The Domino Killer

by Neil White

  He tipped up the envelope. Something slid out and into his palm: the necklace. Proctor’s trophy.

  He let the photograph slip from his fingers and stared out of the windscreen, everything blurred by his tears, the small metal cross digging into his hand. He needed to look at the other envelopes, had to know who else there had been. But not yet. He needed the silence more.

  Fifty-eight

  Gina was waiting for Sam by the canal. The afternoon was getting busy, young mothers walking their children home from school, kids playing around the steel fence that ran alongside the water. A blue barge cruised steadily towards a lock, but it wasn’t one of the brightly coloured ones rented out by tourists. This was shabby, with a rusted bicycle locked to the back and a mongrel dog standing on the top. The town didn’t even do idyllic canals well.

  As he got closer, she pointed towards a pub that overlooked the canal, painted white with a line of England flags pinned to the sign. A black A-board at the front advertised the football matches that would be shown later that week, along with offers on cheap beer. It was dark inside and would allow them some privacy.

  As Sam reached the doorway, he said, ‘I thought you might have preferred somewhere a bit classier.’

  ‘Surprisingly, that’s hard to find around here,’ she said. ‘Anyway, it’s dark and people won’t bother us.’

  They went towards a table near the back. It was quiet there, apart from a small group of people playing pool. Sam recognised one of them, and from the looks he was getting, the man recognised Sam; the perils of being a copper.

  Gina went to the bar and Sam did his best to avoid the glares from the pool table. He wasn’t in the mood for an argument.

  ‘So what have you got that’s so urgent?’ Sam said, as Gina came towards him, holding two glasses. Her drink was wine. Sam’s was a pint of beer that was losing its froth too quickly. It was a pub for people who couldn’t keep themselves away from beer during the day, but it didn’t matter whether the beer was any good. By the time he took his first sip, Sam could see the pale brown of the ale through the thin veil of white at the top of the glass.

  ‘Why are you drinking on duty? I expected you to ask for an orange or something.’

  ‘Because I’m not on duty any more,’ Sam said. When Gina raised her eyebrows, followed by a grimace as she tasted the wine, he continued, ‘I had to tell Brabham about Joe and how he’d been following the man he thought was Proctor, and that Joe had been the person who found the body.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘There just wasn’t a way to tell the story so it made sense, because it was the link with Proctor that was important. If I didn’t show it from last night, there was less of a link.’

  ‘So you’re suspended?’

  ‘No, just on a rest day. I’m going to be reassigned.’

  ‘Do you want to be?’

  ‘Of course not. So tell me, what’s so urgent?’

  ‘I’m worried about Joe,’ she said. ‘He knows he will be a suspect but he’s stopped answering my calls. It’s time to tell you everything.’

  ‘I’m not going to like this.’

  ‘No, probably not,’ Gina said. ‘I went to see Proctor’s wife earlier today. Joe knows about it, I told him, but I don’t know what’s happened since.’

  Sam’s jaw stiffened. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?’

  ‘Because I’d promised Joe.’ Before Sam could say anything, she held up her hand in protest. ‘I’m not playing any games here. I’m just trying to protect Joe, and at the same time get Mark Proctor. I’m juggling, not misleading, and there’s more going on than just murder.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘When I arrived, Proctor’s wife asked if it was about the money.’

  Sam frowned. ‘The money? Sounds strange. What do you think she meant by that?’

  ‘It sounds like he was running scams. She said he kept his accounts in a locked box in his workshop, and she said it contained other things. Joe was going to have a look in there but I haven’t heard from him since.’

  ‘What do you mean, have a look?’

  ‘What do you think? Break in, of course.’

  ‘He can’t do that,’ Sam said, shocked. ‘That’s burglary.’

  ‘He’s after Proctor. I don’t think he’ll care. I’ll tell you something else, too: Helena Proctor wants to talk. Proctor came back as I was there and she clammed up. She shrank back; I watched her do it.’ Gina gripped Sam’s hand as if to emphasise the point. ‘Get her on her own and find out his secrets. Ask about how he ingratiated himself with her. He’s got some hold over her, but if you can break her you might just get something you can use.’

  ‘Did you get anything from Proctor?’

  ‘I pressed him on his car,’ Gina said. ‘I tried to play the tough defence lawyer part; you know, where you give your client a hard time so that he knows what to expect when he’s in the dock. I’ve seen plenty of barristers do it, to see how the answers stack up, so they say.’

  ‘Except you’re a former detective giving it a go, not a trained lawyer.’

