Down on Cyprus Avenue

by Paul Charles

  “Give me ten minutes for a quick shower,” he shouted back to his colleague.

  “For the sake of hygiene I can give you three. We’re in a hurry McCusker.”

  “Why?” he asked as he turned on his shower.

  “Someone just delivered a pint of blood and a disposable camera to O’Neill’s doorstep.”

  Seven minutes later a freshly showered and dressed – like he was off on a date – McCusker was speeding in the direction of the Custom House. Actually, O’Carroll was doing all the speeding and McCusker was trying desperately hard not to spill any of his hardly touched coffee over his fresh set of clothes.

  The fact that McCusker was shocked about the pint of blood seemed to permit O’Carroll to be equally shocked, having initially appeared a bit flippant about it. They discussed whether or not a whole pint of blood would be deemed a big loss to the human body.

  “Well if they were like me, when I gave my pint, a three-minute rest, a cup of tea and a wee digestive bickey was all it took to get me back on my feet again,” McCusker admitted.

  O’Carroll wondered if the captors had taken half a pint from each of them.

  “There would be no need,” McCusker offered. “Once they started with one they’d have drawn the whole pint.”

  “So we’re looking for someone with medical experience?”

  “Or someone who watches a lot of E.R. or Grey’s Anatomy,” McCusker replied.

  “Or House,” O’Carroll added, “now there’s a man...”

  Station duty sergeant Matt Devine raced out to meet them with, as prearranged by O’Carroll, a report and a set of photo prints.

  “We don’t think it’s real blood,” he said, as he exchanged said items for McCusker’s coffee. “It’s effing cold!” he could be heard shouting as they screeched off in the direction of Lisburn Road en route to Malone Park.

  “I wonder, did the skipper mean the suspected blood or the coffee?” McCusker laughed, as he started to check the photos. “Four shots, two with each of the boys holding a copy of yesterday’s Belfast Telegraph.”

  “Any bruises?” O’Carroll asked, eyes glued to the road.

  “No, they seem to look okay, considering.”

  “How are they dressed?”

  “Black hoodie sweats.”

  “Are they restrained?” O’Carroll asked.

  “Yep, plastic cuffs,” McCusker confirmed. “Tell me this: Was there a ransom note delivered with the blood and photos?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who discovered them and where?”

  “Their mother found them on the doorstep at 6 a.m. this morning. She rang the station immediately – Matt Devine woke me up.”

  “Lucky me,” McCusker offered, still studying the photographs.

  “Oh don’t worry, I’d say after your cold coffee trick this morning, you’ll be on the early morning and later night roster for a few weeks at least,” she sneered.

  “Surely the milk wouldn’t have been delivered by 6 a.m.?” McCusker said, as much to himself as her.

  “Your point?”

  “Why would Mrs O’Neill have gone out to collect the milk so early?”

  “Oh, McCusker, people like the O’Neills do not have their milk delivered in bottles and left on the front doorstep. We’re talking about Malone Park for heaven’s sake. And even if they did, they’d have people who would go out and collect the milk from the steps for them. No, she said she always gets up early and the first thing she does is take her dog out for a walk. And here we are,” O’Carroll said, as she semi-carefully parked her car in the O’Neill’s drive.

  “Does her husband know?”

  “No, she said he sleeps in on Saturdays, on top of which she didn’t want him stopping her giving the blood and camera to us.”

  “It’s a prank,” were the first words out of James O’Neill’s large mouth. “Look, you’ve already admitted that the blood is fake, flat rasberryade, no doubt. Come on, please couldn’t someone be a little bit more inventive than that? I mean, at least pig’s blood would have got us all going.”

  “And the photos?” his wife asked.

  “Shows they’re fans of the Belfast Telegraph. This is all kindergarten stuff, compared to what we used to get up to in Rag Week.”

  At which point his wife ran from the very formal sitting room in tears.

  O’Carroll gave chase.

  “Oh let her wallow,” was O’Neill’s only remark as he turned his back on the detectives.

