by Nick Oldham
‘Everything sounds so glib and pat,’ he said, ‘but I suppose there’s a couple of things, for what they’re worth. Firstly, don’t hold it in, otherwise it’ll rot your soul like cancer rots a body. Take advantage of the Force counsellors; they do a good job. Secondly, don’t get on a guilt trip. You couldn’t have done anything, Danny. If it hadn’t been him, it would’ve been you.’
‘But that poor PC - and the other two people he stabbed!’
‘They’re both alive, so don’t even consider them.’
The man whose throat had been cut had been saved by the officer who arrived on the scene behind Danny. His quick actions had staunched the blood flow substantially until the arrival of the ambulance crew. The man had been very lucky, though.
‘But, as I say, my words sound trite. That’s my advice, anyway. Take it or leave it.’
She blew her nose again.
‘Having said all that, Danny . . .’ Henry paused, faltering slightly. ‘I have some more bad news, I’m afraid.’ He perched himself on the edge of her desk. ‘I know I might well be making assumptions here, but I think there’s an added dimension to Trent’s escapades.’
Danny’s eyebrows creased.
‘It may only be a coincidence, but the body of a young girl has just been found in some bushes in a rec in North Shore. I’ve no further details yet - I’m going to the scene now with FE. It’s your call here, Danny. If you feel up to it, you can come. If not, I’ll understand.’
Danny’s eyes flashed instinctively to the MFH report on her desk. Once again she referred to the Almighty. ‘Dear God, please don’t let it be Claire.’
Chapter Twelve
The lovers twisted into each other’s arms as soon as the engine was turned off. They tore greedily at each other, their teeth clashing on first contact of their mouths. Even though there was a handbrake and gear lever between them, and the man’s movements were impeded by the steering-wheel, within a matter of moments his trousers were unfastened, her blouse had been ripped open and her bra had been hoisted somewhere up around her neck.
‘Oh my God!’ they gasped together as the man’s hand reached her vagina, and she grabbed his cock. She went onto him, making him writhe ecstatically in his seat, whilst at the same time he fondled her freely hanging left breast with his left hand.
She rose for air and looked out of the window.
‘We need to do this properly,’ she slavered, tasting him.
‘You’re dead right.’
‘Come on, let’s get out.’
They were parked on the grass verge of a narrow lane in the picturesque countryside above Darwen in East Lancashire.
They clambered comically out of the car in their state of undress. He shuffled along, holding up his pants precariously whilst she, having dispensed with her knickers, ran around the car and into the trees, covering her boobs with her arms. She led him into a small clearing a few yards from the roadside, but far enough to be out of sight of anyone passing.
They immediately started to ravage each other, dragging clothing off and tossing it away with abandon into the bushes. Moments later, both were naked, rolling around the cool woodland floor, screwing wildly, emitting animal-like rutting noises. They moved from position to position. To oral sex and back again. They finished up with him (a chartered accountant), mounting her (his secretary) from the rear.
When her hands sunk into some soft ground, she thought nothing of it. She was too busy concentrating on the timings of her reverse thrusts. However, when her fingers touched something hard, cold and dome-shaped, she wondered what the hell she’d found. Her fingers curled around the object and pulled it out of the ground.
It was the top part of a skull, without the lower jaw attachment.
She screamed, reared up and fell backwards onto her unsuspecting lover. For a moment he thought it was a new move and tried to ride with it. When he saw the skull circling up through the air where she had thrown it, he realised this tryst had ended before he had come.
Myrna Rosza walked noiselessly through the offices of Kruger Investigations, painfully aware that every single pair of eyes was on her. She had just ended a short meeting with the other execs from the firm and had volunteered to take on the task of formally announcing the death of Steve Kruger.
To most of them, at that moment, it was just a rumour. She faced the horrendous job of turning that into fact.
Five minutes later, everyone who was available that morning was gathered together in the boardroom, which was the single largest room. They were expectant, fearful, and totally silent.
