The Domino Killer

by Neil White

  ‘Thanks, Tim,’ Gina said, and pulled the papers out of the envelope.

  As Gina flicked through them, Tim looked at Sam. ‘Ellie’s case was glanced over this morning,’ he said, his voice softer. ‘There’s nothing that links Proctor in any way. I know we could do some speculative testing, to see if there is any DNA on her clothes we haven’t detected before, but we’re not going to get funding for it. You know how it goes now.’

  Sam did know, but that didn’t ease his frustration.

  ‘So what are these?’ Gina said.

  ‘I went a bit deeper on Mark Proctor,’ Tim said. ‘I found something. Concern expressed about him from bereaved parents of murdered children. He’d got a reputation as a grief-junkie, someone who contacted families, usually just offering kind words. Some didn’t want sympathetic voices, but others were receptive to them, used them as crutches to help them through. And Proctor was always there for them. He even married one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His wife’s sister was killed and dumped in an alley that ran behind an industrial estate. Proctor turned up, like some self-appointed grief counsellor, and the victim’s sister fell for his soothing words. Harry Neave was the SIO on that one.’

  ‘I know Harry,’ Gina said.

  ‘Retired now.’

  ‘It’s okay, I know where to find him.’

  Gina skimmed through the loose sheets. Four families had complained about Proctor, but one stood out amongst all of them: the Reilly family. They claimed that Proctor had known something the family hadn’t.

  ‘That’s the one,’ Gina said, tapping the piece of paper.

  She reached into her handbag to get a piece of paper, and then scribbled down whatever details she could.

  As Sam read it, Gina said, ‘Has Proctor ever been arrested, or come close to it?’

  ‘Apart from the other night, nothing,’ Tim said.

  ‘Let’s see if we can change that.’

  Fifty-two

  Joe was sitting in his car, parked on the street further along from Proctor’s house.

  His mind was fixed on Proctor’s workshop. If it was somewhere private, it might be somewhere he kept other secrets, the ones that haven’t been stolen. Proctor kept keepsakes; the notebook belonging to Gerald’s daughter told him that. There might be more.

  He could tell Sam, in the hope that he could get a warrant, but he’d discounted the idea as soon as it came into his head. There wasn’t enough evidence to link Proctor to anything at the moment, except that the dead man in Worsley had travelled there in Proctor’s hire car? How did that implicate Proctor? If anything, it made him less of a suspect, because as far as the police were concerned it made him a potential victim. There was just some third-hand information that his accounts weren’t what they should be and Joe’s spark of memory. How could a detective on the Murder Squad hope to get a search warrant on that basis?

  No, there had to be another way, and Joe knew that it involved him.

  Joe dug into his pocket for his phone and called Gerald. When he answered, Joe said, ‘You need to meet Proctor, to talk about the blackmail. Meet him in the city centre. I need some time with him away from the house.’

  When Gerald agreed, Joe said, ‘I’ll know when he leaves, but let me know when he’s with you. I need to know I’ve got some time.’

  Joe hung up and waited. It was time for his second break-in of the day.

  ‘So does Brabham know where you are?’ Gina said, looking at Sam as he drove along the suburban road, looking up at the houses.

  They were heading for the home of the family who’d complained about Proctor, that he’d been too intrusive, the family of murdered Zoe Reilly.

  ‘I can just tell the truth if I need to, that I was looking at the camera records for the night of Mason’s murder,’ Sam said. ‘He trusts me to do my job. He just hasn’t worked out that I’m not doing it at the moment.’ He came to a stop and straightened. ‘Here we are.’

  Gina looked past him, to a nondescript detached house built sometime in the seventies, if the wooden panels under the living-room window were anything of a guide. It was on a street of nearly identical houses, although the intervening years had cast some differences. A house on a corner was covered in ivy, and some sported extensions over the driveways.

  ‘So this is the Reillys’ house,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I haven’t been here for a while,’ Sam said.

  ‘You’ve been here before?’

  ‘Did you see the path further along?’

  ‘No, where?’

  ‘Just before we turned right onto the street; the road came to a dead-end but the path carried on, along a bridge over a stream and then through the woods next to some football pitches.’

  ‘No, I didn’t notice that,’ Gina said. ‘You seem pretty familiar with it.’

  ‘I arrested a flasher in his car once – some salesman who thought he’d found a quiet spot to look at pornography, or that was his excuse. Except he matched the description of a man who’d been seen hanging around in the woods, watching the kids play football. He denied it was him, and we couldn’t prove it, but we spoke to all the people round here and gave a description of his car. He’ll have found somewhere else, but he didn’t come back here.’

  ‘Why do you mention it?’ Gina asked.

  ‘Because Zoe Reilly was killed down there, in those woods.’

  Gina was surprised. ‘You know about the case?’

  Sam raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you know how Joe said he keeps a look out for any rapists or child molesters, because he would recognise the person who followed Ellie? Do you think I don’t do the same? Whoever killed her may have killed again. Whenever a teenage girl is murdered, I take an interest. I am bound to, after Ellie.’

