As Frampton went to object his eyes turned to Craig, sensing that he was the more sympathetic of the pair. The cynical gaze that greeted him left him disappointed, and Liam’s addition of, “Tick-tock, Benny Boy, it’s almost charging time” made the thief finally concede defeat.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, all right then! Pete had a new solicitor!”
Liam sat back with a satisfied look and left it to his boss to tidy up.
“Name?”
“Floods in Belfast. Some mate of Pete’s came to visit about a week before Christmas and helped arrange it.”
“Arrange what?”
“Pete wanted some papers held for safekeeping, and he didn’t trust his defence lawyer not to look at them and shoot his fat mouth off.”
As he would have had to if he’d realised that break-in was planned.
“But any solicitor would have told the police if they’d suspected a crime was about to be committed.”
“Pete said that because he was using a middle-man this Flood lot wouldn’t know anything about his charges, so they wouldn’t suss he was a con. They’d just think he was some straight punter leaving papers for when he died.”
“The name of Pete’s mate?”
It prompted another shrug. “Search me. Just some bloke.”
“And the papers?”
“Letters. Some to his kids I think, and he didn’t say what the rest were.”
Craig could guess. One would be a suicide note dated to be opened on some date in the distant future. Probably just in time for Annette to finish a long stretch in prison for manslaughter.
He rose to his feet and leaned his fists on the table. “Right. This will all be typed up minus the expletives and you’re going to sign it, Mister Frampton.”
“As long as I’m not being done for anything.”
Craig took his time in answering to make him suffer. Ben Frampton had withheld this information for almost two months, and if they hadn’t had the wit to question him then Annette would more than likely have gone down. He really wanted to charge the bastard but they needed his testimony, so when he thought he’d left the burglar hanging for long enough Craig nodded his head.
“No charges for what we’ve discussed here, if you sign it and agree to testify if called.” He turned to his deputy. “Liam, sort that out, please. I need to find this Flood’s address and say we’re coming.”
An hour later Ben Frampton was awaiting transport back to his cell for one and they were heading for Flood and Son’s Solicitors in Belfast’s Oxford Street, with a still stunned Liam grilling his boss about exactly how and when he’d figured Pete’s suicide by cop plan out.
****
County Tyrone. 10.30 a.m.
Andy was quite enjoying his solo outing. He didn’t get that many of them, usually paired up with Aidan or Mary, and although he liked company he also liked being his own boss. In theory he should have been the boss in both of those pairings too, being the most senior D.C.I. after Liam; but as Aidan was naturally bombastic and he was naturally quiet he usually let the lanky exercise addict take the lead, knowing that if it was ever really necessary he could crack the whip. Well, that was the theory anyway.
Mary was a different case. She was a woman, and fortunately or unfortunately he’d had chivalry bred into him along with good manners; and that, as well as having no sisters and going to an all boys school, had left him with an awe of the fairer sex that had resulted in him being walked over in two marriages, and all without managing to wise up one little bit.
Mary also had the added ‘otherness’ of being unpredictable, inclined to eccentricity in her attire and physical accoutrements such as tattoos and piercings, as well as in her approach to life. It made Andy regard her with both amusement and a ‘light the blue touch paper’ wariness, that meant that while entertaining she wasn’t the easiest person to spend hours with in a car.
But today he could revel in his solitude and also play whatever he liked on disc, which was a CD of ocean wave music, something that soothed the, in his case, very small savage beast. After mellowing out for seventy miles the car’s sat-nav announced that the detective had arrived at his destination, The Valley Hotel.
Small and architecturally beautiful, the early Victorian building perched on a hill overlooking a shallow, heavily wild-flowered valley that Andy later learned had been planted by a famous gardener of the time. The artistic D.C.I. was just picturing elegant ladies in bustles picking their way delicately through it on summer evenings, when a very tall, very anxious looking man approached his car and he climbed out to shake his palpably twitching hand.
“Chief Inspector Angel?”
“Yes. You must be Mister Abernathy, the manager.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” The visibly perspiring hotel manager turned quickly on his heel. “Follow me, follow me, please and I’ll take you to Mister Kincaid’s things. Yes, things, lots of things.”
The human version of Lewis Carroll’s White Rabbit gave a rapid and frequently repetitive commentary as he led the way.
“I have to say we were most shocked, most, most shocked when we heard what had happened to Mister Kincaid.” He shuddered. “Such a nice man. Charming, charming, and so pleasant to the staff. I only wish all of our guests were like that.”
He stopped in his tracks and rolled his eyes extravagantly. “You wouldn’t believe some of things that happen here. Shocking, shocking, the things people get up to in hotels. Shocking. If the newspapers only knew.”
Andy was picturing rural orgies and about to ask for details when Abernathy returned to the subject of their murder victim.
“As soon as we realised that Mister Kincaid wasn’t returning, it took a while of course to be sure, yes sure. Well, we cleared his room and secured his possessions in the storeroom, for his family you know. Nothing has been touched since last November, no, no, no, nothing at all.”
But not before you took payment of the bill from his credit card, the detective thought cynically.
