Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind

by Robert McCracken

  I was sitting in the hospital dining room, on my evening break, just finished some breaded plaice and chips and reading the paper while I drank my tea. Just so happened that Kate, Tara’s friend, was seated only three tables away, chatting with another nurse and a man I assumed was a doctor. Reading about my last conquests was not something I’d planned on, not when I was keeping tabs on Kate. But I couldn’t help searching the paper to see what facts they had on my girls. Nothing as it turned out, except that they disappeared within 12 hours of each other. I read an interview with the ninth Duke of Berkley, father of Lady Victoria as I had named her. Turns out her real name was Tamsin, and she was 22, lived in a flat in Holland Park. Of course, I knew that cos that’s where I snatched her. She was a promising fashion designer and an excellent pianist, apparently. So said her Da. She had two younger sisters and an older brother, and the entire family were devastated by Tamsin’s disappearance. There was no mention of a boyfriend, which I found a bit irritating. Always good that the girls I take have a boyfriend or a husband. They make such good suspects. Keeps the peelers busy.

  It was a two-page spread in The Mirror, pictures of Tamsin as a child and a recent shot for the public to study in case someone noticed her wandering the streets. There was a timeline of her last known movements which, thanks to my good work, didn’t amount to shit-squared. Basically, young Tamsin left work, rode home on the Tube and was never seen again. Incidentally, the family home was Worcestershire – a big country estate, the place where Tamsin was most happy. Dear, dear, should have stayed there – much safer.

  As for Lucy there was little reported in the paper except to say that she disappeared the morning after Tamsin, a little over three miles from where the duke’s daughter vanished. Police so far had no clues as to the whereabouts of either girl. That’s what I liked to hear.

  Kate and friends got up from their table and placed their food trays in the collection trolley. I didn’t feel the need to follow her everywhere. As luck would have it, Kate’s shift on that particular evening was similar to mine. We both knocked off at 9.15pm. I could follow her home, check a few details. Was anyone else in her house when she got home? Where was her child while she was working? Most important of all, was there any chance that she would be meeting up with Tara?

  Once I was certain she was headed for home, I didn’t have to follow so close behind her car. She found a parking space a couple of doors down from her own. I drove on by without even glancing at her. Better for now if she didn’t recognise me from work. I parked in the next road and walked back to Canning Street. Lights were on in the front room but the blinds were drawn, and I walked on by. A few minutes later I’d turned around and was walking back slowly in the hope of some action from the house when I saw a man approaching from the opposite direction. I couldn’t make out much detail of his face, but he had thick curly hair and glasses and wasn’t very tall, about 5ft 7ins I guessed. Jangling his car keys and carrying what looked like a takeaway meal in a brown bag, he looked toward me then immediately turned to his left and was inside Kate’s house before I reached it. So she had a fella. He looked a bit plain and ordinary for the colourful Kate. A live-in fella? Husband? Father to her kid? It didn’t really interest me. Kate was just my road to Tara, and tonight it seemed she wouldn’t be coming out to play again.

  I drove to Albert Dock, parked the car and walked around by the Echo Arena to Tara’s apartment block at Wapping Dock. I still had to figure out which number she lived in because there was nothing to identify her by name on the name plates at the building’s entrance. It wasn’t a wise thing to hang around outside – that’s when you draw attention to yourself – and I couldn’t see inside the private car park so I didn’t know if Tara was out or at home. She was going to be the hardest target I’d ever set myself. The longer it went on, I knew, the more frustrated I would get.

  Chapter 30

  Tara

  ‘Where to first, mam?’

  ‘Birkenhead. Marlene Nolan’s mother has agreed to speak with us.’