  ‘But how would you know, if no one knew who killed Ellie?’

  ‘I won’t find out unless I look. Most come to nothing – it usually turns out to be a family member or someone close, like a neighbour or boyfriend. But I remember Zoe’s case.’

  ‘Because of the flasher?’

  Sam nodded slowly and clenched his jaw. ‘I paid him a visit. It was all off the books, just chasing up my earlier arrest, checking there’d been no repeat, that his rehabilitation had been successful. I told him about Zoe and how his behaviour could cause him to be looked at. He went pale, perhaps understood for the first time how much trouble he’d brought upon himself. He had an alibi, and produced enough evidence to satisfy me.’

  ‘Did they get anyone?’

  ‘No, they didn’t,’ Sam said, shaking his head. ‘I know what it feels like in there.’ He looked up at the house. ‘It’s more than anger, because that needs a focus. It’s bewilderment too, and frustration.’

  ‘Let’s go speak to them,’ Gina said, and stepped out of the car.

  Sam reached for his jacket, which he’d thrown onto the back seat. He took his time putting it on as he got out of the car, always looking at the house. Gina set off walking but paused to let Sam catch up. He was the one with the identification that would get them into the house, although Sam looked every inch a copper, from the greyness of his suit to the rigidity of his stride.

  The front door opened before they reached it. A woman was standing there, dark brown hair flying around her face in the light breeze. Her mouth was open in surprise.

  ‘Sandra Reilly,’ Sam said, raising his identification. ‘I’m DC Sam Parker, and this is Gina Ross.’

  The woman swallowed and looked her lips. ‘Is it about Zoe?’ she said, her voice a croak.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve no news,’ Sam said, his voice softening, ‘but could we speak to you?’

  Mrs Reilly stepped away from the door. ‘Yes, of course, I’m sorry. Come in.’ She smiled, but it was a brave one, meant to disguise how she was feeling.

  Sam and Gina walked from the short hall into a living room that looked like a tribute room. There was a large photograph of a teenage girl on the wall over the fireplace, and smaller ones in fram
es dotted around the room. It would be impossible to sit in that room without being reminded of Zoe.

  She gestured at them to sit down. ‘So what’s this about?’

  Sam started the questioning.

  ‘This might sound strange,’ he said, ‘but do you remember a man who came to speak to you after Zoe was found. A grief counsellor.’

  ‘Which one?’ Sandra said. ‘We spoke to a few, until we realised that they didn’t have anything to say that helped. There was no mystery to it; we have friends who did the same for us – gave us the chance to talk things over.’

  ‘What about Mark Proctor?’

  Sandra’s eyelids flickered at the name. ‘Yes, well, I remember him.’

  ‘How so, out of all of them?’

  Sandra sat down in a chair and looked out of the window. She stayed silent for a few moments. When she spoke, her voice was quieter, more reflective.

  ‘This view hasn’t changed,’ she said. ‘We’ve been here for twenty years. I was pregnant with Zoe when we moved in, and we had another little one.’ A smile. ‘Dominic. He leaves school this year, and soon it’ll be just me and Ricky, my husband. We were so happy when we moved in. It seemed such a nice house. And it was, for so many years. I cling to this view.’ And she looked towards the window.

  Sam was transfixed. He knew Gina was looking at him, as if the despair he could feel balling tightly in his stomach was etched on his face. Sandra was describing his own mother in the years after Ellie died.

  ‘Every day, this view is the same,’ Sandra continued. ‘A lawn. The curving tarmac. The neighbours heading out to work. And it used to be Zoe’s view too. The same view but with Zoe as a small girl, playing with Dominic, dolls on the grass, a pink bike with tassels coming from the handlebars. Walking to school, each year taller, older, but the view never changed.’ She let out a long breath. ‘Then that final day. I watched her go. Just another day. She came back from school and was going to see a friend. I offered her a lift but she said she was okay. It was a nice evening, light and summery, and she was playing on her phone. She was always playing on her phone. I watched her go, I always did. She turned to wave at the bottom of the drive, and then she was gone.’

  Sandra turned away. ‘The view stays the same, and all I want is for it to include Zoe walking up the path, but it never will.’ Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Sam and Gina. ‘And you never caught him, whoever it was. I don’t even have that focus.’

  ‘Tell me about Mark Proctor,’ Sam said.

  ‘He knocked on our door one night. He was carrying leaflets from a charity, a bereavement service, said he’d been asked to come along. It was a month or so after Zoe had been killed. The police interest was dying down because there was nothing to report.’

  ‘Did you ever check with the police whether Proctor had been sent by them?’

  ‘No, I don’t think we did,’ she said. ‘He was official, from a charity, so he said. And you can see how I am, needing to talk about it, to somehow understand it. And he seemed to know what to say, that it was about expressing ourselves, letting it all out, the usual stuff.’

  ‘So why do you remember him so well?’ Sam said.

