by Mark Roberts
This is my danger. This is my decision. This is my responsibility, she told herself as she walked deeper into the darkness. I opted to be the bait. And then I opted to go it alone.
Below, an ambulance screeched towards the front of the Royal and she either heard or imagined she heard something go click behind her.
She turned. Nothing.
‘Hello?’
I think we should meet up soon, get talking together face to face...
Just a memory.
‘Geoff?’ Nothing other than shadows as she made her way backwards towards the doors.
She turned, made out a broad band of switches and pressed them down, one after the other up to the eight.
Overhead in the ceiling in the ceiling, lights flickered and burst into life, drowning the shadows in blue illumination and swallowing the darkness whole.
She looked around at the space and saw that she was completely alone.
Clay put the Glock back inside her coat pocket and felt the deepest disappointment as she made her way back to her car, the only vehicle she could see on the fourth floor.
I won’t tell anybody, she replied to a voice inside herself. I won’t tell anyone on the team about what I did. I won’t tell Thomas about the risk I took. No one needs to know.
She pressed the car key to open her car and, hearing the action of the car locking, realised she hadn’t locked it. Clay pressed again, opened the car door and sat behind the wheel. Closing the door over, she heard herself let out a long sigh.
Clay looked down and leaned forward to turn the key in the ignition.
‘Excuse me?’
A voice behind her.
She reached into her coat for the gun.
The first blow to her skull was heavy but deflected by the head rest. She saw stars and random patterns of light.
She squeezed the Glock from her pocket and looked into the rear-view mirror as the second blow came down towards her. Clay dipped but the heavy instrument clipped her head and sent her sense of gravity spinning upwards in a wild spiral.
Clay saw. Clay forced her eyes wide as the tug of unconsciousness turned into a restraint that couldn’t be denied.
Clay looked.
A thick head of blond hair, freakish, and something sad and wild glinting across the surface of a pair of dark eyes.
She raised the gun and the effect was immediate.
The back window was smashed. The door opened.
The gun fell from her hands and, in those last moments of wakefulness, she felt the Glock skitter under her seat.
She slumped forward, felt the goodnight kiss of the steering wheel as her forehead made contact with its curve.
As darkness took over, the last of Clay’s senses told her that there were ambulances and traffic out there and someone had been there who smelt of something expensive.
Her senses dulled and, within a moment, Clay was buried alive in darkness.
88
9.30 pm
Detective Sergeant Karl Stone stood in the space beneath the floorboards in Edgar McKee’s living room and looked around at the bagged-up contents of his flat. DVDs, CDs and magazines were in three separate sacks. Each item of clothing from his wardrobe was in a bag of its own, waiting to be ferried back to Trinity Road for forensic inspection.
Detective Sergeant Terry Mason walked to the door of the living room with an air of intense disappointment and two bags containing a bottom bed sheet and a plain duvet cover.
‘Anything on the sheets?’ asked Stone, glancing at the mammoth collection of pornography on DVD.
‘The bed sheet and the duvet cover look like they’re freshly clean on. To the naked eye, there are no traces of semen or saliva. McKee had a dirty mind but his living space is squeaky clean. There’s no way he could’ve held a cat captive here, let alone a couple of women. Anything from the neighbours, Karl?’
‘Clive Winters has spoken with all of them. Nothing to report. McKee keeps himself to himself. They’re all singing the same song. He’ll say good morning or good afternoon as he passes you on the stairs, but that’s the end of it. He goes out to work in the morning, returns early evening. No one knew his name or what he does for a living.’
‘Anything about his white transit van?’ asked Winters.
DS Mason’s assistant, Sergeant Paul Price, appeared behind him in the doorway.
‘None of them have ever seen him in or around a white van. He walks out of the house, he walks back into the house. No white van,’ said Mason.
‘What have you got, Pricey?’
