One Dead Witness (3 page)

‘
Jesus!’

He gripped the steering-wheel tightly enough to crush it and
literally stood on the brake pedal, his backside lifting off the
seat. The classical music pounding in his ears lost all form and
substance, becoming a deafening, blare.

The brakes slammed on. The wheels locked. The tyres vainly
tried to grip the surface of the road which was a river of rain.
The back end slithered round towards the front end as the van
entered a skid and lurched towards the petrified Claire.

On the roadside Danny watched the scene unfold with a kind of
morbid fascination. Even as she stared at the inevitable
accident-to-be, her mind told her she would be the one to blame;
she was the one who had chased a frightened eleven-year-old into
the path of a vehicle; the one who would have to answer all those
awkward questions in a Coroner’s court.

Claire was only inches away from the front grille of the van.
A fraction of a second from being mown down.

Then, amazingly, she moved.

She leapt out of the way and ran across the road, over the
tram tracks towards the sea.

Everything clicked back into real time.

The van shuddered to a skewed halt over the spot where Claire
had been standing a second before. The driver was white-faced. His
heart had stopped momentarily. His fingers were still wrapped
solidly around the wheel. His eyes bulged in their sockets like
someone had whacked him with a spade on the back of his head. He
wasn’t sure whether or not he’d hit the girl and she was underneath
the front wheels, whether it had been some sort of spiritual
apparition or whether he needed to see an optician.

With one last judder, the engine stalled.

He watched in fascination as a tall, slim woman, drenched to
the skin, hair plastered to her head, dressed in a filthy suit with
a tear right up the back of her skirt to her knickers, dashed past
his vision.

The Promenade was being bombarded by a fusion of crashing
waves and heavy rain, supported by the strong wind.

Claire was running along, perilously close to the railings
next to the sea wall. Danny was behind her, leaving more space
between herself and the angry sea. She was finding it increasingly
difficult to make up any ground on Claire. The elements didn’t seem
to want her to catch up - running against the gale-force wind was
like swimming in porridge - she was approaching the limit of her
fitness and also by now her ankle was hurting like hell.

All rational thoughts were then purged when a huge wave burst
over the sea wall and landed on her, almost drowning her in an
ice-cold sheet. For more than a few moments Danny had to fight
against the terrifying elemental force of the water as it retreated
back to the sea. It
tore at her, trying to
unbalance her and drag her back, pulling at her legs and ankles.
It
was all she could do to remain upright
against such power which had knocked all the breath and spirit out
of her.

She was worried about Claire: if the foolish youngster should
get hit, would she be able to resist the strength of the
sea?

With that in mind, Danny stopped chasing, giving Claire the
opportunity to get away from both herself and the sea. Nothing was
worth putting lives in danger.

Up ahead, Claire ceased running. She turned and faced Danny,
looking like a half-drowned squirrel.

Some thirty yards separated the two females.

Claire shouted something which was whisked away in the wind
and the water.

Danny took several paces towards her.

‘
Don’t come any closer!’ Claire yelled in warning.

Danny stood still. She could see utter anguish on the girl’s
face.

‘
I won’t, I promise,’ Danny shouted in reply. ‘Just come away
from the edge, it’s very dangerous. Then we can talk.’

‘
I’m not coming home. You can’t make me go home. If you do,
I’ll run away again.’

‘
Okay, okay, just move away from there. .. Claire! LOOK OUT!’
Danny bellowed out the last two words of warning as she saw a
massive swell build up and then break like a huge claw right over
Claire.

The crushing weight of the water rammed the youngster to the
ground as effectively as if a sack of coal had been dumped on her
shoulders. When the water rushed back, its tentacles took her with
it. She screamed and writhed in a fight against it, but it was no
use. She was hauled across the concrete back towards the sea like a
fish on the deck of a trawler, her screams muted as the bitter
salt-water filled her nose and mouth and lungs, choking
her.

For the second time in less than two minutes, Danny was
compelled to watch in horrified fascination as the fate of the
young girl was enacted in front of her eyes.

Then Danny moved into action. Drawing on her last reserves of
strength and energy, she flung herself towards the pathetic
figure.

She knew she would not make it, though.

Claire was too far away and being pulled too quickly. She
would be gone in seconds ...
and explain
that one, Detective Furness
.
Not now a fatal road traffic accident, but a
drowning victim. . .

Claire slithered towards the precipice of the sea wall and was
dashed sideways against one of the perpendicular posts of the
railings - which she grabbed instinctively - but still the sea
pulled her backwards and tried to unwrap her fingers from the post.
She clung on desperately, but with failing strength and great pain
inside her chest where she had slammed against the iron post. At
the same time a new, even more powerful swell was building up
behind her, one designed to finish the job started by its
predecessor and claim a victim. Or two.

Danny saw it rise. She also saw that Claire’s progress had
been halted by her collision with the railing post. But not for
very long.

She weighed up the odds.

If she did reach Claire and grab her, the chances were in
favour of them both being sucked into a watery grave. If she
didn’t, Claire was definitely dead. The poor odds did not prevent
her from flinging herself across the last few feet and risking her
own life to save Claire’s.

At the precise moment Danny got hold of her sleeve, Claire
lost her grip and her legs went over the edge of the wall. The sea
boiled only inches away from the soles of her shoes. Danny wrapped
herself around the post and shouted, ‘Hold on tight.’

The new wave rose like a monster from the deep and exploded
spectacularly over them, twice as savage as the previous one.
Through it all Danny and Claire held grimly onto each other, their
eyes locked into each other’s gaze, looks of solid resolve on their
faces as they fought to live, whilst the Irish Sea did its utmost
to separate them once and for all.

‘
Don’t let go, don’t let go,’ Danny chanted as much for herself
as Claire.

