SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2)

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘All right,’ Megan said, her face white. ‘I get the picture.’

  But Foster wasn’t finished. ‘He made the poor sod recite an oath before he hacked off each bit — “I swear I will never steal anything ever again in my miserable life. I will tell my miserable low-life friends what happens when you mess with Mr Doran. If I go to the police, I will die in a thousand little pieces.” Poor bastard still wakes up in the night screaming those words.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Sarge!’ Hart exclaimed.

  ‘No, she should know this,’ he said. ‘You should know this,’ he said, turning back to Megan. ‘’Cos we’re protecting you from this animal. We only know this as rumour, because they don’t come to us. They don’t go to a lawyer — they don’t even go the hospital, half the time. They just crawl under a rock and wait till they’ve healed and then they stay the hell away from Patrick Doran.’

  Megan looked at him. ‘You think I don’t know what Doran is?’

  Foster had fought in Kuwait in 1991. He had seen palls of smoke boiling over sabotaged oilfields. Dark and swiftly changing, shifting and eddying and with the occasional glimpse of something within — a flare of white-hot flame, maybe. Megan’s grey eyes had taken on that same strangely luminous darkness.

  ‘I know what he is. And I am going to meet him — you can’t stop me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Foster said. ‘We can. And if I have to handcuff you to stop you going, I will.’

  Megan’s fury was fleeting. The smoky threat in her eyes dissipated, as though she willed it from her; she relaxed her shoulders and composed her features into a semblance of careless indifference. ‘Fine.’ Her tone was light; she even smiled a little as she turned and headed for her bedroom.

  ‘Sorry, Megan.’ Hart barred her way. ‘You’ll have to take the spare room, tonight.’ Foster framed a question as Megan drew herself up, ready to argue. ‘Fire escape,’ Hart said, her tone apologetic. ‘We can’t have you slipping off to a midnight assignation without us, can we?’

  Megan glanced at Foster, her face flushed, all pretence at indifference gone. ‘He’s not a fool. If he sees it’s not me—’

  ‘How’s he gonna know?’ Hart said. ‘All he’s got to go on is the truly bad drivers’ licence photo we gave to the press — which, by the way, looks nothing like you. We’ve got pretty close look-alike to substitute for you, Megan — a trained police officer. Relax. We’ll get him.’

  Foster spread his hands in apology and she stamped off to the second bedroom without another word.

  * * *

  She had stipulated that he should come alone, but she hadn’t said anything about communicating with his team. Doran used his bluetooth earpiece — a toy he had barely used until now — and did a visual sweep of the area, reporting back to Warrender. He had men posted at either end of the pedestrianised area, at Bold Street and Lord Street. Extra men had been deployed at the side roads off Church Street. They would catch Megan Ward, no matter which escape route she tried.

  He saw her some fifty yards away, standing under the bronze statue of the Moores brothers, founders of the Littlewoods empire. They appeared to be striding out on a brisk walk, engaged in friendly conversation. The road was deserted except for one or two couples strolling towards Hanover Street, where they might pick up a taxi.

  She clutched her sports bag tightly by the strap slung over her shoulder.

  ‘She looks nervous,’ Doran said. ‘She should be.’ He scanned left. ‘Shit — there’s a police van up by the traffic lights.’

  ‘I’d be more worried if there wasn’t,’ Warrender said. ‘It’s a nightly feature. Just keep close by the shops and they won’t catch you on their surveillance cameras. And use the statue to cover you when you’re taking the bag off her.’

  Doran edged right, approaching from her blind side. There was nothing he could do out here in the open, especially with a police van parked at the top of the street, but his stomach roiled with hatred for Megan Ward, and as he drew closer to her, his hands opened and closed compulsively, his breathing came shallow and fast and he began to feel light-headed so that he had to slow down and start taking deep, calming breaths. She turned and looked in his direction as he slowed. He faltered, then turned quickly right towards the Bluecoat Chambers.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said, ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Boss, what’s happening?’ Warrender asked. ‘Talk to me. Do you need help?’

