DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3)

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘Protection isn’t really my bag,’ Maitland said.

  She blushed, suffusing the golden brown of her face with a coral glow. ‘God — I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I’m just messing with you.’ He flashed her an orthodontically enhanced smile. ‘You all know me — and I’m not proud of my past — but I’m not ashamed of who I am, either.’ He’d practised his Business Scouse — people didn’t seem to mind if your accent was strong, as long as you enunciated clearly, ensured the beginnings and endings of words were distinct.

  The restaurant owner laughed, nervous, still a little embarrassed. ‘Well, I’m glad you could make it.’

  ‘So am I.’ He leaned closer to her and caught a whiff of perfume that made him positively giddy with desire. ‘Between you and me, I’m supposed to be sitting in my office, working on a planning application — they want to know how one of my development projects will benefit the local community. Then I saw this on the Chamber of Commerce website.’ He smiled down at her. ‘No contest.’

  ‘My guess is you did the local community a lot more good just being here today,’ the woman said, with another glance across the street. ‘It doesn’t encourage inward investment, having that kind of thing disrupting a business networking opportunity.’

  ‘Drug addicts?’ he asked, his tone sympathetic.

  She nodded. ‘Homeless, most of them. They hang out in the old warehouse.’ Her face darkened for a moment. ‘The police are worse than useless, and it’s costing me customers.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’ He looked into her eyes and she blushed again, looking away. Her skin glowed like sun-warmed honey and he wondered how it would taste — sweet or salty?

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’m always looking for property to redevelop. I’ll make some enquiries, see if we can’t get them shifted for good.’

  She gave a little gasp of amused astonishment.

  Maitland dipped into his pocket. ‘In the meantime, if they give you any trouble, give me a call.’ He held out a business card.

  She didn’t take it immediately. ‘I don’t know what to say . . .’

  ‘Go ’ead,’ he said. ‘This is a networking opportunity, isn’t it? We are supposed to be making contacts, seeing how we can help each other out . . .’

  ‘Well, yes.’ She took the card. ‘But . . .’

  ‘You’re wondering what you’ve got to offer?’ He went on, before she made the obvious assumption. ‘You can tell me how you got this place up to standard.’ He eyed the building’s exterior appreciatively. ‘Georgian, isn’t it?’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘We’ve kept as many original features as possible. Would you like the grand tour?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  He offered her his arm and, after the briefest hesitation, she took it, asking with a sideways glance, ‘At the risk of repeating myself — got any more where you came from?’

  Maitland tilted his head back and laughed.

  * * *

  Tommy Eames was sweating. He was a big man, he owed his size to his job. Being in control of thirty coffee bars was not the way to keep a youthful figure. Tommy — more recently ‘the Tank’ — didn’t know if he was more angry or afraid. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to him.

  To make matters worse, he’d had a lapse in concentration and left his jacket in the boot of the car with the shooter in the pocket. The boy’s fault, prattling on about profit and loss differentials, trying to impress, desperate for the job to pay off his university debts. If the kid really was any good, Tommy thought bitterly, he wouldn’t have any debts to clear. But Mr Maitland wanted clean frontmen for the shiny new businesses he was setting up, and you didn’t get much cleaner than Michael Aldiss.

  Tommy had seen the Beamer several times during their tour of Maitland’s outlets: two men, one bearded, one shaved smooth as a billiard ball. He had seen them and dismissed them as he turned off the M53 towards Chester. They’d vanished somewhere around Handbridge. He had worried about a similar car that had stayed two cars back all the way between Royal Birkdale golf course and Southport. Paranoid, he told himself, when he thought he’d caught a glimpse of a bald man in the passenger seat of a BMW that overtook them on Strand Street, as they headed back into Liverpool.

  He checked his rear windscreen as he turned into a multi-storey by the firm’s offices. All clear. One last check as he took the second ramp.

  The BMW loomed suddenly behind him, filling the rear-view mirror. Tommy felt his heart contract painfully: the two men were unmistakable. They tailgated him, almost forcing him up the slope. Heart racing, mouth dry, Tommy called up the phone icon on his smart screen and hit speed-dial.

