Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  My heart was thumping and reverberating through my head like a boiler ready to explode. I could see my Millie, traipsing along the flagstones. I gave her two more steps. Then I jumped out of my van.

  I hit her once. Hard. Not enough to knock her out or for her to go sprawling on the ground. That’s far too awkward. No, I hit her a thump on the back. It knocked the wind out of her. That way she couldn’t scream. Quickly, I put a knife to her delicate throat, just enough to prick her into submission. This was the trickiest part, because already I had a hard on and just wanted to take her, right there. But that’s a mug’s game. I told her that if she was quiet then she wouldn’t get hurt. I gave her the pill. A bloody godsend they were, but I had to force it down. Opening the back door of the van, I pushed her inside. Parcel tape across her mouth and two cable ties, one for her wrists, the other for her feet. I shut the door, and off I went.

  By the time I reached the spot, up in the hills above the city, forest all around, a proverbial lover’s lane, the tab I gave her was taking effect. She was conscious but woozy. She wouldn’t put up a fight like that. It gave me that precious time to appreciate her beauty. Millie was especially hot that night. She had a beautiful freshly showered smell. Her hair was light and wispy, probably from having just been shampooed and blow-dried following her work-out at the gym. Her skin was cool and pale, and as I peered into her brown eyes I could tell, despite her drowsy state that there was some recognition on her part. Or at least she was processing something in that lovely wee brain of hers. When I pulled off her coat, I could hardly believe my luck. Her shoulders were bare. She wore only a delicate, black lace vest and below decks she sported tight, black leggings. You may not think so, but it was my idea of heaven. My hands were all over her. She lay on the cold floor of the van, her eyes now closed, her breathing shallow. For a second, I lay perfectly still trying to listen for her breathing, watching for a rise and fall in her chest. I thought I’d killed her before I’d even taken my chance. I placed my hand on her chest just beside her left breast. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief when I felt a gentle pulse. You see at that point, Millie being my first, I wasn’t sure if I could go through with the killing part. I was a lover not a killer. But my logical thinking had convinced me that any girl once taken had to die. I couldn’t take the risk of her remembering something when she came round.

  I laid her out nice and pretty, got her clothes off and her legs apart. I thought, do anything you wanna do. ‘You’re only young once, son,’ another thing my granny used to say.

  Chapter 8

  Tara

  They arrived in Lymm outside a pair of sturdy wooden gates and an intercom. When Murray announced who they were the gates swung open, and soon they pulled up outside a mock Georgian red-brick house, a double-garage to the left-hand side where a silver Ferrari sat gleaming in the afternoon sun.

  ‘Not short of a penny or two then?’ said Murray, his eyes fixed on the sports car, while Tara’s interest rested firmly upon the house and the woman standing with arms folded at the open front door. Before climbing out of the car, Tara glanced at the photo of the woman from Lawler’s wallet. As she approached the house she realised the woman at the door was definitely not the same woman as in the photograph.

  ‘Mrs Gwen Blackley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Grogan and that is Detective Sergeant Murray,’ said Tara, indicating her colleague who couldn’t resist the opportunity to inspect the type of car he could only ever dream of owning. Hands in pockets, he wandered around the vehicle, bending to peer inside, kicking the tyres and stepping back to take in the vision before him. Looked more like a know-it-all punter perusing a used-car lot.

  ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, may we come inside?’

  Without a word she led Tara indoors with Murray jogging across the drive to catch up. They were shown into a front sitting room laden with three huge cushioned sofas, a long dark wood coffee table in front of a white marble fireplace. The room was bright, neutral colours but for a fiery-looking landscape of sun on hills in reds and oranges hanging on the wall above one of the sofas. To either side of the fireplace were pictures of family and several of whom, Tara presumed, was Evan Blackley, professional footballer of 20 years ago, famous for leaving Liverpool at the height of his career to join one of the Milans. Tara couldn’t remember which one. She had a passing knowledge of football, particularly where Liverpool was concerned, but it didn’t extend to the European theatre. Besides, it was a bit before her time. Blackley’s world fell apart somewhat when he got mixed up in a betting scandal and there were allegations of match-fixing. He was soon on his way from Milan and made a stinted return to English football, finding himself on short-term contracts with a Premiership club before dropping to the lower leagues. Nowadays, he made his money from property, although Tara reckoned he must have hit some difficult times with the financial crash of recent years. And now she was seated in Blackley’s house about to inform his wife that her ex-husband had been murdered.

