James’ drawl was deliberately Debrett’s, designed to put the local yokel in his place. Craig could have matched it, if he could’ve been bothered, drawing on his mother’s Italian minor royal ancestry to set the pecking order. If Major James wanted to play a game of ‘who’s better bred?’ then they’d play and James would lose, but Craig had no truck with snobbery.
However Craig’s thoughts manifested themselves on his face; Stephen James read them and recoiled. The movement was slight but it was there and it was a big enough crack for Craig to slip through.
“It’s not nice at all and you know it, Major. So let’s just cut the bullshit, shall we? I want the name on that bomb.”
Des couldn’t move anything but his eyes and they darted back and forth between the men as if he was watching a Wimbledon match. He’d never seen Craig use swearing as a tactic and he couldn’t wait to tell John. Stephen James leaned forward, tightening the hands that he’d locked together until his knuckles were white. His voice had tightened just as much.
“The bomb signature is a matter of national security and the Ministry of Defence has ordered me not to release it.”
“That’s rubbish and you know it. You’re deliberately obstructing my investigation and I could arrest you. If necessary I’ll go over your head to the M.O.D. The Chief Constable knows the Chief of the Defence Staff very well.”
James bristled at the mention of the C.D.S. and Craig knew how he’d feel if someone threatened to go straight to his C.C. But that was just tough. If Major James wanted to play hard ball then he should have practiced more. James decided to call Craig’s bluff.
“Go ahead, I’m quite sure your Chief Constable has better things to do, and I doubt if he’ll just take your word for it.”
Craig smiled as if he was glad that James had challenged him, then he slipped out his mobile phone, pressing dial. The call was answered quickly. “Donna? Hello, it’s Marc Craig here. Is the Chief Con around?”
No-one got time to hear the reply. James folded like a bad hand of poker and waved Craig to put the phone away. “Very well, Superintendent. I’ll give you the information. But if there are any leaks it will be a breach of national security. I was serious about that.”
He leaned into his intercom and barked. “Corporal Crean, bring in the bookshop file.” As he did so Craig glanced at the others. Smith had one fist clenched and Craig knew he was desperate to punch the air in triumph. As Craig glanced at Des he saw the beginnings of a smile form amidst his facial hair. Des gazed pointedly at Craig’s mobile and Craig shot him a warning look; he hadn’t phoned the C.C.’s office at all, he’d pressed the number for the squad. If he’d just had a conversation with anyone it was with Nicky. Craig allowed himself a small smile as the corporal entered with a file then left in a flurry of salutes.
Stephen James read the document in silence for a moment, eyes wide as though he’d never seen it before. More bullshit, but Craig let him play it out. He’d stripped the man of enough dignity for one day. Finally James pushed the file across the desk. Craig scanned it quickly then passed it to Des as his mind raced, trying to work out how it fitted with their case. When all three men had read it, Stephen James reclaimed the file.
“Do you understand now, Superintendent?”
“I understand that it’s sensitive information, but I also trust my team. We’ll need copies of the file.”
James shook his head. “Out of the question. Military personnel are named.”
“Of the forensic report then. Dr Marsham needs it to continue his work.”
James thought for a moment then nodded tersely and stood, making it clear that they could wait elsewhere for their photocopies. As he motioned them out of his office, Craig saw the threat in James’ eyes as he glared at Ken Smith. He planned to make Ken’s life hell when he returned to the base. Well, not if Craig had anything to do with it.
Ten minutes later the men were standing by their cars, each holding a copy of the report.
“Work with Davy to get what you can from this please, Des. I need it tomorrow at the latest.”
Des nodded then gave a small smile and shook his head. “James didn’t have a clue.”
Craig grinned and Smith glanced at each of their faces in turn.
“About what?”
Des laughed, frustrating the captain even further.
“Oh, come on, guys, let me in on the joke.”
Craig slipped out his phone and pulled up his last call, to Docklands.
Smith gawped. “You bluffed him? Oh my God, you bluffed old James! Brilliant! Who did you call?”
