Norman Forbes, eighty-three, a widower, and also from Speke, was found dead in his home by his daughter on Sunday night.
Marsha Ross, twenty-two, died on board a Liverpool to Manchester train at Lime Street station. She was single and came from the Orrell Park area.
Twelve-year-old Kaley Watson from Everton remained seriously ill at Alder Hey Children’s Hospital where she was admitted late on Friday evening suffering severe nausea, headache and difficulty in breathing.
Three other people, two men and a woman, were critically ill in the Royal Liverpool Hospital, their cases also being linked to similar incidents.
Finding the connections: that’s exactly what she and Murray should be doing, instead of her writing up a report of an obvious suicide.
She lifted her mobile and composed a text to her DS. He responded immediately and in complete agreement with her stance. Questions were piling up before her, and for now, she had no power or authority to do anything about it. What if there were more fatalities? Why Liverpool? If it were a terrorist plot, then it could happen anywhere. If it was a case of accidental food poisoning, then why weren’t they going into all the supermarkets and food outlets in the city? Maybe they were; maybe they already knew the source of the poison; maybe it was a matter of national security. Maybe, maybe, maybe: she could scream with frustration.
She typed a few words into Google. She had already studied the story several times in recent weeks, never believing that such an attack could happen in her home city. She read:
On 4 March 2018, former Russian spy Sergei Skripal, 66, and his 33-year-old daughter, Yulia were found seriously ill on a bench in the centre of Salisbury. They had been poisoned by a nerve agent, in an attack likely to have been sanctioned by the Russian state.
A bitter exchange of accusations and denials from the highest levels of governments came in the months that followed, culminating in diplomatic expulsions and international sanctions.
The attack on Sergei Skripal and Yulia left them hospitalised for weeks.
In June, Wiltshire Police linked the attack to another poisoning in which Dawn Sturgess and her partner Charlie Rowley were exposed to Novichok in nearby Amesbury, after handling a contaminated perfume dispenser. This dispenser was believed to be the container used by the Russian agents in their attempt to kill Skripal. Ms Sturgess died in hospital in July.
An hour later, and well into a second bottle of wine, Tara had covered the stories of Alexander Litvinenko and Georgi Markov.
On 1 November 2006, Litvinenko suddenly fell ill and was hospitalised in what was established as a case of poisoning by radioactive polonium-210. He died from the poisoning on 23 November. He became the first known victim of lethal polonium-210-induced acute radiation syndrome. The blame for the attack was firmly set at the door of Russia. Litvinenko was a British naturalised Russian defector and former officer of the Russian FSB secret service.
On 7 September 1978, Georgi Markov walked across Waterloo Bridge in London and waited at a bus stop to take a bus to his job at the BBC. He felt a slight sharp pain, like a bug bite or sting, on the back of his right thigh. He looked behind him and saw a man lifting an umbrella off the ground. The man hurriedly crossed to the other side of the street and got into a taxi which then drove away. The event was reported as the ‘Umbrella Murder’ with the assassin identified as Francesco Gullino, codenamed ‘Piccadilly’.
When he arrived at work at the BBC World Service offices, Markov noticed a small red pimple had formed at the site of the sting he had felt earlier, and the pain had not lessened or stopped. He told at least one of his colleagues at the BBC about the incident. That evening he developed a fever and was admitted to St James’ Hospital in Balham, where he died four days later, on 11 September 1978, at the age of 49. The cause of death was poisoning from a ricin-filled pellet.
It felt more like fiction when it happened far away, thought Tara. Once it enters your hometown, however, fear quickly surpasses surprise. What the hell could she do if Russian agents were involved? How many of the victims had been targets? It was no wonder that the mystery had taken on national significance.
Reluctantly, and now quite drunk, she abandoned her laptop, left the television blaring with some futile celebrity game show and traipsed to her bedroom. If she was to take on the world in the morning, she must get some damn sleep.
