Down on Cyprus Avenue

by Paul Charles

  McCusker checked himself out in the large mirror in the public restrooms of the Fitzwilliam Hotel. As he did so, he realised he’d barely looked in a mirror since his wife had left him. He’d changed his clothes three times – that’s one, two, three times – before he’d left his mews accommodation.

  He hadn’t actually been on a date for going on twenty-five years. Yes, it would be exactly twenty-five years the following January since he’d been on his first date with his then wife-to-be, Anna Stringer. He had been twenty-six years old and she claimed she was twenty-seven. In fact, it turned out that she was actually thirty-one, a point McCusker didn’t pick up on until they had to produce their birth certificates for their wedding. McCusker was furious, not at the deception itself but by the fact she was prepared to tell him such a blatant lie. He got over it and the wedding went ahead, although she had confessed to a mutual friend of theirs that she thought she’d blown it. Hard as he tried, he could not invoke a mental picture of her, probably because those particular cogs were busy conjuring up an image of his first date in a quarter of a century. The last time, a dozen or so kisses later, he’d gone on to get married. This time, however, he was even more excited about just meeting his date, a certain Grace O’Carroll.

  Detective Inspector Lily O’Carroll had gone, she said, against all her natural instincts in setting her sister up with McCusker. He hadn’t even suggested or pushed for it, although he admitted to being more than slightly intrigued about the sassy character who, like her sister, stumbled from one romantic disaster to another. He’d only ever spoken to her once before, and after McCusker had “resolved” that matter with Mr Odd Socks there had been no further contact.

  McCusker washed his hands, dried them with the paper towels provided, smelled his breath by putting the palm of his left hand up to his mouth and nose, looked in the mirror one final time and then checked his watch. It was 7:22 – only eight minutes to go. He looked into the mirror again. “Well old son, what do you think of what you see? The auld hair is still a bit of a problem,” he replied, “but you know what? From what I’ve heard, she’s been out with a lot worse.”

  He exited the restroom and made his way to their rendezvous point by the big fire in the lobby. DI O’Carroll had been very particular about this. “She’s not going to want to be seen out on a blind date. So no carnations or meeting under the leaning clock or by ‘the Black Man’ or whatever. No, you have to make it look like you already know her.”

  McCusker’s eyebrows had obviously conveyed the large question mark in his mind because she continued, “I’ll make it easier for you, McCusker, I’ll have her wear her high-collar electric blue dress. It’s absolutely amazing and she has to pour herself into…anyway, that’s what she’ll be wearing.”

  As McCusker made a mental note of this fact, O’Carroll mistook the look in his eyes. “Okay McCusker, I would like to remind you that she’s my sister, so no ogling, okay?” she paused and waited for his compliance. “I’m serious McCusker. I’ll hear absolutely everything, chapter and verse. So if you even think about doing anything naughty, I’ll get Larkin to put you, not Cage, on duty monitoring the sinkage of the Custom House…but the only difference between you and DI Cage is that you’ll be doing it for the rest of your career.”

  McCusker took the seat nearest to the fire, which gave him a view of the front revolving door. He wondered what DI O’Carroll thought might happen between her sister and her partner. More importantly, he wondered what Grace O’Carroll thought might happen between herself and her sister’s partner.

  His mind flitted nervously. Dates were hard enough, but blind dates? Would he tick the right boxes? Would she want to see him again? Or maybe kiss him? Or perhaps even go to his house, join him for a late-night coffee...perhaps go all the way? He certainly looked pretty good: his trousers were pressed, his shoes bulled to a grade ‘A’ shine - thanks to his training days at the Depot in Enniskillen and Kiwi polish and spit. McCusker had recently showered, shaved and was a hundred per cent certain of passing any show parade. He was well mannered, polite and genuinely enthusiastic about meeting Grace. But how far did he really want it to go?

  At 7:26 p.m. McCusker experienced a flash that Grace O’Carroll was not going to show up. Then he comforted himself with the thought that, where she might be prepared to let him down, she wouldn’t do the same to her sister. However, as she’d been let down herself by so many men in the past, how would she respond to him?

