In the dream Danny had been transported back in time. Fifteen years to be exact. She was on-duty and attending the Liltons’ address in Osbaldeston. It was all very clear, as though she was actually there again. She drew up in the car, stopped outside the front of the house and got out. She could hear the argument in progress. Joe Lilton versus his then wife. Danny walked towards the house. She could hear the words being shouted, but she wasn’t really listening. They were going into her brain, but not registering… then the dream changed and went black and she was being pinned down. A face appeared above her, grotesque features, but it was definitely Jack Sands. His breath smelled of spermicidal cream. He held her down and tried to force her legs apart.
There was an interruption. A metallic sound, followed by a sort of shuffling noise.
Danny woke with a start.
The noises were not in the dream, they were reality.
She sat bolt upright, sweat pouring off her, heart pounding, her senses switched on, acute.
There it was again. The click of metal followed by the shuffling noise.
Danny cursed.
Jack was back.
Once more she recognised just how vulnerable she was. The phone was downstairs — off the hook — and there was no alarm on the house with a panic button right where she needed it — next to the bed.
She rolled off the bed, wrapped her dressing-gown tightly around her.
Time check: 1.30 a.m.
Out onto the landing to the top of the stairs. No lights. Don’t switch the lights on. Be brave. Catch the bastard.
That metallic sound again. This time she recognised what it was. Her imagination ran riot. It was the sound of the metal flap on the letter box. Christ! He was pouring petrol into the house! He was going to torch it, burn it down and kill her at the same time.
Danny emitted a mad scream of anguish and threw herself at the double light-switch on the landing. Both hall and landing lights came on. Scaring him away was now her priority, before that lighted match came through the letter box. She raced downstairs, bellowing words which were incomprehensible.
She leapt down the last five steps, twisted into the hallway and faced the front door.
It was not petrol which had been pushed through.
A dozen red roses, several with broken stems, lay there forlornly on the mat.
Danny sank to her knees and picked one up. She crushed the flower in the palm of her hand and allowed the creased petals to drift onto the carpet.
Steve Kruger sat silently in the passenger seat of the Lexus whilst a trance-like Myrna drove him home. There was nothing of value to say. Kruger had been warned about the dangers of dealing with the mafia and the warnings had proved to be accurate. Two of his employees had been butchered and no doubt he, Myrna and Kelly (who he had phoned, found to be safe and well, and warned to get out of town) were probably still in grave danger. All because he had been frightened by his ex-wife’s big mouth, threatening to reveal things which might destroy him.
‘ I’m sorry,’ he said meekly.
‘ I’m sorry too — for everything,’ Myrna replied, stressing the last word. The meaning was bluntly clear to Kruger. ‘Everything’ included their sexual encounter.
He sighed and screwed up his face, sick to the stomach, disgusted with himself for having been so weak-kneed as to accede to Felicity’s demands. He should have called her bluff. After all, she was the one who would have had to prove he sold restricted weapons to an unfriendly country.
He rubbed the base of his thumbs into his eyes.
The Lexus drew up outside his house.
Kruger wrapped his fingers around the door-handle, paused before alighting and glanced sideways at Myrna. ‘Drink? Coffee? Anything?’
She did not look at him. ‘Not a good idea,’ she said, addressing the steering-wheel. Her voice was like stone and her body language gave Kruger the impression she hated him. She tapped the wheel and after a moment she relaxed. She looked sadly at Kruger. Her voice became soft. ‘Not a good idea,’ she repeated. ‘I need to get home.’
‘ I…’ Kruger began to speak with a stutter.
Myrna reached across and placed a forefinger on his lips. ‘Don’t say something you’ll regret. We need to get back to square one — and get our revenge for Jimmy and Dale.’
Kruger was startled. It was apparent the old Myrna had returned.
‘ Yeah, you heard right. I said revenge. I want revenge on Bussola, and one way or another I’m gonna get it. And if I can’t do it by fair means, I’ll sure as hell do it by foul.’
Kruger nodded. ‘Look after yourself,’ he said.
‘ I’ll be okay and so will Kelly, I guess. He won’t do anything against us… but you’ll need to be careful, Steve. He might well come after you.’
Moments later, Myrna pulled away from the kerb.
Kruger let himself back into his house, totally exhausted.
It was 10 p.m. After pouring a beer down his throat and setting the house alarm, he crawled into bed, unmade since he and Myrna had been writhing ecstatically around on it.
The last thing he did before sleep was to reach out to the drawer in his bedside cabinet. He fumbled under a couple of paperbacks and his fingers found the butt of his. 38 police special. He pulled it out and placed it carefully on top of the cabinet, pointing away from his head.
Then he slept, secure in the knowledge that only another matter of feet away, in his wardrobe, were several other guns of various calibre and design which he could reach in seconds if necessary.
Trent openly cruised the bars and clubs of Blackpool, enjoying his newfound freedom, savouring the taste of alcohol and getting very drunk indeed. He was sure no one would recognise him. After all, he was nine years older, thinner and much more gaunt than he had been; his hair had shaded to grey and his facial features become narrow and pinched.
Nine years before he had looked like a predatory owl, now he looked like an evil weasel.
He drifted into a few pubs where he knew he could get some good information on where to go later. As it was his first night out of jail he wasn’t too bothered with the quality. All he wanted was a taster to whet his appetite.
Eventually he got word of something happening in the secure back room of a strip joint near to North Pier. He wasn’t sure what it would be — it was difficult to pin people down to specifics — but it would do.
When the clubs closed at two, he went to a cash machine and because it was another day, he was able to withdraw another?300 from the dead ambulanceman’s account.
With cash almost bursting out of his pockets, none of it his, he strolled to the club specified. He had been directed to go up the fire escape and knock gently on the first door he came to.
It would cost him fifty dabs.
He knocked, the money ready in his fist. The door opened. A gorilla/bouncer took the cash and counted it carefully. He directed Trent to the second door along a poorly lit corridor.
Trent went into a darkened room, illuminated by lights which had been dimmed almost to black. He paused on the threshold, allowing his eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom.
He saw four rows of chairs arranged in a horseshoe shape facing a huge TV screen at the far end of the small room. About a dozen people, all men, were seated. Some conversed in a subdued way. Others were completely alone.
Trent weaved his way through the chairs and sat down on the front row to have an unrestricted view of the screen. He checked his watch — stolen from the ambulanceman — and saw the digital figures flicker onto 3.00 a.m.
What light there was in the room doused to black. Everyone’s attention focused on the screen, which flickered.
The image of a child, wide-eyed and beautiful, appeared.
A frisson of excitement captivated Trent’s body.