One Dead Witness

by Nick Oldham

  Trent went to Coysh for two reasons.

  Firstly he worked in the kitchens and secondly he was generally up to date with Blake’s whereabouts - knowledge Trent would need in the near future.

  They were out in the sunshine of the exercise yard when Trent accosted Coysh.

  They conversed as they walked around. Coysh nodded at Trent’s requests. Easy - on both counts.

  A couple of minutes later they parted.

  Trent smiled. It was coming together quite nicely.

  Danny was relieved to get away.

  Once outside the canteen she breathed deeply, thanked God for the phone call and tried to stop herself shaking.

  She did not bother to wait for the lift because sometimes it took ages to arrive and the last thing she wanted was to step into it and turn to find Jack behind her, trapping her.

  Instead she chose the stairs, trotting quickly down them to first-floor level where she headed for the back of the enquiry desk.

  ‘Hiya, Danny,’ the public enquiry assistant said. ‘It’s that Claire Lilton waiting for you. She’s in the foyer.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Danny walked out through the security doors, into the waiting area. Unusually it was completely empty.

  Claire Lilton had vanished.

  Trent spent the remainder of his afternoon engaged in trading his stash of cash, sweets, cigarettes and cannabis around the prison.

  He knew he could easily have approached one single person - a guy called Connor, the most powerful drugs dealer in the institution - to get .what he wanted, but a one-stop strategy wasn’t in line with his plans. He considered it more important to get around as many people as possible, act manically depressed following last night’s violent rape, and even mention the word ‘suicide’ a few times. That way as many people as possible knew of his intentions. He knew that in a short space of time the word would spread up to the screws who, he knew, would do nothing. Not that he cared. He wanted them to do nothing. Just to know.

  By tea-time, Trent had bought enough tablets to kill an elephant, never mind a human being.

  He inserted them one at a time into the hole in the waistband of his jeans. Towards the end of this process he had to push quite hard to get them in. He counted 162 assorted tablets, many of indeterminate origin.

  The offices of Kruger Investigations were situated on the seventeenth floor of an office block in downtown Miami. This was the fourth relocation of the business which had begun its existence in a one-roomed grot-office above a rent-a-car place in Wynwood, north Miami. Each move had been to a larger premises, but never quite large enough to house the ever-expanding business. Finally Kruger had decided on impulse to take the whole floor of the current premises some two years earlier. It had proved to be a good move but once again, business had boomed to fit the available space. Another move was imminent, something in the business plan for the next year. He hoped to be able to take some space in the floor above as the company installed at present looked as though they were going bust. The only drawback to the place was the lack of spaces available in the underground parking facility, which was presently hogged by the finance company on the first two floors.

  At midday Steve Kruger walked nonchalantly around the various offices, chatting to staff and laughing whilst munching a baguette packed with beef and sipping a Diet Coke.

  He was pleased to see there were only a couple of people sitting around in the department which conducted what he termed ‘real investigations’. This meant they were busy on the streets, following adulterers, compiling reports for insurance companies, and doing all the stuff connected to real detective work. The department dealing with the recapture of bail jumpers was also sparsely populated too, indicating that a few unfortunates would be in the custody of the courts that night.

  The offices which were busy were the ones dealing with the sales of specialist security equipment. Kruger sold anything connected with bomb disposal and search equipment, any sort of kit - excluding firearms - for police and special forces, surveillance and counter-surveillance, communications, personal and property protection.

  On being invalided out of the cops, Kruger had originally intended to set up a one-man operation. Having been introduced at an early stage to the scope and potential profits associated with security and surveillance (albeit illegal) he decided to move forwards in two directions - the private investigations side and the security side.

  Although the detective side was moderately profitable, its drawback was it was manpower intensive. The sales side, however, only needed a bank of phones, faxes, e-mail facilities and a nucleus of highly trained sales executives to bring in millions for very little effort. It was also fairly safe, whereas there was always some danger associated with being a detective.

  Having been a cop, Steve loved that side of the business because it was in his blood and he would never downsize it. Besides anything else, it enhanced the reputation of the firm and kept him in good with the local cops and Feds.

  He finished his Coke and sandwich, ditching the bottle and wrapper in a trash can. He nipped into a restroom, freshened up. Then he made his way to the conference room where three people waited for him. Not impatiently, just talking quietly to themselves.

  Kruger entered and seated himself at the circular table.

  They shut up.

  ‘Mario Bussola,’ he announced, instantly getting their full attention.

  Trent queued up for his evening meal, plastic tray in one hand, plastic cutlery in the other. Coysh was serving. He paid Trent no more heed than any other inmate, slopping the watery food onto his plate and handing it across the hatch with no more than the merest of nods.

  Trent collected his chocolate pudding and mug of tea, then wandered to a dining table where some others were eating. He wanted to be in a crowd. He slid the plate off the tray, placed it on the table and surreptitiously removed the four-inch kitchen knife Coysh had loosely taped to the underside of the plate. He looked around cautiously, relieved no one seemed to be taking any notice of him. The two screws on duty in the dining hall were having an animated conversation with a couple of old lags, probably about football. None of his fellow inmates were remotely interested in him. This was not unusual because few people actually ever spoke to him, a manifestation of the low regard in which he was held in the prison hierarchy.

