The Feathery (13 page)

They were all seated at the conference table when Bradshaw entered. He said, "I’ve just read an amazing article in the McNair Journal written in 1849, loaned to me by the owner of the feathery. I was able to complete reading a description of how the now purloined ball was manufactured in McNair’s shop in 1849 and used during a record round at St. Andrews. Bradshaw sat in a chair at the head of the table and placed some notes scribbled on a yellow pad in front of him. He said, "I’ll brief you all on the construction of the famous ball and the record round as told in the article. It will be worthwhile background for all working this case."

After almost an hour into Bradshaw’s not so brief-briefing, Riley interrupted. "With all due respect, Chief Inspector, I think we’ve enough background on this feathery ball. I’d like to get on to something else."

"Quite, Detective Riley. Sorry, I sometimes get carried away when the case involves golf antiques and memorabilia. He nodded toward Riley. "You have our attention. Tell us about this American chap, Carrabba.

Riley squinted at his notes and then reluctantly reached in his briefcase for his new prescription glasses. He put them on, still feeling self-conscious about the middle-aged stigma attached. Riley peered down at the yellow legal pad in front of him, and started his brief.

"When I arrived at the golf course, owned by Carrabba near Saratoga, New York, the security guard at the gate informed me he was playing out on the course. The starter gave me a golf cart and I was directed to the seventeenth where I caught up with Carrabba’s foursome. He greeted me with only a nod and mumbled a request that I follow them down the eighteenth to the clubhouse."

Riley continued, "His playing partners looked familiar. Most likely because the three of them were parolees and underworld-connected. Their mug shots were circulated for years around NYPD precincts. There was a fifth member of the group, but he wasn’t playing. Rocco Vitale drove the golf cart for Carrabba. I recognized him as a perp I’d arrested for assault and possession of cocaine when I worked the narcotics division before transferring to homicide. Vitale is also suspected of several gang murders.

"Rocco has an extensive rap sheet, initiated at age fourteen, and has done time. He must’ve recognized me based on the sour look he sent my way. Rehabilitation programs in prison hadn’t made him an honest man. That was evident when I saw Rocco kick his boss’ golf ball from deep grass onto the fairway. It went unnoticed by the other players, who I later found out were playing in something called a five hundred dollar Nassau match."

One of the inspectors who played golf smiled and said, "this Rocco bloke has no respect for the integrity of the game." He then asked, "Where was Rocco when the guard was shot at the gallery in New York, detective?"

"When we reached the clubhouse which, by the way, has two rooms full of golf antiques and memorabilia, I asked that question. The answer I got was that Rocco was in Las Vegas with his boss, Carrabba. A few phone calls verified their alibi."

"Do you still consider Mario Carrabba and his associates as persons of interest?" Bradshaw asked.
Before he answered Bradshaw, Riley made a point while adding some humor. " I believe the term, ‘persons of interest’, originated in your country, Chief Inspector. We still call them ‘suspects’ where I come from. Like in
‘
round up the usual suspects
.’
It wouldn’t have sounded right to Bogie if the inspector in the movie C
asablanca
said to his men, ‘round up the usual persons of interest,’ now, would it?"
Bradshaw seemed a little disturbed by Riley’s discourse on semantics, but sent a wry smile his way and said, "probably not. How about Carrabba?"
"Carrabba wants to own the feathery at any cost, and he’s well connected in New York. I suppose he could’ve hired someone to go after it for him. I did find out he’d made reservations to attend the auction at Covington Gallery here in London. I think he should remain a suspect."
"How about ballistics on the bullet used in the New York Gallery murder?" An inspector asked.
Riley handed the enlarged photos of the round taken from that crime scene to Bradshaw and pointed to the bullet. "The bullet that killed my friend Shattuck came from a 357 Magnum."
Bradshaw opened the folder, and raised an eyebrow. "The bullet we retrieved from the garage at Heathrow is from a 38 caliber."
"Not a match," Riley said. "Did your interview with the victim at Heathrow get you a description of the shooter and his accomplice? By the way, that’s a hell of a kick the guy made."
"Yes, Detective Riley, Brooks is quite efficient at martial arts, you know. Served twenty years in British Special Forces."
"The description?" Riley asked again.
"Oh yes. The shooter is almost two meters tall and weighs about fourteen stone. The getaway car driver and the one who snatched the case with the feathery ball and the bronze is a head shorter and a lightweight."
The inspector sitting next to Riley saw a look of confusion cloud over Riley’s face. He made a meter to foot and stone to pound conversion. "The shooter is approximately six-feet-two- inches and one-hundred-ninety pounds, detective Riley."
Bradshaw continued, "Seems like the one who had the gun kicked out of his hand spoke with an Irish brogue."
The chief inspector’s statement got the attention of three inspectors seated at the table. They were working on a case involving corruption in a gambling network that had linkage to the Irish Republican Army.

