English slang.
‘ One thing I think Corelli never dabbled in was under-age sex. I know he was into prostitution, but never into little kids. Which is where he and Bussola differ. Bussola likes young girls, just on the turn from kiddie to lady, apparently. Our information also suggests he ain’t all that choosy. Young male ass is also very acceptable. Still with me, or have you fallen asleep?’
‘ Still hangin’ in there, buddy.’
‘ Good. The FBI in Florida have investigated Bussola frequently, but got nowhere. He is strongly suspected of shipping illegals in from all over the place — Mex, Cuba, wherever, you name it — and using them in his joints, porno films and also for himself. It’s a big trade over there — bodies. Fuckin’ phenomenal, really, but very underground. Something the likes of me an’ you couldn’t even envisage. They’re just throwaways. Disposables. Makes me sick to ma stomach.’
‘ Karl, sorry pal, great story, but I’m busy, busy, busy… maybe I can phone you at home later? That bastard FB is really breathing heavily down my neck.’
‘ This is work and it affects you,’ Donaldson said sternly.
‘ I’m suitably chastised.’
‘ You should be, Henry. That’s the background. Last week Bussola was arrested indulging in a double-tap with an underage girl, a missing person.’
‘ Double tap?’ To Henry that was a firearms term.
‘ A two-up, if you like.’
‘ I’m with you.’
‘ He was eventually released without charge. But now, here’s the interestin’ part from your point of view. Does the name Charlie Gilbert mean anything to you?’
‘ I know of a Charlie Gilbert,’ Henry said cautiously. ‘Why?’
‘ A fellow called Charlie Gilbert was the other member of the double-tap. Apparently he lives in Blackpool.’
‘ The only Charlie Gilbert I know is one who owns a fucking huge chunk of Blackpool. Numerous amusement arcades, a lot of pubs and restaurants, burger bars, a massive all-year-round fairground in North Shore. All sorts of stuff. He’s a councillor, a member of the Rotary. Very high profile indeed and beyond reproach. Donates money to children’s charities…’ As he said the word ‘children’s’, Henry’s speech faltered slightly. ‘Finances several youth clubs, junior football teams, netball teams… the guy’s a saint.’
‘ U-huh?’ said Donaldson. ‘This will come as a bit of a shock to you, old buddy. He’s also a child-molester. Released without charge, maybe, but I’ve spoken to a witness who saw him forcing his cock into the young girl’s mouth while Bussola buggered her. He was also juiced up to the eyeballs, believed to be coke. Some saint, eh? One who mixes with la creme de la creme de la Florida underworld. Just thought you’d like to know.’
Henry came over all queasy.
Only three weeks earlier he had given Gilbert and several other dignitaries a guided tour of the police station during an official visit by the local council. Henry could see Gilbert’s face now, very, very clearly. Large, round, flabby, but not ruddy. He was almost a sickly white, complexion-wise, and his skin hung in folds, rather like those unusual dogs, the breed of which Henry could never remember. Gilbert had been loud and ebullient. Full of himself, driven by his own self-confidence. Unusual for a fat person.
But Gilbert was an unusual person.
He’d begun his working life with nothing more than a roadside burger stall and over forty years had built up a veritable empire based in Blackpool, concentrating on cheap food and amusement… the areas which, on reflection, were attractive to young people.
Yes, Henry could clearly visualise Gilbert rolling down the corridors of the police station, voice booming above everyone else’s. And all the while he hid disgusting secrets.
Henry wondered what else was hidden. He shivered at the thought, looked briefly down at his right hand — the one with which he had shaken Gilbert’s. Instinctively he wiped the palm across his desk blotter.
‘ This is simply me acting in my liaison role, Henry, and passing you information,’ Donaldson was saying. ‘I haven’t received anything on paper yet but I did check the facts before I called you. They are correct.’
‘ Cheers, Karl.’
They concluded the call with some quick family chit-chat.
Henry breathed out, puffing his cheeks. He was astounded by the news. He cursed as the phone went again — the bane of his life.
It was Danny. She sounded excited. ‘Henry, we’ve got a possible location for Trent.’
‘ In Stoke?’
‘ No, here in Blackpool. In a guest-house.’
‘ Incident room, one minute,’ Henry barked.
Mrs Bissell’s guest-house — The Ronald, named after her dear departed — was a clean, well-run and fairly prosperous establishment in Charnley Road. Mrs Bissell was a robust lady, round, even-tempered and a whizz at cooking full English breakfasts. She had been running The Ronald for fifteen years, ever since becoming a widow. It gave her something to do and she found she was surprisingly good at it, having been a housewife most of her adult life. The majority of her guests were well-known regulars, but she always liked to keep a couple of spare rooms for passing trade; passing trade often became repeat trade.
Over the last three days she had received one phone call and one visit from the local police regarding Louis Trent. She knew all her guests personally and was adamant Trent was not one of them. The visiting officers accepted this.
Earlier that Monday morning, a few minutes before she had finished serving breakfasts, a man carrying a holdall called at the front door asking for accommodation. She immediately said yes, asked him to sign the visitor’s book and pay a small deposit, which he did. He peeled a ten-pound note from a thick wad. She took him to one of the single rooms in the newly built extension at the rear of the premises. From the window there was a view of the southerly aspect of the Winter Gardens complex. Mrs Bissell offered her new guest a late breakfast, which he declined. After pointing out the amenities — there was no en suite but the bathroom was immediately across the passage — she left him in the room.
Walking back through the narrow, seemingly endless corridors, Mrs Bissell was a little perturbed. There was something not quite right about the man and this gave her a sense of unease. She was never 100 per cent happy taking in single men. Most of her custom came from older couples, usually pensioners. To her a single man often meant gay in Blackpool — not that she had anything against poofs…
She did not think this man was gay. So what was it? His reluctance to get into conversation? The large amount of money he openly displayed? Then it struck her.
She rushed back to the reception desk where she rooted through a pile of correspondence, eventually finding what she was looking for — the photograph and description of Louis Vernon Trent left by the police on their recent visit.
She peered at the image of the most wanted man in Britain, but couldn’t be sure it was him. It looked like him, but then again… She checked the visitor’s book and saw he had signed in as L. Blake, with an address in Stoke. Her lips puckered up. Again she peered closely at the photograph. She focused in on the eyes.
They were the giveaway.
With trembling fingers she picked up the phone, hoping she wasn’t about to make a complete fool of herself, but deep down she knew that Louis Vernon Trent had just booked into her hotel.
‘ A guy has signed himself in as “L. Blake” from Stoke-on-Trent,’ Henry said to the very quickly assembled Armed Response Vehicle crews. Four officers had turned up — all in body armour, all overtly carrying their weapons. ‘The name Blake is the surname of one of the inmates Trent is suspected of frying during his prison escape; Stoke is where he abandoned Danny’s car.’
Other officers shuffled into the room. Six Support Unit, all having quickly changed into their riot gear.
‘ Come in, welcome,’ Henry beckoned. ‘We’ve only just started.’
FB then sidled in, joining Henry and Danny at the front of the room. Henry recapped on what he had said, then continued, ‘According to the lady who runs the guest-house, Mrs Bissell, the suspect is in a single room at the
