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

by Mark Roberts

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Yes, Lucien, women. Sergeant Harris, I need you to take Lucien Burns down to the cells. He’s going to have a little think about what’s what...’ Clay eyeballed him. ‘Aren’t you, Lucien?’

  55

  12.03 pm

  When Detective Sergeant Karl Stone parked his car in Sefton Road, around the corner from Christine Green’s house on Rice Lane, he felt the buzz of an incoming text on his phone. On the display screen: ‘Sammy – 1 minute ago’. Dear Karl, I am sorry about last night. I hope we can still be friends.

  So am I, he thought, sorry that I couldn’t take you up on your offer.

  He typed: After all this is sorted Sammy I’m going to take you out to dinner, shower you with affection and do everything in my power to make you fall in love with me and stay there.

  In silence, he read the message back to himself and his finger hovered over send. He paused and, flooded with hopelessness, deleted the whole message.

  He typed: No need to be sorry Sammy. Of course we are still friends. Send.

  When he saw Detective Sergeant Gina Riley park and get out of her car, Stone joined her on the pavement.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ said Riley as they walked to the corner of Sefton Road and Rice Lane. ‘Come on, Karl, spit it out!’

  ‘Last night, Sammy Wilson came on to me, heavy duty, in her flat. Got me up there because she was afraid of the dark. Then she hit me with sweet talk and tried to kiss me.’

  Riley stopped. ‘And?’

  ‘And I turned her down. She got a bit upset to say the least.’

  ‘You did the right thing. You were strong, professional. Have you told Eve yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Want me to mention it to her?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I know how much you like Sammy Wilson.’

  ‘Do I make it that obvious?’

  Riley laughed. ‘I can tell; others wouldn’t. You know something, Karl? Even before you told me that, I could tell she’s really holding a torch for you. Come on, let’s go and ruin Greenie’s day.’

  They turned on to Rice Lane. Each of the seven two-up, two-down terraced houses on the block facing McDonald’s had a small, walled garden area separating the front door from the pavement.

  ‘What do we know about her?’ asked Riley as they reached number 636.

  ‘She’s a racist and she hates paedophiles with a vengeance,’ replied Stone, looking into the space between the front wall and the stone wall that met the pavement. ‘And she more or less invited us over.’

  In Christine Green’s area were three terracotta pots in which all the plants were long dead, their remains dangling over the side into the space where the wind had blown fast-food packaging from the restaurant over the road.

  Stone rang the bell but there was no sound so he knocked hard, five times, on the door. ‘I hope the inside of the house is a bit better.’ The front room was shielded from the pavement by net curtains that seemed oddly old-fashioned for a woman in her early thirties. ‘Got the search warrant ready?’ he asked.

  Riley showed him the warrant on her phone, sent to her in a hurry by the duty magistrate as she travelled from Mather Avenue to Walton.

  Footsteps came close to the front door.

  ‘Who is it?’ A female voice, without emotion or accent.

  ‘Police,’ said Stone

  Silence.

  ‘We’re in a hurry, Christine. We need to talk to you and you need to open the door now,’ said Riley.

  The door opened a couple of centimetres but was secured by a chain. Christine Green peered out, a thin-faced woman with dyed blond hair and the first signs of stubborn greyness. She balanced a pair of reading glasses on her narrow nose and squinted at the warrant cards.

  ‘What’s this to do with?

  The door to 638 Rice Lane opened and an elderly woman with an empty milk bottle in her hand stepped out of her house. Stone indicated the neighbour.

  ‘I suggest we talk inside, Christine.’

  Christine looked at the old woman, who stood still, watching the scene with confidence and no embarrassment.

  ‘Turn your bloody nasty music down or as God is my judge I’ll get the noise pollution people round to you, Miss Green!’ The old woman’s voice was clear and assertive and defied the fragility of her body.

  The two women stood in silent deadlock, staring each other down.

  ‘Christine,’ said Riley. ‘We haven’t got time to waste. Inside. Now!’

