‘Terry? Course I do, we’re mates. What’s he done now? Which politician has he shat upon today?’ When Tara didn’t respond immediately, Macklin finally looked up from his screen.
‘When did you see him last?’
Tara noted the concern slowly descending upon the bony face of the solicitor. His mouth remained open, revealing crooked teeth.
‘Last week. Why?’
‘Have you spoken to him since then?’
‘No. A couple texts maybe. What’s he done? Is he all right?’
‘Are you aware of any activities he’s been involved in recently?’
‘What’s going on? Is Terry all right? If something’s happened to him I’d like to know. We’ve been mates since school. Played footie in the same team.’
‘We can’t confirm at the moment, but we believe that we found the body of Mr Lawler this morning on Crosby Beach.’
Macklin paled; he stared pleadingly at Tara, this slip of a girl, all 5ft 1in of her, playing detective. Tara duly noted his reaction to the news. You never know when you might have to regard a display of shock as being false. She repeated her previous question.
‘Do you know anything of Mr Lawler’s recent activities?’
Lost in thought, the solicitor stared at the floor.
‘Em … no, not really. What I mean is Terry dabbled in a lot of things. Especially since he went freelance; he had a lot of potential stories on the go.’
‘Can you think of anything in particular?’
‘Why? He hasn’t been murdered, has he?’
‘If it is Mr Lawler we found this morning, then yes, we believe he has been murdered.’
Macklin rubbed frantically at his face with both hands and breathed deeply.
‘I don’t know. We had lunch and a pint last week, but he never mentioned anything.’
‘Nothing troubling him in particular?’ Murray put in.
Macklin shook his head, no.
‘What did you talk about?’ Tara asked.
‘Usual stuff – football, music, women.’
‘Was Terry married?’
‘Used to be,’ Macklin scoffed. ‘Gwen. She got tired waiting for him to become reliable. They divorced about three years ago. They had a daughter, Maisie; she’d be about 14 now. Gwen re-married.’
‘And Terry?’
‘Na. No way. Said he wasn’t going down that bloody cul-de-sac again. God, I can’t believe Terry’s dead.’
‘Do you know of anyone who’d want to do Mr Lawler harm?’
It was a nervous laugh but ironic just the same.
‘How long have you got, Inspector? Terry named and shamed a lot of people over the years. Some of them got put away; others are still running the bloody country. Don’t you know anything about Liverpool? Stop any punter on the street and they’ll have a Terry Lawler story for you. Take your pick of enemies, from druggies to city councillors, celebs to ex-girlfriends. I loved him to bits, but he could be a right bastard when he put pen to paper. He exposed the dubious secrets of a lot of people.’
‘One last question for now, Mr Macklin. Is there anyone close to Mr Lawler that we should contact? Do you have an address perhaps?’
‘No one that I know of except for Gwen. Parents are both dead. His sister, Ruth, went missing five months ago. No one’s heard from her since. He has another sister, but she has learning difficulties. His ex-girlfriend, maybe. Her name is Lynsey Yeats. They split a few weeks ago. I can get an address for you. Apart from that there’s me. I suppose I was his closest mate.’
‘Then perhaps we may have to call on you to identify the body,’ said Murray. Tara glared at her colleague. He had a tendency toward insensitivity when handling delicate situations.
‘Do you have an address for Terry?’ She asked.
‘He lived at Lynsey’s place until they split, but he still kept his own flat. Not that it’s up to much. Wasn’t so good at looking after himself.’
Macklin checked an address book he had lying on his desk, then scribbled quickly on a torn scrap of PDP headed paper.
‘Terry’s address, Gwen’s address and Lynsey’s,’ he said, handing the note to Tara.
‘Thank you, Mr Macklin. We’ll be in touch if we need to speak again.’
Macklin nodded weakly as Tara and Murray left the office. He returned immediately to his computer screen.
‘Do you think it’s strange that Macklin had the addresses of both women?’ Tara asked Murray when they returned to the car.
