by Mark Roberts
Clay stopped at the closed door of the main living space. On the door was a collage of pictures of the same woman, a slim blonde in her mid twenties; there was no sign of anyone else in the collage, just her.
‘They’re all selfies,’ said Clay, making a mental note of the smiles and the pouts that Amanda should have grown out of when she was in her late teens.
Carefully, she pushed the door with the merest touch and it swung back with a pronounced creak from the hinges. Clay reached around the wall and turned on the light.
A huge bunch of red roses sat in a vase next to Amanda’s double bed.
‘I wonder who sent them?’ said Clay.
Clay stepped into the cold attic room but felt something colder run down her spine, something alive, inhuman and wet.
She took a mental picture of the room, the modern ornaments, the colourful throws and Laura Ashley cushions, a single woman’s attempt to imprint a feminine, homely touch on a drab space.
Clay walked to the table at the centre of the room and looked at Amanda’s laptop, next to the photograph that The Ghoul had sent to Annie Boyd in his incarnation as Richard Ezra, gazing lovingly into the space where his wife had stood with him in reality.
She turned the picture over and quietly read the writing. Dear Mand-E, with love Thomas. Clay showed it to Riley. ‘Same picture, different pseudonym.’
Outside the building, Clay heard the arrival of cars, the slamming of doors and sirens coming closer in the distance. She glanced at Riley, saw that she was taking a video portrait of the scene on her iPhone, systematically covering each piece of the cramped living space.
Clay took out her iPhone and called DS Terry Mason on speed dial.
‘Terry, what are you up to?’
‘Where do you need me to be?’
‘189 Princes Road, top floor flat.’
‘I’m on my way, Eve.’
Clay unplugged Amanda Winton’s laptop from a socket in the wall.
‘Gina, hotfoot Amanda’s laptop down to Poppy Waters.’
Riley walked away quickly, dropping the laptop into an evidence bag.
On the bedside closet, make-up compacts, lipsticks and bottles of fragrances stood to attention around a circular mirror.
At the bottom of the stairs, Clay took in Mr McGann.
‘Mr McGann, what do you know about Amanda Winton?’
‘Nothing. She was the only tenant in the building who went out to work. I tried to talk to her a couple of times but she brushed me off.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’ asked Clay.
‘She went out about seven o’clock one night. She was all dolled up. I watched her from my front room window. It was like she was walking on air.’
Clay wondered if Amanda Winton had looked back over her shoulder as she left her flat, whether she’d had any primal inkling of the danger she was walking into.
She recalled the size and the colour of the roses by Amanda’s bedside, the fraudulent picture of her handsome suitor next to her laptop.
No, Clay concluded. If she had experienced any dark warnings, she must have drowned them out with hope.
Amanda Winton didn’t walk towards her date with death. She skipped there.
44
1.30 pm
Detective Constable Barney Cole sat at his desk with a map of South Liverpool spread out in from of him.
On the map were asterisks where the Automatic Number Plate Recognition cameras had picked up the white van on its journey away from Allerton Road in the direction of the River Mersey.
Detective Chief Inspector Eve Clay sipped her coffee, noticed how the asterisks had the appearance of a constellation of dark stars, and said, ‘Talk me through it, Barney.’
‘From the CCTV at the old lady’s house on the corner of Allerton Road and Heath Road, we had the last three digits of the licence plate of the white van, ZDS. It’s a Ford Transit Custom 2.2 TDCi panel van. So far so good. ZDS. Those digits were enough for the ANPR cameras to pick up as the van headed away from the scene of the body drop-off on the footpath between the golf course and the public park, Allerton Towers. The full registration is OD53 ZDS. Guess what, Eve?’
‘You phoned the DVLA and it’s a genuine plate.’
‘It’s registered to an eighty-six-year-old lady called Dolores Green.’
‘Does she live in Liverpool?’
‘She lives in Trinity Gardens in Brixton, South London.’ Cole took out his iPhone. ‘A couple of WPCs from the Met have been round to see her, to reassure her.’ He showed Clay a photograph of a chocolate box granny.
