Deathly Suspense

by John Paxton Sheriff

  ‘But you were in Joe’s house earlier that night. You were seen carrying the ladder into his house, by Rose Lane. And you saw her watching you. You knew you couldn’t let her live, so you went after her that night. You murdered her with a knife, to save your skin.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘No. And for that one there is proof. You have a nasty habit. You spit. You spat on the carpet in Rose Lane’s Conwy flat.’ I smiled. ‘Ever heard of DNA?’

  He’d started to sweat again. He dug out a handkerchief and wiped his brow, then shook his head in frustration.

  ‘Bein’ in Joe’s place earlier still doesn’t explain how I murdered Lorraine a couple of hours later when I was in West Derby, in my own fuckin’ club.’

  ‘You slipped up.’ I shook my head. ‘Killer’s always do.’

  ‘Slipped?’

  ‘Mm. A good word, in the circumstances. Because that’s how it was worked, wasn’t it? Slipping. Sliding.’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘The ladder you were carrying into the house when Rose Lane saw you had the safety rope missing. The legs couldn’t be secured; unless the feet were up against something, they’d slide apart and the ladder would end up flat on the floor. So you stood that ladder in Joe’s hall – crosswise: one set of legs against the panelling on the side of the stairs, the other set against the living-room door. You polished the parquet flooring with Pledge. And under the legs up against the living-room door, you placed a white tray cloth.’

  I looked at him. ‘Care to finish it for me?’

  He grunted. ‘It’s your fairy-story.’

  ‘All right. So then you forced Lorraine up the ladder, and put a noose around her neck. We know how she was bound. We don’t know if she was standing, sitting … it really doesn’t matter. Because then you left her. Joe had got out of gaol and you picked him up in your silver car. You took him to the wrong side of town, because you couldn’t risk being seen anywhere near his house. Then it almost went wrong. The man called Robbie’ – I saw him glance at me sharply – ‘who was supposed to be in the Sleepy Pussy, was sick. Luckily, I was there and doing nothing, your barman spoke to me, and I agreed to pick up Joe and drive him home.

  ‘I dropped Joe behind his house. He told me he was expected. We’ve spoken to his cell mate, so we know he thought you would be there with two plane tickets and new identity documents. But the only person there was Lorraine. Bound and gagged. Waiting at the top of the ladder. And Joe went in through the unlocked patio doors, as you had told him to do. Perhaps he shouted out. You know, “Darling, I’m home”. And then, in a rush to see her, he crossed the living-room – and opened the door.’

  ‘Guesswork,’ Declan Creeney said hoarsely.

  ‘Deduction,’ I said. ‘I saw a bloodstain on the inside edge of the living-room door. When Joe opened that door, the wooden legs slid on the tray cloth as Lorraine’s weight drove the ladder downwards. The ladder fell flat, she dropped like a stone and her neck was broken. The living-room door was flung open, so hard and fast it hit Joe in the face. There was blood on the inside edge of that door, blood on Lorraine’s elbow that was smeared there as he tried to get her down, save her life.’

  ‘The blood puts Joe there,’ Creeney said. ‘The police know he was there, because they kicked the door in and he was standin’ there with the ladder. But there’s not one bloody thing to prove I was near the place that night.’

  I gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘No. You’re right. Rose Lane saw you, but she’s dead. And who’s going to take the word of Rocky, a confused old man?’

  He was watching me, waiting. I said nothing. He licked his lips, then sighed, feigning boredom.

  ‘You said the killer slipped up….’

  I hesitated, deliberately, as if I was thinking. Then I shook my head.

  ‘I’m not sure, now. I thought at first,’ I said, ‘that the can of Pledge was a possibility—’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘You left the polish there, Declan. It had to be the polish you used, because Lorraine was allergic to aerosol sprays. So it was your polish and I hoped there might have been fingerprints on that shiny container, and then I realized you would have worn gloves….’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, and his grin was relieved. ‘Any self-respectin’ killer’d wear gloves, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘But not in the supermarket. Not when you were in Tesco’s, or Sainsbury’s, buying the polish. Your fingerprints would have been on the can then, had to be – but of course, I told myself, you would know that. You wiped the can before you put the gloves on in Joe’s house – didn’t you?’

