One Dead Witness hc-3 Page 14

  But hell, it had been good, the second one even better. And good sex was something Kruger had been short of recently. Actually he had been short of sex, full stop.

  She ran her long nails lightly down his stomach, making him quiver.

  ‘ I love Ben,’ she said. ‘He’s a good man. I don’t want to do anything to harm him or hurt him, okay?’

  Kruger caught her hand. He pushed himself up onto one elbow and gazed into her eyes, aware that in the periphery of his vision he could see her breasts and nipples pressed into his ribs and beyond that her legs wrapped around his.

  Her eyes were serious. Kruger was suddenly aware he was looking at a vulnerable individual who had just taken a big step in her life. Gone was the facade of the sassy, cheeky woman.

  ‘ No one will ever know about this,’ he reassured her. ‘No one. This is between me and you alone. What happened here happened for a reason and for a brief moment in time we needed each other. And that’s the end of it. When you walk out of this house, we’re back to square one, okay? End of story.’

  He knew it was a lie. Even if they never jumped into bed again, their relationship would never be the same in the future. But he did not feel bad telling her what she wanted to hear.

  She nodded, also knowing it was a lie.

  Their eyes stayed in contact, holding onto the moment.

  Kruger fought it, so did Myrna, but suddenly they both knew they needed each other again.

  Kruger pulled her up towards him. Their lips mashed together, parted and tongues darted together. Kruger became short of breath as his manhood sprang back to life again. At the same moment, Myrna curled her long fingers around it.

  She broke away from the kiss, her breathing heavy. She pushed herself down the bed, taking him into her hot mouth.

  Kruger groaned and flopped back onto the bed luxuriating in the pleasure. When the bedside phone rang he nearly leapt out of his skin.

  Myrna was not phased by the interruption. Her head rose and fell.

  Kruger fumbled for the phone, answering it with a little squeak which came as the result of a flutter of Myrna’s tongue. ‘Yep?’ he managed to say.

  He listened for a few moments, ‘Jeez, no… That can’t be right.’ He tapped Myrna on the shoulder and indicated for her to stop. Reluctantly she did. ‘This has got to be some kinda joke,’ he said, sat up, his mind nowhere near sex now.

  ‘ Okay… okay. I’ll be there soon… yeah, no problems. Thanks for phoning.’

  Slowly he replaced the receiver and looked at Myrna with an expression of deep shock.

  ‘ What is it?’ she asked worriedly.

  Kruger rubbed a hand down his face. It was many seconds before he found the words to tell her.

  Danny reached home within the space of a few minutes. The Mercedes jarred to a springy halt in her driveway. She darted quickly, like a fugitive, to the front door of her house and wasted no time getting inside, slamming the door shut with such force that the frame rattled. She slid the security chain on, drew the bolt and fell against the back of the door. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to get hold of herself. She was shaking uncontrollably, but she fought it. In the end she lost, seemed to burst out of herself and dashed down the short hallway, ripping her outer jacket off and leaving it discarded in her wake, splayed on the carpet. She veered into the lounge and headed directly for the drinks cabinet in the sideboard.

  With trembling fingers she unfastened a bottle of vodka, poured a large measure with a spit of tonic and drank it very quickly. It was the only drink capable of calming her shattered nerves.

  She lit a ciggie and sank down into an armchair, gratefully feeling herself take control again. The drinks cabinet was now at her eye-level and she could see its contents. There were several bottles of whisky, a drink she detested. She snorted with contemptuous derision when she recalled the reason for its presence.

  For Jack.

  His favourite tipple. After about ten pints of Boddington’s Bitter, that is.

  Anger washed over her.

  She grabbed the bottles, stormed into the kitchen and emptied them down the sink. Four half-full bottles of good quality single malt guggled away. She wasn’t sorry to see it go, even though her money had purchased it. She tossed the empty bottles into the swing bin.

  The bastard, she thought. The cheeky bastard.

