Down on Cyprus Avenue

by Paul Charles

  “If I tell you who our big headed alien is you’d definitely think it was much more bizarre than the alien was in the first place.”

  “Ah come on McCusker...try me?”

  “Nagh, I’ve a lot more work to do before I get to that stage,” he admitted, as much to himself, as he returned to the serious business of eating.

  Just after lunchtime, and before McCusker had a chance to fully formulate his thoughts, Superintendent Larkin made a visit for an update on the case.

  “Okay,” McCusker said, walking over to the board, flipping it 180 degrees and beginning to write on the clean side. “Thanks to some very diligent work from the team and some serious co-operation from Herr Kurt Wolf at Mason, Burr and Co…”

  “Stop the flannelling and get on with it McCusker,” Larkin ordered, immediately seeing through McCusker’s stalling.

  “Right,” McCusker said, writing “Adam Whitlock” with a blue magic marker in the centre of the board. He circled it and drew a line out to another containing the name Wesley Whitlock III. From there he drew lines to Ray O’Sullivan, Polly O’Neil (née O’Sullivan), and then on to James O’Neill, then to the brothers O’Neill (Ryan and Lawrence). From the Brothers O’Neill circle he drew one single solid line back to Ray O’Sullivan, whereupon he changed his marker to a red one to draw a new and final circle around Ryan O’Neill’s name. This he joined to the central circle and Adam Whitlock. He turned around to survey the room: everyone was staring at his handy work and waiting, he presumed, for the inevitable explanation.

  “Okay, long story short,” McCusker said taking a large breath. “Wesley Whitlock III invests money in Ray O’Sullivan’s O’Electronics. Whitlock, while exploiting O’Sullivan’s obvious inadequacies as a businessman, piggy-backed one of his other clients, a Mr James O’Neill, into O’Electronics. Eventually Whitlock III and James O’Neill gang up on O’Sullivan and in a boardroom coup they steal the company from under his feet. O’Sullivan, a broken man, commits suicide a few months later. James O’Neill then proceeds to take O’Sullivan’s wife, Polly, as well and becomes stepfather to O’Sullivan’s two boys, Ryan and Lawrence.

  “Ryan discovers this series of betrayals and it festers over the years until ten nights ago he takes his revenge. Ryan holds Whitlock Senior responsible for the loss of his dear father, and so his revenge would have more impact if Whitlock had to live the rest of his life without his son, especially knowing he was in some way responsible for his death.”

  “Works perfect for me,” Larkin announced, as McCusker blew a sigh of relief.

  Too soon.

  “Except for the fecking great big green elephant in the room,” Larkin barked at the top of his voice. “Which is: at the time Adam Whitlock was being murdered, Ryan O’Neill – not to mention his brother, just in case you get any other smart ideas – was being held by kidnappers – a very convenient alibi.”

  “Fair point,” McCusker conceded, “fair point. That’s really the point I’d reached when you came in.”

  “Okay McCusker, keep at it, let me know how you get on,” Larkin said and got up from McCusker’s desk where he’d been sitting for the duration the presentation.

  “I can’t believe that,” O’Carroll pitched a little too high, the minute McCusker sat down again.

  “What can’t you believe now?” McCusker asked.

  “Well, I’m trying to work out whether I can’t believe that you really think Ryan O’Neill murdered Adam Whitlock or that you actually told Superintendent Larkin that Ryan O’Neill murdered Adam Whitlock.”

  “Yeah, he caught me on the hop a bit...” McCusker admitted, “I still hadn’t worked out the finer details of my theory. When was the last time you heard from either of the O’Neill brothers?”

  “Funny you should say that,” O’Carroll replied, searching through the mess of files and paperwork which was her desk, “yes, here it is. Lawrence rang in last Thursday evening at 8.50. He had just gone into the Duke of York.”

  “Where’s that exactly?”

  “It’s just around the corner from their offices, and not too far from their apartment. On one of the oldest streets in Belfast – Commercial Court; actually it’s more of an entry than a street,” she said and then looked spaced. “You made me lose my thread McCusker...where was I?”

