The Domino Killer

by Neil White

  ‘I killed a man!’ Gerald shouted. ‘Don’t you get it? It’s all right for you, because you can chase answers. Me? I’ve lost everything whatever happens, because I can’t forgive myself for that. It makes me like him. No, I’m going to do one last thing. Kill Proctor. Kill the right man.’

  Joe didn’t respond. He’d carried those thoughts for so long, he couldn’t protest at the wrongfulness of them. Instead, he reached across and tipped out the rest of the envelope’s contents. Photographs of Katie. Like Ellie, they were of Katie hanging around, being a teenager, being collected by her mother.

  And then there was the final photograph. Katie slumped against the stone steps of the small monument on the green, her eyes red from burst capillaries, her tongue protruding, grotesque and violent. Her clothes were rumpled and her notebook was on the floor next to her, spilled out of her canvas bag, kicked about as she fought for her life.

  Gerald screamed. Joe turned away, he couldn’t watch. He didn’t want to intervene, Gerald would come to his own conclusion about his next step.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said.

  Gerald pushed the photographs and clippings from his lap and instead went back to the blue notebook. It was as if he’d forgotten Joe was there.

  Joe backed out of the room and closed the door quietly as he left the house. It was time for Gerald to spend time with better memories of his daughter. Whatever the future held was down to him, although Joe guessed that Gerald wouldn’t simply carry on his life as if nothing had happened.

  Sixty

  Sam sat in his car, his eyes closed. Gina was with him, but they were both silent. Until that point Proctor had been a name only, some mention in a file, a threat on his brother’s lips. Sitting in the car on the street where he lived made him real. He was a man, with a lawn and personal things visible through the window: photographs on the wall, ornaments on the sill, a NO SALESMEN sticker on the porch window.

  ‘How long do we give it?’ Sam said. He couldn’t go to the house if Proctor was there. If Joe was right, he’d recognise Sam and clam up. It was Proctor’s wife he wanted to see, after what she’d said to Gina, wondering whether she was there about the money. Proctor would control his wife; what she said, how she was. Sam couldn’t let him do that, not if there was a secret to weasel out of her.

  ‘There’s no car,’ Gina said.

  ‘The longer we leave it, the more likely it is that he’ll come back. He can’t stay out all night. Have you heard anything from Joe?’

  ‘He’s not answering his phone,’ Gina said. ‘Let the daylight fade, so you can sneak around, check in the windows.’

  Sam checked his watch. Eight o’clock. He wouldn’t have long to wait.

  They gave it another thirty minutes before Sam said, ‘It’s now or never,’ and reached for his car door.

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘I’m hoping I won’t need it,’ Sam said, and climbed out. A quick check along the street before he walked towards the door. No one was there.

  He went to the window and peered through the small crack in the curtains. There was a woman sitting in a chair, her knees pulled up to her chest, looking deep in thought. No television on, no chat, no one else there.

  He stepped away from the window and paused in front of the door. What was he risking by doing this? Why was he doing this? Helena Proctor would remember his visit and mention it, so any protest that he stayed out of the investigation would be left empty.

  But Sam knew the answer. He was doing it for Joe. For his family. It was the reason he did everything.

  Proctor’s doorbell was a cheery chime. Soft footsteps could be heard on the other side before the door opened on a chain. A timid face appeared in the crack, just one side of her face visible. ‘Hello?’

  Sam produced his identification and held it up for her. ‘Helena Proctor? I’m DC Parker. I need to speak to you about your husband.’

  There was a pause, a couple of fast blinks, and then, ‘Why? Who called you?’

  That made Sam pause. It wasn’t the response he was expecting. Something was wrong. ‘Mrs Proctor, I need to speak to you.’

  She closed the door as she rattled the chain from it. When she opened it fully, she looked at the floor and stepped aside. ‘Please come in.’

  That’s when Sam saw her face properly.

  Her right eye was swollen, her cheekbone an angry purple, her eyeball bloodshot. Her lip was cut.

  Proctor had done this. There was no proof, but who else could it be? He thought quickly and realised he had a better reason to be there rather than some wild inquiry about dodgy accounts.

  Sam stepped into a house that looked tired, as if there was no desire to update it. In the living room, the sofa and chairs sagged and the cloth was faded in places where the sun had been trained on them over the years.

  Sam went to sit down and Helena sat on the chair opposite, closest to the fire, although it wasn’t on. She perched on the edge of the cushion, her knees close together, her hands on her legs. Defensive, tucked in tightly.

  ‘Mrs Proctor, I want you to tell me what happened to your face.’

  ‘It’s nothing. These things happen.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I thought you were here about the burglary.’

  ‘What burglary?’

  ‘Someone broke into my husband’s workshop this afternoon. They took the paperwork for his accounts.’

