Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  Murray hoped to find some clue as to where Tara had gone. He dared to believe that she may still be free and on the trail of the serial killer, but his doubts held sway when he realised that she would not have ceased all contact unless she’d got into difficulty. In the violence of the storm, he sensed rather than saw the stretch of the lake alongside them. Wilson was going over the car’s interior, but there was no sign of any written message, Tara’s bag, her phone or any clue to suggest where they should look for her next.

  Murray thanked the two constables, and then from the shelter of his own car attempted to call St Anne Street station. There was little signal. What else could be achieved out here? Did they wait for daybreak to conduct a search around the lake’s shore? All manner of scenarios played out in his head, the worst being Tara already lying at the bottom of Llyn Ogwen. He decided he could take better control of the situation back in Liverpool. He was eager to see the mobile phone data; that, surely, would provide the best chance of finding Tara.

  As he drove away from the lake and the signal strength improved, Wilson managed to make contact with St Anne Street. But rather than hearing an update on the search for Tara, both detectives were told that all hell had broken loose on the Treadwater Estate.

  Chapter 77

  I must have dozed off. The thud of the boat against the harbour wall woke me with a jolt. My first thought was, what the fuck am I doing here? My second was to wonder why Tara wasn’t in her bunk.

  I flicked on the lights and instantly saw her through the open door of the bow cabin, sitting next to Aisling. Sweet. I saw the fear in her eyes too, as I came to join them. Couldn’t help smiling. Aisling was now awake and crying, and I realised that after the last time I’d been with her I hadn’t re-bound her hands or feet. That was careless. Tara, though, was securely bound. Just ripe for me.

  ‘I know you want the same as Aisling, don’t you, Tara?’ She tried to roll away from me, but where could she go? I fetched another roofie from the little bag I had in the galley. I didn’t have many left now, but hopefully sufficient to have my girls comatose when I had my final fling, and maybe they would still be out of it when I tipped their bodies into the drink.

  I sat astride Tara as she tried to wriggle free. It was comical to watch. I pulled the gaffer tape partially free from her mouth, squeezed the roofie pill through her lips and replaced the tape. For a while, I sat watching her, feeling her slight body struggling beneath me. A bit of a turn on, I have to say. Aisling wasn’t doing anything. Just lying still. I don’t really think she was with us at all, her head in a daze. The roofies were definitely messing with their heads. She didn’t make any attempt to help her friend.

  I was quite happy sitting there, Tara between my legs, watching her slowly fade, losing the will to resist. I was about to have the time of my life.

  When her eyes began to lose focus I climbed off her and went to the galley for a knife.

  ‘Don’t worry, Aisling, it’s not what you think.’ The poor girl seemed to think I was about to stab them both. She backed away on the bed as far as she could, into the bow. Aware of danger it seemed, so not that far gone. I cut the plastic cable ties at Tara’s hands and feet and placed her in a comfortable position. I slid her skirt down her legs and dropped it on the floor. Next, I took hold of her tights and began to pull them down...

  Suddenly, I felt as though my head had just separated from my body. I couldn’t hear; I couldn’t see clearly, and I collapsed on top of the unconscious Tara. I felt close to passing out. Aisling clambered over us both as I regained my bearings. She’d swung her foot and caught me on the side of the head. Now she’d pulled the tape from her mouth and was yelling the place down. She was grappling to get by, to get out of the cabin and off the boat.

  ‘C’mere you wee bitch!’

  She tripped over the step and fell into the galley, me diving on top of her. She screamed in pain as my knee thumped into her lower back. Scrambling to my feet, I tried to keep hold of her, but it was difficult, with her being naked. Digging my nails into her arms, I managed a firmer grip and dragged her back into the cabin. She collapsed on Tara, who didn’t budge. But Aisling wasn’t finished. She scrambled onto her knees and rained punches down on me, squealing like a banshee for help. She’d lost it completely, off her head, and she was bloody strong.

