Under Construction: A DI McNally Detective Thriller, page 18
Chapter Fifty-Seven:
They aren’t expecting to see Taylor looking so smug in the interview room. As they go about the preliminaries, he just continues to glare at them with a broad grin. Even his solicitor looks uncomfortable.
“Well done, gentlemen,” he erupts before they have a chance to ask the first question. “You’ve done it. You’ve always wanted me here… And now you’ve managed it. So, what silly little story have you conjured up now? It best be a good one, as you can’t keep me in here much longer without any evidence.”
He raises his eyebrows at them. He’s toying with them. McNally leans back in his seat, observing him. He was expecting the cruel underground lord to come out like it did for half a second last night. But instead, he’s still braving this front that he’s in control. That won’t last long.
“Why do you think you’re here, Mr Taylor?”
Taylor snorts.
“Haven’t a clue… Maybe… Jealousy?”
McNally and Ferguson can’t help but share a concerned look between themselves.
“Jealousy, Mr Taylor?” Ferguson narrows his eyes at him.
“Aye. After all, you seen my house. You seen my cars. And I came from nothing. Didn’t I? Brought up to two dole-head parents. I decided I wasn’t going to be like that. That I was going to make something of my life… And I did. And you can’t accept that. Because of me wanting to make this country a better place, I’m accused of paramilitary-style attacks, drugs, you name it… I’ve apparently done it.”
“And what has any of this got to do with what happened with Mr Parker?”
Taylor sighs and looks down at his fingers. Rubbing his thumb off one of them, he lazily looks up at them.
“Mr Taylor, the best thing you can do now is to comply. We have a warrant to search your house, which officers are currently already combing through. What will we find there? We’ve also found out who the stolen car belonged to. We have even managed to track down the number plate and have ploughed through CCTV to see it crossing the Foyle Bridge shortly after midnight, with four men in the seats. It was then seen entering the Bay Road area, where it stayed for some time. An hour later, it is seen driving over to the Waterside towards the Ardmore Road, where it is ultimately lost. You have a property on the Ardmore Road, I believe? A derelict farmhouse… The perfect place to take someone for a slither of privacy.”
Taylor stares at them, his eyes bouncing between them. Before finally, lifting a hand and scratching his unshaven chin, he pouts.
“What do you want to know?”
“Well… As you can tell, we know everything, Taylor… We want to hear you tell us what happened, in your own words.”
Sighing once more, Taylor glances at his solicitor, his only moment of weakness, who nods.
“You don’t know everything. You have the wrong end of the stick… Like I told you last night, only a fool wouldn’t have been worried about Parker’s party. Ardóimid and Boyle might tell you different… But I know they were. I could see they were getting nervous. And that’s what spurred me on. I know Parker was a protestant, and although his wife is a catholic, and their kids went to the catholic grammars, that didn’t concern me. We could’ve been a great team, I think. Move this country forward. You’re right, I didn’t like taking no for an answer that night, but show me someone who does. So, I think he needed a little… Persuasion.”
McNally almost snorts audibly.
“You’re right, I did get some lads to pick him up and take him to the Bay Road. There, they were asked to convince him that it was in his best interest whilst I mingled with the party. One eye on my phone.”
“And Parker’s phone?”
McNally almost stomps on Ferguson’s foot for interrupting him.
“What about it?”
“Is it true that you stole it?”
Taylor raises a brow.
“Yes, but giving the light of the conversation and the fact that I’ve been arrested for murder, I didn’t think that was an issue.”
“Just wanting to know how it came to appear in the surrounding bushes of the Waterfoot Hotel.”
“I planted it there after stealing it.”
Ferguson nods as McNally glares at him.
“As you were saying, Mr Taylor.”
Taylor rolls his eyes and coughs, leaning back and fidgeting with his shirt.
“Yes, well… Where was I?”
“You were still at the party.”
“Aye, so… They rang and said that he still wouldn’t budge. He wouldn’t agree to join us. So, as I’m sure you’re both aware, I asked them to move him to my farmhouse.”
He goes quiet, pursing his lips.
“And then?”
“I must say, gentlemen. What I’m about to disclose next will almost indefinitely incriminate me, but I must urge you to keep an open mind. I arrived, drunk and annoyed. I requested that they leave me alone with him. At first, we started out just talking. Discussing politics… As you do. He was trying to establish that we would never agree on anything if we were to join. We had different views on religion. On abortion. On the LGBT community,” he air quotes the latter. “It seems I wasn’t getting through to him. His job was not to agree with my terms. It was to just do as I say. Get the people interested and voting for him. Therefore, voting for me!”
The frustration in his voice is obvious, as he clears his throat in an attempt to calm himself down.
“When he refused time and time again, I do admit… I did do something I’m still not very proud of…”
They sit forward. Eager to await his confession.
“I cracked up… And I… Threw a bottle at the wall. It smashed, showering us in glass. I marched over and I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. Bellowing in his face that if he didn’t join me… That I was a very powerful man. I knew people. And I knew where he lived. I knew he had a son and two daughters. And a wife… I’m not proud of it, detectives… But I threatened the life of his family. That’s when he finally caved… He agreed.
