by Matt McGuire
‘William Spender, please.’
‘Can I ask who’s calling?’
‘DI Ward, Musgrave Street.’
‘One moment, please.’
He didn’t think Spender would talk to him, but the call would get the girls in the typing pool going if nothing else. Ten seconds later the secretary was back.
‘I’m sorry, Detective, Mr Spender is busy. Can I take a message?’
‘Just tell him I called.’
Ward had found out what he needed to know. He grabbed the car keys for the Mondeo and left the office.
Twenty minutes later in Cultra, a black iron gate slowly opened, admitting the navy Mondeo. At the front door Ward was greeted by Spender’s wife. He knew he would be.
‘My husband’s not at home, Detective.’
‘If it’s OK, I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mrs Spender.’
Ward was unassuming. Kind yet assertive. Not giving her anywhere to go. He knew if you started easy you could always press harder.
In the kitchen Mrs Spender sat at the table. The room was expensively furnished. Polished granite counters. Large chrome cooker. Sliding glass doors. Outside, a wide patio with steps to the lawn, swept down to the waters of Belfast Lough.
Mrs Spender was nervous and kept glancing towards the door. Ward did nothing to put her at her ease. He took his time, allowing the simple fact that he was there to discomfort the woman. Mrs Spender lifted a cup of coffee. Ward figured it was to give her hands something to do. She didn’t offer him one.
‘You know what this is about, Mrs Spender?’
‘No, I’m not sure I do.’
‘Did your husband say why I came to see him last week?’
‘He didn’t.’
‘So you’ve absolutely no idea?’
‘I watch the news, Detective. The body on the building site. Makes sense you want to speak to people — my husband included.’
‘Did he tell you any more than that?’
‘My husband’s a busy man.’
Ward paused as the woman took a sip of coffee. She was gathering confidence, attempting to hide behind a wall of ignorance.
‘Why did you lie to me, Mrs Spender?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Ward repeated the accusation.
‘I didn’t lie.’
‘You didn’t tell me about the drugs.’
‘What drugs?’ The woman went on the defensive. ‘My son isn’t involved in drugs.’
Ward stopped and looked at Mrs Spender. The words hung in the air, revealing that she had overstepped the mark, said more than she meant to.
‘Who said anything about your son?’
Mrs Spender realized she’d been caught by Ward’s bluff. The detective started pressing home his advantage.
‘Lying to the police is a serious offence, Mrs Spender. You can go to jail.’
The woman was unnerved. Ward could see the tears, hidden just below the surface. As quickly as he saw them rise, she forced them back down. Ward imagined she’d had plenty of practice keeping them at bay. All the dinner parties. The questions. How are the kids? How is Zara? And what about Phillip? You’ll have to bring them round.
Ward wondered what it must be like to love someone and then be worried, embarrassed and ashamed, all at the same time. He walked to the counter and lifted down a framed photograph of the two Spender children. He held it in his hands before setting it down on the kitchen table.
‘How old is Phillip in this?’
‘Seven.’
‘Amazing. I’ll bet you can remember it like it was yesterday.’
Ward watched the woman’s eyes look up and to the right as she remembered. She was thinking about Phillip as a boy. Seven years old. Still a kid. Ward kept working.
‘Seven, eh? What was he into? Action Men? Star Wars? Those Ninja Turtle things?’
‘Star Wars. He had every one of those bloody figures. I used to end up standing on them and having to buy him new ones.’
Ward laughed gently. ‘How old is he now?’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Manchester. Or so we think.’ There was a sadness in the woman’s voice. As if she was talking about someone who had recently passed away.
‘When was the last time you heard from him?’
Mrs Spender’s nose started to run. She sniffed, having to hold back the tears again. Ward handed her a tissue.
‘Sixteen months ago.’
It was as if a release valve had been turned in her.
‘How long has he been a drug addict?’
‘It started when he was seventeen — so we think, anyway. He was doing his A-levels. Didn’t like school so decided to do them at the Tech in Belfast. He must have fallen in with the wrong crowd. Started going into the town at weekends, Friday night right through. He would come home Sunday morning with bags under his eyes. As if he hadn’t slept for days. We tried everything. Stopped his money. He wasn’t allowed out. He climbed out his bedroom window and went anyway.’
Mrs Spender looked past Ward, into the middle distance.
‘He went to Manchester for university. Things seemed to settle down. The first Christmas he came home he looked OK. By the summer he’d lost half a stone. His skin was a yellowy grey colour. He would disappear for weeks at a time. Then he’d turn up out of the blue. He started stealing from us — from his own family. It was my fault. I raised him, William was always busy. The next Christmas, he never came home. We got a letter saying he’d been thrown out of the university at the end of his first year. We haven’t heard from him since then. Sixteen months.’
Ward had a sudden sinking feeling. Could the body at Laganview be Phillip Spender? The police hadn’t released a photograph, only a description and an appeal for information. What if he had come back? What if he’d owed some people money? Someone could have tried to get to Spender through his son.
Ward sighed. There was nothing else for it. He produced a photograph of the victim from his jacket pocket.
