by Nick Oldham
He ate with his usual lack of gusto, leaning on the table with one elbow, forking the food into his mouth. His other hand rested on his thigh, fingers touching the slim blade. One edge of it was serrated, as he had requested. With his index finger he touched the tip of the knife. It was sharp. He pushed the pad of his fingertip harder down, almost to the point where he was about to draw blood. He stopped before this happened. Yes, it was sharp. It was only a small knife, but if used swiftly, accurately, it would be deadly.
Trent quivered with pleasure. He grasped the blade in his fist and held it tightly, knowing that if he drew his hand upwards very quickly, the blade would slice the palm of his hand wide open.
It was an ideal weapon.
Coysh had done good.
Trent put another unappetising forkful of corned-beef hash into his mouth. He glanced triumphantly around the dining room as he ate it.
Using only one hand, Trent eased the knife inch by inch up his sleeve and placed his watch strap over the blade to keep it in place.
He continued to eat his meal, feeling very, very happy. So happy in fact he rocked on his chair, but not so much that people might see him. After all, he was suicidally depressed and people like that don’t go about with stupid grins on their faces.
After returning his empty plate and plastic cutlery to the appropriate pile and bucket, he nodded discreetly to Coysh who was now eating his own meal and wandered back to his cell. He tried to look as though he might kill himself at any moment.
His pillow was foam-filled. He had prepared a hole in the foam into which the knife slotted perfectly. He bunged some foam back into the hole to plug it and slid the pillowcase back over. It was, he believed, good enough to withstand a cursory check by a screw.
Bursting with happiness, Trent sat on the bed and delved into his pile of magazines. He picked one called Girl Power which was aimed at thirteen- to sixteen-year old girls — a little old for his tastes, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. It was full of photos of young girls and often contained articles about sex, some of which had caused uproar in the national press for their explicitness. Trent settled back to read about fellatio, dreaming that very soon this would be a reality for him.
One of Kruger’s company directors was a woman called Myrna Rosza. She was a trained lawyer, but Kruger had known her originally as an FBI agent. He had offered her a job once Kruger Investigations got kick-started and she had grabbed it with both hands, having had her fill of endless FBI bureaucracy. She was black, in her early forties, married to a surgeon, no kids. She was also wiltingly beautiful and possessed more assertiveness than all Kruger’s employees put together. She was his conscience and wasn’t frightened of saying no to him.
Kruger paused.
He had told the three members of the board his story, obviously leaving out certain elements, and knew he had them eating out of his hand — emotionally, if not intellectually… with one exception. The fly in the ointment, he noted glumly as his and Myrna’s eyes fused across the table.
‘ No,’ she said stubbornly. Her perfect mouth pursed into a little ‘o’. Kruger had often thought he could have kissed that mouth. Right at that moment he would have preferred to drive his fist into it.
And with that single word, Kruger saw she had unleashed everyone else from his spell. He cursed her big brown eyes.
Although technically he could have made any damned decision he wanted — after all, it was his company — the reality was that he needed the backing of the board on any controversial issues. Which is what this was.
‘ We have agreed time and time again that we will never become involved in any way in any sort of investigation or work which smells remotely of the mob. And Steve,’ Myrna said patronisingly, ‘you of all people should know why.’
Kruger winced. The memory of the slug tearing into his thigh just above his right knee jolted him vividly. Yes, he should know why — because he almost got himself killed once over. But he had good reason for going against company policy on this one.
‘ I understand what you’re saying, honey,’ Kruger responded, ‘but we’re talking about my ex-wife here, a woman I still have deep feelings for.’
‘ Not what you once told me,’ Myrna rumbled.
‘ Well, I do — and when I saw her yesterday I realised I’d been hiding those feelings from myself.’ Kruger reddened, feeling idiotic, saying words which were a complete lie. ‘I figured that if we do a good job and find Bussola cheatin’ on her, she might just come back to me.’ He almost choked to death on the words, but kept a straight face.
‘ So, for the sake of your ex-wife,’ Myrna said, outraged, ‘you’re suggestin’ we mount a surveillance on a mobster, when even the joint forces of the Feds, local cops, DEA and AFT haven’t managed to sniff him out, despite their resources?’ She looked around at each of the board members. ‘I suggest we all say no.’ There was a general nodding of heads, though no one made direct eye contact with Kruger who was, after all, the boss man. ‘Bussola is a dangerous guy,’ Myrna boomed in conclusion. ‘If he finds out we’re tailing him, he’ll react in his usual way. I don’t believe any of our operatives should be put into such danger.’
Kruger leaned forwards. His face was thunderous.
‘ Okay, okay,’ he breathed angrily. ‘I won’t overrule you, though I really want to, but I will tell you something you should know.’ He took a deep breath, wondering how he should phrase the bombshell. ‘If we don’t take on this assignment — and this is the truth — everyone in this room, everybody sat out there in those offices, every one of our teams out on the streets will be out of a job tomorrow.’
