The Depths

by Catriona King

  Liam was already on the next question.

  “Did Morrow have anything else wrong with him? Like a terminal illness that might have explained why he’d wanted to kill himself?”

  The pathologist shook his head. “Nothing. He was actually pretty fit for a man of sixty. Probably because he’d had a physical job all his life, whereas we’re all so sedentary that one day we’re just going to melt into giant blobs of cholesterol on the floor.”

  “God, that’s cheery, Doc!”

  Craig laughed. “Yes, thanks for that, John. I’ll ask for that on my gravestone. Here lies a giant blob of cholesterol who never got off his ass!”

  He sprang to his feet just to prove that he could still do it.

  “Right. We’re briefing at six if you’d like to come. You could cover Des’ stuff as well.”

  The medic folded his arms tightly, indicating that some sort of demand was coming. “I’ll come if you promise that we can go for a pint at The James afterwards. I haven’t had a decent session since...” He thought about it for a moment. “Christmas!” His eyes widened in horror. “That’s six weeks ago!”

  “You make it sound like the end of the world.”

  Two gimlet gazes confirmed to Craig that it was.

  “Oh OK, let’s go for a drink then, but only one. I promised Katy that I’d sort out the mothers tonight.”

  John unfolded himself and sat forward, his interest piqued. “That sounds dangerous.”

  Liam stood up, shaking his head. “Nah, he just means he’s giving them the job of house hunting, so they need to be briefed in case they go off the rails. God knows, they could end up buying a castle or something.”

  It wasn’t as farfetched as it sounded. Mirella Craig’s architectural sense only had two reference points: Tuscan farmhouse or ornate palazzo with nothing in between, and as she’d successfully turned their family home in Holywood into a copy of the former that meant the palazzo was still itching to get out.

  So although Craig was hoping that Maureen Stevens’ more moderate taste would keep his mother’s under control, Liam was already running a book on him ending up living in as close as Ireland could approximate to an Ancient Roman’s dream home.

  John sniggered, picturing a tormented Craig surrounded by sheaves of estate agents’ details and swatches of material, longing for the solitude of his bachelor pad.

  “You should have asked me to look for you, Marc. I’d have found you something like our place.”

  Craig’s heart sank; he hadn’t even thought of it. And a modern Scandi dream like John’s converted chapel would have been the perfect thing. Ah well, at least it gave him something else to add to the search guidelines that his mother would completely ignore.

  “Right. We need to go now. We have to call in at the Intelligence Unit before we head back to the office, and there’s a lot to pick up before six.”

  As Liam followed he mimicked choking himself while pointing at Craig’s back. It was as accurate a critique as any on the maternal house search chaos that was about to kick off.

  ****

  Rownton Village.

  After ten minutes’ spent ricocheting in and out of the few communal spaces in the small village: the shop, church and charity co-op, Ryan Hendron’s search for his boss finally paid off outside the pub. The smile he saw on Aidan’s face as he was exiting The Rocking Chair made the sergeant get ready to whine about him having availed of its Ulster Fry behind his back, until he noticed that the D.C.I. was holding two substantial packs of sandwiches in his hands.

  “Are those for us?”

  Aidan glanced down at the food as if he’d forgotten that it was there. “These? Oh, yeh, I thought we could eat them on the way to Mahon. We can buy a coffee at the shop before we leave.” He glanced back in the direction of the police station. “Where’s Norris?”

  “Held for questioning. I think we should take him back with us.”

  Aidan raised an eyebrow but didn’t question the decision. He was pleased, as Craig would be when he found out, that Ryan was stepping up.

  “Fine. Sorry I was so long, but I was meeting with Jimmy Rushton and Finbar Brolly, the pub landlord.”

  “Useful?”

  “Brolly was. He said Derek Morrow came tearing into the pub on Tuesday in a panic, asking why the police were in the village. Brolly said he was in a real state, and when he said the police would want to interview everyone local Morrow belted out the door.”

  Ryan gave a whistle. “Guilty as sin about something.”

