THE DARING NIGHT

by Robert McCracken

  ‘What’re you askin’ him for?’ his mother snapped. ‘How the fuck does he know?’

  Tara grinned to hide her annoyance at being spoken to in such a manner. She promptly neglected to answer the woman.

  ‘Well, Beryl,’ she continued. ‘Start at the beginning and tell me exactly what happened.’

  ‘He’s already told the friggin’ bizzies,’ said the mother. ‘How many times does he have to friggin’ say it?’

  Tara glared at her with a sarcastic smile.

  ‘Maybe you could leave us alone for a few minutes, Missus? John, will you take these two… ladies for a nice cup of tea?’

  The wife, her body squeezed into a pair of extra-large, red jeans, got to her feet willingly but the mother seemed determined to stay put.

  ‘I wanna hear what the bizzies are gonna do about catchin’ the scum,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘Mam, give us peace for a minute, will ya? Go and have some tea. Aaargh!’ Beryl cried out in pain as he tried to ease himself further up the bed. ‘The bastards!’

  Both women trailed out of the room with Wilson leading the way. Tara looked down upon the stricken bulk of Beryl, puffing air through his cheeks.

  ‘Who are the bastards, Beryl? Come on, you must have an idea who it is?’

  ‘It isn’t who you think, Inspector.’

  ‘And who do I think?’

  ‘Tommy. He’d never do this to me. We’re good mates.’

  ‘Then give me a reason why he might want to hurt you, Beryl?’

  He seemed a little confused, out-manoeuvred by the question.

  ‘Um, no reason. It’s just that you think that he had something to do with it. Do you think it has something to do with that murder? That’s why you’re here, aren’t ya?’

  ‘Let me put it like this, Beryl. If you and Tommy had nothing to do with Maggie Hull’s murder then you are probably quite right, Tommy didn’t arrange your wee party last night. Then again, if you know something about the murder, or even if Tommy believes that you do and that it might implicate him, then he could have sent a few of the boys round to see you. Do you know what I mean?’

  Big Beryl took some time to consider what Tara had said. He winced as he tried to shift his leg to a more comfortable position on the bed.

  ‘I collected from her, that’s all.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Ages ago.’

  ‘Weeks? Months? Come on, Beryl, help me out here.’

  ‘I don’t know, months I suppose.’

  ‘And did she pay?’

  ‘Yeah, but not all of it.’

  ‘Was it for Gracey?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What did you do when she didn’t pay all of it?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Come on, Beryl. That leg must be getting sore. You need to take things easy.’ Tara sat heavily on the edge of the bed. She was done playing the genteel girl cop. She demanded answers.

  ‘Aaargh! Shit! I can’t remember.’

  Tara moved a hand towards Big Beryl’s foot, threatening to tickle the sole. Instinctively, the big man pulled back.

  ‘Aaargh! Bitch!’

  ‘Tickly feet, eh, Beryl?’ Again, she moved her hand slowly towards the stranded right foot.

  ‘OK! I thumped her, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all! A big man like you thumped a defenceless woman?’

  ‘It was only a smack in the mouth. Just to let her know I’d be back.’

  ‘And that was all?’ She waved her hand across Beryl’s feet, just to let him know that she was still there.

  ‘And I took her plasma screen with me,’ he surrendered.

  ‘You have a strange fascination for televisions, don’t you, Beryl? So, where do you keep all this stuff that you collect?’

  ‘Ah no, Inspector, that’s not fair. I’m not doing that anymore.’

  ‘All right, Beryl, let’s get back to Maggie Hull. The next time you called, did she pay up?’

  ‘I didn’t have to. Tommy said that Maggie had some rich friend who coughed up for her. I never saw her again.’

  ‘How long ago did this happen?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but it was ages before she died, like April or May.’

  ‘And Tommy never mentioned her again?’

  ‘Nope, not until after we heard that she got killed.’

  Tara reckoned that the big man was telling the truth but still she wondered if Gracey’s involvement with Maggie had gone further. If Gracey wasn’t the prime candidate for the murder of Maggie Hull, then he was certainly suspect number one for Big Beryl’s misfortune.