  ‘And what brings the police to my door all the way from Liverpool?’ said Gwen Blackley. She was very presentable, wearing an expensive-looking royal blue dress and, Tara guessed, designer shoes. She looked in her 20s but had to be older. At least 35, Tara thought. Her face was not unfriendly but, seemingly well used to dealing with difficult situations, experienced in public circles. Even at home she wore full make-up on her small rounded face. She displayed perfect white teeth and a thin nose. She had the air of being an actress or a model, but Tara already knew her to be neither, working instead in PR, and nowadays in her husband’s business.

  ‘Am I right in saying that you were formerly married to Mr Terry Lawler?’

  Nervous smiles, an attempt at cheerfulness, but it appeared the question was sufficient to strike alarm into Gwen Blackley.

  ‘Terry? Yes. What’s he done?’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Lawler’s body was found on Crosby Beach early this morning.’

  ‘No, that’s not Terry,’ said Gwen Blackley dropping into the middle of a sofa. Her face had already paled. ‘Terry would never do that.’

  ‘Do what, Mrs Blackley?’

  The woman’s expression became distant, vacant as if peering into her past to the life she had once shared with Terry Lawler. Her eyes were fixed somewhere beyond a spot in the cream carpet.

  ‘Mrs Blackley?’

  ‘Kill himself. He’d never do that.’

  ‘We believe that he’s been murdered.’

  Tears flowed then, and Murray was despatched to fetch a glass of water and some tissues.

  ‘I understand this is a shock for you, Mrs Blackley but, if you don’t mind, I need to ask you some questions.’

  Gwen Blackley nodded within her sobs, and thankfully Murray returned quickly with the water and a piece of kitchen roll.

  ‘When did you last see Terry?’ Tara continued.

  ‘About two weeks ago, end of August. We both took Maisie back to school after the summer holidays. She boards.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him since then?’

  ‘Briefly, last week. There’s a concert coming up at the school. I was inviting him to go, although I doubt if he would remember when the time came. Not what you’d call reliable, is Terry.’

  ‘Did he mention anything that was troubling him?’

  Gwen shook her head slowly, dabbing at her eyes with the kitchen roll.

  ‘Did he sound in good spirits?’

  ‘He sounded like he always did, Inspector. Pre-occupied. Maisie is the only common ground between us nowadays. Apart from our daughter, Terry’s head was always somewhere else.’

  ‘And your present husband, Mr Blackley?’

  ‘Evan? What’s he got to do with it?’

  ‘Did he have any contact with Mr Lawler?’

  She looked indignant at the question, her tears drying. Maybe her defences were up, Tara thought.

  ‘Evan and Terry don’t
, didn’t see eye to eye. As far as I’m aware they didn’t have any contact.’

  ‘I used to watch Evan Blackley play at Anfield,’ said Murray. Gwen didn’t seem impressed. ‘Pity what happened in Italy.’

  ‘A long time ago, Sergeant’

  ‘Before you met him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Seems like he’s doing all right now,’ Murray replied, gazing around the room. Gwen Blackley was not about to grace the remark with any kind of reply. She merely winced.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Inspector, if you have no further questions I would like to go and see Maisie, to break the news.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m very sorry for your trouble. I’ll leave you my card. If you think of anything that might help us find the person responsible for Terry’s death please get in touch.’

  *

  ‘Cool customer that Gwen Blackley,’ said Murray on the drive back to Liverpool. ‘Did you notice that she didn’t ask anything about how Lawler was killed?’

  ‘Mmm. Cool customer or very good actress.’

