Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  She wiped away her tears as she padded to the shower.

  On arrival at St Anne Street, somehow she’d expected to find a change. Surely things could not be the same after her ponderings of the morning. But life didn’t work that way. Didn’t matter if you were a police officer or a checkout girl beeping groceries at a supermarket. Things don’t happen simply because you want them to. If you want things in your life to change you must be proactive.

  Murray was nowhere to be seen. Not that she was suddenly going to rush into his arms, but she did want in some way to show that she appreciated having him in her life. How she would accomplish such a feat, she hadn’t a clue. Wilson, as often was the case, was first to greet her. Inevitably he had information to impart.

  ‘Mam,’ he said. ‘Only one Keron Fogge in the whole of Yorkshire, according to the electoral register.’ He handed her a Post-it with the address.

  ‘Thanks, John. Here’s hoping it’s the right Keron Fogge. Any idea where Alan is? Or maybe that’s a silly question.’

  She found him in the canteen, Full English before him and he chatting with two girls from the office, one of who was Paula Bleasdale. A strange pang of envy jabbed her conscience. At that moment she wanted to be the one sitting with him, flirting and giggling at his jokes. Why the hell was she feeling this way?’

  ‘Morning, mam,’ he said cheerfully. The girls, both slightly younger than Tara, both Detective Constables, added their greetings.

  ‘Morning,’ she replied. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, she walked to the counter and ordered coffee. When she re-joined them, immediately she felt her presence was more an intrusion. The laughter abated and instead a discussion commenced on a case both girls had worked on. It was as if they felt obliged to talk shop while a more senior officer was present. Did she really have such an effect on her colleagues? That they didn’t feel relaxed in her company? Couldn’t be themselves in front of her? She promised herself that later she would arrange a night out with Kate and Aisling. A real blowing away of the cobwebs. It was the only thing she could think of right now that might do her good. A mental note also that when this case was tied up she should organise a night out with all the guys in the office. She had been remiss in expressing her appreciation for all the help they’d given her. Maybe she should open up a little more with them.

  After breakfast she and Murray headed for Yorkshire and for the address of what she hoped was the home of Keron Fogge, father to Corey and Aeron. She realised that it may well be an entirely different individual, and the Keron Fogge she needed to speak with was somewhere across the Atlantic.

  Norman Pritchard hadn’t been far wrong in suggesting Leeds. The address she had was for a house in Batley, seven miles south west of Leeds, and close enough to Elland Road to perhaps confirm Norman’s view that Fogge had been a Leeds United supporter.

  They stopped outside a grey-brick council house, within a small estate. Most of the surrounding houses were occupied, but there were a couple with bricked up windows and doorways, and walls daubed in locally flavoured graffiti. Tara went alone and knocked on the front door, gazing around the overgrown garden as she waited. An old man with little hair and a pair of thick framed glasses answered her knock.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Detective Inspector Tara Grogan of the Merseyside Police. I’m looking to speak with Keron Fogge?’

  ‘I’m Keron Fogge, but you’ll have to speak up, luv. Haven’t got me hearing aid in.’

  ‘Are you the Keron Fogge who was once in a relationship with Kelly Pritchard?’

  ‘Can’t hear you, luv. You better come in.’

  He shuffled into his sitting room, and Tara followed. The room was small and cluttered with books, vinyl records and video tapes. A worn velour sofa of olive green was set close to an electric fire. The old man fiddled with his hearing aid, while Tara waited with a patient smile.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ he said. ‘Now who did you say you were, luv?’

  She showed him her ID.

  ‘DI Tara Grogan, Merseyside Police. I’m looking for the Keron Fogge who once had a relationship with Kelly Pritchard.’ By this point she was certain she had the wrong man. Norman had never suggested that Kelly’s partner had been much older than she was. Twenty-five years ago, however, this man, in whose home she now stood, would have been at least sixty.

  ‘Kelly who?’

  ‘Pritchard. She had two children, Aeron and Corey.’

