by Nick Oldham
The killing look.
‘ Ever heard of napalm?’
Once again Claire Lilton had disappeared.
As soon as Danny received the call she dashed down to the front office of the police station, although the dash was more of a hobble. Even so, she was there within a minute.
The PEA shrugged her shoulders. She had been too busy to do anything about Claire leaving.
Danny checked the area just outside the foyer. No sign of the girl.
A troubled and frustrated DC Furness returned to her desk, wondering what the hell it was all about. Obviously Claire wanted to talk, but maybe didn’t have the courage. Perhaps if Danny visited her home she would be able to talk privately… although that might prove difficult with Stepdaddy Lilton around.
And that thought struck a chord in Danny’s mind.
The stepfather — Joe Lilton.
When she had met him at the hospital, Danny had been positive it was not the first time. The face and voice were familiar, yet had been impossible to pinpoint. Someone from many years ago.
Danny picked up the phone, spoke to the PNC operator in comms and requested a body check on Joe Lilton.
He came up on the screen immediately. Not because he had any previous convictions, which was the usual case for people on the Police National Computer, but because he was the holder of a firearms certificate issued by the Chief Constable of Lancashire.
Danny thanked the operator, hung up.
Yet still nothing registered with her.
She trawled deep into her long-term memory… and there it was, filed away neatly and nicely in the attic storeroom of her brain cells. The firearms certificate was the key, the reason why Danny knew him.
She had been the police officer, all of fifteen years before, who had visited Lilton at his home address somewhere in Blackburn following his application for a certificate. You had to check for previous convictions, visit the house and ensure there were safe storage facilities for the weapons. It was a routine procedure. Routine but necessary. Then you had to make a recommendation as to whether the applicant was suitable to hold a firearms certificate.
… It was all coming back as she thought long and hard.
The petrol ate up the Styrofoam until it was sated and could devour no more. Finally, Trent was left with a thick, syrupy substance.
‘ There we are,’ he declared happily. ‘Whatever you do, don’t touch it,’ he warned Wallwork, who had helped him to mix the Styrofoam into it, ‘or it’ll burn your skin off.’
‘ We’d better get going,’ Wallwork said. ‘They’ll miss us soon.’
‘ Yeah, you’re right. Will this be safe here? Anyone likely to come noseying in?’
Wallwork shook his head. ‘Doubtful.’
They locked the door behind them and made their way back through the prison, emerging at the rear of the kitchens. Wallwork guided him unobtrusively into the main body of the prison without mishap.
‘ Make sure you get a shower,’ Trent advised, painfully aware they both reeked of petrol. Wallwork said he would.
Fifteen minutes later, refreshed and changed, Trent descended into the association area and found Coysh in the TV lounge, sitting in a chair at the back of the room, away from the other inmates who were watching the box.
Trent sat in the empty chair next to him.
Neither man formally acknowledged the other.
‘ I wanna know their plans for the rest of the day.’ Trent spoke just loud enough for Coysh to hear.
‘ In the gym between two and three. After the brew they’ll be in Blake’s cell up on level two. Card-game arranged. The three of them and the nigger — you know, your big pal.’
‘ That’ll be handy.’
‘ They’ll be there until evening meal. After that, don’t know.’
Trent relaxed in the comfortable chair, his eyes looking at, but not focusing on the TV: He placed his fingertips together and made a steeple with his fingers. He placed the tip of it underneath his chin.
It was an ideal situation for his proposed course of action.
Level two was the prison equivalent of a high-class housing estate. Anyone who was anyone had a cell up there; the movers and shakers of prison society. The remainder of the inmates were on the other landings. If you were found on landing two and didn’t have a cell there, you needed a damned good reason for your presence. There was no wandering through, no nosy-parkering — unless you wanted your face smashed in. Or worse.
Which would probably make it all the more easy for Trent because the likelihood was that between the hours mentioned by Coysh, there would be few people up there anyway. And the ones who were, such as Blake, would be busy in their cells, conspiring.
