The Domino Killer Read online

  And then Sam remembered the flowers. It was more like a date than a final handshake on the job being done. Had vodkagirl offered more reward than just a lid on his secrets? Henry Mason was waiting at the park for a liaison, flowers in his hand. He was expecting to meet an underage girl for sex. What had vodkagirl said? Kill my abuser and you can have me? Take my virginity? Had that been enough for Mason?

  What he’d met instead was a hammer wielded by Mark Proctor. Vodkagirl had served her purpose. Proctor had used the fake profile to get Mason to kill Welsby, and then he’d killed Mason to destroy the trail. By posing as an underage girl, he’d guaranteed that Henry Mason wouldn’t mention her or the meeting and covered his tracks properly, except Proctor didn’t cover them well enough. He didn’t always go through the proxy server.

  Sam had felt like punching the air. He’d got Proctor.

  But why kill Henry Mason at all? The link between Proctor and Keith Welsby was clear enough, but there was no clear link between Proctor and Mason? Henry Mason was never going to talk, and Proctor exposed himself by killing Mason. There had to be something else.

  And what about the murder the night before, the body Joe had found in Worsley? Proctor had done everything he needed to do in order to avenge the murder of his wife’s sister. Why one extra?

  Then he’d realised why: deflection. As Brabham said, how could Proctor be the killer when he was supposed to be a victim? The simplicity was clear.

  But if Proctor had acted to somehow get vengeance on the person his wife blamed for her sister’s murder – the teacher who was too much of a coward to make sure his schoolgirl lover got home safely – why now, after all these years?

  Sam’s thoughts had returned to Henry Mason. Was there something more to this? Then he’d remembered something. Helena Proctor felt responsible for her sister’s death because she was the substitute parent, bringing up her sister after their parents died in a car crash. She blamed it on a faulty car. Henry Mason sold cars.

  He’d called Charlotte. He’d asked her to look into the crash and whether there was any link with Henry Mason. He’d been waiting for her to call back but his impatience had got the better of him.

  Charlotte answered.

  ‘Sorry, Brabham was here,’ she said, excitement in her voice.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I didn’t speak to Mason’s widow. I looked at Helena Proctor. Or Helena Morley, as she was then.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Charlotte paused. Sam knew he’d put her in an awkward position; she couldn’t be seen to be helping him.

  ‘You can take all the credit,’ he said. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘You were right,’ she said eventually.

  He grinned. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’ve got the report in front of me,’ Charlotte said. ‘A husband and wife were killed in a car crash. The daughter, Helena Morley, reckoned the car had been glammed up to get through a sale, because there were problems. The brakes were sticking and the accelerator. They were killed on the motorway, crashed into a bridge support when the husband swerved to avoid a queue of traffic. No proof that the car was faulty; it looked like he’d noticed the queue too late. Sold to them by Henry Mason. Helena gave Mason grief for a few years, writing letters and hanging around outside the showroom. We warned her off but she carried on. He took out an injunction against her in the end because we didn’t act quickly enough. That stopped it.’

  ‘Oh, you little beauty,’ Sam said, almost shouting. ‘They’re all linked.’ He laughed. ‘Proctor’s cleaning up for his wife. I don’t believe it.’

  ‘But why would he do that? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Guilt,’ he said. ‘Perhaps after all this time, somewhere in his twisted soul he’s discovered a heart. He’s grown to love her, in his own way. Maybe he always did, so he deflects his guilt.’

  ‘I’m not following.’

  ‘Psychopaths blame others, never themselves, often portraying themselves as the victims. It’s a classic sign. Has he convinced himself that he’s not really to blame, that it was all the teacher’s fault for letting Adrianne go home alone, that it was Welsby’s fault for letting Proctor get his way? And the car? If Henry Mason hadn’t sold Helena’s parents that dodgy car, they’d still be alive and might have kept the reins a little tighter on Adrianne. He’s killing the people he blames for letting him kill Adrianne.’

  ‘I’ve got to speak to Brabham,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Do that. Say you found it, I don’t mind.’

  Sam clicked off. He put his phone against his chest. They were nearly there.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ring of his phone. It was Joe.

  ‘Joe?’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Proctor’s kidnapped his own niece,’ Joe said, breathless. ‘Carrie. Fourteen years old. He’s been stalking her and now he’s taken her.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ Sam said.

  ‘There’s something else, too.’

  ‘What, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘Proctor attacked Gina, tried to kill her. He’s getting revenge. Keep Ruby safe.’

  ‘Shit!’

  Joe clicked off.

  Sam grabbed his coat and ran for the door. He remembered how Gina had been over Ellie’s death. He owed her.

  Sixty-nine

  Proctor looked around and the memories flooded back. He wasn’t prone to sentimentality, but it was hard not to think of all the years that had passed. The view wasn’t the same, much of what he’d known had been bulldozed away, but there were enough remnants to allow his mind to fill in the gaps. He was in his favourite place, and he knew it might be his last time there.