‘A passport. An address book. A diary.’ Price showed the bagged haul to Mason. ‘From a drawer in his bedroom. He travels to Thailand most years by the stamps on his passport. The diary’s just a functional one, times and dates of appointments, nothing about the inner workings of his mind. He visits three different prostitutes on a regular basis. He’s heavily oversexed but so far there’s nothing to connect him with abduction, murder or mutilation. Not from here anyway.’ Price looked directly at Mason. ‘Shall we start loading the van, Terry?’
‘Let’s make a start.’
Stone made his way out of the living room and into the spartan bedroom. The floorboards were propped up against the wall near the bed and mattress, which were covered in bubble wrap. The wardrobe was open and empty, and next to this was a bench press, a barbell and a collection of heavy free-standing weights. He made a series of snapshots of Edgar McKee’s life and felt a wave of depression.
In the cramped kitchen, he opened the freezer door and saw a huge range of expensive cuts of meat in the top drawer. In the second drawer down, there were plastic boxes containing what looked like frozen soup, each box labelled by days of the week.
Detective Constable Clive Winters walked past the kitchen doorway with a sack of pornographic DVDs in one hand and magazines in the other.
‘Clive?’ He stopped. ‘Ask Pricey for the contact details of his three lady friends. We’ll have to talk to them about Edgar McKee. I’ll leave that one with you. OK?’
‘I’ll do it as soon as I’ve offloaded this filth on to the van.’
As Stone headed for the narrow hallway and the door leading out, his iPhone buzzed in his hand.
‘Karl, where are you?’
It was Sergeant Harris.
‘Edgar McKee’s flat. What’s up?’
‘Do you know where Eve is?’
‘No, I haven’t seen her since she was down at the Albert Dock.’
‘No one knows where she is and she’s not answering her iPhone. She told Bill Hendricks she was going to the mortuary but when we spoke to the duty mortician, he hadn’t seen or heard from her at all. We’re tracking the progress of her car on CCTV. She did an about turn on Sefton Street and headed towards the city centre.’
‘Where’s she at?’ asked Stone, a ball of anxiety forming inside him.
‘At the moment, as far as we know, in the direction of the Anglican cathedral. Look, there’s something pretty major turned up here.’
There were voices in the background, animated and loud, but Stone couldn’t make out what was being said.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘Edgar McKee’s going on. He’s just walked in off the street and presented himself to me.’
‘Keep him there, Sarge. And I want a running commentary on the progress of Eve’s car on CCTV. Guide me into her path.’
Stone hurried down the stairs towards his car and worked out the quickest route to the Anglican cathedral.
As he got into his car, Clay’s words echoed inside his head.
The general red alert’s off. Mine’s still on.
89
9.44 pm
Detective Sergeant Karl Stone led a stream of police cars heading up London Road and crossing the junction on to Prescot Street in the direction of the mortuary where Clay’s car had last been seen on CCTV entering the multi-storey car park.
As he drove into the car park, he opened his window and s
melled the heaviness of petrol.
He recalled the instruction he had issued to all cars following him.
When you get inside the car park, wind your windows down.
On the first floor, he surveyed the handful of cars but Clay’s wasn’t one of them.
He looked over his shoulder and called, ‘First two of you, block off this floor!’
There weren’t many cars on the second floor, and no sign of Clay’s vehicle.
As two cars peeled off to secure the second floor, Stone saw Hendricks directly behind him.
‘Call the officers behind you to seal off floor three. I want you to come with me, Bill.’
‘What do you think happened?’ asked Hendricks.
‘Gina Riley told me The Ghoul communicated to Eve that he was in the mortuary attending to his dead mother and identifying her body. She reckons The Ghoul’s been hanging around in this neck of the woods at some point this evening.’
Driving up the ramp on to the fourth floor, Stone could hear the blood pumping in his ears and felt his pulse quicken as he turned on to the level.
‘It’s her car! It’s her!’ he called back to Hendricks.
