Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  ‘I’m very pleased to see that you’re keen to get on with things,’ said Collywell. ‘Many of my cases just lie back and take all the benefits they can get, and the next thing you know is that they’ve re-offended or taken to drugs or alcohol. I must say I’m really impressed by your efforts to get on with your life, James.’

  ‘A better job with more money will make things a bit easier for me.’

  ‘I’m sure it will. And before you know it you might be out of that flat and onto the property ladder. Then I can use you as a shining example of how to succeed after prison.’

  ‘Thanks very much, Mr Collywell, for all your help.’

  ‘It’s what I’m here for, James.’

  So things are looking up on the job front, and at the moment I’m not causing my supervisor to be suspicious of what I get up to in my spare time. And now I have the chance of a wee girl in the normal way. The wee blonde from The Swallow’s Tail can keep me busy until I’m flush enough to buy a new van. At the minute the only way I have of seeing her again is to hang around in the pub, just off Matthew Street, and hope that she wiggles in. I really missed a trick by not following her that last time when we got talking. Still don’t know much about her. She’s a coy wee thing, but I like that. It’s another challenge. Come to think of it, her manner is not so different from my favourite wee policewoman. Playing hard to get, aloof, whatever. In the end they’re up for it just like all the rest of them. Takes experience to know how to handle them. Either way, by fair means or foul, I’m hoping to get somewhere with this girl. Would be nice to know her name, though.

  Chapter 33

  Peter Bailey had kept his father’s surname rather than change to Malcroft when his mother remarried. At thirty-one he lived alone, didn’t bother much with women, and worked five days a week as a mechanic at a car dealership in Speke. Six feet-two, short blonde hair and athletic build, Tara found him quite attractive. He’d taken an early lunch break from the garage to speak with them at a nearby worker’s café. She watched bemusedly as he and Murray tucked into sausages, bean and chips, while she made do with a ham and cheese toasted sandwich and a cup of tea.

  ‘Mum said that you wanted to ask me about Dad,’ he said, his voice deep, with the rough edges of Scouse worn off his accent. Tara couldn’t help indulging in his pleasant features, a wide smile and beautifully clean teeth.

  ‘Do you remember anything of the time when your Dad was killed?’

  ‘Not really. I was only six and Sandra, my sister, was just four. I can remember Dad well enough. He used to play with us all the time, joking and laughing, telling us all about Jesus and Jonah and Moses and other stories from the Bible. He and Mum took us out to lots of places. Chester Zoo, Anfield, kids shows in the theatre. We had a very happy life until he left us.’

  ‘Do you know why he left home?’

  ‘I didn’t understand at the time, but when I was older Mum told me that Dad got involved with some really bad people and they changed him. Mum said that he became angry all the time; he was drinking and taking drugs. She asked him to leave, and he did. I never saw him after that. I was fourteen before she told me that he’d been murdered.’

  ‘When did you learn that he had become involved with the occult?’

  ‘About the time Mum told me he’d been killed.’

  ‘Is that when you developed an interest in such things?’ Peter stopped eating and stared quizzically at Tara. His eyes seemed to examine her, searching perhaps for a motive in her question. To her it was a less attractive expression.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw some of your books when we spoke with your Mum. I am curious to know why you read such material, considering your father lost his life after getting involved in devil worship.’

  ‘But that’s just it, don’t you see? I was a teenager when I heard about Dad and this church he had joined. I wanted to find out things about why he was killed. About what went on in these churches where someone can end up murdered. I wanted answers.’

  ‘And did you find any?’

  ‘Nothing specific about Dad. I discovered all sorts of things about devil worship, satanic rituals, burnings, sacrifices and people driven to suicide. I tried to find names of people who may have known Dad, but I got nowhere. I asked Mum what she knew, but that didn’t amount to much. She didn’t really want to discuss it. Didn’t want to tell me any more than she already had.’

  ‘What about your sister?’

  ‘Sandra?’

  ‘Has she tried to find out what happened?’

  ‘No,’ he snapped. ‘And I don’t want the police to go bothering her with it. She doesn’t need that kind of problem. Besides, she lives down south now. I haven’t even told her what’s been going on lately.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘About the killings being like Dad’s. That’s why you’re talking to me, isn’t it? Do you think the same people that killed Dad are doing these murders?’

  ‘We have no definite link at the moment, but there are similarities with your Dad’s death.’

  ‘I hope you find them, Inspector.’ He smiled at her, and a tiny pang of warmth made her cheeks flush.

  ‘What about your step-dad?’ Murray asked.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Has he ever mentioned what happened to your father?’

  ‘No, not him. Wouldn’t be interested.’

  ‘How do you get along with him?’

  ‘He’s okay. Looked after us when we were younger. He’s good to Mum, although he works away from home now. But she travels with him sometimes.’ He shrugged as if to say there was little more to add.

  ‘Thanks for your time, Peter.’ She waited by the door of the café while Murray went to pay their bill. Peter Bailey rose from the table and came towards her, smiling. It was as if his face usually did little else but smile. Only her questions had provoked a more serious reaction. She was pleased to see the smile restored.

