“Okay, okay, I get the picture. So, what do we do in the meantime?”
“Go to work, carry on as normal. Express your horror when people talk about the murders. They're bound to feature number two on the news tonight, and it'll be in the evening edition of the Echo, for sure, and it's bound to make the national dailies too.”
The woman nodded in agreement, sipping from her coffee mug, then grimacing as she realised the contents had gone cold as they'd sat talking.
“Ugh” she spluttered. “Stone cold. I need a refill. Want one?”
“Yes, please,” the man answered politely.
She rose from the table and walked across to the servery, looking back once and smiling at her partner. To any casual observer they looked as innocent as any other travellers waiting for the arrival of their train. As he waited for her to return with the fresh drinks, the man drummed his fingers on the table top, a random tattoo that he performed in order to stop his hands from shaking. He'd felt repulsed by the sight of their latest victim's innards spilling out from his guts after he'd slit him open, and he hadn't been prepared for the immense gush of blood that had accompanied the outpouring of intestines and bodily fluids, not to mention the smell as the man's life ebbed away in front of him. He knew they were doing what had to be done, but that didn't mean to say he had to like it, though it wouldn't be wise to share that with the woman who now came striding back to the table, a plastic tray in her hands, bearing two fresh disposable mugs of steaming hot coffee.
“You look a bit pale. Are you alright?” she asked as she placed the tray in the centre of the table before taking each mug and placing one in front of him, the other on her side of the table, then placing the tray on the floor beside them, propped up against the table leg.
“I'm fine,” he replied, forcing a smile on his face. “Just daydreaming for a minute, that's all.”
“About number two?” she asked, receiving a non-committal nod in return. “Did you see the look of panic on that bastard's face when he realised what was about to happen? It was priceless, and then the look of pure terror and shock on his face when you slit his guts open? I just wish he'd have lasted a bit longer, suffered even more, before going to hell.”
“Keep your voice down,” the man ordered. “Someone might overhear you.”
“Right, yeah, sorry,” she whispered across the table. “Just can't believe it was so easy, and so bloody satisfying to see his blood pouring out onto the ground like that.”
“Come on,” the man replied. “Enough of that. We're doing what has to be done. Let's not revel in it too much, ok?”
He felt he had to say something, if only to shut her up, before she blabbed too loud and someone heard her and called the police.
“Drink your coffee and we'd better go.”
“When will I hear from you again?” she asked.
“Not until I've got things sorted and in place for the next one,” he replied. “Best if we're not see together too often. That way nobody will think of connecting the two of us. It has to be bloody obvious to the bizzies that there were two people involved in the last one by now. They'll know one person couldn't have got him up on the angel by himself and the footprints we must have left in the blood and on the ground will confirm there were two of us as well. Hopefully, they'll think they're looking for two men, which will also work to our advantage. They probably won't dream a woman could be involved in such gruesome killings.”
“Ha,” she exclaimed, being careful to keep her voice to a bare whisper. “That just shows how wrong they are, doesn't it?”
A few minutes later, the pair rose from the table, the woman picking up the tray and depositing it in the used tray rack at the end of the counter, then walked casually from the fast food restaurant and out of the station onto Lime Street.
The pair quickly separated, the man walking to the station car park where his own transport was parked waiting for him. He looked back just once, to see his partner in crime walking briskly away from the station in the direction of the city centre, where, he knew, she'd soon find a store with a ladies changing room where she'd quickly transform herself back to her usual everyday appearance. The 'hiker' from the railway station would disappear, never to be seen again.
As he pulled away and began the drive back to home and work, he allowed his mind to drift back in time, and to a reminder of just why he was following his current course of action. The mind pictures that played in his thoughts reassured him and he knew that despite what the police and the law might think, his actions were entirely justified. Soon, it would be time to venture out once more, and the hunt would begin anew.
