by Nick Oldham
‘No, just a knife. You were lucky.’
Henry nodded. It wasn’t the first time that protective body armour - on this occasion a stab-vest - had saved his life.
‘I need a fucking ambulance, you bastards.’
Danny and Henry looked at Trent. It was only then Danny saw her blows with the baton had split his scalp in two places, rather like knife-slashes across upholstery. She leaned over him with a delicious smile. ‘You’re fucking lucky you don’t need a hearse,’ she hissed into his ear.
She checked her watch. Eleven-thirty.
Not a bad day’s work.
Most police officers believe, in principle, that prisoners should have rights. That principle usually goes crashing out the window when the officer gets personally involved in a case. Particularly child murders or abuse. Then they don’t want to give prisoners anything - except a hard time.
Danny did not want to allow Trent to go to hospital. But the law is the law and off he went, handcuffed and escorted by three no-nonsense coppers and a driver. He wouldn’t be going anywhere, other than straight back to the cells to be interviewed after he’d received treatment.
And in the meantime, Danny became very upset when Henry told her he had decided not to allow her to interview or have any further connection with Trent because of her personal involvement. He would allocate a team of four experienced jacks, working in pairs, to process, interview and charge Trent. Henry did not want any slip-ups. He wanted the prisoner to be dealt with fairly, correctly and above board. He knew Trent would be making counter-allegations of assault and the case would be difficult enough as it was.
Personal baggage would just make things more difficult.
He explained all this to Danny as she drove him back to the police station. She wasn’t a happy bunny.
‘You’re rambling, Henry. That blow on the head’s done you,’ she said rudely.
‘Don’t argue, Danny. I’m right, you know I am.’ He did have a hot zinger of a headache, additional to the one he had started the day with, but he was thinking clearly, planning the next twenty-four hours with Trent, or longer if need be. There would be a lot of people queuing up to see him and politics would no doubt rear its ugly head. The police investigating Trent’s prison escape and the bloodbath which accompanied it would want first call on him; they had seven murders to clear up. But Henry wanted Trent to stay in Lancashire. He had killed a police officer up here and a child. Henry would fight them all the way.
At the back door of the police station Henry and Danny bumped into a couple of detectives rushing out. ‘Is there a fire or something?’
‘No, boss. Another body.’
‘Any details?’ asked Danny.
‘No, not really, but according to the uniform at the scene, it looks like the girl who’s been missing a few days.’ Danny’s heart nearly stopped. ‘Claire Lilton?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one.’
PART TWO
Chapter Fifteen
Since the death of Steve Kruger and the Armstrong brothers, life in the offices of Kruger Investigations in Miami had been very subdued indeed. There was no chatter, laughter or any of the lightness Kruger had brought to the workplace when he was alive. A shroud had descended, seemingly impossible to lift.
Myrna Rosza spent most of her time walking around, speaking to the employees. Sitting down over a cup of coffee, listening, encouraging and attempting to get everyone back on track, to get the place humming again, people motivated.
All to no avail.
And, God, Myrna missed him dreadfully. She could empathise with the way in which every employee was feeling, except for her it was a million times worse.
Kruger’s funeral had been one of the most testing occasions of her life. Of course she was allowed a little tear and her husband accepted that. Only natural. All she wanted to do, though, was let herself go; prostrate herself over the coffin, wailing and hysterical, and make a complete fool of herself.
She didn’t. She stood with dignity and poise and denied herself the outburst she really needed.
She had not realised how much she loved him. Standing beside her husband whilst watching the coffin disappear slowly beyond the purple velvet drapes at the chapel only magnified those latent feelings. By the same token, it revealed to her how much she did not love her husband, Ben. Not that she disliked him, nor had any axe to grind with him - because he was a good husband, even if his work often took him away for long periods. She simply did not love him any more. They were more like friends, these days, and it was many weeks, maybe months, since they had last made love.
