by Nick Oldham
One Dead Witness
By Nick Oldham
Published by Nick Oldham at Smashwords
Copyright 1998 Nick Oldham
Smashwords Edition License Statement
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously
Cover photography/design: Belinda Cookson
About the Author
Nick Oldham is the author of the ‘Henry Christie’ series of crime novels set in the northwest of England. He was born in April 1956 in a house in the tiny village of Belthorn – mums were very hardy in those days – up on the moors high above Blackburn, Lancashire. After leaving college then spending a depressing year in a bank, he joined Lancashire Constabulary at the age of nineteen in 1975 and served in many operational postings around the county. Most of his service was spent in uniform, but the final ten years were spent as a trainer and a manager in police training. He retired in 2005 at the rank of inspector.
He lives with his partner, Belinda, on the outskirts of Preston.
ONE DEAD WITNESS is the third of Nick Oldham’s gritty, fast paced, highly acclaimed and well reviewed thrillers set in the northwest of England, featuring Henry Christie and is now available for the first time in e-format.
For more information about Nick and his books visit www.nickoldham.net or ‘Nick Oldham Books’ on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/pages/Nick-Oldham-Books/134265683315905
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many thanks to John Drury and Steve Little, both consummate police trainers, for sharing their knowledge of paedophiles with me, and to Carol Woodcock for pointing me towards the Internet.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Although certain passages in this novel may be disturbing to some readers, the incidents and feelings portrayed are based on the day-to-day realities with which police officers have to deal
ONE DEAD WITNESS
A raging storm ... the end of a torrid affair ... a murderous convict on the loose ... a tower ‘jumper’ ... and in the middle of it all, Henry Christie...
It’s difficult to have any sympathy for a prisoner like Louis Trent – no matter how much the other inmates abuse him. For Trent is a child-molester, one of the nastiest kind. Just how nasty, the authorities and his tormentors are about to find out...
Not much is going right for DC Danielle Furness. Chasing eleven–year-old runaway Claire Lilton along a wave-battered Blackpool seafront is only the beginning. Tonight Danny must end the affair with her married lover, which is bound to make life difficult at work. Serves her right for sleeping with the boss.
But Danny’s personal problems pale into insignificance when Louis Trent explodes out of jail. Now Trent is heading for his old haunt, Blackpool, with murder on his mind – for the young girls he preys on, like Claire, and for the woman who put him in prison in the first place: DC Danny Furness...
Praise for Nick Oldham
‘Oldham takes the taut pacing, gripping suspense, and hard-edged plotting that readers have to expect from the best British procedurals and adds a fresh twist. A touch of James Ellroy thrown into a John Harvey-style procedural makes a powerful combination’ – Booklist.
‘The genuine article - a tale from the cutting edge of law enforcement that is utterly authentic. I think this new author is a real find’ – Mystery and Thriller Guild
‘Every detail in this gripping, fast-paced story has the ring of truth’ – Bradford Telegraph and Argus
‘Placing his story right at the heart of Lancashire Constabulary gives his book a compelling truth’ – Manchester Evening News
‘Oldham believes in a bloody good time ... and several dandy plot twists’ – Kirkus Reviews
‘Like everything ‘good’ in life, a fast-paced, old fashioned shoot ‘em up is hard to find. Fortunately we have Oldham’s latest novel to remind us what it’s all about’ – Publisher’s Weekly
Also by Nick Oldham in the ‘Henry Christie’ series:
A Time for Justice (available as an e-book on Smashwords)
Nightmare City (available as an e-book on Smashwords)
The Last Big Job (available as an e-book on Smashwords)
Backlash
Substantial Threat
Dead Heat
Big City Jacks
Psycho Alley
Critical Threat
The Nothing Job
Screen of Deceit
Crunch Time
Seizure
Hidden Witness
Facing Justice
Instinct
Contents
Part One
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
ChapterTen
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Part Two
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Epilogue
PART ONE
Prologue
Trent knew they were coming long before they arrived.
He could smell it in the air - sense the unnatural quietness, the electric tension which pervaded the prison.
They were coming for him. Again.
Suddenly it was very hot.
His throat became dry and he swallowed with some difficulty. A bead of sweat scuttled down his temple like some sort of insect, leaving a glistening silvery trail in its wake. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, willing himself to have the courage to face up to what was about to happen.
He was laid out full-length on the lower bunk in his cell, alone, his head propped up on the iron-hard pillows. He had been reading one of his well-thumbed, tatty magazines called 13-Plus, aimed at young teenage girls. When he felt the atmosphere change, and his spine tingled in response, he closed it, tossed it to one side and let it flutter to the floor.
