The Death Collector

by Neil White

  ‘Look around. How many other cars can you see? None. Just Hunter and Weaver. If this were an arrest, there’d be more. Hunter would want someone else to see it. And have you heard anything about him in the last couple of days that makes you trust him?’

  Joe dropped his hand. He knew she was right. He watched as Hunter walked quickly to the front door, looking around as he went. He banged loudly, angrily. A couple of minutes passed before the door opened, and when it did, Hunter pushed it open and barged his way in.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Joe whispered. ‘That’s not a social call.’

  As he watched, Weaver blocked the door and the sound of raised voices drifted across in the dusk. A few minutes passed, then Weaver backed out, Hunter with him, pointing, snarling some threat about ‘one hour’, and then they were in the car and gone, driving quickly this time, the tyres squealing on the bald warm tarmac.

  Joe watched them go and said, ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gina said.

  ‘I could call Sam.’

  ‘Why? He won’t go against Hunter, and if Hunter has been and gone, there’s nothing to do any more.’

  ‘So let’s just stay and watch. Just for a while. I want to see who’s in there.’

  Gina settled back into her car seat. Joe checked his watch. One hour had been the shout. So Joe might find out the answers he was looking for soon. It was just a matter of being patient.

  They had to wait thirty minutes before the door opened. Something was happening. No one emerged for a few seconds, and Joe wondered if he had been seen, but then a man rushed out, a bag under his arm.

  Joe’s hand went to Gina’s arm, his turn to grip her.

  The man went to the car, to the Focus, and jumped in. He hadn’t locked the door. He started the engine and reversed quickly.

  ‘What is it, Joe?’

  He looked at her, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘It’s all wrong.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Him. The man, in that house, in that car.’

  ‘You know him? Declan?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, his mind racing. ‘Except he wasn’t called Declan then.’

  ‘Who is he, Joe?’

  ‘He said he was called Tyrone. Tyrone McCarthy. He’s helping Mary Molloy with her campaign.’

  Fifty-six

  Joe stared along the road as the car disappeared. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Say that again,’ Gina said. ‘You’re saying he’s the reporter who’s been helping Mary?’

  Joe looked at her, and then back into the mist of exhaust fume that was just clearing. ‘I must have it all wrong. Carl might have been here because he was trying to help Tyrone, perhaps just being overly curious.’

  ‘What about Hunter?’

  ‘He’s making trouble for him. Tyrone is trying to overturn one of his cases.’

  ‘But we’re not here because of Hunter,’ Gina said. ‘We’re here because of his involvement with missing or murdered women, and because he gave a false address to the library. He’s a predator, goes after married women. Of course he’s going to use false names.’

  Joe shook his head in frustration. ‘So what do we have?’

  ‘We have the one person who is somehow connected to all of it,’ and Gina pointed down the road. ‘He’s connected to Melissa, whose disappearance was connected to David Jex going missing, because he was looking into Melissa’s case when he started to become obsessed about Aidan Molloy. And he’s connected to Rachel. He is the theme through all of this and now he’s connected to Aidan through Mary Molloy. Joe, he’s not helping Mary. He’s monitoring, perhaps even manipulating.’

  Joe looked across at the house, the lights turned off inside. ‘I’m going in,’ he said, and climbed out of the car.

  As he strode across the road, Gina trotted to catch up. ‘What do you mean, going in?’

  ‘I’m not putting up with half-answers. I want to know what he’s been doing, and I’ll only find out by going inside.’

  ‘But what if you’re caught?’

  ‘What, the firm will sack me?’ he said. ‘The Law Society will strike me off? I’ll be out of a job any day soon, so let them. If I can do just one good thing before I walk away from it all, that will be freeing Aidan Molloy, and if Tyrone or Declan, or whoever the hell he is, turns out to be the key, then what is behind that door is crucial.’

  Gina sighed. ‘All right, I’m with you, but just be careful. I don’t want to wake up in a police cell.’

  Joe strode up the short path to the front door, their shoes loud in the street, and rattled at the front door handle. To his surprise, it was unlocked.

  The door creaked as it opened, into a dark hallway, the shadows of the stained glass around the door painting the way ahead. Joe walked slowly, not wanting to make a noise, even though he had seen the man drive away. There was a room to his right. He pushed at the door and it swung open into what looked like a living room.

  Gina went to turn on the light, her hand on the switch. Joe held up his hand. He pulled out his phone to light up the room, wanting to keep his presence secret from whoever was outside. The light from the screen was faint but enough to make out what was there. A standard lamp in one corner and a sofa and two chairs clustered around a fireplace, the tiles around it old and flowered, the grate matt black.

  Joe frowned. ‘It’s an old-fashioned place. Look at all this stuff.’ And he pointed his phone towards the mantelpiece and a shelf by the fire. ‘Just knick-knacks. Old photographs. Souvenirs from Ireland. I can’t see anything new here. It’s like an old person’s house.’

