The Depths

by Catriona King

  But Ryan Hendron was neither blind nor stupid so he knew exactly what Norris was at. The question was why? What could there be on the old man’s phone that he wanted to conceal? And might it be relevant to their case?

  At Arthur Norris’ refusal to answer routine questions, the sergeant recited them again on autopilot while allowing his thoughts to go elsewhere. Norris was hiding his phone for a reason and given that there was nothing at all exciting about smart-phones themselves that only left four possibilities. He was concealing someone’s number, an image, a website or a file. Which led them back to Derek Morrow. Why had Norris paid Rio Reynolds to blacken the dead man’s name? What was the point of discrediting anyone after their death, unless... it was to deflect from the real reason why they’d killed themselves?

  The thought prompted Ryan to exit the interview room in search of the custody sergeant.

  “Where did Derek Morrow’s suicide letters go?”

  Mickey O’Hare answered without looking up from the sticking plaster that he was applying to a laceration on his hand, a small but deep wound that he intended to big-up to his wife as having come not from one of Rio Reynolds’ acrylic nails as he’d led her away but from a burly drunk who he’d only managed to subdue after a violent fight.

  “Like I said earlier. The family collected them on their way to the morgue.”

  “Did you see what was written in them?”

  The sergeant gave him a wry look. “Do I look like I’d read someone’s suicide note?”

  Ryan was tempted to ask what appearance that sort of person might have, but decided on politeness over wit.

  “Sorry. Let me rephrase the question. Did you ask Mrs Morrow to show or tell you what the notes said?”

  O’Hare gave a nod of his greying head. “I did.”

  “So would you care to share that with me?”

  ‘Care’ was a funny choice of word and the local man’s strictly honest answer would have been, “No.”

  He wouldn’t ‘care’ to share anything more with the Belfast police. They’d been finding dead bodies and untidying his station for two days now and he’d had enough.

  But O’Hare decided to be polite as well, in the hope that it would make them go away soon.

  “One letter was just the details of Morrow’s bank and Will details and what not, and the other one said he was killing himself because he couldn’t cope with the stress of work.”

  The words made Ryan frown. Stress of work? Derek Morrow had been a builder in a tiny village; he’d hardly been constructing a skyscraper in New York!

  “Did Mister Morrow get much work around here?”

  O’Hare leaned back against the custody desk and crossed his arms as casually as if he was standing at a bar as he answered.

  “Aye, well, Derek did OK for it. His lads are building some starter homes on the edge of the village, for young families like.” He rolled his slightly drooping eyes. “That’ll bring trouble for us in the future, I’m sure. Teenage delinquents and whatnot.”

  Considering it had been truanting teenagers who’d found their murder victim the village obviously already had a few of those, but Ryan let the comment pass and carried on.

  “That still doesn’t seem enough to have caused him stress, so was the firm involved in any other work?”

  “Aye, well, Derek does, did, any construction needed here about. Out on the farms, the local schools and so on. It was enough to keep his wee team busy, but I’d say he hadn’t been really busy since he’d worked on the old quarry years back.”

  The detective felt a sudden tingling down his spine. “The quarry where we found the body?”

  “Only one around here.”

  “So Derek Morrow’s men did the excavation work on it?”

  “Aye, and they’re responsible for maintaining the outbuildings to this day and doing the odd inspection. Not much work there though, I expect; the place has been empty for years. But Jimmy Rushton could tell you more about all that than me.”

  Ryan nodded and changed tack. “How well did you know Mister Morrow?”

  O’Hare moved behind his desk and rested forward on it with his elbows, making Ryan picture him running a pub when he retired. He wouldn’t be the first copper to go that route.

  “Well, now...I saw him in passing around here every day, but I’ve known him all my life. Derek comes from Cooneen like me. It’s a village ten miles from here, so I’ve seen him about therefor years. He even put in my Ma’s new kitchen back in the day.”

  “So did he strike you as being more stressed than usual lately?”

  O’Hare shook his head. “About as stressed as me I’d have said.” His smile said that wasn’t very much. The sergeant liked a quiet life, preferably one without excitable detectives around.

  “Mind you, who knows what goes on in a man’s mind? Although I have to say that Eileen, that’s Derek’s wife, seemed surprised by his suicide too. When she came in for the letters she said he’d given no signs at all of being depressed. The whole thing seemed to have hit her out of the blue.”

  The detective was beginning to feel the ‘two men in a bar’ ambience himself so he leaned back against the nearest wall and shoved his hands in his pockets before going on.

  “Was their marriage strong then?”

  “Derek and Eileen? Oh, God, aye. There’s never been a divorce in that Morrow family, and those two always gave me the impression of being as happy as pigs in muck. The whole idea of Derek having a mistress is a non-runner as far as I’m concerned. And that Rio girl is younger than their kids.”

  Not that that ever stopped people. But O’Hare’s assessment of the marriage was ringing true to Ryan and it made him wonder whether there might be something even more ‘off’ about Derek Morrow’s suicide than it had first appeared. Mrs Morrow might need to be interviewed, but not today and hopefully by some other cop.