  He ate with his usual lack of gusto, leaning on the table with one elbow, forking the food into his mouth. His other hand rested on his thigh, fingers touching the slim blade. One edge of it was serrated, as he had requested. With his index finger he touched the tip of the knife. It was sharp. He pushed the pad of his fingertip harder down, almost to the point where he was about to draw blood. He stopped before this happened. Yes, it was sharp. It was only a small knife, but if used swiftly, accurately, it would be deadly.

  Trent quivered with pleasure. He grasped the blade in his fist and held it tightly, knowing that if he drew his hand upwards very quickly, the blade would slice the palm of his hand wide open.

  It was an ideal weapon.

  Coysh had done good.

  Trent put another unappetising forkful of corned-beef hash into his mouth. He glanced triumphantly around the dining room as he ate it.

  Using only one hand, Trent eased the knife inch by inch up his sleeve and placed his watch strap over the blade to keep it in place.

  He continued to eat his meal, feeling very, very happy. So happy in fact he rocked on his chair, but not so much that people might see him. After all, he was suicidally depressed and people like that don’t go about with stupid grins on their faces.

  After returning his empty plate and plastic cutlery to the appropriate pile and bucket, he nodded discreetly to Coysh who was now eating his own meal and wandered back to his cell. He tried to look as though he might kill himself at any moment.

  His pillow was foam-filled. He had prepared a hole in the foam into which the knife slotted perfectly. He bunged some foam back into the hole to plug it and slid the pillowca
se back over. It was, he believed, good enough to withstand a cursory check by a screw.

  Bursting with happiness, Trent sat on the bed and delved into his pile of magazines. He picked one called Girl Power which was aimed at thirteen- to sixteen-year old girls - a little old for his tastes, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. It was full of photos of young girls and often contained articles about sex, some of which had caused uproar in the national press for their explicitness. Trent settled back to read about fellatio, dreaming that very soon this would be a reality for him.

  One of Kruger’s company directors was a woman called Myrna Rosza. She was a trained lawyer, but Kruger had known her originally as an FBI agent. He had offered her a job once Kruger Investigations got kick-started and she had grabbed it with both hands, having had her fill of endless FBI bureaucracy. She was black, in her early forties, married to a surgeon, no kids. She was also wiltingly beautiful and possessed more assertiveness than all Kruger’s employees put together. She was his conscience and wasn’t frightened of saying no to him.

  Kruger paused.

  He had told the three members of the board his story, obviously leaving out certain elements, and knew he had them eating out of his hand - emotionally, if not intellectually . . . with one exception. The fly in the ointment, he noted glumly as his and Myrna’s eyes fused across the table.

  ‘No,’ she said stubbornly. Her perfect mouth pursed into a little ‘o’. Kruger had often thought he could have kissed that mouth. Right at that moment he would have preferred to drive his fist into it.

  And with that single word, Kruger saw she had unleashed everyone else from his spell. He cursed her big brown eyes.

  Although technically he could have made any damned decision he wanted - after all, it was his company - the reality was that he needed the backing of the board on any controversial issues. Which is what this was.

  ‘We have agreed time and time again that we will never become involved in any way in any sort of investigation or work which smells remotely of the mob. And Steve,’ Myrna said patronisingly, ‘you of all people should know why.’

  Kruger winced. The memory of the slug tearing into his thigh just above his right knee jolted him vividly. Yes, he should know why - because he almost got himself killed once over. But he had good reason for going against company policy on this one.

  ‘I understand what you’re saying, honey,’ Kruger responded, ‘but we’re talking about my ex-wife here, a woman I still have deep feelings for.’

  ‘Not what you once told me,’ Myrna rumbled.

  ‘Well, I do - and when I saw her yesterday I realised I’d been hiding those feelings from myself.’ Kruger reddened, feeling idiotic, saying words which were a complete lie. ‘I figured that if we do a good job and find Bussola cheatin’ on her, she might just come back to me.’ He almost choked to death on the words, but kept a straight face.

  ‘So, for the sake of your ex-wife,’ Myrna said, outraged, ‘you’re suggestin’ we mount a surveillance on a mobster, when even the joint forces of the Feds, local cops, DEA and AFT haven’t managed to sniff him out, despite their resources?’ She looked around at each of the board members. ‘I suggest we all say no.’ There was a general nodding of heads, though no one made direct eye contact with Kruger who was, after all, the boss man. ‘Bussola is a dangerous guy,’ Myrna boomed in conclusion. ‘If he finds out we’re tailing him, he’ll react in his usual way. I don’t believe any of our operatives should be put into such danger.’

  Kruger leaned forwards. His face was thunderous.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he breathed angrily. ‘I won’t overrule you, though I really want to, but I will tell you something you should know.’ He took a deep breath, wondering how he should phrase the bombshell. ‘If we don’t take on this assignment - and this is the truth - everyone in this room, everybody sat out there in those offices, every one of our teams out on the streets will be out of a job tomorrow.’

