Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  She wasn’t thinking straight. Murray was right. It had to be Kirkman. And this time the killer had placed the victim’s head in his own home, his dining room. Although they now had a link between the murder of Alastair Bailey and the present spate of murders, she had no idea of what it meant. Kirkman’s name had appeared on a list that was in some way associated with the inquiry into Bailey’s death, but she didn’t know why. She didn’t know the significance of the list. Had those people named been considered as suspects or had they been noted as potential victims? Certainly Dinsdale Kirkman, twenty-five years later, had met his end in similar fashion to Alastair Bailey.

  Within an hour the house had been cordoned off and designated as a crime scene. A team of forensics and SOCOs were moving about inside, going through each room. Tara and Murray remained outside awaiting developments of any interesting finds but also on the arrival of Superintendent Tweedy.

  When he stepped from the car, driven by Paula Bleasdale, Tara thought he seemed brighter than she had seen him in a while. Wearing a dark suit, white shirt and college tie, he looked healthier than of late.

  ‘Well, Tara, looks like progress is being made?’

  ‘Sir. It is at least a connection to Alastair Bailey.’

  ‘Yes indeed. I was thinking that we should set up a meeting with Rosemary Black. She was the Senior Investigating Officer on the Alastair Bailey case.’

  ‘Could be very useful, sir.’

  ‘She’s retired now, but hopefully she might recall why she had that list of people and perhaps we can get something on this Dinsdale Kirkman.’

  They were interrupted by the Crime Scene Manager, a man equally as tall as Tweedy but at least twenty years younger, with dark hair greying at the temples. His name was Trevor Scott.

  ‘You guys can have a wander through the house now. We’re about to enter the basement flat, so if you can stay out of there until I give you the nod.’

  ‘Many thanks, Trevor,’ said Tweedy.

  Tara firstly directed her boss to the dining room where she had discovered the gruesome scene of the head set upon the table. She and Murray proceeded upstairs, where a couple of forensic officers were still at work lifting prints from doors and the wall panels. This time the pair remained together although Tara hoped that there should be nothing more shocking to be uncovered. Once again she found the three bedrooms and bathroom on the first landing to be immaculately kept. The beds were made, albeit in fairly dated quilts, there were expensive carpets on the floors and antique dressers and bedside tables in each room. If Dinsdale had been living here, she couldn’t actually tell in which room he had slept. Quite a few photographs were displayed, some of an age where black and white photography was the norm. She guessed they were all shots of family and a few probably dated back at least one hundred years, judging by how the ladies in some of the pictures were dressed.

  A narrow staircase led to an upper floor and a small landing with two doors. Again, instinctively, Tara and Murray stayed together. The paintwork and décor was less enchanting, the woodwork and panelling, rather than stained, was painted a dull cream. When Murray pushed open the door to the room at the front of the house they were met by a scene of disorder. Pieces of old furniture, chairs, small tables, curtains, lamps, paintings in heavy frames and books were strewn about the attic room.

  ‘Bit surprising,’ said Murray, ‘considering how tidy the other rooms are.’

  ‘Leave it for now.’ Tara went immediately to the second door and pushed it open. ‘Wow!’ She remained at the threshold gazing about the bright and airy room. ‘Come and see this, Alan.’

  Murray followed her inside a room set out as a boy’s bedroom. A single divan bed with a Superman duvet was set amongst a scene coming down in boyhood wonders. There was a train set laid out on a table to one side of the bed, posters on the walls of Liverpool teams of the 60s, 70s and 80s, one of The Beatles from the film A Hard Day’s Night, another of Bowie as Aladdin Sane and one of the Sex Pistols. A bookcase held all manner of football annuals, comics and stories of history: Nelson, Captain Cook and Alexander the Great. Surely, Dinsdale, a man of forty-eight, had not continued sleeping here? Then she heard a male voice calling her from the ground floor. It was Tweedy.

  When she reached the hall, the superintendent and Scott awaited her.

