One Dead Witness (21 page)

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.

The man gurgled, slumped onto the back step of the ambulance,
clutching his neck, trying to stem the flow.

Six feet away, Trent watched him writhe and begin to bleed to
death.

When the man no longer moved, Trent stepped over him and
climbed into the back of the ambulance. He cleaned up the
self-inflicted wounds on his arms with antiseptic wipes and dressed
them with bandages. He undressed himself, towelled himself clean,
and got into the ambulance driver’s gear which fitted him well - a
green overall and trainers. Over the top of this he put an anorak
from which he cut off the epaulettes. He threw his prison gear into
the ambulance and then helped himself to the wallets belonging to
the dead paramedic and prison guard. This added another forty-five
pounds to his stash of cash, four credit cards and a driving
licence.

He briefly considered setting fire to the ambulance, but
realised all that would achieve would be to draw attention to the
fact he would not be very far away. It was a good decision because
the ambulance was not discovered until after midnight, giving Trent
ample time to do what he had planned.

He strolled boldly towards the retail park, posing as an
off-duty paramedic; he knew he would find an ASDA store open until
ten. Before entering the store he went to a hole-in-the-wall cash
machine on the outer wall where, using the ambulance-driver’s card,
he withdrew the maximum allowed that day.

Three hundred pounds richer and armed with a nice, new,
non-squeaky trolley, he went shopping.

In the ‘George’ clothing shop within the store he selected a
couple of smart new outfits and two pairs of shoes, with underwear,
socks and shirts to match. Next he bought a selection of tasty food
and drink which could be consumed on the hoof and finally a few
toiletries and a large holdall.

Feeling his luck was still in, he pinpointed the busiest
check-out with the most harassed-looking till operator and joined -
the queue. He presented the ambulance driver’s credit card and
looked the young girl directly in the eye. There was no problem.
Being under severe pressure, the girl swiped it through and
couldn’t even be bothered to give a cursory glance at the signature
on the receipt as opposed to the card. It was as well she didn’t.
Trent’s was nowhere near that of the man he had
murdered.

He sailed through on a high, bearing two hundred pounds’ worth
of clothing. He went directly to the toilets and changed into a new
outfit, washed, brushed his hair, cleaned his teeth, emerged a new
man.

Clean. Unruffled.

Even with the time to buy a newspaper at the kiosk and linger
over sausage and chips at the in-store cafe.