Nick Oldham - One Dead Witness

‘ What are you going to do then? Have another witness murdered?’ Stanway’s voice rose. ‘I mean, she’s in America. It’s not as though we can send that dumb gorilla round we paid the other night, can we?’

‘ No, that’s true — and keep your voice down, Maurice. Walls have ears.’

‘ What do you intend doing, then?’ Stanway re-enquired. ‘I think we should defend it.’

‘ I will not appear in court on another murder charge.’

‘ Charles,’ Stanway breathed with exasperation, ‘she’s in America, presumably in police hands. She’ll be handed over to the Lancashire officer and brought straight back — in police hands. There is no way you could pull a stunt of any sort.’

‘ Maurice,’ Gilbert began in a tone of voice which was losing patience, ‘I want you to do something for me.’ He wiggled a forefinger to bring Stanway’s face closer and he whispered in the solicitor’s ear.

When he had finished, Stanway stood up and paced the room. ‘No, no, I will not do it — you cannot make me do it! First I meet and pay some bloody lowlife to commit a murder and now you ask me to do this. I am just digging myself in deeper and deeper… I will not do it. Ethically, morally, legally, it is against all my principles. The answer is no, Charles. A definite no.’

Gilbert listened to the tirade, almost expecting Stanway to stamp his feet.

‘ Finished, Maurice?’

Stanway nodded and licked his dry lips.

‘ You don’t have a fucking choice.’

Hyperventilation: breathing at an abnormally rapid rate, resulting in increased loss of carbon dioxide.

Maurice Stanway put the dictionary down with dithering hands. That was exactly what he was suffering from. His breathing was out of control; his heart rate astounding. His was light-headed; grey flecks were whizzing in front of his eyes. In fact, it was a miracle he had made it from Risley Remand Centre back to his office in the car. It was only sheer willpower which had prevented him from blacking out on the motorway.

The office was deserted. All the staff had gone home.

It was 7 p.m.

Stanway tried to control everything by sitting at his desk and getting a firm grip on his bodily functions. Without success. In the end he yanked open his bottom drawer and reached for the quarter bottle of scotch he kept there. Normally it languished unopened from Christmas to Christmas. He unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to his lips, gurgling down the fiery liquid. Almost half the bottle went down within seconds. He almost choked.

‘ Christ, Christ, Christ.’ His current predicament was beyond his comprehension, but he knew it was solely down to one thing — his weakness. From his experience as a solicitor he knew that weakness was the usual downfall of most people, whether it be a fondness for drink, drugs, money or power, or, as in his case, young boys. Preferably around the ages of seven or eight.

For the millionth time he asked himself why. Why did he like it? Something he knew was completely unnatural, immoral and illegal. But he did. He loved the texture of their soft flesh; he loved causing pain and loved holding them down whilst he completed the act. That too, was a power thing.

But why?

A married man, kids of his own who he would have defended with his life from the advances of someone like himself. A good, moderately successful career. Nice house, two decent cars, money not a problem.

Perhaps his longstanding friendship with Gilbert was one reason. They had known each other since Grammar School, where the brutish Gilbert had led him astray then… and the relationship had continued in the same vein for thirty odd years.

Maurice Stanway, the man who was so easily led.

Now he was trapped in a cage of his own making.

Gilbert had such power and personal influence over him it was impossible to resist. For his own survival he had to help Gilbert again.

He pulled his briefcase onto the desk and snapped it open. In his notebook he turned to the page where he had jotted down the number Gilbert had dictated to him. The very private number of a very dangerous man.

Stanway squeezed his face in the palm of his hand, breathed in, held it and exhaled slowly. Then he picked up the phone and dialled quickly so he would not stop halfway through.

Despite the long distance, connection was made immediately.

On the second ring, the phone was answered by a woman.

Stanway quickly explained who he was and asked to speak to that man.

After the rain, Miami was boiling hot again.

However, Felicity Bussola, previously known as Felicity Kruger and before that, Jane Creek, was sitting in the shade of a large umbrella, laid out full-length on a sun lounger by the pool.

She answered the cell-tel as soon as it rang. It had been left on the drinks table next to her. After listening for a few moments, she pressed the ‘secret’ button and shouted across the pool.

‘ It’s for you, darling, she called. She held the phone out between her first finger and thumb.

Mario Bussola was sitting at a table in the full sunshine, working on a laptop. There was a fax machine by his side, a small copier, a shredder and two other phones, all within reach. He was stripped down to his boxer shorts and the heat of the sun was making his rippling fat glisten and perspire.

Bussola sat up. He frowned. Few people ever called him on this number because it was only divulged to selected and thoroughly vetted individuals. ‘Bring the fucking thing here,’ he said. There was no way he was going to get up.

‘ Okay, babe.’ She rose to her feet stiffly because the broken ribs had not really begun to heal, and shuffled around the edge of the pool. Not only did the ribs still hurt, but also the base of her spine which was sore and bruised. This particular injury meant she walked like an eighty-year-old.

On the way round the pool she had to walk past two of Bussola’s new bodyguards. One was on duty, sat up at a table, reading in the shade of a tree. The other was off-duty, laid out on a recliner in his boxing shorts, browning himself in the rays. Guns and holsters were very much in evidence. They both watched Felicity from behind the dark lenses of their Ray-Bans.

Even though she was injured and probably incapable of anything more than very passive sex, Felicity could not help noticing the bulge in the guard’s boxers. It looked a dangerous packet. She longed to reach out for it.

Her husband was gesturing impatiently with his fingers. She handed the mobile over.

‘ Why don’ you just fuck off inside? I’m sicka lookin’ at cha hobblin’ around like a witch all day long,’ Bussola suggested.

‘ Okay, babe,’ she murmured. ‘Anything you say.’

She shuffled away.

Bussola stuck the phone to his ear.

‘ Is… is that Mr Bussola?’ Stanway stuttered.

‘ You rang the number, you tell me.’

‘ I’ll assume it is… My name is Maurice Stanway and I’m very sorry to disturb you, I know you are a busy man.’

‘ How did ya get this number?’

‘ I… er, represent Charles Gilbert. I’m a solicitor — lawyer, if you like. He gave me the number and I’m phoning on his behalf.’

‘ In that case stop friggin’ about and get on with it. You’re right — I am busy.’

Felicity crept up the stairs which wound their way up the rear of the house. A first-level landing gave her the chance to rest. The window there looked over the terrace to the pool where she could see her husband on the phone.

Had her eyes been pistols, they would have shot Bussola to pieces. She perched the corner of her bottom on the low window-ledge and opened the window quietly. Just below her were the two bodyguards, unaware she was hovering above them. Bussola was talking gruffly on the phone. The bodyguards were whispering something to each other. Felicity craned her neck and strained to eavesdrop.