One Dead Witness

Chapter Ten

The shop was on Dickson Road, Blackpool, the road which runs behind the Imperial Hotel which is used each year as a base for political parties during conference week. The shop was one of those grocery-cum-everything shops which opened from 7 a.m. until extremely late. It was owned by an Asian family who had turned it into a thriving business by their sheer hard work.

Claire Lilton had the straps of her sports bag over her left shoulder, holding the bag underneath her armpit. She had a metal shopping basket in her left hand, leaving her right hand free. The zip of the sports bag was open about six inches and if she squeezed the bag in a certain way, a hole appeared when the zip parted.

In the basket were a couple of items from the shelves. In the sports bag were even more items from the shelves, none of which she intended to pay for. She paused near the sweet display, picked up a Kit Kat, looked closely at it, replaced it on the shelf. Her eyes moved to the corners of their sockets and she checked the aisle. Apart from a doddering old woman, Claire was alone.

She picked up half a dozen Kit Kats, squeezed the bag and dropped them expertly into the hole. Casually she dawdled along the sweet display and dropped a 10p chocolate bear into the basket. She moved on.

By the time she reached the till, her basket contained six cheap items. Her sports bag, which began to weigh heavy, contained a great deal of contraband.

At the till she paid for the stuff in the wire basket and even asked for a carrier bag.

Then she stepped out of the shop, only to be dragged back in by an irate Asian man, no taller than herself.

‘ Get your dirty hands off me,’ she screamed.

The man did not let go. ‘You steal,’ he said. ‘You steal from shop. I call the cops.’ He had hold of her biceps. ‘In there — stolen property.’ He pointed at her sports bag. ‘I watch you steal.’

‘ I’ve done fuck-all, you bastard,’ she yelled into his face. ‘If you don’t let me go, I’ll sue you for assault.’

She wriggled and squirmed and kicked out at him. Her Doc Marten boots connected with his shins and he emitted a yell of pain. Still, he hung onto her.

‘ Call cops!’ he shouted to the woman behind the till, who had been watching the encounter with open mouth and no gumption. His shouts galvanised her into action, and she reached for the phone behind her.

Meanwhile, the little Asian shopkeeper discovered he had a tiger by the tail.

Claire spat horribly into his face. ‘I’ve got AIDS, you bastard. Now you have!’

She wrenched herself free from his grasp. He lunged gamefully after her again. But, as Danny Furness had discovered, catching Claire Lilton was no easy matter.

She side-stepped him and picked up the charity box from the counter — which was shaped like a rocket — and swung round, holding it with both hands, rather like the movement an athlete makes when throwing the hammer. She did not let go of it, though. Building up force with momentum, she crashed it into the side of his head.

The box burst open spectacularly, sending a shower of copper coins into the air. More importantly, however, it felled the shopkeeper and gouged a deep gash into his head which spurted blood.

Claire hoisted the sports bag back onto her shoulder and dived out of the shop.

By the time the bloody-faced Asian looked out of the door, she had disappeared.

His Urdu was unrepeatable.

‘ Do you enjoy your work?’ Steve Kruger asked the bodyguard to his immediate right.

There was no response. The guy continued to look dead ahead.

All five men were now on the first-floor level, walking down the middle of the concourse past the shops. No one took any notice of them. They were real professionals, the type of people who, somehow, never seemed to draw attention to themselves. A skill in itself. They simply made it look as though they were out for a stroll. All five of them, Kruger included.

Kruger looked at the members of the public close by. He acknowledged that what Bussola had said was true. If he did anything foolish at this stage, he would die, possibly others too, and these guys would simply dematerialise.

And as much as Kruger didn’t want to die, he didn’t want others to be killed because of him.

Even the security cameras, which he knew were all around, wouldn’t be much use to him. They would never finger these bastards.

‘ How about you?’ Kruger enquired of the man to his left.

‘ Speak once more and you get it here and now,’ he said through the side of his mouth.

‘ Gotcha.’

They walked past the Disney Store.

