‘Very cynical.’
‘Come on. You see it all the time. An MP denies his affair, threatens to sue the papers and the next thing he’s making a public apology about his lapse and how he and his wife still love each other and are working to save their marriage, blah-di-blah.’
‘This time the politician is a woman.’
‘And that makes a difference? I think Doreen Leitch will fight just as hard to save her reputation, her job and her marriage.’
The day before, Tara had to make an appointment in order to interview Councillor Doreen Leitch. That gave the woman nearly 24 hours to get her story straight. No doubt in Tara’s mind that Sullivan would have told her everything. Tara had no reason to believe at this point that the affair had ended. Sullivan hadn’t said so.
The venue for the appointment, Tara wondered, may have been chosen deliberately to show Councillor Leitch in the best light. She was volunteering at a drug rehabilitation centre in Bootle. The building was formerly a Methodist church hall, a bit run-down, green stains of moss on the grey stone walls and a battered wooden door in need of some paint. Tara and Murray entered the main hall through the open door to be greeted with suspicious looks from three young men and two girls, presumably drug users, seated around a trestle table and sipping tea from white mugs. Standing with a large metal teapot, a bald headed man, about 40, in a faded green sweatshirt and jeans, directed them to a door at the far end of the hall. It led to a dim corridor at the bottom of which was a kitchen where two women were washing dishes and chatting away. One of them was around 40, brown hair, glasses, wide hips in black leggings and long emerald green T-shirt. She stopped talking immediately when she noticed Tara and Murray. Her look was not unfriendly; she smiled weakly and asked if she could help them.
‘Thank you,’ said Tara. ‘We’re here to see Councillor Leitch?’ The woman looked at her companion who grimaced at the two police officers.
‘Can you give us a moment, Sandra?’ said Leitch. The woman set her tea towel on a table and left the room.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Grogan, Councillor Leitch, and this is Detective Sergeant Murray.’
‘Yes, Inspector, how can I help you?’
Leitch was not at all the kind of woman Tara had been expecting to see. She’d imagined a fairly attractive 30-something, closer in age to Matt Sullivan than the woman of 59 who stood before her. She was, of course, remarkably well kept, glamorous even: shoulder-length dark brown hair, feathered; large dark eyes all the more striking in heavy eye-liner and mascara. Her face was slightly pinched, well-tanned with bright red lipstick on full lips. When she smiled briefly, directed toward Murray and not Tara, her teeth had seen extensive care and attention, very white and regimentally straight. Despite the squalid surroundings of the old kitchen, Doreen Leitch had made no attempt to dress down, a figure-hugging royal blue pencil skirt, matching stilettos and a blue and white polka-dot blouse. She wore a heavy gold chain at her throat, a coiled bracelet on her wrist and gold rings on her wedding finger. It seemed to Tara that Leitch could have Matt Sullivan for breakfast.
‘I gather you are in a relationship with Councillor Matt Sullivan?’
The woman’s pleasant smile dropped from her face. Clearly she hadn’t expected Tara to be quite so blunt.
‘I believe you already know the answer to that question, Inspector. I didn’t think my private life warranted attention from the police.’
‘We’re investigating the murder of MrTerry Lawler and I understand both you and Mr Sullivan were perhaps the last people to see him alive.’
‘And?’
‘Can you tell me what happened the night Terry Lawler came to see you at Mr Sullivan’s house?’
‘Matt and Lawler had a row. It had nothing to do with me.’
‘What was the row about?’
‘Lawler was threatening to expose Matt’s connections to Evan Blackley and his building projects.’
‘That was all?’
‘As far as I know.’ Leitch took to placing washed cups and saucers into a cupboard below the workbench.
‘Did Lawler threaten also to expose your affair?’
‘No, he did not. If Matt has told you otherwise I can assure you that our affair was not the subject of the row.’
‘Why, then, do you think Matt Sullivan would tell us that Lawler was intending to publish a story about your affair?’
‘I really don’t know, Inspector. Perhaps he wished to deflect attention from his dealings with Evan Blackley.’
‘Do you think he had a reason to do that?’
‘I don’t know. You really should have asked him that question.’
‘Where did you go when you left Mr Sullivan’s house last Tuesday night?’
‘I went home to a gin and tonic and then to bed.’
‘Did you see or speak to anyone else after leaving?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. My husband is abroad on business. My children live and work in London. I hope you are not suggesting that I had anything to do with Terry Lawler’s death?’
‘If you can account for your whereabouts after leaving Mr Sullivan’s home then I guess not.’
‘Will that be all, Inspector? I have only a little time to spend here before my next appointment.’
‘For now, Mrs Leitch, thank you.’
As they turned to leave, Doreen Leitch spoke in a softer, much friendlier tone.
‘I would appreciate your discretion, Inspector, with regard to my relationship with Matt Sullivan. I have two children, both in their 20s now, but I don’t wish to inflict any pain or scandal upon them.’
Tara gave a single nod and she and Murray retraced their steps through the church hall and into the street.
*
She felt like discussing things with Murray. Despite her reservations about his personality and his attitude toward her at times, she did trust him as an excellent detective. She stopped at a Costa in St Paul’s Square and they both had coffee. Murray was unable to resist a blueberry muffin.
