‘Cameras one and two are mounted on the outside below the entrance…’
‘Please, Mr Browne, just show us the place from where the victim fell.’
Wilson raised an eye at Tara’s abrupt command. Her clipped tone had unnerved the security officer, too. Quickly, he navigated to the relevant footage.
‘The time was 11.46 p.m.,’ said Browne. ‘Camera number eleven.’
They watched as Richard Andrews, wearing a suit and tie, emerged from the building onto the roof terrace on the twelfth floor. The camera view did not cover the exact spot where Andrews had fallen to his death.
‘Is that it?’ snapped Tara.
‘I’m afraid so, Inspector,’ Browne replied, rising from his stooped position at the desk.
‘So, at 11.46 Mr Andrews steps onto the roof terrace. At 11.47, a minute later, he’s dead. There’s no one else in the vicinity? No one entered the area before or just after Andrews?’
Browne shook his head.
‘Unlikely then that he was pushed,’ said Wilson.
‘Cameras one to six are mounted for perimeter and entrance security,’ Browne explained. ‘Only camera number five shows anything of the incident.’ He adjusted the mouse beside the monitor, clicked once and there appeared on screen the briefest glimpse of Richard Andrews. Browne reset the footage to view again. ‘It’s very quick. The time recorded was 11.47 p.m. yesterday.’
Tara watched the monitor. For two seconds there was nothing to see but a view of the terrace on the roof of the entrance porch and a partial view of the esplanade beyond the building. Suddenly, an object slammed to the floor.
‘I can zoom in,’ said Browne.
‘No! We don’t need to see it in detail, thank you,’ said Tara, alarmed by the idea of watching the smashing of a skull once again.
‘A definite suicide,’ said Wilson.
‘Seems that way,’ said Tara.
They met up with Murray in the atrium on the ground floor. He held aloft a security pass, dangling on a red lanyard.
‘Dr Witney managed to get this off the body before they took it away. Richard Andrews worked here for a company called Harbinson Fine Foods. The head office is here in this building, but they have several factories on Merseyside and several others around the country.’
Tara grasped the security pass and saw another photo of Andrews. It only added to her view that he had once looked a handsome and perhaps a happy man. Her pondering was interrupted by Murray who was reading a text message on his phone.
‘We have to get to the station, ma’am,’ he said. ‘There’s been a development in the poisoning case. Tweedy wants to speak with us.’
Tara frowned. Please, one thing at a time, she thought. She could tell that Murray was waiting for instruction, but all she could manage was to puff air through her lips. Already, it felt like a day’s work had been done and yet it hadn’t gone six-thirty in the morning.
‘Right,’ she said at last. ‘Leave this for now. We can speak with the family and Andrews’ employer later. You can drive me to St Anne Street. Let’s hope there hasn’t been another incident.’
CHAPTER 5
Tara had always admired Detective Superintendent Harold Tweedy. His demeanour was calm, controlled and polite but he was very effective in getting results. Tweedy was seated in his office, organised, tidy, in his neat grey suit and smart golf club tie, his hands closing the leather-bound Bible that he always kept on the top-left corner of his desk. Tweedy had a strong faith that Tara not only admired but envied. That was how the man, tall and lean, looking all of his fifty-seven years, coped with the rigours of police detective work. His faith was his strength, his conscience and the basis probably for every decision he’d ever made on how to deal with villains.
But how could his faith explain the past few days? That’s what she would like to know. Innocent people dropping dead in the street, a young man throwing himself from the twelfth floor of the Liver Building, and then there was all the crap she was still dealing with in her head. The previous cases. They wouldn’t leave her alone. And the loss of her baby sat to the fore of it all.
When Tara, Murray and Wilson entered the office, Tara noted the expression on Tweedy’s face. It was one of obvious concern for the well-being of his prized officer, DI Tara Grogan. Embarrassed, she failed to hold eye contact with her boss as he began their meeting.
