THE DARING NIGHT
In the company of murder
Robert McCracken
Published by
THE BOOK FOLKS
London, 2021
© Robert McCracken
Polite note to the reader
This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.
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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 34
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
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Prologue
Daily Mail. Monday, 29 April 1968.
POP HEART-THROB RODDY CRAIG DEAD AT 22
Birkenhead singing star, Roddy Craig has died in what is believed to be a drowning accident in the Mersey. His body was recovered from the river on Sunday morning close to Canada Dock. The city is reeling from the shock of the passing of its newest musical star and lead singer of The Moondreams.
The band’s manager, Tony Walker, said that everyone in the band was devastated by the news. They were due to begin a UK tour to promote their debut album, The Food of Love, released last month. The death of the lead singer, one half of songwriting partnership with guitarist Paul Gibson, has now thrown the tour in doubt. Indeed, speculation is rife that Craig’s death could mean the end for The Moondreams. None of the band members were available for comment.
The family of Roddy Craig are deeply upset by the loss of a cherished son and brother. A spokesman for the family said that no words can express the shock and distress they are suffering at the news of Roddy’s death. He was described as a fun-loving young man with the whole world at his feet. An announcement regarding funeral arrangements will be made later in the week.
CHAPTER 1
2019.
Liverpool was under high alert. Police cordons had been set up in three areas within the city centre. Traffic was in chaos. Workers had been ordered to go home and stay indoors. Pubs and restaurants were closing. A football match, scheduled for the early evening at Goodison Park, had been postponed. Public transport was still operating, but services were likely to be suspended before nightfall. John Lennon Airport had already closed, and the evening sailing of the ferry to Belfast had been cancelled.
The reason behind these emergency measures had yet to be established. The authorities were aware that two people had died, but the exact cause was unknown. Rumours abounded. Novichok – Salisbury – nerve gas – terrorists – hostages – Russian agents – explosives – radiation – Islamists: were the words circulating, as some people chose to stay and watch proceedings rather than follow police instructions and make for home.
DI Tara Grogan felt useless. She was uncomfortable, too. The stab vest she wore was tight over her tailored jacket. She felt constrained. And she was freezing. A biting October wind funnelled through the city streets and whipped across the open spaces. She’d been standing now for nearly two hours on the corner where Tarleton Street joins Williamson Square. The entire area had been sealed off. From where she stood, she could see the body lying in the open air, undisturbed, unattended. A team of forensic specialists, immersed in full-body protective suits and breathing apparatus, worked steadily around the male figure on the ground. The man was dead – at least that much had been established. But no one was taking any chances, not in this day and age.
She wasn’t entirely at ease standing this close, but where did you draw the line? One street away? Two streets away? The only way to be a hundred per cent certain was to evacuate the entire city, and that was just not practical. It may not be what everyone feared: a terrorist attack with a chemical weapon. But two people were dead so far and another seriously ill from incidents in three separate areas of the city.
Tara and DS Alan Murray remained on standby. If some kind of dangerous contaminant had been released, then they were powerless to assist. Police detective work would come later. Right now, the immediate threat must be neutralised. Once security had been restored, then they could go after the perpetrator.
The two detectives had at least managed to interview eyewitnesses who had seen the man collapsing in the square. One married couple in their forties had been coming out of a shop when the man walked by.
‘I thought he was drunk,’ said the woman. Her attractive face was flushed from shock and she blinked nervously. ‘We’d just come out of TK Maxx. He staggered past us. Then he fell over, right where he is now. It’s terrible.’
‘Did he say anything to you?’ Tara asked.
Both husband and wife shook their heads.
‘Did he touch you in any way?’
‘No, he didn’t come that close, but I saw his face,’ said the husband who looked towards the stricken body. ‘His mouth was twisted, and his tongue was hanging out. He looked really scared.’
‘Thank you for your help,’ Tara said. ‘Please give your name and address to the constable, in case we need to contact you. And if you feel unwell in the next few days, contact your GP immediately.’
Tara spoke with two more witnesses, both of them telling similar stories. They described a man, in his fifties, wearing a blue anorak and dark trousers, staggering into Williamson Square. He appeared drunk and his face was contorted, but within seconds he had collapsed. By the time the emergency services arrived, he was dead.
Now, Tara felt sorry for those passers-by who had rushed to the man’s aid. They may be at risk from whatever had claimed his life. At least six people had gathered around the victim. They became victims, too, each one having been rushed to a hospital to be examined as a precaution. The fear could be seen on their faces. Would they still be alive by this evening?
