Deathly Suspense

by John Paxton Sheriff

  ‘Stephanie’s the killer and Fiona has developed a conscience. Or she always had a conscience, and now she’s heard these two people talking and her conscience has overcome her fear.’

  ‘It could still be a trap. The conversation between the two unknowns could be a ploy. They deliberately had this phoney conversation when Fiona was nearby, knowing she would overhear and give the details to you.’

  ‘I know. But Max did lose a glove, and I can’t just ignore what could be a breakthrough.’

  ‘You’re too gullible.’

  ‘How about daring, gutsy?’

  ‘Hotheaded and irresponsible. If you’re determined—’

  ‘That too—’

  ‘—to go, call Calum. Take backup.’

  I did. He was in Manchester, they’d be starting the drive back to Liverpool within the hour, in Stan Jones’s rusty white van. Far too late if I wanted to go to Joe Creeney’s house now.

  I told Sian. Her face was grim.

  ‘Then I’ll go with you.’

  ‘The hell you will.’

  I drawled it, like John Wayne, and I don’t know whether it was that or my steely gaze, but for once I didn’t get an argument.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Diplomatic Reg was indelicately ensconced in Eleanor’s Calderstones’ flat so, without a bed for the night and deciding not to spend it stretched out on Calum’s leather settee, Sian phoned ahead and set off for Meg Morgan’s place. I used the mobile to get back to Calum. They were hurtling down the M56. Over the rattling and roaring of Stan Jones’s van I swiftly told him where I was going and what I was looking for, told him I’d hang on there as long as I could, then switched off and set about gathering together what I needed to sneak across Joe Creeney’s garden and break into his shed.

  Calum’s spare room was mine whenever I stayed there, which was often. I went through and changed into the dark clothing I’d last worn when – different time, different thugs – we had crept warily across a greasy garage floor in Old Swan: trousers, sweat-shirt, woolly Benny and rubber–soled black shoes. Calum and I both had heavy rubber torches that doubled as weapons, but night in the city is never completely dark, crossing Joe’s garden would be a damp walk in the park and for my search of the shed I took a tiny Solitaire by Mag Instrument – a Maglite.

  For such an outing James Bond would have clipped a .38 Smith & Wesson Centennial Airweight revolver into a leather holster after M ordered him to get rid of his .25 Beretta in Dr No. I double checked to make sure I was carrying my Swiss Army knife, took a last look around the empty flat then slipped out into the night.

  For the second time in seven days I drove with some stealth up the lane behind Joe Creeney’s house and parked with my tyres squelching in muddy ruts and the car canted enough to the left to make it awkward to disembark. I wound my window down and sat for a moment listening. The fine rain was cold on my face, hissing gently across the Quattro’s roof with each gust of wind; why did it always rain on Bonfire Night? Fireworks snapped, rockets showered sparks beneath the clouds. Traffic mumbled and growled along Menlove Avenue. A dog barked snappily, and I cast a glance right and tried to peer through the shrubs bordering Rocky Lane’s sloping lawns.

  Sliding in and out of dementia, Alun Morgan had said of the old boxer, and I’d witnessed it for myself – yet Rocky had spotted my car when I dropped off Joe Creeney, and remembered the number long enough to pass it on to the police. I shook my head in wonder at the fascinating mysteries of old age, then opened the door, swung a leg out and stood up in the rain to look across the car.

  Joe’s white picket gate was open.

  Least worrying explanation: Rocky’s spaniel had again gone walkabout, and forgetful Rocky had gone after it and left the gate open on his way out. Most disquieting? The trap as envisaged by Sian had been set, and the trappers had left the gate open on their way in.

  There was an eerie half light in the narrow lane as city lights bounced off the low wet skies. Remarkably, when I walked around the car the deep gouge in the grass where Joe Creeney had almost lost his footing was still visible. But of more recent intruders there was no sign.

  Like a cunning burglar preparing for a hasty retreat, I left the car unlocked, the gate open. A few moss-coated steps led down to a stone path. From my viewpoint it was on the left of the sloping lawn. Across the back of the unlit house there was a paved patio. The eerie light was reflecting from the wide patio-doors through which Joe had entered the big living-room. In that radiance I could see on the right of the patio – again from my viewpoint – a short path leading back up the slope to the garden shed.

