One Dead Witness

Chapter Eleven

‘ I’m gasping for a drink and a fag,’ Danny said. It was noon and not too early for either by any means. ‘I need something to steady my nerves. I’m shaking like a leaf.’

‘ Right,’ said Henry, ‘let’s do it. We deserve it.’ He picked up his personal radio, turned it on and clicked the volume onto low — just in case.

They left his office and went to the lift. As the doors opened, the Police Constable who had taken the report of Claire Lilton missing from home again stepped out, almost barging into Danny.

‘ Been looking for you, Danny.’ He waved the completed MFH report in her face. ‘It’s that little cow you’ve been dealing with… she’s gone AWOL again. You know — that Claire Lilton.’

‘ When?’ Danny asked, a little knot of concern in her stomach.

‘ Sometime last night or early hours of this morning. What do you want me to do about it? Circulate it or what?’

Danny’s mind, which was really somewhere else, made a snap decision. ‘Just drop the report on my desk. I’ll see to it later — thanks.’ She stepped into the lift next to Henry who was holding the doors open. They closed; descent commenced.

‘ Claire Lilton: shoplifter and persistent misper?’

Danny glanced at Henry, quietly respectful that a busy DI should know this. Henry prided himself on knowing most things.

‘ Yeah, that’s the one,’ she nodded. ‘Been a real pain for a few weeks now, but I can’t get to the bottom of why she’s going. Something odd at home, I suspect.’ She looked away from Henry, suddenly realising she was slightly in awe of him. Not only did he know things that most DIs wouldn’t give a toss about, but there were not many police managers who would have had the bottle to do what he had just done on her behalf. Taking on Jack Sands — a tough, well-respected man’s man so admired by so many gullible people — and confronting him head on. No, not many people would have done that. No wonder his team worked their backsides off for Henry Christie.

They walked out of the police station towards Blackpool town centre. It was a clear, sunny day. Danny breathed the warm fresh air into her lungs, expanding them to their full capacity. Out of the corner of his eye, Henry, the perfect manager, saw Danny’s ample chest rise and fall.

Danny giggled. For a second he thought she had clocked him giving her the eye, but when he looked at her he saw he was mistaken. With her chin lifted high, she was staring dead ahead, a look of sheer happiness on her face.

‘ I don’t know if it’s done the trick, Henry, but I feel as if a great weight has been plucked off the top of my head — and it’s all down to you. The look on Jack’s face when you showed him the star and told him you’d found it taped under one of his desk drawers — and that you’d been accompanied at the time. He looked like he wanted to disappear down a plughole. It was a picture. Thanks, Henry.’

She grabbed his elbow, stopped him in his tracks and planted a kiss firmly on his cheek.

‘ Thanks,’ she said again, genuinely.

‘ All part of the service,’ he replied, colouring up slightly. He was very glad it was merely an innocent kiss of thanks. He knew that had there been anything more to it, he would probably have been daft enough to try and follow it up and get himself into lumber yet again.

They carried on walking and reached the corner of Bank Hey Street, one of Blackpool’s busiest shopping streets.

‘ What you got then?’ the weasel-faced man asked. His name was Benstead. ‘C’mon, I don’t have time to fuck around. I’m a busy man.’

A slightly breathless and ruffled Trent glanced cautiously around the smoke-filled taproom of the pub. Although there were only a few people in it, every one of them, Benstead included, had a cigarette on the go. The ceiling was a dark brown, nicotine-stained colour. ‘Here?’ Trent asked Benstead.

‘ Yeah,’ the little man nodded. ‘Here. But, y’know — be discreet. Don’t flash everything round for every Tom, Dick ‘n’ Arsehole to see. Show me under the table, out of sight. Right?’

Trent nodded and took a long draught from the pint of mild in front of him. He was very tense, hyped up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then took a small paper bag out of his pocket. He edged to one side and shuffled the contents out onto the space on the tatty benchseat between him and Benstead.

A driving licence and some credit cards.

‘ Is that all?’ Benstead sneered. ‘I thought you’d robbed fuckin’ Barclaycard headquarters from the way you were talking.’

‘ Yeah, that’s all,’ Trent said. All but the ambulance driver’s cash card.

‘ Where’d you get ‘em from?’

