Murphy's Heist Page 16

  “Now there’s a coincidence, Mr Bell,” said the Inspector, “we’ve just nabbed Murphy at the airport. I bet you wouldn’t be able to shed any light on that, would you?”

  “You’re dead right I wouldn’t. He certainly wasn’t coming to see me. Coincidences do happen, Inspector.”

  “He wasn’t coming, Mr Bell, he was leaving.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Bobby was leaning over the rail of the rear deck of the Contessa, admiring the bustle of the marina, and basking in the beautiful late morning sunshine. He didn’t have a worry in the world, and it had been a long time since he could say that.

  He glanced across to the other side of the marina. A man was standing on one of the pontoon jetties, with a tripod easel in front of him. He looked as though he might be painting the Contessa. It would be a nice walk round the harbour to find out, so he went down the steps to the diving platform and stepped onto the pontoon. He climbed the harbour steps, and at the top, looked again across the dock at the figure. From this vantage point, he could see the man was holding a palette in one hand, and a brush in the other; definitely an artist, then.

  John McBride was watching with interest, the progress of the man from the Contessa as he made his way round the harbour, and guessed that he was the destination. He had immersed himself again into the painting in front of him, so that it was with a start that he heard a voice immediately behind him say “That’s my boat you’re painting.”

  McBride turned round and was confronted by the man who he had tracked with his eyes circling the waterside.

  “Yes, I know. I was watching you as you left your boat – the Contessa. It is a super yacht. What year was she built? Some time in the fifties?”

  “You have an interest in boats? Yes, she was built in 1957, teak hull with mahogany superstructure, twin diesels, sleeps eight plus crew.” Bobby stopped, looked at the painting which was taking shape on the easel. “That is a fantastic painting.”

  The picture showed the magnificent buildings of Douglas’ south side above the harbour, which was full of pleasure craft, and the Contessa lay right in the foreground. The subject of the painting.

  “Is the painting for sale?” asked Bobby.

  “Yes, of course. I paint for a living,” answered McBride.

  “Then I’ll buy it, and hang it in the stateroom. I’m expecting to be able to spend more time sailing. I will be retiring in a few months’ time, while I’m still young enough to enjoy it.”

  “You don’t know how much the painting is, yet.”

  “Okay, tell me.”

  “If you want to get the painting framed locally, it will be £600 unframed. Tell the framer to put mirror plates on the frame, that way, the picture will be secure in a rough sea. Also to put ultraviolet screening glass in the frame, so that if you are moored for long periods where the sunlight falls on the painting, it will not fade.”

  “When will the painting be finished?”

  McBride put his head on one side, looking at the painting, and then looking at the scene in front of him.

  “In about half an hour,” he said.

  “Do you mind if I watch you?”

  “Of course not. Do you know, I thought I saw you on the beach in Hoylake, on the Wirral a couple of days ago.”

  Bobby Bell smiled. “I think you must be mistaken. I was in Scotland with my boat. I just arrived back early this morning. Funny you should think that. I had the police swarming over the boat as soon as I berthed. They searched it from top to bottom. Eventually they went away sure they had made a mistake, apologised profusely. Apparently the confusion arose because someone was using a tender with Contessa painted on it, picking up a guy off the shore in Hoylake, would you believe. We told them that the tender was stolen from our boat over a fortnight ago. I was in Dublin, but my brother Gerry Bell phoned to tell me. He lives in Douglas, and keeps an eye on the boat for me. Well, he can see it from his house, which is there.” Bobby Bell pointed at the painting, “Bell Chandlery, just on the harbour wall.”

  Whilst they had been talking, McBride was still putting paint on the paper. “I’m sorry that I was mistaken. No hard feelings?”

  “Of course not,” said Bell. “It was an understandable error. It would be impossible to prove, even if you had seen a boat like mine. Seven more boats were produced of this class, by a boatyard on the English south coast, although one boat was destroyed by fire a couple of years ago. A fire at sea is something that every sailor fears.”

  “I couldn’t see the boat, it was anchored out near Hilbre Island, and it was dark.”

  “I know the place – I was there a few years ago. The Dee Estuary, it’s very shallow.

