The Dead Tell Lies: an absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by J. F. Kirwan

  Then there was the second reason she was there. Greg was now locked up in Reedmoor. Who knew what could happen to Greg inside those walls?

  And the idea that Greg had attacked Rickard? She didn’t think him capable of going that far. But then, apparently, Greg had almost blown his brains out a few days ago, so she couldn’t discount it completely. Maybe Rickard had provoked him, though with what she had no idea.

  She wasn’t sure how much Rickard knew, and if there was any light he could shed on Ellerton’s murder. She also wondered what ‘thanks for the initiation’ meant, especially when it was hidden inside a book on serial killers. Could Rickard be…? No, she’d known real killers, those who’d got a taste for it. She’d looked into their eyes, seen the dead light smouldering inside. Rickard was an arrogant, pompous ass who’d got lucky once and had been living off it ever since. Still, she needed to push him to see what else he might divulge. If she tried this back at the Yard, she’d find herself talking to Donaldson’s superiors very shortly afterwards, especially as Rickard was seen to be a very upstanding pillar of the community.

  Another reason she’d decided to come to Rickard’s house was that people always felt more confident on their home turf – and were more likely to slip up.

  She arrived and switched off the engine. She glanced at her phone again. Three calls to Donaldson since she’d left the pub. No answer yet. Where the hell are you? Matthews didn’t know either, apparently.

  Behind the tall hedge the secluded house looked quiet, a couple of lights on downstairs, curtains closed in every window. Fair enough – it was night, after 10pm, and winter was closing in. Still, it had the ‘Hammer Horror’ look about it – granite walls with wooden exterior beams and myriad shadows, a steep thatched roof, and narrow panelled windows that, together with the oak door and massive lion’s head door knocker, made it look like a grim face bearing down on any visitor. It even had a turret. Although the house was just half an hour outside the M25, it must have cost a cool three million plus change. Where’d he get the money? Maybe all those speaking engagements down through the years.

  She opened the car door and listened. Dead quiet, except for the dull whisper of a major artery in and out of London a few miles away. She crunched her way up the gravel driveway. It was impossible to approach the house quietly. Still, given that the killer might be tracking her somehow, she hadn’t come unarmed; a Taser in her left pocket that Matthews had insisted she take, her Glock in the right.

  She considered using the lion-shaped door knocker, then saw a doorbell and rang that instead. No sound came from inside, but after thirty seconds she heard a deadbolt withdraw, and the heavy door opened.

  Rickard’s face was banged up as if he’d been in a Saturday night pub fight, two plasters over his nose, the blue-black bruise taking on a shiny quality in the doorway light. Greg had hit him hard, square in the face. He’d clearly meant it. Rickard didn’t seem surprised to see her. Maybe he’d been watching her approach from one of the darkened windows.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Finch,’ he said. ‘I trust this isn’t a social call.’ He gazed past her to the empty car.

  ‘I’d like a word about Adams.’

  ‘I thought you might.’ He opened the door wide and stood back, inviting her in.

  ‘May I take your jacket?’

  ‘I’m not staying long.’

  He studied her a moment. ‘A phone call wouldn’t suffice? Or a visit to my office tomorrow? As you can see and have undoubtedly heard, I’ve had quite a day.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, tops,’ she said.

  He gestured towards the living room. A log fire was burning. She assumed it was a gas model, but a few sizzling pops and sparks told her it was the genuine article. She entered and sat in a large leather armchair, on the edge of the seat, so as not to get too relaxed.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Water, maybe?’

  ‘Not thirsty.’

  He picked up a brandy glass from the coffee table, swirled the tan liquid around, and settled back into the armchair opposite. The place was surprisingly homely for such a cold fish; plenty of dark wood panelling, high shelves full of hardback books, an antique desk and Welsh dresser stacked with foreign knick-knacks and wooden sculptures of people and animals. African? South American? She couldn’t tell. The lighting was low. The fire made the shadows dance. His back was to it, so he was a silhouette. Which meant she couldn’t see his eyes clearly.

