The Dead Tell Lies: an absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by J. F. Kirwan

  One day, a couple of years later when she’d been back at Sandhurst, three of the men who’d survived the gorge with her turned up, including Walker, who had a stick. They saluted her and presented her with a crude medal they’d made out of the bullets and casings they’d picked up that day, the ones that had missed. She’d never gone into the army for medals.

  That one she’d take to her grave.

  She levered herself up from her squatting position on the hillock, with an urge to run, and then saw it. That is, her brain detected something that didn’t belong, about three gullies away. Someone, motionless now, but whoever it was had moved a second earlier. Her eyes locked on, staring hard, trying to make out the figure – male she reckoned – who was staring right back.

  She pictured her helicopter map. There was a road about two hundred yards behind the man. He was a hundred yards closer to it than she was. He could be nobody. A guy out for a walk. This was public property, after all. But her gut told her otherwise. He could be armed. Her gut had no opinion on that, other than right now, it didn’t matter, because he was the same size and stature as Fergus.

  She knew all about the fight-or-flight reflex and had once been told she was seriously lacking in the latter half of that species-saving partnership. She made up her mind: she needed to catch him, if for no other reason than he was stalking her and would do it again if she didn’t. Taking three deep, into-the-bottom-of-her-lungs breaths, she scouted the fastest course, which happened to be the most rugged, breathed out halfway, and leapt off the hillock.

  She saw the flash of movement – he was bolting for the road. She sprinted, as if back in the gorge again, running fast down slippery escarpments, and sped headlong, ricocheting off banks, vaulting tree roots and small boulders, ducking beneath low fern branches, skidding around bends. She could see him, nowhere near as fast as her, wearing bulky clothing and boots, not running shoes. But he was much closer to the road. On the final high point before the road, he turned, balaclava’d, something in his hand, she wasn’t sure what, but then he disappeared over the edge of the slope, and she knew it was her last chance to catch him.

  As she neared the ridge, her brain worked out what he was carrying. A pistol. The ‘flight’ half of the reflex woke up and took charge. She crashed to the ground the way baseball players slide into home base, small stones ripping through her slimskin running suit. She grabbed the lip of a rock protruding from the ground and nearly wrenched her shoulder out, but it worked. She didn’t go over the edge, instead kicking up a plume of sand and dirt that mushroomed into the air before vanishing down below.

  She heard her own heavy breathing, quietened it, and listened. Nothing. No birds, no sounds. He was down there, pistol in his hand. That’s what her brain told her, and for once she wasn’t going to argue. She stayed perfectly still. There was no way he could come back up without her hearing him, and he’d be at a hell of a disadvantage. To get back around to her by another route would take too long. No, he was down there, waiting to see if she would poke her head over the edge.

  Dream on.

  A minute turned to two, then three. She heard footsteps down below, boots on tarmac, running. She crawled a few yards to the shelter of a tree, and saw a shape dappled by shadows as it clambered onto a motorbike. She jumped down the slope, sliding, trying to get to her feet as she heard the motor kick-start, but by the time she was down onto the road he was gone, and all she could hear was him revving through the gears, soon drowned out by other traffic.

  She bent forward, hands on her thighs. She let her body pant, replenish depleted oxygen, recover and reabsorb the flood of adrenaline any way it fancied. Then she sat down in the dirt at the side of the empty road, one or two cars slowing down but not stopping. She knew she must look a sight.

  She tried to figure it out. One of the killers. But why hadn’t he killed her? He could have turned halfway to the road, let her catch up with him, then shot her dead. Why didn’t he?

  Because that wasn’t his way. Because he was a signature serial killer, Greg’s speciality, and needed to kill in a specific way, in this case copying the killers Greg had put away. But then why wasn’t he busy torturing or burying Jennifer alive? She sat and waited for her brain to do its business. In the wilderness you didn’t run towards anything because there was nothing to run to. You had to wait for it to come to you. And it did.

  He didn’t have Jennifer.

  So he was following her instead, perhaps seeing if she could lead him to Greg’s ex-wife. But how had he followed her? He couldn’t have; she’d have detected him on a motorbike when she’d come out here when there’d been minimal traffic. But maybe, just maybe, he knew where she’d be. Which again reinforced Greg’s theory that someone was working from inside the Yard.

  Greg. No longer ‘Adams’ in her mind, she realised. Normally she kept a certain distance with colleagues, a habit from the military. But Greg had been through hell this past year, and now it was only going to get worse. She didn’t know him well enough yet to decide if she liked him, but he’d taken six serial killers off the streets. That alone deserved some respect. And then there was the Russian Roulette gig. One of her colleagues had come really close, too, a female corporal who’d given her all, and then life had just crapped all over her. Finch had talked her out of it, and she’d got back in the game until a road bomb took her out. Finch made up her mind. She’d go see Greg soon, not playing the hard-ass this time, instead with some good news, a break in the case.

