One Dead Witness hc-3

by Nick Oldham

  The second was that he’d had enough of being in prison. He promised himself that if the opportunity ever presented itself, he would escape. He needed to do this because he had vowed to bring retribution to the people responsible for putting him in here. There was no way he could even out that score with another eight years still to serve.

  The sooner the better for both ideas.

  And, Trent thought as the cell door was pushed open, if the two could be combined…

  The sea, the sex and the emotional turmoil of the day before had taken its toll on Danny Furness. She managed to rise at eight and slope into the shower, but hardly had the strength to dry herself, put on her make-up to the usual high standard and then eat breakfast. She did all three in a state of extreme lethargy.

  She drove into work with a jittery feeling in her belly. There were several busy days to go before her promotion and transfer to the CID, which meant it would be impossible to avoid Jack who, if he so chose, could make life very uncomfortable for her.

  She hoped he would be okay about the split. She knew, however, he had a stubborn, sometimes nasty streak to his nature. A smooth ride was not a foregone conclusion…

  … which was confirmed with a vengeance when she drove into the police station yard, found a parking space in the covered car park and spotted Sands in her rearview mirror just before she was about to get out of the car. He must have been lurking in the shadows, waiting for her to arrive. She snarled and swore under her breath. He wasn’t even giving her the chance to get into the office, for God’s sake!

  She pounded the steering-wheel in frustration, got a grip on herself and clambered slowly out of the Mercedes, mentally preparing herself for an unpleasant encounter.

  Sands stalked up to her, positioning himself between her car and the next one along, effectively blocking Danny’s path.

  He looked far worse than Danny had ever seen him. His eyes were sunk in their sockets. His skin hung loosely off his cheekbones as though he’d lost weight overnight. His hair was in disarray, his suit crumpled as if he’d slept in it, which he probably had. He was a million light years distant from the normally immaculate Jack Sands, dapper Detective Inspector.

  For a fleeting moment Danny’s heart reached out to him. She had an urge to hug and squeeze him, tell him she was wrong, that everything was hunky-dory, that yes, she’d continue to be the other woman. The one he visited twice a week for sex — if he had time; the one who waited stupidly for his call, the one madly in love with him, dreaming of being his wife yet knowing for sure she never would be.

  The moment whizzed by and Danny found her will-power. Being on the pointed end of the eternal triangle was not going to be her future. Once again, she looked coldly at him.

  ‘ Danny,’ he gasped, the smell of stale intoxicants on his breath, ‘don’t do this to me.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, Jack — don’t do this to me. Let me pass.’

  He drew himself up to his full height, almost six-three. He was a big, powerful man. Danny saw a look come into his eyes which made her shiver. That of a desperate man, capable of anything.

  Suddenly she felt queasy. Her legs almost buckled.

  ‘ Jack, it’s over. I’m sorry, but it’s best for both of us.’ She tried to sound reasonable. She ducked to one side and made to walk through the narrow gap between Sands and her car.

  His arm shot out, preventing her passing. He side-stepped smartly to block her with his body.

  ‘ No,’ he croaked. He was on the verge of either tears or hysteria. ‘It’s not over. Not unless I say it’s over. I love you, Danny. You can’t just end it like this. I need you.’

  ‘ More than you need your wife?’ she rejoined bitterly.

  ‘ I’ve told you why I can’t leave her,’ he hissed.

  ‘ Then it is over, isn’t it? Don’t be a fool. Let me pass. We both have work to do. This is just silly.’

  They were the wrong words to say. Some inner demon overtook Sands as these last words left Danny’s mouth. He seized her coat by the lapels and rammed her painfully back against the Mercedes as though she was a prisoner he was trying to subdue.

  Danny’s literal knee-jerk reaction floored him. He emitted a howl and doubled over. His hands shot down to nurse his groin. Danny pushed past and walked smartly away whilst he supported himself on the boot of her car with one hand, the other gingerly massaging his balls.

  Then he spoke the words, which for Danny, finally nailed the coffin lid on their relationship.

