One Dead Witness (31 page)

Then he toppled over and died at her feet.

Danny tore her eyes away.

Trent had gone.

Other police officers swarmed towards her from the top of the
alley.

She lurched to a doorway, sank to her knees.

‘
Just tell me this, Henry - why is it that everything you seem
to get involved in ends up with police officers being killed? Are
you fucking jinxed, or what?’

The questions were asked by Fanshaw-Bayley. He was pacing up
and down on the already thin carpet in front of Henry’s desk, a
return journey of no more than six feet. Henry watched him and
decided not to respond. Instead, he pressed the paper towel against
his temple. The cut appeared to have more or less stopped bleeding
and maybe did not need re-stitching after all.

FB stopped mid-journey. ‘Eh? Come on, Henry - why?’

Henry shrugged and remained impassive. It was hardly true, but
he did not want to get into an argument. FB was very upset that an
officer had died, murdered on duty. He had every right to be, and
was simply venting some of his emotions on Henry whose shoulders
were big and wide enough to take any rot FB cared to dish
out.

‘
So, c’mon tell me what happened. What the fuck went wrong? No,
don’t.’ FB held up his hands and shook them dismissively. ‘It’s
okay, Henry, don’t tell me. It wasn’t your fault the stupid young
fool went out without his stab-vest on; it was his decision and
unfortunately he died for it.’ FB ruffled his own hair
frustratedly, scratched his head, flattened his hair and eventually
sat down. ‘This man is a fucking mobile killing-machine. What the
hell’s our next move?’

Henry blew out his cheeks, glad they had returned to
practicalities. ‘It better be quick,’ he mused thoughtfully. ‘I
doubt he’ll hang round town now.’

‘
Come on then, brainbox . . . what do we do?’

‘
Chances are he’s in a guest-house. What we need to do is
increase the numbers of people on house-to-house, quarter the town
and visit every guest-house physically. And I also think we should
get a big switchboard installed and actually phone every
guest-house and hotel too.’ He pulled a face. ‘It’ll take a while
to get that up and running.’ ‘How many phones are there in this
police station?’ FB asked, raising his eyebrows.

‘
Dozens.’ Henry immediately caught on.

‘
There’s your answer. Get the people you want in now. Sit’ em
next to a phone each with a copy of Yellow Pages and an unlimited
supply of coffee or tea, and get them phoning.’

There was a sharp knock at the door. A Detective Sergeant came
in without waiting and handed a sheet of paper of Henry.

Henry’s eyes closed despairingly after he’d read it. Without
looking up, he handed the paper to FB.

Absently Danny picked up the Missing from Home report which
was on the top of the pile of junk on her desk. She sat down
slowly, read the name on top, and tossed it back. Claire Lilton
could wait.

She leaned forwards and dropped her head into her
hands.

Inside, everything was in turmoil. Guts, vital organs, brain
... churning with a sensation never before experienced.

She had a terrible unshakable belief that she was totally
responsible for everything that had happened. In particular the
tragic death of the Police Constable, skewered and slaughtered
right in front of her eyes. All because she had been too slow, had
not shouted out a warning, had not pulled him away.

‘
Oh God,’ she mumbled desperately. Tears formed in her eyes.
She rubbed them angrily away as she tried to control herself. Not
here, she instructed herself. You will not break down here. You
will hold yourself with dignity and you will convey yourself home.
Then, and only then, will you allow yourself the indulgence of
turning into a slobbering, self-pitying jelly.

But not here.

A hand clamped on her shoulder. She jumped and landed back on
earth.

‘
Danny, how are you?’ Henry Christie.

‘
Not good,’ she admitted. ‘Dithering, almost on the verge of
collapse. You know - woman stuff. What a bloody day!’ She gave a
short laugh and wiped the new tears away with a snuffle. Her nose
had started to run. She blew it, making a very unladylike
trumpeting sound. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘Hell,
what a mess.’

‘
It’s okay,’ Henry said. ‘And it’s understandable.’ He did not
patronise her with sympathy or empathy, even though he had been in
similar circumstances himself previously. Danny knew
this.

‘
How the hell do you deal with it, Henry?’ She opened her arms
and flopped them down in a gesture conveying complete loss. ‘It’s
so damned awful and I just can’t get my head round it at all. All I
can see is that poor boy staggering towards me . . . his face. . .
I feel so responsible. What do I do?’

Her eyes pleaded with him.

‘
You’ve been there,’ she added.

‘
Everything sounds so glib and pat,’ he said, ‘but I suppose
there’s a couple of things, for what they’re worth. Firstly, don’t
hold it in, otherwise it’ll rot your soul like cancer rots a body.
Take advantage of the Force counsellors; they do a good job.
Secondly, don’t get on a guilt trip. You couldn’t have done
anything, Danny. If it hadn’t been him, it would’ve been
you.’

‘
But that poor PC - and the other two people he
stabbed!’

‘
They’re both alive, so don’t even consider them.’

The man whose throat had been cut had been saved by
the officer who arrived on the scene behind Danny.
His quick actions had staunched the blood flow substantially until
the arrival of the ambulance crew. The man had been very lucky,
though.

‘
But, as I say, my words sound trite. That’s my advice, anyway.
Take it or leave it.’

She blew her nose again.

‘
Having said all that, Danny . . .’ Henry paused, faltering
slightly. ‘I have some more bad news, I’m afraid.’ He perched
himself on the edge of her desk. ‘I know I might well be making
assumptions here, but I think there’s an added dimension to Trent’s
escapades.’

Danny’s eyebrows creased.

‘
It may only be a coincidence, but the body of a young girl has
just been found in some bushes in a rec in North Shore. I’ve no
further details yet - I’m going to the scene now with FE. It’s your
call here, Danny. If you feel up to it, you can come. If not, I’ll
understand.’

