by Paul Charles
But she didn’t, instead she said, very matter of a fact, “You’re obviously confused Mr McCusker – Ryan can’t ride the scooter, never could. He even tried to take the test and failed, twice, and then he gave up. Lawrence is the one who’s the Vespa fanatic.”
Chapter Fifty
An all-ports warning was put out on Lawrence O’Neill immediately.
McCusker appreciated the fact his partner had said nothing about him happily releasing the murderer less than an hour before.
The CSI team took over the Polly O’Neill premises, but only after McCusker had presented her with the search warrant.
In the garage, and not even hidden, was the infamous vintage red Vespa 125 scooter with its iconic pregnant back wheel guards. Suspended from the handlebars was the crash helmet, which – with the wide red flash from front to back over the crown – had given Lawrence his alien-like appearance as he had departed Adam’s house down on Cyprus Avenue on that fateful Saturday night. The chin-strap looked like it had been chewed continuously over the years and McCusker was sure they would find Lawrence’s DNA on it.
McCusker asked that the helmet first be taken to the pathologist, Anthony Robertson; he wanted the canny Scot to check out whether the crown of the helmet could have been responsible for the bruising on Adam Whitlock’s chest. Perhaps this could account for the lack of self-defence marks on the victim’s hands, wrists and arms. If Lawrence had rammed his helmet-adorned head straight into Adam’s chest as he opened the door, then Whitlock would have, at the very least, been severely winded and unable to defend himself as he was repeatedly and savagely stabbed to death. (McCusker felt it was vitally important to keep reminding himself that a young man had lost his life as a result of Lawrence’s actions.)
McCusker joined the search in the garage; there was something else he was keen to find, which would enable him to wrap up the first part of the case. He searched high and low, emptying box after box in growing frustration. He had never in his life seen such a collection of telephone directories – Lawrence’s obsession with them had obviously started way back in his youth. He flipped through the ancient directories in the hope of discovering a scooped-out hiding place within their pages.
The Grafton Recruitment’s agency detective even went as far as having one of the CSI team fetch him a ladder so that he could inspect the eaves of the garage. Once again, he enjoyed no success.
McCusker had more than enough evidence to prove the brothers were responsible for the fraudulent kidnapping. But even with Ryan’s vague admission, it was based on circumstantial evidence at best, and once it was turned over to lawyers, they’d be all over it, just like the cheap suits they wore. No, he always wanted to put his cases beyond the arguments of clever lawyers.
In fact, uncovering the remainder of the ransom was pivotal to proving both his cases. If it was found on one of the properties associated with Lawrence, they could conclusively prove that there was no kidnapping, thereby immediately throwing Lawrence’s alibi for the night of the murder out of the window. But the balance of £999,950 had not been found at the Saint Anne’s Square apartment or at their offices, and so far not a note had been discovered in their parents’ home.
McCusker wondered how much of the original amount remained. Just how much of it could they have pumped into the hungry-for-cash Larry’s List operation in one week? Had they paid the deposit and advance rent for their new HQ in cash, filling it with new office furniture and equipment by the same method? It wouldn’t be too difficult to find out. Yes, just as when McCusker was growing up, some people still preferred good old cash to a plastic transaction. But just as much as they loved their cash in hand, they reviled a knock on the door from the Inland Revenue, the PSNI’s neighbours back at the Custom House. He made a mental note to set the diligent DS Barr onto it when his workload permitted.
An hour and twenty minutes passed. There was still no sign of the dosh and no sign of Lawrence. His solicitor claimed he’d neither seen nor heard from him since he’d bid him goodbye on the steps of the Custom House upon his release on bail. McCusker believed Pat Tepper.
Ryan O’Neill claimed he hadn’t a clue where his brother would have gone. McCusker wasn’t so sure but Ryan, now back in his mother’s house, looked extremely relieved to be no longer detained on a murder charge.
