One Dead Witness

PART TWO
Chapter Fifteen

Since the death of Steve Kruger and the Armstrong brothers, life in the offices of Kruger Investigations in Miami had been very subdued indeed. There was no chatter, laughter or any of the lightness Kruger had brought to the workplace when he was alive. A shroud had descended, seemingly impossible to lift.

Myrna Rosza spent most of her time walking around, speaking to the employees. Sitting down over a cup of coffee, listening, encouraging and attempting to get everyone back on track, to get the place humming again, people motivated.

All to no avail.

And, God, Myrna missed him dreadfully. She could empathise with the way in which every employee was feeling, except for her it was a million times worse.

Kruger’s funeral had been one of the most testing occasions of her life. Of course she was allowed a little tear and her husband accepted that. Only natural. All she wanted to do, though, was let herself go; prostrate herself over the coffin, wailing and hysterical, and make a complete fool of herself.

She didn’t. She stood with dignity and poise and denied herself the outburst she really needed.

She had not realised how much she loved him. Standing beside her husband whilst watching the coffin disappear slowly beyond the purple velvet drapes at the chapel only magnified those latent feelings. By the same token, it revealed to her how much she did not love her husband, Ben. Not that she disliked him, nor had any axe to grind with him — because he was a good husband, even if his work often took him away for long periods. She simply did not love him any more. They were more like friends, these days, and it was many weeks, maybe months, since they had last made love.

During the service Ben had reached for Myrna’s hand in a gesture of support and comfort. She pretended not to see it coming and wiped a tear away instead, avoiding contact. On the same night, Ben had tried to cuddle her. She rolled away, pulled herself into a tight ball and rocked gently to sleep.

Myrna had also attended the double funeral of the Armstrongs at their home town in Virginia. At least she had not been in love with either of them, though the crimson-vivid memory of the walk down that hallway could not be shaken from her mind as their coffins were carried past her.

How had they reconstructed the bodies?

Were they in little pieces, fitted into their coffins like a jigsaw? An arm up here, the head down there?

And now, two days after Steve Kruger’s funeral, Myrna was sitting at her desk, alone in her office, the staff having gone home. Silence was everywhere. It was Wednesday, 7 p.m.

Myrna stared with growing disbelief at the telephone on which she had, only seconds before, finished a conversation with her husband.

‘ Wha..?’ she blurted to the wall. ‘I can’t believe… Christ!’ She could not stop her head from shaking as the words tumbled over and over through her mind. ‘The asshole, the bastard,’ she uttered and slammed the desk hard with her fist. Everything rose a millimetre and fell back into place, blotter, phone, pen-stand, laptop, everything.

She rose to her feet and stalked around the room, fuming.

‘ Hello, darling, it’s Ben…’ the conversation had started. There was a crackle of static on the line and it was difficult to hear, yet immediately Myrna could tell something was not quite right. ‘How are you, honey?’

‘ Under the Circumstances, doing okay,’ she answered guardedly.

‘ Look, dear, I have some sad news for you… something to tell you…’ And with those words, Myrna knew. ‘As you know, I’m out here in LA. I…’ he hesitated.

‘ Spit it out, Ben.’

‘ There’s no easy way to say this. I won’t be coming home.’

Myrna remained silent as an icy blast of chilled air wafted over her.

‘ Are you still there, Myrna?’

Yes, she was. Her voice was brittle. ‘Who is it? Somebody I know?’

‘ No, no, it’s someone I met at a convention in Salt Lake last year, a fellow surgeon.’

‘ A fellow surgeon! That’s a nice way of putting it. What’s her name?’

‘ No, Myrna, you don’t understand. When I say “fellow” surgeon, that’s exactly what I mean.’

Bombshell number two. A crackle of static on the line.

Myrna sat there, wide-eyed, as the meaning struck home. ‘You’re leaving me for a MAN?’

‘ Yes, I’m sorry. We are very much in love. You’d like him.’ Ben sounded weak and contrite.

‘ I doubt it.’

‘ He’s a heart-surgeon, too. Married, couple of kids. We’re setting up over here, both got positions in the best private hospital around. Chief surgeons. You can have the house and the cars. I don’t want anything from you, Myrna… just your understanding and maybe one day your blessing.’ His words tumbled out. ‘I know you haven’t really loved me for some time and I think this coincided with two things: Steve Kruger, and me discovering my sexuality. I think you’ve secretly been in love with Steve for a long time, haven’t you? I just wish I’d had the courage to let you go to him sooner…’

It was on these words that Myrna slammed the phone down.

