One Dead Witness hc-3

  One Dead Witness

  ( Henry Christie - 3 )

  Nick Oldham

  Nick Oldham

  One Dead Witness

  PART ONE

  Prologue

  Trent knew they were coming long before they arrived.

  He could smell it in the air — sense the unnatural quietness, the electric tension which pervaded the prison.

  They were coming for him. Again.

  Suddenly it was very hot.

  His throat became dry and he swallowed with some difficulty. A bead of sweat scuttled down his temple like some sort of insect, leaving a glistening silvery trail in its wake. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, willing himself to have the courage to face up to what was about to happen.

  He was laid out full-length on the lower bunk in his cell, alone, his head propped up on the iron-hard pillows. He had been reading one of his well-thumbed, tatty magazines called 13-Plus, aimed at young teenage girls. When he felt the atmosphere change, and his spine tingled in response, he closed it, tossed it to one side and let it flutter to the floor.

  He lay there for several minutes, eyes staring upwards at the empty bunk above him.

  Then he heard the footsteps.

  Distant at first… rather like listening to a piece of music and honing in on the bass line, separating it from the rest of the instruments. The footsteps clattered more loudly as they mounted the iron steps and reached the landing on which his cell was situated.

  Trent’s heart began to pound remorselessly. His breathing became shallow.

  He knew there would be four of them.

  Three were always the same — the swaggering trio of tough guys who ruled the whole prison between them with their violence and intimidation. Then there would be a fourth one, the one who was about to be treated, the one who was desperate, and had paid in cash or dope or tobacco, whatever the acceptable currency happened to be, to satisfy his pent-up frustrations and cravings.

  So far it had been a different man every time. Trent had a fairly good idea who it would be this time.

  He considered screaming the place down. Then decided not to bother. He had screamed the first few times. A waste of breath. His squeals had gone unheeded, proving that everyone was in on it, including the screws… as had been so painfully demonstrated on the last occasion, some two weeks earlier, when the fourth member of the party, the paying member, had been wearing a prison officer’s uniform.

  The steps were closer now.

  He also considered putting up a fight.

  He’d tried that before, too. Though he was a man of reasonable stature, the three hard men had loved his resistance and risen to the occasion. After they had overpowered him and held his squirming body down to be abused by the fourth member, they had then beaten him senseless. A cold-hearted, clinical assault which put Trent into the casualty department of the local hospital overnight and then into the poorly-equipped prison hospital to recover for four days.

  Trent swung his legs off the bunk and sat up.

  The ominous sound of footfalls on the metallic landing grew even nearer.

  He swallowed once more, this time to keep the vomit down. He attempted to regain control of his breathing and his shaking. Not a chance.

  He swore between gasps.

  They were now only yards away.

  On jittery legs he got to his feet. He groaned pathetically.

  Somewhere in the distance he could hear the laughter of men: prisoners on association, playing cards, or table tennis, reading, chatting, watching TV. All fully aware of what was about to take place in cell number one-six on landing four. And not one of them with the courage to make a stand because not one of them cared a toss.

  Trent was alone. No one would help him.

  By the time the four men reached the door, Trent had unfastened and unzipped his trousers. Anything to save time and get the nightmare over with more quickly.

  They barged into the tiny cell, their stench and presence overpowering him, their size terrifying him.

  Their leader — Trent’s main tormentor — was called Blake. His mouth was crimped into a cruel smile as he regarded Trent with contempt.

  Trent glanced beyond Blake’s shoulder, past his two regular accomplices, to the fourth man. He had been correct in his guess, recalling the knowing looks the black man — a violent rapist whose MO was to break into houses owned by single females and subject them to brutal attacks — had been giving him for the last couple of days during mealtimes.

  ‘ What’s it gonna be, Trent?’ Blake growled. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, but his hard grey eyes glowered dangerously as he spoke. ‘Wanna give us a hard time — or are you gonna grin an’ bear it like a good child molester should?’

  In reply, Trent allowed his trousers to fall to his ankles. He stepped out of them, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his grimy-grey underpants and shuffled them down his legs.

  ‘ You’re learning,’ remarked Blake triumphantly.

  By lights out the bleeding had stopped. A whole bloodstained toilet roll had been flushed down the inadequate loo.

  Fortunately, Trent had been able to reduce some of the excruciating pain. By exchanging some loose tobacco for half a dozen aspirins with another inmate and then raiding his own secret stash of cannabis, he had taken the pills, waited for them to have some effect, then smoked a joint. It helped a little, but for some things the pain never goes away.

  When darkness came, he was lying on his bunk, holding his breath so as to infuse the smoke from his lungs into his bloodstream. The hot smoke burned his throat, but he resisted the temptation to cough. That would have been a waste of a very precious substance.

  The squelching from the above bunk indicated that the man there was in the throes of masturbation. Trent ignored it and concentrated on other distasteful matters that were more relevant.