  She dusted herself off, checked for cuts and grazes. Nothing too bad, though ugly bruises would blossom later. She walked for ten minutes back to her car. Jennifer was smart, disappearing before things turned south. Maybe something had tipped her off. Maybe Greg had warned her that there was someone inside the Yard, so she’d gone to ground. She thought back to the interview with Greg. She doubted they’d ever find The Dreamer’s corpse. No, the only lead was this old man who’d been drowned in his bath, though none of them, including Greg, knew what the connection was.

  Perhaps that wasn’t true. Maybe there was someone. Rickard. He oversaw all case files, to screen them in case they had serial killer or other psychopathic traits. Perhaps he knew something, even if he didn’t know he knew it. All this research he was doing for his book, his visits to Reedmoor. The Ellerton case must have passed across his desk, as had the bully-boy and the night-watch woman. She didn’t like Rickard, in fact had fantasies about decking him on account of her lover being locked up in Reedmoor, but it was time to call in all and any resources before someone was buried alive.

  She started the engine, put her foot down, skidded her tyres and headed for the M3. She’d change at the Yard. Within five minutes she hit a wall of traffic. Not a problem. She reached into her glove compartment, stuck the magnetic flashing blue light on the roof, and activated the siren. Cars and lorries dutifully crawled out of her path, creating her own private lane.

  Being a DCI had certain advantages.

  23

  Donaldson looked like he hadn’t slept.

  ‘I need to see Rickard’s case records,’ Finch said.

  Donaldson grimaced, punched a button on the old-style telephone sitting on his desk, and barked, ‘Get in here, bring your toy.’

  The door opened. Muriel entered and perched on a chair right by the door, which sealed behind her. She had her computer tablet. Finch studied her a moment. Muriel was a fashion train wreck, replete with bad haircut and abyssal self-esteem, who vanished every evening to look after her sick mother. Some people spent so much time helping others they forgot about themselves.

  Donaldson leaned forward on chubby elbows, facing Finch. ‘Please repeat your request.’

  Finch knew that Muriel could record the conversation, but she repeated it anyway. ‘I need to see Rickard’s record of all the case files he’s reviewed in the past eighteen months.’

  Muriel cleared her throat.

  ‘Why?’ Donaldson asked.

  ‘I think he may have rev
iewed cases potentially relevant to the current investigation. We already know of two – the bully and the night-watch woman – that could indicate the current killer, or killers, began some time ago, even before Greg’s wife was murdered. Rickard dismissed those two, though we don’t actually know why. Only his case notes will say so. We’re also chasing down another lead raised by Greg, one Alfred Ellerton, whose case must also have been reviewed by Rickard. There may be others neither Greg nor I are aware of. Going through Rickard’s files could shortcut the whole process.’

  Donaldson drummed his fingers a few beats, then stopped. ‘So ask him.’

  ‘That won’t work, and you know it. Those are his personal case files. He has to keep them, but doesn’t have to share them with us without a court order or Internal Affairs demand. He’ll fob me off.’

  Donaldson leant back, clasping his hands behind his head. ‘I could force the issue with him, but I’m not exactly in a strong position right now. I’d have to go over his head, and that could easily backfire given his connections. I’d say I don’t give a shit about my career, but I’d be lying. I have twenty years to go, with a lot of killers to catch besides this one, a few of them probably in nappies today. You need to give me a solid reason to request his case files.’

  Before she could answer, he held up a hand, then put it behind his head again. ‘Your gut doesn’t count. I need something that a half-assed lawyer wouldn’t shoot down in a second while choking back a laugh.’

  Finch changed what she’d been about to say. ‘Catch-22,’ she said.

  ‘Thought so. You’re fishing. You won’t know what you need from the files until you see them.’ He shook his head. ‘No – can – do.’

  ‘He has access to my files, and yours probably, not to mention Greg’s. It doesn’t seem fair.’

  He shrugged. ‘Didn’t your mother warn you how the big wide world works?’

  She said nothing. Nor did she make to leave.

  ‘Okay, Finch, imagine I’m a lawyer with less than half an ass. Give me your best shot.’

  Finch wondered if Muriel was recording the conversation. If so, then her own career could well be in jeopardy, given what she was about to say. And even if Muriel wasn’t recording it, she was a witness. Anything she said in her presence would be non-deniable. Donaldson was protecting himself, which surprised her. He dropped a notch in her estimation, though she couldn’t honestly blame him.

  The Ash Ranges event was still as fresh on her mind as the bruises on her body. She’d told no one. And she wasn’t going to yet, because she hadn’t worked out how to use it. If she told Donaldson now, it would complicate matters, and she might be taken off the case as a potential target. She had to get something on the Ellerton death before that happened. Somehow, he’d been at the start of it all. Maybe he’d been the first killing.

  Donaldson was going to say no, that much was clear. So, as they used to say in the army, when things get shitty, you shit right back.

  She took a breath.

  ‘Rickard has been visiting Reedmoor regularly for at least the past year. He understands serial killers at least as well as, if not better than, Greg. We don’t know his movements, but he wasn’t working here during any of the killings. Fergus’s murder, for example. Rickard was at a soirée, but didn’t arrive until 8.30pm. Given the established time of death, it could have been him.’

