‘Good morning, Mr Melling, how are you?’ said Tara.
A rotund, squat man of sixty-five, wearing a dark-grey suit, in places shiny with age, peered out from a dim hall at his early-morning caller. The ruddy face was not the friendliest, more a face of suspicion and concern.
‘What can I do for you, love?’ he asked, the words fired at considerable Scouser speed.
Tara introduced herself and Murray, stating their business and was rewarded by a modicum of recognition and an invitation to step inside. The house was awash with the smell of food frying as they followed the man through a gloomy hall to a room at the back. Melling intimated for them to sit at a table, laid out for a cooked breakfast for two; salt, pepper, HP sauce, Yorkshire Relish, a carton of milk and a bag of sugar. Through a crack in the doorway to the kitchen, Tara spied a plump woman in a heavy maroon dressing gown busily tending to her frying pan on the cooker.
‘I’ve more or less retired, you know,’ Melling said. Tara recognised the defensive tone of his statement. ‘I don’t lend much these days,’ he continued. ‘To tell you the truth, Inspector, I don’t have it.’ He laughed at his quip.
‘C’mon, Joe, a man like you?’ said Murray. ‘I hear you’re rolling in it.’
‘Where’d you get your hearing aid, son? I don’t even give the wife the housekeeping these days.’
‘The old shares portfolio giving you gyp then?’
‘Now you’re getting the idea.’
‘Fair enough, Joe,’ said Tara, bringing a halt to the banter. ‘What I’m looking for is a list of names.’
‘Names?’ Melling’s watery eyes widened at the suggestion. ‘What sort of names? You’re not after my books, are you?’
‘Sharks, I need to know who else is operating at the moment, especially around Wavertree.’
Melling sat back to consider the question, his rickety chair creaking under the strain.
‘Somebody overstepping the mark?’ he asked. He gazed from Tara to Murray as if he was unsure who was the most senior of the two detectives. It didn’t enlighten him when Murray answered.
‘Could be, Joe, but for the moment we just need to know what sort of people are conducting business and are likely to turn nasty with customers who can’t make their repayments.’
It was obvious to Tara that naming names to the police went against Melling’s life philosophy. Either that or he feared the consequences if the wrong people got to hear about it.
‘I’m not sure if I’m the man to ask, Inspector, know what I mean?’
‘Ah c’mon, Joe, where’s the harm?’ said Murray, his impatience kicking in. ‘Strictly between us, we may not even be talking to these guys. We just need to run a few checks, that’s all.’
Melling’s wife emerged from the kitchen with two plates of fried food; bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms, beans and fried bread – very healthy. For the benefit of her visitors, she also carried a scowl, not at all amused at her breakfast being disrupted by her husband’s business. After setting the plates on the table, she traipsed back to the kitchen only to return moments later with a stainless-steel teapot. They were not offered tea, not that Tara cared, although she reckoned that Murray could still manage some despite his earlier feast.
‘Ray Dempsey,’ said Melling, breaking free of his deliberations, ‘still operates around Wavertree.’
‘Anybody else?’
‘You might do better asking around a few of the clubs if you know what I mean?’
‘Snooker clubs?’
‘Snooker clubs, supporters’ clubs, working men’s clubs, take your pick.’
‘Tommy Gracey is another one, but he’s a bad lot. You’d have to stand your granny as collateral before he’d give you a penny.’
‘Any idea where I might find him?’ Tara asked.
Melling looked incredulous.
‘Sorry, Inspector, I’m not that daft. Now if there’s nothin’ else, me and the wife would like to eat our breakfast in peace.’
* * *
From the car, Tara called Wilson at the station and asked him to check out the names that Melling had given to her. What she feared most was that Maggie Hull had borrowed heavily from a highly organised gang. It would be hell getting any information out of an organised crime group.
