One Dead Witness

Chapter Two

As Danny Furness accelerated tiredly out of the hospital car park onto East Park Road, it was 11 p.m. British time. Three thousand miles to the west, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, in Miami, Florida it was 6 p.m., five hours behind. The weather in Dade County that day could not have been more of a contrast to its British counterpart. At its height the sun had pounded down an unbearable 90 degrees, making the city of Miami airless and oppressive… but now a light breeze whisked in across Biscayne Bay and promised a pleasant evening.

Perfect for dining out on the terrace, thought Steve Kruger, who had just wrapped up a day which had started eleven hours earlier. He was looking forward to getting home, throwing off his work suit and changing into baggy shorts, busting open a bottle of Hurricane Reef Lager and preparing the barbecue ready for the arrival of his son, daughter-in-law and their two kids.

It had been a long, tedious day at the office. Because it was the month-end and not a zillion miles away from the end of the financial year, Kruger had spent most of his time stuck behind his desk in air-conditioned splendour, neck-tie discarded, locked into strategic and tactical planning with his secretary, accountant and three company directors. Specific plans for next year and outline plans for the next three had been thrashed out.

Some of the more nuts-and-bolts stuff had also been finalised. Such as tidying up some files and putting together a huge batch of bad-debt bills which the secretary had posted off today. If they were all paid by return, Kruger’s cash flow would be $150,000 to the good. In reality he knew he’d be lucky to get 30 per cent of them paid off within six weeks. He’d been chasing one debtor’s ass for seven months — a lawyer, of all people — who owed over ten grand. Kruger had sent that son of a bitch a final FINAL demand, together with a mildly threatening letter which intimated — subtly — that no one ever welched on a Kruger Investigations Final Demand notice with success.

It had been a pleasure to dictate that letter, safe in the knowledge that it didn’t matter whether the guy paid up or not, because the one positive thing to emerge during the day was that Kruger Investigations’ net profits were going to be very healthy indeed. Five per cent up on the previous year. Somewhere in the region of two million dollars.

Not bad for a firm which had only begun operating five years earlier, employing only himself and his second wife (now ex) as a secretary. She had long gone, but Kruger had stayed at the helm and after a very worrying first eighteen months had built up a business employing forty people and fast approaching inter-state expansion time.

With these happy thoughts in mind, Kruger, bulky, muscle-bound, ex-Marine, ex-cop (Homicide), qualified lawyer, married and divorced three times (his third wife had also split), and the boss of one of the country’s fastest-expanding security agencies, whistled tunelessly whilst walking across the secure parking lot, jacket slung casually over his shoulder, to his Chevrolet Astra Van. Professionally speaking he was a very contented individual; in personal terms, though, at the age of forty-six, with three wrecked marriages behind him and no one in his life at present, he was nowhere near.

His van was a 1989 model which he’d owned from new. He also owned a Porsche and a Corvette, but preferred to drive the Chevy around the city. It gave him the advantage of height, a necessity in the Miami traffic, which had been described as worse than Rome, New York or Calcutta. He swung his lightweight jacket off his shoulder and fumbled in one of the pockets for the keys as he got closer to the vehicle.

Out of the corner of his right eye, Kruger caught the shadow of movement behind another parked car. A pair of feet belonging to someone crouched down, trying to hide. Kruger’s guts reacted with a little twirl. The peculiar bitter taste came into the back of his throat that was the first flush of adrenaline washing into his system.

Two possibilities immediately sprang to mind.

Robbery; or the angry husband of some client out for revenge.

The first option was the most likely. Kruger knew of two people who’d been rolled in this parking lot in the last month — even though it was advertised as Safe ‘n’ Secure 24 hours a day and the only way in and out was through barriers and past a gatekeeper.

Well, let’ em try, Kruger thought. His eyes shone. The prospect of a tussle fired him up.

The man rose from his hiding place, brushing down his suit. His suit? Didn’t look like any normal street mugger. Young. Smartly dressed. A touch of Hispanic somewhere in the blood. Could easily have been one of Kruger’s own operatives. Maybe he’d simply been tying his shoe-laces and maybe Kruger was putting more into the situation than was really there.

Until Kruger saw he was wearing loafers.