  But he’d lost interest.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘It’s what I’ve got. And I think I’m pretty close.’

  ‘But not close enough to go to the police. Nothing to put me near any of them: Wayne, Frank, Len … Lorraine.’

  ‘No … There’s always Fiona, the police could talk to her. She answered Len’s mobile on Heswall Downs; you were there so you must remember…?’

  He clicked his door open, stepped out, held it open.

  ‘Forget it. It’s goin’ nowhere, so go an’ have a drink to clear your head. Tell ’em from me it’s on the house, you and your mate.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Past my bedtime, I’m headin’ home….’

  But he was already running for his car, shouting to me over his shoulder. I watched him climb in the big silver machine, start up, burn rubber out of the car-park, rain sweeping through the halogen beams.

  He was off, he was in a hurry, and he wasn’t going home.

  I sat still, did exactly as he had suggested and cleared my mind. Then, without haste, I went to get Calum.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  He was in the foyer, pacing, watching me.

  I said, ‘I’ve got a couple of phone calls to make. Creeney’s on his way to Joe’s house to destroy evidence: a can of Pledge.’

  ‘As in polish?’

  ‘That’s the start. He’ll be scrubbing hell out of that can of polish, hoping to remove fingerprints that might or might not be there. Even he can’t be sure. But I think he’ll also go looking for bloodstains on doors and generally make a fool of himself. It’s all over for him. DNA will link him to the murder in Wales, and after that he’ll fall apart.’

  ‘Are you inviting Haggard to the party?’

  ‘Indirectly.’

  I moved away, found my mobile and keyed in Haggard’s number. As I did so I looked at my watch. One o’clock. At the other end the phone was picked up and I heard a smoker’s cough.

  ‘This better be good,’ the DI growled.

  ‘A PI never sleeps.’ I listened to his snort and said, ‘What did forensic say about Len Tully?’

  Haggard grunted. ‘Murder. Dick Tracy was wrong. Tully was knocked out, then stuffed in the car.’

  ‘Go and talk to Fiona Lake.’

  ‘What, Lorraine Creeney’s sister?’

  ‘Ask her what she was doing on Thursday night, Friday morning.’

  There was a weary sigh. ‘All right, go on, what was she doin’?’

  ‘She was on Heswall Dales with Declan Creeney, doing nasty things with a red Ford Escort. She picked up Tully’s phone when I rang. Big mistake.’

  Silence. Then, ‘Are you sayin’ Creeney murdered Tully.’

  ‘Frank and Len. And the others: Wayne Tully, Lorraine Creeney.’ I paused, thought back to that first day, and said, ‘When I spoke to Declan Creeney on the morning after the murder, he mentioned a ladder being used in Lorraine Creeney’s hanging. I asked him how he knew. He told me the police had visited him at around four that morning – the morning Lorraine was murdered.’

  ‘Wrong. We got to him later that day. Me and Willie Vine – and no ladder was ever mentioned.’

  ‘Stephanie Grey knew. I spoke to her in her office at three o’clock. She could have told him.’

  ‘Could’ve, but didn’t. An’ anyway, why would Creeney lie and say he
heard about it from us at four in the morning?’

  ‘I don’t suppose the time you got to him matters, does it? The point is he knew all about the ladder, Mike.’

  I could sense the tension on the line, the sudden excitement.

  ‘So if Creeney’s the man, why’m I talkin’ to Lake?’

  I chuckled. ‘It all began with her, twelve months ago. She’s his accomplice, and the weakest link. I think she’ll snap. But if you want to go straight for Creeney, he’s just left the Sleepy Pussy, heading for home.’

  ‘An’ here was me thinkin’ I was in bed….’

  The phone clicked, and I was listening to silence.

  I punched in another set of numbers, spoke to a drowsy DI Alun Morgan in his home beneath the towering peaks of Carnedd Dafydd and gave him the good news about the dark-haired woman in the pink blouse. He asked where he could find Declan Creeney. I told him Haggard was on his way to arrest him at his home. The phone went dead again, this time cutting off a stream of Welsh curses – lots of double Fs and double Ls either side of much throat clearing.