  He nodded in thanks and propelled himself off the wall, turning back towards the interview room and glancing at the clock behind the custody desk as he did. It was after twelve, so where the hell was Aidan? He’d said he would only be ten minutes. Ryan’s eyes narrowed. He’d better not have nipped off somewhere for lunch.

  He shrugged the thought away and beckoned O’Hare to follow him back to the room, ready to take his next step. As Ryan opened the door he was unsurprised to see Arthur Norris still staring into space; the man obviously had a lot on his mind and he was beginning to form a picture of just what that might be.

  “Please stand up, Mister Norris.”

  The older man obeyed him like an automaton, but Ryan saw that one hand was still deep inside his pocket.

  “Empty your pockets, please.”

  When, as expected, Norris didn’t move, the detective nodded his local counterpart to perform the task, something that was only achievable by forcibly tugging Norris’ hand away from his phone.

  The detritus of his and most other men’s lives appeared on the table item by item: phone, car-keys, half-eaten packet of mints, and from his inside jacket pockets a wallet and comb. The wallet yielded nothing but the usual cards, ID and cash, which just left Norris’ smart-phone as an item of interest.

  Ryan gestured to it. “You were holding on to that for grim death. Why?”

  When no reply came he nodded everyone to sit and changed tack.

  “Why did you try to frame Derek Morrow, Mister Norris?”

  He could have added, “For adultery”, but he was convinced that the detail of the lie hadn’t been its point.

  It elicited the first reaction from Arthur Norris in almost an hour, as the man’s rheumy eyes widened in shock.

  “I didn’t frame anyone!”

  Ryan leaned forward. “You wanted people to believe that Morrow killed himself because of an affair instead of his real reason.”

  “I’m not saying anything about that, and anyway, that doesn’t count as a frame.”

  “You don’t need to say anything, Mister Norris. Ms Reynolds already identified you
as having been the man who paid her to lie.”

  As he said the words Ryan was wondering ‘why adultery?’ Why would Norris have wanted people to believe that Derek Morrow had killed himself over love instead of the work stress outlined in his suicide note, especially as by Mickey O’Hare’s account neither motive was credible?

  Just then something occurred to the detective: feeling the need to set up an alternative motive for Morrow killing himself implied that Arthur Norris had already known what was written in the suicide note! At that moment the penny dropped on Ryan, and if it had been professional to have clicked his fingers to mark the victory he would have done. Instead he made do with a grin.

  Derek Morrow had worked on the quarry and maintained his involvement with the place for years, and he’d killed himself only hours after they’d found Stuart Kincaid’s corpse there. Somehow Morrow and possibly the quarry itself were linked to Kincaid’s murder, or at least Morrow had thought when they’d found the body there that he might have been implicated in some way, so he’d killed himself rather than deal with the fall-out.

  But... had Morrow developed a conscience before his death and cited work stress in his suicide note deliberately, to point them to something? The fact that Arthur Norris had tried to deflect attention from it as a motive for suicide said that he might have done, and that there could be danger for someone still living if the police followed up on something to do with Morrow’s work. And although that someone mightn’t actually be Arthur Norris, his involvement in the attempted cover-up said that he was somehow implicated too.

  That was where Ryan’s reasoning hit a wall and he realised that they didn’t know enough yet to take things further, so he refocused his assault.

  “Your phone, Mister Norris. Why were you trying to conceal it?”

  Silence.

  “Who called you earlier when we were at the solicitor’s office?”

  A slight twitch.

  The detective pursued the twitch with a hard stare into Norris’ face as he asked his next few questions, slowly and in steps, leaving space for the man to react between each one.

  “What don’t you want us to see on there? ... Is it an image? ...A website? .... A file? .... Or perhaps there’s a particular phone number that you’re trying to conceal?”

  Norris ‘only reaction was another small twitch on ‘phone number’ but it was enough.

  There was a number on Arthur Norris’ mobile that he didn’t want them to see, but they would check the device for all the other possibilities as well. Ryan withdrew a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and reached over to enclose the phone in it. Suddenly galvanised, Norris’ hand shot out to snatch the device, to be blocked swiftly by Mickey O’Hare’s bandaged own.

  “You can’t take my phone!”

  “I think you’ll find that we can, Mister Norris.” Ryan rose to his feet. “And I’ll be taking you to Belfast along with it as well. I have more questions for you.”

  A now white-faced Norris went to object but no words hit the air, so the city sergeant turned to his rural counterpart and requested his help again.

  “We’ve a few more people to see before we hit the road, so would you keep Mister Norris here until then?”

  Mickey O’Hare jangled the heavy bunch of keys at his waist meaningfully. “I’ve got the perfect guest room for him down at the back.”

  It was time for Ryan to go in search of his disappearing D.C.I.

  ****

  The Labs. Third Floor. The Forensic Department.

  Craig and Liam watched intently as Des Marsham enlarged the first image on his computer to fill his screen; the photograph of the fourteen-month-old Bella Westbury that Ash had downloaded from the chat-room. He cleaned it up and sharpened its colour and contrast carefully before activating his aging software to produce an image of the girl at three-years-old, not long before she’d been abducted, while the detectives observed the process fascinated. They watched as the girl’s bones lengthened, her curls straightened subtly and her baby-faced chubbiness receded to a slightly more formed toddler shape.

