One Dead Witness hc-3

by Nick Oldham

  Henry and Danny had walked along Bank Hey Street, Blackpool Tower rising above them to their left. The place was swarming with holidaymakers, bustling along, every single one of them with a smile. A whole range of people, young to old, slim to fat. Sober to drunk. Blackpool had something for everyone.

  ‘ I wonder how it’s going with Trent,’ Danny said.

  ‘ I’ll be surprised if he stays here long and I’ll be even more surprised if we catch him,’ Henry said honestly.

  ‘ The very thought of him makes me shiver,’ Danny confessed. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met someone quite so evil. What he did to those little girls was appalling. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill them. I wouldn’t normally wish death on anyone, but he should be hanged. I’d gladly put the noose around his neck.’

  ‘ Let’s have a look in here.’ Henry pointed to the door of a pub. ‘Quick drink, then back to work.’

  ‘ In here?’ Danny’s lips curled in disgust as she looked up at the building. ‘It’s a dive.’

  ‘ Let’s combine business and pleasure.’

  Henry held the front door open, allowing Danny to enter first. They turned left into the snug and stood just inside the threshold of the bar.

  Danny’s words were accurate. The place was a dive, but both officers knew it was one of the main pubs in town where stolen goods from shoplifting sprees were often divided up and distributed or sold; a lot of minor drug dealing went down too. Both activities usually occurred without interference from management who were strongly suspected of being involved in both trades.

  Henry liked to drop in unexpectedly now and again. Occasionally such visits produced results. More often than not they simply shook up the crims, something Henry took great pleasure in doing.

  The snug was fairly empty. Henry could not spot anyone he knew, other than the barman, Fat Tommy.

  ‘ All right, Tommy?’ Henry approached the bar.

  ‘ I was,’ Tommy responded on seeing Henry. Tommy was not noted for his social skills.

  ‘ Kaliber for me… Danny?’

  ‘ I think my nerves are back in order. Coke please, with ice.’ She pulled out a cigarette and lit up. She inhaled deeply and for a second or two went quite light-headed. She held the smoke in her lungs, then blew it out slowly. Bliss.

  The rotund barman went about his tasks. Henry asked him, ‘Anything doing?’

  ‘ Nope.’ He banged the two drinks on the bar top.

  ‘ You don’t like me, do you Tommy?’

  ‘ No, and I can’t think why… two quid.’

  ‘ Shame, really… we have so much in common.’ Henry handed him a five-pound note. Whilst Tommy was at the till, Henry stood on tiptoes and peered across the bar into the taproom where he saw Benstead. After checking his change he said, ‘C’mon,’ to Danny, led her out of the snug into the taproom and immediately saw the expression on Benstead’s face.

  He looked as though he’d seen the Grim Reaper.

  Henry thought, Might’ve struck lucky here.

  Benstead made a valiant effort to compose himself. He folded up his copy of the Mail, downed the last inch of his beer and tried to act as normally as possible in the circumstances. But he was agonisingly conscious that his face had probably conveyed a thousand words to Henry Christie. And that very same man, the bane of his life, the cop who harried him constantly, was now approaching. Fast.

  Benstead rose unsteadily to his feet, tucking the tabloid under his arm, trying to give the impression he had not seen Henry.

  As he moved off, Henry reached the table. Benstead feigned surprise.

  ‘ Well, well, well. What have we here?’ Henry grinned maliciously. Actually he knew exactly what he had — one of the top handlers of stolen property in Blackpool, if not the North of England. Benstead was a career criminal who tried to keep a low profile in terms of his lifestyle. He lived with his common-law wife, her two kids from a previous marriage (not yet dissolved), his own two from a couple of brief relationships, and two German shepherd dogs in a semi-detached council house. He was unemployed, drawing maximum benefits, did not own a car and had very little to show outwardly from the money he made buying and selling other people’s possessions.

  Henry’s intelligence-gathering on Benstead led him to believe the little scrote owned a large apartment in Tenerife and held several bank accounts in fictitious names. Knowing and proving were two different things, though. So far, all Henry’s team had managed to do was convict Benstead once only for a petty job for which he got fined.

