One Dead Witness hc-3 Page 24

  Trent cursed. He stumbled on the hilt of the knife, extracted it from the grass, stared wildly at the two of them, then, inexplicably but wonderfully to the exhausted Danny, he turned and ran.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Monday morning, three days later, two battered and bruised figures hobbled into work.

  Firstly there was Henry Christie.

  He had a collection of swellings on his scalp of various sizes and configurations. Because he had been knocked into oblivion, he had spent Thursday night in hospital, under observation, even after X-rays on his thick skull had shown no fractures. He had then spent a long weekend at home, recuperating.

  His brain constantly hummed and his left ear emitted a shriek every so often which, he was assured by the medical profession, would pass in time. He had to walk fairly slowly, though, because if he moved his head too quickly, lights exploded at the back of his eyeballs, making him feel like his brain was linked to a Van Der Graaf generator.

  Other than that, he was feeling pretty steady.

  Behind him came Danielle Louise Furness on the first day of her official promotion to Detective Sergeant. She dragged herself into the police station a few feet behind Henry because he had picked her up on the way in.

  The first of Danny’s days of sickness had been spent in the same hospital as Henry, where she had been checked over — again — by that same dishy doctor who had treated her before. He appeared to work more hours than she did. They became quite chatty under the circumstances and Danny filed him away for future possibilities.

  Her next two days had been at her sister’s house near Preston where she had been fussed over and treated like royalty. Most of Danny’s physical injuries were relatively minor. The weekend gave them some quality time to heal.

  Now, as she limped in behind Henry, she was just stiff and sore. So pretty much, Danny’s outer layer had been repaired.

  It was her inner self, the psychological layers which concerned her. The chassis which held the bodywork together.

  The night demons had been bad, sleep a problem. Each time she closed her eyes, whirling, frightening images came to her, where the faces of Jack Sands and Louis Trent overlayed each other to form a single terrifying monster with only one aim: to destroy Danny Furness.

  But she had been determined to fight. She returned home on Sunday evening, resolved to sleep alone in her own house, get back to normal and get back into work to take up her new post.

  And though she was suffering mentally, she knew she was tough enough to pull through it.

  She and Henry rode up in the lift together.

  It was 9 a.m.. Louis Vernon Trent had not yet been captured.

  Following the gruesome discovery of a skull in woodland near to Darwen in East Lancashire by two illicit lovers, one very decomposed body was dug carefully out of a shallow grave and transported to the mortuary. It turned out to be the skeletal remains of a young person and the pathologist called in for the job identified them as those of a young girl aged maybe ten or eleven years old; she had been buried there for about five years. The only way to make positive ID would be through dental records, as the jaws and teeth were well-preserved.

  He could not specify a cause of death, nor whether the girl had been sexually molested. Even so, the police decided to set up an incident room, allocate half a dozen detectives to it and see where the enquiry led.

  The first port of call for the detectives on the case was Lancashire Constabulary’s Missing from Home files. These threw up three possibilities. One was quickly eliminated — she had actually returned home, but no one had cancelled the circulation. That left two girls, both having gone missing several years earlier and never returned.

  The second port of call was to dental surgeries. This eliminated one of these girls.

  The final port of call was to Blackpool police station.

  Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, Assistant Chief Constable (Operations) was waiting impatiently in Henry Christie’s office, sitting behind his desk, leafing through his things. Henry closed his eyes momentarily when he clapped eyes on FB.

  What Henry wanted to do was sit at his desk, get his feet comfortably underneath it, take his time, get up to speed with the investigation, see where it was going, see where it was blocked, then get onto Trent’s tail. It had been three days since Danny’s horrific experience and Henry knew the trail was getting colder by the minute. It needed hotting up — but only after he had got himself up to scratch.

  Henry had a pretty good idea that FB’s presence would preclude the first part of the action plan.

  ‘ Henry, about time you got in here, for fuck’s sake!’ FB snorted, making a great show of looking at his watch and the wall clock.

  Danny had followed Henry up to the office and was standing behind him. ‘I’ll catch you later, sir,’ she said to Henry. She nodded at FB. ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘ No — you get in here too, young lady,’ FB beckoned regally. Danny bristled, but came in and eased the door shut.

  FB made no effort to vacate Henry’s chair. The two lower-ranking officers sat on the seats opposite the desk.

  ‘ What’s all this going off sick shit, Henry? Haven’t I told you before it’s a nancy-boy’s trick?’

  ‘ I think you have, sir.’

  FB grunted. His head reared back. ‘Anyway, you both look like shite.’ He glared at Henry. ‘What’s the story behind it?’ He pointed at the DI’s head. ‘Who walloped you?’

  Henry shrugged. ‘No idea. Could’ve been anyone of a number of people.’ Deep down he believed he knew exactly who was responsible, but was not about to share it with FB. This was something personal.

  ‘ And how are you, missy?’ FB directed the question to Danny.

  She bristled again and bit her tongue. ‘I’m fine.’ She smiled primly.

