by Nick Oldham
Henry shooed Danny and the two visiting jacks out of the office, leaned back in his chair, hoiked his feet onto the desk and said, ‘What can I do for you, pal?’
‘Remember Corelli?’ the American’s voice boomed.
‘How could I forget?’ was Henry’s response. Indeed, how could he have forgotten the man who had dispatched a highly trained and paid assassin to do some dirty work in the North of England, and with whom Henry had become personally and professionally involved, nearly losing both his wife and life in the process. Henry knew Corelli had since been murdered. ‘So what’s this about? Surely he hasn’t come back to life?’
‘Not exactly, but he’s been reincarnated in the guise of another Italian low-life, name of Mario Bussola. You know how it is: stamp on one cockroach and another one slithers out of the wall as a replacement? That’s what Bussola’s done, taken on the mantle of numero uno honcho in Florida’s swampy underworld ... but he’s ten times worse, if that’s possible.’
‘Karl - all very interesting, but why tell me this?’
‘Stick with me, you impatient git. Is that the right word, git?’
‘Yeah - one of those quaint olde English expressions.’ Henry smiled. He knew Donaldson liked to tryout English slang.
‘One thing I think Corelli never dabbled in was under-age sex. I know he was into prostitution, but never into little kids. Which is where he and Bussola differ. Bussola likes young girls, just on the turn from kiddie to lady, apparently. Our information also suggests he ain’t all that choosy. Young male ass is also very acceptable. Still with me, or have you fallen asleep?’
‘Still hangin’ in there, buddy.’
‘Good. The FBI in Florida have investigated Bussola frequently, but got nowhere. He is strongly suspected of shipping illegals in from all over the place - Mex, Cuba, wherever, you name it - and using them in his joints, porno films and also for himself. It’s a big trade over there - bodies. Fuckin’ phenomenal, really, but very underground. Something the likes of me an’ you couldn’t even envisage. They’re just throwaways. Disposables. Makes me sick to ma stomach.’
‘Karl, sorry pal, great story, but I’m busy, busy, busy ... maybe I can phone you at home later? That bastard FB is really breathing heavily down my neck.’
‘This is work and it affects you,’ Donaldson said sternly.
‘I’m suitably chastised.’
‘You should be, Henry. That’s the background. Last week Bussola was arrested indulging in a double-tap with an underage girl, a missing person.’
‘Double tap?’ To Henry that was a firearms term.
‘A two-up, if you like.’
‘I’m with you.’
‘He was eventually released without charge. But now, here’s the interestin’ part from your point of view. Does the name Charlie Gilbert mean anything to you?’
‘I know of a Charlie Gilbert,’ Henry said cautiously. ‘Why?’
‘A fellow called Charlie Gilbert was the other member of the double-tap. Apparently he lives in Blackpool.’
‘The only Charlie Gilbert I know is one who owns a fucking huge chunk of Blackpool. Numerous amusement arcades, a lot of pubs and restaurants, burger bars, a massive all-year-round fairground in North Shore. All sorts of stuff. He’s a councillor, a member of the Rotary. Very high profile indeed and beyond reproach. Donates money to children’s charities. . .’ As he said the word ‘children’s’, Henry’s speech faltered slightly. ‘Finances several youth clubs, junior football teams, netball teams ... the guy’s a saint.’
‘U-huh?’ said Donaldson. ‘This will come as a bit of a shock to you, old buddy. He’s also a child-molester. Released without charge, maybe, but I’ve spoken to a witness who saw him forcing his cock into the young girl’s mouth while Bussola buggered her. He was also juiced up to the eyeballs, believed to be coke. Some saint, eh? One who mixes with la crème de la crème de la Florida underworld. Just thought you’d like to know.’
Henry came over all queasy.
Only three weeks earlier he had given Gilbert and several other dignitaries a guided tour of the police station during an official visit by the local council. Henry could see Gilbert’s face now, very, very clearly. Large, round, flabby, but not ruddy. He was almost a sickly white, complexion-wise, and his skin hung in folds, rather like those unusual dogs, the breed of which Henry could never remember. Gilbert had been loud and ebullient. Full of himself, driven by his own self-confidence. Unusual for a fat person.
