The woman was unable to acknowledge Tara’s leaving.
Outside in the driveway, she sighed with relief, taking a deep breath of chilled morning air. That should be that, she decided. A definite suicide, tragic for the family concerned but as far as police business went there was no further need for the Serious Crime Squad. Why then did she feel the sudden inclination to have a word with this other biddy?
CHAPTER 7
As Murray drove them back to St Anne Street, Tara stared at the blank screen of her mobile.
‘You all right, ma’am?’ said Murray. ‘You’re very quiet.’
‘Fine,’ she said, trying her best to blink away the tears.
They arrived back at the office to hear the news of another death in the city and linked apparently to the ongoing emergency.
‘Are we needed down there?’ Tara asked.
Wilson shook his head.
‘The special ones have everything under control,’ he said sarcastically, while reading the latest developments on his screen.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Murray blurted. ‘That’s four deaths and we still know fuck-all squared!’
Lime Street station had been closed, and all trains cancelled. The body of a young woman had yet to be removed from a carriage that had been due to travel to Manchester at ten-thirty. Tara read the latest bulletin over Wilson’s shoulder. It wasn’t hard to picture the scene at the city train station: traffic chaos, police cordons, men in full-body protection suits and breathing apparatus. And what of the other passengers? How many had been in contact with this young woman? How many more would fall ill or die?
Tara was irritated by her lack of involvement. She felt useless. Three days into an emergency and they still had no idea what they were dealing with. Questions raised at Westminster, Government statements, press conferences by the Chief Constable of Merseyside and still no one had any clue. The media were having the proverbial field day. Pages filled with back-story on Salisbury and references to earlier incidents: Alexander Litvinenko and even as far back as Georgi Markov in 1978.
Tara just wanted to speak with the families of victims. Maybe then they could find connections, circumstances that linked each death. Had they all been in contact with the same perpetrator? Had they all at some point visited the same place contaminated with goodness knows what? Drank from the same glass, eaten the same meal at the same restaurant? Were all of the victims complete innocents? Or was someone amongst their number an intended target? But as yet they had nothing, and here she was spending her time dealing with a case of suicide.
* * *
Wilson set a piece of paper on her desk.
‘Ma’am, this note was found in Andrews’ car. It doesn’t say much.’
Tara lifted the A5-sized paper, torn from a notebook, and read the handwritten line.
‘Toby, I’ve been such a…’
‘Fool, maybe,’ Wilson suggested.
‘Seems likely. Or perhaps, failure or complete bastard.’
Wilson looked at her, bewildered.
Following a brief lunch, where she ate only strawberry yoghurt and drank some coffee, she decided that there was little point in moaning about her lack of involvement in the poisoning cases while she had still to close her inquiry into the death of Richard Andrews. On her way from the office, she called out to Murray.
‘I’m off to speak with the company that Andrews worked for.’
‘You want me to come with you?’
‘No need. It shouldn’t take long.’
Tara strolled from the station building, savouring the fresh air and the feeling of solitude. She made a call to check that the appointment that Murray had set up was with the chairman of Harbinson Fine Foods. She learned also that Edward Harbinson’s secretary, a Miss Riordan, had gone home early; due to illness, it was said.
She had forgotten when refusing Murray’s offer to accompany her to the Liver Building that she didn’t have her car. It was Murray who had picked her up from her flat at Wapping Dock in the early morning. She could hardly believe she was still living through the same day – so many different issues had flowed through her mind. It was no more than a mile and a half on foot to the Liver Building and she decided to walk.
Despite the early twentieth-century exterior of the Liver Building, the head office of Harbinson Fine Foods on the fifth floor was ultra-modern in concept: plate glass and polished granite with desks and counters trimmed in chrome. It felt cold and clinical, almost intimidating, and yet Tara was greeted at reception by a polite and attractive girl dressed in a royal blue skirt and cream blouse. The receptionist already had a note of Tara’s appointment and led her through a smoked-glass doorway into a short corridor that housed several rooms. The girl opened the second door on the right and showed Tara inside. She was met by an empty desk in an anteroom, but the receptionist told her to go straight through to the chairman’s office.
Edward Harbinson was putting down his telephone as Tara came in.
‘Hello, Inspector Grogan?’ he said, glancing at a notepad where, Tara assumed, her name was written. ‘Merseyside Police are turning them out young and pretty these days.’
She didn’t care much for his sexist retort and cared even less to comment upon it. Instead, she got straight to the point.
‘I am here to ask some questions regarding your son-in-law.’
‘Please, sit down. A terrible business this morning. My daughter, Nicole, is devastated. You’ll appreciate that I don’t have much time. I’m on my way to see her. How can I help you?’
Harbinson had recently entered his seventies, but he appeared to be a fit man in good shape. If it wasn’t for his silver-grey hair, combed back on his head, he could pass himself as ten years younger. He knew also how to dress well, in a tailored suit, white shirt and striped tie, and he spoke politely.
‘Just routine, Mr Harbinson, very awkward I know, but we have to convince ourselves of the cause of death.’
‘Yes, of course. I appreciate that.’
