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

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘Warlock has created a virus that modifies itself from time to time, as it replicates,’ Manning said. ‘Just as a real virus mutates and stays a step ahead of our immune systems. Effectively, we do need an inoculum — something that will recognise parts of the virus programme that remain unchanged and will disable it before it has the chance to attack your network. Which is why we need to understand the programme so that we can lock it down.’

  * * *

  Doran waited for Megan’s return call with an even stronger determination to find her and pay her back in slow, exquisite stages for what she had done to him.

  The phone rang within thirty seconds of him having hung up, and he got the creepy feeling that maybe she had been listening in on his call to Manning.

  ‘Somebody’s been poking around,’ he said, determined not to let her have the first word. ‘But who’s to say that isn’t you?’

  ‘Me?’ Her voice went up an octave. ‘D’you think I’m crazy?’

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ His voice was a low growl. He heard her breathing and liked the sound — shallow, and scared.

  ‘If I thought that,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t be talking to you, now. I’d be in South America, or Mexico, living the high life.’

  Doran thought about it: he didn’t know where she was; she had his money, and yet she was still around, still trying to bargain with him. So, maybe his reputation did count for something.

  ‘Anyway,’ she added, apparently unable to bear his silence, ‘even if you don’t trust me—’

  ‘Oh, I don’t,’ he interrupted.

  She went quiet for a moment and he had a mental image of her biting her lip nervously. ‘You don’t have to trust my word to see that the police are taking an interest in you,’ she said, after he allowed the silence to stretch a little longer.

  ‘True enough,’ he said, ‘I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes.’

  ‘So the worst possible thing would be to move the . . . to ship the — items into existing . . . storage units.’

  God she’s crap at this! He decided to play along. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Leave it where it is. Give me the access codes, passwords — what have you.’

  ‘Fine. That’s a great idea.’ She sounded hugely relieved and Doran was perversely suspicious. ‘I’ll send them by courier — I guarantee you’ll have them within the hour.’

  She was talking too fast, sounded too glib.

  ‘You’re giving me your guarantee?’ he said. ‘You gave my wife your guarantee — and that ended well, didn’t it?’

  ‘But—’

  Please, he thought, don’t insult me by sounding offended.

  ‘I — really I don’t want any more trouble,’ she stammered. ‘You can trust me, I swear.’

  That settled it. ‘Sure I can,’ he said. ‘When I have everything in my hand: cash, codes, passwords, printouts, disks, copies of any documentation.’

  ‘Documentation?’

  ‘You trashed my computer system, stole my money, fucked up my life — are you expecting me to believe you didn’t steal sensitive documents and files?’

  ‘You’ll have them,’ she said, meekly. ‘Within the hour.’

  ‘Delivered by you.’

  There was a shocked silence.

  ‘My security specialist will check everything is in order,’ he said. ‘And as soon as I have clearance from him, you can go. Of course, if there’s even a whiff of something rotten, you’ll be standing right in front of me, so we can sort out any . . . shortfall there and then.’

  ‘Please, I—’ Her voice took on a whining, tearful tone.

  ‘You want your life back?’ he said. ‘Those are my terms.’

  Chapter Forty-three

  Foster arrived in the Incident Room at seven p.m., straight from a management meeting with Rickman, in preparation for the briefing. The Fraud Squad were concerned that their surveillance of Doran’s network had been discovered, and there was a high probability of vital evidence being destroyed. Rickman’s team would move in on Doran’s office at four a.m. in a joint strike with the Fraud Squad, get what they could from documentary evidence, see if they could make a deal with Warrender.

  Megan’s brother had refused to speak to them, but Rob Voce had tracked down his solicitor, who had agreed to an interview. The forensic evidence from the case had been preserved, but not in ideal conditions, and Tony Mayle feared that the samples had deteriorated too much to yield anything useful. He sent them to the Forensic Science Service, anyway: articles of blood-spattered clothing; the murder weapon; the duct tape that had been used to bind Mr Orr. It could take a month for the results to come through — because of the poor state of the evidence and the possibility of contamination, Rickman had assigned it low priority.

