One Dead Witness (16 page)

‘
What are you doing?’ Wallwork asked. He had shaken himself out
of his moment of terror.

Trent stopped. He raised his head slowly. His eyes once more
became glassy.

The killing look.

‘
Ever heard of napalm?’

Once again Claire Lilton had disappeared.

As soon as Danny received the call she dashed down to the
front office of the police station, although the dash was more of a
hobble. Even so, she was there within a minute.

The PEA shrugged her shoulders. She had been too busy to do
anything about Claire leaving.

Danny checked the area just outside the foyer. No sign of the
girl.

A troubled and frustrated DC Furness returned to her desk,
wondering what the hell it was all about. Obviously Claire wanted
to talk, but maybe didn’t have the courage. Perhaps if Danny
visited her home she would be able to talk privately ... although
that might prove difficult with Stepdaddy Lilton around.

And that thought struck a chord in Danny’s mind.

The stepfather - Joe Lilton.

When she had met him at the hospital, Danny had been positive
it was not the first time. The face and voice were familiar, yet
had been impossible to pinpoint. Someone from many years
ago.

Danny picked up the phone, spoke to the PNC operator in comms
and requested a body check on Joe Lilton.

He came up on the screen immediately. Not because he had any
previous convictions, which was the usual case for people on the
Police National Computer, but because he was the holder of a
firearms certificate issued by the Chief Constable of
Lancashire.

Danny thanked the operator, hung up.

Yet still nothing registered with her.

She trawled deep into her long-term memory ... and there it
was, filed away neatly and nicely in the attic storeroom of her
brain cells. The firearms certificate was the key, the reason why
Danny knew him.

She had been the police officer, all of fifteen years before,
who had visited Lilton at his home address somewhere in Blackburn
following his application for a certificate. You had to check for
previous convictions, visit the house and ensure there were safe
storage facilities for the weapons. It was a routine procedure.
Routine but necessary. Then you had to make a recommendation as to
whether the applicant was suitable to hold a firearms
certificate.

. . . It was all coming back as she thought long and
hard.

The petrol ate up the Styrofoam until it was sated and could
devour no more. Finally, Trent was left with a thick, syrupy
substance.

‘
There we are,’ he declared happily. ‘Whatever you do, don’t
touch it,’ he warned Wallwork, who had helped him to mix the
Styrofoam into it, ‘or it’ll burn your skin off.’

‘
We’d better get going,’ Wallwork said. ‘They’ll miss us
soon.’

‘
Yeah, you’re right. Will this be safe here? Anyone likely to
come noseying in?’

Wallwork shook his head. ‘Doubtful.’

They locked the door behind them and made their way back
through the prison, emerging at the rear of the kitchens. Wallwork
guided him unobtrusively into the main body of the prison without
mishap.

‘
Make sure you get a shower,’ Trent advised, painfully aware
they both reeked of petrol. Wallwork said he would.

Fifteen minutes later, refreshed and changed, Trent descended
into the association area and found Coysh in the TV lounge, sitting
in a chair at the back of the room, away from the other inmates who
were watching the box.

Trent sat in the empty chair next to him.

Neither man formally acknowledged the other.

‘
I wanna know their plans for the rest of the day.’ Trent spoke
just loud enough for Coysh to hear.

‘
In the gym between two and three. After the brew they’ll be in
Blake’s cell up on level two. Card-game arranged. The three of them
and the nigger - you know, your big pal.’

‘
That’ll be handy.’

‘
They’ll be there until evening meal. After that, don’t
know.’

Trent relaxed in the comfortable chair, his eyes looking at,
but not focusing on the TV: He placed his fingertips together and
made a steeple with his fingers. He placed the tip of it underneath
his chin.

It was an ideal situation for his proposed course of
action.

Level two was the prison equivalent of a high-class housing
estate. Anyone who was anyone had a cell up there; the movers and
shakers of prison society. The remainder of the inmates were on the
other landings. If you were found on landing two and didn’t have a
cell there, you needed a damned good reason for your presence.
There was no wandering through, no nosy-parkering - unless you
wanted your face smashed in. Or worse.

Which would probably make it all the more easy for Trent
because the likelihood was that between the hours mentioned by
Coysh, there would be few people up there anyway. And the ones who
were, such as Blake, would be busy in their cells,
conspiring.

‘
Keep me informed,’ Trent said. He made to stand up, then had a
thought. ‘Did you fulfil my other request?’

Coysh reached down the side of his chair and picked up an open
can of Diet Coke. He handed it to Trent who found it to be quite
heavy.

‘
Don’t drink it, for fuck’s sake,’ Coysh laughed. Trent smelled
it, winced. ‘What is it?’

‘
Just what you wanted. Pig’s blood.’

‘
I want to thank you all for last night’s effort.’

Steve Kruger surveyed the faces of the team which had
successfully put themselves up against Bussola - and won so
convincingly.

Since the cops had arrived at the scene and arrested Bussola,
Kruger and the team had stayed up and given witness depositions.
Now it was ten in the morning. None of them had had any sleep for
over twenty-four hours. All were shattered and showed
it.

Myrna nodded. ‘Yeah, everyone worked well.’

‘
But now we have a problem,’ Kruger said with caution. ‘And I
don’t think I need to spend a great deal of time expanding on it.
I’m talking about Bussola’s organisation. We need to be watching
our backs - and fronts - from now on. Bussola doesn’t like people
who go against him, but I doubt whether he’ll be stupid enough to
do anything too soon. However, be wary.’

When they were gone, with the exception of Myrna, Kruger sat
down heavily and rubbed his tired, red-raw eyes.

