‘ Sounds great. It would be a sin not to get a feel of the place, wouldn’t it?’
‘ It certainly would.’
They had been chatting by the French windows whilst Tracey lounged on a chair by the pool.
Danny went over and sat next to her. She had decided not to mince her words. ‘Your name is not Tracey Greenwood, is it?’
Danny knew she was right. The girl in front of her was not called Tracey Greenwood, but Tracey Higgins. She had been a resident at Mowbreak Children’s Home in Blackpool some five years earlier. Danny had reported her Missing from Home on several occasions and she had always returned, until the last time when she reported her missing and she never came back. On that occasion she had gone missing with her best friend, Annie Reece, whose remains had been recently discovered by two frolicking lovers.
Things began to slot slowly into place for Danny.
‘ No, you’re right,’ the girl admitted. ‘My last name isn’t Greenwood, but I am called Tracey.’
‘ Tracey Higgins,’ Danny interjected. ‘I remember. But why the name change?’
She shrugged. ‘Because Charlie Gilbert said it was the only way to get me out of the country. I didn’t have a passport in my real name and Charlie gave me a new one. I was only thirteen at the time, but the date of birth on the passport said I was eighteen. And I looked it. I could get away with that easy if I was dolled up.’
‘ So Charlie obtained a forged passport for you?’ Danny asked, wanting this confirmed in her own mind.
Tracey nodded. ‘And a US work permit, visa, all the immigration crap you need to get into this country. Everything to start a new life.’
Danny almost permitted herself a smile. So it hadn’t been too far-fetched to claim in court that Gilbert could obtain forged travel documents after all. She was relieved.
‘ A new life at the age of thirteen?’
‘ The old one was shit anyway and Charlie promised me loads of things.’
‘ Why?’
‘ Why?’ Tracey snorted. ‘Because I saw him kill Annie and he panicked and this was his way of shutting me up, I reckon.’
The Bussola household was unusually quiet.
Felicity paused on the stairs and looked out across the pool. Her husband was at the poolside, working away at his computer. One bodyguard lounged in the shade, reading a thriller.
Felicity trod quietly downstairs and wandered from room to room, finding no one else around, not even Begin, which was odd. He was usually creeping around somewhere. She went outside and hobbled around the gardens, looking for more bodyguards. All she found was one lonely soul in the gatehouse, playing patience.
Like a bolt of lightning, it suddenly struck her why they were all missing.
They had gone to get the girl, kill her and anyone else who got in their way.
It took time and not a little coaching and coaxing, a lot of patience and a good deal of skill to get Tracey talking. Her story was not much different to the one Danny had heard from Grace and it did not shock Danny to hear it. Nevertheless it expanded the picture of Charlie Gilbert and his lifestyle.
Tracey was a girl local to Blackpool and had ended up in care through the usual series of mishaps, bad parenting and abuse so very common with children in her social sphere. She was put in a home, from which she frequently absconded. Most of her time was spent around the arcades where she met Ollie Spencer and subsequently Charlie Gilbert. She was lured by money, food and drugs and enjoyed every minute of it.
She had only just begun her story properly when the chimes of the front doorbell echoed through the house, interrupting the conversation. Tracey stopped talking and sat back. Myrna, seated at the far end of the pool, out of earshot, pulled a face, but got up and walked through the house to the front door.
She froze when she saw who was standing there. It was Ira Begin, Mario Bussola’s right-hand man. She recognised him immediately.
‘ Mrs Rosza,’ Begin said with a nod. ‘How do you do? My name is-’
‘ I know exactly who you are.’
Begin gave a supercilious smirk. ‘In that case there is no need for introductions.’
‘ What do you want?’
‘ I’d like to talk to you about a mutual acquaintance of ours.’
‘ I don’t think we have one.’ Myrna’s mind raced frantically; panic crept through her being. How the hell did he get to know where I am? she demanded of herself. Myrna started to close the door.
Like a bad door-to-door salesman, Begin jammed his foot behind the threshold, preventing closure. ‘Oh yes we do,’ he said. He reminded Myrna of a slimy reptile. ‘And I suggest you spare some time now to discuss the matter with me.’
They eyed each other, cat and mouse.
‘ Okay,’ Myrna relented, ‘but first let me close the door and come back to you in a couple of minutes.’
‘ Is that a promise?’
‘ It is.’
‘ In that case…’ Begin lifted his foot out of the door.
Myrna closed it, whirled round and ran out to the pool.
‘ What is it?’ Danny asked, seeing Myrna’s worried expression.
‘ Er, nothing to worry about, I hope, but we need to talk. Tracey, will you give us a few minutes? Go upstairs to the bedroom you’ve been using? Danny and I need to discuss something.’
‘ Yeah, sure, whatever.’ She failed to pick up any of Myrna’s tension. She was thinking about her next fix and where it was coming from. She calmly trundled inside the house.
Danny, however, could feel and almost see Myrna’s agitation. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘ Look, I don’t know — but Mario Bussola’s right-hand man is on the doorstep. I smell big trouble here. Danny, will you just hang back out of sight? It might be better if he doesn’t know you’re here — unless he knows already, of course.’
The doorbell chimed again.
‘ Time’s up,’ Begin said when Myrna opened the door.
Mark Tapperman was at the scene of a murder. One of a series of drive-by shootings which had sprung up from an inter-gang dispute in downtown Miami. Two gang members had been splattered whilst sitting on the sidewalk terrace of a coffee shop. Problem was, two civilians had also been struck and one had died. Three bodies, blood, guts, overturned tables, chairs, shattered glass and lots of cops.
Tapperman surveyed the carnage. If only the civvy hadn’t bought it, he was thinking. Two gang members gunned down was easy to deal with. They deserved what they got for living like they did. But a civilian down put another angle on it.
Now the cops had to go all out to solve it, otherwise there would be a major outcry.
As if he didn’t have enough on his plate, not least of which was the small matter of hunting down Patrick Orlove, the man responsible for blowing Steve Kruger’s brains out. That was a trail that had gone ice-cold very quickly. Tapperman suspected Orlove had been whisked out of state, possibly out of the country. He despaired of ever laying his hands on the bastard.
Tapperman shook his head, refocused on the three dead bodies and lots of blood.
His mobile chirped.
‘ Is that Lieutenant Tapperman?’ the worried female voice enquired.
‘ Yup.’
‘ I’m Erica from Kruger Investigations. I’m really sorry to bother you, but I thought you might be able to help me.’
‘ I’ll try.’ Tapperman eased a toecap under the shoulder of one of the dead gang members and lifted him slightly to get a look at what remained of the face.
‘ We’ve been trying to get hold of Myrna Rosza for some time, but no one here knows where she is. There’s no reply on her home number, or cell-tel. She hasn’t told us where she can be reached and we need to pass an urgent message to her. I know it’s a long shot, but-’
