One Dead Witness

by Nick Oldham

  ‘When?’ Danny asked, a little knot of concern in her stomach.

  ‘Sometime last night or early hours of this morning. What do you want me to do about it? Circulate it or what?’

  Danny’s mind, which was really somewhere else, made a snap decision. ‘Just drop the report on my desk. I’ll see to it later - thanks.’ She stepped into the lift next to Henry who was holding the doors open. They closed; descent commenced.

  ‘Claire Lilton: shoplifter and persistent misper?’

  Danny glanced at Henry, quietly respectful that a busy DI should know this. Henry prided himself on knowing most things.

  ‘Yeah, that’s the one,’ she nodded. ‘Been a real pain for a few weeks now, but I can’t get to the bottom of why she’s going. Something odd at home, I suspect.’ She looked away from Henry, suddenly realising she was slightly in awe of him. Not only did he know things that most DIs wouldn’t give a toss about, but there were not many police managers who would have had the bottle to do what he had just done on her behalf. Taking on Jack Sands - a tough, well-respected man’s man so admired by so many gullible people - and confronting him head on. No, not many people would have done that. No wonder his team worked their backsides off for Henry Christie.

  They walked out of the police station towards Blackpool town centre. It was a clear, sunny day. Danny breathed the warm fresh air into her lungs, expanding them to their full capacity. Out of the corner of his eye, Henry, the perfect manager, saw Danny’s ample chest rise and fall.

  Danny giggled. For a second he thought she had clocked him giving her the eye, but when he looked at her he saw he was mistaken. With her chin lifted high, she was staring dead ahead, a look of sheer happiness on her face.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s done the trick, Henry, but I feel as if a great weight has been plucked off the top of my head - and it’s all down to you. The look on Jack’s face when you showed him the star and told him you’d found it taped under one of his desk drawers - and that you’d been accompanied at the time. He looked like he wanted to disappear down a plughole. It was a picture. Thanks, Henry.’

  She grabbed his elbow, stopped him in his tracks and planted a kiss firmly on his cheek.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said again, genuinely.

  ‘All part of the service,’ he replied, colouring up slightly. He was very glad it was merely an innocent kiss of thanks. He knew that had there been anything more to it, he would probably have been daft enough to try and follow it up and get himself into lumber yet again.

  They carried on walking and reached the corner of Bank Hey Street, one of Blackpool’s busiest shopping streets.

  ‘What you got then?’ the weasel-faced man asked. His name was Benstead. ‘C’mon, I don’t have time to fuck around. I’m a busy man.’

  A slightly breathless and ruffled Trent glanced cautiously around the smoke-filled taproom of the pub. Although there were only a few people in it, every one of them, Benstead included, had a cigarette on the go. The ceiling was a dark brown, nicotine-stained colour. ‘Here?’ Trent asked Benstead.

  ‘Yeah,’ the little man nodded. ‘Here. But, y’know - be discreet. Don’t flash everything round for every Tom, Dick ‘n’ Arsehole to see. Show me under the table, out of sight. Right?’

  Trent nodded and took a long draught from the pint of mild in front of him. He was very tense, hyped up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then took a small paper bag out of his pocket. He edged to one side and shuffled the contents out onto the space on the tatty benchseat between him and Benstead.

  A driving licence and some credit cards.

  ‘Is that all?’ Benstead sneered. ‘I thought you’d robbed fuckin’ Barclaycard headquarters from the way you were talking.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s all,’ Trent said. All but the ambulance driver’s cash card.

  ‘Where’d you get ‘em from?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cos I want to know. It’s all relevant to the price, innit? Things that’re really hot, I don’t spend much money on. You know - high-profile stuff. It’s the bog standard things that interest me . . . things with a bit of a shelf-life.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Trent said, understanding. He wiped his face with his hand, momentarily holding his fingers under his nose, inhaling deeply.

  Inwardly he gasped. God! He could smell her! It was wonderful.

