One Dead Witness (55 page)

There was a loud squeak as the alarm was deactivated and the
doors unlocked.

Danny paused, expecting a reaction. Nothing
happened.

She walked confidently to the car, her eyes taking in
everything there was to be seen up and down the cul-de-sac -
including the two sedans parked a hundred yards away, each packed
with muscle. Danny swallowed. She opened the rear door and beckoned
Tracey to get in.

‘
Lie down across the seat and don’t move,’ Danny instructed her
harshly. She jumped into the driver’s seat, threw her holdall into
the passenger footwell
and started the
engine.

Once she was happy it was ticking over nicely, she ran back to
the house.

Myrna winced when she heard Kruger’s car squawk like a parrot,
and eyed Begin in readiness for a reaction.

He simply sat staring at Myrna, not in the least suspecting
what was going on.

‘
Okay,’ Myrna said with a sigh, apparently reaching a decision.
She leaned forwards. ‘I’ll do it.’

Begin beamed the smile of the modest victor. ‘You’ve seen
sense,’ he patronised.

The door crashed open and Danny came into the room like a
whirlwind, snub-nosed revolver in her right hand, pistol in her
left.

‘
Here - catch!’ she shouted and tossed the pistol across to
Myrna who caught it expertly, rising from her chair, pivoting round
and pointing it at Begin.

‘
Actually I’m not interested in your fucking deal,’ she said.
‘It stinks.’

‘
You fool,’ Begin said calmly, sitting back.

‘
No, I don’t think so. Now you sit there like a good boy,
otherwise I’ll blast your fucking head off.’

The women backed slowly out of the room, their guns aimed
dangerously at Begin. He did not move, other than to shake his head
deprecatingly.

Once out of the door, Danny shouted, ‘You drive!’

They turned and ran out to the Chevrolet which

Myrna slammed into reverse. She stood on the gas and released
the parking brake. The wheels spun and the car lurched
backwards.

Begin appeared at the front door, beckoning towards the two
cars parked down the road, wildly flapping his hands to get his
message across.

‘
Scrotes ahead,’ Danny yelled.

‘
Seen ‘em,’ Myrna retorted, gritting her teeth.

As the car swerved out of the driveway, Myrna yanked the
gear-stick into Drive and gunned the gearbox into ‘kick-down’.
It
surged forwards.

Up ahead, both cars moved away from the kerb and stopped side
by side, effectively blocking the road. Men jumped out, took cover
behind open doors and aimed weapons at the Chevrolet.

‘
Get down!’ Myrna screamed. ‘And hold on tight!’ In the back
seat, Tracey whimpered pathetically.

The first bullet crashed through the windshield. Danny felt it
whizz inches away from her head. The next one embedded itself in
her headrest. She ducked. Myrna grappled with the wheel. She pulled
it down to the left, mounted the kerb with a thud, putting the
Chevrolet at an angle to the shooters. Bullets slammed into the
side. Danny’s window shattered into a million pieces and the bullet
passed right in front of Myrna’s eyes, exiting through her side
window which also shattered.

A second later Myrna powered the Chevrolet through a low,
perfectly manicured and cultivated hedge, into a front garden. This
was the only way past Bussola’s men.

Whether it was braveness or stupidity, Danny wasn’t sure -
probably a combination of both - but she sat up, having pulled the
HK out of her holdall. She rested it on the doorframe where the
window had once been, aimed it in the general direction of the men
and pulled back the trigger. Even though there was hardly any
recoil, her shooting was wild and inaccurate but it had the desired
effect of making Bussola’s men dive for better cover as the
Chevrolet roared past.

Myrna pulled back onto the road, unable to stop a smile
cracking on her face.

Danny slumped, feeling the crumbs of the broken glass all down
her back. She looked at the bullet-holes in the windshield, the
remnants of the two side windows, twisted to see the bullet-hole in
the headrest and then looked at the weapon in her hands which was
literally smoking. Unbelievably a sensation of pure exhilaration
went through her.

‘
That was amazing,’ she said to Myrna. ‘Fucking
amazing.’

Chapter Twenty-four

It was a thick, buff, legal envelope. On the front of it were
written two names - Henry Christie and Danny Furness. It had been
lying, still sealed, on Henry’s dining-room table ever since the
Constable investigating the suicide of Maurice Stanway had dropped
it off at his home address.

There had been no obvious suicide note amongst Stanway’s
papers at his office, the Constable told Henry. Just this envelope
with the two names on it. It could well be the suicide note, but
the PC was handing it over to Henry for him to do whatever he
wanted to do with it that evening, so long as he returned it the
following day.

The police were actually under strict instructions from the
Coroner not to open and read suicide notes if they were sealed;
only the Coroner was allowed to do that.

Henry tore the envelope open.

A neatly bound file of papers slithered out. Handwritten,
probably by Stanway.

Henry began to read:
This
is
for the two detectives
investigating the case of Charles Gilbert. By the time you read
this, I, Maurice Alan Stanway, will be dead, having taken my own
life. I decided to end my life, simply because I could no longer
bear to live with myself having consigned two other people to
death. I will tell you about that in a while. But I detest myself
utterly. I am a weak, pathetic individual, easily led and
influenced. And the main influence in my life has been Charles
Gilbert. I know everything there is to know about Charles Gilbert
and the last thing I want to do is
die
without revealing these details to other people.

Henry stopped reading and flicked quickly through the pages.
There were eleven. It would take him some time to read them. He
poured himself a large Bell’s with a dash of soda and settled
down.

The house was quiet. His wife, Kate, and his two daughters,
Jenny and Leanne, were tucked up in bed asleep. They were more
exhausted than he was by the long hours he’d been putting
in.