After the meeting, Bradshaw invited Riley to his office. He sat in the chair behind his desk with his feet propped up beside a stack of case files. Bradshaw opened a drawer and took out the list of golf auction high bidders Sarah Covington had given him. Listed and underlined along with Mario Carrabba were the names Jaspar Johncke, Ian Barkley and Mary Harding. He handed the list to Riley.

"So these are the high rollers?" Riley asked.
"Yes. They’re the prime collectors, and they’ve a history of bidding high to obtain golf antiques. All four planned to attend auction of the feathery before it was stolen. I consider these four persons of interest because their craving to own the feathery could’ve continued after it was eliminated from the auction."
Riley looked down the list and saw the name Sarah Covington added to it. "Who’s that?" Riley asked.
"She’s the owner of Covington Gallery, the auction house."
"Suspect?"
"Not a strong suspect, more of a person of interest." He smiled at Riley before saying, "you see, Detective Riley, therein lies the difference between the two terms."
"Okay, okay, but why is she on your list?"
Ms. Covington was going to bid on the feathery. Her desire to possess it is strong, so I shan’t rule her out just now. His notebook was on top of the desk in front of

Bradshaw. He reviewed the notes made during interviews with Scott and Sarah Covington and shared them with Riley. Then he wrote at the top of a blank page in his notebook the name Ian Barkley. "We have an appointment with Barkley at his home this evening."

"Whoa! Who’s this Barkley guy who needs a house-call instead of coming to Scotland Yard?" Riley asked.
"He’s a multimillionaire who owns one hundred and fifty betting shops across Britain, Wales, Ireland and Scotland. Barkley never leaves his mansion. He runs his gambling empire from his computer-laden home. A background check told us he was once an avid golfer but was asked to resign from The Belfry Club because of his cheating in money matches."
"He sounds like the character,
Goldfinger
, in that old James Bond movie. Would Barkley kill for the feathery?" Riley asked.
"He’s very determined to acquire that most rare find. Barkley knows everyone in golf antique collecting circles," Bradshaw added. "Even if he’s not implicated, Barkley might lead us to those who are."
Riley got up to leave. "Can’t wait to meet the infamous Mr. Barkley."
"I’ll pick you up at your hotel at four o’clock this afternoon, and you’ll have that distinct pleasure, Detective Riley."

T
he chief inspector picked up Riley in front of his hotel and settled into Bradshaw’s Audi for the short ride to South Kensington for their meeting with Ian Barkley.
They drove into the circular driveway in front of Barkley’s Tudor style mansion and parked near the entrance. Bradshaw pressed the doorbell, and a faint ringing sound could be heard from the other side of a thick wooden door. The man who opened it had scarred eyebrows and cauliflower ears. Those flaws told his past occupation to Riley, but he thought the altercations causing them may not have been governed by rules set down by the Marquis of Queensbury. Riley also observed a telltale bulge on his leather jacket that could have been a shoulder holster snuggling a handgun inside it.

