One Dead Witness hc-3 Page 2

  The brakes slammed on. The wheels locked. The tyres vainly tried to grip the surface of the road which was a river of rain. The back end slithered round towards the front end as the van entered a skid and lurched towards the petrified Claire.

  On the roadside Danny watched the scene unfold with a kind of morbid fascination. Even as she stared at the inevitable accident-to-be, her mind told her she would be the one to blame; she was the one who had chased a frightened eleven-year-old into the path of a vehicle; the one who would have to answer all those awkward questions in a Coroner’s court.

  Claire was only inches away from the front grille of the van. A fraction of a second from being mown down.

  Then, amazingly, she moved.

  She leapt out of the way and ran across the road, over the tram tracks towards the sea.

  Everything clicked back into real time.

  The van shuddered to a skewed halt over the spot where Claire had been standing a second before. The driver was white-faced. His heart had stopped momentarily. His fingers were still wrapped solidly around the wheel. His eyes bulged in their sockets like someone had whacked him with a spade on the back of his head. He wasn’t sure whether or not he’d hit the girl and she was underneath the front wheels, whether it had been some sort of spiritual apparition or whether he needed to see an optician.

  With one last judder, the engine stalled.

  He watched in fascination as a tall, slim woman, drenched to the skin, hair plastered to her head, dressed in a filthy suit with a tear right up the back of her skirt to her knickers, dashed past his vision.

  The Promenade was being bombarded by a fusion of crashing waves and heavy rain, supported by the strong wind.

  Claire was running along, perilously close to the railings next to the sea wall. Danny was behind her, leaving more space between herself and the angry sea. She was finding it increasingly difficult to make up any ground on Claire. The elements didn’t seem to want her to catch up — running against the gale-force wind was like swimming in porridge — she was approaching the limit of her fitness and also by now her ankle was hurting like hell.

  All rational thoughts were then purged when a huge wave burst over the sea wall and landed on her, almost drowning her in an ice-cold sheet. For more than a few moments Danny had to fight against the terrifying elemental force of the water as it retreated back to the sea. It tore at her, trying to unbalance her and drag her back, pulling at her legs and ankles. It was all she could do to remain upright against such power which had knocked all the breath and spirit out of her.

  She was worried about Claire: if the foolish youngster should get hit, would she be able to resist the strength of the sea?

  With that in mind, Danny stopped chasing, giving Claire the opportunity to get away from both herself and the sea. Nothing was worth putting lives in danger.

  Up ahead, Claire ceased running. She turned and faced Danny, looking like a half-drowned squirrel.

  Some thirty yards separated the two females.

  Claire shouted something which was whisked away in the wind and the water.

  Danny took several paces towards her.

  ‘ Don’t come any closer!’ Claire yelled in warning.

  Danny stood still. She could see utter anguish on the girl’s face.

  ‘ I won’t, I promise,’ Danny shouted in reply. ‘Just come away from the edge, it’s very dangerous. Then we can talk.’

  ‘ I’m not coming home. You can’t make me go home. If you do, I’ll run away again.’

  ‘ Okay, okay, just move away from there… Claire! LOOK OUT!’ Danny bellowed out the last two words of warning as she saw a massive swell build up and then break like a huge claw right over Claire.

  The crushing weight of the water rammed the youngster to the ground as effectively as if a sack of coal had been dumped on her shoulders. When the water rushed back, its tentacles took her with it. She screamed and writhed in a fight against it, but it was no use. She was hauled across the concrete back towards the sea like a fish on the deck of a trawler, her screams muted as the bitter salt-water filled her nose and mouth and lungs, choking her.

  For the second time in less than two minutes, Danny was compelled to watch in horrified fascination as the fate of the young girl was enacted in front of her eyes.

  Then Danny moved into action. Drawing on her last reserves of strength and energy, she flung herself towards the pathetic figure.

  She knew she would not make it, though.