  ‘Are you wearing a wire, DCI Finch?’

  ‘Only in my bra,’ she replied.

  He didn’t smile, as far as she could tell. He got up, went over to the desk drawer, opened it and pulled something out.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he said.

  It was an electronics detector wand. He waved it about a foot in front of her body while it made soft buzzing noises, rising briefly as it detected the under-wiring in her bra. It went haywire as he waved it over her pockets.

  ‘Busted,’ she said, pulling out the Taser and Glock simultaneously by their handles. ‘A girl can’t be too careful these days.’

  He didn’t react especially, just checked the empty pockets, and then she put the two weapons away.

  He put the wand down on the coffee table, then sat again, swirling his brandy around the glass before taking another sip.

  ‘Have you ever killed anyone, DCI Finch?’

  ‘Strange question. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Professional interest.’

  ‘Yes, out in Helmand.’ It was on record. Easy enough for anyone in the Force to check.

  ‘How did you feel when you saw they were dead?’

  She recalled the gut-wrenching nausea as if it had been yesterday. ‘Sick to my stomach. All four times.’

  He nodded. ‘As indeed you should. That’s the normal reaction.’ He put down his glass. ‘Shall we fence a while, Finch, or shall we cut to the chase about why you’re really here?’

  She had the feeling she was seeing the true, unmasked Rickard for the first time. She upgraded her earlier assessment. Arrogant, yes. But pompous, no. This was one very calculative man. He was taking control of the situation. Time to take it back.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Let’s start with your old classmate, Jonathan Stevenson.’

  His brow furrowed for an instant. Then he shook his head and picked up the glass again. ‘Really, is that the best you can come up with? Hardly seems worth the trip.’

  ‘You threatened to kill him.’

  ‘We had an argument. We were young; it got heated; things were said. He always was a sensitive soul. I’m sure many people have made such a threat in their lifetimes, in a pique of anger.’

  ‘All right. How about something closer to home. Alfred Ellerton.’

  Rickard became quite still. He said nothing.

  ‘As you said, we can cut to the chase.’ She placed the piece of paper with his initials on the coffee table. Matthews had taken a photo of it with his mobile, just in case.

  Rickard stared at it for a while, then put down his brandy, and leaned over to read it.

  ‘Your initials,’ she said.

  ‘And Her Majesty’s,’ he replied.

  ‘Your handwriting.’

  ‘Really? I’d say there was insufficient text for a graphologist to verify anyone’s handwriting, wouldn’t you agree?’ He picked up his glass again. ‘Let’s hear it, then, DCI Finch. Don’t all detectives love their Hercule Poirot moment, the vicar with the candlestick in the library, that sort of thing? Or are you a Holmes kind of gal?’

  His flippancy was off-putting. She noted that even if she had been wearing a wire, he’d been very careful with what he’d said so far, all of it above board. She needed to push him further.

  ‘Ellerton had a painting by Boris Skiner. Yet you discounted it as being of any relevance.’

  ‘He sold many paintings. Should we round up all the owners?’

  ‘You lost your father when you were four years old. You
were estranged from your mother and had no love for your brother. You lived in Bromley, where Alfred Ellerton lived. Did he befriend you in some way?’

  He edged forward a moment. ‘I see you’ve read my personnel file. Now I’m impressed.’ He leant back again. ‘My assistant will be fired in the morning. Pray, do continue.’

  She’d talk to Donaldson about that tomorrow, but for now she moved on, laying out her theory.

  ‘Who was Ellerton to you? I think you’re protecting him for some reason. We believe he’s a critical link to the other serial killings, the link which would rubbish your Schism theory about Greg, without any need for “treatment”.’ She used her fingers to imply the inverted commas around the last word.

  He leaned forward again. ‘Gregory is in, what’s the vernacular term for it? Ah yes, deep shit. And his ex-wife is still missing.’

  Finch tried to stay poker-faced, but she must have given her supposition away.

  ‘Ah. I see you believe she is in hiding rather than captured or walled up. It wouldn’t surprise me, she’s a clever girl.’