The short, compact man told them in an Irish brogue, "I’m Malachy. Mr. Barkley will see you gentlemen upstairs in the communication center."

They followed the short man’s limp up two flights of a spiral staircase. A sequence of numbers punched by Malachy on a keyed entry system opened the door into what he told them was Barkley’s viewing room.

They were ushered in to a huge chamber that could’ve been a spacious library at one time, but now it was a museum filled with golf antiques. The high ceiling held an immense crystal chandelier in the center that was set to low luminescence in deference to spotlights aimed strategically to play up the contents of several display cabinets. Bradshaw lingered behind Riley and Malachy, intent on getting a glimpse of the 150-year-old golf clubs, golf balls and memorabilia dedicated to the game of golf as it was played in the nineteenth century.

Malachy noticed Bradshaw lagging behind them admiring the Barkley collection and said, "Mr. Barkley spends hours alone in here looking at these things."

The chief inspector nodded knowingly. Malachy’s remark validated the point he’d made earlier that collectors of rare antiques were prone to spend hours in solo admiration of their relics.

 They followed Malachy as he keyed in the combination to another door leading from Barkley’s museum, down a short hallway to his gambling control center. It was a fast transition for Riley and Bradshaw from ancient golf to a room filled with modern technology. The room was packed with computers and satellite television monitors. The displays showed horse races and other sporting events throughout Europe. Some of the computers seemed to be calculating profit-and-loss from wagers in real time within each betting shop in the Barkley network.

Malachy led them through this maze of electronic wizardry to Barkley, who was hunched over a keyboard in front of a master control panel. His short neck had three deep wrinkles in the back leading down to his rounded shoulders. The neck barely separated Barkley’s shiny bald head from that shoulder slump. Riley was not as grossed out by those features as he was by the fact that Barkley’s rotund body was stark naked.

Barkley’s index fingers were busy typing commands into his gambling network. Riley was mesmerized as he watched him bring up wagering results with bottom line numbers showing astounding totals.

Just as Bradshaw’s irritation over being ignored was about to erupt, Barkley made the last entry into his conglomerate of betting shops. He reviewed the results, and exited the program. He spun his chair around to face his visitors and said, "and what can I do for you, Chief Inspector?"

Bradshaw’s blue eyes squinted to narrow. "First off, get dressed and out of the all together. Secondly, I came here in deference of your aversion to leaving this mansion. I presume I’ll be able to get the information I need. If not, you’ll have to leave here for a visit to Scotland Yard. Do we have an understanding, sir?"

Barkley gazed at Bradshaw with an expression of surprise, then the fear of leaving his fortress for the outside world played on his face. Malachy was ready with a blue silk robe, and Barkley slipped his arms into it and tied the belt with a flourish.

