‘And by then,’ Len said, ‘the trail was cold.’
‘There’s something else you should think about,’ he said. ‘Wayne wasn’t knocking off Lorraine Creeney, that’s a fact. So what was he doing to get up someone’s nose? Why was he murdered? And why did that man wait a year to murder Lorraine Creeney?’
‘I’ll do my best to find out,’ I said, ‘now I’m working for you.’
‘Looking for Lorraine’s killer,’ Frank said.
‘The self same man who murdered our kid brother,’ Len emphasized.
They were serious. Their faces were hard, their eyes relentless as they contemplated the sweetness of revenge. But that was now, and I wondered what they had been doing since uncovering the truth – or the lies?
‘You told me someone spoke up and you realized you’d been hating the wrong man – but have you found out anything else, anything useful?’ I looked from one to the other, saw tight lips, heads shaken negatively. ‘You knew Joe was innocent six months ago. You’ve got contacts who told you the timing was wrong, but for six months before that it must have been common knowledge around the clubs. Your brother was what – a club manager?’
‘He managed the Copacobana,’ Len said. ‘He died on his night off.’
‘You said it yourself: the man who murdered your brother probably murdered Lorraine Creeney. If you’d gone to the police six months ago, Lorraine might be alive today.’
‘Fuck the police,’ Frank Tully said. ‘We’ve come to you.’
‘Here’s my card.’ I flipped it onto the table between their empty glasses. ‘If anything comes up let me know – anywhere, any time.’
On the other side of the room Solly switched on a vacuum cleaner. George Kingman was wiping tables with a damp rag, then moving on to the next as ash from the stubby cigar dangling from his lip fell on the wet table he’d just cleaned. He was hard at work wasting his time, and suddenly I knew exactly how that felt.
‘What you’ve told me creates a strange dilemma,’ I said above the racket.
‘Caught between a rock and a hard place,’ Len said. ‘Caroline Spackman’s asked you to find the man who killed her sister-in-law, and you’d love to do it because you’ve got this rep as a brilliant PI. The trouble is, when you do find him – that man is as good as dead.’
TEN
As I got into my car and drove out of Pelham Grove to head down town it was dawning on me that a simple investigation was an oxymoron. Desperate criminals fight to keep their freedom. No investigation to unmask killers staring at the certainty of life in prison would ever be simple. Sian had complicated matters only by stating the obvious: she’d come up with nothing new, but had placed the obstacles we faced under the glare of the spotlights. The Tullys, on the other hand, had complicated by simplifying. If Joe Creeney had nothing to do with the death of their brother, Frank and Len had no reason to murder Lorraine. Two suspects had reduced the likelihood of their guilt, but in doing so they had opened up a plethora of interesting possibilities.
If the Tullys were telling the truth, Joe Creeney had pleaded guilty to manslaughter when he had a watertight alibi. Why would he have done that? There were only two reasons that sprang immediately to mind: Wayne Tully had been murdered by someone very close to Joe Creeney, or by someone who had some sort of hold over Joe – perhaps someone he feared. And it was always possible that they were one and the same person.
Joe had pleaded guilty to protect, or to survive. He had been willing to go to prison for one or both of those reasons – but twelve months after he was locked up something had happened that changed everything. But what? Did he get word that the person he cared for was now safe, no longer likely to be under suspicion for the killing of Wayne Tully? Had he or she died? Or had he learned that the person with some kind of hold over him was no longer a threat?
The answer to those questions would tell me if the man really involved in the killing of Wayne Tully was still out there, and possibly – although not certainly – could lead me to Lorraine’s killer.
Town was quiet, the skies still overcast, and the winds that had buffeted a Bethesda pub had blown themselves out. I drove into the Mount Pleasant high rise car-park, locked the car and set off on the short walk to Lime Street, reminding myself as I did so that the purpose of the investigation was to discover who murdered Lorraine Creeney. Which brought me back to my oxymoron: a simple investigation. I was looking for a killer who had slain with sufficient guile to create an impossible crime, and to find him it seemed that I would have to go back twelve months to another killing and follow a trail that had been cold even before the Tullys picked it up. And even that, I thought ruefully, was fully six months ago.