Chapter 14
All I have to do is dream
Sunday evening Mass completed, Gerald Byrne was looking forward to a meal, a hot bath and perhaps relaxing in front of the television for a couple of hours, followed by a cup of cocoa and a little light reading in bed before sleep claimed him for the night. Father Willis was in his room, reading before dinner, and would join him when their housekeeper/cook, Mrs. Redding, informed them their evening meal was ready. Byrne enjoyed the company of the younger priest and had soon began to feel at home in his new parish, feeling particularly pampered by the wonderful cooking of Iris Redding, who kept the house spotless and seemed to enjoy mothering the two priests. Aged sixty-two, but trim and sprightly for her age, Iris had kept house for the priests of St. Luke's for almost twenty years, and couldn't imagine her life without the daily tasks of 'doing for' the Fathers, as she described her work. Her husband, Tom, younger than Iris at fifty-eight, had worked as a landscape gardener until a heart attack had restricted his activity, and now kept his hand in by taking care of the quite substantial gardens at the manse, as well as tending to the not insubstantial task of looking after the grounds of the church, keeping the grass cut and tending to the graves, keeping St. Luke's churchyard a neat and tidy oasis of calm for the relatives and friends of those buried there, and who came to pay their respects at their loved ones' gravesides. Tom worked in the churchyard three mornings a week, though what he'd think when he saw the blood-stained grave and desecrated angel statue of the Seagrove's joint grave on his next scheduled gardening visit the following day, Iris Redding didn't dare to imagine.
Mouth-watering smells were already emanating from the kitchen and wafting through the house by the time Byrne had changed into a comfortable pair of jeans and his favourite brown polo-neck sweater. He seated himself in one of the room's two armchairs and reached across to the nearby magazine rack to pick up the latest edition of the Liverpool Echo, delivered each day to the manse.
The local newspaper's banner headline read, GRUESOME DISOVERY – SECOND MUTILATED BODY IN CITY CHURCHYARD.
Byrne had heard of a second murder via the bishop's office earlier that afternoon but the way it was reported in the Echo was sensationalist to say the least. Byrne guessed that the reporter had made light of the truth in a lot of his article, the priest doubting the police would have provided the press with some of the more lurid details contained on the front page.
As he read, Mrs. Redding knocked quietly on the parlour door and walked in to the room to announce that dinner would be ready in five minutes, but seeing the priest reading the article she felt she had to say something.
“Oh, Father, that poor man. What could he have done to make someone do those terrible things to him?”
“Now, now, Mrs. Redding,” Byrne replied, “We mustn't necessarily believe all we read in the newspapers. I'm pretty sure the journalist who wrote this article used an awful lot of speculation and half-truths in his composition. The police certainly don't usually give information like this to the press, especially as it says near the bottom that the police will be releasing further details when the victim has been identified and next-of-kin informed. The police would never release some of this stuff in the newspaper article if the nearest and dearest hadn't been informed yet. They're not that insensitive.”
“Perhaps you're right, Father, b
ut it does sound as if it's a horrific killing, doesn't it? And just a day after the other one, and both victims left on holy ground, in churchyards. What is the world coming to?”
“Indeed, Mrs. Redding. It makes one think, for sure.”
“Does young Father Willis know,” she asked.
“Oh yes, I spoke with him when I arrived home this afternoon. He was shocked of course and we both prayed for the victim together.”
“That was kind of you,” said the housekeeper, and then, satisfied that she'd fulfilled the need to show concern for the victim of the latest brutal murder to hit the city, she went on, “Anyway, Father, dinner will be ready in five minutes. Liver and bacon, with onions, served with mashed potatoes, carrots and peas. And gravy, of course. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to let Father Willis know while I'm serving it out, and you can both enjoy it and take your minds off horrible things like murder and mutilation.”
“Yes, of course I'll tell him, Mrs. Redding. Five minutes in the dining room, right?”
“Right Father. Five minutes,” and then almost as an afterthought, “and there's one of those 'Stop Press' boxes at the bottom of page three, Father. Some young girl, nothing more than a teenager apparently, drowned herself off the dunes at Formby. All it says is a man walking his dog witnessed it and police are investigating.”
“Ah, poor, tortured soul,” Gerald Byrne said, sadness evident in his voice.
