Deathly Suspense

by John Paxton Sheriff

  ‘You’ve been through this with Willie Vine. Why go home at all? A prisoner doesn’t go over the wall and stroll into the first place the polis will look.’

  ‘But he did. So that’s something else that’s odd.’

  Logic was pointing out to me, as had Haggard a few hours ago, that in the circumstances the only possible reason for Creeney to go home after a gaol break was to murder Lorraine. She had called the police, which suggested that she expected nothing less than that if he ever got out – but if I wanted to get close to the truth about Joe Creeney, then surely the man to talk to was at the very top of my list.

  FOUR

  Declan Creeney lived some ten minutes from Grassendale, in a big house on the slope up Queen’s Drive and close to the Woolton Road traffic lights. I parked the Quattro in the wide driveway, climbed out onto brick sets like multi-coloured parquet flooring curving around manicured lawns and was straining to hear the bell chime on the other side of the solid oak front door just before seven o’clock.

  The door was opened by a tall man who could have been a middle-aged middleweight boxer maturing like inferior wine but still able to fill a charcoal-grey suit in the right places to make assailants in dark alleys turn and run. This, I assumed, was the brother of the man who had broken out of gaol, murdered his wife and was now in deep coma. There was no trace of concern on his face, unless it was for his own appearance. As he looked me up and down he lifted a hand to smooth black hair snatched back into a pony tail. A heavy gold bracelet encircled his muscular wrist, more gold glittered at the open throat of an embroidered dress shirt and his gleaming white teeth as he smiled had the wet shine of expensive whisky.

  ‘Jack Scott?’

  I grasped the extended right hand, feeling the hard lump on the back where one punch too many had snapped a metacarpal.

  ‘Declan Creeney,’ he said. ‘Come on in.’

  The hallway was all thick carpet and deeply embossed burgundy wallpaper. Tall, smoked-glass mirrors reflected our progress. The warm air was larded with perfume that could have been sprayed from a bottle with an expensive label but was, I guessed, a block of something sticky evaporating inside a Glade air freshener.

  I’d been right about the whisky. In a lounge where bay windows afforded views of the evening traffic on Queen’s Drive a crystal decanter and glasses sparkled on an occasional table with a mock-onyx top. Same wallpaper, same carpets, the air that was perfumed with something either expensive or very cheap now spiced with stale cigar smoke. The decanter clinked. Spirit gurgled. Creeney handed me the glass, found his own and gestured to a chair.

  ‘Take a seat. I’m on my way out, so you’ve got five minutes to tell me what this is about.’

  ‘Your brother Joe,’ I said.

  He watched me settle into a chair as wide and deep as a settee and sip the whisky. I let him see my approval, hoping to bring a measure of calm into a room crackling with tension.

  ‘Joe was in gaol. He got out; now he’s going back. What is there to talk about?’

  ‘That sounds final.’

  He lifted eyebrows threaded with the fine scars of wounds won in the ring or any number of back alleys. ‘What happened to his wife makes it about as final as it can get.’

  ‘You believe he murdered her?’

  He’d been standing by the table. Now he sat down on the edge of a chair, frowning.

  ‘Doesn’t matter, does it? What I believe won’t have much bearing on the verdict – if he wakes up, and if it goes to trial.’

  ‘What Stephanie Grey believes might. Your sister’s convinced the solicitor Joe’s innocent. I’ve been hired to find the killer.’

  ‘Yeah, you said something about that on the phone.’ His faint smile was sceptical. ‘I’ve read about you. Don’t let previous results go to your head.’

  ‘I might not be needed. If Joe does recover consciousness,’ I said, ‘there’s a possibility he could clear himself without my help.’

  Creeney hesitated for the blink of an eye, then shook his head.

  ‘He was alone in the house. He’d brought rope and ladder in from the shed and used them to string his wife up. Her body was still warm when the police walked in. He can’t talk his way out of that.’

  ‘Why d’you say shed? The police believe the ladder was in the garage.’

  ‘They’re wrong. I put it in the shed months ago.’

  I looked into my whisky glass, then caught his eye.

