Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11 Read online

  That had been seven months ago and McCusker had, very reluctantly at first, started to fall in love with the city. He found there was an infectious energy and genuine enthusiasm from the people of Belfast. Slowly but surely he was discovering his watering holes and pit-stops for food and refreshments, one of which was the Linen Hall Library, just off Donegal Square. He had his young DS drop him off there.

  McCusker wasn’t great with computers, preferring instead to pick up all the information he needed amongst the hallowed bookshelves of the Linen Hall Library. Not just that, but their wee café did an amazing cup of coffee and an appetizing selection of nibbles to keep him fortified as he whiled away the hours working on his research. At least that was McCusker’s story and he was sticking to it.

  Today his research was focused on the legend of Finn McCool. History, McCusker firmly believed, was always written by the victors, and, thereby, much kinder to the authors than fact. For the truth you had to dig deeper. Were Robin Hood, William Tell, or Finn McCool, for that matter, real people? Or, were they all composites of people legend had been kind to because they’d unselfishly helped the poor over the rich; sided with the weak over the strong; battled for wrongs to be righted?

  Tales of Finn McCool’s life and times had been passed down, as far as the Linen Hall Library reference books were concerned, via the poems of his son Oisen.

  As far as McCusker could make out, McCool acquired his wisdom when he burned his finger on a salmon cooking on a spit. He sucked the finger to ease the pain and, as there happened to be some skin of the salmon still stuck to his blistered finger, the young McCool swallowed the skin and thereby the salmon’s wisdom.

  His wife, Oisen’s mother, Sadbh, who bred swans, was turned into a deer by “a dark man” and disappeared. McCool searched for her and waited patiently for her to return to human form. In the meantime he dallied with Grainne, the daughter of a High King, who promised Grainne to Finn for services rendered. But before Finn had a chance to take up the father’s kind offer, she was whisked away by a young upstart called Diarmuid. Eventually, Finn forgave them both and they all became friends, until one day Diarmuid and Finn were out boar hunting together, and Diarmuid was very badly gored. One of Finn’s special gifts was to be able to infuse healing powers into water simply by running his fingers through it. Diarmuid sent Finn off to find some water. Finn eventually found a river and scooped some water using his hands as a cup, but by the time he retraced his steps to Diarmuid all of the precious water had spilled through his fingers. Accidentally or on purpose, McCusker wondered. He erred to the opposite opinion of Oisen.

  Finn, however, used the episode to his advantage. He continued to await the return of the deer that was his wife, Sadbh. He figured that when his wife changed from a deer back to a woman, she could suffer severe physical pain. He planned that, rather than risk her life by having to run to the nearest river, he’d always have some water in a container nearby. He also remembered his wife’s love of swans, so he had a beautiful glass decanter made in the shape and lifelike size of a swan. Finn figured the beautiful white swan would attract his wife.

  According to the three reference books McCusker studied, Finn McCool never died. Apparently, he is hibernating in a cave near Dublin and will be awoken in time to come and save Ireland in the hour of her greatest need. Perhaps it was this part of the legend which gave birth to the cavaliering attitude of the bankers and developers.

  Conveniently, McCusker’s coffee and banana muffin ran out at the same time as he completed reading the third book. He had another stop he needed to make on his way back to Donegal Pass. Within seven minutes he was on the opposite side of Donegal Square and hoofing it into Ross’s Auction Rooms on Montgomery Street.

  The novelty of Ross’s still hadn’t worn off for McCusker. He could happily spend hours in there wandering amongst the weekly changing collection. It wasn’t that he was interested in buying. No, he just loved looking and wondering what stories the antiques could tell. What they couldn’t or wouldn’t tell, their ace auctioneer Ian McKay was always happy to hazard a guess at.

  Ian McKay was everything Harry Reid aspired to be. Class is not bought; neither is it in the genes: it’s in the brogues. In other words (McCusker’s), it’s there naturally or it’s not there at all and, in either case, nothing can be done to successfully change the outcome. McKay was in his mid- to late forties; ruggedly handsome; distinguished with white, longish hair; dressed every inch the country gent and with a voice radio presenters would kill for.

