Davy pictured himself studying and having fun at Uni while she trudged to work every day to keep a roof over their heads. His revulsion at the image shocked him; it was followed by a blush of embarrassment at what his late father would have thought of such an arrangement. In the second since the idea had occurred to him, he’d had an epiphany. He was a fully grown man not a child, and he loved the woman on the other end of the phone. A fledgling plan formed in his head and he parked it for a private moment, then he returned to his conversation and outlined the deal he thought Craig might get for him from the C.C.
Chapter Five
Liam dandered into Derry police station as if it was his second home. It felt as if it was, partly because he’d spent thirty years in stations around Northern Ireland, but mainly because they all looked pretty much the same. Oh, some of the new ones were flashy, all right, but by and large they had a high metal fence around their exterior, a reinforced steel front door and a front desk that would have intimidated a weaker man.
He’d often thought sarcastically that the Good Friday Agreement should have stipulated comfy chairs and musak in police stations. After all, if they were going to pretend they’d forgiven every scrote who’d killed people during The Troubles and release them all from jail, then shouldn’t they give them somewhere nice to visit when they re-offended? Why not go the whole hog and just give them a car and a condo when they’d got out in ’98? That wouldn’t have pissed off the law-abiding citizens at all.
As he bashed his fist hard on the reception’s bell, Liam smiled at his own wit. The smile was wiped off his face by the man who appeared behind the glass.
“For fuck’s sake leave me some bell, Whitey!”
Liam’s six-feet-six height and Celtic pallor made him instantly visible, even in a force full of tall men. Years before, it had earned him the nickname ‘Big Whitey’ and some of the older officers still called him by the name.
Sergeant John Ellis stood behind the reception desk with his hands on his hips; a universal indicator of annoyance matched only by the combination of folded arms and ruthless squint that he adopted next. He was a man in his early fifties, almost as tall as Liam and with the same cynical world view. Ellis was a traditionalist, a man who washed his car every Sunday and wrote with a biro instead of using a PC; an unashamed Luddite despite all attempts to bring him up to date. He only had three years to go till retirement and he fully intended to resist change till he did.
Liam stared at the man he’d known since college and folded his arms to match. They gazed at each other through the glass for a moment, Liam refusing to ask permission to enter and Ellis determined that he would. An exiting constable won Liam the game. He pushed his way through the open door and strode straight past Ellis to the staff room, preparing to make himself a cup of tea. He knew it wouldn’t take long for the sergeant to follow.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going? Just because you’re a D.C.I. now, doesn’t mean you can steal our tea. Jack Harris phoned through and told me to put a lock on the biscuit tin.”
Harris knew Liam too well. He was the sergeant at High Street station in Belfast where they normally held their interviews. Liam turned towards his adversary and after a ten second face-off they both grinned and the mock-enemies became the back-slapping friends that they’d been for years. Liam waved a hand around the staff room as the kettle boiled.
“What’re you doing up here, John? Last I saw you, you were in East Belfast.”
Ellis shrugged. “Aye well, the kids have grown and the youngest is at University; the Magee campus down the road. Brenda’s folks are from Derry and she wanted to come home. Mine are all dead so I thought, why not move out West?”
He made it sound like he’d come on a wagon train.
Liam’s eyebrows rose in surprise. There must be some truth in the rumour that men mellowed with age, because the John Ellis he’d trained with had been so stubborn he’d have fought with his own feet rather than give in and move house. They drank their tea for a minute, going through the niceties of ‘how’s the wife’ and ‘how’re the kids?’ with Ellis rudely telling Liam to use birth control or he’d be paying university fees till he was ninety-nine. Finally they got down to business.
“We’ve been brought in on that home invasion up near the River Faughan. I’m here to set up some interviews.”
Ellis frowned. “Nasty business. I know Oliver Bwye; we’re in the same golf-club.”
“Where’s that then?”
“Up near Drumahoe.”
