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

by Mark Roberts

  ‘I’ve told you. Bulky Bob. I was arranging with the council to collect an old fridge. Can I see Lucien?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re looking at me as if I’m the world’s biggest, most bare-faced liar,’ said Annabelle.

  Clay glanced at Daniel Campbell and said, ‘He looks nothing like Steve Martin, white hair or no white hair. Steve Martin’s got a pleasant face. Daniel Campbell hasn’t. He looks dead cold from the inside out...’

  ‘If you think I’ve done something wrong, arrest me and bring me in for questioning.’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for, Annabelle.’

  ‘I don’t wish to be arrested.’

  As Sergeant Harris escorted Daniel Campbell to the holding cell and out of their sight, Clay said, ‘You can wait in reception if you like but Lucien won’t be coming out in the early hours, that simply isn’t happening. You can’t sleep in your own house, we’re still searching it. Where do you intend to go, Annabelle?’

  ‘The Travelodge on Aigburth Road.’

  ‘Give me your mobile number. I’ll be in touch as and when I need to.’

  Clay stored Annabelle’s mobile number – 07704 193119 – in her contacts and typed in her name.

  ‘Has he asked for me?’ said Annabelle as they walked through reception to the main door.

  ‘He’s mentioned you...’ replied Clay. ‘But I’m not at liberty to tell you what he said.’

  83

  8.25 pm

  As Clay waited alone in Interview Suite 1, she heard the buzz of an incoming call on her iPhone and saw ‘Rimmer’ on the display. She felt a fist forming inside her core, let it ring out a couple of times and steeled herself.

  ‘Hello, Bob!’

  In the background, she could hear the throb of his car engine and knew from the pitch that he was driving far too fast. He was silent and she wondered which of his demons was singing loudest inside his head.

  Eventually, he spoke. ‘Eve.’

  ‘Yes, Bob?’

  The tyres of his car squealed.

  ‘Bob, I want you to listen to me. First thing, slow down and pull over to the side of the road, so we can speak and you can put all your attention into our conversation.’

  ‘Are you on your own?’

  ‘Yes, I’m on my own.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘Bob, you’re not listening to me. If you don’t slow down, you could cause an accident. You could hurt yourself or someone else.’

  He laughed and Clay’s skin turned to ice.

  ‘I’m an advanced skills driver, Eve, remember? I can drive at any speed I like and be perfectly safe.’

  ‘But even extremely experienced advanced skills drivers have accidents. We lost Roger Phoenix last year in a high-speed chase.’

  ‘Roger was always a lucky bastard. Over and out in the bat of an eye in Sheil Road.’

  ‘Do you want your children to lose both their parents?’

  ‘Leave my kids out of this!’

  ‘Bob, it sounds to me like you’ve been drinking.’ He said nothing. ‘Bob, please, pull over.’

  ‘You’re with him right now, aren’t you?’

  ‘With who?’

  ‘Barney Cole.’

  ‘No, as far as I’m aware he’s up in the incident room. I’m sitting in the interview suite waiting to talk to Christine Green, our prime suspect.’

  ‘So if I ring his landline number in the incident room, he’ll pick up, right?’

  ‘Bob, will you please slow down?’

  ‘You can’t make me do anything, Eve.’

  ‘I don’t want to make you do anything, I just want you to be safe.’

  ‘Cole, he’s told you, of course he has.’

  ‘Told me what, Bob? Tell me what’s on your mind?’

  ‘You think I’m the leak, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know who the leak is. It could be anyone.’

  ‘I just want you to know, Eve. I’m not the fucking rat you think I am.’

  ‘Bob, go home, try and calm down. Pull over and call a taxi. Whatever has or hasn’t happened, we can sort it out one way or another. Please, go home, Bob! Go and see Val and the kids.’ She felt a sudden surge of emotion and fought down the beginning of tears. ‘Go and be with the people who you love and who love you the most!’

  ‘I’m not the leak. OK?’

  The line went dead.

  The door of the interview suite opened and Riley entered.

  ‘We need to send out an urgent request for all patrol cars to look out for Bob Rimmer’s black Renault Mégane. I’ve just had him on the phone, pissed, driving at too many miles per hour and denying he’s the leak. We’ll send out a round robin, nothing detailed,’ said Clay. ‘He’s having a nervous breakdown. If he calls you, keep him talking and try and find out where he is.’

  ‘Professional Standards got back to me,’ said Riley. ‘They’re going to dispatch a pair of officers to go to his home, and wait for him outside.’

  ‘Well, they’re going to have a long wait,’ replied Clay. ‘This stays between me, you and Barney Cole for now.’

  84

  8.30 pm

  Christine Green looked between Clay and Riley and seemed to be watching something invisible to both of them.

  ‘You know, Christine, if you don’t come up with a miracle, I’m going to be charging you with two counts of murder very, very soon.’

  Clay held up the envelope, took out the photographs and placed them in a carefully ordered fashion face down on the table. She turned the first towards Christine. ‘Do you recognise the red duffel coat in this picture?’

  Quickly, Christine Green glanced at the photograph. ‘No.’

