THE DARING NIGHT

by Robert McCracken

  ‘Will you look at the size of that TV,’ said Murray. ‘Maybe this is where Big Beryl keeps his loot?’

  ‘Miss Hull certainly had the best of gear,’ Tara agreed. ‘I’m sure that carpet and suite cost a bit, never mind all that crystal. It’s a hell of a CD and DVD collection, too. She must have spent a fortune.’

  The room, despite being filled to the brim with all sorts of personal luxuries, was also quite tastefully decorated. The walls were painted an inconspicuous mild cream, allowing several expensive-looking paintings to catch the eye. One, in particular, had Murray looking baffled.

  ‘Take a look at this,’ he said, his head cocked to the side. Above the sofa, a picture, three feet by two and a half, showing a waterfall, had posed him with a problem. ‘Do you see what I see?’ he said, bewildered.

  Tara studied the scene. At first glance, it appeared simply as an oil painting of a vibrant waterfall in a leafy glen. It was brightly coloured: fast-flowing water over dark-grey rocks amid emerald ferns and silver birch. On closer inspection and indeed, once noticed, it was difficult to believe that it could have been missed in the first place, stood two young boys above the falls and among the mosses and ferns, their hands by their crotches. Suddenly, it became apparent that their behaviour, both of them having a pee, was entirely responsible for the torrents of water cascading over the rocks.

  ‘Who the hell would paint a picture like that?’ Murray asked.

  It immediately occurred to Tara who might have devised such a scene.

  They continued their inspection of the ground floor of the house. In the kitchen, they were once again amazed to find such an expensive range of utilities. Murray whistled.

  ‘Wow! These kitchen units must be top of the range, never mind that oven and hob.’ He opened one of the cupboard doors to find a well-stocked refrigerator. ‘Jeez, look at the stuff in here.’ Champagne, smoked salmon and several expensive, pre-cooked meals from luxury ranges of Waitrose, and Marks and Spencer were stacked on the shelves. ‘She certainly didn’t make do with beans on toast. She knew how to treat herself.’

  ‘The joys of living alone, Alan,’ said Tara, closing another cupboard door upon expensive-looking crockery. ‘Let’s take a look upstairs.’

  It was the same story – compact rooms made to look even smaller by extensive bedroom furniture, fitted slide robes and a king-size bed in the master bedroom.

  ‘Did she own part of that company she worked for?’ said Murray. ‘Makes you wonder where she got all her money from. She lived well for a secretary.’

  Tara slid open one of the wardrobe doors. By this stage, she was no longer surprised to find a vast array of expensive clothing hanging inside. Behind the next door and, woman-typical she thought, was the accompanying collection of shoes and boots. Murray handed her a photograph in a heavy brass frame.

  ‘This our Maggie then?’

  In the colour picture was a woman of about thirty-five sitting on a bench beside an older woman who looked around sixty. The scene behind them was of a riverboat, the type you would see cruising on the Rhine.

  ‘Maggie and her mum?’ said Tara. She looked closely at the photo, the first she had seen of the victim if indeed it was Maggie Hull. She seemed a happy sort but then she appeared to have been on holiday and well relaxed. Tara couldn’t tell much else. She was not that pretty, a step above plain maybe; her hair was long and curly, her smile a little fixed. Again, Tara concluded it was a holiday snap, nothing more.

  ‘Well, Maggie love,’ she said to the photo. ‘For whatever reason, some bastard took a strong disliking to you.’ She handed the frame back to Murray who replaced it on the bedside table. ‘Right, Alan, let’s go see the people she worked with.’

  CHAPTER 17

  On this occasion, Tara didn’t bother to make an appointment. She was certainly intending to speak with the company chairman once again, but she wished also to speak with the ordinary staff, the people who had worked day in, day out with Maggie Hull, those who knew her best and those who may even have been her friends. It might well be that she worked at one of the company’s factories of which there were two on Merseyside, one in Speke another in Birkenhead.