She stood at the window. Miami was in darkness, a million lights on in buildings. She rested her forehead on the glass and cried as the heavens opened and torrential rain sluiced down over the city.

Without any financial recompense, merely accumulated days off which she would never find the time to take, Detective Sergeant Danny Furness had put in sixteen hours a day since the Monday-morning arrest of Trent and the subsequent discovery of Claire Lilton’s pathetic, battered and sexually mutilated body on the perimeter of the public golf course in Stanley Park.

‘ Welcome to life on CID,’ as FB might as have said.

What Danny had hoped to be a smooth change of career had been anything but. By the time midnight came on Wednesday, she was, once again, mentally and physically a wreck.

She crept into her bed after a long cold drink. Her newly installed house alarm was set, and the panic button on the wall within reach from the bed, glowed a dim, reassuring red. She lay naked under the cool sheet, legs and arms splayed wide, constantly searching for the next cool bit, loving the sensation of lying in a bed she had not seen for seventeen hours. She had not even bothered to have a bath, so desperate was she to get in. She was aware of the dried body sweat, the stale hair, the make-up and the rather obscene knickers she’d had to toss into the washing basket with a grimace of disgust on her face.

A deep sigh lifted her chest and she explored her physical sensations.

She had leg-ache, like she used to get when she was a kid; no doubt varicose veins were a real possibility. Her stomach gurgled in protest at the junk food she had consumed thoughtlessly for the last seventy-two hours, food she would not normally have even looked at. Her eyes were heavy and dark patches grew daily underneath them.

Suddenly the desire to sleep came over her. She reached out, clicked off the bedside light. As she drifted off she thought about the last three days…

Danny had immediately recognised Claire Lilton, though the youngster’s face had been smashed to a pulp and was bloated horrendously by the ligature around her neck. Once the work at the scene had been done, Henry went with the body to the mortuary whilst Danny went straight to see Claire’s parents. She had delivered numerous messages in her time and it seemed that always — always — the receiver of the message knew what the bad news would be even before she opened her mouth. Danny could see the knowledge in their eyes, and Ruth Lilton’s eyes had been no different.

She knew her daughter was dead as soon as she saw Danny.

As she delivered the tragic news, Danny kept one eye on Joe Lilton, the stepfather. Danny knew never to judge a person’s grief; grief was an individual thing, dealt with by people in their own way. Sometimes they were hysterical, other times they reacted with cold detachment. No two people were ever alike, but something crept up Danny’s backside when she witnessed the shifty look of discomfort on Joe Lilton’s face. He squirmed where he sat. And it caused Danny to wonder… Joe, what the hell do you know about Claire’s death?

Before leaving the Liltons’ that day, Danny did everything she could for Ruth.

The work of investigating then began, even though the prime suspect was already in custody.

During the course of that first day, Danny and Henry had little contact with each other. They managed to get together late to have the drink they had missed a few days earlier, when things had taken a bad turn for both of them. Unfortunately, their meeting brought about the second argument Danny had ever had with Henry.

The chat was innocent enough to begin with. They discussed their experiences on ‘the night of the missed drink’, as they called it between themselves. It was probably the tenth time of going over it, but both needed it, Danny in particular. She was grateful to Henry for listening. Each time she spoke, it got easier. The fear lessened; the horror subsided, though still lurked in a dark corner of her mind. But Danny was nothing if not resilient and she was determined to work herself through it.

‘ So, Henry,’ she said eventually, ‘any idea who might have cracked you? You didn’t let on to FB.’

‘ I know… but I reckon we both know who is favourite, don’t we?’

‘ Jack?’

‘ Just his kind of trick, I’d say. Not that he would have done it himself. He’s been a detective in this town for a lot of years and he knows a lot of toe-rags who’d do it for the price of a pint. I’ve bumped into him a couple of times today and he has a sort of knowing look on his face. Supercilious, even.’

‘ And it’s all my fault. Should never have got involved with him.’

‘ No,’ Henry corrected her, ‘it’s his fault. But it’ll all come out in the wash one day, in the not too distant future. He’ll come a cropper and someone will fettle him.’

A minor, but pleasant silence descended on the couple whilst they considered their drinks.

