Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  As Tara relinquished her mobile, hopeful that Aisling would not be making another request, DC Paula Bleasdale approached. Tall, and the same age as Tara, she wore her long brown hair pinned up, giving her an air of confidence. Her walk was similarly determined and efficient and reflected her physical and athletic prowess.

  ‘Morning, mam. Here’s the file we have so far on Ryan Boswell. His family has been contacted. Father and brother have agreed to ID the body. One interesting point.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Home address is Treadwater Estate, but it appears that he wasn’t living there. His father said that he’d been staying with a girl in Sunderland.’

  ‘Have we got a name and address for her?’

  ‘Not yet, mam.’

  She called across the office to John Wilson. He weaved his way around desks and chairs to stand beside Paula Bleasdale.

  ‘I need both of you to find out as much as you can on this Vipers gang. Who’s in charge, how many members and what they were all doing last Saturday night.’

  ‘Yes, mam,’ said Wilson.

  ‘And Paula?’

  ‘Mam?’

  ‘Keep working on the name and address for Boswell’s girlfriend.’

  Chapter 8

  DCI Wallace Brown of the Police Service of Northern Ireland didn’t flinch at the sight before him. He’d seen far worse in his twenty-year career. What troubled him most was the possibility that they might not be able to identify the victim. And victim was definitely the right word. A body wrapped in plastic sheeting, weighed down by two bags of stones and fished out of the Irish Sea was no accident. Somebody had made a superb job of disposing of a body. Must have been a million-to-one chance that a trawler would lift it from the seabed. Maybe, just maybe, they could catch the person responsible.

  What lay before him, on the slab of the post mortem suite, was recognisable as a human body — but so far, nothing more. Brown couldn’t even tell if it was male or female. He waited for the pathologist, Dr Eugene O’Brien, to begin his explanation, and he hoped for lay-man’s terms and not a load of scientific jargon that only another pathologist would understand. Also present was a male laboratory technician and DC Gina Marshall, one of the staff on his floor at Musgrave Station, who happened to be free when he was looking for someone to accompany him.

  ‘Right folks,’ O’Brien began, in a routine voice befitting the occasion. ‘Female, approximately five foot three inches tall, but we can’t be entirely accurate.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Brown. O’Brien, athletically built with greying hair and unshaven face, glanced over his glasses at the detective.

  ‘The head is detached from the body.’

  ‘You mean somebody cut off her head?’

  ‘No. I think the body has been in the water for a very long time. It is quite common for the head, the hands and the feet to separate from the body.’

  Wallace Brown, who was of a similar, strong and tall, build to the pathologist, gazed along the length of the corpse. He could not discern either of the hands or feet.

  ‘Was the body naked when it was recovered?’ asked Marshall. The young constable had paled; she was not used to these circumstances, but nonetheless eager to give her input.

  ‘Yes, completely. There were two woven polypropylene bags, like animal feed or coal sacks, one over the head and torso, the other covering the legs. The entire body was wrapped in two thick sheets of polythene. The condition when first recovered has been photographed, although the fishermen had sliced open the polythene. Understandable, I suppose, given the situation.’

  ‘Why is the body that colour?’ Brown asked.

  ‘The extensive grey patches are due to adipocere formation.’ O’Brien indicated the extensive grey areas on the torso and thighs of the body. ‘It’s much more evident on the back and buttocks.’

  ‘Here we go. Bloody scientific mumbo jumbo. C’mon, Eugene, spell it out for me.’

  ‘It’s affectionately known as grave wax. Basically, the fatty tissues in the body, after death and under certain conditions, may form this soapy or waxy substance, called adipocere. Usually, this can help to indicate the time elapsed since death, but there are too many variables here. The body was in sea water, it was wrapped in plastic, the depth and temperature of the water would have affected the rate of decay of tissues and the rate of adipocere formation. Although the plastic sheeting restricted access, there has been some sea life activity upon the body. Small fish have been feeding on the skin. All I can say is that’s it’s been in the water for a considerable period.’

