A Time For Justice

A Time For Justice

By Nick Oldham

Published by Nick Oldham at Smashwords

Copyright 1996 Nick Oldham

Smashwords Edition License Statement

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons,
living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely
coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s
imagination and used fictitiously

Nick Oldham was born in April 1956 in a house in the tiny
village of Belthorn – mums were very hardy in those days – up on
the moors high above Blackburn, Lancashire. After leaving college
then spending a depressing year in a bank, he joined Lancashire
Constabulary at the age of nineteen in 1975 and served in many
operational postings around the county. Most of his service was
spent in uniform, but the final ten years were spent as a trainer
and a manager in police training. He retired in 2005 at the rank of
inspector.

He lives with his partner, Belinda, on the outskirts of
Preston.

This book is dedicated to my dad, Edward Vincent Oldham, who
has been my rock. Mum knows and approves.

For more information on Nick and his books visit
www.nickoldham.net
or
‘Nick Oldham Books’ on Facebook
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Nick-Oldham-Books/134265683315905

A TIME FOR JUSTICE is the first in Nick Oldham’s fast paced,
highly acclaimed crime thrillers featuring Henry Christie and is
now available for the first time in e-format...

As far as mafia hitman Jimmy Hinksman is concerned, working in
Britain is a piece of cake. In his opinion, the police are unarmed
amateurs and security is nowhere – at least that’s what he tells
his boss, Mr Corelli. Which is how Hinksman can clamp a Semtex bomb
to a Daimler in a Lancaster hotel car park unobserved. The Daimler
is due to take two associates of Mr Corelli to Manchester airport –
Mr Corelli does not intend them to get there in one
piece.

The car is in heavy traffic on the M6 when the explosion takes
place. Seventy-two vehicles are involved in the carnage. The death
toll is in double figures. Unfortunately for Hinksman, only one of
them was intentional – his other victim was too busy with a
girlfriend to start the journey.

Now Hinksman himself is a target, wanted by every cop in the
force. And if he doesn’t complete the job he’s begun, Mr Corelli
will be after him too.

Hinksman is also about to discover that not all British
security is a joke and not every British copper a clown.

Especially not disgraced detective Henry Christie, a man with
a point to prove and - after the M6 bombing – nothing left to
lose...

Praise for Nick Oldham

‘For sheer grab-you-by-the-throat readability, A TIME FOR
JUSTICE takes some beating. Nick Oldham’s high-speed thriller is
the genuine article – a tale from the cutting edge of law
enforcement that is utterly authentic. This new author is a real
find’ –
Mystery and Thriller
Guild.

‘Chilling authenticity ... a gripping tale’ –
Manchester Evening News.

‘A dark, broody thriller, packed with stomach-churning
suspense’ –
Dorset Evening
Echo.

‘Oldham can out-plot and out-grisly most of his hard-boiled
brethren’ –
Kirkus Reviews on Hidden
Witness

‘Like everything good in life, a fast-paced, old fashioned
shoot-’em-up is hard to find. Fortunately we have Oldham’s latest
novel to remind us what it’s all about’ –
Publisher’s Weekly on Backlash

Also by Nick Oldham in the ‘Henry Christie’ series

Nightmare City

One Dead Witness

The Last Big Job

Backlash

Substantial Threat

Dead Heat

Big City Jacks

Psycho Alley

Critical Threat

The Nothing Job

Crunch Time

Screen of Deceit

Seizure

Hidden Witness

Facing Justice

Instinct

Chapter One

Hinksman never intentionally set out to kill innocent people.
Not that he ever lost sleep when it did happen, but it was
something he tried to avoid.

With that in mind, he set the timer on the bomb for thirty
minutes after the car was due to leave for the airport. That way,
he figured, even if there was a delay, the Daimler would be on the
motorway when the bomb went off. The possibility of killing some
other sucker was still there, of course, but at least it was
minimised ... to a degree.

And it was only a small bomb. That’s all it needed to be - a
block of Semtex no bigger than a slim paperback with a detonator
pushed into it and a timer strapped on with insulation tape. The
timer was nothing more than the switch-and-circuit-board mechanism
from an automatic dog-feeder he’d bought the day before,
cannibalised and adapted to his needs. It was powered by a small
AAA battery. A ring magnet was attached to the bomb by
superglue.

The result was a plain, simple, home-made bomb. Just the right
size to blow a Daimler limousine to smithereens.

It took Hinksman only seconds to put the bomb into
place.

He’d parked his hired Ford Mondeo in one corner of the
Posthouse Hotel car park near Lancaster and waited patiently for
the Daimler to appear. It arrived on time.

The driver left it unattended and went into the
hotel.

Hinksman had been counting on this; as he climbed swiftly out
of the Mondeo, he sniggered. Security in this country was a
complete joke! In the States, no car would ever have been left
without a minder, even for a moment. Here in England, things were
just so lax. So amateur.

