by Paul Charles
O’Carroll buzzed the top floor bell while McCusker simultaneously knocked loudly on the door. They could hear the chiming from somewhere deep in the apartment but no other sound. O’Carroll searched in vain for a key – under the doormat, under a long-dead plant pot, along the top edge of the door frame – while McCusker simply turned the large brass door handle. The door opened noisily into a large empty hallway.
“You seemed to know it wasn’t locked,” she said, searching her pockets.
“It would be my bet the boys didn’t work for or pay for this flat, so they wouldn’t care about it.”
“The mother did confirm she wanted us to search for her children?” O’Carroll asked, as she handed her colleague a pair of clear gloves.
“Correct,” McCusker replied, and they both gloved-up.
“Okay, at this stage all I want to do is to be sure Ryan and Lawrence are not in the apartment,” O’Carroll cautioned McCusker. “Then I want to turn it over to the CSI team.”
“It’s your football; I’m happy to play by your rules,” McCusker confirmed. “Split up and search or stay together?”
“Stay together.”
The apartment was untidy but not dirty. The aromas of scented candles still lingered. The almost uncomfortably-sized apartment looked more like a shared student accommodation than a home. It was sparsely furnished – no photos, no art – with several Kate Moss posters absentmindedly peppered about the walls. The main room (and certainly the biggest in the apartment) was jam-packed with computers, desks, printers, shelves full of files, the biggest collection of telephone directories McCusker had ever seen, and some expensive looking paper and envelopes marked with the letterhead ‘Larry’s List.’
Two rudimentary signs, written in red felt-tip pen on foolscap paper and pinned to each door, confirmed the occupants of the two main bedrooms: ‘Ryan’s Crib’ and ‘Larry’s Crib.’ The rooms, both with micro en suite bathrooms, were in much better condition and far tidier than the rest of the apartment. Certainly they showed evidence of a woman’s touch – perhaps the mother’s – McCusker thought.
Back in the hallway O’Carroll wrote NSOL (No Sign of Life) in her notebook, along with the time, and closed the door behind them. Before they had a chance to get back in the car, her mobile started ringing. Suddenly an unmarked car with blue light flashing sped up the narrow Exchange Street West towards them. Two uniformed officers and a plainclothes man hopped out of the car. The latter screeched at them in an ear-piercing whine.
“On the ground! On the ground, on the fucking ground now!”
“Come on…” O’Carroll protested, her mobile still ringing.
“Shut yer bake and on the fucking ground now!” the plain clothes officer shrieked, as his gun barrel, aping a wagging finger, preached to her while the uniformed officers clearly hung back.
“Cage, stop this shite, you know it’s me.”
“Just because I know you, doesn’t mean you’re not a bent copper. I got a tip-off that a burglary was in progress at this apartment block and here you are.”
O’Carroll sneered, “McCusker: meet Detective Inspector Jarvis Cage.”
McCusker wasn’t clear if he should also get on the ground or shake this man’s hand.
Cage’s attention didn’t waver from O’Carroll. “On the ground, now!” DI Cage ordered.
“Cage…”
“Oh please, please just give me the excuse to charge you with resisting arrest!”
She reluctantly dropped to her knees and half-heartedly stretched full length, face down.
“Okay spread them,” Cage ordered as he stood behind her and kicked her feet wide apart. He turned to face McCusker and winked at him.
McCusker walked over to O’Carroll, bordered on one side by Saint Anne’s Square and the tidy rear regal entrance of the Cathedral to the right, and bent down to take the phone, “I better answer this just in case it’s important.” He searched about for a while before finding the answer button. “Oh, yes, here we are. Hello this is Detective Inspector O’Carroll’s phone. Oh, sorry for keeping you so long Superintendent.”
He held his hand up to Cage signalling him to wait a moment. The two uniformed officers grew increasingly embarrassed.