  ‘Inspector Grogan, there was one thing I forgot to mention. When I was looking into Dad’s murder I came across a story. Well, half a story really. Around the time Dad was supposed to have been killed there was a rumour that others had also died. They were apparently mixed up in witchcraft. I don’t think their bodies were ever found. At least one of them was a woman. When I checked the newspapers of the time there was no mention of it.’

  ‘How did you hear of it then?’

  ‘Mum told me.’

  Chapter 34

  Bored. Bored and fucking skint. It’ll be a while before I get a decent wage from this new driving job. I think Collywell pulled a few strings for them to take me on, though. The guy who interviewed me didn’t seem impressed by my career history. Dear knows what he would think if he knew of my real career. But Collywell is a real gem. I wonder what his success rate is in keeping offenders from returning to prison. He certainly couldn’t do anymore to help me.

  Spent the last week, during my time between jobs, looking around for some talent. Something to fire my enthusiasm. Haven’t seen the lovely wee blonde I met in The Swallow’s Tail for nearly two weeks. She hasn’t been back. I’m not altogether comfortable going to the same pub every night on the off chance that I see her. Too many people to notice me hanging around, and then if she does show up I’ll never be able to do anything more with her than the normal boy-girl thing. I can’t ever snatch her because too many people will have seen us together.

  I’m going to wear out me friggin shoes with all this danderin’ about. Last couple of nights I’ve wandered down by Tara’s place. Just walked on by, thinking about her up to her oxters in corpses or out on the town with her wee girlie friends. Bloody cold at night down by the river and not many people about except those going to some boy band concert at the Echo. Plenty of women around there, mostly too young for me. Like I said before, I don’t do kids. But even in this day and age there are those parents who aren’t so keen to let their wee daughters go to concerts on their own. Either that or the mothers act
ually get a thrill from watching five wee boys on stage singing a load of shite to a hall full of screaming youngsters. Some of them, though, are what we as kids used to call yummy mummies. Such innocent days they were. Thirty-somethings looking to keep themselves young, looking hotter than their daughters. Nowadays I think the term is MILFs. Too fucking right.

  Anyway, I was wondering about down there, taking in the sights as these MILFs were going in to see the show when who comes jogging by? My wee Tara. Running her wee heart out. All clad in the best skin-tight pants and top, hair in a ponytail and the earphones in. Could hardly believe what I was seeing. All those hours I spent waiting for her to come and go from her flat and from that bloody copshop, and I never saw her out running before. Would have made my life a lot easier if I had. I’ve taken a few joggers in my time. But now at least I have a whole new aspect to Tara Grogan. Makes me want to get sorted with a new van and some drugs and then I can show young Tara what I do to keep fit.

  Chapter 35

  Dinsdale Kirkman. She recognised the name. The list of names she’d found in the case files for Alastair Bailey. She retrieved her copy from the filing cabinet beside her desk and looked down the list. There were the three so-called celebrities, Trudy Mitchell, Angela Sanders and Jimmy Saville. Then the four unfamiliar names, three men and one woman. Dinsdale Kirkman’s name was second in the list. Now she had a connection between the death of Alastair Bailey, twenty-five years ago, and the most recent murder. DC Wilson stood by her desk, failing to hide his delight on the DNA test results he’d just brought to Tara’s attention.

  ‘Another victim with history,’ he said. Tara had yet to tell him of her link to the Bailey murder.

  ‘Alan!’ she called across the operations room. When Murray had wandered across to her desk, eating a ham and Brie croissant, flakes of pastry spattered on his trousers, she handed him the list of names. ‘We might be getting somewhere.’

  Murray examined the list, already aware of Wilson’s results.

  ‘So the old man was right. Although we still haven’t figured out the significance of this list. Why were these names relevant to the death of Alastair Bailey? Angela Sanders and the lovely Trudy Mitchell denied any connection to the case.’

  ‘Both could be lying.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Trying to protect their reputations, perhaps.’

  ‘Pity that creep Saville isn’t alive. Could have been another charge to lay at his door.’

  Tara chose not to become embroiled in a futile discussion over what might have been. Saville was dead, her hope was that he was not resting in peace.

  ‘John, what have you got so far on this Dinsdale Kirkman?’

  ‘Forty-eight years old, six feet, twenty stone. Has a large port wine stain on right side of face.’

  ‘If we ever find his head,’ Murray quipped.

  ‘No known next of kin,’ Wilson continued. ‘Served four years in Liverpool Prison for attempted rape of a twelve-year-old girl. Released three years ago on license, remains on the sex offenders register. Lived alone.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Murray.

  Wilson checked his notes.

  ‘Aigburth Drive.’

  ‘That’s out by Sefton Park,’ said Tara. ‘Let’s go take a look.’

  She had intended to speak again with Janet Malcroft following on from what Peter Bailey had told her the day before. Other people having disappeared around the time that Alastair Bailey was murdered had rankled with her, not only because of the relevance to this case but lately the hearing of a woman disappearing set her thinking on the collection of photographs taken from Terry Lawler’s flat. Pictures of more than twenty women who had disappeared without trace. Now she wondered also why Janet Malcroft had not mentioned these other people when they had last spoken with her. But the matter would have to wait until they’d begun their investigation of this latest issue, the murder of another sex offender.