As he walked alongside the limo his suitcase flipped open and
the contents spilled out onto the tarmac. He cursed aloud, bent
down and began to collect up his clothes. At the same time he
clamped the bomb with a satisfying
clunk
firmly on the underside of the
car, near to the petrol tank.

Stuffing his belongings untidily back into the case, he was
suddenly aware of someone standing over him. He looked up and
smiled.

‘
Damned suitcase,’ he said.

‘
Can I help you, sir?’ It was the chauffeur, eyeing him with
suspicion.

‘
No, no,’ he said in the clipped English accent he’d been
perfecting. ‘Clasp’s broken, have to get a new suitcase. Thanks
anyway.’

He stood up and walked across to the hotel, aware that the
chauffeur’s eyes were piercing into his back all the way. It was
hard not to glance over his shoulder - but that would have given
the game away. He kicked himself mentally for not noticing the
man’s return; it was only a small mistake, true, but big enough to
have got himself killed. ‘Shape up,’ he told himself. ‘Just because
you’re in England that’s no reason to get slack.’

He booked into the Posthouse Hotel under false details and
went immediately to his room.

Ten minutes later he was back in the foyer, drinking coffee,
reading a newspaper and waiting for his targets to leave. He wanted
to see the Englishman and the American off on their final journey.
He was sentimental like that.

The two men were agonisingly late coming down to check out.
When they eventually did appear, the reason for the delay became
obvious they each had a devastatingly beautiful woman clinging to
their arm, and no doubt had been saying their goodbyes to them in
time-honoured fashion.

Hinksman did not begrudge the men their last moments of
pleasure. They had probably paid handsomely for it, judging by the
quality of the women. These were no cheap whores, thought
Hinksman.

The chauffeur met them at Reception and took their suitcases
out to the Daimler while the men settled their accounts, in
cash.

There were smiles, laughter and handshakes between the men and
the hotel staff. Evidently they had been generous
guests.

Hinksman took the opportunity to study them discreetly. This
was the first time he’d actually seen in the flesh the two men
who’d become a thorn in his boss’s side. They didn’t look anything
special, but they’d begun to spread their activities in all
directions without telling Mr Corelli or giving him his fair share
- and therefore Mr Corelli was not pleased. They had been warned
several times to get into line, but they seemed to be deaf. A
somewhat unfortunate ailment.

And now they’d had the audacity to go into business
full-time.

They’d fixed up a deal right under Mr Corelli’s
nose.

Even though he was impressed by their acumen and daring, Mr
Corelli was not a happy man.

He wanted them dead.

And what Mr Corelli wanted, he got.

Which was where Hinksman came in.

After the pleasantries, the group stepped out of the hotel
into the damp morning. Hinksman checked his watch. The bomb was due
to go off in sixteen minutes. By then they would be on the motorway
racing to Manchester Airport. The flight to Miami left in ninety
minutes and the American was due to be on it.

The chauffeur saluted and opened the rear door of the limo but
only one of the men, the American - and his female companion - slid
onto the plush back seat. . . leaving the two others on the kerb,
holding hands like newlyweds.

Hinksman frowned.

The driver clunked the door shut, walked smartly round the
vehicle and got in behind the steering wheel. He drove elegantly
away, turning out of the car park towards the M6.

Leaving the Englishman behind.

Hinksman said, ‘Shit’, softly to himself.

A few moments later, a 7-series BMW with tinted windows drove
into the car park and picked up the Englishman and his companion.
This car turned in the opposite direction to the
motorway.

Hinksman put his paper down and cursed.

120 mph.
Henry Christie looked up
from the speedo at the profile of Terry Briggs, his partner in the
pursuit of crime. Terry, concentrating on the driving, was
completely relaxed; his hands rested lightly on the wheel, his head
against the head-rest. His eyes, though, took in everything. They
darted about continuously, checking the mirror, the road ahead,
then the mirror again. All the time reading the traffic,
anticipating.

Terry was a brilliant driver, and Henry Christie felt as safe
as was possible under the circumstances. For the past eight years,
ever since they had been PCs in uniform on crime patrol together,
Henry had trusted the driving to Terry and never been let
down.

A quarter of a mile ahead, a red Porsche 9II Turbo pulled out
into the fast lane. Henry put the binoculars to his eyes. A puff of
smoke from the exhaust and the Porsche became an even smaller
speck.

‘
He’s put his foot down again,’ said Terry. ‘If I do the same
he’ll clock us for sure ... if he hasn’t already done
so.’

‘
True,’ said Henry, lowering the binos, amazed - as ever - at
Terry’s vision. Eyes like a shit-house rat was the phrase which
sprang to mind.

Following someone down a motorway wasn’t easy at the best of
times. It was even harder when the target was
surveillance-conscious, was probably scanning police airwaves, and
had about a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of Ecstasy tablets
on his back seat. He was also believed to be armed-with a Smith
& Wesson .38 special, according to their
intelligence.