  It was the solitude he remembered. All of his childhood spent in the company of someone else, his older brother Dan, a bullying ever-present. Night after night, or so it seemed, he’d be picked at, prodded and teased. So he’d craved the quiet spaces, loved walking to find them, those quiet places on the towpaths or in old abandoned buildings. A few hours alone, watching people, dreaming of letting them know he was there. Well, they knew now.

  And he knew something else, too: if he was saying goodbye, he had to make sure people remembered him. For so long, it had been about his effect, the ripples he sent out, the quiet man enjoying what he did, how he relished that no one knew, even when he was among them. Not any more. If this was his curtain call, it was time to be noticed. This was about the splash.

  One more look around. There was no one on the street and no one looking out of a window.

  He opened the boot of the car. Carrie was curled up in it. Her cheeks were drenched with tears and her eyes opened wide as Proctor leaned in for her. Despite her desire to get out of the cramped space – he’d heard the thumps in the boot as she’d tried to stretch out to relieve the cramps – she shrank back as he got near her. He grabbed the rope that was in the corner of the boot and bound her wrists together, before yanking her hard. Her upper body hung over the bumper helplessly, so he pulled harder until she tumbled out of the car. She grunted when she landed on the concrete.

  ‘Stay quiet,’ he said, jabbing her in the ribs with his foot. He reached into the boot again and found a rag. It was dirt-covered and smelled of oil, but it would do.

  Carrie tried to shuffle under the car. He grabbed her ankle and made her screech in pain as her T-shirt rode up and her flesh scraped across the loose concrete.

  Proctor knelt down. Carrie cowered against the car bumper. He wrapped the rag around her head to make a gag, pulling it hard. He lifted her chin with his finger and moved a strand of hair that was stuck to her forehead. Her skin was damp with perspiration and he felt his heart rate increase. The feel of her skin was like static under his fingers.

  ‘Be a good girl,’ he said. ‘You’re going to come with me and you’re going to do exactly as I say.’ His fingers strayed to her neck and traced her jawline, felt the slight bump of a mole under her chin. ‘I’ve killed people, Carrie, you have to know that. Girls your age
too.’ He held up his hand to quell the wail that was building. ‘If you want me to let you live, you’ve got to do as I say. Do you understand?’

  There was a long period of silence before she nodded.

  ‘Good. We’re going to walk in there together.’ And he gestured towards the building behind her. ‘I’ve still got the knife so don’t get brave. You don’t want your mother to find you like that, bleeding out on the pavement. If she loves you, she’ll do what I say, and you’ll be home soon.’

  Carrie nodded again.

  Proctor knelt down and grabbed her under her arms, pulling her to her feet. He pushed her forwards and she stumbled to her knees, wincing in pain. When he lifted her again, a thin stream of blood ran from her leg where small stones stuck to her skin.

  He moved a piece of metal security fencing and took her inside.

  He had to be careful as he walked her forward. The floor was littered with loose bricks and stones, jagged pieces of metal scattered around, the slow crumble of a building no one used anymore. There was talk of redevelopment, but the building work had ground to a halt in recent years.

  There were stairs in the corner of the room. Thin light came in from the street lights, but it was murky, the windows thick with dirt. The world outside seemed distant. His footsteps were loud scrapes that echoed through the building. The floors were mostly intact but as he looked up he could see to the top floor, gaps allowing a clear view.

  Proctor led Carrie to a tall metal pillar and sat her down. He knelt down next to her. Small insects scurried away as a cobweb got tangled in her hair.

  ‘You’re going to stay here for a few minutes and then we’re on the move again.’ There was plenty of slack on the rope so he tied it around the pillar, pulling it tight.

  Carrie’s whimpers turned into sobs but he knew she couldn’t move.

  He took out Carrie’s phone. The screen was cracked from where it had fallen to the floor but it still worked. ‘Shall we make a phone call first? Your mother needs to know where you are.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Then later, we’re going to have some fun.’

  He dialled Melissa’s number. As he waited for it to connect, he thought about what he could do. He was making it up as he went along, no real plan in place, but he had to make it have impact. This is how he would be remembered.

  Seventy

  ‘Who’s Gina?’ Melissa said. ‘What’s going on?’

  Joe stared out of his windscreen in disbelief. He clenched his jaw. Anger surged inside him.

  ‘She works for me,’ he said, a crack in his voice. He swallowed to keep back the tears; part anger, part distress. ‘No, more than that. Back when Ellie was killed, Gina was the senior officer in charge of the investigation to find her killer: your brother. She’s been in my life ever since then in some way or another.’

  ‘And my brother has just tried to kill her?’