  From the moment she and Murray walked through the door of the head office in the Liver Building, however, it was obvious that the news of Maggie Hull’s murder had reached them. Officially, her name had not yet been released to the media because the formal identification had not yet taken place. Her address, however, and the scene outside her home had already featured on the breakfast-time news and social media.

  ‘Good morning, can I help you?’ asked a girl on the desk.

  She wore slim black trousers and high heels, but Tara couldn’t recall if it was the same girl she’d met on her previous visit. She shrugged off the notion as unimportant.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Tara Grogan, Merseyside Police and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Murray.’ The girl’s face reddened but she managed to nod acknowledgement. ‘Can I assume that you have already heard the tragic news this morning regarding Miss Maggie Hull?’

  ‘Yes, we have,’ she replied, tearfully.

  ‘Can you confirm that Miss Hull worked for this company?’

  ‘Em, yes, she worked for Mr Ewing; she’s his secretary. Would you like to speak to him?’

  ‘I’ll certainly do that, but first, can you tell me if Maggie had any close friends in the office? Anyone who might have known her better than most?’

  ‘Maggie’s been here a long time,’ she said. Her voice faltered as she realised that she’d been talking of Maggie in the present tense. ‘I’m sorry, we’re all very shocked. I’ll get someone to speak with you.’ She returned to the group of people who by now had ceased their conversation and were listening to the exchange with the police.

  ‘Poor Maggie, we can’t believe it,’ said a woman who had volunteered her services, leaving the other girl behind to settle herself with a cup of coffee. ‘What happened to her? I hope you get them, lock them up and throw away the key. She never did anybody a button of harm.’

  The small and stout woman with greying hair and well-powdered face was saying all the things that would spring naturally to anyone who’d just learned of a murder and especially that of a friend. She dabbed her eyes with a crumpled tissue as Tara repeated her introductions.

  ‘I would like to speak to anyone who knew her well,’ she said.

  ‘All of us knew her well,’ the woman replied. ‘Maggie was a very private person, though. She mixed well in the office; we went out to lunch, did some shopping. Beyond that, I don’t think anyone in here was close to her. As far as I know, outside of working hours she never really socialised.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs…?’

  ‘Hodges, Muriel Hodges.’

  ‘OK, Mrs Hodges, I’ll speak with Mr Harbinson now if he’s available.’

  ‘Certainly, I’ll just check.’ She walked to a desk, picked up a telephone and punched in a number. A few seconds later, she was back with Tara. ‘That’s fine, Inspector, Mr Harbinson can see you now. I’ll take you there myself.’ She led them along the corridor that Tara remembered from her previous visit. ‘Go on through,’ she said when they had reached the door to the chairman’s office. ‘Oh, Inspector, just one thing.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Hodges?’

  ‘I should have mentioned it earlier, but Maggie was quite close for a while with one member of staff. At least, I believe they used to spend some time together outside working hours. She’ll probably explain to you herself.’

  ‘And who is this person?’

  ‘Oh sorry, I nearly forgot to tell you that part. Her name is Jez Riordan. She and Maggie are both secretaries to the directors. I expect that’s how they became friends.’

  ‘Thanks very much, Mrs Hodges. You’ve been very helpful.’

  The woman smiled with closed lips, turned on her heels and hurried away, no doubt relieved to be finished with the police and their questions.

  Edward Harbins
on must have overheard the conversation because he opened his door to greet them. There was no sign of Jez at what Tara presumed to be the secretary’s desk in the outer office.

  ‘Come in, Inspector,’ he said, holding the door open.

  ‘Mr Harbinson, I’m sorry to bother you again on the back of more tragic news.’

  ‘I understand. You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m devastated about Maggie. My phone hasn’t stopped this morning with colleagues and friends, even clients who knew her well. Everyone is very shocked.’

  Harbinson was certainly more animated than when Tara had first met him. On that occasion, he’d sat with head bowed and seemed rather indifferent to the passing of Richard Andrews, his son-in-law.

