THE DARING NIGHT

by Robert McCracken

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions about your husband, Mrs Andrews?’

  The woman shook her head in submission and tried ever harder to speed the coffee preparation along.

  ‘What was the relationship like between your husband and Maggie Hull?’

  ‘Maggie? She was like a big sister to him. She was a big sister to all of us, Richard, Toby Ewing, me and every other fresh face that ventured into the office.’

  ‘So, you work for your father also?’

  ‘Used to, B.C.’ She set two mugs of coffee and a plate of Penguins and Kit Kats on the breakfast bar. ‘Before Children,’ she added with a hint of a smile, the first Tara had noticed. ‘I worked in the office during summer holidays from school and university. Richard came to work there the year I finished A-Levels. We married the week after I graduated from York. Maggie used to keep all of us in order. Richard and Toby were a couple of jokers. They used to keep her going all the time. But she never got angry. Always threatened to tell Dad about their antics, but she never did. They used to invent clients, make them sound really important and very rich. Maggie had to spend half her time screening people whenever they called just in case it was a prank. If Dad had ever found out he would have hit the roof; sacked the pair of them probably. She was a good person, Inspector, and a good friend to me.’

  ‘Had you seen much of her recently?’

  ‘Not really. She came to see me once, a few days after Richard left us. As always, she was well aware of what had been going on. She was certainly disappointed in Richard and very angry with Jez. And she wasn’t afraid to tell them so.’

  ‘Did she have any specific reason for coming to see you?’

  Nicole shook her head and took a sip of coffee.

  ‘I don’t think so. She was just concerned for me and the children.’

  ‘Was that the last time you saw her?’ Murray asked, joining in between mouthfuls of chocolate biscuit.

  ‘Yes, I believe so.’

  ‘I’m sorry for bringing this up again, Mrs Andrews,’ Tara began in a more compassionate tone. ‘I was wondering about a letter that Richard had begun to write on the day he died. It was intended for Toby Ewing. Can you think of any reason why he would have something to say particularly to Mr Ewing?’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ she replied rather curtly.

  ‘As far as you know, were Richard and Toby on good terms at that time?’

  ‘Yes, as far as I know. They were best friends, Inspector. They played golf, went sailing; both our families were close. Heather, Toby’s wife, and I are good friends. We used to go on holiday together, shopping trips, girls’ nights out, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Seems as though the arrival of Jez Riordan at your father’s company upset a rather blissful lifestyle for you and Richard.’

  Nicole Andrews glared at Tara with a degree of incredulity. The remark was at best a statement of the obvious, at worst, sarcastic. Either way, it failed to solicit a reply. Tara, however, had intended it, not as a question but more a prelude to her final comment.

  ‘I have to say that I was curious as to why your father kept Jez on as his secretary in the company after Richard’s death.’

  ‘You’re assuming that Richard was sacked over his affair with Jez.’

  ‘Isn’t that the case?’

  ‘You should address that question to my father, Inspector. Now, if you don’t mind, I will have to get on with preparing lunch for the children.’

  ‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Andrews.’

  ‘And the coffee,’ added Murray.

  They rose to leave and had reached the door when Tara remembered something.

  ‘One more thing,’ she said, pulling her mobile from her pocket. She had taken some photographs of the evidence removed from Jez’s car. She opened up the phone and selected the first picture and showed it to Nicole. ‘Do you recognise the phone number, by any chance?’

  Andrews inspected the image carefully before handing it back.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  Tara wasn’t finished. She swept her finger across the screen to reveal another image. ‘Do you recognise this handwriting?’

  Nicole’s face reddened when she looked at the photo of the handwritten note. Suddenly the back door swung open, and the little girl came charging in.

  ‘Mummy, Simon won’t push me on the swing,’ she cried.

  ‘Chloe, Mummy is busy.’ The child stopped in her tracks and clung to her mother. ‘Go and tell Simon that it’s time to come in now.’

  Off she ran, calling to her brother across the lawn.

  ‘So, the writing’s not familiar to you?’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve never seen it before.’