‘Mrs Spender, do you recognize this boy?’
The woman suddenly realized what Ward was trying to ascertain. The colour drained from her face. She looked at the photograph with an expression of horror, then shook her head. It wasn’t Phillip.
‘Mrs Spender, that feeling you’ve got — the one for Phillip — the hurt you feel for him. Because you’re his mother. Because you carried him round inside you for nine months. Because you gave birth to him, because you fed him, because you were everything to him. There is another mother out there, feeling exactly the same thing — except her son is lying on a slab in the Belfast morgue. She doesn’t even know he’s there. He’s alone. Completely alone. She needs to know what happened to him. She needs to come and get him.’
Ward stopped talking, setting the photograph on the table, beside the framed picture of the two Spender children.
‘You can help this woman. You can help her by helping us.’
Karen Spender looked round the room, searching for something to hold on to. Her mind was racing. Was it William’s fault Phillip had turned out the way he had? The arrogance. The greed. Never having time for him. Or was it her? Had she been too soft on him? Just letting him do what he wanted? And would someone out there speak up if something like this happened to her Phillip? If he was lying somewhere with the same lifeless expression?
The emotions whirled through her. She felt sick. Ward was offering her a way out.
‘There was a book,’ she said thickly.
‘A book?’
‘A small black book. William found it in Phillip’s room a couple of weeks ago. It had phone numbers in it — Belfast numbers. There were initials beside them. We figured it was the people he was getting his drugs from.’
‘Where is it now?’
‘I don’t know. William took it.’
‘And where was William on Sunday evening, a fortnight ago?’
She hesitated for a second. Then: ‘He was here.’
Wa
rd noticed the pause. She was lying outright or else trying to cover something up. Mrs Spender looked at the detective. A veil fell from her eyes as if she had suddenly awoken. She remembered where she was and who she was talking to. The kitchen, with all its familiarity, seemed to rally round, to prop her up.
‘Detective, my husband is a respectable businessman. If you have any questions about his affairs, I suggest you take them up with him.’
She stood up.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I have quite a lot of things to get on with.’
‘One last thing, Mrs Spender.’
He produced a photograph of Tony Burke, one they’d lifted from the video recording of his interview. He also had one of Michael Burke, a copy of his arrest mug shot from an old RUC file.
‘Do you recognize these men?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Ward held the woman’s gaze for several seconds before picking the photographs from the table.
As he walked down the hall he caught sight of the family portrait hanging on the wall. The kids were twelve or thirteen. Everyone was smiling. William Spender included.
TWENTY-FIVE
William Spender admired himself in the full-length mirror. There was something about black tie he’d always liked — the polished shoes, the white shirt, the tight collar. It was like a dress uniform for the successful. He tilted his head back, straightening his bow tie. Not bad, for the son of a builder, he thought. Black tie had become almost a monthly fixture on Spender’s calendar. It seemed businessmen across Northern Ireland couldn’t wait to get together and congratulate themselves on how well they were doing. The trousers had been a bit of a squeeze and Spender wondered if he needed to finally go up a size. He patted his gut softly, thinking about his favourite restaurants — Deane’s, Cayenne, The Merchant. Venison steak, pan-fried scallops, Dundrum mussels.
‘How could a man not get fat?’ he said out loud.
Tonight was the Chamber of Commerce awards dinner. It was an annual event. A five-course meal at the City Hall and anyone who was anyone would be there. His friends from Planning, as well as a few folk from the City Council. It would be a good chance for him to see them, make sure they were all on side for the upcoming Gasworks project. The favours for Laganview had all been paid up.
The Chamber of Commerce had some doll from UTV presenting the awards. Spender Properties were receiving one for their work in the Cathedral Quarter. Spender laughed at the idea — as if you needed to be rewarded for making money! It was money that mattered. Money spoke louder than any bit of Waterford crystal ever could. At night, when he couldn’t sleep he’d drive round Belfast in the Mercedes, doing a loop of the various developments he’d built. It was a counting exercise and not a little bit of self-congratulation. There were the houses up the Hightown Road, the Cathedral Quarter, Laganview, and now the Gasworks project. Spender would sit in the warmth of the car, listening to the hum of the engine, whispering to himself: ‘She’s mine. So’s she. So’s she.’
He knew the Chamber of Commerce do would be good publicity and would undoubtedly bring more investors on board. From the plans alone they’d sold half the apartments at Laganview. In Northern Ireland people couldn’t get enough. It was as if they’d been let off the leash after years of straining. Folk walked round show apartments and pulled out their cheque books. The banks were everyone’s friend, and were giving out money hand over fist. With Laganview they’d be able to raise the price by a hundred grand per apartment when they released the second phase. The important thing was that work was back on track. It was easy. A few more Poles swinging pickaxes and the thing was on schedule again. The police were a joke. Strutting around like they owned the place. They didn’t, Spender reminded himself. I do.
