One Dead Witness hc-3

by Nick Oldham

  He did. With fearsome, violent strokes.

  It was all over. He collapsed exhausted across her, squeezing her young breasts roughly with his big, hard hands.

  ‘ That was great,’ he breathed.

  He got off the bed and leaned towards her ear. ‘Don’t tell your mum, or I’ll fucking kill you,’ he warned her quietly. Then he left the room and returned to his marital bed.

  Claire cried for a long, long time.

  Finally her sobs subsided. She rolled off the bed and packed her bag. This time she wasn’t going to return.

  ‘ I thought you were never gonna answer,’ Steve Kruger’s voice boomed down the phone-line.

  Mark Tapperman had had a busy day and night and was only an hour into what was going to be, at best, four hours’ sleep. He tried to force open his groggy eyelids. His wife uttered something unrepeatable next to him and dragged the single sheet over her head.

  ‘ Steve, what the hell do you want?’ Tapperman asked with some difficulty. Two reasons for that: his throat was bone dry (a sure sign he’d been snoring loudly) and it was hard work to coordinate the brain-speech function. ‘It’s… damn, I can’t even open my eyes to see the clock.’

  ‘ Four in the morning,’ Kruger informed him.

  ‘ Steve, you asshole, I’m shattered here. I’ve been on the go for twenty-four hours, as have you. In fact, why the hell aren’t you asleep? Anybody with any sense would be.’

  ‘ Okay, so I’ve woken you. Sorry and all that, but I couldn’t sleep and something came into my mind I needed clarifying.’

  Tapperman sighed with reluctance. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘ You said that English guy, Gilbert, was catching a plane out of Miami. When, exactly?’

  Tapperman shuffled his brain cells and sorted through them. ‘Er, gee… five or six o’clock this morning, I think it leaves… I’m not completely sure. Why?’

  ‘ Thanks for that,’ Kruger said brightly.

  ‘ Why, Steve?’ the detective insisted.

  ‘ Gonna pay the bastards a call.’ Kruger hung up.

  Tapperman leaned back against the headboard, wondering what the hell that was all about. He closed his eyes as his thoughts evaporated and he fell asleep immediately.

  Chapter Nine

  Detective Inspector Henry Christie read through the long and detailed message switch which had arrived in the early hours of the morning at Blackpool nick. It concerned the escape from prison of Louis Vernon Trent, a man born and raised in Blackpool. The story had been all over the daily newspaper Henry read before coming to work, but the nitty-gritty detail of what Trent had done in order to effect the escape was spelled out starkly in the police report in front of him. What the media could only guess at was laid out, blow by blow.

  To Henry, the rather formal language of the message made Trent’s exploits seem much more callous and evil than the sensationalism of the newspaper articles.

  He read the story once more, then picked up a copy of a message received from the Royal Bank of Scotland, informing him that the bank account belonging to the dead ambulance-driver had been plundered twice since his death. The second time — and the time that interested Henry — was at two thirty-five that morning, from their cash-point at the branch on Talbot Square in Blackpool.

  Two thirty-five! The bastard had obviously been walking around, bold as brass, through the streets of Blackpool.

  Next Henry read a crime report concerning the theft of a purse belonging to an old woman; it had been stolen from her bag whilst she was on the train to Blackpool. The description of the offender fitted that of Trent, who had been seen to get off the train at Poulton-le-Fylde.

  He was definitely in town. That much was obvious.

  Henry laid the crime report down and looked at the fax next to it from the prison service. It showed a two-year-old photo of Trent. Much of the quality had disappeared during transmission, but Henry could see from the image that the man had a piercing pair of eyes; they made him shiver.

  ‘ Shit,’ he breathed.

  Underneath the fax was a copy of Trent’s previous convictions.

  His telephone squawked. He answered it on the second ring.

  ‘ Henry, I hope you’re looking at the reports I’m looking at, otherwise I’ll have your effin’ guts for shoelaces!’ the voice shouted rudely down the line. The person did not have the courtesy to introduce himself, expecting to be instantly recognised. Henry knew it was the newly promoted Assistant Chief Constable (Operations), Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, known generally as FB and in particular as ‘that Fucking Bastard’.

