Nick Oldham - A Time For Justice

‘ You keep that up, my dear, and you’ll end up back in a cell,’ came the calm voice of the Custody Sergeant. ‘So piss off.’

Muttering obscenities, she turned and tried to put her shoe on in the same motion. She lost her balance and careered into Henry who caught her and placed her upright.

‘ Let go, you cunt,’ she said absently, then: ‘My God! It’s Henry Christie, isn’t it?’

‘ Well hello, Jane. Long time no see. Still plying the same old trade?’

‘ How else would I make me livin’,’ she said mockingly, ‘other than on me back — or in any other position required of me?’

They had walked down the rear yard past all the parked police cars until they reached Henry’s battered Metro.

‘ This heap yours?’ laughed Jane. He nodded. ‘Gone down in the world, ain’t ya?’

‘ Certainly have. Don’t you read the papers?’

‘ No, why? Here — you goin’ my way, Cuntstable? I could do wi’ a lift,’ she stated cheekily.

‘ You still living in that same dump?’

‘ Yep, the same one where you busted me for that speed. God, how long ago were that?’

Henry calculated. It had been when he was a PC. ‘Eight years?’ he estimated.

‘ Fuck me,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Don’t time fly when you’re having fun!’

Henry unlocked the car. ‘I’ll take you as far as I’m going — then you’ll have to walk the rest of the way.’

‘ You’re an absolute gent,’ she said, creasing herself into the passenger seat.

Once within the confines of the small car, Henry began to regret his generosity. She smelled quite awful. The mixture of body odour, cheap perfume, fish, chips and spirits nearly knocked him out. He wound a window down.

‘ What were you locked up for this time?’

‘ Oh, the usual,’ she said unconcerned. ‘Y’know — leopard never changes its spots. But I don’t do drugs any more, thanks to you. I learned me lesson. Evil things.’ She shuddered.

‘ At least I’ve done some good in my life,’ he observed quietly to himself. He actually didn’t know whether to believe her or not.

‘ I’m tryin’ to give up whorin’,’ she said dreamily. ‘Too fuckin’ dangerous this game now. D’you know how many times I’ve been hammered? Six. Gettin’ like America, this place. In fact, the last one who gave me a twattin’ was a Yank. An absolute cunt, he was. Wild eyes. Mad as a hatter. Liked hittin’ better than sex. Mind you, he was better at hittin’. Anyway, I ripped the fucker off good an’ proper…’ She turned to Henry who was only half-listening, his thoughts, though he didn’t know it, on the same American. ‘I’m tellin’ you this off the record, OK? Pinched a rake of cash off him and did a runner. But he beat me up bad and I think he would’ve done worse if I hadn’t legged it. Serves him right, and that smelly Italian landlord of his. Anyway, what I got off him was the start of me nest egg. Buildin’ up nicely now, stashed away safe ‘n’ sound, thank you very much.’

By the time she’d finished wittering, Henry had arrived at the street where his flat was located. He pulled into a parking space about 100 metres away.

‘ You’re a luv,’ Jane said, levering herself out of the seat and slamming the door shut. Her voice seemed to be at megadecibel level; it made Henry squirm. ‘Remember — if you ever want a freebie blow job, just call round. Best gob in town.’ She slithered her tongue in and out a few times, gave a quick wave and turned, clattering away down the pavement on her dangerously high heels.

He watched her walk away, a smile playing on his lips. It was definitely an offer he wouldn’t be following up.

There was a bang, then the sound of voices.

Hinksman awoke with a start. For a moment he thought he was still in the sub-zero darkness of the Iraqi desert, part of the Delta Force Scud-busting squads, sleeping in the shell of a burned-out tank. Then it all came back to him. He cursed himself for being so careless as to doze off.

He was actually lying on the cold metal floor in the rear of a stolen Ford Escort van parked near Henry Christie’s flat. He raised himself an inch at a time so that he could see out of the front windscreen. Fifty metres away from him stood Henry Christie and walking towards him was the prostitute, Jane.

Must be my birthday, he thought, gloating.

He quickly dropped back onto the floor of the van and waited for her to pass. The click-clack of her heels approached, grew louder, drew level with the van and then receded. As her footsteps faded, Hinksman pushed himself back up.

Henry had disappeared to the back entrance of the vet’s surgery.

Hinksman’s mind worked quickly. He was in a quandary. He had been parked there for most of the evening, awaiting Henry’s arrival home. Hinksman had expected him to be alone and it had been his intention to kill him in the back yard of the surgery. He’d been relishing the prospect of getting up close to the bastard and killing him face to face because in the short time he’d been acquainted with Henry he’d come to loathe him. He wanted to be right there at the death, not standing 100 metres away, shooting him. No. He wanted the feel of the knife going in, jarring the ribs, piercing the heart, twisting. That was what he desired.

But now things had changed.

The prostitute. The one who’d stolen from him. The one who’d escaped with all his money. The one who’d escaped with her life.

A surge of excitement coursed through his loins. Killing Henry would be sweet revenge, there was no doubt about that, and it would give great satisfaction. But killing the prostitute would be sheer pleasure — the kind he hadn’t experienced in a long while. It was an opportunity not to be missed.

Quietly, he opened the back doors of the van and slid out. In the distance he could still see Jane. He began to follow.

Jane’s flat was a one-room bedsit on the top floor of a seedy block in the back streets of Blackpool’s south shore.

In one corner of the room was the bed — a mattress flung on the floor, covered by grubby sheets that hadn’t seen a washing machine for months. In another corner of the room was a large settee that looked like it had once been very comfortable. Now it sagged badly, and it too was marked with the stains of her profession.

The corner opposite the door was the kitchen area, consisting of a cupboard, grimy sink, a two-ringed electric cooker and a battered fridge. The grotty wardrobe was the only clean thing in the room, clean because it contained the clothes and shoes that were her obsession. It was crammed full of assorted dresses, skirts, blouses, suits and shoes, mostly loud and glitzy ones she used for work. Without exception they were stolen from the major stores in Blackpool.

She came up the steps to the flat with a weary but silent tread. She had taken her shoes off right at the bottom because she’d had numerous accidents before when negotiating the narrow, poorly lit stairs in high heels and with drink taken.

The building was unusually quiet. Her neighbours, mostly unemployed teenagers, single mothers, drug addicts and an old-age pensioner on the ground floor, tended to keep odd hours. But tonight was quiet and dark.

She pushed open her door which was not locked, never had been, never would be, and entered her home. She was glad to see her bed. Not that it was particularly comfortable, but it left that rock-hard cell bed standing. She stripped off and hung her clothes up carefully, discarding the torn blouse and laddered stockings in a waste bin. Then she stood before the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door and surveyed herself uncritically while scratching her bushy black pubic mound and yawning.