A Date With Death

by Mark Roberts

  The two sisters looked at each other, and dread clashed with terror.

  ‘We’ve seen footage of Francesca at the Albert Dock. It looks like he didn’t show up at the allotted place and time. He’s done this before. Francesca went off the CCTV radar at around twenty-five to nine…’

  ‘Oh God, no…’ Margaret Christie fell forward suddenly, forehead and face on her knees as if she’d been suddenly and completely snapped near the base of her spine. Her sister caressed her back and whispered, ‘It’s not over yet. We still have hope.’

  ‘Based on previous cases, Francesca’s got some time on her side,’ said Stone.

  ‘How long?’ asked Francesca’s aunt as her mother sobbed a fresh wave of unbridled tears.

  ‘Days. We’re pretty certain we’ve located a geographic area in South Liverpool where we think Francesca is being held captive. We’re working round the clock to locate her. We have CCTV footage of a man we’re keen to question. His image is going to be extensively circulated in the media.’

  ‘There’s more than one of them?’

  ‘Yes, we believe there’s more than one.’

  The horror in Francesca’s aunt’s face reached breaking point.

  ‘I have to say there was no sign whatsoever,’ said Sergeant Green, ‘of any sexual violation with the previous victims.’

  Mrs Christie uncurled slowly.

  ‘As soon as we learn anything new, we’ll be in touch with you immediately. We are doing our best, I promise you,’ said Stone. ‘Samantha will stay with you, and if you want to get a message to us or you remember anything that may help, tell Samantha and she’ll pass it on to us.’

  Stone walked to the front door with a monumental silence at his back.

  Leaving the house, he heard the oncoming rattle of the milk float and a cat yowling in the dark as he headed towards Druid’s Cross Road.

  His iPhone buzzed with an incoming message.

  CLAY

  Francesca Christie’s black Vauxhall Corsa has been discovered near the gates to Otterspool Park, just off Aigburth Road. It’s in our garage at the Speke Industrial Estate.

  He walked back up the path, wondering what words he was going to use to deliver the latest grim news.

  An owl sang in the sky as night slowly uncoiled to dawn.

  In the imminent grip of violent death, the rhythm and music of life rolled on.

  61

  6.01 am

  Her brain and body wanted nothing more than to shut down and fall into a deep sleep, but this was one compulsion that Clay knew she had to ignore.

  She looked at the cup from which she’d consumed several strong coffees and wondered if she was only imagining Gina Riley walking towards her across the incident room from the corner of her eye.

  Clay turned to look closely and saw that Riley was lost between deep agitation and raw excitement, carrying her open laptop towards her. She remained deadpan but guessed what Riley was going to say next.

  ‘I think we’ve got a hit from The Ghoul,’ said Riley.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Clay.

  Riley looked like she was in need of a forty-eight-hour lie-in and Clay questioned the wedge in her own brain that was too keen to believe her friend and colleague was right.

  ‘On the profile I posted as Sally Haydn.’

  Riley placed her laptop in front of Clay.

  ‘He’s had Francesca Christie for nine to ten hours,’ said Clay, clawing back information from his most previous pattern. ‘He had Annie Boyd and Amanda Winton together in a five-day window, Annie first in, Amanda next day. He must have loved every minute of it and now he’s looking for company for Francesca.’

  Clay read the opening sentences in response to Riley’s coy bait.

  Hi Sally, Thank you so much for getting in touch. I’m glad you’ve opened up this initial dialogue. Reading between the lines, I guess you’d like for us to get to know each other a little better. Say, talk on the phone, maybe. If I’m reading too much into this please forgive me and I wish you all the luck in the world in finding a man who will quite rightly worship the ground you walk upon. I take my hat off to him. xoxo Geoff

  She looked over the rest of the message, the same condensed contents of messages to Annie Boyd, Amanda Winton and Francesca Christie, and said, ‘You’re right, Gina. It’s The Ghoul. I see he’s signed himself off as Geoff Campbell this time. He’s on the minutes. He doesn’t usually ask for a mobile number at this stage. Have you written back to him yet?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Write back, something like, Hi, Geoff, you’re right lol there’s no time like the present. We’ll work off my phone. I’m going to need it down the line. Be affectionate but equally desperate with it.’

