Nick Oldham - One Dead Witness

‘ She deserved it… no fucker pisses with Mario,’ the on-duty guard was saying.

‘ He made a classic mess of her,’ the other observed. Felicity knew his name was Gus. She did not know the other’s name.

‘ Yeah — she used to be a good-lookin’ piece a tail. Now her face is so outta line she couldn’t even blow a candle out.’

Felicity choked back a sob at the words. They were true. She was horrible to look at now. Face swollen, body bruised to hell and back — was she ever going to recover? Her husband had made a mess of her and she hated him for it.

‘ Shit!’ Bussola roared. He threw the phone down in a fit of temper and it smashed to pieces on the terracotta floor.

The bodyguards shot to attention, nerves showing.

‘ Ira!’ the Italian bellowed. ‘Get your stinking Jewish ass out here now.’

Bussola rolled up to his feet and waddled over to the bodyguards quicker than they anticipated. They jumped to their feet.

Felicity dodged behind the cover of the drape.

‘ Siddown, you assholes,’ Bussola instructed them. ‘Ira? You heard me, or what?’

‘ I’m here, I’m here, keep your big Italian mouth in check.’ Ira Begin, Bussola’s lawyer and adviser in all matters of law, strategy, finance and tactical operations, scuttled like a beetle out of the house, where he had been busy on paperwork. He was the only person who could get away with talking back to Bussola, but even he judged it carefully. Sometimes Bussola needed to be treated with kid gloves and Begin generally knew when. He had been with Bussola many years and though he was a small, insignificant-looking man, he wielded great power and influence in Bussola’s empire. He was ruthless when necessary, having cold-bloodedly murdered four people in his time and assisted Bussola to murder or dispose of eight others, including the Armstrong brothers; mostly, though, Begin liked to keep timidly in the background, using his various skills to assist in the acquisition of money and power for his boss. He slid his John Lennon style spectacles on and blinked in the sunlight. ‘What’s up?’

‘ Got an issue.’ Bussola perched himself on the edge of the table the bodyguard had been sitting at. He always used the word ‘issue’ rather than ‘problem’.

‘ Shoot.’

‘ Gilbert’s been arrested in England.’

‘ How is that an issue?’

‘ Let me finish, you twerp. In two ways. Firstly, the equipment we are shipping over to him — you know, the video games — need to be dealt with by him. He’s going to hand over the little extras we have secreted in them to our other contact in Manchester.’ Bussola was referring to the two kilos of cocaine that were going to accompany the arcade games; Gilbert was due to deliver them to a drug dealer who was handling Bussola’s North of England operation. If Gilbert was not there to receive the games, there could be major complications, not only of a financial 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.’

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.