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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.
    The ACC (Operations), Jack Crosby, a tough no-nonsense career
detective was one of his visitors. He looked grave and unhappy.
He’d spent all his service with Lancashire and had been