When she arrived at St Anne Street she found a copy of the post-mortem report for Maggie Hull lying on her desk. She fetched a coffee from the machine and sat down to peruse. There were no surprises, nothing much to supplement what she’d already heard from Tweedy. Drugs and alcohol were not a factor in the death, and no sexual assault had occurred. Judging by her inspection of Maggie’s house, there had been no robbery either. A motiveless killing? If so, they would have to consider the possibility of a psycho on the loose. She shuddered at the thought.
CHAPTER 21
Rebecca Thomas was late for her lecture only because she couldn’t bear to see the kitchen left in such a mess. The others were happy to leave it. Eventually, somebody would get around to clearing up. And they were right, somebody did. It was always her and never the others. Even the girls took advantage of the fact that she couldn’t abide seeing the house left in a state. First thing this morning, as some of them hurried out to lectures and one or two slept off last night’s binge, she raced around the downstairs of the house, gathering empties, bottles and cans, crisp bags, pizza boxes, trays of chicken curry and chilli con carne, taking all of it out to the bins. Then she washed the glasses and plates, dried them and put them away. All the work surfaces and the big table in the kitchen were cleaned down with disinfectant wipes. At least the place would be habitable before anyone cooked dinner this evening. All of her efforts left her fifteen minutes behind schedule. She grabbed her bag and folder, pulled on her jacket and rushed outside.
The air was cool and damp, the pavements wet from the early rain. It was a ten-minute walk to the lecture theatre. She would miss the start to ‘The relevance of the nineteenth-century novel to modern society.’
As she hurried along, she sent a text to her friend Laura, saying that she was on her way and asking her to save her a seat. With all of her clearing up, she hadn’t had time for breakfast, although she thought it best to give her tummy a rest. She felt a bit delicate this morning. She hadn’t drunk a lot the night before, a few bottles of Budweiser, but maybe it was something she had eaten. Her throat felt tight also. But she had been singing and laughing so much last night. The guys in their house: Josh, Gary and Mark were very funny when they got a few drinks in them. And she quite fancied Josh, although so far nothing had happened. Early days, she thought as she tried to pick up her pace. She felt herself sweating beneath her long-sleeved T-shirt and corduroy jacket. She knew she wasn’t fit. Never had been into sports that much, except for dancing and it wasn’t really a sport. She reached Abercromby Square, not far to go now, she thought. Her head was throbbing, and now she had difficulty swallowing. She must have eaten something bad. Veering to the railings by the side of her building, her stomach suddenly heaved and she bent double. But this was more than simply throwing up. Her throat was pulsing in a spasm, she was boiling hot and suddenly she felt sharp pains across her chest. She cried out for help. A lady who was standing at the bus stop across the road hurried towards her. Rebecca dropped to her knees; she could no longer see clearly; she couldn’t breathe and finally dropped face down on the damp pavement.
In a laboratory within the Chemistry department of the university, Rebecca’s housemate, Mark, suddenly let go of the conical flask he was holding. It smashed on the floor, and he collapsed over the pool of dilute sodium hydroxide solution it had contained.
The lecture Rebecca had missed was halted ten minutes before the end when one of the students was taken ill. Laura had become nauseous then found herself gasping for breath as she was gripped by a terrible pain in her chest.
At the student house where Rebecca had so diligently cleaned up, two students, Catherine and Philip, sharing a bed and feeling wretched, would not rise in t
ime for their lectures.
CHAPTER 22
Wilson handed over a single sheet of A4. Upon it were printed the names and addresses of both men. Under Dempsey’s name was his National Insurance number and date of birth. The same details were stated for Gracey, along with a list of criminal convictions that included, assault, theft, ABH, membership of a proscribed organisation and, to cap it all, attempted murder. Murray whistled his amazement.
‘Well, well, Tommy Gracey, this is your life! John, can you dig up a file on this guy please?’
