step into the line of fire between Kruger, Jimmy and their two targets. Bussola watched them through veiled lids, lingering over Myrna. His face turned back to Kruger. ‘Why the hell are you here anyway, Steve?’ Bussola mused out loud. He licked his lips. The ex-cop felt himself begin to weaken underneath the tough exterior.
Even naked and exposed, Bussola was every inch a gangster. He’d paid his dues on the mean streets of New York and Chicago, punking around with the gangs, terrifying neighbourhoods, but always thinking about expansion and the future. In his thirties, with a well-established criminal organisation in those cities, he decided to move the centre of his operations to Miami where it expanded to epic proportions. He orchestrated some bloody — and a few bloodless — coups and continued to grow, though he only ever made the number two spot. Number one was held by a mobster named Tony Corelli. Corelli’s unexpected demise at the hands of two armed women — a case still unsolved by the cops — opened the way for Bussola to claim top spot. Which he did, ruthlessly taking over Corelli’s flourishing empire.
Bussola was widely believed to be a billionaire.
He was also widely believed to have personally killed several people on the way to amassing his fortune. Legend had it that he once chain-sawed a rival to pieces. This was never proved, but Kruger believed it.
And Kruger was frightened because he believed everything about Bussola, and frightened because he believed Bussola’s words.
He was also totally disgusted at a man who had so much wealth at his disposal that he could have bought anything legal in terms of sexual pleasure, yet resorted to a sordid back-street room where he, together with another man, got his kicks by raping a girl who did not look twelve years old.
Maybe that was part of the thrill. Doing something which, no matter what the circumstance, was unlawful — and getting away with it. The ultimate middle finger stuck up at a society he despised.
Except this time he would not get away with it.
Kruger found he could not prevent his mouth curling into a sneer of contempt as these thoughts went through his mind.
‘ What choo lookin’ at?’ Bussola growled.
‘ Scum.’
Bussola nodded, then winked at Kruger. ‘I’m a very bad person to have as an enemy.’
‘ So am I,’ Kruger responded. He could see Bussola was not convinced, whereas Kruger honestly believed the Italian would be a very bad adversary.
Myrna and Kelly escorted the two girls out of the room, the younger one of them covered up by a large, soiled towel Kelly had found on the floor.
This left Kruger and Jimmy facing Bussola, the bodyguard and the big fat guy spread-eagled on the bed in a sea of vomit.
Their guns never wavered.
‘ What now, Steve?’ Bussola raised his thick bushy eyebrows.
‘ Cops.’
‘ And what do you expect to happen?’
‘ Arrest and conviction.’
Bussola blinked as though he could not believe his ears. Then he roared with laughter, throwing his head right back. His penis, now limp, jiggled with merriment. Then the laughter stopped. He became serious. ‘I very much doubt it, Steve. Very much.’
A cop siren wailed not too distantly. A flood of relief passed through Kruger. ‘We’ll see, Mario.’ Inside he already had his doubts.
‘ How about letting us get dressed?’
‘ No — stay as you are,’ Kruger said, not wanting to lose any forensics. ‘Just as we found you — naked as jailbirds.’
Chapter Five
Although British prisons have had a bad press over recent ears for their allegedly liberal regimes, it is true to say at even a prison run along the strictest of lines would not be able to control inmates 100 per cent of the time — unless they were banged up in their cells twenty-four hours a day.
And however tightly policed the prison inside which Trent was incarcerated had been, there is a better than even chance he would still have been able to plan, prepare and execute the course of action he had decided to take.
As it was, the fairly laid-back way in which the prison was run meant that with just a little care and common sense, there was no earthly chance of him being caught.
Once again he was awake early.
He watched the darkness of night become the brightness of morning, willing the time to pass, eager to get going.
By the time his cell door opened he was shaved, dressed and ready for breakfast. He did not show any enthusiasm to the warder for the day ahead, however, but sloped dejectedly out of the cell and walked slowly along the landing. He stared blankly ahead of himself, dragging his feet, trying to give the impression of a dead man walking.
He joined the queue to the breakfast servery. Coysh was one of the servers, Trent noticed, and the man slopped wet scrambled eggs and bacon swimming in grease onto people’s plastic plates.
Coysh clocked Trent’s imminent approach and surreptitiously selected a few prime rashers for him.
The two men exchanged a knowing glance. Trent said, ‘Everything okay?’
Coysh nodded.
‘ Keep me informed.’
Coysh turned his attention to the next one in line.
Trent moved on, smiling secretly, grabbed a mug of tea and sat down at a table. Alone.
‘ I heard about what happened last night, Danny,’ Henry Christie said. The two of them were in Henry’s office, the door closed, his phone on divert.
He saw she looked tired and worn-out. Not just because of the problems of the early morning, but for lessons far more fundamental. The white, narrow strip of plaster over the sutured cut on her face did not help matters.
Danny, in turn, eyed Henry. She bit her bottom lip to stop it from quivering because she wanted to cry. But not here, Not in front of her future boss. The last thing she wanted was to be tagged as a pathetic, weeping woman.
She drew in a deep, juddering breath and braced herself.
‘ Think it was Jack Sands who smashed the window and damaged your car?’ Henry asked. He leaned his elbows on the desk.
Danny shrugged noncommittally. In herself she knew damn well it was Sands. Evidentially, though, she could not prove a thing.
‘ Want to discuss it?’ Henry offered.
She closed her eyes, shook her head. She was perilously close to bubbling over. She had spent the last two hours since coming to work avoiding both Henry and Sands in an effort to steer away from the problem. She knew that if she encountered either one of them, the bubble would burst with a messy flood of emotion all over the carpet. With Sands it would have been anger. With Henry, tears.
Henry had been the first one to collar her and beckon her into his office.
‘ No, not really, Henry. I just want to get on with my work. I’ve got loads of things to get boxed off before I join you. I don’t want to talk about my private life, if you don’t mind… with respect.’
Even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true. More than anything she wanted to share her predicament with someone. But not here, not now. She placed her hands on the chair-arm and started to stand up… about to run away.
Henry stood up quickly and waved her to be seated. He came round from behind his desk and sat down on
