One Dead Witness (32 page)

‘
You sure? You’ve had a tough few days.’

She spun on Henry. ‘Of all the people, I didn’t expect you to
patronise me, Henry.’

‘
Hey - whoa, sorry.’ He retreated, taken aback by her
anger.

She stormed away, leaving him open-mouthed.

Halfway across the Atlantic Ocean, a man called Charlie
Gilbert sat in the first-class cabin in a plane travelling at
37,000 feet, Miami International Airport 1500 miles
behind.

Even though the cabin temperature was quite fresh, Gilbert was
sweating profusely, as grossly overweight men often do, whatever
the circumstances. He had a wide seat with plenty of legroom but
was extremely uncomfortable. He looked as though he’d been forced
into the available space, like a fat hamster pressed into a tobacco
tin. He had very little room to manoeuvre and there was only just
enough space to drop his food tray in front of him.

He wasn’t too concerned.

His business trip to America had been successful. Of course,
there had been the little blip - namely, being arrested for taking
part in the rape and indecent assault of a young girl - but that
had been fixed. Mario Bussola assured him on that point. And when
Bussola made assurances, they stuck.

The incident would be hushed up, he promised Gilbert. The
press would not get to know about it. No further police would be
taken, and appropriate revenge would be meted out.

Charlie Gilbert would be safe.

Thank God, because, after all, he had a reputation to think
of.

Myrna realised what she had to do immediately was put together
a strategy to ensure as much damage limitation as possible as far
as Kruger Investigations was concerned.

Being Kruger’s number two, and having taken on full
responsibility for running the company, there were many things for
her to do - not least reassuring jittery customers, some of whom
had already called and were sounding extremely agitated.

To quote one: ‘Just what the hell are Kruger Investigations up
to, that their managing director has ended up dead in a fucking
shoot-out with gangsters, for fuck’s sake’ - unquote.

Myrna quickly needed to soothe ruffled feathers. Then she
needed to deal with the staff. They were shell-shocked - and
rightly so. Within the space of a day, three employees had met very
violent deaths, three people who were well-known and loved by
everyone.

Myrna knew she had to act, hold it all together, otherwise she
would lose other good people.

All thoughts of revenge, or mounting some sort of operation
against Bussola needed to be shelved indefinitely. To hit out,
strike back, was what she had desired to do initially ... but that
was a task for the legal process and if it failed, so be
it.

It wasn’t a job for a respectable company and Myrna wasn’t
about to put others at risk again.

She was in her office. It was an hour since the staff meeting.
An hour since she had hurled up her insides.

She had just finished a phone call to Kelly, the comms van
operator, who had returned home to Memphis whilst the Bussola
threat was still in the air. Having given her the lowdown on the
Kruger situation, Myrna suggested that maybe she would like to stay
off work a little longer - on full pay. Eminently sensible lady she
was, Kelly agreed to the idea.

Myrna’s hand was resting on the phone when there was a knock
on the door. It opened a fraction to reveal Mark Tapperman, the
tall, well-built detective, standing there. He wore a forlorn
expression making him look like a little boy, not the hard,
uncompromising detective Myrna had become acquainted with and
despised.

‘
Come on in, Mark,’ she said softly, her instinct sensing
something not quite right.

He entered the room and sat down.

She was perplexed by his whole body language. It was so
incongruous to the usual swaggering macho stuff she had seen
recently.

Then, without warning, it happened.

Mark Tapperman burst into tears.

‘
We’re pretty sure he’s called Patrick Orlove, at least as sure
as we can be. He’s got dozens of aliases, but the prints from the
gun at the scene put up Orlove as his original name. We don’t
really know very much about his distant past, but recently he
turned up in LA and did some work for the McGreevy cartel, which
resulted in a murder one court appearance. He was acquitted: the
usual witness problems. Next he turns up in the Big Apple, helping
out one of the East Side gangs. Suspected of puttin’ a gunload of
lead into a junkie informer’s grey matter, but mainly acted as
close-quarter protection to a gang chief. From there, seems he got
a recommendation to come south for Bussola, who we know axed and
replaced a lot of his security since you and Steve were able to
walk all over’ em and interrupt that gang-bang downtown. We think
Orlove’s still in the city, but by the same token he could be in
Cuba.’

