‘Isn’t it obvious?’ said Murray. Then, ‘Red Hot Chilli Peppers,’ he blurted as an answer to a question on the radio.
Tara sighed in exasperation. ‘The shooter, yes, but what happened after Boswell was killed? We know she ran through the estate, but was she being chased or was she merely running in fear or running from the crime scene?’
‘I thought one of the door-to-door witnesses said that they saw a man searching the streets shortly after the girl had run by.’
‘So, who was it?’
Murray looked incredulously at his boss.
‘Um, that would it be the killer...’
‘You’re being sarcastic again, Alan, and I can do without it thank you. What I’m trying to figure out is how she got away. If the killer was chasing her and caught her, why wasn’t she killed?’
‘Well obviously he didn’t catch her, and she scarpered back to Ireland.’
Tara closed her eyes in frustration. Either Murray was being obtuse, or she wasn’t explaining herself very well.
‘What if the killer was one of Rab McHugh’s men, under orders to shoot Boswell and bring Carly home to Belfast?’
‘That fits, since the gun used had a history in Belfast. But if that’s true, then why would Carly be back in Liverpool seeking revenge? She would already know who killed her boyfriend. If you ask me, the girl could be anywhere in England.’
They were getting nowhere with the discussion, and nothing of interest seemed likely to appear before their eyes. Now feeling rather foolish for wasting their time, Tara ordered them back to the station. Murray was happy, not least for the opportunity to have an early lunch.
From Tweedy, Tara managed to get a copy of the crime scene report for the murder of Tyler Finlay. Although not directly involved in the investigation, she hoped the report might have some relevance to the murder of Ryan Boswell. She did not, however, want DCI Weir to find out that she had been reading details of his case. After a morning spent in discussion with Murray, she was no closer to believing Weir’s interpretation of the events unfolding on the Treadwater Estate. She didn’t like him, and she was certain he didn’t like her.
Tyler Finlay had been shot five times; two bullets to the upper body and three in the head and face. All from close range and through the driver’s-side window of the BMW. Finlay died instantly. Twenty-five thousand pounds, in used and mixed notes, were found on the passenger seat of the car. The boot was full of drugs, these had been sent for analysis but seemed likely to be cocaine. So the motive, even if gang-related, had not been theft.
The gun used had no prior history, therefore nothing to indicate it had originated in Belfast with McHugh’s organisation. There were no significant prints lifted from the car, but a mobile phone belonging to Finlay showed recent calls to several numbers. Two of them were traced to other members of the Vipers, namely Craig Lewis and Aidan Boswell. Tara wondered if DCI Weir had interviewed either man. House-to-house inquiries had yielded little significant information. There were apparently no witnesses to the killing of Finlay, despite the shooting having taken place in the evening at around nine-thirty. The only scrap of information was that several people who had heard the shots said that they’d heard a motorcycle roaring by their homes shortly afterwards. Of course, alibis were easy to come by for the other members of the Vipers. They had all been at home with their girlfriends, or working late, although this latter excuse Tara found hard to believe, since most of the Vipers didn’t seem to have jobs. In any case, no gang members were, apparently, anywhere nearby when the killings of Ryan Boswell and Tyler Finlay took place.
Before leaving for home, Tara made a mental note to ask Gina Marshall if she knew how Carly McHugh had travelled from Belfast. Then, her phone beeped. She had a message from Aisling.
Chapter 51
It was all air kisses and loose hugs — some kind of VIP do at a club in Harrington Street. I could have stood at the corner and watched the totty come and go all night. Four honeys, all dressed the same in tight black trousers, waistcoats and white bow-ties, with bare arms and spike heels, greeted the guests as they arrived. One or two of them I recognised. A couple of Premiership footballers, a locally-bred actress who’d made it big and got herself on TV chat shows and even an Oscar nomination. But I wasn’t interested in her. Not for now, anyway. She was pleasing enough, in the shortest dress I’ve ever seen, with blonde hair extensions and dripping with jewellery. One of the four hostesses gave her a glass of champagne as she stepped from the car under a canopy and onto the red carpet.