Tommy Gracey was forty-eight years old and was enjoying his years of freedom under the early release scheme, a consequence of the Good Friday Agreement in Northern Ireland. Before 1998 he had been detained at Her Majesty’s Prison Maze, serving fourteen years for the attempted murder of a Catholic taxi driver, illegal possession of a firearm and a list of other offences, minor in comparison, linked to the same incident. In short, he was the archetypal loyalist paramilitary who’d been fortunate enough to have served only three years of his sentence before the political situation swayed in his favour. Before, during and following that period, he had participated in several other ventures associated with paramilitary groups. A quarrel with his fellow gangsters in Belfast had resulted in his resettlement in Liverpool. Moneylending was his strike for independence from the organisation. His activities, however, had already come under scrutiny from Merseyside Police. At least four vicious attacks in Liverpool were suspected by the police to be retribution by Gracey for unpaid debts. In light of this, Tommy Gracey seemed a plausible suspect for the murder of Maggie Hull.
Tara and Murray called firstly to Gracey’s ground floor flat off Priory Road in Anfield. There was no one at home but a mousey-looking teenage girl, his next-door neighbour, told them that Gracey could usually be found around lunchtime at his local bar, The Hallowed Turf.
The pub stood at a busy road junction, its outer walls curving around the street corner. It was the type of place that was packed on match days and Friday and Saturday nights. The rest of the week, the pub had a dedicated but limited clientele.
Tara and Murray entered the bar and looked around the dingy room which was in dire need of renovation, quite obviously searching for a particular individual. A pair of old men, both with a sallow complexion, sitting in a booth with brown leatherette benches, inspected the newcomers. Leaning at the bar and watching the racing from Doncaster on Sky Sports, were three young lads, each one holding a pint glass nearly empty of lager. A solitary barman washing glasses at the sink acknowledged Murray with a slight flick of his head. He had a notion that his latest customers were from the law. Murray ordered two half-pints of lager, while Tara approached the muscular, shaven-headed man seated alone by a window and reading the Daily Star. Wearing a purple Liverpool away shirt, he had tattoos on both forearms and one on the left side of his neck, all symbols of his allegiances to Ulster Loyalism. A gold ring through his left eyebrow set off his aura perfectly. He did not look the type of guy to be trifled with.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Gracey?’ said Tara in a friendly manner. The man lifted his head and squinted at his visitor through deep-set eyes. Without a word of acknowledgement, he lifted his pint glass of lager and drained the last few mouthfuls. He turned the page of his newspaper and continued with his reading. Tara, in no way intimidated, sat down on a low stool opposite.
‘The name is Gracey, Tommy Gracey?’ she asked.
‘You lookin’ for somethin’, love? Only, I don’t need to pay for a good time around here.’
Tara examined the smirk on his face. He was a man full of bravado and dull wit. She was well used to being overlooked as a police detective, not that Gracey would know.
‘I’m not that kind of girl, but I am looking for something.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘The answers to some questions.’
At last, he raised his eyes from his paper but he did not look happy. Tara continued to study his face. His skin was smooth and tight with several scars; one in particular, ran below his right eye. Ginger eyebrows and green eyes seemed to shout the words, ‘definitely not friendly.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Grogan, Merseyside Police and this’ – she indicated Murray who was coming towards them carrying the half-pints of beer – ‘is my colleague Detective Sergeant Murray.’
The man shrugged a ‘so what’.
‘Perhaps, for a start, you could confirm that you are Tommy Gracey?’
‘Aye, so what?’
‘Were you doing anything last Monday night?’
‘Ask your ma?’
Tara smiled broadly. Here was a man intent on undermining the serious nature of her business with him.
‘Nice one, Tommy, but I don’t have time for your jokes. Just tell me what you were doing, please?’
‘In here, all night, you can ask him.’ He nodded towards the barman.
‘OK, let’s say you were in here. How much money do you lend at any one time?’
Gracey winced. For a moment, he seemed to consider the question but did not reply.
Tara persevered. ‘I need to know about the kind of people you lend money to. Are they always able to pay it back? What if they can’t?’
‘What the hell is this? Who says I lend money? And why should I talk to you about it?’
