‘Marks and Spencer,’ I said helpfully.
As he turned to face me the light reflected off the black lenses of his shades. Was he glaring angrily? Were his eyes narrowed in a calculating stare? I thought of standing up to remove the sunglasses, and had difficulty supressing a grin.
‘Think about this,’ he said. ‘From what I hear there’s no way Joe didn’t murder Lorraine; he was locked in, there was nobody else in the house. But that’s just it, isn’t it? There’s always a way. And if I was a clever private dick trying to prove something, I’d go looking for the obvious.’
‘The obvious being?’
‘Joe was in prison because he killed a man. Wayne Tully. Wayne was a night-club manager. He had mean relatives, a couple of brothers also in the business, who swore to get Joe. They shouted it from the public gallery in court – and got slung out – and they were prepared to wait however long it took for Joe to finish his sentence. An’ guess what? Suddenly Joe’s out, and he’s only done twelve months. So how did that happen?’
‘He had help.’
‘Of course he did. Joe was lyin’ there in this stinking cell, and he could see all that fresh air and freedom on the other side of the bars. So when someone walked in and offered him the chance, he jumped at it. But suppose it was a set-up. And suppose he walked straight into it with a little help from another friend.’
Max grinned.
‘Me?’
‘You drove him.’
‘Yes, I did, and I’m still wondering why I was sucked in. But in the end, who took Joe home is unimportant. When he walked into that house, something bad happened.’
‘And so we go round in circles because, like I said, there was no way it could have been worked by a third party. The way it looks, there was only one man could have murdered Lorraine – and that’s Joe.’
‘That’s what you’re saying – if I’m following you – but what exactly are you getting round to?’
‘Whatever it was that happened last night,’ Max said, ‘you’re looking in the wrong place, talking to the wrong people. It could have been a simple plan to get a man out of prison, or a plan within a plan – the second bit meant to send Joe back to prison for life – but it had nothing to do with me, and nothing to do with Declan. Brother, brother-in-law – forget it. Somebody else took their revenge. All you’ve got to do is find out who, and why.’
‘Let’s not forget the how,’ I said, thinking of that locked house – but I was wasting my breath because Max Spackman was already on his way out.
SIX
When the front door had slammed behind Max I stayed long enough to finish my mug of lukewarm tea, place a business card on the table and drop sneaky questions into a pool of casual conversation. Waste of time. I was like a cack-handed Aborigine throwing boomerangs downwind: nothing hit the mark, nothing came back. Frustrated, but assuring Caroline I would do all I could to help Joe, I left her painting her toenails in front of the muted television and walked the fifty yards back to my car. As I drove off in the direction of town, cut right to Park Road then right again to point the Quattro in the general direction of my Liverpool base in Grassendale, I pondered on the fact that the visit to Caroline Spackman’s had eliminated no suspects but widened the field considerably.
Declan Creeney’s alibi still hadn’t been verified, and the suggestion that he had been in a relationship with Lorraine Creeney that had turned sour provided him with a motive for her murder. Max Spackman had seen Lorraine on the night she was murdered – though the reason for that early evening visit seemed innocent enough. Later that night he had certainly left the Copacobana in plenty of time to drive to Calderstones and kill Lorraine, and he was unable or unwilling to say exactly where he had been when she was murdered. There was no motive for murder that I could see, though it was possible the earlier visit had ended in an argument that made him angry enough to return. And he was a hard man deeply involved in club life. Pointing the finger at Wayne Tully’s relatives might have been a friendly tip, or a crafty way of diverting suspicion.
If I took it to be the latter – or even if I didn’t – I had a feeling that first working through the list given to me by Stephanie Grey would be the best way of moving the investigation forward in logical steps. Steps that I knew would in any case scamper off in all directions. Alec Creeney was next on the list. If I went to see him it was likely that I would learn more about Joe, Declan and Max and perhaps get names of contacts. Or there was Fiona Lake, Lorraine’s sister. From her I would get information with a feminine slant, discover the secrets of skeletons in cupboards Declan and Max were keeping locked, and watch the inevitable further widening of the field of suspects. Fiona had either a husband or an ex, and Liverpool club life was like a religious circle: you were born into it, married in or into it (but rarely out of it), and many of the people I would meet in the next few days would have strong opinions on the two murder victims – Wayne Tully and Lorraine Creeney.