The water whooshed back past them, battering them, trying its
damnedest to draw them into the sea and almost succeeding. Had it
continued a few more moments, Danny would have had to let
go.

Suddenly the water all drained away, leaving them clinging to
the edge of the Promenade. Alive. The wind had changed its angle
ever so slightly and the tide whipped away to a point further
south.

Danny did not hesitate. She knew from past experience just how
fickle the sea was - she had pulled four bodies out of it in her
time - and this respite would only be brief. They had to make use
of it, even though their natural reaction would be to stay put and
get their breath back.

‘
Oh God, oh God,’ Claire spluttered.

‘
Come on, we’ve got to move!’ With one last effort, Danny
heaved Claire back onto the Promenade. ‘Come on, get up, we can’t
hang around.’

Claire was on all fours, coughing and retching up the water
which had cascaded down her gullet. Danny yanked her up. ‘Run!’ she
shouted.

The howling wind changed again. The sea was about to make
another attempt on their lives. The burgeoning swell looked
enormous.

‘
I can’t,’ Claire wept.

Danny grabbed her roughly by the collar and hoisted her bodily
away from the edge. They reached the comparative safety of the tram
tracks just in time to turn and watch the next monstrous wave
explode against the sea wall.

Had they been underneath it, they would have been fish food.
For sure.

Danny pulled a blanket around her shoulders, brushed her damp
straggly hair back from her face and said, ‘Claire seems to be
unhappy for some reason.’

‘
I can’t think why. God knows, we give her everything she
wants,’ said Claire’s mother, Ruth Lilton.

‘
She’s spoilt rotten,’ her stepfather grunted, a tone of real
nastiness underneath the words. Joe Lilton was a big, brusque
individual who intensely annoyed Danny. She thought she knew him
from somewhere - way back when - but could not quite place him.
‘She’s going through a rebellious phase, that’s all. Needs it
knocking out of her.’

And you’re just the one to do it, obviously, Danny nearly
said. Instead she ignored him, turned back to Mrs Lilton and
commented: ‘Well, this phase seems to be pretty extreme, wouldn’t
you say? Shoplifting? Missing from home? Ruth, if you’d like to
bring her down to the police station, I could spend some time with
her, interview her again, maybe less formally. Perhaps that’d get
to the root of the problem.’

‘
That’s a good idea-’ the woman began, but her husband butted
in rudely.

‘
There’s no call for that,’ he interrupted. ‘We’ll sort her
out. What she’s short of is a good old-fashioned leathering. No
need for you lot to be involved any further you’ve done enough.
Family matter from now on.’ He seemed to brighten suddenly. ‘Thanks
anyway.’

Danny shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ But to Mrs Lilton she said, ‘I’m
always available if you need me.’

Mrs Lilton said a quiet thanks.

The three of them were sitting in one corner of the crowded
waiting room in the casualty department at Blackpool Victoria
Hospital. After the fright on the seafront, Danny and Claire had
stumbled back across the road to Claire’s parents’ hotel. From
there Danny had driven her immediately to BVH because Claire had
been creased double with an agonising pain in her chest. Mr and Mrs
Lilton followed in their car.

After an interminable wait, an X-ray had confirmed two cracked
ribs, caused when Claire had been smashed against the railing
post.

Danny herself had been given a swift check-up by a very dishy
doctor and been declared fighting fit. He had rather sensuously
eased a tubi-grip bandage around her ankle which, from X-rays, was
diagnosed as being sprained. All Danny had wanted, though, was a
double vodka-tonic and a drag of a Benson & Hedges Gold. But
she didn’t have any spirits to hand and her ciggies - which had
been kept in her jacket pocket - were a sodden mush.

‘
Here she is,’ said Danny, looking up.

A nurse was guiding the still-bedraggled young girl down the
corridor towards the waiting room. Claire was shuffling rather than
walking. Each step looked painful, because other than the broken
ribs, she had suffered a multitude of other bangs, cuts and bruises
during her sea-front ordeal.

She looked exhausted and ready to drop. She was in need of a
good meal and a rake of sleep.

‘
Sweetheart,’ cried Mrs Lilton. She stood up. Open armed, she
went to Claire and embraced her gently.

‘
Little cow,’ Joe Lilton muttered under his breath. He got up
and put on a false face of concern. ‘C’mon girl, let’s get you
home.’ He rubbed her head with his hand in a fatherly gesture.
Claire reared away from him, fireballs in her eyes. He withdrew his
hand. His mouth became a hard line.

Danny rose wearily, aware that the tear up the back of her
skirt was hanging open like a pair of curtains. She didn’t have the
energy to care who saw her knickers any more.

Claire walked up and murmured a meek, ‘Thank you,’ to Danny,
who nodded. She could not fail to see the expression of absolute
desolation on the youngster’s face as her parents led her away. She
looked as if she was going to the scaffold. Danny heard Mrs Lilton
saying, ‘The first thing we’ll do is get you into a hot bath and
then. . .’ Her voice faded.

Danny wondered how long it would be before Claire Lilton went
on the run again.

The Detective Constable limped into the ladies’ loo. After she
had relieved herself, she studied herself in a mirror over a wash
basin, stunned by her reflection. Talk about the witch from Hell
City. She looked appalling!

Her pretty ash-blonde hair had dried like strands of thick,
coarse string. Most of her make-up, which she always took great
pride in applying, had been washed away. The remnants of her
eye-liner and mascara made her look like the victim of an assault.
Her suit was ruined beyond cleaning or repair and she knew there
would be no earthly chance of the police footing the bill for its
replacement. Her tights had more ladders in them than a board game
and her shoes, which had partly dried out, had gone all
crinkly.