Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  ‘No sign of a weapon?’

  ‘None so far, but I would say it was a fairly sharp knife. Looks a clean cut.’ His factual, non-emotional language provoked yet another shiver that she failed to disguise.

  ‘You OK, Tara?’

  ‘I will be. Thanks, Brian, keep me posted.’

  ‘Will do, Tara.’

  Witney stared longingly as the pretty detective left the tent. She was happy to be out of there and walked quickly toward her car. Murray and Tweedy were still talking as a SOCO went about the beach gathering the remaining pieces of the murder victim, placing each portion in a separate evidence bag.

  Tara was already pondering the implications of this murder as she reached the relative sanctity of her car. If it were Terry Lawler out there, well-known Liverpool journalist, renowned for exposing corrupt public officials, the seedy side of celebrity and some of Merseyside’s big criminal noises, then he would not have been short of enemies. But she got the feeling that Terry Lawler had not been taken out as an act of revenge. If that were the case, he’d have been shot or stabbed and dumped in an alley. This killer was making a bold statement, sending out a message. Why else would Lawler have been half buried on a beach and his privates cut off? Was it possible to make him any more dead by castrating him after he’d been buried?

  She looked again at the Gormley figures and wondered if the upturned body of the victim was a sick and twisted artistic statement.

  Chapter 3

  Guy

  Before I go any further let’s get one thing straight. I’m no serial killer; I’m just tidy.

  When I choose a girl I choose carefully. I don’t take shortcuts. I don’t make mistakes. Success is all in the planning. Do something stupid and you’ll spend the rest of your life in a prison. I’m not a sad, ugly bastard, you know. I can get girls the normal way, like any other bloke, but I don’t always get the one I want. If there’s some beauty out there who won’t look twice at me then I take her without permission. It’s like stealing a car. What pillock ever sets out to steal a beat-up Clio? No one at all. They’re going to take a 5-series, a Merc or a Jag. Stands to reason. And choice is all-important. Look around. Take your time; pretend that you’re going shopping. Girls are like apples in the trees or blackberries in the hedgerows – ripe for the picking. And the best fruit is always the most difficult to reach. Don’t rush into anything. Choose the wrong bird and you’re finished before you get the chance to make it a career.

  ‘Act in haste, repent at leisure.’ My Granny used to say that. She wasn’t ever talking about killing, though. I used to play draughts with her when I was a kid, and she was nearly 80. Ma used to leave me at her house during school holidays while she went to work. I always made the first move that popped into my head and Granny would punish me so bad. I’d lose half of my counters simply by not taking the time to plan my moves. I only started to win when her mind had gone a bit. Sometimes she didn’t even know that she was playing the game. So here’s a piece of free advice. It’s better that the girls don’t realise they’re in a game, your game. That way they’ll never know they’ve lost until it’s too bloody late.

  It’s so easy when you know how. Okay, maybe for the first couple you feel a bit nervous, in case something goes wrong. Do your homework. Think it through. Run the whole plan over in your mind, and when you think you have everything sussed, go over it all again. First time I did it, I even had a couple of dry runs, just to be sure. What I’m trying to tell you is plan it well and you won’t ever get caught.

  I suppose it’s like everything else in life that is wild, exciting and a bit of a blast. The first time is the best. After that you’re always trying to re-create the first one. But you won’t ever do it. That ruthless buzz and the anticipation of what lies ahead are gone. It’s like your first kiss, your first goal for the school team, your first job and your first shag. Make the first one great; savour it, because it won’t get any better. Besides, if you’re not careful, your first may be your last.

  So now you have two of my rules. Don’t ever rush into it, and don’t let her know that she’s in the game. Simple.

  There are lots of pretty things in this world. Remember when you were a kid and perhaps on your birthday, your Da takes you to a toyshop? There are so many wonderful things in there, it’s impossible to choose, but you know that you’re allowed only one toy. It has to be the right one. Has to be memorable. Holly was just like that. She was a beauty. I planned my time with her, she didn’t know she was part of my game, and when I was done I knew I would never forget her. Perfection.

