The Domino Killer

by Neil White

  ‘You said “despite her own experience”,’ Sam said. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She said she was abused by her teacher,’ Bruce said. ‘A couple of years earlier. They’d flirted for a while but then one afternoon he got her to stay behind for some extra tuition. He forced himself on her. It sounds tacky, but it was in the class storeroom. He ripped her blouse and tried to take her virginity, but she said it changed her, because afterwards he hardly spoke to her and it upset her. She wanted to understand it, even if it was only through descriptions of things I’d done.’

  ‘And did you tell her anything?’

  ‘I had nothing to tell,’ Bruce said. ‘I’ve never done anything like that, and as we exchanged messages I knew I never would. I was stupid, yes, but I wasn’t interested in a child and her fantasies, so I stopped messaging.’

  ‘Did she chase you?’

  ‘No. I told her I’d never done anything like that and it was as if I’d switched off the light. She wasn’t interested any more.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sam said. He drained his drink. ‘If I need to speak to you again, I know where to find you.’

  ‘You’re not going to say anything to my wife?’

  ‘You said you didn’t arrange to meet this girl. You haven’t committed a crime.’

  Bruce let out a long breath.

  ‘But don’t talk to underage girls again.’

  ‘I won’t, I’m sorry.’

  Sam rushed out of the pub. Charlotte had moved to the driving seat and she’d started the car before Sam reached it.

  As he climbed in, she said, ‘Excuse me for being impatient,’ and set off quickly, sending gravel up behind them. ‘What did cashlover have to say?’

  Sam frowned. ‘A strange one. He admitted contacting her, but was curious more than anything. He backed off when he realised what he was doing was wrong.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. He seems like a man who’s looking for some thrills before his body lets him down, some colour in all the greyness of his life. But this is the weird thing: there was more to this profile than just sex.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He said she seemed too grown up, too sure of herself sexually, even though she said she was only fourteen.’

  ‘You can get all the information you need on the internet now. It doesn’t mean you have to understand it.’

  ‘I think it was more than that. He said it was as though she was trying to tease out his confessions. Said it would turn her on if she knew his dark secrets, that it would be a bond between them, a shared secret.’

  Then he remembered something.

  ‘Wasn’t there someone going around trapping child molesters like this?’ he said. When Charlotte looked across to him, he added, ‘Somewhere in the south. There was a TV programme about him. He was going online with fake profiles, chatting to men, pretending to be thirteen or fourteen, and arranging meetings. When they turned up, they were ambushed with cameras, the footage going online.’

  ‘What, you think this might be similar?’

  ‘All we know is that Henry Mason was hanging around in a park, flowers in his hand, and his internet chat says he was talking about a “meet” with someone whose internet profile said that she isn’t eighteen. And we know Henry Mason likes them young. It all fits.’

  ‘Except the person he was speaking to wasn’t underage at all,’ Charlotte said. ‘It’s a honeytrap, a lure for people who like young girls too much. Remember the profile? It was so corny, all that stuff about looking for a man to teach her about the world, along with some shadowy picture of a willowy frame with long hair. If you think about it again, I’ve never seen a more obvious hook.’ She frowned. ‘There’s still one problem with that theory.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘What is vodkagirl trying to get? Money?’

  ‘You’re thinking blackmail?’ Sam said.

  ‘What else do you do with secrets you’re so keen to get?’

  ‘But if she was blackmailing Henry Mason, he ended up dead, and there’s no money to be squeezed out of a corpse. And how does that link in with Keith Welsby, the teacher?’

  Before Sam could say anything else, his phone rang. It was Alice.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘Ruby’s here,’ Alice said. ‘Joe dropped her off, told her she had to stay here.’

  ‘Why? What did he say?’

  ‘Not much, but he wasn’t right. He seemed wound up like I’ve never seen him.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘No, but something’s wrong.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ he said, and clicked off. ‘Damn!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sorry, Charlotte, but I’ve got to go home. We’ll try to work out how this all fits and then we’ll go to Brabham in the morning. But there’s family stuff going on I’ve got to sort out.’

  And in the meantime, he thought, he needed to find Joe. Sam remembered Joe’s long-held promise to kill Ellie’s murderer. Was that moment getting closer?

  Thirty-five

  The light was fading as Joe sat in his car close to Proctor’s house. He was slumped in his seat so that he couldn’t be seen. His fingers tapped out a fast rhythm on his knee.

  Proctor lived in one of the poorer parts of the city. They were once grand houses, Edwardian four-storeys with stone bay windows and front gardens bordered by millstone walls, but they’d mostly been converted into flats and bedsits. The pavements were cluttered with wheelie bins and takeaway wrappers were strewn across front gardens. A group of five men loitered on a wall, smoking and talking, watching the day drift along.

