The Cyclist

by Tim Sullivan

  So they had their victim but weren't particularly any closer to understanding why he'd been murdered. They were sure it was murder because of the way of the body had been concealed. Also a fragment of glass had been found in the wound on Alex's jaw.

  The team started posing theories. Something Cross never did, because he found it essentially a waste of time. For him it was little more than office gossip, albeit of a morbid nature. Ottey, however, fully indulged in this, mostly because she found it a relief from sitting in silence opposite her partner in his office. He often reached a time in an investigation where he just wanted to think. She'd challenged him on this, telling him that he was theorising, just to himself. Which was, effectively, the same as everyone else was doing – except he did it in private. He completely refuted this, though he knew there was an element of truth to it. What he was doing was endlessly rerunning the facts at any stage of the investigation, over and over again in his mind. His belief was that something would eventually pop out of the ordinary as unusual, and that this might be of use.

  As Ottey was having coffee in the central area with some of the team, Cross was thinking about Alex and trying to build a picture of him. Look in any criminology text book and it will say that he was doing his victimology. This was often where Cross started. More often than not the character of the victim, his habits, friends, family would lead them in an initial direction, which might prove to be useful. Alex was obviously fanatical about his cycling. Cycling at that level had to be time-consuming. So Cross thought his social circle would have been fairly limited and mainly focused around the cycling club. His initial thoughts were to concentrate on the club and the family. If the answer lay elsewhere they would soon find out.

  But he had to be cycling miles and miles a day and week. What with working in the restaurant trade, surely he didn't have time for much else.

  Chapter 4

  Mackenzie knocked on Cross' office door and waited patiently. He didn't ask her to come in. A detective walked past and smiled. She looked at her uncertainly.

  'Oh, he heard you,' she said.

  'Right. I'll come back,' Mackenzie replied.

  'I wouldn't waste your time. He'll find you when he's good and ready.'

  'He didn't even look up; how will he know it's me?'

  'Because he's George Cross!' came the reply over the departing detective's shoulder.

  She went back to her desk and busied herself in some more logging Carson had given her. She'd made the mistake in the first few weeks of being there, when he’d asked how she was getting on, of saying that she really didn't feel she had enough to do and was sure that she could be a lot more useful. Since then he'd made it his mission to make sure she was completely occupied, every hour of every working day, with mostly mundane and repetitive work. So she was really happy, if a little startled, when Cross appeared at her desk half an hour later.

  'What do you want?' he inquired.

  'Oh, you didn't say anything about a girlfriend,' she said.

  He said nothing. She had learnt that his silence, after a statement had been made, meant he needed further clarification.

  'Alex's girlfriend,' she explained.

  'He had a girlfriend?' Cross repeated. Ottey had now wandered over. He turned to her. 'Alice thinks Alex had a girlfriend,' he said. It was still strange for Alice when he spoke like this. In truth he was trying to be polite and encouraging, but sometimes, as in this case, it came across as if he was taking the piss. Maybe because he was overstating and giving it more import than he meant, thereby making it sound possibly ironic.

  'Kostas didn't say anything about that. I'm sure I asked,' Ottey said.

  'You did,' Cross reassured her, ‘after we'd discussed his parents' immigration history and Kostas' and Alex's education.'

  'There was no sign of anyone else living at his flat,' Ottey said.

  'Maybe they didn't live together,' Mackenzie volunteered.

  'How do you know this, Alice?' Cross asked.

  'I don't know it. I just think it might be the case from his social media,' she said, opening a laptop on her desk. 'This is Alex's laptop.'

  'I know that,' said Cross. She ignored him and opened up Alex's photo album. Cross and Ottey looked and saw a bunch of fairly typical photographs of a young couple. Cross marvelled at how often young people photographed themselves these days. Everything they did, they recorded. It was almost as if it was evidence that they were having a wonderful and enviable life. Proof for any doubters. Here were dozens of selfies of Alex and a young woman, in various places around the South West and on a trip to London. Alex in full lycra cycling gear, leaning, covered in sweat, against his bike as she stood next to him, holding a trophy. At a table in a restaurant with Alex's family. Probably the Adelphi. It was looking at that photograph that made Cross realise they'd met her before.