  Then I saw the knife I’d used to cut Tara’s binds. I dropped to the floor as Aisling kicked at me with her bare feet. Honestly, I only meant to use it to scare her off, to calm her down, but the wee bitch wouldn’t give in. She was leaning over me, slapping and punching at my head and scratching my face. I thrust upwards with the knife, and it sank into her belly, her warm blood splattering down my arm. That shut her up. I pulled the knife out again. She clasped both hands over the wound. Her blood dripped all over me. I got to my feet, went to the galley and cut another piece of gaffer tape. I stuck it over her mouth to stop her crying and pushed her over Tara so that she lay on her back still gripping her belly.

  Fuck! This was not the way things were supposed to happen.

  Immediately, I went to the wheelhouse and started the engine. The wind was still howling and rain was bouncing off the harbour wall. It was still dark but I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to get out to sea. I would have my day with Tara, to hell with the weather. I cast off and aimed the bow of Mother Freedom at the open sea. I had one hell of a headache.

  Chapter 78

  An entire street, Linwood Crescent, had been cordoned off on the Treadwater Estate. A line of police vehicles, cars, vans, swirling blue lights, plastic tape, and uniforms engulfed the street. Clearly, a major incident was unfolding, residents were being guided away from the cordoned off area, and armed police officers were developing a plan of action.

  Murray and Wilson arrived when the area was still in darkness, still in pouring rain, to find DCI Weir heading up the incident. They slipped by the cordon and bounded up to the big Scot.

  ‘What’s happening, sir?’ Murray asked. For once, DCI Weir looked pleased, or at least relieved, to see members of Harold Tweedy’s team standing before him. Strange, that in heavy rain one tended to shout to be heard. Weir, in a waterproof anorak, his fat head encased in the hood, was his usual caustic self.

  ‘Bloody gang wars for you, sonny. Didn’t I tell you it was all about drugs in this city?’

  Murray didn’t rise to Weir’s condescension. His allegiance lay still with his DI, despite the fact that she could not be found, and he was worried sick. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if Tara was caught up in the drama on this estate. Had she managed to nail the people responsible for the shootings in Treadwater? But just as quickly he dismissed the notion, since he and Wilson had just left Llyn Ogwen, where her car lay abandoned. Surely, there was no logical connection between the two situations. Now this incident was preventing him from continuing his search. For a moment, as he only half-listened to Weir’s account of the present circumstances, he tried to think of where to go next in looking for Tara.

  ‘As far we know,’ said Weir, ‘the house we’ve sealed off belongs to Aidan Boswell. Number thirty-six. There are two people left inside. Aidan Boswell and Carly McHugh.’

  ‘Are they armed?’ Wilson asked. Members of the firearms unit were moving into position around the perimeter of the house and in the gardens of houses opposite.

  ‘According to a Kimberley Lloyd, Aidan’s girlfriend, McHugh is armed with an automatic pistol.’

  ‘Carly McHugh?’

  Murray knew then that Tara had been right. The Belfast girl was at the centre of these murders. And on Friday evening, DCI Weir had set her free.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Weir. ‘Seems she came to the front door, asking for Aidan. When Kimberley told her that he wasn’t home she forced her way in and decided to wait. When Boswell returned, Kimberley tried to warn him off, but before he could escape Carly shot him in the leg. In the confusion, Kimberley got away and raised the alarm.’

  ‘Is Boswell still alive?’
>
  ‘Think so. McHugh is threatening to kill him if she doesn’t get safe passage out of there. The wee lass isn’t going to get that now, is she?’

  ‘Who’s handling the negotiations?’

  ‘I am at the moment.’ Murray met Weir’s glare full on, but he was shocked by what the DCI said next.

  ‘Therein lies the problem, DS Murray. The lass says she will only speak with DI Grogan. So tell me, where the hell is she?’

  Murray felt like punching Weir, not that the man would feel much, with such a fat head. His insouciance had helped create the present situation, and now he was trying to lay blame at Tara’s door. This trouble would never have happened if she had been allowed to do her job. Carly McHugh should have been in custody, had been in custody.

  ‘We think she has been abducted, sir.’

  Weir scoffed and turned his hefty frame back towards the besieged house.

  ‘Then you’d best be off looking for her, sonny.’

