‘When was the last time you heard from him?’
Mrs Spender’s nose started to run. She sniffed, having to hold back the tears again. Ward handed her a tissue.
‘Sixteen months ago.’
It was as if a release valve had been turned in her.
‘How long has he been a drug addict?’
‘It started when he was seventeen — so we think, anyway. He was doing his A-levels. Didn’t like school so decided to do them at the Tech in Belfast. He must have fallen in with the wrong crowd. Started going into the town at weekends, Friday night right through. He would come home Sunday morning with bags under his eyes. As if he hadn’t slept for days. We tried everything. Stopped his money. He wasn’t allowed out. He climbed out his bedroom window and went anyway.’
Mrs Spender looked past Ward, into the middle distance.
‘He went to Manchester for university. Things seemed to settle down. The first Christmas he came home he looked OK. By the summer he’d lost half a stone. His skin was a yellowy grey colour. He would disappear for weeks at a time. Then he’d turn up out of the blue. He started stealing from us — from his own family. It was my fault. I raised him, William was always busy. The next Christmas, he never came home. We got a letter saying he’d been thrown out of the university at the end of his first year. We haven’t heard from him since then. Sixteen months.’
Ward had a sudden sinking feeling. Could the body at Laganview be Phillip Spender? The police hadn’t released a photograph, only a description and an appeal for information. What if he had come back? What if he’d owed some people money? Someone could have tried to get to Spender through his son.
Ward sighed. There was nothing else for it. He produced a photograph of the victim from his jacket pocket.
‘Mrs Spender, do you recognize this boy?’
The woman suddenly realized what Ward was trying to ascertain. The colour drained from her face. She looked at the photograph with an expression of horror, then shook her head. It wasn’t Phillip.
‘Mrs Spender, that feeling you’ve got — the one for Phillip — the hurt you feel for him. Because you’re his mother. Because you carried him round inside you for nine months. Because you gave birth to him, because you fed him, because you were everything to him. There is another mother out there, feeling exactly the same thing — except her son is lying on a slab in the Belfast morgue. She doesn’t even know he’s there. He’s alone. Completely alone. She needs to know what happened to him. She needs to come and get him.’
Ward stopped talking, setting the photograph on the table, beside the framed picture of the two Spender children.
‘You can help this woman. You can help her by helping us.’
Karen Spender looked round the room, searching for something to hold on to. Her mind was racing. Was it William’s fault Phillip had turned out the way he had? The arrogance. The greed. Never having time for him. Or was it her? Had she been too soft on him? Just letting him do what he wanted? And would someone out there speak up if something like this happened to her Phillip? If he was lying somewhere with the same lifeless expression?
The emotions whirled through her. She felt sick. Ward was offering her a way out.
‘There was a book,’ she said thickly.
‘A book?’
‘A small black book. William found it in Phillip’s room a couple of weeks ago. It had phone numbers in it — Belfast numbers. There were initials beside them. We figured it was the people he was getting his drugs from.’
‘Where is it now?’
‘I don’t know. William took it.’
‘And where was William on Sunday evening, a fortnight ago?’
She hesitated for a second. Then: ‘He was here.’
Ward noticed the pause. She was lying outright or else trying to cover something up. Mrs Spender looked at the detective. A veil fell from her eyes as if she had suddenly awoken. She remembered where she was and who she was talking to. The kitchen, with all its familiarity, seemed to rally round, to prop her up.
‘Detective, my husband is a respectable businessman. If you have any questions about his affairs, I suggest you take them up with him.’
She stood up.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I have quite a lot of things to get on with.’
‘One last thing, Mrs Spender.’
He produced a photograph of Tony Burke, one they’d lifted from the video recording of his interview. He also had one of Michael Burke, a copy of his arrest mug shot from an old RUC file.
‘Do you recognize these men?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Ward held the woman’s gaze for several seconds before picking the photographs from the table.
As he walked down the hall he caught sight of the family portrait hanging on the wall. The kids were twelve or thirteen. Everyone was smiling. William Spender included.
TWENTY-FIVE
William Spender admired himself in the full-length mirror. There was something about black tie he’d always liked — the polished shoes, the white shirt, the tight collar. It was like a dress uniform for the successful. He tilted his head back, straightening his bow tie. Not bad, for the son of a builder, he thought. Black tie had become almost a monthly fixture on Spender’s calendar. It seemed businessmen across Northern Ireland couldn’t wait to get together and congratulate themselves on how well they were doing. The trousers had been a bit of a squeeze and Spender wondered if he needed to finally go up a size. He patted his gut softly, thinking about his favourite restaurants — Deane’s, Cayenne, The Merchant. Venison steak, pan-fried scallops, Dundrum mussels.
‘How could a man not get fat?’ he said out loud.
Tonight was the Chamber of Commerce awards dinner. It was an annual event. A five-course meal at the City Hall and anyone who was anyone would be there. His friends from Planning, as well as a few folk from the City Council. It would be a good chance for him to see them, make sure they were all on side for the upcoming Gasworks project. The favours for Laganview had all been paid up.
The Chamber of Commerce had some doll from UTV presenting the awards. Spender Properties were receiving one for their work in the Cathedral Quarter. Spender laughed at the idea — as if you needed to be rewarded for making money! It was money that mattered. Money spoke louder than any bit of Waterford crystal ever could. At night, when he couldn’t sleep he’d drive round Belfast in the Mercedes, doing a loop of the various developments he’d built. It was a counting exercise and not a little bit of self-congratulation. There were the houses up the Hightown Road, the Cathedral Quarter, Laganview, and now the Gasworks project. Spender would sit in the warmth of the car, listening to the hum of the engine, whispering to himself: ‘She’s mine. So’s she. So’s she.’
He knew the Chamber of Commerce do would be good publicity and would undoubtedly bring more investors on board. From the plans alone they’d sold half the apartments at Laganview. In Northern Ireland people couldn’t get enough. It was as if they’d been let off the leash after years of straining. Folk walked round show apartments and pulled out their cheque books. The banks were everyone’s friend, and were giving out money hand over fist. With Laganview they’d be able to raise the price by a hundred grand per apartment when they released the second phase. The important thing was that work was back on track. It was easy. A few more Poles swinging pickaxes and the thing was on schedule again. The police were a joke. Strutting around like they owned the place. They didn’t, Spender reminded himself. I do.
Karen walked into the bedroom from her en suite. Something was up with her: she’d had a face on her since Spender walked in the door an hour ago. He didn’t know what she had to be unhappy about — she’d just put on the black silk dress, the Yves Saint Laurent number that cost the guts of two grand. She sat at her dressing-table, putting the finishing touches to her make up. Karen had been stunning when they had first met. She was still attractive and had kept her figure well. Spender glanced at her in the mirror. He liked walking into a crowded room with her on his arm. Heads turned. The men looked at her leeringly and women as if they wanted to slit her throat. After their entrance though, he could never wait to get rid of her. He’d park her with the rest of the wives. Let them talk about whatever it was that they talked about. He could go off with the men. Talk business. Tell them how well Spender Properties were doing.