He swings around and starts walking up his marble hall again. The detectives look at each other quizzingly before stepping through and following him out into an opening where a long dining table rests. The windows behind give the room an picturesque view of the River Foyle and the bridge they just recently came off, as well as a natural source of light shining through them onto the table, where over a dozen guests sit, munching on cheese boards and sipping red wine.
“Where are my manners, detectives? This is Cathair Barr, MP for West Tyrone, and his wife Enda. Fearghal O’Carroll from social protection and his wife Dearbhla…”
This goes on for several more moments, the guests raising a toast to the detectives, who nod politely in return.
“And finally, Vice President of Ardóimid and my right-hand man, Cormac Byrne, with his lovely wife Rose.”
The couple furthest from them, sitting beside Boyle’s bored looking wife, are the last to raise their glasses. McNally notices that he described everyone that was invited to this social event by their job titles, and then their wives. Seems he’s a bit of a misogynist. But why would he be inviting other people from surrounding constituencies to his house for a dinner party? He’s obviously trying to build and expand his rapport and reputation, slowly working his way around to impress and win over the people of Stormont, where the Northern Ireland Assembly is held.
“Would you good men like a drink?”
“No, thanks, Darrell…” Ferguson smiles towards the table before stepping forward and close into his face so none of his dinner guests can hear, “actually, can we speak in private?”
Boyle gasps loudly, making his guests look over once more, before he brings his hand up to his face, mocking biting his nails in worry. Then, he bursts into laughter again, forcefully smacking Ferguson on the shoulder and swinging him in the direction of the back of the house, not taking his eyes off his guests.
“Looks like I’m needed in my office, away from prying ears. You know me, looking to help as much as I can. But don’t worry guys, I’ll be out soon. Roisin, darling, don’t forget there’s more wine in the basement if we run out,” his cackle echoes around the hall before he leads them into the last room on the right.
His office is bigger than McNally’s living room, he notices, as he looks around. Every wall is plastered in something or another. Whether it be the framed and signed Celtic football shirt, the tabloid front covers displaying the woes of the Bloody Sunday tragedy or the memorabilia of Irish flags with famous nationalist figures imprinted on them. Taking a seat facing them, Boyle begins swinging on his chair, looking at them amusedly.
“So, detectives… How can I be of assistance?”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard the news…” Ferguson cocks his head to the side.
“No, I haven’t… What’s happened?”
“The body of Aaron Parker has been found behind his garage last night.”
“Who?” he sits forward and puts his chin in a clenched fist, protruding his lip and looking at them with as much innocence as a dog caught chewing the carpet.
“Aaron Parker, the leader of the Everyone Unite Party,” McNally sneers at him.
“Oh… That silly little man,” Boyle waves his hand at them dismissively, “I’d forgotten all about him. Yes, he went missing a while back. It’s good you’ve finally found him. Suicide, was it?”
“No,” Ferguson leans back, “we’re actually opening a murder inquiry.”
Boyle’s bold demeaner drops for a nano-second, but McNally notices it, and he’s sure Ferguson does too. The split second of shock that had lit up his eyes.
“I’m sorry to hear that. So, how can I help?” he gives his toothiest grin, taunting them.
McNally bites his bottom lip. He’d love nothing more than to smack that look off his face.
“We’d like to know where you were the night he went missing... June 18th 2016.”
Boyle exclaims, half laughing.
“Am I a suspect?”
“Let’s just say we’re eliminating you from our enquiries,” Ferguson raises his eyebrows.
McNally gazes into the politician’s face. Surely, he’d be smarter than this? He’d demand that he’d already given his statement and kick them out. At least, that’s what he was expecting. But it looks like Boyle loves having them hanging on his every word.
“Well, if it was June 18th, then I was in Galway.”
“And you’re sure about that?”
“100%. The 18th is my wedding anniversary. We got married in the Galway Bay Hotel in 1991. We go back there every year to celebrate. 2016 was our 25th year. Silver, it is. I got my wife an expensive silver bracelet which I’m sure she has on tonight. It has 25 engraved on the back of it, if you’d like to check?”
He levers out of the chair, looking at the detectives. Knowing that they’ll stop him. Daring them to question him.
“That won’t be necessary, Darrell.”
Smirking, like he’s won the war, Boyle falls back into his seat and tucks himself beneath his desk.
“So,” McNally decides to take over, sitting forward to get Boyle’s attention, who looks at him with as much enthusiasm as if he were paint drying on his hallway wall, “I understand that night was a big charity event in the Waterfoot Hotel. A political do, so to speak?”
“Yes, I believe it was.”
“And you didn’t go?”
“As I’ve previously stated, Detective, it was our anniversary, of which every year we return to the place we got married. Which part of that is so hard to understand?”
McNally almost snarls at him as he gives a toothy grin once more.
“I just find it hard to believe that such a political do would be occurring, and you wouldn’t attend? Did anyone else from your party take your place?”
“They didn’t.”
“And why not?”
He rolls his eyes.
“It was an argument waiting to happen.”
“What was?”
“The event. The whole night. They were glad I couldn’t attend; it was almost like they picked that night on purpose.”
Both detectives raise their brows at him once more. As if this man’s ego could be so large.
“Can you
