All Saints- Murder on the Mersey

by Brian L. Porter

  “You look knackered,” Thompson said as he took a seat in the visitor chair opposite Ross's desk. “You should go home, get some rest, carry on with all this in the morning.”

  “That's a pretty good assessment of my current condition, George,” Ross replied with a wry grin. “You should be a detective.”

  “Ha, ha, very funny, Andy. I think I'll stick to what I do best, thanks. Speaking of which, how can I help you?”

  “I have an idea, and you could maybe help us in identifying the two older boys who quite probably instigated everything while the boys were at Speke Hill. I still believe Remington and Proctor were nothing more than followers and the older lads were the ringleaders of this bloody horrendous perverted quartet.”

  “Okay, what do you want me to do?”

  “Can you put out a new press release, George? I want to appeal to the public without them really knowing the extent of the crimes Remington and Proctor were involved in.”

  “Hang on,” said Thompson. “I thought you had no evidence to suggest Proctor committed any crime?”

  “We don't as yet, but I'm sure we'll find it, soon enough. Meanwhile, I want to put out a public appeal for anyone who knew Matthew Remington and Mark Proctor during their time at Speke Hill, to com forward with any information they can give us about their childhood. If anyone remembers them well, they might just be able to recall the names of the older lads they were knocking around with in their teens. If we can put surnames to Luke and John, we're well on our way to identifying two more potential victims for our killers. For all we know they're planning to hit one or both of the other men any time now, and I don't want another bloody and gutted corpse on my hands if I can avoid it.”

  “No problem,” Thompson replied. “It's an ingenious idea actually, Andy. I can word it so that readers think they're assisting us in finding the killers, which they are of course, in a way, but mainly, they're helping you to identify two rapists and potential victims for the churchyard killers.”

  “You've got it, George. Can you do it by tomorrow?”

  “Of course. I'll have it ready by the morning briefing for you if that's okay.”

  “You don't mind? It means I'm asking to stay and work while I'm swanning off home for the evening.”

  “Don't be silly, Andy. I can compose the new release while I'm sitting watching TV with my wife. She doesn't like me to talk and interrupt her while Coronation Street's on the box, anyway.”

  “You're a star, George. Tell Liz thanks for me for butting in on your evening.”

  “Thanks for what? I just said, she'll welcome the silence emanating from my armchair, so you're doing her the favour, not the other way round. She should be thanking you for giving her a completely George free half hour while she watches The Street.”

  Andy Ross laughed, and after Thompson said goodnight and left his office, the D. I. rose from his desk, stretched his tired limbs and was soon following the Press Officer out of the building, looking forward to spending some quality time with Maria.

  * * *

  A few miles away, on a small estate of industrial units in the Garston area of the city, work had also come to an end for the day. Situated to the south of the city centre, Garston was in the midst of much urban redevelopment, with large areas of its old Victorian terraced housing being redeveloped and improved and modern housing replacing much of the old red brick back-to-backs. The area's claims to fame lay in having been the home at one time of singer Billy Fury and of Ray McFall, owner of the Cavern Club, who first booked The Beatles.

  Garston also stands as a huge container port, independent of the Port of Liverpool, and is regarded as a separate port altogether. It was close to the container port that the small gathering of units stood not more than a quarter mile from the main complex.

  John Selden pulled his rather battered old Audi 100 to a halt in the car park, outside one of the larger units on the estate. Most of the businesses had closed for the day and the only lights visible as evening drew closer and a slight mist crept in from the Mersey, were in the unit whose name was picked out in bright red lettering, against the corrugated grey metal walls of the building.

  Selden looked up at the name, A. J. Devereux & Son, Ships Chandlers, (Wholesale Only), killed the engine of the Audi, switched off his sidelights and exited the car, being sure to lock it before walking the few yards to the door that was marked 'Office' and knocking firmly, the sound of his knocking seeming to echo and reverberate from within. Second later the door was opened from within and a hand reached through the smallest of gaps and Selden felt himself being pulled bodily into the building. Before he could speak a word, the door slammed shut and a hand reached past him and turned the key in the lock, trapping Selden inside the building.