  “Lawrence had just entered the Duke of York.”

  “Right, right, yes, and he immediately spotted one of the kidnappers. He said he panicked and ran outside and rang here. We sent a car down, they met Lawrence freezing on the cobbled entry outside the Duke of York and they went into the pub but the kidnapper had clearly done a runner by then.”

  “Why don’t we pop around and have a wee chat with Lawrence and Ryan and see how the auld Larry’s List is progressing?” McCusker started. “And you know what? I’ve also got an interesting wee question for them that will test just how resourceful their list is.”

  Larry’s List had relocated from the boy’s apartment in St Anne’s Square to just around the corner in an open-plan, warehouse loft unit in Hector Street, under the shadow of St Anne’s Cathedral.

  The O’Neill’s prime-time TV coverage looked like it had paid off: some serious cash had been sprayed over their web enterprise, both in terms of equipment and staff. Ryan and Larry had added four members to their workforce; one male, looking like he could be no more than fifteen years of age, a female, dressed in Gothic black, and two receptionists, both older and both very keen to fuss over “their first visitors,” McCusker and O’Carroll.

  “Do you need me?” Ryan said, warmly shaking O’Carroll’s hand, “I’m just on the way to see the bank manager.” Indeed, in his shiny suit, new white shirt and sober tie, he looked like he couldn’t be heading anywhere else.

  “No,” McCusker replied slightly surprised at the lack of a handshake. “You’re fine, sir, we actually came to see Lawrence on this occasion – we can catch you later.” Lawrence barely looked up from his computer in the far corner of the loft.

  “Lawrence!” Ryan called out, as he exited the large swinging doors, which bore, on both sides, full-length pop-art style blue and pink Larry’s List logos. “Detective Inspector Lilly O’Carroll and her oppo are here to see you.”

  Lawrence O’Neill was tall where tall was still strange to him. He looked more comfortable arched over his computer, in that the electronic coupling completed him. But when he rose up from his seat and walked over to them, McCusker feared they might witness a Bambi moment. However, rather than topple over he politely air-kissed both of O’Carroll’s cheeks and, like his younger brother Ryan, he virtually ignored McCusker altogether.

  “We’ve come to check up with you on your sighting on Thursday night of one of your kidnappers?” McCusker offered as way of explanation for their intrusion into the IT sanctuary.

  “Oh right,” Lawrence said, as though it had all come flooding back to him. He absentmindedly played with the small tuft of white hair, which fell from beneath his hairline and over his forehead.

  McCusker wondered if the object of the exercise was in fact to make the white tuft less noticeable by separating it from the upper black mass and curtaining it over his forehead, which itself was snow white from a lifetime of avoiding the sun. “We wondered if perhaps you could give us a fuller description of the kidnapper?” he asked.

  “You see,” O’Carroll chipped in, “I thought you and Ryan had told me that you never actually got to see your captors with their masks off.”

  “Yes, that’s the weird thing,” Larry replied, sitting on the corner of his untidy desk to minimise his height. “The minute I walked into the pub on Thursday night the first thing I saw were these two eyes staring at me and it totally freaked me out because I immediately recognised them as one of the people who’d held us captive.”

  “O-kay,” McCusker said very slowly, “I see now.”

  “And you’re sure it was the same man?” O’Carroll asked.

  “Oh, please believe me – you never forget the eye
s of the man who you thought was going to kill you.”

  “Who were you with when you went into the pub?” McCusker asked.

  “I was just by myself. I was meant to be meeting Ryan there.”

  “It was very cold that night wasn’t it?” McCusker continued, shifting to casually conversational tone.

  “You better believe it was,” Lawrence laughed. “I froze my wotsits off waiting outside in the entry for your squad car to show up.”

  “And there’s no chance you’d been in the pub for awhile, you know, before you spotted this man, the man with the eyes?”

  “They’d all eyes,” Lawrence wise-cracked, although now warily studying McCusker’s face.

