Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  ‘Tell me about the building site where Paul Macklin’s body was found.’

  ‘It’s a building site; we’re building houses and apartments. What else is there to say about it?’

  ‘Why do you think Paul Macklin was killed there?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Blackley drilled his eyes into her as if to remind her how busy he was and how utterly pointless to quiz him about a murder.

  ‘Is this not the contentious site that caused so much trouble between you and Terry Lawler?’

  ‘I don’t see how that’s got anything to do with it.’

  Tara met his enflamed stare.

  ‘Really? One man died after threatening to expose your project and another is found strapped to a fence and slashed to ribbons at the very site and the morning after you had informed us of his attempt to blackmail you. Have you anything to say about that, Mr Blackley?’

  ‘I had nothing to do with these murders. I’ve told you before, Lawler was a pain in the arse, but Sullivan put him in his place when he took him to court. He was no longer a threat.’

  ‘Then why did he come to see you the night before he died? He must have believed he was still a threat to you. Was it merely a rehash of his original charge about the building land being unfit for housing? Or did Lawler have something else to say?’

  Blackley shook his head, but offered no reply.

  ‘Let’s move on, shall we?’ Tara closed a folder relating to Lawler and opened another, marked with Paul Macklin’s name. ‘When Macklin called to see you, and spoke to Gwen the week before he died, what specific threat did he make toward you?’

  ‘He tried to blackmail me.’

  ‘Over what? The building project?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you said that Lawler was no longer a threat with respect to your building project, so what did Macklin have to say that was different?’

  Blackley rubbed his face with both hands and sighed deeply. Tara was content to wait until he’d gathered his thoughts, be they truth or lies.

  ‘Nothing; he’d just got hold of Lawler’s story and threatened to have it published in the paper.’

  ‘Nothing? No difference?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Then why did you call me about Macklin and make threats against him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was angry at his cheek.’

  ‘Why did you wait for almost a week before calling me?’

  ‘Gwen spotted some guy hanging around near our house. I assumed it was Macklin looking for trouble. I was angry, so I called you.’

  ‘Did you have anything to do with Paul Macklin’s death?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Did you have anything to do with placing Macklin’s body at your building site?’

  ‘No. If you have nothing further to accuse me of I’d like to go now.’

  ‘We’re not quite finished, Mr Blackley.’ Tara glanced sideways at Murray who took it as his cue to take over the questioning. Blackley sat, arms folded, a face tripping him. He didn’t appear the suave individual they’d first met a couple of weeks earlier.

  ‘Tell me about the trouble with the land you’re building on,’ Murray began.

  ‘This is ridiculous; it has nothing to do with these men dying.’

  ‘How did the land become poisoned?’

  ‘It wasn’t bloody poisoned. There used to be a paints factory on the site, so the stories went round that loads of chemicals had been dumped on the land. It didn’t help matters that some asbestos had to be removed from the factory building. But there’s nothing odd in that. It was an old building. Once Lawler got hold of the idea he wouldn’t let it drop. Then he stumbled across the council involvement which was all above board. There were planning regulations to be followed.’

  ‘And did you follow them?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Is that how Matt Sullivan became involved?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Only suppose?’

  ‘He was on the planning committee and I’d dealt with him before on other projects. He helped pave the way with more senior officials.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, anyone on the planning committee who might not be favourable to some building proposals.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘A couple of Lib Dems, Jack Cook, an independent and Doreen Leitch.’

  Tara suddenly sat forward at the mention of the name.

  ‘You have an association with Doreen Leitch?’ she asked. A look of exasperation spread across Blackley’s face.

  ‘Why are you asking me all of these questions? What the hell have my contacts with councillors got to do with these killings?’

  ‘Please answer the question, Mr Blackley.’

  ‘No. I’ve had enough of this crap. If you think I’ve had anything to do with killing these guys then bloody charge me. Otherwise I’m out of here.’ He stood up, the back of his legs sliding his chair across the floor. Tara raised her eyes at his outburst but she was content to let him go. He was not about to confess to anything.

  ‘Just one thing before you storm out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your whereabouts, please, two nights ago?’

  ‘I was out to dinner with my wife and some friends.’

  ‘And they can confirm that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Their names please?’

  ‘Gwen, obviously. Matt Sullivan and Doreen Leitch.’

  Blackley was already out the door. Those same names again.

  Chapter 45

  Guy

  Shit. Following this wee girl is getting harder, not easier. I’m going to lose my job with all the time I’m taking off. That bastard Cranley has it in for me anyway without me giving him the bullets to fire at me. But Tara is driving me mental. This is what I’ve got so far after all of my surveillance. She leaves her flat at Wapping Dock, anytime between 7am and 8.30am. When she’s driving, the car comes out of the private car park and she makes for that bloody cop shop on St Anne Street. Sometimes she’s in there all day, then usually after 5pm she drives home to her flat and that’s her for the rest of the night. When she does leave the cop shop during the day, she is with that big gobshite I nearly ran into in the bar when I had my date with Tara. Ugly big git. I wonder if he’s ever had a go at his colleague. Is he her type? I obviously wasn’t. But she’s definitely mine. I can tell you that for nothing. She spends her weekends either at home or else she’s out with her mates, Kate and Aisling. I did track her once all the way out to Caldy; I think it was to her parent’s place. She spent the entire day inside and then drove back to Wapping Dock.

