‘Did you also witness the killing of Alastair Bailey and Simeon Jones?’
‘Yes, but that was before Mum died. Simeon was good to us, to all the children at the farm. He told us that one day he would get us out of there and we could live normal lives. After they killed him I knew we had to get away.’
‘What about your father, Keron?’ Collywell’s eyes widened on hearing the name. He gave a conceited smile.
‘He didn’t care about us, or Mum. He was like the rest of them. Drunk or stoned, at the centre of things.’
Tara explained further to those present in the office, Murray, Wilson, Tweedy and Paula Bleasdale.
‘Jason Collywell harboured the desire to avenge the death of his mother and the murder of Simeon Jones. The recent killings were triggered when he was allocated Dinsdale Kirkman to supervise during his probation. When Jason did his research he confirmed for himself that Dinsdale was the son of Charles and Mary. He said that he had only a faint recollection of Dinsdale at Vera Deitate. Most of it concerned his spending time with the young girls who were there and what he was allowed to do with them.’
‘And the method of killing?’ Tweedy asked.
‘He wanted them to suffer in the same way as his mother and Simeon Jones. In particular, he singled out Angela Sanders for special treatment since she had actually participated in the ritual killings. He showed no remorse for disembowelling her while she was still alive. He holds no belief in the occult except to say that it is evil. He has a faith in God which stems from his near obsession with the Book of Proverbs. Curiously, he had no knowledge of it being used to label the body of Alistair Bailey. He sees it containing all the true wisdom of God. That’s his reasoning also for killing Derek Greasby and attempting to kill James Guy. They had no involvement with Vera Deitate, but Collywell viewed them as evil-doers. For Jemima’s sake, he was determined to rid the world of sex-offenders. Jemima went along with it.’ Tara had spent the most time interviewing the girl and taking her statement. ‘Her brother has protected her all her life. She is completely obedient to him.’
‘You mentioned, Tara that their relationship was incestuous?’
‘Denied by Jason, sir, but Jemima admitted they slept together. They are a couple completely devoted to each other.’
Harold Tweedy, in sombre mood, thanked his team for all of their endeavours. In particular, he praised the actions of Tara who had but a second to save the life of James Guy.
‘I am very proud and feel privileged to have you all in my team,’ he said. ‘As you are aware there was an element of personal connection to the death of Alastair Bailey. He was a close friend. Thank you for the way in which you approached this aspect of the case. Perhaps if I had taken more interest in Alastair’s difficulties all those years ago I may have been able to prevent his death.’
Tara felt deep sympathy for her boss as he spoke. She realised this case had hit him hard, but she refused to believe that twenty-five years ago he hadn’t done everything in his power to help his friend. Harold Tweedy was simply that kind of man.
‘Tara, may I have a word?’ The others filed out of the office, while she remained in her seat. She imagined he had some further instructions for her regarding the preparation of the case against the Collywell’s and others.
‘I realise how difficult it must have been for you coming across James Guy.’
‘Yes, sir. It was a shock, but you just have to do your job. I’m glad that we saved his life. It would have been very hard to take if he had died out there.’
‘I understand. You’ve made a great partnership with Alan. I’m very proud of you both.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Then Tweedy caught her completely by surprise.
‘Tara, I have a message for you from Philip.’ He handed her an envelope.
Her face glowed, and instantly she felt tears welling. Worse still, she didn’t know how to respond. Most certainly she would not open it in front of her boss.
‘I gather from Lorraine, who has a way of extracting information from our sons, that you and Philip had been seeing each other recently. At times I think my wife should have been the detective instead of me.’
She couldn’t summon any further words on the subject. It was too uncomfortable. Following a visit to the ladies, where she spent some time dealing with her thoughts and tears and repairing her makeup, she returned to her desk and prepared to leave for home. Both Aisling and Kate had been working nights this week. She could really do with some company. Being on her own in the flat, she knew her mind would dally through the recent case, her time spent with Philip Tweedy, her feelings of unease regarding James Guy, of her lost baby and its father Callum, and those niggling thoughts on old cases left unsolved. The mystery of the disappearances of so many young girls, nowadays, never seemed to leave her. She glanced across the office to where Alan Murray was rising from his chair and slipping on his jacket.
‘Fancy a pint?’ she called. Maybe Tweedy was right, they did make a good pair.
He crossed the room to her desk, smiling.
‘Love to, mam, but can’t tonight. I’ve got a date.’
‘Good for you,’ she said, trying her best to suppress her disappointment. ‘Who’s the lucky girl?’ She leapt immediately to the assumption that it was someone from the station. Paula Bleasdale, maybe. After all they spent so much time here, how could he possibly meet a girl elsewhere? Then she noticed him beaming, a roguish smile on his face. Still he hadn’t replied.
‘What?’
