One Dead Witness (8 page)

‘
Oh, like a pitchfork, you mean? Don’t be stupid. We get
searched going out and coming back. I don’t want to lose my
privileges by being caught with something I shouldn’t
have.’

‘
You’d rather have eight inches up your arse, would you?
Probably followed by a broom-handle?’ Trent’s voice grated
ferociously. ‘’Cos I’ll tell you now - it hurts. It fucking hurts.
If you want to do anything about them, you’ll find a way of
bringing what I want back in . . . won’t you?’

Danny was tied up that morning with the bane which afflicts
all police officers: paperwork.

For once, though, she was uncomplaining about it, kept her
head down and tried not to look up when Sands came into the office
for any reason. Out of the periphery of her vision she couldn’t
help but notice him banging about, making everyone else’s life a
misery. However, he studiously ignored her, for which she was
grateful.

She guessed he might try to tag onto her at lunch, so when the
chance came and he was otherwise engaged, she slipped out of the
office and made her way to the canteen where she collected a
sandwich and sat down opposite the man who was destined to be her
next boss, Detective Inspector Henry Christie.

‘
I heard about your problems yesterday,’ Henry said to her,
partway through the meal. He was eating a light salad. It looked
like he was on a diet.

Briefly Danny was puzzled. How on earth did he know about
Sands? Then it dawned on her. He was referring to Claire
Lilton.

‘
Oh yeah. Little cow.’

‘
You did well. You’ deserve a commend,’ Henry said genuinely.
‘I hear some poor sod got blown off the prom in Morecambe, so you
were lucky.’

‘
I should’ve let her drown.’

Henry laughed, changed the subject. ‘So - next Monday? You’ll
be with us?’

‘
Can’t come quick enough. Really looking forward to it,’ Danny
said with sweet expectancy. Working for Henry Christie, it was
said, was a great pleasure. She knew his CID team was
well-motivated and got results. She was eager to be a part of
it.

She bit into her tuna-mayo sandwich - granary bread, no butter
or margarine, no salt, light mayo. Having her back to one of the
canteen doors meant she didn’t notice him come into the room so it
was consequently a surprise when Jack Sands sat down next to Henry,
bearing a plate of spaghetti Bolognese. He glared at her and his
expression morphed into an evil smile. She attempted to respond
with a pleasant greeting but it stuck somewhere in her
throat.

Henry glanced quickly between the two of them. He immediately
picked up the tension. It was like a crackle of static. His brow
creased. Something was not quite right, the vibes informed
him.

He nodded at Sands and they fell into an easy conversation to
which Danny strenuously declined to contribute.

The phone on the other side of the room rang and was answered
by an officer nearby. He clamped his hand across the mouthpiece and
called across: ‘Danny - for you.’ He held up the phone.

She couldn’t have left her seat any faster, Henry
noted.

Danny took the call, hung up and returned to the table where
she collected her shoulder bag. ‘Someone at the desk to see
me.’

Henry watched her leave, then glanced sideways at Sands whose
eyes fixed on the door she had gone through, like he was in some
sort of trance. His face had become hard and angry.

Henry speculated whether the rumours were true about Sands and
Danny having a ‘liaison’. Maybe they’d just had some sort of
lovers’ tiff, he thought.

Trent’s next target was another member of the small clique of
sex-offenders, a man called Coysh who had been virtually
conscripted by Blake to be a manservant - for him and his team.
Coysh had willingly accepted this role of ‘fetch-me, carry-me’
because it kept him reasonably safe from the gang rapes organised
by Blake. Even so, he had been subjected to a couple to keep him in
his place and he was often ritually humiliated by Blake. Just for
sport.

Trent went to Coysh for two reasons.

Firstly he worked in the kitchens and secondly he was
generally up to date with Blake’s whereabouts - knowledge Trent
would need in the near future.

They were out in the sunshine of the exercise yard when Trent
accosted Coysh.

They conversed as they walked around. Coysh nodded at Trent’s
requests. Easy - on both counts.

A couple of minutes later they parted.

Trent smiled. It was coming together quite nicely.

Danny was relieved to get away.

Once outside the canteen she breathed deeply, thanked God for
the phone call and tried to stop herself shaking.

She did not bother to wait for the lift because sometimes it
took ages to arrive and the last thing she wanted was to step into
it and turn to find Jack behind her, trapping her.

Instead she chose the stairs, trotting quickly down them to
first-floor level where she headed for the back of the enquiry
desk.

‘
Hiya, Danny,’ the public enquiry assistant said. ‘It’s that
Claire Lilton waiting for you. She’s in the foyer.’

‘
Cheers.’ Danny walked out through the security doors, into the
waiting area. Unusually it was completely empty.

Claire Lilton had vanished.

Trent spent the remainder of his afternoon engaged in trading
his stash of cash, sweets, cigarettes and cannabis around the
prison.

He knew he could easily have approached one single person - a
guy called Connor, the most powerful drugs dealer in the
institution - to get .what he wanted, but a one-stop strategy
wasn’t in line with his plans. He considered it more important to
get around as many people as possible, act manically depressed
following last night’s violent rape, and even mention the word
‘suicide’ a few times. That way as many people as possible knew of
his intentions. He knew that in a short space of time the word
would spread up to the screws who, he knew, would do nothing. Not
that he cared. He wanted them to do nothing. Just to
know.

By tea-time, Trent had bought enough tablets to kill an
elephant, never mind a human being.

