the videos the police recovered from the guest-house which show you turning up at Gaskell’s house. Then the ballistic evidence — the fact that the gun you had with you when Christie arrested you is the one which killed Gaskell. It all looks pretty bleak, to be honest.’
‘ Mmm… When is Christie due to give evidence?’
‘ Middle of next week, I estimate.’
‘ Well, you make damned sure he has a hard time,’ ordered Hinksman. ‘I want his evidence and his character dragged through the mud. Hear me?’
‘ I hear you,’ said Graham dismally. He was unused to being given instructions on how to defend a case by his client. He knew he had to be patient with Hinksman, otherwise he’d probably get a bullet in the brain.
‘ And I want you to tell Dakin to move up a gear on the jury. I want them all shitting themselves this weekend.’
‘ I’ll tell him,’ sighed Graham. He was more concerned with the prospect of Henry Christie’s evidence next week. He knew very little about the detective or his background.
‘ I’m not sure I’ll have much mud to sling at Christie,’ he told Hinksman doubtfully. ‘I may be able to get into his evidence, but as to his character… I don’t know.’ He shrugged.
Hinksman smiled an evil smile. ‘Don’t worry. By Monday morning you’ll have everything you need. Promise.’
By its very nature this murder trial was spectacular and newsworthy. It had all the ingredients of a juicy international story. The massive bomb which killed many innocent people; the violent deaths of police officers; the links with underworld crime in England and America; the death of an American gangster and his ‘moll’; the death of a British arms dealer; the involvement of the FBI and the insinuation — nothing more — that Hinksman was a Mafia hitman, although the words ‘Mafia’ and ‘hitman’ were never to be used throughout the trial.
When it started, the trial made front-page news across the globe; as it proceeded it was always featured somewhere on page two or three. But it lacked a ‘certain something’, a spark.
It got that ‘certain something’ over the weekend, which blasted it right back to the headlines.
Firstly, all the jury members had their houses fire-bombed. No one was injured, but much damage was done and worry caused. Speculation was rife: would the next step be the taking of a juror’s life? Would there have to be a re-trial?
Secondly it got that something that made the whole trial really come to life.
It got a personality.
It got Henry Christie.
He was exposed.
Carried initially by the News of the World it was a tale that caught the public’s imagination.
Henry’s life and times were laid bare for all to see.
His drinking was dredged up. His womanising. His adultery. His violent temper. His marriage collapse. His nervous breakdown. All slit open for the world to see and drool over.
Hero Cop’s Sex and Drink Binge! screamed the headline.
Henry, who had always thought himself to be Mr Very Average, had become newsworthy.
All thanks to the relentless digging of a female American journalist called Lisa Want, on special assignment to the News of the World.
Henry’s Sunday was spent alone with the more highbrow newspapers. He took the Sunday Times and the Sunday Telegraph, which were delivered. He rose at nine, prepared a pot of coffee and warmed up two Sainsbury’s croissants before settling down to three blissful hours of uninterrupted reading.
It was his Sunday ritual.
At 12.30 p.m. he switched on the TV to watch the Grand Prix. The phone rang.
It was FB. His opening words were, ‘What the fuck have you done, Henry? Talking to the fucking gutter press! Have you gone stark staring bonkers?’
‘ Hold on,’ Henry cautioned him. ‘What the hell are you on about?’
FB reduced himself from a boil to a simmer and explained.
Henry put the phone down as FB finished. It rang again immediately. A journalist from a rival newspaper introduced himself. Henry told him where he should get off and slammed the phone down — but not before he heard the man offer him five figures for an exclusive.
The phone rang again.
‘ I have just told you to fuck off,’ bawled Henry.
‘ Henry. It’s me, Kate.’
‘ Oh, Jeez. Sorry.’
‘ Have you seen the newspapers today — in particular the News of the World?’ she asked coldly. ‘Our marriage is splashed all over for everyone to see. Our private life, Henry.’ She was obviously very upset and close to tears. ‘I honestly thought we were near to… to getting back together. But this! This! It changes everything as far as I’m concerned. How could you? Oh Christ, how could you?’
‘ Hang on, Kate. I haven’t done anything. I haven’t spoken to any journalist — not one. And I haven’t seen the paper yet, either… so, look, give me half an hour, will you? Please. I’ll go and get a copy, read it, then phone you back, OK?’
‘ Very well,’ she said quietly in a way that gave Henry a shiver.
Henry closed his eyes as he replaced the receiver. He’d had no idea that Kate was thinking about getting back with him. To hear that and to have the prospect dashed in the same sentence was gut-wrenching. The phone rang again.
He picked it up, shouted, ‘Go fuck yourself,’ slammed it back down, then left it off the hook and dashed out to the newsagents.
He purposely did not open the newspaper until he got back to the fiat. He poured himself a coffee, sat down at the small kitchen table and then opened it.
The story was plastered over pages three and four.
Henry gasped.
The headlines were bad enough in themselves. The story below made him cringe with embarrassment.
There was a still photo which showed him assaulting the TV reporter on the banks of the River Ribble. That illustrated his violent streak.
The remainder of the story was made up from an interview with Natalie which detailed their affair, their sexual exploits — ‘He was insatiable’ she said — and their final acrimonious split. ‘I couldn’t live with a broken man’ she claimed, ‘and anyway, he dumped me. He used me then tossed me aside.’ She talked quite extensively about his nervous breakdown and his terrible dreams. Henry hoped she had been well paid for this, because she’d need the money when she got sacked
… he hoped. There were a couple of photographs from his time with Natalie. They’d been snapped by her friend when he’d been drunk and was drooling pathetically over Natalie. Henry winced when he saw them. They made him look just like he was — a man making an utter fool of himself over a younger girl.
It didn’t stop there.
There was also a piece about Henry and Karl Donaldson taking Natalie and her friend out. Entitled My Night of Sex With FBI Man, it detailed Donaldson’s exploits that night too, including the mystery lady banging on his hotel door in the early hours, demanding to see Donaldson and interrupting their lovemaking. The woman wasn’t identified, but was described as a ‘high-ranking officer in the Lancashire Constabulary who was, at the time, running a major investigation’. It went on to describe Donaldson, naked, chasing her down the hotel corridor. Henry knew it was a night Donaldson would rather forget, especially now that he’d made his peace with Karen.
Then there was the photo of Henry’s two distraught-looking daughters taken a few weeks before, following the shooting incident in the Lake District.
‘ Bitch,’ uttered Henry, shaking his head, reading on.
It got worse.
The scorned cleaner Maureen had her say, too. Her story made an ideally tacky footnote to the whole thing. Another ‘used and abused after a night of sexual ecstasy, a night when I did things for him I’d done for no other