  “Long time no see, squire,” McKay began, as he spotted McCusker walking towards his door. “Come on in and rest your weary bones. I’ll order us up a fresh pot of tea and a couple of those door-stop egg sandwiches our canteen seems to specialize in.”

  McCusker did as he was bid and McKay closed the door to his office and ordered up refreshments on the intercom.

  “I assume you’re not in here just to discuss David Healy’s form on Saturday again?”

  “Right,” McCusker said, taking the spare captain’s chair in McKay’s packed office. McCusker didn’t make it clear whether Healy’s form was on or off the agenda. “What can you tell me about Finn McCool?”

  “Ah, you’re on the Harry Reid case then, are you?” McKay offered in reply, moving the conversation into a different gear. “And you want to know all about his fast-becoming legendary White Swan?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Well, two auctions ago, Reid out-bid everyone upstairs to secure the absolutely stunning glass White Swan. But there was no way it was worth twelve and a half grand.”

  “Is that really what he paid for it?”

  “Near enough,” McKay admitted. “I’d put the reserve up to a top whack of £2,000 only because I was seduced by the powerful whiteness of the object. I thought it positively just glowed. But no sooner had Reid won the item and taken it out of the auction house than he was claiming it was Finn’s original White Swan. The Belfast Telegraph took him at his word and stuck it on the front page.”

  “Ian, did such an item actually exist?”

  “Augh, you know,” McKay started expansively, “some say it did, and some say it didn’t. But I’ll tell you this for nothing, someone had been spreading the story around the auction houses recently, otherwise the big bird would never have reached more than the couple of grand I’d marked the reserve at.”

  “That’s really all the reserve was?”

  “Yeah and I thought I was chancing my arm at that. Tell me this, Inspector, did Reid by any chance have a UV light in the room he’d Finn’s White Swan displayed in?”

  “He did as it happens,” McCusker replied as another piece of the puzzle dropped into place.

  “Yeah, I did the same thing here. It just made the swan magnetic, made it stand out in our showroom. Anyway, Reid paid his twelve and a half grand, I was happy as a pig in . . . and then, before you know it, isn’t it only all over the front page of the Telly claiming he’d discovered Finn’s long-lost swan?”

  “So why would he do that?”

  “Well, let’s just say that Harry has a bit of a reputation for honing in on items with a bit of an iffy providence and then he likes to rewrite history or even invent a history for said items, mostly a very expensive history.”

  “And do people really fall for it?” McCusker asked.

  “People always want to believe in the supernatural, Inspector. It helps to make our daily lives acceptable.”

  “What else can you tell me about Harry Reid?”

  “He’s a Draperstown boy, born and bred, but about ten years ago he started to claim he was originally from Belfast, invented a wee history for himself, if you know what I mean. He’s very clever though.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he’ll never go for a scam where he could be contradicted. Let’s take an example. In this instance, who is there amongst us to be able to 100 per cent claim this isn’t Finn McCool’s White Swan? It could even have been Marc Bolan’s White Swa
n. But don’t you see there still are friends and relations of Mr Bolan who would have been available to positively contradict Reid if he’d made such a claim? Apart from which, Marc Bolan’s White Swan, if such an item exists, is not going to get the big bucks Finn McCool’s swan is going to get.”

  “Will he really get big bucks for it?” McCusker asked as the sandwiches arrived. The eggs were warm, exactly how McCusker liked them.

  “Well, I can tell you I’ve had a few American dealers on to me already and one of them is prepared to go north of a million.”

  “Holy shit,” McCusker replied, automatically and impolitely – he had his mouth full at the time. When he’d recovered he continued, “How did you come across the swan in the first place?”