‘ Why?’

‘’ Cos I want to know. It’s all relevant to the price, innit? Things that’re really hot, I don’t spend much money on. You know — high-profile stuff. It’s the bog standard things that interest me.. things with a bit of a shelf-life.’

‘ Oh, right,’ Trent said, understanding. He wiped his face with his hand, momentarily holding his fingers under his nose, inhaling deeply.

Inwardly he gasped. God! He could smell her! It was wonderful.

‘ Oh right,’ Trent said again. ‘These things are only lukewarm — almost cold, really. Come from a break-in down south yesterday.’

‘ Mmm.’ Benstead picked up one of the credit cards by its edge and tilted it to the light. Suspiciously his eyes rose to Trent. ‘You sure?’

Trent took another drink of beer. ‘Very sure.’

‘ Hmm,’ the dealer murmured dubiously. ‘Even warm stuff’ — he pronounced ‘warm’ as ‘worm’ — ‘don’t last long, a day, maybe two, in the right hands.’ He dropped the credit card back onto the seat and picked up the driving licence in the same careful way. ‘Now driving licences go on much further, and a driving licence and credit card in the same name…’ He pondered and regarded Trent. ‘How much?’

‘ I don’t fucking know. Name a price.’

Benstead clicked his tongue thoughtfully. He already had a buyer in mind for this little lot, a guy who had a nice line — nationally — of defrauding car-hire companies by renting good quality motors and selling them on to a ringer. He would love this combination. Probably worth fifteen hundred.

‘ Fifty quid.’

‘ Don’t take me for a fool. I may not have the sell-on contacts, but I know you do. These are worth good money to the right people. One-fifty.’

‘ Okay,’ Benstead relented easily. ‘One hundred.’

‘ One-two-five.’

‘ One-fifteen.’

Trent nodded. Benstead pulled a roll of banknotes out of his jeans pocket and peeled off the required number, handing them across under cover of the table. ‘Now fuck off,’ he said, concluding business.

Trent grabbed the money and stuffed it into a pocket. He stood up and left the place through the back door.

Benstead shuffled the purchase back into the paper bag and dropped it into his anorak pocket. He picked up a copy of the Daily Mail, unfolded it and relaxed… for about a second… until he read the headlines and saw Trent’s face staring dangerously at him from the front page.

A horribly nauseous feeling wrenched his guts. He placed the paper down on the table and reached for his drink. Christ! He’d just done business with the most wanted man in the country. His hand shook as he lifted the glass and missed his mouth. Then he groaned pathetically when the person he most detested and feared entered the taproom from the more salubrious snug next door.

Henry and Danny had walked along Bank Hey Street, Blackpool Tower rising above them to their left. The place was swarming with holidaymakers, bustling along, every single one of them with a smile. A whole range of people, young to old, slim to fat. Sober to drunk. Blackpool had something for everyone.

‘ I wonder how it’s going with Trent,’ Danny said.

‘ I’ll be surprised if he stays here long and I’ll be even more surprised if we catch him,’ Henry said honestly.

‘ The very thought of him makes me shiver,’ Danny confessed. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met someone quite so evil. What he did to those little girls was appalling. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill them. I wouldn’t normally wish death on anyone, but he should be hanged. I’d gladly put the noose around his neck.’

‘ Let’s have a look in here.’ Henry pointed to the door of a pub. ‘Quick drink, then back to work.’

‘ In here?’ Danny’s lips curled in disgust as she looked up at the building. ‘It’s a dive.’

‘ Let’s combine business and pleasure.’

Henry held the front door open, allowing Danny to enter first. They turned left into the snug and stood just inside the threshold of the bar.

Danny’s words were accurate. The place was a dive, but both officers knew it was one of the main pubs in town where stolen goods from shoplifting sprees were often divided up and distributed or sold; a lot of minor drug dealing went down too. Both activities usually occurred without interference from management who were strongly suspected of being involved in both trades.

Henry liked to drop in unexpectedly now and again. Occasionally such visits produced results. More often than not they simply shook up the crims, something Henry took great pleasure in doing.

The snug was fairly empty. Henry could not spot anyone he knew, other than the barman, Fat Tommy.

‘ All right, Tommy?’ Henry approached the bar.