‘Good morning, folks,’ Tweedy began in his grandfatherly tone. ‘As you are all aware, shocking events have occurred over the weekend. A further fatality has just been reported in the Speke area. No details yet, but it is thought to be connected with the other deaths.’
Tara shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She had difficulty processing the news when the vision of a smashed skull was uppermost in her mind. She barely listened to the rest of Tweedy’s announcement.
‘A special task force has already been assembled with staff from Admiral Street and from here at St Anne Street. This team is liaising with national security from London and with specialist forensic investigators from Porton Down.’
‘Any information yet on what material was used?’ Murray asked.
Tweedy shook his head.
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. For now, though, we can stand aside and allow these specialists to do their jobs. Until we know exactly what toxic substance we’re dealing with, we can’t carry out a normal homicide inquiry. It would be too dangerous for us to go stumbling through an investigation until we ascertain whether it is terrorist-related. Could be connected to Russian spies or even an individual acting alone. Lessons have been learned from the events in Salisbury.’
The incidents in Salisbury in 2018, where two Russian nationals had been poisoned with the nerve agent, Novichok, was still fresh in the memory of UK security and police authorities. The evidence had pointed to an assassination attempt by Russian agents and although the intended targets survived, an innocent British woman had died as a result of coming into contact with the source of the toxin.
‘Who is going to put together the connections, if any, between the victims?’ Tara asked.
‘I can appreciate your frustration over this, Tara. I’m sure it will not be long before we’re called back into the investigation. Once this substance has been identified, it will surely become clear what type of operation will be involved. We might be dealing with a terrorist organisation, an individual or, strange as it may seem this morning, these deaths might be accidental.’
‘Do you mean like an outbreak of E. coli?’ Wilson asked.
‘Food poisoning!’ Tara was alarmed. She was struck by the image of the young lad, nearly shot dead because he was fooling around with his girlfriend in the street.
Before the meeting descended into loose chit-chat, Tweedy called a halt.
‘Right, folks, for the time being, please turn your attention to the other cases you have been working on. Tara, I understand you’re dealing with a fatality at the Liver Building?’
‘Yes, sir, an employee of one of the tenant companies in the building.’
‘Suicide?’
‘It seems that way.’
‘Carry on then, folks. I’ll keep you informed of any news regarding the emergency.’
Tara, Murray and Wilson filed from Tweedy’s office and resumed conversations in the operations room. Murray and Wilson were soon embroiled in football banter – Murray was the red of Liverpool and Wilson, most devotedly, Everton blue.
‘Calling off the game on Saturday, did your lot a favour,’ Murray jibed, ‘saved another defeat.’
‘An away draw to Newcastle is hardly worth getting excited about,’ Wilson replied.
Usually, Tara could blank out the banter while she scrolled through emails and the Merseyside Police bulletins, but not this morning.
‘Give it a rest, you two,’ she barked. ‘There’s more to life than bloody football.’
Wilson went back to his desk in silence, but Murray was brave enough to approach his DI.
‘Is everything all
right, ma’am?’
‘No worse than usual, why?’ Tara replied without looking up.
Murray sat at the edge of her desk while she feigned her continued reading of the BBC News.
‘If you’re going through a hard time, you can talk to me. I know things have been difficult since…’
‘And? You think I should press on, put it all behind me – leave it at home?’
‘No, I think you should remember, ma’am, that there are plenty of people around here who care for you. But if you can’t talk to us maybe you should speak to a professional.’
‘So you think I’m losing it?’
Her voice was raised, and Murray could only stare back at the young woman he was so used to seeing cheerful and upbeat despite the woes of their job. Her large blue eyes seemed full of venom, ready for a fight. A sudden chasm of silence had been opened between them. Finally, Tara broke the stares and the silence. She jumped from her chair and grabbed her handbag.
‘Right. Enough said. Let’s get out to Caldy.’