  Murray negotiated the traffic and made for the Kingsway Tunnel. Tara sat with the files and pictures of Marlene Nolan, Judith Braithwaite and Ruth Lawler on her lap. All three women had featured on the bedroom wall of Terry Lawler’s flat. All three had disappeared without trace. All three had lived on Merseyside. If Terry Lawler had established a link between the women he had posted on his wall then there had to be a link between those who had lived on Merseyside. She read through the scant notes DC Wilson had prepared on Marlene Nolan. She was a 20-year-old supermarket check-out girl, lived at home with mother and younger sister, of mixed race. Tara couldn’t tell if the mother or the father was of Afro-Caribbean origin. Marlene had disappeared on her way home from work in Birkenhead nearly four years ago. The police investigation was now dormant, and what perturbed Tara on the drive to the family home was that the mother may have believed she was about to get some positive news on the whereabouts of her daughter.

  Murray turned into a street off Downham Road, opposite an entrance to Mersey Park. Halfway down the street he pulled over outside a terraced house with bay windows, hanging baskets of petunias on either side of the front door. When a woman answered the chime of the doorbell Tara saw that the mixed race issue was a little more complex than first thought, because Mrs Nolan also was a woman of brown skin and clearly of mixed race.

  She smiled weakly, a woman in her mid-40s, a thin-face, high cheek bones, smooth skin, long hair in a ponytail, a red checked shirt open over a white T-shirt and baggy blue jeans.

  ‘Mrs Nolan? I’m Detective Inspector Tara Grogan and this is Detective Sergeant Murray. Thank you for agreeing to speak with us this morning.’

  ‘It’s about Marlene, right? You better come in.’

  They were led through to a lounge, clean and tidy, a sofa rather too large for the room, as was the television, but there was nothing out of place here including the collection of four framed pictures of the missing daughter Marlene. Mrs Nolan invited them to sit.

  ‘Can I get you some tea or coffee?’

  ‘No thanks. We’ll try to keep this as brief as possible, Mrs Nolan. I realise this must be terribly painful for you.’

  The woman sat on the arm of a chair. Her hands were trembling and she looked eagerly at Tara.

  ‘Do you have news about Marlene?’

  ‘Not exactly. We’re investigating the murder of Mr Terry Lawler, a journalist. He had pictures of girls who have disappeared over the last few years, including one of Marlene.’ Tara handed the photograph to the woman. ‘Did Mr Lawler have any contact with you?’

  ‘Yes, he came to see me about three months ago.’ She handed back the photograph and reached across to the small table that held the pictures of her daughter. She lifted the largest frame and passed it to Tara. ‘That is the last good picture I have of her.’

  Tara examined the cooured photograph of a beaming young woman, smooth skin, brown eyes and glossy black hair resting on her shoulders. It was a head and shoulders shot but the delicate straps of the dress suggested Marlene had been at a party or a formal evening or perhaps a wedding.

  ‘Lovely girl,’ said Murray. ‘And I see she got her looks from her mother.’

  Mrs Nolan smiled thinly at Murray then took the frame back, returning it to the exact spot from where she’d lifted it.

  ‘Did he have anything to tell you about Marlene?’ Tara asked.

  ‘No. He said he was searching for his sister and had come across Marlene’s name on the missing persons’ register. He was just checking out as many cases of missing girls as he could find.’

  ‘Did he say if he had found any connection between Marlene and his sister’s disappearance?’

  Mrs Nolan shook her head.

  *

  Just off the M62 in Huyton, they pulled up outside a modern semi-detached chalet bungalow, the home of Mark Braithwaite, husband of Judith who had disappeared two and a half years ago.

  ‘Can you tell me the circumstances
of Judith’s disappearance?’ Tara asked the clean-shaven, fair-haired man in his 30s. He was smartly dressed in white shirt and striped tie, grey trousers and black slip-on shoes. They stood on the doorstep; Braithwaite had not invited them inside.

  ‘She never came home from work. Taught primary school in Knowsley. No one saw her after leaving school on a Wednesday. Why are you asking me this? I thought you people would have had this information already?’ His tone was dry although Tara could understand his frustration. Judith’s case, like Marlene’s, was dormant. The only person actively searching for these girls in recent months had been Terry Lawler, and now he was dead. She asked Mark Braithwaite if he had met with Lawler.