“Ah yes sir, we were working on that case when an unmarked car nearly ran us over and then this madman pulls a gun on us and orders DI O’Carroll on the ground.”
McCusker reached down and helped O’Carroll back up on her feet while he concentrated on the phone.
“No sir, he didn’t flash his warrant card, still hasn’t in fact,” McCusker said into the phone as Cage sheepishly re-holstered his gun muttering that the safety catch was still on. “Yes he was accompanied by two uniformed officers but they didn’t get involved, I think they felt it was inappropriate behaviour.”
McCusker made a fuss of helping O’Carroll up and brushing the dirt and dust from her suit, holding everyone’s undivided attention as he did so.
“Well sir, she’s a bit shook up and her nice wee pinstripe suit is in a bit of a mess,” McCusker stopped talking and returned to listening mode, eventually pronouncing, “I’d say a ton will cover it, you know, getting the suit dry cleaned and all that...Okay, that seems fair, hang on a minute...”
“What?” the gangly balding DI Cage asked.
“He says you should give O’Carroll £100, immediately and in cash, so she can have her suit cleaned and he wants you to apologise to her and he wants me to listen and make sure the apology seems sincere, something to do with a soft-shoe investigation into police conduct,” McCusker offered in an ‘I wouldn’t like to be you if you don’t’ tone.
Five minutes later O’Carroll and McCusker were driving back towards the police station when she said, “I don’t know whether I liked the apology or the money most. So, am I meant to split the £100 with you?”
“I don’t know...” McCusker said, “the wee Indian man trying to sell you double glazing didn’t specify.”
Chapter Four
The sun was all but set before they reached the station house, which was located in the Custom House just off the Donegall Quay, in the recently redeveloped Custom House Square. Superintendent Niall Larkin and his team had moved into the right wing of the iconic palazzo-influenced building three years ago – about a century and a half after the original duty collectors set up shop. Larkin and his gang’s flit was meant to be a temporary measure while they awaited the building of a brand new station house in the Waterfront development area. Then two things happened: a budget couldn’t be agreed on and in the meantime they lost the site to a hotel, so it looked like the Custom House would remain their base for the foreseeable future. McCusker was extremely pleased about this as he loved the Charles Lanyon-designed building, which made his exile from Portrush up on the north coast just that wee bit more bearable.
“Do you want to leave this until tomorrow?” O’Carroll asked, as they walked up the sixteen steps, passing through a coded security gate in the high railing fence before taking a right, then up another twelve steps and through the varnished semicircular crowned door and into their part of the building.
“You clearly don’t…” McCusker replied, as they entered the echo-crazy reception. His reply was interrupted not by his words coming back at him but by the stellar Station Duty Sergeant, Matt Devine. Devine, like a lot of the PSNI Station Duty Sergeants, ran his police station, the Custom House, as though it were a ship. The role carried the nicknamed, Skipper. A nickname, it has to be said, Devine was rather proud of.
“Right youse two, the super wants to see you both, as in immediately!” the skipper announced, his South Derry accent bouncing around the reception walls. “I’ve been ordered to report your arrival to wee Sheila the minute you arrive.”
Wee Sheila, as in Mrs Sheila Lawson, a secretary who knew how to keep a secret and had been keeping Superintendent Larkin’s secrets for fourteen years now, welcomed them with a “you’re in for it,” nod, but she seemed happy to allow McCusker to
charm a cup of coffee and a few of Larkin’s prized Jaffa Cakes out of her.
“So,” Larkin began expansively, before either McCusker or O’Carroll had a chance to settle into the comfortable seats in his plush office. “What have you pair been up to?” The super was smallish, solid, and moustachioed, with friendly brown eyes and short wavy brown hair. Dressed in his black three-piece suit - but he always seemed to be minus the jacket - he looked like he’d just walked into the office to start his day. McCusker was convinced he had a drawer full of clean, white, starched shirts, and he changed them at least three times a day. Larkin troubled McCusker; from the very first time he’d laid eyes on him in his interview, he was convinced he knew him from somewhere, but he couldn’t place the guy and it continued to bother him.