  He had sat down as Tara and Murray had taken their seats, but in seconds he was on his feet again, pacing, fidgeting with his tie then tidying around his desk. He was a man on edge; his hands shook when he lifted some papers and his voice teetered and threatened to fail.

  ‘We were wondering if you could fill us in a little on Maggie Hull’s background. I gather that she’s worked here for a long time?’

  Harbinson sighed but his breath seemed to pass nervously. He was fighting to remain composed.

  ‘All her working life, Inspector,’ he replied. ‘She walked into our office in Birkenhead the day after she left school. Her mother had to bring her in, she was so shy. My father was chairman at the time. I was still learning the ropes. A long time ago.’

  Tara didn’t want him drifting off on some nostalgic trip, she needed hard facts regarding Maggie Hull because so far she had precious few.

  ‘Can you think of any reason why anyone should want to do her harm?’

  ‘I was about to ask you the same question. If you had known Maggie then you, too, would be confounded at the thought that anyone would have reason to kill her. She worked hard in the office; there’s nothing she didn’t know about this company; everyone trusted her; everyone liked her. What more can I say?’

  ‘What about her personal life?’

  ‘Of that, I’m afraid, I know very little. She kept her personal life to herself. She never brought her problems into the office. She never appeared as anything less than happy. I know she never married, and I don’t believe there was anyone in particular. Her mother died a few years ago. I was unable to attend the funeral but Maggie understood. That’s the sort of person she was – very understanding.’

  ‘OK, Mr Harbinson, I think we’ve heard enough. If you don’t mind, we’d like to chat with other members of your staff.’

  ‘Yes, of course, please feel free.’ He rose from his desk visibly relieved as if he’d just been given the all-clear by a cancer specialist. He walked his visitors to the door. ‘May I ask you a question, Inspector?’ he said shakily.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘Someone battered her to death, Mr Harbinson.’ Tara studied the man’s reactions and could have elaborated but the vision she’d planted was more than sufficient. Harbinson’s face drained of colour. ‘One last thing, Mr Harbinson. Can you think of any connection between Maggie Hull and Mr Andrews?’

  He had to swallow hard before attempting to speak. The idea had given him something of a jolt, and Tara had noticed.

  ‘Not beyond the office, no,’ he answered as if he were running the idea through his mind for the first time.

  CHAPTER 18

  They were shown into the office of Toby Ewing by a young lad who didn’t look old enough to be a school kid on work experience let alone a full-time employee. Thin, scrawny, with spots, his white shirt and bright red tie did little to enhance his maturity. The office was at the far end of a bare corridor, in a functional red-brick building within the Harbinson Fine Foods factory at Speke.

  Toby Ewing had his back to them as they entered, and he was speaking on the telephone. When eventually he turned around and noticed that he had company, he nervously called an abrupt halt to his conversation.

  ‘I’ll have to go,’ he said, sounding flustered. ‘I have people waiting to see me. I’ll see you tonight.’ He put down the receiver. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, although he didn’t yet know who he was addressing.

  ‘Mr Ewing?’ Tara asked then continued with her introductions and explanations as to why she was there.

  Ewing stood and listened but couldn’t hide his being distracted. He was pale, fine-featured and wore designer spectacles, oblong lenses in dark blue frames. His suit, also, well in vogue, complemented a neat white shirt and a sensible tie. His body was thin, almost wimpish. It occurred to Tara that he seemed quite young to be a director in such a large company, but then again Richard Andrews, also, was only thirty-seven when he died.

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector,’ said Ewing. ‘As you can imagine things are a bit hectic here today. The phone hasn’t stopped, and Maggie isn’t here to field my calls.’ His mention of her name suddenly halted him in his tracks. It allowed Tara to begin her enquiries.

  ‘Miss Hull was your secretary, I believe?’