  Wait. Rickard knew Jennifer? Of course, it made sense, they were both criminologists. But Ellerton? Had Rickard known him or not? She was still stuck in the wilderness. She needed to get out of there and through the mountain pass to get Greg off the hook and save the next victim. Rickard knew something and was hiding it, she didn’t know why, but was sure of it. She decided to use the age-old detective’s last resort. She bluffed. It felt like taking that first cautious step into the mountain pass, knowing there could be snipers in the rocks above.

  ‘We have a witness who says you were seen at his flat on several occasions before his death.’ If he pushed her, she’d say it was the caretaker. If he denied it, she’d lost nothing, except perhaps her credibility.

  But Rickard became still again, except that his right hand moved on the arm of the armchair – she couldn’t see what he did.

  ‘He had a son,’ he said finally. ‘Christopher. We were friends for a while at school. That’s how I got to know Alfred Ellerton, though we were barely acquainted. I went to see him years later to inquire after Christopher, to see how he was doing, but they were no longer in touch. It happens. As for the note, I honestly have no idea who or what it refers to.’

  She ran it through her head. Mrs Appleby had said they could find no relatives. Maybe Rickard was telling the truth. She and Matthews could dig deeper in the morning, go through local school records, talk to neighbours. At least she’d got something, a new name to check into. She relaxed a notch. She’d taken a step into the mouth of the mountain pass, and nobody had taken a shot at her.

  Rickard downed the last of his brandy. ‘Well, this has all been very entertaining. I must have a chat with your supervisor tomorrow morning.’ He paused a moment. ‘Unless there’s something else?’

  She was about to answer that no, she was done, when her phone beeped. It was a message from Matthews. It read:

  James Palmerston aka The Dreamer was adopted by Alfred Ellerton. Adopted name Christopher Ellerton.

  She stared at the SMS.

  Her mind sprinted.

  James Palmerston had grown up in Bromley, as had Rickard. James’s parents had died in a gas explosion. Rickard and James were buddies. Alfred Ellerton adopted James, renamed him Christopher. Rickard knew Ellerton, maybe thought of him as a kind of uncle. Ellerton was interested in serial killers. His son Christopher became The Dreamer. Someone killed him.

  Thanks for the initiation. E. R.

  She was out in the open, in the mountain pass. No cover. No backup. Maybe the sniper hadn’t spotted her yet, hadn’t decided if she was the enemy. Maybe she could walk calmly through the pass to the safety of the other side.

  Her Sarge had once said that two ‘maybe’s’ is one too many.

  She kept her calm. At least on the outside.

  She stared up at Rickard, who was standing over her, though from the angle he wouldn’t be able to read the text message. She saw his eyes clearly now, and for the first time, the dead light coming from them. She pocketed the phone, but not before keying in her emergency code to Matthews, simultaneously switching the phone to silent.

  ‘No, nothing else,’ she said.

  Another mobile phone lit up. She hadn’t noticed it before, on the side of Rickard’s armchair. Must be on silent. He went back over to it, picked it up, glanced at the message, and tapped a reply.

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘I’m having a friend over.’

  Good. All she had to do was get out of the house, into her car, wait for Matthews, take things from there.

  He walked her to the door. She kept one hand in her right pocket, the one with the Glock.

  ‘Goodbye, DCI Finch,’ he said as he opened the door. Then he spoke in a softer tone, as if in after-thought, and looked her straight in the eye.

  ‘I do hope you find the real killer one day, the man we should all be worried about, the one who brings nightmares into daylight.’

  He said it with such conviction. He offered his hand. She took hers out of her pocket, and shook his, struggling to keep her voice steady. ‘Goodnight, Professor.’

  She stepped through the doorway, glanced towards the road at the end of the drive, and stopped dead.

  Her car was gone.

  Her hand automatically slid back into her pocket and gripped the hilt of her Glock as she spun around, but something wet and cold touched her neck and she froze. A wave of ice washed through her head and body. She stumbled, dropped to her knees, then onto all fours, collapsing onto her side. Unable to even look up, barely able to breathe, all she could see were Rickard’s trousered legs and polished shoes. Her arms were numb. Her chest felt as if it was in a vice.

