by Nick Oldham
Danny flashed her badge and introduced herself, already having phoned ahead in advance to warn of her arrival.
‘She’s in room number four.’ Miss Steele answered Danny’s query and gave her directions.
‘Is there just yourself on duty?’
‘Aye, me and nine kids. Want me to take you down to her room?’
‘I’ll find my own way, thanks. I’ll see you on the way out. Only be about ten minutes.’
‘I’ll be in the office, just here.’ She pointed to a slightly open door.
Danny thanked her and walked down the corridor. She passed a common room, which she glanced into. Several young girls were lounging around, watching TV. Danny walked on, turned right down a hallway, off which were the private rooms. Grace’s room was the last on the right.
As she walked she felt a distinct chill from a draught blowing thinly down the corridor. At the far end she could see a fire door which was open, banging in the breeze. Danny thought it was unusual, but nothing more than that. She decided she would tell Miss Steele on the way out.
She stopped at Grace’s door and tapped. ‘Grace, it’s me, Danny Furness,’ she cooed. ‘I’ve come to see you.’ Her fingers wrapped around the handle, Danny pushed the door open.
Inside the room, the man sub-contracted by Maurice Stanway looked up. He had not quite finished the job and he forced the pillow down with all his weight onto Grace’s face and at the moment the door opened, she ceased squirming.
Danny could not believe her eyes, but incredulous though the image was, she reacted instantaneously. She threw herself across the room screaming, ‘Get off her, you bastard!’ Her arms flailed as she launched herself over the last few feet.
The man fended her off with the pillow, held like a shield before him, taking all the blows Danny rained down on him.
But he was big and mean and the concept of striking a woman, particularly in this predicament, did not play on his conscience at all. Using the pillow he forced Danny away from him, pushing her roughly. She staggered back.
He dropped the pillow, bunched the fingers of his right hand into a large, hairy fist and drove it towards Danny’s face. It caught her hard, sent her spinning back against Grace’s bed, over the prone figure of the dead girl. Danny knew she did not have the strength or the fighting skill to win here, but she had one thing going for her - long fingernails.
Though dizzy from his punch, she spun round like a panther and lurched towards him again, willing herself to get her claws into his cheeks and dig them in as deeply as humanly possible.
She succeeded. Dramatically so.
Eight fingernails gouged down both his cheeks, drawing rivulets of blood and flesh with them and a howl of pain from the attacker, who reacted by whipping up both his forearms, flicking her hands away and leaving her very open for his next onslaught.
He pummelled her down to the floor and would have gone on, probably to kill her, if Miss Steele hadn’t appeared at the door and shrieked something incomprehensible.
He leapt over Danny, punched Miss Steele out of the way and hurled himself down the corridor towards the open fire escape, which had been his means of entry, and was gone.
Blood dripping from her nose, Danny dragged herself up by the edge of the bed. She looked at Grace’s pale face and placed the tips of her first and second fingers onto her warm neck, checking for the beating of a pulse which she knew she would not find.
Danny then inspected her own fingernails and hoped she had got enough of the man underneath them to identify him through DNA.
Chapter Twenty
In comparison to the previous evening, Saturday morning found Maurice Stanway in his element. He stood before the three magistrates on the Bench in the specially convened court and carefully stacked the files on the table in front of him, adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. He squinted contemptuously at the CPS solicitor sitting a few feet away from him; Stanway believed he could run rings round the bugger. He smiled benignly at the magistrate’s clerk and the Bench beyond.
‘If it may please Your Worships,’ he said with a mouth full of syrup, ‘I represent the defendants in this case, Messrs Gilbert and Spencer. . .’
In the dock, sitting mutely side by side behind the high brass bars, were the two named persons. Four cops hovered behind them. Neither prisoner was handcuffed.
‘You have heard my learned friend,’ and there was a slight sneer as Stanway emphasised the word ‘friend’, ‘and I have several submissions to make on behalf of my clients this morning. Firstly, as you know, both are charged with murder, a serious allegation. My first submission is in respect of this charge. It is within my knowledge that the police do not have any evidence to substantiate this charge whatsoever. As you are aware, a dreadful, dreadful incident occurred last night which resulted in the death of the only police witness to this case. It was an incident, I hasten to add, purely coincidental and unrelated to my clients being in custody. . .’
‘My arse!’ hissed Danny Furness through clenched teeth. She, Henry and FB were seated at the rear of the court. Henry quickly laid a hand on her arm. He sensed she was about to stand up and heckle some very unprofessional points of view. She was convinced, as was Henry, that Grace’s death was no coincidence.
‘Shush,’ Henry admonished her.
‘The prosecution evidence, as I understand, relied one hundred per cent on this unfortunate girl’s evidence.’ Stanway sounded sad. No one could have guessed he was the one responsible for sending her killer round. ‘There is no supporting evidence - nothing. And, to put it simply, the prosecution no longer has a case. To proceed on the evidence of one dead witness would be ludicrous and a criminal waste of public money. On those grounds, I submit to the court that the charge is withdrawn and the case dismissed.’
