Day of the Dead: A gripping serial killer thriller (Eve Clay)

by Mark Roberts

  ‘...and I know who you are. If I see you in or around this McDonald’s, I will catch you and take you down to the rail track, castrate you and throw you under a train. I know who you are. Scum. Make a child’s day. Kill a paedo.’

  ‘I don’t get it, said Cole. ‘I’ve been looking at this site until I’m blue in the face, looking for locational clues, waiting for whoever’s running it to trip themselves up. But they’ve been tighter than the Sphinx’s arsehole about who they are and where they’re based. And now this?’

  ‘I couldn’t give a shit about the why or wherefore,’ said Stone.

  Stone typed McDonald’s restaurants Liverpool into the Google search engine and, two clicks later, counted the different branches.

  ‘Twenty. There are twenty McDonald’s restaurants in Liverpool,’ said Poppy as Stone counted the branches.

  ‘I’ll look up six because I’m slower than you whiz kids. First seven, Poppy. Next seven, you Barney. Fifteen to twenty me. Are we all looking at the same screen?’ asked Stone.

  ‘Big colour map of Liverpool on the right and slightly over the middle. McDonald’s restaurants highlighted with red plates and white cutlery,’ said Poppy.

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘The addresses of the different restaurants on the left,’ added Cole. ‘Top of the list Dunning’s Bridge Road, Bootle, second Walton, third East Lancs Road.’

  Stone felt his pulse racing. ‘Poppy, can you print off multiple copies of the picture of the McDonald’s restaurant that you found on the Vindici site. OK? We’re looking for domestic dwellings directly facing a McDonald’s restaurant across a busy main road, with a nearby railway track and a Farmfoods restaurant to the left.’

  The shared printer on Stone’s desk came alive as it pushed out colour pictures of the restaurant.

  Cole scrolled with his right hand and spoke into the iPhone held in his left. ‘Sergeant Harris, can you come to the incident room, please? We’ve got some information we need circulating urgently.’

  Stone took three pages from the printer and looked closely at the image. ‘The road the Vindici nut lives on is a busy main road. Looks like the north end of the city to me,’ he said, handing the images of the McDonald’s restaurant to Poppy and Cole.

  Stone called Clay on speed dial, heard the squeal of her brakes as she connected on speakerphone on her dashboard.

  ‘Eve, can you talk?’

  ‘Give me a minute. I’m with the suspect’s mother in my car.’

  She pulled over to the side of Heath Road and took her phone off the dashboard and speakerphone. She got out and shut the door.

  ‘We’re minutes away from establishing where the other Liverpool-based Vindici site is.’

  ‘Are the French are coming up with the goods?’

  ‘Not yet. Whoever’s running the website has left a huge visual clue as to where they are. It’s a matter of elimination through twenty potential sites. Why they just didn’t turn themselves in to the nearest police station, I don’t know.’

  Clay considered the emergence of the second website in the light of bitter experience.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes too high, Karl,’ said Clay. ‘This could all be a time-wasting piss take. Keep me posted. I’ve got to go.’

  51

  10.48 am

  ‘OK, Lucien,’ said Sergeant Harris. ‘WPC Thomas is going to take your picture now. Don’t smile, don’t frown, don’t pull a face. We just need a natural portrait. Imagine you’re in a booth posing for a passport photo.’

  Lucien looked at the back of his hands; he appeared to be admiring his fingernails. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. What are you going to do with all this information, the DNA swab and all that, when you realise I’ve done nothing wrong?’

  ‘Lucien, you’re at the stage in the process that I like to call the cleaning-the-toilet-with-a-toothbrush moment. There’s no point in questioning what’s happening to you, it just makes life harder for you,’ explained Sergeant Harris. ‘Just get on with it, do it and get over it.’

  ‘Come on, Lucien, we’re not looking for a Vogue cover here,’ said WPC Jones.

  Lucien turned his attention to WPC Thomas. ‘You only look a few years older than me.’ He linked his hands and the muscles in his forearms knotted. ‘I bet I’d look great in your uniform.’

