The Dead Tell Lies: an absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by J. F. Kirwan

  Everyone was a hero in their own story. Even serial killers. He glanced up to the photos. Could it be one of them? The Surgeon, stabbed to death in prison, The Torch, burned to an unrecognisable charred corpse in Reedmoor, The Gravedigger, shot dead during arrest. The Painter, still under lock and key; and The Divine, in a coma? He dwelled over The Reaper, almost catatonic these past few years. Could he be faking it? Greg didn’t think so. And The Dreamer, Christopher Ellerton, for whom they had no photo. His best shot was that The Painter was the strategist, although it wasn’t really his MO. That still left another killer on the loose. A new one, someone they hadn’t yet encountered. It was flimsy, and all the while they were no closer to finding Finch.

  Back to his method. He closed his eyes, imagined all the clues and scraps of evidence as if they were motes of dust floating around the room. He watched them drift, to see if they approached each other, or naturally linked in his mind. A cluster of three motes formed: Alfred Ellerton, his adopted son Christopher Ellerton – aka The Dreamer – and Rickard. Greg tried to connect Boris, The Painter, to this triad, but it didn’t fit. So how did they connect?

  Rickard and Boris were in cahoots. Had to be. Rickard had definitely visited him in Reedmoor. The more extensive records they’d now received from Collins said it only happened once, but who was really to say if he hadn’t met him in the canteen, or in the grounds, while with another patient? But how did they get to know each other? He couldn’t imagine that happening naturally, as in Rickard interviewed him for his book one day and then striking up a deathly relationship. So who was the intermediary?

  ‘Got something,’ Matthews said, his voice gaining some exuberance. ‘There is a lab near the village that does research on Amazonian plants, including…’ He swivelled the laptop around.

  Greg stared at the screen. Hallucinogenic and psychotropic drugs.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Matthews said. ‘Our own lab here had a hard time working out what Rickard put in your coffee. And then there was Fergus, and The Dreamer–’

  Matthews’ voice cracked, descending into a cough. Greg guessed why. Rickard had almost certainly drugged Finch as well. Matthews looked utterly miserable. Greg decided to force him to tackle it head on.

  ‘How long do you figure she’s got?’

  Matthews’ eyes flared, then he looked away. ‘Two days. She’s strong, but zero body fat. Without water…’

  ‘You found one of The Gravedigger’s victims, didn’t you?’

  Greg received an icy glare.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘What do we need to have with us when we find her?’

  The glare melted. ‘Water. Blankets. Something sugary.’

  Greg imagined Finch clawing uselessly at the walls till she ripped out her fingernails – because that’s what everyone did – sobbing on the floor, begging for someone to help her. Without warning, the frustration of their situation overtook Greg like a wave of burning heat rising to his head. He’d been waiting for it. ECT dampened emotions, and now the effect was wearing off fast. He blurted it out before he’d even thought it through.

  ‘I need a weapon. I need Kate’s Colt.’

  Matthews paused a beat, his voice cautious. ‘Why?’

  Anger swirled inside Greg’s head, his face flushing. ‘In case… in case I need to shoot…’ the words that motherfucker swam into his mind, but he had to keep some semblance of control, ‘…Rickard. When we find him. If he’s armed.’ He heard his own voice quaver. ‘To save Finch.’

  It was a good job he wasn’t tethered to the lie detector right now. He did what he was trained to do. Traced his anger’s roots, to make them more objective, to stop the rage from overwhelming him. Where was it coming from? The incident in the cell? The ECT, a form of violation? The fact that Rickard had said he’d raped Kate then carved a hole in her back? Raw, unchecked emotion bubbled and boiled inside Greg’s mind. He needed a cool head, needed his cold fire back. In any case, it was moot. Matthews would refuse his request.

  ‘You’ll go to prison,’ Matthews said, though softly, as if he was testing the angles in this new working relationship.

  Greg stayed quiet.

  ‘I presume you’ve never killed before. Have you even fired a weapon?’

  Greg shrugged. ‘At the firing range. Oh, and at The Divine’s crossbow.’

  ‘It’s not so easy to–’

  Greg’s emotions solidified into purpose. All his talk through the years arguing for the death penalty for serial killers. Had it just been empty rhetoric?

