A Time For Justice (37 page)

The cork popped off and Janine held out the glasses, which he
filled.

He took one and said, ‘This is by way of thanks for the part
you’ve played in securing the eventual release of my friend, the
plans for which, as you know, are well advanced.’

‘
It was a pleasure,’ she said. They touched glasses and drank.
Janine thought it tasted wonderful.

‘
So I believe,’ he murmured, and winked. ‘I’ve seen the
video...’

They burst out laughing.

Joe Kovaks stood on the quayside watching Corelli’s boat which
was now nothing more than a speck on the horizon, even through
powerful binoculars.

His face was grim as he lowered the glasses from bloodshot
eyes. He felt like he had never laughed in his life.

This was not the Joe Kovaks of old. In the last six months he
had aged considerably. He had lost weight and his grey skin hung
loosely on his cadaver-like face.

Knowing it would be many hours before Corelli came back, he
made his way to Le Te Da where he managed to secure a seat on the
front balcony. It was here, in the 1890s, that the Cuban rebel Jose
Marti had made speeches to raise money for the Cuban
revolution.

Kovaks ordered a light meal, coffee and orange
juice.

While waiting, he leaned back in his chair and closed his
eyes. He wanted to sleep forever.

The worry over Chrissy, the sleepless nights, the constant
vigils and the ongoing campaign to get Corelli had all taken their
toll out of his energy reserves. He’d kept himself going in the
circle of home-hospital-work-hospital on a concoction of sweet
black coffee and adrenalin.

And what good had it done?’

Chrissy’s recuperation had been a painfully slow process in
more than one sense.

Although out of hospital now, she frequently returned for
further treatment. She was still a mess, despite all the doctors
had done. Her burned face and chest were a horrific sight, even to
Kovaks, who had grown used to them. She herself wouldn’t even look
in a mirror. The pain she endured was dreadful and she could only
sleep under the influence of drugs.

However, the medical side of it wasn’t the only problem. The
mental side was worse.

This once bubbly, confident and delightfully naughty lady was
now a shell of fear. She was terrified of going out, of picking up
the post, of doing almost anything. She spent most of her waking
hours slumped in front of the TV, flitting aimlessly from channel
to channel, avoiding the mainstream of life.

Kovaks had been warned it would take a long time. Surely,
though, he pondered, there should be some improvement by
now?

It was wearing him down; he couldn’t deny it. He knew he had
to be strong for her, but the strain was telling on him and it was
bubbling over into anger.

Because through it all Corelli sailed on. Untouched.
Untouchable.

Kovaks knew he was dealing drugs in the UK now with the guy
called Dakin. Could he prove it? Could he fuck. Just like he
couldn’t prove that Corelli was behind the bomb that maimed
Chrissy.

Kovaks was tired and frustrated. Corelli was simply telling
him to go to hell. And slowly but surely, this is where Kovaks was
headed.

Even the Bureau had whittled down the operation on Corelli.
The team now consisted solely of him and Donaldson, Sue having been
transferred to other duties.

The waiter brought his meal.

He opened his eyes.

Something would have to be done; it was a desperate situation
all round, requiring a desperate solution.

It was about time to administer some justice.

Agent Ritter was also planning his own desperate
solution.

Having made the decision to kill Sue, he had now decided where
the demise would take place. So many unfortunate accidents happen
in the home, he thought.

There were only two more questions to be asked.

When would it happen?

How would she die?

Soon,
he thought, in answer to the
first one.

In great pain,
was his answer to the
next.

Chapter Twenty-One

At the end of the third week, the trial seemed to have gone
fairly smoothly for the Crown. The witnesses had all been good and
believable and had kept to their stories, even under severe
provocation and pressure from Mr Graham, QC for the defence, who
was performing at his peak.

Donaldson had been up to give his evidence. It had been a
harrowing experience for him to relive the death of Ken McClure,
particularly when Graham questioned everything down to the last
detail. Donaldson’s eyes had visibly moistened when he described
the scene and last words of his friend. The jury had been right
behind him and he sensed he could do no wrong. If nothing else,
Hinksman would be convicted of killing McClure.

When Donaldson was asked if the man responsible for his
friend’s death was present in court, he’d lifted his hand and
pointed his finger straight at Hinksman. ‘That is the man who
murdered my friend, Ken McClure.’ It was a satisfying
moment.

Hinksman merely stretched and yawned.

Graham immediately objected to the statement, saying that
murder had yet to be proved. The Judge ordered him to sit back
down, then she warned Hinksman that he wasn’t far from being in
contempt of court. He raised his eyebrows and smiled at
her.

She made a note.

Donaldson’s evidence was the last to be given on that Friday
afternoon.

As the trial was adjourned for the weekend, Hinksman indicated
that he wanted a private consultation with Graham.

In the interview room, Hinksman asked, ‘Well, how’s it
going?’

‘
In truth, not very well,’ admitted Graham. ‘The prosecution
have got sentiment on their side. It does help. Too many innocent
people have died.’

‘
How strong do you think their evidence is against me
regarding Gaskell, the arms dealer?’

‘
So so,’ said Graham, sitting securely on the fence. ‘Although
there’s no direct witness testimony, there are the videos the
police recovered from the guest-house which show you turning up at
Gaskell’s house. Then the ballistic evidence - the fact that the
gun you had with you when Christie arrested you is the one which
killed Gaskell. It all looks pretty bleak, to be
honest.’

‘
Mmm ... When is Christie due to give evidence?’

‘
Middle of next week, I estimate.’

