Tara quickly followed, immediately regretting having chosen to wear a skirt and shoes with heels, not of great height but enough to make running awkward. Murray veered across the road but was making little progress on closing the gap to Ross who was almost at the end of the street. By the time Tara reached the alley down which Yeats had run, she could see no sign of the girl. When she emerged into open space, an expanse of grassland with a couple of football pitches and a kids’ play park lay ahead, the next blocks of houses on the far side. Yeats was halfway across, glancing over her shoulder as she ran. Tara wondered if she were worth chasing. They could pick her up later; she would have to return home at some point. But why had she scarpered in the first place? Why was she avoiding the police? That was worth finding out. She carried on across the playing fields. When Tara reached the playground, her feet beginning to throb from continually snagging her heels on clumps of grass, she saw Yeats making for a gap between two blocks of flats. She hoped Lynsey had no particular bolt hole, that she was running simply to get away and not to a place where she could lie low for a while.
The gap between the flats was more of a lane way with lock-up garages at the far end. Tara continued to run, but she had lost sight of the girl. The lane opened into an area of rough ground that had suffered from fly-tipping of building waste and a couple of burnt-out cars. As she emerged in the open space she felt a heavy thud across her back. The blow sent her sprawling hands-first into a puddle of water. Winded, she struggled onto her knees. Yeats stood over her, wielding a heavy baton of wood in both hands like a mighty sword. Tara tried to get up. Her head buzzing, she gasped for breath. She saw two Lynseys towering over her. As she attempted to get to her feet, the girl struck again. Searing pain on the back of her neck, she slumped to the ground. This time her hands failed to save her face from hitting the wet gravel. She had no strength left to rise. Lynsey stood over her, her weapon raised above her head. Tara slowly turned and, looking up, she saw fiery hatred in the eyes of the young girl who was about to end her life. She could do nothing but wait for more pain. She closed her eyes. Suddenly, Yeats cried out. Eyes opening, Tara saw her hit the ground beside her, the baton of wood falling out of reach.
‘Leave her alone.’ A man’s voice. Tara heard it. It wasn’t Murray.
Yeats screamed angrily and struggled to her feet. She attempted to retrieve her weapon but the man beat her to it.
‘Mind your own fucking business,’ Lynsey yelled.
‘You better leave now while you can still walk.’
Yeats grunted at her attacker. She seemed to consider taking him on but when he wielded the baton of wood she thought better of it.
‘Stay away from me, bitch,’ she spat at Tara, who was only vaguely aware of what had taken place. Yeats fired a threatening look at the man.
‘I’ll get you done over for this, dickhead.’
The man feigned a swipe at her head, and she backed off then gathered her two plastic bags and took to running once more, soon disappearing beyond the lock-ups.
Tara felt strong hands gripping her arms, raising her, firstly to her knees then all the way to her feet. Sharp pains surged around her neck and shoulders. She couldn’t stand unaided but he took a firm hold of her waist, grasping her like she was a toddler just learning to walk. He peered into her scratched and muddied face. She tried hard to focus.
‘You?’ she said.
Chapter 48
Guy
That bastard Cranley, my supervisor, gave me a verbal warning. He said he didn’t think for a minute that I was sick – I was a slacker.
‘And there’s only one thing worse than a slacker,’ he said, quietly, so no one else could hear him. ‘That’s an Irish slacker. A lying Irish slacker.’ He turned his nose up at me like I was shit on his shoe. I wanted to down the bastard. Down him so he would never get up. Back in Belfast they have a good way to deal with assholes like him. Take out his knees. Soon cleans the cheek out of the bastards. But I didn’t. I held my nerve. Couldn’t afford to lose the job. Not yet anyway. Someday I would sort him.
Instead, I apologised, I grovelled.
‘I’m really sorry, Mr Cranley,’ I said. Didn’t even use his first name. Very respectful. ‘I was genuinely sick; I have a bad stomach, like. Think it’s an ulcer. Have to go to the hospital for tests.’
‘You’re in a bloody hospital, sunshine. And it pays your wages. So this is the last time you mess me about. Once more and you’re down the road. Clear?’
‘Won’t happen again, Mr Cranley.’
He pissed off down to A&E, leaving me to collect a stiff from Ward 12 and take it down to the mortuary. Nice job, eh?’
