Annette shook her head, imagining the arguments in the Bwye’s house.
“He’s a self-made man who grew up poor so you can understand why he doesn’t want her blowing it and then coming back for more.”
Annette understood. “How much of an inheritance are we talking about?”
“Ten million pounds when she’s thirty.”
Annette wished she could whistle, knowing that Liam would be giving a loud one about now. It made her arguments with her kids about pocket money seem tame. She settled for an “I can see why Jane wouldn’t be happy.”
Ross nodded but tempered it with a caveat. “Remember that there are a lot of gold-diggers out there who would marry Jane just for her money. Mr Bwye is weeding them out as well.”
“I can see that. But still, it can’t have made him popular at home. What did Mrs Bwye say?”
Ross smiled, thinking of Diana Bwye. “She’s a gentle soul and she loves her husband despite all his faults, so she mainly tries to keep the peace…”
“And slips Jane money on the side. I see.” Annette thought for a moment. “Tell me more about the car.”
Bernadette Ross was insistent. “Jane is the only one who drives it.”
“Even though it isn’t registered to the family.”
Ross shrugged. “I don’t understand that. Maybe it was registered to one of the family businesses?” She thought better of the idea immediately. “No, it can’t have been. Mr Bwye would never have allowed it.” Something occurred to her. “Perhaps it’s registered as a staff car but Jane was insured on it. Have you seen the prices for insuring anyone under twenty-five independently?”
“So Jane might have been named on a staff policy but only she drove it.”
Ross nodded. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Diana could have done that, but I’m positive Mr Bwye didn’t know Jane had it.”
“And you’re sure that you saw Jane in the car last Wednesday; it couldn’t have been anyone else?”
Ross hesitated just long enough to tell Annette what had happened. She’d seen the car, a car that only Jane drove, and assumed that she was the one driving. Annette pressed harder.
“Did you actually see Jane behind the steering wheel?”
Ross’ silence answered no. It wasn’t the answer Annette had wanted; it meant that they had no sightings of Jane Bwye that evening, but at least now they knew.
“OK. When did you last see Jane before then?”
“The evening before; Tuesday. She was sitting on the settee reading a magazine when I left.”
“So you didn’t see her at all on Wednesday?”
Annette’s tone was accusing and Ross leapt to her own defence. “No, but that’s not unusual. I arrive early and Jane sleeps late; she’s usually out clubbing or whatever they do nowadays, the night before. I work all morning in the study with Mr Bwye, cook brings me something for lunch, then we work again until around five. Unless Jane is in the main room when I’m leaving I mightn’t see her for days.”
Annette sighed. It was perfectly logical and completely useless to them. “Did you at least see her car on Tuesday?”
Ross’s mouth opened and shut silently then she shook her head, adding. “But that’s normal too. Jane wouldn’t have had the car at the house if there was any chance that her father might have seen it.”
“So where was it kept the rest of the time?”
Ross spoke hesitantly as if she was afraid of giving another wrong answer. “There…there are some old out-buildings… Mr Bwye never visits them.”
It was something but not much. Annette sipped at her drink and then changed tack.
“OK, the main room. You said the whisky decanter was out of place; you’re sure?”
This time Ross’ nod was emphatic. “Positive. Mr Bwye is the only one who drinks whisky and he’s fussy about putting it back.”
“So we should only find his prints.”
Ross looked puzzled. “I would think so, although the cleaner comes in three times a week so you might find hers as well.”
Annette prayed that the prints wouldn’t match either of them; if they didn’t then they might be their perp’s. Time to approach the subject she least enjoyed asking about: sex. If Liam was watching now he would be rubbing his hands in glee.
She leaned in conspiratorially; to the outside world it would look like two friends exchanging a secret and that was exactly the effect she was hoping for.
“You mentioned that Mr Bwye’s study was his private space and you and he had the only keys?”
Ross knew where Annette was heading and considered her response carefully. On the one hand she owed Oliver Bwye loyalty, on the other they were trying to save his life and anything that she knew might be important. She nodded and then volunteered. “He brought in women sometimes.”
Annette’s eyebrows shot up; she’d expected it to take longer to extract the information. They also shot up at the logistics. The house was open plan so how on earth… Ross saw her question.
“Through the back door. Only he had the key. I believe he locked the door to the main room and then let them in at the back.
Neat.
“Often?”
Ross shrugged. “Fairly often if his cash withdrawals were anything to go by.”
Annette’s curiosity overcame her professionalism. “How much did he pay them?”
Ross pursed her lips disapprovingly. “Far too much. The withdrawals ranged from five hundred to two thousand pounds.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I imagine the cost depended on what they did for him.”
Two thousand! They were both in the wrong job.
“I thought it was disgusting but at least he never asked me to arrange their visits.”
Annette’s heart sank. That meant she wouldn’t know how to contact the women. She asked the question anyway.
“Do you know who they were?”
Ross sighed and nodded. “Yes, well no, not by name, but they all came from the same place. I think he used it because it’s supposed to be clean.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s called The Kasbah; ridiculous name. It’s an escort agency in the centre of Derry.”
