‘It’s all right, Shania. You’ve been really helpful. We’ll leave you in peace. I’m sure your mum is taking good care of you.’ Tara looked at the mother, who managed to summon a weak smile of agreement. ‘If you think of anything else that might help us please call me.’ She placed her card on the coffee table.
As they walked towards the car there was a loud revving of a motorcycle engine. Tara swung around in hope that she would spy Carly McHugh, but just as quickly realised that things were seldom so simple.
‘What do you think, mam?’ Murray asked as he drove away from the house.
‘Exactly what I’ve been thinking since I first heard of Carly McHugh. That she is the key to it all. We just have to find her.’
Chapter 57
While eating her lunch in the station canteen, Tara sent a text to Aisling confirming their shopping trip on Saturday morning. She realised that she should spend more time with her friends whenever she could — far too often, a night out or plans for a day away together were trashed by her job. Intending to catch up on housework was no excuse at all; both Kate and Aisling often said that life is too short. So she expected an immediate reply to her text of ‘Yay!’ or ‘Great!’, but nothing came.
She’d passed on the registration for Carly McHugh’s motorbike, upon which she had boarded the ferry in Belfast, to Traffic. If she was right about the girl, it would soon be spotted somewhere around Liverpool.
Wilson had been asked to compile a timeline of the disappeared girls and to obtain details of Guy’s attendance record when he worked at the Royal. Tara couldn’t dismiss the subject of James Guy from her thoughts. This investigation wasn’t an official case, certainly not one assigned to her, but she couldn’t leave it alone. Even if just one of the disappeared girls had been a victim of James Guy, that was enough for her to want to prove his involvement. She was cooking up an idea that if she could collate the dates of his absences from work and establish that these coincided with the dates on which some of the girls had disappeared, it would add to the evidence against him.
Having asked Wilson also to check if there had been a lull in girls reported missing during the spell that Guy spent in prison, she understood from his brief report that it was impossible to be certain. There had been, of course, cases of girls having disappeared during the time Guy was in jail. Such disappearances happened every day. Whether or not they were similar in circumstance to the vanishing of Ruth Lawler or Linda Meredith would require more detailed investigation, and Tara could not afford the time needed for such an enquiry. Soon though, she hoped, she would have enough information to pull Guy into the station for a chat.
Since her meeting with Guy’s aunt in Belfast, Tara had been pondering the case of his mother Rachel. What had happened to her? Surely, if hers was not a mysterious disappearance and merely a case of a mother having left home to start a new life elsewhere, it should not be too difficult to trace her. Perhaps James already had done so. And to what end? A wonderful and tearful reunion? Would he have held a grudge against his mother that might that have led him to killing her? Tara looked at the picture of Rachel, removed from the flat of Terry Lawler. She realised that Lawler must have suspected Guy of being a serial killer. What reason could there be for him having a photo of Rachel Guy among the other pictures of girls on his wall unless he believed that Guy had killed her, too?
Had Lawler been aware that the sweet-faced girl was the mother of a serial killer? What did she have to gain from searching for this woman? Tara couldn’t really answer that question.
Later in the afternoon, with thoughts of James Guy overshadowing her work on the Boswell case, Tara decided to call it a day and make for home. On her way out of the station she checked her mobile. Still no reply from Aisling.
A misty rain was falling as her car crawled along in heavy traffic, seldom in top gear, towards Wapping Dock. It was an evening for curling up with a good book or a film on the telly, but she’d decided that since she was spending her Saturday shopping with Aisling, then she should at least devote her Friday evening to some housework. She parked her car in her usual place and strolled towards the lift. On the way, still holding her keys, she went to her post-box and opened it. There were a couple of letters inside, one obviously junk mail promoting a new credit card and the other, she guessed from the company frank on the envelope, an invoice from her physio. In the lift she checked her phone again, still no response from Aisling. She quickly tapped in another message. Maybe Aisling was huffing because she hadn’t got an immediate reply to her suggestion; that wasn’t like Aisling, though, she didn’t take offence easily. She would be more likely to have bombarded Tara with messages until she agreed to go shopping.