  ‘Oh right,’ Trent said again. ‘These things are only lukewarm - almost cold, really. Come from a break-in down south yesterday.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Benstead picked up one of the credit cards by its edge and tilted it to the light. Suspiciously his eyes rose to Trent. ‘You sure?’

  Trent took another drink of beer. ‘Very sure.’

  ‘Hmm,’ the dealer murmured dubiously. ‘Even warm stuff’ - he pronounced ‘warm’ as ‘worm’ - ‘don’t last long, a day, maybe two, in the right hands.’ He dropped the credit card back onto the seat and picked up the driving licence in the same careful way. ‘Now driving licences go on much further, and a driving licence and credit card in the same name. ..’ He pondered and regarded Trent. ‘How much?’

  ‘I don’t fucking know. Name a price.’

  Benstead clicked his tongue thoughtfully. He already had a buyer in mind for this little lot, a guy who had a nice line - nationally - of defrauding car-hire companies by renting good quality motors and selling them on to a ringer. He would love this combination. Probably worth fifteen hundred.

  ‘Fifty quid.’

  ‘Don’t take me for a fool. I may not have the sell-on contacts, but I know you do. These are worth good money to the right people. One-fifty.’

  ‘Okay,’ Benstead relented easily. ‘One hundred.’

  ‘One-two-five.’

  ‘One-fifteen.’

  Trent nodded. Benstead pulled a roll of banknotes out of his jeans pocket and peeled off the required number, handing them across under cover of the table. ‘Now fuck off,’ he said, concluding business.

  Trent grabbed the money and stuffed it into a pocket. He stood up and left the place through the back door.

  Benstead shuffled the purchase back into the paper bag and dropped it into his anorak pocket. He picked up a copy of the Daily Mail, unfolded it and relaxed. . . for about a second. . . until he read the headlines and saw Trent’s face staring dangerously at him from the front page.

  A horribly nauseous feeling wrenched his guts. He placed the paper down on the table and reached for his drink. Christ! He’d just done business with the most wanted man in the country. His hand shook as he lifted the glass and missed his mouth. Then he groaned pathetically when the person he most detested and feared entered the taproom from the more salubrious snug next door.

  Henry and Danny had walked along Bank Hey Street, Blackpool Tower rising above them to their left. The place was swarming with holidaymakers, bustling along, every single one of them with a smile. A whole range of people, young to old, slim to fat. Sober to drunk. Blackpool had something for everyone.

  ‘I wonder how it’s going with Trent,’ Danny said.

  ‘I’ll be surprised if he stays here long and I’ll be even more surprised if we catch him,’ Henry said honestly.

  ‘The very thought of him makes me shiver,’ Danny confessed. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met someone quite so evil. What he did to those little girls was appalling. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill them. I wouldn’t normally wish death on anyone, but he should be hanged. I’d gladly put the noose around his neck.’

  ‘Let’s have a look in here.’ Henry pointed to the door of a pub. ‘Quick drink, then back to work.’

  ‘In here?’ Danny’s lips curled in disgust as she looked up at the building. ‘It’s a dive.’

  ‘Let’s combine business and pleasure.’

  Henry held the front door open, allowing Danny to enter first. They turned left into the snug and stood just inside the threshold of the bar.

  Danny’s words were accurate. The place was a dive, but both officers knew it
was one of the main pubs in town where stolen goods from shoplifting sprees were often divided up and distributed or sold; a lot of minor drug dealing went down too. Both activities usually occurred without interference from management who were strongly suspected of being involved in both trades.

  Henry liked to drop in unexpectedly now and again. Occasionally such visits produced results. More often than not they simply shook up the crims, something Henry took great pleasure in doing.

  The snug was fairly empty. Henry could not spot anyone he knew, other than the barman, Fat Tommy.

  ‘All right, Tommy?’ Henry approached the bar.

  ‘I was,’ Tommy responded on seeing Henry. Tommy was not noted for his social skills.

  ‘Kaliber for me ... Danny?’

  ‘I think my nerves are back in order. Coke please, with ice.’ She pulled out a cigarette and lit up. She inhaled deeply and for a second or two went quite light-headed. She held the smoke in her lungs, then blew it out slowly. Bliss.

