One Dead Witness

by Nick Oldham

  Those, at least, were the direct learning points from hiring Steve Kruger.

  She learned a few indirect ones too. One was to never - ever - trust the staff. Whatever they said, she would never again take anyone of them into her confidence, like she had done with the two bastards who had kidnapped Steve Kruger for her. In the end, Mario employed them, and their first loyalty was to him, not her.

  She had also become aware that the house was riddled with listening devices and miniature cameras, monitored from a control room at the gate-house, into which she had never been allowed. She had been under the impression the gate-house was simply a place where Bussola’s heavyweights just crashed out. Now she knew it was far more sinister.

  Her personal objective now was to find all the surveillance devices and then never to say or do anything further to incriminate herself or any other person in any way. It might get someone killed.

  She believed she had located all the bugs. The only rooms which appeared to be free of them were the bedrooms, Mario and Ira Begin’s offices and most corridors and landings. She had no idea why the bugs existed and did not dare ask.

  The main lesson she had learned from recent events, though, was that she was a stupid, naive bitch who had been blinded by money and lifestyle and was now more unhappy than she had ever been in the whole of her life. She felt trapped, with no way out ... and she still didn’t know if Bussola was cheating on her.

  Not that it seemed to matter any more.

  ‘It took a little time,’ Ira Begin said apologetically, ‘but he came through in the end.’

  Bussola looked up from his desk at Begin who was leaning against the door jamb of his boss’s study. It was 9 a.m., on the day after Begin had been given instructions to start making enquiries into the current state of play and whereabouts of Tracey Greenwood.

  ‘Sit down,’ Bussola nodded. Begin came into the office and took a seat on the couch, pushing the door to behind him, though it did not close properly.

  ‘I had to pull in some goodwill on this one, Mario. It’ll cost.’

  ‘Pay.’

  Begin nodded. ‘Apparently Tracey Greenwood presented herself to Myrna Rosza at Kruger Investigations and stated she wanted to testify against Gilbert in some old murder case in England.’

  ‘Why Kruger Investigations?’

  Begin shrugged. ‘Maybe she doesn’t trust the authorities. Anyway, she’s now with that black bitch Rosza, who’s babysitting her until the English cops get here. There’s a detective due to land at MIA later today to escort the girl back to Britain - a guy called Danny Furness.’

  ‘Where’s the girl now, as we speak?’

  Begin heaved a sigh. ‘With Rosza, place unknown.’

  Bussola gave his assistant a withering look. ‘Make it a place known.’

  ‘Working on it as we speak.’

  Bussola ran a hand through his hair. ‘I want her dead, Ira. If you can negotiate a hand-over with Rosza, then all well and good.’

  ‘I have an idea, a leverage tool we might use.’

  Bussola waved a hand dismissively. ‘I believe in empowerment, Ira. Do it your way, but if it doesn’t work, kill the girl and then kill anyone else who causes any obstruction, cops included.’

  At the study door there was the faintest whisper of a sigh, a movement. . . Begin leapt to his feet and jumped to the door.

  No one there.

  He gave a short laugh and closed it.

  Felicity had been watching and waiting for Begin to go in and see her husband, and had then sneaked up to the door and listened to every word spoken between the two men. She had remained still, completely rigid, during the conversation, her ear literally at the crack in the door. Then her ribs twisted slightly and she could not prevent the squeak of pain escaping from her lips.

  She spun out of sight in the dog-leg of the hallway just a moment before Begin poked his head out of the door, amazing herself how quickly she could move when she needed to, despite the present condition of her body.

  Now she needed to get to a phone which wasn’t wired up. Something easier said than done.

  Felicity’s activities had been very much curtailed since her recent blunder, and getting out of the house alone was now a major operation. Bussola was deeply suspicious of her, wanted to know where she was going, what she was doing, who she was seeing; he also made sure she was accompanied all the time.

