Midnight Lie

Michael Palmer

Description

"This is the story of the Newtown Murders.." A story of sex and repression, rejection and hate. An intellectual thriller in the tradition of 'The Name Of The Rose' and 'The Interpretation of Murder'. Two gruesome murders occur at midnight, in the pouring rain, of a man and a woman. All the suspects have their motives, of lust and love, greed and revenge; but it proves hard for a famous detective to decide between a shady M.P., gangsters and prostitutes, between a celebrated philosopher and his wife. Somebody is lying. But who? Who is the monster hiding within this web of deceit? As the story unfolds, the lies mount up and the truth becomes even less certain. Motives begin to shift as we learn more about the victims. Then there are events and conversations which, as the reader looks back, take on an entirely different significance, now seen as containing clues, perhaps previously missed, towards the eventual unmasking of the murderer. All is finally revealed through the killer's own psychoanalysis, a story of sex and repression, rejection and hate.The Midnight Liefalls with the tradition of thrillers with an intellectual core. It is philosophical-psychoanalytical murder story set in Manchester. Wrapped around a rapidly unfolding story - with a cast of shady and memorable characters - are clues embedded within discussions on the nature of lying - how we can deceive others and ourselves - on the meaning of love and hate, and on the inner compulsions that can lead to revenge and murder.

Sujets

• Thriller
• Manchester

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 septembre 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781788030304
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright © 2017 Michael Palmer
Cover Design by Publishing Push

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


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ISBN 978 1788030 304

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For my family
Contents
Foreword

1
Henry on the Night of the Murders
2
William on the Night of the Murders
3
Henry and William on the Day after the Murders
4
William and Marietta on the Day after the Murders
5
Henry, Terence and Twinkie One week after the Murders
6
Monty Slide
7
Monty, Henry and Reginald Lockyer, M.P
8
Marietta

