The Sect (The Craig Crime Series)

by Catriona King

  “Oi, boss. Are we going to spend all day here?”

  Craig dragged his gaze away from the verdant woodland to where Liam was pointing at a patch of grass.

  “That’s where he was found.”

  The comment was redundant; the grass’s flattened dryness already said where the body had lain, after the heavy rain of the night before. Craig scanned the area for clues but there was nothing out of place; no broken branches or torn flowers, nothing to say how their victim had been conveyed to his place of rest. Liam nodded wisely.

  “He wasn’t dragged overland. My bet is he came most of the distance by road then was carried in. We might be lucky and get a footprint. Last night was wet.”

  Craig nodded and they glanced simultaneously towards the rural road. Liam continued.

  “So the perp drove up, dumped the body and took off. He’s bound to be on a camera somewhere so we’ll get an I.D.”

  Craig nodded again, more ponderously this time. Liam sighed, knowing that his reticence meant no. CCTV was a luxury on rural roads and no camera meant no easy I.D. He tutted loudly.

  “OK, what if they didn’t come by road then? How else could he have dumped him? Helicopter?”

  Craig smiled, knowing that he was annoying his impatient D.C.I. “Very funny. Road’s far more likely but I’ll need to know more before I’ll commit.”

  “Ask away.”

  “OK. Was today’s body wrapped in cling-film too, was he drowned and was the body still damp? Had he been restrained in the same way as the woman, were there signs of sexual assault on either body: any prints, fibres, debris under the nails––”

  Liam raised a hand to halt him. “Forensics 101. So then what?”

  Craig sprang to his feet, testing his muscle strength. He was still fit enough to do it but if he didn’t get to the gym he wouldn’t be for much longer. He answered smoothly.

  “Then we piece together the timings and work out when he got here.”

  “Proper order.”

  “Without jumping to conclusions about how he got here on the way.” He paused, gazing up at the sky, then he spoke again, in a tone that said his mind was already elsewhere. “Who knows, we may find a helicopter yet.”

  Chapter Two

  The girl opened her blue eyes reluctantly, knowing that what greeted her would be the same as the day before. White walls, white floor, white sheets on her bed. It wasn’t that it was awful, it was that it was sterile; but then that’s what clinics were, clinical. Forgetting herself for a moment she went to climb out of bed, only to be jerked back by the metal bands on her limbs.

  She stared at her wrists; their narrow paleness was scarred with red-white wealds, half obscured by the manacles tying her to the bed’s rigid frame. She’d made the scars herself, just as she’d made the purple track marks higher up. One from pain and one for pleasure, but both signs of the way she’d ruined her life.

  She lay back down and waited for the clock to change; heralding another long day of suffering and routine. She had to believe that it would all be worth it in the end. Unfortunately she couldn’t have been more wrong.

  ****

  The Lab. 11 a.m.

  “John. Are you here?”

  Craig’s question went unanswered so Liam shouted it louder, bellowing across John Winter’s outer office. Given that his yell was so loud it should have carried a health warning, even the bravest resistance fighter would have come out with their hands held high. The silence that answered said only one thing; John wasn’t there. And if he wasn’t there that only left one other place he would be; in the dissection room.

  As they turned to go a small figure dressed like the cover of a Fleetwood Mac LP emerged from Winter’s inner office with her hands clamped over her ears. It was Marcie, the lab’s P.A.; she was a young Boho drama graduate, biding her time till her acting career took off. She collated reports, baked cakes, made tea and answered the phones, all while keeping John and Des Marsham, the Head of Forensic Science, in line.

  Craig watched as Liam nervously patted his scrub-like hair and adjusted his tie in a courtship ritual as old as the hills.

  “How do, Marcie.”

  Marcie Devlin gazed up at the D.C.I. with an intensity that made him blush, then she smiled graciously which made him blush even deeper, before turning elegantly towards Craig.

  “Is John around, Marcie?”