  An hour later, they were standing in the house of Lynsey Yeats. If Gwen Blackley had given the appearance of a well-presented affluent lady, then Lynsey Yeats moved within a much different world. Tara’s first impression was of a 20-something who looked more like a teenager; a schoolgirl but already with a lifetime of experience. Her face, pitted with acne scars, was pale and sick looking. Her eyes sported poorly applied liner, thick and smudged, and it was difficult to work out any natural colour of hair with traces of pink, green, blonde and more recently, it seemed, a chestnut brown, cut with a deep fringe that threatened to obscure her vision. Her figure could best be described as straight, tall but lacking any attractive curves, her waist as wide as her hips, her chest flattish, certainly not flattering. She looked pissed off, permanently, a scowl more easily summoned than a smile. Her style statement was visible in the tattoos of creeping ivy and butterflies around the base of her neck, up to her left ear and all the way down her right arm to the wrist. Tara would not have been surprised to learn there were several more under the red vest and black jeans.

  ‘Haven’t seen that bastard in weeks,’ she replied to Murray’s question. ‘And he owes me money.’ She sprawled in a well-worn blue leather armchair, badly mismatched with the brown mock-velour sofa. Neither Tara nor Murray chose to sit. It was hard enough coping with a heavy stench of fried food, cigarettes and filthy cat litter. A television, hanging from a wall, blared out MTV, and Lynsey didn’t seem inclined to lower the volume.

  ‘Did you break up? I believe you used to live together?’

  ‘Told him to sod off. Only brought me grief; no money and he was a crap fuck.’

  ‘Did you row about something in particular?’

  ‘What is this? What’s the bastard told you? Did he tell you I was on the game? Is that it? Bastard.’

  ‘No, Lynsey, this is a murder inquiry. Terry’s body was found this morning.’

  ‘Serves him right,’ she snapped, although Tara could sense a slight change in her tone, shock at the news or a defence going up in the face of having to answer questions.

  ‘When did you last speak to him?’

  ‘Told you, it was weeks ago.’

  ‘No, Lynsey, you said that you hadn’t seen him for weeks.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘Did Terry call you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you call him? Ask him to come back?’

  ‘No way. Like I said, we were finished.’

  With little further to discuss for the moment, they left the house on the Treadwater Estate in Netherton and headed for the last call of the day in Bootle.

  It was a terraced house in a dull street, but at some point an opportunist developer had managed to convert it into two flats, one on the ground floor the other on the first. Lawler’s was the one above. They didn’t have a key, but Murray was intending to put his shoulder against the door, confident it would give under the strain. They needn’t have worried; even Tara could have forced the lock. When Murray shoved, the door banged against the inside wall and they stepped inside. Opposite the door was a bedroom, to the right a small bathroom and beyond that a living area with a kitchen combined. Not a lot of furniture: an armchair and sofa; an old portable TV; electric cooker and small fridge. A desk by the window was piled high with paperwork. The place had more the feel of an office where perhaps the odd sleepover occurred rather than it being a permanent habitat. Tara felt a chill as if the rooms had not experienced any heat in recent months. Vertical blinds at the single window were closed to the street outside, the floor covered in stained carpet tiles. Murray had disappeared to the bedroom while Tara set about an exploration of the desk, a home assembly affair too old for Ikea and possibly for MFI also. Buff folders were piled high on the desk. Some contained newspaper articles written by Lawler, but most consisted of notes and scraps of paper, typed and also many handwritten. She didn’t know where to begin or whether there would be anything worthwhile finding. The walls were covered with posters, one of Blur, one of Beyoncé, a few headlines from the national dailies, again presumably Lawler’s work. She moved from the desk to the kitchen, opening the fridge to find it empty but for a tub of butter and the dregs of a plastic carton of milk. A cupboard above the sink held a few cans of tomato soup, tea bags and a near-full bottle of vodka. Murray called her from the bedroom.

  ‘Thought you might want to see this,’ he said, staring at the wall in front of him. Tara stood beside him and examined the collage of pictures fixed with masking tape to the water-stained wallpaper.

  ‘All girls,’ she said.

