One Dead Witness

by Nick Oldham

  The office door opened and Begin stormed out. Felicity stepped back out of sight.

  ‘It’s not as bad as you think, Mario,’ the under-pressure Begin defended himself.

  ‘Why not? Go on, tell me. I’m very fucking interested.’

  ‘Two things. Firstly with those papers on my desk, we will smash Kruger Investigations. And secondly, the girl is still going to die.’

  ‘Oh? And how have you arranged that one?’ Bussola sneered. ‘Bomb on the plane?’

  ‘No - even better than that. You wanted to get Patrick Orlove out of the country - well, I’ve arranged it. He’s on that plane, with a new passport, new name, different coloured hair, and with orders to kill Tracey Greenwood when the appropriate moment comes. Then he can disappear, firstly into Britain, where I’ve opened a bank account for him with two grand in it; then he can hop across to Europe, where I’ve deposited a quarter of a million in a Paris bank for him - activated when the kill is confirmed, of course.’

  There was a silence while no doubt Bussola absorbed all this.

  ‘Mario, you should know me by now,’ Begin’s voice said persuasively. ‘I always have a fall-back position. I never take anything for granted.’

  Felicity took the news like a blow to the stomach.

  So it wasn’t over yet.

  Felicity could not sleep. She heard Bussola return to the house just after midnight, then crash into his bedroom down the hallway. His snores more or less immediately permeated through the walls. Big, loud, disgusting ones, just like him. They made Felicity’s lips curl in distaste.

  She could not help but think this was the time to get out of this mess. She hated her life, she hated her husband and she needed to break free. Otherwise she would crack up or die.

  Other than the sound of snoring, the house was quiet.

  Begin was not back - he slept in a room next to his office - so there was only herself and Bussola in at that moment.

  Time to take a chance.

  She dressed quickly in light clothing, filling a small valise with other clothing and some of life’s essentials.

  She stepped into the hallway, which she was fairly sure was not observed by surveillance cameras. A dozen strides and she was outside Bussola’s door. It was unlocked. Felicity crept into the bedroom. A dim bedside light illuminated the massive, jello-like form of Bussola lying spread-eagled and naked across the bed like a beached whale. She tiptoed up to him, any noise she might be making masked by the deafening snores emanating deep from his throat. Alcoholic fumes and stale sweat wafted up from him.

  He squirmed. His body wobbled.

  Felicity remained still, confident he would not wake. Bussola’s clothes were scattered drunkenly around the room. She picked up his jacket and rummaged through the pockets, finding two keys on a chain. She pocketed them.

  ‘What the hell’s..?’ Bussola blurted out and sat upright.

  Felicity dropped like a stone at the end of the bed. The bedsprings bounced, Bussola groaned ... then the snoring recommenced.

  Felicity exhaled falteringly.

  On her hands and knees she crawled around the bed to the cabinet in which she knew her husband kept his own personal gun. It was a .25 Beretta, just like James Bond used to carry.

  It was fully loaded.

  She rose to her knees and found herself face to face with her beloved. Spittle dribbled out of the corners of his mouth. Oh, how she hated him. She stood up, reached over him and picked up a pillow. Holding the gun in her right hand, she held the pillow over it so the end of the barrel protruded slightly and pointed the weapon at her husband’s temple.

  Not close enough.

  She forced herself to touch the muzzle to his skin, braced and pulled the trigger twice in quick succession. The sound was dreadful in the confines of the bedroom. People must come running . . . she waited, listening for the sound of running footsteps, ready to bring down the first one through the door and die fighting the others.

  No one came.

  Before leaving the room she grabbed the wrist-watch on the bedside cupboard; it was a Rolex, once owned by Steve Kruger. Felicity pocketed it, a lump in her throat. With one last glance at her husband, whose brains now made a pattern on the light-shade next to the bed, she left the room.

