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

by MARGARET MURPHY

  So, as he stepped across the threshold into the moody darkness of the bar, he was nervous. He had gone for the black chinos and jacket but changed into a white T-shirt at the last minute. He wanted this job — had spent his whole life building towards it — and he wasn’t about to throw it away because he turned up to interview looking a shade too Goodfellas, when the occasion called for something more sophisticated.

  He shrugged some of the tension out of his shoulders and walked inside, hands relaxed at his sides, scanning the room right and left. The bar was housed in an old warehouse with brick arched ceilings and steel Doric columns. This part of the building was dark. The stone-flagged floor space was divided on one side into long booths with bench seats and high wooden panels, back-lit with diffuse lighting. The rest of the space was taken up with horseshoe-shaped velveteen sofas and circular tables. The height of the sofa backs reflected the bar’s emphasis on privacy.

  He wondered if he should take a stroll around. They might even be up on the mezzanine, in the restaurant area, then he saw Mr Doran beckoning him over to one of the circular tables. He shook hands with Bentley and even smiled as he waved him to a seat on the sofa next to him. ‘You know John Warrender.’

  Bentley nodded and Warrender eyed him coldly. Cop’s eyes, cop’s attitudes, cop’s arrogance. Well, screw you, he thought.

  ‘Beer, Mr Bentley?’ Doran asked.

  There were half a dozen opened bottles on a tray. Bentley picked one at random and nursed it in both hands. His eyes kept straying to Warrender, who watched him without expression. Bentley wondered if he should take the photographs out now and hand them over. He could feel the wallet as a small bulge in the inside pocket of his jacket and he was anxious to be rid of it.

  Doran took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to Bentley. Bentley shook his head, then cursed himself: timid was not exactly the image he was trying to project.

  ‘Those things’ll kill you,’ he said, with more bravado than he felt.

  Mr Doran looked at him, the cigarette unlit in his mouth, and Bentley blushed a little. Doran struck a match from the small complimentary pack in the ashtray and took a draw before answering.

  ‘There’s worse ways to die, eh, Mr Bentley?’

  Alarm fluttered just beneath Bentley’s rib-cage. Should I apologise?

  ‘You’re right, though,’ Doran said, narrowing his eyes against the smoke. ‘I gave up six years ago. Haven’t lapsed once — till this week.’ He shook his head. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it? If my wife found out . . .’

  ‘Place like this, you can always tell her it’s second-hand,’ Bentley suggested.

  Doran smiled. ‘Told you he was no slouch.’ Warrender glanced at his boss, then back to Bentley.

  ‘Bloody hell, John! Lighten up,’ Doran jerked his head, indicating his chief of security. ‘He’s a worrier,’ he confided. ‘He’s worried about them snapshots. Did you have any trouble?’

  ‘No,’ Bentley said. ‘No trouble. Only, they thought they’d lost them at first.’ Talking too much, Jake. Talking way too much.

  ‘But they hadn’t,’ Doran said.

  ‘No.’ Why don’t you tell him your mum picked them up for you? Let him think he’s got more people to worry about? Because he knew that Doran was as worried as Warrender — he wasn’t stupid. ‘No,’ he repeated, and clamped his jaw tight to stop himself running off at the mouth again.

  ‘So . . .’ Doran spread his hands and Bentley suddenly realised that he was waiting for the photographs.

  ‘Oh!’ Bentley fumbled his beer bottle onto the table, almost knocking it over in his hurry. He took the wallet from his pocket and handed it over, noticing too late that he’d made a big wet thumbprint on the cover.

  Doran sifted through the shots like they were holiday snaps. ‘These aren’t bad.’ He held up one of the pictures. ‘I’m guessing that’s Megan Ward.’

  Bentley nodded. It was a series of three: Megan locking her car, then walking up to the house.

  ‘This is very good, Jake.’ Doran raised his bottle to toast Bentley’s skills and Bentley followed his lead, chugging a few grateful swallows, unaware that Doran was watching him closely.

  ‘You know, we do a bit of surveillance work. Maybe you could give the lads a few tips.’

  ‘Sure, Mr Doran,’ he said, beginning to feel happier. Jake. He called me Jake. He took another mouthful of beer.

