‘ What do you want to know?’
It was 4.15 a.m. when Dave August awoke. He felt terrible. He needed to wash his face and gargle with a minty mouthwash, which he did at the washbasin in his little sleeping annexe next to the office.
As he dried his face he looked at the camp bed. It hadn’t seen much activity since Karen had left him. Bitch. Served her right. Without a shred of conscience, nor even the merest idea that he might have committed rape — after all, how could it have been rape after she’d let him fuck her all those times before? — he strolled back into his office, feeling more or less ‘with it’.
The files on his desk were in disarray. He straightened them up and turned back to the one he’d been reading just prior to falling asleep.
As he skimmed through it again, feeling much more alert, he came across an old 1974 descriptive form — a piece of police bumf that is completed when someone is arrested — which related to a man called Dakin. August wasn’t too sure about Dakin’s role in the scheme of things (Chief Constables only ever want to know the wider picture not the ins and outs of investigations), and he wasn’t too bothered. He speed-read the form without undue interest. It was an old-style form from Strathclyde police in Scotland, containing much more detail than the newer forms, even down to the colour of Dakin’s socks.
August was about to add it to the pile when he paused. Something was triggered in his mind.
Firstly, it was a Scottish form. Interesting.
There was something else too, but he wasn’t sure what.
He read it again, slowly. The officer who had filled it in had been very thorough, even to the point of describing and drawing the tattoo which Dakin had on the back of his left hand. It was in the shape of a heart with a skull superimposed on it.
August stared at the little drawing. His mind swirled back. The factory floor. The shotgun rammed into his neck. His face pressed into the floor, eyes tightly closed except for one millisecond when he’d squinted upwards and seen…
Heart and skull.
And the man with the tattooed hand had a Scottish accent. Time to find out more about Lenny Dakin.
‘ Do you actually have the power to do what you said?’ Donaldson asked Henry. ‘Getting the charges dropped?’
They were back on the M6 motorway, speeding north, Henry at the wheel.
‘ Probably not,’ admitted Henry. ‘But I did get some smack to her and I’ll do my best. If I can’t pull anything off, so what? She’s just a junkie. I won’t be too concerned.’
‘ You’re all heart,’ said Donaldson with a short laugh. ‘By the way, do you always break the rules? That interview wasn’t really legit, was it?’
They both cracked up laughing.
‘ We don’t ever break the rules in the States,’ Donaldson went on. ‘We can’t afford to.’
‘ Neither can we,’ said Henry bleakly.
The consequences of what he’d just done were too horrendous to contemplate if it came out. He’d lose his job and probably get prosecuted for supplying controlled drugs to a person in custody. A very serious offence. A very serious understatement.
He hoped that both Janine and the airport detective would keep quiet about it. Realistically, though, he knew it was probably too much to hope for.
They passed the turn-off to Blackpool and stayed on the M6. In less than fifteen minutes they’d be back at Lancaster.
‘ What d’ya reckon to all that blabbering about screwing your Chief Constable?’ Donaldson yawned.
‘ Puzzles me,’ said Henry. ‘Perhaps it’s one of her fantasies.’
‘ I wouldn’t put anything past him,’ said Donaldson.
‘ Which reminds me,’ said Henry. ‘What’s happening about that… business between him and Karen?’
‘ It’s in the pipeline. That’s all I can say.’
By 6.15 a.m. everyone was assembled in the gymnasium at Lancaster police station in readiness for a briefing.
All the detectives involved in the ‘escape’ enquiry were there, wearing scruffy clothes as requested, together with a heavily armed firearms team, dog-handlers and uniformed Support Unit officers. Also present was the Superintendent in charge of the division and a couple of communications operators.
Henry, Donaldson, Karen and FB were at the front of the room. Donaldson and FB kept a healthy distance between each other, despite FB’s apparent acceptance of Karen now, he and Donaldson still did not see eye to eye. The American tended to bear grudges for a long time, especially where women and their treatment were concerned.
Henry gazed with mounting excitement tinged with trepidation at the tired but expectant faces in front of him. This was it. Somehow he knew it in his guts. This was going to be the real thing. No way could it turn out to be a wild-goose chase.
Karen had been tasked to do the briefing. When she asked for quiet, the room hushed immediately.
‘ Good morning, everyone. Thanks for turning out at such short notice. We are very impressed by your eagerness and I think that it will be rewarded today.
‘ OK… we all know about the escape from custody of a man called James Clarkson Hinksman three days ago after he’d been found guilty of the M6 bombing and the murders of several police officers and others. The escape was perpetrated by a ruthless professional gang who specialise in such jobs. It involved incredible violence, leaving many of our colleagues dead for no good reason. Obviously since then we have been working at full tilt to recapture Hinksman and apprehend this violent team.
‘ It’s no secret that netting the team will be a long and difficult process as we believe they’ve probably dispersed abroad by now. However, with regard to Hinksman we have had a major breakthrough. This is why you’re all here this morning.’
A murmur went round the room. Karen allowed it to settle before continuing.
‘ As most of you know, DS Christie and I have headed the part of the investigation aimed specifically at Hinksman. This morning DS Christie and Special Agent Donaldson of the FBI — who has been working closely with us on this — have received some Class A information which leads us to believe two things. Firstly, Hinksman is still in Lancashire. Secondly, he’s going to leave the country today. We know how and where, but we don’t exactly know when, other than it’s today sometime. So I’ll warn you now, this could be a very long day, but I’m confident that at the end of it we’ll have a result. Any questions so far?’
There were none. But there were plenty of smiles on plenty of faces.
On the wall behind Karen was a large-scale map of Lancaster and its environs. She stepped to one side and turned to it.
‘ The information we have received today is this…’
She pointed to the map and began to reveal the police operation that had been hastily put together.
Dave August had everything from the Lancashire police files on Lenny Dakin: intelligence reports, photographs, more up-to-date descriptions, known associates, suspected involvement in crime, estimated wealth etc. There were copies of several surveillance operations which had been run jointly between Lancashire and other forces, but all these had been unsuccessful. He was a very careful man, very surveillance-conscious. One detective referred to him as the ‘canny Scot’.
So, pondered August, he was a big-time criminal, of that there was no doubt. He read through an intelligence report submitted by Henry Christie, reporting that Dakin had picked up the American gangster Corelli at Manchester Airport. Christie surmised that the two were in cahoots, probably planning ways to bring drugs into the country. He also surmised that Dakin had probably set up Danny Carver and Jason Brown to meet their deaths at the hand of Hinksman — but he had no evidence to back that up.
He may be Mr Big, August thought, but more importantly, this morning I have identified him as the man behind everything that has gone wrong with my life recently. This is the bastard who preyed on my weakness and