  “He’s in dissection room one.”

  She stared at Craig just as intently as she’d stared at Liam but it didn’t have the same effect, and after a moment she nodded as if he’d done something right.

  “That’s a lovely tie, Superintendent.”

  Craig squinted down at his chest to see which one he’d donned that morning while Liam peered at his own tie jealously. The approved-of neckwear was one that Katy Stevens, his girlfriend, had bought him the week before. He said as much and Marcie murmured “good taste” before re-entering John’s office and closing the door. Craig headed down the corridor with a disgruntled Liam in his wake, muttering in a sarcastic tone.

  “Lovely tie, sir. Suits you, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Liam was still muttering when they entered the freezing cold dissection room, but his words ceased abruptly when he saw what John was examining. On one table lay the post-mortemed body of a young woman, on the other the cling-film wrapped body of a youth. Neither was out of their teens.

  John Winter grinned incongruously at them and strode across the room to say hello. It was hard to tell if his cheer was due to work nowadays as he’d worn a perpetually gleeful expression since his wedding the August before.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. How’s life with you?”

  Given that he’d seen both of them in the pub the night before it seemed like excessive bonhomie. Liam went to answer but John had already turned back to the cling-filmed corpse and Craig knew that his cheerfulness this morning was about their case. The pathologist stared down at the body and shook his head.

  “Well, well, well. Two murders in nine days. What embarrassment of riches is this?”

  Craig answered in a dry tone. “I really hope that’s a quote, otherwise we’re renaming you Hannibal.”

  “It is. Léonor d'Allainval. 1726.”

  “Nobody likes a smart ass, John.”

  Winter grinned, unabashed, and gestured at the cling-filmed youth. “You have to admit that it’s a novel way to die.”

  Liam’s bass split the cold air. “I bet he didn’t think so.”

  John continued in a voice full of awe. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve seen cling-film used to suffocate; I’ve even seen it used to wrap body parts. But this? It’s like some sort of cocoon.”

  Liam dragged the proceedings down a tone. “I’ve seen cling-film used by kids instead of condoms. People have inventive minds.” The others gawped as he nodded his head. “We used to find it in the parks on morning patrol.”

  Craig moved things along. “Fascinating as this is, what does the film tell us?”

  The pathologist thought for a moment before speaking. When he did it was to recite a list.

  “The cocoon could represent rebirth; like a chrysalis. The cling-film itself could mean: sterility, a clinical approach, the killer’s a foodie, erasing their identities, neatness, finality…”

  Craig held up a hand to stop him. “In other words you could go on and on.”

  “I could. I’ll do his P.M. and Des will run the cling-film, then if you like I’ll do a psychological profile of the killer for you.”

  John had spent time at the FBI Behavioural Sciences Unit at Quantico, where he’d done a profiling course. It was on Craig’s list of things to do, after sailing to France and painting his parents’ porch – he was a man who believed that if he didn’t know something then someone else in his team probably would.

  “Could be useful. Don’t forget the rebirth part; it’s interesting.”

  Liam gestured at the dead girl. “Anythin
g exciting on her?”

  John crossed to their already P.M.ed victim, nodding.

  “A lot. First of all, she was killed not long before they found the body and her cause of death was wet drowning; a very painful death. There are signs of a struggle so she definitely fought back. I’m waiting for her tox-screen but my gut says it won’t show any sedation; she was definitely awake when this happened to her. There are signs of old abuse too; cigarette burns on her arms and legs and some linear scarring on her back.”

  Craig interrupted. “How recent?”

  “Years old. Bone and dental markers put her age around eighteen or nineteen now, so I’d say the marks were made when she was eleven or twelve.”

  “Bastards.”

  “Undoubtedly.” John continued. “She showed signs of mild cocaine use; her nasal mucosa is pretty frayed but…” He pointed at some raised injection sites on her arms. “I’d say her drug of choice was Heroin.”