‘He’s copied her plate then, or had it copied for him.’
‘Spot on. However, The Ghoul’s left a trail in its wake.’
She looked at Cole’s asterisks and the way they led to a rectangular box in the Grassendale district, butting on to the River Mersey.
‘From the footpath, they went to Gateacre. There are five readings. There are seven readings of the van heading from Gateacre to Grassendale. The van gets picked up on Aigburth Road, by the Cricket Club, then again further down Aigburth Road by St Austin’s Church. Then it goes off the radar. Last reading, 4:13 pm, Wednesday, 1st December.’
‘What’s this with the box, Barney?’
‘The four corners of the box are where the ANPR cameras are located. The van was picked up by the ANPR near the corner of St Mary’s Road and Grassendale Road. There were no readings from the ANPRs situated on the three other corners of the grid. I checked the CCTV cameras fanning out away from the river towards Garston. No show for white van OD53 ZDS. It’s a strong probability that the van disappeared in that geographic box.’
Clay looked at the grid of roads leading down to the promenade. Grassendale Park.
‘It adds up, Barney. Annie Boyd’s body showed up five minutes away from this grid of roads.’ She pictured the houses in her head; tall, detached, set back from the quiet roads with their well-established gardens and air of overarching affluence.
Clay looked closely at the roads leading away from the grid. She pointed at Beechwood Road.
‘It could have made it out of the grid through that road, got itself away through Aigburth Road.’
‘It’s entirely possible, Eve, and I’m waiting for CCTV footage to come in so I can check that possibility.’
The grid seemed to rise from the map, the roads drifting into Clay’s head where she made a mental journey past tree-lined pavements and the houses beyond them.
She imagined Annie Boyd and Amanda Winton imprisoned somewhere in a house that most people could only aspire to live in and asked, ‘Are you positive that the van didn’t slip the net?’
‘I’ve checked and checked and checked the ANPR cameras outside the grid. Nothing.’
‘I’m going to draft in some help for you, Barney. We’re going to have to blitz the ANPR cameras leading away from the rectangle, and double-check your conclusions.’
Clay looked at the grid and the streets leading away from it.
‘Bear in mind, there are ways out of the grid other than Beechwood Road.’
She looked at the winding side streets leading to the maze of semi-detached roads on the blind side of Aigburth Road and, wondering how knowledgeable The Ghoul was of the surveillance cameras in the neighbourhood, concluded that he knew them like the knuckles of each of his fists.
‘I’m going to say it for you, Eve, because your scepticism’s going to make you sound mean-minded. The journey from the body drop-off at old Allerton Road to Gateacre and the van’s disappearance into the rectangular grid that I’ve identified could be twenty-four-carat bullshit, a ruse on The Ghoul’s part to waste our time.’
‘No. I wasn’t going to say that. I wasn’t even thinking that. This is sharp deductive work, Barney. Double-check again the surveillance cameras leading out from the grid you’ve drawn. Look for all white vans heading away from the grid. Let’s bomb-proof your theory.’
45
1.35 pm
The Ghoul was growing hungrier by the hour for female company.
Three women had winked on Pebbles On The Beach in the space of one hour. The Ghoul settled back to check their profiles, to find a suitable woman to share the space next door.
Hungry. Hungry. Hungry. For love. The hunger for more sharpened with each passing minute. One or two women were somehow too many but The Ghoul knew a million bitches would never be enough.
Checking the profile of the first woman, who’d winked forty-seven minutes ago, it was obvious at a glance that she was no good. A red-headed cow in her thirties. Wrong-coloured hair and old as the fucking ocean.
The second woman was no better. Forty-plus with the face of a goat, even on a profile picture that was meant to flatter her.
‘Let it be number three.’
Number three.
‘Fuck you, bitch!’
A black woman in her forties.
The urge to throw the laptop against the wall was reined in by a simple thought. No laptop. No woman.