  A minute later she was downstairs outside Begin’s office. She unlocked the door with one of the keys she had just appropriated from Bussola. As Begin had boasted, the documents which would smash Kruger Investigations were on his desk - the same documents Felicity had stolen at the time of her divorce from Steve and which had subsequently played a big part in his death.

  Well, she was making amends now, as best she could. With a great deal of pleasure she fed them one by one into the paper shredder next to Begin’s desk. Twelve sheets, shredded in three minutes. But that wasn’t all she planned to do in his office.

  She moved to the small wall-safe set behind some law books on a shelf. She wasn’t certain what it contained, but she had an inkling there was something worthwhile within.

  The other key on the chain opened it. Her jaw sagged in amazement when she clapped eyes on the contents. Felicity estimated she was looking at somewhere in the region of a quarter of a million bucks; she immediately transferred the bundles into her case.

  Now all she had to do was make a quick phone call and get the hell out.

  As she replaced the telephone, the figure of Ira Begin loomed in through the open door of his office. He was not expecting to see Felicity, but when his eyes fell on her and the open door of the safe, he quickly made the addition.

  Felicity was on her feet. She hadn’t heard his car pull up.

  Begin said, ‘What are you doing, Felicity? You don’t seriously think Mario will let you get away with stealing from him, do you? He’ll probably kill you this time.’

  ‘Yeah, no doubt he would - if he was alive to do it.’

  Begin’s face registered shock.

  Felicity reached calmly into the valise and pulled out the revolver.

  Begin’s hands rose instinctively. ‘Hey, if he’s dead, I don’t have any argument with you. I’ll stand aside. You can go.’

  Her mind whirred. Yeah, she thought, and I’ll never get past that gate-house alive.

  ‘Okay, Ira, I believe you,’ she lied, ‘but I want you to do one thing for me - phone those greasy bastards down at the gate and tell them that in a couple of minutes’ time you’ll be driving out and for them to get the gates open now, because you’re in a hurry.’

  ‘But I’m not,’ he protested.

  ‘Ira - that’s not the point, is it? I have a gun and I’m telling you what to do. If you don’t do it, I’ll shoot you ... and don’t think for a moment I won’t. I’ve just got a taste for blood.’

  He eyed her nervously and nodded.

  ‘If you try or say anything stupid, I’ll put a bullet in your skull and take my chances with those no-brain wonders anyway,’ she warned him.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

  He crossed to the phone. Felicity circled away from him, covering him all the time, not trusting him an inch. She knew how sneaky and deceitful he was, and how violent when the need arose. At that moment in time she was feeling good, completely in control for once in her life. She had made a decision about her destiny and it put her on a high operating plane.

  Begin replaced the phone. ‘Done.’

  ‘Thanks, Ira - now get on your knees and put your forehead against the wall.’

  He started to protest and she levelled the gun at him.

  ‘Ira, don’t worry, I’m only gonna put some cuffs on you.’

  Unsurely he knelt down, facing the wall.

  Felicity stepped quickly up to him, placed the gun at the back of his head and shot him. She ran out of the room before he toppled over.

  Begin’s car was outside the front door of the house. Unlocked, keys in the ignition, as were all cars left within the grounds. Headlights blazing, Felicity skidded down the gravel driveway and out of th
e gates with a loud ‘Yahoo!’ on her lips.

  ‘I’d better be going.’ Tapperman indicated the wall clock. It was 2.30 a.m. He and Myrna were sitting in the living room of her house, having drunk endless cups of coffee. ‘There’ll be a black and white right outside the door twenty-four hours per day until you feel safe.’

  ‘I feel pretty safe now,’ Myrna said. ‘Just tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Hey, my fault. I’ve kept you talking too long.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I’ve enjoyed it.’ And she had, because the main topic of conversation had been the memories both had of Steve Kruger.

  ‘Fine, see ya,’ Tapperman waved. He stood up, his head almost brushing the ceiling. His cell-phone rang. He unhooked it from his belt. ‘Tapperman.’

