‘These kind of groups, even if this one still exists, hold more secrets than the CIA, MI5 and the Vatican combined. You’ll be very lucky if you are able to identify a single member. They don’t walk around wearing badges, and I very much doubt if they would put a dead body right in front of Merseyside Police.’
‘But they are capable of killing people?’ Murray asked.
‘As I say, the Church of the Crystal Water may no longer exist, and if it does there is no way of telling who is actually a member. They could just as easily be high ranking officers of the police as blood-thirsty Neo-Nazis. You’d be surprised by the names of the famous who participate in occult practices. They say that Jimmy Saville was a member of such a group, and he managed to remain undetected. Why do you ask about this group in particular?’
‘It’s a name that came up. There was a similar style killing twenty-five years ago allegedly connected to this church,’ said Tara.
‘And why come to me?’
‘Your name also came up in our research.’ Sloan fixed a more serious stare upon Tara. He didn’t seem to appreciate her reply. ‘You have spoken for the God is Dead campaign.’
‘Yes, I have. But it doesn’t make me a devil-worshipper, Inspector. I have a keen interest in ancient rituals associated with Wicca. Perhaps that is how you stumbled upon my name.’
Murray’s phone ringing broke the silence and Sloan’s deep stare at Tara. He answered the call and in a second reported his news.
‘We have to go, mam. Another find.’
‘Where?’
‘Cathedral gates.’
When the police had departed, Carl Sloan picked up his phone and dialled a number.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ he said. ‘I think we may have a problem.’
Chapter 20
It was to the rear gate of Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral on St James Road that Tara and Murray had been summoned. A crowd of bystanders had been ushered out of the way as the place filled with police and forensic team vehicles. On the spiked railings, by the open gate, the head of a brown-skinned male had been impaled, and it sat at a crooked angle, the face with open eyes looking towards the cathedral building. A biting wind funnelled through the narrow roadway where Tara stood beside Murray, leaving both cold and increasingly perplexed by the events unfolding. They’d taken a closer look at the head of the victim but then stepped away to allow the SOCO team to do their job. Harold Tweedy arrived several minutes later. His expression was strained.
‘You know what to do, Tara,’ he said. ‘As soon as we get an ID for this poor soul we need to search for a connection between both victims and with Alastair Bailey.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any leads from your interviews this morning?’
‘Nothing so far, but I want to look into the backgrounds of all those we’ve spoken to, especially those with an interest in the occult.’
‘Right. We need to move this on quickly. I don’t want to see another victim. Any news on the body of this one?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. We’ll talk later.’ Tweedy bounded off to speak with the senior SOCO. Never had Tara witnessed her boss come so close to losing his cool. He seemed agitated, his voice quivering through his questions and orders to her. She began to realise just how personally he was taking things, and she reckoned it had more to do with the murder of Alastair Bailey twenty-five years ago than these two recent cases. Tweedy’s past was coming back to haunt him.
At St Anne Street she instructed Wilson to look into the backgrounds of Elsie Greenwood and Carl Sloan, their only links so far to devil-worship or whatever these sadistic killings were supposed to be. She decided also to run checks on Greasby’s victims, Tina Jeffries and Joanne White. They had told her nothing of any consequence, but that didn’t mean they had excluded themselves from the inquiry either. DC Bleasdale had received reports from the probation office regarding Greasby. Tara gleaned little from them except that Greasby had no job and confirmation that he had been living at the house in Toxteth that she and Murray had already visited. From Tweedy she got addresses for Alastair Bailey’s former wife and one for her son. There was also a daughter, but she was living in London.
*
Janet Bailey, now Janet Malcroft, having remarried more than twenty years ago, lived in a modern detached house in Grassendale in the south of the city. It was a road of similar sized houses with neatly paved driveways, conservatories and integral garages. A white Audi was parked in the driveway of the Malcroft home.