  ‘How do you know about the ladder?’

  ‘I just told you—’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Not about where it was. How did you know it was used by the killer?’

  For the space of several heartbeats there was a strange look in Creeney’s dark eyes and I couldn’t decide if it was disdain at my stupidity or because he was calculating how much or how little to tell me. Then he grinned.

  ‘Come on! Lorraine’s gone and I’m male, and family. Who d’you think was first to get a visit from the police, a lot of sympathy from a pretty woman PC?’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last night. Well, early this morning. Fourish. They were lucky to find me in.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Isn’t that bloody obvious? Ownin’ night-clubs means I sleep mornings, do most of my work afternoons and nights.’

  I thought of my own wasted night hours as I waited for a client who was never going to show up.

  ‘Did you know I drove Joe home?’

  His glass stopped halfway to his mouth. ‘You what?’

  ‘I’d been lured to your club, the Sleepy Pussy. On a pretext. I was wasting time there when your barman got a phone call. I picked Joe up on Breeze Hill.’

  ‘What the fuck was he doing there?’

  ‘Waiting for me.’

  Creeney tossed back his whisky, grimaced and put the glass on the table. His hard black eyes were puzzled, darting here and there as if for enlightenment.

  ‘But you’d never met him before last night – right?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Yet he breaks out of gaol, gets dropped miles from his house by the pillock who’s helpin’ him to escape then picked up by a man he’s never met? Why?’

  ‘It being your brother and your night-club,’ I said, ‘I was hoping you’d come up with an answer.’

  ‘No.’ He stood up, shrugged his shoulders to settle his jacket, located his car keys in a pocket. ‘No, if anyone’s got answers, it’s you, Scott. Because what it looks like is someone’s using Joe’s escape to hang something on you. If I was you, I’d be lookin’ into my past.’

  He moved towards the door, waving me ahead of him into the hall.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry to rush you, but I’m already late.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. A PI faces similar problems, and talking to you is just the beginning of my evening’s work. But if you do think of something likely to be of help….’

  I handed him my card, watched him pocket it, then stood back as he opened the heavy front door.

  The door slammed behind us. He strode away across the brick sets, and must have pressed an electronic remote. The big double garage’s doors swung open silently, revealing a sleek silver car. He turned and stood jingling his car keys as I walked to the Quattro.

  ‘That bit about me being male, and family, and the police coming here,’ he said. ‘There was something else.’

  ‘Yes. One follows the other: you automatically become a suspect.’

  ‘The police know I wasn’t at Joe’s house last night. I haven’t seen Lorraine for more than a week, but that’s neither here nor there because nothing being said is causing me any concern. Joe’s been doing time; I’ve been looking after his wife. For the past twelve months I’ve been honouring a pledge I made to him when he went down.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘You’re looking into the killing because Caroline’s got a bee in her bonnet; she thinks Joe’s innocent. But if you were hoping to put me in his place, forget it. I left for w
ork early, and for most of the night I was in the Copacabana in West Derby Village. That’s not just another of my clubs, it’s my watertight alibi. I’m not your man, Scott. I didn’t murder my brother’s wife.’

  And then, for some reason, the good humour was cast aside and he deliberately spat on the fancy sets at his feet before turning away and walking into the garage. A unconscious habit? Or a crude way of telling me that my visit had been a waste of time? I shook my head as he used another remote to flash the silver car’s lights and operate the central locking, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Well, he might not have murdered Lorraine I thought as I drove off, but West Derby Village wasn’t too far away from Walton. Was it Declan Creeney, I wondered, who had picked up Joe Creeney in his silver car outside Walton gaol?

  FIVE

  I drove from Queen’s Drive down to Allerton Road, joined Mather Avenue then crossed the dual carriageway into the Tesco’s car park. There I tried several times to reach Sian’s mobile. No luck. Each time, I got her voicemail. On the last occasion I left a message.

  ‘Ring me, Soldier Blue. I’m worried.’

  With the phone back in my pocket I walked into the store, bought a bottle of Evian still water and paid at the cigarette counter. Then I drove out of the car park, turned left and headed for the Dingle.

