Deathly Suspense

by John Paxton Sheriff

  While talking on my mobile, my elbow must have touched one of the keys. Now the Windows XP screen was telling me Len Tully was logged on.

  To begin, click user name.

  Was it worth my while looking closer?

  I reached for the mouse, left-clicked on the name, and the screen switched to the desktop background. Shortcut icons were dotted about a bright, clear photograph. For one stunned instant I thought it was a tacky still from a violent computer game. Then realization hit me so hard the breath caught in my throat. I rocked forward in the chair, staring at the screen. My hands gripped the edge of the desk. In that frozen, ghastly moment I could actually hear neck hairs scratch against my collar as they stiffened with fright.

  A murderer had taken a photograph.

  He had tilted the camera sharply upwards. I could see stairs leading to a landing, the very top of a stepladder being used as a crude gallows. A woman I knew must be Lorraine Creeney was standing on the tiny platform. She was wearing a pink, three-quarter length nightgown. Twists of thin cord bound her ankles and wrists tightly enough to bite into flesh. Already swollen, her naked feet and hands were a mottled purple. A crimson gag, knotted behind her neck, was dragging her mouth out of shape. Her cheeks were wet with tears and her eyes, pools of terror, were looking inward at imagined horrors that brought a cold sweat to my brow.

  It was a still photograph, but something about the thin nightgown and the position of the naked knees revealed by the camera angle told me that the poor woman was trembling uncontrollably.

  My God, what else could she do!

  For about her slender throat there was looped a vivid orange hangman’s noose. When the murderer had carefully put away his digital camera he would step forward and kick the stepladder from under her. She would drop like a weighted sack. Her neck would snap.

  As I gazed in horror at that dreadful scene it was as if I was experiencing one of those moments when the house of cards comes tumbling down, when ideas patiently moulded into workable theories go fluttering out of the window like terrified starlings. And yet … why should they?

  In The Gallant Trooper I had watched a waitress cleaning a table and visualized a sequence of actions that might have explained how a man other than Joe Creeney could have murdered a woman in a locked house. Stored in my mind for verification, clarification, feasibility or viability – call it what you will – that theory still held good: in the picture on Len Tully’s computer desktop I was not seeing a ladder soon to be kicked away by the man taking the photograph, but a scene carefully set, a trap cunningly laid.

  With fingers that trembled I reached forward and depressed the key that would put the computer into hibernation. I waited, sickness welling in my throat, for the seconds it took for the command to be obeyed, for that terrifying image to turn black.

  Then I turned again to my mobile phone. For a moment my numbed mind refused to work. I cursed softly, thickly, thumbed clumsily through my electronic phone book and keyed in DI Mike Haggard’s home phone number. Then I went to the front door, opened it, left it ajar and went in search of some strong spirit and a cool glass to make the waiting more bearable.

  For it was a toss up, of course. I’d telephoned the police, but I’d also called Len Tully. And when some time later a car did draw up, doors slammed, footsteps trod unhurriedly up the path and the front door squeaked open to let in a gust of cool night air, I still didn’t know who had come a-calling.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘You didn’t say what was going on.’

  ‘It’s sensitive, and it wasn’t you I spoke to.’

  ‘It was my wife, for God’s sake. She passed on the message.’

  ‘And here you are.’

  ‘Yeah, and if she hadn’t and I wasn’t I’d have got to you eventually.’ He scowled. ‘Phone call or no phone call.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘so what do you want? And what the hell are you doin’ in this house?’

  ‘Your job,’ I said. ‘I’ve found out who murdered Lorraine Creeney.’

  ‘We worked that out a week ago. If you’ve got anything more it’s a half-baked theory that won’t hold water. And yeah, I know,’ he said with a weary glance at Willie Vine, ‘that’s a few more mixed fuckin’ metaphors but it’s late and I’m tired and Ill Wind’s dragged me out of bed—’

  ‘We’re both tired,’ Vine put in, ‘but we’re still capable of separating wheat from chaff.’

  ‘Chaff is right,’ Haggard said, glowering. ‘Creeney killed his wife. Creeney’s dead. Any other theory’s garbage.’

