Turner seemed somewhat embarrassed and looked across at Massey.
“It's okay,” said the inspector. “Give them the full works.” He looked at his watch. “At least it will keep us entertained for the next hour or so!”
At fifteen minutes before three, all teams reported in to central control that they were in place and ready to commence their designated duties. At three o'clock precisely, armed squads breached the four main doors of the building simultaneously. The main task force mounted the stairs to the residents’ rooms. A smaller group entered the manager's flat. Other squads secured the remaining areas of the building. Minutes later, Massey and his team were ordered to their pre-determined station in the main lounge bar.
Despite tremendous noise and the appearance of total confusion, the operation was a resounding success, although there was no sign of Sean O’Malley. The forensic team commenced their investigation of the bedrooms as the occupants were forced to vacate each one in turn. The ‘students’ were escorted individually downstairs to be processed. Moran was apprehended and handcuffed to a uniformed officer. He was brought before Massey's team.
“Mr. Callaghan, I presume,” said the inspector. “As a horse racing expert, what d'you reckon the odds are on doing a life term?” He turned to Dan Shabailly. “Don't lose this one. When you've thrown the book at him, cast him back in my direction. I reckon that we shall find sufficient evidence to charge him with the murder of Mary Cole and possibly Lara Crawford.”
For once, Moran had nothing to say. He was taken away towards the waiting police vans. D.C.I. Wainwright appeared and approached Massey and Shabailly.
“You had better follow me down to the beer cellar. We've found O’Malley.”
*****
Massey sat on a beer keg adjacent to several cylinders of carbon dioxide gas. O’Malley's corpse swayed gently back and forth, suspended by a stout rope from a reinforced steel joist. Wainwright looked across at Shabailly and raised his eyes towards the cellar ceiling and the floors above.
“How do you see this, then…retribution by Moran and his terror squad up there for services rendered?”
“It's possible,” replied Shabailly. “O’Malley was ex-I.R.A. but in return for information, received a second chance from us. He must have been under pressure from Moran to keep quiet, because we would not have had any inside knowledge of this little scenario, but for your man, Turner, and the tip-off from the cleaner. You will need help from forensics before you can draw the right conclusions. I reckon that it could be suicide, given that his ‘old man’ went the same way when O’Malley was just a teenager. Perhaps guilt and the process of dealing with guilt run in the family.”
Shabailly turned to leave. “This is your baby. I've other ‘fish to fry’. Thanks for your valued assistance. Most of us should be on our way within the hour. However, our forensic team will probably be here for most of the day.” He disappeared up the stone steps.
Wainwright was not convinced. He walked over towards Massey. “Ask your chaps to secure this area until our own forensic team arrives. I want them to check it thoroughly. After all, it is an inconclusive crime scene, irrespective of Shabailly's observations. We already have a young woman raped and murdered, a cleaner missing and now a licensee strung up in his cellar. There's more to this than congenital suicide.”
Massey lingered in the cellar before returning to the warmth of the lounge bar. He sat impassively, staring at the suspended corpse of Sean O’Malley. The more he looked, the more he began to understand. Questions flooded his mind. All the doubts, all the anomalies in the Lara Crawford case were starting to make sense. A picture was emerging, but there were still many other questions unresolved. He finally knew what answers he needed.
*****
It was almost daylight when Massey stepped out of the Barleycorn into an early morning mist that hung over the river like a shroud. The streets were empty apart from several uniformed officers patrolling the cordoned off area of the public house. The forensic teams brought in by the counter terrorism unit were still clawing their way through the guest bedrooms.
Nuttall and his team were just arriving. Massey's own team had long since departed for a well-earned sleep to compensate for the impromptu night shift. Not so the inspector, now totally preoccupied with his own investigation. His mind was still in overdrive. To him the picture was becoming clearer by the minute. The business with the security services and their obsession with the threat of terrorism was a side issue as far as he was concerned. Deep down however, something elusive was bugging him.
He strolled across to the river bridge and through low-lying swirls of mist, he watched the current as it carried odd pieces of twigs and leaves downstream in the direction of the mill. He believed that the possibility of finding Charles Devlin Howard guilty of Lara Crawford's murder was becoming as remote as the disappearing debris in the waters below. Initially, the mill owner's involvement with her provided the only feasible motive at the time to consider him as a prime suspect, but so much had happened since. Yet none of it made any sense…until now. He needed time to think.
He turned away and approached one of the uniformed officers. “Any idea where I may grab some breakfast at this unearthly hour?” he asked.
The police officer checked his watch. “You could try the bus station buffet. I doubt that any others will be open for business for at least another hour. What about the canteen at H.Q.?”
Massey smiled. “I saw enough of that place last night to last me a bloody lifetime. I'll try the bus station in the town centre. The walk and the fresh air should help clear my head.”
As he approached the shopping centre, he encountered Ricky Dalziel. That's all I need, thought Massey. Hoping that he would not be noticed, he quickened his stride.
“What the hell's going on at my pub?” shouted the local villain.
“Since when have you been the owner?” asked Massey.
