Turner nodded.
“Do you know what this Moran guy looks like?”
“No, but Mary Co…ah! She's no longer here.”
“Correct, so you need to know his identity. That's your excuse. Sort it before you get involved with anything else and when the fax arrives, run off a dozen or so copies of his mug shot. I'll explain later.”
Massey's next target was D.S. Roker. “What's on your agenda, today?” he asked.
“Last night, I acquired a list of Mary Cole's closest friends from her sister. Two of the team and I are checking them out to see if they can shed any light on her most recent activities outside of work.”
“Fine,” said Massey. “Stick to that. Just ensure your enquiries remain low-key at this stage. Impress on her friends that we are relying on their confidentiality. Keep the afternoon free. You and I are going to visit the Barleycorn. I'll update you later with my new plans.”
After a coffee and his sandwich, Massey spent the remainder of the morning bringing D.C.I. Wainwright up to date and conferring with John Nuttall in forensics. As lunchtime approached, he returned to his office to find a small pile of ‘head and shoulders’ photos on his desk. The face of Jimmy Moran stared back at him. A note was alongside, informing him that a package addressed to D.I. Massey awaited him at the front desk.
Taking a blank sheet of paper, he wrote, ‘If you see this man, report to D.I. Massey immediately. Do not approach or detain him.’ Taking his note and the photos of Moran, he asked one of the admin staff to type his words and attach a copy to each photo before distributing them throughout the station. Checking his watch, he decided to take a lunch break, stopping momentarily to collect the package from the front desk. Caroline Finch had delivered the photos of Lara.
She must have arrived already for tomorrow's funeral, he thought. She's probably staying with her sister at Moulton. He made a mental note to drive home via the Crawford residence later in the day. Satisfied with his morning's work, he contacted D.C. Turner. They stopped off at Pizza Hut for a welcome snack, during which Massey outlined his new game plan.
For a change, the sun was shining as Massey and Turner walked back to police headquarters. There was a spring in the inspector's step as he contemplated his agenda for that afternoon. On reaching his office, he asked Turner to find Roker to discuss their proposed interview of Sean O’Malley. An interruption by a uniformed sergeant provided some additional ‘food for thought’.
“Can I have a word,” he asked Massey. He was clutching one of the sheets of Moran's photo that had circulated the departments during lunchtime.
“Certainly,” replied Massey, beaming. Something deep down convinced him that today promised to be rewarding not only in the investigation but also in his own clarity of thought. His brief hangover feeling had evaporated to be replaced by one his more positive moods. He could never accept the principle of a detective's ‘gut feeling’ even though he occasionally experienced it himself. This was one of those key moments in his black and white world.
The police sergeant placed the photocopy on the desk. “I came across this bloke on Saturday night, actually the early hours of Sunday morning. The licensee at the Barleycorn was giving him a lift to Tarporley.”
Massey's beaming face broadened. “Tell me every detail,” said the inspector.
Turner and Roker entered Massey's office as Sergeant Proudlove was leaving.
“What was that about?” asked Roker, watching the officer disappear.
“I'm changing my handling of O’Malley,” replied the inspector.
“You're going to confront him with Moran's photo?” asked Turner, more concerned about his own situation, his commitment to the security services than the effect on the licensee.
“That was my intention,” said Massey. “Sergeant Proudlove has just given me a more subtle opening. I'll tell you what he had to say en route. Let's pay our Irish friend a visit.”
The Barleycorn was quiet; it was the afternoon before dole payment day. A couple of pensioners sat in the far corner of the lounge bar. The detectives settled on three vacant barstools near the main entrance. Sean was the sole person behind the bar. He strode towards them, cheerily.
“What would be your poison, officers?” he asked whilst forcing a smile.
“Three halves of Pedigree will be fine,” said Massey, “and one for your good self.”
The licensee served the drinks. Massey leaned across the bar. “I hear that you have connections in the world of horse racing. Any good tips for your paying customers?”
