Nick Oldham
A Time For Justice
Chapter One
Hinksman never intentionally set out to kill innocent people. Not that he ever lost sleep when it did happen, but it was something he tried to avoid.
With that in mind, he set the timer on the bomb for thirty minutes after the car was due to leave for the airport. That way, he figured, even if there was a delay, the Daimler would be on the motorway when the bomb went off. The possibility of killing some other sucker was still there, of course, but at least it was minimised… to a degree.
And it was only a small bomb. That’s all it needed to be — a block of Semtex no bigger than a slim paperback with a detonator pushed into it and a timer strapped on with insulation tape. The timer was nothing more than the switch-and-circuit-board mechanism from an automatic dog-feeder he’d bought the day before, cannibalised and adapted to his needs. It was powered by a small AAA battery. A ring magnet was attached to the bomb by superglue.
The result was a plain, simple, home-made bomb. Just the right size to blow a Daimler limousine to smithereens.
It took Hinksman only seconds to put the bomb into place.
He’d parked his hired Ford Mondeo in one corner of the Posthouse Hotel car park near Lancaster and waited patiently for the Daimler to appear. It arrived on time.
The driver left it unattended and went into the hotel.
Hinksman had been counting on this; as he climbed swiftly out of the Mondeo, he sniggered. Security in this country was a complete joke! In the States, no car would ever have been left without a minder, even for a moment. Here in England, things were just so lax. So amateur.
As he walked alongside the limo his suitcase flipped open and the contents spilled out onto the tarmac. He cursed aloud, bent down and began to collect up his clothes. At the same time he clamped the bomb with a satisfying clunk firmly on the underside of the car, near to the petrol tank.
Stuffing his belongings untidily back into the case, he was suddenly aware of someone standing over him. He looked up and smiled.
‘ Damned suitcase,’ he said.
‘ Can I help you, sir?’ It was the chauffeur, eyeing him with suspicion.
‘ No, no,’ he said in the clipped English accent he’d been perfecting. ‘Clasp’s broken, have to get a new suitcase. Thanks anyway.’
He stood up and walked across to the hotel, aware that the chauffeur’s eyes were piercing into his back all the way. It was hard not to glance over his shoulder — but that would have given the game away. He kicked himself mentally for not noticing the man’s return; it was only a small mistake, true, but big enough to have got himself killed. ‘Shape up,’ he told himself. ‘Just because you’re in England that’s no reason to get slack.’
He booked into the Posthouse Hotel under false details and went immediately to his room.
Ten minutes later he was back in the foyer, drinking coffee, reading a newspaper and waiting for his targets to leave. He wanted to see the Englishman and the American off on their final journey. He was sentimental like that.
The two men were agonisingly late coming down to check out. When they eventually did appear, the reason for the delay became obvious they each had a devastatingly beautiful woman clinging to their arm, and no doubt had been saying their goodbyes to them in time-honoured fashion.
Hinksman did not begrudge the men their last moments of pleasure. They had probably paid handsomely for it, judging by the quality of the women. These were no cheap whores, thought Hinksman.
The chauffeur met them at Reception and took their suitcases out to the Daimler while the men settled their accounts, in cash.
There were smiles, laughter and handshakes between the men and the hotel staff. Evidently they had been generous guests.
Hinksman took the opportunity to study them discreetly. This was the first time he’d actually seen in the flesh the two men who’d become a thorn in his boss’s side. They didn’t look anything special, but they’d begun to spread their activities in all directions without telling Mr Corelli or giving him his fair share — and therefore Mr Corelli was not pleased. They had been warned several times to get into line, but they seemed to be deaf. A somewhat unfortunate ailment.
And now they’d had the audacity to go into business full-time.
They’d fixed up a deal right under Mr Corelli’s nose.
Even though he was impressed by their acumen and daring, Mr Corelli was not a happy man.
He wanted them dead.
And what Mr Corelli wanted, he got.
Which was where Hinksman came in.
After the pleasantries, the group stepped out of the hotel into the damp morning. Hinksman checked his watch. The bomb was due to go off in sixteen minutes. By then they would be on the motorway racing to Manchester Airport. The flight to Miami left in ninety minutes and the American was due to be on it.
The chauffeur saluted and opened the rear door of the limo but only one of the men, the American — and his female companion — slid onto the plush back seat… leaving the two others on the kerb, holding hands like newlyweds.
Hinksman frowned.
The driver clunked the door shut, walked smartly round the vehicle and got in behind the steering wheel. He drove elegantly away, turning out of the car park towards the M6.
Leaving the Englishman behind.
Hinksman said, ‘Shit’, softly to himself.
A few moments later, a 7-series BMW with tinted windows drove into the car park and picked up the Englishman and his companion. This car turned in the opposite direction to the motorway.
Hinksman put his paper down and cursed.
120 mph. Henry Christie looked up from the speedo at the profile of Terry Briggs, his partner in the pursuit of crime. Terry, concentrating on the driving, was completely relaxed; his hands rested lightly on the wheel, his head against the head-rest. His eyes, though, took in everything. They darted about continuously, checking the mirror, the road ahead, then the mirror again. All the time reading the traffic, anticipating.
Terry was a brilliant driver, and Henry Christie felt as safe as was possible under the circumstances. For the past eight years, ever since they had been PCs in uniform on crime patrol together, Henry had trusted the driving to Terry and never been let down.
A quarter of a mile ahead, a red Porsche 9II Turbo pulled out into the fast lane. Henry put the binoculars to his eyes. A puff of smoke from the exhaust and the Porsche became an even smaller speck.
‘ He’s put his foot down again,’ said Terry. ‘If I do the same he’ll clock us for sure… if he hasn’t already done so.’
‘ True,’ said Henry, lowering the binos, amazed — as ever — at Terry’s vision. Eyes like a shit-house rat was the phrase which sprang to mind.
Following someone down a motorway wasn’t easy at the best of times. It was even harder when the target
