Lethal Dose; Lethal Justice; Lethal Mind Read online

  THE LETHAL TRILOGY

  Robert McCracken

  © Robert McCracken 2018

  Robert McCracken has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published by Endeavour Media Ltd in 2018.

  Table of Contents

  LETHAL DOSE

  LETHAL JUSTICE

  LETHAL MINDS

  LETHAL DOSE

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Author Note

  Chapter 1

  Guy

  Chapter 2

  Tara

  Chapter 3

  Guy

  Chapter 4

  Tara

  Chapter 5

  Guy

  Chapter 6

  Tara

  Chapter 7

  Guy

  Chapter 8

  Tara

  Chapter 9

  Guy

  Chapter 10

  Tara

  Chapter 11

  Guy

  Chapter 12

  Tara

  Chapter 13

  Guy

  Chapter 14

  Tara

  Chapter 15

  Guy

  Chapter 16

  Tara

  Chapter 17

  Guy

  Chapter 18

  Tara

  Chapter 19

  Guy

  Chapter 20

  Tara

  Chapter 21

  Guy

  Chapter 22

  Tara

  Chapter 23

  Guy

  Chapter 24

  Tara

  Chapter 25

  Guy

  Chapter 26

  Tara

  Chapter 27

  Guy

  Chapter 28

  Tara

  Chapter 29

  Guy

  Chapter 30

  Tara

  Chapter 31

  Guy

  Chapter 32

  Tara

  Chapter 33

  Guy

  Chapter 34

  Tara

  Chapter 35

  Guy

  Chapter 36

  Tara

  Chapter 37

  Guy

  Chapter 38

  Tara

  Chapter 39

  Tara

  Chapter 40

  Guy

  Chapter 41

  Tara

  Chapter 42

  Guy

  Chapter 43

  Tara

  Chapter 44

  Tara

  Chapter 45

  Guy

  Chapter 46

  Tara

  Chapter 47

  Tara

  Chapter 48

  Guy

  Chapter 49

  Tara

  Chapter 50

  Tara

  Chapter 51

  Tara

  Chapter 52

  Guy

  Chapter 53

  Tara

  Chapter 54

  Tara

  Chapter 55

  Tara

  Chapter 56

  Guy

  Chapter 57

  Tara

  Chapter 58

  Tara

  Chapter 59

  Tara

  Chapter 60

  Tara

  Chapter 61

  Tara

  Chapter 62

  Tara

  Chapter 63

  Guy

  Chapter 64

  Tara

  Chapter 65

  Guy

  Chapter 66

  Guy

  Chapter 67

  Tara

  Chapter 68

  Guy

  For

  Suzie, Sarah and David.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to express my sincere thanks to Jack Butler and everyone at Endeavour Press for giving me the opportunity to have my novels published. My deepest gratitude also to Cheryl, Monika and Sinead, girls who voluntarily read my stories and gave honest feedback when I had no other outlet for my work. It will always be remembered. Thanks also to big Davie Laird who kindly read and cast a critical eye over this particular story. All I did was supply the coffee. Finally, I would have achieved nothing without the love and support of my family, my wife Suzie, daughter Sarah and son David. Proud of you all.

  Author Note

  The characters portrayed in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental and unintentional.

  Chapter 1

  Guy

  I called her Holly, it being close to Christmas. You don’t have to know her real name. None of your business. I give all my girl’s a name that suits them. This one looked like a Holly, so Holly was her name.

  8.50pm. I knew it wouldn’t be long. I’d checked every night for a week, and I didn’t usually get things wrong. Not like this. You see, we’re all creatures of habit. She wouldn’t dare be late.

  It was one of those nights when there’s hardly a sinner about. Dark, the wind whipping the rain into your face. A night for being home in front of a warm fire, cup of cocoa, a nice horror movie on the Blu-ray. But not for me. I love being out in bad weather; it makes my work so much easier.

  Three minutes to the hour and she rounded the corner into the avenue. From 40 yards off I couldn’t make out what she was wearing, but at this stage it didn’t matter. She was already chosen. I squeezed hard on the rubber ball in my right hand. Saved me touching myself.

  I sat tight in my van. No need to rush; no need to panic. Big old houses in this street hidden behind overgrown hedgerows. Most of them no longer occupied by families, taken over by charities or dentists, and one I noticed was the office of a bloody shrink.

  I knew she couldn’t see me; her head was down, uncovered, long dark hair soaked but still blowing in the gale. Her flimsy denim jacket gave little protection, her skinny jeans darkened from the rain and her suede ankle boots stained with the dirty water off the pavement. Only ten yards to go.

  As she passed between my van and a hedge I opened the door, jumped out and was around the back in time to meet her.

  Never give them a chance to scream.

  Before she could even squeak my hand was on her neck. Under her throat and pushing upwards. Try screaming now. I stepped closer, forcing her back. Not a thing could she do about it. Her eyes bulged, doing all the yelling for her. Pitifully weak hands came up to fight me off. No chance. When you control a body by the head you control all of it.