  'It's the waitress,' he said. Ottey didn't reply. 'The one who took us through to meet Kostas.'

  'Are you sure?' she said.

  'Definitely.'

  'Then why didn't he say anything about her?'

  'Maybe they'd broken up?' suggested Cross.

  'I don't think so. The last photo was taken the week before he died and they definitely don't look like they've broken up,' said Mackenzie, pointing to a selfie of the couple kissing.

  'Good night?' Ottey asked Cross as she drove them back to the restaurant. He looked puzzled.

  'I don't understand.’

  'Last night. After work? Did you have a good night?'

  'Oh, I see. Yes. I did. Thank you.’ He looked back out of the passenger window, having navigated this exchange successfully, in his opinion. She looked at him quickly. No, nothing more was going to be forthcoming.

  'This is when you ask me... if I had a good night,' she said.

  'Yes, of course. Did you have a good night?'

  'I did, thank you,' she said. But no follow-up from Cross. 'The girls were asking about you,' she said, referring to her two daughters. He just nodded, acknowledging that he'd heard her. 'They love the bagatelle your father gave them. He did such a great job restoring it.'

  'Yes.'

  'It makes a welcome change from them being glued to their iPads all the time. A bit noisier and causes more arguments, but at least I know what they're doing.'

  'Indeed.'

  They arrived at the restaurant. Kostas was waiting for them. Mackenzie had phoned ahead and warned him they were on their way. The restaurant had that "morning after" smell. What were inviting and appetising smells the night before, had now morphed into a stale, listless odour. Kostas made them coffee at the machine behind the bar. An older woman, Kostas' mother, Cross assumed, appeared with a plastic bowl and a couple of bags of vegetables, which she started to prepare at a table in the back. She had been doing this for so many years she was now able to do it without taking her eyes off Cross and Ottey. Cross assumed she also had acute hearing for someone of her age. Kostas brought their coffees over.

  'Sugar?'

  'No thank you,' the detectives said, almost in unison.

  'Kostas, do you know anyone who would want to hurt your brother?' Ottey asked.

  'No,' he replied, quite surprised by the question.

  'No trouble with competitors? I know the restaurant business can be quite cut-throat at times,' she went on.

  'No.'

  'Any bad habits – gambling, drinking, womanising?'

  'No!' he said, almost laughing at the idea, 'He was obsessed with his cycling. That was it. He didn't drink. He didn't have time for anything else. He was always on that bloody bike.'

  'It annoyed you,' Cross stated.

  'Only now and then, when he'd leave me on my own here, because he had some big race or training ride with the club. And he could bore for Britain talking about it. But it kept him fit and out of trouble.'

  'Did he need keeping out of trouble?' Cross asked.

  'No, wait a minute. Do I need to be careful about what I say here?'

  'No,' said Otte
y. 'Please don't feel that way. You might be aware of something which could be really useful, vital even, for us,' she reassured him. 'Had his behaviour changed at all recently?'

  'Yeah, it had. He seemed really uptight, quite aggressive. He'd become really obsessed with this race...' he said.

  'Would you describe him as obsessive generally?' Cross asked.

  'He hated failing. Always did from when we were kids. At school, even in sports he was crap at, he hated losing,'

  'A kakorrhaphiophobic,' commented Cross.

  'What?' said Ottey.

  'Someone who has a fear of failure. People often think it's an obsession with winning, when it has more to do with a morbid fear of losing, of failure. An important distinction,' Cross said, which left Ottey wondering how many people were actually aware of the word in the first place, to be able to make such a terrible mistake.

  'They came in phases, his obsessions. The race was the latest. He'd bulked up a lot and he'd become a real moody bugger,' Kostas continued.

  'In what way?' Ottey asked.

