DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3)

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  And it was.

  Chapter 42

  Saturday

  The streets were deserted at six a.m. There were fewer early-morning commuters at the weekend, and the Saturday shoppers were still in bed. Rickman saw a bus idling in a lay-by while the driver snoozed, the occasional taxi driver hoping to scoop up a fare into the city centre, and little else.

  The storm had stripped most of the autumn leaves from the trees, heaping them in mounds against the sandstone walls around his home. They lay as a soggy mulch, clogging the drains and banking up in the gutters at the roadside. He headed down Greenbank Road to avoid the inevitable floods around Sefton Park. Even the small lake in Greenbank Park had spilled over, inundating the lawns, and ducks bobbed in shallow water, reflecting an ice-blue sky.

  Rickman experienced a confused mixture of elation and guilt at what had passed between him and Tanya the night before. It had been a mistake — their situation was messed up enough without adding the complication of an affair. Rickman felt sick with himself, but perversely, he felt a shiver of excitement recalling the softness of Tanya’s skin against his own and the contentment he had felt lying in her arms.

  And what about Simon? His brother claimed not to care about Tanya and the boys, but selfishly he was curious about his past and saw them as the gateway to it. They gave him a sense of history, of rootedness, even if it seemed like a story told about somebody else, and he listened, fascinated, if with mild scepticism, about his business, the years spent in Italy, his commissions from pop stars and actors, the magazine articles featuring him and his designs. But Simon had also told his brother about his sense of isolation, of the alienation he felt from his family, with regret. If Rickman tried harder, persevered longer, could Simon come to love Tanya again?

  And how did Tanya feel? He went back over the last hour, as they had showered and breakfasted, trying to recall each look, each gesture, and reinterpret it. She’d seemed awkward — but so had he. Was she ashamed of what she’d done? Had they only made love to stave off despair? Rickman probed his feelings once more. He was apprehensive at seeing Tanya again that night, but beneath that and the guilt was a thrill at the thought of seeing her, of holding her in his arms, the warmth of her, the feel of her hair against his skin, the spicy scent of her, the salt taste of her on his tongue — and the simple joy of seeing her smile when she saw him.

  A tree branch in the road diverted his attention. He steered around it and made a left turn. Smithdown Road formed the backbone of Wavertree, connecting the poor working-class redbrick terraces at its westernmost point, to the comfortable middle-class villas on the outskirts of the city. At this hour, the shops, pubs and restaurants along its length were closed and shuttered. Litter, roof slates and the odd ‘For Sale’ sign lay scattered across the pavement and roadway, adding to the desolation of the place.

  The road was a steady climb, and as the altitude increased, wealth decreased. Restaurants were replaced by small grocery stores and off-licences whose goods were protected behind reinforced glass and slipped to customers like contraband through serving hatches. Many of the shops that had once teemed along both sides of the street had disappeared altogether, their display windows bricked up, replaced by narrow openings above head height, where unnamed businesses plied their dubious trade.

  The Major Incident Room was empty when Rickman arrived. The joint investigation would run on a skeleton crew over the weekend. He went to his office and ran a few checks, then returned to the MIR and sifted through the previous night’s phone messages from the hotline. After that, he needed caffeine. He checked out the whiteboard while he waited for the kettle to boil — since Tunstall’s superglue brainwave, the kettle had stayed put.

  Jasmine stared out at him from one of the photographs. She held her baby close, daring the world to come between them.

  Someone had pinned up a recent photograph of Rob Maitland. He was glancing over his shoulder, as if he had heard the click of the camera shutter. Maitland was their best suspect and he had a rock-solid alibi, Bernie Carter had vanished, and Rickman had little faith in Dwight’s ability to find Carter and bring him in.

  ‘Boss?’ Naomi Hart stood at the door, her pale skin flushed pink by the cold, her fine blonde hair loose, framing her face. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Fine, why?’

  ‘You were talking to yourself.’ He winced and she added, with a smile, ‘The odd word. Nothing indictable.’