Walking to the cell door and turning the lock, The Ghoul opened it and looked inside at the empty mattresses.
Lying down where Annie Boyd had been, caressing the chains that had bound her, something tender broke inside The Ghoul, marbling the mounting hunger, the void within.
Gripping the chain tightly, The Ghoul felt the swell of loneliness, and it wasn’t good.
Next time, tonight.
No more loneliness.
There would always be someone in the cell.
As one went, another would arrive.
The Ghoul dropped the chain and headed back next door, the light from the laptop glowing in the red light from the bare bulb in the ceiling above.
On the laptop, another woman had just winked on Pebbles On The Beach.
Blonde. Pretty. Mid twenties. Sally Haydn.
The Ghoul winked back at her.
‘Look at me… Look at me… Lurammeeeee…’
46
5.30 pm
With the door closed for business and alone on the pavement outside the office of Doherty Estates and Properties, Sally said, ‘I’ve got a duty of care towards you, Francesca. If someone upsets you, colleague, vendor or buyer, you tell me. I’ll do what I can to help you. Have a great evening.’
‘Yes, you too. Thank you.’
Francesca walked towards the pelican crossing and, as she pressed the WAIT button, she had a strange feeling that she was being watched. She looked around and there were people there but no one was looking at her.
When the green man came up, she crossed Allerton Road quickly, with the wind whipping at her ankles and the dust of the day playing havoc at her feet.
In the pocket of her coat, her iPhone rang out and, as she reached the other side of the road, she connected.
‘Francesca?’
‘James…’ Her good mood became instantly better.
‘Can you talk?’
‘Of course.’
‘Look, I know this is short notice, Francesca, but I was wondering if we could meet tonight?’
She counted to three, to stop herself appearing over-eager, and said, ‘Yes, we could meet tonight. Where?’
‘The railings with the padlocked hearts near the Albert Dock. Do you know it?’
She knew it well. Her own name and that of her ex, Patrick, were written on one of the padlocks, a detail known only to her and as many people as he had chosen to brag to about breaking her heart.
‘Yes, I know it, James.’
‘Shall we say eight o’clock, Francesca.’
‘That should be fine.’
‘Pick any restaurant you’d like to go to and don’t be a cheap date. I’ve got plenty to celebrate at the moment, plenty. Winning the case yesterday. Seeing you tonight.’
Crossing Church Road, Francesca was again possessed by the unsettling feeling that she was being watched or followed.
‘Are you there, Francesca?’
‘Yes…’
‘You went very quiet.’
‘Just crossing a busy road, on my way home.’
‘Well, I guess I better leave you to it.’
‘Thank you, James. For asking me out.’
‘Thank you for agreeing. Eight o’clock. The padlocked railings.’
As he disconnected the call, Francesca looked back at a bus stop full of school children and elderly men and women in the glare of a fish and chip shop’s bright light.
Bath. Hair. Make-up. Nails. Black cocktail dress. Heels.
She planned it out in her head as she turned left to the car park outside ASDA.
I’ll tell my mother, she thought, that I’m going to Bryony’s. I’ll slip out of the house, so that she doesn’t see me dressed for a date. It’ll just be a thousand and one questions… She glanced at her watch as she sat in her car… and I don’t have the time.
From the driver’s seat, she called Bryony.
‘Hi, Francesca. How are things?’
‘Fine, thanks. I need a small favour. A white lie. I’m going on a date tonight and I don’t want my mother to know. You know how nosy she can be.’
‘What time are you coming round to mine?’ laughed Bryony.
‘Eight-ish.’
‘I’ve got a bottle of Prosecco in the fridge. Where did you meet him, Francesca?’
47
6.00 pm
The Ghoul sat on the bed on which Annie Boyd had spent her final hours chained to the wall and recalled the sound of her crying and begging for mercy, a sound better than music, a longed-for song that needed to be heard again and again.
