CHAPTER 43
‘Morning, Mr Gracey,’ Tara said jovially as she joined the thickset Belfast man at the table. Murray had come along to observe the proceedings. ‘I’ll try not to detain you for too long. We’re very busy at the moment, and I’m sure there are things that you could be doing also.’
It was as though Tara had not uttered a single word. Gracey sat motionless, staring straight ahead at the blank wall. Tara knew the stance well, she’d seen it a hundred times before. It came with the breed. These guys had perfected the technique in the days when the right to silence for a terrorist suspect in Northern Ireland was sacrosanct. If that was the way the game was to be played, then she would proceed until she got the desired reaction.
‘OK, Tommy,’ she began. ‘As you know, this interview is being recorded and one of the advantages of this is that I only have to ask the question once and you only have to answer once. That way we save time all around because we don’t have to repeat ourselves.’
Still no movement from across the table.
‘Right then,’ Tara continued, maintaining her calm and friendly manner. ‘Can you tell me where you were on the evening of Monday, 21 October?’
There was no reply, no reaction at all.
‘Can you account for your whereabouts on Wednesday, 23 October?’
Gracey glared resolutely at the wall.
‘OK, maybe you can remember what you were doing on Thursday, 24 October?’ Tara did not expect an answer. She removed the slip of paper from a buff-coloured file on the desk. ‘Is this the number of your mobile telephone, Mr Gracey?’
No attempt was made to even look at the note.
‘For this recording, the telephone number on the note reads; 02477 768873.’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘I know this is the number of your mobile telephone, Mr Gracey. I can show you the details of your registration if you wish? A written note of this number was found inside a car belonging to a Miss Jez Riordan. Would you like to comment on that?’
None of Tara’s questions had so far posed any threat or exerted any real pressure on Tommy Gracey. A continued silence could not be made any easier.
‘Miss Riordan is dead,’ she continued. ‘Her body was found in Royden Park on Wednesday, 30 October.’ Tara thought for a second that she detected a slight twitch on the man’s face. ‘Would you care to comment on that? Perhaps you would like to suggest a reason why Miss Riordan would have a note of your telephone number?’
Tara paused again to pour herself some water from the jug on the table. She took a welcome drink and a few long, calming breaths of air, while she gathered her thoughts for another round of questions. If these did not achieve a response then she would be struggling. She would then have to decide on whether or not she could detain Tommy Gracey for a longer period without placing charges.
‘Let’s change the subject for a while, Mr Gracey. You admitted to me recently that you are engaged in moneylending, isn’t that correct? You lend money, with a very high rate of interest, to helpless people and you get very annoyed with clients when they have trouble paying it back? Did you lend money to a Miss Maggie Hull on one occasion? Or was it two or three occasions? She had difficulty paying you back, didn’t she? You sent someone round to her home to threaten her, to frighten her into paying it all back, isn’t that so, Tommy? And she did, every last penny. A friend of hers helped her out, but it wasn’t long before Maggie was up to her eyes in debt again and she came back to you. Except, on this occasion, there was no friend to pay you back.’
Tara paused again just in case Gracey was about to open his mouth. But Tara didn’t want him to speak, not yet. In a few seconds, yes, but not right now. Instead, she sat back and watched the sweat begin to seep from Gracey’s shaven head.
‘So what happened next, eh, Tommy? Well, here’s the way I see it. Firstly, Maggie tells you that she can’t pay up, so you send a couple of your boys round to her house. Threaten her, rough her up a little, leave a bruise or two and she’ll be so frightened that she’ll do anything to pay you back the money. But one of your boys goes a bit too far and poor Maggie gets thumped on the head. Now you have no money and you have no client. How does that sound, Tommy? Accurate is it?’
Tara was warming to her task, her voice rising, her tone gathering a hefty punch.
‘Of course, the one person who knows of the mess that Maggie got herself into also knows about you because she’s already paid you off once. She has your phone number. Jez Riordan knows exactly who you are and she can tell us what’s happened, isn’t that right, Tommy?’
