She sneaked a glance at her watch. 7.10pm. Should be on her way to Kate’s by now. At best she was late, at worst she was about to cry off. Tweedy wanted things straightened out. In his own measured style, he told her that the case was becoming cluttered with suspects, with too much speculation and not enough concrete facts. Tara didn’t take it well. Although Murray and Wilson were also seated in Tweedy’s office, she was responsible, she was the failure so far in this case. They’d gathered a mountain of information but hadn’t yet figured out anything to indicate a logical next step. Then Tweedy noticed her checking her watch. She flushed, knowing that he would make no comment, but still it was noted.
Tweedy had done some re-arranging upon his whiteboard of important points from the case.
‘And who is this latest suspect you mentioned, Tara?’
‘Councillr Doreen Leitch, sir.’
‘You have yet to interview her?’
‘Sir. According to Councillor Sullivan, the two of them have been having an affair. Terry Lawler was aware of this; he saw them both on the night before he died. Both of them therefore have motive.’
Tweedy stood back from the board, replacing the top on his marker.
‘It’s all a bit of a mess,’ he said with a sigh. Tara felt it like a punch in her stomach. Despite none of them holding any firm views on the potential killer, she took it personally. Her case, she should have one eye on the killer by now. Silence in the office made her feel worse.
‘Answers on a postcard?’ said Murray. Tara seldom appreciated his wit; he had such poor timing.
‘I want to concentrate on the missing girls theory,’ she said. Tweedy raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t to be put off. ‘Lawler was obsessed about finding his sister. He seems to have linked her disappearance with the cases of other girls.’
‘But they’re spread all over the country,’ said Murray.
‘They don’t all have to be linked to Lawler’s sister, but if we find that some of them are it might give us an indication of what Terry Lawler had uncovered. If he stumbled upon the killer of some of these girls, and the killer became aware of him, then I think it’s likely that Terry became the next victim.’
‘What about Councillor Leitch?’ said Tweedy.
‘It’s still worth speaking to her, but I don’t believe the MO is right for one or both councillors. Burying Lawler in the sand and then castration, I don’t think Leitch or Sullivan would have wanted to make that kind of statement.’ Tweedy nodded his agreement and Tara relaxed slightly.
‘We don’t know what Leitch is capable of; we haven’t met her yet,’ said Murray.
Tara fixed a cold stare in his direction but she realised he was right. They knew nothing of Councillor Leitch so far except that she was capable of an extra-marital affair.
‘What about Evan and Gwen Blackley?’ said Wilson, in rather the same tone used by Tweedy.
‘The same applies,’ said Tara, looking at Tweedy, ignoring Wilson. ‘Neither couple would want to draw more attention by killing Lawler in that manner.’
‘Is it possible,’ said Wilson, ‘that the killer was trying to make it look like something it wasn’t? A gang killing linked to drugs, for instance. Who knows what those nutters would do?’
‘A fair point, John,’ said Tweedy.
‘It might be connected to a drug gang,’ said Tara. ‘We know that Lawler had also been investigating the drug trade on Treadwater Estate.’
‘You mean that guy, Danny Ross?’ said Murray.
‘Okay,’ said Tweedy. ‘It’s getting late; we’re all in need of a break. I think it’s best not to rule out any of these scenarios just yet. Some, I know, are more plausible than others. Tara, I want you to catch up with that Leitch woman, and for now you may continue to examine the missing girls theory.’
*
Eyes closed, she breathed in the cool air of the station yard, a welcome relief to the stuffy atmosphere that had developed in Tweedy’s office. She thought she was alone until a voice startled her.
‘I hope I haven’t spoiled your plans for this evening, Tara?’
‘No, sir. Nothing special planned. Just have to call with a friend on the way home.’ She knew he’d noticed her clock-watching and he had that subtle way of making her aware that he knew. He was a nice man, a gentleman, but his years as a detective meant that there wasn’t much got by him. He was her boss, not really a friend although she reckoned, in times of trouble, he would be a good person to have on her side. She wondered how he spent his evenings. A bible study class, most likely.
Kate had already put baby Adele down to sleep. Tara had hoped to see her god-daughter before bedtime but it wasn’t to be. She told herself not to make a big song and dance about being late, expecting her friends to understand how important a case she was working. Instead she offered nothing by way of apology.
Aisling was halfway down a bottle of Prosecco, already her jolly self. When Kate entered the open-plan kitchen living space in the flat, she clapped both hands together.
‘Right, who’s up first?’
‘Do Aisling, I need a drink,’ said Tara.
‘That doesn’t sound good. Is everything all right, luv?’
Didn’t last long, did it? Her trying not to go off on one about her job.
‘I’m fine; just thirsty that’s all.’
‘Come on, Aisling, into the bathroom.’
While Kate went to wash and dye Aisling’s hair, Tara poured some of the wine and sank into an armchair in front of the TV. She was only faintly aware of Holby City as her mind clung to theories for murder, for the reasons why people disappeared and, uppermost, the vision of a body poking out of the sand on Crosby Beach. It wasn’t just a change of hair colour she needed. At times she craved a better life. And all around this flat there were reminders that, like Kate, she should be caring for a child. Would the pain and horror of that day ever leave her?
