by Paul Charles
McCusker ran to the bonnet, expecting to find the collector in a poor way under the front of the car, only to discover that Cage hadn’t run down the collector at all. No, in fact he’d driven into a series of eight steel bollards subtly positioned across the gated entrance to prevent vehicles from entering the park. At that same moment, he heard a scooter start up over to his right beside the single-storey, red-bricked Gate House which guarded the exclusive but lonely-looking park. McCusker turned just in time to see the collector, now wearing a white crash-helmet with a red flash, drive off into the distance, without even a backwards glance.
Cage’s face was in a bad way but he was receiving not an ounce of sympathy from O’Carroll. She was attending to Polly O’Neill who was still screaming at Cage for endangering her sons’ lives.
“’bout ye?” O’Carroll grunted to Cage through the driver’s open window. When she saw that he’d live, she continued “Would you just look at yourself, Mucky Jarvis, Belfast’s answer to Dirty Harry. Why don’t you make my day and retire before the super sets you up with your next assignment: monitoring the sinkage cracks on the Custom House walls.”
McCusker radioed the incident in, describing as best he could the black-bearded collector and the direction in which he’d sped off. The scooter’s number plate had been concealed with mud, but no doubt the speedy two wheeler had been stolen anyhow. McCusker remained with Cage while they waited for an ambulance, while O’Carroll drove Mrs O’Neill back home, almost a million pounds the poorer and still no sign of her precious sons.
Chapter Fifteen
McCusker caught a taxi – a real taxi – back to the Custom House, arriving just in time to meet DS WJ Barr leaving to interview Angela Robinson, Adam Whitlock’s QUB acquaintance and possible friend. Barr looked and acted decidedly disappointed when McCusker said he would accompany him on the interview.
Angela Robinson was waiting for Barr as they’d arranged in the reception of BBC Radio Ulster, which maybe accounted for Barr’s disappointment. Angela was a producer and, introductions over, she secured the required passes and took them through to a suite of studios on the first floor. She offered them the choice of “bad coffee or worse coffee” – both of which they declined, taking instead a small cup of water from the cooler – before taking them through to a small empty studio. She closed the Venetian blinds on the internal window, affording them maximum privacy. They sat at the guest’s arc table in the dimmed studio.
The BBC Radio Ulster producer seemed to have spent all her money and her attention on her hair, which was dark brown and worn with a fringe and down to a straight line just above her shoulders – a bit like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra; in fact, a lot like Liz Taylor in Cleopatra, with not a single hair out of place. Even when she turned her head around quickly, as she was prone to do, her hair would umbrella out but then fall perfectly back a second after her head stopped. She had a boyish figure and wore no make-up, when a little would have helped to disguise her tiredness and strained features. Her work outfit comprised of a pink, short-sleeved, three-buttoned polo shirt with a BBC Radio Ulster crest and a shapeless, badly creased pair of either dark grey or black trousers – McCusker couldn’t tell in the dim light of the studio.
Mrs Robinson seemed to have a preference for the younger DS WJ Barr. That was until she heard that McCusker had been stationed at Portrush for several years. She knew people up there and she reminisced about working at Barry’s Amusements in holiday time to help fund her move to Belfast.
McCusker was distracted by all the microphones, decks, effects racks, computers, multi-coloured leads, lights and knobs – everything really that one person needed to broadcast a message or music to the province. Due to his junior’s reticence, McCusker decided he’d start the proceedings. Barr was seated in the middle so McCusker spun around in his silent seat to face Angela Robinson.
“I believe you went to Queen’s University with Adam Whitlock?” he said.
“Yes,” she said as she looked up with that classic Princess Diana pose, head tilted to one side, both parties appearing to make eye contact by accident. “Detective Sergeant Barr told me the sad news. Have you any idea what happened?”
“We’re still looking into it,” Barr offered officially.
“So how long had you known him?” McCusker asked.
“Ah let’s see,” she began interlocking her fingers together and using them to hoist up her right knee, “probably a good six years or so now.”
McCusker flashed her one of his “how did you meet?” looks. Surprisingly it seemed to work.
“You see, my future husband-to-be was friends with Adam’s friend, Craig Husbands, and I seem to remember I was introduced to Adam and Craig around the same time I met Richard, my husband-to-be.”
“And you’ve all been friends ever since?” McCusker asked.
“Well, not exactly. Adam went back to Boston after he won his PhD and he was there for a time; I think about a year. Richard and I got married in that time. When Adam came back and we all started to work – for some reason or other and I’ve never fully understood why to be honest – it was me who hung out with Craig. My husband…well, I’ve found that we seem to have his friends and my friends and, don’t get me wrong, I believe that’s quite a healthy situation.”
“Did Adam and Richard have a falling out?” McCusker asked, as Barr continued to take notes.
“No,” she sighed, “at university they all got on great; after university they just didn’t seem very interested in each other’s lives. This was fine, because Adam, Craig, Julia, and I have a right old hoot some nights and maybe as a fivesome, you know, and especially with a husband in the mix, the dynamics of the group can become unbalanced.”
“Did Adam ever go over to your house for dinner or anything?”
