Blood And Water (33 page)

“But she wouldn’t wake up, so I shook her a little.” She flicked her eyes up to see how Milford responded to that, but he didn’t react.

“When she did wake up I called Seb and then I called you.”

“And that was at …?”

“Probably about eight twenty – maybe eight twenty-five.”

“And which phone did you use?” he asked, searching his mental catalogue of images for the location of the handsets and mobile phones throughout the house.

“I used the landline.”

“Seb is your brother?” he asked and she nodded in reply. “Why did you call Seb first?”

“I don’t know – instinct, I suppose. He’s the eldest and knows what to do in most situations.”

“And what did he say?”

“He told me to call the ambulance and they called you. He should be on his way here now.”

“Wise man,” Milford said with a friendly smile, turning his attention back to Barbara.

“Mrs. Bertram?” he asked gently. “Barbara …”

But Barbara remained perfectly still.

“Barbara, can you tell us what happened?” He gave her a minute to reply and when no response came he continued, “We need to see what happened here. Did you hear anything? Any shouts, conversations?” But he knew his questions were pointless, falling on deaf ears. Accepting her silence as an indication of her fragile state rather than a lack of cooperation, he turned his attention back to her daughter. “We’ll get her seen by the doctor – he may want to give her something for the shock.” In his mind he made a note to point out what she’d already consumed. “Enya, I need to ask you something. It looks like whoever did this came looking for something specific. Do you have any idea what that might be?”

“I’ve no idea. I don’t really know much about Dad’s affairs.”

“And where are the rest of the family? Do you need to call them?”

“No, it’s okay. They’re on their way. I’ve called them already.”

“We will need to speak to your mum at some point, but now isn’t the time,” he acknowledged with a sideways glance at her mother. “Are
you
okay?” he asked then, concerned for this woman, realising at that moment just who she was, remembering her story which was widely covered in the media at the time.

Enya replied with a fast nod of her head, afraid that tears might follow.

“Let’s leave it at that for the minute,” Milford concluded, seeing her struggle. “We can try again to talk to your mum tomorrow and see if we can figure this out. Is that alright?”

Again Enya nodded in response.

“Are you okay to stay here for a while? I just want to see what’s going on out there.” He indicated towards the door with his thumb and with her consent he got up and left the room.

Heading straight for Garda Fitzgerald he instructed quietly, “Let me know as soon as the rest of the family arrive. And don’t let them anywhere near him.” He pointed towards the lounge.

Taking the cigarette packet from his pocket, he went outside to think, and leaning against the wall lit up with a deep drag into his lungs. The first pull was always the nicest. He was supposed to have given up months ago, but his heart wasn’t in the effort: he still enjoyed it too much, not that he’d say that to his wife. Taking another deep pull, he relished the fresh evening that had a hint of moisture in the air. The sky was clear and the light of the moon was just about visible above the glare of the blue lights.

He thought about the situation inside the house, mentally summing up what he could gather so far. Whoever did this was in no hurry. At a glance it was safe to assume they knew exactly what they were doing and where they were going. He wondered if they knew Mrs. Bertram was upstairs all along. Wandering as he puffed, he made his way to the side passage and unlatched the door. Easy enough, he thought to himself. No one to see, he assessed, looking around. Tapping the cigarette into his pocket ashtray he walked down the passage and stood in front of the broken window. The frame was cleared sufficiently to open the latch and climb in without hurting anyone. There were no footprints and apparently no fingerprints either.

What were they looking for, he wondered, observing the detail of the glass, the way it had cracked and how it fell. Was it possible, he contemplated, that whoever it was thought William was still in the hospital, out of harm’s way? Already his mind had begun to dissect the jumbled-up pieces of evidence, ready to make a start on putting them back together again, right way up. This was the part of the game that he enjoyed most: the initial thrill of the puzzle, the intrigue of the individual elements coming together, and finally the supremacy of working it all out. Priding himself on his superlative instinct, he didn’t ignore the gnawing feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It just
felt
peculiar. He couldn’t quite decide what was wrong, not yet anyhow, but he knew eventually he would. He always did.