  Rickman covered his embarrassment by asking a question. ‘I thought you were off-duty this weekend?’

  She dumped her handbag in her desk drawer. ‘Couldn’t settle.’ She slipped off her coat, the action graceful and fluid. The kettle clicked. ‘I could murder a coffee.’

  Rickman made them both a hot drink and handed her a mug. ‘No milk, I’m afraid. The whole system falls apart when Tunstall’s not here to organise it.’

  Her mouth twitched. ‘You’ve got to admit, he is more domesticated than your average rugger-bugger.’

  They stood side by side at the whiteboard for a few minutes, staring at the snapshots as if they would eventually cave in and talk to them.

  ‘Carter’s the man I’d like a chat with,’ Rickman said.

  She looked up at him, a frown creasing her brow, and he gave her a précis of his conversation with Tommy Eames the previous night.

  ‘Why would Maitland put a contract out on his accountant?’ Hart asked. ‘And why would he try to get at Carter by scaring the crap out of one of his most trusted men?’

  ‘My guess? Maitland doesn’t know who to trust any more. Whatever Carter did, I think Eames is in it up to his sweaty armpits — Maitland’s only holding off because he thinks Eames will lead him to Carter.’

  ‘No wonder the Birkenhead mob launched a takeover bid,’ Hart said. ‘It must look like the firm’s about to go into liquidation.’

  ‘And Maitland brought in new muscle. Eames said the only man he recognised was this Graham character. I ran a check on him. Neil Graham and Rob Maitland did time together at Thorn Cross Youth Offenders’ Institution in their mid-teens — the only prison time either one of them has ever served.’

  ‘Impressive,’ Hart said, ‘given Maitland’s history.’

  ‘He’s ruthless,’ Rickman said. ‘Any threat is extinguished without discussion or right to appeal.’

  Hart stared at the accumulated photographs and notes on the whiteboard. ‘So why did Carter become a threat?’

  ‘I’ve been asking myself the same question since last night.’ They looked again at the photographs while they sipped their coffee.

  ‘D’you think he tried to blackmail Maitland?’ Hart asked.

  ‘For what?’

  She shrugged. ‘A share of the power.’

  ‘It’s true Carter would have a hell of a lot he could use as blackmail,’ Rickman said. ‘But blackmailing a man like Maitland would be a risky business. Anyway, Maitland is on the brink of respectability, why would Carter choose now to kick off?’

  ‘Transition period,’ Hart countered. ‘He’d be at his most vulnerable now.’

  Rickman took another sip of coffee. This was one of the things he liked about Hart — she would pursue an idea, even if it meant setting herself up in opposition to the boss. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘let’s try that for size. From what we know, Carter is the brains behind the operation.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe he feels he should have had a bigger cut of the profits. He might think blackmail would work. And Maitland might be less willing to act with the press and media focused on him. But men like Maitland have long memories and they bear grudges.

  ‘Maitland said Carter’s been working hard on the accounts for an audit — he’s trying to find backers for a dockside development.’ Rickman felt a prickle of excitement. ‘Maybe the audit is the key. Maybe Carter’s skimmed more off the profits than even he could hide, and he knows it’ll come out in the audit.’
r />   ‘Then why the rush?’ Hart demanded. ‘Why not tell Maitland he needed more time?’

  Rickman exhaled. ‘You’re right — it doesn’t make sense — but there had to be a trigger. One minute, everything’s fine and Maitland’s on the way up — the next, he’s involved in an internecine battle with one of his most trusted men.’ Something niggled at him. He picked up a marker pen and went to the wall calendar. ‘Carter disappears Thursday or early Friday.’ He circled the dates. ‘And Michael Aldiss is murdered yesterday — Friday.’

  Hart nodded, responding to his pent-up energy.

  ‘Could this be linked to Dwight’s investigation?’

  ‘Operation Snowplough?’ Hart turned her cool gaze on him, and Rickman saw her weighing up the possibility that he might be on to something. Her eyebrow twitched slightly as though to say, What the hell . . . ‘They’re a close-mouthed bunch, but it’s obvious they’re going nowhere just as fast as we are.’

