Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  Tara sat back in her chair to read. She’d kicked off her shoes hours ago and Murray looked bemused to see her feet in black tights now resting on her desk. They were having a productive evening. Murray had unearthed a story pointing to Lawler’s investigation of local drug-dealing. From the writing, it was clear that Lawler was not frightened of getting to the centre of the action. He told a story of being an eye-witness, firstly to street-level dealing – a local lad supplying kids with tabs and speed – then moving further up the chain, to observing a major delivery of cannabis and its distribution across Merseyside. The only problem with this particular story was that it lacked names, real names. But had Lawler done enough to expose people involved in running drugs in Liverpool? Had he gone too far? Did he put his own life on the line? And why had the killer chosen to place his body, in such bizarre configuration, on Crosby Beach?

  Chapter 13

  Guy

  • Ecstasy: ‘Mandy’, MDMA, 3, 4-methylenedioxy-methamphetamine; a psychoactive drug that causes hypothermia, dehydration and insomnia. No bloody use to me.

  • Ketamine hydrochloride: an anaesthetic; numbs the body; comes in powder form to snort, to mix with drinks or to smoke with marijuana. A standard date-rape drug.

  • Rohypnol: ‘Roofies’, seven times more potent than Valium.

  • GHB: gamma hydroxybutyrate, a depressant of the central nervous system. Known as ‘Grievous Bodily Harm’ or ‘Liquid Ecstasy’. Causes drowsiness, dizziness and unconsciousness; an overdose can be fatal.

  • Chloral hydrate: ‘Mickey Finn’, good for slipping into drinks.

  • Oxycodone: ‘Hillbilly Heroin’. Very addictive, induces extreme relaxation, slurred speech, respiratory depression. Can be injected by needle.

  • Fentanyl: ‘China Girl’, ‘China White’, ‘TNT’ and ‘Murder 8’. More potent than heroin: The lethal dose (LD50) in rats (the dose for which 50% die) is 3.4 milligrams per kilogramme body weight.

  In the beginning I used anything I could lay my hands on: Roofies, Valium, GHB, Mickey Finns and even bog standard sleeping pills. Later, when I got nice and settled in Liverpool, set up a few contacts, then fentanyl became my drug of choice. I’ll never know how I managed to see off Millie and Gemma without it. Before leaving Belfast I promised myself that I wouldn’t mess about with sub-standard gear. Everything had to be slick. I couldn’t face another episode like the one with Gemma waking up on the boat. When I’d secured a supply of the right stuff, I checked out the correct dosage to induce sleep or drowsiness. I would give my girls just enough to stop them from putting up a fight but leave them so they could see what I was doing with them. Then I had to get the right lethal dose. Easy done, you might say; just pump them full of the stuff. But the drugs cost money, you know. I didn’t want to waste a drop. Get the dose right and I wouldn’t have a problem.

  In Liverpool I got a couple of jobs, one delivering medical supplies, the other working a burger bar. With shift work, both gave me the chance to indulge my hobby. I had enough money to rent a one-bedroom flat in Toxteth, a bit of a dive, but I didn’t need much. Once I got settled, I made the journey home one weekend in May to collect Mother Freedom. I sailed her across the shuck, stopping off at Ramsey on the Isle of Man then on to the Liverpool Marina. I’d already arranged a berth there that hopefully could serve as my home port, so to speak. Next I sussed out some of the local car auctions where I could easily buy or sell a van when I needed to.

  The whole time, while I got set up in Liverpool, I kept an eye on events at home. I was still nervous that somehow the body of Gemma or Millie might be found washed up on the beach, that someone would remember seeing me hanging around by Millie’s house or following Gemma as she arrived each morning at Queen’s for a lecture, that somehow the peelers had me captured on CCTV taking Gemma, shoving her into the van and driving off, that some nosey git walking late at night by the harbour had seen me dropping a heavy package onto Mother Freedom. But there was nothing. Not a damn thing. Appeals from the police for information came and went. Both girls had nice wee pictures on the UK missing persons’ website, but there were thousands of similar pictures of people from all over the country. Eventually, I convinced myself that Millie and Gemma were nothing but statistics; only their families and close friends missed them.

