A Date With Death

by Mark Roberts

  ‘Why did she join?’

  ‘She attracted a lot of unwanted male attention, married creeps, single men who loved themselves. She needed the love of a good man, and was at her wit’s end.’

  ‘What do you know about the man she went to meet on the night she disappeared?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘What about a name?’

  ‘Richard Ezra. That’s what he told her he was called. We’d had a falling out. It upset me because we’d always been open with each other about everything since we were little girls. It was like she was going through a sudden massive change. She was becoming more and more distant.’

  ‘Can you tell me about the falling out?’

  ‘I got married to my now husband, Gary, four weeks ago. When we got back from honeymoon, two weeks ago, it was like she was a changed woman. We hadn’t spoken while I was away in Dubai but then as soon as I got back she sent me this.’

  Cathy looked like a woman whose mouth was running away from her and her brain was sprinting to keep up.

  ‘Go on?’ encouraged Clay.

  Cathy took out her iPhone and opened the texts.

  She slid the phone across the table to Clay.

  Cathy – I am genuinely happy for you and am sure that your happiness will increase with time. At least I hope and pray it does. However, things have changed, the goalposts have shifted. You have a husband and home to think about now and the time that we spend together can no longer be the same. We need time apart. Love you, Annie xxx

  Annie, wondered Clay, were you torn between envy and the need to do the right thing by the newlyweds?

  ‘Have you got other texts from Annie?’

  ‘Very few. We always talked on the phone. But when I did call her, her phone was off or it went to answer machine. I left messages on her phone but she didn’t get back to me. We only texted in emergencies or if one or other of us was on the phone to someone else.’

  ‘Mind if I have a scroll, Cathy?’

  In three scrolls of the screen, Clay had the entire body of Annie’s texts to Cathy and the content could be summed up in a question and an instruction that completely supported Cathy’s claim.

  Who are you on to, donut?

  Call me when you can.

  Then she came back to the lengthiest text that Annie had sent to her friend, distancing herself from the woman on the other side of the desk to Clay.

  ‘You’ve been best friends since you were four or five years old,’ said Clay. ‘You get married, Cathy, and she pies you off because you’re happy.’

  Cathy nodded and her eyes glistened in the glare of the lights above her head.

  ‘Tell me,’ Clay passed the iPhone back to Cathy. ‘Tell me about the last time you spoke.’

  ‘Like I said, she called me to say she was out on a date, a guy she’d met on the internet and spoken to on the phone. She sounded happy and excited. She kept saying that we should meet up and bury the hatchet, and it was her fault the falling out, and that she was sorry.’

  ‘Can I have a look at your incoming calls, please?’

  Cathy glanced up at Clay as she pressed the screen and returned the iPhone to her. She scrolled down and found the last incoming call from Annie.

  Thursday 7:45. Length of call 3:36.

  Clay scrolled and scrolled until she found the previous call from Annie and did the maths. Last call, on or around the wedding of Cathy and Gary.

  Clay held the iPhone back across the table.

  ‘Did she tell you where she was meeting this Richard Ezra, Cathy?’

  ‘No, just that she was actually on the way to meet him.’

  ‘Think really hard about this, please. When you were talking to Annie on the phone that last time, was she indoors or outdoors?’

  Cathy’s face darkened with concentration.

  ‘She was outdoors. I could hear other people’s voices as they moved past her.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No… no, not really…’

  ‘Where did Annie like to go?’

  ‘Restaurants. Some bars, nice ones.’

  ‘More precise than that, Cathy?’

  ‘Liverpool One. The Dock, the Albert Dock. She absolutely loved it there.’

  ‘You asked her, surely, where are you meeting this Richard Ezra? Where are you planning on going?’

  ‘I asked her but she didn’t tell me. She just kept saying, sorry, sorry. It was like she’d gone into a tailspin because she was going on a date. She said she had to go, that she was running late. And yeah, I could tell she was moving quickly because she was breathy when she was speaking to me and she spoke so quickly.’