  ‘Look closely at the picture, Christine. Can you see discolouration on the coat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Clay watched Christine’s eyes dither, sensed the pressure building up inside her skull.

  ‘Do you know what those discolourations are?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Blood. Right now, as we speak, this coat is being fast-track tested for the DNA on it. Do you know whose blood is on that coat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’m going to put it to you, Christine, that the blood on the coat came from Steven Jamieson and his wife Frances. What’s your view of that statement?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She turned to her solicitor. ‘Can you say something here? Can you stick your oar in and help me because right now you’re sitting there like a silent sack of shit!’

  ‘DCI Clay hasn’t asked one inappropriate question. Cooperate, Christine.’

  Clay placed two more photographs in front of Christine. On one photograph was a trio of grey-blonde hairs in the hood of the coat. In the next picture, the hairs were blown up and laid out against the blank canvas of a white card. ‘Are these hairs from your head, Christine?’

  ‘No.’

  Clay eyed Christine’s hair. ‘It looks like your hair and it’s currently being examined in our forensic lab. We have your DNA on the database. We’re having comparative DNA tests done on you, Lucien and the victims. Look at the enlarged picture of the hairs removed from the hood of your coat. Can you see the flecks of blood on those hairs?’

  ‘No.’

  Clay placed another photograph in front of Christine, so she could see it head on. ‘Do you know what’s in this photograph, Christine?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a sharpened, two-millimetre spoke.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, Christine? So it’s a murder weapon. Do you know who was murdered using this lethal home-made device?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘David Wilson and Steven Jamieson.’

  ‘Oh...’

  ‘Do you know how they were murdered?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know what the consistency of the human brain is like?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The human brain has the same consiste
ncy as a boiled egg, Christine.’

  Clay leaned forward a little and watched Christine’s eyes dither in the silence.

  ‘The sharpened spoke was inserted in the base of the skull and was used like a windscreen wiper inside their brains. Did you do that to them, Christine?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you know that the pathologist concluded in both cases that the men were alive and probably conscious when the steel first entered their brains?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know where we found the sharpened steel?’

  ‘No.’

  Clay placed the picture of the sharpened steel next to the photograph of the red duffel coat. She pointed at the pictures as she spoke. ‘We found the sharpened spoke concealed inside the lining of the duffel coat, right here in the vertical hem.’

  ‘Did you?’

  Clay took the next photograph, looked at it, kept it concealed from Christine. ‘Do you know where we found the red duffel coat?’

  ‘No.’

  Clay turned the photograph around and showed a clear picture of the coat in a box behind McDonald’s. ‘We found the coat, the sharpened spoke and some other of your possessions over the road from your house on Rice Lane, in the bins behind McDonald’s.’

  ‘Bully for you.’

  ‘Christine, did you conceal them there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have a hugely reliable witness who said you always wore a red duffel coat like this.’

  ‘Who?’ A note of dark emotion sounded beneath the surface.

  ‘Your next-door neighbour, Mary Behan.’

  Silence.

  ‘That’s all right then,’ said Christine, flatly.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why, Christine?’

  ‘Because it’s my word against hers and she’s as blind as a bat but a bat makes more sense than she does.’

  ‘I disagree. I’ve heard it from a reliable witness, she may be old but she’s lucid, intelligent and observant. Did you act alone in these two murders?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Act alone?’

  ‘Murder anyone.’

  ‘We know you were involved, Christine. The other party was Lucien Burns.’

  ‘He acted alone. I’ve got nothing at all to do with him.’

  Clay took out her iPhone, went to Voice Memos and turned the volume to its highest setting.

  ‘This a recording of a call made to switchboard from the Jamieson murder scene by your accomplice. Listen.’

  As the recording flooded the room, Christine tilted her head and turned her face to the ceiling.

  ‘I’m calling from 699 Mather Avenue.’

  Clay pressed stop. ‘That’s not you, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who is it then if it’s not you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She tilted her head back, placed her hand close to her mouth and whispered to her solicitor. He shook his head, looking like a man with an invisible anvil on top of his skull.

  Christine sat back and looked at Clay.

  ‘No, Christine,’ said Mr Robson. ‘Please don’t proceed any further into this interview assuming that DCI Clay has manufactured this recording or that she is merely playing mind games with you. Please proceed in this interview taking everything at face value. It is in your best short- and long-term interests.’

  Clay pressed play.

  ‘What’s the nature of your problem?’ asked the operator.

  Clay paused the recording. ‘Who’s speaking now, Christine?’ Clay unpaused it.

  ‘A man has been murdered and his wife has been tortured. Tell Eve Clay to get over here as fast as she can – 699 Mather Avenue.’

  Pause.

  ‘Who spoke those words, Christine?’

  ‘I... don’t... know...’

  ‘Who asked for me?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘Who tipped me off from the crime scene?’

  ‘I don’t... know.’

  ‘Please continue, Detective Sergeant Riley,’ said Clay.

  Riley turned over the next photograph, the contents of the My Little Pony backpack, and placed it in front of Christine.

  ‘Is this your Stanley knife?’ asked Riley.

  ‘It speaks.’