  “There was a house clearance up in your neck of the woods. Portballintrae. The usual thing, an old woman, Mrs White in this case, spends her whole life building up a collection of furniture, paintings and ornaments she loves and sees as her heirlooms and then, when she dies, the family trip over themselves to get rid of it all before she’s even grown cold in her grave so they can put the house on the market and turn her life to their financial advantage.”

  “Tell me this,” McCusker started in what was one of his favourite ways to ask a question, “would some dealers buy McCool’s swan, even if it was a stolen item?”

  “Not the particular American dealer I was referring to, but several others might.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, just look at the story/providence/history of the item. Finn McCool, the man, the legend. The same man who created an island by scooping a hand-full of earth out of the heart of Ulster and hurtling it out to sea just so he’d have a stepping stone to get to Scotland when he was searching for his wife. The crater he created became Lough Neagh and the sod became the Isle of Man. The same wife by the way—”

  “Who had been changed into a deer and disappeared.”

  “You’ve Googled it already,” McKay said, breaking into a knowing smile.

  “Better than Google, The Linen Hall Library actually,” McCusker admitted.

  “So, you know what purpose Finn had the glass swan made for?”

  McCusker nodded positively, quickly.

  “And did you know that McCool decreed that should anyone, other than Sadbh, ever use the water contained in the swan they would suffer the most horrible of immediate deaths?”

  McCusker suddenly suffered a flash of the bloodstained walls of Harry Reid’s library.

  “Have any such deaths ever been recorded?” he enquired.

  “Several,” McKay whispered, “but then on the flipside there is another legend which says that Finn himself became eternal by drinking some of the water.”

  “Augh, away wit ye, Ian,” McCusker moaned loudly.

  “And even others claim that Finn created the Giant’s Causeway while he sat on the coast edge weeping as he waited for his beloved wife to return. They say his acidic teardrops gave the rock-face its unique symmetrical shape.”

  “Tell me Ian, has anyone in modern times ever died from drinking the water?”

  “No, not that I’m aware of.”

  “So,” McCusker began slowly, “say for instance someone today, in search of life everlasting, was to die while drinking from the swan, what would happen to the price then?”

  “I’d say, with a great deal of confidence, that the owner would then have on his hands an item to equal Hirst’s diamond-studded skull.”

  “What, you mean £50 million?” McCusker shouted, totally losing his cool.

  “Well, that depends entirely on which reports of the actual value of that particular item of Hirst’s one believes. But in my humble opinion, under the circumstances you describe, then McCool’s White Swan would be up there and, at the very least, on a par.”

  Ten minutes later McCusker was being driven by DS W. J. Barr at a great speed back towards Reid’s country pile close on the road to tranquil Bangor.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Barr said as they passed the George Best City Airport, “you think the headless victim we discovered in Reid’s study was planted there?”

  “Yes I do,” McCusker sighed. “Don’t you see, Willie John, the more Reid can add to the legend of Finn McCool’s White Swan, the more he ups the asking price.”

  “But surely—” Barr started.

  “In anyone’s eyes £50 million, give or take a pound or two, is a hell of a lot of motive. I think once we discover the identity of the victim, if we dig deep enough into his life, we’ll discover a connection with either Reid or one of his team.”

  “So, you’re saying you think Reid had the victim murdered?”

  “Yessir.”

  “But how?” Barr persisted.

  “Well, I think we can rule the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse from our suspect list.”

  “Yep, you’re right there, sir,” W. J. conceded. “I’ve already questioned them and they’re all alibi-ing each other up, one for all and all for—”

  “Wrong legend. You’ve inadvertently wandered into the Four Musketeers tale,” McCusker interrupted, very deadpan.

  “Oh yes, of course. But seriously, sir, surely it’s just a wee bit too obvious. You know, renowned collector bags rare item for a steal. Item has a legend, it’s sacred, protected; people die while in its company. A petty crook, we assume, dies while trying to steal it, thereby putting the value of said item through the proverbial roof.”

