by Paul Charles
Julia paused once again for another large intake of air.
“So Cindy keeps shouting for Adam but starts herself off on the swing, you know, leaning forward at one end of the arc and then back as far as possible at the other. Then we heard this loud dull thud. I swear to you McCusker, I’ll never get that sound out of my mind for as long as I live. What can I tell you? It sounded positively fatal to all of us the moment we heard it. We all rushed over to her and she’d obviously been leaning so far back in the swing she’d fallen off and banged her head on the ground. Now if only there’d been earth below the swing, she might have gotten away with it. But some of the roots were exposed and that’s what we all felt she must have come into contact with. She was a goner. Immediately! The freaky thing was that in a matter of half a minute her life was over. Finished! She didn’t even have time to cry out in pain.”
“Did Bing blame Adam?” McCusker felt compelled to ask.
“Not as much as Adam blamed himself.”
“But it wasn’t his fault,” McCusker felt equally compelled to say.
“I know, and we all told him that, but Adam felt that if only he’d gone over to the swing he could easily have handled her childish, amorous advances. More importantly he’d have been able to control her drunken swinging.”
“Was there an inquest?”
“Accidental death.”
“How did Bing and Adam get on after that?” McCusker asked.
“Ah, Bing kept trying to keep the friendship alive but Adam was the one who let it slip away.”
“Does Bing still live Stateside?”
“Yes, he qualified as a lawyer and stayed in Boston, is now happily married with a boy and a girl. The little girl is called Cindy.”
“My next question might sound strange or even inappropriate to you but before I ask it I’ll explain why I’m asking it,” McCusker said in a quieter voice. “With an investigation, the important thing is to rule people out, as much as looking for suspects; the more people we rule out, the fewer suspects we have.”
“It’s okay,” she said, helping McCusker out. “My father told me you would ask me what I was doing at the time of Adam’s death. He also explained the thing about wanting to rule people out of the investigation, and he said that in a lot of cases the deceased will have been murdered by a family member or someone close to them. He advised me not to get worried when you asked these questions, as it is normal. So. Please tell me the time you need me to account for?”
“Between the hours of midnight Saturday night and 3 a.m. Sunday morning please?”
“Oh my, oh my, I didn’t realise you’d have that worked out yet,” she said welling up. “That’s definitely the time? Poor Adam…”
“That’s the time we believe he passed away,” McCusker offered picking his way through a potential emotional minefield.
“But we both know he didn’t just ‘pass away’, McCusker,” she sobbed, now fighting for a breath which would allow her to get out what she needed to say. “That is the time he was brutally taken away from me. The time that my dear brother Adam was mur…”
That was as far as she got. She totally and uncontrollably broke down again, exactly as she had the previous morning.
McCusker waited with Julia Whitlock until her doctor turned up and sedated her again.
Chapter Fourteen
By the time McCusker returned to the Custom House it was just before noon. He was still happy to run on the Paris bun he’d enjoyed in Julia Whitlock’s apartment and the porridge he’d made for himself before he left his flat at eight that morning.
O’Carroll was up and beyond high doh (as in doh-ray-me) in the detectives’ office. Her chair and McCusker’s to their respective desks virtually backed on to each other. In fact, their chairs were so close that her opening remark, on McCusker’s third morning at the Custom House, was, “I wouldn’t sit this close to you unless I knew you took a shower every morning.”
Maybe that’s why she hadn’t spoken to him at all on McCusker’s first or second day in the PSNI station; she was still checking him out.
“Oh God, am I happy you’re back,” she announced. “Polly O’Neill has just received another note from the kidnappers with details of the drop for the ransom.” She passed a photocopy over to McCusker.
RanSom to be PacKed in sporTs holdalL.
Left at BalmoRal sTaTion tOday at 1.47, sHarp.
Place in bUshes, beHind blUe RaiLings
unDer “TrAins to” sign at
entrAnce to LisBurn PlatForm no. 1
No traCking deVice. No pOlice.
