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

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘Somehow I couldn’t picture you with the Barbie dolls and the pink fairy outfit.’

  She grinned. ‘I did have a Luke Skywalker light sabre — does that count as a wand?’

  He shook his head solemnly. ‘The light sabre is more of a masculine symbol of power.’

  ‘You mean an extension of the male . . . ego?’ she said, arching an eyebrow.

  Even sleep-deprived, without make-up and wearing the clothes she’d slept in, Hart looked stunning. Her fine blonde hair was tousled, and her fringe lifted off her forehead where she had pushed her fingers through it; it suited her.

  ‘What?’ she repeated, slightly irritated.

  He blinked. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Miles away. You were saying — Doran was an enforcer.’

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously but then referred to her notebook again. ‘He was strictly strong-arm until 1985, when he started his own security firm: building sites and empty office buildings at first, but gradually expanding into bank security, cash and valuables escorts, events security. He even does a bit of body-guarding.’

  ‘For Kieran Jago’s celebrity clients, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Foster said.

  She lifted one shoulder. ‘Liverpool’s still small enough for that kind of cross-pollination.’

  ‘Cross-infection, more like. Any complaints, charges, stains on his character?’

  Hart shook her head. ‘His right-hand man is John Warrender. Ex-cop. He took early retirement in 1990. Had a bit of a rep as a ducker and weaver.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘One or two charges of unnecessary force against a couple of Doran’s heavies. Nothing serious and nothing that stuck to Doran personally. Since he set up the firm, he’s a paragon of the community: Rotarian, sponsor of the arts. Local lad made good. Family man.’

  ‘He owns a security firm and there’s nothing?’ Foster said, taking a swallow of coffee. ‘That’s got to be suspicious.’

  Hart shrugged. ‘Reidy reckons the local scalls don’t mess with Doran’s boys.’

  ‘Okay . . .’ Foster felt the caffeine hit at last, ‘that’s the route we take: talk to the pond life, see what Doran did to earn his rep.’

  She nodded. ‘Do you want me to . . . ?’ He held up her mobile phone.

  ‘We’ll talk to the boss as soon as our replacements arrive,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘It’s getting on for ten — where the hell are they?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Hart went to the window and looked down on the street below. It was a shining spring morning. The silver light reflected sharply from a constant stream of traffic in both directions. Mercs and Lexus, BMWs and Honda SUVs were parked half on the pavement opposite while their owners called at the offices and surgeries, now in full swing. Every parking bay was filled.

  ‘Naomi,’ Foster said, eyeing the curve of her buttocks with the appreciation of a connoisseur. ‘Now you’re calling me “Lee”, does that mean we’re friends?’ The question was deliberately phrased so he could turn it into a joke: Foster knew every defensive strategy in the book.

  ‘Lee . . .’ Naomi said, her tone thoughtful, a little dreamy, even.

  ‘Yeah?’ He tried to sound casual. Naomi had a knack of talking in a honeyed voice while she prepared to kick you in the goolies.

  ‘When does the “pay and display” start?’

  He felt a thud of alarm. ‘Nine, why?’

  ‘’Cos there’s a couple of traffic wardens showing a powerful interest in your car.’

  He grabbed his keys and ran out of the door in his stocking feet, swearing all the way down the stairs.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was morning playtime at the pre-school day care centre adjacent to Edge Hill Police Station, and Rickman stared down onto the small corner of playground visible from his office window. Children appeared and disappeared, like characters flashing in and out of frame on a CCTV monitor, momentarily present; vivid, real. Then gone. He thought of Megan Ward, wondering what she did when she was out of camera shot. It was hard to imagine her life, the shapelessness of her existence. Harder still to imagine why she wanted to live the way she did. To live alone because you had no choice was one thing. But to choose to live such a blunted emotional life . . .

  They had made no further progress in tracing her family, but Rickman felt sure that family was the key: an abusive childhood, perhaps, or—

  A sharp rap at the door made him turn. Foster and Hart came in. They both looked tired, but Hart had fared better from her sleepless night: Foster’s hair was slightly flattened, and Rickman wondered if the sergeant hadn’t found the time to tease and style the spikes he usually arranged with meticulous carelessness, or if he had foregone his usual preening, embarrassed to appear too vain in front of Hart.

