But those were minor issues compared to someone dealing with the loss of their child, so the detectives parked the hypothetical for the real and prepared for a genuinely challenging discussion, in which for once Liam was happy to let his boss take the lead.
They were surprised, although there was no rational reason why they should have been, when the front door of the neat detached house that was their destination was opened by a gangly, tow-haired boy. Their next surprise was when Edgar Westbury, obviously the child’s father from their doppelganger-like resemblance, came bolting from a back room milliseconds later shouting, “GET AWAY FROM THEM! WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT STRANGERS?” before pushing his son behind him and glaring defensively at Craig.
The detective assessed the situation in seconds: his infant daughter abducted, his wife and parents dead, his solitary sibling a continent away and left with only his precious son to hold. Unless Edgar Westbury remarried and had more children they were looking at the only close family he would ever have, so it was no wonder that he was protective of the thirteen-year-old. Westbury was terrified of losing him as well.
Liam’s assessment was less generous and comprised of: weirdo, jerk, and that’s going to be one messed-up kid; but neither policeman’s thoughts showed on their faces as they produced their IDs.
“Chief Superintendent Craig and Chief Inspector Cullen from Belfast. My PA should have called ahead.”
“She didn’t describe you.”
To be fair that wouldn’t have been normal secretarial behaviour, and anyway, what would Alice have said? One sandy-haired giant and one tall dark man, both of them wearing suits? It was the least insulting description that Craig could think of and a straw poll of the squad would no doubt have produced quite a few more that were worse.
Edgar Westbury relaxed his stance slightly but he didn’t relax his defence of his son, instead turning to the boy with, “Go and play in your room, please, Simon. I need to speak to these officers.”
“Can’t I stay, Dad?”
A shake of the head was all that seemed necessary to quash the teenager’s resistance, and his caving-in seemed to Liam almost like a Pavlovian response, which begged the question how often had he needed to be told before he’d been trained? With his kids he’d be yelling at them till they were twenty before they took the hint like that. The D.C.I. was torn between wishing they were as obedient as Simon Westbury and thanking God that they weren’t.
As the boy trudged reluctantly up the stairs, giving a quick smile at a wink from Craig, his father motioned the policemen into a bright sitting room and offered refreshments, which before Craig could refuse them Liam had accepted with an enthusiastic, “Great,” adding the unnecessary detail that, “my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
In the event it was a useful pause, as Westbury’s absence from the room gave the detectives time to confer.
“That man’s wound tighter than a clock, boss.”
Craig nodded in agreement. “But you can understand it. He hasn’t had a lot of luck, has he? The only family he has left is the boy and a brother who could be anywhere in the world.”
Liam pulled a face. “Maybe. But he’s storing up trouble with that kid. Tight leashes breed angry dogs.”
Craig smiled. “One of your Granny’s famous sayings no doubt.”
Just at that moment their host reappeared, and as he passed around the refreshments Craig got to the reason they were there.
“Mister Westbury, as my secretary said, we’re from the Belfast Murder Squad-”
The man’s obvious horror cut him short.
“She didn’t mention murder!”
Damn. He and Alice really needed to have a word. He’d noticed before how she hated saying the word, preferring euphemisms like ‘grievous incident’ and ‘fatal assault’. But it really did need to be in the preamble when arranging meetings so that the other party was forewarned.
“I’m sorry, she really should have mentioned. We’ve come to ask you a few questions about a body that was found on Tuesday.”
As Westbury’s pale eyes expanded alarmingly Craig realised the significance of what he’d just said and hurriedly added, “A man’s body.”
He felt every bit of the father’s pain and relief in his immediate noisy exhalation and wondered whether to apologise for his clumsiness, deciding against it because it would raise the subject of his missing daughter sooner than he’d planned.
Ignoring his deputy’s chastising glance Craig forged on.