  The rotund barman went about his tasks. Henry asked him, ‘Anything doing?’

  ‘Nope.’ He banged the two drinks on the bar top.

  ‘You don’t like me, do you Tommy?’

  ‘No, and I can’t think why ... two quid.’

  ‘Shame, really... we have so much in common.’ Henry handed him a five-pound note. Whilst Tommy was at the till, Henry stood on tiptoes and peered across the bar into the taproom where he saw Benstead. After checking his change he said, ‘C’mon,’ to Danny, led her out of the snug into the taproom and immediately saw the expression on Benstead’s face.

  He looked as though he’d seen the Grim Reaper.

  Henry thought, Might’ve struck lucky here.

  Benstead made a valiant effort to compose himself. He folded up his copy of the Mail, downed the last inch of his beer and tried to act as normally as possible in the circumstances. But he was agonisingly conscious that his face had probably conveyed a thousand words to Henry Christie. And that very same man, the bane of his life, the cop who harried him constantly, was now approaching. Fast.

  Benstead rose unsteadily to his feet, tucking the tabloid under his arm, trying to give the impression he had not seen Henry.

  As he moved off, Henry reached the table. Benstead feigned surprise.

  ‘Well, well, well. What have we here?’ Henry grinned maliciously. Actually he knew exactly what he had - one of the top handlers of stolen property in Blackpool, if not the North of England. Benstead was a career criminal who tried to keep a low profile in terms of his lifestyle. He lived with his common-law wife, her two kids from a previous marriage (not yet dissolved), his own two from a couple of brief relationships, and two German shepherd dogs in a semi-detached council house. He was unemployed, drawing maximum benefits, did not own a car and had very little to show outwardly from the money he made buying and selling other people’s possessions.

  Henry’s intelligence-gathering on Benstead led him to believe the little scrote owned a large apartment in Tenerife and held several bank accounts in fictitious names. Knowing and proving were two different things, though. So far, all Henry’s team had managed to do was convict Benstead once only for a petty job for which he got fined.

  Which annoyed Henry.

  And put Benstead high on his target-list.

  A fact of which Benstead was painfully aware.

  ‘You haven’t got anything,’ Benstead said in response to Henry’s opening question, ‘because I’m off.’ He zipped up his anorak and side-stepped smartly.

  Not smartly enough.

  Henry side-stepped with him, blocking his exit.

  ‘Know who this is?’ Henry asked Danny, speaking through the corner of his mouth, his eyes remaining firmly on Benstead.

  ‘Baz Benstead - disposer of stolen property,’ she answered promptly.

  ‘Someone we’re always interested in.’ Henry beamed down at the little man who had started to look very nervous indeed. ‘Bit of a hot day for an anorak,’ he observed. To Danny he said, ‘Always wears one. Big pockets. Never quite knows what might come his way - do you, Baz?’

  ‘Don’t fuckin’ hassle me, Henry, or I’ll have my brief chasing you before you know what’s hit you.’

  ‘Oh, Baz!’ Henry cried, feigning hurt. Then, ‘Just who the fuck d’you think you’re talking to? Come on, let’s sit down and have a nice, pleasant chinwag.’

  ‘I’m leaving - excuse me . . . ahhhh!’

  Henry slammed his free hand into Benstead’s chest and sat him down on the bench seat. ‘Sit.’

  Shit! Benstead thought. A well of panic rose from his feet to his neck.

  Henry sat next to him, sipping his Kaliber.

  Danny remained standing, glass in one hand, cigarette dangling from her mouth. Her eyes bore scornfully down on Benstead. She had heard much about him, but never met him until this moment. She was unimpressed.

  ‘What’re you up to?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Nowt.’ Benstead put the newspaper on the table. The headlines screamed out about the most dangerous man in Britain on the loose. Benstead blinked rapidly as his brain recorded the message again. He turned the paper over.

  ‘You looked like you’d peered into your grave when we walked in.’

  ‘Only ‘cos I saw you. You always have that effect on me.’

