Down on Cyprus Avenue

by Paul Charles

  * * *

  McCusker and O’Carroll remained behind to guard the seven boxes of case files as though their lives depended on it.

  “Just think; you could have been out with the hottie with the hair by now,” O’Carroll said, looking for a wee bit of entertainment at McCusker’s expense to fill the time.

  “I told you that was a joke, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did McCusker, but the fact that you were prepared to make such a joke, even at your own expense, shows you’re getting your confidence up. Don’t get too confident McCusker; it wouldn’t suit you.”

  “Aren’t you mistaking me for DI Cage?”

  “And don’t get all fussy on me McCusker,” O’Carroll said, totally ignoring him.

  “Sorry?” McCusker replied, now confused.

  “You know, with French Bob – don’t go chasing perfect. Just remember, you’re not exactly God’s gift yourself.”

  “Well, thank you very much,” he replied. “Actually, I believe that imperfections are known to add to a man’s character.”

  “While imperfections in women make men turn their noses up,” she countered.

  McCusker sighed. O’Carroll obviously had a lecture to give and there was clearly a reason for it, so he thought he’d better let her get on with it now rather than waiting until she’d absorbed the fact that tonight was going to be an all-nighter, a fact she seemed very much in denial of.

  “I see the look in men’s eyes,” she continued. “They note a wee bit of a tyre appearing round the middle, not enough make-up, just one day overdue at the hairdressers, bum and breasts refusing to continue to defy the laws of gravity, ankles filling out…and on and on McCusker. Then they start to turn their nose up, or they start to need a few pints before…”

  “Oh no, no, no, O’Carroll, much too much information – please, at all times feel free to spare me those kind of details.”

  “But at the same time,” she continued, still totally ignoring him. “If men are unshaven, have bad breath, wear scuffed shoes – that’s always a bad sign McCusker, men wearing scuffed shoes, that’s a bad one – oh...where was I?”

  “You were giving me a list of what I shouldn’t do as a man.”

  “Oh yes: scuffed shoes, dirty fingernails, soiled collars, unshaven.”

  “You’ve mentioned unshaven twice O’Carroll, land the plane for heaven’s sake.”

  “Well, there was good reason for mentioning it twice McCusker, you see there are two different kinds of unshaven – the first is where a man shaves quite regularly but has left it a day or two over his comfort zone, and the second – more irritating, physically and mentally – when a man just gets lazy and lets it grow for a few weeks and it gets to looking all scraggy and unkempt and cuts the face off you. But anyway…oh where was I?”

  “Scuffed shoes, dirty fingernails, bad breath, soiled collars, unshaven – example a) for a few days, and example b) for a few weeks,” McCusker replied, immediately proving that at least he’d been paying attention.

  “Yes, all of the above...if a man inflicts a woman with all of the above he’s deemed to be a bit of a character, but if a woman is less than perfect she’s classed as an auld dog. So, you listen to me Mr McCusker: if you have any designs on French Bob make sure you get your act together before you ask her out.”

  “You think I should ask her out?” McCusker asked, knowing that he too was guilty of hearing only what he wanted to hear.

  “Nagh, I wouldn’t bother if I was you.”

  “Sorry, give me that again?”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “What...she’s married?” McCusker said, sounding and feeling devastated. “Or you know she’s going out with someone? Is that it?”

  “None of the above but I’d suggest to you that you are now enjoying a perfect relationship with her.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Well at this stage, it’s all in your head, in your imagination, and of course she’s perfect. But once you make the next step you risk ruining it.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, what if it’s all window dressing? It’ll be good for a few nights,” and here she paused and looked over at him. “Well, maybe in your case – you know, obviously it’s been a long time, so let’s extend your period of interest to a few months. You see, my point is that at this time and from this distance there is nothing to dilute your attraction to her, but…when you eventually get to hear her accent, well maybe she’s from the bog, or she likes football and you don’t, or she’s not very deep, or she leaves her clothes lying around, or your normally tidy bathroom is always a mess because of all of her must-have, can’t-do-without lotions and potions, and on and on. You get the picture, don’t you? Yes, she looks good, I’ll even give you she looks great, but that’s a cultivated look and it’s all about snaring a man. You know she’ll probably go to seed very, very quickly McCusker, so do yourself a favour, don’t bother – your dreams will be so much better.”

  “Right,” McCusker replied, quietly holding that thought.

  “Okay,” she said changing the tone of her voice. “I’d predict that if the noise on the stairs is anything to go by, they’re just about to start rehearsals for this year’s Opera House pantomime. Either that or DS Barr and the gang have arrived.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  By the time the team had left Mason, Burr & Co the following morning at 8.13, both McCusker and O’Carroll had problems keeping their eyes open. The files had so far produced no leads. McCusker reckoned if they’d managed to turn up one suspect with even the vaguest of grudges against Whitlock Senior, they might have been able to hit a second wind and keep going. Whitlock, it turned out, was no caped crusader, having never been responsible for putting anyone away.

  When McCusker offered to treat them all to a breakfast before going home, all opted for going straight to their beds. All, that was, except DS WJ Barr who, claiming it reminded him of his cramming days, insisted he remain alone and keep working his way through the files. Herr Kurt Wolf graciously offered to remain behind with Barr.