Some lasagne and much wine later, the girls, in the final throes of new hairstyles, sat around the TV in Kate’s lounge, curlers in Aisling’s hair and Tara wielding a pair of straighteners over Kate’s head. Not for the first time the girls had swapped colours. At school they’d done it regularly every month, but time was more precious nowadays, and the occasions when they would cast off all inhibition and revisit the craziness of their youth were becoming rare. Aisling’s long, wavy locks of jet black were now more of a chestnut brown; she couldn’t go directly to Tara’s golden blonde in a single session. Kate, on the other hand, had no difficulty in taking on the shining black usually worn by Aisling, while Tara wondered already what her boss would say when he saw her orange bob. For now, though, the wine did its work brilliantly.
‘We should go on the pull right now,’ said Aisling, swinging her glass in the air as she spoke. ‘No man could resist hair like that,’ she said, giggling at Tara’s glowing head.’
‘Thanks, Aisling. You don’t look so bad yourself.’
‘Oh, get a room you two,’ said Kate. ‘What’s my Adam going to say when he sees my hair?’
‘Come off it, Kate,’ said Aisling. ‘You change your hair colour more often than you have a period.’
‘That’s just lovely. Thanks, Aisling.’
‘It’s all right for you two,’ said Tara, following it with a hiccup. ‘I have to conduct a murder enquiry with a bright orange head. What’s my Super going to say?’
All three laughed, and more wine was passed around.
‘Don’t you dare wash that out, Tara,’ said Kate. ‘We have to have at least one night out before we change back.’
‘No, no, you’re right. Besides I might just keep it like this.’
Aisling sprayed a mouthful of wine trying to stifle her laughter. And for a few hours Tara had managed to put her case, her worries and fears to the back of her mind. She had always been happiest in the company of Kate and Aisling. Still, she wondered what Tweedy might say when he saw the colour of her hair.
Chapter 25
Guy
&nb
sp; Took the whole day just to catch a glimpse of her. I couldn’t hang around outside a bloody cop shop. How suspicious looking would that be? Instead, I wandered slowly by in one direction, lingered at the end of the road and went back the opposite way. Nothing. Not a sign of a policewoman, although I could never get a decent peek inside a police car as they came and went from the station. I was fairly certain that a cop – a detective – wouldn’t keep regular hours anyway. Just had to hope that I might see her going off her shift, maybe catch sight of her driving her own car home.
Sometimes I’m the luckiest bastard to ever walk the earth. I’d given up for the day, headed to a chip shop for my dinner because I still had a nine-hour shift to face at the hospital. After I filled up on cod and chips and mushy peas, I thought I’d stroll past the station one last time. And there she was, getting into a blue Ford Focus in the station car park. I waited by the roadside for her to drive away. If I’d had my car close by I would have followed her. At least I’d learned what type of motor she drove. It was a start.
The following evening I parked in a visitor space in the station car park. The blue Focus sat close to the building, no more than 20 yards away. Crouching down in my seat, a baseball cap on my head, I watched and waited, squeezing on my rubber ball. I studied the clock on the dash. After 7pm and still no show. She was out by 6pm the day before. But you have to be patient in this game. I reminded myself that this was all part of the fun. This was how it all started for me. Doing the research, gathering the facts, laying down plans, all the while your mouth salivating at the prospect of taking a girl. It was 7.30pm when she stepped outside. Only out the door and she stopped in the middle of the yard. I thought she’d noticed me, but she raised her head and peered into the sky, her arms hanging loosely by her sides. Then a tall man, much older, 60 I’d guess, came out behind her and she spun round to speak to him. Could have been the bloke who was with her on the press conference I’d seen on TV. They didn’t speak for long and then they headed off in opposite directions. The man climbed into a silver Beamer, and Tara started up her car and raced to the exit. I gunned my engine and followed.
Certainly wasn’t like those Yank cop shows on TV. She didn’t have a notion that I was following her. I could feel the flutter in my stomach, the sort of feeling I usually get when I’m just about to grab somebody. This Tara had me all excited already and I’d hardly got to know her.
There wasn’t much traffic and nothing came between us as she made her way across the city. I followed her into Canning Street and she pulled into a parking space as I drove on by. I slowed down and pretended to make a hash of parallel parking while glimpsing her in the mirror. By the time I’d got out of the car, she’d flitted across the street and up to the door of a large, cream-painted house. A few seconds later the door opened and I heard the voice of a woman with short orange hair saying ‘Hiya, Tara.’ She went in, and I was left to pace another street for several hours.
Bloody midnight and the wee bitch never came out. I’d assumed the house wasn’t her home because of the way the orange head welcomed her in. I’d missed the start of my shift at the hospital, waiting for her to leave. I took more chances than I should have done, walking past the window of the house, the curtains open, me chancing a glimpse inside. A late-night jogger ran past – scared the shit out of me. I slowed my pace as I strolled by the house for one last look before calling it a night. There were three of them, including Tara. A little gang of three. By 1am the lights went out downstairs and still no one appeared at the front door. Seemed like she was staying the night with her two friends. Sod it. I went to work. It was going to be difficult establishing her routine. Tara was going to be a hard graft but I was up for it.