  When I turned, Calum was watching me with amusement. ‘Did I just catch you lying to the police?’

  ‘Definitely not. Creeney did tell me he was going home. When Haggard gets to the house on Queen’s Drive he’ll find it empty, wait to see if Creeney arrives, then work out where he’s probably gone and race around to Joe Creeney’s house.’

  ‘But we’ll be there first?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Except for Sian, who’s closer than we are.’

  I stared. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘While you were busy I phoned her and told her what was happening—’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Is there a problem with that?’

  ‘Only that one of the more direct comments made by her in the past few days was that she would willingly hang the killers for what they did to Lorraine.’

  ‘That being so,’ Calum said, his face suddenly bleak, ‘why the hell are we hanging around?’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  For the second time in a week I pulled out of the Sleepy Pussy’s car-park in the wind and rain to drive across Liverpool to Joe Creeney’s house, but this time I was not annoyed, but frightened. In those seven days four people had died violently, and I was pushing the Quattro way beyond the speed limit in a desperate race to prevent another death.

  But whose? Who would die tonight? Declan Creeney – or my Soldier Blue?

  It was that sickening uncertainty that drove me around the sweeping bends of Breeze Hill and into Queen’s Drive hard enough to set the tyres howling, flung Calum about in his seat like a rag doll as he pressed his mobile phone to his ear and tried to undo the damage.

  ‘No answer,’ he said. ‘Her mobile’s switched off.’

  ‘Try Meg Morgan’s land line.’

  He did. Same result – with a slight variation which told another story.

  ‘Engaged. I’ve tried three times.’

  ‘Meg’s in bed. Sian’s walked out and taken the receiver off the hook.’

  ‘What about Meg’s mobile?’

  ‘Don’t know the number. Forget it. We’re way too late. It’s less than five minutes from Meg’s to Beech Crescent. Sian will be waiting for Creeney when he arrives.’

  One thirty. Traffic sparse. No police cars – yet. I gnawed my lip, tried to put myself inside Sian’s mind. Could she kill? Was she strong enough to overpower Declan Creeney? Ex-army, trained in unarmed combat, in her forties and fit. The answer was yes, she knew all the tricks so she had the capability. But was the suffering inflicted on a casual friend sufficient motivation?

  ‘What was your thinking,’ Calum said above the roar of engine and tyres, ‘when you sent Creeney after that can of lavender-scented Pledge?’

  ‘If he was guilty, he’d do everything to get rid of his prints. If he was innocent, he’d do nothing.’ I flicked a glance sideways. ‘I suppose I was looking for some kind of proof.’

  ‘But if he’s not there, that still proves nothing. Because even if he’s guilty, he could still be confident enough to call your bluff. Because that’s what it is – right? A bluff.’

  I smiled thinly. ‘Yes. But he’ll be there, and so will Sian.’

  I left the terrifying possibilities of what we might find unuttered, gritting my teeth as I thought ahead for the quickest route and opted for main roads and straight driving rather than short cuts where the speed would be reduced by too many junctions and too narrow roads.

  That decision was thrown out of the window when I powered up the hill from Childwall Five Ways and hit the lights on red at the junction of Queens Drive and Woolton Road and saw, 200 yards down the hill from the brow, Willie Vine’s green Mondeo pulling into Declan Creeney’s drive.

  ‘Change of plan,’ I said tightly, ‘to avoid being seen,’ and when the lights turned green I swung hard left into Woolton Road.

  ‘Take Hornby Lane,’ Calum said. ‘Half a mile on the right.’

  I grunted. How long would Haggard and Vine wait for Creeney? I’d spoken to Haggard just two minutes before leaving the Sleepy Pussy and driven most of the way at seventy. The DI would be expecting mildly intoxicated nightclub owner Creeney to drive carefully within the speed limit; with stops, twenty minutes for the distance compared with my eight.

  That meant we had some ten minutes before they gave up on him, fourteen at the outside before they pulled up in front of Joe Creeney’s house.

