by Mel Sherratt
He knew Mickey Taylor was a creature of habit. He had worked out where best to strike along the stretch of canal where he walked his dog every morning and evening, had determined that he always came alone. Last month’s final task had been to check out the timing, figure out when the bridge wasn’t in use as much and see if it was all possible. Being fairly small, Patrick was able to keep himself well hidden in the hedge while he counted the minutes when people went across it and when it went quiet again. Timing was going to be everything – certainly it would mean the difference between getting caught and getting away.
After the attack, Patrick had gone on to the next bridge, cut through a small hole in the fencing and walked quickly across a large field. About half a mile away by then, he’d crawled into a thick hedgerow out of sight.
He’d done it.
He hadn’t been sure that he would; he thought that he’d either bottle out before he’d faced Mickey or that, once he’d spoken to him, he would then lose his nerve and make a complete idiot of himself. Everyone had looked up to Mickey; girls and boys followed him around the corridors like sheep. He was one of a gang who had bullied Patrick at school. One of several who had made his life hell and walked off without a backward glance once the final bell had rung on the last day.
Before he’d gone to the canal, Patrick had tried to put out of his mind the fear of Mickey getting the better of him, remembering who he was and laughing at him, punching him when he showed any aggression. But no: Patrick had taken the knife and rammed it into his stomach. And it had felt so good.
He’d wanted to do it over and over – but he’d had to rein himself in at four blows, though. Four was sure to finish Mickey off, plus there was less chance of getting blood on himself. When he wasn’t out running, he’d worn dark-coloured clothes for a few months too – so if anyone did spot him out on his travels, he’d blend in even more. The black jumper, jacket and jeans he had on today hid any blood that might have soaked into them.
He’d sat there for four freezing hours until it was time for him to be seen. Every weekday morning, he went out at eleven to fetch what groceries he needed from Morrison’s supermarket on Festival Park. He always cut through Portland Street, turning right into Century Street and continuing on until he came out on Cobridge Road. He too was a creature of habit; everyone knew that, and everyone would think he was going about his business as usual, nothing out of the ordinary.
He’d gone prepared, taking with him a few baby wipes to clean away the blood from his hands, rub over his face just in case there was any splatter he couldn’t see. It wouldn’t do to plan all this only to have a smear of blood give him away. He’d remembered not to discard the wipes – he wasn’t entirely sure that the police would check the bins that far out but, well, you never knew, did you? And he’d removed his jacket, taken off his top jumper to reveal another underneath. He’d pulled out the Morrison’s carrier bag he’d brought with him and shoved the jumper inside. For all intents and purposes, it seemed as if he’d gone to the supermarket as he did most mornings and was now carrying his shopping back to his house.
He turned right into Century Street, where there were parked cars on either side of a row of terraced houses, and headed on towards Portland Street. Once there, he began to walk just that little bit faster. Even at eleven a.m., it was quiet; the day was cold but at least it was still dry. In the distance, two men from the city council were picking up litter, white plastic bags flapping about in the wind. He hadn’t spoken to either one of them in the years he had lived there but he knew them both by sight. It was good that they would get to see him this morning, hopefully recalling him doing exactly the same as he did every day if they were ever questioned.
At Waterloo Road, he turned right and crossed over, continuing down the bank until he reached the grassed area that he could cut across to get to his house. Finally, a few minutes later, he was in Ranger Street.
Only when the front door of number twenty-seven closed behind him did he let his shoulders drop. He closed his eyes, standing for a moment in the silence of the house. Holding out his hands in front of him, he watched them shake uncontrollably. He took off his gloves, rubbed some warmth into his fingers. There was blood under his nails, soaked through the woollen material. He needed to wash it all away. And his clothes – he needed to wash those too.
He went through to the kitchen. Stripping where he stood, he bundled his clothes into the machine and put on a cycle. Then he mopped the already clean floor. Around him, the worktops were spotless, not a teaspoon left out of a drawer after a quick cup of tea this morning. Plain beech-wood units stood in a line along one wall. Off-white tiles above those had a shine on them that would make any car manufacturer jealous. So too had the one full-length long window at the far end of the room, overlooking a small, tidy yard at the back of the house.
A faint smell of lilac intermingled with a whiff of lemon Jif clung in the air. Patrick associated the smell with a multitude of secrets kept well hidden over the years. He’d been twenty-five when he’d taken the worst beating ever from his father, coming close to losing the sight in his right eye. Luckily, exhaustion from the ferocity of the attack had left Ray unable to continue with his assault. Another kick or two would probably have finished Patrick off.
More often, he wished he hadn’t survived the attack at all.
Before heading upstairs to take a shower, he went into the living room. Naked, he didn’t feel at all vulnerable as he stared at the map, seeing where the next murder would take place. On the sideboard to his right, a small bundle of letters bearing the logo of HM Prison had been shoved behind a photograph of a woman and two small children. Patrick picked up the first letter, redelivered three weeks ago. He pulled out the note inside, read the only words he was interested in. The writing was sprawling, similar to that of a child learning to join up the letters for the first time.
10.53 a.m., Friday 16 January.
