Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  ‘I haven’t seen you in ages. You were supposed to call me,’ said Kirsty, playfully taking hold of my jacket lapels and pulling me toward her.

  I smiled then poured my wee heart out, telling her all about my recent experience at the hands of an axe murderer. At first she didn’t believe it, but Mel, to her credit, instead of merely giggling, confirmed my story by saying that she had read all about in the papers. Once Kirsty was convinced, I was well in. Mel, bless her, was smart enough to see that she was a spare part and got offside. Before the night was out, I was in Kirsty’s flat and doing the naughty.

  A couple of weeks after that first night spent at her flat, Kirsty asked me to move in.We really seemed to hit it off, and I don’t remember ever feeling this way before about a woman. What can I say? Does everything for me. The best thing and the worst thing I can say about her is that she is not the kind of girl I would ever have gone for. I would never have snatched her off the street. A bigger build than I could safely manage and although she is attractive, even pretty, she is not a stunner. As I’ve said before, why would I ever go to the trouble of taking a girl if she is not a total looker? Why eat a burger when you can have filet mignon?

  Chapter 4

  No murder scene ever failed to send a painful shiver running through her slight body. She’d learned in the early days of her career that the sight of a murder victim, no matter how they had met their end, was one of the most disturbing things a police officer could see. The deliberate taking of a life could never be undone, and justice could never be fully realised. Her colleagues, those with whom she worked closely every day, had all expressed the same insight: see the victim and you won’t stop looking for the killer. She couldn’t help embracing the same attitude. But no philosophy or sound advice was sufficient to ease the pain of seeing a murder victim. A pain that lingered long after she’d gone home, deep into the night, into her sleep, her dreams, her waking thoughts. With a host of such experiences now on her slate the visions came in muddled form, one victim inexplicably joined with another. Slashed bodies, blue-grey faces, bloated corpses, decapitated figures, heads on spikes, they flowed turbulently through her mind, and she had to fight hard each and every day not to let them win. To stay sane. To shore up her defences.

  Beyond the initial scene of murder, the blood, trauma, sounds and smells, a post-mortem suite was no easier to endure. Cleaner perhaps, quiet at times, but Tara always felt strange pangs of guilt, of uselessness, when she stood over the body on the table, lying stiff beneath a sheet. The victim seemed to call out to her, to reprimand her. I’m dead and cold lying here, and what have you done? What have you done to help me? Why aren’t you out looking for the animal that did this to me? Again, that shiver would grip at the base of her spine, sending shock waves down her legs and causing her to shuffle from one foot to the other. We’re doing all that we can, she was inclined to think, but were they really? And then her impatience, her frustration would kick in.

  Brian Witney, in his matter of fact tone, began his explanation to Tara and Murray.

  ‘Two bullets, four holes,’ he said. ‘Both shots to the abdomen. One passed through the transverse colon and exited at the back. The second did the most damage, piercing the right side of the liver, also exiting at the back. He basically bled out. The onset of shock played its part too. He probably remained alive for an hour before succumbing.’

  ‘The other injuries?’ Tara asked.

  ‘Severe contusions below right eye and a broken cheek bone. Kicked or hit with a blunt weapon in the face, I’d say. Some bruising to the lower back and the genitals. Definitely beaten up before being shot.’

  ‘The beating not necessarily taking place at the same location?’

  ‘The bruises are well developed. He was probably beaten at least an hour or two before the shooting. Rope or cord marks on his wrists, so he was restrained while being moved or interrogated perhaps? I can’t say where that took place.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing significant, although you may be interested in one of his tattoos. He had the usual fantasy images on his back and shoulders, except for this one.’

  Witney lifted the left arm of the victim and pointed out the image of a snake on the forearm. It stretched from the victim’s shoulder to the top of his wrist with the snake’s head on the back of the hand, its mouth open and fangs protruding. Underneath the slithering depiction on the arm was a single word: Vipers.

  ‘It’s a gang name,’ said Murray. ‘Treadwater Vipers.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘I love coming here to see the baboons.’ No one responded to McHugh’s comment.