‘ I was,’ Tommy responded on seeing Henry. Tommy was not noted for his social skills.

‘ Kaliber for me… Danny?’

‘ I think my nerves are back in order. Coke please, with ice.’ She pulled out a cigarette and lit up. She inhaled deeply and for a second or two went quite light-headed. She held the smoke in her lungs, then blew it out slowly. Bliss.

The rotund barman went about his tasks. Henry asked him, ‘Anything doing?’

‘ Nope.’ He banged the two drinks on the bar top.

‘ You don’t like me, do you Tommy?’

‘ No, and I can’t think why… two quid.’

‘ Shame, really… we have so much in common.’ Henry handed him a five-pound note. Whilst Tommy was at the till, Henry stood on tiptoes and peered across the bar into the taproom where he saw Benstead. After checking his change he said, ‘C’mon,’ to Danny, led her out of the snug into the taproom and immediately saw the expression on Benstead’s face.

He looked as though he’d seen the Grim Reaper.

Henry thought, Might’ve struck lucky here.

Benstead made a valiant effort to compose himself. He folded up his copy of the Mail, downed the last inch of his beer and tried to act as normally as possible in the circumstances. But he was agonisingly conscious that his face had probably conveyed a thousand words to Henry Christie. And that very same man, the bane of his life, the cop who harried him constantly, was now approaching. Fast.

Benstead rose unsteadily to his feet, tucking the tabloid under his arm, trying to give the impression he had not seen Henry.

As he moved off, Henry reached the table. Benstead feigned surprise.

‘ Well, well, well. What have we here?’ Henry grinned maliciously. Actually he knew exactly what he had — one of the top handlers of stolen property in Blackpool, if not the North of England. Benstead was a career criminal who tried to keep a low profile in terms of his lifestyle. He lived with his common-law wife, her two kids from a previous marriage (not yet dissolved), his own two from a couple of brief relationships, and two German shepherd dogs in a semi-detached council house. He was unemployed, drawing maximum benefits, did not own a car and had very little to show outwardly from the money he made buying and selling other people’s possessions.

Henry’s intelligence-gathering on Benstead led him to believe the little scrote owned a large apartment in Tenerife and held several bank accounts in fictitious names. Knowing and proving were two different things, though. So far, all Henry’s team had managed to do was convict Benstead once only for a petty job for which he got fined.

Which annoyed Henry.

And put Benstead high on his target-list.

A fact of which Benstead was painfully aware.

‘ You haven’t got anything,’ Benstead said in response to Henry’s opening question, ‘because I’m off.’ He zipped up his anorak and side-stepped smartly.

Not smartly enough.

Henry side-stepped with him, blocking his exit.

‘ Know who this is?’ Henry asked Danny, speaking through the corner of his mouth, his eyes remaining firmly on Benstead.

‘ Baz Benstead — disposer of stolen property,’ she answered promptly.

‘ Someone we’re always interested in.’ Henry beamed down at the little man who had started to look very nervous indeed. ‘Bit of a hot day for an anorak,’ he observed. To Danny he said, ‘Always wears one. Big pockets. Never quite knows what might come his way — do you, Baz?’

‘ Don’t fuckin’ hassle me, Henry, or I’ll have my brief chasing you before you know what’s hit you.’

‘ Oh, Baz!’ Henry cried, feigning hurt. Then, ‘Just who the fuck d’you think you’re talking to? Come on, let’s sit down and have a nice, pleasant chinwag.’

‘ I’m leaving — excuse me… ahhhh!’

Henry slammed his free hand into Benstead’s chest and sat him down on the bench seat. ‘Sit.’

Shit! Benstead thought. A well of panic rose from his feet to his neck.

Henry sat next to him, sipping his Kaliber.

Danny remained standing, glass in one hand, cigarette dangling from her mouth. Her eyes bore scornfully down on Benstead. She had heard much about him, but never met him until this moment. She was unimpressed.

‘ What’re you up to?’ Henry asked.

‘ Nowt.’ Benstead put the newspaper on the table. The headlines screamed out about the most dangerous man in Britain on the loose. Benstead blinked rapidly as his brain recorded the message again. He turned the paper over.

‘ You looked like you’d peered into your grave when we walked in.’

