by Nick Oldham
The man’s gun was pointed directly at Kruger’s face and his finger was on the trigger.
Myrna wasn’t consciously going through any thought process. She stood there, half her body protected by the cover provided by the car she stood behind. Her feet were positioned shoulder-width apart, knees bent, but flexible. The Sig was in her right hand, supported in the palm of her left.
There was a blankness in her mind. Yet, simply, she was aware - somewhere - that she had started to sweat from every pore in her body. As Kruger dived away, she saw the injured man drop to his knees, one of the bodyguards dive away too, and the other two start to turn. . . but in her mind it wasn’t a fast twist because she slowed everything down right into its component parts without even realising she was doing it.
The two men as they pirouetted, their guns drawn from under their jackets ... the weapons coming round to be pointed at her and Tapperman ... the weight of the pistol in her hands ... the high-contrast sights down the barrel. Her finger tightening on the trigger...
Three weapons exploded simultaneously.
The ones in the hands of Mark Tapperman and Myrna Rosza.
The one in the grip of the bodyguard who was aiming at the prostrate body of Steve Kruger.
Within the confines of the parking lot, the noise of the combined discharges was deafening. A huge reverberating, eardrum-smashing roar.
Having to run made Claire Lilton’s cracked ribs hurt. When she thought she was out of catching distance, she slowed right down, dodged into a back alley and got her breath back. She reached into her sports bag and grabbed a cold can of orange Tango which she opened and gratefully gulped down. It was getting to be a hot day.
When recovered she tossed the can over a wall and wandered aimlessly around, until she was back on Dickson Road, about half a mile away from the shop.
She doubted whether the shopkeeper would call the cops, so she felt quite safe.
As it was approaching high season, Claire fitted in easily with the thousands of other kids thronging the streets of Blackpool, the single biggest holiday resort in the world. She knew that if necessary, she could mingle for weeks and never be noticed. All it required was a grain of common sense, some cunning and courage, a bit of luck and she would be able to survive indefinitely.
Within a few moments she had wandered onto Gynn Square, a large roundabout on the promenade in North Shore.
Wearily she went into a small recreation ground only yards away, off Warbreck Hill Road. She unhooked the bag and let it fall to the ground, slumped on a bench and stretched her tired legs.
She was dressed for the season in a cut-off T-shirt drawn tightly over her small, developing bust; then there was a gap showing her flat, white tummy; then there was a pair of Lycra exercise shorts clinging to her thighs. Nike trainers finished off her attire.
It had been Henry Christie’s intention to get the team turned out onto the streets as soon as possible.
With Danny’s efficient help, he succeeded.
He watched the last officer leave the briefing room, then turned to speak to Danny. ‘They’ll need all the luck in the world to catch this guy.’ He nodded towards a window. ‘And this weather won’t help us at all. Tourists will be flooding in today ... needle in a haystack job.’
‘At least we’re doing something. We need to catch him, otherwise he’ll start again. Can you imagine what all those years cooped up could do to a pervert like him?’
Before Henry could reply he heard an angry voice behind him. ‘DC Furness? Just what the hell do you think you’re playing at?’
Jack Sands.
‘My office - NOW!’ he shrieked.
Danny looked up at Henry for support, fear in her eyes. Henry gave her a sly wink, and turned to Sands with a simmering anger. In a measured tone he said, ‘Nobody calls people by their last names these days, and nobody says "my office - now" unless they want to come across as a real jerk.’
‘Up yours, Henry,’ Sands snapped back. ‘She’s my officer, not one of yours - not yet anyway - and I’ll speak to her any way I want to.’
‘Wrong on both counts,’ Henry said crisply. ‘Jack, we all need to sit down and chat - like now, if possible.’
‘I haven’t got time.’
Henry stepped up to him and snarled, ‘You’d better make fuckin’ time, if you value your job.’