Gracey shifted in his chair, pulling his gammy leg in close, his gaze to the far wall broken at last.
‘So, you decide that it’s wise that Miss Riordan doesn’t live to tell her tale? On a stormy night, let’s say Wednesday, 23 October, you arrange to meet her, or else you follow her and it all becomes so easy. This time you don’t have to clobber anyone. Just run her over in your car.’
‘I was at home, you can ask my girlfriend,’ Gracey protested.
Tara smiled with glee.
‘So, which question are you answering Tommy?’
‘I was at home all those nights you’re talkin’ about. I never did nothin’.’
‘I see you have a slight problem with your leg. How did that happen?’
‘How do you think? I fell down the stairs.’
‘Ah right. I thought for a minute that someone did it for you. A comrade in arms, a comrade from Belfast who perhaps didn’t like the fact that you’d overstepped the mark. What is it they call it, nowadays? A punishment shooting? But anyway, what I mean is that you’re not likely to go chasing after poor defenceless women looking for money, not in your condition. You’d send one of your gofers, wouldn’t you?’
‘I told you, I don’t know nothin’ about any women or any murders.’
‘Just a name, Tommy, that’s all. How’s about Big Beryl?’
‘Never heard of her?’
‘Ach, Tommy, credit me with a bit of sense, will you? It’s common knowledge that Big Beryl and you are acquainted. You met with him on the same day that I spoke to you in The Hallowed Turf, remember? Is that when he came to tell you about Maggie? That he didn’t mean to hit her so hard? That now you’d no chance of getting paid? C’mon, Tommy, just a name? Who handled the dirty business for you?’
‘You’re talkin’ bollocks, cop.’
‘Then maybe you can explain why Jez Riordan had a note of your telephone number?’
‘I was givin’ her one, wasn’t I?’
‘She liked a bit of rough, eh, Tommy?’
A self-satisfied smirk crept over the face of Tommy Gracey in celebration of his little victory. Tara didn’t care. She was sure that within a few minutes that smirk would be well and truly wiped from the hard man’s face.
She allowed Murray to deal with the formal closing of the interview and had instructed him to bring Gracey through the station reception area before releasing him. Tara made sure also that she was standing by the desk as Gracey passed by. She wanted to see the look on his face.
‘Tommy!’ called the loud, high-pitched voice. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Gracey stole a glance at Tara who had her smug grin at the ready.
‘Hey, Tommy!’ Big Beryl called again. His weekly report to the station as part of his bail conditions had been neatly orchestrated to coincide with Gracey’s departure. Not that Tara required any proof that both men were acquainted, and not that it had any real bearing on the case, but she never liked a hood like Gracey getting one over on her. Big Beryl looked rather perplexed as Gracey limped by without uttering a word. No doubt, a few severe words would soon be exchanged.
CHAPTER 44
Tara was shown immediately into Edward Harbinson’s office at the Liver Building, not that anyone would have prevented her entering. She was on a mission, determined that someone in this company would finally tell the truth. Harbinson seemed intrigued by her appearance. Firstly, she had made no e
ffort to impress: jeans, white trainers, T-shirt and denim jacket. Secondly, the bruise across her eye remained prominent. Tara would not have struck anyone as being a Detective Inspector in the Merseyside Police. At that moment, she didn’t care. Neither did she care about how the conversation began.
‘Good morning, Inspector, what can I do for you?’
‘Did you know?’
‘I’m sorry, did I know what?’
Tara, with Murray beside her, dropped into a chair and slammed her hand on the chairman’s desk.
‘Did you know who she was when you hired her?’
Harbinson feigned a blank stare.
‘Jez Riordan, did you know she was Paul Gibson’s daughter?’
Murray’s face also was bathed in confusion. Tara had not briefed or updated him on what she had learned the day before from Anne Gibson.