  ‘ Good, good. Couple of days enough to get over it, I imagine?’ It was a rhetorical question.

  Henry regarded FB across the desk and thought he had become even more insufferable since his promotion to ACPO rank. He had been bad enough before. Now his management style resembled a steam-roller, riding roughshod over everyone in his path, making no allowances for people’s feelings.

  Henry knew FB had recently been the subject of two grievances, one on the grounds of sexism, the other racism.

  ‘ You wanted to see us, boss?’ Henry asked politely.

  ‘ Yeah, to make sure you don’t do your normal thing, Henry — sit around all morning farting about getting nowhere. I want you to remember that besides a little girl being murdered by this bastard, he killed a cop too.’ Danny winced visibly at the memory. ‘And I am telling you that if you don’t have this cunt — please excuse my French,’ he said to Danny who winced again, ‘in custody by the end of this week, questions will be asked in the big house. Get my drift? Jobs are on the line here, Henry — yours in particular. Remember, it gets bloody cold in uniform.’

  Henry opened his mouth to utter something about being unfair, but thought better of it. FB was known for making rash statements before thinking them through, and not really meaning them; however, this did not stop his words from being unsettling.

  ‘ What I want you to do is come back to me in an hour and tell me exactly where this investigation is up to. I’m sure you can manage that. Right — that’ll do for now. I’ll see you later, back here, one hour.’ He rose and left the room.

  Henry slumped back and mouthed the word ‘bastard’ to himself, bitterly regretting coming back into work. He could, quite legitimately, have taken the week off. The discordant tunes in his cranium had escalated to full volume by FB-induced stress. He looked sideways at Danny.

  ‘ Is he always such a dick-brain?’

  ‘ That was his good side,’ Henry said. ‘You should see him when he really gets uppity.’

  There was a knock on the door. Danny answered it. Two men came into the office and introduced themselves. They were detectives from Blackburn. Henry knew them by sight, not name.

 
‘ What can I do for you?’ he asked. He sidled behind his desk and sat on his chair, noticing how warm it was from FB’s sweaty backside. He swept his hand towards the chairs and the detectives sat.

  One spoke. ‘A body was found in a shallow grave a couple of days ago. Young girl, decomposed. We’ve managed to ID her from dental records and an MFH report.’ The detective handed Danny a photograph of a family group with the face of the girl circled in red pen. Danny felt a chill. She handed the photo to Henry who saw the look on Danny’s face. The detective carried on talking, revealing the girl’s name as Annie Reece, aged fourteen. ‘She went missing about five years ago, never turned up. Another girl disappeared at the same time. She never turned up either. You might recall?’

  Henry did — but at the time he had been out of the country in Holland, on an operation with the Regional Crime Squad. There had been a big hunt for the two girls which eventually fizzled out. No clues, no leads.

  ‘ Does this mean something to you, Dan?’ Henry asked.

  Her face was bleak. ‘I reported them both missing.’

  ‘ Does it link to Trent?’

  ‘ No. He was in prison by then.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Funny how the past always seems to catch up with me.’

  Henry’s phone rang, cutting short any further time for Danny to reflect.

  ‘ Yep?’ Henry answered it bluntly, nowhere near to Force instructions on how a phone should be answered. It was one of the officers from the incident room. Henry listened, his eyes on Danny.

  ‘ Yeah, right, thanks for that… Where exactly… What condition is it in?… Scenes of Crime, forensics on their way? Right, I’ll be in shortly. Thanks again.’ He hung up. ‘Guess what? They’ve found your car,’ he told Danny. This was a major leap forwards in the investigation because Trent had stolen Danny’s car from Knott End after he had tried to kill her. Its description and registration had been circulated nationwide, but it had only just been found.

  Danny perked up. ‘Where?’

  ‘ Stoke-on- Trent, appropriately enough.’

  ‘ Stoke? What the hell’s he doing going to Stoke? And the car?’ She desperately wanted it back.

  ‘ I’m sorry… it was found by a couple of amateur divers in a flooded quarry just outside Stoke. Looks like it was torched before it went into the drink. I’m told it’s a complete write-off.’

  Danny wilted visibly. Despite its recent injuries, it was still her beautiful car. Treasured possession. Lovingly cared for, manicured weekly. First she was abducted in it, then it was stolen, now destroyed.

  ‘ Sorry, Dan. Look — oh, damn!’ Once more the phone interrupted things. Henry picked it up, but continued talking. ‘Why don’t you go and get a brew for these guys and I’ll join you in a few minutes to discuss how we can help them… Yep?’ he said into the phone.

  A voice he recognised instantly, but had not heard for about six months, said reprovingly, ‘Is this always how you answer the phone, you godamned son of a gun?’ Henry brightened. ‘Hey, Yank! How the hell y’doing?’

  It was Karl Donaldson, former FBI Special Agent, now working in the FBI London Office as a Legal Attache. He was a good friend of Henry’s.

  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 creme de la creme 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.