by Nick Oldham
Trent froze. Godamnit, she fucking knows I’m here.
Her face turned towards him. Trent pinned himself against the van, desperation rising. His earpiece told him two foot-patrol officers and two double-manned police cars were only literally seconds away. One of the cars was an armed response vehicle.
He would be trapped if he didn’t move now.
The shop he found himself looking at was an estate agent’s.
Her senses alive, fear making every nerve-ending electric, Danny started to walk towards the Transit van parked across the street. She held her PR as if it was a hammer.
He was there. She knew it.
Suddenly he appeared, turned his face fleetingly towards her, and ran into the estate agency.
‘ He’s gone into Lordson’s,’ Danny yelled into her PR. ‘In through the front door of Lordson’s.’
A middle-aged man and his wife browsed in the agency. Two female assistants typed away at their desks behind the counter.
No one even looked at Trent when he came through the door — until he drew the knife from his sleeve and slashed it across the man’s neck as he ran past.
It was a lucky, but well-aimed stroke, slicing the carotid artery. Trent did not wait to see the effect, but leapt over the counter, plunged his knife into the shoulder of one of the women, withdrew it and made for the door at the rear of the shop.
He had torn through the shop in a matter of seconds with the effect of an out-of-control death-star. Behind him he had left a trail of bloody chaos, people screaming, confusion, injury, everyone wondering what the hell had hit them and what they had done to deserve this.
The Staff Only door was flimsy. He crashed through it to find himself in a small kitchen. Beyond was the back door of the premises; he headed straight for it.
Danny ran into the shop seconds behind him. She stopped and took everything in.
The man who had been slashed in the throat had collapsed to the floor, dragging some display boards down with him. He gagged and coughed blood in a fine spray, losing his false teeth as well. His fingers clutched the big vein in his neck which pumped blood. It was like trying to plug a damaged hosepipe on full flow. His wife stood next to him, helpless. Her hands covered her mouth whilst she screamed hysterically.
The woman who had been stabbed in the shoulder screamed in tremendous agony coupled with terror as she watched the fast-spreading stain around her shoulder.
The other employee sat transfixed by the horror. Her fingers hovered above her keyboard, eyes wide, staring with disbelief, her whole frame immobile as a perfect still-life. She had been frozen into a statue by the flash of violence which had streaked by her.
‘ Get an ambulance to Lordson’s,’ Danny said into her PR. ‘Two people down, injured, one very serious. Knife injuries…’ She did not stay to tend the wounded, but vaulted over the counter in Trent’s tracks.
By this time he was out of the back door, hurtling down the service alley which ran behind the shops.
Danny skidded out after him, losing her balance momentarily. ‘Down Cheapside, heading towards Corporation Street,’ she relayed over the PR. ‘Armed with a knife, prepared to use it. Be careful.’
Trent stopped abruptly some twenty yards ahead of her.
Danny stopped too, puzzled, cautious.
Then she saw the reason why. A uniformed PC was walking up towards Trent, side-handled baton drawn.
A wave of euphoria hit Danny.
They had caught the bastard.
Trent crouched, left arm extended, hand palm outwards. His right arm was also extended but this hand held the knife in readiness to strike.
It was a slim knife, Danny saw. Blood dripped from it.
There was blood on his hand and partway up his sleeve.
He slashed the air menacingly, the message clear.
Danny and the PC circled him cautiously, just beyond reach of an attack thrust. The PC slapped the extended portion of his baton provocatively into the palm of his left hand. The officer’s message was pretty clear too: ‘You are going to get the full force of this right across your head.’
‘ Come on, Louis, put the knife down,’ Danny said reasonably. ‘This place will be crawling with cops in a matter of seconds. You don’t have a cat in hell’s chance, so just put the knife down. No one else needs to get hurt.’
Trent watched them both suspiciously. His gaze flickered from one to the other, his eyes afire.
