I spent the next few days waiting for news. Couldn’t help running things over and over in my head. Had anyone seen me? Shoving her into the van? Dropping her onto the boat? Did I leave anything lying around that could be traced to me? The van wasn’t registered in my name so that was okay. I’d thrown away my clothes and Millie’s, promising myself that next time everything would go with the body to the bottom of the sea. I’d cleaned out the van as best I could, but already I was thinking of selling it on or burning it out. Seemed to me that the more clues I destroyed the less chance I had of getting caught.
A week went by before reports began appearing in the news about a 19-year-old girl who’d gone missing from her home in East Belfast. But these things happened every day. Millie was an out-going teenager. She could be off somewhere with friends. She might have a secret lover. I could just imagine Joe Public thinking there’s nothing strange about a girl like that going missing for a few days. Police explained they had no leads regarding the whereabouts of the girl. A few weeks later they staged a reconstruction of Millie’s last known movements. Her visit to the gym was the last time anyone had set eyes on her, except for me, of course. A month after that, Millie’s name dropped out of the papers and I was in the clear.
In those weeks of lying low I went over everything in my head. How could I improve things? Killing and dumping at sea, I’d decided, was the best approach; it meant there was nothing left for a pathologist to drool over, no crime scene to be scoured by a hundred peelers and, although death was involved, the police would never know for sure. Each of my girls would simply become a statistic on the missing persons’ list. I realised I would have to experiment on the best method of knocking the girls out. I had to be slicker. I investigated the easiest way of gaining control and came across a technique of applying pressure to the temporomandibular joint, the TMJ. Take a firm grip of a girl under her jaw, and she won’t put up much of a fight. I checked the most effective drugs for doping and the best for inducing the final sleep. Using a van was the best thing in terms of taking the girl, doing my thing and transporting them to Mother Freedom, but I decided it was best to rid myself of the present van and buy a new one for the next girl. As for Mother Freedom I would simply have to make sure I did a good job at washing her down.
Stuck-up Gemma was next. She went like a dream and just before I did my thing I saw the realisation in her dopey face that we had met before. Too bloody late, sweetheart. I will give her that, Gemma was one of the best I ever had. Maybe I was more relaxed with her, confident in what I was doing. A little too confident as it turned out. I was sailing Mother Freedom out from Groomsport, I hadn’t yet decided it was a good idea to vary the harbour where I kept the boat. Just off the Copeland Islands where the swell began to rise, I happened to notice the bundle of plastic and stones with Gemma inside was moving. At first I thought it was the roll of the boat, but the lower part of the bundle began to move more urgently than the rest. Gemma wasn’t dead; she was waking up. I panicked. What I should have done was toss the bitch overboard and let her drown, but I wasn’t thinking straight. Instead I unwrapped the plastic sheeting, undid the ropes, removed the bags of stones and pulled her free. Her naked body was clammy and cold to the touch. She wasn’t completely conscious; her eyes rolled in her head and she moaned and puffed like someone in a dreamy sleep.
I slowed the engine right down and let the boat drift on the current. It was a clear day but no other boats were around. I dragged Gemma into the cabin and hauled her onto the single bunk where I usually slept. I needed time to think. I was no cold-blooded killer. I hadn’t the nerve to strangle her or to stab her. All I could do was stand by the hatch and watch her slowly come back to life. For the first time since all this caper began, I was shit scared.
Chapter 10
Tara
She should have known better than to make plans, even to arrange a night out with the girls. Aisling and Kate knew well that Tara was never on time. And tonight was supposed to be catch-up night. They’d already switched venues to Aisling’s flat, because Tara had texted both girls earlier in the afternoon to say she was already running late and she wouldn’t have time to do shopping for tea.
Aisling, tall, stunning, with a cheeky manner, swung open the door to her apartment, situated on the first floor in one of the restored buildings close to the Albert Dock.
‘Don’t you dare say it, Tara,’ she said, wagging a finger.