  ‘I met him, yes. Seemed to me like another journalist on the sniff for a story. It really pisses me off. I’d had enough of the police investigating me for Judith going missing; I didn’t like the idea of the press trying to make up stories about me.’

  ‘Did he give you any information on Judith’s disappearance?’

  ‘He reckoned that one man was responsible for a whole list of girls going missing, but he couldn’t prove anything. Said his own sister was missing. I didn’t believe a word.’

  ‘Did he have a name for this man?’

  Braithwaite laughed.

  ‘He didn’t have a clue, Inspector. I knew he was making the whole thing up. Now, if you’re finished I have a business to run.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Braithwaite. Just before you rush off you might be interested to know that Mr Lawler did indeed have a sister missing and currently we are investigating Mr Lawler’s murder.’ The man’s face reddened; he dropped his head and closed the door behind them.

  ‘Nought out of two,’ said Murray with a sigh. ‘Where next?’

  ‘I want to speak again with Gwen Blackley.’

  *

  They were invited into the kitchen of the Blackley home in Lymm. Gwen Blackley had her daughter Maisie home for half-term.

  ‘I want to ask you some questions about Terry’s sister, Ruth?’

  ‘Maisie, can you leave us for a while, darling?’ The 14-year-old, long fair hair, dressed and very convincing as an adult – heavy with make-up, high heels, short denim skirt and low-cut top behind which a padded bra did an excellent job of enhancement – strode across the open space of the kitchen smiling amorously at Murray. He couldn’t help his amusement, but Tara cut him off with a cold stare.

  ‘What do you want to know, Inspector?’

  ‘Did Terry mention anything to you on how his search for Ruth was going?’

  Gwen continued her preparations for coffee, placing some chocolate cookies on a plate in front of Murray and Tara who were seated around an island bench. She, like daughter Maisie, was well-dressed and made-up, as if ready for an outing, in short checked skirt, black tights and black knee boots.

  ‘The last few times I saw him he spoke of little else except to throw in digs about Evan’s business. Although he was searching for her, he’d already accepted that she was dead.’

  ‘Why did he believe that?’

  ‘He told me that the circumstances of her disappearing, knowing her and how she cared for Beth, there was no way she would just take off somewhere; somebody had to have taken her. He blamed himself. Thought that somebody was trying to get back at him for something he’d written in the papers.’

  ‘Did he mention that he had any proof of her being taken? Any suspects?’

  Gwen shook her head as she poured coffee into three mugs and set a small jug of milk and a bowl of brown sugar in front of them.

  ‘He’d gathered information on other girls who’d gone missing. He had this theory that one killer was responsible for all of them, but it didn’t seem likely; the girls came from so many different places around the country.’

  ‘In what way did he connect these disappearances?’

  Gwen shrugged then took a seat next to Murray who was tucking into the biscuits.

  ‘Terry was obsessed with finding her, Inspector. I think he was prepared to believe anything.’

  ‘But Terry had specifically chosen 29 girls who had gone missing,’ said Murray. ‘Thousands of girls would have disappeared in that time period. He must have had a reason for choosing those particular girls.’

  ‘I can’t help you, Sergeant. All I know is that Terry was going off around the country interviewing relatives of missing girls. I don’t know why he chose them and I don’t know what he found out.’

  ‘He travelled around the country?’ said Tara.

  ‘Yes, he got it into his head that the killer, if there was just one, began his killing in Ireland then moved to England. He reckoned, going by the dates of the disappearances, that he came to Liverpool more than once. Terry went to Belfast and spoke with the family of a girl who had disappeared in much the same way as Ruth. But they couldn’t help him.’

  ‘Do you think his sister Beth could help us with these questions?’

  ‘I doubt it, Inspector. Beth has learning difficulties. She doesn’t know that Ruth is missing; Terry had told her she was travelling round the world. And right now she is struggling with the news that Terry is dead. She would never be able to handle questions from the police.’

  ‘Do you keep in touch with her?’

  ‘Yes, she has no one else now. We were a close family once, despite what you might think about Terry and me. I still cared for him. He was a lovable bastard, you might say. That’s why I find it so upsetting to be labelled a suspect for his murder.’