  Sam tried not to react but he guessed that Joe had something to do with it. He’d crossed a line. Sam returned his focus to her injuries. If Proctor had caused them, he might be able to turn her against him.

  ‘I’m here because someone heard shouting, as if you were in distress,’ he said, trying to keep his voice soft and sympathetic. ‘And now I see your face.’ He shrugged. ‘You can see why I’m here.’ A pause. ‘Did your husband do that?’

  Helena looked down, some more quick blinks, nervous. ‘I don’t want to get him into trouble.’

  ‘But if he’s hitting you, he can’t get away with it. Help me to help you.’

  ‘No, it was my fault.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Because I should have looked after his things better. His workshop was burgled and I was in all the time.’

  ‘That doesn’t make it your fault, or that you deserve to be hit.’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it. He was angry, that’s all, because of the burglary, with his accounts being taken.’

  There it was again, more concern about his accounts than her own welfare. Helena had made some reference to money when Gina had visited, and for some reason it spelled trouble for her. All he had to do was let her speak and see what happened.

  ‘Why would someone go after your husband’s accounts?’ Sam said.

  Helena fidgeted. ‘I don’t want to get into trouble.’

  ‘Why would you?’

  She swallowed and shook her head, bursting to say something but prevented by loyalty to her husband. Eventually, she said, ‘Should I get a solicitor?’

  ‘Why? You’re not under arrest. This is just a chat. And when I look at what he’s done to you, I think you’ll feel better for talking.’

  Sam let the silence grow. There were no other sounds. No ticking clock. No shouts of children. Just the emptiness of a soulless house.

  ‘I was worried this would happen at some point,’ she said, after a long two minutes of nothing. ‘I’ve told him but he won’t listen.’

  ‘What have you told him?’

  ‘That people will find out and they’ll come after him. They’ll be angry, and they might not even bother with the police. Money makes people do crazy things.’

  Sam thought back to the night before, the murder of a man mistakenly believed to have been Mark Proctor. Was it really about money? But then his mind flashed to Henry Mason. No, it was more than that.

  Sam leaned forward. ‘I think you’d better start at the beginning.’

  After a deep breath, Helena said, ‘There’s a name for
it. A Ponzi scheme or something.’

  Sam tried not to betray his surprise but instead smiled sympathetically, as if Helena had confirmed what he’d always known.

  ‘It wasn’t supposed to wreck families,’ she continued. ‘He said it would work out, because people would still get their money back.’

  ‘How long has he been running it?’

  ‘Since before we met. Mark can be so charming when he wants to be. He talks so softly and sounds so kind, and people believe him. They gave him their savings – thousands of pounds – and he’d invest it for them. He gave them updates every year, and the investments sounded like they were doing really well, so when the policies matured they just invested again, rolled it over and over until they thought they were sitting on a massive amount. He looked after his clients. Visited them at Christmas, had calendars made up, and people recommended him. Whole families threw their money at him, cousins and uncles, and they think they’re sitting on a fortune, just from his canny investments.’

  ‘But any money he pays back is just from money given to him by new investors?’ Sam said.

  ‘That’s right. There’s no pot of money. He just has to keep them reinvesting all the time and he never has to pay it back, as long as new investors keep his own funds ticking over. I’ve told him, though, it’s too big, that when it comes crashing down it will come down hard. People will be expecting a six-figure sum, their retirement plan, and all he will be able to say is that he’d taken their first investment and spent it, and just told lies about it ever since.’ She shook her head. ‘I worry that someone will hurt him. Losing money like that makes people angry. Or they might hurt me.’

  Sam softened his voice. ‘If you want to stay safe, you’ve got to help us.’

  Helena wiped her eye. ‘I’m scared. Am I in trouble? I told him not to, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Not if you cooperate,’ Sam said. ‘Tell me first: how did you two meet?’

  He tried hard not to let the tension he was feeling show on his face. This was what he’d really come for.

  Sixty-one

  Joe drove through Manchester in a daze, not sure what to do.

  Things were changing for Proctor. It wouldn’t take the police that long to piece together his involvement in the murder of Henry Mason. How many other people break into a police compound to steal back a car, and then set fire to it? Proctor was in an end-game, demanding money, taunting Joe. He knew everything was unravelling. What would he do? Take off? Perhaps. Or was it about a final spree, his farewell hurrah, hurt those who’ve hurt him?

  His thoughts swept back to Ruby. Family was his first priority.

  The hills and open fields soon turned into motorway and an aggressive crawl all the way back into the city. He skirted away from the city centre and drove towards his mother’s house, all the time checking his mirror for police cars.

  As he turned onto the street, he went slowly, wary of a police presence. It was quiet. Some pensioners loitered around a metal gate, chatting the evening away, and further along a young mother pushed a pram, a faint glow of a cigarette over the child’s head. A suburban scene, the day coming to an end. No one looked around as he crawled to his mother’s house, no wary glances.

