The Sixth Estate (The Craig Crime Series) (29 page)

“That’s very helpful, Mr McDermott. Now, please tell me what you know about Mr Bwye.”

McDermott stared at him, confused. “Nothing. We barely speak.”

Craig wasn’t convinced; by the sounds of the fight at the golf-club they’d done more than talk. “Not even on boundary issues? The lake is bounded by both your lands.”

He shrugged. “And the council’s. The Bwyes own it; we just pay mooring and access rights.”

“Is that expensive?”

“No. Mrs Bwye keeps the price down.”

Craig’s ears perked up. “You dealt with Mrs Bwye not her husband?”

“I didn’t deal with either of them. It’s my wife who sorts out the fees. She knows Mrs Bwye through a local charity.”

By now Liam’s face was turning blue to match his hands and, interesting though the combination of blue face and sandy hair was, Craig decided to take pity on him. He gestured him and the boys towards the house, motioning their father to wait behind. When his sons were out of earshot Craig stared hard at him in the dimming light.

“Would you like to revisit your comment about barely knowing Mr Bwye? We know you’re both members of the golf-club.”

McDermott had discussed the Bwyes in the present tense so he wasn’t going to change that and give things away. McDermott smiled.

“Ah, so someone’s been telling tales. Yes, I’ve played him at the club sometimes, but I don’t call that knowing someone. Oliver Bwye’s not a man I’ll ever have in my home.”

Future tense this time. Interesting. Did McDermott really not know that Bwye was dead or was it a disingenuous pretence? He needed to know more about the man.

“May I ask what you do for a living, Mr McDermott?”

Davy had described the property as a farm but apart from the exterior of the house it didn’t look like any working farm he’d ever seen.

“I’m a businessman. Land development mostly; we have quite a bit in various locations across the north and Donegal.”

“This was a farm originally, wasn’t it?”

McDermott smiled. “You’ve done your research. It was a farm when we bought it but we sold most of the land and only kept the fifty acres around the house.”

Neither Bwye nor McDermott had worked the countryside they lived in; making money was their game. Craig changed tack.

“Tell me about your conversations with Mr Bwye at the golf-club.”

McDermott shrugged. “Politics. It’s a common topic of conversation. Bwye’s a staunch unionist and I fall firmly into the other camp; quite a few people around here do. I find it hard to see the logic of being in the UK when the Republic is less than ten miles away.”

Craig had no intention of debating the issue; they would be there all year.

“You came to blows in November.”

The businessman shrugged again. “It was nothing. Just drunken slabbering; you know the form. A few punches and it was over. Your man Ellis saw to that. I haven’t seen Bwye since then. I don’t like the man.”

“Because?”

McDermott’s fists clenched. “Because he hits his wife and I have no time for men like that. OK?”

It was OK in Craig’s book, but McDermott had fought publicly with Bwye and just admitted that he didn’t like him, so he warranted Davy taking a deeper look. But for now he would let him play the host. Craig changed the subject, nodding towards the brightly lit house.

“May I speak to your wife?”

“Sure. She’s just cooking dinner.”

As they entered the warm house the smells of home cooking filled Craig’s nostrils and he noticed that Liam’s blue hue had changed to red, on its way back to his usual white. McDermott disappeared into the kitchen and re-emerged with a slim, dark-haired woman whose face was a feminine version of her two sons’.

“Niamh, these gentlemen are Superintendent Craig and D.C.I. Cullen. They’re here to ask some questions about the Bwyes.”

Niamh McDermott stared at the policemen in turn and then quickly back at her husband. Craig expected her next words to be a question but they were chiding instead.

“For goodness sake, Garvan, they’re frozen! Could you not have offered them a warm drink?”

Her mini-mes grinned, first at her and then at their dad and Craig knew that affectionate chiding was a regular event in the house. McDermott didn’t seem to mind.

“Ach, no. I forgot. Sorry, gentlemen, would you like tea or coffee?” He gave them a knowing wink. “I’ve something stronger if you’d prefer.”

Craig declined and took the coffee but he encouraged Liam to drink whatever he liked. It was after six and he was the designated driver.

As Liam sipped gratefully at a whisky, Craig followed Niamh McDermott to the kitchen for his coffee, using the opportunity to sound her out. He leaned against a worktop and watched as she basted a joint of beef before putting it in the oven.

“Do you know Diana Bwye well?”

He stuck to the present tense; in theory no-one knew that the Bwyes were dead but his team, and he preferred it to stay that way.

Niamh McDermott’s muffled voice emerged from the oven. “Yes, very. We’re on two committees together.”

“May I ask which ones?”

She closed the oven door and sprang athletically to her feet.

“Sure. We’re on the committees for Vanquish Cancer and the local children’s learning fund. We’ve been fundraising for both of them for years.”

Craig sipped his coffee and considered his next question carefully. The wrong words would tell her something was amiss with Diana Bwye, the right ones get her to open up. He needn’t have worried; Niamh McDermott did all the work for him. She stood opposite, scrutinising his face in a way that said she wasn’t admiring his bone structure.

“Mr Craig, my husband may be one of life’s innocents but I’m not. I know something is wrong over at the Bwyes; I’ve seen all the activity there in the past few days.”

Craig glanced at the door and she shook her head.

“You needn’t worry. The boys don’t notice anything unless it’s wearing a football jersey or involves food, and Garvan is out of the house at seven and not back until seven at night; it’s been too dark for him to see what’s been going on.”

She made herself a cup of tea. “I, on the other hand, am here all day and I’d have to be blind not to notice all the yellow tape and flashing lights.” She stared straight into his eyes. “Diana’s dead, isn’t she?”

There was no point in lying. Craig set down his cup, prepared for fainting or hysterics when he answered, but half convinced that he wouldn’t see either from this feisty woman.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

There was silence for a moment while a range of expressions flew across Niamh McDermott’s face, then she nodded solemnly.

