One Dead Witness (48 page)

‘
The book! Those two swines should be shot!’

‘
Maybe so, but they won’t be and that’s life.’ He shrugged.
‘Now, Danny, you are a very caring person. I know it sounds trite
and corny, but it’s also true. I want someone on my team like you,
but I also want you to be more realistic in your approach. I do
know some of the things you’ve been through over the last few days.
They’ve been pretty horrific. I know I...’

‘
No, you don’t know. Don’t even try to know.’ Then Danny caught
his wounded expression. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Henry.’

‘
It’s all right. All I’m saying, in a pathetic kind of way, is
you’re going to have to deal with things one way or another. Try to
work out what’ll be best for you. Might just be a chat with a
friend, or me, or the Welfare Department, but whatever you do,
Danny, deal with it. I speak from experience.’

She gave a wan smile and draped her arms around his neck,
touching her forehead onto his, sighing deeply. ‘God, if only you
weren’t married. . .’

‘
Danny, if I wasn’t married, I’d shag you here and
now!’

They burst apart, laughing uproariously. ‘And I’d let
you.’

The door opened and FB strutted in. ‘And just what the hell
are you up to? They’ve been up and dealt with while you’ve been
getting all touchy-feely.’

Danny stiffened.

‘
And?’ Henry’s voice was cautious.

FB dug his fist like he was punching some poor sucker in the
solar plexus. ‘Stuck it up ‘em!’ he announced jubilantly. ‘Bail
refused - three-day lie-down.’

Danny shot off her seat and danced around the room, madly
waving her arms up and down, jigging on the spot. Then she
astounded FB by throwing her arms round him and placing a big wet
kiss on his cheek.

Henry stayed seated, a smirk of satisfaction on his face.
Danny’s joy subsided when she pulled away from FB who wiped his
cheek distastefully with his pristine clean hankie.

She exchanged a glance with Henry. ‘Now the work really
begins.’

Chapter Twenty-one

Two days later there was nothing further the police could do.
Having charged Gilbert and Spencer with Claire Lilton’s murder they
were not, by law, allowed to question them any further about that
matter.

All they had for Gilbert was the material found at his home,
which in the grand scheme of things was pretty insignificant. He
was questioned at length about the dead girl in East Lancashire,
but denied all knowledge when faced with the paltry evidence
against him.

Finding two naked runaways in Spencer’s flat meant there were
many long conversations with him, but nothing more on the murder
front and he denied sexually assaulting Grace.

Forty-eight hours, therefore, failed to produce anything
worthwhile.

All the while, Danny and Henry had vague hopes that America
might be the key, but nothing happened on that score. Henry phoned
Karl Donaldson, who in turn phoned Myrna, who had no further
information.

So, two tired detectives, having spent all those hours in each
other’s pockets, came to realise they would have to put the
defendants back before the court before the three days was up.
There was no way they could justify keeping them in police custody
any longer. They had to go back to court, hopefully to get the two
defendants remanded in custody and then commit the case to Crown
Court.

Which is what they did on Monday morning.

And the magistrates went along with them and denied
bail.

Stanway was astounded by the decision and immediately stated
his intention to appeal against the decision to a High Court Judge
in chambers.

Meanwhile, Gilbert and Spencer were transferred, like common
criminals, to Risley Remand Centre.

On the next day, Tuesday, at 10 a.m., Stanway appealed to a
judge in chambers - a course of action which often resulted in the
magistrates’ decision being overturned.

Lancaster Crown Court was in session, presided over by High
Court Judge Constance Ellison. At the age of seventy-two she was as
quick and nimble in both brain and body as a forty-year-old, and
unlike most other judges her age, she was very much in touch with
modern trends and thinking. She would never have to ask who Oasis
or The Spice Girls were.

She had scheduled the appeal before the start of the day’s
court proceedings and was waiting in her chambers, dressed in full
regalia, looking absolutely splendid and very imposing. She sat
behind a large, highly polished mahogany desk.

