Promising stuff. I was uplifted by the thought that positive action was almost certain to bring in fresh leads, and arranged a get together at Calum’s flat when I returned to Liverpool.
As I was also planning on spending some time with DI Alun Morgan, the return trip would be late Thursday afternoon or early evening. The prospect of seeing my Soldier Blue brought with it the usual comforting glow that stayed with me all the way to Snowdonia, and was still warming me in my lonely bed in Bryn Aur when I dropped off to sleep.
DAY FOUR – THURSDAY 3 NOVEMBER
At eight in the morning the mist was a chill white blanket hanging over the tumbling river and clinging like melting snow to grey-green foothills. I could smell the tang of woodsmoke from a nearby farm, somewhere on the rocky heights a sheep baaed plaintively – it had my sympathy – and droplets of icy condensation spattered my bare head as I walked under the sprawling oak tree, jogged down the slope, and unlocked my workshop.
Three hours later I was outside in watery November sunshine, sitting on a scarred and wonky wooden stool and drinking hot coffee out of a mug as I contemplated through the open doorway the glittering rows of newly cast metal figures standing on shelves. Troops of the 1st Virginia Battalion and the 14th Brooklyn who had fought each other in the bloody Battle of Gettysburg were standing in ranks waiting to be armed with their 1859 Sharps breechloaders. They would wait a while longer; time was pushing on, and during a short break I had phoned to arrange my meeting with Alun Morgan.
We’d agreed to meet in Toad Hall, a hotel with an elevated outlook over the Colwyn Bay promenade. Two hours after packing away my tools I walked in and joined the Bethesda detective at a table by the window. He was looking mildly chuffed.
‘Make my day,’ I said. ‘Davey Jones has been released without charge. He didn’t murder Rose Lane.’
‘Indeed. He has, and he didn’t. So it was straight back to Anglesey yesterday, where I’ve no doubt he spoke to his solicitor about wrongful arrest and police harassment.’
‘Then why chuffed?’
‘You first. Tell me why Jones being released pleases you.’
‘Mm. Well, last time we talked we ruled out a link between Rose Lane and the Liverpool hanging. I had found out her trip to Wales had been arranged before Lorraine Creeney died, which meant she hadn’t fled because she saw something frightening or disturbing. However, Manny Yates—’
‘Ah yes,’ Alun said. ‘The Lime Street dick.’
‘Manny,’ I repeated, ‘with the unblinkered view of an outsider, was able to suggest what Rose might have seen, and I belatedly realized that the prearranged trip came in very handy. Although it didn’t save her life.’
‘Lucidly explained, if a trifle long-winded,’ Alun said, ‘but all sad and rather pointless when I tell you the eyewitness I mentioned has been interviewed and we have now arrested a middle-aged woman.’
‘A woman!’
‘Brunette, shoulder-length hair, wearing a pink blouse – all clearly seen, as was the fatal thrust of the knife, by a disabled woman watching through powerful binoculars from her flat in Deganwy. The rest, as they say—’
‘Is wishful thinking.’
‘However. The one clue we found at the crime scene was some saliva in the form of spittle, soaking into the carpet—’
‘Spittle? A clue?’
‘DNA, you see. Wasn’t around when you were working with the army Special Investigation Branch, but I’m sure knowledge of it’s filtered through to you by now—’
‘Yes, all right, so you got a sample of DNA from this spittle and because it didn’t match Rose Lane or Davey Jones’s you’re hoping you’ll have better luck with this suspect – what was her name again?’
‘Ann Rice.’
I picked up my beer and sat back as a waitress brought eating irons, serviettes, and two cheeseburgers dripping hot grease onto white plates. She left with a bright smile. I sipped my ice-cold Holsten and glared at Alun.
‘From across Conwy harbour,’ I said, ‘your witness couldn’t possibly recognize a face – or much else. And you say she saw the knife thrust? Come on, surely that’s not possible! She saw a woman visitor, middle-aged, dark hair, pink blouse; saw her waving her arms around, not stabbing a victim. Then she read about the murder and her imagination took off, and she put a face to the pale blur she’d seen at the other end of a telescope when you and I know it could have been anyone—’
‘You mean someone from Liverpool. All right, I’m willing to listen. Have you got a convenient female suspect there matching that description?’
