by Mark Roberts
‘How sure are you?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
‘Chat rooms?’
‘Doesn’t do them.’
‘Emails?’
‘No communication with any of the victims on email or Messenger. I simply didn’t find anything to link him to Sandra O’Day, Annie Boyd, Amanda Winton or Francesca Christie.’
‘Have you looked into his adventures on the dark web or the deep web?’
‘That’s my next job. God knows what I’m going to find there porn-wise.’
‘No sign of anything to do with Richard Ezra in his photo galleries?’
‘No. He’s taken some pretty rancid selfies.’
‘Naked selfies?’
‘He’s in love with his own body.’
Clay considered Poppy’s words.
‘Is he masturbating in the selfies?’ asked Clay.
‘No. Strangely enough.’
‘What’s your verdict on Edgar McKee?’
‘Depressing loner, sex maniac but not involved in the crimes you’re now investigating.’
They walked towards the top floor and through the sliding doors of the incident room. The room was lit by a quartet of lights dotted around the desks. Clay walked through the dark spaces towards her desk. She pulled up a second chair and indicated for Poppy to sit down in the glow of her desk light.
‘Show me the devices please, Poppy.’
Poppy took a pair of latex gloves from her coat pocket and slipped them on. She placed Edgar McKee’s iPhone on Clay’s desk and his laptop next to it.
‘Are his selfies on the phone?’ asked Clay.
‘Yes.’
‘Any pictures of himself on the laptop?’
‘No.’
‘Are they littered around the photo gallery?’
‘He’s a neat and tidy narcissist.’
‘Show me.’
‘They’re all in one camera roll and he’s the only person starring in it.’ As Poppy spoke, she picked up the iPhone and pulled up the gallery.
‘Do you want a coffee, Eve?’ Poppy handed the iPhone to Clay.
‘Thank you, Poppy.’
One hundred and ninety-six pictures and all of himself, thought Clay, sensing a chink somewhere in his gruff armour. She put on a pair of latex gloves from her desk drawer.
She tapped on the first image and saw a rear view of Edgar McKee naked in front of a mirror, head tilted to look up at his iPhone, his powerful shoulders and muscular arms the product of years of working out.
She swiped the screen and saw a head and shoulders shot of Edgar McKee on his bench, the silver of a weights bar above his head.
Clay swiped and swiped and saw that the content and theme of the pictures was repetitive: the wonder of me.
‘Poppy, are there any selfies that stand out from the others?’
‘Yes,’ she called back from the kitchen area. ‘Go into the middle section. There’s two standout shots.’
Clay pictured Edgar McKee’s sleeping form in the cell on the ground floor as she made her way into the central block of images. She slowed down and said, ‘Yeah, I see what you mean.’
She looked at a picture of Edgar McKee lying on a bed, knees bent and legs wide apart, with a large, open jar of Vaseline at his right hip. In his right hand he held a wooden rolling pin, which he had inserted into his anus.
The next shot was a close-up of his hand moving the rolling pin deeper inside himself.
‘Have you found the anal shots, Eve?’
‘Yes.’ Clay moved back to the close-up of his hand. ‘I hope he doesn’t roll out pastry with it afterwards. God!’ she said, as she touched the screen and honed in on the tattoo on his wrist.
Mum
1940–2001
Poppy walked back with two mugs of coffee.
‘Can you send this close-up to my phone, please, along with a selection of other pictures and definitely the two butt snaps.’
She dialled the front desk.
‘PC Watson, how can I help you?’
‘A message for Sergeant Harris, please. I want Edgar McKee in the interview suite first thing. Book him in for 8:30 am. Message his solicitor and tell her to be there sharp. Unless anything major happens in the meantime, I’ll see him then.’
Sipping her coffee, Clay pictured his face as he penetrated himself, the tattoo on his wrist and his muscles taut and tense. She heard a thump at the window and saw a seagull on the window ledge illuminated by the bright uplighters on the ground.
‘This isn’t natural,’ said Clay, to the beady black eye staring at her. ‘This isn’t natural at all.’
105
4.08 am
The walls of Mason and Price’s room were lined with Edgar McKee’s clothes all in evidence bags, ready to be picked up for deeper investigation by Galton Solutions, the independent forensic laboratory.
Price surveyed the smaller haul from Edgar McKee’s locker in the abattoir. He took his camera and took pictures of the hairnets, the white wellingtons, the T-shirts, the underpants, the white leather apron, all separated out on the table.
‘Are you ready to start working through these?’ asked Price.
‘Yeah.’
At the other end of the table, Mason surveyed Edgar McKee’s library of pornographic DVDs and laughed.
‘What’s amusing you, Tez?’
‘They’re ordered alphabetically. How OCD is that? Starts with Aching For Anal and ends on You Wanna Fuck Me Right Now 2.’ Walking down the table to the clothes, Mason said, ‘What I don’t get is that he doesn’t have a copy of You Wanna Fuck Me Right Now, as in the first in the brief series?’
‘Maybe it’s like The Godfather,’ said Price. ‘A lot of people prefer The Godfather II, to the exclusion of The Godfather. Anything else about the DVDs?’