During the service Ben had reached for Myrna’s hand in a gesture of support and comfort. She pretended not to see it coming and wiped a tear away instead, avoiding contact. On the same night, Ben had tried to cuddle her. She rolled away, pulled herself into a tight ball and rocked gently to sleep.
Myrna had also attended the double funeral of the Armstrongs at their home town in Virginia. At least she had not been in love with either of them, though the crimson-vivid memory of the walk down that hallway could not be shaken from her mind as their coffins were carried past her.
How had they reconstructed the bodies?
Were they in little pieces, fitted into their coffins like a jigsaw? An arm up here, the head down there?
And now, two days after Steve Kruger’s funeral, Myrna was sitting at her desk, alone in her office, the staff having gone home. Silence was everywhere. It was Wednesday, 7 p.m.
Myrna stared with growing disbelief at the telephone on which she had, only seconds before, finished a conversation with her husband.
‘Wha..?’ she blurted to the wall. ‘I can’t believe. . . Christ!’ She could not stop her head from shaking as the words tumbled over and over through her mind. ‘The asshole, the bastard,’ she uttered and slammed the desk hard with her fist. Everything rose a millimetre and fell back into place, blotter, phone, pen-stand, laptop, everything.
She rose to her feet and stalked around the room, fuming.
‘Hello, darling, it’s Ben...’ the conversation had started. There was a crackle of static on the line and it was difficult to hear, yet immediately Myrna could tell something was not quite right. ‘How are you, honey?’
‘Under the Circumstances, doing okay,’ she answered guardedly.
‘Look, dear, I have some sad news for you ... something to tell you. . .’ And with those words, Myrna knew. ‘As you know, I’m out here in LA. I . . .’ he hesitated.
‘Spit it out, Ben.’
‘There’s no easy way to say this. I won’t be coming home.’
Myrna remained silent as an icy blast of chilled air wafted over her.
‘Are you still there, Myrna?’
Yes, she was. Her voice was brittle. ‘Who is it? Somebody I know?’
‘No, no, it’s someone I met at a convention in Salt Lake last year, a fellow surgeon.’
‘A fellow surgeon! That’s a nice way of putting it. What’s her name?’
‘No, Myrna, you don’t understand. When I say “fellow” surgeon, that’s exactly what I mean.’
Bombshell number two. A crackle of static on the line.
Myrna sat there, wide-eyed, as the meaning struck home. ‘You’re leaving me for a MAN?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. We are very much in love. You’d like him.’ Ben sounded weak and contrite.
‘I doubt it.’
‘He’s a heart-surgeon, too. Married, couple of kids. We’re setting up over here, both got positions in the best private hospital around. Chief surgeons. You can have the house and the cars. I don’t want anything from you, Myrna . . . just your understanding and maybe one day your blessing.’ His words tumbled out. ‘I know you haven’t really loved me for some time and I think this coincided with two things: Steve Kruger, and me discovering my sexuality. I think you’ve secretly been in love with Steve for a long time, haven’t you? I just wish I’d had the courage to let you go to him sooner. . .’
&nbs
p; It was on these words that Myrna slammed the phone down.
She stood at the window. Miami was in darkness, a million lights on in buildings. She rested her forehead on the glass and cried as the heavens opened and torrential rain sluiced down over the city.
Without any financial recompense, merely accumulated days off which she would never find the time to take, Detective Sergeant Danny Furness had put in sixteen hours a day since the Monday-morning arrest of Trent and the subsequent discovery of Claire Lilton’s pathetic, battered and sexually mutilated body on the perimeter of the public golf course in Stanley Park.
‘Welcome to life on CID,’ as FB might as have said.
What Danny had hoped to be a smooth change of career had been anything but. By the time midnight came on Wednesday, she was, once again, mentally and physically a wreck.
She crept into her bed after a long cold drink. Her newly installed house alarm was set, and the panic button on the wall within reach from the bed, glowed a dim, reassuring red. She lay naked under the cool sheet, legs and arms splayed wide, constantly searching for the next cool bit, loving the sensation of lying in a bed she had not seen for seventeen hours. She had not even bothered to have a bath, so desperate was she to get in. She was aware of the dried body sweat, the stale hair, the make-up and the rather obscene knickers she’d had to toss into the washing basket with a grimace of disgust on her face.