  Foster watched the steady drift of people into the room with a sick feeling of inevitability. An early arrest meant they wouldn’t get Doran on the major charges — certainly not on Sara’s murder. Jeff Rickman was hopeful that they might still get something useful from the DNA evidence relating to the Orr murders, but Foster, for once, was pessimistic.

  It had rained all morning and into the afternoon; cold hard drops, as big as pennies. The sky, grey and dark, seemed to loom just above the rooftops, sullen and heavy. The River Mersey turned dun-coloured under the cloud cover, as brown and muddy as the water that sluiced off the building sites in the city centre and silted up the sewers.

  The team worked through it, turning up their coat collars and running to or from their cars, shaking the rain from their clothing before stepping into houses. Any who had the option concentrated on office work, sweating over reports or making one call after another, enquiring further into Doran’s past, into the circumstances of Warrender’s early retirement, and Gareth Owen’s prosecution and imprisonment.

  At two p.m. the rain slowed to a drizzle, and by three, it had stopped altogether. This was noted only by the unfortunate and unimaginative who had been unable to find an excuse to remain indoors. In the grey surroundings of the ill-lit Incident Room, the late show of April sunshine went unremarked; people kept their heads down and amassed names and dates, possible interview subjects, sources of information, banking them for action when they had more energy.

  Mostly, they worked quietly, only a murmur of voices in telephone conversation, or officers in twos or threes taking a short break to make coffee or tea. At the tea table, chat was directed away from the enquiry: Liverpool’s home game, their position in the league, a comedy show somebody had seen on TV. Nobody felt like talking about the enquiry, because nobody wanted to admit that it had stalled.

  Megan Ward had been their best link to Doran, but with Megan out of the equation, all they had was a little over a million and a quarter of Doran’s money, which he seemed reluctant even to admit was his, let alone collect.

  The evening briefing was due to start at seven-thirty and the room was beginning to fill. Garvey was among the first, carrying a lightweight plastic bag containing a tray of take-away food. He found an empty desk and plonked himself into the chair with a sigh, opened the container and savoured the aroma, then began forking the food into his mouth, a serene look on his face, as though he was listening to his own personal celestial choir. Foster didn’t know how he could do it — shut out the noise and growing clamour of the place.

  Reid swooped down on Tunstall who had just unwrapped a steaming portion of pie and chips, stealing a few chips and moving on fast, before Tunstall could grab him. ‘You bloody gannet!’ Tunstall yelled through a mouthful of food. ‘Buy your own!’

  ‘Keep it down, you two,’ Foster warned. ‘This isn’t playschool.’

  He sensed Hart, off to his left, but avoided looking in her direction. He couldn’t stand to see triumph — or worse, sympathy — in her eyes.

  Reid made another swoop, but Tunstall was ready, swivelling his chair and guarding his food like a dog with a bone. Reid persisted until Foster raised his voice.

  ‘Are you two deaf?’ he said. ‘Yo
u’d do better sorting out the mess on your desks. Reid, you’ve been skiving indoors all day, haven’t you?’

  ‘Not skiving, Sarge,’ Reid said.

  ‘Well, whatever you call it, you’ve had plenty of chance to sort out this crap.’ Foster lifted a newspaper and sweet wrapper and fanned a number of unfiled reports that lay hidden beneath.

  ‘Yes, Sarge,’ Reid said, and began sifting through the mess.

  Foster moved on, prowling the jumble of desks and peering over shoulders.

  ‘He’s in a bit of a strop, i’n’t he?’ Tunstall whispered to Reid. ‘Who’s rattled his cage?’

  Reid glowered in Foster’s direction, as he threw the newspaper and wrapper in the bin. ‘Multiple Megan, who d’you think?’

  Tunstall laughed. ‘Multiple Megan,’ he repeated. ‘Nice one, Reidy. He really fell for it, didn’t he? Reckon he’s losing his touch with the ladies?’ He spoke a little too loudly, underestimating the carrying power of his Widnesian boom.

  Foster turned. ‘You what?’ he demanded.