Sean suddenly felt uneasy. He decided to ‘play the game’, unaware of the skill of his adversary. “No point in asking me,” he replied. “I always back the loser.”
“I believe your Irish friend has a son who is a jockey at the Tarporley racing stables.”
“He's only an apprentice,” corrected the licensee.
“What's his name?” asked the inspector. “I'll look out for him when I'm in the betting shop.”
Sean's discomfort was now noticeable. He took a sip of his beer. “Callaghan,” he replied, recalling a friend of his childhood, “Michael Callaghan.”
“Thanks, I'll make a mental note. This friend of yours, Michael's father…what's his line of business?”
“Oh, this and that,” he replied, rather hesitantly. “I'm not quite sure…it's something to do with import and export, I think.”
“What's his name, then…besides being Mister Callaghan?”
Sean's head was spinning. Where was this leading? Should he tell him to mind his own business or maintain the bluff? On a facing wall, there was a framed replica billposter of Harry Houdini, the famed escapologist, advertising his appearance at the Empire Theatre in February 1914. “Harry, Harry Callaghan,” he blurted out, inwardly congratulating himself on his apt choice in view of his current predicament.
“Dirty Harry!” exclaimed Massey. “Inspector Callaghan!”
Taken aback by the inspector's words, the licensee involuntarily took a step backwards.
Massey was enjoying himself. “Clint Eastwood. You must have seen the Dirty Harry films.” He leaned towards Sean with his arm outstretched, his fist imitating a gun. “Remember… ‘Make my day, punk!’… What a great line from a detective.”
The licensee stepped further away, almost colliding with the back bar fitting. “Oh yes, I be knowing that,” he muttered.
“Your friend must have had a lot of jibes after those films hit the cinemas. How long did he stay here with you?”
“We were full with guests. He only came over for the day,” replied Sean, regaining his composure.
“Yes, that reminds me,” said Massey. “D.C. Turner tells me that your guests have not registered. You are aware that is illegal.”
“I explained to the detectives that it was booked by a company. They have the list of delegates who are staying here.”
Massey had no intention of relenting. “You are still committing an offence. First thing tomorrow, I want your register on my desk with names, addresses and signatures. At eleven o'clock, I'm attending the funeral of that poor young girl who was murdered, so don't be late.” He finished his beer and slid from the barstool. “Any news of your cleaning lady, yet?”
Sean shook his head. “No, nothing.” His hands were also shaking as he removed their empty glasses. “I can't guarantee that I will get everyone's name in the book. It seems pointless, ‘cos their course finishes tomorrow. They'll all be gone by Friday morning.”
“Before eleven o'clock,” reiterated Massey.
The detectives left the building, the two junior officers desperate to know what Massey had achieved. Turner was anxious to call his contact. He needed to pass on the news that Moran and his associates were on the point of leaving. He made an excuse that he had to stop by the shopping centre before returning to headquarters. Roker and Massey headed for the car park.
“Bloody hell,” said Roker. “You certainly pushed him to the limit. Why didn't you show him Mo
ran's photo?”
“Ah,” said Massey. “He would either have denied that it was the same guy or stated that he was unaware of the man's background as he was simply a guest staying there. By changing my tack, he is completely oblivious to the fact that, thanks to Sergeant Proudlove, we know that he was definitely with Moran in the early hours of Sunday morning. Lying about the identity of the man in the car merely confirms that he was hiding something. We now need to find out what they were up to at such an unearthly hour.”
Turner walked towards the shopping centre and made the call. His contact thanked him for his diligence; nothing else was mentioned.
*****
Later that same day, Massey parked his car and strolled across a cobbled courtyard towards the Crawford family's ‘chocolate box’ cottage. Apart from the chatter of a few sparrows, the area seemed so tranquil and serene. How incongruous, he thought, an idyllic backwater, shielded from the turmoil of the world, yet concealing its own appalling tragedy.