  I won’t bore you with the details of every score. Like I said already, I never made a list of them, I didn’t keep souvenirs and I didn’t leave any clues. I just enjoyed myself. Didn’t see the time going in. Five years after leaving Belfast, I’d done girls in all the major cities. Liverpool was first, then Manchester, Bristol, Brighton, a couple in London; it’s so easy down there, like a Pick ’n’ Mix. Then I scored in Leeds, Glasgow and Birmingham. Of course, I keep a mental note of all my girls. I remember the first one who was married, Hetty I called her, came from Altrincham. Then my first black. I named her Donna; beautiful little thing squeezed into the tightest white jeans you’ve ever seen. I picked her up in Woolwich. In the summer I would sail Mother Freedom around the coast. Sometimes I couldn’t find what I was looking for. I remember getting bored to tears in Ramsgate, and so angry I sailed all the way back to Penhryn having wasted a week’s holiday. I suppose I was getting fussy. Having notched up more than a dozen girls, I found I was needing more of a challenge. I’d always told myself that I’d cornered the market. I knew the best way of doing things, of getting them right so that I didn’t get caught. I needed the thrill of lying beside a beautiful girl, doing what I enjoyed most; I didn’t need to make things more difficult. I didn’t need to stretch myself. I was doing just fine. No need to change. But once you start thinking this way you’re beat. One of those bloody criminal psychologists would probably suggest that I did need to challenge myself, that I had a built-in desire to boast of my conquests. I needed more coal in my boiler; like a wino, the more I drank the more drink it took to get the buzz. But I had the perfect ruse. No one, barring a disaster on my part, was ever going to catch me. I didn’t need to play games with the peelers. But in the end I guess those shrinks were right. I did seek a bigger thrill. What worried me most was that having conquered this bigger challenge I would have to keep moving upwards, raising the bar every time. What would happen if I set it too high?

  Chapter 14

  Tara

  Smart grey suit, silk tie, expensive cufflinks: Tara couldn’t decide if Evan Blackley was the real deal or a man who wanted people to think he was. She found it hard to believe also that the 50-year-old with sagging flesh around his face and bulging stomach had once graced some of the world’s most famous football stadiums. Murray had described him as the greatest poacher of all time; he’d scored goals not so much by his skill but more by getting himself in the right place at the right time. Several England managers, however, had seen through this lack of talent, despite the goals, and he never quite made his full England cap. After his move to Italy, he was largely forgotten at home until news broke of his alleged involvement in a match-fixing scam. Nothing ever proven, of course. Tara discussed this football history with Murray as they drove from Liverpool to the offices of EB Property Management in Sankey Street, Warrington. They parked directly outside a two-storey building, fronted entirely by plate glass. Inside, the ground-floor reception and open-plan office had an airy, clinical feel with light-coloured paintwork, polished floor and clean-lined furniture with no clutter. They were taken upstairs immediately by a pretty secretary with cropped brown hair who showed great skill walking in a pair of precariously high heels and black pencil skirt.

  Blackley had charm but few natural manners. When Tara and Murray were shown into his office by the secretary, he neither stood to greet them nor did he invite them to sit. This room also had that feeling of space and tidiness. Instead of the functional desks of the ground floor there was a heavy duty affair of dark oak, Blackley seated behind it in a high-back padded chair. Two black leather sofas either side of a glass coffee table were set parallel to the large window overlooking the street.

/>   ‘And what can I do for Merseyside’s finest?’ he said, his accent as rough-cut Scouse as the day he first ran out at Anfield. His grin appeared as one of bemused curiosity, his dark eyes sparkled, darting back and forth from Tara to Murray. Shifty. Tara, by now, was well used to smug reactions. Most people she interviewed expected Murray to be the officer in charge; she knew she didn’t look the part of a Detective Inspector. Despite her efforts to keep her hair combed back in a ponytail, to dress plainly and wear appropriate make-up, she could still be taken for a teenager on work experience.

  ‘We’ve already spoken with your wife, Mr Blackley, regarding the death of her ex-husband, Terry Lawler.’

