One Dead Witness

Chapter Three

Trent was awake long before the cell lights flickered on the following morning. He had watched the darkness of the night slowly fade to the dull greyness of dawn and eventually the brightness of day. He saw these changes take place through his cell window from 4 a.m. onwards, lying there on his bunk with his hands clasped behind his head.

His mind was very clear by the, time the key turned in lock and the screws barked to the residents that the new day had dawned.

Trent had reached two conclusions.

The first was that if he stayed in prison, whichever prison it happened to be, this or any other, he would continue to suffer at the hands of mad bastards like Blake and his cronies. His miserable life would be continually made worse. Therefore, in order to make his existence tolerable, Trent knew he had to do something to make everyone acknowledge he could not be messed about with.

The second was that he’d had enough of being in prison. He promised himself that if the opportunity ever presented itself, he would escape. He needed to do this because he had vowed to bring retribution to the people responsible for putting him in here. There was no way he could even out that score with another eight years still to serve.

The sooner the better for both ideas.

And, Trent thought as the cell door was pushed open, if the two could be combined…

The sea, the sex and the emotional turmoil of the day before had taken its toll on Danny Furness. She managed to rise at eight and slope into the shower, but hardly had the strength to dry herself, put on her make-up to the usual high standard and then eat breakfast. She did all three in a state of extreme lethargy.

She drove into work with a jittery feeling in her belly. There were several busy days to go before her promotion and transfer to the CID, which meant it would be impossible to avoid Jack who, if he so chose, could make life very uncomfortable for her.

She hoped he would be okay about the split. She knew, however, he had a stubborn, sometimes nasty streak to his nature. A smooth ride was not a foregone conclusion…

… which was confirmed with a vengeance when she drove into the police station yard, found a parking space in the covered car park and spotted Sands in her rearview mirror just before she was about to get out of the car. He must have been lurking in the shadows, waiting for her to arrive. She snarled and swore under her breath. He wasn’t even giving her the chance to get into the office, for God’s sake!

She pounded the steering-wheel in frustration, got a grip on herself and clambered slowly out of the Mercedes, mentally preparing herself for an unpleasant encounter.

Sands stalked up to her, positioning himself between her car and the next one along, effectively blocking Danny’s path.

He looked far worse than Danny had ever seen him. His eyes were sunk in their sockets. His skin hung loosely off his cheekbones as though he’d lost weight overnight. His hair was in disarray, his suit crumpled as if he’d slept in it, which he probably had. He was a million light years distant from the normally immaculate Jack Sands, dapper Detective Inspector.

For a fleeting moment Danny’s heart reached out to him. She had an urge to hug and squeeze him, tell him she was wrong, that everything was hunky-dory, that yes, she’d continue to be the other woman. The one he visited twice a week for sex — if he had time; the one who waited stupidly for his call, the one madly in love with him, dreaming of being his wife yet knowing for sure she never would be.

The moment whizzed by and Danny found her will-power. Being on the pointed end of the eternal triangle was not going to be her future. Once again, she looked coldly at him.

‘ Danny,’ he gasped, the smell of stale intoxicants on his breath, ‘don’t do this to me.’

She shook her head. ‘No, Jack — don’t do this to me. Let me pass.’

He drew himself up to his full height, almost six-three. He was a big, powerful man. Danny saw a look come into his eyes which made her shiver. That of a desperate man, capable of anything.

Suddenly she felt queasy. Her legs almost buckled.

‘ Jack, it’s over. I’m sorry, but it’s best for both of us.’ She tried to sound reasonable. She ducked to one side and made to walk through the narrow gap between Sands and her car.

His arm shot out, preventing her passing. He side-stepped smartly to block her with his body.

‘ No,’ he croaked. He was on the verge of either tears or hysteria. ‘It’s not over. Not unless I say it’s over. I love you, Danny. You can’t just end it like this. I need you.’

‘ More than you need your wife?’ she rejoined bitterly.

‘ I’ve told you why I can’t leave her,’ he hissed.

‘ Then it is over, isn’t it? Don’t be a fool. Let me pass. We both have work to do. This is just silly.’