  “I should advise you that we’re treating this matter seriously sir,” McCusker said and, before laughing-boy O’Neill could retort, he continued, “and just so that you’re aware, Superintendent Larkin has also been apprised of the situation.”

  “Makes no difference to me if it’s two or three bobbies I put back on the beat,” he boasted. “Perhaps you should further apprise Niall that at the next Council meeting at the City Hall I intend to mention that tax payer’s good money is being wasted by the PSNI on foolhardy investigations.”

  “Please look at the photos again sir, you can see clearly that they are both being restrained?” McCusker persisted.

  “Where did the photos come from? Surely there is a computer trail – who took them? Who developed them, etc., etc.? I thought absolutely everything could be traced these days?” O’Neill asked, seeming to backtrack a little.

  “Actually, they were very clever with the photos. The captors...” McCusker said and paused – he felt it was important to get the word “captors” into James O’Neill’s consciousness, “…the captors used a disposable camera, thereby avoiding the usual trail.”

  “Were there any fingerprints on the actual camera?” O’Neill continued.

  “Just one set, sir,” McCusker replied

  “Well there you go, there’s your lead.”

  “I’d bet we’ll find nothing but your wife’s prints on the camera, sir. They’re not going to be clever enough to use a disposable camera and then not wear gloves when they’re using it,” McCusker surmised.

  Just then O’Carroll returned to the room, she walked confidently up to James O’Neill.

  “I believe you’re going to get a call very shortly demanding a ransom,” she said, her voice steady and calm. “What I’d like to do is to set up our specialist team in here so that when the call comes we can assist you.”

  “What I’d like you to do is to remember you are trespassing on my property and I’d like you out of here immediately. If there is a situation to deal with, and I’m still not convinced that there is, I can assure you my people will deal with it. If I see you lurking around embarrassing me in front of my neighbours I’ll be on to your super quicker than a rat up a drainpipe.” Now McCusker came to think about it, O’Neill had a few things in common with the murinae family other than the ability to nip up a drainpipe quickly.

  As McCusker and O’Carroll drove back to the Custom House with their collective tail between their legs McCusker broke the silence: “Well it’s worthwhile remembering that even though Jesus could walk on water he still couldn’t avoid getting his feet wet.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that even though laughing-boy O’Neill thinks he’s the great ‘I am,’ he still has to go to the toilet and he still has to clean his own arse.”

  “Oh McCusker, you’ve just ruined my lunch. T.M.I.”

  “T.M.I?”

  “Too much information,” she replied, and then after another minute of silence as they drove up Waring Street, she added, “There’s something that doesn’t quite fit here.”

  “You mean with Laughing Boy?”

  “Yeah. You just don’t alienate the police if there is the slightest chance your two boys have been kidnapped.”

  “His wife’s two boys,” McCusker offered, feeling compelled to correct her.

  “Even so, she’s still his wife. There’s bound to be some kind of paternal instinct there, don’t you think?”

  “So what are you thinking? He stages the kidnap
ping to raise the money? Is his business in trouble?” McCusker asked, writing something down in his notebook.

  “O’Electronics? Surely not – one of the biggest success stories in the province.”

  “Well, just pick up the Irish Times and you’ll see lots of supposedly blue chip companies having to be bailed out by NAMA,” McCusker said, feeling very comfortable with this line of thought. “Would the sons be insured?”

  O’Carroll suddenly went ghost white.

  “What?” McCusker asked; she was frightening him now.

  “I was just asking myself would they be worth more dead or alive.”

  Chapter Eight

  The remainder of the Saturday was spent following up various leads. As predicted, Polly O’Neill’s prints were the only ones found on the disposable camera and the milk bottle, which, as predicted by James O’Neill, had in fact been filled with flat raspberryade.

