The Sixth Estate (The Craig Crime Series)

by Catriona King

“Do you know Diana Bwye well?”

  He stuck to the present tense; in theory no-one knew that the Bwyes were dead but his team, and he preferred it to stay that way.

  Niamh McDermott’s muffled voice emerged from the oven. “Yes, very. We’re on two committees together.”

  “May I ask which ones?”

  She closed the oven door and sprang athletically to her feet.

  “Sure. We’re on the committees for Vanquish Cancer and the local children’s learning fund. We’ve been fundraising for both of them for years.”

  Craig sipped his coffee and considered his next question carefully. The wrong words would tell her something was amiss with Diana Bwye, the right ones get her to open up. He needn’t have worried; Niamh McDermott did all the work for him. She stood opposite, scrutinising his face in a way that said she wasn’t admiring his bone structure.

  “Mr Craig, my husband may be one of life’s innocents but I’m not. I know something is wrong over at the Bwyes; I’ve seen all the activity there in the past few days.”

  Craig glanced at the door and she shook her head.

  “You needn’t worry. The boys don’t notice anything unless it’s wearing a football jersey or involves food, and Garvan is out of the house at seven and not back until seven at night; it’s been too dark for him to see what’s been going on.”

  She made herself a cup of tea. “I, on the other hand, am here all day and I’d have to be blind not to notice all the yellow tape and flashing lights.” She stared straight into his eyes. “Diana’s dead, isn’t she?”

  There was no point in lying. Craig set down his cup, prepared for fainting or hysterics when he answered, but half convinced that he wouldn’t see either from this feisty woman.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  There was silence for a moment while a range of expressions flew across Niamh McDermott’s face, then she nodded solemnly.

  “God rest her soul. She deserved some peace.”

  Craig nodded tentatively towards a window seat and they sat down. Niamh began talking and didn’t stop for breath, outlining what she knew of Diana’s unhappiness and the state of the Bwye’s marital less than bliss. When she’d finished, Craig topped up her drink and asked the question on both of their minds.

  “Do you think Oliver Bwye would ever have killed her? Or himself?”

  Niamh’s snort of derision was so sharp that Craig was sure her husband would hear and come running in. He didn’t, instead they heard a loud guffaw from Liam that suggested he and the McDermott males were enjoying some craic.

  “Kill his wife, definitely, but kill himself, never. Oliver Bwye’s a selfish pig.”

  “Not even if he was sick? To ensure he left his family financially secure in their home?”

  Her brown eyes widened as if she thought Craig was insane.

  “Well, first, Oliver Bwye was far too selfish to give up one minute of his life for anyone, and second, Rocksbury belonged to Diana; it was part of her trust fund. The only way they’d ever get thrown out would have been if she’d signed the estate into community property and Oliver had bankrupted them, and there was no way she could have done that, not even if she’d wanted to. The land and house have always passed down through the D’Arcy women; the next person to inherit it will be Jane, whether her father is alive or dead.”

  Craig’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Why hadn’t this shown up in Davy’s research? If it was true then it meant that Oliver Bwye’s financial risk taking wouldn’t have left his family out on the street, so why would he have needed a K&R insurance pay-out? Was it really all about his legacy? He found it hard to believe that a millionaire’s obituary in The Chronicle would matter if you were dead but he parked the queries for Davy and asked another question.

  “Did Jane know that she would inherit the estate?”

  Niamh head shook emphatically. “Definitely not. Diana wanted to tell her but Oliver threatened violence if she did. He wanted people to think that he owned everything, and he also wanted to keep Jane in line till she came into the trust he’d set up, at thirty. It was all about control.”

  “And Diana told you because…?”

  “Because she had to tell someone and we were close. She used to drive round here for coffee sometimes, when things got too much at home. And before you ask, yes, I knew that Oliver hit her. I asked her to take Jane and leave him many times, but she wouldn’t leave Rocksbury and he would never have agreed to go.”