“But suicide's a sin, Father, isn't it?” Iris Redding said, as though in condemnation of the girl's action.
“So the good book tells us, Mrs. Redding, but that doesn't preclude us praying for the poor girl's soul, now, does it? For one so young to take such drastic action must mean she was under intolerable pressure of some kind to have pushed her into making such a terrible decision. We mustn't be too quick to condemn in such cases. Perhaps, like I will, you'll say a prayer for that poor girl's immortal soul before going to bed tonight.”
Feeling a little guilty, Iris Redding replied,
“Yes, of course, Father. I didn't mean anything bad about the girl, just well, you know, it does say in the Bible that…”
“Yes, I know, Mrs. Redding, but also, the Bible tells us it is not the pure in heart that Jesus came to save, but the sinners, who he called upon to repent and accept the love of God, does it not?”
“Yes of course, Father, you're right of course.”
Gerald Byrne smiled at his well-meaning housekeeper as the tantalising smell of his evening meal assailed his nostrils as it wafted through the door.
“Always remember, Mrs. Redding, that without sinners, people like me and Father Willis would technically be redundant. Now, about that excellent meal you've prepared for us?”
“Of course, Father, forgive me waffling on like this when you must be starving hungry. I'll be away and getting it now for you.”
With that, Mrs. Redding walked swiftly from the room to begin plating up the two priest's evening meal as Byrne quickly glanced at the Stop Press article before placing the paper back in the magazine rack, walking into the hall and calling upstairs to his young assistant priest.
“David, Father Willis, dinner will be on the table in five minutes. Are you coming to join me?”
A muffled reply was just audible as Willis acknowledged Byrne's call from his bedroom, and five minutes later joined Byrne in the dining room as Mrs. Redding, in a display of perfect timing, followed within seconds, a smile on her face, with two tantalising tasty meals steaming on their plates as she approached the dining table with her serving tray.
“That smells delicious,” David Willis said as Iris Redding placed the dinner plates down in front of the two priests.
“Mmm, looks it too,” Gerald Byrne agreed. “You always do us proud, Mrs. Redding, thank you.”
Smiling, Iris Redding stepped back and tucked the now empty tray under her arm.
“Enjoy it Fathers,” she urged, “and there's my home-made treacle sponge pudding for afters, too.”
“Oh, she's spoiling us to death, David,” Byrne enthused. “You treat us too well, Mrs. Redding.”
“Nonsense, Father,” she replied. “You deserve a good meal at the end of the day. Now, go ahead and eat. I'll be back in a while to see if you're ready for pudding.”
The two priests tucked in to their meal with gusto, finishing off with the promised sponge pudding, with home-made custard, after which Mrs. Redding cleared the table, stacked the pots and cutlery in the dishwasher ready to attend to the next morning, said goodnight to the priests and then headed off home to her husband, who would be eagerly awaiting his own evening meal when she got there.
* * *
After a quiet and peaceful evening in the company of his younger assistant, having enjoyed watching the television together and spending a short time discussing the day's news, including the horrific murder at St. Mark's, both men expressing their disgust and horror, not just at the gruesome nature and cruelty of the murders, but also the acts of sacrilege committed on holy ground, Byrne and Willis bade one another goodnight and headed upstairs. Byrne made for the bathroom where he kept his earlier promise to himself and spent a half hour luxuriating in a hot bath, before towelling himself dry and heading off to bed, calling out his goodnight to Father Willis as he passed the younger priest's bedroom door. Receiving no reply, he assumed Willis was already asleep and was soon tucked up in his own bed where he first spent ten minutes at prayer before picking up his book from the nightstand beside the bed. Less than ten minutes later, with his eyes growing heavy and the words of the pages beginning to swim in front of them, he placed the book down, plumped up his pillows and fell into a deep sleep in seconds, the sleep that carries the mind far inside itself, leading the sleeper into dreams so vivid they become, for a time, the sleeping brain's reality…
Speke Hill Orphanage and School's Sports Day, 1964, proved to be a great success. Teachers, carers and pupils alike had all entered into the relaxed spirit of the day, with much cheering and applause greeting the winners, and indeed the losers of each event. The ethos of the Catholic priests and nuns in charge of the event was simple, taking part was ultimately its own reward and though prizes were awarded to the winning house, everyone was to be congratulated on giving their all in the cause of their team.
