Deathly Suspense

by John Paxton Sheriff

  ‘Is that because Lorraine was asthmatic?’

  ‘She couldn’t stand sprays of any kind. For furniture she used a chamois leather, and water with a drop of vinegar.’

  ‘So does my mother,’ I said, ‘when she’s feeling energetic.’

  Caroline pulled a face. ‘I’m always too bloody lazy. So’s Fiona. She uses spray polish, but she buys those disposable masks and they seem to work.’

  ‘Fiona, Lorraine’s sister.’ I shook my head sympathetically. ‘Asthma’s a terrible thing, and it runs in families. Were they alike in other ways?’

  ‘In every way,’ Caroline said. ‘Tall, fair hair, wore similar clothes….’

  ‘Fair hair?’

  She nodded, but her eyes were again busy. She walked across the hall, looking up the stairs. I thought I saw her shiver. Then she turned towards the living-room. The door was still open. It had been like that when Calum and I left with Declan Creeney on Wednesday.

  Caroline had gone straight to the tray I’d leaned against the wall.

  ‘What’s this doing here?’

  She was looking at Calum. He spread his hands. She shook her head.

  ‘Sorry. That was automatic. Of course you wouldn’t know, but this belongs in the kitchen. And the cloth. Lorraine wouldn’t’ve stood the tray here.’

  I said, ‘That was me.’

  ‘What – you brought the tray and the cloth in from the kitchen?’

  ‘No. I stood it there. The cloth and tray were on the floor when we walked in.’

  ‘Why?’ And again she shook her head. ‘Sorry, stupid question, I’m acting daft. It’s just, being here, you know, where Lorraine was….’

  I let her wander around, but the only areas of interest to me were the living-room and large hall and she found nothing else that jarred, nothing out of place. I had all I needed, anyway, and after a few more minutes I called a halt and we walked out to find that the rain had finally died away.

  We stood by Caroline’s car. Rocky Lane had given me a name, Caroline had confirmed my more outlandish theories, but there were still unanswered questions, suspects to be cleared.

  I said, ‘I thought I saw Max in Wales the other day. Tuesday. Would that be right?’

  She smiled and shook her head.

  ‘Wrong feller, Jack. We were down town shopping.’

  I thought for a moment. If not Max and his daughter, then who? Somebody had attacked me. Then on Friday I’d recognized a voice on a mobile phone, which might put Fiona on Heswall Downs where Len Tully had died, but fair hair seemed to rule her out for the Rose Lane killing unless she’d worn a wig. However, the woman who had flagged me down on the Llanrwst Road certainly had fair hair.

  ‘What car does Fiona drive?’

  ‘A white Fiat. A little one. But most of them are, aren’t they?’

  I grinned and asked her what that said about Italians, when in reality I was wondering what it told me about Fiona Lake and … who? Not Max, certainly. Clearly he had not attacked me on the Llanrwst road, and one simple test would tell me if he was the man who had attacked me in Joe Creeney’s shed. Simple and necessary – but a waste of time: I already knew the answer.

  Caroline was smiling absently as she opened her car door, her thoughts elsewhere. As she slipped inside I rested a hand on the roof and held the door open.

  ‘Caroline, do you know where Max is now?’

  ‘Yes, he’s at the Sleepy Pussy.’

  ‘Mm. Look, would you mind doing me a favour? Give him a quick call on your mobile, now, see if Declan’s there tonight.’

  She did. He wasn’t. I could almost feel my eyes gleam.

  ‘Ask him if he’s expected.’

  He was, Caroline confirmed. Quite soon. He’d phoned in, mentioned a puncture. And now Caroline was looking hard at me. There was something in her eyes I suspected was hope, tinged with understandable apprehension.

  ‘Stephanie was wrong, wasn’t she? It’s not over. You’re still working on all these killings?’

  ‘It’s almost over.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I know who murdered Lorraine. And I do know how it was done.’

  ‘Jesus!’ she said softly. ‘D’you mean it really wasn’t Joe?’

  ‘Joe was set up. That’s what I’m saying: I know how he was trapped.’

