by Nick Oldham
‘ Like shit, Danny — but it’s better than anything I can think of at this moment in time. Can you use a gun, Danny?’
The English detective nodded unsurely as Myrna told her where Steve Kruger kept the firearms in his bedroom.
‘ This was supposed to be a jolly,’ Danny said to herself as she sneaked quietly upstairs and went into Steve Kruger’s bedroom. ‘Not a fucking Wild West show.’ She opened the drawer in the bedside cabinet as instructed and found Kruger’s snub-nosed. 38 special. She tucked it very carefully into the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back.
Next she went to the wardrobe where she found two more weapons, shaking her head in astonishment on seeing them. ‘Just what sort of a country have I come to?’ she asked herself.
One of the guns was a pistol, the other a Heckler amp; Kock sub-machine pistol, very light, accurate and deadly. It looked thoroughly evil to Danny. She put the small pistol down her waistband next to the revolver and dropped the HK into her holdall.
Then she went to collect Tracey.
‘ I want the originals in my hand before I give up the girl,’ Myrna bluffed to Begin.
‘ That will not be possible,’ he said. ‘I am a man of honour; as I said, you will have the originals delivered to you within an hour of me taking possession of the girl. Trust me.’
Myrna leaned back, pretending to consider this. In reality she was straining to hear outside the dining-room door, trying to judge where Danny was up to with Tracey.
‘ You keep very, very quiet,’ Danny hissed. ‘Believe me, your life depends on it, so does mine and so does Myrna’s.’
The girl was compliant, terrified.
Danny crept downstairs ahead of her, into the hallway and to the front door, passing the dining room on the way.
From the front door it was less than twelve feet to the Chevrolet. Danny looked at the keys in her hand and her heart sank when she saw the remote-control locking fob. She pointed it at the car and held her breath, hoping it would not make too much of a noise.
There was a loud squeak as the alarm was deactivated and the doors unlocked.
Danny paused, expecting a reaction. Nothing happened.
She walked confidently to the car, her eyes taking in everything there was to be seen up and down the cul-de-sac — including the two sedans parked a hundred yards away, each packed with muscle. Danny swallowed. She opened the rear door and beckoned Tracey to get in.
‘ Lie down across the seat and don’t move,’ Danny instructed her harshly. She jumped into the driver’s seat, threw her holdall into the passenger footwell and started the engine.
Once she was happy it was ticking over nicely, she ran back to the house.
Myrna winced when she heard Kruger’s car squawk like a parrot, and eyed Begin in readiness for a reaction.
He simply sat staring at Myrna, not in the least suspecting what was going on.
‘ Okay,’ Myrna said with a sigh, apparently reaching a decision. She leaned forwards. ‘I’ll do it.’
Begin beamed the smile of the modest victor. ‘You’ve seen sense,’ he patronised.
The door crashed open and Danny came into the room like a whirlwind, snub-nosed revolver in her right hand, pistol in her left.
‘ Here — catch!’ she shouted and tossed the pistol across to Myrna who caught it expertly, rising from her chair, pivoting round and pointing it at Begin.
‘ Actually I’m not interested in your fucking deal,’ she said. ‘It stinks.’
‘ You fool,’ Begin said calmly, sitting back.
‘ No, I don’t think so. Now you sit there like a good boy, otherwise I’ll blast your fucking head off.’
The women backed slowly out of the room, their guns aimed dangerously at Begin. He did not move, other than to shake his head deprecatingly.
Once out of the door, Danny shouted, ‘You drive!’
They turned and ran out to the Chevrolet which
Myrna slammed into reverse. She stood on the gas and released the parking brake. The wheels spun and the car lurched backwards.
Begin appeared at the front door, beckoning towards the two cars parked down the road, wildly flapping his hands to get his message across.
‘ Scrotes ahead,’ Danny yelled.
‘ Seen ‘em,’ Myrna retorted, gritting her teeth.
As the car swerved out of the driveway, Myrna yanked the gear-stick into Drive and gunned the gearbox into ‘kick-down’. It surged forwards.