‘ Only ‘cos I saw you. You always have that effect on me.’

‘ The look was there before you clocked me. I just made it worse. So, go on, what are you doing in here, Baz, ole buddy? It’s not your local.’

Benstead shrugged. He measured up his chance of escape. All he needed was about ten seconds — or less — out of sight of Henry and his sidekick. Long enough to dump the boiling hot goods Trent had sold him.

Now?115 richer, there was hardly any space in Trent’s pockets to squeeze in more cash. He had amassed over a thousand pounds and some loose change. Enough to see him over the next couple of weeks… and yet he wanted more money, here and now.

He walked towards Talbot Square where the Royal Bank of Scotland was situated. He was eager to withdraw as much money as possible from the account belonging to the dead ambulance-driver. To bleed it dry, like he had done to the man himself. He decided to try the cash machine again, firstly to see if the account was still operating and secondly if he could get any more cash out of it.

If the answer to both was no, he would find Benstead again and throw in the card for an extra?30.

Trent spent a couple of minutes checking the streets for lurking cops and fine-tuning the radio scanner he’d bought earlier from a high-street electrical retailer. It was tuned into the local police frequency. He inserted the earpiece and set the volume.

When he was satisfied, he crossed to the cash machine and slid the card into the slot.

He tapped in the well-remembered PIN code.

Benstead was a small man and could move quickly if he wanted to. Especially if the element of surprise was on his side.

Henry Christie, having shown disdain for Benstead and his threats, had allowed himself to drop his guard. He sat back and took a sip of the alcohol-free lager.

Danny took a long deep drag of her cigarette.

Without warning, Benstead reached for his empty pint glass. He took hold of it around the brim, twisted round and smashed the base of the glass across the side of Henry’s head.

Henry screamed, more with surprise than pain as the bottom edge of the glass connected with an old wound on his temple, sustained in a car crash three years earlier. The skin split immediately, blood poured out. His hands went to the side of his head.

Fortunately, the glass did not break.

Benstead dropped it, lurched forwards from his seated position before Danny could react. He charged towards her, ramming his shoulder into her lower abdomen, bowling her back over a table. He then ran for the rear door of the pub.

Danny landed hard, legs akimbo, displaying her underwear. Her drink spilled all over her and the cigarette disappeared somewhere across the room.

Henry Christie had learned a lot of hard lessons in his time as a cop. One was that some of the things you expect to hurt badly are never quite as bad as imagined. Agreed, the crack on the head hurt, and the sight of pouring blood, especially your own, was frightening. But when it was all put into perspective, it wasn’t as bad as being shot or knifed or having a broken glass screwed into your face. All that had happened was that a pathetic punk had given him a whack.

As soon as his brain assimilated this — within a split second — Henry was up and after Benstead, angry at having been caught off guard. He dived across the room at the fleeing felon and brought the little man crashing face-down into the liquor-stained carpet.

Benstead tried desperately to disentangle himself, scrambling, kicking wildly, with Henry holding on for dear life.

‘ Get off me, you fucking bastard!’ Benstead screamed, squirming round and beginning to rain punches down on Henry’s head. The DI tucked himself in and dung on tight, inching himself up Benstead’s body as they rolled around on the floor.

Danny recovered quickly.

When she saw the two men fighting, she looked out for the opening which would let her in to assist her boss. It came when the two men separated briefly, Benstead on his back. She stepped astride him and dropped heavily across his chest, pinning his arms to the floor with her knees. Her skirt rode high up on her thighs.

From that position she curled her right hand into a tight fist, deliberately drew back her arm, ensured Benstead saw what was coming and — with a great deal of satisfaction — smashed the fist into the side of his face.

All the fight drained out of him.

His face started to swell within seconds of the blow, a huge red mound surrounding his left eye, which began to close and weep.

‘ Twat!’ he hissed.

‘ You got it, pal,’ she panted.

Henry let go of Benstead’s legs and stood up shakily. He had an urge to kick the little bastard in the ribs, but the eyes of too many witnesses prevented him.

He picked up a beer mat and held it against the cut on his head.

‘ Turn him onto his front,’ he told Danny.

She raised a leg and they both heaved Benstead over onto his chest. Danny pulled his hands back and cuffed him with Henry’s handcuffs. Tightly.

