by Nick Oldham
‘I’ll see what I can do, Mrs Bussola.’
‘Oh, and by the way, don’t let on to that goon, will you?’
‘You can be assured of my discretion.’
Ira Begin was on edge. Everything was now ready. He had been to see the person who would act as the last line of attack if the worst came to the worst. Now all he needed to be told was where the girl was.
He was in the rear of a car being driven back to Bussola’s house in South Beach. His cell-tel was on his lap and he prayed for it to ring. If it didn’t, then a certain police officer would have more than just his annual retainer cut off.
He bounced the small phone in his hand, desperately holding himself back from calling Captain Crenshaw. From past experience, Begin knew it would not speed matters up.
Then it rang and Begin jumped. He fumbled to answer it.
‘Yeah.’ He listened. ‘Got that. Consider your efforts to be a good investment.’
Begin ended the call.
Now he had everything he needed.
‘Patrol to attend the Tower: report of a possible jumper. I repeat...’
Henry Christie, normally so poor at using the PR other than for his personal benefit, had actually tried to develop some good habits since becoming a Detective Inspector. He actually listened to it these days and even while he had been out eating shrimps, he’d kept one ear on the comings and goings of police activity around the town.
‘DI Christie received. I am literally outside the Tower now. I’ll attend.’
‘Roger. Thanks, sir. Any other patrols to assist?’
Several called up, by which time Henry was running across the Promenade, looking up as he did so.
It was a very long way up. And down.
It was one of the biggest cars Danny had ever seen in her life, and was like sitting in a mobile living room. Typically American, she thought; all the same, lovely and very comfortable. But not a patch on her beloved, now deceased, Merc.
She looked discreetly sideways at the big detective who was driving. His left elbow rested out of the window and he was steering using his left little finger, occasionally holding the wheel with his right when necessary. He whistled tunelessly, looked laid back and cool in his dark glasses. Danny had not thought to pack sunglasses, but did not mind the bright sun in her eyes. It made a change from Britain’s pathetic effort.
‘Not far now,’ Tapperman informed her.
‘Fine.’ They had not travelled far anyway.
Ten minutes later they pulled up in the driveway of a large white house in a fairly exclusive development.
‘I thought we’d be going to a cop shop.’
‘Naw,’ drawled Tapperman, releasing his seat belt. ‘This girl’s got an aversion to cops.’
Danny grabbed her holdall and got out of the car, which was still bouncing on its soft springs from stopping. As they walked up the drive, past another large vehicle, some type of people-carrier, the front door opened and a black woman stood on the threshold, right hand extended.
‘Hi, I’m Myrna Rosza. You must be Danny Furness. I’m pleased to meet you.’
‘And I’m pleased to meet you, Myrna.’
They shook hands and appraised each other critically, both liking what they saw. Somehow there was something between them immediately. A connection. A closeness. Both sensed this would be a harmonious relationship.
‘Come in, you must be bushed.’
‘I’m not too bad. Where’s Tracey?’
Myrna’s eyes flickered upwards. ‘Asleep, like she’s been for most of the time. I don’t intend to wake her, if that’s okay. I think she needs all the rest she can get. Maybe you’d like a shower, get freshened up? Then I’ll do us a meal and we can talk.’
‘Sounds good.’
They smiled at each other.
Behind them Tapperman said, ‘I’ll leave you to it. If you have any problems, bell me anytime.’
‘Sure, thanks Mark.’
When he’d gone, Myrna said conspiratorially, ‘Bit soft dumbass, but a heart of gold. Here, let me take your bag.’
Henry barged his way through the tourists of the day, unceremoniously heaving them to one side where necessary. He arrived at the lift to find a long queue of people waiting to go up the Tower.
‘You a police officer?’ somebody shouted.
‘Yeah.’ Henry turned. He recognised the manager of the place.
‘Come with me.’
He led Henry to the service lift which was ready and waiting and empty. Henry peered through the window as the lift rose, watching in case the jumper decided to fly before he got there.
Felicity was standing in her underwear when the sales assistant returned with a cellular phone. The woman’s mouth sagged open in shock when she saw the bruises all over Felicity’s torso. The gangster’s wife caught the expression and with a sneer said, ‘It’s how my husband shows affection.’
Stunned, the woman held out the mobile. Felicity banged in a number and waited impatiently for the connection. The sales assistant withdrew.
‘Kruger Investigations? I want to speak to Myrna Rosza. Urgently.’
It was wonderfully fresh, brilliant up here. The drunken man was sitting on top of the mesh, looking at a view inland across Lancashire, towards the Pennines. Then he looked down between his legs and swallowed. There was a flat roof below on which he would surely land.
For a split second there was hesitation. He wondered if he had the courage to do this thing.
Someone on the platform shouted, ‘Don’t do it, mate!’
But he had to.
For what he had done, he would never be able to live with himself again.
Myrna, Felicity was informed, could not be contacted. ‘This is a matter of life and death,’ Felicity pleaded. ‘It concerns the girl she is protecting. Please let me speak to her. I need to speak to her. It’s vital. . .’ And here Felicity made a guess. ‘Bussola knows where they are and he’s going to kill the girl - and Myrna, if she gets in the way. I’ve got to speak to her! I’m Steve Kruger’s ex-wife. It’s imperative. . .’