  Trent was disturbed a short time later by Coysh who was wearing a loose-fitting blouson jacket zipped up to the neck. He was holding the hem tightly. He stepped into Trent’s cell, found him to be alone and unzipped the jacket. Almost a hundred Styrofoam cups fell out onto the floor. He emptied all his pockets and produced another fifteen, crushed and broken.

  Trent gathered them up delightedly and began to stuff them underneath his mattress.

  ‘I’ll probably need another load - maybe more,’ he told Coysh. ‘Can you do it?’

  Coysh nodded but eyed Trent uncertainly. ‘What d’you want them for?’ He was completely befuddled. ‘I thought you wanted to sort Blake out, not give him a tea party.’

  ‘I do - and I will. You’ll see.’

  ‘What, with Styrofoam cups?’

  Trent winked. ‘Method in my madness. Now, there is something else you can do for me ...’

  ‘You bastard, Steve Kruger.’

  Myrna’s countenance was set hard as granite as she faced him across the office. The others had left, cowed by Kruger’s shock announcement and the brief conversation afterwards. Myrna wasn’t to be railroaded though. When they were alone together she powered into him like a prize-fighter.

  ‘You cannot make a statement like that, then say no more, refuse to give us the “why”. That’s treatin’ us all like imbeciles, Steve. How in hell are we even supposed to believe a word of what you said - that we’d all lose our jobs? It’s preposterous.’

  She was a very fine-looking woman, Kruger had to admit. Standing there in front of him, hands on hips, feet shoulder-width apart, she was pretty darn intimidating. He weakened for a moment, then rallied.

  ‘Myrna, I’m not lyin’ to you.’ He sat down heavily on a chair and his head dropped into his hands. He blew a farting noise into his palms, then looked up at her, allowing his fingers to stretch his facial features. ‘But you were right about one thing. . . Felicity does absolutely nothing for me. I hate the goddamned sight of her. I definitely do not harbour any affection for her.’

  ‘Thought not.’ Myrna’s voice held a wisp of triumph. ‘So what then, what’s this all about?’

  Kruger snorted a short laugh.

  ‘She’s got a hold on me, Myrna. Something stupid I did a few years ago, something so completely idiotic you wouldn’t believe it.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Damn. . . and I think she’s got the paperwork to prove it.’

  ‘Tell me - now,’ Myrna insisted.

  He made the decision to admit to only the second person in his life about the illicit weapon-dealing which had provided the foundations on which the successful enterprise known as Kruger Investigations had been constructed.

  Trent was in the TV lounge watching a documentary about the fire brigade, unable to keep a smirk off his face. A couple of other inmates were in the room but the majority of the others were packed into the main association room where a big-screen TV had been erected and onto which a satellite beamed a live Manchester United game. Trent could hear ‘ooh’s’ and ‘ahh’s’.

  Vic Wallwork sauntered in, looking ill and as worried as ever. He sat next to Trent. They ignored each other for a few minutes as the fire fighters on TV tackled a very nasty blaze by which several people were trapped.

  When everyone was rescued - to an appropriate but unconnected cheer from the football audience - Trent said, ‘Well?’

  ‘Yeah, done it. But never again, never a-fuckin-gain.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Just what you ordered.’

  ‘Well done, Vic.’

  ‘When are they gonna get me, Trent?’

  ‘I don’t exactly know, but if I were you, Vic, I’d keep my arse right up against the wall. . . not that that’ll help, you understand, because they’ll still fuck you.’

  Danny’s day concluded about seven that evening.

  After having put the puzzlement of Claire Lilton’s disappearance out of her mind, she spent most of the afternoon interviewing a young lad who had been the subject of repeated indecent assaults and buggery by the head te
acher of the primary school he attended. It proved to be a pretty harrowing afternoon, made all the more difficult because the boy was only six. Whilst interviewing him Danny felt like a fraud for thinking she had problems. At least they were solvable ... but the youngster, unless he was something very special indeed, had a lifetime of nightmares ahead as well as medical problems. Danny’s predicament melted into insignificance.

  In the end she obtained a first-class video statement which would hopefully get the teacher put away for many years.

  Her brain was the texture of cotton wool balls when she rode down in the lift and walked out into the rear yard of the police station. Night had fallen early, rain was splattering down and it was dark even though the yard was illuminated by electric lights. It became even darker as she walked into the covered area where the car was parked.

  She swore to herself.

  It was only at that moment she remembered Jack Sands and the little episode from the morning. She realised as she approached her car that she had not taken any precautions against the possibility of a repeat confrontation.

  Even though she was in a police car park, it was poorly lit, she was alone and feeling vulnerable. No one was around to hear her screams.

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. A tight feeling, as if her skin had been super-frozen, spread across her face.

  Suddenly she was on guard, holding her breath.

  Every shadow was Jack Sands, waiting to pounce.

  Her trembling hand snaked into her bag. Her fingers sought, fought and withdrew the remote locking control and keys for her car.