“What made you decide Mister Kincaid wasn’t coming back?”
“Well, he’d only booked the room for five days, and we left it for seven more at the end of that before we removed his things.”
A week to give up on a man; business was a savage game.
As they’d been speaking Abernathy had led the way through the hotel’s reception to a storage area, and he threw open its door indicating a large suitcase and a cylindrical leather bag.
“I don’t know that you’ll find anything useful in the luggage, Chief Inspector. Not that I looked, of course not, no, no, no, but the chambermaid who packed the items said that they were mostly clothing. Yes, clothing. So that would be suits and shirts and so on, I imagine.”
Unless Kincaid had been into kaftans or cloaks, it was a fair bet. There was further fashion commentary to come.
“Mister Kincaid dressed very smartly. That’s what the maid told the other gentleman who came to look at his things.”
Andy turned sharply to face him. “What other man? When?”
The manager was startled. “Oh, well, I wasn’t on duty that day, so I’m not-”
The detective cut him off. “I need to speak to whoever was then. And why did they let him see Mister Kincaid’s things?”
The hotelier’s eyes widened so far in indignation that Andy spied the edges of his contact lenses. It diverted him slightly; he was getting short sighted and had been thinking of trying lenses out himself. His reverie was ended by Abernathy’s barked response.
“We did not let him see Mister Kincaid’s possessions! As if we would do such a thing indeed! This is a respectable establishment, respectable. We’ve had politicians staying here, I’ll have you know!”
A pretty dubious endorsement in Andy’s view, but the manager hadn’t finished yet.
“And that film star. You know, the one who played an old farmer when he was twenty-one.”
He was left no more enlightened.
“So I’m shocked at your sugg
estion, Chief Inspector. Yes, shocked. In all my born days, I don’t think I’ve ever been so offended. No, no, no, I don’t think I have!”
It took the D.C.I. a good five minutes to calm the man down, and then he asked a question that he knew would make Abernathy substitute defensiveness for offence.
“How long do you keep your CCTV tapes for?”
The manager’s barricades went up immediately.
“CCTV? CCTV? We’re just a small hotel and it’s a matter of economy.”
Current financial climate, expenditure, blah, blah, blah.
“If we were part of a large chain we would never have to wipe them because we’d have a digital system… but then we would lose our individual charm. Our charm is very important.”
Right now it was wearing thin.
“How long, please, Mister Abernathy?”
After some hesitation he confessed that they wiped them every month.
The D.C.I. allowed himself a mental ‘Damn’ and then berated himself for having unrealistic expectations. It was unfair to expect such a small hotel to keep its tapes for longer, after all they probably hadn’t had many guests murdered, although judging by the ages of the ones he’d passed in reception they’d probably had a fair few natural deaths.
Andy forced himself to smile at the hotelier. Abernathy had done his best to be pleasant and helpful, even if his twitchiness was putting him on edge.
“I’ll need to see the chambermaid who packed up Mister Kincaid’s room, and whoever spoke to the man who came asking to view his possessions, please. And I’ll be taking the bags with me for examination.”
It sparked a round of foot shuffling and several, “Oh dear, oh dear”s that made the detective wondered how on earth the man coped with running a business when even a few questions made him lose his cool.
“What’s the problem now, Mister Abernathy?” The question was accompanied by a weary sigh.
“Well, it’s just… well… I mean… Freya is on her day off today, and I’d have to check the Rota to see which junior manager was on the day that the gentleman called.”
Talk about making a mountain out of two small hills.
Andy glanced at his watch and made a decision.
“Right. You have them both here for twelve and I’ll return then.”
It was on the tip of Rufus Abernathy’s tongue to ask him where he was going when he decided that he couldn’t cope with the answer and reiterated the time instead.
“Twelve o’ clock then. Twelve noon that is. That’s just over an hour from now…”
Andy left the speaking clock to it, already heading for his car and the quarry to see what, if anything, the divers had found.
****
Flood and Son’s Solicitors. Oxford Street, Belfast.
It took the detectives ten minutes to get to Oxford Street and ask Colum Flood nicely for Pete McElroy’s effects, and another hour in the street outside trying to think of ways around him when the solicitor refused. There was the option of contacting Amy and Jordan and asking their permission to see their father’s effects, but that would have meant alerting the two students to their suspicions and upsetting them before they had proof, not to mention that they might have told their mother and raised Annette’s hopes that they’d found something to help her case before they were sure.
Craig had then decided that trying for a warrant was best, citing the need to view Pete’s papers as part of an investigation. True, it wasn’t their investigation, but he’d felt there was no advantage in splitting that particular hair. It had fallen to his deputy to be the voice of sanity for the second time that week, something that Liam didn’t intend to make a habit of, and point out that telling lies to a judge to obtain a warrant would be career limiting for them both.
In the end they decided to try again with Colum Flood using judicious questioning, so, having managed to get the lawyer to agree to answer anything he felt wouldn’t be breaching Pete McElroy’s confidentiality, they sat down in his modern office again to begin a session of yes/no.