Tara was intrigued because, since taking her seat opposite him, Harbinson had yet to look her in the eye. His head was down, staring at his open diary as he flicked through the pages. He lifted his head at intervals but did not engage his visitor.
‘If you could confirm for me that Mr Andrews was your son-in-law and that he worked for your company?’
‘That’s correct, yes.’ He shifted in his leather swivel chair. His face reddened slightly.
‘Your daughter, Nicole?’
Harbinson nodded.
‘She told me that Mr Andrews was dismissed from the company yesterday?’
He cleared his throat as his face became more flushed.
‘That’s not strictly true,’ he replied, defensively. ‘The board felt that his position in our company had become untenable. We suggested that he should resign.’
Bloody hair splitter, Tara thought. She waited for the chairman to elaborate but silence ensued. Eventually, after a deep sigh, Harbinson again spoke.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Inspector. That his departure from the company caused him to do what he did?’
Tara would leave that for the man to ponder for himself.
‘I gather from your daughter that Mr Andrews was no longer living at the family home?’
Harbinson nodded.
‘I believe also that he was in a relationship with your secretary, a Miss Riordan?’
For the first time, Harbinson stared Tara in the face. His eyes looked weary behind gold-rimmed glasses, but he removed them to glare at her.
‘And I believe, Inspector, that the relationship had ended,’ he said curtly and with increased volume.
‘It’s just that I will need to speak to her,’ said Tara impishly. ‘For the sake of completeness.’
She had a poor first impression of this callous man. In truth, there was probably little to be gained in speaking to Andrews’ former lover, but something told her that in doing so, she would piss off Edward Harbinson. An
d that was something she was happy to do.
‘She’s not here.’
‘A home address will do fine. Oh, and one more thing. At what time did you last see your son-in-law?’
‘The board meeting was at four. It was an extraordinary meeting, an emergency if you like. Richard left after a few minutes.’ Harbinson’s voice became choked. Tara was not convinced that it was genuine sadness. ‘We never spoke again.’
Harbinson provided the home address of his secretary, and Tara left.
Everything appeared quite straightforward. Andrews had left his wife for another woman who happened to be his boss’s secretary, except that his boss was also his father-in-law. The love affair breaks down and his boss gives him the heave-ho. Just as his wife had explained, he lost everything in a few days, it seemed. There wasn’t any need for Tara to visit this other woman except to satisfy a little of her curiosity. Andrews had abandoned a beautiful wife and young family; it would be interesting to see the woman he had left them for.
CHAPTER 8
When she reached her apartment building close to the Albert Dock, rather than calling it a day, she collected her car and drove to the address that Harbinson had given to her.
Before arriving at the home of the woman, Tara had realised it was an exclusive address in the city. She parked on a tree-lined road in Woolton, outside a large rambling house secreted behind a stone wall and double wooden gates. The short avenue was enclosed on three sides by several schools; the area was well sought after and commanded some of the highest property values in the city. Quiet and attractive, she thought, gazing at the house. She tried to conjure an image of the woman who lived here, a woman who had played a part in the destruction of a marriage and possibly a man’s life. An impressive-looking house for someone who worked as a secretary, it was only natural to wonder how this woman might afford such a property.
The house exuded character. It gave a feeling of tradition. The style was, Tara supposed, mock-Tudor with black and white exterior detail and leaded windows. The blinds were drawn at one of the front windows, and she couldn’t tell if there was anyone inside. She pushed the doorbell twice. A few moments later, a light came on. Tara could see the figure of a woman through the small side panes to either side of the solid wooden door. The door opened on a chain and the woman’s face appeared at the crack. Even at this limiting view, Tara could see the face of a stunning woman.
‘Miss Riordan?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Grogan, Merseyside Police. I wonder if I may have a quick word.’
Tara presented her warrant card for inspection. She could see the doubt and alarm on the woman’s face as she peered at it. Another moment passed, while she studied Tara’s face before the door was closed, the chain was released and the door re-opened. Tara’s eyes did a double-take. She was everything Tara imagined that she had to be. For Andrews to abandon a beautiful wife and then top himself when his affair ended, she had to be special. She was barefoot and yet towered over the slight figure of the detective. A long white bathrobe was pulled closed across her waist with one hand. Long tussled black hair sat on the thick collar of the robe. Her eyes were a vivid blue and rather piercing as if to inspect the very mind of her visitor. Riordan’s mouth sat in a seductive pout before she spoke, although her voice sounded weak and tired.
‘You’d better come in.’
She stepped back holding the door, allowing Tara to pass through into a dimly lit hallway. Both women observed each other nervously. Riordan slipped past Tara and padded to the rear of the house and into a spacious lounge. Tara felt obliged to follow. The walls of the room were adorned in colourful paintings. One wall housed an extensive collection of books, CDs and DVDs within a dark-wood bookcase. Out of character with the rest of the room, Tara thought.
‘Apologies for my appearance,’ said Riordan, ‘but I wasn’t expecting company. It’s been one hell of a day.’
‘I’m so sorry for your trouble, Miss Riordan, but I’m afraid I have to ask these questions.’