‘Well….’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Alun said. ‘This Ann Rice lives in a flat on the same floor as Rose, and her fingerprints were found in Rose’s flat. Other residents have heard her making threats; despite Lorraine Creeney and Rose Lane being married women, Rice always thought the relationship was unnatural.’
‘Yes, but a knife in the throat?’
‘She used to be a nurse in Bangor. She was dismissed for cruelty, or something worse; the details elude me.’ He sliced his cheeseburger in half, took a bite, wiped grease off his chin. ‘Anyway,’ he said, swallowing, reaching for his glass of mild, ‘why the obsession with a link between murders? If you think Joe Creeney did not kill Lorraine, then find the real killer. Trying to prove that person also murdered Rose Lane means twice as much work – doesn’t it?’
‘Or two avenues to explore, with double the chance of finding the killer.’
‘You can always live in hope. She could be working for your elusive Liverpool hangman. A hired assassin in a pink blouse, from Liverpool with love, I can almost hear Shirley Bassey … No, I think that one was Matt Munro….’
There was more of the same. I took it because I had no choice, Alun relished poking fun at me almost as much as he was enjoying his greasy cheeseburger washed down with warm beer, me with a fixed grin that turned sheepish as I quickly came to realize that he was absolutely right: who needed a Welsh murder, when we had two of our own?
But even that apology for a grin was wiped out. Alun’s mobile phone rang. He took it out of his pocket, apologized and walked away to answer it with his back to me.
Not for long. He said a few words, then turned to face me. His grey eyes were as cold as Ffestiniog slate.
‘Jack Scott?’ he said, walking slowly towards the table. ‘What’s he done now?’
He listened, nodded; pulled out the chair he had abandoned and sat down.
‘Typical, isn’t it?’ he said softly. ‘Not responsible, I’m sure, but withholding information is an offence in itself – and it’s becoming a habit.’
He watched as I practically wriggled in discomfort, listened some more, then nodded.
‘At his workshop, I shouldn’t wonder. If I’m up that way I will – how would Willie Vine put it? – advise him of your displeasure.’ He laughed at something Haggard said, his expression wooden. ‘If I see him here in Colwyn Bay … well, his own displeasure should be something to see.’
He switched off.
I shook my head. ‘If that was about the killing of Frank Tully, it was reported.’
‘But not by you.’
‘Calum phoned in.’
‘Did he?’ This with a raised eyebrow. ‘That call must have got lost in – what do they call it, cyber space? — because Tully’s body was discovered by a next door neighbour who saw two shady characters enter the deceased man’s house. When they drove away – looking furtive – he went to investigate.’ His smile was fiendish. ‘But not before jotting down the number of the car, an Audi Quattro, silver—’
‘Thanks, Alun.’
‘For?’
‘Procrastinating. Holding your horses.’
‘Acting like a bloody fool by withholding information from one of my own?’
I spread my hands. ‘Calum really did report it.’
‘Anonymously, no doubt, and without touching on the delicate matter of how the hell you found a body that, by all accounts, was st
ill bloody warm.’
‘No. But that would have come later.’
‘Sooner, more like it. Haggard phoned me from Vine’s car. They’re on their way to pick up Calum Wick.’
And, although I couldn’t be absolutely certain, as the Bethesda DI turned away with a gleam of amusement in his grey eyes I thought he gave a broad, conspiratorial wink.
Seagulls were crying overhead, and the cool salt breeze was driving in from the Irish sea when I walked back to my car, phoned Calum and got straight through.
‘Where are you?’
‘Home.’
‘Get out now. Haggard and Vine are on their way.’ Then, recalling for the umpteenth time that the tall Scot did not drive, I said, ‘When you’ve put distance between you and the flat, phone Sian, tell her where you are, get her to pick you up. It’s just after two. Let’s meet at four in The Gallant Trooper, Frodsham. We’ll regroup, debrief, analyse, weigh all the options – OK?’
‘I’ll try to remember,’ Calum said drily, ‘if I make it. I’m at the window, and Vine’s grotty Mondeo is screeching to a halt.’