Tara took a sip of her drink then scowled at Murray. She hated flat beer; it always tasted sour. She glanced at the barman. More than likely he’d just served Murray with two glasses of dregs. Gracey had returned to browsing his newspaper.
‘Listen, Tommy,’ Murray whispered. ‘Early release licences can always be revoked, you know? Someone in contravention of the terms of their release might find themselves on a picnic to that prison in Belfast – Maghaberry, isn’t that what it’s called?’
The big man laughed with a deep growl and shook his head.
‘Fuck do you know about anything in Belfast?’
‘Just saying the way I see it, that’s all.’
‘Lending a few quid to a couple of mates won’t land me inside.’
‘Perhaps not, Tommy,’ said Tara, ‘but murder certainly will.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about? Murder? I don’t know nothin’ about any murder.’
‘Maggie Hull? You know her well enough, don’t you, Tommy? You’ve lent her a few quid recently.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘Still owe you money, does she? I can’t see her paying you back though. Not now, she’s cold and stiff.’
‘You’re off your head, love. I don’t know fuck all about any murder.’
He rose from his seat, and for the first time, Tara noticed the walking stick that had been standing by his chair. She allowed Gracey to limp away.
‘Think about your client list, Tommy,’ she said after him. ‘I’ll call again in a couple of days and we can go through it.’
Gracey muttered something under his breath and hobbled to the bar. Tara took another sip of her beer and screwed her face in disgust.
‘Bloody hell, Alan, are you trying to poison me?’
Murray, undaunted, had drained his glass.
They were just stepping through the swing door into the entrance porch of the pub when they met a hefty-framed man coming the other way. It was Murray, not Tara, who was first to recognise the face.
CHAPTER 23
‘Ah, Beryl! Fancy meeting you here.’
Beryl grimaced and his face twitched nervously.
‘Just calling for a pint, no law against that is there?’
‘None at all, Beryl,’ said Tara with a smile. ‘You may as well enjoy it while you can.’
Beryl’s reply was little more than a grunt as he barged past and into the bar. Tara turned to Murray as they made their way back to the car.
‘Give it a minute, Alan, then put your head around the door and see if Beryl is in conversation with our friend Mr Gracey.’
‘Dead right,’ said Murray re-joining Tara a minute later.<
br />
‘I thought so. Two bad eggs in the one dubious pub at the same time, there had to be some connection.’
‘What are you going to do about Gracey?’ Murray asked.
‘Nothing for the time being. I reckon he probably lent money to Maggie at some point. He got shirty with me too quickly, not to be on his guard about something. Could be that one of his heavies, Beryl perhaps, went too far and hit poor Maggie over the head, although I’m not convinced. There was no struggle, Alan. Maggie Hull knew her killer, and if it had been the likes of Gracey then I imagine she would have put up a fight.’
‘Not if she was taken by surprise. The killer might have been hiding in the house already, waiting for her to come in from work.’
‘Trouble is, we can’t prove that at the moment. We’ve no witnesses who saw anyone going in or coming out. My guess is that she probably knew her killer. Either he arrived at the house with her or she had no fears about letting him inside when he came knocking at her door. If Gracey came looking for money would she even have opened the door to him?’
‘So where does that leave us? Another loan shark?’
‘Maybe. We’ll call with this Dempsey fella on the way back to the station. Also, Big Beryl might have something to tell us. We’ll give it a day or so then pull him in.’
They arrived back at St Anne Street still in discussion over the murder of Maggie Hull and whether it had some connection to the suicide of Richard Andrews. So far, Murray couldn’t believe it was anything more than coincidence. Tara retained the thought that the deaths were closely linked. Their meeting with Ray Dempsey, the final name on their brief list of loan sharks, had been fruitless.
Dempsey had described himself as a seventy-six-year-old ‘businessman’. Nowadays, he claimed not to be in the cash-for-loan game. He’d ventured into the landlord business and was making more money from renting run-down flats to immigrant workers. Tara was content to accept his word for now. She, however, regarded Tommy Gracey with greater suspicion.
THE DARING NIGHT Page 9
