Down on Cyprus Avenue Read online

  Down on Cyprus Avenue

  by Paul Charles

  Published by Dufour Editions

  First published in the United States of America, 2014

  by Dufour Editions Inc., Chester Springs, Pennsylvania 19425

  © Paul Charles, 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Except for public figures, all characters in this story are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone else living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover photo by David Torrans

  E-Book ISBN 978-0-8023-6027-4 (MOBI)

  E-Book ISBN 978-0-8023-6028-1 (EPUB)

  Acknowledgements

  My first trip to Belfast would have been when I was about six years old. My dad took me down on the bus. I’d never been in a city before and I just loved the buzz and the unique aromas of the city. Coming from a small rural village I couldn’t believe the actual volume of the noise around and about the streets in Belfast. In my home town, Magherafelt, if someone sneezed up the town it was news in the following week’s edition of The Mid Ulster Mail, and, most likely on the front page at that.

  My memories of that precious trip to Belfast are of streets crammed with exotic cars; lorries packed so high you felt they might actually topple over; my first ever sighting of double decker busses; busy, hyper or chilled people, mostly laughing and joking, and, the hustle and bustle of Woolworths, crammed so full you could hardly move through it. The shop assistants appeared so sophisticated with such chic make-up they looked like movie stars. But packed though Woolworths was, my dad worked his way around the super-shop diligently buying hardware: hinges; brackets; hooks; nails; thingamabobs and cuttermegigs, lots of cuttermegigs. Things, that on paper he’d no need for, but then over the course of the next few years bit by bit, item by item, they’d all get used up. He used them in a manner that was always vital to making pieces of furniture and suchlike, which had such a positive impact on our lives that we wondered how we’d ever done without them. In a way I suppose that’s where I picked up the habit of hoarding; yes, hoarding things like: words, character-sketches, accents, traits and sayings. You just never know when they’re going to come in handy, do you?

  The memories of that day, both of my introduction to the tangible excitement of Belfast and of being there with my father, have stuck with me so far though my life, and very vividly at that.

  My next memories of Belfast are of me visiting the city in my teenage years seeking bookings for my first band, the Blues by Five. So thanks are also due and offered to Vince, Paddy, Miles, Ian & Terence. Thanks also to Taste, The Interns, Cheese, The Gentry and The Method, because it was on my next pilgrimages down to Belfast to see and hear the above groups at The Maritime Club, Sammy Huston’s Jazz Club, Betty Staffs, and Clarks Dance Studio, that was my first introduction to that side of Belfast. Sadly I never got to witness a live performance by Them. Later again came The Pound, The Ulster Hall, Fruupp and EMS at Queen’s Student’s Union. I also need to mention in these dispatches: Colin McCelland, Good Vibrations, Chris Moore, Tim Nicholson, Jim Aiken, Cityweek, Thursday Magazine, K 46024, Radio Ulster, The Belfast Telegraph, Ivan Martin, UTV, GIM and the legendary Eddie McIlwaine.

  While starting work on this new adventure two men, Gary Mills and David Torrans, were tireless in introducing me to, and showing me around, their Belfast. I’m forever in their debt. I’m also indebted to Claudia who held down the fort at No Alibis while her old man accompanied me around town. Big thanks to City Hall and The Custom House for showing me what these amazing buildings are like on the inside.

  Also big thanks to Christopher May for not only giving a home to McCusker, but also for taking the time out to let me introduce him to Belfast, particularly McCusker’s patch; to my editor Duncan May for keeping me on McCusker’s patch, and to Larisa and Brad at Dufour Editions for their continued support and energy.

  To Catherine for being Catherine.

  And once again big, big thanks to the man who introduced me to Belfast in the first place all those years ago, my father, Andrew.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter One

  If he leaned back in his captain’s chair at a perilous forty-five degrees – that is to say, at the nosy-angle tilt – McCusker could just about hear half of Detective Inspector Lily O’Carroll’s conversation.

  “Okay, Mrs O’Neill, let’s take this slowly,” O’Carroll said, sounding a little short on patience. “When was the last time you saw both your sons – Ryan and…you didn’t tell me the name of your second son?”

  McCusker found himself scribbling the name Ryan O’Neill on his note pad.

  “Sorry, okay, I think I get it. Ryan is in fact your second son and your firstborn son is Lawrence?” O’Carroll was nodding positively to herself as she too committed something to paper. “Right. You saw them last on Wednesday. Well, as that is over forty-eight hours you can come down to the station and fill out a missing person’s report.”

  McCusker counted twenty-three loud clicks on the office clock high above them before O’Carroll spoke again.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you there, you were very quiet. Could you repeat that for me?” she said, as she scrunched up her eyebrows. Although he barely knew O’Carroll, McCusker could tell from her eyes that her brain was clicking into its over-active gear. “Good Mrs O’Neill, I got you that time. In that case, would you like me to come and visit you?”