  McCusker faked a laugh. “Of course, yes good one...but the kidnapper, I meant the kidnapper, with the distinctive eyes...” the Portrush detective explained, knowing that Larry knew full well what he’d meant. “Are you sure you weren’t in the pub for awhile before you recognised the eyes of your captor?”

  “No, I’m sure about that,” Larry confirmed instantly. “The minute I walked into The Duke and the door swung shut behind me, those beady evil eyes locked into mine. It was really freaky, I can tell you. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back into The Duke again.”

  “Tell me this,” McCusker asked, scratching his head, “I keep feeling I’m going to sneeze. Would you have a Kleenex on you?”

  “Sorry, no I don’t,” Larry replied, not even bothering to check his pockets.

  One of the receptionists rushed to his rescue, “I’m never without them,” she smiled sweetly.

  McCusker took the tissue and looked back to Lawrence. “Do you ever go and see the bank manager as well?”

  “Nagh, Ryan gets to do that for both of us; he gets to wear the tie,” Larry replied.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” McCusker said.

  “Is there anything else you can remember about the kidnapper that you can tell us, having now seen him in the pub?” O’Carroll asked, trying to help McCusker through an awkward patch in the interview.

  “Well let’s see...as I told your uniformed officer on Thursday, he was either totally bald or he’d shaved his head, he was very tall – he stood out from all the people around him, which is probably why I focused on him immediately. He was wearing a rugby shirt.”

  “Which team?” O’Carroll asked.

  “I wouldn’t have a clue.”

  “Tell me this Lawrence,” McCusker started slowly, “when you entered the Duke of York was it crowded?”

  “Yeah, packed as usual with Belfast’s young and hip set,” Lawrence replied. “You’ll recognise them immediately if they ever bump into you because their shoes are so pointed they could poke your eyes out…and I’m just talking about the boys by the way.”

  McCusker acknowledged the attempt at humour with a more successful attempt at a laugh. “So it would have been hot then?” he continued.

  “You better believe it.”

  “Have you been wearing glasses for long?” McCusker asked.

  “Ah, actually I’ve been wearing them since I was three,” Larry replied, again looking slightly confused by McCusker’s shift in the line of questioning. “My mother told me that in the early days I was so annoyed at being forced to wear the hideous things that I used to break my glasses and hide the pieces under the carpet.”

  “My dad used to wear glasses,” McCusker started, while still smiling at Lawrence’s recollection. “And you know what bugged him the most about having to wear them?”

  “Ah no,” Larry replied, openly surprised by the question.

  “Yeah, I only remember this because it really bugged him,” McCusker recalled warmly. “But on a cold night when he would go into his local up in Portrush, no sooner would he have walked through the door of the pub when the hot air of the pub would hit the cold of his glasses and the lenses would instantly steam up on him. He wouldn’t be able to see anyone or anything for at least a few minutes until his glasses heated up naturally or he rubbed them with a handkerchief to heat up the lenses.”

  Larry O’Neill looked at McCusker. The detective could actually see the young man’s brain working overtime. He looked like he’d just Googled something on his mental computer, hit the return key and he was waiting to see the search results. “Well lucky enough,” Larry replied, just a heartbeat too late, “unlike in the good old days, we now have air conditioning as a standard in all pubs.”

  McCusker didn’t bother to continue to argue the point that this didn’t make an ounce of difference. No, for McCusker, the main object of the exercise was to make it known to Larry that he knew he’d been lying. That he’d know that the detective knew he’d never seen his kidnapper in The Duke of York. And, more importantly for McCusker, Larry would pass this information on to his brother the moment he returned to headquarters. “Look, I know you’re busy here, and thanks a million for your time, but would you mind just before I go if I asked one of your team a question for Larry’s List?” McCusker asked.

  “Sure,” Larry said, air-kissing O’Carroll goodbye. “Sean’s your man – he’ll do you one question for free, then he’ll have to charge you.”

  Larry seemed to be the only person to find his remark funny, and he turned away to resume his work.

  “Okay,” the teenage Sean said, rubbing his hands at the obvious glee of putting his skills to the test. “How can I help you?”