  ‘Michael Aldiss was murdered to try and extract the accountant’s location from Eames.’ Rickman tapped the pen against his teeth. ‘And we know that Graham was acting for Maitland.’ He focused on the grid of dates on the wall until the lines danced before his eyes.

  ‘Tommy Eames comes to me immediately after the murder, asking for protection. So what happened on Thursday to screw up the status quo?’

  She shrugged. ‘In his world — who knows?’

  ‘We’re part of his world now, Naomi,’ Rickman said, and the notion made his skin itch. ‘Somewhere between late Thursday and early Friday morning, something soured between Maitland and Carter.’

  She nodded. ‘We need to find out what.’

  Chapter 43

  Two TV crews were parked in a side street opposite Edge Hill Police Station. A gang of youths, none older than fourteen and all of them boys, hung around on the street corner, waiting for an opportunity to nip in at an open door and find something worth nicking. Two hand mikes and a reporter’s handbag had gone that way in the last twenty-four hours, so the technical staff were keeping doors firmly closed and at least one person on watch.

  Newspaper and radio reporters who lacked the luxury of a van to retreat to had to face the dual discomforts of inquisitive and abusive youths and the plummeting temperatures: a cold front had followed the storm, with high, cold skies and the promise of freezing fog later. Even now, as the sun began to lower, a thin haze was forming, magnifying the sun like a lens as it dipped towards the brow of Edge Hill.

  They scuffed and stamped on the steps of the police station, telling each other risqué jokes and making small talk to stave off the boredom, drinking strong tea, and intermittently grumbling about the lack of progress in the investigation.

  When Kim and Lars Lindermann drew into the kerb, crunching a few slates dislodged by the storm under their car tyres, the reporters shifted their weight and peered at their car. Though alert to a possible story, none wished to be the first to break ranks in case the new arrivals were only there to report a stolen purse or to enquire after a lost cat. When nobody emerged from the BMW, they settled again to their vigil. The gang of boys, however, being well-schooled in the earning potential of a top-of-the-range motor on their patch, paid much closer attention without seeming to notice the car at all.

  Lars Lindermann looked across at his wife.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, though her hands were cold and she felt weak.

  ‘I can come with you.’

  ‘You should go home, Lars,’ she said. ‘Take care of the children.’

  ‘Vicky can take care of the children.’

  She shifted in her seat to get a better look at him. ‘It’s Vicky’s half-day, and she wanted to do some shopping — it wouldn’t be fair.’

  Her husband gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles whitened. ‘You shouldn’t have to do this alone.’

  She covered his hand with hers, feeling it warm her own.

  ‘I have to,’ she said. ‘I’m done with being afraid.’

  A couple of boys broke away from the main group and sauntered towards them.

  ‘This will be the local protection racket, offering to “mind” your car,’ she said, aiming for levity, unable to take another emotionally charged discussion. ‘Time I left.’

  ‘I’ll wait for you.’

  She heard the helplessness and impotent rage in his voice.

  ‘You’ll attract attention.’ She leaned across and kissed his cheek. ‘You already are.’ With nothing better to do, the press were showing an interest in the two young gangsters — watching them hassle somebody else would provide light entertainment until something better showed up. ‘Go home,’ she said. ‘I’ll take a taxi back.’

  She stepped out of the car and crossed the street without looking back, because if she did, she felt her resolve might break. She drew a few stares from the press and media, and a lewd remark from one of the older boys, but she barely registered them. Her scars itched and burned, and she knew they wouldn’t let her be until this was over.

  * * *

  DCI Rickman agreed to see Kim right away. She sensed that by nature he was inclined to be gentle, despite his broken nose and the nicks and scars he bore. He was courteous and kind, a big man, like her husband, though Rickman was broader and carried more weight — all of lean muscle, she surmised, appraising him with a practised eye. Some big men are intimidating, others make you feel safe. Rickman made her feel safe.