* * *
They arrived at St Anne Street at the same time and, following a brief greeting, they quickly decided they were of the same mind. Tara and Murray would approach Tweedy and request that they were assigned to the special investigation team dealing with the present crisis. Neither officer had envisaged what was to happen when they walked into their operations room. DC John Wilson leapt from his chair to greet them. His face was beaming and much too cheerful for the news he was about to impart.
‘Morning, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I might have something for you.’
She turned to Murray.
‘Go and see if Tweedy is here yet. I’ll catch up with you.’ She slipped an arm through John Wilson’s left and walked him towards her desk. ‘OK, John,’ she said, playfully, ‘tell me your story.’
‘Housebreaking, ma’am. The super wants us to look at some recent burglary activity.’
Tara flopped into her chair and looked at Wilson with the sad eyes of a bored pubescent teenager.
‘Burglaries? But we’re a serious crime unit. What the hell is going on, John? The entire city is under siege and Tweedy assigns us to a case of burglary?’
CHAPTER 10
Wilson could do little but shrug his large rounded shoulders. He was so used to seeing his boss full of vigour, motivated and determined to see things through. He paused, but eventually felt inclined to deliver the details of the case they were to investigate. He felt some relief when Murray joined them, although his expression, matching Tara’s, was scorched with frustration.
‘I reckon Big Beryl’s been at it again,’ said Wilson.
‘Why, what’s up?’ Murray asked.
‘Three houses yesterday, all done the same way. Nothing touched except for mobile phones, plasma screens and jewellery. All three houses were entered from the rear, and the doors were smashed in with a sledgehammer. Two of the properties had alarms fitted, both were activated but it didn’t seem to bother the perpetrators.’
‘And why Big Beryl?’ Tara asked, more from idle curiosity than genuine interest.
‘Usual routine, which is no routine, just barge straight in, to hell with anybody who happens to be in the house. Beryl’s the main operator in the Kirkdale area.’
‘Is that it?’ Tara snapped.
‘And…’
‘What?’
‘We got a positive ID on the bugger.’
‘You’re joking me?’ said Murray, who at least was showing some interest.
Tara, aside from scoffing, was already doing other things. She logged into her computer, checked her mobile phone for messages and listened to the discussion between Wilson and Murray.
‘A Mrs Henshaw,’ Wilson explained, ‘was coming down her stairs just as Big Beryl was struggling in the hall with her telly. She recognised him straight away. He washed her car the day before.’
‘At that Speedy-Klean place down by the docks?’ said Murray.
‘Yes, Great Howard Street.’
‘Brilliant, bloody brilliant. Time we paid Big Beryl a visit.’
‘I thought you might want to do that,’ said Wilson with a satisfied grin.
Tara went along – reluctantly. Murray and Wilson were brimming, particularly Wilson who seemed to relish a reunion with an old adversary. Tara sat next to Murray in the marked car, thinking of how best to approach Superintendent Tweedy over what she now firmly believed was her sidelining.
Wilson had come along to supply physical support. Murray drove a marked BMW 3 Series just over a mile from the station to the Speedy-Klean attended car wash in Great Howard Street, a former heavy industrial area now, in patches, within th
e throes of re-development. Murray thought it wise also to have a couple of uniforms in a second car, for the same reason he had brought Wilson.
‘Want your motor cleaned, love?’ said a husky and rather high-pitched voice. Big Beryl stood in navy blue waterproof gear with a power-hose in his burly hands. Tall, heavily built, no one would ever deny him the first word of his nickname. The second, however, as the story went was acquired during a stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure in a youth detention centre when Beryl was thirteen. His fellow inmates were rather taken with his female-sounding voice and man boobs. Billy, his real name, was lost forever. In those days, his expertise lay in stealing car stereos. Although he sounded cheerful, his face was scrunched to a permanent scowl such that his eyes were little more than slits in a chubby face.
‘You’re a funny man, Beryl,’ said Tara, flanked by Murray. Wilson had remained by the entrance to the car wash compound. ‘And it’s Detective Inspector Grogan to you.’