  At 7:28 McCusker started to feel hot, so hot in fact he started to regret sitting so close to the faux fire. He could feel his cheeks were flushed and he started to worry about being red-faced. His confidence began to wane as he waited; what would be the acceptable time to make an exit if Grace didn’t show?

  His nerves started to get the better of him. "I really don’t need to do this," he thought. "Look where it got me last time; working all my life for a retirement, the luxury of that only to be stolen by my wife." Well, he would have to admit that she’d really only stolen half of it; the other half you could say was legally and morally hers anyway. But taking only what had rightfully been hers hadn’t been enough, had it? McCusker had long ago come to the conclusion that the wronged rarely seek to redress the balance in the name of fairness – no, they crave only vengeance. His wife had been no exception.

  As the big 7:30 arrived in town - well at least in the airy lobby of the Fitzwilliam Hotel, minus its star attraction, Grace O’Carroll - McCusker tried to set his mind at rest. She’d probably got stuck in traffic, which was notoriously bad on a Friday night. Then he remembered it wasn’t a Friday night but in fact a Monday night, when the roads were usually at their most clear. Perhaps Grace was up to speed on the details of his life and the messy break up with his wife – maybe she’d had second thoughts. Surely he ought to have been on her to-be-avoided list?

  As 7.35 came and went he began to get fearful – not that the evening would go badly, but that everything would work out. What if he did tick all of Grace’s boxes and coffee back at his place was on the agenda? And what then?

  It had been a long time, and he wasn’t used to the modern woman. Several minutes later he started to wonder, should the situation be reversed, just how much leeway would his date have given him before she upped and left and he’d blown the whole thing? But he’d have called up the hotel reception, asked them to pass a message on, let her know he was running late. After all, it was simple common courtesy. But there was no message forthcoming and Miss Grace O’Carroll was now officially ten minutes late. No wonder she was having trouble finding a man if she treated them all like this. “Come on,” he chastised himself under his breath, “things happen, and sometimes we can lose control.” Besides, he thought, perhaps she’d give him more of a chance now she’d kept him waiting – well, wouldn’t she?

  Finally, at 7:42 all of his worries washed away when a woman dressed in blue strode purposely through the revolving door, the click-clacking of her high-heel shoes drawing everyone’s attention. The dress wasn’t quite how Lily had described it – most noticeably a different collar – but she had a great figure, perhaps not as stunning as her sister had let on but then they were sisters after all. She had a very nice smile though.

  McCusker stood up as she slowly, maybe even hesitantly, walked towards him. He noticed that she was checking the rest of the lobby as she made her way across it; perhaps he wasn’t quite what she’d expected either and she was lining up a fall-back option? The former Portrush detective scanned the room and saw little better than what he’d seen earlier in the mirror.

  Just then, as though reading his mind, the woman in blue broke into a larger smile. She body-swerved McCusker at the last possible moment and he heard her saying “Darling, how wonderful you look.” He turned to see her planting a kiss on the cheek of the elderly man sitting to his left.

  McCusker felt a wave of embarrassment rush over him. Now he was on his feet, he couldn’t just sit back down – he had to move. Should he just give up
and go home or maybe even cross the road to the popular Crown Bar and enjoy a solitary Guinness? But then what would happen if Grace O’Carroll showed up five minutes later and he wasn’t there? Lily would give him major static. Instead, to save his embarrassment, he dandered over to the bookshelf and helped himself to the late edition of the Belfast Telegraph. Luckily for the brothers O’Neill the Larry’s List story still had legs. Luckily for McCusker, the majority of the people waiting in the lounge were either completely ignoring him or too busy texting to have clocked his near-major faux pas.