Trent was disturbed a short time later by Coysh who was wearing a loose-fitting blouson jacket zipped up to the neck. He was holding the hem tightly. He stepped into Trent’s cell, found him to be alone and unzipped the jacket. Almost a hundred Styrofoam cups fell out onto the floor. He emptied all his pockets and produced another fifteen, crushed and broken.
Trent gathered them up delightedly and began to stuff them underneath his mattress.
‘ I’ll probably need another load — maybe more,’ he told Coysh. ‘Can you do it?’
Coysh nodded but eyed Trent uncertainly. ‘What d’you want them for?’ He was completely befuddled. ‘I thought you wanted to sort Blake out, not give him a tea party.’
‘ I do — and I will. You’ll see.’
‘ What, with Styrofoam cups?’
Trent winked. ‘Method in my madness. Now, there is something else you can do for me…’
‘ You bastard, Steve Kruger.’
Myrna’s countenance was set hard as granite as she faced him across the office. The others had left, cowed by Kruger’s shock announcement and the brief conversation afterwards. Myrna wasn’t to be railroaded though. When they were alone together she powered into him like a prize-fighter.
‘ You cannot make a statement like that, then say no more, refuse to give us the “why”. That’s treatin’ us all like imbeciles, Steve. How in hell are we even supposed to believe a word of what you said — that we’d all lose our jobs? It’s preposterous.’
She was a very fine-looking woman, Kruger had to admit. Standing there in front of him, hands on hips, feet shoulder-width apart, she was pretty darn intimidating. He weakened for a moment, then rallied.
‘ Myrna, I’m not lyin’ to you.’ He sat down heavily on a chair and his head dropped into his hands. He blew a farting noise into his palms, then looked up at her, allowing his fingers to stretch his facial features. ‘But you were right about one thing… Felicity does absolutely nothing for me. I hate the goddamned sight of her. I definitely do not harbour any affection for her.’
‘ Thought not.’ Myrna’s voice held a wisp of triumph. ‘So what then, what’s this all about?’
Kruger snorted a short laugh.
‘ She’s got a hold on me, Myrna. Something stupid I did a few years ago, something so completely idiotic you wouldn’t believe it.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Dam
n… and I think she’s got the paperwork to prove it.’
‘ Tell me — now,’ Myrna insisted.
He made the decision to admit to only the second person in his life about the illicit weapon-dealing which had provided the foundations on which the successful enterprise known as Kruger Investigations had been constructed.
Trent was in the TV lounge watching a documentary about the fire brigade, unable to keep a smirk off his face. A couple of other inmates were in the room but the majority of the others were packed into the main association room where a big-screen TV had been erected and onto which a satellite beamed a live Manchester United game. Trent could hear ‘ooh’s’ and ‘ahh’s’.
Vic Wallwork sauntered in, looking ill and as worried as ever. He sat next to Trent. They ignored each other for a few minutes as the fire fighters on TV tackled a very nasty blaze by which several people were trapped.
When everyone was rescued — to an appropriate but unconnected cheer from the football audience — Trent said, ‘Well?’
‘ Yeah, done it. But never again, never a-fuckin-gain.’
‘ How much?’
‘ Just what you ordered.’
‘ Well done, Vic.’
‘ When are they gonna get me, Trent?’
‘ I don’t exactly know, but if I were you, Vic, I’d keep my arse right up against the wall… not that that’ll help, you understand, because they’ll still fuck you.’
Danny’s day concluded about seven that evening.
After having put the puzzlement of Claire Lilton’s disappearance out of her mind, she spent most of the afternoon interviewing a young lad who had been the subject of repeated indecent assaults and buggery by the head teacher of the primary school he attended. It proved to be a pretty harrowing afternoon, made all the more difficult because the boy was only six. Whilst interviewing him Danny felt like a fraud for thinking she had problems. At least they were solvable… but the youngster, unless he was something very special indeed, had a lifetime of nightmares ahead as well as medical problems. Danny’s predicament melted into insignificance.
In the end she obtained a first-class video statement which would hopefully get the teacher put away for many years.
Her brain was the texture of cotton wool balls when she rode down in the lift and walked out into the rear yard of the police station. Night had fallen early, rain was splattering down and it was dark even though the yard was illuminated by electric lights. It became even darker as she walked into the covered area where the car was parked.
She swore to herself.
It was only at that moment she remembered Jack Sands and the little episode from the morning. She realised as she approached her car that she had not taken any precautions against the possibility of a repeat confrontation.
Even though she was in a police car park, it was poorly lit, she was alone and feeling vulnerable. No one was around to hear her screams.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. A tight feeling, as if her skin had been super-frozen, spread across her face.
Suddenly she was on guard, holding her breath.
Every shadow was Jack Sands, waiting to pounce.
Her trembling hand snaked into her bag. Her fingers sought, fought and withdrew the remote locking control and keys for her car.
She quickened her step… and of course she had parked at the far end of the car park.
In a matter of seconds she had reached the rear of her car — safely. Then she was inside the car, slamming the door, desperate to slide the key into the ignition. She was okay. She had made it. She giggled a little at her stupidity.