  ‘Just get me Kate’s gun.’

  Matthews steepled his hands and rested one of his two chins on them, then seemed to come to a decision. He spun his laptop back around and closed it. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and left the room.

  Greg was left with his own dark thoughts. With a major effort he pushed them aside and went back to the motes. They still weren’t connecting. He switched strategy to what his criminology professor had called the ‘narrative game’. He’d said that people often accept mildly bizarre behaviour without really probing behind it. A psychologist’s job was to delve deeper, to develop the killer’s backstory. Not his history, which served as the external frame, but how he most likely perceived what had happened to him, what had formed him. The internal thinking that sanctioned indiscriminate killing.

  He began profiling Rickard, upgrading his understanding of the man with what he knew, including this latest part about the drug research. If he could profile him, then maybe he could narrow down the search space. Donaldson had said there were more than a hundred officers out looking for Finch. Although that sounded reassuring, it was futile unless they had some idea of where to look.

  He began the process.

  Rickard liked to drug his victims. Why? To be in control. Why? Rickard’s father left home when he was a young boy. Rickard couldn’t have had an easy time of it, especially at school. No dad, and maybe few friends on account of his intellect and natural arrogance. Had he been bullied? That seemed too trite.

  Greg tried to see the world as Rickard did. Everyone was inferior to him, going about their humdrum lives. Rickard must have worried his own life might turn out the same. Then he met Alfred Ellerton, probably through Alfred’s son, Chris. Alfred became the father-figure Rickard had never known, an intellectual like himself, who introduced him to a secret world where people’s nice and tidy lives could be turned into waking nightmares. Rickard was interested in the mind – as was Greg – but differently. Rickard liked to see how people reacted under the influence of psychoactive drugs, experimenting on them.

  A connection flashed into place. The Painter liked to paint his victims straight after he’d killed them, capturing the gruesome agony as they died. Rickard probably watched his victims as the drugs took control. Both were forms of visual stimulation. So, they had a common interest. It still didn’t explain how they got connected in the first place, but they must have been like two thieves recognising each other. It didn’t help much, but at least Greg’s mind was beginning to fire in the right way.

  Back to Rickard. He didn’t seem to care for physical relationships, and probably thought of himself as a kind of anti-hero, living a double life, his public persona gaining appreciation and honours left, right and centre. But that was all a show, a smokescreen for his real thrill. Not just thrill. His real career. He wanted to become a serial killer. He was proving himself.

  To whom?

  A thought stopped Greg. Rickard had said he’d raped Kate. Greg held himself in check. Calm down. You need your cold fire. Think about it. Greg did. Rickard and rape. Really? Sure, he might have said it to Greg back in the cell to tip him over the edge, but in practice? Sarah’s report said Kate had indeed been raped, but a condom had been used. She’d also said… No, too much information.

  Donaldson stormed in, sat down behind the door, and slapped his phone on the table. ‘Fucking time-wasters,’ he muttered, his features set in stone, his hands balled into large powerful fists, ready to crus
h the next person who pissed him off.

  ‘What was it?’ Greg asked.

  ‘Nothing, a tramp died last night in not-so-mysterious circumstances. The local police can handle it.’

  Matthews breezed in, flourishing the silver Colt like he’d just pulled it out of a hat, and slid it across the table, just as Greg flicked his eyes to where Donaldson was sitting behind the door. Matthews froze, cartoon-like, while Donaldson gazed straight ahead, immobile, purposefully not seeing what was traversing the table right in front of his eyes. The Colt came to a halt. Greg leaned forward slowly, dragged the pistol across the rest of the table and secluded it in his jacket pocket.

  Matthews inserted himself at the table.

  Donaldson drew a breath. ‘What have you two got so far?’

  Matthews began. ‘Well…’

  ‘Nothing,’ Donaldson said. ‘Thought so.’

  Greg felt aggrieved. ‘To be honest…’

  Donaldson thumped the table. ‘Three words invariably followed by excuses. Greg, you don’t need any, your brain’s been fried, and as for you,’ he pointed at Matthews, ‘you’re the muscle part of the Finch–Matthews duo, so shut up both of you and listen.’

