One Dead Witness

by Nick Oldham

  Henry didn’t know whether to be pleased or pissed off. On the one hand he was glad FB had said something nice about him for once; on the other, it wasn’t his job to interview.

  ‘I want those bastards charged and convicted of murder, Henry.’

  ‘Is this place bugged? Can they hear what we are saying?’

  Gilbert and his solicitor, Maurice Stanway, were in the solicitor’s room. Stanway had been Gilbert’s brief for almost twenty years. They knew each other well.

  The room was basic. One table screwed to the floor, three plastic chairs. They faced each other across the table. Gilbert’s bulk overflowed his chair and the thin metal legs sagged.

  ‘It’s always possible, but I doubt it,’ Stanway said. ‘Believe it or not, they’re pretty ethical these days.’

  ‘Fools,’ Gilbert laughed. ‘So, what’s going to happen now?’

  ‘You’ll be interviewed, probably fairly cursorily at first. They’ll establish a few facts, ensure you know why you’ve been arrested, things like that. Then they’ll start asking you questions, probably hoping you’ll crack before they declare any real evidence at this stage.’

  ‘In other words, they’ll offer me the chance to confess?’

  ‘In other words, yes.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘They’ll start to declare evidence, bit by bit. Forensic, direct evidence from witnesses ... hoping you’ll admit.’

  ‘What forensic do they have?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. We’ll have to wait and see.’

  ‘They won’t have any.’

  ‘You sound certain.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘They may well have witnesses.’

  ‘They have. I saw her when I came into the station.’

  ‘All it takes is one witness,’ Stanway stated.

  ‘I think they’ll rely heavily on her.’

  ‘Her testimony may well be enough - at least to get you charged and put before a court. But let’s see how it pans out, shall we?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Will the police find anything at your house, Charles?’

  ‘Books, videos, magazines, photographs ... you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Anything to link you to the dead girl?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that’s good. Let’s go and see what they’ve got.’

  Ninety minutes later Gilbert and Stanway were back in the solicitor’s consulting room. They were buzzing, feeling very confident.

  ‘You handled the questions skilfully, Charles. I applaud you.’ They shook hands and sat down. ‘So,’ Stanway said, ‘that was the opening salvo.’

  ‘And pretty tame it was, too.’

  ‘If you’re sure about the forensic side of things, I’d suggest they will have only the girl’s eyewitness testimony. And, of course, Ollie Spencer, who has not been interviewed yet, nor requested a solicitor.’

  ‘In that case, you should offer your services. I would hate for him to say anything stupid.’

  Stanway nodded.

  ‘When will I be out of here?’

  ‘Oh, they’ll keep you in as long as possible. They always do in cases such as these.’

  At midnight Henry Christie and Danny Furness were sitting on a bench on the promenade, near to Central Pier. From having been a cold day, the night had become idyllic and still. The tide was way out. The sky was clear and the moon almost full. It was even quite mild, verging on warm.

  Henry rubbed his neck and rolled his head. His bones creaked and cracked. ‘God, I’m whacked.’

  Danny stood up and walked behind him. She began to massage his shoulders through his jacket. Her fingers probed into his muscles. He groaned, not far short of ecstasy.

  ‘That is wonderful,’ he murmured. His toes tingled. He dropped his chin onto his chest and revelled in the sensation.

  ‘In another time, on another planet, I’ll lay odds we could have been good together,’ Danny whispered into his ear.

  ‘It’s a nice thought,’ he responded, taking one of Danny’s hands and squeezing it.

  Danny kissed his neck, sending a shiver of absolute pleasure down his spine. ‘Come on, Henry, let’s get some sleep. Busy day tomorrow.’

  They strolled back to the police station car park, arm-in-arm, Danny with her head resting on Henry’s shoulder. He drove her home and dropped her off. On the way to his own home he was quite proud of himself. Not very long ago he would have been in bed with her - or at least he would have tried to be. It wasn’t that he did not like the idea of it, but he was a reformed character where women were concerned. Too many close shaves had made him see his family was more important than his libido. Never again did he want to hurt his wife or children.