  She then descended on the house like a hurricane, whooshing through all the rooms, collecting every piece of anything Jack Sands had left behind. Twenty minutes later she placed a black plastic bin-liner in the middle of the kitchen floor and wiped her hands with satisfaction. Everything had gone into it. She had been surprised at how much the adulterous sod had accumulated in a house that wasn’t his home.

  That sorted, she was still perplexed about what to do about Jack himself. It did not make a great deal of difference that she was a police officer with all that experience behind her. She was still a woman — a lone woman — with a problem, experiencing all the anxieties that lone women suffer.

  She had to weigh up the odds.

  By taking it further, and possibly getting nowhere due to lack of evidence (Jack would never be stupid enough to let anyone find the Mercedes star on him), all that would happen is that Jack would be further incensed.

  She decided to leave it. Let it ride. Accept what had happened and hope Jack would see sense. He’d had his last laugh, made his point. Maybe that would be enough for him.

  Maybe.

  A long sigh cleared her lungs. She felt happier now.

  From the fridge she took a swig of fresh orange to take away the lingering flavour of the vodka and poured herself a very cold glass of Chablis. The fresh, icy-sharp taste revitalised her senses. She came alive again.

  In the hallway she picked up her jacket, turned to go upstairs for a shower. On the first step the phone rang.

  ‘ Yep, Danny Furness.’

  There was a hollow silence on the line.

  Danny went as ice-old as the glass of wine in her hand. ‘Jack, I know it’s you. Stop messing around.’

  Silence. Possibly some breathing.

  ‘ Jack, just fuck off.’

  ‘ Bitch.’ One word only. Growled. Frightening.

  She slammed the phone down, immediately picked it up again and dialled 1471.

  The electronic voice said, ‘You were called today at 2017. We do not have the caller’s number to return the call. Please hang up. Please hang up. Please hang…’

  Mark Tapperman raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise when he saw Kruger and Myrna arrive together in the same car — her Lexus. Kruger ignored the reaction. ‘What’ve you got for us, Mark?’

  ‘ Come on, I’ll show you, but I’m not sure Myrna will want to see.’

  ‘ She wants,’ Kruger said with a tone that brooked no argument. ‘She used to be a Fed. She’s seen some shit in her time.’

  Kruger and she had discussed it on the way over. He had not wanted her to come, let alone visit the actual crime scene. She insisted; he didn’t argue.

  ‘ It ain’t nice,’ Tapperman warned her.

  She sighed and looked at him like the dumb chauvinistic cop she imagined him to be. He got the message and acquiesced. ‘Your decision, lady.’

  They walked across the sidewalk from the car towards what was the front of a four-storey apartment building in Greenwood Heights, north-west of central Miami. A police crime-scene cordon tape was stretched across the front doors, supervised by a uniformed cop with clipboard. Tapperman approached the uniform and gave him a few details which he entered on the log which recorded persons in and out.

  Tapperman lifted the tape with a forefinger, Kruger and Myrna ducked under, followed by the cop.

  ‘ The whole building’s been sealed for the moment. When we’re satisfied we’ll draw the cordon in,’ Tapperman explained. ‘We’ll use the stairs,’ he said. A forensic team of three were crouched down in the elevator, dusting for prints and traces of anything.

  ‘ Try not to touch
too much,’ Tapperman said. ‘We ain’t had a chance to do the stairs yet.’

  ‘ Okay,’ nodded Kruger. He slid his hands into his pockets and meekly followed Tapperman. Secretly he was dreading what he was about to see. His guts fell as though they’d been filled with a bucket of cement.

  They passed a couple more uniformed cops guarding the stairs. On the third floor all three of them were required to don a pair of paper overalls and plastic shoes which would have to be bagged and tagged for evidential purposes when they left. Then they went up onto the top floor where they emerged on a carpeted landing. A hallway ran off to their left, doors on either side, entrances to apartments. There was a mass of police activity from the landing all the way down the corridor.

  Tapperman turned to them. ‘We’ve managed to work out a way down the corridor without disturbing too much evidence, so can I ask you guys to follow exactly in my footsteps. It’s important.’

  Numbly they both nodded.

