Down on Cyprus Avenue

by Paul Charles

  “Oh yes,” Whitlock replied without a moment’s hesitation. “You know, my son always tried to have a new joke lined up for me every time we spoke on the phone. It was a bit of a ritual between us. No matter what kind of mood we were in we’d always make time for his joke. Julia used to tell me about the length Adam would go to, to collect these jokes – he had a backlog of them waiting by his telephone.”

  “Do you remember Saturday’s joke?” O’Carroll asked.

  “Yes I do, as it happens,” Whitlock said breaking into a large friendly smile. “He delivered it just like it was part of our conversation, you understand. We were talking about Jaime’s education. Adam said that he used to have a cross-eyed teacher, ‘Really,’ I said, falling for it, ‘what was he like?’ ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘he was okay, except that he had trouble controlling his pupils’.”

  Whitlock looked at McCusker as he laughed, followed shortly by giggling from O’Carroll. He grimaced again for what seemed a long time. He looked very vulnerable.

  “Now that was one of his better jokes,” he offered in an attempt to lighten the mood. “So listen,” he said as it became clear proceedings were winding down, “I’ve still got some good friends in this city – what say you if I get them organised and we all pool our resources into finding out who did this to poor Adam?”

  “If you discover anything which could be helpful to us, we’d like to feel you’d share it with us immediately,” McCusker said, in opposition to the vigilante approach.

  “But of course,” Wesley Whitlock III replied, appearing to receive the message loud and clear.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As the two detectives exited the lobby of the world-famous hotel they noticed the banner headline on the freshly printed Belfast Telegraph.

  Kidnapped Belfast Brothers Freed!

  The exclusive story accompanied by a post-release photograph, courtesy of Eddie McIlwaine, re-told the proceedings verbatim except for the fact that Eddie claimed a big part of solving the crime and discovering the location of the kidnapped brothers to himself. There was even a photo of the golfer Rory McIlroy on the front page, the caption stating that the boys hoped to secure him as ambassador for their Larry’s List website. McCusker figured it was a win-win situation all round.

  “Do you think James O’Neill will pony up the £50k Ryan owes the loan shark?” McCusker asked as they exited the hotel.

  “Well, even if he doesn’t, with this kind of coverage, I imagine they’ll pull in a lot more than that from selling their story. No, I think the boys will be fine from here on in.”

  “And the kidnappers?”

  “The super thinks it was one of the cleverest he’d ever witnessed. I mean, not a single clue,” O’Carroll replied, unlocking her double-parked car, much to the relief of the Europa’s finely dressed concierge.

  “And?” McCusker continued, amused once again at her approach to parking.

  “The super also thinks this gang did so well – secured a big ransom, without hurting the victims – that they’ll be back again. And next time he’s hoping the family involved will be more co-operative – and that we’ll be ready for them,” she said as they got in the car and buckled up. “Back to your case McCusker. Where to next?”

  “Let’s get back to the Custom House and take stock. We’ll plan the rest of the day as well – you know we have to fit in a lunch somewhere.”

  “McCusker...” she said, taking her eyes off the traffic. “You’ve only just sat up from your breakfast! Where do you put it all?”

  * * *

  No sooner had they climbed the stairs into their office in the right-hand wing of the Custom House then McCusker received a call from Anthony Robertson’s pathology office. Robertson would be at the Royal Victoria Hospital, waiting to discuss Adam Whitlock’s autopsy and to offer them a Preliminary Cause of Death form.

  As they pulled into the recently refurbished, five-storey, Victorian red-bricked hospital on the Grosvenor Road, O’Carroll looked at McCusker and waited.

  Feeling he’d no option but to oblige, he opened with “This building was completed in 1905 and it can claim to have been the first building in the world to house an air-conditioning system.”

  “I bet you could recite a whole list of things about this hospital,” O’Carroll said, gently ribbing him.

  “Nah,” McCusker sighed, silently making the decision to leave the fact that Frank Pantridge, the godfather of emergency medicine, developed the first portable defibrillator on these premises for another time. “That’s about it,” he shrugged.