  No movement anywhere. No movement, no sound. I could smell wet grass, rain on stone, but no lingering cigarette smoke, no perfumed trace of human presence. The muted light reflecting from the patio doors created the illusion of lights switched on inside the living-room, of people watching television – but that’s all it was, an illusion. The previous residents were dead.

  I listened to the thump of my heart, the rasp of my breathing. Then I moved away from the gate. The moss-coated steps would be slippery. I avoided them, treading silently through the wet grass at the side of steps and path. Ten strides carried me to the house. I stepped up onto the patio. My back was against the wall to one side of the glass doors. I was poorly concealed in shadows weakened by the reflected city lights. Again I listened. Listened, and continued to use my eyes.

  From the patio I had a different perspective. Now I could see up the sloping lawn to the open picket gate. To its left there was a high hedge bordering the lane. The shadows on the garden side of it were at the mercy of skies made luminous by the city’s sodium street-lighting. No killer hiding there – but what about behind the shed?

  I was still gnawing my lip at the thought when I realized that the shed door hung half open.

  I had two choices. Cross the lawn and search the shed, or go home. The second wasn’t an option, so I was stuck with the first. Before I took that, I had to clarify my situation. That, too, was simple. If a trap had been set, I’d already walked into it. Joe’s killers were waiting to pounce. I didn’t think they were hiding in the shed, so they were somewhere behind me – towards the front of the house – or behind the shed. Possibly both, if there were two of them. The only scrap of comfort I had was that their favourite choice of weapon seemed to be a coil of bright orange rope. Definitely no match for a Swiss Army knife.

  I reached into my pocket, took out the Maglite and ran across the lawn. It seemed that around me the world held its breath. I sped across the grass cocooned in silence. When I reached the shed I steadied myself with one hand on the wet timber. With the other I pulled the door fully open. The hinges screeched like a hunting owl. The eerie light crept in like a ghostly intruder. It entered and was scattered by mechanical and chemical contents stored in disarray on floor and shelves, tools hanging from nails, the big ladder standing on it is long side against the wall under a cobwebbed window glazed with plastic through which light filtered and turned two dimensions into three, but gloom was still gloom and the glove I was seeking was black.

  Then I remembered my tiny torch hanging from its wrist strap. I took one step forward, turned it on, narrowed the beam. One sweep was enough. A black glove was lying on the dusty boards under a lawn mower.

  I hesitated. Looked behind me. I was half in, half out. The garden was unchanged. The silence was stifling. I took that second step. Treating rusty hinges as tenderly as sick friends I pulled the door silently to behind me. Suddenly enclosed I could smell dry grass, petrol, something acrid close to my face that was probably strong weed killer on a shelf. A sneeze threatened. I put the back of my hand to my nose, pinned the glove with the torch’s beam and bent down. Gold letters glinted on the wrist. I scooped up the glove, stuffed it in my pocket; switched off the torch, stood up and turned round.

  As I did so someone celebrating Bonfire Night let off an enormous banger in the next garden and I jumped out of my skin. Sweating, I closed my eyes,
tried to forage calm out of galloping panic.

  Then my eyes snapped open as someone kicked in the shed door. Hinges screamed. A black shape loomed, wide shoulders blocking the light. I saw one of those shoulders dip. A fist shot out of the blackness and slammed into my face. My nose cracked. I reeled backwards. On the way down my flailing arm caught one of the hanging tools. It leaped off its hook, hit the boards with a musical clang.

  My eyes were streaming. I could taste blood, feel it warm and wet on my chin. My breath bubbled. I snuffled, struggled to roll, get to my feet. A swinging foot drove into my ribs and I gasped. Again I thudded to the boards. Metal clattered as my head and one arm got tangled in the handles of a lawn mower. I fought free, kicked out. My foot scraped across a shin. The man let loose a string of curses. I planted my shoulders, forearms and flat hands, launched a double-legged piston kick and drove both feet into a fork of soft flesh covering vital organs. The curses turned into a drawn-out groan of agony.

