One Dead Witness hc-3

by Nick Oldham

  The questions threw Kruger slightly off-balance. They meant that the two goons who had kidnapped him weren’t so loyal to Felicity as she believed them to be. They had blabbed to Bussola, something that didn’t surprise Kruger. However, she was still technically a client even if she hadn’t paid a dime yet, and Kruger always retained confidentiality except when ordered to talk by a court of law.

  Additionally, she had once been his wife and though he hated her with a volcanic intensity, he did not really want any harm to befall her.

  ‘ Not sure what you mean, Mario. Felicity?’

  ‘ Steve, don’t piss me off. The two guys who hauled your ass off the street informed me. And what’s more, I have a video-tape of you entering and leaving the house. I am very security conscious, for obvious reasons.’ He looked expectantly at the increasingly uncomfortable Kruger.

  ‘ More drinks, sir?’ the waitress interrupted.

  Bussola glared at her for a fraction of a second, before his face softened and he said, ‘Not just now, honey.’ He patted her ass and rubbed the back of her leg. She didn’t seem concerned. ‘Make yourself scarce… this is business.’

  ‘ Okay, sir.’

  She turned and disappeared out the back of the bar. Kruger and Bussola watched her retreat and their eyes slowly returned to each other.

  ‘ Nice, huh?’ Bussola asked.

  ‘ Yeah, sure.’

  The Italian leaned forwards confidentially to Kruger who could smell, nay taste, the guy’s cigar breath. ‘Too fuckin’ old for me, Steve. I like ‘em young and I like ‘em tight and I like to hear the bitches scream… but you know that, don’t you?’ He smiled.

  Kruger’s face hardened over. Through gritted teeth he said, ‘You disgust me.’

  Bussola rocked back and laughed. ‘D’ya think I give a shit, you stupid asshole? Now, where were we?’ He brushed some cigar-ash off his pants. ‘Oh, yes — you and Felicity.’

  ‘ She missed me and we had to catch up with things. That’s what exes often do… much to the chagrin of their current spouses.’

  ‘ Baloney! Did you ball her?’

  ‘ Uh-uh. No way.’

  ‘ What did she really want, Steve?’ His eyes glittered. ‘That’s the last time I’ll ask that question, bud. If I don’t get a satisfactory answer, you can consider yourself a very dead human being.’

  This situation was the other exception to Kruger’s client confidentiality rule. When his life was threatened, he had no qualms about talking over any aspect of the client’s business. His sense of responsibility to the client went out the window as self-preservation kicked in. ‘She thought you were cheating on her. She hired me to find out. I did it because of our past.’ The words tumbled out of Kruger’s mouth with no further prompting.

  Bussola guffawed and almost choked on his cigar smoke. ‘Almost the right answer.’ Without warning, the mobster’s left hand shot out in a blur and gripped Kruger’s wrist with fat fingers. At the same time, he plunged the smouldering end of the cigar hard down into the back of Kruger’s trapped hand.

  Kruger emitted an unworldly scream of agony. He attempted to yank his hand away, but Bussola held on. Kruger’s next response was to draw back his free hand, curl it into a fist and propel it towards Bussola’s fat face.

  The fist got nowhere.

  Two of the bodyguards grabbed him and held on tight as the gangster continued to grind the cigar into the flesh whilst leaning forwards with a look of pure unadulterated glee.

  Kruger gritted his teeth as the torture continued. Blobs of sweat burst from his hairline, raced down his forehead into his eyebrows. The smell of his flesh burning wafted into his nostrils.

  It probably only lasted a few seconds. Kruger’s perception was that it seemed to go on for ever until the cigar was lifted away, having been effectively stubbed out. A black-grey-red welt was left sizzling on the back of his hand.

  Bussola leaned back, satisfied by his handiwork. He immediately re-ignited the cigar. With a wave he indicated for the guards to release Kruger.

  ‘ You bastard!’ cried Kruger, He leapt up and raced to the bar, watched curiously by Charlie Gilbert who was sat on a stool, drinking. He ducked as Kruger approached, but need not have worried. Kruger veered past him and thrust his throbbing hand into the bucket of ice cubes on the bar top.