  Anthony Robertson, the top pocket of his white lab coat packed with pencils and pens, all of which seemed to have left their own distinctive skid marks, greeted them both warmly in his crowded Dickensian office. He invited them to remove the piles of precariously stacked files from the two hard seats in front of his desk while he rummaged through the piles on the desk, eventually recovering the file marked “Adam Whitlock.”

  “Okay,” he started, breaking into one of his large, if-you’re-ready-I’ll-start, smiles. “Adam Whitlock’s life ended within seconds of the pulmonary artery in his chest being severed by a sharp instrument. However, there were eight other stab wounds, seven of which were delivered post-trauma.”

  “Do you think…” McCusker started.

  “There’s not much more to go, McCusker,” Robertson said, interrupting the detective in his best slowed-down Billy Connelly accent, “you can ask all the questions you want when I’ve finished.”

  O’Carroll rolled her eyes while McCusker closed his.

  “There was no evidence to suggest he would have had time to put up a fight. There were no cut marks on his hands or arms but there was a little bruising around his knuckles. There was a large circular bruising on his chest.”

  “Any ideas what would have caused the chest bruising?” McCusker asked.

  “If I didn’t know better I’d say he was hit full force by a football.”

  “A football?” O’Carroll repeated.

  “That’s what it looks like...by itself it wouldn’t have done any more than wind him,” Robertson offered. “Can I continue?” he said, without waiting for confirmation. “There were marks around his wrists and ankles, I’d say they were made by restraints, like a five–centimetre strap or belt, but they were at least a week old. There were no deposits under his fingernails. He had eaten a pizza and drank some red wine shortly before he died. An Americana from Pizza Express.”

  “Really – you can tell where he bought his pizza from the autopsy?” O’Carroll said.

  “No, Detective Inspector,” Robertson replied, looking like the cat who’d not who only got the milk, but had finally snared the juicy mouse as well. “I could detect that from the pizza box still lying on the kitchen table.”

  O’Carroll conceded gracefully as Robertson continued. “Physically Adam Whitlock was in good shape, obviously ran or worked out regularly, maybe drank too much wine, but then don’t we all."

  “Well even if he had been healthier, it still wouldn’t have saved his life,” O’Carroll added.

  “Fair point, fair point,” the pathologist conceded before returning to his notes. “He’d broken his left wrist, probably while he was in his teens, and that’s about it. Questions?”

  “Do you think the attacker knew what he was doing?” McCusker asked, returning to the question he’d wanted to ask earlier.

  “Or did he get lucky?”

  “Yes,” McCusker agreed.

  “Impossible for us to know…but…the first stab was 100 per cent spot on, executed with the finesse of a surgeon.”

  “Implying medical knowledge?” McCusker asked.

  “Or access to the internet,” O’Carroll added.

  “Precisely,” Robertson said, seeming happy it was no longer predominantly a monologue.

  “But why would the attacker continue stabbing the victim?” O’Carroll asked. “Particularly if, as you say, Whitlock would have expired within seconds?”


  “Okay, scenario one: Someone for some reason or other goes to Adam Whitlock’s house with intent to do him harm – right so far?” Robertson surmised.

  “Correct. We have to believe this was the case as there was no evidence of a robbery,” McCusker agrees.

  “If you want to murder someone and you’ve never done it before, you don’t really know what ending someone’s life entails. Maybe the murderer just wanted to make sure he was definitely ending Adam Whitlock’s life,” Robertson said.

  “Or, he wanted to make a point?” McCusker offered.

  “Or he wanted to make a point,” Robertson agreed.

  “But then, who to?” O’Carroll asked. “It’s too late for the point to have any effect with the victim.”

  “Or the murderer was just so convulsed with rage he couldn’t help himself,” McCusker suggested.

  “Or she couldn’t help herself,” O’Carroll said putting in her tuppence for women’s rights.

  “Or the murderer – male or female – was paid to hit Adam Whitlock?” McCusker offered.

