One Dead Witness (9 page)

One of Kruger’s company directors was a woman called Myrna
Rosza. She was a trained lawyer, but Kruger had known her
originally as an FBI agent. He had offered her a job once Kruger
Investigations got kick-started and she had grabbed it with both
hands, having had her fill of endless FBI bureaucracy. She was
black, in her early forties, married to a surgeon, no kids. She was
also wiltingly beautiful and possessed more assertiveness than all
Kruger’s employees put together. She was his conscience and wasn’t
frightened of saying no to him.

Kruger paused.

He had told the three members of the board his story,
obviously leaving out certain elements, and knew he had them eating
out of his hand - emotionally, if not intellectually . . . with one
exception. The fly in the ointment, he noted glumly as his and
Myrna’s eyes fused across the table.

‘
No,’ she said stubbornly. Her perfect mouth pursed into a
little ‘o’. Kruger had often thought he could have kissed that
mouth. Right at that moment he would have preferred to drive his
fist into it.

And with that single word, Kruger saw she had unleashed
everyone else from his spell. He cursed her big brown
eyes.

Although technically he could have made any damned decision he
wanted - after all, it was his company - the reality was that he
needed the backing of the board on any controversial issues. Which
is what this was.

‘
We have agreed time and time again that we will never become
involved in any way in any sort of investigation or work which
smells remotely of the mob. And Steve,’ Myrna said patronisingly,
‘you of all people should know why.’

Kruger winced. The memory of the slug tearing into his thigh
just above his right knee jolted him vividly. Yes, he should know
why - because he almost got himself killed once over. But he had
good reason for going against company policy on this
one.

‘
I understand what you’re saying, honey,’ Kruger responded,
‘but we’re talking about my ex-wife here, a woman I still have deep
feelings for.’

‘
Not what you once told me,’ Myrna rumbled.

‘
Well, I do - and when I saw her yesterday I realised I’d been
hiding those feelings from myself.’ Kruger reddened, feeling
idiotic, saying words which were a complete lie. ‘I figured that if
we do a good job and find Bussola cheatin’ on her, she might just
come back to me.’ He almost choked to death on the words, but kept
a straight face.

‘
So, for the sake of your ex-wife,’ Myrna said, outraged,
‘you’re suggestin’ we mount a surveillance on a mobster, when even
the joint forces of the Feds, local cops, DEA and AFT haven’t
managed to sniff him out, despite their resources?’ She looked
around at each of the board members. ‘I suggest we all say no.’
There was a general nodding of heads, though no one made direct eye
contact with Kruger who was, after all, the boss man. ‘Bussola is a
dangerous guy,’ Myrna boomed in conclusion. ‘If he finds out we’re
tailing him, he’ll react in his usual way. I don’t believe any of
our operatives should be put into such danger.’

Kruger leaned forwards. His face was thunderous.

‘
Okay, okay,’ he breathed angrily. ‘I won’t overrule you,
though I really want to, but I will tell you something you should
know.’ He took a deep breath, wondering how he should phrase the
bombshell. ‘If we don’t take on this assignment - and this is the
truth - everyone in this room, everybody sat out there in those
offices, every one of our teams out on the streets will be out of a
job tomorrow.’

Trent was disturbed a short time later by Coysh who was
wearing a loose-fitting blouson jacket zipped up to the neck. He
was holding the hem tightly. He stepped into Trent’s cell, found
him to be alone and unzipped the jacket. Almost a hundred Styrofoam
cups fell out onto the floor. He emptied all his pockets and
produced another fifteen, crushed and broken.

Trent gathered them up delightedly and began to stuff them
underneath his mattress.

‘
I’ll probably need another load - maybe more,’ he told Coysh.
‘Can you do it?’

Coysh nodded but eyed Trent uncertainly. ‘What d’you want them
for?’ He was completely befuddled. ‘I thought you wanted to sort
Blake out, not give him a tea party.’

‘
I do - and I will. You’ll see.’

‘
What, with Styrofoam cups?’

Trent winked. ‘Method in my madness. Now, there is something
else you can do for me ...’

‘
You bastard, Steve Kruger.’

Myrna’s countenance was set hard as granite as she faced him
across the office. The others had left, cowed by Kruger’s shock
announcement and the brief conversation afterwards. Myrna wasn’t to
be railroaded though. When they were alone together she powered
into him like a prize-fighter.

‘
You cannot make a statement like that, then say no more,
refuse to give us the “why”. That’s treatin’ us all like imbeciles,
Steve. How in hell are we even supposed to believe a word of what
you said - that we’d all lose our jobs? It’s
preposterous.’

She was a very fine-looking woman, Kruger had to admit.
Standing there in front of him, hands on hips, feet shoulder-width
apart, she was pretty darn intimidating. He weakened for a moment,
then rallied.

‘
Myrna, I’m not lyin’ to you.’ He sat down heavily on a chair
and his head dropped into his hands. He blew a farting noise into
his palms, then looked up at her, allowing his fingers to stretch
his facial features. ‘But you were right about one thing. . .
Felicity does absolutely nothing for me. I hate the goddamned sight
of her. I definitely do not harbour any affection for
her.’

‘
Thought not.’ Myrna’s voice held a wisp of triumph. ‘So what
then, what’s this all about?’

Kruger snorted a short laugh.

‘
She’s got a hold on me, Myrna. Something stupid I did a few
years ago, something so completely idiotic you wouldn’t believe
it.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Damn. . . and I think she’s got the
paperwork to prove it.’

‘
Tell me - now,’ Myrna insisted.

He made the decision to admit to only the second person in his
life about the illicit weapon-dealing which had provided the
foundations on which the successful enterprise known as Kruger
Investigations had been constructed.