  ‘Something you need to see, Tara,’ said Tweedy. She followed her colleagues outside, and Scott led the way down a short flight of steps to the basement flat. He held the door open for Tara, Tweedy and Murray to enter. Stepping from the hall, they entered a room that extended all the way to the rear of the house. Every window of the basement was shuttered from the inside. At that moment they had only a single round fluorescent light on the ceiling to illuminate the entire room. But it was sufficient for her to see what lay within.

  Chapter 37

  Harold Tweedy wasted no time in using the camera on his mobile phone to capture the images adorning the walls of the room. But for these symbols in a shimmering gold, the walls were dark, either of black or a very deep purple. Tara couldn’t decide which. Each pattern was about two feet in size, positioned halfway between the floor and the ceiling which also displayed several different patterns.

  ‘I’ll get some of these off to Phillip,’ said Tweedy. ‘See what he makes of them.’ Tara recognised some of them from what she had already learned from her lover. Pentacles, hexagrams, the ankh, she had seen before, but what was their significance and why were they on the walls of this house? She felt uneasy in here. There was a chill and a peculiar silence. Yes, there was the noise of officers moving about in the large room, but their voices seemed muffled as if the sound died in mid-air. She saw Murray disappear through a doorway at the top right-hand corner, and she followed.

  ‘Very cosy,’ he said when Tara joined him. It was a smaller room, carpeted and with the walls painted a deep red and emblazoned with more symbols of gold. A huge bed, quite low to the ground, occupied most of the space. It was covered by a leopard print blanket, and several large cushions were propped against the brass bedstead. But what caught Tara’s attention was the image on the wall above the bed. Painted in black, silver and gold was the head of a goat within two concentric circles, the eyes of the beast clearly peering down upon the centre of the bed.

  ‘Nice bed,’ said Murray.

  ‘Rather you than me.’

  She re-joined the others in the main room as Tweedy was taking a photograph of a large rug on the floor. Scott emerged from yet another room, the door of which was well disguised as part of the décor of the walls.

  ‘Small kitchen in there,’ he said. ‘And a store room.’

  Tara went alone to inspect the rooms. The kitchen seemed quite normal, a stainless steel sink unit, an electric cooker and wall cupboards with Formica doors. She found some crockery and a supply of various glasses: for wine, champagne and beer. A further search showed little indication that the kitchen was still in use. There was no food or drink to be found in the cupboards or in the small storeroom off the kitchen and separated by a sliding door. Instead, she found a collection of books with unfamiliar yet sinister titles: The Magus by Francis Barrett, The Book of Pleasure by Austin Osman Spare, The Six and Seventh Books of Moses, The Occult Roots of Nazism by Nicholas Goodrick Clarke, Magick by Aleister Crowley, The Book of Lies, also by Crowley and Agrippa’s Occult Philosophy by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa. There were at least a dozen more titles set on three shelves above two wooden trunks on the floor. These were painted black and labelled with a solitary symbol she recognised from Philip’s tutelage as Nero’s Cross, a much used symbol in the 1960s and 70s to represent peace and the fight for nuclear disarmament. But she had also learned that it was an anti-Christian sign and referred to as the Rune of Death. She lifted the hinged lid of one trunk by the metal latch to find a collection of bright clothing. Raising one garment in the air, she saw it was a gown made of white satin. She lifted out another in green and purple, and noticed at least two more in black. There was al
so a collection of cloth hoods also in black satin. The second trunk contained a supply of what appeared to be items used for BDSM: harnesses of leather, heavy studded belts, a couple of whips, handcuffs, several leather masks and some plastic bottles of sex lubricants.

  She was thankful now for the cool breeze when at last she made it outside. Murray and Wilson were comparing notes, and Tweedy was in conversation with Trevor Scott. Seldom had she seen her boss so animated at a crime scene. He must have taken at least twenty photographs of the basement flat. Suddenly, she felt so alone, so helpless, so at a loss to make sense of what she had just witnessed. A house which at first seemed a home but for the gory remains of its tenant and then, in the basement, a den of mystery. A place of witchcraft, devil-worship, hedonism, she had no other words to describe it. Right now she’d give anything to have the job of her friend Aisling rather than have to think on this case. She needed joyful thoughts, laughter, an arm around her, telling her all would be fine; she needed Philip.