When Tara introduced herself and Murray to Janet Malcroft, the fifty-five year old ash-blonde widened her eyes in shock. Her first words on being confronted by police officers was to think something bad had happened to a member of her family.
‘Is Sandra all right?’
‘There’s nothing wrong, Mrs Malcroft,’ said Tara. ‘We wondered if you would mind answering a few questions relating to your former husband, Alastair.’
Despite her makeup it was easy to see the colour drain from the woman’s thin face. She looked quite a fit and attractive woman, slim, battling the ageing process well, although Tara noticed the crow’s feet at her eyes and creases on her upper lip. Still, she didn’t look her age. Much taller than Tara, she was dressed in a plain brown jumper, tight beige jeans and brown ankle boots. Tara and Murray followed her indoors to a front sitting room. The house was tastefully decorated in neutral colours, cream walls and pine-stained woodwork. It was, however, a little cluttered, warm and stuffy, with quite a few peculiar ornaments of porcelain and brass on the mantelpiece and shelves. Books, magazines, open letters and envelopes were scattered about the sofas and coffee table. A stack of DVDs sat below a large-screen television. Tara spotted a couple of books lying on the floor close to where she sat on a brown leather sofa. One paperback had the title The Kaballah Unveiled by S L MacGregor Mathers, but it was the hardback lying beside it which really caught Tara’s attention. The Golden Dawn by Israel Regardie was by no means a familiar title, but the cover illustration of a pentacle was something that until a few days ago held little significance for her. Now it had a chilling relevance to this case. She made a mental note of both titles, but Janet Malcroft had noticed her inspection of the books.
‘They belong to my son, Peter.’ She’d perched herself on the arm of a chair waiting for Tara to explain the reason for her visit.
‘Interesting cover,’ Tara replied. ‘I realise it’s been a very long time, Mrs Malcroft, but I was wondering if you could tell us a little of what you know regarding the death of Alastair?’
‘A very long time ago, Inspector. Have you re-opened the case?’
Tara explained the background concerning the murder of Derek Greasby and now, it seemed, a second victim, and how they believed that the cases may be linked to the murder of Janet’s first husband. She mentioned also how she got the lead from her boss Harold Tweedy.
‘How is Harold?’ said Janet. ‘I haven’t seen him for years. He and Lorraine were very good to us when Alastair died.’
‘He’s fine, if not a little perturbed by these recent murders having similarities to Alastair’s. Can you tell us anything about the group Alastair became involved with?’
‘He never told me much, Inspector. Towards the end of our marriage he became withdrawn, very secretive about things.’
‘Did you meet anyone from the church he had joined?’
‘Just once. He talked me into going along with him to a gathering. It wasn’t really a church of any kind. It was more like a house party. Plenty of drink and cocaine. It was a shock for me to see Alastair enjoying himself in this company. He’d been tee-total before then, certainly would not have touched drugs, and later that first evening the whole place descended into a sex free-for-all. I left alone. Alastair refused to come with me. I’d seen him take cocaine; he wasn’t himself that night. When he did eventually find his way home I begged him not to go back to those people, to those parties. I pleaded with him
to speak to Harold, but he told me that at last he’d discovered his spiritual freedom and nothing would change that. He continued to attend their gatherings, and a few months later I could take no more. I asked him to leave us. I couldn’t live with a man who was intent on behaving that way. He left us a few days later. I never saw him again.’ At that point her voice weakened, and she reached for a tissue from a box on the coffee table.
‘Can you recall any names from that first evening? Anyone who held an influence over your husband?’
‘They used only first names, at least in front of me.’
‘Did you know anyone else, or recognise anyone?’
‘Didn’t know a soul but there were a couple of celebrities there. That actor Dale Hargreaves, used to be in those period crime dramas on TV.’
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ said Murray.
‘A few years ago, I believe.’
‘Anyone else?’ asked Tara.
‘I can’t remember her name but there was a young TV presenter, on Granada I think. She read local news sometimes. Appeared on a couple of those celebrity cookery programmes and things like that.’
