Danny thanked the operator, hung up.
Yet still nothing registered with her.
She trawled deep into her long-term memory… and there it was, filed away neatly and nicely in the attic storeroom of her brain cells. The firearms certificate was the key, the reason why Danny knew him.
She had been the police officer, all of fifteen years before, who had visited Lilton at his home address somewhere in Blackburn following his application for a certificate. You had to check for previous convictions, visit the house and ensure there were safe storage facilities for the weapons. It was a routine procedure. Routine but necessary. Then you had to make a recommendation as to whether the applicant was suitable to hold a firearms certificate.
… It was all coming back as she thought long and hard.
The petrol ate up the Styrofoam until it was sated and could devour no more. Finally, Trent was left with a thick, syrupy substance.
‘ There we are,’ he declared happily. ‘Whatever you do, don’t touch it,’ he warned Wallwork, who had helped him to mix the Styrofoam into it, ‘or it’ll burn your skin off.’
‘ We’d better get going,’ Wallwork said. ‘They’ll miss us soon.’
‘ Yeah, you’re right. Will this be safe here? Anyone likely to come noseying in?’
Wallwork shook his head. ‘Doubtful.’
They locked the door behind them and made their way back through the prison, emerging at the rear of the kitchens. Wallwork guided him unobtrusively into the main body of the prison without mishap.
‘ Make sure you get a shower,’ Trent advised, painfully aware they both reeked of petrol. Wallwork said he would.
Fifteen minutes later, refreshed and changed, Trent descended into the association area and found Coysh in the TV lounge, sitting in a chair at the back of the room, away from the other inmates who were watching the box.
Trent sat in the empty chair next to him.
Neither man formally acknowledged the other.
‘ I wanna know their plans for the rest of the day.’ Trent spoke just loud enough for Coysh to hear.
‘ In the gym between two and three. After the brew they’ll be in Blake’s cell up on level two. Card-game arranged. The three of them and the nigger — you know, your big pal.’
‘ That’ll be handy.’
‘ They’ll be there until evening meal. After that, don’t know.’
Trent relaxed in the comfortable chair, his eyes looking at, but not focusing on the TV: He placed his fingertips together and made a steeple with his fingers. He placed the tip of it underneath his chin.
It was an ideal situation for his proposed course of action.
Level two was the prison equivalent of a high-class housing estate. Anyone who was anyone had a cell up there; the movers and shakers of prison society. The remainder of the inmates were on the other landings. If you were found on landing two and didn’t have a cell there, you needed a damned good reason for your presence. There was no wandering through, no nosy-parkering — unless you wanted your face smashed in. Or worse.
Which would probably make it all the more easy for Trent because the likelihood was that between the hours mentioned by Coysh, there would be few people up there anyway. And the ones who were, such as Blake, would be busy in their cells, conspiring.
‘ Keep me informed,’ Trent said. He made to stand up, then had a thought. ‘Did you fulfil my other request?’
Coysh reached down the side of his chair and picked up an open can of Diet Coke. He handed it to Trent who found it to be quite heavy.
‘ Don’t drink it, for fuck’s sake,’ Coysh laughed. Trent smelled it, winced. ‘What is it?’
‘ Just what you wanted. Pig’s blood.’
‘ I want to thank you all for last night’s effort.’
Steve Kruger surveyed the faces of the team which had successfully put themselves up against Bussola — and won so convincingly.
Since the cops had arrived at the scene and arrested Bussola, Kruger and the team had stayed up and given witness depositions. Now it was ten in the morning. None of them had had any sleep for over twenty-four hours. All were shattered and showed it.
Myrna nodded. ‘Yeah, everyone worked well.’
‘ But now we have a problem,’ Kruger said with caution. ‘And I don’t think I need to spend a great deal of time expanding on it. I’m talking about Bussola’s organisation. We need to be watching our backs — and fronts — from now on. Bussola doesn’t like people who go against him, but I doubt whether he’ll be stupid enough to do anything too soon. However, be wary.’
When they were gone, with the exception of Myrna, Kruger sat down heavily and rubbed his tired, red-raw eyes.
‘ What are you going to tell Felicity?’ Myrna asked.
He shrugged. ‘Doubt if I’ll have to tell her anything.’ Myrna yawned; Kruger saw a mouthful of perfect teeth. ‘You realise,’ he said, ‘you spent a whole night with the boss. What’ll hubby think about that one?’
She was about to make a smart-ass reply when Kruger’s cell-tel chirped.
‘ Steve Kruger.’
‘ Steve, it’s Mark Tapperman here.’
‘ Hi, Mark.’ Kruger and he went back many years. Tapperman was now a Lieutenant in the Miami Police Department.
‘ Bad news, I’m afraid,’ Tapperman said. Kruger knew what it would be even before he said it. ‘Bussola’s walked. No charges. Nuthin’ we could do about it. He’s free as a bird again.’
Chapter Six
Trent, Wallwork and Coysh made the trip out to the old boiler-room.
Trent poured a few inches of petrol into two more milk bottles and then half-filled three more bottles with the home-made napalm, pouring it carefully from the toolbox into the mouths of the bottles, not spilling a drop of the thick liquid. He was totally concentrated; his hands were steady, his eyes focused. The sticky substance did not run easily, but Trent was not worried about that. It wasn’t supposed to. That part of the job finished, he covered the tops of the bottles with tinfoil.
The pillowcase in which the Styrofoam cups had been transported was torn up by him into strips which he dipped in petrol. He folded the strips into an empty, clean and dry baked-bean tin which he covered with a square of tinfoil.
‘ Yeah, good, I’m right,’ he said, bouncing as he surveyed his handiwork with a gleam in his eyes. ‘Let’s get this stuff back to the kitchens.’
He had brought along another pillowcase which he folded carefully around the bottles; then he placed them into a sports bag which he zipped up and hung over his shoulder, keeping it level.
‘ You’re sure the cell next to Blake’s will be empty?’ he questioned Coysh again.
Coysh nodded.
‘ Right, good. Once we get back, you look after this gear in the kitchens, then when I give you the nod, take it up to that cell and shove it underneath the bunk, got that? Think you can do that?’
‘ Yep,’ said Coysh.
‘ And you know what you’re doing?’ Trent turned to Vic Wallwork.
‘ I know.’
‘ Good. Right — let’s go.’
Wallwork led them uneventfully back to the kitchens where Coysh placed the sports bag in a cupboard underneath a sink.
Trent went back to his cell. He knew it would be empty because his stupid cellmates always watched Fifteen-to-One on Channel Four at 4.30 p.m.
It was now 4.20 p.m. They always got there early for the front-row seats.
He stole a pillowcase from one of their beds and tore it into fairly wide strips. After this he filled the wash-basin with cold water and dropped the strips inside to soak them.
Next he helped himself to a pair of trousers and a shirt, both prison issue, belonging to the cellmate he judged to be more or less the same size as himself. He put both items into the water and made sure they were waterlogged too.