  *

  A conference call in Tweedy’s office was not how she had envisaged her next encounter with her boss’s son. Time in bed, making love, a chat over breakfast, a day out for a drive, but not this. Most of the talking was between father and son, Philip explaining the meanings behind each image sent to him by his father and Harold pushing to get a definite link with the death of Alistair Bailey.

  ‘Is there anything unfamiliar, Philip?’

  ‘The symbol on the floor rug. I haven’t seen that before. Three stars set above a black sun.’ Tweedy passed a print of the photograph to Tara and Murray.

  ‘Could that circle be connected to the pentacle?’

  ‘Can’t say for sure, Dad. It’s definitely the symbol of the Black Sun, Renaissance German and nowadays associated with neo-Nazi occultism.’

  ‘And the three stars?’

  ‘Could be Stars of David. It’s anyone’s guess.’

  ‘Thanks, Philip. We’ll leave it there for now.’

  ‘Okay, Dad. Bye.’

  Tara was disappointed that Philip had not addressed her in any way or even acknowledged that she was a part of the discussion. She didn’t expect an intimate chat with him while Harold and Murray were present, but she thought it strange that he had not even said hello. She tried to get back on topic by examining the symbol of three stars and black sun. The black sun looked more like a wheel with intricate spokes rather than anything indicative of the celestial body. And what was the significance of the three stars, Stars of David as Philip had suggested?

  ‘Well at least we have established a link between these present deaths and the work of occultist groups,’ said Tweedy. ‘Hopefully, with that list of names that you uncovered, Tara, we will have a connection to the murder of Alastair Bailey.’

  Chapter 38

  First week on my new job, and it’s been okay. Glad to see the back of that stinking hotel kitchen and that arse of a head chef. Before I left I added a cupful of salt to his lobster bisque. Serves the bugger right for being up himself.

  It’s been tricky getting used to finding addresses around the city, but I just have to pay more attention to my sat-nav. Didn’t realise before I started that apart from driving all over the place, having a look around me for talent, I also meet quite a few possibilities when I carry groceries into their kitchens. Didn’t realise that so many MILFs do their shopping online and have it delivered by people like me. Opened up a whole new world. Having said that I’ve never taken a mother before. Always been careful about that. But my need is greater than some snotty kid in a pram or some attention-seeking brat in a strop because mummy won’t buy them a new phone or the latest designer shoes. And delivering groceries gets me into the homes of these women. Surprises me how MILFs go about their house. Some of them are all dressed up in business suits, busy career women, grudgingly taking a moment to receive their delivery before rushing off to the office. They seem to be frantic, as if they’re juggling several things at once. Some of them don’t even get off their phones when they let me in, and if I’m lucky I’ll get a shout of thanks as I walk out their door. Then you get the ones who really piss me off, checking every detail, tearing strips off me if something’s wrong with their order. Most of them are ugly bakes anyway and wouldn’t deserve the likes of me showing them a good time. Although that’s probably what’s wrong with them. Coiled up like a spring, not getting enough from their hubby. Even on my first week I’ve met a couple who seem to enjoy the experience of having their groceries carried into their kitchen by a man. Hardly wearing a stitch, some of them, claiming it’s very warm in the house and they must turn the heating down or that they’ve just got up from having a nap. A nice lady actually gave me a peck on the cheek to say thanks when I helped her to empty one of my trays. I’m telling you, give me a few weeks and I’ll have one of them, no worries. And another thing surprises me, the number of people who seem to live alone nowadays. Plenty of men, bachelors, divorced or merely sad loners. But loads of women too. Could make my job very easy indeed.

  Couple of nights ago I’d just left the van back at the store and was coming out of the shop when I ran into someone I knew. It was that bird from the pub, and she looked to be heading into the store. Pity she wasn’t on my delivery round, I thought.

  ‘Hi there,’ she said. She stopped right in front of me, obviously wanting to chat or else she would have strolled on by.

  ‘Hi. Fancy seeing you here.’ I nearly asked her what she was doing here then realised it was a daft question. Anyway, she answered it without my asking.

  ‘Just popping in to get a few things.’

