Down on Cyprus Avenue

by Paul Charles

  A few minutes later, after the woman with the French bob had found a seat and been served a glass of chilled white wine, McCusker plucked up the courage to steal a few glances.

  “You’re staring McCusker,” O’Carroll warned. “I told you about that last time.”

  “But she’s just so naturally beautiful.”

  “Hold that thought McCusker, it’s a healthy one.”

  “Would you just look at her...” he whispered, now powerless to avert his eyes, even if he’d wanted to. “She is perfect really, such an attractive and beautiful face, and her body...I’ve never seen anyone so alluring in real life. She looks like…she looks like an angel.”

  “If that’s the body and looks of an angel McCusker, it’s no wonder God is having so much trouble up in heaven at the moment.”

  They both sipped at their pints, happy to also drink in the vision before them, both lost in their thoughts, or maybe even fantasies, for a while.

  “Look McCusker,” O’Carroll began, breaking their silence, “a bit of advice for you: if you’re ever lucky enough to go to bed with an angel, say for instance that one, just listen to me now for this is very important, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “You must be very careful and ensure you always, but always, allow her to go on top…”

  McCusker winced – too much information, he thought.

  “I’ll tell you, no matter how great the man you think you are, she still won’t want you to go crushing her wings,” O’Carroll said, laughing heartily at her own joke. She dragged her eyes off the French-bob woman and studied McCusker in detail for the first time since they’d come into the bar. “You really have never slept with a woman other than your wife have you?” she eventually said, spoiling his daydream.

  “You’re so sharp you could advertise Elastoplasts.”

  “Actually they’re known as Band Aids in this century, McCusker. Anyway, as you have a habit of saying, ‘tell me this...’” she continued, revealing that the Guinness was kicking in, “have you ever tried making love any other way, you know, other than the missionary position?”

  McCusker’s eyebrows declared what was going through his mind at that precise moment but he said, “Oh yes, sometimes I partook in my wife’s personal preference.”

  “And that was?” O’Carroll pushed, her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “WSS.”

  “WSS?” she repeated, appearing confused.

  “Yes, WSS,” he replied as though everyone in the world would know what he was talking about.

  “What the feck is WSS McCusker?”

  “While she slept, of course.”

  “McCusker, you brute!” she shouted, clearly genuinely shocked and drawing the attention of even the beautiful angel. “You can forget all about me ever introducing you to our Grace!” she hissed before downing her pint and leaving McHugh’s without another word.

  Sadly for McCusker, after a few minutes the blonde-haired woman with the French bob and red lips also left the bar.

  He sat contently on his own nursing the remainder of his Guinness. At one stage, even just a few months ago, he could never have imagined sitting alone, drinking in a public house in Belfast. He admitted to himself that he actually felt happy being in Belfast. He realised - as if someone had just turned on a big light - that Belfast people are committed to being in Belfast. To McCusker people in places like Portrush were in the town mainly simply because that was where they grew up and the vast majority didn’t even think about their hometown anymore. But Belfast was a completely different kettle of seahorses altogether. Belfast city folk were in Belfast because they wanted to be there; because they had to be there. There was a willingness and energy (but not desperation) for the city to succeed. McCusker still wasn’t quite sure what it was about the city that made people feel so, although he was experiencing glimpses of it. There was still a large residual undercurrent from days gone by, but now people had an energy to just get on with things and to be a part of whatever exciting and positive thing that was happening next; happy to be part of this movement to make things better. Just like Paul McCartney had happily sung, “It’s getting better all the time.” Before McCusker allowed himself to get too excited or content, he accepted that John Lennon’s counterbalance of, “It can’t get much worse,” had also been spot on, if now (hopefully) in the past tense. He downed the remaining quarter pint and chastised himself for being too reflective. He vowed once more to keep the promise he’d made himself as he left Portrush; forget the past, ignore the future, and get lost in the present.

  Chapter Thirty

  The following morning McCusker went straight to the Europa Hotel. He was keeping his promise of updating Wesley Whitlock III on the progress of the investigation into the death of his son. McCusker had arranged to meet O’Carroll in the lobby at 8.20 a.m. for their 8.30 appointment. At 8.31, as he boarded one of the lifts to the eleventh floor, he thought he recognised the person exiting the other.

  Whitlock’s surviving son Jaime answered the suite door to McCusker’s knocking.

  “Lord have mercy, I think that it’s the cops,” Jaime said, in apparent good humour.

  “Ah McCusker!” Wesley shouted from the other end of the suite, “I’ve taken the liberty to order you your usual breakfast, or at least the breakfast you had on Tuesday morning. It’ll be with us in a few minutes.”

  “Sounds good to me,” McCusker replied, noting from the dirty dishes that a couple of the Whitlock clan must have eaten breakfast already. “Unfortunately Detective Inspector O’Carroll was unavoidably detained.”

  “I understand completely,” Wesley said, walking into the living room of the suite, and drying his hands energetically before shaking McCusker’s hand furiously. As Mr Whitlock III walked across this plush carpet, the detective noted he walked with his right hipbone cocked out; perhaps it was how he supported that rucksack of his.

