One Dead Witness

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Come on, pal, keep still, you’ll be okay,’ the paramedic fussed caringly and tried to clean him up.

  Less than thirty seconds later the ambulance had negotiated its way through the narrow prison gates, accelerating away smoothly, then screeching around a roundabout onto a dual carriageway.

  The prison officer who had been tasked to remain with Trent - the one covered in pig’s blood - looked on with an expression of worry and repulsion. Over the paramedic’s shoulders he said, ‘I hope the bastard’s not got HIV, with all this fucking blood over me. He’s an arse bandit, you know.’

  The paramedic put him straight immediately. ‘If you’ve had unprotected sex with this man and drunk a pint of his blood, you might have cause for concern. If not, don’t worry.’

  Trent continued to squirm realistically, feeling the need to put more distance between himself and the prison before he took matters to their logical conclusion.

  When he judged the moment right, he suddenly sat up with a scream as though a great pain had burned through his abdomen. He reached behind himself, his hand went underneath his shirt and his fingers closed on the hilt of the knife fastened to his spine with a couple of Band Aids.

  He ripped the instrument from its moorings.

  The paramedic, surprised by the sudden sitting up, stepped back. The roll of the ambulance unbalanced him slightly.

  Without hesitation, Trent drove the knife into the unfortunate man’s neck. The razor-sharp blade pierced the jugular vein as Trent dug it in and rived it round and round. He withdrew the blade as the man screamed dreadfully and a glorious crimson fountain flowered into the air, splattering the inside of the ambulance with deep red swathes of blood. The paramedic’s hands reached instinctively for his neck to try and stop the flow.

  Trent grabbed the man’s overalls at the chest and threw him sideways. Then he jumped to his feet and leapt across the small space at the prison officer. That man’s senses had not been capable, in those brief seconds, of taking in what had just happened to the paramedic.

  Trent was on the officer, yelling, ‘I’m not an arse bandit, I’m a fucking paedophile, you pig-bastard.’

  He plunged the knife into the officer’s right eye which burst with a pop as the blade entered the pupil, its watery contents spurting out. Trent pushed the blade further in, right up to the hilt, angled it upwards into the brain, killing him the instant the soft tissue was pierced.

  Trent held the knife in there, grinding it round. The dead man’s jangled nerves reacted by making him dance like someone possessed by the devil. Then Trent extracted it as the man’s legs gave way.

  Trent slid casually next to the ambulance driver, reached for the radio and ripped the handset out. He leaned across to the driver who had not even realised what was going on and pushed the point of the knife into his neck. A trickle of blood popped out from the prick.

  ‘Taxi,’ Trent said with a smile.

  Chapter Seven

  Lieutenant Mark Tapperman was a very big guy, even in comparison to Steve Kruger who was no midget himself. Tapperman was six-four, built like the frontal elevation of a very substantial building and kept himself incredibly fit - necessary qualifications for policing the crime-ridden streets of Miami where a cop needed all the edge he could get ... and then some.

  Despite these credentials, Tapperman looked sheepishly at Steve Kruger as the ex-cop walked towards him with a slight limp and an expression of seething anger stamped across his face.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Tapperman mumbled under his breath. ‘He’s mad.’ He suddenly had the thought that maybe coming to this particular restaurant for lunch was not the best of choices. Granny Feelgood’s was not the right place for someone who’ probably wanted to rip a twelve-ounce steak to shreds; it was more suited to a person on a diet who wanted to pig out on tofu or spiced tea. Arbetter Hot Dogs would’ve been a more appropriate place to meet and eat, Tapperman thought too late.

  ‘Mark,’ Kruger nodded curtly. He slumped down on the chair opposite Tapperman and slung his jacket across the back of another. He loosened his neck-tie and unfastened his collar, his face distorting as his fingers eased the button out of its hole. He tugged the collar loose.

  Once again Miami was like a fan oven and that, combined with his tiredness - for Kruger had not yet had any sleep - meant he was mega-irritable.

  It showed in his body language.