  The last sighting of Ryan and Lawrence O’Neill had been on the Monday afternoon at the meeting with the solicitor Pat Tepper. Their regular eateries seemed to be Café Conor and Deanes at Queen’s, but the last time they’d been seen there was on the Saturday. They didn’t have a favourite pub or club. They apparently regularly used BAGEL: a bagel, coffee bar, soup and sandwich joint on Donegall Street, a very short walk from their Saint Anne’s Square apartment, but they hadn’t been in there for over a week, which, on consideration, appeared to surprise the staff a little. They preferred DVDs to going to the cinema. Ryan read a lot, mostly magazines, newspapers, and non-fiction books, while Lawrence apparently lived by the computer screen. Their local corner shop was Sandy Ford Food and the owners checked their memories and their security camera tapes (which were subsequently confiscated by PSNI), both agreeing that the boys had last been seen on Saturday, only this time in the morning – 7.57 a.m. to be exact. Their purchases, always paid for separately, were a copy of the Daily Telegraph, an Autosport magazine, milk, eggs, beans, wheaten bread, and Alpen for Ryan, and Jacob’s Mikado biscuits, several bars of chocolate, and a tin of pears for Lawrence. There were no reported sightings at The George Best or International airports, or at the docks of either Belfast or Stranraer.

  Their mother confirmed that both were keen on Formula One motor racing but would only occasionally visit the races in person and, as far as she knew, then only to Silverstone in England and Spa in Belgium. She further claimed they both supported “Jason Button,” who in fact turned out to be Jenson Button, whom DI O’Carroll voiced more than a passing interest in. The brothers didn’t bother with football, rugby, or cricket; both had been keen long-distance runners through school and university. As far as she knew they both jogged regularly. “Lawrence’s only exercise and exposure to fresh air,” she claimed.

  “Really, the perfect couple to kidnap,” McCusker claimed, as he and DI O’Carroll exited the Custom House at 7.30 p.m.

  “I suppose,” O’Carroll replied, appearing distracted. “So what are you up to tonight?”

  “If I hadn’t been working today I was going to pop back up to the Port to take care of a few bits and pieces.”

  “So what is it you need to do up there?” O’Carroll inquired. “Okay, let’s see now,” McCusker started, knowing that she was just trying to find out more about him and his previous life. “Well for one, I’d visit 55° North, the restaurant with the best burger and the best view in the North.

  “Two, I’d walk around Barry’s Arcade to get energised once again by the buzz and the sheer wall of noise.

  “Three, I’d go for a walk on the beach,” McCusker continued, omitting the fact that walking on the East Strand beach up at the Port was one of his favourite things to do.

  Sometimes he’d have to walk at 120° to the horizontal to counter the force of the wind, which frequently was of such a force he’d be scared of being blown over flat on his back. At the very least the power of the wind would suffice to quite literally blow all the cobwebs from his brain. He found his walks to be totally invigorating, delightfully indulgent, especially in the morning when the East Strand beach was completely empty. Even if his work dictated another time of the day, the noise of the waves trying in vain to wear down the sands would wash away all the sounds of his fellow beach-walkers.

  “Pretty self-indulgent so far,” O’Carroll observed, but looked like she was trying really hard not to come off as too judgemental.

  “Okay,” McCusker replied, realising she was not going to stop with her probing until he gave something away. Either that or she was looking for an excuse to swap some of her personal information with him. “Where was I?”

  “You got up to item number three but, as far as I’m concerned there’s been none so far worth troubling yourself with a drive up to Portrush over,” she continued.

  “Well there you go, garages,” McCusker offered.

  “Where did you get the garage from?” she asked, appearing to be amused by his thought process.

  “Well, simple really, I talked about driving up to the Port, a drive implied a car and a car implied a garage, and then that garage implied another garage, so, don’t you see, really I should have said garages.”

  “Garages?”

  “I better explain,” McCusker offered.

  “That’ll be helpful,” she replied and added as an afterthought, “hopefully.”

