One Dead Witness hc-3

by Nick Oldham

  He saw she looked tired and worn-out. Not just because of the problems of the early morning, but for lessons far more fundamental. The white, narrow strip of plaster over the sutured cut on her face did not help matters.

  Danny, in turn, eyed Henry. She bit her bottom lip to stop it from quivering because she wanted to cry. But not here, Not in front of her future boss. The last thing she wanted was to be tagged as a pathetic, weeping woman.

  She drew in a deep, juddering breath and braced herself.

  ‘ Think it was Jack Sands who smashed the window and damaged your car?’ Henry asked. He leaned his elbows on the desk.

  Danny shrugged noncommittally. In herself she knew damn well it was Sands. Evidentially, though, she could not prove a thing.

  ‘ Want to discuss it?’ Henry offered.

  She closed her eyes, shook her head. She was perilously close to bubbling over. She had spent the last two hours since coming to work avoiding both Henry and Sands in an effort to steer away from the problem. She knew that if she encountered either one of them, the bubble would burst with a messy flood of emotion all over the carpet. With Sands it would have been anger. With Henry, tears.

  Henry had been the first one to collar her and beckon her into his office.

  ‘ No, not really, Henry. I just want to get on with my work. I’ve got loads of things to get boxed off before I join you. I don’t want to talk about my private life, if you don’t mind… with respect.’

  Even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true. More than anything she wanted to share her predicament with someone. But not here, not now. She placed her hands on the chair-arm and started to stand up… about to run away.

  Henry stood up quickly and waved her to be seated. He came round from behind his desk and sat down on the chair next to Danny.

  He said, ‘I’ll bet you’re thinking you’re making one hell of a bad impression with your new boss, aren’t you?’ She opened her mouth to say something; Henry held up a silencing finger. ‘I’ll tell you this, Danny. All I’m interested in — bottom line — is how you perform in the workplace. However, I know from my own experience that personal issues often cloud professional judgments. I know that for a fact, Danny. I’ve been that person in that situation more times than I care to remember. So what I’m trying to say, dead clumsily, is that I realise people are more than machines, more than what they are for eight hours a day at work, and I’m interested in my team as individuals who have thoughts, feelings, aspirations, problems… whatever… and these are the things I have to deal with to get the best out of my people.’ He blew out his cheeks and said, ‘Phew! That was a long one. So, if I can help you Danny, let me. Okay? Totally confidential.’

  She slumped back, regarding Henry’s face slowly. Letting her eyes take his features in. It was a kind, concerned face. She felt instinctively she could trust him.

  ‘ And not only that,’ he reminded her. ‘As you said, I am involved already. I have some right to know about what happened in the garage last night… at the very least.’

  ‘ Yeah, you’re right Henry.’

  She looked away, gathered her thoughts and decided to tell him the lot. ‘Me and Jack have been having an affair for about six months. I fell in love with him, I guess. All that lonely female baloney. But it was going nowhere, except down the tubes. I’ve tried to end it a few times now, but he’s so overbearing and clinging and possessive — horrible, really, if I’m honest — and I just let it go on and on. Night before last I’d had enough and told him it was over, for good this time. But he won’t let it lie and I don’t want to hurt his wife. I’m sure she doesn’t know yet. I feel a complete bitch and I’m not happy at all with the situation… I’m so bloody depressed, actually. I’m dying to get out of that office onto CID.’ She stopped talking abruptly because she realised the babbling had started. She swallowed and wiped the beginning of a tear out of her eye. ‘Sorry, Henry.’

  ‘ It’s okay.’

  ‘ What did Jack say last night, after I’d gone?’

  ‘ Nothing, other than to abuse me.’ Henry leaned forwards, elbows on knees. ‘What do you want to do, Danny? What’s the best thing that can happen now?’

  She considered the questions a moment. ‘For him to accept it’s over, leave me alone, and let us both get on with our lives.’