  ‘Lucien, if you don’t cut it out, I’m going to involve your mother in the process. Do you want that?’ asked Sergeant Harris.

  ‘Just violate my human rights a little bit further and take your bloody picture of me.’

  WPC Thomas raised the camera and Lucien’s face emptied of all expression. He tilted his head minutely to the left and a strange light rose up in him and registered as a pseudo Christ-like glow in his eyes.

  Sergeant Harris and WPC Thomas exchanged a baffled glance, and then Harris laughed knowingly.

  ‘Lucien, you know when you try to copy the expression on Justin Truman’s face in his famous mugshot, we’ll think it’s your way of telling us that you’ve copied him in other departments – like, say, murder?’

  Lucien looked as though he’d been slapped by an invisible hand and WPC Thomas took a set of rapid portraits.

  ‘Now that’s what I call the I-know-I’m-in-the-shit look. Perfect! Thank you.’

  52

  11.01 am

  In his room on the top floor of the Holiday Inn Express near John Lennon Airport, Arturo Jesús Salvador lay on one side of the double bed, his possessions spread out across the other side.

  Since landing on English soil, he had worked hard and quickly and achieved everything he set out to do within his first hour in Liverpool. In his mind he did an inventory of the different individual tasks and the one overriding objective.

  He had collected his case from the baggage-handling area.

  Then he had made his way to Hertz Car Rental and picked up the black Ford Focus with child-locked back doors he had pre-booked before leaving Mexico. There had only been two specifications: an ordinary car, with back doors that could not be opened from within.

  He drove the Mégane to the top level of the airport’s multi-storey car park and parked it in a corner.

  After booking in at the Hilton, he unpacked his hand luggage on to the bed and hung up in the wardrobe the two sets of clothes he needed for his visit.

  Two identical black suits, two white shirts, underwear, shoes, socks and white gloves.

  He checked his possessions on the bed.

  A Mexican passport in the name of Arturo Jesús Salvador. Medication. A set of screwdrivers. A wallet full of money and credit cards, all in the name of Arturo Jesús Salvador. Chocolate he had purchased on the plane from Cork. The photograph of the fat man and his address. A copy of the Liverpool Echo with a front-page story detailing the murder of David Wilson and DCI Eve Clay’s initial investigation into the case. The paperwork and contact details for the estate agent handling his properties on Merseyside, and the keys to those properties. A large box labelled ‘El Día de Los Muertos’.

  Everything was there and all was well.

  And although he was tired from the flight and was getting over a string of bad days with his health, he raised himself from the bed and made his way to the window.

  On the horizon he made out some of the miniaturised details of the Liverpool skyline – the cathedrals and the Radio City Tower. But the thing that interested him most and drew him away from resting was much closer to hand.

  On the border between the Speke and Garston districts he identified a large building with a green roof and a car park at the back. In the car park he saw eight yellow police vans, some white Scientific Support vehicles, marked and unmarked police cars.

  Two tiny uniformed police officers emerged from the back of the building, made their way to a marked car, and he was seized by a reckless desire to go there and wait outside, watch the people come and go, see if anyone would strike up a conversation with him at Trinity Road police station.

  But no. It would completely un
dermine his overriding objective in coming to Liverpool: to go completely unnoticed until his work was done.

  He dismissed the desire and spent a few more moments at the window, wallowing in the deep affection he nurtured for the building – even if it was the first time he had seen it – because of its association with an individual belonging to the place.

  Arturo stared at the green roof of Trinity Road police station and deeply buried warmth blossomed inside him. He tracked his eyes across the city and, towards the town centre, made out the white hulk of the Littlewoods Building, the empty, disused art deco leviathan.

  Trinity Road police station. The Littlewoods Building.

  Arturo experienced a lightness that was stronger than his fatigue and spiralling illness.

  He felt his life was somehow suspended between two places in time and, watching from such a great height, he was utterly empowered, as if anything was possible and the lengthy waiting game was now in its closing phases. The strength inside him intensified.

