Down on Cyprus Avenue

by Paul Charles

  “Sights like rainbows?” she said through a genuine smile.

  “Sights like rainbows,” he nodded, “and yourself? What are you up to tonight?”

  O’Carroll stopped and looked at McCusker. He, as a recently separated man in a strange city, knew that look; it was the look of pity. A look he hated.

  “I’m out with my fella. Sorry McCusker, we’d invite you along but we’re taking my sister out on a blind date with someone my fella went to University with. A fivesome wouldn’t really work, you know?”

  “So it’s serious, you and this man of yours?” McCusker asked, totally ignoring her awkward moment.

  “I hope so,” she said, slightly hesitantly and starting to walk again, this time at more of a stroll and in a slightly different direction. She continued talking about her relatively new boyfriend and McCusker followed her lead. A few minutes later they arrived at McHugh’s Bar & Restaurant. “A pint of Guinness again?”

  “Aye, go on then.”

  The Saturday night crowd were obviously still at their preening-in-front-of-the-mirror stage, so he found them a place to sit easily enough.

  McCusker looked around the room, pausing on a few of the faces before eventually returning to O’Carroll resting on the bar. He’d never really studied her carefully before; well, he didn’t with colleagues. She had brown hair worn securely clasped up and out of her way, was slim, about 5’ 8” in her black comfortable Converse trainers. She hid her femininity well in her masculine pinstripe suits – today’s was dark blue – and polo-neck cashmere jumpers – today’s was red – but her femininity was there, maybe not screaming, but most definitely whispering to get out.

  Three minutes later she walked over and placed their two proud pints on the table between them.

  “Jeez that was great! But that’s me bluttered for the night drink-wise. Aye, but after today I needed it,” she said, contentedly after her first sip. “Can I give you a tip McCusker?”

  “Go on,” McCusker said, thinking that bluttered was a great word – descriptive but not rude.

  “It’s only the first time you catch a woman’s eye that you can smile.”

  “Sorry?” he said, stopping short of his first sip.

  “I was watching you from the bar and that woman over there, the good looking one with the blonde French bob hairstyle?”

  “Yes?” McCusker said, now intrigued where this was going.

  “Well, it was fine to smile at her the first time your eyes met, but you must not be seen to be smiling if she should ever look back.”

  “Right,” he said, a smile creeping across his face. Part of him felt that he should be annoyed, but it was overshadowed by his gratitude for the advice. “Any other tips?” he said, only half in jest.

  “Yeah, and this is important – even if you’re not looking for a woman, put a bit of fake tan on the band of white skin on your wedding ring finger. The type of girls you may someday wish to meet will just think you’re an auld married man who’s out on the prowl and they’ll totally ignore you, thinking you’ve just taken the ring off for the night.”

  “Right...and the other type of girls?”

  “Believe you me, you don’t want to know about them at all.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “You’re a total innocent McCusker,” she said, smiling gently at him, a side of her he’d never seen before. “They’ll eat you up and spit you out!”

  “Perhaps not the best choice of words?” he said, as he tore into his Guinness.

  “You’re only saying that because I said you were an innocent,” she countered, the gentleness disappearing quicker than it had arrived. “What happened with you and your ex?”

  “You mean you don’t know?” McCusker asked, thinking the whole station house would know about his situation.

  “I just heard that because of the recession you were no longer a Robert. That you’d accepted the retirement package but because of the recession had to un-retire and came back as a Yellow Pack.”

  “A Yellow Pack?” McCusker quizzed, clearly amused by her turn of phrase.

  “Yeah, you know in Tesco supermarkets they do cheaper versions on all the big household brands and all these cheaper versions are in Yellow packaging, so, that’s what we call the agency cops,” she replied not showing the slightest embarrassment. “Anyway I only became aware of your marital status when Pat Tepper pointed out your missing wedding ring.”