The sense of Danny’s words seemed to permeate through to him. He stood upright, let his arms fall to his side. A submissive, resigned expression crossed his face and he nodded. His shoulders drooped, he exhaled a long deep sigh. Beaten.
Danny knew better than to trust Trent… but the PC did not. She was about to tell Trent to drop the knife, kick it away, assume the position, and all that crap, when without warning the PC stepped confidently into the danger zone. His eagerness blocked all common sense. This was going to be one hell of an arrest.
Before Danny could yell out a warning, he was too close to Trent for her to do anything.
The escaped prisoner blurred into life, as fast and as deadly as a bolt of forked lightning.
The knife shot up.
Danny, standing side-on, saw the point of the blade touch the PC’s blue shirt, then disappear up to the hilt behind the officer’s ribs and into his heart. Trent rammed it home, stepped in close to his victim, grabbed the officer’s shoulder with his free hand and pulled him even further forwards onto the knife-blade. He screwed and twisted the knife all the way, doing maximum damage. At the same time he turned and laughed at the horror-stricken Danny, throwing his head back like a maniac. He gave the knife one more massive — flamboyant — jerk before withdrawing it like a magician.
He stepped to one side, pulled the PC round and pushed him towards Danny.
She could not begin to describe the look on the young officer’s face. Pain? Shock? Disbelief? Whatever, it was a face she would remember for the rest of her life.
The PC staggered towards her, walking with the misco-ordination of an infant learning to toddle. He stared down at his shirt and the very fast-spreading stain. Danny opened her arms to catch him.
He stumbled, dropped his baton which clattered uselessly on the ground and went heavily onto one knee. He placed the palms of both hands over his heart, lifted his face pleadingly to Danny. He looked like he was proposing to her.
Then he toppled over and died at her feet.
Danny tore her eyes away.
Trent had gone.
Other police officers swarmed towards her from the top of the alley.
She lurched to a doorway, sank to her knees.
‘ Just tell me this, Henry — why is it that everything you seem to get involved in ends up with police officers being killed? Are you fucking jinxed, or what?’
The questions were asked by Fanshaw-Bayley. He was pacing up and down on the already thin carpet in front of Henry’s desk, a return journey of no more than six feet. Henry watched him and decided not to respond. Instead, he pressed the paper towel against his temple. The cut appeared to have more or less stopped bleeding and maybe did not need re-stitching after all.
FB stopped mid-journey. ‘Eh? Come on, Henry — why?’
Henry shrugged and remained impassive. It was hardly true, but he did not want to get into an argument. FB was very upset that an officer had died, murdered on duty. He had every right to be, and was simply venting some of his emotions on Henry whose shoulders were big and wide enough to take any rot FB cared to dish out.
‘ So, c’mon tell me what happened. What the fuck went wrong? No, don’t.’ FB held up his hands and shook them dismissively. ‘It’s okay, Henry, don’t tell me. It wasn’t your fault the stupid young fool went out without his stab-vest on; it was his decision and unfortunately he died for it.’ FB ruffled his own hair frustratedly, scratched his head, flattened his hair and eventually sat down. ‘This man is a fucking mobile killing-machine. What the hell’s our next
move?’
Henry blew out his cheeks, glad they had returned to practicalities. ‘It better be quick,’ he mused thoughtfully. ‘I doubt he’ll hang round town now.’
‘ Come on then, brainbox… what do we do?’
‘ Chances are he’s in a guest-house. What we need to do is increase the numbers of people on house-to-house, quarter the town and visit every guest-house physically. And I also think we should get a big switchboard installed and actually phone every guest-house and hotel too.’ He pulled a face. ‘It’ll take a while to get that up and running.’ ‘How many phones are there in this police station?’ FB asked, raising his eyebrows.
‘ Dozens.’ Henry immediately caught on.
‘ There’s your answer. Get the people you want in now. Sit’ em next to a phone each with a copy of Yellow Pages and an unlimited supply of coffee or tea, and get them phoning.’
