SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2)

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘Satisfied?’ he asked. ‘Can I get dressed, now? Only I wouldn’t want get arrested for flashing.’

  A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. ‘If you wouldn’t mind switching off your phone . . .’

  He considered for a moment, then shrugged. Whatever else Megan Ward might be, she wasn’t stupid. He did as he was asked, keeping his eyes on her, giving her the smile at low wattage.

  ‘Can we get on with it?’ he said, slipping the phone into his pocket and fumbling the buttons of his shirt closed.

  ‘When I have the box,’ she said.

  Foster’s smile broadened. ‘When I have a name.’

  A momentary uncertainty flashed across her face, then she smiled back at him. ‘It’s a question of trust.’

  ‘And I don’t trust you, Megan. See — we know who you are.’

  ‘Do you?’ She seemed more amused than surprised and Foster realised that whatever they had, there must be much more.

  ‘We know what you are, anyhow.’

  She watched him calmly enough, but Foster saw a slight wariness in her face. Her eyes looked dark in this light, though Sara had said they were grey.

  ‘The National Fraud Squad have been taking an interest in you for a while,’ he said.

  She stared past him, her vigilance slipping for a second as she seemed to focus on something distant. ‘It was the Fraud Squad dipping into my files?’ She closed her eyes momentarily. ‘I thought it was — him,’ she said, almost saying the name in the horror of realisation. ‘That’s why I ran.’

  ‘It probably saved your life,’ Foster said.

  ‘Yeah? Well it cost Sara hers.’ She sounded sick and disgusted with herself.

  Foster was used to liars. He had dealt with them on a daily basis for years. As a rule, he assumed people were lying unless they proved otherwise, but he thought he saw genuine emotion in her face.

  ‘So that really is why you’re here?’ he asked.

  ‘You think I’d risk prison for less?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there is this.’ He rattled the contents of the box and as he watched her, he saw a slow transformation as she regained control, almost a gathering in of her emotions. Then she smiled coolly.

  ‘You’re right — I’m here to exchange information for some property that belongs to me.’

  Foster looked down at the box tucked neatly under his arm. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it in both hands and lifted it towards her.

  She reached up, gesturing impatiently for him to hand it over the top of the railings.

  He took a step back. ‘The name first,’ he said, smiling.

  She smiled back. ‘The box first.’

  He debated. They were as sure as they could be that there was nothing of use in the box, but so far he’d got no concession from her. She stared at him unwaveringly, and he knew he would get nothing until she had the box. Everything in it had been photographed, scanned and archived.

  ‘Why not?’ he said, handing it over. He saw how carefully she handled the box, holding it to her and easing the lid off gently; he understood that reverence and he felt a pang of pity for her.

  She turned the lid over and felt inside, then lifted her eyes slowly to his. ‘What the hell are you trying to do?’ she demanded.

  He dipped his head. ‘You asked for the box — we gave you the box.’

  She turned without a word and began to walk away.

  Foster pulled his mobile from his pocket and switched it on as he spoke. ‘Does that mean we don’t get the name?’

  She tensed, then increased her pace.

  Me and my big gob. He considered climbing the railings, but they were slick with rain, and there were no footholds, and rusted though they were, the spikes looked sharp enough to do some damage.

  ‘What about Sara?’ he shouted. ‘You know she raised Cain when you buggered off. She wasn’t gonna let go till she found you safe.’

  She slowed half-way across the road.

  ‘She cared about you, Megan. But I suppose some people are just too trusting.’

  Megan faltered.

  He moved closer and gripped the railings like a caged felon. ‘Just her bad luck she was the one ended up with her brains spattered on the pavement.’

  Megan stopped at the far kerb. ‘Did she—’ She kept her back to him, but he could still see the effort to keep her emotions in check. ‘Did Sara—’ She tried again: ‘Was she in pain?’

  A car passed, the sound of its tyres like a sigh on the wet tarmac.

  ‘Death was instantaneous,’ he said, falling back on jargon; then shaking his head at his own insensitivity, he added more gently, ‘She didn’t suffer.’