So, it was nearly a week before I could get daytime off to keep tabs on Tara. I was struggling to get by with bloody porn DVDs. I needed the feel of a good woman. The harder it became to snatch her, the more I wanted her and the more I was determined to have her.
It was a pissing awful morning when I tailed her and that big eejit she hangs around with. I followed them all the way from their station out to Netherton and onto one of those stinking housing estates. I hoped this was the type of place that Cranley lived. Would serve him right to get done over by a couple of crackheads or his wife to get raped by some sexual deviant.
I watched them park their car outside of a house. I didn’t reckon it was the sort of place I was ever going to have the chance of getting Tara, so I drove on, stopping for a drink and a bag of crisps at the mini-market beside the park. I’m not usually all nostalgic for Northern Ireland – couldn’t care less about the place – but you do get better cheese and onion crisps there. Stuff you get in England is shite. I was just getting back in my car when I spotted a figure trotting across the football pitches. A girl, dark hair, from a distance not that great looking, wearing jeans and a black leather biker jacket. She was carrying a plastic bag in each hand. Didn’t think much of it. Then I saw another girl further back. She was running too. I munched on me crisps and watched her approach. She wasn’t exactly dressed for jogging: dark jacket and skirt, tights and shoes. Blonde hair, tied back in a ponytail. Tara.
By now the first girl had disappeared, but Tara was still running. She crossed the road right in front of me and ran down a lane between blocks of flats. Thought I should take a look. See what my girl does for her living.
That’s when I found her. Sprawled in the muck, the other girl about to smash her head in. Looked like a wee slapper or one of those crackheads I was hoping would kill off Cranley. She soon pissed off, though. I stuck my boot in the small of her back. She went down like a sack of spuds. Full of cheek when she got back to her feet but she didn’t fancy taking me on.
I could hardly believe it. Tara in my arms once more.
‘What was that all about?’ I asked her. She could barely speak. Amazed to see me. Her eyes weren’t focusing properly. Looked like a girl after a hen night in Matthew Street. I tried to wipe some of the muck off her cheeks but she winced at every touch, and her legs, in ripped tights, were giving way beneath her.
‘You?’ was all she said.
‘Aye, it’s me.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Stopped at the shop for a drink and then I saw you charging across the playing fields. I wondered what was going on. Where’s your big mate?’
She regained some strength, enough to sort of push me away. I didn’t much like that. I’d just saved her life and there she was, pushing me off her. I was only trying to hold her steady. I wasn’t going to do anything. I let her go. I walked with her as she limped to the road beside the park and from there she spotted the big-lig cop wandering about on the football pitches. Two arms the one length. Big ganch.
‘Thank you, James,’ she said, emotion or nerves cracking her voice. ‘I think she might have finished me if you hadn’t come along.’
‘You have a very dangerous job, Tara. Who was she?’
‘No one important. At least I didn’t think so until now.’ She was trying to tidy herself as her mate appro
ached, out of breath and carrying two plastic bags.
‘Did you get him?’ Tara asked.
‘Na, disappeared, into a mate’s house I imagine.’ The cop looked from me to Tara and back to me, except this time he was glaring. ‘What happened, mam?’
‘Yeats sprang a surprise for me.’
‘You need to get to a hospital, Tara,’ I said. The cop continued to glare; he was definitely unsure about me.
‘I’m fine, honestly, just winded. If it hadn’t been for James here she would have really hurt me,’ she said to her mate.
‘You two know each other?’
‘We met recently,’ I replied, knowing it would irk the big bastard. Thought he might have remembered me from that night in the pub. But maybe cops like him don’t have much between the ears. I’m quite sure he’d been wanting to have a go at Tara himself and got nowhere. Then he held up the two carrier bags.
‘The reason they scarpered when they saw us.’
‘What is it?’ Tara asked.
‘Ecstasy, thousands of them. Enough to blow the minds of every kid in Liverpool.’
Tara looked at me and smiled. Probably forced, not genuine.
‘Thanks again, James. We have to go now.’
‘Don’t you need a statement from me or something? I saw what happened.’
Wasn’t I the upstanding citizen?
‘I’ll get to it soon enough. I’ve got your number.’
I nodded. The big shite smirked. I knew a fuck-off when I saw it.