Okay, maybe he’d dropped something instead? Aw, what the hell, Kruger thought. Lemme get home. He fished out the van keys and the remote alarm, pointed and pressed. The vehicle responded with a high-pitched squawk and a double flash of the indicators. He opened the driver’s door, tossed his jacket across to the opposite seat.

‘ Hey, man,’ the guy called to him.

Kruger raised his eyebrows. He was still feeling uncomfortable, but at least there had been no attempt to approach him.

‘ Lost ma keys, wouldya believe it? You seen any?’

‘ No. Sorry, pal.’

‘ Damn — thanks anyway.’

The brief conversation had been just enough to put Kruger off guard, keep his attention fixed for a vital few seconds and allow the guy’s running partner to slip out from behind the Chevy, take two long strides so that he was directly behind Kruger and ram the muzzle of a. 22 right up under his left ear.

‘ Hands up, fella. Put’ em on the roof of the car.’

Kruger knew he could have easily turned, swept the gun away and disarmed this man, grounded him with a blow to the neck and probably one to the chest — but the position of the first guy and his unknown abilities made Kruger wary of trying anything rash.

He dropped the keys onto the tarmac and failed to keep a sneer of self-contempt off his face for missing the second guy who must have been just as easy to spot as the first one. If he’d been switched on enough.

Getting old and stale, he thought to himself.

He laid the palms of his hands obligingly on the burning hot metal roof of the van. ‘I’ve got sixty dollars and one credit card in my wallet,’ he explained calmly. ‘There’s a state-of-the-art cell-tel in my jacket an’ I don’t carry anything more with me.’ Then he thought, Shit, I hope they don’t notice my watch.

It was a Rolex Oyster Day-Date Chronometer in 18-carat gold with the President bracelet. He had bought it in London on the honeymoon of his third marriage, eighteen months before. Buying it had been one of those ‘Big Life Moments’, or ‘BLMs’ as he called them. Ever since he’d been a teenager reading National Geographic and seeing the Rolex ads in there on the wrist of some great adventurer or explorer, he’d promised himself that one day he would buy one. And when the time came, thirty years later — just as the firm was beginning to make real money — he had cherished the moment. In a grand, rather tacky gesture, he had paid hard cash. Truly a moment to remember and savour. Apart from when he made love (and sometimes even then), the Rolex had never left his wrist.

Kruger dropped his head. Looking down underneath his armpit he saw the shoes of the first guy almost directly behind him. He was puzzled for a very brief moment when he saw the shoes crease as the man stood on his tiptoes. Then, ironically, it all became clear when everything went black as a hood was thrown over his head and tightened with a drawstring around his neck.

Kruger gagged. ‘What the hell..?’ He lashed out blindly but without effect. He was punched twice in the kidneys, driving him down to his knees. A pair of handcuffs were ratcheted tightly on his wrists.

Once again he felt the muzzle of the revolver rammed against his head.

‘ You fucker — you do what we say, or we kill ya, okay? You bein’ dead don’t make no odds to us.’ It was the first guy talking, Kruger was sure.

‘ Fine, fine,’ Kruger growled through gritted teeth.

‘ Now get to yo’ godamned feet.’

No one assisted him, but a few seconds later he was standing shakily. ‘Now you gonna get inna the back o’ yo’ Chevy, okay? And we’re gonna go fo’ a little ride… and I suggests you keep it schtum, otherwise I’ll gets really pissed with yo’ and I’ll put a few slugs inna yo’ brain.’

Danny eased herself inch by glorious inch into a hot bath so full of foam and water the tub almost overflowed. She groaned with sheer ecstasy as her bottom, then her back and finally all of her, was covered. She reached for the glass of vodka on ice from the top of the loo and took a life-saving gulp, shivering as the liquid burned down to her stomach. Then she picked up a ready-lighted Benson amp; Hedges, put it to her lips and pulled a long, deep drag as a chaser to the spirit.

Oh God. Heaven!

A heaven which lasted approximately four minutes, curtailed by the chimes of the front-door bell.

Danny’s heart dropped. She knew who it would be.

A decision had to be made tonight — one way or the other.

Kruger lost all track of his whereabouts almost as soon as the Chevy rolled out of the parking lot. He tried to keep with it for a few moments, but the pain from his kidneys distracted him. It was like someone poking a red-hot needle straight through the middle of his lower back. He’d been whacked there a few times in the past, but the effects had worn off quite quickly. Today the pain was hanging in there, making him think he might have a stone or something. Depending on the outcome of this little shake-down, which was obviously not a robbery, a visit to the doctor was only a day away.