  ‘He’s saying goodbye.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘For the first time, whatever life he’s built is coming unstuck. He killed a man on Monday night, for reasons no one knows. Then last night he was supposed to be the victim. He’s been found out. He must know his souvenirs have been taken. He can see all his secrets leaking out. So he’s having one last strike back at the people he sees as his enemies. Gina, for being the person who used to hunt him. Or perhaps, somewhere deep down, because he’d wanted Gina to catch him, to stop him, but she failed, so he blames her for turning him into what he is. And he’s hitting back at you, too, for shutting him out of his family, for humiliating him.’

  ‘Don’t make it about me! He’s got my daughter!’

  ‘I know, and I’m not. He’s always known this moment would come. So he’s having one last kick-out at those he blames. Maybe he blames me, too, because he knows he was seen. I could have stopped him. Psychopaths do that.’

  Melissa put her head back and covered her face with her hands. ‘What about Carrie? Where do we start?’

  ‘His house.’

  As Joe drove, Melissa called her ex-husband. She tried to stay calm, just a tremor to her voice giving her away, but she ended up throwing the phone into the footwell. The cover came off the back and the battery sprung loose.

  ‘He thinks it’s my fault,’ she said, tears streaming down her face. ‘Because I made her stay in Ancoats, because he thinks it’s too damn rough for Carrie, and I should have kept a proper eye on her. He can’t blame me for this. It’s not fair.’

  Joe reached across as he drove. She gripped his hand. Her jaw was set, her gaze determined. She needed her daughter back.

  After a journey that seemed to take too long, they turned into Proctor’s street. The police were already there, two marked squad cars parked outside, the lights still turning so that the street was lit up like a nightclub.

  Joe pulled up alongside the kerb. ‘Wait here.’

  ‘No, I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Please, stay here,’ he said, more sternly this time. ‘We don’t know what’s going on in there. Please let me check it out.’

  Melissa didn’t respond. She understood the unspoken truth, that her daughter’s body might be further along the street. She just couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge it. Instead, she turned her head to look out of the window.

  There was no one with the police cars, although lights were on inside the house. Joe walked onto the drive. He swallowed. His heart was beating hard, his mouth dry, his mind still reeling from the call about Gina, but he was sickened most by the thought that Proctor had taken another child.

  Joe walked straight into the house. There were voices coming from the living room. Male voices. Hectoring. Distorted conversations came from police radios.

  Joe pushed at the door. As it swung open, three uniformed officers turned round. There was a woman sitting down in a chair, her face bruised.

  ‘Helena?’ Joe said.

  ‘Are you Mark Proctor?’ one of the policemen said, advancing towards him, his finger going to the button on his radio.

  ‘No, I’m his lawyer,’ Joe said, realising it gave him a reason to be there. ‘What do you want with my client?’ He spoke with an authority he didn’t feel.

  The officer looked back at the woman in the chair, who just shrugged. She’d only met Gina.

  ‘It’s too early for you,’ the officer said.

  Joe stepped forward and whispered to the officer, ‘Can I speak to you privately?’

  The officer put his head back and rested his hands on his equipment belt. Joe didn’t drop his gaze until the officer relented and pointed towards the door.

  Joe went out first and walked along the hallway towards the kitchen. The officer followed and then stood with his booted feet apart, his arms folded across his stab vest. The air was filled by the sounds of his uniform: the jangle of his equipment, the thump of his boots, the rustles of his jacket.

  ‘This isn’t what you think,’ Joe said.

  ‘You don’t know what I think.’

  ‘I do. You think I’ve come here to interfere.’ The officer stayed silent so Joe pointed towards the breast of his stab vest. ‘Any bodycam whirring? I’m not telling you anything if it’s going to be recorded.’

  The officer shook his head. ‘No, it’s not.’

  Joe exhaled and leaned back against the kitchen work surface. He looked at the floor, working out how much he could say, until he remembered about Carrie. It was no longer about Ellie or any of the others.

  ‘Mark Proctor murdered my sister many years ago. He’s murdered a number of people.’

  The officer’s brow creased. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Joe Parker?’

  ‘Any relation to DC Parker?’

  ‘Sam’s my brother.’

  The officer relaxed and leaned against the counter opposite. ‘How can you represent scumbags like him, if he killed your sister?’

  ‘Another time,’ Joe said. ‘Proctor has kidnapped his niece. I’m with his sister, the girl’s mother. ’

&nb
sp; ‘That’s why we’re here,’ he said. ‘We got the call but he’s not here.’

  Joe was interrupted by the sound of someone rushing into the house. ‘Joe?’ It was Melissa.

  ‘In here, in the kitchen,’ he shouted.

  There were footsteps, quick and urgent. She was holding her phone in the air. ‘I put my phone back together,’ she said, her voice coming in gulps. ‘He’d left a message. Mark, he needs money. If he gets it, he’ll let her go.’

  The officer clicked the button on his radio and began to call it in, providing the latest information, more urgency in his eyes at the sudden realisation that he was in the eye of the storm.