  ‘I need my fucking head examining,’ Doran said, walking on, turning right at the end of the short side street, heading down the hill. He saw two of his men standing in the shadows, uncertain what to do. He snatched the bluetooth from his ear and fumbled the phone from his pocket. ‘It wasn’t her, John,’ he whispered, cupping his hand over his mouth. ‘And if it wasn’t her, it must have been a cop.’

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The house was quiet and dark when Jeff Rickman pulled into the drive. A couple of the window sashes were open a crack on the first floor, where the boys had their bedrooms, and a fine misty rain fell like dew, coating everything in a thin film of moisture.

  He had interviewed the young officer drafted in as Megan’s look-alike and she was baffled.

  ‘One minute he’s walking towards me, the next, it’s like he’s seen a ghost.’

  ‘Could he have recognised you?’ Rickman asked. ‘Are you sure you haven’t met him, stopped him for speeding — anything at all?’

  She shook her head emphatically. ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

  Could Doran have known she wasn’t Megan? He closed his eyes for a second and the ground seemed to spin under him. He needed sleep, and as he reached into his trouser pocket for his house keys, he fantasised about sliding between the cool sheets and falling into oblivion.

  He was almost inside the door when he realised that he hadn’t turned on the car alarm. He pressed the remote on his key fob and the alarm chirruped, the indicator lights flashing in unison three times. Immediately he heard a door open on the first-floor landing, and light spilled into the hallway.

  Fergus appeared at the head of the stairs, his face bright and happy. His hair was tousled, as if he had been asleep, but he looked wide awake now, and ready to talk. Rickman sighed. So much for making a surreptitious entrance.

  Fergus thudded down the first few steps until Rickman put his hands up and shushed him. His nephew tiptoed the rest of the way and launched into a whispered description of his evening.

  ‘It was awesome!’ he said. ‘Jeff came with us. And Mum. And Dad.’

  ‘Fergus—’ He wanted to say that he was tired, that they could talk about it in the morning, but he had never seen his nephew so animated and the boy had waited up especially to tell him what a good time he’d had — to let him know that Rickman’s absence hadn’t ruined his birthday. He even seemed pleased that Simon had gone with them.

  Rickman exhaled, smiling. ‘Kitchen,’ he whispered.

  ‘I won the junior race,’ Fergus said, as soon as Rickman had shut the door. ‘And I almost beat Jeff. Dad came fourth.’

  ‘That’s—’ Rickman got no further because Fergus was in full flow.

  ‘He used to take us go-karting sometimes when we went to Nan and Grandad’s in Cornwall and he always beat us then.’

  ‘Well, he’s getting old,’ Rickman said. ‘Warm milk?’

  The boy looked offended.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Rickman took a bottle of milk from the fridge and fetched a milk pan from one of the cupboards. Fergus sat and watched as he poured milk into the pan.

  ‘Well, if you’re having one . . .’

  Rickman kept his back to the boy as he smiled. ‘Just as easy to make two,’ he said, then flicked the gas to high and turned around. ‘So did they give you a trophy?’

  ‘A rosette thing,’ Fergus said. ‘It’s upstairs.’ He stood, screeching his chair across the tiled floor.

  ‘Let’s not disturb the others,’ Rickman said. ‘You can show it to me tomorrow.’ Fergus looked a little disappointed
and he added, ‘I hope you saved some cake for me.’

  Fergus jumped up. ‘You should see it, Uncle Jeff!’

  Rickman poured warm milk into two mugs and placed them on the long, bleached oak table while Fergus lifted the cake box from the fridge and opened it with a flourish.

  ‘Wow.’ Rickman was impressed; the cake was a Spider-Man design, the face of the superhero realistically worked in black-and-red icing.

  ‘Mum’s idea,’ Fergus said, suddenly abashed. Rickman understood. ‘I told her I was too old for kids’ stuff, but—’

  ‘That’s mums for you,’ Rickman said. ‘It is good, though, isn’t it?’

  Fergus beamed at him and launched into an explanation of Spider-Man’s special powers, while Rickman cut two wedges of sponge.

  They sipped their milk and ate cake while Fergus gave him a minute-by-minute, turn-by-turn account of his go-karting triumph. At the end of it, he looked tired and Rickman said, ‘Think you could sleep now?’

