The Domino Killer

by Neil White

  ‘Built because they felt like it,’ one of the nearby detectives said.

  There were footsteps behind them, and as Sam turned, he saw it was Brabham.

  ‘Let’s not get any closer,’ Brabham said. ‘Not until we’re suited up.’

  Sam turned slowly on the spot, his hands on his hips. ‘Why here?’

  ‘The same reason as the other place, I suppose,’ Brabham said. ‘Quiet at night with good escape routes. Better than meeting in a pub.’

  ‘But why this specific place, and the other place?’ Sam said. ‘It’s got to be somewhere, I know that, but what if there is a reason for the meeting being here? When you choose a meeting place, it’s a conscious decision, a thought process. It might be worth checking whether there is any link to these places. A history perhaps.’

  ‘And if the domino theory is right,’ Brabham said, ‘the man there might be Henry Mason’s killer.’ He smiled to himself and said, ‘One by one they fall.’

  Sam suppressed his groan. Brabham had worked out the headline already. Sam was troubled, though, because he had to agree that there were some similarities with the Welsby and Mason murders. A man murdered in a frenzied attack when waiting around in a quiet and green area. It looked like Brabham was getting lucky, that he might be getting his dominoes.

  Sam was happy about one thing, though: the more bodies there are, the stronger the likelihood that there would be a connection. It was little solace for whoever was carved up behind the forensic screen, but he’d just helped create a better chance of finding his killer.

  Forty-three

  Joe was unsure of his surroundings as he opened his eyes. He was in a large bed under a crisp white duvet, the morning sunlight brightening the wooden beams that crossed the bedroom ceiling. As someone stirred next to him, it came back to him. He was in Melissa’s bed, fully-clothed, the disclosures of the night before draining them both. They’d spent the night talking until sleep had taken over, although it had been fitful. His mouth felt dry, his skin tired.

  He reached across to move the hair from her face. He leaned in and kissed her. She smelled of warm clothes.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ he whispered.

  She stirred, her eyes barely open. ‘Do you have to?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.’

  Melissa rolled over to look at the clock. She rubbed her face and yawned. ‘Carrie will be up soon. She’ll go straight into the bathroom. As soon as she does, sneak out. I’m not ready for the awkward questions.’

  ‘Okay, will do.’

  She propped herself up on her elbows. ‘So what are you going to do today?’

  ‘Follow your brother,’ he said, stretching out, trying not to make a noise.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Just see what he’s up to.’

  ‘And if you can prove that he’s responsible for any deaths?’

  ‘I’ll tell the police.’

  ‘Are you allowed to do that? You’re his lawyer.’

  ‘At the moment, I’ll be a suspect for last night’s death. Right now, my needs come first.’ He sighed. ‘There are ways of doing it. Lawyers have been tipping off the police for years. Often just hints, whispers as to where they should direct their investigations, but a tip just the same.’

  ‘I thought you were meant to help them, the criminals.’

  ‘So did I, back when I first started out. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s about making money, and there’s no money to be made from crooks who don’t get caught. No, we need them banged up just like everyone else does.’

  She shuffled across the bed and put her arms round him. When she pulled him close, into her warmth, the smell of stale perfume, he wanted to stay there. If he did, he wouldn’t have to face all the hurt.

  ‘Just be careful,’ she said, breaking the spell.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ he said, his face buried into her neck, so that his words came out muffled.

  ‘Yes, sure.’

  ‘Have you ever suspected him of anything like this?’

  She pulled away and looked him in the eye, her finger tracing small circles on his cheek. ‘No, never,’ she said. ‘He’s insignificant; no one would suspect him. That might be his disguise.’

  ‘There’s never been any police interest, even calls to see whether he knew anything?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘And another thing,’ he said. ‘Can I borrow your car?’

  She smiled. ‘Keys are on the side in the kitchen. Little black Alfa Romeo in the underground car park.’

  He kissed her. ‘Thank you. If I find anything out, will you help me?’

  ‘What, help the police catch my brother?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Help the police catch a killer.’

  She drew his head into her chest and held him one last time. ‘If you can prove that’s what he is, I’ll do anything to stop him.’

  Gina groaned and clasped her head as she rolled over in bed, the memory of the night before rushing at her. She needed to open her eyes more slowly. Her curtains were too thin to block out the light so the early-morning sun made her wince. She drank too much wine when she was alone, she knew that, but the events of the day before had made her hit the bottle a little harder than usual. Hangovers hung around longer than they used to, it was an age thing she knew, and she wanted to be clearheaded.

  The walk across the bedroom was a weave. She grabbed a dressing gown as she made her way to the bathroom, and then dry-heaved over the toilet bowl as the effect of movement assaulted her.

