Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  Three-thirty, school’s out. His favourite time of day. He could wait a few yards away from the gates as they came out. Little clusters of girls, laughing, giggling and nowadays tapping stuff into their mobiles as they walked. And then there were the alluring loners, walking hurriedly, eager to get home, no smile, just their long hair swinging behind them as their young asses wiggled by. Most days it was enough just to watch them file out. He chose a different school each day. Saved him getting noticed. If they caught him they would send him back inside, and that was one place he never wanted to see again. They did things to you in prison. They played with your head. Made you think you were the lowest of the low. They played with your body too. He didn’t like that at all. Men aren’t supposed to touch men. Not like that. His mother always told him it was a bad thing. He wouldn’t survive jail a second time. So he had to be careful.

  Today he lingered opposite the gates to one of the best schools in the city. Private place. Had boarders as well as day students and fancy uniforms. The girls here were very appealing. He liked them about fourteen, nearly women he considered. Someday he would choose one. On a day when he couldn’t be caught, couldn’t be identified. For now, though, he was content to watch them sidle by. Big expensive cars were parked all around him. Well-off parents come to collect their sweet little darlings. The girls hurried out, tossed their bags in the boot and climbed inside. He spotted one such girl. Very sweet. Tall for her age but he guessed no more than thirteen. Blonde hair, white skin like those that came from Sweden or Norway. Her mother stood by the tail gate of a Range Rover. She wore a business type suit, slim legs, big heels and sunglasses. This girl kissed her mother and set her school bag and hockey stick into the boot. Dinny took it all in. He was already hard. Already fondling himself through his trouser pocket. Then a car drew up beside him obscuring his final view of the young girl. Frustrated, he glared at the black Mercedes. There was a man at the wheel, but a woman, an attractive woman, was sitting in the back. She peered out and smiled at him. He felt confused. Who the hell was she looking at? Still she smiled. Not his type, way too old and now she was getting out of the car. Had she recognised him? Was it the police, had they found out what he was doing? They’d come to take him back to jail. The driver looked straight ahead. The woman came toward him. She wore a long black coat and black boots. The coat was open revealing a white blouse, a short black skirt and very shapely legs.

  ‘Hello, Dinsdale. How are you? It’s been a very long time.’

  She knew his name. He should run. He wanted to run. She was police. He had to get away. He’d never been brave. His mother had always protected him.

  ‘You really shouldn’t be here, isn’t that right, Dinsdale? You’re not supposed to watch girls anymore. You know it’s bad.’

  She’d taken him by the arm, and he lost his grip on his penis.

  ‘Who are you? I don’t know you. Leave me alone.’

  ‘Now, now, Dinsdale that’s no way to speak to a lady. Why don’t you come for a drive, eh? Leave the pretty girls alone.’ He pulled his arm away, but with her left hand the woman thrust a knife into his fat side. The wound wasn’t deep but Dinsdale cried out.

  ‘Shush now, Dinsdale. Be a brave boy.’ To anyone nearby they looked like a couple embracing. She stroked his port wine mark with the back of her gloved hand, while keeping the knife in his side. Blood dripped on the pavement. ‘Now get in the car. There’s a good boy. If you behave I might let you play with me later. Just like old times.’

  He wasn’t capable of running now. His side was hurting. Reluctantly, he squeezed his bulky frame into the back seat of the car. The woman climbed in beside him, one hand resting on his knee, the other holding the knife close to his side. As the Mercedes whisked him away he glimpsed the beautiful schoolgirl climbing into the Range Rover.

  Chapter 27

  Murray had managed to get hold of a telephone number for Angela Sanders and then called to arrange an appointment to see her at home. They parked the car in the driveway of a 1930s white-washed house in Worsley. The gardens were well kept in lawn and shrubs, but the house had suffered badly in recent years with ugly extensions to the side and rear.

  Angela Sanders, now seventy-one years old, didn’t exactly welcome the police inside her home but evidently had decided that she wasn’t about to answer questions regarding murder on the doorstep. Tara knew her by reputation only and by the rare appearances of Sanders she had seen on television in recent times. The round lady, wearing a loose black tunic and wide trousers, who sat opposite her in a dull sitting room of the house, was once an outspoken feminist, civil-rights activist, environmentalist, anti-nuclear protester and campaigner for gay rights in Britain. There had been numerous arrests over the years, mostly involving disorderly behaviour connected to protest gatherings. She kept her silver hair clipped short, she had a ruddy and now wrinkled face and wore a single gold hooped earring in her left ear.

  ‘So what’s all this about?’ she asked curtly.

  Tara explained their reasons for being there, but she moved on quickly to her first question and that had more to do with the events of twenty-five years ago. On first impressions of this woman, Tara figured that she would tolerate only straight talking.

  ‘Are you aware or have you ever been aware of a Satanist group known as The Church of the Crystal Water?’