  Megan spun round, taking a step forward. Foster held up a hand to warn her. A car horn blared. The driver braked, then sped on with another blast on his horn.

  Megan stood still, and they looked at each other over a distance of fifteen feet. ‘Doran,’ she said, her voice carrying clear and strong on the cold air. ‘His name is Doran.’

  Another car passed, then she crossed back to him. Foster let go of the railings and waited for her.

  ‘This is Liverpool,’ he said. ‘Take two steps, you fall over an Irishman. There was Aiden Doran, John Doran and Aloysius Doran in my year at school. God knows how many you’d get in a whole city.’

  ‘Patrick Doran,’ she said. ‘He runs a security firm.’

  ‘And you reckon he set up Sara’s murder?’

  ‘No . . .’ She looked at him as though he had dropped a couple of dozen IQ points. ‘It was me he was after.’

  Foster lifted his chin a fraction, acknowledging his mistake. ‘Why would that be?’

  She smiled slowly. ‘I gave you the name, now you owe me.’

  ‘We’ll need to check it out,’ he said.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised his hand to stop her. ‘Fair dooz, Megan. You are a con artist, aren’t you?’

  She seemed ready to respond angrily, but then a comical look of puzzlement passed over her face and she laughed. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’m a petty crook and I want what I came for.’

  He sucked his teeth. ‘Not gonna happen.’

  She shrugged and began to turn away again.

  ‘Give us a few days to check out this Doran character, we might be willing to deal.’

  She placed the lid on the shoebox while she thought, and a wave of mischief made Foster ask, ‘Don’t suppose there’s any point in telling you you’re under arrest?’ Nevertheless, he did glance left involuntarily, searching for a gap in the railings.

  She smiled. ‘Not unless you can leap tall buildings in a single bound. You look the athletic type — but Superman, you’re not.’

  Is she flirting with me? He shrugged, ‘The boss told me I had to have a go.’ He decided to push his advantage and went for the rueful look. ‘You know, I’m not exactly known for my tact.’ The catarrhal emphasis on the ‘c’ consonants was for comic effect. ‘Fact is, you’ve risked prison before to do the right thing.’

  She wasn’t about to fill in the gaps for him, but she seemed intrigued, and she didn’t seem in such a hurry to leave any more.

  ‘Come on, Megan, the Met know it was you helped them out.’

  ‘What can I say?’ She frowned, distracted, as if trying to work out what had given her away. ‘I’m a “virtual” hero.’

  ‘The guy I spoke to seemed to think so.’

  ‘Nice of him to speak so highly of me. But—’

  ‘How did they identify you?’ Foster said, anticipating her question. ‘Apparently you’ve got some kind of signature. They’ve also got you tagged for a number of small-profit, high-turnover scams all over the world-wide web.’

  She managed a smile. ‘Based on my “signature”?’

  Foster wasn’t about to give her details of the Squad’s part-time surveillance operations. He said nothing and let her come to her own conclusions.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked.

  ‘Th
ere’s something we want to know.’

  She raised an eyebrow in question.

  ‘What’s on the card?’

  She tilted her head. ‘What’s on the table?’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The twins were sleeping. Frankie still sucked his thumb for comfort, curled up on one side. Declan, always the more confident of the two, was lying on his back, arms and legs splayed, limbs twitching like a puppy-dog dreaming of chasing sheep.

  Patrick had showered and changed. He was supposed to be resting, but sleep eluded him. Warrender had pulled in a few favours among his police contacts. If Bentley was a grass, they would know within hours. He stood at the door of their bedroom, watching the rise and fall of Declan’s chest, the uneasy stirrings of Frankie, and thought about what he might have to do to keep them safe.

  Frankie groaned and struggled, troubled by a passing dream, and Doran stepped over to his bedside, handing his son the Spider-Man soft toy that had become a magic talisman for a good night’s sleep. Frankie mumbled something, hugging the toy close, already comforted, and Doran kissed his forehead. He smelled of soap and earth and rain. He rumpled the boy’s hair, whispering, ‘Everything’s all right, sweetheart.’ As he turned he saw Fay in the doorway.