‘ Here.’ Henry looked round to see Fat Tommy, the barman, holding out a bundle of something towards him. It was a bar-cloth. ‘For your head. It’s clean, don’t worry.’

The detective smiled. ‘Thanks, Tom. I didn’t know you cared.’

‘ I don’t. I just don’t want a copper’s blood all over my carpets.’

Henry dropped the beer mat and pressed the cloth onto his injury. The wound had been cracked open a few times since it had happened. One day, Henry thought, it would need a skin graft to close it, not stitches.

‘ Now then,’ Danny said into Benstead’s grubby ear. ‘Let’s see what all this was about.’ She patted him down, went through his pockets. She pulled out the roll of banknotes and handed it to Henry. Conservative estimate, two grand. Then she found the bag.

Benstead moaned.

She stood up and peered into it. Her mouth popped open when she carefully withdrew the driving licence and read the name on it. She held it so Henry could see.

He raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Oh.’ To Benstead he said, ‘Mate — you are under arrest.’

Any further conversation was halted when an urgent message came over the PR in Henry’s pocket.

‘ All patrols, all patrols, make to the vicinity of Talbot Square, Royal Bank of Scotland… believed escaped prisoner Louis Vernon Trent has just attempted to use the cash machine there. I repeat…’

Henry and Danny looked at each other, then down at their prisoner. Henry made the decision.

‘ You go. I’ll stay and sort out Bollock Brain here.’

Even before he had finished speaking, Danny was out of the door.

Henry turned to Fat Tommy. ‘How about a double whisky?’

The account belonging to the dead ambulanceman was still operating, but because Trent had withdrawn the maximum allowed for the day he was unable to steal any more money from it. He took the opportunity to confirm the present balance — ?700. A nice, tidy sum of money which he hoped would be in his hands after midnight.

At the end of the transaction, the machine slid the card back out and Trent reclaimed it.

Feeling pretty buoyant, he strolled to the top of Clifton Street where it joined Abingdon Street. To his right, on Church Street, was the entrance to the Winter Gardens complex. A long queue of people were lined up patiently at the box office, buying tickets for that night’s performance by a well-known TV comedian. He was doing a six-week stint of ‘saucy’ material and songs.

Trent had a sudden fancy to see him. He turned towards the Winter Gardens at the moment the scanner in his pocket picked up the police radio transmission and passed it to the earpiece.

Trent cursed his own foolishness and greed. He should have known the cops would have alerted the bank, who would reverse the process when the account got touched. The fact the account was still open should have been a warning beacon to him.

For a few vital moments he was rooted to the spot, unable to make a decision, even though he knew if he remained there he would very quickly end up in a police cell.

He took a chance, pivoted on his heels and headed quickly down Clifton Street towards the Promenade. Once on the sea-front he reckoned he could easily mingle and disappear, maybe into one of the big stores.

Danny spun out the back door of the pub, ran down onto Market Street where she intended to cut across to Clifton Street which was probably less than 100 yards away.

She zigzagged through crowds of people, thankful she had chosen to wear flat-soled shoes that morning. Part of her mind was still annoyed by Benstead who had caused her to spill her drink all over her fairly new suit, one she quite liked and thought she looked pretty good in. The second outfit in the space of a few days ruined. They would cost a fortune to replace.

As she ran she pulled her PR out and turned the volume up high.

Other patrols were responding to the call, all descending on Clifton Street — until Henry Christie’s impatient voice cut across them all with an instruction for the Comms operator: ‘Get a grip on these deployments, will you? Don’t let everyone race to the scene, otherwise we might miss him. Set up some checkpoints a little distance away. Get the Comms Sergeant to get it organised.’

The voice of the Comms Sergeant replied, slightly chastened, ‘Will do, sir.’

Everybody seemed intent on holding Danny up. She had to dance around four kids, who, hands held, were skipping down the street; she skidded dangerously to avoid a woman laden down with a huge load of shopping who appeared from nowhere in her path; and physically rammed a huge, beer-bellied, T-shirted, drunken individual with a Scottish accent who did his level best to catch her.