  Angela Sanders didn’t even flinch at the question.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In what respect?’

  ‘First came across them back in the sixties. They weren’t the only ones, of course, plenty of anarchist groups jumped on the bandwagon.’

  Tara wasn’t quite following.

  ‘Which bandwagon?’

  Sanders glared at Tara and then the realisation appeared to sink in that Tara would have difficulty recalling the eighties, never mind the sixties. The woman’s Mancunian tones cut through.

  ‘Sorry, luv. You look very young to be a police detective.’

  ‘I’m twenty-nine.’

  ‘Keeping your youthful looks anyway. Where was I?’ Murray couldn’t help smirking.

  ‘I know, son. I’m getting on a bit now. Yes, 1965, the Aldermaston March with CND.’

  ‘CND?’ said Tara.

  ‘Saints preserve us. The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Tara, feeling rather ignorant of things this woman found pivotal to her life.

  ‘Yes, we had devil worshippers, Bible thumpers and all sorts tagging along in those days. Probably thought the end of the world was coming.’

  ‘Can you recall any names from that time?’

  ‘John Lennon but that’s no help to you.’

  ‘I meant members of The Church of the Crystal Water.’

  ‘I know you did, luv. I’m only pulling your leg. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘Not for us Ms Sanders.’

  ‘It’s okay, luv. I could do with a cuppa.’

  Tara was finding the conversation awkward. She looked at Murray. He shrugged with his usual impish grin.

  ‘Nice place,’ he said, gazing about the room. Tara looked around. Quite a large sitting room, not much light owing to a cherry blossom tree outside and close to the window. All the furniture looked antique, and there were expensive-looking paintings on each wall.

  ‘Not short of a penny or two, I’d say.’

  Angela Sanders returned, shuffling her slippered feet over the carpet.

  ‘They popped up again at Greenham Common during the protest.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘I was there from 82 to 84, so about then.’

  ‘Can you recall any of the members of this church from that time?’

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘Sorry, luv.’

  ‘Did you have any connections to this church around twenty-five years ago?’

  ‘Not much help am I, Inspector?’

  Tara was growing weary of the interview and began to wonder if the woman was playing games with her.r />
  ‘We have your name on a file relating to the murder of this man.’ She handed a photograph to Sanders. ‘His name was Alastair Bailey. He was supposedly a member of the Church of the Crystal Water. He was killed at that time. Do you recognise him?’

  The woman shook her head and puckered her lips.

  ‘Don’t recognise him, and I have no idea why the police should have my name associated with him. Wouldn’t be the first time they’d tried to stitch me up.’ She left the room once more, leaving Tara feeling quite exasperated.

  ‘We’re not getting anything here,’ said Murray. ‘May as well go.’

  A minute later Sanders returned holding a mug of coffee.

  ‘One final question, Ms Sanders. Did you ever have an association with the actor Dale Hargreaves or with the newsreader Trudy Mitchell?’

  Sanders couldn’t help glancing from Tara to Murray and back. It was a hesitation that Tara was happy to note.

  ‘Can’t say I wouldn’t have minded an association with the lovely Trudy, but no, I never met either one.’

  Angela Sanders stood by her front door cradling her mug of coffee in both hands as Tara and Murray reversed down her drive. When they’d gone, she wasted no time in lifting her mobile and selecting one of her contacts. When the call was answered, she said, ‘They’ve been.’ In answer to a question, she then replied. ‘Fed them a story about CND.’

  Chapter 28

  I’ve got two big problems at the moment. Firstly, I’ve just taken a girl from the Liverpool area, so it wouldn’t be such a bright idea to take another one from the same place so soon. It would only help the peelers draw comparisons and have them deciding that some sort of serial killer is on the loose. Like I’ve said before, I don’t see myself as a serial killer. I take no pleasure from putting an end to the lives of such beautiful wee girls. My thrill is in the taking and having my way with them. They have to die because I don’t want to be caught. Simple as that.

  My second problem is that I’m skint. Don’t have the money at the moment to buy another van, kit it out, or to buy drugs. Without the gear I can’t go traipsing all-round the country looking for my next piece of skirt. So I’m stuck in Liverpool, bored stiff and growing hornier by the minute.

  Started going to a bar on my nights off. The Swallow’s Tail, an Irish pub. It’s in the city centre and there’s plenty of life about the place. My probation officer said I should get out more. It would help me make friends and steer me away from any bad habits. Dear love him, he doesn’t know the half of my bad habits. But he is right, though. I need to get out of the flat for an hour or two. My job is a load of crap, but it’s all I can get for now. Most of my workmates are foreign and any of the girls aren’t that great to look at. So I found this bar that’s lively with a heady supply of pretty arses. It means I can keep my hand in, watching for my type, maybe following them for a bit, saving their details for future use, and I can enjoy the odd pint of Guinness.