  The only practical anchorage is in the lee of the island. From Hoylake, in the darkness, you would not be able to pick out the shape of any boats at anchor there, only their riding lights.” “So, you are retiring? From what?” said from round a number eight sable brush, clenched between his teeth. He did not look up, concentrating in painting the water, the first wash, with a number sixteen brush. Then, with the smaller brush, now taken from his mouth, he was adding reflections, wet in wet.

  “Property development. It’s been a bad few years, and I won’t be sorry to see the back of it.”

  “But you obviously won’t retire a pauper,” said John McBride. “The boat, for instance. And the upkeep of it, must consume a few bob.”

  “Yes,” said Bobby Bell, “it isn’t the capital that’s sunk in the boat that hurts, it’s the annual running costs, the insurance, the mooring fees, maintenance, fuel. The list is endless, it sometimes seems. But it’s worth it, if you love boats.”

  “You could charter it out, a boat like that.”

  “I could quite easily. I know a couple of fellows who do just that. But I couldn’t let other people sail around in my yacht. I just couldn’t. I’d rather sell it, if it came to it that I couldn’t afford it. But it is unlikely to come to that, I hope. I’ve got a big investment in a shopping centre in Dublin that is nearing completion, so I can cash in there. Or just take the dividends to live on. I’ll buy a property here in Douglas to live in, if I’m not living on the boat. That will be cleverer than you think, because the income tax is very low, no more than twenty percent, and the maximum tax you are charged in one year is one hundred and twenty thousand pounds. There are no inheritance taxes, either. Perhaps you should consider basing yourself here. Or, of course as an artist, you would pay no tax at all in Ireland.

  “I intend to spend the winters on the Med, living on the Contessa. My brother Gerry, who has the chandlery, and who skippers the boat says we could take it to Florida, sail the Keys. Crossing the Atlantic isn’t a big problem. A lot of the way you are island hopping, Madeira, the Faroes, and so on.”

  “Sounds good,” said McBride, slightly distracted, as he put the finishing touches to the painting. “Just have a look, and make sure I’ve got your boat right. You’ll know, if I haven’t.”

  Bell looked at the painting closely. “Yes, you’ve got it, spot on.”

  McBride made sure the painting was dry, and unclipped it from the bulldog fasteners, and clipped it back to the board, with back of the paper exposed. He selected a soft lead pencil from his shirt pocket.

  “I’ll just make a few notes for your framer,” he said. And on the back wrote: 16” x 20” frame, with 2” ivory double mount. Fit mirror plates, and UV resistant glass. Seal frame well to avoid damp penetration.

  Bobby Bell said, “If you come over to the boat, I’ll pay you, and I hope you’ll have a drink with me. The sun is well over the yardarm.”

  McBride looked at his watch, amazed to see it was ten past one. He’d certainly had a busy day so far. He quickly packed his easel drawer, then collapsed the easel until it was a small wooden case, easy to carry in one hand. In his other hand he carried the board with the painting clipped to it.

  “Right,” he said to Bell, “Lead the way.”

  They gradually threaded their way down the
pontoons, and then up the harbour wall. Once at the top, they walked along the quayside, going along the end where Bells Chandlery stood, Bobby Bell waving and smiling at his brother, who stood in the doorway talking to a beefy fisherman. Eventually they arrived at Contessa’s pontoon, and Bobby Bell led the way, stepping on to the swimming platform at the aft end of the boat, and then up the steps from there to the afterdeck. On this deck there were gaily upholstered sun loungers, and tables within easy reach. Some more formal garden type chairs were placed round a larger table which were under the covered deck. This deck had open sides, and there was provision for the hanging of canvas wind awnings.

  Bobby Bell pulled out one of the chairs at the table, and indicated that John McBride should be seated. “I’ll just be a minute mixing the drinks,” he said, and disappeared through the door to the stateroom. First he went down the companionway to the lower deck, and into his cabin. In a bulkhead, he touched one of the panels, and it swung open to reveal a safe. He quickly opened it, took six £100 packets of Isle of Man notes, and put them in his pocket. He closed the safe and the panel, and went back up the companionway to the stateroom bar. He took two glasses off the shelf, and a bottle of gin. He went across to the deck door.