  Although FB’s responsibilities covered the whole range of police operations in Lancashire County, FB’s main love and interest was crime. He’d been a detective for most of his service.

  He and Henry went back many years. However, Henry did not like him.

  In response to FB’s opening broadside, Henry said, ‘I assume you mean our friend Mr Trent?’

  ‘ You assume dead-fucking-right. This is very much your pigeon, Henry, so what the hell are you doing about him? I’ve had the press crawlin’ right up my arse already this morning and also the Chief Constable of Staffordshire where the prison is located; she is not a happy woman with seven murders on her patch, I can tell you, and she wants this bastard catching. So, what’re you doing to catch him?’

  ‘ Actually nothing,’ should have been Henry’s truthful reply. ‘I’ve done bugger all but sit here, scratching my backside and trying to look moderately intelligent while I wonder what the hell to do.’

  ‘ Well, sir,’ Henry began, when there was a light tap on his office door and Danny poked her head round. Henry’s eyes lit up as a thought struck him. He beckoned her in and waved her to sit down.

  ‘ Well, sir — what? ’ FB demanded, annoyed by Henry’s hesitation.

  The DI’s voice remained calm whilst underneath he paddled like mad. ‘I was just this minute chatting to DC Furness from Family Protection about this very matter. She’s the one who caught Trent originally and got him sent down; obviously, she knows quite a bit about him. We were discussing the possibility of her transferring onto CID a few days early — as you know, she joins us as a DS next Monday anyway. If she came early, she could coordinate the operation to nail Trent. We’re bringing in some Divisional Support Units to assist ours..’ Henry cringed at Danny and closed his eyes desperately ‘… and I’ve arranged a briefing at eleven.’ Henry hoped he sounded. convincing. He crossed his fingers.

  ‘ Good, good.’ FB was impressed. ‘Trusted you to be ahead of the game… I expected nothing less.’

  ‘ There is a slight hitch,’ Henry interjected.

  ‘ Go on.’

  ‘ Regarding DC Furness joining us early. It might be, er… politically sensitive, so will you sanction it in writing?’

  This time it was Danny who crossed her fingers.

  The expression which broke over Henry’s face told her the news was good.

  He put the phone down at last. ‘Hope that’s okay with you?’

  ‘ Okay is a bit of an understatement. I’d say ecstatic. Jack won’t like it one little bit, though. He’ll dig his heels in.’

  ‘ In that case, we’ll present him with a fait accompli. He won’t have any choice in the matter. So, Danny,’ Henry raised his eyebrows, ‘have you come to talk to me about Jack again?’

  She nodded sadly.

  Steve Kruger drove recklessly to MIA with little or no thought about what exactly he was doing. He didn’t know the number of the flight Bussola’s friend was due to catch; didn’t know where in the airport he was likely to find them (and Miami International Airport is a very big place) and, most stupid of all, he hadn’t a clue what he was going to do if a confrontation took place with Bussola.

  Remonstrate nicely with him? Be politely assertive? Explain just how deeply peeved he was feeling because Bussola had managed to wriggle out of child-abuse indictments and subsequently chopped up two Kruger Investigations’ employees with more skill t
han a meat butcher and decorated a hallway with their body parts?

  He didn’t know. He just didn’t fucking know.

  But what he did know was that the chances of actually coming face to face with Bussola in future would be minimal. The gangster led an existence shrouded in secrecy and protected by guards, however useless they might be. It wasn’t often he stepped into public, and when he did so no one usually knew when or where it would be. Kruger had only learned of Bussola’s whereabouts the other night because Felicity had told him. Kruger guessed that in future Bussola would be even more careful following the shock of his arrest.

  This might be Kruger’s last chance to get right into Bussola’s face and let the bastard know he meant business; that he was on his case and wouldn’t be off it until a grand jury sat there examining him.

  Once parked up at MIA, Kruger made his way into the terminal building. The place was extremely crowded, making Kruger step back when he saw them.

