Down on Cyprus Avenue

by Paul Charles

  “About three-quarters of it?”

  “How long has it taken you?” McCusker asked, figuring where he wanted to go with this, but noticing that Lewis was looking a little restless.

  “Just over a year,” Robinson said, “but I haven’t been working on it all the time, not all the time. You see, I ran into a problem with the plot and didn’t make any progress for about two or three months.”

  “So the two people in this story; how old are they?” McCusker asked.

  “Oh, they’re students.”

  “At Queen’s University?” McCusker suggested.

  “Well yes, but not really, if you see what I mean.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Well, in my mind, when I’m thinking of the characters I’m thinking of Queen’s University, but on the page it’s meant to be in London,” Robinson explained.

  “Right...and the main two characters; what is it they’re hiding from each other?” McCusker asked. O’Carroll sat up in her chair seemingly impressed with McCusker’s line of questioning.

  “Well, the boy wants to be a professional golfer but the girl can’t abide golf, but she is secretly in love with one of her lecturers, who happens to be a female,” Robinson offered, unwittingly shooting McCusker’s theory down in a large heap of smoke.

  “Look,” McCusker started, putting away his notebook and starting to tidy up the table, “I think it’s very important that you tell Angela what you have been doing. I’m speaking from experience here, Richard, and I can tell you that you really do need to keep your wife involved in your life on a day-to-day basis.”

  “Does this mean I can go?” Richard Robinson asked, looking from McCusker then quickly to Lewis.

  “It’ll take us a few minutes to double check this on the phone, Richard.” McCusker said. “Then we’ll advise Angela to come and collect. Even then don’t be leaving the city without telling us.”

  * * *

  “Well, I’m shocked McCusker,” O’Carroll admitted across their chair-backs ten minutes later.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “No, not about that, not about Robinson’s night job and his alibi.”

  “Well, about what then?” McCusker asked, as he helped himself to half of the house to house reports Barr had left on O’Carroll’s side of the desk.

  “About the fact that you’re not totally gutted that the main suspect in our case has just walked scot-free.”

  “Well, I’m always happy when an innocent man goes free; that would always be my preference.”

  “Do you fancy a bit of a lunch on me this time, I’ve got a few white fivers?” she asked.

  “White fivers?” McCusker asked, once again caught on the hop with her turn of phrase.

  “Augh you know, luncheon vouchers, we call luncheon vouchers white fivers," she said, appearing happy to continue his education.

  “Oh right, good to know,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound quite as sheepish to her as he did to himself. “But no thanks, I’ll take a rain check on lunch. I already have a PB appointment for this lunchtime.”

  Her eyebrows did a great impression of wondering what his personal business was.

  * * *

  McCusker was about to start into the files when O’Carroll returned to the office just after lunchtime. She’d removed the sunglasses and, McCusker assumed, had accomplished quite a bit of repair work with her make-up, because she looked okay.

  “McCusker, I just wanted to tell you that a few minutes ago while you were at lunch I got a call on my mobile from Mr Odd Socks...you remember him?”

  “Yeah, I think so, but it’s difficult O’Carroll...so many, you know?”

  “Anyway he wanted to apologise for last night and he said he would never ever bother me again.”

  “That’s good,” McCusker said, nonchalantly. “Maybe you misjudged him.”

  “Not so quick McCusker, I hadn’t finished,” she persisted. “He sounded like he was in a lot of pain but he went to great trouble to plead with me to tell you that he’d rang up to apologise?”

  “He probably knew that as we’re partners, you’d have told me about the incident.”

  “But McCusker, I’d never told you about the incident?”

  “What incident are we talking about here?” McCusker said, trying to pull off a nonchalant lack of interest.

  “McCusker...what’s going on here?”

  After some prodding, he eventually admitted paying Mr Odd Socks a visit, which descended into challenging him to a fight. “But it was a fair fight with witnesses,” McCusker claimed.

  “Nonetheless, you still beat the crap out of him.”

  “Technically no,” McCusker replied, knowing he could still be in trouble with her.

  “‘Technically no’?” she repeated. “Really?”

  “Well, I don’t believe he needed to send for his brown trousers.”

  “Augh McCusker!” she moaned. “But then what was all that rubbish you were on about the other day when I said I’d go and beat the crap out of someone and you said ‘no, you can’t do that – you’re just stopping to the same level’?”

  “Well, I never claimed to be perfect,” McCusker replied and then mumbled something.

  “What did you just say?”

  “I never claimed to be perfect.”

  “No, the bit after that...the bit you mumbled?”

  “Besides you’re family,” McCusker mumbled again, but this time clear enough, barely, for her to understand.

  “I still need to discover how you found out about this, but let’s leave it for now, we’ve a real case to solve,” she said and wandered the very short distance to his desk on the pretence of collecting some of the files he’d removed from her desk. Instead, she playfully punched him on his arm and returned to her chair.

  Then, as last time, she quickly grew self-conscious. So much so, in fact, that McCusker felt that if it weren’t for her heavily applied make-up, her blushing would have betrayed her.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  McCusker, Barr, Cage, O’Carroll, and Superintendent Larkin – who seemed as relaxed as McCusker about losing their main suspect – gathered to study the names on the Perspex board by the large ancient windows at the opposite end of the office to O’Carroll and McCusker’s desks.