I was still pondering on the day’s compounding of difficulties that still lay ahead when I turned into the American Bar.
‘I know what he knows,’ Manny Yates said, nodding at a distant Calum Wick as I sat down, ‘an’ when I know what you know I’ll put it all together, untangle the various strands and get a result.’ He grinned around his Schimmelpenninck cigar, blue smoke curling around his glossy comb-over. ‘Wisdom will prevail, my son. The Lime Street dick does it again and solves another baffling case for his bumbling acolytes – right?’
‘In your dreams,’ Calum said, returning from the bar with cold lager for me and three packets of salt and vinegar crisps. ‘Getting a result is a nonsense expression – there’s always a result, one way or another – and I’d say we’re looking at a worried man.’
‘Oh, it takes a worried man—’
‘To sing a worried song.’ I finished the line for Manny, and waited for him to finish a spluttering laugh that sent grey ash tumbling down his red waistcoat. ‘The Tully boys,’ I said, ‘have probably removed themselves from the list of suspects and set the case back twelve months. Joe Creeney had nothing to do with their brother’s death.’
‘Who says so, and so what?’ Calum said.
‘They say so – and what d’you mean, so what?’
‘In the first place I mean you’re a gullible fool if you believe anything you’re told without double checking.’
‘They’d be even bigger fools to tell me lies that could be easily disproved.’
‘Not if there’s an ulterior motive that will stop you proving or disproving.’
‘You don’t trust them?’
‘Do you?’
‘I can’t see any reason not to – yet.’
‘Fair enough. But in the second place I mean, so what, why should we be remotely interested in Joe Creeney’s previous crimes?’
‘This will become much clearer,’ I said, ‘if I give you a condensed version of everything I know.’
I told them the full story as we munched crisps and washed the corrosive smears of grease from our lips with the tipple of our choice. Midday office workers came and went. Glasses and money jingled, conversation was a comforting murmur shattered by the occasional burst of laughter, and through the open doors the Lime Street traffic rumbled and exhaust fumes drifted like unseen marsh gas to sting our eyes. My two companions were all ears. I was laying before them a puzzle, and just as talking over problems can clear the air, so the mysteries shrouding two cases of murder became less complex in the sharing, the way forward easier to plot.
‘If the Tullys are keen to top the man who killed their brother,’ Manny said when I dried up, ‘they’re likely to have fed you some helpful information. So we can accept that Joe Creeney had nothing to do with their brother’s death, but that doesn’t mean they’re right about two murders bein’ committed by the same man. I mean, what have they got to go on? They were six months late findin’ out about Joe. Unless they know something they’re not lettin’ on, I’d say they’re guessin’.’
‘Aye,’ Calum said, ‘and they’d be doing that because, like Jack said, they’ve had six months to go hunting and don’t like admitting they’ve made no progress.’
‘True.’ I looked at Manny. ‘But I think they’re right. Joe went to prison
for someone else’s crime. On the night he goes over the wall, his wife is murdered. There has to be a link. Maybe, just maybe, it’s not the same killer – but there must be a connection.’
Calum reached across the table and plucked a cigar from Manny’s waistcoat pocket. ‘You believe that because you don’t believe in coincidence – right?’
I nodded.
He struck a match, the flame illuminating his greying beard, the sharpness of his eyes. ‘If that’s true, then you must also believe that the murder in North Wales is linked to the murder of Lorraine Creeney – despite the conclusions to the contrary reached by you and DI Alun Morgan.’
I thought for a moment, and knew he was right.
‘Alun’s questioning a man who was seen outside Rose’s flat, but, you know, I do think he’s on the wrong track. I don’t like coincidence, so my mind’s stubbornly telling me there must be a connection. I’d ruled it out because Rose was already going to Wales before the murder. But so what? Rose Lane saw something, the arranged trip to Wales conveniently got her out of town – but she still paid for it with her life.’