  Craig nodded; he’d seen the marks many times before. “Any signs of sexual activity?”

  John shook his head. “Not recent and definitely no sign of rape.” He hesitated and Craig knew something darker was coming. Very little fazed John but this obviously had.

  “She’s had more than one abortion and they’ve really messed her up. I’d say at least one was done in unsterile conditions.”

  Craig shook his head, first in sadness and then in disbelief. “Why would anyone have a back street abortion nowadays when they can have one safely on the NHS?”

  “You’re assuming that she had a choice.”

  Craig let the words sink in. A girl who was being controlled perhaps, but by whom?

  “When did she have them?”

  “Not in the past six months. The first, three or four years ago, judging from the scars. The rest who knows when.”

  The cold air stilled around them as each man had his own thoughts. John added to the chill with his next words.

  “She has signs of past STDs and she was HIV positive.”

  Liam asked the question. “From sex?”

  “Possibly, but more likely from the IV drug use. It all adds up to one thing.”

  Craig said the words. “She was a prostitute and not a high class one.”

  It was a sad, familiar story. An abused girl who’d grown used to being objectified. Used by someone as an ashtray when she was young she’d continued being a victim into adulthood.

  John shook his head. “She probably used the drugs to make life tolerable.”

  “What a bloody waste.”

  They stood for a moment gazing down at the girl, her youthful features peaceful in a way that Craig doubted they’d been for years. Finally John covered her and led the way back to his room. As they entered the small office Marcie leapt up from his chair. Her expression said it had been a reflex; there was no penitence on her face, in fact quite the opposite. Her next words made Craig wonder if she’d been taking lessons from Nicky on how to chastise your boss.

  “Doctor Winter.”

  John jerked to attention, making the others laugh. Marcie’s outrage said not to.

  “This is no laughing matter. Doctor Winter forgot to list his consumables last month!”

  It sounded vaguely smutty and Liam was about to say so, when Craig whispered. “Needles and syringes.”

  Marcie’s voice rose. “And swabs and gloves and…”

  John raised a hand in peace. “Sorry, Marcie. My bad.”

  She was undeterred. “It would be your bad indeed if I hadn’t realised and ordered enough to replace them. Although how I’m supposed to know what you need if you don’t tell me what you’ve used…”

  She halted mid-sentence, as if she’d seen herself and realised how ridiculous she looked. Not her words, they were accurate, but the fact that she was standing hands-on-hips as she was saying them. She dropped her slim arms to her sides and blushed.

  “You know what I mean. I’m not psychic!”

  John slipped past her, reclaiming his chair. “I do know and you’re absolutely right, Marcie. Now, off you go for a coffee and I promise that I’ll do them this afternoon.”

  As Liam opened the door for her exit, Marcie turned to have the last word with the flair befitting a theatre school graduate. “Just see that you do, Doctor.” Then she swept out with her maxi dress skimming the ground.

  When she was far enough away not to hear, Craig started to laugh. “Did she learn that at RADA?”

  John shook his head solemnly. “She learned it from Nicky.” He’d been right. “I heard them on the phone the other day.” He sighed with a portent that would have done Marcie proud. “That’s all I need. A mini Nicky Morris in the lab.”

  Liam guffawed. “You can call her Morris Minor!”

  John smiled through his pain. “That’s not bad.”

  Craig shook his head exaggeratedly. “I wouldn’t let either of them hear you say it, not if you ever want Nicky to do your expenses again, Liam.” He poured three coffees and returned to the case. “OK, so our dead girl is late teens and likely a prostitute. Local or trafficked?”

  John stopped mid-sip, surprised. “Trafficked? That never even occurred to me. What makes you say so?”

  The idea had started as a query but now its credence was starting to grow. Craig recalled the girl’s features and postulated an idea.

  “She doesn’t look like she comes from here. Something about her bone structure.”

  John thought for a moment and then reached behind him for a file. He opened it at a photo of their Jane Doe.