Afterword
Foreword
This is the story of the ‘Newtown Murders’. These occurred some years ago in Manchester – a double murder in fact, of a man and a woman. The newspapers were full of it at the time, not just the locals but the nationals as well. It got on TV and the BBC did a short piece. So it got a lot of coverage. And I can understand why. Because this was something quite outside the normal run of things. Not, of course, in execution. That’s quite rare. After all, there are only so many ways you can polish somebody off: it’s a stabbing, a strangulation, a drowning or a poisoning, things like that. Shooting is historically the least popular – for centuries the knife was the weapon of choice – and, by and large, people still don’t have easy access to guns, not in this country at any rate. So you soon see that your choice is quite restricted. You can use a sharp instrument of some kind, a rope, a heavy object, put something in their drink, smother them or push them over a cliff. So, as I say, nothing unusual. And that’s my point, don’t you see? Basically, the actual deed is quite static, it hardly changes, there’s little invention. And that, when it comes down to it, is also true of the Newtown Murders. You’ll find nothing bizarre about them, nothing particularly inventive about the actual deed, nothing for the connoisseur of method to appreciate. In that sense it was really quite run-of-the mill. And the same, I’m sorry to say, goes for the motive. There was nothing unusual here either. After all, people kill for much the same reasons as they always did. They murder for revenge, greed, lust, ambition or a grudge of some kind. That sort of thing. However far back you go in history, you will always find these same basic ingredients. There are rarely exceptions.
Actually, that’s not quite true. The modern world has added something new, which I mention now, if only to get it out of the way. This is motiveless killing. I’m not saying, of course, that this sort of thing never happened before. Caligula drowned people for fun and Alexander of Pherae enjoyed watching men being dismembered by dogs. But these men were tyrants, absolute rulers of their world. So they probably did what they did because they were just bored and looking for amusements. The thing is, we now have ordinary men and women acting in much the same way, treating their victims as so much rubbish to be thrown away. So why kill? I’ll tell you why. They’re curious, that’s what they are. They want to know what it’s like to take a life. They spot someone in the street, a complete stranger, and they single them out. So instead of that man over there, the one waiting for a bus, it’s that woman pushing the pram. This is “killing-for-kicks” and I’m told it’s quite intoxicating, producing a real adrenalin rush. They bear their victims no ill will, they don’t care whether they’re happy or not, have kids or an old Mum. Here’s two examples. In Manchester in January 2013 Imran Hussain spots Kieran Crump-Raiswell waiting at a bus stop and stabs him four times in the chest. Then he drives off in his car, sniggering. Six months later, in Bolton City Centre, a teenager, Eden Lomax, murders a complete stranger, Simon Mitchell, with one punch, then returns home to play computer games. You think I’m kidding you? You think I’m having you on? I’m not. These are real cases. You can look them up, if you don’t believe me. So I ask you: what are we to make of these people, all under twenty? They must be mad, you say. Well, the juries didn’t think so. They concluded that Hussain and Lomax were quite sane, not psychotic in any way. But surely that can’t be right, you reply. Now I understand where you’re coming from, I really do. Killing these people was as casual as sneezing or blowing your nose. There was no guilt feeling afterwards, no remorse. They walked away as calmly as you please. So it stands to reason: there must be something wrong with them; there must, must, must be something, there can’t be nothing. Well, I don’t know. I just don’t know. The whole thing seems quite inexplicable to me, quite beyond my reach. I simply can’t get inside their heads, you see. I can understand greed and jealousy and desire, but not this. All I can tell you is what Hussain said at his trial: that he just wanted to see what it felt like, to kill someone, it didn’t matter who. So perhaps, after all, these young lads weren’t so different from those tyrants of old. They were just bored and looking for a bit of fun.
But I digress. The Newtown Murders were not motiveless killings – you can forget that idea straightaway. No, they were quite different. These crimes were meticulously planned and bold in execution. They were not committed just for the hell of it. There was motive, and that motive falls within the familiar categories of revenge, greed, lust and ambition. So what makes the Newtown Murders different? Why the notoriety? Well, I’ll tell you. What distinguishes one murder from another – what establishes a hierarchy, so to speak – is how that motive is deployed. Here everything depends on the intelligence of the murderer, on his courage and skill, on his powers of deception, on his skill as a liar. After that it becomes a labyrinthine struggle between two opposing forces – the murderer on one side, the police on the other – in which one watches with fascination as the layers of deceit are gradually stripped away to reveal the criminal. The drama lies in the unmasking. In this regard, I have to tell you, the Newtown Murders were quite exceptional, which is the same as saying that the murderer was quite exceptional.
But this isn’t the main reason why the Newtown Murders stand so uniquely high in my pantheon of homicide. Now I like to think of myself as an historian of murder. Murder, you might say, is my thing. So all I do, day in and day out, is unearth gruesome events. In that respect, I depend on the testimony of others. I spend my life in libraries, sifting through court proceedings, autopsy reports, police interviews, trying to resurrect the past. But this wasn’t the case with the murders in Manchester. Why? Because I myself was a witness to what occurred. I was there, taking it all in, notebook in hand; and, make no mistake, you see things very differently when you have this first-hand knowledge. The past becomes your present. Memories constantly intrude. You recall sounds and smells, gestures and tones of voice. You never quite escape. Shadows flicker across the retina. Yes, I knew all those involved, all the main characters. And that means I knew the murderer. I saw that person move and speak, smile and laugh, and then saw the mask begin to drop. And that makes a big difference, I can tell you. Believe me, seeing what I saw had serious consequences for my life.
For one thing, getting to know a murderer made me much more sure of myself. It had a psychological effect. Before I’d always felt that I’d missed out somehow, that there was something lacking. And it was difficult, it really was. Knowing my enthusiasms, people would often ask, “Have you ever met a murderer, got up close?”. And what could I say? Nothing! I got fed up. It was a serious omission. But not after the Newtown Murders. Now I could look them in the eye and say, “Well, yes I have…once.” Then they’d get curious and ask: “And were they different, different from you and me?” So I’d answer: “Well, of course, they were – they were stamped with the Mark of Cain – but what made them different wasn’t obvious at all: it was camouflaged, unseen until the end.” Mind you, I sometimes wonder about that. I mean, how far would you go when pushed? Would you lie, cheat, steal,