by Nick Oldham
The prison mini-bus trundled laboriously up Richardson Street towards the rear doors of the police station yard at Blackpool.
A killer lurked near the pay and display car park which overlooked the street, waiting for the chance to strike, but not really knowing where. Just looking for the right moment.
The ‘why’ was known and fixed in the killer’s mind.
That was no problem.
The ‘how’ was in the killer’s pocket. That was no problem either.
The mini-bus transporting the three prisoners pulled up at the entrance to the police yard, and waited for the roller door to rise. And now the killer saw a chance. The door rose slowly; controlled by a button in the comms room and when there was enough headroom, the vehicle moved slowly forwards into the yard.
The killer ran down the steps from the car park and strolled casually in behind the bus, all the way to the top of the yard where it stopped.
The killer walked to the front of the vehicle, trying to look confident, not out of place.
The side door of the bus opened. A prison guard stepped down, closely followed by the first prisoner, Ollie Spencer, wearing rigid handcuffs.
Next came the immense figure of Charlie Gilbert, wearing the specially ordered cuffs which fitted his enormous wrists.
Then came Louis Vernon Trent, also cuffed, looking as nasty and as evil as ever.
All three were made to stand in line behind each other. The ‘where’ now became real easy.
The killer stepped quickly forwards. There was a fully licensed. 38 Smith amp; Wesson in the killer’s right hand, loaded with wad cutters.
It was over in seconds. No one reacted until all of the six bullets had been discharged into the prisoner in the middle of the row.
Then, Mrs Ruth Lilton dropped her husband’s weapon and stood there waiting to be taken into custody for the murder of Charlie Gilbert and of her husband Joe Lilton, who was lying dead at their home, another six bullets in him.
Ruth Lilton felt good. The two men who had destroyed her daughter Claire were now incapable of doing the same to any other child.
Louis Vernon Trent was the first person to take advantage of the situation. Handcuffed though he was, he was always on the lookout for any chance, slim or fat, to escape. He turned and ran for the rear door of the police station yard, his instinct to be free driving him on.
He fully expected to be brought down by a flying rugby tackle at any moment.
It never happened.
He ran through the pedestrian entrance, out across Richardson Street, up the short flight of steps to the car park and, keeping low, ran for his life and freedom.
Seconds later, Henry Christie turned his car into Richardson Street, Danny’s hand resting on his thigh, blissfully unaware of anything that had just taken place in the back yard of Blackpool Central police station.
Epilogue
Danny stood underneath the shower. Jets of hot water cascaded down her body and she soaped herself again and again, luxuriating in the sensation which was making her tired body feel alive.
Henry Christie had been as good as his word and, with FB’s blessing, had said she could take as much time off as she wanted to recuperate from the rigours of the last two weeks. But, because circumstances had changed so dramatically today with the death of Charlie Gilbert and the escape of Louis Trent, it was typical of Danny that she did not want to miss any developments. She knew that if she was sat on a beach on some Greek island or other she would be bored, lonely and consumed with curiosity about what was happening at work.
‘ I’ll be back next Monday,’ were her parting words to Henry. She needed a few days to recharge her batteries and she also wanted to price up a new car, maybe a little sporty thing this time. She had decided she would use the insurance money from the Mercedes and take out whatever else was required in the form of a loan and treat herself.
Having spent the day interviewing and feeling very sorry for Ruth Lilton, murderess, Danny had arrived home — dropped off by a police car — at ten that evening. Her guts told her to hit the sack straight away.
But she was stale from the long, overnight flight, a little clammy, and although totally whacked, she wanted to go to bed accompanied by a pleasant perfumey smell, not body odour.
She compromised and showered instead of having a bath. The action of washing herself, letting her hands run up and down her body, almost like a massage, was wonderful. She would have preferred Henry’s hands, but that would never happen, she knew.
She stepped out of the shower and dried herself. After wrapping a huge fluffy bath towel around herself, tucking it under her armpits, she made a turban for her head from a smaller towel.
Suddenly the lights went out though the extractor fan continued to hum.
She swore, opened the door and stepped out onto the landing to find that light out too. She tried the switch. Nothing. Obviously a fuse gone. She groaned, annoyed. Just when she needed it. She flicked the switch again. Still nothing. Damn!
Angrily she tried the bathroom light switch, which was outside the bathroom itself. The light came on immediately.
Danny frowned, puzzled, her brain still in neutral. She fingered the switch thoughtfully until it dawned on her. Someone had actually been up here and switched off the light. Someone was physically here, in the house. An intruder.
Her eyes rose to the landing light. There was no light bulb in the socket. A sudden, nauseous dread overcame her. Louis Trent, she thought dizzily. He’s here, in my house. He’s been outside the bathroom while I was in the shower and I didn’t hear him because of the water.
She turned and made a dash for her bedroom, aiming to press the panic alarm button next to her bed.
