by Nick Oldham
‘I’m sorry to say bail was refused.’ Stanway’s voice was weak.
‘On what grounds?’
‘Likely to abscond, interfere with witnesses, but the Judge said the case must be reviewed on Thursday and every week thereafter if necessary.’
‘What exactly does that mean, Maurice?’
‘It means, Charles, that if the police have found no further evidence against you, you will be released, probably with bail conditions.’
‘I sense a “but” at the end of that sentence.’
‘I think they will have evidence, but not concerning Claire Lilton. It’ll be evidence about the body of the girl they found in Darwen. I did some checking on the way down, via the mobile in the car, with a friend I have in the CPS. They’re sending an officer to the United States to bring a vital witness back who will give evidence against you.’
Gilbert’s head dropped into his hands.
They were in yet another consulting room, this time at Risley Remand Centre. Gilbert’s big, round, football of a head rose. He stuffed a little finger up his nose, rooted around and extracted a ball of snot which he wiped underneath the table.
‘Who is it?’
‘Some girl or other. I don’t have details.’
‘Fuck! I know who she is. It can only be one person.’
He gazed at the ceiling for inspiration. ‘This puts me right back to square one, because if she turns up, I’ll face a murder charge ... and I don’t want that to happen, Maurice.’
‘We’ll defend it,’ Stanway declared resolutely.
‘No, Maurice. I said I didn’t want it to happen at all.’
‘What are you going to do then? Have another witness murdered?’ Stanway’s voice rose. ‘I mean, she’s in America. It’s not as though we can send that dumb gorilla round we paid the other night, can we?’
‘No, that’s true - and keep your voice down, Maurice. Walls have ears.’
‘What do you intend doing, then?’ Stanway re-enquired. ‘I think we should defend it.’
‘I will not appear in court on another murder charge.’
‘Charles,’ Stanway breathed with exasperation, ‘she’s in America, presumably in police hands. She’ll be handed over to the Lancashire officer and brought straight back - in police hands. There is no way you could pull a stunt of any sort.’
‘Maurice,’ Gilbert began in a tone of voice which was losing patience, ‘I want you to do something for me.’ He wiggled a forefinger to bring Stanway’s face closer and he whispered in the solicitor’s ear.
When he had finished, Stanway stood up and paced the room. ‘No, no, I will not do it - you cannot make me do it! First I meet and pay some bloody lowlife to commit a murder and now you ask me to do this. I am just digging myself in deeper and deeper. . . I will not do it. Ethically, morally, legally, it is against all my principles. The answer is no, Charles. A definite no.’
Gilbert listened to the tirade, almost expecting Stanway to stamp his feet.
‘Finished, Maurice?’
Stanway nodded and licked his dry lips.
‘You don’t have a fucking choice.’
Hyperventilation: breathing at an abnormally rapid rate, resulting in increased loss of carbon dioxide.
Maurice Stanway put the dictionary down with dithering hands. That was exactly what he was suffering from. His breathing was out of control; his heart rate astounding. His was light-headed; grey flecks were whizzing in front of his eyes. In fact, it was a miracle he had made it from Risley Remand Centre back to his office in the car. It was only sheer willpower which had prevented him from blacking out on the motorway.
The office was deserted. All the staff had gone home.
It was 7 p.m.
Stanway tried to control everything by sitting at his desk and getting a firm grip on his bodily functions. Without success. In the end he yanked open his bottom drawer and reached for the quarter bottle of scotch he kept there. Normally it languished unopened from Christmas to Christmas. He unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to his lips, gurgling down the fiery liquid. Almost half the bottle went down within seconds. He almost choked.
‘Christ, Christ, Christ.’ His current predicament was beyond his comprehension, but he knew it was solely down to one thing - his weakness. From his experience as a solicitor he knew that weakness was the usual downfall of most people, whether it be a fondness for drink, drugs, money or power, or, as in his case, young boys. Preferably around the ages of seven or eight.