  'He started getting into arguments with everyone: me, Dad, even customers. Stuff that had never happened before. Then it was quickly over. He could never keep a row going like me and Dad. We can keep them going for days. Him, he has to apologise at the first opportunity. A sign of weakness – I always used to tease him.' Then Kostas lost it momentarily. He cried into his hands silently. Cross just looked at him. Ottey moved forward and put an arm round him.

  'You're younger than Alex,' said Cross.

  'Only by two years.'

  '"Only"? So he was the dominant one. The one in charge,' said Cross.

  'He liked to think so,' said Kostas.

  'Did you resent that?' Cross asked.

  'No,' he said, maybe a little too quickly. Cross just looked at him. Kostas looked away to Ottey and then back to Cross, who was still looking straight at him rather unnervingly.

  'That's the first lie you've told us, Kostas,' he said.

  'I loved him.' His dad came over and took their cups.

  'They always argue, yes...' he said.

  'Dad...' Kostas protested.

  'Alexander wanted to go to London. Fight, fight, fight. But they love each other. Of course they do. Families fight because they love each other.'

  'London?' Cross asked.

  'He wanted to open up a restaurant in London. On his own. Wanted Kostas to buy him out of this place,' he continued.

  'Which presumably would've meant you going to the bank for a loan,' Cross said.

  'Yep. I thought the whole thing was nuts. I couldn't prove it, but I was sure there was some bloody bike club up there he wanted to join. I bet you any money that was what it was about. And that velodrome. He went up there a couple of weekends. Used to say, "Can you imagine if I lived there – in Stratford? I could train every night." Not if you had a bloody restaurant you couldn't, I told him. He just hadn't thought any of it through.'

  'Big plans – he had big plans,' said his dad from behind the counter.

  'Yeah, yeah,' Kostas agreed and smiled good naturedly. 'He was the "perfect son". As you can probably tell.'

  'Obviously the favourite,' said Ottey.

  'Oh yes...' he said slowly.

  'What happened to your father's arm?' Cross asked, referring to the cast on the older man's wrist.

  'He broke his wrist.'

  'When?'

  'Couple of weeks ago. He has osteoporosis. It's happening more and more often,' he said.

  'So this plan of Alex's to go to London. Where had you left it?' Cross asked.

  'Well, that's kind of what we did – left it. He was good at numbers, Alex. He was the brains, well, the logistics one, in the business. He did the numbers and saw that I couldn't make the business work if I had a loan, the size I needed,' he said.

  'Couldn't you raise the restaurant prices a little?' asked Cross. 'I had a look at the menu the other day. It's very reasonable, cheap even, for such good food.'

  'We know our market. It was well and truly tested by our mother and father. Alex would explain it really well. We're just this side of the "tipping-point". If we raised our prices beyond a certain point we would lose customers. To the extent that profits would drop.'

  'Interesting.'

  'But you know what Alex's genius move was?'

  'No.'

  'It sounds like nothing, but it had amazing results. It started with water. We carbonate our own, charge people £1.50 and then refill limitlessly without charge. People really liked it, and then Alex said, "Let's make the pitta bread free". Free pitta bread? My father thought it was insane. Not because it'd lose money but because it would fill people up and they wouldn't order enough food.'

  'It was true at the beginning,' his father said, as if to prove his point.

  'Not for long. People like a bargain. They like to get their money's worth, not feel they are being ripped off,' Kostas went on. 'They like nice gestures.'

  'They like free stuff,' his father chimed in, as if he was still really against the whole idea, despite the apparent success of it. For him, there was something fundamentally wrong in giving it away.

  'They were a little greedy at first, but then when they got used to it, they ordered only as much as they needed.'

  'Except for the man with the carrier bag. You're forgetting about him,' said his father. 'Tell him about the man with the carrier bag.'

  'That's true. We did have one customer who took the piss. He brought a carrier bag with him and asked for bread at the end of the meal.'

  'What did you do?' asked Ottey.

  'It was Alex. He filled the man's bag up to the top with pitta breads.'

