nature. ‘And secondly, the English cops are coming across here to pick up a witness against him and take that witness back to testify. It’s about a murder five godamned years ago! I mean, who the hell gives a shit about something that old? Anyway, it’s that stupid little girl who spoiled some of our fun.’
‘ Tracey Greenwood — the English girl.’ Begin knew immediately; it was his job to know.
‘ Yeah — that junkie piece a shit. She could damage me — possibly,’ Bussola complained. ‘And not only that, Gilbert is a friend. I look after friends.’
‘ I take it you would rather she did not testify?’ Begin said fussily.
‘ It would simplify things all round. Make some enquiries, find out where she is and then just fucking waste her.’
In the window Felicity drew back again when Begin turned and walked back into the house.
She had heard everything that had been said.
Maurice Stanway replaced the phone. His hand shook. His palms were sweating. For the second time in a matter of days he had arranged the murder of an innocent individual.
He stood up, drained emotionally and physically, walked out of his office and found his way to the cloakroom, where he filled a wash-basin and ducked his face into the cold water until his lungs almost burst. He pulled up, spluttering, looking scornfully at his image in the mirror.
‘ You bastard,’ he breathed. ‘You absolute bastard.’
Chapter Twenty-two
Henry leaned across, flicked the handle and pushed the door open for Danny who walked down her short drive and dropped into the passenger seat. She was dead-beat and looked it. Her bleary eyes could hardly stay open even though she had slept well that night.
But five in the morning is no time for anyone to get up. It reminded her of days gone by when she worked shifts. On reflection she was amazed she handled them so well.
It was now 5.45 a.m., Wednesday morning, and Henry, as promised, was bang on time to pick her up. He estimated a good hour to get to Manchester Airport because even at that time of day, traffic around the city’s motorways could be horrendous.
He was wide awake and pretty buzzy. ‘Morning!’
‘ Urumph,’ Danny responded, smacking the recliner button and jerking backwards into a nearly prone position. She tossed a holdall into the back seat, then settled as comfortably as possible after turning up the heating a few notches. She was a very warm-blooded animal and needed heat, especially at this time of day, and particularly in her extremities, which were like blocks of ice.
Henry, perceptive as ever, picked up the body language: DO NOT DISTURB. He drove in silence and within minutes they were on the motorway. The radio was tuned into Jazz FM, so Danny closed her eyes, mentally rolled to the beat… and fell asleep.
‘ Here we are.’
‘ What?’ Danny shook her head and rubbed her eyes, unable to believe they had arrived at the airport already. ‘Is this a Tardis, or what?’
‘ No, just sounds like one.’
Henry handed her a package which contained a visa for Danny and an emergency passport for Tracey Greenwood. Both had been sent by courier, arriving at midnight at Henry’s house. He also handed her a wad of dollar traveller cheques. She stuffed the whole lot into her holdall.
‘ Got your own passport?’
She shot him a withering glance.
They walked to International Departures where Danny checked in without having to wait. She was told to go directly to passport control.
‘ Okay, Danny, try to get some sleep on the flight because you’ll need it if you’re going to do a quick turnaround. Grab the girl and get her back here for tomorrow. I’ll be waiting.’
She took hold of Henry’s lapels and dragged his face down to her. They kissed briefly.
‘ Look after yourself. See you tomorrow.’
Danny gave a quick wave and trotted away towards passport control. She didn’t glance back.
Thirty minutes later she was settled in the most luxurious airplane seat she had ever been in and was back asleep before the plane left the ground.
Following her rash decision to employ Steve Kruger to tail her husband, Felicity Bussola had learned some hard lessons.
The first was that no one messes with Mario Bussola without getting hurt… and that included his wife.
Bussola had beaten upon her remorselessly, enjoying every minute of it. He had smashed her face in, initially with his big fat fists and by pounding her on the edge of the grand piano, breaking her cheekbones. The instrument had subsequently to be cleaned to remove all the blood and snot and two teeth Felicity had dribbled into its workings.
Bussola had not been content with the face. Next he pummelled her body, but not with his hands or feet. He carefully selected a lamp-stand, and wielding it like a baseball bat, whacked her repeatedly with it, following her round the house as she cowered in terror behind any cover she could find. After this he dragged her back to the piano, forced her fingers onto the ivories and slammed the lid down at least a dozen times. But he only actually broke two of her fingers on her left hand.
Then, loving husband that he was, he arranged private medical treatment for her at a clinic he owned.
Very much linked to the first lesson was that it was in her interests not to take any more interest in her husband’s whereabouts. He ran businesses which operated twenty-four hours a day and he had to be in a position to supervise them appropriately. So of course he would be away nights. It didn’t mean he was being unfaithful to her.
Yeah, right.
The final lesson was that she should be grateful to be married to him. She should be grateful he came home at all and even more grateful if he deigned to fuck her. She learned this lesson, because he told her.
Those, at least, were the direct learning points from hiring Steve Kruger.
She learned a few indirect ones too. One was to never — ever — trust the staff. Whatever they said, she would never again take anyone of them into her confidence, like she had done with the two bastards who had kidnapped Steve Kruger for her. In the end, Mario employed them, and their first loyalty was to him, not her.
She had also become aware that the house was riddled with listening devices and miniature cameras, monitored from a control room at the gate-house, into which she had never been allowed. She had been under the impression the gate-house was simply a place where Bussola’s heavyweights just crashed out. Now she knew it was far more sinister.
Her personal objective now was to find all the surveillance devices and then never to say or do anything further to incriminate herself or any other person in any way. It might get someone killed.
She believed she had located all the bugs. The only rooms which appeared to be free of them were the bedrooms, Mario and Ira Begin’s offices and most corridors and landings. She had no idea why the bugs existed and did not dare ask.
The main lesson she had learned from recent events, though, was that she was a stupid, naive bitch who had been blinded by money and lifestyle and was now more unhappy than she had ever been in the whole of her life. She felt trapped, with no way out… and she still didn’t know if Bussola was cheating on her.
Not that it seemed to matter any more.
‘ It took a little time,’ Ira Begin said apologetically, ‘but he came through in the end.’
Bussola looked up from his desk at Begin who was leaning against the door jamb of his boss’s study. It was 9