Stepping from the lift, Tara sensed immediately that something wasn’t quite right. The door to her apartment was the second along the hallway. She quickened her step. A package had been fixed to her door with gaffer tape. Her first instincts were that it was a device of some kind, and she readied herself to phone for help. Reaching the door, she saw that the package was a mobile phone, held within a plastic self-seal bag. A piece of paper was also inside. The bag had been taped to the door, just below the lock. Tara’s heart thumped. It might be quite innocent, but as a police officer she was conditioned to think the worst. She didn’t dismiss the idea that it was a bomb, but curiosity overcame her fear and sensible thinking and she peeled the package from the wood of the door and removed the mobile from the bag.
It was a basic model, a call and text device but not a smartphone, and it was already switched on. The piece of paper was folded in two — she pulled it from the bag, opened it up and read. One brief sentence had been written in pencil. Upon reading it, she fought to catch a breath.
If you want to see your friend Aisling again call this number.
Beneath that line was a phone number.
Her first instinct was to dial the number into the phone. That was a mistake. She should have called for help, or at least used her own mobile. When the call went through, a hauntingly familiar voice answered.
‘Hello, Tara. You got my message. I’m sure you remember me.’
In less than a second all of her thinking, her theorising on missing girls, Terry Lawler’s collection of pictures, the bright smile of Linda Meredith, the grinning face of James Guy, his hands on her naked body, all swept before her. And she realised that there was no joy in being right. Only fear of what was to come.
‘What have you done with Aisling? I’ll find you, I know who you are.’
‘I know that, Tara. You’re very good at your job. Too bloody good. Now you have to listen to me.’
‘I’ll have every police force in the country after you.’
‘Now, now, calm down, Tara. You won’t be doing anything of the sort. Not if you want to see the beautiful Aisling alive. Here’s what you’re going to do. Throw away any other phone you have. You’ll be using only this one to contact me. You call me on another phone and Aisling dies. If you attempt to bring your mates at the station into this, Aisling dies. I get a sniff of any peelers and Aisling dies. You’ll go where I tell you to go. Alone. I think anybody is helping you and Aisling dies, understand?’
Tara couldn’t speak.
‘Do you understand, Tara?’
‘How do I know you haven’t harmed her already?’
‘You’ll have to take my word for it.’
‘I want to speak to her.’
‘Not right now, she’s having a wee doze.’
‘You hurt her in any way and I’ll…’
‘You’ll what, Tara? What are you going to do, eh?’
Tara was blinded with tears. She couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t think as a police officer, only as Aisling’s friend.
‘Please don’t hurt her, James.’
‘Just do as you’re told, Tara. Be at the car park at Brunswick station on Sefton Street, as soon as you can. Any tricks, and your mate is finished.’
He cut the call then, and Tara stood helpless o
n the landing. Her body trembled as her sobs grew. She managed to unlock her door and stumble inside the flat, making it to the kitchen sink before throwing up. Her cries were loud and desperate. She had no clue what to do next. She knew that she should not act alone, so she had to tell someone. Her training told her that much. But she had no doubt that James Guy would carry out his threat to kill Aisling. He’d killed dozens of girls already.
Murray. At least call him. He would know what to do. The face, the pretty, laughing and loving face of her friend flashed before her. Aisling would die if Tara got things wrong. Guy must be watching her, had been watching her. But her only aim for now was to free Aisling. She couldn’t think beyond that.
It was ten minutes past four in the afternoon. Meeting him at Brunswick station meant braving the Friday rush-hour. Guy would be watching her while remaining hidden amongst the public.
Then, her own mobile phone burst into life. Dashing from the sink to the door where she’d dropped it, she lifted her handbag and pulled out the phone. It was Murray. Thank God. She swiped the screen to answer.