Each time McCusker had an inspired idea as to where the cash might be hidden and it turned out to be fruitless, he’d return to the Vespa 125 and dander around it, hoping for new inspiration. McCusker had seen Lawrence, although he didn’t know that it was him at the time, running down Lisburn Road, carrying the holdall, nearly getting knocked over by “undercover” DI Jarvis Cage, hopping on to his Vespa and driving away. He was sure the holdall was a black canvas one and that’s what he’d been looking for, as well as the cash. What if Lawrence was clever enough to get rid of the incriminating holdall...then where would he have transferred the funds to?
He walked around the Vespa, examining it in a desperate attempt to eke out further inspiration. The famous 125 CC engine was housed on the left-hand side of the rear wheel guard, but on the right he suddenly spotted an area where the paintwork had been scratched. The damage was around a small panel which had a wee latch protruding. McCusker, still legit in his blue disposable gloves, pushed the latch down. The panel flicked open and McCusker stood in sheer disbelief as he faced several wads of £50 notes, which had been carelessly stuffed inside the hollow wheel guard. Once all the money had been removed they discovered a fake black beard on the floor of the compartment.
He found it incredulous that Lawrence was so cavalier is his approach to hiding the evidence of his crime right under his father’s nose. He was happy for what he and his team had just been gifted; disbelieving but happy.
But before he allowed himself to get excited about his discovery, he once reminded himself that young Mr Adam Whitlock had lost his life.
Chapter Fifty-One
McCusker and O’Carroll headed back down the Lisburn Road to the Custom House. As they entered the building – knowing it had descended at least a gnat-hair’s depth deeper into the Lagan-side earth than it had been when they left – they were greeted by an effervescent Station Duty Sergeant Matt Devine, who advised McCusker that someone, possibly Lawrence O’Neill, had just been spotted behaving suspiciously by the owner of one of the boats at the back of the Odyssey entertainment complex.
The Grafton Recruitment Agency detective, McCusker, and an officer of the Police Service of Northern Ireland, DI Lily O’Carroll, pulled up just outside the Premier Inn five minutes later. As they ran past the cheap and cheerful hotel on their right, and the rear of the Odyssey on their left towards the Lagan-side, McCusker worried that if the mystery person, assuming it was indeed Larry O’Neill, had paid a visit to another of Wesley Whitlock’s children; this time his daughter Miss Julia Whitlock? Did the computer whiz kid think that murdering one of Wesley Whitlock III’s children just wasn’t enough? Maybe revenge had not proved sweet enough and, now that McCusker was onto him, he’d decided to go for broke and target Julia as well. But had he been spotted on his way to her apartment, or running away from it?
When they arrived at the scene they were greeted by DS WJ Barr, who had contained a growing number of gawkers in the far right of The Arc, coincidentally just below the balcony of Julia Whitlock’s apartment in block twelve. McCusker had one of the uniformed officers present run up to Julia’s apartment to determine whether or not she was safe.
Barr took McCusker across the forecourt of The Arc. He pointed out the character of interest who was sitting on a small boat at the far end of the floating jetty, which ran alongside the rear of the Odyssey. McCusker wondered if perhaps the big stars who came to perform at the venue preferred this solitary route in order to avoid the screaming fans. He did not need Barr’s offer of binoculars to positively identify Larry O’Neill – his flyaway white tuft of hair betrayed him.
McCusker and O’Carroll decided to keep their distance for the time being. Ba
rr ran back to the crowd and spoke to a man who followed him back towards McCusker and O’Carroll’s vantage point. “This is Gary Mills,” Barr said, by way of introducing the well-dressed gentleman with the smiling eyes, “Mr Mills made the call to us about…”
“What raised your suspicions?” McCusker asked.
“Well, when I arrived down here to do some maintenance work on my boat he was sitting on the back of it as cheekily as Louis Walsh sits on The X Factor panel.”
“Is that your boat he’s on now?” McCusker asked.
“No, no, that’s my one there, the Cry For Home,” he said, pointing to the boat at the closer end of the jetty. “To tell you the truth, it shouldn’t really be there, but I know the production manager in the venue and he lets me leave my boat there sometimes during the week. At the weekends I usually take it up to Newry.”