‘Right. Look after yourself, Tara.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said.
I watched them from my car, walking across the playing fields, Tara managing only a slow pace. I’d just saved her life. Boy did that feel surreal. I was supposed to be the guy who ends it.
Chapter 49
Tara
She got home early to a hot bath and a long soak. Murray and Tweedy insisted that she get checked out at the hospital. All fine. She would have a couple of nice bruises on her neck and shoulders, her knees were skinned and she’d a few grazes on her right cheek when she’d hit the gravel face down. What was nearly worse than her injuries was to run into Kate as she was leaving the Royal, and Kate was going on duty. She had to cough up the whole story. Now Kate would tell Aisling. She was just going over this in her head when the doorbell rang. It had to be Aisling on a mission of mercy. Tara climbed from the bath, wrapping her towel around her twice. The towel was huge and she was slight.
‘Hi, Aisling,’ she said deliberately cheerful, so her friend wouldn’t come over all judgmental about policing and morbid about her chosen career.
‘Don’t ‘hi, Aisling’ me,’ she said, barging in. ‘You promised to call me if you ever got into bother. Instead I had to find out from Kate.’ She tossed her coat on the sofa and made for the kitchen. Then she noticed the black and purple bruises on Tara’s shoulder.
‘Oh my God, Tara. Look at those bruises. They’re horrible.’
‘I’m fine, Aisling. Don’t fuss.’
‘People don’t go to A&E if they’re fine. Tell me what happened, and I’ll pour us a nice glass of Chardy. If you have some?’
‘Yes, it’s in the fridge. Let me get dressed first and then we can talk.’
Ten minutes later the pair sat at opposite ends of the sofa, glasses of wine in hand. Tara retold the events of her day, well diluted – no point in giving Aisling more cause to go on at her about packing it in. She did, however, confess to feeling strange about James turning up from nowhere.
‘Just as well,’ said Aisling. ‘That bitch could’ve killed you.’
‘I realise that, but don’t you think it’s odd, him showing up like that? What was he doing in the middle of Netherton, in the middle of the Treadwater Estate? He lives in Toxteth and works at the Royal. Do you think he was following me?’
‘Maybe he’s your guardian angel?’
‘I just find it weird that he could be there. He’s a bit weird.’
‘What has he ever done to you that was weird? He’s been a perfect gent if you ask me.’
Tara wasn’t prepared to get into an argument with Aisling over her feelings. She knew how she felt about this man, and she knew she had never felt this way about anyone before. James was not your usual bachelor; he was not your usual lad – cheeky, witty, brash and randy. Something deeper lay within this man. It gave her the shivers to think about it.
*
The pain ran across her shoulders and down her left arm. She’d managed little sleep. Couldn’t get comfortable when an intense ache gripped at her forearm and was accompanied by episodes of pins and needles as she turned from her back to her left side and then to her right. It was barely gone 6am when she gave up, slipped from the bed and padded to her bathroom. A hot shower at first provided some relief, but with constant movement the discomfort in her forearm returned. For a while she sat on the sofa, wrapped in a towel and eating two mandarin oranges. Her throat ached too, and she’d noticed the bruising on her shoulder had spread around the base of her neck. No one in the office would be surprised if she didn’t show this morning, but what was she to gain by staying at home? She wasn’t sleeping; it was too painful to lounge on the sofa; and more than that it was too frustrating to be sat still while a posse of theories rampaged through her head.
Rising from the sofa, she moved to the window and opened the curtains to reveal a grey sky leaning heavily upon the river and the dull buildings of Birkenhead. Didn’t add much inspiration to her day. Staring blankly upon the river scene she thought about Lynsey Yeats, a girl who might well have killed her. Was she capable of murder? Did she have a strong motive for killing Terry Lawler? They’d had some kind of relationship together. But had there been real love? She doubted it. Perhaps it had been one-sided. Maybe Lynsey had seen Lawler as her meal ticket, her way out of Treadwater to a better lifestyle. From what she’d learned so far, it appeared that Lawler was not averse to using people if it helped him get his story. Would her anger at being used in this way have been enough for Lynsey to murder her ex-boyfriend? Perhaps Danny Ross helped, or he’d carried out the killing on Lynsey’s behalf. Suddenly, she wondered if yesterday’s events had brought her closer to solving the case.