  ‘We could use a smart guy like you.’ Doran paused, scrutinising him carefully. ‘You know it wouldn’t be smart to keep extra copies.’ Although he continued in an informal conversational tone, Bentley felt the temperature drop a few degrees. ‘It wouldn’t be a good move to ask the lab to run off a set of prints for your Auntie Edith in Stalybridge.’ He smiled, but Bentley sensed the razor-sharp threat underlying it.

  ‘No, Mr Doran. I wouldn’t do that,’ Bentley said. ‘I really—’ No. Don’t say it. Don’t tell him how much you really admire him. He gathered himself and said, ‘I just want to work for you.’ He bit his lip, remembering Mr Doran’s earlier remark about ‘fan-boys’, but it was all right. Mr Doran laughed and handed him a fresh bottle of beer.

  ‘That’s flattering, Jake. I’m . . .’ He seemed genuinely moved. ‘I am — I’m flattered.’

  He slipped the photographs back into the wallet and held them up. A big shaven-headed flunky appeared from the shadows and took them. ‘The top picture is Megan Ward,’ Doran said. The man grunted and left, disappearing through the double doors of the bar to the windy sweep of roadway outside the bar.

  Doran rubbed his hands. ‘Now, how about some scran?’ They ordered food and more beer and Mr Doran told stories about the old days. ‘Before you were born, mate,’ he said, laughing.

  Mr Doran laughed a lot, once he unwound a bit. He had even, white teeth and a rich infectious chuckle. Bentley couldn’t help being a bit starstruck. Mr Doran was so . . . he didn’t have a word for it — he could make waitresses smile, he was always watching to make sure you had enough to drink, and he told good stories. Cool — maybe that was the word. When he laughed, you just wanted to laugh with him. And when he spoke, people paid attention.

  ‘I used to be in your line during the eighties,’ Doran said. ‘Strong-arm, protection, body-guarding.’

  Bentley gazed at him round-eyed. ‘We’ve all got to start somewhere,’ Doran said with a wink to Warrender.

  Bentley’s heart swelled with the possibilities. Mr Doran was telling him, Jake Bentley, all of this. Maybe — but he didn’t dare allow his thoughts to gather form — it was enough right now to be talking to Mr Doran as an equal, a friend, even.

  ‘One time,’ Doran said, ‘one of the local union bosses was giving us aggro. Said the militants were shaming the working classes — public transport brought to a standstill, unemptied bins, de-dah, de-dah . . . “Rats roam the streets of Liverpool,” he said. “And not all of them go on four legs.”’ He shook his head; it obviously still rankled. ‘Scabby bastard.’ He took a swig of beer. ‘Trouble was, he was persuading some of his flock to bleat to the same tune. Now, I don’t condone violence, Jake. But there’s ways, you know?’

  Bentley nodded, taking a pull on his beer. He was beginning to feel at one with the buzz of conversation in the restaurant. Opposite him, the cocktail bar was lively with traffic and the bartenders were hamming it up, warming to the evening performance for the female custom. The backdrop behind the shelves of liquor glowed from amber to pink to green and turquoise in a lulling cycle of colour.

  ‘You had a quiet word?’ Bentley said.

  Doran laughed. ‘I haven’t got your persuasive bulk, Jake, mate,’ he said, with an admiring glance at Bentley. ‘Never did have. Nah, what we did was, me and a few . . . colleagues went round to his house in a bin lorry. Tipped a week’s-worth of rubbish on his driveway. His car happened to be parked on it at the time.’

  Bentley laughed and Doran joined him. ‘Should’ve seen his face. He kept shouting “My car! My car!” I went up to him and, you know wh
at I said?’ He could barely get the words out for laughing. ‘You’ve gotta stop talking garbage, pal.’

  Bentley laughed even louder. He felt a glow of happiness like he had never felt before.

  The big shaven-headed guy came back in and stood a little way away from their table, like a waiter respectfully awaiting instructions. ‘Excuse me,’ Doran said.

  They went off to one of the booths to the left of their table and Bentley looked over at Warrender. He had almost forgotten that the security manager was with them. Warrender stared blankly at him, but by now Bentley had the measure of him. He raised his beer bottle in salute and took an insolent swig. If the boss likes you, he thought, it doesn’t matter a tinker’s cuss what the hired help thinks.