Beryl gave a few token squirts of water across the bonnet of a red Astra as Tara and Murray drew closer. Close enough, for him to suddenly aim the jet in their direction. Their recoil gave him just enough time to leg it past them towards the open street. He had not bargained on running into Wilson, his equal in height if not in weight. Wilson thrust him sideways into the wire mesh fencing, but Beryl merely bounced off and hurried on his way. The two uniformed constables were quickly out of their car and formed another obstruction across the pavement. Beryl barged through with ease, knocking one officer flat on his back. Several passing cars were the first thing to slow him down. He couldn’t get across the road. He wasn’t a fast runner, either. Forty yards along the pavement, Murray and Wilson finally ran him to the side, colliding with a heavy metal railing. Big Beryl wasn’t hurt, but even after such a short run was gasping for breath.
‘Now that wasn’t very nice, Beryl,’ said an out-of-breath Tara, catching them up. The front of her blouse and trousers were soaked. ‘I only wanted a word. Now we’ll have to do it down at the station.’
Still panting, Beryl smirked at Tara.
‘Did you ever think of entering one of those Miss Wet T-shirt competitions, love?’
Instantly, Tara drew her arms across her chest. She glanced at her colleagues and caught their smirks.
‘Get him out of here,’ she snapped.
Wilson held Big Beryl in an elbow lock, gladly applying pressure each time he tried to move. Once he was handcuffed, the two uniforms marched him to their car. Three people in the car wash, two men in a Nissan and a young woman, in the Astra, were gazing through the fence looking stunned and mystified by the activity before them and no doubt wondering who was now going to wash their cars.
‘I’m sayin’ nothin’. I want my brief, now,’ Beryl shouted as he was squeezed into the patrol car.
CHAPTER 11
It was evening before they had the opportunity to interview Big Beryl. Tara left Wilson to do the honours.
‘Beryl, have you no sense?’ said Wilson. ‘It’s a simple question. What did you do with the gear?’
‘What gear?’ Beryl, resting on his arms, was slumped over the table, his bald pate beading with sweat.
‘There you go again. I thought you knew how to play this game. You tell us what we want to know and then I can go home for my tea, simple.’
But the big man wasn’t having any of it. He continually smirked at Wilson who was at a loss for what to do or say next. His inexperience at working an interview was driving him along dead-end streets. Beryl was a seasoned campaigner of police interviews. Exasperated, Wilson rose from his chair opposite Beryl and made for the door.
‘You can bloody stew here for all I care. I’m away for my dinner.’
‘Get that cute detective or Murray. I’ll talk to him. At least his balls have dropped.’
It was a swipe at Wilson, who didn’t like it.
‘With a voice like that, Beryl, yours must be in your throat.’
Tara and Murray were chatting in the operations room sifting through a pile of papers, neither one looking at all happy.
‘Will you look at this pigging mess!’ said Murray as Wilson approached. ‘Tweedy wants me to go through all of this before Thursday.’
‘What is it?’ Wilson ventured to ask. It was as if Murray had been willing him to do just that so that he could rant for another ten minutes.
‘Case notes. Dot every I, cross all the bloody Ts, he says. We can’t afford to slip up on this one, Alan, he says.’
Wilson listened in silence feeling it wiser to say nothing.
‘It’s the Hurley case, booze smuggler extraordinaire,’ said Tara with a sigh. It comes up to court next month, you know how Tweedy likes to have everything neat and tidy, well before the time.’
‘What’s going on, ma’am?’ Wilson asked. ‘I thought we were supposed to be a serious crime squad?’
‘I wish I knew, John. I’m beginning to think I’ve done something wrong.’
Wilson acknowledged her comment with a nod of his head. ‘If you want a break, Big Beryl says he’ll only talk to one of you.’
‘Playing hard to get is he, John?’
Murray enjoyed the odd poke at his junior colleague. Wilson and Murray were good lads. They had been in Tweedy’s section longer than Tara. They more or less clicked right from day one. She was fortunate, two good cops; they understood her, and she was happy to allow them some scope. Wilson was relatively quiet, never said too much but Tara knew he had a wild streak in him. He liked a few drinks and a hand of cards. Murray, however, was making another attempt at settling down. Lately, he was not always available when Wilson fancied a late night at cards or a game of squash after work.