“Nope, never – he’s never ever been over at our house,” she started and stopped in her tracks, “I’ve just realised he’s never going to do so aga…”
Angela seemed to well up. Barr fussed around her for a bit trying to comfort her.
“The advantage of not wearing make-up at work,” she eventually offered, “is that I can never spoil it.”
“Okay,” McCusker said, rubbing his hands to try and infuse some energy into the interview. “Did Adam have any friends other than you and Craig?”
“He must have had,” she admitted, “but I really just knew him as part of a foursome.”
“Like you’d never see him by yourself, for a drink or something?” McCusker asked.
“I don’t think my husband would have been too happy with that,” she said, trying to smile.
“That wasn’t why Richard and Adam fell out, was it?” McCusker pushed. “You know, over you?”
“They never fell out,” she protested, “they just grew apart.”
“What about you and Julia?”
“No, no Craig…as I said, it really was one of those American ‘frat’ situations where it was always the four of us.” She stopped and laughed to herself. “I was just thinking we used to say, when we’d had a few and we were on a particularly good evening, that we would do this, you know have dinner together, the four of us, forever. That’s not going to happen again.”
“Did he have a girlfriend?”
“He claimed not,” she replied quickly.
“Does Craig have a girlfriend?”
“I think so,” she replied, appearing to think before answering.
“Do you know much about Adam’s work?”
“Bits, but I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to talk about it. Our chats were based on our friendship and not meant to go any further…”
“But we will need to find out what he did,” McCusker said.
“Then you’re going to have to get that information from his work colleagues I’m afraid.”
“How often would the four of your meet up?”
“Twice a month?”
“What were his hobbies?”
“He trained a bit, but
not seriously. He went to the movies a lot, and I do mean a lot. I think he saw every new movie the first week of its release. No matter how busy he was he’d always make time for the movies. And if a film didn’t make it as far as Belfast he’d wait for the DVD. He never mentioned football or sport or the likes. As I said, he trained or worked out a bit, I can never tell the difference. He was one of those people lucky enough not to consider their work a chore. He loved his work – everything else was a distraction.”
“Music? Concerts?” McCusker pushed, since he was having a hard time getting some kind of sense of Adam Whitlock.
“He’d often say that music was like wallpaper to him. It was always there, but in the background. He never went to concerts; he felt there was too much focus on the lifestyle and not on the art.”
“He and Julia seemed very close...” McCusker said, heading in another direction.
“They were brother and sister,” Angela replied.
“Yes,” McCusker conceded, sensing yet another dead end, “but even taking that into account, I didn’t get the sense from her that it was a family obligation-type of relationship.”
“Yep, I can see that,” she offered. “Maybe though it was because they were really two exiles?”
“Possibly, but I don’t think so,” McCusker mused.
“Well Inspector…” she started.
“McCusker,” he corrected.
“So you’re not an inspector or a detective inspector?”
“No I’m an agency cop,” McCusker offered, still concerned about how to deal with this issue and a little worried it might get in the way of things. “You were about to say something about Julia and Adam?”
“Oh yes. I was about to say that Adam was quite an extraordinary man, quite incredible really. Super intelligent and with all the downsides that produces. Julia, I feel, realised Adam’s qualities and knew that the downside to it was he would, quite literally, have trouble tying his shoelaces.”
“You mean she was happy to be there for him because he was someone special.”
“I believe I do McCusker,” she said, “I believe I do.”
“What were you doing on Saturday past between the hours of midnight and 3 a.m.?” McCusker said, concluding that he had gathered as much as he would at this stage.
“I do believe I would have been with my husband at that time, sir,” she said, flashing him another of Princess Diana’s coy looks.
Chapter Sixteen
Just under two hours later at 6.40 p.m. as McCusker and O’Carroll, and later, her sister Grace, were about to leave for a drink at McHugh’s to celebrate Monday’s finish, a telephone call came in from the famous Belfast Telegraph columnist Eddie McIlwaine.
Eddie had just received a call from a person who claimed to know the whereabouts of Ryan and Larry O’Neill. The caller was female, or at least someone putting on a female voice. It sounded like it had been made from an outdoors phone box with very loud traffic in the background.
O’Carroll wrote down an address and advised the canny McIlwaine that she couldn’t yet tell him what had happened to the O’Neill boys, but if he’d keep the information under wraps until she’d a chance to check out the location, she’d give him a proper exclusive on the full story. She politely resisted his persistent request to accompany them and finished her call with her telephone trademark “Toodaloo.”
“Where are we going?” McCusker asked, as they headed back down the stairs.
“Tea Lane.”
“Okay, where’s Tea Lane?”
“Off Meeting Street, apparently.”
“Where’s Meeting Street?” McCusker continued, keen to add to his growing knowledge of Belfast.
“I haven’t a clue,” she admitted, “but if anyone knows it’ll be the skipper, Matt Devine.”
“Nope,” Station Duty Sergeant Matt Devine admitted after some careful consideration, “new one to me.” He continued as he drew out a few maps from his drawer and drew a blank on every one.
“Hang on a minute...” McCusker said, appearing to remember something, “someone is having fun with us.”
