A Time For Justice (6 page)

The Chief kept his temper. ‘I admit she’s inexperienced, but
she’s very capable.’

‘
And ambitious,’ interjected Crosby. ‘Isn’t this what it’s all
about - ambition?’ His Liverpool accent, normally undetectable,
became more pronounced.

‘
It’ll be a good challenge for her,’ August said. ‘And yes, it
won’t do her career any harm.’

Crosby sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

‘
This crime,’ he said, ‘is above career ambition. In my
opinion, Ronnie Veevers is the man who should be running it. He’s
got the experience, contacts and ability to run such a large
investigation. He did well on the Baxter shooting and that double
murder over in Colne at the beginning of the year. And he wouldn’t
be heading it because he wants to become a Chief Constable - he’d
be heading it because he wanted to catch the evil bastard that did
it!’ His voice had risen.

‘
If she wants some experience, boss, let her run with Veevers.
Be his aide, his assistant or whatever - but don’t let her have the
reins. This is far too big to make mistakes.’

August sat back in his big chair. The leather creaked. He
indicated Fanshaw-Bayley. ‘Robert, have you anything to
add?’

‘
Plenty - but not here and now, except to say I agree with
everything Mr Crosby has said.’ He folded his arms and gazed past
the Chief’s shoulder, out of the window.

‘
In that case - meeting over,’ the Chief concluded
airily.

‘
What exactly does that mean, sir?’ Crosby asked.

‘
It means that Miss Wilde heads the investigation.’

After they had gone Karen emerged from the en-suite. She’d
been listening at the door.

‘
You were brilliant, boss,’ she cooed.

‘
Mm,’ he said doubtfully.

‘
Typical misogynistic CID, that’s all,’ she assured him.
‘You’ve taken their toys off them and they don’t like it so they’re
sulking. A boys’ club, that’s all it is. And I’ve got their ball
and I’m going to play with it.’

‘
Don’t you let me down,’ August warned her.

‘
Would I?
Moi?’
She winked at him. ‘Now, that briefing is set for eleven.
I’ll put it back to two, which’ll give me time to get my hair done
and sort out a few new working outfits.’

Inwardly, Dave August groaned.

Crosby and Fanshaw-Bayley walked side by side down the
corridor towards Crosby’s office. The corridor of power. Anyone who
was anyone had an office along here.

Once behind his own closed door, the man exploded.

‘
I simply do not believe what I’ve just heard!’

He slumped down behind his desk and thumped it with his
fist.

‘
Wilde has no experience of police work of any description.
She’s done all the secondments and training courses she needs to do
to get where she is and nothing more. She’s hardly set the world on
fire, just played the system and won. She’s nothing more than a
competent administrator. Jesus, this is
appalling.
I wonder how long it is
since she was last face to face with an actual villain? Or even a
member of the public, come to that?’

FB listened to the tirade, nodding all the while.

‘
It does help,’ he added, ‘when you’re shafting the Chief
Constable at the same time.’

Crosby’s eyes narrowed. ‘We don’t know if that’s true. Let’s
turn some of that rumour into hard fact before it’s too late. We
don’t want this investigation falling apart round our ears. We’ll
need to move fast. Can I leave it to you, FB?’

FB nodded.

McClure picked up Donaldson from his central Manchester hotel
paid for by the FBI - at ten-thirty that morning. Both men looked
haggard through lack of sleep, but at least McClure had had the
advantage of spending the night in his own bed with his own
warm-arsed wife to spoon up to.

It had gone three when Donaldson had clambered into a bed
which was cold and uninviting despite the plushness of the room. He
missed having someone to get to grips with in the dark hours. In
fact, he had missed someone for three years. Ever since his wife
had disappeared with a beat cop from Fort Lauderdale who worked
horrendous hours yet came home every day. Donaldson didn’t really
blame her. If he made it home once a week it was an occasion. He
was thankful there were no children to worry about.

‘
Put a name to that face yet?’ McClure asked as the agent
slumped beside him.

‘
Can’t say I have,’ sighed Donaldson, ‘but I’m sure I’ve seen
it before ... in the Corelli file...’ He thought hard, screwing up
his face. ‘Or a bar somewhere. . . I dunno. Anyway, I’m going to do
an ET.’

‘
A what?’

‘
You know - phone home,’ Donaldson explained.

‘
Oh, right,’ said McClure bewildered.

‘
I’ll have someone look through the photos for me. I’m sure
it’s from one taken in a restaurant or bar. It’s just tough that
we’ve hundreds of Corelli in fucking restaurants.’

‘
Actually I have an idea that might just help on that
score.’

‘
Whaddya mean?’

‘
Later, later,’ said McClure. ‘Just sit back and enjoy the
ride.’

The gymnasium at Preston police station had been commandeered
as the murder incident room. Since the early hours, furniture and
equipment had been rolled in and placed on the canvas matting which
had been laid to protect the gym floor. Four HOLMES terminals (Home
Office Large/Major Enquiry System) were already up and running,
waiting for information to be fed into them; four more were
expected. Twelve phones had been rigged up. Desks were placed
around the room, all equipped with stationery and wire baskets and
a sign indicating who would be sitting there:
Receiver, Allocator, Coordinator, Exhibits Officer
etc ... and the wall ladders around the gym were
covered with whiteboards, blackboards and noticeboards.

Two coffee machines had also been installed. It was going to
be a long investigation.