‘
Well, you make damned sure he has a hard time,’ ordered
Hinksman. ‘I want his evidence and his character dragged through
the mud. Hear me?’

‘
I hear you,’ said Graham dismally. He was unused to being
given instructions on how to defend a case by his client. He knew
he had to be patient with Hinksman, otherwise he’d probably get a
bullet in the brain.

‘
And I want you to tell Dakin to move up a gear on the jury. I
want them all shitting themselves this weekend.’

‘
I’ll tell him,’ sighed Graham. He was more concerned with the
prospect of Henry Christie’s evidence next week. He knew very
little about the detective or his background.

‘
I’m not sure I’ll have much mud to sling at Christie,’ he
told Hinksman doubtfully. ‘I may be able to get into his evidence,
but as to his character ... I don’t know.’ He shrugged.

Hinksman smiled an evil smile. ‘Don’t worry. By Monday morning
you’ll have everything you need. Promise.’

By its very nature this murder trial was spectacular and
newsworthy. It had all the ingredients of a juicy international
story. The massive bomb which killed many innocent people; the
violent deaths of police officers; the links with underworld crime
in England and America; the death of an American gangster and his
‘moll’; the death of a British arms dealer; the involvement of the
FBI and the insinuation - nothing more - that Hinksman was a Mafia
hitman, although the words ‘Mafia’ and ‘hitman’ were never to be
used throughout the trial.

When it started, the trial made front-page news across the
globe; as it proceeded it was always featured somewhere on page two
or three. But it lacked a ‘certain something’, a spark.

It got that ‘certain something’ over the weekend, which
blasted it right back to the headlines.

Firstly, all the jury members had their houses fire-bombed. No
one was injured, but much damage was done and worry caused.
Speculation was rife: would the next step be the taking of a
juror’s life? Would there have to be a re-trial?

Secondly it got that something that made the whole trial
really come to life.

It got a personality.

It got Henry Christie.

He was exposed.

Carried initially by the
News of the
World
it was a tale that caught the
public’s imagination.

Henry’s life and times were laid bare for all to
see.

His drinking was dredged up. His womanising. His adultery. His
violent temper. His marriage collapse. His nervous breakdown. All
slit open for the world to see and drool over.

Hero Cop’s Sex and Drink Binge!
screamed the headline.

Henry, who had always thought himself to be Mr Very Average,
had become newsworthy.

All thanks to the relentless digging of a female American
journalist called Lisa Want, on special assignment to the
News of the World.

Henry’s Sunday was spent alone with the more highbrow
newspapers. He took the
Sunday
Times
and the
Sunday Telegraph,
which were
delivered. He rose at nine, prepared a pot of coffee and warmed up
two Sainsbury’s croissants before settling down to three blissful
hours of uninterrupted reading.

It was his Sunday ritual.

At 12.30 p.m. he switched on the TV to watch the Grand Prix.
The phone rang.

It was FB. His opening words were, ‘What the fuck have you
done, Henry? Talking to the fucking gutter press! Have you gone
stark staring bonkers?’

‘
Hold on,’ Henry cautioned him. ‘What the hell are you on
about?’

FB reduced himself from a boil to a simmer and
explained.

Henry put the phone down as FB finished. It rang again
immediately. A journalist from a rival newspaper introduced
himself. Henry told him where he should get off and slammed the
phone down - but not before he heard the man offer him five figures
for an exclusive.

The phone rang again.

‘
I have just told you to fuck off,’ bawled Henry.

‘
Henry. It’s me, Kate.’

‘
Oh, Jeez. Sorry.’

‘
Have you seen the newspapers today - in particular the
News of the World?’
she
asked coldly. ‘Our marriage is splashed all over for everyone to
see. Our private life, Henry.’ She was obviously very upset and
close to tears. ‘I honestly thought we were near to ... to getting
back together. But this! This! It changes everything as far as I’m
concerned. How could you? Oh Christ, how could you?’

‘
Hang on, Kate. I haven’t done anything. I haven’t spoken to
any journalist - not one. And I haven’t seen the paper yet, either.
. . so, look, give me half an hour, will you? Please. I’ll go and
get a copy, read it, then phone you back, OK?’

‘
Very well,’ she said quietly in a way that gave Henry a
shiver.

Henry closed his eyes as he replaced the receiver. He’d had no
idea that Kate was thinking about getting back with him. To hear
that and to have the prospect dashed in the same sentence was
gut-wrenching. The phone rang again.

He picked it up, shouted, ‘Go fuck yourself,’ slammed it back
down, then left it off the hook and dashed out to the
newsagents.

He purposely did not open the newspaper until he got back to
the fiat. He poured himself a coffee, sat down at the small kitchen
table and then opened it.

The story was plastered over pages three and four.

Henry gasped.

The headlines were bad enough in themselves. The story below
made him cringe with embarrassment.

There was a still photo which showed him assaulting the TV
reporter on the banks of the River Ribble. That illustrated his
violent streak.

The remainder of the story was made up from an interview with
Natalie which detailed their affair, their sexual exploits - ‘He
was insatiable’ she said - and their final acrimonious split. ‘I
couldn’t live with a broken man’ she claimed, ‘and anyway, he
dumped me. He used me then tossed me aside.’ She talked quite
extensively about his nervous breakdown and his terrible dreams.
Henry hoped she had been well paid for this, because she’d need the
money when she got sacked ... he hoped. There were a couple of
photographs from his time with Natalie. They’d been snapped by her
friend when he’d been drunk and was drooling pathetically over
Natalie. Henry winced when he saw them. They made him look just
like he was - a man making an utter fool of himself over a younger
girl.