  ‘What do you mean? Days? Months? Years?’

  ‘Years... more than two, I’d guess.’

  ‘Likely cause of death?’

  ‘It’s difficult to know for sure. She’s been in the water for so long. Drowning perhaps, or suffocation in the bags and polythene prior to immersion in the sea. No clear signs of knife wounds or bullet holes. Can’t say if she was strangled.’

  ‘What about DNA?’

  ‘Probably do some sampling of any preserved tissues or take some from bone marrow. It’ll help with identification.’

  ‘But any chance of finding DNA belonging to the perpetrator?’

  O’Brien shook his head.

  Chapter 9

  Janek Poska, a forty-year-old from Estonia, conducted his business at just two locations. For receipt and storage he used a scrapyard in Tranmere, and for distribution he used the busy streets of Liverpool’s city centre. He liked to keep things simple. He kept his customers happy and his supply chain well under the police radar. Usually, he wandered around the pedestrianised areas keeping his appointments with customers. He never carried gear for more than two clients at a time. That way, if ever he was pulled by the bizzies he could claim the drugs he was carrying were for personal use only. He was not a supplier; he was a man with a habit. Aksel was his runner. He ferried the gear from the scrapyard in Tranmere and met up with Janek at various street junctions around the city. The system worked well, no problem.

  Mostly he dealt in china white, fentanyl. Very easily obtained from Estonia, his homeland. But he also supplied cocaine, tabs of ecstasy and sometimes heroin. Didn’t bother with cannabis or spice, too much trouble for little profit. The hard stuff was where the money was made.

  Today it was pissing down. People rushed around, umbrella dodging. It was harder for him to look inconspicuous, creeping about in his heavy leather jacket, rain-soaked long dirty-blonde hair, unshaven and trying to keep an eye out for bizzies. He loved that nickname for the police in this city. It had an affectionate feel about it, as if they could be your friends rather than the guys who would put you in jail.

  His first meet of the day wasn’t far from the railway station at Lime Street. A man he knew only as Tom. A most unlikely-looking drug user. Never bought much. Definitely personal use and maybe a couple of friends only. Looked like a banker, wore a business suit anyway, smart tie, expensive shoes. Not married. That’s all Janek knew of this customer. Didn’t need to know any more, didn’t want to know any more. He ran a discreet business, and his customers liked it that way. He didn’t ask questions, and they never offered information.

  He saw Tom walking from the station and slow down, gazing around him, looking for his man. But Janek had great stealth and he always spotted his clients before they saw him. It took just seconds for Janek to step discreetly in front of the purchaser, blend into his stride and the swap could be made. Cash in his hand, the gear passed over like the offer of a fag. Tom then stopped at a pedestrian crossing, and Janek continued on his way.

  But this morning, as the traffic came to a halt at the lights, two young men got out of a car. Janek didn’t even see them. The pair, dressed similarly in jeans, long hooded anoraks and baseball caps, were suddenly on the pavement, the car moving slowly forwards when the lights changed. Suddenly, Janek had company either side of him.

  His first thought was that the bizzies had finally caught up with him, but that notion
vanished when they took him firmly by the arms and steered him towards another station entrance. Once inside, they stopped and turned to face him.

  ‘Are you Janek, yeah?’ said one.

  He nodded once, and began to relax. New customers, he reckoned, not very discreet.

  ‘We’re Vipers. You heard of us, yeah?’

  Janek shook his head and frowned.

  ‘What you want?’

  ‘We have a message for you and the rest of your Tallinn Crew.’

  ‘What message?’

  ‘You’re on our patch, mate.’

  ‘Your patch?’ Janek scoffed. ‘How your patch?’

  ‘This city belongs to us, mate. Keep to the other side of the river or we’ll close you down.’

  ‘City is for everybody.’ Janek glared defiantly at his rivals. He didn’t think they looked so confident or tough. One of them stepped closer, his breath on Janek’s face.