“Nicky. She played along. We’ve done it before.”
“I can’t wait to tell the others in the Mess. James will never live it down.”
Craig shook his head. “Leave him his dignity, Ken. Like you said, this place is his world.”
Stephen James had made Smith’s life hell in the past so Craig knew that he was asking a lot. Smith went to object then he shrugged reluctantly and Craig was glad that he did. He had plans for Ken Smith and they didn’t include him going back to an army base in two weeks’ time.
***
The men stopped for a very late lunch and by the time they arrived back at the squad it was time for the briefing. Craig needed more information before they met so he deferred it till the next morning and retreated into his office to think. It was the gap that Nicky had been looking for.
Carmen had been working on something for Liam for hours and she’d barely lifted her head, not even when Ken had returned, despite him making a lot of noise. Nicky watched as he banged a file on his desk deliberately loudly then glanced hopefully at Carmen for some acknowledgement. She barely blinked, just tutted at the noise and curled even further into her screen. Nicky couldn’t stand it any longer so she wandered over to Davy and started to chat, loudly enough so that everyone could overhear.
“The chief looked pleased with himself. I wonder what he found out at the base.”
Davy was about to answer when he saw Nicky’s warning glance and read his cue to play dumb.
“I don’t know. Did you ask him?”
Ken overheard, just as he’d been meant to do. He leapt up and joined them, speaking in an eager tone. “You should have seen Superintendent Craig. He played old James like an expert. It was brilliant. At one point he even called Nicky, pretending that she was the Chief Constable, to scare James.”
Nicky nodded. “He’s done it before and it always works.”
Liam and Annette lifted their heads then wandered across to join the chat. The only one who didn’t was Carmen. Nicky tuned out the other’s laughter, thinking. What made Carmen tick? She’d been lippy to Liam, but that seemed to have stopped for the moment; now she said nothing at all. Was she scared to speak? Somehow Nicky doubted it. It was more as if the life had gone out of the girl long before today. And as for not noticing that Ken liked her, or not caring more like, Nicky just couldn’t work it out. Ken was handsome, in the healthy, outdoorsy Matt Damon mould and even she, happily married as she was, had given him a second glance. Carmen sat facing him all day, how could she not have noticed?
An idea hit her. Maybe Carmen was gay and she’d been trying to match-make her with the wrong sex? She dismissed the idea as soon as it came; her street sense was pretty good and besides, Carmen’s body language was more wounded and lonely than disinterested. She’d been hurt badly by someone in the past, she was sure of it. So badly that she’d completely switched off. There couldn’t be any other explanation for a pretty girl wearing such dowdy clothes. Nicky’s analysis was interrupted by a loud guffaw from Liam.
“That’s nothing. Do you remember the time…?”
Just then Craig’s office door opened and he strolled over to the group. He joined in the banter for a minute before beckoning Davy to join him in his room.
“I need your help with something on my computer, Davy.”
He nodded Davy towards his chair and unlocked his screen.
“W
…What are you looking for?”
“I’m trying to access some chat-rooms that specialise in rare books. Not the mainstream ones, the ones with the real gossip. I’m not positive but I think Jules Robinson might have acquired something very rare recently. Maria McGovern remembered her husband saying as much.”
Davy’s eyes widened. “You think it got everyone killed?”
Craig gave a puzzled smile. “I’m not sure yet, that’s what I want to find out.”
“Do you w…want me to check for you?”
Craig shook his head. “No. I’ll do the first sweep; you’re needed on other things. Besides, this is just a shot in the dark. It might turn out to be nothing.”
Davy typed for a full minute and then beckoned Craig to look at the screen.
“OK. This is a list of book-collectors’ s…sites. At the bottom are the chat-rooms for real fans. McGovern might have heard something in one of those. I can check his computer to see w…what URLs he used.”
“Great.”
Davy hadn’t finished. He clicked onto another window. Craig peered at it, not recognising the URL.
“What’s that?”