  Had she not been almost crippled by his beating, slipping away from a chaperone would have been relatively easy. Now she had to think up some other strategy, and double-quick too, for if she could not get away from the house, she’d be unable to warn Myrna of Bussola’s plans for the witness and possibly Myrna herself.

  Ten minutes after his conversation with Begin, Bussola was again working by the poolside, his laptop connected up to the Internet where he was surfing the pornography pages. Felicity hovered with a complete lack of assertiveness, just in his view.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said at length, not raising his head from the screen.

  ‘Sweetheart, I need to get out,’ she said humbly.

  Bussola stopped tapping at the keys. He regarded her sternly and she prepared herself for the ‘why’ question.

  It came. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just wanna drift around a few clothes shops, cheer myself up a little, maybe try on a few things. I won’t buy anything.’ Not that she could. As part of her punishment, Bussola had chopped off all her credit. ‘Honey, please can I?’ she pined.

  He then shocked her. ‘Yeah, you can. In fact, go and buy yourself something.’ He delved into his briefcase and extracted a wad of cash. He did not count it, just handed it over.

  ‘Gee ... thanks honey,’ she said genuinely, seduced by the sight of greenbacks. There must have been about fifteen hundred dollars.

  ‘Pleasure, babe.’

  Then she remembered who he was, what he had done to her and others, but nevertheless maintained her gratefulness. ‘You are really good to me.’

  ‘Hey!’ he clicked his forefinger at her. ‘And don’t you forget it. Now get lost.’

  His attention returned to the computer. Felicity limped painfully away, hearing Bussola’s voice call behind her. ‘Gus, you take my wife shopping, y’hear?’

  Gus stood up. ‘Okay, boss.’ Felicity saw it was the bodyguard with the rather substantial appendages. It was horrendous to be horny and unable to do anything about it.

  Ira Begin had not reached his exalted position in life without proper planning, taking into account all the imponderables of a situation, always making back-up plans for any contingency and ensuring they were in place should his initial course of action not succeed.

  As was the case with the situation concerning Tracey Greenwood and Myrna Rosza.

  He had quickly established how he was going to approach the problem. It would, as Bussola had suggested, be through a process of negotiation. If that failed, other tactics would drop into place. But what he needed to know before anything happened at all was the exact holding position of the girl.

  Once he had that, he would swing into action. ‘Captain Crenshaw, Homicide, please,’ Begin said into the phone.

  ‘May I ask who is calling?’

  ‘I’m his chiropractor.’

  ‘Thank you. Please hold the line.’

  A series of clicks, a slight pause, then, ‘Crenshaw, Homicide.’

  ‘Ahh, Captain, this is your chiropractor. I was just wondering if you’d made that appointment yet.’

  ‘Hey, I haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘It is urgent. You know how tight your spine is.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll get back to you soon with details.’

  ‘And, of course, you will feel great benefit.’ Begin hung up, slightly frustrated. He desperately needed to know where Tracey was being held, otherwise he might start to look stupid.

  He picked his phone up again and dialled a zero. He ordered someone from the gatehouse to bring a car up for him. He had to get out and see someone, pronto.


  Gus was sticking to Felicity like a limpet, not difficult in her present condition. Dark glasses covering her bruised face, she was moving slowly around the Bal Harbor shops on Collins Avenue, Miami Beach, where high-class names were in abundance - Saks, Carrier, Hermes et al. Not much was priced below four hundred dollars and an average price in some shops was four thousand.

  ‘Gus, why don’t you fuck of?’ Felicity suggested. ‘I’m staying in and around these shops, going nowhere else. What about you and me meet back here in an hour, say? I ain’t gonna tell Mario . . . but you’re going to be bored shitless because all I’m going to do is drift around dress shops.’

  ‘Uh-huh. With respect, but no way, Mrs Bussola. Boss says I’ve got to stay with you and I’m going to do just that.’

  Felicity shrugged.

  Gus was a simple son of a bitch and she doubted if she could shake his dog-like determination to follow orders to the letter. She would just have to look for another opportunity and grasp it when it came.