  For the first time in years I don’t know what to do next. How the heck am I ever going to set things up so I can snatch her? I tried snooping on her friend Kate who lives up on Canning Street, the one with the funny hair, but lately she doesn’t seem to be having much face-to-face contact with Tara. I’m horny again and it’s only been a few days or so since I had Modesty.

  I’d been so busy with Tara that I almost forgot to keep a check on the news and the papers for anything on a girl missing from Anfield. Not a squeak. No one to miss the poor wee thing. I think that’s sad. No one seemed to care what happened to her. At least I cared enough to show her a good time. In the past few days I began to wonder if Modesty was actually a prostitute. A loner prostitute with no pimp. Not likely that anyone would miss her if that’s what she did for a living. One of her regular customers, maybe. But I’m not too happy at the notion that I may have taken a hooker. No real need for my specialist treatment. I could have had her for a few quid instead. Waste of good China White.

  I spied a lovely wee thing the other night, near the police station. Don’t know if she works there but she has walked past several times. Short blonde hair, you know, the kind that’s nearly white. It’s cut like a boy’s and she wears long dangly earrings, a leather jacket, a tartan skirt and a pair of those boots supposed to look like ol
d army boots but aren’t because they have a bit of a heel. She’s not very tall, looks about 18, but that’s what I’m worried about. Looks 18 but more likely is 16 or even 14. Scares me that. I would never take kids. Not my bag. But if I don’t make progress with Tara soon, I’ll end up giving this wee girl one of my names and that means she’s chosen. No going back once I’ve chosen them. And that’s my whole problem. I’ve chosen Tara and I have to see it through no matter what.

  Chapter 46

  Tara

  Denim jeans, long-sleeve T-shirt and training shoes for a night out. It was only to Aisling’s flat, just across the complex from her own. No one to see her and no need to drive. She clutched a hefty glass of Chardy, shoes off, her feet up on the deep-cushioned sofa. Aisling was fidgeting in the open kitchen area; she couldn’t manage much else. She would claim it was cooking, but piercing the film on trays of Tesco Finest pasta with chicken and rosemary, placing on a baking tray and into the oven was hardly even a Jamie 15-minute special. Kate mirrored Tara’s pose on the second sofa: feet up, glass of wine in hand.

  ‘Tara, you still haven’t told us all the biz on your new fella?’ said Kate, mischievously glancing toward Aisling in search of a cohort for her tease.

  ‘What fella?’

  ‘Don’t play the dumb blonde, you know who I’m talking about. That bloke Aisling and I set you up with in Dawson Street the other week.’

  ‘I’ve already told you about him.’

  ‘No you haven’t.’

  ‘I thought I’d sent you a text.’

  ‘That’s when you were on the date, but what happened after that?’

  ‘Kate wants to know if you’ve slept with him,’ said Aisling.

  ‘Only had that one date, and I told him that was enough thanks very much.’

  ‘But why?’ said Kate. ‘He looked nice.’

  Tara sipped at her wine, taking her time before resuming the conversation or the inquisition, more like. Aisling and Kate always, since they’d been kids, quizzed each other relentlessly about boyfriends, dates and, when a little older, about sex. The pair were more free and easy in discussing such things. Tara was the shy one, joining in only at the insistence of the other two.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said at last. ‘Didn’t get a good feeling about him.’

  Aisling, always the blunt one, ploughed in.

  ‘Did he try it on with you?’

  Kate laughed and Aisling joined in, but Tara suddenly felt that now she actually wanted to discuss this man. She had felt strange in his company; maybe her friends could help her understand what had passed between her and James on that evening.

  ‘We talked for a while in the pub, but it felt more like he was questioning me the whole time.’

  ‘That’s what you do on a first date,’ said Aisling.’ You have to get to know each other, you have to ask each other questions about jobs, family, interests …’

  ‘Jeez, Aisling,’ said Kate. ‘I never thought you bothered with all that. I thought if you liked the look of them, you shagged them senseless.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘But this guy was strange,’ said Tara. ‘He asked me constantly about my job and when I told him that there was stuff I couldn’t share, he sort of changed tack and tried to get the same information by asking in another way. I didn’t like it. Didn’t feel comfortable. And when I asked about his job he was so negative in his answer I didn’t feel he wanted to discuss it at all. His accent bothered me, too. That Northern Ireland mixed with Scouse; it reminded me of Callum. And then when I looked into his eyes he began to seem like Callum. We kissed outside but I freaked out. I had to get away. It was so weird.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound weird to me,’ said Kate. ‘It’s natural to think of Callum. You went through a very traumatic time, losing him and then the baby.’

  A deadly silence ensued, and Tara and Kate retreated to their glasses of wine while Aisling slid a tray of pre-prepared garlic bread into the oven beside the pasta bake.

  Rather than sink deeper into her lake of depressing experiences, Tara sought to lighten the mood. After all, the three of them were supposed to be having a good time, sharing a few laughs.