It was a bizarre scene in such a narrow, unappealing street, little wider than a back alley. A small group of press and photographers was hanging about, shouting questions and asking for pictures. A dozen or so fans and autograph hunters looked on eagerly alongside the paparazzi. The actress posed with her man, holding his arm as the photographers snapped. Then the guy was told to step aside, and they got a few solo shots of the girl. I could see she was loving it.
Other guests were snapped too, as they entered the club with their complimentary glass of bubbly. It was fun to watch. But I wasn’t there to have fun. I had a job to do.
I was observing one person in particular. Her long black hair dangled down her back. She looked fantastic in her skimpy waistcoat, arms uncovered, smiling and embracing the guests, giving the standard-issue air kiss on both cheeks. Aisling was good at this job. Made for it. Stunning, vivacious and thus given access to the type of social gathering that let her mix with the rich and famous.
I wondered what time she finished work, and whether her work then became her leisure. But I needed answers to other questions. Did she go home alone? By car? By taxi? Would she be drunk or sober? And how did her days begin? I knew I didn’t have time to spend on this target in the way I generally liked to with my girls. Usually, I worked on every detail of a girl’s routine, to the point that sometimes I even knew their time of the month. I worked out the time they got up, when they got home, the people they were sleeping with, the places they went for lunch or dinner. Every detail was noted so that when the time came to snatch them there would be no mistakes, no miscalculations.
But Aisling had to be taken before her mate DI Grogan found out anything more about me. In other words, as soon as possible. I had considered her other friend, Kate, the nurse, but I hadn’t seen her about, either at her house or at the hospital where she works. So it had to be the leggy Aisling. A bit of a novelty for me, taking a tall bird — although I’d recently had Daisy under consideration.
Of course, Kirsty has been wondering what the hell I’m getting up to, staying out late and leaving early in the mornings. I’ve told her I have to work a new shift pattern, but I’ve hardly been to work since setting my sights on Aisling. I don’t have the time. I phoned in sick, told my supervisor that I have recurring PTSD after my experience with that nutter Collywell and his crazy sister. The very mention of PTSD is enough for the boss to leave it be. They don’t want to poke their noses in too far. I can always shout harassment.
So that leaves me free to do my recon on the girl who will to lead me to Tara Grogan.
I went down to Runcorn and managed to buy a nice van at an auction. Quite big. The usual sliding door, handy for pushing my girl inside. Big enough to take two girls and me, comfortably.
I had to find somewhere secure to leave it until I need it. I can’t let Kirsty see it. She’s been looking at family cars and child seats for the baby. She wants everything sorted before the wedding. This Saturday I’m supposed to go with her da to get fitted for a wedding suit. And she’s still hassling me over a best man. I don’t have a friggin’ best man. I have plenty of best girls, but that’s none of her business.
Besides, by the time the wedding comes around I could be well gone, serving a lifer for taking wee Tara or, if I’m lucky, on the run. Somehow, I can no longer visualise Kirsty and me settling into a life of happy families.
I was frozen hanging about the street, but I wouldn’t get a better chance o
f watching Aisling without drawing suspicion. Looked as though I was one of those saddos who hangs around VIP functions just waiting for a chance to see a celebrity. Maybe I should get a selfie with one of them.
Other people came and went, while I leaned my back against a wall, stuffed my hands in my pockets and kept an eye on the gorgeous Aisling. Definitely a woman worth watching, especially if she leads me to Tara at last.
Chapter 52
There were no buttons left on Janek’s leather jacket, but he pulled it close around him as he waited for his partner to show up. A wind was strengthening, lowering the temperature; he couldn’t recall feeling this cold since he’d come to Liverpool six years ago. It felt more like January in Tallinn.
The shower of rain had caught him unawares as he walked the length of Hanover Street, then Ranelagh Street and finally Brownlow Hill, where he stood close to a bus shelter alongside the Adelphi. His jeans were soaked through, and his left shoe must have a hole because he felt his foot, wet and cold. He’d made his last deal of the day, there were a couple more to do later on in the evening but for now he could return to the scrapyard in Tranmere and maybe get some fish and chips on the way.