Laptop open and signed into Pebbles On The Beach, The Ghoul saw that another woman had winked at the fictional man called Geoff Campbell, its latest online incarnation.
Opening the first online profile, The Ghoul didn’t read what she’d written about herself because she was a brunette and looked like she was pushing forty, even though the number 28 jumped from the screen.
An incoming message arrived. Sally Haydn.
Hi Geoff. I’m a single woman looking to meet a caring guy. I love it when I’m being pleased but I love to please you back in return. Perhaps we could talk really soon. xoxo Sally Pretty please lol.
She was desperate and in a hurry and, between the lines, she made suggestive promises that spoke of her need to be rescued from the loneliness.
The Ghoul looked closely at Sally’s profile picture and wondered if the rouge glow of the basement had turned 20:20 vision into deceptive goggles.
The Ghoul wondered if Annie Boyd and Sally Haydn were in some way biologically related and shared the same lowest common denominator. LCD. Lonely. Cunt. Doormat.
The Ghoul skimmed and scanned Sally Haydn’s profile and translated the words into the bones of reality.
Lonely. Looking for love. Eager to meet. Eager to please.
Willing to have sex. Doormat. Pushover. Easy to manipulate.
Exploited in the past. Exploitable in the future. Unintelligent. Unimaginative.
On every level, she came over as the perfect woman.
On closer inspection, the likeness between Annie Boyd and Sally Haydn was astonishing, and demanded an immediate response.
Hi Sally, Thank you so much for getting in touch. I’m glad you’ve opened up this initial dialogue. Reading between the lines, I guess you’d like for us to get to know each other a little better. Say, talk on the phone, maybe. If I’m reading too much into this please forgive me and I wish you all the luck in the world in finding a man who will quite rightly worship the ground you walk upon. I take my hat off to him. xoxo Geoff
Send.
Fresh meat was on its way.
And there was a never-ending supply of it.
48
6.08 pm
When Clay entered the incident room at Trinity Road police station, there was an air of industry in the space, and many of the faces sitting around and close to Cole were unfamiliar to her.
She looked at the door, waiting for Poppy Waters to
arrive, and, sitting at her desk, she opened her laptop and winked back at four men who had winked at her over Pebbles On The Beach.
Clay took a paper transcript of the online exchanges between Annie Boyd and Richard Ezra from her drawer and spread them out on the desk.
‘Thank you so much, everyone. Great work. Couldn’t have got here so quickly without you,’ said Cole, standing and stretching his limbs.
Clay raised her arm to attract Cole’s attention as Hendricks and Riley emerged from the group. Cole walked in her direction with a smile on his face and a map in his hand.
‘What have we got, Barney?’ asked Clay.
He placed the map down on her desk and she looked at the black rectangle with North Road and Grassendale Road on the left, and Salisbury Road on the right.
‘I’ve double-checked. We’ve got the main road, St Mary’s Road, forming the top of the rectangle and Grassendale Promenade on the bottom. We’ve got fourteen roads inside the grid.’
‘There’s absolutely no way out, no way of getting out of the grid without getting caught on CCTV or ANPR at some point nearby?’ asked Clay, staring long and hard into the mouth of the gift horse.
‘We can check the roads west of North Road and Grassendale Road but the CCTV on Beechwood Road hasn’t thrown anything up, and east of Salisbury Road, there are no roads to travel down.’
Hendricks gave two printed sheets to Clay, a CCTV image of the white van and a generic picture of a vehicle of the same make and approximate age.
She looked at the pictures of the van and the small area outlined on the map.
‘Bill, ring round the duty superintendents. We need every available body for the Grassendale Park door to door. Gina, oversee the operation. Everyone reports back directly to you.’
‘Anything comes up, Eve, I’ll be right on to you.’
‘We need every garage open,’ said Clay, turning to Cole. ‘Barney, get on to the duty magistrate. We need an emergency search warrant, pronto. And pull up all the men who live in the grid from the electoral roll. Check them against the National Police Computer, please, and let’s see what comes crawling from the woodwork.’