They were the wrong words to say. Some inner demon overtook Sands as these last words left Danny’s mouth. He seized her coat by the lapels and rammed her painfully back against the Mercedes as though she was a prisoner he was trying to subdue.

Danny’s literal knee-jerk reaction floored him. He emitted a howl and doubled over. His hands shot down to nurse his groin. Danny pushed past and walked smartly away whilst he supported himself on the boot of her car with one hand, the other gingerly massaging his balls.

Then he spoke the words, which for Danny, finally nailed the coffin lid on their relationship.

‘ You fucking bitch!’

As the day wore on, Trent’s thoughts about combining an escape from prison with a revenge attack on Blake became all-consuming. He could think of nothing else. Escape and revenge, escape, revenge.

But how, he wondered.

As he strolled around the prison, ignored by virtually everyone, a few ideas seemed to slot into place as he thought long and hard about the problem.

Blake and his two colleagues had blighted Trent’s life ever since their arrival as inmates eighteen months earlier; they had done the same to every other sex-offender in the place. They had systematically rooted out all the ‘pervs’, as they referred to them, and made their whole existence a misery on a grand scale.

For some solace, and so they could exchange information on Blake’s intentions and movements, the pervs banded together. About eight of them formed a sort of club, though Trent tended to keep his distance from them. Apart from holding them in a kind of contempt, he didn’t want to be seen to be too pally with them because he actually felt superior.

But that morning, Trent purposely sought one of them out — an insipid worm of a man who had been convicted of a series of indecent assaults on boys in the local authority children’s home where he was Head Warden and the deaths of two of them. His name was Victor Wallwork.

Trent found him sitting alone at breakfast, shunned by the other inmates who were eating at that time. He sat down next to him and spooned sugar into the grey, lifeless porridge in the bowl in front of him. It looked more like wet cement than food.

Wallwork did not acknowledge Trent. He munched toast, slurped loudly out of a mug of tea, his unfocused eyes stuck somewhere in the middle distance.

Between mouthfuls of his own stodge, Trent said through the side of his mouth; ‘They got me last night, the bastards. Blake and his crew. Bastards!’ He spat out the last word.

‘ I know,’ grunted Wallwork. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair.

‘ You next,’ Trent informed him casually.

Wallwork choked on his tea and toast. He broke into a paroxysm of coughing and spluttering whilst he tried to clear his throat. He turned to face Trent. At the best of times Wallwork’s face had a deathly-grey pallor. Now, what blood there was had seeped away into his boots leaving him ashen-white.

‘ True. I heard ‘em talking after,’ Trent whispered. ‘I heard your name. “Gonna get some of his own medicine” I heard’ em say. Mentioned your name, Vic.’

Wallwork could not even get his mouth to form and project a single word. His lips opened and closed a few times, making a popping sound like a fish out of water.

‘ They buggered me until I bled,’ Trent continued, laying it on thick.

‘ When?’ Wallwork managed to croak. ‘When will they come after me?’

Trent shrugged. ‘Could be any time. Suddenly they’ll be there.’

Wallwork closed his eyes hopelessly.

‘ We need to fight back,’ Trent said. ‘We need to make a stand, otherwise our lives won’t be worth shite.’

Wallwork snorted derisively, but there was a touch of hysteria in his voice. ‘Yeah, like sure. They’d kill us if we did anything.’

‘ Are you at the farm today?’

‘ Yeah, why? What’s that got to do with it?’

‘ Plenty.’ Trent sounded mysterious. He laid his spoon down, turned his face close to Wallwork’s and lowered his voice a couple of degrees to no more than a hoarse whisper. ‘We need to sort those bastards out once and for all and you can help me by bringing something back with you.’

‘ Oh, like a pitchfork, you mean? Don’t be stupid. We get searched going out and coming back. I don’t want to lose my privileges by being caught with something I shouldn’t have.’

‘ You’d rather have eight inches up your arse, would you? Probably followed by a broom-handle?’ Trent’s voice grated ferociously. ‘’Cos I’ll tell you now — it hurts. It fucking hurts. If you want to do anything about them, you’ll find a way of bringing what I want back in

… won’t you?’

