Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  Chapter 23

  He brought her breakfast in bed of French toast, bacon and maple syrup. He didn’t eat but sat watching her, and what an appetite she had. It surprised her, because she seldom ate much for breakfast, at most a slice of toast and a cup of coffee.

  ‘Are you free today?’ he asked, a trace of serious inquiry in his voice.

  If she hadn’t been she was never going to say. A day spent with him was all she could even think of. Her work, her friends faded to oblivion. But all she could manage in reply was to nod once slowly.

  When she’d finished eating they showered together in silence. He dressed quickly in a blue shirt, the ripped jeans and trainers. She hadn’t even begun to consider what to wear. She didn’t know if they were going out or staying in, and it was a shock when she saw him perusing her wardrobes and drawers. He lifted hangers out and hung them up on the door of the wardrobe, all the while saying nothing. Her natural instinct was at first to feel affronted by his cheek, but the feeling was soon overcome with notions of complete turn-on. That by choosing her clothes he was signalling that he wanted to look after her, that he cared for her, that he wanted to know her at every level of her being. For several minutes she stood in her underwear watching him sift through her belongings. In the end he chose a blue and red check shirt, skinny blue jeans, and a pair of pink trainers.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  He didn’t reply as he searched through her jewellery box and necklace stand. Then he handed her two bracelets, one silver the other black.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said.

  She couldn’t help her smile and nor could she hide her delight that he was pleased with what he saw. Before leaving the flat he chose for her a blue woollen scarf and navy short length coat.

  He drove them out of Liverpool into North Wales. The day was cloudy but with little wind, the recent series of frosty mornings having passed. She didn’t think it would rain. She didn’t care. She’d never been treated in this manner before. Everything that happened was by his choosing but with her at the forefront of all that they did. If it rained she felt that it would be by his doing. He chose the music; classical, something she did not recognise. When she inquired he told her it was Vaughan Williams. He’d scarcely said anything since leaving the flat. The last time they’d had a prolonged conversation was before they’d slept together the night before. She got the feeling though that he was looking for something, searching for a place. He kept slowing his silver Audi TT coupé as they neared junctions with laneways, peering out at farm buildings and practically crawling through each village or hamlet they came to. She couldn’t help asking him.

  ‘Just curious,’ he replied.

  They drove out to Colwyn Bay then cut inland climbing into the mountains to Capel Curig, eventually stopping by a lake where, miraculously, the sun began to pierce the clouds. He climbed out of the car and opened the passenger door for her. She followed him to the water’s edge, and they sat down together on a flat boulder.

  ‘Dad always paused here when we were on holiday,’ he said.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ She wanted him to touch her, to hold her as they gazed over the landscape, and eventually he put his arm around her.

  ‘The world’s a wonderful place, Tara, filled with the beauty of God’s creation. Such a shame that so many people want to spoil it.’ He turned to her, and they kissed. Gazing into his eyes, she thought it a peculiar thing for him to say at that moment. She wondered if he might be trying to tell her something, share a problem or his state of mind. But she couldn’t have felt more content in his arms.

  No sooner had she relaxed beside him when he was up again and striding back to the car. She had little option but to follow.

  On they went through Llanberis then Caernarfon, where they enjoyed a pub lunch, he choosing what they ate and drank. She didn’t mind, her body still tingling at the sensuality of this strange experience.

  By early evening they were back in Liverpool, back in her flat. He ordered Chinese food, while she showered and changed into the T-shirt and leggings he’d chosen for her. They watched the movie of Sense and Sensibility then went to bed.

  She had no idea quite what to expect for Sunday, but her excitement hadn’t waned. This morning he didn’t even ask if she were free. It definitely felt as though he was hard at work on a programme of activities for her, and her good sense to stop and inquire what he intended, or to have a meaningful conversation with him, deserted her. She allowed herself to be carried along through the day in the knowledge that by late evening he would lay her down, and she would again experience the most wonderful love-making she’d ever had.

  Again he chose her clothes for the day: a woollen jumper, short pleated skirt, thick black tights and brown high-heeled boots. It was a cooler day, and he drove them to Anfield where Liverpool were playing Tottenham. The only miracle, it seemed, that he couldn’t pull off was a win for the home team. A one-all draw was the outcome, but Tara, all through the game, could only wonder what Philip Tweedy had in store for the evening ahead. She felt a peculiar sensation flowing in her veins of excitement, terror even and certainly helplessness. Her practical thinking was fighting to break through this cloud of passion, and while she remained aroused by his treatment of her it had left little room for getting to know the man better. She continued to ponder his strange behaviour of the day before when he seemed to have been searching for something or some place.