“Well I received a call…” O’Carroll began.
“I bet you did, and now I’m paying the price.”
“Sorry about that, but Mrs O’Neill seems genuinely concerned about her two sons, Ryan and Lawrence.”
“She’s officially reported them missing?” Larkin asked.
“Yes,” O’Carroll confirmed. “She hasn’t heard from either of them for over two days now and before Wednesday she says they were in contact at least once a day.”
“James claims they’re most likely off somewhere sowing their wild oats,” Larkin said, looking at his watch.
“Yeah, and his wife seems very scared of annoying him,” O’Carroll offered tentatively. “He threw us out of the house even though she’d invited us in.”
Larkin turned his attention to the detective. “You’re being unusually quiet McCusker...what do you think of this?”
“I think…” McCusker started, then appeared to opt to choose his words carefully, “I’m…we’re inclined to favour the mother’s concerns in this affair.” He appeared proud to have gotten to the end of his sentence without stepping in the smelly stuff.
“And what about Mr O’Neill himself?” Larkin pushed.
“I think he’s a first class, self-important buffoon,” McCusker offered.
O’Carroll looked as though her heart had sunk right through the floor. But she needn’t have worried.
“I’m so happy I’ve found someone who agrees with me about the pompous eejit. My wife has often said that if Cavehill got Napoleon’s nose then James O’Neill was left with his arse.”
Both O’Carroll and McCusker knew Mrs Larkin was much too polite a woman to entertain such a thought, let alone broadcast it. Equally they knew the superintendent famously liked to quote his wife as the author of thoughts he preferred not to attribute to himself.
“So what is his story?” McCusker asked, relaxing somewhat.
“Family money, made during the Industrial Revolution. James O’Neill himself was in the right place at the right time to take advantage of Raymond O’Sullivan’s floundering and under-financed business. O’Neill bought a controlling interest in exchange for a large injection of development money. O’Sullivan suffered a boardroom coup, stage-managed by O’Neill, and was left with no company and no money. He committed suicide.”
“Oh my goodness,” O’Carroll exclaimed.
“It gets worse,” Larkin continued immediately, looking at his watch again. “O’Sullivan’s wife took up with O’Neill. Some say the affair had started before O’Sullivan took his life. Some also say he could have put up with losing his money and his business…but not with losing his wife and two sons.”
“Surely we’re not talking about Polly, Ryan, and Lawrence here?” McCusker asked, hoping he was jumping the gun on this occasion.
“Sadly, yes,” Larkin replied.
“So Ryan and Lawrence are not even James O’Neill’s sons?” O’Carroll asked.
“No, they’re not,” Larkin replied, checking his watch again. “Look, I’ve got another appointment just about to start, but I’m with you two on this one. I’d also be inclined to follow the mother’s instincts. What were you planning to do next?”
“Try to track their movements from their mobile phones. And we’ve got three names: Pat Tepper…”
“I know his father – good solicitor,” Larkin said, and then appeared to be annoyed at himself for prolonging the proceedings unnecessarily.
“He looks after Ryan and Lawrence’s business,” O’Carroll continued, completely ignoring her superior, “something to do with the internet – we think the company is called Larry’s List. Then there are two old friends of the boys, Susanna Holmes and Tim Black.”
“Are you going to see them now or leave it until tomorrow morning?” Larkin asked as he stood up, “I can’t approve overtime on anything at the moment.”
“Actually we were going to try and interview them all this evening.”
“Right answer Detective.”
At which point there was a knock on the door and, like a ghost, Mrs Lawson’s blue rinse appeared to announce, “Superintendent, your barber is here.”