  Doran returned, all smiles. ‘My car! My car!’ he said, waving his hands in mock horror, which set Bentley off laughing again. He apologised for the interruption and sat next to Bentley on the sofa, watching the flunky disappear again, into one of the booths. ‘Some of them need a crib sheet on how to take a piss,’ he said, and Bentley laughed too loud and too long.

  Slow down, he thought. You’ve had too much to drink and you’re acting too friggin’ grateful. Don’t make a tit of yourself.

  Doran picked up a couple of bottles and handed him one. They kept coming, cold and fresh, and the empties were taken away, so he’d lost count.

  The conversation came around to the grotesque hike in house prices since Liverpool was named as European Capital of Culture.

  ‘Time was,’ Doran said, ‘working-class people like you and me lived in the city centre. You had the tenements and the artisan’s cottages and courts around Duke Street and Mount Pleasant. Affordable housing.’

  ‘’S’all gentrified, now,’ Bentley said.

  ‘Ever thought of moving into town, yourself?’

  Bentley snorted into his beer bottle. ‘I couldn’t afford a barrow on Bold Street, the prices they’re charging now.’

  ‘See?’ Doran said, looking to Warrender for affirmation. ‘Ordinary working men, pushed out to the sticks while the yuppies — poncy incomers from the south most of them — swan in and take over.’ Warrender was as unresponsive as ever, so he turned back to Bentley. ‘But you know what, mate? It’s not the price they’re charging that matters, it’s what you’re earning.’

  Bentley’s brow furrowed. ‘Same diff, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not if you’re earning double what you’re used to.’

  The alcohol had slowed his thought processes. How could he earn double? The gym didn’t pay that kind of money even to the manager. His frown deepened, his lips almost forming the question, then he saw that Mr Doran was smiling. I’ve got the job!

  ‘Mr Doran,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to say. I won’t let you down.’ He offered his hand and, though he seemed surprised, Doran took it — even put an arm around him and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

  ‘I know you won’t, mate.’

  The voices around Bentley became a meaningless gabble, the music swelled and subsided, but Mr Doran’s voice remained sharp and clear. ‘We’re organising security on an apartment block in Duke Street right now,’ Doran said. ‘You should get your name down before the dinkies get wind of it and they double the price.’

  ‘Dinkies?’ Bentley echoed.

  ‘Double Income, No Kids. A hundred and sixty-five K would get you a fourth-floor apartment with two bedrooms, hardwood floors, designer fitted kitchen and bathroom. Very high specs. Trust me,’ Doran said. ‘You’ll get double the starting price in two years.’

  The figures made Bentley’s head spin: from mildewed rental to loft apartment living overnight. He was grinning so much his jaw ached.

  ‘D’you wanna see?’ Doran asked. ‘I could get one of the lads to drive your car home for you, and I’ll drop you after we’ve checked out the place.’

  Bentley thought about it: he couldn’t drive — not with all he’d had to drink — and he wanted this evening to go on. He wanted Mr Doran to talk to him about his new job and all the things he could do and have. Patrick Doran’s voice was warm and strong; it was like listening to a story — a story where he was the hero and a happy ending was guaranteed — but he was beginning to feel disorientated by the drink, even a little queasy.

  ‘You could give us your opinions on the security arrangements while you’re there,’ Doran added, and Warrender bristled a little.

  That decided him. This was work. And if he pissed off Warrender and got himself a nice new gaff into the bargain, well — that was just how his life was since he’d met up with Mr Doran, wasn’t it?

  ‘Let’s do it.’ He got to his feet and the room shifted sharply sideways, but Mr Doran caught him by the elbow.

  ‘Whoops!’ he exclaimed, laughing. ‘Don’t know about you, mate, but I’m a bit over my usual limit.’

  It made Bentley feel better that Mr Doran was feeling the effects too, but he made a real effort to walk a straight line to the door. Warrender drove, while Doran and Bentley sat in the back. Warrender didn’t look like he’d taken to the role of chauffeur too well. Bentley relaxed, enjoying the soft give of the upholstery and the expensive smell of leather. Mr Doran’s own Beamer; he, Jake Bentley, was riding in Mr Doran’s Beamer. He remembered that he hadn’t handed his own car keys over to Mr Doran, but it didn’t matter — he was pleasantly buzzed and he had a new job — a job with prospects. And he had just spent the whole evening with Patrick Doran himself. He would pick up his car tomorrow — what the hell . . . he’d take a taxi into work to hand in his notice.