‘A very complex woman, that Doreen Leitch,’ he said with his mouth full of food.
‘Certainly sure of herself.’
‘Has to be, I suppose. I was reading last night that she is tipped to run for Parliament at the next election. If her affair comes to light then I reckon that ends her chances of becoming an MP.’
‘A motive to murder, do you think?’
‘The woman is also a lay preacher in her local church and she’s been on radio several times heralding family values, talking about the tragedy of broken homes, single-parent families, couples living in sin, drugs, the dangers of the internet and children playing violent games. The proper upright citizen, she is.’
‘Except for her extra-marital activities with a man nearly half her age.’
‘Now, Tara what does age matter when you’re in love?’
He laughed at his own quip, but she was more niggled by his over-familiarity in once again calling her by her first name. Her problem with Murray, in a nutshell, was he had a tendency to overstep the mark with her; at times he didn’t respect her seniority.
‘Seems to me,’ she said, ‘that Doreen’s secret would have a much greater impact if it got out than Evan Blackley’s property ambitions. That woman has as strong a motive to murder than anyone I’ve ever come across.’
‘Where do we go from here?’
Tara couldn’t manage the rest of her latte. It had only been an excuse to chat with Murray outside of the station.
‘It’s time we chased up Wilson to see what he’s found on all those girls whose pictures were stuck on Lawler’s bedroom wall.’
‘You still think there’s a connection?’
‘Lawler’s murdered while he’s investigating his sister’s disappearance … what do you think?’
Chapter 27
Guy
So some smart-arse saw a white van in the car park of the gym before Lucy disappeared. Big deal. No way could they trace it to me. The van was never registe
red in my name. I bought it the week before going down to London. It was gone two days after Lucy and Victoria went to the bottom of the sea. Besides, they didn’t have the licence plate number. It’s just some clever person dug it from the back of his mind, that a white van had been sitting in the car park before Lucy disappeared. Nothing to worry about. But it was careless of me. I’ve never left a trace of evidence before. That was me being greedy, taking two birds inside a day, one of them in broad daylight. I won’t be that stupid where Tara is concerned. Everything will be perfect before I even lay a finger on her.
I switched off my TV, nothing but bad news on nowadays. What is the world coming to? An end, probably.
I tried not to let my flat get me down. Hadn’t put much effort into sprucing the place up. How could I ever bring a girl here for the night? Filthy curtains, brown with grime but actually cream in colour, bare floorboards the varnish long since scuffed away, one rug well-worn and stained with beer and Chinese takeaways. I hadn’t washed my dishes for weeks; I just re-used the same dirty plate and mug. My granny would have turned in her grave if she knew I was living like that. I needed to make an effort. What was I supposed to do if I managed a date with Tara? There’s no excuse for untidiness. After all, I was so meticulous when it came to dispensing with girls, why shouldn’t I apply myself to cleaning my flat? All this bloody thinking was getting me frustrated. I needed to get a move on with Tara or else I was going to take another girl in the meantime. I wondered that if I were to follow one of Tara’s friends, the red-head who lived in Canning Street. Maybe she would have a more predictable routine, one that would lead me eventually to Tara. I was finding it difficult keeping tabs on her. One morning she leaves her place around 8am, the next she either doesn’t go out at all or she’s gone before I get there. When I do track her to the police station I never know when she will make a rapid exit in the course of the day or whether she’s likely to return. I’m used to establishing a girl’s routine. Sometimes I can even figure out when it’s their time of the month. But with Tara, she doesn’t have any sort of routine that I can understand. I’m lucky to catch sight of her at all.
It took me three days to discover that the girl I’d first seen at the house in Canning Street was no longer a red-head. Now she had dark hair. It seemed like her friends were as mixed up as Tara. This friend also had a kid, a toddler. I didn’t much like that. It was a complication, especially if I decided that after Tara I would go for her mates. As far as I knew I’d never done a mother. Didn’t seem right to deny a child one of its parents.
I sat in my car one morning, across the road from the house. Must have been around 10am when she came out with the kid in a buggy. They walked down the street and I couldn’t help noticing the lovely arse in tight blue jeans, and for some reason it made me want to hurry things along with Tara. Less than an hour later, mother and daughter returned to the house with a couple of shopping bags slung from the handles on the buggy.
My big breakthrough came a few days later when this friend of Tara’s left her house wearing the uniform of a nurse, blue tunic and trousers, climbed into her car and drove away. When I followed I couldn’t believe my luck. She worked at the Royal – and I’d never noticed her before. Now it was going to be so easy keeping up with her. During my next shift I was able to figure out where in the hospital she worked, and within a day or so I knew her work pattern and her name. All I had to do now was decide whether to befriend her in the hope she would lead me to Tara or just track her movements.