  Which annoyed Henry.

  And put Benstead high on his target-list.

  A fact of which Benstead was painfully aware.

  ‘ You haven’t got anything,’ Benstead said in response to Henry’s opening question, ‘because I’m off.’ He zipped up his anorak and side-stepped smartly.

  Not smartly enough.

  Henry side-stepped with him, blocking his exit.

  ‘ Know who this is?’ Henry asked Danny, speaking through the corner of his mouth, his eyes remaining firmly on Benstead.

  ‘ Baz Benstead — disposer of stolen property,’ she answered promptly.

  ‘ Someone we’re always interested in.’ Henry beamed down at the little man who had started to look very nervous indeed. ‘Bit of a hot day for an anorak,’ he observed. To Danny he said, ‘Always wears one. Big pockets. Never quite knows what might come his way — do you, Baz?’

  ‘ Don’t fuckin’ hassle me, Henry, or I’ll have my brief chasing you before you know what’s hit you.’

  ‘ Oh, Baz!’ Henry cried, feigning hurt. Then, ‘Just who the fuck d’you think you’re talking to? Come on, let’s sit down and have a nice, pleasant chinwag.’

  ‘ I’m leaving — excuse me… ahhhh!’

  Henry slammed his free hand into Benstead’s chest and sat him down on the bench seat. ‘Sit.’

  Shit! Benstead thought. A well of panic rose from his feet to his neck.

  Henry sat next to him, sipping his Kaliber.

  Danny remained standing, glass in one hand, cigarette dangling from her mouth. Her eyes bore scornfully down on Benstead. She had heard much about him, but never met him until this moment. She was unimpressed.

  ‘ What’re you up to?’ Henry asked.

  ‘ Nowt.’ Benstead put the newspaper on the table. The headlines screamed out about the most dangerous man in Britain on the loose. Benstead blinked rapidly as his brain recorded the message again. He turned the paper over.

  ‘ You looked like you’d peered into your grave when we walked in.’

  ‘ Only ‘cos I saw you. You always have that effect on me.’

  ‘ The look was there before you clocked me. I just made it worse. So, go on, what are you doing in here, Baz, ole buddy? It’s not your local.’

  Benstead shrugged. He measured up his chance of escape. All he needed was about ten seconds — or less — out of sight of Henry and his sidekick. Long enough to dump the boiling hot goods Trent had sold him.

  Now?115 richer, there was hardly any space in Trent’s pockets to squeeze in more cash. He had amassed over a thousand pounds and some loose change. Enough to see him over the next couple of weeks… and yet he wanted more money, here and now.

  He walked towards Talbot Square where the Royal Bank of Scotland was situated. He was eager to withdraw as much money as possible from the account belonging to the dead ambulance-driver. To bleed it dry, like he had done to the man himself. He decided to try the cash machine again, firstly to see if the account was still operating and secondly if he could get any more cash out of it.

  If the answer to both was no, he would find Benstead again and throw in the card for an extra?30.

  Trent spent a couple of minutes checking the streets for lurking cops and fine-tuning the radio scanner he’d bought earlier from a high-street electrical retailer. It was tuned into the local police frequency. He inserted the earpiece and set the volume.

  When he was satisfied, he crossed to the cash machine and slid
the card into the slot.

  He tapped in the well-remembered PIN code.

  Benstead was a small man and could move quickly if he wanted to. Especially if the element of surprise was on his side.

  Henry Christie, having shown disdain for Benstead and his threats, had allowed himself to drop his guard. He sat back and took a sip of the alcohol-free lager.

  Danny took a long deep drag of her cigarette.

  Without warning, Benstead reached for his empty pint glass. He took hold of it around the brim, twisted round and smashed the base of the glass across the side of Henry’s head.

  Henry screamed, more with surprise than pain as the bottom edge of the glass connected with an old wound on his temple, sustained in a car crash three years earlier. The skin split immediately, blood poured out. His hands went to the side of his head.

  Fortunately, the glass did not break.