  I slid open the side door of the van and forced her inside. She kicked out. It made a noise, not very helpful, but it was a dark and windy night. No one here. No one to care. I had a strip of gaffer tape ready, dangling from the bulkhead. Heavy duty stuff. Still gripping her neck with my right hand, I stuck the tape across her tiny mouth with my left. Releasing her throat, I grabbed her by the wrists. Again, nothing she could do. I had a cable tie ready and waiting and, in a second, her hands were secured behind her back. Another cable tie around her ankles and then I shoved her down on the mattress. Finally, I removed a syringe from my bag, a quick jab to her arm with the needle, and at last I could draw breath and relax a little.

  I left her in the back, trying to scream, trying to kick her way to freedom. In a few minutes she wouldn’t be able to do either. A last look around the empty street, then I climbed behind the wheel and we were off.

  This country is littered with lonely places. Easy to find. Twenty minutes later, I bounced over a stony track that in a few yards became grass and sand, and I rolled to a halt on a little rise overloo
king the Irish Sea, the tide on the ebb, white foam peaking on the waves. So romantic it was. I heard her body thud against the side of the van when I came to a halt, but I knew by now she was completely powerless. Out of it.

  Climbing in beside her, I switched on the overhead lamp, its dull yellow glow showing up the pale face against dark clothes and hair. She was still conscious. Only just. Her eyes were lazy and rolling in her head. I pulled off the tape and cut the binds on her hands and feet. Couldn’t do much with her, while she was all tethered. I saw her trying to focus, trying to visualise what was about to befall her and yet without a care or a fear now to call out. She would never remember. Wouldn’t have to. I pulled off her wet jacket, her boots and her tight jeans. She couldn’t lie there all night in soaking wet clothes; she’d catch her end. I paused for a moment to look at her neat little body. Not much of her, but that’s the way I like them. If they’re too big then most likely they’re too strong and will put up a much bigger fight. A size eight fits the bill for me. And before you start getting the wrong idea, I don’t do bloody kids.

  I kicked off my shoes and pulled off my trousers, then I edged closer to wee Holly and lay beside her, pulling her close to me, passing my warmth to her beautiful body. Stroking her long damp hair, I slid it away from her cute face and watched her drift in and out of sleep. She had blue eyes, a slender nose, small mouth and thin lips. She had the sort of face that made her look clever, confident, a girl who found it easy to have friends and to attract lovers. But I didn’t give a shit about that. Now she was with me. I’d watched her for weeks; catching the morning bus to work, walking to her office in the city, hurrying with girlfriends to lunch at Starbucks. Home to mum for tea twice a week, Saturdays at the pub, usually with a crowd of girls and blokes. I knew as much as I needed to know about Holly, and I’d used all my knowledge to arrive at that moment.

  When I felt us both warmer, I rose to my knees and removed her jumper and T-shirt. Reaching underneath her, I released her white bra and pulled it away. There wasn’t much there, but it’s a small price to pay when you go for petites. Finally, I slipped her panties down, sighed at the beauty before me then did what I had to do. I’m not telling you all the details. I’m no pervert, you know.

  Sometimes, if you get the dose just right, they come around slightly when you’re doing the business. I swear they’re so spaced out some of them, not knowing what is happening to them, they actually get into it and enjoy it. With some, though, you don’t get any feedback; they just lie there and take what’s coming to them.

  I’m no super-stud, but I know how to enjoy myself. After the first time I take a break, catch me breath, lie beside her again, caress her sleeping body, and if I feel like it I’ll have another go. It’s just that when it’s finished I always feel deflated, like the thrill was all in the anticipation and not in the doing.

  I held Holly for a few minutes more and then removed another syringe from my bag. Most girls won’t remember anything when it’s over, but I can’t take the risk. They have to go. With the second jab there would be no coming round for Holly.

  I’m really just an average guy. You won’t have heard of me. That’s the way I want to keep it.

  Chapter 2

  Tara

  Tara pulled in behind the car she knew to be that of Superintendent Tweedy. Another early start, a flat grey sky and a tumbling sea 300 yards over the sands of Crosby Beach. She lingered in her car noting the figures, upright, gazing to the horizon, Another Place, the statues of Antony Gormley keeping watch on a stretch of Lancashire coastline. A hundred lonely figures in a lonely place. And to what had they recently been witness?

  A white incident tent stood over whatever had transpired here. From 100 yards she recognised her colleagues DS Alan Murray and Superintendent Harold Tweedy as they emerged from the shelter and paced slowly around, looking out to sea, then along the beach.

  She gave a deep sigh, her stomach already knotted as it was for all these chilling events. Had to be better ways of getting by in this life. Gathering her bag from the passenger seat, she yawned then opened the door into the stiff wind tearing along the strand. A couple of uniforms stood by the roadside, ready to keep the interested public and the eager press at bay, although why someone who didn’t need to be here at this ungodly hour would care to stand on a beach and watch a few adults coming and going from a tent she had no sane answer.