‘ Keep me informed,’ Trent said. He made to stand up, then had a thought. ‘Did you fulfil my other request?’
Coysh reached down the side of his chair and picked up an open can of Diet Coke. He handed it to Trent who found it to be quite heavy.
‘ Don’t drink it, for fuck’s sake,’ Coysh laughed. Trent smelled it, winced. ‘What is it?’
‘ Just what you wanted. Pig’s blood.’
‘ I want to thank you all for last night’s effort.’
Steve Kruger surveyed the faces of the team which had successfully put themselves up against Bussola — and won so convincingly.
Since the cops had arrived at the scene and arrested Bussola, Kruger and the team had stayed up and given witness depositions. Now it was ten in the morning. None of them had had any sleep for over twenty-four hours. All were shattered and showed it.
Myrna nodded. ‘Yeah, everyone worked well.’
‘ But now we have a problem,’ Kruger said with caution. ‘And I don’t think I need to spend a great deal of time expanding on it. I’m talking about Bussola’s organisation. We need to be watching our backs — and fronts — from now on. Bussola doesn’t like people who go against him, but I doubt whether he’ll be stupid enough to do anything too soon. However, be wary.’
When they were gone, with the exception of Myrna, Kruger sat down heavily and rubbed his tired, red-raw eyes.
‘ What are you going to tell Felicity?’ Myrna asked.
He shrugged. ‘Doubt if I’ll have to tell her anything.’ Myrna yawned; Kruger saw a mouthful of perfect teeth. ‘You realise,’ he said, ‘you spent a whole night with the boss. What’ll hubby think about that one?’
She was about to make a smart-ass reply when Kruger’s cell-tel chirped.
‘ Steve Kruger.’
‘ Steve, it’s Mark Tapperman here.’
‘ Hi, Mark.’ Kruger and he went back many years. Tapperman was now a Lieutenant in the Miami Police Department.
‘ Bad news, I’m afraid,’ Tapperman said. Kruger knew what it would be even before he said it. ‘Bussola’s walked. No charges. Nuthin’ we could do about it. He’s free as a bird again.’
Chapter Six
Trent, Wallwork and Coysh made the trip out to the old boiler-room.
Trent poured a few inches of petrol into two more milk bottles and then half-filled three more bottles with the home-made napalm, pouring it carefully from the toolbox into the mouths of the bottles, not spilling a drop of the thick liquid. He was totally concentrated; his hands were steady, his eyes focused. The sticky substance did not run easily, but Trent was not worried about that. It wasn’t supposed to. That part of the job finished, he covered the tops of the bottles with tinfoil.
The pillowcase in which the Styrofoam cups had been transported was torn up by him into strips which he dipped in petrol. He folded the strips into an empty, clean and dry baked-bean tin which he covered with a square of tinfoil.
‘ Yeah, good, I’m right,’ he said, bouncing as he surveyed his handiwork with a gleam in his eyes. ‘Let’s get this stuff back to the kitchens.’
He had brought along another pillowcase which he folded carefully around the bottles; then he placed them into a sports bag which he zipped up and hung over his shoulder, ke
eping it level.
‘ You’re sure the cell next to Blake’s will be empty?’ he questioned Coysh again.
Coysh nodded.
‘ Right, good. Once we get back, you look after this gear in the kitchens, then when I give you the nod, take it up to that cell and shove it underneath the bunk, got that? Think you can do that?’
‘ Yep,’ said Coysh.
‘ And you know what you’re doing?’ Trent turned to Vic Wallwork.
‘ I know.’
‘ Good. Right — let’s go.’
Wallwork led them uneventfully back to the kitchens where Coysh placed the sports bag in a cupboard underneath a sink.
Trent went back to his cell. He knew it would be empty because his stupid cellmates always watched Fifteen-to-One on Channel Four at 4.30 p.m.
