erection. The journey from the house to central Manchester — where she had asked to be dropped off had once again been at her direction. And now, only a few days later, he couldn’t recall any of it.
His forehead dropped onto the steering wheel.
‘ You complete and utter idiot,’ he snarled at himself.
Janine settled back in the fishing boat and pulled off her long baggy T-shirt. Underneath she was wearing a skimpy bikini top and a pair of faded cut-offs. She reached down for a can of Diet Coke from the coolbox next to her and rolled the ice-cold can across her sweaty forehead. Key West was fast receding as the boat picked up speed on its way out for a morning’s fishing.
She was aware of the sidelong looks from the two crew members, both men of Hispanic origin, as they prepared the bait and rods. She was very pale and desirable to them.
The cabin door opened and the attention of the crew moved solely to their tasks in hand as the boss appeared from below, accompanied — as ever — by his bodyguard.
Corelli was carrying a bottle of champagne and two fluted glasses. Janine tossed the Coke can overboard and took the glasses from him. ‘This is good stuff,’ he said. ‘The best. Don’t want to spill a drop.’ He opened the bottle carefully.
The cork popped off and Janine held out the glasses, which he filled.
He took one and said, ‘This is by way of thanks for the part you’ve played in securing the eventual release of my friend, the plans for which, as you know, are well advanced.’
‘ It was a pleasure,’ she said. They touched glasses and drank. Janine thought it tasted wonderful.
‘ So I believe,’ he murmured, and winked. ‘I’ve seen the video…’
They burst out laughing.
Joe Kovaks stood on the quayside watching Corelli’s boat which was now nothing more than a speck on the horizon, even through powerful binoculars.
His face was grim as he lowered the glasses from bloodshot eyes. He felt like he had never laughed in his life.
This was not the Joe Kovaks of old. In the last six months he had aged considerably. He had lost weight and his grey skin hung loosely on his cadaver-like face.
Knowing it would be many hours before Corelli came back, he made his way to Le Te Da where he managed to secure a seat on the front balcony. It was here, in the 1890s, that the Cuban rebel Jose Marti had made speeches to raise money for the Cuban revolution.
Kovaks ordered a light meal, coffee and orange juice.
While waiting, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep forever.
The worry over Chrissy, the sleepless nights, the constant vigils and the ongoing campaign to get Corelli had all taken their toll out of his energy reserves. He’d kept himself going in the circle of home-hospital-work-hospital on a concoction of sweet black coffee and adrenalin.
And what good had it done?’
Chrissy’s recuperation had been a painfully slow process in more than one sense.
Although out of hospital now, she frequently returned for further treatment. She was still a mess, despite all the doctors had done. Her burned face and chest were a horrific sight, even to Kovaks, who had grown used to them. She herself wouldn’t even look in a mirror. The pain she endured was dreadful and she could only sleep under the influence of drugs.
However, the medical side of it wasn’t the only problem. The mental side was worse.
This once bubbly, confident and delightfully naughty lady was now a shell of fear. She was terrified of going out, of picking up the post, of doing almost anything. She spent most of her waking hours slumped in front of the TV, flitting aimlessly from channel to channel, avoiding the mainstream of life.
Kovaks had been warned it would take a long time. Surely, though, he pondered, there should be some improvement by now?
It was wearing him down; he couldn’t deny it. He knew he had to be strong for her, but the strain was telling on him and it was bubbling over into anger.
Because through it all Corelli sailed on. Untouched. Untouchable.
Kovaks knew he was dealing drugs in the UK now with the guy called Dakin. Could he prove it? Could he fuck. Just like he couldn’t prove that Corelli was behind the bomb that maimed Chrissy.
Kovaks was tired and frustrated. Corelli was simply telling him to go to hell. And slowly but surely, this is where Kovaks was headed.
Even the Bureau had whittled down the operation on Corelli. The team now consisted solely of him and Donaldson, Sue having been transferred to other duties.
The waiter brought his meal.
He opened his eyes.
Something would have to be done; it was a desperate situation all round, requiring a desperate solution.
It was about time to administer some justice.
Agent Ritter was also planning his own desperate solution.
Having made the decision to kill Sue, he had now decided where the demise would take place. So many unfortunate accidents happen in the home, he thought.
There were only two more questions to be asked.
When would it happen?
How would she die?
Soon, he thought, in answer to the first one.
In great pain, was his answer to the next.
Chapter Twenty-One
At the end of the third week, the trial seemed to have gone fairly smoothly for the Crown. The witnesses had all been good and believable and had kept to their stories, even under severe provocation and pressure from Mr Graham, QC for the defence, who was performing at his peak.
Donaldson had been up to give his evidence. It had been a harrowing experience for him to relive the death of Ken McClure, particularly when Graham questioned everything down to the last detail. Donaldson’s eyes had visibly moistened when he described the scene and last words of his friend. The jury had been right behind him and he sensed he could do no wrong. If nothing else, Hinksman would be convicted of killing McClure.
When Donaldson was asked if the man responsible for his friend’s death was present in court, he’d lifted his hand and pointed his finger straight at Hinksman. ‘That is the man who murdered my friend, Ken McClure.’ It was a satisfying moment.
Hinksman merely stretched and yawned.
Graham immediately objected to the statement, saying that murder had yet to be proved. The Judge ordered him to sit back down, then she warned Hinksman that he wasn’t far from being in contempt of court. He raised his eyebrows and smiled at her.
She made a note.
Donaldson’s evidence was the last to be given on that Friday afternoon.
As the trial was adjourned for the weekend, Hinksman indicated that he wanted a private consultation with Graham.
In the interview room, Hinksman asked, ‘Well, how’s it going?’
‘ In truth, not very well,’ admitted Graham. ‘The prosecution have got sentiment on their side. It does help. Too many innocent people have died.’
‘ How strong do you think their evidence is against me regarding Gaskell, the arms dealer?’
‘ So so,’ said Graham, sitting securely on the fence. ‘Although there’s no direct witness testimony, there are