  ‘Herb tea?’ Tapperman enquired hopefully.

  Kruger eyed the detective critically for a moment. ‘Nooo,’ he said quietly with an exaggerated pursing of the lips. ‘Just tell me what you’ve got.’

  Tapperman sipped his Perrier to clear his dust-dry throat.

  ‘Nothing we could do about it,’ he said helplessly. ‘Bussola’s lawyer, Ira Begin, was waiting at the stationhouse when we arrived. Couldn’t stop Bussola talking to him - y’know, prisoner’s rights and all that crap; couldn’t stop his lawyer makin’ phone calls either, could we?’ Tapperman sighed. ‘Anyways, we got the process going ... then we find out there ain’t no process to get going.’

  Kruger waited impatiently.

  ‘Somehow, probably through the lawyer, he’d got to the girl’s parents.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, that little girl he was ridin’ when you found him was only eleven years old. She’d been on the run from home ‘bout three weeks and somehow got herself sucked into Bussola’s porn system. Thing is, though, the reason why we got nowhere, was because there ain’t no complaint. Bussola’s organisation got to her parents before we did - and this is only an assumption, Steve. I think they were paid off and delivered a bottom-line threat at the same time. “You’re dead if you testify”. They’re poor people from Homestead. Ain’t recovered from Hurricane Andrew yet. In those circumstances, Bussola’s money is as good as anybody’s.’

  ‘Even if he raped your daughter?’ Kruger was incredulous. He went on, ‘Why not indict without them? It’s serious enough. Do it on the girl’s behalf.’ Kruger’s voice was cold, hard. He had not liked one word of what had been said.

  ‘If we did, Steve, Bussola would kill the family. You know he would, and that would not achieve anything.’

  Kruger began to hiss steam. He wanted to overturn the table and rant and rave about injustice.

  ‘Let me get this straight: he’s got away with anally raping - and probably kidnapping - an eleven-year-old girl, and you’re powerless to do anything about it?’

  ‘You’re sayin’ we should force her to testify? The DA wouldn’t have any part in that, and you know it. A hostile witness, a terrified witness, and a kid at that. No way.’

  ‘What about all my corroborative evidence? My team’s evidence? Surely that would go a long way to proving the case?’

  Tapperman uttered a snort of a laugh.

  ‘What’s so goddam funny?’

  The detective raised a hand placatingly when he read Kruger’s face. ‘Hey, I ain’t laughin’ at your suggestion, buddy. It’s a good idea. Only thing is, Bussola’s legal team are goin’ to sue your ass for’ - here Tapperman began to count on his fingers - ‘unlawful entry, invasion of privacy, breakin’ an’ enterin’, unlawful arrest, assault and battery ... you name it, he’s gonna try an’ plug ya.’

  ‘Shit,’ breathed Kruger. His head dropped wearily. He had been very tired up to that point, but that extra bad news simply swamped him with weariness. ‘What about the other girl - the one he was beatin’ up on?’

  ‘What girl’s that?’ Tapperman responded. ‘She’s gone, vamoose. Disparue. As soon as we turned our heads she was away. I think she was warned off, too.’

  Kruger rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He looked bitterly across the table at Tapperman, who shrugged apologetically. ‘So all in all, the Miami Police Department have made a complete fuck-up. Is it true to say that?’

  Tapperman nodded happily, feeling that an opposing viewpoint would have been detrimental to his health.

  ‘Who was the other fat guy, the one who passed out? T
he one at the head end of the girl? The one who was forcing her to suck his cock?’

  Heads turned. Several touchy customers made ‘tutting’ noises.

  Tapperman coughed nervously. ‘A British guy, name of Charles Gilbert. One of Bussola’s, business associates in the leisure industry. Operates out of the north of England. The little we know about him suggests he’s clean. He was high as a kite but because Bussola acted so quickly we didn’t even get a chance to speak to him. Apparently he’s flying out early tomorrow, back to Manchester.’

  ‘What a complete mess,’ Kruger groaned. He churned over the prospect of civil litigation together with the words Bussola had spieled out about having regrets. ‘Fuck that bitch Felicity for getting me into this.’

