One Dead Witness (35 page)

Following the gruesome discovery of a skull in woodland near
to Darwen in East Lancashire by two illicit lovers, one very
decomposed body was dug carefully out of a shallow grave and
transported to the mortuary. It turned out to be the skeletal
remains of a young person and the pathologist called in for the job
identified them as those of a young girl aged maybe ten or eleven
years old; she had been buried there for about five years. The only
way to make positive ID would be through dental records, as the
jaws and teeth were well-preserved.

He could not specify a cause of death, nor whether the girl
had been sexually molested. Even so, the police decided to set up
an incident room, allocate half a dozen detectives to it and see
where the enquiry led.

The first port of call for the detectives on the case was
Lancashire Constabulary’s Missing from Home files. These threw up
three possibilities. One was quickly eliminated - she had actually
returned home, but no one had cancelled the circulation. That left
two girls, both having gone missing several years earlier and never
returned.

The second port of call was to dental surgeries. This
eliminated one of these girls.

The final port of call was to Blackpool police
station.

Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, Assistant Chief Constable (Operations)
was waiting impatiently in Henry Christie’s office, sitting behind
his desk, leafing through his things. Henry closed his eyes
momentarily when he clapped eyes on FB.

What Henry wanted to do was sit at his desk, get his feet
comfortably underneath it, take his time, get up to speed with the
investigation, see where it was going, see where it was blocked,
then get onto Trent’s tail. It had been three days since Danny’s
horrific experience and Henry knew the trail was getting colder by
the minute. It needed hotting up - but only after he had got
himself up to scratch.

Henry had a pretty good idea that FB’s presence would preclude
the first part of the action plan.

‘
Henry, about time you got in here, for fuck’s sake!’ FB
snorted, making a great show of looking at his watch and the wall
clock.

Danny had followed Henry up to the office and was standing
behind him. ‘I’ll catch you later, sir,’ she said to Henry. She
nodded at FB. ‘Morning, sir.’

‘
No - you get in here too, young lady,’ FB beckoned regally.
Danny bristled, but came in and eased the door shut.

FB made no effort to vacate Henry’s chair. The two
lower-ranking officers sat on the seats opposite the
desk.

‘
What’s all this going off sick shit, Henry? Haven’t I told you
before it’s a nancy-boy’s trick?’

‘
I think you have, sir.’

FB grunted. His head reared back. ‘Anyway, you both look like
shite.’ He glared at Henry. ‘What’s the story behind it?’ He
pointed at the DI’s head. ‘Who walloped you?’

Henry shrugged. ‘No idea. Could’ve been anyone of a number of
people.’ Deep down he believed he knew exactly who was responsible,
but was not about to share it with FB. This was something
personal.

‘
And how are you, missy?’ FB directed the question to
Danny.

She bristled again and bit her tongue. ‘I’m fine.’ She smiled
primly.

‘
Good, good. Couple of days enough to get over it, I imagine?’
It was a rhetorical question.

Henry regarded FB across the desk and thought he had become
even more insufferable since his promotion to ACPO rank. He had
been bad enough before. Now his management style resembled a
steam-roller, riding roughshod over everyone in his path, making no
allowances for people’s feelings.

Henry knew FB had recently been the subject of two grievances,
one on the grounds of sexism, the other racism.

‘
You wanted to see us, boss?’ Henry asked politely.

‘
Yeah, to make sure you don’t do your normal thing, Henry - sit
around all morning farting about getting nowhere. I want you to
remember that besides a little girl being murdered by this bastard,
he killed a cop too.’ Danny winced visibly at the memory. ‘And I am
telling you that if you don’t have this cunt - please excuse my
French,’ he said to Danny who winced again, ‘in custody by the end
of this week, questions will be asked in the big house. Get my
drift? Jobs are on the line here, Henry - yours in particular.
Remember, it gets bloody cold in uniform.’

Henry opened his mouth to utter something about being unfair,
but thought better of it. FB was known for making rash statements
before thinking them through, and not really meaning them; however,
this did not stop his words from being unsettling.