But Gilbert was an unusual person.
He’d begun his working life with nothing more than a roadside burger stall and over forty years had built up a veritable empire based in Blackpool, concentrating on cheap food and amusement... the areas which, on reflection, were attractive to young people.
Yes, Henry could clearly visualise Gilbert rolling down the corridors of the police station, voice booming above everyone else’s. And all the while he hid disgusting secrets.
Henry wondered what else was hidden. He shivered at the thought, looked briefly down at his right hand - the one with which he had shaken Gilbert’s. Instinctively he wiped the palm across his desk blotter.
‘This is simply me acting in my liaison role, Henry, and passing you information,’ Donaldson was saying. ‘I haven’t received anything on paper yet but I did check the facts before I called you. They are correct.’
‘Cheers, Karl.’
They concluded the call with some quick family chit-chat.
Henry breathed out, puffing his cheeks. He was astounded by the news. He cursed as the phone went again - the bane of his life.
It was Danny. She sounded excited. ‘Henry, we’ve got a possible location for Trent.’
‘In Stoke?’
‘No, here in Blackpool. In a guest-house.’
‘Incident room, one minute,’ Henry barked.
Mrs Bissell’s guest-house - The Ronald, named after her dear departed - was a clean, well-run and fairly prosperous establishment in Charnley Road. Mrs Bissell was a robust lady, round, even-tempered and a whizz at cooking full English breakfasts. She had been running The Ronald for fifteen years, ever since becoming a widow. It gave her something to do and she found she was surprisingly good at it, having been a housewife most of her adult life. The majority of her guests were well-known regulars, but she always liked to keep a couple of spare rooms for passing trade; passing trade often became repeat trade.
Over the last three days she had received one phone call and one visit from the local police regarding Louis Trent. She knew all her guests personally and was adamant Trent was not one of them. The visiting officers accepted this.
Earlier that Monday morning, a few minutes before she had finished serving breakfasts, a man carrying a holdall called at the front door asking for accommodation. She immediately said yes, asked him to sign the visitor’s book and pay a small deposit, which he did. He peeled a ten-pound note from a thick wad. She took him to one of the single rooms in the newly built extension at the rear of the premises. From the window there was a view of the southerly aspect of the Winter Gardens complex. Mrs Bissell offered her new guest a late breakfast, which he declined. After pointing out the amenities - there was no en suite but the bathroom was immediately across the passage - she left him in the room.
Walking back through the narrow, seemingly endless corridors, Mrs Bissell was a little perturbed. There was something not quite right about the man and this gave her a sense of unease. She was never 100 per cent happy taking in single men. Most of her custom came from older couples, usually pensioners. To her a single man often meant gay in Blackpool - not that she had anything against poofs...
She did not think this man was gay. So what was it? His reluctance to get into conversation? The large amount of money he openly displayed? Then it struck her.
She rushed back to the reception desk where she rooted through a pile of correspondence, eventually finding what she was looking for - the photograph and description of Louis Vernon Trent left by
the police on their recent visit.
She peered at the image of the most wanted man in Britain, but couldn’t be sure it was him. It looked like him, but then again. . . She checked the visitor’s book and saw he had signed in as L. Blake, with an address in Stoke. Her lips puckered up. Again she peered closely at the photograph. She focused in on the eyes.
They were the giveaway.
With trembling fingers she picked up the phone, hoping she wasn’t about to make a complete fool of herself, but deep down she knew that Louis Vernon Trent had just booked into her hotel.
‘A guy has signed himself in as “L. Blake” from Stoke-on-Trent,’ Henry said to the very quickly assembled Armed Response Vehicle crews. Four officers had turned up - all in body armour, all overtly carrying their weapons. ‘The name Blake is the surname of one of the inmates Trent is suspected of frying during his prison escape; Stoke is where he abandoned Danny’s car.’