  Breathless, he turned and glared at Bussola, holding himself back from doing or saying anything he might not live to regret.

  The ice worked well, numbing the pain like an anaesthetic.

  All four guards had their handguns drawn, gazing indolently at Kruger who could see they were totally different material to the ones he’d encountered the other night. Those two dickbrains were probably delivering pizzas now.

  With a waggle of his fingers, Bussola beckoned Kruger back to his seat.

  He carried the ice-bucket wedged under one arm, keeping his hand shoved deep into the ice. He sat shaking. Fear, mainly, being the cause. Pain too.

  ‘ Yeah, almost the right answer, Steve,’ Bussola said in a level conversational tone, as if nothing had happened. ‘But let’s stop beating about the bush: I have the whole of your meeting and chit-chat with Felicity down on tape.’

  ‘ You tape what goes on in your house while you’re not there?’ Kruger asked in disbelief.

  ‘ Absolutely. I like to know what she gets up to while I’m away. I have some very heavy footage of several of her sexual encounters with a succession of personal fitness trainers. I say succession because each one has met with — how shall I say? — an unfortunate set of circumstances. Gotta say, I prefer videos featuring younger people, though.’

  ‘ You’re a whizz of a hubby, Mario.’

  Bussola’s face set for a moment; Kruger thought he’d made a remark too far, then the big man relaxed again, did not rise to the bait.

  ‘ In that case,’ Kruger pushed on quickly, ‘you know I didn’t screw her and she had me by the short and curlies.’

  ‘ That shock-baton stuff?’

  ‘ Yep.’

  ‘ Looks as though I have the privilege now, doesn’t it?’

  ‘ Looks that way,’ Kruger admitted. His world collapsed at the prospect of having a Mafia godfather playing executive games with his testicles. Despite the ice, his hand started hurting again.

  ‘ Hey, you’re worried. Can see it in your face. No need. I don’t propose to use the knowledge of your past shady dealings in any way to influence you or blackmail you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not worth it, Steve. You’re just a piece of dogshit on my shoes and I wanna wipe you off. Basically I’m gonna have you executed and I’ll tell you why. You’ — he leaned forwards and held the newly lit burning tip of the cigar perilously close to Kruger’s face; Kruger felt its heat. Instinctively he jerked back. ‘You have severely annoyed me. Firstly by being so weak-kneed as to give in to the petty demands of your nympho ex-wife and then,’ his voice rose a few tones, ‘having the effrontery to go up against me. You have caused me considerable pain and aggravation AND cost me money. These guys,’ he waved to indicate the bodyguards, ‘will accompany you back to your car, pump several big fucking holes into your skull and then dump you in the Everglades, but before you go, just hand me your Rolex, please. It’s too nice for an alligator to swallow.’

  Kruger handed over his most treasured possession. He squirmed inwardly whilst he watched Bussola strap it onto his own wrist.

  ‘ Nice,’ he said admiringly, ‘very nice.’

  Once again, the big man moved faster than Kruger could have anticipated. He rose from his seat, wrapped a huge arm around Kruger’s neck, holding him there in a vice in the crook of his elbow, then stubbed the cigar out on Kruger’s face. When it was extinguished, he pushed Kruger away. The ice-bucket spilled and Kruger went down onto his knees, covering his horrendously injured face with his hands, moaning loudly.

  ‘ Take this fucker away and ice him,’ Bussola ordered.

  Just how Danny managed it, Henry Christie wasn’t sure.
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br />   He could not conceal a smile when he entered the first-floor briefing room at Blackpool police station and saw the room packed with the officers she had managed to pull together for ‘Operation Trawler’.

  The operation which, Henry hoped, would lead to the capture of Louis Vernon Trent.

  There was a full police support unit from Preston (one Inspector, three Sergeants and twenty-one Constables). Not bad going by any standards. In addition there were six PCs from Blackpool and three Detective Constables from his own office. Danny had also managed to turn out seven Special Constables. There was a dog-handler and four PCs from the mouthed branch, dogs and horses being excluded from the room. Six plainclothes officers from the Targeting Team made up the rest.