  Whitlock went straight from shaking McCusker’s hand to lifting his iPad from the counter underneath the television. He focused on that for a few minutes before saying, “Ah right, yes...we now know for a fact that Bing Scott was witnessed at a family do last Saturday afternoon in Boston, so we can also remove him from our list.”

  “Good to know,” McCusker said.

  “Talking of lists, McCusker – how are you getting on with yours?” Whitlock Senior asked as the breakfast arrived.

  “Well...” McCusker hesitantly replied, worried about how his development would go down, “we do have someone in custody.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute...” Wesley Whitlock said, looking every one of his seventy-seven years on this planet and needing the support of a chair. “You’ve got him?” His finger froze mid-flick on the iPad screen and his eyes started to well up. He bit his bottom lip for a few seconds to compose himself before he could continue, “You’ve got the man who murdered my son?”

  “Well sir,” McCusker said, “I would caution you that it’s still very early in our investigation and we’ve by no means solved the case yet but, as I say, we have someone in custody with whom we’re continuing to question.”

  “For heaven’s sake man, who is it?”

  “Of course you know I can’t tell you that, but as we promised each other on Wednesday, I do want to keep you up to speed on developments.”

  “Is it someone who knew Adam? What’s the motive? Personal? Business? Political?” On and on Whitlock Senior bombarded McCusker with his questions.

  “I’ll be happy to update you as soon as we conclude our enquiries,” McCusker said as they settled down to breakfast.

  “I’ll be a victim of my own impunity of character and not push you any further on this matter,” Whitlock eventually conceded, for the second time in two meetings, seemingly accepting that he wouldn’t get any more information from McCusker. “And, as Warren Buffet once very famously said, ‘It’s only when the tide goes out that you learn who’s been swimming naked.’”

  McCusker laughed hearti
ly, mostly in relief, adding, “In our case, I think we can substitute ‘been swimming naked’ for ‘not got an alibi’.”

  Before he left the Europa Clinton Suite, McCusker did agree to telephone Whitlock after the interview for a progress report.

  “That’s all I ask for, McCusker – all you need to do for me is to keep me in the loop,” Whitlock Senior said as he walked the detective out to the lift and pushed the button. When it arrived, he got into the lift with McCusker and put his foot up against the door to stop it departing. “But let me just add this McCusker – and this might be very important – if, when you are convinced you’ve caught this man and you receive any static from seniors or politicians or whomever, come straight to me and I’ll deal with all of that nonsense. I don’t care if this creep works for the army, the government, or even Baskin Robbins, I still want his short and curlies on a plate.”

  He pressed the lobby button and stepped out of the lift. As the doors were closing with McCusker on the inside the American whispered as he winked, “You’ll find I’m a very appreciative man, if you get my drift.”

  * * *

  “Don’t mention my name when I tell you who I am,” an unknown female announced to McCusker by way of greeting in a phone call to the Custom House later that Friday morning.

  “I’m listening,” he replied, equal parts intrigued, amused, and wary.

  “I’m Lily’s sister.”

  “Oh, right, of course Gr…”

  “Don’t say my name, don’t say it!”

  “No problem, sir,” McCusker tried.

  “Okay, now that was good, that was very good,” Grace said. “Keep that up. Now, what do I call you? I know all about you not being a proper policeman, but I don’t feel comfortable calling you by your last name. My father always taught me that was just plain bad manners.”

  “Brendy is good.”

  “So you do have a first name – Brendan, then.”

  “Brendy is good,” McCusker repeated, indicating he was happier that most people used his surname.

  “Okay Brendy,” she said. “Yeah, I see what you mean – McCusker is probably better. Right look, have you seen Lily this morning?”

  “Yes,” McCusker replied.

  “How does she seem?”

  “Hard to say...she’s kept her sunglasses on all morning and she keeps nipping out to the toilet...she’s there now I think,” McCusker replied. “I imagined she’d a late night last light.”

  “Yeah,” Grace O’Carroll replied half-heartedly.

  “Look, is everything okay?” McCusker asked.

  “Not really,” she said quietly.

  “What can I do to help?”

  “She was on a date last night,” Grace started, her voice becoming emotional.

  “Yes?”

  “And he beat her up.”

  “Oh my…”

  “For heaven’s sake McCusker, don’t overreact, just in case she comes back in again! She must never know I told you.”

  “Do you know who it is?” McCusker asked.

  “Yes...it was the guy she went on a bad date with earlier in the week,” Grace said calmly.

  “The man with the odd socks?”

  “Jeez, that’s him...she really must tell you everything,” Grace continued, sounding encouraged.

  “Who is he?”

  “All I know is that he is called Terry, he runs a marketing company – Rall and Bain – and his office is just across from ‘The Black Man’ statue above a sandwich shop.”

  “You really mean ‘The Green Man,’ don’t you?” McCusker said, scribbling away furiously in his notebook and clocking DI O’Carroll returning to her desk. “Okay, leave it with me, sir.”

  “She’s back in the office then?”

  “Oh yes,” McCusker replied, folding the notebook and putting it in the inside pocket of his crease-free blue suit jacket.

