A Time For Justice (29 page)

It took Baines four hours of hard toil to complete the task.
He was sweating heavily when he finished.

Once he’d scrubbed himself down, he and Henry adjourned to a
nearby public house for a confab.

The doctor was a troubled man.

‘
The bullets killed them both, as you saw. Massive brain
damage. No doubt in a couple of days’ time you’ll have the exact
calibre of weapon and other information from
ballistics.’

‘
Couple of months, more like,’ said Henry.

‘
Both were mutilated after they were shot, and very skilfully
too. Sharp instruments, good technique. You’ll never get a match on
dental records and you’ll never be able to build up models of their
facial features. The only leads you’ve got are the bullets that I
recovered from the woman and the man’s tattoos. I think that’s
where the killer made his mistake - by wrapping them in polythene
and dumping them where he did. The circumstances have acted to
preserve the outer skin, which is fortunate for you.’

‘
And the missing hands suggest they might have criminal
records,’ said Henry. ‘LCRO are checking files re the tattoos. We
might get lucky, but I think it could be a long slog. Smacks of a
London gang killing, this. Could be a real ball-acher.’

‘
Yeah,’ said Baines. He took a sip from his glass. He was
drinking bitter. ‘I reckon they were murdered and then passed on
for someone else to chop up. Someone who is good at it. It’s
relatively easy to pull a trigger, but to dismember a body takes
certain skills. Know what I mean?’

‘
Like a sicko?’

‘
Or a doctor.’

‘
Or a pathologist. You’re pretty sick.’

‘
Yeah,’ laughed Baines. ‘I am.’ He sighed and dredged his
brain. ‘Something rings a bell, but I’m not sure what.’ He thought,
but came up with nothing. ‘Nope ... it won’t come,
Henry.’

He drank the last of his pint. ‘I’ll let you have a full
report on the PMs, probably late tomorrow.’

Henry nodded. ‘If you do recall anything at all, will you let
me know personally?’

‘
Sure, Henry.’

The detective stretched and yawned.

‘
Henry, can I say something?’

‘
Fire away.’

‘
Don’t let this thing overburden you. You look pretty worn out
to start with and I know what you’ve been through recently. I’m not
preaching or anything like that, but watch yourself, OK? And that’s
from a friend and a doctor.’

Henry said, ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m as tough as old
boots.’

The funeral was a miserable affair, made worse by the
incessant drizzle which rolled in from the Irish Sea like a fine
cloud. There were just a handful of people in attendance and the
ceremony only lasted as long as it had to. The coffin, bearing the
murdered body of Pepe Paglia, was lowered into the ground with a
thud as it touched the bottom of the sodden grave. Within moments
of the soil being scattered on it - earth to earth - the mourners
began to move away, relieved it was over.

Two men strolled to a Rolls-Royce parked nearby. A chauffeur
rushed out of it, opened the rear doors for them and when they were
settled, the big car pulled sedately away.

Another man stood by the cemetery gates. He was not a mourner.
He was a watcher. His hands were thrust deep into his raincoat
pockets. The collar was pulled up. His hair was plastered to his
head. He’d watched the arrival and departure of everyone, but his
interest centred on the Rolls-Royce and its occupants.

The big car lumbered towards him down the narrow cemetery
road.

He stepped out into its path.

The chauffeur said, ‘Trouble, I think, Mr Corelli. What do you
want me to do?’

Corelli and Stanton leaned forwards.

Jamie Stanton recognised the man quickly. It was his job to do
so. ‘It’s that fibbie, Donaldson.’

Corelli laughed. ‘Pull over next to him.’

‘
He might be armed,’ Stanton warned. ‘He might do something
stupid.’

‘
No, he won’t. He’s in England. He can’t afford to,’ said
Corelli with certainty.

The car rolled to a halt by Donaldson, its brakes exhaling a
soft sigh. Corelli’s electric window opened and he looked up at the
agent in the rain.

Neither man spoke for a moment.

Donaldson merely stared impassively down his nose at Corelli
through half-closed eyes. He was chewing gum which he masticated
like a cow chewing the cud. He blew a bubble which burst with a
crack.

Corelli smiled.

Eventually Stanton shouted, ‘What do you want,
dickbrain?’

Donaldson leaned forwards, keeping his hands in his pockets,
and looked into the car, his grey eyes level with
Corelli’s.

‘
I want
you,
Mr Corelli - and I shall get you. There’s nothing more
certain. I’m gonna get you for all the pain, misery and suffering
you’ve caused.’ His voice was level, emotionless, frightening. He
felt very in control.

Corelli blinked, but was not daunted.

Stanton leaned over his boss. ‘Let me take the fucker. There’s
a grave back there and it’s big enough for two.’

Corelli wagged a lazy finger at Stanton. ‘No need for
violence.’ He then addressed Donaldson. ‘Pass my best wishes to Mr
Kovaks’ ladyfriend. I believe she met with an unfortunate accident.
Perhaps you should take note of it, Mr Donaldson ... and be wary
yourself. Accidents are always happening.’

‘
You don’t even begin to intimidate me, you son of a bitch,’
said Donaldson, feeling his composure evaporating. It took a great
deal of effort not to reach in and rip the Italian’s head off. He’d
made a conscious decision to keep his hands firmly in his pockets
for just such a reason.

‘
Who’s trying to intimidate whom here?’ said Corelli calmly.
‘You seem to be intent on frightening me for some reason I fail to
comprehend. Me - a man with no criminal convictions who has just
attended the funeral of a close relative. All I was doing was
simply offering advice from one human being to another. Let’s just
leave it at that.’

‘
I’m gonna have you. One day you’ll walk into a courtroom and
never walk out again, I promise you that. From one human being to a
sack of shit.’

