Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  ‘Greasby never attempted to make contact with you after his release from prison?’

  ‘If he did I never heard about it.’

  ‘Derek Greasby has been murdered, Tina.’

  ‘Good riddance to him, that’s what I say.’

  Tara handed the woman her card.

  ‘If you think of anything that may help us find his killer, please get in touch.’

  ‘If I found his killer, Inspector, I’d shake him by the hand and say well done. Greasby got what he deserved.’

  Tara and Murray stopped off for a coffee on the way back to St Anne Street Station.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Murray, munching on a caramel square, ‘Tina Jeffries and Joanne White may not have been Greasby’s only victims. He may never have been caught for other offences. If we’re looking for a victim out to get revenge we aren’t going to know who they are.’

  ‘So then our only lead is to investigate the devil-worship angle.’

  ‘By looking into Tweedy’s old case?’

  ‘Yes, let’s hope that Wilson has found something to get us started.’

  Chapter 17

  She was hardly the best piece of skirt I ever had but, to be fair, it wasn’t entirely her fault. I’d spent a few more days working out her routine, more of what she did when she was at home, figuring out times when her family might expect to see her and when the wonder boy with the fancy wheels was feeling randy and took her out. In the end I decided the best time, as with many of my snatches, was to lift her when she was on her way home from work. It was best also that I met her when she was off the train in St Helens rather than taking her in the centre of Liverpool when she only had to walk from her office to Lime Street Station.

  Usually, she arrived at the station in St Helens about ten past six; she walked down Shaw Street by the blocks of modern apartments then turned left into Cansfield Street, passing by a funeral parlour. I decided that was my best spot to snatch her. In the dark, with no houses fronting onto the street, there would be few people about at that time.

  I parked the van half on the pavement and half on the road. When Thai walked by there would only be a narrow space between the van and a brick wall. The evening was just as I’d hoped, rain and wind. People didn’t hang about in this weather. They didn’t take the time to notice a van parked in a street. I sat waiting. Several people passed by, more than I liked to see, but presumably on their way to or from the station. Couldn’t help feeling nervous, like I was about to meet a girl for a first date. Tingling in my stomach, sweaty palms. It had been a long time, and even during those boring days in jail I never once considered that I wouldn’t be doing this again. I had no doubt in my mind until she rounded the corner. She was bang on time. For a brief moment, I considered allowing her to walk on by. That I should catch myself on. But just as quickly the thought vanished and the familiar juices stirred. I jumped out of the van so that as she entered the narrow passage between van and wall I met her as she emerged. She stopped instantly, startled more than afraid. Didn’t give her time to think. No time to scream. I rammed my hand tight under her chin, squeezing the soft tissue of her neck. It was a delicate little neck. She tried to scream, like they all do, but it came out as a gurgle. I marched her backwards, opened the rear door of the van and pushed her inside. Her arms flailed, trying to fight me off, but as I’ve said before, you control a body by the head, you control all of it. Still gripping her under the chin, I forced her down upon the mattress, reached for my strip of gaffer tape that I had hanging from the roof, and stuck it over her tiny mouth. I’ll give her that, she was a feisty wee thing. I had a few bruises to prove it after she kicked out as I reached for the cable ties to secure her hands and feet. Then came my first problem. She was struggling so much I lifted the wrong syringe from my bag. It was the one containing the lethal dose of China White, the one I was supposed to use after I’d had my way with her. I’d injected nearly half the volume before I realised. I pulled the needle out of her leg and looked into the girl’s eyes. She was crying and still trying to put up a fight. I knew I didn’t have much time. I may not have given her enough drug to kill her straightaway, but she might be too far gone for me to have any fun.