  She paused for a moment before restarting. “I can tell you one thing, Superintendent. The beatings had been getting worse recently. Diana came to committee a few weeks ago with her arm in bandages. She said that she’d fallen off a ladder, but I knew that was rubbish.” Her face contorted in disgust. “The bastard slashed it.” She glanced at a knife block. “If any man laid a finger on me I’d stab them.”

  Craig didn’t doubt it.

  Her shoulders slumped. “But Diana wasn’t like me; she was the softest soul I’d ever met. She was very religious too, a strict Presbyterian. She believed that marriage was forever, whether your husband beat you or not. I think the charity work was her escape; the only thing that kept her going. That and her faith.”

  Tears filled her eyes and Craig’s next words were gentle. “It’s obviously a loss for you. Would you mind if I asked one last question?”

  She nodded him on.

  “Are you on the committee that Mrs Bwye was supposed to attend last Wednesday evening?”

  “Yes. It’s the fundraising committee for Vanquish Cancer. Diana never missed it because her mother died of the disease. I was surprised when she phoned in sick but I assumed that Oliver had hit her somewhere that she couldn’t cover this time.”

  He made a note to check with the people who’d seen Diana Bwye that day and then stood up, gazing down at her.

  “I’m sorry to have upset you, Mrs McDermott, but your answers have been very helpful.”

  She sniffed and shook her head. “Diana’s in a better place now. It’s Jane that I feel sorry for, left alone with that man.”

  He realised that she thought Oliver Bwye was still alive and decided to confide in her. “Oliver Bwye is dead as well. Although you must keep that to yourself.”

  Her eyes widened in shock and then she did what Craig had guessed she would do; she smiled.

  “Brilliant. I hope he died painfully.” Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “And before you even think it, there’s no way that Jane killed them. She’s as soft as Diana was and she would never ever have harmed her mum. They were inseparable.” She stared past him, distracted. “I must go and see her. She’ll be lost, poor wee pet.”

  Craig shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry, Mrs McDermott, but that will have to wait. This has to stay between us. If it gets out that the Bwyes are dead it could impede our investigation.”

  She jutted her chin out defiantly then saw the sense of what he’d said and nodded once. “I won’t say anything, not even to my family.” She wiped her eyes with a hankie and stood up briskly, giving a mischievous smile. “But you’ll have to make up some story about what we were discussing in here; my Garvan is a very jealous man.”

  ****

  Saturday. 6 a.m.

  Craig’s night had been spent tossing and turning, despite self-medicating heavily with beer. When he finally gave up trying to sleep and wandered downstairs, it was still only six a.m. He exited the foyer of the small hotel into its well planted gardens, and marvelled at how much snow had fallen overnight. Thank goodness they’d gathered the forensics from the lakeside before they’d lost evidence, although it looked like the divers were going to have another day from hell.

  His feet crunched down the driveway to the edge of the bordering fields and he stood there gazing across the grass, hands pushed deep into his pockets for warmth and thinking restless thoughts, only some of which were about the case. He’d been there for thirty minutes; listening to the birds sing and watching them leave pronged footprints in the snow, when the still wi
nter air was disturbed by a familiar voice.

  “You should have drunk McDermott’s whisky, boss. It might have helped your kip.”

  Craig didn’t turn, staring instead at a copse of trees and marvelling at how deep in the countryside they were.

  “Then I’d have a hangover like you.”

  Liam was close enough now for his voice to be a boom. “Hangovers are for wimps. I haven’t had a decent one in years.” He risked asking a question that he knew might bring no reply. “You thinking deep thoughts?”

  Craig turned, shaking his head. “Not deep, just puzzled. Niamh McDermott said some interesting things. And before you ask, they can wait for the briefing.” He turned to walk back to the hotel. “Is Andy up?”

  “No idea. We don’t sleep together, you know.”

  The retort that sprang to Craig’s mind was too un-PC to utter, so instead they walked to the dining room for breakfast, where he continued thinking and Liam bantered noisily with the other guests.