  ‘And she was definitely outdoors?’

  There was no reaction, no reply. Cathy closed her eyes, her lips moving softly as if she was talking to herself.

  ‘I…’ She stared into space and the light inside her played out in her eyes, and Clay watched as Cathy slowly remembered something she’d overlooked. ‘I heard the horn of a tug ship blowing. And water lapping against…’

  ‘Was she at the waterfront?’

  ‘Sounded like. That sound you hear when the river hits the concrete wall beneath your feet.’

  ‘Albert Dock, Cathy. If she’d been asked out on a date, where would Annie go to eat, say?’

  ‘Io, the Greek restaurant overlooking Liverpool One.’

  Six kilometres downriver, thought Clay, from where she finally ended up.

  ‘She didn’t forward you a photograph of him?’

  ‘I asked her to. She didn’t have one on her phone to send. I thought it was a bit odd. I mean, she didn’t say, but you’d think she’d have sent him a picture and he’d have sent one to her. How else would they recognise each other among all those people at the Dock?’

  Clay recalled the photograph that Riley had discovered beneath Annie’s pillowslip.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Clay. ‘You’ve given us some useful things to go on. Unless you can think of anything else to add, that’s all for now. Thank you, Cathy.’

  Clay turned off the audio recorder and looked at the door of the interview suite but Cathy didn’t move, sat stiller than she had throughout the conversation, turning her wedding ring over and over.

  ‘Is there something you want to say, Cathy?’

  ‘There’s a lot of muttering on social media that he did something pretty terrible to her. Is it true?’

  ‘Well, yes, for once social media’s correct. The detail is going to be released to the media in the next twelve hours.’

  ‘Her parents?’

  ‘Her parents will be the first to be informed. I don’t want them finding out what happened to their daughter from social media.’

  Tears welled up in Cathy’s eyes as she headed for the door.

  ‘Has he done it before to any other women?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will he do it again?’

  They walked towards the glass door leading to reception.

  ‘He already has done. Cathy, you mustn’t discuss anything we’ve talked about with anyone. If you do, what you know will be all over the internet and that’s going to help this so-called Richard Ezra character no end.’

  ‘I won’t breathe a word. On Annie’s memory.’

  As Clay watched Cathy leaving, she called Cole.

  ‘Eve, how’s it going?’

  ‘Barney, we need all available CCTV footage from the Echo Arena, front, back and sides. Thursday, 25th November. Start before 7pm and go through until after 9pm. We’re looking for Annie Boyd’s final recorded steps and anyone who was with her.’

  23

  6.11 pm

  Francesca Christie felt a buzz of excitement as she put her key in the lock of her home in Druid’s Cross Road. Opening the door, she heard the voice of the newsreader on the BBC six o’clock news.

  ‘Frann-cesca!’ She weighed up the tone of her mother’s voice. She certainly hadn’t had a great day but it wasn’t one of her blackest ones either.


  ‘Hi, Mum…’

  She walked to the door of the front room and her mother pointed at a large brown box.

  ‘Who’s been buying you flowers?’

  So this was James’ surprise.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, Francesca. Open them.’

  Francesca’s mother got to her feet and headed towards the door. ‘Meal’ll be on the table soon. Who are they from?’

  The most wonderful, caring man, with a kind and warm voice, who makes my heart go faster and fills me with wild hope, she thought.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Mum…’

  ‘There’s a letter for you. Postman brought it this morning.’

  Folding back the flaps on the top of the box, Francesca felt a wave of butterflies rise up inside her.

  Handle With Care.

  She looked inside the box and saw a wall of vivid red.

  Fragile.

  Francesca plunged both hands either side of the roses, felt and heard the crinkle of the cellophane in which the flowers were wrapped.

  Keep upright.

  She held the roses up to the light, felt the glory of the multiple shades of red and drank in their sweet fragrance.