  Joe didn’t know them but they were just like so many of his clients. Scrawny, their T-shirts hanging from their shoulders, the skin on their forearms mottled and with crude black markings where boredom had ended with homemade tattoos, words badly scratched into their skin. A cigarette was passed along the line, but the way each cherished it told Joe that it contained more than just tobacco.

  He was prepared to wait it out. He had to. Nothing was happening. The street had got busier, people talking over walls, going from house to house, except no one visited Proctor. So Joe had sunk into his seat, grinding his teeth, trying to calm himself, but all the time the blood raged through his brain, flushing his cheeks, his head filled with the pressure of barely contained rage.

  Joe tried to think of a plan but it eluded him. He was being driven by emotion. He’d waited for this moment but never really expected it, so all he could do was let his feelings guide him. He knew one thing though: Proctor had ramped up the pressure. He’d decided to target Joe by seeking out Ruby. He wasn’t going to let that go.

  Joe closed his eyes for a moment. He rubbed his forehead with his fingers. Everything that had become stable about his life seemed to be in tatters. Gina was gone and now Proctor was tormenting him.

  He opened his eyes and tried to refocus. He couldn’t think about himself. He took a deep breath and flexed his fingers. He was ready.

  Sam burst into his house. ‘Alice?’

  She came from the living room. ‘Sam? What the hell?’

  ‘Where’s Ruby?’

  ‘I’m in here!’

  Sam went through to the living room. Ruby was lying on the floor, helping Emily fill in a colouring book. Amy was kneeling and watching. Emily and Amy both grinned their greetings but didn’t leave Ruby; she didn’t visit often. Ruby rolled her eyes and said, ‘Hi, big bro.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Not here,’ Alice said, pointing towards the girls.

  ‘In the kitchen, Ruby.’

  She groaned and got to her feet, stomping into the kitchen, Alice with her.

  ‘You’re as bad as Joe,’ she said, once the door closed.

  ‘What happened?’ Sam said.

  So she told him about Mark Proctor and how Joe had reacted.

  Sam leaned back against the wall and let o
ut a long sigh.

  ‘Sam, is everything all right?’ Alice said, and put her hand on his arm.

  His smile flickered. ‘Yes, fine,’ he said, and then to Ruby, ‘I think Emily and Amy need you.’

  Once she’d left the kitchen, Sam said, ‘Has everything been all right tonight? No visitors?’

  ‘Don’t, you’re scaring me.’

  ‘Has there?’

  ‘No, it’s been quiet.’ Alice scowled. ‘Tell me.’

  He put his arms around her and pulled her in close. She was surprised at first, holding back, but she let him wrap her up.

  ‘Do you remember after last year, when I almost lost you,’ he murmured. She stiffened. ‘I let danger come into our house, my job brought it your way, and I promised I’d never let it happen again.’ He kissed her hair. ‘I intend to keep that promise.’

  Alice pulled away. She wiped her eye. ‘I don’t want to think about that time.’

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry, but do you remember the man I was telling you about this afternoon? The man who Joe thinks killed Ellie.’

  ‘I remember. What about him?’

  ‘That’s the man who spoke to Ruby at school today. That was his way of saying he knows who we are and where we live.’

  Alice’s hand went to her mouth. ‘No one’s been here.’ She closed her eyes and forced out more tears. ‘I’m worried, Sam.’

  Sam cursed himself. He’d dealt with it badly. ‘Don’t be. I think he’s just trying to unsettle Joe.’

  ‘But he’s a murderer, according to Joe.’

  ‘Yes, and if he is, I’ll catch him.’

  ‘Are you sure we’re safe?’

  ‘Positive.’ He took her hand. ‘But I’m not leaving you tonight. I’m home now. My case can wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘But what about Joe?’

  ‘I’m not leaving tonight.’

  ‘He looked so angry, Sam. He was different. You need to find him, before he does something stupid.’

  ‘I’ll call him.’ And Sam took his phone from his pocket.

  ‘And if he won’t talk to you?’

  ‘Then he’s on his own.’

  Thirty-six

  Joe’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the screen: Sam. He thought about not answering, he didn’t need a sensible voice, but then he remembered Ruby.

  ‘Hi,’ Joe said.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Sam said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like it. Mark Proctor was waiting for Ruby outside school, for Christ’s sake,’ Sam said. ‘Proctor knows you recognised him. But how could he know?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘In the day or so since he became your client, he’s been able to work out Ruby’s movements?’ Sam was incredulous.

  That hadn’t occurred to Joe.

  Joe could accept the coincidence of Proctor being in the police station. He’d done something wrong and Joe had become high profile as a criminal lawyer. He could understand why Proctor might ask for him. But as he thought about it, Sam was right. Proctor had known who he was all along. He knew all about Ruby and where she went to school; he knew where Joe lived.

