Clock Face of Ills

by Paige Elizabeth Turner

  McMaster lazes in the seat as if he were lounging in front of a television. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know a person named Giuseppe Caruso?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And by what means did you know him?’

  ‘He was my neighbour.’

  ‘For how long had you known him?’

  ‘About six years.’

  ‘And how would you describe the relationship?’

  ‘It wasn’t a relationship. He was my neighbour. We hardly spoke.’

  Thornton has to open the communication. He’d expected to clash with McMaster, but not in the form of one word, restrictive answers.

  McMaster also expects a clash. He is well-versed in eliciting information from suspects under the pressure of a formal interview. He knows the best way to confound an interviewer is to deliver short, snappy answers with no open ends for the interrogator to pursue.

  Thornton continues: ‘Tell me about your last communication with Mr Caruso.’

  McMaster suddenly realises full cooperation will read better on the Record of Interview: ‘A month ago. We had a boundary dispute, right? Was resolved when I produced title documentation. That led to my offer on his property.’

  ‘And did he accept the offer?’

  ‘We were in negotiations at the time of his unfortunate death.’

  ‘And you subsequently engaged a solicitor to act on your behalf?’

  ‘Much later. Yes.’

  ‘So you were keen to gain the Caruso property?’

  ‘More “interested” than keen. There’s a distinction.’

  Thornton hoists his brows. ‘All right. What was your interest?’

  McMaster smiles. ‘A man has to plan for his retirement, doesn’t he? Going to do a spot of farming. Already started. Well, I had until your lot slithered through my shed.’

  Thornton won’t be intimidated: ‘So you had to obviate delays?’

  ‘Part of any transaction, I suppose. Paperwork, right? Just like the burden we put up with. Never enough time.’

  ‘Did someone help with that?’

  ‘Told you. I had a solicitor take care of it. You’ve met him. Jeff Main. Not a bad guy; bit fresh around the gills, but reliable.’ McMaster crosses his legs and glances at Thornton. Assumes control.

  Thornton ignores the aggressive posture. ‘This “paperwork” as you call it didn’t happen straight away, did it? Your initial offer was refused by Giuseppe Caruso?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call that part of the negotiations. Was more an off-the-cuff teaser. I would have had no problem setting up my own land for a year and making a later offer or leasing nearby acreage. Fact of the matter is, right, I only rekindled the subject after poor Giuseppe passed away. As I said to his wife, my intention was to help eliminate a financial burden and smooth the way for her remaining years.’

  Yeah, sure. What a great, big-hearted neighbour you are. ‘So that’s when you instructed Mr Main to oversee the contract obligations?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Must have made it easy with Mr Caruso gone?’

  ‘What do you mean? I’m not familiar with the ins and outs of conveyancing. Contract’s a contract, right? I’m sure Mr Main acts professionally regardless of his client’s identity.’

  ‘All right. Is it fair to say Mr Caruso’s demise advantaged you?’

  ‘Not at all, and that’s a slur on my integrity. I just told you, right, I didn’t care less whether I was able to buy his land or not. Had I been desperate, I might have sought other options. But I wasn’t desperate. Life went on. Still does. For me, anyway.’

  ‘Truth is, a problem did crop up, didn’t it? A disparity in prices?’

  ‘Nothing I wasn’t able to solve. Bit of a mix up between solicitors, as I recall. Young Angelo, Caruso that is, had minor involvement. Was all hunky dory in the end.’

  ‘Would you care to comment on an alleged conversation in which you’re said to have told Main to fix Angelo?’

  McMaster straightens. Sets his hands on the table. ‘I’ll comment on anything to help. Tell me the source of the allegation and I’ll try to respond to the particular occasion.’

  ‘I’ll save that for later. For the moment, let’s just say we have various sources.’

  McMaster smiles: ‘Aah, “acting on information received”. Overused, but effective. Tell you something; I do recall Jeff and me talking about fixing him up for helping his mother with the paperwork. Fixing him up in a financial context – a cash reward. You’re not going to do me for withholding VAT are you?’