A court usher led in Stanway and his opposite number from the
CPS.

‘
Good morning, gentlemen,’ she greeted them. ‘Please be seated.
I may have the full kit on, as they say, but let’s not be too
formal in here.’ She smiled a warm, pleasant smile.

They both sat, shuffling their papers nervously. Both knew she
had a formidable reputation for chewing up and spitting out
solicitors and lawyers.

Stanway began...

...And outside in the chilly corridor, Henry and Danny waited
tensely for the result.

Half an hour dragged by as slowly as creeping
death.

Neither spoke.

Danny sat there unmoving, consumed with her innermost
thoughts. Henry, on contrast, fidgeted constantly. Standing up,
sitting down, patrolling the corridor. Bored to death by doing
nothing.

It was a relief for both when Henry’s pager vibrated against
his pelvic bone, summoning him to make a phone call. He wandered
away to find the nearest one. Danny was glad to see him go. He was
getting on her nerves this time.

He had been gone less than two minutes when the door to the
Judge’s chamber creaked open. The usher poked his head out. ‘DI
Christie? DS Furness?’ he called enquiringly.

‘
I’m DS Furness.’ Danny stood up.

‘
Where is DI Christie?’

‘
Gone to make a phone call. Why?’

‘
The Judge wants to see you both.’

Over the last few days, since Tracey had disappeared, the
operatives of Kruger Investigations had been getting nowhere fast.
The streets of Miami had been constantly combed, particularly the
areas notable for street hookers and drug abusers.

They drew a blank.

Myrna had got the girl’s last known address from Mark
Tapperman; two of her best investigators had visited it, but the
place was empty. It looked as though she had done a quick getaway,
leaving several items of personal belongings behind.

Myrna called her people off.

There was no guarantee Tracey was even in Miami. She could
have been anywhere, or even dead, so Myrna resumed normality - or
at least the normality of life without Steve Kruger and a gay
husband.

Too much time chasing shadows would have been unproductive for
a firm still reeling from its founder’s death. Myrna needed to
devote herself to jittery customers.

That was what she did.

She worked from very early each morning until late into the
night, calling customers worldwide, chatting, reassuring them in
the same way she had done very soon after Kruger’s death. She spent
most of her waking hours next to the phone in her office, feeding
the fax and writing letters. It was a hell of a task, but needed
the personal touch, she believed. She contacted, one way or
another, every single customer and supplier, past and present, and
the response she got was brilliant. She firmly began to believe
that Kruger Investigations had a future, even without Steve, but it
had to be driven by her.

And in the early hours of that Tuesday morning, she put the
finishing touches to a couple of letters, slotted them into
envelopes and dropped them into the out tray.

She was tired, yeah, but it was the fatigue which came through
constructive hard work. She blinked the grit out of her eyes and
yawned. What to do with the weekend was the question playing on her
mind. She was adamant she would take Friday off and make something
of it.

The prospect of heading down to the Keys with no particular
aim in sight kind of appealed to her. Maybe she’d get the old
Thunderbird out - the one her husband had so recklessly bought her
a couple of years before, probably in a fit of guilt - and see how
that performed.

Mmmm
. . . She closed her eyes,
imagined the warm wind in her hair, the straight road, a beachside
guesthouse, a drink or two . . . she was almost asleep at the desk
when the phone rang, loud and shrill in the stillness of the
morning. She leapt out of her skin and fumbled to answer
it.

It was Jake, the security man, down in reception. ‘Sorry t’
bother ya’ll Mizz Rosza, but I knew you wuz in or I woulden a
rang...’

‘
It’s okay, Jake. What is it?’

‘
Like, normally, I’da thrown her out on her ear, but she sez
she knows ya and wants t’see ya an’ apologise.’

‘
Who does?’

‘
Whazz y’name, gal?’ Myrna heard Jake ask. There was a mutter.
‘Sez she’s a-called Tracey Greenwood. Sez y’ve prob’ly bin lookin’
f’her.’

