Home was a dreary flat, three floors up, a living room, a bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. That’s all he had. No job, not that he cared. Hadn’t worked much anyway over the years. Didn’t have much money either but enough for a few beers and the odd takeaway meal. His days seemed to drag and his nights even more so. Not much to do, nowhere to go. But last time he was inside he had learned to use a computer. Now that was his lifeblood, his gateway to the world. He could get anything he wanted online. He’d ordered prossies, he’d bought drugs, not the hard stuff, weed, some blow. He could watch porn when he was bored, and he could gather all kinds of useless information. Rock music and movies remained his interests from his teenage years. Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and Pink Floyd. Clint Eastwood and Christopher Lee. He’d love to get back to the old days, to a time when there seemed to be no rules. When he got together with friends, took over a squat, an old farmhouse or simply camped in the woods. And they would drink and sing, play music, smoke weed and fuck their brains out. Now all his mates had moved on. Some had settled down into plain, ordinary lives, some were dead from fast living, drink and drugs, and some were inside, serving much longer sentences than he ever had to endure.
But tonight he had hope. Thanks to his computer, provided by social services to help him make his way when he returned to society, he had made some new friends. His kind of people. People who liked to enjoy themselves. People with a passion for wild things. And best of all, they had found him. Thank god for social media. Not your Facebook or Instagram. It was the dark web for him, and soon he’d made the kind of contacts he’d longed for.
Tonight he was going to meet them for the first time. He’d received a party invitation by post. On the face of it a nice evening meeting new people in a relaxed setting. But he knew it would be more than that. He would be invited to join their group, to get involved in their activities, and then he would be back living the dream.
Another night chilled by a descending frost, but he’d wrapped up warm in his anorak, scarf and bobble hat. He paced slowly by the corner of the road waiting for the car to arrive. Just like he’d imagined, they wouldn’t disclose the location for the party. He might even be blindfolded for the journey. But once he was inside, a member, and he had gained their trust, he could learn their secrets. It was all part of the fun, the excitement.
After waiting ten minutes by the roadside a dark car, quite large, a Mercedes, drew up and a woman got out of the back. A man was at the wheel.
‘Maurice?’ she said. Blonde hair, swept back in a ponytail, rosy cheeks and a prominent nose, a short black dress, leather jacket and black ankle boots, she was just as he’d hoped.
‘That’s me,’ he replied.
‘Great to meet you at last,’ she said. On her heels she was taller than he was, but she threw her arms around him, kissing him on both cheeks, her red lipstick leaving its mark. ‘Are you ready for this?’
‘Can’t wait.’
‘Good, let’s go.’
He climbed into the back seat, and the woman followed, taking his hand in hers as the car roared away.
Maurice Young was fifty-seven, of mixed race. He wouldn’t see fifty-eight.
Chapter 15
Philip Tweedy arrived on time wearing a navy sports jacket, white T-shirt and ripped blue jeans. His eyes did a double take when Tara opened her door. She felt more like her friend Aisling, in her most expensive dress and shoes, a gold and blue jacquard mini and black leather courts with five inch heels. Her blonde hair was pinned up, and she looked so much taller and less juvenile than usual.
‘Wow, you look incredible. Dad’s a lucky man, seeing you every day.’ She flushed at the first phrase and felt embarrassed by the reference to his father.
He drove them to a brasserie in Hoylake that had a band that played cool jazz. It wasn’t really her style, but she could tolerate it as background music. She wasn’t yet sufficiently relaxed in his company, and besides she had the murder of Derek Greasby uppermost in her mind. The result was a work related question, not the most desirable subject to kick off a romantic evening.
‘Do you really think there is a satanic cult operating in Liverpool?’
‘They can spring up anywhere, Tara. Why not in Liverpool? But you must understand, many of these groups are harmless, a bit eccentric in their views but most stay within the law. They can be anything from astrologers to Druids and others who pay homage to nature and the seasons.’