Stone turned his headlights on fully on to Clay’s car and felt sickened to his core when there was no sign of anyone sitting in the vehicle.
On the concrete ground at the back of Clay’s car, fragments of broken glass were scattered.
He pulled up, heard Hendricks slam his door shut. Stone joined him and they hurried towards Clay’s car.
‘Why did you come here on your own, Eve? For fuck’s sake…’
No reply.
Stone arrived at the back of the car, saw the ceiling light flickering inside, but no one and nothing on the back seat.
With mounting dread, he looked at the empty space behind the wheel and made out blood spray on the windows.
He opened the driver’s door and saw Clay slumped forward, the back of her head matted with blood.
Gently, he lifted her head from the lower half of the steering wheel and said, ‘Eve?’
He lowered her back on to the seat and checked. Her airways were unblocked. She was breathing, and with his index and middle finger he made out a pulse.
‘Eve?’
Stone lifted her from the driver’s seat and lay her on the ground at the side of the car, placing her in the recovery position.
As he did so, her eyelids fluttered and she winced.
In the background, Stone heard Hendricks calling for an ambulance.
‘Eve, it’s me, Karl Stone. Bill Hendricks is here. You’ve been attacked but you’ve survived and medical help is on its way. Can you hear me?’
She gave the slightest nod of the head and spoke a word that Stone couldn’t make out.
‘Don’t strain yourself, Eve, just stay still and listen to my voice.’
In the background, there was an approaching siren.
‘That’s the paramedics. Listen, we followed you on CCTV. You turned around on Sefton Street and headed directly to the multi-storey car park. That’s how we found you. Try and get your thoughts straight. Why did you come here, alone? What happened when you arrived here?’
Little by little, her eyes opened and her voice became clearer, but the meaning was still lost to Stone.
The paramedics’ car turned on to the fourth floor, its siren dying.
She whispered.
‘Closer ...’
Stone placed his lips as close to her ear as possible.
Clay straightened up.
‘Slow down, Eve,’ said Stone.
‘Slow down?’ She turned, looked at him and blinked herself into consciousness.
‘I saw it! I saw. The Ghoul. Its eyes.’
90
10.05 pm
As Detective Sergeant Gina Riley walked into Interview Suite 1, Edgar McKee looked directly at her, his legs outstretched under the table and feet poking out on the other side. He smiled at her, appeared happy and relaxed, and when she sat opposite to him, he extended his hand.
‘Keep your legs in, Mr McKee.’
He withdrew his legs and his hand.
She weighed him up with a penetrating glance and looked to Cole at her side.
Close-cropped ginger-grey hair with the stiffness of velcro hooks, a glimmer of youth still lurking beneath his smiling face, he looked like he had been born in a gym and bottle-fed with whey protein from his very first day.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s DS Riley and the man to my left is DC Cole.’
He looked at Cole. ‘Are you in charge here?’
‘DS Riley’s in charge. You’ll need a solicitor, Mr McKee.’
McKee returned his steady gaze to Riley and she wondered if he was imagining what she would look like without any clothes on.
‘I won’t be needing a solicitor.’
‘You most certainly will,’ replied Riley. ‘Why have you handed yourself in?’
McKee laughed and shook his head slowly.
‘I haven’t handed myself in. Handing myself in explicitly suggests I’ve committed a crime. I haven’t committed a crime. I’ve walked in here of my own accord to this police station because I figured you’d have a young man called Robin Wren in custody. I saw his picture on television, caught on CCTV in my van. Just like me, he hasn’t done anything wrong. His father phoned me, told me what I’d already worked out. I came in here to make it clear. Wren and me have done nothing wrong.’
‘Were you driving the vehicle in which he was a passenger?’
‘I most certainly was. It’s my van. I’m the driver. He was the passenger.’
‘Mr McKee,’ said Cole. ‘I’m going to reiterate the message DS Riley gave to you just now. You are going to need a solicitor. You’re looking at some incredibly serious charges here.’