“How so?” Devine asked.
“I have a feeling I’ve been there,” McCusker said, trying to recall one of his numerous recce trips around the city. He liked nothing better than to spend his downtime exploring Belfast, and on every available opportunity he was off, some map or other in hand, embracing and exploring his new city. He thought he’d feel like he’d be “putting up” with Belfast because of his new circumstances and the need to make ends meet, when in actual fact he found himself to be very excited about his new workplace. Equally, it was an incredible time to be in Belfast now that it was in the throes of its long delayed rebirth. He felt that when the sun shone in Belfast there was no better a place to be. It was just that the sun had been losing the battle to the dark clouds for way, way too long.
The penny finally dropped for him and he said, “Just wait there a moment.”
He dashed back upstairs to his desk and rummaged around in his drawer of prized maps and brochures for a while before he found what he was after. He returned to Devine and O’Carroll and threw down a UFTM pocket-sized map in front of them.
Matt Devine examined and unfolded it, smiling broadly as he smoothed it out. “Of course Ballycultra in the Folk Park – well remembered McCusker!” Devine said.
“What are youse two on about?” O’Carroll asked impatiently.
“It a replica of a typical Ulster town from about a hundred years ago, down at the Folk Museum on the Bangor road, out past the George Best Airport,” McCusker offered, as the Station Duty Sergeant pointed to one side of a three-dimensional hand-drawn map and said: “Look there!”
On the extreme right hand side was Meeting Street, running parallel to the edge of the map and bordered on one side by the Presbyterian Meeting Church and by a tree-lined green on the other. Tea Lane lay alongside it.
“You’re kidding me?” O’Carroll said.
“There’s no other Tea Lane that I’m aware of,” Devine volunteered.
“And as it’s currently closed, what a perfect place to hide two kidnapped victims,” McCusker offered to the empty space, which had until very recently been occupied by O’Carroll.
“Okay McCusker, let’s go to your toy town, but let me warn you – on your head be it,” she advised, cautioned, and then ordered, “Matt could you have an ambulance and another patrol car follow us out there as soon as possible, please.”
Which is how twenty minutes later, accompanied by two Ulster Folk & Transport security men and a caretaker, they walked up a torch-lit Meeting Street in the Folk Park and turned left into Tea Lane. The street consisted of a sweet shop (O’Carroll reckoned the sweet shop was the prime reason McCusker remembered this spot) and six labourers’ houses, which were built in the classic two-up, two-down, outdoor-toilet style. If McCusker hadn’t known better he would have pegged these buildings as really having been built over a hundred years ago, and not within the last twenty years for the Folk Park. Unlike O’Carroll, mind, he’d had a chance to also examine them in the daylight.
The first two houses had been converted into public toilets. They tried the labourer’s house nearest to the sweet shop. It was already locked and totally empty. The next wee house was also deserted, appearing as though the family had just been snatched from its midst by aliens leaving everything as it would have been last century.
They found Ryan O’Neill upstairs in the third house, sitting on the floor, his back against the far wall of the small bedroom. He was gagged with his hands bound with plastic cuffs behind his back – as were his feet. He looked a bit battered and bruised around his face and his hands.
“Have you got Larry? Is he okay?” were Ryan’s first words once they’d managed to remove the gag from his mouth.
McCusker remembered that one of the ransom notes stated that the brothers were being held separately, and so he crossed his fingers and ran downstairs and into the last remaining house in t
he street.
Larry O’Neill was relatively more comfortable than his brother in that he’d been placed on a primitive bed. He was also bound with similar plastic cuffs, which had been secured to the bed frame, but he wasn’t gagged, neither did he have any visible bruises. His small tuft of white hair was still intact.
“Is our mum okay?” He sat up, rubbed his wrists and unfolded and put on his trademark Buddy Holly glasses, which had been placed on a hard wooden chair beside the bed.
The brothers O’Neill seemed very well considering their ordeal – their clothes looked expensive, yuppie-ish, but extremely crinkled. Upon reuniting, they muttered a quick “are you OK?” but through their brotherly bond they seemed to already know the answer from a mere glance. Ryan immediately protested that his bruises were nothing, “Just a little misunderstanding with one of the kidnappers.”
Both rooms had Coke cans, mineral water bottles, chocolate bar wrappings, empty crisp packets, lots of banana skins, orange peelings, apple cores, and a red fire bucket in the corner, the vile smell of which betrayed its contents, but apart from that nothing else to suggest two people had been detained there for five nights and six days.
The brothers took turns to complete each other’s sentences. Late Wednesday afternoon they were returning home when a white transit van pulled up beside them. The side-door slid open, three men in balaclavas hopped out, stuck black hoods over their heads, bundled them in the van and drove off. Neither O’Neill brother saw their captors minus their balaclavas. They drove them straight to these houses; Ryan was greatly amused that they were being detained in fake houses in the Folk Park. The captors bothered them little except for delivering food – nothing but the likes of the remnants noted – and taking some photographs. At the end of his photo session Ryan tried to escape and, in fact, made it as far as the bottom of the stairs where his rough recapture resulted in his current state of bruising. They never heard their captors speak.