Not quite what the founding fathers had imagined when they’d set down roots; or maybe it was, just not their wives’.
“Was there anyone long term; a mistress?”
Ross looked indignant. “Absolutely not! Mr Bwye loved his wife.”
Between hitting her and screwing escorts he had a funny way of showing it, but they didn’t have time for the debate.
Annette nodded. “So you didn’t see any sign that he was planning to leave her?”
Ross sat up straight, with a prim expression on her face. “None. He was a religious man. A church elder.”
Annette almost laughed out loud. What sort of religion said it was OK to assault and be unfaithful to your wife? She answered her own question. Practically all of them, if their male practitioners were anything to go by. She focused back on the discussion.
“OK, we’ll chase up The Kasbah.” She slid a pad and pen across the table. “I need any women’s names you may have overheard, and please make a separate list of Jane’s friends and their known haunts.” She stood up to leave and then had another thought. “Do any of Mr Bwye’s business acquaintances visit the house?”
Ross was emphatic. “Never. They always conduct business at his office in town.”
Annette gawped at her. “He has another office and you didn’t think to mention it!”
Ross realised her mistake and back-pedalled furiously. “It isn’t his office, he works from the house. It’s just a room I hire if he needs to hold a meeting. A firm in town rents out the rooms by the session; morning or afternoon.”
Business centres; common practice everywhere. Annette gestured tiredly at the paper.
“Write down the address.”
She left the room knowing they’d just acquired several more days’ elimination work.
****
Andy gazed
at the muddy shore and then ruefully down at his shoes. They were his good ones, black and shiny. But their glamour wasn’t the problem; the problem was that they were brogues, with dozens of perforations punched into the leather just waiting to suck in mud. like it was what they’d spent their entire lives waiting for. Teresa would kill him when he got home.
He glanced around for a saviour: a pair of shoe covers, or an abandoned pair of wellington boots. But there was nothing, just a bunch of uniformed policemen in waders grinning at the smart-ass detective’s shiny feet.
Andy never pulled rank. It was a useless ploy and people inevitably got their revenge on you in other ways, and at a time when you least expected it. But their vengeance would be nothing compared to his fiery wife’s if he ruined his shoes, so he called over a young officer who looked about the same shoe size as him.
“I need your waders, hey.”
The P.C. stared down at his boots and then at Andy’s shoes, repeating the sequence until it had lost its comic value. Then he shook his head and folded his arms, playing to his wader-clad audience.
“Can’t, sir. I’m on search detail.”
Andy gestured for him to remove the boots, aware that the others had downed tools and were watching to see what came next.
“OK, I’m relieving you for the day. Now give me the waders.”
The boy glanced at his feet and then at the gathered cops, weighing up the price of betrayal against a nice cup of tea in the warm. The tea won. He changed in a nearby squad car, handed Andy the waders gleefully and drove off in search of tea and a scone. Andy donned them to a chorus of “shame” and “officer class” but he didn’t care. His brogues were safe and so was his dinner. The troops’ revenge would come some other day.
****
“Liam, you interview Gordon and I’ll say nothing unless it’s essential.”
Liam squinted at Craig. He’d said it like he was a probationer who needed the interview practice. Craig caught the look and shook his head.
“It will give me a chance to watch his face for lies.”
“Aye, OK. As long as that’s all…”
“That’s all. For goodness sake, you could interview him in your sleep; we both know that.”
He took a seat in the cool interview room then realised they were both freezing and turned up the thermostat. Either John Ellis didn’t use the room much or the prisoners in Derry were hardier than the ones in Belfast. A minute later Ellis appeared with a tray of biscuits and drinks.
Liam grinned. “That’s very nice of you, Ellie.”
Ellis made a face. “Don’t call me that.”
Liam gave a coy smile. “You never used to mind.”
Ellis rolled his eyes. “I’m bringing Mr Gordon in now. Mind, some of those biscuits are for him.” He nodded at the two-way mirror. “I’ll be watching so I’ll know if you eat them all.”
A minute later, Brendan Gordon was seated opposite them and Craig handed him a cup of tea. He was a good looking lad; short, dark and saturnine, with the muscles and tan of a grounds man’s outdoor life. He looked as if he belonged on the Amalfi coast rather than Derry, but then there was strong Mediterranean blood in Ireland’s northwest. Craig wondered what Jane Bwye had thought of the boy. If he could see that Gordon was handsome what effect might he have had on a bored rich girl? Was Gordon the unsuitable boyfriend they were looking for?
Liam swallowed a biscuit and pushed the plate towards their guest.
“Have a biscuit, son. Tea’s too dry otherwise.” It made sense in Liam World.
Brendan Gordon shook his head and gave a defeated sigh. It came from the heart and Craig wondered how many times he’d been hauled in for interview in the past six years. Probably every time there’d been a local crime. Liam saw the young man’s dejection and shook his head.
“Look, lad. I know you were badly done by when you were a kid. You were put away when you shouldn’t have been. If I’d lifted you I’d just have nailed you for carrying a knife and you’d have got a suspended sentence.”
Gordon suddenly became animated. “I was only carrying it ’cos they were trying to jump me into a gang and I didn’t want to join.”
Liam nodded in sympathy while Craig focused on something else; the neutrality of Gordon’s voice. This was a boy who’d lived a hard life in Ireland’s northwest, yet his lack of accent said he could have come from anywhere in the world. Liam continued.
“Magilligan must have been hard at that age.”
Gordon gazed down at the table. “It’s hard at any age.”
“I’d say so. Well look, we’re not here to blame you for anything, so just have a biscuit and relax.”
Craig smiled to himself. Liam thought food was the ultimate panacea, plus, if Gordon had a biscuit he wouldn’t feel so bad about having another one himself. Gordon reached hesitantly for a custard cream. His hands were lean and worn with nails bitten to the quick. Liam took a second biscuit and munched contentedly for a moment, then he returned to the business in hand.
“It’s like this. We’re interviewing everyone who works for the Bwyes, just to find out what they know or saw. OK?”
Gordon nodded slowly but gave Liam a suspicious look.
“I wasn’t near the house when it happened. I was off work last week.”
Coincidence of convenience?
“What were you doing?”
The young man looked surprised, as if what he did on his days off was no-one’s business but his own. Craig saw him about to say as much then he reconsidered and shrugged.
“I was chilling at home.”
“Which is where?”
Liam already knew where Gordon lived but he wanted to hear it from him.
“I have a one bedroomed flat on the estate.”
“What did you do?”
“Listened to music and studied mainly. I was painting as well. Mrs Bwye lets us decorate however we like.”
Craig cut in. “What are you studying?”
Gordon stared at him like he hadn’t noticed he was there. He scrutinised Craig’s face untrustingly as he answered, as if he was waiting for him to take the piss.
“Landscape gardening. I want a career.”
Craig nodded, but not patronisingly as the younger man had expected.
“Good for you. We’ll need the name of your college.”
He waved Liam on and sat back.
“Is there anyone who can verify your whereabouts?”
“Only my mum. She was in and out all week, helping me paint.”
“No girlfriend?”
Craig watched as Gordon’s face ran the gamut of expressions. Surprise, embarrassment, defensiveness, and something else; something that he couldn’t put his finger on.
“No. Why? Is it compulsory?”
Liam guffawed. “You make it sound like a chore. Most lads your age would like a girlfriend, unless they’re gay.”
“I’m not gay!”
Craig’s quick glare reminded Liam about Human Rights.
“Aye, well. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay, like. We have a gay sergeant.”
Craig was damn sure Jake didn’t want his business shared with the whole world so he cut in again.
“Do you have a partner, Mr Gordon?”
Gordon blushed and stammered “N…No.”
Both detectives knew it wasn’t the whole truth; Brendan Gordon mightn’t have had a partner but he had a crush on someone. His red face and the way he immediately chewed his nails said that he wasn’t going to give them a name. They’d have to get it some other way. Craig changed tack, opening a file that he’d brought with him.
“You were charged with GBH in 2010, Mr Gordon, but the charges were dismissed. Tell me what happened.”
Gordon coloured even further and shook his head, so Liam answered for him.
“Someone who wanted to up their status by fighting an ex-con?”
Gordon nodded sadly. “Why don’t they just leave me alone? I just want a quiet life.
”
Craig read out loud. “He had a knife but you weren’t carrying, yet you managed to beat him pretty badly.”
Gordon turned on him belligerently. “Was that a question?”
Craig nodded and the gardener shrugged.
“I box. He came at me so I hit him; hard.”
Craig shook his head, not at the answer but at the fact Gordon had been charged with GBH when it had clearly been self-defence again. He turned the page, knowing exactly what he’d find; Terry Harrison’s name again, this time as a D.C.I. He’d had it in for the boy. He’d seen cops with personal vendettas before; every crime that was committed in their area they tried to make their favourite perp fit. How many other poor sods had Harrison fitted up just to get another button on his epaulette?
He made a note to dig deeper on Harrison’s past when he had the time and turned back to the case.
“What do you think of the Bwyes, Mr Gordon?”
Gordon shrugged. “Mrs Bwye’s nice but the old man’s a bastard.” No mention of Jane.
“To you or to her?”
“To everyone. He shouts at all his staff except Bernie Ross.”
“Why not at Ms Ross?”
Gordon chewed his nails again before answering with a shrug. “Probably because he can’t replace her. They’ve worked together for years.”
“What about Jane, what’s she like?”
Gordon’s blush deepened. They’d found his crush; Jane Bwye. He shrugged. “All right. She doesn’t like her dad either.”
“Oh?”
A sharp glance said the young man had realised that he’d said enough. He folded his arms. “Can I go now?”
Craig smiled to himself and signalled John Ellis to join them, then he rose to his feet.
“Sergeant Ellis here needs some information from you. Your friends at college, your tutor, that sort of thing. I’d also like you to list anyone you’ve seen at the house in the past three months and the names of any of Jane’s friends you might know. Then you’re free to leave. Thank you for your assistance.”
The Sixth Estate (The Craig Crime Series) Page 13