After meeting him at the front entrance, Diana Crawford led him through to the conservatory to be greeted by her sister, Caroline.
“Would you like some tea, Inspector?” asked Lara's mother. “Or would you prefer something a little stronger?”
“Tea will be fine,” replied Massey.
Diana disappeared towards the kitchen. The inspector sat in a cane armchair facing Caroline.
“Thank you for handing in the photos. You have my word that the prosecution will only introduce them as evidence if they consider it relevant and vital towards securing a conviction. In the meantime, only the prosecutor and I will have access to them and, of course, the defense if we intend to produce them.”
“I had no doubt of your tact in the matter. Diana is unaware of their existence and, if possible, I would like to keep it that way.”
Diana reappeared with a tray containing tea and biscuits. “Will you be attending the funeral tomorrow?” she asked.
“Several officers will be in attendance,” replied Massey, surprised by her dispassionate attitude towards her daughter's funeral. He doubted that she would have shown any different manner if it had been Lara's wedding day.
“My visit this evening is in connection with the service tomorrow. During the course of our investigation, we discovered recent correspondence between Lara and her natural mother. Her birth mother, as she was referred to in the adoption process, instigated the original contact and Lara appeared interested to trace her roots. I'm certain that she intended to discuss it with you, but unfortunately, these tragic events prevented it from progressing further. However, because there had been contact, we had to follow it up.”
“I never met the woman,” said Diana, “but I do remember that she was a local girl from the North West.”
“She has moved on and now lives in the Midlands,” said Massey. “There is a possibility that she may attend tomorrow's funeral.”
“That would be nice,” said Diana. “How thoughtful of her. I would want to do the same if it was the other way round.”
“Lara was your daughter, Diana,” said Caroline. “You brought her up from a baby.”
“Be that as it may, but she is still her real mother,” said Diana.
“I am pleased that you are so understanding,” said Massey. “I just wanted to ensure that there would be no confrontation during such a sad occasion.”
“She has as much entitlement to be present as I do,” replied Diana. “I'm certain that my daughter would have wanted it so.”
“Thank you for putting us in the picture,” said Caroline. “This person that you have arrested…will he be charged with Lara's murder?”
“He has been committed for trial. I must warn you, though, that he may be convicted of manslaughter as most of the evidence is currently circumstantial. I trust that you will treat my words as highly confidential. However, other evidence may be forthcoming between now and the date of the trial.”
“Would you like some more tea, Inspector?” asked Diana.
Caroline spoke before Massey could answer. “Yes please, Di.”
As her sister left the conservatory, she turned to him. “I apologise for my sister. You probably think that she is very cold towards the death of her daughter. You must understand that, when Michael was born, Lara took second place. Her newborn son became the ‘apple of her eye’ and Lara, to some degree, was surplus to requirements. In my own way, I perhaps compensated for her mother's lack of affection. We were always close and possibly Lara almost saw me as her second mum. That is why, I am sure, she must have been overjoyed when her natural mother made contact. From what you have said, it is probable that the impending news promised to me was the meeting with her birth mother.”
“You must miss Lara terribly,” said Massey.
“Maybe you see me as a hard, dispassionate type of individual to enable me to fulfil my role as a licensee. That depiction is far from the truth. I am a caring, emotional person. There has scarcely been one night when I have not shed tears for my niece. I will miss her so much.”
“You now know why I came to visit you at the Beacon. Your relationship with Lara was evident from the first time we met. I hope justice will be served.”
“Nothing will bring Lara back, but I thank you for your kindness and the endeavours of you and your team.”
“Here we are,” said Diana, returning to the conservatory and laying a tea tray before them.
