by Nick Oldham
‘Oh, that’s what it was.’
‘You saw him?’
‘I was in the vicinity, shall we say? Purely by accident.’ Henry opened his palms. ‘Okay, Danny, what do you want to do? I know we’ve had this discussion before, but now things have moved on a pace.’
She looked glum. She sighed through her nose and rested her elbow on the table, her chin on her hand and gazed out of the window towards the Tower. There was a huge inflatable gorilla climbing up it which made her smile briefly. ‘He’ll no doubt have dumped the badge somewhere, so I don’t see any future in court proceedings. He’s not stupid enough to have kept it, is he?’
Henry raised a finger to interrupt her. He smiled wickedly. ‘Yes, he is stupid enough. I sneaked in behind him last night and followed him to his office. I think he hid it in there somewhere.’
Danny’s mouth fell open. She was silent for a few moments. ‘Do you know how much those things are?’ she blurted. ‘Criminal damage,’ she ruminated as the implications dawned on her. ‘He could lose his job if he got convicted.’
‘He deserves to.’
She shook her head decisively. ‘No, I wouldn’t want that. I simply want him sorted out. I’m not even bothered about compensation - just get him off my back.’
Henry took a deep breath. ‘Right,’ he said with finality. ‘In that case, let’s present him with fait accompli numero deux de la jour. Okay?’
‘It’s a deal.’
‘And while we’re doing that, let’s do our level best to catch Louis Vernon Trent ... an old friend of yours, I believe.’
Kruger meandered around the shops and bars and poked his head into the VIP lounges he knew of.
Nothing.
He realised he could be wasting time better spent in bed. Then, as he passed the meeting point Location and Information Center on concourse E, he had an idea. The pretty lady behind the counter was called Julia.
‘Hi, my name’s Steve,’ he said disingenuously. ‘I dunno if you can do this for me, but I’m supposed to meet my buddy, Charlie Gilbert here ... about twenty minutes ago. We seem to have missed each other and I don’t know where he is. He’s due to board the Manchester flight an’ I’m Seattle-bound. It’s our last chance to get together before he leaves the States. We probably won’t see each other again for years.’ He sighed, looking upset. ‘I was wonderin’ if you could page him, maybe tell him there’s some urgent information for him. Could you do that, honey?’
Julia smiled. ‘Of course, sir.’
She leaned forwards and opened her mouth to speak close to the mike in a way which made Kruger’s heart palpitate, when out of the corner of his eye he saw Gilbert actually walk past. He was accompanied by a guy Kruger placed as one of Bussola’s minders.
‘Forget it, babe.’ Kruger placed his hand between her mouth and the mike and smiled. ‘Some other time, maybe.’ Then he was gone, tailing Gilbert at a discreet distance.
The pair walked into the main shopping mall on the first floor and made a beeline for the Disney Store. With a bored-looking bodyguard lounging idly by the door, Gilbert spent about twenty minutes browsing before reappearing, bearing a large carrier bag stuffed with a giant Mickey Mouse.
He did a little more shopping and, suitably laden down, left the shopping area. He went to concourse E, turned up some steps and disappeared through a door marked Private - Executive Lounge.
The minder followed and so did Kruger. He had already made up his mind to follow Gilbert wherever he went, positive he would be led to Bussola.
Kruger burst through the door and found himself in a privately rented room with a small bar, waitress and a few tables and chairs.
Bussola sat at the bar, drinking whisky.
There were four bodyguards in all. As soon as Kruger came through the door, they reacted. He was faced with the muzzles of three pistols, all held in very steady hands. Bussola smiled broadly at the intruder.
Kruger knew then what it must have been like to step into the lion’s den, particularly when an ebullient Bussola shouted, ‘Hey, Steve! Wondered when you’d show up. Come in and have a drink. You look like you need one. Siddown, let’s have chats.’ He glanced at the bodyguards. ‘Search him,’ he barked.
It was not so much a VIP lounge as a cosy VIP living room. Kruger had not known such things existed. Most of the flying he had done had been on the cheap; waiting with hundreds of other poor unfortunates, then being crammed with a shoe-horn onto a pencil-thin plane to sit in seats with hardly any recline, leg space or comfort.