“Shortly after that, I threw him into the back of my car. Off a back road, I tossed him out, freeing him and drove off. But I swear, detectives, when I looked in my rear-view mirror as I sped off, I saw him standing up and brushing himself off. Glaring after my car and turning in the direction of the Glenshane Road and, ultimately, his home.”
The detectives stare at him. Unconvinced.
“And then what?” McNally scrunches up his face.
“I went home and I went to bed. The next day, I saw on the news that he went missing. It’s the truth!”
Both McNally and Ferguson shuffle defiantly in their seats.
“So, what do you suggest happened to him, then?” McNally shakes his head.
“I honestly don’t know. I’m sure you’ve heard all the rumours about me. Not all of them are true. And I didn’t kill that man. Why would I want to kill him after he agreed to join forces with me? With both of us, we could’ve knocked Ardóimid out of the race. We could’ve gone on to become massive political figures in Northern Irish history. Think about it!”
Chapter Fifty-Eight:
Is that… It is. It’s her. Chris trots across the car park, reaching for the passenger-side door handle just as she outstretches her hand towards it. Taking her completely by surprise. Danielle startles, collecting herself and laughing. Dropping the blow-up mattress into the car, she turns towards him once more.
“How have ye been?”
“Good,” she smiles, “well… As good as I can be, obviously.”
Chris nods, staring at her. This is the first time they’ve been alone together in years. He has so much to tell her, but can’t seem to find the words to actually express himself. Instead, he nods through into the passenger-side window.
“No bed?”
She laughs again, he had no idea how much he missed it until he finally heard it again.
“It’s for my granny, it’d be a whole handling bringing her back and forth when she’ll want to be there for the wake and the funeral… So, we may as well just have her sleep over at ours.”
He nods.
“So, the body’s been released then?”
“Aye, we’re sorting everything now… With all being well, we should be having the funeral on Monday.”
“Long time comin’.”
She smiles again, tears collecting in her eyes. He rests a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she looks down at it. Alien to her after all this time. They used to know each other inside out, but now…
“What about you?” she shakes away her tears and points at his gym bag, “didn’t see you as a gym-goer.”
“Me neither,” he laughs, sliding the bag behind his back embarrassedly, “I’ve only been once or twice. When I could be arsed.”
“Which is never, I bet,” she chuckles.
Maybe she still does know him after all, he smirks.
“Hi, how about a milkshake?” he turns and jolts his head towards the golden arches of McDonald’s.
“And ruin your hard work at the gym?” she leans her head to the side.
“I’ll just end up goin’ home and gettin’ a chippy anyway,” he laughs, not disclosing that he actually hasn’t made it in yet, “and sure, it’s only a milkshake, what harm would it do?”
She bites her bottom lip before nodding. Half an hour later, they’re parked up beside the Homebase in Chris’s car, their milkshakes melting in their hands as they catch up on the past two years. What they’ve been up to. What they’ve missed. What’s in store for them in the next few weeks, months and years. A lot of it they already know. What they learned during the part of their relationship where they got to know one another. Got to understand their hopes and dreams. But now… They continue telling each other funny anecdotes they’d know the other would love. Laughing along and reminiscing.
When their laughs finally subside and Danielle lifts the straw to her lips, sipping her banana milkshake, Chris reaches over and takes her other hand. Both of them look down at it expectedly. Excitedly. Like the start of their relationship. When everything was new. Could they start again? Could they forget everything that happened? They both look up from their hands and into each other’s eyes. Danielle blinks repeatedly, opening her mouth to speak. But before she can say anything, her ringtone penetrates the silence of the car. Almost as if bursting a bubble.
Suddenly, they’re back in the car park. The hustle and bustle of the busy retail park can be heard, and they’re suddenly aware of the shoppers flocking around the car. Fighting her hand out of his grasp, she struggles to pull her phone from her pocket.
“Hello?”
Her eyes widen as Chris takes a slurp of his own milkshake.
“What? When? Right, I’m on my way.”
Pocketing her phone once more, she apologises, getting ready to escape the car.
“D? What’s wrong? Chat to me.”
“It’s Ma… She’s had a fall in Tescos… They think it was a panic attack. She’s in A&E now, I have to get to her. I’m sorry. I…” she indicates the milkshake, “… Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”
How? Chris wants to scream as she flops out of the car and slams the door, running to her own. Chris leans back on the headrest and breathes out deeply. Like he can fully breathe again. It isn’t over… It can’t be over. He has to do something.
Chapter Fifty-Nine:
Turning the corner, Smyth narrows his eyes as he sees a collection of people outside the Bull’s Horn, notorious for housing members of Ardóimid and other locals to the west of the city. But with its shutters down, it’s obvious that something’s happening. He observes skinheads in three quarter length shorts and bare, flabby chests hammering on the door, their abandoned t-shirts resting on the picnic bench on the pavement.