  He nodded with an expression suggesting he was already tired hearing about the dead journalist. He swivelled gently from side to side in his chair, fiddling with a pen, saying nothing. Tara thought it strange that he hadn’t at least added a note of concern or regret that his wife’s ex-husband had been murdered.

  ‘We were wondering if you could tell us something of your relationship with Mr Lawler?’ she said.

  ‘Huh! Didn’t have one, simple as that.’

  ‘Your wife suggested that you and Mr Lawler didn’t get along.’

  ‘Didn’t have to, more like. I had no dealings with him. Gwen had to speak with him from time to time about their daughter Maisie. I stayed out of it. I’m just the guy who pays for her schooling.’

  ‘What did you think of Terry Lawler, the journalist?’ said Murray. If the intention had been to shake Blackley from his nonchalance it didn’t work. The smile stayed firmly in place. He began his reply with a shrug.

  ‘Didn’t take much interest in what he got up to.’

  ‘Not even when Lawler’s paper was sued by Councillor Sullivan?’ said Murray.

  ‘Oh, here we go. You think because Lawler tried to upset things once, I held a grudge? Sullivan won his case, remember?’

  ‘And did you hold a grudge?’ said Tara.

  ‘Look, Inspector, I don’t know what you’re trying to cook up here, but I had nothing to do with Terry’s death. Yes, I didn’t much like the guy. He treated Gwen badly when they were married, he was a crap father to Maisie and yes, he tried to interfere in a perfectly legitimate business arrangement between the council and my company, but I had no reason to go after him. Like I said, I didn’t care about him enough to have him sorted.’

  ‘When did you see him last?’ said Tara, piqued by Blackley’s choice of the word ‘sorted’.

  It was the question to finally provoke a reaction in Blackley. He got to his feet, and tall as he was, at 6ft 2ins, he bent forward and faced Tara across the desk. She didn’t flinch.

  ‘Gwen spoke to him last week about some concert at Maisie’s school.’

  ‘And when did you last see him, Mr Blackley?’

  He turned away from Tara and gazed out the window, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. Tara waited patiently for his reply. She could wait all day. Perhaps it was her silence that prompted him to relent, but finally he puffed air through pursed lips.

  ‘Okay. I suppose you lot won’t let it drop until you get what you want. I spoke to Terry four days ago.’

  ‘By phone, or did you meet?’ said Tara.

  ‘We met in a pub, his idea not mine. Can’t think of anyone worse to have a drink with.’

  ‘Which pub?’ said Murray, his notebook out, preparing to jot down the name.

  ‘Four Archers, near Southport.’

  ‘Why there?’

  Blackley shrugged.

  ‘His choice.’

  ‘And what did you talk about?’ said Tara.

  ‘He was stirring it again. Another story. Load of bollocks more like.’

  ‘You’ll need to be more specific, Mr Blackley,’ said Tara. ‘It’ll help us and will save you time in the long run.’

  More air squeezed through his lips, and he dumped himself back in his chair.

  ‘Lawler got wind of a council proposal to sell off land for development. When he discovered that I was interested in buying he did his usual, put two and two together and weighed in with both feet.’

  ‘What was the problem with the council selling off land?’ said Murray.

  ‘Look, I’ve told you all I know. Terry got wind of the plan and decided it would make a story. He met me to get my side of things. I told him it was all perfectly straight but Terry being Terry …’

  ‘You haven’t answered the question,’ said Tara. ‘What was the problem with selling the land?’

  ‘There was no problem except in Terry’s mind.’

  From ten hours of studying Lawler’s work the previous day, Tara and Murray already knew what the alleged problem was with the sale of land. But Tara wanted to hear Blackley say it.

  ‘What was Terry intending to do with his information?’

  ‘Publish, of course. Another swipe at the council and my business.’

  ‘And you didn’t want that to happen?’

  ‘I didn’t kill him. He was trying to prevent the building project, but he didn’t deserve to die for it.’

  ‘Again, Mr Blackley,’ said Tara. ‘I would appreciate you telling me why he wanted to stop the sale.’