  At 7:55 McCusker experienced a vast emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He started to accept that Grace wasn’t going to show. He’d wait in the lobby for at least another ten or fifteen minutes, but it was now clear he’d been stood up. Devastated, he struggled to put a positive spin on the situation. He was totally shocked at how worthless life felt, and all because a blind date had failed to appear. There was one positive, though: he resolved to never put himself through another bout of such public humiliation. He could do without ever feeling that bad again.

  At 8:05 he walked out of the lobby, feeling extremely sorry for himself, and he slowly set off for home. The usual ten-minute journey took him twenty-five minutes, which he accepted as a side-effect of wallowing in his own self-pity.

  At 8:20 a.m. the following morning his intercom buzzed and his wallowing was finally broken by DI O’Carroll shouting “Where the feck were you last night?”

  It turned out that McCusker, or Grace O’Carroll, or maybe even both had misunderstood DI Lily O’Carroll’s instructions for the meet, and so while he had waited in torment in the Fitzwilliam lobby, Grace had turned up at the Europa Hotel and spent a similarly tormented time waiting for McCusker by an even warmer fire.

  Had Lily sabotaged their relationship on purpose? For her part, she’d take no part in accepting responsibility, claiming that she’d clearly told McCusker that the rendezvous point was the fireplace in the lobby of the Europa Hotel.

  Either way, McCusker felt his chances of a re-match had been well and truly scuppered.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  McCusker was quietly surprised, not to mention relieved that he had barely thought of Grace’s no-show the following morning. Already, his brain was locked into the Whitlock case, which left little room for anything else. He felt as though he had shed the skin of the previous piteous evening. He reckoned that was the advantage of putting on a fresh shirt, snazzy pair of socks, a tie and a new suit from his rotation; today felt as new and invigorating as the new chapter of an exciting book. Not that he had much chance for reading anything other than case-related material these days.

  He re-examined the statements from the House to House enquires and read through Barr and O’Carroll’s notebooks, while furiously scribbling away into his own. Meanwhile, Barr was beavering away, his head buried in Wesley Whitlock III’s finances while O’Carroll made a fuss over making a fuss over her paperwork.

  McCusker didn’t want to get into a discussion with any of the team about the case. He couldn’t allow himself to voice his germinating theory for fear it would all disappear before his thoughts were fully formed. He was worried that Superintendent Larkin would come calling for an update. It would be a request he couldn’t refuse and a request that might just end the case, or at least his participation in it.

  Just after midday he came up for air. He hadn’t quite reached a conclusion yet – he still had two important facts to uncover – but he was much happier than when he’d left the Custom House the previous evening. Well, that wasn’t strictly true, but still he managed to veer his thoughts away from the bungled blind date.

  As he and O’Carroll left the office she looked at her watch and said, “I knew that your appetite would eventually bring you around.”

  “Sorry? I see...no, no, I really needed to go through something,” he protested as the climbed into her Mégane. “I’d like to make one quick call down on Cyprus Avenue then we can think about lunch if you want.”

  Fifteen minutes later they pulled up on Cyprus Avenue outside the house just opposite the one in which Adam Whitlock had lost his life ten days earlier.

  “Who lives here?” O’Carroll asked, when she realised they weren’t in fact visiting Whitlock’s former residence.

  McCusker checked the name and address at the top of the statement. “A Mr Ivan George,” he said, handing it over to O’Carroll.

  “McCusker, have you completely lost your marbles?” she said, making to get back in the car. “Look, it’s okay – really, it was nothing, a genuine mistake.”

  “What on earth are you on about,” he said to her over the bonnet of her car.

  “Grace. This is all about Grace isn’t it?”

  “It’s not,” he hissed.

  “Yeah, right!” she sneered. “Look, for the tenth time, it was nothing personal, she didn’t stand you up, it was a genuine mistake and I admit it was probably mine.”

  “That’s good to know,” McCusker replied. “Now, let’s go and see what Ivan has to say.”

  She was still pleading with McCusker through gritted teeth when the door was opened by a rosy-cheeked wee boy of about eight.

  “Is your father Ivan in?” McCusker asked.