  “Fair point, Willie John, fair point, but perhaps Reid thought that the victim and his apparent crime would be the centre of our attention. A criminal with a record is caught on his premises. He probably figured we’d wrap the case up by dusk and not only that but also the taxpayers would be saved the cost of not only a trial but also the scallywag’s prison upkeep when he was sent down.”

  “I’m still not convinced,” Barr declared as they pulled into Reid’s drive.

  “Either way,” McCusker replied, “we’re about to have a very interesting conversation with the man in designer black, Mr Harry Reid.”

  When they entered the house it was still a hive of activity, thanks to the conscientious work of the SOCO boys and girls.

  Alan Henderson greeted them outside the study and informed the PSNI officers that his boss, having gained permission from the SOCO team to remove his precious White Swan, had retired with said precious item to the folly at the foot of his two-and-a-half-acre garden. The folly was a life-size replica of the Mussenden Temple. The eccentric earl, Bishop Frederick Hervey of Derry, built the original in Downhill, on the north Derry coast, in the eighteenth century. Like the original, Reid’s was built overlooking the water. Apparently Reid had also built his favourite space for meditating as a completely secure panic room. Henderson claimed his boss had informed him that until the police were out of the house, he’d feel so much more secure down there with McCool’s White Swan.

  Henderson accompanied McCusker and Barr down the winding path through the mature garden. Due to the fact that the house had been built on a hill and the land between there and the folly dipped dramatically and was overgrown, in a cultivated way, with exotic trees and bushes, they didn’t actually see the folly in its fully glory until they emerged from the dense undergrowth.

  They could clearly hear some activity as the folly came into view. It sounded like someone beating a loose-skin drum several times, then there would be a horrific-sounding splat, then silence for a few seconds and then the same sound pattern would repeat over and over again, growing in volume the closer they got.

  Henderson announced himself on the outside of the solid antique wooden door. The noise continued, louder now, but they still couldn’t see what was creating it. Butumn, butumn, butumn, splat, silence.

  Henderson clearly wasn’t used to being ignored by anyone, including his boss, particularly with witnesses present, so he resorted to banging on the door. Still there was no reply from within and still the mysterious eerie noise continued from either the other side of the bu
ilding, or the inside, McCusker couldn’t be sure.

  He climbed the thirteen steps to join Henderson on the threshold and put his hand on the antique bone door-handle. Henderson put his hand out to stop McCusker. The faithful DS Barr hopped up the steps in a heartbeat to restrain Reid’s PA.

  The handle resisted McCusker’s efforts.

  “It’s locked from the inside,” Henderson claimed. “He always locks the door from the inside when he’s meditating.”

  McCusker pushed his shoulder against the door.

  Henderson laughed.

  “It’s solid oak,” the PA stated, “and then steel-lined on the inside.”

  “What about the windows?” McCusker asked, wishing he hadn’t tested his shoulder so.

  Henderson had just started to laugh again when they heard glass smashing on the other side of the folly.

  “That’s totally impossible,” a breathless Henderson offered as they all ran around the folly in the direction of the noise. “All the windows are bulletproof.”

  They all ran into each other as they reached the other side of the folly, the side from which they all thought they’d heard the sound of breaking glass. But the large window before them wasn’t even cracked. It was dirty, very dirty, but not broken.

  They all looked at each other as they heard an almighty racket from within. To McCusker it sounded like a troupe of banshees squabbling over the departing soul of the last man in the universe.

  Henderson summoned Harrison on his mobile and ordered him to meet them immediately at the folly with the spare key.

  McCusker thought that his imagination might now be playing tricks on him because he thought he could hear Reid walking around the wooden floor inside the folly.

  “Fair play to you,” McCusker said with a pat on the back to a hot and bothered Harrison three minutes later.

  Henderson snapped the key from the head of security and ran, key first, at the door like a madman.

  The key seemed to be meeting some resistance inside the lock as Henderson endeavoured to force it into its prime position. They all heard the other key, obviously on the inside of the door, fall to the floor. At the same time the noise inside the folly stopped.