One Dead Witness (25 page)

Bussola leaned back, satisfied by his handiwork. He
immediately re-ignited the cigar. With a wave he indicated for the
guards to release Kruger.

‘
You bastard!’ cried Kruger, He leapt up and raced to the bar,
watched curiously by Charlie Gilbert who was sat on a stool,
drinking. He ducked as Kruger approached, but need not have
worried. Kruger veered past him and thrust his throbbing hand into
the bucket of ice cubes on the bar top.

Breathless, he turned and glared at Bussola, holding himself
back from doing or saying anything he might not live to
regret.

The ice worked well, numbing the pain like an
anaesthetic.

All four guards had their handguns drawn, gazing indolently at
Kruger who could see they were totally different material to the
ones he’d encountered the other night. Those two dickbrains were
probably delivering pizzas now.

With a waggle of his fingers, Bussola beckoned Kruger back to
his seat.

He carried the ice-bucket wedged under one arm, keeping his
hand shoved deep into the ice. He sat shaking. Fear, mainly, being
the cause. Pain too.

‘
Yeah, almost the right answer, Steve,’ Bussola said in a level
conversational tone, as if nothing had happened. ‘But let’s stop
beating about the bush: I have the whole of your meeting and
chit-chat with Felicity down on tape.’

‘
You tape what goes on in your house while you’re not there?’
Kruger asked in disbelief.

‘
Absolutely. I like to know what she gets up to while I’m away.
I have some very heavy footage of several of her sexual encounters
with a succession of personal fitness trainers. I say succession
because each one has met with - how shall I say? - an unfortunate
set of circumstances. Gotta say, I prefer videos featuring younger
people, though.’

‘
You’re a whizz of a hubby, Mario.’

Bussola’s face set for a moment; Kruger thought he’d made a
remark too far, then the big man relaxed again, did not rise to the
bait.

‘
In that case,’ Kruger pushed on quickly, ‘you know I didn’t
screw her and she had me by the short and curlies.’

‘
That shock-baton stuff?’

‘
Yep.’

‘
Looks as though I have the privilege now, doesn’t
it?’

‘
Looks that way,’ Kruger admitted. His world collapsed at the
prospect of having a Mafia godfather playing executive games with
his testicles. Despite the ice, his hand started hurting
again.

‘
Hey, you’re worried. Can see it in your face. No need. I don’t
propose to use the knowledge of your past shady dealings in any way
to influence you or blackmail you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re
not worth it, Steve. You’re just a piece of dogshit on my shoes and
I wanna wipe you off. Basically I’m gonna have you executed and
I’ll tell you why. You’ - he leaned forwards and held the newly lit
burning tip of the cigar perilously close to Kruger’s face; Kruger
felt its heat. Instinctively he jerked back. ‘You have severely
annoyed me. Firstly by being so weak-kneed as to give in to the
petty demands of your nympho ex-wife and then,’ his voice rose a
few tones, ‘having the effrontery to go up against me. You have
caused me considerable pain and aggravation AND cost me money.
These guys,’ he waved to indicate the bodyguards, ‘will accompany
you back to your car, pump several big fucking holes into your
skull and then dump you in the Everglades, but before you go, just
hand me your Rolex, please. It’s too nice for an alligator to
swallow.’

Kruger handed over his most treasured possession. He squirmed
inwardly whilst he watched Bussola strap it onto his own
wrist.

‘
Nice,’ he said admiringly, ‘very nice.’

Once again, the big man moved faster than Kruger could have
anticipated. He rose from his seat, wrapped a huge arm around
Kruger’s neck, holding him there in a vice in the crook of his
elbow, then stubbed the cigar out on Kruger’s face. When it was
extinguished, he pushed Kruger away. The ice-bucket spilled and
Kruger went down onto his knees, covering his horrendously injured
face with his hands, moaning loudly.

‘
Take this fucker away and ice him,’ Bussola
ordered.

Just how Danny managed it, Henry Christie wasn’t
sure.

He could not conceal a smile when he entered the first-floor
briefing room at Blackpool police station and saw the room packed
with the officers she had managed to pull together for ‘Operation
Trawler’.

The operation which, Henry hoped, would lead to the capture of
Louis Vernon Trent.

There was a full police support unit from Preston (one
Inspector, three Sergeants and twenty-one Constables). Not bad
going by any standards. In addition there were six PCs from
Blackpool and three Detective Constables from his own office. Danny
had also managed to turn out seven Special Constables. There was a
dog-handler and four PCs from the mouthed branch, dogs and horses
being excluded from the room. Six plainclothes officers from the
Targeting Team made up the rest.

All were swigging tea, coffee or orange juice and scoffing
biscuits, thoughtfully provided by Danny. She stood by the briefing
lectern at the front of the room, shuffling papers, happily taking
charge of the whole kit and caboodle.

Henry was impressed by the turnout. It was just one of those
days when everyone seemed to be at the other end of the phone.
There were not many of those days in a year.

‘
Okay, people,’ he began, sliding in next to Danny. He rubbed
his hands together. ‘Can I have your undivided attention, please?’
The room fell silent. ‘To those of you from outside the Division,
welcome to Blackpool. Whilst you’re here, we’ll try to look after
your needs to the best of our abilities; to our residents, we’ll
try to look after you shower, too. For those of you who don’t know
me, I’m DI Henry Christie and this is Danny Furness who’ll be
running the show. And, not to put too fine a point on it, you’re
here to hunt down a very, very dangerous individual
indeed...’

By the time Henry Christie was saying those words, that
dangerous individual had been up and out of bed for an hour.
Although he had only got to bed at 5 a.m., the few hours’ sleep
he’d had were adequate. Several years behind bars had whittled away
his need for sleep. He woke bright and cheerful.