  I drove the van quickly to some waste ground outside the town. It was close to a road, but there wasn’t much traffic about. Thai wasn’t moving when I climbed into the back. Her breathing was very shallow. I didn’t want to waste a second. I cut the ties at her hands and feet, stripped her naked and did what I do best. By the time I’d finished with her, I reckoned she was close to death. I gave her the rest of the shot and tidied up. Her clothes and mine went into a big sports’ holdall, the type with wheels, followed by her wee body. But I was not happy. I’d messed up. Badly. My first time since getting out of prison. I’d been looking forward to it for months and now this. I had a dead girl in my van and no thrill. Already I was edgy. Visions of wee Tara Grogan flashed through my head.

  I dressed in my spare clothes that wouldn’t be contaminated with the girl. Late in the night I drove into Wales, and at first light I made for the harbour at Caernarfon. It was a bloody rough morning when I sailed Mother Freedom out from her mooring. The previous week I’d managed to get her into the water at Penrhyn. That took the last of my money and caused a few heads to turn at the sight of some plonker putting his boat into the water during winter. But needs must. I motored her to Caernarfon, where she didn’t look so conspicuous among other boats in a more sheltered harbour.

  Waves broke over the bow at times, but I had to get far enough out to sea to dump Thai. Nearly two years since I’d been out so far and I was sick as a dog. At the first opportunity I toppled the bag, filled with rocks and Thai inside, into the drink and headed to shore. When I reached the harbour and tied up I lay down in the cabin bunk and went to sleep. It was into the afternoon before I dumped the mattress at a refuge site and then power-hosed the van at a service station. I had to hurry because I didn’t want to be late for work. That gobshite chef would not be happy. The whole experience was a bollocks, to say the least. None of my urges had been quenched. Months I’d been looking forward to my next girl, and I’d made a hash of things. I needed another one and soon.

  Chapter 18

  He awoke, freezing cold, stiff, unable to move. Gradually, his eyes focussed on a grey sky; dusk or dawn, he couldn’t tell. What leaves remained on the trees rustled in the wind, many losing their grip and falling to the ground. He shivered. Suddenly his confusion switched to fear. He couldn’t move his hands or his feet. Turning his head to one side and then the other, he saw his wrists fastened to something wooden, a wheel of some kind. He tried to pull free, but the nylon rope seemed to tighten with his effort. His feet, too, were held firmly in place by rope. He was splayed, his bare arms and legs open wide. There was something, tape of some kind over his mouth, and he drew deep breaths through his nose taking in the smells of the forest, damp fusty odours of moss and dead leaves. His head throbbed; he remembered little from his evening with the girl and the man who had driven the car. Everything was blank. They’d given him a few drinks. Beyond that he remembered nothing.

  He tried to call out, to make a noise through his gag. This surpassed weird for him. He realised he’d entered a world where anything goes. Was this his initiation? His pathway? Did he have to prove his worthiness to be one of them? He’d heard stories of guys forced to live in a cave for weeks, naked, alone, in darkness, starved, just to prove themselves worthy of the church. Others had to commit rape, assault or robbery to become a full member of the congregation. And now this. How long would he be like this? How long before somebody came? And was there more to follow?

  ‘Ah, Maurice you’re awake at last,’ said the voice of a man. An educated voice, confident. But he couldn’t see him. He heard his feet brushing through the deep carpet of leaves. He tried to speak out, to ask for his freedom. His body shook upon the frame as he tried to break free. ‘Now, now, settle yourself. It won’t be long. It’ll be over soon.’r />
  In one way the man’s words seemed to promise his freedom, in another it signalled a threat. That he was near his end. In panic he tried to wriggle his hands free, and his frustration and fear jumped several degrees. Suddenly the face of the man peered downwards into his, but it was silhouetted against the dim light of the sky.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you, Maurice?’

  Maurice looked hard. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, and he couldn’t speak. His eyes watered, pleading for mercy.

  ‘And my assistant, you don’t recall her either? I realise it’s been an awfully long time.’

  He glimpsed the woman standing over him. She was holding something in her hand, hanging by her side. A machine, a drill of some kind. He thought he detected a caring smile on her lips. A smile like that of a nurse when she is about to stick a needle in your arm or take a blood sample. Mildly sympathetic. Fear and hope was all he had.

