Slowly the arm of the crane moved round and deposited the bus on safe ground. A swarm of rescue workers moved towards it like ants.
The ACC, clearly upset, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. After pulling himself together he went to speak to the diving team.
Two hours later they located the Daimler. The crane hauled its remnants out of the Ribble and dumped them on the bank. There was very little left of it to identify. There was nothing left of the occupants at all.
Henry Christie tottered unsteadily through the crowded Accident and Emergency Department of Preston Royal Infirmary. Although the casualties had been split between three other hospitals — Blackpool, Lancaster and Blackburn — even now, six hours later, the staff were still having difficulty coping.
Henry had not even reached a treatment room yet; they were all occupied. He had seen some distressing sights… people with both legs blown to tatters, horrendous head wounds. He felt guilty to be sitting there with just a cut head.
Eventually he had been stitched up by a harassed nurse who looked no older than his teenage daughter. Henry pitied her. She told him to come back for an X-ray in a couple of days and pointed him at the exit.
He looked pretty bad with his head partly shaved and eight stitches in a wound which seeped blood. His eyes were dark and circled, his skin pale and sickly, his clothes dry now, but crumpled and dirty. What he needed more than anything else was a drink — something very alcoholic.
As ever, Terry was ahead of him, sitting in the back of the traffic car detailed to take them home. His hand was in plaster and his demeanour reflected Henry’s.
They were driven home by a traffic PC who sensed that any conversation would be less than beneficial to his health.
Eventually, Henry said, ‘I lost my gun in the river.’
‘ Me, too,’ said Terry.
These were the only words spoken on the journey.
Henry walked up the drive to his new home on the outskirts of Blackpool. He’d recently part-exchanged his old home for this ‘executive’ one — new, soulless, on an unfinished estate of similar houses.
The front door opened.
His daughters stood there, mute and fearful, as they watched his approach. It was too much for the youngest, Leanne, aged nine; she broke cover and dashed to meet him, clinging to his legs. He rubbed her hair, bent down stiffly and picked her up, almost squeezing the breath out of her.
‘ Daddy, Daddy,’ she said in his ear. He could feel the wetness of her tears on his cheek.
‘ You should be in bed.’
Mummy said I could wait up for you.’
His wife, Kate, appeared in the hallway as he reached the front door.
She had been crying too. Henry thought she looked very beautiful in her sadness.
‘ They said you’d been hurt but were all right. They told us to stay here and wait for you,’ she explained, shrugging her shoulders.
Henry nodded. Leanne slid down him, but clung to his hand.
‘ We saw you on telly,’ his eldest daughter, Jenny said. She was thirteen, dressed somewhere between a punk and a Sloane Ranger. Henry noticed she was wearing one of his shirts.
He was puzzled. ‘Telly?’
‘ Yeah, pushin’ that reporter into the mud. Deserved it, he did.’
‘ He was only doing his job, I suppose,’ Henry admitted.
They all stood and eyed each other.
‘ Oh, Dad!’ Jenny burst out suddenly. ‘It must have been so awful.’
Her arms went round his neck and she sobbed into his chest. ‘Those poor kids.’
‘ It’s all right, lovey, it’s all right.’ He patted her.
He reached out for his wife’s hand and drew her towards him. He was dying to get hold of her and squeeze her tight. Tighter than ever before. So tight… God, he needed her… tight, tight, tight.
Chapter Three
As usual after a kill, Hinksman was in a state of euphoria. He drank too much in several pubs until he found himself sitting at the bar of a strip joint near the Winter Gardens complex in Blackpool.
He was happy. He’d negotiated two and a half million dollars for Carver and the Englishman, and he knew — because he’d checked — that the second third of the money had already been wired into his Cayman Island account and, as per his instructions, immediately redeposited in Jersey. Tomorrow one half of it would be in Switzerland. Corelli was an honourable man. That’s why he liked working for him. Honourable and generous — but noisy!
So, one more kill and the balance of the money would be deposited. Then, unless Corelli had anything urgent for him, he’d take some time off. Get out of the gangsterland rat race and travel a little. Australia seemed a good idea. Maybe he’d buy another house — or an apartment. Miami beckoned. He could buy an apartment in the same block as Don Johnson. Perhaps they’d become pals. Yeah, that sounded good. Me and Don Johnson getting legless, snorting together, scoring together, racing our Ferraris down the Keys.
Hinksman smiled at the thought.
He looked around the club. It was a seedy, smoky place, well attended by a cross-section of humanity. Drinks were cheap but the strippers were past the first flush of youth. There were many similar places in the States and Hinksman felt comfortable in these surroundings.
For a while he watched the strippers then became bored and concentrated on getting drunk. He wondered if there was a drug dealer in the place.
Just before midnight there was an interval and people gravitated to the bar. Hinksman, who disliked being crowded, withdrew to an empty table.
Within moments he was joined by a woman who sat boldly down without an invitation. Hinksman thought he recognised her and when she introduced herself it clicked.
‘ Hello, luv,’ she said in broad Lancashire. ‘Me name’s Jane. Did y’like me act?’
‘ Ahh,’ he said, remembering. He lied, ‘Yes, very much.’
He’d seen her prance onto the small stage, thought she had flat feet and no rhythm and had turned back to his drink without watching her remove any items of clothing.
He looked closely at her now. Thirty going on forty, with crow’s feet around her heavily made-up eyes, a multitude of broken capillaries on her cheeks that no amount of foundation would conceal and a slight double chin. No doubt she’d once been good-looking, he mused, but time and her profession had taken their toll.
‘ Drink?’ he asked.
She smiled. Hinksman wished she hadn’t. Her teeth were crooked and discoloured.
‘ Luv one. Champers?’
‘ You can have white wine,’ he said.
She shrugged happily and beckoned a waiter.
When the drinks came she said, ‘Thirsty work’, put the glass to her lips and swigged three-quarters of it in one. Hinksman winced. She’s so goddamned vulgar, he thought. What the hell, I need some stress relief
‘ You a Yank?’ she asked.
‘ What of it?’
‘ Y’all alone in town?’ she leered in her best, mock-American accent. He nodded.
She tilted her head. ‘Well?’
He nodded again. The deal had been struck.
‘ Forty quid,’ she said, businesslike.
He nearly choked on his drink. He wondered how much Danny Carver’s whore had cost — God rest what was left of his splattered soul. A little more than forty pounds sterling. Even so, Hinksman quibbled. She was probably