  He sat down on his sofa and indicated that Tara should sit also.

  ‘Cup of tea, luv?’

  ‘No thank you. Have I got the right person, Mr Fogge?’

  ‘That would be my son who had those kids. Hasn’t lived here for years.’

  ‘Do you know where I might find him?’

  The old man shook his head with a grave look on his face.

  ‘No, luv. He calls me from time to time, visits once or twice a year, but he’s always on the go that one. America, Canada, Spain, all over the place. Not like me daughter. She only lives round the corner in the next street. Calls in every day on her way home from work. On me own now, you see. Our Maggie’s passed away ten year ago.’

  ‘It’s good to have your daughter close by.’

  ‘It is, luv, it is.’

  ‘What about your grandchildren, Aeron and Corey? Do you ever see them?’

  He gave her a look to suggest she’d asked a question with such an obvious answer, then a frown as punishment for asking in the first place.

  ‘What’s this all about, luv? Why are you asking all these questions?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out what happened to Kelly’s children after she died.’

  ‘Both dead, luv.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Killed in a storm in America.’

  Chapter 78

  Harold Tweedy called her on the phone. It was well after two in the morning, although yet again she hadn’t been sleeping soundly.

  ‘Apologies for waking you, Tara, but we have an incident to attend.’ Only her boss could make it sound like something rather innocuous when it was likely to be something horrendous. He didn’t call her out in the middle of the night unless there was good reason.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Scant details at the moment. Manchester Police are on the scene, but it has relevance to your spate of recent murders. I’m on my way there now.’

  ‘What’s the address, sir?’

  ‘I believe you already know of it, the home of Angela Sanders.’

  As she dressed she roused Murray on her mobile and asked him to pick her up. She always felt a little safer with a companion when she was called out in the middle of the night. Besides, lately she had a strange feeling that someone was watching her movements to and from Wapping Dock. She told herself it was just paranoia after her experience at the hands of James Guy, but she couldn’t help it. Bizarrely, she wondered if Philip Tweedy was keeping tabs on her. How silly. Then, of course, someone connected to this case knew where she and Murray lived. Her car had been doused in blood, Murray’s with acid. She was right to be cautious.

  A full police incident had been declared at the home of Angela Sanders in Worsley. A portion of the tree-lined avenue had been sealed off, a dozen police vehicles parked on the road outside the house. Tweedy was already there and waiting to brief them.

  ‘It is Angela Sanders, I’m afraid,’ said Tweedy.

  ‘The same MO?’

  ‘Seems like it. I’m waiting to have a look.’

  The night air was cold and damp, the sort of cold that penetrates clothing, skin and then bones. They waited for three-quarters of an hour, while the SOCOs from Greater Manchester Police examined the scene. Tara was glad to have worn a pair of Ugg boots and a long coat over her jeans. A beany hat was pulled tight over her ears. She realised that the scene was worth a look, but at the same time she wondered what else she could possibly learn. This was the fourth killing, presumably the same perpetrators. What more to see? She was convinced of wh
o was responsible. She just had to find them and gather some proof. Poor old Keron Fogge. She didn’t believe for a second that his grandchildren were dead. Another twenty minutes went by before a Detective Chief Inspector Browne approached them. He was a tall man, balding and dishevelled appearance in a T-shirt beneath a plaid shirt and grey zipped hoodie.

  ‘You guys can take a peek now,’ he said, his accent as thick Mancunian as Murray’s was Scouse. ‘Superintendent Tweedy, sir, if you would keep us informed of your investigations that would be great.’

  ‘Of course, DCI Browne. And thank you for the call.’

  ‘No problem, sir. My DS was aware of the connections to your case. You’ll find the victim on the ground floor, first room on the right hand side.’

  All three of them donned the requisite hooded cover-alls and shoe protectors. Tweedy led the way inside; the hallway and all adjoining rooms had lights on. A couple of forensics guys moved to the side to let them view the scene.

