“Why?”
“Statistics. The most common serial killer is male and their peak age at first kill is late twenties. Also, younger men would find it easier to move the bodies. Killers don’t stop when they hit fifty but they do decrease in activity, so if one of our killers is older I think he’ll be in a leadership role. It’s a blunt instrument but it’ll do as a first cut. I’ll do the same for the academics––”
Davy cut in. “They won’t necessarily have left the university, chief. There were plenty of weirdoes s…stalking the corridors when I was there.”
Craig laughed. “True, but hopefully these men are so strange they’ll stand out even in that rarefied environment. The people who’ll know will be the Universities’ Vice-Chancellors. But it’s a good point; Liam, ask about priests who are still practicing as well, but maybe under supervision.” He glanced at the clock. “You both know what you’re doing and you can find me at the lab and then at Queen’s. I need to see Carmen before I go. Send her in please, Liam.” As Davy turned to leave he added. “Care to tell us what your tattoo says?”
Liam screwed up his face. “Ach, you never went and got one of those, did you? I swear, if Erin or Rory ever––”
“By the time they’re old enough it’ll be something far worse.”
Davy set down his smart-pad and obliged by lifting his hair, to reveal a word Craig recognised tattooed in black ink.
“Curiosity satisfied?
Craig smiled but Liam was still in the dark.
“No. What does it mean?”
The analyst yanked open the door, smiling. “You know what curiosity did…”
****
Carmen’s defiance had obviously required a group audience because when she entered Craig’s office it was as timidly as a mouse. He beckoned her to sit then rested back in his chair waiting for her to speak. Several false starts and distracted gazes through the window later he gave up and started himself.
“I can phone occupational health for an update if you don’t want to tell me.”
It was a bluff, they wouldn’t give him any detail, but it was a bluff that worked. She shook her head so gently that he almost felt sorry for the recalcitrant Celt; but not quite. After a few seconds she began.
“The therapist said that I’ll need at least six months with them.”
The words were spat out pizzicato with her hands wound together tightly in her lap. Her whole posture smacked of resentment, but then resentment had been Carmen’s trademark since she’d joined the team and Craig’s sympathy with her moods had finally worn out. His voice was cool.
“When do you start?”
Her grip tightened.
“They’ve offered me sessions two evenings a week so that I can keep working.”
She glared at him, daring him to say ‘working where?’
Instead he merely nodded and leaned forward, lifting his pen. He drew a series of squares on a notepad as he spoke, each edge digging deeper into the page.
“You realise that you can’t work in the field.”
She opened her mouth to object but closed it again immediately, before she dug herself into a bigger hole. It didn’t matter; Craig had already read what she thought of him in her eyes.
“Which means you’ll be confined to the office for at least six months.”
A squint said that she’d heard him.
“But that won’t work either if you’re rude to members of the team.”
This time her gaze said ‘any other rules, Hitler?’ He ignored it; he had better things to waste his energy on.
“If you adhere to these conditions, support investigations well on the research side and receive a good report from the therapist at the end of your counselling, the matter will be completely forgotten. I won’t record it on your evaluation and you’ll remain on the team. If not, you’ll be leaving without further appeal. Do you understand, D.C. McGregor?”
Silence. He paused for a moment and then asked again. This time he was answered by a sharp nod and a ‘fuck you’ glance. He rose to his feet.
“Good. Think of yourself as having a broken leg that limits you to desk work. There’ll still be plenty for you to do.” He opened the door wide. “Now, goodbye. Davy could use your help on some background searches. I’ll see you at the briefing.”
When Carmen had left he walked to the lift, waited until the door had closed, kicked the wall hard and then pressed basement to leave the C.C.U.
****
Jake balanced the cup and saucer on his knee, mesmerised by the frantic signalling of Eileen McDonagh’s eyes. It was a mime that begged him not to discuss her dead son’s sexuality even now. He turned towards Philip McDonagh, assessing his strength and whether he could have drowned his younger son. His strong mechanics’ arms said that he could have, easily, but whether his homophobia was so strong that he’d committed filicide was a question Jake knew that he couldn’t answer by himself. Instead he asked the question made obvious by the rosary beads gripped in the bereaved father’s hands.
“Are you a religious man, Mr McDonagh?”
McDonagh bristled and gripped the beads tighter. “If I am, so what? It’s not against the law is it?”
Not unless it drove you to kill your son.
Jake’s tone was conciliatory. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I just wondered which particular religion you followed.”
It was disingenuous and he knew it, but he was following through an idea. McDonagh relaxed slightly, seeming pleased by the chance to talk about his faith.
“We’re Roman Catholics.” He glanced meaningfully at his wife, now seated slightly behind him, deliberately repositioned to shoot Jake covert warning looks. “We believe in the church’s teachings.”
On the word ‘believe’ he reached for her hand, as if daring her to disagree. Jake imagined that his beliefs had left little room for two gay sons to come out. He set down his cup and Eileen McDonagh reached forward to take it, using the movement to break her husband’s grip.
“Were you schooled by the church?”