Eventually the pain dissipated.

‘ Where are you taking me?’ Kruger demanded.

‘ Shut the hell up,’ one of his captors grunted and skewered the muzzle of the gun into the skin at the side of his neck.

‘ Okay, okay, I’ll be quiet.’

Was he being kidnapped? And if he was — why? Most of his money was tied up in the business. Maybe he was being taken to be wasted somewhere. And maybe the idea that this was the work of some disgruntled husband of a client was not so far-fetched after all.

But if that was the case, why hadn’t they done him in the parking lot? That would’ve been nice and easy. This was complicated.

No matter how many questions he asked himself, he could not work any of it out.

So here he was, bundled up like some damn amateur in the back of his own van after all he’d been through and survived in his life so far. Taken by two spunkless punks who were young enough to be his sons.

How the mighty are fallen.

The sound of the tyres on the road changed to a high-pitched hum which Kruger recognised. The van was travelling over one of the causeways which linked the city with Miami Beach, South Beach or possibly Key Biscayne.

So they were travelling east. Not that the knowledge helped Kruger in any way.

The van slowed. There was a series of twists and turns. Kruger sensed he was near to the end of his journey.

The van stopped.

He became very frightened.

His two captors manhandled him out of the back of the Chevy, pushed, prodded and almost dragged him across a gravel surface. He stumbled up a short flight of what he imagined to be concrete steps. He heard a door open and then he was inside a building, still being roughly pushed, cajoled, pulled and directed. Finally they brought him to a halt. He was told to stand still. They held onto his biceps with firm grips.

He was completely disorientated.

He had no idea where he was.

No idea why he was there. Abducted off the street like some millionaire tycoon.

He did as instructed and stood completely motionless, wrists cuffed in front of his groin. It was hot beneath the black hood, which was made from some sort of thick polythene, like a garden refuse sack. He sweated. Standing there in silence, it became even hotter, unbearable, made even worse as his imagination ran riot. He ground his teeth and dilated his nostrils whilst the tension began to build up in him like a geyser.

Something told him very bluntly, ‘This is it, Buddy Boy. This is where you buy it. The end of the line — and you don’t even know why.’

He fought hard to control his heartbeat and his bowels and prepared himself for the bullet. The third one he would have taken in his life.

The fatal one.

A female voice Kruger thought he recognised said softly, ‘Handcuffs.’

His hands were bent outwards in order to get the key into the locks. The ratchets swung back, his wrists came free. In the confusion and fear of his predicament Kruger had not realised how deeply the steel rims of the cuffs had been biting into his flesh. As they were opened, the blood rushed back into his hands with a surge of pins and needles.

His biceps were still in the grip of his captors.

He became suddenly aware of someone standing very close in front of him. Very close indeed. Almost touching. He could smell a scent, a familiar perfume. Couldn’t quite remember its name. He shook his head. Must be dreaming. Then he felt a hand on his chest and jumped as if he’d been electrified. The grips on his arms tightened.

The top button of his shirt was already undone. The fingers of the hand at his chest slid up to the second button and skilfully tweaked it open. Then the third and fourth. The hand slid under the shirt and rested on Kruger’s left breast, playfully pinching his nipple.

… At which point Kruger bellowed and exploded without warning.

Almost like Samson escaping from shackles, he lifted his arms and pushed outwards at the same time, driving the back of his fists against the men on either side of him, sending them staggering away.

He ripped the hood off, ready to fight for his life.

And the nightmare continued because standing in front of him trying to control her giggling was one of the worst mistakes of his life: his third wife, stage name Felicity Snowball. Real name, Felicity Bussola. Born, plain Jane Creek.

‘ Jesus Christ, you godamned bitch!’ screamed Kruger. ‘What the hell you playin’ at?’ He lurched towards her and grabbed her shoulders. His arm drew back and he was about to lay one of his mightiest slaps across her cheeks when for the second time that day, a gun was poked in his neck. His hand screeched to a halt in mid-arc. He allowed it to flutter down uselessly to his side.

He stood upright, breathing heavily.