  McCusker walked home slowly, shaved and showered – always in that order – and went to bed, only to wake up twenty-eight minutes later thinking he’d been asleep for at least twenty-four hours. He’d hopped out of bed and followed his Saturday morning ritual of changing his sheets and making his bed before he realised his mistake.

  Deciding to make the most of his error, he dandered over to Stranmillis Road – enjoying the walk while still missing the big sky of Portrush – nipped into Café Conor and ordered up the full heart-attack Ulster Fry. While he waited for his food, he reflected on his first full week in charge of a case at the Custom House.

  He didn’t really have a lot to show for a week’s work. No, he thought, scrap that, he didn’t have anything to show for a week’s work. The phone in his dark-blue suit jacket pulsed gently against his chest and he answered it immediately.

  “So you couldn’t sleep either?” Lily O’Carroll said. “Shall I pick you up?”

  “Yes and yes,” he replied, “I’m in Café Conor.”

  “Order me up an omelette please and I’ll be there in five.”

  “A shells only omelette?”

  “Sorry?” she said.

  “No, I mean I was just wondering if you were one of these modern people who eat whites of eggs only, or yolks only, or even shells only omelettes?” McCusker offered, rueing the golden rule of jokes; when you have to explain them, they aren’t.

  “Oh right,” Lily signed loudly. “You need a bit of work on the auld sense of humour side of things McCusker.”

  “I’ll add it to the list.”

  “Better,” she conceded. “Could you just order me a Spanish omelette and a strong double shot decaf cappuccino – tell them to sprinkle the chocolate in the bottom of the cup before they start, keep the cappuccino very dry with the cup not filled to the top and with a tad of chocolate on the top, but only on the left side of the cup with semi-skimmed milk
in the mix but frothed up with full fat and make sure they do it in a takeaway cup.”

  McCusker laughed in spite of himself.

  “Now that was funny, McCusker,” she boasted, as she disconnected.

  As fate would have it, and it sometimes does, just as her Spanish omelette was arriving so was O’Carroll.

  “How sad are we?” she began, as she positively tore into her food.

  “Count me out of your group please, I’m happy enough.”

  She made short work of her omelette and then pushed her empty and extremely clean plate away from her as she delicately dabbed the corners of her mouth.

  “I wish I hadn’t eaten that,” she said, after the efficient waitress removed her plate.

  “Sorry, why on earth not?”

  “Oh you know, eggs, cholesterol, clogging up the auld arteries,” she began, the worry lines playing havoc with her forehead.

  McCusker tutted.

  “Come on McCusker, I need to make sure I’ve got some steam left in my engine for if and when I should ever meet up with my Jenson Button,” she replied, shooting his half-finished breakfast a blatant judgemental stare.

  “You worry too much about stuff,” McCusker replied.

  “People need to worry, McCusker,” O’Carroll started, out of nowhere, following a few minutes’ silence when McCusker happily tucked into finishing off his breakfast.

  “Nagh,” he replied, not really interested in picking up her bait.

  “People do worry about stuff all the time,” she said, continuing unperturbed with her own train of thought. “Stuff like their jobs, their mortgage, their families, financial stability, their love…”

  “Their love?” McCusker interrupted.

  “Yes McCusker – everyone needs someone to love.”

  McCusker raised his eyebrows but decided to leave it there.

  “Their cars,” O’Carroll continued unperturbed. “Their house, their kid’s schooling, their kids leaving home and starting their own families…”

  “Phew,” McCusker wheezed, sounding exhausted. “And what do they do with their time when they’ve resolved all those issues?”

  “Oh, if they are happy and have resolved all of the above,” she said, sounding like she’d never considered that possibility, “they probably worry about getting hit by a double-decker bus.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later they were being buzzed back into the Mason, Burr & Co. office by a revitalised DS WJ Barr.

  “Any success?” McCusker asked.

  “Well maybe,” he said, leading them back up to the loft storage space, and nodding at eleven files he’d separated from the seven boxes. He’d spread out the contents on the makeshift desk he had created out of a window seat and empty upturned box files.

  O’Carroll was still coffee-hyper and looked like she was ready to beat the information out of Barr.

  “Okay,” he eventually started, looking a little frustrated since he’d not quite had time to go over his theory. “I started to think maybe we were coming at this from the wrong angle, you know, looking for someone who had reason to believe that they’d suffered an injustice because of Mr Whitlock Senior – someone he’d helped to put away or someone he’d uncovered who’d been embezzling or even someone he’d caught cheating red-handed.”

  “You mean someone who was actually guilty of a crime and was aggrieved to be caught out by Whitlock?” McCusker asked, if only to slow proceedings down so that Barr could properly collect his thoughts.

  “Yes,” Barr nodded visibly relaxing. “Then I thought: what if there was someone out there who Mr Wesley Whitlock III had wronged for some other reason?”

  “Good thought Barr,” O’Carroll said, as Barr searched diligently through his files. “Picture me impressed.”

  “I’m not so sure envy is such a good colour on you,” McCusker whispered to O’Carroll just out of Barr’s range.