  ‘Billy?’ he said. ‘Trouble. Two apes in a Beamer, getting cheeky.’

  Alarmed, the boy glanced at him, then started to turn, but Tommy put a hand on his arm. ‘Sit still.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Billy asked.

  ‘I’m in the multi-storey, round the corner. Have we got any lads handy?’

  ‘How many d’you want?’

  ‘Send whatever you’ve got, pronto, and make sure they’re well equipped.’

  ‘Just keep moving,’ Billy said.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be circling like a friggin’ shark.’ He glanced again at the two men in the car behind him. ‘And when I’m done, I’m gonna pick these fuckers’ bones clean.’

  He kept the line open as they spiralled upward, the car tyres squeaking on new concrete, the reek of fresh paint, car exhaust and the dizzying motion of the car making him slightly queasy.

  He pressed a button and the doors locked down simultaneously. Aldiss turned to him, his eyes wide with fear. ‘Who are they?’ the lad said. ‘What do they want?’

  ‘You don’t need to know. You do need to listen.’ The boy glanced wildly over his shoulder. ‘You wanna work for me, you’ve got to do what I say — now face the front and fucking listen.’

  The boy’s head snapped forward. His chest rose and fell as he took rapid, gasping breaths, and Tommy felt perversely calmed by his anxiety. ‘You listening?’

  A nod.

  ‘Stay in the car. Doesn’t matter what happens, we just stay in the car and wait for backup, all right?’

  Two short nods.

  Sunlight dazzled suddenly through the windscreen. They had reached the top level.

  ‘What now?’ The note of panic in the boy’s voice caused a momentary spasm of answering fear to cramp Tommy’s gut, then he had it under control.

  ‘We head back down, and when my lads arrive, these clowns are gonna be very, very sorry.’ Another nod, stoical this time, and Tommy began the turn onto the down ramp.

  ‘Fuck!’ A Toyota SUV shot up the ramp and he braked hard, finishing up nose to nose with it. He slammed the gears into reverse. There was nowhere to go — the Beamer was hard up against his rear bumper.

  ‘Bill!’ he yelled into the phone. ‘Get in here, now!’ No reply.

  He revved his engine, backing up against the BMW in a cloud of screaming, burning rubber. The Beamer gave way a little, then came back at him, matching him rev for rev.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Aldiss yelled. ‘Mr Eames — what’s happening?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ Tommy screamed, revving the car into the red zone. The instrument panel lit up with red and amber warning signs, electronic alarms jangled, and now he smelled burning metal along with burning rubber.

  ‘Bill. Where the fuck are you?’

  The BMW lost grip, sliding a few yards back onto the flat. The boy reached for the door handle.

  ‘Don’t touch that!’

  The handle flipped, the door remained locked. The failsafe, Tommy thought. If he gives it one more tug, it’ll open.

  ‘Don’t you fuckin’ touch it!’ He punched Aldiss in the head, losing control of the wheel for a second. The car lurched left and the boy fell with it, made another dazed grab at the door handle. It gave, tumbling him out onto the concrete.

  A
ldiss scrambled to his feet as the passengers of the two cars leapt out. The Beamer’s passenger — the bald guy — stood in the gap between the wall and the car, spreading his arms wide, like a goalkeeper. The boy lunged, but the man got him by the neck and swung him round, slamming him into the car, then he switched grip, clamping the boy in a headlock.

  The door swung wide and, horrified, Tommy threw himself at it, reaching for the grab-handle. His car lurched and stalled, and the sudden release of pressure surprised the BMW driver. The pursuing car surged forward and fishtailed left, nearly sideswiping his own man. The rear impact cannoned Tommy into the dashboard. He felt a sharp pain in his side as the airbag deployed, then the door was snatched away from him as the second man twisted it back so hard the hinges groaned.

  The man ducked his head and said one word: ‘Out.’

  Tommy made a move and gave a gasp of pain. He felt cold metal against the flesh of his cheek. ‘Now,’ the man said.

  Tommy crawled forward, grunting with the pain in his rib. The man gave him a tug as he tried to position himself to step out of the car and he fell, bruising his hands and knees.