‘ He’s gotta be here somewhere,’ Myrna Rosza gabbled agitatedly. She scanned the bank of TV monitors in front of her whilst the operator casually, but swiftly, clicked from shot to shot. ‘He’s gotta be here,’ she repeated desperately. She glared at Mark Tapperman. ‘This is your fault.’

The big Lieutenant shrank away from her eyes. He gave a pathetic shrug. ‘He might not be here,’ he said weakly.

‘ Don’t kid yourself.’ Myrna was caustic. ‘Once he gets an idea into his stubborn head…’

‘ You sound like you care about him.’

‘ I do — he pays my wages.’ She returned her attention to the screens. ‘Now, where the hell is he?’

They were in the security control area of the airport, in the CCTV room, peering over the shoulder of the operator who flicked through the images received from all over MIA.

‘ There!’ Myrna almost shouted, pointing to a screen. ‘Focus in there!’

The operator did as instructed.

‘ Shit,’ she said with disappointment as the high powered lens zoomed in. It wasn’t Kruger.

The frustration she was feeling could have been sliced open with a breadknife. Ever since Tapperman had called her at home with an hysterical edge to his voice and. explained what had happened, Myrna had been on a high.

Suppose Kruger had gone storming to the airport? Suppose he’d got himself involved in a situation he couldn’t handle? Suppose he was already dead meat?

Myrna had initially hung up on Tapperman and phoned Kruger. No reply. She called Tapperman again and instructed him to get a SWAT squad to the airport.

He had guffawed. ‘Just on the off-chance — impossible!’

‘ At least get some cops up there.’

‘ Right. And do you know how many cops are on-duty at this moment in Miami as we speak?’

‘ No.’

‘ Well, I ain’t gonna tell you. Suffice to say the public thinks there’s hundreds. I’d be lucky to scrape a dozen unoccupied officers together. No resources, babe. Usual story.’

‘ Then you’d better get yourself there. I’ll see you at the meeting point in twenty minutes.’ And she slammed the phone down without waiting for a response.

Myrna dressed in seconds. Tracksuit, trainers, her pistol around her shoulder. She kissed her sleeping husband and, grabbing her cell-tel on the way out, ran to her car. She constantly rang Kruger’s home and mobile numbers as she drove at warp factor six to the airport.

There was no reply.

She and Tapperman came together as arranged and using his badge and contacts, got into the CCTV room, where they had been ever since.

Myrna rubbed her eyes. She had been having trouble sleeping, not least because she had cheated on her husband not many hours before and could not get her mind off it. She had secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, been attracted to Kruger ever since she began working for him. Personal and professional considerations and responsibilities ensured it never went further than banter or mild flirtation. The previous couple of days had put an end to those issues and it had been an absolute necessity for her to finish up in Kruger’s bed. She had truly believed she could take it for what it was, keep it as a one-off, go back to equilibrium.

Instead she found herself completely disorientated. She couldn’t get Kruger out of her head, nor the memory of him out of her body.

She had been fully awake, if exhausted, when Tapperman rang, and for a while after, the adrenaline flowed. Now, it was ebbing in despair.

Standing there, in front of the bank of TV screens, she had to admit to herself that she loved Steve, had done so for longer than she cared to recall, and the prospect of not seeing him again caused her to panic.

A little squeak escaped from her lips. Tapperman shot her a quick glance.

Then; ‘There he is!’ Tapperman proclaimed confidently. He rapped the appropriate monitor with his knuckles. The camera shot in, focused. Myrna’s heart shuddered so hard in her chest she nearly fell over.

The screen showed Kruger, surrounded by four tough looking guys, stepping through a sliding door. There was an anxious expression on his face, as well as an injury of some sort which Tapperman could not define.

‘ Where the hell’s that location?’ he demanded.

Kruger, his four friends and a couple of other people were standing by a bank of elevators which would take them to the multi-storey parking lot.

The elevator arrived, the doors opened. A flood of people disgorged and dissipated. Kruger and the others stepped inside the large elevator, constructed to carry about twenty people plus luggage. A woman turned to him. ‘Which level?’

‘ The top, please.’

She pressed her own selection, then his.

Just before the doors eased shut, a big hand stopped the process and forced the doors to re-open.