  Even at first glimpse this was so much worse than any of the others. Tara didn’t think it possible. She looked on the body of the victim, spread-eagled on the carpeted floor. The head of Angela Sanders was displayed upon her mantelpiece. Blood had seeped and dripped onto the fireplace. The eyes had been forced to stay open with gaffer tape stuck to the eyelids and fixed to the forehead. Her gaze had been so fixed as to look down upon her naked body. Her clothes had been ripped off and scattered around the living room. Hands and feet had been nailed, through the carpet, to the wooden floor to create the now familiar pentacle. Blood had flowed from the shoulders creating a dark semicircle upon the carpet. But the killers this time had gone further, sunk to lower depths of depravity. The torso of Angela Sanders had been sliced open, from her throat to her pubic bone. Her intestines, liver and spleen had been pulled out and lay beside the body, blood and bile having soaked into the carpet. Laid between the feet, a sheet of A4 held yet another inscription.

  ‘The curse of the Lord is in the house of the wicked.’

  Tara glanced at her boss to see if he had noted the phrase. No doubt he already had committed it to memory. But he was staring at the picture on the wall above the fireplace. They had seen that image before in the basement of Dinsdale Kirkman’s home and in the lower room at the Vera Deitate farmhouse. Three stars over what Tara now recognised as a black sun. The significance remained a mystery. A strange piece of art to have hanging in a sitting room. But she was dealing with strange people with unconventional beliefs. She wondered why Angela Sanders had been subjected to disembowelling and whether it had taken place before or after she was beheaded. Had she been visited with greater evil because the killer knew of her past? Or was the killer simply upping his game?

  Chapter 79

  ‘But the old man, Fogge, told you his grandchildren are dead.’

  ‘What if they’re not, Alan? What if these kids were raised by their father? Just because we can’t find him, doesn’t mean the kids aren’t alive.’

  ‘But according to Pritchard, Fogge went to the States and took the kids with him. They’re just as likely to still be living there. One of the grandparents has to be right.’

  They carried on their discussion into the station and up to Tweedy’s office. After a long cold night the pair of them were surviving on coffee. Tara felt irritable. Neither one had returned home. Instead they’d eaten breakfast at a motorway services and tried to freshen up as best they could. Tara could feel the bags below her eyes and Murray needed a shave.

  Tweedy looked better rested, having at least had the opportunity to get home and manage a fresh change of clothes. DC Wilson was the perkiest of them all, bidding each one of them a cheery good morning. Tara and Murray grunted their replies and resumed their debate.

  ‘What about the Bailey kids? More likely to be them seeking revenge?’ said Murray.

  ‘I know, Alan. I think we need to speak with that family again. Janet Malcroft told us that she saw Angela Sanders nailing Alastair Bailey to the wheel. Now Sanders is dead. Have Malcroft’s children only just learnt about what Sanders did to their father?’

  ‘Seems probable to me. And less likely for the Pritchard kids.’

  Tweedy had allowed his officers to finish their debate before taking charge of the meeting.

  ‘I see you already have formed an opinion on who is responsible for this latest killing.’

  ‘Someone is embarked upon a campaign of revenge, sir.’

  ‘You believe that, Tara? What about this Derek Greasby? You haven’t yet connected him with this Vera Deitate church or with any of the other victims.’

  ‘But the MO is exactly the same, and all the recent killings have that similarity to the murder of Alastair Bailey. Dinsdale Kirkman had an association with the Vera Deitate church. And now Angela Sanders is dead. Whatever is going on it must be linked to that church and to what occurred twenty-five years ago. For me that points to the Pritchard children or the Bailey children.’ Murray was in again with a counter argument.

  ‘Or Janet Malcroft, or Trudy Mitchell, or to anyone else that we don’t yet know of who has a grievance against this organisation.’