Chapter 28
Tara
DC Wilson had done a remarkable job. Of the 29 pictures of girls taken from the bedroom wall of Terry Lawler’s flat, Wilson had identified 23 and had provided case references to the disappearance of each girl. Tara was shocked by the scale of the investigation upon which she might now be embarked. Twenty-three girls: all cases of disappearance, no clues to their whereabouts and no evidence to confirm that any of them were alive or dead. She wondered how and why Lawler had chosen them. Had he believed that each of their cases were similar to the disappearance of his sister Ruth? Of even greater mystery was that the disappearances were not confined to one city, to one county or even a region of the country. They were spread over the whole of the British Isles. What had Lawler seen in them to connect them, perhaps to a single killer?
She kicked off her shoes, slid her chair under the desk and leaned over the files. The room was quiet, but not yet deserted. Tweedy was still working in his office. Murray had kindly brought her a large coffee and a cheese salad sandwich before leaving, behaving rather nervously at the prospect of facing his first real date since his divorce.
Wilson had arranged the files on the girls in chronological order of their disappearance. In each buff folder was the picture taken from Lawler’s flat, an official police photograph used on the missing persons’ website, personal information on the girl, the details of her disappearance and any follow-up news and progress in the case.
As she began to read through the files in order, she was struck by the thought that even this list of girls may not have been the only ones with a connection. There may have been others before, after or during the periods covering the 23 cases in front of her. She read from the first case, a disappearance more than six years ago.
Diane McCartney, 18, a student of English at Queen’s University, Belfast went missing six years and seven months ago. Tara studied the photograph of a broadly smiling face with blue eyes and flowing locks of blonde hair. Diane was last seen leaving the university library around 8pm. As far as police were aware she never made it back to her room at the Queen’s Elms Village student accommodation. Nothing had been heard from her since. Her family had said that there was no reason for her to disappear and police were convinced that it was a case of abduction.
Tara read each case in the order set out by Wilson. The names of the girls, their ages and the locations changed, but in every case nothing more had ever been heard or found relating to any of the disappearances. It seemed that all of these girls had simply vanished from the face of the earth. She was well aware of the statistics: in Britain every two minutes someone goes missing. Most turn up within 48 hours, but over 2000 people go missing every year and no trace of them is ever found.
Lorna Campbell was 23, from Glasgow; disappeared after late-night shopping in the city centre, never heard of again. Carol Rose, 21, from Northolt, London, worked in a call centre; disappeared on her way home from a late shift.
Each girl was undeniably pretty but there were no other apparent similarities. They weren’t all blondes or brunettes; they weren’t all white or all Asian; they weren’t prostitutes; some were married; some had partners. Tara couldn’t see anything to link the circumstances of any of the girls to a single killer who may have had a specific reason for taking them.
She lingered for a while longer on the photograph of Ruth Lawler, sister of Terry, and she pondered how Terry could have made connections between Ruth and the others. All of them had disappeared without trace, but what in Ruth had been of interest to this killer, if indeed there was only one?
She examined the cases that had arisen on Merseyside. There were three of them, including Ruth who had been the latest girl in this collection to vanish from Liverpool. If one man was responsible for killing all 23, or more, women it was impossible to judge where he was based. The girl from Northern Ireland was the earliest. Did that mean the killer had simply begun to kill in Belfast and then moved across to England and Scotland? There were three cases in Greater Manchester and as many in Greater London. Who could say where this man came from or where he now lived? If Terry Lawler had really been on to something, how had he alerted the killer to what he knew? Had Lawler managed to identify him? Is that why he ended up buried on Crosby Beach?
‘Putting in a late night, Tara?’ said Tweedy, dressed in his black overcoat, ready for home.
Tara, bleary-eyed, gazed up from her desk.
‘Trying to make sense of what Terry Lawler w
as doing with the pictures of all these young girls who have disappeared.’
‘Do you think he may have been involved with these girls in some way? At least one member of the press thought so.’
‘I did wonder, sir, until I discovered that one of the disappeared was Terry’s sister and that he was obsessed with finding out what happened to her. I think someone who didn’t like Lawler very much thought they could muddy the water by trying to suggest that he was a serial killer.’
‘Have you any idea who that might be?’
‘I do, but at the moment I can’t prove it nor can I say they are responsible for Lawler’s death.’
When Tweedy had departed she spent another half hour going through the files again, trying to discover what Lawler may have seen and whether that led him to identify the person responsible for all these disappearances.
Finally, returning the files to a cabinet next to Wilson’s desk, she realised she’d learned next to nothing about the cases of the girls and why they were taken. The only thing she had found that they had in common, it appeared, was that they were all quite small, no more than 5ft 3ins. The photos of the six unidentified girls she held back. They would go home with her. Was it simply that these girls had no connection to the others, or was it that there was no information available in police or missing persons’ files?
Sitting in her car, about to drive home, she looked once more at the pictures of the un-identified girls. One intrigued her more than the others: a faded colour snap of a girl, mid-20s probably; a hairdo reminiscent of the Eighties, blonde highlights swept back; and high, long dangling earrings and shoulder pads. Older perhaps? A girl with no name. A girl who may not have disappeared? A shiver ran down her back. So many girls all gone. What was she getting into?
Chapter 29
Guy
Another smart journalist managed to suggest a link between the disappearance of actress Lucy and Lady Victoria. Sells papers, doesn’t it? Don’t have to be true for them tossers to write about it.
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 11