  ‘What’s your name, madam?’ Stone asked the old woman, sensing a potentially great witness, a feisty old lady who was openly hostile to the suspect.

  ‘Mary Behan. You are?’

  He showed her his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Karl Stone.’

  ‘Oohhh.’ She sounded satisfied. ‘She’s a bloody lunatic that one.’

  Stone handed her two contact cards. ‘Do me a favour, Mrs Behan.’ He looked around. They were alone on the pavement. ‘Write your phone number down on that and keep this one. If you want to talk to me about anything, you can call me on either of those numbers.’

  ‘No problem. Good luck, son. You’ll need it.’ She drew a circle in the air at her temple. ‘Her bars are down.’

  Stone smiled, watched Mary Behan close her front door and, as he made to enter Christine Green’s house, heard Riley’s voice.

  ‘Jeez... what in the world’s all this?’

  56

  12.07 pm

  Jesus, thought Stone, echoing Riley’s reaction as he walked though Christine’s Green narrow hallway, past the red, white and black flag that covered most of the wall.

  He found a light switch on the wall, turned it on but there was no bulb in the fitting that hung from the ceiling.

  Stone stepped into the living room and saw Christine Green watching Riley’s back as she looked at the wall over the fireplace. Riley was shaking her head as she put on her reading glasses.

  One wall was covered floor to ceiling with shelving rammed with books. Stone glanced at some of the titles and authors on the spines. The Third Reich: A New History, Michael Burleigh; Christian Theology, Michael Wilcockson; The Second World War, Antony Beevor.

  He turned away from the books and saw that Christine was now watching him. He looked past her and at the massive oil painting above the fireplace.

  ‘An oil painting of Adolf Hitler? Where did you buy that?’ asked Stone.

  ‘The internet.’

  On the wall next to the painting was an intricately hand-carved skull sitting on two femurs.

  ‘And did you buy the wooden SS Death’s Head on the ’net?’

  ‘No, I carved it myself. Whittling wood is my hobby.’

  Green gave Riley a death glare as she picked up an object from the mantelpiece and shook it. Riley showed it to Stone.

  ‘Look at this, Karl, SS storm troopers on skis in a snow dome.’

  ‘Put that down,’ said Christine. ‘It was manufactured in Dresden in 1941 as a limited edition and it’s very, very expensive.’

  Stone wondered if he was in the home of a suspect or would soon wake up in his favourite armchair at home, laughing at the oddness of his dream.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Riley, putting the snow dome back. ‘Much as we’d love to talk about your extensive collection of Nazi memorabilia, we haven’t got time...’

  ‘Just because I collect Nazi memorabilia, that doesn’t make me a Nazi.’

  Riley turned to Stone. ‘Did I say she was a Nazi?’

  ‘No, you did not. Christine, we’ve come to talk to you about your Vindici website.’

  ‘Loads of people hate paedophiles. Why are you picking on me?’

  ‘Because you, Christine, on your website,’ said Riley, ‘and thank you for not denying that you’ve got a website, you go a bit further than just, say, calling them names or saying you hate them. You tell people to go and kill them. And—’

  ‘And you think I topped those two paedos in the south
end of the city. Right, I want a solicitor. I’ll get my coat. I’m not saying another fucking word. Let’s go!’

  There was a knocking on the window. Stone went to the front door and opened it to Detective Constable Clive Winters and three officers he didn’t know.

  ‘These are our colleagues from the Walton Lane nick,’ said Winters.

  Winters and the three officers entered.

  ‘Thanks for your help, lads,’ said Stone as the four gathered at Christine Green’s living-room door.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ asked Christine, indignant.

  Detective Constable Clive Winters, a six-foot-five Liverpool-born and -bred powerhouse of a man, stopped at the red and white flag with the black swastika at its centre, looked at Stone and said, ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Maybe when you’ve done searching the house, Clive, you could take her to your mum’s house off Lodge Lane and treat her to some home-cooked Caribbean food? We’ve had some great nights round your mother’s...’

  ‘She’s not going anywhere near my ma!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Christine.

  ‘These officers are going to search your house.’

