Day of the Dead: A gripping serial killer thriller (Eve Clay)

by Mark Roberts

  Clay sat at her desk and shuddered at the deepest point inside herself, imagining her own son dying suddenly.

  ‘Thank you, Maggie. Maybe it explains the OCD and the snappy temper.’

  ‘I’m going back to help search the garage and the rooms downstairs. I wanted you to see, give you an insight into the mother for sure and the son maybe.’

  ‘Keep me posted and thanks for that, Maggie.’

  When Bruce left the incident room, Clay called her husband Thomas.

  ‘Hi, Eve, I was just about to leave the surgery.’

  ‘Thomas, it’s a quick one.’

  ‘Go on, love.’

  ‘When you go home, can you go through every room in the house and see if there’s anything we can do to stop Philip hurting himself or having an accident?’

  ‘But... OK. When he’s safely tucked in bed, I’ll do that. You can tell me why when I see you next! Believe me, when I’m with him I don’t take my eyes off him.’

  ‘I know that, Thomas, but...’

  ‘I know. It’s easier said than done but try not to worry, Eve.’

  His words laid a veil of calm over her but inside, her ever-present anxiety over her son was made freshly jagged by what she had just seen and heard.

  ‘I love you and I love Philip and I don’t want anything bad to happen to either of you.’

  ‘The same here.’

  She could sense her husband holding back. ‘Please, Thomas, what’s on your mind?’

  ‘It’s nothing new. But every time you go to work, I wonder, Will she come home again? And every time you do, it’s like I receive the best present ever.’

  She looked around the incident room and dropped her voice. ‘Oh, don’t you worry one little bit. When I come home and we have time, you really are going to get the best present ever.’

  She replaced the receiver and for a moment did nothing other than remember the last time he kissed her and, imagining the next time, felt a smile form on her face.

  67

  3.42 pm

  In the front reception of Trinity Road police station, Clay waited at a discreet distance and observed Riley’s exasperation as she stood behind a short, mousey woman with grey-blonde hair who looked like a natural-born victim but who peddled vitriolic hate on the internet. Clay realised that her face may well have looked pleasant at some point in her life but she had been soured by experience and whatever lay inside her.

  ‘That’s right, Christine,’ said a young WPC behind the desk, looking at a computer screen.

  Riley drifted towards Clay.

  ‘I see we already have your fingerprints and DNA so we don’t need to do them again but we will have to take a fresh mugshot,’ the WPC continued.

  Christine Green turned on the detective who had accompanied her on the back seat of Riley’s car from Walton to Garston. ‘I’m gonna sue the lot of you for telephone numbers,’ she shrieked, rubbing her thumb and fingers together. The mouse, Clay observed, roared like a lion.

  ‘Christine,’ said the WPC. ‘Would you like to see the duty psychiatrist?’

  ‘I’m not mad, you cheeky bitch!’

  ‘She’s not denying anything about the website,’ said Riley. ‘She’s massively into Third Reich memorabilia. Look, she’s acting thick and aggressive with it. Which makes the racial-abuse charge

  add up. But there’s definitely another layer going on underneath. She’s got a massive artistic streak and is really good at carving wood. She’s got loads of heavy-duty history books about World War Two and the Nazis and theology.’

  ‘But is she our girl? What’s your hunch?’

  ‘She doesn’t sound a bit like the woman who phoned from 699 Mather Avenue but my gut says she’s involved.’

  ‘Have you got her laptop?’ asked Clay.

  ‘I think she’s pitched it. She put that post on threatening paedophiles not to eat in McDonald’s and she tossed her laptop. If we find it and confront her about the McDonald’s post, she’s going to say, Would I have put that on if I’d been involved in a real-life murder? Would I have given my identity and location away with that post?’

  Green looked across at Riley and Clay. ‘What are you fucking looking at?’

  Clay ignored her and glanced at Riley.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of things to tell you, Eve. This is a bit delicate. Karl told me something that happened last night after Wilson’s cremation. Karl’s happy for me to speak to you about this. Samantha Wilson.’