  The curtains in the bedroom hadn’t been drawn the night before, and as the pale grey of morning evolved over the Mersey they both seemed to awaken at the same moment. Her first instincts were to kiss him lightly and snuggle into his broad chest, allowing herself to fall into another doze. But suddenly he was up from the bed and getting dressed.

  ‘You’re in a hurry.’

  ‘Have to get back to Cambridge this morning.’

  ‘A busy day ahead?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘What is it that you’re doing exactly? Since you’re between jobs at the moment.’

  It was a definite glare as he pulled on his T-shirt, and she thought she’d touched a nerve. Then his face softened.

  ‘Things to do.’

  ‘What kind of things?’ Another glare. ‘I’m just taking an interest, that’s all.’

  He sat down on the bed beside her and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

  ‘I know you are, Tara. And I appreciate it, I really do…,’

  ‘But?’

  He was up and fastening the belt on his jeans. He frowned and smiled in one awkward movement.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tara, but there are some things I really can’t share with you at the moment. I’ll be in touch soon.’

  Suddenly she was alone in her bed, confused by what had just happened. It set her mind racing to all manner of scenarios.

  Chapter 24

  Friday night and the bar was crowded. It wasn’t the most salubrious of nightspots, but its location in the city centre amongst other popular venues and its run down ambience appealed to those who cared less for the décor and more about the drink. A blues band was setting up its gear on a raised dais in a dark corner of the room. This was his kind of place. Plenty of attractive females, dressed for a night on the tiles, the more refined drinking Prosecco, the less so swilling pints of lager with the lads.

  She knew he would be here. She’d tracked him a few times already, wandering the streets, feigning interest in shop windows while casting his eye over every female who passed him by. In the evenings he loitered outside office blocks, following girls to the bus stop or train station, lingering by nightclubs as groups of young females, the worse for drink, carried their good time into the damp streets. He was a loner, but he needed to be around them. Tonight he couldn’t help watching as a hefty girl in a tight dress rested her boobs on the bar as she tried to attract the attention of a barman. He couldn’t help watching another in a slim-fitting red dress as her boyfriend cradled his arms around her, and she swayed to the music
with her back to him. He couldn’t help watching the group of six young lasses, squeezed around a table in the corner, having a laugh. They were his type, she thought. Late teens, early twenties, short dresses, tight skirts, skinny jeans and big heels.

  She watched him play. Pint of Guinness in his hand, leaning on the bar but his body angled so he could see around him, soaking up their laughter, their scent, their heat, looking for that special one. She could be his tonight, his chosen one, or, to be accurate, he could be hers. She knew already that he was aware of her. How could he not have noticed? She pulled men in easily. She turned heads. And tonight? Short leather skirt, tanned legs, low-cut top, shiny black heels, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders, if you were male you would notice. Give it a few minutes, and she would need another drink. She would step to the bar, stand beside him, sense his temperature rising, feel his heart pounding. If she was properly on her game, he would turn his body away from the crowd toward her, and she knew if she were to place her hand at his crotch he would already be hard.

  But tonight the luck was with him. The luck of the Irish. Two girls, happy but not drunk, had taken a shine to her man, and he was delighted to oblige with drinks. They stood either side of him. Bookends. Playful hands touching his arms as they flirted. Not the prettiest, not like her, but his luck was in tonight. She would have to wait for another time. She hoped the two girls would be all right. Surely he didn’t act that quickly.

  She would get her opportunity soon, and she would make him sorry he’d ever set foot on this earth.

  Chapter 25

  Seated at her desk, she felt she was on the outside looking in. Her mind struggled to process what had taken place between her and Philip. Was it love? Or merely sex? Why had he been so mysterious?

  ‘Good morning, Tara. Did you have a pleasant weekend?’

  Her boss, Harold Tweedy, father to Philip. What did he know about her weekend? In panic she fumbled a reply.

  ‘Mmm, sir. Yes, sir, thank you. It was nice.’

  Tweedy, thankfully, didn’t linger, but Murray was the instant replacement.