  ‘So – who was it?’ Her eyes were moist. ‘You’ve mentioned two names, Declan and Max, and I’m not exactly stupid so I do know where you’re going so—’

  I stopped her by resting a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Joe didn’t murder Lorraine, and I’m sure Max has done nothing wrong. That’s all you need to know – isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  She was breathing hard. Her hands were tight on the steering wheel. She was looking straight ahead. Then, abruptly, she started the car. I stepped back and slammed the door, and she gave me a quick smile and drove away.

  ‘The man who knows everything,’ Calum said softly. ‘So what now? Is it time to let me in on the secret?’

  The Quattro was in the lane. We walked around the house and up the moss-coated path and through the little white gate. I looked across at Calum.

  ‘One secret’s out already: Declan Creeney’s our killer. What we need to do is toss around the whys and the wherefores so that I’ve got plenty of ammunition when I tackle him. I’d like to pounce on him with motives and opportunity and tricky little details, and watch the shock and fear in his eyes, so we’ll do some talking in the car.’

  ‘And you got Declan’s name from a geriatric boxer who slips in and out of reality?’

  ‘Yes. His wife saw Declan carrying the ladder from the shed. Which is why she was murdered.’

  ‘Right. She’s no longer with us and can’t back up his story; corroborate, if you’d prefer the big word.’ He grinned, his bearded face wolfish in the strange half-light. ‘So isn’t that a slender wee thread you’re using to link Declan Creeney to violent death?’

  ‘Works well for the Bolas spider,’ I said, as we climbed into the car. ‘Come on, let’s go to the Sleepy Pussy and polish this off.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  It was pushing 11.30 when we left Joe’s house in Calderstones, almost three-quarters of an hour later when I drove into the Sleepy Pussy’s car-park in Brighton-le-Sands and pulled up under the yellow light of an ornate cast-iron street lamp. Several were dotted round about. Reproduction. Probably plastic. Pools of light fell on perhaps a dozen cars, several of which were metallic silver.

  From where we sat we could see across the car-park to the club’s main entrance. The doors were open. Red walls and dark wood panelling glowed in the warm lighting. A tall man was standing talking to a young woman in some sort of night-clubby uniform. He was wearing tailored jacket and jeans, driving one fist into the palm of his other hand as he talked. A poser in black leather gloves and designer shades.

  ‘Max Spackman,’ I said.

  Calum and I looked at each other. Our eyes met, and all I could see in his was a reflection of my own elation. Then, as one, we climbed out of the Quattro and slammed the doors.

  Calum had been right to point out that there was but a slender thread connecting Declan Creeney to murder, but in my opinion that thread was strong, and firmly anchored. As we drove away from Calderstones, I told him that Max had planted the seed in my mind as early as Monday.

  ‘He told me then that Declan had something going with Lorraine. I did nothing, because it could have been Max shifting suspicion. Now I’m sure he had it right.’

  ‘So what about Wayne Tully’s murder?’

  ‘That was Declan.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The prosecution’s case was that Joe killed Wayne Tully because he believed the lad was having it off with Lorraine. But I think Declan was already playing around with his brother’s wife. Wayne found out, and threatened to tell Joe.’

  ‘So if Declan murdered Wayne, why did Joe plead guilty?’

&n
bsp; ‘Because he felt guilty. As far as Joe knew, Declan had got rid of the lad who was playing around with his wife. The elder brother he looked up to had saved him from being branded a cuckold, so he took the rap.’

  ‘Accepting all that, because it does indeed have the ring of truth, then when did Declan decide that Lorraine had to be got rid of?’

  We’d reached that point in our talk just as I was driving up the slope of Queen’s Drive and passing Declan Creeney’s house. I could feel Calum’s eyes on me as I looked across at the unlighted windows. Me? Well, I was remembering Creeney standing outside his garage, spitting on his own expensive stone sets, and only now realizing the contempt he must have been feeling. Looking at me, laughing at me as he protested his innocence.

  ‘I think Declan was already planning Lorraine’s death when he framed Joe for Wayne Tully’s murder. And if we weigh all the evidence, examine what we know, then I think the reason Lorraine had to go sooner or later was because Declan had taken a fancy to her sister: to the pretty widow, Fiona Lake.’