  Tapperman glanced at Myrna. Her horrified face sent a shiver down him, reminding him it was one of the worst crime scenes he had ever visited. He took a deep breath, began to lead the way.

  Kruger steeled himself. Perspiration rolled down his forehead.

  Before following Tapperman, he allowed himself a couple of moments to cast his eyes down the hallway ahead. He pursed his lips. He too had seen some awful things in his life, but this wasn’t far off taking the biscuit. Blood was everywhere.

  Splats of it.

  Gobs of it.

  Swathes of it.

  The carpet was saturated in it. Some parts of the floor looked deep enough to float a toy boat in it. The walls were covered, as though some would-be modern artist had opened a tin of red paint and gleefully thrown it everywhere with artistic abandon.

  Tapperman walked a couple of yards before noticing he was alone. He stopped, looped his chin over his shoulder. ‘Coming?’

  Kruger and Myrna caught up. He walked on, held up his hand to halt them and pointed down to his side at something on the carpet by the wall which both of them had seen already anyway.

  A severed hand.

  Cleanly cut off at the wrist. Lying there, palm up, like a gruesome ashtray. It was a right hand and there was a gold ring on the little finger.

  Myrna touched Kruger. He reached back and squeezed her hand.

  Tapperman moved on. Two yards further he stopped again, pointed down to his right. Was it a leg this time? Kruger wondered initially. Then, no. It was a forearm, cut from elbow to wrist. A hairy, muscled forearm.

  Behind him, Myrna uttered a pitiful squeak.

  ‘ You okay, honey?’ he asked gently.

  Her hand was over her mouth. She nodded, wide-eyed.

  Their journey progressed, avoiding pools of blood, stepping over them like a nightmarish game of hopscotch. Tapperman pointed out all the sights of interest along the way, like a tour guide taking a party around the Museum of Horrors.

  Another severed hand — again a right one. Palm down, fingers spread wide looking like one of those huge bird-eating spiders but with three of its fat legs amputated; a pair of feet removed from the rest of the body at the ankles, standing there side by side. Could have been a pair of bookends. Obviously placed there with care by the offender.

  All the while, the bile rose inside Kruger’s stomach as the journey down the corridor became increasingly akin to a ghoulish fantasy. His ears pounded, bass drums rattling his eardrums. He was light-headed and slightly ‘out of it’; he fully expected to wake up, bathed in a cold sweat.

  There was no such luxury for him.

  Tapperman reached one of the doors in the corridor which led to an apartment. It was open. He stood slightly to one side and indicated for Myrna and Kruger to have a looksee.

  They did.

  That was enough for Kruger.

  Fuck the evidence.

  He lurched past Tapperman down the hallway and sank to his knees, supporting himself against the wall. He regurgitated his stomach contents in one violent vomit. It looked just like wet cement.

  Behind him, and ringing in his ears, was the ear-splitting petrified scream of Myrna. She had hit hysteria within a milli-second and showed no signs of coming back to earth until Tapperman gave her one almighty crack across the chops.

  ‘ Fuckin’ civvies,’ he said under his breath. Maybe it had been a mistake inviting them to the scene. On reflection, though, perhaps he should’ve warned them.

  It’s not every day that a person gets to see two severed heads, plonked side by side, ear to ear, on a coffee table. Eyes wide open. Mouths gaping. Tongues lolling out. Set in their own coagulating blood, like candle wax.

  The heads of the two brothers, Jimmy and Dale Armstrong. Now former employees of Kruger Investigations.

  Tapperman had a further thought. Jeez, they look like a matching pair of candles. If there had been a wick coming out of them, he would have been tempted to light it.

  Chapter Eight

  The phone rang twice more before Danny even made it upstairs. Each time she answered, it was the same as the first call. Nothing… then one word which took a further step towards obscenity.

  The fourth time it rang, Danny lifted the receiver, replaced it and threw it down, off the hook.

  Before going upstairs she checked all the doors and windows were locked, curtains drawn.

  Only then, when she felt completely safe, did she go for that long bath to soothe her jagged nerves.

  In the deep, hot, soapy water, she had time for reflection.

