The Sect (The Craig Crime Series)

by Catriona King

  He pulled the car over hurriedly, parking on a yellow line.

  “But it’s a joint case and we arrested Greer in London, so how can The Met get away with this?”

  Even as he barked out the question he knew the answer. He’d worked at The Met for fifteen years and enjoyed every minute, but their reputation for being slippery was well earned. He sighed heavily before continuing.

  “Let me guess. They’re saying that their arm of the Op was only to turn Ershov, not to arrest Greer.”

  He could hear her nod. “Got it in one. The Super’s spitting tin-tacks about it but his hands are tied.”

  Craig’s next words were as defeated as he felt. “I suppose that means Yemi’s not coming either.”

  He sensed her mood lightening. “No. I mean yes, he is. The Super said Yemi’s entitled to testify as a private citizen and The Met can go and get stuffed.”

  Craig imagined the ebullient Chandak’s pleasure as he’d said it and laughed. “Well, that’s something.” He paused and Annette knew what was coming next. “I don’t suppose…”

  She put him out of his misery. “We’ve done everything that we need to here and Nicky’s started butting heads with the Super’s P.A., so I think that it’s time to come home.”

  Craig thought of Rita Henwood and Nicky bickering and knew which one his money was on.

  “Thanks, Annette. This case is tricky and I could do with you being hands on.” He saw a traffic warden approaching and restarted the car. “When can we expect you?”

  Annette thought of the tickets they had to see a musical that evening and made up her mind; Nicky would kill her if she tried to cancel. “We’ll get the red eye in the morning and see you at nine.”

  He pulled out into the traffic. “I’ll update you then. Enjoy your last evening in London and have some drinks on me.”

  ****

  Queen’s University. 4 p.m.

  By the time Craig arrived at Queen’s it was four o’clock and the swarm of students changing lectures made him feel suddenly old. That had been John and him twenty-five years before, dressed in the ’90’s fashion equivalents of fingerless gloves and combat boots. John heading up Stranmillis to the Keir Building for biochemistry, and him to the law library to sleep in the stacks when he should have been studying; both of them severely hung over from the night before.

  He shut down the memory reluctantly and glanced at his watch. Five past four, five minutes to find the Vice-Chancellor’s office and get ready for the fray. He didn’t imagine for one minute that the head of a university would volunteer the names of its possibly homicidal academics willingly. In fact he didn’t know what he expected, but he knew what he’d do if someone came asking questions about his staff; he’d batten down the hatches and refuse to cooperate. So it was with astonishment that ten minutes later he was sitting opposite Vice-Chancellor Eleanor Thompson, Professor of Civil Engineering, watching her volunteer names and opinions faster than a runaway train.

  The five-feet-six V.C. was a soft looking woman, with a wide eyed face above a well-rounded body, and short fingers on hands that when he’d shaken one had been spongy to touch. She was the human equivalent of a children’s cuddly toy and it wasn’t an unattractive look, but the gleam in her eyes when Craig had explained why he was there had said that there was absolutely nothing soft about her brain. Her green eyes crackled with intelligence and her alto voice was cool, giving a lie to her amiable exterior, and, after a cursory objection that she should be expected to estimate the murderous potential of her staff, she’d given them up with a speed and malice that said she’d wanted to stick the knife into some of them for years.

  After a five minute rant that displayed a particular dislike of the physics department, something Craig made a note to tell his ex-physics-lecturer father about, the professor of engineering leaned forward seriously, fixing his gaze in a way that said she was about to settle some old scores.

  “It’s just my opinion, Mr Craig, but your real culprits are likely to lie in the history and theology departments. We don’t have a classics department so that’s where all the Latin obsessives lurk.” The physicists may have been her bête noir but they obviously weren’t going to get the blame this time. “They’re the only ones who’d care enough about Latin to know what you were talking about.”

  She stared at the far wall as if something fascinating was written there, continuing. “Well, I suppose anyone could look it up on the internet nowadays; even Vulgar Latin probably has a fan site.” Not that Davy had managed to find. “But to be so obsessive about it that they might kill someone…” She shook her well-coiffed head, as if non-scientists were completely beyond the pale. “…that kind of obsession takes a particular type.”

