A Time For Justice (15 page)

Donaldson gave up trying to dislodge the wounded McClure,
whose shirt-front was a soggy mass of bright red blood.

He lay there under McClure’s dead weight, unable to move.
Hinksman stood arrogantly above him.

‘
Well now, Fibbie,’ he said. ‘So you wanted him to shoot me?
Naughty, naughty. This is England. They play by the rules here. You
should know that. Not like you fuckers ... Anyway, can’t stay even
though I’d love to chat. Y’know, I ain’t never done an officer of
the law before today, but I guess there’s always a first time for
everything ... and in your case, Fibbie, a fourth time.’

Hinksman pointed the gun at Donaldson’s head as the
significance of the words sank in.

The detective swallowed something big and hard and it stuck in
his throat. His eyes squinted as he braced himself for the impact.
He wondered what it would feel like.

Hinksman eased the hammer back. His forefinger curled onto the
trigger. Only the lightest touch was now needed.

Donaldson thought of blackness for ever.

There was a shout. A female voice.

‘
Armed police! Drop your weapon!’

Donaldson and Hinksman looked. Twenty metres away stood two
uniformed officers from the firearms team. Both had their revolvers
drawn, both were in exactly the same weaver stance: left foot
forward, guns held in the right hand, supported by the left,
fingers on triggers - aimed at Hinksman.

A tense moment of silence passed when nothing
happened.

‘
Drop your weapon and raise your hands,’ the female officer
reiterated.

Hinksman’s gun was pointing at Donaldson. He glanced back down
at him and smiled briefly. Donaldson thought he was going to pull
the trigger.

Without warning the American moved quickly, becoming a blur of
speed. He pivoted on his heels, crouched down and cracked three ear
splitting shots off at the officers. He threw himself to one side,
grabbed his holdall and did a body roll down in front of his car.
He leapt to his feet in one flowing motion and sprinted away
without a backward glance, keeping low as he went.

The male officer had gone down with a scream, clutching his
right bicep, his gun skidding away under a car. The woman dived
sideways for cover behind a car after managing to fire one shot in
reply.

Donaldson, powerless to do otherwise, simply watched Hinksman
run down the street and turn left into an alleyway and disappear.
He looked at the female officer who was flattened on the floor,
breathing heavily, as white as a sheet.

‘
It’s safe now,’ Donaldson called out. ‘He’s gone. He won’t be
back.’

It took a while for her to pluck up enough courage to stick
her head out for an instant.

The other officer, the one who’d been shot, struggled up into
a sitting position, leaning against a low wall where he remained,
sobbing as he held his injured, limp arm. Blood poured through his
fingers.

Donaldson gently eased McClure off him and laid him out on the
pavement. Thankfully he was unconscious.

‘
Shit,’ said Donaldson on seeing his colleague’s bloody
front.

He ripped open the shirt to inspect the wounds. They were very
bad. The bullets had gone into the left side of his chest.
Brilliant, deadly shooting.

McClure was breathing, but with every breath big bubbles of
blood were being blown out of the holes. He wheezed and gurgled as
the breath came and went.

‘
Shit,’ Donaldson said again, hopelessly.

McClure’s eyes opened. They were glassy, unfocused.

‘
It’s OK,’ Donaldson said. ‘Just hold on, pal.’

The eyes came to life. He looked up at Donaldson.

‘
Can’t feel a thing,’ he gasped with a twisted
smile.

‘
Don’t worry, it’s not bad. You’ll be fine,’ he lied
smoothly.

‘
No ... no, I won’t be. I should’ve shot him shouldn’t
I?’

‘
Yep,’ Donaldson acceded.

‘
Couldn’t do it . . . couldn’t shoot a man in the back. Not
the way we do things round here.’

‘
I know ... Now don’t speak ... save your energy.’

McClure coughed, spraying Donaldson with a fine mist of blood.
Donaldson ran a hand over his face.

When he looked, McClure’s eyes were closed. Donaldson knew he
was dead.

Crosby’s face was ashen, his eyes sunk into black, hollow
sockets. His breathing was laboured, but for the time being he was
stable and surrounded by machines that continuously monitored his
condition. He was also awake and quite compos mentis.

FB sat at the bedside. Crosby’s wife stood out in the corridor
talking in hushed tones to the Chief Constable.

‘
You saved my life,’ Crosby said quietly through the oxygen
mask.

‘
Thank you.’

FB nodded. ‘Training took over.
It
was nothing.’

‘
As good a cliché as any,’ said Crosby. ‘Now you make sure you
get that investigation back off that cow.’

‘
I will,’ said FB.

‘
And do her. Do her well. If you can, get her thrown out of
the job. Do it for me.’

‘
I’ll do it, even if it takes for ever.’

‘
Good man.’

Crosby’s head dropped back onto the pillow. His eyes
closed.

FB actually felt a tear form and roll down his cheek. ‘I’ll
get her if it’s the last thing I do,’ he said softly.

The machine which monitored Crosby’s heart-rate changed its
tone to one continuous note. It took a moment to register with FB -
by which time two nurses had rushed into the room and an alarm bell
was sounding somewhere. More medical staff arrived within seconds,
crowding round the patient, pushing FB out of the way.

He retreated to the door, standing by Mrs Crosby and Dave
August.

Five minutes later it was over.

Crosby was dead.

FB stormed down the corridor muttering, ‘That bitch is
history.’

Karen sat alone in her borrowed office at Preston police
station. She did not want to see anyone. She wanted to sit by
herself for as long as possible as the day darkened to try and
comprehend the enormity of what had happened.

Three policemen dead. Another injured. Shots fired. A member
of the public dead too - that being Pepe Paglia whose body the
firearms team had found on entering the hotel. He’d been shot
through the head. And to cap it all the person responsible had got
away. Been allowed to escape.