  He checked the departure screens and saw that the first flight to the UK was to Manchester; apparently it was delayed for an hour, which gave him some heart. Yet finding Bussola amongst all these folks would be like looking for a proverbial needle.

  And that assumed Bussola hadn’t simply dumped his fat friend Gilbert and gone straight home. Kruger hoped the two men — partners in sexual abuse — would be spending a little quality time together, maybe chewing the fat, before the Englishman caught the big bird. Maybe having a drink, or a meal..?

  The police constable found that, try as he might, he could not dredge up any great sympathy for this misper. Seven times now in the last two months was enough to try anyone’s patience. He, personally, had taken four of these reports.

  As far as he was concerned, she was a nuisance. A silly, headstrong little kid who needed a good belting.

  Nevertheless, he smiled patiently at the mother, took out his pen and the appropriate forms and wrote down details he knew almost off by heart.

  Full name of missing person: LILTON, Claire Jane.

  After making some hurried phone calls between them, using FB’s name as a lever, Henry and Danny gradually put together enough police officers to form a team big enough to kick-start a manhunt.

  Weary after this flurry of activity, they made their way up to the canteen to grab a cup of tea and some toast. Henry guided Danny to the far corner where they sat out of earshot. He looked expectantly at her, waiting for her to begin, and noting the dark rings around her eyes.

  ‘ He’s driving me absolutely nuts,’ she commenced, calmly enough. ‘Now he’s started phoning me and not speaking… really babyish. But it’s getting to me; making me a nervous wreck. I’m beginning to feel like a prisoner in my own home… God, I hope I don’t sound like a hysterical female.’

  ‘ No, you don’t,’ Henry reassured her. ‘But are you sure it’s him phoning?’

  ‘ I tried 1471 and got no joy, but it could have come from a phone on a switchboard… so, no, I don’t know, but I’m sure it is.’

  ‘ We can check out the phone in his office.’

  ‘ And then twelve red roses came through the letter box at half-one this morning. I’m sure it’s him.’

  ‘ Any proof?’

  She shrugged thoughtfully. ‘I could possibly check something out.’

  ‘ Do it,’ Henry ordered her.

  ‘ I’m also positive he’s the one who damaged my car. When I drove out last night he was holding the badge for me to see.’

  ‘ Oh, that’s what it was.’

  ‘ You saw him?’

  ‘ I was in the vicinity, shall we say? Purely by accident.’ Henry opened his palms. ‘Okay, Danny, what do you want to do? I know we’ve had this discussion before, but now things have moved on a pace.’

  She looked glum. She sighed through her nose and rested her elbow on the table, her chin on her hand and gazed out of the window towards the Tower. There was a huge inflatable gorilla climbing up it which made her smile briefly. ‘He’ll no doubt have dumped the badge somewhere, so I don’t see any future in court proceedings. He’s not stupid enough to have kept it, is he?’

  Henry raised a finger to interrupt her. He smiled wickedly. ‘Yes, he is stupid enough. I sneaked in behind him last night and followed him to his office. I think he hid it in there somewhere.’

  Danny’s mouth fell open. She was silent for a few moments. ‘Do you know how much those things are?’ she blurted. ‘Criminal damage,’ she ruminated as the implications dawned on her. ‘He could lose his job if he got convicted.’

  ‘ He deserves to.’

  She shook her head decisively. ‘No, I wouldn’t want that. I simply want him sorted out. I’m not even bothered about compensation — just get him off my back.’

  Henry took a deep breath. ‘Right,’ he said with finality. ‘In that case, let’s present him with fait accompli numero deux de la jour. Okay?’

  ‘ It’s a deal.’

  ‘ And while we’re doing that, let’s do our level best to catch Louis Vernon Trent… an old friend of yours, I believe.’

  Kruger meandered around the shops and bars and poked his head into the VIP lounges he knew of.

  Nothing.

  He realised he could be wasting time better spent in bed. Then, as he passed the meeting point Location and Information Center on concourse E, he had an idea. The pretty lady behind the counter was called Julia.