‘Hard to say, mam. He gave the impression of being very close to Lawler.’
‘Mmm. I wonder if he was also close to the women.’
Chapter 7
Guy
Gemma was 18. I found that out the first time I laid eyes on her. It was her first day at Queens, and I watched as she walked through those big gates on University Road. Not a care in the world, dear love her. Three girls together, students; they had that student look about them. Sort of dressed down, understated in jeans and flat shoes, and nice wee tops showing bare arms because it was unseasonably warm for late September in Belfast. They had big hair, all three of them. Freshly washed, tumbling down their backs, one blonde, the other two, dirty fair. But the hair was enough to start me off, spoke volumes to me, especially with Gemma. Everything about her was dripping in sex appeal; her hand tossing those blonde locks over her shoulder; the wispy smile, aloof, arrogant. Somebody who knows rightly that they’re a dick teaser. Someone who takes satisfaction from boys gawking at her as she walks by. The stupid wee nerds in her new class wouldn’t stand a chance. The likes of Gemma already had a boyfriend who, if he wasn’t from a rich family, was likely to be loaded before he hit 30. She was in a different league; money attracts money. I was going to have to look into all that.
It was the first time it ever occurred to me how much I wanted a girl. And I tried things the normal way, honest I did. I walked up to Gemma in a bar crowded with freshers on the Malone Road and offered to buy her a drink. She politely declined. I tried again later on when I had a few pints in me, and she’d had a few vodkas.
‘I would really love to buy you a drink,’ I said, ‘with a view to getting to know you better. What do you think?’
‘No thanks,’ she replied. ‘I can buy my own drinks.’
‘I’m only trying to be friendly, like. We’re both new here. It’s good to make friends.’
She flicked that rapturous hair back and glared at me with a sarcastic smile. Big eyes, blue and confident stared me out. I realised then her smile was a fuck-off smile. It was a smile that told me that I was not at her level. I was a pauper not a prince.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise I was talking to a stuck-up bitch,’ I said and backed away. Her mouth dropped open as if she’d never heard such language before, but I can’t believe she’d got to that age without anyone ever telling her she was a stuck-up bitch. And I’m quite sure with that big gaping mouth of hers that some bloke must have inserted his manhood in it long before now.
That little encounter was no reason to give up on Gemma. But it was the first time I ever realised that if I couldn’t get my way with a girl I would just have to take matters into my own hands. That night I had no idea how to go about it or to what it would eventually lead. But I knew that Gemma would soon be mine in a way that probably wouldn’t suit her. Fuck her, I gave her a chance and she didn’t take it.
Having made it my intention that one day I would take Gemma, she wasn’t to be my first. That dubious honour went to a wee girl I called Millie. Millie by name and millie by nature, if you know what I mean? If you don’t understand the colloquial Belfast term then go and look it up. I can’t be arsed explaining every detail. Suffice to say, Millie hailed from a more working class background than the stuck up Gemma.
I was on the bus when I spotted her. Luckily, it was stopped at a red light. I had been watching a fairly nice Asian bird pushing a buggy with a gurney wee brat in it. She had a nice arse and long black hair, which had first caught my eye.
Apart from that, she wasn’t up to much. A little too big as well. There was a bloke on the news recently. He had been captured on CCTV trying to abduct a young girl who was walking home late at night. He tried to carry her into some bushes, but she kicked and struggled until he couldn’t hold her any longer. Finally, she pulled herself free and ran off. You see what happens with no planning, no forethought? The daft eejit should have picked on someone a bit smaller. At least then he might have stood a chance.
Just before the lights changed to green, Millie stepped out of the chemist shop that the Asian woman with the sprog had been about to enter. She was delightful. That was the first time I realised that I would be going all the way without even asking.