Danny looked at her watch: 11.45 p.m. ‘I suppose Trent’ll be sleeping like a baby now,’ she observed. ‘He’s spent most of the sodding day giving them the runaround at the hospital. He’s only got a scratch on his head… boy, I enjoyed hitting him.’ She curled her hands into tight fists and said, ‘Yeah,’ through gritted teeth.

‘ And the interviews have been bloody slow,’ Henry whined. ‘He’s a tough one, saying very little other than being a clever dick. It doesn’t make one jot really. We’ve got enough forensic and other evidence to convict him of…’ Henry held up his fingers and counted off, one at a time: ‘Theft from the old woman on the train, Meg Tomlinson’s murder, your kidnap and assault, theft of your car, the murder of a police officer, the woundings in the estate agent’s.. He’s been a busy man. Tomorrow we’ll get into his ribs about Claire Lilton; that’s not even been mentioned to him yet. He probably doesn’t even know we’ve found her body — and there’s all the other stuff concerned with the prison escape. That’s seven more bodies. He’ll never see the light of day again, other than from a prison yard. He’ll probably end up in Broadmoor… something wrong?’

Danny had been frowning as Henry spoke. She looked as though she was building up confidence to say something.

‘ I don’t think he killed Claire,’ she said flatly. Henry sat back, aghast.

‘ Course he effin’ did.’

‘ She was strangled. Trent’s been using a knife.’

‘ But he used to half-strangle his victims when you caught him last time. He’s obviously reverted to that.’

‘ Yeah, half-strangle is right. He never actually killed them back then. Now he’s gone over the top into murder, it’s not his hands he’s been using, it’s that knife. It seems to give him that extra feeling of power. Why would he revert to manual strangulation… doesn’t make sense.’

‘ Nothing in that bastard’s mind makes sense.’

‘ I know, I know… but to me, it doesn’t seem to add up right.’

‘ I think you’re wrong.’ Henry was adamant.

‘ Look — we can’t simply assume he killed Claire, become blinkered to it. That’s not fair or just.’

‘ What happened to Claire wasn’t fair or just,’ Henry argued.

‘ Henry, you don’t need to tell me that, but does it mean we railroad him, just because we’ve closed our minds to the implications of what I’m saying?’

Henry bridled. He had been convinced of Trent’s guilt. Now the belief was being challenged, he was uneasy. ‘No,’ he said sheepishly. He took a swig of beer. ‘I’m not happy with the thought it wasn’t Trent who did it. It’s just too much of a coincidence for him NOT to have done it.’

‘ So do we get him convicted just because of a coincidence?’

‘ No, I’m saying that-’

‘ What are you saying, Henry?’

‘ Don’t you want him done?’ he almost shouted. He took control of his voice, lowered it, leaned across the circular table and pointed a finger at Danny. ‘That guy abducted you at knife-point, was probably going to rape you, was definitely going to murder you — and yet you seem to want to protect him.’ He shook his head, confused. ‘I don’t get it.’

Now she leaned forwards. ‘I want justice done, Henry. I want to see him inside until he dies, but I don’t want him convicted of something he didn’t do. That’s too good for him. It makes us as bad as him. Everything we do needs to be spot on and he needs to know it’s spot on, because if it isn’t he’ll always be one-up on us, and I don’t want that.’ She sat upright and rubbed her eyes. Her face softened and she smiled. ‘Let’s not fall out — I don’t like arguing with you, but I’m sure true justice is really what you want too.’

He exhaled a long sigh, nodding. ‘Yeah, you’re right, I do. But if he didn’t kill Claire, you know what that means, don’t you?’

Danny shivered. ‘I know exactly what that means.’

They had another quick drink and left the pub. The night had a chill to it. Danny instinctively linked arms with Henry as they strolled amiably to his car which was parked some way down the road, under a street lamp and not in the pub car park. Both had developed phobias about car parks. A little shimmer of pleasure glittered through Danny when she touched Henry.

‘ That was a nice drink, Henry.’

‘ I enjoyed it too, even though you made me think. I don’t usually like to think too deeply with a beer in my hand. The two activities don’t seem to correlate. I usually talk football or sex, or both.’

Henry drove her home, pulling up outside. ‘Thanks, Henry.’

‘ Pleasure.’

She looked at him. There was only a small distance between their faces. Danny felt a rush down between her legs as her eyes flicked across his face. She swallowed, giggled and broke the moment.

‘ It would be nice, wouldn’t it?’ she said, a hint of regret in her voice.

‘ It would be wonderful,’ he conceded.

‘ But it won’t happen.’