  Fergus nodded, his eyelids drooping. ‘You should have been there, Uncle Jeff,’ he said. ‘It was—’

  A sudden hammering at the front door made them both jump. Rickman frowned, getting up and placing a reassuring hand on his nephew’s shoulder. The doorbell rang out loud and long.

  ‘Stay here,’ Rickman said. He walked to the front door, his heart picking up pace. If Doran had realised that the woman waiting for him was actually a police officer, how would he react? A million and a quarter was a lot of money to lose.

  The knocking and ringing continued and Rickman placed his hand flat on the door, as if somehow he would be able to sense a threat. ‘Who is it?’ he called.

  ‘Jeff! Oh, thank God — Jeff!’

  Rickman exhaled. Simon. His brother almost tumbled through the door when he opened it. ‘For God’s sake,’ he objected, ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

  Simon grabbed his arm. Rickman hadn’t seen him so agitated — so lost — since last autumn. His grey hair had grown out a little and it hung in wet ringlets around his face and neck. ‘You have to come with me,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll take you. You’ve got to see.’ He stared wildly at Rickman, his blue eyes wide and unfocused.

  Rickman resisted his brother’s attempts to tug him out of the house. ‘Simon, it’s two o’clock in the morning.’ He pulled free and took Simon by the shoulders. Simon had always been lean and rangy, crackling with nervous energy, burning off everything he ate, but now Rickman felt a give and softness under his hands; one of the side-effects of the head injury, the doctors had told him. Disinhibition didn’t only mean a propensity for saying the first thing that came into your head — it meant impulsiveness in all things: eating too much, expressing anger and frustration in petty rages. And calling at your brother’s house at two in the morning.

  ‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk.’

  ‘He doesn’t know,’ Simon muttered. ‘Talking won’t do any good.’ He looked up at his brother and repeated. ‘Talking won’t do any good.’

  Rickman pointed him in the direction of the sitting-room.

  ‘I never should have left,’ Simon continued, half to himself.

  Was he talking about leaving home? That was twenty-five years ago. Why was he flashing back to their childhood now, of all days?

  ‘I shouldn’t have left,’ Simon muttered again. ‘He needs help.’ He pulled away from Rickman, towards the front door.

  ‘I could do without this right now, Simon,’ Rickman said, maintaining his grip of his brother.

  He saw Tanya on the staircase. She clutched the collar of her dressing-gown tightly around her neck. Behind her, Jeff junior stared at his father, his eyes blank and expressionless. Rickman tried to smile reassurance and Tanya shivered.

  ‘Come on,’ Rickman said.

  Simon twisted to look into his face. ‘Is it a crime?’

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ Simon,’ he said, trying to hide his irritation. ‘You’re drenched — come through into warm.’

  Simon pushed him away, held him at arm’s length, searching his face as if he would find there the answer to all the confusing questions that had troubled him since his accident. ‘Jeff, you have to listen,’ he said. ‘I killed somebody.’

  Rickman stared at him, shocked. He heard a small sound and looked past Simon. In the shadows at the far end of the hall, Fergus stood motionless, his arms limp by his sides. He saw in his nephew’s face fear and unhappiness and bewilderment that the world could be so terrible, and it was like looking at an image of his younger self.

  Fergus had seen too much already — heard too much. He bundled Simon into the sitting-room and closed the door. ‘What do you mean you killed somebody?’ he asked. But Simon was gone again, wringing his hands and looking distractedly about him.

  ‘What I did.’ He nodded. ‘That’s why. It’s a punishment.’

  Rickman peeled off his brother’s jacket. The thin cotton was soaked through. Simon was trembling, but his skin felt hot through his shirt.

  The fire was almost out, and Rickman added a fresh log, pulling an armchair close to the hearth and making Simon sit down.

  ‘Now,’ he said, crouching next to his brother’s chair, ‘tell me why you’re here.’

  ‘I told you.’ Simon’s kingfisher-blue eyes flashed angrily. ‘I killed somebody.’

  ‘How?’ Rickman demanded. ‘How did you kill them?’