  He bolted up the driveway, knocking and shouting out when he got through the front door. There was the sound of chatter from the back of the house. Was she alone? He walked through, his footsteps silent on the heavily cushioned carpet. As he turned into the dining room he saw his mother. She was alone, sitting in a cane chair in her conservatory, a film playing on a small portable television, the view of the garden blocked out by the reflection of the room in the glass. She looked up as he went in.

  ‘Hello, Joe; this is a nice surprise.’

  He leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek, her skin felt cold, and sat on a chair opposite. This was her favourite spot in the house, somewhere to reflect as she gazed over the garden that Joe’s father had once tended so lovingly. At night, it was just somewhere she didn’t leave.

  ‘I’m not staying long,’ he said. ‘Has anyone been here looking for me, or called the house?’

  ‘No. Are you expecting someone?’

  He gave a smile of reassurance, partly out of relief. ‘It’s okay. Just checking.’

  ‘Is Ruby with you?’

  ‘She’s at Sam’s house. She’ll be home soon.’

  ‘Okay. Do you want a drink?’ She started to pull herself out of her chair.

  ‘No, stay put. Sit down. I need to talk to you.’

  She sat back and looked more concerned. ‘What is it, sweetheart? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, it’s not about me. It’s about Ellie. Or, at least, after she was killed.’

  Her look darkened and she seemed to slump in her chair. She glanced over at a picture of Ellie on the window sill, the colours faded from too much bright light. There were pictures of her in every room.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ she said, her voice quieter than before.

  ‘I know the police were here all the time, and there were people with the police who helped us, but was there anyone else who interfered? Did anyone offer you counselling you didn’t want or who got too involved?’

  She stared at the floor for a few seconds and then said, ‘There were a lot of people showing an interest, but I don’t remember much about that time. I was in shock, I didn’t notice anything about the world.’ Her hand went to her eye to wipe away a tear. ‘If anyone had tried to help, I wouldn’t have listened. I dealt with it myself, the hardest thing ever.’

  ‘It was hard for all of us.’

  ‘But she wasn’t your baby, Joe; you can never understand. You think you can, but you can’t.’

  He didn’t respond to that. He wasn’t there to compete with her grief.

  ‘There’s something I’ve never told you before,’ she said. ‘I almost killed myself.’

  That came at Joe like a punch. ‘When? How?’ His voice was hoarse.

  ‘A few months after the funeral. Everything was supposed to get back to normal, but how can that be right? That’s what I couldn’t deal with, normal life. How could anything ever be normal again? The people who were supportive started to turn away, because what else could they say? So one day I walked to the motorway. It took me a couple of hours, but I made myself carry on, just thinking how I’d be free when I got there.’

  ‘Mum, you don’t have to tell me this.’

  ‘I went onto one of the footbridges and looked out over the traffic,’ she went on, ignoring him. ‘I wanted to jump, to end my torment quickly. Do you know what stopped me? It wasn’t thoughts of you and Sam, or your father, because all I saw then was more heartbreak ahead, that I couldn’t stand it if something else happened to anyone else I loved; if it could happen to my lovely girl, then it could happen to you too.’

  ‘What stopped you?’

  ‘The other lives I’d ruin if I did it. The poor soul whose car or lorry would run me over, whose life would never be the same. The police who would have to scrape me up, knowing that however they tried to be strong about it, the sight would come back to them in the darkness. The person who had to break the news to you. And what if I misjudged it and killed someone, smashed through their windscreen? That person wouldn’t deserve that. So I stepped back and came home. That was my worst day. I came home and told your dad that I wanted another baby. I wanted another Ellie. So we had Ruby.’

  Joe swallowed. ‘Do one thing for me then.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘When Ruby comes home, keep her safe. And you too. I want you to go somewhere, stay there until I tell you to come home, both of you.’

  ‘You’re scaring me.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘It means you’ll do as I say. Call Sam. Ask him to help, but do it now.’

  ‘And what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to try to sort this thing out.’

  Sixty-two

  Sam looked up at the framed photogra
ph on the wall: a teenage girl in the arms of an older girl who was just recognisable as Helena Proctor, sitting on a bench overlooking the sea. The sugar-cube buildings in the background gave it away as a holiday shot. They were both laughing that carefree laugh, heads back, at some joke or other told by the person taking the camera. Now, Helena was quiet, sombre, as if that spark had been dimmed.

  ‘That’s my sister, Adrianne,’ she said. ‘She was killed when she was walking home from a night out.’ She said it matter-of-factly, but Sam could tell that it was something she’d learned to do, to lock the pain away. ‘Mark helped out with an organisation that looked out for the families of crime victims. The police did their bit but it was good to have someone separate from them. He was so kind. It’s a cliché, that I ended up falling for him because I relied on him for support, like a patient who falls for a nurse, but I wanted to see more of him. And then, well, you can guess.’