  ‘Thanks again, Mrs Andrews.’

  Murray was prepared for Tara’s habitual question as they walked back to the car.

  ‘Well, Alan, what do you think?’

  ‘She’s not the friendliest of people, although she’s had a hard time of it lately, I suppose.’

  ‘Certainly keeps her distance. I was getting a bit fed up having to speak across that enormous kitchen. The only time she came close was to serve the damn coffee.’

  They stopped when they reached the car. Tara turned around and gazed at the house they’d just left.

  ‘A shrewd cookie that Mrs Andrews,’ she said. ‘She got very prickly when I asked her about Jez staying on as Harbinson’s secretary after Richard Andrews died.’

  ‘Understandable.’

  ‘And she lied about the handwriting.’ She climbed into the car.

  ‘Do you think she had anything to do with Jez’s death?’ Murray asked, starting up the engine.

  ‘Nicole Andrews certainly has a strong motive for killing Jez. Firstly, her marriage was destroyed and then she had to stand by and watch as her father keeps his secretary in her job. Even a saint would be tempted to wring the woman’s neck. But Jez knew who she was meeting on the day she disappeared. She was dressed for a night out or a date. With whom, I don’t know. I don’t believe she would have dressed that way if she was intending to meet Nicole Andrews. Besides all that, Alan, Nicole Andrews has no apparent motive for killing Maggie Hull, except perhaps to deflect the attention from the killing of Jez Riordan.’

  ‘Assuming, of course, that Jez and Maggie were murdered by the same person?’

  ‘Had to be,’ said Tara.

  ‘Then it has to be someone else in that food company?’

  ‘Or maybe just someone who was acquainted with both women.’

  CHAPTER 39

  Tara had spent the previous afternoon going through the report on the post-mortem for Jez Riordan. It did not make for pleasant reading. The main points confirmed much of what had been said by the medical examiner at the crime scene. Jez’s body had been dumped in the spot where it was discovered. She had probably been lying there for at least five days, and it was likely that she had been run over by a vehicle of some description. The pathologist believed also that in addition to an initial collision it was likely that the vehicle had run over the body while it lay on the ground. The driver or other persons unknown had then dragged or carried Jez’s body to the place where it was discovered. The fact that Jez’s car was found nearby suggested that the killing had taken place within Royden Park.

  For Tara, the question remained – why had Jez been there in the first place? She was a long way from home. Who was she planning to meet? She had been well dressed as if for an evening out or possibly for a date. Had Jez even realised that her life was in danger?

  Tara stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She wanted to look her best but couldn’t think why. Jez was dead. It was her funeral. Who was going to care about how she was dressed? She wore her best black skirt, jacket and silk blouse. Her tights were fine denier black and her shoes were patent black with three-inch heels. She would have preferred to pin up her hair, but the bruise on her face was still unseemly. She brushed it forward to conceal the worst.

  Today was abo
ut paying her respects, but it was also about observation. She wanted to see who turned up at the church to mourn Jez’s passing. She wanted to look into the faces and eyes of those who had worked with Jez and Maggie Hull. She wanted to find answers.

  First thing on Monday morning she had telephoned the mortuary to check if Jez’s body had been released following all post-mortem examinations. She was informed by the female receptionist that a firm of undertakers from Woolton, Headie and Sons, had collected the remains on the previous Friday. A woman with a tranquil voice answered Tara’s call at the funeral home.

  ‘Good morning, Headie and Sons. My name is Maureen, how may I help you?’

  ‘Good morning, Maureen,’ Tara replied, attempting to match her pleasant yet appropriately sedate tone. ‘This is Detective Inspector Tara Grogan, Merseyside Police, I wonder if you can help me? I believe that you are in charge of the arrangements for a friend of mine, a Miss Jez Riordan?’

  ‘Yes, we are, Inspector. I am very sorry for your loss. She was quite a young woman, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, she was,’ Tara agreed, although she had not learned Jez’s true age of forty-one until after she was dead. ‘I would like to assist with the funeral expenses. I know that she had no close relatives, and I assume that her former colleagues are taking care of the arrangements?’