‘ Stevie baby,’ cooed Felicity. ‘Baby, baby… you don’t wanna hit your honey-pie, now do you, sweetie?’

‘ Yes, I do.’

The muzzle of the gun was ground into his neck.

Felicity’s face became serious. ‘Cos I ain’t foolin’ around here, Stevie. You touch me, babe, and I’ll waste you.’

Kruger nodded.

The gun was withdrawn. He glanced briefly at the two men who’d brought him here and said, ‘No trouble promise.’ He felt obliged to put it into plain English because if the two goons were connected to Felicity’s new husband, they would have no qualms in filling him full of lead then dumping his concrete-encased body in the foundations of a new apartment block somewhere in the city.

He turned to face Felicity. ‘What the hell d’you want?’

She shooed the men away. ‘I’ll scream if he touches me,’ she told them, ‘then you two boys come runnin’, okay?’

When they were alone she tiptoed up to Kruger and kissed him on the lips. What began as a friendly peck suddenly developed into a passionate embrace. She ran her arms around his neck, yanked him towards her, forced her tongue into his mouth and ground her hot sex into his groin.

Despite himself, he responded… until common sense prevailed. He eased her away.

‘ Hey, what about hubby? If he strolls in here, I’m dead meat.’

‘ Aw, fuck him,’ she said dismissively.

Which was not a sentiment Kruger shared. Mario Bussola was a very feared and respected individual in Florida’s low-life, widely recognised to be the number one mobster in the state following the blood-soaked demise of Tony Corelli a couple of years before, who was then tops.

Bussola, it was rumoured, had people put to death for far less contentious issues than French-kissing his wife.

Joe Lilton rolled slowly over onto his back. He held his breath and listened. Next to him in bed lay his wife, Ruth. She was breathing heavily in a very deep sleep induced by several large glasses of wine and a couple of strong sleeping pills. ‘The worry’s over now,’ Joe had cajoled her earlier on their return from hospital. ‘Claire’s back home. You can relax, chill out. You deserve a good night’s rest. After all, you haven’t slept a wink for the last two what with worrying about Claire. Come on, off to bed now. Tomorrow we’ll get everything sorted out.’

Once Ruth had supervised a hot bath for Claire, some supper and tucked her up for the night, she had been easy to manipulate by Joe. She had willingly supped the wine, almost a full bottle of Hock; easy to drink, cheap and extremely effective.

Joe had had a few stiff brandies himself, whilst acting the concerned husband and father.

When he’d suggested sleeping tablets and shown Ruth the box of Nitrazepam, there had been no resistance. She was already woozy as her jaded body had been an easy target for the alcohol.

It didn’t take long for the combination to take effect. Less than fifteen minutes later, Joe steered. her to bed, helped her undress and eased her under the covers. After checking the hotel and briefly chatting to the night porter, Joe had also gone to bed in the family annexe at the rear of the ground floor.

When he entered the bedroom, a bedside light was still on, but Ruth was fast asleep. Just to make certain, Joe had purposely crashed round the room, deliberately dropping things.

Ruth did not even flinch.

As he climbed in next to her, naked, Joe had smiled dangerously to himself. From past experience he knew she would be out of it for at least ten hours. Not even a bomb could have woken her. Joe had free reign.

Just to be on the safe side, he prodded her. There was no reaction. Ruth was as good as dead.

He lay by her side for a few more minutes, slightly concerned when she shifted, though all she did was flip over onto her back, mutter something incomprehensible, open her mouth and commence to snore gently.

Joe even closed her mouth with the tip of his forefinger and then let her jaw drop open again. She stayed asleep. A feeling of elation zipped through him, coupled with a tight feeling in his throat.

He reached down and grabbed his penis. It was already rock hard with expectation. He drew back the foreskin and squeezed his damp glans, drawing a stuttering breath.

Carefully he peeled the duvet off himself, and sat up on the edge of the bed. The hardness of his curved erection pressed into his stomach. He stroked the length of it proudly and caressed his balls with his fingertips.

He was feeling good. Alive. He stood up. It swayed in front of him. It was huge, throbbing urgently. She would love every painful inch of it.

He glided out of the bedroom, his feet creeping along the deep carpet. Moments later he was at the far end of the hallway outside Claire’s bedroom. He pushed the door open.