“Did you speak to the lad when you arrived?”
“Aye, I asked him what he was doing on my boat! He said to leave him in peace and if I didn’t scoot off he’d pour petrol over himself and the boat and torch both. I said ‘to hell you will,’ and I hopped on the boat immediately, caught him by the scruff of the neck and tossed him off my boat, but not before I’d given the wee bollix a good clip on the ear.”
“Then what did he do?” O’Carroll asked.
“He ran on down to the end of the jetty and hopped on that boat and took out three large bottles and doused himself with something – I couldn’t tell you if it was petrol or not,” Gary Mills volunteered and concluded with, “but I thought I better ring it in just in case.
“Lucky you did, sir, thank you very much,” McCusker said to the have-a-go hero.
In part inspired by Gary Mills’ actions, but also because he couldn’t think of any other way of ending this without another person getting hurt, McCusker took off his jacket and handed it to O’Carroll before setting off down the jetty.
He was surprised by just how unstable it felt beneath his feet. He was also a little shocked at how cold he was without his jacket, but he’d had to remove it to show Lawrence O’Neill that he wasn’t armed.
The closer he got to O’Neill the more he realised just how drenched the murderer was. He wasn’t completely sure, but he didn’t think he could detect the smell of petroleum.
Again, following Mills’ lead, he didn’t pussy-foot around when he reached the boat. He hopped on board and sat down on the deck opposite Lawrence O’Neill, who was shivering fiercely.
“What are you doing?” O’Neill barked.
“I’ve just come for a little chat with you,” McCusker said, in a very quiet and friendly tone, as his nostrils started to pick up the distinctive scent of petrol for the first time.
“You should get off,” O’Neill warned, “I’m going to torch myself and the boat.”
“Look Lawrence; it’s not your fault,” McCusker continued.
“Don’t patronise me for fuck’s sake.”
“I wasn’t going to,” McCusker said, rubbing his hands to try and get a bit of heat into them. “All I was going to say was that there are some things that happen to us which we think we have no control over. Your father Ray…”
“How do you know about my dad?” Larry asked, appearing very shocked.
“Part of my job is to try and work out why things happen and we discovered how your father was treated by your stepfather and Wesley Whitlock.”
“He took everything; every fucking thing away from my dad,” Lawrence said, his chin starting to wobble involuntarily, betraying the fact that tears were on the way. “He took his company, his invention and then as if that wasn't enough he took my dad’s wife, my mother, then he took Ryan and me and then eventually he even took my father’s life.”
“I know he did,” McCusker admitted, as honestly as he knew how.
“But you know I never really blamed my stepdad – I always felt he was just another pawn in Whitlock’s game.”
McCusker felt sure the smell of petrol was growing stronger, particularly when he looked away from Lawrence.
“You know, I lived with it through all my youth and then it all kicked off again a few years ago when I saw how my stepfather treated my mum. He didn’t love her. My mum had become a ghost in her own house, and that just wasn’t fair...my mum deserved more. She began to think fondly of my real dad again and she would reminisce to Ryan and me for hours about him. After one of these sessions Ryan said ‘You know, killing would be too good for Whitlock.’ That’s really what set me off. I thought he was right and I started to figure out what could I do that would hurt Whitlock as much as he had hurt my mum and Ryan and me and then…well, you know the rest.”
“Most of it,” McCusker offered, trying to encourage Lawrence to continue.
“Well, Ryan and I had two main problems: one, we needed money to get Larry’s List off the ground. My stepfather wouldn’t give us a penny. That really drove me mad because I knew that everything he had, he had stolen, with Whitlock’s help, from my real dad. The second problem I had was that I’d become obsessed about getting my revenge on Whitlock.
“Then I came up with the idea of faking our kidnapping so that we could get some of my dad’s money back from our stepfather. And then I thought while we were being detained by our kidnappers I would have the perfect alibi, which would allow me to creep out while I was supposedly kidnapped and take my revenge.”
McCusker noted that O’Neill avoided using the word “murder” and also mentioning Adam Whitlock by name.
