An unshaven man wearing pyjamas and a stained dressing-gown stood there. Heavy bags hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. It was the hotel proprietor, Pepe Paglia.
‘ Oh,’ he said, surprised at seeing her. ‘I want him.’ He pointed with a nicotine-stained finger at Hinksman.
‘ Help yourself,’ she said. ‘He’s all yours.’
Paglia went over to the bed and shook Hinksman. ‘Wake up, come on.’
He was lifeless. A sustained effort was needed before he was finally roused; it was a fair while after that before he knew what was happening.
The woman kicked herself. Had she suspected he was this hard to wake when drunk, she would have been long gone.
‘ Phone call,’ said Paglia. ‘It’s…’ he glanced at Jane, turned back to Hinksman and whispered, ‘Miami.’
‘ Jeez, what does he want?’
‘ Dunno. I said you were asleep but he told me I had to get you.’
‘ Right.’ He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the base of his thumbs, pulled on his dressing-gown and padded barefoot out of the room, ignoring the woman.
Paglia was left with Jane. He dawdled, peered closely at her. ‘Given you a belting, has he?’ he said. ‘If you want looking after properly you can always come to me. Great Italian lover.’
His face contorted into what could only be described as a leer. He thrust his hips forward with a jerk.
‘ God forbid,’ she said. She wafted away his halitosic breath.
‘ Suit yourself,’ he shrugged, and left the room, looking pleased with himself.
‘ Yuk,’ she said when he’d gone, and shivered at the thought of him.
She dressed quickly.
Prior to leaving, she picked up Hinksman’s wallet and quickly went through it. She couldn’t believe her eyes. It was the first stroke of luck she’d had that night — or that year, come to think of it. Apart from credit cards, six of them, and driver’s licence which she intended to sell on, there was about?1,000 in mixed Bank of England notes, and a thick wad of dollar traveller’s cheques. And he’d only paid her twenty-five quid, the tight bastard.
‘ Criminal injuries compensation,’ she muttered, pocketing the money.
She tiptoed onto the landing above the entrance hall where Hinksman was taking the phone call. She backed into the dark recess of an alcove and waited.
‘ Unfortunate,’ she could hear Hinksman saying. ‘But it’s the name of the game… innocents do die occasionally… so where will he be? Who? Say that again… Right, got that; I speak to him. Right, OK. I’ll take care of it, don’t you worry, boss. Take it as read. It’s as good as done… OK, OK, so long.’
In the shadows Jane’s stomach tightened with fear. She prayed to a God she didn’t really believe in: Please, don’t let him spot me hiding here. She closed her eyes.
She heard him coming up the stairs.
She steeled herself to open her eyes again.
She almost let out a yelp. There he was. Less than three feet away from her! She could reach out and tap his shoulder. Surely out of the corner of his eye he must see her. Surely then he would kill her.
But Hinksman walked straight past her, yawning, massaging his neck muscles. His mind and senses were far away. She was undiscovered.
Still holding her breath, Jane gave him time to get round the corner before emerging like a ghost from the darkness and bolting down the stairs, along the hall and out through the front door — away from a man she never wanted to see again.
Sadly for her, this was not to be the case.
Chapter Four
The phone in the bedroom rang for a long, long time. Slowly it insinuated itself into Henry’s brain cells and forced him into wakefulness. It was a fight against whisky, analgesic and a crack on the head. He lay listening to the shrill noise, not knowing what it was at first. Eventually he threw off the duvet and went over to pick it up. ‘Yeah?’ he croaked.
‘ DS Christie?’
‘ Yeah.’
‘ This is Linda in control room. If you’re fit, you’re requested to be at the murder incident room which has been set up at Preston police station at eleven o’clock for a briefing.’
‘ What time is it now?’
‘ Nine-o-five.’
‘ Right. I’ll be there.’
‘ Are you OK for transport?’
‘ Yeah.’
He reeled slightly as a spell of dizziness hit him and put a hand to his forehead, steadying himself. His fingers 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.