‘Not likely candidates for committing murder?’
‘No, the people most likely for nailing victims to a frame to form a pentacle and chopping off heads will act in very small groups or cells. They’re not likely to be part of an organisation with an office and a sign on the door. They’re subversive, anarchists, neo-Nazi or sadists.’
‘And you think our victim was a human sacrifice?’
‘Yes, but don’t ask me to what he was being sacrificed. If the perpetrators do worship a deity I suppose it must be of a satanic nature like those I mentioned last night. Put it this way, you will have a difficult job finding any direct links to these people. They don’t advertise monthly meetings in the village hall.’
‘What about this Church of the Crystal Water?’
‘I don’t think it’s relevant. Just something Dad came across back in the day. These so-called churches come and go. I don’t think you should waste your time over it. But enough of this dreary chat. I want to get to know you, Tara. The pretty girl, not the policewoman.’
He clinked his glass of wine to hers and waited for her to share a little of her background. It was easy conversation, never strained, neither one searching for something to say. Tara enjoyed her food and hardly noticed that she had consumed most of the fairly expensive Chablis, Philip having restricted himself to a single glass.
It was well after eleven when they returned to her flat. She could hardly recall the last time she had invited a man back for coffee, could scarcely remember when a man had last stood in her flat, but she knew for sure that she had never taken a man to her bed on a first date. And she had wanted to so much, but Philip evidently had already decided that coffee would be coffee and nothing more. They shared a brief kiss when she left him to her door. Not since she was a student had she felt such swirling in her head and tingling in her body as she took to her bed. Next time, she thought, she hoped.
‘And where were you last night?’ It was Kate. ‘You didn’t answer at home and your mobile went to voicemail.’
‘I was out,’ said Tara.
‘Working late again?’
‘No, I was out for dinner.’
‘With a fella?’
‘Yes, with a fella.’
‘Come on Tara, luv, don’t have me picking it out bit by bit.’
‘His name is Philip. He’s my boss’s son. We went for dinner and came back to my place.’
‘OMG, is he still there?’
Tara giggled.
‘No, what do you think I am?’
‘Is he nice?’
‘Very.’
‘You’re seeing him again?’
‘Hope so.’
‘OMG, I have to tell Aisling. Our Tara’s got a new fella.’
‘Have to go, Kate. I’m late for work.’
Kate went off the phone in raptures, and Tara smiled inwardly as she went to her shower.
It was certainly a rarity for her to begin work with such a positive glow inside her. Such a wonderful evening spent with a thoroughly wonderful man. But she blushed uncontrollably when she encountered Harold Tweedy in the office. A normal exchange of morning greeting yet she beamed with embarrassment as if the father knew exactly what his son had been up to with his Detective Inspector. Thankfully, Murray saved her from making a fool of herself.
‘Morning, mam. We have the contents of Greasby’s house ready to look at.’
‘Thanks, Alan,’ she replied, following him to a side room where dozens of photographs, taken from the storage box found under Greasby’s bed, had been laid out on a
desk.
‘All young, pretty girls, mam. Some are pornographic and others look as though he’d taken them himself. Voyeuristic, I’d say.’
Tara scanned the array of photographs, print-outs and magazine articles, all showing young girls, mostly teenagers, she reckoned. Her mind raced to the vision of the pictures they’d found on the bedroom wall of murdered journalist, Terry Lawler. All of them were girls who had disappeared without trace, and she had initially believed that Lawler was responsible. She soon discovered, however, that Lawler’s sister was among the missing, and he had been searching for her. Tara wondered if they had now found the man responsible. Did any of the girls in this collection match any of those found in Lawler’s flat? But how many men, loners, sex offenders, kept pictures such as these? Quite a few, she imagined. Still worth checking.
‘John,’ she called. DC John Wilson came to the door of the room. His huge frame, number two haircut, chubby face and narrow eyes belied his gentle manner.