For the millionth time he asked himself why. Why did he like it? Something he knew was completely unnatural, immoral and illegal. But he did. He loved the texture of their soft flesh; he loved causing pain and loved holding them down whilst he completed the act. That too, was a power thing.
But why?
A married man, kids of his own who he would have defended with his life from the advances of someone like himself. A good, moderately successful career. Nice house, two decent cars, money not a problem.
Perhaps his longstanding friendship with Gilbert was one reason. They had known each other since Grammar School, where the brutish Gilbert had led him astray then. . . and the relationship had continued in the same vein for thirty odd years.
Maurice Stanway, the man who was so easily led.
Now he was trapped in a cage of his own making.
Gilbert had such power and personal influence over him it was impossible to resist. For his own survival he had to help Gilbert again.
He pulled his briefcase onto the desk and snapped it open. In his notebook he turned to the page where he had jotted down the number Gilbert had dictated to him. The very private number of a very dangerous man.
Stanway squeezed his face in the palm of his hand, breathed in, held it and exhaled slowly. Then he picked up the phone and dialled quickly so he would not stop halfway through.
Despite the long distance, connection was made immediately.
On the second ring, the phone was answered by a woman.
Stanway quickly explained who he was and asked to speak to that man.
After the rain, Miami was boiling hot again.
However, Felicity Bussola, previously known as Felicity Kruger and before that, Jane Creek, was sitting in the shade of a large umbrella, laid out full-length on a sun lounger by the pool.
She answered the cell-tel as soon as it rang. It had been left on the drinks table next to her. After listening for a few moments, she pressed the ‘secret’ button and shouted across the pool.
‘It’s for you, darling, she called. She held the phone out between her first finger and thumb.
Mario Bussola was sitting at a table in the full sunshine, working on a laptop. There was a fax machine by his side, a small copier, a shredder and two other phones, all within reach. He was stripped down to his boxer shorts and the heat of the sun was making his rippling fat glisten and perspire.
Bussola sat up. He frowned. Few people ever called him on this number because it was only divulged to selected and thoroughly vetted individuals. ‘Bring the fucking thing here,’ he said. There was no way he was going to get up.
‘Okay, babe.’ She rose to her feet stiffly because the broken ribs had not really begun to heal, and shuffled around the edge of the pool. Not only did the ribs still hurt, but also the base of her spine which was sore and bruised. This particular injury meant she walked like an eighty-year-old.
On the way round the pool she had to walk past two of Bussola’s new bodyguards. One was on duty, sat up at a table, reading in the shade of a tree. The other was off-duty, laid out on a recliner in his boxing shorts, browning himself in the rays. Guns and holsters were very much in evidence. They both watched Felicity from behind the dark lenses of their Ray-Bans.
Even though she was injured and probably incapable of anything more than very passive sex, Felicity could not help noticing the bulge in the guard’s boxers. It looked a dangerous packet. She longed to reach out for it.
Her husband was gesturing
impatiently with his fingers. She handed the mobile over.
‘Why don’ you just fuck off inside? I’m sicka lookin’ at cha hobblin’ around like a witch all day long,’ Bussola suggested.
‘Okay, babe,’ she murmured. ‘Anything you say.’
She shuffled away.
Bussola stuck the phone to his ear.
‘Is ... is that Mr Bussola?’ Stanway stuttered.
‘You rang the number, you tell me.’
‘I’ll assume it is . . . My name is Maurice Stanway and I’m very sorry to disturb you, I know you are a busy man.’
‘How did ya get this number?’
‘I . . . er, represent Charles Gilbert. I’m a solicitor - lawyer, if you like. He gave me the number and I’m phoning on his behalf.’
‘In that case stop friggin’ about and get on with it. You’re right - I am busy.’
Felicity crept up the stairs which wound their way up the rear of the house. A first-level landing gave her the chance to rest. The window there looked over the terrace to the pool where she could see her husband on the phone.