  Mother of God, what had he done to her?

  ‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘You’d like to stay? Very well, if you’re sure. My friend would like to meet you. Face to face.’

  This can’t be happening! But it was. He dragged her back inside, along the parquet floor, by her hair. The front door closed. She tried to speak. To shout. To scream.

  Nothing came out.

  He crouched down beside her. ‘You were getting close, actually. The part you are all missing was that Alfred asked me to kill him. He’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Said he’d always been fascinated by drowning, heard it was peaceful at the end.’

  She fought for breath. Her lungs weren’t playing.

  ‘There, there. Don’t worry. This isn’t the end. Well, not for a while. You see Greg was right. The Gravedigger is next.’

  She tried in vain to feel her Glock, so she could put a bullet in herself if not in Rickard, rather than be buried alive, but she was numb all over, as if her head was disconnected from her body. She watched the ceiling move above her as Rickard tugged her further along the floor.

  And then he paused, as if remembering something. He knelt down and reached inside her jacket, and took out her phone.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Your tubby little friend is on his way. That rather complicates things.’

  He pulled out his phone and tapped at it. She heard a dial tone, then after only one ring, someone picked up. ‘Change of plan,’ Rickard said. ‘Ditch her car then meet me at the place, I’m bringing her there now… Do not argue with me.’ He said the last part as if talking to a child. He pocketed the phone, while dropping hers on the parquet floor, whereupon he stood on it, crushing it under his heel.

  He stared down at her. ‘They’ll never find you in time,’ he said.

  Rickard’s face faded behind bright red splotches. She was about to blackout. She willed Matthews to arrive, but she’d be long gone by then. No, he and Donaldson needed to get Greg out of Reedmoor.

  Greg was the only one who’d be able to find her in time.

  Part III

  27

  Greg counted the strip lights as they passed above him. Strapped onto a stretcher, wheeled along by two orderlies with blue coveralls and masks, he couldn’
t speak because he’d been shot full of two drugs: methohexital and suxamethonium, a muscle relaxant and a short-term paralysing drug. When he’d caught sight of the labels on the two bottles, he’d guessed straight away what was about to happen, and had kicked, bucked and squirmed against the restraints. The gag in his mouth meant he couldn’t scream at the orderlies that he hadn’t agreed to this, that it was completely against his will. To their credit, they looked unhappy, but the presiding doctor who’d entered with them stated calmly that all was in order, that their recalcitrant patient was bipolar, this had been expected, and that, yes, of course he had consented to the procedure.

  Like hell!

  But the drugs had taken hold. He was all fluffy and warm, wrapped in a cloud, more relaxed than he could remember, at least on the outside. The stretcher turned right. Still, he counted. Fourteen lights since the left turn out of his cell. They entered a lift. Unable to turn his head, he could at least move his eyes. He couldn’t see the floor indicator, but he reckoned they descended two levels.

  The doors opened and they wheeled him out. Again, he counted the lights passing overhead. Five, then a double thud as they bumped the stretcher into swing doors, and the lights got brighter. A lot brighter. The orderlies undid his straps, then lifted him up under his armpits and knees and deposited him carefully onto a cold metal slab. A powerful circular lamp shone down on him, but he couldn’t squint, and blinking took a supreme effort. New straps were secured. The orderlies left. The doctor from earlier in his cell appeared above him in a white surgical gear and mask. Greg caught sight of his name badge. Dr Chalmers. A name he wasn’t going to forget soon.

  At least he hoped not.

  ‘Relax, Mr Adams, I just need to check your vitals,’ he said.

  ‘His heart rate is rather high, Doctor.’ A female voice, someone out of Greg’s line of sight.

  ‘A little,’ Chalmers replied, ‘but within tolerance. Now, let’s get on with the procedure.’ He leaned over Greg’s face. ‘This won’t hurt.’