  “Okay, okay, long story short. I wasn’t a great husband. My wife was a golfing widow. I’d been planning my retirement for ages, building up my nest egg with a few properties and banking on the bonus the Lord Patten Reform was offering for early voluntary retirement. All the properties were in my wife’s name to minimise our tax liabilities. My wife obviously felt that I was going to be on the golf course even more in retirement than when I was working. So, quite literally, as I was processing my retirement she was liquidating all my, sorry, make that all of our, assets. Obviously our properties weren’t worth what they would have been a few years ago but, at that, they were still worth a hell of a lot more than what we bought them for. She arose, took up the bank balance and walked.”

  “Did youse have a big fight?”

  “No never. She left no note, no letter; there was no screaming, no fighting, and no solicitors. If it wasn’t for the empty space on her side of the bed I’d be forgiven for thinking I’d never even been married. She’d even sold the house we were living in and rented it back for a few months from the new owner, without telling me. The only thing she didn’t take was my pension and my not-so-wee Lord Patten nest egg.”

  “But not enough to live on for the rest of your life?” she said, as though she’d considered the option herself.

  “Well that’s the £64,000 question isn’t it – how long are we going to live and do we have enough money to see us through to the end of our lives?” McCusker said, with the weariness of a man who looked like he’d toiled over the equation on a mental calculator for many a long hour.

  “Where is she now?”

  “I really don’t know,” he admitted.

  “You really don’t know?”

  “Well she has a sister who lives somewhere in America and they were always tight.”

  “Where in America?” she asked.

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “McCusker?”

  “I haven’t!”

  “But don’t you want your money? Or at least half of it?”

  “You know, I’m not even sure that what she did was illegal, and I’ve only myself to blame. We married young, very young and…”

  “Did you love her?” she asked.

  “I’ve come to realise that I didn’t.”

  “Never?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Did you ever cheat on her?”

  “No, never,” he said, without a moment’s hesitation.

  “So you’ve only ever been with one woman?”

  “Well, there’s been the odd donkey.”

  “It would have to have been very odd to let a culchie like you near it,” she laughed. “I’ll take that as a no then.”

  “Just because I’m from Portrush doesn’t mean than I’m a culchie.”

  “Did she cheat on you?”

  “The donkey or the wife.”

  She just glared at him.

  “I don’t believe so,” he eventually admitted.

  “Jeez!” she sighed. “I think I’m going to need another Guinness after that.”

  McCusker rose quicker than a homesick angel and walked over to the bar, purposely avoiding eye contact with the woman with the blonde hair, snow-white skin, and Ferrari-red lips.

  Five minutes later he made his way back through the busier, noisier bar with two white tops.

  “So you obviously wanted to get out of Portrush?” she continued, as though there’d been no break in their conversation.

  “No,” he admitted, eyeing his Guinness intently, “I’d have preferred to s
tay there but my replacement had already started. I thought about it long and hard and decided this: being a policeman is the only thing I can do. I enjoy being a policeman, I really do. My super up in Portrush, who is a good mate, rang around a few of his mates and Superintendent Larkin recommended Grafton, a recruitment agency just across the square from the Custom House, and within a week they’d found me a position on the detective side in the Custom House.”

  “So you’re not a detective inspector?” she said, matter of fact.

  “Just plain McCusker, thanks.”

  They both drank in silence for a few moments before McCusker ventured, “Have you ever been married, Inspector O’Carroll?”

  “Lily’s good when we’re off duty, and no I haven’t. Been close a few times,” she offered through a regretful laugh, “but as you well know, having a life and being a member of PSNI just don’t go together.”

  “But you are hopeful about the new man?” McCusker asked, noting that most of the Belfast police officers tend to pronounce the name of their force as “PS-Nigh”.

  “Well, I’ve discovered to my cost that single people rarely connect with single people who are looking for people – so they are mostly attracted to people already in relationships.”

  “You don’t mean he’s married?”

  “No of course not!” she half laughed. “I can’t believe I’m telling you all of this – it’s just that he…well, let’s just say there seems to be someone else waiting in the wings who he seems to be having a hard time getting rid of.”