  ‘Where’s your search warrant?’ Christine held her hand out. Riley placed the screen of her phone in front of her face.

  Christine Green sat down and, picking up an open copy of Mein Kampf from the arm of the sofa beside her, said, ‘I’m going nowhere. I’m not allowing you cunts to go rummaging through my things. I’m fucking staying put.’ She looked Winters up and down, and shook her head in pure dismay.

  ‘I’m leading this search,’ said Winters from the doorway. ‘Have you got a problem with that?’

  ‘No, Christine,’ said Riley. ‘When I say it’s time to leave you leave. We’re going to Trinity Road. When I say so.’

  Stone addressed Winters and the officers from Walton Lane. ‘We’re looking for a laptop, bicycle wheels with spokes missing...’

  As he closed the living room door, Christine called, ‘You’re wasting your fucking time, you won’t find nothing incriminating here, you shower of gobshites!’

  ‘Clive.’ Stone handed over to Winters.

  Winters showed the back-up officers a picture on his phone of the statuette of a Weeping Child.

  ‘Find one of these and I’ll take you all out on the piss. On me. One of you upstairs with me, two downstairs.’

  ‘Christine,’ said Riley. ‘We’re leaving for Trinity Road police station as soon as my colleagues find your laptop.’

  ‘Won’t be going anywhere then.’

  ‘Have you dumped it somewhere?’

  She straightened the glasses on her nose and returned her attention to Mein Kampf.

  57

  12.15 pm

  Clay stood at the window with the smell of vomit in her nostrils and looked around the incident room for Barney Cole, hoping he’d managed to dig up some information on James Peace, but he wasn’t there.

  Hendricks approached with two mugs of coffee and handed her one.

  ‘How did you get on?’ asked Clay.

  ‘I’ve been on to Alder Hey in the Park and they’re going to dig out Lucien’s medical records. I’ve spoken to the schools he used to go to, and no one, no one, was surprised to receive a call from us about Lucien Burns. He got kicked out of the Blue Coat School aged eleven for setting up a bomb scare in the Clock Tower. He left King David after a fire broke out in the science block. Still aged eleven. He was in and out of Liverpool College aged twelve to thirteen where he acted the elective mute. Last chance: Calderstones Community School. Shown the door aged fourteen, after stalking Mary Blake, a forty-something art teacher.’

  ‘And he doesn’t figure on our records?’

  ‘Not a mention. There’s the shit that goes on out there that we know about, and there’s the shit that just passes us by.’

  ‘Anything else from his laptop?’

  ‘One bombshell so far and Poppy’s only been on it for a few minutes. Lucien’s building a new page that he hasn’t published yet: “Name and Shame”. He’s got the names, photographs and addresses of eight convicted paedophiles on Merseyside. Our leak just turned into a stream!’

  ‘We’ll wire into him on that one,’ said Clay. ‘Is he accurate in his information?’

  ‘Yes and no. Yes, the pictures and names are right but the addresses are all historical. They do tend to move house a lot.’

  Walking back to her desk, Clay looked at the screen of her phone, saw one notification on Facebook and one on Messenger. She opened Facebook and saw a picture of Maggie Anderson. Friend request accepted.

  Clay felt a huge smile spread across her face.

  ‘You look happy,’ observed Hendricks.

  ‘I’ve just hooked up with a woman called Maggie Anderson who I knew when I was a child. She worked at St Michael’s Catholic Care Home for Children, and she was good to me.

  Clay sat at her desk, opened Messenger and saw the words Maggie Anderson wrote: Eve, what a lovely surprise to hear from you.

  She opened the message, and carried on reading, white words on a blue background.

  I know you are a working mother and are very busy but if you would like to we could meet up for coffee or tea. I am retired now and can do most times on most days. My number is 07790 143576. I will leave it for you to call me and arrange this if you would care to but in the meantime I wish you all the luck in the world. God bless, lots of love, Maggie x PS I live in a care home run by nuns up in Crosby – Nazareth House. Isn’t it funny how things turn round in life?