  ‘I would say you are more of a point of reference than a suspect, Mrs Blackley. We had to begin our investigation somewhere.’

  ‘And what about Evan? Is he still a suspect? I know the pair of them never got on, not since Terry tried to connect him with the match fixing scandal in Italy. That’s how I met Evan, you know, through Terry. We were on the verge of separating when I went to a party with Terry. It was hosted by Evan. Of course Terry, being Terry, only went to cause trouble. In the end he got more than he bargained for.’

  One last question, Mrs Blackley, did Terry ever mention his relationship with Lynsey Yeats?’

  ‘Not really. He said he was staying over at hers while he worked on a story. To me when Terry said he was staying over it meant he was sleeping with her. It wasn’t the first time he’d used the phrase, Inspector.’

  *

  On the drive back to Liverpool, Tara reluctantly slipped the photographs and notes on the three missing girls back into the files. That particular line of inquiry had already run out of steam. Lawler had no real method to his inquiries; he’d found nothing except for his hunch that a single killer, if one existed, had begun his work in Belfast, moved to England, and continued from there. Beyond that Lawler had nothing or, if he did, he took it to his grave. Unlikely, then, that this phantom killer had sought out Terry Lawler and killed him on Crosby Beach. If she’d learned anything from a day’s work it was that Evan Blackley had yet another reason to murder Lawler. Blackley’s football career had been cut short in Italy by allegations of match-fixing. For Lawler to have satisfied his journalistic appetite on the story, damaging a career in the process, then Blackley, in the face of further trouble from Lawler in disrupting his building plans, might well have resorted to a final solution where this journalist was concerned.

  Chapter 31

  Guy

  Kate turned out to be a star. Took a few days though, but she did it in the end. I overheard her, at work, talking to someone on her mobile.

  ‘See you tonight,’ she said. I had to hope it was Tara she was speaking to, or maybe the other one. Nevertheless, I got myself all sorted with my shift so that I could knock off before Kate, wait for her to leave work and then follow from there.

  She drove home to Canning Street first and as I waited, and an hour went by and then another, I thought I’d got it wrong. She was going nowhere; just sitting with her child waiting for Mr Plain to come home and do whatever it was that satisfied her. Then I thought, maybe Tara and the other girl woul
d be calling by for another sleepover. But nobody called. I’d managed step by step to get my car parked opposite the house and I could see perfectly if anyone were to slip in or out. I’d got myself neatly dressed, freshly shaven, my best clothes and shoes on, and as I slid further into my seat I couldn’t help wondering about Tara. What was she up to right now? Had she found out stuff about that journalist who got himself killed? Had she discovered something about me? It would be useful for me to know how the peelers worked on searching for missing girls. Then I’d be able to keep a step ahead of them, refine my technique, and maybe try something new.

  Darkness had descended; it was well past 8pm when a mini-cab stopped in the middle of the road alongside my car. The driver glanced at me but didn’t seem bothered by me sitting there. I squeezed tight on my rubber ball. Seconds later, the front door of the house opened and out stepped a lovely Kate in a short, light blue dress and leather biker-style jacket. She climbed into the back of the taxi and the car rushed off down the street. She didn’t seem to notice me. I was slow to get started, but I saw the direction they turned and in a minute or so I was tailing them from about 50 yards.

  When they eventually turned into Dawson Street, I slowed and waited for the cab to stop. At the junction with a narrow lane the taxi pulled to the side and Kate climbed out on her high heels. She hurried into a bar on the corner, so I quickly found a place to leave my car and went inside after her.

  It was a lively place, loud and filling up with punters. Kate was already seated with a girl I assumed to be the other member of the gang of three I’d first noticed in Kate’s house. She also was a tasty bit of skirt, long hair, confident face, not the type of woman I could ever have picked up on my own and not the kind of woman I would ever consider taking. She was a real picture, definitely, but she had a bigger build than Kate or Tara. She would have strength in her favour if anyone ever tried to snatch her.