“He was found in a disused quarry south-west of Rownton village, where I believe you were raised?” Without pausing for confirmation he added, staring directly into the widower’s eyes, “We now have an ID and he was your brother-in-law, Stuart Kincaid.”
The widower’s eyes widened again, but only slightly this time, and Craig wondered whether his shock was less because Kincaid was an adult, or could it possibly mean there’d been bad blood between the men. The sadness that immediately followed and darkened Edgar Westbury’s thin face said not; he was genuinely dismayed by his brother-in-law’s death. But Craig knew he and his deputy could debate that later if necessary, certain that Liam was also registering every expression on their host’s face.
The deliberate pause Craig left after his words gave Westbury space to speak, and he asked the same questions that had been raised in their discussions with John and Des the day before.
“But what was Stuart doing in Rownton? And at the old quarry? He lived halfway across the country in Portaferry!”
Liam responded first. “All good questions, Mister Westbury, and things we’re looking into. To your knowledge had Mister Kincaid ever been to Rownton before?”
The widower shook his head, but when no elaborating words followed the D.C.I. offered some of his own, watching his face attentively as he did.
“Mister Kincaid was drowned.”
The gasp that came from Edgar Westbury was too sharp to have been manufactured, as was his squeaked, “Drowned? But Stuart was a strong swimmer!”
Craig cut in. “We did say we were the Murder Squad.”
“Yes, yes, but I didn’t... believe... no, not believe...listen perhaps. But drowned? How does someone drown a grown man?”
He shook his blond head repeatedly as the facts sank in.
“Stuart gone. Oh God... oh God...” They watched as tears sprang to his eyes, “...his poor parents. Both their children dead.” His quick glance towards the ceiling confirmed that they’d been right in their assessment of why he was so protective of his son. “I can’t think of anything worse, at any age.”
Craig could see him about to spiral and intervened before they lost him. He knew it was selfish but they’d had a long trip and they really needed some facts.
“Mister Kincaid’s parents are still alive?”
It was a stupid question given that Kincaid had only been in his early forties. Why wouldn’t they be alive? His parents still were, thankfully, although even as he thought it he knew that the loss of one of them could come only too soon.
The widower shook his head, but only to clear it. “Yes. They’re still only in their sixties. They used to live in Ballycastle but they moved to Cavan last year to be closer to Simon. I take him to see them all the time. We’re very close. They’re his only grandparents now, and since my own parents died...”
As his words tailed off Craig had a sudden, horrified thought. Had Stuart Kincaid’s parents been notified of their son’s death? In his haste to find Edgar Westbury he hadn’t even thought to ask.
To avoid their grandson innocently bouncing up to them with the news next time he saw them, he nodded Liam to go outside to check, continuing the interview in his absence.
“Luisa Kincaid ID-ed her husband’s body yesterday, in case you’d like to contact her.”
Westbury nodded absentmindedly. “Yes...of course... Luisa. Poor Luisa. The funeral...I should really go...”
Craig took a deep breath and prepared himself for the likely
traumatic effect of his next words.
“Mister Westbury...in your brother-in-law’s jacket pocket there was a photograph. We think it had been deliberately hidden because it was folded into the small coin pocket that people rarely use. Also, his wallet had been taken and in my experience that’s either done because someone’s looking for something specific, like perhaps a photograph-”
Westbury cut across him. “Not for Stuart’s money and cards?”
“Possibly, but we think it’s more likely the wallet was taken to slow down his identification. His watch was also missing so we can’t rule theft out completely as a motive, but,” he looked solemn, “we really don’t believe that this was a mugging gone wrong, Mister-”
The widower interrupted again. “You said Stuart drowned.”
“Was drowned. Someone held him under the water. They left bruises.”
“Who found him?”
Craig suddenly realised what was happening. Westbury was trying to keep him on the subject of Stuart Kincaid’s murder to avoid hearing something that might hurt him more, even if he wasn’t sure yet exactly what that was.