Danny was tied up that morning with the bane which afflicts all police officers: paperwork.

For once, though, she was uncomplaining about it, kept her head down and tried not to look up when Sands came into the office for any reason. Out of the periphery of her vision she couldn’t help but notice him banging about, making everyone else’s life a misery. However, he studiously ignored her, for which she was grateful.

She guessed he might try to tag onto her at lunch, so when the chance came and he was otherwise engaged, she slipped out of the office and made her way to the canteen where she collected a sandwich and sat down opposite the man who was destined to be her next boss, Detective Inspector Henry Christie.

‘ I heard about your problems yesterday,’ Henry said to her, partway through the meal. He was eating a light salad. It looked like he was on a diet.

Briefly Danny was puzzled. How on earth did he know about Sands? Then it dawned on her. He was referring to Claire Lilton.

‘ Oh yeah. Little cow.’

‘ You did well. You’ deserve a commend,’ Henry said genuinely. ‘I hear some poor sod got blown off the prom in Morecambe, so you were lucky.’

‘ I should’ve let her drown.’

Henry laughed, changed the subject. ‘So — next Monday? You’ll be with us?’

‘ Can’t come quick enough. Really looking forward to it,’ Danny said with sweet expectancy. Working for Henry Christie, it was said, was a great pleasure. She knew his CID team was well-motivated and got results. She was eager to be a part of it.

She bit into her tuna-mayo sandwich — granary bread, no butter or margarine, no salt, light mayo. Having her back to one of the canteen doors meant she didn’t notice him come into the room so it was consequently a surprise when Jack Sands sat down next to Henry, bearing a plate of spaghetti Bolognese. He glared at her and his expression morphed into an evil smile. She attempted to respond with a pleasant greeting but it stuck somewhere in her throat.

Henry glanced quickly between the two of them. He immediately picked up the tension. It was like a crackle of static. His brow creased. Something was not quite right, the vibes informed him.

He nodded at Sands and they fell into an easy conversation to which Danny strenuously declined to contribute.

The phone on the other side of the room rang and was answered by an officer nearby. He clamped his hand across the mouthpiece and called across: ‘Danny — for you.’ He held up the phone.

She couldn’t have left her seat any faster, Henry noted.

Danny took the call, hung up and returned to the table where she collected her shoulder bag. ‘Someone at the desk to see me.’

Henry watched her leave, then glanced sideways at Sands whose eyes fixed on the door she had gone through, like he was in some sort of trance. His face had become hard and angry.

Henry speculated whether the rumours were true about Sands and Danny having a ‘liaison’. Maybe they’d just had some sort of lovers’ tiff, he thought.

Trent’s next target was another member of the small clique of sex-offenders, a man called Coysh who had been virtually conscripted by Blake to be a manservant — for him and his team. Coysh had willingly accepted this role of ‘fetch-me, carry-me’ because it kept him reasonably safe from the gang rapes organised by Blake. Even so, he had been subjected to a couple to keep him in his place and he was often ritually humiliated by Blake. Just for sport.

Trent went to Coysh for two reasons.

Firstly he worked in the kitchens and secondly he was generally up to date with Blake’s whereabouts — knowledge Trent would need in the near future.

They were out in the sunshine of the exercise yard when Trent accosted Coysh.

They conversed as they walked around. Coysh nodded at Trent’s requests. Easy — on both counts.

A couple of minutes later they parted.

Trent smiled. It was coming together quite nicely.

Danny was relieved to get away.

Once outside the canteen she breathed deeply, thanked God for the phone call and tried to stop herself shaking.

She did not bother to wait for the lift because sometimes it took ages to arrive and the last thing she wanted was to step into it and turn to find Jack behind her, trapping her.

Instead she chose the stairs, trotting quickly down them to first-floor level where she headed for the back of the enquiry desk.

‘ Hiya, Danny,’ the public enquiry assistant said. ‘It’s that Claire Lilton waiting for you. She’s in the foyer.’

‘ Cheers.’ Danny walked out through the security doors, into the waiting area. Unusually it was completely empty.

