One Dead Witness

by Nick Oldham

She quickened her step ... and of course she had parked at the far end of the car park.

  In a matter of seconds she had reached the rear of her car - safely. Then she was inside the car, slamming the door, desperate to slide the key into the ignition. She was okay. She had made it. She giggled a little at her stupidity.

  The key went in . . . and her door was yanked open. Sands reached in, grabbed her and dragged her out in a split second before she could react. He dumped her onto the concrete and the base of her spine crashed on the hard surface, sending a shock wave up to her cranium.

  She opened her mouth to scream - but Sands was quickly on top of her, hand clasped over her mouth, forcing her back, smashing her head against the ground. He pinned her down and straddled her chest.

  ‘Bitch. Don’t ever think I’ll let you get away with kneeing me in the balls.’

  He struck her open-handed across the cheek as hard as he could, whipping her face sideways.

  Then, miraculously, his weight was lifted from her chest and he seemed to be flying through the air in a flurry of limbs.

  Quickly Danny got to her knees, spun round, saw it was Henry Christie who had pulled Sands off, but that now Sands had recovered, gained the upper hand and was laying into Henry, pummelling him with a series of blows. Henry defended himself like a boxer, hands protecting his head, forearms his chest: He rolled with the onslaught, saw a minute gap and launched a rock-hard fist onto the point of Sands’s chin. His head jerked right back on impact.

  The blow knocked him stone cold. His legs crumpled underneath him like a drunken man. He went down with a groan and a thud.

  ‘Damn!’ yelled Henry, rubbing the knuckles of his fist, doing a little jig. It felt as though the cap of the knuckle had been dislodged. ‘Yow! That effin’ hurts.’

  Danny got to her feet. Her lower spine throbbed painfully. Her face was smarting and she could feel a lump growing like a tumour on the back of her head. She stared speechless at her stunned ex-lover who was squirming around on the floor, then looked at Henry.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  She nodded dumbly, muttered a thanks of sorts.

  ‘No probs. Look, you go home. I’ll deal with Jack. If you need to talk, we’ll talk - later.’

  ‘Yeah ... yep,’ she said unsurely, still dazed. She rolled back into her car and started the engine.

  Henry took hold of Sands’s lapels and heaved him out of the path of her rear wheels.

  Seconds later she was gone, leaving Henry with a fast-recovering Detective Inspector Sands who had a good bit of explaining to do.

  Chapter Four

  Steve Kruger fidgeted, trying to make the radio harness a little more comfortable beneath his armpit. Though allegedly ‘body moulded’ and well hidden by his jacket, it was tight and unwieldy, as though he were carrying a set of books. It was a psychological problem Kruger had always had on surveillance, right back to his undercover cop days; he always thought that the equipment would be completely obvious to the public and constantly expected to be approached and exposed.

  He had begun to sweat already.

  Myrna came into the office wearing a smart, stylish suit in beige with a very short skirt displaying her excellent legs. She had been in the ladies’ restroom fitting her radio harness underneath her blouse, next to her skin. Kruger peered at her chest - for professional reasons, obviously and was relieved to find he could not detect any bulges there other than legitimate ones.

  She executed a pirouette for him.

  ‘Can’t see a thing,’ he admitted.

  He slid the miniature encrypted radio into the pouch, then threaded the fine wire of the press-to-talk button down his sleeve and into the palm of his left hand. He secured it with flesh-coloured Band Aid, adjusting it minutely so he could grip it and comfortably press the button with his thumb. A wire-free earpiece was already implanted in his ear and a microphone - doubling as a tie pin - was pinned to his tie. In order to transmit he had to talk down to his chest without falling into the trap of mumbling his words.

  He stood to attention and tugged down the hem of his jacket. He cocked his head at Myrna.

  ‘Obviously I can see the bulge when you do that,’ she said witheringly.

  Kruger let go. The jacket bounced back to its normal shape.

  ‘That’s better.’

  He picked up the pistol from his desk top - a Sig Sauer P230 in .765 Browning calibre, the standard blue-black version with an eight-round magazine capacity. It was the gun all his operatives were issued with whenever necessary, and had been chosen by Kruger following his Army and police experience. A lightweight weapon, rugged and very simple to handle and a good size for concealed carrying.