  ‘Some have names on them and towns. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ She took several photographs of the wall with her mobile. ‘I suppose we should take them with us, and we can work on the significance tomorrow.’

  They began peeling the photos from the wall; Tara had counted 29. Some were good quality glossy photos of young smiling girls, a few were scanned copies of prints and some had been torn directly from newspapers. They didn’t have the time right then to examine each one, but Tara couldn’t help herself. Murray worked quickly and soon had most of them sitting in a pile on the single bed. Two remained, and as Murray reached for one, Tara was about to peel off the last picture when she stopped to peer at the grainy news cutting of a girl with cropped dark hair and small features on a smiling face. She lifted her bag and pulled out the photograph she’d taken from Lawler’s wallet earlier in the day. Holding it close to the last picture on the wall, she was convinced it was the same girl in both photographs.

  Chapter 9

  Guy

  Millie didn’t die so well. The pills took ages to work and still she was breathing. I couldn’t stay there all night waiting for her to snuff it, and I had no pills left. I had to make the tide or else I would be stuck with her for another day, and I was already feeling edgy, wondering if I’d done the right thing, that maybe I should’ve let her go. Chances were she wouldn’t remember, not properly. Couldn’t prove it was rape.

  In the end I pushed her coat into her face, holding it tight against her nose and mouth. She didn’t resist, and when I thought she’d stopped breathing I fetched the coal sacks from the front seat of the van. I managed to slip her legs into one and pull it up to the top of her thighs. With the other I placed it over her head and down to her waist. I was disgusted with myself that they didn’t meet in the middle. The only other material I had with me was a roll of heavy duty polythene. It was far from ideal but I cut a piece and rolled Millie in it, saving a second piece to wrap with the bags of stones I’d already placed on the boat to weigh her down.

  This was my first time, remember; I hadn’t planned as well as I’d thought. I was worried about somebody seeing me carrying her to the boat. But if I didn’t make a move soon it would be daylight and my opportunity would be gone.

  In those days I kept Mother Freedom in the wee harbour at Groomsport.
It’s where my grandfather kept her and it was handy to home. The village was quiet; it was after 2am. Cars lined the main street but there was nothing stirring. I turned left off the street and rolled quietly down the hill toward the harbour, the car park deserted, the surrounding houses in darkness. The good thing about Groomsport harbour is that it’s possible to drive a car right onto the quayside. Mother Freedom was moored close up to the wall. I eased the van past the slip onto the quay and killed the lights. I jumped out into a chill breeze and glanced around. All was quiet and safe unless some randomer nearby couldn’t sleep and was peering out the window. But I had no choice other than to go ahead. I was past the point of no return. To be honest, I was past it when I put the coat over Millie’s face.

  I dragged the package from the van, holding it where Millie’s head and shoulders were so that as I pulled her out her feet dropped from the van floor onto the ground. She was heavier than I’d imagined. It was one thing bundling her into the van when she was conscious, but now she was a dead weight. I could do little but trail her over to the edge of the quay. It had been my intention to somehow carry her aboard Mother Freedom, but I was knackered and she was heavy. It took all my energy to bend down, gather the whole package in my arms and rise again to straightened legs. Felt like a weightlifting exercise. I reckoned with a slight push outwards I could drop her onto the deck of the boat. If I missed then Millie was in the water and I was in deep shit. In the end it was a mixed result. I let her go and she landed on the deck after her head hit the gunwale with an almighty thump. I threw the remaining plastic sheeting aboard, quickly closed the van doors, climbed in and reversed off the quay, parking in the car park behind the harbour office. I ran back to the boat, jumped aboard and trailed Millie inside the wheelhouse. I’d planned to sail at first light, so in the meantime I set about completing the package with the bags of stones I’d loaded aboard a few days earlier. Each bag contained loose gravel and weighed 25kg. I lashed one to the top end, at Millie’s head, one to her middle and one to her lower legs. Finally I wrapped the second sheet of polythene around her, taped it closed and then tied it off with three metres of nylon rope. I hoped that would be enough to see poor Millie to the bottom of the Irish Sea.