The owner of the guest-house, Mrs Mitcham, a lady in her early
fifties, was extremely happy to cook Trent a late breakfast ... at
a price. Not being his own money, Trent paid gladly.

Outside, the weather was glorious.

Trent’s first objective was to extend his wardrobe again by
buying some light summer gear. Then he intended to drift round town
and go into a pub where he knew he could off-load the credit cards
and driving licence he’d stolen from several unfortunate people the
previous day. He’d take whatever price was offered. Probably about
a hundred quid, he guessed - but before all that, he had a more
urgent need to fulfil.

He used the phone in the guest-house to order a taxi which
subsequently deposited him in Blackpool town centre just as Henry
handed the briefing over to Danny.

Two behind. One either side. That was the formation. Each of
them with a hand resting inconspicuously on the butt of some type
of firearm or other, concealed by well-tailored clothing from the
prying eyes of the outside world.

Kruger was the man in the middle.

Before they left the room, he was given instructions by
Bussola.

‘
Okay Steve, you walk out of here nice and cool, okay? You walk
them to your car and they’ll do it there, nice ‘n’ quick - promise.
Bam! Bam!’ He pointed his forefinger at Kruger’s head and cocked
his thumb. ‘Over in a jiffy. . . Now, you might well think that
before you reach the parking lot you’ll try some fancy footwork as
you walk through the airport, or even do something really rash -
like attract some cop’s attention. Now, Steve, I gotta warn you, if
you do, these nice guys will blow you away there and then - and any
other simple fucker who so much as steps towards them. There’ll be
a real bloodbath, at the end of which they’ll simply fade into the
background.

‘
Just to reiterate: by behaving yourself and leading these fine
gents to your wheels, you’ll save innocent lives.’

Bussola nodded at his men. ‘Okay, away you go.’

Kruger’s face and hand hurt bad where the burning cigar had
been screwed into his skin, but these injuries were right at the
back of his mind as he tried desperately to figure a way out of
this predicament.

Whatever he did, it seemed, he was destined to die.

There was no time for niceties any more. There would be no
building up of rapport. No sweeties. No laughter.

No love.

That was all in the past, before the betrayals had sent him to
prison. Now the little ones he had loved so much had to suffer and
feel the pain he was feeling. It did not matter that they would not
actually be the ones who had gone to court and damned him. It was
the principle that mattered now.

He had to make a point.

No one betrayed or hurt him and got away with it.

No one.

Trent was sitting on a green park bench in the recreation area
adjacent to Claremont Road in the North Shore of Blackpool.
Watching, waiting, listening, his senses buzzing, anticipating.
Soon, he knew, his opportunity would come.

His eyes took in all the activity. Several youngsters were
playing on the swings and slide. Most were accompanied by
adults.

Trent’s lips snarled at the inconvenience.

He lifted up his newspaper, reckoning to be engrossed in
it.

He could wait, despite the urges inside him.

They began the journey from the lounge to airport parking.
Kruger felt as though he was walking on the moon. His legs became
light and bloodless. The same pretty much applied to his
brain.

Everything was completely unreal. Being walked through Miami
International Airport to be executed - how real was
that?

Everything blurred at the edges. His ears pounded like his
head was inside a bass drum. People drifted by in a mist. Sound
distorted, like a tape being eaten by a Walkman.

Kruger shook his head, opened his eyes wide. Then his mind
picked up the pain again from the burns on his skin, a sensation it
had been suppressing. This brought him back to sharp
focus.

Back to the real world.

Suddenly the unreality of before seemed much more
preferable.

Without doubt, Kruger was about to experience another of those
Big Life Moments.

Chapter Ten

The shop was on Dickson Road, Blackpool, the road which runs
behind the Imperial Hotel which is used each year as a base for
political parties during conference week. The shop was one of those
grocery-cum-everything shops which opened from 7 a.m. until
extremely late. It was owned by an Asian family who had turned it
into a thriving business by their sheer hard work.

Claire Lilton had the straps of her sports bag over her left
shoulder, holding the bag underneath her armpit. She had a metal
shopping basket in her left hand, leaving her right hand free. The
zip of the sports bag was open about six inches and if she squeezed
the bag in a certain way, a hole appeared when the zip
parted.

In the basket were a couple of items from the shelves. In the
sports bag were even more items from the shelves, none of which she
intended to pay for. She paused near the sweet display, picked up a
Kit Kat, looked closely at it, replaced it on the shelf. Her eyes
moved to the corners of their sockets and she checked the aisle.
Apart from a doddering old woman, Claire was alone.

She picked up half a dozen Kit Kats, squeezed the bag and
dropped them expertly into the hole. Casually she dawdled along the
sweet display and dropped a 10p chocolate bear into the basket. She
moved on.

By the time she reached the till, her basket contained six
cheap items. Her sports bag, which began to weigh heavy, contained
a great deal of contraband.

At the till she paid for the stuff in the wire basket and even
asked for a carrier bag.

Then she stepped out of the shop, only to be dragged back in
by an irate Asian man, no taller than herself.

‘
Get your dirty hands off me,’ she screamed.

The man did not let go. ‘You steal,’ he said. ‘You steal from
shop. I call the cops.’ He had hold of her biceps. ‘In there -
stolen property.’ He pointed at her sports bag. ‘I watch you
steal.’

‘
I’ve done fuck-all, you bastard,’ she yelled into his face.
‘If you don’t let me go, I’ll sue you for assault.’

She wriggled and squirmed and kicked out at him. Her Doc
Marten boots connected with his shins and he emitted a yell of
pain. Still, he hung onto her.

‘
Call cops!’ he shouted to the woman behind the till, who had
been watching the encounter with open mouth and no gumption. His
shouts galvanised her into action, and she reached for the phone
behind her.