It was now 4.20 p.m. They always got there early for the front-row seats.
He stole a pillowcase from one of their beds and tore it into fairly wide strips. After this he filled the wash-basin with cold water and dropped the strips inside to soak them.
Next he helped himself to a pair of trousers and a shirt, both prison issue, belonging to the cellmate he judged to be more or less the same size as himself. He put both items into the water and made sure they were waterlogged too.
From the waistband of his jeans he popped out the pills he’d bought on his spending spree around the prison the day before and dribbled them out into a nice pile near the pillow on his bed. Just for the hell of it he wolfed a few of them down, even though he did not know what they were. They tasted foul, but did nothing for him immediately.
He was nearing readiness.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed he rolled up his shirtsleeves and exposed both forearms. The skin was criss-crossed with old scars, poor attempts at previous suicides.
Time for the knife.
He reached into his foam pillow, pulled out the bung and extracted the knife from its hiding place.
It looked, and he knew it was, shiny, sharp and deadly.
Firstly he ran his thumb down the sharp blade, just to test it. He smiled maliciously, knowing if he pressed harder his thumb would have been sliced in two halves.
Next he placed the blade against the soft skin on the inside of his left forearm, just above the wrist. He applied a little pressure, the blade indented the skin. He pressed a little harder and slowly, deliberately, drew the knife across the skin which parted easily, leaving a thin red line. Breath escaped through his teeth. The pain was almost unbearable pleasure. He pulled the knife away and stared at what he had done. Nothing happened for a few seconds… then little blobs of blood appeared down the line of the cut. They burst and began to trickle.
He inspected the cut and clenched his fist, tightening the muscles and sinews of his forearm, forcing more blood to seep out of the wound.
Trent’s face had an expression of grim satisfaction on it.
It had been a finely judged cut.
Just deep enough to draw blood, not too deep to do any real damage.
He placed the blade a further two inches up his arm, gritted his teeth and sliced the skin open. A sensation went through him that was almost sexual.
Again, the cut was perfect.
It bled, but was not serious.
Trent was enjoying himself.
His heart was pounding.
He had a sudden urge to do more, in a less controlled, more frenzied way… and in fact he could not stop himself as half a dozen more times he slashed the razor-sharp blade across his forearm, each time gasping orgasmically as the skin opened.
Suddenly, breathlessly, he knew he had to get a grip and stop.
He looked at his arm and licked the blood from it with a slurping, drain-like noise, tasting the hot, salty liquid on his tongue, covering his teeth with it. It tasted good and he groaned. ‘I’m good, yeah, good.’ He shook his head, crossed the knife into his left hand and quickly repeated the process on the skin of his right forearm, leaving eight slash-lines across the lily-white skin, but not one of them deep enough to cause him any problems.
He rolled down his shirtsleeves and buttoned them at the cuffs. He stood up and walked smartly out onto the landing, his arms folded across his chest. He went to a point which overlooked the association area.
Coysh and Wallwork were sitting huddled over a chessboard.
Coysh looked up, saw Trent and nodded.
He moved a bishop. ‘Mate,’ he said, and stood.
Trent walked quickly back to his cell where he immediately stripped naked, bar his footwear, and re-dressed in the cold wet clothes which had been soaking in the wash-basin. He took the torn pillowcase and squeezed out some of the excess water.
Before leaving the cell he grabbed the knife.
He knew from experience that the chances of meeting other prisoners or maybe even a screw were pretty scarce at this time of day. Most people were down on association or beginning to form an early queue for the evening meal. Screw activity was focused on those areas with the occasional officer prowling about… or, as Trent knew today, in a cell with a drug dealer sampling some wares. Trent’s luck would have to be pretty low for him to meet anyone who mattered on the journey between his cell and level two.
He saw no one.
Quietly he mounted the metal staircase which led up to level two, peering ahead of him down the walkway in front of the cells, checking the all-clear.