DS Alan Murray, Tara’s colleague for the past two years, paced up and down next to a length of incident tape
stretched across Tarleton Street. He was a sturdy man, mid-thirties, gaining weight by the day and losing patience by the minute.
‘I can’t see us getting anywhere near the victim today, Tara.’
She glared at him, and Murray knew well the reason. Tara was a stunning woman. Too beautiful to be a cop, many thought, but she had a put-down look for her sergeant that could reduce the strongest of men to puddles on the floor. It seemed at times that Murray would never lose the habit of calling his superior by her first name, instead of ma’am. Today, he was lucky. As Tara was about to reprimand him, she heard the sound of a disturbance from behind them. There was a mêlée of hurried footsteps and shouted warnings.
‘Armed police! Stay where you are, armed police!’
‘Don’t move!’
‘Keep your hands out!’
Tara and Murray were bystanders. A group of uniformed and armed police officers had surrounded a figure in the centre of the street. People scattered amid the screams. Tara saw a youth, his arms raised in the air, one hand holding something. It might have been a weapon, or possibly just a bottle or can.
‘Down on your knees, now!’
The youth dropped to his knees, and Tara, from forty yards away, saw the look of terror on the young man’s face.
CHAPTER 2
Tara lay on her sofa, a late-night film on TV but she’d lost interest in it. Her gaze fell upon the chipped varnish on her nails. She hadn’t tended them in weeks. The length of time was significant only to her. If she had explained to a friend, or even to that shrink at the Police Treatment Centre, they would appreciate her reasoning. They could offer sympathy and show understanding. But she didn’t want any of it. She had lost her baby. None of their carefully chosen words, their advice or their sympathetic smiles would ever bring him back. She, Tara, had to deal with it. Suck it up. Get on with things, she told herself. No point in mulling it over all the live-long day.
Sleep had never been easy since becoming a detective in Harold Tweedy’s squad. In just a few brief years, she’d chalked up several tragedies and was expected to take it all in her stride. Now there was a serious incident in the city. The whole of Liverpool was at risk. And what was she doing about it? She’d found herself hoping that the lad caught by armed police was the end of the issue. That the aerosol can he’d held in his hand as he was ordered to his knees, contained the poison: the stuff that had already killed two people and thrown an entire city into fright. Then and there, she’d hoped that the lad was the culprit and that the uniforms would just open fire and put an end to it all. It was bloody bizarre, and she seldom swore. But Saturday afternoon in the city centre, with one man lying dead in the square and a youth causing panic with a can of deodorant, spraying it on his girlfriend for a lark – it was simply bizarre.
Her mobile sounded. Mechanically, she stretched her arm out to the coffee table and grappled for the phone. Her eyes were fixed on the TV.
‘Ma’am? Sorry to wake you at this hour.’
It was DC John Wilson, his Scouse accent cutting through her head like a serrated knife.
‘What is it?’
‘Ma’am, we have an incident.’
‘Not another one. Where?’
Her tone was abrupt and impatient, demanding details before Wilson could even string the words together. A year ago, she would never have spoken to anyone in such a manner, never mind a young man she valued as a colleague and a friend.
‘Can’t say if it’s connected to Saturday afternoon, ma’am, but some guy has jumped off the Liver Building.’
‘Can somebody pick me up?’ She had no desire to reveal that she had been drinking.
‘Yes, ma’am. Murray is on his way.’
CHAPTER 3
Except perhaps in advance of a royal visit, Tara had never seen such intensive police activity at five o’clock on a Monday morning. On the short drive, with Murray at the wheel, from her apartment at Wapping Dock to the entrance of the Liver Building, she counted six patrol cars and a minibus carrying a Matrix team. Two patrol cars and an unmarked vehicle were parked at the front entrance of the building. Murray jerked to a halt, and Tara, having shed her seatbelt in anticipation of stopping, shot forward, her hands landing on the dash to prevent her head from doing so.
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ said Murray.
She couldn’t be arsed replying. Everything she thought lately, began and ended with a profanity. It was her newly adopted default state of mind.
They both climbed from the car and strode through the lobby of the city’s iconic building. DC John Wilson, the detective who had telephoned her, who believed he had disturbed her from a night’s sleep, greeted them in the foyer.
‘Morning, folks,’ he said, trying to sound jovial, despite the hour and the circumstances.
‘Morning, John,’ Tara managed. ‘What have we got?’
Wilson, a strapping bloke in his thirties, Scouser to the core, always looked out of place in a suit and tie. He more resembled a nightclub bouncer or a rugby player wearing his ill-fitting club suit, but Tara would never swap her DC, or DS Murray, for anything. She cherished them as colleagues and as friends.