The words were few but carried huge meaning for Patrick. Life was about to become a whole lot worse come next Friday if he didn’t carry out his plan. And he couldn’t – wouldn’t – allow that to happen. He’d waited such a long time for that day to arrive.
For every memory that he had lived with for years, all the resentment it had caused, he’d stored it up for that day.
For every time Ray had come home drunk and taken his anger out on him, told him how useless he was as he’d struck him, he’d waited for that day.
For every time that Ray had filled his life with fear, his head with negativity, his thoughts with abandonment, he’d waited for that day.
He wasn’t about to let that cruel bastard back into his life. Ray would have to learn the hard way just exactly what his son had turned into while he’d been inside doing time for murder. Patrick was a fighter now. No, more than that: he was a killer now. As well as mentally preparing himself for this for years, he had been physically preparing himself for it too. He’d been running thirty miles each week, often in the dead of the night when his shift at work had finished, building up his stamina. He’d been lifting weights too, combinations that he hadn’t thought possible, getting stronger month by month. He might have a puny frame but it was perfect to hide behind.
Ray wouldn’t know what hit him.
Chapter Four
Holly Lane didn’t live up to the picturesque promise of its name. Roughly half a mile from where Mickey Taylor had been found, it was in a built-up area of the city, the properties dating back to just before the war. But the lane was wide, with several holly bushes dotted around the pavements.
Allie parked behind Nick’s car on the road and they walked up the spacious drive together to the Taylors’ residence.
‘Never get used to this, do you?’ Nick muttered as he rang the doorbell.
‘No.’ Allie glanced at the doorway as she waited, in awe of Mickey ending up with something as grand as this. Her feeling wasn’t disbeli
ef, exactly, but more admiration that he had made something of himself. Mickey Taylor might have been the school heartthrob but now that she’d had a little more time to think about it, she’d remembered that he was in one of the classes where all the troublemakers, slow developers and general nuisances were put. Now she was older she understood why they had been segregated, but it still annoyed her. Putting people in boxes made for troubled lives. Children were often labelled before they’d left school – but people changed, none more so than teenagers. Allie would always prefer to form opinions of her own.
The door was answered by Mrs Clamortie, Mrs Taylor’s mum, and before being shown into the living room, Allie and Nick learned that her husband had gone to fetch Mickey’s youngest daughter from college. The interior of the house matched the outside in age. Dark woods, floorboards and panels, blood-red Chesterfield settees. Noting some of the antique figurines and ornate frames dotted around, Allie assumed that either Mickey or his wife had a good eye for business.
Mrs Taylor sat on the sofa clutching a handkerchief. Tears poured down her face as she spotted them. Mrs Clamortie moved to sit down next to her daughter and they clutched each other’s hands.
Allie realised as soon as she saw her that she had indeed known Mickey’s wife at school. Kath Clamortie had been two years above her if she remembered rightly. Looks-wise, she’d hardly changed. Like Allie, Kath had kept herself trim and had razor-sharp one-length brown hair and a thick fringe. Unlike Allie, she wore the best of designer wear, and heels that Allie would kill for – she was wearing a pair of Jimmy Choos Allie had been coveting for ages. When Nick introduced her, Allie could almost hear Kath working out where she’d seen her before too.
‘We’re so sorry for your loss, Mrs Taylor,’ Nick said. ‘May we sit down?’
A slight nod of a head followed. Then she looked up.
‘You used to be Allie Baxter?’ she asked Allie.
‘I did,’ Allie replied.
‘Karen Baxter’s sister. I knew her before . . . She was a lovely person.’
Allied smiled briefly, not willing to let Karen enter her thoughts when the job in hand was so tough.
A phone rang from another room and Kath looked at her mother desperately. ‘Would you get that?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll try not to be too long.’
‘It’s hardly stopped ringing,’ Kath explained. ‘People can’t believe it so they’re ringing to check, I suppose. They mean well but I don’t believe it yet.’ She cleared her throat, pulled another tissue from the box beside her and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I don’t want to.’
Allie’s heart went out to her. She knew she’d be the same if anything happened to Mark.
‘Are you able to answer a few questions?’ Nick asked.
‘I – yes,’ said Kath.
Allie pulled her notebook from her coat pocket.
‘Can you tell me when you last saw Mickey, Mrs Taylor?’
‘It was about six thirty this morning. Mickey took Harry out for his usual walk. That’s our dog, Harry. He’s a spaniel.’
‘Did Mickey always go along that particular part of the canal towpath?’
‘Yes.’
‘And always at the same times?’
‘More or less. I was in the shower when he left the house today.’ Kath’s eyes brimmed with tears again. ‘We’d been bickering. I never got to say goodbye.’
‘Bickering?’ said Nick.
‘I wanted to redecorate the hall again and he wasn’t having it. That kind of bickering.’
‘What time did you come downstairs?’
‘It was less than half an hour later. I heard the seven o’clock news on the radio as I came into the kitchen. I saw Harry appear at the patio doors about fifteen minutes later. I let him in and assumed Mickey was messing about in the garage. It was only later that I looked and he wasn’t there.’
‘So the dog came home alone? No one brought him back?’
