Chapter Seven
Lieutenant Mark Tapperman was a very big guy, even in comparison to Steve Kruger who was no midget himself. Tapperman was six-four, built like the frontal elevation of a very substantial building and kept himself incredibly fit — necessary qualifications for policing the crime-ridden streets of Miami where a cop needed all the edge he could get… and then some.
Despite these credentials, Tapperman looked sheepishly at Steve Kruger as the ex-cop walked towards him with a slight limp and an expression of seething anger stamped across his face.
‘ Oh shit,’ Tapperman mumbled under his breath. ‘He’s mad.’ He suddenly had the thought that maybe coming to this particular restaurant for lunch was not the best of choices. Granny Feelgood’s was not the right place for someone who’ probably wanted to rip a twelve-ounce steak to shreds; it was more suited to a person on a diet who wanted to pig out on tofu or spiced tea. Arbetter Hot Dogs would’ve been a more appropriate place to meet and eat, Tapperman thought too late.
‘ Mark,’ Kruger nodded curtly. He slumped down on the chair opposite Tapperman and slung his jacket across the back of another. He loosened his neck-tie and unfastened his collar, his face distorting as his fingers eased the button out of its hole. He tugged the collar loose.
Once again Miami was like a fan oven and that, combined with his tiredness — for Kruger had not yet had any sleep — meant he was mega-irritable.
It showed in his body language.
‘ Herb tea?’ Tapperman enquired hopefully.
Kruger eyed the detective critically for a moment. ‘Nooo,’ he said quietly with an exaggerated pursing of the lips. ‘Just tell me what you’ve got.’
Tapperman sipped his Perrier to clear his dust-dry throat.
‘ Nothing we could do about it,’ he said helplessly. ‘Bussola’s lawyer, Ira Begin, was waiting at the stationhouse when we arrived. Couldn’t stop Bussola talking to him — y’know, prisoner’s rights and all that crap; couldn’t stop his lawyer makin’ phone calls either, could we?’ Tapperman sighed. ‘Anyways, we got the process going… then we find out there ain’t no process to get going.’
Kruger waited impatiently.
‘ Somehow, probably through the lawyer, he’d got to the girl’s parents.’
‘ So?’
‘ Well, that little girl he was ridin’ when you found him was only eleven years old. She’d been on the run from home ‘bout three weeks and somehow got herself sucked into Bussola’s porn system. Thing is, though, the reason why we got nowhere, was because there ain’t no complaint. Bussola’s organisation got to her parents before we did — and this is only an assumption, Steve. I think they were paid off and delivered a bottom-line threat at the same time. “You’re dead if you testify”. They’re poor people from Homestead. Ain’t recovered from Hurricane Andrew yet. In those circumstances, Bussola’s money is as good as anybody’s.’
‘ Even if he raped your daughter?’ Kruger was incredulous. He went on, ‘Why not indict without them? It’s serious enough. Do it on the girl’s behalf.’ Kruger’s voice was cold, hard. He had not liked one word of what had been said.
‘ If we did, Steve, Bussola would kill the family. You know he would, and that would not achieve anything.’
Kruger began to hiss steam. He wanted to overturn the table and rant and rave about injustice.
‘ Let me get this straight: he’s got away with anally raping — and probably kidnapping — an eleven-year-old girl, and you’re powerless to do anything about it?’
‘ You’re sayin’ we should force her to testify? The DA wouldn’t have any part in that, and you know it. A hostile witness, a terrified witness, and a kid at that. No way.’
‘ What about all my corroborative evidence? My team’s evidence? Surely that would go a long way to proving the case?’
Tapperman uttered a snort of a laugh.
‘ What’s so goddam funny?’
The detective raised a hand placatingly when he read Kruger’s face. ‘Hey, I ain’t laughin’ at your suggestion, buddy. It’s a good idea. Only thing is, Bussola’s legal team are goin’ to sue your ass for’ — here Tapperman began to count on his fingers — ‘unlawful entry, invasion of privacy, breakin’ an’ enterin’, unlawful arrest, assault and battery… you name it, he’s gonna try an’ plug ya.’
‘ Shit,’ breathed Kruger. His head dropped wearily. He had been very tired up to that point, but that extra bad news simply swamped him with weariness. ‘What about the other girl — the one he was beatin’ up on?’
‘ What girl’s that?’ Tapperman responded. ‘She’s gone, vamoose. Disparue. As soon as we turned our heads she was away. I think she was warned off, too.’
Kruger rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He looked bitterly across the table at Tapperman, who shrugged apologetically. ‘So all in all, the Miami Police Department have made a complete fuck-up. Is it true to say that?’
Tapperman nodded happily, feeling that an opposing viewpoint would have been detrimental to his health.
‘ Who was the other fat guy, the one who passed out? The one at the head end of the girl? The one who was forcing her to suck his cock?’
Heads turned. Several touchy customers made ‘tutting’ noises.
Tapperman coughed nervously. ‘A British guy, name of Charles Gilbert. One of Bussola’s, business associates in the leisure industry. Operates out of the north of England. The little we know about him suggests he’s clean. He was high as a kite but because Bussola acted so quickly we didn’t even get a chance to speak to him. Apparently he’s flying out early tomorrow, back to Manchester.’
‘ What a complete mess,’ Kruger groaned. He churned over the prospect of civil litigation together with the words Bussola had spieled out about having regrets. ‘Fuck that bitch Felicity for getting me into this.’
Tapperman was vaguely aware of the reasons why Kruger had been watching the mobster. Gravely, he said, ‘If I were you I might be bothered about Felicity’s safety right now. If Mario adds this up and starts asking questions, he’ll get mightily pissed with her answers, I reckon.’
Kruger’s eyelids snapped shut with an involuntary spasm as the implications of Tapperman’s words hit him. He hung his head despondently. ‘You’re right,’ he said quietly.
Although Danny believed she had amassed enough evidence, most of which was hearsay, to recommend that Joe Lilton should be refused a firearms certificate, she did not succeed.
She presented a very detailed report about Lilton’s ongoing violence towards his wife which had been logged over a period of several months. However, the powers-that-be decided it would be too much trouble and cost to refuse the application because if Lilton appealed against the decision he had immediate right of appeal to a Crown Court.
In those days — the early 1980s — the ownership of firearms was not seen as too big a deal. The horror of Hungerford had yet to happen and the tragedy of Dunblane was completely unthinkable. People didn’t do such things, did they?
Therefore Lilton got his certificate, got his guns — a thirty-eight and a forty-five — joined a gun club and to all intents and purposes, became a model gun-owner.
Danny knew that not long after her visit to Lilton’s house in Osbaldeston, he and his wife split up and later divorced. Beyond that she knew nothing more — until now, here in the present, because she had bumped into Joe Lilton again.
Remarried to Ruth — who seemed decent, if highly strung — and stepfather to Claire, runaway and deeply unhappy child.
Nor was Danny happy. There was something at the back of her mind, niggling away. Something from all those years ago… yet she could not pinpoint it.
At least she was up to date with Joe Lilton and feeling smug that the new government had decided to ban private ownership of handguns. In a couple of months’ time, Lilton, along with thousands of others, would be obliged to hand in his weapons to the police.
She stretched her arms and sat back.