  There was a table in one corner with some envelopes. Gina walked over and noted the name. ‘Not Tyrone McCarthy,’ she said, lifting them up. ‘Declan Farrell.’

  ‘I’ll make a call and see what we can find out,’ Joe said.

  He was about to dial Sam’s number when Gina said, ‘It smells fusty in here.’

  Joe sniffed at the air. ‘It’s an old house.’

  Gina left the room and went towards the stairs. Her feet made the wooden steps creak. Joe followed her out but then he stopped.

  ‘Wait, what’s that?’

  Gina paused. ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  ‘Listen,’ Joe said, holding his finger to his lips.

  There it was again. Some banging and muffled noises, like someone groaning.

  ‘What is it?’ Gina said, as she came back down the stairs.

  Some more bangs and thuds.

  ‘It sounds like someone trapped,’ Joe said. He tapped on the floor. There was an echo. The noises got louder, faster, more urgent. ‘It’s coming from below.’

  Gina started to scour the hallway. ‘Find a loose board. Maybe someone’s under the floorboards.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. It’s further away.’ Joe moved along the hallway, looking for a doorway. He moved some coats. ‘It’s here!’ There was a door, bolts along the top and bottom, and a lock in the middle. He slid back the bolts and pulled, but it was still locked. ‘I’m going to break it open.’

  ‘No, let the police do it. I’ll call them.’

  ‘The police have just been. Didn’t you see?’ Joe stepped back and aimed a kick at the door. It didn’t budge, so he kicked it harder, his foot jarring as it hit the wood around the lock. It was damaged this time. One more kick, and the lock mechanism came loose as the wood splintered around it. Joe yanked at the door until the lock moved out of its casing and it swung slowly open.

  The way down the stairs was dark but the noises were louder. There was a flickering light ahead. A flame. The door slammed behind him, jolting him and creating a draught, blowing out the flame. The cellar was thrown into darkness and Joe stumbled on a step, losing his footing and letting go of his phone as he put out his hands to steady himself. It clattered noisily as it bounced down the stairs.

  He felt his way slowly along. His hand brushed along dry paintwork and the occasional cobweb, which felt like light flutters
on his skin as it was magnified by the darkness. His feet slapped the concrete floor as he got to the bottom. The noises were louder, like muffled screeches.

  Joe moved slowly across the floor, his arms stretched outwards, fanning out, waiting to hit something. The air smelled of piss and sweat. Paper rustled under his feet, large sheets, like newspaper. The screeches were loud now, insistent, someone trying to say, ‘Here, here,’ desperation evident.

  As he moved across, his foot hit something heavy and soft. He bent down to feel what he had struck and then recoiled as his hand touched something clammy, the unmistakable feel of cold flesh.

  He swallowed, tried to control the fear that was rising in him, and felt again. It was a naked body. A woman, from the way her body curved. He pushed at her in case she was making the noises, in case she was injured, but she was heavy and immobile.

  He got to his feet and moved around the woman on the floor. The noises didn’t stop. They were further into the cellar. He kicked a foot, which kicked back at him. Joe dropped to his knees and followed the body upwards with his hands, along damp trousers and top, past the metal around two slim wrists.

  Joe’s hands found the gag. He wrestled with the knot, the cloth wet with saliva, until it sagged forward and he heard the person in front of him suck in deep breaths before sobbing loudly.

  ‘Who are you?’ Joe said.

  ‘It’s me, Carl,’ he said, in between sobs. ‘Gas. There’s gas in the house. Booby-trapped.’

  The smell. Joe realised what it was. He turned to shout, ‘Gina! There’s gas in the house.’

  There were quick footsteps above, and the sound of Gina cursing. Joe listened out as she ran to the back door and flung it open. There was the scrape of windows being lifted upwards.

  Gina opened the cellar door. ‘He’d left the gas rings on. We need to get out.’

  Joe closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks. ‘It’s all right, Carl,’ he said softly. ‘It’s over.’

  He took the noose from his neck and Carl slumped to the floor. Relief flooded him as he thought how Lorna wouldn’t have to go through her life not knowing about her son, but as the relief started to take him over, something else occurred to him: Mary Molloy. The man who had done this had left not long after Hunter had been. Where was he going? He wasn’t coming back, that was for certain. Was it to the one person who might shelter him, the one person who had trusted him?

  The weak light from the hallway reflected off his phone. The tumble down the stairs had made the cover come off and the battery skim across the floor. He felt around for them and reassembled it, pausing to look at the woman on the floor as he did so. She was dead, Joe could tell that. He didn’t recognise her, though.

  He helped Carl up the stairs and out into the street. Carl collapsed on the pavement, sobbing uncontrollably.

  ‘Who’s the woman in there?’ Joe said.

  Carl gulped in some air. ‘She was called Emma,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve called the police,’ Gina said.