  He seated her in a chair in his office, then sat behind his desk. He had hazel eyes with a fleck of gold. When she looked into them, Kim saw that he too had suffered — she had always been able to recognise a fellow soul in torment.

  She composed herself for what she had to say. ‘I identified Jasmine’s body yesterday.’

  ‘We’re grateful,’ he said. ‘I know it must have been an ordeal for you.’

  ‘I saw the cuts.’ She saw a slight flicker in his eyes, as though recalling the injuries was painful to him.

  ‘I hoped you would be spared that.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ Kim folded her hands in her lap and stared at her wedding ring and the hard, cold beauty of her diamond engagement ring to avoid looking into his eyes. ‘I know who killed her.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  She had expected him to ask for a name, but she supposed the name wouldn’t matter if her reasoning seemed irrational.

  ‘I know because . . .’ She wanted to tell him that she knew because she had recognised the cuts on Jasmine’s body — knew them as well as the scars on her own. But her throat closed, and tears of shame pricked behind her eyes.

  ‘Take your time.’ Rickman’s voice was warm, and the compassion in it nearly made her crumble. Strange to think that if he had seemed hard and cynical, it would have been easier. She tried again, but her voice cracked.

  She shook her head, impatient with herself — angry, too, that the man who had humiliated her could still have such power over her. To hell with him. She shook off her jacket and began to unfasten the buttons of her blouse.

  ‘Mrs Lindermann—’ Alarmed, Rickman began to stand.

  She paused. ‘Let me show you,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you, so let me show you.’

  He glanced at the door, then seemed to come to a decision. He nodded, taking his seat again, and she slipped her blouse over her shoulders, exposing her upper arms and back.

  Rickman gasped.

  The cuts on Jasmine’s body had been bloody — the necessity of speedy execution had taken some of the precision from the work — but Kim Lindermann knew that Rickman must see the similarity in the patterns carved into her flesh: the arcs, sunbursts and whorls, the carefully cut parallel lines.

  ‘He prefers to work on a small section at a time,’ she said. ‘It can take him months to “perfect the art”, as he calls it. He’s lying to himself — he likes to see the girls’ fear grow with each session. That is his “art”.’

  She buttoned her blouse. ‘He supplied us with drugs in retur
n for . . .’ She risked a look into his face, expecting to see pity or contempt — most likely both. She saw neither. Rickman’s jaw was locked and a pulse throbbed in his temple. She sensed a quiet rage in him.

  ‘We called him the Surgeon. He preyed on the most desperate among us, the girls who would do anything — anything — for a fix. He was never short of willing victims. He liked us to be aware, but compliant, so he held back the major part of the operation until after you’d got yourself straight, allowing you just enough of your preferred poison to ease the cravings, but not enough to dull the pain.’

  Rickman winced, and she guessed he was recalling some detail of Jasmine’s murder that she would rather not know about.

  She looked again at the diamond ring on her finger. ‘He would wait a bit for the analgesic effects to wear off, then he’d begin. Sometimes he could make it last all night.’

  She heard Rickman exhale slowly. ‘The injuries to Jasmine’s body were all new,’ he said. ‘She’d never . . .’

  ‘He wanted Jasmine, but she never needed the drugs the way I did.’

  ‘She turned him down.’ His voice was restrained, the rage well-controlled.

  She nodded. ‘He doesn’t like to be turned down.’

  ‘And this man’s name?’ he asked.

  * * *

  Naomi Hart saw Mrs Lindermann to the rear entrance of the police station, where a taxi was waiting. She looked relaxed and she even smiled her thanks to Hart as she got in. Rickman had asked that Hart return to his office immediately. He stood at the window, breathing deeply as if he needed the air.

  ‘Did she get away all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Hart said.

  ‘No press?’

  ‘They had a couple of scouts hanging around the back gate, but they didn’t show much interest.’

  ‘Good,’ Rickman said. ‘The longer we can keep the press off their backs, the better.’ He turned to face her, his dark eyes sparking amber. ‘As of now, Bernie Carter is our prime suspect.’

  She frowned. ‘The accountant?’

  ‘They call him the Surgeon.’