  The silver BMW 225 rolled forward, and several young baboons nonchalantly passed by in front. Suddenly, a larger male was on the bonnet and then another sat close by, resting its behind on the driver’s-side wing mirror. Even the two passengers in the back of the car, who had been reluctant to come on this particular trip, managed a smile.

  ‘Fucking love this,’ said McHugh.

  ‘The wee mucker’s trying to pull your wiper off,’ said Fitter, who sat in the front passenger seat. ‘Look at that one in front.’ A juvenile baboon sat on the rear bumper of the car ahead, trying his best to remove the number plate. ‘Smart wee bastards, aren’t they?’

  McHugh stopped the car.

  ‘Very intelligent,’ he said, directing his comments at the rear-view mirror and staring at his passengers in the back. ‘Highly organised, you know. They form groups, sometimes up to 100 of the wee fellas, all doing what they’re told. Just like a gang. They have devoted females who never leave the group. Isn’t that nice? Women supporting their men.’

  Both men in the back smirked their agreement, and neither failed to understand what McHugh was hinting at.

  ‘The males defend and protect the group. The strongest take control, become the leaders. Any disrespect to the seniors has to be sorted out by the leader.’ McHugh paused to look into his mirror again. ‘You get my meaning, lads?’

  ‘Answer the boss,’ said Fitter, turning to face the two in the back.

  Both men nodded.

  ‘Yes, Mr McHugh,’ said Fitter, prompting the appropriate reply.

  ‘Yes, Mr McHugh,’ the men chorused.

  ‘Good.’

  McHugh drove forward slowly until the car eased through the gates of the baboon compound and into the safer regions of the safari park. Both of the uninvited passengers on the outside of the vehicle had dropped to the ground and headed off in search of the next car. McHugh continued through the park until he pulled up again next to a hut where drinks and ice-creams were on sale.

  ‘Fitter, away and get us some ice-creams while I have a wee word with our mates.’

  Fitter, looking both bemused and peeved at the order, got out and joined the short queue. A few minutes later, he returned to the car and handed out the ice-cream cones to his companions. McHugh, in a calm and business-like tone, continued to address his audience.

  ‘The reason we’re pals is that I want expansion in this part of the world. I like to run a slick operation. Understand me?’ Both men nodded, while licking at their ice-creams. Fitter had no inclination to prompt; he too was busy enjoying his treat.

  ‘You can’t keep selling gear on that pissing awful estate. The peelers will shut you down eventually. You need to start strutting your stuff, know what I mean? Stamp on the opposition. Claim some territory. Just like the baboons — the strongest become the leaders. This is the big time, lads. Clean up your shit and get to work, or I’ll be looking for a new business partner. And do something about that fucking name. Vipers is a shit name.’

  McHugh lowered his window and tossed out the remainder of his ice-cream. He glared at Fitter beside him.

  ‘Fucking hate cookie dough, Fitter. Why’d you get me that?’

  ‘Sorry, boss.’

  McHugh wiped his hands on a tissue and tossed that out of the window, too.

  ‘Right, who wants to see the lions?’


  Chapter 6

  She brings me breakfast in bed every morning, before she goes to work at a clothing store in the city centre. I must confess, I’ve kept her late a few times. Breakfast brings out the beast in me, and I just want to pull her back into bed and do the business. She doesn’t put up much resistance, even when it happens the morning after we’ve done it the night before. But lately, she pleads with me to let her go because she’s going to get into bother with her boss for turning up late. A couple more days and it won’t matter, because I should be getting back to work in delivering groceries — they've kept my job open for me, seeing as how I was the victim of a crime. Can’t help wondering though if being back on the road, in and out of all those MILF houses, that I might get tempted again. It was certainly the best ruse I ever had for spotting and taking women, and it opened my eyes to a new type of woman I could snatch. But I owe it to Kirsty to behave myself. She seems to love having me around, and although the ʻL word’ hasn’t yet been mentioned I’m thinking that it won’t be long. And I’m thinking that because I’ve already been to meet her Mum and Dad. What can I say? Salt of the earth kind of people, and I couldn’t help noticing the twinkle in Kirsty’s eye when she introduced me to Mum. Jenn is a very nice lady with a big smile for her daughter and an equally big frown for husband Len — I noticed that when he started talking football.