  ‘Take a seat.’ He had cleared a couple of chairs in anticipation of their meeting. Foster dropped into his, slouching with his legs crossed at the ankles. Hart sat more decorously, with her feet tucked neatly under her chair. ‘We’ve recovered all of the money,’ Rickman said. ‘We’re going to use it to have a go at Doran.’

  ‘We?’ Foster’s eyebrows twitched. ‘It’s just tax dodging, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be the Fraud Squad’s baby?’

  ‘We’ll be lending a hand. We need Megan to set up a meeting at midnight tonight. Church Street. There’ll be firearms officers stationed in the John Lewis and Littlewoods stores. There’ll be more armed officers in the van stationed near the junction, ready for the shout.’ The van was a regular feature, so it wouldn’t look out of place.

  ‘I still don’t see why we have to do their job for them,’ Foster said.

  ‘Because they need our help, Lee. Interdepartmental co-operation.’ He waited until Foster made a grudging acknowledgement, before adding, ‘And because they’ve agreed to share intelligence gathered from a house and office search. They’ll have access to his records, computer systems — the lot.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ Foster said, still sounding aggrieved. ‘It’s good to know there’s still some co-operation between departments.’

  Rickman frowned. ‘Not at your best this morning, are you, Lee? Did someone steal your Weetabix?’

  ‘Run in with a traffic warden,’ Hart said, having the good sense to keep her face straight.

  Foster muttered, ‘Scabby bastards,’ and Rickman rolled his eyes, though he felt some sympathy.

  ‘One final thing,’ he said. ‘Megan will not make the drop.’

  ‘Boss—’

  ‘It’s too risky.’ Rickman could see that Hart was ready to launch into an argument.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go home,’ Rickman said, firmly. ‘Get some rest. Report back for the evening briefing.’

  Hart left, looking troubled and frustrated.

  ‘Who’s OIC?’ Foster asked.

  ‘Me.’ As officer in overall charge, Rickman would call the shots.

  Foster lifted his chin in neutral acknowledgement, then seemed to do a double-take. ‘Aren’t you taking the youngest on his birthday treat tonight?’

  ‘I was,’ Rickman said. ‘Now I’m not.’

  ‘How’d he take that?’

  ‘He called me a name.’

  ‘Don’t blame him.’

  ‘It wasn’t that kind of name.’

  ‘You believe what you like, Jeff. Thirteen-year-olds never forgive,’ Foster said darkly.

  Rickman watched him go, mildly amused. He suspected that it was more than the parking ticket that had put Foster out of humour. An overnight watch with Hart and evidently no warming of their relationship was enough to spoil Foster’s entire week. He recalled his conversation with Fergus at breakfast. He had been trying out different explanations in his head as to why he couldn’t go on his nephew’s birthday treat, none of which sounded even mildly convincing. He even entertained the idea (if only for a brief moment) that he might sneak out of the house and leave a note of apology.

  Then Fergus appeared in the kitchen doorway, his face eager and intent and a little flushed with e
xcitement.

  ‘Happy birthday, teenager,’ Rickman said, taking two slices of toast from under the grill and carrying it to the table. ‘Did you get the L-plates I left under your pillow?’

  Fergus grinned, darting forward and snatching up a piece before it hit the plate.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind losing,’ he said. ‘’Cos when it comes to go-karting, I’m no learner.’

  ‘Fergus . . .’

  The boy stopped with the round of toast half-way to his mouth, slowed and the smile died on his lips.

  ‘You aren’t coming?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rickman said.

  A light seemed to go out in his nephew’s eyes. He shrugged his bony shoulders, and Rickman got a flash of himself at thirteen: dark wounded eyes and thick, unmanageable hair. He was skinny and vulnerable at that age, and on his thirteenth birthday, he had been more fearful than excited by the prospect of the day’s surprises.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Fergus said.

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘Honestly,’ Fergus insisted, avoiding his gaze. ‘Mum’ll take me.’

  ‘I’d like to explain.’