  At eleven-thirty that morning, Trent swigged down the last dregs of his morning brew. He was alone in his cell, sitting on the edge of his bunk, leafing idly through one of his teen-girl magazines. He closed it, slid it onto the pile underneath his bunk and got to his feet. He walked over to the steel toilet in the corner of the cell and urinated, his back to the door.

  As he finished he heard a movement behind. He zipped up and turned.

  Blake leaned nonchalantly against the door. In his grimy nicotine-stained fingers he held a self-rolled cigarette from which a single whisper of smoke rose.

  ‘ Okay, nonce?’ he sneered. He slurped his tongue around the inside of his mouth, then spat on the cell floor.

  Cold icicles of fear spread rapidly through Trent’s veins. Literally, his blood ran cold.

  ‘ What do you want?’

  There was a strange, deadly look in Blake’s eyes which Trent immediately interpreted. When the answer spilled out of the villain’s mouth, Trent was not surprised.

  ‘ You… I want you — but you’ve always known that, haven’t you?’

  Trent nodded. He could scarcely breathe.

  Yes, he had known that one day Blake would want to have him too. But it would not be from a loving desire, it would be from hatred.

  ‘ I want to give it to you, Trent,’ Blake said. ‘Everything I’ve got — and I want to make you suffer just as much as you made them little girls suffer… and after that I’m gonna make you suffer ten times more so they’ll never ever properly repair you.’

  ‘ You’ve already done that.’ It was a hoarse, strained whisper that grated out from Trent’s dry throat.

  ‘ I haven’t even started.’ Blake pushed himself upright and took a menacing stride into the cell. Trent almost screamed, though it was more of a whimper. He recoiled, stepped backwards, caught the back of his knee on the toilet, causing the joint to fold. He grabbed thin air in an attempt to prevent himself from falling backwards, failed, and next thing he knew he was sitting on the lavatory, looking meekly upwards at the towering menace of Blake.

  The big man burst into laughter.

  ‘ You pathetic twat.’ He reached for Trent’s throat with his right hand. The fingers curled around his windpipe, digging in, hoisting him to his feet. Blake pivoted and slammed Trent against the cell wall. ‘You haven’t got an ounce of fight in you, have you? I’m going to really enjoy raping you, so you’d better prepare yourself, ‘cos I won’t be long. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, you little piece of shite.’ His face was only inches away from Trent’s. He reeked of smoke and body odour. His breath made Trent gag. ‘Who knows?’ he snarled. ‘But it’ll be soon and you won’t know what’s hit you — because I intend inserting more than just myself up your backside. So let yer imagination run riot.’

  He opened his fingers, releasing Trent, who, choking, slithered down the wall, tears streaming out of his eyes. ‘See ya.’ Blake gave a friendly wave and spun out of the cell. Trent could hear him laughing all the way down the walkway.

  Trent quickly removed his trousers and underpants and dashed to the toilet, plonking himself down only just in time. The terrifying encounter had taken its toll on his bowels. They opened up immediately.

  With his head in his hands, he realised he would probably have to act sooner than later.

  Talking to Henry had proved to be a nice release for Danny. She left his office feeling better having dumped such a heavy burden from her shoulders. It helped her greatly with the mental side — a trouble shared, and all that — but the physical side was another matter altogether.

  Danny would be the first to admit she had allowed her fitness to deteriorate over th
e last ten years, but it had happened in such slow stages that she had been unaware of just how unfit she had become because it had been masked by her sedentary lifestyle.

  It had taken the exertions and batterings of the last forty-eight hours to demonstrate what a blob she had become.

  Firstly, chasing Claire Lilton and rescuing her; then being assaulted by Jack, coupled with the early-morning incidents at her house. Everything had accumulated in such a short space of time so that when she sat down at her desk she felt so creaky she should have had her pension book in her bag.

  Yet she knew that if she had been only slightly fitter, she would not have felt half as bad.

  She leaned back in her chair and took a quick evaluation of her body, from feet upwards.

  Actually her toes did not feel too bad.

  Everything else above and beyond was in pretty poor condition though.

