One Dead Witness hc-3

by Nick Oldham

  ‘ Call the cops, I imagine,’ he said. His heart rate had increased in pace to about a million beats per second. He stared back down at the sordid tableau which was being delivered to him by the latest in hi-tec. ‘Kelly?’ he hissed into his radio. ‘Are you receiving this picture?’

  ‘ I was, but its gone blank for some reason. I’m trying to get it back, but there’s interference on the screen from somewhere,’ she responded desperately.

  ‘ Get it fixed and get it recorded,’ Kruger ordered her, knowing there were video-recording facilities in the comms van.

  ‘ Yes, boss.’

  ‘ And call the go damned cops and tell ‘em to break their asses gettin’ here.’

  ‘ Okay, boss.’

  ‘ Cops could take for ever,’ Myrna said. ‘We can’t let this go on, Steve. If that’s not rape and that kid is older than ten years, my name’s not Myrna Rosza.’

  ‘ PI’s watch — they don’t get involved,’ Kruger baulked.

  ‘ Not in this case, Steve. Otherwise we might find ourselves accessories to murder.’

  ‘ Yeah, you’re dead right.’ He looked at the TV screen again and made a decision — but before he could translate it into words and action, something else happened on-screen and he gasped, ‘What the hell’s this?’

  Tracey crept out of the restroom and stepped quietly down the hallway towards the foot of the stairs, feeling as though she was walking on air. She paused briefly, checked over her shoulder to ensure that the door to the telephonists’ room was still closed, then began to slowly climb the stairs. On the landing at the top she was faced with one door, which she opened.

  Beyond was a sparsely furnished room, with simple, whitewashed walls; it had been a storeroom previously. There was a door in the opposite wall next to which sat Bussola’s second bodyguard, an overweight guy with a heavy moustache but hardly any other hair. His ample ass was stuck in a plastic stacking chair, his nose in his porno mag. At the sound of the door opening he looked up and an expression of vague annoyance crossed his face.

  He thought it was his buddy from downstairs and was ready to give him a roasting for leaving his post.

  The sight of the thin, waif-like girl puzzled him.

  ‘ I’ve come to see Charlie Gilbert,’ Tracey said.

  ‘ Who?’ As he said the word he remembered it was the name of Bussola’s pal. ‘Get the fuck outta here,’ he said, dismissing her with a gesture.

  ‘ No.’

  He stood up and walked towards her. Tracey timed it right, ducked to his left and darted to the door, skimming past him with ease. He made a grab for her but ended up embracing himself.

  Before he could stop her, she was through the door.

  The bodyguard swore and roared at her.

  The commotion caught the attention of the two naked men in the second room, but the third person in the room continued to struggle to try and free herself from her ordeal.

  Bussola was situated at the rear of the young girl, slamming into her. He yelled angrily, ‘What the hell’s going on? Get her outta here, you fool!’

  Gilbert was positioned at the other end of the girl. He held her head down in a vice-like grip, forcing her to fellate his flaccid penis. He simply looked up, unconcerned at the interruption; his eyes were glazed over a drug-induced euphoria.

  Tracey didn’t hesitate.

  She flew across the room at Gilbert, screaming, ‘Bastard! Bastard!’ Her arms flailed like some sort of medieval instrument of war.

  Then she was on Gilbert, punching and pounding him madly, five years of hatred which had been growing inside her like a malignant tumour, now given a cathartic release.

  Gilbert rolled with the blows. Other than to raise his forearms defensively, thereby letting go of the girl’s head, his brain was unable to coordinate a proper response; within seconds Tracey had punched him over a dozen times around his head and chest.

  However, Bussola, who always kept a clear head, disengaged his cock from the girl’s anus and threw her roughly to one side. She sprawled awkwardly to the floor where she immediately scuttled to one corner of the room, cowering, shivering with fright and pain.

  Bussola and his overweight bodyguard both laid hands on Tracey at the same time. They dragged her away from Gilbert and flung her against the wall, her light weight proving no problem for them. The bodyguard moved in and laid into her, landing a devastating punch on the bridge of her nose. Her coke-frozen nostrils flattened as easily as crushing an empty match-box. She gurgled, blood gushing down her face and chest, and sank to her knees, holding her face in her hands.

