I have a lovely calendar on the wall of my cell. Nice wee girls bearing all. Keeps me sane, if you know what I mean? Only a few months to go before I can party. When I get out I will definitely have another crack at Inspector Tara Grogan. You see, once I choose a girl I don’t ever give up until I have them. Might even try one of her mates. That wee red-head, the nurse, had a lovely arse. Who knows, if you’re a bit of a looker, I might even come after you.
LETHAL JUSTICE
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Epilogue
Prologue
25 Years Ago
Laughter filled the night as the flames reached to the darkness. His eyes watered from the sweet but sickening smoke, and tears ran on his cheeks until he smudged them away with his grubby hand. Bottles clinked as figures stood, arms around shoulders, lovers kissing and drinking, unsteady on their feet. His eyes never left the flames, his young face glowing from the heat that penetrated the flimsy denim of his trousers and warmed his legs. A few feet away, close to the stone wall, a girl lay on the ground, moaning, while the heavy frame of a bearded man writhed awkwardly between her legs. Through the flames he watched a man strum his guitar, while a girl in her nightdress danced barefoot, a rolled fag in one hand, a beer bottle in the other. Another man ambled toward the guitarist and joined in the music with a tin whistle, and the sounds of a reel cut through the night. More joined in the dancing. All drunk, or drunk and stoned. And still he peered into the flames, into the glowing of embers forming from the combusted remains of the lifeless body. His mother.
And they danced around the pyre. Singing, laughing, embracing. Women, young and not so young, gave themselves to the men, drunk men with only the strength now to fondle breasts and squeeze bottoms. Other kids copied the adults, drinking, smoking, fondling. Men chased young girls around the yard, feigning a silly game when all they wanted was sex. And he peered into the fire, thinking only of his beautiful mother. Why were these people rejoicing when he had lost so much? And they ignored him as the music played. Some eased away from the fire, holding hands, moving to darker corners of the farmyard, a few entering the big stone house and others to the hay barn. They had no time for him now. He didn’t belong here anymore. But he would remember them. He would never forget what they had done. He would run. Run for his life. Hope for a new one, a fresh start. Find someone who would love him, just like his mother.
The blonde girl, half his age, in a white lace dress entrenched with dirt and the smoke from the fire, clutched her Jemima doll. She didn’t understand. She didn’t know her mother was gone forever. That her body now fuelled the fire and sent the smoke that stung her eyes. She didn’t know anything. He clasped her hand and stepped back slowly from the flames. No one in the yard seemed to notice as the pair edged further into the darkness. A few more backward steps. He shushed his sister and tugged her gently away from the outbuildings. Soon they were on the lane and he began to run, encouraging her to keep up. The noises from the party faded, and he told his sister not to look back. They had to keep going. He would never stop until they reached safety. He would find someone to look after them far away from the fear they’d left behind. But he would never forget.
The glow from the fire was hidden now as the trail wound into the woods. No one was coming after them, he told himself. They had nothing to fear from the darkness. He longed for rest but knew he must keep going. His sister cried and shivered at his side. He pulled off his coat, only a light anorak but he made her put it on. He tucked her doll inside and closed the zipper. All the while he spoke words of comfort, promising that wonderful times were coming. A new family, a new mother, a beautiful house with a garden and a swing and a fish pond. All the food they could eat, burgers, ice-cream and chocolate buttons. They just had to get away. She listened, and his promises helped her fear and the coat warmed her arms. And they moved further into darkness, away from the light.
He would never forget.
Chapter 1
Present Day
She’d never stood quite so close to Detective Superintendent Harold Tweedy before. He seemed to draw comfort from their touching arms. To be honest, she did too. Never particularly strong at a crime scene, Tara shivered in the night frost. Her toes were frozen and felt detached from her feet. Weariness from being roused from her night’s sleep prompted the urge to yawn continuously, but she managed to stifle them. Everyone present had to endure the lateness of the hour and the freezing air; she was no one special. Lights had been strung up above the body of the victim as the Medical Officer, Dr Brian Witney, set about his examination. Neither detective could bring themselves to look away from the body, stripped to the waist and stretched out, open-arms and open legs across a circular wooden frame that resembled an old cartwheel. Hands had been strapped to the frame with fine rope, but flat-headed nails, four inches of cold steel, had been hammered an inch or so into the open palms. The feet, bare, had been attached to the wooden ring by nylon rope with nails penetrating below the ankle bone. Besides the macabre, it was to Tara a puzzling scene, raising question after question. The entire wooden frame rested against the trunk of a tree with the feet of the victim uppermost.
