One Dead Witness (22 page)

Twenty-five minutes later a taxi dropped him off at the
railway station where he boarded the next train north.

And here he was, only minutes away from his home town, his old
stomping ground, Blackpool. It had gone like a dream.

The old lady had nodded off.

Trent smiled indulgently at her. Bitch.

Next stop along the line was Poulton-le-Fylde, the last one
before the end of the line at Blackpool.

Guessing, rightly, that there were likely to be cops waiting
at the terminus, he decided not to push his luck too far. He looked
slyly around the almost deserted railway carriage - no one was
paying any attention to him - and dipped his hand into the old
lady’s shopping bag, helping himself to her unguarded
purse.

It went straight into his pocket.

He hit the platform running as the train pulled into
Poulton-le-Fylde and trotted away, carried by his own
momentum.

In
a cubicle in the public toilets he
examined with glee the contents of a well-stocked purse. Trent
blessed the stupid old woman who probably did not have a bank
account and kept all her savings underneath her bed. There was
almost five hundred pounds stuffed into the purse, plus a large
handful of loose change.

He transferred the money into his pockets and wedged the purse
behind the toilet block.

A few minutes later he was settled in the snug of a nearby
pub, a pint of bitter in one hand, a cumbersome-looking sandwich in
the other. He estimated he probably had about half an hour before
he needed to move on. When he did he would simply catch a cab into
Blackpool, book into one of the thousands of guest-houses, and
disappear amongst the great unwashed.

Home and dry.

A dithery Steve Kruger put the plastic cup to his lips and
took a sip of the scalding-hot black coffee.

With Tapperman and Myrna, he was out in the sultry street,
about a hundred yards away from the Armstrong brothers’ apartment
building. The trio were leaning on a semi-permanent burger stall
from which they’d bought their drinks.

Myrna looked very ill. Her normally lovely golden-brown skin
had developed a tinge of grey and her eyes were tired and
sunken.

Tapperman was talking at the same time as inserting a greasy
onion-laden cheeseburger into his mouth.

‘
Fuckin’ incredible.’ He shook his head and wiped the dribble
of fat from his chin. ‘To do that to somebody. I mean, hell,
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
eat yer goddam heart out.’ The last of the burger
disappeared.

‘
Okay, Mark, we get the picture,’ Kruger cut him short. He
breathed out long and hard and tried to manage the memory of what
he’d experienced in the last hour.

On recovering from his vomiting fit in the corridor, Kruger
had gone on to witness the rest of the carnage in the apartment
which had belonged to the Armstrong brothers. After edging past
their heads on the coffee table, he was treated to a tour so he
could see where the remaining parts of their two bodies had been
scattered.

Their limbless torsos had been dumped in the bath; their arms
and legs were distributed around the living room, kitchen and two
bedrooms. The final, nice touch, was that their private parts had
been sliced off and placed side by side on a plate in the
icebox.

Kruger didn’t linger. His experienced eyes saw everything they
needed to see. He urgently required fresh air. But the atmosphere
of the late afternoon in Miami was clammy, making pleasant
breathing a difficulty, even on the sidewalk. The air from the
apartment stuck in his lungs; he seemed unable to expel
it.

‘
They were good boys,’ croaked Myrna, the first words she had
spoken for some time. ‘Good boys and good workers. They didn’t
deserve to die, not like this.’

Kruger looked at her. Some of the colour was flowing back into
her face now that anger was beginning to replace shock.

‘
Yeah, they were,’ Kruger agreed. The Armstrongs had been two
of his first employees and had stuck with him through the early
days. Both had been tough professionals and superb investigators.
Both were good friends to Steve Kruger. He had spent many nights in
their company, particularly during the dark days of divorce, and
had crashed out several times at their apartment when he’d been too
drunk to get home. The apartment, therefore, held fond memories for
Kruger. The three of them had hit it a few times with willing
ladies.

Kruger’s eyes returned to Tapperman. ‘Any leads?’

The big cop shrugged. ‘I guess you an’ me are thinking pretty
much along the same lines.’

‘
Yeah - Bussola. He’s supposed to be a whizz with a
chainsaw.’

‘
Only rumours,’ Tapperman cautioned.

‘
No smoke without fire.’ Kruger frowned. ‘Anything from the
other tenants? To do that with a chainsaw must have made a hell of
a racket.’

‘
So far, no one’s heard a mouse’s fart and no one saw
nuthin.’

‘
But a chainsaw in that place! Must’ve been like a lion roaring
in a cookie jar.’

‘
Nuthin’ - yet. But these state-of-the-art chainsaws can run
almost silent.’

‘
Forensics?’

‘
Again - nuthin’ yet. Crime-scene guys reckon whoever did it
was wearing plastic gloves and overalls ... which’ll all be
destroyed by now.’

‘
It was Bussola,’ Myrna blurted out. ‘He warned us we’d regret
it - and now we do.’

‘
Myrna, honey. . . I know it was Bussola, you know it, and so
does Steve here ... but provin’ it’s gonna be one helluva godamned
difficult thing to do.’

‘
In that case, Mark – “honey” - you’d better get your ass into
gear,’ Myrna retorted.

In the dream Danny had been transported back in time. Fifteen
years to be exact. She was on-duty and attending the Liltons’
address in Osbaldeston. It was all very clear, as though she was
actually there again. She drew up in the car, stopped outside the
front of the house and got out. She could hear the argument in
progress. Joe Lilton versus his then wife. Danny walked towards the
house. She could hear the words being shouted, but she wasn’t
really listening. They were going into her brain, but not
registering ... then the dream changed and went black and she was
being pinned down. A face appeared above her, grotesque features,
but it was definitely Jack Sands. His breath smelled of spermicidal
cream. He held her down and tried to force her legs
apart.