  Claire was too far away and being pulled too quickly. She would be gone in seconds… and explain that one, Detective Furness. Not now a fatal road traffic accident, but a drowning victim…

  Claire slithered towards the precipice of the sea wall and was dashed sideways against one of the perpendicular posts of the railings — which she grabbed instinctively — but still the sea pulled her backwards and tried to unwrap her fingers from the post. She clung on desperately, but with failing strength and great pain inside her chest where she had slammed against the iron post. At the same time a new, even more powerful swell was building up behind her, one designed to finish the job started by its predecessor and claim a victim. Or two.

  Danny saw it rise. She also saw that Claire’s progress had been halted by her collision with the railing post. But not for very long.

  She weighed up the odds.

  If she did reach Claire and grab her, the chances were in favour of them both being sucked into a watery grave. If she didn’t, Claire was definitely dead. The poor odds did not prevent her from flinging herself across the last few feet and risking her own life to save Claire’s.

  At the precise moment Danny got hold of her sleeve, Claire lost her grip and her legs went over the edge of the wall. The sea boiled only inches away from the soles of her shoes. Danny wrapped herself around the post and shouted, ‘Hold on tight.’

  The new wave rose like a monster from the deep and exploded spectacularly over them, twice as savage as the previous one. Through it all Danny and Claire held grimly onto each other, their eyes locked into each other’s gaze, looks of solid resolve on their faces as they fought to live, whilst the Irish Sea did its utmost to separate them once and for all.

  ‘ Don’t let go, don’t let go,’ Danny chanted as much for herself as Claire.

  The water whooshed back past them, battering them, trying its damnedest to draw them into the sea and almost succeeding. Had it continued a few more moments, Danny would have had to let go.

  Suddenly the water all drained away, leaving them clinging to the edge of the Promenade. Alive. The wind had changed its angle ever so slightly and the tide whipped away to a point further south.

  Danny did not hesitate. She knew from past experience just how fickle the sea was — she had pulled four bodies out of it in her time — and this respite would only be brief. They had to make use of it, even though their natural reaction would be to stay put and get their breath back.

  ‘ Oh God, oh God,’ Claire spluttered.

  ‘ Come on, we’ve got to move!’ With one last effort, Danny heaved Claire back onto the Promenade. ‘Come on, get up, we can’t hang around.’

  Claire was on all fours, coughing and retching up the water which had cascaded down her gullet. Danny yanked her up. ‘Run!’ she shouted.

  The howling wind changed again. The sea was about to make another attempt on their lives. The burgeoning swell looked enormous.

  ‘ I can’t,’ Claire wept.

  Danny grabbed her roughly by the collar and hoisted her bodily away from the edge. They reached the comparative safety of the tram tracks just in time to turn and watch the next monstrous wave explode against the sea wall.

  Had they been underneath it, they would have been fish food. For sure.

  Danny pulled a blanket around her shoulders, brushed her damp straggly hair back from her face and said, ‘Claire seems to be unhappy for some reason.’

  ‘ I can’t think why. God knows, we give her everything she wants,�
� said Claire’s mother, Ruth Lilton.

  ‘ She’s spoilt rotten,’ her stepfather grunted, a tone of real nastiness underneath the words. Joe Lilton was a big, brusque individual who intensely annoyed Danny. She thought she knew him from somewhere — way back when — but could not quite place him. ‘She’s going through a rebellious phase, that’s all. Needs it knocking out of her.’

  And you’re just the one to do it, obviously, Danny nearly said. Instead she ignored him, turned back to Mrs Lilton and commented: ‘Well, this phase seems to be pretty extreme, wouldn’t you say? Shoplifting? Missing from home? Ruth, if you’d like to bring her down to the police station, I could spend some time with her, interview her again, maybe less formally. Perhaps that’d get to the root of the problem.’

  ‘ That’s a good idea-’ the woman began, but her husband butted in rudely.

  ‘ There’s no call for that,’ he interrupted. ‘We’ll sort her out. What she’s short of is a good old-fashioned leathering. No need for you lot to be involved any further you’ve done enough. Family matter from now on.’ He seemed to brighten suddenly. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  Danny shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ But to Mrs Lilton she said, ‘I’m always available if you need me.’