Liam kicked off, flashing the young solicitor his most winning smile.
“Mister Flood, will you confirm that Mister Peter McElroy, now deceased, was a client of yours?”
The pleasantly plump young man, who wore long sideburns and a three piece suit that made him look like a character from Dickens, smiled and shook his head. “No, I won’t confirm that. That knowledge is privileged.”
It made Craig roll his eyes and try a different way.
“We already have that information on record from Mister McElroy’s cellmate at Mahon Prison, who also told us that Mister McElroy planned to commit two criminal acts before he died. One was breaking and entering his ex-wife’s home, and the other was to deliberately and falsely incriminate her in his death. We believe that an admission of both is contained in a letter he deposited with you. Deposited with you deliberately rather than with his criminal lawyer knowing that you wouldn’t be suspicious, and thereby making you complicit in his crimes. Now, does that change your attitude?”
The young solicitor had been visibly shaken by the word complicit and was adjusting his collar nervously, but he still shook his head, although his next words did give Craig some hope.
“I can’t confirm that Mister McElroy was a client or release any of his papers unless compelled to by a court order.”
It wasn’t a yes, but it was a hint that McElroy’s papers were in his possession. Rephrased and taken to Sean Flanagan with Frampton’s statement it might just be enough to earn them a helping hand.
Craig nodded to the lawyer and made quickly for the door, leaving Liam struggling to keep up and losing him at the lift. They connected again outside the Laganside Courts opposite where Craig was perching on a stone bollard and talking on his phone. He ended the call just as his deputy approached.
“Who were you calling? The Chief Con?”
Craig shook his head. “Annette.” At Liam’s immediately wary look he shook his head. “Don’t worry, I was careful, but I managed to get her to confirm that the kids received calls from Floods last month to come and collect letters Pete had left for the pair of them. Just general ‘I love you’ stuff but unfortunately nothing to take their mum off the hook or Annette would definitely have been told. At least it’s confirmation Pete left letters with Floods to hold.”
The D.C.I. hemmed and hawed for a moment and then gave a nod of approval. “OK, so you’ve confirmed that Flood was Pete’s solicitor and that the scrote left letters for his kids just like Frampton said. Surely that’s enough leverage to ask the C.C. to get a warrant and find out if Pete left a third one for Annette?”
Craig squinted up at him, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Tell me how. Exactly.” He gestured back at the office they’d just left. “Flood won’t confirm there’s another letter, and we only know it exists because we’ve been gathering information illegally-”
“Irregularly, not illegally. We haven’t broken any laws.”
“I’ve bent a few regs at least. Bringing Frampton in for a fishing interview wasn’t exactly kosher. But we’ve got to see that third letter or this whole thing will have been pointless and Annette will go on trial. It’s Catch sodding 22.”
Liam grinned suddenly. “We could break into Floods tonight and nick it.”
“Oh, yes, brilliant. That definitely would be illegal, so then there’d be three cops going to jail. Still, you and I could keep each other company in Maghaberry at least.”
The D.C.I. shook his head hastily. “No way in hell am I sharing a cell with you. You’d be nagging me all day long about how much I eat. So, OK, if we can’t nick the letter because we don’t want to go to the bin, what do we do then?”
Craig hopped off his impromptu seat.
“For now you call Jack and tell him to hold on to Frampton a bit longer. We may need to speak to him again. I’m going to phone Davy.”
He found the analyst having to shout to make himself heard.
“What�
��s that racket?”
“Mary and Ash are getting into it about s…something as usual. I’ve given up trying to work out what.”
There’d never been any love lost between the junior analyst and the constable and at any other time Craig would have made an effort to discover what they were fighting about or knocked their heads together, but his analysts had too much work to do right now to allow delays so instead he told Davy to put him on speaker and yelled, “SHUT UP!”
The background noise lowered instantly and then tailed off, and Craig pictured the squabbling pair looking around for him, panicked, and then slowly realising that he hadn’t just walked in but was on the phone.
When there was complete silence he went on.
“Mary. Whatever work you’re doing, move it into my office and remain in there until I get back. Ash, stop squabbling and get on with your job. Liam and I will be back in a while and I want results. Take me off speaker now, Davy.”
The senior analyst obliged and watched with a smirk as the D.C. grudgingly gathered up her things.
“Are they doing it?”
“Yep. Mary’s on her way into your office and Ash is getting back to work. To be fair, she was w…winding him up deliberately. She’s been driving me mad as well.”
“Then I’ll give both of you lessons in restraint after I’ve spoken to Constable Li.”
The computer expert gave a cheeky laugh. “What did you call for anyway, chief? Is there something you need?”
“Yes. How’s it going with Pete McElroy’s media accounts? Have you got anywhere at all?”
In lieu of a reply Craig heard the receiver being covered and the familiar click of the call being transferred. The next voice he heard was his junior analyst’s, its tone overly polite to deflect the detective’s anticipated criticism of his earlier shouting match.
“Peter McElroy had several social media accounts and an email account, sir. I’ve tried to crack them but the social media firms have got picky about security recently and tightened up.”
The Depths Page 28