  ‘Right then, Beryl, tell me exactly what happened last night.’

  The events of the previous evening were delivered in heart-rending fashion. The big man, no less a crook but likeable enough, played the victim to Oscar-winning proportions. By the time the two detectives left him to the dubious company of his vulgar mother and his tawdry wife, Big Beryl was calling for a nurse requesting another dose of painkillers. Tara had concluded that if Tommy Gracey was not involved in the shooting then they had little to go on and were unlikely to ever gather enough evidence to convict anyone else. It resembled a so-called punishment-style shooting favoured in the home city of Tommy Gracey. For now, she had an excuse for having another crack at the tough guy.

  Tara, despite her questions for Big Beryl, did not now believe that loan sharks were responsible for the death of Maggie Hull. Far too much had happened since the woman’s murder. Far too many things connected to Harbinson Fine Foods pointed to the murderer being the same person who had poisoned four people and killed Jez Riordan. What Tara still had not figured out completely was why Toby Ewing had become involved in the entire plot that seemed to have originated with Jez Riordan.

  On their way back to St Anne Street, Tara was feeling the effects of her ordeal the previous night at the hands of Toby Ewing. Suddenly, she was overcome by the need to lie down and get some sleep.

  ‘Would you mind driving me home, John?’ she said. ‘I’ve had more than enough for one day.’

  Wilson took her home to Wapping Dock and insisted upon seeing her safely into her apartment. Toby Ewing was still at large; he had attacked her once; they could not be sure he wouldn’t try again.

  ‘Thanks, John, stay and have some coffee.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  He sat down on her sofa and absorbed the view across the old dock to the ultra-modern edifice of the Liverpool Exhibition Centre, while Tara made the coffee. When she set a tray on the table in front of him, Wilson was checking his phone.

  ‘Any news?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, we have to go now!’

  CHAPTER 60

  Tara, running only on adrenaline, followed her colleague out of the door, the coffee abandoned on the table and her coat lying on the chair.

  ‘What’s up?’

  They were rushing down the stairs, unwilling to wait for the lift. Tara ached all over; she could hardly keep up.

  ‘They’ve got a lead on Ewing. He was trying to board the ferry for Belfast.’

  Wilson roared the car on to Wapping and then Strand Street, his siren blazing in the evening traffic. They made their way through the tunnel and hurried to Birkenhead. Within a few minutes, Wilson pulled up outside the main passenger terminal for the ferry to Belfast. A single marked patrol car was already sitting by the door of the building, two officers standing beside it as if they were already expecting Tara and Wilson.

  ‘Where is he?’ Tara asked the policewoman.

  She shrugged.

  ‘Don’t know, ma’am. We caught a call regarding a suspicious vehicle in the queue for the ferry. The number plate was on our list. The car is registered to a Mr T Ewing.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen the driver?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  At that point, a member of the terminal staff in a high-vis coat approached them.

  ‘He just ran off,’ said the man. ‘His was the nex
t car to be checked through. He got out of the car and ran. I suppose he saw your patrol car driving in.’

  ‘What direction?’ Tara asked. Wilson was already back in the car with the engine running.

  ‘Out the gate,’ said the man pointing to the exit.

  Tara joined Wilson and they sped from the terminal.

  ‘Which way, ma’am?’

  ‘No idea. He’s panicked. Could have gone anywhere.’ To their left was the road into Birkenhead town centre, to the right, the bridge leading to Seacombe. ‘He can’t have gone far. Go left.’

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, with several patrol cars on the lookout, there was no sign of Ewing in the roads and streets of Birkenhead. Wilson doubled back towards the ferry terminal and crossed the bridge. Instead of making for Seacombe, he turned left along Dock Road. This was an industrial area with several large factories and other medium-sized units. There were also several open spaces where old buildings had been demolished and nothing had so far replaced them. As darkness fell, and still no sign of the fugitive, Tara by chance spotted a lone figure traversing an area of waste ground. She couldn’t be sure that it was Ewing, but she thought it unlikely for anyone to be merely wandering in that area at this time of day.

