Nick Oldham - A Time For Justice

Still naked, she padded across the landing to the shared bathroom. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement down the stairs on the landing below, but thought nothing of it. Probably one of her oddball neighbours skulking about. Didn’t bother her. However, she did lock the bathroom door behind her. There were some things she liked to keep private. She emptied her bladder then had a quick, lukewarm shower and dried herself off with someone else’s towel. She slid back to her room shivering, but feeling half-human again.

As she stood in front of the mirror, combing through her damp hair, she saw the door open behind her. She guessed it was that crank from the first floor who visited her at odd times of the day. He was a screwball, but she had no conscience about charging him double for a wank. She sighed. ‘Come on in, Roger, don’t be shy. I’ve just got time before I hit the sack — but it’ll cost you twelve quid.’ She waggled her ample bottom provocatively. Money, after all, was money.

The man came in.

Fast and hard.

Before she knew what had happened, she was on her back on the mattress, held down with a hand clamped over her mouth. Hinksman’s face, glaring mad-eyed down at her, was only inches away from her own.

‘ Hello Jane,’ he said. ‘I’m back.’

She squirmed ineffectually. The hand stayed over her mouth, cupping her chin in its palm so that it was impossible for her to bite. He held her easily.

‘ You stole something of mine,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you?’

He placed the forearm of his free arm across her throat and took hold of her shoulder for extra leverage. Slowly he forced the forearm down onto her Adam’s apple. Just before she passed out, he released the pressure and slightly opened the fingers of his hand over her mouth to let air pass through.

She sucked greedily. Her pallor, which had turned pale like cartridge paper, now turned bright red.

‘ You did steal something of mine, didn’t you?’ he repeated.

This time she managed a nod.

‘ Good. Right… I’m going to take this hand away now and I want you to talk to me in a whisper. You scream out or even talk normally and I’ll put it back and kill you. OK?’

A nod.

He peeled his hand away, one finger at a time. His forearm still rested across her throat.

‘ Where’s my money?’

‘ Spent it,’ she whispered. This was a lie.

‘ On all those dresses?’

‘ Yes.’

‘ Oh you stupid, stupid woman.’ He shook his head sadly and sighed. ‘So, what’ve you been saying to Henry Christie?’

‘ Henry Christie? What you on about?’ Jane’s eyes focused on his face as a whole. ‘Oh God,’ she uttered, ‘you’re the one who killed all those people on the motorway, aren’t you? And all those cops. I didn’t realise until now. Oh God, oh God.’

His hand clamped over her mouth again; his forearm pressed down onto her neck. The airflow was cut off quickly this time. She began to lose consciousness. Her head swam in a surfy sea, a warm, pleasant sea and it felt good to be dying.

Hinksman suddenly changed tactics. He jumped up and took hold of a bottle of Jane’s vodka, just over a quarter full.

‘ Sit up and drink this,’ he said, straddling her and handing it down to her.

She crawled into a sitting position, reached out a shaking hand and took the bottle from him.

‘ Big mouthfuls,’ he insisted.

Jane knew, somehow, that this time there would be no opportunity to escape. He was too quick, strong and determined — and experienced. He oozed death. It leaked from every pore. Yes, Death had returned and was going to complete what it had started.

The only thing that warmed her was that he wouldn’t get his money back, not one penny, not one cent of it.

She smiled and put the vodka to her lips again. If she was going to be murdered she might as well be oblivious to it. With the alcohol content in her body still relatively high, it wasn’t long before she was completely drunk again.

Jane amassed all her faculties with one deep breath. Now she did not care.

‘ YOU’RE A FUCKING BASTARD WHO CAN’T SHAG FOR TOFFEE,’ she screamed.

Before she had finished he’d ducked down to her level, wrenched her by the hair and taken hold of her head in both his hands. His right hand held her chin, mouth and nose. His left held the back of her head. He lifted and twisted in one easy, screwing movement.

Jane’s neck broke with a loud crack and she was dead.

He tossed her across onto the mattress. She flopped there loosely. Hinksman wiped the fingerprints carefully off all the bottles he’d touched with a kitchen cloth and stood the bottles side by side on the sink. He stepped out onto the landing and listened. It was all quiet. He heaved Jane out onto the landing and pulled her to her feet at the top of the stairs. Her head flopped onto her chest. Spit dribbled out of her mouth. With a gentle push he let go of her and she went spinning down the steps to the landing below, arms and legs flailing everywhere. She came to an untidy bundle at the foot of the stairs.

Hinksman followed her down, stepped lightly across her and sped down the rest of the stairs.

Within seconds he was out of the building. Gone.

The greyness of dawn was just arriving.

Even though he wanted to, Henry couldn’t get to sleep. A parrot in the surgery below was squawking loudly, shouting obscenities, and in turn had set off a yapping terrier dog. The combination was unbearable. After half an hour of the cacophony he rolled off the bed and made himself a mug of tea. He switched on the, gas fire, sat down in front of it and sipped the brew while staring at the flames.

About five-thirty the animals must have got tired and they ceased their noise. Henry sank back into the armchair, closed his eyes and, at last, nodded off.

An hour later Henry and the animals were reawakened by a loud knocking on the door. Henry staggered down the back steps and opened it. A bright-eyed Donaldson stood there, immaculately turned out. His smile drooped when he saw the unshaven mess that was his British counterpart.

‘ You did say six-thirty,’ Donaldson said defensively. ‘Long day ahead. ‘

‘ Yeah, yeah, I know,’ muttered Henry. ‘Come on in, give me ten minutes. ‘

‘ You look like something a cat’s dragged in,’ Donaldson observed.

‘ And you look like a dog’s dinner,’ said Henry. ‘Did Karen get you dressed?’

He had a quick shave and a shower, threw on some clothes and fifteen minutes later was sitting in the passenger seat of Donaldson’s hired car which sped down the motorway towards Lancaster. After a brief, perfunctory conversation, Henry’s eyes closed, his chin sagged onto his chest and he fell asleep, drooling.

Donaldson laughed and tuned into Jazz FM.

As demanded, everything about Hinksman was on Dave August’s desk at 9 a.m. sharp. The Chief Constable glanced at the boxes of files that FB had deposited and was itching to get into them, just to see if there was anything at all, anything that would guide him to the people who had made him do this awful thing.

But it was a task that would have to wait. The day ahead held other priorities: press conferences, then a visit to the incident room. After that he planned to meet all the bereaved relatives personally at their homes. Just to give them a few minutes. To show he cared.

That was not going to be easy, knowing that, ultimately, he was the one person responsible for their deaths.

It was going to be a tough day.

Joe Kovaks was at his desk by eight o’clock that morning. He ignored the mountain of paperwork that he’d allowed to accumulate there. He wanted to get two things done.

First he wanted to see his supervisor and ask to be taken off the Corelli case.