  Clay handed Riley her iPhone and she typed at speed with the thumbs of both hands.

  ‘Give him a specific time to call you. Tell him you can’t wait to talk to him. Let’s make it hours, not days. We’ll book an interview suite with a strictly do not disturb sign on the door.’

  Riley looked up from the iPhone.

  ‘What time, Eve?’

  ‘Half past ten this morning. It’s bordering on indecent haste but we haven’t got time on our side. Stay put right here. Between now and half past ten don’t get drawn into anything other than the phone call to him. I don’t care if World War III breaks out, that’s the only thing you have to do. Go over your Sally Haydn profile and learn it word for word. Rehearse your phone call with Bill Hendricks.’

  ‘Half past ten. It’s good,’ said Riley. ‘It makes me look super needy. Can’t even wait for the evening to talk to you, Geoff.’

  ‘Keep sending him messages, butter him up. See what language he comes out with, so we can rule out all possibilities of this being a linguistic fluke.’

  There was silence as both Clay and Riley reread his message, a silence broken by the sound of a domestic running a vacuum cleaner outside in the corridor as Hendricks entered the incident room.

  ‘Bill, over here.’

  Clay made a multitude of connections in her head.

  ‘Bill and Gina, I want you to book a block of time in a quiet place. You both know everything we have about how The Ghoul presents to women he’s entrapping. Go over and over it because there’s a grey area. We don’t know how he performs on the phone. Based on what we know from his writing, it’s a fairly safe bet to say it’ll be more of the same. Practise that phone call.’

  ‘I’ll be Beauty,’ said Riley.

  ‘And I’ll be The Ghoul,’ replied Hendricks.

  ‘What is it, Bill?’ asked Clay. ‘You’ve got that shit’s about to hit the fan look on your face.’

  ‘That’s because it is, Eve. Big time. Gina gets on the phone to him, he offers to take her on a date, who’s actually going to go on that date with death?’

  ‘You think I haven’t thought about that, Bill?’

  ‘I’m sure you have, Eve, but I’d like to know what is your thinking on it?’

  Without hesitation, Clay said, ‘I’m going on the date. We’ll organise a covert but extensive firearms presence and flood the area with plain-clothes officers.’

  Hendricks and Riley looked at each other and the following silence was dense and filled with an intense prickly heat.

  ‘Well, say something?’ said Clay.

  ‘Have you told Thomas yet?’ asked Hendricks.

  ‘I’ve been in much worse danger, Bill, you know that. If The Ghoul tells me through Gina to meet him at the padlocked railings, there’ll be more coppers floating round the Albert Dock than at Goodison Park or Anfield on match day. I’ll be perfectly safe.’

  ‘Are you sure, Eve?’ The anxiety on Riley’s face was raw and came from deep within.

  ‘I’m sure. What option do we have? This is a golden opportunity to catch him. If the past is anything to go on, Francesca Christie’s got four and a half days before she shows up in a ditch or a river with no face and scalp. It’s our primary duty to protect the public. We can’t le
ave her to that bastard’s tender loving care.’

  ‘You don’t fit the physical profile, Eve,’ said Hendricks.

  ‘That was tactfully stated,’ said Clay. ‘Even if it was a little cack-handed.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Eve. I’m looking at safer alternatives, strategies…’

  ‘There are none. OK, I’m a long way past twenty-five and I’m a brunette. I’ll dye my hair blonde and make myself up like Francesca Christie on her profile picture. If he gets close enough to see my face, then he’s going to shit himself hard and fast because I’ll be carrying a fully loaded Glock and I will use it if he gives the game away and tries to attack me.’

  She looked at them in turn, read their minds. ‘I’m not sending in some ambitious twenty-five-year-old WPC. There is an element of risk. This is my plan, this is my responsibility. This is down to me and no one else.’