  Murray pulled off the road into the driveway of the red-brick Victorian house on Aigburth Drive. There was quite a garden surrounding the house which was well hidden from the road by trees and shrubs. The lawn seemed well maintained although autumn leaves had fallen, creating a thick covering. Tara inspected the three storey building which also appeared to have a basement with a separate entrance. The place seemed as gloomy as she was now feeling, after three recent murders, no real leads and a man she longed to see again having been out of contact for two weeks.

  A biting wind rustled the bushes as she stepped from the car, instantly regretting the choice of short skirt, woollen tights, suede shoes and leather jacket. A long coat, boots and trousers would have been warmer. Murray had come prepared with a jemmy to force the lock on the front door. She waited at the bottom of the three steps leading to the porch as he fiddled with the lock. The information they had so far on Dinsdale Kirkman left her with little expectation of what lay inside. If Greasby and Young were anything to go by then not much. Hearing the splintering of wood, she turned to see Murray finally kick the door open. When she stepped inside behind him, she was surprised by the elegance and cleanliness of the surroundings. She looked upon a polished parquet floor in the hall with dark oak panelling on the walls, several photographs and vases of artificial flowers on three slender tables. The place smelled of wood polish and despite the house having been un-occupied for at least several days, she guessed, she could not find a speck of dust. There was a single door to the left of the staircase, while to the right and straight on she noticed three more. Murray had already proceeded along the hallway toward what she assumed to be the kitchen. She left him to it and tried the knob of the door to her left. It was solid, wood-panelled, heavy and creaking as she pushed it open. She felt a slight drop in the air temperature, and the odour of wood polish faded as she entered the square room. It benefitted greatly in terms of light by having two windows, one at the front of the house and the other to the right hand side. Each item of furniture looked to be old, 1950s or 40s perhaps, but in good condition. Fine wood occasional tables, a tall and heavy bookcase filled with old and some fairly new looking volumes. She ran her eyes across the titles: Shakespeare, Hardy, Trollope, Churchill, Dickens, Encyclopaedia Britannica, Edgar Allen Poe, Bronte, Austin, all leather-bound editions. There were also more recent works in hardback with glossy covers: Stephen King, Le Carré, Fleming, James Herbert, Dennis Wheatley, Jilly Cooper and James Patterson. She didn’t really know what to expect or what to make of the collection. Should there be works on the occult or should the shelves be adorned with pornographic magazines as was the case for the storage box belonging to Derek Greasby? Before leaving the room she noticed that not even the cushions upon the sofa and armchairs were out of place. The black-leaded fireplace was set with coal and logs. The room was comfortable and well maintained despite the chilliness.

  She heard Murray whistling as he poked around in the kitchen. Wouldn’t surprise her if he was looking for something to eat. Across the hall she opened another solid door to reveal a sitting room equally as charming as the first. It contained similar furniture, had a flowery patterned wallpaper in pinks, greens and cream, but also a large flat-screen television, DVD and docking station for an mp3 player. She didn’t linger beyond a brief inspection of the thirty or so DVD boxes, a mixed array of mostly war and crime films: Platoon, Saving Private Ryan, In Bruges, Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, Lake Placid and the Blair Witch Project.

  She emerged from the room at the same time as Murray appeared from the kitchen.

  ‘Find anything?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ she replied. She made it to the last door before him, and turned the knob. She pushed open the door to a darkened room, and saw that internal shutters were closed over the windows. When Murray found the light switch, two wall lamps came on. Tara toppled backwards at the vision before her. Murray caught her before she hit the floor.

  Chapter 36

  They stood in the dining room, dimly lit by the two lamps. A long solid table sat in the middle of the room
surrounded by six ornate dining chairs. But what had stolen the breath from Tara, and sent her reeling, was the sight of what someone had presented upon the table. Several sprays of fresh flowers, now beginning to wilt, were arranged on the centre of the table as if for a formal dinner setting. The centrepiece was an intricately shaped silver tray and placed upon it was a human head.

  Murray was already on his phone calling for a full incident team of SOCOs. Her initial shock having subsided, Tara forced herself to look closely at the macabre table setting. She stepped closer to read a small rectangular card that sat on the silver tray in front of the head of a man. She could only assume at this stage it was the head of Dinsdale Kirkman.

  ‘I will mock you when your fear cometh,’ she read.

  ‘They’ll be here in a few minutes,’ said Murray.

  ‘We’ll wait outside. Best not to contaminate the scene any further.’

  She was grateful for the fresh air, despite the cold wind.

  ‘I could easily get back on the fags, right now.’

  ‘What the hell is going on, Alan? If what’s in there is not Kirkman then we have another victim.’

  ‘It’s him all right. I saw the birthmark. The dark red blotch on the right side of the face. Didn’t Wilson say that Kirkman had a port wine stain?’