Basically the biggest single fuck-up in the history of
Lancashire Constabulary. And it was all her fault.

Karen rubbed her face with her hands.

And for a classic post-script, Jack Crosby had died.
Apparently she was to blame for that too.

How long was it since she had had any sleep? Many hours. Yet
she doubted whether she could sleep now even if she had the
opportunity. Her dazed mind raced around and around like an Indy
car on an oval track.

There was a soft knock on the door. Donaldson crept quietly
into the room. Bloodstains had dried on his clothing. He hadn’t had
a chance to change yet.

‘
OK?’ he enquired.

‘
No, not really,’ she admitted truthfully. She was on the
verge of tears, struggled to keep them back.

‘
I have a little more bad news, I’m afraid.’

She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Go on.’ She wasn’t
sure how much more she could take.

‘
I’ve just spoken to Joe Kovaks; he tells me that the guy who
gave us the information has been killed. Stabbed to death in his
hospital bed at the prison. Even had his tongue cut
out.’

‘
Oh God,’ she uttered. She stood up shakily and crossed to the
window which overlooked the town. In the distance the River Ribble
snaked away towards the sea. She shook her head in
disbelief.

She couldn’t stop it. She began to cry with gut-wrenching sobs
that racked her body, made her shoulders judder.

Donaldson crossed to her and placed an arm around her. She
turned instinctively into him and buried her face in his
blood-stained shirt. It was a great effort to prevent himself
from
crying. Ever since McClure had died,
he’d shut his mind to it so that he could get on with what had to
be done. Now that time was over. Family had been told. Statements
had been made.

He stroked Karen’s hair. It felt coarse and grubby.
Stale.

She tilted her head and looked up. Tears flooded her eyes,
pouring down her cheeks. Make-up ran, lipstick smeared. She would
have been the first to admit she looked a mess.

‘
I’m sorry, Karl,’ she said.

The door opened before she could finish.

FB and a sidekick strutted businesslike into the
room.

‘
Oh, this is fuckin’ great,’ he shouted. ‘Straight back to
your old tricks and the bodies are still warm. I should’ve known.
You’re an uncaring, unfeeling slag. Yes, a fuckin’ slag and you’ll
never be any different. ‘

Karen and Donaldson had stepped a pace apart from
each other.

They were speechless.

‘
Right - collect your things. You’re off this investigation as
of now and you’re also suspended from
duty
pending a full enquiry.’

‘
Suspended?’ she said in disbelief. ‘On what
grounds?’

‘
Neglect of duty, disobeying a lawful order, bringing the
force
into disrepute ... you name it,
lady, it’s there. Unfortunately you’ll be on full pay. May I have
your warrant card, please? As of now you’re banned from
entering any police station, other than as a
member of the public. You must go home and remain there until D and
C contact you.’ FB was in full flow. ‘Do you know how many lives
you’ve destroyed by this thoughtless operation? And do you care?
I’ll bet not.’

Karen couldn’t answer.

‘
Let up, will you, pal?’ Donaldson cut in.

‘
You shut it, Yank,’ snarled FB, pointing. ‘You’re not
involved in this.’

‘
Not involved?’ Donaldson stepped forward and grabbed FB’s
lapels, heaved him onto his toes and whacked him back against the
wall. They stood nose to nose. ‘Not involved, you asshole? My
friend died in my arms today, you little shit.
Not involved?
I oughtta punch you
into next week.’

His big clenched fist drew back. FB braced himself, wondering
what time-travel would feel like.

Karen caught the fist before it connected. ‘Karl, Karl.
There’s no need for that. It won’t do anyone any good ... and
please, let me fight my own battles.’

‘
But it’d make me feel so damned good,’ he said, reluctantly
dropping the sweating FB.

Numbly, Karen rummaged through her handbag until she found her
warrant card. She placed it photo-up on her desk. She collected her
coat, slung it around her shoulders and walked out of the office,
averting her eyes from everyone else’s.

‘
Good fuckin’ riddance,’ FB called out childishly. ‘And stay
away from the Chief - he doesn’t need your poison.’

‘
You be quiet,’ Donaldson warned him. He came up close to FB
again. ‘I don’t know you, but you sure got bad manners and if she
hadn’t stopped me your teeth would be stickin’ outta your ass now
because I’d’ve smashed them that far down your goddamned
throat.’

Donaldson hurried out of the office after Karen, but she’d
already caught the lift. He ran down the stairs into the car park -
just in time to see the back end of her car pull away into traffic
with a screech of tyres.

Chapter Ten

The surveillance was back on.

The suspected drugs dealer in the Porsche was gunning down the
west-bound carriageway of the M55, heading out towards the
Lancashire coast. He was averaging about 100 mph - not particularly
excessive for such a car - but it showed he was fairly relaxed
about things and didn’t think he was being followed. What he didn’t
know was that a sophisticated tracking device had been fitted to
the underside of his car and was emitting a powerful, easy to
follow signal to the four-car RCS surveillance team, the nearest of
which, two miles behind, was driven by Henry Christie.

This is an absolute piece of cake, Henry thought, alternately
watching the tracking monitor fitted to the dash, the road ahead,
the road behind. He’d only managed to get hold of the tracker by a
combination of accident and theft early that morning. In their
tiredness, another RCS team, going off-duty after an unsuccessful
night’s work, had forgotten to lock it away. So Henry nicked
it.

He was alone in his car. Terry was still off sick with his
broken thumb and Henry didn’t really feel inclined to be working
with anyone else at that stage. He wished to avoid talking about
the bomb and its unpleasant aftermath. He just wanted to be at
work, doing something, chasing someone, taking his mind off it. He
did have a constant dull headache he couldn’t rid himself of,
though, due to the bump on his temple. That was reminder
enough.