  Once down there the bodyguard kicked her in the side of the head, making her jerk as if he was kicking a marionette. He continued to boot her remorselessly around the head and upper torso, watched by Bussola and Gilbert.

  ‘ Everyone! Front door now! Go, c’mon, move it!’ Kruger growled urgently into his microphone.

  He had quickly considered and discarded the idea of trying to force an entry through the window, mainly because it was thick glass and would take a long time to break — and he didn’t have the right equipment anyway.

  He ran back along the catwalk, leapt on the fire-escape ladders and heaved them from their fastenings. He put a foot on the bottom rung, stepped on and the ladders dropped quickly through the walkway to ground level. He jumped off.

  Myrna was right behind him. She jumped the last five feet, hitting the ground running.

  They sprinted side by side down the alley, Kruger silently cursing his knee which clicked loudly every time his foot jarred down, sending a searing pain up through his thigh.

  By the time they reached the front of the shop, the other three had arrived. They looked cool and ready for anything. Kruger knew there and then his recruitment and selection process was spot on.

  ‘ No time for a detailed explanation, people,’ Kruger shouted as he approached them. ‘Assault and battery taking place in the upstairs back room. You may need your weapons drawn — but nobody’s obliged to follow me,’ he finished off.

  He rammed his right shoulder against the front door of the shop and tried to burst it open. It didn’t budge. He measured a few steps backwards, eyed up his target area and flat-footed the door by the lock. Still nothing. He increased his effort and on the second kick it gave a little; on the third the door splintered open with a crack. Kruger rushed through like a charging rhino, having drawn his Sig which he held high in his right hand.

  None of the team took the decision to hang back.

  They followed him, guns drawn.

  Kruger’s cold experienced eyes flitted around the room as he entered, instantly taking everything in: the phone booths, the raised dais of the supervisor — and more importantly, Bussola’s bodyguard who was still in his chair by the door at the back of the room.

  Kruger dismissed the telephone side of things as no threat. He focused in on the bodyguard. Kruger was surprised to note the guy hardly moved. Their entry, which had taken three kicks and probably only ten seconds, had been long enough for any self-respecting bodyguard to prepare for appropriate action.

  This guy, however, made a sloth look slick.

  He rose from his chair and reached underneath his jacket for his piece. His eyes were wide with horror and a ‘silent scream of, ‘Oh fuck’ was on his lips as he thought, This is it. This is what I get paid for. And I’m too slow and I’m gonna die at the age of thirty-six.

  He was right in one respect. He was too slow.

  Kruger launched himself across the last six feet of space, driving his left shoulder into the guy’s lower belly, bundling him over, flattening him with a football tackle to be proud of.

  All the air gushed out of the bodyguard, all his strength with it.

  Kruger and Dale quickly heaved the man over onto his stomach, wrenched his hands behind his back. Dale knelt down in the middle of the guy’s back, driving his right knee down hard between his shoulder blades, forcing his whole weight onto him, pinning him down.

/>   Dale then jammed the muzzle of his gun into the man’s ear and said, ‘Don’t move.’

  ‘ You take care-a him,’ Kruger said, rising. ‘Rest of you, with me now.’

  With one last flicker of his eyes around the room of stunned telephonists — most of whom were well into sex-chat — Kruger opened the door and stepped through.

  He took the stairs three at a time, creasing his knee in agony.

  Jimmy, Myrna and Kelly were right behind.

  When faced with a situation, it had always been Bussola’s policy to act first and ask questions afterwards. This was one of the reasons why he joined in beating up Tracey even though she had been overpowered within seconds. His other reason was that he was extremely annoyed at the interruption. He had been having a good time — and no one had the right to spoil that. This little bitch had to be made to realise that. Then he might talk to her. As for his bodyguards… if the stupid bastards couldn’t keep a little girl out, what chance was there of keeping someone out who meant business?

  Bussola reached down. He wound his fingers into Tracey’s hair, got a grip and banged her head repeatedly against the wall.