Earlier in the afternoon, young Gerry Byrne had received great applause as he finished first in the 100 yard sprint, the blue hoop on his shirt flashing past the finish line a good two yards ahead of the white hooped shirt worn by Mark Proctor, who finished second for Sefton House. Alan Prosser, a school prefect and the Upper's House Captain of Stanley House, even came across to young Byrne and slapped him on the back in congratulations as another ten points for first place were added to Stanley House's total for the day, taking them into a sizeable lead. Mark Proctor was angry with himself for failing to beat the smaller Gerry, who he'd fully expected to defeat in the race, and he promised himself there'd be no repeat of his defeat when the pair faced each other again later in the 4 X 100 yards relay race.
Gerry's sister Angela, meanwhile, did her bit for Stanley House by winning her long jump event and as proceedings drew to a close, only the two boys 100 yards relays remained, with Stanley being three points ahead of Sefton, the other two houses trailing some way behind. The Lower School race was first, and Proctor saw his chance. As the pair took up the baton within a half-second of each other both having been picked to run the last leg of the relay, he surreptitiously tripped Gerry Byrne with a sneaky tap on the ankle, enough to make Byrne stumble and lose enough ground to be unable to make up over such a short race distance. Mark Proctor snapped the finish tape ahead of Molyneux and Norris with Stanley, in the shape of Gerry Byrne in fourth place. Thinking his triumph complete, and that he'd put his house into the lead with one race to go, Proctor was ecstatic until Master of Ceremonies, Father Rooney, announced an inquiry into the running of the Lower Boys relay. As the Upper boys relay race took place, with a win for Stanley, Sefton finishing a distant third, Stanley Ho
use was once more just in the lead in the race for the Bishops Cup. Everything now depended on the result of the inquiry into the earlier race. Mark Proctor's trip on Gerry Byrne had been seen and he was disqualified and Sefton House placed last, with the other houses all being promoted a place. Stanley House were the winners of the Bishop's Cup for 1964, and Sefton were runners-up, with Molyneux third and Norris fourth.
Gerry Byrne's disappointment at being cheated out of the chance of a win in the relay was slightly assuaged by the sight of Proctor's fellow relay team members kicking and thumping and slapping him in disgust at his behaviour, out of sight of the priests of course, that had cost their house the opportunity of winning the Bishop's Cup.
* * *
Angela's screams broke into his dreams. Young Gerry was fast asleep, his mind reliving his win in the relay, and the later sight of Proctor being knocked about by his own team members, when the shrill sound of his sister's voice, in obvious distress brought him to full wakefulness in an instant. Jumping up from his bed, Gerry leapt to his feet, oblivious to the cold of the lino floor against his skin, and ran to the window. There, on the grassed area outside, he saw Mark Proctor and three other boys holding his sister down on the ground. Gerry didn't know what they were doing to his sister, but the fact she was screaming and trying to fight them off and in obvious distress spurred him to action. Gerry clambered through the window and ran the few yards to the group on the ground, leaping at Mark Proctor, who was immediately on top of his sister, trying it seemed to Gerry, to force her to open her legs by forcing a knee between them. Whatever it was he was doing, Gerry knew it was wrong and he flung himself on to Proctor's back shouting as many obscenities as he knew at his tender age, while lashing out with his fists and bare feet, scratching Proctor's face as his nails clawed down the other's cheek, until the other three boys grabbed hold of Gerry and began pummelling him with their fists, until he fell back on to the grass, blood pouring from multiple cuts on his face and legs. As he lay there, sore and bleeding, he heard his sister scream again, and saw a look of terror on her face as Mark Proctor began to remove his trousers, and Gerry wondered why none of the boys, Proctor included, had spoken a word, why nobody else had heard her screams and why no-one had come to help, and even as his mind pondered these questions, everything turned black.
All Saints- Murder on the Mersey Page 13