One Dead Witness (2 page)

‘
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 lambasted 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 & 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 quarry.

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.