A Date With Death

by Mark Roberts

  ‘DCI Clay? What’s the matter?’

  Norma wheeled herself to her place at the desk.

  ‘Thank you for coming back so quickly, Norma.’

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I was just wondering about Francesca Christie?’

  ‘Have you got news for me about Francesca?’

  Clay heard a note of concern.

  ‘Sadly, no. She’s still missing. Do you think her leaving could be linked to you speaking to her about her activities on the internet dating site?’

  Norma frowned.

  ‘No. You’ve asked me that before.’

  ‘Double-checking, now. She didn’t give any reason why she was leaving?’

  ‘She must have been offered a lot of money. Or been given a lot of unlikely promises. That’s all I can think.’

  ‘It’s just while I was waiting for you, I looked at the pictures on the wall of your staff. It’s a pretty stable history.’

  Norma smiled but as soon as it surfaced it sank down beneath the grim cast of her face.

  ‘I pay good bonuses and I’m understanding if people need to stay off when their children are sick. People tend to leave when they retire. The turnover of my staff is the envy of all the estate agents on Allerton Road.’

  ‘Has anyone else ever left Maguire Holdings to go and work for another estate agent?’

  ‘Francesca isn’t the first. There’ve been others down the years. It happens.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘I’ve been here for nearly thirty years, DCI Clay. Do you remember the names of everyone you worked with, decades ago?’

  ‘Your office manager, he was here this morning. He’s gone home sick.’

  ‘No. I don’t know where you got that piece of misinformation from but he’s taking some long overdue paid holidays. He came in this morning to give me a brief rundown on where and what everyone was up to. Daniel’s like a lot of men. He puts a brave face on it, DCI Clay, but he suffers from stress and anxiety. I insisted, take time off.’

  The image of Francesca Christie smiling as if her life depended on it, sitting side by side with Norma Maguire, rolled around inside Clay’s head.

  ‘You didn’t notice anything odd about Francesca in the days leading up to her resignation?’

  ‘I thought everything was perfectly fine. Clearly, it wasn’t.’

  Clay stood up.

  ‘Thank you very much for your time, Norma. I hope the holiday makes Daniel feel a lot better.’ Clay stopped at the door of the office and asked, ‘As a matter of interest, where have you just been to, Norma?’

  ‘I’ve just been to see Francesca’s mother to show some support, and to let her know I was thinking about her under these horrible circumstances.’

  ‘How is Mrs Christie?’

  ‘Distraught, as you can imagine. Will you keep me posted on any developments?’

  ‘One thing, Norma. Who was Richard Ezra to you?’

  ‘A star that burned out before its time.’

  ‘Francesca Christie followed in his footsteps, didn’t she?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Stellar sales person who left you to go and work for Brian Doherty. Richard Ezra. What a sad story that was. I’ll be in touch with you again shortly, Norma. Make yourself available at all times for the foreseeable future.’

  79

  4.05 pm

  Eve Clay sat at the dressing table in her bedroom and, staring into the mirror, wondered if she was gazing at herself or some other woman, a flirty blonde who had suddenly taken over her body. She studied the picture of Francesca Christie propped up against the mirror and carried on straightening her hair in the same style as the missing woman.

  She looked through a range of shades of foundation and chose porcelain over ivory, the one most suited to Francesca Christie’s pale skin tone. Looking straight into the mirror, she carefully applied the base to her skin with a brush.

  As she did so, she listened to the silence in the house and wished that Thomas and Philip were there to fill the empty space it triggered inside her.

  Thomas was at the surgery and Philip was at a friend’s house for a birthday tea.

  Clay spread the foundation evenly across her forehead, softening care-worn wrinkles that she usually didn’t have time to notice. She looked at the left-hand parting in her long blonde hair and the way the hair hung behind her ears.

  There were four lipsticks in the dressing table drawer. Clay took them out and opened them to compare them to the shade on Francesca’s lips. She picked the palest red, almost bordering on a pink, and drew the flattened point over her top lip.

  Wondering if Francesca Christie was still alive, Clay tried to give herself some grey reassurance and did the maths, based on The Ghoul’s past patterns. She drew mascara through her eyelashes as she concluded that if things stayed as they were, Francesca Christie’s body would show up on Monday, after she’d been killed and scalped on Sunday.

  She checked the application of lipstick in the mirror and noted how it altered the dynamic of her mouth.

  Standing in front of the full-length mirror on the wall, Clay saw that the coat of make-up had taken years off her and, though she could never pass for a woman in her mid twenties, she looked considerably younger than her usual forty plus years.

  Clay opened her wardrobe and asked herself, what would I wear if I was going on a first date? She took out a black cocktail dress, a black coat and a pair of black flats. Opening the drawer of the wardrobe, she took out a pair of black tights and underwear, and placed the clothes in her overnight bag.

  At her dressing table, she put the make-up bag in her handbag and assessed the space it took up. She was satisfied that there was more than enough room for a Glock handgun.

  There was the sound of a key turning in the front door lock. She looked out of the window and saw Thomas’ car parked outside the house.