  After he’d finished Des sat back and sighed, not in contentment but with an acceptance that the image was the best that the software could achieve. Then he said the words that no-one else wanted to.

  “Pretty little thing.”

  Craig felt regret well up and stick in his throat, until he spat it out mixed with fury.

  “Sick bastard! I hope he’s six feet under.”

  His vehemence surprised the others, more used to his calm reticence and Liam being the one to voice such sentiments; but then none of them knew of his once violent experience with a paedophile.

  After a moment staring at the image Des responded by opening the second one beside it on the screen.

  “OK. This is the actual photograph of Bella around that age that was found in the victim’s pocket, although I’m using the copy you brought from Edgar Westbury because it’s clearer. It was the last photograph ever taken of her and the one used by the search teams.”

  They compared the images for height and build and all three men nodded at the fit, but when Des enlarged the faces in the two images there were distinct differences.

  Liam frowned.

  “Why do they look so different? In real life her hair was lighter, and she was finer featured.”

  “That’s because the software can only approximate predicted changes along average lines, but a person’s genetics and nutrition will always determine the exact results at any given age.”

  He typed furiously for a moment, his eyes flicking between the two images as he adjusted the growth parameters.

  “OK, I’ve inputted the variance and her parents’ measurements, so that should keep things nearer Bella’s specific patterns for a few years anyway. Now I’m going to use those specifics to age her forward to six years eight months, the age that she would be now.”

  Another round of image tidying ensued and they watched as a series of Bella Westburys at her abduction age, and then four, five and finally six years and eight months appeared. A taller than imagined little girl with the age’s typical combination of a short trunk and longer, skinny arms and legs.

  Liam was the first to speak this time. “Her eyes are still that very light blue like her dad said.”

  Craig nodded. “And very blonde, just like her mother. She looks just like the photographs we saw of her too. Westbury had some dotted around his house.” He shook himself briskly to halt the looming tide of sentimentality. “OK, that’s great, Des. I’ll need images at each of those ages emailed to Davy and Ash, please.”

  The forensic lead glanced at him quizzically. “Not just the age she is now?”

  Craig shook his head. “It’s not enough for what I have planned.” He motioned his deputy that they were leaving. “Send a copy of each to me as well, please. And we’ll be briefing at six if you and John would like to come.”

  The scientist shook his head immediately. “Sorry, I can’t tonight. We’re holding our annual special metal detecting event from six to six.” His excitement was audible. “I don’t know where we’re going yet, but they’re always held somewhere unexpected.”

  A murmur of, “a Uranium dump,” from Liam was answered by a haughty, “Hardly. Anyway, I’ll give copies of everything I have to John and email these images across now.”

  Craig saw his deputy’s lips part to say something else and shunted him forcefully from the office, knowing from the glint in his eyes that he’d been about to say something rude.

  Liam’s words eventually hit the air in the lift to the ground floor.

  “An all night metal detecting event? I mean, what does that even look like? A bunch of sad gits in tin hats digging holes by candlelight?”

  The lift doors opened and Craig turned towards John Winter’s office as he answered. “You’re confusing them with alien hunters trying to block signals. Metal detectorists don’t wear tin hats as far as I know. It’s apt to throw their equipment off.”
/>   His reasoning fell on deaf ears.

  “Aye well, they should be wearing strait jackets because they’re all bonkers! An event he called it, for God’s sake! An event! I bet they’ve even sold tickets! Nerds with more money than sense standing around eating burgers and talking about the piece of iron that got away.”

  Craig was trying not to laugh as he knocked on John’s office door but he failed. When the pathologist opened the door he knew instantly what had provoked their mirth.

  “Des’ metal event?”

  “Yes, except you make it sound like Iron Maiden’s performing.”

  “I wish.” He gave a martyred sigh. “And I’ll hear every boring detail of it tomorrow, ad nauseam.” He waved the detectives to take a seat. “Anyway, what can I do for you two?”

  Craig got back to business. “Anything more on Stuart Kincaid’s PM?”

  “Nope. Just what I told you before. His tox-screen and bloods were normal and he’d had a meal an hour or so before he died. Meat and two veg. Nothing unusual. We didn’t need a mineral analysis because we had his ID.”

  “OK then, anything on Derek Morrow, the builder from Rownton?”

  “Not much. I spoke to the pathologist who did his PM and it was a clean angled shot through the roof of his mouth and into his brain. He used along barrelled revolver. I checked and he had a licence for it. He was a member of a gun club in Enniskillen.”

  Liam gave a tut of disgust. “I hate those bloody places. Bunch of sad fuck wannabe cops and urban cowboys so desperate to kill something they take it out on the wildlife.”

  Craig had to agree; most of the people he’d met who shot living things as a hobby had had screws loose, and even worse, in Northern Ireland some of them had links with paramilitaries so there was the danger that legally held guns would illegally meander to them. Someone wanting a gun should be an absolute block on them ever getting one in his book. If they wanted target practice why couldn’t they just play darts or snooker, or join a flipping archery club?