  She punctuated the sentence with a sigh and then dropped her voice conspiratorially. “Sadly universities have many of them. Some academics aren’t quite normal, you know; especially the ones who’ve never worked in the outside world. They lead a cloistered existence, like a monk or a nun. If it wasn’t for the students they’d probably never speak to anyone, and frankly, some of them would prefer it that way.”

  She rolled her emerald eyes and Craig caught a flash of blue. She was wearing coloured lens; clearly running a university still left time for vanity. Thompson continued in a war-weary tone. “You wouldn’t believe the battles I have to get them to teach an extra class.”

  Either the Professor finally heard how much she was droning on or Craig’s glazed look did the trick because she suddenly leapt off her chair and opened the office door, beckoning her secretary in.

  “Vanessa, I’d like the files for Doctors Daly and McNeilly please, oh yes, and Doctor Black from social anthropology and…”

  Within five minutes Craig was returning to his car with a list, and a mental image of the V.C. pushing her academics off a cliff with unseemly zeal.

  ****

  5 p.m.

  “OK, settle down, please.” Craig cast a look around. There was no sign of Andy. He turned to Liam. “Where’s the cherub?”

  Liam gestured at the map on Nicky’s screen.

  “In Downpatrick?”

  “Suppose so. I’m not my brother’s keeper.”

  “You are now. Check on him, please.” As he made the call Craig crossed to the whiteboard and lifted a marker. “Right, before we start you’ll be glad to hear that Annette and Nicky will be back in the morning.” He stared pointedly at Davy; his detritus had spread onto Nicky’s desk and was beginning to invade the floor nearby. “I suggest you get this place tidied ASAP unless you want to bring the wrath of Mrs Morris down on your heads.” He tapped the board, indicating a list he’d written there earlier.

  “We now have four confirmed victims; three male, one female, and the jury’s out on a possible rehearsal victim found at the yacht club. Excluding her, why the gender discrepancy? Suggestions anyone?”

  Ken raised a finger. “Maybe they don’t like killing women.”

  Liam guffawed. “Chivalrous killers. That’d be a first.”

  Jake interjected in a tired voice. “Because fewer women commit crimes that our killers deem punishable?”

  Craig nodded. “That’s it exactly. Not only do women commit fewer crimes in general but when they do they’re more likely to be minor or financially based; shoplifting, credit card fraud, possibly not the sort of thing that our killers would bother with.”

  Carmen glanced up sharply. “So what had Elena Boraks done that was so awful? Taken some drugs and charged men for sex. How was that hurting anyone but her?”

  Craig counted to five inside his head, wishing that she wouldn’t turn everything into a battle. Briefings were becoming a minefield that no-one could cross without setting her off.

  “No-one’s saying that she hurt anyone, but in the mind of these killers her drug abuse and/or prostitution ranked as punishable––”

  Jake cut in again, half yawning. “I’ve got something on that, sir. You were right, Elena was working out of a flat, but it
wasn’t run by gangs; she and two other girls had set themselves up in the city centre. I got the address from the therapist and checked it out. It seems OK. I asked the other girls and they were adamant that Mr Boraks knew nothing about the place, or Elena’s real work. The last time they saw her was on the sixth of March. They thought she’d been staying with her dad since then.”

  “Good work, Jake. OK, as I was saying it was most probably Elena Boraks’ drug abuse that the killers were punishing her for, based on the Heroin left behind. I’m not saying that it’s right but it appears to be the case.” Before Carmen could retort he tapped the next point on the board. “OK, Davy’s confirmed that our first three victims were baptised Roman Catholic––”

  Liam cut in. “Here, what’s a Catholic doing living on the Demesne? It’s always been a Protestant estate.”

  Davy’s heart sank; he hadn’t questioned Sam Beech’s religion just reported it, but what if he was wrong? He tapped furiously on his keyboard while the others watched, then after a minute’s frowning his face broke into a smile.