Liam dunked a biscuit in his tea, dropping the soggy bit into his mouth just before it fell off. He spoke through a mouthful of Rich Tea. “What’s he like?”
Ellis shrugged. “OK for a rich man, I suppose. Not too impressed with himself, which makes a pleasant change.” He shook his head. “Hell of a boozer though.”
Liam’s ears pricked up. “Oh, aye. Tell me more.”
“There’s not much to tell. He likes his whisky and he gets out of hand now and then. Nearly had to have a word last week.”
Liam leaned forward urgently. “When last week?”
Ellis stared past him, remembering. “We were there on Wednesday night for the annual meeting; I’m on the council now.” He gave a proud smile. “Got voted in unanimously.”
“By the rest of the biro users, no doubt.”
Ellis ignored the jibe. “We were in the bar afterwards and Bwye was there. He was the worse for wear; looked like he’d been there all afternoon. He was giving the girl on the bar stick for refusing to serve him another drink and I was just about to go across and say something when he staggered out. He could barely stand.”
“Did he drive home?”
Ellis’ face fell. “God, I hope not. I suppose I should have checked, but someone asked me a question just as he left and to be honest I forgot.” He shook his head. “I don’t think he could have done. We have lads who park the cars and it’s part of their job to withhold the keys from anyone who’s three sheets to the wind. I didn’t see Bwye’s car when we left so he must have got a taxi there and back. Do you want me to check?”
Liam thought for a moment. If Oliver Bwye had been fighting drunk the night before he’d disappeared it could be significant. He shook his head. “I’ll do it. Tell me more about Bwye.”
“Like what?”
“Have you ever seen him be violent? How does he treat his wife? And do you know anything about him having a gun?”
Ellis screwed up his face. “Yes to the first one, not great to the second, and yes, I do.”
Liam motioned him on.
“That was the last time I had to step in; in November. Bwye played a round of golf with a local businessman, Garvan McDermott, and they got to talking politics – always a bad idea. Bwye’s a staunch unionist, a minority opinion in this neck of the woods, and McDermott, mild-mannered as he is, is firmly in the United Ireland camp. Four or five drinks in, the discussion got heated and Bwye swung for McDermott. McDermott swung back and connected with Bwye’s jaw. I dragged them into the car park to calm down.”
“Did the fight continue there?”
Ellis gave a wry smile. “It would have done if Diana Bwye hadn’t arrived in the nick of time. She’d come to take hubbie home.”
Liam frowned. “I take it that’s when ‘not great to the second’ reared its ugly head?”
Ellis nodded and sipped his tea, pausing for a moment as he chose his words. “I never actually saw him hit her… but I saw him push her once. When they were on the dance floor last Christmas. And he gave her some verbal that day in November when she picked him up.” He added hastily. “If I’d seen anything more than that I’d have stepped in. But if he was doing that in public then God only knows what went on behind closed doors. You might want to check hospital and GP records to see if she reported any injuries. She never reported him to us or I’d have acted.”
Liam’s fists tightened. He couldn’t stand men who abused someone weaker than themselves. He’d like to
take them up a back alley. In fact, he’d done many a time. He forced out his next question, not really wanting to hear the answer.
“And the daughter?”
Ellis shook his head. “I don’t know. Rumour has it that she’s pretty screwed up, but whether that’s down to abuse is anyone’s guess.”
“We’ll check her records too. Screwed up how?”
“A minor drugs offence, driving too fast, you know the score. Like the old Specials’ song says; ‘Too much too young’. It’s a real pity. Her mother’s a lovely woman. She does a lot of charity work locally; Brenda knows her well from that.”
Liam nodded. Good women and bad men, what the hell was the attraction? People should have a stamp put on their hands at birth saying Good or Bad, then stay away from anyone not like them. Natural justice and evolution would sort things out after that.
“I might want a word with your missus.”