Two extra people stepped in. A man and a woman… a couple, bickering about something, like they’d been together too many years.

‘ C’mon, you go damned bitch, we’re holdin’ people up here.’

‘ You stop bad-mouthin’ me, you asshole,’ the woman replied, apparently fuming with anger. ‘You ain’t done nothin’ but since we arrived.’

‘ Well, you deserve it, you lazy slut,’ the man said. To the rest of the people in the elevator he said, ‘’Scuse us.’ He yanked the woman between Kruger and the bodyguard to his left. ‘We’ll carry this on back here.’

Kruger’s expression did not change. His eyes showed no flicker of recognition. But inside, his stomach lurched. The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled with excitement. He hoped the guys behind him weren’t staring at his neck, otherwise the game would have been given away.

The doors closed. The elevator rose smoothly, stopping at various levels, allowing people to step out. No one else got in.

Kruger heard snatches of the couple’s argument which had been reduced in volume. It was clear there was a major domestic going on.

‘ You’ll be tellin’ me next it’s healed up,’ the man hissed. ‘I ain’t had it for weeks.’

‘ You don’t deserve it, the way you treat me.’

‘ Nag, nag, nag,’ the man said spitefully.

‘ An’ you do nothin’, nothin’, nothin’.’

Eventually the only people remaining in the tin box were Kruger, his four buddies and the warring couple, all obviously destined for the top level.

When the elevator arrived, the doors slid open.

Kruger was about to step out when one of his captors grabbed his elbow and held him back. Another said to the couple, ‘After you.’

‘ At last,’ the woman said, ‘a gentleman.’ She smiled maliciously at her partner.

‘ Bitch,’ hissed the man, shouldering his way out, pushing her ahead. They turned right.

Kruger got a shove in the ribs and stumbled out to the left. From the corner of his eye he saw the couple move towards a car.

Although they were on the top level, there was still a roof over their heads, and like most high-rise parking, the lighting was relatively poor.

Kruger led them towards his Chevy, parked at the very end of the level. His mind worked furiously, trying to decide what to do, wondering what Tapperman and Myrna, the perfect couple, had planned

… if anything.

Shit, shit, shit, he said to himself, trying to make a decision.

The closer he got to his car, the more certain he was he would have to make the opening move.

Without further thought he went for it.

He stopped abruptly in his tracks. The bodyguard directly behind him walked straight into him. The ones either side went on a few paces.

As soon as he and the man made contact, Kruger swivelled at the hips and in a flowing, single motion, rammed the point of his elbow into the man’s chest, connecting with the sternum. Kruger’s arm rose and he smashed the back of his clenched fist into the man’s face, making a wonderful, crunching sound, like a wooden ruler snapping.

The whole movement took less than a fraction of a second.

Even so, fast as it was, Kruger saw that guns were already appearing from nowhere in the hands of the remaining three team members.

‘ Move, Steve, move!’ Tapperman bawled.

Kruger looked up, saw Tapperman and Myrna about twenty feet behind. Tapperman’s body was fully exposed. Myrna was crouching over the hood of a parked car. Both had weapons drawn, ready for combat.

Kruger knew he had to keep going.

He grabbed the lapels of the nose-smashed bodyguard and swung him round into. the gunman to his left, pushed and let go. They mangled together with spectacular success. Using the momentum generated by this manoeuvre, Kruger dived down between the two nearest parked cars, into cover, out of the line of fire. Tapperman yelled, ‘Armed police! Drop your weapons!’

The two bodyguards who were not busy turned instinctively towards Tapperman, guns rising.

They moved instantaneously as professionals should when faced with a situation for which they had been trained.

The two bodyguards who had been positioned to Kruger’s left side and were therefore not affected by this startling move, spun on their heels quicker than ice-skaters to face Tapperman and Myrna. Their firearms were rising and aiming as they did so.

The one who’d had his face broken by the back of Kruger’s fist, though dazed by the blow, still had the presence of mind to drop to his knees so he would not get in the way. The fourth one, who’d watched Kruger disappear between the parked cars, threw himself to the ground between the cars nearest to him. He also had his gun ready and as soon as he hit the deck he was looking underneath the car towards where Kruger had landed.