  ‘Do you think it’s normal for a man to get hard in the middle of the first kiss?’ she asked.

  Kate giggled, and Aisling, as usual, jumped in.

  ‘Every time, if he’s kissing me,’ she said.

  *

  She was in the office early, before Tweedy or Murray arrived. The plan for first thing was to discuss progress in the investigation of Terry Lawler’s murder. Now they had a second killing to contend with, the urgency to get a result was mounting. Tara dumped her bag on a desk, picked up a dry marker pen and marched over to a blank whiteboard. In the centre she wrote the names Terry Lawler and Paul Macklin, encasing each within a rectangle. At the top of the board she wrote, side by side, the names of the suspects they had so far identified: Gwen Blackley, Evan Blackley, Matt Sullivan and Doreen Leitch. She paused for a moment, examining each name, then recalled a couple of other angles she had considered previously. She added the word ‘unknown’, bordering it with a rectangle. This was reserved for the possibility that Lawler had unearthed a serial killer responsible for abducting several women on Merseyside and goodness knows where else. Finally, she wrote the names, Lynsey Yeats and Danny Ross, realising that she hadn’t devoted much time to their involvement with Terry Lawler. She stood back from the board, pondering the connections between the suspects and the victims. At that point Superintendent Tweedy came into the room on the way to his office.

  ‘Good morning, Tara. A new lead?’

  ‘Morning, sir. I’m afraid not. Just going over a few things to help decide on the next step.’ She began drawing lines to represent the connections between the people in the group. She found that she was able to draw a line from each suspect to Terry Lawler. He had threatened to expose Blackley, Sullivan and Leitch. Also he’d possibly identified a serial killer, and he seemed to have pissed off his former girlfriend Lynsey Yeats and her sidekick Danny Ross. All had a motive to murder Lawler. Paul Macklin had been a close friend of Lawler but, realistically, she could only connect Evan Blackley and Matt Sullivan to the murdered solicitor. He had tried to blackmail them both and perhaps Doreen Leitch, although she and Sullivan denied knowing the man.

  Tweedy looked on as she worked.

  ‘Seems ominous for any of the named suspects who had associations with Lawler and Macklin,’ he said.

  ‘I agree, sir, but the Blackleys, Sullivan and Leitch all have an alibi for the night Macklin was killed. They were having dinner together.’

  ‘Very convenient. You don’t imagine there is a conspiracy?’

  ‘Seems a bit unlikely. For instance, why kill Macklin at the building site in which Blackley and Sullivan have an interest?’

  *

  ‘Doreen Leitch, you said after interviewing Blackley, is against the building project?’

  ‘I realise that, sir, but she is in a relationship with Sullivan. And why such brutal killings? The attack on Macklin was frenzied and there is something very disturbing about the manner in which Lawler was killed.’

  ‘You’re right. And it must have taken more than one person to carry out the burial of Lawler on the beach.’

  ‘Definitely a crazed attack.’

  ‘Like someone was off their head on drugs,’ said Murray, who’d just joined his colleagues.

  ‘Could be,’ Tweedy replied. ‘So any suggestions, folks, on what to do next?’

  ‘I would like to go back to Treadwater and have another chat with Lynsey Yeats. If drugs were involved in the killings it could be linked to Lawler’s investigation and his published story on the drug problems in housing estates. Yeats, if she’s willing to talk this time, may be able to give a few pointers on the drug set-up Lawler studied and those involved, not least her boyfriend Danny Ross.’

  Chapter 47

  Tara

  Tara and Murray wasted no time in driving o
ut to Treadwater. A fine drizzle was falling but the air was quite warm and still. One or two locals paddled down the street, an elderly woman pulling an old shopping bag on wheels behind her and a heavy, slow-moving man, smoking as he went. It was pension day. No doubt they were headed for the post-office. Tara gazed at the home of Lynsey Yeats. Adjoining houses either side were quite well kept, tidy gardens, a few plant pots and PVC windows and doors. The house to the right had modern vertical blinds on the windows; the one to the left, lace curtains. The Yeats house had a battered front door in need of painting, a garden that had been paved over, weeds poking through the cracks and neither blinds nor curtains on the windows.

  ‘How do you want to play this?’ Murray asked her. Neither of them had made any move to get out of the car.

  ‘Good question. Lynsey has never been terribly happy at a visit from a couple of bizzies. Best that she’s on her own. Hopefully, Ross will not be with her.’

  Murray kept a sharp eye, gazing around the street as Tara approached the front door and rang the bell, soon realising that it was unlikely to be working. In any case there was no reply, even to her knocks on the window.

  ‘Here they are, mam,’ Murray called from the pavement. Tara turned around to see Yeats and Ross at the top of the street, both of their hands loaded with plastic carrier bags presumably containing shopping. When Tara reached Murray at the car, Ross seemed to recognise the pair awaiting them because he ditched his bags and made off the way he’d come. It took a second longer for Yeats to notice her visitors but she kept hold of her bags and disappeared down an alley between the houses.

  ‘I’ll take Ross, you take Lynsey,’ said Murray racing off.