  She just about hung onto what she’d eaten the night before and straightened so that she could confront the mirror. Her hair was tangled over her face and her cheeks were flushed.

  The light in the bathroom was unforgiving, bright spotlights in the ceiling, showing the wrinkles and creases she spent time hiding in her morning routine. The reflection wasn’t a happy one. Her hands gripped the edge of the sink as she leaned in.

  So this was it, the beginning of the end of her life. No job, just a long stretch of empty days ahead.

  It was an uncomfortable truth that Gina had avoided by filling her days working for Joe and then relishing the downtime of the weekend. She’d told herself that she worked for Joe because of some desire to stay in the game, that she missed the world of crime when she left the police so much that she needed to work for a defence lawyer, but the truth was much simpler than that: she was lonely.

  Not many people got close to Gina and saw the woman she became when she hung her suit in the wardrobe. Her life was uncomplicated, with no man to mess it up, but with complications came a busy life. Once she went home and the suit went away, all she had was a book for the evening, or wine and television, just marking time until the following morning. If she didn’t work at all, what would she have?

  It was quiet moments of reflection like that when her shield came down. If she collapsed in the house, who would find her? No one visited. She wrapped up her feelings as privacy, but it meant there was never anyone who called round just to see how she was. She’d accepted Joe’s job offer to stop the way ahead being nothing more than decades of long nights alone.

  Thoughts of the night before took her back to when Ellie was killed.

  Not many killers got away from her when she was in charge of her own murder squad, so Ellie’s death hung around her career like a stain. Knowing what Joe had seen might have changed things. Why hadn’t she spotted that he was hiding something? He’d been so different to Sam, who’d been vocal and tearful and angry, wanting to get at whoever it was who’d killed his sister, but that changed into support for his mother. Gina had watched Sam grow up right in front of her, as he became the older brother, determined to cope. Joe had been different. He’d been withdrawn and quiet, lost in his own thoughts. At the time, she’d put that down to just how he dealt with things, everyone is different, but she’d been wrong all along and not spotted it. He’d been hiding a secret.

  She leaned into the mirror aga
in and grimaced. Her grey roots were showing where her hair parted. Lines puckered around her mouth and the creases around her eyes didn’t disappear when the grimace ended. She pulled her robe tighter. She prided herself on her body but she didn’t need the stark glare of spotlights to tell her that time was ruthless as it marched on.

  She felt old, and she didn’t want to. She still had a lot to offer.

  Images of Joe came back to her from the night before, just flashes, the haze of alcohol making her wonder whether it had really happened like that, but she knew it was true. Joe was no longer the person she’d known. Now he was scared, in hiding, a prisoner of his mistake seventeen years earlier.

  But he was still Joe Parker, the man she’d known ever since the day his sister died. Legally, he became an adult on the day Ellie was murdered, his eighteenth birthday, but Gina remembered the fresh face, barely shaving, and the long skinny legs, not yet fully adapted to his grown-up size. She cared about him. Did she really think he could have anything to do with a murder? No, of course not.

  She went back to her bedroom to look for her phone, finding it under a pile of clothes. Scrolling quickly, she found Joe’s number.

  She’d made her decision. She needed to help him.

  Forty-four

  Mark Proctor was smiling as he walked.

  It had been a good start to the day. He’d had a night to think about what to do, sitting on the roof, huddled against the cold. By the time the morning came round, cold and sharp, he’d worked it out. The day had improved when he got home and saw his metal box had been returned, left outside his front door. He’d wanted to cradle it, examine its contents, but instead he’d returned it to its place in his workshop – he’d look through it later. Now for a different plan.

  He was a long way from home, in one of the villages close to the Yorkshire border. The house in front of him was large and made of stone, some Pennine grandeur in contrast to the grimy bricks of the council estate behind and overshadowed by the hills that rose in the distance. There were stone bay windows on either side of wooden double doors, the curtains open, showing off the large paintings of mills that adorned the furthest walls, celebrating what had built the towns but blighted the valleys.

  Proctor paused for a moment. What he was about to do would change everything but he knew he had no choice. He climbed up the three stone steps that took him through flower-beds bordered by stone walls. He made his soles scrape noisily, hoping the noise had travelled inside.

  He rang the doorbell and stepped back. It chimed through the house. He was going to enjoy this.

  He turned around and looked into the valley. He wanted to reveal himself like a showstopper, so he looked along the slate roofs that were warped through time, the houses in long rows. Remnants of history.

  There was a delay before anyone answered. The door opened slowly.

  Proctor turned around. He grinned. There was a man with thinning grey hair who kept his body behind the door, so that only the top of his head and scared eyes were showing.

  The man’s eyes widened when he saw him, and his fingers gripped the edge of the door a little tighter.

  ‘Hello,’ Proctor said, and grinned wider, his head cocked. ‘I’m the man you were supposed to kill last night.’