  Chapter 79

  She leaned over the edge of the bunk and vomited. Only then did she realise that she was not bound hand and foot, for she was able to peel the tape from her mouth just before she threw up. In the half-light, she turned to see Aisling beside her, crumpled to a foetal position, her hands tucked into her tummy. She reached out and stroked her friend’s hair. Aisling didn’t flinch. Tara’s hand went to Aisling’s face. It felt cold. She sat up, aware now of the loud drone of an engine and the violent swaying to and fro. They were at sea. She shook Aisling’s arm to wake her, but there was no response. Her fears rose instantly, her body trembling, her mind racing to an answer she didn’t want to believe. She placed two fingers at Aisling’s neck and felt for a pulse. Nothing, but she couldn’t be sure, not with the rise and fall of the boat, the noise and vibrations from the engine and her fingers shaking against her friend’s ice-cold flesh. Then she felt the mattress, wet beneath her. She saw nothing but a dark stain on the pale linen. She vomited again as a scream rose in her throat. She didn’t want to believe. It couldn’t be. Surely, he was going to let Aisling go? He wouldn’t have killed her. Not like this.

  In panic, she pushed herself away from Aisling. As she tried to stand she saw that her tights had been pulled down below her knees and her skirt was missing. In the dim cabin, she couldn’t see her clothes or any of Aisling’s. Quietly, yet with tears streaming down her face, she pulled her tights up then stood by the closed door of the cabin, listening. If they were at sea, then surely he was in the wheelhouse above? Slowly, she pushed on the door until it began to slide open, revealing the galley. Deserted, as she’d thought. If Aisling was dead then Tara had no further hope of survival other than to resist this monster at every opportunity.

  She stepped into the galley, and for the first time she could see the magnitude of her dire situation. From the starboard window, in the grey dawn light, she looked upon a distant horizon, a thunderous sea separating her from... nothing. When she glanced to the portside she saw land, dark cliffs and rocks — a few hundred yards away, she guessed. That was all she had, standing in the galley shivering from cold and fear and desperation. She had no plan, and could only pray that her death would come quickly. Aisling, it seemed, had died in agony, Tara lying uselessly beside her friend as she’d bled to death. Shame and guilt now swam alongside her fears. It was not a helpful combination. Her mind drifted to visions of the many times she’d felt fear in her job, times when her life had been in danger. Yet she had always acted. Always, the instinct to survive had kicked in. She wasn’t sure if she even wanted to survive now. Why should she live, when her beautiful friend had perished? She had failed Aisling. Why should she live?

  Heart thumping, rooted to the spot, her mind unable to spark the need for self-protection, Tara gazed about the cabin. She knew he was at the wheel, powering the boat to who knows where. To a spot where he could rid himself of two more victims. How many times had he done this? How many women had sunk to the bottom of the sea because of him? She had to know. She must win justice for every single one of them. She had to overcome him. He mustn’t win again.

  Now, her fighting spirit erupted inside her.

  She searched the cabin for something, anything she could use to defend herself. She found little but her skirt lying on the bench where, a day earlier, he had sat for hours watching her. At the small stove and cabinet she couldn’t even find a knife, a fork, or a spoon. He was well practised in keeping weapons from his victims. All that sat before her was a kettle, half-full with water. She managed to strike the lighter on the two-ring gas stove and set the kettle over the flame. She prayed that he would stay outside. She urged the water to boil. Time froze as she waited. The boat cut awkwardly through the waves, and she struggled to keep her feet.

  Then a whistle. She’d forgotten about the sing from the kettle. Quickly, she snatched it from the stove, leaving the flame to burn. Then two conflicting thoughts. One that Guy had heard the whistle and would come down to see. Two that he hadn’t heard and she could lie in wait for him. Clutching the kettle by its handle, she squeezed into a small gap between the bunk and the hatch to the wheelhouse above. She had to stand on one foot. It was the only spot where she could have complete surprise if he entered the cabin. Then panic gripped her once again as she realised that she’d left the sliding door open to the forward cabin. Still holding the kettle, she scurried forwards and slid the door closed, her dead friend banished from sight. As she was about to retake her hiding place she felt the boat’s engine slow, and suddenly the hatch opened and he stepped inside.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  She swung the kettle.