  And for a moment, he knew what it was to be like God. A God filled with perfect love and in the same instant with profound rage.

  53

  11.48 am

  ‘Where are you, Karl?’ asked Cole.

  ‘Heading up to the roundabout under the flyover at the top of Queens Drive and Rice Lane. What have you got for me?’

  Cole looked out of the incident room window and saw geese in a flying-V heading towards the Mersey Estuary. ‘I’m going to email you a list of who lives where on that block of seven terraced houses on Rice Lane, but there’s one person in particular who I’m sure’s going to be worth calling on. 636 Rice Lane, Christine Green, thirty-two years of age. She’s been in trouble with us in the past, for racially abusing a complete stranger in the street.’

  Stone turned on to Rice Lane and said, ‘I do hope Green’s at home.’

  ‘If the electoral register’s anything to go by,’ said Cole, ‘she lives on her own.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting her,’ said Stone.

  ‘Maybe you could take a bunch of flowers. Red roses perhaps?’ laughed Cole.

  ‘Fuck off, wanker!’ shouted Stone.

  ‘Thanks, Karl.’

  ‘Not you, Barney, some taxi driver’s just cut me up and then starts giving me the verbals.’

  ‘I’m going to start looking for Vindici’s financier soon. Anything I need to know?’

  ‘Yes. Truman’s solicitors, Graham, Alexander and Davidson, have got more than one thing in common with his barrister Reginald Everett QC, and the wall of admin around him. They’re all pretending they don’t know who bankrolled his legal costs. They’re all pretending that they’ll call me back when they find out, after they’ve been through their records. Right now, they’re all talking to each other on the phone, taking the piss out of me. I can see the McDonald’s. It looks like the one.’

  ‘Make mine a Big Mac, Karl. OK, let’s crack on!’

  Cole closed the call down and logged into the National Police Computer. He looked at the note on his desk with the name of Clay’s childhood friend that she had asked him to investigate, screwed up the paper and dropped it in the bin.

  Cole typed in the name James Peace and waited.

  54

  12.00 noon

  In Interview Suite 1 on the ground floor of Trinity Road police station, Lucien Burns was flanked by a young social worker with hair in a black bob, and a blonde female duty solicitor, thickset and middle-aged. On the other side of the table, Clay and Hendricks faced the trio and on the table between were three items recovered from Lucien’s house.

  Clay took a bottle of mineral water from her bag and handed it to Lucien. ‘You’re sixteen years of age, right?’ She double-checked.

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, sixteen.’

  ‘I’ve formally opened the interview and I’m reminding you, Lucien, that the following exchange is being recorded both on audio and on video,’ said Clay.

  ‘For the purposes of clarity could you please state why Lucien is being interviewed in a murder inquiry?’ asked the solicitor.

  ‘Certainly,’ replied Hendricks. ‘Two paedophiles, one suspected but with no criminal conviction, and one a time-served convicted child abuser, have been murdered within a few miles of Lucien’s house. Lucien runs a Vindici fan site on which he advocates the hunting down, torturing and killing of paedophiles. Seeing as this is exactly what’s happened here in south Liverpool not once but twice, we feel...’ Hendricks looked at Clay, who nodded, and back at Lucien. ‘...we need to have a little chat with Lucien.’

  Hendricks pointed at the equipment on the table. ‘Is this your laptop, Lucien?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘I personally removed this laptop from your room, and you were present when I did so. Does this laptop belong to someone else?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Is this your iPhone?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Is this your iPad?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘OK, you did us one favour, albeit unintentionally. You left your laptop on, so we don’t have to unlock it. We can unlock your iPhone and iPad later but let’s have a little look at your computer.’ Hendricks flipped open the laptop and brought up the desktop.

  ‘Please don’t touch my stuff!’ said Lucien.

  ‘Your stuff? So it does belong to you. Thanks for that, Lucien.’ Hendricks pointed at an icon on the desktop. ‘What’s this, Lucien?’ Silence. ‘It’s Dreamweaver. Dreamweaver’s a programme that allows you to set up and manage your own website. Let’s see what your Dreamweaver leads us to.’

