Free One Dead Witness by Nick Oldham

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