‘Do you think you could find out if she’s still around?’ The woman nodded agreement.
‘I realise how painful this is for you, Mrs Malcroft, but do you believe that Alastair’s death was directly related to the group of people you saw at that party?’
‘Not so sure that any of those people were directly responsible, Inspector. Having said that I realise that those parties were not the only thing that this group got up to. Alastair told me that they had a complete and wonderful philosophy for living. I can only think that he must have upset some of them quite badly for them to do what they did to him. At the time I was terrified that they would come after me and the children.’
‘Can you remember where this gathering took place?’
‘Not really. It was out of the city in the countryside. The people who took us there insisted on us wearing blindfolds until we were inside the house. It was a rule of the church, and Alistair was keen to abide by it, even when it came to his wife. But it was a large house, quite old with bay windows, and there were several out-buildings as if it had been a farm at one point. When I left that night I had no idea where I was. I must have walked for miles before I managed to hitch a lift back to Liverpool.’
‘Thank you, Janet. I would like to speak with your son. Do you think he would be at home at this time?’
‘Peter? Why do you want to speak to him? He doesn’t remember what happened to his father. He was only six at the time.’
‘Those books, Janet. I was wondering why Peter has an interest in the occult.’
‘I’ve been clearing out, Inspector. He’s had the books for years, long before he left home. He will be at work during the day.’
They thanked Janet Malcroft for her help and headed back to the station. Tara wanted to have a look through the case files on Alastair Bailey’s murder to see what leads had been followed up at the time. Had Dale Hargreaves been questioned? Had anyone identified the female TV presenter that Janet had recognised at the party?
Chapter 21
It was a hefty set of files. Plenty of detail from the crime scene, the post-mortem and interviews with family and friends. Despite mention of the Church of the Crystal Water, no one was identified as having been a member of that particular cult. Tara examined the dozen or so photographs of the crime scene. Similar in every way to that of Derek Greasby’s except that he had been stripped naked only to the waist. Alastair Bailey had been completely naked and his body badly decomposed by the time it was discovered. It was likely also that Bailey had been murdered at another location from the place where he was found. No mention, however, of a large country house or farm. Among those interviewed, there was a reference to Dale Hargreaves. Detective Sergeant Tweedy had spoken to Hargreaves at the actor’s home in Didsbury near Manchester. He had confirmed that he often attended private parties in the Manchester and Cheshire area, but said that he was not acquainted with Alastair Bailey and did not recall seeing him at any party. No one else had been identified as being present at the party specifically described by Janet Bailey and no location for such a gathering had been found. Tara noted that a brief list of other possible witnesses had been included, but there was no indication that these had ever been followed up. She lifted the sheet of names from the file and strode across the office to the photocopier. With the original and a single copy in hand, she knocked on Tweedy’s door. He nodded for her to come in.
‘Sir, can you tell me if any of these people were ever interviewed in connection with Alastair Bailey?’ She placed the original sheet on the desk. Tweedy glanced down the list of seven names.
‘There’s nothing in the files?’
‘Not that I can see, sir.’
‘I was a DS back then; I wasn’t the senior investigating officer, so I didn’t make all the decisions on who should be questioned. But it does seem like an oversight. Unless, of course, it’s in another file somewhere.’
‘OK, sir, I’ll have Wilson take a look.’
After speaking to Wilson and leaving him the copy of the list, she returned to her desk and sat ruminating on the names before her. Of the seven people listed three were well-known, celebrities, she supposed. There was nothing to suggest that they had been present at any party reported by Janet Malcroft. So what had connected them to this case? Of the four unfamiliar names, three were male and one female. But her eyes returned to the famous. Trudy Mitchell, a stalwart of daytime television, a quiz show host, former news reader and now also a successful author. Angela Sanders, arguably the country’s most famous lesbian, a journalist and campaigner for gay rights. The third name was none other than Jimmy Saville, infamous and deceased.