  Mrs Lilton said a quiet thanks.

  The three of them were sitting in one corner of the crowded waiting room in the casualty department at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. After the fright on the seafront, Danny and Claire had stumbled back across the road to Claire’s parents’ hotel. From there Danny had driven her immediately to BVH because Claire had been creased double with an agonising pain in her chest. Mr and Mrs Lilton followed in their car.

  After an interminable wait, an X-ray had confirmed two cracked ribs, caused when Claire had been smashed against the railing post.

  Danny herself had been given a swift check-up by a very dishy doctor and been declared fighting fit. He had rather sensuously eased a tubi-grip bandage around her ankle which, from X-rays, was diagnosed as being sprained. All Danny had wanted, though, was a double vodka-tonic and a drag of a Benson amp; Hedges Gold. But she didn’t have any spirits to hand and her ciggies — which had been kept in her jacket pocket — were a sodden mush.

  ‘ Here she is,’ said Danny, looking up.

  A nurse was guiding the still-bedraggled young girl down the corridor towards the waiting room. Claire was shuffling rather than walking. Each step looked painful, because other than the broken ribs, she had suffered a multitude of other bangs, cuts and bruises during her sea-front ordeal.

  She looked exhausted and ready to drop. She was in need of a good meal and a rake of sleep.

  ‘ Sweetheart,’ cried Mrs Lilton. She stood up. Open armed, she went to Claire and embraced her gently.

  ‘ Little cow,’ Joe Lilton muttered under his breath. He got up and put on a false face of concern. ‘C’mon girl, let’s get you home.’ He rubbed her head with his hand in a fatherly gesture. Claire reared away from him, fireballs in her eyes. He withdrew his hand. His mouth became a hard line.

  Danny rose wearily, aware that the tear up the back of her skirt was hanging open like a pair of curtains. She didn’t have the energy to care who saw her knickers any more.

  Claire walked up and murmured a meek, ‘Thank you,’ to Danny, who nodded. She could not fail to see the expression of absolute desolation on the youngster’s face as her parents led her away. She looked as if she was going to the scaffold. Danny heard Mrs Lilton saying, ‘The first thing we’ll do is get you into a hot bath and then..’ Her voice faded.

  Danny wondered how long it would be before Claire Lilton went on the run again.

  The Detective Constable limped into the ladies’ loo. After she had relieved herself, she studied herself in a mirror over a wash basin, stunned by her reflection. Talk about the witch from Hell City. She looked appalling!

  Her pretty ash-blonde hair had dried like strands of thick, coarse string. Most of her make-up, which she always took great pride in applying, had been washed away. The remnants of her eye-liner and mascara made her look like the victim of an assault. Her suit was ruined beyond cleaning or repair and she knew there would be no earthly chance of the police footing the bill for its replacement. Her tights had more ladders in them than a board game and her shoes, which had partly dried out, had gone all crinkly.

  But worse than that, she looked and felt her age.

  She was aching all over, having used muscles that hadn’t been stretched for years when she’d chased and rescued Claire. This must be how an arthritic eighty-year old feels, she thought. And frankly, you don’t look much less than eighty.

  It was as if the seawater had scoured away the last vestiges of her youth. She held up her chin and could see the lines of ageing running down her neck, giving her the likeness of a scrawny chicken. There were also deep lines at the edge of her mouth which seemed to put ten years on her and needed filling.

  Her shoulders sagged; she experienced a wave of nauseating depression.

  ‘ Darlin’,’ she said to herself critically, ‘if you don’t watch it, you’re going to become an old slapper.’ She blew out a long breath. ‘Shit.’

  Then she stood upright, forced a smile onto her face and tried to be positive. The sea might have revealed the Danny underneath the make-up, but it also showed that her best features couldn’t be washed away — her lovely slanting green eyes which were almost oriental; and her lips, which despite the lines at the edges, were full, soft and very definitely kissable. Nor had the sea done any damage to her figure. She still had firm, beautifully formed breasts which provoked many a second glance from passing men, a slim waist and hips which were only just beginning to broaden.

