One Dead Witness (33 page)

‘
Good trip?’

‘
Very good, Ollie. As a result of my little visit, our
amusement arcades will soon be kitted out with the latest video
technology from the States and beyond. We’ll be streets ahead of
the others. And not only that, for a very little effort, I’ll be
able to make another hundred grand - but I’ll explain that one to
you later.’

‘
Sounds good. Did you manage to have some fun as
well?’

‘
Ollie - of course I did. Nice young fun.’

Spencer led Gilbert out through the sliding doors to where he
had illegally parked the car - the vehicle in question being a
stretch Rolls-Royce with darkened windows, hired for the occasion
of Gilbert’s return home. Spencer positioned the luggage trolley
near to the rear of the car and opened the back door. Gilbert
forced himself through the not-inconsiderable gap and plopped
through onto the front-facing back seat.

The Rolls had been stretched to accommodate a rear-facing seat
too, making it similar to one of those long limos often seen in
America, but pretty unusual in Britain. There seemed to be acres of
room.

Sitting coyly on the rear-facing seat was a girl.

Gilbert’s face widened into a big smile of pleasure on seeing
her. ‘Honey Pot!’ he beamed.

Spencer poked his angular face in. ‘I hope you approve, boss.
Bit of a coming-home pressie.’ He handed Mickey Mouse to Gilbert
who presented it to the girl; she took it with a giggle.

‘
I approve.’ He slapped his thighs delightedly. ‘Come to
Daddy.’

The girl squeaked with peals of merriment. She rushed towards
him and immediately fumbled for his flies.

She was eleven and a half years old.

Danny did not really feel like going for a drink, but she
thought it would be churlish to refuse. After all, Henry had done a
lot for her in a very short space of time and a quick drink wasn’t
too much of an inconvenience.

She tidied her desk, picked up Claire Lilton’s Missing from
Home forms and went into the Comms room. She ensured the
circulation message would be sent that night. Danny knew how busy
the following day would be and didn’t want to forget Claire in the
melee.

That task completed, she was ready to leave.

She hated the fact that the walk to her car had become such a
big issue for her. Something she had done for years without a
second thought had, in the last few days, become a nightmare
journey. Although she was certain Jack Sands had got the message
loud and clear from Henry, the walk down the dimly lit car park
made her jumpy as hell. All the while checking the shadows, looking
round over her shoulder ... it was crap.

She pressed the remote and her car responded. Seconds later
she was in the driving seat, trying to get the key into the
ignition ... when the passenger door opened and a figure dropped
into the seat.

Danny didn’t even look for a moment. She closed her eyes
tightly and said through gritted teeth, ‘Jack, don’t you ever
fucking learn?’

‘
Jack? Who’s this Jack?’

God, that voice!
Danny’s eyes shot
open.

‘
I’m not Jack. My name’s Louis Trent, but you know that, Danny,
don’t you?’ He jammed the point of his knife into the side of her
neck. ‘Let’s go for a drive.’

Henry Christie rarely drank alcohol before driving. For cops
the drinking and driving game was far too dangerous to play. Too
many had lost their jobs that way, and Henry wasn’t about to join
them. However, that evening, he was parched. He needed something
long and cold to wash away the grit. He chose Foster’s lager - a
pint - and downed about half in one sustained slurp. It tasted
wonderful and partly did the trick. He decided he would drink this,
have one more with Danny, then head off home.

He edged away from the bar and sat in an empty alcove from
where he could survey the pub. He spotted a couple of crims -
low-level drug dealers - who didn’t want to look at him, snorted a
short laugh, sat back and waited for Danny.

Danny could hardly breathe. Like she was being suffocated.
Like a pillow was being pressed on her face.

‘
Seat belt, Danny,’ Trent said calmly. He pushed the knife
further into her neck. Any deeper and blood would be
drawn.

She drew the belt across her chest and clunked it
in.

‘
Now reverse out of here and drive out of the car park. If you
try anything, I’ll skewer you and run. I’ll stick this right into
your heart and you’ll fucking die here and now. Got
that?’

She nodded.

‘
Good.’ He lowered the blade so it rested against her left
breast. He prodded and she jumped like a fork of static had jolted
her. Trent laughed. Cruelly he said, ‘I’ll bet you’ve got nice
tits, Danny. I’m going to carve them like Christmas turkey. Now
drive!’ He prodded her again.

She was unable to stop her right foot from trembling on the
pedals. In consequence the car lurched backwards out of the parking
space. She slammed the brake on, too hard, unintentionally, and the
vehicle screeched to a swaying halt.

Trent reacted angrily. He whacked her across the face with the
open palm of his left hand. He struck hard, making Danny’s neck
snap round. She glared at him. He held the knife up to her nose and
inserted it half an inch into a nostril. ‘Don’t fuck about, Danny,’
he warned her, ‘or you’re dead.’

‘
I can’t stop my legs from shaking,’ she explained, voice
quivering.

‘
You’d better get in control of yourself,’ he breathed, staring
at her - and she could smell his body odour. It made her want to
retch. ‘Now drive away, nice and gently, and
in control.
Pretend I’m not here.
Pretend I’m Jack.’

From one horror to another, she thought, taking a firm grip on
the wheel when Trent removed the knife. She took a deep, steadying
breath, exhaled shudderingly, slid the gear-stick into Drive and
pressed the gas pedal with even strength.

‘
That’s it, Danny,’ he encouraged her. ‘Nice ... nice car,
too.’ He opened his legs and drove the knife into the seat between
his thighs. ‘Be a real mess when we’ve finished with it . . .
sadly.’ He made the opening in the fabric big and ragged by using
the knife like a garden trowel. ‘Let’s got for a drive,’ he
laughed.