  ‘Let the lad sit down, for goodness’ sake, before you start asking whether he’s blue or red!’ You couldn’t fail to see that Kirsty and Jenn are mother and daughter. Jenn has the same vocal inflection as her daughter, that ‘sing it out’ Scouse ending to her sentences. More Liver bird than Jamie Carragher, if you know what I mean? It’s in the eyes too, dark and playful, as if everything is a bit of a laugh — except, of course, when they’re scolding poor Len. But I think I hit it off with them.

  ‘I’m red, I suppose,’ I said to Len.

  ‘You suppose?’

  ‘I don’t get to see them play very often.’

  ‘We can soon fix that, James. I’m a season ticket holder. Never miss a home game.’

  ‘And don’t I know it?’ said Jenn. ‘Sometimes I think he lives at Anfield, rather than here.’

  At least I’d chosen right, and that was without a heads-up from Kirsty. Len Scholes was dark haired, but now greying and thinning in equal measure. His face was surly, a no nonsense kind of man. The sort who’d tell you straight to your face that he didn’t like you. Early seventies, I guessed, retired as a factory store man at sixty-five, smoked and drank in moderation. He and Jenn had three children, Kirsty and her two brothers, one brother older and the other younger than her. Both sons were in relationships and living away from home. Now it seemed that Kirsty, after one disastrous partnership (as I soon learned from Jenn), had at last found someone new to introduce to mum and dad.

  Over tea that first time at her parents’ house, I was asked to give them a rundown of my life to date. You can imagine I had to change things a little. But they were really astounded at my dice with death at the hands of yon crazy bitch Aeron. I had to make out, of course, that I was a complete innocent in the whole affair.

  I couldn’t tell them that Aeron and her brother Jason Collywell had been on a crusade to rid the world of sex offenders.

  ‘And what about your family in Belfast?’ Jenn, bless her, thought she should ask. Had to have something to tell her about that, too.

  ‘Haven’t seen my father since I was four years old. My mother is dead,’ I lied. ‘I was mostly raised by my granny. She died when I was seventeen.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Jenn, pouring more tea into my cup and passing me the plate of chicken sandwiches.

  ‘I’d love to visit Belfast with you someday,’ said Kirsty. ‘You can show me all the places you used to hang out.’

  What can I say? Bless. I smiled at her.

  The Scholes family lived in a nice house, a semi-detached bungalow in Woolton. Both husband and wife were keen gardeners, and the front of the house had a drive that curved around neat flower beds and a tidy lawn. I’m not usually interested in such details, but remember, this was the first time I had ever been to a girl’s house without scheming in my head about how I was going to snatch her. This was a whole new realm for me.

  The flat I now shared with Kirsty was in Penny Lane, not far from my old place in Wavertree. It was a two-bedroom apartment, on the first floor of a building on the corner. There was a hairdressers’ underneath. Kirsty had made the flat look nice, despite it being only a rental. She’d put money into good furniture and quality electrical white goods, and it was plain to see that a girl lived there, from the pastel shades on the walls, neat curtains and candles to cheat any foul smells from cooking in the open-plan lounge/kitchen. Already we were going halfers on everything: rent, utility bills, food and drink.

  This whole family thing, and me living with Kirsty, was going swimmingly — until one night, when News at Ten came on. We were lying together on the sofa, Kirsty resting her head on my chest and nearly asleep, when a story on the news suddenly grabbed my attention. I sat up straight, Kirsty jolted from her doze.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ She saw me focussed on the telly.

  ‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’ She flopped back down again, leaving me to concentrate on the news report. Seems that some fishing boat pulled up a body from the Irish Sea. The body was not yet identified as male or female, but police were awaiting the results of a detailed forensic examination of the remains. It was a Northern Irish boat, and the body was now being examined in Belfast. Couldn’t help thinking that it had to be one of my girls.