When I came off my shift next morning I felt like shit warmed up. All I wanted was to get home to bed. There’d be hell to pay if I was late for my next shift. Cranley, my supervisor, was a right Hitler when he wanted to be, letting me know who was boss, telling me I was lucky to have the job. I knew he was on the verge of saying that I should fuck-off home to Ireland where I belonged and let some poor Scouse lad do my job. But he didn’t. He was smarter than that, knew I’d have him for discrimination. Either that or I’d break his nose as quick as look at him. I wondered if he had a pretty daughter that might be of interest, and then I realised he would have needed a pretty wife first and I’d seen his other half – face like a slapped arse. Not likely she would ever have given birth to a princess, maybe an ugly sister. Anyway, from now on, I knew I had to be on time for work.
I realised when I reached my car that if I didn’t attempt a sighting of Tara this morning I would lose a whole day. Once I got home I’d sleep for hours and then it would be time for work again. I drove from the hospital to the police station on St Anne Street. Driving into the car park, turning around and then straight out again, I noticed her blue Ford in the same spot as the day before. I took a guess as to which direction she would go when she eventually left the station, pulled into a lay-by 100 yards down the road and waited for her to drive past. Wasn’t long before I nodded off, the noise and vibration of a passing lorry jerking me awake an hour later. I drove back to the station, saw her car still in its place and returned to the lay-by. I’d had nothing to eat or drink since my break during work at 6am but I wanted to see Tara more than I wanted to stuff my face. Already this was a challenge that I was determined would not beat me. I would win. I wanted Tara, and she would be mine even if it took me a year.
Sometimes the gods, whoever they are, are rooting for you. Might be luck, but I liked to think it was destiny. I was meant to have all the woman I’d had. And now I was meant to have Tara. It was 4.30pm; traffic was building and beginning to queue. There, rolling to a halt behind a black van on the far side of the road, was the blue Ford Focus. I tried to get a good look at Tara but she wasn’t driving. The licence plate was definitely hers but it didn’t look like Tara sitting behind the wheel.
I gunned the engine and pulled a u-ey into the traffic, a couple of cars down from the Focus. Some smart-arse in a people carrier blared his horn because I’d pulled across him. I just ignored him; I didn’t want to attract attention from whoever was driving the Focus. When the lights changed up ahead, I followed the car easily in the queue, and when traffic gained speed I moved to the outside lane, cutting back in again directly behind her. If it wasn’t Tara driving I’d just wasted my whole day.
She drove along Islington, then Churchill Way and onto the Strand. I began to wonder that maybe she lived miles out of town or on the far side of the river, but then she hadn’t followed the signs for the tunnel. Nearly missed her when she turned right onto Queen’s Wharf and, following her, I soon realised I would get no further. The residents’ car park at Wapping Dock had a barrier – no way could I follow her through. Even if I piggy-backed she would notice and get suspicious. Instead, I abandoned my car on double yellows and walked to the car park gate, stealing a glimpse of the woman getting out of the Focus. Certainly, she looked the build of Tara and wore similar dark clothes, trousers and jacket. It was the hair. She wasn’t blonde. She was a red-head. For a second I wondered if I’d got the wrong girl. Was it that red-head girl who invited Tara into the house in Canning Street? Was she a cop, too? Then I saw her as she turned and walked toward the entrance. I knew the face. It was Tara. So what about the hair? Bit of a surprise, but I wasn’t that fussy. It all added to the excitement. What an incredible girl. Tara was going to be so good. And now I reckoned I knew where she lived. We were practically neighbours.
Chapter 26
Tara
Closing the door of her flat, she hurried downstairs. Late. She’d told Murray she would pick him up from home by 8.30am. It was 8.45am already and she had yet to suffer the slow crawl of city traffic in trying to get to his flat near Liverpool University.
She’d wanted to wash some of that damned orange from her hair before work. What an embarrassment, walking into the station, people she’d known for years asking if they could help he
r, thinking she was a visitor. Tweedy just looked confused, uncertain if it was actually her. Worst of all, the smirking Murray, laughing with Wilson behind her back. What the hell was wrong with people? All she’d done was dye her hair, for goodness sake. It wasn’t as if she was a natural blonde in the first place. She’d decided also that a grey outfit rather than black was more suited to the hair. Then she thought her bum looked big in the trousers and that would give Murray something else to snigger about. A quick change back to the dark trousers and jacket. No time for breakfast, she rushed to the car, could scarcely wait for the barrier to lift before accelerating to the junction with the main road. There was a man standing at the corner, looked as though he was waiting for someone, his lift perhaps. He dropped his gaze when hers lingered on him for a second. A gap in the traffic and she was away.
‘I was thinking of the best way to play this,’ she said to Murray on the drive to Bootle.
‘Do you think she’ll deny the affair?’
‘Wouldn’t you? Politicians usually deny everything at first. Gives them time to make up their response, to assess the possible fallout.’
Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Page 10
