One Dead Witness

by Nick Oldham

  It’s usually the more harmless inmates, the trusted ones, the pathetic ones, the listeners, the shadows, who know everything there is to know.

  They are aware of the full picture as regards the comings and goings of the prison staff. They know the complete geography of the buildings; all the little nooks and crannies; the hidey-holes where they can disappear for a while if necessary. They know where everything is kept, locked away, stored.

  These people are the ones who can, seemingly, move around unchallenged because they are not worth challenging; float around, creeping, watching all the time.

  Trent was not one of those people.

  But Vic Wallwork was.

  Fifteen years behind bars had made him so. Turned him into an acquiescent, simpering inmate who said yes to everything, never let the authorities down, yet at the same time watched, learned, listened, explored.

  This was his third prison. He knew it intimately.

  Which is why he was able to lead Trent through places he never knew existed.

  He guided Trent out through the back of the kitchens, past a series of storerooms, down a doom-laden corridor with low beams and little light, out through a door and into the glorious open air, somewhere - Trent could only guess - near to the. back of the Governor’s offices.

  They had to race across this space, around the corner of a redbrick building Trent had never seen before, and into a narrow ginnel no more than three feet wide. It twisted at right angles. and ten yards further came to a dead end. But in the dead end was a door with a huge rusting padlock securing it.

  Wallwork produced a key from his pocket, inserted it and forced it to turn. The lock released itself. He removed it and pushed the door open. Beyond was a dank, dark room. Wallwork reached around the door jamb and flicked a switch. A single naked bulb flickered uncertainly, casting a dim light into the room.

  Trent followed Wallwork inside, closing the door behind him. He gazed around, sniffing, trying to speculate what the room was for.

  Wallwork second-guessed the question. ‘Part of an old boiler area ... course, it’s all gas now. Through that door is where the main boiler is.’ He pointed a crooked finger at the far end of the room. Trent saw a door which looked as if it hadn’t been opened for years. Wallwork’s index finger then pointed downwards at a petrol can on the floor.

  ‘That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  A surge of pure pleasure beat through Trent. He knelt down by the can and touched it lovingly. ‘Yeah, great. How much is in it?’

  ‘A gallon. Like you asked for - at great risk to me, I might add.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Trent pulled two milk bottles Coysh had given him out of his jacket pockets and stood them up on the concrete floor. He looked at the petrol can, head cocked, and did some calculations, as well as visualising a spectacular future. ‘Mmm,’ he murmured thoughtfully, biting his bottom lip.

  Wallwork watched him with a certain degree of puzzlement, although having now seen the milk bottles, things were a little clearer to him now. What was still foxing him, though, was why Trent was also carrying a pillowcase stuffed with the Styrofoam cups Coysh had stolen for him. Didn’t make any sense to him. Trent placed the pillowcase on the floor.

  ‘Need more bottles,’ Trent said. ‘Four more, to be on the safe side.’ He exhaled through his nose. ‘And I need another container of some sort, like an open can - something I can pour the petrol into.’

  Both men considered the matter for a few seconds.

  ‘I know just the thing!’ Wallwork declared, raising a finger. He went to a dark corner of the room where he rooted about amongst some debris. He picked something up and returned. It was a lidless metal toolbox, old and misshapen.

  Trent grabbed it greedily from Vic’s grasp and inspected it closely, holding it up to the light, carefully rotating it. All the seals, corners and edges appeared to be intact. There was a lot of rust, some of it flaking off, but nothing which would cause a problem in the short term. In fact, a bit of rust would be quite nice, Trent thought.

  ‘That’s good.’ He looked at his companion. ‘That’s very, very good.’ His eyes glazed over as he spoke; once again he was seeing the future.

  Wallwork’s blood froze for an instant. A tremor crawled all the way down his spine like a serpent. The expression on Trent’s face was one he knew well. He recognised it from himself, a look which had crossed his own face just over fifteen years ago. Twice. And each time it had resulted in the brutal slaying of a young boy. After which - here Vic Wallwork thanked God - they caught him and incarcerated him for the rest of his life before it happened again.

  It was the killing look.

  Trent’s eyes refocused and he came back to his own brand of normality. He squatted down by the petrol can and poured petrol into the two milk bottles until each was about a third full. Not being an expert, he guesstimated that would be enough.

  He placed the bottles out of the way, next to the brick wall.

  ‘By the way, Vic,’ he said conversationally. ‘I bumped into Blake again.’

  ‘Oh?’ Wallwork swallowed.

  ‘Soon, he told me. Soon. He’s going to get you and stick a broom-handle right up your arse so it comes out of your mouth. Exact words.’ And Trent continued with his task, pouring the remaining petrol from the can into the toolbox, slowly, checking for leaks as he did so.

  Wallwork watched the activity, virtually catatonic because of what Trent had just said. Without even seeing Wallwork’s face, Trent realised the devastating effect he’d had on the man. He smiled wickedly to himself.

  Next he emptied the pillowcase, making a small mountain of the Styrofoam cups next to the toolbox. He sat down on the floor and picked up one of the cups. He tore it into little stamp-sized pieces and began dropping them into the petrol, like confetti. Bit by bit.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Wallwork asked. He had shaken himself out of his moment of terror.

  Trent stopped. He raised his head slowly. His eyes once more became glassy.

  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 weap
ons. 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, keeping 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.