So you should see already that they will come to you. It doesn’t require a lot of searching. Remember though, that having considered all the practical aspects of choosing your girl, she has to be right for you. After all, you are going to make love to her. No point in wasting your energy on some cheap slapper who isn’t worth the time of day. I’m not one of those guys who tries to rid the world of hookers. Where’s the fun in that?
Millie took a lot of hard work. She was a complete stranger to me but only for as long as that first sighting lasted. In seconds, I was off the bus and, staying about 40 yards behind, I followed her along Strandtown as she meandered through the afternoon shoppers, popping into the odd store herself, first a jeans shop and then a book store. By the end of that day, I knew her real name was Linda Meredith. She had tanned skin and long, shining black hair with a fringe threatening to cover her eyes. Her face seemed a little too serious, her jaw square and her mouth quite small and taut. She wore tight, pale-blue jeans and pink and white trainers. Most important of all, to me that is, her arse was neat and very rounded, stretching the denim of her jeans into such fabulous shapes. It was a hot day, and she wore a cropped yellow vest which did not come anywhere close to meeting the waistband of her jeans. I stared at her exposed flesh and could see the tiny bar of gold, which seemed to stand guard at her navel. It was all I could do to stop myself from groping her right there in the bookshop. But if I wanted her properly, I would have to be patient.
Incidentally, I saw her name on the debit card that she handed to the assistant after buying two books and a magazine. She bought two of those modern, frolicky-type novels, you know the ones where modern girl meets sexy modern guy who cheats on her, and she rebuilds her life to become strong and independent? Just as soon as she’s accomplished that she meets her all-time Mr Right and lives happily ever after. Bless. She also bought a copy of Hello. See how observant you can be, once you pick your girl?
The most important thing to find out about her is where she lives or, failing that, where she works. That done, there’s no stopping you. Don’t forget, that once you have that information, you must make sure that she doesn’t get the creeps, thinking that some pervert is watching her every move. You’re not some amateur stalker. No point getting caught for peeking through her window or breathing heavy down the phone. May as well get hung for a sheep than a lamb. That’s another thing my granny used to say although, at the time, I never quite understood what she meant by it.
So, after that first sighting it took me nearly three months to set the whole thing up. By then I knew that Millie was single, 19 and working as a hairdresser in a city centre salon. She lived at home with her parents and younger brother who was still at secondary school. But more important than all of that, I knew that on weekdays she left home around 8.20am, walked up to the bus stop on the Holywood Road, around the corner from her home and boarded a bus headed for town. What I’m saying is, you have to slip into her routine. You have to be prepared for long periods of hanging around. Sometimes it is only to make one sighting of her or to check one simple fact. But don’t ever raise her suspicions. Each time you’re on the lookout you must alter the routine. Standing opposite the bird’s house day-in-day-out for a week. I mean, how daft is that? Somebody will notice. And when it comes to disappearing time you can be sure that some old hag from two doors down will tell the peelers about the strange git who had been lurking about in the street.
When you get a lucky break, take full advantage of it. One morning I got on the bus with my Millie and sat two seats behind her. She got off at a stop in the city centre. I stayed on board, watching until she disappeared down Upper Arthur Street. Next morning I was already waiting when she stepped off the bus. From a distance I could follow her until she reached her work place, which turned out to be a salon in Church Lane. After that I checked lunch breaks, knocking off time and then her evening and weekend routines. Whenever she did something different, something unexpected, like going to the cinema or the pub, then I had to re-check everything. That’s how you build up the information. I should have been a spy.
With experience you can be working on two or three girls at a time. Find yourself the odd private place and you can get off just in the watching of your precious beauties. But no photographs and no touching the merchandise for a quick taster. And remember, another wee rule of mine, you must space out the snatches. It would be totally stupid to do more than one in a month and in the same town. You’re not a serial killer. Each one is unique; no patterns, no traces and you don’t get caught.
Six weeks after my first sighting of Millie I had enough information to fill a book, and she had spoken to me on three occasions. You might think I’m mad, getting so close, but it’s all right as long as you don’t raise her suspicions. She must never make any connections. The first time, all I did was to let her get on the bus before me.