  As they were leaving McHugh’s she said that, as she was running a bit late, she would return to the bar, visit the ladies and freshen up before going straight out on her date. McCusker offered to wait with her.

  “No, I’ll be fine,” she said rubbing his arm affectionately, “you scoot off now, I’ll be fine. Toodaloo.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday morning, same thing happened as Saturday morning; O’Carroll picked McCusker up at his flat early with an announcement on his door buzzer: “There’s been a ransom note.”

  Belfast on a Sunday morning is one of the quietest cities in the world. McCusker based this thought on his time in Derry, Portrush, and his infrequent golfing trips to various exotic locations in the warmer parts of Europe. Most cities seemed to be quieter on Sunday mornings but Belfast positively languished in it. It was like a ghost town. As they drove past the stately Queen’s University Lanyon building, McCusker would not have been surprised to have been confronted by balls of tumbleweed rolling down University Road.

  “So, talk to me about golf McCusker – after all those years you must soon be ready to take on Rory McIlroy,” O’Carroll started, as she sped through the streets.

  “Actually, when Anna Stringer left, I realised I didn’t even like it,” he replied. McCusker didn’t really mind having such conversations over a quiet drink in the evening, but he much preferred to talk about, and consider, current cases during the day.

  “Who’s Anna Stringer?”

  “She was my wife.”

  “That’s a weird way to address your wife.?”

  McCusker ignored her – he didn’t want to get into it now. “So what’s the story with Polly O’Neill this morning?” McCusker asked, not even attempting to find a subtle way to change the conversation.

  “Right, so...” O’Carroll replied, appearing equally happy to move the conversation back to their work, “as she was preparing for her early morning walk she found a foolscap sheet of paper had been dropped through her letterbox.”

  “Handwritten?”

  “In your dreams McCusker!” she laughed. “Cut and paste from newspapers and magazines.”

  “And the gist?”

  “The gist was something like: ‘We have your boys in separate locations. Prepare £999,950 for Monday delivery – to be advised. Do not involve police. We will kill.’ End of message.”

  “Fifty quid short of a million...that’s strange, isn’t it. Any more photos?”

  “No photos, just the short and sweet message,” O’Carroll replied. “I was going to check kidnapping insurance policies to see if the system is easier if the ransom is under a million pounds.”

  “Fair point, and you’d have to think a distinct possibility. What about the father – what’s his take on the new development?”

  “Polly said he wasn’t up yet and she didn’t want to wake him because he won’t allow her to involve us.”

  “Well, Ryan and Lawrence’s lives are clearly in danger. The super will allow us to investigate,” McCusker said, as they pulled into Malone Park. “The kidnappers are clever. They’re not getting involved in any direct discussions or negotiations and by stating the boys are in separate locations they are insinuating that if we find one, the other will be killed.”

  “Do you think there is any chance that they are monitoring this house?” O’Carroll said, suddenly becoming very self-conscious.

  “Good point,” McCusker said, straining his neck in every direction possible. “Just pull in to the side of the road. You wait here.”

  Even for a policeman, if you imagine there are men hiding in trees, then you most certainly twitch at every rustle of every leaf in every bush. If you imagine men with binoculars to be lying on rooftops, then every rook shadow and squawk cannot fail to provoke a double-take.

  McCusker walked up the entire length of Malone Park and down the other side, and after he was convinced no one was overtly monitoring O’Neill’s house he directed O’Carroll into the driveway through the perfectly manicured lawn. Once again Mrs O’Neill beat them to the punch by opening the door before they’d a chance to ring the bell.

  She presented the ransom note to O’Carroll, who was already gloved up. McCusker would have bet a month’s pension on the fact they’d find no fingerprints or other incriminating evidence on or about the page.

  “I can’t let you keep it,” Polly O’Neill whispered, “even with this he’ll still be saying I’m stupid, to anyone who will listen.”

  “What time did you discover it?” McCusker asked.

  “6.20 this morning.”

