One Dead Witness hc-3

by Nick Oldham

  Walking back through the narrow, seemingly endless corridors, Mrs Bissell was a little perturbed. There was something not quite right about the man and this gave her a sense of unease. She was never 100 per cent happy taking in single men. Most of her custom came from older couples, usually pensioners. To her a single man often meant gay in Blackpool — not that she had anything against poofs…

  She did not think this man was gay. So what was it? His reluctance to get into conversation? The large amount of money he openly displayed? Then it struck her.

  She rushed back to the reception desk where she rooted through a pile of correspondence, eventually finding what she was looking for — the photograph and description of Louis Vernon Trent left by the police on their recent visit.

  She peered at the image of the most wanted man in Britain, but couldn’t be sure it was him. It looked like him, but then again… She checked the visitor’s book and saw he had signed in as L. Blake, with an address in Stoke. Her lips puckered up. Again she peered closely at the photograph. She focused in on the eyes.

  They were the giveaway.

  With trembling fingers she picked up the phone, hoping she wasn’t about to make a complete fool of herself, but deep down she knew that Louis Vernon Trent had just booked into her hotel.

  ‘ A guy has signed himself in as “L. Blake” from Stoke-on-Trent,’ Henry said to the very quickly assembled Armed Response Vehicle crews. Four officers had turned up — all in body armour, all overtly carrying their weapons. ‘The name Blake is the surname of one of the inmates Trent is suspected of frying during his prison escape; Stoke is where he abandoned Danny’s car.’

  Other officers shuffled into the room. Six Support Unit, all having quickly changed into their riot gear.

  ‘ Come in, welcome,’ Henry beckoned. ‘We’ve only just started.’

  FB then sidled in, joining Henry and Danny at the front of the room. Henry recapped on what he had said, then continued, ‘According to the lady who runs the guest-house, Mrs Bissell, the suspect is in a single room at the rear of the building. Second floor with a view across to the Winter Gardens.’

  A large-scale aerial photograph was Blu-tacked onto the wall behind Henry. It clearly showed the Winter Gardens and the surrounding streets. Because Blackpool hosts political conferences every year, the streets around the conference venue, the Winter Gardens, were well-documented in terms of photos, maps and plan drawings for reasons of security. Mrs Bissell’s guest-house could clearly be seen and the picture was recent enough to include the new extension.

  ‘ This is the guest-house on Charnley Road.’ Henry pointed to it. ‘Most of you probably know it. Obviously we can’t be sure that this is definitely Trent in the room, so we need to find out and play it softly softly just in case it isn’t. I’ve roughed out a very quick operational plan and I’m going to run through it. If anyone has any better ideas, then please speak up.’

  The heavy rain helped the initial approach. It was bucketing down remorselessly, driving in from the Irish Sea like fine rods of steel, almost horizontal.

  This meant it was not exceptional to see two people, a couple, a man and a woman, jogging down the road against the weather, heads bowed against the onslaught, chins on chests, collars up, the woman with hat pulled down over her face, hiding her features, the man’s arm around the woman’s shoulders.

  They turned into the guest-house, trotted up the steps and into the tiled vestibule where the proprietor met them with a sharp, ‘We’re full up.’

  The man quickly flashed a badge. ‘DI Christie from Blackpool police station. We talked on the phone a few minutes ago. This is Sergeant Furness.’

  ‘ Oooh, right,’ said Mrs Bissell.

  ‘ Anywhere we can have a quick chat?’

  She led them into the deserted TV lounge.

  ‘ Look, I don’t even know if this is the right fella,’ Mrs Bissell said worriedly. ‘I don’t want to upset him if I’m wrong. He is a paying guest, after all.’

  ‘ We understand that,’ Danny said empathetically. ‘We’ll be tactful. Don’t you fret yourself, love. As soon as I see him, I’ll know. It’s not as though we need to take a long time over it. In and out, whichever way it goes.’