McDonagh looked blank for a moment. There was no sign that he’d guessed where the questions were leading so after a few seconds he nodded cautiously.
“The Christian Brothers.” He smiled as if remembering something. “With the odd dash of the Jesuits thrown in.” He shook his head and chuckled at the obviously happy memories. “Those Jesuits were a laugh. Always telling jokes.” He glanced quickly at his wife. “And not all of them polite, if you know what I mean.”
Jake could imagine. “Why did they visit the school? The Jesuits I mean. Are they a teaching order?”
McDonagh’s eyes widened and he leaned forward with a warm smile. “Some of them. Are you a Catholic yourself, then, sergeant?”
Jake was tempted to lie to build rapport but the memory of his grandfather’s service five days earlier wouldn’t let him. He shook his head.
“Sorry no, but I’m interested in religion.”
Not so much before this case.
McDonagh sat back and shrugged, as if he’d accepted that Jake was going to hell. “The Jesuits came to run retreats. Two days of brimstone and stories; all the boys loved it.”
Jake wasn’t sure what a retreat was but he decided to ask Liam rather than risk McDonagh’s disgust. He pressed on with the reason that he’d come.
“Did you learn much Latin at school, Mr McDonagh?”
The details of the victims’ mutilation had been withheld, so McDonagh couldn’t know why he’d asked unless he was involved.
He stared at Jake suspiciously. “Of course I did. I was good at it too.”
Jake leaned in, reinforcing their bonhomie. “How about Vulgar Latin? Did you ever hear of that?”
McDonagh checked that his wife had left the room and then chuckled. “I heard plenty of vulgar stories in Latin, if that’s what you mean. Those ancient Romans were quite the boys.”
Jake decided not to press it. If McDonagh understood why he was asking h
e wasn’t going to admit he knew the dialect, and if he did admit it what difference would it make? He was on Jake’s radar now and it would take more than a few lies to take him off.
****
By three o’clock Craig was sitting in John’s office, watching as he shook his head.
“Natalie doesn’t like this Doctor Emiliani.”
“Natalie won’t have to work with her, we will.” He set down his mug. “Anyway, why doesn’t she like her? Katy says that she’s nice.”
John snorted in a way that would have done Liam proud. “Katy thinks everyone’s nice. She’s naïve.”
Craig laughed, thinking of his girlfriend. “Nice yes, but not naïve. She knows more about human nature than I ever will.”
“Yes, but she chooses to ignore the bad bits. Natalie says she’s always getting taken advantage of at work.”
Craig sat forward, annoyed. “Who takes advantage of her? She didn’t tell me.”
John waved him back. “Because she knows you’ll go riding in there like Sir Galahad.” He rose to pour more coffee. “Anyway, it’s nothing serious. Just patients being demanding and her clinical director dumping extra work on her. Apparently she can’t say no.”
Craig smiled. “I bet Natalie can.”
John nodded ruefully. “Especially to me.” He sat back down. “Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that Natalie thinks this Sofia woman is devious.”
Craig raised an eyebrow. “She should meet some of the people we put away. The important question is can you work with her to draw up a profile? If she has expertise in cults and ritual, she could be of use.”
John shrugged, his mind still on Natalie’s ability to deny him things. He was certain that hadn’t been in the wedding vows. Love, honour and never let him get his own way. Nope, it didn’t ring a bell. Craig repeated the question, interrupting his daydream.
“Can I work with her? Well yes, I suppose so, but it’ll put me in Natalie’s bad books. Mind you…” He gave a mischievous smile. “…it’ll do no harm for her not to get her own way just this once. Show her who’s boss in this marriage.”
Before he could ask Craig’s opinion on who really was, Des came bursting through the door, waving a lab report.
“I’ve worked it out! It’s been driving me mad but I’ve finally found your bread.”
Craig sat forward eagerly. “And?”
“And it fits with religious ritual, so you were right. I knew something was missing from the stomach contents and it was; yeast. Bread without a raising agent is called unleavened and it’s used in Western Churches’ communion sacraments. As opposed to the Eastern Churches which use bread made with yeast.”
One more thing had just slotted into place.
****
As Liam approached the Bishop of Carrickfergus’ substantial residence, he self-consciously smoothed down his sandy hair and straightened his tie. He wasn’t actually visiting the headmaster’s office but he felt as if he was. The feeling was heightened when the brass-plated front door opened and an angry-faced woman barely as high as his waist barked “Yes? What do you want?” She might have been tiny but in that one phrase she catapulted Liam back forty years.
His life seemed to have been full of tiny women, each them gifted with an iron will and the ability to scare the bejeesus out of boys and men. He’d even married one; Danni was barely five-foot-one; you’d think he would have known better after his granny and mum. He corrected himself quickly, Danni might have been tiny but the most terrifying thing about her was how she looked in a face pack. There wasn’t an angry bone in her body, unlike the woman who’d just greeted him.
He stammered out a reply and fumbled for his I.D., not meeting the woman’s gaze in case it turned him to stone.
“I’m D.C.I. Cullen. Here to see the Bishop.” He added a weak supporting line. “They said to come, on the phone.”