It was the cheapest Casio watch he could find - £4.95 at the
time of purchase - but it had served him well over the years. The
cost of replacement straps far outweighed the original cost of the
watch. He looked at it and did not feel too happy. Almost
eleven.

He had been in the pub twenty minutes. There was about a
half-inch of lager remaining in the glass.

Where the hell was Danny?

He emptied the beer down his throat and made a return journey
to the bar.

‘
Fosters,’ he told the barman.

‘
Nasty cut, that,’ the barman observed, nodding at Henry’s
temple.

They had been driving ten minutes, mainly in silence other
than for Trent to give her directions. He told her to drive north
up the Promenade, towards Fleetwood.

‘
Pussy got your tongue?’ Trent sneered. ‘You did enough talking
when you interviewed me, didn’t you? Do you remember what I said,
all those years ago? That time we were alone together? Do
you?’

‘
Yes,’ she squeaked.

‘
Tell me.’

‘
You ... you said you’d kill me.’

‘
No.’ He jabbed her with the knife. ‘The exact words, Danny.
The
exact
words.’

She knew them. They were branded into her mind.

She spoke softly. ‘ “Guilty or not guilty, Danny, one fine day
- or night”,’ - a tear of fear rolled out of her eye as the words
came haltingly out - ‘ “I’m going to come back and kill you for
this”.’

‘
Yeah. Brilliant. Well done!’ he shouted. He leaned across and
spoke into her ear, his lips brushing her lobe. ‘And now I’m here,’
he said in a voice which sounded like the devil’s. He sat back and
drew the knife across the dashboard, slashing a line in the wooden
veneer.

‘
Right, I’ve had enough of this journey. Turn round, head back
to Blackpool.’

Henry found the second pint went down almost as easily as the
first - and far quicker. Without much thought he had drunk it in
five minutes. He must have been thirstier than he first
imagined.

Still no sign of Danny.

‘
Ah well,’ he said to himself. With a show of great reluctance
for no one but himself, he pushed himself from his seat and plodded
back to the bar. This was definitely going to be the
last.

He presented the empty glass to the barman.
‘Fosters.’

‘
It really is a nasty cut, that,’ the man said, indicating
Henry’s temple.

They drove all the way back down the Promenade. All the way
down the Golden Mile, past the amusement arcades, the Tower,
Tussauds Waxworks, the Sea Life Centre, all still teeming with
thousands of people. There was much laughter. Lots of rowdiness.
They drove through South Shore, past the hotel where Claire Lilton
lived, past the Pleasure Beach and the Pepsi Max Big
One.

When the Promenade cut slightly inland and became Clifton
Drive North and they drove through the Local Authority boundary
into Lytham St Annes, Trent said, ‘Pull in here.’ He pointed across
the road.

Danny veered across and stopped the car, facing oncoming
traffic. She doused the headlights.

Only feet away to Danny’s right, was Star Hill Dunes, an area
of grass and sand dunes. On the opposite side of the road was a
holiday camp. The dunes were popular with dog-owners, courting
couples and, occasionally, murderers.

‘
Nah - too fucking busy here," Trent blurted after
consideration. ‘Drive on.’

With relief, Danny accelerated away. ‘I was going to kill you
there.’

‘
I know,’ Danny said - but to herself.

There was no reply from Danny’s office phone, nor her home.
Henry was perplexed. He hung up the payphone, drummed his fingers
on the side of the wall-mounted, bubble-like kiosk which surrounded
him. He picked up the phone again, dialled Blackpool comms and
asked them. They knew nothing; Danny had not been deployed by them,
but she had dropped a misper file off to be circulated about half
an hour before. She’d said she was going for a drink.

He hung up and heard his ten-pence piece clatter away down the
shute. He picked up his drink from the thoughtfully installed shelf
next to the payphone and stepped back into the toilet corridor in
which the phone was located. He took a sip from his third pint -
almost gone - and walked back into the bar.

He was experiencing that old twinge of the sphincter. It told
him, rather like an old woman’s corns forecasting the weather, that
something was a little off the beam here. . . and the towering
spectre of Jack Sands loomed into Henry’s thoughts. A man with a
bagful of resentment. Someone who had already shown he was capable
of violence.

Maybe he was being over-dramatic.

Yet Danny had clearly said she would come for a
drink.

Henry knew if she changed her mind she would have let him
know, not just stood him up. She wasn’t that kind of
person.

His lager now tasted harsh on his tongue.

He threw the last of it down, wiped his mouth with the back of
his hands. A quick visit to the toilet, then he was going to put
his mind to rest one way or the other.

Danny knew she had to look for any chance of survival. When it
came, however slight, she had to go for it whether it meant
physical confrontation with Trent or running away. Whichever, she
would give it her best shot.

For the time being, she reasoned her best way forwards would
be to talk and keep him talking.

‘
This is madness,’ were the three ill-judged words which
constituted her opening gambit.

Trent exploded.

‘
How dare you fucking-well say that, you stinking bitch!’ he
screamed. He plunged the knife towards her face. Danny braced
herself. It slowed as it neared her and he stuck it against her
cheek, on the stitches from her other bad night. With a quick nick,
he drew first blood, reopening the wound. She almost cried out, but
held back to a whimper. The warm blood trickled down her cheek. He
removed the knife, then held it an angle across her neck. ‘If I
slice this now, you’ll bleed to death and I’ll just fucking watch
you, like that ambulance-driver.’ He breathed all over her. ‘This,
Danny, is not madness. It’s revenge, a perfectly normal thing to
do. People do it, governments do it, so how can it be wrong or mad?
Yeah, revenge - for all that’s been done to me over the
years.’

‘
Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry. I was wrong to say what I did. I didn’t
mean it to sound that way. . . I just wanted to know why you were
doing all this, Louis.’