  ‘I wanted to buy the land for a housing project. Terry was going to stop it by revealing that the planners were willing to overlook something to allow that to happen. He claimed the land was poisoned, contaminated with factory waste from years back. He said that it was never to be used for housing.’

  ‘And is that true?’

  ‘Course not. What do you take me for?’

  ‘What did you say to Mr Lawler?’

  ‘I told him his information was wrong. He could go ahead and publish, but the council had already made their decision. I had already started building on the site.’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’

  ‘Didn’t like it much, said he was meeting with Matt Sullivan and reckoned that he would take it more seriously.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He left shortly after I told him to go fuck himself.’

  ‘And was that the last time you saw him?’

  Blackley clasped his hands behind his head and gazed to the ceiling.

  ‘No. He came to the house, the following night. Told me it was my last chance. Sullivan had threatened to sue him again and that seemed to get under his skin. He said if I didn’t agree to drop the project straightaway the story would go to print. I refused, obviously, and he left.’

  ‘Was your wife at home at that time?’ said Murray.

  ‘Yes. She pleaded with Terry to drop the whole thing. She told him that hurting me would hurt Maisie and her. He didn’t seem that bothered.’

  ‘Why didn’t your wife mention to us that Mr Lawler had visited your home the night before he was killed?’ said Tara.

  ‘I suppose she was trying to protect me, Inspector.’

  ‘Do you need protecting?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘What were you doing last Tuesday evening?’

  ‘Left here at 6pm, home by 7pm with me feet up. Are you finished? I have a business to run.’

  ‘For now,’ said Tara. ‘Don’t plan any trips for the next few weeks, Mr Blackley.’

  Chapter 15

  Guy

  Cindy was my next girl. I didn’t set out looking for someone to be a bigger challenge, thought I would give myself time to think about it, to plan it right. In the end, though, Cindy turned out to be the most exciting and most difficult girl I had to deal with since leaving Belfast. Nearly three years had passed since I last picked a girl from Liverpool. By then I reckoned no one would ever establish a pattern on my lovely disappeared. For a while afterwards, though, it seemed that Cindy was my biggest mistake, the girl who might cost me everything.

  Shouldn’t have to state the bloody obvious, but Cindy was gorgeous. The type of girl I could easily have settled down with and married. Friendly, straight-talker, funny, street-wise, the kind of girl who should never have got into the
situation where a bloke like me could take her.

  I got a job at the Royal Hospital as a porter. It paid better than the driving and the burger bar, and the shifts still allowed me to work at my obsession. Cindy was a staff nurse on a medical ward, and all the porters looked to flirt with any pretty nurse they could find. Cindy was easy; she could take stick and dish it out in equal measure. Sometimes we had longer conversations, for instance when we were transferring a patient to another ward or when I called by to collect the meal trolley. I teased her about her pouty wee mouth. She raked me about my dumb Belfast accent. Once I brought her a Twix and a bottle of water on my way past the vending machines. She accepted it as a peace offering after I’d told her that her bum did look big in jeans. I asked her out. She said no. Told me she had a boyfriend. And that was that. Cindy was chosen.

  Wasn’t hard to figure out her work routine. I managed the odd glimpse of the nurses’ rota for her ward. Soon, I knew her start time, her quitting time and her days off. I know this is a departure from my tried and trusted method, but I stayed friendly with her. The whole time I was sussing out her life I still brought her the odd Twix, still joked about her arse, which wasn’t big at all else I wouldn’t have been chasing after her. I even asked her out a second time.

  ‘Go on,’ I said, one lunchtime on the ward. ‘Where’s the harm in going for a drink, maybe a bite to eat? Tell Gary you’re working.’ Cindy had short, dark hair cut in a bowl style, large grey eyes and clear skin to go with the pouty mouth. I swear she was going to say yes until I suggested she lie to her boyfriend.

  ‘I don’t keep secrets from Gary,’ she said. ‘He trusts me. Besides, I don’t get to see him that often. When I’m not working I’m at home looking after my sister.’

  ‘Your sister? What’s the matter with her?’ For a second I pictured an equally delightful sibling who might fit the bill instead of Cindy.