The Domino Killer

by Neil White

  He considered Joe for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Yeah, fine, whatever.’

  Joe gestured to the seat in front of him. ‘Sit down.’

  Proctor followed his direction and looked around again. ‘So why do we have to do this now?’

  ‘Because you might remember more now than in a month’s time, when you have to go back. It means we have our witnesses ready if you’re charged.’

  ‘There won’t be any witnesses,’ Proctor said matter-of-factly, turning back to Joe.

  ‘I’d rather be ready than not,’ Joe said, feeling a sense of panic. ‘My caseworker will take your instructions, but I thought I ought to introduce myself properly. I wasn’t myself last night.’

  Proctor reached into his pocket for a packet of cigarettes, staring at Joe all the time.

  It was a test, Joe knew, to see whether he objected, to determine who was in charge. Some clients saw the relationship with their lawyer as being about power, about who had it and how far the lawyer would go for them. There were too many lawyers in prison cells who’d got the balance wrong. Joe wanted to concede some power to Proctor. He pointed to an ashtray on a shelf near the fire.

  Proctor smiled, the first one, although it was more of a sneer. ‘I thought you were going to puke last night.’

  Joe returned the smile, surprising himself that it came so easily. ‘So did I. It must have been something I ate.’

  ‘You lawyers like to eat too rich.’

  ‘So tell me about the break-in at the compound,’ Joe said, not wanting idle conversation.

  ‘How do they know it was me?’

  ‘You were caught near the car, after it had been set alight.’

  ‘It doesn’t make it me.’

  ‘There will be CCTV.’

  ‘Good. Let’s see it. We both know that CCTV is never good.’

  Joe didn’t disagree with him. ‘Why were you running away from your car, which had been set alight not long after it was stolen?’

  ‘Stolen?’ Proctor said, his eyes wide. ‘So I’m the thief in this, not the people who decided they could just take my car without asking, and who were never going to give it back to me unless I handed over cash?’

  ‘And proof that it was yours.’

  ‘I could prove that all right.’

  ‘You sound like you agree with them, that you took it back because you were angry with them.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see how it looks that way, but it isn’t, because that’s just them guessing. You’re the lawyer, so you know how it is; they’ve got to prove it, not me.’ He leaned forward, warming to the conversation. ‘Maybe I’m the victim here. They take my car from me because it’s got no insurance – big deal – but it’s their job to keep it safe so that I can collect it. I’m a scapegoat, that’s all, because their compound isn’t secure. I might have a claim.’

  ‘And the fact that you were running away from where your car was burning?’

  ‘Coincidence, that’s all. I see a burning car and I know I’m in a bad neighbourhood, so I run. How was I supposed to know that it was my car? Sometimes you end up in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s just bad luck, isn’t it?’

  Joe didn’t know if it was some kind of a hint or message, a reference to Ellie. Did Proctor know who Joe was? No, he was reading too much into it. Joe met Proctor’s gaze but there was no taunt there.

  ‘Tell me about yourself?’ Joe said.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Your story. We’ve all got one.’

  ‘It’s insignificant, some might say,’ Proctor said. ‘Born and brought up in Ancoats. A brother and a sister. I left home and got married. No children. Like I say, insignificant. Invisible almost.’

  ‘Is that how you feel, invisible?’

  ‘No. That’s how others see me.’

  ‘Are you close to your family?’

  ‘What’s this, the psychiatrist’s couch?’

  ‘Just building a picture,’ Joe said. ‘I might need to talk about you in court.’

  Proctor curled his lip as he thought about that. ‘Not really close,’ he said. ‘My brother Dan works down south somewhere, a big shot in events management. My sister Melissa thought she was something big, going off to university and marrying some high-flyer. Now? She works in a pub near Piccadilly, wiping up beer stains.’

  ‘Which pub?’

  He paused, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer, but said eventually, ‘Mother Mac’s.’

  Joe fumbled for his pen and was about to start going through the forms when there was a light knock on the door and Gina walked in. Joe looked up and watched them both carefully. He wanted to see whether Proctor had ever been in Gina’s thoughts when she was investigating Ellie’s murder, or whether Proctor had kept watch on the investigation and knew who she was. He was looking for a flicker of recognition from either of them, just to show that he was right.

  Gina strode into the room and smiled. ‘Hi, I’m Gina Ross,’ she said. ‘I’m Joe’s caseworker.’ She walked over and stood behind Joe, ready to take over. Joe looked up at her. She looked back to Proctor. There were no suspicions.

  Proctor was impassive. He looked at Joe, then Gina, then held out his hands. ‘Let’s get this started.’ He lit his cigarette.

  Gina was about to object to Proctor smoking but Joe held up his hand. ‘No, it’s okay,’ he said.