“I should have bloody shares in it by now…the amount of fuckin' cash I've put across that bar. Why's it surrounded by your mob? It'll soon be opening time.”
“You'll have a long wait,” said Massey. “I suggest that you find an alternative watering hole.”
“I'm barred out of all the other bloody pubs in this godforsaken hole.”
“Well, I suggest that you either take up drinking coffee or do me a favour and leave town.”
Dalziel walked away, muttering obscenities. He realised that the inspector would reveal nothing about whatever incident had prompted the police activity at the Barleycorn.
The buffet bar was open. Three council workers sat at a table, each one devouring an unhealthy fry-up. Massey settled for a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich. He needed time to plan his day. The thought of sleep never entered his head; even though his body was weary, his mental ability knew no bounds. Now alone without interruption provided him with positive thinking time. He had to find the missing pieces of the jigsaw puzzle.
Refreshed by his snack, he walked briskly back to the Barleycorn. The mist was lifting. A clear sky heralded the possibility of a bright sunny day. The public house was still a hive of activity. He found John Nuttall on his hands and knees in one of the residents’ bedrooms. The crouching figure looked up as Massey entered the room.
“You'll like this…bloodstains…found them under a rug. There are traces of some kind of woven floor covering around the perimeters of the room where it had been fastened down with tacks. My guess is that the blood causing this patch on the floorboards resulted from a more heavily stained carpet that was ripped out and probably destroyed. There are also splatters on the side of the wardrobe at a height and a sprayed trajectory that would suggest a laceration to someone's throat or head. Traces are also prominent on the bottom edge of the duvet. I would say that whatever took place here was recent. The attempted clean-up was rather ineffective, probably rushed.”
“Is this Moran's room?”
“That's his holdall by the bed. The other team need it as evidence.
They've bagged up the contents, which included manuals on bomb-making, land mines, remote explosive devices and…would you believe it…a dismantled AK-47. This guy seemed intent on starting World War III.”
“Terrorism is World War III,” replied Massey. “It's already a global threat.” He was more interested in the possibility of a murder scene than a terrorism threat. “Will you be able to extract a D.N.A. profile from the bloodstains?”
“I presume you're thinking about your missing cleaner. We extracted samples from her personal effects at her sister's place. This is quite possibly the crime scene and a definite match will confirm that she was the victim here. No sign of a body, though.”
“That figures. Mary Cole was working here last Saturday. She went missing following her shift. In the early hours of Sunday morning, a patrol came across O’Malley in his Mondeo. He was accompanied by Moran. They were probably on their way to dump the body.”
“And they didn't search the vehicle?”
“The officer was unaware of Moran's identity at that time. O’Malley fed him a cock and bull story about giving a friend a lift to Tarporley. He didn't see anything suspicious in that, especially knowing the licensee and recognising the vehicle. He picked out Moran when I circulated his mug shot around the station. That's the way it goes sometimes.” The inspector walked towards the doorway. “Have you checked out the beer cellar, yet?”
“Only the corpse. That's undergoing a post mortem at the mortuary as we speak. The actual crime scene is next on the agenda.”
“Have you come across a murder weapon?”
“Oh, yes…it was a bloody great rope dangling from a ceiling joist!”
Massey grinned. “I meant in here, you idiot!”
Nuttall laughed. “I know. The problem is that, without a body, I'm not certain what we're looking for. It's probably a knife, but I should imagine that it was destroyed at the same time as the carpet or it may have been dumped with the body…wherever that is.”
“There may be clues about the location from his car. I take it that is on your list.”
“It is now, after your latest revelation. Have you any more snippets that may help our investigation?”
“I'm sure that as the day progresses, other facts will emerge.”
“As if I haven't enough on my plate already. Isn't it time that you went home for a rest?”
“If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you wanted rid of me.” Massey checked his watch. “I suppose that I could grab a couple of hours before starting again. I just need to sort out one or two issues beforehand. What about you…are you taking a break later?”
“I've got my eye on that bed over there!”
“I'll pop back and tuck you in!”
The banter over, Massey returned to his car. He stopped off at police headquarters to make some phone calls before heading out of town. He had already decided to call in at Moulton on the way home. He needed to speak with Diana Crawford and Caroline Finch.
*****
The sun shone brightly as Massey pulled up outside the cottage. Caroline was placing a small suitcase in the boot of her car and turned to greet him.
“Good morning, Inspector. How nice of you to come and see me off. I am on the point of leaving.”
Diana stepped onto the paved driveway and joined them. Caroline closed the lid of the boot and turned towards Massey. “Would you like to come inside for a drink before I head home?”
“Thanks, but I've not long since had breakfast. I was wondering if Suzanne Ridley had discussed with either of you the brief conversation she held with Sean O’Malley following Lara's funeral.”
Neither of the sisters was aware that words had been exchanged. Massey asked if she had stayed locally overnight.
“She had a room at the Lodge Hotel, but I do believe that she was due to return home first thing this morning,” said Diana. She consulted her watch. “It's almost eleven o'clock. She is probably back home by now.”