  Myrna collected the cups and wandered wearily into the kitchen, a burnt-out case. She returned as Tapperman finished his call. His face was white, because he was suddenly remembering the familiar face he had bumped into at the airport. Now he knew who it belonged to.

  ‘That was the office. An anonymous called just left a message for me.’ He gritted his teeth and found himself short of breath. ‘Patrick Orlove is on board that plane with Danny and Tracey. He’s got orders to take Tracey out and then disappear into Europe.’

  Both their eyes turned to the clock.

  ‘The plane’s due to land in half an hour,’ Myrna said.

  ‘We need to get a message to the cops in England.’

  ‘Do you know any cops in England?’

  ‘No - but I know a man who does.’ She reached for her phone.

  Since reading Stanway’s letter, Henry Christie had been far too excited to sleep. He had re-read the thing several times and spent the night agitatedly wandering about the house whilst upstairs his wife and two daughters slept soundly.

  He must have dropped off around 3 a.m. because he awoke in a contorted position on the settee just before 6 a.m. with a stiff neck and dead arm. Then in a panic, he rushed round, brushing his teeth, grabbing a quick shower and getting into his work suit, waking the whole household as he did so, before leaping into the car and heading off towards Manchester Airport.

  He arrived at the terminal building at 7.45 a.m., parked up and walked into International Arrivals. According to the screens, the flight from Miami was slightly delayed. He cursed, he was looking forward to seeing Danny.

  At exactly that time, the first of three cells on the Solitary wing at Risley Remand Centre was unlocked by four prison guards. The door was pulled open and the inmate was found standing there ready prepared.

  Louis Vernon Trent smiled amiably at the guards and compliantly held his hands out for the cuffs to be clamped around his wrists. His eyes watched everything that was happening, and everyone. He knew this would be his last chance to escape from custody for a while. After today his remand hearings would take place without his presence. The next time he would be at court would be for his committal hearing, and after that his trial.

  This was the first of three chances to effect an escape and if the opportunity arose, he would be on his toes because he knew that, most probably, after the court appearances he would never be released for the rest of his life.

  He was prodded along the landing to the next cell, opened by one of the screws. A mean-faced, impatient Charlie Gilbert was also ready and waiting. A pair of specially widened handcuffs were ratcheted onto his fat wrists.

  He was dressed very well and expensively. He fully expected to walk out of court a free man, or at the very least on bail today. Bussola would see to that, he believed. And if he did leave as a free man, he would show the cops a thing or two. He would tighten up his network and continue to abuse young girls and if they were difficult, he would kill them; more and more he wanted to kill them anyway. It gave him a great sense of satisfaction. If he walked out of court on bail, he would flee the country, he had decided.

  A prison guard’s hand propelled him to the next cell from which Ollie Spencer was extracted.

  He was a man with no dreams or expectations. What happened, happened. He was content to take things as they came.

  All three men were led out to the yard and bundled into a converted mini-bus with armoured windows and toughened body panels. The prisoners were put into an inner cage, the guards took up positions on seats outside the cage. The driver was in a protected cabin.

  When they were ready the mini-bus pulled out of the remand centre.

  ‘Would Henry Christie please attend the information desk to take an urgent phone call?’

  Henry was standing under the Meeting Point with a cup of coffee in his hand. His mind was retracing the words of Stanway’s letter again and again. He was in deep thought. The letter was very much on his mind, everything else simply background.

  I know that Charles has always loved little girls, Henry remembered reading, and he has always directed his energies to being in a position where he could meet them - or arrange to meet them. His amusement arcades were always a good place for this to happen and he frequently lured girls aged around eleven (because that’s the age group he loved the best) and then he would ultimately abuse them. Most he discarded back onto the scrap heap they came from (many were missing from homes, many never got to know his name), but some became regulars, being paid to perform the most disgusting sexual acts with him and his friend Spencer - who was always there. Some liked it. Some didn’t. Some fought him and he overpowered them. Some he could not overpower ... and these he would kill.

  ‘I repeat, would Mr Henry Christie please attend the information desk for an urgent message. . .’