  He clicked the magazine out, emptied and re-loaded it so he was satisfied. After slotting the mag back into the butt, he placed the gun into the holster on his belt at the small of his back. Another piece of equipment hopefully hidden by his jacket.

  Myrna had done exactly the same.

  She smiled at him.

  ‘Sorry about all this,’ he said with a pathetic shrug.

  ‘We all make mistakes. Let’s just hope this puts yours behind us all.’

  There was a light knock on the door. The three other members of that night’s team sauntered confidently into the room.

  There were the two brothers, Jimmy and Dale Armstrong - two ex-cops with a lot of SWAT and undercover experience behind them. Then there was Kelly Marks, former employee of Bell in the area of Communications Engineering. All three had been fully briefed.

  They were bang on time. Kruger greeted them warmly. They had been approached for their expertise and trustworthiness ... and, of course, they were volunteers because Kruger would not make anyone act against Bussola against their will.

  ‘Ev’rybody a-rarin’?’ Kruger asked.

  He received assent from all.

  ‘Let’s go then,’ he said.

  Danny stirred uncomfortably in her double bed.

  She had been there six hours, had trouble getting to sleep initially, and once there, had problems remaining. She tossed and rolled, sweating uncomfortably into the pillow and duvet. Too hot, then too cold. Never in quite the most comfortable of positions.

  She was feeling sore from her encounter with Sands. Physically and mentally.

  Her face smarted from the open-hander he had given her. The blow the base of her spine received when he’d dropped her onto the ground had jarred the whole of her body and her lumber region throbbed. The bump on the back of her head had transformed into a tender swelling the size of a ping-pong ball and was giving her a roaring headache despite the Anadin.

  And she was angry - deep down and all over. Why had she let herself get taken by surprise like that! She should have known what a sneaky, low-down bastard Sands could be - after all, hadn’t he been having an adulterous affair for several months? And why hadn’t she fought back? She was perfectly capable of it. And now, damnit, she was indebted to Henry Christie. For God’s sake, she could fight her own battles, didn’t need a man to come to her rescue.

  Danny sighed as she remembered the heavy figure of Sands straddling her and admitted to herself that she had been well and truly beaten. It was a good job Henry had come along, but (and here she thumped her pillow with frustration), she did not want to be beholden to anyone, let alone a man, even if he was a nice guy. The frustration turned to a giggle as she pictured Henry dancing about, holding his sore fist ... and then the laugh faded. A feeling of dread seeped into the pit of her stomach when she recalled Sands’s body out cold on the garage floor ... and she knew it wasn’t over.

  She rubbed her eyes, squinted at the digital alarm clock. 4.03, the green figures informed her. Time to get up in just over three hours’ time.

  She cursed, gingerly resettled herself in the bed, eyes wide open, all senses switched on full blast.

  ‘Sleep ... sleep ... deep sleep,’ she willed herself rhythmically.

  From outside she heard a noise which sent a shock ri
ght through her. A kind of scraping that put her teeth on edge. Metal on metal. Then a cracking, snapping sound, like a dry twig being broken in two.

  She listened hard. Her body tensed up.

  Silence.

  She relaxed, breathed out, certain she was hearing things that were not there.

  It came again, the scraping.

  She flung back the duvet and shot out of bed in an instant, crossing the room, drawing the curtain back just far enough to see out. Her car was parked in the short driveway in front of her house, partly obscured by a tree in the garden.

  She put a hand over her eyes to eliminate the glare from the nearby street lamp.

  Nothing. No movement. Bugger all.

  Just imagination. Or cats screwing.

  She uttered an expletive, let the curtain fall back, trotted to the 100, then dropped wearily back into bed.

  At 4.10 she closed her eyes and was immediately asleep.

  At 4.11 a full house brick, expertly aimed, exploded through her bedroom window, shattering glass with a sound like a shotgun blast. It powered its way past the curtain and landed on Danny’s pillow, only inches from her face, showering her with glass.