  The look on her face said, No, it isn’t. It isn’t all right. And it’s all my fault.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Patrick,’ she said, tears standing in her eyes.

  Doran felt something tighten around his heart. Despite his own fear, he couldn’t bear to see her afraid. He opened his arms and she walked into his embrace. He kissed her softly and she answered more urgently, her lips hard on his mouth. He pulled away, glancing back at the boys, then he laced his fingers through hers and they tiptoed to their own bedroom and locked the door after them.

  Fay almost fell on him, her fingers tugging eagerly at his T-shirt, his belt, the waist of his trousers. He kissed her, his lips hot on hers, finding the little hollow where the clavicle meets the base of the neck, teasing her nipples with kisses and little flicks of his tongue till she cried out, guiding him into her. His hands went to the firm curve of her buttocks and they moved together until they found their rhythm. At the climax she was sobbing.

  He stroked her hair and kissed her face, murmuring over and over, ‘Don’t Fay. Please don’t.’ At last she was comforted, and they slept for two exhausted hours.

  The doorbell rang and Fay gave a little yelp, startled awake by the sudden noise.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Doran said. ‘Go back to sleep.’ He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and trying to force the grogginess out of his head.

  ‘It’s the middle of the night, Patrick!’

  ‘No’ he soothed. ‘It’s only’ — he squinted at his watch — ‘ten o’clock. We fell asleep. It’s early, yet.’

  ‘Even so—’ The bell rang again and she hissed, ‘They’ll wake the boys, so they will.’

  ‘Probably just Maura, forgot her key.’

  ‘Maura’s staying over with Rena tonight. They’re clubbing it with a gang from school.’

  ‘I’ll go.’ He insisted, staying her with a gentle hand. He struggled into his dressing-gown, feeling drunk and stupid, the brief hours of sleep making him desperate for more.

  He hurried downstairs and opened the front door as John Warrender reached for the bell a third time.

  ‘Go through to my study,’ he said, forgoing the formality of a greeting. ‘And for God’s sake, keep the noise down.’

  He closed the door softly and turned to see Fay at the top of the stairs, side-lit by a shaft of light from their bedroom. She looked ghostly in the dim light, insubstantial, like she was bound to him only tenuously, and might vanish in a moment. She stared down at him in sullen disapproval, then turned away and Doran was filled with a superstitious dread that if she reached their bedroom, he would never see her again. He took the stairs two at a time, catching her arm and turning her to him.

  ‘I need help with this, Fay,’ he said.

  ‘You have help,’ she said. ‘Mr Manning—’

  ‘Manning can’t know about the insurance accounts.’ That’s how he thought of the secret bank accounts — as insurance, a safeguard for his family’s future.

  ‘I know,’ she said, avoiding his eye. ‘But, Patrick — the twins are asleep just along the landing — couldn’t you meet him at the office?’

  Doran felt a wave of relief that made him want to weep: he could win this argument; the danger had passed. ‘Manning is using my office machines to get the worms or bugs or whatever the hell you call them out of the network. He sent me home ’cos I was making his crew nervous.’ He pushed his fingers through his hair and laughed, then stopped, because he heard hysteria in it. It looked like they had lost only a day’s-worth of data — the day of the computer crash: at least that leadless prick Nathan had made decent backups of the system.

  ‘We’re losing revenue every day the system is down, Fay. People are beginning to cancel because we can’t guarantee security for their cash. Everything: bookings, schedules, invoices, rotas — everything is run from the network. I need to leave him to sort it out. And I need someone I can trust to take care of this other thing.’

  He did trust Warrender, as far as he trusted anyone. Warrender knew about the insurance accounts; he knew that Megan Ward had sucked them dry. What he didn’t know was how much was in the accounts before Ward got to them. He could guess. But his guess would fall way short of the reality. Doran hadn’t told Fay the exact amount. He hardly dared admit even to himself how much he had lost.