There was an interruption. A metallic sound, followed by a
sort of shuffling noise.

Danny woke with a start.

The noises were not in the dream, they were
reality.

She sat bolt upright, sweat pouring off her, heart pounding,
her senses switched on, acute.

There it was again. The click of metal followed by the
shuffling noise.

Danny cursed.

Jack was back.

Once more she recognised just how vulnerable she was. The
phone was downstairs - off the hook - and there was no alarm on the
house with a panic button right where she needed it - next to the
bed.

She rolled off the bed, wrapped her dressing-gown tightly
around her.

Time check: 1.30 a.m.

Out onto the landing to the top of the stairs. No lights.
Don’t switch the lights on. Be brave. Catch the bastard.

That metallic sound again. This time she recognised what it
was. Her imagination ran riot. It
was the
sound of the metal flap on the letter box. Christ! He was pouring
petrol into the house! He was going to torch it, burn it down and
kill her at the same time.

Danny emitted a mad scream of anguish and threw herself at the
double light-switch on the landing. Both hall and landing lights
came on. Scaring him away was now her priority, before that lighted
match came through the letter box. She raced downstairs, bellowing
words which were incomprehensible.

She leapt down the last five steps, twisted into the hallway
and faced the front door.

It was not petrol which had been pushed through.

A dozen red roses, several with broken stems, lay there
forlornly on the mat.

Danny sank to her knees and picked one up. She crushed the
flower in the palm of her hand and allowed the creased petals to
drift onto the carpet.

Steve Kruger sat silently in the passenger seat of the Lexus
whilst a trance-like Myrna drove him home. There was nothing of
value to say. Kruger had been warned about the dangers of dealing
with the mafia and the warnings had proved to be accurate. Two of
his employees had been butchered and no doubt he, Myrna and Kelly
(who he had phoned, found to be safe and well, and warned to get
out of town) were probably still in grave danger. All because he
had been frightened by his ex-wife’s big mouth, threatening to
reveal things which might destroy him.

‘
I’m sorry,’ he said meekly.

‘
I’m sorry too - for everything,’ Myrna replied, stressing the
last word. The meaning was bluntly clear to Kruger. ‘Everything’
included their sexual encounter.

He sighed and screwed up his face, sick to the stomach,
disgusted with himself for having been so weak-kneed as to accede
to Felicity’s demands. He should have called her bluff. After all,
she was the one who would have had to prove he sold restricted
weapons to an unfriendly country.

He rubbed the base of his thumbs into his eyes.

The Lexus drew up outside his house.

Kruger wrapped his fingers around the door-handle, paused
before alighting and glanced sideways at Myrna. ‘Drink? Coffee?
Anything?’

She did not look at him. ‘Not a good idea,’ she said,
addressing the steering-wheel. Her voice was like stone and her
body language gave Kruger the impression she hated him. She tapped
the wheel and after a moment she relaxed. She looked sadly at
Kruger. Her voice became soft. ‘Not a good idea,’ she repeated. ‘I
need to get home.’

‘
I . . .’ Kruger began to speak with a stutter.

Myrna reached across and placed a forefinger on his lips.
‘Don’t say something you’ll regret. We need to get back to square
one - and get our revenge for Jimmy and Dale.’

Kruger was startled. It was apparent the old Myrna had
returned.

‘
Yeah, you heard right. I said revenge. I want revenge on
Bussola, and one way or another I’m gonna get it. And if I can’t do
it by fair means, I’ll sure as hell do it by foul.’

Kruger nodded. ‘Look after yourself,’ he said.

‘
I’ll be okay and so will Kelly, I guess. He won’t do anything
against us . . . but you’ll need to be careful, Steve. He might
well come after you.’

Moments later, Myrna pulled away from the kerb.

Kruger let himself back into his house, totally
exhausted.

It was 10 p.m. After pouring a beer down his throat and
setting the house alarm, he crawled into bed, unmade since he and
Myrna had been writhing ecstatically around on it.

The last thing he did before sleep was to reach out to the
drawer in his bedside cabinet. He fumbled under a couple of
paperbacks and his fingers found the butt of his .38 police
special. He pulled it out and placed it carefully on top of the
cabinet, pointing away from his head.

Then he slept, secure in the knowledge that only another
matter of feet away, in his wardrobe, were several other guns of
various calibre and design which he could reach in seconds if
necessary.

Trent openly cruised the bars and clubs of Blackpool, enjoying
his newfound freedom, savouring the taste of alcohol and getting
very drunk indeed. He was sure no one would recognise him. After
all, he was nine years older, thinner and much more gaunt than he
had been; his hair had shaded to grey and his facial features
become narrow and pinched.

Nine years before he had looked like a predatory owl, now he
looked like an evil weasel.

He drifted into a few pubs where he knew he could get some
good information on where to go later. As it was his first night
out of jail he wasn’t too bothered with the quality. All he wanted
was a taster to whet his appetite.

Eventually he got word of something happening in the secure
back room of a strip joint near to North Pier. He wasn’t sure what
it would be - it was difficult to pin people down to specifics -
but it would do.

When the clubs closed at two, he went to a cash machine and
because it was another day, he was able to withdraw another £300
from the dead ambulanceman’s account.

With cash almost bursting out of his pockets, none of it his,
he strolled to the club specified. He had been directed to go up
the fire escape and knock gently on the first door he came
to.

It would cost him fifty dabs.

He knocked, the money ready in his fist. The door opened. A
gorilla/bouncer took the cash and counted it carefully. He directed
Trent to the second door along a poorly lit corridor.