  The building site was surrounded by high steelhoard fencing, but Bentley could see a five-storey warehouse beyond it. Mr Doran took a flashlight out of the boot of his car and handed another to Warrender.

  ‘You’d be better off with some perimeter lighting, here, Boss,’ Bentley said.

  ‘Are you taking notes, John?’ Doran asked.

  Warrender shot Bentley a venomous look, but Bentley sensed that the power he held was already beginning to wane and he found that he could quite comfortably look the ex-cop in the eye; he even smiled to himself as Warrender opened the personnel door in the vehicle access gates.

  Doran led the way across the broken remains of a cobbled street, into the building. It smelled of damp and algae and crumbling mortar. ‘You need to use your imagination here, Jake,’ he said, shining the flashlight onto the damp walls and soggy mortar oozing like paste from between the bricks. ‘Think Albert Dock — think Pan American Bar,’ he added with a flourish.

  Bentley peered doubtfully into the damp darkness of the building. With its arched ceilings and the steady drip of water somewhere in the distance, it reminded him of a cave. ‘I’m not sure about this, Mr Doran,’ he said. The floor was slimy underfoot and the smell was getting to him.

  ‘The Albert Dock was in a much worse state than this place,’ Doran said, walking on into the dark, his flashlight racketing off the walls and brick arches of the warehouse. ‘Salt water’s corrosive, you know.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bentley followed unsteadily, with Warrender taking up the rear. They had made a good job of the Albert Dock, and property in the city centre was bound to go on increasing in value, he reasoned, trailing after the bobbing light of Doran’s torch. They went on, down a slippery stone staircase into the bowels of the building. Warrender was a solid presence behind him. It was oddly warm this far underground, a machine ground incessantly somewhere off to their right in the shadows and he began to feel claustrophobic.

  Doran stopped unexpectedly and Bentley almost bumped into him. ‘See those pits?’ Doran said.

  Bentley saw a series of deep holes, lit in turn by Doran’s torch, each about ten feet in length and maybe four feet across, edging the brickwork of the outer wall.

  ‘Once they’ve filled those with concrete, this place’ll stand for another hundred years,’ Doran said.

  ‘Great,’ Bentley said without enthusiasm. His stomach was really starting to roil now. The persistent stench of rot and the
constant churning of the machine he couldn’t see reminded him just how much he’d had to drink. He swallowed, trying not to think of the filth and the stink and the rats. There were always rats. ‘I’m not feeling so good.’

  He turned and came up hard against Warrender. The security manager handed Bentley his torch, then patted him down. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ he demanded. Warrender shoved his face into Bentley’s, but still he did not talk. Then he spun Bentley around, turning him to face Doran again so fast that Bentley almost lost his balance.

  ‘Hey — watch it!’ Bentley warned. The flashlight in his hand lit up Doran’s face and the coldness of his expression made Bentley reconsider any reprisal.

  ‘Now,’ Doran said, his voice icily cold, ‘Explain why you lied to me.’

  ‘Lie?’ Bentley was dizzy and disorientated.

  ‘I must warn you that I have to accept your first response,’ Doran said. ‘And wrong answers will cost you points.’

  It’s a joke. Bentley almost laughed with relief, but the look on Mr Doran’s face stopped him dead. He stared at Doran, horrified. ‘I didn’t,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘I swear, Mr Doran, I didn’t lie to you.’

  Doran sighed and took a folded yellow envelope out of his pocket. Bentley recognised it immediately as the envelope his photos had come in and he began to shake. Oh, God . . . Oh, God, you stupid, dumb –

  ‘This was in your car,’ Doran said.

  Bentley realised that the reason his car keys were still in his pocket was because they didn’t need his keys to get into his car. His mouth dried and he felt suddenly very sick. ‘It’s off an old set,’ he said weakly.

  Doran shook his head. ‘You’re only making things worse,’ he said. ‘Look at the date.’

  Bentley eyes filled with tears of desperation so that he could barely read it.

  ‘See that little box where it says number on the roll?’ Doran went on. ‘The girl’s ticked thirty-six, which means there were thirty-six exposures. Now, I’ve counted them over and over, but I can’t make the numbers match. There’s only twenty-four snaps in the wallet you gave me, Jake.’