Claire’s teddy-bear nightlight glowed in the darkness, casting enough of a dim glow to allow Joe’s eyes to see into the room. Claire’s petite figure was curled up in a ball underneath the quilt. She moved when Joe opened the door, lifting her head to see.

She had not been asleep, but had been ready, waiting fearfully for this moment.

‘ Claire, you’re awake,’ Joe whispered, as if surprised. ‘I was checking to see if you were okay, darling.’

‘ I am, so go away please.’ Her voice trembled.

Joe stepped into the room, clicking the door closed behind him.

Claire stiffened and drew the cover up to her chin. Joe took two steps across the room to the bed and settled down on the edge of it. Claire emitted a little whimper of fright.

‘ Its okay, sweetheart,’ he reassured her. He reached over and stroked her hair. ‘It’s okay, don’t worry.’ The whimper metamorphosed into a despairing groan. ‘Now be quiet, honey… come on, don’t be afraid… you know you like it as much as I do. Give me your hand.’ She drew away from him, but he grabbed her with great strength. ‘That’s it, come on… touch me here — and don’t forget, it’s our little secret, so let’s make sure we don’t wake your mummy up.’

This was the first time Kruger had been into one of the homes Felicity shared with Bussola. It was the one on Ocean Drive, South Beach, facing the Atlantic. The other two houses were too far away for Kruger to have been driven there in such a short space of time.

Had he been less inclined towards wringing her neck, Kruger might have enjoyed the Grand Tour of the house that Felicity gave him. Impressed to see what crime could buy in terms of material possessions. As it was, the whole shooting match passed him by; even the less-than-subtle pause in one of the bedrooms when Felicity’s body language screamed out the word ‘screw’. When he didn’t respond to the invitation she gave him a look like he was a piece of shit and carried on with the tour.

He dutifully followed, brooding intensely, aware that the two goons were lurking in the background shadows, ready to pounce should Felicity give the signal.

Eventually they sat in a huge conservatory overlooking the outdoor pool (there was an indoor one, naturally). She poured him a very colourful drink which tasted like paraffin.

‘ Why the hell have you dragged me out here?’ he wanted to know.

‘ You’ve been avoiding me, Stevie.’

‘ I haven’t. I’ve just not got round to returning your calls.’

‘ Same as,’ she said childishly.

‘ And anyway, what earthly reason would I have to call you, Liss? As far as I’m aware, our marital business has been finalised. You stung me for more than you deserved, I paid up, we’re even, you married Bussola.’

‘ Aw, it’s not about money,’ she said with a flutter of her hand. ‘I got more money now than I ever had in my life. I’m rollin’ in the stuff.’

‘ In that case,’ Kruger cut in, not one to miss a chance, ‘how ‘bout giving me back that quarter of a mill your shyster lawyer screwed outta me?’

Felicity snorted dismissively. ‘Spent it. Every last godamned cent — as a gesture to our short, momentarily sweet, then very sour marriage.’

‘ That figures,’ Kruger responded with a bitter tone, recalling a marriage that had been pretty much a shambles from day one.

They had met at a point in time when both of them had been at a low ebb in their lives. Kruger was in a deep rough patch following the disappearance of his second wife with some creep of a Disney executive in Orlando. Kruger felt he had been struck by lightning because he had been truly, madly, passionately in love with the woman, worshipped the ground she glided over, even. For all that, she had dumped him with all the ceremony of taking the trash out, leaving a gaping hole in his heart.

His response had been to throw himself into his work in a big way. Often he worked fourteen hours per day: never less than eleven. Then, because he had problems sleeping even after such exhausting hours, he found himself drifting through Miami nightlife; clubs, bars: strip-joints, often finding solace at four in the morning: clutching a half-empty bottle of bourbon.

Since the age of fourteen, Felicity had been trying to make it big as a singer. She was always on the periphery of a big break and had been the backing singer for several big acts. She had released one single which sold a couple of thousand copies before sinking without trace.

When she hit her thirties her agency dropped her like a hot fajita; it became apparent that despite her good looks and superb voice, she lacked that certain ‘something’ to set her apart from the crowd. And she had passed into that dangerous decade in life when women do not become stars.