Trent saw her sitting alone, a faraway look on her face. He knew instantly she was the one for him. She couldn’t have been more than eleven years old, but looked older. Trent could see through that. He was good at judging a youngster’s age and this one was just right for him. The age he liked. Their bodies beginning to develop, their womanhood not yet there. He looked again at this girl and experienced that old sensation, like someone had drawn a knife-blade down his back, triggering a sexual response in his genitals.
She had long slim legs, wore a minimum amount of clothing and was by herself. There was no one hovering nearby who could have been with her. She looked vulnerable, just right for plucking.
Trent seated himself at the far end of the bench. He opened his newspaper, crossed his legs. His eyes watched her reaction to his presence.
Initially there was no indication she had even seen him. He coughed. That seemed to break her trance. She glanced at him. Her face was painfully beautiful. Trent sneered inside himself as he pictured her down on him. Outwardly he returned a smile.
She gave a wan, slightly pathetic grin.
‘My name’s Louis.’ He folded down the newspaper. ‘What’s yours? I’ll bet it’s a pretty one.’
She told him.
‘Take a seat,’ Henry offered Jack. They were in Henry’s small office where Henry had arranged three chairs on the ‘public side’ of his desk, ready for the encounter.
Sands sat with a great show of reluctance and impatience, sighing heavily.
Henry indicated for Danny to do likewise. She chose the chair furthest away from Sands which was also the one directly opposite him. Instantly she regretted two things - taking the seat and her choice of clothing.
She was in a pencil skirt which rode up her thighs as she sat down and crossed her legs. Sands’s eyes homed in on the display and a look of wickedness flitted across his face. She pulled the skirt down and uncrossed her legs, sitting there with her knees pressed tightly together. It felt uncomfortable and unnatural and Sands knew it. She could tell from his face.
Henry hitched his trousers up with his fingers and thumbs on the creases and sat in the vacant seat. He crossed his legs.
Sands glowered cocksurely at him.
‘As you know, Jack, Louis Trent did a runner from jail last night and he’s almost certainly back in town. Obviously we need to try and recapture him as soon as possible. I spoke to Mr Fanshaw-Bayley this morning and he told me to use Danny to lead the team because she knows Trent so well. No doubt you agree with this thinking.’
Danny shot Henry a quick look of concern. To say he was distorting the truth was an understatement.
‘Because it was such a rush to get things pulled together,’ Henry added, ‘I didn’t have time to explain, so I apologise for that. At least you know now.’
‘Well, now that your team are up and running, I’ll have her back, thanks.’
Henry shook his head. ‘As of now she’s on CID.’ He handed a rolled-up fax to Sands, rather like a Biblical scroll. Sands unrolled it and read it slowly. It was confirmation of what FB had promised Henry that morning, written and signed by the man himself. Danny was on CID as of now.
Sands’s face looked like it would burst. ‘This is completely out of order. He can’t do this, not without consulting me.’
‘He’s an ACC. He can do mostly what he likes and usually does.’
‘I’m going to go to the Detective Superintendent and get this blocked. She’s on my Department until next Monday.’ And Sands stood up to leave.
‘Sit down Jack, there’s more we need to discuss. . . I said, sit down.’
‘All I�
�m doing,’ Henry concluded patiently, ‘is giving you the opportunity to say, "Hey, yeah, got a bit upset, bit obsessive and it won’t happen again." That’s all, Jack. Just hold your hand up, say sorry and we’ll all walk out of here and that’s that. Promise.’
‘You can stick your promise right down your prick, Christie, because I’ve done nothing wrong and I’m not apologising to a paranoid bitch who can’t bear the thought of me finishing with her.’
‘We’re not in the business of name-calling, Jack,’ Henry said softly. ‘We’re trying to solve a problem, adult to adult, and swearing isn’t gonna help.’
Sands held his hands up. ‘Sorry... just got a bit up-tight. Wouldn’t you? What you’ve alleged is absolute crap and you’ll never prove a thing because there’s nothing to prove.’
Henry tutted. He hadn’t wanted it to go this far. To Danny he said, ‘Last night you said you received several phone calls of a distressing nature?’