  I swept a hand across my streaming eyes, struggling to see, my vision blurred. My attacker had staggered back. He was crouching, hands pressed to his groin. I rolled onto my knees, staggered to my feet. He lifted his head, saw me. Straightening, he lashed out with his foot. I twisted, took the kick on my thigh. Then he sprang forward. His right hand grabbed my shirt front. He brought his other forearm round in a sweeping blow to the side of my jaw. It was like being hit by a log. I felt myself wobble. Lights flashed behind my eyes. There was a singing in my head. I grabbed for the hand holding my shirt, felt the hard fist inside the tight leather glove. Then we were locked together and struggling. We swayed one way then the other. The walls were thin. They creaked and groaned as heavy bodies crashed into them and rebounded. More tools were dislodged from nails and fell, ringing. Once, my attacker went to his knees as an ankle rolled. He hung on, his weight buckling my knees, then pulled himself up by clawing at my neck and together we fell against the wall. We were too close, the embrace too intimate. My blood was spattering his face as I snorted; it was a gory film, slick and slippery as we rubbed heads like warring bulls. I couldn’t see him through streaming eyes, couldn’t tell who I was fighting – and neither of us could land a telling blow. We were gasping like lovers, sweating like pigs – and weakening.

  And then over it all a voice said, laconically, ‘If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, I’ve seen more genuine action from a gaggle of wee five-year olds having a punch up in a bouncy castle.’

  ‘Gaggle?’

  ‘Aye, well, you weren’t seeing it from my angle. Actually, it was like something out of Buster Keaton, you know? All this rattling and clanging and thumping and sonorous groans and the sides of the shed bulging every now and then and dust puffing out of every crack….’

  ‘Buster Keaton or Tom and Jerry?’

  ‘Your choice, pal,’ Calum said, grinning, and he continued wiping my face with an old rag he’d found in the shed and dampened by rubbing in the rain-soaked grass. Neither nose nor ribs were broken but I was seriously considering giving up breathing because of the pain from both, and I recalled with sadistic pleasure the kick that had connected with my dancing partner’s goolies and threatened to send them back from whence they came.

  The shock of Calum’s arrival on the scene had galvanized my attacker. With sudden brute strength he’d sent me crashing like a discarded scarecrow across the lawn mower. Then, with amazing speed, he had leaped from the shed, caught Calum a glancing blow with his forearm and bolted around the side of the house.

  ‘Leave him!’ I’d yelled – then rolled off the lawn mower and sank with a groan onto the boards as Calum poked his head through the door to admire the carnage.

  That had been five minutes ago. The killer had that much start on us, but I was unconcerned because what I had learnt in the bruising close-contact scuffle meant that he could have five days, or five weeks – and it would still not be enough.

  ‘So why did you tell me to leave him?’ Calum said now, tossing the blood-soaked rag aside.

  ‘I need to catch my breath, marshal my thoughts—’

  ‘Fix your make-up and adjust your attire – what the fuck are you talking about, Jack, we had a killer at our mercy?’

  ‘He’s still at our mercy,’ I said, ‘if in the past few hectic minutes I have discovered his identity.’

  We were outside the shed, our backs to the door. Rain from the overhanging trees was pattering on the tar-paper roof. Fireworks crackled. The smell of smoke from a thousand bonfires was strong on the damp air.

  ‘Care to explain?’

  ‘In the struggle, I grabbed my assailant’s hand.’

  ‘Aye, well, silly of me to miss that significant and may I say poignant moment—’

  ‘And what happens now,’ I said patiently, ‘is we phone Caroline Spackman and get her to come here with the house key. Then we go over the killing area – hall, stairs, living-room – but stand well back while she does some sharp-eyed nosing around.’

  Calum stroked the fine droplets of rain from his beard and nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Bringing Caroline Spackman in – does that mean you suspect Max?’

  I shook my head. ‘I found his glove, as I was supposed to, but I’m pretty certain he didn’t attack me – tonight, or in Wales on Tuesday.’

