Nick Oldham - One Dead Witness

Once he had that, he would swing into action. ‘Captain Crenshaw, Homicide, please,’ Begin said into the phone.

‘ May I ask who is calling?’

‘ I’m his chiropractor.’

‘ Thank you. Please hold the line.’

A series of clicks, a slight pause, then, ‘Crenshaw, Homicide.’

‘ Ahh, Captain, this is your chiropractor. I was just wondering if you’d made that appointment yet.’

‘ Hey, I haven’t forgotten.’

‘ It is urgent. You know how tight your spine is.’

‘ Yeah, I’ll get back to you soon with details.’

‘ And, of course, you will feel great benefit.’ Begin hung up, slightly frustrated. He desperately needed to know where Tracey was being held, otherwise he might start to look stupid.

He picked his phone up again and dialled a zero. He ordered someone from the gatehouse to bring a car up for him. He had to get out and see someone, pronto.

Gus was sticking to Felicity like a limpet, not difficult in her present condition. Dark glasses covering her bruised face, she was moving slowly around the Bal Harbor shops on Collins Avenue, Miami Beach, where high-class names were in abundance — Saks, Carrier, Hermes et al. Not much was priced below four hundred dollars and an average price in some shops was four thousand.

‘ Gus, why don’t you fuck of?’ Felicity suggested. ‘I’m staying in and around these shops, going nowhere else. What about you and me meet back here in an hour, say? I ain’t gonna tell Mario… but you’re going to be bored shitless because all I’m going to do is drift around dress shops.’

‘ Uh-huh. With respect, but no way, Mrs Bussola. Boss says I’ve got to stay with you and I’m going to do just that.’

Felicity shrugged.

Gus was a simple son of a bitch and she doubted if she could shake his dog-like determination to follow orders to the letter. She would just have to look for another opportunity and grasp it when it came.

Henry Christie’s early start that day did not deter him from going into work to catch up with everything. He drove from the airport, arriving at the station about seven-thirty. Accompanied by a wonderful cup of tea, he took full advantage of the early hour to get some clearance work done at his desk.

At 2 p.m. he was still busy, not having stopped for any refreshment other than of the hot liquid variety. He was really motoring on his paperwork and didn’t want to interrupt his momentum.

Blackpool is a town where nobody gets noticed. The extravagant and outlandish are the norm. The normal is the norm too. Being the worse for drink is not unusual; inebriates abound and unless they are fighting drunk, do not raise an eyebrow.

That particular Wednesday afternoon, no one noticed the unshaven, slightly smelly figure of a man who, stinking of booze, staggered and rolled through the streets. Occasionally he bumped into people but muttered apologies. He wasn’t looking for trouble. Sometimes he crashed into walls or shop fronts and apologised too. Though he was unsteady on his feet, he did not fall over.

The only thing which perhaps set him apart from the usual drunk was his standard of dress. Though tie-less, his suit was obviously expensive, his shoes too, and his silk shirt was definitely made to measure. Even so, he was paid no heed. People just tried to avoid him.

When he stumbled into the Tower complex, slapping down his cash at the pay desk, he wasn’t even acknowledged by the staff. Just another customer, just another drunk.

It was 3 p.m., British time. Henry sat back, interlocked his fingers behind his head and thought about Danny.

Seven hours since she had taken off. The plane, no doubt, would be staring its gradual descent into Miami International, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. Henry did not particularly envy her, but thought that nevertheless it would be quite nice to have a taste, however brief, of some Florida sunshine. The weather in Blackpool had not been too bad for a couple of days, but didn’t have the warmth Henry remembered from his holiday in Florida a couple of years earlier.

He shook his head. His brain was slowing down now, becoming a nebulous mass after the morning’s marathon of paper shifting.

Time for a break. He peered out through the office window and decided on a brisk stroll up the Prom. Clear his head, maybe buy the kids something useless, maybe buy Kate something too. Now that would surprise her.

He slid his Barbour on, dropped his PR into a pocket and quit the office. A few minutes later he was on the Promenade. The sun was shining brightly, but it was still extremely chilly.

The drunken man reeled slowly through the Tower amusement complex. He dallied in the Hall of Mirrors, staring angrily at each reflection, particularly the one which made him look very small. He dawdled in the aquarium, staring up at the sharks, detesting the smug way in which they glided smoothly around with no effort whatsoever, masters of their environment, their small, piggy, emotionless eyes with a bead on him, like they were telling him something.

Well, fuck them! There was nothing they could tell him about himself he didn’t already know.

For half an hour he sat on the balcony overlooking the Tower ballroom, watching the dancers slide around the floor. He had a couple of large whiskies whilst he watched the, in the main, elderly couples dancing the afternoon away in a ritual more reminiscent of the thirties than the nineties. He went to the bar and gulped a further Scotch which really seemed to hit the mark.

Then he made his way to the lift which would take him all the way up the Tower.

With unusually helpful tailwinds, Danny’s plane touched down half an hour ahead of schedule at Miami International, 10.30 a.m. US time. She had been in the air seven and a half hours but it was only like the blink of an eye to her because, with the exception of devouring the rather delicious meal provided, she had slept all the way.

Very refreshed, she made her way off the plane, straight through customs with the only slight hitch being the diligent checking of her visa at passport control. In the arrival lounge she expected to be met, but not by Arnold Schwarzenegger. Or to be more accurate, Mark Tapperman, who bore a card with Danny’s name on it.

‘ That’s me,’ said Danny, approaching the big man.

Tapperman looked at the name on the card, then up at Danny.

‘ It’s short for Danielle,’ she explained.

‘ Oh, right, yeah.’ Tapperman was completely thrown. ‘They didn’t say I was going to meet a woman.’

‘ Is that a problem?’

‘ No, no, no.’ Tapperman regained some sort of control of himself and thrust out his right hand which Danny shook. ‘Welcome to Miami. I’m Lieutenant Mark Tapperman, Miami PD. Here.’ He flashed his badge.

‘ I’m Danny Furness, as you already know. Detective Sergeant, Blackpool CID.’ She showed him her warrant card.

‘ Lemme take your case. Come on, follow me. My car’s waiting.’

‘ I’ll carry it myself, Mark. Thanks.’

‘ So… good flight?’

‘ Excellent.’

‘ Blackpool? I heard of that place. Guess it’s pretty quiet. Not much going on — not much excitement cop-wise, I guess.’

Danny smiled inwardly. ‘I guess not.’

Henry Christie could not resist Robert’s Oyster Bar. He dived in and bought himself a tub of potted shrimps which he proceeded to eat whilst leaning against the sea-wall railings and looking across to the Golden Mile. The shrimps tasted wonderful.

Henry’s eyes followed the Tower upwards, 519 feet to the pinnacle. It was a clear day and the view from the platform would be superb.

The last of the shrimps went into his mouth. It was time to head back to the office and maybe have an early dart home.