The politician didn’t move at all, his expression unchanged. In shock? Then he surprised them both, by laughing, hard.
“Don’t talk rubbish, man. My wife? Load of nonsense, she’s fine. She’s at her mother’s in Fermanagh. Look, I’ll call her now.”
He reached quickly into his jacket for a mobile, and pressed some keys, until Craig could see ‘Irene’ dialling. It rang out with no answer. Leighton just shrugged.
“She’s out shopping somewhere. She’ll be in touch when she sees that I’ve called.”
Then he rose again, angrily. “You should check your facts before you frighten people.”
He really didn’t know what they were talking about, or was pretending that he didn’t. Craig motioned quietly to Liam and he reached into his pocket, withdrawing an envelope full of photographs.
“Please sit down again, Mr Leighton.”
“Now look here, this has gone on long enough.” But the look on Craig’s face told him to sit, so he did, grudgingly.
Liam selected the least gruesome picture from the envelope and placed it slowly on the desk. Leighton looked at the picture in front of him and his mouth opened slowly, then he froze, immobile. The room fell silent and for a moment none of them moved, until Craig finally lifted the photograph gently from the desk, certain that the man had seen enough.
Then, completely without warning, Bob Leighton banged his head hard on the desk, again and again. Until blood started to trickle from his nose and smear across his mouth, and his lower lip ripped open. Liam grabbed him before he knocked himself out, and Leighton emitted a single deafening yell, several seconds long. Then he sat rooted to his chair, staring ahead, the blood dripping freely down his face.
Craig watched him for a moment, puzzled, re-thinking his earlier quick assumption about the nanny. He could spot pretence in a heartbeat, and Leighton wasn’t pretending. He was genuinely bereft, so why the concern for this Kaisa? Maybe it was just kindness.
After a few mute minutes he took his arm kindly and they led the bloodied official to the car, and then on to John Winter’s Lab. To confirm what they both already knew, that his wife of twenty years was dead.
***
John felt genuinely sad about her death, and that didn’t happen often. All death was sad of course, whether from the waste or for the victim’s loved ones, or from the sheer indignity and ignominy of the demise. But occasionally, even when all of those things were accepted, and when age and circumstance had been taken into account, occasionally there was another dimension that made death even sadder. Strange or unnatural death, and Irene Leighton’s death was both of those.
He was touched by her suburban ‘mummy-ness’, signposted by her sensible mid-heel shoes and ‘slacks’ from M&S, and echoed in her minimal adornment. No garish earrings, no loud rings and no multi-coloured nails. Just a simple gold wedding band, the cross of some religion, and a child’s bracelet on a chain around her neck; a memory of someone, or some time.
John looked down at her respectfully for a moment and then he sighed, reaching for his scalpel. And he started to find Irene Leighton’s truth, as gently as possible.
Chapter Five
Kaisa played gently with Ben’s dark curls and smiled affectionately at the little boy. At midday, she would go to the supermarket for fruit and yoghurt for his coming week’s breakfasts and then she’d pop into Castle Court shopping centre. It was only two streets away and she needed a new lipstick, now that she had an appreciative audience.
She strolled over to the mirror and admired her image, smoothing down her white vest top and turning to assess her rear view in jeans. Everything was where it needed to be for best effect. Good genes. She laughed at her own pun and at the English language, where one word could have so many meanings; jeans, genes, Jean’s, there, their, they’re. How complex did they need to make it?
Still, even if their language was sophisticated, their men often weren’t. And that, she smiled, was to her advantage.
***
Craig was sitting in a boiling relative’s room on the second floor of the Coordinated Crime Unit. Boiling, courtesy of a broken thermostat; cut-backs. He was working himself up to interview Bob Leighton. Working himself up not because he was nervous, or because the interviewee was special. He was no more or less special than any victim’s spouse, where his instinctive sympathy was always tempered by the knowledge that in thirty-percent of cases when a wife died, the husband had actually killed her. No, he wasn’t working himself up because of that. It was a situation that he’d dealt with many times, too many times recently.
And he wasn’t working himself up in anticipation of being lied to, because people nearly always lied to the police, even when they didn’t mean to. He probably lied to himself at times.
No, he was working himself up because the man in front of him was a professional liar, calling it politics or diplomacy or pragmatism, or necessity. The man in front of him could probably lie without breaking a sweat, even in this heat. After all, he promised people things every day, most of which he knew that he would never deliver.
He was working himself up because he knew that he had to look beyond the clues that gave normal people away. The sweat, the refusal to make eye contact, the nervous tics and kicking at the table legs. The ‘tells’ and inaccuracies and inconsistencies in their stories. The sudden need to embellish everything to fill the silence. ‘So there I was, walking down Edgar Road to buy milk. It’s a lovely road, full of trees and flowers...etc.’ Too much information.
