One Dead Witness (52 page)

He picked his phone up again and dialled a zero. He ordered
someone from the gatehouse to bring a car up for him. He had to get
out and see someone, pronto.

Gus was sticking to Felicity like a limpet, not difficult in
her present condition. Dark glasses covering her bruised face, she
was moving slowly around the Bal Harbor shops on Collins Avenue,
Miami Beach, where high-class names were in abundance - Saks,
Carrier, Hermes
et al.
Not much was priced below four hundred dollars and an average
price in some shops was four thousand.

‘
Gus, why don’t you fuck of?’ Felicity suggested. ‘I’m staying
in and around these shops, going nowhere else. What about you and
me meet back here in an hour, say? I ain’t gonna tell Mario . . .
but you’re going to be bored shitless because all I’m going to do
is drift around dress shops.’

‘
Uh-huh. With respect, but no way, Mrs Bussola. Boss says I’ve
got to stay with you and I’m going to do just that.’

Felicity shrugged.

Gus was a simple son of a bitch and she doubted if she could
shake his dog-like determination to follow orders to the letter.
She would just have to look for another opportunity and grasp it
when it came.

Henry Christie’s early start that day did not deter him from
going into work to catch up with everything. He drove from the
airport, arriving at the station about seven-thirty. Accompanied by
a wonderful cup of tea, he took full advantage of the early hour to
get some clearance work done at his desk.

At 2 p.m. he was still busy, not having stopped for any
refreshment other than of the hot liquid variety. He was really
motoring on his paperwork and didn’t want to interrupt his
momentum.

Blackpool is a town where nobody gets noticed. The extravagant
and outlandish are the norm. The normal is the norm too. Being the
worse for drink is not unusual; inebriates abound and unless they
are fighting drunk, do not raise an eyebrow.

That particular Wednesday afternoon, no one noticed the
unshaven, slightly smelly figure of a man who, stinking of booze,
staggered and rolled through the streets. Occasionally he bumped
into people but muttered apologies. He wasn’t looking for trouble.
Sometimes he crashed into walls or shop fronts and apologised too.
Though he was unsteady on his feet, he did not fall
over.

The only thing which perhaps set him apart from the usual
drunk was his standard of dress. Though tie-less, his suit was
obviously expensive, his shoes too, and his silk shirt was
definitely made to measure. Even so, he was paid no heed. People
just tried to avoid him.

When he stumbled into the Tower complex, slapping down his
cash at the pay desk, he wasn’t even acknowledged by the staff.
Just another customer, just another drunk.

It was 3 p.m., British time. Henry sat back, interlocked his
fingers behind his head and thought about Danny.

Seven hours since she had taken off. The plane, no doubt,
would be staring its gradual descent into Miami International,
somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. Henry did not particularly envy
her, but thought that nevertheless it would be quite nice to have a
taste, however brief, of some Florida sunshine. The weather in
Blackpool had not been too bad for a couple of days, but didn’t
have the warmth Henry remembered from his holiday in Florida a
couple of years earlier.

He shook his head. His brain was slowing down now, becoming a
nebulous mass after the morning’s marathon of paper
shifting.

Time for a break. He peered out through the office window and
decided on a brisk stroll up the Prom. Clear his head, maybe buy
the kids something useless, maybe buy Kate something too.
Now
that
would
surprise her.

He slid his Barbour on, dropped his PR into a pocket and quit
the office. A few minutes later he was on the Promenade. The sun
was shining brightly, but it was still extremely chilly.

The drunken man reeled slowly through the Tower amusement
complex. He dallied in the Hall of Mirrors, staring angrily at each
reflection, particularly the one which made him look very small. He
dawdled in the aquarium, staring up at the sharks, detesting the
smug way in which they glided smoothly around with no effort
whatsoever, masters of their environment, their small, piggy,
emotionless eyes with a bead on him, like they were telling him
something.

Well, fuck them! There was nothing they could tell him about
himself he didn’t already know.

For half an hour he sat on the balcony overlooking the Tower
ballroom, watching the dancers slide around the floor. He had a
couple of large whiskies whilst he watched the, in the main,
elderly couples dancing the afternoon away in a ritual more
reminiscent of the thirties than the nineties. He went to the bar
and gulped a further Scotch which really seemed to hit the
mark.

Then he made his way to the lift which would take him all the
way up the Tower.

With unusually helpful tailwinds, Danny’s plane touched down
half an hour ahead of schedule at Miami International, 10.30 a.m.
US time. She had been in the air seven and a half hours but it was
only like the blink of an eye to her because, with the exception of
devouring the rather delicious meal provided, she had slept all the
way.

Very refreshed, she made her way off the plane, straight
through customs with the only slight hitch being the diligent
checking of her visa at passport control. In the arrival lounge she
expected to be met, but not by Arnold Schwarzenegger. Or to be more
accurate, Mark Tapperman, who bore a card with Danny’s name on
it.

‘
That’s me,’ said Danny, approaching the big man.

Tapperman looked at the name on the card, then up at
Danny.

‘
It’s short for Danielle,’ she explained.

‘
Oh, right, yeah.’ Tapperman was completely thrown. ‘They
didn’t say I was going to meet a woman.’

‘
Is that a problem?’

‘
No, no, no.’ Tapperman regained some sort of control of
himself and thrust out his right hand which Danny shook. ‘Welcome
to Miami. I’m Lieutenant Mark Tapperman, Miami PD. Here.’ He
flashed his badge.

‘
I’m Danny Furness, as you already know. Detective Sergeant,
Blackpool CID.’ She showed him her warrant card.

‘
Lemme take your case. Come on, follow me. My car’s
waiting.’

