One Dead Witness hc-3

by Nick Oldham

  ‘ May I ask who is calling?’

  ‘ I’m his chiropractor.’

  ‘ Thank you. Please hold the line.’

  A series of clicks, a slight pause, then, ‘Crenshaw, Homicide.’

  ‘ Ahh, Captain, this is your chiropractor. I was just wondering if you’d made that appointment yet.’

  ‘ Hey, I haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘ It is urgent. You know how tight your spine is.’

  ‘ Yeah, I’ll get back to you soon with details.’

  ‘ And, of course, you will feel great benefit.’ Begin hung up, slightly frustrated. He desperately needed to know where Tracey was being held, otherwise he might start to look stupid.

  He picked his phone up again and dialled a zero. He ordered someone from the gatehouse to bring a car up for him. He had to get out and see someone, pronto.

  Gus was sticking to Felicity like a limpet, not difficult in her present condition. Dark glasses covering her bruised face, she was moving slowly around the Bal Harbor shops on Collins Avenue, Miami Beach, where high-class names were in abundance — Saks, Carrier, Hermes et al. Not much was priced below four hundred dollars and an average price in some shops was four thousand.

  ‘ Gus, why don’t you fuck of?’ Felicity suggested. ‘I’m staying in and around these shops, going nowhere else. What about you and me meet back here in an hour, say? I ain’t gonna tell Mario… but you’re going to be bored shitless because all I’m going to do is drift around dress shops.’

  ‘ Uh-huh. With respect, but no way, Mrs Bussola. Boss says I’ve got to stay with you and I’m going to do just that.’

  Felicity shrugged.

  Gus was a simple son of a bitch and she doubted if she could shake his dog-like determination to follow orders to the letter. She would just have to look for another opportunity and grasp it when it came.

  Henry Christie’s early start that day did not deter him from going into work to catch up with everything. He drove from the airport, arriving at the station about seven-thirty. Accompanied by a wonderful cup of tea, he took full advantage of the early hour to get some clearance work done at his desk.

  At 2 p.m. he was still busy, not having stopped for any refreshment other than of the hot liquid variety. He was really motoring on his paperwork and didn’t want to interrupt his momentum.

  Blackpool is a town where nobody gets noticed. The extravagant and outlandish are the norm. The normal is the norm too. Being the worse for drink is not unusual; inebriates abound and unless they are fighting drunk, do not raise an eyebrow.

  That particular Wednesday afternoon, no one noticed the unshaven, slightly smelly figure of a man who, stinking of booze, staggered and rolled through the streets. Occasionally he bumped into people but muttered apologies. He wasn’t looking for trouble. Sometimes he crashed into walls or shop fronts and apologised too. Though he was unsteady on his feet, he did not fall over.

  The only thing which perhaps set him apart from the usual drunk was his standard of dress. Though tie-less, his suit was obviously expensive, his shoes too, and his silk shirt was definitely made to measure. Even so, he was paid no heed. People just tried to avoid him.

  When he stumbled into the Tower complex, slapping down his cash at the pay desk, he wasn’t even acknowledged by the staff. Just another customer, just another drunk.

  It was 3 p.m., British time. Henry sat back, interlocked his fingers behind his head and thought about Danny.

  Seven hours since she had taken off. The plane, no doubt, would be staring its gradual descent into Miami International, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. Henry did not particularly envy her, but thought that nevertheless it would be quite nice to have a taste, however brief, of some Florida sunshine. The weather in Blackpool had not been too bad for a couple of days, but didn’t have the warmth Henry remembered from his holiday in Florida a couple of years earlier.

  He shook his head. His brain was slowing down now, becoming a nebulous mass after the morning’s marathon of paper shifting.

  Time for a break. He peered out through the office window and decided on a brisk stroll up the Prom. Clear his head, maybe buy the kids something useless, maybe buy Kate something too. Now that would surprise her.

  He slid his Barbour on, dropped his PR into a pocket and quit the office. A few minutes later he was on the Promenade. The sun was shining brightly, but it was still extremely chilly.