  He clicked the Dreamweaver icon and a long list of available pages became available.

  ‘It looks like you’ve put a lot of time and effort into this. I’m opening the home page...’ Hendricks looked at Lucien, the social worker and the solicitor. ‘Care to take a look?’

  Hendricks turned the laptop around, keeping it close to his body and his hands on either side.

  ‘The man on screen is none other than Justin Truman. The words on the computer screen read: Avenging Angel. Vindici. Death to paedophiles. Protect a child. Kill a paedo. Gouge out their eyes. Cut their bollock off. You forgot to pluralise that, Lucien, but you can’t do everything, can you? These words just keep skimming across the bottom of the screen. Did you make this page, Lucien?’

  ‘Listen to me, Lucien,’ said the solicitor.

  ‘Where’s my mother?’

  ‘Do you want your mother present now?’ asked Clay.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lucien, is this your laptop?’ The solicitor jabbed an index finger at it. ‘You unintentionally admitted that when you told Mr Hendricks, Don’t touch my stuff. I suggest you cooperate and tell the truth because, believe me, you could be in big, big trouble here! If you’re not involved in these murders, cooperate and eliminate yourself from this inquiry.’

  In the ensuing silence, Clay watched Lucien’s face as a look of sickness and horror crossed his features and settled in his eyes.

  ‘I want another solicitor.’

  ‘It’s not a solicitor you need, Lucien,’ Clay cranked up the pressure. His head swivelled towards her. ‘It’s a guardian angel. Don’t start messing us round, lad, over your legal support. I’ve got twenty-four hours to either charge you or let you go. The clock’s ticking, so if you start playing the no-comment, get-me-another-solicitor card, I’m going to charge you here and now with Incitement to Murder.’

  His voice stuck inside him, Lucien mouthed the words fucking hell and with a sob threw his head back to look at the ceiling.

  She looked at her watch. ‘I’m going to give you a little heads-up. Your house is being searched right now by DC Margaret Bruce and a team of officers. That means we will look into every last nook and cranny of your home. Are we going to find any other interesting things that belong to you? Any other things that you may find difficult to explain away?’

  After a long silence, he said, ‘No.’
<
br />   ‘You know what, Lucien,’ said Clay. ‘When DS Hendricks marched you in here, I saw you and I could tell what was going on in your head. You thought you were in a real-life version of a Quentin Tarantino movie, a biopic of Justin Truman’s life and you were the main part.

  ‘So you’re too old to say you didn’t understand what you were doing when you were telling people to hunt down, torture and kill paedophiles. It’s called Incitement to Murder, Lucien. You’ve systematically and repeatedly broken a very serious law. We can charge you now and keep you here ad infinitum. You will get a long custodial sentence, guaranteed.’

  She watched as the information percolated into his mind.

  ‘Do you know anyone else in Liverpool running a Vindici website?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just for the sake of clarity do you have any learning difficulties or mental health issues?’

  ‘No!’

  Suddenly Lucien shoved his chair back, grating the feet against the floor. He bent forward and projectile vomited on to the floor, filling the room with sour milk and half-digested food. A second wave followed and then a third.

  Clay turned to Hendricks. ‘Ask Sergeant Harris to organise a cleaner. I’ll call in the custody medic and book Interview Suite Two.’

  Lucien sat bolt upright, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I don’t need to see any doctor. I’m not sick. I’m just scared. I won’t see a doctor. I won’t.’

  ‘Lucien,’ said his solicitor. ‘You don’t have to see a doctor. Calm yourself.’

  Slowly, Lucien slumped down and looked at Clay. His eyes were red raw and tears streamed down his face. Clay formally suspended the interview and called Sergeant Harris on her iPhone.

  As the call to the front desk rang, Clay said, ‘Do you know the real names of female visitors to your site?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I do...’

  ‘Well, I want those names from you, Lucien. Not user names. Real names. The most violent females you know, the ones who make the most excessive claims to kill and torture paedophiles.’