  ****

  Once Holly had departed this life, I wasted no time. I moved her, bent her double so that she was almost touching her toes. Have to do it before the rigors set in. Then I bound her hands to her feet. That way she would fit perfectly into the holdall. I use those big sports bags, the type that have wheels. Makes it easier to transport. Once I had her packed inside, I threw in her clothes, her boots and her handbag. The stuff I’d been wearing went in too. When I had changed into fresh jeans and shirt, I drove off, making for Mother Freedom and the early tide.

  My grandfather built her. Used to work in the shipyard on the big tankers and built wee boats in his spare time. When I was a kid he used to sail us across the water to Scotland for long weekends. Before he died he gave her to me instead of my Da. My Da had no interest in boats. Not much interest in anything, except pubs and bookies.

  I don’t keep her in the same port for long periods. Too many bloody snoopers asking if she’s for hire for a lads’ fishing trip. Bloody hooligans, if you ask me, out for a piss up, and not much fishing ever gets done. And I seldom put into the same port I’ve just left. Don’t want people making connections.

  That morning, with Holly in the bag, I drove to Bangor in North Wales, to Port Penrhyn. Mother Freedom sat close in to the quayside, fuelled up and ready to go. She’s a 30ft motor cruiser, fibreglass hull painted white and royal blue. Sometimes, just to get away from it all, I take her round the coast; Cornwall, Sussex and even up the east side to Scarborough and Whitby. Besides, moving the boat provides me with more options to search for women. I’ve been all over the country.

  ****

  I parked the van on the quayside as close as I could to the boat and began loading my gear aboard. I wheeled Holly along the quay and then lowered her by rope the 6ft onto the open deck. There was no one about, although several cars were parked close to the harbour master’s office. Ten minutes later, I was out of the harbour in a dull, grey morning and into the Menai Strait. Thankfully, a calm sea because, although I love to sail, I can get sea-sick from time to time especially when I come to a stop and I’m just bobbing about in the swell. In an hour I was about two miles off Amlwch on Anglesey.

  When I prepare the boat for a trip like this I load a dozen or so rocks, each one not so heavy that I can’t lift them but heavy enough to do the job.

  I slowed the engine right down and began packing the holdall with the stones. The whole package was now too heavy for me to lift, but all I had to do was lever it over the side. Young Holly was at the bottom of the sea before anyone had even reported her missing. Job done.

  Chapter 4

  Tara

  When they arrived at St Anne Street station, DS Murray gave her the wallet and mobile phone of the victim. The mobile didn’t seem so promising; it had been smashed and the SIM card removed. Someone had taken steps to prevent information being discovered. Tara wondered why they hadn’t simply taken the phone with them after the killing.

  She sat at her desk with the wallet sitting in front of her. Her feet were chilled to the bone. She’d left her flat in a hurry to reach the crime scene, hadn’t bothered to dress in work clothes and had instead pulled on a pair of jeans and light canvas pumps. Murray obliged with a mug of coffee and took a seat on the other side of her desk.

  ‘Definitely Lawler then?’

  ‘I think so,’ she replied, picking up the wallet. It was black, imitation leathe
r and folded in three parts so that it would fit neatly into a trouser pocket. There were several credit cards inside, each with the name Terrence Lawler. She set them to the side and then removed some cash which amounted to £45 in two tens, a twenty and a five pound note. Next she examined three receipts, but they were merely for petrol from Sainsbury. Tara would have expected to find a driver’s licence, but it seemed to be missing since there was a space for it in the middle pouch. Lastly, she found a couple of business cards tucked away behind the photograph of a woman. One advertised EB Property Management in bold blue lettering with an address in Warrington and a name of Evan Blackley, company director. The other had the name Paul Macklin, solicitor, with an address in Castle Street, Liverpool. She paused for a moment to study the small picture of the woman. Late 20s, early 30s, Tara guessed. Cropped black hair, grey eyes and red lips with the merest smile on the pale face. Seemed like a passport shot and probably not the most flattering of the woman.