  The time for talking started. ‘Now then, you little shit-for-brains, what’s all this about?’ he screamed into her bashed-up face. Blood was being flicked everywhere.

  Even if she could have replied, she did not get time, because Kruger stepped into the doorway, Sig in hand. His presence was menacing.

  ‘ Stand back,’ he shouted. ‘Leave her alone.’

  Bussola stopped what he was doing, letting go of Tracey’s hair. Her head slopped to one side. The mobster stood up to his full height and coldly turned his big, fat nakedness to Kruger. Despite his predicament, his erection was still rampant and twitching against the folds of his big belly. ‘What the fuck?’ he sneered.

  ‘ I said stand back and leave her alone,’ Kruger reiterated.

  Jimmy appeared behind him, Myrna and Kelly behind Jimmy.

  Bussola shot a glance to his bodyguard who was standing next to Tracey, looking impassively at Kruger, weighing up the odds. ‘Shoot him,’ Bussola said.

  A smile crossed the bodyguard’s fat lips. Kruger realised he was about to be tested. The guy’s hand went for his gun, but Jimmy took the initiative. He weaved past Kruger and pointed his Sig directly into the bodyguard’s face. ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he breathed. ‘You pull that weapon out nice ‘n’ slow, thumb and forefinger on the butt, then you throw it across the floor. If you don’t, I’ll pop ya, babe.’ Jimmy’s finger tightened visibly on the trigger.

  The bodyguard looked at Bussola for guidance. He got none.

  Bussola was too busy eyeing Kruger.

  The gun was extracted slowly as per instructions. The silence of the moment was punctuated by the young girl sobbing in a corner of the room and the sound of Tracey spitting blood on the floor by the bed.

  The gun clattered to the floor.

  ‘ I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Bussola said. ‘Steve,’ he added.

  A jolt, like electricity, whipped through Kruger. It must have shown on his face.

  Bussola smiled. His erection wilted slightly. ‘Yeah, I know who you are. Surprised? That bitch I married talks of no one else.’

  ‘ Move over to the wall,’ Kruger said, feeling somehow that his advantage had been taken from him. He indicated to Bussola where he wanted him to stand. The mobster did not move. Just stood there with a taunting smirk quivering on his lips. ‘Move, Mario,’ Kruger repeated. ‘The cops’re coming and I’ll tell them all sorts of lies if I have to. Y’know — about how I had to save a wretched girl’s life, how you turned on me with a gun… all that kinda shit, and you won’t be able to say anything, cos you’ll be ashes and so will your fatso pal here.’ Kruger’s gun pointed to the bodyguard, then flicked back to Bussola. ‘All because you refused to stand next to the wall. Very intelligent.’

  ‘ What… what’s going on?’ Charlie Gilbert blurted from the bed. He had been watching the events unfolding with incomprehension. He then vomited spectacularly down his chest, stomach and genitals, fell forwards on the bed with a groan, huge ass in the air, and started snoring.

  Kruger raised his eyebrows at Bussola. ‘Well?’

  Reluctantly he edged towards the wall. His eyes lasered into Kruger with a fierce anger. ‘You’ll regret this, Steve.’

  It was a statement of fact. It told Kruger nothing he didn’t already know.

  ‘ In fact you’ll all regret this,’ Bussola declared blandly.

  ‘ Get the girls out of here,’ Kruger said to Myrna and Kelly. The two women entered the room, careful not to step into the line of fire between Kruger, Jimmy and their two targets. Bussola watched them through veiled lids, lingering over Myrna. His face turned back to Kruger. ‘Why the hell are you here anyway, Steve?’ Bussola mused out loud. He licked his lips. The ex-cop felt himself begin to weaken underneath the tough exterior.

  Even naked and exposed, Bussola was every inch a gangster. He’d paid his dues on the mean streets of New York and Chicago, punking around with the gangs, terrifying neighbourhoods, but always thinking about expansion and the future. In his thirties, with a well-established criminal organisation in those cities, he decided to move the centre of his operations to Miami where it expanded to epic proportions. He orchestrated some bloody — and a few bloodless — coups and continued to grow, though he only ever made the number two spot. Number one was held by a mobster named Tony Corelli. Corelli’s unexpected demise at the hands of two armed women — a case still unsolved by the cops — opened the way for Bussola to claim top spot. Which he did, ruthlessly taking over Corelli’s flourishing empire.