Myrna nodded as she listened to Tapperman telling her about
the man suspected of killing Steve Kruger; the man they had allowed
to escape from the scene of the tragedy.

The noise had been incredible when the guns in their hands
discharged and the two men who had been turning and drawing their
weapons had been hit. Myrna’s mind saw it all again ... the two men
swivelled grotesquely and both fell down dead on the concrete
floor, blood pouring out of their wounds. Tapperman raced to the
third man, the one Kruger had punched in the nose before launching
himself between the parked cars, and pointed his gun at the
crouching guy’s head. He yelled to Myrna. ‘Cover him, I’m going
after the other guy.’

Myrna had done as instructed, her arms locked in an isosceles
triangle, keeping the man covered whilst he tried to stem the tide
of blood gushing from his bust nose. Her eyes constantly flicked
towards the two bodies close by. Both twitched like they were being
tickled. She looked up towards Tapperman who was working his way
methodically and cautiously down the line of cars, and she kept
glancing to the gap where Kruger had thrown himself. She could see
his feet. Why was he just lying there, not moving? Why didn’t he
get up? She knew, even then, something was wrong.

Tapperman edged back, still wary. He stopped at the gap Kruger
had gone into, not far from where Myrna stood. He stared between
the vehicles, his chest heaving. He knelt down out of sight for a
few moments then rose back to his full height, grim.

Myrna was hopping on her toes, desperate to know, dying to run
and see, but her job was to keep the bloody-nosed man
covered.

Tapperman walked over to her. He stood about three feet away
from the kneeling man. His face became a mask of rage. He stepped
back, then kicked the man in the head, pitching him sideways across
one of his dead buddies.

‘
Bastard.’

As quickly as it came, the anger subsided. Tapperman swooped
down and cuffed the man expertly, hands right up his back. He threw
him face-down. Then he stood up again and regarded
Myrna.

‘
What the hell was all that about?’ she demanded, shocked by
his reaction.

‘
Steve’s dead,’ Tapperman responded simply.

And somehow the person responsible - now known to be Patrick
Orlove - had escaped, and all they managed to find was his gun
dumped in a trashcan when the scene was searched later.

Myrna shook her head and raised her face to Tapperman, sitting
opposite her.

‘
He’s on the wanted list now.’

‘
And the chances of catching him are..?’

‘
Zero, if I’m honest, especially if Bussola’s looking after
him.’

‘
What about the guy you practised your soccer skills
on?’

‘
Saying nothing ... but we’ve got him for illegal possession
and he’s wanted in Nevada for a serious assault with a deadly
weapon. He’s going nowhere ‘cept jail.’

‘
Bussola?’

Tapperman gave her a withering glance. This she interpreted
as, ‘Don’t ask silly fucking questions.’

‘
What about the other guy, the English paedophile?’ she
persisted.

‘
Gilbert? Tucked up on a plane back to the UK.’

‘
You told the FBI about him?’ she wanted to know.

‘
Should I?’

‘
Maybe they ought to know, maybe they can pass on the gen about
him to the cops in England. If the cops over there don’t know about
this guy, it’s time they did.’

‘
Aw . . . when I get round to it.’

‘
In that case, I’ll do it. I know a guy at the London office,
used to work from Miami. I’ll tell him and he can pass it
on.’

‘
Okay, whatever suits.’

‘
So that’s it then - we’re getting nowhere fast?’

‘
That’s one way of lookin’ at it, I guess. Myrna, you must be
one o’ those folks who always sees a half-empty glass.’