She gravitated south, following club and hotel work, hit the bottle, dabbled in dope, and managed to eke out a reasonable living as a hotel singer around. Miami and Fort Lauderdale. It was in a hotel in the latter town at three in the morning that she met Kruger, clinging precariously to a bar stool.

After exchanging their tales of woe, the next logical step for two lonely people was obvious. That same night they booked into a suite, ripped each other’s clothes off, fell onto the bed and humped way past dawn. They emerged three days later, much the worse for wear.

A whirlwind romance followed, with little thought for future compatibility. Marriage seemed the natural progression, though each soon discovered that a relationship based solely on mutually-attracted genitalia does not make for a lasting partnership.

Living together as man and wife proved to be a horrendous experience for both.

Felicity was naturally a slob. She kept late hours, slept all day.

Kruger, on the other hand, was a well-ordered man who liked routine and tidiness. When he eventually got himself back on an even keel and out of the bottle, he realised that returning home to an apartment which looked like it had been burglarised and a wife who was still in bed — usually full of crumbs — was not what he wanted.

The disputes between them were out of this world.

Then one night Felicity was singing in a grotty hotel in Lemon City owned (although she did not know this at the time) by Mario Bussola. He happened to be in the audience and became smitten by her gravelly voice and curvaceous appearance. After her set, he summoned her to a private room and they almost immediately began an adulterous relationship; Bussola also gave her a fat contract to sing in his chain of six hotels.

She fell in love with the overweight gangster.

It was the end for her and Kruger. Though she was technically responsible for the downfall of the marriage, that didn’t mean she left the relationship without a fight for a huge percentage of Kruger’s stash.

Kruger wasn’t sorry to see her go.

Back in the present, Kruger glanced down at his gold Rolex. With a quick grin he thought maybe he was being too harsh. A few good things had come from the brief relationship: the London honeymoon, the Rolex, the sex — which had been tremendous — and he had recovered his self-esteem.

He smiled at her and sighed. She did look good sitting there in her work-out gear, the spandex clinging tightly to the shapely outline of her body.

‘ So, c’mon, what’s all this about? I didn’t return your calls and you have me kidnapped by two extras from Goodfellas. It’s a federal offence, honey.’

She shrugged and took a sip of her multi-coloured cocktail through a wiggly straw which looked like a piece of spaghetti. ‘So go to the fibbies, ya big cry baby.’

‘ Liss,’ Kruger said firmly, using the pet name he had always called her, ‘stop assin’ around and tell me what’s goin’ on.’

‘ How’s business?’

‘ Good to booming.’

‘ I wanna hire you for some detective work.’

‘ Such as?’

‘ I want somebody followed — to see what they’re gettin’ up to.’

‘ Is that it?’ Kruger growled. ‘You drag me here for that? Why in hell didn’t ya tell the fucking telephonist? She woulda sent someone round.’

‘ I don’t just want someone, Stevie… I want you.’

His eyes narrowed, suspicion growing in him like a cancer. ‘I’ll send one of my best guys round in the morning. I don’t follow people any more.’

She shook her head stubbornly. ‘No, honey. I want you.’

Kruger leaned back in the cane chair. It creaked under his weight. There was the remnant of an ache in his back where he’d been punched.

‘ Why?’

She pouted. ‘It’s Mario.’ Her eyelids flickered, eyes moistened. ‘I think he’s being unfaithful.’

Kruger staunched a belly laugh. At last — something to brighten up his day again. ‘Expand.’ He interlocked his fingers around a knee and bowed forwards like a counsellor whilst trying to keep a straight face.

‘ Oh, it’s just — oh, I don’t know — something, y’know? The hours he keeps, the times he doesn’t come home, how we ever only seem to screw maybe once a month, if that. God, I feel so horny. I think he’s got someone else, Stevie,’ she concluded desperately.

‘ Felicity,’ Kruger stated. ‘Your husband, as you well know, is one of the biggest and most feared gang bosses in the United States of America. The fact that he has time to come home at all is a blessing. He’s a busy guy. He’s got fingers to break, debts to collect, people to blackmail and intimidate… and all those groupies hangin’ around. It must be very tempting for him. He’s only human — like you once were. And if you think he married you for any other reason than to have a good-looking woman on his arm, you’re kidding yourself.’

‘ You’re a son of a bitch, Steve,’ she said tightly.