  Bussola was widely believed to be a billionaire.

  He was also widely believed to have personally killed several people on the way to amassing his fortune. Legend had it that he once chain-sawed a rival to pieces. This was never proved, but Kruger believed it.

  And Kruger was frightened because he believed everything about Bussola, and frightened because he believed Bussola’s words.

  He was also totally disgusted at a man who had so much wealth at his disposal that he could have bought anything legal in terms of sexual pleasure, yet resorted to a sordid back-street room where he, together with another man, got his kicks by raping a girl who did not look twelve years old.

  Maybe that was part of the thrill. Doing something which, no matter what the circumstance, was unlawful — and getting away with it. The ultimate middle finger stuck up at a society he despised.

  Except this time he would not get away with it.

  Kruger found he could not prevent his mouth curling into a sneer of contempt as these thoughts went through his mind.

  ‘ What choo lookin’ at?’ Bussola growled.

  ‘ Scum.’

  Bussola nodded, then winked at Kruger. ‘I’m a very bad person to have as an enemy.’

  ‘ So am I,’ Kruger responded. He could see Bussola was not convinced, whereas Kruger honestly believed the Italian would be a very bad adversary.

  Myrna and Kelly escorted the two girls out of the room, the younger one of them covered up by a large, soiled towel Kelly had found on the floor.

  This left Kruger and Jimmy facing Bussola, the bodyguard and the big fat guy spread-eagled on the bed in a sea of vomit.

  Their guns never wavered.

  ‘ What now, Steve?’ Bussola raised his thick bushy eyebrows.

  ‘ Cops.’

  ‘ And what do you expect to happen?’

  ‘ Arrest and conviction.’

  Bussola blinked as though he could not believe his ears. Then he roared with laughter, throwing his head right back. His penis, now limp, jiggled with merriment. Then the laughter stopped. He became serious. ‘I very much doubt it, Steve. Very much.’

  A cop siren wailed not too distantly. A flood of relief passed through Kruger. ‘We’ll see, Mario.’ Inside he already had his doubts.

  ‘ How about letting us get dressed?’ />
  ‘ No — stay as you are,’ Kruger said, not wanting to lose any forensics. ‘Just as we found you — naked as jailbirds.’

  Chapter Five

  Although British prisons have had a bad press over recent ears for their allegedly liberal regimes, it is true to say at even a prison run along the strictest of lines would not be able to control inmates 100 per cent of the time — unless they were banged up in their cells twenty-four hours a day.

  And however tightly policed the prison inside which Trent was incarcerated had been, there is a better than even chance he would still have been able to plan, prepare and execute the course of action he had decided to take.

  As it was, the fairly laid-back way in which the prison was run meant that with just a little care and common sense, there was no earthly chance of him being caught.

  Once again he was awake early.

  He watched the darkness of night become the brightness of morning, willing the time to pass, eager to get going.

  By the time his cell door opened he was shaved, dressed and ready for breakfast. He did not show any enthusiasm to the warder for the day ahead, however, but sloped dejectedly out of the cell and walked slowly along the landing. He stared blankly ahead of himself, dragging his feet, trying to give the impression of a dead man walking.

  He joined the queue to the breakfast servery. Coysh was one of the servers, Trent noticed, and the man slopped wet scrambled eggs and bacon swimming in grease onto people’s plastic plates.

  Coysh clocked Trent’s imminent approach and surreptitiously selected a few prime rashers for him.

  The two men exchanged a knowing glance. Trent said, ‘Everything okay?’

  Coysh nodded.

  ‘ Keep me informed.’

  Coysh turned his attention to the next one in line.

  Trent moved on, smiling secretly, grabbed a mug of tea and sat down at a table. Alone.

  ‘ I heard about what happened last night, Danny,’ Henry Christie said. The two of them were in Henry’s office, the door closed, his phone on divert.