  ‘Stay out or you’ll be dead meat.’

  They pushed past him, knocking his shoulder as they went, and strutted from the station. Janek took a deep breath then, unperturbed, continued on his way.

  Chapter 10

  I’ve been scouring the papers and the Internet for news on the body they found in the sea. Don’t mind saying that I’m a bit worried. I’ve heard they can do all kinds of things to identify bodies nowadays — DNA and the like. What if they can trace something to me? My DNA profile is on the national database after my conviction for snatching Tara Grogan. If they find my DNA on the body then I’m in deep shit. But surely my semen and stuff would be washed away after all this time? It’s been years, assuming, of course that the body they’ve found is one of the girls I took in Belfast. Most of my snatches in England I’ve dumped off the Welsh coast, a few in the North Sea and a couple in the Channel. Then, of course, there is Megan — my latest girl. I dumped her in the Irish Sea, off Maryport. It said on the news that the body was found off the Copeland Islands. They are only a couple of miles off the coast of Northern Ireland. Has to be my first or second girl. That would make it either Millie or Gemma.

  I can remember every single girl I’ve ever had. I’ve given them all new names so that I don’t have to think about their real ones. Maybe this is somebody else. Not one of mine. All this waiting is stressing me out and I’m starting back at work tomorrow. Kirsty is taking me out for a nice dinner for my last night. She’s booked a taxi and everything, so we can have a few drinks. She’s spoiling me rotten. And her da, Len, has invited me to Anfield for the West Ham match next Sunday. I reckon I’ve been accepted into the family already. Kirsty has started browsing holiday brochures, and she’s hoping her friend Mel is going to stay with this new bloke of hers so that the four of us can go on holiday together.

  If it wasn’t for this body fished out of the sea I’d be thinking everything was great for me at the moment.

  I was just getting ready to go out, dressed in a new shirt and jacket that Kirsty had bought me especially for the occasion. I was sitting on the sofa, waiting for her to finish getting ready. I could hear the hair dryer going in the bedroom, so I flicked on the telly. Didn’t think my story would be on the national news, but there — staring right out of the screen — was a picture of Millie. They had identified the body pulled from the sea. Didn’t take them long. After her picture came a recap of the news coverage at the time she disappeared, nearly eight years ago. Now, the police claimed they had never closed the case, but because Millie’s body had been found they were launching a fresh inquiry into her murder.

  She was my first ever girl, my first snatch. I couldn’t take my eyes off the TV. Beautiful, she was. Dark hair, sparkling eyes, lovely wee body. Her picture remained on the screen as the newsreader continued with the story. I swear Millie was looking right at me, boring into my head and saying, I’m back, you murdering fucker, and I’m coming for you.

  Chapter 11

  Aidan Boswell, older brother of Ryan, had formally identified the body of his brother and was invited to St Anne Street to assist with enquiries.

  ‘So, Ryan and you were both members of this gang, the Vipers?’ Tara asked.

  Murray sat next to her in the interview room. Boswell, twenty-six, was of mixed race, his mother being white English and father from Trinidad. Aidan was muscular, with a shaved head and several small scars on his face, and sat opposite the officers. He appeared understandably upset at his brother’s death, but seemed unwilling to talk about gang membership. He did at least manage to shrug at the question.

  ‘Let’s assume for now that you both were members, since you both have that tattoo on your arms. What can you tell us of Ryan’s movements in the past few days? Where was he? What was he doing?’

  ‘Don’t know, hadn’t seen him.’

  ‘Did you speak on the phone, did you text each other?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘We just chatted, you know.’

  ‘Did he believe that he was in danger?’ Murray asked.

  ‘I don’t know, man.’

  ‘Do you know where he was, when you were chatting?’

  ‘Sunderland. That’s where he lived.’

  ‘How long had he been living in Sunderland?’

  ‘Five months, six maybe.’

  ‘Did he have a job?’

