One Dead Witness (38 page)

The chat was innocent enough to begin with. They discussed
their experiences on ‘the night of the missed drink’, as they
called it between themselves. It was probably the tenth time of
going over it, but both needed it, Danny in particular. She was
grateful to Henry for listening. Each time she spoke, it got
easier. The fear lessened; the horror subsided, though still lurked
in a dark corner of her mind. But Danny was nothing if not
resilient and she was determined to work herself through
it.

‘
So, Henry,’ she said eventually, ‘any idea who might have
cracked you? You didn’t let on to FB.’

‘
I know ... but I reckon we both know who is favourite, don’t
we?’

‘
Jack?’

‘
Just his kind of trick, I’d say. Not that he would have done
it himself. He’s been a detective in this town for a lot of years
and he knows a lot of toe-rags who’d do it for the price of a pint.
I’ve bumped into him a couple of times today and he has a sort of
knowing look on his face. Supercilious, even.’

‘
And it’s all my fault. Should never have got involved with
him.’

‘
No,’ Henry corrected her, ‘it’s
his
fault. But it’ll all come out in
the wash one day, in the not too distant future. He’ll come a
cropper and someone will fettle him.’

A minor, but pleasant silence descended on the couple whilst
they considered their drinks.

Danny looked at her watch: 11.45 p.m. ‘I suppose Trent’ll be
sleeping like a baby now,’ she observed. ‘He’s spent most of the
sodding day giving them the runaround at the hospital. He’s only
got a scratch on his head ... boy, I enjoyed hitting him.’ She
curled her hands into tight fists and said, ‘Yeah,’ through gritted
teeth.

‘
And the interviews have been bloody slow,’ Henry whined. ‘He’s
a tough one, saying very little other than being a clever dick.
It
doesn’t make one jot really. We’ve got
enough forensic and other evidence to convict him of . . .’ Henry
held up his fingers and counted off, one at a time: ‘Theft from the
old woman on the train, Meg Tomlinson’s murder, your kidnap and
assault, theft of your car, the murder of a police officer, the
woundings in the estate agent’s. . . He’s been a busy man. Tomorrow
we’ll get into his ribs about Claire Lilton; that’s not even been
mentioned to him yet. He probably doesn’t even know we’ve found her
body - and there’s all the other stuff concerned with the prison
escape. That’s seven more bodies. He’ll never see the light of day
again, other than from a prison yard. He’ll probably end up in
Broadmoor . . . something wrong?’

Danny had been frowning as Henry spoke. She looked as though
she was building up confidence to say something.

‘
I don’t think he killed Claire,’ she said flatly. Henry sat
back, aghast.

‘
Course he effin’ did.’

‘
She was strangled. Trent’s been using a knife.’

‘
But he used to half-strangle his victims when you caught him
last time. He’s obviously reverted to that.’

‘
Yeah, half-strangle is right. He never actually killed them
back then. Now he’s gone over the top into murder, it’s not his
hands he’s been using, it’s that knife. It seems to give him that
extra feeling of power. Why would he revert to manual strangulation
... doesn’t make sense.’

‘
Nothing in that bastard’s mind makes sense.’

‘
I know, I know ... but to me, it doesn’t seem to add up
right.’

‘
I think you’re wrong.’ Henry was adamant.

‘
Look - we can’t simply assume he killed Claire, become
blinkered to it. That’s not fair or just.’

‘
What happened to Claire wasn’t fair or just,’ Henry
argued.

‘
Henry, you don’t need to tell me that, but does it mean we
railroad him, just because we’ve closed our minds to the
implications of what I’m saying?’

Henry bridled. He had been convinced of Trent’s guilt. Now the
belief was being challenged, he was uneasy. ‘No,’ he said
sheepishly. He took a swig of beer. ‘I’m not happy with the thought
it wasn’t Trent who did it. It’s just too much of a coincidence for
him NOT to have done it.’

‘
So do we get him convicted just because of a
coincidence?’