  ‘Morning, mam. We’ve got an ID on the victim.’

  ‘Morning, Alan.’

  ‘Had a DNA match to the national database. Name is Maurice Young. Fifty-seven. Address in Toxteth. And he has previous.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Murray read from a sheet of paper.

  ‘Yes, released last year after serving four years for sexual assault. Prior to that he did three years for attempted rape, two counts of voyeurism, a fine for drug use and he offended as a juvenile, again sexual assault. Back then he was fourteen, the woman was sixty-two.’

  ‘A coloured past then. So now we have to draw comparisons with Derek Greasby, look at the common denominator. Any word on finding the body?’

  ‘Nothing, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘So far we have both victims as convicted sex offenders.’

  ‘You reckon we have a vigilante on our hands? Someone dishing out street justice?’

  ‘We may do, but why such bizarre killings? Has Wilson found anything on those women who were mixed up in the Bailey case?’

  ‘Here he is, mam.’ Wilson had just come into the office, a smile on his face to counteract Murray’s frown. Happy Monday for some. While Liverpool had managed only a draw with Tottenham, much to Murray’s chagrin, Everton netted two goals away to Sunderland to win two-one. John Wilson beamed at his sergeant.

  ‘All right fair enough,’ said Murray across the office. ‘I suppose a win’s a win.’

  ‘Not just a win. Everton move above the Reds in the table.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you two football pundits, but dare I ask if there’s any news concerning my case?’

  ‘Yes, mam,’ Wilson replied, lifting some papers from his desk and heading for Tara. Murray took the chance to avoid further teasing concerning his football team and retreated to his desk.

  ‘What have you got, John?’

  ‘Well, mam, firstly I did a background check on Tina Jeffries.’

  ‘Find anything?’

  ‘Nothing on Tina as such, but her partner, Don Mason, has a bit of history. One conviction for assault and a caution after an altercation with none other than Derek Greasby.’

  ‘Interesting. I would have said it was worth following up, but with a second victim killed in the same manner I’m not so sure. Find out if there is any link between Jeffries or Mason and Maurice Young.’

  ‘Yes, mam. Didn’t find anything on Joanne White or her boyfriend.’

  ‘What about these women we found in relation to the Alastair Bailey case?’

  ‘Addresses for both in Manchester.’ Wilson handed a sheet of A4 to his DI.

  ‘Thanks, John. It’s worth having a chat with them.’ She called Murray across the office. ‘Alan, let’s go to Manchester.’ Murray, having just shed his suit jacket, had now to put it back on. He lifted a set of car keys and caught up with Tara on the way downstairs.

  Wilson had provided the home and business address for Trudy Mitchell, the once familiar sight on daytime television, but who now worked mostly behind the scenes in production. Tara was already convinced that this was the woman Janet Malcroft had seen at the party she had attended with her husband twenty-five years ago.

  At Media City in Salford, they checked in at reception and asked to speak with Trudy Mitchell. Thankfully, it seemed, this would not be a problem, for Trudy was not currently working on a programme which was airing at that time. But still it took nearly thirty minutes before Ms Mitchell made an appearance in reception. She was a shapely woman, short back and legs, smaller than she looked on TV, Tara thought. Murray beamed as he watched her approach in a slim grey dress and stiletto shoes. Her chestnut brown hair fell around her shoulders, her face, heavy with make-up, did not indicate a woman of forty-five. Tara introduced herself and Murray, and the three of them sat down around a glass coffee table some way out of earshot of the reception desk.

  ‘We’re investigating two murders in Liverpool which we believe may carry the suggestion of ritualistic killings.’

  Trudy had positioned herself on the leather sofa in a manner akin to her television interviewing style, legs crossed, hands folded on her lap. It made her seem more interested in the conversation than she may actually have been. Her dark eyes twinkled, her lips open slightly over a wide mouth in a forced smile.

  ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’

  ‘Both killings hold similarities to a case of murder that occurred twenty-five years ago. A man named Alastair Bailey was killed in a way that suggested some form of satanic ritual.’

  So far there was no indication that Trudy Mitchell was familiar with anything told her by Tara. She maintained her pose and fixed smile.

  ‘The killers were never found. We came across your name listed in the case file and wondered if you could tell us why that might be?’

  ‘That is a long time ago, and I have no idea why you would have my name.’