  Detective Inspector Lily O’Carroll stood up and, in a complicated and elaborate, not to mention potentially dangerous, manoeuvre, swung the jacket of her black pin-striped trouser suit over her head and on top of her dark blue polo-neck jumper.

  McCusker clicked audibly as she swished past him.

  She stopped in her tracks.

  “Okay McCusker, obviously you’re bored. Do you want to tag along?”

  “Answer me this first,” he replied, in his gentle Ulster tones. “What did she say to make
you agree to visit her?”

  “She said her husband wouldn’t let her leave the house,” O’Carroll replied as she exited the office with the air of a fisherman confident that the worm just cast would be sufficient for the catch.

  Chapter Two

  O’Carroll drove McCusker down the busy, boutique-lined Lisburn Road to the exclusive Malone Park in near silence. With the sun shining it would have been easy to think they were entering Beverly Hills. Towards the end of a driveway, which McCusker was convinced was leading all the way to heaven, they eventually arrived at a Georgian mansion updated with two modern symmetrical add-ons.

  Before they had a chance to discover a knocker or a doorbell, the large oak door quietly and slowly opened to reveal a much younger woman than McCusker had been expecting.

  “Mrs O’Neill, Mrs Polly O’Neill?” O’Carroll asked, as she and McCusker flashed their warrant cards.

  “Yes...do please come in,” the soberly dressed woman almost pleaded in a whisper. “Please go as softly as you can. We’ll go straight through to the kitchen.”

  Mrs O’Neill looked too slim for her own good and her classicly sculptured features were stress-beaten with years of worry. Her greying brown hair was pulled back in a spinster’s bun. She managed, however, to retain her dignity with a perfectly upright gait in her country Barbour outfit.

  “Tea?” she began, as she showed them through to an outrageously large but dated oak wood kitchen.

  “Water will be grand,” O’Carroll replied, on both of their behalf. They sat at a more casual table in a conservatory alcove to the rear of the kitchen, close to the large French doors leading to the garden.

  “Tap is fine,” McCusker offered, with a smile.

  Mrs O’Neill looked at McCusker like he’d just admitted he didn’t use toilet roll and went to pull out two small chilled bottles of Perrier from a fridge she literally had to walk into. She unscrewed the bottle caps 95 per cent, the way a mother does for her children, before handing them over with glasses to the two employees of the Police Service of Northern Ireland.

  “So Ryan and Lawrence…” O’Carroll offered, pouring the water into her glass and drawing out her notebook with such little fuss McCusker didn’t even notice her doing it.

  “Yes,” Mrs O’Neill grimaced.

  “Is your husband in the house?” O’Carroll asked.

  Mrs O’Neill nodded, “Yes.”

  “Why would he not allow you to leave the house?” McCusker asked.

  “He thinks I’m stupid for worrying about them. He says they’re fine. But they’ve always come to see me every day, every day of their lives, since leaving home.”

  “So they don’t live here?” O’Carroll asked, looking like she’d prefer to ask all her own questions.

  “Goodness no, they have their own place up in Saint Anne’s Square in the city centre.”

  “How are you so sure they are missing?” O’Carroll continued, as she noted down the address.

  “I’ve been to their apartment yesterday and on Wednesday and I’ve been ringing them non-stop on all their numbers.”

  “What ages are they?” O’Carroll continued on her fact-finding mission.

  “Ryan is twenty-six and Lawrence is twenty-eight – just.”

  “And what do they do for a living?” McCusker enquired, his semi-conversational approach somewhat slowing down proceedings, a fact he wasn’t unhappy about.

  “Ryan and Lawrence have this big internet project they are working on. I don’t really know what that means to be honest, but they’re always talking about it.”

  “Do you know if it’s up and running or are they still developing it?” O’Carroll cut in.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know, but my husband knows all about it.”

  “What does your husband do?” O’Carroll asked.

  “O’Electronics.”

  “Right, O’Electronics – the big place on the corner of Bedford Street and Donegall Square South, over the Nationwide Building Society,” O’Carroll said, writing down the name. “What does he do for them?”

  “Oh, he owns them,” Polly O’Neill replied, betraying more contempt than pride.

  O’Carroll shot McCusker a knowing glance, her interest now piqued. Was she impressed by the father’s status or the fact that his obvious wealth would make them a more likely target for a kidnapping?

  “Do Ryan or Lawrence have girlfriends?” O’Carroll asked, before quickly adding, “or partners?”

  “They’ve lots of friends, both male and female, but Ryan is always saying women won’t figure in their life plan for another two or three years.”

  “Could you give me the names and details of some of their friends please?” O’Carroll asked.