No, the normal signs of nervousness and lies wouldn’t apply here. This man wouldn’t show any signs that he was lying, because he really believed his own lies. This one was tricky. And then of course, he wasn’t under arrest. He was a relative, and there was grief, real or otherwise. And there was always the possibility, large or small, that he might just be innocent. Until...
***
Craig re-entered the squad just after one and threw the file down on a vacant desk, frustrated. Nothing, he’d got nothing, Leighton had seemed genuinely grief-stricken, but he’d also refused to answer most questions until his solicitor arrived, and then he wouldn’t answer any at all.
He sighed and cast a look around the large, open plan office. There was no one there but Liam and himself. No Annette, no Nicky and no Davy. It was just like the airline advert.
“Where is everybody? Did I miss a bank holiday?”
Liam flung himself back in his chair and swung his long legs onto the desk, half-laughing.
“Nope, something much more important. A girl on the sixth floor is selling jewellery, cheap. They went for a look.”
“Davy as well?”
“Oh, aye. Apparently, Emos are into body piercing. Although God knows which part he’s looking to adorn.”
Craig shrugged and smiled. The young could get away with anything, he knew he had. He pulled off the jacket of his modern suit, loosening his tie, and sat down.
“What did you make of Leighton at the viewing?” Liam had volunteered to take the politician into the mortuary with John, while Craig talked to Trevor about the upcoming P.M.
“Rough enough, boss. He went white as a sheet and the Doc had to sit him down. Then he started crying and calling her name out. I felt sorry for him.” Liam immediately looked embarrassed by his own compassion, as if he’d admitted a flaw.
Craig nodded. He agreed with him. Much as he hated politicians, Bob Leighton’s grief was genuine, he was certain of it. But that didn’t mean that he was innocent.
“He’s guilty of something, Liam, but I’m not sure it’s murder. Did you see the size of his pupils? In a bright room too.”
Liam nodded. “He didn’t stop sniffing all the way to the lab. Big coke habit. I thought his nose would never stop bleeding.”
“I’d like to bet that it isn’t his only vice. He showed a bit too much concern about that nanny.”
They needed to speak to Kaisa ‘whatever her name was’, now that Leighton had formally ident
ified his wife. There’d been little doubt that the body they’d found had belonged to Irene Leighton, but the formalities still had to be observed.
“That Dublin trip of his was a handy little alibi. I’ll check it out after lunch. But I’d say presenting to the European Energy meeting would be hard to fake. Five hundred witnesses and a T.V. show to prove it.”
Craig thought for a moment. “Yes, but...”
“But, what?”
“It doesn’t prevent him being involved in some other way. Even if he didn’t kill her himself, he’s up to his eyes in this death, somehow.”
They lapsed into silence, thinking, and then Craig remembered that he hadn’t eaten since 7am, so he slipped-on his jacket and stood up.
“We can’t do anything until his brief arrives, so let’s go to ‘The James’ for lunch.”
A sudden thought struck him. He had a pile of paperwork waiting in his office; Nicky had been tutting at him about it all week. He pushed the thought away guiltily and turned to go and Liam swung his long legs down from the desk, never one to refuse food.
“Good idea, I’ll need a full stomach to have a go at the nanny.”
“You’re going nowhere near the nanny. Annette’s taking that one.”
Liam feigned offence for a second and then grinned, acknowledging his reputation for giving pretty women a free pass, and for putting his foot in it.
“Just give me a minute to check for calls.”
Craig pressed the number for the main desk and listened to his messages. There were two. Nicky telling him that they were all on the sixth floor and would return about one thirty; and Julia McNulty asking for a copy of the public prosecution file on Jessica Adams. He smiled quietly, making a note to ring her back personally.
They headed for the lift and just as they were leaving, the arriving lift’s door opened, and Craig’s heart sank at the sight of Terry Harrison. That was all he needed; their earlier conversation had been bad enough.
Harrison’s uncomfortably high-pitched voice rang out across the floor. “Ah, D.C.I. Craig. Just the man.” He turned his head slightly and caught Liam ducking into the stairwell, waving him back, in an order, not a request.
Without any debate, he oiled his way towards Craig’s office and pushed open the door, seating himself behind his desk with an attitude that brooked no discussion. He swung Craig’s chair round to face the river, and started talking with any preamble.
“I’m not happy, D.C.I. Craig.”
Before Craig could ask ‘what about’, he continued. Craig already knew what about in any case, and that Harrison was about to tell them again, at great length.
Terry Harrison was a political operator with a small ‘p’ and he fancied himself as a player. Sucking up to politicians was one of his many dubious skills, and he was both good at it and proud of it, although in Craig’s book it was definitely nothing to boast about. Politics should be left to the politicians, and solving crime to them – the force had been used by vote-hunting bureaucrats before.
Harrison was still talking. “I’m unhappy for many reasons, D.C.I. