Three times a week didn’t leave much time for a real affair and questioning of The Kasbah’s staff confirmed that Bwye had often been there even when Mavis wasn’t working, making do with someone else for the night. An hour of questions later and with Mavis Brown’s swab in his pocket to eliminate her DNA, Liam was walking back to his car.
He stopped and gazed around him for a moment, wondering whether to have tea and a bun in a small café he’d spied, or head back to the undoubtedly freezing lake and start chasing the phantom boat. Compromise won and a takeaway accompanied him the six mile journey to the farm north of the lake. Twenty minutes later he was standing on a jetty with a young man, both of them staring down at a small speedboat.
“My parents are away, Chief Inspector. You’ll have to make do with my wee brother Micky and me.”
The speaker was a wiry youth of around eighteen. But around eighteen was always dodgy so Liam decided to check his name and age.
“Do you have any I.D., Mr McDermott? Only, no disrespect, but you could be some kid who’d just wandered in off the street.”
It was unlikely, given that the boy had answered the door of the double-fronted farm house holding a games console and wearing no shoes. But it never did any harm to check.
Oisín McDermott produced his driving licence, reassuring Liam that he was who he’d said he was and was nineteen in two weeks.
“Grand. I just had to check. How wee is your wee brother?”
“Sixteen.”
“Fine. Is he around?”
“Back at the house. You want me to call him?”
“Aye. Another pair of eyes.”
Five minutes later three pairs of eyes were staring at the speedboat, anchored to the jetty by a braided mooring line. Liam rubbed his chin.
“You say it disappeared and then suddenly came back?”
Micky McDermott nodded vigorously, barely shifting the vertical mass of hair on top of his head. Hair products had moved on since the Brylcreem of Liam’s youth.
“It was me who noticed it gone. Last Wednesday.”
Wednesday; it fitted their timeline.
“What time did you notice?”
“When I got home from school, ’bout six. I stay late on Wednesdays for science club.”
Liam nodded approvingly, picturing his son Rory building computers by the time he reached nursery. Both his children would be geniuses of course; it stood to reason with him as a dad.
“Who did you tell?”
The boy looked blank and then glanced at his brother as if he didn’t want to land him in a mess. Oisín nodded him on in a way that suggested he didn’t want to add lying to the police to his list of misdemeanours.
“Nobody. I…It’s happened before and Dad got mad.”
Oisín cut in. “I took the boat out overnight last summer without telling my dad.” A light blush coloured his cheeks and Liam knew immediately that there’d been a girl involved. “He grounded me for six weeks.” The lothario shrugged magnanimously. “It was fair enough. I scared them to death. Mum thought that I’d drowned.”
Liam grinned. “Trying to impress a young lady by any chance?”
The blush deepened. Liam turned back to his brother.
“So you thought Oisín had taken the boat again and you didn’t want to land him in it.”
Micky nodded.
“OK. So you noticed the boat gone at six o’clock last Wednesday. Tell me what you did for the rest of the night, including when you raised the alarm.”
The sixteen-year-old answered without hesitation. “I went in, had dinner, did my homework then watched TV before bed like I usually do. I didn’t tell anyone the boat had gone.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
“Ten. I had a try-out for the rugby team next morning, so I didn’t want to sleep in.”
Liam turned to look at the house. It was an impressive edifice with balconies on the upper floor. One of them overlooked the lake; it was too much to hope for that the room belonged to one of the boys. He was right; it was their parents’ bedroom.
“Where are your rooms?”
The brothers answered together. “At the back.”
“So you didn’t notice any activity on the lake late that night?”
Micky shook his head.
“And you didn’t see your brother so you didn’t realise that he hadn’t taken the boat?”
“No. He wasn’t up when I went to school on Thursday, so I couldn’t ask him. But I noticed the boat was still missing when I left for school at seven.”
Satisfied with the boy’s story, Liam turned to his dirty-stop-out elder brother.
“OK. Tell me where you were that night.”
Oisín screwed up his face, trying to recall. Then he smiled, remembering. “Party at the student’s union.”
“What subject are you studying?”
Whatever it was they obviously didn’t have morning lectures.
“Media studies.”
Liam smirked. Another budding Spielberg.
“OK. Tell me about Wednesday night and Thursday morning.”
The young man shrugged. “Partied at the union till three and then crashed at a mate’s. I didn’t get home till Thursday evening after lectures.”
Before Liam could ask, he volunteered the mate’s name. “Jackson Flood. He’ll vouch for me.”
He slipped his phone from his jeans and read out Flood’s number. “I didn’t even notice the boat had gone until Dad said.”
Micky chipped in. “I saw it wasn’t back when I came home after school on Thursday, but I still didn’t want to say anything till I saw Oisín. It was Dad who mentioned it first, about eight o’clock that night.”
Oisín nodded. “On Thursday evening, over dinner.” He looked aggrieved. “He asked me straight out if I’d taken it!”
As if. Liam urged him on.
“So you both said that you hadn’t. Then what?”
Micky cut in excitedly. “Dad got his binoculars and looked. It was floating in the middle of the lake. Dad and Oisín went out in the row boat and brought it in. It looked OK so Dad just assumed it’d got loose and floated out.”