Had her eyes been pistols, they would have shot Bussola to pieces. She perched the corner of her bottom on the low window-ledge and opened the window quietly. Just below her were the two bodyguards, unaware she was hovering above them. Bussola was talking gruffly on the phone. The bodyguards were whispering something to each other. Felicity craned her neck and strained to eavesdrop.
‘She deserved it . . . no fucker pisses with Mario,’ the on-duty guard was saying.
‘He made a classic mess of her,’ the other observed. Felicity knew his name was Gus. She did not know the other’s name.
‘Yeah - she used to be a good-lookin’ piece a tail. Now her face is so outta line she couldn’t even blow a candle out.’
Felicity choked back a sob at the words. They were true. She was horrible to look at now. Face swollen, body bruised to hell and back - was she ever going to recover? Her husband had made a mess of her and she hated him for it.
‘Shit!’ Bussola roared. He threw the phone down in a fit of temper and it smashed to pieces on the terracotta floor.
The bodyguards shot to attention, nerves showing.
‘Ira!’ the Italian bellowed. ‘Get your stinking Jewish ass out here now.’
Bussola rolled up to his feet and waddled over to the bodyguards quicker than they anticipated. They jumped to their feet.
Felicity dodged behind the cover of the drape.
‘Siddown, you assholes,’ Bussola instructed them. ‘Ira? You heard me, or what?’
‘I’m here, I’m here, keep your big Italian mouth in check.’ Ira Begin, Bussola’s lawyer and adviser in all matters of law, strategy, finance and tactical operations, scuttled like a beetle out of the house, where he had been busy on paperwork. He was the only person who could get away with talking back to Bussola, but even he judged it carefully. Sometimes Bussola needed to be treated with kid gloves and Begin generally knew when. He had been with Bussola many years and though he was a small, insignificant-looking man, he wielded great power and influence in Bussola’s empire. He was ruthless when necessary, having cold-bloodedly murdered four people in his time and assisted Bussola to murder or dispose of eight others, including the Armstrong brothers; mostly, though, Begin liked to keep timidly in the background, using his various skills to assist in the acquisition of money and power for his boss. He slid his John Lennon style spectacles on and blinked in the sunlight. ‘What’s up?’
‘Got an issue.’ Bussola perched himself on the edge of the table the bodyguard had been sitting at. He always used the word ‘issue’ rather than ‘problem’.
‘Shoot.’
‘Gilbert’s been arrested in England.’
‘How is that an issue?’
‘Let me finish, you twerp. In two ways. Firstly, the equipment we are shipping over to him - you know, the video games - need to be dealt with by him. He’s going to hand over the little extras we have secreted in them to our other contact in Manchester.’ Bussola was referring to the two kilos of cocaine that were going to accompany the arcade games; Gilbert was due to deliver them to a drug dealer who was handling Bussola’s North of England operation. If Gilbert was not there to receive the games, there could be major complications, not only of a financial nature. ‘And secondly, the English cops are coming across here to pick up a witness against him and take that witness back to testify. It’s about a murder five godamned years ago! I mean, who the hell gives a shit about something that old? Anyway, it’s that stupid little girl who spoiled some of our fun.’
‘Tracey Greenwood - the English girl.’ Begin knew immediately; it was his job to know.
‘Yeah - that junkie piece a shit. She could damage me - possibly,’ Bussola complained. ‘And not only that, Gilbert is a friend. I look after friends.’
‘I take it you would rather she did not testify?’ Begin said fussily.
‘It would simplify things all round. Make some enquiries, find out where she is and then just fucking waste her.’
In the window Felicity drew back again when Begin turned and walked back into the house.
She had heard everything that had been said.
Maurice Stanway replaced the phone. His hand shook. His palms were sweating. For the second time in a matter of days he had arranged the murder of an innocent individual.