Up ahead, both cars moved away from the kerb and stopped side by side, effectively blocking the road. Men jumped out, took cover behind open doors and aimed weapons at the Chevrolet.
‘ Get down!’ Myrna screamed. ‘And hold on tight!’ In the back seat, Tracey whimpered pathetically.
The first bullet crashed through the windshield. Danny felt it whizz inches away from her head. The next one embedded itself in her headrest. She ducked. Myrna grappled with the wheel. She pulled it down to the left, mounted the kerb with a thud, putting the Chevrolet at an angle to the shooters. Bullets slammed into the side. Danny’s window shattered into a million pieces and the bullet passed right in front of Myrna’s eyes, exiting through her side window which also shattered.
A second later Myrna powered the Chevrolet through a low, perfectly manicured and cultivated hedge, into a front garden. This was the only way past Bussola’s men.
Whether it was braveness or stupidity, Danny wasn’t sure — probably a combination of both — but she sat up, having pulled the HK out of her holdall. She rested it on the doorframe where the window had once been, aimed it in the general direction of the men and pulled back the trigger. Even though there was hardly any recoil, her shooting was wild and inaccurate but it had the desired effect of making Bussola’s men dive for better cover as the Chevrolet roared past.
Myrna pulled back onto the road, unable to stop a smile cracking on her face.
Danny slumped, feeling the crumbs of the broken glass all down her back. She looked at the bullet-holes in the windshield, the remnants of the two side windows, twisted to see the bullet-hole in the headrest and then looked at the weapon in her hands which was literally smoking. Unbelievably a sensation of pure exhilaration went through her.
‘ That was amazing,’ she said to Myrna. ‘Fucking amazing.’
Chapter Twenty-four
It was a thick, buff, legal envelope. On the front of it were written two names — Henry Christie and Danny Furness. It had been lying, still sealed, on Henry’s dining-room table ever since the Constable investigating the suicide of Maurice Stanway had dropped it off at his home address.
There had been no obvious suicide note amongst Stanway’s papers at his office, the Constable told Henry. Just this envelope with the two names on it. It could well be the suicide note, but the PC was handing it over to Henry for him to do whatever he wanted to do with it that evening, so long as he returned it the following day.
The police were actually under strict instructions from the Coroner not to open and read suicide notes if they were sealed; only the Coroner was allowed to do that.
Henry tore the envelope open.
A neatly bound file of papers slithered out. Handwritten, probably by Stanway.
Henry began to read: This is for the two detectives investigating the case of Charles Gilbert. By the time you read this, I, Maurice Alan Stanway, will be dead, having taken my own life. I decided to end my life, simply because I could no longer bear to live with myself having consigned two other people to death. I will tell you about that in a while. But I detest myself utterly. I am a weak, pathetic individual, easily led and influenced. And the main influence in my life has been Charles Gilbert. I know everything there is to know about Charles Gilbert and the last thing I want to do is die without revealing these details to other people.
Henry stopped reading and flicked quickly through the pages. There were eleven. It would take him some time to read them. He poured himself a large Bell’s with a dash of soda and s
ettled down.
The house was quiet. His wife, Kate, and his two daughters, Jenny and Leanne, were tucked up in bed asleep. They were more exhausted than he was by the long hours he’d been putting in.
It was 11 p.m.
Myrna, Danny and Tracey spent the rest of that afternoon under guard, courtesy of Mark Tapperman and the Miami Police Department, at Miami International Airport. Tapperman had arranged for the use of an executive lounge and posted uniformed, armed police officers at every entrance and exit.
No one seriously thought Bussola was stupid enough to try anything, but better safe than sorry.
It was a tense afternoon for the women. They said little to each other, even less to Tapperman. When it was announced their flight would be delayed another hour, it only served to make them more jumpy than ever.
At 7 p.m., passengers were called to the boarding gate.
Surrounded by armed cops, Danny and Tracey were escorted all the way to the gate, jumping ahead of the queue of passengers, right up to the door of the plane.