It was 11 p.m.

Myrna, Danny and Tracey spent the rest of that afternoon under
guard, courtesy of Mark Tapperman and the Miami Police Department,
at Miami International Airport. Tapperman had arranged for the use
of an executive lounge and posted uniformed, armed police officers
at every entrance and exit.

No one seriously thought Bussola was stupid enough to try
anything, but better safe than sorry.

It was a tense afternoon for the women. They said little to
each other, even less to Tapperman. When it was announced their
flight would be delayed another hour, it only served to make them
more jumpy than ever.

At 7 p.m., passengers were called to the boarding
gate.

Surrounded by armed cops, Danny and Tracey were escorted all
the way to the gate, jumping ahead of the queue of passengers,
right up to the door of the plane.

Myrna and Tapperman were with them all the way.

At the door, Danny turned to Myrna. They embraced.

‘
It’ll be a tight schedule at the far end,’ Myrna
said.

‘
Yes, I know,’ Danny said. There was an 8 a.m. landing, British
time. Very tight, especially when the court sat at 10
a.m.

‘
Look after yourself,’ Danny told Myrna. ‘We’ll be safe from
here on in, but you’ll have to watch your back.’

‘
I’ll be fine,’ Myrna said. ‘I’ve got this big oaf watching
over me, even though he keeps crashing cars on the way to help me.’
She thumbed Tapperman. He gave a lopsided grin and shook hands with
Danny, who ushered Tracey onto the aircraft.

Tapperman and Myrna walked back against the tide of boarding
passengers. Tapperman bumped into one guy who had a vaguely
familiar look about him. Tapperman thought no more about the
encounter.

Felicity suppressed a giggle. She did not even need to have
her ear to the door to listen to this one: Mario Bussola going
ape-shit with Ira Begin for letting three women outwit and outrun
him. Bussola’s angry voice boomed down the hallway outside Begin’s
office and all Felicity had to do was stand in the doorway of the
living room and try not to laugh too loudly.

They had done it, Felicity thought triumphantly. The girl was
now on her way to England safe and sound.

And Mario was left with a face full of scrambled
egg.

The office door opened and Begin stormed out. Felicity stepped
back out of sight.

‘
It’s not as bad as you think, Mario,’ the under-pressure Begin
defended himself.

‘
Why not? Go on, tell me. I’m very fucking
interested.’

‘
Two things. Firstly with those papers on my desk, we will
smash Kruger Investigations. And secondly, the girl is still going
to die.’

‘
Oh? And how have you arranged that one?’ Bussola sneered.
‘Bomb on the plane?’

‘
No - even better than that. You wanted to get Patrick Orlove
out of the country - well, I’ve arranged it. He’s on that plane,
with a new passport, new name, different coloured hair, and with
orders to kill Tracey Greenwood when the appropriate moment comes.
Then he can disappear, firstly into Britain, where I’ve opened a
bank account for him with two grand in it; then he can hop across
to Europe, where I’ve deposited a quarter of a million in a Paris
bank for him - activated when the kill is confirmed, of
course.’

There was a silence while no doubt Bussola absorbed all
this.

‘
Mario, you should know me by now,’ Begin’s voice said
persuasively. ‘I always have a fall-back position. I
never
take anything for
granted.’

Felicity took the news like a blow to the stomach.

So it wasn’t over yet.

Felicity could not sleep. She heard Bussola return to the
house just after midnight, then crash into his bedroom down the
hallway. His snores more or less immediately permeated through the
walls. Big, loud, disgusting ones, just like him. They made
Felicity’s lips curl in distaste.

She could not help but think this was the time to get out of
this mess. She hated her life, she hated her husband and she needed
to break free. Otherwise she would crack up or die.

Other than the sound of snoring, the house was
quiet.

Begin was not back - he slept in a room next to his office -
so there was only herself and Bussola in at that moment.

Time to take a chance.

She dressed quickly in light clothing, filling a small valise
with other clothing and some of life’s essentials.

She stepped into the hallway, which she was fairly sure was
not observed by surveillance cameras. A dozen strides and she was
outside Bussola’s door. It was unlocked. Felicity crept into the
bedroom. A dim bedside light illuminated the massive, jello-like
form of Bussola lying spread-eagled and naked across the bed like a
beached whale. She tiptoed up to him, any noise she might be making
masked by the deafening snores emanating deep from his throat.
Alcoholic fumes and stale sweat wafted up from him.

He squirmed. His body wobbled.

Felicity remained still, confident he would not wake.
Bussola’s clothes were scattered drunkenly around the room. She
picked up his jacket and rummaged through the pockets, finding two
keys on a chain. She pocketed them.

‘
What the hell’s..?’ Bussola blurted out and sat
upright.

Felicity dropped like a stone at the end of the bed. The
bedsprings bounced, Bussola groaned ... then the snoring
recommenced.

Felicity exhaled falteringly.

On her hands and knees she crawled around the bed to the
cabinet in which she knew her husband kept his own personal gun. It
was a .25 Beretta, just like James Bond used to carry.

It was fully loaded.

She rose to her knees and found herself face to face with her
beloved. Spittle dribbled out of the corners of his mouth. Oh, how
she hated him. She stood up, reached over him and picked up a
pillow. Holding the gun in her right hand, she held the pillow over
it so the end of the barrel protruded slightly and pointed the
weapon at her husband’s temple.

Not close enough.

She forced herself to touch the muzzle to his skin, braced and
pulled the trigger twice in quick succession. The sound was
dreadful in the confines of the bedroom. People must come running .
. . she waited, listening for the sound of running footsteps, ready
to bring down the first one through the door and die fighting the
others.