Nick Oldham - A Time For Justice

At that point Abbot checked his rearview mirror for the first time. He saw the Ford Escort close on his tail, two occupants on board, both male. He looked again more closely. The man in the passenger seat was talking into a radio.

‘ Shit,’ he hissed, and pulled away.

‘ He’s seen us,’ said Donaldson. The Escort was more than a match for the tired Metro, which hadn’t been serviced for well over a year and had nearly 90,000 miles on the clock. Donaldson had no trouble keeping up with Abbot, but maintained a safe distance between them in case he decided to slam the brakes on and cause an accident.

Abbot led them a merry dance through the side streets of Blackpool, but couldn’t shake Donaldson who stuck there like a terrier.

‘ He’ll bloody kill someone,’ remarked Henry as they rounded a tight corner on a narrow street with parked cars on both sides.

On the next corner Abbot briefly lost control. He skittered sideways into a parked car, giving it a glancing blow and taking the wing mirror off the Metro before recovering.

‘ Oh my beautiful car,’ said Henry painfully. ‘He’s damaged it.’

‘ It was falling to bits anyway,’ Donaldson noted.

‘ Oh, thanks very much. That’s my pride and joy, I’ll have you know,’ Henry said, feigning hurt. But there was a huge smile on his face. He was excited and had that peculiar empty feeling in his stomach and dryness of the mouth that he always experienced in situations like this. He put it down to adrenalin.

The car lurched as they took another bad bend. Henry’s seatbelt snapped tight as he shot forwards. He lifted the radio, pressed the transmit button and gave out the new location and direction of travel. ‘Preston New Road, towards the motorway.’

‘ The cavalry’s here,’ said Donaldson after a glance in the mirror.

A large, fast, sleek Rover 825i, liveried in the orange stripes of the Lancashire Constabulary Traffic Department, blue lights flashing, horns blaring, overtook Donaldson’s car, cruised easily past Abbot and pulled in front of him. The big ‘STOP’ sign came on. It had no effect. Abbot simply refused to pull in. He flashed his own ‘V’ signs at the traffic man.

‘ D’you know,’ said Henry, ‘I see that little car of mine in a whole new light. I didn’t know it could go so fast.’

‘ Obviously rising to the occasion,’ Donaldson guffawed.

By the time they reached the motorway there were three traffic cars involved in the pursuit. Once on the motorway proper they had Abbot literally boxed into the slow lane: one in front, one behind and one car at his side in the middle lane.

But he still would not stop.

Behind them all, Donaldson kept up. ‘He’s gotta stop now, surely,’ said the agent. ‘Don’t he know when he’s beat?’

‘ Crazy young bastard.’

The traffic cars edged him onto the hard shoulder. Now he was completely trapped and all they had to do was slow right down to a stop — then he was theirs. Or so they thought. He did have one avenue of escape open to him, which was to drive up the steep grass banking by the side of the motorway.

He reckoned he could probably make it to the top of the grass, where he could abandon the car then leg it on foot across the fields. From his wide experience of traffic cops he thought this would be the best move because he knew how much they hated getting out of their big, warm, fancy cars and chasing people on foot.

Abbot peeled away from the formation like an ace fighter pilot and gunned the car up the slope.

The manoeuvre took the traffic officers completely by surprise, which was fortunate for them. It meant that none of them lost their lives.

Halfway up, the steepness of the slope meant that the mercury tilt switch attached to the detonator in the half-pound block of Semtex strapped to the underside of Henry’s car was activated.

Contact was made.

Kovaks listened hard to Damian’s story. How he had been to his mother’s in Clearwater, but had returned early to surprise Sue. They had made passionate love within moments of his arrival and afterwards he’d gone to the en-suite bathroom to answer a pressing call of nature. Whilst in there, he’d heard someone at the apartment door, then voices in the lounge. Discreetly, he’d crept out of the bathroom and listened to what was going on. He had recognised Ritter’s voice and clearly followed the accusations he made to Sue about her knowing he was on Corelli’s payroll, then some talk about his condo and his boat. Sue had denied it all, saying she wasn’t keeping any sort of a file on him. Then things had got nasty. Sue had screamed for help. Damian had crept to the bedroom door and looked through the crack. To his horror, he’d seen a knife in Ritter’s hand plunging repeatedly into his girlfriend’s body, blood spurting everywhere. Frozen in fear and panic, unable to help her, he’d eventually scuttled under the bed where he’d hidden until it was all over, sucking his thumb, curled up in a foetal ball.

When the attack had stopped he’d heard Ritter moving around the apartment, felt his presence in the bedroom. Then Damian had pissed in his pants.

He’d lain there shaking, eyes closed, praying that Ritter wouldn’t find him and kill him too.

Then he heard the front door open and close.

And, when he was sure Ritter had gone, he forced himself to go and see Sue.

‘ And then I was sick and then I ran.’ There were a lot of ‘thens’ in Damian’s story. ‘Every time I close my eyes, she’s there: dead,’ he said hoarsely. ‘What a mess — and all my fault.’ Tears poured down his tortured face.

‘ Don’t punish yourself, Damian,’ Kovaks said. ‘You’re only human.’

Damian looked up with pleading eyes. ‘Do you believe me?’

‘ Yes, I do. One or two things have sorta slotted into place here.’ Kovaks’ nostrils dilated as he thought. ‘Yeah, I believe you.’

‘ So what do we do now?’

‘ First we get you somewhere safe where you can get a decent meal and a shower — and a change of clothes. Then we’ll have a good long talk over a beer, get a few things written down. Then I have to think. Probably go to the cops first, let ‘em know what’s what.’

‘ But what if they’re in on it too?’ Damian shook uncontrollably. ‘What if Corelli has them in his pocket, like he does Ritter?’

‘ No one could get Ram Chander in their pocket,’ said Kovaks confidently. ‘C’mon, trust me, Damian. We’ll go to my place first. Chrissy won’t mind and it should be safe enough for a few hours.’

They started to get to their feet.

‘ I think not,’ came a familiar voice from behind Kovaks’s shoulder. ‘Sit back down, gentlemen.’

Kovaks reached for his gun, but before he could draw it, he felt the cold muzzle of a revolver jammed into the back of his neck.

‘ Sit down, Joe, or I’ll make your brain into tomato catsup for their hamburgers. ‘

Kovaks sat down slowly. A wide-eyed Damian followed suit. Ritter edged in next to Kovaks, and with his free hand removed Kovaks’ revolver.

Kovaks looked at Ritter, then beyond. He was not alone.

Ram Chander stood by the door together with two of Corelli’s goons.

Kovaks closed his eyes.

Henry Christie was disgusted with himself.

Two minutes earlier he had been clinging to a toilet bowl at Blackpool Central police office and had been violently sick. Now, after swilling his face with cold water, he was looking at himself in a mirror over the washbasin..

And he did not like what he saw.

He should have been sick for the boy, Abbot. He should have been sick because a stupid young teenager had been blown to pieces on a motorway verge, his remains scattered far and wide.

But he wasn’t. Henry had been sick for himself alone. A single idea dominated his thoughts.