Vine wandered away to talk to uniforms. Perhaps because I had been employed by a solicitor to look into Joe Creeney’s death and was now in up to my neck, Mike Haggard brusquely told me what he knew then strode over to the car with me tagging along behind. The breeze had slackened, but was still cold. We ducked under tapes, tramped across wet grass with the damp salt scent of the river in our nostrils and mist curling like smoke under the bright lights.
Haggard moved to one side to talk to a tall, pale-faced man in plain clothes. They both glanced in my direction. I knew Haggard was explaining who I was, and my reasons for being there. Then someone called out, attracting the tall man’s attention, and I had his name: DI Tracy.
I moved closer to the red Escort. The driver’s door was open. Len Tully was still slumped in the seat.
Grass whispered underfoot as the two detectives joined me.
‘Suicide, Dick?’
‘Nothing I can see suggests otherwise.’
I struggled to suppress a smile. Dick Tracy. A cartoon character brought to life, and by his manner of speech more Vine’s type than Haggard’s.
‘He’s got identification on him, so no problem there. Len Tully.’ The tall man paused for effect. ‘You might like what we found in the boot.’
Haggard looked at me. ‘Bright ideas?’
‘A coil of rope,’ I said. ‘Orange nylon.’
The tall detective called Tracy looked at me with sharp blue eyes. ‘Jack Scott,’ he said, as if he’d suddenly discovered a bad taste in his mouth. ‘I’ve heard about you. Superman without a badge. An amateur with pretensions. All right, Scott, so what did we find in the glove compartment?’
‘Either a digital camera, or mobile phone with camera – I’d go for the phone.’
Tracy nodded. ‘The phone was there, but the pics were on a Samsung digital compact. One of our younger constables played with the buttons. I’ve been looking with disgust at what he found.’
‘We’ve been lookin’ with dismay at where he put it,’ Haggard said. ‘The weird bastard stuck that picture on his computer as a desktop.’
‘That it, nothing else there, pornography, snuff movies?’
‘Vine phoned it in from the car, a teams on its way to the house.’ He shook his head. ‘They won’t find anything.’
‘So what’s going on?’ Tracy said. ‘The woman in the photograph is Lorraine Creeney. Last I heard, her murder was a closed case.’
Haggard nodded at Len Tully’s body, then grinned savagely. ‘An’ it’s still closed, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? Sunday morning an escaped prisoner was found next to his wife’s still-warm body hanging by the neck in the hallway of his house. He died resisting arrest.’ That last bit drew a dismissive grunt from Haggard.
Tracy said, ‘That was Joe Creeney – right? Now you’ve got a second, Len Tully. He’s got a coil of rope in his boot similar to that used in the Creeney hanging, and a photograph of the scene on his camera – and he’s dead. So where did he fit in?’
‘Accomplice,’ Haggard said. ‘Creeney wanted his wife dead because she’d been sleepin’ away from home and he’d never got over it. He had the hanging all set up for him by this dipstick’ — he jerked a thumb at the car — ‘who was so proud of his handiwork he took a photo before buggerin’ off.’
‘If the case was officially closed, Len Tully was in the clear. So why suicide?’
Haggard shrugged, patted his pockets, then remembered it was a crime scene and abandoned thoughts of a cigarette.
‘It’s a long story. Creeney was doing time for the manslaughter of the Tullys’ younger brother, Wayne, who was the one havin’ it off with his wife. When Creeney was sent down, the brothers swore they’d get him —’
‘Doesn’t that make nonsense of the idea Tully helped Creeney murder his wife.’
‘Not necessarily,’ I chipped in. ‘What if the Tullys found out some time ago that Creeney had nothing to do with their brother’s death?’
‘Bollocks,’ Haggard said. ‘Joe Creeney admitted it, he pleaded guilty.’