  Less than a minute earlier DI Mike Haggard had been an exhausted, red-eyed bull powering through Len Tully’s front door, with Willie Vine tagging on behind like someone anticipating fireworks. The front room door had been open. They’d seen me sitting in front of the computer, sagging a little with relief at the sight of them. Haggard had charged in with jutting jaw, thought about a cigarette, changed his mind and swept his coat back to place hands on hips and glare.

  He’d said his piece, asked his question, but the answer I’d given him wasn’t enough. He was still glaring. He wanted more.

  I said, ‘Look at this, and change your mind about Joe Creeney.’

  I faced the monitor and pressed the key to bring the computer out of hibernation. Waited in tense silence for the logged on screen. Used the mouse to click on begin. Swivelled away from the computer, stood up and backed out of the way.

  ‘In the early hours of Sunday morning I dropped Joe off at his house,’ I said quietly as Vine slipped into the chair, Haggard peering over his shoulder at the screen. ‘You know that, you know what time it was because my car was seen. Joe crossed the garden in darkness, and we know he went into the house through the patio doors. Once inside he had time to take a photograph – but what could he have done with the camera? The police heard noises, they broke in. Seconds later, Joe was dead. If he’d taken the photograph, the camera would have been on him, or in the house. It wasn’t – right, Willie?’

  I looked at Vine for confirmation. He nodded, then turned back to the monitor.

  ‘So the only way the camera could have left the house and that photograph ended up inside this computer,’ I said, ‘is if someone else was there, in Joe’s house before he arrived.’

  ‘Why before?’

  Haggard had turned away from the computer, his face wooden but an ugly gleam in his eyes. Vine had picked up the mouse and opened the My Pictures folder. He was looking for the original photograph, the original digital file.

  ‘It’s a flash photograph,’ I said. ‘It was late. The street lights are dim. If the police had been outside, I’m sure they would have seen the flash. That suggests it was taken before they arrived.’

  The DI grunted. ‘Forget the uniforms, an’ what they should’ve seen. Of course it was before Creeney got there. When Joe was caught holdin’ the ladder, his wife’s heart had only just stopped pumpin’. When that photograph was taken, she was clingin’ on to some kind of life.’

  ‘And with more than two hours to live,’ Vine said. He swung the swivel chair to face us. ‘I’ve found the file downloaded from the camera. It was taken on a Samsung digital compact at 10.45 p.m. on Saturday, 29 October. Lorraine was forced up that ladder two hours before she died. Why?’

  ‘Because whoever was in there,’ Haggard said, ‘was preparing everything for Joe Creeney to kill his wife. Makin’ it nice and easy for him. Only they couldn’t be sure what time Joe was breakin’ out of gaol, so they played safe.’

  ‘Why would she stand there all that time?’ Vine said. ‘Would she have the strength to do that?’

  ‘Bound hand and foot, that’s why,’ Haggard said. ‘And Christ, yes, she’d find the strength. If something like that happened to me I’d hang on by my fuckin’ fingernails.’

  It was a solemn moment, but quite a picture. Vine’s lips twitched. I met Haggard’s gaze and he shook his head and turned away, patted his pockets and this time w
ent ahead and lit one of his king-sized cigarettes.

  ‘So, speaking hypothetically,’ I said, ‘you’re saying that Joe Creeney had a lot of help. Prison break, getaway car. And then one of his helpers set things up for him so that all he had to do when he walked into his house was kick away the ladder?’

  ‘He had help on the inside, and on the outside,’ Haggard said. ‘And then – accordin’ to this picture – yes, he had help inside the house.’

  ‘So – still talking hypothetically – the person inside the house arranged that grisly tableau, took a photograph for his family album at 10.45 – and then what?’

  ‘Waited for Joe Creeney, and together they killed Lorraine.’

  Haggard and I turned to stare at Willie Vine.

  ‘Couldn’t have,’ Haggard said. ‘Uniforms were parked outside from eleven until they broke down the door at one. Joe was alone.’

  ‘Supposing the assistant was still there, and left much later?’ Vine suggested. ‘Like, seven or eight in the morning, when all the fuss had died down.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Haggard said. ‘You could be right. We knew we had the murderer, so what was the point in tearing the house apart? And all the time we were in there his mate could’ve been hidin’ in the attic.’ Then he grinned. ‘It’s clever, I’ll give you that. It explains how the bugger took the photograph then got clean away – but does it matter?’