  'You're kidding,' said Ottey.

  'He said he didn't do it for the man asking for the bread. He did it for all the customers watching. They knew the guy was a dick, but then they saw the manager giving him the bread, without batting an eyelid. They felt for him. Were impressed. Would come back, and they did. Some customers still even bring it up. It's like a famous little story,' said Kostas, smiling at the memory.

  'Did Alex have a girlfriend?' Cross asked, quickly changing the subject.

  'No. Like I said, he didn't have time.' Cross noticed Kostas' mother look up quickly at her son. She had wanted to hear the answer. She was, as usual, preparing vegetables in the back of the restaurant, keeping a weather eye on them.

  'What about Debbie? The waitress?' said Cross.

  'She's not a waitress,' he replied, looking nervous. He turned to look over at his mother again. Cross had thought earlier that she was there just to listen in on their conversation with Kostas, but he realised it was her vantage point to see and know everything that went on in this place. The men thought they were in charge, but Cross knew this was where the real power lay.

  'What about her?' Kostas said finally.

  'We'd like to speak with her. Is she here?' Cross went on.

  'She's upstairs,' Kostas replied.

  'Why the secrecy?' asked Ottey.

  'My mother didn't want her involved. She's upset enough as it is. Her relationship with Alex was... private.'

  'There's nothing private when it comes to a murder investigation,' said Cross.

  'Well it's not like she had anything to do with it. She was working that night.'

  'She may not have had anything to do with it, but she may well know something which she won't think is useful, but to us could be important,' Cross went on.

  'Kostas, we're only trying to find out the truth here. Find out who killed your brother. No-one's in trouble here,' said Ottey.

  'Except for the killer, of course,' added Cross. Kostas looked at him, a little shocked. He couldn't tell whether the detective was making a joke. Kostas stood up to go and get her but saw that his mother had already gone.

  'My mother's gone to get her. Can I make you coffee?' he asked.

  'That would be nice, thank you,' Ottey replied, as she and Cross sat.

  Debbie arrived at the table a few minute
s later. They exchanged the usual pleasantries – well, Ottey did. Cross noticed that Debbie had been crying that morning. She was also a lot younger than he expected. What was she? Eighteen maybe? Whatever, quite a lot younger than Alex, who'd been thirty-two.

  'So, Debbie, how long have you worked here?' asked Ottey.

  'I don't work here,' she replied quietly.

  'But weren't you waiting tables the other day?' he said.

  'I was just helping out. Nicole called in sick,' she explained.

  'How did you meet Alex?' Cross asked.

  'Here. We came to eat one night. He looked after us. I was with friends. A birthday.'

  'But how...?' Ottey asked.

  'Oh, I saw him on his bike a few days later. He stopped. We got talking.'

  'Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Alex?' Ottey went on. Debbie just shook her head quickly, as if implying it was completely out of the question. 'No arguments, no fights with anyone recently?' Ottey continued. Again, just a shake of the head.

  'Why were you upstairs if you don't work here?' Cross asked.

  'I live here.'

  'I see,' said Cross.

  'Things were a little difficult at home,' Kostas explained.

  'At home? Were you living with your parents?' said Cross.

  'Yes. Till I moved here,' she said.

  'When Kostas says things were difficult there – is he right?' Ottey asked.

  'Yes,' she said, almost in a whisper.

  'In what way?' Ottey asked.

  'Just usual stuff. I needed a break,' said Debbie.

  'What did you think about Alex's plans for London?' Cross asked. He noticed that she was about to answer but gave the slightest of looks towards Kostas and then decided against it. 'Did you discuss it with him? Were you going to go with him?' Again, a look to Kostas.

  'It wasn't happening any more. He wasn't doing it.'

  Ottey was about to ask another question when Cross, who had been watching Debbie closely, stopped her.

  'Actually, I think we have all we need. Josie, perhaps you could give Debbie your card. Call us if you think of anything. Or tell your family liaison officer,' he said.