‘Yes, and because of that there was no reason for the police to hunt for an alibi. But six months ago the Tullys found out that Creeney did have an alibi. Wayne Tully lived in Fazakerley. On the night of the assault, Joe Creeney was miles away drinking in his brother’s night-club in Brighton le Sands from six o’clock until he was picked up by the police – they were following up an anonymous tip off. That was some time after eleven. And Wayne Tully was definitely alive at nine: he was with his brother Frank in a local chippy.’
A photographer had arrived, and we were getting in the way. We walked away from the car, DI Tracy lifted the tape and we ducked under it and wandered out of the floodlights and into the deep shadows under a grove of silver birch. When we were clear of the crime scene, Haggard lit his cigarette, the match flame lighting the grim planes of his face. He picked up where we’d left off as Willie Vine wandered over to listen.
‘Yeah, well, I can’t comment because that crime’s in the past, and the man who was sent down for it is dead. But this one, this suicide and what went before it….’ Haggard waved a vague hand. ‘If Creeney didn’t kill their brother, yeah, the Tullys dabbled in crime so they could’ve got in with him, helped him murder his wife.’ He looked at me. ‘But what about Frank Tully?’
‘What about him?’ Tracy said. He was leaning against a tree. The light from the nearby floods shone eerily on his pale skin.
‘Frank was found hanged with the same orange nylon rope,’ Haggard said. ‘Which, lookin’ at what we’ve found here, points the finger at his brother.’
Tracy nodded thoughtfully. ‘And could explain his suicide. Guilt, remorse….’
‘I got a phone call from Frank not long before he died,’ I said. ‘He told me he had the name of the killer. He was trying to keep his voice down because – I found this out later – his brother Len had been desperate to hear what he was saying.’
‘Ah,’ Tracy said softly. ‘I’m not sure I like the way you’re feeding this to us, but what you’re suggesting is that the name Frank had was Len Tully: he’d found out his brother was the killer.’
Vine took that in, thought for a moment, then said, ‘If Len Tully was the one knocking off Joe Creeney’s wife that really would explain everything. Twelve months ago he killed his younger brother who was about to broadcast his guilty secret. He helped Joe murder Lorraine because he thought she was the only other person who could split on him. Then he realized Frank knew, and he killed him.’
Now Haggard was spotting the flaws. ‘What the fuck’s all that about? The motive’s crap. Why murder two blokes and a woman over a bit of sly nooky? If his big secret came out, so what? Different if it was his brother’s wife, but it wasn’t, it was someone else’s wife, so where’s the big deal?’
‘If he didn’t do the murders,’ I said, ‘then we’ve got to consider another possibility,’ I said. ‘The rope and the camera were planted in that red car, and this wasn’t suicide.’
DI Tracy shook his head. ‘No. Len Tully killed himself.’
‘So where does that leave the police?’
‘With three closed cases,’ Haggard said. ‘Wayne Tully’s death was manslaughter by Joe Creeney—’
‘He wasn’t there—’
‘—then early Sunday morning Creeney killed his wife with the help of Len Tully, and today Tully killed his brother then topped himself. All right, so I said the motives are a joke, but that’s one set of motives and there could be a hundred different reasons why Tully smacked his kid brother with a lead pipe then started playin’ hang the man. A hundred – but who the fuck’s lookin’ for even one motive when all the suspects are dead?
‘And if this is not suicide, but murder?’
‘It’s suicide,’ Dick Tracy said flatly, then he lifted a hand to Haggard and moved away to where a man with a black leather bag had climbed out of a Mercedes and was walking towards the red Escort.
Haggard glowered at me
, and began walking towards Vine’s Mondeo. The dirty look said it all. He’d growled a good argument, but he wasn’t happy and he hadn’t convinced himself, or me.
Vine was lingering, his eyes amused.
‘Not good enough, is it?’ He pursed his lips. ‘I wonder why. Maybe Mike was right, you’re holding something back.
I was, of course. I thought of my phone call to Len that had gone unmentioned, the woman who had answered Len’s mobile, the door slamming in the background and the crackle of brush. And, as if it was replaying in my head, I heard it again, unchanged, three little words crackling in my ear – only this time I knew I recognized that woman’s voice.