“Did Ryan even know what you were doing?”
“He knew about the kidnapping, but not about the rest. He hadn't a clue. I tell you, he hadn’t a clue. I slipped out of my cottage in Ballycultra at the Folk Park and went around to Cyprus Avenue. I’d hidden my scooter in the bushes down by the old mill in the Folk Park. Whitlock’s son opened the door. I’d kept my helmet on. Maybe he thought I was the pizza man come back again. I rammed my head straight into his chest, knocked him over, maybe even unconscious and…”
“Why was it that Ryan was a bit battered and bruised when you and he were discovered at the Folk Park?”
“We drew cards for that one,” Larry started back up again, clearly happier with this line of conversation. “We had decided in order to make the kidnapping realistic it would have to look like one of us had been beaten up. Ryan won the draw and he decided he’d be the one to take the beating. I would have done the same thing, had I won the draw. Anyway, we kept delaying it and eventually we had to do it and it grew into a farce because I didn’t really want to hurt him and I obviously didn’t want to bruise my own hands when I was doing so. In the end I tried to surprise him by shoving him against the wall a few times. But we were in stitches of laugher at the time.”
Larry’s mood had seemed to lighten up a bit over the last part of his story.
“Don’t you think we should maybe go in and get you out of those soaking clothes?” McCusker suggested. “I don’t know about you but I’m bleeding freezing out here.”
“Weren’t you scared that I was going to set myself and the boat alight?” Larry asked, as he stood up and shook himself furiously to try and get his circulation going again.
“Not really,” McCusker admitted.
“Not really?”
“Well, I figured that, what with all the water you poured over yourself, you would have ruined your matches or lighter.”
Lawrence sniggered.
“Although I was worried as I walked up to the boat, because there was quite a small strong smell of petrol, but, as I sat closer to you I realised it was the smell of the boat and not the liquid you’d thrown over yourself.”
“Well, it’s lucky you came to rescue me,” the murderer said, “because as I was sitting out here I’d worked out that I’ll probably be out of prison in about eight to ten years, by which point Larry’s List, captained by reliable Ryan, will be mega, and that’s before we even think of the book and movie deals. Also, with me out of the way for awhile, Ryan should finally
get it together with Susanne.”
“I wouldn’t count on the eight to ten if I were you,” McCusker cautioned. “I’m sure with all the fugitive stuff and what with you endangering people and property we’ll easily get you up to the late teens.”
* * *
McCusker handed Lawrence O’Neill over to the safe custody of DS Barr. After he watched them drive off he and O’Carroll nipped up to Julia Whitlock’s apartment in the left-hand tower of the triad of towers that was The Arc. En route, McCusker popped into the bakery and bought four Paris buns, which he dangled in front of him as she opened the door.
“Goodness is that fuss all over?” she asked, stepping aside to allow them in.
“Yes Julia,” O’Carroll replied. “We’ve apprehended the person responsible for your brother’s death.”
Julia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry and in fact made a good attempt at both before O’Carroll, rescuing the bag of buns from McCusker, continued, “I’ll tell you what, I’ll start the brew up, get our buns ready, and McCusker here can tell you all about it.”
Once inside, McCusker started to recount the developments. Julia insisted he tell her the truth in full, and she refused to settle for McCusker’s attempts at softening the blow of her father’s morally deficient past. She wanted to know exactly what her father had done all those years ago that could cause her brother to lose his life in such a terrible way.
As their conversation came to an end, she went over to the window and stared out at the spectacular backdrop of the edge of the city framed in her large window and slowly shook her head from side to side. O’Carroll arrived with the tea and buns. “Those poor boys,” Julia Whitlock eventually said as she turned back into her living room and dried her eyes.
Of all the things McCusker had been expecting her to say this most definitely would have been the last.
“At the appropriate time I’d like to go to Polly and Ryan O’Neill and apologise on behalf of my family,” she continued. “I can’t help Adam anymore and I certainly can’t bring him back, but I do know it’s what he would have wanted me to do.”