  The drunken man reeled slowly through the Tower amusement complex. He dallied in the Hall of Mirrors, staring angrily at each reflection, particularly the one which made him look very small. He dawdled in the aquarium, staring up at the sharks, detesting the smug way in which they glided smoothly around with no effort whatsoever, masters of their environment, their small, piggy, emotionless eyes with a bead on him, like they were telling him something.

  Well, fuck them! There was nothing they could tell him about himself he didn’t already know.

  For half an hour he sat on the balcony overlooking the Tower ballroom, watching the dancers slide around the floor. He had a couple of large whiskies whilst he watched the, in the main, elderly couples dancing the afternoon away in a ritual more reminiscent of the thirties than the nineties. He went to the bar and gulped a further Scotch which really seemed to hit the mark.

  Then he made his way to the lift which would take him all the way up the Tower.

  With unusually helpful tailwinds, Danny’s plane touched down half an hour ahead of schedule at Miami International, 10.30 a.m. US time. She had been in the air seven and a half hours but it was only like the blink of an eye to her because, with the exception of devouring the rather delicious meal provided, she had slept all the way.

  Very refreshed, she made her way off the plane, straight through customs with the only slight hitch being the diligent checking of her visa at passport control. In the arrival lounge she expected to be met, but not by Arnold Schwarzenegger. Or to be more accurate, Mark Tapperman, who bore a card with Danny’s name on it.

  ‘ That’s me,’ said Danny, approaching the big man.

  Tapperman looked at the name on the card, then up at Danny.

  ‘ It’s short for Danielle,’ she explained.

  ‘ Oh, right, yeah.’ Tapperman was completely thrown. ‘They didn’t say I was going to meet a woman.’

  ‘ Is that a problem?’

  ‘ No, no, no.’ Tapperman regained some sort of control of himself and thrust out his right hand which Danny shook. ‘Welcome to Miami. I’m Lieutenant Mark Tapperman, Miami PD. Here.’ He flashed his badge.

  ‘ I’m Danny Furness, as you already know. Detective Sergeant, Blackpool CID.’ She showed him her warrant card.

  ‘ Lemme take your case. Come on, follow me. My car’s waiting.’

  ‘ I’ll carry it myself, Mark. Thanks.’

  ‘ So… good flight?’

  ‘ Excellent.’

  ‘ Blackpool? I heard of that place. Guess it’s pretty quiet. Not much going on — not much excitement cop-wise, I guess.’

  Danny smiled inwardly. ‘I guess not.’

  Henry Christie could not resist Robert’s Oyster Bar. He dived in and bought himself a tub of potted shrimps which he proceeded to eat whilst leaning against the sea-wall railings and looking across to the Golden Mile. The shrimps tasted wonderful.

  Henry’s eyes followed the Tower upwards, 519 feet to the pinnacle. It was a clear day and the view from the platform would be superb.

  The last of the shrimps went into his mouth. It was time to head back to the office and maybe have an early dart home.

  ‘ Gus, you cannot follow me in here, no matter what Mario told you. I am a lady, this is a ladies’ changing room and if you try to come in, I’ll scream the place down.’

  ‘ Uh, I dunno about this,’ he said dumbly.

  ‘ You’d have to shoot the security guards,’ Felicity said.

  ‘ Now, I’m going in there to try these two dresses on.’ They were folded across her arm. ‘And I’ll probably
be about fifteen minutes, okay? There’s nowhere I can go, so relax and go choose something sexy for your girl from the lingerie department.’

  ‘ Lingerie?’

  ‘ Underwear to you — panties, brassieres, you know the kind of stuff. Over there.’ She spun him round and shoved him in the direction of the department. He tottered away unhappily, giving several backward glances. Felicity went into the changing area and chose the booth furthest away, locking the door behind her.

  Once inside she sat down and relaxed. Then she began to undress.

  Henry Christie was correct. The view from the platform almost at the top of the Tower was magical. No one was allowed to go to the very top these days, however; too many people jumped off. Now visitors were restricted to the covered platform at 380 feet, from which there was a 360-degree view of Blackpool and its environs.

