Thankfully, Kate changed the subject to the planning of their holiday, the premise she’d used to set up the evening in the first place. No sooner had the banter resumed on the topic of past trips to Tenerife when Tara’s mobile burst to life with its usual rendition of Moves like Jagger. As she lifted it from the coffee table to answer she saw that it was DC John Wilson.
‘Sorry to bother you, mam, but we’ve found the body.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Wavertree. The park.’
‘I’ll get Murray to pick me up. See you in fifteen minutes.’
After calling Murray, she left her friends to enjoy their wine and hurried downstairs. Murray was there in five minutes and wasted no time in rushing them to an entrance to Wavertree Playground. The metals gates were open but manned by two uniformed constables. They were directed to the far side of the park where a line of trees and scrub ran alongside a railway embankment. A cluster of police vehicles were assembled on the grass close to the trees. Wilson approached as Tara got out of the car.
‘Is it Young?’
‘Don’t think so, mam.’ Tara felt the shock surge through her. If not Maurice Young then they had another murder. The grass already felt soaked with dew as she and Murray followed Wilson into the darkness of trees and thick undergrowth. She felt her jeans snag on some thorns and a thin branch of tree caught her in the face as it flicked off Murray walking ahead of her. SOCOs were in the process of erecting lights around the scene. But with the aid of several torches, Tara saw the now familiar horror of a headless corpse nailed to a circular frame and set upside down against a tree. A thick sludge of mud and blood had gathered where the body had bled out. No sign of the victim’s head. Shivering at the sight before her, she was thankful that Harold Tweedy was not present for this one, but she wished suddenly for the arms of his son Philip to curl around her, gather her up and carry her to safety.
‘Definitely not Maurice Young,’ said Murray. ‘This one is rather pale.’
‘A very big man, don’t you think? Must have taken some effort to get him out to here.’
Murray sighed his agreement.
‘More than one person, surely,’ he said.
‘When the Medical Officer arrives we can get an idea of how long the body has been here.’
Tara noticed the sign hanging from the frame between the legs of the victim. Everything the same as the scene of Derek Greasby’s murder. Still, she had no idea what these inscriptions meant.
‘Must be at least twenty stone,’ said Murray. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any ID on the body.’
‘Not if previous experience is anything to go by.’
‘What do these people want? What are they trying to say?’
‘I really don’t know, Alan, but this can’t go on. Three murders in four weeks, and so far all we have is a resemblance to another killing that happened twenty-five years ago.’
‘Last time it was a head and now we have a body. Do you really think this is the work of devil worshippers?’
‘Tweedy seems to think so. But saying it is the work of devil-worshippers doesn’t mean we have a motive.’
‘You mean that it could be made to look like a ritual killing, but the victims have been chosen for other reasons?’
‘I’m just finding it difficult to believe that human beings can do this to another human being and then justifying it by claiming it as a sacrifice to whatever god they supposedly worship.’
They waited by the cars, away from the crime scene, while forensic investigations continued. She spoke with the man who had discovered the body. A man in his seventies, recently widowed, out for a walk with his beloved collie.
‘What time did you find the body, Mr Kyle?’
He wasn’t tall, wiry grey hair and a wrinkled face. He trembled from shock and cold. His dog paced on its lead, alert to all the surrounding activity.
‘Gone ten, luv. Usually out here every night at that time.’
‘Did you notice anyone around, any vehicles driving through the park?’
‘No, luv. Couple of kids drove in and out again, but didn’t stop. What the hell is going on? Is that the same as the others that’s been on the news? Poor buggers.’
‘Thanks for your help, Mr Kyle. We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions. Get yourself off home and a hot drink. You must be freezing standing out here.’
‘OK, luv, thank you.’