‘If I am, and depending on what comes of it,’ I said softly, my eyes on the dead body in the red car as Vine turned to follow his boss, ‘either Dick Tracy or a PI with pretensions is going to have to eat his words.’
NINETEEN
It was after three in the morning when I got back to Grassendale. I climbed the stairs with the smell of the Mersey in my nostrils and let myself into an unlighted flat to be greeted by a black cat that curled around my ankles, and automatically found myself thinking of an old pugilist with incipient dementia out looking with bemusement for his straying black dog on a dark night when a murderer was on the prowl.
Had Rose Lane seen something important when that same dog got out earlier that night? Was it time to talk to her husband, Rocky? I really didn’t know, because the truth was I didn’t know if we still had a case. Two senior police officers had, with what I considered to be twisted logic and inferior deductive skills, decided that an ancient verdict must stand and two recent murders would go uninvestigated because the perp was dead. Against that decision a voice I thought I’d recognized on a mobile phone had seemed like a red-hot lead down in the scrub of the Heswall Dales, but it had dwindled to become a vague possibility during the drive back from the Wirral and was now looking ridiculous. All manner of alternatives had presented themselves as I yawned my way home, including the likelihood that sitting in front of Len’s computer I’d dialled the wrong number and spoken to a woman who had no idea what I was talking about.
So I switched on some lights and wandered into the kitchen and dished up cat food and man food and we both returned to the living-room where the cat promptly fell asleep and I slumped in leather luxury and munched and drank without enthusiasm.
My cohorts were still lying low. Calum could be anywhere with Jones the Van, Sian was staying with Eleanor and I realized I should phone and had punched in Soldier Blue’s mobile number and was listening to it ring when my bleary eyes looked at the clock and I was reminded of the time.
‘Damn.’
I switched off. Looked towards the kitchen where a bottle of the Macallan stood in a high cupboard that suddenly, at that low point in the day, seemed way out of reach. And not that appealing. The coffee I was drinking was not doing its job. My eyelids were drooping. I looked at the cat just as it stretched and yawned languidly, thought of kicking it off the settee – and fell asleep.
I spoke to Sian on the phone at breakfast the next morning – well, later that same morning. She told me she and her ex-army colleagues were still thrashing out logistics for the forthcoming adventure training courses in Scotland, and she would be involved with them for most of that day. I brought her up to date with murders and suicides, told her the police now considered all cases closed and that I couldn’t see any way to argue. Ha! Who was I kidding? I considered it my bounden duty always to disagree with Haggard and Vine, and Sian must have caught that defiance in my voice. Her chuckle was a delightful gurgle that made my neck tingle.
‘You’re up to something. There was a gleam in your eye when we left The Gallant Trooper, and you weren’t listening to a word I said.’
‘I thought I was getting close to cracking the locked room mystery. Several brilliant ideas are still simmering away on the back burner.’
‘But you’re not willing to share them with me so I can tear them to shreds?’
‘Not yet, no, but if I’m right, then Len Tully’s death was murder not suicide, there’s a very clever killer out there and he’s laughing up his sleeve. What I do know is that even if we can’t include Len just yet, we’ve still had three murders. Last night Haggard rubbished the motives Vine came up with – he was right to do so – and he was unable or unwilling to offer alternatives. But I know him too well. He was saying one thing, but eyes and body language were sending a different message. I think he’s torn between relief and apprehension: he’s pleased those murders seem to have been have been solved, but I don’t go along with it and he knows my record – I’m always right.’
I chuckled as she staged a loud, exaggerated yawn, then told her about the strange response when I’d called Len Tully’s mobile, and my suspicion that I’d misdialled. She reminded me the number would be there on my phone, all I had to do was look, and I groaned.
‘I’m a bumbling fool. How will I solve this complicated case without you?’
‘You may not have to.’
‘Mm. I thought you were spending today with rugged men of few words who move silently through thick jungles. Or should that be thick men and rugged jungles?’