  I thought immediately of Megan, my latest conquest. Shit!

  Chapter 7

  Most of the people living on the Treadwater Estate were law-abiding. They kept their heads down and their noses out of things that didn’t concern them. Tara didn’t expect house-to-house enquiries to yield much in relation to the previous night’s shooting. But she could almost hear the collective sigh of relief from Treadwater residents when word got out and rumours circulated and social media revealed the name of the victim as nineteen-year-old Ryan Boswell. Merseyside Police hadn’t even got a positive ID on the body lying in the morgue before Facebook was hosting multiple pictures of the youth, tagged by his peers on the Treadwater Estate. So when it came to knocking on doors in the streets around the murder scene, uniformed officers and detectives were faced with comments such as, ‘good riddance,’ and ‘well rid,’ and ‘hope he rots in hell.’

  *

  On Monday morning at St Anne Street Station, it didn’t take long to assemble a character profile of the murder victim.

  ‘Waste of space,’ said DC John Wilson, who’d grown up on the very estate where the likes of Boswell from an early age had dealt drugs, bullied, stolen from and harassed ordinary people. And it seemed that no-one had the power to deal with his kind. ‘I remember him when he was about ten years old, putting bricks through car windscreens for laughs. He always was going to turn out that way. Pity his brother is still breathing.’

  Tara stared at Wilson. She’d never heard him be quite so callously vocal about the people of his home area.

  ‘What do you know about this gang, the Vipers?’

  ‘Much the same as any other on Merseyside. Young lads looking for an easy way to the top, controlled by one or two guys who think they’ve already made it. They deal in drugs, protection, counterfeit booze. Whatever racket is going, they’ll have their fingers in it.’

  ‘You think this is simply a gang feud? That it could have been any member of the gang and Boswell was the unfortunate one caught in the firing line?’

  ‘Seems most likely.’

  Detective Superintendent Harold Tweedy entered the office to find his team of detectives deep in discussion of this, the latest killing in the city. A tall man, with a lined face and gold-rimmed glasses, his deep Christian faith helped Tweedy to cope with the rigours of police life.

  ‘Morning, folks. What do we have so far?’
>
  ‘Morning, sir,’ Tara replied. ‘We have an ID for the victim, yet to be confirmed, as Ryan Boswell, nineteen, from Treadwater. No witnesses as yet for the incident but plenty of hearsay on the activities of the victim.’

  ‘Does he have a record?’

  ‘Paula is checking up on that now, sir. Seems he was a member of a local gang, the Vipers.’

  ‘Mmm. Let’s hope we’re not looking at the start of another feud.’

  ‘It’s the most likely reason, if you ask me,’ said Alan Murray. ‘Somebody from another crew has popped him.’

  Tara, and she thought Tweedy also, didn’t think much of Murray’s phrasing. He was prone to making frivolous quips at the most inappropriate moments of a discussion. In this case, his comment heralded an end to the meeting, and the detectives returned to their desks in the operations room.

  Taking her seat, Tara prepared for the mound of tasks awaiting her. She had been busy recently on case preparation for a murder dating two years back, when one of the alleged conspirators had fled to Spain. Now, having been arrested on the Costa del Sol, Evan Blackley, former professional footballer and property developer, was back in England and awaiting trial for soliciting the murder of journalist Terry Lawler. The murder of a teenager, however, would now take precedence.

  As usual, an early morning text from Aisling claimed her attention first. She knew that if she didn’t deal with it immediately she would be inundated with messages for the rest of the day.

  The message read: My place at 7? Tara realised that the short missive could mean a host of things. No way was it simply a matter of calling in on Aisling for a few minutes on her way home. It meant, we’re having drinks before going to a club, or Kate wants to change our hair colour, or we need to decide on the holiday, or most likely, Kevin hasn’t called me and I think it’s over, what should I do? With so many possibilities it was best if she confirmed her attendance and asked no questions. At least she could then get on with her day’s work.