“I’ve spoken to Hector McDonagh-”
Aidan waved him down. “Save it. We’re going back to see him again now. The Guv’s just called with some new stuff he needs to know and Jimmy Rushton can’t see us for half an hour. He’s in a meeting.”
It raised the thorny decision of when to eat that day. It was eleven o’clock and they had four people left to interview: McDonagh again, Rushton, Finbar Brolly, Biddy Evans, plus they needed to drop into the church, and all that before they had to hit the road by four o’clock at the latest to reach Armagh, collect their prisoner, and then get back to the ranch via High Street for a, more than likely, two hour briefing at six. It left them with the likelihood of no food before eight o’clock that night unless they had something before they left the village. The only question was where.
Thankfully Mickey O’Hare was so pleased to be told that he could release his noisy houseguest that he entrusted them with a secret known only to the locals, and zealously guarded in case Northern Ireland’s foodies descended on Rownton in their gluttonous chattering masses and disturbed their precious peace.
“The best Irish stew and Ulster Fry for a hundred miles around are served at our pub. But I’d eat before you tell Finbar that you want to interview him or he’s likely to spit in the pan.”
Now that was something they should tell any of Northern Ireland’s glutterati who were thinking of making the trip.
****
Dublin.
Róisín Casey had had enough of waiting, in fact she’d broken her golden rule by doing it at all, making her feel as it always did like a child outside a toyshop with her nose pressed against the glass. She didn’t even like waiting when there was something worth doing it for, like a bespoke piece of jewellery from her lover or the arrival of a couture outfit that she’d been measured for weeks before, but she really didn’t like hanging about when the expected thing was unexciting or never happened at all, which had already been the case twice that day.
The financier banged repeatedly on her computer’s ‘enter’ key as she was thinking, the refreshing website of The Rownton Recorder displaying exactly what it had displayed an hour before, and the Tyrone radio host’s voice booming out of the second web window she had open still not announcing the anticipated interview with the mistress of the ‘Rownton Suicide’.
The double disappointment made the banker irritable, her default mood between diplomatic manoeuvres and always exacerbated by not getting her own way, and Róisín definitely hadn’t got her own way on Derek Morrow yet, which meant that his suicide might soon draw much more dangerous attention than she’d hoped.
It left her with a decision, something at which she normally excelled, but this one was making her nervous; getting it wrong had the potential to derail an organisation worth a lot of money that had taken her and others years to set up.
Her gaze flicked repeatedly across her neat desk as she considered her options, lingering longest on her landline. Arthur had obviously failed to get the fantasy mistress to cooperate with the interviews, or failed to reach her in time to rearrange them for later which was the same thing, so...did she call him and-
She paused mid-thought, a cold dread creeping over her as she realised the possible reasons for the girl not giving the interviews that day. There were only three: either she’d chickened out, unusual when there was cash involved; she’d been that girl in her teens and when you come from nothing and want everything you’ll do anything for a buck. Or second, because Arthur hadn’t reached her yet to pressure her, the news editor and the radio jock to reorganise the interviews, and if not then why not? It had better be because the old bastard was dead in a ditch somewhere or he would soon wish that he was.
Which brought Róisín to the third reason, the one that was now making her shudder with fear; someone else had got to the girl first and stopped her interviews, and the only people with that capability were the cops.
The revelation made her gasp and move into damage limitation mode. Arthur was on his way to Rownton, where, if the police had got hold of the girl she could have coughed by now and they might be lying in wait for him. If so, pretty damn soon he would be in an interview room with the bright light of legend shining on his saggy face, and all it would take was a few hundred lux in his eyes and a couple of questions and the old man would give her up.
The banker inhaled again, less sharply this time and shaking her head. No. Rio or Trio or whatever the hell her name was couldn’t know that Arthur was on his way to her, so even if she had given him up the police would research his details to find him not hang around Rownton waiting to see if he just happened to drive into town.
It left Róisín with an urgent choice: did she rely on Arthur’s crap sense of direction making him hours late as usual and call him to warn him off before he reached Rownton... or not? If he was already there and his phone rang the cops might seize it and reverse engineer her number.
But the risk was small: she would use her throwaway mobile so even if the police did uncover its withheld number they could never trace it to her. And making risk assessments was her job after all, so the question now was how big of one would she be taking by calling Arthur, compared to allowing him to drive on to Rownton and perhaps straight into the cops’ arms?
It was a pity that Róisín Casey had broken her golden rule about waiting and wasted time thinking, because life is rarely changed by considered decisions but rather hinges on split-second choices and random events. Timing in life, as in comedy, is everything, and had she been able to view things from a distance she would have seen that Arthur Norris had already arrived in Rownton and was entering the offices of Hector McDonagh, newspaper editor, just behind two detectives who wanted to speak to Mister McDonagh wearing his solicitor’s hat.