  “Yep, I was right. Sam was baptised Catholic, along with twenty per cent of the Demesne’s residents. S…Seems that Northern Ireland’s integrating at last.”

  Craig continued as if the interruption hadn’t happened. “So our first three victims were Roman Catholic. Indicating?”

  Liam gave him a martyred look. “That people hate us.”

  Craig knew he was trying to lighten the mood but the subject matter precluded him joining in. “I think the mode of killing rules out a simple sectarian attack, Liam. So––”

  Davy surprised him by interrupting. He normally only answered technical questions at briefings and even then only when Craig allocated him a slot, preferring to beaver away quietly and let his work speak for itself.

  “If the killers are Catholic maybe they deliberately picked Catholic victims because they expected better of them. Like they’d had the benefit of being taught right and wrong and still failed, so they judged them more harshly, and w…when they transgressed they thought they deserved more severe punishment.”

  Craig knew what was coming next and Carmen didn’t disappoint. She rounded on Davy indignantly.

  “Are you saying that Catholics are better people so when they transgress it’s somehow a bigger fall? Like they’re on some sort of moral high ground?”

  Craig held back, wondering what Davy’s reply would be. He didn’t disappoint.

  “I’m saying that may be the killers’ perception, not that it’s a fact. Remember these people are obviously insane. But they must be w…working to some perceived moral descent rather than just a perceived crime or they’d be killing every drug addict, paedophile etc. in Northern Ireland, rather than just these few. People always judge their own more harshly.”

  Carmen’s mouth opened and then closed again as she was outgunned. Craig nodded. It was a good point and not one that had occurred to him. He added the detail to the board.

  “OK, I want us to look at the crimes themselves.”

  Liam raised a finger to interrupt. It was unusually polite of him.

  “On the Heroin, boss. Karl’s hit a brick wall on possible suppliers and there’s nothing useful coming from Gangs or Vice, so we have to assume that the killers have some private route to bring in the high grade stuff.”

  “If they have it’s bad news. That could mean they’re connected internationally.”

  Liam shrugged; he had enough to worry about on his own turf. Craig parked the point for later and turned back to the board.

  “We now have four perceived transgressors or sinners, for want of a better term. Three that we know about and a fourth victim whose crime we don’t yet know––”

  Davy shook his head. “Yes we do. I got a match from his prints. The fourth victim was Brian Devaney, nineteen, just finished a six year s…stretch for raping a nurse when he was thirteen. He served the first part in Wharf House and the rest in Magilligan. He only got out on Tuesday. And before you ask, yes, he was Catholic as well. It was on his prison notes.”

  Liam shook his head. “Last week! Blimey, it didn’t take him long to get up to his old tricks. And rape would explain why they chopped his willy off.”

  It was on the tip of Craig’s tongue to tell him off for his slang when he decided that it could have been far worse and added Brian Devaney – rapist to the board instead.

  “Thanks, Davy. OK, so we have four young Roman Catholic victims, all guilty of some sin in our killers’ eyes. Let’s look at the murder methods. Liam, would you like to cover that?”

  Liam took the marker gleefully as Craig topped up his cup.

  “OK, here we go. All the victims were drowned in fresh water; Des narrowed it to the supply from the Silent Valley but we can’t get closer than that.” He glanced at Davy. “Unless you know something I don’t?”

  “I know a lot you don’t, but no, Des hasn’t got an address for where they were drowned.”

  Craig stifled a smile at his cheek and urged Liam on.

  “OK, then. Fresh water drowning was the cause of death in all four victims then they were washed in bleach, wrapped in cling-film and dumped.” He glanced at Craig. “We think the cleansing and drowning was some sort of baptism ritual, unless anyone can think of anything else?”

  Frowns of concentration and exchanged looks resulted in no new answers.

  “The other thing is that each victim except Sam Beech was either mutilated or contaminated somehow after death. Boraks was given a Heroin O.D.––”

  Ken cut in. “How do we know it was given post-mortem? Surely it would be impossible to tell.”