Or... perhaps he feared that the photo Kincaid had been carrying had been of his dead wife, it would have been natural given that they were twins, and Westbury couldn’t deal with the reopening of that particular wound.
But as sorry as the detective felt for the man they had to make progress, and he was just about to do that when Liam re-entered the room and put his mind to rest on Stuart Kincaid’s parents with a nod. It gave Craig renewed energy, so he took a deep breath and passed on the information that Edgar Westbury had been trying desperately not to hear.
“Mister Westbury, the photograph that Mister Kincaid was carrying was of your daughter, Bella, and we’ve matched it to one that was taken not long before she disappeared. Do you know why Stuart might have been carrying it?”
Such a complete silence fell on the room that Craig held his breath rather than break it, but broken it was eventually, by a soft whimpering that grew into wracking sobs. The detectives watched powerlessly as Edgar Westbury’s pale face grew red and wet and his body crumpled until it was almost doubled in two, and then as the door opened suddenly and the boy who’d been sent to his room like a child re-entered, wrapping his arms around his father with a confidence and compassion that said he’d done so many times before.
Craig rose and signalled his deputy to follow him, nodding to the teenager that they would be outside, and exiting just as he started making soothing noises that made tears gather in both detectives’ eyes. They stood mutely outside in the street, until eventually Liam sighed and said what was on both their minds.
“It’s brought back everything to him, boss. The girl’s abduction, the searching and waiting, what his wife went through...”
Craig shook his head slowly, every shake feeling like a burden he couldn’t set down. “How does someone get over so much loss?”
“Some people never do. That’s why the mum killed herself.”
It was Craig’s turn to sigh. “I felt like a shit for making the man suffer again, Liam, but there was nothing else that I could do. I had to ask him about the photograph. It’s our best lead to Kincaid’s killer.”
“Ach, now, don’t beat yourself up. It’ll-”
The D.C.I. stopped mid-sentence, seeing the house’s blue front door re-open and a small hand beckon them inside. They returned to the sitting room to find a red-eyed Edgar Westbury clutching a handkerchief in his hand.
“I’m very sorry about that. Sometimes things just hit me.”
Craig took a seat beside him on the sofa. “Don’t apologise. I’m just sorry that I had to bring it up.”
Westbury nodded. “You had to, I understand that. And I want to help you find Stuart’s killer, if I can.”
Liam glanced meaningfully at the boy, who was standing protectively behind his father now. In response Westbury reached out a hand to his son.
“I’ve told him that his Uncle Stuart has gone, and it’s hard on him, but I think it’s time that I realised Simon is nearly grown. He can stay with us now. He’s a very brave boy.”
Craig nodded and withdrew an envelope from his pocket. “This is a copy of the photograph Mister Kincaid was carrying. Are you OK to look at it?”
When Westbury nodded he passed the picture across, watching carefully as the father gazed at the image of his lost daughter for a moment before slowly nodding his head.
“This is the one I gave the French police to use when Bella disappeared. We have the original framed upstairs. It was taken on a trip to Paris around her third birthday a few months before...”
Craig employed his softest tone. “So you don’t have any later photographs of her.”
The widower shook his head and then said firmly, “Not yet.”
The detective didn’t say anything to dash his hopes.
“Why would Mister Kincaid have been carrying it, do you know?”
Westbury and his son replied together, in a jumble of, “Copies”, “Searchers” and, “He loved Bella.”
“So you’re saying that Stuart Kincaid was a loving uncle and copies of this photograph were given out during the initial search.”
“Yes. Stuart and his wife Luisa didn’t have a daughter so they doted on ours, and as soon as Bella-”
He paused and took a deep breath before restarting.
“As soon as Bella disappeared they flew out to France to help us with the search. Perhaps Stuart just put her photo in his coin pocket and forgot about it?”
“Was Mister Kincaid likely to have kept a suit for years?”
