by Nick Oldham
Kruger wrapped his fingers around the door-handle, paused before alighting and glanced sideways at Myrna. ‘Drink? Coffee? Anything?’
She did not look at him. ‘Not a good idea,’ she said, addressing the steering-wheel. Her voice was like stone and her body language gave Kruger the impression she hated him. She tapped the wheel and after a moment she relaxed. She looked sadly at Kruger. Her voice became soft. ‘Not a good idea,’ she repeated. ‘I need to get home.’
‘I . . .’ Kruger began to speak with a stutter.
Myrna reached across and placed a forefinger on his lips. ‘Don’t say something you’ll regret. We need to get back to square one - and get our revenge for Jimmy and Dale.’
Kruger was startled. It was apparent the old Myrna had returned.
‘Yeah, you heard right. I said revenge. I want revenge on Bussola, and one way or another I’m gonna get it. And if I can’t do it by fair means, I’ll sure as hell do it by foul.’
Kruger nodded. ‘Look after yourself,’ he said.
‘I’ll be okay and so will Kelly, I guess. He won’t do anything against us . . . but you’ll need to be careful, Steve. He might well come after you.’
Moments later, Myrna pulled away from the kerb.
Kruger let himself back into his house, totally exhausted.
It was 10 p.m. After pouring a beer down his throat and setting the house alarm, he crawled into bed, unmade since he and Myrna had been writhing ecstatically around on it.
The last thing he did before sleep was to reach out to the drawer in his bedside cabinet. He fumbled under a couple of paperbacks and his fingers found the butt of his .38 police special. He pulled it out and placed it carefully on top of the cabinet, pointing away from his head.
Then he slept, secure in the knowledge that only another matter of feet away, in his wardrobe, were several other guns of various calibre and design which he could reach in seconds if necessary.
Trent openly cruised the bars and clubs of Blackpool, enjoying his newfound freedom, savouring the taste of alcohol and getting very drunk indeed. He was sure no one would recognise him. After all, he was nine years older, thinner and much more gaunt than he had been; his hair had shaded to grey and his facial features become narrow and pinched.
Nine years before he had looked like a predatory owl, now he looked like an evil weasel.
He drifted into a few pubs where he knew he could get some good information on where to go later. As it was his first night out of jail he wasn’t too bothered with the quality. All he wanted was a taster to whet his appetite.
Eventually he got word of something happening in the secure back room of a strip joint near to North Pier. He wasn’t sure what it would be - it was difficult to pin people down to specifics - but it would do.
When the clubs closed at two, he went to a cash machine and because it was another day, he was able to withdraw another £300 from the dead ambulanceman’s account.
With cash almost bursting out of his pockets, none of it his, he strolled to the club specified. He had been directed to go up the fire escape and knock gently on the first door he came to.
It would cost him fifty dabs.
He knocked, the money ready in his fist. The door opened. A gorilla/bouncer took the cash and counted it carefully. He directed Trent to the second door along a poorly lit corridor.
Trent went into a darkened room, illuminated by lights which had been dimmed almost to black. He paused on the threshold, allowing his eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom.
He saw four rows of chairs arranged in a horseshoe shape facing a huge TV screen at the far end of the small room. About a dozen people, all men, were seated. Some conversed in a subdued way. Others were completely alone.
Trent weaved his way through the chairs and sat down on the front row to have an unrestricted view of the screen. He checked his watch - stolen from the ambulanceman - and saw the digital figures flicker onto 3.00 a.m.
What light there was in the room doused to black. Everyone’s attention focused on the screen, which flickered.
The image of a child, wide-eyed and beautiful, appeared.
A frisson of excitement captivated Trent’s body.
The films Trent saw that night were about half an hour each. They originated from Holland and had been dubbed poorly into English. The quality of the camerawork was shoddy, but the pictures were fairly sharp. The editing was questionable.
Both told much the same story.
One was based around a little boy who looked to be about nine years old.
The other was about a little blonde girl who looked slightly older.
They were both very graphic tales.
Each film began with what appeared to be the abduction off the street of the child. The story carried on with the captivity of the children, both of whom were tied naked to a bed. The story progressed to the sexual abuse of the kids. Sometimes by one person only, more often by a group of people. All men. During these scenes the children screamed and were allowed to do so. This seemed to fire the depraved lust of their captors and tormentors.
The climax of each mm was the rape of the child by one person, who with a noose around the neck of the child reached orgasm at the same time as apparently strangling the child to death. The deaths looked very real. Probably were.
Trent left the viewing room tremendously excited by what he had seen. It had been worth every penny.
He knew he had to go and repeat it.
Less than two miles away was the sea-front hotel on South Shore which belonged to the Lilton family. The hotel was quiet and in darkness. Outwardly it looked peaceful at four in the morning.
Inside was a different matter.
Ruth Lilton was in a deep, coma-like sleep on her bed. She lay on her back, mouth open, snoring. A cocktail of carefully administered alcohol and sleeping tablets had put her there. Virtually nothing could have woken her. Not even the whimpering cries and the deep male groans escaping from under the closed door of her daughter’s room.
Claire cried out in pain and shame each time her stepfather rammed his unprotected self into her. It was almost a blessed relief when he roughly turned her over, adjusted her loose limbs so she was on her hands and knees and carried on from the rear. The pain increased with deeper penetration, but at least she did not have to look up at his face, wasn’t obliged to inhale the intoxicant fumes he breathed all over her, or smell the sweat and body odour of him. She could bury her face in the pillow. It was also a relief because she knew he would finish quicker in this position.
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 than 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 dr
ink, 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.’