  She stepped over him, her legs astride his face. He saw her naked beneath her short skirt. She smiled, and his spirit rose.

  ‘Do you like what you see, Maurice? I’m sure you do.’

  Then she crouched beside him, and he gazed pleadingly at her. He felt her take a gentle hold of his left hand, caressing it in hers. Smooth warm skin touching his. He tried to take hold. Then it felt like she was pressing his hand to the wood. A click and a thud. He screamed, but little sound escaped through the tape on his mouth. Searing pain in his hand. He steeled himself to look. Maybe his hand was gone. Then he saw the nail and he yelled for release.

  ‘A little something,’ said the man, ‘to remind you of the pain you inflicted on your victims.’

  He saw his hand stained red. Instinctively he tried to bring it closer to him, but it was held fast and the pain was too great. And now she was crouching to his right. The wooden frame shook with his attempts to break free. Another click and thud as the steel pierced his palm. Tears poured from his eyes. The exposed flesh of her crotch meant little to him now as she stooped over and punched a nail through his right foot. Quickly, she did the same to his left.

  The man smiled down on him.

  ‘Not long now, Maurice. Thank you for being so patient.’ He seemed to step away, but Maurice didn’t want him to go. Then his voice spoke in a low drone. He was reading something aloud. But Maurice wasn’t listening, the pains in his hands and feet overwhelming his thoughts. He didn’t see the woman as she swung the axe.

  Chapter 19

  She arrived at the station in a sprightly mood, after a second evening spent in the company of Philip Tweedy. They hadn’t bothered this time with a restaurant meal and light chat over a bottle of wine. Although that had been his intention, she wasn’t prepared to wait any longer. She made it quite obvious when he kissed her that she wanted him. Straight to bed in the early evening followed by coffee and toast around midnight. Then back to bed. She couldn’t help feeling pleased with herself, surprised too that she had fallen into a deep feeling of comfort in Philip’s company. Too much too soon? She hoped not. This morning she had left him sleeping in her bed, and somehow she hoped that he would still be there waiting for her when she got home in the evening. Such fantasies made it difficult to concentrate on her day of work that lay ahead. John Wilson was already busy in the office when she floated in.

  ‘Morning, John. Any news?’

  In a flash he was up from his chair, following his DI across the room to hers.

  ‘Morning, mam. A list of possible contacts for occult groups around Merseyside.’ He set a piece of A4 on her desk as she removed her coat.

  ‘Did you find any matches on the pictures of the girls from Greasby’s house and those we had from Terry Lawler?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Worth a try, I suppose.’ She felt a little deflated by the news. It had little to do with her present workload, but each day she couldn’t help wondering what had happened to all of those disappeared girls that Lawler had been trying to find. ‘So what about these satanic groups?’ She lifted the paper from her desk. ‘Two. Is that all you’ve got?’

  ‘Couldn’t find anything else that was current.’

  She read the names.

  ‘Elsie Greenwood and Carl Sloan.’

  ‘Yes, mam. Elsie Greenwood owns a shop that sells Goth fashion. Sloan is a lecturer at Liverpool University.’

  ‘I suppose we should have a word. Maybe they can provide another dimension to this ritual killing theory.’

  She had hoped to see The Church of the Crystal Water mentioned. A contact name, a reference, anything. Sitting down at her PC, she ran the name through HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, and then Google. She turned up only references to a Christian church on a Greek island and a Crystal Waters bar in the Caribbean. Nothing in the UK. Philip was probably right. This church, if it existed, would not be relevant to the murder of Derek Greasby.

