A Date With Death

by Mark Roberts

  35

  10.59 am

  Detective Constable Clive Winters, a tall, heavily built black man in his forties, watched the second piece of film he’d identified from the high-quality CCTV footage emailed over to him by security from the Echo Arena.

  He watched people walking in the general direction of Otterspool Promenade and others walking towards the Museum of Liverpool.

  Annie Boyd was a lone pinpoint, identifiable from the smart black coat she wore to impress her blind date and protect herself from the wind blasting off the River Mersey to her left.

  ‘Hello, Annie,’ he said to the screen of his laptop as she came closer to the Echo Arena’s camera, a black speck turning into a more human form, recognisable from the first piece of footage from the Marina around the corner from the place where she’d parked her silver Renault Megane. She took out her iPhone and Winters guessed she was talking to her friend Cathy Jones, their last conversation as reported to DCI Eve Clay.

  You said your goodbye then, thought Winters. But little did you know it was to be your final one.

  Annie walked further down the concrete promenade, embraced herself tightly against the weather. As she walked towards the Echo Arena’s camera, she braved the wind to look up at people overtaking her in the direction of the meeting point at the padlocked railings, no doubt hoping to catch a glimpse of her Prince Charming.

  She simply walked under the eye of Echo Arena’s camera and out of sight.

  Alone.

  Winters made a mental note of the time she was last recorded on the first of the Echo Arena’s cameras: 7:51 pm for the eight o’clock date, not wanting to turn up late.

  He watched the screen as it flipped to the second footage supplied by the Echo Arena, CCTV from the side of the building, starting at 7:48 pm. He fast forwarded it until he reached 7:51 pm.

  As the clock changed to 7:52 pm, Annie came under the CCTV camera’s watchful eye. It was a sideways shot of her. Winters paused it and counted three other people on screen. A pair of women walking in the direction from which Annie had just come and a man striding ahead of her.

  She fought against the wind, which had picked up force, lowering the centre of her gravity as she struggled to get where she was going.

  He looked at the CCTV footage from the riverside camera on the wall of the Albert Dock with the final two sequences of Annie.

  He looked at the empty space where Annie had just passed through, and felt that he was watching the progress of a ghost.

  Winters swapped pen drives, one out, one in, and watched Annie arriving at the railings with the padlocked hearts then standing still, her back to the water, as she waited from 7:53 pm, coat collar turned up, clutching her bag to herself. Time moved on but Annie remained where she was.

  7:54 pm, 7:55 pm, 7:56 pm. No one, just Annie.

  As 7:56 pm counted up to 7:57 pm, she became animated. She turned her head up and walked away from the railings and back again.

  Time collapsed inside Winters’ head as he watched her growing colder and more agitated under the overhead street light, illuminating her frustration.

  She walked around in a tight circle, stamping her feet and trying to keep warm against the worsening weather.

  He looked at the time and saw that it was 8:15 pm.

  Winters fast forwarded the footage, watched her perform what looked like absurd little dances as she waited in vain.

  At 8:36 pm, he stopped the footage and watched it in real time. She reached inside her bag and took out a handkerchief. Winters zoomed in on her face.

  She appeared to be crying and he watched her walk away from the railings and back the way she had come, having been made an utter fool of by a stranger.

  Winters paused the footage and called Clay from his landline phone.

  ‘Eve, it looks like Annie Boyd got stood up. He had no intention of meeting her in such a CCTV-rich part of the Albert Dock. She’s on her way back to the place where she parked her car.’

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘She looks like she’s had seven balls of shit kicked out of her. I’ll call you when I’ve got the bigger picture.’

  Winters replaced the receiver and looked at Annie’s back, frozen on screen, and imagined how she must have felt after waiting in the cold to be horribly let down.

  He turned the footage on and watched Annie walk away into the dark, never to return.

  36

  11.01 am

  The headless carcass of a black and white cow travelled towards Edgar McKee on a moving rail. The cow was suspended by the base of its legs on two metallic clamps.