‘I haven’t had a chance to look properly. We’ll start with his head and feet, the rubber boots and the hairnets.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
‘Pass me a scalpel, Pricey. Let’s get the soles separated from the boots.’
106
6.01 am
The landline phone on Clay’s desk rang out, bringing her out of a shallow slumber. As she awoke, the ringing sounded distant and hollow but with each tone it became swollen and more demanding. She lifted the receiver, shaking off the shackles of sleep, and said, ‘DCI Clay.’
There was complete silence at the other end.
‘Who is this?’
She tried to identify background noise but there was none and she wondered if the caller was in some kind of vacuum.
Stone walked towards her across the incident room and Clay hit speakerphone.
‘I’m going to count to five and then I’m going to hang up.’
Stone sat on the edge of Clay’s desk, pressed record on his iPhone and extended it towards Clay’s landline.
‘DCI Clay?’
‘Yes?’
Silence.
‘You know who I am,’ said Clay. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘Go on? What do you have to tell me?’ she pressed.
‘You asked me for a list of names…’
‘Daniel, take your time.’
She picked up a pen and poised it over a notepad on her desk, heard the breathing of a man on the verge of tears.
‘You’ve got nothing to be afraid of, Daniel. Just give me the names of people who walked out of Maguire Holdings. I don’t have to tell Norma anything. If you’re worried about your job, and she asks me where I got the names, I’ll tell her I spoke to other estate agents and pieced the information together.’
She sensed that he was about to hang up.
‘I’ve spoken to Lydia. She’s worried to death about you. So are the girls. Go home, Daniel. Whatever’s wrong can be worked out.’
His breathing became more ragged.
‘What made you run away? Why are you so unhappy?’
‘She knew.’
‘Norm
a? What did she know?’
‘Yes, Norma. About my affair with him. She blamed the affair for him leaving, therefore she blamed me. She threatened to tell Lydia and the girls. She held it over my head for years, like a fucking sword. If I ever left, she’d tell everyone.’
Clay looked at Stone and then at the noticeboard, at the pictures of Norma and her employees down the years, and saw through the falseness of the smiles on their faces, the enforced projection of a great big happy working family.
‘Does she have any material proof of this affair?’
‘No.’
‘Are you on good terms with your ex?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he likely to blow the whistle on your relationship?’
‘Absolutely not. He’s got as much to lose as me.’
‘Well, I’ve learned something about Norma Maguire, Daniel, since I spoke to Lydia. She’s an out and out liar. If she makes allegations about you to anyone, I’ll be the first one to climb on the roof and shout out about her lies. She’s got no credibility and if she tries to denounce you, she’s got me to contend with. I’m going to put it to you directly, Daniel. You didn’t have an affair with anyone, did you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Say it. I didn’t have an affair with anyone.’
‘I – I didn’t have an affair with anyone.’
‘Norma Maguire is a sad, lonely woman who makes malicious allegations.’
‘Norma Maguire…’ Clay heard key notes of conviction creeping into his voice. ‘…is a sad, lonely woman who makes malicious allegations.’
‘She can’t beat both of us, Daniel, and she can’t prove anything at all against you. All you need to do is stick to your story. Nothing happened between me and any man.’
Clay looked at the clock on the wall, saw the seconds ticking away, chipping into Edgar McKee’s time in custody.
‘Norma Maguire has lied through her teeth to your wife already,’ encouraged Clay. ‘Lydia came to that conclusion herself and I can back that up one hundred per cent.’
Daniel Ball spoke two words and the skin on Clay’s spine puckered as her whole body turned cold. She wondered if fatigue was making her hear things.
‘Repeat that name, please.’
‘Michael Towers. He left for another firm. We were close, Michael and me.’
‘Go on.’
‘Richard Ezra. Thomas Saddler. James Griffiths. Geoff Campbell. Francesca Christie. That’s it.’
‘Repeat those names for me, slowly.’
As he spoke, Clay had the sense that a massive corner was being turned.
‘Thank you. Daniel, where are you?’
He hung up immediately.
Clay spoke to Stone. ‘Round up the troops. I want you to come with me to West Road in the Grassendale Park grid, to Norma Maguire’s house. We’re going to pull her in. Every person who’s walked out on her with the exception of Francesca Christie became a pseudonym for The Ghoul’s alter egos, hunting down lonely hearts. She’s on my shit list.’
107
6.23 am
Waking up from a sleep full of lost dreams, Norma Maguire heard the iPhone at her bedside ring out.
She pulled the eye mask from her face and looked at the ringing telephone, knowing that whoever was calling at that hour wasn’t going to hang up until she replied.
Norma saw the name DCI CLAY on display, connected the call and turned on speakerphone.
‘DCI Clay?’
‘I’m sorry to wake you so early, Norma.’
The words hung in the air like circling vultures.
Norma Maguire listened hard, heard that Clay was in a moving vehicle.
‘Has there been some news on Francesca Christie?’ asked Norma.
‘We’re still looking for her, Norma.’
‘Excuse me, I’m still here, I’m just unfolding my wheelchair.’
She pulled the arms apart and tasted last night’s Talisker at the back of her tongue.
‘Is everything all right, DCI Clay?’