Levelling with the pub, Smyth cranes his neck over the revellers, looking for someone he would know. There are about 20 or 30 people all shouting and roaring, battering their fists off the shutters, vocally expressing their distaste for not being able to get into their local on a Saturday night. He would know some to see, a courteous nod when walking into the pub, but wouldn’t talk to them. Doesn’t know any of their names. He doubts they’d acknowledge him now, especially in their angry states.
Finally, on the other side of the crowd from him, he spots Macka rolling a fag. Stepping out onto the road to bypass the agitated congregation, he spits on the ground for added effect, before cocking his head towards the front doors.
“Fuck’s happenin’ here, Macka?”
Macka is the barman in the Bull’s Horn. If he’s not even allowed in, something massive must be wrong.
“Cannae say, hi,” Macka lights his smoke before taking a long drag, “Boyle’s holdin’ some form of a meetin’.”
“About what?” Smyth sneers, police training kicking in.
Could this have something to do with the Parker murder? Rumours circulated Facebook earlier that they’d arrested Billy Taylor from outside the Crown. He was expecting to land here tonight to a celebration. Keeping up appearances, he knew he had to join.
“No clue, boy,” Macka attempts to hock a greener over the wall beside him, which misses, hitting the top of it and stringing down onto the pavement next to them, making Smyth’s stomach turn, “but whatever it is, they mean business. Showed up here at six o’clock and told me out to fuck,” he clenches his fingers and protrudes his thumb, bashing his arm backwards aggressively. “Big Stoner and Gurnsy were in there too. As ye can tell, they didn’t wanny go quietly.”
He nods towards the two shirtless guys bashing their bare shoulders against the doors in a means to penetrate their own clubhouse. Ultimately destroying their sanctuary, Smyth struggles not to shake his head at their stupidity, instead opting to stay in character and chortle along with Macka.
“Bustin’ for a pint myself, might end up joinin’ them. But fuck am I waitin’ out in this. Told the wife I was only comin’ for the one. Give me a shout when you’re open.”
Macka nods, sucking the last remnants of his cigarette as Smyth bids him farewell with a gravelly ‘good man.’ Once out of eye and ear shot, Smyth plucks out his phone, desperate to inform the big bosses on what he’s seen. Something’s going on behind those closed doors. Something big. And whatever it is, there’s no way it’s good news.
Chapter Sixty:
The third glass of red wine is going down too smoothly. Opting to take on Ferguson’s joke, McNally had landed to their house with both a red and white, one in each hand as Ferguson opened the door. The two had laughed, before McNally got invited into the living room, where an uncharacteristically shy Niamh rested. Her legs crossed, red lips to match the wine in her glass. She had looked up at McNally with a protruded lip, the smirk forming on the corner of her mouth. He had taken her hand delicately, deciding not to kiss it. Too formal.
He’d been introduced to Jane shortly after, popping out of the kitchen with a bizarre apron covering her sparkly top. They had cheered as they clunked their glasses together, before settling down to Jane’s lovely spread. Sweet baby potatoes with an array of vegetables, and a piping hot steak. Medium/rare, just how McNally likes it.
Now, here they sit. Discussing their everyday lives and getting to know one another. Jane occasionally throwing Niamh a lifeline, telling her not to be so modest, as McNally smirks over the table towards her. Entranced by her beauty. Excited at the opportunity of getting to know her. She’s a beautician at Suzie’s Salon, although she studied a degree in psychology. Their mother and father had blatantly informed her that no child of theirs was going to be a beautician. ‘Not when she has brains to burn,’ Niamh and Jane had giggled, mocking their late mother’s apparent regular lecture.
After graduating, however, she decided she wanted to pursue her preferred career, and whilst claiming that she was actively looking for jobs to her parents, she took up a beautician course in the tech. Within ten months, she was hired and soaring in the beauty world. Getting requests for weddings and formals, and the money was nothing to be snubbed at, so eventually she won her parents over.
“I mean, surely studying psychology, you would’ve known how to get them wrapped around your wee finger anyway,” McNally winks at Niamh as she giggles into her hand, clasped around her mouth, her shoulders raised defensively.
“Awk, little miss perfect,” Jane scoffs, a few drinks in now, her words slurring, “couldn’t do wrong from doing right with her,” she hiccups, slurping more wine.
“What?” Ferguson turns to her, frowning and smiling in confusion.
Within seconds, all of them are laughing along, before McNally feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, he puts down his glass and excuses himself.
“Incredibly rude,” he eyes Ferguson, so he knows it’s a work call, before stepping out into the hall to answer O’Connor.
“Sir, Smyth has just called in a mob of people from outside the Bull’s Horn. Turns out there’s a near riot going on because people can’t get in for their drinks. Members of Ardóimid are holding court, including Boyle. We’ve sent some officers over there now to see if they can see what’s going on.”
Sobering up, McNally rubs his stubble thoughtfully.
“Has there been a disturbance?”
“Well, that’s how they’re going to downplay it…”
“You think it could be linked with Parker?”
“I don’t know, sir. Smyth went there himself as he believed there’d be a big party with Taylor getting arrested… Something seems fishy to me.”
“Right… You’re right… Keep me in the loop.”
“I will, sir.”