  The drunken man walked around the platform, feeling the fresh wind in his hair, looking at the view, not really appreciating either.

  Above the head-high railings was a wire-mesh cage to dissuade people from climbing up and over and launching themselves into oblivion. The man walked round, inspecting the mesh above his head, noting the location of the joins, where the weak points were.

  It did not take him long to find what he was looking for.

  He clambered up the metal railings and reached for the mesh, pulling it apart at one of the seams. Within moments he had broken through and clambered up onto the cage, sitting on the edge with nothing now between himself and the roofs of the shops below. He shuffled right to the edge, dangling his legs over. One last push, and he would be over.

  It would be over.

  ‘ What do you think of this one, Gus?’

  Felicity emerged from the changing room, displaying the thousand-dollar creation she was trying on for size. And also to reassure Gus, who had spent no time in lingerie; he had been sitting on a chair at the entrance to the changing rooms, agitatedly tapping his feet, peering in for a sight of Mrs Bussola.

  ‘ It’s really nice, Mrs B,’ Gus said. He tried to sound enthusiastic.

  ‘ Thanks, Gus. You’re obviously a connoisseur.’

  ‘ A what?’

  ‘ A thick cunt,’ Felicity said under her breath. She twirled back into the changing area, accompanied by an attentive member of staff, to try on the next outfit.

  Before she closed the door, she spoke briefly to the sales assistant. ‘Darling, do you have access to a cellular phone? I seem to have left mine at home and I need to phone my husband. Of course I’ll pay for any calls and any extras.’ She gave a knowing nod to the woman and crushed a fifty-dollar note into her receptive palm.

  ‘ I’ll see what I can do, Mrs Bussola.’

  ‘ Oh, and by the way, don’t let on to that goon, will you?’

  ‘ You can be assured of my discretion.’

  Ira Begin was on edge. Everything was now ready. He had been to see the person who would act as the last line of attack if the worst came to the worst. Now all he needed to be told was where the girl was.

  He was in the rear of a car being driven back to Bussola’s house in South Beach. His cell-tel was on his lap and he prayed for it to ring. If it didn’t, then a certain police officer would have more than just his annual retainer cut off.

  He bounced the small phone in his hand, desperately holding himself back from calling Captain Crenshaw. From past experience, Begin knew it would not speed matters up.

  Then it rang and Begin jumped. He fumbled to answer it.

  ‘ Yeah.’ He listened. ‘Got that. Consider your efforts to be a good investment.’

  Begin ended the call.

  Now he had everything he needed.

  ‘ Patrol to attend the Tower: report of a possible jumper. I repeat…’

  Henry Christie, normally so poor at using the PR other than for his personal benefit, had actually tried to develop some good habits since becoming a Detective Inspector. He actually listened to it these days and even while he had been out eating shrimps, he’d kept one ear on the comings and goings of police activity around the town.

  ‘ DI Christie received. I am literally outside the Tower now. I’ll attend.’

  ‘ Roger. Thanks, sir. Any other patrols to assist?’

  Several called up, by which time Henry was running across the Promenade, looking up as he did so.

  It was a very long way up. And down.

  It was one of the biggest cars Danny had ever seen in her life, and was like sitting in a mobile living room. Typically American, she thought; all the same, lovely and very comfortable. But not a patch on her beloved, now deceased, Merc.

  She looked discreetly sideways at the big detective who was driving. His left elbow rested out of the window and he was steering using his left little finger, occasionally holding the wheel with his right when necessary. He whistled tunelessly, looked laid back and cool in his dark glasses. Danny had not thought to pack sunglasses, but did not mind the bright sun in her eyes. It made a change from Britain’s pathetic effort.

  ‘ Not far now,’ Tapperman informed her.

  ‘ Fine.’ They had not travelled far anyway.

  Ten minutes later they pulled up in the driveway of a large white house in a fairly exclusive development.

  ‘ I thought we’d be going to a cop shop.’

  ‘ Naw,’ drawled Tapperman, releasing his seat belt. ‘This girl’s got an aversion to cops.’