“God rest her soul. She deserved some peace.”

Craig nodded tentatively towards a window seat and they sat down. Niamh began talking and didn’t stop for breath, outlining what she knew of Diana’s unhappiness and the state of the Bwye’s marital less than bliss. When she’d finished, Craig topped up her drink and asked the question on both of their minds.

“Do you think Oliver Bwye would ever have killed her? Or himself?”

Niamh’s snort of derision was so sharp that Craig was sure her husband would hear and come running in. He didn’t, instead they heard a loud guffaw from Liam that suggested he and the McDermott males were enjoying some craic.

“Kill his wife, definitely, but kill himself, never. Oliver Bwye’s a selfish pig.”

“Not even if he was sick? To ensure he left his family financially secure in their home?”

Her brown eyes widened as if she thought Craig was insane.

“Well, first, Oliver Bwye was far too selfish to give up one minute of his life for anyone, and second, Rocksbury belonged to Diana; it was part of her trust fund. The only way they’d ever get thrown out would have been if she’d signed the estate into community property and Oliver had bankrupted them, and there was no way she could have done that, not even if she’d wanted to. The land and house have always passed down through the D’Arcy women; the next person to inherit it will be Jane, whether her father is alive or dead.”

Craig’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Why hadn’t this shown up in Davy’s research? If it was true then it meant that Oliver Bwye’s financial risk taking wouldn’t have left his family out on the street, so why would he have needed a K&R insurance pay-out? Was it really all about his legacy? He found it hard to believe that a millionaire’s obituary in The Chronicle would matter if you were dead but he parked the queries for Davy and asked another question.

“Did Jane know that she would inherit the estate?”

Niamh head shook emphatically. “Definitely not. Diana wanted to tell her but Oliver threatened violence if she did. He wanted people to think that he owned everything, and he also wanted to keep Jane in line till she came into the trust he’d set up, at thirty. It was all about control.”

“And Diana told you because…?”

“Because she had to tell someone and we were close. She used to drive round here for coffee sometimes, when things got too much at home. And before you ask, yes, I knew that Oliver hit her. I asked her to take Jane and leave him many times, but she wouldn’t leave Rocksbury and he would never have agreed to go.”

She paused for a moment before restarting. “I can tell you one thing, Superintendent. The beatings had been getting worse recently. Diana came to committee a few weeks ago with her arm in bandages. She said that she’d fallen off a ladder, but I knew that was rubbish.” Her face contorted in disgust. “The bastard slashed it.” She glanced at a knife block. “If any man laid a finger on me I’d stab them.”

Craig didn’t doubt it.

Her shoulders slumped. “But Diana wasn’t like me; she was the softest soul I’d ever met. She was very religious too, a strict Presbyterian. She believed that marriage was forever, whether your husband beat you or not. I think the charity work was her escape; the only thing that kept her going. That and her faith.”

Tears filled her eyes and Craig’s next words were gentle. “It’s obviously a loss for you. Would you mind if I asked one last question?”

She nodded him on.

“Are you on the committee that Mrs Bwye was supposed to attend last Wednesday evening?”

“Yes. It’s the fundraising committee for Vanquish Cancer. Diana never missed it because her mother died of the disease. I was surprised when she phoned in sick but I assumed that Oliver had hit her somewhere that she couldn’t cover this time.”

He made a note to check with the people who’d seen Diana Bwye that day and then stood up, gazing down at her.

“I’m sorry to have upset you, Mrs McDermott, but your answers have been very helpful.”

She sniffed and shook her head. “Diana’s in a better place now. It’s Jane that I feel sorry for, left alone with that man.”

He realised that she thought Oliver Bwye was still alive and decided to confide in her. “Oliver Bwye is dead as well. Although you must keep that to yourself.”

Her eyes widened in shock and then she did what Craig had guessed she would do; she smiled.

“Brilliant. I hope he died painfully.” Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “And before you even think it, there’s no way that Jane killed them. She’s as soft as Diana was and she would never ever have harmed her mum. They were inseparable.” She stared past him, distracted. “I must go and see her. She’ll be lost, poor wee pet.”

Craig shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry, Mrs McDermott, but that will have to wait. This has to stay between us. If it gets out that the Bwyes are dead it could impede our investigation.”

She jutted her chin out defiantly then saw the sense of what he’d said and nodded once. “I won’t say anything, not even to my family.” She wiped her eyes with a hankie and stood up briskly, giving a mischievous smile. “But you’ll have to make up some story about what we were discussing in here; my Garvan is a very jealous man.”

****

Saturday. 6 a.m.

Craig’s night had been spent tossing and turning, despite self-medicating heavily with beer. When he finally gave up trying to sleep and wandered downstairs, it was still only six a.m. He exited the foyer of the small hotel into its well planted gardens, and marvelled at how much snow had fallen overnight. Thank goodness they’d gathered the forensics from the lakeside before they’d lost evidence, although it looked like the divers were going to have another day from hell.

His feet crunched down the driveway to the edge of the bordering fields and he stood there gazing across the grass, hands pushed deep into his pockets for warmth and thinking restless thoughts, only some of which were about the case. He’d been there for thirty minutes; listening to the birds sing and watching them leave pronged footprints in the snow, when the still winter air was disturbed by a familiar voice.

“You should have drunk McDermott’s whisky, boss. It might have helped your kip.”

Craig didn’t turn, staring instead at a copse of trees and marvelling at how deep in the countryside they were.

“Then I’d have a hangover like you.”

Liam was close enough now for his voice to be a boom. “Hangovers are for wimps. I haven’t had a decent one in years.” He risked asking a question that he knew might bring no reply. “You thinking deep thoughts?”