He must have taken the phone away from his ear to demonstrate because I clearly heard the rattle of a dying engine, the double slam of car doors, the sound of running footsteps.
Then, abruptly, he switched off.
FOURTEEN
A cold drizzle was falling when I drove into Frodsham, slid out of the Quattro in The Gallant Trooper’s car-park and ran through pools of warm yellow light spilling from windows set in white stone walls under an overhanging slate roof.
Late afternoon had not yet become early evening and the lounge was almost empty when I walked in. Wall lights revealed the unevenness of rustic stone and glittered on polished brass-ware. A log fire hissed and crackled. Dancing flames splashed light and shadow across stone floor and beamed ceiling.
No sign of Calum, or Sian.
Apprehensively, I stood back in the shadows near the door and let my eyes roam. Back against the glittering optics the barman was polishing a glass and watching me with amused curiosity. One man, perched on a bar stool drinking what looked like gin and tonic with a slice of lime, had heard me come in and was twisting to look over his shoulder.
‘Through there,’ the barman called, and he nodded towards a doorless opening alongside the fire.
‘Sorry?’
‘If you’re Jack Scott, your table awaits.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re late, so the others started without you. There’s a menu on the table.’
Relief washed over me, making my head swim. I lifted a hand in thanks and walked through to a dining-room that was a miniature version of the lounge complete with crackling fire, more wall lights, and half-a-dozen small refectory tables.
Flushed by the heat of the fire at her back, Sian was as pretty as a serving wench in white blouse and flared burgundy skirt. I bent to kiss her lips, moved a stray wisp of blonde hair with a trailing finger and whispered in her ear.
‘No Shogun. I imagined you in a cell, on bread and water, not all this….’
‘Remember the boy scout motto,’ she said. ‘It’s tucked away under the trees, unseen but ready.’
I squeezed her shoulder, and grinned across at Calum as I sat down.
‘The damned elusive Pimpernel. Was it a clean getaway, or a mad scramble?’
‘I made it downstairs to Sammy Quade’s room before the cops came through the door, left when they gave up and drove away.’ He shook his head. ‘I believe someone once said, when dying, that on the whole they’d prefer Philadelphia. God knows who it was, but forget the irony: having spent a wee while in Sammy’s lair I can echo those sentiments with sincerity: I’d rather have been anywhere.’
Sian chuckled, and reached across to squeeze his hand.
‘The poor lad was a bilious green and shaking like a leaf when I picked him up on St Mary’s Road.’
‘Lily-livered, that’s his trouble,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t bode well for the stern tests that lie ahead.’
‘Sounds scary. We’d better leave the details until you’ve eaten,’ Sian said.
And so we did.
I downed steak-and-kidney pie baked with a pastry that flaked as I cut it and was light enough to float on the warm air. Boiled potatoes glistened with butter. Garden peas were topped with a sprig of mint. The red wine was dark and warm and, as I tucked in, Sian and Calum left me to it, my Soldier Blue striding lithely off to the cloakrooms with her ankles trim in backless wedges, Calum to buy his usual Schimmelpenninck cigars at the bar. He was out of luck. He came back to the dining room with nothing but a grimace of disgust. I pushed my plate away with a sigh and we sat nursing the wine until Sian rejoined us.
‘First thing,’ I said as they looked at me expectantly. ‘There’s a man called Len out there who might know the name of our killer. Trouble is if Len does have that name, he’ll hunt the man down – and so far we can’t reach Len.’
‘Not by phone,’ Calum said. ‘But you know where he lives, so why waste time?’
‘Because….’ I shrugged, said quietly, thoughtfully, ‘If Len kills the killer, it’s almost a case of everyone’s a winner – right? Len avenges the death of two brothers; Lorraine Creeney’s real killer pays for his crime, and we’ve succeeded without really trying.’
‘So why “almost”?’ Sian said.
‘Because that last bit’s not quite true. The use of orange nylon rope in two murders by hanging strongly suggests it’s the same killer – but that’s a long way from proof; from knowing that Frank’s murderer also murdered Lorraine; from knowing how he did it, if he did it.’