  “So I ploughed through the files again,” Barr offered, and then on noticing McCusker’s pity, he continued. “Oh, it was so much easier second time around, it really was. Anyway I dug out these eleven files and in my mind I’ve pretty much narrowed it down to three, these three in fact. I thought I’d have a bit more time to go through them again in greater detail before you came back. Maybe the three of us could do that together now and see how we get on.”

  “And they are?” McCusker said, hoping he might recognise one of the names.

  “In no particular order,” Barr started nervously, “Dan Kidd, Maud Stephens, and Natalie Gilmour.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Okay, let’s do them chronologically,” McCusker suggested.

  “In that case...” Barr began, shuffling his files, “during 1987 and 1988 shortly after Whitlock Senior first moved to Belfast one of his first clients was a widower called Daniel Kidd, known as Dan. His wife, Jean, had died a very painful cancer-related death in 1985 and by 1987 he had decided to sell up his wine-importing business, which was based on Lisburn Road. Dan and Jean had no children, so he’d no heirs to pass his business on to. But it was still a thriving business and he owned his premises. Turns out that Wesley Whitlock persuaded him to sell both the building and the business as a going concern. It would appear that the American, as a result of a bidding war, secured an over-the-top-offer of just over half a million quid which Dan felt, along with his savings and pension, would enable him to see out his days nicely. Dan Kidd and Whitlock became friends and apparently, as is common with all of these cases, they had dinner together once a week.”

  “Whitlock was cultivating the friendships?” McCusker suggested.

  “It would seem so,” Barr replied, appearing surprised at the interruption. “Early in 1988 Whitlock came to Dan Kidd with a property that one of his other clients owned and needed to sell quickly. Kidd had all his money on deposit and Whitlock convinced him it would be a great investment. In fact, this proved to be the case and Kidd sold the property within three months making just over £95,000 clear profit.

  “Whitlock found three other investments for Kidd before the end of that year. The first one made a profit of £48,000, the second one made a loss of £19,500 and the third one made a profit of £67,000.”

  “Seems like a great kind of friend to have as a lawyer,” O’Carroll offered.

  “Seems so...just under £100,000 in a year,” McCusker added. “What age of a man was Dan Kidd?”

  “Seventy-four when he died early in 1989,” Barr said, checking his summary notes at the top of the file.

  “Oh,” McCusker said, sounding genuinely sad.

  “And guess who he left all his money and his house to?” Barr asked them both.

  “Whitlock,” McCusker and O’Carroll replied in unison.

  “Yes, and the only reason there is a file on the case is due to the fact that some of Dan Kidd’s money was still in his Mason, Burr & Co’s client account at the time of the death and the partners felt they needed to conduct a thorough investigation into the dealings to protect their reputation.”

  “And their findings?” McCusker asked.

  “Everything done totally above board and by the letter of the law.”

  “So there doesn’t appear to be anything suspicious there?” O’Carroll said, her disappointment written all over her face.

  “Seems so, and if you hadn’t asked me to go through the three cases chronologically I wouldn’t have started with that one. Personally, I think it appears to be harmless enough…”

  “Well, still highly beneficial to Whitlock even if it is harmless,” McCusker offered.

  “Look this old man,” O’Carroll started, “he didn’t have any living relations, right?”

  “Well, none came forward to contest the will,” Barr offered, by way of agreement.

  “So he’d lost his wife…have we any idea how long they’d been married?” O’Carroll asked, interrupting herself.

  Barr checked his notes, didn’t find what he was looking for and hoaked through the file unti
l he came up with an answer. “Forty-six years. As I say, he lost his wife, who was most likely also his best friend, to cancer. It appeared that he put all his energies into his business to fill the void she’d left. Once he’d sold that business, his life probably felt very empty, and then this magnetic American comes along and not only does he befriend him, he also presents opportunities for the widower to greatly increase his nest egg. So, when the time came to start thinking about his will, he most likely didn’t have a lot of options.”

  O’Carroll twitched her mouth from side to side, appearing to consider something; McCusker encouraged her with his eyes.

  “You know,” she said after a few more moments silence. “My older brother, he made a few right moves, has…well, let’s just say he’s done very well for himself. Last year his solicitor persuaded him it was about time he made a will. He said the first part was easy, you know – if anything happened to him everything would go to his wife and their two kids. But he said the next part was more difficult where he had to decide what would happen to his estate if they all died together or neither his wife nor their kids survived him. He said he went around for a few days thinking ‘Okay, I’ve taken care of my family and my friends and I’ve still got a shit load of money unallocated, what am I going to do with it?’”

  “And what did he decide?” Barr asked.

  “He never said,” O’Carroll replied. “But the point was that he’d worked really hard all of his life to make a bunch of money and he was quite literally having trouble giving it away.”

  “I bet he didn’t have any trouble taking holidays after that,” McCusker offered O’Carroll and then addressed Barr. “Tell me this: Who drew up Dan Kidd’s will?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t Wesley Whitlock III, in fact it wasn’t even Mason, Burr & Co. – it was a totally different company,” Barr said as his eyes scanned his notes. “It was Henry’s Ltd.”