  Mrs Bissell held a hand across her ample bosom and sighed. ‘Thank the Lord for that.’

  ‘ Is he still in that back bedroom, the one you described?’ Danny asked.

  ‘ Yes.’ She nodded. ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘ Is there any way he can get out of the building without you knowing?’

  ‘ Only by the fire escape. It runs underneath his window.’

  ‘ Okay,’ said Henry, ‘can you show us to the room, point it out and leave us to it? And if you’ve got a master key, that would be helpful.’

  Henry removed his raincoat and draped it across the back of a chair. He spoke into his PR and asked for positions. The reply came back: Three Support Unit and two firearms officers at the rear, on foot, out of sight, but with a view of the building; the remaining officers were parked and ready in a van up the road.

  ‘ Right, we’re going up,’ Henry informed them. To Mrs Bissell he said, ‘Please lead the way.’

  Since kidnapping Danny, Trent had laid pretty low. He had escaped in her car, driven south on the motorway and come off at Stoke-onTrent where he fired the car and rolled it into a flooded quarry. He spent that night in Stoke and the following morning bussed it to Manchester. He killed time there by drifting around porno cinemas, getting wind of some child-abuse films which he watched excitedly.

  He found himself to be getting restless, though, with a sensation growing in him which meant he had to act again. He was tempted to strike in the city, but only felt ‘right’ doing it in Blackpool. He was comfortable there, knew the place well, the best spots to stalk and pounce, the best places to finish off his crimes.

  To commit another crime was something he needed to do. It was building up inside him, burning through him and he had no control over it. He had to do much, much more. The little girl Meg Tomlinson was to be the first of many. Although Danny Furness had been a failure at least he had terrified her shitless. But putting fear into someone was not his intention. Killing them was. And Danny was still high up on the list for a knife in the ribs. Next time it would go straight in, no fucking about, no conversation. Just wham!

  In — twist, in-twist, in-twist.

  Trent slashed his hand at the water in his bath.

  He sniggered, lounged back in the hot water and contentedly washed himself down.

  Then came the knock on the door.

  He shot upright. His right hand reached for the knife which lay on the bath stool.

  Danny remained unconvinced that Henry’s plan of action was the most sensible in the world. To her, it would have been far better to have had a truckload of hairy-arsed bobbies thundering down the corridor, kicking in the door. No messing. Arresting whoever happened to be on the other side.

  If it wasn’t Trent, so what?

  Brush him down and apologise.

  If it was — all well and good.

  But to have just the two of them tiptoeing down the corridor and knocking gently on the door Mrs Bissell had indicated, seemed plain stupid. Or was she being too sensitive? Perhaps being abducted at knife-point and having threats made to cut her breasts off had put things out of all perspective.

  She took a firmer grip on her extended baton.

  They reached the door. Henry gestured silently for Danny to back off, then he rapped his knuckles on the door and waited. No reply. He knocked again. No reply. Henry’s hand went to the doorknob and turned it. The door was locked.

  Danny swallowed.

  Henry glanced quickly at her and pulled out the master key given to him by Mrs Bissell.

  ‘ Here I go,’ he mouthed.

  Trent rose slowly out of the bath, knife in hand. He trod quietly on the bathmat, took the single stride to the door and opened it a crack. The bathroom was directly across the corridor
from his room. He immediately saw Henry Christie’s unprotected back, his hand on the doorknob, turning it, while carefully inserting the key in the lock at the same time.

  With a scream of rage, Trent raised the knife and threw himself across the narrow corridor, plunging the blade into Henry’s back at a point between the right shoulder-blade and spine.

  Danny yelled an agonised warning as she saw the naked figure of Trent flash across the corridor and drive the knife into Henry.

  Too late.

  Henry managed a quarter-turn, saw the glint of the blade, tried to protect himself. Too slow. He and Trent crashed against the bedroom door, the lock splintering open on impact. Henry stumbled onto his knees under Trent’s weight, then pitched forwards, smashing his forehead on the edge of the bedstead as Trent fell on him.