  The ankle she’d twisted throbbed meanly away underneath the tubi-grip bandage and was swollen like a football. She rotated her foot carefully and winced.

  Her long legs were stiffening up. Running after Claire — all of what, 200 metres? — had made her use muscles which had lain dormant for ten years, despite the most robust lovemaking, and there had been plenty of that. They ached all the way up to the cheeks of her bum.

  During the buffeting on the sea-front, she only now discovered she must have taken a few knocks which went unheeded at the time, probably due to adrenaline. Her chest was painful around the ribs, and the outer point of her right elbow felt like it might have been, smashed against the ground.

  The base of her spine was still damned sore, making every other movement of her body a chore. The back of her head was agonisingly tender and her face smarted from the blow Jack had delivered to her. And, of course, there was the cut on her left cheek, stitched with such precision by the same drop-dead gorgeous doctor who’d tubi-gripped her.

  Sod Jack, the bastard, she thought bitterly. She wondered whether or not to make an official complaint of assault, as suggested by Henry, who had voiced the opinion that if Jack had the capacity to do that to someone he allegedly loved, he deserved to face the consequences. Danny shook her head. No.

  That was the last thing she wanted. Muck-raking, grievances, courts, ruining reputations, marriages, professional relationships. She simply wanted it all sorted out as amicably as possible.

  Danny’s fingertips touched her cheek, gently moving across the two stitches inserted at Casualty earlier that morning.

  Two stitches. A serious assault by any standards.

  And yet she did not want Jack to get away without facing any consequences — especially if he had smashed her window and damaged her car in a fit of pique. He should be forced to admit it, pay restitution — then get out of her life.

  She moved in the chair to ease the pain in her back.

  She knew she could at least make one decision about her life there and then. That would be to drag herself, unwillingly, to fitness classes a couple of times a week. Then, she reasoned, if she was feeling physically better it would make it easier to get to grips with other more nebulous aspects of her life.

  Such as cutting out smoking — although as she thought about that one, a deep longing for a cigarette pervaded her body like an insistent spirit. Maybe that would have to wait.

  The phone on her desk rang. It was the public enquiry assistant (PEA), down at the front desk.

  Claire Lilton wanted to see her. Could Danny come down, please?

  It is not necessarily the prison hard men who know everything there is to know about the institutions in which they are forced to lead their lives. In fact, more often than not, these are the people who know the least. They may control things like drugs, screws, booze, cigarettes and violence, but they were wrapped up in their own comfort zones, insulated and smug. They know what they feel they need to know and little else. Only when they want to escape, perhaps, or cause a riot, do they get to know it better.

  It’s usually the more harmless inmates, the trusted ones, the pathetic ones, the listeners, the shadows, who know everything there is to know.

  They are aware of the full picture as regards the comings and goings of the prison staff. They know the complete geography of the buildings; all the little nooks and crannies; the hidey-holes where they can disappear for a while if necessary. They know where everything is kept, locked away, stored.

  These people are the ones who can, seemingly, move around unchallenged because they are not worth challenging; float around, creeping, watching all the time.

  Trent was not one of those people.

  But Vic Wallwork was.

  Fifteen years behind bars had made him so. Turned him into an acquiescent, simpering inmate who said yes to everything, never let the authorities down, yet at the same time watched, learned, listened, explored.

  This was his third prison. He knew it intimately.

  Which is why he was able to lead Trent through places he never knew existed.

  He guided Trent out through the back of the kitchens, past a series of storerooms, down a doom-laden corridor with low beams and little light, out through a door and into the glorious open air, somewhere — Trent could only guess — near to the. back of the Governor’s offices.

  They had to race across this space, around the corner of a redbrick building Trent had never seen before, and into a narrow ginnel no more than three feet wide. It twisted at right angles. and ten yards further came to a dead end. But in the dead end was a door with a huge rusting padlock securing it.