This, he decided, was the way to travel in the future. Kruger’s eyes surveyed the bodyguards again.
Two stood near the door. The other two were slightly to one side of him, positioned to judge his every move and react should he do anything stupid.
But he’d already done about the most stupid thing he was ever going to do by turning up at the airport with some half-baked notion in his brain.
Now he knew he’d be lucky to leave here in one piece. He looked narrowly at Bussola.
Mark Tapperman jerked into wakefulness. The telephone was still in his hand. The bedside light was still on. His wife still asleep. He blew out his cheeks and wondered if it had been a dream, the phone call from Kruger. With a further rude start, he realised no. He sat up quickly, re-set the phone and dialled Kruger’s home number, hoping his friend would not be so stupid as to . . . No, Tapperman reassured himself as he waited for Kruger to answer, he couldn’t be that stupid. Could he?
‘You gotta lotta balls,’ the Italian was saying, ‘coming out here. Either that or you’re a complete jerk.’
‘The latter, I think,’ Kruger said dryly.
‘Well, whatever, Steve, you’re here now and we can talk like two grown men.’
‘Do grown men cut each other to pieces?’
Bussola stuck a large cigar between his fat lips and lit it with a silver lighter. It had the diameter of a trashcan lid and took a lot of flame to get going. Once lit, he squinted at it, blew on the end and replied, ‘Sometimes, Steve ... when it’s really necessary.’
‘Bit of an overreaction, wouldn’t you say?’
‘For me? Naw ... pussy cat stuff. So, c’mon Steve, I’m hellish curious. What did Felicity want to see you for? Is that the reason you turned up unannounced the other night and caught me and my friend in flagrante delicto?’
The questions threw Kruger slightly off-balance. They meant that the two goons who had kidnapped him weren’t so loyal to Felicity as she believed them to be. They had blabbed to Bussola, something that didn’t surprise Kruger. However, she was still technically a client even if she hadn’t paid a dime yet, and Kruger always retained confidentiality except when ordered to talk by a court of law.
Additionally, she had once been his wife and though he hated her with a volcanic intensity, he did not really want any harm to befall her.
‘Not sure what you mean, Mario. Felicity?’
‘Steve, don’t piss me off. The two guys who hauled your ass off the street informed me. And what’s more, I have a video-tape of you entering and leaving the house. I am very security conscious, for obvious reasons.’ He looked expectantly at the increasingly uncomfortable Kruger.
‘More drinks, sir?’ the waitress interrupted.
Bussola glared at her for a fraction of a second, before his face softened and he said, ‘Not just now, honey.’ He patted her ass and rubbed the back of her leg. She didn’t seem concerned. ‘Make yourself scarce ... this is business.’
‘Okay, sir.’
She turned and disappeared out the back of the bar. Kruger and Bussola watched her retreat and their eyes slowly returned to each other.
‘Nice, huh?’ Bussola asked.
‘Yeah, sure.’
The Italian leaned forwards confidentially to Kruger who could smell, nay taste, the guy’s cigar breath. ‘Too fuckin’ old for me, Steve. I like ‘em young and I like ‘em tight and I like to hear the bitches scream ... but you know that, don’t you?’ He smil
ed.
Kruger’s face hardened over. Through gritted teeth he said, ‘You disgust me.’
Bussola rocked back and laughed. ‘D’ya think I give a shit, you stupid asshole? Now, where were we?’ He brushed some cigar-ash off his pants. ‘Oh, yes - you and Felicity.’
‘She missed me and we had to catch up with things. That’s what exes often do . . . much to the chagrin of their current spouses.’
‘Baloney! Did you ball her?’
‘Uh-uh. No way.’
‘What did she really want, Steve?’ His eyes glittered. ‘That’s the last time I’ll ask that question, bud. If I don’t get a satisfactory answer, you can consider yourself a very dead human being.’
This situation was the other exception to Kruger’s client confidentiality rule. When his life was threatened, he had no qualms about talking over any aspect of the client’s business. His sense of responsibility to the client went out the window as self-preservation kicked in. ‘She thought you were cheating on her. She hired me to find out. I did it because of our past.’ The words tumbled out of Kruger’s mouth with no further prompting.