‘
Put her in the elevator, Jake and send her up.’

Myrna waited for the arrival of the elevator. When the doors
opened Tracey was huddled in a foetal ball in one corner, big eyes
staring up fearfully at Myrna, thumb in her mouth. She looked
dreadful, just like a bunch of rags. Myrna helped her to her feet.
She was pathetically light. Brittle.

‘
I’m sorry, I got scared - lost me bottle’ she said with a
cough.

‘
Not scared enough to steal my purse, girl,’ Myrna rejoined
with a snap.

When Tracey had been seated down in Myrna’s office and given a
coffee, Myrna said, ‘You here to stay now?’ She nodded
dumbly.

‘
Why the hell did you go off like that?’

‘
Don’t know. I was frightened. I needed a fix too.’

‘
And now you’ve run out of money, I suppose,’ Myrna said
scornfully. She did not wait for a response. ‘Are you planning to
leave again?’

‘
No.’

‘
In that case, sit there, don’t move. I’ve got a phone call to
make.’

From Kruger’s office she dialled Karl Donaldson’s home number,
having worked out it was only 8 a.m. in London and there was a
chance he was still at home before setting off for work.
Donaldson’s wife, Karen, answered. A baby screamed in the
background. ‘He’s just about to leave. I’ll get him. Hold
on.’

‘
This is Karl Donaldson.’

‘
Karl, she’s back.’

‘
You gonna keep hold of her this time?’

‘
I am.’

‘
Right, good. Call you back soon.’

Donaldson immediately phoned Henry Christie at home but was
told he had already left for work. He then rang Blackpool police
station to be told he had not yet turned in, but was expected to be
in later after attending a special hearing at Lancaster Crown
Court. Donaldson asked for a mobile or pager number, but no one
could actually put their fingers on one at that moment. Cursing,
Donaldson hung up and flipped through his organiser. The number of
Henry’s pager was not there either. He knew he had it at work, so
he decided to wait until he got there before trying to get hold of
Henry.

Meanwhile, Myrna returned to her office, ready to get some
answers from young Tracey, the girl who had stolen her credit
cards.

‘
Hey, I’ve got some great...’

‘
Come on, Henry,’ Danny waved him urgently back down the
corridor. ‘The Judge wants to see us – now!’

‘
Eh? Why?’

‘
How the hell should I know? Come on, hurry up.’ Danny knocked
on the chamber door.

‘
Please, please, sit down,’ Mrs Ellison said to them. Two extra
chairs had been brought in and placed directly in front of her
desk. The two solicitors were sitting apart, on chairs at an angle
to the corners of the desk. Henry and Danny sat in between. The
Judge peered down her nose at Henry.

‘
Mr Christie - I thought I recognised the name. How are
you?’

‘
Your Honour, I’m fine, thank you very much.’

Danny gazed incredulously at him. Stanway almost groaned. The
last thing he wanted was for Henry Christie to be on intimate terms
with the Judge.

‘
I seem to remember you were in pretty bad shape last time we
met - dodging bullets and Mafia hitmen, as I recall.’ She recalled
correctly, having presided almost four years before on a very
high-profile trial, here at Lancaster Crown Court, in which Henry
had been one of the main police witnesses.

‘
I’m well recovered from then, thank you, Ma’ am.’

‘
But still in the wars, I see.’ She chuckled, nodding towards
his recent facial injuries.

‘
Trouble follows me everywhere,’ he shrugged
modestly.

She gave him a tight smile which indicated the pleasantries
were over and business was about to begin. ‘Now, you may be
wondering why I’ve asked you both in here,’ she said, gearing
smoothly into the meat of the day. ‘The fact is, I’ve listened to
these two gentlemen arguing their individual points of view and it
seems, overwhelmingly, that I should give the defendant, Gilbert,
bail; Spencer, on the other hand will stay in custody. However, I
don’t wish to rush any decision if there is a chance of getting
more perspectives on it. I was aware you were out there and I
believe it only right you should be able to talk to me about the
matter.’