  A particularly nasty shard sliced into her left cheek.

  ‘This is nice, Steve, I’m really impressed,’ Myrna nodded approvingly. She heaped another forkful of the excellent Arroz con pollo into her mouth and licked her lips after she had consumed it.

  ‘Yeah, and it’s also owned by Mario Bussola,’ he said, adding begrudgingly, ‘and every damn cent we spend in here goes from our accounts into his. We are helping to support his lifestyle.’

  ‘Aw, it don’t stop it being nice though,’ Myrna said through another mouthful of chicken. ‘We might as well get something good out of this before we all lose our ‘jobs,’ she concluded wickedly.

  Kruger frowned, unhappy at being unable to relax. Had the circumstances been different he could really have enjoyed the evening and no doubt have chanced it with Myrna, even though she was strictly a ‘no no’ on his list as far as women were concerned - i.e. married and employed by him. A very uncool combination.

  He tried to chill out and soak in the atmosphere. It wasn’t easy, not least because of the radio under his left arm, gun at his back, earpiece in his ear and transmit button stuck to his palm.

  The Club Montoya was a nightclub situated in the basement of the Hotel Montoya. The hotel was perhaps one of Bussola’s finest establishments, if not the finest of the seven hotels he owned. It was also one of South Beach’s hottest locations. The hotel was Art Deco done to death, all the rage with the young business end of Miami, with four themed restaurants, two pools, a sports complex and very, very superior-priced rooms.

  The nightclub, open from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. every day, and soundproofed from the hotel, had become very much the place for everyone who was anyone to be seen in. Gays, Latinos, cross-dressers. Even white male heterosexuals.

  It had a dozen bars and two restaurants, one of which clients had to skirt through to enter the nightclub proper. This was the one in which Kruger and Myrna were sitting. It served expensive, but highly palatable Cuban food.

  Kruger hoped the information given by Felicity about her wayward husband’s whereabouts ‘sometime tonight’ was good gen. Otherwise it would be a wasted evening and Kruger wanted to spend as little time and effort on a case which would bring his company nothing in terms of money or kudos.

  He hoped to end it tonight by jumping onto Bussola’s trail, finding him with a piece of unofficial ass, reporting the news back to Felicity, together with some evidence, and then - zap! - calling it quits.

  Kruger was enough of a realist, though, to know things were unlikely to turn out as smoothly as that.

  ‘You told hubby you’re dining out with the boss tonight?’ Kruger smiled.

  ‘Of course. He’s away in Salt Lake City for a couple of days at a seminar. We spoke on the phone earlier.’

  ‘Is he very liberal?’

  ‘He trusts me, Steve.’ She leaned forwards, elbow points on the table, and rested her chin on her thumbs. ‘He knows I would never be unfaithful with you.’ She stressed the last two words with a light sneer.

  Kruger raised his eyebrows. But before he could respond with a feisty remark. . .

  ‘He’s here!’ Their earpieces blurted into life, making them both jump out of their skins.

  It was Kelly’s voice, broadcasting from the back of the comms van parked a little way down the street outside the hotel. She commanded a good view of the entrance of the Hotel Montoya through the lens of a high-powered night intensifier camera mounted in the side of the vehicle. She was sitting in the back of the van in a cosy little room with a bank of miniature TV screens and radio equipment. ‘He’s getting out the back of his car ... accompanied by another guy and two bodyguards ... they’re going into the hotel ... they’re out of my line of sight ... now!’

  ‘And coming into the foyer,’ Jimmy Armstrong said, taking over the commentary from his position half-hidden by a huge marble pillar near the reception desk.

  ‘I hope the two assholes with him are not the two who were with Liss yesterday, the ones who kidnapped me,’ Kruger mused, thinking out loud. ‘If they are, we might as well call it off right now. Damn, shoulda thought about that.’ He wasn’t too concerned about Bussola slapping eyes on him because Kruger believed the mobster had never seen him before.

  ‘Now he’s headin’ towards the club entrance,’ Jimmy continued. ‘It’s his usual firepower,’ he added, referring to the bodyguards, meaning they were Bussola’s regular minders.