  Wallwork produced a key from his pocket, inserted it and forced it to turn. The lock released itself. He removed it and pushed the door open. Beyond was a dank, dark room. Wallwork reached around the door jamb and flicked a switch. A single naked bulb flickered uncertainly, casting a dim light into the room.

  Trent followed Wallwork inside, closing the door behind him. He gazed around, sniffing, trying to speculate what the room was for.

  Wallwork second-guessed the question. ‘Part of an old boiler area

  … course, it’s all gas now. Through that door is where the main boiler is.’ He pointed a crooked finger at the far end of the room. Trent saw a door which looked as if it hadn’t been opened for years. Wallwork’s index finger then pointed downwards at a petrol can on the floor.

  ‘ That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  A surge of pure pleasure beat through Trent. He knelt down by the can and touched it lovingly. ‘Yeah, great. How much is in it?’

  ‘ A gallon. Like you asked for — at great risk to me, I might add.’

  ‘ Excellent.’ Trent pulled two milk bottles Coysh had given him out of his jacket pockets and stood them up on the concrete floor. He looked at the petrol can, head cocked, and did some calculations, as well as visualising a spectacular future. ‘Mmm,’ he murmured thoughtfully, biting his bottom lip.

  Wallwork watched him with a certain degree of puzzlement, although having now seen the milk bottles, things were a little clearer to him now. What was still foxing him, though, was why Trent was also carrying a pillowcase stuffed with the Styrofoam cups Coysh had stolen for him. Didn’t make any sense to him. Trent placed the pillowcase on the floor.

  ‘ Need more bottles,’ Trent said. ‘Four more, to be on the safe side.’ He exhaled through his nose. ‘And I need another container of some sort, like an open can — something I can pour the petrol into.’

  Both men considered the matter for a few seconds.

  ‘ I know just the thing!’ Wallwork declared, raising a finger. He went to a dark corner of the room where he rooted about amongst some debris. He picked something up and returned. It was a lidless metal toolbox, old and misshapen.

  Trent grabbed it greedily from Vic’s grasp and inspected it closely, holding it up to the light, carefully rotating it. All the seals, corners and edges appeared to be intact. There was a lot of rust, some of it flaking off, but nothing which would cause a problem in the short term. In fact, a bit of rust w
ould be quite nice, Trent thought.

  ‘ That’s good.’ He looked at his companion. ‘That’s very, very good.’ His eyes glazed over as he spoke; once again he was seeing the future.

  Wallwork’s blood froze for an instant. A tremor crawled all the way down his spine like a serpent. The expression on Trent’s face was one he knew well. He recognised it from himself, a look which had crossed his own face just over fifteen years ago. Twice. And each time it had resulted in the brutal slaying of a young boy. After which — here Vic Wallwork thanked God — they caught him and incarcerated him for the rest of his life before it happened again.

  It was the killing look.

  Trent’s eyes refocused and he came back to his own brand of normality. He squatted down by the petrol can and poured petrol into the two milk bottles until each was about a third full. Not being an expert, he guesstimated that would be enough.

  He placed the bottles out of the way, next to the brick wall.

  ‘ By the way, Vic,’ he said conversationally. ‘I bumped into Blake again.’

  ‘ Oh?’ Wallwork swallowed.

  ‘ Soon, he told me. Soon. He’s going to get you and stick a broom-handle right up your arse so it comes out of your mouth. Exact words.’ And Trent continued with his task, pouring the remaining petrol from the can into the toolbox, slowly, checking for leaks as he did so.

  Wallwork watched the activity, virtually catatonic because of what Trent had just said. Without even seeing Wallwork’s face, Trent realised the devastating effect he’d had on the man. He smiled wickedly to himself.

  Next he emptied the pillowcase, making a small mountain of the Styrofoam cups next to the toolbox. He sat down on the floor and picked up one of the cups. He tore it into little stamp-sized pieces and began dropping them into the petrol, like confetti. Bit by bit.

  ‘ What are you doing?’ Wallwork asked. He had shaken himself out of his moment of terror.

  Trent stopped. He raised his head slowly. His eyes once more became glassy.