  A wave of emotion flooded Clay, happiness for the good times and sorrow for people and places that had been and gone.

  She dialled the mobile phone number and within two rings, heard Maggie’s voice for the first time in many years, in a recorded message.

  ‘Hi, you’ve reached Maggie. If you’d like to leave a message for me speak after the tone and I will get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you for calling.’

  As the beep sounded, Clay’s mind was full of Jimmy Peace being dragged into the back of a police car as they took him away from her forever. And although she still couldn’t remember what his face was like in the back window, she remembered clearly that when they made eye contact, his mouth had moved as he tried to give her a final message.

  ‘Hi, Maggie, it’s Eve Clay. How lovely to hear from you. I’m going to text you three phone numbers. My home number, my work landline number and my mobile. You can get me on any of these numbers. I’d be absolutely delighted to meet up with you for tea or coffee – I seem to remember you were a big tea drinker way back when. So come back to me on any of those numbers when you get the chance. And God bless you too. Lots of love and bye for now. Eve.’

  Clay looked up and saw that Cole was standing over her.

  ‘I’ve got some news for you on your old friend James Peace,’ he said quietly. ‘Talk about weird coincidences.’

  Clay felt a compression in her core and lightness in her head. Please, she wished, don’t tell me anything terrible, and a large part of her was sorry she’d asked Cole to go digging.

  ‘He was known to Merseyside Police and the Met. When he was a teenager he was brought in for questioning about beating up a worker in the children’s home he lived in but the CPS refused to take it to court. Guess what? It was St Michael’s, the home you were brought up in. Is that how you know him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Early 1989 he was working as a chef in London and was arrested for GBH. The case against him fell apart on a technicality. 1990, he was back in Liverpool and out on bail. This time round he was in really big trouble, was facing a custodial and a criminal record. He nearly killed the guy. While he was awaiting trial, he died in a shipwreck. Go on, Eve, what’s the weird coincidence?’

  ‘His targets were paedophiles. Anything else?’

  ‘That’s it. I’m still digging for you. Paedos, how did you know?’

  ‘Educated guess. I’m grateful to you, Barne
y.’

  The phone on Clay’s desk rang and, when she picked up the receiver, she heard DS Terry Mason’s voice, unusually excited.

  ‘Eve, get down to my room, please. We’ve just pulled some items of interest from Steven Jamieson’s filing cabinets.’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ said Clay. ‘Come on, Barney. Let’s go and see what the lads have found.’

  58

  12.23 pm

  On the ground floor of Trinity Road police station, DS Bill Hendricks paused to read the laminated sign on the door of the viewing room.

  PLEASE KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING.

  DO NOT ENTER THE ROOM UNTIL YOU HAVE

  ESTABLISHED YOUR CREDENTIALS AND HAVE BEEN

  GIVEN DIRECT PERMISSION TO ENTER.

  Hendricks looked up above the door and imagined another much more disturbing sign: ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter here’.

  He knocked on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Bill Hendricks.’

  When the door opened, Sergeant Carol White, bag on her shoulder and all set to leave, gave him a weak smile. ‘Hello, Bill.’ He looked at White’s partner, Sergeant Alice Banks, who gazed almost vacantly at the laptop screen in front of her.

  ‘Hey, Bill,’ said Banks. ‘How’s it out there in the real world?’

  ‘It has its moments.’

  ‘Excuse me, Bill,’ said Carol White. ‘I’m going outside. I’m desperate for a cigarette.’

  Hendricks noticed that the gold wedding ring that she turned around and around on her finger continuously through their conversations was not there. ‘It’s you I’ve come to see, Carol.’

  ‘I’m all right. I’m fine. Honestly. I just need a cigarette.’

  ‘OK. I just found a window of time and I thought I’d see how you are. Later maybe.’

  He watched as she left, and when she reached the doors leading to the stairs, she turned and asked, ‘Did you look at that photograph I gave you?’

  ‘I did,’ he lied.

  It was now in an unopened envelope in his desk drawer.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I see exactly what you mean.’