  Tapperman was vaguely aware of the reasons why Kruger had been watching the mobster. Gravely, he said, ‘If I were you I might be bothered about Felicity’s safety right now. If Mario adds this up and starts asking questions, he’ll get mightily pissed with her answers, I reckon.’

  Kruger’s eyelids snapped shut with an involuntary spasm as the implications of Tapperman’s words hit him. He hung his head despondently. ‘You’re right,’ he said quietly.

  Although Danny believed she had amassed enough evidence, most of which was hearsay, to recommend that Joe Lilton should be refused a firearms certificate, she did not succeed.

  She presented a very detailed report about Lilton’s ongoing violence towards his wife which had been logged over a period of several months. However, the powers-that-be decided it would be too much trouble and cost to refuse the application because if Lilton appealed against the decision he had immediate right of appeal to a Crown Court.

  In those days - the early 1980s - the ownership of firearms was not seen as too big a deal. The horror of Hungerford had yet to happen and the tragedy of Dunblane was completely unthinkable. People didn’t do such things, did they?

  Therefore Lilton got his certificate, got his guns - a thirty-eight and a forty-five - joined a gun club and to all intents and purposes, became a model gun-owner.

  Danny knew that not long after her visit to Lilton’s house in Osbaldeston, he and his wife split up and later divorced. Beyond that she knew nothing more - until now, here in the present, because she had bumped into Joe Lilton again.

  Remarried to Ruth - who seemed decent, if highly strung - and stepfather to Claire, runaway and deeply unhappy child.

  Nor was Danny happy. There was something at the back of her mind, niggling away. Something from all those years ago ... yet she could not pinpoint it.

  At least she was up to date with Joe Lilton and feeling smug that the new government had decided to ban private ownership of handguns. In a couple of months’ time, Lilton, along with thousands of others, would be obliged to hand in his weapons to the police.

  She stretched her arms and sat back.

  It was eight o’clock. Time to go home.

  She had spent more or less the whole day at her desk - with the occasional excursion to research Joe Lilton - head down, beavering way, trying to clear her work so there would be no earthly reason for her ever to return to this office once she had been promoted.

  She had seen nothing of Jack Sands. He might have been in his office, might not. She did not care. All she wanted to do was forget him and the last couple of days, and get on with her life. Hopefully he had got the message and would leave her alone in future.

  When he walked into the office at that very moment, as cocky and cool as she had ever seen him, her heart juddered.

  Fortunately a couple of other people were in the office too.

  Sands addressed everyone.

  ‘Just thought you’d like to be informed - for those who know him, that is - I’ve just received a preliminary message from Control Room.’ Here he looked directly at Danny. ‘And you’ll be very interested in this, Dan: Louis Vernon Trent has escaped from prison and in the process he killed two paramedics and a prison guard, and is suspected of a firebomb attack on another inmate’s cell which killed four people. He could well be making his way back to his home town. Here. Blackpool.’

  Danny gasped.

  That was all she needed.

  To Steve Kruger it seemed almost a lifetime ago since he had been walking across that parking lot, eagerly anticipating the planned barbecue and beer with his son and grandchildren. The barbecue had obviously been cancelled and they had all taken a raincheck. At least, for now, Kruger could achieve one of his ambitions, and that was to get his mouth round the neck of a bottle of Hurricane Reef Lager.

  He screeched the Chevy into the driveway of his Bal Harbour villa, gearing himself up to the coolness of the beer working its delicious way down his throat. He tapped in the alarm code and went in through the front door of his home, of which he was extremely proud.

  He tossed his jacket and tie onto the staircase, kicked off his shoes, and loosening everything else, made his way directly to the kitchen. He almost fainted with pleasure when he opened the refrigerator door and a burst of frozen air hit him. He stood there a few moments, basking. Then he grabbed a beer. A second later it tumbled down his neck like an ice-cold mountain stream.

  Most of the contents went down in that first pull.

