‘ Well done, pal,’ said Donaldson. He’d been watching from the rear of the court.
‘ I feel completely drained,’ said Henry. ‘Lunch?’
‘ Afraid not. Karen and I have an appointment in Manchester at three. We’ll be leaving now.’
‘ What’s that for?’
‘ Can’t tell you,’ said Donaldson, tapping his nose.
‘ A mega-concoction of pills, anything she could lay her hands on, I’d say,’ the nurse told Joe Kovaks. ‘You name it, they were in there. Pill cocktail, could’ve been lethal if she’d’ve had ‘em in her any longer. Got here just in time. We pumped her stomach out real good. Doc says no harm done.’
‘ So she’ll be OK?’
‘ Yep. She’s tired now and she’ll need a few days in here, but she’ll be fine, or at least as fine as a junkie can get.’
They turned into the ward. ‘Third bed on the left.’
‘ Thanks, nurse,’ Kovaks said.
He walked quietly down the ward. Curtains were drawn around the third bed along. He found the gap and stepped into the enclosed world. Kovaks gasped when he saw her. She looked very ill, all skin and bone and she seemed to be barely breathing. In fact he thought she was dead at first, but a twitch in one of her fingers told him otherwise. A drip ran into one of her skinny arms, the tube of which was not much less in circumference than the arm itself.
Kovaks sat next to the bed. His chair scraped on the floor.
She looked ninety years old. Kovaks knew she was nineteen. He shook his head sadly, remembering the feisty girl who used to give him as good as she got whenever he visited her to try and arrest Whisper when he’d been wanted on warrant. She hadn’t taken any shit from anyone back then. Now she didn’t even look capable of taking a shit.
Yes, Corelli had a whole lot to answer for, he thought grimly.
‘ Laura,’ Kovaks whispered.
Her eyelids flickered, but stayed closed.
‘ Laura,’ he said more forcefully. He touched her arm. It felt cold and clammy.
This time her eyes opened. Kovaks noted they were dead eyes, without depth or hope. She squinted sideways at him, not instantly recognising him, but when she did she sneered.
Kovaks looked at her mouth. Once thick-lipped and sensuous, even he had imagined the pleasure of a blow job with her. Now her lips formed a thin, hard line.
‘ What do you want?’ she whispered tiredly.
‘ I heard you were in. I wanted to see how you were.’
‘ Well, now you’ve seen,’ she said, ‘so fuck off and leave me.’ Her eyes closed wearily. She breathed out and her whole being seemed to deflate as though she’d breathed out her soul.
‘ There’s only one reason you’re here,’ Kovaks said, ‘and that’s because of Corelli. He hasn’t only fucked up your life, you know? He’s fucked up hundreds, thousands. We need to talk, Laura, maybe not just at this minute, but soon when you’re feeling better. We have to stitch that bastard up… please, Laura.’
She opened her eyes again. ‘I’ve lost my baby because of him. She’s been taken away from me, did you know?’
‘ No, I didn’t,’ he lied.
‘ She was all I had left after they killed Whisper. Yeah, sure, I’ll talk…’ A tear rolled down her face and dripped onto the pillow. ‘He can’t do anything to me now. If he killed me he’d be doing me a favour… so what do I have to lose? But not now, not now. I feel so sleepy. I need to sleep…’
Chapter Twenty-Two
The town of Garstang lies midway between Lancaster and Preston on the A6. A couple of miles north of Garstang is a layby. At 7.30 p.m. that same Monday evening, Dave August drove sedately into the layby in his own car and parked up. He switched the engine off, unlocked all the doors and rested his hands on top of the steering wheel so they were visible — as instructed.
He stared dead ahead. Afraid.
The digital figures on his watch moved to 7.35.
Briefly he considered starting up, slamming the car into gear and speeding away. But suddenly the passenger door was wrenched open and a man seemed to fall from nowhere into the seat next to August. The Chief Constable jumped. He hadn’t seen anyone coming. No one had pulled up in a car. The man must have sneaked up from the hedge.
August faced the intruder, and didn’t know whether to laugh or scream: the man was wearing an Oliver Hardy mask. In the end he did neither because a heavy, dangerous-looking revolver was pointing straight at his belly. Behind the mask August could see the eyes and the deep red slit of a mouth which, when it moved, sickened him.
The voice was hollow, distorted. ‘Drive north.’ The man obviously had no time for small talk. ‘Keep your speed to forty.’
‘ Look-’ August began plaintively.
‘ NO! Don’t talk — just drive,’ he snapped. ‘Or some cunt’ll find a dead Chief Constable in a layby. Now fuckin’ drive.’
A few seconds later August and his companion were travelling the A6 in the direction of Lancaster.
Just before they reached Galgate, south of Lancaster, the man ordered, ‘Turn in here.’
August nodded. His hands gripping the steering wheel were weak and perspiring. He pulled into a car park by the side of the road, overlooking the Lancaster canal. A large number of pleasure cruisers were moored by a quay below them, but there was no one around. It was very quiet, tranquil.
The man dangled something in front of August’s face. It was a small hessian bag with a drawstring fastener. ‘Put this over your head.’
He obeyed meekly, slipping the rough-textured material over his head, down over his face, blocking out all light. It was harsh and unpleasant against his skin. The man pulled the drawstring tight and fastened it with a knot.
A hand touched August’s shoulder. He was told to swing his legs out of the car and stand up. As he rose unsteadily he caught his head on the doorframe but managed to struggle to his feet.
Another vehicle drew up.
He was manhandled into the back of this vehicle — a Ford Transit van — and lying on his side in the foetal position, was frisked by heavy hands. The back doors of the van were closed and the van drove away. He had orders not to move, otherwise he would be thrown out.
August tried to keep track of his journey.
He could tell that they turned right out of the car park, so they were heading back towards Garstang. After a couple of minutes the van slowed and went left. This was the motorway junction. If there was another left turn they would be heading north up the M6. There wasn’t. August could tell from the acceleration of the van and the way it leaned that they were looping around the junction to travel south, back towards Preston.
They were on the motorway for about fifteen minutes — continuous, straight-line, high-speed travel. No one spoke on the journey, yet August sensed there were two men.
The van slowed and came off the motorway.
August was fairly certain this was the Preston north turn-off. Soon after, he lost his bearings as they hit Preston proper, and ten minutes later, they stopped.
He heard some doors slide back.
The van lurched and stopped again. The engine was switched off.
They had driven into a building of some sort.
In his blackness he heard hollow footsteps. The building doors sliding back again. Murmuring voices. A laugh.