  “Exactly. So either Morrow was involved in Kincaid’s murder or he knew who was.”

  “I think it was the latter.”

  “Hold that thought for a moment. Brolly also told me that Stuart Kincaid came into the pub.”

  “For a beer?”

  “That and to show a photo of his niece around apparently. He asked about the Westbury family too. It also turns out Brolly went to the same school as Blaine Westbury. Small town.”

  Aidan spotted a low stone wall and walked across to sit on it, beckoning the D.S. to do the same.

  “Explain to me why you think Morrow knew who was involved in Kincaid’s murder.”

  Ryan glanced longingly at the sandwiches and then forced himself to respond.

  “OK, well, it’s obvious Arthur Norris wanted to convince everyone that Morrow topped himself because of love, not work stress as per his suicide note, yes?”

  “OK.”

  “So that means Norris or someone else employing him wanted the focus shifted away from Morrow’s work. Given that a body was found in the quarry just hours before Morrow’s suicide and Mickey O’Hare’s just told me Morrow worked on the quarry and still had oversight of the place, I think there’s a link there.”

  Aidan nodded, shielding his eyes from the early afternoon sun as he thought. “Rushton confirmed they have oversight of the quarry too, so let’s make the link. Kincaid’s body’s found in the quarry so the police arrive to ask about it. Morrow, whose company worked on the quarry, panics and kills himself. But surely that points to Derek Morrow killing Kincaid and knowing the game was up?”

  “Or him knowing who did it and being involved somehow.”

  “And you’re thinking that Morrow didn’t kill Kincaid himself but his reference to work in the note was to help point us to who did. To point us to the quarry itself being a clue. Pity that Morrow’s oversight of the quarry didn’t extend to him being there to prevent Kincaid being drowned isn’t it.”

  “That’s if he wasn’t there when it happened.”

  It earned him a startled look from the D.C.I. that encouraged Ryan to go on.

  “I think this is where Arthur Norris comes in. Someone has a vested interest in us not following that work stress lead, and it’s either Norris himself or he knows who it is.”

  Aidan took out his phone, dialling a number and handing it across.

  “Take the next step, Sergeant.”

  Davy’s voice came on the line. “Northern Irish Tourist Information. David Walsh here.”

  “Ha ha. OK, if you’re tourist information then I’d like you to find me everything you can find on The West Mountain Quarry for six o’clock, please.”

  The analyst carried the joke through. “Can do, sir. Strangely we’ve been researching that very location just on the off-chance.”

  “Cheers, Davy. We’ll see you then.”

  He cut the call and handed the phone back to Aidan, continuing the thought as he did.

  “OK, so we find out who owns or owned the quarry and see if there’s anything there. The other thing is that Norris was trying to conceal his mobile so I’ve taken it as evidence to find out why. There’s something on there that he doesn’t want us to see, and I think it’s a phone number. My guess is that it could lead us to whoever wanted Morrow’s true suicide motive concealed.”

  “So you don’t think that could be Norris himself?”

  Ryan shook his dark head emphatically. “Nope. He’s a follower, and
a timid one too. I think he’s afraid of someone and he’s probably right to be. One man’s already been murdered.” He changed topic. “What did Jimmy Rushton have to say?”

  Aidan shook his head glumly. “Nothing useful. He said Derek Morrow was a decent man, good to work for and treated his men fairly. He didn’t know him socially but he did say that Morrow had bought a cruise for his wife and himself just last week, leaving at the end of May.”

  Ryan’s eyes widened. “That doesn’t sound like a man planning suicide, or an unfaithful one.”

  “Or a poor one. We need to check Morrow’s bank accounts. And if he did kill himself because Stuart Kincaid’s body was discovered in the quarry we need to find out why, and whether it had anything to do with that photo of Bella Westbury”. He jumped off the wall. “Which reminds me. I showed the photos of Stuart Kincaid and Bella and Blaine Westbury to Hector McDonagh, Brolly and Rushton, and guess what I found out.”