  Tunstall turned bright red. ‘Just saying — we’ll soon catch up with the latest,’ he said, while Reid crouched behind his computer monitor, stifling a fit of laughter.

  Foster kept watching until Tunstall threw away the remains of his meal and settled at his desk, then he continued prowling. There wasn’t anything he could do — Megan was well out of their reach and he didn’t expect to see her again. But he couldn’t help wondering, what if she decided to follow through with Doran. She’ll end up dead, that’s what, he told himself. The text messager on his mobile phone beeped and he rummaged in his pocket, turning the lining inside-out in his hurry to retrieve it.

  ‘Access URL below,’ it read. He scrolled down the screen, his heart picking up pace. Three Ws and a web address. He looked around the room, seeking out Naomi Hart, now.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Doran had agreed to meet Megan at the car park on the edge of Chavasse Park. When Patrick Doran and John Warrender arrived, the place was in darkness, the attendant long gone. Partly concealed from the road behind hoardings, it was a temporary space, prime land, sandwiched between the crown court and the police headquarters, compulsory purchased for the Paradise Street project, waiting for the developers to move in. Doran wondered if Megan thought that the proximity of law enforcement and legal process would protect her.

  The cupolas of the Liver Buildings, half a mile away, glowed ghostly white across the broad expanse of Strand Street and the black waters of Canning Dock. One of the clock faces was visible; lit in a garish yellow, it showed eight p.m.

  The car park’s surface was pitted, covered in limestone chippings and hardcore that had sunk in places. Doran drove one of the firm’s cars, loose grit popping under the wheels of the Merc like bubble-wrap. The odd stone pinged against the wheel arches. He parked on the far side of the attendant’s wooden shack and set the lights to ‘park’. The engine idled softly; neither man spoke. Cars passed in a steady stream on Strand Street, a hundred yards or more away, but few came down Canning Place: the shops were closed, the courts long since adjourned for the night, and there were no decent pubs or clubs within easy walking distance.

  A car approached, driving slowly. Orion, Doran noted automatically, light-coloured — silver, maybe, or white — difficult to tell in the artificial light. It drove on, but returned minutes later and turned into the car park, splashing through puddles at the entrance — an arbitrary structure built from two-by-four struts, painted black and yellow. Hornet stripes — a warning to the unwary. The car’s headlights flashed and dipped on the uneven surface

  ‘It’s her,’ Doran said, feeling a tingle of anticipation. ‘You’re okay with this?’

  Warrender nodded without looking at him.

  ‘This is just me and you, John. We get the money, and whatever else she’s got. She doesn’t walk away.’

  Warrender’s eyes flicked in his direction, then followed the car as it drew close. ‘Hard to walk away on broken legs,’ he said.

  Megan drove her Orion in a wide loop, switched off her headlamps as she completed the hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, then drew up next to Doran’s window. Doran pressed the electric window-wind at the same time Megan did, and each looked at the other without speaking as the motors whined. She looked different; younger than the photograph Bentley had given them. She wore her hair down, dark brown and silky, the shorter sections touching her jawline, the rest breaking at her shoulders. She was what his mother called ‘fine boned’, and Doran couldn’t help thinking how easily the cartilage of that pretty nose would crack.

  ‘Passwords, documents, account numbers,’ Doran said, holding out his hand.

  ‘You wouldn’t expect me to have them with me, would you?’ She sounded different, too cocky.

  Warrender ducked his head to get a better look at her.

  ‘You said you wanted to meet face to face,’ Megan said. ‘I’m here.’

  Doran smiled. ‘You’re asking for a slap.’

  Megan stared back at him. ‘Check your online account.’

  He took out his phone and scrolled down his mobile phone book, recalling the number for his account and holding Megan’s gaze as he waited for the line to pick up. He listened to the recorded message, then keyed in a couple more numbers.

  Megan clicked her tongue. ‘It’s all machines, these days, isn’t it?’ The tip of her tongue showed between her teeth for the briefest moment. ‘Don’t you just love it?’

  Doran glared at her. Definitely asking for a slap. The mechanical voice gave him his account balance and a muscle jumped in his jaw. He saw the gleam of recognition in her eyes and resented it.