  Greg was relieved Donaldson was taking over. The profiling wasn’t paying off.

  Donaldson stood up and pointed to the newly pinned photo of Rickard on the wall. ‘This prick is laughing at us,’ he said. ‘While this lady is starving.’ He pointed at the photo of Finch. Greg stole a glance at Matthews, whose face was bone white, his gaze lasering a hole in the table.

  Donaldson flicked a hand towards the serial killers on the opposite wall. ‘One of these motherfuckers, or one of their protégés, is also pissing his pants laughing at us.’

  He shoved a chair out of his way with his foot. ‘They’re laughing not because they’re ahead of us, but because we’re not even on the right track. We’re not finding them because our premises are all wrong, and I’m sorry to say it, but that includes Finch’s, too.’

  Matthews shot up, almost raising his hand as if he was at school. ‘If we had a few more clues–’

  ‘A few more clues?’ Donaldson thundered. ‘Should we get a bigger Evidence Room, with bigger walls? We’re surrounded by fucking clues!’

  Greg stepped in, to try to see where Donaldson was taking this, and to take the heat out of the situation. Clearly Donaldson blamed Matthews for not being Finch’s backup when she went to see Rickard, though not as much as Matthews blamed himself, and probably less than he blamed Finch for being so maverick.

  ‘Which premise shall we start with?’ Greg said.

  ‘You tell me,’ Donaldson replied. ‘These two killers have created a slick business model to select and execute people. You tell me where there’s a glitch.’

  ‘I keep thinking about Fergus. That he said he knew The Dreamer was dead.’

  Donaldson shrugged. ‘We’ve found zilch to connect Fergus to Christopher Ellerton. Different ages and social status, living in different London boroughs…’

  ‘I know, but somehow he knew, and Rickard and the other killer clearly took it seriously.’ It kept nagging at Greg. Something he was missing. He turned to Matthews. ‘Anything more on Fergus? From the free clinic he was attending in St Thomas’?’

  Matthews stared at the wall, as if reliving a conversation. ‘They don’t keep any detailed records on the drop-in sessions, including doctors in attendance, because the sessions are completely anonymous and the doctors do it voluntarily, so we don’t know if Rickard was ever there. I’d be surprised, though; he fancies himself a bit too much to do that kind of thing. But one of the senior nurses did remember Fergus. Said he was very shy and quiet, that the least little noise disturbed him. Scared of his shadow, that’s what she said. He went a few times then stopped coming.’

  Wait a minute. ‘He hated noise?’ Greg recalled the TV, radio and stereo blaring when he’d arrived. But then it wasn’t Fergus, it was the killer. The noise must have been there to disguise his voice. Greg wondered why. A chilling thought occurred to Greg for the first time.

  Do I know the killer?

  ‘Let’s move on,’ Donaldson said.

  Greg nodded. He was sure this was key, but he was in no state to unravel it. He needed to start somewhere else. His mind was like a fogged-up window. He recalled his last talk with Finch, when he’d told her what was off about the situation.

  ‘The frequency of the killings is increasing.’ He sat up. Something was forming in his mind. ‘And Rickard. He became bolder, more… erratic. The cell incident with me and the ECT treatment at Reedmoor were high-risk measures. He could have played the long game and stayed cool, not exposed himself. And as for going after Finch, well, you don’t piss on your own doorstep.’

  ‘She was getting close on the Ellerton lead,’ Matthews said. ‘And when Jennifer disappeared, he must have wondered if she’d seen him.’

  ‘I know, but we had very little evidence against him: Christopher, who was likely The Dreamer, though I doubt we could ever prove it; the ‘thanks for the initiation’ note; even his relationship with Alfred. None of it is hard evidence. A good lawyer could shoot it all down. At most it would have dented Rickard’s career. He might have had to resign and take an early pension. Rickard could have stayed quiet, let the leads grow cold again. No, there was something else he was afraid we’d find out.’

  Matthews leaned forward. ‘People speed up when their time is running out. They become erratic when they know they’re about to be discovered.’

  Greg was trying to remember something. A mote that hadn’t been in his mind earlier, one that wasn’t on either of the two walls in the Evidence Room, either. Another case. An old case…

  ‘So,’ Donaldson said, interrupting Greg’s train of thought. ‘First premise. Why did Rickard kill Kate?’