  ‘Are you ready to have a turn, Wren?’

  ‘Sure, Edgar.’

  ‘OK, so… what’s the big word in this process?’

  ‘The big word in the process of skinning the carcass of a cow is hygiene.’

  ‘Well done. Great answer. You’re a fast learner.’

  Edgar drank in the beaming smile on Wren’s face.

  ‘Any questions, Wren?’

  ‘Why are they hanging from the rail?’

  ‘It’s the most hygienic way of bleeding and stripping the carcass. Bleeding continues until it’s a trail and then we can skin it. Why do I use a plastic-handled knife instead of a wooden-handled knife?’ asked Edgar.

  ‘More hygienic, Edgar.’

  The headless cow swung under the impetus of the vibration that ran through the moving rail. Edgar handed Wren the sticking knife.

  ‘Stick the knife in just above the breastbone at a forty-five-degree angle pointed in the direction of where its neck used to be. Cut.’

  Edgar watched Wren’s lips move as he performed the action, repeating the information in the silence of his head.

  ‘Am I doing good, Edgar?’

  ‘You’re doing just great. Cut away between the hide and carcass and pull the skin away carefully. What must never ever happen, Wren?’

  ‘The outer skin must never touch the carcass because this can cause contamination by the bacteria on the hide, messing up the uncontaminated body of the cow.’

  ‘Cut and pull away, cut and pull away, keep going, fold the outer skin away from the carcass. Leave the left-hand side for a minute and attend to the right. Cut and pull, slow but sure.’

  Wren obeyed Edgar, his tongue poking out as he concentrated on the task in hand.

  ‘Carry on, Wren. Anyone says anything to you that you don’t like, you tell me. I’m your mate, remember. You and me, best mates.’

  Wren continued cutting and peeling away the skin of the cow, centimetres away from his face.

  ‘You are… so… the coolest person I’ve ever met, Edgar.’

  ‘And you’re the coolest person I’ve ever met, Wren. I swear on Captain Cyclone’s super powers, you’re my best mate, the best mate I’ve ever had.’

  37

  11.00 am

  Detective Constable Barney Cole looked at the time on his iPhone and saw that Mr Doherty was making him wait. Ten minutes after the agreed time of their meeting, there was no sign of movement behind the door to the estate agent’s office.

  Inside the room, voices came closer to the door.

  He couldn’t hear what was being said, but he recognised the grey pomposity of Mr Doherty and the sweetness of a young woman who was trying very hard to impress.

  The door opened and a young woman emerged. She was fit – slim, blonde, matching skirt and jacket – and a face to draw second and third glances on any street.

  ‘Congratulations.’ Mr Doherty stepped out of his office and shook her by the hand, seemingly oblivious to Cole’s presence. ‘I know you’re going to be very happy here.’

  The handshake went on too long and, as Cole observed it, he took a longer look at the woman’s face. Mid to late twenties, there was a sadness in her eyes that spoke of a deep-seated vulnerability.

  ‘Are you happy with the terms and conditions of your employment with me?’ said Mr Doherty, lapping up the last drop of gratitude from his new employee.r />
  ‘I am. Thank you.’

  ‘When do you intend to start working for me?’

  ‘Twelve o’clock today, if that suits you, Mr Doherty.’

  ‘That suits me fine. Excellent. And it’s Brian.’

  He flirted with her with his eyes, smiled like the sun had come out from behind a leaden cloud. She joined in but her response looked fake to Cole’s eyes.

  ‘See you soon, Brian.’

  He released her hand and she headed immediately for the top of the stairs.

  ‘Come inside, Detective Constable Cole,’ said Mr Doherty, not looking at him as he headed back inside his lair.

  Cole closed the door, caught the edge of the young woman’s fragrance, recognised it as Chanel No. 5, a perfume his wife liked.

  ‘Sit.’ Mr Doherty threw a flick of the wrist at the chair across the desk from where he was now sitting.

  Cole placed his hands on the back of the chair, leaned forward and said, ‘I have sciatica. It’s easier for me to stay standing.’

