brushed the tender stitches and shaved area on the left side of his head. He flinched at the touch. He felt old and stiff.
The house was quiet. Kate must have taken the girls to school and gone on to her part-time job at the insurance brokerage in Blackpool. She hadn’t disturbed him when she left — or at least he couldn’t recall it.
He had a long hot redeeming shower, brushed his teeth vigorously and gargled with TCP to get rid of the alcoholic residue. He emerged feeling almost alive.
He made a quick phone call to Terry — who was all right but had reported in sick — and with three Paracetamols down him (and a further supply in his pocket), a glass of skimmed milk to line his stomach, a quick peek in the mirror to remind himself how he looked — bad — he left for work just after ten, shaving as he drove with a battery-powered portable.
Hinksman was pissed off to find that the prostitute had vanished. He swore and checked his wallet. Empty. What a surprise.
He decided that if he had the opportunity, he’d track her down and hurt her. Rather more than he had done already.
As soon as his head hit the grubby pillow again he was asleep.
His heavy night, however, didn’t prevent him from waking up before his alarm and turning out for a four-mile run along the promenade. It was no easy, laid-back jog, but a hard fast work-out designed to flush his system. By the end of it he felt clear and quick again. Ready for work.
Hinksman found the hotel proprietor in the kitchen. He helped himself to a slice of toast and a cup of coffee, after which he backed Paglia into the large, walk-in pantry and spoke to him.
‘ That bitch cleaned me out last night,’ Hinksman hissed. ‘I need money — pronto.’
‘ No problem. Ten, twenty, thirty pounds?’
‘ A grand.’
‘ What! I haven’t got that sort of money.’
‘ Get it,’ said Hinksman levelly. ‘This afternoon. I need to buy things.’
‘ I can’t,’ he protested.
Hinksman reached out his right hand at the speed of a cobra striking, and clamped it round the little man’s throat. From there he lifted him on tiptoes and slammed him back against a tall freezer which rocked precariously; the contents clattering around inside. Hinksman’s grip tightened. Paglia struggled for breath, gagging and choking, both hands fumbling in a pathetic attempt to peel Hinksman’s fingers out of his soft skin.
‘ I said get it. You don’t want to fall out with us, now do you?’ Paglia’s eyes bulged. He managed to shake his head and Hinksman set him down.
‘ Good,’ said the American. ‘A very sensible person.’
Paglia coughed painfully and rubbed at his throat. Thumb and finger indentations were clearly visible on the skin.
‘ Mamma,’ he whispered. ‘There was no need for that.’
‘ You’re obviously a man who needs to be made to understand. Now — I want that cash by this afternoon, OK?’
Paglia nodded forlornly.
Hinksman smiled. He went out, leaving the little man in the pantry, still not having recovered from his ordeal.
Hinksman walked through the hotel flexing his fingers.
That felt rather good, he thought.
The Chief Constable’s office had a view across the sports field at headquarters. Dave August spent many a happy hour watching games from the window. Feet up, all calls diverted, all callers blocked. One of the few benefits of rank, he thought.
At ten o’clock that morning, the day after the M6 bombing, he was behind his desk, facing into the room. Two men sat opposite him.
Here was one of the drawbacks of rank, he thought sourly. Making unpopular — and bad — decisions and having to stick with them.
The ACC (Operations), Jack Crosby, a tough no-nonsense career detective was one of his visitors. He looked grave and unhappy. He’d spent all his service with Lancashire and had been involved in over 200 murder investigations — and got a result on all but one. He’d also been involved in career manipulation and politics at the highest level of the service, and could see right through the chief’s announcement. It was obvious what he was thinking. Dick rules head.
Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, the Chief Superintendent in charge of crime, was the other visitor. Despite his fancy-sounding name and appearance, he was as tough and hard-edged as Crosby, but ten years younger. He thought he’d seen and heard everything in his time, but the Chiefs words left him gobsmacked.
August could see what effect his announcement had had, but there was no going back now.
‘ So I hope you’ll give her your whole-hearted support,’ he finished weakly.
‘ And there’s no doubt about it — she’s gonna need a hell of a lot,’ said Fanshaw-Bayley. He clammed up as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
The Chief kept his temper. ‘I admit she’s inexperienced, but she’s very capable.’
‘ And ambitious,’ interjected Crosby. ‘Isn’t this what it’s all about — ambition?’ His Liverpool accent, normally undetectable, became more pronounced.
‘ It’ll be a good challenge for her,’ August said. ‘And yes, it won’t do her career any harm.’
Crosby sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘ This crime,’ he said, ‘is above career ambition. In my opinion, Ronnie Veevers is the man who should be running it. He’s got the experience, contacts and ability to run such a large investigation. He did well on the Baxter shooting and that double murder over in Colne at the beginning of the year. And he wouldn’t be heading it because he wants to become a Chief Constable — he’d be heading it because he wanted to catch the evil bastard that did it!’ His voice had risen.
‘ If she wants some experience, boss, let her run with Veevers. Be his aide, his assistant or whatever — but don’t let her have the reins. This is far too big to make mistakes.’
August sat back in his big chair. The leather creaked. He indicated Fanshaw-Bayley. ‘Robert, have you anything to add?’
‘ Plenty — but not here and now, except to say I agree with everything Mr Crosby has said.’ He folded his arms and gazed past the Chief’s shoulder, out of the window.
‘ In that case — meeting over,’ the Chief concluded airily.
‘ What exactly does that mean, sir?’ Crosby asked.
‘ It means that Miss Wilde heads the investigation.’
After they had gone Karen emerged from the en-suite. She’d been listening at the door.
‘ You were brilliant, boss,’ she cooed.
‘ Mm,’ he said doubtfully.
‘ Typical misogynistic CID, that’s all,’ she assured him. ‘You’ve taken their toys off them and they don’t like it so they’re sulking. A boys’ club, that’s all it is. And I’ve got their ball and I’m going to play with it.’
‘ Don’t you let me down,’ August warned her.
‘ Would I? Moi?’ She winked at him. ‘Now, that briefing is set for eleven. I’ll put it back to two, which’ll give me time to get my hair done and sort out a few new working outfits.’
Inwardly, Dave August groaned.
Crosby and Fanshaw-Bayley walked side by side down the corridor towards Crosby’s office. The corridor of power. Anyone who was anyone had an office along here.
Once behind his own closed door, the man exploded.
‘ I simply do not believe what I’ve just heard!’
He slumped down behind his desk and thumped it with his fist.
‘ Wilde has no experience of police work of any description. She’s done all the secondments and training