Myrna did not know where to begin, but she knew the act of saying the words, ‘Steve Kruger is dead,’ would help her grieve, and start to come to terms with his loss.
She opened her arms in a gesture of helplessness. Croakily, she began to speak.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ she said stupidly, as if they would have refused. ‘Early this morning Steve Kruger was involved in an enquiry at Miami International Airport, concerning the activities of Mario Bussola. You all know he is suspected of murdering Jimmy and Dale. So . . . to cut a long story short, a firefight ensued in a multi-storey parking lot during which Steve was fatally injured. He died of gunshot wounds at the scene.’
A gasp of horror went up from the staff. Several of them, men and women, began to cry.
Myrna licked her dry lips.
‘What the hell happened, Myrna?’ one asked.
‘Look, I was there when he was shot, okay,’ she responded, losing her hold. ‘I know I should answer your question, George, but hell, I don’t feel like it right now. Maybe later, huh? Sorry. I gotta go.’
Two detectives stood side by side and looked down at the pathetic body of a girl.
Henry James Christie and Danielle Louise Furness were silent, each in a world of their own.
From the position of her limbs and the way her clothing had been ripped off, it seemed fairly obvious she had been sexually molested either before or after her death. There were stab-wounds in her chest.
Henry ran a hand down his face, shook his head. In his career as a detective he had been involved in eight child-murder investigations: from the simple, but tragic, domestic murder to a serial killing. And he could not get used to seeing a young person dead, mainly because the images of his two daughters constantly flashed into his mind. How the hell he would ever cope if either of them came to such an end, he didn’t know. Probably wouldn’t. He would be destroyed, unable to operate as a fully functioning human being ever again. He knew his wife, Kate, would be worse.
It was very hard for him to remain in control when faced with investigating such deaths. Hard to refrain from beating the offender - if caught - to a pulp. He squinted sideways at Danny, but was unable to identify the meaning of the expression on her face ... mainly because she was experiencing conflicting emotions.
The first was relief.
At least it was not Claire Lilton lying there, having been dragged, beaten, mutilated, raped in the bushes, then horribly murdered.
The second was repulsion.
Who - WHO? - could have done such a thing? It beggared all belief and understanding in the human condition. To put someone through such suffering ... The savagery people could stoop to constantly amazed her.
Henry’s voice broke into her train of thought. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think we’d better step up the hunt for Trent. He’s never killed before. He came close, but now I think we’re dealing with someone who’s gone right over the edge. Uncontrollable. He’s my prime suspect.’
‘I agree, but let’s not blind ourselves to the possibility it might not be him.’
‘Yep,’ Danny said flatly. Her gaze returned to the dead girl. ‘Let’s make sure we do things right - and when we’ve identified her, let me tell her parents.’
‘You sure? You’ve had a tough few days.’
She spun on Henry. ‘Of all the people, I didn’t expect you to patronise me, Henry.’
&
nbsp; ‘Hey - whoa, sorry.’ He retreated, taken aback by her anger.
She stormed away, leaving him open-mouthed.
Halfway across the Atlantic Ocean, a man called Charlie Gilbert sat in the first-class cabin in a plane travelling at 37,000 feet, Miami International Airport 1500 miles behind.
Even though the cabin temperature was quite fresh, Gilbert was sweating profusely, as grossly overweight men often do, whatever the circumstances. He had a wide seat with plenty of legroom but was extremely uncomfortable. He looked as though he’d been forced into the available space, like a fat hamster pressed into a tobacco tin. He had very little room to manoeuvre and there was only just enough space to drop his food tray in front of him.
He wasn’t too concerned.
His business trip to America had been successful. Of course, there had been the little blip - namely, being arrested for taking part in the rape and indecent assault of a young girl - but that had been fixed. Mario Bussola assured him on that point. And when Bussola made assurances, they stuck.
