For a moment Kovaks wondered what he was talking about. Then he remembered. And recalled how Ritter had joined the two agents for a drink one night soon after Karl had returned from England a few months before. No doubt killing two birds with one stone: picking up information for Corelli as well as titbits for Lisa.
He looked at Ram, then Ritter. ‘So what’s next?’
‘ Sit back and enjoy the ride,’ Ram suggested.
‘ It’s the last one you’ll be takin’,’ laughed Ritter.
Ram looked quickly at Ritter — his expression puzzled Kovaks, for it seemed to have a significant meaning — then turned to face the front.
Kovaks settled down and began to figure out how he was going to get out of this… if he was going to get out of this.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
At the same time as Henry and Karen had entered the bedsit, the national and international news had just finished on BBC1. A couple of minutes of local news followed; the lead story concerned the death of John Abbot in a police pursuit. The item showed a clip of FB being interviewed about the incident, recorded earlier on the steps of Blackpool Central police station. FB was fairly vague about everything, though he did state that Abbot had been driving a stolen Metro which actually belonged to a police officer. FB offered no explanations as to the cause of the explosion. ‘We’re keeping an open mind at the moment,’ he said. ‘We don’t really know anything for sure until tomorrow.’
The reporter pressed him for details of why the Bomb Squad were looking at the car.
‘ Just routine,’ he said patronisingly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me… ‘He walked out of shot, revealing the officer who was standing directly behind him: Henry Christie, looking rather ill.
Hinksman, sprawled in a chair in the safe house in Blackburn, sat bolt upright. Up to the point where Henry appeared on screen he hadn’t really been taking too much notice.
‘ Motherfucker. You’re still alive then.’
He threw himself back into his chair in frustration, clenching and unclenching his fists angrily. Finally, however, he couldn’t help but laugh.
‘ You’re a lucky son of a bitch, Sergeant Christie,’ he said to the ceiling. ‘But I ain’t finished with you yet.’
There was a knock at the front door. For a second, Hinksman froze. He checked through the curtains before answering and letting Lenny Dakin in.
Dakin looked flustered and agitated.
‘ It’s tomorrow. The ship’ll be coming through tomorrow. We’ll meet it in the Irish Sea, collect my consignment and hand you over. From there it’ll sail to Eire and you’ll be able to get a flight from Dublin to Paris, then to New York. It’s all arranged — false passports, money, everything.’
‘ Good.’
‘ What a fuckin’ day I’ve had,’ breathed Dakin. He helped himself to a Scotch and soda. ‘I’ve had cops crawling all over my property looking for you. It’s a damn good job I didn’t put you up at the farmhouse.’
‘ Have they got you all worked up?’ Hinksman chided.
‘ You bet they fucking have!’
‘ I thought you were a no-nonsense big-time criminal who could handle the pressure,’ he teased.
‘ I can handle the pressure when necessary, but this isn’t. You are a right royal pain in the arsehole at the moment and I’ll be glad to get shut of you. You be here at nine tomorrow and you’ll be picked up, OK?’
‘ No.’
‘ No? What the fuck do you mean?’
‘ Things to do, people to see… lives to wreck,’ smiled Hinksman sweetly. ‘You just tell me where and when you’ll be sailing and I’ll be there, probably with a passenger.’
‘ What?’ screamed Dakin. ‘Who? Are you fucking mad?’
Hinksman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t call me mad.’
By the time Dave August got back to his office at police headquarters it was midnight. He’d had a long, tiring day visiting grieving relatives, being bombarded with tears, questions and disbelief. He was worn out by the effort of appearing sympathetic on the surface whilst having to deal with his own inner turmoil at the same time. Once or twice he’d had the urge to blurt out, ‘Blame me — I’m the one responsible.’
He’d been informed of John Abbot’s death during the evening but had left it to FB and the ACC (Operations) to deal with. He’d look at it tomorrow. He couldn’t believe it — what the hell else could happen? He was presently the head of a police force under mounting pressure and it didn’t help that he was going through his own agonising crisis.
August sat down at his desk. He pulled a small bottle of Bell’s out of a drawer and took a sip. The heat of the spirit seemed to revive him. He looked at the large pile of papers in front of him which constituted Hinksman’s file. He opened the first folder and began to read by the light of his table lamp.
Somewhere in here, he hoped, was the answer.
At five minutes past midnight, a delayed flight from Miami touched down at Manchester Airport. It was some eight hours behind schedule, held up by ‘technical problems’ — a vague term which did not endear the company to the passengers in any way.
Tired and disgruntled, they disembarked and filed woodenly through the terminal building towards Passport Control.
Near to the front of the queue was a middle-aged woman who was in heated, but subdued, conversation with her timid husband. They were having a disagreement of sorts. She wanted him to do something, and as usual he didn’t want to get involved. All he wanted to do was I get home and get to bed.
‘ You are useless!’ she told him — and not for the first time.
When they reached the desk and handed their passports over, the woman said icily to her husband, ‘Well, if you won’t, then I shall have to.’ She looked at the Customs officer and leaned towards her with a conspiratorial air. ‘Is there someone I can talk to?’ she hissed, so that other passengers would not overhear. ‘In confidence?’
‘ Yes, of course, what about?’
‘ One of the other passengers, who I think is on drugs.’
Henry Christie and Karl Donaldson completed their witness statements relating to John Abbot’s death at about one o’clock that morning. The process had taken a couple of hours over numerous cups of sweet white coffee. Both men were exhausted, Henry in particular. He hadn’t slept properly for almost two days and his mind was beginning to play tricks with his eyes.
He finished rereading his statement, blinked repeatedly and said, ‘I’ve got to get some kip. My head’s a complete shed.’
‘ Me too,’ agreed Donaldson, yawning and stretching. His clothing reeked of smoke.
They were sitting at desks in the deserted CID office at Blackpool Central. Karen had left them about an hour before, completely wrecked herself.
Henry stood up. His joints creaked and clicked like an old man’s. He walked across to a window, rolling his shoulders. He watched his reflection as he approached; he hardly recognised himself, wasn’t sure I who he was seeing. A stranger. Someone who had changed drastically in the last eight months. A man who’d gone from being happily married with two beautiful daughters and a beautiful wife, a contented lifestyle and good job, to a rundown adulterer who hardly saw his kids and lived like a hermit in a shit-hole of a flat that smelled of cat piss.
The only constant was that he still had the same job.
He tried to pinpoint the exact moment at which his life had changed for the worse. He reckoned it was that bomb on the M6.
He gazed blankly out of the window; in his mind’s eye was every detail of that explosion and the faces of those kids. He knew now they were images that would stay with him for ever. And now he’d come full circle. Another explosion. Another motorway. And the link was I the same two men: himself and Hinksman.
You’re out there somewhere, he thought, and I want to find you. I want to hunt you down, but I don’t know where to start.
He sighed and turned back to Donaldson. ‘Where do we go from here?’