A Time For Justice Read Online Free

this was a sick
terrorist attack aimed at killing the maximum number of innocent
people, disrupting the economic infrastructure. In the absence of
the Daimler, McClure tended to agree with the assumption - even
though the main suspects, the IRA, hotly denied all responsibility.
It was true, he agreed, that this sort of thing would do the IRA
cause no good whatsoever. . .
    So where was the Daimler?
    It hadn’t turned up in Manchester at any of the usual haunts
that were currently under surveillance.
    Puzzling.
    ‘ Maybe they split up because they knew we were watching them
and they’ve met up somewhere else,’ McClure ruminated.
    ‘ Naw, I ain’t having that,’ drawled Donaldson. ‘This is too
mud a coincidence - all this and the word that Corelli had put a
contract out on Carver. Then there was that guy back at the hotel.
I know that face, I’m sure I do.’
    They each took a sip of tea. It was burning hot. Blue and red
light flashed with greater intensity as the night crept in. Mobile
floodlights lit up the scene eerily.
    ‘ Perhaps there’s nothing left of it,’ McClure suggested. ‘It
might be here in front of us, in a billion fragments.’
    ‘ Naw.’
    Another pause. A cold gust of wind made them shiver. Then a
thought hit each man at the same time.
    ‘ It’s in the river!’ they said in unison.
    They threw down their paper cups and made for the mobile
control room which had been set up about a mile away from the scene
of the explosion.
    A glorified caravan with radio and telephone equipment, an
inbuilt console and a toilet, the control room was a bustle of
activity. People went in and out. Radios blared. Messages were
passed. Action was taken. It was a warm place, a haven of comfort
in an increasingly cold night.
    The ACC (Personnel) sat by one of the radio operators looking
glum and tired. It had been a long day and it would be an even
longer night. Times like this he wished he’d retired years
ago.
    He glanced up as Donaldson and McClure knocked and
entered.
    By the time the three men reached the riverbank, the crane was
lifting the sad remains of the Minibus out of the water. It gushed
like a sponge. The body of a child hung limply out of one of the
broken windows. The crane jolted. The body was dislodged and
dropped back into the water.
    A police diver, treading water nearby, grabbed it before it
was washed away.
    Slowly the arm of the crane moved round and deposited the bus
on safe ground. A swarm of rescue workers moved towards it like
ants.
    The ACC, clearly upset, wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
After pulling himself together he went to speak to the diving
team.
    Two hours later they located the Daimler. The crane hauled its
remnants out of the Ribble and dumped them on the bank. There was
very little left of it to identify. There was nothing left of the
occupants at all.
     
     
    Henry Christie tottered unsteadily through the crowded
Accident and Emergency Department of Preston Royal Infirmary.
Although the casualties had been split between three other
hospitals - Blackpool, Lancaster and Blackburn - even now, six
hours later, the staff were still having difficulty
coping.
    Henry had not even reached a treatment room yet; they were all
occupied. He had seen some distressing sights ... people with both
legs blown to tatters, horrendous head wounds. He felt guilty to be
sitting there with just a cut head.
    Eventually he had been stitched up by a harassed nurse who
looked no older than his teenage daughter. Henry pitied her. She
told him to come back for an X-ray in a couple of days and pointed
him at the exit.
    He looked pretty bad with his head partly shaved and eight
stitches in a wound which seeped blood. His eyes were dark and
circled, his skin pale and sickly, his clothes dry now, but
crumpled and dirty. What he needed more than anything else was a
drink - something very alcoholic.
    As ever, Terry was ahead of him, sitting in the back of the
traffic car detailed to take them home. His hand