Firstly he had his lifestyle to maintain. It was discreet and subtly expensive, causing no one to raise an eyebrow. His modest house was well-furnished and he and his wife had decent, but second-hand cars. It was the finishing touches which told the story — the expensive CD players in the cars, the original paintings on the walls of his house, the conservatory which could not be seen from the road, the top-of-the-range golf clubs, his designer clothes, which looked not a great deal different from off the peg — but oh, feel that quality. And the small apartment and boat on Grand Cayman which nobody in the office knew about. All these things needed money, more money than he could ever earn.
And secondly, if he pulled the plug and said, ‘No more,’ Corelli would drop him without a moment’s hesitation to the FBI.
He had to go on.
The pencil he was holding snapped as he imagined his hands breaking Sue’s neck.
The bitch had to die.
Even when a case comes to court, the wheels of British justice turn painfully slowly. On the first day of Jimmy Hinksman’s trial, for no apparent reason, proceedings did not begin until 2.15 p.m.
That did not seem to bother the assembled press or public in the Shire Hall, restricted in their numbers to thirty and twelve respectively. There was a buzz of excitement, an air of anticipation, and a few hours’ wait would not put a damper on that.
However, it did serve to wind Henry Christie up. He knew he would not be called to give evidence until the later stages of the proceedings, but he wanted it to be underway. All this waiting around, killing time, was stress- inducing as far as he was concerned.
After lunch the High Court Judge, Mrs Ellison, took her place on the Bench. She looked quite regally stunning and imposing, despite her sixty-eight years and slight frame. Her wig, red robes and stern expression told their own story. Here was a woman not to be trifled with. This was her court and she ruled it without compromise. Unless it suited her.
The row of QCs, prosecution and defence, bowed to acknowledge her, all dressed in a similar fashion.
It was tradition taken to extreme.
Mrs Ellison indicated that the prisoner should be brought up.
A hush fell across the court. A couple of artists prepared their sketch-pads and pencils.
Henry braced himself. This was the first time he’d seen Hinksman since the committal hearing at Blackpool Magistrates Court.
He held his breath.
Two prison officers led Hinksman up from the holding cell below the court.
He gazed stonily into space, allowed himself to be manhandled and sat down in the dock, flanked by the officers. His handcuffs had already been removed.
Then his eyes began to rove around the court. From Judge to QCs to their briefs, to the security precautions… and finally, to Henry. Their eyes met, their gazes interlocked.
Henry felt his flesh creep.
Hinksman sat back and, unexpectedly, his face broke into the most pleasant smile imaginable… which quickly changed into a sneer of contempt. He kept Henry’s gaze, raised his eyebrows and mouthed the words, ‘YOU ARE DEAD.’
There followed four days of legal submissions by the defence which were countered by the prosecution and vice versa, rather like the opening of a fencing match where the competitors were sussing out each other’s strengths and weaknesses. It was all very eloquent and polite and at the same time dull. This legal parrying bored the spectators. They weren’t interested in nitpicking points of law and procedure. A good multiple murder case was what they all wanted to hear.
It was Friday before the jury was sworn in.
Even that did not prove to be simple. Hinksman’s QC objected to eight of the original twelve for obscure but legally valid reasons, and they all had to be replaced by substitutes from the pool of jurors.
In the end there were seven men and five women. Two of the men were black. One of the women was Chinese.
At 4 p.m. everything was set to proceed.
So the Judge adjourned for the weekend.
Hinksman was led out of court after the Judge had left. He indicated to his QC that he wanted to speak to him.
A few minutes later the QC, whose name was Graham, came down to the holding cage for a hushed consultation with his client.
‘ I want you to arrange several things,’ Hinksman told him.
‘ Such as?’
‘ I want you to find out the name and address of each of the jurors. I want the address of the Judge and the addresses of all the independent witnesses, including the cops.’
The QC pushed his pince-nez to the top of his nose, a feeling of discomfort flooding through him.
‘ That is not something I can do. These are details which are not disclosed by the prosecution.’
‘ Well, you’d better do it.’
‘ Why?’ asked Graham, dreading the answer.
‘ So they can be intimidated,’ said Hinksman simply, with a smile. ‘I… I don’t think I can do that.’
‘ Yes, you can. You’ve done it before, I know you have. If you do, you’ll get a bonus. Two hundred grand — in five-pound notes — paid anywhere in the world. And if you get me off these charges, you’ll receive a million dollars, tax free again, anywhere in the world.’
Graham shrugged. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll get them to you as soon as I’ve obtained them.’
Henry walked out of court a drained man. Even though the trial had not yet started, he’d been obliged to spend the entire week outside the Shire Hall and would not be allowed to enter again until called in to give his evidence, which could be weeks away.
The wait was always a nerve-racking time. Then, when the trial actually began, you wondered what the witnesses before had said and if you were going to make a fool of them or yourself by contradicting them or not ‘sticking to the script’.
His week, therefore, was spent pacing the corridors of the ancient building or putting his feet up in the police room and chatting to the other police witnesses, overdosing on tea or coffee; or simply wandering around Lancaster. He took some heart from seeing that some witnesses were in a worse state than himself — particularly the civilian ones.
He was glad to get out of it for the weekend, and looking forward to spending it with his daughters who were over the moon about him living above a vet’s.
An exhausted Karen Wilde arrived home that evening to the sound of her phone ringing. She could clearly hear it as she walked up the garden path, but she did not hurry. It couldn’t be work calling, otherwise they would have ‘bleeped’ her. So it must either be family or a friend, neither of whom she felt like talking to at that moment. It had been a long week — a minimum of ten hours per day — and she was whacked.
Her plan was bath, supper, bed, sleep.
In fact she even slowed her pace to the door and put her key into the lock in slow motion, hoping desperately that whoever it was would give up.
The ringing continued.
‘ Damn,’ she said, entering the house. She picked up the phone and gave a curt, ‘Yes?’ She recognised the voice on the other end immediately and her stomach did a yo-yo.
‘ Hi Karen, how are you doing?’
‘ Karl,’ she stuttered.
‘ So, how are you?’