  Gina didn’t say anything but turned around to open one of the windows. There was a sudden rush of traffic noise.

  Was he getting it wrong? Gina had led the investigation into Ellie’s death, so Proctor must know who she was, but there’d been no reaction.

  But Joe was so certain, everything about his first reaction to Proctor told him that.

  Joe stared at Proctor’s hands, one clasped around the wooden chair arm, the other resting on his knee, smoke curling upwards from his cigarette. His fingers were long and skinny, nicotine staining two of them brown.

  They were the hands that had wrapped themselves around Ellie’s neck. Those fingers had ended her life, squeezed out everything that was so special, and his leering face had been the last thing she’d seen. Those hands had destroyed a family. And for what? To satisfy an urge?

  He should tell Gina. Why not tell the police? There might be the chance of new evidence, some forensic trace that couldn’t be detected all those years ago but would be brought back to life by advances in science. There might be people connected to Proctor that would remember things he’d said, whose own suspicions would be fleshed out.

  But he didn’t want that. Joe had never wanted that. His desire to find Ellie’s killer had been about one thing: putting his own hands around the murderer’s neck to let him know how it felt when your life slipped away. He wanted to see that knowledge in Proctor’s eyes and for him to recognise Joe from that day, so he knew it was about payback.

  Joe stood up quickly and said to Gina, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He looked at Proctor and forced out a smile. ‘Good to meet you again, Mark. If you’ve got any problems, speak to Gina, but you tell her all you can.’

  And with that, Joe rushed out of the room.

  He shut the door behind him and leaned his head against it. His heart was thumping hard and his collar was damp. He took deep breaths and then pushed himself away from the door. Consumed by his own certainty and years of dreams of avenging Ellie’s death, he couldn’t stay confined in there any longer. He needed air and space, room to think, so he stamped along the corridor, just to get outside.

  But he knew one thing: he was going after Proctor.

  Twelve

  Claire Mason stared at the floor, her jaw set, tears streaming down her cheeks. �She glanced across to the photographs of her sons. ‘How am I going to tell them?’

  Sam didn’t answer. Instead, he said, ‘How have things been between you and your husband?’

  Claire glared at him, swiping her hand across her face to take away the tears. ‘What has that got to do with anything?’

 
; ‘Your husband was found in a park in Stalybridge. We need to know why he was there. I know this must be hard for you, but we need to find out what happened. When did you last see him?’

  ‘A couple of days ago.’ She spoke quietly.

  ‘Why that long?’

  ‘We’d had a row.’

  ‘Enough to make you leave?’

  ‘Things haven’t been good recently, that’s all. It can’t have anything to do with whatever happened to Henry.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because it was just something between him and me. Something private.’ She jabbed her finger towards the framed photographs. ‘Those boys will spend the rest of their lives thinking about Henry, wondering what the hell had gone wrong. I am not going to soil his name by discussing our private lives.’

  ‘But if it catches his killer?’

  ‘It won’t bring him back!’

  ‘Where did you stay?’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Am I under suspicion?’ Claire said, incredulous.

  ‘We’ve got a jigsaw to build,’ Charlotte said. ‘We need to take all the pieces from the different parts of his life to recreate his final week. Somewhere in that jigsaw might be the answer to how he was killed. But we need every piece.’

  ‘I stayed with my sister, Penny. You’ll be wanting her details, just to prove I was there.’ She curled her lip as she said it, but then gave her sister’s address. ‘I’ll need to call her, to tell her.’

  ‘No, don’t, let us do that,’ Sam said.

  ‘But who’s going to pick up the boys? They’ll be out shortly.’

  ‘There’ll be someone along to sit with you. You’ll be able to go to the school and meet them. You don’t want them finding out from someone else.’

  Claire nodded. Her attention had switched to protecting her children.

  Sam exchanged glances with Charlotte, who said, ‘Did Henry know a man called Keith Welsby?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Claire said. ‘He didn’t tell me everything.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  Claire thought for a few seconds before shaking her head. ‘No, never heard of him. Who is he?’

  Present tense, Sam noticed. No slip-up at the dead teacher. If Claire had been somehow involved with Keith Welsby, she’d know he was dead. Sam didn’t think she could fake not knowing so soon after finding out about her husband.

  Unless, of course, she’d known about that too.

  ‘He worked at St Hilda’s Catholic School,’ Sam said. ‘He was murdered a month ago.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with us?’

  ‘It’s just something we need to find out.’

  She shook her head in exasperation. ‘No, no connection. We’re not Catholics, our children don’t go to that school, wherever it is. I’ve never heard of the man.’

  ‘Did your husband keep a diary or calendar?’

  ‘There’s one on the back of the kitchen door, but there’s not much on it.’