  ‘Gina, I’ve got to go,’ Joe said, and got to his feet. ‘Give me your car keys.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘You wait here for the police. I’ve got to go to Mary.’

  Gina passed Joe her keys. His phone was working again, so he called Mary. When she answered, he said simply, ‘Get out of your house. Go somewhere safe. It will all be over soon, but I’m coming to get you.’

  And with that, he put his phone away and ran for the car.

  Joe knew that this was a long way from over.

  Fifty-seven

  Sam had printed off what he could about Melissa Clarke’s disappearance, so that he could read about the case away from prying eyes. He’d found another empty office. It felt like the rest of the station was crumbling around the Murder Squad. He spread the papers on the desk under the flickering glare of a faulty strip-light. He didn’t know what Hunter had done about what he had seen on his screen, but he didn’t want anyone looking over again.

  Melissa Clarke. Like her husband had said, she went out one night and didn’t come home again. There was a statement from someone at her book group saying that there was no meeting that night. Melissa’s husband’s statement read like a man who was suspicious about his wife’s behaviour but didn’t want to say the words, that she was having an affair. Just like Rebecca Scarfield.

  Her friends couldn’t explain it, although one did say that she thought she was unhappy at home. There was some focus on her husband, but with the rumours of an affair and unhappiness at home, she was listed as just another missing person. Her parents were dead and she had no brothers and sisters; there was no one to campaign for her. She was a woman involved with another man, and the only person who kept her in the area was the husband she didn’t want to be with any more. Or at least that was how it seemed.

  But it was more than that; it seemed like there wasn’t enough being done, as if it was normal for young women to just disappear. There were so many other leads to chase. Benefit or tax checks, to see whether she was claiming or earning anywhere else. Driving licence checks. Had she been stopped anywhere by the police? Poster campaigns. No, it seemed as if the investigation was quietly shelved. David Jex was in charge of the investigation and then he went missing. No one else carried it on, and Jex became the next missing person. Until now.

  Sam made some notes and knew where he was going next. There must be more victims. The book group was the starting point, Melissa’s friends, and then treat it like a murder inquiry, not just about someone who has run off with her lover.

  What he couldn’t work out was why this hadn’t been done earlier. Melissa had no history of erratic behaviour and hadn’t taken her passport with her. An updated file information sheet said that her bank account hadn’t been used for more than a month, signed off by David Jex. This wasn’t a woman who didn’t want to be found. She was a woman who couldn’t be found.

  He needed coffee. He knew the night was going to get longer, and if he could just find enough to persuade Evans to let him look further, or even back him up, then the lack of sleep was worthwhile.

  He took his phone from his pocket. He was going to call Alice, just to see if he could make it right somehow, so that she understood why he was doing it, but then decided against it. If they argued, it would spoil his mood and distract him.

  His phone started to ring in his hand. It was Joe. He pressed to answer.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Joe was out of breath. ‘Look for Declan Farrell,’ he said, almost shouting down the phone. ‘We’ve found Carl Jex. He’s alive, but we nearly didn’t get here in time,’ and Joe gave him an address.

  ‘Carl’s alive?’ Sam said, surprised. He’d been too distracted to look for the address. He could have done it earlier.

  ‘Are you looking into Melissa Clarke, like I said?’ Joe continued. ‘Well, we did, and it led us to this house. Carl Jex was trussed up in the cellar and there is a dead woman in there. Hunter and Weaver were here too.’

  Sam’s mouth dropped open. ‘When?’

  ‘Just before Farrell went. We looked inside and found Carl. He’s your man, Sam. Declan Farrell. But I don’t think he’s coming back.’

  Sam clicked off the phone and ran along the corridor, bursting into the Incident Room, making people look up. ‘It’s Declan Farrell, he’s the one,’ he said, out of his breath, holding up his phone. ‘My brother has found Carl Jex.’

  Evans looked up, startled, and pointed at two detectives. ‘Go, now,’ and then to Sam. ‘You better be right on this.’

  ‘I’m right,’ he said, as the two detectives grabbed their coats and starting running for the doors. Sam followed. He was seeing this through.

  He waited outside the house, suburban and safe, away from the glare of the nearest streetlight. No one paid him any attention. He was filled with the tremors of anticipation. He thought of her scent, how she would be after a day with the children, imagined it filling his nostrils, a mixt
ure of food and coffee and sweat and her own personal aroma. This wasn’t how he did these things, but he was filled with an excitement of how different it was.

  The lights went off and on in the house, tracking her movement. The bathroom and then the bedrooms. When the lights went off upstairs, it was time.

  He reached for some gloves he had found in his house. Black leather driving gloves he had bought when he thought they added to his look. He waited until he saw movement downstairs, her outline against the window blinds.

  His car door clunked softly as he closed it, the night air filled with the soft rustle of his clothes. He kept his footsteps light as he walked quickly to the door. Nothing suspicious or that would make anyone look out. He tapped lightly on the glass and waited.