‘
I’m a realist.’ She sounded sour.

‘
Right, sure.’ Tapperman stood up. ‘Just thought I’d keep you
informed about things.’ A bashful expression crossed his face, ‘Er,
about earlier. I . . . er . . . you won’t tell anyone, will
ya?’

‘
Lieutenant Tapperman, your secret is safe with me.’

‘
I owe ya, babe.’

For the first time in too long, a broad smile crept across
Myrna’s tired countenance.

Mark Tapperman’s secret.

Behind all that macho bluster and bull, he was a big soft guy
with real feelings and emotions. His outburst had astonished her.
She was glad she had seen it because it made him human. To know he
was grieving for Steve Kruger, as she was, made her feel so much
better.

She picked up the phone and asked her secretary to get the
number of the American Embassy in London, England.

‘
Sorry ... sorry, pretty please, forgive me.’

‘
Nah, no problems, you were quite right to jump down my throat.
If you’d been a bloke I wouldn’t have said it. It was patronising
at best; at worst it was sexist. I’ll hold my hands up.’ Which
Henry Christie promptly did.

Danny grinned. ‘Can we forget it and get on with the
job?’

‘
Forget what?’ Henry smiled.

It was ten o’clock. He was surprised to see it was so late. It
had been one hell of a day. A short time earlier he had returned
from attending a double post mortem - first of a murdered Police
Constable, then of a murdered girl. The pathologist had been pretty
certain the same knife had killed both people.

He read the piece of paper in front of him, notes taken during
the autopsies. ‘She was sexually assaulted, as we expected, anally
and vaginally,’ he told Danny. ‘The pathologist has taken samples
of semen, so when we get Trent all we need do is match up the DNA
and bingo! She actually died of a stab-wound to the heart, an organ
which was horrendously damaged, as was the PC’s. Trent gets the
knife in and really rives it round.’

‘
Poor souls.’

Danny had been at the house of Mr and Mrs Tomlinson, the
parents of the dead girl, for the last three hours since they had
identified their daughter at the mortuary. It had been a difficult
and testing time for her. ‘I’ll tell the girl’s mum and dad
tomorrow about the results of the PM. That’s when they’re expecting
to be told. They’ve had enough pain and misery for today. Christ!
All she’d done was pop out to play for a while. She’d just been
recovering from flu. She was due to go back to school
tomorrow.’

Henry said, ‘Just for your information there’s now twenty
pairs of officers working through the hotels and guest-houses
physically, another ten on phones. I’ve told them to crack on until
midnight, then pack it in. All my available detectives are pubbing
and clubbing it to see what they can turn up. There’s a briefing at
eight tomorrow and I hope to double those numbers at least for a
couple of days.’

‘
How are the people from the estate agents?’

‘
The woman he stabbed has been sent home, no massive damage.
The guy with the neck-wound is still in surgery - but he’ll live.’
Henry stretched. ‘I’m going to call it a day. Fancy a quick jar on
the way home? And it will be quick. I need to be back here by
six-thirty to get everything ready for eight.’

‘
I’d like that, Henry. I’ve just got a couple of things to
do.’

They made an arrangement to meet in a pub and Danny went to
her office.

Henry headed straight out. He did not see the lurking figure
in the doorway of an office nearby, a figure who had overheard
their conversation.

Jack Sands stepped out of the shadow. ‘Bitch and bastard,’ he
whispered.

Chapter Thirteen

Charlie Gilbert waddled through customs at Manchester Airport,
having collected his hefty baggage and large Mickey Mouse from the
carousel. He went down the green channel - nothing to declare,
other than being overweight. In the arrivals hall he was greeted by
a man called Ollie Spencer who looked and acted something like a
wartime spiv: quick, sharp features, trimmed moustache and a look
which said he could get anything, any time. He worked for Gilbert
in the capacity of manager of some leisure facilities, and acted in
close liaison with him in many spheres.