  ‘I think I know what’s coming next,’ said Clay.

  ‘She hit on him heavily for sex, lured him into her flat on the pretext she was scared of the dark or some such shit, and then laid it on him.’

  ‘He’s a lonely lad when he’s not at work, our Karl. Please tell me... He didn’t, did he?’

  ‘He kept it in his pants.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that.’

  ‘The journey down Queens Drive was a bloody nightmare. I had that harpy in the back seat and she wouldn’t shut up. But guess who I had behind me in a black cab? Samantha Wilson.’

  ‘I think I’ll have a quiet word with Ms Wilson. You said things?’

  ‘I got a call from WPC O’Neil. She’s working the Wavertree end of Operation Warn-a-Paedo with PC Jones.’

  ‘Top-of-class WPC O’Neil and PC Jones? This could be interesting.’

  ‘They called on one guy who became a little bit agitated, to say the least, when your name came into the mix. He denied knowing you but O’Neil and Jones are convinced he does.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Edward Hawkins.’

  ‘Hawkins?’ Time disintegrated and, in the blink of an eye, she felt physically small with the hot sun melting an ice-cream cone in her hand and Beethoven’s ‘Für Elise’ playing from a passing ice-cream van. ‘He may have Edward in his name or just uses it as a thin disguise, but it’s entirely likely his name’s Christopher. If so, he worked briefly, mercifully briefly, in St Michael’s, the care home in Edge Hill where I did most of my growing up. And it comes as absolutely no surprise to me that our trawl has thrown him up.’

  Riley looked at Clay with intense sympathy and Eve read her friend and colleague’s mind.

  ‘No, Gina, it’s OK. I had a guardian angel who wouldn’t let anyone harm me. A fifteen-year-old boy called Jimmy Peace.’

  ‘Are you still in touch with Jimmy?’

  ‘I wish I was. He died when he was nineteen in a shipping disaster, died being guardian angel, trying to save someone else’s life and losing his own.’ A sense of utter dismay gripped Clay. Jimmy died and Hawkins lived? What a messed-up universe.

  ‘You want me to go digging on this Hawkins character?’

  ‘No thanks, Gina. If there’s any digging needs doing on that nonentity I’ll do it.’ Clay indicated Christine Green. ‘Miss Congeniality?’

  ‘As soon as she’s been booked in, I want to interview her – I have a couple of questions,’ said Riley. ‘I can’t imagine I’ll have much luck, but I’d like to give her something to think about when she’s chilling out in the cells.’

  As she listened to Riley, Clay nursed Jimmy Peace in her heart and wiped Christopher Hawkins from her mind.

  68

  3.43 pm

  ‘Detective Stone!’ Mary Behan’s voice came loudly from behind Christine Green’s front door and he was surprised by the force with which she banged against the woodwork.

  Stone opened the front door and smiled at Christine’s elderly next-door neighbour.

  ‘You look like you’ve been down a coal mine, son.’

  ‘I’ve been under the floorboards, Mrs Behan,’ replied Stone.

  ‘Now don’t disappoint me, lad. Did you find Adolf Hitler’s missing bollock down there?’

  Stone laughed, felt the weight of Samantha Wilson’s oppression lift.

  ‘Look, I know you’re busy so here are my contact details,’ she said, handing him his card. He checked the spidery writing on the back.

  ‘I’m abou
t to leave. I was going to knock on your door and ask. Thanks for this, Mrs Behan.

  ‘I saw the neighbour from hell getting carted away by that woman you were with. Hopefully she won’t came back.’

  ‘Sometimes wishes do come true, Mrs Behan.’

  ‘Now that she’s not here, would you and your friends like a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘I’m sure they’d be very grateful, thank you.’

  ‘Before I sort that out, we need to have a chat, son.’ She had a piece of paper in her hand. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  He opened the door and said, ‘Come on in.’

  She stopped in front of the huge swastika flag in the hallway and Stone was taken aback by the lack of reaction.

  ‘You’ve been in here before, right, Mrs Behan?’