‘I am going for a drink with Trudy Mitchell.’
‘Wow!’
‘Don’t look so surprised. I’m not all bad, you know.’
‘It’s not that. I just didn’t imagine she was your type or you hers.’
‘Thanks very much. And just what do you think is my type?’
She couldn’t answer, didn’t want to try. Murray then seemed happy to explain.
‘I gave her a call yesterday. She thought I was about to ask more questions on her past. I told her the case was solved. When I asked her out, she came over all soft and gentle. I reckon she could be the one.’
Tara smiled and truly wished the best for him.
‘You never know.’
‘Good night, mam.’ He swaggered to the door.
*
She turned up the volume on the television, another bland American sitcom in full swing. A bowl of tortilla chips in her lap and a glass of orange squash on the table beside her. There were times when it felt good to be alone. The letter from Philip lay open on the sofa beside her. As promised, he explained the reasons for his behaviour. Laura was simply a close friend, colleague in The Church of the Crystal Water and flat mate, nothing more. He apologised and expressed the hope that the next time they met they could at least be friends. If only she had really placed her trust in him. He told her that she was the only person to know the truth about him and what he got up to within his church, battling evil threats to Christianity. He said that he trusted her with his secret. The Church of the Crystal Water, it seemed, had now left its mark on her.
Chapter 90
I thought I was tatie bread. Tara saved my bacon. Who’d have thought it? If she hadn’t thrown her torch at yon crazy bitch I was finished. She was about to cut my friggin’ head off. And what had I ever done to her? Nothing. And Jason Collywell, my supervisor, up to no good. Easy to see how you can lose your faith in people.
Can’t do much at the moment. My hands are healing well, but I have to stay off my feet for a few days. Bloody nails went right through just below the ankle. Lucky thing that they didn’t sever my Achilles tendons. Would’ve been totally buggered. The pain is not too bad, eating the painkillers though, but the most important thing is to avoid infection.
Peelers came to see me in hospital. Wanted to get my story on how I got mixed up with this girl Aeron. They already knew that Collywell was my supervisor. Turns out he’d bumped off a few of his other charges who were sex-offenders. I wasn�
��t really surprised when Tara didn’t show. I suppose me and her have a bit of history. A big lad called Wilson asked me a shit load of questions about how I met Aeron, what we did, where I was taken, what was said, and all the ins and outs of what they did to me in that forest. He told me some stuff as well. About how lucky I was. Apparently if it hadn’t been for Tara sussing out what this pair of numpties were up to I would have met my maker.
Never thought I’d be glad to get back to my dingy flat, to a bit of peace and quiet. A nurse calls with me every day to dress my wounds, and I’ve had a shrink of some kind come to see if I’m suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Am I fuck? I’m going to milk this for all it’s worth. I’m a victim, you know? I’ve suffered at the hands of crazed killers. I should have been protected. Compensation, that’s what I’m looking for. Do you know they had the brass neck to appoint another probation officer? Didn’t take them long. Funny, but if I’d needed to see a consultant at the hospital I bet you a pony I’d still be waiting a year later. And yet here’s my new supervisor comes to visit me. Just to put a face to the name, she tells me. Then I had to go over it all again for her benefit. What if she turns out to be another axe murderer or the mad poisoner of Bootle? Ugly cow as well. Feckin’ Sumo Spice, that’s what I call her. With her big arse she should be done for cruelty to chairs.
‘Anything I can help you with, Mr Guy?’ she said. Not likely to ask her for any favours. Not going to trust any of them fuckers again.
*
My left foot healed quicker than my right. Means I can walk a bit now using a stick. Makes me feel like I’m sixty instead of in my thirties. I see people staring at me when I hobble onto the bus. And then I notice a nice piece of skirt, a wee girl who takes my fancy. But what am I going to do about it? Nothing for now. How many stalkers are there limping about the place with a stick? Just have to be patient. There’s nothing else for it.
I’ve taken a bus down to the Albert Dock a couple of times when it hasn’t been raining. Usually in the early evening. I wrap up nice and warm and maybe take a seat along the promenade close to the Echo. Twice now I’ve seen her. Jogging by, ear-phones in, ponytail lolloping behind her as she runs, her lovely tight bum looking great in the leggings. She doesn’t take me under her notice. Or if she does, she’s an even better detective than I think she is. I’ll always be grateful that she saved my life, but I haven’t given up on her. No way José. Truth is, I want her even more.