This particular bodyguard was certain of one thing: even if this little task of theirs got flushed down the pan, Kruger would still die.

That was professionalism.

Tapperman saw them swinging around at an alarming rate. He noted the glint of firearms and did not intend to hesitate.

As both of the bodyguards were moving at roughly the same speed — lightning fast — there was little to choose, target-wise. So, because Tapperman was standing on Myrna’s right-hand side, he chose to shoot the guy on his right.

Part of Tapperman’s mind begged Myrna to bag the one on the left. He knew he could take out one of them but only one. There would be no earthly hope of taking two.

Myrna had to act as quickly as he did — and go for the correct target.

‘ Shoot, Myrna, shoot!’ he pleaded silently.

The pad of his right forefinger pulled the trigger back.

The wind whooshed out of Kruger’s lungs as he thumped down onto the concrete floor. For a brief moment he did not move, other than to open his eyes and look underneath the car to his left where he saw the bodyguard, who had decided that, come what may, he would kill Kruger.

The man’s gun was pointed directly at Kruger’s face and his finger was on the trigger.

Myrna wasn’t consciously going through any thought process. She stood there, half her body protected by the cover provided by the car she stood behind. Her feet were positioned shoulder-width apart, knees bent, but flexible. The Sig was in her right hand, supported in the palm of her left.

There was a blankness in her mind. Yet, simply, she was aware — somewhere — that she had started to sweat from every pore in her body. As Kruger dived away, she saw the injured man drop to his knees, one of the bodyguards dive away too, and the other two start to turn… but in her mind it wasn’t a fast twist because she slowed everything down right into its component parts without even realising she was doing it.

The two men as they pirouetted, their guns drawn from under their jackets… the weapons coming round to be pointed at her and Tapperman… the weight of the pistol in her hands… the high-contrast sights down the barrel. Her finger tightening on the trigger…

Three weapons exploded simultaneously.

The ones in the hands of Mark Tapperman and Myrna Rosza.

The one in the grip of the bodyguard who was aiming at the prostrate body of Steve Kruger.

Within the confines of the parking lot, the noise of the combined discharges was deafening. A huge reverberating, eardrum-smashing roar.

Having to run made Claire Lilton’s cracked ribs hurt. When she thought she was out of catching distance, she slowed right down, dodged into a back alley and got her breath back. She reached into her sports bag and grabbed a cold can of orange Tango which she opened and gratefully gulped down. It was getting to be a hot day.

When recovered she tossed the can over a wall and wandered aimlessly around, until she was back on Dickson Road, about half a mile away from the shop.

She doubted whether the shopkeeper would call the cops, so she felt quite safe.

As it was approaching high season, Claire fitted in easily with the thousands of other kids thronging the streets of Blackpool, the single biggest holiday resort in the world. She knew that if necessary, she could mingle for weeks and never be noticed. All it required was a grain of common sense, some cunning and courage, a bit of luck and she would be able to survive indefinitely.

Within a few moments she had wandered onto Gynn Square, a large roundabout on the promenade in North Shore.

Wearily she went into a small recreation ground only yards away, off Warbreck Hill Road. She unhooked the bag and let it fall to the ground, slumped on a bench and stretched her tired legs.

She was dressed for the season in a cut-off T-shirt drawn tightly over her small, developing bust; then there was a gap showing her flat, white tummy; then there was a pair of Lycra exercise shorts clinging to her thighs. Nike trainers finished off her attire.

It had been Henry Christie’s intention to get the team turned out onto the streets as soon as possible.

With Danny’s efficient help, he succeeded.

He watched the last officer leave the briefing room, then turned to speak to Danny. ‘They’ll need all the luck in the world to catch this guy.’ He nodded towards a window. ‘And this weather won’t help us at all. Tourists will be flooding in today… needle in a haystack job.’

‘ At least we’re doing something. We need to catch him, otherwise he’ll start again. Can you imagine what all those years cooped up could do to a pervert like him?’

Before Henry could reply he heard an angry voice behind him. ‘DC Furness? Just what the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

Jack Sands.

