‘Bribing public officials. Someone in the Planning Office at City Hall.’
‘Did you get a name?’
‘Don’t know. Wasn’t my story.’
‘Why’d the Telegraph get cold feet?’
‘Usual story. Businessman calls lawyer. Lawyer calls paper. Paper shits itself.’
‘What happened to the Fourth Estate and all that?’
‘Who are you kidding? The Fourth Estate’s a housing estate. Half these journalists wouldn’t know a story if it jumped up and bit them on the arse. Soap stars shagging footballers — that’s all people care about these days. Or who’s the latest contestant on Big fucking Brother. Honestly, the place is going down the pan. And no one gives a shite about it.’
‘Well,’ said Ward, ‘do a bit of hoking round. I might be able to get you a second bite of the cherry on this.’
‘I’ll see if there is anything I can come up with. Do you think Spender has some connection with the body?’
‘No. But I thought I might be able to have a little fun with him though. Stir it up in Cultra. Give them something to talk about over their sherry in Royal Belfast.’
‘A man after my own heart. Keep me posted. I’ll be waiting here with my dress on.’
The cars became more expensive as Ward turned off the carriageway into Cultra. He passed a black BMW saloon, followed by a silver Porsche. The navy Mondeo looked out of place. Ward imagined the Victorian mansions looking down their noses as he rolled along the wide avenues.
Spender’s place was guarded by a 12-foot, wrought-iron gate. Ward pressed the intercom and it slowly swung open. Up a curved driveway he came to the house. The triple garage held two Mercedes, a silver coupe and a long black saloon. There was another car. A red TVR with personalized registration: WS 1. The front lawn looked like an oversized tennis court and stretched down to the shore where a 20-foot sailboat was tied to a jetty. Ward imagined summertime — long white tables, jackets and dresses, glasses of Pimm’s. He looked at the view. Belfast was a silver slither on the horizon, hidden by a row of elm trees along the western wall. It was almost as if the city wasn’t even there.
Before Ward had a chance to ring the bell a petite woman opened the door. She had bobbed blonde hair and wore a black skirt and white blouse. A deep olive tan made her look several years younger than she probably was.
‘Mrs Spender?’
‘Please. Call me Karen.’
‘DI Ward. Musgrave Street.’
‘You’re a long way from home, Detective.’
Ward glanced up at the house. ‘You’re not wrong there.’
The woman smiled. Ward looked down the garden toward the water.
‘This is quite a view you have here.’
‘Yes. We like it.’
‘You know, there’re people out there make fun of Cultra but I think I’m beginning to see the attraction.’
Ward knew he had a chance to make a friend. And friends could turn out useful further down the road.
‘Believe me, Detective, there’s plenty to be made fun of down here.’
The wife and Spender weren’t from Cultra. They were Belfast people. New money. He imagined the local women, gossiping over their pearls and afternoon tea.
‘Sorry to call so early.’
‘Don’t worry. William’s been working from six. He has an office here as well as the one in Belfast.’
‘Busy man. Still I guess with the property market. . making hay and all that.’
Ward followed Karen Spender down the hall. Her heels clicked loudly on the large black and white tiles. A large gilt mirror hung in the main artery of the house. On the wall was a framed family photograph — husband, wife, two teenage children, a son and daughter. Spender smiled out of the frame: smug, assured, proprietorial. Ward paused.
‘Your two then?’
The woman paused before she spoke. ‘Yes. Although that was a few years ago. Zara is now-’
‘I am sure he doesn’t need your whole life-story, Karen.’
William Spender strode out of an adjacent room. He was in his late fifties, older than his wife and not wearing so well. Spender wore a shirt and tie, his wrists flashing a pair of gold cufflinks, bearing the initials WS. He was impatient. He didn’t like Ward being in the house and wanted to get on with it. The woman ignored her husband and told the detective it was nice to meet him. She walked off down the hall and up the stairs.
‘Let’s step into my office,’ Spender said. It was a command rather than an invitation. Spender signalled the door he had come out of. They walked through into a vast room, centred round an 8-foot mahogany desk.
Ward looked round the room. Spender’s office was bigger than the press room at Musgrave Street. The back wall was lined with a large bookcase containing rows of leather volumes. Ward didn’t think Spender had read any of them. Behind the desk was a high-backed executive chair. The developer took up his position and motioned to a seat in front.
‘So, Detective. Where are you with the investigation?’
Ward paused, wondering who Spender thought he was. He ignored the question and got out his notepad, slowly and deliberately. When he’d opened it at a clean page he looked up.
‘So. What do you know about the body on your site, Mr Spender?’
‘Only what I have seen on the news,’ Spender replied.
‘And where were you, the night of the murder?’
‘I was here with my wife.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘Probably working.’
‘Probably. .?’
‘Listen, Detective-’
‘And what about Monday morning?’
‘I was here.’
‘So how did you find out about it?’
‘Someone called me.’
‘Who called you?’
‘The foreman.’
‘The foreman called you?’
‘No. He called the office and they put him through. Listen, Detective, I don’t know why you’re-’ Spender was getting increasingly annoyed.
‘What time was the call?’
‘In the morning.’
‘You don’t know what time?’ Ward asked, a deliberate note of disbelief in his voice.
‘Before nine,’ Spender snapped back.
‘And what did you do?’
‘What do you mean what did I do?’
‘A dead body turns up on one of your sites. You don’t go down there? You don’t contact the police?’
‘You’d already been contacted. Then you arrived and pulled my whole workforce off the site.’
Ward could see this had got to Spender. The fact that someone was interfering with his empire. He decided to prod.
‘Must have cost you a bit, that. Us shutting you down.’
Spender didn’t reply.
‘Do you know of anyone who might want to disrupt Laganview?’
‘No.’
‘Locals? Contractors? Disgruntled employees? Anyone with a grudge against you or the company?’
‘No. Detective, we’re providing jobs down there. Building some of the best property ever seen in Northern Ireland. These apartments-’
‘Save it for your investors, Mr Spender.’ Ward decided to change tack. ‘How long has Tony Burke worked for you?’
‘Six, seven years.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘I know he is a good foreman. Listen, Detective-’
‘Do you know about his past?’
‘No. But what has that-’
‘You were in the Belfast Telegraph, Mr Spender. Corruption and fraud.’
‘Once the Telegraph checked its facts, it soon let the story drop.’
Ward stayed silent, staring at Spender incredulously. The developer went on the offensive.
‘I hardly see the relevance between that and some wee hood turning up dead on my building site. I’m not even sure why you are down here. Wouldn’t your time be better spent in the Short Strand? The Markets? Instead of out here, casting aspersions about things you know nothing about.’
‘You stick to the property game, Mr Spender. Leave the policework to the rest of us.’
Ward stood up and walked slowly to the wall of Spender’s office. There were two framed photographs, showing Spender holding some award, flanked by well-fed businessmen in black tie.