Except that it hadn’t. Their killer had been clever. He’d dumped the Bwyes’ bodies, sailed back to their side of the lake and deliberately left the boat unmoored, knowing that it would float back out with the current. Liam took out his phone.
“Has anyone been in the boat since then?”
Both boys shook their heads. “It’s too cold.”
He smiled at their solidarity and hoped that his kids would grow up as close, then he called in the C.S.I.s as Oisín McDermott got his surprised father on the phone.
****
The brick mortuary was as cold as they’d expected but at least Mike’s office had working radiators. They sat on them gratefully until Craig had thawed out enough to speak.
“Diana Bwye. What did you find?”
Mike handed out hot drinks with a solemn look on his face.
“She had the ligature marks you saw around her neck, and two wounds, both gunshots. The first was to her left thigh, nasty and vascular; it explains the amount of blood we found in Bwye’s study. But that wasn’t her cause of death. What killed her was a second shot to the chest; straight through the heart. It’s hard to be accurate on time but I’d say that they were separated by less than half an hour. Both bullets were from the same weapon, a point 22 rifle.”
Andy was confused. “So what was the point of the ligature?”
Mike shrugged. “God only knows. She wasn’t strangled; whoever did it didn’t even break the hyoid bone. If I was being cynical I’d say they left the mark to throw us off track.”
Craig returned to the gunshots. “Were the wounds caused by Bwye’s weapon?”
“Probably. But until we get the gun we won’t know for sure. I’ve sent the bullets to Des.”
Craig sipped his coffee, feeling the sensation return to his hands.
“So she was dead
before she entered the water.”
“Definitely. There was no water in her lungs and no sign that she’d struggled to get free of the sack. There would have been plastic under her fingernails. In fact I don’t think she struggled at all. We would have found skin or blood under her nails if she’d fought her attacker, but there was nothing.”
Andy nodded. “If Bwye had battered her for years she might have given up fighting.”
Mike’s face saddened. “I’ve seen it happen before.”
“If she knew her attacker that might’ve made her less likely to run as well, hey.”
Craig’s voice was dull. “We could speculate forever. When we find them we’ll know. Anything else on her, Mike?”
“No. Just an ignominious end for a nice woman. Thank God she was dead before she hit the water; her husband’s fate was even worse.”
Craig glanced up from his drink. “How much worse?”
“A lot.”
“You got him out of the concrete?”
The pathologist nodded. “We scanned it at the hospital first so that we didn’t damage evidence, then we used ultrasound to shatter the shell at two points. Forensics are working on the pieces now but Des says it’s a concrete found in every DIY store.” He gave a brief smile. “Bright side. The body’s intact.”
Andy gave a low whistle. “This is a first for me. A concrete shell.”
Craig nodded. “It’s a first for all of us. You should write it up, Mike.”
He knew how excited scientists got about publishing unusual cases and this one was a doozy.
“I’m already planning to.” He glanced at Craig’s mug. “Drink up. What I have to tell you about Mr Bwye is best done where you can see him.”
Two minutes later they were staring at Oliver Bwye’s blue-white flesh and shivering so hard in the freezing morgue that Craig knew they’d all be the same colour soon. He gestured at the body.
“Make this quick.”
Mike obliged by inserting a probe through Bwye’s right flank, marking the path of a bullet.
“OK. You can see the gunshot wound in Bwye’s side. I’m sure the bullet will match the ones found in his wife. The wound is deep and the bullet nicked the liver, so there would have been considerable blood loss. I’d say that most of the blood in the study was his.”
“Presumably done to disable him. He’s big so they’d have needed him out of commission fast. It’s lucky the shot didn’t kill him; or did it?”
The pathologist shook his head emphatically. “Definitely not but I doubt that luck had anything to do with it. The wound would have been bloody painful but it wouldn’t have caused his immediate death; I think they planned it that way.”
Andy went to whistle again but blew out white air instead. “Someone with a knowledge of anatomy, then?”
“Or someone who could read a book and was a good shot. Either way, Bwye definitely wasn’t dead when they took him from the study.”
He paused and Craig knew what was coming. It was at moments like this that John would have taken off his glasses and wiped them on his coat. Mike made do with a grimace. “He wasn’t dead when they covered him in concrete either.”
Andy’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding! He was alive?”
“Very much so, judging by the scans. They showed that the concrete was thinner in the areas over his hands and feet, as if he’d tried to push and kick it away.” He swallowed hard. “There was also concrete in his lungs. He drowned in concrete.”
Craig pictured the image and shook his head. “Bwye was a big man. Why didn’t he fight harder?”
Mike lifted one of Oliver Bwye’s arms. There was a clear ligature mark around his wrist.
“There are similar marks around his ankles. I’d say he was shot and wounded badly enough to debilitate him and possibly render him unconscious, long enough to bind him and get him into the van. Then, when your killer realised they were leaving too much of a trail they decided to dispose of the bodies in the lake. They’d come prepared with the concrete and plastic sacks.”
“But not the stones.”