‘As far as I know. I just saw him and assumed that Mickey had come home too.’
‘Can you remember how much time had lapsed between you seeing Harry and checking on Mickey?’
‘Twenty minutes at the most.’ Kath looked up at them both in turn. ‘I made coffee, you see, and took one out to him. But he wasn’t in the garage when I got there. I tried his phone but there was no answer. That’s when I began to panic.’ Kath wiped away more tears. ‘We were going away this afternoon. Manchester for the night – Mickey has a meeting there in the morning. I was going to do a bit of shopping while I waited for him. We were supposed to be staying at the MalMaison. I . . . I need to let them know that we won’t be coming.’
‘I can do that for you, duck.’ Mrs Clamortie came back in and sat down again. ‘That was your Aunty Judith. She sends her condolences.’
‘Once you’d tried him on his mobile phone,’ Nick continued, ‘and there was no answer, what did you do then?’
‘I called a few people to see if they had seen him. That was when I saw the police car pull into our driveway. I ran to the door, but he wasn’t . . .’ Kath sobbed, ‘. . . he wasn’t with them.’
Allie was glad when Nick let her take a moment of comfort in her mother’s embrace before continuing. She sensed they were almost done anyway.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Taylor, just a couple more questions,’ Nick started again. ‘How long have you known Mickey?’
‘We’ve been together since high school.’
‘What was he like back then?’
‘Mickey was gorgeous.’ Kath smiled a little at the memory. ‘Mind, he thought he was God’s gift with his Goth-punk look. He told me years later that somehow he’d managed to throw it together and it came out good by accident. Luckily the girls seemed to like it.’
‘So he was popular then?’
‘Yes, he was. Back then he could have had his pick of any girl at Reginald High.’
‘Do you know if he’d been in any kind of trouble lately? Fallen out with anyone?’
Kath shook her head. ‘He nearly ended up in prison just after we married. He was only young then. Scared the hell out of him so he gradually cut all ties with his friends, started his own company and hasn’t looked back since.’
Allie wondered if there was anything to be found in Mickey’s abandoned friends, making a mental note to look into it.
‘Do you have any grandchildren, Mrs Taylor?’ she asked.
‘Yes, two boys. Three and two. My elder daughter’s – we had her when we were quite young.’
‘Has Mickey been playing games with them lately that involved spelling out words? You know, with the colourful magnetic letters that can be attached to a whiteboard?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Kath sniffed, her eyes filling with fresh tears. She looked at her mother. ‘Mickey wasn’t the best when it came to spelling. Why do you ask that?’
‘Does the letter E mean anything to you?’
Kath and her mother glanced at each other again before both shaking their heads.
‘There was a plastic letter in the back pocket of Mickey’s jeans. We need to figure out if it was placed there by whoever did this to your husband or if it was there before Mickey went out.’
‘But, what . . . I . . . I – I don’t know.’ Kath burst into tears again. ‘I don’t know.’
After a nod from Nick, Allie stood up, smoothing down her skirt. ‘There’ll be a family liaison officer with you shortly,’ she told them both, ‘to keep you informed as to where we are within the investigation. Once again, we’re so sorry for your loss.’
‘Whoever did this needs to rot in a cell,’ Mrs Clamortie said as she held on to her daughter again. ‘They shouldn’t be allowed to get away –’
‘Mum!’ The door opened and a teenage girl with a shock of red hair and wearing school uniform burst into the room. ‘Mum,’ she
sobbed.
Mrs Clamortie stood up quickly. ‘Molly.’
Molly pushed past her to her mum. ‘Tell me it’s not true.’ Molly turned to Allie then. ‘Tell me!’
With Mrs Taylor stumbling over her words, Allie took over. Years of experience in similar situations still never prepared her for the anguished cry of grief when it came.
Leaving the house with Nick shortly after, Allie held in her own tears as they walked away.
‘Sometimes I hate my job,’ she told him. ‘That poor girl. So young to lose a father, and in such tragic circumstances.’
‘This is why we do this job.’ Nick shoved his hands into his coat pockets. ‘So we can get bastards who tear families apart.’
‘I hope we can clear this up quickly, even just to give them peace.’
‘Let’s concentrate on getting back whatever information we can ASAP. Someone must have seen something down there on the canal side. And we need a press release sorted while house-to-house is being carried out.’
As they got into separate cars to make their way back to the station, Allie looked at the house one more time. Getting justice – that’s why she did her job. Justice for a wife, a daughter, a sister. And she would do her best to see that happened.
‘So what was he really like?’ Allie asked as she and Perry drove along Potteries Way towards Burslem later that afternoon.
‘Huh?’ Perry glanced at her with a frown before indicating to change lanes.
‘Mickey Taylor. Did you know him well? Were you one of his crowd? What did you get up to? Did the lay-dees like him too?’
Perry sniggered. ‘You have such a nose for gossip.’
‘It’s my job!’
‘No, it isn’t. Besides, there’s nothing to tell. I knew him until I left school – haven’t seen him much at all since. I know his wife if it’s the same Kath that he was knocking off at school. He got her pregnant just before we left. And I know of his factory now I’ve Googled it, and that’s all really.’