Nick Oldham - A Time For Justice

That bomb had been meant for him, dammit! He glared angrily at his reflection, but behind the grimace he saw pure terror in his eyes for the first time in his life.

Hinksman was going to kill him and there was probably nothing that Henry could do to stop him.

With that thought Henry turned away from the mirror and dashed back to the toilet cubicle.

To the best of their abilities, the remains of John Abbot had been collected from the scene of the explosion by the police, ambulance and fire brigade. They had been bagged and sent to the mortuary where they had been unpacked and distributed over the tops of two post mortem slabs.

Henry Christie, together with Karl Donaldson, Karen Wilde, FB, a couple of high-ranking local detectives and a Scenes of Crime officer who was recording the PM on video, watched a pathologist pacing around a third slab. She had been brought in from Merseyside as Dr Baines was still busy in Lancaster.

Now the pathologist picked up a piece of charred flesh that could have been part of a hand or foot. She thought for a moment, surveying the reconstruction work, said ‘A-ha!’ with glee, danced round the slab and placed it. It was a foot. She was enjoying herself.

‘ I don’t think I want to watch this,’ said Henry. The smell of burned flesh was overpowering. He ducked out of the room without apology.

Karen followed him out.

‘ I just want to thank you for putting my name forward for this investigation, Henry. I appreciate it. And FB’s been really nice to me too. He’s even talked to Karl.’

‘ Good. I’m glad,’ said Henry.

‘ You OK?’ She linked arms with him.

Surprised but touched, Henry gave her a lopsided grin and admitted, ‘No, not really.’

They were standing in the room where a large refrigerator took up the whole length and height of one wall. Inside it, bodies were stored on sliding trays. At the far end of the room a PC and an undertaker had just placed a body on one of the trays. The PC was writing a name on the leg with a felt-tip pen.

‘ I suppose,’ said Henry, ‘that I didn’t really expect him to try something. It’s shocked me. And a bomb again, on the motorway. That’s just reopened a wound I thought I’d sewn up pretty well. Obviously I haven’t. I keep seeing the kids on the bus again.’

‘ We’re dealing with a madman.’I

‘ One who knows exactly what he’s doing,’ Henry suggested. ‘He’s dangerous rather than mad. Don’t forget, he kills people for a living. Madmen don’t.’

They had been walking slowly towards the PC who, as they drew level with him, pulled a white sheet back over the body on the tray. Henry did a double take.

‘ Let me see,’ he said quickly.

The PC obliged. ‘Jane Marsden, local prostitute, shoplifter, drunk, and all-round lowlife,’ he summed up. ‘No great loss to society.’

‘ What are the circumstances?’ Henry asked.

‘ Found about an hour ago at the bottom of a flight of stairs in the fleapit doss house she lived in. Probably been lying there all day from the state of her. She took some major straightening out.’ The PC chuckled at the memory. ‘Looks like she fell down drunk and broke her neck. Post mortem’ll tell.’

‘ Anything suspicious?’ Henry probed. He was trying desperately to recall some of the things Jane had been saying to him, things he hadn’t really been taking in because he’d been too engrossed in his own thoughts.

‘ Not on the face of it. Why?’

Henry ignored the question. He drew the sheet further back. There was some bruising across her throat. Then he pulled it all the way down to reveal her naked, now wax-like body. He looked carefully at it and saw further bruising on her arms. It could have happened during the fall down the steps — the post mortem should be able to establish that — but Henry wasn’t happy.

He covered her up.

He gazed into space and pursed his lips. ‘Did you get Scenes of Crime to photograph the body at the scene?’

‘ Yep.’

‘ Right, when that officer in there has finished videoing the PM, get him to take some shots of her, will you? Point out those bruises on her neck and arms.’ The PC nodded. ‘Did you search her flat?’

The PC shrugged. ‘Not really. Had a glance round, nothing more.’

‘ Is it locked?’

‘ No, couldn’t find a key.’

‘ Henry, what’s going on?’ Karen interrupted.

‘ This gives me the willies,’ he said. ‘I actually saw this woman last night and gave her a lift as far as my place. She walked to her own from there.’

‘ Henry!’ Karen said, shocked.

‘ No, I didn’t, I’m not that desperate… it’s just that when I last saw her, she wasn’t all that drunk. She’d actually just been kicked out of the cells at Central… Look, something’s not quite right here. She told me some half-baked story about ripping off a Yank who’d beaten her up.’ He spread his hands. ‘Maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree, but Hinksman likes beating up and killing prostitutes. And if my memory serves me right, he specialises in breaking their necks. Probably practising a technique learned from his Delta Force days. Perhaps here,’ he pointed at the covered body, ‘he’s finishing off something he started a few months ago. I hope I’m wrong, because if I’m not, he’s committed two murders since escaping.’ He raised his eyebrows at Karen. ‘Fancy a drive round to her flat? Might answer one or two questions.’

‘ Sure, why not? They’ll be hours in there.’

The aroma of bedsits hit them as soon as they entered the ground-floor hallway through the open front door. It was a mixture of cigarette smoke, sweaty socks and underwear, and the unmistakable smell of lubricant used on male contraceptives intermingled with cannabis smoke. Here, in addition, was the musty tang of dampness.

They turned into the narrow staircase and began the ascent. It was almost 9.30 p.m. and it was getting dark. The stairs were lit by low wattage bulbs operated by switches that sprang off after about twenty seconds in order to save electricity. They trod carefully, as some of the treads were carpeted; some not.

On the last flight up to Jane’s flat Henry inspected each step carefully. This was actually the only part of the staircase on which the carpet was well-laid and fitted. There was nothing on which a person could have tripped. Even so, the stairs were still steep and narrow, and possibly treacherous to someone who’d had a drink.

As expected, the door to Jane’s flat was unlocked. They went in.

‘ Very salubrious,’ remarked Karen.

Henry stood still and allowed himself to look the room over, his eyes taking in everything: the mattress, the bottles of booze, the sink, the settee, cooker and cupboards. Eventually his attention returned to the bottles which stood side by side on the draining board. He stepped over to them, and picked one up carefully by inserting his forefinger into the neck. He held it up to the light and rotated it carefully, inspecting it at different angles. He did the same with each bottle.

Karen was standing behind him. ‘Got something?’ she asked.

‘ Well… if she was drunk when she fell down the steps, it’s safe to assume she’d been drinking after she left me — presumably from these bottles. I don’t see any glasses about, so she must have swigged straight from the bottles… ‘

He moved aside for Karen, who bent down and looked at the bottles in situ.

‘ They’ve been wiped,’ she stated, puzzled.

‘ Exactly. Even if she didn’t take a drink from these last night, there would have been some marks on the bottles.’

Henry surveyed the room again. Years before he’d searched it for drugs and found some, but he couldn’t quite remember where the stash had been. His eyes lit on a ventilation cover on the wall above the cooker. He smiled. Now he remembered.