  “Take them one at a time. McDonagh first.”

  “OK, he told me that Blaine hasn’t claimed the money from his parents’ estate and hasn’t been in touch. He hasn’t seen him since the funeral.”

  “Bit strange for a waster who was always broke.”

  “Just what I thought. Little Blaine must have come into money. Maybe he married into it.”

  They were both wondering who the woman might be as Aidan continued.

  “McDonagh didn’t recognise Bella from the photo, but when I told him her name he said he recognised it as belonging to Edgar Westbury’s daughter. He said he’d heard that she was at her grandparents’ funeral and agreed to dig out any photos that he might have taken for the newspaper. He didn’t seem to recognise Stuart Kincaid’s picture at all.”

  “You believed him?”

  “I did actually. Finbar Brolly was the same; didn’t recognise Bella’s photo but said he recalled her being at the funeral. Stuart Kincaid he did recognise as having come into the pub, and he said he’d heard Kincaid had been showing a photo around and asking about the Westburys but he hadn’t actually seen him do it, which OK, I suppose he mightn’t have done. He could have been busy pulling pints.”

  Ryan nodded.

  “Kincaid’s bound to have been showing the photo round. I’d have shown it everywhere if I was looking for a child.”

  “Agreed. So anyway, Jimmy Rushton didn’t recognise any of the photos and he just looked blank when I mentioned Blaine’s, Kincaid’s and Bella’s names.”

  “That would make sense if he just comes to Rownton to work. Where does he live?”

  “In Omagh.”

  “Thirty miles away. Fair enough. Did you ask Rushton about the huts up at the quarry Liam wanted to know about?”

  “Yep. He said there used to be a permanent security guard up there but it was downgraded years ago. Now Morrow’s men only go every other week to inspect the place and check for rats.”

  Ryan glanced at his watch, wondering if they had time to eat. “Right, it’s two-thirty now, so we’re doing OK for time. I already asked about Blaine in the church when I was looking for you and no joy, so that just leaves Biddy Evans to see before we head for Armagh.”

  Aidan held out the sandwiches, making the D.S. salivate in anticipation. His hopes were dashed when the D.C.I. added, “She has a cottage at the north end of town. We can walk there in five minutes and dump those in my car on the way past.”

  Ten minutes later they were seated in the neat living room of a pristine cottage, being plied with tea and iced buns that Ryan would have eaten five of if anything more than two wouldn’t have made him look like a pig. Having worked pleasantly through the preliminaries with their hostess Aidan produced his selection of photographs, beginning with the least contentious one of the three.

  He set down the driving licence photograph of Blaine Westbury that Ash had mailed through and before he could even ask a question Bridget Evans wrinkled her brow.

  “That’s Blaine Westbury. I’d know him anywhere.”

  “Yes, it is. Can you tell me how you know him, Mrs Evans?”

  “Why, his parents owned the White Tree Guest House all their days, poor things.” She shook her tightly curled greyhead solemnly. “Such a tragic end.”

  “And you knew the children?”

  Her face broke into a smile. “Edgar was in and out of my post-office buying sweets all the time. He was a lovely boy. Always cheerful.”

  “And Blaine.”

  She pursed her lips tightly, etching a delicate lace of lines on her upper lip.

  “The good Lord says that we should always be charitable but it was very difficult with that boy. He stole from my shop, and got in worse trouble as well. His poor parents were always having to deal with it. Bad to the bone from the day he could walk.”

  She shuddered. “I’m not sorry he’s not around here anymore. I often used to wonder if there was anything that he wouldn’t do.”

  Aidan had heard some damning indictments in his time, but that was one of the clearest.

  “When was the last time you saw Blaine, Mrs Evans?”

  “Well...I saw him at his parents’ funeral.” Her next words were tinged with disgust. “Everyone did. He was the worse for drink at the wake, and then...”

  She fell silent and Ryan knew why.