  ‘All right, then you’re asking Caroline to open up the house because there’s something in there that will confirm your suspicions about the person who is now your number one suspect?’

  ‘Not directly. I’m hoping what Caroline sees – what she notices – will tell me my other theory is good; that I know how the trap was set. If that happens, then, yes, something at the crime scene – something I noticed when you and I were there – could nail the killer. Before that, as a small step in that direction, I’m going to pay Rocky Lane another visit because when I was there this afternoon I missed the significance of what he was telling me.’

  ‘And I wait here for Caroline?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘But you’re not willing to share any of your brilliant theories?’

  ‘If they’re wrong, I’ll look foolish.’

  ‘If they’re right, and you’ve kept mum to the bitter end, you’ll take all the credit.’

  ‘Would I do that.’

  ‘What, and you a modest Sassenach? Now what on earth gave me that preposterous idea….’

  My nose was still seeping blood when I walked up Rocky Lane’s path and knocked on his front door. This time he answered almost immediately, and I wondered if the explosions that were like the rattle of distant rifle fire or the rockets trailing fire across the night skies like battlefield tracer bullets would disturb a man in his condition.

  I had seriously underestimated the old bruiser.

  ‘D’you find anything?’ he said, as he led the way through the unlit hall smelling of decaying vegetation where my feet rustled against wilting leaves and fading petals trailed in my wake.

  ‘You were out there watching, weren’t you?’ I said, as we entered his living-room.

  ‘Yeah, Cocky got out again.’ He grinned. ‘Only as far as the bottom of the garden, but from there I could see you moving around by Creeney’s shed.’

  ‘Like Creeney was doing.’

  He frowned. ‘What, tonight?’

  ‘No. The night you saw my car.’

  The frown remained, but it was joined by a relieved smile.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The night of the murder. They were decoratin’, weren’t they, and he was carryin’ a ladder.’

  ‘From the shed, to the house,’ I said, carefully jogging. ‘Joe Creeney.’

  Again the frown. I thought I’d lost him. I had, but in another way.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but what was your name again?’

  ‘Jack Scott. I came to see you this afternoon.’

  ‘So you did….’ His eyes were puzzled. He glanced at the clock over the gas fire and said, ‘Christ, it’s getting late, did I give you somethin’ to eat an’ drink or…
?’

  ‘I didn’t stay,’ I said gently. ‘I drove away, and came back a couple of minutes ago—’

  ‘Yeah, but Joe Creeney’s in prison.’

  His mind had jumped again.

  I nodded. ‘He was in prison, yes.’

  ‘So what makes you say he was carryin’ the ladder from the shed? He couldn’t have, could he?’

  ‘I didn’t say….’ I paused to give his thoughts time to settle, then said, ‘He couldn’t, no. But if it wasn’t Joe – who was it?’

  ‘I told you. It was Creeney.’

  ‘Yes, but which one?’

  ‘The lad I used to train, years ago.’

  ‘The boxer?’

  ‘Joe’s brother, yeah. Declan.’ He nodded at my face, his eyes amused. ‘By the look of your nose,’ he said, ‘you could do with a few tips yourself.’

  ‘He meant tips on how to deliver a right hook,’ I said to Calum, ‘but what I really need is a refresher course with Manny Yates. In today’s parlance, my investigative technique sucks.’

  I was talking quietly as Caroline Spackman unlocked Joe’s front door. We followed her inside out of the rain. Rocky Lane had let me out the back way, and I’d crossed the lane and come through Joe’s garden and around the house. Calum had been waiting with Caroline. I’d thanked her for coming, and now she turned to me with a questioning look.

  I closed the front door behind me.

  ‘Right. Calum and I have been here before, as you know. But we’re strangers, and in your sister-in-law’s house you’ll see things we’d miss. What I want you to look for is anything that’s out of place. Look – but don’t touch.’

  ‘What’s this about? Stephanie told me you were out of it, the investigation was over.’

  ‘It is – and yet it isn’t.’ I smiled reassuringly. ‘Can you just bear with me, for the next few minutes?’

  ‘OK, well, that for starters,’ she said. She was pointing at the can of beeswax furniture polish standing on the telephone table.