There was a sharp knock at the door. A Detective Sergeant came in without waiting and handed a sheet of paper of Henry.
Henry’s eyes closed despairingly after he’d read it. Without looking up, he handed the paper to FB.
Absently Danny picked up the Missing from Home report which was on the top of the pile of junk on her desk. She sat down slowly, read the name on top, and tossed it back. Claire Lilton could wait.
She leaned forwards and dropped her head into her hands.
Inside, everything was in turmoil. Guts, vital organs, brain… churning with a sensation never before experienced.
She had a terrible unshakable belief that she was totally responsible for everything that had happened. In particular the tragic death of the Police Constable, skewered and slaughtered right in front of her eyes. All because she had been too slow, had not shouted out a warning, had not pulled him away.
‘ Oh God,’ she mumbled desperately. Tears formed in her eyes. She rubbed them angrily away as she tried to control herself. Not here, she instructed herself. You will not break down here. You will hold yourself with dignity and you will convey yourself home. Then, and only then, will you allow yourself the indulgence of turning into a slobbering, self-pitying jelly.
But not here.
A hand clamped on her shoulder. She jumped and landed back on earth.
‘ Danny, how are you?’ Henry Christie.
‘ Not good,’ she admitted. ‘Dithering, almost on the verge of collapse. You know — woman stuff. What a bloody day!’ She gave a short laugh and wiped the new tears away with a snuffle. Her nose had started to run. She blew it, making a very unladylike trumpeting sound. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘Hell, what a mess.’
‘ It’s okay,’ Henry said. ‘And it’s understandable.’ He did not patronise her with sympathy or empathy, even though he had been in similar circumstances himself previously. Danny knew this.
‘ How the hell do you deal with it, Henry?’ She opened her arms and flopped them down in a gesture conveying complete loss. ‘It’s so damned awful and I just can’t get my head round it at all. All I can see is that poor boy staggering towards me… his face… I feel so responsible. What do I do?’
Her eyes pleaded with him.
‘ You’ve been there,’ she added.
‘ Everything sounds so glib and pat,’ he said, ‘but I suppose there’s a couple of things, for what they’re worth. Firstly, don’t hold it in, otherwise it’ll rot your soul like cancer rots a body. Take advantage of the Force counsellors; they do a good job. Secondly, don’t get on a guilt trip. You couldn’t have done anything, Danny. If it hadn’t been him, it would’ve been you.’
‘ But that poor PC — and the other two people he stabbed!’
‘ They’re both alive, so don’t even consider them.’
The man whose throat had been cut had been saved by the officer who arrived on the scene behind Danny. His quick actions had staunched the blood flow substantially until the arrival of the ambulance crew. The man had been very lucky, though.
‘ But, as I say, my words sound trite. That’s my advice, anyway. Take it or leave it.’
She blew her nose again.
‘ Having said all that, Danny…’ Henry paused, faltering slightly. ‘I have some more bad news, I’m afraid.’ He perched himself on the edge of her desk. ‘I know I might well be making assumptions here, but I think there’s an added dimension to Trent’s escapades.’
Danny’s eyebrows creased.
‘ It may only be a coincidence, but the body of a young girl has just been found in some bushes in a rec in North Shore. I’ve no further details yet — I’m going to the scene now with FE. It’s your call here, Danny. If you feel up to it, you can come. If not, I’ll understand.’
Danny’s eyes flashed instinctively to the MFH report on her desk. Once again she referred to the Almighty. ‘Dear God, please don’t let it be Claire.’
Chapter Twelve
The lovers twisted into each other’s arms as soon as the engine was turned off. They tore greedily at each other, their teeth clashing on first contact of their mouths. Even though there was a handbrake and gear lever between them, and the man’s movements were impeded by the steering-wheel, within a matter of moments his trousers were unfastened, her blouse had been ripped open and her bra had been hoisted somewhere up around her neck.