The sound of a car horn blaring drew his attention and, stubbing out his cigarette, he made his way back out front. Coming out of the passage he saw a champagne Jaguar coming up the short drive. Popping a chewing-gum in his mouth, he quickly he made his way back inside, past Garda Fitzgerald who was standing guard at the door, and halfway up the stairs to sit and observe the behaviour of the family members as they arrived.

The first walked into the house confidently, cock of the walk, like he knew exactly where he was going. Of course he did, this was his parents’ house. He was the loud one. The leader, who didn’t want to waste any time in establishing who was boss.

“Who’s in charge here?” he boomed at Garda Fitzgerald who was still standing guard at the door.

“Detective Inspector Milford is the lead investigator on this case, sir,” he replied politely. Then, with as much authority as his inexperience could command asked, “And who might you be?” They were used to people throwing their weight around and getting impatient: it was all part of their training.

“Tell him Sebastian Bertram would like a word.”

Milford put a finger to his lips as Fitzgerald glanced in his direction as an indication not to give him and his discreet position away, then watched as Sebastian made his arrogant way into the house.

Ciara arrived next, cautiously treading her way into the hall, like she was expecting someone to pounce: she was both nervous and afraid. Afraid of what, he wondered. Her dead father or something, maybe someone else?

She almost ran into the study when she was told where they were all waiting.

A younger man came last. Cormac, he assumed, as he too arrived with confidence into the hall. Taking a sweeping glance around, he was the only one who seemed in anyway curious about what state the house was in and immediately noticed the man sitting curiously on the stairs. He slowed and nodded and instead of following his brother and sister into the study he doubled back to the front door to ask Garda Fitgerald, much to his amusement, who was the strange man sitting on the stairs.

Interesting, Milford said again to himself. Very interesting.

Chapter 29

Milford looked at his hand-drawn sketch of a family crumbling right before his eyes. It was true, he thought, looking at the convoluted diagram. There is no such thing as the perfect family. We all have our secrets and lies. Some secrets are destined to remain just that – secrets – whilst others just cry out to be discovered. And for the Bertrams it seemed that theirs, of which there were plenty, were tripping over themselves in some kind of revelation stampede just dying to be uncovered. Over the course of the last few days he’d spoken informally to each of the siblings, piecing together the main thread of events on the day that William died. He liked to take time to observe his suspects from a distance and used the passing of William’s funeral as the marker after which he would begin to question them formally.

Dotted lines crossed solid lines, which intersected double lines in seven different colours, one for each member of the family as well as Martha Byrne and Simon McDaid. To anyone else it might have looked like a jumbled-up mess but to him it made perfect connected sense. Standing back with his arms crossed, he went through the story again and again in his head, his eyes moving rapidly along the tracks of lines, trying to understand and if possible figure out the variables and possible explanations of just what happened. And there were quite a few.

According to the family William Bertram was alive and well when they, Rian, Martha, Enya, Cormac and the very nervous Simon McDaid, left the house at approximately four thirty. This concurred with a variety of sketchy witness statements, which confirmed that the three cars with their owners and passengers left the house at about that time. Traffic cameras on the busy intersection also corroborated their story: all three cars could be seen turning out of the quiet street within about ten minutes of each other. They all appeared to drive steadily with none seeming rushed or erratic. In the house then remained Barbara and the victim, apparently still alive. Forensics from the scene were inconclusive. His watch was still ticking when they arrived at eight twenty-six and on preliminary investigation it seemed that William died from blunt force trauma to the head, but there was no sign of a weapon at the scene, although traces of bark around the wound suggested a log from the fire might have been used. Evidence gathered from the scene suggested he didn’t die immediately. Had he been caught in sufficient time he might just have lived, but William Bertram died a slow, miserable death. Indications from forensics suggested the approximate time of death was anywhere between five and seven thirty that evening. It was likely that he was knocked unconscious by the blow to the back of his head and may have regained consciousness at least once or twice before he died. Whatever hit him was delivered with such force that it caused part of his skull to cave in.