Davy grinned. “Do you remember the Dark Web? We accessed it during the Carragher case.”
The Dark Web was a shadow internet, with sites accessible by those in the know. Many dealt in dubious activities. One of the sites, Silk Road, had been closed down by the FBI in 2013. Silk Road 2.0 started one month later.
“Yes. Is that a Dark Web chat-room?”
“Yes. Underground trades in books and other stuff.”
Craig smiled. “By underground I take it you mean illegal?”
Davy nodded, throwing his hair across his face. “Very illegal. S…Stolen art changing hands, and all sorts of other things.” Davy caught Craig’s uncertain look. “Don’t w…worry, chief. The fraud and cyber-crime boys know all about it. They monitor all these s…sites.”
Craig made a face. “Oh, great. So they’ll be knocking on my door.”
Davy laughed. “I’ll tell them you’re doing it as part of a case.” He stared at Craig curiously. “You really think a rare book could have been the bomb’s target?”
Craig shrugged. “It’s just a hunch. We have solid leads to follow and I need you focused on those, so I’ll do the legwork on this. If I get anywhere you’ll be the first to know.”
“Second, but w…who’s counting.”
With that Davy returned to his desk, leaving Craig to explore the murky backstreets of the web.
Chapter Eighteen
Stix and Stones Restaurant, Belfast. 9 p.m.
Craig picked at his beautifully prepared steak and smiled vaguely at Katy. She looked lovely as usual and he knew he wasn’t giving her the attention she deserved. Katy smiled back and then shook her head, as if she’d read his mind. It was something she was good at and Craig often wondered whether he was an open book or she had second sight. Her next words took him by surprise.
“Yes, I usually know what you’re thinking. And no, it doesn’t mean that I’m a witch, although I do come from a long line of strange women.” She laughed at her own joke, making him laugh as well. “There’s no trick to it. We’re taught to read people in medical school, and years as a doctor teaches you how to interpret even the most fleeting facial expressions.”
She reached for her glass of wine. “So I know you’re preoccupied with your case this evening but I don’t mind. You’re not neglecting me, Marc. I’m not a child who needs constant attention. You’re busy.” She grimaced. “Trust me; I’ll be just as bad as you when I’ve a complex case.”
Craig nodded, comparing her grown-up approach to life to Camille’s; her self-importance and drama had meant she’d needed to be the centre of every room. Even Julia, who’d understood his work, had sulked at his lack of attention; although in her case not out of self-importance but from insecurity that she was somehow never enough. He felt guilty about her for a moment and hoped that she was sitting somewhere with someone that she really liked.
Really liked. Yes, he really liked Katy, but he also knew that it was much, much more, something that he wasn’t willing to put a name on just yet. Craig glanced away before she read that thought as well and sipped his wine, savouring the smooth red liquid as it slid down his throat. Then he smiled and attacked his steak with renewed vigour, packing his thoughts about their relationship away for a while longer, until they were lying under a Caribbean sun.
***
Wednesday. 8 a.m.
Craig perched on a desk and grinned at the bleary-eyed group.
“OK, we’ve a lot to get through, so let’s start.”
His bright-eyed enthusiasm earned him a jaundiced glance from more than one of his team, who knew exactly what it meant. At around the halfway mark in an investigation, when the rest of them were flagging and ready for a break, Craig always got his second wind. He was like a long distance runner who’d been pacing himself until the final leg of the race to fool his opponents, only to streak past them to the finish line. To those in the slow lane it was tantamount to taunting.
Only Ken perked up at the words. Liam shook his head ruefully; Craig and Smith were both sporty, Smith more so nowadays since Craig rarely managed to escape work to hit the gym. Maybe it gave them a stamina that the rest of the team lacked. Liam stared down glumly at his paunch, wondering where his six-pack was hiding. He used to have muscles like Craig; perhaps he was just getting old. He gazed at the younger yawning team members and shook his head. It wasn’t him getting old; they were all wrecked. Craig and Smith were the odd ones. Craig’s voice cut through his thoughts, beckoning them all to gather round.