6 houRs aFter sucCeSsful coLlectiOn
yoUr Sons wiLL be relEased.
If tHis collEcTion Fails We WilL KiLl.
“A bit public a place for a drop, don’t you think McCusker?”
“Or a very clever place,” McCusker started, still studying the note. “There will be people around. The ransom collector can hide amongst the passengers until they are convinced there are no police about. Who’s making the drop?”
“Polly O’Neill,” O’Carroll said.
“Polly!?”
“I know, I know. The husband refused to do the drop. At first he even refused to pay the ransom. She threatened to leave him unless he paid up. He still refused. She then threatened him that she would tell everyone who would listen that they were having an affair while her first husband and O’Neill were still partners. But even with that she still had to threaten to produce evidence of his cheating her first husband out of his share of O’Electronics before O’Neill would pony up the ransom for the boys’ release.”
“Will a million quid fit in a holdall?”
“Apparently,” she replied quickly and winked at McCusker before saying, “maybe the clever kidnappers had already calculated that the last fifty quid wouldn’t fit in.”
“And can Polly carry that amount of weight?” he continued, ignoring her attempt at humour.
“Okay, here’s the thing; DI Cage is going to pretend to be a mini-cab driver and take her to Balmoral station, on the corner of Stockman’s Lane and the Lisburn Road. He’s wetting himself with excitement and he is down in the toilet at the moment ‘getting into character’.”
McCusker rolled his eyes.
“Meanwhile, you and I will be there ‘as passengers’, watching the proceedings to see if we can get a tail on the person the kidnappers get to collect the holdall.”
“Is it even legal to be able to withdraw that kind of money these days?” McCusker offered as much to himself as to O’Carroll. “Surely the bank would have to file an SAR – a Serious Activity Report?”
“I’ve come to the conclusion that if you are the type of person who has those kinds of funds you are the kind of man who can put your hands on it, no matter what the laws of the land.”
McCusker realised she was correct and spared no more time thinking about the SAR. He had his own case to get stuck into but he realised if O’Carroll solved her case, then there was a great chance she’d join him on the Adam Whitlock murder. But the Portrush detective also had to accept that there was a good chance, probably more like evens that Superintendent Larkin could assign DI Jarvis Cage instead.
“Okay, give me a few minutes...to get into character...and I’ll be right with you.”
She playfully punched him in the arm. McCusker noted that since their couple of drinks at McHugh’s she’d become a lot friendlier with him. But she appeared self-conscious at her playful friendliness because she looked all around the busy office to make sure no one else had clocked it. Once she was confident it had gone unnoticed, she reverted to a harder tone. “Cut out the shit McCusker, let’s get out of here.”
“Let’s put a car at both the station before and the station after Balmoral,” McCusker said, as they waved off an in-character taxi driver, aka DI Jarvis Cage.
“Adelaide and Finaghy?” O’Carroll offered. “Why?”
“Because of the wording on the ransom note demanding they make the drop a
t the exact time,” he replied as they climbed into her trusted, but bruised, Mégane. “They obviously plan to hop on the next train to make their escape.”
“Good thinking Batman,” she replied, buzzing away.
“What happens at Balmoral?”
“The King’s Hall Showgrounds.”
“Oh, I know it!” McCusker replied, happy to place it. “I went there in the summer of 1980 to see Van the Man, Mike Oldfield, Lindisfarne, and The Chieftains.”
“Jeez, McCusker, if you ever get to meet my sister, please keep quiet about things like that. I’ll bet you anything you want that you were wearing flares too?” she jibed. “How are we doing for time?”
“We’re good, just gone 1 p.m.,” McCusker said quickly, avoiding the flared trousers issue.
* * *
McCusker was a little uncomfortable in that he didn’t know anything at all about the area. He’d been a teenager the last time he was there, for heaven’s sake. As they drove up the Lisburn Road he had O’Carroll describe the Balmoral station and the surrounds as much as she could. He closed his eyes and had her repeat her information a second and then a third time. He then repeated it back to her and listened to her corrections.