The other men stared at Craig, confused.
“They didn’t bring the stones that we found weighing down Diana Bwye; they came from the lake shore.”
“You’re sure?”
“I saw some identical lying there. Forensics will confirm it.”
Andy nodded, seeing where Craig was heading. “So…what? They hadn’t planned to kill Diana Bwye?”
“I don’t think so. I think Oliver Bwye was the target. We need to check if Mrs Bwye was expected to be at home that night. If they didn’t intend to kill her that might explain why they had to use the stones; they hadn’t brought enough concrete for both.”
Augustus shook his head sadly. “You’re saying that she needn’t have died. He only intended to kill Bwye, and torture him as well if his death is anything to go by.”
Craig nodded. “Oliver Bwye was the primary target and the sadistic method of killing points to real hatred. This wasn’t a random home invasion; this was well planned revenge.”
****
Annette stared through the custody cell peephole at Jane Bwye, while Julia did the same across the corridor at Richard McCann. They were a sorry pair. The girl’s eyes were red raw with crying and her husband was sitting with his head in his hands; his shoulders slumped as if he was carrying the worries of the world. Annette turned to Julia and rolled her eyes, dropping her voice to a whisper.
“What idiot put them so close together? They’ll have their story off pat.”
Julia nodded. They would interview them separately but it would be a waste of time now; they were sure to have been talking to each other through the cell doors. Fifteen minutes later the two inspectors were back in the staff room comparing notes.
Annette sighed. “Jane’s statement is practically identical to McCann’s, even though she cried all the way through.”
“About being in custody?”
Annette shook her head. “No. About her mum being dead. She’s really cut up.”
Julia sipped her tea and nodded. “He seems gutted as well; Diana Bwye was a popular lady. But he fits the ransom call; broad shoulders, west Belfast accent and all. He didn’t even disguise his voice when he rang. Arrogant or dim?”
Annette rose to her feet, not answering. She was focusing on the next step. “What do you say we have a go at them together? We can watch how they interact. It might tell us something.”
Julia gazed through the staff-room window at the increasingly heavy snow and pulled her jacket tightly around her.
“Anything that defers going out in that is fine by me. Lead on.”
Five minutes’ later they were in a warm, bright interview room with two bedraggled suspects and four hot drinks. Annette clicked on the tape and covered the formalities then she nodded politely for Julia to kick off. She began with Jane.
“Ms Bwye, or do you prefer Mrs McCann? Could you tell me exactly when you got married, please?”
Nice. She was establishing them as a pair.
Jane sniffed hard before answering and Annette reached into her handbag and handed a paper tissue across.
“The eighteenth of July. At Belfast City Hall.”
“And how long have you known each other?”
They watched as the girl smiled at her new husband and knew that if they hadn’t been there the smile would have been accompanied by a squeezed hand.
“Since we were children. From when Mrs McCann started work at Rocksbury.”
Richard McCann cut in. “We used to play together.” His green eyes narrowed. “But you already know all this so why are you wasting our time.”
Julia’s blue eyes narrowed to match. “I’m checking some facts, Mr McCann. Would you rather return to your cell? We can continue without you.”
Annette smiled inwardly as McCann leaned back in his chair, subdued. Julia continued calmly, looking at her notes.
“So you’ve been close for years and have
always done things together.”
A gentle underlining that what one said implicated the other now.
She turned suddenly to Jane. “How did you get on with your mother, Mrs McCann?”
Annette winced, waiting for the tears to flow again. To her surprise Jane merely sniffed.
“I love…loved my mother. She was the best woman I knew.”
McCann leapt to his wife’s defence, lurching so far forward that he almost hit Annette’s nose.
“They were always close. That bastard Bwye beat them both and Diana took most of it to protect Jane.”
Annette scraped back her chair and stood up. “Sit back, Mr McCann, or you’ll be returning to your cell.”
The young man looked bewildered for a moment, gazing first at her and then at his own position. He leaned back slowly and raised his hands in peace. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything. It’s just…” He gazed at his wife and finished the sentence in a weak voice. “Jane really loved her mum. So did I.”
Annette signalled to take over and retook her seat. “How long had Mrs Bwye known about your relationship?”
McCann nodded. “For years. She was happy for us. But…”
“But Mr Bwye wouldn’t have been if he’d found out.”
He shook his head. “He’d have cut Jane off without a penny.” He straightened up suddenly and Annette thought all that was missing was his chest being puffed out. “I didn’t care. I don’t want his stinking money, I never did.”
Jane placed a hand on top of his and shook her head. “Rick’s telling the truth. He never wanted my inheritance.” She jutted her chin out defiantly. “But I did; it would have given us a decent life and Mum wanted us to have it. She and I had suffered enough with that bastard; he owed us both.”
“You hated your father.”
It was a statement not a question. She hadn’t even asked how Oliver Bwye had died.
“I loathed him. He was a drunken, violent bully who ruined people’s lives, including my mother’s.”
Annette’s next question was slipped in; in a voice so soft that it caught the girl unawares. “Enough for her to kill him?”
The Sixth Estate (The Craig Crime Series) Page 23