  Wilson searched for a way on to the open ground, but there was no obvious entrance, only mesh fencing, although it was broken in several places.

  ‘Stop the car!’ said Tara.

  Wilson braked hard and Tara was soon out and running across the rough ground of broken concrete and tarmac towards the figure. Within a few seconds, having noticed Tara’s approach, the figure began to run. She knew she couldn’t maintain her pace for long. Every joint, every sinew ached, and her fatigue sapped her breath. A few yards further on, she halted and watched as the figure continued to run.

  ‘OK, my friend, where are you going to run to?’

  Tara saw that soon the open spaces would come to an end. Ewing, if that’s who it was, was running towards a brick wall. She waved at Wilson, signalling for him to drive further along the road. She took several breaths and urged herself forward again.

  From twenty yards, she saw him clearly for the first time. Toby Ewing stood at the edge of a quayside. To his right, the brick wall, more than six feet high; to his left, stood Tara and straight ahead the prospect of a jump into dark and cold water. Tara could see that he was stressed. He muttered to himself, he paced back and forth. He seemed oblivious now to the fact that Tara was approaching.

  ‘Give it up, Toby. Come and talk to us.’

  He took a step closer to the edge. Tara feared he would jump.

  ‘There’s no need for anyone else to die, Toby. You know that. Jez is gone. You don’t have to do this anymore.’

  ‘I loved her, you know. I bloody worshipped her.’

  ‘I know. Let’s get away from here and we can talk.’

  ‘No. I can’t do that, Inspector. You should be dead, too. Why couldn’t you leave well alone?’

  He gazed down at the water. Tara was convinced he would do it. He was going to jump. Suddenly, he screamed in anguish. He rushed towards her. In a flash, he’d barged straight into her; she tumbled backwards and thumped to the ground. Ewing kept on running. Wilson by now had found a way to get the car through. He caught Ewing in the headlights, as the blue light flashed on the roof. Ewing tried to outrun it. He changed direction, but it was a bad decision. Wilson swerved then hit the brakes as the wing of the car clipped Ewing and he went sprawling into a puddle of water. Wilson climbed out of the car. But the fight had now deserted Ewing. He remained destitute, on all fours in the filthy water, still muttering about how much he loved Jez Riordan.

  CHAPTER 61

  Tara hobbled wearily into the office. She knew she should be feeling relieved, excited even, at the prospect of wrapping up this gruesome case, but her physical state could not support such a mood. What she craved right now was sleep in a warm bed and someone to tend to her every whim. She knew that was never going to happen. She flopped into her chair, wishing the day was already over. Murray came in shortly after looking for her.

  ‘What have you got for me?’ she called, knowing the answer full well.

  ‘They’re ready for you, ma’am.’

  With her hands on the desk for support, she got to her feet and returned his smile. She could tell that he was examining her: her clothes, the state of her battered face, the state of her battered mind.

  ‘Let’s not keep them waiting,’ she said. ‘Lead on, McDuff.’

  ‘Just to warn you, ma’am.’

  ‘Warn me about what?’

  ‘Ewing’s brief.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘It’s a she. It’s his wife.’

  ‘Great. I can hardly wait.’

  * * *

  Tara and Murray, as they had done 24 hours earlier, entered the interview room with their files and notes ready to extract the truth from another player in this hapless episode. Catherine Ewing sat bolt upright and business-like, a lever-arch file before her on the table. She looked every bit as studious as she had done on their first meeting, wearing a dark trouser suit and a plain white blouse buttoned to her neck. Beside her, Toby Ewing sat blank-faced, without glasses, staring at some point deep in the floor, his eyes red and his face etched with fear, remorse, guilt; Tara couldn’t judge nor did she care.

  ‘Mrs Ewing, I didn’t realise you were a lawyer,’ said Tara, her attempt to establish some rapport before the nastiness began.

  ‘I am a barrister, Inspector. Criminal proceedings are not usually my area but needs must, I’m afraid.’

  Tara noticed that the woman did not even glance sideways at her husband.