  Henry Christie’s early start that day did not deter him from going into work to catch up with everything. He drove from the airport, arriving at the station about seven-thirty. Accompanied by a wonderful cup of tea, he took full advantage of the early hour to get some clearance work done at his desk.

  At 2 p.m. he was still busy, not having stopped for any refreshment other than of the hot liquid variety. He was really motoring on his paperwork and didn’t want to interrupt his momentum.

  Blackpool is a town where nobody gets noticed. The extravagant and outlandish are the norm. The normal is the norm too. Being the worse for drink is not unusual; inebriates abound and unless they are fighting drunk, do not raise an eyebrow.

  That particular Wednesday afternoon, no one noticed the unshaven, slightly smelly figure of a man who, stinking of booze, staggered and rolled through the streets. Occasionally he bumped into people but muttered apologies. He wasn’t looking for trouble. Sometimes he crashed into walls or shop fronts and apologised too. Though he was unsteady on his feet, he did not fall over.

  The only thing which perhaps set him apart from the usual drunk was his standard of dress. Though tie-less, his suit was obviously expensive, his shoes too, and his silk shirt was definitely made to measure. Even so, he was paid no heed. People just tried to avoid him.

  When he stumbled into the Tower complex, slapping down his cash at the pay desk, he wasn’t even acknowledged by the staff. Just another customer, just another drunk.

  It was 3 p.m., British time. Henry sat back, interlocked his fingers behind his head and thought about Danny.

  Seven hours since she had taken off. The plane, no doubt, would be staring its gradual descent into Miami International, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. Henry did not particularly envy her, but thought that nevertheless it would be quite nice to have a taste, however brief, of some Florida sunshine. The weather in Blackpool had not been too bad for a couple of days, but didn’t have the warmth Henry remembered from his holiday in Florida a couple of years earlier.

  He shook his head. His brain was slowing down now, becoming a nebulous mass after the morning’s marathon of paper shifting.

  Time for a break. He peered out through the office window and decided on a brisk stroll up the Prom. Clear his head, maybe buy the kids something useless, maybe buy Kate something too. Now that would surprise her.

  He slid his Barbour on, dropped his PR into a pocket and quit the office. A few minutes later he was on the Promenade. The sun was shining brightly, but it was still extremely chilly.

  The drunken man reeled slowly through the Tower amusement complex. He dallied in the Hall of Mirrors, staring angrily at each reflection, particularly the one which made him look very small. He dawdled in the aquarium, staring up at the sharks, detesting the smug way in which they glided smoothly around with no effort whatsoever, masters of their environment, their small, piggy, emotionless eyes with a bead on him, like they were telling him something.

  Well, fuck them! There was nothing they could tell him about himself he didn’t already know.

  For half an hour he sat on the balcony overlooking the Tower ballroom, watching the dancers slide around the floor. He had a couple of large whiskies whilst he watched the, in the main, elderly couples dancing the afternoon away in a ritual more reminiscent of the thirties than the nineties. He went to the bar and gulped a further Scotch which really seemed to hit the mark.

  Then he made his way to the lift which would take him all the way up the Tower.

  With unusually helpful tailwinds, Danny’s plane touched down half an hour ahead of schedule at Miami International, 10.30 a.m. US time. She had been in the air seven and a half hours but it was only like the blink of an eye to her because, with the exception of devouring the rather delicious meal provided, she had slept all the way.

  Very refreshed, she made her way off the plane, straight through customs with the only slight hitch being the diligent checking of her visa at passport control. In the arrival lounge she expected to be met, but not by Arnold Schwarzenegger. Or to be more accurate, Mark Tapperman, who bore a card with Danny’s name on it.

  ‘That’s me,’ said Danny, approaching the big man.

  Tapperman looked at the name on the card, then up at Danny.

  ‘It’s short for Danielle,’ she explained.