  ‘We deserve a kick up the backside for slack procedure,’ Vine said, ‘but in the end, no, it doesn’t. I’ve no doubt there’s an accomplice out there, and I know we’ll get him—’

  I pointed at the computer. ‘Len Tully.’

  ‘Or his brother. Or neither of them.’

  ‘If not them, why’s the photograph here?’

  ‘Maybe it’s not just here. At this moment there could be a thousand copies on the internet. Ten thousand. But Mike’s right. It doesn’t matter who took it, when it was taken, or how many photographs are out there because in the end, with or without help, it was Joe Creeney who killed Lorraine.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sure he did.’

  Haggard puffed at his cigarette, and grinned happily.

  ‘So we’re right and you’re wrong. You’re admitting Creeney was guilty?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I said. ‘Joe’s wife died by his hand – he did kill her – but in the end he was guilty of neither manslaughter nor murder.’

  Registering disbelief, they asked for an explanation. I told them I’d have to gather my thoughts. Haggard seemed to think that could take some time. I assured him he was right.

  Then his eagle eye spotted the empty whisky glass I’d placed alongside the computer. He grabbed it, poked his nose inside and with a roll of the eyes sent Willie Vine for two more and the bottle. Willie returned, splashed liquid into glasses, then sat in front of the computer and idly traced mousy patterns on a small yellow mat. Haggard and I dropped into easy chairs. We all savoured our drinks, swilling the fine spirit around our teeth like expensive Listerine.

  The burly DI raised the subject of Frank Tully’s murder (as I knew he must), gave me a bollocking for fleeing the scene of the crime, didn’t press for details of hows and whys but enquired about the current whereabouts of Calum Wick and Sian Laidlaw and turned sullen when I refused to tell him. And in the empty silence following my unsatisfactory answer I found myself wondering what the hell we were doing sitting with our feet up drinking whisky in Len Tully’s home.

  I put it to them.

  Willie Vine said, ‘If we wait long enough, Len might walk in with his wrists held out and say something original like “It’s a fair cop”.’

  ‘If we wait even longer,’ Haggard said, ‘Ill Wind might say something that makes sense.’

  ‘I really would explain,’ I said, ‘if it wasn’t so complicated.’

  ‘No,’ Haggard said, ‘you’d explain if it was simple. Complicated’s beyond you.’

  ‘Complications are the grist to my mill, and the cause of your frequent complaints. But putting complicated issues in terms simple enough to be understood can be … er … complicated.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ Haggard growled.

  ‘It goes like this. You two have either lost your marbles, or you’re too tired to think straight. It’s barmy to suggest our mysterious photographer was Joe’s accomplice. In the picture you’re painting he erected the makeshift gallows, put the victim in place and took a photograph, waited for Joe, they murdered Lorraine – and his accomplice ran upstairs and hid in the attic. Leaving Joe to the police. Why would he do that?’

  ‘It went pear shaped,’ Haggard said. ‘They weren’t expectin’ a police car to be parked outside the house. Joe walked in, the shit hit the fan and he was too slow reactin’. Who knows? Maybe the other feller was already halfway up the stairs, checkin’ the rope, plantin’ a farewell kiss on the woman’s cheek—’

  ‘Your men had been outside for two hours. The plan would have been aborted.’

  ‘We know someone other than Joe was there, because of the photograph,’ Vine said. ‘If he wasn’t an accessory to murder – which I think you’ve ruled out – and if Joe killed Lorraine – which you’ve admitted – what the hell was he?’

  ‘The man who took that photograph was an evil bastard, and he had a truly cunning plan to frame Joe Creeney. He put that woman up the ladder at 10.45, and he took a photograph.’ I nodded towards the computer. ‘It’s in there, on record, camera, time, the lot – beyond dispute.’ I looked at Haggard. ‘And when he’d done that, he walked out.’

  ‘Two hours before Creeney got there.’ Haggard snorted. ‘Leavin’ instructions on a postcard for the poor sod: walk in, kick the ladder into touch, listen for her neck to snap, bugger off sharpish. Only the police were there—’

  ‘He arranged for the police to be there. He told Lorraine to call them. It was part of the plan.’