  They shut off the engines and the silence hissed in his ears.

  ‘On your feet.’

  All four were on the concrete now, the bald man still with a tight grip of the boy.

  ‘Give us a second—’ Tommy gasped between thuds of pain. ‘Busted a rib.’

  One of the men grabbed him by his shirt collar and lifted him. Tommy grunted as another stab of pain shocked through him. This guy was strong, and even without his injury, Tommy was way out of condition. He stood as straight as he could, sweating and hurting and thinking how much he was going to hurt these bastards.

  The bald guy released Aldiss, and the boy swayed a moment, pale and terrified, almost sagging at the knees.

  ‘You are so fired,’ Tommy said, though he could see from the look on his face the boy was too terrified to hear anything but the screaming in his own head.

  Tommy scanned the faces of the four men and singled out the one he guessed was the leader, a stocky bastard with a gleam in his eye.

  ‘My men’ — he gave a grunt as he breathed too deeply and sent splintered bone into the soft tissue under his ribcage — ‘My men are on the way.’ He took a shallow sip of air. ‘And you’d better be gone when they get here.’

  The men looked at each other and the stocky guy smiled. Tommy was going to enjoy carving that smug look off his face.

  ‘I don’t see them, Tank,’ the man said. Nobody called Tommy Eames ‘Tank’ to his face. ‘I don’t hear them.’

  ‘Do youse know who I work for?’ Tommy demanded. These four must be part of the Nealy boys’ crew. If so, the Paddies were better organised than Mr Maitland had given them credit for. He spoke with a bravado he didn’t feel: ‘My boss eats gobshites like you for breakfast.’

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ the stocky guy said.

  The rear door of the SUV clicked open, and a fifth man walked up the ramp to join them on the roof. This man Tommy did recognise, and the recognition gave him a moment of bowel-churning fear. He understood now why Bill had been so slow to send reinforcements, why the phone had remained stubbornly silent as he’d screamed for help.

  The fifth man was Graham. This was no revenge attack by a few Birkenhead yobs out to gain a bit of territory — Graham acted under nobody’s orders but Rob Maitland’s. He stood square and implacable, watching Tommy’s reaction without expression. Graham matched him in weight, but where Tommy had gained his extra pounds on a high-carb, low-exercise regime, sweating over accounts books, Graham’s were solid muscle built by working out two hours a day in the gym, every day of the week, by eating well and never giving up. He was as immutable as the rock on which the city was built.

  Tommy licked his lips. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what this is about—’

  ‘Where’s Carter?’ Graham interrupted.

  Tommy stared at him. Carter? Oh, Jesus . . .

  He tried a laugh, but it came out high-pitched and panicked. ‘The boss having trouble with the taxman, is he?’

  Graham’s hand shot forward, fingers straight, stabbing at Tommy’s injured ribs. He doubled up with a yell of pain. ‘Fuck!’ He raised one hand to ward off another blow, but Graham, always controlled, waited patiently while he got his breath again.

  ‘He’s an accountant, he’s probably at home doing things accountants do.’

  Graham shook his head as if sorely disappointed in him. ‘Where is Carter?’

  ‘Honest, Graham, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Look, what’s this about anyw—’

  On a signal from Graham, two of the men grabbed Aldiss and hauled him to the edge of the roof, lifting him.

  ‘Woah!’ Tommy yelled. ‘Wait!’

  The kid swung his feet, trying to find purchase, but the tips of his shiny new shoes barely scraped the ground. He gasped, ‘Nuh! Nuh! Nuh!’ a few times, then started to mewl weakly, tears coursing down his face.

  ‘Last chance,’ Graham said. ‘Where is Carter?’

  The boy struggled, his eyes fixed on Tommy, pleading and lost, wondering how he had ever blundered into this nightmare. Tommy took a step forward, but the stocky guy gave him a dig in the side and he crumpled, fighting for breath, dots of bright light swimming in front of his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know!’ he wheezed. ‘If I knew — honest to God, I’d tell you. Look, let the lad go — I’ll find out. I’ll find the fucker and bring him to you.’