  ‘OK. So that fancy turned to thoughts of, well, doing something about it. Declan ended up sleeping with Fiona and Lorraine at the same time, Lorraine learned the truth and went bloody hairless – as one would.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Aha,’ Calum said. ‘And at that point Declan concocted his fiendish plan and arranged for Joe to get out of jail free.’

  ‘In my opinion the promise of an early release had always been there, or Joe might not have taken the rap. But, yes, you’re right. The cruel twist, of course, is that in the end Fiona was helping Declan to kill Len Tully – probably because she was in over her head and being threatened.’

  ‘But what about Lorraine? Surely you’re not suggesting Fiona would help to kill her own sister?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think she found out about the killings until later. After Frank had died.’

  ‘So what about Rose Lane? She was silenced that very same night.’

  I glanced at him. ‘That wasn’t Fiona. Not if we can believe the eyewitness. A dark-haired woman, she said, wearing a pink blouse. And you heard Caroline: Fiona has fair hair. All right, she could have worn a wig, but I really don’t believe it. No, that’s my one blind spot, the one killing about which I may have to ask Declan Creeney a blunt question.’

  As it happened, of course, it wasn’t necessary.

  DAY SEVEN – SUNDAY 6 NOVEMBER

  ‘Evening, Max.’

  The rain had started again as we crossed the car-park and, as the wind whipped it across the lights like swirling mist, we broke into a trot. The lean bouncer had crossed the tiled floor to meet us as we ran into the foyer. The young lady had slipped back into the cloakroom and was watching from the counter.

  I stuck my hand out as I greeted him. He took it, his eyes amused, shaking my hand with the gloved fist that usually decked belligerent drunks and he couldn’t see why, couldn’t see what I was playing at.

  ‘Something’s missing,’ I said. ‘When I shook hands with you on Monday I felt a lump where a broken bone had been badly set.’

  ‘We didn’t shake hands,’ he said.

  ‘Then if it wasn’t you,’ I said, ‘it must have been Declan.’ I waited, met his blank gaze and shrugged it off as if of no importance. ‘Is the boss around?’

  ‘Came in fifteen minutes ago.’ He grinned. ‘Something must’ve got up his nose. He sat down, hung on with a small pair – threes, I think it was – an’ lost the first big pot.’

  ‘That’s not all he’s going to lose tonight.’

  There was a tense silence behind us as we stopped inside the doorway of the main room where smoke from cigarettes and cigars hung like a blanket of smog under the lights and background conversation was the muted roar of a waterfall, the movement of poker chips across green baize the wet clicking of pebbles.

  Calum said softly, ‘I take it the handshake has told you Max was not the man in the shed?’

  ‘Mm. It was that man over there,’ I said, pointing to the flashy character in a grey charcoal suit sitting on the far side of the poker table, his face filmed with sweat, gold glittering at his wrists as he dealt the cards. ‘That’s Declan Creeney. I shook hands with him on Monday. He’s an ex-middleweight with fragile bones.’

  And then it happened.

  We made for the bar. Calum ordered Jameson’s on ice, a Holsten Pils for me. We turned, leaned back against the oak top to wait, and watched Declan Creeney push his chair back and stand up awkwardly. I’d already noticed the sweat. The man was on fire, probably in pain, and, as we watched, he slipped out of his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. When he sat down gingerly, like a man suffering with piles, there were two dark patches under the arms of his shirt. His pink shirt.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I said softly, as he reached behind his neck with both hands, slipped the loop off his pony-tail and with a toss of his head shook free his thick dark hair.

  Behind us glasses clinked and the barman said, ‘He looks like a bloody woman when he does that.’

  ‘A lady killer,’ Calum said.

  I picked up my drink, tasted the ice-cold lager and looked at the barman.

  ‘A thought has occurred.’

  The barman shook his head. ‘Painful, that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thoughts occurrin’. Can ruin your night.’

  ‘I’m about to ruin someone’s.’ I presented my face to him. ‘Remember me?’

  ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘give us a jog.’