  ‘So give us the rest.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve got ideas, but I’m still working on how this person arranged the death of Lorraine Creeney.’

  ‘Share those ideas, or you’re withholdin’ information—’

  ‘Short of information. I told you I think I know how it was done, but I’m not sure. I need to talk to people. Ask questions.’

  ‘Yeah, and so do I. You’ve overstepped the mark, Jack, tellin’ us we’re not thinkin’ straight and losing our marbles, and what I’m sayin’ is if the cap fits, wear it’ — all this outpouring done with a glare at his poker-faced literary DS — ‘because far from me being barmy the scenario you’ve painted has convinced me the man who took this picture was Creeney’s accomplice.’ He sneered. ‘Think about it. According to you, this feller set the scene so he could frame Creeney, then walked out. Now think back to Monday, an’ the talk we had in Welsh Wales. You told me when Joe Creeney got out of your car and walked towards the house, he said he was expected, and you wondered who by. I said it was his wife, but I was wrong. He was expected by his fuckin’ accomplice – only Joe was late, there’d been a hitch, you name it, I’ll buy it, and so his oppo walked out still confident Lorraine would die by Joe’s hand and the two of ‘em would meet up later when the deed was done. You say frame up, I say planned murder by an escaped con and his crafty accomplice.’

  His phone rang. He stumbled to his feet, dug it out, walked away listening. Then he grunted into it, and snapped it shut.

  ‘Damn, damn, double fuckin’ damn.’ He glared at Vine, at me. ‘Let’s go – both of you, now.’

  Vine was already moving. ‘Where?’

  ‘Heswall.’

  ‘Another killing,’ I said, out of my chair and following the two detectives out of the room.

  ‘Yeah,’ Haggard called, as the front door crashed open, broken glass tinkled, and he ran for Vine’s Mondeo. ‘Our photographer’s snapped his last shot. If uniforms have got it right, Len Tully’s topped himself.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Heswall lies between West Kirby and Parkgate on the Wirral peninsula overlooking
the estuary of the River Dee. Getting there from the top of Park Road in Liverpool could take anything from half an hour to double that time, but we made it in what must have been a record twenty-five minutes with me hunched over the Quattro’s steering wheel clinging desperately to the tail of Vine’s scruffy green Mondeo as he pushed it close to a smoke-belching ton along clear stretches.

  The red Ford Escort had been found about thirty yards off a track leading from Oldfield Road down into the grassland and scrub of the Heswall Dales. It had been driven through the bushes into a small clearing. If you listen to the news you’ll know that such discoveries are always made by a man walking his dog, a lone jogger, or a hot young couple looking for soft grass and dense shrubs. This time it had been a 70-year-old bloke on a mountain bike trying out new night-vision goggles he’d bought on eBay. Either they didn’t work too well, or his brain couldn’t make sense of the weird green shapes he was seeing. He veered wildly off the track, crashed through the bushes and went flying over the handlebars.

  When he shook the muzziness from his head, slid off the car’s warm bonnet and shakily regained his feet he realized that the engine was running. All the car’s windows were closed, except for one with a narrow gap at the top, and the door locks were down. He could see a man slumped in the driver’s seat. Then, with a quiver of horror, he noticed the black rubber pipe connected to the exhaust and snaking into the car through that one narrow opening.

  Still dazed, he didn’t think of breaking into the vehicle, switching off the engine and opening the windows. Instead, he headed for home. It took him a while to get there in the dark pushing a bike with a buckled front wheel, the useless night vision goggles dangling from a neck cord and bouncing on his bony chest. By the time he reached the phone the man in the car who might once have stood the ghost of a chance had used up all his nine lives.

  All this information must have been given to Haggard over the phone as he sat rigid in the passenger seat alongside a bright–eyed Willie Vine gleefully doing a Michael Schumacher. When we hit the outskirts of Heswall and turned off Oldfield Road to bump down into The Dales the crime scene was already taped off, and floodlights blazed on the shiny red car, on tyre tracks and flattened bushes where broken branches gleamed like exposed bone, on uniformed policemen and SOCOs in strange white suits and funny bonnets.