Ellis grinned. “Come round to dinner while you’re here. I could do with the craic.” He stared pointedly at Liam’s paunch. “Although you already look like you’re eating for two.”
Liam guffawed through his slightly hurt feelings; he’d waved his six pack goodbye a long time before but he still had fond memories.
“Aye, that would be good. Andy White and Craig are here as well.”
“Bring everyone. Brenda loves company. Any women around? She’d love a chat about what everyone’s wearing in the big smoke.”
“Annette McElroy. Watch it, you could end up with a coach party, and she won’t thank you for that.”
Ellis waved a hand dismissively. “That’s settled then. When you come you can ask Brenda everything you need.”
Liam glanced at his watch. “The boss will be here in a minute with Annette. They’re interviewing in one of your rooms.”
Ellis nodded and stood up, readying to wash his cup. “Aye, I know. They OK-ed it with the D.C.I.” It was his turn to check the time. “I’ve sent some of my lads to the estate to help with the perimeter search. We’ll get you a Rota for the other interviews now.”
Liam waved him back down and lifted the teapot. “There’s time enough for that. Let’s finish our tea first. Now, tell me what you know about Oliver Bwye’s gun…”
****
The Malone Road, Belfast.
Judge Eugene Standish was a mild-mannered man. He would have been considered easy going amongst any group, but amongst a bench of judges or an eloquence of lawyers – take your pick for the collective term for people who dressed in black and wore wigs – he was a veritable beacon of reasonableness. He didn’t object to being disturbed by eager or stressed policemen at any hour of the day or night, often ambling downstairs in his dressing gown to sign warrants at three a.m. Although it would be fair to say that he preferred nine to five and that when his wife, a woman renowned for her cooking, had just put a roast dinner in front of him, was his least favourite time. But even then his ire was only shown by a raised eyebrow. Yes, Eugene Standish was definitely a mild-mannered man.
On the odd occasion when he did refuse to sign a warrant it was usually for a glaring error, such as the time an eager sergeant had requested to ‘church’ someone’s home for drugs, or when a mister ‘A Capone’ instead of ‘A Caplin’ was to be investigated for fraud. But thankfully such occasions were rare and just gave the Judge and Mrs Standish something to chuckle about over their evening sherry. Usually he found the police punctual, respectful and accurate and he endeavoured to be the same. He’d been particularly keen to help out since his colleague, James Dawson, had been imprisoned the year before as part of a ring trafficking young women, bringing the judiciary into severe disrepute. Terrible business, made even more terrible by the fact that Standish had an eighteen-year-old daughter himself.
So it was against this background that Eugene Standish opened the door of his Victorian mansion on Belfast’s Malone Road and greeted the two officers standing there. He waved Julia and Andy through the hall and into the tasteful drawing room, and offered them tea, which was declined. He scrutinised them as Julia withdrew the warrant request from her handbag. Feminism had advanced rapidly, although, as the trafficking ring demonstrated, it hadn’t advanced rapidly enough. But progress had definitely been made since he’d been called to the Bar. Back then the women in justice had been very few, and those few had done their best to look like men. The curls rambling down Julia’s back said that a woman’s professional credibility was no longer dependent on short hair and flat shoes, and he thought it boded very well for the law.
Standish took the papers and excused himself to his study to read them, anticipating that such an approach would be a formality. So it was with shock that they heard his shout of indignation from half a hallway away. Before the echo had died down the judge appeared at the drawing room door, red-faced and waving the warrant request in his hand.
“What is this?”
His tone said he wanted an answer that wasn’t silence and would brook no nonsense when it came.
Julia’s eyes widened and Andy jumped to his feet, almost snapping into a salute.
“It’s a warrant application, your honour.” Thankfully he managed not to add ‘hey’.
Standish waved the paper higher. “I can see that, man. But what on earth made you think I would sign it? It’s tantamount to invasion of privacy and challenging the freedom of the press! You honestly expect me to let you tap a major newspaper’s telephone lines? You must be insane!”