  Over the years she had dealt with many women — and some men — who had become victims of obsessive behaviour by their former partners or other people, who for some reason became attracted to them in a sick way. In the past she had given normal, routine advice. See a solicitor. Get an injunction. Ring us when he’s here. Keep a log. You’ll have a hell of a time proving it, you know. Stop being such a softie. Pull yourself together.

  Only now did she begin to really understand just something of what those poor people must have been going through. Now it was real to her. It may have only just started, but it made her afraid, alone and isolated. And much, much more.

  Without even knowing what was coming, Danny burst into tears.

  Her initial reaction was to choke them back, but she realised she needed their release. Accordingly, she howled in anguish, smashed the bath brush on the water and went with the flow.

  When they subsided, she felt slightly better.

  Ten minutes later, refreshed, skin buzzing, hair clean, in her bathrobe and slippers, she trotted downstairs, filled up the wine glass and pointed the remote at the telly.

  Tentatively she picked up the phone and bounced it in her hand. She replaced it, held her breath, bit her tongue.

  Nothing happened.

  She breathed out and sat down.

  When the ring came it sound like an explosion in her ears.

  Inside herself, something crumbled.

  Louis Vernon Trent sat prim and proper across from the old lady. He smiled at her occasionally. She thought he looked like a thoroughly decent young man.

  Most of the time he watched the world go by from the train window, gazing at the landscape which he knew so well. Particularly once he had changed trains in Manchester, he recognised every inch of the towns and country of East Lancashire, eventually merging into mid-Lancashire at Preston, then west as the train headed towards the coast.

  Whilst the train was stationary in Preston, he had a few torrid moments when a couple of uniformed British Transport Policemen came into the carriage. They worked their way down the aisles, closely scrutinising’ passengers, in particular lone males.

  He knew they were looking for him.

  He kept his cool, eyed their approach with confidence and leaned forwards, almost with an intimate gesture to the old woman.

  ‘ So how’re you doing, Mum?’ he said. He stressed the last word loud enough for it to be picked up by the approaching cops.

  ‘ I�
�m very well, son,’ she responded brightly, glad of the opportunity to say something. ‘For my age, that is.’

  She laughed. So did Trent.

  ‘ What did you think of my birthday present to you?’ he asked as the policemen came alongside. They ignored Trent and his mum. After all, they were seeking a single man, probably still in prison gear. Not someone travelling with his mum.

  ‘ Eh?’ said the lady.

  ‘ Nowt,’ he said. ‘Go back to sleep.’ He relaxed and allowed himself a smug smile as he closed his eyes and recalled the final moments of his escape.

  He had forced the ambulance driver to take him towards the outskirts of the nearest town where he knew there was an out-of-town retail park. The ambulance was driven behind the retail park to an industrial estate, where they parked up in the back yard of a deserted warehouse.

  At knifepoint, Trent forced the driver out, made him open the rear doors of the ambulance and stand there looking at two dead bodies, soaked in blood. The foot of the brain-skewered prison guard still twitched.

  Trent made the ambulance driver undress and fold up his clothes in a neat pile. He took the man’s wallet which contained sixty pounds and a credit card. He shoved the knife underneath the man’s ear and made him divulge the PIN number for the card which Trent memorised.

  Then it was time to dispose of him.

  Both knew the moment had arrived.

  ‘ Look, pal, I won’t talk. I’ll stay here for as long as you say. Anything. Whatever you want. I don’t wanna die. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve got a wife and kids.’

  Trent sneered at him. ‘I hate kids,’ he chided. ‘Do you fuck them?’

  The man swallowed, shook his head.

  ‘ Get down on your knees.’

  He descended slowly. He was on the same eye-line as his dead colleague in the ambulance, whose eyes stared sightless at him.

  ‘ Shall I take mercy on you?’

  ‘ Yes… please… Look, you can trust me…’

  ‘ Oh, fucking shut up whining,’ shouted Trent. He’d had enough of the man. He grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, exposing the neck. He sliced the knife across his throat, forcing the blade deep with a sawing action, severing the arteries.