Chapter Five
As luck would have it, when O’Carroll rang Susanna Holmes’ mobile it was in fact answered by Tim Black. He and girlfriend Susanna were both up at Café Conor on Stranmillis Road. The restaurant was just opposite the Ulster Museum. McCusker knew the spot as he infrequently sampled their amazing Big Breakfast, while his eyes feasted on Shawcross’ trademark massive soulful canvases.
It turned out Susanna shared Mrs O’Neill’s concern over the boys while Tim, although not quite as blasé as their father, James, didn’t seem to think there was a problem.
“Tell me the last time the boys weren’t around for two whole days, Tim?” Susanna asked her boyfriend once he’d made his point. They were seated in a comfortable corner of the restaurant with one end of a bench table to themselves and were enjoying the pre-dinner rush.
McCusker ordered a tea, but before it arrived, he couldn’t resist the temptation of one of Café Conor’s special generously sized scones. O’Carroll, who claimed she was meeting her sister later for dinner, settled for a pick-me-up coffee, one of three she would use for gear changes over the following thirty minutes.
McCusker wasn’t really a coffee man, but he was always amused by how much fuss some people made over the ingredients and equipment, and yet it was still mostly undrinkable. Café Conor did an ok coffee, but they didn’t seem to create such a level of fuss making it.
“Well, I can’t speak for yourself, Suse, but I’ve certainly gone a lot longer than that without hearing from them,” her boyfriend replied implying a bit of history over the subject.
“Okay detectives, cards on the table time,” Susanna said. “I should probably advise you at this stage that Ryan and I used to go out with each other.”
“Right,” O’Carroll said, as she scribbled in her notebook. “Look, would you be more comfortable if we interviewed you separately?”
“Nah, it’s fine,” Tim joked, “it was a long time ago. They were childhood swee hearts.”
“It was a long time ago, but it hasn’t been forgotten,” she replied, evening up the score a little.
“Okay,” McCusker interrupted, not exactly happy with the way this was going and sensing it wasn’t as cosy as they tried to make it appear. “Susanna, when was the last time you saw either Ryan or Lawrence?”
“I saw both of them together,” she replied. “They usually hang out together. I mean, they would try very hard to do things separately, just so they...” and here she paused, using a finger from each hand to create air-quotation marks, “weren’t always together.”
“But they would always end up together,” Tim added.
“They weren’t twins?” O’Carroll asked.
“No,” McCusker replied, “there was about a year to a year and a half between them.”
“Of course,” O’Carroll said, remembering their earlier conversation with the mother. “Sorry, I interrupted you...when did you see them last?”
“It was last Saturday. I bumped into them in Pure Gym, just the other side of the Square from their apartment. They liked to kee
p in shape,” Susanna said. “Look, all joking aside, we were all good friends; we liked to hang out together and we’d do that at least twice a week.”
“And you Tim?” O’Carroll asked.
“Friday night, we were all up here for a late dinner after a Nick Lowe concert at The Limelight.”
“And the brothers seemed...?”
“Fine to us,” Tim interjected before O’Carroll had finished her question.
“No problems?”
“No,” Susanna replied, “I mean we all have things that niggle us in life, but pretty much we try to get on with it, don’t we?”
“How do they get on with their parents?”
“They were both very close to and protective of their mother, especially Ryan,” Susanna offered.
“The father?”
“Well, he was hard work for all of us,” Susanna admitted.
“But at least he wasn’t our father,” Tim added.
“He’s a fabulously successful businessman,” Susanna stated, once again using her fingers as quotation marks.
“And he behaved like a fabulously successful businessman,” Tim finished.
“What do you know about the brothers’ business?” McCusker asked.
“It was a totally brilliant idea,” she gushed. “Do you know anything about it?”
“Just the name – Larry’s List?”
“Yes,” Tim said, sounding very impressed. “I mean, for as long as I can remember, any time we needed to know anything about...”
“…anything,” Susanna added.
“Yes, absolutely anything at all,” Tim continued, “all we needed to do was to go and ask Larry and if he didn’t know already, he’d find it out PDQ.