  “Will gin and tonic be okay, or would you prefer beer?”

  “Beer, please.”

  Back at the bar, Bobby pulled a can of beer out of the fridge, and mixed gin and tonic for himself.

  Sitting down, Bell said, “Cheers,” and took a swig of his gin.

  “Bottoms up,” replied McBride.

  Bobby Bell reached into his pocket brought the £600 in Isle of Man currency on the table. “Here you are. This is for the painting.”

  McBride looked at the money on the table. “Oh, yes. Thank you. I’ll let you have a receipt.”

  “Don’t bother, the painting is the receipt. Just come with me, leave the drinks here.”

  Bobby led the way through the door into the stateroom. He pointed to the bulkhead opposite the door, to one side of the door to the wheelhouse. He strode over to the wall, used his hands to gesture and frame the area he imagined the painting would be. “What do you think?”

  McBride gazed at the opposite side of the room, at Bobby holding his arms up the wall. “Yes, I think it will be fine there. With the mirror plates, you just put woodscrews through them, and it will hold the picture solidly, without any chance of it coming down in rough weather.”

  Bobby went over to a chair, sat down. “I will sit here and admire it, and think of this day,” he said.

  McBride said: “Will you show me round your boat? You told me you would.”

  “Oh, yes, sure. Well this is the stateroom, and through here.” He opened a door, went up a couple of steps, is the wheelhouse. He turned round as McBride came through, “Is the state of the art technology. We’ve GPS, echo sounder, radar, satellite telecoms, Wi-Fi. We’re never out of touch with the world. The engine room is aft, as I told you we have twin diesel engines. Gardners, overhauled a couple of years back. We have a bow thruster, electrical, so we can turn on a sixpence.”

  “And a pair of night vision binoculars, just like my friend lost, down in Hoylake. I saw somebody pick them up.”

  “These?” said Bobby Bell. “Why they belong to my brother Gerry, he skippers for me.” Bobby stepped through another door, out on to the foredeck.

  “We’ve got a companionway here down to the crew accommodation, and this way,” said Bobby, “there’s the galley with full catering equipment, and a dining room up forward of that. Back here,” Bobby about turned, walked down the side deck aft, where there was a companionway off the aft deck, he started down, followed by John McBride.

  “This is the lower deck, Here is the owner’s cabin,” he opened the door to show a magnificent cabin running the full width of the boat, 20 feet across, and 20’ deep. Fitted furniture, dressing tables, chests of drawers, lined each side. There was a 78” wide bed, and flanking that, wardrobes at either side. There was even a sofa and two easy chairs. A television screen was mounted on one bulkhead. There was a door off to an en-suite bathroom.

  This time, McBride looked round and raised his eyebrows.

  Bobby trailed John round the rest of the cabins, and even into the crew quarters. They went back on to the upper deck, and Bobby said, “I think you’ve seen it all now.

  Come on, we’ve been neglecting our drinks.” He led McBride back to the aft deck, where they sat again, with their drinks.

  “When did you arrive on the island Mr McBride?”

  “This morning, actually I flew in from Liverpool to Ronaldsway. I just came into the main area, when guess who I saw, friend Murphy, I believe you know him. He was going up to the departure lounge, to go through security. He saw me, and turned to run. I’m afraid I did a rugby tackle and floored him. Then it was all hell with the security staff. We both ended up in handcuffs. But once we sorted it, they let me go. So I got a taxi into Douglas, and booked into a hotel, and came down to the harbour to start my first painting. I told my agent I’d let him have ten pictures of the Isle of Man.”

  “I heard about Murphy’s arrest this morning, probably as it happened. The police were searching the boat, when the news came through to the detective sergeant. So he told us about it.”

  “Another amazing coincidence,” McBride said with a grin.

  “Indeed it was. I had no idea that Murphy was following me around, or so it seemed. He and I were at school together in Belfast. But after leaving school, I went into estate agency, and Murphy went into crime. He had a bad start in life, parents kicked him around. He wasn’t loved.”