  The front door opened. ‘Hello!’ he called. ‘I can smell hair.’ He walked up the stairs. ‘Have you been using those straighteners I bought you for Christmas?’

  She smiled as his voice came closer and kept silent to build up the dramatic impact of her physical transformation.

  ‘I phoned Barney Cole and he told me you were home. I thought I’d give you…’ Thomas stopped in the doorway and stared at Eve. ‘…a surprise. Quite the other way round, then? Wow, look at you…’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Your make-up’s really…’ He walked to her and kissed her on the lips. ‘That felt a little bit like I was cheating on you.’ Looking into her eyes, Thomas smiled.

  ‘You have my full permission to cheat on me with the blonde who showed up in our bedroom. Well, what do you think, lover boy?’

  ‘It’s you, but it’s not you. You look kind of different and you look kind of the same, which is just great. God, my head’s spinning.’

  She took him by the hand and sat next to him on the end of the bed. She watched his attention drift to the dressing table and he asked, ‘Who’s the girl in the picture?’

  ‘Francesca Christie.’

  He placed an arm around her shoulders and looked back and forth between her and the picture of Francesca.

  ‘When you look at that woman and think of what happened to the others, it makes me realise your operation’s totally necessary. It’s an excellent idea, in fact. But I can’t stop asking myself, why you? You don’t have to answer, Eve. We both know the answer to that.’

  She rested her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘What for?’ he asked.

  ‘This lovely surprise, you turning up from nowhere, filling the emptiness I felt when I was alone in the house just now. Thank you.’

  She placed her hand just above his right knee, a part of his body where she knew he loved being touched.

  ‘Thank you for not trying to pressurise me over decisions I make in work. Thank you for allowing me to do my job the best I can. Thank you for putting
up with my absences. Thank you for being the best dad in the world. And thank you for waiting for me.’

  She looked up at his face and pressed her mouth against his lips.

  ‘Did you like that, Thomas?’

  ‘I loved it.’

  ‘Would you like some more?’

  He kicked off his shoes and unbuckled his belt.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  Eve stood up, walked to the window and closed the curtains.

  She turned. ‘And this is what you get for being a really, really good boy.’

  On the dressing table, her iPhone rang out.

  ‘Leave it,’ said Thomas. He pulled her down on top of himself and planted a kiss on her mouth. The ringtone stopped and her answer machine kicked in.

  ‘This is Eve Clay. Leave your name, number and message and I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Hi, Eve, Karl Stone. Everyone and everything is in place at the Albert Dock. We need you down here to run through the dress rehearsal. The armoury sergeant’s got your Glock. Wants you to sign for it and a few rounds. Oh, and white van boy’s getting his picture shown on the local Granada and BBC news.’

  Thomas put his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘I’m sorry, Thomas, really I am…’

  ‘You’ve got to go, Eve.’

  ‘I do love you, Thomas. You do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. And I love you. I must do.’ He smiled at her. ‘Or I must be barking mad. Maybe a bit of both.’

  ‘I’m sorry for leaving you high and dry. We’ll pick it up where we left off the next time I’m home. You’re on the biggest promise I’ve ever made you.’

  She cupped her hand over his ear and whispered.

  Thomas was silent for a moment and then he laughed.

  ‘That much?’ he asked.

  ‘And there’s a whole lot more where that’s coming from!’

  80

  5.15 pm

  Wren looked out of his bedroom window at the falling rain and the yellow street lights as they spluttered into life. He felt like he’d been locked up in the house for five years, rather than the not yet five hours he’d actually been there.

  Downstairs, the landline telephone rang out and, without thinking, he followed the sound.

  Halfway down the stairs, the ringing stopped but started up again immediately.

  ‘Hurry, hurry, Wren…’

  In the front room, he snatched up the receiver and said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Wren, how are you?’

  ‘Oh my God, Edgar, it’s you. It’s really you. How are you?’

  ‘Not very good, to be honest.’

  ‘You don’t sound sick.’

  ‘It’s a tummy bug.’

  ‘Will you be back in work on Monday?’

  ‘I’m pretty certain I will be, Wren. OK, now listen. I want you to remind me of what we said about the message we went on the day you started in the abattoir.’

  ‘What message? We didn’t go on any message.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘It was a top-secret mission taken out on behalf of Captain Cyclone. If details of it became known, it could endanger Captain Cyclone’s life and the lives of his agents in the field.’

  ‘Wren, you have remembered everything, word perfectly. I will inform Captain Cyclone in my next secret briefing with him. He will be proud of you and pleased with your loyalty and dedication to duty. You should be made into a lieutenant in Captain Cyclone’s elite unit of men of honour. I salute you, Wren. Await your commission to officer status in Captain Cyclone’s super elite band of warriors fighting the forces of evil in a planet of grime.’

  As Wren saluted, he heard the door of his father’s car slam shut.

  ‘Dad’s outside, Edgar.’

  ‘Hang up and make no mention of this top-secret telephone call.’

  Wren hung up and sat in the armchair, listening to his father opening the front door.

  ‘Wren? Wren?’

  ‘Here, Dad…’

  His father appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Why haven’t you put some lights on? You’re sitting in the dark.’

  His father put on the light in the hallway and in the front room.