  Polly O’Neill walked very regally over to a cupboard, removed an expensive-looking leather-bound address book, flicked through a few pages and said, “Pat Tepper, he’s a friend, he’s also their solicitor. He works for his father’s firm, Tepper, Bryson, & Torance. Pat’s a good man, sensible and a good influence on my boys.”

  “Anyone else?” O’Carroll continued, now openly impatient.

  “Susanna Holmes, she lives three doors down from here. She and the boys have known each other since childhood and are still good friends.” Polly replied, before reading out Susanna’s details. She flicked on quickly through the book and beat O’Carroll to her next question, “and of course there’s Tim Black, her boyfriend; the four of them went to Queen’s together.”

  “There’s no chance the four of them just popped over to Greece for a wee break?” McCusker asked, trying to lighten the mood. He wanted O’Neill to relax a little, to get her comfortable so she would really talk to them.

  “No! Ryan would still ring me, no matter where he was in the world,” O’Neill said, and then added as a clear afterthought, “and of course Lawrence does…”

  At that precise moment Polly O’Neill froze as the kitchen door was roughly opened. A wee man with a big belly waddled in. He wore dark blue trousers, low on his waist (to catch the slimmer part of his torso, McCusker reckoned) and supported by bright red braces over a light blue shirt, with the top button undone and a Queen’s University tie loosened a few inches from the collar. His large feet were bare and he looked like he was searching for his six colleagues and Snow White.

  “Who?” he barked.

  “This is my husband James,” Polly explained to the police officers and then continued to her husband. “This is Detective Inspector O’Carroll and McCusker.”

  “And they are here…why?” he snapped.

  “They’re going to help find Ryan and Lawrence.”

  “Silly, silly woman. They’re off having fun somewhere. When I was their age…” James O’Neill grunted, he obviously thought better of what he was about to say. “For heaven’s sake woman, stop smothering them.”

  He focused on McCusker at this point. McCusker thought O’Neill’s head was much too big for the rest of his body. Perhaps his well-groomed, bushy grey hair added to the illusion.

  “I don’t know you. Who are you?” he asked, addressing McCusker as a school teacher might.

  “As your wife already mentioned, I’m McCusker from PSNI and your wife is clearly very concerned about your sons. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Would you indeed. Who’s your super?”

  “Superintendent Larkin,” O’Carroll offered, trying to be helpful.

  “Is he now? Well, it so happens I know Niall very well – on a few committees with him and so forth.”

  “Yes,” McCusker replied, “that’s all very well but I think it would be more helpful if we could get some more information on your sons.”

  “Well, actually I think you’d be even more helpful if you’d just scoot off and leave the boys alone, or I’ll get Superintendent Niall Larkin on the blower and see if I can’t get both of you back on the beat again.”

  “But James…” his wife pleaded.

  “Shush woman,” he barked. “Now, if yo
u’d kindly leave my home.”

  “Mrs O’Neill, unless you tell us otherwise we’ll treat the report of your missing sons seriously,” O’Carroll said in a rush.

  James O’Neill’s naturally red face advanced to scarlet. “Out!” he screamed as he stretched both his arms wide and quite literally herded O’Carroll and McCusker out of the kitchen of his grand house.

  Polly O’Neill nodded her head to both members of the Ulster police force as they left the house.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, Mrs O’Neill,” McCusker offered, as the man of the house slammed the front door, which kissed the heels of the detective’s well polished black leather shoes. He continued, addressing the closed door, “Obviously sir we have to advise you that the PSNI pledges to protect all life and property and to uphold the peace, so we are within out rights to continue our investigation into your sons’ whereabouts.”

  Chapter Three

  O’Carroll knocked over a couple of the red and white cones while parking her car illegally on Exchange Street West, just behind St Anne’s Cathedral. The numerous dints and scratches about her metallic yellow Renault Mégane testified that this wasn’t the first such mishap.

  They walked past the Potted Hen Bistro into the small Saint Anne’s Square to be greeted by a bronze sculpture – a nude who looked like she was about to leap from an imaginary high diving board in the general direction of the detectives. The entire left-hand side of the Regency-styled square was taken up with the new arts theatre complex, the MAC. The three remaining sides were faced with seven-storey buildings, residential apartments with retail units in the bottom two floors. A few of these units were yet to be occupied. McCusker liked the feel of the square and for a split second he regretted not spending more time sourcing his own accommodation on his recent move down to the city.

  As luck would have it, someone was exiting the ground floor communal door as O’Carroll and McCusker approached. If he wasn’t mistaken, the beautiful young thing who, thanks to O’Carroll’s warrant card, happily let them in was a TV celebrity – her success due entirely to her looks and bubbly personality. She even flashed McCusker one of her famous on-screen smiles, which resulted in him walking straight into the door. If he wasn’t mistaken, O’Carroll had assisted the door in its closing speed.