‘I know, but I really am sorry. We had another case this morning.’ Tara plodded in, dropping her coat over an armchair. ‘I hope you have wine in the fridge, Aisling. I’m dying for a good drink.’
‘Lucky for you I stopped Kate from downing the lot.’
‘Don’t listen to her,’ laughed Kate. ‘I’ve only had one glass.’ She rose from the sofa and went to the kitchen to fetch a drink for Tara.
‘You look worn out, Tara luv,’ said Aisling, ushering her into an armchair. Aisling always appeared ready for a night on the town: perfect make-up, big eager eyes and a smile capable of great pulling power or the biggest put-down imaginable. Tara didn’t know of anyone else who ran around the house in heels and a mini dress as if waiting for a date to arrive. In Aisling’s case it would have to be a rich date, because, despite her sociable nature, Aisling was holding out for Mr Right who could only be so if he were drop-dead loaded. Kate, with more zany fashion tastes than the other two that usually manifested themselves in the colour of her hair (tonight it was magenta) re-appeared from the kitchen carrying a large glass of Chardy that she presented to Tara as if it were a lollipop to a child who’d just fallen and scraped their knee.
‘Thanks, luv,’ said Tara. The last thing she wanted to do when the three of them got together was to burden her friends with stories of her tiresome day even though both Kate and Aisling regarded her as the person with the exciting job. For one thing, she was well aware that Kate, despite her loopy appearance, was a dedicated nurse on a cardiac ward at the Royal. Her days could be just as tough. Both Tara and Kate envied Aisling who worked in PR and on occasions rubbed shoulders with celebs, sports stars and those rich men she was holding out for. But Tara knew that Aisling would have it out of her before they’d even had time to eat supper. It had been like that since school days. Aisling was their guardian, their mentor, their patrol leader. She liked to think that she looked after them both.
‘So what’s the story?’ she asked.
‘Morning glory,’ said Tara, recalling Murray’s quip, although she hadn’t found it funny.
‘Yeah, yeah, I know, bloody Noel Gallagher,’ said Aisling with a frown.
‘Don’t you like Oasis?’
‘Not since Noel blanked her at a party,’ said Kate, kicking off her trainers and falling into the sofa.
‘When?’
‘Never mind that,’ said Aisling. ‘Are you going to tell us why you had a rough day so that I can tell you again to get the hell out of that job?’
Tara was well into her glass of wine; her relief instant.
‘Been up since six, spent the morning with a body on Crosby Beach.’
‘Anyone we know?’ Aisling tittered before realising Tara was talking about a dead body and not a one night stand.
‘We believe it was Terry Lawler.’
‘No!’ Kate bolted forward in her seat. ‘He’s dead?’
Tara nodded.
‘What happened?’
She explained a little of the murder scene then noticed that Aisling had gone quiet and slightly pale.
‘Are you all right, Aisling?’
Head bowed, her long black curls obscuring her face, Aisling nodded slowly.
‘He asked me out once,’ she said.
‘When?’ Tara asked.
‘Years ago. I wasn’t interested; I knew he was married. Told him he was a useless bastard. That he should be at home with his wife instead of trying to hit on good girls like me.’ She smiled sardonically at her own wit then rose and went to the kitchen.
Kate grim
aced at Tara.
‘Awkward moment,’ she said.
Tara smiled weakly and was about to go after Aisling when she re-appeared with a tray of finger-food: sausage rolls, prawn toasts, chicken satays and pizza slices.
‘There are nachos, sour cream and salsa in the kitchen,’ she said to Tara.
When wine glasses had been refilled, they tucked into the food. Despite the woeful day, Tara was suddenly ravenous.
‘Any idea what happened to him?’ Aisling asked, breaking the silence.
‘Definitely murdered and the list of possibilities as to the killer is growing. Do you know much about him?’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘Same as everyone else. He was a thorn in the side of politicians and celebrities, and he cheated on his wife.’
‘That would be Gwen Thomas, now Blackley.’