The key went in… and her door was yanked open. Sands reached in, grabbed her and dragged her out in a split second before she could react. He dumped her onto the concrete and the base of her spine crashed on the hard surface, sending a shock wave up to her cranium.
She opened her mouth to scream — but Sands was quickly on top of her, hand clasped over her mouth, forcing her back, smashing her head against the ground. He pinned her down and straddled her chest.
‘ Bitch. Don’t ever think I’ll let you get away with kneeing me in the balls.’
He struck her open-handed across the cheek as hard as he could, whipping her face sideways.
Then, miraculously, his weight was lifted from her chest and he seemed to be flying through the air in a flurry of limbs.
Quickly Danny got to her knees, spun round, saw it was Henry Christie who had pulled Sands off, but that now Sands had recovered, gained the upper hand and was laying into Henry, pummelling him with a series of blows. Henry defended himself like a boxer, hands protecting his head, forearms his chest: He rolled with the onslaught, saw a minute gap and launched a rock-hard fist onto the point of Sands’s chin. His head jerked right back on impact.
The blow knocked him stone cold. His legs crumpled underneath him like a drunken man. He went down with a groan and a thud.
‘ Damn!’ yelled Henry, rubbing the knuckles of his fist, doing a little jig. It felt as though the cap of the knuckle had been dislodged. ‘Yow! That effin’ hurts.’
Danny got to her feet. Her lower spine throbbed painfully. Her face was smarting and she could feel a lump growing like a tumour on the back of her head. She stared speechless at her stunned ex-lover who was squirming around on the floor, then looked at Henry.
‘ You okay?’ he asked.
She nodded dumbly, muttered a thanks of sorts.
‘ No probs. Look, you go home. I’ll deal with Jack. If you need to talk, we’ll talk — later.’
‘ Yeah… yep,’ she said unsurely, still dazed. She rolled back into her car and started the engine.
Henry took hold of Sands’s lapels and heaved him out of the path of her rear wheels.
Seconds later she was gone, leaving Henry with a fast-recovering Detective Inspector Sands who had a good bit of explaining to do.
Chapter Four
Steve Kruger fidgeted, trying to make the radio harness a little more comfortable beneath his armpit. Though allegedly ‘body moulded’ and well hidden by his jacket, it was tight and unwieldy, as though he were carrying a set of books. It was a psychological problem Kruger had always had on surveillance, right back to his undercover cop days; he always thought that the equipment would be completely obvious to the public and constantly expected to be approached and exposed.
He had begun to sweat already.
Myrna came into the office wearing a smart, stylish suit in beige with a very short skirt displaying her excellent legs. She had been in the ladies’ restroom fitting her radio harness underneath her blouse, next to her skin. Kruger peered at her chest — for professional reasons, obviously and was relieved to find he could not detect any bulges there other than legitimate ones.
She executed a pirouette for him.
‘ Can’t see a thing,’ he admitted.
He slid the miniature encrypted radio into the pouch, then threaded the fine wire of the press-to-talk button down his sleeve and into the palm of his left hand. He secured it with flesh-coloured Band Aid, adjusting it minutely so he could grip it and comfortably press the button with his thumb. A wire-free earpiece was already implanted in his ear and a microphone — doubling as a tie pin — was pinned to his tie. In order to transmit he had to talk down to his chest without falling into the trap of mumbling his words.
He stood to attention and tugged down the hem of his jacket. He cocked his head at Myrna.
‘ Obviously I can see the bulge when you do that,’ she said witheringly.
Kruger let go. The jacket bounced back to its normal shape.
‘ That’s better.’
He picked up the pistol from his desk top — a Sig Sauer P230 in. 765 Browning calibre, the standard blue-black version with an eight-round magazine capacity. It was the gun all his operatives were issued with whenever necessary, and had been chosen by Kruger following his Army and police experience. A lightweight weapon, rugged and very simple to handle and a good siz
e for concealed carrying.
He clicked the magazine out, emptied and re-loaded it so he was satisfied. After slotting the mag back into the butt, he placed the gun into the holster on his belt at the small of his back. Another piece of equipment hopefully hidden by his jacket.
Myrna had done exactly the same.
She smiled at him.
‘ Sorry about all this,’ he said with a pathetic shrug.
‘ We all make mistakes. Let’s just hope this puts yours behind us all.’
There was a light knock on the door. The three other members of that night’s team sauntered confidently into the room.
There were the two brothers, Jimmy and Dale Armstrong — two ex-cops with a lot of SWAT and undercover experience behind them. Then there was Kelly Marks, former employee of Bell in the area of Communications Engineering. All three had been fully briefed.
They were bang on time. Kruger greeted them warmly. They had been approached for their expertise and trustworthiness… and, of course, they were volunteers because Kruger would not make anyone act against Bussola against their will.
‘ Ev’rybody a-rarin’?’ Kruger asked.
He received assent from all.
‘ Let’s go then,’ he said.
Danny stirred uncomfortably in her double bed.
She had been there six hours, had trouble getting to sleep initially, and once there, had problems remaining. She tossed and rolled, sweating uncomfortably into the pillow and duvet. Too hot, then too cold. Never in quite the most comfortable of positions.