  ‘ You fucking bitch!’

  As the day wore on, Trent’s thoughts about combining an escape from prison with a revenge attack on Blake became all-consuming. He could think of nothing else. Escape and revenge, escape, revenge.

  But how, he wondered.

  As he strolled around the prison, ignored by virtually everyone, a few ideas seemed to slot into place as he thought long and hard about the problem.

  Blake and his two colleagues had blighted Trent’s life ever since their arrival as inmates eighteen months earlier; they had done the same to every other sex-offender in the place. They had systematically rooted out all the ‘pervs’, as they referred to them, and made their whole existence a misery on a grand scale.

  For some solace, and so they could exchange information on Blake’s intentions and movements, the pervs banded together. About eight of them formed a sort of club, though Trent tended to keep his distance from them. Apart from holding them in a kind of contempt, he didn’t want to be seen to be too pally with them because he actually felt superior.

  But that morning, Trent purposely sought one of them out — an insipid worm of a man who had been convicted of a series of indecent assaults on boys in the local authority children’s home where he was Head Warden and the deaths of two of them. His name was Victor Wallwork.

  Trent found him sitting alone at breakfast, shunned by the other inmates who were eating at that time. He sat down next to him and spooned sugar into the grey, lifeless porridge in the bowl in front of him. It looked more like wet cement than food.

  Wallwork did not acknowledge Trent. He munched toast, slurped loudly out of a mug of tea, his unfocused eyes stuck somewhere in the middle distance.

  Between mouthfuls of his own stodge, Trent said through the side of his mouth; ‘They got me last night, the bastards. Blake and his crew. Bastards!’ He spat out the last word.

  ‘ I know,’ grunted Wallwork. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair.

  ‘ You next,’ Trent informed him casually.

  Wallwork choked on his tea and toast. He broke into a paroxysm of coughing and spluttering whilst he tried to clear his throat. He turned to face Trent. At the best of times Wallwork’s face had a deathly-grey pallor. Now, what blood there was had seeped away into his boots leaving him ashen-white.

  ‘ True. I heard ‘em talking after,’ Trent whispered. ‘I heard your name. “Gonna get some of his own medicine” I heard’ em say. Mentioned your name, Vic.’

  Wallwork could not even get his mouth to form and project a single word. His lips opened and closed a few times, making a popping sound like a fish out of water.

  ‘ They buggered me until I bled,’ Trent continued, laying it on thick.

  ‘ When?’ Wallwork managed to croak. ‘When will they come after me?’

  Trent shrugged. ‘Could be any time. Suddenly they’ll be there.’

  Wallwork closed his eyes hopelessly.

  ‘ We need to fight back,’ Trent said. ‘We need to make a stand, otherwise our lives won’t be worth shite.’

  Wallwork snorted derisively, but there was a touch of hysteria in his voice. ‘Yeah, like sure. They’d kill us if we did anything.’

  ‘ Are you at the farm today?’

  ‘ Yeah, why? What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘ Plenty.’ Trent sounded mysterious. He laid his spoon down, turned his face close to Wallwork’s and lowered his voice a couple of degrees to no more than a hoarse whisper. ‘We need to sort thos
e bastards out once and for all and you can help me by bringing something back with you.’

  ‘ Oh, like a pitchfork, you mean? Don’t be stupid. We get searched going out and coming back. I don’t want to lose my privileges by being caught with something I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘ You’d rather have eight inches up your arse, would you? Probably followed by a broom-handle?’ Trent’s voice grated ferociously. ‘’Cos I’ll tell you now — it hurts. It fucking hurts. If you want to do anything about them, you’ll find a way of bringing what I want back in

  … won’t you?’

  Danny was tied up that morning with the bane which afflicts all police officers: paperwork.

  For once, though, she was uncomplaining about it, kept her head down and tried not to look up when Sands came into the office for any reason. Out of the periphery of her vision she couldn’t help but notice him banging about, making everyone else’s life a misery. However, he studiously ignored her, for which she was grateful.