  Benstead dropped it, lurched forwards from his seated position before Danny could react. He charged towards her, ramming his shoulder into her lower abdomen, bowling her back over a table. He then ran for the rear door of the pub.

  Danny landed hard, legs akimbo, displaying her underwear. Her drink spilled all over her and the cigarette disappeared somewhere across the room.

  Henry Christie had learned a lot of hard lessons in his time as a cop. One was that some of the things you expect to hurt badly are never quite as bad as imagined. Agreed, the crack on the head hurt, and the sight of pouring blood, especially your own, was frightening. But when it was all put into perspective, it wasn’t as bad as being shot or knifed or having a broken glass screwed into your face. All that had happened was that a pathetic punk had given him a whack.

  As soon as his brain assimilated this — within a split second — Henry was up and after Benstead, angry at having been caught off guard. He dived across the room at the fleeing felon and brought the little man crashing face-down into the liquor-stained carpet.

  Benstead tried desperately to disentangle himself, scrambling, kicking wildly, with Henry holding on for dear life.

  ‘ Get off me, you fucking bastard!’ Benstead screamed, squirming round and beginning to rain punches down on Henry’s head. The DI tucked himself in and dung on tight, inching himself up Benstead’s body as they rolled around on the floor.

  Danny recovered quickly.

  When she saw the two men fighting, she looked out for the opening which would let her in to assist her boss. It came when the two men separated briefly, Benstead on his back. She stepped astride him and dropped heavily across his chest, pinning his arms to the floor with her knees. Her skirt rode high up on her thighs.

  From that position she curled her right hand into a tight fist, deliberately drew back her arm, ensured Benstead saw what was coming and — with a great deal of satisfaction — smashed the fist into the side of his face.

  All the fight drained out of him.

  His face started to swell within seconds of the blow, a huge red mound surrounding his left eye, which began to close and weep.

  ‘ Twat!’ he hissed.

  ‘ You got it, pal,’ she panted.

  Henry let go of Benstead’s legs and stood up shakily. He had an urge to kick the little bastard in the ribs, but the eyes of too many witnesses prevented him.

  He picked up a beer mat and held it against the cut on his head.

  ‘ Turn him onto his front,’ he told Danny.

  She raised a leg and they both heaved Benstead over onto his chest. Danny pulled his hands back and cuffed him with Henry’s handcuffs. Tightly.

  ‘ Here.’ Henry looked round to see Fat Tommy, the barman, holding out a bundle of something towards him. It was a bar-cloth. ‘For your head. It’s clean, don’t worry.’

  The detective smiled. ‘Thanks, Tom. I didn’t know you cared.’

  ‘ I don’t. I just don’t want a copper’s blood all over my carpets.’

  Henry dropped the beer mat and pressed the cloth onto his injury. The wound had been cracked open a few times since it had happened. One day, Henry thought, it would need a skin graft to close it, not stitches.

  ‘ Now then,’ Danny said into Benstead’s grubby ear. ‘Let’s see what all this was about.’ She patted him down, went through his pockets. She pulled out the roll of banknotes and handed it to Henry. Conservative estimate, two grand. Then she found the bag.

  Benstead moaned.

  She stood up and peered into it. Her mouth popped open when she carefully withdrew the driving licence and read the name on it. She held it so Henry could see.

  He raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Oh.’ To Benstead he said, ‘Mate — you are under arrest.’

  Any further conversation was halted when an urgent message came over the PR in Henry’s pocket.

  ‘ All patrols, all patrols, make to the vicinity of Talbot Square, Royal Bank of Scotland… believed escaped prisoner Louis Vernon Trent has just attempted to use the cash machine there. I repeat…’

  Henry and Danny looked at each other, then down at their prisoner. Henry made the decision.

  ‘ You go. I’ll stay and sort out Bollock Brain here.’

  Even before he had finished speaking, Danny was out of the door.

  Henry turned to Fat Tommy. ‘How about a double whisky?’