  Sam went through. It was hanging from a hook, hair appointments and school inset days scrawled on it in black ink. He turned the page to the month before, to the night of Keith Welsby’s murder. There was an entry: H away, car show.

  Sam took the calendar back into the living room. ‘Do you know where he went then?’

  Claire looked at it. ‘Something in Birmingham. A trade show or something. He goes every year.’

  And a good alibi, Sam thought. All he had to do was show up, check in and slip back to Manchester to kill Keith Welsby. The place would be busy, and a trade show and hotels means booze. Recollections get muddled, times get forgotten.

  ‘Where did he stay?’ Sam said.

  ‘A Travelodge somewhere. His boss sorted it; you’ll have to ask him.’

  A car pulled up outside, followed by a knock on the door. When Sam answered, it was Eddie, a detective from the squad.

  ‘Hi, Sam. How is it in there?’

  ‘Like you’d expect. You the FLO?’

  ‘Yes,’ Eddie said. ‘Brabham likes my soothing tones.’

  Sam was pleased. Quiet and unassuming, Eddie played the hand-holding role well, but he was sharp. Experienced, heading towards retirement, he’d spot anything untoward, any whispered telephone conversations. After all, a family liaison officer isn’t just there to comfort the bereaved. They’re looking for clues all the time, teasing out confidences.

  ‘Anything happening?’ Eddie said.

  ‘No,’ Sam said. ‘She’s defensive, so there are some secrets, but his death appeared to be a shock.’

  ‘But the secrets could be connected.’

  ‘Don’t let her speak to her sister. We’re heading there next. You know how it works with false alibis: they breakdown in the detail. Let’s see how her sister’s account squares up with Claire’s.’

  Sam went back into the living room and made the introductions. Charlotte got to her feet and lifted the large plastic sack containing Henry’s laptop and the family desktop computer. They’d seized them as Claire cried out her grief. If there were secrets to be found, the computers were the best place to start.

  Charlotte said her goodbyes, Sam too, as Eddie ushered them out, reassuring them both that he had it under control. If there was going to be a revelation that would solve the case, Eddie was the one who wanted to tell everyone.

  When they got back in the car, the computers on the back seat, Charlotte said, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘There’s something going on. Whether Claire Mason will say anything is a different thing. She’s tough. We need to go back to the Incident Room with something. At the moment, we’ve got two murders that are connected, but I can’t think of anything that connects them.’

  ‘So let’s get these computers dropped off at headquarters and see what big sister has to say.’

  Thirteen

  Joe’s hands were balled into fists as he walked quickly along the street from his office.

  He was still certain about Proctor, the spark of recognition as keen as it had been at the police station, but the lack of anything between Proctor and Gina had thrown him. Gina had never mentioned any suspects, so that wasn’t a surprise, but Joe had expected something from Proctor. There’d been press conferences, appeals for information. Gina had been on television; there was no way Proctor wouldn’t have known who she was.

  But Joe knew deep in his gut that he was right. He had to decide what to do with this knowledge, but needed to be surrounded by noise. His apartment offered only silence, and in the quiet he would be alone with his thoughts. He didn’t want that. His thoughts frightened him. He wanted to feel the buzz of the city.

  Joe loved Manchester. He had been brought up in its suburbs but it was the noise and strut of the city centre that enthralled him. From the swagger of its musical history, embedded into the bars and clubs squeezed into grime-soaked railway arches, to the dirty scars of its industrial past, Manchester dragged its memories with it. The centre had once been squalor, with families squeezed into small rooms to serve the factories that turned the canals black and the air thick with smoke, but now glass and steel towered over ornate Victorian buildings, the distant skyline interrupted by the vast brick mills that once hummed with the sound of cotton looms.

  Joe loved everything about the place, even the threatening undercurrents, the surliness, all against the backdrop of rumbling cabs and the electric screech of the trams.

  A pub on the other side of St Ann’s Square was often a magnet for him. Inside it was dark, the wooden bar dominated by rows of glasses hanging from a rail. Men stood along it in small clusters, mostly in suits, talking out the working day, although the solitary ones wobbled on their feet, the day coming to another soaked and lonely end.

  Joe ordered a pint of bitter and sat down at a table. Old photographs of the city hung on the wall next to him and the daylight glowed through the doorway against the dimness of the bar. The pub calmed him usually, the stresses of a day in court forgotten in the slow pleasures from a pint glass.
Today it wasn’t having the same effect. He took a drink but it tasted sour. His fingers tapped out a rhythm on the scuffed wooden table.

  He was about to walk out and leave his drink behind when someone pulled out the chair opposite. It was Gina.

  He was surprised. ‘You weren’t long with Mark Proctor.’

  ‘His decision, not mine,’ she said. ‘He seemed like he wanted to be elsewhere.’