  “It’s much too messy a method to murder with a knife for a professional hit...” Robertson said. “Too close, too much can go wrong and too big a chance of leaving your DNA behind.”

  “Maybe the assassin wanted to throw us off the scent?” O’Carroll said.

  “And our murderer didn’t leave a single part of DNA behind,” McCusker said. “The knife...any ideas?”

  “Large, twenty centimetres, sharp, smooth edges,” Robertson replied, shutting the file.

  “And the time of death?” McCusker asked.

  “The time of death...” Robertson sighed, “I thought you’d never ask. Actually my guess at the scene of the crime was pretty good but perhaps it was closer to midnight than to 3 a.m. I’d work around the 1 a.m. window if I were you.”

  * * *

  McCusker and O’Carroll rehashed their conversation with Robertson on the way back to the Custom House without managing any eureka moments.

  “I’ll tell you this for nothing,” O’Carroll said as their chat petered out, “I want to die peacefully in my sleep.”

  “That’s all very well and fine,” McCusker replied, “the only problem I see is you’d need to wake up first to be able to take full advantage of that particular luxury.”

  There was a message waiting for them with Station Duty Sergeant Matt Devine when they arrived. Wesley Whitlock III had proved he also hadn’t been idle since their meeting, visiting his son’s former place of employment, Mason, Burr & Co., and discovering that his son had filed a will with the company. He invited McCusker and O’Carroll to the firm’s offices, an old bank building on Royal Avenue, to discover the contents.

  McCusker was quite surprised to see how comfortable Mr Whitlock was in the company’s offices, with everyone seemingly knowing him and fussing and flapping over him.

  The detectives were shown through to the oak-panelled conference room, which had been set up with tea, coffee, finger sandwiches, shortbread, and muffins. McCusker felt the muffins were perhaps a nod in the direction of their American friend, Whitlock Senior. Julia Whitlock was also present in the conference room, and she gave McCusker a nod of acknowledgement.

  The last will and testament was opened and read by a Mr Kurt Wolf, one of the senior partners. He read it very quickly, his north German accent betraying no compassion for the family members present at the reading.

  Adam Whitlock had willed all his property – a family house in his name in Boston and the house down on Cyprus Avenue – back to the Whitlock family estate. He had no debts. All of his cash at the time of his death (£287,560) he willed to Julia. His vast collection of DVD movies and documentaries went to his friend Angela Robinson. All of his other worldly goods were to be sold and the proceeds donated to Dupaul, Ireland, a charity for the homeless.

  Herr Wolf admitted there was one issue still to resolve: the tax liability due to the status of the work-permits involved.

  “Make sure Julia fully receives what Adam bequeathed her. I’ll handle all and any of the tax liabilities with you separately,” Wesley announced, appearing disappointed in the results of the will. Julia made no comment either on her gift or her father’s offer to pay the tax on it.

  McCusker suspected that Wesley Whitlock’s disappointment wasn’t over the fact that he wasn’t mentioned in the will, outside the family estate. Rather, it was common to find survivors expecting a revelation from beyond the grave at such a reading, something that would help them to make some sense of the death, or at the very least, offer them a suggestion as to the meaning of life. McCusker knew, as he’d already accepted, that death was a lonely construct, but to someone of Wesley Whitlock III’s age it must be a continual preoccupation.

  McCusker and O’Carroll noted Angela’s inclusion in the will, but gave it no more attention until they discovered just how big his DVD collection was: 4928 of them, stacked floor to ceiling and filling an entire room. It wasn’t quite the throwaway gesture they had first thought.

  “Does this mean they were a lot closer than we figured?” O’Carroll asked when they were back in the Mégane and making their way back to the office.

  “Not really,” McCusker replied, as he considered the question. “They were probably just movie buffs.”

  “Most people are,” she replied, “well, maybe not so much buffs as fans – I mean, most people I know love a great film. Grace claims she could happily watch movies all day long.”

  “Do you not think all she needs to do is get out of the house a bit more?”

  “McCusker!”

  “No, no, I mean, I’m just saying that if she was out there interacting a bit more, you know, she wouldn’t have as much trouble finding herself a good man.”