  But it was a start and that was more than she usually got with murder cases. There was another 40 minutes until Tweedy required their presence in his office, so she lifted her phone and dialled the number of the solicitor. It cut immediately to voicemail, a male Liverpool accent explaining that Paul Macklin was not available at present and inviting her to leave a message or to contact another number for urgent matters. She took a note of the number but when she tried that it also reverted immediately to voicemail without further contact details. She re-dialled Macklin’s number and this time left a message for him to contact her at St Anne Street Station.

  Tweedy called his team of detectives earlier than planned, so Tara didn’t have time to call EB Property Management.

  All of the case meetings held in Harold Tweedy’s office took place in an atmosphere of relaxed formality. Tweedy had the manner of Sunday School teacher blended with high court judge. He didn’t stand for any nonsense but wasn’t in the business of stressing out his officers either. He stood behind his desk, while his staff sat around it, all of them aware of the leather bound King James Bible sitting upon it, a text that Tweedy was often found reading. First-name terms were always his way but, despite the informality, everyone knew that he expected their full attention and dedication.

  ‘Alan, perhaps you could start us off.’

  Murray cleared his throat, sat upright from his slouched position and set about explaining the circumstances of finding the body on Crosby Beach. Tara got the feeling he relished telling the story of gulls tearing at the flesh of the victim’s private parts. At times he was the station jester, liked to think he was the lad. She, however, knew him well beyond that. Shaven head, thick neck, bulbous eyes, grey suits and shirts straining at his stomach, he was recently divorced, cynical of fresh starts and even more so on his chances of promotion to inspector. Tara’s early rise to that rank had long since been an irritation to Alan Murray. But she had learned to tolerate his attitude and respect his ability as a detective.

  DC John Wilson recounted the details of finding the wallet, mobile phone and clothing of the victim on the sand, closer to the road than where the body had been discovered. More than ten years younger than Murray, Wilson seemed to be headed in the same direction as his peer. A more athletic build, too, he was already separated from his wife of just two years and getting re-acquainted with the free and single life. Tara would have regarded him quite attractive but for him being a work colleague and that he was moving in a direction similar to Murray’s, playing the field with no interest in commitment. For all that, Wilson was never less than courteous and carried out her instructions to the letter. She believed that things were made more difficult for her because, despite her age, she had the appearance of a coy teenager, if such a model existed in the 21st century. While at work, she maintained a subdued appearance, shoulder-length, golden blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and little make-up beyond tinted moisturiser and a trace of pale lipstick. Her usual work clothes of black trousers, black jacket and white blouse were pitifully complemented by flat loafers or ankle boots that did little to improve her lack of height.

  ‘Do you have anything for us, Tara?’ Tweedy asked.

  ‘Not much so far, sir. I’ve had a look through the wallet; a couple of contacts to follow up. The mobile phone was smashed and the SIM has been removed.’

  Tweedy had begun recording details on his large, white board fixed to the wall behind his desk. All known facts would be replicated on a similar board in the operations room.

  ‘Approximate time of death was five hours before he was discovered, so that makes it around 2am. It was dark obviously, but it’s worth checking for anyone who was walking on Crosby Beach around that time. John, I’ll leave you to check out residents in the area.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Wilson replied.

  ‘For now, pending a positive identification, we will work on the assumption that the victim is Mr Terry Lawler. Tara and Alan, I’ll leave you to follow up on the leads and to contact family members.’

  With all instructions meted out they were dismissed. Tara had the image of the woman in the photograph uppermost in her mind. Perhaps it was Lawler’s wife or partner. She hated delivering bad news to a relative. When she got back to her desk, she checked her voicemail and found that Paul Macklin had returned her call. He seemed as good a place to start as any.

  ‘Let’s go, Alan,’ she said breezing by his desk on her way to the door.