  “What time did you go to bed?” McCusker continued.

  “About half past midnight.”

  No wonder you’re so thin and stressed, McCusker thought as he said, “And the note wasn’t here then?”

  “Definitely not,” she replied, looking like she desperately wanted to be able to help the police. “I’d a quick look before I double-bolted the door on my way up to bed and it most certainly wasn’t here then.”

  If they had been allowed, the detectives would have taken the note back to the Custom House and within six hours the independent forensics department would have identified which publications the cut-out letters had come from, the make of the paper and possible points of purchase, and the type of glue used to secure the lettering to the page.

  McCusker had to admit to himself that the final line of the note, “We Will Kill,” was much more dramatic and threatening on the page than when O’Carroll had recalled the words to him.

  They heard movements upstairs. Polly reacted like a deer alerted by the snapping of a distant twig in a forest. Her head nearly managed a complete 360 degrees in two quick movements. She speedily tore the note from O’Carroll’s grasp, hopped back into the hallway, and closed the door in one beautiful unchoreographed movement.

  “So what can we do?” O’Carroll asked when they were back in her feisty Mégane.

  “We can continue our investigation,” McCusker started, and retreated to thought for a few moments. “Or we put the house under twenty-four-hour surveillance, whether we embarrass Mr O’Neill in front of his neighbours or not, knowing that at some point either James or Polly is going to take the million – minus fifty – quid to the drop point and they’ll hopefully lead us to the kidnappers.”

  “You’re sure there’s more than one?”

  “Yep. They say ‘we’ in the note and one person is never going to be able to kidnap t
wo young men in their prime.”

  “Do you think any one of them would be suitable for my sister Grace?”

  “Lily!” McCusker laughed.

  “Just kidding,” O’Carroll said sheepishly, “well only half kidding. And I did say you could call me Lily, but only when we’re off duty.”

  “Noted,” McCusker replied officially. “And I’m assuming you were referring to the O’Neill brothers and not the kidnappers for your sister,” he said, picking up the original thread.

  “McCusker! You’re just as bad as me!” O’Carroll said taking a half-hearted punch at him with her left arm. “Mind you, the kidnappers are definitely going to be a lot richer than the O’Neills.”

  McCusker hadn’t a reply to that one, choosing instead to spend the remainder of the journey back to the Lagan-side Custom House in silence.

  Once again Station Duty Sergeant Matt Devine greeted them at the door with a message to report immediately to Superintendent Larkin.

  “What’s he doing in on a Sunday morning?” O’Carroll asked, as they climbed the large ornate staircase.

  “I’m figuring we’re just about to find out.”

  Chapter Ten

  “The body of an American has been found down on Cyprus Avenue,” Superintendent Niall Larkin announced as they entered his office.

  Before they’d a chance to digest the news Larkin, who was clearly dressed for the golf course continued. “O’Carroll, you’re the lead on the Brothers O’Neill kidnapping, so I’m going to keep you on that with DI Jarvis Cage. McCusker you’re on…”

  “Ah, come on sir, not DI Richard Head, please!” O’Carroll pleaded.

  “There is no other way I can cut it and shake it at this time Detective Inspector; clear up the kidnapping quickly and we’ll have another chat about it.”

  O’Carroll clearly knew when not to push her luck, and complied with a bordering-on-unnoticeable curtsy, hands clasped dutifully behind her back.

  “Okay here’s the thing,” Larkin continued, addressing McCusker, “we have no Senior Investigating Officers available so I am going to be the SIO on record on this case McCusker; you’ll be my point man. Please for heaven’s sake just remember that as you are agency staff you really will have no official jurisdiction so always ensure you have Detective Sergeant Willie John Barr - or whomever I nominate - by your side to make sure your searches, questioning, and arrests are by the book. Apart from that just go about your work the way you normally do. Barr is waiting for you in your office, McCusker. He’ll get you up to speed and take you down to the scene. The CSI team are already in situ. Thanks,” Larkin concluded by way of dismissing him.