Janek liked this English tradition, fish with chips, plenty of salt and vinegar. All his life spent running wild in Tallinn had set him up for his move to Britain. Liverpool suited him; he liked the people and business was good. Now, of course, he had to be extra careful. He had bizzies watching out for him and there was the threat of those animals, the Vipers. He now realised they were serious about chasing him from the city, but until he could find and establish a new patch he had to do his business in the centre of Liverpool. He had clients to supply. The Vipers might want him out, but they would never take his customers away.
Fifteen minutes in the cold was about all he could take, and he told Aksel in his own language exactly what he thought when he arrived in the car, forty minutes later. His mood was foul, and he knew it as he gave his younger friend a stern reprimand. Aksel was nearly half his age, black greased hair and short-clipped beard. He really should not be driving these streets having the sight in only his right eye, but Janek needed him to do it. He didn’t trust his other associates. Too fucking lazy. Happier to run the legitimate car breakers business, but the first to complain if they didn’t get their cut of the drug money. His waiting in the cold and his soaking had really set him on a downward spiral. Tonight he thought he might get high, it was not something he usually did, but he felt so fucking wretched.
Aksel bought the fish and chips from a shop in Birkenhead and drove to the scrap yard in Tranmere. The corrugated-iron gates were still open. Someone was working late or, more likely, the lazy bastards were playing cards. Janek was too cold and too hungry to care. He was already tucking into his chips as he stepped into the darkened office.
No one here after all. Had they simply forgotten to close the gates? Useless cretins. He switched an old CD player and instantly it blasted the familiar rock music of his homeland. Without waiting for Aksel to join him, he sat down at his desk and ate his battered cod. It wasn’t yet dark outside, but the single small and filthy window did not provide much light. His mind was swirling. He felt strange. Still cold, but also on edge... as if things weren’t quite right or he had forgotten to do something. He had some gear to put together for tonight’s deals. Some china white for that prick Mr Guy. A meeting at seven o’clock outside Liverpool One. Easy money. Where the fuck was Aksel? Why wasn’t he coming to eat his dinner? He called out his compatriot’s name.
‘Fuck him,’ he grumbled, and tore into a piece of fish. When he’d had enough food he rose from the cluttered desk, wiping both greasy hands on his jeans, and opened a drawer of an old wooden cabinet. He lifted out a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff, twisted off the cap, placed the bottle to his mouth and took a swig.
Then he heard a noise behind him and turned around.
The bottle shattered with the first shot, the second bullet settled in his brain, and Janek Poska slumped to the floor.
Outside, a car engine idled. The interior of the BMW was splattered in blood. Aksel’s head rested on the steering wheel.
Chapter 53
The past four days have been hectic. I know I don’t have much time, but still the perfectionist in me wants to get it right. On Tuesday I ventured down to Mother Freedom, moored at Port Penrhyn. Kitted her out with a fresh mattress, food, some drink, got her fuelled up, loaded six bags of loose gravel, all ready and waiting for Tara and her mate. When I got back to the city I bought a couple of mobile phones, pay-as-you-go, of course, so they can’t be traced to me. I devised the routes I want to take from Liverpool to Mother Freedom. You see, I have to be sure that when I use Aisling to draw out Tara, no one else is tagging along. By that I mean other cops. If anyone gets to hear what’s going on, I’m fucked. If things go to plan, Tara and Aisling will disappear like the rest of them, not a trace left, and I can get on with the rest of my life.
Honestly, I’m so stressed out over this that I doubt I will ever take another girl. I’ll marry Kirsty, be a dad to my kid, maybe have a couple more... and life should be too sweet for my eye to go roving again.
Last night, I left Kirsty shopping in Debenhams and sneaked off to buy the gear I will need to see off two girls. I was supposed to meet Janek outside, in Paradise Place, close to the John Lewis store. He didn’t show. I know he’s a cautious bastard, wouldn’t attempt a meet if he thought something was up, the cops watching or something, but usually he finds a way to communicate that he can’t make the deal. I’m sure he must be uneasy after getting pulled into the copshop, but when I took the chance and contacted him he said it would be no problem. I waited for nearly an hour. He’s never late. Has this uncanny way of finding you when you least expect it, no matter how good you think you are at spotting him, he always sees you first.
Kirsty was on the phone to me, asking where I’d got to. I told her I was browsing in Waterstones, lost track of the time. At that point I wasn’t too bothered that Janek hadn’t turned up. A couple of phone calls and we could arrange another meet.