‘ No. I’ll watch you walk to your door.’

‘ Good night, Henry.’ She was out of the car quickly, in the house moments later, giving him a quick wave from the threshold.

He drove off, failing to notice the black figure in the shadows at the end of the road, stepping out to watch Henry’s tail-lights disappear around the corner.

As Danny expected, Trent subsequently denied murdering Claire when the allegation was put to him on Tuesday morning. Although he had denied everything else, even in the face of overwhelming evidence, his denial of Claire’s murder seemed to be true. With increasing anguish, the police concluded that maybe, possibly, probably… then definitely… there was another child-killer on the loose.

When Danny eventually fell asleep it was half-past midnight. Thursday morning. In Miami, it was seven-thirty in the evening.

Myrna Rosza finished crying for the moment.

She was in her personal restroom adjoining her office, glaring at herself in the mirror over the wash-basin. Emotions tumbled across each other inside her, but she had regained outwards control of herself. She flicked on the tap, filled the basin with hot water and washed her face, removing the stained make-up from around her eyes and cheeks.

Then she spent almost twenty minutes carefully reapplying it, after which she felt more positive about things and life in general. She completed the process by brushing and spraying her hair into place.

When she reviewed the new woman, she attempted a smile which lapsed fairly quickly at the prospect of the immediate hours ahead of her. Home was not a place to which she desired to return. It would be empty, cold and forbidding. On the spur of the moment she darted back into the office, picked up the phone and dialled the Fontainbleau Hilton on Collins Avenue, Miami Beach, booked a room, and a table at one of the restaurants. She slammed the phone back down, put on her top coat and walked purposefully out of the office.

The elevator to the basement was empty. It stopped with a bump and opened its doors to reveal a vast, deserted, underground parking lot. Since Kruger’s death, the building superintendent had allowed her to park there — at a cost.

Moments later, the tyres of the Lexus were squealing across the concrete floor. She hit the exit ramp, suspension bouncing, drove through the raised security gate, then out onto the road where the rain hit the hood and windshield like a bucket full of grit. Myrna fumbled for the wiper control, then felt the thud of a body on the front of the car. She slammed on, unable to see properly, but aware a person had rolled off the hood onto the road.

‘ Shit,’ Myrna cried. She leapt out — and at the back of her mind thought she could be stepping into a heist, a robbery, God knew what. At the front of the car lay the crumpled form of a female who was already rising to her hands and knees. She was totally drenched. In her hand was a rolled-up newspaper.

‘ Good God, are you okay?’ Myrna bent low to assist.

The female looked up.

‘ You!’ Myrna exclaimed.

To have had that long white wine and soda immediately before coming to bed was a pretty big mistake, Danny discovered not long after falling asleep. Her bladder called to her pitifully, ‘Empty me!’ in such a pathetic tone she could not ignore it.

With a grunt of frustration, she rolled out of bed, padded to the loo and back. When her head hit the pillow, she expected to return to sleep immediately. No chance.

Uncontrollably her mind clicked into gear and refused to get out of it. She found herself tossing and turning, desperately trying to get to sleep. She constantly re-ran images and conversations of the week through her mind’s eye and it began to drive her mad.

She pictured herself sitting next to Ruth Lilton on their settee, clasping the woman’s delicate hands in her own, offering support and reassurance, whilst at the same time bringing her up-to-date with the investigation.

‘ We initially believed the man we had in custody for the other matters was responsible for Claire’s death. He denied it and, quite honestly, it looks as though he may not have killed her.’

‘ He must have, he must have,’ Ruth Lilton sobbed.

‘ I can appreciate how you must feel like that,’ Danny said softly.

‘ You can’t appreciate fuck all,’ Joe Lilton snarled into Danny’s face. ‘You don’t know fuck all about how we’re feeling; we’ve lost a daughter. Murdered. How can you have the bottle to sit there and say “I can appreciate”?’ He mimicked Danny’s voice.

‘ Joe!’ Ruth said. ‘Please.’

‘ Well, bloody police… you’re telling us that bastard who’s locked up didn’t kill her.’

‘ Yes, that’s what I’m telling you,’ Danny said stonily, trying not to rise to him, even though her blood had passed boiling point.

‘ Well, who did kill her? C’mon, tell us. Do your job.’

Danny’s eyes played over his face. ‘We don’t know yet, but it’s only a matter of time. We will be able to get a DNA profile from the bodily fluids her attacker left in her. We’ll catch whoever did it, never fear. That’s a promise.’