Danny’s eyes flashed instinctively to the MFH report on her
desk. Once again she referred to the Almighty. ‘Dear God, please
don’t let it be Claire.’

Chapter Twelve

The lovers twisted into each other’s arms as soon as the
engine was turned off. They tore greedily at each other, their
teeth clashing on first contact of their mouths. Even though there
was a handbrake and gear lever between them, and the man’s
movements were impeded by the steering-wheel, within a matter of
moments his trousers were unfastened, her blouse had been ripped
open and her bra had been hoisted somewhere up around her
neck.

‘
Oh my God!’ they gasped together as the man’s hand reached her
vagina, and she grabbed his cock. She went onto him, making him
writhe ecstatically in his seat, whilst at the same time he fondled
her freely hanging left breast with his left hand.

She rose for air and looked out of the window.

‘
We need to do this properly,’ she slavered, tasting
him.

‘
You’re dead right.’

‘
Come on, let’s get out.’

They were parked on the grass verge of a narrow lane in the
picturesque countryside above Darwen in East Lancashire.

They clambered comically out of the car in their state of
undress. He shuffled along, holding up his pants precariously
whilst she, having dispensed with her knickers, ran around the car
and into the trees, covering her boobs with her arms. She led him
into a small clearing a few yards from the roadside, but far enough
to be out of sight of anyone passing.

They immediately started to ravage each other, dragging
clothing off and tossing it away with abandon into the bushes.
Moments later, both were naked, rolling around the cool woodland
floor, screwing wildly, emitting animal-like rutting noises. They
moved from position to position. To oral sex and back again. They
finished up with him (a chartered accountant), mounting her (his
secretary) from the rear.

When her hands sunk into some soft ground, she thought nothing
of it. She was too busy concentrating on the timings of her reverse
thrusts. However, when her fingers touched something hard, cold and
dome-shaped, she wondered what the hell she’d found. Her fingers
curled around the object and pulled it out of the
ground.

It was the top part of a skull, without the lower jaw
attachment.

She screamed, reared up and fell backwards onto her
unsuspecting lover. For a moment he thought it was a new move and
tried to ride with it. When he saw the skull circling up through
the air where she had thrown it, he realised this tryst had ended
before he had come.

Myrna Rosza walked noiselessly through the offices of Kruger
Investigations, painfully aware that every single pair of eyes was
on her. She had just ended a short meeting with the other execs
from the firm and had volunteered to take on the task of formally
announcing the death of Steve Kruger.

To most of them, at that moment, it was just a rumour. She
faced the horrendous job of turning that into fact.

Five minutes later, everyone who was available that morning
was gathered together in the boardroom, which was the single
largest room. They were expectant, fearful, and totally
silent.

Myrna did not know where to begin, but she knew the act of
saying the words, ‘Steve Kruger is dead,’ would help her grieve,
and start to come to terms with his loss.

She opened her arms in a gesture of helplessness. Croakily,
she began to speak.

‘
Thank you all for coming,’ she said stupidly, as if they would
have refused. ‘Early this morning Steve Kruger was involved in an
enquiry at Miami International Airport, concerning the activities
of Mario Bussola. You all know he is suspected of murdering Jimmy
and Dale. So . . . to cut a long story short, a firefight ensued in
a multi-storey parking lot during which Steve was fatally injured.
He died of gunshot wounds at the scene.’

A gasp of horror went up from the staff. Several of them, men
and women, began to cry.

Myrna licked her dry lips.

‘
What the hell happened, Myrna?’ one asked.

‘
Look, I was there when he was shot, okay,’ she responded,
losing her hold. ‘I know I should answer your question, George, but
hell, I don’t feel like it right now. Maybe later, huh? Sorry. I
gotta go.’

Two detectives stood side by side and looked down at the
pathetic body of a girl.

Henry James Christie and Danielle Louise Furness were silent,
each in a world of their own.

From the position of her limbs and the way her clothing had
been ripped off, it seemed fairly obvious she had been sexually
molested either before or after her death. There were stab-wounds
in her chest.

Henry ran a hand down his face, shook his head. In his career
as a detective he had been involved in eight child-murder
investigations: from the simple, but tragic, domestic murder to a
serial killing. And he could not get used to seeing a young person
dead, mainly because the images of his two daughters constantly
flashed into his mind. How the hell he would ever cope if either of
them came to such an end, he didn’t know. Probably wouldn’t. He
would be destroyed, unable to operate as a fully functioning human
being ever again. He knew his wife, Kate, would be
worse.

It was very hard for him to remain in control when faced with
investigating such deaths. Hard to refrain from beating the
offender - if caught - to a pulp. He squinted sideways at Danny,
but was unable to identify the meaning of the expression on her
face ... mainly because she was experiencing conflicting
emotions.

The first was relief.

At least it was not Claire Lilton lying there, having been
dragged, beaten, mutilated, raped in the bushes, then horribly
murdered.

The second was repulsion.

Who - WHO? - could have done such a thing? It beggared all
belief and understanding in the human condition. To put someone
through such suffering ... The savagery people could stoop to
constantly amazed her.

Henry’s voice broke into her train of thought. ‘What do you
think?’

‘
I think we’d better step up the hunt for Trent. He’s never
killed before. He came close, but now I think we’re dealing with
someone who’s gone right over the edge. Uncontrollable. He’s my
prime suspect.’

‘
I agree, but let’s not blind ourselves to the possibility it
might not be him.’

‘
Yep,’ Danny said flatly. Her gaze returned to the dead girl.
‘Let’s make sure we do things right - and when we’ve identified
her, let me tell her parents.’