The Dead Tell Lies: an absolutely gripping mystery thriller Read online

  The Dead Tell Lies

  J.F. Kirwan

  Copyright © J.F. Kirwan

  The right of J.F. Kirwan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in

  accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be

  reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in

  writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the

  terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living

  or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  978-1-913419-66-0

  For Henry, Lisa and John

  Contents

  Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

  Part I

  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

  Part II

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part III

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Part IV

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Acknowledgments

  A note from the publisher

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  Part I

  1

  Greg Adams stared at the crime scene photos of the four dead girls. He recalled the words of his mentor during his first criminology one-on-one.

  ‘The dead don’t lie.’

  ‘The trouble is, they don’t speak either,’ Greg had replied.

  Now, fifteen years later, the taut faces of four teenage girls, eyes wide with shock, stared back at him. If they could speak, he knew exactly what they’d say.

  Find him.

  Soon there would be another photo on the wall of New Scotland Yard’s Evidence Room 3A. Officers of all ranks were out searching for the next victim but, like Greg, they had no idea where the next kill would happen. For the hundredth time he scanned the photos, the map of London and its outer suburbs stabbed with four red-topped pins, the scrawled ideas in his notepad, the fragmentary remarks on his laptop, the cryptic clues left after each killing.

  He had nothing.

  Neither did the dozen others working the case. But unless he came up with something in the next hour, another girl would die.

  One more espresso. How many today? Eight. If he punctured a vein, it wouldn’t be blood; it would be coffee. He wouldn’t sleep tonight after that much caffeine: but with or without it, that was a dead cert. The serial killer known as ‘The Divine’ had appeared out of nowhere seven days ago, taking his first teenage girl victim. Since then, three more kills in as many days, or rather nights; the kills always took place around midnight. Greg was certain they happened exactly at midnight, though the coroner couldn’t confirm this. The Divine was precise. Everything perfectly ordered, perfectly executed, nothing left behind except what he wanted the police to find, including the handwritten messages lying next to each victim, Day 1 through to Day 4, written using an old-style quill.

  Rickard – Greg’s boss at the Yard – said maybe the killer had stopped, or at least paused. Donaldson – whom he wished were his boss – sided with Greg, believing there were two more corpses. They just hadn’t found them yet. Which meant the seventh, and final, killing would be tonight. At midnight. He glanced at the clock on the wall.

  2220.

  Stark spotlights dazzled the mosaic of photos, maps and lead lines on the wall. A heavy latched door and thick carpet kept everything silent so investigators like Greg could focus, so they could see. Except he couldn’t. Easing out of the moulded plastic chair, he took four leaden steps to the beaten-up Lavazza station, slotted a capsule, pressed a button, ignored the stuttering grumble of the weary machine, and watched his preferred stimulant dribble into the small paper cup. He caught sight of his reflection in the machine’s shiny metal cover. He looked tired, his skin paler than usual, dark rings encircling eyes Kate had once labelled ocean blue. He missed her. Sometimes she helped him when he was blocked like this. He bowed his head, raked fingers through hair the same shade as the gurgling espresso. He tried to imagine they were Kate’s fingers. Not happening. He was on his own. The machine sputtered the last few drops and shivered to a stop. He nursed the cup in both hands, lifted it to his nose, turned back to the photos and inhaled Arabica in search of inspiration.

  Still nothing.

  The Divine was laughing at him, at all of them. They had no idea where he was, and yet after each of the four murders he’d left hints, in the form of questions written on old-style vellum. How long did God need? That was the first. An easy one. Seven days. Which was why Greg was sure tonight would be the last kill, after which The Divine would vanish, leaving seven families train-wrecked by grief for the rest of their lives. Even Kate, a counsellor for victims’ families, had prodded his chest with her index finger after the third kill and said For fuck’s sake catch him, Greg!

  He took a sip.

  ‘Seven days for what, though?’ Donaldson had asked. Rickard had said speculation would be fruitless and almost certainly wrong. Yet speculation was Greg’s domain. He didn’t have a working theory yet – what he called the serial killer’s ‘worldview’. If he understood that, he might be able to predict the next move. He needed more time. But neither he nor the girl had that luxury.