She watched the man stroll away across the grass. Her head ached from the cold night air and from the effects of the wine she’d had earlier in the evening. An evening of relaxation, time spent with her friends, laughter and chat all lost now in the midst of cold-blooded murder. She thought of Philip, at what he would make of this latest slaughter. But she wondered also if he would be in touch with her soon. It had been a strange, erotic and wonderful experience in his company. She wanted him again and yet the prospect frightened and excited her in equal measure. And why had he been so guarded when she’d asked what he got up to in Cambridge? Her recent history of relationships did not make for pleasant memories. Could she afford another heartbreak? Her dallying was interrupted by Wilson who approached from the scene holding a piece of paper within an evidence bag.
‘Thought you might want to see this, mam. Another inscription, similar to the last one.’ He held the bag out and shone his torch on the wording.
‘It is joy to the just to do judgement, but destruction shall be to the workers of iniquity. Seems more like these words hold a threat. An intention to kill again.’
Chapter 30
Couldn’t wait till I got back to The Swallow’s Tail. First time there I had a blast with those two fillies, Kirsty and Mel. I didn’t mind if I ran into them again. Sometimes, you know, I think maybe I could settle down with the right girl. But I’ve never really had the chance. Girls that maybe I’ve been in love with haven’t loved me back. I wonder sometimes if there has ever been a girl who has loved me and I haven’t loved her back. I know for sure that no one has ever told me that they love me. Not even my mother. See what I mean? I always come back to thinking that I’m better off doing what I’m doing. Taking the girl of my choice, no strings.
They were good fun those two girls, although you can only take so much of a giggler. Sooner or later you feel the need to stick something in her gob to shut her up. But the person I was really hoping to see in The Swallow’s Tail was the wee blonde who I think had been watching me. I didn’t have much dosh for a night out. The kitchen job was minimum wage, I’d rent to pay, and I was trying to save up to buy my next van.
There’d been a few reports on the local news about a girl from St Helens going missing. Hard to tell if the peelers have got much info so far. No mention of a van or even details of where the girl may have been seen last. I find that strange because I lifted her not far from the station. There was CCTV there, unless it wasn’t bloody working. Anyway, I reckon I’m in the clear with Thai. Just as well. I’d hate to go down for something that was such a disappointment. Maybe these wee oriental pieces aren’t so special. Although most of the disappointment was my fault, giving her too much China White.
Ever bloody hopeful, I am. This wee blonde might be worth the effort, although I really shouldn’t be doing another girl in Liverpool for a while.
Sure as hell, though, the next time I went to The Swallow’s Tail she was there. All alone, sitting at the bar, nibbling on crisps and watching football on the TV. I took a deep breath and dandered right up beside her. I noticed her glance sideways at me then return to the football.
‘What can I get for you, mate?’ the barman asked.
‘Pint of Guinness, please,’ I said. I tried to see if she reacted to hearing my accent. Some people in England are put right off when they hear a Belfast voice. Some of them are so fucking stupid though, especially down south, think I’m friggin’ Scottish. But there was no reaction from the wee lady. When the barman set my pint down in front of me I noticed that her glass was nearly empty.
&
nbsp; ‘Do you want a refill?’ I asked. Coolly she reached her glass to the barman who seemed to know what she was drinking. I was hoping it wasn’t one of those bloody cocktails. I wouldn’t last long with her if I had to keep her fed with drinks all night. But I was relieved when he returned with a half pint of cider.
‘Thanks,’ she said with a smile before turning back to the TV. What I saw of her face was pleasing enough. She wasn’t an absolute stunner. Used to be a saying when I was a kid that some girls were so pretty you could eat their shite. But this one had a bony nose and freckles although pretty well disguised with makeup. Lovely powder blue eyes and the really blonde hair, the natural blonde. I was fairly certain that her carpet would match the curtains, if you know what I mean?
I must admit that nowadays I know sod all about football. I know the teams certainly but haven’t a clue about all these foreign names, these rich kids milking it on the back of fans loyal to their clubs. Too much money paid for no more excitement. Still, I thought I should make an attempt at conversation. Stoke were playing Man City.
