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

by Mark Roberts

  ‘Maggie Bruce didn’t say she’d found any illegal drugs at 222 Springwood Avenue.’ Clay observed that his body was already that of a fully grown man, not a sixteen-year-old boy.

  Sergeant Harris opened the door and told Lucien, ‘You’ve got a visitor!’

  Lucien stayed in position and turned his face towards Clay as she stepped into the cell.

  ‘I want to talk to you, Lucien,’ said Clay.

  ‘Are you taking me to the interview suite?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Don’t I need my solicitor and social worker present?’

  ‘You can have them present if you want them but what I’d like to talk to you about doesn’t relate to this murder investigation or your website.’

  In a swift and graceful motion, Lucien was on his feet. ‘What do you want to talk about?’ he asked, taking deep breaths and walking from one side of the confined space to the other and back.

  ‘You’re a complex young man and I want to get a better sense of who you are, Lucien, the whole person, before I interview you again. Do me a favour, eh? Stop moving around and stay still. This is important.’

  He stopped pacing and sat down on the bed.

  ‘DC Bruce led the search of your house and brought something to my attention.’

  Clay turned her phone towards Lucien and showed him the picture of baby Caroline’s room. His face was set but his eyes looked suddenly older and the light in them seemed duller.

  She flicked forward, showed the portrait of Annabelle with Caroline at eighteen months.

  ‘It’s a big deal, losing a sibling, particularly when you’re at an age where you can understand some if not all of what’s happened,’ said Clay.

  ‘Let me look at her,’ he said, as if speaking to himself.

  ‘Take your time, Lucien,’ said Clay, even though time was one thing she couldn’t spare.

  The look in his eyes spread out across the surface of his face and he looked away from the picture and at the wall behind Clay.

  ‘No one remembers Caroline. And the one person who does...’ He fell into reflective silence.

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Doesn’t want to talk about her. It makes me very sad.’

  ‘I don’t remember her because I didn’t know her, but I’m happy to talk about her, if you are,’ said Clay.

  A mixture of relief and unleashed sadness swept through his features. ‘Did you ever lose anyone when you were a kid?’ he asked.

  ‘I was a little older than you but yes. I was six,’ said Clay. She sat next to him on the bed and turned to face him. ‘Want me to tell you what happened to me?’

  He looked at her. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The woman who brought me up from a newborn baby died when I was six years old. She had a brief but unbeatable cancer and my surrogate mother was gone. She was a Roman Catholic nun called Sister Philomena...’

  ‘Your mother was a Roman Catholic nun?’

  ‘No, Sister Philomena wasn’t my biological mother. She was effectively my stepmum.’

  ‘Who was your biological mother?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was abandoned at birth. Philomena found me and took me in. She was in charge of a children’s home called St Claire’s so she was in a great position to give me shelter. I was six and understood that she was gone but it took me an awfully long time to work out what forever meant.’ Clay fell silent and then said, ‘Caroline?’

  ‘I was four when she died. She was six. She had meningitis. It was a few weeks before I started school.’

  ‘It must’ve been absolutely horrible for you, Lucien.’

  ‘I adored her. One minute she was here, the next she was gone.’

  He fell into a deep reflective silence and then, slowly, turned his full attention on Clay.

  ‘It was a really hot day in August and we were upstairs in our bedrooms. Mum was out in the back garden mowing the lawn. I can remember the smell of cut grass and how it drifted into the bedrooms because the windows were wide open. I was playing with my action figures in my bedroom and I couldn’t hear Caroline singing. She was always singing. I couldn’t hear her singing and I remember thinking, I can’t hear because all the sound’s being drowned by the lawnmower. But it wasn’t just one lawnmower, it was as if everyone in the neighbourhood had the same idea: I will mow my lawn today. Mum stopped mowing our lawn but the others were still roaring in the background. I heard Caroline in the moments that Mum turned her lawnmower off but she wasn’t singing, she was throwing up. I went to her bedroom and saw her on her hands and knees, being really violently sick. And I remember saying, Caroline, you should’ve done it in the toilet. You know Mum doesn’t like mess. She’ll go mad. She looked at me but it was as if she couldn’t see me. My head, that’s what she said, but it was like she couldn’t see me and wasn’t talking to me, like she was talking to someone else, someone she could see but I couldn’t see and it scared the life out of me because I thought she was seeing a ghost or a monster.