Of course the men didn’t know each other; to the detectives Norris just looked like another grey-faced, aging man in a suit, although with the jaunty addition of a flat cap, something which in itself should perhaps shave made them look at him more closely. But they were busy so they didn’t, and neither did Arthur Norris take the two suited men for police officers, so relieved was he at managing to actually find the village to notice anything but where he was, and already preoccupied with planning another meeting with Rio Reynolds to get her back on track.
So it was that neither policeman paid attention to either Norris or his ringing mobile as they waited for Hector McDonagh to emerge from his back office, and neither did they eavesdrop on the phone conversation that then occurred, other than to shoot each other a knowing glance that whoever the woman was who was yelling at the old man was giving him one hell of a telling off.
They didn’t pay attention to Arthur Norris at all in fact until Hector McDonagh emerged from his office, and then in the briefest of moments all of that changed. The detectives saw McDonagh’s eyes flick past them to the cap-wearing pensioner and then widen in alarm, Norris himself not noticing because he had his back to everyone still busy with his call.
Even then, on its own McDonagh’s alarm could have meant one of a hundred things; he might have recognised Arthur Norris as a debt collector, an irate customer, or someone that his newspaper had smeared, had not the editor/solicitor’s stunned gaze then acquired a layer of fearfulness, shifted immediately to the detectives and been followed by him reversing into his office again.
Arthur Norris had seen none of this, so when he ended his call with a considerably redder ear than he’d begun it with and turned to see if the newspaper editor had appeared, he was greeted instead by two glaring police officers, the taller of which was displaying his ID.
“D.C.I. Hughes. I’d like to ask you a question, sir, if you don’t mind.”
Norris nodded wordlessly, and either decorum or a fear of authority made him whip off his cap.
“What’s your name, please, sir?”
Ryan watched the pensioner’s expression alter as all possible excuses for not answering were raised and dismissed by him mentally, and then as he
came to the, false as it happened, conclusion that it was safe to respond.
“It’s Arthur Norris.”
Aidan’s own expression gave nothing away. “Would you have anything to confirm that?”
A quick rummage produced a driving licence telling them that Norris’ middle name was Geoffrey, his age was sixty-eight, and he lived at an address in Bangor, County Down. As Aidan perused the ID its owner nervously asked the obvious question.
“Can I ask why you need my identification?”
The D.C.I. had already begun making notes so he left his sergeant to reply.
“Because we’d like you to accompany us next door to the police station, Mister Norris.”
To emphasise that there were two ways in which the man could do so Ryan produced a set of cuffs.
The land agent chilled, knowing that he was about to be in trouble not only with the police but with Róisín, and definitely fearing the second far more than the first.
He had one last go at salvaging his day.
“But why, Officer? I haven’t done anything. I’m just here to see Mister McDonagh.”
It was Aidan’s cue to open the door to Hector McDonagh’s back office and beckon the now cowering local out.
“McDonagh the newspaper editor, the solicitor or the chicken farmer?”
Norris didn’t have the wit or reflexes to lie. “Newspaper editor.” He scrambled around for a reason. “I’d...I’d like to put in a full page advert.”
Ryan responded with a smirk. “About a Ms Rio Reynolds, by any chance?”
Norris didn’t even try for an answer this time and as Aidan preferred to play his games sitting down, he mentally kissed goodbye to his Ulster Fry and motioned to the D.S.
“Take Mister Norris next door and book him in for questioning, please. And tell Sergeant O’Hare we’ll need his room again. I’ve a few things to sort here so I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”
As the front door closed behind the hapless Norris and his escort, Aidan turned back to Hector McDonagh.
“You’ve obviously met Mister Norris before. When?”
There was a second’s delay while the solicitor considered citing client confidentiality then he gave in with a shrug.
“He’s a land agent and I dealt with his purchase of the quarry years back.”
Interesting.
“And you arranged the print interview with Ms Reynolds at his behest?”
“Yes. And the radio one.”
As Aidan then produced a photo of Blaine Westbury and set about gathering the information that Craig had requested, Róisín Casey was miles away basking in the satisfaction of a bollocking well given and congratulating herself on having taken her calculated risk.
It was a choice that would soon give Craig a thread to tug at and destroy everything that she and others had built.
****
The C.C.U.
The analysts’ excursion to the staff canteen had proved a voyage of discovery, revealing, amongst other things, sandwiches that for once had been comprised of bread other than thin white sliced and fillings other than egg and cress or ham and cheese. The, seemingly overnight, renamed and renovated ‘Blue Line Cafe’ had a new manageress who’d seemingly declared it her mission to educate the palates of police personnel, and was establishing a rolling rota of French, Spanish, American, Italian and other world cuisines instead of the usual curled-up Belfast baps and rock hard scones. In celebration of her first week on the job a gourmet version of Croque Monsieur was on sale and after two rounds each of the cheesy delight the analysts were sated and raring to go.
The food acted like rocket fuel on Ash’s searches and yielded sufficient results for him to call Craig back far earlier than anticipated and with something very useful to say.
He caught the detective having a meal of his own at a new motorway service station just north of the border that Liam had insisted they try, the D.C.I. viewing such places in the same way a child views an entertainment arcade, with a variety of novelties to experience that he could never find at home.