  “I’ve got most of my previous life packed away in boxes. My friend Matt McCann, who is a bit of a hoarder himself, has all my boxes neatly lined up in his garage. I’m feeling a bit guilty because I know for a fact that I’m never ever going to open those boxes again, let alone examine the contents. So the reality is that all the boxes are on a one-stop to the new Recycling Centre on Causeway Street.”

  “Would they be similar boxes to the one you have in the hallway cupboard in your flat?” she asked, appearing to have regretted leading him into this line of conversation.

  “Yeah, only that box contains all my parent’s stuff, so I do want to keep that one safe.”

  “What’s in it?” she asked, appearing intrigued again.

  “You know what, it’s so long since I looked that I don’t rightly know,” McCusker admitted.

  “And you’re never tempted to just look?”

  “Never,” he said with such a degree of finality O’Carroll knew she shouldn’t try to dig any deeper into that one. But dig she did.

  “So it would be stuff from your school days?”

  “No, it would be stuff that my parents felt a need to keep,” he admitted.

  “What do you remember from your childhood McCusker?”

  “Well there’s a funny thing,” he started with a sad smile, “none of my childhood memories are my own, all the ones I have are ones my mother would have told me.”

  “Weird, just weird,” she said, looking like she was still intrigued and itching to dig further. "So that’s four, dump your boxes, what else would you need to do up at the Port?”

  “Okay at the same time as I’m relieving Matt of my boxes in his garage, I’d solve another problem: namely what to do with my golf clubs. I’ve decided to give them to Matt as a thank you for helping me out when…ah…,” he muttered for a bit before finishing with, “and for storing some of my stuff for me.”

  Either O’Carroll had just missed the gift of an opening into his private life or she felt she didn’t want to put him through the pain again, either way she let him away with nothing more than, “You better think carefully about that McCusker.”

  “And why’s that?” McCusker asked.

  “Well wee Rory dumped his trusted clubs and look how long it’s taking him to get his game back up to scratch again.”

  Meanwhile McCusker was wondering if he really needed to nip up to the Port. He realised that people, such as himself for instance, wanted to have somewhere else they could simply go. Somewhere ‘else’ they’d have that would suggest to people around them, O’Carroll for instance, that there was somewhere else they needed to be to conduct some business or other. Thereby he woul
d be suggesting that his spartan Belfast existence was not all that was going on in his life. He knew that people needed a bit of a mystery in their lives, and equally he knew that people, such as O’Carroll for instance, needed others in their lives, like him, to have their own mysteries going on. It was vitally important for both parties that neither party be just an open book. But, truth be told, there just wasn’t anything else major going on in McCusker’s life. O’Carroll had once muttered about him being a good man in a world of few good men. McCusker took her words not as much as a compliment but more as a reflection on the other men in her life. McCusker felt he knew better about himself, and was more aware of what he considered the biggest failure in his personal life. That very same failure was also one of the reasons why he really wasn’t in a hurry to visit Portrush. He found it a lot easier not to think of his failure when he wasn’t in Portrush.

  “Come on McCusker, what else do you have to do when you’re up there?” O’Carroll quizzed. “Is there a woman you’re not telling me about?”

  McCusker just laughed and then said, quietly, “Ah that would be a no to that one. Tell you what though, just before I left I sold my car to a garage.”

  “The other garage?” O’Carroll guessed.

  “Yes indeed, the other garage,” McCusker confirmed.

  “Okay, and this car you sold,” she probed, “how does that fit into your visit?”

  “I’ve still got a grand to pick up on it.”

  “O-kay!” O’Carroll said triumphantly, as if she’d discovered the real reason at last. “Now that’s the first valid reason you’ve given me for going up to the Port.”

  “Not to mention the rainbows.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You’re a bit short on rainbows down here in Belfast; we had great rainbows up in Portrush. I’d like to see a rainbow again.”

  “Sure it’s still early, it wouldn’t take you long to get up to Portrush would it?”

  “About an hour and a half, but I prefer to travel when it’s not too dark. The journey passes much quicker when you can enjoy the sights,” McCusker replied.