Nick Oldham - A Time For Justice

‘ Suit yourself, but I’m not going to do a runner.’

He led Tandy to the gents toilet on the same corridor. There was no one else inside. Tandy hung back by the door whilst August relieved himself. He washed his hands meticulously and dried them under the hot-air machine. Standing there, rubbing his hands as instructed, flexing his fingers, he made a rash decision which in his present lightheaded, unreal frame of mind seemed totally rational.

Might as well go out in a blaze, he thought.

He smoothed his jacket down and with a resigned smile on his face, sauntered towards Tandy, giving the DI no warning of what was to come.

It was a wonderful punch. Low, hard and rising, right in the solar plexus. He couldn’t have placed it better if ‘X’ had marked the spot.

The wind hurricaned out of Tandy. He doubled up with an agonised gasp. August then grabbed hold of the scruff of the detective’s neck, and drove him headfirst into the wall. The DI flopped to the floor, dazed, gurgling incoherently. For good measure August kicked the unfortunate man twice on the head. The first kick knocked him cold, the second meant that Tandy would lose the use of his left eye for ever.

August then dragged him across to one of the cubicles where he dumped him, folded him up on the floor around a toilet and closed the door.

In his haste to leave the gents, August almost slipped headlong on the trail of blood across the tiled floor.

Outside, the corridor was clear.

He turned and sprinted towards the stairs, propelling himself down them three at a time. Within seconds he emerged in a ground-floor corridor. Here he paused and composed himself.

‘ Fucking career’s ruined, life’s ruined, what’s it fucking matter?’ he chunnered to himself.

A couple of people walked past him and nodded at him. He smiled benignly at them. Pulling his jacket together he walked briskly in the direction of the garage where his car was parked, passing the armoury as he did so.

The door was slightly open; someone was working inside. August did a quick sidestep, unable to believe his good fortune. ‘Play it cool,’ he told himself.

The man inside was a firearms instructor from the training school. He was working at a small table, checking over some handguns which were laid out in front of him. August’s eyes lit on a revolver, next to which was a box of ammunition.

‘ Hello, sir,’ said the instructor, surprised, starting to rise.

August gestured for him to remain seated. ‘No, don’t get up. Just a flying visit as I was passing. All well?’

‘ Yes, sir.’

August pointed towards the revolver — a 4-inch barrelled Smith amp; Wesson ‘38. Standard police issue. ‘Mind if I pick it up? It’s not loaded, is it?’

To anyone else the instructor would have said no. But how could he refuse the Chief Constable? After all, he was the one who signed everyone else’s permits.

August picked up the gun, gripping the barrel and cylinder as though he was going to use it as a hammer to knock in nails. In one flowing motion he whacked the heel of the butt across the instructor’s head with as much force as possible. Surprise, as much as anything else, decked him.

August loaded the revolver and pocketed the remainder of the bullets from the box.

The instructor had risen to his hands and knees, shaking his stunned and cut head, flicking spats of blood everywhere. When August left the armoury and locked the door behind him, the instructor was flat out again, this time for the count. Blood poured out of another nasty gash on the back of his head.

Turning away from the door without looking meant that August collided with a woman who was walking from the direction of the canteen, bearing a precariously balanced plate with a cream cake on top of a cup of coffee. The contents of both plate and cup went flying into the wall. The crockery smashed into little pieces.

‘ Godamnit!’ the woman shouted. ‘Why don’t you watch where you’re go-’ She then saw who had bumped into her. ‘You… you’re Dave August.’

August frowned at her and made to walk away. She wrenched him back to face her by his sleeve, yanking him to a standstill.

He brushed her hand off him, glowered angrily at her and said, ‘I’m in a hurry, if you don’t mind.’

‘ And I’m waiting for an interview with you.’

‘ And who might you be?’

‘ Lisa Want.’

‘ Oooh, the bitch who wrote that sleaze about me.’ August was in two minds whether or not to punch her very, very hard when he had another avenue of thought. His eyes narrowed. ‘How’d you like another exclusive?’

No hesitation. ‘Yes.’

‘ Come with me. Quick, quick. Haven’t got time to hang around.’

‘ What about this mess?’

‘ Leave it.’

He set off towards the garage at a fast pace. Lisa tagged on. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘ Just stay with me and you’ll see,’ he said.

In the garage he made straight for his official Jaguar. The keys were in the ignition, as always. He dropped into the driver’s seat and told Lisa to get in the other side.

The engine fired up beautifully. He accelerated out through the garage doors, round the one-way system, passed the HQ social club and bowling green, and seconds later he was out on the dual carriageway which ran by Headquarters.

‘ So what’s this about?’ she asked again.

‘ You got a tape-recorder?’

‘ Yep.’

‘ Well, put it on. I’ve got a story to tell: the downfall of a Chief Constable.’

It was a dreadful morning. Thick grey cloud had scurried in from the Irish Sea and settled low over the Lancashire coast. Rain swirled and danced like a menacing spirit in the twisting wind, heavy and very wet. Not a day to be caught out in.

Henry wrapped his hands around the mug of coffee on the table in front of him. Donaldson was sipping slowly but continuously from a mug of his own. Both men, deep in their own thoughts, were sitting in a cafe called Lantern o’er Lune, staring out at the small port of Glasson Dock in front of them.

Glasson Dock is situated on the mouth of the Lune estuary, a few miles downriver from Lancaster. In former days it acted as Lancaster’s port, but now most of its trade centred on pleasure boats.

All vessels coming in from the sea have to pass through the outer dock gates from the river into the main, deepwater anchorage. This is a manoeuvre which can only be carried out at high tide. Once inside, with the gates closed, they either tie up in the main dock to unload their cargoes, or in the case of pleasure boats, pass through a lock which lifts them to the level of the yacht basin. This process involves closing the main road in Glasson which actually passes over the lock. Once in the yacht basin — a large, square-shaped area of water with a marina in one corner — the boats either moor on the wall of the basin or in the marina itself.

Lenny Dakin owned a large sea-going motor-cruiser berthed at the marina. And if — a big IF — the information Henry had received was correct, he would be coming out to catch the tide; this meant that when he passed into the lock, he would be trapped for at least fifteen minutes.

But if Hinksman wasn’t aboard, there wasn’t much point in having him trapped.

Henry and Donaldson were wearing earpieces so they could listen to the radio transmissions from the various police officers who were hidden around the dock. Some were armed, but the main firearms team had been put on standby at a caravan site next to the road leading into Glasson, about a minute away from the dock.

So far they had been unable to say which boat belonged to Dakin. There were several good class cruisers and it could be anyone of them. They didn’t want to get in too close for a nosy just in case Dakin was spooked and the operation was spoiled.