He paused for effect, then went on: ‘The prosecution have also stated their desire to interview my client about other matters. What are these other matters?’ Stanway took a breath. ‘Let me tell you: in relation to Mr Gilbert, one of Blackpool’s most respected businessmen, a man who supports many local children’s charities, these are matters concerning certain documents found in his house. Yes, Your Worships, documents. I ask you! Does that require a further seventy-two hours in custody? No, I submit it does not. Mr Gilbert will gladly make an appointment to come to the police station and be interviewed at any time suitable to the police, not himself. It is imperative that Mr Gilbert is given his liberty today. He has many businesses to run, many people to employ who depend on him. . .’
‘God give me strength,’ Danny blurted, unable to contain herself.
Stanway stopped talking, swivelled slowly and glared at Danny, as did everyone else in court. He pulled his spectacles down his nose and looked over the frames at her. Danny stared defiantly back. Fuck them, she thought.
‘Please keep quiet, Officer,’ the clerk of the court warned, ‘or I shall have to consider you to be in contempt of court.’
Danny breathed impatiently down her nose.
Stanway resumed his address, but Danny did not hear another word of it. Her mind suddenly felt as if an express train was roaring through it, whilst reliving last night’s horror at the children’s home. Henry kept one eye on her, fully responsive to her tension, knowing she was close to explosion.
When Stanway had finished his submissions, the CPS solicitor asked for a short adjournment.
‘We are not going to let those bastards back out on the streets!’ Danny smashed a fist onto the table in the police room at the court. ‘No fucking way.’
‘Danny, Danny. Calm down,’ Henry tried to cool it. ‘We’ve no intention of doing so, but we’ve got to get the submission to the court correct. If we shout at them, they’ll just let them go.’
She took a deep drag on her cigarette, defying the No Smoking signs.
FB addressed the CPS solicitor. ‘That murder charge stands. We are not going to withdraw it. Understand?’
The man nodded.
‘And,’ FB went on,
‘we don’t want him to have bail, even with conditions. There’s lots more than just documents to talk to him about, such as that other death in East Lancashire and the controlled drugs found in his home. You’ve really got to lay it on thick.’
‘Right, right.’ The man scribbled on a pad.
‘Henry - brief this guy up properly, but don’t forget, we don’t want to give away too much in court.’
The court reconvened.
The CPS solicitor stood up nervously. This was his biggest case so far and he wanted to do well.
‘Your Worships,’ he began when the three men had settled, ‘the charge of murder will not be withdrawn and neither will the application to keep the defendants in custody for further questioning.’ After he’d said those opening words he relaxed into solicitor mode and delivered the half-truths, half-lies Henry had fed him. ‘In relation to the charge of murder, whilst it cannot be denied that the dead girl was a vital witness, we believe it is only right and proper that these two defendants face and answer the allegations in a court of law. Whilst the witness may be dead, her evidence remains valid. Also, as I speak, scientists are still working on the forensic side of things and fully expect to have evidence which supports and complements the evidence of the dead girl.’ That was - almost - a lie. ‘Secondly, not only do the police wish to interview Gilbert about documents found in his house, but also about many other items which point towards other serious offences, and also the police need to question him about another suspicious death, the details of which I do not wish to divulge in open court as they would prejudice the police investigation. If Gilbert did get bail, there is a real possibility of him absconding. He spends a great deal of his time abroad and we believe he would immediately leave the country, together with his co-accused, Spencer, about whom I have the following, submissions to make. . .’
Stanway subsequently countered all the prosecution arguments and then the magistrates adjourned to consider the matter over a cup of coffee.
Danny paced the corridor outside the courtroom door. Nerves, like little electric shocks, flickered around her stomach walls.
Henry sat and watched her until he could stand it no longer. He pulled her into an empty witness waiting room. ‘Danny, you’re driving me up the wall!’
‘Well, I won’t apologise for it. That bastard - those bastards - are going to be out on the streets again. I can feel it. I just know. And we’re powerless to do anything about it.’
‘Danny, sit down. . . I said sit.’
Meekly, she obeyed.
Henry sat next to her and tenderly pushed a strand of her hair back from her forehead. ‘You’ve been through a tough time these last few days.’
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ she snapped.
Henry was hurt by the remark, but kept a cool head. ‘No, I know I don’t. But you need to take a step back from this and get it into perspective. We have done everything and more that’s expected of us. We’ve put away Louis Trent for the rest of his life and we’re on track to sending those two bastards down the corridor behind him. Now, if we don’t succeed, then we’ll have to accept it, okay? Let’s just make sure we do everything right, to the book, and keep a professional head on - just like you told me the other day, remember?’
‘The book! Those two swines should be shot!’
‘Maybe so, but they won’t be and that’s life.’ He shrugged. ‘Now, Danny, you are a very caring person. I know it sounds trite and corny, but it’s also true. I want someone on my team like you, but I also want you to be more realistic in your approach. I do know some of the things you’ve been through over the last few days. They’ve been pretty horrific. I know I...’
‘No, you don’t know. Don’t even try to know.’ Then Danny caught his wounded expression. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Henry.’