  “Da! It’s that girl from Strictly Come Dancing with her geezer for you!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

  “This is going to be so embarrassing...” O’Carroll whispered. “We’ve still got time to apologise and leave McCusker.”

  “Sorry about that,” Ivan George said through a large smile. “Our wee Gary is at the age where he is convinced that absolutely everyone he sees is from the television.”

  McCusker was picking up O’Carroll’s “I told you so” loud and clear. The two of them flashed their ID cards. “I wanted to talk to you about a statement you made to one of our officers the morning after…” McCusker struggled to finish his sentence.

  “Oh, you mean Sunday week past –the morning after poor Mr Whitlock was found murdered?” Ivan said, pulling the door behind him but not shutting it entirely, clearly to spare wee Gary’s ears from what could potentially be a disturbing conversation.

  “Yes that’s it,” McCusker replied. “You told our colleague that you saw something in the early hours of the morning?”

  “Yes, actually I did,” Ivan George continued, dropping his voice to a much lower volume.

  “Do you remember what it was that you saw exactly?” McCusker asked, as O’Carroll took out her notebook. He reckoned that was her way of distracting herself from a fit of the giggles.

  “As I told the other copper, I wake up a couple of times a night every night, so I find if I get up, go to the toilet, come back, turn my pillow case over, it’s easier to get back to sleep again. I don’t wake up to go to the toilet, don’t you see...I go to the toilet because I wake up.”

  “Right,” O’Carroll smirked, as she scribbled furiously away.

  “So,” Ivan George continued, “I got up, it was just after the 2 a.m. news – I’m pretty much like clockwork. I look out the window, as you do, and I see this geezer pushing something…”

  McCusker checked his statement. “Did you say it was a motorbike?”

  “Ah, that would be a no,” Ivan claimed. “The conversation actually went along the lines of, I said he was pushing something, the copper said, ‘you mean like a bike?’ I said, ‘no, it looked like it would have had a motor,’ so that’s obviously where that confusion came from.”

  “Okay,” McCusker said, “and then what?”

  “Well, that was it really; I saw a man silhouetted by the street light,” he continued, “I remembered it, because the image was very weird. The man obviously had a crash helmet on, so I believe I said to the policeman that in the street light with this big head – an illusion of course – he looked like an alien who’d landed here, stolen a scooter, didn’t know how to work it so he was pushing it away.”

  “Just now you used the word scooter...that word wasn’t in
your statement...did you think afterwards that’s what it was?”

  “No, I remember the distinctive circular shape around the back wheel. I would definitely have told him it was a scooter.”

  “Do you remember what colour the scooter was, sir?” McCusker asked.

  “Yes, as I mentioned it was illuminated by the street light, it was red.”

  “Do you remember anything else about the man pushing the scooter and wearing the crash helmet?” McCusker asked, as O’Carroll’s note taking grew a little more serious.

  “Sorry, he’d his back to me, he was wearing a crash helmet, darkish clothes...I can’t really tell you any more about him to be honest.”

  “Well look, thank you Mr George, you’ve been very helpful,” McCusker said, as O’Carroll put away her notebook.

  Ivan George stood on his doorstep and he was still smiling at them when O’Carroll drove off.

  “So,” McCusker started up again as they pulled out of Cyprus Avenue and he checked and then read aloud quoting original statement. “The only thing I remember about that night was a big headed alien with a red motor bike. I know it was an alien because it was pushing the bike, not riding it.”

  “Unbelievable,” was all O’Carroll could find to say.

  “The ‘big headed alien with a red motor bike’ was in fact the person who had murdered Adam Whitlock and didn’t want to draw attention to himself by causing a racket while starting up the scooter in the early hours of the morning. So, he pushed the scooter, most likely around the corner to Beersbridge Road, before he kick-started it and drove off into the night.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “You know who it was, don’t you?” O’Carroll asked, as they both sat down to a delicious smoked haddock and leek gratin in Deanes on Howard Street.

  McCusker continued eating.

  “And here I was thinking you were fretting about our poor Grace. Who is it McCusker?”