‘
No, I’m saying that-’

‘
What are you saying, Henry?’

‘
Don’t you want him done?’ he almost shouted. He took control
of his voice, lowered it, leaned across the circular table and
pointed a finger at Danny. ‘That guy abducted you at knife-point,
was probably going to rape you, was definitely going to murder you
- and yet you seem to want to protect him.’ He shook his head,
confused. ‘I don’t get it.’

Now she leaned forwards. ‘I want justice done, Henry. I want
to see him inside until he dies, but I don’t want him convicted of
something he didn’t do. That’s too good for him. It makes us as bad
as him. Everything we do needs to be spot on and he needs to know
it’s spot on, because if it isn’t he’ll always be one-up on us, and
I don’t want that.’ She sat upright and rubbed her eyes. Her face
softened and she smiled. ‘Let’s not fall out - I don’t like arguing
with you, but I’m sure true justice is really what you want
too.’

He exhaled a long sigh, nodding. ‘Yeah, you’re right, I do.
But if he didn’t kill Claire, you know what that means, don’t
you?’

Danny shivered. ‘I know exactly what that means.’

They had another quick drink and left the pub. The night had a
chill to it. Danny instinctively linked arms with Henry as they
strolled amiably to his car which was parked some way down the
road, under a street lamp and not in the pub car park. Both had
developed phobias about car parks. A little shimmer of pleasure
glittered through Danny when she touched Henry.

‘
That was a nice drink, Henry.’

‘
I enjoyed it too, even though you made me think. I don’t
usually like to think too deeply with a beer in my hand. The two
activities don’t seem to correlate. I usually talk football or sex,
or both.’

Henry drove her home, pulling up outside. ‘Thanks,
Henry.’

‘
Pleasure.’

She looked at him. There was only a small distance between
their faces. Danny felt a rush down between her legs as her eyes
flicked across his face. She swallowed, giggled and broke the
moment.

‘
It would be nice, wouldn’t it?’ she said, a hint of regret in
her voice.

‘
It would be wonderful,’ he conceded.

‘
But it won’t happen.’

‘
No. I’ll watch you walk to your door.’

‘
Good night, Henry.’ She was out of the car quickly, in the
house moments later, giving him a quick wave from the
threshold.

He drove off, failing to notice the black figure in the
shadows at the end of the road, stepping out to watch Henry’s
tail-lights disappear around the corner.

As Danny expected, Trent subsequently denied murdering Claire
when the allegation was put to him on Tuesday morning. Although he
had denied everything else, even in the face of overwhelming
evidence, his denial of Claire’s murder seemed to be true. With
increasing anguish, the police concluded that maybe, possibly,
probably ... then
definitely.
. . there was another child-killer on the
loose.

When Danny eventually fell asleep it was half-past midnight.
Thursday morning. In Miami, it was seven-thirty in the
evening.

Myrna Rosza finished crying for the moment.

She was in her personal restroom adjoining her office, glaring
at herself in the mirror over the wash-basin. Emotions tumbled
across each other inside her, but she had regained outwards control
of herself. She flicked on the tap, filled the basin with hot water
and washed her face, removing the stained make-up from around her
eyes and cheeks.

Then she spent almost twenty minutes carefully reapplying it,
after which she felt more positive about things and life in
general. She completed the process by brushing and spraying her
hair into place.

When she reviewed the new woman, she attempted a smile which
lapsed fairly quickly at the prospect of the immediate hours ahead
of her. Home was not a place to which she desired to return. It
would be empty, cold and forbidding. On the spur of the moment she
darted back into the office, picked up the phone and dialled the
Fontainbleau Hilton on Collins Avenue, Miami Beach, booked a room,
and a table at one of the restaurants. She slammed the phone back
down, put on her top coat and walked purposefully out of the
office.

The elevator to the basement was empty. It stopped with a bump
and opened its doors to reveal a vast, deserted, underground
parking lot. Since Kruger’s death, the building superintendent had
allowed her to park there - at a cost.