  Craig answered the question; technical details weren’t Liam’s forte.

  “The concentration of Heroin at the injection site was a lethal dose but sample blood levels elsewhere were low, meaning that it hadn’t circulated, which it would have done in less than a minute if the heart had still been beating.”

  Ken nodded slowly. “Clever.”

  Liam continued. “Bobby McDonagh was penetrated anally with an instrument used in medieval times, which also links with the Spanish Inquisition quote, and Devaney had his willy chopped off, so each mutilation fits the perceived crime.”

  Carmen cut in. “So why wasn’t Sam Beech mutilated? His body was completely untouched.”

  Jake asked the question on everyone’s lips. “What mutilation fits a paedophile?”

  “Amputated hands” and “castration” were thrown out in answer.

  Craig halted the speculation. “I’ll come back to Sam later. We have a theory there.”

  Liam nodded sagely. “Aye, we have a theory. Anyhow, there were three other things about all the bodies. One, Elena Boraks, who we know was a regular Heroin user, was almost completely clean of drugs, apart from the O.D. after death. Two, the first three victims, and we’re presuming Devaney as well, had a meal at least three hours before they died which consisted of bread and wine.”

  Craig interjected. “Des has narrowed the bread to unleavened; that means it had no raising agent.”

  Liam nodded; unleavened fitted with his communion idea. He searched the group’s faces for signs of comprehension but they were blank apart from Davy’s and Craig’s. He tutted and carried on. “And three, they all had the tattoo, basically saying that confessions achieved even after torture are still valid.”

  Jake leaned forward to interrupt and Liam nodded him on. Jake frowned, as if there was something he didn’t quite understand.

  “It’s something that occurred to me last night.” Late last night judging by the bags under his eyes. “I understand the relevance of the Spanish Inquisition quote, it goes with the fanaticism of our killers and the whole judgement and punishment theme, and I get the early Christian links, but why bother using Vulgar Latin? Why not just write something about early Christianity in ordinary Latin, instead of being so obscure?”

  Craig smiled. He’d wondered why no-one had asked the question earlier; luckily he’d thought of
an answer. He waved Liam to sit for a moment.

  “I asked myself the same question and came up with some ideas; you can tell me what you think. OK, we have a killer or group of killers who are judgemental and arrogant. Yes? They believe they’re morally right and probably that the rest of us are corrupt idiots. They’re also very well educated. What does that add up to?”

  Davy answered first. “A s…superiority complex.”

  Craig nodded eagerly. “Exactly. And therefore the rest of us are inferior. How better to demonstrate that than to play games with us, the plebeian police?”

  Jake nodded. “So writing a straight Latin quote would have been too easy for us to work out.”

  “Yes. And if we’d worked it out quickly we might have caught them quick-” He stopped abruptly as he realised what it meant. The tattoo hadn’t just been a demonstration of the killers’ arrogance; it had been a play for time. But time for what? To kill more people or to get away?

  Liam watched as Craig retreated into his own thoughts and quickly took back the briefing.

  “OK, back to torture. We’re pretty sure they deliberately left the choke pear with Bobby McDonagh to show us that torture had occurred, and not just to him. Ken’s already given us a few methods that wouldn’t have left marks, or where they would have faded quickly.”

  Davy interjected. “Think about when the victims were last seen. Elena hadn’t been seen since early March, Bobby McDonagh’s parents thought he went to S…Spain around the same time and we know Sam Beech was abducted two weeks before his death. All w…weeks before they were killed, so what were they doing with them during that time? If it was torture then they had plenty of time for the marks to fade.”

  Liam gave a snort. “With Devaney they went straight for killing him. He’d been out of Magilligan less than a week.”

  Jake frowned as he tried to put everything together. He’d been brought up Presbyterian so high church rituals were unfamiliar to him.

  “So you’re saying that they were all held somewhere for weeks, tortured to make them confess, given a last supper of bread and wine, and then drowned in some bizarre baptism?” As he was speaking realisation dawned. “You think Sam Beech wasn’t symbolically mutilated because he repented and the others didn’t!”