  Danny’s first instinct was to turn and run. To scream for assistance. She forced herself through that moment, took two long paces down the corridor and pivoted into the room behind the two men. Henry was prostrate and unmoving underneath Trent who straddled him. The knife was already slicing downwards towards Henry’s exposed neck for the second blow.

  Danny knew she had to react.

  She stepped into the room, but because she was cramped for space, was not able to strike Trent as hard as she would have liked with her baton. Instead she gave a backhand flip, not dissimilar to a squash stroke. The shaft connected with Trent’s left temple, knocking him sideways across the room. The knife shot out of his hand as he rolled over.

  Danny glimpsed Trent’s loosely hanging genitalia which made her want to retch.

  She stepped over Henry. Trent was already on his hands and knees, scrabbling towards the knife, only inches from his fingers now.

  This time she did have the room.

  She took aim carefully… and the baton rose high.

  She smashed him hard and deliberately on the back of his skull in a very controlled fashion. She did not want to lose her temper, but by the same token she secretly hoped she would kill him with the blows and fuck the consequences. It was a very satisfying feeling — once… twice… smack, crack.

  Trent’s whole body quivered and collapsed. His fingertips were touching the knife-handle. Danny saw he was still breathing. She quickly pulled his arms round his back and applied a pair of cuffs, purposely ratcheting them too tight.

  Then she turned to her boss. ‘Henry, Henry, you all right?’

  She heard him moan. ‘Ohh, hell,’ he spoke to the carpet, ‘where did he come from?’

  ‘ Right behind you.’ Danny helped him sit up.

  ‘ Jeez,’ he gasped. He crossed his left hand over his right shoulder and reached for the shoulder-blade. ‘Feels like he hit me with a hammer.’

  ‘ No, just a knife. You were lucky.’

  Henry nodded. It wasn’t the first time that protective body armour — on this occasion a stab-vest — had saved his life.

  ‘ I need a fucking ambulance, you bastards.’

  Danny and Henry looked at Trent. It was only then Danny saw her blows with the baton had split his scalp in two places, rather like knife-slashes across upholstery. She leaned over him with a delicious smile. ‘You’re fucking lucky you don’t need a hearse,’ she hissed into his ear.

  She checked her watch. Eleven-thirty.

  Not a bad day’s work.

  Most police officers believe, in principle, that prisoners should have rights. That principle usually goes crashing out the window when the officer gets personally involved in a case. Particularly child murders or abuse. Then they don’t want to give prisoners anything — except a hard time.

  Danny did not want to allow Trent to go to hospital. But the law is the law and off he went, handcuffed and escorted by three no-nonsense coppers and a driver. He wouldn’t be going anywhere, other than straight back to the cells to be interviewed after he’d received treatment.

  And in the meantime, Danny became very upset when Henry told her he had decided not to allow her to interview or have any further connection with Trent because of her personal involvement. He would allocate a team of four experienced jacks, working in pairs, to process, interview and charge Trent. Henry did not want any slip-ups. He wanted the prisoner to be dealt with fairly, correctly and above board. He knew Trent would be making counter-allegations of assault and the case would be difficult enough as it was.

  Personal baggage would just make things more difficult.

  He explained all this to Danny as she drove him back to the police station. She wasn’t a happy bunny.

  ‘ You’re rambling, Henry. That blow on the head’s done you,’ she said rudely.

  ‘ Don’t argue, Danny. I’m right, you know I am.’ He did have a hot zinger of a headache, additional to the one he had started the day with, but he was thinking clearly, planning the next twenty-four hours with Trent, or longer if need be. There would be a lot of people queuing up to see him and politics would no doubt rear its ugly head. The police investigating Trent’s prison escape and the bloodbath which accompanied it would want first call on him; they had seven murders to clear up. But Henry wanted Trent to stay in Lancashire. He had killed a police officer up here and a child. Henry would fight them all the way.