  Firstly there was the all-consuming hatred he harboured for the people responsible for putting him into this hell-hole. The cops, the barristers, the judges — yeah, he despised them utterly — but his worst rage was reserved for the little people he had once loved and cared for. They were the ones who had turned on him and told all those lies. Betrayed him. How could they? After all he had done for them?

  And secondly, he thought about his bitter hatred for Blake and his other tormentors here in prison. Trent growled in his throat, fantasies of terrible revenge whirring around and around in his mind. One thing was for sure: they had all taken on much more than they had bargained for.

  As he lay there brooding, the cannabis on its mercy dash through his system, he decided that one day in the not-too distant future he would mete out a very painful revenge on every single bastard who had either hurt him, turned against him or had in some way been responsible for his plight.

  The man in the top bunk moved, rolled to the edge of the bed and with a gasp of ecstasy concluded his act of self-gratification by ejaculating onto the cell floor, narrowly missing Trent’s head.

  Chapter One

  It was obvious from the way in which she was driving that Detective Constable Danny Furness was one very pissed off woman.

  She changed gear jerkily and jabbed at the accelerator, even though it was her own car, not a police car, and it was her pride and joy — one of the few major indulgences she had allowed herself in the whole of her life. The car surged out of the rear yard of Blackpool Central police station with a screech. Danny threw a right down Richardson Street, followed by another right up Chapel Street towards the traffic lights at the Promenade, which were on red.

  She braked, nearly upending the car, then took a deep breath and forced herself to relax into the comfortable driver’s seat of the ten-year-old Mercedes 190. Then she lambas
ted herself mentally for getting so riled up about the plight and the ‘up yours’ attitude of just another of her customers.

  No doubt about it: the job was getting to her.

  No, scrap that. The job had got to her.

  She thanked the Almighty that last Thursday she had paraded in front of the Chief Constable and had been promoted to Sergeant with effect from the following Monday; this meant she had only a week more to work on the Family Protection Unit (FPU) before she transferred onto the CID and became a Detective Sergeant. She couldn’t wait to go.

  She squinted at the sullen figure in the passenger seat next to her. The eleven-year-old girl clung miserably to the door-handle, having refused on a point of principle to put her seat belt on. She wore a scowl of pure loathing splattered across what was actually a very pretty face and. stared angrily ahead through the windscreen, refusing to even acknowledge the detective next to her.

  Danny sighed impatiently — at the girl and the unchanging lights.

  ‘ Look, Claire, let’s face facts: you can’t go around doing exactly what you wanna do all the time. You’re well old enough to realise that you need to consider other people’s feelings besides your own. Your mum has been frantic, really worried about you.’

  Claire’s lips curled cynically at Danny’s reasonable words. She continued to stare dead ahead through the rain, her eyes unrelenting pools of liquid steel. The little speech had gone in one ear and out the other.

  Danny shook her head in frustration.

  The lights changed. She turned left — south — onto the Promenade, smack into the fiercely driving rain and howling gale-force wind which had virtually cleared the sea-front of all pedestrians.

  She had spent most of the last two hours trying to get underneath Claire’s tough facade — in the presence of the girl’s nineteen-year-old cousin, who had been as useful as a verruca in a swimming pool — and failed. Danny would have preferred to have had Claire’s mother present, but she had been uncontactable.

  ‘ You’ve gone missing from home six times in the last two months and the last two times you’ve been nicked for shoplifting. You’re bloody lucky we’ve decided to caution you again; next time we might put you before a juvenile court. Is that what you want? The court might even decide to place you in a home… Do you want to be sent away?’

  Danny knew it was only a remote possibility, but Claire didn’t need to be aware of that.

  Not that Danny’s words had much effect. The kid exhaled in a manner which suggested she’d heard all this garbage before, turned haughtily to face Danny and with a sneer said, ‘I don’t fucking care.’ She drew her right knee up and wedged her foot on the seat.

  Danny had an urge to lurch across the gap between them and give the young lady one almighty slap across the chops. Instead she snapped, ‘Feet off!’

  Claire insolently let her foot thud back onto the floor.

  ‘ Six times in the last two months, eh? Why? What’s behind it? You unhappy at home?’

  Claire winced and quickly looked out of the side window at the passing Promenade which was being lashed by a combination of the heavy rain and the waves which crashed over the sea wall, driven by high winds.

  Danny missed the reaction. She expelled an exasperated breath and thought, Sod you, you little cow! If you don’t want to open up, I’m not sure I want to be bothered with you.

  And yet she was concerned. Which is probably the reason why Danny had been such a success on FPU. She cared.

  Why should a kid like Claire, from a good, apparently stable background, doing well at school, popular, likeable, suddenly veer off the rails? There was a multitude of possible reasons, none of which Claire seemed willing to divulge.

  It didn’t add up.

  And Danielle Louise Furness, soon to be a Detective Sergeant, didn’t like things that didn’t add up.

  The remainder of the journey was completed in deathly silence, Danny knowing from experience when she was banging her head against a brick wall. She didn’t have the time or the energy to pursue things further. So instead of trying to draw Claire out, she concentrated on driving, enjoying the car, which despite its age handled and responded beautifully.