She called at a TESCO Express on her way home. Shopping, even for something as rudimentary as eggs, bread and milk, was an activity that helped release her from thoughts of her day’s work. Just thinking about what to buy and what to make for tea pushed visions of headless bodies and mystery witnesses to the back of her mind. And tomorrow was Saturday, a day to relax. She might meet up with her friends Kate and Aisling in the afternoon but looked forward most to a good lie-in. Then, of course, her flat could do with a clean and tidy, and she also would feel better with hair washing and a manicure. Somewhere in there she would have to pay an overdue visit to her parents in Caldy. But the best laid plans.
She parked her car in her space at her apartment building, and as she strolled to the main door, a bag of groceries in each hand, she saw a tall man, hands in pockets, smiling in her direction.
‘Hello, you,’ she said, a sudden warmth stirring inside her.
Chapter 22
I left Collywell’s office with a bunch of friggin’ leaflets. Supposed to help me establish a healthy and active lifestyle. Eat healthy for a healthy heart, go to a gym, or at least twenty minutes brisk walking every day to reduce my chances of stroke or heart attack. Reduce sugar and salt in the diet and go easy on alcohol. Then there’s stuff about making friends, volunteering with charities, sports clubs, societies and adult education. Not one thing to tell me how to get my leg over. Not a thing on having the best sex ever or even how to meet the girl of my dreams. I binned the heap.
Dear help Collywell, though, he’s a considerate type of guy. Very dedicated to his job.
‘Have you any friends, James, any mates you can go to the pub or to the match with?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Why is that do you think?’
I shrugged, but he continued to wait for an answer. In the end I gave in, plugged the gap, played his game.
‘I suppose I’ve found it difficult making new friends since I moved to Liverpool.’ Could hardly tell him I didn’t need people getting too close to me. Wouldn’t want them to find out what I get up to in my spare time.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘Let’s see if we can change that.’ I thought he was about to suggest that the pair of us should go ou
t for a night. But that’s when he gathered up all those bloody leaflets and gave them to me. ‘You know, making friends, maybe through a hobby or by taking the first step, perhaps with a colleague at work, can give you a real lift. Many people who are depressed, for instance, are often lonely or at a loss for things to do, things that will bring them into contact with other people. And quite often as you can testify, crimes are committed by those who have no other outlook on life.’
Hadn’t expected the sermon from him, but he does seem genuine. Although, striking up a friendship with my current work colleagues is a non-starter. All foreigners and they seem to stick together in their wee ethnic groups. Poles with Poles, Liths with Liths and then there’s the Asians. Nowadays, Muslims frighten the life out of me.
By the time I reached my flat, I was feeling horny again. Only been a week since I did wee Thai. I’d already sold on the van in the usual manner. Took it to an auction in Wigan. I made eighty quid over what I paid for it, but I would have to save up for a while before I bought another one, and I needed a car as well. It’s hard to keep an eye on my next girl when I have to walk or get a bus everywhere. That said, I spotted a lovely wee thing when I went to the car auction. She is the Tom-boy type. Likes cars and lads’ stuff. When I saw her she was climbing all over a souped-up Corsa. She was cute though. Short blonde hair, leather biker jacket, tight jeans and high-heeled boots. She was with a bloke who smoked a lot and kept slipping his hand into the back pocket of her jeans, feeling her arse.
In the end, I had no way of following her. She and her fella drove off in a plumber’s van. That was the only lead I would have if I wanted to pursue her. I took a note of the company address and telephone number. With my van sold I had to get a bus back to Liverpool, but the vision of the wee rocker kept me amused on the journey.
It is lonely at times, sitting in my flat, only a TV for company. I know it makes sense not to keep pictures and stuff of all my girls, but it would be nice during the lonely times to get them out and have a browse. Good memories, eh? And that gets me to thinking again about wee Tara. Not so great memories, but I will have to work to fix that.
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 32