Other officers shuffled into the room. Six Support Unit, all having quickly changed into their riot gear.
‘Come in, welcome,’ Henry beckoned. ‘We’ve only just started.’
FB then sidled in, joining Henry and Danny at the front of the room. Henry recapped on what he had said, then continued, ‘According to the lady who runs the guest-house, Mrs Bissell, the suspect is in a single room at the rear of the building. Second floor with a view across to the Winter Gardens.’
A large-scale aerial photograph was Blu-tacked onto the wall behind Henry. It clearly showed the Winter Gardens and the surrounding streets. Because Blackpool hosts political conferences every year, the streets around the conference venue, the Winter Gardens, were well-documented in terms of photos, maps and plan drawings for reasons of security. Mrs Bissell’s guest-house could clearly be seen and the picture was recent enough to include the new extension.
‘This is the guest-house on Charnley Road.’ Henry pointed to it. ‘Most of you probably know it. Obviously we can’t be sure that this is definitely Trent in the room, so we need to find out and play it softly softly just in case it isn’t. I’ve roughed out a very quick operational plan and I’m going to run through it. If anyone has any better ideas, then please speak up.’
The heavy rain helped the initial approach. It was bucketing down remorselessly, driving in from the Irish Sea like fine rods of steel, almost horizontal.
This meant it was not exceptional to see two people, a couple, a man and a woman, jogging down the road against the weather, heads bowed against the onslaught, chins on chests, collars up, the woman with hat pulled down over her face, hiding her features, the man’s arm around the woman’s shoulders.
They turned into the guest-house, trotted up the steps and into the tiled vestibule where the proprietor met them with a sharp, ‘We’re full up.’
The man quickly flashed a badge. ‘DI Christie from Blackpool police station. We talked on the phone a few minutes ago. This is Sergeant Furness.’
‘Oooh, right,’ said Mrs Bissell.
‘Anywhere we can have a quick chat?’
She led them into the deserted TV lounge.
‘Look, I don’t even know if this is the right fella,’ Mrs Bissell said worriedly. ‘I don’t want to upset him if I’m wrong. He is a paying guest, after all.’
‘We understand that,’ Danny said empathetically. ‘We’ll be tactful. Don’t you fret yourself, love. As soon as I see him, I’ll know. It’s not as though we need to take a long time over it. In and out, whichever way it goes.’
Mrs Bissell held a hand across her ample bosom and sighed. ‘Thank the Lord for that.’
‘Is he still in that back bedroom, the one you described?’ Danny asked.
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘As far as I know.’
‘Is there any way he can get out of the building without you knowing?’
‘Only by the fire escape. It runs underneath his window.’
‘Okay,’ said Henry, ‘can you show us to the room, point it out and leave us to it? And if you’ve got a master key, that would be helpful.’
Henry removed his raincoat and draped it across the back of a chair. He spoke into his PR and asked for positions. The reply came back: Three Support Unit and two firearms officers at the rear, on foot, out of sight, but with a view of the building; the remaining officers were parked and ready in a van up the road.
‘Right, we’re going up,’ Henry informed them. To Mrs Bissell he said, ‘Please lead the way.’
Since kidnapping Danny, Trent had laid pretty low. He had escaped in her car, driven south on the motorway and come off at Stoke-on- Trent where he fired the car and rolled it into a flooded quarry. He spent that night in Stoke and the following morning bussed it to Manchester. He killed time there by drifting around porno cinemas, getting wind of some child-abuse films which he watched excitedly.
He found himself to be getting restless, though, with a sensation growing in him which meant he had to act again. He was tempted to strike in the city, but only felt ‘right’ doing it in Blackpool. He was comfortable there, knew the place well, the best spots to stalk and pounce, the best places to finish off his crimes.