  Fergus shook his head. ‘It’s no big.’ He dropped the toast in the bin and turned to leave.

  He’s right, Rickman thought, It doesn’t matter. When it’s your thirteenth birthday and an adult breaks a promise to you, no explanation will suffice.

  ‘I’m trying to catch a killer,’ he said, needing to explain, anyway. ‘I have a witness who claims to have evidence that could convict a man — a suspect.’

  Fergus kept his back turned, his hand on the doorknob, but Rickman knew by his stillness that he was listening.

  ‘The thing is, I don’t trust the witness,’ Rickman went on. ‘She’s a thief and a liar and she’s playing games with us. But if she is telling the truth, we need to get this man away from where he can hurt people. We have the chance to find out tonight, and I need to be there, because if this man is everything she says he is, my officers could be in danger. And if something goes wrong and I’m not there—’

  Fergus still refused to respond and Rickman nodded to himself. No excuse would suffice. ‘I thought you should know,’ he said, hearing the disappointment in his own voice.

  ‘It’s the Batman thing, again,’ Fergus said, turning to him.

  Rickman tried to look like he understood, thinking, Children really do speak a different language.

  Fergus must have read the incomprehension on his face because he said, ‘You do know the story?’

  Rickman lifted his shoulders and Fergus said, ‘Okay . . .’ as if he was a particularly dense five-year-old. ‘Batman saw his parents murdered when he was a kid, and he always thought it was his fault because he wasn’t strong enough to do anything. Same as you — you think have to be there, or you’d never forgive yourself.’

  Rickman smiled. The boy had more insight than was strictly comfortable. ‘I just can’t help myself.’

  ‘So,’ Fergus said, ‘Could you get in big trouble for telling me about your investigation?’ A mischievous light danced in his nephew’s eyes.

  Rickman scowled at him. ‘Are trying to blackmail me, you miserable rat?’

  Fergus steepled his fingers in a parody of an arch-criminal. ‘Blackmail is an ugly word, Chief Inspector,’ he said in a cracked, evil voice.

  ‘You read far too many comics,’ Rickman said ruffling the boy’s chestnut hair. Fergus ducked, darting out of reach.

  ‘Graphic novels, Unc!’ Fergus shouted, then he went back into the evil criminal voice again. ‘And you haven’t heard the last of this . . .’

  Rickman gave Fergus his hardest stare. The boy cracked up, staggering backwards in helpless laughter and grabbing the doorknob for support. Rickman shook his head, ‘I’m losing my edge,’ he said, laughing with him. ‘I’m definitely losing my edge.’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Jake Bentley finished his shift half an hour early to make sure he got to the chemist’s shop in time. It was a twenty-five-minute drive allowing for rush-hour traffic, which should give him plenty of time to pick up the prints and then go home to shower and change.

  Once he’d forked right off Scotland Road and onto Kirkdale Road, it was more or less a straight run, one he had made hundreds of times. He knew where the traffic lights were, which stretches were likely to have traffic cops with speed cameras or loony pedestrians diving across the traffic. He simply slowed down or picked up speed as the conditions dictated while he planned what to wear. Black jeans, maybe the black blouson from Next. He thought that would do. Smart, toned, but also useful-looking. A rogue thought troubled him: You don’t want to look like a fugitive Ninja from a bad nineties film.

  He drew up at a row of shops, parking illegally on double-yellows a couple of doors down from the chemist. The guy in the car behind him sounded his horn and Bentley checked him in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t think he’d be a problem. He locked up, still pondering what to wear, and gave the driver a blank stare. The guy looked away, meekly turning on his indicator and making a big show of turning around to check out the traffic before moving out. Yeah, that’s what I thought.

  The shop was small and cluttered with stands and displays. The walls were lined with shelves and the centre of the shop divided into two by a double row of metal shelving, back-to-back. It smelled of aspirin and soap, just as it had when he was a boy. He told the girl at the counter that he had lost his slip.