‘He’s acting as if he’s just snatched the bloody crown jewels and won’t tell us where he has them stashed,’ said Wilson.
Tara tossed a bundle of paper onto her desk, sat back in her chair and stretched.
‘What time is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s after seven, nearly half past,’ said Murray.
‘Sod it. I think I’ll take this lot home and look over it in front of the telly.’
‘What about Big Beryl?’ said Wilson, as Tara stood, gathering her bag and coat.
‘Give him his tea and put him to bed. I’ll speak to him in the morning. He might be more forthcoming after a night in the cells.’
‘Fair enough,’ Wilson replied. ‘That means I can be on my way too. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Tara gathered up the files that Tweedy had given to her, walked from the office and took to the stairs. She contemplated the remainder of her evening. Once she got home, there was little chance she would even open the files. This day, as if she could get much lower, had dragged her down.
But she did not go straight home.
CHAPTER 12
Tara needed activity and had a yearning for company. There weren’t many options open for her. Maybe she could drive around for a while, or go to the pictures, but then she wouldn’t get any work done. She could turn around and go back to the office, or she could go for a long run.
Somewhere between driving to Kate’s or the local Cineplex, she still hadn’t decided, another idea popped into her head. Scarcely realising she had done it, and instantly feeling nervous, she stopped her car outside the house. The double gates lay open, but she felt better leaving her car in the street and walking up the drive to the front door. The blinds were closed at the lounge window, and she was unable to tell if there was a light on inside. She rang the doorbell and waited for a light to come on in the front porch. Her tummy gave a little flutter – nerves or hunger – she couldn’t decide which. Within a few moments, Jez Riordan appeared by her door. On this occasion, she drew it open wide and recognised Tara instantly.
‘Hello, Inspector,’ she said with a smile, her wide-eyed expression suggesting that she was intrigued by Tara’s presence.
‘Miss Riordan.’ She attempted to sound informal, failed miserably then lied. ‘I was just passing.
Thought I might take you up on your offer.’
‘Offer?’
‘I’m sorry, perhaps I got it wrong…’
‘No, no, no,’ she said. ‘My studio! Of course, please come in, Inspector.’
Two and a half feet was about the measure of Tara as she stepped inside. What a stupid idea. What was she doing here?
‘Would you like a drink?’ Jez asked. ‘I was just about to open a bottle of wine.’
She walked to her kitchen, while Tara stood in the middle of her lounge, the little girl lost, in a quandary over whether to stand or sit. She watched as her host uncorked the bottle.
Tara thought Jez looked better than last time. It was the clothes and make-up, she supposed. She wore a dark grey skirt with a white blouse, black stockings and expensive-looking shoes.
‘I’m sorry about turning up like this. I hope I’m not interfering with your plans for the evening.’
‘Turning up like what?’
‘Out of the blue, unannounced.’
‘You don’t need an appointment, Inspector. Not for a social call anyway. I had no plans for tonight other than this bottle of wine and the television.’
‘Please, call me Tara. I suppose I also wanted to check that you are all right.’
‘That’s really thoughtful of you, Tara. And you can call me Jez.’
She handed Tara a hefty wine glass, one-third full of a fruity red. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable,’ she said.
Tara was glad for the drink; it moistened her dry mouth and throat and settled her uncharacteristic nerves. She stole the chance to examine Jez as she sat in an armchair to her right, while she was plonked sheepishly in the middle of the sofa. Tonight, Tara thought, Jez looked younger, at least by five years, her hair brushed into waves which dropped to her shoulders. Her eyes seemed bigger and brighter. She appeared less strained and more confident than when they’d first met.
‘I had the evening free, unexpectedly,’ Tara felt compelled to explain, ‘and the idea of looking around your studio came into my head.’ Did that sound all right? Or did she sound like Inspector No-mates?
THE DARING NIGHT Page 4