‘Mam?’
‘Yes, Alan,’ she managed, breathing deeply, hoping she sounded calm, normal.
‘Traffic have arrested Carly McHugh; they’re bringing her to St Anne Street.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I’m still here, if you have time to call in we can have a chat with her?’
‘I can’t at the minute, Alan,’ she said, in a voice she knew was shaking. Should she tell him about Aisling?
‘Okay,’ he replied doubtfully. ‘Do you want me to go ahead and question her, or do we leave it to the morning?’
‘You go ahead. I can’t make it in the morning either. Let me know how you get on and I’ll see you on Monday.’
‘Right, mam. I’ll keep you posted.’
She ended the call, unable to tell Murray because she was too frightened of what would happen. Quickly, she tried to clean away her tears and smudged makeup. In the bathroom, she threw some cold water on her face and wiped it away with a towel. But she still hadn’t stopped herself crying. In a blur, she picked up the mobile Guy had left her. She couldn’t help picturing an image, conjured from her own experience, of Aisling lying in the back of a van, naked and at the mercy of a madman. Paying no further attention to her own appearance or what she might need to bring with her, she dashed from the bathroom. The vision of her friend, alone and helpless, overwhelmed her thinking. Her keys were still hanging from the door; she pulled them out, slammed the door behind her and hurried to her car.
Chapter 58
It took a wee while of driving about the city before she finally settled down and fell asleep. I pulled into a lay-by to catch my breath. My next trip was to Tara’s flat. I left the van in the car park by the Echo Arena and hurried to her block. I had with me one of the mobile phones that I’d bought. When I got to her door I switched on the phone and slipped it into a plastic bag along with a wee note and taped it to the door. Hopefully, no other plonker would come along and nick it before Tara got home. That done, I hurried back to my van and the slumbering Aisling. Bless. I have to admit I was tempted right then and there, but I knew that Aisling was only a means to an end. Tara Grogan was my target and my prize. Still, there was hardly a better sight than a gorgeous girl like Aisling, sprawled out in the back of my van.
Just after four, the mobile rang. It was Tara. I gave her instructions and warned her against any nonsense like squealing to her colleagues. Before driving to Brunswick station, I sent a text to Kirsty, told her I had to work a late shift and then I would be going fishing for the weekend. It would be enough to stop her from worrying about me for now. Hopefully, it would all be over soon, and I could get back to my new life. Tara would be long gone and with her all suspicion that I had anything to do with the disappearances of so many lovely girls.
I found a parking place a street away from Brunswick station. Aisling was purring away nicely, still bound and gagged. I pulled on a grey hoodie and went for a gander. The station wasn’t that far from Wapping Dock, so I knew it wouldn’t take her long to show up. I stood on the station footbridge. It was covered, and from there I could see the entrance to the car park. Fifteen minutes since our phone call, and in drives her blue Ford Focus. I’d been looking all around me for any signs of police, uniformed or otherwise. If I smelt anything fishy, I would be out of there and on my way with Aisling. I had no intention of meeting Tara at this spot, nor had I any intention of snatching her — yet. I had to see how things went. I had to be sure that she was not trailing half the peelers in the country behind her. If it turned out she was trying to set me up I would have no qualms about killing her mate.
I watched Tara getting out of her car. Dear love her, I could see she wasn’t looking her best. A bit stressed, I’d say. She stood in the middle of the car park looking every which way, holding tightly onto the phone I’d given her.
Keeping an eye on her, I keyed in a brief text on my phone and pressed send. Couldn’t help a wee grin as I watched her read it. Her arms dropped to her sides and she gazed around with a pained look on her cute face. Finally, she walked back to her car and climbed inside.