‘Rose Lane?’ Manny was rubbing his hands with glee. ‘More fancy names – I remember her husband, Rocky – and now it’s three murders. So go to it then. You’ve given us the facts, now let’s hear some deductions.’
I watched him sit back, red waistocoat threatening to burst, his eyes as bright as its shiny black buttons. Calum was leaning forward with his elbows on the table, cigar jutting from white teeth. He was looking at me, but the distant look in his eyes told me that although he was prepared to listen I would not have his full attention. Each point I raised would send him scampering off along a trail of possibilities. He would have answers before I’d posed questions – always supposing I could think of any.
‘Deductions may be thin on the ground,’ I said, ‘so the best I can do is highlight the details and invite intelligent comment.’
‘Get on with it,’ Manny growled.
‘First, a fact: Joe Creeney goes to gaol for the manslaughter of Wayne Tully. Second, something that might be true: six months later, Frank and Len Tully discover that Joe Creeney was in the Sleepy Pussy at the time the crime was committed. If true, he went to prison for a crime he didn’t commit. To be willing to make that sacrifice, the killing must have been done by someone close to Joe, someone who had some kind of hold on him, someone he feared – or all three.’
‘Which puts us back with Declan Creeney, Max Spackman,’ Calum said, ‘and just about anyone with enough strength to swing a length of lead pipe.’
‘Not forgetting Lorraine Creeney herself,’ Manny said – and he snapped a match, lit another cigar and gazed at us from beneath hooded lids.
‘Beautiful,’ I said softly. ‘What a bitter sweet solution. Wife murders lover, husband steps in, takes the rap, “a greater love hath no man”….’
‘And neatly cuts the link between first and second murders,’ Calum protested.
‘Unless,’ Manny said, ‘Lorraine committed suicide. She couldn’t take it; she’d killed a man, Joe was in prison because of her …’
I shook my head. ‘That would be even better, because it would eliminate a phantom killer who managed to get out of a house with all the doors locked on the inside. Unfortunately, Lorraine couldn’t have killed herself, her wrists and ankles were tied.’
‘Not difficult to do, with the wrists in front of the body – as they were,’ Calum said, quivering like a pointer. ‘Wouldn’t have to be tight, either. And it’s one way for the wee lass to make bloody sure she couldn’t change her mind.’
Manny shivered. ‘Steady the buffs.’ He grinned fiendishly, at the same time shaking his head. ‘Will you listen to yourselves. I’m havin’ you on, you daft pillocks. I’m demonstratin’ how easy it is to dream up outlandish possibilities and completely lose the thread. Sure, Lorraine could’ve killed Wayne. Sure, she could’ve jumped off that fuckin’ ladder. But I’m bettin’ she did neither – so, go on, what comes next?’
‘A year after he was locked up,’ I said, ‘Joe Creeney got out of gaol. Someone picked him up and dropped him in Breeze Hill. I was in the Sleepy Pussy when the barman got a call, and he asked me if I’d pick up a man called Joe—’
‘Asked for you by name?’
‘No.’
Manny shrugged. ‘More coincidence. Go on.’
‘I dropped Joe behind his house. He told me he was expected – I recall later wondering why I hadn’t asked by whom.’
‘Whom,’ Calum said, and wiggled his cigar as he grinned at Manny.
‘When he’d gone I thought I’d take a closer look at his house, but the police were out front. So I slunk away, headed for Grassendale – and you know the rest.’
‘And you’ve asked each other the obvious questions,’ Manny said. ‘Why did Joe get out of gaol, how was it worked, and who by? Sorry, by whom? Also, why was he dropped miles away in Breeze Hill and why the fuck, after all that effort, did he go straight home?’
‘Which brings us to Rose Lane, and a murder in Wales,’ I said softly. ‘Calum and I discussed this. There’s no way she could have witnessed the murder – so what the hell was it she saw?’
‘If her house was behind Joe’s,’ Manny said, ‘she must have seen something at the back of the house, or in the garden.’ He scratched his head with the hand holding the cigar, this time dropping ash on his shoulder. ‘Where did Declan say he put the ladder?’