‘
What I want you to do is come back to me in an hour and tell
me exactly where this investigation is up to. I’m sure you can
manage that. Right - that’ll do for now. I’ll see you later, back
here, one hour.’ He rose and left the room.

Henry slumped back and mouthed the word ‘bastard’ to himself,
bitterly regretting coming back into work. He could, quite
legitimately, have taken the week off. The discordant tunes in his
cranium had escalated to full volume by FB-induced stress. He
looked sideways at Danny.

‘
Is he always such a dick-brain?’

‘
That was his good side,’ Henry said. ‘You should see him when
he really gets uppity.’

There was a knock on the door. Danny answered it. Two men came
into the office and introduced themselves. They were detectives
from Blackburn. Henry knew them by sight, not name.

‘
What can I do for you?’ he asked. He sidled behind his desk
and sat on his chair, noticing how warm it was from FB’s sweaty
backside. He swept his hand towards the chairs and the detectives
sat.

One spoke. ‘A body was found in a shallow grave a couple of
days ago. Young girl, decomposed. We’ve managed to ID her from
dental records and an MFH report.’ The detective handed Danny a
photograph of a family group with the face of the girl circled in
red pen. Danny felt a chill. She handed the photo to Henry who saw
the look on Danny’s face. The detective carried on talking,
revealing the girl’s name as Annie Reece, aged fourteen. ‘She went
missing about five years ago, never turned up. Another girl
disappeared at the same time. She never turned up either. You might
recall?’

Henry did - but at the time he had been out of the country in
Holland, on an operation with the Regional Crime Squad. There had
been a big hunt for the two girls which eventually fizzled out. No
clues, no leads.

‘
Does this mean something to you, Dan?’ Henry asked.

Her face was bleak. ‘I reported them both missing.’

‘
Does it link to Trent?’

‘
No. He was in prison by then.’ She shook her head in
disbelief. ‘Funny how the past always seems to catch up with
me.’

Henry’s phone rang, cutting short any further time for Danny
to reflect.

‘
Yep?’ Henry answered it bluntly, nowhere near to Force
instructions on how a phone should be answered. It was one of the
officers from the incident room. Henry listened, his eyes on
Danny.

‘
Yeah, right, thanks for that ... Where exactly ... What
condition is it in? . . . Scenes of Crime, forensics on their way?
Right, I’ll be in shortly. Thanks again.’ He hung up. ‘Guess what?
They’ve found your car,’ he told Danny. This was a major leap
forwards in the investigation because Trent had stolen Danny’s car
from Knott End after he had tried to kill her. Its description and
registration had been circulated nationwide, but it had only just
been found.

Danny perked up. ‘Where?’

‘
Stoke-on- Trent, appropriately enough.’

‘
Stoke? What the hell’s he doing going to Stoke? And the car?’
She desperately wanted it back.

‘
I’m sorry ... it was found by a couple of amateur divers in a
flooded quarry just outside Stoke. Looks like it was torched before
it went into the drink. I’m told it’s a complete
write-off.’

Danny wilted visibly. Despite its recent injuries, it was
still her beautiful car. Treasured possession. Lovingly cared for,
manicured weekly. First she was abducted in it, then it was stolen,
now destroyed.

‘
Sorry, Dan. Look - oh, damn!’ Once more the phone interrupted
things. Henry picked it up, but continued talking. ‘Why don’t you
go and get a brew for these guys and I’ll join you in a few minutes
to discuss how we can help them. . . Yep?’ he said into the
phone.

A voice he recognised instantly, but had not heard for about
six months, said reprovingly, ‘Is this always how you answer the
phone, you godamned son of a gun?’ Henry brightened. ‘Hey, Yank!
How the hell y’doing?’

It was Karl Donaldson, former FBI Special Agent, now working
in the FBI London Office as a Legal Attaché. He was a good friend
of Henry’s.

Henry shooed Danny and the two visiting jacks out of the
office, leaned back in his chair, hoiked his feet onto the desk and
said, ‘What can I do for you, pal?’

‘
Remember Corelli?’ the American’s voice boomed.