  Druids’ Cross Road was the crosspiece of the T junction at the end of Hornby Lane, Beech Crescent a short way up the hill after the left turn into Druids’ Cross. But before that there was the smaller opening into the narrow lane that ran behind the crescent, and I saw there what I had been dreading.

  Halfway up the slope, probably with its four cross-country tyres planted in the muddy ruts left by my own car, Sian’s metallic Shogun glistened in the rain.

  ‘Aye,’ Calum said, as I tossed him a grim look. ‘She’s made it – and I doubt if she’s sitting there twiddling her thumbs.’

  ‘Creeney’s car’s there, in front of the house, no sign of him.’ I said, pulling up. ‘Jump out. If she’s just got here, you might catch her before it’s too late.’

  ‘And if it is too late – break in?’

  ‘Do what’s necessary.’

  He jumped out. The car door slammed. I watched him jog up the lane, Timberland boots splashing water. Then I drove the remaining thirty yards and parked behind Creeney’s silver car.

  Drizzle dashed my face icily as I climbed out. The cold breeze plucked at my hair. As I walked quickly up the path I could see a light on the other side of the small glazed panel in the front door. Did I see shadows moving on the other side of the glass? No. The wind was tossing the shrubs at my side. I was looking at reflections but seeing hope.

  I rang the bell. Hammered on the door with the side of my fist.

  Nothing. No sound.

  I pressed my face to the square of coloured glass. The main light was on, rays from the three bulbs like shards of splintered rainbows through the frosted glass. But the light was too close to the door. No shadows fell across the square window, and what lay further down the hall was brightly illuminated but impossible to distinguish.

  ‘Sian! Creeney!’

  My yells bounced back like flat, lonely echoes.

  ‘Creeney, I know you’re in there, I know there’s a woman in there with you. Leave her alone; don’t touch her; don’t harm her – you hear me?’

  I was talking to myself. Annoying the neighbours. Amusing Creeney. But what of Sian?

  I slammed my palm flat against the door, my head spinning as panic began ripping me apart. Turned away, squinted against the rain and looked desperately down the road, almost praying for the sight of Willie Vine’s Mondeo. Saw a light flick on, heard a front door open. Spun back to face the house.

  ‘Creeney, open the bloody door before I—’

  And then I heard a
musical sound that froze the blood in my veins.

  Somewhere at the rear of the house, a big pane of glass shattered, the fragments tinkling on a stone patio.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I whispered. Because, suddenly, what I had done came roaring at me out of the dark like a wild beast to rip my soul from my breast, turn my bowels to liquid, my knees to rubber.

  ‘And if it’s too late – break in?’ Calum had said.

  ‘Do what’s necessary,’ I’d told him.

  But what I had not done was give him details of the trap set by Declan Creeney that one week ago had been triggered by his brother Joe, set in motion a makeshift gallows and broken Lorraine Creeney’s neck.

  ‘Calum!’ I roared, ‘stay where you are, don’t come through into the hall, for God’s sake stay there, stay, don’t open that fucking door, don’t open it—’

  And then I kicked in the front door.

  White wood flew as the jamb splintered. The door exploded inwards, hit the rubber stop and bounced. It banged back against my foot and again swung open as I stepped into the hall.

  And stood, paralysed.

  It was as if, the moment I kicked in the door, the ghastly scene had been illuminated by dazzling electronic flash that fired in a blaze of brilliant white and turned everything within its compass to stone.

  Sian was sitting halfway up the carpeted stairs. She had on jeans, a sweater, black Doc Marten’s smeared with wet mud. Her blonde hair was wet, tied back. She was looking down as she idly and repeatedly turned a can of Pledge in her hands.

  In the narrowest part of the hall, Declan Creeney was standing at the top of a ladder. He was so high in the stair well I had to tilt my head to look up at him. The upper floor was in pitch darkness. He was illuminated by the light from below, that weird light coming from an unnatural direction that transforms the ordinary into the macabre. About his neck there was a noose. From it the length of orange nylon rope hung slack. I knew without thinking that it had been measured and, if he fell, it would snap tight before his feet hit the floor.

  His ankles were bound. His wrists were tied in front of him. A gag prevented him from speaking.