‘Not much ever known about this church, but it was thought at that time to be an occultist group,’ said Philip. ‘Mostly centred in Britain, London, Midlands and one cell in Lancashire.’
‘About five months after that conversation, I attended the scene of a murder. I was a DS then. The victim had been dead for several weeks before he was discovered in woods in Croxteth Country Park. The body was nailed at the hands and feet to an old cart wheel which rested against a tree. My first experience of a pentacle, or I should say an inverted pentacle, for the body was upside down, completely naked, and the head had been removed. We never found it. Alastair was identified through his fingerprints and DNA.’
‘Did you find the killers?’
Harold shook his head slowly.
‘Sadly, no. Obviously, I was of the opinion that his murder was related to his activities with this church he had joined. But all attempts to track down other members came up blank. Investigations into occult practices, and those involved, failed to shed any light on this Church of the Crystal Water.’
‘Do you think the same people could be involved in this new killing? It’s been twenty-five years.’
‘The MO is the same, except for us finding the head of the victim.’
‘Have you heard anything about this church since that time?’ Again Harold shook his head.
‘There is one further similarity between both cases,’ he said. He produced an 8 x 4 photograph from the folder. ‘A biblical inscription was attached to the pentacle.’ He passed the photo to Tara. It showed a rough plank of wood hanging from the cartwheel with an inscription in black paint.
‘None that go unto her return again.’
Chapter 10
‘All these similarities,’ said Tara, ‘And we don’t have a motive?’
‘In the case of Alastair Bailey, I believe it comes down to two possible reasons. Either this Church of the Crystal Water took against him because of his Christian background and saw him as a threat, an interloper, or it was a case of human sacrifice.’
‘You really think that sort of thing goes on, sacrificing a human being in some devil-worship?’
‘It does happen, Tara,’ said Philip. ‘Usually such a killing doesn’t come to light. The bodies are buried or cremated. The victims are quite often vagrants, homeless people, addicts or people of low value as they have been described in some satanic literature. Most often, of course, it is likely to be the sacrifice merely of a lamb or a goat.’
‘There have been murders associated with the occult in recent years,’ said Harold. ‘A case last year in Wales was linked to the occurrence of a blue moon, another in Yorkshire where the victim’s beating heart was removed and eaten by the killer. There have been several instances of vampirism, individuals believing they can attain immortality by drinking of human blood.’
‘In both our cases,’ said Philip, ‘The removal of the head would suggest ritual killing and human sacrifice.
‘Can you deduce anything from the biblical inscriptions left with the victims?’ asked Tara, looking at both men and hoping to at least take some comfort from what she had learned.
‘Both extracted from the Book of Proverbs, written by King Solomon,’ said Philip. ‘One of the main themes in the book is learning of wisdom. It seems like a hi-jacking of a biblical text for use in justifying the teachings of whatever cult has done this. Or it may simply be a mocking of Christianity or indeed Judaism. Many of these groups, especially those with Neo-Nazi leanings, would also be anti-Semitic.’
Tara got the feeling as she left the Tweedy household that her boss had already connected the two cases. Although they were separated by twenty-five years, she guessed that Tweedy was intending to solve the mystery of both killings, the first of which was somewhat of a personal issue.
‘Sorry to have kept you so late, Tara,’ said Harold, ‘But we have a lot of work on our hands.’
‘Yes, sir. Hopefully we can get an ID soon on the latest victim, and it may help in establishing motive.’
‘We’ll talk some more tomorrow after you have briefed the remainder of the team. Goodnight, Tara, drive carefully.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
As she was about to get into her car Philip stepped out of the house, his father having gone inside.
‘Tara, it was lovely to meet you. I hope our conversations this evening weren’t too frightening.’
‘It’s part of my job, Philip.’
‘I was thinking perhaps if you were free tomorrow evening we could have dinner and chat on more cheerful subjects? I could pick you up, or maybe you’d prefer to meet in town?’