‘Thanks,’ she said a bit under her breath with the hint of a grateful smile. I was dead chuffed.
‘No problem,’ I replied.
Next time, nearly three weeks later, was a repeat of the first but you see how much time had passed? She would never connect those two occasions.
‘Thanks,’ was all she said. No sign of her remembering that first time.
A few days further on, I went into a Subway and she was there, ordering an Italian meatball sandwich for lunch. I managed to glean a whole load of information from the brief conversation that she had with the young girl behind the counter. The pair of them seemed well acquainted, and within a few seconds I learned about her forthcoming plans for going to a music festival in Edinburgh. Her mention of a date for leaving home also left me with a deadline to meet. She remained in the shop as I was being served. The shop assistant was babbling on about the previous night’s episode of Coronation Street and Millie was mostly nodding in agreement.
‘I suppose you fellas don’t bother with the soaps?’ The girl said to me.
‘I watch them sometimes,’ I replied. Millie didn’t seem interested as she lifted her lunch from the counter. ‘Is that Phil Mitchell still in it?’ I asked.
Millie smiled. It was almost a laugh.
‘He’s in Eastenders,’ she said, heading for the door. She had scarcely looked at me, but I certainly took note of her. She wore black trousers, flat-heeled calf-length boots and a black blouse through which her bra advertised her cute breasts. I watched her lovely arse sidle out the door. I felt overwhelmingly turned on. Everything I saw confirmed that I had made the right choice, and I could hardly wait for the moment.
The next thing that I have to tell you might seem obvious. Only a moron with brain fade would try to nab a girl in broad daylight or in a place where there are lots of people or cameras. All I can say is, once you know her well, then you know automatically when and how to get her.
I did a couple of dry runs before I lifted Millie. I knew that she walked home from the gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Sometimes on Tuesdays another girl would accompany her. She was quite nice, too. I called her Penny, for future reference. But on Thursdays Millie was always on her own. That was her routine. I’d checked it for weeks, and not once did it change. For my practice run I walked the route that she took, but I did so on a Monday night. Then on a Thursday I covered the mile or so an hour before she was due
. Do you see what I’m getting at? I could examine the route for the best spot on a night when I was unlikely to come across Millie. Then I could check out how many people were about that area on the evening that she actually walked home alone. Simple. She didn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance.
Here is my final rule, and this is the one that will save your bacon. When you take her, do the business and dispose of her long before anyone even suspects that she’s gone missing. Don’t think you can hide these girls away somewhere, dipping in and out whenever you feel like it. Too many things to go wrong. Someone will eventually notice your antics. And there’s always the chance that your girl manages to escape. Then you’ll be screwed and not in a nice sexual way.
In the end wee Millie was so bloody easy. She walked quickly. Small steps. Wiggly bum. It was dark and quite cold. Her boots were silent on the pavement as her shapely wee legs hurried her along, past the shopping centre. I knew that on Thursday evenings, after working in the salon until 7.30pm, she went directly to the gym. She exercised for an hour and a half and then walked home. Her route never altered. She liked to cut corners. Out of the gym, down the Albertbridge Road, crossing over into the Ballymacarret Walkway. The houses had gone from here years ago and an open pathway ran parallel to the Newtownards Road. At this time of night there were never many people about. Always be wary, though, of bloody late-night dog walkers. They’re a curse, although it’s useful to pose as one the odd time, to get some of your reconnaissance done without attracting attention. I was already waiting as she turned the corner into the walkway. I had to take her at this point – 100 yards further and she would reach the Holywood Road. Once there, Millie would be safe. If somebody was lurking I could abandon the lift. If not, then my lovely Millie was all set for the time of her life. I would put such a wonderful smile on that cute face, good enough to take to her grave, except that she wouldn’t be having one of those.
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 3