"Please come with me to the conference room." Barkley said. "I’ll give you my full attention for as long as you require it."
Bradshaw introduced Riley, but Barkley ignored Riley’s hand, explaining he didn’t shake hands to avoid germs being transferred through physical contact.
Barkley gave refreshment orders to Malachy before they followed him through a labyrinth of corridors to a luxurious conference room. They sat down at a table large enough to accommodate twenty people. Malachy returned with a serving tray that offered a selection of tea, coffee and scones.
Bradshaw began. "The Yard has assigned me to investigate a shooting and the armed robbery of a valuable feathery golf ball and bronze statuette. Detective Riley is here to determine if there’s a link between a murder in New York and the robbery here. Since you are renowned in golf antique collecting circles, we’re hopeful you may be able to help us."
"I’ll assist you in any way I can." Barkley said. "You see, I gave up playing golf years ago. Now, it’s my passion to own the rarest of golf antiques. I’d like to acquire that feathery ball if it’s recovered. And I was willing to bid as high as three million pounds for it at the Covington Gallery auction before it was removed by the owner."
Bradshaw tried not to look impressed. "There’s something I’d like to ask you straight away, Mr. Barkley."
"Go right ahead, Chief Inspector."
"Do you know a Swedish gentleman named Jaspar Johncke?"
"Of course. He was a colleague of mine and a leading golf antique collector."
The chief inspector was taken aback by his answer. "
Was
a colleague of yours? Are you no longer associates?"
"It isn’t that at all, sir. Johncke passed away in Sweden only last week. He had a history of heart trouble, and unfortunately did not take very good care of himself. He visited me here just a few weeks before his death."
Bradshaw was surprised to hear that Johncke was dead. He was, after all, one of his prime persons of interest. He asked, "what business did you have with Mr. Johncke on his visit here?"
"We were rivals in collecting golf antiques, and Johncke outbid me for rare items several times. He was always offering to buy some of mine."
"How do you know he died?" Bradshaw asked.
"I was informed of Jaspar’s passing by his barrister. We had some business pending, and he rang me up with the news. Why do you ask?"
"Mr. Johncke’s name came up during the investigation, and I wondered about your connection with him."
"You don’t think Jaspar was involved in the robbery, do you?" Barkley asked and then gave his own answer. "That’s impossible, the man was a multimillionaire."
"He was a person of interest like you and some other millionaires because of their zealous interest in obtaining the feathery. We believe that interest could’ve continued after the feathery was removed from the auction," Bradshaw added. He looked at Barkley for a reaction but got none. Then he asked, "Did Johncke mention the feathery during his visit?"
"Yes, and I put him on notice that I’d outbid him for it, and the McNair feathery was destined to be mine." Barkley grinned at them.
Bradshaw took his yellow note pad out of his briefcase. "I have a few more questions to ask you."
"Proceed."
"Have you had the so-called McNair 78 feathery in your possession at any time?"
"No."
"Do you have any information as to the whereabouts of the McNair feathery?"
"No."
There was a pause before Riley said, "I’d like to ask your…" he searched for the right words among body-guard, servant and butler before deciding on "
employee
, Malachy, a few questions."
Barkley summoned Malachy back to the conference room.
"Malachy, what’s your last name?" Riley said, beginning the questioning.
"Gallagher," he answered.
"Place of birth?"
"Belfast, Ireland."
"When were you at Heathrow last?"
"Christmas Eve, four years ago for a flight to Belfast to see my mum."
"Were you there this past Tuesday morning?"
"No."
"Is that a gun under your coat?"
Barkley jumped in on the question. "This man’s duty is to protect me, and I’ve obtained a permit for his weapon."
"May I see the gun?" Riley asked.
Barkley nodded. "All right, but I don’t understand the implication."
Malachy reached inside his coat and handed the gun to Riley. Riley noted that the safety was on, and there was a round in the chamber. He cleared the round and sniffed at the end of the barrel. His sniff test indicated it hadn’t been fired recently, unless it had been thoroughly cleaned afterward.
"May I have a word with you outside the room?" Riley asked Bradshaw.
They left the conference room and walked down a corridor.
"It’s a 38. Same type of gun that fired the bullet that hit Brooks." Riley handed the gun to Bradshaw. "We need ballistics to check it out, and I suggest Brooks have a look and a listen at Malachy Gallagher."
"Righto, I’ll ask Gallagher to accompany us to the hospital. And the lab will fire a bullet from Malachy’s gun and look for a match with the one taken from Brooks’ shoulder."
After their corridor sidebar, Bradshaw and Riley returned to the conference room and informed Malachy about his pending trip to Scotland Yard. Barkley seemed relieved that he wouldn’t have to leave his gambling citadel to accompany Gallagher into the outside world.
Bradshaw spoke curtly to Barkley in parting. "If you hear anything about the feathery circulating among your fellow collectors or about anyone trying to fence it, call me."
The chief inspector handed Barkley his card, and they escorted Malachy through the mansion, outside and into the backseat of the Audi.