  Donaldson leant forward across the desk with surprising speed. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting–’

  She leaned forward as well, completing the boxer-like face-off. ‘Of course I’m bloody not! I’m just giving you the half-assed reason you asked for to give me the goddamned files.’

  Donaldson stayed where he was. ‘If you make that request formal,’ he began.

  ‘It’ll be an unholy shitstorm,’ she finished.

  He slouched back. ‘I can’t get you the files, because as soon as I do, I’ll be sent home, where I am less than completely useless to Greg.’

  This wasn’t playing out how she’d hoped. She could mention the Ash Ranges incident now, but the moment for that had passed. She’d file a report in the afternoon. She could feel the case slipping out of her grip, and with it Greg’s freedom. And the serial killers would kill again.

  Donaldson scrutinised her. ‘You’re not going to make it formal, are you?’

  More of a statement than a question. ‘No,’ she answered.

  Donaldson spoke to Muriel. ‘I think it’s time you introduced DCI Finch to the Sisterhood.’ He sat down, dragged a pile of papers to the central part of his desk, and began working.

  Muriel opened the door and gestured for Finch to follow.

  Once outside, Muriel didn’t go to her desk, but to a coffee area upstairs where a group of assorted assistants – male as well as female, despite the ‘Sisterhood’ label – were in an adjoining conference room having lunch: sandwiches, smoothies, cappuccinos, and cake. Conversation halted when they saw Finch, but after Muriel took a seat and gestured for her to sit down as well, it started again, if not so fluidly.

  Finch sat patiently. Others arrived in ones or twos. They ate, small-talked, office-gossiped, passed the time. Not her style, but she could see the point. Her men used to do it, though the subject matter of conversation invariably turned to sex. She nibbled at a slice of carrot cake. Not bad. One by one they left to go back to their desks. Eventually there was just Finch and Muriel. Silence filled the room. Muriel took a folded paper napkin off the table, handed it to Finch, then got up and left, closing the door behind her.

  Something was wrapped in the napkin. A memory stick. Finch guessed what it contained. One of the men or women here… When Muriel had been tapping at her tablet, she must have requested it from someone in this Sisterhood thing, whatever it was. Finch had no idea who had left it though. She sat back. Donaldson had gone through that song and dance to enlist Muriel, and now everything was completely deniable, yet she had Rickard’s case files.

  Nice play, Donaldson.

  And Muriel too. Finch decided then and there that one day soon she’d take Muriel makeover-shopping. But not now. She got up and went to find her laptop.

  She ploughed her way through 186 entries. The one for the bully-boy was succinct. He’d dismissed it as a possible copycat because of the lack of planning – it had been opportunistic and messy, more about pain than fear or terror. Pretty much what Greg had said earlier during his interview. Rickard had added that it was a considerable time, more than three years after The Reaper, also reducing the likelihood of it being the work of a copycat.

  He was more dismissive of the night-watch woman’s murder, noting that ‘it has been suggested this was reminiscent of the work of The Divine, which is quite a leap by anyone’s standards’. He’d reckoned it had been the other security guard, despite the lack of evidence.

  She went through all the cases. Nothing leapt out at her in terms of potential candidates that might fit the profile. And then she came to Alfred Ellerton’s.

  There was nothing unusual. Except… there was a footnote. ‘One piece of signed artwork by BS. Not unusual.’

  BS? She wracked her brain a moment… Shit. Boris Skiner. The Painter.

  She sat back. She’d have to ask Rickard about this. Apparently he was out all day at some speaking engagement up north: Hull University. Tomorrow, then.

  She was about to click off when she noticed another folder on the memory stick, unlabelled. She clicked twice. It contained Rickard’s personnel file. Her first instinct was to close and delete it, but after what she’d just found she decided to read on.

  Grew up in Bromley, just outside London, father left home when he was four, mother was an optician who never remarried, and then young Rickard worked his way into Cambridge. A degree in psychology, then psychiatry at University College London. Travelled the world for two years before taking up a post as assistant to a then-famous criminologist, and shortly afterwards he caught The Candyman. His media-fuelled rise turned meteoric.

  Then
he plateaued. To some extent there wasn’t anywhere else for him to go without changing careers or going into politics, but he’d held the same position for almost two decades. Unmarried, sexual orientation unclear but assumed hetero, no crimes or misdemeanours, not even a parking ticket. In her experience, people that clean were bending rules elsewhere, especially if they were ambitious. You didn’t rise that fast without treading on a few toes.

  What it didn’t say was where he went for those two years he’d travelled. Usually people took a year out. Two was unusual, especially if not working while abroad. She wondered if he’d got caught up in something while away: a girl, a rock band, a cult… prison? The file was like a skeleton. No flesh. She checked his family connections. An elder brother, dead, suicide. Mother, dead too, heart attack. Rickard was alone.

  She went back to the academic part. University College London; his professor, one Joseph Tressler, retired but still living in London.

  Her phone buzzed. Matthews. ‘What have you got?’ she asked.

  ‘No dice on Jennifer, just vanished. Does seem like abduction, no use of phone, social media, credit cards, nothing on cams anywhere.’