Bussola guffawed and almost choked on his cigar smoke. ‘Almost the right answer.’ Without warning, the mobster’s left hand shot out in a blur and gripped Kruger’s wrist with fat fingers. At the same time, he plunged the smouldering end of the cigar hard down into the back of Kruger’s trapped hand.
Kruger emitted an unworldly scream of agony. He attempted to yank his hand away, but Bussola held on. Kruger’s next response was to draw back his free hand, curl it into a fist and propel it towards Bussola’s fat face.
The fist got nowhere.
Two of the bodyguards grabbed him and held on tight as the gangster continued to grind the cigar into the flesh whilst leaning forwards with a look of pure unadulterated glee.
Kruger gritted his teeth as the torture continued. Blobs of sweat burst from his hairline, raced down his forehead into his eyebrows. The smell of his flesh burning wafted into his nostrils.
It probably only lasted a few seconds. Kruger’s perception was that it seemed to go on for ever until the cigar was lifted away, having been effectively stubbed out. A black-grey-red welt was left sizzling on the back of his hand.
Bussola leaned back, satisfied by his handiwork. He immediately re-ignited the cigar. With a wave he indicated for the guards to release Kruger.
‘You bastard!’ cried Kruger, He leapt up and raced to the bar, watched curiously by Charlie Gilbert who was sat on a stool, drinking. He ducked as Kruger approached, but need not have worried. Kruger veered past him and thrust his throbbing hand into the bucket of ice cubes on the bar top.
Breathless, he turned and glared at Bussola, holding himself back from doing or saying anything he might not live to regret.
The ice worked well, numbing the pain like an anaesthetic.
All four guards had their handguns drawn, gazing indolently at Kruger who could see they were totally different material to the ones he’d encountered the other night. Those two dickbrains were probably delivering pizzas now.
With a waggle of his fingers, Bussola beckoned Kruger back to his seat.
He carried the ice-bucket wedged under one arm, keeping his hand shoved deep into the ice. He sat shaking. Fear, mainly, being the cause. Pain too.
‘Yeah, almost the right answer, Steve,’ Bussola said in a level conversational tone, as if nothing had happened. ‘But let’s stop beating about the bush: I have the whole of your meeting and chit-chat with Felicity down on tape.’
‘You tape what goes on in your house while you’re not there?’ Kruger asked in disbelief.
‘Absolutely. I like to know what she gets up to while I’m away. I have some very heavy footage of several of her sexual encounters with a succession of personal fitness trainers. I say succession because each one has met with - how shall I say? - an unfortunate set of circumstances. Gotta say, I prefer videos featuring younger people, though.’
‘You’re a whizz of a hubby, Mario.’
Bussola’s face set for a moment; Kruger thought he’d made a remark too far, then the big man relaxed again, did not rise to the bait.
‘In that case,’ Kruger pushed on quickly, ‘you know I didn’t screw her and she had me by the short and curlies.’
‘That shock-baton stuff?’
‘Yep.’
‘Looks as though I have the privilege now, doesn’t it?’
‘Looks that way,’ Kruger admitted. His world collapsed at the prospect of having a Mafia godfather playing executive games with his testicles. Despite the ice, his hand started hurting again.
‘Hey, you’re worried. Can see it in your face. No need. I don’t propose to use the knowledge of your past shady dealings in any way to influence you or blackmail you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not worth it, Steve. You’re just a piece of dogshit on my shoes and I wanna wipe you off. Basically I’m gonna have you executed and I’ll tell you why. You’ - he leaned forwards and held the newly lit burning tip of the cigar perilously close to Kruger’s face; Kruger felt its heat. Instinctively he jerked back. ‘You have severely annoyed me. Firstly by being so weak-kneed as to give in to the petty demands of your nympho ex-wife and then,’ his voice rose a few tones, ‘having the effrontery to go up against me. You have caused me considerable pain and aggravation AND cost me money. These guys,’ he waved to indicate the bodyguards, ‘will accompany you back to your car, pump several big fucking holes into your skull and then dump you in the Everglades, but before you go, just hand me your Rolex, please. It’s too nice for an alligator to swallow.’