  Meanwhile Danny undressed and wished she was climbing into bed with him, but knew it would never happen. She was glad Henry had been strong for them both. She knew that if he had laid a hand on her, she would have been unable to resist and then she would have been in the fire, just having jumped out of the frying pan.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘The search teams and forensic have ripped that flat apart, been down the toilet, up the U-bends, down the drains, everywhere. They worked through the night and are still beavering away as we speak, but early indications are that there is nothing, nothing at all, which will be of evidential use to link Claire Lilton to that flat and those two men.’

  Danny had returned to work at 6 a.m., having cadged a lift from one of the early-turn officers. She had liaised with the specialists, checking on the progress of that side of the investigation; it was eight now and she was briefing the murder squad, Henry and FB included.

  ‘What have we recovered from Gilbert’s house?’

  ‘Child pornography - videos, magazines, books, hard copy from the Internet ... possibly some cocaine, but only a small amount ... sexual aids and several little black books containing names and addresses of people who, we believe, are his associates in the aforementioned areas. They contain detailed information on sexual preferences, likes, dislikes. My feeling is that Gilbert and Spencer are part of a paedophile ring; my guess is Ollie Spencer does the legwork, finding the kids - probably like the two we found in his flat yesterday - and once he and Gilbert have finished with them, they get sucked into the ring. There’s a lot of codes in his books. If we ever crack them, or he tells us that they mean, I think it’ll tell us the story of some poor kids.’

  ‘But right now we want to hang a murder on him, don’t we?’ FB said. ‘So let’s concentrate on that for the time being. Where the hell do we stand on that?’

  Danny shook her head sadly. ‘It’s looking more and more like we’re going to have to rely on Grace’s evidence. Gilbert and Spencer have obviously been really thorough as regards cleaning up after their wrongdoings, and the only thing they didn’t deal with properly was Grace. She’s all we’ve got for the moment, and I’m not happy with that. It puts too much pressure on her and makes our case very weak.’

  Henry checked the time. ‘Better get going. They’ve both been in custody over twelve hours now; another twelve and we’ll be after a Superintendent’s extension.’

  Gilbert and Spencer were interviewed all day, sometimes for extended periods, sometimes in short bursts. All the time Danny and Henry kept an eye on their rights, ensuring they got adequate breaks and refreshments and the interviews were conducted fairly and without oppression.

  All in all, very frustrating.

  Being polite to people suspected of murdering kids did not come easy to either detective and as the day wore on, the veneer cracked occasionally. Particularly when they could see they were getting nowhere fast.

  Neither prisoner admitted anything which would incriminate them in the murder, not even when the detectives - reluctantly - played their best hand and dropped Grace’s evidence on their laps.

  At 6 p.m. that day, decisions needed to be made.

  ‘Let me get this straight: as it stands at the moment, the only thing that
will convict me now is the evidence from that little girl.’

  ‘That’s true, but the task of discrediting her story would not be too onerous, I would suggest.’

  Gilbert spread his sausage-like fingers on the table. ‘The only problem is, she knows some things only an eye-witness would know. She saw us bashing the girl’s face and she saw us drag her into the shower and wash her; she also saw us get rid of the bedding. It’s little things like that which make her story all too real.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Stanway agreed.

  ‘I think,’ Gilbert pointed at Stanway, ‘it would be better for all of us if that young lady were unable to give evidence, don’t you, Maurice?’

  Stanway went icy from head to toe. His throat constricted. He squeaked, ‘What do you mean? You want her paid off, or something?’

  Gilbert chuckled evilly at Stanway’s misconception. His pig eyes bored into Stanway’s. ‘No, I mean that for all concerned, she would be better off dead.’