  ‘In the car. An accident. I—’ He flinched as if seeing the impact. ‘It was too fast — I should’ve—’

  ‘Simon, you were go-karting with the boys. You’re just confused.’

  ‘No!’ Simon pushed his wet hair off his face in a gesture of frustration Rickman recognised from when they were boys. ‘Not then. I was in a car.’

  ‘You drove here?’

  Simon frowned. He was drifting, his concentration almost exhausted. ‘Can’t drive — not allowed . . . The head . . . drama?’

  ‘Trauma,’ Rickman said.

  Simon’s head bobbed compulsively. ‘Why — can’t — I — remember?’ He balled his hand into a fist and drove the heel of his hand into his forehead again and again.

  Rickman caught Simon’s wrist and held it. ‘Because of the head injury,’ he said, staying calm, placing his hand over Simon’s closed fist. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  Simon turned his tear-stained face to him. ‘It’s no one else’s.’ Fresh tears sprung to his eyes and he turned his head away.

  ‘No,’ Rickman said. He did not accept this. He would not. ‘You said yourself you can’t drive. So how could you have caused this accident?’

  Simon stared at a spot three feet away, still avoiding his brother’s eye, but Rickman could see that he was trying to work this one out. He stopped struggling and slowly, Rickman released him.

  ‘I see him.’ He sounded incredulous, and yet adamant. ‘His eyes—’ He buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

  Rickman stood and took his mobile phone from his pocket and found the number for the central control room at Liverpool Police HQ. ‘DCI Jeff Rickman,’ he said. ‘Give me the duty manager.’

  He watched Simon while he waited for the inspector to pick up the phone. Simon wiped the tears from his face with his palms and began muttering again. Most of it was incomprehensible, but Rickman thought he heard the word ‘drink’ or ‘drunk’ a couple of times. He heard a rattle and some distorted conversation at the other end of the line, then DI Michaels announced himself.

  Rickman knew him by reputation: he was efficient and ambitious. ‘Quick check,’ he said, responding in kind to the inspector’s crisp manner. ‘Any RTA fatalities this evening?’

  ‘None,’ Michaels said.

  ‘No hit-and-run incidents?’ Rickman held his breath as he waited for the answer.

  ‘No.’ Michaels sounded more guarded. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s probably nothing.’ Rickman glanced quickly at his brother. ‘I’ll get back to you if there’s any cause for concern.’ He broke the connection.

>   Simon’s muttering had subsided to the occasional whispered word, his head nodded as if in time with a pounding in his brain, and Rickman guessed he was having one of his migraine attacks. He needed to talk to Tanya. Simon didn’t look like he was going anywhere soon, so with a final backward glance, Rickman left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  He had his hand on the stair newel when he saw a light at the end of the hall: Oh, God — Fergus. He hurried to the kitchen; Tanya, Fergus and Jeff junior were all in there, hands wrapped around mugs of hot tea, huddled together as if against an impending storm.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, feeling an outsider, an intruder in their troubles. ‘Tanya, I need to talk to you.’

  She lifted her lovely brown eyes to his. They had developed a down-turn of sadness over the months he had known her, but they held a beauty and warmth he responded to.

  ‘They’ve seen the worst,’ she said, her voice heavy with grief. ‘They can hear what you have to say.’

  Jeff junior met his gaze, that same empty look in his eyes as before, but there was a hint of challenge in the way he lifted his chin. Fergus bent his head and stared into his teacup, blinking back tears.

  ‘Simon’s accident,’ he said. ‘Was anyone else involved?’ He felt almost guilty that he had not asked the circumstances of his brother’s accident before now, but last autumn things had been complicated.

  Tanya blinked: the question was not what she had expected. ‘A tyre blew out,’ she said. ‘He hit a tree. Nobody else was hurt.’

  He nodded. ‘And—’ He glanced at the boys again. ‘Was there any suggestion . . . Did they think . . . ?’ His finger went to the scar that cut a line across his right eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry, Tanya.’ He tried again. ‘Had he been drinking?’

  Again, she looked puzzled. ‘Simon is teetotal.’

  ‘They checked?’

  ‘Before the operation. His blood alcohol was zero.’