‘Not straight away,’ Harbinson replied, looking concerned, ‘but it didn’t take me long to realise. I don’t see what that has got to do with you, Inspector. Paul was an old friend. I was more than happy to have Jez working for me. What has that got to do with you solving this poisoning crisis?’
‘Didn’t you notice her qualifications? She was a chemist, Mr Harbinson. Do you think it possible that she may have been behind this poisoning?’
‘No, I don’t, Inspector. That is completely ridiculous. Besides, nothing has been found at any of our factories. Were you not aware of that fact before barging in here this morning? Those cases of poisoning, tragic as they are, have nothing to do with me or my company. We have been given a clean bill of health, so I suggest that you go and look elsewhere for your terrorist.’
Tara got to her feet but couldn’t help pointing her finger at Harbinson as she spoke.
‘Four innocent people are dead. Another six are still recovering from that stuff in your products, Mr Harbinson. Richard Andrews, Maggie Hull and Jez Riordan, all worked for you and now they are dead. How dare you suggest it has nothing to do with this company? I will get to the truth. There is something rotten here that involves you or some of your employees. Have the decency to tell me what you know before someone else is killed.’
‘If that is all, Inspector, I think you should leave. I have a business to run, trying to regain the customers that this nonsense has lost me.’
Tara stood fuming, her eyes bulging in wild anger. Only Murray’s discrete hand on her arm persuaded her to leave well alone. She felt like giving the man a good slap.
‘What was all that about?’ Murray asked on the way down in the lift.
Tara was still agitated, her face red, the skin of her neck in red blotches. She cupped her face in both hands and tried to breathe more slowly.
‘Something is going on with that man and his company, Alan. I know it. Don’t try to tell me that all of those deaths are not linked. It can’t be a coincidence that while random people are poisoned by Harbinson food, two of its employees get themselves murdered and a third commits suicide. I mean, what the fuck?’
Murray drove them to a Starbucks and, sitting over coffee, Tara related the story she had been told by Anne Gibson. As she spoke, however, the story seemed to have less and less relevance to the current situation. Tara wondered if she had gone off the deep end with Edward Harbinson. Murray wasn’t helping.
‘Harbinson are clear of any wrong-doing at their factories as far as the poisonings are concerned,’ he said. ‘Strange as it is, the murders of Maggie Hull and Jez Riordan could be down to loan sharks and have nothing to do with the company.’
She glared at Murray over the rim of her coffee cup.
‘You’re nearly there, Alan, except for this.’ She pointed at her black eye. ‘Who did I run into at Jez’s house? What were they doing there? What were they looking for?’
CHAPTER 45
At St Anne Street, Wilson and several other detectives were painstakingly reviewing the CCTV data gathered from the supermarkets, food stores, restaurants, cafés and other public places where an individual might have had an opportunity to tamper with the food products. Tara was bored and frustrated by it all, but she did suggest to the team that they concentrate on searching for a forty-something female behaving suspiciously. Murray disagreed, and when Tara was out of earshot, he hinted to those slaving over their PC screens that they should keep an eye out for any individual acting strangely.
Tara sat at her desk trying to concoct a motive for Jez to have acted as a poisoner. The story of The Moondreams clawed at the fringes of her thinking. Anne Gibson had mentioned a rift between the band members after Roddy Craig died. Had Jez been told the story by her father? Were there grudges held, and therefore was revenge a possibility? Seemed like a long shot. What could have been so terrible between members of a sixties pop group to give rise to so many innocent deaths fifty years later?
Murray was right, she thought. Harbinson’s were not to blame for the poisonings. None of this toxin stuff had been found on any of their premises. According to Dr McCush, it was more likely to have been cross-contamination of some kind. A tragic but accidental occurrence. Palytoxin was such a rare substance, and it came from the sea. She decided that she needed to look elsewhere for the killer or killers of Maggie Hull and Jez Riordan. For now, Tommy Gracey and his kind would remain in the frame.