  ‘She tried to get up from the floor but she rolled over on to her back and started making strange noises. I thought, I’ll clean up the sick and then I’ll tell Mum Caroline’s poorly. So that’s what I did. And when I did it, Caroline – she was so close to the place I was cleaning – she went asleep. In the end there was a big damp patch on the carpet but I got all the sick up because I didn’t want Caroline getting yelled at.

  ‘She was very still. I poked her on the shoulder and said, Wake up, Caroline, it’s all right now, the sick’s all gone. But she didn’t move. And even though there was this big smell of grass, I could still smell the sick. So I didn’t tell Mum that she’d started coming out in red spots.

  ‘I waited for ages and Caroline was sweating.

  ‘I heard Mum putting the lawnmower away in the garden shed and that’s when I went downstairs and told her Caroline wasn’t well.

  ‘She hurried upstairs and, when she went into Caroline’s bedroom, she started screaming and ran into the bathroom and came back with a glass and she pressed the glass against Caroline’s skin and then she became hysterical.

  ‘It didn’t take long for the ambulance to get to us but as we waited she ordered me to tell her everything that had happened. So I told her everything. Every single thing that I’ve told you.

  ‘The paramedics carried Caroline into the back of the ambulance with Mum and the man closed the doors and off they went to the old Alder Hey Hospital.

  ‘When she came back, Mum, empty-handed, she was never the same again. She used to be lovely and all that changed in an instant. I lost two people that day. Caroline and my mother.

  ‘That’s what happened that day. That’s what happened. And that’s that.’

  Lucien got up, walked to the open door and drove his fist hard into the wall. He turned, his eyes shifting left to right, left to right, as though his brain was exploring the space with a view to departing from his skull.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Lucien,’ said Clay.

  ‘So am I. And I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘We’re going to interview you shortly,’ said Clay.

  ‘Do you know what I’m sorry for?’ asked Lucien. ‘I’m sorry that my wish could never come true. I wish I could have been my baby sister. I wish I could have traded my body for hers. I wish I could have exchanged my life for her death. Did you say you were going to interview me soon?’

  ‘I did. Is there anything else you’d like to say?’

  ‘I started school a few weeks later in September. Springwood Primary, reception class. My mother didn’t speak to me until the October half-term.’

  ‘What did your mother say to you?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Go to your room and stay there.’

  75

  5.58 pm

  Standing at her mother’s front door in Dundonald Road, Samantha Wilson felt the first blast of the predicted storm and the gush of heavy rain against her head. She felt herself shivering as she pressed the doorbell and, remembering how her mother dislike
d prolonged loud noise, took her finger off after two seconds.

  The ‘FOR SALE’ sign rattled in the wind, and on the edge of the door frame she noticed a small rag of blue and white plastic, one of the last remnants of a crime scene.

  She looked through the frosted oval of glass and saw her mother moving slowly towards the door, like a woman carrying an invisible but colossal burden.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Sandra Wilson, her voice frail and fearful.

  ‘It’s me, Sammy.’ She heard the cold in her voice. ‘It’s freezing out here, Mum. Will you let me in? Please...’

  ‘So you can start screaming at me? Is that it?’

  ‘No. I won’t raise my voice to you. Please open the door. I have something for you and I have something to ask you. And I need to do it face to face.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise...’

  Behind the front door, chains rattled and bolts were drawn back. Sandra opened the door wide enough to stick her face out. She looked at her daughter and said, ‘You weren’t fibbing about the cold.’

  Samantha bit down hard on the reflex to tell her mother that she didn’t tell lies and instead smiled. ‘Can I come in please?’