  Sandra frowned. ‘It was just a gut feeling, and something he said.’

  ‘Can you explain?’

  ‘It seemed like he was enjoying it too much. He was supposed to be there for our benefit, a shoulder to cry on, but it was as if it was for his benefit. He wanted to see photographs and for us to tell him about Zoe as she grew up. He was showing too much interest, almost as if he wanted to make us upset. Ricky called him a grief-junkie. That’s what he was, someone who liked all the drama and the pain.’

  ‘But what did Proctor say that made you turn against him?’

  ‘He mentioned a boyfriend we didn’t know about.’

  Sam and Gina exchanged glances. ‘Unusual.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what we thought,’ Sandra said. ‘There’s a large Pakistani community on the other side of the football fields. The schools are always fighting each other, because the fields make a divide, schools on each side. Zoe was seeing a young boy called Khalid. I don’t think it was anything serious, they met through friends. She didn’t tell us because she thought we might object, and Khalid kept it quiet because he didn’t know what his parents would say, their son going out with a white western girl.’

  ‘And you found out through Mark Proctor?’ Gina said.

  Sandra nodded. ‘He reckoned one of Zoe’s friends had told him, but why would he get that involved? He was a shoulder to cry on, that’s all. So I asked around. No one would admit to telling Proctor, but I found out where Khalid lived. I went to see his parents.’ She sighed. ‘They were lovely people. They’d heard about Zoe from the news and Khalid had kept it quiet, but it was nothing to do with them. They had no idea that Khalid had been seeing Zoe and, to be honest, I think they would have been okay. They were welcoming and kind but it didn’t get us any closer to finding out who killed Zoe.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Mark Proctor?’ Gina said.

  ‘After I’d spoken with Khalid’s parents,’ she said. ‘He was too controlling, as if he wanted to know everything. He shouldn’t have known about Khalid before we did and, in the end, you learn to live with it. You never get over it, but just learn to accept that the pain will always be there.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘Do you know when it’s worst? When I forget about her. Not as in I’ve moved on, but if we have a night out or something, or a holiday, and there are moments when I’m laughing, having fun, and then it hits me, the guilt, the feeling that I shouldn’t be happy like that because of Zoe. How can I enjoy myself as if I haven’t a care in the world when Zoe is dead?’

  ‘I’ve heard people say that before,’ Sam said. He knew that Gina was watching him.

  ‘So what is it about Mark Proctor?’ Sandra said.

  ‘Just some complaints we’ve had, and your complaint flagged up,’ Sam lied. ‘We’re considering taking him off our list of approved counsellors.’ He got to his feet. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Your information is very useful.’

  Sandra didn’t get up to show them out. ‘So you’ve no news on whoever killed Zoe?’

  Sam shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  When they got outside, Sam let out a long sigh.

  ‘You all right?’ Gina asked. ‘It seemed like she was talking about you, not just herself.’

  ‘The pain is common,’ Sam said.

  ‘So how much more do we know about Mark Proctor?’

  ‘Like she said, he’s a grief-junkie. If he had something to do with Zoe’s murder and he remembers the raw emotion in that house, he’s got one hell of a souvenir.’

  Fifty-three

  Mark Proctor looked around as he approached Joe’s apartment building. Deansgate was just ahead, a long stretch of cars and city-centre buildings. A hundred years earlier, the view would have been shrouded in smoke and fumes. Now, in the distance there were just glimmers as the sun reflected back from glass office blocks.

  He turned away from the road and towards the front of the building. There were no police cars there, it was too early for that, but they would come eventually. It was Joe Parker he wanted to avoid.

  He tried to think of how Joe would react if he’d been the one who’d killed the man the night before. He’d drive in quickly, panicking, blood on his clothes, the knife still on him, but he’d wipe it clean on a rag, just like Gerald had. He wouldn’t think clearly so he’d make a mistake. The obvious thing would be to burn the rag, but his mind would be rushing too much. He would know one thing: the rag wouldn’t be going into his apartment, it was too dangerous, but the knife would; you never leave a space in the knife block. He could clean the knife but the rag was just what it was, a rag, something you might leave in your car in case you needed to change a tyre. So he would get rid of it before he got to his apartment.

  But if he was planting something, it had to be found. He couldn’t assume cleverness o
n Joe’s part; it had to be his mistake. So what would the police do? They’d go through the bins. It was a large apartment block, and not enough space for individual bins for each apartment. No, there would be a communal bin, those large ones on wheels close to the exit, so people could drop stuff in before they left for work.

  The entrance to the underground garage was ahead. It was high enough for a four-by-four but not high enough for a dustbin lorry, so the bins must be outside.

  He tried not to look conspicuous as he walked, because planting evidence was no good if he was seen to plant it. He tried to make himself appear lost. He gazed up at the apartment windows, a mix of blinds and curtains, no balconies at the front. They were all facing the canals. The apartments on this side must be the cheap ones, where the only benefit was proximity to the city.