  “Bloody hell, Lucas, you almost scared me to death,” he protested when he was released by the grasping hand and turned to see the man he'd been summoned to meet standing before him. Lucas, (Luke) Devereux, the 'son' in the company name, was the sole proprietor of the business. There'd never been an A.J. Devereux of course, the name being nothing more than a fabrication by Lucas aimed at giving his business an air of additional credibility, longevity and respectability. If anyone queried his ancestry, Lucas would play on his true past as an orphan made good, and sentiment always brought understanding at the pretence he'd set up to give his business a family feel to make up for the real family he'd been denied in his youth. Thankfully, there was nothing illegal in adopting such a practice, or his business ploy might have had a detrimental effect on his current plans to enter parliament, as Liverpool's latest political 'whizz-kid' after serving successfully on the local council for the previous five years. As things stood, Devereux had emerged as the narrow favourite to win a seat in parliament at the forthcoming by-election, brought on by the death of the sitting M.P. and now just one week away.

  Business was doing well, thanks to his shrewd tactics of dealing wholesale only, and thus being able to order, if necessary, a ship's boiler for delivery direct to the customer, without needing the massive storage space other such businesses might require. His customers ranged from the individual owner of a Fleetwood trawler to a couple of smaller container shipping lines, always on the lookout for a cheap deal or a discount, which Devereux was prepared to give in order to expand future business opportunities. The burgeoning use of the internet for marketing opportunities had also opened up whole new vistas for his business. Things could only get better!

  “Come in, sit down and fucking shut up whining,” Devereux said, and Selden could smell the unmistakable aroma of whisky on his breath.

  “What's wrong, Lucas?” asked an already jittery Selden, who'd been waiting to hear from Devereux since his return from Mykonos.

  “Read that,” said Devereux, sinking into his leather office chair behind a large and almost barren desk, and passing a small A5 sheet of paper into Selden's hand as he stood next to Devereux's desk.

  Selden did as he was bidden and read the few words that had been pasted to the sheet of paper, letters cut from a newspaper like some old style ransom demand in a movie.

  YOU WILL NEVER SIT IN PARLIAMENT, LUKE!

  “You think this is from the killer, don't you?” Selden asked, his own hand shaking as he held the offending message.

  “Of course it is,” Devereux replied. “It's fucking obvious isn't it? Only people who knew me as a boy would call me Luke. Everyone calls me by my real first name nowadays. They intend to do away with me before the election, Johnny boy, but I won't just sit back and be an easy target for the murdering bastard.”

  “When did it arrive?”

  “Today, of course, you fucking dimwit. You don't think I'd have sat on it for days without letting you know, do you?”

  “But Lucas, It might not be from the killer. Maybe it's from some disgruntled voter or political opponent.”

  “Oh, for fuck's sake, get real Johnny. I know the police would probably say that if I reported it to them. They'd say politicians are al
ways getting hate mail and stuff like that. If it had said, 'You're next to die' or something like that, they'd perhaps have taken it seriously, but this is just ambiguous enough, at least to the cops, not to constitute what they'd see as a valid threat to my life, but I know it's from whoever killed Matt and Mark, I just know it is.”

  “So, what can you, we, do?”

  “I'm going to hire some muscle, Johnny boy. First thing tomorrow, I'm hiring a couple of bodyguards to be with me twenty four hours a day.”

  “Yeah, right, but where does that leave me?”

  Devereux stood, walked to the small window that overlooked the car park, and turned to face Selden. At six foot three, Devereux stood well clear of Selden's five foot nine, but with Selden seated in the chair, and Devereux's blonde hair, highlighted by the fluorescent lighting in the room adding a rugged Nordic look to the man, he appeared much taller to Selden, far more imposing.

  “You, Johnny? You don't think I'd desert my old mate, do you?”

  “Er, well, what do you…?”