A second later he was on the landing. Level two. Home to Blake et al.
The cell Trent was interested in was the fourth along.
The other cell which interested him was third along.
He crept quietly, hearing Blake’s raucous laughter and voice from the fourth cell. There were other voices too. Trent recognised them all. They belonged to his tormentors and the black rapist, and because of what they had done to him, they were all going to die.
He sneaked into the third cell — empty, as promised — knelt down by the first bunk and reached for the sports bag which had been placed there by Coysh just a few minutes earlier. Trent dragged it out, unzipped it and carefully unwrapped the pillowcase from around the milk bottles. He placed them side by side on the cell floor, removing the tinfoil tops.
He picked out the petrol-soaked strips of cotton from the baked-bean tin and pushed them into the mouth of each bottle.
Last, but not least, he found the Zippo lighter which he had previously ensured was safely stored in the side compartment of the sports bag.
Before lighting the strips, he wrapped several of the water-soaked strands of torn pillowcase around his head for protection against any possible backdraught.
The lighter flared first time. He moved the flame towards one of the bottles.
‘ What the hell y’doin’?’
Trent dropped the lighter, spun round and saw the shape of the large black man standing at the cell door; it was the one who had raped him. He had been involved in the card-game next door for almost two hours and had come out to stretch his legs.
Trent reacted instantly.
His right hand flew round to the back pocket where he had put the knife and whilst he reached for it he rose and hurled himself towards the black man with more speed than he knew he had. By the time he reached him, the knife was in his right hand and executing an unstoppable upward arc towards the man’s chest. It entered just below the sternum with such force and at such an angle that Trent was able to drive the point of the blade into the heart. He actually felt it enter that organ. Felt the resistance of the muscle wall, felt it burst through into the right ventricle.
The man was astounded by the speed. He didn’t have time to react in any way at all.
Trent double-forced the blade and screwed it horribly as though he was wrenching the handle of a table football game. At the same time he grabbed the man’s curly hair and pulled him into the cell.
He was dead.
Trent eased the limp body down onto his knees, then onto his face, withdrew the knife, wiped it clean on the
man’s back and returned to the milk bottles and cigarette lighter.
Time was running out.
He lit each bottle. The blue flames faltered slightly until they took hold.
He picked up two bottles, one petrol, one napalm, and weighed them thoughtfully in his hands as he wondered just how he was going to do this.
He decided to take a chance.
The landing was clear, so he quickly placed the burning bottles in a row outside the cell door.
Then he took two petrol bombs, a deep breath, spun into the doorway of Blake’s cell and announced, ‘Your time has come, you bastards!’
The three men inside were sat on the edge of two beds with a small table between them. Halfway through a card-game, they looked up, annoyed by the interruption.
At which moment Trent acted.
With all the force he could muster he aimed the first bottle at a point on the floor in front of the table and smashed it down.
It burst on impact. With a whoosh of flame the petrol splashed up and ignited.
Trent immediately bowled the second bottle in.
It crashed and exploded, engulfing the cell in flame.
Trent bent down, picked up two napalm bombs and they went the same way as the others — smashing on impact, their contents being sprayed all over the men in the cell — with the added effect that the home-made napalm clung and burned fiercely.
Blake avoided the full blast of the first two bombs, but could not avoid the napalm. He screamed as gobs of fire splattered all over him. One shot down his throat and burned him from the inside.
The other two men were victims of the first firebombs.
One managed to run out of the cell, a demented, writhing fireball, screaming in agony as he burst his way past Trent. He stamped frenziedly across the walkway and flung himself over the railings into space, dropping like a comet into the safety netting below. Here he thrashed about wildly, suspended twenty-five feet above the association area, watched by stunned, open-mouthed inmates and staff. All helpless to assist him.
Without watching this, Trent lobbed the remaining bottles into the cell, ducking as the heat and flames bellowed out. The fingers of fire caressed and singed his protective clothing.