A deep sigh lifted her chest and she explored her physical sensations.
She had leg-ache, like she used to get when she was a kid; no doubt varicose veins were a real possibility. Her stomach gurgled in protest at the junk food she had consumed thoughtlessly for the last seventy-two hours, food she would not normally have even looked at. Her eyes were heavy and dark patches grew daily underneath them.
Suddenly the desire to sleep came over her. She reached out, clicked off the bedside light. As she drifted off she thought about the last three days. . .
Danny had immediately recognised Claire Lilton, though the youngster’s face had been smashed to a pulp and was bloated horrendously by the ligature around her neck. Once the work at the scene had been done, Henry went with the body to the mortuary whilst Danny went straight to see Claire’s parents. She had delivered numerous messages in her time and it seemed that always - always - the receiver of the message knew what the bad news would be even before she opened her mouth. Danny could see the knowledge in their eyes, and Ruth Lilton’s eyes had been no different.
She knew her daughter was dead as soon as she saw Danny.
As she delivered the tragic news, Danny kept one eye on Joe Lilton, the stepfather. Danny knew never to judge a person’s grief; grief was an individual thing, dealt with by people in their own way. Sometimes they were hysterical, other times they reacted with cold detachment. No two people were ever alike, but something crept up Danny’s backside when she witnessed the shifty look of discomfort on Joe Lilton’s face. He squirmed where he sat. And it caused Danny to wonder. . . Joe, what the hell do you know about Claire’s death?
Before leaving the Liltons’ that day, Danny did everything she could for Ruth.
The work of investigating then began, even though the prime suspect was already in custody.
During the course of that first day, Danny and Henry had little contact with each other. They managed to get together late to have the drink they had missed a few days earlier, when things had taken a bad turn for both of them. Unfortunately, their meeting brought about the second argument Danny had ever had with Henry.
The chat was innocent enough to begin with. They discussed their experiences on ‘the night of the missed drink’, as they called it between themselves. It was probably the tenth time of going over it, but both needed it, Danny in particular. She was grateful to Henry for listening. Each time she spoke, it got easier. The fear lessened; the horror subsided, though still lurked in a dark corner of her mind. But Danny was nothing if not resilient and she was determined to work herself through it.
‘So, Henry,’ she said eventually, ‘any idea who might have cracked you? You didn’t let on to FB.’
‘I know ... but I reckon we both know who is favourite, don’t we?’
‘Jack?’
‘Just his kind of trick, I’d say. Not that he would have done it himself. He’s been a detective in this town for a lot of years and he knows a lot of toe-rags who’d do it for the price of a pint. I’ve bumped into him a couple of times today and he has a sort of knowing look on his face. Supercilious, even.’
‘And it’s all my fault. Should never have got involved with him.’
‘No,’ Henry corrected her, ‘it’s his fault. But it’ll all come out in the wash one day, in the not too distant future. He’ll come a cropper and someone will fettle him.’
A minor, but pleasant silence descended on the couple whilst they considered their drinks.
Danny looked at her watch: 11.45 p.m. ‘I suppose Trent’ll be sleeping like a baby now,’ she observed. ‘He’s spent most of the sodding day giving them the runaround at the hospital. He’s only got a scratch on his head ... boy, I enjoyed hitting him.’ She curled her hands into tight fists and said, ‘Yeah,’ through gritted teeth.