Kruger handed over his most treasured possession. He squirmed inwardly whilst he watched Bussola strap it onto his own wrist.
‘Nice,’ he said admiringly, ‘very nice.’
Once again, the big man moved faster than Kruger could have anticipated. He rose from his seat, wrapped a huge arm around Kruger’s neck, holding him there in a vice in the crook of his elbow, then stubbed the cigar out on Kruger’s face. When it was extinguished, he pushed Kruger away. The ice-bucket spilled and Kruger went down onto his knees, covering his horrendously injured face with his hands, moaning loudly.
‘Take this fucker away and ice him,’ Bussola ordered.
Just how Danny managed it, Henry Christie wasn’t sure.
He could not conceal a smile when he entered the first-floor briefing room at Blackpool police station and saw the room packed with the officers she had managed to pull together for ‘Operation Trawler’.
The operation which, Henry hoped, would lead to the capture of Louis Vernon Trent.
There was a full police support unit from Preston (one Inspector, three Sergeants and twenty-one Constables). Not bad going by any standards. In addition there were six PCs from Blackpool and three Detective Constables from his own office. Danny had also managed to turn out seven Special Constables. There was a dog-handler and four PCs from the mouthed branch, dogs and horses being excluded from the room. Six plainclothes officers from the Targeting Team made up the rest.
All were swigging tea, coffee or orange juice and scoffing biscuits, thoughtfully provided by Danny. She stood by the briefing lectern at the front of the room, shuffling papers, happily taking charge of the whole kit and caboodle.
Henry was impressed by the turnout. It was just one of those days when everyone seemed to be at the other end of the phone. There were not many of those days in a year.
‘Okay, people,’ he began, sliding in next to Danny. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Can I have your undivided attention, please?’ The room fell silent. ‘To those of you from outside the Division, welcome to Blackpool. Whilst you’re here, we’ll try to look after your needs to the best of our abilities; to our residents, we’ll try to look after you shower, too. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m DI Henry Christie and this is Danny Furness who’ll be running the show. And, not to put too fine a point on it, you’re here to hunt down a very, very dangerous individual indeed
...’
By the time Henry Christie was saying those words, that dangerous individual had been up and out of bed for an hour. Although he had only got to bed at 5 a.m., the few hours’ sleep he’d had were adequate. Several years behind bars had whittled away his need for sleep. He woke bright and cheerful.
The owner of the guest-house, Mrs Mitcham, a lady in her early fifties, was extremely happy to cook Trent a late breakfast ... at a price. Not being his own money, Trent paid gladly.
Outside, the weather was glorious.
Trent’s first objective was to extend his wardrobe again by buying some light summer gear. Then he intended to drift round town and go into a pub where he knew he could off-load the credit cards and driving licence he’d stolen from several unfortunate people the previous day. He’d take whatever price was offered. Probably about a hundred quid, he guessed - but before all that, he had a more urgent need to fulfil.
He used the phone in the guest-house to order a taxi which subsequently deposited him in Blackpool town centre just as Henry handed the briefing over to Danny.
Two behind. One either side. That was the formation. Each of them with a hand resting inconspicuously on the butt of some type of firearm or other, concealed by well-tailored clothing from the prying eyes of the outside world.
Kruger was the man in the middle.
Before they left the room, he was given instructions by Bussola.
‘Okay Steve, you walk out of here nice and cool, okay? You walk them to your car and they’ll do it there, nice ‘n’ quick - promise. Bam! Bam!’ He pointed his forefinger at Kruger’s head and cocked his thumb. ‘Over in a jiffy. . . Now, you might well think that before you reach the parking lot you’ll try some fancy footwork as you walk through the airport, or even do something really rash - like attract some cop’s attention. Now, Steve, I gotta warn you, if you do, these nice guys will blow you away there and then - and any other simple fucker who so much as steps towards them. There’ll be a real bloodbath, at the end of which they’ll simply fade into the background.