‘ I tell the truth, that’s all. And to be completely honest with you, Liss, I hope he is seeing someone else. It’ll teach you a lesson.’

‘ Our marriage was over long before I slept with Mario,’ she protested.

Kruger looked at her pityingly for a few moments, tutted, slapped his thighs and said, ‘Gotta go, babe.’

‘ I still want to hire you.’

‘ Naw — it’s company policy not to get involved in anything which remotely stinks of the mob. Mario Bussola is very definitely mob. I don’t like to find my operatives with their brains blown out, so the answer’s no. Now, if you’d be kind enough to beckon your human Dobermans back here, I’d like my vehicle keys.’ He stood up.

‘ Sit down, Steve,’ she ordered him, a hard edge to her voice, an uncompromising expression on her face. Something made him obey. ‘You will work for me — and you wanna know why? I’ll tell ya — because if you don’t I’ll put, you out of business like that.’ She snapped her fingers with a crack. ‘I can ruin you, Stevie babe, because I know things about you, don’t I? Things you would hate the Feds to know.’

A trickle of sweat rolled down the valley between Danny’s breasts. Her whole body was on fire, every nerve-end tingling, overloading her with pleasure. She could feel her toes against the sheets, the skin on her inner thighs holding and moving over the skin on the outer thighs of the man underneath her. His fingers kneaded into her backside, his hands then caressed her breasts, fingering and rolling her dark, purple nipples, tugging them gently, so they became long and hard. But above all she could feel every inch of him deep inside her and the growing sensation radiating out from her clitoris as she ground hard against his pubic bone.

She shuddered, threw back her head, arched her spine, rising and holding him there, the tip of his penis wedged at the entrance to her throbbing vagina. It was coming. They were coming. She could keep him positioned there and not move and know she would climax, but he was there too and she could feel he was hard and big and ready for his orgasm.

She gazed down at him. They locked eyes.

‘ I think you’ve hit the button,’ she moaned.

She rammed herself down onto him at the same time as, he thrust upwards and they collided in an intense, writhing, wild orgasm which seemed to go on for ever.

When it was eventually over and Danny had got her breath back, she rolled languidly off him and reached for her cigarettes on the bedside cabinet. She lit two simultaneously and handed one across. He took it gratefully from her fingers.

Danny inhaled the strong smoke deeply, held it in, then blew it slowly out. Her heart slackened its pace as the magical sensation of just having had great sex ebbed away.

‘ That was fantastic.’

Danny sighed. She turned to look at him, brushing her hair away from her eyes. ‘I know, Jack… but it’s going to have to stop. This can’t go on. This is definitely the last time.’

Words she had said many times before.

The difference was — this time she meant them.

Felicity’s mouth turned into a wicked smile of triumph. She sat back, took a long draw on her straw, and watched her ex-husband’s face turn deep red.

She did not have to spell it out for him. He knew exactly what she meant. A shiver of fear rippled down his spine. He licked his dry lips.

‘ Things you would hate the Feds to know.’

The words echoed around in his head.

In truth, what she’d said was an understatement. Not only would Kruger not like the Feds to know, he’d be darned upset if the CIA got to know, absolutely desolate should the State Department ever find out, or for that matter any godamned person walking the streets.

What Felicity was referring to was the time when he left the cops and started out in business, and the first six months of trading were hell on earth. He struggled to make any sort of living, was on the verge of giving up and becoming a security guard in a shopping mall.

Then, out of the blue, he was approached by two different people on the same day.

One had goods to sell.

The other wanted to buy.

Knowing that no such circumstances could be purely coincidental, Kruger sussed he had been targeted because the parties obviously didn’t want to be seen doing business directly with each other. They needed the buffer or an agent and Kruger, down on his luck, seemed the perfect man.

He had wrestled with his conscience, his mind in a turmoil.

It was possible he was being set up by the authorities for some reason. But if he wasn’t, it was just the piece of luck he needed. One which would kick-start his business to the tune of two hundred grand in fees.

With both eyes wide open, conscious that if the deal went belly-up he would become an inmate of Dade County Correctional Institute, not just a visitor, he took the chance.

He arranged to sell over two million dollars’ worth of I8-inch electric shock batons to a Middle Eastern buyer, knowing full well the end user was Iraq. Which, twelve months after the Gulf War, was a very naughty thing to do.