‘A Mr Richard Andrews was found dead on the terrace above the entrance porch.’ Wilson nodded to the place from where Tara and Murray had just entered. ‘Looks like he jumped off from one of the upper floors of the building. We’re getting security staff to run through CCTV.’
‘Let’s have a look at the body,’ said Tara. She gazed around the foyer for an indication of how she might reach the victim.
Wilson walked from the reception desk toward the lift lobby at the opposite side of the foyer. Tara and Murray followed.
‘It’s not pleasant, ma’am,’ said Wilson.
Tara glared at him. A year ago she would have appreciated the head’s up and the concern shown by Wilson. She was a big girl now; she’d learned the hard way; she didn’t need to be cosseted anymore.
Tara and Murray stepped onto the roof terrace on the first floor of the building, above the semi-circular entrance porch. Dr Brian Witney, forensic pathologist, a thickset man in his fifties, to whom Merseyside Police were frequently indebted, had just stepped away from the body. Tara saw the grey suit, blood-stained, but from her position, she couldn’t yet see the state of the dead man. Witney, by his explanation, would spare her some of the trauma.
‘Good morning, Tara,’ he said with his habitual warm smile that he seemed to hold in store exclusively for her. Quite often, Tara thought, it was the only warm thing at a crime scene.
‘Good morning, Brian. What do we have?’
Murray slid past her to have a close look for himself. A police photographer was taking as many shots of the body as he considered necessary.
‘Male. Late-thirties to early forties. I imagine his death came instantly as a result of a fall.’ Witney looked upwards. ‘Must have fallen from a fairly high point, I would say, judging by the state of the body. Poor bugger didn’t have a clean fall either.’
Tara followed Witney’s gaze to one of the flagpoles that pointed skywards from the terrace. There was no flag flying, but she saw a streak of red down the white pole.
‘Looks like he hit the pole, headfirst. It prevented him from making it all the way to ground level. Instead, he flipped sideways and smashed onto this terrace. I’m sure CCTV will establish the time of the jump or fall, can’t say which, I’m afraid. The post-mortem might show something more. You can have a look if you wish. Not a pretty sight, though.’
Tara joined Murray beside the body and soon wished she’d stayed where she was. The victim’s head was nothing but a pulp of bloodied red flesh and white bone, ruptured brain tissue having oozed to the floor. Death from a traumatic brain injury is how they would describe it. The legs of the victim sat askew but one arm had been cruelly trapped under the body and was probably dislocated from the shoulder. Strangely, the body had come to rest in what could be regarded in first-aid terms as the recovery position. For Richard Andrews, the ter
m was meaningless. An inquest would probably conclude suicide unless the CCTV showed otherwise.
CHAPTER 4
Murray examined the wallet that had been found on the man’s body. It contained credit and bank cards, a gym membership card, some cash, amounting to seventy pounds, and a driving licence.
‘He lived in Caldy.’
‘What’s the address?’
Tara snatched the wallet from Murray and examined the licence. Her parents still lived in Caldy, on The Wirral. She had grown up there. The street name was not familiar. She imagined it was one of the modern developments close to Caldy Golf Club.
‘Get someone out there to break the news,’ she said to Murray. ‘We’ll call at the house later on.’
Murray re-entered the building, passing Wilson on his way out. Tara did not care to linger within sight of the stricken body of Richard Andrews. She stared at the photograph on the driving licence. Andrews was handsome; had been handsome: a bright face, strong-looking with a confident expression. She noted his date of birth which made him thirty-seven years old. A few years older than her. She couldn’t help wondering if he was married, a father, perhaps. If so, a family was about to receive some devastating news.
‘Ma’am,’ said Wilson, ‘we can view CCTV footage now when you’re ready.’
‘Yes, good. Let’s get out of here.’
Her final glance at the appalling scene of the broken man sent a shiver through her body. With all that had happened to her in recent months, she should have been hardened to these scenes by now. Instead, this most recent vision blurred and merged with horrific images of crime scenes past. Closing her eyes for a second helped to dispel the pictures, but it did not erase the memories.
Inside the security lodge of the Liver Building, the head of security Mr Daniel Browne, a tall upright man in his early sixties with silver hair, large nose, and sporting the odour of a delicious after-shave, guided Tara and Wilson through the overnight recordings of the CCTV in the building. Browne had a forthright manner, suggesting perhaps that he was ex-military. He spoke in a direct factual tone.
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