  ‘Then stay standing. You want to know about Richard Ezra, DC Cole? But before we talk about Richard, there’s a question I need to ask.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Why are Merseyside Constabulary interested in him all of a sudden?’

  Cole weighed his words carefully.

  ‘As I said when I phoned you, we’re in the early stages of a murder investigation. I can’t go into the details but we believe the perpetrator has assumed Mr Ezra’s identity in the process of committing his crimes.’

  Mr Doherty nodded and his lower lip jutted out.

  ‘In your professional capacity, how long did you know him, Mr Doherty? I gather he no longer works here?’

  ‘No. He was here for six years. He joined the firm in 2014 and was our top agent for five of those years. He became a partner at the end of his first year.’

  ‘A form of golden handcuffs to keep him chained to the firm?’

  ‘Exactly. He was everything you’d want in an employee. Never off sick. Never late. Smashed his sales targets month in, month out. We were perceived as being that good at selling houses quickly that we drew business away from the other agents on Allerton Road.’

  ‘That gives me a clear idea about what he was like as an estate agent. What was he like as a man?’

  ‘He was kind without being soft, and genuinely courteous. People used to take their work and domestic problems to him because he was discreet and offered good advice all round. Most of the girls in the office had a crush on him but he was above all that. He was extremely happily married to Sarah. They were culture vultures, always visiting art galleries, watching world cinema, reading quality literature and going to Europe to soak up the art and culture of the past. Until it all went horribly wrong for them.’

  ‘Have you got a picture of Richard?’

  Mr Doherty opened the top drawer of his desk and, reaching inside, took out a framed photograph, which he offered to Cole. He took the picture from his hands and turned it over.

  In between Mr Doherty and the beautiful blonde he’d seen on Google Images was a slim, handsome man with jet-black collar-length hair and sky-blue eyes, who smiled into the camera as he clutched a cut-glass statuette.

  ‘That’s when he won North West Estate Agent of the year, back in 2017. That’s me, obviously. The woman next to him was his wife, Sarah.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘They were in Florence. They’d spent the day visiting art galleries. It had been particularly hot. It was in the evening. They were in a pizzeria near The Fountain of Neptune. They’d just ordered when Sarah went to the ladies. Five, ten minutes went by. Richard thought she’d been taken ill. He asked a waitress to go into the ladies to see if Sarah was OK. The waitress went in. The screaming brought the restaurant down into a terrible silence. Richard ran into the ladies and Sarah was lying in an expanding pool of blood. There were over thirty stab wounds to her body. There was an open window. The killer escaped the same way that he got into the building. There were no witnesses.’

  ‘Was the killer mentally ill?’

  ‘I assume so but I don’t know. Nobody knows why he or she did what they did. The Florentine police didn’t get near anyone. The killer was never caught.’

  Cole gazed into Mr Doherty’s eyes, saw a welling of emotion.

  ‘Can I get a colour copy of this picture, Mr Doherty?’

  Mr Doherty held his hand out and, taking the picture from Cole, stood and walked to the photocopier in the corner of the room. His shoulders sagged as he copied the picture and it occurred to Cole that these memories were deeply personal and painful to him.

  Mr Doherty walked back to the desk, with the same picture in each hand and an expression in his eyes like he was locked in a time bubble.

  He sat down, slid the colour copy across the desk to Cole and placed the framed picture back inside the cold darkness of his drawer.

  ‘What happened to Richard Ezra?’

  ‘When he came back to England it took just under twelve months for him to completely fall to pieces. It started when Sarah’s body was repatriated. He refused to accept that the body in the coffin was hers. He insisted the Florentine authorities had planted another body and it was all part of a conspiracy to protect the killer. I was there when the coffin was opened and he could see it was Sarah. I saw something in his eyes, a wildness that made me sick to the core because I knew in that moment he was doomed.

  ‘He never returned to work and wound up in a haze of pills and alcohol. We offered to help him, we tried to intervene; many, many people did but he retreated into himself, stopped answering the phone and the door.