He lay there for several minutes, eyes staring upwards at the empty bunk above him.
Then he heard the footsteps.
Distant at first ... rather like listening to a piece of music and honing in on the bass line, separating it from the rest of the instruments. The footsteps clattered more loudly as they mounted the iron steps and reached the landing on which his cell was situated.
Trent’s heart began to pound remorselessly. His breathing became shallow.
He knew there would be four of them.
Three were always the same - the swaggering trio of tough guys who ruled the whole prison between them with their violence and intimidation. Then there would be a fourth one, the one who was about to be treated, the one who was desperate, and had paid in cash or dope or tobacco, whatever the acceptable currency happened to be, to satisfy his pent-up frustrations and cravings.
So far it had been a different
man every time. Trent had a fairly good idea who it would be this time.
He considered screaming the place down. Then decided not to bother. He had screamed the first few times. A waste of breath. His squeals had gone unheeded, proving that everyone was in on it, including the screws. . . as had been so painfully demonstrated on the last occasion, some two weeks earlier, when the fourth member of the party, the paying member, had been wearing a prison officer’s uniform.
The steps were closer now.
He also considered putting up a fight.
He’d tried that before, too. Though he was a man of reasonable stature, the three hard men had loved his resistance and risen to the occasion. After they had overpowered him and held his squirming body down to be abused by the fourth member, they had then beaten him senseless. A cold-hearted, clinical assault which put Trent into the casualty department of the local hospital overnight and then into the poorly-equipped prison hospital to recover for four days.
Trent swung his legs off the bunk and sat up.
The ominous sound of footfalls on the metallic landing grew even nearer.
He swallowed once more, this time to keep the vomit down. He attempted to regain control of his breathing and his shaking. Not a chance.
He swore between gasps.
They were now only yards away.
On jittery legs he got to his feet. He groaned pathetically.
Somewhere in the distance he could hear the laughter of men: prisoners on association, playing cards, or table tennis, reading, chatting, watching TV. All fully aware of what was about to take place in cell number one-six on landing four. And not one of them with the courage to make a stand because not one of them cared a toss.
Trent was alone. No one would help him.
By the time the four men reached the door, Trent had unfastened and unzipped his trousers. Anything to save time and get the nightmare over with more quickly.
They barged into the tiny cell, their stench and presence overpowering him, their size terrifying him.
Their leader - Trent’s main tormentor - was called Blake. His mouth was crimped into a cruel smile as he regarded Trent with contempt.
Trent glanced beyond Blake’s shoulder, past his two regular accomplices, to the fourth man. He had been correct in his guess, recalling the knowing looks the black man - a violent rapist whose MO was to break into houses owned by single females and subject them to brutal attacks - had been giving him for the last couple of days during mealtimes.
‘What’s it gonna be, Trent?’ Blake growled. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, but his hard grey eyes glowered dangerously as he spoke. ‘Wanna give us a hard time - or are you gonna grin an’ bear it like a good child molester should?’
In reply, Trent allowed his trousers to fall to his ankles. He stepped out of them, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his grimy-grey underpants and shuffled them down his legs.
‘You’re learning,’ remarked Blake triumphantly.
By lights out the bleeding had stopped. A whole bloodstained toilet roll had been flushed down the inadequate loo.
Fortunately, Trent had been able to reduce some of the excruciating pain. By exchanging some loose tobacco for half a dozen aspirins with another inmate and then raiding his own secret stash of cannabis, he had taken the pills, waited for them to have some effect, then smoked a joint. It helped a little, but for some things the pain never goes away.
When darkness came, he was lying on his bunk, holding his breath so as to infuse the smoke from his lungs into his bloodstream. The hot smoke burned his throat, but he resisted the temptation to cough. That would have been a waste of a very precious substance.
The squelching from the above bunk indicated that the man there was in the throes of masturbation. Trent ignored it and concentrated on other distasteful matters that were more relevant.
Firstly there was the all-consuming hatred he harboured for the people responsible for putting him into this hell-hole. The cops, the barristers, the judges - yeah, he despised them utterly - but his worst rage was reserved for the little people he had once loved and cared for. They were the ones who had turned on him and told all those lies. Betrayed him. How could they? After all he had done for them?
And secondly, he thought about his bitter hatred for Blake and his other tormentors here in prison. Trent growled in his throat, fantasies of terrible revenge whirring around and around in his mind. One thing was for sure: they had all taken on much more than they had bargained for.