  At this mention of his name, Henry snapped back into the here and now. He threw his coffee down his neck and with a quick glance at the arrivals screen, which told him the flight from Miami had touched down, he went to the information desk.

  The flight had been peaceful. A couple of good films were shown. The food was passable and the service excellent. Some people even managed to sleep.

  Danny and Tracey spent a long time talking about Charlie Gilbert and Mario Bussola. Tracey knew a great deal about both and their activities, and her story was pretty typical of a young person’s involvement with them. Gilbert often arranged to take ‘likely candidates’ across to America where they were inducted into Bussola’s porn empire. It was easy, Tracey said, to arrange forged passports, work permits, social security numbers. Bussola did that for Gilbert so that all the Brit had to do was bring the right sort of kids over.

  Gilbert would promise his girls a chance in films. Most were under his power and influence and believed anything he told them anyway. The reality of the ‘films’ soon hit them. Once Bussola had abused them to his own personal satisfaction, he passed them down the line where they got roles in poorly made, but expensive to buy, blue movies. They then passed on into prostitution and subsequently burned out on drugs and booze.

  Gilbert had promised Tracey stardom. She had ‘it’, he told her. Looks, presence, potential, the body ... everything.

  But she knew he was lying. All he was trying to do was shut her up because she had witnessed him murder her friend; he’d whisked her off to America, where he handed her over to Bussola and his organisation. It was doomed from the start. She could not even pretend she liked being fucked in front of a camera, or that it was a pleasure fellating a guy with a lens pointed at her. She tried, because the cash and dope payment was good ... but she hated it, her eyes could not hide it and the camera saw it.

  She didn’t last long before she was turned out onto the mean and dirty streets of Miami.

  Eventually she gravitated into one of Florida’s most notorious motorcycle gangs - like Hell’s Angels, only a million times worse. Her life became a series of scenes from a movie: guns, robberies, shootings, drugs, one-man rape and then a gang-rape - fifteen of them - and being left for alligators to eat in the Everglades.

  Somehow she survived.

  She even got a job, on the sex-line, unaware that the business belonged to Bussola. And th
at night, when she saw the two of them together, Bussola and Gilbert, she flipped and attacked them - with the assistance of cocaine.

  The cold light of dawn made her realise that by testifying against them, her life would be in danger; that was why she disappeared. By pure chance she had seen a copy of the Daily Mail with its coverage of the discovery of her friend’s body - Annie Reece, whom Gilbert had killed in her presence. An urge to do something for Annie had spurred her on to go and see Myrna, but then she got frightened again and ran out.

  She returned a few days later when she discovered she had nothing to lose by giving evidence against Gilbert and, possibly, Bussola.

  Danny frantically recorded everything on a witness statement form. It took four hours to write. When the statement had been completed and signed, Danny sat back and thought for a moment. At length she said, ‘There are a couple of questions which are nagging at me, Tracey. They’re not really answered in the statement and I haven’t pushed you - but one is why didn’t Gilbert kill you as well as Annie? He’s a ruthless bastard.’

  Tracey squirmed uncomfortably.

  Danny kept quiet, using the weapon of silence to her advantage, putting Tracey under pressure.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Danny said quietly.

  Tracey closed her eyes. A look of self-loathing crossed her thin, drug-ravaged face. She swallowed and then admitted: ‘I helped him to bury her body. Me and Ollie - we both helped him.’

  ‘Shit.’ Danny sighed. She was going to need some advice on that one. ‘Right,’ she said slowly. ‘The other question is, you said you had nothing to lose by giving evidence against Gilbert. What does that mean?’

  Tracey took a long juddering breath. ‘When I ran out on Myrna I learnt something.’ Her voice was weaker than it ever had been. A tear appeared, clung to her eyelid, then rolled tiredly down her cheek. ‘I’ve just found out I’ve got full-blown AIDS. Gilbert and Bussola can’t do anything to hurt me now. If they killed me, they’d only be doing me a favour. I don’t have long to live anyway.’