Hinksman’s shoulders rise and fall and rise again
with his controlled breathing.
The targets spun round.
And so did Hinksman. Fast. Only a millisecond behind the
targets. Still with a double-handed grip. Perfectly balanced.
Wonderful pirouette. He was now facing Gaskell.
The Englishman fumbled for his gun. But stuck there in his
trousers, covered by the cardigan, he had no chance. He’d hardly
moved his hand before the first of Hinksman’s bullets slammed into
his chest. A heart-shot: dead centre. Perfect. The second bullet
entered his head a fraction later, centre forehead, just above the
bridge of his nose.
The-arms dealer was almost lifted off his feet with the
impact. He was thrown back against the wall where he stayed briefly
pinned like a butterfly, arms high and wide, and then, already
dead, he slithered into an untidy, bloody heap on the
floor.
His chin lolled forwards onto his chest, exposing the gaping
wound at the back of his skull where the slug had made its spinning
exit.
Hinksman exhaled.
He looked at the gun and smiled. ‘You’ll do nicely,’ he said.
‘I wonder what else is on offer.’
Chapter Six
McClure and Donaldson got the registered number of the hired
Mondeo from the hotel video. One PNC check later they’d got the
name of the hire company to go with it.
Karen Wilde looked down at the hire documents which two
detectives had seized and handed over to her in sealed plastic
wallets.
It was a condition of the car-hire agreement that the person
hiring the vehicle be photographed as part of the documentation
process. Hinksman was no exception - but he’d worn a flat cap,
glasses and a false moustache and moved his head when the
receptionist pressed the button on the Polaroid. Result: blurred
image.
Karen inspected the passport-sized photograph pinned to the
corner of the hire agreement and compared it with the still that
had been lifted and enlarged from the hotel video. Despite the
disguise it was obviously the same man.
She read the agreement which gave the address of the hirer as
Lytham St Annes, a seaside town south of Blackpool on the
Lancashire coast. It was a fairly exclusive area.
McClure and Donaldson were sitting opposite her. Neither spoke
as she peered at the evidence.
Her eyes rose from the document. She nodded.
‘ Good stuff,’ she admitted.
‘ Yes, it’s a good lead at least,’ understated McClure. ‘How’s
it going at the Posthouse Hotel room?’
‘ Scenes of Crime are there now. He obviously didn’t spend much
time there. Seems to have dumped his things, then done a runner
when you two spooked him. Left his luggage behind. There could well
be prints on his things, particularly toiletries. Looks like he had
a drink from a glass of water, too.’
‘ Are you going to save the luggage for forensic?’ Donaldson
asked.
‘ Why should I?’
He looked at her like the rookie she was, but decided not to
insult her. ‘Well, from the video it looks like he kept the bomb in
the case before clamping it underneath the Daimler.’
‘ So?’
He restrained himself from an impatient sigh. ‘We now know
the bomb contained Semtex; Semtex leaves traces on clothing. Could
provide very good evidence.’ Don’t you know anything, he thought.
Smart-arse Yank, she thought sourly. ‘I’ll see it gets done,’
she conceded gracelessly. ‘So,’ she went on, coming back to the
hire document, ‘with luck we’ll be able to lift prints off this
form and get the FBI searching their records. I don’t hold out much
hope though.’
‘ We’ll get something,’ Donaldson said.
Their eyes locked again. Briefly. Antagonistically.
McClure broke in. ‘I still can’t believe he had the audacity
to hire a car himself - and form a company up here.’
‘ He’s made a few mistakes,’ said Karen. ‘Yet you say he’s a
pro.’
‘ If he’s working for Corelli, he’s a pro. But even pros get
careless,’
Donaldson pointed out. ‘He’s operating outside his
with his controlled breathing.
The targets spun round.
And so did Hinksman. Fast. Only a millisecond behind the
targets. Still with a double-handed grip. Perfectly balanced.
Wonderful pirouette. He was now facing Gaskell.
The Englishman fumbled for his gun. But stuck there in his
trousers, covered by the cardigan, he had no chance. He’d hardly
moved his hand before the first of Hinksman’s bullets slammed into
his chest. A heart-shot: dead centre. Perfect. The second bullet
entered his head a fraction later, centre forehead, just above the
bridge of his nose.
The-arms dealer was almost lifted off his feet with the
impact. He was thrown back against the wall where he stayed briefly
pinned like a butterfly, arms high and wide, and then, already
dead, he slithered into an untidy, bloody heap on the
floor.
His chin lolled forwards onto his chest, exposing the gaping
wound at the back of his skull where the slug had made its spinning
exit.
Hinksman exhaled.
He looked at the gun and smiled. ‘You’ll do nicely,’ he said.
‘I wonder what else is on offer.’
Chapter Six
McClure and Donaldson got the registered number of the hired
Mondeo from the hotel video. One PNC check later they’d got the
name of the hire company to go with it.
Karen Wilde looked down at the hire documents which two
detectives had seized and handed over to her in sealed plastic
wallets.
It was a condition of the car-hire agreement that the person
hiring the vehicle be photographed as part of the documentation
process. Hinksman was no exception - but he’d worn a flat cap,
glasses and a false moustache and moved his head when the
receptionist pressed the button on the Polaroid. Result: blurred
image.
Karen inspected the passport-sized photograph pinned to the
corner of the hire agreement and compared it with the still that
had been lifted and enlarged from the hotel video. Despite the
disguise it was obviously the same man.
She read the agreement which gave the address of the hirer as
Lytham St Annes, a seaside town south of Blackpool on the
Lancashire coast. It was a fairly exclusive area.
McClure and Donaldson were sitting opposite her. Neither spoke
as she peered at the evidence.
Her eyes rose from the document. She nodded.
‘ Good stuff,’ she admitted.
‘ Yes, it’s a good lead at least,’ understated McClure. ‘How’s
it going at the Posthouse Hotel room?’
‘ Scenes of Crime are there now. He obviously didn’t spend much
time there. Seems to have dumped his things, then done a runner
when you two spooked him. Left his luggage behind. There could well
be prints on his things, particularly toiletries. Looks like he had
a drink from a glass of water, too.’
‘ Are you going to save the luggage for forensic?’ Donaldson
asked.
‘ Why should I?’
He looked at her like the rookie she was, but decided not to
insult her. ‘Well, from the video it looks like he kept the bomb in
the case before clamping it underneath the Daimler.’
‘ So?’
He restrained himself from an impatient sigh. ‘We now know
the bomb contained Semtex; Semtex leaves traces on clothing. Could
provide very good evidence.’ Don’t you know anything, he thought.
Smart-arse Yank, she thought sourly. ‘I’ll see it gets done,’
she conceded gracelessly. ‘So,’ she went on, coming back to the
hire document, ‘with luck we’ll be able to lift prints off this
form and get the FBI searching their records. I don’t hold out much
hope though.’
‘ We’ll get something,’ Donaldson said.
Their eyes locked again. Briefly. Antagonistically.
McClure broke in. ‘I still can’t believe he had the audacity
to hire a car himself - and form a company up here.’
‘ He’s made a few mistakes,’ said Karen. ‘Yet you say he’s a
pro.’
‘ If he’s working for Corelli, he’s a pro. But even pros get
careless,’
Donaldson pointed out. ‘He’s operating outside his
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