She switched off her computer and went home.
Unable to switch off her thinking in the same manner, at various times in the evening she decided that she would speak with the other surviving members of The Moondreams.
* * *
DC Wilson, working long into the night with two colleagues, examined tape after tape of CCTV footage of car parks, shop doorways and supermarkets, every aisle in every store. His eyes were tired, his eyelids having lost the ability to move, stayed partially shut or completely open. Like all such matters of diligent searching and sifting through evidence, it only takes a second to make a huge discovery. It was after eleven o’clock when Wilson isolated a figure on screen, a figure acting strangely in the aisle of a major supermarket. This was no shoplifter. Wilson hoped he was looking at the person responsible for the deaths of four people.
CHAPTER 46
‘I would have thought you had enough on your plate, Inspector, without asking questions about something that happened fifty years ago.’
Skip McIntyre stood in the lounge of his penthouse apartment in Beetham Tower. He had a clear view of the city centre, the Mersey and the Irish Sea beyond. Tara and Murray sat on ivory leather, swivel armchairs, both officers unable to resist taking in the opulence of the surroundings and the magnificent view from the 28th floor.
‘In the past few days I have had reason to wonder if the recent events concerning Harbinson Fine Foods are connected in some way to those of 1968,’ Tara replied.
She had decided that McIntyre still looked the part of an ageing pop star. His jeans, shirts and shoes would be more associated with a younger, trendier gentleman. His home was fit for any musician. Through an open door, she noticed a grand piano in the next room. From where she now sat, she had a clear view of an acoustic guitar and an alto saxophone resting on floor stands and, to her right, hanging on the wall, were three commemorative discs: two gold and one platinum. She couldn’t make out the detail but she presumed that all three related to The Moondreams. Completing the image of the pop star lifestyle, McIntyre’s girlfriend, an attractive redhead about Tara’s age had answered the door when they called.
‘Why do you think that?’ McIntyre asked.
‘Firstly, Jez Riordan was working at your company. She is the daughter of Paul Gibson, your former companion in The Moondreams. Secondly, the mystery surrounding her recent death and that of Roddy Craig in 1968.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Did you know when Jez came to work at Harbinson’s that her father was Paul Gibson?’
‘Not at first,’ said McIntyre, ‘but then I had little contact with her. She was Eddie’s secretary.’
‘And yet I met you one evening coming out of Jez’s hou
se.’
‘That was nothing. Like I said at the time, I was just dropping off some files.’
‘What happened to Roddy Craig?’
‘He drowned in the river.’
‘Is that all you know about it?’
McIntyre grinned sardonically.
‘You sound like a reporter from The Sun, Inspector, digging for something that isn’t there. Roddy’s death was the end of The Moondreams. There is nothing more I can add on the subject.’
‘My dad liked your music,’ said Murray.
Tara glared at her DS.
McIntyre responded with a smile. ‘A lot of people liked us,’ he said.
* * *
Tara seethed in the car as Murray drove from McIntyre’s apartment, out of the city, to the home of the fifth member of The Moondreams.
‘Is it just me, Alan, or is everyone associated with that company acting very blasé regarding the deaths of four people by poisoning and the murders of Maggie Hull and Jez Riordan? At the very least, you would think they might display shock, disbelief or dismay at such tragedy. Instead, they all behave as if the worst is over, that they know exactly who is behind it all and they no longer have any need to worry.’
‘Do you think that they have solved a problem by killing Hull and Riordan, or are they struggling to protect a secret?’ Murray asked.
‘You mean do they have something to hide over what happened to The Moondreams?’
‘Or maybe you’re making too much out of what Anne Gibson told you.’
‘Thanks, Alan, I appreciate your support.’
‘Has to be said, ma’am. There’s more evidence for Gracey and Big Beryl having killed the two women than it having something to do with a pop singer who died fifty years ago.’
THE DARING NIGHT Page 17