Craig had only just managed to stop his deputy buying a hat that said ‘Kiss me, I’m Irish’ arguing that with Liam’s colouring and freckles no-one could have ever mistaken him for anything else and there were limited occasions on which he could wear it without either getting arrested for harassment or punched, when he’d been tempted himself by a book of international baby names that he thought might help unlock their current stalemate choices of Molly or Marianna for a girl and Tom versus Robert for a boy.
The detective was just averting his eyes from his deputy’s plate, which was stacked with such a pick and mix of food from the buffet that it made him feel sick, when the buzz of his phone gave him a legitimate excuse to step outside.
“Craig.”
“Hi, chief. It’s Ash.”
Given that the number on the screen was the CCU’s switchboard’s and he recognised all his staff’s voices the intro was redundant, but it made Craig smile.
“Hello, Ash. What do you have for me?”
“OK, well...” The analyst changed tack suddenly, seemingly without any point. “Actually, where are you?”
“Motorway services just past Dungannon. Why?”
“Good, that means you can still divert to the lab on your way back.”
“Fair enough, but why?”
“Because Des already had the aging software so he’s doing the girl’s photo for us.”
Craig urged him on.
“We’ve also got some info Aidan wanted.”
“Good. Don’t tell me about that now, tell Aidan and bring it up at the briefing. Is that everything?”
“As if. I’d hardly call you just for that lot, would I?” He didn’t wait for the policeman to respond. “OK, so I took the daisy scar and the girl’s colouring and something interesting came up.”
Craig gripped his phone, hardly daring to believe that they’d had a breakthrough already. They had, but not as much as he’d just started to hope.
“So, there were over forty kids under five who travelled from the areas we agreed within a month of Bella Westbury’s abduction.”
“Boat or plane?”
“Both. I looked up to age five like you suggested because size varies at that age, so people could have lied about how old she was.”
“And?”
“So then I ignored the hair colour because it could have been dyed and her fair skin because they could have tanned it, but using her blue eyes I got it down to fifteen. A mix of boys and girls.”
“Excellent. So you’re pulling their travel details and passports now?”
“Well...yes...”
Craig felt an axe about to drop.
“But that’s where there could be a hitch.”
Nothing could ever be simple, could it?
It wasn’t the analyst’s fault so the detective swallowed his frustration and said, “Mmm...”
“Some of the countries they travelled to mightn’t be keen to hand over passport details.”
Craig frowned. “Like where?”
“Russia.”
Damn. He’d forgotten there were a lot of blue eyes there too.
“Also Venezuela. There were two kids travelling there.”
Ditto. Forty percent of the Venezuelan population was of European descent.
A cold chill ran down Craig’s spine. Russia and Venezuela. Of course. What do you do with someone that you want to make disappear? You transport them to countries where they’ll blend in but have no extradition treaty with the UK.
If Bella Westbury had been taken to either of the countries mentioned, then how in hell would they ever find her and get her back?
The detective became aware that his analyst was still speaking so he curbed his negativity and asked him to repeat his words.
“Sorry, what was that last thing you said, Ash?”
“I said I’ve contacted the British and Irish Embassies because the Westbury family hold both passports, to see
if they can help facilitate the search for details, and I could give the international agencies and D.C.I. Barrett in Intelligence the heads up as well if you think that they’d be able to help?”
Ray Barrett ran the Police Intelligence Unit day-to-day and very well, so although Craig had oversight and responsibility for the division it was normally a very light touch role. But now might be the time to use his senior position there.
“Actually... send that info to me now, Ash, and I’ll ask Ray myself. We can call in to see him on the way back from the lab. Yes to the agencies, but don’t tell them why we’re looking specifically.”
“Cool. OK, one last thing. None of the passports listed a scar on a kid’s hand under distinguishing marks, but I’ve a hunch about something so I’m going to contact the airlines direct.”
Craig smiled at his initiative.
“Good man. Your hunches usually pay off.”
He ended the call quickly, his mind already back on the road, leaving the analyst preening himself at the praise and getting ready to make the next in his series of calls.
****
Rownton Police Station.
Arthur Norris hadn’t said a word since entering the interview room. In fact his only notable reaction since Ryan had steered him from Hector McDonagh’s office had been to look shocked when Rio Reynolds had flounced out of the police station just as they were walking through its door.
Norris had averted his face immediately but the action had proved futile, as the beautician, annoyed by the lecture she’d just received and the fact that the rest of her promised payment was never going to materialise, had already spotted her betrayer and launched herself at him nails out, seeking her revenge.
A moment of screeching, chaos and expletives ensued and had it not been that Arthur Norris knew that he was heading towards a worse fate, he might have been grateful for Mickey O’Hare marching the girl determinedly away down the street. As it was, Rio Reynolds’ presence at the police station told the businessman that the game was up, so he positively dragged himself into the interview room where he slid down in his seat beside a uniformed constable and declined to say a word, surreptitiously pushing his mobile deep into his pocket beneath the table and stationing his hand there as its guard.
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