  Fay closed her eyes briefly. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Just . . . keep him the hell away from me and the children.’

  * * *

  Warrender had seated himself in the leather armchair by the window. Doran felt a spurt of anger. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he said.

  Warrender glanced up. ‘What?’

  Doran quelled the flush of unreasonable irritation. Warrender was not the rightful target; Megan Ward was. Maybe Bentley, too. Warrender, on the other hand, was his most trusted employee — the employee he least wanted to piss off. ‘Drink?’ he said.

  Warrender seemed mildly gratified. ‘Whisky.’

  Doran poured two of Bushmills — the good stuff — and handed one to Warrender.

  Warrender held his up as if hypnotised by the play of light through the facets of the heavy crystal tumbler. Doran allowed him his moment of repose. After half a minute, Warrender sighed and took a sip. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘Background checks,’ Doran said. ‘Work, family, driving, police.’

  Warrender still had a cop’s facility for facts and he spoke confidently. ‘Jake Alexander Bentley. Age twenty-eight. He’s worked at the gym for two-and-a-half years. Before that, as a bouncer — various venues. His work record is good, apart from a couple of rucks when he was a bouncer — he had a rep for being a bit heavy-handed. Two charges of GBH — one dropped, the other stuck — six-month suspended. Since he’s been working at the gym, he got into it with one of the clients — but he saved some fat lawyer’s skin, so he got off with it.’

  Doran sipped his whisky quietly, seated in the chair opposite.

  ‘Parents both living.’

  ‘Where?’ It might be useful to know.

  ‘Walton. I’ve got the address. He visits once a week. Clean driving licence. Two further arrests in the last week.’

  Doran’s head came up.

  ‘Released without charge,’ Warrender said. ‘But he was warned off Sara Geddes.’

  Their eyes met for a second.

  ‘What was the complaint?’ Doran asked.

  ‘Stalking. Only the original target was noted as Megan Ward. Sara Geddes put in the complaint after Megan Ward disappeared. Said he’d been watching the place. Megan was spooked, so she jumped to conclusions.’

  Doran nodded slowly. ‘The other arrest?’

  ‘He was IDd at the scene of Sara Geddes’s murder.’

&
nbsp; Doran took a swallow of whisky. ‘He didn’t lie about that then.’

  ‘So, what does he want?’

  Warrender thought about it. ‘What if Ward and Bentley were working together? Ward made up the stalking story so Sara didn’t guess that Bentley was part of her operation.’

  ‘Have you been popping Nathan’s pills?’ Doran asked. ‘You’re sounding more paranoid than him.’

  Warrender looked into his whisky tumbler. ‘Just covering the bases,’ he said, taking a sip.

  ‘The scam is over, John,’ Doran said. ‘That bitch has walked off with a fortune of my money, tax-free, untraceable. Why the hell would she stick around?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m covering the bases,’ Warrender said, not bothering to hide his resentment. ‘I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in a week — don’t expect me to hit the mark every time.’

  Doran poured himself another drink, his movements neat and precise, giving himself time to cool down. He swallowed most of the drink before he trusted himself to speak. ‘Set up a meeting,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what this little fucker has to say.’

  ‘I think that would be a mistake,’ Warrender said.

  ‘Because?’

  ‘The connection with Megan Ward for one thing.’

  ‘Connection?’ Doran slammed the glass down on his desk so hard it left an indentation in the wood. ‘He was stalking the landlady, not shagging the tenant!’

  Warrender kept his head down and looked slightly off to Doran’s right. ‘Bentley approached the firm for a job last autumn. I didn’t like the guy, so I blew him off.’

  ‘And you saved this till last?’ Doran stared at Warrender, trying to control a powerful urge to pick up the tumbler and smash the glass into Warrender’s face.

  ‘You wanted to hear about the background checks.’

  ‘Anything else you’ve been saving up for me? Any little snippet of information, like maybe you know where Megan Ward is?’