  ‘If you start, Samantha, I’m going to tell you to leave.’

  ‘I haven’t come here to start any trouble, honestly.’

  Sandra opened the door wide enough to allow her daughter over the threshold.

  As she stepped into the hallway of her childhood home, Samantha’s senses were bombarded with the shape of the space and staircase, and the house’s unique aroma: aniseed and furniture polish.

  In the centre of the hall, arms folded across her middle, Sandra faced her daughter and asked, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To give you these.’ Samantha offered her mother a bunch of pink carnations.

  ‘I... I didn’t even notice...’

  ‘They’re your favourites, Mum. Favourite flower. Favourite colour. This is what I wanted to give you. I couldn’t give you flowers over the phone.’

  Sandra raised the flowers close to her face. ‘Thank you, Samantha.’ She stared at the carnations as if they were the only bunch of flowers in the world and said, ‘I remember when you had your paper round and you used to buy me carnations every week when you got paid.’

  Sandra raised her eyes from the flowers and looked at her daughter’s face. ‘Are you crying?’

  ‘No.’ Samantha smiled. ‘Rain landed on my eyelashes. It’s rain. That’s all.’

  Sandra took a balled-up tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan and dabbed her daughter’s face. ‘What did you want to ask me?’

  Samantha looked at the reflection of herself with her mother in the mirror on the wall and felt a surge of unbridled agony.

  ‘I want to ask you for a fresh start, Mum. I want to ask you if we can start again.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘There’s only so much pain we can endure in one lifetime. He’s gone now,’ said Samantha. ‘It’s all over for him. You loved him in spite of everything, and so did I in my own way. But we’re still here. You and me. There’s nothing to stop us having a good relationship. I can’t blame him and you can’t defend him because he’s dead. I love you, Mum. And I can see it now. We’ve both been his victims. But I’m not going to be his victim any more. And I don’t want you to be his victim any more. But I need you to help me do that and you need me to help you. Please, Mum. Let’s start again. Day one. The new us.’

  The carnations fell from Sandra’s hands. Her hands flew to her face and she dropped to her knees, sobbing.

  ‘Come on, Mum.’ Samantha knelt in front of her mother and wrapped her arms around her heaving body. ‘We can do this. Can’t we?’

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ she breathed into her daughter’s shoulder.

  Samantha waited.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Samantha.’

  ‘No more sorry, no more regret, no more confusion, no more guilt.’

  ‘This is... it’s like the old days, the relationship we used to have.’

  ‘This is how it’s going to be. No need to cry any more, Mum.’

  Samantha tightened her hold on her mother and, little by little, her sobbing subsided. After time, and in the quiet of the hall, they fell into a still and perfect silence.

  ‘Samantha?’ Sandra struggled to speak. Samantha looked deeply into her mother’s eyes. ‘Is there anything I can do for you, love?’

  ‘Well, there is.’

  ‘Anything at all, just ask.’

  ‘I’d like my old house keys back. The ones you took off me when Dad threw me out. As a gesture of trust. To our brand-new start, to the new us.’

  ‘I’ll go and get them right now.’

  Sandra Wilson got to her feet and headed towards the kitchen at the back of the house.

  Samantha stood up and looked at herself in the large hall mirror.

  ‘It’s going to be just fine, Samantha,’ Sandra called from the kitchen.

  ‘It’s going to be perfect, Mum.’

  ‘I’ve been hoping and praying for this day for years, Samantha.’

  ‘Yes, me too, Mum.’

  She heard her mother rummaging in a drawer.

  ‘I don’t know if you noticed – I’ve put the house on the market.’

  Her mother’s footsteps, lighter than they’d been for decades, drifted towards the hall as Samantha walked towards her own reflection.

  In the hall, Samantha took the keys from her mother.

  ‘Yes, I saw the ‘For Sale’ sign,’ said Samantha.

  ‘So, I’m not going to be here for much longer.’

  Samantha smiled, squeezed her mother’s hand and nodded.