  The account belonging to the dead ambulanceman was still operating, but because Trent had withdrawn the maximum allowed for the day he was unable to steal any more money from it. He took the opportunity to confirm the present balance — ?700. A nice, tidy sum of money which he hoped would be in his hands after midnight.

  At the end of the transaction, the machine slid the card back out and Trent reclaimed it.

  Feeling pretty buoyant, he strolled to the top of Clifton Street where it joined Abingdon Street. To his right, on Church Street, was the entrance to the Winter Gardens complex. A long queue of people were lined up patiently at the box office, buying tickets for that night’s performance by a well-known TV comedian. He was doing a six-week stint of ‘saucy’ material and songs.

  Trent had a sudden fancy to see him. He turned towards the Winter Gardens at the moment the scanner in his pocket picked up the police radio transmission and passed it to the earpiece.

  Trent cursed his own foolishness and greed. He should have known the cops would have alerted the bank, who would reverse the process when the account got touched. The fact the account was still open should have been a warning beacon to him.

  For a few vital moments he was rooted to the spot, unable to make a decision, even though he knew if he remained there he would very quickly end up in a police cell.

  He took a chance, pivoted on his heels and headed quickly down Clifton Street towards the Promenade. Once on the sea-front he reckoned he could easily mingle and disappear, maybe into one of the big stores.

  Danny spun out the back door of the pub, ran down onto Market Street where she intended to cut across to Clifton Street which was probably less than 100 yards away.

  She zigzagged through crowds of people, thankful she had chosen to wear flat-soled shoes that morning. Part of her mind was still annoyed by Benstead who had caused her to spill her drink all over her fairly new suit, one she quite liked and thought she looked pretty good in. The second outfit in the space of a few days ruined. They would cost a fortune to replace.

  As she ran she pulled her PR out and turned the volume up high.

  Other patrols were responding to the call, all descending on Clifton Street — until Henry Christie’s impatient voice cut across them all with an instruction for the Comms operator: ‘Get a grip on these deployments, will you? Don’t let everyone race to the scene, otherwise we might miss him. Set up some checkpoints a little distance away. Get the Comms Sergeant to get it organised.’

  The voice of the Comms Sergeant replied, slightly chastened, ‘Will do, sir.’

  Everybody seemed intent on holding Danny up. She had to dance around four kids, who, hands held, were skipping down the street; she skidded dangerously
to avoid a woman laden down with a huge load of shopping who appeared from nowhere in her path; and physically rammed a huge, beer-bellied, T-shirted, drunken individual with a Scottish accent who did his level best to catch her.

  Without checking for traffic she legged it across Corporation Street and into Clifton Street. She relayed her position to Comms and learned that she was the first officer on the street. Then she juddered to a stop and surveyed the area, fully aware that more often than not, by the time police receive such calls, ten minutes or more could have elapsed. Trent could easily be a quarter of a mile away now, making Henry’s instructions to Comms a matter of common sense.

  Her chest rose and fell, her nostrils dilated, as she panted heavily. She wiped the back of her sticky hand across her forehead, drawing several wide-eyed looks from passers-by. She looked like a scarecrow again.

  A tingle of apprehension went down her spine as a sixth sense of perception clicked in.

  She knew Trent was nearby. Somewhere close by. Hiding.

  Trent slammed himself flat against the side of a parked Ford Transit van when he saw Danny appear at the bottom of the street. He recognised her instantly as a member of that bastard conspiracy of individuals who had sent him to prison.

  He shuffled along the side of the van until he was in a position to peep around the back of it. From there he could see Danny across the street, speaking into her PR. Trent could hear every word she spoke through his earpiece.

  A surge of uncontrollable loathing, almost like a demon in his soul, coursed through his veins at the sight of the smug, arrogant bitch who had played such a pivotal role in consigning him to the torture of the last nine years. Danny Fucking Furness.

  His lips drew back into a snarl.

  At exactly the same moment these feelings surged through him, he saw a visible change in Danny’s body language. She stood upright, stopped talking into the radio, cocked her head to one side. Suddenly she was ultra-alert, almost as if she knew where he was hiding. Yet he was certain she had not seen him.