  ‘The look was there before you clocked me. I just made it worse. So, go on, what are you doing in here, Baz, ole buddy? It’s not your local.’

  Benstead shrugged. He measured up his chance of escape. All he needed was about ten seconds - or less - out of sight of Henry and his sidekick. Long enough to dump the boiling hot goods Trent had sold him.

  Now £115 richer, there was hardly any space in Trent’s pockets to squeeze in more cash. He had amassed over a thousand pounds and some loose change. Enough to see him over the next couple of weeks ... and yet he wanted more money, here and now.

  He walked towards Talbot Square where the Royal Bank of Scotland was situated. He was eager to withdraw as much money as possible from the account belonging to the dead ambulance-driver. To bleed it dry, like he had done to the man himself. He decided to try the cash machine again, firstly to see if the account was still operating and secondly if he could get any more cash out of it.

  If the answer to both was no, he would find Benstead again and throw in the card for an extra £30.

  Trent spent a couple of minutes checking the streets for lurking cops and fine-tuning the radio scanner he’d bought earlier from a high-street electrical retailer. It was tuned into the local police frequency. He inserted the earpiece and set the volume.

  When he was satisfied, he crossed to the cash machine and slid the card into the slot.

  He tapped in the well-remembered PIN code.

  Benstead was a small man and could move quickly if he wanted to. Especially if the element of surprise was on his side.

  Henry Christie, having shown disdain for Benstead and his threats, had allowed himself to drop his guard. He sat back and took a sip of the alcohol-free lager.

  Danny took a long deep drag of her cigarette.

  Without warning, Benstead reached for his empty pint glass. He took hold of it around the brim, twisted round and smashed the base of the glass across the side of Henry’s head.

  Henry screamed, more with surprise than pain as the bottom edge of the glass connected with an old wound on his temple, sustained in a car crash three years earlier. The skin split immediately, blood poured out. His hands went to the side of his head.

  Fortunately, the glass did not break.

  Benstead dropped it, lurched forwards from his seated position before Danny could react. He charged towards her, ramming his shoulder into her lower abdomen, bowling her back over a table. He then ran for the rear door of the pub.

  Danny landed hard, legs akimbo, displaying her underwear. Her drink spilled all over her and the cigarette disappeared somewhere across the room.

  Henry Christie had learned a lot of hard lessons in hi
s time as a cop. One was that some of the things you expect to hurt badly are never quite as bad as imagined. Agreed, the crack on the head hurt, and the sight of pouring blood, especially your own, was frightening. But when it was all put into perspective, it wasn’t as bad as being shot or knifed or having a broken glass screwed into your face. All that had happened was that a pathetic punk had given him a whack.

  As soon as his brain assimilated this - within a split second - Henry was up and after Benstead, angry at having been caught off guard. He dived across the room at the fleeing felon and brought the little man crashing face-down into the liquor-stained carpet.

  Benstead tried desperately to disentangle himself, scrambling, kicking wildly, with Henry holding on for dear life.

  ‘Get off me, you fucking bastard!’ Benstead screamed, squirming round and beginning to rain punches down on Henry’s head. The DI tucked himself in and dung on tight, inching himself up Benstead’s body as they rolled around on the floor.

  Danny recovered quickly.

  When she saw the two men fighting, she looked out for the opening which would let her in to assist her boss. It came when the two men separated briefly, Benstead on his back. She stepped astride him and dropped heavily across his chest, pinning his arms to the floor with her knees. Her skirt rode high up on her thighs.

  From that position she curled her right hand into a tight fist, deliberately drew back her arm, ensured Benstead saw what was coming and - with a great deal of satisfaction - smashed the fist into the side of his face.

  All the fight drained out of him.

  His face started to swell within seconds of the blow, a huge red mound surrounding his left eye, which began to close and weep.

  ‘Twat!’ he hissed.

  ‘You got it, pal,’ she panted.

  Henry let go of Benstead’s legs and stood up shakily. He had an urge to kick the little bastard in the ribs, but the eyes of too many witnesses prevented him.