Without checking for traffic she legged it across Corporation Street and into Clifton Street. She relayed her position to Comms and learned that she was the first officer on the street. Then she juddered to a stop and surveyed the area, fully aware that more often than not, by the time police receive such calls, ten minutes or more could have elapsed. Trent could easily be a quarter of a mile away now, making Henry’s instructions to Comms a matter of common sense.

Her chest rose and fell, her nostrils dilated, as she panted heavily. She wiped the back of her sticky hand across her forehead, drawing several wide-eyed looks from passers-by. She looked like a scarecrow again.

A tingle of apprehension went down her spine as a sixth sense of perception clicked in.

She knew Trent was nearby. Somewhere close by. Hiding.

Trent slammed himself flat against the side of a parked Ford Transit van when he saw Danny appear at the bottom of the street. He recognised her instantly as a member of that bastard conspiracy of individuals who had sent him to prison.

He shuffled along the side of the van until he was in a position to peep around the back of it. From there he could see Danny across the street, speaking into her PR. Trent could hear every word she spoke through his earpiece.

A surge of uncontrollable loathing, almost like a demon in his soul, coursed through his veins at the sight of the smug, arrogant bitch who had played such a pivotal role in consigning him to the torture of the last nine years. Danny Fucking Furness.

His lips drew back into a snarl.

At exactly the same moment these feelings surged through him, he saw a visible change in Danny’s body language. She stood upright, stopped talking into the radio, cocked her head to one side. Suddenly she was ultra-alert, almost as if she knew where he was hiding. Yet he was certain she had not seen him.

Trent froze. Godamnit, she fucking knows I’m here.

Her face turned towards him. Trent pinned himself against the van, desperation rising. His earpiece told him two foot-patrol officers and two double-manned police cars were only literally seconds away. One of the cars was an armed response vehicle.

He would be trapped if he didn’t move now.

The shop he found himself looking at was an estate agent’s.

Her senses alive, fear making every nerve-ending electric, Danny started to walk towards the Transit van parked across the street. She held her PR as if it was a hammer.

He was there. She knew it.

Suddenly he appeared, turned his face fleetingly towards her, and ran into the estate agency.

‘ He’s gone into Lordson’s,’ Danny yelled into her PR. ‘In through the front door of Lordson’s.’

A middle-aged man and his wife browsed in the agency. Two female assistants typed away at their desks behind the counter.

No one even looked at Trent when he came through the door — until he drew the knife from his sleeve and slashed it across the man’s neck as he ran past.

It was a lucky, but well-aimed stroke, slicing the carotid artery. Trent did not wait to see the effect, but leapt over the counter, plunged his knife into the shoulder of one of the women, withdrew it and made for the door at the rear of the shop.

He had torn through the shop in a matter of seconds with the effect of an out-of-control death-star. Behind him he had left a trail of bloody chaos, people screaming, confusion, injury, everyone wondering what the hell had hit them and what they had done to deserve this.

The Staff Only door was flimsy. He crashed through it to find himself in a small kitchen. Beyond was the back door of the premises; he headed straight for it.

Danny ran into the shop seconds behind him. She stopped and took everything in.

The man who had been slashed in the throat had collapsed to the floor, dragging some display boards down with him. He gagged and coughed blood in a fine spray, losing his false teeth as well. His fingers clutched the big vein in his neck which pumped blood. It was like trying to plug a damaged hosepipe on full flow. His wife stood next to him, helpless. Her hands covered her mouth whilst she screamed hysterically.

The woman who had been stabbed in the shoulder screamed in tremendous agony coupled with terror as she watched the fast-spreading stain around her shoulder.

The other employee sat transfixed by the horror. Her fingers hovered above her keyboard, eyes wide, staring with disbelief, her whole frame immobile as a perfect still-life. She had been frozen into a statue by the flash of violence which had streaked by her.

‘ Get an ambulance to Lordson’s,’ Danny said into her PR. ‘Two people down, injured, one very serious. Knife injuries…’ She did not stay to tend the wounded, but vaulted over the counter in Trent’s tracks.

By this time he was out of the back door, hurtling down the service alley which ran behind the shops.

Danny skidded out after him, losing her balance momentarily. ‘Down Cheapside, heading towards Corporation Street,’ she relayed over the PR. ‘Armed with a knife, prepared to use it. Be careful.’

Trent stopped abruptly some twenty yards ahead of her.