She giggled. ‘I’ll mention your name when I put it to them – but, no, I’m not with them all day. I’ll give them the slip, then set off to solve the mystery of why Joe Creeney broke out of gaol and who he believed was expecting him when you took him home.’
‘Just like that?’
‘A small chore, ‘twill take but a minute of my time….’
‘Tell me about it tonight and we’ll crack a bottle of champagne and the case – if you see what I mean.’
‘I do and I’d love to. At Calum’s?’
‘No, let’s have it there. I haven’t seen Eleanor since she came back from Gib, so, no cooking tonight, I’ll arrange for a Chinese to be delivered and we’ll eat and talk while the bubbles tickle your nose.’
‘I’ll try my best not to laugh,’ she said. ‘Let’s make it about eight o’clock.’
I was on my way to town before ten o’clock, walking up the hill from Paradise Street car park fifteen minutes later with my sights set on the offices of Knott, Knott and Arbuthnot. I had last spoken to Stephanie Grey on Monday after Max Spackman had given me the news of Joe’s death, and it was about time we both compared notes. I wanted to get her views on two deaths and a suicide, and I was looking forward to watching her reaction and listening to what she had to say when I told her Joe Creeney had walked away from a rocksolid alibi. There was also George Kingman’s interesting revelation that she popped into the King of Clubs from time to time, and had been there when Frank Tully was talking furtively to me on his mobile. Not listening – but that was just George’s recollection. And what did any of that tell me? Not a lot. I had met the woman just the once, trusted her without thinking about it because a job is a job and she was the go between. But in doing that job I had inevitably looked under stones, and what I’d found there was making it look as if I knew too little about a solicitor with slender fingers in several mucky pies.
Seagulls were wheeling and calling overhead and the breeze was rustling magazines and newspapers on the wooden stand when I turned the corner into Castle Street. I was walking past with my mind on what lay ahead when the Daily Post headlines caught my eye and the sea birds and the salt wind sweeping off the Mersey combined to whisk me into the past. Thursday morning. I was in Toad Hall listening to a Welsh detective tell me about a woman who was under arrest for the murder of Rose Lane.
MURDER SUSPECT RELEASED WITHOUT CHARGE BY NORTH WALES POLICE.
Watched with apprehension by an elderly woman carrying a plastic bag, I wet my forefinger and made a mark in thin air. All right, so I didn’t know if the suspect in the headlines was the woman taken into custody by a certain Welsh DI, but what were the odds? I was betting it was Alun Morgan’s dark-haired woman in the pink blouse who was now drinking a cup of hot sweet tea at home, and if so then
a link between the murders of Lorraine Creeney and Rose Lane had not yet been severed and I had begun my day with at least a half chance, a glimmer of light.
It’s strange how perceptions change. On my first visit to the Castle Street premises I had the sensation of basking in old world charm where wise legal eagles pored over dusty briefs and dreamed of justice. Today I climbed the stairs through an ambience of neglect, decay and sleaze, and I wondered if what I thought I perceived now was influenced by what I had just read and what I was certain I was about to hear. Was it precognition or fancy? Had a succession of grisly murders turned a PI with his tail up into a cynic expecting the worst?
A pointless question, anyway. I wanted the worst, because if Stephanie came out of this squeaky clean it would mean that once again I’d got it wrong.
My feet tapped the stairs like hollow dreams. Her door was ajar and I knocked on its heavy panels and walked into her office and she greeted me with a disquieting smile that caused her black-ringed eyes to glitter. My reaction came as a shock to me. Coloured by events, it seemed that I was looking at life through dark glasses, seeing not goodness but evil – and suddenly I knew why. She rose to greet me. Her shoulder-length hair was dark, her skirt long and her blouse, hanging loose over the skirt’s waistband, was a dark and dusky pink.
I looked at it, and my mouth went dry.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Muzzy head. I was up late, saw something nasty on the Wirral.’
‘So I believe.’
‘If you know that already,’ I said, ‘you must talk to Haggard more often than his wife.’
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