  ‘I believe he killed himself.’

  ‘Can you tell me a little more, Mr Doherty?’ asked Cole.

  ‘His car was last caught on CCTV on Jericho Lane leading down to Otterspool Promenade. The car was discovered on a parking bay overlooking the prom. I believe he threw himself into the water and drowned. His body was never recovered. It wasn’t just one life that got taken that day in Florence. It was two lives. It just took Richard longer to go, during which time…’

  Mr Doherty looked sick to his core.

  ‘What happened to Richard Ezra during that year?’

  ‘He completely changed. Grief, alcohol and drugs. When he disappeared, I went to his house with the police looking for a suicide note. We found his laptop but no note.’

  ‘What did you find on his laptop, Mr Doherty?’

  ‘He’d taken to downloading pornography in the last twelve months of his life. Violent pornography from the dark web. Rape. Torture. Horrific abuse.’

  ‘Who were the victims?’

  ‘Women.’ The wind pushed a volley of rain into the window behind Mr Doherty’s head. ‘He used the internet to find prostitutes. He was a good man who completely collapsed.’

  ‘Have there been sightings of Richard Ezra?’

  Mr Doherty nodded. ‘But I don’t believe in any of them. I think he had a moment of clarity. He saw what he’d become, remembered the man he’d been and decided to end it all. That’s what I like to think happened.’

  The initial antagonism Cole had felt towards the estate agent completely evaporated.

  Mr Doherty stood up and, turning his back on Cole, looked out of the window as rain raked the glass.

  ‘Is there anything else you’d like to ask me, DC Cole?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Doherty, there is. You said that you were there when Sarah’s coffin lid was lifted.’

  He nodded at the pouring rain.

  ‘In my view, that was well above and beyond the call of duty for an employer.’

  Mr Doherty turned and Cole placed his contact card on his desk.

  ‘You asked me about professional capacity. First and foremost, I wasn’t just his employer. I was his friend and mentor. I don’t have many friends but Richard was one of them.’

  ‘I’ve left my details there, Mr Doherty. Do you still have his work laptop, work telephone?’

&nb
sp; ‘He took them away with him when he first came back to the UK. At first he made a show of attempting to work from home. He didn’t, of course. After he disappeared and his house was cleared, there was no trace of them. Just his personal laptop, riddled with filth.’

  ‘Did he have an address book in work?’

  ‘Yes… yes, we still have that somewhere in the office. Everyone who works here keeps a paper copy of their contacts in case of technology failure.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. If you find Richard Ezra’s professional address book, can you call me and I’ll collect it. Or if you think of anything else you haven’t mentioned to me now, call me.’

  When Cole got to the door, Mr Doherty said, ‘What do you want his address book for?’

  ‘The name of the person using Richard as a shield could well be in that address book.’

  ‘I’ll instruct the office junior to find that book and deliver it to you. How dare they pour dirt on Richard’s memory?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Doherty. How dare they?’

  38

  11.25 am

  As Detective Chief Inspector Eve Clay turned left on to Woolton Road on her way to Springwood Avenue, she realised what the stretch of road she was heading for was like in reality.

  This is a piss take of the highest order, she thought as she headed to the lights at the junction with Springwood Avenue, all hope fading away as she turned on to South Liverpool’s expansive Death Row.

  A phone call from Hendricks had already confirmed that Danny Guest’s given address – 134 Addingham Road – was a fake, with the numbers on the doors of the terraced houses ending in the high seventies.

  Clay was acutely aware of the caravan of vehicles behind her, the rapidly scrambled marked and unmarked police cars in a procession of fools.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Stone following behind her and shook her head. He responded with a thumbs down. Behind the railings to her left, she passed the solitary Pub in the Park, then slowed as she came to the only house on the road.

  ‘But you’re not 66,’ she said, listening to the sour note in her own voice.

  She slowed down even further as she caught up with a procession of funeral cars and resisted the temptation to overtake.