‘ Oh my God!’ they gasped together as the man’s hand reached her vagina, and she grabbed his cock. She went onto him, making him writhe ecstatically in his seat, whilst at the same time he fondled her freely hanging left breast with his left hand.
She rose for air and looked out of the window.
‘ We need to do this properly,’ she slavered, tasting him.
‘ You’re dead right.’
‘ Come on, let’s get out.’
They were parked on the grass verge of a narrow lane in the picturesque countryside above Darwen in East Lancashire.
They clambered comically out of the car in their state of undress. He shuffled along, holding up his pants precariously whilst she, having dispensed with her knickers, ran around the car and into the trees, covering her boobs with her arms. She led him into a small clearing a few yards from the roadside, but far enough to be out of sight of anyone passing.
They immediately started to ravage each other, dragging clothing off and tossing it away with abandon into the bushes. Moments later, both were naked, rolling around the cool woodland floor, screwing wildly, emitting animal-like rutting noises. They moved from position to position. To oral sex and back again. They finished up with him (a chartered accountant), mounting her (his secretary) from the rear.
When her hands sunk into some soft ground, she thought nothing of it. She was too busy concentrating on the timings of her reverse thrusts. However, when her fingers touched something hard, cold and dome-shaped, she wondered what the hell she’d found. Her fingers curled around the object and pulled it out of the ground.
It was the top part of a skull, without the lower jaw attachment.
She screamed, reared up and fell backwards onto her unsuspecting lover. For a moment he thought it was a new move and tried to ride with it. When he saw the skull circling up through the air where she had thrown it, he realised this tryst had ended before he had come.
Myrna Rosza walked noiselessly through the offices of Kruger Investigations, painfully aware that every single pair of eyes was on her. She had just ended a short meeting with the other execs from the firm and had volunteered to take on the task of formally announcing the death of Steve Kruger.
To most of them, at that moment, it was just a rumour. She faced the horrendous job of turning that into fact.
Five minutes later, everyone who was available that morning was gathered together in the boardroom, which was the single largest room. They were expectant, fearful, and totally silent.
Myrna did not know where to begin, but she knew the act of saying the words, ‘Steve Kruger is dead,’ would help her grieve, and start to come to terms with his loss.
She opened her arms in a gesture of he
lplessness. Croakily, she began to speak.
‘ Thank you all for coming,’ she said stupidly, as if they would have refused. ‘Early this morning Steve Kruger was involved in an enquiry at Miami International Airport, concerning the activities of Mario Bussola. You all know he is suspected of murdering Jimmy and Dale. So… to cut a long story short, a firefight ensued in a multi-storey parking lot during which Steve was fatally injured. He died of gunshot wounds at the scene.’
A gasp of horror went up from the staff. Several of them, men and women, began to cry.
Myrna licked her dry lips.
‘ What the hell happened, Myrna?’ one asked.
‘ Look, I was there when he was shot, okay,’ she responded, losing her hold. ‘I know I should answer your question, George, but hell, I don’t feel like it right now. Maybe later, huh? Sorry. I gotta go.’
Two detectives stood side by side and looked down at the pathetic body of a girl.
Henry James Christie and Danielle Louise Furness were silent, each in a world of their own.
From the position of her limbs and the way her clothing had been ripped off, it seemed fairly obvious she had been sexually molested either before or after her death. There were stab-wounds in her chest.
Henry ran a hand down his face, shook his head. In his career as a detective he had been involved in eight child-murder investigations: from the simple, but tragic, domestic murder to a serial killing. And he could not get used to seeing a young person dead, mainly because the images of his two daughters constantly flashed into his mind. How the hell he would ever cope if either of them came to such an end, he didn’t know. Probably wouldn’t. He would be destroyed, unable to operate as a fully functioning human being ever again. He knew his wife, Kate, would be worse.