  Kruger sat upright. He reached out, gently took Myrna’s hands and held them across the table. He looked into her bright brown sparkling eyes.

  ‘Kruger received,’ he said into his radio. He tried to give Myrna a look of love tinged with lust.

  Myrna eased herself into her role. She leaned further forwards, making the scenario seem more intimate, but also giving herself a good, unobstructed view over Kruger’s shoulder to the club entrance.

  Bussola, A.N. Other, and two bodyguards came into sight.

  ‘Here he is,’ she whispered to Kruger, fluttering her eyelids. ‘Got him,’ she said into the miniature mike which was positioned, secured by tape, between her breasts. In her present lean-forwards position, Kruger could see it there. By angling his head forwards a few more degrees he could have spoken into it. He caught his breath and concentrated on the task in hand.

  ‘He’s coming towards us,’ Myrna warned, seeing that Bussola and his small entourage had entered the club.

  Myrna lifted an arm languidly and placed a cool hand around Kruger’s neck. She scratched him naughtily, drew his face a little nearer to hers, then suddenly pulled him even closer across the small table so that her mouth was next to his ear and his mouth was only millimetres away from her cleavage. He became very hot.

  She pretended to whisper love things into his ear.

  ‘He’s only feet away now,’ she said. ‘I confirm he’s with another guy and two goons.’

  Kruger was content to receive the information from his present position.

  ‘Now walking around the perimeter of the restaurant.’ Kruger felt Myrna’s big soft mouth brushing his ear. Her voice became very husky. Her lips tickled him as they moved. ‘He’s right behind you, babe,’ she murmured. ‘I didn’t realise he was such a big, fat bastard, and the guy he’s with is enormous too. . . I could reach out and touch them ... now he’s gone past ... approaching the entrance to the Tropicana Bar.’

  As Bussola and company went through the doors to the bar, a roar of loud music boomed out.

  ‘And now I’ve got him,’ Dale Armstrong confirmed from his position inside the bar.

  Myrna leaned back and pushed Kruger gently away.

  He blew a long breath and loosened his neck-tie, sadly aware that he had been as close as he would ever get to Myrna’s breasts.

  ‘Enjoy, big boy?’

  ‘Not in the slighte
st,’ Kruger lied, wiping his forehead with his napkin.

  Danny held the flannel tightly against her bleeding cheek. Though some thirty minutes had passed since the brick had crashed through the bedroom window, she was still shivering with shock.

  She had dressed in a tracksuit with her dressing-gown over it and wrapped tightly. Even so she was very cold and numb.

  She eased the flannel away from her face to inspect the damage in the mirror. No doubt about it, medical treatment was required. The cut was only about three quarter’s of an inch long, but was quite deep. She prayed it would not need stitches.

  Blood oozed out of it immediately.

  She replaced the bloody flannel, stared blankly at herself, thinking what a god-awful-tired-weary mess she looked.

  ‘Dan?’ came a voice from the foot of the stairs. It was the night-duty Patrol Sergeant, Lesley Elvin, one of Danny’s best friends. She, along with two of her PCs, had attended Danny’s 999.

  ‘Yep?’ Danny came out of the bathroom and teetered unsteadily down the stairs towards Lesley who waited at the foot, a concerned expression on her face.

  ‘You okay, honey?’

  Danny nodded, knowing she wasn’t.

  ‘You look as white as a sheet.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ she insisted.

  Lesley shrugged. ‘A twenty-four-hour glazier will be here soon to board up the window. Once it’s done I would not recommend you sleep in that bed until you’re sure all the glass has been removed. . . and you need to go to hospital to get that cleaned up. There could be some glass in it.’ She pointed at Danny’s face.

  ‘I don’t think I’m very likely to go back to bed now. I’ll probably drop in to Casualty before work.’

  ‘Do you want a lift? I can arrange one.’

  Danny placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. ‘No, it’s okay. I’ll see to it myself.’

  Lesley’s personal radio crackled, requesting her to attend the custody office at Blackpool to assist with processing some prisoners.

  ‘Gotta go, hun.’