  Bing Scott

  Craig Husbands

  Angela Robinson

  Richard Robinson

  Julia Whitlock

  Ross Wallace

  Samantha Wallace

  POPU

  McCusker took a cloth and rubbed until only three names remained:

  Angela Robinson

  Julia Whitlock

  POPU

  “You’re leaving Angela Robinson and Julia Whitlock on the list?” O’Carroll asked.

  “Well we need some names up there,” Larkin offered, only half joking.

  “And POPU is looking more and more the favourite,” McCusker said, offering up what everyone was likely to be thinking, everyone, that is, apart from DI Cage.

  “The more I think about this the more I’m favouring MWM.”

  Cage – out there, standing in his field, as opposed to outstanding in his field, McCusker uncharitably thought.

  “So, you’ve upgraded it from CWM?” Larkin, the memory man, asked.

  “Well, the victim of this particular crime was most definitely murdered.”

  “Okay DI Cage,” Larkin said. “If that is the case and this is murder without motive, what did you learn from this conference of yours that will help us solve this particular MWM?”

  “The secret, sir, is not to look for any logic, motive, or connection between the victim and the murderer.”

  “Yes...I think I get that bit DI Cage,” Larkin said a little short. “But how do we solve it?”

  McCusker tuned out. He’d become preoccupied by a small germ of an idea, an idea so tiny that he knew if he didn’t focus on it exclusively, he would lose it and lose it for good. It hadn’t as much sprung from Cage’s MWM l
ine of investigation, no, it had rather budded shyly from it. He excused himself and returned to his desk, followed a few seconds later by O’Carroll.

  “You got something McCusker?”

  McCusker continued to write furiously in his notebook.

  “You want to share it with me?” O’Carroll continued, oblivious to McCusker’s thought process. “Okay McCusker, I’ll just start into these files and you can continue to just ignore me,” she said, lifting a file and pretending to read.

  McCusker stopped writing and studied his notes.

  “McCusker...you’ll never guess who’s just walked through the door...”

  Still no acknowledgement whatsoever from the agency detective.

  “It’s Miss French bob,” O’Carroll quipped, christening McCusker’s object of desire with the moniker in the process. He continued to ignore her, so she continued, “She’s walking over to you McCusker. Oh my goodness, you’ll never guess, she’s started to take off her clothes. You know, McCusker, I think you were correct – I think she might well be an angel.”

  McCusker was happy that he’d managed to get his idea formulated on paper and – under his breath of course – he thanked DI Cage for the springboard. “Great to see you’re back on form again O’Carroll,” he announced, as he returned his notebook to the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “McCusker you totally blanked me out,” she said, glaring at him, “as in totally. I’ve never seen you behave like that before. Did you used to do that to your wife?”

  “As in, now you know why she left me?”

  “Well, now you come to mention it.”

  “I heard everything you said and it was all rubbish and so I didn’t feel a need to deal with it,” McCusker said. “On top of which I’m not due to see French Bob until 7.30 tonight.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Yeah – I bumped into her at lunchtime and I invited her out to dinner and she accepted.”

  “Oh my goodness, that’s brilliant!” O’Carroll gushed with a certain degree of pride, tempered with concern, in her voice. “You jammy barsteward, you. And you’re actually going to go out with her?”

  “No, of course not,” McCusker said. “But at least I got you going! Now can we get back to our investigation? We need to have another chat with both Wesley Whitlock III and his daughter.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Needless to say Wesley Whitlock III, as he’d had embroidered on his rucksack, and his shirts, and even his iPad cover, was very surprised, yet admittedly happy, to entertain McCusker in his hotel suite for the second time that day. On this occasion he was accompanied by DI Lily O’Carroll who felt a need to detain McCusker in the lobby for a few extra minutes while she touched up her make-up again.

  “Good or bad news, Mr McCusker?” Wesley Whitlock offered by way of greeting.

  “Well, that depends,” McCusker started.

  “Depends on what?” Whitlock demanded, the smile fading from his red-flushed face.

  “Well, let’s just say we’ve had to set an innocent man free, which must be a good thing right?”

  “Always,” Whitlock replied. “If you’re sure of course?”

  “We’re sure,” O’Carroll offered.

  “Now we need your help, sir,” McCusker continued.

  “Name it,” Wesley offered immediately, and invited them to sit in his lounge.

  “Okay,” McCusker said taking a large gulp of air and deciding to bite the bullet. “We’re still checking a few leads out, but I keep on hitting the same brick wall – I can’t seem to find anyone with a grudge against Adam."

  “Right,” Whitlock Senior said, absent-mindedly flicking his index finger across the screen of his IPad every few seconds.

  “So, it came to mind that perhaps your son was targeted not because of his enemies…”

  “Yes, and?”

  “Well, it would seem that Adam actually had no enemies so…”

  “…so now you’re thinking it might have something to do with one of my enemies?” Whitlock said enthusiastically, setting his iPad to the side for the first time in their meeting.

