One Dead Witness (50 page)

Gilbert’s head dropped into his hands.

They were in yet another consulting room, this time at Risley
Remand Centre. Gilbert’s big, round, football of a head rose. He
stuffed a little finger up his nose, rooted around and extracted a
ball of snot which he wiped underneath the table.

‘
Who is it?’

‘
Some girl or other. I don’t have details.’

‘
Fuck! I know who she is. It can only be one
person.’

He gazed at the ceiling for inspiration. ‘This puts me right
back to square one, because if she turns up, I’ll face a murder
charge ... and I don’t want that to happen, Maurice.’

‘
We’ll defend it,’ Stanway declared resolutely.

‘
No, Maurice. I said I didn’t want it to happen at
all.’

‘
What are you going to do then? Have another witness murdered?’
Stanway’s voice rose. ‘I mean, she’s in America. It’s not as though
we can send that dumb gorilla round we paid the other night, can
we?’

‘
No, that’s true - and keep your voice down, Maurice. Walls
have ears.’

‘
What do you intend doing, then?’ Stanway re-enquired. ‘I think
we should defend it.’

‘
I will not appear in court on another murder
charge.’

‘
Charles,’ Stanway breathed with exasperation, ‘she’s in
America, presumably in police hands. She’ll be handed over to the
Lancashire officer and brought straight back - in police hands.
There is no way you could pull a stunt of any sort.’

‘
Maurice,’ Gilbert began in a tone of voice which was losing
patience, ‘I want you to do something for me.’ He wiggled a
forefinger to bring Stanway’s face closer and he whispered in the
solicitor’s ear.

When he had finished, Stanway stood up and paced the room.
‘No, no, I will not do it - you cannot make me do it! First I meet
and pay some bloody lowlife to commit a murder and now you ask me
to do this. I am just digging myself in deeper and deeper. . . I
will not do it. Ethically, morally, legally, it is against all my
principles. The answer is no, Charles. A definite no.’

Gilbert listened to the tirade, almost expecting Stanway to
stamp his feet.

‘
Finished, Maurice?’

Stanway nodded and licked his dry lips.

‘
You don’t have a fucking choice.’

Hyperventilation: breathing at an abnormally rapid rate,
resulting in increased loss of carbon dioxide.

Maurice Stanway put the dictionary down with dithering hands.
That was exactly what he was suffering from. His breathing was out
of control; his heart rate astounding. His was light-headed; grey
flecks were whizzing in front of his eyes. In fact, it was a
miracle he had made it from Risley Remand Centre back to his office
in the car. It was only sheer willpower which had prevented him
from blacking out on the motorway.

The office was deserted. All the staff had gone
home.

It was 7 p.m.

Stanway tried to control everything by sitting at his desk and
getting a firm grip on his bodily functions. Without success. In
the end he yanked open his bottom drawer and reached for the
quarter bottle of scotch he kept there. Normally it languished
unopened from Christmas to Christmas. He unscrewed the cap and put
the bottle to his lips, gurgling down the fiery liquid. Almost half
the bottle went down within seconds. He almost choked.

‘
Christ, Christ, Christ.’ His current predicament was beyond
his comprehension, but he knew it was solely down to one thing -
his weakness. From his experience as a solicitor he knew that
weakness was the usual downfall of most people, whether it be a
fondness for drink, drugs, money or power, or, as in his case,
young boys. Preferably around the ages of seven or
eight.

For the millionth time he asked himself why. Why did he like
it? Something he knew was completely unnatural, immoral and
illegal. But he did. He loved the texture of their soft flesh; he
loved causing pain and loved holding them down whilst he completed
the act. That too, was a power thing.

But why?

A married man, kids of his own who he would have defended with
his life from the advances of someone like himself. A good,
moderately successful career. Nice house, two decent cars, money
not a problem.

Perhaps his longstanding friendship with Gilbert was one
reason. They had known each other since Grammar School, where the
brutish Gilbert had led him astray then. . . and the relationship
had continued in the same vein for thirty odd years.

Maurice Stanway, the man who was so easily led.

Now he was trapped in a cage of his own making.

Gilbert had such power and personal influence over him it was
impossible to resist. For his own survival he had to help Gilbert
again.

He pulled his briefcase onto the desk and snapped it open. In
his notebook he turned to the page where he had jotted down the
number Gilbert had dictated to him. The very private number of a
very dangerous man.

Stanway squeezed his face in the palm of his hand, breathed
in, held it and exhaled slowly. Then he picked up the phone and
dialled quickly so he would not stop halfway through.

Despite the long distance, connection was made
immediately.

On the second ring, the phone was answered by a
woman.

Stanway quickly explained who he was and asked to speak to
that man.

After the rain, Miami was boiling hot again.

However, Felicity Bussola, previously known as Felicity Kruger
and before that, Jane Creek, was sitting in the shade of a large
umbrella, laid out full-length on a sun lounger by the
pool.

She answered the cell-tel as soon as it rang. It had been left
on the drinks table next to her. After listening for a few moments,
she pressed the ‘secret’ button and shouted across the
pool.

‘
It’s for you, darling, she called. She held the phone out
between her first finger and thumb.

Mario Bussola was sitting at a table in the full sunshine,
working on a laptop. There was a fax machine by his side, a small
copier, a shredder and two other phones, all within reach. He was
stripped down to his boxer shorts and the heat of the sun was
making his rippling fat glisten and perspire.

Bussola sat up. He frowned. Few people ever called him on this
number because it was only divulged to selected and thoroughly
vetted individuals. ‘Bring the fucking thing here,’ he said. There
was no way he was going to get up.