Joe went silent at these words. Then with a snort of contempt he threw up his arms and stormed out of the room.

‘ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ Ruth apologised.

‘ It’s okay. He’s upset and angry,’ said Danny.

Danny rolled over in bed. Sweat started to dribble where her thighs met. The bed was hotting up the more she was unable to sleep.

And the next image that came to her mind was the meeting she and Henry had had with the pathologist who had performed Claire’s post mortem. His name was Baines and it was apparent he and Henry knew each other well.

‘ Quite a few things of interest to you, H,’ Baines said. ‘Go on then.’

‘ Old sperm in her uterus — probably about four days. On its last legs, or flippers, as you might say.’

‘ Wow,’ Henry said.

‘ Mmm, she was not a virgin. Probably hadn’t been one for some time, by all indications.’

Danny closed her eyes. ‘She was eleven years old.’

Baines nodded.

‘ Anything else?’ Henry asked.

Baines opened his mouth and reeled off other interesting things which were lost on Danny who sat through the rest of the meeting numb, the voices of the two men simply a meaningless background to the physical sickness she was feeling on Claire’s behalf.

Suddenly Danny cut back into the conversation. ‘Can you pinpoint exactly how old the sperm is, Doctor?’ she demanded to know.

Her eyes flipped open. ‘Damn,’ she said out loud to the bedroom ceiling. ‘Why the hell can’t I get to sleep? What have I done wrong? Come on, God, tell me.’ She flicked off the duvet and went to the loo again.

Myrna stood by the door of the restroom next to her office and knocked tentatively.

‘ Some towels for you,’ she called.

There was a murmur from the other side of the door which Myrna took to be some form of permission to enter. She opened the door and stepped in. The shower was hissing and steam rose towards the extractor fan. Through the frosted glass Myrna could see the naked, but indistinct shape beyond, soaping down.

‘ They’re just outside the shower door.’ She dropped them onto the floor.

Another murmur was the response.

Myrna retreated from the restroom. Back in the office she sat on her leather chair and tried to work out what the hell was going on. On the desk-top lay the newspaper the female had been carrying. It was soaking wet, near to deterioration. Myrna considered tossing it into the wastebasket. Before she did, she unrolled it carefully.

It was a five-day-old edition of the British Daily Mail. Not an unusual sight in Miami, where British newspapers were common on the streets and sold at many stores. Myrna flattened it carefully so the sports headlines were uppermost. She turned the paper over and read the news headlines.

The irony of it was that, through snoring loudly, Danny woke herself up. She cursed. She had been to sleep and then, fuck it, she had woken herself up. This, she thought, was going to be one of those nights.

She rolled over, tugged the duvet tight around her head and shut her eyes. It was one o’clock. In six hours she had to be up. Six hours

… if only she could get six hours, that would be bliss — almost a normal night’s sleep. Six lovely hours…

The restroom door opened and Myrna looked up.

The sex-chatline telephonist, who had been a vital witness against Bussola, the girl by the name of Tracey Greenwood stood there, one of the bath towels folded around her, another smaller towel around her head. Myrna had to admit she looked a thousand times better than she had done an hour before when Myrna had brought her into the office.

‘ Hi. How are you feeling?’

‘ Okay.’

‘ You should really go to hospital.’

‘ I’m fine, nothing’s broken; you didn’t run into me, I jumped onto your bonnet.’

‘ Bonnet?’

‘ Bonnet — hood — you know.’

‘ Oh yeah, I see. Bonnet’s English.’

‘ Yeah, summat like that.’

Myrna stood up. ‘Come on, sit over here.’ She pointed to the sofa. ‘I’ve got some coffee on, but I’ve only been able to find some cookies to eat. There’s not much food around the office.’

‘ It’s okay, I’m not really hungry.’

The girl pulled the bath towel tight and tottered across the office to the sofa. Myrna watched her out of the corner of her eye whilst she fixed two cups of steaming coffee from the filter machine. The girl was deadly thin, her legs seemingly no fatter than a ballpoint pen; her shoulders protruded bones and her arms were like twigs, dry-looking and capable of being snapped. She looked anorexic and like a drug addict. The mainline marks on the inside of her arms and the backs of her knees were prominent. Some had scabs on them, where blunt, rusted or pre-used needles had been inserted. It would not be long before she was dead.

Myrna handed her a coffee. She took it gratefully, hands a-quiver. She piled numerous lumps of brown sugar in then added cream.