‘You a fan?’
Without turning her head she replied.
‘Love Man City.’ After a pause she said, ‘How about you?’
‘Not of those two.’
‘The Reds then?’
‘I suppose so. Most people are either red or blue in this city.’
‘But you’re not from here,’ she said. All the bloody while she kept her eyes on the TV.
‘True. Where do you think I’m from?’ I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear her say Glasgow, but I should have given her more credit.
‘Belfast, or at least somewhere in Northern Ireland.’
‘Well done.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Lived here for nearly seven years.’
‘No, I mean what are doing in this pub? Are you meeting someone?’
‘All alone tonight. What about you?’
She didn’t friggin’ answer me. Man City had just scored a goal, that wee glipe Agüero. When the replay had finished it was as if we’d never been talking. The match was nearly over, Man City winning two nil. I was happy to wait and maybe get the conversation going once she’d finished with the football, but all of a sudden she slipped her wee arse off the stool and lifted her bag from the floor. She’d hardly touched her cider.
‘Thanks for the drink,’ she said.
‘No problem. My name is James by the way. Do you fancy a bite to eat?’
‘I’m meeting someone.’
‘Another time?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Bye,’ she sang with a pouty wee smile.
Chapter 31
Harold Tweedy had his Bible open in front of him. He read, from the Book of Proverbs, the words corresponding to those found at the latest murder scene.
‘Seems to suggest that the perpetrators are embarked on a campaign of some kind,’ said Tara. A silence ensued while Tweedy continued to read. ‘The first inscription from the Greasby killing, ‘Therefore shall they eat of the fruit of their own way, and be filled with their own devices.’ It has the same connotation. Less likely to suggest a human sacrifice, more of an execution.’ Again Tweedy did not respond but continued to read. Tara looked at Murray, Wilson and Paula Bleasdale. They too looked bewildered by the Super’s attitude.
‘We hope to have an ID on the victim within the next day or so,’ said Murray.
‘How so?’ Tweedy asked. A response at last, thought Tara.
‘Well, sir, going by the first two victims, both had history and we had DNA matches on the National Computer. Seems probable that the latest guy will be the same.’
‘So you’re suggesting that someone is embarked on a spree of killing people with a criminal past? Somebody is administering their version of justice?’
‘It’s possible, sir,’ Murray replied.
‘Mmm.’ Back to silence and further reading. Finally, Tweedy set his open Bible on the desk and sat back in his chair. ‘I don’t disagree with your theory, but in order to move things along we need still to consider a few points. Firstly, why this MO? Why are the killers going to all this trouble? Why not a simple shooting or stabbing? Secondly, why do the killings resemble a murder from years ago, one which so very clearly indicated the work of an occultist group? Answers, folks. We need answers to these questions.’
The group of detectives were dismissed to the operations room. Tara could only sigh as she slumped into her chair. Murray blew air through his lips.
‘That went well,’ he said sarcastically.
‘He’s feeling the strain, I think. Three murders and another unsolved from his past. I don’t think he can separate them. He’s convinced they are linked.’
‘And we’re the ones who have to find the connection. So what next?’
Bleasdale’s approach was timely. She had a piece of paper in her hand that she passed to Tara.
‘Mam, the last known address for Maurice Young.’
‘Thanks, Paula. We’ll get over there and take a look round.’
‘Also, mam, Maurice Young went to the same school as Don Mason. Might be of interest.’
‘Worth having a chat with Mr Mason after all.’