  ‘Oh, right, yeah.’ Tapperman was completely thrown. ‘They didn’t say I was going to meet a woman.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Tapperman regained some sort of control of himself and thrust out his right hand which Danny shook. ‘Welcome to Miami. I’m Lieutenant Mark Tapperman, Miami PD. Here.’ He flashed his badge.

  ‘I’m Danny Furness, as you already know. Detective Sergeant, Blackpool CID.’ She showed him her warrant card.

  ‘Lemme take your case. Come on, follow me. My car’s waiting.’

  ‘I’ll carry it myself, Mark. Thanks.’

  ‘So ... good flight?’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Blackpool? I heard of that place. Guess it’s pretty quiet. Not much going on - not much excitement cop-wise, I guess.’

  Danny smiled inwardly. ‘I guess not.’

  Henry Christie could not resist Robert’s Oyster Bar. He dived in and bought himself a tub of potted shrimps which he proceeded to eat whilst leaning against the sea-wall railings and looking across to the Golden Mile. The shrimps tasted wonderful.

  Henry’s eyes followed the Tower upwards, 519 feet to the pinnacle. It was a clear day and the view from the platform would be superb.

  The last of the shrimps went into his mouth. It was time to head back to the office and maybe have an early dart home.

  ‘Gus, you cannot follow me in here, no matter what Mario told you. I am a lady, this is a ladies’ changing room and if you try to come in, I’ll scream the place down.’

  ‘Uh, I dunno about this,’ he said dumbly.

  ‘You’d have to shoot the security guards,’ Felicity said.

  ‘Now, I’m going in there to try these two dresses on.’ They were folded across her arm. ‘And I’ll probably be about fifteen minutes, okay? There’s nowhere I can go, so relax and go choose something sexy for your girl from the lingerie department.’

  ‘Lingerie?’

  ‘Underwear to you - panties, brassieres, you know the kind of stuff. Over there.’ She spun him round and shoved him in the direction of the department. He tottered away unhappily, giving several backward glances. Felicity went into the changing area and chose the booth furthest away, locking the door behind her.

  Once inside she sat down and relaxed. Then she began to undress.

  Henry Christie was correct. The view from the platform almost at the top of the Tower was magical. No one was allowed to go to the very top these days, however; too many people jumped off. Now visitors were restricted to the covered platform at 380 feet, from which there was a 360-degree view of Blackpool and its environs.

  The drunken man w
alked around the platform, feeling the fresh wind in his hair, looking at the view, not really appreciating either.

  Above the head-high railings was a wire-mesh cage to dissuade people from climbing up and over and launching themselves into oblivion. The man walked round, inspecting the mesh above his head, noting the location of the joins, where the weak points were.

  It did not take him long to find what he was looking for.

  He clambered up the metal railings and reached for the mesh, pulling it apart at one of the seams. Within moments he had broken through and clambered up onto the cage, sitting on the edge with nothing now between himself and the roofs of the shops below. He shuffled right to the edge, dangling his legs over. One last push, and he would be over.

  It would be over.

  ‘What do you think of this one, Gus?’

  Felicity emerged from the changing room, displaying the thousand-dollar creation she was trying on for size. And also to reassure Gus, who had spent no time in lingerie; he had been sitting on a chair at the entrance to the changing rooms, agitatedly tapping his feet, peering in for a sight of Mrs Bussola.

  ‘It’s really nice, Mrs B,’ Gus said. He tried to sound enthusiastic.

  ‘Thanks, Gus. You’re obviously a connoisseur.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A thick cunt,’ Felicity said under her breath. She twirled back into the changing area, accompanied by an attentive member of staff, to try on the next outfit.

  Before she closed the door, she spoke briefly to the sales assistant. ‘Darling, do you have access to a cellular phone? I seem to have left mine at home and I need to phone my husband. Of course I’ll pay for any calls and any extras.’ She gave a knowing nod to the woman and crushed a fifty-dollar note into her receptive palm.