‘
How could I forget?’ was Henry’s response. Indeed, how could
he have forgotten the man who had dispatched a highly trained and
paid assassin to do some dirty work in the North of England, and
with whom Henry had become personally and professionally involved,
nearly losing both his wife and life in the process. Henry knew
Corelli had since been murdered. ‘So what’s this about? Surely he
hasn’t come back to life?’

‘
Not exactly, but he’s been reincarnated in the guise of
another Italian low-life, name of Mario Bussola. You know how it
is: stamp on one cockroach and another one slithers out of the wall
as a replacement? That’s what Bussola’s done, taken on the mantle
of numero uno honcho in Florida’s swampy underworld ... but he’s
ten times worse, if that’s possible.’

‘
Karl - all very interesting, but why tell me this?’

‘
Stick with me, you impatient git. Is that the right word,
git?’

‘
Yeah - one of those quaint olde English expressions.’ Henry
smiled. He knew Donaldson liked to tryout English slang.

‘
One thing I think Corelli never dabbled in was under-age sex.
I know he was into prostitution, but never into little kids. Which
is where he and Bussola differ. Bussola likes young girls, just on
the turn from kiddie to lady, apparently. Our information also
suggests he ain’t all that choosy. Young male ass is also very
acceptable. Still with me, or have you fallen asleep?’

‘
Still hangin’ in there, buddy.’

‘
Good. The FBI in Florida have investigated Bussola frequently,
but got nowhere. He is strongly suspected of shipping illegals in
from all over the place - Mex, Cuba, wherever, you name it - and
using them in his joints, porno films and also for himself. It’s a
big trade over there - bodies. Fuckin’ phenomenal, really, but very
underground. Something the likes of me an’ you couldn’t even
envisage. They’re just throwaways. Disposables. Makes me sick to ma
stomach.’

‘
Karl, sorry pal, great story, but I’m busy, busy, busy ...
maybe I can phone you at home later? That bastard FB is really
breathing heavily down my neck.’

‘
This is work and it affects you,’ Donaldson said
sternly.

‘
I’m suitably chastised.’

‘
You should be, Henry. That’s the background. Last week Bussola
was arrested indulging in a double-tap with an underage girl, a
missing person.’

‘
Double tap?’ To Henry that was a firearms term.

‘
A two-up, if you like.’

‘
I’m with you.’

‘
He was eventually released without charge. But now, here’s the
interestin’ part from your point of view. Does the name Charlie
Gilbert mean anything to you?’

‘
I know of a Charlie Gilbert,’ Henry said cautiously.
‘Why?’

‘
A fellow called Charlie Gilbert was the other member of the
double-tap. Apparently he lives in Blackpool.’

‘
The only Charlie Gilbert I know is one who owns a fucking huge
chunk of Blackpool. Numerous amusement arcades, a lot of pubs and
restaurants, burger bars, a massive all-year-round fairground in
North Shore. All sorts of stuff. He’s a councillor, a member of the
Rotary. Very high profile indeed and beyond reproach. Donates money
to children’s charities. . .’ As he said the word ‘children’s’,
Henry’s speech faltered slightly. ‘Finances several youth clubs,
junior football teams, netball teams ... the guy’s a
saint.’

‘
U-huh?’ said Donaldson. ‘This will come as a bit of a shock to
you, old buddy. He’s also a child-molester. Released without
charge, maybe, but I’ve spoken to a witness who saw him forcing his
cock into the young girl’s mouth while Bussola buggered her. He was
also juiced up to the eyeballs, believed to be coke. Some saint,
eh? One who mixes with la crème de la crème de la Florida
underworld. Just thought you’d like to know.’

Henry came over all queasy.

Only three weeks earlier he had given Gilbert and several
other dignitaries a guided tour of the police station during an
official visit by the local council. Henry could see Gilbert’s face
now, very, very clearly. Large, round, flabby, but not ruddy. He
was almost a sickly white, complexion-wise, and his skin hung in
folds, rather like those unusual dogs, the breed of which Henry
could never remember. Gilbert had been loud and ebullient. Full of
himself, driven by his own self-confidence. Unusual for a fat
person.