‘That’s right, from about eight o’clock onwards. But whoever it was must have either dialled 141 before putting my number in to ensure the call couldn’t be traced, or they were phoning through a switchboard.’
‘How many calls did you receive?’
‘Four that I answered. I took my phone off the hook then, but I checked with BT this morning. They told me I got twenty-five more calls up to midnight.’
‘How did you feel about the calls you received?’
‘Frightened. Scared. As if I was being violated in my own home.’
‘Thanks, Danny.’ Henry raised his eyebrows at Sands. ‘Jack, did you make those calls?’
His answer was short and to the point. ‘Did I fuck.’
‘Okay,’ said Henry, unflustered. ‘Danny, what else happened last night?’
‘Some creep,’ she shuddered at the memory, ‘stuffed a dozen red roses through my letterbox about half-one this morning.’
‘I’ll bet that had an effect on you, too?’
‘I was absolutely terrified.’ Her breath came in steps now as she thought about it. ‘Someone prowling round my house, watching me, stalking me.’
‘Jack - any response?’
He remained silent for a while, considering, lips pursing and unpursing. He breathed in and sat up. ‘Yeah, just get to fuck, the pair of you. This is absolute shite. I’m off.’ He pushed himself up again.
Henry said evenly, but with a deadly tone, ‘You walk out of this room, Jack, I’ll arrest you.’
The words struck Sands as heavily as a lorry. He sat slowly back, eyes fixed firmly on Henry, who held the look, unwavering. Inside, Henry’s heart was pounding dramatically. It was all he could do to maintain his composure. His mouth was dry, but his armpits were very wet. He knew he was in very dangerous territory.
Sands was the one to break the gaze between the men. He re-focused them immediately and savagely on Danny.
‘Danny?’ Henry continued. ‘The night before last?’
‘Someone smashed a window at my home, cut my face.’ She placed the tip of a fingernail on the stitched cut on her cheek. ‘They also damaged my car, scratched it and snapped the Mercedes badge off.’
‘Jack?’ said Henry, feeling like a facilitator.
Sands was tight-lipped. ‘Evidence?’ he snapped.
‘I saw you holding a Mercedes star in your hand when I left work last night,’ Danny accused him.
Sands uttered a short, barking laugh. ‘Your word against mine,’ he said pityingly.
Henry reached for a folder on his desk. His hand slid into it and extracted a piece of paper. ‘Our IT department ran this off for me,’ he explained and handed it to Sands. ‘It’s a printout of all the phone numbers dialled from the extension in your office between 5 p.m. and midnight last night. You’ll see that one number features pretty highly, wouldn’t you say? In fact, it features twenty-nine times, Jack, doesn’t it?’
Sands swallowed. His eyes were transfixed on the figures in front of them. His cocksure exterior crumbled slightly with the assistance of Henry’s hammer and chisel. ‘Wonderful thing, this IT lark,’ Henry commented.
‘Anything to say, Jack?’
‘Proves nothing. I needed to speak to her on a work-related matter. She’d obviously taken her phone off the hook.’
‘The work-related matter was what, Jack?’
‘I’ll think of something,’ he said blandly.
‘Fine, fine.’ Henry’s hand disappeared back into the folder and pulled out another slip of paper. He gave it to Sands. ‘This is a copy of the receipt from the florist on Elm Avenue. That’s your Barclaycard number, your signature and your order for twelve red roses.’
Sands leaned back, his look of defiance wavering after his previous rally. ‘Still proves nothing.’
‘It can stop here and it can stop now, Jack. Believe me, trust me. This does not have to go on. You can say sorry and walk out of here and forget it.’
‘You mean that’s all you’ve got? It’s crap and you know it, Henry. I have an answer for everything and I’m therefore not apologising for something I’m not guilty of.’
Henry pointed at Sands. ‘Don’t forget, Jack, I gave you the chance to save face.’
His hand went into his jacket pocket and extracted something. He held out his hand, turned it over and slowly opened his fingers to reveal a small, clear, plastic evidence bag.