As he lay there brooding, the cannabis on its mercy dash through his system, he decided that one day in the not-too distant future he would mete out a very painful revenge on every single bastard who had either hurt him, turned against him or had in some way been responsible for his plight.
The man in the top bunk moved, rolled to the edge of the bed and with a gasp of ecstasy concluded his act of self-gratification by ejaculating onto the cell floor, narrowly missing Trent’s head.
Chapter One
It was obvious from the way in which she was driving that Detective Constable Danny Furness was one very pissed off woman.
She changed gear jerkily and jabbed at the accelerator, even though it was her own car, not a police car, and it was her pride and joy - one of the few major indulgences she had allowed herself in the whole of her life. The car surged out of the rear yard of Blackpool Central police station with a screech. Danny threw a right down Richardson Street, followed by another right up Chapel Street towards the traffic lights at the Promenade, which were on red.
She braked, nearly upending the car, then took a deep breath and forced herself to relax into the comfortable driver’s seat of the ten-year-old Mercedes 190. Then she lambasted herself mentally for getting so riled up about the plight and the ‘up yours’ attitude of just another of her customers.
No doubt about it: the job was getting to her.
No, scrap that. The job had got to her.
She thanked the Almighty that last Thursday she had paraded in front of the Chief Constable and had been promoted to Sergeant with effect from the following Monday; this meant she had only a week more to work on the Family Protection Unit (FPU) before she transferred onto the CID and became a Detective Sergeant. She couldn’t wait to go.
She squinted at the sullen figure in the passenger seat next to her. The eleven-year-old girl clung miserably to the door-handle, having refused on a point of principle to put her seat belt on. She wore a scowl of pure loathing splattered across what was actually a very pretty face and. stared angrily ahead through the windscreen, refusing to even acknowledge the detective next to her.
Danny sighed impatiently - at the girl and the unchanging lights.
‘Look, Claire, let’s face facts: you can’t go around doing exactly what you wanna do all the time. You’re well old enough to realise that you need to consider other people’s feelings besides your own. Your mum has been frantic, really worried about you.’
Claire’s lips curled cynically at Danny’s reasonable words. She continued to stare dead ahead through the rain, her eyes unrelenting pools of liquid steel. The little speech had gone in one ear and out the other.
Danny shook her head in frustration.
The lights changed. She turned left - south - onto the Promenade, smack into the fiercely driving rain and howling gale-force wind which had virtually cleared the sea-front of all pedestrians.
She had spent most of the last two hours trying to get underneath Claire’s tough facade - in the presence of the girl’s nineteen-year-old cousin, who had been as useful as a verruca in a swimming pool - and failed. Danny would have preferred to have had Claire’s mother present, but she had been uncontactable.
‘You’ve gone missing from home six times in the last two months and the last two times you’ve been nicked for shoplifting. You’re bloody lucky we’ve decided to caution you again; next time we might put you before a juvenile court. Is that what you want? The court might even decide to place you in a
home. . . Do you want to be sent away?’
Danny knew it was only a remote possibility, but Claire didn’t need to be aware of that.
Not that Danny’s words had much effect. The kid exhaled in a manner which suggested she’d heard all this garbage before, turned haughtily to face Danny and with a sneer said, ‘I don’t fucking care.’ She drew her right knee up and wedged her foot on the seat.
Danny had an urge to lurch across the gap between them and give the young lady one almighty slap across the chops. Instead she snapped, ‘Feet off!’
Claire insolently let her foot thud back onto the floor.
‘Six times in the last two months, eh? Why? What’s behind it? You unhappy at home?’
Claire winced and quickly looked out of the side window at the passing Promenade which was being lashed by a combination of the heavy rain and the waves which crashed over the sea wall, driven by high winds.
Danny missed the reaction. She expelled an exasperated breath and thought, Sod you, you little cow! If you don’t want to open up, I’m not sure I want to be bothered with you.
And yet she was concerned. Which is probably the reason why Danny had been such a success on FPU. She cared.
Why should a kid like Claire, from a good, apparently stable background, doing well at school, popular, likeable, suddenly veer off the rails? There was a multitude of possible reasons, none of which Claire seemed willing to divulge.
It didn’t add up.
And Danielle Louise Furness, soon to be a Detective Sergeant, didn’t like things that didn’t add up.
The remainder of the journey was completed in deathly silence, Danny knowing from experience when she was banging her head against a brick wall. She didn’t have the time or the energy to pursue things further. So instead of trying to draw Claire out, she concentrated on driving, enjoying the car, which despite its age handled and responded beautifully.