‘Thank you. I would like that.’ She dictated her address, he taking a mental note. Seldom had she ever said yes so quickly when asked on a date. She climbed into her Ford Focus with a more positive thrill running through her than her evening of macabre discussions had evoked. She looked forward already to her date with her boss’s son, an attractive, bright and clever man. A very long time since she’d felt this way.
On her drive home to her flat at Wapping Dock, as was usual, her mind strayed into the findings of her latest case. She shivered to even consider that ritual killing was involved. The idea of human sacrifice taking place in this day and age and in a city such as Liverpool filled her with a fear that if there was one such killing then there would be more to follow.
Chapter 11
Decided just to call her Thai. A name like Carol or Ann wouldn’t suit her. You see, I always give the girls I choose a name. Saves me from telling you their true identity. Like I said before I’m careful, I’m meticulous. Don’t want any murders traced back to me. Thai is one of those types that looks less Chinese; she may even be of a mixed East-meets-West race, if you know what I mean? Maybe her Da was one of those loner, Norman-no-mates types, took himself off to Phuket and got himself a nice wee Thai bride ‘cos he couldn’t get a girl the normal way. And young Thai is the product of his investment.
At this stage I know she lives in St Helens and gets the train every morning into Lime Street. She works for an insurance company in Renshaw Street, not far from the station. Some days she goes for lunch with colleagues, other times she stays put in the office all day. See what I’ve sussed out already? I’m beginning to get back in the groove. From what I’ve learned so far, I think it will be easier to lift her in St Helens rather than from the city centre. It’ll take a bit more reconnaissance.
Tonight I’m going to an auction down by Ellesmere Port. Might get me a nice wee van that I can kit out for the lovely Thai. Have to get Mother Freedom back in the water, although this is really the wrong time of year. Probably have to move her from Penrhyn in case it attracts some nosey parkers. And, of course, I have to find my old mate Janek. My supplier. I’m sure he’s forgotten all about me after such a long time with me not bringing him any business. I don’t have his number, so I will just have to keep a look out for him in the street or keep tabs for coded messages in the papers or online. That won’t be easy, but I can’t do my women without his gear. It was the best stuff around Liverpool.
In the meantime I will finalise all my plans for taking wee Thai, and in my spare time I’ll continue to check up on Tara. You can be sure I won’t be telling my new friend Collywell what I’m up to.
Chapter 12
‘Morning, mam, we have an ID for the victim.’
Murray had reached her desk before she had and certainly before she had the chance to remove her coat. He looked his cheery self, always on the verge, it seemed, of throwing in a witty quip where usually it was not welcome.
‘Good,’ she replied, as brightly as she could manage with less sleep than normal after a night pondering a gruesome killing then perking herself up with fantasies involving Philip Tweedy. ‘Let’s hear it.’ She sat at her desk, switched on her computer and leaned back in her chair to look up at her DS. He had resumed his eating of a Mars Bar.
‘The name we have is Derek Greasby, fifty-eight, originally from Widnes.’
‘How did you come by the name?’
‘This is the good bit, he’s on the national computer. Served three years for sexual assault and a further ten for the rape of a fourteen-year-old girl.’
‘Had he been reported as missing?’
Murray shook his head, all he could manage at that point, his mouth full of the chocolate bar. Tara had a file containing photos from the crime scenes open in front of her. The body had been slight, no excess fat, rib cage quite prominent in the stretched position on the wooden frame. The picture of the head told her little of what kind of man Derek Greasby had been. A thin face and longish greying hair. It resembled as much a death mask as it did a human head.
‘Do we have an address in Widnes?’
‘Yes, mam.’
‘Let’s get over there.’
From previous experience she realised the address they were headed to and the one listed on the police national computer may not have been the victim’s last abode. Chances were it was an address of convenience provided to the court when Greasby was released on probation, or even the one given prior to his last trial. When the elderly woman answered the front door of the mid-terraced house in Foster Street, Tara had her assumption confirmed.
‘I haven’t seen or heard from him in nearly two years,’ said the woman, slight build, wiry grey hair and pinched face. ‘What’s he done this time?’