Andy counted to ten inwardly, willing his silence to draw the judge from his position in the doorway into the room. It worked; by the count of ten, Eugene Standish was standing in front of them, albeit still waving the papers in his hand. He glanced at Julia’s startled face and realised how he must look, so he took a seat. Andy had half-expected the reaction, Craig had said that the warrant would be a stretch, but Julia was genuinely shocked. She’d visited Standish many times and she’d never seen him behave like this. Her expression and that knowledge embarrassed the judge and he waved Andy to sit, moderating his tone to the reasonableness that was his stock in trade. He tapped the papers with his left hand.
“Now then, what is all this? Please explain.”
Andy waited for Julia to take the lead; it was her case and she had a reputation for being sharp, although, according to Gerry, since she’d got engaged she’d toned it down a lot. Mellowness through marriage, he wondered cynically how long that would last. Julia said nothing, just continued to stare at the judge as Andy carried on.
“You’ll have heard about the missing family in Derry, your honour.”
Standish hadn’t so he shook his head. When Andy had finished outlining Craig’s theories, Standish nodded.
“You’re expecting a ransom demand and believe it will come to The Chronicle or one of you.”
Andy nodded vigorously. “Aye. I mean, yes, your honour. Oliver Bwye owned The Chronicle for years. I don’t know if you read it…” The judge’s posture had softened so he allowed himself a ‘hey’. “…hey? But it’s not the most dignified of rags, and the news editor, Ray Mercer, is a hack and a half. Anyway, if the Bwyes have been kidnapped -”
Standish interjected. “By someone whom Bwye offended when he owned The Chronicle, then they might use the newspaper to communicate.”
Andy nodded again and this time Julia joined in. She added eagerly.
“It’s just one theory, but if they phone The Chronicle and we haven’t got a trace on their lines then we might lose valuable evidence that could help us find the family.”
Standish shook his grey head, not in refusal but in the certainty that The Chronicle would have high-powered lawyers who would object. He felt an appeal looming in his future but for now the inspectors had explained their reasons well enough that he could see merit in their request.
Julia and Andy watched Standish’s round face wrinkle slowly into a smile, what they didn’t know were all the reasons putting it there. Cameron Lawton was The Belfast Chronicle’s new editor-in-chief and
he and Standish had played rugby against each other at school. Lawton had hit puberty early, giving him a serious advantage in the scrum; an advantage that he’d used more than once. Schoolboy rivalries never faded, so Eugene Standish raised his pen and, with a flourish, he signed the warrant off. Time to make Lawton the loser for once, if only for a few brief hours.
****
Derry Station.
Craig stared at the pale woman across the table, then he clicked on the tape machine and nodded Annette to start. Bernadette Ross jumped at the click and then again at the recorder’s loud buzz. Annette gazed at her sympathetically, as if she understood her shock, both at the sounds and at being in an interview room.
If Annette looked sympathetic it was because she really was. Her gut said that the woman in front of them had done nothing wrong and she knew that Craig’s was saying the same, but on the off-chance that both their instincts were wrong and Bernadette Ross’ fearful innocence masked a Machiavellian mastermind who had kidnapped the Bwyes, her warmth had to be tempered by questioning disbelief.
“Ms Ross, can you tell me how long you’ve worked for the Bwye family?”
Bernadette Ross glanced at the tape then at the table top, and finally back at Annette before answering in a lilting West-Bann voice.
“I don’t work for the family, just for Mr Bwye. I’ve been his P.A. for eight years.”
Craig asked a question to which he already knew the answer. “You worked for Mr Bwye at The Chronicle?”
Ross nodded. “Yes. I was his P.A. there for six years and when he sold the company in 2012 he asked me to come with him, to help manage his affairs.”
Craig sat back while Annette continued. “What sort of affairs did he have to manage? After all he was retired, wasn’t he?”
The Sixth Estate (The Craig Crime Series) Page 6