  Behind the window, Olivia cringes. She knows McMaster will walk his way out of trouble, even if it means walking over water.

  Thornton fumes. Restrains his frustration. He won’t allow McMaster the edge. ‘You’ve investigated murders. What was your opinion of Angelo’s death?’

  ‘I was sorry for him and his mother.’

  ‘Operationally.’

  ‘Never got a look in, did I? Your DS Street moved me on. Went by the book: “I’m clearing the public from the scene”, he said. Evicted me from my own bloody building. Thought I was on Big Brother: “It’s time to go … Phil”. All I did was go to my cellar for the first time since leaving hospital and run smack bang into a body. Didn’t know who it was until Street’s lot yanked him out.’

  ‘So your friend, Gillian, never saw him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know what she saw. She’s visited my property and seen the premises and outbuildings. As to anything else she might have seen, you should speak to her.’

  Olivia glares. Shuffles in her seat. Bloody McMaster, he’s good. The photos! Show him the photos.

  Thornton opens his folder. Decides against producing Olivia’s photos. McMaster has not denied Gillian’s presence in the shed. Shame there’s no photo of Gillian looking into the pit.

  ‘Let me revisit the boundary problem. How much time did you spend surveying the discrepancy?’

  ‘Only as long as it took to ascertain a previous landowner had ripped me off nearly six metres.’

  ‘Is it true you subsequently erected or realigned the rear fence?’

  ‘Yes, it is true. I erected a new one. Great job, too.’

  ‘And Mr Caruso was fine with that?’

  ‘More than happy. I even offered to buy the reclaimed land, but he said take it. I paid him anyway – being the considerate neighbour I am.’ McMaster smirks at his self-aggrandising compliment.

  ‘You aware the death of Mr Caruso senior was later found to be not of natural causes?’

  ‘Yeah. Word is SOCO stuffed up. Seized a few items for no result. When it’s time, it’s time. Comes to us all, right? By the way, you putting as much effort into finding out who dropped that tree on me?’

  ‘You can be assured it’s being dealt with. Your local CID, I believe. DS Street’s in charge.’ Thornton’s turn to smile. ‘Mr McMaster. It’s my duty to inform you that we have a cigarette butt recovered from your property near the rear boundary.’

  ‘Great! You could have picked up a thousand.’

  ‘Maybe. But this is a roll-your-own. Distinctive tobacco. I’m not interested in the shit inside. It’s the outside, the tip, from where your DNA was extracted.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘A witness has identified you as seen near your rear boundary and accessing the Caruso property through the fence.’

  McMaster immediately thinks of Gill. She could have snapped photos of him twenty-four hours a day. And she could have written up a lengthy statement detailing his activities of the previous two weeks. The law regulating use of statements in a criminal case, which he knows clause by clause, rules they are only working documents until their originator testifies that the content of the statement is true and correct. And that definitely won’t happen.

  ‘Again I say, so what? The Carusos were
acquaintances. I was obviously visiting.’

  ‘Er, I forgot to mention this was April fourteen, only minutes before Maria Caruso attended your home requesting help.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter when it was. I smoke everywhere. Speaking of which, we’re due for a break, aren’t we?’

  ‘Not yet. Take a look at this. Recognise it?’

  ‘Yep. A photograph. Taken with a mobile phone, I’d say. Bit lacking in the pixels department. Too grainy for a pro.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be a wise guy if I were you. Study it. Do you agree it’s a photo taken inside your shed?’

  ‘Certainly do. And whoever took it was trespassing, right? Makes it inadmissible. No one’s served a Search Warrant for access to my shed, and I’ve given no one permission to enter – except your lot after I found Angelo.’

  ‘Good. Now look closer. Side wall above the bench.’

  ‘Yep. That’s my place. Pegboard, a few tools, and too much junk.’

  ‘What can you tell me about the piece of timber wedged behind the pegboard. Looks like an oar or a paddle?’