‘May we come inside, Mrs Greasby?’ said Tara. Without a word the woman, dressed in a pink cardigan and navy trousers, turned to her left and stepped from her tiny hallway into her sitting room. Tara and Murray followed her indoors. The house reeked of cigarettes and fried food, with not a window open to allow some fresh air. Tara tried not to show her discomfort, but Murray wasn’t quite so discreet.
‘What a pong,’ he whispered.
The woman sat herself down in a crumpled armchair and indicated a two-seater sofa with wooden arm rests for Tara and Murray.
‘You don’t look old enough to be a detective, luv. Or am I just getting older? Seventy-four last birthday. Only sixteen when I had our Derek. Not my finest hour with me not married. His dad got back on the ships as soon as he found out I was in the family way. Caused a bit of a rumpus in those days. So what has he done that you’re looking for him?’
‘We’re not looking for him, Mrs Greasby. I’m afraid Derek is dead, we found his body yesterday morning. He’s been murdered, Mrs Greasby, I’m very sorry.’
The woman was silent for a moment, staring directly at Tara as if struggling to absorb the news.
‘Can I get you some tea, luv? You look worn out.’
‘No thanks, we just want to ask you some questions. We won’t take up much of your time.’
‘What about your friend?’
‘No thanks, luv,’ replied Murray.
‘What happened to him?’
‘We found his body in the woods at Rimrose Park in Liverpool.’
‘Was that the story that’s been on the news?’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘The head found on railings?’
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Greasby.’
‘Don’t be sorry, luv. My Derek was always going to meet a bad end. Spent his whole life up to no good, and that sort of living catches up with you.’
‘Do you know where Derek was living?’
‘Can’t say for sure. Somewhere in Liverpool.’ She rose from her chair and went to a letter rack sitting on a cabinet with glass doors beside the fireplace, where an old electric heater burned a single element. The wooden letter rack, ‘A Gift from Skegness’ emblazoned on the front panel, exhumed all of its contents as the woman searched for an address. ‘This is the last note I had of where he lived. Told me he had a girlfriend after he came out of prison. Said he was nice and settled. I didn’t believe a word. No woman in her right mind would ever have taken him.’ She handed a folded scrap of paper to Tara.
‘Thank you, Mrs Greasby. Is there anyone we can call to come and be with you?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, luv. My friend Winnie lives next door. We’ll be going to Bingo later.’
‘If there’s anything you can think of that might help us catch whoever killed your son, Mrs Greasby, please let us know.’ Tara handed her a card.
‘Oh there won’t be, luv. And you don’t have to call me Mrs Greasby. Never did get married.’
Murray drove them to the address in Toxteth, a narrow dead-end street of red brick terraced houses with ground-floor bay windows.
‘Doesn’t look to be anyone at home,’ said Murray, peering through the sitting room window. They checked the houses on either side, Tara taking the right and Murray the left. A black youth who answered the door to Murray confirmed that a bloke lived next door, but he hadn’t seen him for ages. An elderly man with a walking frame told Tara the house had been quiet for weeks. Tara got Murray to force the lock on the glass panelled door of the house. Once open, they stepped through a pile of mail scattered over the floor. The house had front and rear sitting rooms. Murray headed for the back, while Tara wandered into the front. The place felt cold, an odour of damp and stale air. The walls of the room were painted cream but had no pictures hanging. A tattered suite of furniture, from as far back as the seventies, a sofa and two armchairs, was all that occupied the room. It didn’t appear to be lived in. Tara joined Murray in the back room which led onto a small kitchen. Purple walls this time that did little to improve the light which came from a single window that looked onto an enclosed yard. A single armchair and a table and three chairs sat upon the linoleum floor, a few newspapers and magazines scattered over the table. In the corner by the window sat a small, flat screen TV.
‘A bit Spartan, to say the least.’
‘Not much in the kitchen, either,’ said Murray. ‘Usual stuff in the cupboards, tea, tinned soup, corned beef. Fridge has milk, eggs and cheese.’