‘
I’ll carry it myself, Mark. Thanks.’

‘
So ... good flight?’

‘
Excellent.’

‘
Blackpool? I heard of that place. Guess it’s pretty quiet. Not
much going on - not much excitement cop-wise, I guess.’

Danny smiled inwardly. ‘I guess not.’

Henry Christie could not resist Robert’s Oyster Bar. He dived
in and bought himself a tub of potted shrimps which he proceeded to
eat whilst leaning against the sea-wall railings and looking across
to the Golden Mile. The shrimps tasted wonderful.

Henry’s eyes followed the Tower upwards, 519 feet to the
pinnacle. It was a clear day and the view from the platform would
be superb.

The last of the shrimps went into his mouth. It was time to
head back to the office and maybe have an early dart
home.

‘
Gus, you cannot follow me in here, no matter what Mario told
you. I am a lady, this is a ladies’ changing room and if you try to
come in, I’ll scream the place down.’

‘
Uh, I dunno about this,’ he said dumbly.

‘
You’d have to shoot the security guards,’ Felicity
said.

‘
Now, I’m going in there to try these two dresses on.’ They
were folded across her arm. ‘And I’ll probably be about fifteen
minutes, okay? There’s nowhere I can go, so relax and go choose
something sexy for your girl from the lingerie
department.’

‘
Lingerie?’

‘
Underwear to you - panties, brassieres, you know the kind of
stuff. Over there.’ She spun him round and shoved him in the
direction of the department. He tottered away unhappily, giving
several backward glances. Felicity went into the changing area and
chose the booth furthest away, locking the door behind
her.

Once inside she sat down and relaxed. Then she began to
undress.

Henry Christie was correct. The view from the platform almost
at the top of the Tower
was
magical. No one was allowed to go to the very top
these days, however; too many people jumped off. Now visitors were
restricted to the covered platform at 380 feet, from which there
was a 360-degree view of Blackpool and its environs.

The drunken man walked around the platform, feeling the fresh
wind in his hair, looking at the view, not really appreciating
either.

Above the head-high railings was a wire-mesh cage to dissuade
people from climbing up and over and launching themselves into
oblivion. The man walked round, inspecting the mesh above his head,
noting the location of the joins, where the weak points
were.

It
did not take him long to find what
he was looking for.

He clambered up the metal railings and reached for the mesh,
pulling it apart at one of the seams. Within moments he had broken
through and clambered up onto the cage, sitting on the edge with
nothing now between himself and the roofs of the shops below. He
shuffled right to the edge, dangling his legs over. One last push,
and he would be over.

It
would be over.

‘
What do you think of this one, Gus?’

Felicity emerged from the changing room, displaying the
thousand-dollar creation she was trying on for size. And also to
reassure Gus, who had spent no time in lingerie; he had been
sitting on a chair at the entrance to the changing rooms,
agitatedly tapping his feet, peering in for a sight of Mrs
Bussola.

‘
It’s really nice, Mrs B,’ Gus said. He tried to sound
enthusiastic.

‘
Thanks, Gus. You’re obviously a connoisseur.’

‘
A what?’

‘
A thick cunt,’ Felicity said under her breath. She twirled
back into the changing area, accompanied by an attentive member of
staff, to try on the next outfit.

Before she closed the door, she spoke briefly to the sales
assistant. ‘Darling, do you have access to a cellular phone? I seem
to have left mine at home and I need to phone my husband. Of course
I’ll pay for any calls and any extras.’ She gave a knowing nod to
the woman and crushed a fifty-dollar note into her receptive
palm.

‘
I’ll see what I can do, Mrs Bussola.’

‘
Oh, and by the way, don’t let on to that goon, will
you?’

‘
You can be assured of my discretion.’

Ira Begin was on edge. Everything was now ready. He had been
to see the person who would act as the last line of attack if the
worst came to the worst. Now all he needed to be told was where the
girl was.

He was in the rear of a car being driven back to Bussola’s
house in South Beach. His cell-tel was on his lap and he prayed for
it to ring. If it didn’t, then a certain police officer would have
more than just his annual retainer cut off.

He bounced the small phone in his hand, desperately holding
himself back from calling Captain Crenshaw. From past experience,
Begin knew it would not speed matters up.

Then it rang and Begin jumped. He fumbled to answer
it.

‘
Yeah.’ He listened. ‘Got that. Consider your efforts to be a
good investment.’

Begin ended the call.

Now he had everything he needed.

‘
Patrol to attend the Tower: report of a possible jumper. I
repeat...’

Henry Christie, normally so poor at using the PR other than
for his personal benefit, had actually tried to develop some good
habits since becoming a Detective Inspector. He actually listened
to it these days and even while he had been out eating shrimps,
he’d kept one ear on the comings and goings of police activity
around the town.

‘
DI Christie received. I am literally outside the Tower now.
I’ll attend.’

‘
Roger. Thanks, sir. Any other patrols to assist?’

Several called up, by which time Henry was running across the
Promenade, looking up as he did so.

It was a very long way up. And down.

It was one of the biggest cars Danny had ever seen in her
life, and was like sitting in a mobile living room. Typically
American, she thought; all the same, lovely and very comfortable.
But not a patch on her beloved, now deceased, Merc.

She looked discreetly sideways at the big detective who was
driving. His left elbow rested out of the window and he was
steering using his left little finger, occasionally holding the
wheel with his right when necessary. He whistled tunelessly, looked
laid back and cool in his dark glasses. Danny had not thought to
pack sunglasses, but did not mind the bright sun in her eyes. It
made a change from Britain’s pathetic effort.