Karen walked into the bedroom from her en suite. Something was up with her: she’d had a face on her since Spender walked in the door an hour ago. He didn’t know what she had to be unhappy about — she’d just put on the black silk dress, the Yves Saint Laurent number that cost the guts of two grand. She sat at her dressing-table, putting the finishing touches to her make up. Karen had been stunning when they had first met. She was still attractive and had kept her figure well. Spender glanced at her in the mirror. He liked walking into a crowded room with her on his arm. Heads turned. The men looked at her leeringly and women as if they wanted to slit her throat. After their entrance though, he could never wait to get rid of her. He’d park her with the rest of the wives. Let them talk about whatever it was that they talked about. He could go off with the men. Talk business. Tell them how well Spender Properties were doing.
He finally got the bow tie fixed and stood back from the mirror. From the dressing-table behind him, Karen’s voice piped up.
‘That policeman was back again today.’
She tried to feign indifference, as if she was asking about the weather or what he fancied for dinner. Spender turned and looked at his wife.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said the policeman called again. He was looking for you.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘He was asking about the body. I told him I didn’t know anything.’
‘You don’t know anything.’
‘That’s what I said.’
Spender walked to within striking distance and stood over his wife. He pointed a finger in her face.
‘What did I tell you about talking to people about my business?’
Karen tried not to look at her husband. It only made him angrier. She’d learned that a few years after they were married when the kids were still wee. She knew she needed to hang in there for them. Spender hadn’t raised his hand to her in years. But that person was still there, still inside him, she could see it now, just below the surface. She used to wonder if he had changed or whether she got better at reading the signs and staying out of trouble. Her husband’s eyes bored into her now and she sensed a storm brewing.
‘What else did you say?’
‘He knew about Phillip.’
Spender flew into a rage. ‘Did you invite the guy in?’
‘He just wanted to talk. Ask a few questions. What was I supposed to do?’
‘What did he want to talk to you about?’
‘I don’t know. The body. Phillip. Drugs.’
‘What did I tell you about running your mouth off? When it’s something you know nothing about. .’
Spender remembered the Cavehill Road development ten years earlier. He had been about to finalise contract negotiations for a block of shops with eight apartments. Karen had been talking to someone at the gym or the hairdresser’s, the wife of Paul Bartholomew, a property solicitor in Belfast. Next thing, Mrs Bartholomew goes home and tells her husband, who tells one of his clients — and bingo! The deal gets stolen, right from under Spender’s nose. The development was due to net him over half a million.
Spender took a deep breath and tried to rein in his temper. He needed to know everything that had been said. What the detective wanted to know and, more importantly, what she’d told him. Karen didn’t know anything, but you couldn’t be too careful. He knew he wasn’t going to get anything out of her if it turned into a slanging match.
He went downstairs and poured himself a large Bushmills. He made up a gin and tonic for his wife and set it on the kitchen table. They could be late for dinner. This was more important. After five minutes he heard Karen’s heels click along the hall.
‘Have a seat before we go out,’ Spender said calmly. ‘I’m not cross with you. It’s those frigging cops. They cost me thousands. . cost us thousands, shutting down the site for most of last week. If they have their way they’ll do it again. All over some wee hood that no one gives a damn about.’
He got Karen to talk him through the conversation with Ward. She told him about Phillip, about the drugs, the stealing, the fact he’d been gone for over a year. She told him about the black book, the one with the numbers. The one he
had taken off her when she showed it to him.
‘Is that everything?’ Spender asked. Her eyes shifted.
‘He wanted to know where you were the Sunday night the boy was killed.’
‘I was here. You know that.’
‘That’s what I told him.’
Spender sensed there was more.
‘You were up late though.’
‘I’m up late most nights.’
‘Well, I was in bed. Asleep. But I thought I heard the car leave.’
‘No, you didn’t. I was working downstairs until three in the morning, getting figures ready for the accountant. Busting my balls, Karen, so you can go to dinner parties in frigging Yves Saint Laurent dresses.’
Spender felt the heat rising in him again. How could she be so stupid? The word ‘divorce’ popped into his head, as it did most weeks. He dismissed it. His solicitor had run out the numbers, twice now, on how much it would cost. It was cheaper to keep her around, keep her in haircuts and designer dresses. He could always get his kicks elsewhere.
‘How do you think all this gets paid for, Karen? The house, the new kitchen — that wee coupe you’re driving out there? I work for it. Me. I make it happen. Do you want it all to suddenly vanish? Are you that frigging stupid?’
Spender’s wife slowly shook her head. Her husband drained his glass.
‘They’re just trying to stir things up. They come out here, see we’re doing all right for ourselves and they want to have a go at us, try to take it all away.’
Karen looked at her husband. He smiled, wanting to let her know it was OK. She might have messed up but he forgave her. At the same time his head was racing, wondering what the cops were doing, what they would make of what his wife had told them.
‘Let’s get in the car and go. And if the cops call again, then you don’t answer the door. All right?’
Karen nodded her head and the two of them stood up from the table.
TWENTY-SIX
1.57 a.m. The road outside The George was deserted. From the mouth of the alley, Lynch could see the full length of the street. He’d been there since eleven. He looked at his watch. McCann’s boys wouldn’t be late.