  “I know you feel that the Westburys have suffered, Mrs Evans, and you’re possibly worried about saying something to make things worse for them. But we really wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, so if you even think you’ve seen Blaine more recently we really do need to know.”

  Whether it was the sympathy in the sergeant’s words or the quietness of his tone that did the trick they would never know, people not usually being asked to complete satisfaction surveys on how they were questioned by the police unless they are already grinding an axe, but do the trick it did.

  Bridget Evans nodded once and continued. “I’m almost certain that I saw Blaine early one morning last November. I was barely awake and I went to the kitchen window to open the curtains.”

  When she indicated a window towards the rear of the small house Ryan went to look out. The view was spectacular, a vista of rolling fields with a range of high hills in the distance. As he re-entered the living room the post-mistress was expanding on her story.

  “He was running across the fields as bold as you like, in the direction of the village. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t imagining it and when I looked again he was gone.”

  Aidan felt himself tense eagerly but he looked to Ryan for a confirmatory nod before pushing for details.

  “Let me be clear, Mrs Evans. That window looks out towards the old quarry, yes?”

  “Yes, that’s right. You can’t actually see the quarry because it’s below the hills, but it’s there just behind them.”

  “And Blaine Westbury was approaching from that direction, crossing the fields towards the village.”

  “Exactly so. Running, but he wasn’t dressed like one of those joggers. He was wearing a shirt and a pair of those jean things.” She gave a rueful smile. “That’s if I wasn’t seeing things, of course.” She tapped one temple with a wrinkled finger. “I’m not as sharp as I once was. Mind you, that still makes me a genius compared to most round here.”

  They were essentially Gabriel McCusker’s words but with a sarcastic edge, no doubt born of years of having to put up with Rownton’s occupants moaning at her about everything from their late pensions to a lack of stamps.

  The retired post-mistress was still talking. “I didn’t see Blaine again after that so I dismissed it as my imagination. But I really don’t think that it was.”

  Neither did Aidan, and if Blaine Westbury had been in Rownton the winter before it warranted a deeper look.

  He parked the point and moved onto his second photograph.

  “Do you recognise this man, Mrs Evans?”

  She peered over her glasses and smiled. “Oh, yes, that’s that nice Mister Kincaid. He dropped into my post-office.”

&nbs
p; The D.C.I. felt a spark of hope. “How often did he call in?”

  “Twice. The first time was when I still had the post-office, I think it was two years ago. He introduced himself and showed me a photograph of a little girl.”

  He whipped out the image of Bella they’d found in Kincaid’s pocket. “This one?”

  “Yes, yes that’s it. Sweet little thing. He was asking if I’d ever seen her around the village but I’m afraid I had to disappoint him and say that I never had.”

  Her face fell, mirroring what both detectives knew must have been Stuart Kincaid’s reaction.

  “But I really don’t think she’d ever been here because Rownton isn’t big and most people used my shop every day, to buy milk and whatnot. Even visitors at the guest house when it was open. So generally if I haven’t seen someone they haven’t been here.”

  She undoubtedly had seen Bella, at her grandparents’ funeral, but he decided not to point out her memory lapse.

  After a moment’s regret-filled pause the post-mistress continued.

  “The second time that Mister Kincaid was in the village was last winter and I didn’t have the shop any longer.” Her eyes widened in pleasure and surprise as she recounted the rest of the tale. “But, do you know... he sought me out just to say hello, and then he took me to the Silverbirch Hotel in Omagh for afternoon tea! Such a gentleman.”

  The kindness made both policemen a little sadder that Stuart Kincaid was dead, but not wanting to lose momentum Ryan urged the retiree on with another question.

  “Was Mister Kincaid alone when you met him?”

  “Oh, yes, both times.”

  “And can I ask what you talked about on the second occasion?”

  She creased her forehead trying to recall, and then shook her head.

  “I’m sorry. My memory isn’t what it was. I do know that we discussed current affairs, he was very well read, and I seem to recall him asking something about the old quarry. And the Westburys too, although for the life of me I can’t remember what.”