The incident would be hushed up, he promised Gilbert. The press would not get to know about it. No further police would be taken, and appropriate revenge would be meted out.
Charlie Gilbert would be safe.
Thank God, because, after all, he had a reputation to think of.
Myrna realised what she had to do immediately was put together a strategy to ensure as much damage limitation as possible as far as Kruger Investigations was concerned.
Being Kruger’s number two, and having taken on full responsibility for running the company, there were many things for her to do - not least reassuring jittery customers, some of whom had already called and were sounding extremely agitated.
To quote one: ‘Just what the hell are Kruger Investigations up to, that their managing director has ended up dead in a fucking shoot-out with gangsters, for fuck’s sake’ - unquote.
Myrna quickly needed to soothe ruffled feathers. Then she needed to deal with the staff. They were shell-shocked - and rightly so. Within the space of a day, three employees had met very violent deaths, three people who were well-known and loved by everyone.
Myrna knew she had to act, hold it all together, otherwise she would lose other good people.
All thoughts of revenge, or mounting some sort of operation against Bussola needed to be shelved indefinitely. To hit out, strike back, was what she had desired to do initially ... but that was a task for the legal process and if it failed, so be it.
It wasn’t a job for a respectable company and Myrna wasn’t about to put others at risk again.
She was in her office. It was an hour since the staff meeting. An hour since she had hurled up her insides.
She had just finished a phone call to Kelly, the comms van operator, who had returned home to Memphis whilst the Bussola threat was still in the air. Having given her the lowdown on the Kruger situation, Myrna suggested that maybe she would like to stay off work a little longer - on full pay. Eminently sensible lady she was, Kelly agreed to the idea.
Myrna’s hand was resting on the phone when there was a knock on the door. It opened a fraction to reveal Mark Tapperman, the tall, well-built detective, standing there. He wore a forlorn expression making him look like a little boy, not the hard, uncompromising detective Myrna had become acquainted with and despised.
‘Come on in, Mark,’ she said softly, her instinct sensing something not quite right.
He entered the room and sat down.
She was perplexed by his whole body language. It was so incongruous to the usual swaggering macho stuff she had seen recently.
Then, without warning, it happened.
Mark Tapperman burst into tears.
‘We’re pretty sure he’s called Patrick Orlove, at least as sure as we can be. He’s got dozens of aliases, but the prints from the gun at the scene put up Orlove as his original name. We don’t really know very much about his distant past, but recently he turned up in LA and did some work for the McGreevy cartel, which resulted in a murder one court appearance. He was acquitted: the usual witness problems. Next he turns up in the Big Apple, helping out one of the East Side gangs. Suspected of puttin’ a gunload of lead into a junkie informer’s grey matter, but mainly acted as close-quarter protection to a gang chief. From there, seems he got a recommendation to come south for Bussola, who we know axed and replaced a lot of his security since you and Steve were able to walk all over’ em and interrupt that gang-bang downtown. We think Orlove’s still in the city, but by the same token he could be in Cuba.’
Myrna nodded as she listened to Tapperman telling her about the man suspected of killing Steve Kruger; the man they had allowed to escape from the scene of the tragedy.
The noise had been incredible when the guns in their hands discharged and the two men who had been turning and drawing their weapons had been hit. Myrna’s mind saw it all again ... the two men swivelled grotesquely and both fell down dead on the concrete floor, blood pouring out of their wounds. Tapperman raced to the third man, the one Kruger had punched in the nose before launching himself between the parked cars, and pointed his gun at the crouching guy’s head. He yelled to Myrna. ‘Cover him, I’m going after the other guy.’
Myrna had done as instructed, her arms locked in an isosceles triangle, keeping the man covered whilst he tried to stem the tide of blood gushing from his bust nose. Her eyes constantly flicked towards the two bodies close by. Both twitched like they were being tickled. She looked up towards Tapperman who was working his way methodically and cautiously down the line of cars, and she kept glancing to the gap where Kruger had thrown himself. She could see his feet. Why was he just lying there, not moving? Why didn’t he get up? She knew, even then, something was wrong.