“I have a question, Inspector,” said Caroline. “How will we be able to keep abreast of how your investigation of Lara's death is progressing? We know that you have arrested a suspect, but what happens next?”
“There is a family liaison officer who will regularly update you on progress. You will be given you a contact number to call if, at any time, you have questions or concerns.”
Caroline said her goodbyes to her sister and to Michael, her nephew, who had joined them on the driveway. She turned to Massey and announced that he was welcome at the Beacon, whenever he needed a break. “You can always stay over in one of the guest rooms,” she added with the hint of a smile.
Having acknowledged her kind offer, Massey returned to police headquarters instead of heading home. The adrenalin was now compensating for his lack of sleep. He still needed to know why Sean O’Malley had suddenly changed his demeanour after speaking with Suzanne Ridley. He found D.C. Jones who had not been involved with the late night operation and asked her for Ridley's contact number. A few minutes later, she returned with a post-it note.
“The first number is her home telephone, the second is the number of the supermarket where she is employed,” said the detective constable.
Massey thanked her and she left his office. He made the call. Ridley was at home. He quizzed her about her conversation with O’Malley.
“I caught sight of him across the cemetery,” she recounted. “There was something about him that drew my attention. It was only as we were leaving that I realised where I had seen him before. He was one of my many flirtations when I was young and innocent. It suddenly became clear. He must have recognised me also, because he came across and we exchanged a few pleasantries. Then he said something really weird. He asked me why I was there. I answered him and then I joined the others.”
“Why was that weird and why did he dash away?”
“I really don't know. He was acting very strangely. Why are you so interested in him?”
Massey sidestepped the question. “He can be a useful source of information to us, as he runs a public house frequented by the less law abiding members of our community. I just wondered why he had taken a sudden interest in a complete stranger. Can you remember what you said to him precisely?”
Massey hung on every word. When she had finished he was almost speechless.
“Hello, Inspector. Are you still there?”
“Yes,” said Massey, his mind racing in time with his accelerated heartbeat. “Thank you. You've been most helpful.” He rang off and, dashing from the office, returned to the Barleycorn, stopping off at the George and Dragon on the way.
The area was still sealed off and patrolled by uniformed officers. He swung his car onto the rear car park and skidded to a halt near the double doors leading to the main lounge bar. John Nuttall, still clad in his white protective suit stood by the bar listening to a play back of his observations on his pocket memo. Notebooks and various instruments from his briefcase littered a nearby table. A box of recently acquired samples in sealed packets was on another table.
As Massey approached, he looked up and pressed the ‘stop’ button. “I expected you to be tucked up in bed by now.”
“Not made it home yet,” replied Massey sinking into a chair.
“You should get some sleep. You look like shit!”
Massey ignored his advice; he was on a mission. “The hanging in the cellar…what are your thoughts…murder or suicide?”
“You're still awake enough to ask tricky questions. At first, I must admit that I was influenced by the supposition that Moran may have been responsible for all three victims…certainly motivewise. The two women could have witnessed too much and O’Malley was probably dispensable, now that Moran was on the point of leaving. He had served his purpose and again, he probably knew too much. However, if Moran had committed all three murders, why would he suffocate the first, knife the next and hang the last victim? It doesn't make any sense, unless he was some kind of psycho trying out every possible killing method. Log
ically, the three deaths have to be for different reasons and possibly committed by different perpetrators.
Lara Crawford's murder is, in my mind, still an enigma. I can understand why Howard became a suspect, indeed the only suspect. Even my team had a part to play in that diagnostic process. Yet, I am not completely convinced. In support of our assumption that Mary Cole has been murdered, we have this morning's forensic evidence, providing that the D.N.A. samples match.
In answer to your original question about the hanging, despite there being a reasonable motive for murder, I edge towards suicide on two counts. When he was discovered, his hands were not bound behind his back. Normally, that would be the case with a murder victim.”
“My thoughts entirely,” said Massey.
“Since your earlier visit, we have also found what appears to be a suicide note that had dropped between two beer kegs.”
“Handwritten?”
“Oh, yes, but its authenticity will have to be verified by an expert in that particular field. It could have been planted, he could have been forced to write it or it could be genuine.”
“What was written on the note?”
Nuttall reached into the box and withdrew a sealed plastic bag. The suicide note was inside. It read, ‘I can't live with myself now. I'm sorry.’ The detective leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Suddenly, he rose up and beckoned Nuttall towards him.
“Follow me down to the cellar. I think that we have solved your enigma.”
*****
Fluorescent strip lights illuminated the cellar. A starter motor on one light fitting must have been faulty; the tube was flickering, creating an eerie effect to the damp surroundings. Massey crossed towards the drop below the heavy wooden flaps where the beer deliveries entered from street level. Nuttall sat on an empty kilderkin of Carlsberg lager, facing the inspector.
“On my way back here, I stopped off at the George and Dragon to have a word with Charlie Meadows,” said Massey. “He confirmed what I had already assumed…that most licensees tend to carry out regular routines. Thursday morning at the Barleycorn, for example, is beer line cleaning day and an opportunity to clear out the empty barrels ready for the next dray delivery, which is normally first thing Friday morning.
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