He stood up, drained emotionally and physically, walked out of his office and found his way to the cloakroom, where he filled a wash-basin and ducked his face into the cold water until his lungs almost burst. He pulled up, spluttering, looking scornfully at his image in the mirror.
‘You bastard,’ he breathed. ‘You absolute bastard.’
Chapter Twenty-two
Henry leaned across, flicked the handle and pushed the door open for Danny who walked down her short drive and dropped into the passenger seat. She was dead-beat and looked it. Her bleary eyes could hardly stay open even though she had slept well that night.
But five in the morning is no time for anyone to get up. It reminded her of days gone by when she worked shifts. On reflection she was amazed she handled them so well.
It was now 5.45 a.m., Wednesday morning, and Henry, as promised, was bang on time to pick her up. He estimated a good hour to get to Manchester Airport because even at that time of day, traffic around the city’s motorways could be horrendous.
He was wide awake and pretty buzzy. ‘Morning!’
‘Urumph,’ Danny responded, smacking the recliner button and jerking backwards into a nearly prone position. She tossed a holdall into the back seat, then settled as comfortably as possible after turning up the heating a few notches. She was a very warm-blooded animal and needed heat, especially at this time of day, and particularly in her extremities, which were like blocks of ice.
Henry, perceptive as ever, picked up the body language: DO NOT DISTURB. He drove in silence and within minutes they were on the motorway. The radio was tuned into Jazz FM, so Danny closed her eyes, mentally rolled to the beat ... and fell asleep.
‘Here we are.’
‘What?’ Danny shook her head and rubbed her eyes, unable to believe they had arrived at the airport already. ‘Is this a Tardis, or what?’
‘No, just sounds like one.’
Henry handed her a package which contained a visa for Danny and an emergency passport for Tracey Greenwood. Both had been sent by courier, arriving at midnight at Henry’s house. He also handed her a wad of dollar traveller cheques. She stuffed the whole lot into her holdall.
‘Got your own passport?’
She shot him a withering glance.
They walked to International Departures where Danny checked in without having to wait. She was told to go directly to passport control.
‘Okay, Danny, try to get some sleep on the flight because you’ll need it if you’re going to do a quick turnaround. Grab the girl and get her back here for tomorrow. I’ll be waiting.’
She took hold of Henry’s
lapels and dragged his face down to her. They kissed briefly.
‘Look after yourself. See you tomorrow.’
Danny gave a quick wave and trotted away towards passport control. She didn’t glance back.
Thirty minutes later she was settled in the most luxurious airplane seat she had ever been in and was back asleep before the plane left the ground.
Following her rash decision to employ Steve Kruger to tail her husband, Felicity Bussola had learned some hard lessons.
The first was that no one messes with Mario Bussola without getting hurt ... and that included his wife.
Bussola had beaten upon her remorselessly, enjoying every minute of it. He had smashed her face in, initially with his big fat fists and by pounding her on the edge of the grand piano, breaking her cheekbones. The instrument had subsequently to be cleaned to remove all the blood and snot and two teeth Felicity had dribbled into its workings.
Bussola had not been content with the face. Next he pummelled her body, but not with his hands or feet. He carefully selected a lamp-stand, and wielding it like a baseball bat, whacked her repeatedly with it, following her round the house as she cowered in terror behind any cover she could find. After this he dragged her back to the piano, forced her fingers onto the ivories and slammed the lid down at least a dozen times. But he only actually broke two of her fingers on her left hand.
Then, loving husband that he was, he arranged private medical treatment for her at a clinic he owned.
Very much linked to the first lesson was that it was in her interests not to take any more interest in her husband’s whereabouts. He ran businesses which operated twenty-four hours a day and he had to be in a position to supervise them appropriately. So of course he would be away nights. It didn’t mean he was being unfaithful to her.
Yeah, right.
The final lesson was that she should be grateful to be married to him. She should be grateful he came home at all and even more grateful if he deigned to fuck her. She learned this lesson, because he told her.