  ‘Seven hundred and fifty thousand,’ he said, breaking the connection. ‘Not enough. Not near enough.’

  ‘A gesture,’ Megan said. ‘So you know I’m for real — and that I have your money.’ Doran searched her face for the lie. ‘I told you — the Fraud Squad are all over your network. You don’t want that kind of money in your account if you want to keep it.’

  ‘You’re looking after my interests,’ he said, placing a hand on his chest. ‘I’m touched. So, what are you proposing? That I should set up another account?’

  Megan smiled pityingly at him. ‘Mr Doran, when I wiped you out, it took me less than thirty minutes — that’s every account — transfers authorised and executed.’

  He blinked — so, even if she did return the money, he wouldn’t be able to trust it to stay put. She could move it around as easily as most women rearranged the furniture. His heart thudded slowly. ‘I want cash,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll take you to it.’

  Not a moment’s hesitation. It troubled him that she seemed to have anticipated his demand, but since she’d agreed, and since even Megan Ward couldn’t make hard cash vanish in an instant, he thought her foresight was no bad thing.

  ‘Now,’ he said.

  ‘After we’ve talked.’

  ‘You want to talk?’ He looked at Warrender. This wasn’t part of the deal.

  ‘She’s wired,’ Warrender said.

  Megan slammed her car into reverse, accelerating hard, and for one horrible moment, Doran thought she was leaving. Then she stopped again, leaving just enough room to open the driver’s door. She swung her legs out first, fifties starlet-style. Long legs, Doran noticed. Good legs. She stood in one smooth motion. She was wearing a skirt suit and blouse. She slipped off the jacket and draped it over the bonnet of her car, standing in the parking lights. Then she unzipped her skirt and let it fall, stepping out of it and placing it on top of the jacket. She was wearing stockings — what Fay called ‘stay-ups’, with an elasticated rim around the top. She looked through the windscreen, holding Doran’s gaze as she unbuttoned her blouse, taking her time, an eyebrow arched, a small smile playing on her lips. She shrugged out of her blouse and held it between her finger and thumb, spreading both arms and turning slowly, three-hundred-and-sixty degrees. Warrender’s eyes slid up and down her body, bu
t Doran looked away, disgusted. Had she no self-respect?

  ‘She’s not wired,’ he said.

  Warrender opened the passenger door. ‘We’ll see.’

  Megan stood her ground as he walked up to her. Doran got out and leaned on the open driver’s door, his gaze flitting from Megan to Warrender. His security manager reached past Megan to pick up her clothing

  It must be seven degrees out here, he thought, and she isn’t even shivering. She waited with one hand on her hip while Warrender checked the seams and lining of the suit carefully. After a few minutes, he shook his head. Megan gave him a pert smile and held her hand out. He sneered at her, bunching her clothing in his fist, then letting it fall into the still-damp chalk dust of the car park. Megan’s smile never faltered.

  ‘Get in,’ Doran said.

  She shook her head. ‘I prefer to use my car. And I prefer to talk to you in private.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ he said, feeling a reluctant glimmer of respect for her.

  ‘Then you won’t get your money.’

  Warrender looked at Doran, waiting for the signal to grab her, but Megan picked up her skirt, apparently unconcerned, and shook some of the dust off it before stepping into it. Doran’s eyes were drawn to her despite himself. He couldn’t work her out: she seemed afraid on the phone — but now . . .

  ‘You know you can’t force me into transferring the money,’ she said.

  ‘You think so?’ She wasn’t cool-headed, just too thick to see when she was way beyond the danger zone.

  ‘I’m not saying you wouldn’t try,’ she said, ‘But unless your technique has improved, you’re known for killing your torture victims before they have the chance to talk.’

  Doran felt a sudden chill. Who the fuck is she? What does she know? He made an effort not to look at Warrender. ‘So,’ he said, a splinter of ice in his voice, ‘Maybe I’ll just kill you.’

  The air between them seemed to hum. ‘Your choice,’ she said, ‘But you still wouldn’t have your money.’ Her grey eyes, almost black in the dark, held his, unwavering.