‘Just hold the line,’ the polite telephonist said.
‘Fuck!’ Felicity closed her eyes, which flipped open when the changing-room door clattered open.
Gus appeared, breathing heavily, the sales assistant behind him, remonstrating. ‘You cannot barge in here like this!’ Gus rammed the palm of his big hand into her face, scrunched it up like a piece of paper and said, ‘Go away, please.’ He pushed her with such force that she crashed through the closed door of the changing booth opposite.
Gus lurched across to Felicity, a hurt and disappointed look on his face. He pulled the phone out of her hand and threw it to the floor, ramming his heel down on it.
‘You shouldn’t ought to have done that, Mrs B. You lied to me, so get dressed, please. I’m gonna take you home.’
The service lift doors opened, Henry stepped out and immediately saw the man sitting on the overhead mesh.
All the way up Henry had been sifting through the possible openings he might use to begin the process of talking the man down.
He strolled to the left of the man, who looked down and showed recognition in his face. Henry recognised him too.
Before Henry could open his mouth, the man gave himself a push and went over the edge.
Chapter Twenty-three
‘This is a lovely house,’ Danny commented to Myrna. They were standing in the kitchen. The refrigerator was open and appeared to be crammed full of Hurricane Reef Lager, row upon row of bottles. Danny saw them. ‘Somebody seems to like this.’
‘Yeah, try one.’ Myrna slid a bottle out, flipped the cap and handed it to Danny. She took a drink.
‘Gorgeous,’ she said approvingly.
‘Come on, let’s walk out here.’
Myrna led the way to the terrace at the rear of the house where they sat by the pool. The sun was bright and hot, the sky crystal clear. Danny closed her eyes and tilted her face upwards. ‘Fa
ntastic ... you don’t know how lucky you are.’
‘Good weather, bad criminals.’
‘Bad weather, bad criminals,’ Danny rejoined.
Myrna smiled. She let her eyes wander around the pool, dreaming of the moment, not many days before, when Steve Kruger had entered her whilst they balanced precariously in the shallow end, her legs wrapped around him. She blinked away the beginning of a tear. It had been wonderful, intense ... made her feel so alive. She sighed.
‘It is a nice house, belongs to my employer Steve Kruger who is now dead, murdered. I think you know the full story.’
‘Yes, I got a telephone briefing from Karl Donaldson before I left. He filled me in on everything.’
‘Why does Tracey wish to speak to you only, Danny?’
‘Not sure. When the murdered girl went missing all those years before, I interviewed all the friends we could find, but the files I re-read before I came don’t have a Tracey Greenwood as being one of them. So I don’t know why she wants to speak to me. She obviously knows me, but I don’t know her.’ Danny sipped her lager, revelled in the sunshine on her face. ‘If she can come up with what she claims, we have a very good chance of nailing Mr Gilbert - but we’ll have to protect her. The last witness we had against him has ended up dead. Coincidence? I think not.’
‘I’ve seen Gilbert in action. He was disgusting.’ Myrna shuddered.
‘And there are possibilities of more stuff from her once she gets talking, I suppose. There’s the American angle, for example. When we get back, Karl Donaldson will be coming up to interview her about what she knows about Bussola - but that’s for the future. My priority now is to get her home in one piece, get a statement from her on the way, and get Gilbert charged with another murder before he walks free. If I’m late returning and he’s out on bail, there’s a good chance we won’t see him again. I don’t want that to happen.’
Myrna looked towards the house.
A bare-footed Tracey plodded out of the French windows towards them.
Danny’s eyes narrowed as she immediately recognised her.
Twenty minutes after discovering Felicity making an illicit phone call, Gus dragged her back to the Miami Beach mansion and paraded her in front of Bussola.
‘Who were you calling?’ Bussola demanded. ‘Tell me now, or I bust you up again.’
‘Just a friend, that’s all. A girlfriend - someone to talk to. Women’s things. I’ve been like a prisoner in here. I need to get out, I need some company. Honestly, that’s all. I wouldn’t do anything stupid. Not again, not ever. I’ve learned.’
Bussola was unsure. He looked at Felicity with a deadly glint as he considered what she had said. He spoke to Gus, the bodyguard. ‘You did well, very well. Now fuck off and have the rest of the day off.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
‘And as for you, I’ll think about what to do with you.’
He hovered and hesitated before eventually leaving Felicity on her bed.
She held her breath and could not believe how fortunate she had been.
She had another chance.
Better not blow it this time.
Maurice Stanway’s body had to be scraped off the roof with shovels and put into a plastic bag. He had landed head first and his skull was no more, other than a pulp of brain, skin, bone and blood. His shoulders and the upper part of his body had also been crushed to a mush; only his lower abdomen and legs remained intact.
Henry thought it was a good job he had seen Stanway’s face just before he jumped, otherwise there was a good possibility that identification would have been a problem.
What the hell drives a man to this? Henry pondered, as he watched the gruesome task of body recovery take place. Fortunately it wasn’t a job for CID. Suicides were dealt with by uniform. Henry was happy to hand it over to the patrol Sergeant.