‘That’s right, poor girl went from one prick to another.’
‘Do you know anything about Evan Blackley?’
‘Steer well clear of him. I would say he’s up to all sorts, but nowadays he’s careful, not likely to get caught by the bizzies.’
‘Shall we open another bottle?’ Kate asked. ‘I think I’ll need more if you two are going to natter all night about crooks and murders. You know, we really need to get out more.’
Chapter 11
Guy
I sailed into quiet water on the north side of Lighthouse Island and dropped anchor. Thankfully, the sea was flat calm. Gemma wasn’t fully conscious but her arms and legs twitched periodically. I pulled off my jumper and jeans and lay down in the bunk beside her, pulling a blanket over us both. Her perfume still clung to her hair and I nuzzled my face into the back of her head. In time, I felt her body grow warm against my own. Didn’t take long to get in the mood again. I had a second helping of Gemma, and when I’d finished I reckoned she was never going to fully come round. The guilt and fear left me and when I’d dressed, I dragged her outside and wrapped her once more in the plastic sheeting. This time I also packed the blanket and mattress from the bunk. Satisfied that she was secure, I weighed anchor and powered the boat way out into the channel as far as I dared. I convinced myself that there was little movement from the bundle now, slowed the engine and quickly tumbled Gemma into the drink. Then I threw up.
In the days that followed, while I waited for the news to break on another disappearance, I promised myself not to mess up like that ever again. There would be no more mistakes. I would make sure the drugs were enough to do the job; I wouldn’t mess about with plastic sheeting and ropes; I wouldn’t do anything with girls on the boat and risk their DNA being found and, most importantly, I wouldn’t do anymore girls in Belfast. Too small a town. More than two disappearances and the peelers would definitely put together a connection. They’re not as stupid as they look.
It was time to move on.
Chapter 12
Tara
Superintendent Tweedy closed his Bible, returning it to its usual place at the left-hand corner of his desk as his team of detectives filed into his office. By the time Murray, Wilson and Tara were seated, Tweedy was standing by his whiteboard at the ready.
‘Good morning, folks,’ he said in his familiar sedate tone, more counsellor than policeman. ‘I hope you have had some time to put together the main facts in this very deplorable case. I’ll start us off by running through the early findings from the post-mortem.’ He lifted two pages of A4 from his desk and glanced down the text. ‘We still await official identification,’ he began, ‘although I gather Mrs Blackley, his ex-wife, will be doing that this morning, Tara?’
‘That’s correct, sir, 11.30am.’
‘We are fairly certain that the victim was Terry Lawler, a freelance journalist and well known in these parts. Findings from the PM indicate he had been dead for at least five hours. Multiple bruising and contusions to head, neck, face and abdomen. It is likely that he was unconscious when buried in the sand; there were no signs of sand or salt water in his stomach or lungs. Safe to assume also that at least he was unconscious by the time he was castrated. Any suggestions so far from this MO, on motive or suspects?’
‘Had to be more than one person involved,’ said Murray. ‘Can’t have been easy for one bloke getting the body into that position on the beach.’
‘Any ideas about the castration?’ Tweedy asked.
‘Has the hallmarks of a gang-style murder,’ said Wilson.
‘Do you know of any gang that does the likes of this, John?’ Tweedy replied.
‘No, sir. But it seems to me that the killer was trying to make a statement of some kind. A warning to others, maybe.’
‘What are your feelings so far, Tara?’ Tweedy asked.
‘I tend to agree with John at the moment. Someone is making a statement all right, but I wonder if their intention is to mislead, an attempt to hide the truth.’ If she was honest, Tara had no real basis for making such a remark. It was merely her gut instinct. The vision of a naked body, castrated and buried head-first on a beach, puzzled her. Her mind was not so much upon the details of the murder scene but more on the potential suspects, because she and Murray had already stepped into a veritable quagmire of possibilities. According to family and friends, Lawler had, over the years, annoyed a lot of people. He was famous for it in Liverpool. There had been challenges to the behaviour of public officials, exposure of the infidelities of local celebrities and blunt accusations of those who ran Merseyside’s criminal gangs. Those with an axe to grind against Terry Lawler might well have been queuing up to put an end to the journalist.