  Greg considered the usual suspects. Envy? Lust? Not Rickard’s thing. The fog was clearing. The case from the past. A little over a year ago.

  Donaldson rapped the table twice with his knuckles, as if knocking at a door. ‘What is it, Greg?’

  The fog was thinning, almost gone. And then it cleared, and a new mote appeared. In truth, it was an old one. Why had he only thought of this now? Two reasons, he realised. The first was that recent events had been keeping him off-balance, ever since Fergus’s call. The second ironically, was the ECT. One of the after-effects was that it became easier to recall old memories. They moved from the background into the foreground. That part of Rickard’s plan, at least – to blunt Greg’s memory – had just backfired.

  He cleared his throat. ‘As you know, Rickard and I used to meet once a month to discuss upcoming murder cases. We’d discard the ones that had no psychopathological elements, then we’d see which ones I might look into.’ Greg tried to focus on the case details. The name…

  Donaldson pointed to Matthews. ‘Access Greg’s case history.’

  Matthews opened up his laptop. His pudgy fingers became a blur.

  ‘Need my password?’ Greg asked.

  ‘Pah!’ Matthews replied.

  Okay, at least Greg now knew who had hacked into Rickard’s computer after he’d bolted. Did Finch know Matthews had this skill set? Of course she did.

  ‘So, what are we thinking?’ Greg asked. He wanted confirmation – he didn’t fully trust his own mind yet.

  Donaldson grabbed his foam cappuccino cup, almost crushing it, gulped down the dregs, and wiped his lips. ‘That you were about to work on a case that might have exposed Rickard, and that he killed Kate to throw you off the scent?’

  Greg sat back. Fuck. Was it true? All this because…

  Matthews punched a key and spun the laptop around so they could both see. There were seven names of cases that were up for grabs shortly before Kate was murdered. Greg would have done an initial review of each of them and then worked on two or three. One name lunged forward out of the fog.

  ‘Amelia Dankworth,’ Greg said.

  While Matthews swivelled the laptop back ar
ound and read the case brief out aloud, Greg’s conversation a year earlier with Rickard came back in perfect recall. Rickard’s usual composure had slipped when Greg had mentioned that name, and he’d finished their session early, asking Greg to keep him informed. Rickard’s reaction had been a barely concealed cocktail of emotions.

  ‘He knew her,’ Greg said, sure of it now.

  ‘Well, let’s not get ahead of–’

  ‘Enhanced long-term recall,’ Greg said. ‘A short-term side effect of ECT. Recent memory sucks, long-term memory can be temporarily heightened.’ Someone had christened it the ‘Blu-Ray effect’.

  Matthews squinted at the screen. ‘Hung herself. Her mother spent the next ten years of her life trying to prove her daughter had been murdered, and then the mother herself died in unusual circumstances. That’s why the original case resurfaced for review.’

  Greg sat back. Hanging. The mode of execution for the guilty. Or for those who were ashamed.

  Or should be…

  Matthews was tapping furiously again. ‘Crap! After Kate’s murder, Rickard took over the case, buried it… No wonder…’ He swivelled the screen around again. There was a class photo of graduates from King’s College, Cambridge University. Her face was highlighted. To the right and in the background was the unmistakable young, bright face of Emerson Rickard.

  ‘Hypothesise, Greg,’ Donaldson instructed.

  Greg’s earlier attempts at profiling had been on target after all. He recalled the way Rickard had almost boasted about raping Kate, the way you would if…

  ‘He and Amelia had a relationship,’ Greg said. ‘But it was never consummated.’

  ‘Why not?’ Matthews asked.

  ‘He’s impotent,’ Donaldson interjected. He shrugged. ‘Sisterhood rumour.’

  Greg didn’t know what the Sisterhood was, but continued anyway. ‘She must have dumped him, and the negative experience left a scar on Rickard. They met again in London, maybe by chance, maybe not. Rickard killed her, to get revenge. And to practise. Because by then he already knew what he was.’

  Matthews’ brow furrowed. ‘But what about Kate? Sorry, but she was raped.’