  ‘Em, no, I don’t think so,’ said Maureen, sounding puzzled. ‘All arrangements concerning the funeral of Miss Riordan are being taken care of by a Miss Anne Gibson.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘I believe she is an aunt of the deceased.’

  ‘Oh right,’ Tara said surprised. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  ‘The funeral is on Wednesday, two-thirty at the Parish Church, here in Woolton.’

  ‘Thank you, Maureen. You’ve been very helpful.’ She put the phone down.

  Tara tried to shake off that particular piece of hitherto unknown and startling information by launching into a third call of the morning. She dialled carefully, checking each digit from the photo on her mobile. The phone rang twice before she heard a loud, male voice.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ah, hello. Who am I speaking to?’ She employed a jovial manner for the second time.

  ‘Who is this?’ A gruff voice, even with such few words, antagonistic.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Grogan, Merseyside Police–’ There ended the conversation. Tara looked gleefully down the receiver as if to delight in making someone’s day.

  She noticed Wilson beavering away at his desk.

  ‘John? If you’re not too busy this morning, I’d like you to do a few things for me.’

  ‘No problem, ma’am,’ replied the young detective. He joined Tara at her desk.

  ‘First of all, I want you to run a check on this mobile number.’ She handed over her mobile for him to make a note of the number from the image on the screen. ‘Secondly, find out from forensics if they have any more information on where the spanner came from that was used to clobber Maggie Hull. Also, I want you to make a list of the cars belonging to the staff at Harbinson Fine Foods. Just the head office people for now. Oh, and while you’re there, try and rustle up a sample of the handwriting for each of the directors. Include Richard Andrews’ writing from his suicide note in that.’

  ‘Is that everything?’

  ‘That’s all for now, John. If you happen to set eyes on that Murray bloke, tell him I’m off to a funeral this afternoon. He’s late.’

  * * *

  The Parish Church in Woolton was a brownstone building surrounded by a low wall and with a lych gate. A parish graveyard lay to the rear of the building. She realised as she parked her car close to the graveyard that Jez’s home was not far away. She wondered, too, about Miss Anne Gibson. The thought of her existence intrigued her, if only because she wondered if she might resemble her niece in any way. Tara felt a certain twinge of excitement at the idea of meeting her. Hopefully, Anne Gibson would be able to provide her with a background to her niece and just maybe there would be something in it that would lead to the apprehension of her murderer.

  Tara was early, it being only ten past two, but several cars were already parked, and the hearse sat outside the church door.

  Two men wearing dark overcoats were standing by the arched doorway as Tara approached. They nodded politely, stepping back for her to enter. Once inside, the sound of her footsteps echoed on the stone floor as she moved along the aisle, one or two heads turning or looking up to put a face to the steps. She chose an empty pew halfway along on the left. Tara’s eyes were diverted immediately to the coffin, resting upon trestles directly below the sanctuary. A single spray of white lilies sat on top, with a little rectangular card just visible in the centre. Tara exhaled deeply then dropped her head. It wasn’t a prayer, certainly not to any god, but she filtered a few tender and sad thoughts through her mind, pondering life, any life, and where it takes us.

  When she had raised her head once more, she gazed at the ten or so faces dotted around the church. Only two were familiar, Toby Ewing and Skip McIntyre, seated together, a couple of pews in front of her. Both heads were bowed slightly. Three women sat in the pew directly opposite. Tara assumed they were Harbinson’s head office staff but could not recall having met any of the women during her visits to the Liver Building.

  A tall woman, with short reddish-brown hair, wearing a knee-length, black overcoat sat down in a pew at the front and within seconds was kneeling forward in prayer. A door at the front opened and the vicar of the Parish made her entrance. Immediately, she took to the pulpit and a service of thanksgiving for the life of Jessica Riordan began.

  As the coffin was wheeled from the church a song played over the sound system. The vicar announced it as being Jessica’s favourite song, The Daring Night. Tara listened to the words as she and the other mourners filed from the church.