  “Black hair and black eyes.”

  Liam nodded. “How often do you see that around here? Maybe up in Derry but––”

  Craig interrupted. “Not often in Belfast. Her colouring fits with somewhere in mainland Europe.”

  John shook his head. “Maybe further. Even allowing for death pallor her skin has an olive tinge.”

  Liam gestured at Craig. He was permanently tanned, courtesy of Mirella’s Roman genes. John shook his head again.

  “No. Marc looks healthy. Our victim’s skin is a much paler olive and I’ve seen the colouring before. In Croatia, when I was there investigating war crimes.”

  Eastern Europe made sense with the girl’s colouring and high cheek bones but they had to be sure or the investigation could quickly take a wrong turn.

  “Could her DNA confirm it?”

  “It will help. Dental and other things as well.” John shook his head to halt the impending question. “And before you ask it’ll take me till next week.”

  Craig gave him a martyred look and he shaved a few days off. “OK, maybe Friday, if I have the peace to get on with things. I’ll ask Mike to P.M. the boy.”

  Craig drained his cup and stood up to leave, earning a dirty look from Liam who was mid-gulp.

  “Let me know what he says, and I’d be grateful if you could both come to the briefing at five.”

  “I’m not sure we’ll have anything more for you.”

  “Just bring your giant brains.”

  ****

  Jake McLean gazed at the smooth, dark wood, staring blindly at his reflection in its sheen. It was the fourth casket the undertaker had shown him and they were starting to blend into one. All of them elegant and expensive yet none of them fit to hold the body of the man that he had loved. He excused himself and strode through the thickly carpeted showroom, out onto the noise-filled Belfast street; the contrast between the funeral parlour’s reverent silence and the urban cacophony making the day feel even more surreal.

  He’d known for months that his grandfather’s death was imminent and people said there should be comfort in that, as if preparing for the worst should somehow diminish its impact when it came. Well, he thought, I’ve news for all you bereavement counsellors; it doesn’t. Expected or unexpected death, they were both the same; final, full stop, the end. No more cups of tea and warm chats, no more stories of his granddad’s war-time childhood to make him laugh; no more familiar deep voice saying hello whe
n he came to call.

  In the recent months spent caring for him more intimately there’d been longer talks and quieter words. ‘Take care of your granny and the insurance books are in my desk’ talks, and ‘do you remember that time you fell from the tree in the park and your granny blamed me for letting you climb?’ There’d been laughter and tears as well. As Jake stood in the street remembering he admitted grudgingly that expected death might have its benefits; more time to say the things that needed to be said, more time to ask what needed to be asked.

  He made a face. And more time to imagine a week like this. The week in which he’d lost the only father he could remember and had to choose which wooden box to bury him in.

  ****

  The C.C.U.

  Craig appeased Liam by perking fresh coffee when they returned to his office, then he proceeded to pick his deputy’s brains.

  “OK. Two dead people under twenty. Different sexes. The girl definitely a drug user, abused, several abortions. Probably a sex worker, possibly trafficked––”

  Liam cut in. “Through where?”

  “Does it matter? She ended up in Belfast.”

  “It matters. It might lead us to where she came from, and ipso facto who bumped her off.”

  Craig made a face; all the Latin in the world wouldn’t give them a name but he decided to follow the idea through.

  “OK, so let’s say she came from Croatia, or Bulgaria, or Albania, and she arrived at one of the fifteen airports or thirty-four ports in Ireland, not to mention the private aerodromes and illegal dropping off spots. She still ended up in Belfast.”

  Liam nodded. “OK. So where she was billeted when she got here will tell us more.”

  “Agreed. So what do we know about trafficking in Belfast?”

  “Us, nothing. But Geoff Hamill down in Gang Crime will know a shedload.”

  As he finished the sentence Craig moved past him to the door, yanking it open just as Nicky’s hand dropped to knock. The result was a near collision of her fist and his face. Liam grinned.