Myrna and Tapperman were with them all the way.
At the door, Danny turned to Myrna. They embraced.
‘ It’ll be a tight schedule at the far end,’ Myrna said.
‘ Yes, I know,’ Danny said. There was an 8 a.m. landing, British time. Very tight, especially when the court sat at 10 a.m.
‘ Look after yourself,’ Danny told Myrna. ‘We’ll be safe from here on in, but you’ll have to watch your back.’
‘ I’ll be fine,’ Myrna said. ‘I’ve got this big oaf watching over me, even though he keeps crashing cars on the way to help me.’ She thumbed Tapperman. He gave a lopsided grin and shook hands with Danny, who ushered Tracey onto the aircraft.
Tapperman and Myrna walked back against the tide of boarding passengers. Tapperman bumped into one guy who had a vaguely familiar look about him. Tapperman thought no more about the encounter.
Felicity suppressed a giggle. She did not even need to have her ear to the door to listen to this one: Mario Bussola going ape-shit with Ira Begin for letting three women outwit and outrun him. Bussola’s angry voice boomed down the hallway outside Begin’s office and all Felicity had to do was stand in the doorway of the living room and try not to laugh too loudly.
They had done it, Felicity thought triumphantly. The girl was now on her way to England safe and sound.
And Mario was left with a face full of scrambled egg.
The office door opened and Begin stormed out. Felicity stepped back out of sight.
‘ It’s not as bad as you think, Mario,’ the under-pressure Begin defended himself.
‘ Why not? Go on, tell me. I’m very fucking interested.’
‘ Two things. Firstly with those papers on my desk, we will smash Kruger Investigations. And secondly, the girl is still going to die.’
‘ Oh? And how have you arranged that one?’ Bussola sneered. ‘Bomb on the plane?’
‘ No — even better than that. You wanted to get Patrick Orlove out of the country — well, I’ve arranged it. He’s on that plane, with a new passport, new name, different coloured hair, and with orders to kill Tracey Greenwood when the appropriate moment comes. Then he can disappear, firstly into Britain, where I’ve opened a bank account for him with two grand in it; then he can hop across to Europe, where I’ve deposited a quarter of a million in a Paris bank for him — activated when the kill is confirmed, of course.’
There was a silence while no doubt Bussola absorbed all this.
‘ Mario, you should know me by now,’ Begin’s voice said persuasively. ‘I always have a fall-back position. I never take anything for granted.’
Felicity took the news like a blow to the stomach.
So it wasn’t over yet.
Felicity could not sleep. She heard Bussola return to the house just after midnight, then crash into his bedroom down the hallway. His snores more or less immediately permeated through the walls. Big, loud, disgusting ones, just like him. They made Felicity’s lips curl in distaste.
She could not help but think this was the time to get out of this mess. She hated her life, she hated her husband and she needed to break free. Otherwise she would crack up or die.
Other than the sound of snoring, the house was quiet.
Begin was not back — he slept in a room next to his office — so there was only herself and Bussola in at that moment.
Time to take a chance.
She dressed quickly in light clothing, filling a small valise with other clothing and some of life’s essentials.
She stepped into the hallway, which she was fairly sure was not observed by surveillance cameras. A dozen strides and she was outside Bussola’s door. It was unlocked. Felicity crept into the bedroom. A dim bedside light illuminated the massive, jello-like form of Bussola lying spread-eagled and naked across the bed like a beached whale. She tiptoed up to him, any noise she might be making masked by the deafening snores emanating deep from his throat. Alcoholic fumes and stale sweat wafted up from him.
He squirmed. His body wobbled.
Felicity remained still, confident he would not wake. Bussola’s clothes were scattered drunkenly around the room. She picked up his jacket and rummaged through the pockets, finding two keys on a chain. She pocketed them.
‘ What the hell’s..?’ Bussola blurted out and sat upright.
Felicity dropped like a stone at the end of the bed. The bedsprings bounced, Bussola groaned… then the snoring recommenced.