  ‘Anything happening?’

  ‘No,’ replied Wren.

  ‘Any callers?’

  ‘No. Your big sister didn’t show.’

  ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t notice.’

  ‘You didn’t notice what?’

  ‘That it had all gone so very dark.’

  81

  6.38 pm

  Detective Chief Inspector Eve Clay looked at herself closely in the mirror of the female toilet adjacent to the incident room in Trinity Road police station and, dimming the light, saw herself as the image she had constructed of Francesca Christie.

  Blonde. Pale skin. Pinky-red lipstick, black eyelashes. A cosmetic version of a different woman.

  She turned her back on the mirror and faced the closed cubicle doors.

  Hi, I’m Sally Haydn. I’m a woman with a lot to offer the right kind of man who I can make precious memories with and who wants to make dreams come true…

  The words of Riley’s fake profile ran through her head like firestorms.

  ‘Jesus…’

  She turned back to the mirror and said, ‘I love nothing more than sitting in front of a roaring log fire with a glass of wine and some romantic music. I like long walks in the countryside, picnics and winter strolls on empty beaches.’

  Clay heard The Ghoul’s voice on its call to Riley and it made her skin feel wet.

  On my profile I said I was single. It seemed like… new to internet dating…

  The Ghoul’s words span around her head.

  The truth is… wife died… on my own… terribly, terribly lonely…

  She turned up the dimmer switch and looked beneath the coating of make-up, stared into her own eyes, picked out who she really was, the last thing The Ghoul wanted.

  Clay opened her bag, took out the Glock handgun she had signed for and double-checked it was fully loaded.

  On the corridor outside the ladies’ toilet, footsteps approached and she slipped the gun back inside her bag.

  ‘Eve?’ Riley’s voice drifted through the wooden door.

  ‘Come in, Gina. I’m kind of decent. I guess.’

  Riley opened the door and, stepping inside, looked at Clay with a mixture of amazement and amusement.

  ‘You really suit being a blonde,’ said Riley.

  ‘No, I don’t. Being blonde in this neck of the woods gets your face torn off and your head scalped. I can’t wait to go back to brunette.’

  Riley looked Clay up and down.

  ‘Well, how do I look?’ asked Clay.

  ‘You look the part.’

  Heavy rain fell on the building.

  ‘How are you feeling, Eve?’

  ‘Up for it. How are things here? I’ve been in my own little bubble for hours.’

  ‘Things here have been strange.’

  ‘Have we heard from Daniel Ball, Maguire Holdings?’

  ‘No. We need to stick his head into a mangle ASAP.’

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Barney Cole’s on one,’ Riley smiled.

  ‘How so, Gina?’

  ‘The image system on the board in the incident room. He’s pulling his hair out.’

  ‘Good. Barney Cole’s agitated spells usually bring results.’

  A pipe rattled deep in the building and the wind wrapped itself around the walls and windows like a requiem hymn defying the night.

  ‘Great night for a first date,’ said Riley. ‘Everyone’s ready and in place. I’ll be two or three cars behind you as you drive down to the waterfront. You’re not on your own here. But we have to go right now.’

  Clay felt the weight of her bag, the solidity of the handgun against the make-up.

  ‘Then let’s go right now,’ said Clay. ‘Let’s get t
his sorted.’

  82

  7.10 pm

  Neil Wren stared straight ahead, tried to drown out his son’s voice, the verbal battering ram banging incessantly against his skull and his ears.

  ‘Dad, Dad, Dad, talk to me, Dad. This is the fifth time we’ve driven under the Garston bridge, fucking Garston Bridge…’

  ‘Wren, cut the language, now!’

  ‘You’re going round in a circle, Garston Village, the high street, under the bridge, turn left and carry on and slow down at the police station, and on, and on, and on…’

  Wren fell silent, then made a clucking noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  ‘You’re acting weird, Dad. What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘I’m trying to think. Shut up and let me get my thoughts in order.’

  The moment when Neil Wren saw his son on television, caught on CCTV in the passenger seat of Edgar’s white van, hit him again at full force.

  The police want to talk to this man in relation to the discovery of a woman’s body in the Allerton district of Liverpool.

  As the newsreader’s words went through him, he wondered if he was imagining that it was Wren or if he was mistaking another man’s white van for Edgar’s, but he knew at his core there was no mistake.

  ‘What happened when Edgar took you home early on your first day in the abattoir?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘He told me he was going to take you home but that he was going to go on a message on the way there. Where did he go to on that message?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Answer the question. And don’t lie!’

  Where words had cascaded, they now came in drips.

  Neil Wren pulled up at a red light and took out his iPhone. He scrolled through the gallery of pictures until he came to a photo he had taken of Wren’s bedroom wall. He showed the image to his son and said, ‘Read it to me. Read what you wrote on your wall in the name of Captain Cyclone.’

  Wren turned his face away, looked into the darkness outside the window.

  ‘I’ll read it to you then. An honest witness does not deceive but a false witness pours out lies. Proverbs 14.5.’

  Behind them, a pair of car horns sounded. Neil Wren looked up and saw that the lights had turned green. He pulled away.