  Graham tilted his head, considering. ‘Okay.’ He glanced at the two men. ‘You heard the man — let the lad go.’

  Tommy’s eyes widened in horror as he saw what they were about to do. He lunged, but they held him back as the two men heaved the boy over the wall.

  And let go.

  For one terrifying moment, he seemed suspended. Then he was falling.

  A scream.

  A thud. Then silence. Only the hum of traffic seven storeys below and the hiss like tinnitus in Tommy’s ears.

  Graham put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder and he flinched. A smile flickered over Graham’s face. ‘You’ve got forty-eight hours,’ he said. ‘After that—’ He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of dismayed shouts from the street below. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Just bear that in mind.’

  * * *

  In the air-conditioned cool of the restaurant’s office, tucked under the eaves of the house, Rob Maitland admired the simplicity and elegance of the refurbishment.

  ‘Makes me almost eager to sit down and work on my planning application,’ he said. The woman — he had learned her name was Leoni — smiled at him, her face flushed with pride.

  ‘You’ve taken a wall down, here?’ He pointed to a beam that stretched from wall to wall across the width of the room.

  ‘And here,’ she said, moving towards the back wall. ‘I wanted open plan — these rooms were horribly poky and dark before we opened them up.’

  He nodded. ‘Quite radical, though.’

  She let her gaze track through the length of the room. ‘And you wouldn’t believe the structural work they had to do to make it safe.’ She shrugged. ‘But as my granny always said, you can’t make an omelette without cracking eggs.’

  At the exact moment Michael Aldiss’s body hit the pavement, Maitland turned south-west, tilting his head as if he heard something.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, vague alarm showing in her face.

  Perhaps she thinks the addicts came back.

  ‘Not a thing.’ He took her arm, strolling with her through the sunny office. ‘Just cracking a few eggs.’

  Chapter 33

  Merseyside Police Headquarters stood edge-on to the docks in Canning Place. A large, nondescript building, its mud-coloured bricks seemed contrived to echo the unlovely architecture of the City Law Courts a few hundred yards across Chavasse Park. Rickman had been called to a meeting to discuss the progress of the case with the brass. Both DS Maynard and DI Dwight had als
o been required to attend. Meeting over, Rickman turned on his mobile phone as he hurried from the headquarters towards his car, anxious to get back to his investigation.

  The rumble of traffic on Strand Street was a constant, day and night, since the radical overhaul the waterfront had received a few years ago. What was once the soot-blackened heart of the commercial district was now a tourist destination.

  DC Hart had rung. Crossing the car park, Rickman called her back and she picked up immediately.

  ‘Sir — did you get my message?’

  He heard controlled excitement in her tone and felt a responding thrill. ‘I haven’t checked my voicemail yet. What’s happened?’

  ‘I got someone to check hospital records on the Black Wood residents — unexplained dropouts from antenatal clinics. They found a Kelly Rayder.’

  ‘You think this could be Jasmine’s best mate from the children’s home?’

  ‘It’s the right time frame — she dropped out of sight two and a half years ago, five months into a pregnancy. I’m on my way to her family home with Chris Tunstall now.’

  Rickman felt a fizz of excitement. ‘Give me the address, I’ll meet you there.’

  * * *

  Kelly Rayder lived in a 1990s social housing development in Vauxhall. Each property on the estate had some feature that made it subtly different from the rest: a porch with a pitched roof, a bay window instead of a flat front, railings topping a low wall. The street looked cared for, and several of the houses were festooned with hanging baskets, stuffed with winter pansies and ivy.

  Hart and Tunstall arrived moments after him and Rickman bent over the passenger window. ‘Naomi, you’re with me. Chris, you’ll have to sit this one out, I’m afraid.’

  Tunstall nodded, a look of stoic acceptance on his broad features.

  A woman of about forty answered the door. She was small and had the weathered look of a woman to whom life had not been kind, but her make-up looked carefully applied, and she was dressed neatly in jeans and a sweater. When Rickman presented his warrant card, she seemed surprised and concerned, rather than wary.