  She guessed he might try to tag onto her at lunch, so when the chance came and he was otherwise engaged, she slipped out of the office and made her way to the canteen where she collected a sandwich and sat down opposite the man who was destined to be her next boss, Detective Inspector Henry Christie.

  ‘ I heard about your problems yesterday,’ Henry said to her, partway through the meal. He was eating a light salad. It looked like he was on a diet.

  Briefly Danny was puzzled. How on earth did he know about Sands? Then it dawned on her. He was referring to Claire Lilton.

  ‘ Oh yeah. Little cow.’

  ‘ You did well. You’ deserve a commend,’ Henry said genuinely. ‘I hear some poor sod got blown off the prom in Morecambe, so you were lucky.’

  ‘ I should’ve let her drown.’

  Henry laughed, changed the subject. ‘So — next Monday? You’ll be with us?’

  ‘ Can’t come quick enough. Really looking forward to it,’ Danny said with sweet expectancy. Working for Henry Christie, it was said, was a great pleasure. She knew his CID team was well-motivated and got results. She was eager to be a part of it.

  She bit into her tuna-mayo sandwich — granary bread, no butter or margarine, no salt, light mayo. Having her back to one of the canteen doors meant she didn’t notice him come into the room so it was consequently a surprise when Jack Sands sat down next to Henry, bearing a plate of spaghetti Bolognese. He glared at her and his expression morphed into an evil smile. She attempted to respond with a pleasant greeting but it stuck somewhere in her throat.

  Henry glanced quickly between the two of them. He immediately picked up the tension. It was like a crackle of static. His brow creased. Something was not quite right, the vibes informed him.

  He nodded at Sands and they fell into an easy conversation to which Danny strenuously declined to contribute.

  The phone on the other side of the room rang and was answered by an officer nearby. He clamped his hand across the mouthpiece and called across: ‘Danny — for you.’ He held up the phone.

  She couldn’t have left her seat any faster, Henry noted.

  Danny took the call, hung up and returned to the table where she collected her shoulder bag. ‘Someone at the desk to see me.’

  Henry watched her leave, then glanced sideways at Sands whose eyes fixed on the door she had gone through, like he was in some sort of trance. His face had become hard and angry.

  Henry speculated whether the rumours were true about Sands and Danny having a ‘liaison’. Maybe they’d just had some sort of lovers’ tiff, he thought.

  Trent’s next target was another member of the small clique of sex-offenders, a man called Coysh who had been virtually conscripted by Blake to be a manservant — for him and his team. Coysh had willingly accepted this role of ‘fetch-me, carry-me’ because it kept him reasonably safe from the gang rapes organised by Blake. Even so, he had been subjected to a couple to keep him in his place and he was often ritually humiliated by Blake. Just for sport.

  Trent went to Coysh for two reasons.

  Firstly he worked in the kitchens and secondly he was generally up to date with Blake’s whereabouts — knowledge Trent would need in the near future.

  They were out in the sunshine of the exercise yard when Trent accosted Coysh.

  They conversed as they walked around. Coysh nodded at Trent’s requests. Easy — on both counts.

  A couple of minutes later they parted.

  Trent smiled. It was coming together quite nicely.

  Danny was relieved to get away.

  Once outside the canteen she breathed deeply, thanked God for the phone call and tried to stop herself shaking.

  She did not bother to wait for the lift because sometimes it took ages to arrive and the last thing she wanted was to step into it and turn to find Jack behind her, trapping her.

  Instead she chose the stairs, trotting quickly down them to first-floor level where she headed for the back of the enquiry desk.

  ‘ Hiya, Danny,’ the public enquiry assistant said. ‘It’s that Claire Lilton waiting for you. She’s in the foyer.’

  ‘ Cheers.’ Danny walked out through the security doors, into the waiting area. Unusually it was completely empty.

  Claire Lilton had vanished.

  Trent spent the remainder of his afternoon engaged in trading his stash of cash, sweets, cigarettes and cannabis around the prison.