  ****

  8 a.m.

  “This will be short and sweet. Last night Liam and I went to see the McDermotts; the family across the lake who own the boat that we believe our killer used. Mrs McDermott had some particularly interesting things to say. It seems Rocksbury belonged solely to Diana Bwye. It formed part of the D’Arcy family trust and was always passed through the female line.”

  Annette cut in urgently. “Jane doesn’t know.”

  Craig raised an eyebrow. “Did you ask her?”

  “No, but it was obvious.” She paused, looking sheepish. “I’ll go back and ask the question just the same.”

  “Good. Mrs McDermott was also adamant that Oliver Bwye would never have killed himself. His wife yes, but not himself.”

  Liam interrupted. “That doesn’t stop him hiring someone to do it to him.”

  Craig nodded slowly. “No, it doesn’t. But she said he was too selfish to give up one minute of his life for anyone, so I presume death by any hand wouldn’t have been top of his list. Also, if his family didn’t need money to save their home it removes a financial motive for suicide.” Andy went to object but Craig pushed on. “I know what you’re going to say, Andy; they might still have needed money for the estate’s upkeep and Bwye leaving his family secure was only one possible motive; his ego and legacy were two more. For that reason I’m not discounting the theory that Bwye might have arranged his own death, and that his wife was just collateral damage. We’ll pursue it but I’m still not convinced. His death was too bloody; a professional hit man would have made it quick and clean.”

  Liam muttered under his breath. “Unless one of Bwye’s enemies hired him to make Bwye suffer.”

  Craig nodded but parked the point for later.

  Annette frowned. “So what else could explain things?”

  “I’m still working on that. Niamh McDermott also said that it was very unlike Diana Bwye not to attend her fundraising meeting that Wednesday night. She’d phoned to say she was sick and couldn’t attend and Mrs McDermott attributed it to her suffering some injury at her husband’s hand that she couldn’t hide. Annette, Julia and Gerry, check that with Jane, the cook, Bernadette Ross and any of the other staff you can think of, plus ask Diana’s friend Stephanie Crewe. If Diana Bwye had obvious injuries that Wednesday somebody must have seen them. We’re probably talking about her face or hands, although I’m already convinced their answers will be no, given that no such injuries were seen post mortem.”

  Annette shook her head. “That doesn’t mean she couldn’t have faked a visible injury for their benefit. It’s easy enough to mimic bruises with make-up.”

  “Why would she fake it? She’d never missed a meeting before.” He carried on. “But we’ll find out when we ask. If the answer’s yes then the next question is, why fake it, unless she specifically wanted to stay home that evening for some reason, and that opens a whole new theory with Diana Bwye at the centre.”

  He turned to see Davy frowning.

  “I was just starting on Diana Bwye’s family trust, so I hadn’t got to w…what it contained yet. But doesn’t it seem s…strange that no-one else mentioned she owned the house? Especially Bernadette Ross if she knew Bwye’s business.”

  Craig nodded as the others murmured to themselves. “It’s a glaring omission as far as I’m concerned. Check everything out with the family solicitor, and the trust solicitors as well. Andy, I want you to focus on the van and the forensics on the boat please, and keep checking on the divers. I want that gun.” He turned, to see Liam still muttering. “Liam, you and Davy work up the list of enemies Lawton gave us. The rest of you, I want you to go back to the family and staff members and raise the subject of the estate’s ownership, obliquely, but watch their faces. I want to know who knew about the female inheritance line and who didn’t. Pay particular attention to the McCanns, Bernadette Ross and Jane Bwye. If someone knew about this and could have told Jane, no matter how accidentally, we need to know.” He got ready to leave. “I’m going to the lab and then on to Belfast. Nicky called last night about the Greer case so I need to check on things there, and see Cameron Lawton. I’m meeting the C.C. at headquarters this afternoon so I won’t be back till five o’clock. You all know what you need to get on with.”

  Liam considered having a moan but cracked a joke instead.