Trent was in the TV lounge watching a documentary about the
fire brigade, unable to keep a smirk off his face. A couple of
other inmates were in the room but the majority of the others were
packed into the main association room where a big-screen TV had
been erected and onto which a satellite beamed a live Manchester
United game. Trent could hear ‘ooh’s’ and ‘ahh’s’.

Vic Wallwork sauntered in, looking ill and as worried as ever.
He sat next to Trent. They ignored each other for a few minutes as
the fire fighters on TV tackled a very nasty blaze by which several
people were trapped.

When everyone was rescued - to an appropriate but unconnected
cheer from the football audience - Trent said, ‘Well?’

‘
Yeah, done it. But never again, never
a-fuckin-gain.’

‘
How much?’

‘
Just what you ordered.’

‘
Well done, Vic.’

‘
When are they gonna get me, Trent?’

‘
I don’t exactly know, but if I were you, Vic, I’d keep my arse
right up against the wall. . . not that that’ll help, you
understand, because they’ll still fuck you.’

Danny’s day concluded about seven that evening.

After having put the puzzlement of Claire Lilton’s
disappearance out of her mind, she spent most of the afternoon
interviewing a young lad who had been the subject of repeated
indecent assaults and buggery by the head teacher of the primary
school he attended. It proved to be a pretty harrowing afternoon,
made all the more difficult because the boy was only six. Whilst
interviewing him Danny felt like a fraud for thinking she had
problems. At least they were solvable ... but the youngster, unless
he was something very special indeed, had a lifetime of nightmares
ahead as well as medical problems. Danny’s predicament melted into
insignificance.

In the end she obtained a first-class video statement which
would hopefully get the teacher put away for many years.

Her brain was the texture of cotton wool balls when she rode
down in the lift and walked out into the rear yard of the police
station. Night had fallen early, rain was splattering down and it
was dark even though the yard was illuminated by electric lights.
It became even darker as she walked into the covered area where the
car was parked.

She swore to herself.

It was only at that moment she remembered Jack Sands and the
little episode from the morning. She realised as she approached her
car that she had not taken any precautions against the possibility
of a repeat confrontation.

Even though she was in a police car park, it was poorly lit,
she was alone and feeling vulnerable. No one was around to hear her
screams.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. A tight feeling,
as if her skin had been super-frozen, spread across her
face.

Suddenly she was on guard, holding her breath.

Every shadow was Jack Sands, waiting to pounce.

Her trembling hand snaked into her bag. Her fingers sought,
fought and withdrew the remote locking control and keys for her
car.

She quickened her step ... and of course she had parked at the
far end of the car park.

In a matter of seconds she had reached the rear of her car -
safely. Then she was inside the car, slamming the door, desperate
to slide the key into the ignition. She was okay. She had made it.
She giggled a little at her stupidity.

The key went in . . . and her door was yanked open. Sands
reached in, grabbed her and dragged her out in a split second
before she could react. He dumped her onto the concrete and the
base of her spine crashed on the hard surface, sending a shock wave
up to her cranium.

She opened her mouth to scream - but Sands was quickly on top
of her, hand clasped over her mouth, forcing her back, smashing her
head against the ground. He pinned her down and straddled her
chest.

‘
Bitch. Don’t ever think I’ll let you get away with kneeing me
in the balls.’

He struck her open-handed across the cheek as hard as he
could, whipping her face sideways.

Then, miraculously, his weight was lifted from her chest and
he seemed to be flying through the air in a flurry of
limbs.

Quickly Danny got to her knees, spun round, saw it was Henry
Christie who had pulled Sands off, but that now Sands had
recovered, gained the upper hand and was laying into Henry,
pummelling him with a series of blows. Henry defended himself like
a boxer, hands protecting his head, forearms his chest: He rolled
with the onslaught, saw a minute gap and launched a rock-hard fist
onto the point of Sands’s chin. His head jerked right back on
impact.

The blow knocked him stone cold. His legs crumpled underneath
him like a drunken man. He went down with a groan and a
thud.

‘
Damn!’ yelled Henry, rubbing the knuckles of his fist, doing a
little jig. It felt as though the cap of the knuckle had been
dislodged. ‘Yow! That effin’ hurts.’

Danny got to her feet. Her lower spine throbbed painfully. Her
face was smarting and she could feel a lump growing like a tumour
on the back of her head. She stared speechless at her stunned
ex-lover who was squirming around on the floor, then looked at
Henry.

‘
You okay?’ he asked.

She nodded dumbly, muttered a thanks of sorts.

‘
No probs. Look, you go home. I’ll deal with Jack. If you need
to talk, we’ll talk - later.’

‘
Yeah ... yep,’ she said unsurely, still dazed. She rolled back
into her car and started the engine.

Henry took hold of Sands’s lapels and heaved him out of the
path of her rear wheels.

Seconds later she was gone, leaving Henry with a
fast-recovering Detective Inspector Sands who had a good bit of
explaining to do.

Chapter Four

Steve Kruger fidgeted, trying to make the radio harness a
little more comfortable beneath his armpit. Though allegedly ‘body
moulded’ and well hidden by his jacket, it was tight and unwieldy,
as though he were carrying a set of books. It was a psychological
problem Kruger had always had on surveillance, right back to his
undercover cop days; he always thought that the equipment would be
completely obvious to the public and constantly expected to be
approached and exposed.

He had begun to sweat already.

Myrna came into the office wearing a smart, stylish suit in
beige with a very short skirt displaying her excellent legs. She
had been in the ladies’ restroom fitting her radio harness
underneath her blouse, next to her skin. Kruger peered at her chest
- for professional reasons, obviously and was relieved to find he
could not detect any bulges there other than legitimate
ones.