If Joe was getting the blame for both, he would need a permanent police presence outside his hospital room.
Which brought me, in a roundabout way, to Joe’s cell mate. Damon Knight would have inside information. Someone had helped Joe escape, and I’d be very surprised if he hadn’t confided in the man he had been locked up with for perhaps twenty-three hours of every day.
I was lost in thought for the next couple of hours, first driving along familiar streets with no particular destination in mind, then sitting in the Quattro overlooking the lake in Sefton Park. High clouds drifted across clear skies. By the light of the moon the flat water became a sheet of glittering steel, the sleek outlines of moored rowing boats rakish black silhouettes, gently rocking. A tranquil scene, traffic a distant murmur, Classic FM playing something plaintive and nocturnal to create a background in tune with my thinking.
But around the lake there was darkness of a different kind. Shadowy paths snaked between thick shrubs blanketing the grassy slopes, and the occasional flicker of movement could have been looked on as innocent or sinister, depending on mood and point of view. I was a private investigator, not a detective working vice with the Merseyside police who might be excused for seeing everything as wicked until proved otherwise. Nevertheless, despite my detached status I suppose that at that time I was drifting towards the morbid. Murder on my mind. Sian out there, somewhere, with still no word.
When I did finally toss negative thoughts aside and make my way to Grassendale, there was a rusty white van parked outside the flat. Stan Jones had come a-calling, the middle-aged, white-bearded scally who, the first time I saw him, had a cigarette dangling from his lips as he was picked up and bounced on the bonnet of his own rusty white vehicle. We were in the middle of the Gerry Gault case. Calum had been doing the muscular bouncing and it had been some time before I learned it was all an act. Since then Jones the Van had, with Calum, wriggled out of a stolen car handling charge, been close to involvement in a Toxteth car-jacking, and on the past two investigations had assisted harassed PIs with sterling work as a mobile surveillance unit: one rusty white van, one mobile phone, one bottomless reservoir of patience.
I climbed the stairs, listened to sounds like the scuffling of hungry rats emanating from the room occupied by Calum’s seedy downstairs neighbour, Sammy Quade, and walked into Calum’s flat with the uneasy feeling of a man interrupting a meeting of Mafia godfathers.
Wrong, of course. Or had the scuffling I’d heard been my two recidivist friends scurrying to adopt poses of ineffable innocence?
‘You’re phone’s ringin’,’ Stan said.
‘He can’t hear it,’ Calum said, horizontal on the settee, eyes closed and an unlit Schimmelpenninck cigar jiggling between his teeth.
‘He’s not meant to,’ Stan said. ‘It’s on vibrate, an’ it’s in his trouser pocket.’
‘That,’ I said, ‘is so I don’t get interrupted by Vivaldi’s Four Seasons when grilling a suspect.’
Stan grinned. ‘Bet you get some queer looks though when yo
ur pants start quiverin’.’
I sneered, threw my coat on a chair and dragged out my mobile.
It was DI Alun Morgan of Bethesda. His Welsh accent managed to sound both musical and mournful.
‘I must be mad,’ he said. ‘Another blood-soaked body pops up, and who do I call?’
‘In the words of Mike Haggard, “him from the hills”, “the Ill Wind that blows no good” – and I think that should be “whom”.’
‘Yes, and it’s a bad penny, more like. Maybe you should have been a copper.’ He waited. I groaned obediently at the joke. ‘But my philosophy,’ he said, ‘is to use whatever’s available, however irregular, and when there are certain connections your sheer brilliance is invaluable.’
The final five syllables were beautifully enunciated, but this time my groan was a genuine protest. ‘Not more connections. And if it’s what I think it is, that means you’ve already spoken to DI Haggard.’