I got a bit worried when she didn’t drive off immediately. Thought she might be checking in with one of her police buddies. I was still feeling very nervous, scared that secretly she had a whole bunch of peelers just waiting to pounce. Eventually, she drove away, and I strolled back to the van, all the while looking out for anything suspicious. Uniforms, cops in plain clothes, I felt they could be everywhere, ready to grab me. I had to keep telling myself that I had something valuable. I had her friend Aisling. Surely she wouldn’t gamble with her friend’s life?
Chapter 59
Instead of heading home and making a start on his weekend, Murray decided to have a chat with the individual recently brought into St Anne Street.
When he entered the interview room he was faced with an attractive girl, looking slightly tough in black motorcycle leathers and boots. Her jacket was open to reveal a white T-shirt underneath and her arms were folded in defence, or defiance, waiting for him to speak. Murray swiftly conducted the preliminaries — introductions, an explanation of the procedure for recording the interview — then fired his first question.
‘What are you doing in Liverpool, Carly?’
She tightened her pose, visibly fumed but didn’t reply.
‘Where have you been staying in Liverpool?’
At that she kicked the leg of the table like a petulant school kid. Still no reply.
Murray did not have the same patience as his boss Tara, and found it hard to wait for the girl to melt and give up some answers. He cut to the chase.
‘Tyler Finlay was shot and killed a week ago on the Treadwater Estate. What can you tell me about that?’
Her shoulders jerked upwards in a shrug of indifference.
‘We know you were in Liverpool at that time, Carly. It wouldn’t hurt for you to tell us what you have been doing.’
She met his gaze with a hard stare. Such a cute face, yet such ice-cold emotion. Murray continued in the same vein. ‘We know you were on the Treadwater Estate on the night of the fifteenth of April. That was the night your boyfriend Ryan Boswell was killed. Have you anything to say about that?’
‘Are you mates with that snotty-nosed cow who asked me this stuff in Belfast?’
‘If you’re referring to DI Grogan then yes, she is a colleague.’
The girl laughed heartily.
‘You’re dying to give her one aren’t you? I can tell.’
Murray ignored that remark and ploughed on with his questions. Carly now had a smirk on her face. Still, her arms remained folded. Then, without a preliminary knock, the door opened and in strode DCI Weir. It wasn’t difficult to see that he was peeved. He looked at the girl and then sternly at Murray.
‘You can go, lass. Pick up your things at the desk on the way out.’
‘See ya.’
Carly McHug
h wasted no time in leaving the room but not without sniggering at the man who had tried and failed to get information from her.
Murray looked puzzled by Weir’s actions, but it was the DCI who spoke first.
‘DS Murray, who gave you authority to question that girl?’
Murray got to his feet. At least he could look down upon the smouldering bulk of Malcolm Weir.
‘We’ve been waiting to question her in connection with the murder of Ryan Boswell, sir.’
‘I didn’t ask you that, son. DI Grogan has already spoken to the girl in Belfast. Did she instruct you to carry out another interview?’
‘Not directly, sir.’
‘Not directly? Mmm. I warned her about encroaching upon my investigations without consulting me first.’
‘But sir, we think Carly McHugh is involved in these gang murders. She knows something about it.’
Weir’s face reddened, his watery eyes bulged.
‘I don’t give a shit what you and DI Grogan think! You’re interfering in my operation, son. Keep out. I’ll be having a word with Superintendent Tweedy. He needs to rein in the pair of you.’
Weir slammed the door behind him as he left. Murray scratched his head, drew a deep breath, forced it out through pursed lips, gathered his files and retreated to the operations room. Before leaving for home, he sent a text to Tara warning her of Weir’s anger, and urging her to prepare herself for trouble come Monday morning.
Chapter 60
Naively, she’d hoped that driving into the station car park she would see Aisling seated on a bench, waiting for her. Tara felt sick to her stomach although she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and even that had been swiftly despatched down her kitchen sink. Now, her head pounded, her temples were pulsing, her throat dry and her eyes seeped tears. Nothing. She saw nothing in the car park at Brunswick station. There was no sign of Aisling and no sign of Guy.
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 70