Tara reported on the events of the previous day, her visits to Paul Macklin, Gwen Blackley, Lynsey Yeats and finally to the flat of Terry Lawler. She recounted the finding of Lawler’s files, his stories, published and unpublished, and the discovery of the collage of photographs on his bedroom wall.
‘Do you think these photographs may have some relevance, Tara?’ Tweedy asked.
‘I think it’s possible. But we need to look at all the investigations that Lawler has reported in his career. It may be that someone has held a grudge for some time and finally found a way to get back at him.’
‘He certainly unchained a few beasts in his time,’ said Murray. ‘More enemies than friends, I’d say.’
‘Anything on his last known whereabouts?’
‘He had lunch with his friend Paul Macklin, about a week ago,’ Tara replied. ‘He spoke to his ex-wife on the phone around the same time. We have nothing more recent than that.’
Tweedy looked despondent at the news. He was a man well accustomed to investigating violent murders, but his mood always tended toward pensive when there didn’t seem a clear direction ahead. He dismissed his officers with their list of tasks to improve matters in finding the killer of Terry Lawler.
Following the investigation of Lawler’s flat by a team of forensics, all of the paperwork, news stories and files had been delivered to the operations room at St Anne Street Station. Tara set Wilson, along with two other junior officers, the task of collating the paper, putting relevant files and folders together. She and Murray, after attending the official identification of Lawler’s body by his ex-wife, spent the remainder of the day and into the evening poring over the writings of the journalist. Somewhere amongst it all, Tara hoped to find at least the next step to take in this case. Around 7pm Murray brought sandwiches and coffee for both of them. Even while they ate they continued to read in silence on opposite sides of the room. Tara had decided simply to create a pile of those items that were worth following up. Most of them would probably never amount to anything, and it was wishful thinking to believe any patterns would emerge from their search.
It would be a gross understatement to say that during his time as a reporter for a Liverpool daily paper, Lawler had had a slight interest in the workings of the City Council. It seemed that over a five-year period very few councillors escaped his wrath. For the more prominent it was their decision-making he’d targeted, in some cases the
lack of it, and in others it was, he alleged, their activities that were tantamount to corruption. For a few he dug deep into their details of expense accounts, foreign trips and wining and dining at the city’s expense. One thing was clear from reading the same kind of stories appearing year after year, Lawler was not a man to let things go. Once he had his teeth into a story he’d shaken it violently until things began to fall out. His paper had been sued seven times in five years over his stories, although it was interesting to note that only one ended in the court deciding for the plaintiff. Tara jotted down the name of the councillor involved. Matt Sullivan, now chairman of the city council planning committee, was at the time of the court case merely a committee member. She noted with interest that the allegations made by Lawler against Councillor Sullivan concerned his dealings with a company called EB Property Management. Lawler’s paper had to fork out a five-figure sum to Sullivan for what the judge described as ‘reckless story-making’ by one of its top journalists. For Tara, reading the details of the case in the very paper that was sued, this was perhaps one of the leads she’d been hoping for. It was a link between Terry Lawler, his work and someone who might hold a grudge. It could be that Matt Sullivan still had issues with Lawler, enough to have him killed perhaps, but Tara was more interested in Sullivan’s connection to the property company and its director Evan Blackley, husband to Lawler’s ex-wife Gwen.
‘Thought this might be worth looking into,’ said Murray, his voice sounding weary, not his upbeat self. He stood over her, shirt open at the neck, tie long since discarded, odour not pleasant. ‘I think it’s possibly Lawler’s last published article.’ He dropped the typed pages onto her desk. ‘Dated three weeks ago. I have Wilson searching for the actual newsprint, if it got that far.’
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 5