  “You're moving in with me tomorrow, Johnny boy. Whoever this crazy bastard is, he'll find it a damn sight harder to get to either of us if we're both together. He can't get to us while we're at work, we're both businessmen, so if we stick together like glue outside of working hours, we should be safe, and if he dares try to come near either of us, the bodyguards will have him for sure.”

  “But Lucas, we can't stay together like that for the rest of our lives, man. It's okay for you. You've got people around you all day. As for being businessmen, you've got this place plus your council work. Me? Some businessman, with a massive fleet of two ice cream vans. I don't think Mr. Speedy Cream ranks anywhere near your bloody business empire, do you? Plus, I'm on the road nearly all day. I'm fucking easy prey out there on my own. We've got to hope the cops find out who it is and arrests them before he can get to us.”

  “Johnny, what did I tell you? We can't tell the cops a thing without incriminating ourselves. We have to handle this on our own.”

  “But, how can we stop whoever it is?”

  “By setting a trap and catching the bastard ourselves and then making sure he never lives to tell the tale.”

  “You mean, kill him?”

  “It's kill or be killed now, Johnny. The cops seem to think there might be two killers working together according to the press, so we might have two to dispose of. Look, if you're that nervous, go home now, pack a bag and come back to my place tonight. We'll talk strategy and work out how we're going to sort this out when the bastard decides to make a move. It's bloody obvious he, or they, want to get to me before you, so they can screw up my election campaign.”

  John Selden felt that Devereux's plan, if it could even be called a plan, had more holes in it than a leaky colander, but for the time being, he could think of nothing better. Lucas had always been the brains of their group, his own work as an ice cream salesman often helping by allowing him to trawl the streets and often identify potential targets for their attacks, but Selden himself had never been a decision maker. That had always been Luke's domain. He knew his limitations, and saw himself as a faithful lieutenant, able to organise the two younger men at Luke's direction as and when they needed to get together for a new 'mission' as Luke always called their attacks on their unsuspecting victims.

  * * *

  With new-found confidence, Vera Manvers made a phone call, and after five minutes talking to her murderous partner, she felt the thrill and exhilaration of the next kill beginning to course through her veins.

  “We need to move quickly, Vera,” he said. He'd got used to always addressing her by the Vera Manvers name, giving him less chance of any slip ups if he revealed her true identity. “That bastard, Devereux, he really thinks he's going to win a seat in the House of Commons. If only the people in his party and all his supporters knew what he'd done, they'd want to crucify him. I'd almost like to see him live, go to jail and let the prisoners inside subject him to the type of homosexual gang rape his pretty boy looks would attract, but once they knew he's a multiple rapist, I think they'd just do him in anyway, so I'd rather we had the pleasure of that little task.”

  “Yes,” said Vera, “and anyway, we can still give him a real pain in the arse before we slit his throat, if you know what I mean.”

  The laughter that erupted from the other end of the line made Vera hold the phone away from her ear for a second until it subsided.

  “Why, Vera Manvers,” the man said at length, “I do believe you're suggesting a little sadistic pleasure wouldn't go amiss in dealing with Mr. Lucas Devereux.

  “How did you guess?” she grinned as she spoke. “Was it something I said?” and the two of them collapsed into a short, joint paroxysm of laughter.

  * * *

  Neither of them could be bothered to cook, so Andy and Maria Ross settled for a Cantonese banquet meal from their local Chinese Takeaway, while Izzie Drake and Peter Foster decided against visiting the cinema to see Toby McGuire starring in Spider Man, and enjoyed an evening of steamy sex at Foster's flat instead.

  As the opening credits of Coronation Street rolled on the television in the home of P.L.O. George Thompson, his wife's attention riveted to the screen, Thompson instead sat making notes in preparation for his new press release as requested by Ross.

  The lights in the office of A. J. Devereux & Son finally went off around the time the credits of 'The Street' faded and Lucas Devereux stepped from the now darkened building, walking briskly across the car park to the space reserved for his sleek, black, classic, Jaguar XJ6. He'd sent Johnny Selden home a half hour earlier, and arranged to meet up with him at his city flat, overlooking Albert Dock, a little after eight.