‘Such as?’ His smile broadened as he sat back in the chair and swept Riley up and down with his eyes. She gridlocked him with her whole being, kept him pinned down on the other side of the table, and waited until the sharp edges of his smile faded and he blinked beneath her unyielding gaze.
‘Such as murder,’ said Riley.
‘Murder?’ McKee grinned. ‘The only person getting killed around here is me.’
Cole pushed a piece of paper across the table towards him.
‘Here’s a list of duty solicitors. Choose one.’
McKee looked at the space between their heads and randomly jabbed his finger on the paper in front of him. He looked down, lifted his finger and read, ‘Monica Davis. She can keep me company while you run yourselves around in ever-decreasing circles.’
He stood up to his full height and his physical presence was imposing. As he stretched his limbs, the sleeves of his anorak rode up and the bottom end of a black and white tattoo became visible on his left wrist. He sat down heavily.
‘You clearly don’t want to interview me without legal representation. Fine. I’ll go and sit in the cells until Monica Davis gets here. But I’d be grateful if you could release Robin Wren from custody right now. He’s a highly intelligent and sensitive young man on the autistic spectrum and this experience will be causing him unprecedented levels of stress.’
‘Who is he to you?’ asked Cole.
‘He’s my apprentice in the abattoir. He’s a vulnerable young man and he really shouldn’t be subjected to any of this.’
Cole stood up. ‘I’ll go and call Monica Davis,’ he said as he walked to the door.
‘Ask Sergeant Harris to come here and take Mr McKee to the cells,’ said Riley.
The door closed and, alone in the room with him, Riley leaned forward.
‘Do you understand what Robin’s here for, the crime in which he’s implicated?’
‘The abduction, murder and mutilation of young women. It’s all over the media. Got it, DS Riley. As if I’d walk into a police station on behalf of another human being with that sword hanging over my head.’
The concrete certainty that Riley had entertained as she walke
d into the interview suite deserted her and was replaced by an uncomfortable and rapidly growing vacuum.
‘I’ve given all my details to Sergeant Harris so you can run background checks on me. I’m afraid you’re going to be sorely disappointed.’ He looked like he’d just had a great idea out of nowhere. ‘A woman went missing last night, DS Riley? I was with a prostitute last night. Marlene Black. From the Dream Girls agency. Have a look in my address book.’
He smiled at Riley. Fuck you!
‘Where’s your van?’
‘In a lock-up on Derby Lane, a few streets away from where I live.’ He dropped a set of keys and a fob in front of Clay. ‘It’s number seven. It has a blue door.’
‘Your licence plate?’
‘What of it?’
‘It’s not legitimate. It’s a clone of another legitimate licence plate.’
‘I bought the van three weeks ago for cash, through an ad in the Liverpool Echo. I haven’t registered my details as the new owner with the DVLA because I simply didn’t get round to it. I’m not on top of my game when it comes to paperwork. That doesn’t make me a murderer, Riley.’
‘Have you got the previous owner’s contact details?’
‘I’ve got a mobile number on my iPhone for someone called Dave.’
He placed his mobile phone in front of Riley.
There was a knock at the door and Sergeant Harris came into the room.
‘Sergeant Harris will take you to the front desk to book you in. Then your twenty-four hours in our custody begins.’
On the way out, Riley closed the door as Sergeant Harris escorted Edgar McKee in the direction of the cells.
‘Mr McKee? What job is it you do exactly in the abattoir?’
He looked over his shoulder and smiled.
‘I’ll tell you when Monica Davis gets here.’
91
10.23 pm
In the reception area of A&E in the Royal Hospital, Karl Stone waited and marvelled at the sights that greeted him.
A woman in her forties in Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas, suede boots and with rollers in her hair limped past a homeless man stretched out and asleep two rows down. A man dressed as Elf, worse for wear, clutched a blood-stained towel to his head.
