Free A Time For Justice by Nick Oldham Page A

bomb could have gone off accidentally,
that was always possible. Over sixty detectives were now working
full-time on the investigation. Finally (a withering look at the
reporter here), yes, the officer who had assaulted their colleague
was to face disciplinary proceedings, although no criminal charges
were to be brought. Then: thank you and good night. Karen Wilde was
a busy woman with work to get back to.
    Hinksman crossed quickly to the window and peeked out. The
street was quiet. No police activity. The TV interview had made him
jumpy - but there was no way they could know about him, he
reasoned. Then he remembered the two detectives in the Posthouse
Hotel. Particularly the American.
    He delved into the carrier bag and pulled out the video tapes
he’d removed from Gaskell’s house, once the arms dealer was dead.
He placed them carefully on the floor. Then took out the gun, lay
back on he bed with it held across his chest and closed his
eyes.
     
     
    Henry Christie flicked off the TV. ‘Bitch!’
    ‘ Oh Dad, I was watching that,’ complained Jenny, his eldest
laughter. ‘Emmerdale is on soon.’
    He tossed the remote control to her, and walked out into the
back garden. It was a small, barren piece of land, all fiat lawn
and patio. A four-foot-high wooden fence was the
boundary.
    The evening sky was cloudy. Rain looked likely, but it was
warmer than it had been.
    His head hurt. His whole body ached dully.
    Someone touched his shoulder. ‘Hi,’ his wife said. ‘You OK?’
‘After a fashion,’ he said.
    ‘ Still smarting?’
    ‘ In more ways than one.’
    ‘ She’s probably right, you know - keeping you off the
job.’
    ‘ Look, Kate, I should be on that investigation! I should be
tracking that bastard down. I deserve to be. I saw those kids
drowning. . . Jesus . . . I’d like to get my hands on
him.’
    ‘ Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be on the enquiry.’ She
sighed and laid a hand on his arm. ‘Why don’t you take a few days
off sick? Have a long weekend - be at home with the kids for a
change. And me. They’d understand at work.’
    ‘ No.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve got a drugs dealer to
catch.’
     
     
    4a.m. Henry sat shivering in his front lounge as the
semi-light of early morning filtered through the curtains. His
teeth were chattering unstoppably. Yet he knew it was warm - the
central heating was on full blast. But he was cold and clammy. He
felt weak. He swallowed something back in his throat. It tasted of
petrol.
    The bottle of brandy found its way back to his mouth. The
liquid gurgled down his gullet as though he were swigging back a
pint of milk.
    He only stopped when he began to choke.
    Still he shivered. His whole body shook, convulsed.
    Still he couldn’t erase the vivid nightmare which had thrown
him violently awake. Faces. Fingers. Clawing. Water.
    The brandy went to his mouth again. Empty. He let the bottle
slip out of his fingers onto the carpet and reached for the Bell’s.
The whisky went down neat on top of the brandy. Almost three
quarters of a bottle.
    The room began a slow, sickening spin. Moving up, moving down,
all in one flowing, churning motion. The petrol taste flooded back.
He gulped it down again.
    He slumped sideways on the sofa, breathing heavily, mind
reeling like a roller-coaster, everything going round and round,
him in the middle of it, unable to act, unable to stop it all and
get off; drunk, shivering ... then suddenly it all became ten times
worse.
    The dream surged relentlessly back. Those frightened faces,
pressed against the glass. The rushing river. His failure. The
muted screams. His failure.
    Blackness came with a piercing, wailing sound and a bang-bang
banging from somewhere inside him.
    The last blurred image he had before passing out was that of
his eldest daughter standing by the door in her night clothes, a
terrified expression on her uncomprehending face.

Chapter Seven
     
    Joe Kovaks found the faxes from England wedged halfway down
the