She marched off, and Murray, with a pained shrug, had little option but to follow her.
CHAPTER 6
She had been right about the address. Murray stopped the car on the road opposite a set of electric metal gates through which Tara could see an impressive modern house built of red brick and a lot of glass. The windows of the entrance hall stretched from the ground to the roof above the first floor; it resembled a modern church building. At the rear, beyond the house, Tara could see one of the fairways on Caldy golf course. She pictured the view from a room at the rear of the house. Her parents’ bungalow, though extensive, did not come close to the opulence before her. Murray whistled.
‘How the other half lives and all that,’ he said.
Tara inwardly agreed, and yet they were about to meet with someone going through a most unenviable experience. What did the future hold for the lady of the house, the widow Andrews?
‘I want you to wait here,’ said Tara. ‘There’s no need for the poor woman to be inundated with police officers.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘I won’t be long. While I’m gone, why don’t you set up an appointment with the company Andrews worked for?’
She stepped from the car and straightened her clothes and hair. She was far from presentable, wearing stretch jeans, a long-sleeve T-shirt, black hooded anorak and white trainers, but there had been no time to get home to shower and change.
By this stage, Tara was aware that Richard Andrews’ wife, Nicole, had been informed of the tragic news. An older brother of the deceased had already gone to the morgue to formally identify the broken body. Nothing peculiar was found on the roof terrace of the Liver Building, and everyone interviewed within the building so far had not seen or heard anything suspicious. Andrews’ car, a silver BMW 5 Series, had been discovered in a multi-storey car park close to the Liver Building.
All indications were that Andrews had simply taken the lift to the twelfth floor and stepped outside to keep his appointment with death. The latest Tara had heard, before leaving St Anne Street, was that Andrews’ wife that morning had opened a letter left for her in her kitchen to find all explained.
Very sad – a jumper – more so than any other way, Tara believed. Not only was a jumper ending his life, but it seemed he was reaching out for something, for another world, a place of refuge perhaps, a place where all his troubles would be over. There was forlorn hope in a jumper, that’s how she viewed it. Still, she had work to do. It was up to her to tie it all together. She would speak to the widow and make her report when she was satisfied that Richard Andrews had taken his own life.
The double gates were closed but, to her right, Tara found an intercom next to a letterbox mounted on the stone gatepost. She pressed the button but heard nothing for almost a minute. Then a female voice answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Mrs Andrews?’
‘No. I’m her friend from next door. What do you want? Mrs Andrews is resting at the moment.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Grogan, Merseyside Police. I would like to speak to Mrs Andrews, if possible.’
There was a pause before the intercom sprang to life again.
‘Just a minute, I’ll open the gates.’
Tara heard a buzzer sound and, without another word from the woman, the gates began to swing open. On her approach to the house, she couldn’t help a glance at the property next door, presumably where this neighbour lived. The architecture was equally impressive. Clearly, people around here were not short of a pound or two.
There was little sign of life about the place until a tall, strong-looking woman in her thirties, wearing navy-blue gym leggings and vest opened the front door. Her face looked strained, probably worse for the absence of make-up. She swept a long mane of straight dark hair behind her shoulders.
‘Mrs Andrews?’
‘No. You’d better come in,’ she said, stepping back. ‘I’ll just call Nicole. She was lying down for a while. I’m Marjorie, her friend from next door. I’ve been looking after the kids.’
Tara merely nodded her understanding of the situation as Marjorie continued to reverse nervously down the wide entrance hall.
‘Have a seat in there, Inspector.’