Simon shook his head vigorously. “No way. Uncle Stuart was a cool dresser. He was always getting new stuff and giving the old away.”
Westbury confirmed his son’s words with a nod.
“Stuart must have moved the photo between suits. But I’m not surprised. He was very fond of both our children. We have snaps of his boys as well.”
It was the opening that Craig had needed. “So fond that he might still have been searching for Bella?”
Westbury looked confused. “Well...Stuart was certainly a determined man, but if he was searching for Bella why would he have done so in Ireland? And in Rownton of all places? Why not in France where we’d lived at the time?”
It explained why Edgar Westbury hadn’t been with his brother-in-law in Rownton.
Liam gave a noisy sigh. “That’s one of the things we’re trying to find out.”
When Craig slipped the snapshot back into his pocket looking as if he was preparing to leave, his deputy coughed meaningfully, reminding him that they had more to ask.
The prompt did the trick.
“Just a few final things, Mister Westbury. We’ve seen photographs of Bella at fourteen-months that show her as a very blonde child with striking blue eyes, but this later image of her is slightly more distant and darker, so it’s difficult to tell if her colouring had altered at all.”
The widower shook his head. “It hadn’t. That one was just taken in a bad light. Bella is white-blonde with almost ice-blue eyes like her mother. Nicola kept that colouring all her life so I doubt that Bella is going to darken as she grows.”
Craig smiled admiringly at his constant use of the present tense.
“Thank you. Also, did Bella have any distinguishing marks at all? Moles? Birthmarks? Had her ears been pierced? Or-”
His heart sank as Westbury shook his head before he’d even finished.
“Nothing. She’s perfect.”
But Liam had noticed the boy shaking his head behind his father’s back.
“You don’t agree, Simon?”
Westbury turned sharply towards his son, the vehemence of his words allowing no room for dispute.
“Bella’s perfect, Simon! You know that.”
The teenager stuck to his guns. “I love Bella, but no, Dad, she isn’t perfect the way you mean. She has a mark on her hand. Don’t you remember? When we took the trip to Italy and
Mum had her hands Hennaed at that market?” He turned back to the detectives. “Mum just did it as a novelty, but Bella cried so much because she wanted a pattern on her hands too that Mum gave in. So the lady Hennaed a little daisy on the back on her hand.”
Craig wasn’t an expert on fashion fads but he had a sister who was. In her teens Lucia had tried every new trend that had emerged, Henna being one of them, so he thought he knew enough to comment this time.
“But Henna fades, Simon.”
The teenager nodded excitedly.
“Yes, Mum’s did, but Bella’s hand got all red and nasty with the dye and it left the daisy behind.”
Edgar Westbury’s jaw dropped.
“Oh my God, Simon, you’re right! I remember now! We took Bella to a doctor about it and he said there was nothing that he could do; she would have a raised scar there for the rest of her life. It was very red at first but he said it would turn white eventually so we didn’t worry too much about it. It faded pretty quickly and left a little flower, and as Bella liked it we didn’t fret. But it’s there, it’s definitely there. It’s a distinguishing mark.”
Craig sat forward eagerly. “Would you by any chance have a photograph of it?”
“Yes, yes, I took several to monitor its healing.”
He nodded his son to a drawer. “Bring the last one that I took, Simon.”
The boy returned with the image of a chubby left hand with a perfect white outline of a daisy on its back.
Craig took it gratefully. “This is good, thank you. We’ll copy it and send the original back. Also, could I have the original of the photograph we found on Mister Kincaid to do the same? The colours have faded in ours.”
As Liam went with the boy to retrieve it Craig carried on with his questioning.
“Did the French police include the daisy in their search parameters?”
“Oh. No. We forgot to mention it. Bella had only got it a few months before. We went to Italy in April, just after we got back from my parents’ funeral. To cheer us up.” Westbury’s eyes widened in panic. “Oh my God, we should have said to the gendarmes, shouldn’t we?”
The Depths Page 15