  Danny grabbed her holdall and got out of the car, which was still bouncing on its soft springs from stopping. As they walked up the drive, past another large vehicle, some type of people-carrier, the front door opened and a black woman stood on the threshold, right hand extended.

  ‘ Hi, I’m Myrna Rosza. You must be Danny Furness. I’m pleased to meet you.’

  ‘ And I’m pleased to meet you, Myrna.’

  They shook hands and appraised each other critically, both liking what they saw. Somehow there was something between them immediately. A connection. A closeness. Both sensed this would be a harmonious relationship.

  ‘ Come in, you must be bushed.’

  ‘ I’m not too bad. Where’s Tracey?’

  Myrna’s eyes flickered upwards. ‘Asleep, like she’s been for most of the time. I don’t intend to wake her, if that’s okay. I think she needs all the rest she can get. Maybe you’d like a shower, get freshened up? Then I’ll do us a meal and we can talk.’

  ‘ Sounds good.’

  They smiled at each other.

  Behind them Tapperman said, ‘I’ll leave you to it. If you have any problems, bell me anytime.’

  ‘ Sure, thanks Mark.’

  When he’d gone, Myrna said conspiratorially, ‘Bit soft dumbass, but a heart of gold. Here, let me take your bag.’

  Henry barged his way through the tourists of the day, unceremoniously heaving them to one side where necessary. He arrived at the lift to find a long queue of people waiting to go up the Tower.

  ‘ You a police officer?’ somebody shouted.

  ‘ Yeah.’ Henry turned. He recognised the manager of the place.

  ‘ Come with me.’

  He led Henry to the service lift which was ready and waiting and empty. Henry peered through the window as the lift rose, watching in case the jumper decided to fly before he got there.

  Felicity was standing in her underwear when the sales assistant returned with a cellular phone. The woman’s mouth sagged open in shock when she saw the bruises all over Felicity’s torso. The gangster’s wife caught the expression and with a sneer said, ‘It’s how my husband shows affection.’

  Stunned, the woman held out the mobile. Felicity banged in a number and waited impatiently for the connection. The sales assistant withdrew.

  ‘ Kruger Investigations? I want to speak to Myrna Rosza. Urgently.’

  It was wonderfully fresh, brilliant up here. The drunken man was sitting on top of the mesh, looking at a view inland across Lancashire, towards the Pennines. Then he looked down between his legs and swallo
wed. There was a flat roof below on which he would surely land.

  For a split second there was hesitation. He wondered if he had the courage to do this thing.

  Someone on the platform shouted, ‘Don’t do it, mate!’

  But he had to.

  For what he had done, he would never be able to live with himself again.

  Myrna, Felicity was informed, could not be contacted. ‘This is a matter of life and death,’ Felicity pleaded. ‘It concerns the girl she is protecting. Please let me speak to her. I need to speak to her. It’s vital…’ And here Felicity made a guess. ‘Bussola knows where they are and he’s going to kill the girl — and Myrna, if she gets in the way. I’ve got to speak to her! I’m Steve Kruger’s ex-wife. It’s imperative…’

  ‘ Just hold the line,’ the polite telephonist said.

  ‘ Fuck!’ Felicity closed her eyes, which flipped open when the changing-room door clattered open.

  Gus appeared, breathing heavily, the sales assistant behind him, remonstrating. ‘You cannot barge in here like this!’ Gus rammed the palm of his big hand into her face, scrunched it up like a piece of paper and said, ‘Go away, please.’ He pushed her with such force that she crashed through the closed door of the changing booth opposite.

  Gus lurched across to Felicity, a hurt and disappointed look on his face. He pulled the phone out of her hand and threw it to the floor, ramming his heel down on it.

  ‘ You shouldn’t ought to have done that, Mrs B. You lied to me, so get dressed, please. I’m gonna take you home.’

  The service lift doors opened, Henry stepped out and immediately saw the man sitting on the overhead mesh.

  All the way up Henry had been sifting through the possible openings he might use to begin the process of talking the man down.

  He strolled to the left of the man, who looked down and showed recognition in his face. Henry recognised him too.