  “Right Sean,” McCusker started talking just loud enough to ensure that Larry could still hear him. “What I’m after – what I’d really like to source – is who in the city here deals in vintage Vespa 125 scooters?”

  Following a spat of Sean’s ultra-fast typing and a few prompts from the cursor and the return key, the slick-looking Larry’s List produced a new list: this time of three Vespa dealerships in Belfast.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  As they walked back to O’Carroll’s canary-coloured Mégane, McCusker had her ring DI Jarvis Cage and order him to take a constable in a battenburg to Mr and Mrs O’Neill’s house. He was to park right outside, where everyone would see them. McCusker hoped that should Ryan or Lawrence O’Neill come calling, they’d spot the police car and drive away immediately. However, should they try to gain access to the house, then DI Cage should detain them and bring them in to the office for questioning.

  “So, going back to our wee scene back there in the office; you wanted Larry to know that you knew he was lying about the sightings, right?” O’Carroll said as she started up the car.

  “Right.”

  “But if they were going to go to the trouble of creating such a sham, would it not have made more sense for Ryan to have reported the sighting?” O’Carroll asked.

  “No, because by…”

  “By having Larry make the call,” she interrupted, as she opened the car door, “they made it all the more believable.”

  “Exactly!” McCusker replied, fastening his seatbelt.

  “And you dropped the Vespa dealership in there because you also wanted Larry to tell Ryan that you’re onto the fact they used the scooter to pick up the ransom money and that they also used it as the getaway vehicle after the Adam Whitlock murder...so...do you think they were both involved in the murder?”

  “No, just Ryan,” McCusker replied. “Ivan George reported only one big headed alien leaving the scene of the crime.

  “And you think it was Ryan because…”

  “Because he is definitely the leader, he’s closest to his mum and he was the one who was battered and bruised after the fake kidnapping.”

  “The allegedly fake kidnapping?” O’Carroll said, correcting him.

  “Agreed.”

  “And Ryan was also the one who couldn’t get out of the office quick enough when we arrived.”

  “Yes,” McCusker agreed. “You’re right; but we still have a lot to work out.”

  “And because of your play-acting in there, the clock has started running.”

  “I find that if I have someth
ing in my life that annoys me,” McCusker said, changing subjects and staring out of the window. “Something like…oh, you know, replacing a fuse in a plug, or a bulb in an awkward location, or fixing a wobbly leg on a coffee table, or sorting your CDs into their proper sleeves – I’m talking about things that just need to be done…sometime…but mostly in the future. But don’t you see these chores are never a major concern, I can get through life without them and choose when to sort them out. I find that those little problems, niggling away at the back of my mind, actually help to distract me from the big problems.”

  “And Ryan O’Neill is one of your current problems?”

  “Yes. It’s just that I’m still not 100 per cent sure which of the two categories he fits into.”

  * * *

  It was a rainy day in Belfast and as they walked up the front steps, originally the rear entrance to the Custom House, McCusker pondered whether Ryan had genuinely had a meeting with his bank manager or it had been an elaborate avoidance tactic.

  McCusker decided to give Larry’s List HQ a cold-call; he was “Doing a credit rating on the company and needed their bank details to complete it.” The girl receptionist happily obliged, reading the details from the chequebook she claimed she had right beside her.

  McCusker then put a call through to the bank in question and asked to speak to the manager’s secretary. Once through to her, he read out the account details and asked his questions. “What’s your number? I’ll call you once I’ve checked these out,” she said, helpfully. A minute later, she was back on the line, confirming that the details were indeed those registered to Larry’s List, but that no one from that company was scheduled meet with the manager today, or even that week for that matter.

  McCusker spent a long hour going through the various potential scenarios that might emerge after that morning’s developments. Surely Ryan and his brother wouldn’t do a runner: no, that would be a direct admission of their guilt. Whatever the eventual outcome, just as he was sitting in his office plotting how best to trap the brothers, he was certain that they in turn would be frantically calculating their next step.