Myrna drank hers back. She lowered herself down onto the opposite end of the couch.

The girl sipped her sweet brew. Her eyes traversed the office and the view across Miami. ‘Nice office,’ she commented.

‘ Thanks.’

‘ I suppose you’re wondering why I threw myself at you.’

‘ You could say that.’

A massive shiver suddenly convulsed the girl’s whole body. She almost spilled her coffee. ‘Oh God,’ she gasped, ‘I really need a fix.’ She looked hopefully at Myrna.

‘ Coffee’s as far as I go.’

‘ I really wanted to see Kruger.’

‘ He’s dead.’

‘ I know.’

‘ So why have you come?’ Myrna demanded because she suddenly remembered that Kruger’s death might have been prevented if only this girl hadn’t disappeared. ‘You’re partly responsible for him dying. If you’d stayed and testified in the first place, Bussola might still be in the can.’

‘ No way. Don’t try to pin that one on me.’

‘ Okay — so I ask again: why are you here?’

‘ I know something,’ she said. A look of horror crossed her face and remained there. Myrna studied her carefully and thought the girl’s expression was the result of seeing something so painful that even its memory brought back terror. The girl’s head flicked quickly towards Myrna; her opaque, lifeless eyes produced tears which tumbled down her white cheeks. ‘I know something,’ she repeated with a sob of anguish. ‘Something terrible.’

Danny was in a sort of dream-filled twilight zone, somewhere between sleep and deep sleep, images of fifteen years ago zipping through her mind. She was walking towards a door. From behind the door were voices. Angry. Raised. Arguing. Danny was in uniform. Her police car was parked behind her. There were white chippings underneath her feet, scrunching as she walked. She got closer to the door. The voices became louder. A man and a woman. The words had meant nothing to her. Merely jumbled. A big disagreement, possibly the first stages of domestic violence.

At the time she only half-listened to what was said, yet the words must have lodged themselves into her mind subconsciously. Like someone half-seeing a number plate and subsequently dredging it out of the recycle bin of the memory whole and complete.

But the mind is a curious organ. Often it stores things the owner doesn’t even know are there. The skill is in the process of recall. Sometimes it is a skill which can be acquired. Other times it is pure luck or circumstance which is the catalyst.

And that night it was a dream, because Danny had fallen asleep thinking about poor Claire Lilton… and the coincidence was that fifteen years before she had visited Joe Lilton’s home on the outskirts of Blackburn to do a firearms enquiry and had stumbled into a domestic dispute, but at the time had not really heard the words which were being said as she walked to the door of the house.

In her dream, Danny was back there. It was a perfect reconstruction. All her recall was superb, even down to the words which passed between Joe and his then wife.

Danny woke abruptly and for once did not lose the dream. It was there with her, vivid and exact.

‘ Jesus, Jesus.’ She threw the duvet off and got into her dressing-gown. She dashed downstairs, cursing herself for not keeping a pen and paper next to the bedside. She found both in the kitchen odds and sods cupboard and scribbled down the words.

Suddenly they all made sense.

The memory must have hurt the girl. Since speaking those last words she had lapsed into a vague silence, blankly staring through the window.

‘ What do you know, Tracey?’ Myrna asked softly, unable to stand it any longer.

Tracey jumped like a charge had been passed through her. She raised a thin finger and pointed to Myrna’s desk. ‘The newspaper… can you get the newspaper?’

Myrna placed her coffee down, crossed the office and peeled the wet paper from her desk blotter and carefully carried it back, handing it over to Tracey. She took it and laid it on the sofa. She did not open the paper, as Myrna expected her to, simply pointed to the headlines.

‘ What? You know something about that?’

Tracey nodded.

Myrna twisted her head and skimmed through the story underneath the headlines. It was all about the discovery of a girl’s body in some woodland in the North of England. It was a fairly run-of-the-mill story in national newspaper terms and had only made headlines because other good news was scarce, and the way in which the body had been discovered was obviously of great interest to many people. Lovers frolicking in a woodland glade don’t often find bodies — but when they do they can rest assured the whole world will want to know and so will their legal partners.

‘ What do you know?’ Myrna asked.

‘ I know the girl who was murdered… Annie Reece. She was my friend.’ Her voice faltered. ‘And I know who killed her.’

‘ Go on,’ said Myrna

‘ His name is Charlie Gilbert. You know him too… he was one of the men who were defiling that girl the other night.’