A Time For Justice (8 page)

Footsteps crunched behind him. The man who was walking towards
him from the house was about fifty, six feet tall and upright like
the ex-soldier he was. Hinksman knew him only as Gaskell. He was an
arms dealer, legit and properly registered with the local
cops.

‘
You shouldn’t have come here again,’ said Gaskell, clearly
worried. ‘It’s far too risky, and as far as I’m concerned, my
business with you is concluded. I did a favour for Corelli because
he’d done one for me many years ago; now we’re even. I don’t
particularly want to be associated with someone who
indiscriminately kills women and children.’

‘
But you
are
associated, buddy,’ replied Hinksman. ‘You gave me the
explosive and the detonator. You’re in it just as deep as I am – if
I choose to make it that way.’

Gaskell looked hard at Hinksman, who returned the stare with
the glimmer of a smile.

‘
But all those people!’ Gaskell said, pained.

‘
Unfortunate, but it happens. Casualties of war.’ Hinksman
shrugged. He did not care.

Gaskell shook his head bitterly. ‘I knew you were an evil
bastard when I first saw you.’

‘
I do a job, that’s all.’

‘
What do you want this time?’ Gaskell asked after a pause,
resigned to his fate. He knew he was trapped.

‘
Handgun. And ammunition.’

Gaskell sighed. ‘You’d better come in.’

He led Hinksman through the house to a study on the ground
floor at the rear. The walls were lined with leather-bound books. A
plush desk with an inlaid leather top was situated in the bay
window; on it was a PC - keyboard, monitor and printer, very state
of the art. It hummed quietly. On one of the book-shelves was a TV
which gave a split screen recording from cameras which protected
the house. There were views of the front and rear. A VCR whirred
dully underneath the TV.

Hinksman hadn’t been here before. Their last transaction had
taken place outside.

‘
Very nice,’ he admitted.

Gaskell made no reply. He unlocked a desk drawer and took out
a set of keys. He indicated for Hinksman to follow him.

Gaskell opened a door in the kitchen and went down a flight of
steps. There was another door in the basement, this of steel
construction with high quality locks. In one corner of the door was
a stamp from one of the country’s leading safe
manufacturers.

Gaskell unlocked it and pushed it silently open. He reached
inside and flicked a light switch.

Twenty metres away two soldiers with rifles appeared out of
the gloom, charging noiselessly towards them.

Hinksman was impressed. ‘Your very own firing
range.’

‘
Yes,’ said Gaskell. ‘Inspected and certified by the Army and
police. I test a lot of small-arms down here. I have a bigger range
at the warehouse.’

He smacked a button on the wall. The targets at the end of the
range clattered out of sight. The soldiers were charging no
more.

Hinksman wandered down the range as Gaskell opened a steel
cabinet in the safe area, behind the firing line.

He took another key out of this cabinet and bent down to pull
back the carpet in the corner of the range, revealing a floor-safe.
This he opened and heaved the lid off like removing a manhole
cover. He drew out a heavy holdall which he placed with a thud on a
table. He unzipped it. Inside was a collection of handguns -
revolvers and pistols.

By this time Hinksman had returned from his stroll down the
firing range.

‘
Everything in here is untraceable,’ Gaskell told him. ‘And
nothing has been used in a crime before.’

‘
How can you be sure?’

‘
I’m sure.’

Gaskell pulled out four guns, two revolvers, two pistols, and
laid them side by side on the table for Hinksman to inspect. ‘All
cleaned and oiled. Here’ - he offered Hinksman a pair of plastic
disposable gloves from a box.

Hinksman shook his head, declining.

‘
I like to feel a gun,’ he said.

He picked up a model 469 9mm Smith & Wesson autoloading
pistol with a 12-shot magazine which he slid out. Empty.

Gaskell delved into the bag and came out with a loaded
one.

‘
If you want to try it, feel free,’ he offered. ‘Ear
protectors are hung on the wall there.’

Hinksman reached for a pair and covered his ears. ‘Can you
time the targets?’

The dealer nodded.

‘
OK, six two-second exposures and vary the times when the
targets aren’t visible ... anything up to ten seconds.’

‘
D’you want both targets?’

‘
Yep.’

Gaskell programmed in Hinksman’s requirement as the American
wandered to the 15 metre mark on the range. He shrugged his
shoulders to loosen up, held the pistol with both hands, took a
breath and signalled he was ready.

The delay seemed interminable, although it was only six
seconds. Then both targets swung into view. Suddenly, and for two
seconds, Hinksman, was faced with two heavily armed
soldiers.

He reacted smoothly and quickly. His knees bent. He snapped
into the weaver stance and, ‘Ba-bam!’ A double tap. The noise was
incredible and so was Hinksman’s speed and accuracy. In that split
second of firing he put a bullet into each target. In the chest. On
the heart. Then they were gone out of sight. Two seconds later –
even before Hinksman had time to breathe out or consider how good
his shooting was - the targets came back round again.

Again he caught them. Again both heart-shots.

Four gone. Eight remaining.

So far it was superb shooting. Gaskell was impressed and
frightened. He quickly crossed the width of the range and picked up
one of the guns from the table - a Makarov self-loading pistol. The
targets swung back five seconds later: Hinksman amended his aim for
these, drilling a hole in the forehead of each one with chilling
precision. Six gone.

Gaskell checked the Makarov. The magazine was full. He eased
one up the chamber and put the safety on. He didn’t trust Hinksman.
Didn’t like the way he’d reacted to his feelings about the bomb. He
thought it better to be in a stronger position when he came off the
range with an empty gun, just in case. He wouldn’t feel completely
satisfied until the American had left.

The targets came round twice more in quick succession.
Hinksman’s aim stayed as remarkable as when he’d first started
shooting. Two more shots to the head adjacent to the holes already
there, followed by two more to the heart, forming a cluster any
marksman would have been proud of.