  Suddenly the cloakroom door burst open and a couple of noisy teenage girls entered, giggling when they clapped eyes on the state of Danny. She brushed regally past them and stormed — limp and all — out of the hospital.

  The rain was still bucketing down but the wind had eased off. By the time Danny reached her car she was soaked to the skin again, hair plastered down her forehead.

  If only she had been returning home to a husband or loving partner and some TLC. That would have made things much more bearable. But to go through all this and skulk back to an empty house, pleasant though it was, and wait, usually with disappointment, for her married lover to call by or ring, made her want to cry.

  All she craved was some uncomplicated love. Was that too much to ask?

  Chapter Two

  As Danny Furness accelerated tiredly out of the hospital car park onto East Park Road, it was 11 p.m. British time. Three thousand miles to the west, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, in Miami, Florida it was 6 p.m., five hours behind. The weather in Dade County that day could not have been more of a contrast to its British counterpart. At its height the sun had pounded down an unbearable 90 degrees, making the city of Miami airless and oppressive… but now a light breeze whisked in across Biscayne Bay and promised a pleasant evening.

  Perfect for dining out on the terrace, thought Steve Kruger, who had just wrapped up a day which had started eleven hours earlier. He was looking forward to getting home, throwing off his work suit and changing into baggy shorts, busting open a bottle of Hurricane Reef Lager and preparing the barbecue ready for the arrival of his son, daughter-in-law and their two kids.

  It had been a long, tedious day at the office. Because it was the month-end and not a zillion miles away from the end of the financial year, Kruger had spent most of his time stuck behind his desk in air-conditioned splendour, neck-tie discarded, locked into strategic and tactical planning with his secretary, accountant and three company directors. Specific plans for next year and outline plans for the next three had been thrashed out.

  Some of the more nuts-and-bolts stuff had also been finalised. Such as tidying up some files and putting together a huge batch of bad-debt bills which the secretary had posted off today. If they were all paid by return, Kruger’s cash flow would be $150,000 to the good. In realit
y he knew he’d be lucky to get 30 per cent of them paid off within six weeks. He’d been chasing one debtor’s ass for seven months — a lawyer, of all people — who owed over ten grand. Kruger had sent that son of a bitch a final FINAL demand, together with a mildly threatening letter which intimated — subtly — that no one ever welched on a Kruger Investigations Final Demand notice with success.

  It had been a pleasure to dictate that letter, safe in the knowledge that it didn’t matter whether the guy paid up or not, because the one positive thing to emerge during the day was that Kruger Investigations’ net profits were going to be very healthy indeed. Five per cent up on the previous year. Somewhere in the region of two million dollars.

  Not bad for a firm which had only begun operating five years earlier, employing only himself and his second wife (now ex) as a secretary. She had long gone, but Kruger had stayed at the helm and after a very worrying first eighteen months had built up a business employing forty people and fast approaching inter-state expansion time.

  With these happy thoughts in mind, Kruger, bulky, muscle-bound, ex-Marine, ex-cop (Homicide), qualified lawyer, married and divorced three times (his third wife had also split), and the boss of one of the country’s fastest-expanding security agencies, whistled tunelessly whilst walking across the secure parking lot, jacket slung casually over his shoulder, to his Chevrolet Astra Van. Professionally speaking he was a very contented individual; in personal terms, though, at the age of forty-six, with three wrecked marriages behind him and no one in his life at present, he was nowhere near.

  His van was a 1989 model which he’d owned from new. He also owned a Porsche and a Corvette, but preferred to drive the Chevy around the city. It gave him the advantage of height, a necessity in the Miami traffic, which had been described as worse than Rome, New York or Calcutta. He swung his lightweight jacket off his shoulder and fumbled in one of the pockets for the keys as he got closer to the vehicle.