  All were swigging tea, coffee or orange juice and scoffing biscuits, thoughtfully provided by Danny. She stood by the briefing lectern at the front of the room, shuffling papers, happily taking charge of the whole kit and caboodle.

  Henry was impressed by the turnout. It was just one of those days when everyone seemed to be at the other end of the phone. There were not many of those days in a year.

  ‘ Okay, people,’ he began, sliding in next to Danny. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Can I have your undivided attention, please?’ The room fell silent. ‘To those of you from outside the Division, welcome to Blackpool. Whilst you’re here, we’ll try to look after your needs to the best of our abilities; to our residents, we’ll try to look after you shower, too. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m DI Henry Christie and this is Danny Furness who’ll be running the show. And, not to put too fine a point on it, you’re here to hunt down a very, very dangerous individual indeed…’

  By the time Henry Christie was saying those words, that dangerous individual had been up and out of bed for an hour. Although he had only got to bed at 5 a.m., the few hours’ sleep he’d had were adequate. Several years behind bars had whittled away his need for sleep. He woke bright and cheerful.

  The owner of the guest-house, Mrs Mitcham, a lady in her early fifties, was extremely happy to cook Trent a late breakfast… at a price. Not being his own money, Trent paid gladly.

  Outside, the weather was glorious.

  Trent’s first objective was to extend his wardrobe again by buying some light summer gear. Then he intended to drift round town and go into a pub where he knew he could off-load the credit cards and driving licence he’d stolen from several unfortunate people the previous day. He’d take whatever price was offered. Probably about a hundred quid, he guessed — but before all that, he had a more urgent need to fulfil.

  He used the phone in the guest-house to order a taxi which subsequently deposited him in Blackpool town centre just as Henry handed the briefing over to Danny.

  Two behind. One either side. That was the formation. Each of them with a hand resting inconspicuously on the butt of some type of firearm or other, concealed by well-tailored clothing from the prying eyes of the outside world.

  Kruger was the man in the middle.

  Before they left the room, he was given instructions by Bussola.

  ‘ Okay Steve, you walk out of here nice and cool, okay? You walk them to your car and they’ll do it there, nice ‘n’ quick — promise. Bam! Bam!’ He pointed his forefinger at Kruger’s head and cocked his thumb. ‘Over in a jiffy… Now, you might well think that before you reach the parking lot you’ll try some fancy footwork as you walk through the airport, or even do something really rash — like attract some cop’s attention. Now, Steve, I gotta warn you, if you do, these nice guys will blow you away there and then — and any other simple fucker who so much as steps towards them. There’ll be a real bloodbath, at the end of which they’ll simply fade into the background.

  ‘ Just to reiterate: by behaving yourself and leading these fine gents to your wheels, you’ll save innocent lives.’

  Bussola nodded at his men. ‘Okay, away you go.’

  Kruger’s face and hand hurt bad where the burning cigar had been screwed into his skin, but these injuries were right at the back of his mind as he tried desperately to figure a way out of this predicament.

  Whatever he did, it seemed, he was destined to die.

  There was no time for niceties any more. There would be no building up of rapport. No sweeties. No laughter.

  No love.

  That was all in the past, before the betrayals had sent him to prison. Now the little ones he had loved so much had to suffer and feel the pain he was feeling. It did not matter that they would not actually be the ones who had gone to court and damned him. It was the principle that mattered now.

  He had to make a point.

  No one betrayed or hurt him and got away with it.

  No one.

  Trent was sitting on a green park bench in the recreation area adjacent to Claremont Road in the North Shore of Blackpool. Watching, waiting, listening, his senses buzzing, anticipating. Soon, he knew, his opportunity would come.

  His eyes took in all the activity. Several youngsters were playing on the swings and slide. Most were accompanied by adults.

  Trent’s lips snarled at the inconvenience.

  He lifted up his newspaper, reckoning to be engrossed in it.

  He could wait, despite the urges inside him.

  They began the journey from the lounge to airport parking. Kruger felt as though he was walking on the moon. His legs became light and bloodless. The same pretty much applied to his brain.

