One Dead Witness (36 page)

But Gilbert was an unusual person.

He’d begun his working life with nothing more than a roadside
burger stall and over forty years had built up a veritable empire
based in Blackpool, concentrating on cheap food and amusement...
the areas which, on reflection, were attractive to young
people.

Yes, Henry could clearly visualise Gilbert rolling down the
corridors of the police station, voice booming above everyone
else’s. And all the while he hid disgusting secrets.

Henry wondered what else was hidden. He shivered at the
thought, looked briefly down at his right hand - the one with which
he had shaken Gilbert’s. Instinctively he wiped the palm across his
desk blotter.

‘
This is simply me acting in my liaison role, Henry, and
passing you information,’ Donaldson was saying. ‘I haven’t received
anything on paper yet but I did check the facts before I called
you. They are correct.’

‘
Cheers, Karl.’

They concluded the call with some quick family
chit-chat.

Henry breathed out, puffing his cheeks. He was astounded by
the news. He cursed as the phone went again - the bane of his
life.

It was Danny. She sounded excited. ‘Henry, we’ve got a
possible location for Trent.’

‘
In Stoke?’

‘
No, here in Blackpool. In a guest-house.’

‘
Incident room, one minute,’ Henry barked.

Mrs Bissell’s guest-house - The Ronald, named after her dear
departed - was a clean, well-run and fairly prosperous
establishment in Charnley Road. Mrs Bissell was a robust lady,
round, even-tempered and a whizz at cooking full English
breakfasts. She had been running The Ronald for fifteen years, ever
since becoming a widow. It gave her something to do and she found
she was surprisingly good at it, having been a housewife most of
her adult life. The majority of her guests were well-known
regulars, but she always liked to keep a couple of spare rooms for
passing trade; passing trade often became repeat trade.

Over the last three days she had received one phone call and
one visit from the local police regarding Louis Trent. She knew all
her guests personally and was adamant Trent was not one of them.
The visiting officers accepted this.

Earlier that Monday morning, a few minutes before she had
finished serving breakfasts, a man carrying a holdall called at the
front door asking for accommodation. She immediately said yes,
asked him to sign the visitor’s book and pay a small deposit, which
he did. He peeled a ten-pound note from a thick wad. She took him
to one of the single rooms in the newly built extension at the rear
of the premises. From the window there was a view of the southerly
aspect of the Winter Gardens complex. Mrs Bissell offered her new
guest a late breakfast, which he declined. After pointing out the
amenities - there was no en suite but the bathroom was immediately
across the passage - she left him in the room.

Walking back through the narrow, seemingly endless corridors,
Mrs Bissell was a little perturbed. There was something not quite
right about the man and this gave her a sense of unease. She was
never 100 per cent happy taking in single men. Most of her custom
came from older couples, usually pensioners. To her a single man
often meant gay in Blackpool - not that she had anything against
poofs...

She did not think this man was gay. So what was it? His
reluctance to get into conversation? The large amount of money he
openly displayed? Then it struck her.

She rushed back to the reception desk where she rooted through
a pile of correspondence, eventually finding what she was looking
for - the photograph and description of Louis Vernon Trent left by
the police on their recent visit.

She peered at the image of the most wanted man in Britain, but
couldn’t be sure it was him. It
looked like
him, but then again. . . She checked the visitor’s book and saw he
had signed in as L. Blake, with an address in Stoke. Her lips
puckered up. Again she peered closely at the photograph. She
focused in on the eyes.

They were the giveaway.

With trembling fingers she picked up the phone, hoping she
wasn’t about to make a complete fool of herself, but deep down she
knew that Louis Vernon Trent had just booked into her
hotel.

‘
A guy has signed himself in as “L. Blake” from
Stoke-on-Trent,’ Henry said to the very quickly assembled Armed
Response Vehicle crews. Four officers had turned up - all in body
armour, all overtly carrying their weapons. ‘The name Blake is the
surname of one of the inmates Trent is suspected of frying during
his prison escape; Stoke is where he abandoned Danny’s
car.’

Other officers shuffled into the room. Six Support Unit, all
having quickly changed into their riot gear.

‘
Come in, welcome,’ Henry beckoned. ‘We’ve only just
started.’

FB then sidled in, joining Henry and Danny at the front of the
room. Henry recapped on what he had said, then continued,
‘According to the lady who runs the guest-house, Mrs Bissell, the
suspect is in a single room at the rear of the building. Second
floor with a view across to the Winter Gardens.’

A large-scale aerial photograph was Blu-tacked onto the wall
behind Henry. It clearly showed the Winter Gardens and the
surrounding streets. Because Blackpool hosts political conferences
every year, the streets around the conference venue, the Winter
Gardens, were well-documented in terms of photos, maps and plan
drawings for reasons of security. Mrs Bissell’s guest-house could
clearly be seen and the picture was recent enough to include the
new extension.

‘
This is the guest-house on Charnley Road.’ Henry pointed to
it. ‘Most of you probably know it. Obviously we can’t be sure that
this is definitely Trent in the room, so we need to find out and
play it softly softly just in case it isn’t. I’ve roughed out a
very quick operational plan and I’m going to run through it. If
anyone has any better ideas, then please speak up.’

The heavy rain helped the initial approach. It was bucketing
down remorselessly, driving in from the Irish Sea like fine rods of
steel, almost horizontal.

This meant it was not exceptional to see two people, a couple,
a man and a woman, jogging down the road against the weather, heads
bowed against the onslaught, chins on chests, collars up, the woman
with hat pulled down over her face, hiding her features, the man’s
arm around the woman’s shoulders.