Gaskell slipped the Makarov into the waistband of his
trousers. He pulled his cardigan down to cover it.

There was a ten-second delay until the appearance of the
targets for the last time.

An agonising wait.

Gaskell saw Hinksman’s shoulders rise and fall and rise again
with his controlled breathing.

The targets spun round.

And so did Hinksman. Fast. Only a millisecond behind the
targets. Still with a double-handed grip. Perfectly balanced.
Wonderful pirouette. He was now facing Gaskell.

The Englishman fumbled for his gun. But stuck there in his
trousers, covered by the cardigan, he had no chance. He’d hardly
moved his hand before the first of Hinksman’s bullets slammed into
his chest. A heart-shot: dead centre. Perfect. The second bullet
entered his head a fraction later, centre forehead, just above the
bridge of his nose.

The-arms dealer was almost lifted off his feet with the
impact. He was thrown back against the wall where he stayed briefly
pinned like a butterfly, arms high and wide, and then, already
dead, he slithered into an untidy, bloody heap on the
floor.

His chin lolled forwards onto his chest, exposing the gaping
wound at the back of his skull where the slug had made its spinning
exit.

Hinksman exhaled.

He looked at the gun and smiled. ‘You’ll do nicely,’ he said.
‘I wonder what else is on offer.’

Chapter Six

McClure and Donaldson got the registered number of the hired
Mondeo from the hotel video. One PNC check later they’d got the
name of the hire company to go with it.

Karen Wilde looked down at the hire documents which two
detectives had seized and handed over to her in sealed plastic
wallets.

It was a condition of the car-hire agreement that the person
hiring the vehicle be photographed as part of the documentation
process. Hinksman was no exception - but he’d worn a flat cap,
glasses and a false moustache and moved his head when the
receptionist pressed the button on the Polaroid. Result: blurred
image.

Karen inspected the passport-sized photograph pinned to the
corner of the hire agreement and compared it with the still that
had been lifted and enlarged from the hotel video. Despite the
disguise it was obviously the same man.

She read the agreement which gave the address of the hirer as
Lytham St Annes, a seaside town south of Blackpool on the
Lancashire coast. It was a fairly exclusive area.

McClure and Donaldson were sitting opposite her. Neither spoke
as she peered at the evidence.

Her eyes rose from the document. She nodded.

‘
Good stuff,’ she admitted.

‘
Yes, it’s a good lead at least,’ understated McClure. ‘How’s
it going at the Posthouse Hotel room?’

‘
Scenes of Crime are there now. He obviously didn’t spend much
time there. Seems to have dumped his things, then done a runner
when you two spooked him. Left his luggage behind. There could well
be prints on his things, particularly toiletries. Looks like he had
a drink from a glass of water, too.’

‘
Are you going to save the luggage for forensic?’ Donaldson
asked.

‘
Why should I?’

He looked at her like the rookie she was, but decided not to
insult her. ‘Well, from the video it looks like he kept the bomb in
the case before clamping it underneath the Daimler.’

‘
So?’

He restrained himself from an impatient sigh. ‘We now know
the bomb contained Semtex; Semtex leaves traces on clothing. Could
provide very good evidence.’ Don’t you know
anything,
he thought.

Smart-arse Yank, she thought sourly. ‘I’ll see it gets done,’
she conceded gracelessly. ‘So,’ she went on, coming back to the
hire document, ‘with luck we’ll be able to lift prints off this
form and get the FBI searching their records. I don’t hold out much
hope though.’

‘
We’ll get something,’ Donaldson said.

Their eyes locked again. Briefly. Antagonistically.

McClure broke in. ‘I still can’t believe he had the audacity
to hire a car himself - and form a company up here.’

‘
He’s made a few mistakes,’ said Karen. ‘Yet you say he’s a
pro.’

‘
If he’s working for Corelli, he’s a pro. But even pros get
careless,’

Donaldson pointed out. ‘He’s operating outside his normal
territory. He feels safe. He doesn’t have the same sort of respect
for British bobbies as he does for the FBI. He doesn’t expect to
get caught. He thinks it’ll all be easy for him - and if I hadn’t
been here, it would have been.’

‘
Agent Donaldson,’ said Karen, barely able to control her
temper, ‘we will catch this man, with or without your
help.’

‘
Maybe.’

McClure tried to defuse the tension. ‘What are we going to do
about the address on that form?’ He pointed to the hire
documents.

‘
I’ll send a pair of detectives round.’

‘
Is that wise?’ asked McClure.

‘
Why not?’ she shrugged. ‘He’s hardly likely to be there. The
licence he’s used is probably stolen or lost and the owner of it,
who happens to be this guy’ - she tapped the form - ‘probably
hasn’t noticed it’s gone or hasn’t bothered to report it yet.
Either way, he’ll be sitting at home without a care in the
world.’

‘
I don’t think we should take that chance,’ warned McClure.
‘He’s made a few mistakes so far, so maybe he’s given us the
address where he’s actually holed up. OK, I admit it’s unlikely but
sending two unarmed lads round is a risk we shouldn’t take.’ He
took a breath. ‘That’s my view, for what it’s worth.’

Had it come from Donaldson, she would have dismissed it out of
hand, but McClure’s argument was reasonable in the
circumstances.

‘
Go in with guns drawn and ready - is that what you’re
saying?

‘
Don’t take a chance -
that’s
what I’m saying.’

As McClure and Donaldson left the office, Karen picked up the
phone and dialled an internal number. It rang and was answered
quickly by the Chief Constable’s secretary.

‘
I’m afraid he’s busy just now, Miss Wilde,’ the secretary
said.

‘
He’s meeting a member of the police committee.’