Although he lived on a wire for several months after, there were no repercussions. No midnight raids by SWAT squads. No visits by men in black suits. Nothing. The surge of money was accounted for creatively and Kruger’s business went through the roof. He had never since, to his knowledge, made any illegal deals.

All was well.

Until now.

Felicity, his ruthless, unfaithful ex-wife, had plucked it right out of the mist and slapped it across his face like a wet fish.

Kruger rubbed his eyes. His knee began to ache. He recalled telling Felicity the story of his dubious deal one night early in their relationship, in the days when he confused lust with love. He had vowed her to secrecy. She had, of course, promised silence. Damn pillowtalk, he thought bitterly. It always ends up biting your ass.

‘ What d’you want me to do?’ he asked with an expression of resignation on his countenance.

Danny looked directly into the eyes of Detective Inspector Jack Sands, the man who was her boss. The man who had become her lover.

‘ No, Jack, I really mean it this time. There’s no future for either of us in this… unless you leave your wife, that is. You know how many times you’ve promised to do that and never kept your word.’ Her voice was shaking with emotion as she spoke, delivering a speech she had practised over and over again in the last few days, but which at that moment she struggled to remember. ‘You’ll never leave her, will you? I accept that now and that’s why this has to stop. Now. Whilst no one else knows, whilst we’re still in a position not to hurt people.’

Sands stared blankly at her. Then he blinked rapidly as the meaning of the words sank in. As she finished, he sighed and closed his eyes. ‘But Danny, I love you,’ he pleaded pitifully. ‘It’s just the kids… you know? I can’t walk out on them.’

‘ In that case, you obviously don’t love me,’ Danny retorted rather cruelly. In truth she did not want to wreck a marriage, though on the other hand she thought she loved Sands deeply. It was a love that was tearing her apart. She knew it had to end now, once and for all. That was the best way for both of them. To be able to leave the relationship with some dignity, try to be adult about it, part as friends if that was possible in the circumstances. ‘So get dressed and go, please, Jack. It’s got to end now. It’s as good a time as any, with me getting promoted next week. We won’t be under each other’s feet all the time, won’t be in adjoining offices, won’t be able to look at each other all day, every day.’

She clenched her teeth and hardened her jawline, feeling absolutely gutted by what she was doing.

‘ But…’

‘ No! Just get up and go,’ she said sternly. ‘It’s over. Accept it and then we can both get on with our lives.’

Sands dressed silently and very, very slowly whilst Danny stood in one corner of the room in her dressing gown, cigarette in hand. It was all she could do to prevent herself grabbing him and dragging him back into bed.

Dressed, he paused at the bedroom door, gazed back at her.

She looked down at her fingernails, refusing to meet his eyes. That would have snapped her resolve in a second.

Jack closed the door softly.

Danny heard his footsteps descending the stairs. The front door opened and closed.

She broke down and wept.

And not many miles away, in a tiny bedroom in a sea-front hotel in South Shore, another female cried quietly to herself, but for a completely different reason.

Claire Lilton was folded up into a tight ball, her arms hugging her knees, nightdress pulled securely around her. She rocked herself with the steady motion of a disturbed person. She had once seen Polar Bears in a zoo, not long ago on a school trip. She had watched one of the huge great beasts rock backwards and forwards whilst it stood there, trapped in its tiny enclosure. She had looked on in empathy because all she could think was, That’s me. That’s just me. Rocking, and can’t get away.

God, how she hated the man. The stepfather who abused her right under her mother’s nose since coming into their lives two years before. The man her mother loved so much, who could do no wrong in her eyes. The bastard, the fucking two-faced bastard. Claire’s mother would never have believed it, even if she’d been told right to her face that her stepdad was doing things to her, making her do things to him, forcing himself into her until he jizzed, sometimes up her bum. Claire didn’t even know the words for some of the things he did to her, but she knew she was being ‘shagged’ because she had heard other, older girls talking about it, describing it. Saying how some of the lads did it to them.

But not their fathers.

Claire stopped rocking. Her eyes stared into the darkness. The rain beat down against her window.

She also knew enough to understand she might have a baby — because that was how people got babies, by shagging — especially now she had started her periods.

The thought terrified her.

But what frightened her even more was the threat that, should she ever tell anybody — anybody — her stepdad would kill her.