Was it anything to do with Charlie Gilbert? Henry thought, then dismissed the idea. Enquiries would probably reveal money troubles, a complex personal life and a myriad of other things, none of which were Charlie Gilbert-related. Henry imagined that working for Gilbert would have been quite lucrative and not something for which you’d chuck yourself off Blackpool Tower.
‘If you don’t mind,’ Danny said to Myrna, ‘I think it might be worthwhile getting a few things down on paper now. The return flight isn’t until later this evening and I might as well make use of these hours, even though I’d rather be shopping in the city.’
‘Tell you what, then. You spend, say, a couple of hours doing this. In the meantime, I’ll arrange for another member of my staff to stand in for me and look after Tracey and later this afternoon I’ll drive you into Miami, maybe do some shops, hit a restaurant and then pick Tracey up on the way to the airport. How’s that sound? Tight, I know - but possible.’
‘Sounds great. It would be a sin not to get a feel of the place, wouldn’t it?’
‘It certainly would.’
They had been chatting by the French windows whilst Tracey lounged on a chair by the pool.
Danny went over and sat next to her. She had decided not to mince her words. ‘Your name is not Tracey Greenwood, is it?’
Danny knew she was right. The girl in front of her was not called Tracey Greenwood, but Tracey Higgins. She had been a resident at Mowbreak Children’s Home in Blackpool some five years earlier. Danny had reported her Missing from Home on several occasions and she had always returned, until the last time when she reported her missing and she never came back. On that occasion she had gone missing with her best friend, Annie Reece, whose remains had been recently discovered by two frolicking lovers.
Things began to slot slowly into place for Danny.
‘No, you’re right,’ the girl admitted. ‘My last name isn’t Greenwood, but I am called Tracey.’
‘Tracey Higgins,’ Danny interjected. ‘I remember. But why the name change?’
She shrugged. ‘Because Charlie Gilbert said it was the only way to get me out of the country. I didn’t have a passport in my real name and Charlie gave me a new one. I was only thirteen at the time, but the date of birth on the passport said I was eighteen. And I looked it. I could get away with that easy if I was dolled up.’
‘So Charlie obtained a forged passport for you?’ Danny asked, wanting this confirmed in her own mind.
Tracey nodded. ‘And a US work permit, visa, all the immigration crap you need to get into this country. Everything to start a new life.’
Danny almost permitted herself a smile. So it hadn’t been too far-fetched to claim in court that Gilbert could obtain forged travel documents after all. She was relieved.
‘A new life at the age of thirteen?’
‘The old one was shit anyway and Charlie promised me loads of things.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Tracey snorted. ‘Because I saw him kill Annie and he panicked and this was his way of shutting me up, I reckon.’
The Bussola household was unusually quiet.
Felicity paused on the stairs and looked out across the pool. Her husband was at the poolside, working away at his computer. One bodyguard lounged in the shade, reading a thriller.
Felicity trod quietly downstairs and wandered from room to room, finding no one else around, not even Begin, which was odd. He was usually creeping around somewhere. She went outside and hobbled around the gardens, looking for more bodyguards. All she found was one lonely soul in the gatehouse, playing patience.
Like a bolt of lightning, it suddenly struck her why they were all missing.
They had gone to get the girl, kill her and anyone else who got in their way.
It took time and not a little coaching and coaxing, a lot of patience and a good deal of skill to get Tracey talking. Her story was not much different to the one Danny had heard from Grace and it did not shock Danny to hear it. Nevertheless it expanded the picture of Charlie Gilbert and his lifestyle.
Tracey was a girl local to Blackpool and had ended up in care through the usual series of mish
aps, bad parenting and abuse so very common with children in her social sphere. She was put in a home, from which she frequently absconded. Most of her time was spent around the arcades where she met Ollie Spencer and subsequently Charlie Gilbert. She was lured by money, food and drugs and enjoyed every minute of it.
She had only just begun her story properly when the chimes of the front doorbell echoed through the house, interrupting the conversation. Tracey stopped talking and sat back. Myrna, seated at the far end of the pool, out of earshot, pulled a face, but got up and walked through the house to the front door.
She froze when she saw who was standing there. It was Ira Begin, Mario Bussola’s right-hand man. She recognised him immediately.
‘Mrs Rosza,’ Begin said with a nod. ‘How do you do? My name is-’
‘I know exactly who you are.’
Begin gave a supercilious smirk. ‘In that case there is no need for introductions.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’d like to talk to you about a mutual acquaintance of ours.’
‘I don’t think we have one.’ Myrna’s mind raced frantically; panic crept through her being. How the hell did he get to know where I am? she demanded of herself. Myrna started to close the door.
Like a bad door-to-door salesman, Begin jammed his foot behind the threshold, preventing closure. ‘Oh yes we do,’ he said. He reminded Myrna of a slimy reptile. ‘And I suggest you spare some time now to discuss the matter with me.’
They eyed each other, cat and mouse.
‘Okay,’ Myrna relented, ‘but first let me close the door and come back to you in a couple of minutes.’
‘Is that a promise?’