  When they entered Dead Nice on Bold Street, not far from Liverpool Central Station, a teenage girl dressed in black with immaculate Goth make-up, pale flesh, black eye-liner and black lipstick quickly fetched the shop owner, Elsie Greenwood. She also wore black: baggy T-shirt, leggings and trainers. On first meeting, Tara found it hard to put an age on the woman. Waist-length, straight and shiny black hair, a bony face and narrow mouth. She wore little make-up except for liner and shadow around her eyes but had a very pale complexion and sported several piercings, a silver ring above her left eye, one through her lower lip, and a diamond stud through her nose. When she spoke yet another was revealed, a silver bar through her tongue. Looking good for fifty or poor for thirty-five? Tara wasn’t sure. An accent akin to Essex didn’t help in deciding what to make of the woman. Murray was intrigued by the array of clothing on show, dresses, trousers, skirts and jackets, all Gothicly stylish and invariably black. He’d commented to Tara as they’d approached the shop that he reckoned it was just a fancy dress store. Tara smiled bemusedly, fairly sure that he was expecting something akin to Ann Summers. She saw the disappointment on his face as he looked around.

  ‘What can I help you with, Inspector?’

  Tara felt herself examined by the woman who did seem quite daunting, with dark eyes and a focussed stare.

  ‘I was hoping that you can provide me with some information on occult or satanic activities around Liverpool.

  ‘That’s a very wide net you are casting. Can you be more specific?’

  ‘We’re investigating the murder of a man who seems to have suffered a ritualistic killing. Our inclination is to believe the killer has some leaning towards occult practices.’ The mouth of the young girl who had remained dropped open.

  ‘And you think I have knowledge of such practices?’

  ‘Or that you may know of someone who does.’

  ‘I am a witch, Inspector. I follow the laws of nature, the seasons, the stars. I deny the existence of God, but I don’t go around casting spells and cursing people.’

  Tara produced a couple of prints from her bag.

  ‘What can you tell me about these?’ She set the pictures on the counter.

  ‘Wow! You do have a problem, don’t you, Inspector?’ Elsie examined the picture of the headless body of Derek Greasby nailed to the circular wooden frame. The second picture showed a close up of the biblical inscription. Tara was drawn to the woman’s hands as she held the pictures. There was a ring on every finger and a heavy charm bracelet dangled from her left wrist. ‘Well, it’s a pentacle,’ she said. ‘Was it found upside down like this?’

  ‘Yes, and the head of the victim was found a few miles away, placed on a spike.’ The woman shook her head.

  ‘Certainly it’s been done to portray evil. But I can’t really help you. I don’t know of anyone who is likely to do this kind of thing.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of the Church of the Crystal Water?’ There was a slight hesitation as the woman glanced at Tara. She handed back the photographs.

  ‘No, sorry, can’t help you.’

  Can’t help or
won’t, Tara thought as they left the shop.

  Dr Carl Sloan, forty-five-year-old lecturer in ancient history, sat at his desk in a modern faculty building off Abercromby Square. Intense expression on his bearded face, he held one of the two re-printed photographs that Tara had presented to him. Fair-haired, with his beard in need of serious trimming, he was of light build and not quite filling his tan corduroy sports jacket. Tara was taken most by his deep-set blue eyes that seemed to suck information from the page before him. As with Elsie Greenwood he remarked upon the inverted pentacle but instantly recognised the inscription as coming from the Book of Proverbs.

  ‘Definitely a ritual involved here,’ he said in a soft voice and an accent reminiscent of the Scottish Borders. ‘What the killer means by it, I can’t say. If a satanic group of some kind is responsible they will have their own peculiar reasoning and justifications behind it all.’

  ‘Do you think it was a human sacrifice?’ Tara asked. Sloan gazed amusedly, another perhaps surprised that this young girl could be a Detective Inspector.

  ‘Looks like it. Such things do occur, you know? The bodies, however, are not usually discovered and certainly are not put on public display like this poor soul.’

  ‘Have you heard of the Church of the Crystal Water?’

  The man snorted at the question.

  ‘Yes, I have indeed, but good luck to you if you are trying to connect this killing with such a name.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’