by Mark Roberts
‘OK, Jack, I’m sorry, truly I am. How about this for a plan? I’ve got a really nice travel rug in my car.’ He pointed across the street at a red Audi. ‘How about we go to my car, and you wrap Jasmine up in the rug. We’ll lay her on the back seat. I’ll ask one of the neighbours to make you a hot drink. We go to my car, we sit up front and have a conversation.’
‘Mrs Miller at 42 is a good neighbour. She’ll make coffee. You look cold, Mr Hendricks. You could do with a hot drink. I’m happy to talk to you. I’ll tell you everything I know.’
75
1.36 am
Sergeant Paul Price stood in the middle of Raymond Dare’s bedroom, taking pictures of the walls, and listening to his boss Detective Sergeant Terry Mason opening the padlocked bedroom next to it.
‘Right, Paul. So we’ve got mum’s room, Raymond’s Nazi shrine, and the older lad’s room with a padlock on it. Fancy a small wager. What are we going to find behind this door?’
‘Porn or drugs?’ said Price. ‘My ten quid says one of them.’
‘Firearms or cross-dressing,’ Mason speculated. ‘Can you smell the incense?’
‘Yes, fragrant. Come on, Terry, put me out of my misery.’
Mason opened the door and, stepping inside, said, ‘We both keep our money.’
‘Jeez,’ said Price, following Mason into the unlocked bedroom.
On the wall facing the door was a collage that went from ceiling to floor, leaving no gaps at all.
‘I feel like I should get down on my knees and start praying, Paul.’
‘Now that is a labour of love.’
Price took a panoramic picture of the hundreds of images of the Virgin Mary and said, ‘How about we do the bet on how many Virgin Marys are on this wall – the one who estimates closest gets a tenner from the other?’
‘You’re on. You first.’
‘Two hundred and eighty-nine,’ said Price.
‘Three hundred and eleven,’ countered Mason, turning to look at the opposite wall. ‘Same again on this side, only this time it’s Jesus. Where is he now?’
‘He rocked up here after his mother and brother left with Eve,’ said Price. ‘Bill Hendricks is about to have a word with him.’
Mason took out his iPhone and took three rapid shots of the Virgin Mary collage. As Mason hurried down the stairs, Price heard him say, ‘Bill, it’s Terry. Are you with Jack Dare? Good. You’ve got to see this before you speak to him.’
Price looked around the room at the thin mattress, pillow and sleeping bag on the bare floorboards and near them, in stark contrast, a bench press, dumb bells, a chrome bar and circular weights of ascending size stacked up neatly under the bench.
Picking up a well-worn Bible from the pillow, Price flicked it open and saw copious lovingly hand-written notes in the margins.
He made a mental note of the garments on the clothes rail. Four shirts, three jumpers, one jacket, two pairs of battered trainers on the rack at the base of the rail next to a small collection of neatly folded underpants and paired socks.
On the small bookcase was a collection of religious titles. City of God and Confessions by St Augustine; Introductory Guide to Reading the Summa Theologica of Thomas Aquinas; Theology and Sanity by Frank Sheed.
On top of the bookcase was a wooden crucifix with a metal Jesus, an old statue of Mary that had been lovingly repainted, an incense holder and incense sticks and a cheap disposable lighter.
As Price turned away from the bookcase, something in the row of spines stood out and caught his eye. He saw a book in a brown envelope. He slid it out and saw the cover: White Supremacists by Dwayne Hare. From the front of the envelope, Mason learned that the book had been sent to Raymond Dare, the juvenile in custody at Trinity Road.
Price took a picture of the cover and, checking the row of theological titles, took a picture of their spines.
He composed a brief message: From Raymond Dare’s brother’s bedroom. Holy books galore with one exception. White Supremacists which I believe is Raymond’s property. He sent it to Clay with images of the contrasting reading matter.
Turning slowly to look at the wall facing the bookcase, Price heard Mason coming back up the stairs at speed.