  ‘Were you interviewed by police at that time?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Sorry I can’t be of any help, Inspector.’ She acted as though she were drawing the meeting to a close, but Tara had more questions.

  ‘Were you acquainted with the victim, Alastair Bailey?’

  ‘I don’t recall the name,’ she replied, her smile weakening.

  ‘Did you perhaps meet him at a party back then?’ Tara removed a photograph of Bailey from her bag and passed it to Mitchell. Immediately, the woman shook her head.

  ‘He is not familiar to me, sorry. I’ve been to a lot of parties over the years. I can’t remember everyone I’ve met.’ She returned the photo to Tara.

  ‘I understand that but at one particular party a number of celebrities may have been present including Jimmy Saville and Dale Hargreaves.’

  ‘Is that what this is all about? Part of the Saville investigations?’

  ‘Not at all. We’re investigating murder, and I’m interested to k
now why your name came up in our files.’

  ‘Like I said, Inspector. I can’t help you.’ The woman rose from her seat. ‘If there’s nothing else I really should get back to work.’

  Suddenly Murray was on his feet, as if he’d forgotten to say something.

  ‘I was reading somewhere that you once went out with Dale Hargreaves?’ The remark clear wiped the smile from Trudy Mitchell’s face. She fixed a much colder stare at Murray.

  ‘You don’t want to believe everything you read in the papers, Sergeant, especially The Sun.’

  ‘We don’t read that paper in Liverpool, not since Hillsborough. But you were close at one time?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we were close. I was very young back then, Sergeant. We all do things we may come to regret. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  Murray watched her sidle away, her heels clicking on the floor.

  ‘Phwaw, what a woman.’

  ‘Tetchy don’t you think?’

  ‘I wouldn’t kick her out of bed, mam.’

  ‘I realise you’re not choosy, Alan. But that woman has a tale to tell. If it’s not about Alastair Bailey then it has certainly to do with her relationship with that actor. When we get back to the station you can dig out the press story on her with Hargreaves.’

  Chapter 26

  Dinsdale Kirkman liked to go for long walks. Not so much in the beauty of open countryside or by the seashore. He enjoyed the city, the ebb and flow of people rushing about taking little notice of others around them. In the quiet of the countryside or in any lonely place a body stood out. You got noticed by the one or two others you passed on a quiet road or on a path along the beach. But in a city street no one cared a damn who you were or what you were doing or where you were going. He liked the anonymity. He liked it because he knew he stood out from others. People with time to notice would always remember seeing him. It wasn’t just his size, six feet, broad, rounded shoulders and a wide girth, or his lack of dress sense, some twenty years or more behind the fashion. Not that he cared much at his age. What really got him noticed was the mark of port wine, a purple blotch that ran from the top of his right ear, down the side of his face, close to his mouth and tapering to a point below his chin. You would remember seeing his mark if you came across him in the street. His classmates at school always had. Beetroot they’d called him, or Splash or Daz Boy: the only stain that Daz could not get out. Funny, but Fat Dinny didn’t offend in the same way. The taunts had left him shy and withdrawn. Only his Mum and Dad seemed to care about him. He grew up without mates, without girlfriends, and when he came to work in the bank his bosses would never allow him to operate the front desk. Better to keep him from the public view, they said. Despite his woes, he had always remained contented. Not happy, but while his parents loved him, he had company in the evenings, he did what they did, went where they went. Protected. His father passed suddenly from a heart attack, his mother had another three years before the breast cancer took her. She was only sixty-two. He was left the house, a late-Victorian red-brick in half an acre. A big old place for him in which to grow old. But with his loneliness a longing re-emerged. A desire to at last find love with the kind of girls he’d admired from afar as a young boy. His parents used to bring him along to their gatherings as they called them. He was a teenager then and his visits had continued until he was in his twenties when his father died. He could do whatever he wanted there. Get drunk, certainly. Drugs even. Women, too. Women who took him to their beds. He was a novelty to them. And then there were young girls, some only five or six years old. Not many but he was allowed, encouraged, to touch them. But he liked teenage girls best. Anything was permitted because he was a member of the church. His father a high priest and mother the high priestess. But the parties ceased when his father died, and his mother got sick soon afterwards. She wouldn’t let him go alone. But when the parties stopped the urges didn’t.