  At the back door of the police station Henry and Danny bumped into a couple of detectives rushing out. ‘Is there a fire or something?’

  ‘ No, boss. Another body.’

  ‘ Any details?’ asked Danny.

  ‘ No, not really, but according to the uniform at the scene, it looks like the girl who’s been missing a few days.’ Danny’s heart nearly stopped. ‘Claire Lilton?’

  ‘ Yeah, that’s the one.’

  PART TWO

  Chapter Fifteen

  Since the death of Steve Kruger and the Armstrong brothers, life in the offices of Kruger Investigations in Miami had been very subdued indeed. There was no chatter, laughter or any of the lightness Kruger had brought to the workplace when he was alive. A shroud had descended, seemingly impossible to lift.

  Myrna Rosza spent most of her time walking around, speaking to the employees. Sitting down over a cup of coffee, listening, encouraging and attempting to get everyone back on track, to get the place humming again, people motivated.

  All to no avail.

  And, God, Myrna missed him dreadfully. She could empathise with the way in which every employee was feeling, except for her it was a million times worse.

  Kruger’s funeral had been one of the most testing occasions of her life. Of course she was allowed a little tear and her husband accepted that. Only natural. All she wanted to do, though, was let herself go; prostrate herself over the coffin, wailing and hysterical, and make a complete fool of herself.

  She didn’t. She stood with dignity and poise and denied herself the outburst she really needed.

  She had not realised how much she loved him. Standing beside her husband whilst watching the coffin disappear slowly beyond the purple velvet drapes at the chapel only magnified those latent feelings. By the same token, it revealed to her how much she did not love her husband, Ben. Not that she disliked him, nor had any axe to grind with him — because he was a good husband, even if his work often took him away for long periods. She simply did not love him any more. They were more like friends, these days, and it was many weeks, maybe months, since they had last made love.

  During the service Ben had reached for Myrna’s hand in a gesture of support and comfort. She pretended not to see it coming and wiped a tear away instead, avoiding contact. On the same night, Ben had tried to cuddle her. She rolled away, pulled herself into a tight ball and rocked gently to sleep.

  Myrna had also attended the double funeral of the Armstrongs at their home town in Virginia. At least she had not been in love with either of them, though the crimson-vivid memory of the walk down that hallway could not be shaken from her mind as their coffins were carried past her.

  How had they reconstructed the bodies?

  Were they in little pieces, fitted into thei
r coffins like a jigsaw? An arm up here, the head down there?

  And now, two days after Steve Kruger’s funeral, Myrna was sitting at her desk, alone in her office, the staff having gone home. Silence was everywhere. It was Wednesday, 7 p.m.

  Myrna stared with growing disbelief at the telephone on which she had, only seconds before, finished a conversation with her husband.

  ‘ Wha..?’ she blurted to the wall. ‘I can’t believe… Christ!’ She could not stop her head from shaking as the words tumbled over and over through her mind. ‘The asshole, the bastard,’ she uttered and slammed the desk hard with her fist. Everything rose a millimetre and fell back into place, blotter, phone, pen-stand, laptop, everything.

  She rose to her feet and stalked around the room, fuming.

  ‘ Hello, darling, it’s Ben…’ the conversation had started. There was a crackle of static on the line and it was difficult to hear, yet immediately Myrna could tell something was not quite right. ‘How are you, honey?’

  ‘ Under the Circumstances, doing okay,’ she answered guardedly.

  ‘ Look, dear, I have some sad news for you… something to tell you…’ And with those words, Myrna knew. ‘As you know, I’m out here in LA. I…’ he hesitated.

  ‘ Spit it out, Ben.’

  ‘ There’s no easy way to say this. I won’t be coming home.’

  Myrna remained silent as an icy blast of chilled air wafted over her.

  ‘ Are you still there, Myrna?’