She pointed through a set of glazed double doors to a bright and extensive lounge, the light enhanced by a huge picture window affording a magnificent view of a professionally landscaped garden, with fishpond, decking, a modern stone folly, and of the golf course beyond. Briefly, Tara scanned the room. She was looking around for a picture of Richard Andrews, a family portrait perhaps, when a petite woman in blue jeans and ballet pumps appeared at the door. She could easily pass for a teenager and, for a brief moment, Tara wondered if she might be a daughter of the late Richard Andrews. Her features were fine, although pale, bordering on deathly white, and she wore a large degree of exhaustion, her dark eyes heavy, her short brown hair ruffled from a fitful sleep. Tara knew what it was like to be taken for someone much younger than her age. She had never looked her true age and had never seemed old enough to be a police detective. She smiled at the woman.
‘Hello, Mrs Andrews. I’m Detective Inspector Tara Grogan. I’m very sorry about your husband.’
The woman ventured into the room and sat down on a deep sofa, indicating that Tara should do likewise.
‘I’ve already spoken to the police, this morning,’ she said in a shaky voice. It was faint, and she sounded more like a bashful schoolgirl than a grown woman.
‘I understand that, Mrs Andrews. It’s been a horrendous experience for you, but I need to ask you a couple of questions. A few minutes of your time and I’ll try my best not to bother you again.’
Nicole Andrews produced a tissue from the sleeve of her black jumper and used it to wipe the tears rising in her bloodshot eyes.
‘I’m sorry, this may sound very callous, but we need to be satisfied that your husband took his own life.’ Tara knew instantly that it didn’t sound right. ‘What I mean is, we have to be sure that a murder has not been committed.’
The harsh idea of murder seemed to startle Andrews and she looked gravely at Tara.
‘I believe that you found a letter from Mr Andrews?’
Nicole pulled a crumpled envelope from the pocket of her jeans and handed it to Tara, remaining silent as she read. The first couple of lines were full of apology to Nicole and the children for causing so much pain. Andrews’ reasoning for taking his life was contained in the last line:
I’m sorry, but I can’t live without her.
Tara inspected the page on which the brief message had been roughly scribbled. It was headed paper, the logo of Harbinson Fine Foods in red and blue at the top left, an abstract though obvious image of a liver bird surrounded by the company name. She noticed at the bottom of the page, where the company directors were listed, that the name Richard Andrews had been scored out.
Nicole Andrews was staring into space as Tara attempted to return
the letter.
‘Do you think you could elaborate a little bit, Mrs Andrews?’
For a second, the woman glared at Tara, cold, indignant, nearing anger. Then she rose from the settee and went to the window.
‘We were separated, Inspector. Richard left us eight weeks ago. He moved in with her. He claimed that he still loved us, but he couldn’t bear not being with her. So, off he went.’
Tara was waiting for the name. Purely academic now, but she felt obliged to listen. It was tragedy piled upon tragedy for Nicole Andrews. Tara knew all about that – been there, got the T-shirt.
‘Is there any reason why he should then take his own life?’ Tara asked.
‘She threw him out – four days ago. He couldn’t handle that. I would have taken him back, you know, but all he could say was how much he loved her and that he needed to be with her. He cried down the phone to me, can you believe that? His wife, the mother of his children?’
Her voice began to fail, and she wiped her face with the already tear-soaked tissue. Tara gave her a few moments, but she felt so powerless to help the woman.
‘So, Inspector,’ Nicole said tearfully, ‘it’s her you should be talking to, not me. I didn’t feature in his life. Go ask her.’
‘Does she have a name?’
‘She has, but I’ll never speak it. She is my father’s secretary. Richard worked for my father’s company. At least, he did until yesterday.’
Tara assumed that she meant until the moment when her husband jumped to his death, but Nicole Andrews had not finished.
‘Richard was asked to resign from the board yesterday morning. I imagine that was the final straw. He lost everything within three days: his lover, his career and his family.’
Nicole’s eyes were set to infinity once more. Tara reckoned she had heard enough. It certainly wasn’t the sort of story to set you up for a relaxing evening in front of the telly.
‘Thank you for your patience, Mrs Andrews. Once again, I’m so sorry for your trouble. I’ll see myself out.’
THE DARING NIGHT Page 2