‘ My office — NOW!’ he shrieked.

Danny looked up at Henry for support, fear in her eyes. Henry gave her a sly wink, and turned to Sands with a simmering anger. In a measured tone he said, ‘Nobody calls people by their last names these days, and nobody says "my office — now" unless they want to come across as a real jerk.’

‘ Up yours, Henry,’ Sands snapped back. ‘She’s my officer, not one of yours — not yet anyway — and I’ll speak to her any way I want to.’

‘ Wrong on both counts,’ Henry said crisply. ‘Jack, we all need to sit down and chat — like now, if possible.’

‘ I haven’t got time.’

Henry stepped up to him and snarled, ‘You’d better make fuckin’ time, if you value your job.’

Trent saw her sitting alone, a faraway look on her face. He knew instantly she was the one for him. She couldn’t have been more than eleven years old, but looked older. Trent could see through that. He was good at judging a youngster’s age and this one was just right for him. The age he liked. Their bodies beginning to develop, their womanhood not yet there. He looked again at this girl and experienced that old sensation, like someone had drawn a knife-blade down his back, triggering a sexual response in his genitals.

She had long slim legs, wore a minimum amount of clothing and was by herself. There was no one hovering nearby who could have been with her. She looked vulnerable, just right for plucking.

Trent seated himself at the far end of the bench. He opened his newspaper, crossed his legs. His eyes watched her reaction to his presence.

Initially there was no indication she had even seen him. He coughed. That seemed to break her trance. She glanced at him. Her face was painfully beautiful. Trent sneered inside himself as he pictured her down on him. Outwardly he returned a smile.

She gave a wan, slightly pathetic grin.

‘ My name’s Louis.’ He folded down the newspaper. ‘What’s yours? I’ll bet it’s a pretty one.’

She told him.

‘ Take a seat,’ Henry offered Jack. They were in Henry’s small office where Henry had arranged three chairs on the ‘public side’ of his desk, ready for the encounter.

Sands sat with a great show of reluctance and impatience, sighing heavily.

Henry indicated for Danny to do likewise. She chose the chair furthest away from Sands which was also the one directly opposite him. Instantly she regretted two things — taking the seat and her choice of clothing.

She was in a pencil skirt which rode up her thighs as she sat down and crossed her legs. Sands’s eyes homed in on the display and a look of wickedness flitted across his face. She pulled the skirt down and uncrossed her legs, sitting there with her knees pressed tightly together. It felt uncomfortable and unnatural and Sands knew it. She could tell from his face.

Henry hitched his trousers up with his fingers and thumbs on the creases and sat in the vacant seat. He crossed his legs.

Sands glowered cocksurely at him.

‘ As you know, Jack, Louis Trent did a runner from jail last night and he’s almost certainly back in town. Obviously we need to try and recapture him as soon as possible. I spoke to Mr Fanshaw-Bayley this morning and he told me to use Danny to lead the team because she knows Trent so well. No doubt you agree with this thinking.’

Danny shot Henry a quick look of concern. To say he was distorting the truth was an understatement.

‘ Because it was such a rush to get things pulled together,’ Henry added, ‘I didn’t have time to explain, so I apologise for that. At least you know now.’

‘ Well, now that your team are up and running, I’ll have her back, thanks.’

Henry shook his head. ‘As of now she’s on CID.’ He handed a rolled-up fax to Sands, rather like a Biblical scroll. Sands unrolled it and read it slowly. It was confirmation of what FB had promised Henry that morning, written and signed by the man himself. Danny was on CID as of now.

Sands’s face looked like it would burst. ‘This is completely out of order. He can’t do this, not without consulting me.’

‘ He’s an ACC. He can do mostly what he likes and usually does.’

‘ I’m going to go to the Detective Superintendent and get this blocked. She’s on my Department until next Monday.’ And Sands stood up to leave.

‘ Sit down Jack, there’s more we need to discuss… I said, sit down.’

‘ All I’m doing,’ Henry concluded patiently, ‘is giving you the opportunity to say, "Hey, yeah, got a bit upset, bit obsessive and it won’t happen again." That’s all, Jack. Just hold your hand up, say sorry and we’ll all walk out of here and that’s that. Promise.’