  ‘The skills are the same. You know how interviews are: they’re structured, creeping up on the suspect, question by question, with things being kept back, the rabbits in the hat, hoping to get a lie that doesn’t fit with the secrets you’re holding. Once everything is out there, they have to lie again to make everything fit. It’s just the same for lawyers, except they don’t have to be nice. Lawyers get to shout and harass and bark quick questions and get under the skin. If a copper did it, the interview would be thrown out for being oppressive, because it could lead to wrong answers. It doesn’t seem to matter as much when you’re in the witness box, that somehow the answers must be reliable, however hectored the witness is.’

  ‘Because they’ve sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. That’s the theory.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Gina said. ‘So I went at him, told him what to expect. Why would anyone else take the car back? Why would anyone else torch it? I put it to him straight: he could afford to pay the fine to get it back, so why pinch it to torch it? What is he hiding? What was he trying to destroy? I told him we’d have to tell the court what our case was, because the days of just saying “you prove it” are gone.’

  ‘How did that go down?’

  ‘Not a flicker. He sat back in his chair and looked smug, like he had the answers everyone else wanted to hear but he wasn’t prepared to give them. At one point, he seemed like he was enjoying the game. He said that no one could make him talk, so he wouldn’t, but my job was to check that the prosecution did everything correctly.’

  ‘So we’ve got nothing.’

  ‘That’s wrong. We’ve got new access with Helena. Speak to her. And there’s something else.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I think Joe’s right: Proctor did kill your sister.’

  Sam blew out a long breath. ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘It was his eyes,’ she said. ‘No alarm or surprise or difficulty in being put under pressure. I was looking for a tell: a look away, a nervous lick of his lips, a widening of the eyes, but there was nothing. Cold and calm, but more than that. He was enjoying it. He said something, too.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was asking him about the car, about how everyone will wonder why he did it, and how he hasn’t accounted for it. He said, “Sometimes the ripples are more enjoyable than the splash.”’

  Sam frowned as he thought about that, but nothing immediately came to him. ‘And did he explain it?’

  ‘No. He was going for enigmatic.’ She leaned forward over the table. ‘So what now?’

  ‘You can’t do much more,’ Sam said. ‘You’re on the defence side, I’m the police. If we blur those lines, he’ll suspect something. I’m going to speak to Helena, see if she really does want to talk.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘Stick with me, if you want, wait outside. But keep calling Joe. We need to find him.’

&
nbsp; Fifty-nine

  The door knocked against the wall as Mark Proctor barged into his house. He was breathless, anger flushing his face. Gerald had stood up to him. He hadn’t expected that.

  He needed time to think, to consider his options. The police were getting closer because events were beyond his control. No, it was more than that. He’d let them get beyond his control. He was angry with himself.

  He had to stay calm, be rational, think through his options. He needed money to get away, start again, create a false identity. Gerald had let him down and his own accounts were getting low; too low to run away with.

  He could call the police, send them to Gerald’s house, just for the cheap revenge, but the crucial forensic evidence? The bloodied rag? It was in a bin outside Joe Parker’s apartment. Only some blurred photographs tied Gerald to the murder.

  Another mistake.

  As he went into the kitchen, to find himself some space, Helena came in. He didn’t want that. He needed to be alone, away from her simpering.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she said. ‘Where did you go?’

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he stared out of the window, his jaw set.

  ‘Do you want me to make you something?’ she said, getting closer. She put her hand on his arm.

  He yanked his arm away. ‘No, I don’t want anything.’

  Helena looked shocked as he turned round, her eyes wide, not used to his temper.

  He groaned and turned away from her, willing her not to start with the tears.

  As he was about to step away from the window, he thought he saw something. He wasn’t sure what it was at first, so he looked again, his eyes scanning the garden. Something had changed.

  Then he saw it. The workshop door was hanging open.

  He pushed past Helena, making her stumble, and rushed to the back door, flinging it open.

  He’d seen it right. The large wooden door was hanging not just open, but loose. Someone had broken in. Not again!

  He was breathing hard as he ran across the lawn, panic clutching at his chest. He knew what he would find before he got there.

  The door had been taken from its hinge, so that it flapped open like a wide lopsided gate. He didn’t bother looking for his key. He just pulled hard on the wood. It scraped loudly on the concrete. His foot kicked a hinge screw. It tinkled on the floor as it bounced into the workshop.

  He looked around, searching for something amiss. His tools were still there, so it wasn’t a normal burglary.

  He edged around the cement mixer and went straight to the corner, where his box was kept, returned only earlier that day. As he threw up the sheet that covered the small space where he stored it, he groaned. It was gone.

  The sounds around him faded. He fell to his knees. All he could hear was the rasp of his own breath. His fingers clawed at the concrete floor.

  There was a noise behind him. He turned. It was Helena.

  ‘What is it? What’s happened to the door?’

  He swallowed. ‘Someone’s been in here.’

  Helena looked around, confused. ‘Has anything been taken?’