A small hand shot out and snatched his I.D. then the door slammed in his face and he heard block heels clicking rapidly down a hall. After what felt like ten minutes but was probably nearer two, the door creaked open again and another phrase snapped out. “Come in. And wipe your feet.” The gorgon pushed his warrant card at him then turned sharply, leading the way down a mosaic floored hall. At the fourth door she stopped, glared up at Liam and then knocked once, leaving him to open the door on the word ‘come’.
Liam wasn’t sure what he’d expected the Bishop to be like. He’d seen him on TV of course, so he knew that he was tall and thin, with a full head of white hair and a stoop that implied decades spent head bowed, in prayer. Angular faced and raw boned – Samuel Beckett in a cassock; but more than that he didn’t know. Would he be fearsome like his headmaster, quicker to smack than sooth, criticise than congratulate? Or a frocked version of the Chief Constable, Sean Flanagan: bluff and cheerful, one of the lads. The next moment gave him his answer.
Just as the housekeeper had been acidic, Bishop Francis – Frank to his friends – Murray was emollient. He rose from his seat and moved smoothly across the room, stretching out a hand in welcome and motioning Liam towards a claret velvet chair. As Liam gazed around him he saw that the rest of the chamber was its match; dark wood and jewel colours were clearly the order of the day. The effect was so soothing he wondered that the cleric didn’t fall asleep.
He was still gazing when he heard a question.
“Sugar, Chief Inspector?”
Liam turned so quickly he knocked the tongs from the churchman’s hand then showed his fast reflexes by catching them as they fell. As Murray exclaimed, “Howzat!” Liam smiled at the cricketing term and handed back the tongs, seizing on sport to form a temporary bond.
“You’re obviously a cricketer.”
Murray’s narrow face creased into a smile.
“Watch every test match, when I have time.” He added the sugar then waved a hand around him. “It’s quite a place, isn’t it? Seventeenth century. I keep meaning to research the history but…” He gestured at a desk covered in papers. “…as you can see I never have the time.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wish I was still a simple parish priest. Just God and man, without all the bureaucracy.”
He handed Liam his tea and set the sugar bowl on the desk. “Now, Chief Inspector Cullen––”
“Liam, please, Your Grace.”
The sports fan inclined his head. “Liam then. What can I do for the police? My clerk said that it was urgent.”
Liam took a gulp of tea then balanced the tiny china cup on his knee. “It is. Basically, and I know you won’t disclose details of an active investigation so I’ll tell you as much as I can; basically it’s like this. You’ve probably seen on the news that three dead bodies have been found?”
Murray nodded. “Terrible, truly terrible.”
“Well, it’s four deaths now and as we progress the investigation certain things are pointing to there being a religious element in the––”
Murray cut in, in a most un-bishop-like way. “Sectarianism? I thought most of that was over.”
Liam wanted to say ‘What planet are you on? Bigots are alive and well and living in Belfast’. Instead he shook his head. “Not sectarianism, or at least that’s not our feeling. I can’t go into detail but there are certain factors that point to the killer having knowledge of the Roman Catholic Church.”
The Bishop’s hands flew up in defence. “Half of Northern Ireland could lay claim to that, and anyone can research things on the internet.”
Liam shook his head, frustrated that he wasn’t getting his message across. “Please don’t press me for details, just trust me that this knowledge isn’t the sort that’s easy to find. It points to someone highly educated and fanatical. Someone who may feel that the modern church doesn’t deal firmly enough with transgressions.”
Murray looked blank and Liam sighed, all of his earlier nerves gone. “Someone with a detailed knowledge of Latin.”
“Schoolboys have that.”
“Vulgar Latin?”
&
nbsp; Liam watched as the penny dropped, every step of its descent reflected on the old priest’s face. After a moment his mouth fell open and Murray found his voice.
“They don’t teach that in school. Only a classicist or…”
“A religious scholar might know it.” Liam nodded. “We know. That’s why I’m here. We’re exploring the academic route as well but we think that one or more of the killers may have been involved with the Catholic Church at some point.”
The chamber fell silent as Murray searched frantically for some other answer and Liam watched his search and drank his cooling tea. When all the options were exhausted the Bishop rose reluctantly and walked to his desk, opening a drawer. He withdrew a ledger and as he turned to a page near the back Liam’s heart sank. Instead of the one or two drop outs and errant priests that he’d been praying for, columns of names covered the page.
****
Craig was halfway up University Road when his car phone rang. He answered it quickly, expecting an update from Liam. Instead Annette’s cheerful tones came down the line.
“Hello, sir. How are things in sunny Belfast?”
He glanced at his rain spattered windscreen and laughed. “Wet as usual. London?”
“It’s quite sunny here actually, but not that warm.”
“OK, now we’ve got the weather out of the way, to what do I owe this honour? Not that it’s not lovely to hear from you.”
It was Annette’s turn to laugh, but it had an edge he spotted immediately.
“I’m not sure you’ll think it’s so lovely in a minute. Superintendent Chandak’s been told he can’t testify at the appeal. Someone on high.”
The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) Page 22