  His mobile buzzed on the table. He couldn’t read it from the coffee station, but it would be one of three people: Kate, his wife, whom he’d longed to talk to tonight but hadn’t because she’d said she had to work late; Donaldson, who’d bark gruffly for any news, but wouldn’t phone until the last moment; or Rickard. He walked over to the phone and stood above it, watched the name pulse green on the screen. He snatched up the phone and tapped to connect.

  ‘Professor,’ he said, granting Rickard the honorific he’d earned and demanded.

  ‘Adams,’ Rickard replied, granting Greg nothing. ‘I gather you haven’t made any progress.’

  Greg was used to Rickard’s put-downs. Anyway, was it such an unfair question? On the one hand, nobody had any leads, because the only clues they had made little sense, at least in terms of catching the killer. He could equally ask Rickard if he had anything. On the other hand… his eyes drif
ted back to the four young women whose lungs drew no breath, their hearts as still as the photos on the wall.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Ah well, let’s wait and see what turns up in the morning. I’m heading home now, but I’ll stay connected just in case. Don’t stay too late.’ Rickard cut the call.

  Greg placed the mobile back on the table. The coffee was tepid. He downed it in one, sat back at the table, and flicked through his notebook. His gaze returned to the crime scene photos. His eyes were drawn to the fatal wounds, but he focused instead on the girls’ faces. Everything is there, he’d been taught during his formative training, how could it not be? See what others dismiss. He stared, willing the clues to materialise from the wall.

  Still nothing.

  And yet…

  Something was missing. There wasn’t the terror seen in many, if not most, serial killer victims. Profound sadness, yes. Shock, sure, and the pain of realising that their lives, barely begun, were over. It told him something about the killer. Whoever he was, he wasn’t doing it for the thrill of instilling pure fear into his victims. Greg studied the photos immediately below each crime scene, of each girl in happier times. What had the killer seen? Why these girls, all sixteen to eighteen years old?

  Greg knew what he had to do: immerse himself, imagine he was the killer surveying girls, needing to pick one out from the crowd. He let his mind empty and focus at the same time. His breath slowed, and he imagined himself a predator readying for the kill. Words arose in his mind as he studied the photos. Helpful. Willing to help. Willing… Two had been waitresses, one a volunteer in a soup kitchen, another a shop assistant in a department store.

  He sat forwards, elbows on the table, fingernails digging into his temples, coaxing out the idea. The killer wanted girls prepared to help a stranger. Why? Perhaps the killer wasn’t physically strong and needed to entice rather than overpower them. Greg sat back. Where did that get him, or the investigation? No closer. Yet. But profiling was important. He’d add it to his notes later.

  He checked the clock on the wall.

  2235.

  The seventh girl had almost certainly been taken by now. Somewhere out there she was panicking, trying to escape, wondering what the hell was happening, thinking, Oh God, could it be anything to do with those murders she’d seen on the telly, it couldn’t, could it? Holy fu–

  He shut down that runaway train of thought. He needed to focus on the killer rather than on the victims. Victims, but also means to an end. What did that unbidden thought mean? The cogs in Greg’s mind began to turn.

  The Divine was executing a plan. Each killing had a biblical echo. But they weren’t simply echoes. There was a resonance, growing rather than diminishing. Seven days. He was building up to something. What? God created the world in seven days. What could a serial killer accomplish in the same amount of time?

  Two of the handwritten clues hadn’t made any sense to Greg, or to anyone else. Only fire can cleanse suggested death by burning, but there hadn’t been any use of fire so far. The Apostles will follow was chilling, but no help for the next girl. The fourth clue, however, had lodged in his mind. We are all a product of our environment and our time. Others working the case assumed this was a trite ‘I’m not to blame’ justification for the killer’s actions. However, given the profile Greg had so far patched together, he was sure The Divine didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought. He was clearly intelligent and content to snuff out lives without a second thought. Why bother to justify himself? No, it was a ‘catch-me-if-you-can’ clue.

  Environment was easy: London. Time was now. But such interpretations were both banal and fruitless. Anyone on the street could have given him those. The cogs in his head slowed, stopped. Shit! This was his job, this was what he had trained for, what he was paid for. And right now he sucked at it. He stood up, wanting to pace, but the Evidence Room was too small. Dammit, he’d been over this a hundred times. So had others. Did he think he could see what no one else could? It was probably too late now, anyway. He’d already failed, they all had. He raised his right hand high and slammed it down on the paper cup, crushed it, felt wetness on his palm, a brown smudge spreading from under his hand.