They didn’t find much in the flat Maurice Young had occupied prior to his death. It was sparsely furnished with the basics, a sofa, armchair and television in the lounge, a single bed and small battered wardrobe in the only bedroom. There were few provisions in the kitchen, a carton of milk and a nearly empty bottle of Glen Morangie sat by the sink. A box of cornflakes was found in a cupboard. Murray uncovered a pile of mail and personal paperwork stuffed into a kitchen drawer. It was mostly junk mail, a few forms associated with Young’s release from prison and his probation, and some letters from the DHSS dealing with his benefits payments. There was nothing to indicate that Young had any relatives or named next-of-kin. A loner. At least they’d found the mother of Derek Greasby. Was there anyone who might care to know that Maurice Young was dead? Was there anyone alive who might have loved him and would mourn his passing? Tara was saddened by the thought of someone going through life so alone, without family or friends. She was struck also by the lack of personal effects in the flat. Little sign that anyone had really lived in the place, certainly had not left their mark. Seemed to her that a man had lived a less than happy life, had been murdered, and no one cared. The only item they removed with them was a small lap-top they found on the floor beside the armchair.
‘You never know,’ said Tara. ‘Might find all we need in this little box of tricks.’
Murray drove them from the flat in Toxteth to a builder’s yard, off Moss Bank Road, in Widnes. A young secretary in the office directed them to an address in the town where Don Mason was currently working. A few minutes later they pulled into a modern development of houses close to King George’s Park. A squad of three men were working on a house extension and the building of a garage. Murray called out Mason’s name, and a man replied from the half-completed roof of the new extension.
‘What can I do for you?’
Murray introduced Tara and himself to the broad shouldered man with spiky grey hair. He wore a red t-shirt and blue jeans.
‘We’d like to ask you a few questions,’ said Murray.
Mason descended a ladder and approached them, wiping his hands on his jeans.
‘Questions about what?’ he said in a rather irritated manner. He stared at Tara for a second then proceeded to ignore her as he confronted Murray. Tall and muscular, his eyes were steely blue, his face, in need of a shave, showed signs of becoming leathery in texture from working outdoors. Tara noted also the fact that he was much older than his partner Tina Jeffries.
‘Derek Greasby for starters.’
‘What about him? I heard he was dead, but you’re wasting your time if you think I had anything to do with it.’
‘You do have a caution for assaulting him?’
‘Yeah, I scar
ed him off, that’s all. Walked in to our local as if he’d done nothing wrong. Didn’t want him getting any ideas on bothering our Tina.’
‘And was he scared off?’ Tara asked him. Mason looked down at her and grinned.
‘What do you mean, luv?’
‘It’s Detective Inspector Grogan, and I mean did he try to make contact with Tina?’
‘Not that I know of. Never set eyes on him after that night he came into our pub.’
‘And what about Maurice Young?’ said Murray.
‘Who?’
‘Maurice Young. You both went to the same school.’
Mason took time to think before answering.
‘Don’t know him. Why, what’s he done?’
‘He is also dead, Mr Mason. Any ideas on when you last saw him?’
‘About 1975, if you’re saying we were at the same school.’ He smiled sardonically at both Tara and Murray.
‘There has been a third victim, Mr Mason,’ said Tara. ‘As yet he has not been identified, but if I find another link to you I’ll be back with more questions. In the meantime I suggest you think about these men. If there is anything that you believe can help us find the killer, please call me.’ She handed Mason her card. He stood watching, looking bemused, as Tara and Murray drove away.
Chapter 32
Got the chance of another job. Collywell arranged it. I’d been telling him that working in a hotel kitchen was getting me down, and the pay was crap. By our next meeting he’d fixed me up with an interview. It’s one of those delivery jobs for a supermarket company. You know the type where some lazy sod does all their shopping online and next day the whole lot is carried right into their kitchen? It would mean I’d be out on the road driving again. Might give me the chance to do some looking around, although I can’t really do much in Liverpool for a while. My wee Thai girl’s disappearance is still in the news, and you know how I don’t like connections being made between one of my girls and another. Besides there’s been a lot of police activity round Wavertree in the past few days. Seems they found a dead body in the park. Some rumour too that the poor sod had his head cut off. Who the hell would do the like of that? Bloody sickos.
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 35