Claire Lilton had vanished.

Trent spent the remainder of his afternoon engaged in trading his stash of cash, sweets, cigarettes and cannabis around the prison.

He knew he could easily have approached one single person — a guy called Connor, the most powerful drugs dealer in the institution — to get. what he wanted, but a one-stop strategy wasn’t in line with his plans. He considered it more important to get around as many people as possible, act manically depressed following last night’s violent rape, and even mention the word ‘suicide’ a few times. That way as many people as possible knew of his intentions. He knew that in a short space of time the word would spread up to the screws who, he knew, would do nothing. Not that he cared. He wanted them to do nothing. Just to know.

By tea-time, Trent had bought enough tablets to kill an elephant, never mind a human being.

He inserted them one at a time into the hole in the waistband of his jeans. Towards the end of this process he had to push quite hard to get them in. He counted 162 assorted tablets, many of indeterminate origin.

The offices of Kruger Investigations were situated on the seventeenth floor of an office block in downtown Miami. This was the fourth relocation of the business which had begun its existence in a one-roomed grot-office above a rent-a-car place in Wynwood, north Miami. Each move had been to a larger premises, but never quite large enough to house the ever-expanding business. Finally Kruger had decided on impulse to take the whole floor of the current premises some two years earlier. It had proved to be a good move but once again, business had boomed to fit the available space. Another move was imminent, something in the business plan for the next year. He hoped to be able to take some space in the floor above as the company installed at present looked as though they were going bust. The only drawback to the place was the lack of spaces available in the underground parking facility, which was presently hogged by the finance company on the first two floors.

At midday Steve Kruger walked nonchalantly around the various offices, chatting to staff and laughing whilst munching a baguette packed with beef and sipping a Diet Coke.

He was pleased to see there were only a couple of people sitting around in the department which conducted what he termed ‘real investigations’. This meant they were busy on the streets, following adulterers, compiling reports for insurance companies, and doing all the stuff connected to real detective work. The department dealing with the recapture of bail jumpers was also sparsely populated too, indicating that a few unfortunates would be in the custody of the courts that night.

The offices which were busy were the ones dealing with the sales of specialist security equipment. Kruger sold anything connected with bomb disposal and search equipment, any sort of kit — excluding firearms — for police and special forces, surveillance and counter-surveillance, communications, personal and property protection.

On being invalided out of the cops, Kruger had originally intended to set up a one-man operation. Having been introduced at an early stage to the scope and potential profits associated with security and surveillance (albeit illegal) he decided to move forwards in two directions — the private investigations side and the security side.

Although the detective side was moderately profitable, its drawback was it was manpower intensive. The sales side, however, only needed a bank of phones, faxes, e-mail facilities and a nucleus of highly trained sales executives to bring in millions for very little effort. It was also fairly safe, whereas there was always some danger associated with being a detective.

Having been a cop, Steve loved that side of the business because it was in his blood and he would never downsize it. Besides anything else, it enhanced the reputation of the firm and kept him in good with the local cops and Feds.

He finished his Coke and sandwich, ditching the bottle and wrapper in a trash can. He nipped into a restroom, freshened up. Then he made his way to the conference room where three people waited for him. Not impatiently, just talking quietly to themselves.

Kruger entered and seated himself at the circular table.

They shut up.

‘ Mario Bussola,’ he announced, instantly getting their full attention.

Trent queued up for his evening meal, plastic tray in one hand, plastic cutlery in the other. Coysh was serving. He paid Trent no more heed than any other inmate, slopping the watery food onto his plate and handing it across the hatch with no more than the merest of nods.

Trent collected his chocolate pudding and mug of tea, then wandered to a dining table where some others were eating. He wanted to be in a crowd. He slid the plate off the tray, placed it on the table and surreptitiously removed the four-inch kitchen knife Coysh had loosely taped to the underside of the plate. He looked around cautiously, relieved no one seemed to be taking any notice of him. The two screws on duty in the dining hall were having an animated conversation with a couple of old lags, probably about football. None of his fellow inmates were remotely interested in him. This was not unusual because few people actually ever spoke to him, a manifestation of the low regard in which he was held in the prison hierarchy.