  Clay took out her iPhone and scrolled through her contacts.

  ‘Who are you on to, Eve?’

  ‘I’m calling the duty superintendents from all the stations on Merseyside in the first instance. We can’t sit around on this one. We need to square it all up with senior management, and get this one out of the nest and flying.’

  ‘You mean business then, Eve?’ asked Riley.

  Clay remembered her first impression of Annie Boyd on the mudflats on the River Mersey, and the subsequent visit to her parents.

  She remembered the despair on their faces and imagined the lifelong road of devastation that lay ahead of them.

  ‘Yeah, I really mean business,’ said Clay. ‘Bring it on!’

  62

  8.45 am

  Detective Chief Inspector Eve Clay got out of her car when she observed a painfully thin man in his forties opening up the front door of Maguire Holdings.

  A little further ahead, on Allerton Road, Detective Sergeant Karl Stone got out of his car and headed towards the estate agency.

  Clay noticed a disabled parking bay directly outside the estate agency as she showed the man with the keys her warrant card.

  He introduced himself. ‘Daniel Ball. Office manager.’ He looked at Stone, who also showed him his warrant card. ‘Please, come in.’

  Daniel Ball turned on the lights and closed the door after himself. He indicated empty seats behind unmanned desks but Clay said, ‘It’s OK, thank you, Mr Ball.’

  ‘What – what’s this about?’

  The complete attention he’d been giving to Clay and Stone faltered and he looked directly out of the window, where a red Vauxhall Combo arrived in the disabled parking space.

  ‘This the boss?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Yes. What’s this about?’

  ‘Francesca Christie works here, right?’

  Daniel Ball looked like he’d just had a ball of wet dung thrown in his face. ‘Until yesterday lunchtime she did.’

  He looked out of the window again, where a middle-aged woman was opening the car door.

  ‘That suddenly?’ asked Clay. ‘Lunchtime? Not even until the end of the day?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the office manager. ‘That suddenly. Shocking.’

  ‘What’s your boss’ name?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Norma Maguire.’

  ‘Was there an argument?’ Stone chipped in.

  ‘Not exactly. More of a unilateral bombshell from Francesca.’

  ‘I spoke to Francesca’s mother last night,’ said Clay.

  Outside, the door of the red Vauxhall Combo closed with a slam and the car beeped as Norma Maguire locked the vehicle. As she wheeled herself from the road to the shallow ramp leading on to the pavement, Clay sensed a mounting agitation in Daniel Ball’s eyes.

  ‘Norma’s not happy about Francesca walking out. If you have questions to ask Norma on that matter, please tread carefully.’

  Norma Maguire stopped on the pavement and looked into the front office with a dead-eyed stare.

  ‘She was very fond of Francesca. She was like the daughter Norma never had. But when it came down to the end, Francesca dropped Norma like she was a diseased dog.’

  Norma wheeled herself towards the front door.

  ‘Why are you looking for Francesca?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re not sure yet,’ replied Clay. ‘Are you OK, Mr Ball?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ he replied.

  ‘You seem a little stressed.’

  The office manager opened the door for his boss.

  ‘I see we have visitors. This early?’ asked Norma Maguire.

  Clay showed her warrant card to her. ‘Can we go to your office, Ms Maguire?’

  ‘With respect, why are you here on my business premises?’

  ‘It’s about Francesca Christie,’ said Clay.

  ‘I need to stay down here and talk to your staff,’ said Stone. ‘Once the staff are over the front door, I need to keep it closed to customers for as long as it takes to find answers to my questions.’

  ‘If you’re going to talk to my staff,’ said Norma. ‘I’d like to be here also, at least for a few minutes to try and support them. We’re not used to having the police around here.’

  ‘By all means reassure your employees about us being here,’ said Clay, walking towards Norma Maguire. ‘But please don’t keep me waiting too long. Where’s your office?’

  ‘Upstairs.’

  ‘I’ll meet you up there shortly,’ said Clay, heading out of the office and towards the stairs.