  In a corner of the churchyard, furthest from the road, Jez Riordan was laid to rest in a grave already occupied by her mother and father. The surname on the headstone, however, was Gibson; Paul having died on 24 March 1994, aged forty-eight. His wife, Eleanor, died on 7 October 1980, aged thirty-two years. Seeing a surname other than Riordan set Tara thinking again on the mystery surrounding her friend.

  CHAPTER 40

  McIntyre looked on impassively as the coffin was lowered into the grave. Toby Ewing appeared more upset, his face pale and drawn. If she had been standing close to him, Tara thought, she would have felt the man trembling. The three women from Harbinson’s head office looked saddened and dabbed at their eyes with tissues. Miss Anne Gibson stood close to the Reverend Upritchard as she said a final prayer and committed the body to the family grave. Judging by the number of people assembled, Anne Gibson might well have been the last of that family circle and at that moment, perhaps for only a fleeting moment, she pondered her demise and stole a preview of her future resting place.

  When the vicar had finished, Anne Gibson, tears in her eyes, tossed a small bunch of pink roses into the grave. Reverend Upritchard shook her hand, offered comforting words and they embraced briefly. Several others, two men and three elderly women, moved forward to offer their sympathies to Anne Gibson. Most of them appeared to be her friends rather than Jez’s although the staff from Harbinson’s took their turn in shaking the woman’s hand as they filed past.

  ‘I see your chairman couldn’t make it,’ said Tara to Skip McIntyre as he attempted to make his way around the gravestones towards Anne Gibson.

  ‘Prior engagement,’ he replied without conviction, then proceeded to greet the woman.

  They embraced warmly and Anne Gibson seemed to listen intently as McIntyre spoke. Tara got the impression that they were already well acquainted. It did not seem like the first conversation between them. Tara couldn’t help pondering the connection. She watched Toby Ewing who had followed behind McIntyre. His manner was nervy, although he didn’t look at all different from Tara’s first encounter with him, the day after Maggie Hull was murdered. Unlike M
cIntyre, Ewing did not appear as well acquainted with Anne Gibson, but still, Tara got the feeling that they had at least met before. The two executives nodded and smiled weakly as they passed by Tara on their way out of the churchyard. The Reverend Upritchard smiled, too, and came to shake Tara by the hand.

  ‘Very sad occasion,’ the vicar said, more softly than she’d spoken in the church where her voice, even for a funeral service, had bellowed. ‘I’m sure that Anne very much appreciates your support this afternoon. Were you a friend of Jessica’s?’

  ‘In a way, Reverend,’ Tara stumbled, unsure of whether to reveal that she was a police officer. ‘Although I hadn’t known her for long. My name is Detective Inspector Tara Grogan, Merseyside Police.’

  The vicar’s face flushed and, instinctively, she shook Tara’s hand for a second time.

  ‘I suppose that your interest here is professional, Inspector? Jessica’s death was tragic in itself without the knowledge that it was at the hands of another.’

  How well suited was this woman for the church, thought Tara. The briefest mention of police and she comes over all thunderstruck.

  ‘Reverend, would you mind introducing me to Miss Gibson?’ she asked, having decided it best not to prolong the conversation with the well-meaning but rather interminable vicar.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, Inspector.’

  Anne Gibson, however, had overheard the mention of Tara’s title, her lips already tightening with concern.

  ‘Anne, this is Detective Inspector Grogan from Merseyside Police.’

  ‘Hello, Miss Gibson, I’m very sorry about Jez.’

  The woman nodded acknowledgement, although she did not appear too impressed by the referral to her niece as Jez. She refrained from answering, preferring instead to wait for Tara to state her business. She was an attractive woman, although Tara was not immediately struck by any resemblance to Jez. She had smooth skin except for developing crow’s feet and yes, her eyes were powder blue, just like her niece’s. Tara’s overriding impression was that this woman could, at some time in her past, have been every bit as elegant and striking as her niece, and yet she appeared to be someone who for some time had not taken the trouble to impress.