  “McCusker!”

  “No, really...I’m just saying!”

  “Well just don’t,” she ordered. “Next you’ll be saying the same thing about me!”

  “No, no, not at all,” he added, happy to shift tracks. “Sure you’re out there all the time. And when you’re not chasing men for yourself you’re chasing men for her.”

  “I’m not so sure that was meant as a compliment McCusker,” she said, appearing content to leave this subject behind. “Do we know if his sister Julia liked films?"

  “She only brought them up in reference to her brother.”

  “Yeah, and besides, she’s nothing to grumble about – she got £287,000, tax free, so I can’t see her being very upset about not getting her brother’s DVD collection.”

  They drove in silence for the remainder of the journey.

  “What’s next?” O’Carroll asked, as they ran past the anonymous speaker statue and up the steps of the Custom House.

  “I think we need to have a chat with Mr Ulsterbus himself, Ross Wallace,” McCusker replied, as they both nodded to the diligent Station Duty Sergeant.

  “It all seems so slow,” she said, as much to herself as to McCusker.

  “Yeah, this part always is,” he replied, as much for himself as her, “but it’s vital we have all of the pieces of the puzzle before we endeavour to try and put them together.” McCusker wasn’t sure just how much O’Carroll had heard of that last bit as she’d made a beeline through the crammed busy office, straight to her desk.

  Chapter Twenty

  Barr, obviously concerned that he’d no additional information for them, had used his initiative: not only had he interviewed Ross Wallace, but he’d also typed up a copy of the interview and had it waiting for McCusker and O’Carroll on their desks. The transcript in full read:

  Interviewed Mr Ross Wallace at his spacious and tidy Ulsterbus office in the Gt Victoria St Station behind the Europa Hall.

  Mr Wallace, born in Randlestown and now residing at Willowfield Street, Belfast, is thirty-one years of age, a former student of Queen’s University and currently employed by Ulsterbus as their Director of Schedules.

  Mr Wallace met Mr Adam Whitlock (the deceased) while they were both stud
ying at Queen’s University. He reports that, although they never shared digs, they did become firm friends dating back from the first week they met in the student’s union in September 1999. Unlike several other students, including Mr Richard Robinson and Mrs Angela Robinson – who would have been Miss Angela Booth at the time – Mr Wallace had remained friends with Mr Whitlock ever since.

  Mr Wallace said that Mr Whitlock was a solicitor who dealt mostly in conveyancing. Mr Wallace was not aware of anyone with a reason to murder Mr Whitlock. He felt he was well liked. He believed Mr Whitlock was romantically attached in a long-term affair, but he never knew the identity of said female.

  Mr Wallace and his wife, Samantha, were married in 2008. Mr Whitlock was his best man and his sister Julia also attended the wedding. Mr Wallace had his first baby, a boy, Tom, later in 2008 and a daughter in 2010. Mr Whitlock was Tom’s godfather. Mr Wallace felt that Mr Whitlock was not a hands-on godfather and he had a sneaking suspicion that Mr Whitlock had forgotten all about being Tom’s godfather. Mr Wallace found with the birth of his two children that he and his wife had less and less time for friends. Their weekly meet-ups gradually became monthly, and more recently every second month. He last met up with Mr Whitlock on Wednesday past. Mr Whitlock did not seem to Mr Wallace to be unduly worried about anything and was his usual self; not exactly happy-go-lucky but more subdued.

  Mr Wallace had not spoken with Mr Whitlock since Wednesday last. Mr Wallace was at home on Saturday evening. His sister-in-law and her husband visited them for dinner. They left shortly after 1.00 a.m. on Sunday and Mr Wallace and his wife both retired to bed, without doing the dishes, at just after 1.30 a.m.

  McCusker noted the two important points and filed the report neatly in his Whitlock file, while O’Carroll, after half reading it, allowed it to disappear into the mess that was her desk. She was clearly preoccupied with something and giving off a very strong do-not-disturb-me vibe. McCusker duly took note, heading off to find DS WJ Barr.