  Everything was completely unreal. Being walked through Miami International Airport to be executed — how real was that?

  Everything blurred at the edges. His ears pounded like his head was inside a bass drum. People drifted by in a mist. Sound distorted, like a tape being eaten by a Walkman.

  Kruger shook his head, opened his eyes wide. Then his mind picked up the pain again from the burns on his skin, a sensation it had been suppressing. This brought him back to sharp focus.

  Back to the real world.

  Suddenly the unreality of before seemed much more preferable.

  Without doubt, Kruger was about to experience another of those Big Life Moments.

  Chapter Ten

  The shop was on Dickson Road, Blackpool, the road which runs behind the Imperial Hotel which is used each year as a base for political parties during conference week. The shop was one of those grocery-cum-everything shops which opened from 7 a.m. until extremely late. It was owned by an Asian family who had turned it into a thriving business by their sheer hard work.

  Claire Lilton had the straps of her sports bag over her left shoulder, holding the bag underneath her armpit. She had a metal shopping basket in her left hand, leaving her right hand free. The zip of the sports bag was open about six inches and if she squeezed the bag in a certain way, a hole appeared when the zip parted.

  In the basket were a couple of items from the shelves. In the sports bag were even more items from the shelves, none of which she intended to pay for. She paused near the sweet display, picked up a Kit Kat, looked closely at it, replaced it on the shelf. Her eyes moved to the corners of their sockets and she checked the aisle. Apart from a doddering old woman, Claire was alone.

  She picked up half a dozen Kit Kats, squeezed the bag and dropped them expertly into the hole. Casually she dawdled along the sweet display and dropped a 10p chocolate bear into the basket. She moved on.

  By the time she reached the till, her basket contained six cheap items. Her sports bag, which began to weigh heavy, contained a great deal of contraband.

  At the till she paid for the stuff in the wire basket and even asked for a carrier bag.

  Then she stepped out of the shop, only to be dragged back in by an irate Asian man, no taller than herself.

  ‘ Get your dirty hands off me,’ she screamed.

  The man did not let go. ‘You steal,’ he said. ‘You steal from shop. I call the cops.’ He had hold of her biceps. ‘In there — stolen property.’ He pointed at her sports bag. ‘I watch you steal.’

  ‘ I�
�ve done fuck-all, you bastard,’ she yelled into his face. ‘If you don’t let me go, I’ll sue you for assault.’

  She wriggled and squirmed and kicked out at him. Her Doc Marten boots connected with his shins and he emitted a yell of pain. Still, he hung onto her.

  ‘ Call cops!’ he shouted to the woman behind the till, who had been watching the encounter with open mouth and no gumption. His shouts galvanised her into action, and she reached for the phone behind her.

  Meanwhile, the little Asian shopkeeper discovered he had a tiger by the tail.

  Claire spat horribly into his face. ‘I’ve got AIDS, you bastard. Now you have!’

  She wrenched herself free from his grasp. He lunged gamefully after her again. But, as Danny Furness had discovered, catching Claire Lilton was no easy matter.

  She side-stepped him and picked up the charity box from the counter — which was shaped like a rocket — and swung round, holding it with both hands, rather like the movement an athlete makes when throwing the hammer. She did not let go of it, though. Building up force with momentum, she crashed it into the side of his head.

  The box burst open spectacularly, sending a shower of copper coins into the air. More importantly, however, it felled the shopkeeper and gouged a deep gash into his head which spurted blood.

  Claire hoisted the sports bag back onto her shoulder and dived out of the shop.

  By the time the bloody-faced Asian looked out of the door, she had disappeared.

  His Urdu was unrepeatable.

  ‘ Do you enjoy your work?’ Steve Kruger asked the bodyguard to his immediate right.

  There was no response. The guy continued to look dead ahead.

  All five men were now on the first-floor level, walking down the middle of the concourse past the shops. No one took any notice of them. They were real professionals, the type of people who, somehow, never seemed to draw attention to themselves. A skill in itself. They simply made it look as though they were out for a stroll. All five of them, Kruger included.