  Caroline Spackman lived in a tall, yellow brick house on Mill Street. I parked nearby, climbed worn sandstone steps with the smell of the Mersey in my nostrils and knocked on a door with light shining through coloured panels of Victorian glass. It was answered almost at once by a dark-haired woman in a shocking-pink flared housecoat and high-heeled slippers with gold straps. Dancing eyes flirted with me as I gave my name. I was invited into a hallway smelling of dust and Lemon Pledge and shut the door behind me as she moved away in a drift of California Poppy.

  When I followed her into the front room it was to be introduced to a tall, dark-haired man wearing tailored jeans with leather belt, a draped single-breasted grey jacket over a shiny black T-shirt. He was tall and lean and as graceful as a ballet dancer as he moved away from a bamboo-fronted cocktail bar with beer bottle held in one hand so he could shake mine with the other. His eyes were glistening flint chips in a face as bleak as an Easter Island monolith. Surprise visitors to this Mill Street address would feel secure or terrified, depending on their business and Max Spackman’s mood. I felt smug: I’d been invited.

  ‘I feel so much better now you’re with us, Jack,’ Caroline said when we were all sitting down. ‘I’ve told Stephanie and I’m repeating it now so we know exactly where we stand. Twelve months ago Wayne Tully died accidentally when he and Joe were going at it hammer and tongs. But Joe did not kill Lorraine. I just know it.’ She smiled at me, and flicked a glance at Max. He rolled his eyes.

  ‘She’s a clairvoyant,’ he said. ‘She’s so damn good we still haven’t won the lottery – English, Irish or bloody European – and she cried her eyes out when the cat died unexpectedly.’

  ‘Looking into the future’s no help now,’ I said.

  ‘Success or failure would be nice to know about in advance.’

  ‘We know enough,’ Caroline said firmly. ‘His track record speaks for itself.’

  ‘Makes me sound like Red Rum,’ I said, and smiled inanely into the silence.

  ‘Her brother just phoned,’ Max said. ‘He thinks you’re trying to pin Lorraine’s murder on him.’

  ‘I went to see him. I’m eliminating prime suspects.’

  ‘What’s that, yes or no?’

  ‘Let’s just say he’s got an alibi. That means he was somewhere else. He told me he was at his club in West Derby Village.’

  ‘Yeah, trying to get away from her.’

  Caroline’s snort was unladylike. ‘Rubbish. You know that’s not true.’

  ‘I told you, he’d had enough and was trying to ditch her—’

  ‘Whoa, hold on a minute,’ I said. ‘Are you talking about Lorraine? Are you telling me there was something going on between Declan and Joe’s wife?’

  ‘No, it’s absolute nonsense.’ Caroline stood up. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Jack? A beer?’

  ‘Tea would be nice.’

  I got the feeling I’d get more information more quickly from Max, and tea would take longer to prepare. Caroline went out into the hall, high heels clicking, housecoat swirling. I heard a door open, the rattle of cups. I looked at Max.

  ‘What Declan told me,’ I said, ‘was that he’d sworn to Joe that he’d look after Lorraine while he was in prison. What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that’s what he did,’ Max said. ‘But a year is a year, and him and Lorraine were too bloody close for too long. What started out as taking care of turned into something more cosy.’

  ‘Common knowledge?’

  ‘Common sense,’ he said. ‘Knowing Declan, it was inevitable.’

  ‘And you’ve known him a long time?’

  ‘Yonks.’

  ‘Could he commit murder?’

  ‘Yes.’ Then he shook his head. ‘But not if he was somewhere else.’

  ‘And you think he was?’

  ‘I know it. I’m Declan’s muscle, his head bouncer. He walked into the Copacobana just after eleven—’

  ‘In West Derby?’

  ‘That’s it. And that’s where I’m going when I’ve finished this beer.’

  ‘And last night he stayed till when?’

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows? I was on my way out.’

  ‘At eleven?’

  ‘Just after.’

  ‘And you were what – coming home?’

  ‘You’re joking,’ Caroline Spackman said.