  76

  6.15 pm

  ‘Where’s my mother?’ asked Lucien, across the desk.

  ‘She isn’t behind that observation screen if that’s what you’re worried about,’ said Clay.

  ‘Yeah, but where is she?’

  ‘She went out for a coffee this morning and, according to my colleagues who’ve been searching your house, she showed up outside, got in her car and drove off. Have you any idea where she might be?’

  He shook his head. Throughout the day, Clay had thought it strange Annabelle had not returned to the police station to find out how her son was faring. Now, after hearing Lucien’s account of his sister’s death, her absence added up.

  ‘As soon as I know her whereabouts, I’ll inform you. Do you want to speak to her?’

  Lucien shook his head.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help matters between the two of you?’

  Lucien ignored Clay and turned to the social worker. ‘When I get out of here, I want to go into care. Can you find foster parents for me?’

  ‘I’ll need to talk to you and your mother in some detail before I can do anything concrete about that. Would you like me to try mediation talks between you and your mother?’

  ‘You’re not listening, are you?’ said Lucien, without emotion. ‘None of you listen to me.’ He looked at Clay and Hendricks in turn.

  ‘I disagree entirely,’ said Clay. ‘We’ve been listening like hawks to you, Lucien, and we’ve been pushing and pulling apart all those things you said last time we were together in this room.’

  She leaned forward slightly, eyeballed Lucien. ‘And we’ve been talking to our IT person who’s been delving into your Apple Mac.’

  ‘It’s been very interesting, Lucien,’ said Hendricks. ‘Very interesting.’

  Clay touched the list containing Steven Jamieson’s name and partial address, which lay face down on the table in front of her.

  ‘You haven’t been truthful with us, Lucien,’ said Clay. ‘In spite of the fact that you said there was no point in lying because our IT people would find everything on your Apple Mac. What were you thinking?’

  ‘I didn’t think I was going to wind up in here because of my website. How sorry am I that I ever bothered. I’ll take the site down as soon as I get out.’

&nbs
p; ‘That might not be as soon as you think, or like, Lucien.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ There was a quiet note of horror in his voice.

  ‘We’ll start with your alibi. It’s got holes in it, Lucien.’

  ‘How come?’ The note grew louder, sharper.

  ‘Our IT specialist says that you could have easily left the house and transferred your work from, say, your iPhone or iPad on to your Mac. Making it look like you were all tucked up at home and being a model student. You could have even done your homework on your Mac in the victims’ house with one corpse and one captive for company. Or, click of a button while you’re actually in 699 Mather Avenue on your phone or iPad, it transfers to your Mac. We’ll know for sure when we delve deeper into your devices.’

  ‘Good luck to them. I was at home working on my Mac. In the house – 222 Springwood Avenue.’

  ‘Lucien, you’ve told us lies.’

  ‘I haven’t!’ He glanced at his solicitor, distressed.

  ‘You said you’d never heard of Steven Jamieson. Remember?’

  ‘Yes, I was telling the truth.’

  ‘Well, look what we found, very cleverly hidden, on the hard drive of your Apple Mac?’

  Clay turned the paper over, pushed it towards Lucien and pointed at Steven Jamieson’s name. ‘Between eleven o’clock and half past eleven last night, this list of names and addresses was wiped from your Mac’s history. You used all kinds of obstacles to hide it on your hard drive. Why did you do that?’

  ‘Tell the truth, Lucien,’ advised his solicitor.

  ‘He lived around the corner from you, didn’t he?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Mather Avenue’s, like, a very long road with hundreds of houses on it. He could have lived at the Tesco end or could’ve lived next to the synagogue or backing on to Garston or anywhere in between.’

  ‘OK,’ said Clay. ‘You’re a young man with a profound hatred of paedophiles. So far, you’re coming over as well organised, self-disciplined and above all committed to, at the very least, scaring paedophiles out of their wits or even facilitating physical harm to them through others. You’re not going to leave that gap in the list when all you have to do is go to Allerton Library and pull the electoral register.’