Free A Time For Justice by Nick Oldham

ten seconds before speaking on the
radio.
    ‘ He’s in - let’s go,’ said McClure.
    Two vehicles screeched round the corner past them.
    The first, a dark blue Support Unit personnel carrier, had
darkened windows and steel grilles which protected the headlights,
radiator and windscreen. It was a riot bus and looked like it meant
business.
    The second was an unmarked Rover 620i with two uniformed
officers on board.
    The carrier accelerated down the avenue and skidded to an
impressive halt outside the house. Within seconds all the occupants
had debussed in a well-rehearsed manoeuvre and were sprinting up
the driveway.
    Ten Constables, one Sergeant - not one under six feet tall.
Each wore a specially designed riot helmet with the visor down,
dark-blue flame-retardant overalls, leather belt, padded gloves,
shin-guards, steel toe-capped boots and a Kevlar bullet-proof vest.
All but two were equipped with short round riot shields for extra
protection.
    Four men peeled off and raced down the side of the house to
the rear.
    The remaining seven, including the Sergeant, communicating by
hand signals only, went wordlessly to the front door.
    The two officers in the Rover got out at a more leisurely pace
and took up a position which put their car between themselves and
the house. Each held a ballistic shield in front of him.
    The Support Unit Constables without the shields held a ‘door
opener’ between them which was designed to be able to lever open
any type of domestic door. They slotted the edge of the instrument
into the narrow crack between the frame of the front door and the
lock and heaved down together. The wood frame splintered and
cracked immediately. The lock gave next. With the invaluable
assistance of a size-ten boot, the door finally flew open - an
operation that had lasted all of twelve seconds.
    They stepped aside to allow their colleagues to
pass.
    ‘ We’re in,’ the Sergeant said into the radio which was fitted
in his helmet.
    Cops with shields poured into the house.
    ‘ We’re down the hallway. No sign yet.’
    It was just before 6.35 p.m. When he came home, the owner of
the house had gone straight to the lounge at the rear and switched
on the TV quite loudly to catch a repeat of the news
headlines.
    He heard nothing - until the policeman’s foot connected with
the door.
    Puzzled, he stepped into the hallway and into the middle of a
nightmare. Around him surged what looked like an army from a
science-fiction movie.
    ‘ Subject in sight,’ shouted the Sergeant into his
radio.
    The man heard a voice from under a helmet scream, ‘Come here,
you bastard!’ a moment before the mass of law and order drove him
bodily through to the kitchen.
    It was like being struck by an express train.
    He smashed his head against the sink as he thudded down onto
the tiled floor with the combined weight of three officers - almost
forty stones - on top of him.
    Head spinning, fearing death, short of breath, totally unable
to comprehend the situation, he didn’t need to be told not to try
anything stupid.
    ‘ Subject overpowered and detained. No one hurt,’ breathed the
Sergeant into his radio.
     
     
    Hinksman returned to his hotel room that evening, depositing a
plastic carrier bag on the bed. He switched on the portable TV
which was on the dressing table. It was badly tuned and the picture
disappeared occasionally to be replaced by static for a moment or
two. Karen Wilde was being interviewed by BBC North-West about the
progress of the M6 bomb investigation. It was a live interview
taking place on the steps of Preston police station.
    Hinksman admired her looks and confidence and the way she
handled herself. Very impressive.
    Yes, she said, the IRA had been eliminated. Yes, they were
following up many leads. There could be some truth in the rumour
that it was a gangland killing; police were keeping an open mind.
No, there had been no positive identification of the bodies in the
car which was carrying the bomb. Yes,
the