  With none of the other businesses on the estate working at night, the car park possessed a slightly eerie, ghost-like quality as the mist of another damp evening rolled in from the Irish Sea and up the Mersey Channel. Devereux shivered involuntarily and hurried to his car, which started first time, as always, and he quickly reached behind him and grabbed hold of the seat belt, pulling it forwards and clipping it into place.

  As he reached the wide, double-gated entrance to the industrial estate, ready to pull out onto the encircling estate road which then led to the main road out of Garston, he checked in both directions, and seeing the road clear both ways, began to edge out onto the road. It was at that moment that Lucas Devereux felt the force of a rear-end collision that pitched him forward and just as quickly, back again as his seat belt did its job. Cursing, he looked in the rear view mirror, to see the front of a large white van which must have followed him from the car park. The driver, probably half asleep, had shunted his van smack into the gleaming rear of Devereux's pride and joy, and anger overtook his other emotions as he almost flung himself from the car and ran to the rear to assess the damage.

  “What the hell were you doing?” he shouted in the direction of the van. “Couldn't you see me right there in front of you?”

  Instead of receiving a reply, Devereux instead watched incredulously as the driver's door of the Transit van slowly opened and a pair of very shapely, totally feminine, stockinged legs appeared, followed by the rest of an extremely good looking woman, her blonde hair partially obscuring her face. Devereux's attention was totally fixed on the figure before him as she turned to face him and smiled an enigmatic, knowing smile at the exact instant a man stepped up behind Devereux and the last thing he felt before collapsing to the ground was the short, sharp jab of the hypodermic needle containing a fast acting sedative that was thrust into his neck by the man who'd crept up silently behind him from his hiding place just outside the gates, while his attention was fixed on the legs and the alluring figure of the woman from the van.

  Chapter 31

  Devereux's Demise

  The Stygian blackness that filled the mind of Lucas Devereux slowly gave way to a feeling of general nausea and restricted movement. He felt as if he was in some kind of box, and panic gripped his fevered mind as the t
hought he might be in a coffin, buried alive, took hold of his thoughts, only to be dispelled a minute or two later as his senses returned sufficiently for him to ascertain that he was tied hand and foot, secured with plastic ties and his eyes, gradually focussing once more, just managed to tell him he was in a darkened room with a concrete floor on which he was lying sideways, on his right, a garage perhaps, or a warehouse of some kind? His mouth felt strange; as though his lips were prised open and he tried, but was unable to speak or scream or do anything but make strange, incoherent noises. He'd been rendered silent by a ball gag.

  The realisation suddenly dawned on him that he was naked. Naked and as vulnerable as a new born baby. Waves of panic and nausea again gripped Lucas Devereux as he realised his plans for self-preservation had been laid too late. He had no doubts he was in the hands of the killer or killers of Matthew Remington and Mark Proctor. Struggling as much as he could, he attempted to free himself but quickly realised it was hopeless. Not only were his hands and feet immobilised by the plastic ties, but a long length of something, thin rope he assumed, kept him in a hog-tied position, hand behind him and legs bent backwards at a grossly uncomfortable angle.

  Despite the ball gag, Lucas attempted to shout, scream, make any kind of sound to try and call for help, all to no avail. It was useless, hopeless and as the fear of his situation took hold of his almost fully conscious mind, Devereux shivered in trepidation as he thought of the press reports on the deaths of his friends. They hadn't revealed a lot, but what they had been able to report sounded horrific enough. He had to hope his quick wits and silver tongue might still find a way out of this situation. Money, yes, he thought. Maybe I can buy my way out of here.

  A strange sound reached his ears. Though clearing, his mind was still slightly befuddled and he couldn't work out what it was. Then he knew. It could only be the sound of old, rusted iron gates swinging open. The metallic grating was followed by the unmistakable sound of stiletto heels tottering down the series of steps that led to his cold, grim place of incarceration.