Tapperman edged back, still wary. He stopped at the gap Kruger had gone into, not far from where Myrna stood. He stared between the vehicles, his chest heaving. He knelt down out of sight for a few moments then rose back to his full height, grim.
Myrna was hopping on her toes, desperate to know, dying to run and see, but her job was to keep the bloody-nosed man covered.
Tapperman walked over to her. He stood about three feet away from the kneeling man. His face became a mask of rage. He stepped back, then kicked the man in the head, pitching him sideways across one of his dead buddies.
‘Bastard.’
As quickly as it came, the anger subsided. Tapperman swooped down and cuffed the man expertly, hands right up his back. He threw him face-down. Then he stood up again and regarded Myrna.
‘What the hell was all that about?’ she demanded, shocked by his reaction.
‘Steve’s dead,’ Tapperman responded simply.
And somehow the person responsible - now known to be Patrick Orlove - had escaped, and all they managed to find was his gun dumped in a trashcan when the scene was searched later.
Myrna shook her head and raised her face to Tapperman, sitting opposite her.
‘He’s on the wanted list now.’
‘And the chances of catching him are..?’
‘Zero, if I’m honest, especially if Bussola’s looking after him.’
‘What about the guy you practised your soccer skills on?’
‘Saying nothing ... but we’ve got him for illegal possession and he’s wanted in Nevada for a serious assault with a deadly weapon. He’s going nowhere ‘cept jail.’
‘Bussola?’
Tapperman gave her a withering glance. This she interpreted as, ‘Don’t ask silly fucking questions.’
‘What about the other guy, the English paedophile?’ she persisted.
‘Gilbert? Tucked up on a plane back to the UK.’
‘You told the FBI about him?’ she wanted to know.
‘Should I?’
‘Maybe they ought to know, maybe they can pass on the gen about him to the cops in England. If the cops over there don’t know about this guy, it’s time they did.’
‘Aw . . . when I get round to it.’
&nbs
p; ‘In that case, I’ll do it. I know a guy at the London office, used to work from Miami. I’ll tell him and he can pass it on.’
‘Okay, whatever suits.’
‘So that’s it then - we’re getting nowhere fast?’
‘That’s one way of lookin’ at it, I guess. Myrna, you must be one o’ those folks who always sees a half-empty glass.’
‘I’m a realist.’ She sounded sour.
‘Right, sure.’ Tapperman stood up. ‘Just thought I’d keep you informed about things.’ A bashful expression crossed his face, ‘Er, about earlier. I . . . er . . . you won’t tell anyone, will ya?’
‘Lieutenant Tapperman, your secret is safe with me.’
‘I owe ya, babe.’
For the first time in too long, a broad smile crept across Myrna’s tired countenance.
Mark Tapperman’s secret.
Behind all that macho bluster and bull, he was a big soft guy with real feelings and emotions. His outburst had astonished her. She was glad she had seen it because it made him human. To know he was grieving for Steve Kruger, as she was, made her feel so much better.
She picked up the phone and asked her secretary to get the number of the American Embassy in London, England.
‘Sorry ... sorry, pretty please, forgive me.’
‘Nah, no problems, you were quite right to jump down my throat. If you’d been a bloke I wouldn’t have said it. It was patronising at best; at worst it was sexist. I’ll hold my hands up.’ Which Henry Christie promptly did.
Danny grinned. ‘Can we forget it and get on with the job?’
‘Forget what?’ Henry smiled.
It was ten o’clock. He was surprised to see it was so late. It had been one hell of a day. A short time earlier he had returned from attending a double post mortem - first of a murdered Police Constable, then of a murdered girl. The pathologist had been pretty certain the same knife had killed both people.