‘Indeed. But that’s pecking order, isn’t it? I’m not saying you come last, mind….’
‘All right, so where’s the corpse and why should I be interested?’
‘A block of what they call executive flats overlooking Conwy harbour. Several are used as holiday homes. A commotion was heard in one of them just a few hours ago. When uniforms broke in they found a woman on the floor with a single stab wound. Nasty, though. In the throat, not the heart, and she took a painful long while to bleed to death.’
‘And the connection?’
‘Liverpool, as you’ve already twigged, and I’ll leave you to work out the rest.’
‘Even great minds need something to go on. What’s her name?’
‘Rose Lane.’
‘No, her name, not the address.’
‘That’s what I’m giving you.’
‘Alun, please tell me you’re joking. Rose Lane is in Mossley Hill, it’s a leafy thoroughfare linking Mather Avenue with Elmswood Road. ‘
‘This Rose Lane’s a murder victim. Rosamund, if you want the first name in full, Lane as is, and genuine. She got that one from her husband, of course, but I guarantee her maiden name was something like Budd which would have given her school friends an abundance of ammunition.’ His chuckle was dry, his next words suddenly very serious. ‘Her address is Redcliffe – that’s the house name, and it’s in Ash Crescent. In case you’re wondering, that’s Calderstones.’
But already my interest had rocketed from mild to intense.
‘Ash Crescent backs onto Beech Crescent,’ I said, looking across at Calum. ‘Both are cul-de-sacs, one convex, the other concave. The two snuggle together like spoons, with just a narrow lane running between the back gardens.’
‘Exactly,’ Morgan said. ‘We know all about that – what do they say, we’re up to speed? – and now that lane has a murder both sides of it.’
‘One a hanging, with a suspect in custody. The other a stabbing.’
‘So when discussing locations, would it be outrageous to believe these murders happened too close to each other for coincidence?’
‘Twenty-four hours and fully sixty miles apart? Yes. You’ve established Rose Lane’s Liverpool connection,’ I said, ‘but she was murdered in North Wales. You’re not seriously suggesting the two murders are linked?’
‘Let me put it this way. I’m a Welshman through and through, and perhaps there are dark forces and mystic powers within me that in your modern, pragmatic Liverpool coppers have long since atrophied. Something’s amiss, I can feel it in my water. Thanks to me, you know the women were close neighbours. All you’ve got to do now is find whatever it is connects the two murders.’
I quickly brought Calum and Stan up to date, thought for a moment, then keyed in the numbers. The phone rang once, twice – then it was picked up.
‘Creeney.’
I switched off.
‘He’s there. At home.’
‘Him being there,’ Calum said, ‘tells us nothing.’
‘When I went to see him he was in such a hurry he could give me just five minutes of his time. That was around seven o’clock, and he was on pins. Why? He’s been in the night-club business for years, so what was special about tonight? And if special, why home so early?’
‘It’s last night that was special,’ Calum said. ‘Last night someone phoned one of his clubs and arranged for you to pick up his brother. That links him to a gaol break. Bad for business.’
‘Good’s more like it,’ Stan Jones said. ‘The punters’d have a field day.’
‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘but what if his mind was on murder – and I’m not talking about Lorraine’s. And if it was – if he was going after this Rose Lane intent on silencing her – did he have time for the round trip?’
‘Even I could get to Wales and back in a couple of hours,’ Stan Jones said, ‘and you’ve seen my van.’ He pulled out a tobacco tin and began rolling a cigarette. ‘But what about this other feller, Max? If he’s king of the bouncers he’s already halfway to bein’ a killer.’
‘And what about wild flights of fancy?’ Calum said. ‘You’re both flapping about trying to pin a murder on two men going peacefully about their business. Granted that business might have shady connections – but what the hell has this Rose Lane done to attract their attention?’
‘She saw something.’
