One Dead Witness (29 page)

A horribly nauseous feeling wrenched his guts. He placed the
paper down on the table and reached for his drink. Christ! He’d
just done business with the most wanted man in the country. His
hand shook as he lifted the glass and missed his mouth. Then he
groaned pathetically when the person he most detested and feared
entered the taproom from the more salubrious snug next
door.

Henry and Danny had walked along Bank Hey Street, Blackpool
Tower rising above them to their left. The place was swarming with
holidaymakers, bustling along, every single one of them with a
smile. A whole range of people, young to old, slim to fat. Sober to
drunk. Blackpool had something for everyone.

‘
I wonder how it’s going with Trent,’ Danny said.

‘
I’ll be surprised if he stays here long and I’ll be even more
surprised if we catch him,’ Henry said honestly.

‘
The very thought of him makes me shiver,’ Danny confessed. ‘I
don’t think I’ve ever met someone quite so evil. What he did to
those little girls was appalling. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill
them. I wouldn’t normally wish death on anyone, but he should be
hanged. I’d gladly put the noose around his neck.’

‘
Let’s have a look in here.’ Henry pointed to the door of a
pub. ‘Quick drink, then back to work.’

‘
In here?’ Danny’s lips curled in disgust as she looked up at
the building. ‘It’s a dive.’

‘
Let’s combine business and pleasure.’

Henry held the front door open, allowing Danny to enter first.
They turned left into the snug and stood just inside the threshold
of the bar.

Danny’s words were accurate. The place was a dive, but both
officers knew it was one of the main pubs in town where stolen
goods from shoplifting sprees were often divided up and distributed
or sold; a lot of minor drug dealing went down too. Both activities
usually occurred without interference from management who were
strongly suspected of being involved in both trades.

Henry liked to drop in unexpectedly now and again.
Occasionally such visits produced results. More often than not they
simply shook up the crims, something Henry took great pleasure in
doing.

The snug was fairly empty. Henry could not spot anyone he
knew, other than the barman, Fat Tommy.

‘
All right, Tommy?’ Henry approached the bar.

‘
I was,’ Tommy responded on seeing Henry. Tommy was not noted
for his social skills.

‘
Kaliber for me ... Danny?’

‘
I think my nerves are back in order. Coke please, with ice.’
She pulled out a cigarette and lit up. She inhaled deeply and for a
second or two went quite light-headed. She held the smoke in her
lungs, then blew it out slowly. Bliss.

The rotund barman went about his tasks. Henry asked him,
‘Anything doing?’

‘
Nope.’ He banged the two drinks on the bar top.

‘
You don’t like me, do you Tommy?’

‘
No, and I can’t think why ... two quid.’

‘
Shame, really... we have so much in common.’ Henry handed him
a five-pound note. Whilst Tommy was at the till, Henry stood on
tiptoes and peered across the bar into the taproom where he saw
Benstead. After checking his change he said, ‘C’mon,’ to Danny, led
her out of the snug into the taproom and immediately saw the
expression on Benstead’s face.

He looked as though he’d seen the Grim Reaper.

Henry thought, Might’ve struck lucky here.

Benstead made a valiant effort to compose himself. He folded
up his copy of the
Mail,
downed the last inch of his beer and tried to act
as normally as possible in the circumstances. But he was
agonisingly conscious that his face had probably conveyed a
thousand words to Henry Christie. And that very same man, the bane
of his life, the cop who harried him constantly, was now
approaching. Fast.

Benstead rose unsteadily to his feet, tucking the tabloid
under his arm, trying to give the impression he had not seen
Henry.

As he moved off, Henry reached the table. Benstead feigned
surprise.

‘
Well, well, well. What have we here?’ Henry grinned
maliciously. Actually he knew exactly what he had - one of the top
handlers of stolen property in Blackpool, if not the North of
England. Benstead was a career criminal who tried to keep a low
profile in terms of his lifestyle. He lived with his common-law
wife, her two kids from a previous marriage (not yet dissolved),
his own two from a couple of brief relationships, and two German
shepherd dogs in a semi-detached council house. He was unemployed,
drawing maximum benefits, did not own a car and had very little to
show outwardly from the money he made buying and selling other
people’s possessions.

Henry’s intelligence-gathering on Benstead led him to believe
the little scrote owned a large apartment in Tenerife and held
several bank accounts in fictitious names. Knowing and proving were
two different things, though. So far, all Henry’s team had managed
to do was convict Benstead once only for a petty job for which he
got fined.

Which annoyed Henry.

And put Benstead high on his target-list.

A fact of which Benstead was painfully aware.

‘
You haven’t got anything,’ Benstead said in response to
Henry’s opening question, ‘because I’m off.’ He zipped up his
anorak and side-stepped smartly.

Not smartly enough.

Henry side-stepped with him, blocking his exit.

‘
Know who this is?’ Henry asked Danny, speaking through the
corner of his mouth, his eyes remaining firmly on
Benstead.

‘
Baz Benstead - disposer of stolen property,’ she answered
promptly.

‘
Someone we’re always interested in.’ Henry beamed down at the
little man who had started to look very nervous indeed. ‘Bit of a
hot day for an anorak,’ he observed. To Danny he said, ‘Always
wears one. Big pockets. Never quite knows what might come his way -
do you, Baz?’

‘
Don’t fuckin’ hassle me, Henry, or I’ll have my brief chasing
you before you know what’s hit you.’

‘
Oh, Baz!’ Henry cried, feigning hurt. Then, ‘Just who the fuck
d’you think you’re talking to? Come on, let’s sit down and have a
nice, pleasant chinwag.’

‘
I’m leaving - excuse me . . . ahhhh!’