He inserted them one at a time into the hole in the waistband
of his jeans. Towards the end of this process he had to push quite
hard to get them in. He counted 162 assorted tablets, many of
indeterminate origin.

The offices of Kruger Investigations were situated on the
seventeenth floor of an office block in downtown Miami. This was
the fourth relocation of the business which had begun its existence
in a one-roomed grot-office above a rent-a-car place in Wynwood,
north Miami. Each move had been to a larger premises, but never
quite large enough to house the ever-expanding business. Finally
Kruger had decided on impulse to take the whole floor of the
current premises some two years earlier. It had proved to be a good
move but once again, business had boomed to fit the available
space. Another move was imminent, something in the business plan
for the next year. He hoped to be able to take some space in the
floor above as the company installed at present looked as though
they were going bust. The only drawback to the place was the lack
of spaces available in the underground parking facility, which was
presently hogged by the finance company on the first two
floors.

At midday Steve Kruger walked nonchalantly around the various
offices, chatting to staff and laughing whilst munching a baguette
packed with beef and sipping a Diet Coke.

He was pleased to see there were only a couple of people
sitting around in the department which conducted what he termed
‘real investigations’. This meant they were busy on the streets,
following adulterers, compiling reports for insurance companies,
and doing all the stuff connected to real detective work. The
department dealing with the recapture of bail jumpers was also
sparsely populated too, indicating that a few unfortunates would be
in the custody of the courts that night.

The offices which were busy were the ones dealing with the
sales of specialist security equipment. Kruger sold anything
connected with bomb disposal and search equipment, any sort of kit
- excluding firearms - for police and special forces, surveillance
and counter-surveillance, communications, personal and property
protection.

On being invalided out of the cops, Kruger had originally
intended to set up a one-man operation. Having been introduced at
an early stage to the scope and potential profits associated with
security and surveillance (albeit illegal) he decided to move
forwards in two directions - the private investigations side and
the security side.

Although the detective side was moderately profitable, its
drawback was it was manpower intensive. The sales side, however,
only needed a bank of phones, faxes, e-mail facilities and a
nucleus of highly trained sales executives to bring in millions for
very little effort. It was also fairly safe, whereas there was
always some danger associated with being a detective.

Having been a cop, Steve loved that side of the business
because it was in his blood and he would never downsize it. Besides
anything else, it enhanced the reputation of the firm and kept him
in good with the local cops and Feds.

He finished his Coke and sandwich, ditching the bottle and
wrapper in a trash can. He nipped into a restroom, freshened up.
Then he made his way to the conference room where three people
waited for him. Not impatiently, just talking quietly to
themselves.

Kruger entered and seated himself at the circular
table.

They shut up.

‘
Mario Bussola,’ he announced, instantly getting their full
attention.

Trent queued up for his evening meal, plastic tray in one
hand, plastic cutlery in the other. Coysh was serving. He paid
Trent no more heed than any other inmate, slopping the watery food
onto his plate and handing it across the hatch with no more than
the merest of nods.

Trent collected his chocolate pudding and mug of tea, then
wandered to a dining table where some others were eating. He wanted
to be in a crowd. He slid the plate off the tray, placed it on the
table and surreptitiously removed the four-inch kitchen knife Coysh
had loosely taped to the underside of the plate. He looked around
cautiously, relieved no one seemed to be taking any notice of him.
The two screws on duty in the dining hall were having an animated
conversation with a couple of old lags, probably about football.
None of his fellow inmates were remotely interested in him. This
was not unusual because few people actually ever spoke to him, a
manifestation of the low regard in which he was held in the prison
hierarchy.

He ate with his usual lack of gusto, leaning on the table with
one elbow, forking the food into his mouth. His other hand rested
on his thigh, fingers touching the slim blade. One edge of it was
serrated, as he had requested. With his index finger he touched the
tip of the knife. It was sharp. He pushed the pad of his fingertip
harder down, almost to the point where he was about to draw blood.
He stopped before this happened. Yes, it was sharp. It was only a
small knife, but if used swiftly, accurately, it would be
deadly.

Trent quivered with pleasure. He grasped the blade in his fist
and held it tightly, knowing that if he drew his hand upwards very
quickly, the blade would slice the palm of his hand wide
open.

It was an ideal weapon.

Coysh had done good.

Trent put another unappetising forkful of corned-beef hash
into his mouth. He glanced triumphantly around the dining room as
he ate it.

Using only one hand, Trent eased the knife inch by inch up his
sleeve and placed his watch strap over the blade to keep it in
place.

He continued to eat his meal, feeling very, very happy. So
happy in fact he rocked on his chair, but not so much that people
might see him. After all, he was suicidally depressed and people
like that don’t go about with stupid grins on their
faces.

After returning his empty plate and plastic cutlery to the
appropriate pile and bucket, he nodded discreetly to Coysh who was
now eating his own meal and wandered back to his cell. He tried to
look as though he might kill himself at any moment.

His pillow was foam-filled. He had prepared a hole in the foam
into which the knife slotted perfectly. He bunged some foam back
into the hole to plug it and slid the pillowcase back over. It was,
he believed, good enough to withstand a cursory check by a
screw.

Bursting with happiness, Trent sat on the bed and delved into
his pile of magazines. He picked one called
Girl Power
which was aimed at
thirteen- to sixteen-year old girls - a little old for his tastes,
but beggars couldn’t be choosers. It was full of photos of young
girls and often contained articles about sex, some of which had
caused uproar in the national press for their explicitness. Trent
settled back to read about fellatio, dreaming that very soon this
would be a reality for him.