‘No.’
‘Why are you calling me?’ She checked her alarm clock. ‘At just after twenty past six?’
‘I’m on my way to see you, Norma. You need to be up and dressed within the next few minutes.’
‘Why?’
‘Have a look outside your window, Norma.’
She made her way into her chair and wheeled herself to the bay window overlooking West Road. Pulling back a curtain, Norma saw a vehicle blocking her drive.
‘Why is there a police car outside my house?’
‘That was exactly the same question I was about to ask you,’ said Clay.
‘You’re talking in riddles, DCI Clay. Where are you going with this?’
‘At the moment, I’m going left off Aigburth Road on to Grassendale Road in the direction of your house.’
‘Why?’
‘Stay on the line, Norma. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
Norma watched two constables get out of the car and walk towards her front door.
‘I don’t feel well. What’s that? In his hand?’
‘It’s a ram, Norma, to knock your front door open.’
‘I don’t feel well. I’m having a dizzy turn.’
‘We’ll let the duty medic give you the once-over in Trinity Road.’
Norma saw Clay, iPhone in her hand, getting out of her parked car. Clay pointed at her.
‘Get dressed. Get down the stairs and get outside as fast as you can!’
‘What’s that noise?’
‘Your front door’s just been rammed. We haven’t got time on our side.’
108
6.27 am
Clay stood in Norma Maguire’s hall, watching her as she descended on the stair lift, the top half of her face concealed by a large pair of sunglasses. Norma Maguire opened the wheelchair at the bottom of the stairs as Stone entered the house, follow by uniformed officers. He showed Clay his iPhone.
‘The search warrant from the duty magistrate.’
Riley followed Hendricks into the hall.
Norma looked at Hendricks. ‘You! Tell them you looked in my garage for a white van and you found absolutely nothing.’
Stone showed Norma the search warrant.
‘What on earth’s going on here?’ As she transferred herself from the stair lift into her wheelchair, Norma sobbed, ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Do you have a loft, Norma?’ asked Clay.
‘Yes.’
‘How do we access your loft?’
‘There’s a metal arm by the entrance hatch. The hatch is near the bathroom.’
Winters came into the hall and Clay pointed up.
‘The loft please, DC Winters.’
‘Got it, DCI Clay.’
‘Do you have a basement?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do we access the basement?’
‘Through the kitchen. The hatch is beneath the mat by the back door.’
‘Give me your car keys, house keys, mobile phone.’
Norma opened her bag and handed Clay her keys and phone.
‘You can open the garage door with the fob on the car key ring,’ said Norma.
‘Take your glasses off. It’s not a bit sunny.’ Norma didn’t move. ‘Take them off and look me in the eyes,’ insisted Clay.
Norma lifted the glasses from her face and looked at Clay. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to but you’re making a huge mistake.’
Cole walked into the hall.
‘This is Detective Constable Cole. He’s going to take you to Trinity Road police station. Before you go, would you like to tell me where Francesca Christie is?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Norma Maguire looked at Clay as if she was completely insane. ‘I’m not saying another word until I have a solicitor with me.’
‘Now that is sensible, Norma. Take her away, DC Cole.’
He positioned himself behind Norma’s wheelchair.
‘Take
your hands off my chair. I’ll push myself, thank you very much.’
‘I’ll see you soon, Norma. Interview Suite 1’s been booked for you in Trinity Road police station. Hurry up, Norma. From now on, every second counts.’
109
6.33 am
In Norma Maguire’s kitchen, Clay lifted up the plain mat at the back door and flicked on a torch. She raised the hatch, the entrance to the basement.
‘Hello,’ she shouted. ‘Police.’
The silence that came back filled Clay with horror.
She shone torchlight down the wooden stairs leading into the basement.
Clay identified a switch on the wall near the top of the stairs. As she descended, she flicked on the light, watched irregular red light flickering, interspersed with crackling darkness. She turned the faulty fluorescent light off and used the torch to guide herself down the steps as she combed the space with light.
‘Hello!’ she called again, even though there was no one in the basement, just a smell of damp and earth, and something vaguely chemical. Beneath the blanket aroma there was a stench of what could have been human waste or just a dead animal decomposing in the soil around the walls of the basement.
On the wall near the stairs was a long rectangular chunk of exposed brick that looked like it had been hacked out. A mound of plaster dust and chippings lay on the ground and particles of dust danced in Clay’s torchlight.
There was a door in the wall to her left.
‘Hello,’ she tried again. ‘Police.’
In the lock, there was a key. She turned it, built herself up for whatever was behind the door.
She pushed the door and a blast of stale sweat hit her in the face, but a quick inspection showed that the only thing in the room was a large mirror on the wall. She walked around the walls, sensed a vibration in the air that chimed in her marrow.
The sweat in the air was fresh.
‘Someone’s been here. Recently. Not long ago.’ She spoke to the glare from her torch on the surface of the mirror.
She walked back to the wooden steps and weak light from Norma Maguire’s kitchen filtered into the basement.
Clay called Mason on her iPhone and asked, ‘How are you getting on, Terry?’
‘We’re working on McKee’s boots from the abattoir.’