  ‘Jeez, that’s wonderful.’ He rolled the bottle across his sweaty forehead.

  Next he stripped off where he stood.

  He made his way through the living room, to the patio door which led out to the pool. He took a few steps across the hot concrete and dived naked into the water, secure in the knowledge the garden was not overlooked.

  He did a graceful length underwater, turned whilst submerged and swam back. With bursting lungs he surfaced at the point where he had entered.

  He did not expect to see the long black pair of female legs standing on the poolside, slightly astride. The view stopped him dead. He gulped, recognised them from previous discreet observation, and his eyes travelled slowly up them to see that the groin was covered by a pair of very tight shorts.

  He looked further up.

  There was a gap between the top of the shorts - exposing a lovely flat stomach with a belly button to die for - and a button T-shirt tied with a knot underneath the breasts.

  ‘Myrna,’ Kruger said, puzzled. ‘What you doin’ here?’

  She shrugged. ‘Couldn’t sleep, I guess. Too much goin’ on in my head. Needed some sort of debrief. Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ He realised she must be able to see that he was completely naked.

  Myrna undid the knot in her T-shirt and dragged it over her head. She shimmied out of her shorts, discarding them and her panties to one side. Then, for one beautiful moment, as she raised her hands to a point above her head, Kruger was treated to a sight he had only ever dreamt about. He had to admit, the reality was far better than the imagination. The breasts tauter, the nipples bigger, the tummy flatter and the legs longer.

  She dived over him, and entered the pool with hardly a ripple.

  Kruger turned, ducked under the surface and pushed himself away from the poolside, wondering what form the debrief would take.

  Everything going on in Danny’s life at that moment seemed to be connected with ghosts from her past. People she thought had been laid to rest.

  First there was Joe Lilton, from fifteen years ago.

  Then Jack Sands, a nightmare from her very recent past.

  Now here was Louis Vernon Trent a mere nine years in her past.

  Trent had been the first major criminal Danny had ever arrested and put away for a long time. She had locked up plenty of burglars and petty drugs dealers but Trent had been her first biggie. He wasn’t a master criminal in the usual sense of the phrase. He wasn’t driven by greed or the need to show off. He was driven by a perverted and uncontrollable lust. Mainly for young girls and occasionally for boys.

  Because of this he was considered a danger to the public.

  That was why Trent was a biggie.

  His arrest had been Danny’s p
assport to any specialist department she chose. She plumped for Family Protection because she felt it was the area in which she could do most good.

  It had probably been the near-fatal injuries caused by Trent to two young girls in one frenzied attack that had driven Danny in the direction of the FPU. It gave her a burning desire to catch and convict people like Trent who ruined young lives without a thought for anything but their own sadistic pleasures.

  Trent had been sentenced to seventeen years’ imprisonment, with the Judge’s recommendation he serve the full term.

  It wasn’t enough for Danny, but it would have to do.

  Seventeen years did not give back to even one of those girls the chance of enjoying a healthy family life when she reached adulthood. Nor did it give the other little girl the chance of ever going to the toilet and not screaming in agony. Nor did it repay the other thirty children he had molested in a reign of terror lasting eighteen months.

  But seventeen years would have to do, because the justice system said so.

  Seventeen years for thirty-two ruined lives.

  Now he was back on the streets, no doubt with the intention of resuming his activities.

  Danny shivered at the thought.

  She prayed he would not return to Blackpool, but knowing he probably would - because he had unfinished business to attend to - Danny decided that tomorrow she would make it her task to ensure every police officer within a twenty-mile radius of Blackpool was carrying an up-to-date photo of Trent.

  Danny left her desk and walked to the lift. Whilst waiting for its creaky arrival, she stared blandly at the buttons, picturing Trent’s evil eyes.

  Hearing clearly the voice that went with them. At the conclusion of one of Danny’s interviews with Trent, nine years before, he had said, quite blatantly at a point when Danny’s interviewing partner had left the room briefly, ‘Guilty or not guilty, Danny, one fine day I’m going to come back and kill you for this.’