Danny stopped too, puzzled, cautious.

Then she saw the reason why. A uniformed PC was walking up towards Trent, side-handled baton drawn.

A wave of euphoria hit Danny.

They had caught the bastard.

Trent crouched, left arm extended, hand palm outwards. His right arm was also extended but this hand held the knife in readiness to strike.

It was a slim knife, Danny saw. Blood dripped from it.

There was blood on his hand and partway up his sleeve.

He slashed the air menacingly, the message clear.

Danny and the PC circled him cautiously, just beyond reach of an attack thrust. The PC slapped the extended portion of his baton provocatively into the palm of his left hand. The officer’s message was pretty clear too: ‘You are going to get the full force of this right across your head.’

‘ Come on, Louis, put the knife down,’ Danny said reasonably. ‘This place will be crawling with cops in a matter of seconds. You don’t have a cat in hell’s chance, so just put the knife down. No one else needs to get hurt.’

Trent watched them both suspiciously. His gaze flickered from one to the other, his eyes afire.

The sense of Danny’s words seemed to permeate through to him. He stood upright, let his arms fall to his side. A submissive, resigned expression crossed his face and he nodded. His shoulders drooped, he exhaled a long deep sigh. Beaten.

Danny knew better than to trust Trent… but the PC did not. She was about to tell Trent to drop the knife, kick it away, assume the position, and all that crap, when without warning the PC stepped confidently into the danger zone. His eagerness blocked all common sense. This was going to be one hell of an arrest.

Before Danny could yell out a warning, he was too close to Trent for her to do anything.

The escaped prisoner blurred into life, as fast and as deadly as a bolt of forked lightning.

The knife shot up.

Danny, standing side-on, saw the point of the blade touch the PC’s blue shirt, then disappear up to the hilt behind the officer’s ribs and into his heart. Trent rammed it home, stepped in close to his victim, grabbed the officer’s shoulder with his free hand and pulled him even further forwards onto the knife-blade. He screwed and twisted the knife all the way, doing maximum damage. At the same time he turned and laughed at the horror-stricken Danny, throwing his head back like a maniac. He gave the knife one more massive — flamboyant — jerk before withdrawing it like a magician.

He stepped to one side, pulled the PC round and pushed him towards Danny.

She could not begin to describe the look on the young officer’s face. Pain? Shock? Disbelief? Whatever, it was a face she would remember for the rest of her life.

The PC staggered towards her, walking with the misco-ordination of an infant learning to toddle. He stared down at his shirt and the very fast-spreading stain. Danny opened her arms to catch him.

He stumbled, dropped his baton which clattered uselessly on the ground and went heavily onto one knee. He placed the palms of both hands over his heart, lifted his face pleadingly to Danny. He looked like he was proposing to her.

Then he toppled over and died at her feet.

Danny tore her eyes away.

Trent had gone.

Other police officers swarmed towards her from the top of the alley.

She lurched to a doorway, sank to her knees.

‘ Just tell me this, Henry — why is it that everything you seem to get involved in ends up with police officers being killed? Are you fucking jinxed, or what?’

The questions were asked by Fanshaw-Bayley. He was pacing up and down on the already thin carpet in front of Henry’s desk, a return journey of no more than six feet. Henry watched him and decided not to respond. Instead, he pressed the paper towel against his temple. The cut appeared to have more or less stopped bleeding and maybe did not need re-stitching after all.

FB stopped mid-journey. ‘Eh? Come on, Henry — why?’

Henry shrugged and remained impassive. It was hardly true, but he did not want to get into an argument. FB was very upset that an officer had died, murdered on duty. He had every right to be, and was simply venting some of his emotions on Henry whose shoulders were big and wide enough to take any rot FB cared to dish out.

‘ So, c’mon tell me what happened. What the fuck went wrong? No, don’t.’ FB held up his hands and shook them dismissively. ‘It’s okay, Henry, don’t tell me. It wasn’t your fault the stupid young fool went out without his stab-vest on; it was his decision and unfortunately he died for it.’ FB ruffled his own hair frustratedly, scratched his head, flattened his hair and eventually sat down. ‘This man is a fucking mobile killing-machine. What the hell’s our next move?’