He ate with his usual lack of gusto, leaning on the table with one elbow, forking the food into his mouth. His other hand rested on his thigh, fingers touching the slim blade. One edge of it was serrated, as he had requested. With his index finger he touched the tip of the knife. It was sharp. He pushed the pad of his fingertip harder down, almost to the point where he was about to draw blood. He stopped before this happened. Yes, it was sharp. It was only a small knife, but if used swiftly, accurately, it would be deadly.

Trent quivered with pleasure. He grasped the blade in his fist and held it tightly, knowing that if he drew his hand upwards very quickly, the blade would slice the palm of his hand wide open.

It was an ideal weapon.

Coysh had done good.

Trent put another unappetising forkful of corned-beef hash into his mouth. He glanced triumphantly around the dining room as he ate it.

Using only one hand, Trent eased the knife inch by inch up his sleeve and placed his watch strap over the blade to keep it in place.

He continued to eat his meal, feeling very, very happy. So happy in fact he rocked on his chair, but not so much that people might see him. After all, he was suicidally depressed and people like that don’t go about with stupid grins on their faces.

After returning his empty plate and plastic cutlery to the appropriate pile and bucket, he nodded discreetly to Coysh who was now eating his own meal and wandered back to his cell. He tried to look as though he might kill himself at any moment.

His pillow was foam-filled. He had prepared a hole in the foam into which the knife slotted perfectly. He bunged some foam back into the hole to plug it and slid the pillowcase back over. It was, he believed, good enough to withstand a cursory check by a screw.

Bursting with happiness, Trent sat on the bed and delved into his pile of magazines. He picked one called Girl Power which was aimed at thirteen- to sixteen-year old girls — a little old for his tastes, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. It was full of photos of young girls and often contained articles about sex, some of which had caused uproar in the national press for their explicitness. Trent settled back to read about fellatio, dreaming that very soon this would be a reality for him.

One of Kruger’s company directors was a woman called Myrna Rosza. She was a trained lawyer, but Kruger had known her originally as an FBI agent. He had offered her a job once Kruger Investigations got kick-started and she had grabbed it with both hands, having had her fill of endless FBI bureaucracy. She was black, in her early forties, married to a surgeon, no kids. She was also wiltingly beautiful and possessed more assertiveness than all Kruger’s employees put together. She was his conscience and wasn’t frightened of saying no to him.

Kruger paused.

He had told the three members of the board his story, obviously leaving out certain elements, and knew he had them eating out of his hand — emotionally, if not intellectually… with one exception. The fly in the ointment, he noted glumly as his and Myrna’s eyes fused across the table.

‘ No,’ she said stubbornly. Her perfect mouth pursed into a little ‘o’. Kruger had often thought he could have kissed that mouth. Right at that moment he would have preferred to drive his fist into it.

And with that single word, Kruger saw she had unleashed everyone else from his spell. He cursed her big brown eyes.

Although technically he could have made any damned decision he wanted — after all, it was his company — the reality was that he needed the backing of the board on any controversial issues. Which is what this was.

‘ We have agreed time and time again that we will never become involved in any way in any sort of investigation or work which smells remotely of the mob. And Steve,’ Myrna said patronisingly, ‘you of all people should know why.’

Kruger winced. The memory of the slug tearing into his thigh just above his right knee jolted him vividly. Yes, he should know why — because he almost got himself killed once over. But he had good reason for going against company policy on this one.

‘ I understand what you’re saying, honey,’ Kruger responded, ‘but we’re talking about my ex-wife here, a woman I still have deep feelings for.’

‘ Not what you once told me,’ Myrna rumbled.

‘ Well, I do — and when I saw her yesterday I realised I’d been hiding those feelings from myself.’ Kruger reddened, feeling idiotic, saying words which were a complete lie. ‘I figured that if we do a good job and find Bussola cheatin’ on her, she might just come back to me.’ He almost choked to death on the words, but kept a straight face.