‘
Okay, babe.’ She rose to her feet stiffly because the broken
ribs had not really begun to heal, and shuffled around the edge of
the pool. Not only did the ribs still hurt, but also the base of
her spine which was sore and bruised. This particular injury meant
she walked like an eighty-year-old.

On the way round the pool she had to walk past two of
Bussola’s new bodyguards. One was on duty, sat up at a table,
reading in the shade of a tree. The other was off-duty, laid out on
a recliner in his boxing shorts, browning himself in the rays. Guns
and holsters were very much in evidence. They both watched Felicity
from behind the dark lenses of their Ray-Bans.

Even though she was injured and probably incapable of anything
more than very passive sex, Felicity could not help noticing the
bulge in the guard’s boxers. It looked a dangerous packet. She
longed to reach out for it.

Her husband was gesturing impatiently with his fingers. She
handed the mobile over.

‘
Why don’ you just fuck off inside? I’m sicka lookin’ at cha
hobblin’ around like a witch all day long,’ Bussola
suggested.

‘
Okay, babe,’ she murmured. ‘Anything you say.’

She shuffled away.

Bussola stuck the phone to his ear.

‘
Is ... is that Mr Bussola?’ Stanway stuttered.

‘
You rang the number, you tell me.’

‘
I’ll assume it is . . . My name is Maurice Stanway and I’m
very sorry to disturb you, I know you are a busy man.’

‘
How did ya get this number?’

‘
I . . . er, represent Charles Gilbert. I’m a solicitor -
lawyer, if you like. He gave me the number and I’m phoning on his
behalf.’

‘
In that case stop friggin’ about and get on with it. You’re
right - I am busy.’

Felicity crept up the stairs which wound their way up the rear
of the house. A first-level landing gave her the chance to rest.
The window there looked over the terrace to the pool where she
could see her husband on the phone.

Had her eyes been pistols, they would have shot Bussola to
pieces. She perched the corner of her bottom on the low
window-ledge and opened the window quietly. Just below her were the
two bodyguards, unaware she was hovering above them. Bussola was
talking gruffly on the phone. The bodyguards were whispering
something to each other. Felicity craned her neck and strained to
eavesdrop.

‘
She deserved it . . . no fucker pisses with Mario,’ the
on-duty guard was saying.

‘
He made a classic mess of her,’ the other observed. Felicity
knew his name was Gus. She did not know the other’s
name.

‘
Yeah - she used to be a good-lookin’ piece a tail. Now her
face is so outta line she couldn’t even blow a candle
out.’

Felicity choked back a sob at the words. They were true. She
was horrible to look at now. Face swollen, body bruised to hell and
back - was she ever going to recover? Her husband had made a mess
of her and she hated him for it.

‘
Shit!’ Bussola roared. He threw the phone down in a fit of
temper and it smashed to pieces on the terracotta floor.

The bodyguards shot to attention, nerves showing.

‘
Ira!’ the Italian bellowed. ‘Get your stinking Jewish ass out
here now.’

Bussola rolled up to his feet and waddled over to the
bodyguards quicker than they anticipated. They jumped to their
feet.

Felicity dodged behind the cover of the drape.

‘
Siddown, you assholes,’ Bussola instructed them. ‘Ira? You
heard me, or what?’

‘
I’m here, I’m here, keep your big Italian mouth in check.’ Ira
Begin, Bussola’s lawyer and adviser in all matters of law,
strategy, finance and tactical operations, scuttled like a beetle
out of the house, where he had been busy on paperwork. He was the
only person who could get away with talking back to Bussola, but
even he judged it carefully. Sometimes Bussola needed to be treated
with kid gloves and Begin generally knew when. He had been with
Bussola many years and though he was a small, insignificant-looking
man, he wielded great power and influence in Bussola’s empire. He
was ruthless when necessary, having cold-bloodedly murdered four
people in his time and assisted Bussola to murder or dispose of
eight others, including the Armstrong brothers; mostly, though,
Begin liked to keep timidly in the background, using his various
skills to assist in the acquisition of money and power for his
boss. He slid his John Lennon style spectacles on and blinked in
the sunlight. ‘What’s up?’

‘
Got an issue.’ Bussola perched himself on the edge of the
table the bodyguard had been sitting at. He always used the word
‘issue’ rather than ‘problem’.

‘
Shoot.’

‘
Gilbert’s been arrested in England.’

‘
How is that an issue?’

‘
Let me finish, you twerp. In two ways. Firstly, the equipment
we are shipping over to him - you know, the video games - need to
be dealt with by him. He’s going to hand over the little extras we
have secreted in them to our other contact in Manchester.’ Bussola
was referring to the two kilos of cocaine that were going to
accompany the arcade games; Gilbert was due to deliver them to a
drug dealer who was handling Bussola’s North of England operation.
If Gilbert was not there to receive the games, there could be major
complications, not only of a financial nature. ‘And secondly, the
English cops are coming across here to pick up a witness against
him and take that witness back to testify. It’s about a murder five
godamned years ago! I mean, who the hell gives a shit about
something that old? Anyway, it’s that stupid little girl who
spoiled some of our fun.’

‘
Tracey Greenwood - the English girl.’ Begin knew immediately;
it was his job to know.

‘
Yeah - that junkie piece a shit. She could damage me -
possibly,’ Bussola complained. ‘And not only that, Gilbert is a
friend. I look after friends.’

‘
I take it you would rather she did not testify?’ Begin said
fussily.

‘
It would simplify things all round. Make some enquiries, find
out where she is and then just fucking waste her.’

In the window Felicity drew back again when Begin turned and
walked back into the house.

She had heard everything that had been said.

Maurice Stanway replaced the phone. His hand shook. His palms
were sweating. For the second time in a matter of days he had
arranged the murder of an innocent individual.