  The dead girls chided him. Don’t you dare give up! She’s still alive!

  He slid the flattened cup across the table to the edge and let it topple into the bin. As he did so, the map of the killings caught his eye again. Four red-topped pins stuck in various boroughs of London, seemingly random. Once more the cogs in his head began turning.

  Nothing The Divine did was random.

  The map, those London locations, they were the environment. He stared at them until his eyes ached, then he blinked hard, pinched the bridge of his nose. Everyone else had tried to find a connection, to flesh out a hypothesis as to where the next killing would be. Greg didn’t want the next one, number five. He wanted the last one, because victim number seven was still breathing.

  He switched from ‘environment’ to ‘time’. Midnight? October? He imagined the four girls shaking their heads, cursing him, joined by the two other dead girls not yet found. The cogs spun faster.

  Not now, then. Another time.

  The girls grew quiet.

  He stood up. Stared at the map. The girls’ photos. Willing to help. Willing sacrifices. Seven days. He felt a new idea forming.

  The phone rang. Donaldson. Greg hit ‘cancel’.

  The map. Three of the killings were in central London. One was far outside, the first one, the most horrific. A girl force-fed some kind of fast-acting biological mush that proceeded to eat her from the inside out. Rickard had been the first to spot the biblical refrain. King Herod, who died bloated by worms. Number two a beheading: St John the Baptist. Number three had been stoned to death. Saint Stephen. The fourth girl had been hanged. Judas.

  He stared at the map. His eyes flitted between victim one and the three others, who were located at places much closer together. He felt the girls’ eyes from the photos on the wall watching, urging him to make the connection. Of course, all these deaths had happened before. Herod died in Jericho, far outside Jerusalem. The others all in Jerusalem or its outskirts. He flicked back through his notebook. St John died elsewhere, but his head was kept for centuries – so legend had it – on Temple Mount. St Stephen was stoned to death just outside Lion Gate. Judas was less clear, but the thirty pieces of silver were used to fund a potter’s ground for the burial of strangers, at Hakeldama, where he supposedly died. Returning to his laptop, connected to the New Scotland Yard mainframe, he searched for a map of ancient Jerusalem and surroundings. The cogs raced inside his head. This is how it worked for him. He was close.

  The girls gathered around.

  With the touchpad he put markers on the best-guess locations of the four original deaths, then called up a map of London and outskirts, where the recent deaths were already highlighted. He merged the maps. And stopped breathing.

  An almost perfect match.

  The phone rang again. He hit ‘cancel’ without checking to see who it was, not taking his eyes off the maps. Seven days. To create… a God. Time – not now. Environment – not here. His pulse sprinted. He fixed on a location on the Jerusalem map, not yet marked on the London one. It soon would be. With trembling fingers he zoomed in, switched to satellite mode, and found an isolated mansion.

  The door burst open. Donaldson, slightly too large for his blue, pinstripe suit, with his trademark greasy mop of unruly black hair. He puffed in the doorway, breathless from hustling up the stairs because the lift was out of order. Greg closed his laptop, stood up, and spoke with a sudden, assured calm.

  ‘I know where he is.’

  As they fled the room, Greg glanced back at the clock one last time.

  2259.

  Donaldson barked crisp commands into his radio, taking two steps at a time down the fire escape despite his ample girth. Greg, close behind, ran through it again. Seven days. Seven victims. To become a God.
A holy rite of passage. One that needed willing sacrifices, at least in the killer’s twisted worldview. Four killings weren’t enough to identify the last location, unless you could predict what the final killing would be.

  Greg had. He was betting the girl’s life on it.

  The Crucifixion. Calvary. Given the other four locations on the Judaea map, synchronised with the locations of the four London killings, the seventh could be pinpointed by plotting Calvary. Although London was densely populated, there was a relatively isolated mansion in a leafy suburb, above the North Circular but still inside the M25.

  Greg paced up and down the underground garage while vehicles and men assembled. Finally, Donaldson gave the word and they all boarded the small convoy. He strapped into the Range Rover as they skidded out of Scotland Yard, sirens blaring, heavily armed police in matt black Kevlar gear in the two vans behind, another police unit bringing up the rear. A helicopter would be quicker, but dangerous for the girl. Once they were within two miles of the location the sirens were silenced.

  Greg sat in the back with Donaldson. Neither of them spoke. Nor did the two police up front, everyone aware of the seconds slipping past.