  ‘Malcroft has already confessed her part in what happened when Bailey was killed. I don’t think she would be likely to continue killing people after what she told us. As for Trudy Mitchell, her only involvement seems to have been her association with Dale Hargreaves and the bizarre lifestyle they led. As for others unknown, we didn’t find much regarding Simeon Jones.’

  ‘And there are still the two unidentified heads found at the farm. Not to mention the ashes and bones of countless bodies that may be scattered in the woods. Any one of their relatives could be out for revenge.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Tweedy, trying to lower the heat in the discussion. ‘Please concentrate on what we do know. Are we able to eliminate any of these people from our investigation?’

  Tara and Murray answered together with opposing answers. A no from Murray and a yes from Tara. Poor Wilson was a bystander as the argument continued to rage.

  ‘Yes we can, Alan. Sloan, Greenwood, Mitchell and I believe Malcroft are not the killers.’

  Murray shrugged an unenthusiastic agreement.

  ‘What about the Church of the Crystal Water?’ asked Wilson. ‘Are we any closer to identifying present day members?’

  Tweedy, Murray and Tara had no answer for the Detective Constable. Then a thought suddenly came to Tara. Philip Tweedy. Ridiculous. She glanced at her boss then dismissed it immediately. Wilson proffered one of his own.

  ‘The brother of Simeon Jones?’

  No one in the room could raise an argument against the suggestion, but there remained a reluctance in pursuing the theory. Tara was coming to only one conclusion, but she knew she had a long way to go to convince her colleagues that she was right.

  An hour later, Tara reluctantly agreed to pursue the connection between the Bailey children, their mother Janet Malcroft, and the events at Vera Deitate twenty-five years ago. Murray and Wilson were more certain that if the recent killings were directly linked to Vera Deitate that it had to be through Malcroft and her family. Tara struggled with a very different scenario. That the girl who had been in contact with Maurice Young was somehow a Pritchard child, she hadn’t figured how that could be, hell bent on avenging the death of her mother. Everything pointed to her being wrong since the children of Kelly Pritchard hadn’t been seen since her death. According to the maternal grandfather they’d gone to the States with their father Keron Fogge, while the paternal grandfather was of the opinion that both children were dead, although he knew little of the circumstances of their deaths. So, it seemed her long shot was a very long one indeed, and while Wilson looked into the background of the furniture company, she and Murray were on their way to the home of Janet Malcroft.

  Fortuitously, when they entered the sitting room of the house in Grassendale they were greeted by a young woman, roughly Tara’s age. Sandra Bailey forced a smile, but glanced nervously at her mother when the
police officers were introduced. When she stood to greet them she was a good six inches taller than Tara although she wore heels and Tara was still wearing her flat Ugg boots. Her face was quite pinched, light makeup, a pale lipstick and dirty fair hair which hung down each side of her face like a pair of curtains. She wore a mid-length green skirt and cream jumper with a round neck. Quite a plain girl with conservative tastes in fashion, it seemed.

  ‘Mum has told me what’s been going on,’ she said in a soft voice with only a trace of Liverpool detectable.

  Tara knew she had to handle this delicately. Recalling her last meeting with Peter Bailey he, understandably, wasn’t taking the news that his mother had been present when their father was murdered terribly well. But she needed to find out how much Sandra Bailey knew of those times and how much resentment had she stored, a resentment that might give her motive to kill those she thought were to blame for her father’s death.

  ‘I would like to ask you, Sandra, how much you know regarding your father’s death and your mother’s involvement?’

  Janet Malcroft was already pressing a tissue to her eyes as her daughter listened to the question.

  ‘I don’t remember anything from the time Dad died. Only the day he left home.’ She again looked at her mother.

  ‘Has your mother explained what has been going on recently?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you are aware of her involvement with Vera Deitate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Only since you arrested her.’

  ‘And how do you feel about that?’ Sandra Bailey rose from the sofa and went to her mother, sitting on the arm of her chair and taking her hand. ‘I don’t see that she has ever done anything wrong, Inspector.’