She lurched for the button as she veered into the darkened bedroom, but her hand did not reach it. Another, stronger one clamped down on hers and she was thrown across the bed with such force that she rolled off the other side and crashed to the floor. Next thing, she was being dragged by her hair back onto the bed.
A bedside light was switched on.
The figure towered over her, a terrifying look on his face.
He bent down and picked something up that was leaning against the wardrobe. At first Danny thought it was a broom-handle. When it was pointed at her face she saw it was a single-barrelled shotgun that Jack Sands was holding.
He perched on the end of the bed. Danny sat near the headboard with her legs drawn up. He had made her throw the towels away so she was naked and starting to shiver. The shotgun rested across his lap, his left hand holding the barrel, his right the stock, his forefinger curled around the trigger.
They had been talking for well over two hours, going round and round in circles.
To Danny he sounded demented and very dangerous.
‘ I just can’t give you up,’ he informed her for the hundredth time. ‘You’re part of my life, part of me.’ He shook his head sadly. His eyes had a faraway look. ‘I won’t give you up to anyone, let alone that bastard Christie.’
‘ Henry Christie is my boss. He is not my lover, and never will be.’
‘ Bollocks! I’ve seen you two together. I’ve seen him drop you off at your house, groping you before you get out of the car. I’ve seen it happen, Danny. He’s shagging you, isn’t he?’
‘ No — no one’s shagging me, as you so pleasantly put it, Jack. I don’t have a lover and I don’t want one. Not you, not anybody. And your imagination is running riot. Henry has never groped me, either.’
‘ I don’t believe you.’
Danny shrugged. ‘Can I put my dressing-gown on? It’s cold here.’
‘ No.’
‘ Fine.’
‘ He deserved that crack on the head. I wish he’d got brain damage from it.’
‘ You did it?’
‘ I arranged it. Put a couple of toe-rags onto him who owed me past favours.’
Danny took in the information. ‘So what’s it going to be, Jack? We’ve been talking here for ag
es now, getting nowhere.’
He cleared his throat. A tear rolled out of one eye. ‘I can’t bear the thought of anyone else touching you. And if it can’t be me, no one else will ever touch you because I’m going to kill you now. Then I’ll kill myself. Ha! I know this is only a single barrel, but you’ll have to trust me. This is a suicide pact. You’ll die and then I promise I’ll reload and put the gun to my head. I’ll only be seconds behind you. I’ve even written a suicide note.’ He produced it from a pocket and flapped the envelope at her and dropped it on the bed between them.
Then he took a shotgun cartridge from his pocket and placed it upright on the dressing-table. ‘That’s for me. Yours is already in the gun.’ He lifted the weapon and pointed it at her.
‘ You’re mad, Jack. A fucking raving loony.’
‘ No. Don’t think that of me. I’m obsessed, yeah. I’m in love, but I’m not mad, Danny.’
‘ Well, let me tell you this,’ Danny said falteringly, fear rising through her. ‘If there is an afterlife, I’ll be going to it with that thought in my mind. Jack Sands is fucking mental. A pathetic, spineless bastard who-’
‘ Shut it!’ he screamed. The gun shook in his hands. He hoisted it to his shoulder and looked down the barrel at Danny. She stared straight back, transfixed like a rabbit in a poacher’s torchbeam.
‘ Go on,’ she snarled, ‘pull the fucking trigger and have done. You’ve made my life a misery anyway. Go on, pull it, then kill yourself, Jack. The world will be a far better place without you in it.’
‘ I will! I will!’ he threatened, right on the edge. His finger wrapped around the trigger. Danny could see him forcing himself to pull it.
Her face wore a mask of contempt. She shifted slightly on the bed, an inch nearer to the panic button. ‘It’s over, Jack. You and me. It would never have worked in a million years. You can’t have your cake and eat it. You’re married on one hand, having a longstanding affair on the other. Something had to break sooner or later and that something was me. You were never going to leave her, so I had to end it, don’t you see?’ Then she added desperately, ‘What about your kids? Jack, they need you, they need a father. Stop this now… please. For everyone’s sake.’
‘ I’ve got enough love for everyone.’
‘ Oh, Jack, don’t be a fool. No one has that much love. Killing me and killing yourself is not the way to see this through. Come on,’ she said softly, ‘please see sense.’
There was a long silence. The gun was still pointed right at Danny’s nose.
‘ You’re right,’ he said. He stood up and without a further word he walked out of the bedroom, head held high, shotgun in his right hand.
Danny leapt to her feet and slammed the door behind him, locking it.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs.
Everything drained out of her. She slumped onto the bed, holding her head.
Then she heard the bang of the shotgun being discharged somewhere downstairs.
In deep shock she rolled onto the bed, curled up like a baby in the womb, jammed a thumb into her mouth and rocked and cried.
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Document creation date: 20.12.2012
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