He’d been on a few kidnaps up in Portrush. But none with anywhere near this hefty of a ransom. Of late, most kidnaps were ‘tiger kidnaps’, where an employee, usually the manager, of a bank or a building society, would receive a call from their home advising them that their families were being held captive, but they would be perfectly okay if said manager co-operated with the ‘men’ just about to visit him. McCusker didn’t remember ever hearing of a kidnapping going wrong. But for some reason he was unable to take any comfort in this fact.
The Balmoral station was a Translink run enterprise on the Bangor to Newry line. The problem for McCusker was that most of the beautiful wee stations had recently enjoyed a makeover and they now all looked the same, and consequently boring. Balmoral was no exception, but quite possibly the station was about to experience the most exciting day in its 153-year history. And if everything went according to the PSNI plan then neither the station nor its staff would even be aware of what was going down.
McCusker had been expecting a small station, but not the absence of one entirely. Balmoral Halt (as it was actually referred to) turned out to be merely a platform departure and arrival facility. The kidnappers were really exposing themselves using this location for the drop-off and collection of the valuable holdall. The aforementioned entrance to platform number one was five yards down a sloping tarmac slip path, just opposite the pink art deco front of the historic King’s Hall. Going straight on down the sloping tarmac path, there was a heavily graffitied, walled entrance to the right, and then straight was a sky blue tunnel, signposted “Trains to Belfast.”
When O’Carroll and McCusker arrived it was 1.35 p.m. and there were a few people wandering around. McCusker clocked all of them. To his eyes no one looked suspicious. He checked again to see if any of them were acting a part; looking like they were, to quote DI Jarvis “in character.”
“Nope,” McCusker said to himself quietly. “No plonkers in sight.”
He thought about Ryan and Lawrence. Could they possibly be aware that if everything went according to plan, this was the appointed time when their freedom might be won? Were they worried their father might not come up with the necessary funds? Were they together or had they been separated? Who suffered most when they were apart? O’Carroll reckoned that Ryan was the leader; did this mean Lawrence was the one having the more difficult time in captivity? Did either of them manage to get a good look at their captors and if they did, did they realise the serious implications of such a sighting?
O’Carroll and McCusker had agreed in advance to totally ignore each other. In a space as small as the entrance to platform number one, this was quite impossible to do. McCusker, in his dark blue suit, with uncombed hair, reading a crumpled copy of the Belfast Telegraph and giving off the air of someone who was totally happy in his own company, hoped he looked like a typical commuter. He strolled onto the platform where he had a perfect view of the selected drop point. O’Carroll, on the other hand, was slightly over-dressed and looked like she was either on her way to have her blow-dried hair blow dried one more time, or she was about to break the number one commuter rule and start up a conversation with one of her fellow passengers.
At exactly 1.45 p.m. Mrs Polly O’Neill walked down the slip path. Taking even the laws of gravity into consideration she was still making a very hard job of pulling a holdall attached by multi-coloured elasticised rope to a set of wheels and handle. She was sweating profusely but no one appeared to be paying any attention to her. McCusker’s instinct, and what he would have done were it not for the current situation, would have been to go over to her and offer her assistance. His logic, always: if that was his mother, he’d hope someone would help her. He resisted, knowing Mrs O’Neill would most likely totally freak out and blow his cover if he did so.
The O’Neill’s mother seemed to grow in confidence once she also established there were no unsavoury looking types in the vicinity. She trudged over to the designated area and, with a great deal of huffing and puffing, she eventually managed to get the holdall, minus the temporary wheels, into the bushes. O’Carroll shielded the manoeuvre as best she could by standing right behind her. McCusker suddenly realised that no one had given Mrs O’Neill instructions for what to do next. She hung around, appearing as though she was actually expecting someone to walk in with her two boys and take the holdall, hand the boys over to her, and leave the station. DI Jarvis Cage, as a Belfast City cab driver, came in and rescued her, leading her away.