  ‘He’s been watching us,’ Joe said. A cold shiver ran through him.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that. He must have been watching us for a while. That’s why he asked for Honeywells when he was arrested: he knew who I was and he wanted to taunt me.’

  Sam was silent for a moment. ‘Who have you brought into our lives?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Joe said, and ended the call. He turned off his phone. Sam would ring back, full of apology, but he wasn’t in the mood for hearing it.

  He looked across at Proctor’s house. It seemed even gloomier in the light of early dusk. The paintwork was faded and there were no splashes of colour. No bright curtains, no hanging baskets of flowers. It was as if Proctor wanted to fade into the background and be invisible, even to his neighbours. There was a car parked on Proctor’s drive, a car-hire logo in the back window: a temporary, replacement, Joe guessed, for the car Proctor had burnt out.

  It was just after eight before anything happened.

  Proctor came out of the front door and looked around. Joe’s stomach tightened. There it was, the furtive look, Proctor’s hunched shoulders. The same as years earlier. Joe wound down his window and listened out. There was no one talking; just the clunk of a car door and then the sound of an engine.

  Proctor’s car reversed out of the drive and then turned away from Joe. That was good. He wouldn’t have to do any lengthy manoeuvres to turn around. He turned on his engine and started to follow.

  Proctor headed towards the motorway. Joe kept him in sight, tucked in behind a lorry but able to see far enough ahead to keep the hire car in view. Eventually Proctor turned off at the Trafford Centre, a huge shopping mall on the edge of Manchester. Joe stayed with him but wondered whether all the effort was just to watch him shopping.

  Joe followed Proctor into the covered car park, the world thrown into semi-darkness. Proctor was moving quickly, ignoring spaces, as if he knew where to head for. Joe found a space where he would have a view of the exit and waited. He knew that if he followed Proctor into the shopping centre, the other man would spot him. Instead, he would sit tight, wait until Proctor left. He put his head back, impatient and edgy, not knowing how long he’d be there.

  The next thirty minutes dragged. Joe had to stay alert, but the only thing to distract him was the occasional group of shoppers returning to their cars.

  Then there was movement ahead. Proctor’s car heading for the exit, Joe temporarily blinded by the headlights.

  He turned on the ignition and set off after him, the screech of his tyres echoing as he cut across empty parking bays to make sure he didn’t lose him.

  Joe caught sight of him near the lights. Proctor was four cars ahead. The lights changed to green and the traffic crawled forward. The driver of the car in front was distracted by something he was being shown so he was slow to react. Joe was going to pip his horn but he didn’t want to make Proctor look in his mirror. Instead, Joe cursed and pulled into the inside lane, making a car behind brake, and accelerated hard through the lights.

  They changed to red before he reached them but he didn’t care. The traffic to his right had started to move but Joe put his foot down and rushed through, getting ahead and within a couple of cars of Proctor.

  They both rejoined the motorway and began the steady circuit of Manchester. Proctor wasn’t going home; the route was taking him the wrong way, so Joe wasn’t surprised when he turned off towards Worsley, an area of wealth and gentility squashed between the grittier parts of Eccles and Salford.

  Proctor didn’t go far. They’d driven just a couple of hundred yards when he pulled into a space at the side of the road. Joe didn’t slow down, not wanting to look obvious, so he drove further along until he found his own space. As he turned off his engine and looked back, he caught a glimpse of Proctor disappearing over a bridge over the canal, just his hood visible.

  Proctor had chosen a pretty location to visit. Restaurants and estate agents lined the road that ran alongside a canal. The area was open and with views towards large houses with Tudor-style eaves and trees that drooped their branches over the water. A small wrought-iron bridge crossed the canal, lined with cobbles, leading to a path running between two houses, lit by Victorian lamps. Canal boats were moored up at the side of the water and the nearby motorway provided a soothing hum.

  Joe walked slowly. He didn’t know where Proctor had gone but he would have to come back this way, and Joe didn’t want a confrontation in a dimly lit pathway.

  The path led to a large space of grass brightened by patches of daffodils that caught the glow of the street lights. It was a large open semicircle with a village-green feel. Joe peered around the corner and then ducked back when he saw movement in the distance. There was a structure ahead, a brick shelter or mon
ument perhaps, the detail lost in the night, but in the middle of it was Proctor, in a hooded top, his hands thrust into his pockets.

  Joe took a deep breath. He shook his head, almost laughed out loud. This was his proof that he couldn’t carry out his promise. Proctor was somewhere dark, alone and isolated, but still Joe hung back. He had the chance and he couldn’t take it. He wasn’t like Proctor. He wasn’t a killer.