‘ You can stick your promise right down your prick, Christie, because I’ve done nothing wrong and I’m not apologising to a paranoid bitch who can’t bear the thought of me finishing with her.’

‘ We’re not in the business of name-calling, Jack,’ Henry said softly. ‘We’re trying to solve a problem, adult to adult, and swearing isn’t gonna help.’

Sands held his hands up. ‘Sorry… just got a bit up-tight. Wouldn’t you? What you’ve alleged is absolute crap and you’ll never prove a thing because there’s nothing to prove.’

Henry tutted. He hadn’t wanted it to go this far. To Danny he said, ‘Last night you said you received several phone calls of a distressing nature?’

‘ That’s right, from about eight o’clock onwards. But whoever it was must have either dialled 141 before putting my number in to ensure the call couldn’t be traced, or they were phoning through a switchboard.’

‘ How many calls did you receive?’

‘ Four that I answered. I took my phone off the hook then, but I checked with BT this morning. They told me I got twenty-five more calls up to midnight.’

‘ How did you feel about the calls you received?’

‘ Frightened. Scared. As if I was being violated in my own home.’

‘ Thanks, Danny.’ Henry raised his eyebrows at Sands. ‘Jack, did you make those calls?’

His answer was short and to the point. ‘Did I fuck.’

‘ Okay,’ said Henry, unflustered. ‘Danny, what else happened last night?’

‘ Some creep,’ she shuddered at the memory, ‘stuffed a dozen red roses through my letterbox about half-one this morning.’

‘ I’ll bet that had an effect on you, too?’

‘ I was absolutely terrified.’ Her breath came in steps now as she thought about it. ‘Someone prowling round my house, watching me, stalking me.’

‘ Jack — any response?’

He remained silent for a while, considering, lips pursing and unpursing. He breathed in and sat up. ‘Yeah, just get to fuck, the pair of you. This is absolute shite. I’m off.’ He pushed himself up again.

Henry said evenly, but with a deadly tone, ‘You walk out of this room, Jack, I’ll arrest you.’

The words struck Sands as heavily as a lorry. He sat slowly back, eyes fixed firmly on Henry, who held the look, unwavering. Inside, Henry’s heart was pounding dramatically. It was all he could do to maintain his composure. His mouth was dry, but his armpits were very wet. He knew he was in very dangerous territory.

Sands was the one to break the gaze between the men. He re-focused them immediately and savagely on Danny.

‘ Danny?’ Henry continued. ‘The night before last?’

‘ Someone smashed a window at my home, cut my face.’ She placed the tip of a fingernail on the stitched cut on her cheek. ‘They also damaged my car, scratched it and snapped the Mercedes badge off.’

‘ Jack?’ said Henry, feeling like a facilitator.

Sands was tight-lipped. ‘Evidence?’ he snapped.

‘ I saw you holding a Mercedes star in your hand when I left work last night,’ Danny accused him.

Sands uttered a short, barking laugh. ‘Your word against mine,’ he said pityingly.

Henry reached for a folder on his desk. His hand slid into it and extracted a piece of paper. ‘Our IT department ran this off for me,’ he explained and handed it to Sands. ‘It’s a printout of all the phone numbers dialled from the extension in your office between 5 p.m. and midnight last night. You’ll see that one number features pretty highly, wouldn’t you say? In fact, it features twenty-nine times, Jack, doesn’t it?’

Sands swallowed. His eyes were transfixed on the figures in front of them. His cocksure exterior crumbled slightly with the assistance of Henry’s hammer and chisel. ‘Wonderful thing, this IT lark,’ Henry commented.

‘ Anything to say, Jack?’

‘ Proves nothing. I needed to speak to her on a work-related matter. She’d obviously taken her phone off the hook.’

‘ The work-related matter was what, Jack?’

‘ I’ll think of something,’ he said blandly.

‘ Fine, fine.’ Henry’s hand disappeared back into the folder and pulled out another slip of paper. He gave it to Sands. ‘This is a copy of the receipt from the florist on Elm Avenue. That’s your Barclaycard number, your signature and your order for twelve red roses.’