“OK. I’ll give a quick update then hand over to Davy for the forensics. Everyone chip in as and when.” He took a swig of espresso and started.
“There are some outstanding bits of information that we’re expecting today. The poison that killed Fintan Delaney, more details on the owner of the newly I.D.ed body, and hopefully more on Jennifer Weston’s whereabouts as well. But first I’ll tell you why we went haring off to the base yesterday afternoon.” He paused for a moment and then turned to Ken. “Actually, no. Ken can tell you.”
Craig nodded Smith on and took another sip of his drink. Liam had often wondered how he managed to drink so much coffee without getting a headache; he’d have had a migraine on half the amount. He’d always put it down to Craig’s Italian lineage but today he wondered if coffee was actually the source of Craig’s energy and resolved to drink more himself.
His attention was grabbed by Ken looking unfeasibly pleased about something. As Liam watched Ken glanced to see if Carmen was paying attention. She wasn’t returning his glances; just scribbling quickly in her notebook. Ken’s voice pulled him back to the case.
“We went to the base yesterday afternoon and met with Major James. To cut a long story short, he was reluctant to help and took a bit of persuasion, but eventually he gave us information on the bomb signature.”
Annette raised her pencil to interrupt. “Sorry, I’m sure I should remember this, but how do you define a bomb signature again?”
Ken nodded.
“OK. A bomb’s signature is its unique identifier, like the way you sign your name is unique to you. It’s hard to fake and it basically tells us who made the device. Often the uniqueness comes from habit, the bomber simply doing what they do in the usual way they do it. Sometimes it’s vanity; they do something deliberately because they want people to recognise their work. They take pride in it. I mentioned crimping wires and fragmenting the bomb in a specific way the other day, but whatever it is it’s often so distinctive that we can I.D. the maker, and fortunately in this case that’s what we’ve found. The signature belongs to an Arab national called Ibrahim Kouri. He’s a member of a splinter Islamic radical group called the Militant Islamic Foundation.”
The shock that ran through the group was exactly what Craig had expected. Davy and Nicky gawped at each other and Liam’s jaw dropped open a
nd hung there, until Annette recovered her composure enough to reach over and tip it shut. Even Carmen set down her pen to listen. Craig nodded Ken on.
“The M.I.F. has been active since 9/11. And despite God knows how many attempts to find out where they’re based, so far both we and the Americans have drawn a blank. We knew of possible links with Iraq, Pakistan and Afghanistan but not that they were active here, or anywhere in Europe to be frank.”
Liam gathered himself enough to ask a question. “How accurate are these signatures? I mean, don’t lots of people make bombs in the same way?”
Smith nodded. “Well… yes and no. They could in theory; although it would be like me trying to copy your signature, there would always be small errors that a good graphologist would spot. Think of our bomb forensic team as expert graphologists. They’ve seen thousands of these things over the years, what with the Middle East…”
Craig interjected. “And here. You don’t need to be tactful, Ken. We all know how many bombs the army defused here during the Troubles.
Smith nodded. “OK. And here. So they know their stuff. It’s unlikely that this is a copycat and why would any bomb maker in Belfast want to copy the signature of an Islamic radical anyway? My knowledge of the terrorist groups here is that they usually want people to know when they’ve planted devices.”
Liam conceded. “Aye, you’re right. They’d sell T-shirts if they could get away with it. OK, so the bomb was the real deal made by this M.I.P bunch.”
“M.I.F. Yes, that’s what our lads are saying. But how it fits with the case goodness only knows.”
Craig cut in. “OK, that’s where we come in. We know the last victim of the bombing was a Saudi national called Ibrahim Kouri.”
Smith gawped. “He was your victim? Ibrahim Kouri? When did you find out?”
Craig smiled. “John told us at the briefing on Monday.” He saw Smith’s quick glance at Carmen and flush of embarrassment and knew that his mind had been on other things during John’s report. He brushed past the error and continued.
The Careless Word (#8 - The Craig Crime Series) Page 22