‘
What are you going to tell Felicity?’ Myrna asked.

He shrugged. ‘Doubt if I’ll have to tell her anything.’ Myrna
yawned; Kruger saw a mouthful of perfect teeth. ‘You realise,’ he
said, ‘you spent a whole night with the boss. What’ll hubby think
about that one?’

She was about to make a smart-ass reply when Kruger’s cell-tel
chirped.

‘
Steve Kruger.’

‘
Steve, it’s Mark Tapperman here.’

‘
Hi, Mark.’ Kruger and he went back many years. Tapperman was
now a Lieutenant in the Miami Police Department.

‘
Bad news, I’m afraid,’ Tapperman said. Kruger knew what it
would be even before he said it. ‘Bussola’s walked. No charges.
Nuthin’ we could do about it. He’s free as a bird
again.’

Chapter Six

Trent, Wallwork and Coysh made the trip out to the old
boiler-room.

Trent poured a few inches of petrol into two more milk bottles
and then half-filled three more bottles with the home-made napalm,
pouring it carefully from the toolbox into the mouths of the
bottles, not spilling a drop of the thick liquid. He was totally
concentrated; his hands were steady, his eyes focused. The sticky
substance did not run easily, but Trent was not worried about that.
It wasn’t supposed to. That part of the job finished, he covered
the tops of the bottles with tinfoil.

The pillowcase in which the Styrofoam cups had been
transported was torn up by him into strips which he dipped in
petrol. He folded the strips into an empty, clean and dry
baked-bean tin which he covered with a square of
tinfoil.

‘
Yeah, good, I’m right,’ he said, bouncing as he surveyed his
handiwork with a gleam in his eyes. ‘Let’s get this stuff back to
the kitchens.’

He had brought along another pillowcase which he folded
carefully around the bottles; then he placed them into a sports bag
which he zipped up and hung over his shoulder, keeping it
level.

‘
You’re sure the cell next to Blake’s will be empty?’ he
questioned Coysh again.

Coysh nodded.

‘
Right, good. Once we get back, you look after this gear in the
kitchens, then when I give you the nod, take it up to that cell and
shove it underneath the bunk, got that? Think you can do
that?’

‘
Yep,’ said Coysh.

‘
And you know what you’re doing?’ Trent turned to Vic
Wallwork.

‘
I know.’

‘
Good. Right - let’s go.’

Wallwork led them uneventfully back to the kitchens where
Coysh placed the sports bag in a cupboard underneath a
sink.

Trent went back to his cell. He knew it would be empty because
his stupid cellmates always watched
Fifteen-to-One
on Channel Four at
4.30 p.m.

It was now 4.20 p.m. They always got there early for the
front-row seats.

He stole a pillowcase from one of their beds and tore it into
fairly wide strips. After this he filled the wash-basin with cold
water and dropped the strips inside to soak them.

Next he helped himself to a pair of trousers and a shirt, both
prison issue, belonging to the cellmate he judged to be more or
less the same size as himself. He put both items into the water and
made sure they were waterlogged too.

From the waistband of his jeans he popped out the pills he’d
bought on his spending spree around the prison the day before and
dribbled them out into a nice pile near the pillow on his bed. Just
for the hell of it he wolfed a few of them down, even though he did
not know what they were. They tasted foul, but did nothing for him
immediately.

He was nearing readiness.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed he rolled up his
shirtsleeves and exposed both forearms. The skin was criss-crossed
with old scars, poor attempts at previous suicides.

Time for the knife.

He reached into his foam pillow, pulled out the bung and
extracted the knife from its hiding place.

It looked, and he knew it was, shiny, sharp and
deadly.

Firstly he ran his thumb down the sharp blade, just to test
it. He smiled maliciously, knowing if he pressed harder his thumb
would have been sliced in two halves.

Next he placed the blade against the soft skin on the inside
of his left forearm, just above the wrist. He applied a little
pressure, the blade indented the skin. He pressed a little harder
and slowly, deliberately, drew the knife across the skin which
parted easily, leaving a thin red line. Breath escaped through his
teeth. The pain was almost unbearable pleasure. He pulled the knife
away and stared at what he had done. Nothing happened for a few
seconds ... then little blobs of blood appeared down the line of
the cut. They burst and began to trickle.

He inspected the cut and clenched his fist, tightening the
muscles and sinews of his forearm, forcing more blood to seep out
of the wound.

Trent’s face had an expression of grim satisfaction on
it.

It had been a finely judged cut.

Just deep enough to draw blood, not too deep to do any real
damage.

He placed the blade a further two inches up his arm, gritted
his teeth and sliced the skin open. A sensation went through him
that was almost sexual.

Again, the cut was perfect.

It bled, but was not serious.

Trent was enjoying himself.

His heart was pounding.

He had a sudden urge to do more, in a less controlled, more
frenzied way ... and in fact he could not stop himself as half a
dozen more times he slashed the razor-sharp blade across his
forearm, each time gasping orgasmically as the skin
opened.

Suddenly, breathlessly, he knew he had to get a grip and
stop.

He looked at his arm and licked the blood from it with a
slurping, drain-like noise, tasting the hot, salty liquid on his
tongue, covering his teeth with it. It tasted good and he groaned.
‘I’m good, yeah, good.’ He shook his head, crossed the knife into
his left hand and quickly repeated the process on the skin of his
right forearm, leaving eight slash-lines across the lily-white
skin, but not one of them deep enough to cause him any
problems.

He rolled down his shirtsleeves and buttoned them at the
cuffs. He stood up and walked smartly out onto the landing, his
arms folded across his chest. He went to a point which overlooked
the association area.