  Murray began with the formalities of cautioning the suspect and explaining that the interview would be recorded. Toby Ewing showed little emotion to anything that was said.

  Tara opened a file, checked some information and then asked her first question.

  ‘Let’s begin by discussing the poison used to contaminate food in several local supermarkets. Where did you obtain this material, Mr Ewing?’

  There was no reply from Ewing. Tara looked at his wife in case she was to reply by proxy for her husband. Nothing came.

  ‘The substance was identified as palytoxin, a marine bio-toxin. Were you aware of the nature of this material? Were you aware of the potency of this substance?’

  Tara was happy to continue with her questions. They had sufficient evidence for a conviction, but things would be much simpler if Ewing would admit to his crimes and agree to co-operate.

  ‘Did you know that people could die if they ingested this poison?’

  Still, Ewing remained silent. Tara hoped she could hold back her disgust for the man opposite her. She would remain in control of her temper.

  ‘OK. Let’s look at some of the details, shall we?’

  Murray produced several prints captured from CCTV recordings. He slid them in front of the Ewings.

  ‘Can you confirm if that is you in picture number one, Mr Ewing, taken on 2 October at the Tesco store in Bootle?’

  The image showed a man in dark clothing, wearing a baseball cap, standing in the refrigerated food section and holding a package containing a ready meal.

  Ewing did little more than glance at the pictures before him. Tara was seething at his attitude but she held her tongue. Murray proceeded with similar questions referring to each picture as he did so. At each presentation, Ewing did not comment. Murray produced a final picture from a folder. It showed the 1972 blue Triumph Stag in a parking space.

  ‘Same day as the first picture, Mr Ewing. This car is parked outside the Tesco store in Bootle. Can you confirm that this vehicle belongs to you?’

  Again Ewing hardly took notice of the photo, although his wife studied it then glanced at her husband.

  ‘Just for the record,’ said Murray, ‘the licence plate confirms that the vehicle is registered in the name of Tobias Ewing.’

  ‘It doesn’t mea
n a lot, Sergeant,’ said Catherine Ewing, ‘I’m sure there were many cars parked there on that day.’

  Tara decided on a different tack. She wanted to rouse the man before her. She wanted to hear his version of the sorry tale that had left six people dead, seven if Richard Andrews were to be included.

  ‘Let’s discuss your relationship with Jez Riordan, shall we, Mr Ewing?’

  Instantly, the man’s face coloured and he couldn’t help a nervous glance at his wife. Tara noted the exchange with glee.

  ‘When did you first meet Jez?’

  Ewing seemed determined to maintain his silence, probably on instruction from his wife, thought Tara.

  ‘Was she the person who supplied you with the toxin?’

  There was no verbal response, but Ewing shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Tara was rising to the challenge. By the end of the interview, she would have this man saying exactly what she needed to hear. He would not get the better of her.

  ‘Was it Jez Riordan’s idea to contaminate food, in particular, Harbinson products, with the toxin? What was her motive in doing so? How did she enlist your help?’

  ‘Inspector,’ said Catherine Ewing. ‘I’m sure you can tell by now that my client is unwilling to answer this line of questioning. If you have nothing further to present by way of evidence, I suggest you allow him to leave.’

  Tara ignored the woman. ‘When did you begin your affair with Jez Riordan?’

  Toby Ewing suddenly looked skywards. It was all that Tara had left to hit the man with.

  ‘Really, Inspector,’ said Catherine Ewing looking very displeased. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

  ‘Was it before she took Richard Andrews as her lover?’ Tara persisted.

  Ewing now glared into the face of the young detective. Tara felt she was getting closer to rattling him.

  ‘Was it before she had her fling with Edward Harbinson and then set out to blackmail him?’

  Suddenly, Ewing looked as though he was floundering.

  ‘Did she ask you to kill Maggie Hull? Why would you agree to do such a thing for her? Why would you poison innocent people? Did you do it all for her? Was she blackmailing you as well as Edward Harbinson? What did she promise you, Mr Ewing? It must have been a hell of a lot. Why did you do so much for her?’