The wall was divided into two exact halves. On the left-hand side were floor-to-ceiling images of heaven: angels playing trumpets to Jesus sitting on a throne on a cloud, being serenaded by a heavenly choir, his apostles kneeling at his feet, their hands joined in prayers of supplication. On either side of Jesus Christ were images of the Virgin Mary and God the Father, while the Holy Spirit hovered about his head in the form of a white dove.
On the right-hand side of the wall were images of hell. Against a background of fire and darkness, devils in many guises tortured the damned with fire, hot brands, spears, knives and swords. Some of the damned were eternally drowned by laughing monsters, while others were nailed to a turning wheel and subject to the lash as a black-faced Satan sat above the scene, watching with the impartial desperation of one who’d seen it all before but would see it all again and again until the end of time.
At the foot of the imagery of heaven, by the skirting board, was a well-worn dog’s basket.
‘I feel sorry for the mother,’ said Mason. ‘A Neo-Nazi for one son, and a religious nut-case for the other.’
‘It must be a barrel of laughs,’ grinned Parker, imagining the tension between the two brothers. ‘You’re in a lifeboat with one place available. Both brothers are drowning. It’s your call. Who gets saved? Which one?’
‘Can I toss a coin?’ asked Mason. Price shook his head and Mason thought about it. ‘I’d take the Neo-Nazi.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s probably got a better understanding of his motivations. I don’t know where religious maniacs are coming from. In my view, nor do they, in the main. You?’ asked Mason.
‘The religious maniac. I reckon he’d provide endless hours of entertainment with the contradictions and wacky claptrap.’ He looked at White Supremacists and the envelope bearing Raymond Dare’s name and address. ‘It looks like the Jesus Freak intercepts the Hitler Ghoul’s mail.’
76
1.38 am
Alone in the incident room, Clay looked at the clock as she listened to Sergeant Harris, and decided that she would go home for a few hours’ sleep and see her husband and son.
‘I want to interview Raymond Dare at eight. Can you get him up at seven, and make sure he’s wide awake, fed and watered.’
‘I’ll put him in the yard outside after he’s had his food,’ said Sergeant Harris. ‘It’s going to be even colder later on than it was yesterday. I’ll contact his solicitor. Tell him or her to get here way before eight, so the interview can start at eight sharp.’
‘Anything to report on him?’
‘He had his medical and fell asleep in the cell. I’m looking at him now on the monitor. He’s sleeping like a corpse.’
‘Thanks, Sarge. I’ll see you in the morning.’
As soon as Clay put the landline receiver down, she noticed that there was a message on her answer machine. She pressed play and listened to silence and then the slightly perplexed tone of an older person unused to the technology he was negotiating.
‘Hello?’
More silence followed and then she heard the rustling of paper. Whoever was calling was going to read from an on-sheet script.
‘DCI Eve Clay. My name is Mr Rotherham and I am phoning on behalf of a friend of mine, Kate, who is in the same congregation as me at St Luke’s Roman Catholic Church.’ Silence and the rustling of paper. Clay pictured the old lady in Trinity Road’s reception. ‘Kate does not have the power of speech or hearing but she would like you to come to her house. If you call me back, we can arrange a time and place to meet. My number is 0151 496 0260. Thank you.’
As Clay put her coat on she heard the sound of an incoming message on her iPhone. She resisted the huge temptation to ignore it, and looked to see it was a series of photographs from Sergeant Paul Parker f
rom Raymond Dare’s house in Jeremiah Street.
She read the message about Jack Dare’s combination of theological titles and Raymond’s copy of White Supremacists and looked at the images of the books.
She replied: Paul and Terry, I’m coming to 62 Jeremiah Street. Eve.
Walking to the door, she knew she wouldn’t be going home or sleeping for the foreseeable future.
77
1.43 am
Jack Dare sat in the passenger seat of Detective Sergeant Bill Hendricks’s Citroën, holding a cup of tea between his hands and glancing back and forth between Jasmine, wrapped up in a travel rug, and the open door of his house with all the lights on and a constable at the door.
‘That man you were talking to just now, the one in the white protective suit?’
Hendricks turned the light on above their heads.