  Chapter 80

  Aidan Boswell writhed in agony and couldn’t stop himself from looking to his leg. His right kneecap was gone, only a bloodied pulp of cartilage remained. He lay sprawled across the sofa of his living room, groaning from the searing pain, on the verge of throwing up or passing out. Maybe both. There was blood everywhere. His clothes, the sofa, and a deep red trail on the carpet leading all the way from the door. Carly, girlfriend to his now dead brother Ryan, sat on the arm of a chair pointing a gun in his direction. She’d fired it once, and he didn’t doubt that she would do so again.

  ‘Tell me again what happened to Ryan that night?’ Her voice was hard, the type of hard that comes with a tough upbringing in a tough neighbourhood of a city well-used to sorting its problems with a gun. The tragedy was that she was such a pretty girl, beautiful in the right circumstances, a face easy on the eyes. Aidan could see what had attracted his brother. What he hadn’t seen, or known, was how close they had become. After Ryan’s death he hadn’t thought that Carly would ever come back to Treadwater. Now, she wanted answers from him.

  She wore black motorcycle leathers and biker boots, her crash helmet sat on Kimberley’s dining table. There’d be hell to pay if it got scratched. Carly had lowered the zipper on her jacket. He saw her white T-shirt beneath and the swellings of her breasts. It would have been an alluring sight but for the pistol firmly pointed in his direction. He considered faking unconsciousness so that she might leave him alone, but then he thought that she was just as likely to put a bullet in his head on her way out the door. That was before he was aware of the house being surrounded by the bizzies. Kimberley must have called the police. Maybe they could save him from this mad bitch. She’d had a discussion with one of the cops outside, shouting through an open window. She said she would only deal with that detective, DI Grogan. But they said that wasn’t going to happen. In the end, she told them that either the bizzies let her go or she would kill him. She gave them half an hour to organise it. When she turned away from the window, he realised that she hadn’t finished her interrogation.

  ‘I’ve popped your buddies Tyler and Craig, and one wee fucker was lucky last night that I didn’t get him too. Can’t think of the wee shite’s name but I know he was in the house that night, when Ryan was taken away. Tried to feel me up. So don’t be thinking because you’re Ryan’s brother that I won’t kill you.
Somebody in the Vipers shot Ryan that night, and I want to know who.’

  ‘Wasn’t Vipers,’ Aidan said, gasping with pain. ‘Your lot from Belfast did it. They wanted Ryan dead because he was running his own deals and you were helping him. Why do you think he was called back to Liverpool?’

  She jumped from her chair and kicked out at his wounded leg. He yelled for mercy.

  ‘Stop your whingeing! I know about Fitter and my da. They wanted Ryan sorted, but my da wouldn’t have let anyone hurt him. He knew we were together. He just wanted him reeled in, that’s all. I got a telling off from him. Tyler tried to tell me that some blokes from Estonia were in on it. They were there that night. Is that true?’

  Aidan was confused; not knowing which answer would appease her.

  ‘Is that true, Aidan? Fuckin’ answer me!’ She pointed the gun at his other knee.

  ‘No, no! Wasn’t them. They’d nothing to do with it.’

  Carly’s face paled. ‘Don’t lie to me, Aidan. Tyler said they were there, baying for blood.’

  Aidan shook his head, sniffing back tears and snot. ‘It was Fitter gave us the shooter. Ask him yourself.’

  ‘Who did it then? Tyler? Or Craig? Or were they too chicken to do the job themselves?’

  Aidan didn’t answer, the pain erupted in his leg. He wanted it all to end. First Ryan, then Tyler and Craig. He was surely next.

  ‘They get one of their lackeys to do it? Some wee fella? Thought it was cool? You’re going to tell me who it was, Aidan. Or do I have to shoot the whole fucking lot of you?’

  ‘I don’t know, Carly, honest. I wasn’t there that night.’

  ‘Bollocks. You’re lying, you wee shite.’

  She aimed the gun at his left knee and squeezed the trigger. It was a fatal mistake. Aidan screamed in pain as his knee disintegrated, but in seconds both the front and back doors of the house were rammed open and armed police surged inside.