‘To do with Joe Creeney?’ Calum rolled his eyes. ‘How, for God’s sake? Her house backs onto Joe Creeney’s place, but so what? You heard Haggard. Every door in Joe’s house was locked from the inside. Examination of the grounds and the lane showed that the only person passing that way was Joe – on his way in. You’re not seriously suggesting that from where she lives this Rose Lane could see into the front hallway of Joe’s locked house and identify the mysterious killer as either Declan Creeney or Max Spackman?’
‘Things are moving so fast I don’t know enough to suggest anything,’ I said.
I found the telephone directory, looked up the Copacobana and punched in the numbers. I got the bar, asked for Max Spackman and over a woman’s shrill voice screaming Like a Virgin through the karaoke machine was told he was manning the door. I waited, wondering what I could say; to be exact, wondering what I could say that would ruffle this cocky bouncer’s plumage.
The phone clattered.
‘Max?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Jack Scott. I’ve had some news.’
‘Go on.’
I thought quickly, found a straw to clutch and placed it delicately on the camel’s back.
‘It’s Joe. He’s coming out of his coma.’
‘Is that right?’
‘I spoke to Stephanie. The police are hoping to get a confession from him within twenty-four hours.’
‘That’s not news, that’s a fuckin’ miracle. This is the second phone call I’ve taken. The first was from the Royal. Joe Creeney didn’t regain consciousness, and he never will: he died an hour ago.’
‘Stephanie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Jack Scott. Have you heard?’
‘About Joe? Yes, I have. I’ve just been talking to Caroline. She’s upset, but resolute.’
‘I’m getting a bad feeling. What are you saying? Where does this leave me?’
‘Exactly where you were, but with a clear field. You see I’ve also spoken to DI Haggard. Merseyside police consider the case closed. Unlike us, they see no reason to look for another killer.’
‘Unlike us? I like that. So far the only reason you’ve given me to press on is Caroline Spackman’s refusal to believe in Joe’s guilt. Against all the evidence.’
‘Circumstantial.’
‘Irrefutable.’
‘Fabricated.’
I chuckled. ‘Willie Vine would love this word play. But are you serious? Fabricated?’
‘Of course.’
‘By a killer who disappeared in a puff of smoke?’
‘By a killer, yes.’ She paused. ‘Have you heard of John Dickson Carr?’
‘Twice in two days.’
/> ‘He was a literary prestidigitarot who used misdirection to make simple murders look complicated or impossible. Got it? Misdirection? Joe didn’t kill Lorraine. The evidence to prove it is there. I want you to get out, talk to people and find the bits and pieces that make up that evidence, then put those pieces together in some sort of order and unmask the killer who is laughing himself sick at his own ingenuity and police stupidity.’
‘Laughing himself sick?’
‘That’s what she said. She did her best to be tactful, but we all know who he’s laughing at: us.’
‘You.’
‘All right, me.’
‘Which we will proceed to put right.’
‘We?’
‘Us.’
Stan Jones was watching and listening with an expression in his eyes that was miles away from the scally image he projected with surprising energy. This is the man with a beard like wire wool and a smouldering roll-up in the corner of his mouth who rides in a rusty white van to theatres showing plays by Beckett, takes the Telegraph for its cryptic crossword and reads War and Peace when involved in boring surveillance work. Calum accepts him and uses his talents because he’s streetwise and wily. I accept him, well, partly because he’s accepted by Calum and perhaps partly to prove to ever-sceptical Stan that the work I do is never a doddle.
And I felt a rush of adrenalin at the thought that this time we were involved in something that would challenge the intellect of Jones the Van – who, Calum tells me, also reads the classics in bed, frequently by candlelight because he’s run out of cash for the ‘lecky’ meter.
‘An’ seein’ as Sian’s gone AWOL,’ Stan said now, ‘that “us” and “we” you’ve been battin’ backwards and forwards like Chinese ping-pong players includes me?’
‘It does,’ I said, ‘and I have your first mission.’
‘Mission,’ Stan said in awed tones. ‘Like in secret fuckin’ agent?’
‘You’ll be working on The Assassin Identity, or—’
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