  ‘No. Never in a million years. But this doesn’t surprise me, this Nazi banner. She plays her gramophone very loud. German military bands. Hitler’s speeches. I don’t suppose she can even speak or understand German, the daft cow.’

  ‘Come in the front room and have a seat.’

  Stone followed Mrs Behan into the front room.

  ‘Good God,’ she laughed, looking at the walls. ‘I told you she was nuts. But I don’t think you’re here on account of all this garbage.’ She indicated the oil painting of Hitler. ‘I reckon you’re here about that paedophile who got murdered last night in his big posh house.’

  ‘Yes, we are.’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised. Just because I’m an old woman living in a small house doesn’t mean I’m not intelligent.’

  ‘Mrs Behan, I acknowledge and respect your intelligence. Would you like to sit down?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to contaminate my backside. I’ll stay on my feet and shake the dust from them as I leave this house.’

  ‘You’re absolutely on the money about why we’re here but I have to ask you, how did you come to that conclusion?’

  She handed him the paper and, as he unfolded it, the old woman explained, ‘The daft cow stands outside Farmfoods handing these out and posting them through people’s letter boxes. She didn’t put one through my letter box because she knew I’d shove it right back through hers.’

  ‘Oh, this is very interesting, Mrs Behan.’

  Stone read the leaflet silently to himself.

  PAEDOPHILE ALERT

  Please be aware there are PAEDOPHILES living in YOUR area. The police will not inform you of their names or addresses because the law protects them. It is YOUR duty to protect YOURSELF, YOUR CHILDREN and your COMMUNITY. If you know the name and address of a PAEDOPHILE or are just plain suspicious about one of your neighbours please phone this number: 07701 345976. All calls will be treated in strict confidence. And may lead to a cash reward.

  Stone looked at Mrs Behan, her face beaming told you so.

  ‘How did you come to get this?’

  ‘A lot of people refused to take them from her. The ones who did mostly dropped them in the nearest bin. It literally blew on to my step, which is where I found it. I was going to put it right in the bin but something stopped me. I thought if anyone ever doubts me about how strange she is, you’ll have something to show.’

  ‘This is great, Mrs Behan. Thank you so much.’

  ‘Another thing was, there’s a lot of you rolled up here, so I knew it was very serious. That murder last night, it hasn’t been off the local radio and TV broadcasts.’

  ‘Can I take this with me, Mrs Behan? It could prove to be quite a useful piece of evidence.’

  ‘Certainly, son.’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to know if she was here last night?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I would. She left her house at half past four and came back at half past nine. And no!’ She tapped her nose. ‘I’m not a nosy neighbour. She can’t close a door without slamming it. Makes my teacups rattle. Half past four, slam, she walks past my front window. Half past nine, slam. Starts talking to herself all loud and laughing like she’s not right.’

  Half past four to half past nine. Five hours, thought Stone. Easily enough time to travel there and back and commit a murder in between.

  Winters, sleeves rolled up and dripping in sweat, came to the doorway of the living room and said, ‘Excuse me. Karl, it’s not a big house. We’ve lifted the carpets upstairs and double-checked under the boards. Pure and simple, there’s no laptop.’

  ‘Let me think about that one, mate. Wait a second, please. Mrs Behan, do you know what was she wearing?’

  ‘I saw her leave the house in that red duffel coat she always wears. I went to give her a piece of my mind about slamming doors, but by the time I got to the pavement she was getting on to the bus heading to the south side of the city.’

  ‘Which bus did she get on, Mrs Behan?’

  ‘It was the 68, son. Have I just said something that’s pleased you no end?’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Behan, you certainly have. If you remember anything else, please get on the phone to me.’

  ‘I’ll keep my thinking head on, son. Oh and, by the way, make sure you wash and change before you get back to work.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Behan, I will do.’

  As Stone walked down Rice Lane to the corner of Sefton Road, he heard Mary Behan’s voice rise above the traffic.

  ‘Who wants a nice cup of tea?’

  69

  4.01 pm

  ‘Mrs Hurst!’

  Detective Constable Bob Rimmer climbed down the aluminium ladder from the attic of 689 Mather Avenue. Within moments, Mrs Hurst joined him.