Henry slammed his free hand into Benstead’s chest and sat him
down on the bench seat. ‘Sit.’

Shit! Benstead thought. A well of panic rose from his feet to
his neck.

Henry sat next to him, sipping his Kaliber.

Danny remained standing, glass in one hand, cigarette dangling
from her mouth. Her eyes bore scornfully down on Benstead. She had
heard much about him, but never met him until this moment. She was
unimpressed.

‘
What’re you up to?’ Henry asked.

‘
Nowt.’ Benstead put the newspaper on the table. The headlines
screamed out about the most dangerous man in Britain on the loose.
Benstead blinked rapidly as his brain recorded the message again.
He turned the paper over.

‘
You looked like you’d peered into your grave when we walked
in.’

‘
Only ‘cos I saw you. You always have that effect on
me.’

‘
The look was there before you clocked me. I just made it
worse. So, go on, what are you doing in here, Baz, ole buddy? It’s
not your local.’

Benstead shrugged. He measured up his chance of escape. All he
needed was about ten seconds - or less - out of sight of Henry and
his sidekick. Long enough to dump the boiling hot goods Trent had
sold him.

Now £115 richer, there was hardly any space in Trent’s pockets
to squeeze in more cash. He had amassed over a thousand pounds and
some loose change. Enough to see him over the next couple of weeks
... and yet he wanted more money, here and now.

He walked towards Talbot Square where the Royal Bank of
Scotland was situated. He was eager to withdraw as much money as
possible from the account belonging to the dead ambulance-driver.
To bleed it dry, like he had done to the man himself. He decided to
try the cash machine again, firstly to see if the account was still
operating and secondly if he could get any more cash out of
it.

If the answer to both was no, he would find Benstead again and
throw in the card for an extra £30.

Trent spent a couple of minutes checking the streets for
lurking cops and fine-tuning the radio scanner he’d bought earlier
from a high-street electrical retailer. It was tuned into the local
police frequency. He inserted the earpiece and set the
volume.

When he was satisfied, he crossed to the cash machine and slid
the card into the slot.

He tapped in the well-remembered PIN code.

Benstead was a small man and could move quickly if he wanted
to. Especially if the element of surprise was on his
side.

Henry Christie, having shown disdain for Benstead and his
threats, had allowed himself to drop his guard. He sat back and
took a sip of the alcohol-free lager.

Danny took a long deep drag of her cigarette.

Without warning, Benstead reached for his empty pint glass. He
took hold of it around the brim, twisted round and smashed the base
of the glass across the side of Henry’s head.

Henry screamed, more with surprise than pain as the bottom
edge of the glass connected with an old wound on his temple,
sustained in a car crash three years earlier. The skin split
immediately, blood poured out. His hands went to the side of his
head.

Fortunately, the glass did not break.

Benstead dropped it, lurched forwards from his seated position
before Danny could react. He charged towards her, ramming his
shoulder into her lower abdomen, bowling her back over a table. He
then ran for the rear door of the pub.

Danny landed hard, legs akimbo, displaying her underwear. Her
drink spilled all over her and the cigarette disappeared somewhere
across the room.

Henry Christie had learned a lot of hard lessons in his time
as a cop. One was that some of the things you expect to hurt badly
are never quite as bad as imagined. Agreed, the crack on the head
hurt, and the sight of pouring blood, especially your own, was
frightening. But when it was all put into perspective, it wasn’t as
bad as being shot or knifed or having a broken glass screwed into
your face. All that had happened was that a pathetic punk had given
him a whack.

As soon as his brain assimilated this - within a split second
- Henry was up and after Benstead, angry at having been caught off
guard. He dived across the room at the fleeing felon and brought
the little man crashing face-down into the liquor-stained
carpet.

Benstead tried desperately to disentangle himself, scrambling,
kicking wildly, with Henry holding on for dear life.

‘
Get off me, you fucking bastard!’ Benstead screamed, squirming
round and beginning to rain punches down on Henry’s head. The DI
tucked himself in and dung on tight, inching himself up Benstead’s
body as they rolled around on the floor.

Danny recovered quickly.

When she saw the two men fighting, she looked out for the
opening which would let her in to assist her boss. It came when the
two men separated briefly, Benstead on his back. She stepped
astride him and dropped heavily across his chest, pinning his arms
to the floor with her knees. Her skirt rode high up on her
thighs.

From that position she curled her right hand into a tight
fist, deliberately drew back her arm, ensured Benstead saw what was
coming and - with a great deal of satisfaction - smashed the fist
into the side of his face.

All the fight drained out of him.

His face started to swell within seconds of the blow, a huge
red mound surrounding his left eye, which began to close and
weep.

‘
Twat!’ he hissed.

‘
You got it, pal,’ she panted.

Henry let go of Benstead’s legs and stood up shakily. He had
an urge to kick the little bastard in the ribs, but the eyes of too
many witnesses prevented him.

He picked up a beer mat and held it against the cut on his
head.

‘
Turn him onto his front,’ he told Danny.

She raised a leg and they both heaved Benstead over onto his
chest. Danny pulled his hands back and cuffed him with Henry’s
handcuffs. Tightly.

‘
Here.’ Henry looked round to see Fat Tommy, the barman,
holding out a bundle of something towards him. It was a bar-cloth.
‘For your head. It’s clean, don’t worry.’

The detective smiled. ‘Thanks, Tom. I didn’t know you
cared.’

‘
I don’t. I just don’t want a copper’s blood all over my
carpets.’

Henry dropped the beer mat and pressed the cloth onto his
injury. The wound had been cracked open a few times since it had
happened. One day, Henry thought, it would need a skin graft to
close it, not stitches.