  63

  8.59 am

  Alone in Norma Maguire’s office, Clay was drawn to a wall of framed photographs of the happy teams who had worked at the estate agency down the years. On her iPhone, she took three pictures of each portrait, the last one with Francesca Christie sitting at her boss’ right-hand side in the office downstairs.

  There was something about the group portraits that made Clay feel as if a large bird had landed on her head and was steadying itself on the curve of her skull by digging its talons into her scalp.

  What is it? she asked herself. Who is it? She skimmed the smiling faces of the most recent portrait, saw Francesca Christie on the seated front row, her shoulder connecting with Norma Maguire’s, and felt bitterly sorry for her.

  Clay stood at Norma Maguire’s desk and went through the pictures she had taken, noting the change in fashions and hairstyles as time passed and that, over the years, staff turnover was negligible.

  She emailed the images to Cole with a message.

  Barney – print off the best picture of each group and stick it on the noticeboard with the other images. Sandra O’Day. Annie Boyd. Amanda Winton. The real Richard Ezra. Springwood Cemetery Plot 66, etc. Cheers, Eve.

  She heard the lift arriving and, moments later, Norma Maguire wheeled herself into the office.

  ‘Please sit down, DCI Clay,’ said Norma Maguire, wheeling herself behind her desk.

  Clay smiled at Norma Maguire and, in the cold grip of the overhead fluorescent light, noticed just how much make-up the estate agent was wearing. In a glance, Clay saw that the beige foundation that covered the surface of her face looked three layers thick; her eye shadow looked like it had been smeared across her eyelids with a pair of thumbs. The only part of her make-up that was well-applied was her lipstick but, in her view, it was redder than it should have been for a Friday in the office. She was clearly a woman who felt under-dressed without a heavy slap of war paint on her face.

  The landline rang on Norma Maguire’s desk. She looked at Clay and said, ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Excused.’

  Clay looked around the room and her eyes were drawn to the back of a framed photograph on the desk. She glanced back at the wall lined with group portraits and concluded that every last man and woman was smiling a little too enthusiastically.

  Norma placed the receiver down and faced Clay directly.

  ‘Is Francesca in trouble?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Norma Maguire.

  ‘Are you happy for me to call you Norma?’

 
‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I understand that Francesca left your employment yesterday, Norma?’

  ‘It came as a huge and unpleasant shock. I thought we had a good relationship. I was obviously mistaken. She presented as a pleasant young woman but she was also our out and out best salesperson by a country mile. It’s been a double blow.’

  ‘Why did she leave Maguire Holdings?’

  Norma shrugged her shoulders and looked utterly puzzled. ‘I don’t know. When she resigned, she was in no mood for a meaningful dialogue. It was completely out of the blue.’

  ‘Do you know if or where she went to?’

  ‘Doherty Estates and Properties. Just down that way on Allerton Road. Can I ask you again, DCI Clay. Why are we talking about Francesca Christie?’

  ‘She went on a date last night and she hasn’t shown up.’

  ‘I tried to warn her!’

  ‘How do you mean, Norma?’

  ‘The last significant conversation we had before the one in which she told me she was leaving.’

  Norma Maguire opened a drawer in her desk and placed a card file in front of Clay. She noticed how Norma’s eyes were troubled, dithering as she processed a string of unpleasant ideas.

  She took a deep breath and explained, ‘Francesca had technical problems with the laptop I gave her for work. I sent it away to be repaired and, when it came back, the technician flagged up to me that Francesca had been using her work laptop to conduct discussions with men on an internet dating site.’

  ‘Which dating site?’ asked Clay.

  Norma thought about it. ‘Pebbles On The Beach.’

  ‘What’s in the file, Norma?’

  ‘Have a look. The names of the men she’s been talking to on the internet. Dates and times on which she accessed the dating site and transcripts of her conversations with men. One or two in particular.’

  Norma looked over her shoulder and turned her wheelchair round. ‘I took her to this window. Follow me, DCI Clay.’

  Clay stepped beside Norma Maguire and looked out at the junction of Allerton Road and Penny Lane.