‘
We’ll see,’ laughed Corelli.

He pressed the button on his electric window. It rose slowly
and the car moved away.

‘
Who the fuck does he think he is?’ growled Stanton,
frustration boiling up in him.

‘
An FBI agent - one of the Untouchables. But he’s wrong. I’m
the one who’s untouchable.’

Henry sat down in the room which had been commandeered as the
incident room at Rawtenstall police station, which was the only
decent-sized station within reasonable travelling distance of the
murder scene. The room was normally used for lectures but even so
it wasn’t really large enough to house a full-scale murder enquiry.
But it would have to do. After all, this wasn’t a full-scale murder
enquiry.

One HOLMES terminal had been installed in the corner of the
room. All being well there would be someone to operate the damned
thing tomorrow.

It was 9 p.m. Henry had dismissed his team, with the exception
of the two who’d travelled with him from Blackpool, and told them
to be ready for a briefing at 8 a.m. the next day. He wanted the
show to be on the road for 8.30.

The question of overtime had been raised, as always. Cops are
very money-minded. Henry had told them that there would be as much
as necessary- in direct contravention of FB’s warnings. He was sure
that FB had been bluffing and they had all gone home happily
contemplating December’s pay cheques.

Henry quickly scribbled a list of lines of enquiry to action
the following morning. These included finding the origins of the
polythene sheet and the rope wrapped around it; the tattoos on the
man, checking Missing from Home files countrywide, ballistics
liaison for a quick analysis of the bullets; liaison with Surrey
police who had contacted him already to say they had a similar
murder - unsolved on their books, as had Northumbria and Kent;
liaison with forensic to chase up the tyre-track impressions taken
from the scene.

That would be enough to get the enquiry underway.

When the uniformed support team arrived he also had a few
ideas for their deployment: house-to-house enquiries in Whitworth
and a fingertip search of the scene.

An appeal by radio, TV and the press would be launched
too.

He put his pen down and slumped backwards in his chair. This
is ridiculous, he thought. Nine-thirty showed on the wall clock.
Over twelve hours worked already on very little sleep and he didn’t
anticipate getting much more in the next few weeks either.
Travelling every day from Blackpool was going to be a hell of a
strain too: something like an eighty-mile round trip every day. It
was a daunting prospect. His head throbbed at the thought. He
rubbed his eyes. They were becoming sore and gritty.

He knew he should go home, get to bed and fall into a good
long sleep to get himself up for tomorrow. That’s what he knew he
should do for the best. But he didn’t.

He lifted the phone and called home. Kate answered, sprightly,
glad to hear from him. He made some weak excuses - lies, really -
and prepared her not to expect him until the early hours. Murder
enquiry, work to do, God knows when he’d finish, all the
responsibility ... blah blah blah. All crap.

However guilty he felt, though, it didn’t stop him from
phoning another number. Natalie answered. Yes, she’d be more than
pleased to see him. He could come round at any time.

‘
Come on guys, let’s hit the road,’ he announced.

The three of them went downstairs and headed out through the
ground-floor communications room which was buzzing with activity. A
harassed uniform Inspector looked up from a desk. Henry recognised
him. He’d last seen him fifteen years before when they had both
been PCs.

Henry acknowledged him.

‘
You will not effing believe this,’ said the man, shaking his
head.

‘
Try me.’

‘
Another suspicious sudden death. A firearms dealer has been
found by one of his business associates out on the moors. Looks
like he’s been murdered, shot in the head and chest. Probably been
there a few days, by the sound of it. I’m just on my way for a
looksee. Want to come?’

‘
Thanks, but no thanks,’ said Henry with an apologetic shrug.
‘Got enough on my plate at the moment.’ He joined his two
colleagues who were already sitting in the car, one in the driver’s
seat revving the engine.

Henry dropped into the back seat. ‘Blackpool, my man - and
give it some wellie!’

PART TWO

Chapter Seventeen

When Henry Christie woke up, his head felt like it was on
fire. He couldn’t remember too much about the night before, other
than it had been heavy, but lack of memory wasn’t unusual these
days. What he did know was that he’d drunk too much and now he was
suffering from it again.

He lay there, fully awake, keeping his eyes firmly closed,
knowing that soon he would have to move. He had to go to Crown
Court that morning and the vestiges of professionalism and pride
which remained in him would not allow tardiness.

Keeping his eyes still firmly shut, he swung both legs out and
sat on the edge of the bed. The fire raging through his brain
became a series of major explosions. He groaned, but he knew that
the only way to get going with a hangover of this magnitude was by
moving quickly and with purpose, rather than slowly and sluggishly
which merely prolonged the pain and discomfort.

Over the last six months Henry had become an expert at
hangover recovery.

When he eventually opened his eyes, he was surprised to find
it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. The curtains were closed and the
daylight filtered through them diffused and manageable. Pure
daylight on tender pupils was something he knew he couldn’t have
handled in his present state.

He heard a murmur behind him. He looked sharply
round.

With some shock he saw a woman lying there asleep. He tried
hard to recall some of the details, but his alcohol-riddled brain
cells refused to cooperate. All he could do was stare at her rather
blankly and unbelievingly.

The sheet was around her waist. He pulled it carefully back to
cover her up, still wishing he could remember how it had been, why
it had been, wishing also that she wasn’t here in his bed. He
sneered contemptuously at himself, then staggered, evading
discarded clothing, plates, bottles and glasses, through the
bathroom door and underneath the shower.

He ran the water as hot as he could bear it. The fine, hard
jets worked on his salty body, dislodging the dried sweat of the
night from his hair, chest, armpits and limp genitals. It refreshed
him considerably. In five minutes he was almost awake; in ten he
definitely was.