  ‘Where to, mam?’ He was already on his feet wrestling to don the jacket of his suit.

  ‘To see a solicitor.’

  Chapter 5

  Guy

  I put in at Bank Quay in Caernarfon in the early afternoon. I scrubbed down the small deck with harbour water and made sure I hadn’t left anything of Holly’s lying around. I don’t take souvenirs: knickers, shoes, a lock of hair or anything like that. I don’t save pictures from the newspapers. I don’t keep any information I gather on my girls. Everything is destroyed. Call it data protection. I don’t even keep count of the women I’ve had, but in my head I can still visualise each and every one. And I can recall the names I gave them; after all, they’re my girls. My bag is strictly in the love-making. Beyond that I remove all traces of my contact with a girl. And finally, I don’t get a buzz in leaving cryptic clues for the peelers. What eejit scrawls words on walls or leaves ancient symbols, riddles or voice messages? Psychos with a death wish of their own, that’s who.

  I caught a bus from the station in Caernarfon back to Bangor and then collected my van from Penrhyn harbour. From there I drove to the civic amenity site on the Llandygai Industrial Estate where I dumped the mattress, and then to the self-service car wash at TESCO. I power-hosed the back of the van inside and out and, after stopping for a burger, I was home in Liverpool by 8pm. By the end of the week I’d sold on the van at an auction and any evidence that Holly and I did the business in it had completely gone. That’s how tidy I am. I wonder what CSI Miami would make of that? No crime scene and no body. Figure that one out, you smart-arses.

  It’s a pity about Holly, though. Nice girl. If I’d brought her round instead of putting her to sleep permanently the chances are she wouldn’t have remembered a thing. But you can’t be too careful. My DNA would be all over her and inside her. Can’t be doing with that. Some clever dick would realise what went down and in no time I’d be staring at the four walls of a cell in Liverpool Prison. No, sad though it is, they have to go. Just so you know, I don’t get any buzz from killing. I do it as humanely as possible. It’s a necessity, not a part of my thrill. Apart from grabbing them by the throat, there’s no violence. A wee jab of China White – fentanyl – and they doze off. I do my thing, and finally I apply the lethal dose. Most of the time it’s China White. That’s stuff more potent than heroin. An intravenous shot of 3.4 milligrams is the lethal dose. I used a little more to make sure. Holly just slept on. She didn’t suffer, never knew what happened, never had to live with the trauma. Sometimes I feel for the family, but hey, thousands of people go missing ev
ery year in Britain and some are never found. At least Holly’s family will believe they have hope.

  Time to start looking for the next one.

  Chapter 6

  Tara

  Murray pulled into a lay-by outside the offices of PDP Solicitors in Castle Street in Liverpool city centre. A sign of blue lettering on a white background above the door stated that the firm specialised in property law, and criminal and family legal aid. The ground floor of the four-storey building was occupied by a coffee and sandwich bar; the PDP offices were on the first and second floors. Tara told the girl working in the cramped reception area that she had an appointment with Paul Macklin. They were shown through immediately to an even smaller office with two desks and a tiny frosted window that blocked what little light came from the alley at the rear of the building. The walls were crammed full of files and papers in lockable cabinets, and several imposing law manuals adorned a single shelf by the window sill. Paul Macklin, a weedy man in his 30s with narrow eyes, pointed nose and dishevelled mousey hair glanced up from behind a computer screen. His maroon tie sat askew, his blue shirt open at the collar. He looked neither pleased nor particularly interested in greeting his visitors; his mind seemed to be somewhere else; he looked stressed.

  ‘Mr Macklin? I’m Detective Inspector Grogan and this is Detective Sergeant Murray. Sorry to disturb you, sir, but we’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Sure. What case?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Which of my cases are you interested in?’

  He was back gazing at his screen. The arrival of two detectives had not raised any alarm with him. It appeared they were merely interrupting his train of thought.

  ‘Nothing like that, sir,’ Tara replied. ‘Can you please tell me if you know a Mr Terry Lawler?’