  ‘A week ago, Saturday night, Sunday morning, you got a telephone call, and asked me to pick someone up.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Feller called Joe.’

  ‘So, when you answered the phone, was I asked for personally, by name?’

  He shook his head. ‘He asked for Robbie. It had all been arranged. Only Robbie didn’t turn up, for some reason. I think he was sick.’

  ‘So a plan was falling apart. All right, what then? I was at the bar, looked as if I was about to leave – and you asked me?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s about it.’

  ‘Pure coincidence?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘OK. Now think carefully. The bloke over there at the poker table, he limped in a while ago and you just watched him let his hair down. On that Saturday night, was he the one on the the other end of the phone asking for this Robbie, the one desperate to get someone to pick up the mysterious Joe?’

  ‘Not so mysterious. Yeah, it was Declan who phoned, and who else could it have been he wanted pickin’ up but his brother?’

  ‘But his brother was in Walton,’ Calum said.

  The barman tapped the side of his nose, shook his head.

  ‘I serve drinks, take messages, mind my own business.’

  ‘And keep the playing cards behind the bar?’

  He frowned. ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘Last time I was in I saw a woman reading the tarot. Have you got that pack?’

  ‘Got ‘em all. How about Happy Families?’

  I smiled. ‘I’d like to borrow the hanging man out of the tarot deck.’

  He found the deck, riffled through it and handed me the card I wanted, then wandered away to serve another customer. When he was out of earshot I turned to Calum.

  ‘I’m going to drop this on the table in front of Creeney, frighten him to death. At the same time I’ll threaten him with the police if he doesn’t get up and follow me outside to my car.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I’ll tell him what I know—’

  ‘All circumstantial.’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘And you want me to lurk in the shadows, ready to pounce if he gets tough?’

  I grinned. ‘Stay here, enjoy your drink. I’m expecting him to leave in a hurry when we finish talking. When he does, I’ll come in for you and we’ll follow him.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Calum said. ‘You’re giving him the rope to hang himself?’

  ‘Metaphorically speaking.
’

  ‘Of course.’

  Declan Creeney was slumped in the Quattro’s passenger seat. I could smell sweat and deodorant, the same cheap perfume that had pervaded his living-room. He had the window down. He’d put on his jacket but his dark hair was still loose and lifting in the cool breeze. As he stared at me he was flicking the tarot card with a fingernail.

  ‘What’s this supposed to mean?’ He flicked the card again, grinned to show his contempt. ‘A hanging man. Even the sex is wrong. And I told you it wasn’t me murdered Lorraine.’

  ‘Somebody did. It wasn’t Joe. I believe it was you. Unfortunately, I can’t prove anything.’

  ‘Damn right you can’t.’ He shrugged his shoulders and rocked his head from side to side, a boxer sitting on the stool in his corner, still oozing confidence, still seeing nothing to fear. ‘So what do you think? Are you telling me Joe got out of prison to murder his wife?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s finished, the case is closed so it’s all in the past.’

  ‘That’s right. It is. Because it began twelve months ago when you murdered Wayne Tully—’

  ‘Hang on, what the fuck—?’

  ‘Just listen.’ I clamped a hand on his wrist. The tarot card fell to the floor. ‘I told you I can’t prove anything, so you’ve got nothing to lose by listening – right?’

  He was tense and breathing hard. He shifted in his seat, glanced through the drifting rain towards the yellow lights of the club. I saw a dark shape silhouetted in the doorway, knew it was Calum, and I knew Creeney had seen him. He took a deep breath; angrily shrugged off my hand and settled back.

  ‘You murdered Wayne Tully,’ I said, ‘because he found out you were knocking off your brother’s wife. You murdered Lorraine Creeney because you were fed up with her, and wanted her sister, Fiona. Then you murdered Frank and Len Tully because, after a lot of digging, they found out what you’d done to their brother.’

  ‘Joe admitted he went after Wayne,’ Creeney said. ‘He pleaded guilty, and he was convicted of manslaughter. All the others’re fuckin’ nonsense. Especially Lorraine. Christ, I was miles away in the Copacobana.’