They turned into the guest-house, trotted up the steps and
into the tiled vestibule where the proprietor met them with a
sharp, ‘We’re full up.’

The man quickly flashed a badge. ‘DI Christie from Blackpool
police station. We talked on the phone a few minutes ago. This is
Sergeant Furness.’

‘
Oooh, right,’ said Mrs Bissell.

‘
Anywhere we can have a quick chat?’

She led them into the deserted TV lounge.

‘
Look, I don’t even know if this is the right fella,’ Mrs
Bissell said worriedly. ‘I don’t want to upset him if I’m wrong. He
is a paying guest, after all.’

‘
We understand that,’ Danny said empathetically. ‘We’ll be
tactful. Don’t you fret yourself, love. As soon as I see him, I’ll
know. It’s not as though we need to take a long time over it. In
and out, whichever way it goes.’

Mrs Bissell held a hand across her ample bosom and sighed.
‘Thank the Lord for that.’

‘
Is he still in that back bedroom, the one you described?’
Danny asked.

‘
Yes.’ She nodded. ‘As far as I know.’

‘
Is there any way he can get out of the building without you
knowing?’

‘
Only by the fire escape. It runs underneath his
window.’

‘
Okay,’ said Henry, ‘can you show us to the room, point it out
and leave us to it? And if you’ve got a master key, that would be
helpful.’

Henry removed his raincoat and draped it across the back of a
chair. He spoke into his PR and asked for positions. The reply came
back: Three Support Unit and two firearms officers at the rear, on
foot, out of sight, but with a view of the building; the remaining
officers were parked and ready in a van up the road.

‘
Right, we’re going up,’ Henry informed them. To Mrs Bissell he
said, ‘Please lead the way.’

Since kidnapping Danny, Trent had laid pretty low. He had
escaped in her car, driven south on the motorway and come off at
Stoke-on- Trent where he fired the car and rolled it into a flooded
quarry. He spent that night in Stoke and the following morning
bussed it to Manchester. He killed time there by drifting around
porno cinemas, getting wind of some child-abuse films which he
watched excitedly.

He found himself to be getting restless, though, with a
sensation growing in him which meant he had to act again. He was
tempted to strike in the city, but only felt ‘right’ doing it in
Blackpool. He was comfortable there, knew the place well, the best
spots to stalk and pounce, the best places to finish off his
crimes.

To commit another crime was something he needed to do. It was
building up inside him, burning through him and he had no control
over it. He had to do much, much more. The little girl Meg
Tomlinson was to be the first of many. Although Danny Furness had
been a failure at least he had terrified her shitless. But putting
fear into someone was not his intention. Killing them was. And
Danny was still high up on the list for a knife in the ribs. Next
time it would go straight in, no fucking about, no conversation.
Just wham!

In - twist, in-twist, in-twist.

Trent slashed his hand at the water in his bath.

He sniggered, lounged back in the hot water and contentedly
washed himself down.

Then came the knock on the door.

He shot upright. His right hand reached for the knife which
lay on the bath stool.

Danny remained unconvinced that Henry’s plan of action was the
most sensible in the world. To her, it would have been far better
to have had a truckload of hairy-arsed bobbies thundering down the
corridor, kicking in the door. No messing. Arresting whoever
happened to be on the other side.

If it wasn’t Trent, so what?

Brush him down and apologise.

If it was - all well and good.

But to have just the two of them tiptoeing down the corridor
and knocking gently on the door Mrs Bissell had indicated, seemed
plain stupid. Or was she being too sensitive? Perhaps being
abducted at knife-point and having threats made to cut her breasts
off had put things out of all perspective.

She took a firmer grip on her extended baton.

They reached the door. Henry gestured silently for Danny to
back off, then he rapped his knuckles on the door and waited. No
reply. He knocked again. No reply. Henry’s hand went to the
doorknob and turned it. The door was locked.

Danny swallowed.

Henry glanced quickly at her and pulled out the master key
given to him by Mrs Bissell.

‘
Here I go,’ he mouthed.

Trent rose slowly out of the bath, knife in hand. He trod
quietly on the bathmat, took the single stride to the door and
opened it a crack. The bathroom was directly across the corridor
from his room. He immediately saw Henry Christie’s unprotected
back, his hand on the doorknob, turning it, while carefully
inserting the key in the lock at the same time.

With a scream of rage, Trent raised the knife and threw
himself across the narrow corridor, plunging the blade into Henry’s
back at a point between the right shoulder-blade and
spine.

Danny yelled an agonised warning as she saw the naked figure
of Trent flash across the corridor and drive the knife into
Henry.

Too late.

Henry managed a quarter-turn, saw the glint of the blade,
tried to protect himself. Too slow. He and Trent crashed against
the bedroom door, the lock splintering open on impact. Henry
stumbled onto his knees under Trent’s weight, then pitched
forwards, smashing his forehead on the edge of the bedstead as
Trent fell on him.

Danny’s first instinct was to turn and run. To scream for
assistance. She forced herself through that moment, took two long
paces down the corridor and pivoted into the room behind the two
men. Henry was prostrate and unmoving underneath Trent who
straddled him. The knife was already slicing downwards towards
Henry’s exposed neck for the second blow.

Danny knew she had to react.

She stepped into the room, but because she was cramped for
space, was not able to strike Trent as hard as she would have liked
with her baton. Instead she gave a backhand flip, not dissimilar to
a squash stroke. The shaft connected with Trent’s left temple,
knocking him sideways across the room. The knife shot out of his
hand as he rolled over.

Danny glimpsed Trent’s loosely hanging genitalia which made
her want to retch.

She stepped over Henry. Trent was already on his hands and
knees, scrabbling towards the knife, only inches from his fingers
now.