‘In the shed.’ I looked at Calum. ‘That’s what she saw. She saw the killer taking the ladder and rope into the house—’
My mobile rang.
I stood up and wandered away to the rear of the room with the phone to my ear. It was Frank Tully.
‘I’ve got a name,’ he said. Then I thought I heard him mutter ‘shit’, and the sound of feet shuffling.
‘What name?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
I could hear him breathing. I said, ‘Are you still in Kingman’s club? You’re on the pay phone, and someone’s listening – right?’
‘Probably, yeah.’
‘Is this the name of the man who killed your brother?’
‘Exactly. It’s runnin’ in the three thirty. We can watch it on TV if you come round.’
‘I’m in town, but I’ll leave now. Will Len be with you?’
‘No. He doesn’t like racin’ or the tele.’
‘OK. Go on home, I’ll see you there.’ And then, for no reason that I could think of, I said, ‘Watch your back, Frank.’
ELEVEN
Funny how links appear out of nowhere. Gwydir Street, where Frank Tully lived, cut through from High Park Street to South Street and was one of a whole row of streets as Welsh as a Max Boyce show in Tiger Bay. It was also just a couple of blocks away from Admiral Street police station where Mike Haggard and Willie Vine were based – though why I should be taking the broad leap to include that connection as I drove out of town I had no idea.
‘Pelham Grove to Gwydir Street,’ I said. ‘Frank will get there before us – but only just.’
‘Aye, he will,’ Calum said, ‘but does it not strike you as strange that for six months Frank and Len have been treading water and suddenly they can name the killer?’
‘What I’m wondering is why they’ve bothered to call me. I’m the middle man. If they know the killer’s name, why not go after him?’
‘Because there is no bloody him. It’s them. They’re crafty bastards, guilty of Christ knows what, and they want the nosy PI out of the way. My God, you left them just a couple of hours ago knocking back some deadly cocktail—’
‘Jack Daniels and Red Bull.’
‘Right, and so they down some more to stiffen their resolve and decide, OK, we made a hash of things in Wales but if we invite him round on some pretext we can make damn sure we finish the job. Whack him over the head, this time much harder. Slice him up. Stuff the bits in a black bin bag.’
‘You think I haven’t thought of that?’
Calum chuckled. ‘Aye, just ignore my twittering. I’m thinking aloud, wondering, like you, what the hell’s going on.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘we’ll know soon enough.’
We’d been driving along High Park Street. Now I turned into Gwydir Street, scanned the houses looking for the right number, and pulled into the kerb behind a purple Skoda Estate I remembered seeing outside the King of Clubs.
I sat looking at the house that was strangely silent – then smiled and shook my head at the daft thought; had I ever looked at a house that was strangely noisy? I heard Calum’s door click open and the car rocked as he got out. I did the same, and we stood together on the pavement like a couple of insurance salesmen adding up the commission.
‘If he rang you from Kingman’s,’ Calum said, ‘he’s only just got here.’
‘He’s left the door open.’
‘Someone’s left the door open,’ Calum corrected. ‘Come on, nothing ventured….’
Hesitancy draws attention, boldness goes unnoticed. I knocked once, called, ‘You there, Frank?’ and walked in.
Calum clicked the door shut. We stood in cool gloom, scarcely breathing, listening hard to a clock ticking, a tap dripping, the humming of a refrigerator.
‘Frank?’
Nothing.
‘Wait there.’
Calum brushed past me. He went into the living-room. I heard him go through to the kitchen. Cool air touched my face and I shivered; he’d opened the back door. When he returned, he shook his head.
I tightened my lips.
‘I’m not looking forward to this,’ I said, and started up the narrow stairs with Calum at my heels.
The carpets were thick, our footsteps soundless, our nervous breathing and the rustle of our clothing deadened by encroaching walls papered with absorbent flock that was an acoustic nightmare. Since my shout before we walked through the front door I had spoken six words, those in a whisper. Calum had said nothing. Now I felt the urge to clear my throat loudly, to call something, anything – yet I knew even as I clenched my teeth that any sound I did make would fall on dead ears.
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