  Stanway’s rectum squinted as he held back a fart of fear. ‘You mean..?’

  ‘Are you fucking thick, Maurice? I thought you had a law degree.’

  ‘I . . . I do. I . . .’ He was dumb for a moment, then blurted, ‘What are you suggesting?’

  Gilbert leaned on the table which creaked under his weight. His voice was just above a whisper, but was dangerous nonetheless. ‘Go and see my co-defendant, Mr Spencer, and tell him to give you the name of someone who will, for a fee, be happy to go and visit our young lady-friend, wherever she may be, and put a pillow over her face, or whatever is most appropriate.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘You can and you will.’

  Stanway’s bottom lip flapped uncontrollably like an awning in high winds as he babbled nervously, ‘I’m a solicitor, not someone who organises contracts on people. And anyway, we don’t know where they’re keeping the girl. She’s in secure accommodation somewhere.’

  ‘And that’s a problem for you?’

  ‘It is.’

  Gilbert’s voice did not change, but to Stanway’s ears it became more and more menacing.

  ‘Are you telling me you cannot walk out of here, pick up a phone and speak to one of our like-minded colleagues in the Social Services - and they would be unwilling to give you that information? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘No, but. . .’

  ‘But what? Now let me spell this out for you, Maurice. In more ways than one I am very big in the Northwest of England. Very rich, very well-connected. I’m sure I’ll be able to ride out the storm caused by the material the police have found in my house, but facing a murder charge is a very different kettle of fish.’ He lifted an eyebrow. ‘I know you have a predilection for putting your twinkle into the bottoms of little boys. . .’ The solicitor started to babble a protest; Gilbert held up a hand to shut him up. ‘I don’t have a problem with that, Maurice, as you know, but what I’m leading up to is this: many of my friends and business associates have the same bent, shall we say. I could reel off a list of names of businessmen, councillors, school governors, all sorts of people - solicitors, even. So, what I’m getting at is this - if I get done for murder, lots more heads will roll, Maurice. Including yours, my friend.’

  Maurice Stanway, LLB, was stone grey and feeling bilious.

  ‘If she dies, and it’s made to look like a coincidence, then I’ll be very happy indeed. Have I made my point?’

  Henry’s office: Danny replaced the phone. ‘Nothing further from the forensic team.’ She relayed the news grimly to Henry and FB.

  Henry tapped his bottom teeth with his thumbnail. It was 6.30 p.m. ‘No supporting evidence,’ he said bitterly. ‘This is shit.’

  ‘There’s not even any point in going for a Super’s extension,’ Danny said. ‘An extra twelve hours only gives us until tomorrow morning. They’ll be spending eight of those asleep.’

  ‘Charge him,’ FB said. ‘Put him before court in the morning and get a three-day lie-down so we can get into his ribs about the other murder in Darwen.’

  ‘Based on what?’ Henry enquired. ‘A witness in the States who’s done a runner? And not only that, we don’t know one hundred per cent that it is a murder. The post mortem was inconclusive.’

  ‘He has to be questioned about it at the very least. And we need chats with him about all the stuff in his house. I think we’ve stumbled onto something very big here.’

  ‘What about Spencer?’

  ‘He’s going nowhere. Charge him with murder too, get a three-day lie-down and let’s have a nice long chat with him about the two mispers we found in his place - and Grace’s allegations about him sexually assaulting her.’

  Henry and Danny nodded. Henry crossed to the computer in his office and logged into the custody system.

  He started to prepare a murder charge.

  ‘Do you wish to make any reply to the charge?’ Danny asked Gilbert. ‘If so, you may like to write it in the space here on the form, or I’ll gladly write it for you.’

  ‘Only that you’ll all regret your mistake, but I don’t wish to have that recorded, so no - no reply.’

  Danny turned to Spencer. They had been jointly charged. He shook his head, said nothing.