  For the first time in forty minutes, McMaster stalls. ‘Er, can’t tell you anything. Haven’t seen it before. If someone’s, er, trespassed in my property to take photos, that person, or anyone else could do whatever they wish in there. Anyway, what the hell’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘Plenty. We’ve received a forensics’ report. It has plenty to do with you. Your palm print and DNA are on its handle. At the blade’s tip, DNA comprising blood and hair follicles has been retrieved. Giuseppe Caruso’s. What do you say to that?’

  ‘Someone’s planted it.’ McMaster crosses his legs. Leans back in the chair. Folds his arms. ‘You’ll have to do much better if you’re suggesting what I think you are.’

  ‘Very well. I put it to you that you attended the Caruso property and assaulted Mr Giuseppe Caruso, the result of which caused his death.’

  McMaster leans forward onto the table: ‘You can put what you like. It didn’t happen. Now, I’ll put this to you: the interview is terminated until I arrange legal firepower – and it won’t be some tin-pot clerk like that Main you’ve got down the hallway.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll arrange a phone. I’ll remind you you’re still under arrest and will be detained until such time as you are either released or bailed. It is my duty to inform you that when the Record of Interview resumes, I shall put to you questions relating to the death of Angelo Caruso.’

  ‘You’ve got to be having a laugh. It was me who reported finding him! I’m hardly going to call police if I wasted him. Seriously. I’m a bloody Detective Inspector, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I can’t comment. The interview’s concluded at your request.’

  Two hours’ later, on arrival of Rohan Pati, a distinguished criminal lawyer recommended by the Police Association, the interview resumes.

  ‘Mr McMaster. Before you requested Mr Pati, I put it to you that “you attended the Caruso property and assaulted Mr Giuseppe Caruso, the result of which caused his death”. What do you say to that?’

  McMaster looks to his lawyer. ‘Yes, I attended the Caruso property. Mr Caruso was already on the floor. I attempted revival and instructed Mrs Caruso to call the ambulance.’

  ‘Can you explain how the paddle, identified in this photo (Thornton produces the photo) came to have both your and Mr Caruso’s DNA on it?’

  Pati nods to endorse previously agreed responses.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you say to the proposition that you were at the dividing fence of your and Mr Caruso’s property only minutes before Mrs Caruso alerted you to Mr Caruso’s collapse?’

  ‘It’s entirely possible. It’s a shame I didn’t know what was happening—

  Pati extends his hand to McMaster’s leg. McMaster dips his head: ‘It’s okay.’

  —inside the house. Most unfortunate I couldn’t have helped earlier. They say time is of the essence in heart attack cases.’

  Thornton shakes his head.

  Olivia, still behind the window, does likewise.

  ‘What do you say to the proposition that you were carrying a cricket bat or similar from the Caruso home?’

  McMaster ponders. Another photo? Another statement? ‘I can’t recall. The shock of seeing my good neighbour dead shook me. However, it is possible I picked up a broken branch or two from down the back. Bloody windbreaks – they cop the full brunt of afternoon breeze.’

  ‘Moving back to Angelo Caruso. You told me earlier he had “involvement” you called it, with the property contracts?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘What was the extent of that involvement?’

  ‘He was helping his mother.’

  ‘I have information there was a flaw in the contracts.’

  How the fuck? Gill again? ‘As I said, it was resolved. That’s Mr Main’s area.’

  ‘And Angelo was going to be “fixed” for that?’

  ‘Is that a question? Aren’t we going round in circles? I’m on record: we spoke of a reward on his mother’s behalf.’

  ‘I formally advise that your DNA has been recovered from Angelo Caruso’s vehicle.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Can you explain the presence of your DNA?’

  ‘Not without checking my diary and retracing activities.’

  ‘Is it still your position, Mr McMaster, that you gave no one permission to access your shed?’

  ‘It is. Doesn’t mean no one’s been in though.’

  Thornton looks to his scribbled memory prompts: ‘We’ve been through that. You told me the paddle was planted.’