  Joe leaned against a fence in a small ginnel, where a line of wooden fences and trees made a snaking short cut that no one dared use. His hood was up, his hands thrust into his pockets. It made him look more suspicious, but at that moment anonymity seemed more important.

  Proctor had gone into a house opposite, large and grand, three storeys, with a front garden that was terraced to the low wall at the front. The view behind was part-green, part-urban, wild Pennine slopes and downbeat housing. Cars streamed past constantly, and Joe hoped they provided enough of a distraction.

  Joe had almost missed him. There’d been no car outside Proctor’s house when he first arrived, so Joe was about to leave, unsure what to do, but then Proctor rushed back. He was driving a different car, a small green hatchback with a dent around one of the front light clusters, black tape holding in the glass. He’d rushed in, pausing only to collect something by the door, and stayed inside for around thirty minutes. When he came out again, he’d showered and changed, his hair still wet. Joe had followed.

  Now all he had to do was wait to see what Proctor did.

  Proctor walked along the hallway and into a kitchen at the back of the house, the man leading the way.

  The kitchen was warm. There was a clothes rack over the hot plates of a yellow Aga, with socks and T-shirts spread out. There was an old square sink under a stone drainer and dusty hooks on the wall. It all looked reproduction, though, as if the man had ripped out whatever modern look had been adopted in the sixties and tried to take the house back to the grand old house it would have once been. The lure of original features trapped the house in time. Photographs adorned every cupboard: a child’s smiling face, on holiday or at Christmas, some school photographs, a mother, proud and protective. Some of the photographs were old and faded by the sun that streamed through the large window.

  Proctor’s eyes narrowed.

  The man shuffled as he walked, his shoulders slumped in an old sweatshirt and creased trousers.

  Proctor sat down at the table. His chair creaked. The man went to the sink and grabbed a glass from the drainer, filling it with water from the tap. He stared out of the window and drank it slowly.

  ‘People will comment,’ Proctor said. ‘What have you done? Called in sick, just not feeling up to it? Your first mistake, acting differently. Tell me, how did it feel? How were you when you got home? Scared? Or empowered, pumped with adrenalin, unable to sleep, filled with that sweet buzz of revenge?’ Proctor laughed. ‘And here I am.’ He pointed to the drawer underneath the window. ‘Is that the knife drawer?’

  The man turned round and put the glass back on the drainer. ‘What?’

  ‘If you fancy another go, open it. I won’t move. I’ll just sit here and let you.’ Proctor grinned. ‘Watch out for arterial spray. It goes everywhere.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Oh come, don’t be silly,’ Proctor said. ‘I guessed what was going to happen, so I sent a friend along, a quick hundred quid. Collect something and bring it back. He was just the courier service.’

  The man looked down and gripped the edge of the sink. He said nothing.

  Proctor reached into his pocket and pulled out a memory card. ‘This contains the photographs I took. I parked further along from you and got everything.’

  The man groaned and slumped to the floor. He sat back against the kitchen units. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Money, of course,’ Proctor said. ‘This memory card is for sale, for the right price.’

  ‘I haven’t got any money, you bastard.’

  ‘You should reign in your temper. I’m the man you were supposed to kill. I should be the one who’s angry. Losing control means you make mistakes.’

  The man didn’t respond.

  ‘And what about your friends? They’ll never stop talking about it. Who would have thought it, Gerald a killer. It is Gerald, isn’t it? Or do you prefer Gerry?’ Proctor smiled. It was time to reel him in. ‘So who set this up? The same happened to me. They had something of mine that I wanted back. We’ve been played, both of us. You’ll get a message soon, asking you to meet her for your special treat. If you do, bang, you’re next.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  ‘You sure? I’ve got the pictures, remember.’ And he waved the memory card.

  ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘Fifty thousand.’ When Gerald scoffed, Proctor added, ‘I want more, of course, but I’ve got to pick an amount you can get your hands on.’

  ‘How the hell can I get that much?’

  ‘Get creative.’ Proctor winked. ‘Just get a few credit cards and you’ll soon run it up. Withdraw the cash and give it to me. Sell your car and do the same. I’ll enjoy sen
ding these pictures to the police if you don’t. It would create a ripple. I like ripples. You’re a splash guy, I can tell.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Last night was just about that, nothing else. All you wanted was me. I bet it tortured you beforehand, all those years dreaming of it. And then there it was, the chance to get me.’ Proctor shook his head. ‘You’ve no imagination. Some people like to throw in a big rock and get off on the splash, the shock, but that isn’t where the real enjoyment is. That’s instant, thoughtless. No, it’s the ripples you should search for. The splash is just the mechanism, but what follows is truly special, because the ripples affect everything they touch.’