‘So, once again,’ Calum said, ‘why the hell are we wasting time?’
‘We’re chasing a shadow. We can’t get Len on the phone, and we could drive to High Park street and still not find him. If we do find him there’s still the chance that he might not know the killer’s name, and that would be more time wasted. So let’s use up an hour or so pooling what we do know in case there’s something we’re missing. I’ll go first – OK?’
They exchanged glances, then nodded.
‘Right. I can tell you that, in Wales, Alun Morgan has arrested a woman for the murder of Rose Lane. That seems to rule out any links to Lorraine Creeney’s murder, but, as Alun pointed out, it’s good news because it allows us to concentrate on one murder.’ I looked at Sian. ‘Has Calum told you how we came to find Frank’s body, and what emerged from our talk with Declan?’
She nodded. ‘For what it’s worth, I don’t see anything sinister in Stephanie being Joe Creeney’s solicitor. Quite the reverse. When Lorraine was hanged and Caroline Spackman wanted to reach you, she went to a solicitor known to the family.’
‘Mm. Probably.’ I shrugged. ‘But what about you? How’d you get on with Fiona Lake?’
‘Ah, yes, Lorraine’s sister, the young widow.’ She smiled reflectively.
‘Widow?’
Yes. Her husband got drunk and a club bouncer tossed him down some steep concrete stairs. He broke his neck.’ She looked at me. ‘Don’t start seeing connections. This was, oh, four years ago, no links to Declan Creeney, different club, different town.’
‘Where?’
‘Chester.’
‘Mm.’ I shrugged, letting it slide. ‘So, back to how you got on.’
‘Not very well. Nothing really useful emerged, and before I left I almost killed her.’
‘Third degree?’ Calum said. ‘Spotlight, rubber truncheon?’
‘Aerosol spray. I went to freshen up, used the perfume you bought me last week – and the poor woman had an asthma attack.’
‘I didn’t know Calum had bought you perfume,’ I said, loftily.
‘I thought it was a can of mace,’ he said, and winked at Sian.
‘Might as well have been, the effect it had,’ she said. ‘Anyway, the point is the only thing I learned from Fiona was that asthma runs in the family, Lorraine had it – and that’s my single lousy contribution.’
‘For lousy, rea
d ghastly,’ I said. ‘Step once again into that dark hallway where the stage is being set for a woman’s hanging. Bad enough for someone with your experience to be forced to watch, but if Lorraine suffered from asthma she was already in trouble before the noose was placed around her neck….’
‘Ugh.’ There was real anger blazing in Sian’s blue eyes, two bright spots of colour in her cheeks. ‘You know, if this bloke Len really does have the killer’s name, why don’t we just step aside and let him take his revenge?’
‘Because that’s not the way we work, and it’s a decision you would always regret.’ I smiled at her. Then, swiftly moving on, ‘Cal, what have you got?’
‘What I got comes from Stan Jones, and amounts to another big fat zero. Stan visited Damon Knight in prison. The man knew nothing of any jail break, and Joe’s only visitors during his twelve months inside were the people you would expect: Declan; his sister, Caroline; his wife, Lorraine; and one you perhaps might not expect, our busy solicitor, Stephanie Grey.’
‘But not Max Spackman?’
‘His name didn’t come up.’ There must have been something in my voice, because he was watching me closely.
‘I asked,’ I said, ‘because there’s something I haven’t told you. I found out that Max’s daughter could be the young woman who lured me to my fate; it’s possible she was the young woman driving the Fiat Punto when I was attacked.’
‘Which sounds promising but needn’t necessarily point the finger at her, or the rest of the family,’ Sian said.
‘Unfortunately, no. Caroline seems genuine. Max may know nothing about murders or me being waylaid. His daughter could have been roped in, got scared when everything turned sour. The man who attacked me could have been anybody, following orders, glad to pocket a few quid.’
‘So we know more,’ Calum said, ‘but we’re no further for’ard?’
‘More confused.’
‘Frustrated?’
‘Mm. I can’t rule out that link to the murder in Wales. And the one person I know I should talk to is Barry Lane, Rose’s husband.’
Deathly Suspense Page 11