  Had a bit of a find the other night. I was standing at the bar having a look around and I spotted this wee blonde. In fact, I think she saw me first. She was standing at one of those high tables, you know the type where there aren’t any seats, just a place to set your drink? I think we pretended not to be looking at each other. She was cute, though. Reminded me of a certain wee cop, goes by the name of Tara Grogan. She was taller, about five-six I’d say, long, very light blonde hair like a Swedish model, dressed all in black: skimpy top, short skirt and leather jacket. At one point I think she smiled at me, and I was thinking that maybe I could get off with her in the normal way, no need for white vans and fentanyl. Before I could do anything about it these two girls appeared beside me. They were rightly, a feed of drink in them already. They stood either side of me trying to attract the attention of a barman. I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Evening girls, how’s it going?’ They weren’t that bad looking. The one to my right was quite tall and wore heels. She had dark brown hair, a nice smile, plenty of lipstick and eye liner. I guessed she was mid-thirties.

  ‘Great,’ she replied. ‘Need another drink before I sober up.’ The other girl to my left was not so tall, a bit wide at the hips, mousey hair and a face well-used to giggling. That was all she did. Fucking giggle and snigger at everything. Maybe it was just the effect of the drink.

  ‘I’m James, what can I get for you?’

  ‘I’m Kirsty,’ said the one to my right.

  ‘I’m Mel,’ said the wee one. The pair of them laughed.

  ‘I’ll have a Jager and Coke,’ said Kirsty.

  ‘What about you, Mel?’

  ‘I’ll have the same.’

  ‘You’re not twins by any chance?’ Mel giggled, and her dark eyes sparkled.

  ‘Not even sisters,’ said Kirsty, nudging her body closer to mine. ‘He’s dead cute, isn’t he, Mel?’ Her mate giggled, and she put her hand on my arm. I reckoned I was in for a fun night. Strange thing is that while I chatted and flirted with this pair and we bought each other drinks, I noticed the wee blonde and I reckon she was still watching me. Either that or she was looking right through me. It felt great to think a wee cracker like that had eyes for me, but it was also unnerving. Usually I’m the one who does the looking, the following and the stalking. After a while, with Kirsty nattering away, I noticed the blonde leaving alone. Maybe some bloke had stood her up and she’d been staring at me in desperation. Nice to think that a woman is desperate for you.

  By the end of the evening I had a goodnight snog and a grope of Kirsty and Mel. They promised to meet up with me again. Kirsty gave me her phone number and then Mel did the same. I wondered if they did everything together, and my heart skipped a beat at the thought. Then I saw them safely into a taxi. Aren’t I the reformed character? As I wandered home on foot I couldn’t help thinking on the wee blonde. Maybe I would see her again. Great place that pub.

  Chapter 29

  With thick and dark curls cascading around her shoulders and playful dark eyes, Aisling was beautiful. She had no trouble in attracting male admirers, but it was a running joke bordering on a long established intention that she was holding out for a man not only of good looks but with the means to take care of her in the manner she had always dreamed. Kate, of similar slight build to Tara but with dubious tastes in hair colour, was the most pragmatic of the three friends. She’d established an early career in nursing and found her partner before Tara had even felt settled back in Liverpool after her student days at Oxford. But, like Aisling, Kate had an unquenchable desire for fun and laughter, for girlie nights out and girlie nights in, for clothes and shoes, for Chardonnay and nachos and for the latest gossip, be it focussed on celebrity or on their personal lives. That’s why, this evening, both girls had invited themselves over to Tara’s flat to get the complete run down on Tara’s new beau.

  It took several glasses of wine before Tara unwound sufficiently to reveal the juicy secrets of her relationship so far with Philip Tweedy, and then the sixty-four-thousand dollar question was posed by Kate.

  ‘When are you seeing him again?’

  Tara had no answer.

  ‘He lives in Cambridge, so I suppose the next time he’s visiting his parents.’

  ‘Has he called you?’ asked Aisling.

  Tara shook her head, realising that it looked bad to say the last time she’d seen or spoken to Philip was the morning he’d refused to discuss with her what he got up to in Cambridge. That was nearly two weeks ago.

  ‘Do you have his number?’ asked Kate.

  Again Tara had to admit she had no means of contacting the man who had so intimately shared her life for a weekend.

  ‘Ask his Dad what he’s up to, not calling you,’ said Aisling.

  ‘I’m not doing that. I don’t think his father is even aware of us seeing each other.’ Tara suddenly began to feel more depressed about the situation than she had been to this point. She’d gotten through the past few days still glowing from the experience. She’d wondered when she would see Philip a
gain, but she was still breathing in the high she’d felt when they shared her bed. Now all her doubts, her insecurities, were surfacing and the second bottle of wine was no longer helping.