Read Online One Dead Witness by Nick Oldham - Free Book Online Page A

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