  Propped up against the box, she saw an envelope. She leaned the flowers against the armchair and opening the envelope, she slid out a colour photograph, taken sideways and at an angle, of a man with dark, collar-length hair and a beautiful, intelligent face. He smiled into the empty space before him and she placed herself in it, absorbing the loving look and wondering how ecstatic she would feel if this was more than a fantasy.

  She picked up the remote and pressed mute to silence the police sirens that screamed from the television set and threatened to spoil an almost perfect moment.

  In the moment she silenced the television, her iPhone sang from her bag. She fumbled in the bag and, taking the iPhone out, connected.

  ‘Did you like your surprise, Francesca?’

  ‘James, I can’t tell you how much I love the roses. Thank you so much. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘How about yes?’

  ‘Yes? To?’

  ‘Yes you’ll meet up with me sooner than Friday.’

  Francesca laughed and looked at his picture. ‘Yes. I’d love to.’ She wanted to press him for a time and place tomorrow, not too early so she had a chance to do her hair and make-up and nails, so she could look her very best. Instead, she said, ‘Your picture came in the post.’

  ‘So you can recognise me when we meet for the first time. We have something to celebrate.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘My client and her child, they’re staying in the country. I won the case.’

  Time froze and the world fell away from her.

  ‘Are you OK, Francesca?’

  ‘I’m so happy it went your way in court today.’

  ‘Francesca, I have to go now. I’m meeting with a client. I’ll be in touch. Enjoy the flowers.’

  Francesca heard him disconnect before she could say goodbye. She looked up at the television at a picture of a blonde teenager in a formal black dress. As she turned the television off, she was struck by her own physical likeness to the girl.

  ‘Francesca! It’s coming on to the table now…’

  ‘Coming.’

  She picked up the roses by the stems and wanted to embrace them as she headed towards the kitchen sink.

  ‘That’s quite a bunch of flowers you’ve got there, Francesca.’

  Steam billowed from the plate as her mother served spaghetti carbonara on to Francesca’s plate.

  ‘So you’re not going to tell me who they’re from.’

  ‘Mum, leave it, please.’ She held her free hand up to stop her mother ladling more pasta on to her plate. ‘Thank you, that’ll do,’ said Francesca, looking at the portion of pasta and thinking of what she’d look like in the mirror when she next stepped out of the bath, what he would make of her if things ever went that far.

  As her mother carried two plates of pasta to the kitchen table, Francesca placed the roses in the sink.

  ‘This was one of your dad’s favourites.’

  ‘I remember.’

  Francesca sat across the table from her mother, her appetite gone.

  ‘What’s happened to your hand, Francesca?’

  She looked at her right hand and saw a spreading pattern of blood from a tiny wound on her index finger.

  ‘Clumsy me,’ said Francesca. She looked across the kitchen at the roses in the sink. ‘One of the thorns…’ She smiled, wrapped a piece of tissue around the wound and pressed down, her normally heavy heart lifting with happiness and excitement at what lay ahead, and she made a big decision that she had been playing with since her earliest days at Maguire Holdings.

  It was time to move on and away from Norma Maguire.

  24

  6.31 pm

  For the fifth time, Detective Chief Inspector Eve Clay read Annie Boyd’s online dating profile on Pebbles On The Beach and was astonished at what constituted a poor advertisement for self.

  In her profile photograph, Annie looked pretty and good-natured and it made Clay feel deeply sorry for her. It was a cropped head and shoulders shot of the picture she’d had taken on holiday, the one from which she had been identified through her mole and the bluebird tattoo on her arm.

  The door of the incident room opened and Clay looked up from her laptop.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Eve?’ asked Riley, walking towards Clay.

  ‘Grab a seat and sit with me please, Gina.’

  As Riley sat next to her, Clay said, ‘This is Annie Boyd’s dating profile. What do you know about internet dating sites?’

  ‘Quite a bit. When my sister got divorced, she spent half her life online looking for a man and the other half dragging me through the process, each painful step of the way.’