‘ So, for the sake of your ex-wife,’ Myrna said, outraged, ‘you’re suggestin’ we mount a surveillance on a mobster, when even the joint forces of the Feds, local cops, DEA and AFT haven’t managed to sniff him out, despite their resources?’ She looked around at each of the board members. ‘I suggest we all say no.’ There was a general nodding of heads, though no one made direct eye contact with Kruger who was, after all, the boss man. ‘Bussola is a dangerous guy,’ Myrna boomed in conclusion. ‘If he finds out we’re tailing him, he’ll react in his usual way. I don’t believe any of our operatives should be put into such danger.’

Kruger leaned forwards. His face was thunderous.

‘ Okay, okay,’ he breathed angrily. ‘I won’t overrule you, though I really want to, but I will tell you something you should know.’ He took a deep breath, wondering how he should phrase the bombshell. ‘If we don’t take on this assignment — and this is the truth — everyone in this room, everybody sat out there in those offices, every one of our teams out on the streets will be out of a job tomorrow.’

Trent was disturbed a short time later by Coysh who was wearing a loose-fitting blouson jacket zipped up to the neck. He was holding the hem tightly. He stepped into Trent’s cell, found him to be alone and unzipped the jacket. Almost a hundred Styrofoam cups fell out onto the floor. He emptied all his pockets and produced another fifteen, crushed and broken.

Trent gathered them up delightedly and began to stuff them underneath his mattress.

‘ I’ll probably need another load — maybe more,’ he told Coysh. ‘Can you do it?’

Coysh nodded but eyed Trent uncertainly. ‘What d’you want them for?’ He was completely befuddled. ‘I thought you wanted to sort Blake out, not give him a tea party.’

‘ I do — and I will. You’ll see.’

‘ What, with Styrofoam cups?’

Trent winked. ‘Method in my madness. Now, there is something else you can do for me…’

‘ You bastard, Steve Kruger.’

Myrna’s countenance was set hard as granite as she faced him across the office. The others had left, cowed by Kruger’s shock announcement and the brief conversation afterwards. Myrna wasn’t to be railroaded though. When they were alone together she powered into him like a prize-fighter.

‘ You cannot make a statement like that, then say no more, refuse to give us the “why”. That’s treatin’ us all like imbeciles, Steve. How in hell are we even supposed to believe a word of what you said — that we’d all lose our jobs? It’s preposterous.’

She was a very fine-looking woman, Kruger had to admit. Standing there in front of him, hands on hips, feet shoulder-width apart, she was pretty darn intimidating. He weakened for a moment, then rallied.

‘ Myrna, I’m not lyin’ to you.’ He sat down heavily on a chair and his head dropped into his hands. He blew a farting noise into his palms, then looked up at her, allowing his fingers to stretch his facial features. ‘But you were right about one thing… Felicity does absolutely nothing for me. I hate the goddamned sight of her. I definitely do not harbour any affection for her.’

‘ Thought not.’ Myrna’s voice held a wisp of triumph. ‘So what then, what’s this all about?’

Kruger snorted a short laugh.

‘ She’s got a hold on me, Myrna. Something stupid I did a few years ago, something so completely idiotic you wouldn’t believe it.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Damn… and I think she’s got the paperwork to prove it.’

‘ Tell me — now,’ Myrna insisted.

He made the decision to admit to only the second person in his life about the illicit weapon-dealing which had provided the foundations on which the successful enterprise known as Kruger Investigations had been constructed.

Trent was in the TV lounge watching a documentary about the fire brigade, unable to keep a smirk off his face. A couple of other inmates were in the room but the majority of the others were packed into the main association room where a big-screen TV had been erected and onto which a satellite beamed a live Manchester United game. Trent could hear ‘ooh’s’ and ‘ahh’s’.

Vic Wallwork sauntered in, looking ill and as worried as ever. He sat next to Trent. They ignored each other for a few minutes as the fire fighters on TV tackled a very nasty blaze by which several people were trapped.

When everyone was rescued — to an appropriate but unconnected cheer from the football audience — Trent said, ‘Well?’

‘ Yeah, done it. But never again, never a-fuckin-gain.’