To commit another crime was something he needed to do. It was building up inside him, burning through him and he had no control over it. He had to do much, much more. The little girl Meg Tomlinson was to be the first of many. Although Danny Furness had been a failure at least he had terrified her shitless. But putting fear into someone was not his intention. Killing them was. And Danny was still high up on the list for a knife in the ribs. Next time it would go straight in, no fucking about, no conversation. Just wham!
In - twist, in-twist, in-twist.
Trent slashed his hand at the water in his bath.
He sniggered, lounged back in the hot water and contentedly washed himself down.
Then came the knock on the door.
He shot upright. His right hand reached for the knife which lay on the bath stool.
Danny remained unconvinced that Henry’s plan of action was the most sensible in the world. To her, it would have been far better to have had a truckload of hairy-arsed bobbies thundering down the corridor, kicking in the door. No messing. Arresting whoever happened to be on the other side.
If it wasn’t Trent, so what?
Brush him down and apologise.
If it was - all well and good.
But to have just the two of them tiptoeing down the corridor and knocking gently on the door Mrs Bissell had indicated, seemed plain stupid. Or was she being too sensitive? Perhaps being abducted at knife-point and having threats made to cut her breasts off had put things out of all perspective.
She took a firmer grip on her extended baton.
They reached the door. Henry gestured silently for Danny to back off, then he rapped his knuckles on the door and waited. No reply. He knocked again. No reply. Henry’s hand went to the doorknob and turned it. The door was locked.
Danny swallowed.
Henry glanced quickly at her and pulled out the master key given to him by Mrs Bissell.
‘Here I go,’ he mouthed.
Trent rose slowly out of the bath, knife in hand. He trod quietly on the bathmat, took the single stride to the door and opened it a crack. The bathroom was directly across the corridor from his room. He immediately saw Henry Christie’s unprotected back, his hand on the doorknob, turning it, while carefully inserting the key in the lock at the same time.
With a scream of rage, Trent raised the knife and threw himself across the narrow corridor, plunging the blade into Henry’s back at a point between the right shoulder-blade and spine.
Danny yelled an agonised warning as she saw the naked figure of Trent flash across the corridor and drive the knife into Henry.
Too late.
Henry managed a quarter-turn, saw the glint of the blade, tried to protect himself. Too slow. He and Trent crashed against the bedroom door, the lock splintering open on impact. Henry stumbled onto his knees under Trent’s weight, then pitched forwards, sma
shing his forehead on the edge of the bedstead as Trent fell on him.
Danny’s first instinct was to turn and run. To scream for assistance. She forced herself through that moment, took two long paces down the corridor and pivoted into the room behind the two men. Henry was prostrate and unmoving underneath Trent who straddled him. The knife was already slicing downwards towards Henry’s exposed neck for the second blow.
Danny knew she had to react.
She stepped into the room, but because she was cramped for space, was not able to strike Trent as hard as she would have liked with her baton. Instead she gave a backhand flip, not dissimilar to a squash stroke. The shaft connected with Trent’s left temple, knocking him sideways across the room. The knife shot out of his hand as he rolled over.
Danny glimpsed Trent’s loosely hanging genitalia which made her want to retch.
She stepped over Henry. Trent was already on his hands and knees, scrabbling towards the knife, only inches from his fingers now.
This time she did have the room.
She took aim carefully ... and the baton rose high.
She smashed him hard and deliberately on the back of his skull in a very controlled fashion. She did not want to lose her temper, but by the same token she secretly hoped she would kill him with the blows and fuck the consequences. It was a very satisfying feeling - once... twice ... smack, crack.
Trent’s whole body quivered and collapsed. His fingertips were touching the knife-handle. Danny saw he was still breathing. She quickly pulled his arms round his back and applied a pair of cuffs, purposely ratcheting them too tight.
Then she turned to her boss. ‘Henry, Henry, you all right?’
She heard him moan. ‘Ohh, hell,’ he spoke to the carpet, ‘where did he come from?’
‘Right behind you.’ Danny helped him sit up.
‘Jeez,’ he gasped. He crossed his left hand over his right shoulder and reached for the shoulder-blade. ‘Feels like he hit me with a hammer.’