  One of the uniforms smiled thinly and nodded at her as she walked by, no doubt bemused at the appearance of such a young looking detective inspector, who had often to show her ID to confirm that she was indeed old enough to be classed an adult never mind a police officer. She picked her steps carefully over an uneven grass verge and onto the sand. Early autumn, but the wind cut at her face, the chill stealing down her neck as she walked briskly toward the scene. Hands thrust deep in her anorak pockets helped the belief that she felt warm.

  ‘Morning, mam,’ said Murray, much too cheerful for Tara.

  ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘Morning glory.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s a song, mam. Oasis?’

  Murray received a glare for his trouble. Tara was in no mood for quips. Even a smile was hard to come by at a crime scene. Murray should have known better. By now, should know her better.

  ‘One male, dead. It’s not pleasant, Tara.’

  Again the glare as Murray reverted to names. He frequently overlooked her rank of Detective Inspector to his Sergeant. Two years of working together had told her that Murray would never get used to her seniority. He was eight years older and had ten years more service. She was 28, looked 16, but she still out-ranked him.

  ‘I suppose I should take a look now that I’m here,’ she said, walking toward the open flap of the tent. At that point Superintendent Tweedy approached, his thin and lined face and pale complexion all the more bleak in this exposed location. She thought him rather like one of those emaciated Dickens characters loitering on the streets of London or running some god-forsaken boarding school in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘Good morning, Tara,’ he said warmly, his manner filled with more compassion than his looks. ‘Brace yourself. This is not for the faint-hearted.’

  She replied with a dull ‘sir’, then followed him to the shelter. At first she saw nothing but the pathologist and two scene-of-crime officers all clad in white cover-alls, but as they stepped aside she felt her stomach rise and a pain shooting through her head. An arc lamp suspended from the overhead pole of the tent shone down upon very pale skin on the legs of the victim, weather-beaten, bleached already by sand and salt air. This gave way to a mass of deep red pulp at the crotch then a trail of blood down the torso, where the body disappeared beneath the damp sand. No head or arms visible, most of the upper body was buried. The man, for that is what this carnage of human flesh had once been, had been planted naked, his legs hanging askew, prised apart and bent at the knees.

  ‘The genitals have been removed,’ said Tweedy in that matter-of-fact way that only her boss could manage. Tara forced herself to look again at the profusion of blood and tissue between the victim’s legs.

  ‘We found his other bits further along the beach,’ Murray put in. ‘Not sure if they were dumped there or if they got moved after the event.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tara asked.

  ‘Well, the seagulls are at them now.’

  ‘See what you can do about that, Alan,’ said Tweedy. ‘If you’ve seen enough, Tara, we can step outside.’

  She had a final inspection of the body, not a vision to slip easily from the mind, then she stepped into the breeze with her boss. Murray bounded off to scare away the seagulls feasting on what was left of the victim’s genitals.

  ‘Do we know who he is, sir?’ Tara asked.

  ‘A coat and trousers were found near the promenade. There was a wallet and a mobile phone in the pockets. We think it’s Terry Lawler; I’m sure you’ve heard of him, Tara?’

  Instinctively, she g
azed over the sand to the gathering posse of press and media. Terry Lawler used to be one of them.

  ‘I haven’t heard or seen him for a while, sir.’

  ‘He went freelance a couple of years back but seemed to retain the ability to rattle cages and get up people’s noses.’

  ‘Any ideas on motive or suspects?’

  ‘I believe that’s where you come in, Tara. Knowing Mr Lawler as I did, I’m quite sure he managed to acquire a few enemies in the course of his journalistic career.’

  ‘Yes, sir. If I can get a look at the wallet and phone and start from there.’

  ‘That’s fine. We’ll meet at 10am in my office and see what we’ve got.’

  Tweedy strode off toward Murray who was trying his best to keep a pair of large herring gulls away from the severed remains of the murder victim. Tara forced herself to re-enter the tent to have a word with Dr Brian Witney, the duty pathologist.

  It was a timely entrance, for the body, having been photographed, was now being freed from its mooring in the ground. The two SOCOs shovelled sand away from the torso while Witney held firm to the victim’s legs. When he finally came free, the body slumped, face down. Witney and the SOCOs quickly turned him over and Tara got her first look at the battered face of the man they believed to be Terry Lawler. Copious amounts of sand remained on the head and clung to the thick strands of hair. Dark, congealed blood mixed with sand smothered the mouth and nose, and both eye sockets were filled with the gruesome blend. Again that surge of painful shiver coursed through her, not helped in any way by the rising stench of rotting seaweed.

  ‘What do you reckon, Brian?’ she asked.

  Witney stood upright, groaned a little, massaging his lower back. He was a man in his 50s, unshaven, tall and once athletic but now heading for a weight problem. He peered down at her over his thick glasses and smiled, as he always did when she met him.

  ‘I’d say he’s been dead about five hours. Hard to be entirely accurate with half of him in the ground and the other pointing skywards.’

  ‘Do you think he was dead before…?’

  ‘Before the castration? Don’t know yet. My guess is he was beaten, buried and, while technically still alive, the killer did his cutting.’