  McBride stood up. “Well thank you for the drink, and thank you for buying the painting. I must get on, now, probably paint another picture this afternoon.”

  Bobby Bell leaned on the rail, and watched McBride walk down the pontoon, and up the harbour steps with his easel case in one hand, board in the other. When he was out of sight, Bobby went through to the wheelhouse to put the binoculars in a drawer. That had been a silly mistake.

  He searched high and low, but the binoculars had gone. Bobby swore under his breath. “Thieving bastard.”

  McBride had tied the case up as tight as he could. Murphy would go to prison for a long time. He must email Dusty Miller tonight, tell him about today’s events. And tell him that he had recovered Dusty’s binoculars.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Danny Nolan lay in bed, wondering where he was. He had a crashing headache, and somebody was talking. In fact two people were talking. He plucked up courage to try and open his eyes, any light and his headache would vanish off the top of the pain meter.

  He half-opened one eye. It was fairly dark in the room. But whose room was it? Not his flat, that was for sure.

  Above the pain, his brain started working. They had buried his kid brother yesterday, or more correctly cremated him. The pain was due to the monstrous amount of drink he had consumed with Jimmy’s police force cronies. It was coming back to him now. He was in a hotel bedroom. He opened his eyes fully. He was lying on a bed, fully dressed. Talking was coming from the television set. He must have left it on last night.

  Suddenly he heard the voice on the television mention the name Murphy. He sat up on the bed, sharply, making his headache worse. He squinted at the screen. A female newsreader said, “He was arrested this morning at Ronaldsway Airport on the Isle of Man. Over now, to our man at the airport, John Smythe.”

  The screen showed a man dressed in a blazer, standing outside an airport, or maybe he wasn’t at the airport at all, but standing in front of a bit of stock footage being screened behind him. He spoke into a microphone he was holding, whilst looking direct at the camera, or maybe looking at the autocue surrounding the lens.

  “I’m here at the Isle of Man Airport, where a dramatic incident has just unfolded. A passenger who had just landed at the airport, recognised Murphy, the man police have been looking for in connection with last week’s armed bullion hijack. He was
just making his way to the departure lounge. The passenger rugby tackled Murphy, and security staff took both men into custody at the airport. Murphy, who is believed to have left England several days ago, was carrying a briefcase believed to contain over a million pounds sterling.

  Eamon Murphy, sixty, has been taken into police custody, and will appear tomorrow morning at Chester Magistrate’s Court. He is expected to be remanded in custody, charged with murder and armed robbery. The passenger who tackled him has been released without charge.” The picture changed and the woman announcer said “And other news this morning…”

  Nolan, reached over, and switched the set off. My God, he was in the right place, at the right time, and with the right equipment. Now Danny knew he would be able to avenge Jimmy’s death by Murphy’s hand.

  Danny was staying at a Premier Inn which was no more than fifteen miles from Chester. He had ample time to scope out the Magistrates’ Court, and get ready to shoot Murphy, as he was coming out of the Court tomorrow.

  He hurried downstairs, through the restaurant to the reception desk.

  “Good morning, I seem to have overslept. Room 29. What time do I have to vacate my room?”

  The young female looked up at the wall clock. “About half an hour ago,” she said, deadpan.

  “Okay, I’ll just go and get my luggage. Can I have my bill?”

  The girl took pity on him. “You can have another half an hour. We aren’t full tonight.” She turned to the computer, tapped a few keys, and the bill was spewing out of the printer. She removed it with a flourish, and placed it on the counter, right way up for Nolan to read.

  “Gosh, no wonder I’ve got a bad head this morning,” he said. There was a seemingly endless list of wines and spirits on the sheet.

  “You didn’t drink it all yourself,” said the girl. “I was on the desk, and I saw a lot of people helping you.”

  Danny Nolan pulled out his wallet, and prepared to max out his credit card. When he had sorted out the financial transaction, he sped upstairs to pack his case.

  When he re-entered the lobby, he said to the receptionist, “Do you have a street map of Chester?” She pointed to a rack of maps and paperbacks. “I think there is one on there. The maps are on the bottom shelf.