  Boswell smirked at the question. Tara realised that the man before her wasn’t about to implicate himself, or his dead brother, in any activities of the gang to which they belonged. But she needed more of a lead in this case than she was currently getting from Aidan Boswell.

  ‘Who do you think was responsible for Ryan’s death?’

  Boswell looked straight into Tara’s eyes, no doubt bemused by the young woman in front of him. Surely homicide detectives are not this pretty.. When she met his gaze with confidence, he dropped his eyes.

  ‘Aidan, this is a murder we’re dealing with. The murder of your brother. If you know something about how Ryan came to be in Treadwater, what he was doing there, you need to tell us.’

  ‘I don’t know nothin’.’

  ‘What was the name of the girl who was living with Ryan?’

  ‘Don’t know her.’

  ‘Was she with Ryan at Treadwater on Saturday night?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘What is her address in Sunderland?

  Aidan shrugged his indifference to the question.

  ‘Who are you protecting, Aidan?’ said Murray. ‘Somebody else in the Vipers?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, man. The Vipers ain’t got nothin’ to do with killing Ryan. Just back off, will ya?’

  ‘If it wasn’t the Vipers, then who do you think was responsible?’

  ‘You’re the bizzies, you figure it out. Leave me alone. I’m goin’ home.’

  *

  DC Paula Bleasdale was keen to impart some news when Tara and Murray returned to the operations room.

  ‘Hi, Paula. Any news on the raids this morning?’

  ‘Several arrests, mam. Being processed at the moment. One of them is female.’

  ‘Good. Let me know when it’s time for me to have a chat with them.’

  ‘Will do.’

  With a coffee and fruit scone, Tara sat down at her desk. She used the few moments of calm and quiet to try to make sense of the information gathered so far on the killing of Ryan Boswell. Tara hoped that the female arrested was Ryan’s girlfriend. They had yet to establish the address in Sunderland that she and Boswell had been living. But what if the girl had travelled to Liverpool with Ryan Boswell? What if she was on the Treadwater Estate when he was been beaten and shot?

  And what if she was responsible?

  Finding this girl might be the key to the whole affair.

  Chapter 12

  Bloody ironic that the girl they found in the sea was the very first one I ever had. Millie. Funny that. Not Megan, the last girl I had, not the best I ever had, but simply the first. Like I said before, I don’t keep recor
ds of my girls. I don’t keep anything likely to incriminate me. I’m not into souvenirs, don’t keep her knickers or a lock of her hair. But everything is kept inside my head.

  I can remember everything. It’s my life’s work, why shouldn’t I? So once I heard it confirmed that Millie, whose real name turned out to be Linda Meredith, was the body pulled out of the drink off the Copelands, my mind went right back to the time when I took her. My initial fear, that the peelers would be able to trace Millie back to me, subsided when I began to consider a few of the things I’d done with her.

  Firstly, I dumped her naked. I didn’t put her clothes or mine inside the bundle of stones and polythene. This was before I’d hit on the idea of using those wheelie sports bags. Secondly, I hadn’t injected her with china white, so there were no syringes to dispose of. Again, this happened before I’d even heard of china white. I’d given her a few tabs of rohypnol but in the end I still had to smother her with her coat.

  I searched the internet, trying to establish whether it was possible for my DNA to be found on the body, after it had spent eight years at the bottom of the sea. My conclusion was that it seemed unlikely. Really, if they were ever going to find any of my girls then Millie was the least likely to provide any evidence that could be traced back to me. I reckoned I was in the clear. And maybe it was a wee lesson learned. In future, I should dispose of clothes and syringes away from the body. You never know when a bloody trawler might pull another corpse from the depths.

  But what am I thinking? I shouldn’t be concerned about what to do in the future. I’m with Kirsty now. I love her, I think. No need for me to take any more girls. But, if I’m honest, this whole episode has been a bit of a turn on. I got a buzz from hearing about the discovery of Millie’s body. I felt the adrenalin coursing through me as I listened to the news. The whole thing has got me itching again.