  ‘Would you like another cup of coffee?’ She looked and sounded as though she’d been hit with a sledgehammer.

  He shook his head. ‘Where are your children?’

  The former noise of play was now silent.

  ‘Downstairs, watching the Disney Channel. I’ve told them to be quiet. I’ve developed a migraine.’

  ‘It’ll be stress-related. I take it you’ve been looking up the kind of man who lived so close to you and your children, and what he did in Yorkshire when he lived there.’

  She nodded. ‘It’s just awful. That poor, poor child.’

  ‘I’ve seen something on your CCTV, someone going past your house. There’s a possibility that this is the person we’re currently looking for to talk to about the events of last night five doors down from you and your three children. It’s a very clear image. Your CCTV system is top of the range?’

  ‘We were burgled three years ago. I was traumatised. I wanted as much security as we could afford.’

  ‘And who can blame you, Mrs Hurst? Do you mind if I call you Sylvia?’ Rimmer shivered and felt like his over-full bladder was about to explode. ‘Let me guess, we didn’t catch the burglars, did we?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, you didn’t. That’s why we put the monitors in the loft. So that if anyone did get in, they wouldn’t be able to sabotage the system.’

  ‘It’s a terrible world we live in, right? Your CCTV system, what kind of special features does it have?’

  ‘It operates on a seven-day cycle, it can save and back up images, it has a facility to wipe footage automatically on a twelve- or twenty-four hour cycle...’

  ‘Twelve- and twenty-four hour cycle?’

  ‘It can zoom in and zoom out...’

  ‘Brilliant. I’ve left it on up there. Maybe you’d like to have a look at the footage, make sure everything’s OK. Can I use your bathroom please, Sylvia?’

  He opened the bathroom door near the ladder leading into the attic, looked back and met Sylvia’s gaze. ‘Technology’s great but sometimes, for whatever reason, it can malfunction, even CCTV systems from the top end of the scale.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. It’s Bob, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Sylvia, I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen images of what these so-called people do?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘As part of my work, I’ve had to. And I can tell you, it haunts me. They have no mercy. They have no concern for their victims. I had to go and
see my doctor. I couldn’t sleep after the things I saw. Just a thought, Sylvia. He’d have done it to your children if he’d had the chance. But he didn’t get that chance, did he?’

  As he closed the bathroom door, he held eye contact with her until the door shut, watching the seed he’d planted in her head germinate darkly.

  He listened as her feet ascended the aluminium ladder into the attic, pulled down his trousers and pants and, sitting on the toilet, aimed for the middle of the pan. Relief flooded him and, above his head, he heard Sylvia Hurst walk across the length of her attic.

  He closed his eyes and reran the footage he had watched over and over again.

  One moment there was an empty path, a closed gate, a section of pavement and, on the road, a car flying past at forty miles per hour or more. In the next moment, the edge of a human being walked into shot.

  He had paused it, slowed it right down and pressed play.

  She walked deeper into the shot, wearing a red duffel coat, white socks and black shoes, looking at first sight like a little girl but moving like a woman. Directly in line, as if on cue, she turned her head towards the CCTV camera.

  He paused the image, zoomed in on the hood and saw a human face, painted in black and white paint to give the impression of a face of a skull.

  ‘The Day of the Dead, eh?’ His words had drifted like ether into the rafters.

  He pressed play and, still in super slow motion, she carried on walking towards the house five doors down the avenue.

  Pausing the footage again, he zoomed in on the bag she wore on her back.

  He laughed. The same My Little Pony that a girl in his youngest son’s class wore to school every day.

  Rimmer went through everything he’d been told about the scene and guessed the innocuous-looking backpack was full of ropes to bind, gags to silence, and an aerosol to blind.

  He noticed that, as she walked along Mather Avenue, she had one hand in her pocket. Feeling for your Stanley knife? he wondered. Her other hand fumbled inside the lining of the duffel coat – where your sharpened spoke was hidden, in the lining?

  Little Red Riding Hood out for bloody revenge, he thought.