  Danny completed the charge forms and handed the defendants their copies. They immediately gave them to Stanway who stuffed them into his briefcase. Danny thought he looked decidedly agitated. His hands were shaking as he closed the case. He appeared near to collapse.

  ‘Are you okay, Mr Stanway?’ she asked with concern. ‘You look peaky.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he said tightly. ‘I’ll see you all at court in the morning.’ He turned to leave, only to find he had not locked his case properly. It flipped open, scattering the contents across the floor, papers, pens, forms, everywhere.

  Danny helped him collect them together. She was unaware that the last piece of paper she handed to him only had one bit of information on it. A telephone number given to Stanway by Ollie Spencer.

  The number of a killer.

  Stanway waited in the dark in his car in one corner of a deserted coach park near to Blackpool football club’s increasingly dilapidated ground. The beat of his heart seemed to be taking place in his throat.

  A movement in the shadows made him gasp.

  He peered through the windscreen into the darkness. A man was standing there. How he had got to that position, Stanway did not know. On his hands and knees perhaps.

  There was the flare of a match, briefly illuminating a face, the features of which were difficult to make out. The match died, the end of a cigarette burned.

  Another match was struck, flared, tossed to one side.

  Two matches. The agreed signal.

  ‘Oh God,’ muttered Stanway. He opened his car door and had to lift his numb legs out of the footwell and onto the ground with his hands. He was sure he would fall over as soon as he put any weight on them. But they held him up. Only just, but they worked.

  Stanway teetered across to the man in the shadows, stopping about six feet away from him. The end of the cigarette glowed as he took a drag. Stanway smelled booze and body odour as well as the smoke.

  ‘Got the money?’

  ‘Half now, half when it’s done.’

  ‘That wasn’t the arrangement.’

  ‘Oh yes it was.’ Stanway tried to sound assertive.

  A hand appeared. Stanway fumbled in his pocket and slapped an envelope into the waiting palm.

  ‘Do I need to count it?’

  ‘It’s all there.’

  ‘It better be.’

  ‘The job needs to be done soon. Tonight if possible. Are you sure you can do it?’

  The man sniggered. ‘Piece of piss. Where is she?’

  Stanway told him.

  ‘Tomorrow night, back here, same time,’ the man said. ‘Make sure you come alone again and with the rest of the money. If you don’t, I’ll come for you, Mr Stanway.’

  The man moved into deeper shadow
. Stanway saw the butt of the cigarette drop to the ground, heard the scrunch of a heel, then there was no sound. The man had gone.

  Danny worked for two hours on the preparation of the remand file for Gilbert and Spencer. She wanted it to be exactly right and continually read and re-read it until she saw double and her head throbbed.

  Finally she completed the front sheet, copied the file and pinned it all together.

  She walked wearily to Henry’s office where he was still transcribing one of the interviews from tape to paper. A tedious task, usually carried out by a trained civvie. Unfortunately they didn’t work after five and urgent files don’t wait until the morning. He removed the headphones when Danny came in.

  ‘Done,’ she said, and dropped the files onto his desk.

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Now I’m going to have a word with Grace, which I should have done yesterday.’

  ‘Don’t spend too much time with her tonight, Danny. Just a quick hello, how are you, we’re still with you, then get yourself to bed. It’s been another long day.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ she said, leaving the office, giving Henry a tired wave over her shoulder. ‘See ya in the morning.’

  She nipped into the CID office, commandeered the keys for one of the cars and five minutes later was heading north out of Blackpool.

  St Jude’s was a former primary school, saved from certain demolition about twenty years before when an overflow problem at various juvenile detention centres and children’s homes saved it from the bulldozer. Little money had ever been spent on it and much of its refurbishment was merely cosmetic.

  Danny parked in front of the building and went to the huge double doors. She rang the bell and heard it echoing somewhere inside. Footsteps drew nearer and the door was opened by a very formidable-looking woman. Danny knew this to be the matron, named, appropriately enough, Miss Steele.