  ‘Is this not a bit out of your way?’ I hadn’t a baldy notion where she lived, but I thought it might prompt her to tell me.

  ‘Just passing.’ How wonderfully evasive. With such tact this girl could be in my line of business.

  ‘Haven’t seen you in the pub lately.’

  ‘I’ve been busy. Lots of work on at the moment. But I’m free on Thursday night if you’re going to be there.’ She smiled, and her eyes twinkled under the lights of the carpark.

  ‘I’ll make sure I am.’

  She smiled again, and I smiled back.

  ‘Well then I’ll look forward to it. Bye,’ she said in a singing voice.

  I watched her strut into the store, high heels, short skirt and one of them poncho things. Sweet. Couldn’t help myself wondering though that it was a bit strange to have run into her like that.

  Chapter 39

  It was Harold Tweedy who drove her out of the city to the village of Aughton, about ten miles north. On the way he filled her in on a little of his career history, particularly around the time of Alastair Bailey’s murder.

  ‘So you didn’t work full time for DCI Black?’

  ‘Not at all. In fact I worked in a different division at the time. I attended the scene of the murder, but the case was allocated to Rosemary. When I heard that it was Alastair who had been killed I offered my services, in light of my association with him through my church. Rosemary was grateful for my help, but she remained professional, recognising that as a friend of Alastair’s I was rather too close to the investigation. That’s why I think it’s best for us to meet with Rosemary. I don’t have an insight to all that went on at the time. I’m just very disappointed that we never tracked down the killer.’

  ‘What is she like?’

  ‘Affable, business-like and a workaholic best describes her. If I had to criticise her work at the time I would say she had a tendency to chase after every lead like a raging bull, but then when it didn’t appear to be going anywhere, she quickly dropped it and went charging after another. In my opinion, Tara, I think some things were missed. Maybe we can figure out what they were, and it will shed some light on our current predicament.’

  He drew up in a road running through the centre of the village outside a stone cottage with a gravel driveway, a small green sport’s car parked at the side of the house. Dogs began barking at the sounds of their footsteps on the d
rive. Rosemary Black evidently had been expecting them. The seventy year-old woman, slim with fair hair, styled in a tight bob, hugged Tweedy, kissing him on both cheeks.

  ‘Lovely to see you again, Harold,’ she said in a loud, cheerful voice. She was dressed in blue jeans, a teal coloured tunic and brown boots. Tara decided immediately that the woman looked and acted much younger than her age. Stylish and vibrant, she thought of the former detective.

  ‘And you, Rosemary. You’re looking well. Retirement obviously agrees with you.’

  ‘Retired from policing, yes, but my days are as hectic as ever. If it’s not working in the Oxfam shop, I’m doing something on the parish council, or I’m at church choir practice. When the weather is behaving then it’s tennis or golf or a good stroll on the moors.’ Rosemary smiled at Tara. Tweedy realised he hadn’t introduced them.

  ‘Rosemary, this is my greatly valued colleague DI Tara Grogan. She’s taking charge of this case.’

  ‘Very pleased to meet you, Tara. Harold obviously holds you in high regard. I hope I can be of some help this morning.’

  ‘I’m sure you can. Thanks for sparing the time.’

  Rosemary led them through a narrow hallway with a stone-tiled floor to a sun room at the rear of the cottage, bright and cool despite the autumn sunshine. There was nothing to indicate that the woman shared her home with anyone. Everything was tidy and in its place. When they’d finished here Tara would ask Tweedy if Rosemary was married. The former police detective had tea and coffee at the ready, with buttered scones and chocolate biscuits. They sat down around an old dining table, the surface cup-stained and scratched.

  ‘So, Alastair Bailey, how can I help you? I take it that his murder has some bearing on these present killings?’

  Tweedy outlined their findings so far on the murders of Derek Greasby, Maurice Young and Dinsdale Kirkman.

  ‘All three have similar MO to Bailey. We didn’t have a definite connection to the old case until we found that Dinsdale Kirkman’s name appeared on a list of names in the Bailey case files. When we searched Kirkman’s home we found evidence of a connection to occult practices.’