‘ How much?’

‘ Just what you ordered.’

‘ Well done, Vic.’

‘ When are they gonna get me, Trent?’

‘ I don’t exactly know, but if I were you, Vic, I’d keep my arse right up against the wall… not that that’ll help, you understand, because they’ll still fuck you.’

Danny’s day concluded about seven that evening.

After having put the puzzlement of Claire Lilton’s disappearance out of her mind, she spent most of the afternoon interviewing a young lad who had been the subject of repeated indecent assaults and buggery by the head teacher of the primary school he attended. It proved to be a pretty harrowing afternoon, made all the more difficult because the boy was only six. Whilst interviewing him Danny felt like a fraud for thinking she had problems. At least they were solvable… but the youngster, unless he was something very special indeed, had a lifetime of nightmares ahead as well as medical problems. Danny’s predicament melted into insignificance.

In the end she obtained a first-class video statement which would hopefully get the teacher put away for many years.

Her brain was the texture of cotton wool balls when she rode down in the lift and walked out into the rear yard of the police station. Night had fallen early, rain was splattering down and it was dark even though the yard was illuminated by electric lights. It became even darker as she walked into the covered area where the car was parked.

She swore to herself.

It was only at that moment she remembered Jack Sands and the little episode from the morning. She realised as she approached her car that she had not taken any precautions against the possibility of a repeat confrontation.

Even though she was in a police car park, it was poorly lit, she was alone and feeling vulnerable. No one was around to hear her screams.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. A tight feeling, as if her skin had been super-frozen, spread across her face.

Suddenly she was on guard, holding her breath.

Every shadow was Jack Sands, waiting to pounce.

Her trembling hand snaked into her bag. Her fingers sought, fought and withdrew the remote locking control and keys for her car.

She quickened her step… and of course she had parked at the far end of the car park.

In a matter of seconds she had reached the rear of her car — safely. Then she was inside the car, slamming the door, desperate to slide the key into the ignition. She was okay. She had made it. She giggled a little at her stupidity.

The key went in… and her door was yanked open. Sands reached in, grabbed her and dragged her out in a split second before she could react. He dumped her onto the concrete and the base of her spine crashed on the hard surface, sending a shock wave up to her cranium.

She opened her mouth to scream — but Sands was quickly on top of her, hand clasped over her mouth, forcing her back, smashing her head against the ground. He pinned her down and straddled her chest.

‘ Bitch. Don’t ever think I’ll let you get away with kneeing me in the balls.’

He struck her open-handed across the cheek as hard as he could, whipping her face sideways.

Then, miraculously, his weight was lifted from her chest and he seemed to be flying through the air in a flurry of limbs.

Quickly Danny got to her knees, spun round, saw it was Henry Christie who had pulled Sands off, but that now Sands had recovered, gained the upper hand and was laying into Henry, pummelling him with a series of blows. Henry defended himself like a boxer, hands protecting his head, forearms his chest: He rolled with the onslaught, saw a minute gap and launched a rock-hard fist onto the point of Sands’s chin. His head jerked right back on impact.

The blow knocked him stone cold. His legs crumpled underneath him like a drunken man. He went down with a groan and a thud.

‘ Damn!’ yelled Henry, rubbing the knuckles of his fist, doing a little jig. It felt as though the cap of the knuckle had been dislodged. ‘Yow! That effin’ hurts.’

Danny got to her feet. Her lower spine throbbed painfully. Her face was smarting and she could feel a lump growing like a tumour on the back of her head. She stared speechless at her stunned ex-lover who was squirming around on the floor, then looked at Henry.

‘ You okay?’ he asked.

She nodded dumbly, muttered a thanks of sorts.

‘ No probs. Look, you go home. I’ll deal with Jack. If you need to talk, we’ll talk — later.’

‘ Yeah… yep,’ she said unsurely, still dazed. She rolled back into her car and started the engine.

Henry took hold of Sands’s lapels and heaved him out of the path of her rear wheels.

Seconds later she was gone, leaving Henry with a fast-recovering Detective Inspector Sands who had a good bit of explaining to do.