me hiding here.
She closed her eyes.

She heard him coming up the stairs.

She steeled herself to open her eyes again.

She almost let out a yelp. There he was. Less than three feet
away from her! She could reach out and tap his shoulder. Surely out
of the corner of his eye he must see her. Surely then he would kill
her.

But Hinksman walked straight past her, yawning, massaging his
neck muscles. His mind and senses were far away. She was
undiscovered.

Still holding her breath, Jane gave him time to get round the
corner before emerging like a ghost from the darkness and bolting
down the stairs, along the hall and out through the front door -
away from a man she never wanted to see again.

Sadly for her, this was not to be the case.

Chapter Four

The phone in the bedroom rang for a long, long time. Slowly it
insinuated itself into Henry’s brain cells and forced him into
wakefulness. It was a fight against whisky, analgesic and a crack
on the head. He lay listening to the shrill noise, not knowing what
it was at first. Eventually he threw off the duvet and went over to
pick it up. ‘Yeah?’ he croaked.

‘
DS Christie?’

‘
Yeah.’

‘
This is Linda in control room. If you’re fit, you’re
requested to be at the murder incident room which has been set up
at Preston police station at eleven o’clock for a
briefing.’

‘
What time is it now?’

‘
Nine-o-five.’

‘
Right. I’ll be there.’

‘
Are you OK for transport?’

‘
Yeah.’

He reeled slightly as a spell of dizziness hit him and put a
hand to his forehead, steadying himself. His fingers brushed the
tender stitches and shaved area on the left side of his head. He
flinched at the touch. He felt old and stiff.

The house was quiet. Kate must have taken the girls to school
and gone on to her part-time job at the insurance brokerage in
Blackpool. She hadn’t disturbed him when she left - or at least he
couldn’t recall it.

He had a long hot redeeming shower, brushed his teeth
vigorously and gargled with TCP to get rid of the alcoholic
residue. He emerged feeling almost alive.

He made a quick phone call to Terry - who was all right but
had reported in sick - and with three Paracetamols down him (and a
further supply in his pocket), a glass of skimmed milk to line his
stomach, a quick peek in the mirror to remind himself how he looked
- bad - he left for work just after ten, shaving as he drove with a
battery-powered portable.

Hinksman was pissed off to find that the prostitute had
vanished. He swore and checked his wallet. Empty. What a
surprise.

He decided that if he had the opportunity, he’d track her down
and hurt her. Rather more than he had done already.

As soon as his head hit the grubby pillow again he was
asleep.

His heavy night, however, didn’t prevent him from waking up
before his alarm and turning out for a four-mile run along the
promenade. It was no easy, laid-back jog, but a hard fast work-out
designed to flush his system. By the end of it he felt clear and
quick again. Ready for work.

Hinksman found the hotel proprietor in the kitchen. He helped
himself to a slice of toast and a cup of coffee, after which he
backed Paglia into the large, walk-in pantry and spoke to
him.

‘
That bitch cleaned me out last night,’ Hinksman hissed. ‘I
need money - pronto.’

‘
No problem. Ten, twenty, thirty pounds?’

‘
A grand.’

‘
What! I haven’t got that sort of money.’

‘
Get it,’ said Hinksman levelly. ‘This afternoon. I need to
buy things.’

‘
I can’t,’ he protested.

Hinksman reached out his right hand at the speed of a cobra
striking, and clamped it round the little man’s throat. From there
he lifted him on tiptoes and slammed him back against a tall
freezer which rocked precariously; the contents clattering around
inside. Hinksman’s grip tightened. Paglia struggled for breath,
gagging and choking, both hands fumbling in a pathetic attempt to
peel Hinksman’s fingers out of his soft skin.

‘
I said get it. You don’t want to fall out with us, now do
you?’ Paglia’s eyes bulged. He managed to shake his head and
Hinksman set him down.

‘
Good,’ said the American. ‘A very sensible
person.’

Paglia coughed painfully and rubbed at his throat. Thumb and
finger indentations were clearly visible on the skin.

‘
Mamma,’ he whispered. ‘There was no need for
that.’

‘
You’re obviously a man who needs to be made to understand.
Now - I want that cash by this afternoon, OK?’

Paglia nodded forlornly.

Hinksman smiled. He went out, leaving the little man in the
pantry, still not having recovered from his ordeal.

Hinksman walked through the hotel flexing his
fingers.

That felt rather good, he thought.

The Chief Constable’s office had a view across the sports
field at headquarters. Dave August spent many a happy hour watching
games from the window. Feet up, all calls diverted, all callers
blocked. One of the few benefits of rank, he thought.

At ten o’clock that morning, the day after the M6 bombing, he
was behind his desk, facing into the room. Two men sat opposite
him.

Here was one of the drawbacks of rank, he thought sourly.
Making unpopular – and bad - decisions and having to stick with
them.

The ACC (Operations), Jack Crosby, a tough no-nonsense career
detective was one of his visitors. He looked grave and unhappy.
He’d spent all his service with Lancashire and had been involved in
over 200 murder investigations - and got a result on all but one.
He’d also been involved in career manipulation and politics at the
highest level of the service, and could see right through the
chief’s announcement. It was obvious what he was thinking.
Dick rules head.

Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, the Chief Superintendent in charge of
crime, was the other visitor. Despite his fancy-sounding name and
appearance, he was as tough and hard-edged as Crosby, but ten years
younger. He thought he’d seen and heard everything in his time, but
the Chiefs words left him gobsmacked.

August could see what effect his announcement had had, but
there was no going back now.

‘
So I hope you’ll give her your whole-hearted support,’ he
finished weakly.

‘
And there’s no doubt about it - she’s gonna need a hell of a
lot,’ said Fanshaw-Bayley. He clammed up as soon as the words were
out of his mouth.