‘It’s all right. All I’m saying, in a pathetic kind of way, is you’re going to have to deal with things one way or another. Try to work out what’ll be best for you. Might just be a chat with a friend, or me, or the Welfare Department, but whatever you do, Danny, deal with it. I speak from experience.’
She gave a wan smile and draped her arms around his neck, touching her forehead onto his, sighing deeply. ‘God, if only you weren’t married. . .’
‘Danny, if I wasn’t married, I’d shag you here and now!’
They burst apart, laughing uproariously. ‘And I’d let you.’
The door opened and FB strutted in. ‘And just what the hell are you up to? They’ve been up and dealt with while you’ve been getting all touchy-feely.’
Danny stiffened.
‘And?’ Henry’s voice was cautious.
FB dug his fist like he was punching some poor sucker in the solar plexus. ‘Stuck it up ‘em!’ he announced jubilantly. ‘Bail refused - three-day lie-down.’
Danny shot off her seat and danced around the room, madly waving her arms up and down, jigging on the spot. Then she astounded FB by throwing her arms round him and placing a big wet kiss on his cheek.
Henry stayed seated, a smirk of satisfaction on his face. Danny’s joy subsided when she pulled away from FB who wiped his cheek distastefully with his pristine clean hankie.
She exchanged a glance with Henry. ‘Now the work really begins.’
Chapter Twenty-one
Two days later there was nothing further the police could do. Having charged Gilbert and Spencer with Claire Lilton’s murder they were not, by law, allowed to question them any further about that matter.
All they had for Gilbert was the material found at his home, which in the grand scheme of things was pretty insignificant. He was questioned at length about the dead girl in East Lancashire, but denied all knowledge when faced with the paltry evidence against him.
Finding two naked runaways in Spencer’s flat meant there were many long conversations with him, but nothing more on the murder front and he denied sexually assaulting Grace.
Forty-eight hours, therefore, failed to produce anything worthwhile.
All the while, Danny and Henry had vague hopes that America might be the key, but nothing happened on that score. Henry phoned Karl Donaldson, who in turn phoned Myrna, who had no further information.
So, two tired detectives, having spent all those hours in each other’s pockets, came to realise they would have to put the defendants back before the court before the three days was up. There was no way they could justify keeping them in police custody any longer. They had to go back to court, hopefully to get the two defendants remanded in custody and then commit the case to Crown Court.
Which is what they did on Monday morning.
And the magistrates went along with them and denied bail.
Stanway was astounded by the decision and immediately stated his intention to appeal against the decision to a High Court Judge in chambers.
Meanwhile, Gilbert and Spencer were transferred, like common criminals, to Risley Remand Centre.
On the next day, Tuesday, at 10 a.m., Stanway appealed to a judge in chambers - a course of action which often resulted in the magistrates’ decision being overturned.
Lancaster Crown Court was in session, presided over by High Court Judge Constance Ellison. At the age of seventy-two she was as quick and nimble in both brain and body as a forty-year-old, and unlike most other judges her age, she was very much in touch with modern trends and thinking. She would never have to ask who Oasis or The Spice Girls were.
She had scheduled the appeal before the start of the day’s court proceedings and was waiting in her chambers, dressed in full regalia, looking absolutely splendid and very imposing. She sat behind a large, highly polished mahogany desk.
A court usher led in Stanway and his opposite number from the CPS.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ she greeted them. ‘Please be seated. I may have the full kit on, as they say, but let’s not be too formal in here.’ She smiled a warm, pleasant smile.
They both sat, shuffling their papers nervously. Both knew she had a for
midable reputation for chewing up and spitting out solicitors and lawyers.
Stanway began...
...And outside in the chilly corridor, Henry and Danny waited tensely for the result.
Half an hour dragged by as slowly as creeping death.
Neither spoke.
Danny sat there unmoving, consumed with her innermost thoughts. Henry, on contrast, fidgeted constantly. Standing up, sitting down, patrolling the corridor. Bored to death by doing nothing.
It was a relief for both when Henry’s pager vibrated against his pelvic bone, summoning him to make a phone call. He wandered away to find the nearest one. Danny was glad to see him go. He was getting on her nerves this time.
He had been gone less than two minutes when the door to the Judge’s chamber creaked open. The usher poked his head out. ‘DI Christie? DS Furness?’ he called enquiringly.
‘I’m DS Furness.’ Danny stood up.
‘Where is DI Christie?’
‘Gone to make a phone call. Why?’
‘The Judge wants to see you both.’
Over the last few days, since Tracey had disappeared, the operatives of Kruger Investigations had been getting nowhere fast. The streets of Miami had been constantly combed, particularly the areas notable for street hookers and drug abusers.
They drew a blank.
Myrna had got the girl’s last known address from Mark Tapperman; two of her best investigators had visited it, but the place was empty. It looked as though she had done a quick getaway, leaving several items of personal belongings behind.
Myrna called her people off.
There was no guarantee Tracey was even in Miami. She could have been anywhere, or even dead, so Myrna resumed normality - or at least the normality of life without Steve Kruger and a gay husband.
Too much time chasing shadows would have been unproductive for a firm still reeling from its founder’s death. Myrna needed to devote herself to jittery customers.