Felicity exhaled falteringly.
On her hands and knees she crawled around the bed to the cabinet in which she knew her husband kept his own personal gun. It was a. 25 Beretta, just like James Bond used to carry.
It was fully loaded.
She rose to her knees and found herself face to face with her beloved. Spittle dribbled out of the corners of his mouth. Oh, how she hated him. She stood up, reached over him and picked up a pillow. Holding the gun in her right hand, she held the pillow over it so the end of the barrel protruded slightly and pointed the weapon at her husband’s temple.
Not close enough.
She forced herself to touch the muzzle to his skin, braced and pulled the trigger twice in quick succession. The sound was dreadful in the confines of the bedroom. People must come running… she waited, listening for the sound of running footsteps, ready to bring down the first one through the door and die fighting the others.
No one came.
Before leaving the room she grabbed the wrist-watch on the bedside cupboard; it was a Rolex, once owned by Steve Kruger. Felicity pocketed it, a lump in her throat. With one last glance at her husband, whose brains now made a pattern on the light-shade next to the bed, she left the room.
A minute later she was downstairs outside Begin’s office. She unlocked the door with one of the keys she had just appropriated from Bussola. As Begin had boasted, the documents which would smash Kruger Investigations were on his desk — the same documents Felicity had stolen at the time of her divorce from Steve and which had subsequently played a big part in his death.
Well, she was making amends now, as best she could. With a great deal of pleasure she fed them one by one into the paper shredder next to Begin’s desk. Twelve sheets, shredded in three minutes. But that wasn’t all she planned to do in his office.
She moved to the small wall-safe set behind some law books on a shelf. She wasn’t certain what it contained, but she had an inkling there was something worthwhile within.
The other key on the chain opened it. Her jaw sagged in amazement when she clapped eyes on the contents. Felicity estimated she was looking at somewhere in the region of a quarter of a million bucks; she immediately transferred the bundles into her case.
Now all she had to do was make a quick phone call and get the hell out.
As she replaced the telephone, the figure of Ira Begin loomed in through the open door of his office. He was not expecting to see Felicity, but when his eyes fell on her and the open door of the safe,
he quickly made the addition.
Felicity was on her feet. She hadn’t heard his car pull up.
Begin said, ‘What are you doing, Felicity? You don’t seriously think Mario will let you get away with stealing from him, do you? He’ll probably kill you this time.’
‘ Yeah, no doubt he would — if he was alive to do it.’
Begin’s face registered shock.
Felicity reached calmly into the valise and pulled out the revolver.
Begin’s hands rose instinctively. ‘Hey, if he’s dead, I don’t have any argument with you. I’ll stand aside. You can go.’
Her mind whirred. Yeah, she thought, and I’ll never get past that gate-house alive.
‘ Okay, Ira, I believe you,’ she lied, ‘but I want you to do one thing for me — phone those greasy bastards down at the gate and tell them that in a couple of minutes’ time you’ll be driving out and for them to get the gates open now, because you’re in a hurry.’
‘ But I’m not,’ he protested.
‘ Ira — that’s not the point, is it? I have a gun and I’m telling you what to do. If you don’t do it, I’ll shoot you… and don’t think for a moment I won’t. I’ve just got a taste for blood.’
He eyed her nervously and nodded.
‘ If you try or say anything stupid, I’ll put a bullet in your skull and take my chances with those no-brain wonders anyway,’ she warned him.
‘ Okay, I’ll do it.’
He crossed to the phone. Felicity circled away from him, covering him all the time, not trusting him an inch. She knew how sneaky and deceitful he was, and how violent when the need arose. At that moment in time she was feeling good, completely in control for once in her life. She had made a decision about her destiny and it put her on a high operating plane.
Begin replaced the phone. ‘Done.’
‘ Thanks, Ira — now get on your knees and put your forehead against the wall.’
He started to protest and she levelled the gun at him.
‘ Ira, don’t worry, I’m only gonna put some cuffs on you.’