  ‘Answer the question,’ said the solicitor.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you use this Stanley knife to carve the signature “Vindici” on the flesh on David Wilson’s back?’ asked Riley.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Steven Jamieson’s back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Frances Jamieson’s back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you use this Stanley knife to remove Frances Jamieson’s eyelids?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you use the sharpened spoke to whip the backs of Steven Jamieson’s legs before you used it to invade his brain?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Why didn’t you whip David Wilson’s legs?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  Riley turned over a photograph of the My Little Pony backpack. ‘Recognise this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We found all those items inside the My Little Pony backpack, the one we found with your coat and laptop behind McDonald’s.’

  Riley placed a picture of the thin blue ropes in front of Christine. ‘This isn’t the same rope that was used to bind Frances Jamieson. Those particular ropes are currently undergoing forensic testing, but they were found in the bag which I can only assume was used to carry the tools you needed to do the job of murder. Not once but twice. Do you recognise the ropes?’

  ‘No.’

  Riley presented her with another photograph. ‘The aerosol used to disable them when they opened the front door to you?’

  ‘No.’

  Next photograph. ‘Incense cones and matches. Recognise them, Christine?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We had a phone call from a Sergeant Eduardo García of the Puebla City police department in Mexico. He confirmed that twelve Weeping Children statuettes...’ Riley showed Christine two images of the statuettes, one from David Wilson’s home and the other from Steven Jamieson’s. ‘...just like these were purchased by and dispatched to a Mrs J. Truman at 686 Rice Lane from Sanchez Ceramics in Puebla City. Who lives at 686 Rice Lane?’

  ‘Mrs J. Truman.’

  ‘That’s your home address, Christine. When you purchased the Weeping Children, you were flattering yourself that you had a deep connection to your hero Justin Truman, that you were somehow married to him. You purchased those statuettes of the Weeping Children, didn’t you, Christine?’

  ‘I’ve never seen them in my life.’

  ‘You ordered twelve, Christine. Were you planning to murder a further ten men?’

  ‘No, I had no plans to murder anyone. I have no plans to murder anyone. How can anyone think they could match up to Justin Truman, a hero of the people, a defender of children everywhere, the light at the end of the tunnel, the one who gives hope to the hopeless?’

  ‘Tell me more about Justin Truman,’ said Clay. ‘Did he start orchestrating these murders from Mexico?’

  Christine took the middle finger of her right hand and drew it from left to right across her tightly sealed lips.

  ‘Is he in direct touch with you, calling the shots?’

  Silence.

  ‘Because if he is, one of the things I don’t understand yet is why he didn’t tell you to leave food at the murder scenes. Sugar skulls, candy skeletons, dainty cakes.’

  ‘In your eyes he is a criminal. In my eyes he is the saviour.’

  ‘I’m calling a break here,’ said Clay. ‘When I recommence the interview, Christine, I want to know how you got the names and addresses of David Wilson on Dundonald Road, Aigburth, and the Jamiesons on Mather Avenue in Allerton. That’s what we’ll be talking about next, amongst other things. You wouldn’t happen to be able to tell me anything about how y
ou got that information now, would you?’

  Christine looked at her solicitor. ‘Do you know what the fuck she’s talking about, Mr Robson?’

  ‘Christine,’ said Clay. She made eye contact with Clay. ‘There’s one other thing. Think about this one. Lucien Burns. The two of you gave a good show back then of not knowing each other and falling out to the point of a fist fight. But how do you know him?’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘Of course you don’t know him, Christine. In the same way as he doesn’t know you.’ They stared at each other across the table. ‘You’re very artistic, Christine, I’ve got to hand it to you. I couldn’t whittle such a detailed SS Death’s Head in wood relief if I tried for a thousand years. I couldn’t produce calligraphy to such a high standard, forging someone’s signature on the skin of another human being with a Stanley knife. You’re artistic, for sure, but you’re brutal with it. And you’re lying through your teeth to me.’

  85

  8.35 pm

  Arturo Salvador stood on the step of 101 Arundel Avenue and, picking out the bell for Flat 4, assessed the nameless blank space next to it and saw an admission of guilt in the resident’s need and desire for anonymity.

  Keeping his finger on the bell to the count of seven, he waited in the ensuing silence and no voice came from the intercom. Finger on the bell, he counted to twenty, imagined the abrasive noise and how it jangled the nerves of the man who was refusing to speak with him.

  He banged on the front door fast and hard with the heel of his hand, enough to rattle the bones of the big old house, and was rewarded with a barely audible, ‘Who is this?’ through the dilapidated intercom.

  ‘Merseyside Police. Open the door, please.’

  ‘How do I know you’re who you’re saying you are?’ The man sounded afraid to the point of terror.

  ‘You don’t. Open the door.’

  Ragged breathing grew thicker and faster through the intercom.

  ‘Look, you’re in danger, Edward. I’ve come to help you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’ve had a tip-off, an anonymous call.’

  He left Edward dangling.

  ‘What? What was said?’

  ‘I’m not discussing this with you from the step. You let me in and I’ll tell you what was said. You refuse to open the door, I’ll have no choice other than to walk away and leave you in the lap of the gods...’