In it was the famous three-pointed star seen so prominently on the front radiator grilles of Mercedes Benz cars. A silence fell heavy on the three people in the room.
Myrna Rosza looked down at the two dead bodies of Bussola’s bodyguards. The one sprawled to the right had been taken down by Mark Tapperman’s double-tap. Ba-bam! The other on the left had been killed by herself. She was painfully aware that the first bullet which left her gun had basically removed the guy’s throat and smashed through the back of his neck. He had been dead before he hit the ground squirming. Myrna didn’t know that for sure, but she would happily have laid money on it.
She too had attempted a double-tap. The idea of that method of shooting was to put two bullets pretty roughly in the same hole in quick succession. Her second shot, however, had gone well off-target and disappeared to where only God knew.
She stared down at the dead guy, fascinated by the pool of blood forming slowly underneath his grotesque body. It was going nowhere fast on the non-porous surface of the parking lot.
The first man she had ever killed.
Her jawline tightened.
Her time with the FBI had been concerned with more mundane matters - accounts, financial fraud, the occasional mob-related paperwork.
Nothing like this.
Never once had she faced a gunman, let alone drawn a weapon in anger. The only raids she had ever been on were the ones where she had been armed with folders, and were carried out during office hours - rifling through suspects’ desks, drawers and computer files, arresting people possibly armed with a letter-opener at worst. The only real danger she had ever faced had been from paper cuts.
Now this.
What surprised her was how little it was affecting her, but she was intelligent enough to know about delayed shock. A reaction would come - and she would have to deal with it. For now, she was cool.
‘Y’okay?’ Tapperman asked.
She nodded. ‘Yeah, thanks.’
Behind her, this level of the parking lot was a flurry of police activity. Why the hell did the emergency services love flashing lights so much? A migraine threatened. She closed her eyes and held the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. ‘Switch the damned things off!’ she wanted to yell.
‘You did good,’ Tapperman said encouragingly. He patted her arm, squeezed it gently. ‘There won’t be any legal repercussions. I’ve already spoken with the DA and the Coroner. Nothing to worry about.’
She pulled her arm out of his fingers. Courts and the American legal system were a long way from her mind. ‘You’re still an asshole,’ she said bluntly.
A crime-scene photograp
her pushed past and began taking shots of the two dead men. He was followed by another with a camcorder. Crack! With a noise like a firework, a huge arc lamp exploded into life, illuminating the scene, shining right into Myrna’s eyes.
‘Fuck!’ she hissed angrily. She turned sharply away, blinking, literally seeing stars. Then, vision regained, she heaved Tapperman out of her way and walked over to talk to Steve Kruger.
She arrived at the moment before the plastic undertaker’s bag was zipped up with him inside. Briefly she saw his horrendous head injuries. Kruger had taken three bullets smack in the face. They had been of a type designed to explode on impact, and succeeded in removing both the front and back of his head, splattering his brains everywhere. The man who had killed him had been good.
Myrna reeled at the sight. She had to reach out for a car to lean on to support her woolly legs.
With Steve Kruger dead she suddenly felt she didn’t want to go on living. She cursed the cruelty of it all and wished she had actually told him she loved him when she had the opportunity. If only she hadn’t been so pigheaded.
Now there was no chance.
She clung shaking to the car, tears pouring out of her eyes as a migraine dug cruel fingers into her skull, mercifully blocking out the scene.
Chapter Eleven
‘I’m gasping for a drink and a fag,’ Danny said. It was noon and not too early for either by any means. ‘I need something to steady my nerves. I’m shaking like a leaf.’
‘Right,’ said Henry, ‘let’s do it. We deserve it.’ He picked up his personal radio, turned it on and clicked the volume onto low - just in case.
They left his office and went to the lift. As the doors opened, the Police Constable who had taken the report of Claire Lilton missing from home again stepped out, almost barging into Danny.
‘Been looking for you, Danny.’ He waved the completed MFH report in her face. ‘It’s that little cow you’ve been dealing with ... she’s gone AWOL again. You know - that Claire Lilton.’