  “And if the boss can’t get back up the Pass, we’ll hold the briefing in the bar at six.”

  Cha

  pter Sixteen

  11.30 a.m.

  Craig’s morning had been a waste of time; he just hoped that his team was doing better. He’d been back to the Northwest Path lab to see Mike but none of his answers had changed. Dead bodies were stubborn like that. Both the Bwyes had gunshot wounds but until they found the Ruger they could have been from any of the rifles in the province. So many country men in so few miles.

  He’d arrived at the lab in a grumpy mood and left the same way. The icy drive to Belfast had honed it to an anger that hadn’t been helped by the sights that had greeted him when he’d entered the C.C.U. Nicky was painting her nails to the sound of John Legend and Jake was spinning round in his chair throwing paper balls into a bin. OK, it was the weekend, but they were still getting paid to work. The worst of it was that neither of them stopped when he arrived.

  He hit the off button on the CD player and glared around the floor, wondering where everyone was. After a moment he realised he’d seconded everyone else but Ken to Derry, and given that the army was paying him he’d probably decided to have a weekend morning lie-in. Nicky stared at her silent CD and then at Craig’s face, on countdown to the explosion that looked like it was coming next. Before it did she squeaked in indignation.

  “I was listening to that…sir.”

  “You’re supposed to be working.” He swung round to face Jake. “Both of you! And when’s Ken gracing us with his presence?”

  Nicky rose and Craig noticed she was dressed like a latter day Stevie Nicks; this week’s fashion adventure was obviously the ’70s. She drew herself up to her full five-feet-three.

  “What do you think we’ve been doing all week while you lot have been gallivanting in the wilds?” Without waiting for an answer she waved at a tower of files. “That’s what we’ve been doing. Every file on the Greer case has been read, checked and categorised, ready for you to write your report for the appeal.” She grabbed a document from her desk and waved it at him. “Jake’s even had a go at the first draft because he knew how busy you were.”

  She could see a faint blush of embarrassment rising on Craig’s cheeks so she emerged from behind her desk, pressing her advantage. The document became a pointer and its target this time was Jake.

  “He’s worked ten hours every day; reading and highlighting.”

  The hundreds of luminous green and red stickers protruding from the tilting tower emphasised her point.

  “Ken’s helped too but he’s been called to the base today. And I’ve been making calls, lining up people you might want
to re-interview after Christmas and I’ve…and…”

  Craig could see that her ire was about to turn into something else, the glistening in her eyes warning him that he’d better eat his words very fast.

  She gestured towards the corner and a large silver Christmas tree that he’d failed to notice came into focus, the pile of carefully wrapped parcels at its foot saying that while he’d been yelling at everyone in Derry, she’d been preparing a welcome home for them all.

  Nicky got her second wind.

  “…and now you come waltzing in here, barking because we’re taking a ten minute break!” She folded her arms defiantly. “Well, sir, you can just waltz right back out again!”

  She sat down with a thud as Jake stared first at her face and then at Craig’s, uncertain what to say. He decided that solidarity was the answer and folded his arms as well.

  Craig ran through a gamut of emotions. Anger, because that seemed to be his default setting these days with everyone, although this time it had a different target; himself. Anger also that they’d made so much progress with Greer when his murder case seemed to be going into reverse. It was irrational and petty and he knew it, but no-one had ever said that anger was highly evolved.

  There was shame in the mix as well. Shame for shouting and shame for his assumption that they’d been lazy, when he’d never seen laziness from either one. Then more shame that it was almost Christmas, a time of year he loved, and yet he hadn’t given a thought to presents for anyone.

  For once in his life the normally rational detective didn’t know what to do. Anger alone would have triggered a fiery outburst; God knows he’d had plenty of those before and Nicky usually just shrugged and made him a coffee. Add shame to the anger and it would usually have triggered an apology to the undeserving object of his ire, but this time the combination was simply too much for him and Craig could feel tears pricking at his eyes. He was about to cry like a kid! What the hell?