‘Yes, mam.’
‘I want you to go through these photographs, see if any match those taken from Terry Lawler’s flat. Also, if you can, I want you to gather some info on satanic groups on Merseyside.’
She met the surprised look on Murray’s face.
‘Have to start somewhere. We need to establish a motive beyond the theory of human sacrifice.’
‘Human sacrifice?’ Now Wilson had alarm written on his face as he wandered back to his desk.
Tara invited Murray for coffee at the station canteen and explained to him the information she’d learned from Philip and Harold Tweedy two nights ago.
‘It’s one line of inquiry, Alan. Such a strange killing, the head placed on a spike, this pentacle thing and the biblical inscription. It’s either a ritual killing of some kind or else the killer wants us to believe it is.’
‘Doesn’t explain why Greasby specifically.’
‘Historic cases of sacrifice have usually involved someone of dubious character, say a vagrant, a homeless person or an ex-con. Greasby fits into that mould being a convicted sex offender.’
‘If it isn’t a ritual killing, who would want us to think that it was?’
‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps it is connected to Tweedy’s friend from years ago.’
Tara and Murray spent the morning looking into the life of Derek Greasby. They had little to work from besides the police files relating to the two cases of sexual assault for which he was jailed, the box of pictures taken from his house, and the forensic evidence gathered from the murder scene.
Murray reviewed the forensic report, while Tara read through the file they held on Greasby. His first conviction was for sexually assaulting a nineteen-year-old woman after leaving a nightclub in Liverpool. Greasby was thirty-seven at the time of the attack. It was revealed in court that he had stalked Tina Jeffries for several weeks, following her home from work, calling her by telephone, sending her letters and on two occasions, bouquets of flowers. On the evening of the assault, Greasby had approached Tina while she was with a group of friends. She had resisted his advances twice while in the nightclub. But Greasby had waited until she was outside and walking alone towards a taxi rank. He pulled her into a shop doorway and forced himself on her, kissing her several times and putting his hand up her dress. He served fifteen months of a three year sentence in Altcourse Prison, he being one of its first inmates.
His second conviction was for the rape of a fourteen-year-old school girl. Again it began with him stalking her as she walked to and from school, but this time he managed to befriend her, and he gave her several pieces of jewellery as presents. One afternoon he picked her up from school in his car and drove her to a forest park nearby where they had sexual intercourse. In court the girl claimed that he forced himself on her, but Greasby maintained that it was consensual. Nevertheless, in view of the girl’s age, Greasby was found guilty of rape, and in consideration of his previous conviction was sentenced to ten years. He served nearly six. Tara continued to wonder if Greasby could be the man responsible for her collection of missing girls. Terry Lawler had found something to link all of the disappearances, suggesting that one man was responsible. Could Derek Greasby fit the bill? His two convictions were as a result of sexual offences against young girls. He’d always denied that he’d forced himself on the fourteen year-old. A man such as this had probably committed many more offences without being caught. But aside from the court files, there was little other background to the life of Derek Greasby. Since his release from prison on probation, he’d lived alone at the house in Toxteth that Tara and Murray had visited the day before. They’d found his collection of pictures, and they’d found some female clothing, but there was nothing to suggest that he was embarked upon the abduction of women or that he had any involvement with cults or with devil-worship. Why then had he been killed in such a strange and brutal manner?
‘Find anything interesting?’ Tara asked. She had wandered across the operations room to Murray’s desk.
‘Not much beyond what we saw at the scene. Traces of drugs found in his system, barbiturates. His hands and feet had been nailed to the wood using a heavy-duty nail gun. Witney reckons the head was removed using something like a heavy sword or a felling axe. Probably took only a single blow. No prints found on the wooden frame or on the poly-folder that held the inscription. A few footprints and tyre tracks lifted from Rimrose Park that have not been accounted for. We still have to eliminate the possibility that the footprints belong to the kids who found him.’