‘I’m going to record our conversation on my phone, Jack.’
‘That’s absolutely fine by me.’
‘That was DS Terry Mason.’
‘He won’t be able to get into my bedroom. I’ve got a padlock on the door.’
‘He already has been into your room. He says you’re very religious.’
‘I am very religious. I’m a devout Roman Catholic. My room is where I go to read, pray, meditate and work out. A sound mind and inquisitive soul belongs in a healthy body. It’s my private place. But...’ Jack looked back again at Jasmine.
‘But?’
‘How can God have allowed my brother to do such a thing?’
‘As it hits me, God’s not a puppet-master. People do bad things because they want to or they feel they have to. Don’t join in!’
‘What do you mean, Mr Hendricks?’
‘You won’t do anything silly to your brother if he’s released from our custody.’
‘Vengeance is mine, says the Lord,’ replied Jack.
‘Wise old sayings stay in our collective mind because they have depth and truth. Here’s another one for you. While seeking revenge, dig two graves – one for yourself.’
Jack drank tea and Hendricks watched him slowly coming round to the realisation that he was being closely watched. Jack turned and looked directly at Hendricks.
‘Tell me about Raymond.’
‘He’s mentally ill. He smokes too much weed and takes other illegal substances. And it looks like he’s started hitting the booze with his mates.’
‘Who are his mates?’
‘CJ and Buster. I’m not even sure if they’re their real names. If they’re anything like Raymond, they’ll think they’re East Coast gangsta badasses. They’re not. They’re a gang of silly little boys who deserve to have their backsides kicked.’
‘Where do they live, Jack?’
‘Either with their mothers or in some sort of squat down by the River Mersey. That’s all Raymond’s told me, Mr Hendricks.’
‘OK, Jack. We’ve got people on the ground with eyes and ears on what’s happening on the street. CJ and Buster. They’re pretty unusual street names. You’ve met them?’
‘First time Raymond came home stoned on skunk, I asked him who he’d been with. He told me CJ and Buster. I told him if he ever brought them into our house, I would be forced to go to the police and turn the three of them in after I’d given them the kicking of a lifetime. It was a hollow threat.’
‘If push came to shove, would you have done that?’
‘No. Violence is against the principles of my faith. I thought the threat would be enough.’
‘How’s Raymond been the past few days?’
‘He stopped taking his medication a while ago. His anxiety levels have been through the roof. I think he’s been up to no good with CJ and Buster. Something heavy duty.’
‘Go on?’
‘They’ve been screwing people’s houses. They’re dealing drugs now.’
Hendricks sensed a tension in Jack – that he was struggling between holding back and telling the ugly truth.
‘I’ll be honest with you, Jack. I am interested if they’re screwing people’s houses, selling drugs and making misery money, but I’ve got to prioritise. We’re looking at your brother being involved in murder. I’m going to show you a picture.’
Hendricks took out the printed-off image of the Otterspool Park victim blowing a kiss to the CCTV camera.
‘Do you know this woman, Jack?’
‘Yes. I’ve never met her, but I’ve seen more of her than I really ever want to.’
‘Is this a riddle?’
‘No. She friended Raymond on Facebook and started sending him pornographic images of herself. There was a bit of toing and froing between the two of them and talk of meeting up. I’m pretty sure he’s still got the pictures on his phone. You have his phone?’
‘We will have.’
‘She’s supposed to be called Dominika. Has she been murdered?’
‘In Otterspool Park. Where was your brother on Monday night, Jack?’
‘He went out at six o’clock-ish and didn’t get home until four in the morning, maybe a bit later. I stayed up for him because Mum was exhausted. It’s not just the hours she works, it’s the mental stress Raymond puts her under.’
‘Did you speak to him when he arrived home?’
‘There was no point. He was high as the clouds and really excited and agitated. I observed him but he didn’t see me. I spoke to him the next day, and he came up with a story about robbing a car and setting it on fire. That’s his definition of being forensically aware.’
Jack looked back at Jasmine and Hendricks saw him go into the first stages of freefall.
‘Jack, come on, finish your tea and talk to me. Please.’