‘And the interviews have been bloody slow,’ Henry whined. ‘He’s a tough one, saying very little other than being a clever dick. It doesn’t make one jot really. We’ve got enough forensic and other evidence to convict him of . . .’ Henry held up his fingers and counted off, one at a time: ‘Theft from the old woman on the train, Meg Tomlinson’s murder, your kidnap and assault, theft of your car, the murder of a police officer, the woundings in the estate agent’s. . . He’s been a busy man. Tomorrow we’ll get into his ribs about Claire Lilton; that’s not even been mentioned to him yet. He probably doesn’t even know we’ve found her body - and there’s all the other stuff concerned with the prison escape. That’s seven more bodies. He’ll never see the light of day again, other than from a prison yard. He’ll probably end up in Broadmoor . . . something wrong?’
Danny had been frowning as Henry spoke. She looked as though she was building up confidence to say something.
‘I don’t think he killed Claire,’ she said flatly. Henry sat back, aghast.
‘Course he effin’ did.’
‘She was strangled. Trent’s been using a knife.’
‘But he used to half-strangle his victims when you caught him last time. He’s obviously reverted to that.’
‘Yeah, half-strangle is right. He never actually killed them back then. Now he’s gone over the top into murder, it’s not his hands he’s been using, it’s that knife. It seems to give him that extra feeling of power. Why would he revert to manual strangulation ... doesn’t make sense.’
‘Nothing in that bastard’s mind makes sense.’
‘I know, I know ... but to me, it doesn’t seem to add up right.’
‘I think you’re wrong.’ Henry was adamant.
‘Look - we can’t simply assume he killed Claire, become blinkered to it. That’s not fair or just.’
‘What happened to Claire wasn’t fair or just,’ Henry argued.
‘Henry, you don’t need to tell me that, but does it mean we railroad him, just because we’ve closed our minds to the implications of what I’m saying?’
Henry bridled. He had been convinced of Trent’s guilt. Now the belief was being challenged, he was uneasy. ‘No,’ he said sheepishly. He took a swig of beer. ‘I’m not happy with the thought it wasn’t Trent who did it. It’s just too much of a coincidence for him NOT to have done it.’
‘So do we get him convicted just because of a coincidence?’
‘No, I’m saying that-’
‘What are you saying, Henry?’
‘Don’t you want him done?’ he almost shouted. He took control of his voice, lowered it, leaned across the circular table and pointed a finger at Danny. ‘That guy abducted you at knife-point, was probably going to rape you, was definitely going to murder you - and yet you seem to
want to protect him.’ He shook his head, confused. ‘I don’t get it.’
Now she leaned forwards. ‘I want justice done, Henry. I want to see him inside until he dies, but I don’t want him convicted of something he didn’t do. That’s too good for him. It makes us as bad as him. Everything we do needs to be spot on and he needs to know it’s spot on, because if it isn’t he’ll always be one-up on us, and I don’t want that.’ She sat upright and rubbed her eyes. Her face softened and she smiled. ‘Let’s not fall out - I don’t like arguing with you, but I’m sure true justice is really what you want too.’
He exhaled a long sigh, nodding. ‘Yeah, you’re right, I do. But if he didn’t kill Claire, you know what that means, don’t you?’
Danny shivered. ‘I know exactly what that means.’
They had another quick drink and left the pub. The night had a chill to it. Danny instinctively linked arms with Henry as they strolled amiably to his car which was parked some way down the road, under a street lamp and not in the pub car park. Both had developed phobias about car parks. A little shimmer of pleasure glittered through Danny when she touched Henry.
‘That was a nice drink, Henry.’
‘I enjoyed it too, even though you made me think. I don’t usually like to think too deeply with a beer in my hand. The two activities don’t seem to correlate. I usually talk football or sex, or both.’
Henry drove her home, pulling up outside. ‘Thanks, Henry.’
‘Pleasure.’
She looked at him. There was only a small distance between their faces. Danny felt a rush down between her legs as her eyes flicked across his face. She swallowed, giggled and broke the moment.
‘It would be nice, wouldn’t it?’ she said, a hint of regret in her voice.
‘It would be wonderful,’ he conceded.
‘But it won’t happen.’
‘No. I’ll watch you walk to your door.’
‘Good night, Henry.’ She was out of the car quickly, in the house moments later, giving him a quick wave from the threshold.