Still McCusker could not see anyone who either looked suspicious or was eyeing up the holdall, now perfectly camouflaged in the broad-leaf bushes. McCusker shuddered at the thought of someone unconnected with the kidnappers spotting the pregnant holdall, fancying their chances and nabbing it. Hardly stealing?
McCusker heard the hissing of the 1.46 Lisburn-bound train coming down the track. O’Carroll, still avoiding eye contact with him, walked onto the platform.
The train was getting closer and closer, slowing down as it pulled into the station. Still no one appeared to be focusing on the bushes under the sign. McCusker could feel his heart beating faster and faster. It wasn’t even as if they were going to try and apprehend the collector of the ransom. No, the deal was he and O’Carroll were there only to observe, to get a description of the person who collected the stash and pass the information on to the constable at the Adelaide Halt. He, depending on developments, could either board the train to keep eyes on the collector, or follow them by road if they alighted there.
The train pulled into the station, the doors wheezed open. Two elderly passengers got off and the doors hissed shut, but still no sign of activity around the bushes and still no movement.
Then a vision in black, from hoodie to toe, with a thick black beard, jogged down the slip path and made straight for the bushes behind the blue railings under the platform sign. He grabbed a handful of canvas of the holdall and yanked it out of the bushes in one confident energetic movement but, instead of heading in the direction of the train, he continued on down the slip path in the direction of the tunnel. The train had been an effective decoy. The collector had focused on the bag in the bushes, not bothering to scan the area for police. In fact, he didn’t need to and the members of the PSNI all thought they knew where he was going next.
McCusker’s first instinct was to pursue him but his second and more predominant was for the safety of the O’Neill boys so, figuring he was probably being watched, he stooped to untie and retie his shoelace, cautiously clocked the area and then, slowly at first, headed off down the tunnel in the same direction as the collector. By the time he reached the footpath down on Stockman’s Lane – which was dangerously peppered with pigeon droppings – O’Carroll, some way or another, was already at the opposite side of the road in her dependable Mégan
e. Before McCusker had a chance to close the door and buckle up, she was in gear and speeding out of the underpass back up the Lisburn Road towards the city centre, signposted as being two and a half miles away to the north.
Within a few wordless seconds she and McCusker spotted the collector confidently jogging along the other side of the road past Paton Memorial Hall.
“What the fuck is that prat Cage doing?” she said, as they passed the hotchpotch of buildings better known as Kingsbridge Private Hospital on their side of the road.
“Shit, is that his cab?”
“Sadly,” she shouted. “He’s going to fuck this up.”
Two cars ahead of them was DI Jarvis Cage, complete with his passenger Polly O’Neill in the back, barely five yards behind the collector and gaining on him all the time, although the collector was across the flow of traffic from the detective.
“Can you believe it? He looks like he is trying to apprehend the kidnapper!” O’Carroll hissed.
“He might just be the kidnapper’s bag man out to collect the ransom,” McCusker felt a need to add.
“Kidnapper or collector, either way it doesn’t matter, Cage is going to fuck it up,” she snapped at McCusker as if it were his fault.
Just then the collector took a sharp right off Lisburn Road into Malone Park. Cage looked like he’d just angled the car across the street in the direction of the collector, closed his eyes and put his foot down. Barely missing a bus, he followed the collector into Malone Park. A split second later he came to a very sudden halt with a loud metallic bang.
All McCusker and O’Carroll could do was to shake their head in disbelief and fear the worst, namely that Cage had ran over the collector.
Before O’Carroll had a chance to park the car properly McCusker was out of the metallic yellow Mégane and high-tailing it across the road in the direction of Cage. Mrs Polly O’Neill was very agitated, but otherwise fine apart from being slightly winded, having been strapped in. Without the luxury of his seat belt, Cage had gone head first into his airbag, which was now covered with rich tributaries of blood.