  ‘ Hi, my name’s Steve,’ he said disingenuously. ‘I dunno if you can do this for me, but I’m supposed to meet my buddy, Charlie Gilbert here… about twenty minutes ago. We seem to have missed each other and I don’t know where he is. He’s due to board the Manchester flight an’ I’m Seattle-bound. It’s our last chance to get together before he leaves the States. We probably won’t see each other again for years.’ He sighed, looking upset. ‘I was wonderin’ if you could page him, maybe tell him there’s some urgent information for him. Could you do that, honey?’

  Julia smiled. ‘Of course, sir.’

  She leaned forwards and opened her mouth to speak close to the mike in a way which made Kruger’s heart palpitate, when out of the corner of his eye he saw Gilbert actually walk past. He was accompanied by a guy Kruger placed as one of Bussola’s minders.

  ‘ Forget it, babe.’ Kruger placed his hand between her mouth and the mike and smiled. ‘Some other time, maybe.’ Then he was gone, tailing Gilbert at a discreet distance.

  The pair walked into the main shopping mall on the first floor and made a beeline for the Disney Store. With a bored-looking bodyguard lounging idly by the door, Gilbert spent about twenty minutes browsing before reappearing, bearing a large carrier bag stuffed with a giant Mickey Mouse.

  He did a little more shopping and, suitably laden down, left the shopping area. He went to concourse E, turned up some steps and disappeared through a door marked Private — Executive Lounge.

  The minder followed and so did Kruger. He had already made up his mind to follow Gilbert wherever he went, positive he would be led to Bussola.

  Kruger burst through the door and found himself in a privately rented room with a small bar, waitress and a few tables and chairs.

  Bussola sat at the bar, drinking whisky.

  There were four bodyguards in all. As soon as Kruger came through the door, they reacted. He was faced with the muzzles of three pistols, all held in very steady hands. Bussola smiled broadly at the intruder.

  Kruger knew then what it must have been like to step into the lion’s den, particularly when an ebullient Bussola shouted, ‘Hey, Steve! Wondered when you’d show up. Come in and have a drink. You look like you need one. Siddown, let’s have chats.’ He glanced at the bodyguards. ‘Search him,’ he barked.

  It was not so much a VIP lounge as a cosy VIP living room. Kruger had not known such things existed. Most of the flying he had done had been on the cheap; waiting with hundreds of other poor unfortunates, then being crammed with a shoe-horn onto a pencil-thin plane to sit in seats with hardly any recline, leg space or
comfort.

  This, he decided, was the way to travel in the future. Kruger’s eyes surveyed the bodyguards again.

  Two stood near the door. The other two were slightly to one side of him, positioned to judge his every move and react should he do anything stupid.

  But he’d already done about the most stupid thing he was ever going to do by turning up at the airport with some half-baked notion in his brain.

  Now he knew he’d be lucky to leave here in one piece. He looked narrowly at Bussola.

  Mark Tapperman jerked into wakefulness. The telephone was still in his hand. The bedside light was still on. His wife still asleep. He blew out his cheeks and wondered if it had been a dream, the phone call from Kruger. With a further rude start, he realised no. He sat up quickly, re-set the phone and dialled Kruger’s home number, hoping his friend would not be so stupid as to… No, Tapperman reassured himself as he waited for Kruger to answer, he couldn’t be that stupid. Could he?

  ‘ You gotta lotta balls,’ the Italian was saying, ‘coming out here. Either that or you’re a complete jerk.’

  ‘ The latter, I think,’ Kruger said dryly.

  ‘ Well, whatever, Steve, you’re here now and we can talk like two grown men.’

  ‘ Do grown men cut each other to pieces?’

  Bussola stuck a large cigar between his fat lips and lit it with a silver lighter. It had the diameter of a trashcan lid and took a lot of flame to get going. Once lit, he squinted at it, blew on the end and replied, ‘Sometimes, Steve… when it’s really necessary.’

  ‘ Bit of an overreaction, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘ For me? Naw… pussy cat stuff. So, c’mon Steve, I’m hellish curious. What did Felicity want to see you for? Is that the reason you turned up unannounced the other night and caught me and my friend in flagrante delicto?’