Moments later, the tyres of the Lexus were squealing across
the concrete floor. She hit the exit ramp, suspension bouncing,
drove through the raised security gate, then out onto the road
where the rain hit the hood and windshield like a bucket full of
grit. Myrna fumbled for the wiper control, then felt the thud of a
body on the front of the car. She slammed on, unable to see
properly, but aware a person had rolled off the hood onto the
road.

‘
Shit,’ Myrna cried. She leapt out - and at the back of her
mind thought she could be stepping into a heist, a robbery, God
knew what. At the front of the car lay the crumpled form of a
female who was already rising to her hands and knees. She was
totally drenched. In her hand was a rolled-up newspaper.

‘
Good God, are you okay?’ Myrna bent low to assist.

The female looked up.

‘
You!’ Myrna exclaimed.

To have had that long white wine and soda immediately before
coming to bed was a pretty big mistake, Danny discovered not long
after falling asleep. Her bladder called to her pitifully, ‘Empty
me!’ in such a pathetic tone she could not ignore it.

With a grunt of frustration, she rolled out of bed, padded to
the loo and back. When her head hit the pillow, she expected to
return to sleep immediately. No chance.

Uncontrollably her mind clicked into gear and refused to get
out of it. She found herself tossing and turning, desperately
trying to get to sleep. She constantly re-ran images and
conversations of the week through her mind’s eye and it began to
drive her mad.

She pictured herself sitting next to Ruth Lilton on their
settee, clasping the woman’s delicate hands in her own, offering
support and reassurance, whilst at the same time bringing her
up-to-date with the investigation.

‘
We initially believed the man we had in custody for the other
matters was responsible for Claire’s death. He denied it and, quite
honestly, it looks as though he may not have killed
her.’

‘
He must have, he must have,’ Ruth Lilton sobbed.

‘
I can appreciate how you must feel like that,’ Danny said
softly.

‘
You can’t appreciate fuck all,’ Joe Lilton snarled into
Danny’s face. ‘You don’t know fuck all about how we’re feeling;
we’ve lost a daughter. Murdered. How can you have the bottle to sit
there and say “I can appreciate”?’ He mimicked Danny’s
voice.

‘
Joe!’ Ruth said. ‘Please.’

‘
Well, bloody police ... you’re telling us that bastard who’s
locked up didn’t kill her.’

‘
Yes, that’s what I’m telling you,’ Danny said stonily, trying
not to rise to him, even though her blood had passed boiling
point.

‘
Well, who did kill her? C’mon, tell us. Do your
job.’

Danny’s eyes played over his face. ‘We don’t know yet, but
it’s only a matter of time. We will be able to get a DNA profile
from the bodily fluids her attacker left in her. We’ll catch
whoever did it, never fear. That’s a promise.’

Joe went silent at these words. Then with a snort of contempt
he threw up his arms and stormed out of the room.

‘
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ Ruth apologised.

‘
It’s okay. He’s upset and angry,’ said Danny.

Danny rolled over in bed. Sweat started to dribble where her
thighs met. The bed was hotting up the more she was unable to
sleep.

And the next image that came to her mind was the meeting she
and Henry had had with the pathologist who had performed Claire’s
post mortem. His name was Baines and it was apparent he and Henry
knew each other well.

‘
Quite a few things of interest to you, H,’ Baines said. ‘Go on
then.’

‘
Old sperm in her uterus - probably about four days. On its
last legs, or flippers, as you might say.’

‘
Wow,’ Henry said.

‘
Mmm, she was not a virgin. Probably hadn’t been one for some
time, by all indications.’

Danny closed her eyes. ‘She was eleven years old.’

Baines nodded.

‘
Anything else?’ Henry asked.

Baines opened his mouth and reeled off other interesting
things which were lost on Danny who sat through the rest of the
meeting numb, the voices of the two men simply a meaningless
background to the physical sickness she was feeling on Claire’s
behalf.