  He knew he could easily have approached one single person — a guy called Connor, the most powerful drugs dealer in the institution — to get. what he wanted, but a one-stop strategy wasn’t in line with his plans. He considered it more important to get around as many people as possible, act manically depressed following last night’s violent rape, and even mention the word ‘suicide’ a few times. That way as many people as possible knew of his intentions. He knew that in a short space of time the word would spread up to the screws who, he knew, would do nothing. Not that he cared. He wanted them to do nothing. Just to know.

  By tea-time, Trent had bought enough tablets to kill an elephant, never mind a human being.

  He inserted them one at a time into the hole in the waistband of his jeans. Towards the end of this process he had to push quite hard to get them in. He counted 162 assorted tablets, many of indeterminate origin.

  The offices of Kruger Investigations were situated on the seventeenth floor of an office block in downtown Miami. This was the fourth relocation of the business which had begun its existence in a one-roomed grot-office above a rent-a-car place in Wynwood, north Miami. Each move had been to a larger premises, but never quite large enough to house the ever-expanding business. Finally Kruger had decided on impulse to take the whole floor of the current premises some two years earlier. It had proved to be a good move but once again, business had boomed to fit the available space. Another move was imminent, something in the business plan for the next year. He hoped to be able to take some space in the floor above as the company installed at present looked as though they were going bust. The only drawback to the place was the lack of spaces available in the underground parking facility, which was presently hogged by the finance company on the first two floors.

  At midday Steve Kruger walked nonchalantly around the various offices, chatting to staff and laughing whilst munching a baguette packed with beef and sipping a Diet Coke.

  He was pleased to see there were only a couple of people sitting around in the department which conducted what he termed ‘real investigations’. This meant they were busy on the streets, following adulterers, compiling reports for insurance companies, and doing all the stuff connected to real detective work. The department dealing with the recapture of bail jumpers was also sparsely populated too, indicating that a few unfortunates would be in the custody of the courts that night.

  The offices which were busy were the ones dealing with the sales of specialist security equipment. Kruger sold anything connected with bomb disposal and search equipment, any sort of kit — excluding firearms �
� for police and special forces, surveillance and counter-surveillance, communications, personal and property protection.

  On being invalided out of the cops, Kruger had originally intended to set up a one-man operation. Having been introduced at an early stage to the scope and potential profits associated with security and surveillance (albeit illegal) he decided to move forwards in two directions — the private investigations side and the security side.

  Although the detective side was moderately profitable, its drawback was it was manpower intensive. The sales side, however, only needed a bank of phones, faxes, e-mail facilities and a nucleus of highly trained sales executives to bring in millions for very little effort. It was also fairly safe, whereas there was always some danger associated with being a detective.

  Having been a cop, Steve loved that side of the business because it was in his blood and he would never downsize it. Besides anything else, it enhanced the reputation of the firm and kept him in good with the local cops and Feds.

  He finished his Coke and sandwich, ditching the bottle and wrapper in a trash can. He nipped into a restroom, freshened up. Then he made his way to the conference room where three people waited for him. Not impatiently, just talking quietly to themselves.

  Kruger entered and seated himself at the circular table.

  They shut up.

  ‘ Mario Bussola,’ he announced, instantly getting their full attention.

  Trent queued up for his evening meal, plastic tray in one hand, plastic cutlery in the other. Coysh was serving. He paid Trent no more heed than any other inmate, slopping the watery food onto his plate and handing it across the hatch with no more than the merest of nods.

  Trent collected his chocolate pudding and mug of tea, then wandered to a dining table where some others were eating. He wanted to be in a crowd. He slid the plate off the tray, placed it on the table and surreptitiously removed the four-inch kitchen knife Coysh had loosely taped to the underside of the plate. He looked around cautiously, relieved no one seemed to be taking any notice of him. The two screws on duty in the dining hall were having an animated conversation with a couple of old lags, probably about football. None of his fellow inmates were remotely interested in him. This was not unusual because few people actually ever spoke to him, a manifestation of the low regard in which he was held in the prison hierarchy.