Sands leaned back, his look of defiance wavering after his previous rally. ‘Still proves nothing.’

‘ It can stop here and it can stop now, Jack. Believe me, trust me. This does not have to go on. You can say sorry and walk out of here and forget it.’

‘ You mean that’s all you’ve got? It’s crap and you know it, Henry. I have an answer for everything and I’m therefore not apologising for something I’m not guilty of.’

Henry pointed at Sands. ‘Don’t forget, Jack, I gave you the chance to save face.’

His hand went into his jacket pocket and extracted something. He held out his hand, turned it over and slowly opened his fingers to reveal a small, clear, plastic evidence bag.

In it was the famous three-pointed star seen so prominently on the front radiator grilles of Mercedes Benz cars. A silence fell heavy on the three people in the room.

Myrna Rosza looked down at the two dead bodies of Bussola’s bodyguards. The one sprawled to the right had been taken down by Mark Tapperman’s double-tap. Ba-bam! The other on the left had been killed by herself. She was painfully aware that the first bullet which left her gun had basically removed the guy’s throat and smashed through the back of his neck. He had been dead before he hit the ground squirming. Myrna didn’t know that for sure, but she would happily have laid money on it.

She too had attempted a double-tap. The idea of that method of shooting was to put two bullets pretty roughly in the same hole in quick succession. Her second shot, however, had gone well off-target and disappeared to where only God knew.

She stared down at the dead guy, fascinated by the pool of blood forming slowly underneath his grotesque body. It was going nowhere fast on the non-porous surface of the parking lot.

The first man she had ever killed.

Her jawline tightened.

Her time with the FBI had been concerned with more mundane matters — accounts, financial fraud, the occasional mob-related paperwork.

Nothing like this.

Never once had she faced a gunman, let alone drawn a weapon in anger. The only raids she had ever been on were the ones where she had been armed with folders, and were carried out during office hours — rifling through suspects’ desks, drawers and computer files, arresting people possibly armed with a letter-opener at worst. The only real danger she had ever faced had been from paper cuts.

Now this.

What surprised her was how little it was affecting her, but she was intelligent enough to know about delayed shock. A reaction would come — and she would have to deal with it. For now, she was cool.

‘ Y’okay?’ Tapperman asked.

She nodded. ‘Yeah, thanks.’

Behind her, this level of the parking lot was a flurry of police activity. Why the hell did the emergency services love flashing lights so much? A migraine threatened. She closed her eyes and held the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. ‘Switch the damned things off!’ she wanted to yell.

‘ You did good,’ Tapperman said encouragingly. He patted her arm, squeezed it gently. ‘There won’t be any legal repercussions. I’ve already spoken with the DA and the Coroner. Nothing to worry about.’

She pulled her arm out of his fingers. Courts and the American legal system were a long way from her mind. ‘You’re still an asshole,’ she said bluntly.

A crime-scene photographer pushed past and began taking shots of the two dead men. He was followed by another with a camcorder. Crack! With a noise like a firework, a huge arc lamp exploded into life, illuminating the scene, shining right into Myrna’s eyes.

‘ Fuck!’ she hissed angrily. She turned sharply away, blinking, literally seeing stars. Then, vision regained, she heaved Tapperman out of her way and walked over to talk to Steve Kruger.

She arrived at the moment before the plastic undertaker’s bag was zipped up with him inside. Briefly she saw his horrendous head injuries. Kruger had taken three bullets smack in the face. They had been of a type designed to explode on impact, and succeeded in removing both the front and back of his head, splattering his brains everywhere. The man who had killed him had been good.

Myrna reeled at the sight. She had to reach out for a car to lean on to support her woolly legs.

With Steve Kruger dead she suddenly felt she didn’t want to go on living. She cursed the cruelty of it all and wished she had actually told him she loved him when she had the opportunity. If only she hadn’t been so pigheaded.

Now there was no chance.

She clung shaking to the car, tears pouring out of her eyes as a migraine dug cruel fingers into her skull, mercifully blocking out the scene.