Tara had yet to decide on the woman’s age, but for some peculiar reason, she wasn’t interested in such trivia. Riordan nodded her understanding of the situation and motioned for Tara to sit down. The living room was square, although a second door, a few feet from the other one and wide open, revealed a spacious modern kitchen. Tara sat down in a soft brown leather sofa and found herself facing an attractive raised fireplace where a gas fire was flickering away.
‘Firstly,’ she began, ‘just to confirm that you work at Harbinson Fine Foods, is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ Riordan replied, resigning herself to an armchair that matched the sofa.
‘Am I right in thinking that you knew Mr Andrews well?’
A bemused smile broke on the woman’s face.
‘Come on, Inspector, I’m sure that someone has told you by now? Richard and I were lovers.’ She left it at that as if to tease Tara, inviting her into prying further. It worked, too.
Tara wasn’t usually so easily embarrassed but she was feeling rather in awe of this confident woman. Now that she had opened the can she would have to deal with the worms.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘At what time?’ She felt the room growing warmer, or was it just her?
‘Not long after four o’clock. He walked out of a board meeting and kept on going.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘That was the last time I saw him. He left, Inspector, without a word.’
‘I need to get an idea of his state of mind…’
‘The chairman had just shown him the door. I think it’s fair to say that he wasn’t terribly happy.’
‘Am I right in thinking that your relationship had also ended?’
Riordan raised an eyebrow then dabbed a tear with a tissue she’d pulled from the pocket of her bathrobe.
‘Do the police usually send a Detective Inspector to investigate suicide?’
‘We have to be sure it is suicide. Some are more obvious than others, Miss Riordan. We have to be sure that there was no foul play.’
‘Oh,’ she said, seemingly regretting having raised the issue.
‘And your relationship with Mr Andrews?’ If she had been trying to avoid answering the question it hadn’t worked.
‘Was over.’
‘Right, thank you, Miss Riordan.’
‘I know what you must be thinking, Inspector?’
Two bloody mind-readers in one day, thought Tara. First Harbinson and now Riordan. She got to her feet.
‘That our breaking up was too much for him to bear? That he wouldn’t be dead if we’d stayed together?’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s not my place to pass judgement. If someone has it in them to take their own life then they will eventually find a reason for doing so. That’s what I think, for what it’s worth.’
‘You must think me very selfish, Inspector?’
‘No, not at all. It’s very difficult for all concerned, so I won’t take up any more of your time.’ Tara was already at the lounge door before Riordan rose from her chair. ‘Is there anyone close, to keep you company?’
‘I’ll be fine, thank you.’
‘I see that you have an interest in art,’ said Tara, her clumsy attempt to lighten the tone on her way out.
‘They’re all mine, I’m afraid.’
Tara took the opportunity to glance around the room once again. Her experience of painting was confined to looking and a little reading of art history in some of her more studious moments when at Oxford. But she knew what she liked. There were several landscapes, fairly large canvases, vivid greens and blues of rare summer days. She liked open spaces, hills and sky. Wasn’t it Constable who was the master of sky? she mused. It never seemed a difficult thing for someone to paint until you tried it for yourself. So many shades of sky. But here was a definite, bold, overwhelming blue. This had been no trouble at all. Riordan watched patiently as Tara inspected her work.
‘Thank you,’ said Tara, without conviction as if the last minute had just been wiped from her memory. ‘I’ll be on my way. Good night, Miss Riordan.’
‘Good night, Inspector.’
Case closed, Tara thought, as the front door was shut behind her. Now she could turn her attention to the current emergency. She was not a part of the investigation team but she hoped that would soon change.
CHAPTER 9
Tara ate less than half of a lasagne she’d bought from Marks and Spencer. The remainder, still within the foil tray, lay abandoned on the coffee table. The bottle of chardonnay, bought at the same time on her journey home from Woolton, was more welcome than the food. She poured a third glass and sat back on her sofa, cradling her mobile in her right hand and texting with her thumb. She had managed only one night out in six months. It had not exactly been a wild evening. Dinner at a restaurant in the city, a couple of drinks and then home early.
She couldn’t help smiling, though, at the picture her friend Kate had sent of Adele, Tara’s god-daughter, in her Christening gown.
‘She’s a sweetie,’ Tara replied. It made her feel cosy inside. It made her feel human. Kate responded with a lol emoji and there ended the exchange.
She flicked on the television to catch up on the latest news. On the ITN bulletin, there was a recap of events to date on the unexplained deaths of four people in Liverpool. Beside her on the sofa, she opened up her laptop. Soon, within a variety of newsfeeds, she read all manner of commentaries on the ‘Merseyside Mystery’ as it had been titled by the media.
The names of the four victims and also the number of those who had taken ill had just been released. One article on Sky News stated that there were no apparent connections between any of the dead. Tara read the names.
David Leigh, aged fifty-two years and from Bootle, died in Williamson Square on Saturday afternoon.
Emma Whitehouse, thirty-one, married with two young children, from Speke, died at Broadgreen Hospital early on Saturday morning.
THE DARING NIGHT Page 3