‘And we have no indication of motive. Unless we’re looking at a revenge killing for his previous crimes.’
‘It’s not impossible. Where do we go from here?’
‘Firstly, I think we’ll take that line, that it’s a revenge killing. We’ll look up the victims of Greasby’s past convictions. Secondly, we better take a look at the files on Tweedy’s old case. Maybe we can connect the two.’
Chapter 16
Joanne White was now twenty-four and worked as a fitness attendant at a leisure centre near Walton Park. She was a slight girl, similar in build to Tara, with brown eyes, brown hair in a ponytail, and dressed in navy polo shirt and shorts. Understandably, Tara thought, she was nervous being confronted by police officers at her workplace. Tara had read the details of her case, how Greasby had groomed her with the promise of money and travel, how he had charmed her to the point where he expected sex. When she resisted he’d gone ahead and forced her, raping her twice in his car and once in his house.
Every day since James Guy had abducted her and drugged her, Tara shuddered at what else he might have done. She remembered nothing of the incident. How much worse must it be for Joanne White, who had suffered as a young girl at the hands of a rapist and probably remembered every tiny detail of her experience?
‘What’s happened?’ she said above the shouts and screams of children enjoying a birthday party in the adventure play area of the leisure centre. When Tara explained about the death of Derek Greasby, the colour drained from the girl’s face.
‘We were wondering if you had seen him since his release from prison.’
She looked confused by the question and merely continued to stare at Tara as if waiting to be prompted further.
‘Had he tried to make contact with you in the last few years?’
The girl shook her head, and tears appeared in her eyes.
A tall man in his twenties, wearing a white T-shirt and navy sweatpants, approached. He had short hair and remnants of acne on his cheeks, and tattoos on both arms, a man with a well-developed physique. He put his hand on Joanne’s shoulder.
‘You all right, Jo?’ he said, glaring suspiciously at Tara and Murray.
‘I’m fine.’
‘And who are you?’ Murray asked.
‘I’m her boyfriend. Who are you?’ It was clearly a defensive stand by the young man. Murray wasn’t one for diplomacy in such situations.
‘Do you have a name?’
Tara intervened. She
wasn’t there to referee petty gamesmanship.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Grogan. We are here to speak with Joanne.’
‘It’s okay, Martin can stay,’ said Joanne, touching her boyfriend’s hand, still resting on her shoulder. Murray and Martin continued to glare at each other.
‘Can I ask of your whereabouts two nights ago?’ said Tara.
‘We were at home,’ said Joanne.
‘Can anyone vouch for that?’
‘No. You think we had something to do with him dying? You think I killed him to get my own back?’
‘What the hell is this?’ said Martin.
‘We need to eliminate you from our enquiries, that’s all.’
‘We were at home, all right? Jo was working here till six, and I was at home. Now why don’t you leave her alone?’
‘That went well,’ said Murray on the way to the car.
‘Sometimes, Alan, you should know when not to dive in on the offensive.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That was a rape victim we were talking to. Show some understanding?’
‘But the boyfriend was an arrogant sod.’
‘No, he wasn’t. He was just being protective of his girlfriend. If you’re not going to be helpful just keep your mouth shut.’
*
Tina Jeffries, at forty, was a mother of two girls and living in a semi-detached house in a quiet cul-de-sac in Widnes.
‘I don’t know how I can help you, Inspector Grogan,’ she said. ‘I haven’t set eyes on Greasby since his trial.’ Tina was not a tall woman and had evidently endured some weight gain, Tara thought, recalling a picture of her at nineteen at the time Greasby assaulted her. She had large brown eyes, wide nostrils and long dark brown hair, well-brushed down her back. Twin girls, about eight years old, stood either side of their mother tugging at her grey jumper to gain her attention. ‘Not now, Jessica,’ she said to the one on her left. ‘You and Janine go watch TV while mummy is talking.’ The pair stropped off from the hallway to the living room.
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 30