Nick Oldham - One Dead Witness

Behind him was an armed cop, of the type seen so often in British airports these days, except his MPS was in his hands, having just been fired. Beyond him stood the figure of Henry Christie, now moving towards her.

Tracey turned and saw the tableau.

She did not scream, cry, become hysterical. She just looked through tired eyes at it all.

A dead man and a cop with a gun.

So what else was new in her life?

‘ I’ll swear out a warrant this afternoon,’ Henry said quietly to Danny. She lifted her head from Stanway’s letter which was in her lap and looked at him, her eyes glazed as she thought of all the misery, suffering and death wrought by Gilbert and Spencer over the years. ‘Then,’ Henry went on, ‘I’ll get some search teams together and start digging up his lovely garden. Probably first thing tomorrow.’

They were heading north on the M6, filtering into the lane which would take them west towards Blackpool.

‘ He claims at least twenty bodies,’ Danny said, referring to the letter. ‘At least,’ she said, stressing the words. ‘I can’t get my head around that.’

‘ Fred West, eat humble pie and God rot your soul,’ Henry said. He nodded back towards Tracey, splayed out asleep across the rear seats. ‘She was one of the lucky ones.’

Danny snorted. ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’ She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘At least twenty… and that’s only in his garden. What about all those buried elsewhere?’

‘ I imagine they’ll stay buried and undiscovered, unless Gilbert or Spencer start blabbing, which I doubt. Twenty’ll do for a beginning.’

Danny felt silent. Then she touched Henry’s thigh. ‘Thanks for saving her life, and mine probably.’ She negotiated her seat belt and leaned across, pecking him on the cheek.

‘ Pleasure… but I do want payment in kind, you know.’

‘ Henry, you can have me any time. I’m too knackered to resist anyway. Just pull my nightie down when you’ve finished.’

The prison mini-bus trundled laboriously up Richardson Street towards the rear doors of the police station yard at Blackpool.

A killer lurked near the pay and display car park which overlooked the street, waiting for the chance to strike, but not really knowing where. Just looking for the right moment.

The ‘why’ was known and fixed in the killer’s mind.

That was no problem.

The ‘how’ was in the killer’s pocket. That was no problem either.

The mini-bus transporting the three prisoners pulled up at the entrance to the police yard, and waited for the roller door to rise. And now the killer saw a chance. The door rose slowly; controlled by a button in the comms room and when there was enough headroom, the vehicle moved slowly forwards into the yard.

The killer ran down the steps from the car park and strolled casually in behind the bus, all the way to the top of the yard where it stopped.

The killer walked to the front of the vehicle, trying to look confident, not out of place.

The side door of the bus opened. A prison guard stepped down, closely followed by the first prisoner, Ollie Spencer, wearing rigid handcuffs.

Next came the immense figure of Charlie Gilbert, wearing the specially ordered cuffs which fitted his enormous wrists.

Then came Louis Vernon Trent, also cuffed, looking as nasty and as evil as ever.

All three were made to stand in line behind each other. The ‘where’ now became real easy.

The killer stepped quickly forwards. There was a fully licensed. 38 Smith amp; Wesson in the killer’s right hand, loaded with wad cutters.

It was over in seconds. No one reacted until all of the six bullets had been discharged into the prisoner in the middle of the row.

Then, Mrs Ruth Lilton dropped her husband’s weapon and stood there waiting to be taken into custody for the murder of Charlie Gilbert and of her husband Joe Lilton, who was lying dead at their home, another six bullets in him.

Ruth Lilton felt good. The two men who had destroyed her daughter Claire were now incapable of doing the same to any other child.

Louis Vernon Trent was the first person to take advantage of the situation. Handcuffed though he was, he was always on the lookout for any chance, slim or fat, to escape. He turned and ran for the rear door of the police station yard, his instinct to be free driving him on.

He fully expected to be brought down by a flying rugby tackle at any moment.

It never happened.

He ran through the pedestrian entrance, out across Richardson Street, up the short flight of steps to the car park and, keeping low, ran for his life and freedom.

Seconds later, Henry Christie turned his car into Richardson Street, Danny’s hand resting on his thigh, blissfully unaware of anything that had just taken place in the back yard of Blackpool Central police station.

Danny stood underneath the shower. Jets of hot water cascaded down her body and she soaped herself again and again, luxuriating in the sensation which was making her tired body feel alive.

Henry Christie had been as good as his word and, with FB’s blessing, had said she could take as much time off as she wanted to recuperate from the rigours of the last two weeks. But, because circumstances had changed so dramatically today with the death of Charlie Gilbert and the escape of Louis Trent, it was typical of Danny that she did not want to miss any developments. She knew that if she was sat on a beach on some Greek island or other she would be bored, lonely and consumed with curiosity about what was happening at work.

‘ I’ll be back next Monday,’ were her parting words to Henry. She needed a few days to recharge her batteries and she also wanted to price up a new car, maybe a little sporty thing this time. She had decided she would use the insurance money from the Mercedes and take out whatever else was required in the form of a loan and treat herself.

Having spent the day interviewing and feeling very sorry for Ruth Lilton, murderess, Danny had arrived home — dropped off by a police car — at ten that evening. Her guts told her to hit the sack straight away.

But she was stale from the long, overnight flight, a little clammy, and although totally whacked, she wanted to go to bed accompanied by a pleasant perfumey smell, not body odour.

She compromised and showered instead of having a bath. The action of washing herself, letting her hands run up and down her body, almost like a massage, was wonderful. She would have preferred Henry’s hands, but that would never happen, she knew.

She stepped out of the shower and dried herself. After wrapping a huge fluffy bath towel around herself, tucking it under her armpits, she made a turban for her head from a smaller towel.

Suddenly the lights went out though the extractor fan continued to hum.

She swore, opened the door and stepped out onto the landing to find that light out too. She tried the switch. Nothing. Obviously a fuse gone. She groaned, annoyed. Just when she needed it. She flicked the switch again. Still nothing. Damn!

Angrily she tried the bathroom light switch, which was outside the bathroom itself. The light came on immediately.

Danny frowned, puzzled, her brain still in neutral. She fingered the switch thoughtfully until it dawned on her. Someone had actually been up here and switched off the light. Someone was physically here, in the house. An intruder.

Her eyes rose to the landing light. There was no light bulb in the socket. A sudden, nauseous dread overcame her. Louis Trent, she thought dizzily. He’s here, in my house. He’s been outside the bathroom while I was in the shower and I didn’t hear him because of the water.

She turned and made a dash for her bedroom, aiming to press the panic alarm button next to her bed.