  ‘Happens all the time,’ she said, smiling. ‘I can look under the name.’ She was pretty, which was distracting, because she kept looking at him, and he didn’t like pretty girls looking at him with their perfect skin and their watchful eyes that never missed a thing. He always felt that they were mocking him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bentley,’ she said, and she did look sorry. Sorry and puzzled and a bit embarrassed. ‘I can’t seem to . . .’ She disappeared under the counter, again, checking through the drawer where the processed packets were kept, and appearing moments later, looking flustered.

  ‘They might come in tomorrow’s delivery,’ she said.

  Bentley stared at her. ‘I asked for overnight development,’ he said. ‘Days ago.’

  ‘I — I’ve checked right through,’ she said.

  Mr Doran is waiting for those photographs. I can’t tell Mr Doran they’ve been lost. He’ll think I’m trying to get more out of him. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

  ‘Look again,’ he said, his voice strangulated by the constriction in his throat.

  ‘Mr Bentley, I’ve emptied the—’

  He slammed both hands on the counter and the girl gave a little squeal. The sudden fear on her face made him feel ashamed, but he also felt a guilty excitement: this was power. ‘Look again,’ he repeated.

  The pharmacist came down from his raised work area at the back of the shop. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

  An elderly couple shuffled off to the left, out of reach.

  ‘You lost my photos. I need them.’ The words came out in short bursts; he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. ‘I need them tonight.’

  The pharmacist eased the frightened girl to one side and said, ‘Bentley, you say?’ He was short and skinny and balding, and Bentley thought if he didn’t hurry up he might snap the little twerp like a twig. He riffled through the packets in the drawer and shook his balding head.

  ‘They’re not here, Mr Bentley,’ he said.

  Bentley lost it. ‘Listen, you stupid little shit!’ His saliva sprayed in the chemist’s face, but although the man stepped back, he didn’t wipe it away. ‘You’ve got my fucking film and I want it!’

  His eyes slid nervously from Bentley’s face. ‘I can call the lab, if you like — see what’s causing the hold-up.’

  A dread certainty struck Bentley. The police have it. The lab called the police and told them they were suspicious of the content of the film and the police had taken it away. Oh, God. Doran is going to kill me. ‘No,’ he said, afraid
. ‘Don’t bother. It doesn’t matter.’ He leaned off the counter, looking for a way out. The elderly couple cowered as he looked at them; they were blocking the narrow aisle and he turned the other way.

  Perhaps it was something in his expression, or perhaps he made the connection with the name, but the chemist said, ‘Wait a minute. Are you Monica Bentley’s son?’

  Bentley looked again at the chemist. He was older by almost twenty years, of course, and he seemed to have shrunk, but with a sudden unpleasant jolt, Bentley recognised the chemist as the man who had made up his prescriptions. The man his mother had asked for advice on topical applications and diet. He had advised her to go to her GP, had handed her leaflets and charted the young Jake’s progress week by week, until Jake had refused to go into the shop any longer.

  ‘Never mind,’ Bentley said. ‘I — I’ll come in tomorrow.’ Knowing there would be no tomorrow. He couldn’t bear them looking at him. His skin prickled and burned as if it was breaking out. Sweat stung his face and trickled down his back. He walked unsteadily to the door and groped for the handle.

  ‘Your mother was in yesterday,’ the chemist called after him. ‘She picked up your prints.’

  He turned back but had to lean against one of the shelves for support. ‘She—’ Emotions crowded in on him: relief that he should have had a reprieve, fury that his mother should interfere as she always interfered, and worst of all, a humiliating, unmanning desire to weep.

  ‘Jake, are you all right?’ the chemist asked.

  He couldn’t reply, couldn’t look up, even, in case he saw the girl looking at him. He could not bear to see either contempt or pity in her eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The parking bays were all full when Jake Bentley arrived at the Pan American Club bar at seven-thirty. He drove around to the main parking lot at King’s Dock and tried again to think about how he would handle this interview. He had argued with his mother; had accused her of spying on him and she had somehow managed to turn it so that he was in the wrong. She had been thinking of him, saving him the time and trouble. And then she had cried. He hated it when his mother cried; without saying a word, she made it about all those cold wet days he had dragged her to Ainsdale, the extra expense of their seaside trips, the hours spent in doctors’ surgeries.