  ‘Correct. But I just remembered my wife had a key. She’d lent it to Main. Main told me, in Lowenstein’s. Remember? Said he needed access to check measurements. Don’t draw conclusions without fact. You have another two people who had access.’

  Thornton drops his face into his hands. Exasperation. Four hours and he is back where he started.

  He leaves the interview room. Approaches Olivia. ‘Think I’ll be a while on this. You can go if you want. Your role’s complete. Send me your invoice and I’ll hustle it through.’

  ‘Thanks. A couple of hours’ sleep won’t go astray. I’ll be in touch. All the best.’

  XLVII

  I depart the Met offices with Thornton’s approval and gratitude. Whilst I can’t claim total victory for the arrests and subsequent charges – because police exalted themselves with my forensic exhibits – Thornton, at least, acknowledged my contribution as the conduit to prosecution. I reflect on how the routine tail and report grew from minor thefts to harassment, deception, and ultimately, three murders.

  Thornton afforded Gillian a compassionate benefit of doubt over her relationship and complicity in McMaster’s dealings. Given the circumstances, he is more than kind. From my perspective, her immersion into a relationship with McMaster taints the reputation of my industry. I should harbour no grudges. However misguided she might have been, I should forgive all and let her rest in peace.

  Thornton asked me to return the shed key to Gloria McMaster. I’m not sure how I’ll be received, since her account of Phil McMaster’s lolling about the rear boundary at the time of Giuseppe’s death contributed to her husband’s downfall. However, I am not one to shun responsibilities.

  I drive into Ashton Hill, turn away from the gaping space in the tree-line, and soak up the sprawling mansion’s view. I need no reminder of the earlier tragedy. To think I once felt sorry for DI McMaster seems disjointed. I continue down the drive to find two huge cement trucks parked near the shed entrance. The roller doors are hoisted to their maximum. Two huge plastic pipes pulse into the shed. I park, look to the house, and on seeing no activity walk into the shed. The pipes hang over the pit opening, pumping concrete into the huge void. ‘Won’t be long, Miss,’ a contractor yells. He must th
ink I am a resident.

  ‘Not a problem,’ I reply.

  As I turn, I see an orange chainsaw hanging from a hook in a machinery cabinet. Certainly not the most unusual sight in a rural property – but it does prick my interest. Not possible. Surely. I struggle with the thought of Gloria McMaster wielding the chainsaw through two huge trees only fifty metres along the drive. No. No way. I walk to the rear door. Gloria greets me at the step. I guess she’d seen me drive in, or had been propped beside the rear door, wet with excitement over a shirtless contractor. ‘Morning, Mrs McMaster,’ I say in a voice wavering with operatic vibrato.

  ‘Hello. You’re the last person I’d expect to see around here.’

  I am confused. She speaks with a smile, almost as if she is pleased to see me.

  ‘I guess I’m not on your best friends list. I’m here to return this key.’

  ‘Oh that. Won’t be needing it. I got no business down there. How’d you get it?’

  ‘Your solicitor. Main.’

  ‘Bastard. He was supposed to hand it back the other week after he’d finished measuring.’

  I play dumb – comes easy. ‘So you’re putting a concrete floor in the shed?’

  ‘I’m doing nothing. Something about an O.H. & S. risk. The coppers checked with council about permits. Some guy called Stonebridge had written up a shonky permit and pocketed five hundred quid. Can you believe it? So the hole’s being filled. So much for Phil’s cellar.’

  She still hasn’t got a clue.

  I bid farewell and slip next door to Maria’s.

  ‘Olivia. Come in. Here, sit, have the cup of tea with me.’

  I love Italian welcomes. Gives me an insight into royalty.

  Maria looks withered. She’s lost a husband and son in the space of a fortnight, and has physically dried up after dealing with all attendant arrangements. She boasts about her family assisting her – both sons have returned from Italy, with Vince deciding to remain – and her daughters regularly visit to keep abreast of household chores.