Kirsty was laden with shopping bags when I met up with her at Starbucks.
‘Didn’t you buy any books?’
‘Nah, didn’t see anything I liked.’
We chatted over coffee, like an old married couple. She went through everything she’d bought, mostly stuff for our new house. That project seems to have forged ahead without much input from me. But I can’t be arsed at the moment. I know I’ll feel more interested when I lay the Tara Grogan problem to rest. So I let Kirsty prattle on, nodding, throwing in the odd supporting comment, smiling in delight at a set of towels she pulled from a bag. You see, I knew that if I kept her sweet then when we got home she would be all sweet to me in bed.
From habit, I checked the news on TV when we got back to the flat. Kirsty was changing into her new maternity dress to let me see it. All of this was piss poor timing. I’d just finished reading a bulletin on the shooting of two men in Tranmere, earlier in the evening and was worried that it was Janek — drug dealing was mentioned in the report. Then, in twirls Kirsty in her new dress and I hardly looked at her.
I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think about sex with Kirsty, not that she was up for it anyway after my failure to enthuse about her dress. My head was buzzing. What if Janek had been arrested again? What if he was involved in the murders of the guys in Tranmere? Or what if it actually was Janek who’d been killed? Then where would I get my gear from? I know I could eventually find a new dealer, but I don’t have the time right now. I needed some china white to see off Tara and Aisling.
Next morning, I patched things up with Kirsty before she left for work. I really do love her, don’t want her upset, not with the wedding, the new house and the baby coming.
Before I went out I couldn’t help checking the news. My worst fears were confirmed. Janek, my supplier, was dead. What the fuck is going on? Did this new murder have anything to do with Tara investigating
me? Bloody strange if it was just coincidence.
But I had no time to worry about an Estonian drug dealer. It’s not like he was a mate or anything. I needed to get an alternative supply. If Tara was really coming after me I knew what I had to do.
Chapter 54
Tara had also listened to the breakfast news with interest. And like James Guy, she had not slept well. Her arm still ached from the rough handling she’d suffered in Belfast and from the manipulation by her physio. She was never one for taking painkillers. Instead, she curled up on the sofa in her dressing gown and nursed a cappuccino. It was Friday morning and she could hardly wait for tomorrow, Saturday, a chance to rest, to unwind, to catch up on laundry and tidying her bedroom, which was currently a bombsite of discarded clothes and shoes.
Her phone lay on the arm of the sofa, happily pinging texts from Aisling, WhatsApp messages from Kate on holiday and emails from all the usual spam merchants. She ignored it all and listened intently to the breakfast news on BBC1, which regaled her with the continuing debate over Brexit, outrage over the antics of the American president, the failure of the NHS to meet targets and the sacking of a Premiership football manager.
All of this paled into insignificance when the local bulletin reported the murders of two men at a scrapyard in Tranmere. The opinion of a senior Merseyside Police detective, whose name was not familiar to her, was that a gang war had erupted between rivals in the Liverpool drugs trade. That statement could have been written by DCI Weir, she thought. Tara would take some convincing before she could believe that these latest killings were linked to the murder of Ryan Boswell. Yet she knew that DCI Weir would currently be wallowing in a bath of vindication — if he ever took a bath.
*
Arriving at work later that morning, Tara heard the story going around the station at St Anne Street — that the Vipers had taken revenge on the Tallinn Crew for the shooting of their leader, Tyler Finlay. Matrix had acted quickly, and several prominent members of the Vipers had been arrested in the early morning. Homes had been searched, mobile phones seized and house-to-house enquiries instigated. Tara imagined that DCI Weir was having a busy day. Maybe he was right, she thought. She couldn’t imagine how the two men in Tranmere fitted into the story of Carly McHugh, her father Rab and Ryan Boswell. A feud had begun, a turf war between rival gangs in the city, and maybe Belfast was involved only because Carly had a relationship with Boswell, or maybe they had interests in the Vipers and were now feeling threatened by the killings and by the police investigations. But none of that answered the major questions, why had Carly McHugh left her home in Northern Ireland, where had she gone and what was she doing now?
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 68