‘He’s been dead around five or six hours,’ said Witney, a pathologist of fifty-something, functional manner and a middle-age spread. ‘We’ll know better when we get back to the lab.’
Tweedy nodded, remaining silent. Sometimes it was best to simply absorb the scene, save questions for later, for the cold light of day.
‘What’s that attached to the wood, Brian?’ asked Tara, stepping toward the frame. The pat
hologist had taken no notice of such things, he more concerned with the condition of the corpse. ‘Can we get more light on this?’ she called out to the forensic team.
Someone adjusted the angle of one of the arc lights, and Tara moved closer to the frame. At the uppermost portion of the circle several lines of text on a typed sheet, within a polythene sleeve, had been stapled to the wood.
‘Therefore shall they eat of the fruit of their own way, and be filled with their own devices.’
She glanced back at Tweedy, who merely nodded slowly. She’d never seem him look so disturbed at a crime scene. He had years of doing this, all hours of the day and night, in all weathers. His experience helped him cope better than most. But under the lights, within the canopy of trees, his lined face betrayed his age. He was, it seemed to Tara, an officer weary of his job, his responsibilities. Perhaps weary of life itself.
‘What do you think, sir?’
He pulled a handkerchief from his anorak pocket and wiped his nose.
‘Let’s leave it till we get back to the station, Tara. We’ve seen enough for now.’
‘Sir.’ She watched him pick his way through the detritus of autumn, reaching the narrow trail that led down the hill to the melee of police vehicles assembled on the lane. Her curiosity was piqued not only by the gruesome sights before her but also by the reaction of her boss to this latest case. If she didn’t know him better, she would suggest that he was actually frightened by what he had witnessed.
Standing alone as the forensic team continued to gather the evidence they would need to plan a strategy to solve this mystery, her own fears surfaced. Seldom did she look strong enough to endure such challenges, merely five-foot one inch tall, the face of a teenager but already at twenty-nine a host of unpleasant experiences chalked up. The grip of a shiver ran through her lower back, all the more intense in freezing temperatures where your breath condensed in front of your face. She pushed a lock of golden blonde hair away from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear, waiting for Brian Witney to issue his final comments before departing the scene. She scribbled down the inscription she’d read into her notebook, already forming an opinion that it held some religious significance, a biblical phrase perhaps.
‘A few injuries to the torso,’ said Witney, stepping close to DI Tara Grogan, his breath mingling with hers as he spoke. ‘At least one broken rib, and then the spikes through the hands and feet. Very sadistic.’
Tara studied the body as Witney continued.
‘Of course, Tara, you don’t need me to tell you the cause of death. Goodnight.’
‘Thanks, Brian.’ She smiled thinly as the pathologist walked off between the white tapes that now showed the way onto the trail through the trees. For the last time she surveyed the frame with the body cruelly attached, but, as Witney had said, she didn’t need to ponder on cause of death. She stared at the lower part of the frame. The victim’s head was missing.
Chapter 2
By tomorrow I’ll be out of this dump. Business as usual. Lots to do. Places to go, people to meet and, of course, girls ripe for the picking. Can’t wait. Okay, so I’ve had my wings clipped, my card marked. They know who I am now, but they don’t know what I’ve done. Not really. I got banged up for snatching that pretty wee cop, DI Tara Grogan, but then I didn’t get to finish the job. That big eejit DS Murray put the dampeners on my party of a lifetime. And Tara lived to tell the tale. Except she didn’t remember much, dear love her.
So now they know my name, James Guy, or Jim to my friends except I don’t have any of those. Not for a long time, not since I was a kid. I’ll be on the sex offenders register, so in theory the peelers can keep tabs on me. Watch where I go, what I do, who I meet. I’ll have to be careful when I get out. Always was careful, it’s just that I overstepped the mark with Tara. All my years of experience went out the window when I met her. Strange that a girl can have such an effect on a poor soul like me. More so when she was a cop. You see, what I like doing is taking a nice wee girl, giving her a shot of China White, fentanyl, so she’s out of it. I do my business with her and then, just to be tidy, I finish her off with a lethal dose. Dump the body at sea and I’m in the clear. Simple. But I made a balls of it with DI Tara Grogan.