“Evans!” Milford called through the glass partition.

The young sergeant was at the door in seconds.

“I need a sounding board,” he told her, deciding that a fresh pair of eyes might see things differently and help him break down what they knew as fact and what was mere supposition.

Happy to oblige, she took the seat Milford vacated and sat back to listen.

“So,” he started, propping up the wall in the corner of the cluttered and stuffy office, regarding the board. With one arm crossed over his chest and the other clutching his chin, he stood: the personification of
perplexed
. “Some of the family, but interestingly not all, get together at the house, to welcome Bertram home having just been discharged from hospital.”

Milford pushed himself from the wall to pick up a ruler and over the next ten minutes point at the different names and events to build for an attentive Evans a concise picture of what happened in the last few hours before William’s death.

“Young McDaid, God love him, breaks the news of Cormac’s pictures, stays to hear the start of the argument but scurries from the house first. The others, having argued with their father, exit the house, in ones and twos, pissed off and furious. Martha and Rian are the last to go, leaving only Barbara there and an apparently very much alive William.” He paused to consider the detail so far.

“What about the housekeeper?” Evans asked from her chair.

“She left at about four ten, just before things kicked off,” he told her quickly, eliminating her from the scene. “Barbara Bertram isn’t saying much but from what we can gather she and William then have their own domestic and, upset by his behaviour towards the children, she storms off and takes herself to her room accompanied by the Bushmills from the tray in the lounge and her little bottle of Valium.”

Milford moved to the other side of the board to point his ruler at a slightly pixelated and not very flattering picture of Enya.

“At approximately seven fifty-five Enya arrives, apparently looking to talk to her parents about what’s been going on with Ciara only to find the house in chaos, her father dead and Barbara passed out cold in the bed upstairs.”

Here he paused to take a breath then turned to Evans with a curious sidebar to the events unfolding.

“We don’t,” he commented, “see any car arrive on the street – apparently she came by bus. By her own admission she called Seb first at eight sixteen from her mobile and then, after a full ten minutes, she called us from the landline.”

“Why did she wait so long?” Evans asked.

“Apparently she was trying to waken her mother. Didn’t want the police to see her passed out like that, or so she says.”

“She might have been better off to leave her as she was,” Evans offered. “You know, to corroborate her story.”

“Hmmm,” Milford pondered before continuing. “We arrive next. Bertram is dead in the living room, Barbara and Enya are in the study that’s been completely turned-over. Both women appear shocked and a bit terrified and Barbara can’t say a word.” He slapped the picture of Barbara’s face with the ruler. “The bed upstairs, Barbara’s bed, is still warm, with the bottle of whiskey now about half empty and the bottle of Valium down a few tabs on the bedside table.”

Taking a few steps back he rested, feet apart and arms folded, to observe the story so far.

“So where did they go after they left the house? The children?” Evans asked. “Where were they in the timeframe of their father being bludgeoned to death?”

“Good question. Let’s start from the bottom up.” Moving back to the board he pointed to Enya. “Enya Bertram leaves the house in a huff with Cormac at about four thirty. They go back to Ciara’s house to park the car then take a taxi to town where they go into a bar and stay there till just after six. They leave. She goes home alone as does Cormac, but she decides to go back to the house later on her own to take on the parents and so becomes the first at the scene to discover the body.”

“Do we know for sure they stayed in the bar till six?”

“Yes and no. The cameras in the bar aren’t working but the barman says he remembers them mainly because she, Enya, raised her voice a good few times, but he couldn’t say for sure what time they arrived or when they left.”