  ‘I’m a novice to this but my instincts are telling me she’s really not doing herself any favours. Have a look. See what you think? A second pair of eyes, please.’

  Clay pushed her laptop sideways to Riley and watched her face for a reaction.

  ‘What are you plotting, Eve?’

  ‘Just tell me what you think of it, Gina.’

  After a couple of minutes, Riley sat back and looked at Clay.

  ‘She’s made a pig’s ear of it,’ said Riley. ‘The photograph’s nice but it’s static. She should have put in an action shot, maybe spinning on the spot or walking towards camera. I don’t reckon she’s asked her friends for any advice. It’s pitted with clichés like man of my dreams and happily ever after. She’s listed her hobbies as reading, listening to music, watching athletics on TV. Hardly the most sociable of hobbies. And she’s gone on and on when she should have kept it short and to the point. Negativity. Look.’

  Riley pointed at a line in the profile and Clay read, ‘I don’t like nightclubs where the music is so loud that I can’t hear you and you can’t hear me, or being around lots of people who look at other people aggressively.’ She read on in silence and learned that Annie was frightened of dogs and wary of false people.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Riley. ‘For a teacher, there are a lot of typos in here. Nightmare profile. Bet she didn’t get that many men winking at her.’

  ‘Winking at her?’

  ‘If a man comes on to her profile and likes what he sees, he gives her an electronic wink to show he’s interested. She can choose to ignore the wink or wink back. If she winks back, that gives him the OK to open up an online dialogue, which is pretty much akin to corresponding over Messenger. Have we had any feedback from Poppy on who’s been shaking her tree?’

  ‘She’s working on it,’ replied Clay. ‘Poppy’s got Annie’s laptops but I’m certain The Ghoul’s got her phone. Guess where we’re going next, Gina?’

  ‘Go on?’ said Riley.

  ‘Internet dating. I’ve joined Pebbles On The Beach and set up a fake profile, using all Annie’s mistakes and wording them differently. I’ll make myself as close as I can to Annie and
see if I can draw the killer out. We’re all going to do likewise. Desperate, deluded and needy blondes in their mid twenties. Give out the brief and oversee what happens when we go online. We need a spread. We can’t assume that the killer goes exclusively on one site. Gina, everyone’s to report back directly to you. You report back to me. When Poppy’s fished out Annie’s exchanges with the killer through the site, I’ll have a better idea of how we all play things if any of us get off first base. We’ll also know what we’re looking for from our killer, how he uses language, his linguistic tics.’

  Riley walked to her desk and flipped up the lid of her laptop.

  ‘I’ll send everyone an email,’ said Riley.

  Clay focused on her fake profile picture, plundered from a search of Google Images under the words she’d placed into the search engine: Pretty blonde woman, mid twenties.

  From a choice of hundreds of images, she had chosen a dead ringer for Annie Boyd. The similarity made Clay hope the effect on The Ghoul would be electrifying, would make it be like looking at a ghost of his victim.

  Clay spread out the five pages of Annie Boyd’s profile on her desk.

  ‘The thing is, Gina, a lot of men go looking for vulnerable women online and vice versa. The Ghoul isn’t going to be looking out for confident, sassy women who come across like they can hold their own. Get that across to the troops, please. Only car-crash dizzy blondes need apply.’

  Riley walked over to Clay’s desk, looked over her shoulder.

  ‘That’s almost uncanny, the likeness. Different enough around the eyes. His mouth will be watering.’

  Riley read Clay’s fake profile.

  Hi boys. My name’s Natasha and I love nothing better than curling up in front of a roaring log fire with a glass of red wine and some smooth music in the background. I’m looking for a stand-up guy who knows how to handel a woman like me who loves nothing better than taking care of him and making him very, very happy.

  ‘Handel?’ questioned Riley. ‘I haven’t questioned your spelling so far, Eve, but shouldn’t that be handle?’