Henry blew out his cheeks, glad they had returned to practicalities. ‘It better be quick,’ he mused thoughtfully. ‘I doubt he’ll hang round town now.’

‘ Come on then, brainbox… what do we do?’

‘ Chances are he’s in a guest-house. What we need to do is increase the numbers of people on house-to-house, quarter the town and visit every guest-house physically. And I also think we should get a big switchboard installed and actually phone every guest-house and hotel too.’ He pulled a face. ‘It’ll take a while to get that up and running.’ ‘How many phones are there in this police station?’ FB asked, raising his eyebrows.

‘ Dozens.’ Henry immediately caught on.

‘ There’s your answer. Get the people you want in now. Sit’ em next to a phone each with a copy of Yellow Pages and an unlimited supply of coffee or tea, and get them phoning.’

There was a sharp knock at the door. A Detective Sergeant came in without waiting and handed a sheet of paper of Henry.

Henry’s eyes closed despairingly after he’d read it. Without looking up, he handed the paper to FB.

Absently Danny picked up the Missing from Home report which was on the top of the pile of junk on her desk. She sat down slowly, read the name on top, and tossed it back. Claire Lilton could wait.

She leaned forwards and dropped her head into her hands.

Inside, everything was in turmoil. Guts, vital organs, brain… churning with a sensation never before experienced.

She had a terrible unshakable belief that she was totally responsible for everything that had happened. In particular the tragic death of the Police Constable, skewered and slaughtered right in front of her eyes. All because she had been too slow, had not shouted out a warning, had not pulled him away.

‘ Oh God,’ she mumbled desperately. Tears formed in her eyes. She rubbed them angrily away as she tried to control herself. Not here, she instructed herself. You will not break down here. You will hold yourself with dignity and you will convey yourself home. Then, and only then, will you allow yourself the indulgence of turning into a slobbering, self-pitying jelly.

But not here.

A hand clamped on her shoulder. She jumped and landed back on earth.

‘ Danny, how are you?’ Henry Christie.

‘ Not good,’ she admitted. ‘Dithering, almost on the verge of collapse. You know — woman stuff. What a bloody day!’ She gave a short laugh and wiped the new tears away with a snuffle. Her nose had started to run. She blew it, making a very unladylike trumpeting sound. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘Hell, what a mess.’

‘ It’s okay,’ Henry said. ‘And it’s understandable.’ He did not patronise her with sympathy or empathy, even though he had been in similar circumstances himself previously. Danny knew this.

‘ How the hell do you deal with it, Henry?’ She opened her arms and flopped them down in a gesture conveying complete loss. ‘It’s so damned awful and I just can’t get my head round it at all. All I can see is that poor boy staggering towards me… his face… I feel so responsible. What do I do?’

Her eyes pleaded with him.

‘ You’ve been there,’ she added.

‘ Everything sounds so glib and pat,’ he said, ‘but I suppose there’s a couple of things, for what they’re worth. Firstly, don’t hold it in, otherwise it’ll rot your soul like cancer rots a body. Take advantage of the Force counsellors; they do a good job. Secondly, don’t get on a guilt trip. You couldn’t have done anything, Danny. If it hadn’t been him, it would’ve been you.’

‘ But that poor PC — and the other two people he stabbed!’

‘ They’re both alive, so don’t even consider them.’

The man whose throat had been cut had been saved by the officer who arrived on the scene behind Danny. His quick actions had staunched the blood flow substantially until the arrival of the ambulance crew. The man had been very lucky, though.

‘ But, as I say, my words sound trite. That’s my advice, anyway. Take it or leave it.’

She blew her nose again.

‘ Having said all that, Danny…’ Henry paused, faltering slightly. ‘I have some more bad news, I’m afraid.’ He perched himself on the edge of her desk. ‘I know I might well be making assumptions here, but I think there’s an added dimension to Trent’s escapades.’

Danny’s eyebrows creased.

‘ It may only be a coincidence, but the body of a young girl has just been found in some bushes in a rec in North Shore. I’ve no further details yet — I’m going to the scene now with FE. It’s your call here, Danny. If you feel up to it, you can come. If not, I’ll understand.’

Danny’s eyes flashed instinctively to the MFH report on her desk. Once again she referred to the Almighty. ‘Dear God, please don’t let it be Claire.’