Didn’t think I would survive prison at first. Place is full of friggin wierdos. And that’s only the inmates. Bloody screws aren’t much better. There’s blokes in here that have done some pretty disgusting stuff. Most of the kiddie fondlers are in the next wing, but I have to put up with blokes who’ve been violent with women, beating them up to get their way with them. Some of them just beat up girls, and that’s it. That’s their bag. And I never realised before that it’s a specialised activity. Some guys beat the crap out of their girlfriends but never touch the face. They just kick the poor girl in the stomach and back. Other eejits do the opposite, deliberately try to take away the girl’s good looks. There’s a boy down the hall from me poured acid on his girlfriend’s face while she was sleeping in their flat. Ronnie, in the cell next to mine, stalked some girl who’d been on Big Brother, and when she refused to have anything to do with him he drove his car into her, broke her hip and one of her legs. I told him to catch himself on. He’s fifty, and she was only nineteen. Didn’t like me judging him. I got a black eye for opening my big mouth. I’ve got worse than that in here though, just for being Irish. The screws don’t like that I come from across the water. I get the blame for every IRA bombing in England and the death of every British soldier in Northern Ireland. Really, I think it’s because they don’t like my cheek. They don’t like me talking back to them. You see, I regard myself as different from the other hallions in here. I’m classed as potentially violent because I got done for aggravated assault. Same as most of them. But nobody knows what I’ve really done. I’m no reckless woman-beater. I’m a seasoned collector of exquisite totty. I’ve worked hard to develop the ultimate method for taking women, drugging them, having great sex with them, and disposing of them when I’m finished. I suppose you could call it the perfect crime. So far it’s worked well for me. I’ve had dozens of pretty women who’ve never been seen again. Not a thing can be traced back to me. My only failure was my little friend DI Tara Grogan. Finest looking girl I’ve ever seen. Her bloody fault that I got banged up. But when I get out of here just try and stop me from having another go at her.
My plans this time have been well thought out. I’ve had little else to do in prison except dream up strategies to enhance my career. Sounds very business-like, doesn’t it? I am in possession of a business strategy, a way ahead, a new development process. Firstly, I’ll choose a few easy targets, nothing too difficult, just to get my mojo working. Seems a bit like a footballer coming back after a long-term injury, a couple of warm-up games before stepping into the big time. Test the water, see if I still have what it takes. Then, when I’m up and running, into cruise mode, I’ll start picking the good stuff, enjoy myself. And all the while you can be sure of it, I will keep my eyes on wee Tara. I haven’t finished with her. Not by a long way.
Chapter 3
When a new case emerged it was usually Superintendent Tweedy who first took charge of a white board to note the early findings of the incident. This morning at St Anne Street Station, however, it was Tara standing by the board jotting down what little they had so far learnt from this bizarre killing. Tweedy was not himself. Tara could see it, and she reckoned that even Alan Murray sensed it too.
‘Anything significant about the location?’ Tara asked. DS Murray, DC John Wilson and Tweedy were seated in the superintendent’s office. Murray scanned a page in his notebook.
‘Rough ground, under trees.’
‘Yes, but why Rimrose Country Park?’
‘No idea so far,’ Murray replied.
‘Any news on ID?’
‘Not yet. Nothing found at the scene,’ said Wilson.
‘We have estimated time of death between eight and ten last night. Anyone come forward who was in the area at this time?’ Tara wa
s already frustrated having so few details to record.
‘Get an appeal out for information, Alan,’ said Tweedy, surprising his colleagues by speaking for the first time since the meeting had begun.
‘John, can you tell us again about who made the discovery?’ asked Tara.
‘Yes, mam. Six teenagers, four lads and two girls found it at approximately one-thirty this morning. Girls are only fifteen, the lads sixteen to seventeen. They’ll not get over the sight easily.’
‘What on earth were they doing traipsing about the park at that hour of the morning?’
‘They had a few bottles of vodka with them. Having a bit of a laugh, I think.’
‘But it was minus two last night. Don’t they have school or college today?’
The broad-shouldered Wilson merely shrugged at Tara’s suggestion.
‘Any possibility that the kids were involved?’
Tweedy was already shaking his head.
‘Judging by the state they were in,’ said Wilson. ‘I very much doubt it.’
Tara was still wearing the clothes she’d worn when called to the scene in the middle of the night: slim jeans, T-shirt and a dark green, roll-neck jumper. She didn’t feel clean, her hair hastily tied back with a scrunchie, no make-up, and all the worse for lack of sleep. Her appearance this morning did little to betray the impression that she looked more like a sixth-former in the headmaster’s study rather than a Detective Inspector with the Merseyside Police.