  “Well, perhaps,” McCusker continued tentatively, “I remember hearing somewhere that you worked in the city for a few years and…”

  “I like your line of thought, McCusker,” Whitlock said, seeming very happy to go with the detective’s logic.

  “You see, if we take Belfast as being the common denominator, perhaps someone with a grudge against you discovered that Adam was now living here in Belfast and he sought his revenge through your son?”

  “I’m still with you.”

  “Okay, so the most obvious question then would have to be were you ever involved in a legal case where a father, or even a mother for that fact, lost a son?”

  “Wheeew,” Whitlock blew a long breath through a nearly closed mouth. “You know, I can’t think of anything off the top of my head. But I still believe you might be on to something.”

  “Would you have taken your case files or notes back to Boston or are they still in the Belfast office?” McCusker asked, as O’Carroll fulfilled the note-taking part of the partnership, being as she was totally in the dark, although she did appear to be committed to his new approach.

  “They’d all still be here, in Mason, Burr & Co’s vaults.”

  “Okay, let’s get around there now and get stuck into them?”

  “They’re just about to close for the weekend...” Whitlock announced, as he’d checked his watch. “Let’s get in there first thing Monday morning.”

  “Look, sir, all we’ll need is the files, a large room, a continuous supply of coffee, doughnuts, and Paris buns and we’ll get our forensic team around there immediately."

  Whitlock seemed to waver.

  “We can’t afford to waste any more time sir,” McCusker pleaded.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you what,” Whitlock offered. “You go back to the Customs House and organise your team and I’ll meet you at the firm’s office and have everything organised for you. Let’s meet in forty minutes, say 6.30, and I’ll have everything set up for you by then – and I promise I’ll also have the coffee, Paris buns, and a box of mixed Krispy Kremes ready for you as well.”

  McCusker was going to argue but then the more he followed the line of this new approach the more he liked it. He decided against discussing it further with Whitlock Senior. He was feeling so good about it he didn’t even bother to correct the American’s common mistake of referring to the PSNI base as Customs House and not Custom House. “Okay, that’s good sir. I really appreciate it. We’ll see you there at 6.30.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Things didn’t quite go according to plan. That is, they didn’t quite go according to Wesley Whitlock III’s plan. By the time he arrived at the offices of Mason, Burr & Co at 5.59, thirty-one minutes early for his meeting with McCusker, he discovered that McCusker and DI O’Carroll were already there waiting for him. Even his best-feigned smile failed miserably.

  Whitlock’s gung-ho attitude visibly faded, only confirming that it had been the old lawyer’s intention to furnish them with an edited version of his case files, perhaps with certain files missing altogether. McCusker had known that if this idea was to work, his team were going to need access to all of Whitlock’s files – particularly those the young-toothed, thick-skinned American clearly didn’t want them to see – and if he and O’Carroll couldn’t get access to all of these files, they’d be wasting valuable time going google-eyed through the remainder. It was imperative they did this properly, so they’d decided to contact the more reliable DS WJ Barr rather than following protocol and summoning DI Cage. They’d had Barr quickly organise a team, as many as he could muster, at the offices of Mason, Burr & Co. on Royal Avenue.

  Upon their arrival, the detectives had immediately sought out the firm’s senior partner, Kurt Wolf, to brief him on their visit: they were here to search all of Whitlock’s case files from his years of employment at the firm. Herr Wolf took t
he detectives to the attic storage space himself and located the files, which were proudly marked “WWIII.”

  McCusker had had one final favour to ask the senior partner. “Could you please have one of your secretaries come up immediately and log all of Mr Whitlock Senior’s files?”

  “Why of course.”

  “I’m sorry for the rush,” McCusker had explained. “It’s just that we’re keen to get started and for obvious reasons I need to keep it 100 per cent official and ensure we leave you with the same number of files you gave us.”

  “That’s easy,” Wolf had explained, as he’d opened the first of the seven boxes of files. “You see here, inside the lid? There is a list of all the files contained therein. We have a photocopier on this floor so it won’t take long.”

  By the time Wesley Whitlock III arrived at 5.59 McCusker had completed all of his housekeeping, even to the extent that he’d had the friendly secretary make up an additional two copies of the officially signed list of files: one for the firm and one for Wesley Whitlock III.

  Whitlock himself looked like a spare rooster at a hen’s wedding. “Maybe if we divide them up, we’ll get through them a lot quicker,” he offered.

  “No, it’s absolutely fine, sir,” McCusker responded, trying to sound as friendly as possible. “Our team have their own perfectly tuned system. There are only seven boxes and hopefully we’ll get through them all tonight.”

  “I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to do that,” Whitlock said. “The offices need to be totally vacated by 9 p.m. at the latest.”

  “Yes, we were notified of that rule,” McCusker started, sounding hesitant. “Then Herr Wolf explained to us that the rule could be broken should one of the senior partners be present, and he kindly volunteered to stay with us until we are finished. He was very keen to assist in any way he could with the investigation into what happened to your son.”

  WWIII strolled off, muttering something that sounded like he was suggesting an alternate use for Belfast’s famous Paris buns.