The room was crowded for this initial briefing. There were
forty detectives drawn in from around the county, twenty-odd
uniform officers mainly from the Support Unit, some traffic cops, a
handful of civilians and three Coroner’s officers.

Those present were subdued but expectant and raring to go.
Impatient too. After all, the first briefing at eleven had been
cancelled. Valuable time was being wasted.

The atmosphere was quietly charged.

Despite himself, Henry Christie couldn’t suppress a smile. He
leaned back on the wall and looked around the room. He’d worked on
many murders, been in this situation many times. Dying to get
going, get your teeth into it. Knowing that maybe, just maybe,
you’d be the one to feel the collar.

Particularly this one. This was almost personal.

His smile disappeared.

Especially this one.

Karen Wilde shuffled her notes into order, glancing through
them once more, collating all the salient facts. She knew all there
was to know so far, and she also knew exactly what she was going to
say in the briefing which was - she checked her watch - five
minutes away.

She stood up and paced the office she’d taken over - a small
one on the third floor belonging to some pen-pushing nonentity
admin inspector who’d moaned pathetically when she’d turfed him
out. Silly little sod.

She straightened her suit then made her way towards the lift
and pressed the button. The gym was several floors up. She tapped
her feet as she waited for the lift to arrive.

It came. The doors creaked open. Two men she did not know
stepped out. They peered at her office pass which was clipped onto
the lapel of her new jacket.

‘
Chief Inspector Wilde,’ one of them said.

‘
Acting Superintendent,’ she corrected him, bustling past into
the lift. ‘Acting Detective-Superintendent, actually,’ she said,
pressing the button.

But the lift did not move. The man had stepped across the
threshold, preventing the doors from closing.

‘
I believe you’re running the investigation into the M6
bombing?’

‘
Correct.’

‘
Big job for a little lady like you,’ said the other man.
Karen noticed his American accent.

She said stonily, ‘I don’t know who you are, but I don’t care
for your attitude or approach. Now, I have a briefing to give, so
if you wouldn’t mind ...?’ She waved away the man who was impeding
the lift.

‘
We have some valuable information for you regarding the
bombing,’ he said.

‘
Can’t it wait?’

‘
No.’

‘
Then you’d better be quick about it, hadn’t you?’

Earlier that day, McClure had driven north up the M6. He’d
had to detour round
Preston because the
motorway was still closed, but within an hour they were in
Lancaster. He drove into the Posthouse Hotel car park.

Donaldson was mystified. McClure had refused point blank to
answer any of
the American’s
queries.

‘
This better be fucking good
,
’
said the
FBI man, clambering out of the car.

McClure just smiled.

The two men stood side by
side.
McClure, still silent, pointed up at the hotel.

Donaldson’s mouth dropped open.

Video cameras. Two of
them. Each one
positioned on a front corner of
the
building, recording views of
the car park
from different angles.

He spun round
to McClure, grinning.
‘You brilliant bastard! How in hell did y’know about
these?’

McClure shrugged modestly. ‘Just recalled seeing them
yesterday, but didn’t think much of
it at
the time.’

‘
Let’s hope they work.’

The management were as helpful as on the previous day,
allowing the detectives to
view the tapes
in a private room
.
It took only ten minutes to
find
what they wanted. Then McClure claimed the relevant tape for
evidence and gave the manager a
receipt.

‘
May I ask what all this is about?’ the manager
asked.

‘
Did the man we’ve just seen on the tape book a room?’ McClure
enquired, ignoring the question.

‘
Yes - he paid two days in advance.’

McClure looked quickly at Donaldson. ‘Is he still in
it?’

‘
I don’t
know. We’ll have to
ask Reception.’

‘
Let’s do
it,’ snapped
Donaldson.

‘
But what’s it about?’ the manager demanded.

McClure said, ‘The M6 bombing.’

‘
Oh my God,’
the man breathed. Then
he pulled himself together. ‘Right, come this way.’

Reception confirmed that the man had booked and paid for Room
111 but hadn’t returned to it since yesterday, unless he’d sneaked
back without their knowledge. The key had not been returned
yet.

McClure and Donaldson conferred hurriedly.

‘
He could be in there, then,’ McClure said. ‘In which case we
could do
with an armed
back-up.’

‘
He won’t
be there,’ Donaldson said
with certainty. ‘And anyway, you
gotta
gun. Don’t
be a cissy.’

McClure paused, then made a decision. He nodded and turned to
the manager. ‘Give us a pass key to
the
room, please.’

The corridor was quiet and empty. A laundry basket on wheels
was part-way along it, the room itself three quarters of the way
down. The two detectives edged slowly along. McClure held his gun
in his hand. Sweat beads began to form on his head.

Donaldson grinned. ‘You ever used that thing in
anger?’

‘
Never even drawn it outside a range,’ McClure
whispered.

‘
Thought as much.’

The men stood on either side of the door. They eyed each other
for a moment.

Donaldson knocked loudly and shouted, ‘Good morning. Maid
service.’

There was no response.

Donaldson inserted the pass key, pulled the handle down and
pushed. The door swung gently open. There was nothing to see.
‘Armed police! Come on out with your hands up,’ McClure
barked.

Nothing. He repeated the order. Still nothing.

In one swift movement, gun held in the classic two-handed
shooting grip, he twisted into the short hallway, low, fast, his
breathing controlled, but heart beating like a demented drum
machine. Keeping low, he almost danced to where the short hallway
widened out into the bedroom proper - where he exposed himself
fully for the first time.