  ‘That’s correct.’ He’d, at last, dropped into his leather chair and sat with his arms resting on the desk. ‘Maggie was a lot more than a secretary, though.’ His voice cracked and he wiped tears from behind his glasses. ‘I’m sorry,’ he sobbed. ‘I meant to say that Maggie had been here a long time – long before me. And Richard. We were just kids; she taught us everything about this place. She was like a big sister to us, keeping us in check and covering up for us when we stepped out of line. The products, the accounts, dealing with clients, how to handle Edward: there’s nothing she didn’t know.’

  ‘You mentioned Richard, would that be Richard Andrews?’

  ‘Yes, poor Richard. I can’t believe all this is happening. First Richard and now Maggie.’

  Tweedy had referred to it as a tragic coincidence, but Tara wasn’t entirely sure that she believed in such things. In her experience of crime investigation, a coincidence was merely something that lacked a credible factual explanation. It did not necessarily mean that two happenings could not be linked.

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Hello, Toby Ewing speaking?’ He paused to listen. ‘I’m sorry, John, I’ll have to get back to you on that one. I don’t have the file to hand … Tomorrow morning. Bye, John.’ He replaced the receiver. ‘Sorry for the interruption, Inspector.’

  ‘No problem,’ Tara replied. ‘Can you tell me, Mr Ewing, when you last saw Miss Hull?’

  ‘Yesterday. She was at work as usual. At head office, I mean. She didn’t spend much time down here. I’m the director in charge of primary production here at our Speke factory. My time is divided between here and head office in the Liver Building.’

  ‘Primary production?’ Murray asked.

  ‘Yes, we process our meat products here, mainly poultry, and some pork and lamb, then pass them on to Birkenhead where they prepare our “Fine” ready meals. We also supply fresh chicken directly to retail outlets.’

  ‘And at what time did she leave work?’ Tara asked.

  ‘Quarter past five, I assume.’

  ‘You assume?’

  ‘That’s her usual finishing time. I was here in the afternoon. I didn’t make it back to head office.’ The phone rang again. ‘Sorry,’ he said before answering. ‘Toby Ewing speaking … e-mail? No, I’m sorry, Mr Soames. I haven’t got to it yet. Things are a bit upside down at the moment…’

  Tara looked at Murray who rolled his eyes. This man had spent his entire morning fielding a barrage of client phone calls. When he was finished, he apologised once again. Tara remained largely indifferent, wishing only to get the interview over and done with.

  ‘Do you know of anyone who might have wished to harm Miss Hull?’ she asked.

  ‘No one could ever have reason to hurt Maggie. She was a saint.’

  ‘Do you know of any problems that she may have been having? Did she seem troubled about anything? Perhaps, not her usual self?’

  Ewing rolled his head, dismi
ssing all of the suggestions. His eyes watered heavily as he struggled to answer.

  ‘No, Inspector. I can’t help you.’

  ‘In that case, Mr Ewing, we’ll let you get on with your work. I can see that you’re very busy.’

  The phone was ringing again as they left his office.

  * * *

  At the Harbinson factory in Birkenhead, they were introduced by a secretary to Skip McIntyre, another of the company directors. Put bluntly, McIntyre was of a non-impressive yet memorable appearance: slim, tanned and wrinkled face, and balding but with long strings of dark and grey hair hanging to the back and sides of his head. Tara tried to guess at his age but found it impossible. McIntyre wore an open, collarless shirt, brown tweed waistcoat and jeans. His face was pinched, and he sported a grey goatee beard. He looked like a geriatric hippie.

  His office was quite lavish and certainly better furnished than that of the company chairman. A glass and chrome desk occupied the middle of the floor, a computer monitor and keyboard the only things sitting upon it. There was an expensive-looking black leather sofa, a heavy, smoked-glass coffee table and, set against a wall, a well-stocked, glass and chrome drinks cabinet. Judging by the number of bottles, some full and several nearly empty, it was put to regular use.

  ‘So, how can I be of service to the Merseyside Police?’ he asked, quite chirpily and sporting a churlish grin.

  Tara returned the grin in equal measure. She didn’t expect every colleague of Maggie Hull to be in floods of tears at the news of her death, but where had this guy been this morning? On the happy pills?