*****
Despite Massey's insistence on the previous afternoon, Sean O’Malley failed to arrive at police headquarters with the guest register. The inspector was far from amused, arriving at Lara's funeral in a foul temper. Typical funereal weather, fitting for the solemn occasion, annoyed him more so. Masses of low dark cloud discharged incessant rain over the mourners. Considering Lara Crawford's somewhat reclusive lifestyle with few close friends and relatives, the church at Moulton appeared filled to capacity. Her tragic death had obviously touched the local population who, in all sincerity, had congregated to pay their respects.
Massey joined other members of the local police force at the rear of the church. D.C. Jones nudged him gently. “I see that her real mother is here,” she whispered, nodding in the direction of a pew across the nave. “She's the woman in the dark suit and beige blouse.”
Massey wondered if she had introduced herself to Mrs. Crawford. Doubtless, the ensuing internment would create that opportunity unless the inclement weather caused unsuitable conditions for a graveside encounter. His concerns were needless, as the rain had abated by the time that the bearers were ready to convey the coffin from the church at the end of the service. The cortege headed a procession of mourners towards a recently consecrated extension to the adjacent cemetery.
The police officers stood some distance away from the close family and friends who gathered with the vicar by the prepared excavation into which the coffin would be lowered. It was from that vantage point where Massey caught sight of Sean O’Malley.
“I don't believe it,” he remarked quietly but angrily to D.S. Roker.
“He's got some bloody front after not turning up this morning with that register,” replied Roker. “He knew that you would be present at the funeral.” With the hint of a smile, he added, “Maybe he's brought it with him!”
“No chance. He's here out of morbid curiosity, like a lot of these so-called mourners.”
“Shall we ‘nail’ him before he leaves?”
“We'll pay him a visit later. This isn't the time and place,” said Massey respectfully Prayers were recited, Lara was laid to rest, tears were shed and gradually small groups began to disperse. Massey expected to see Lara's natural mother make some contact with Diana Crawford and her sister, Caroline, as they finally walked towards the main path where the funeral cars were waiting. He was amazed to observe Sean O’Malley approach the woman and engage her in a brief conversation. She must have spoken with Diana previously because she walked away from Sean and caught up with the sisters before they departed in one
of the funeral cars. She walked to her hire car and followed the procession of vehicles heading towards the Crawford cottage where the occupants would participate in the usual wake.
For several seconds O’Malley stood and watched them leave. He quickly turned and walked resolutely down a narrow pathway that led to an ancient lych-gate. He disappeared into the cul-de-sac where several mourners had parked their vehicles.
“What was all that about?” asked Roker.
“I'm mystified,” said Massey. “We'll find out later when we pay him a visit. I need a drink. There's a cosy country inn within walking distance round the corner. I don't know about you, but occasions like this always make me thirsty.”
Massey mentioned that they had received an invite to the wake, but that he had no stomach for the kind of atmosphere created by such a sad event. The detectives made instead for the local ‘watering hole’.
It was mid-afternoon when Massey and the remnants of his team arrived back at police headquarters. On entering the building, he sensed immediately an unaccountable change in the atmosphere. There was a ‘buzz’ about the place, more noise, more urgency. The front desk sergeant called him over.
“What's happened?” asked the inspector.
“D.C.I. Wainwright's been trying to contact you. He's in a ‘right strop’. I think some shit has hit the fan, big time!”
Massey patted his pocket. “We all switched off our mobiles at the church; never thought to switch them on again. What's all the fuss about?”
“Not a clue, but some ‘top brass’ arrived here just after midday. Nobody knows why. They've been calling in everyone, even the traffic lads, so something important is about to happen.”
“They're probably going to merge us with Middlewich,” added Roker. “It's been on the cards for a while.”
“More bloody redundancies,” said the desk sergeant gloomily.
“Only admin staff,” added Massey. “They cannot possibly reduce numbers at the sharp end. We're short of manpower already.” He turned to the other detectives. “I'll catch up with you later. I'd better make my peace with the D.C.I.” He disappeared along a corridor, leaving the others to continue the debate about the possible causes of the noticeable turmoil in the building.
Animal Instinct Page 14