  “Don’t forget: Mum’s the word,” Grace O’Carroll added before disconnecting simultaneously to saying “Toodaloo.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Toodaloo,” McCusker thought as he gently replaced the receiver, hoping that by setting the phone down quietly, O’Carroll wouldn’t clock that he’d just been talking to her elusive sister.

  Even though she’d been troubled in the call, Grace had sounded friendly, familiar even. In a way he’d already gotten to know her a little through Lily. Perhaps she’d been so familiar with him for the very same reason.

  “You haven’t mentioned my pair of Roy Orbison’s so far,” O’Carroll said, interrupting his thoughts.

  “You have an altercation with a door?” he offered, trying to be helpful.

  “Yeah, something as thick as that,” she replied half-heartedly. “I just hope the sun stays up.”

  “Be difficult in the basement,” McCusker whispered, their chairs so close they were almost touching, and then in a normal level voice he said, “Look, I can interview Richard Robinson with WJ Barr; hopefully we’ll get this tied up by lunchtime. You can get stuck into those files on your desk.”

  “I wouldn’t miss our big interview for anything,” she said. “What time is David Lewis due?”

  McCusker checked the office clock, crowned with Larkin’s sign “This clock will never be stolen; our employees are too busy watching it!” The sign was seriously faded with age but still proud. It was 9.53 a.m. on the last day of the first week of his investigation into the death of Adam Whitlock.

  “About five minutes,” McCusker replied. “WJ is bringing Robinson to the interview room any minute now. Hopefully his overnight in custody will have sharpened his sense of truth. Are you ready?”

  “For anything bar life,” she replied. “Do you think we’ve really got our man?”

  McCusker thought about her question for a few moments. His mind fast-tracked through everything he’d learned so far on the Adam Whitlock case. He mentally checked off the names on his suspect list. Once again he ended up with the one name he always ended up with: Richard Robinson. He eventually answered O’Carroll’s question: “It can’t be anyone else.

  * * *

  Once again, McCusker announced for the benefit of the tape recorder those present at the interview.

  Local solicitor David Lewis started off the proceedings. “Okay, my client would like to make a statement as to where he was on Saturday night.”

  “Okay,” McCusker replied, obviously relieved. He couldn’t determine what O’Carroll was thinking because she hadn’t removed her sunglasses.

  “Richard,” Lewis continued, “could you please tell Detective Inspector O’Carroll and Mr McCusker where you were on Saturday evening?”

  “I was at work.”

  “Sorry, I thought you were unemployed...were you concentrating on writing your lyrics?” McCusker offered, completely taken aback by the claim.

  “Mr Lewis says I need to apologise to you for wasting your time and I do, I apologise, but don’t you see? I didn’t want Angela to know...didn’t want her to know that I’d taken a menial job because I wanted to have some money of my own,” Richard elaborated. “I didn’t want to have to keep humiliating myself by going to her and asking for money.”

  “So what is your job?” McCusker asked, as O’Carroll sat motionless, asleep, for all McCusker knew.

  “Here’s a photocopy I obtained last night,” David Lewis said as he removed a folded piece of paper from inside jacket and passed it to the detective.

  McCusker unfolded it and discovered a photocopy of a clocking-in card at the Royal Victoria Hospital. The solicitor got up from his chair and came around from his side of the table. “Here,” he said, pointing to a line on the page. “This shows that Richard clocked in at 11 p.m. on Saturday last and clocked off at 6 a.m. on the Sunday morning. The signature across the photocopy is the signature of Richard’s boss, Mr Henman Cooper, confirming the photocopy is authentic and that he personally saw Richard several times on the evening in question. I have made him aware that you will need to contact him to
verify this information in the very near future.”

  “How long have you been working there?” McCusker asked, now jotting down his own notes.

  “Since last September.”

  So this was where he’d been on his late-night excursions, McCusker thought. “They’re undertaking a £95 million refurbishment and needed night staff to guard the site. It really was the ideal job for me – not too many people around, which also meant no one would report it back to Angela.”

  “Why Richard?”

  “With all of Angela’s rich friends and her job at the BBC I could never tell her. She’d be so embarrassed. And, as I said, I do have my pride and I didn’t want to keep hitting her for subs.”

  “But would she not have grown suspicious when you no longer needed money from her?” McCusker asked, perceiving that O’Carroll was understandably off her game.

  “I told her I sold some articles, essays and lyrics,” Richard said, and shrugged. “Also, all I do is sit around all night, trying to work out how much has changed since the night before, so really it’s the perfect time for me to get a bit of writing done as well. I’ve started to write this book, it’s called Too Close To The Flame, and it’s all about…” Robinson looked at his solicitor, obviously thought better about what he was going to say and continued, “I don’t need to bother you with that; I’ve wasted enough of your time.”

  David Lewis nodded agreement.

  “No Richard, what is your book about?” McCusker asked, gaining the first stirring from O’Carroll since the interview started.

  Robinson visually jumped up in his chair. “Well, it’s about these two people who live together. They don’t really know each other. If they ever did get to know each other, what they’d find out about each other would mean they’d never ever be able to stay together,” he gushed as if he was being interviewed on the Graham Norton Show.

  “How much of it have you written?” McCusker asked.