*
Driving was more awkward than she’d expected. She’d hardly managed to change gear and at times remained in third, her car whining on the longer stretches of road from Wapping Dock. Her whole body sighed in relief when she drew into a parking space at St Anne Street. Her early rising meant that she entered the operations room to see only DC Wilson seated at his desk pouring over a stack of files.
‘Morning, mam,’ he called across the office as she made her way to the whiteboard she’d adorned with theories the day before.
‘Any news?’
‘All quiet.’ She studied the arrangement of names on the board, still unable to dismiss any from her thinking, although this morning those of Yeats and Ross seemed to stand out in 3D.
‘No arrests overnight?’
‘Nothing relevant. If you’re wondering about the Yeats girl, uniform didn’t find her at home.’
‘Surprise, surprise. I’m quite sure that young lady has plenty of places to hide. Anything on Ross?’
Wilson shook his head and returned to his study of a bunch of files.
She lowered her handbag to the floor and stood transfixed to the names in front her. Such a cosy alibi for the Blackleys, Sullivan and Doreen Leitch. Were they really such good friends? The deaths of Terry Lawler and Paul Macklin would most likely make business easier for Evan Blackley and his involvement with Matt Sullivan. But what about Doreen Leitch? Her affair with Sullivan may remain a secret for the time being, but did she have more to hide, or more to lose? Tara had been a little surprised to learn that Doreen’s name hadn’t featured in the Sullivan-Lawler libel case. Then again her stance on planning laws appeared to be diametrically opposed to that of her lover’s. So what exactly was going on between Leitch, Sullivan and Evan Blackl
ey? When Murray joined Tara at the board, she was lost in thoughts of Gwen Blackley.
‘Morning, mam, how’s your back feeling?’ Murray was not his usual dapper self. He stood in blue jeans, a brown cord sports jacket and a wrinkled blue shirt beneath.
‘Hi, Alan,’ she said, vacantly. ‘Very painful. Yesterday is not a day I would like to repeat.’
‘Me neither. That was my best suit ruined, traipsing through the muck. I don’t suppose uniform have managed to grab either of those reprobates?’
‘Not yet. Tell me what you make of Gwen Blackley?’ The question caught him on the hop.
‘Well,’ he paused. ‘Nice looking woman …’
‘Yes, Alan, let’s skip the obvious attractions for you. How does she fit in here?’ Tara placed her forefinger on the board below Gwen Blackley’s name. ‘Bearing in mind that she has lied to us at least once, does she have a motive besides that of being in league with her husband?’
‘She was married to Lawler, they had a daughter together. She, Lawler and Macklin were long-time friends. They were on speaking terms right up to Lawler’s death.’
‘Do you think it’s just a matter of her protecting Evan Blackley? Was she well used to battling her ex-hubby and his mate?’
‘Or maybe she’s become well used to fighting some of her present husband’s battles?’
‘What if the husband is protecting the wife?’
‘Why think that?’
‘Just a thought’
Seated at her desk, she continued to ponder the women connected to her case. Murray had slipped off to chat with Wilson and from the sounds of their exchange not so much was said on the murders and more on Everton’s chances against Arsenal for the coming Saturday. Her left arm throbbed, launching spikes of pain through her neck into her head. She knew she wouldn’t last long; it was going to be a hard day.
Gwen was a long-suffering wife, firstly to Terry Lawler and secondly to Evan Blackley. Both men had a blight upon their character. Lawler, according to Aisling, had a roving eye, but also he’d possessed a single-minded streak when it came to gathering a story. Little else mattered, including his wife and daughter. His career, combined with a predilection to be unfaithful, had destroyed his marriage. Perhaps it was that stubbornness that got him killed. Gwen had moved on to Evan Blackley, a once famous footballer with a tarnished record or at least a hefty element of doubt hanging over his sporting career. How had the pair got together? Through Terry Lawler’s investigation of the ex-footballer? She’d done well to start over. She was now comfortably off, nice big house and spare time on her hands. She was no longer struggling to maintain a home and raise a daughter. She would have had a lot to lose if her ex-husband had continued to make things difficult for her new man. If she had killed Terry Lawler then an interfering Macklin would have been easy meat.
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 18