  Claire, glad of the respite from the pressure, closed her eyes and rested her head on the seat, exhausted.

  A few minutes later, Danny pulled up outside the sea front hotel on South Shore Promenade which was Claire’s home.

  ‘ Here we are,’ she announced, and killed the engine. ‘Home sweet home.’

  With a start, Claire opened her eyes. She had almost dropped off to sleep for the first time in thirty-six hours.

  She looked quickly — wide-eyed, like a trapped rabbit — at Danny, who saw the expression on the youngster’s face; but it was only on later reflection, much, much later, that she recognised it as fear. There and then, Claire’s reaction to her arrival home did not really register with the detective. It just seemed to be a rude awakening. Nothing more.

  ‘ C’mon lass,’ Danny urged her into action.

  Claire’s shoulders slumped. The corners of her pretty mouth curled down and she pouted with a quivering bottom lip. With resignation she opened the door and climbed out of the car.

  Danny unfastened her seat belt and got out too. The rain washed over her immediately, as if someone had thrown a bucket of water at them.

  Side by side they walked across the paved parking area outside the small hotel towards the front door. Danny knew Claire’s parents were now home. Apparently they had been out at the Cash amp; Carry warehouse when Claire had been picked up, which was why the police had been unable to contact them. Danny was anticipating the very real pleasure of depositing the uncooperative little brat back into Mummy’s open arms.

  She looked down at the grubby ‘misper’ — missing person — by her side.

  Claire was dressed in raggy denim jeans, an ‘Oasis’ style anorak and a pair of multi-coloured Reeboks.

  By contrast, the older woman was dressed in a practical but elegantly tailored long line suit in a colour described as ‘soft-grape’ and sling-back court shoes with three-inch heels on her feet. Ideal attire for office work as well as the wide range of other activities she carried out on the FPU; completely inappropriate, however, for pursuing a young lady who decided on the spur of the moment that there was no way in this world that she was going to be returned home.

  About four yards from the door, Claire twisted unexpectedly. She legged it around a parked car and vaulted over the low wall separating the frontage of her parents’ hotel from the one next door. Then she shifted quickly into top gear.

  Danny lunged for her. Missed. Grabbed an armful of fresh air. Swore with words from a vocabulary that could only have come from seventeen years’ police service. And without a second thought, gave chase.

  ‘ You little bitch!’ she screamed, yanked her skirt above her knees and cleared the low wall with only millimetres to spare. Claire was fast and agile, as an eleven-year-old girl should be. But Danny was determined not to lose her, even though she was not in the peak of physical condition. It was a matter of pride.

  She landed awkwardly, going over onto her left ankle, feeling it crick out of shape with a pop. She gasped, regained her footing and belted after the fleeing kid.

  Claire looked over her shoulder, saw how close Danny was, and reacted by veering right, skittering round the front of a parked car and bounding over the dividing wall onto the next hotel forecourt. She lost her footing, skidded over, rolled, and was up and running again.

  Danny followed.

  This time she caught the top of the wall with the heel of her shoe and crashed down on the opposite side, landing on her hands and knees in a deep puddle of rainwater.

  Her work suit was now ruined. The cuffs of her jacket sleeves were soaked in dirty water, the skirt was completely drenched and she had laddered her tights. Eyes burning with irritation, she scrambled to her feet, slithering and sliding, then was back in pursuit, determined not to lose her q
uarry.

  Seconds later, Claire realised she would have to do more than simply leg it in order to escape from Danny. Despite her present lack of fitness, the detective was built with the loose-limbed athleticism of a cheetah and, in days gone by, before the evils of cigarettes, booze and late nights, she had been a superb sportswoman who had represented the county at running, tennis and netball. She was still pretty good over short distances.

  Danny lunged for Claire a second time.

  And would have had her if the girl hadn’t glanced over her shoulder at that exact moment, seen Danny’s fingers stretching out for her, ducked left behind a car, then shot towards the Promenade.

  The road was busy, the traffic heavy, the rain making it worse.

  Without even looking, Claire flung herself dangerously in the path of an oncoming van.

  Panting now, Danny ran after her round the same parked car, only to hear an ominous ripping sound as her skirt caught on the bumper and tore.

  This, however, was not something which immediately bothered her because she had seen Claire’s reckless dash into the road and the van bearing down on her.

  Danny shrieked the girl’s name.

  Claire stopped immediately. She became rooted to the spot on the tarmac and turned to face the van.

  Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream.

  Everything slurred down into slow motion.

  The driver had been motoring along, not concentrating particularly, listening to some very loud classical music and exceeding the 30 mph speed limit by a dangerous eighteen miles per hour. His windscreen wipers were working hard against the sluicing rain. The last thing he expected to see was the ghost-like apparition of a young girl darting out directly in front of him and stopping stone dead.

  ‘ Jesus!’

  He gripped the steering-wheel tightly enough to crush it and literally stood on the brake pedal, his backside lifting off the seat. The classical music pounding in his ears lost all form and substance, becoming a deafening, blare.