  ‘Who was here?’ he said, barking out the words, ignoring her question.

  ‘Just the lady from the solicitor’s, but you know that.’

  He kicked out at the workbench. ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Mark, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Where did that bitch go?’

  ‘I don’t know, you spoke to her last.’

  He pushed past Helena again, but with more venom this time, clubbing the side of his fist into her face as he went past. She cried out and sunk to the floor.

  As he ran back up the garden, his car keys already out, Helena screamed after him, ‘Mark, Mark!’

  He wasn’t stopping. He wasn’t going back.

  But he knew where he was going.

  Joe drove into the courtyard outside his apartment block. He was checking for police activity, knowing that they wouldn’t recognise Melissa’s car.

  There were two men he reckoned were police officers by a car, recognisable by the sharp crease in their trousers to the close crop of their hair, and two crime scene investigators in white paper suits rummaging through one of the large rubbish bins.

  He thought about stopping and handing over the metal box, but realised that all it would do was give him a motive, although he guessed that they’d already worked that one out. He could implicate Gerald King, but he had that in his armoury if he needed to use it. Right then, he was more interested in going after Proctor.

  He turned the car around and went for the exit again. He called Gerald as he drove, to make sure he was in. Once there, he wanted to be in and out as quickly as he could. Gerald was a murderer, whatever his justification.

  Gerald looked pale when he opened the door.

  ‘You all right?’ Joe said.

  ‘Just, well, you know…’ he said, and turned to walk back along his hallway. His shoulders were slumped, his steps slow.

  Joe followed him into the living room. Gerald sat in a chair.

  ‘I can’t believe I met Proctor and let him walk away,’ Gerald said. His eyes filled with tears. ‘I let Katie down. I should have ended him but I was too scared of getting caught. But I deserve to be caught after last night.’

  ‘I’ve only stopped by to give you this,’ Joe said. He held out the envelope bearing the name of Gerald’s daughter.

  Gerald took it from him but didn’t look inside straight away. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he made no effort to wipe them away. Instead, he said, ‘Thank you,’ and then reached into the envelope. He gasped as he pulled out a tattered blue notebook covered in scrawls and doodles, flowers drawn around the edges like a daisy chain. He held it like a precious artefact at first, his eyes wide and damp, disbelieving, but then he started to turn the pages.

  Joe had looked before he’d arrived at Gerald’s house. There was nothing they could use evidentially, but that wasn’t the reason Gerald was looking. For him, it was about the touch of his daughter, her joy of life brought back to him. Tears were rolling down his cheeks as he turned the pages, reading her random notes, messages for her friends, shown in class perhaps, done at the back of class as the teacher faced the front. Short poems, some sketches. It wasn’t a diary, but the thoughts of a teenage girl splashed over the paper, before the days of social networking and private thoughts shared to anyone with a mobile phone.

  Gerald turned over a page and sniffed back some tears. ‘Who’s this?’ He held up the notebook.

  Joe hadn’t gone that far into the book, but as he looked, a chill ran through his body.

  It was a sketch of a man, just his face, a small flick of hair, the eyes just black dots. It was no artist’s impression but the words underneath made it obvious: Creepy guy.

  ‘Katie saw Proctor,’ Gerald said, his voice just a whisper. ‘She knew she was being followed.’ He looke confused. ‘Why didn’t she say something?’

  ‘Ellie was followed too,’ Joe said. ‘It was more than random. I’ll never know if she knew.’

  Gerald reached into the envelope and pulled out some newspaper reports. They were reports on the hunt for his daughter’s killer, but they focused on the grief of Gerald and his wife. There were clippings from the various press conferences they did, and some magazine articles about them a year afterwards, showing Gerald and his wife shopping, the photographs sold on the helplessness on their faces, an ordinary couple trying to get on with their lives but every part of their sorrow etched all over them.

  ‘It was never about Katie, or Ellie,’ Joe said quietly. ‘It was about us – about my parents, or you. It was our grief he enjoyed. My sister’s death was just the event to set everything in motion. I’ve been trying to work it out, because they say psychopaths have no empathy with their victims. I can’t work out whether that applies to Proctor or not. Does he just enjoy the chaos, and he’s indifferent to the suffering, a psychopath to his boots? Or is it more complex than that? That he does feel empathy,
our suffering, but he enjoys that suffering, that he needs to feel it to know he’s alive, that he isn’t a psychopath?’

  ‘Don’t humanise him,’ Gerald said, through gritted teeth. ‘You can’t try to understand him because then you’re halfway to forgiving him.’

  ‘Or perhaps it’s a way of allowing you to live a life?’

  Gerald shook his head. ‘No. I need this pain. The anger is the only thing that keeps me going. If I lose that, I’ve nothing.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’