Epilogue
She stood between Murray and Wilson, rain beating down upon their umbrellas. Darkness was closing in early under the tall trees, bare of foliage now in deep winter. Unprepared for the call out, she stood in ballet pumps and a dress she kept for nights out with the girls. A party frock. Bright and cheerful. A silk scarf around her and a light jacket hanging over her shoulders. The cold could do her no more harm as she watched the guys examine the scene. Were there really places within this city that people did not go? Places where a body could lie for weeks or months undisturbed, undetected? Then one morning a couple walking their dog meander through the woods only to discover the poor soul who had come to grief. At least she hoped that was the way of it. She hoped it was not such a fresh kill to suggest another killer on the loose. How could she possibly explain it? How could she reason with herself that someone could be doing the same thing? Have the same motive? Have the same warped morals to justify taking a life in this manner?
The naked and headless body nailed to the frame and set upside down against a tree. The inscription placed between the legs. She’d wasted no time in reading it and didn’t have to guess that it came from the same book. Presumably, some unsuspecting citizen would discover a human head somewhere in this city, a city vibrant with life yet capable of coughing up its tragic dead.
Somebody would find the head of Keron Fogge.
LETHAL MINDS
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For Dorothy
and in memory of Sam
Prologue
The Lady Linda, a twenty-six metre trawler out of Kilkeel on her second day at sea, was bottom trawling two miles off Copeland Island in the Irish Sea. Dessie McBratney, owner and skipper of the boat, was hoping for a good haul of prawns on this first sweep of the morning. The sun was just rising, yielding a bright sky free of clouds in the east, although he noticed a darker gathering over land to the west. There was little swell, and while he kept an eye on the sonar display on the bridge he stole the opportunity to cadge a ciggy from Harry, the youngest and least experienced of his crew. He’d only taken him on out of respect and sympathy. The young lad of seventeen had lost his father a year ago when his trawler went down off Port Erin. At the time it was suspected the trawler’s nets were snagged by a submarine and dragged under, but nothing was ever proved. Besides, the MOD does not comment on operational activities of its submarines, never mind the possibility that a foreign vessel was involved.
With his dad gone the kid needed a livelihood and something to keep him out of trouble on the streets, to prevent him racing cars about the town, taking drugs and burgling the big houses up the road near Belfast. So far, Harry had been a reluctant participant on deck. He hadn’t taken to rough seas, was frequently throwing up over the side and needed a good kick to get him to work at all. It was no surprise for Dessie to learn that the lad’s father had never planned to take his son to sea. Dessie told himself it would be Harry’s last trip if he didn’t get the finger out and pay his way. This morning there was no excuse. A calm sea and the prospect of a good haul.
‘Away out and give Billy a hand with this catch,’ Dessie said, blowing his ciggy smoke towards him. ‘Nothin’ for you to do in here, lad.’
Harry, dark-haired and well-developed, was already clad in his wet gear and lifejacket. He didn’t feel comfortable. Having been up since half five, unable to get a decent sleep anyway, he did as he was told. He realised he pissed off Dessie, but knew also that he was not cut out for this job. The smell of diesel and dead fish made him feel sick. It only took a slight swell and his breakfast would be lost. Not that he cared much for the greasy fried bread, the overcooked bacon and an egg he could bounce off the wall. He waited beside Billy, an affable fifty-year-old veteran of the seas and brother-in-law to Dessie. Not a word spoken, Harry watched the cable winding in the twin-trawl, trying his best not to breathe in the sickening stench. Out in the middle of the sea, and yet he couldn’t breathe fresh air. He was aware of Dessie watching him from the bridge, checking that he was working instead of getting in the way of the others as the nets were swung on board and cold water sloshed over the deck.
He hated this job. He hated boats, the sea and more than anything else he hated bloody fish.
Dessie shouted something to Billy. Harry looked at the net as it hung over the deck. Something wasn’t right. For a second, Harry thought he might have done something wrong or had forgotten to do as he was bid. But all attention was focussed on the net. Dessie rushed down from the bridge. Operating the winch, Billy lowered the net to the deck.
‘What tae fuck is that?’
‘What have you caught me this time, Billy?’ said Dessie. ‘Not another friggin’ porpoise I hope.’
‘Don’t look like no porpoise to me.’ A couple of deck hands stepped forward as Billy released the catch onto the deck. Prawns, flounders, scallops, a few sole slithered across the floor leaving a long thin object motionless on the deck.
‘It’s just a bundle of plastic,’ said Billy. ‘What tae fuck?’
Harry stayed well back. He didn’t want to get involved in this, whatever it was.
‘Give them a hand, Harry,’ Dessie shouted. Reluctantly, he picked his way over the fish and prawns as the two deckhands pulled at the plastic sheeting. It was wrapped and tied with nylon rope, and Harry attempted to loosen one of the knots. His hands were freezing and making little impact at undoing the rope. Then Billy, impatient as ever, stepped forward with a knife and ran it down the entire length of the parcel, slicing open the polythene wrapping and cutting the nylon ropes around it. Tiny stones spilled over the deck as Billy cut through layer after layer of polythene.
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