‘ Thanks for that,’ Kruger said brightly.
‘ Why, Steve?’ the detective insisted.
‘ Gonna pay the bastards a call.’ Kruger hung up.
Tapperman leaned back against the headboard, wondering what the hell that was all about. He closed his eyes as his thoughts evaporated and he fell asleep immediately.
Chapter Nine
Detective Inspector Henry Christie read through the long and detailed message switch which had arrived in the early hours of the morning at Blackpool nick. It concerned the escape from prison of Louis Vernon Trent, a man born and raised in Blackpool. The story had been all over the daily newspaper Henry read before coming to work, but the nitty-gritty detail of what Trent had done in order to effect the escape was spelled out starkly in the police report in front of him. What the media could only guess at was laid out, blow by blow.
To Henry, the rather formal language of the message made Trent’s exploits seem much more callous and evil than the sensationalism of the newspaper articles.
He read the story once more, then picked up a copy of a message received from the Royal Bank of Scotland, informing him that the bank account belonging to the dead ambulance-driver had been plundered twice since his death. The second time — and the time that interested Henry — was at two thirty-five that morning, from their cash-point at the branch on Talbot Square in Blackpool.
Two thirty-five! The bastard had obviously been walking around, bold as brass, through the streets of Blackpool.
Next Henry read a crime report concerning the theft of a purse belonging to an old woman; it had been stolen from her bag whilst she was on the train to Blackpool. The description of the offender fitted that of Trent, who had been seen to get off the train at Poulton-le-Fylde.
He was definitely in town. That much was obvious.
Henry laid the crime report down and looked at the fax next to it from the prison service. It showed a two- year-old photo of Trent. Much of the quality had disappeared during transmission, but Henry could see from the image that the man had a piercing pair of eyes; they made him shiver.
‘ Shit,’ he breathed.
Underneath the fax was a copy of Trent’s previous convictions.
His telephone squawked. He answered it on the second ring.
‘ Henry, I hope you’re looking at the reports I’m looking at, otherwise I’ll have your effin’ guts for shoelaces!’ the voice shouted rudely down the line. The person did not have the courtesy to introduce himself, expecting to be instantly recognised. Henry knew it was the newly promoted Assistant Chief Constable (Operations), Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, known generally as FB and in particular as ‘that Fucking Bastard’.
Although FB’s responsibilities covered the whole range of police operations in Lancashire County, FB’s main love and interest was crime. He’d been a detective for most of his service.
He and Henry went back many years. However, Henry did not like him.
In response to FB’s opening broadside, Henry said, ‘I assume you mean our friend Mr Trent?’
‘ You assume dead-fucking-right. This is very much your pigeon, Henry, so what the hell are you doing about him? I’ve had the press crawlin’ right up my arse already this morning and also the Chief Constable of Staffordshire where the prison is located; she is not a happy woman with seven murders on her patch, I can tell you, and she wants this bastard catching. So, what’re you doing to catch him?’
‘ Actually nothing,’ should have been Henry’s truthful reply. ‘I’ve done bugger all but sit here, scratching my backside and trying to look moderately intelligent while I wonder what the hell to do.’
‘ Well, sir,’ Henry began, when there was a light tap on his office door and Danny poked her head round. Henry’s eyes lit up as a thought struck him. He beckoned her in and waved her to sit down.
‘ Well, sir — what? ’ FB demanded, annoyed by Henry’s hesitation.
The DI’s voice remained calm whilst underneath he paddled like mad. ‘I was just this minute chatting to DC Furness from Family Protection about this very matter. She’s the one who caught Trent originally and got him sent down; obviously, she knows quite a bit about him. We were discussing the possibility of her transferring onto CID a few days early — as you know, she joins us as a DS next Monday anyway. If she came early, she could coordinate the operation to nail Trent. We’re bringing in some Divisional Support Units to assist ours..’ Henry cringed at Danny and closed his eyes desperately ‘… and I’ve arranged a briefing at eleven.’ Henry hoped he sounded. convincing. He crossed his fingers.
‘ Good, good.’ FB was impressed. ‘Trusted you to be ahead of the game… I expected nothing less.’
‘ There is a slight hitch,’ Henry interjected.
‘ Go on.’
‘ Regarding DC Furness joining us early. It might be, er… politically sensitive, so will you sanction it in writing?’
This time it was Danny who crossed her fingers.
The expression which broke over Henry’s face told her the news was good.
He put the phone down at last. ‘Hope that’s okay with you?’
‘ Okay is a bit of an understatement. I’d say ecstatic. Jack won’t like it one little bit, though. He’ll dig his heels in.’
‘ In that case, we’ll present him with a fait accompli. He won’t have any choice in the matter. So, Danny,’ Henry raised his eyebrows, ‘have you come to talk to me about Jack again?’
She nodded sadly.
Steve Kruger drove recklessly to MIA with little or no thought about what exactly he was doing. He didn’t know the number of the flight Bussola’s friend was due to catch; didn’t know where in the airport he was likely to find them (and Miami International Airport is a very big place) and, most stupid of all, he hadn’t a clue what he was going to do if a confrontation took place with Bussola.
Remonstrate nicely with him? Be politely assertive? Explain just how deeply peeved he was feeling because Bussola had managed to wriggle out of child-abuse indictments and subsequently chopped up two Kruger Investigations’ employees with more skill than a meat butcher and decorated a hallway with their body parts?
He didn’t know. He just didn’t fucking know.
But what he did know was that the chances of actually coming face to face with Bussola in future would be minimal. The gangster led an existence shrouded in secrecy and protected by guards, however useless they might be. It wasn’t often he stepped into public, and when he did so no one usually knew when or where it would be. Kruger had only learned of Bussola’s whereabouts the other night because Felicity had told him. Kruger guessed that in future Bussola would be even more careful following the shock of his arrest.
This might be Kruger’s last chance to get right into Bussola’s face and let the bastard know he meant business; that he was on his case and wouldn’t be off it until a grand jury sat there examining him.
Once parked up at MIA, Kruger made his way into the terminal building. The place was extremely crowded, making Kruger step back when he saw them.
He checked the departure screens and saw that the first flight to the UK was to Manchester; apparently it was delayed for an hour, which gave him some heart. Yet finding Bussola amongst all these folks would be like looking for a proverbial needle.
And that assumed Bussola hadn’t simply dumped his fat friend Gilbert and gone straight home. Kruger hoped the two men — partners in sexual abuse — would be spending a little quality time together, maybe chewing the fat, before the Englishman caught the big bird. Maybe having a drink, or a meal..?
The police constable found that, try as he might, he could not dredge up any great sympathy for this misper. Seven times now in the last two months was enough to try anyone’s patience. He, personally, had taken four of these reports.
As far as he was concerned, she was a nuisance. A silly, headstrong little kid who needed a good