‘Upstairs then.’
There were two bedrooms, only one of which contained a bed. It was covered with a black flower-pattern duvet, and a flimsy hanger stand served as the wardrobe. Tara was surprised to see both male and female clothes hanging, a pair of men’s trousers, a pair of jeans, a couple of plain shirts, three flowery dresses and a black skirt. On the floor were a pair of brown brogue shoes and a pair of ladies heels in black suede.
‘Nothing much to learn here about Derek,’ said Murray as he stooped to peer under the bed.
‘Unless he enjoyed women’s clothes.’
‘Hold on, we might have something now.’ Murray slid a plastic storage box from under the bed. He got down on his knees on the carpet and flipped open the lid. When Tara saw what had been uncovered she joined Murray on the floor.
‘Looks like Derek was up to his old tricks.’
Chapter 13
Traced Janek without a problem. He was still doing business through a convoluted ad on a website that only his customers would recognise. Then two phone calls. One to a staging post where I got a note of the second number which got me straight through to the man himself. Janek is Estonian, and he gets his hands on a lot of China White, from contacts in his home country. That wee drug seems quite popular in those parts. It’s always been my drug of choice for dispensing with my girls.
We met up in the city centre, just as he likes to do. A busy spot, plenty of people around, rushing about, minding their own business. He hadn’t changed a bit. Same greasy hair, thin unshaven face and the boggin’ leather jacket. Obviously doesn’t spend his profits on looking dapper.
‘Mr Guy,’ he said. ‘You been on holiday?’
‘You could say that, Janek mate.’
‘I thought I lose good customer.’
‘No mate, had some shit to deal with. Just getting back in the swing of things.’ He nodded at that, and I realised he probably didn’t get the turn of phrase.
I didn’t have that much dosh to spend, but I had enough to buy some China White sufficient to see off my wee Thai. The rest of my money went at the auction in Ellesmere Port wher
e I managed an old beat up Ford Transit. I’m praying it holds together long enough and doesn’t fall to bits when I’m doing the business with the girl. As I’m used to doing, I parked it well away from my flat in Wavertree. Don’t want any smart asses linking me to the van.
My supervisor asked me how I spent my weekend. Couldn’t tell him the truth, could I? Told him I was trying to get fit by doing a lot of walking. Wasn’t exactly a lie, I suppose. I was walking some of the time. Watching what Thai gets up to on her days off. Plays badminton, dear love her. Walked to a sports centre not far from her house, early on Saturday morning. Didn’t reappear until late afternoon around four. Went home and didn’t come out again. On the Sunday a young lad stopped his customised Seat, metallic blue, dropped suspension and twin exhausts, outside her house and a few minutes later she steps out in jeans, boots, a heavy overcoat and with a big smile for her boy. Didn’t have to follow them for long. Soon realised they were going to a rugby league match at Langtree Park. After the game, when they returned to the car, I followed them to a Burger King, and afterwards they went to a cinema. Talk about trying to squeeze it all in to one day. Finally, to cap it all, the lucky wee bastard gets his hole when they parked in a lay-by out by Knowsley. Steamy windows, the heap. It was just coming up to midnight when he drops her off at home. Such a lovely romantic day for some. I reckoned now that I had to base my snatch on a weekday, probably taking her on her way home from work. Hopefully, I can manage it before the boy racer gets his leg over again.
Chapter 14
Maurice Young lived alone these days. He never thought it would ever happen to him. Always had something on the go, a woman to share his bed, a mate staying over until he got sorted, a few of the lads to meet in the pub or at the match. Even when he was inside, he had company. There was banter, joking, conversation. He hoped it wouldn’t last. That he would walk into his local one day and the next woman of his dreams would be waiting for him. But he realised that the older he became the less chance he had of landing a good one. He’d have to lower his standards, be less choosy. And the older he got the more he had to make the effort to raise himself from his seat in front of the telly and go out into the city among people.
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 29