Jack dragged his eyes away from his slaughtered pet and turned to Hendricks. ‘He took all the wrong drugs and none of the right ones. Raymond wouldn’t kill a human being. But he’s not in his right mind. I don’t know.’
‘Did you ever think he’d kill Jasmine?’ asked Hendricks.
There was a painful quiet in the car.
‘No, I didn’t.’
Hendricks watched Clay arrive, park over the road and get out of her car.
‘Who’s that?’
‘DCI Eve Clay. She’s the senior investigating officer in this murder inquiry.’ Hendricks handed his card to Jack. ‘This is how you get in touch with me. Give me your mobile and I’ll store it in my phone.’ Jack rattled off eleven numbers. ‘We’re going to need to talk to you again, Jack, in a more formal setting...’
‘I understand that, Mr Hendricks.’
‘You won’t be able to sleep in your own house for the foreseeable future. Stick around, stay local and be ready to make yourself available at all times.’
‘I want to cooperate. How did the woman...?’
‘Let’s leave it there, Jack. You’ve had enough upset for one night.’
‘Can I take Jasmine from the back of your car, please, Mr Hendricks. Mrs Miller’s said she’ll take her in. She really is a Good Samaritan.’
*
Hendricks watched Jack carrying Jasmine’s body to the doorstep of 42 Jeremiah Street, and listened.
‘Jack, of course you can stay here, love.’
He carried Jasmine across the threshold and, as the front door closed, Hendricks’s iPhone rang out. ‘Hello, Eve. I’m over the road.’
‘You’ve got to get over here now. We’re home and dry with Raymond Dare.’
78
5.59 am
The opening of the door into the incident room caused Clay to sit up sharply from the sleep she had fallen into over her desk.
‘Sorry,’ said Poppy Waters. ‘Sorry for waking you.’
‘It’s me who should be apologising to you, Poppy,’ said Clay. ‘Bringing you in hours earlier than you should be. I called you because I had to, and I will find a way to make it up to you.’
‘Coffee, Eve?’
‘Please. Stick a couple of sugars in it, I need the energy.’
In the kitchen area in the corner of the inci
dent room, Poppy flicked the kettle on, lined up a pair of mugs and asked, ‘What’s this phone you want me to unlock?’
‘We’re interviewing a prime suspect in the Otterspool Park murder at eight o’clock. He’s a seventeen-year-old drug user with a history of severe mental health issues. If you can get anything from the phone that links him to the victim, you will be at the top of my Christmas card list. If you also find anything to relate him to the Picton Road victims, I will personally write to Buckingham Palace requesting you receive an OBE at the very least.’
‘I’ll crack it and I’ll do my best to find what you need.’
On the desk in front of Clay were two sets of photographs. One set consisted of all the pictures of Karl and Václav Adamczak sent to her by Aneta Kaloza just under forty-eight hours earlier. The second set was of pictures of the Otterspool Park victim, taken from both the murder scene and the subsequent autopsy.
She started again with the pictures of the Otterspool Park victim and divided the set into two, the murder scene and the autopsy. Of the two sets, the autopsy photographs whispered a little more loudly to her than the Otterspool Park images.
Clay looked at the global images of the woman’s body, charred head and face, and bunched fists. Your hands, thought Clay, your poor, poor hands touched the killer, up close and personal. She found the image of the victim’s opened-up palm with a strand of hair on it, and set it in front of herself.
She put the pictures of the victim to one side and focused on the images of the Adamczak twins. Clay divided them into two sets, those from the Picton Road murder scene and the twenty-eight images of Karl and Václav Adamczak socialising.
Setting them out on her desk in seven rows of four, Clay asked herself, Which ones stick in your mind? Which ones sing while others mutter?
‘There you go,’ said Poppy, placing down a steaming mug of coffee near the edge of Clay’s desk.
‘Cheers, Poppy.’
Clay handed her Raymond Dare’s mobile phone and Poppy lifted it to her nose. ‘You could get high just holding this. It absolutely stinks of weed. See you later, Eve.’