  I’d misjudged her inquisitiveness. Bearing two china mugs she’d walked in behind me with eerie stealth. She’d been so quick I guessed the tea bags were still in the mugs, soaking in water straight out of the hot tap.

  ‘Max didn’t get in until gone one,’ she said, handing me my tea, ‘but don’t ask me to verify, because I was tucked up in bed.’

  ‘What she’s forgetting,’ Max said as she sat down, ‘is that before I went to work I drove to Calderstones to see Lorraine. As a favour.’

  I frowned. ‘What time was that?’

  Max pulled a face, shrugged. ‘God knows. Eight, half past?’

  ‘He picked something up for me,’ Caroline said. ‘Something Lorraine borrowed a long time ago, and I wanted it back.’

  ‘A book on interior design,’ Max said.

  ‘Well, that fits,’ I said. ‘I heard that while Joe was away she was keeping herself occupied by redesigning—’

  ‘Decorating,’ Max said, and grinned. ‘Pain in the arse. I was always there, lugging cans of paint, bringin’ the ladder in from the shed, takin’ it out—’

  ‘Definitely the shed?’

  He stared. ‘Where else?’

  ‘The police thought the garage.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Declan stuck it out the back. It was awkward to move around, so I fetched and carried.’

  ‘So let me get this straight. You went there on Saturday night to get the book, you knocked on the front door, stepped inside, chatted – then came away?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘You didn’t go round the back? Into the garden, the shed?’

  ‘Come on,’ Max scoffed. ‘I went in, got Caroline’s book off Lorraine and drove away. Anyway, the police must’ve checked the back because that’s the way Joe went in.’

  ‘And he had to get the book from her last night.’ Caroline said. ‘She has a nice elderly friend who was planning to travel to Wales today, and Lorraine was going to follow her, stay for a few days …’ She looked at me, and I saw her swallow. ‘Until this … happened….’

  I waited. No details were forthcoming about the friend. I wondered if it was a clue, something that could be the turning point that comes in every investigation, but it was too early in the case to decide one way or another even if I knew what Caroline was talking about. Lea
ving it, moving on, I looked at Max.

  ‘So if you weren’t coming home when you left the Copacobana – where were you going?’

  Again the shrug. ‘Declan’s got several clubs. Copacobana, Sleepy Pussy. Night Shift. So I move around.’ He grinned. ‘Flex muscle, do a lot of bouncing.’

  ‘Convenient though, isn’t it? If you keep on the move nobody can say for sure where you are at a particular time. Copacobana thinks you’re at Night Shift, Night Shift thinks you’re at the Sleepy Pussy when all the time you could be somewhere else.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘me being family I thought we’d get around to Calderstones and murder.’

  He stood up and put the empty bottle on the cocktail bar. Keys jingled as he reached into his pocket. When he turned around he was slipping his hands into thin, black-leather gloves.

  ‘Max!’ There was a warning in Caroline’s voice. I watched him with detached interest. Maybe thumping someone was his way of warming up before going to work.

  Black T-shirt, black gloves. He’d seen bouncers on TV. All he needed to complete the picture was wrap-around aviator shades. The thought was bubbling beneath the surface when, lo and behold, he took a pair out of the jacket’s top pocket and rested them on his nose.

  ‘White stick?’ I said innocently.

  He sneered, patted his hip pocket, frowned, turned back to the cocktail cabinet, swept it with his eyes, hesitated.

  Lorraine was watching him. ‘Lost something?’

  ‘What?’ He shook his head. No … no, nothing. My hip flask. I remember now, it’s in the club.’

  ‘Lose his head,’ she said, ‘if it wasn’t fixed on with one of those Frankenstein bolt things.’ She chuckled, then shook her head at him. ‘You never did find that glove, did you? That’s your spare pair. When did it go missing – Saturday night? You had it when you left here.’

  ‘I had it when I walked out of Lorraine’s.’ He shrugged. ‘Probably dropped it getting into the car.’

  ‘Someone will find it,’ she said, ‘and all your gloves have got your intitials on them in fancy gold letters.’

  ‘To return it,’ he said scathingly, ‘they’d need to know what the M and the S mean.’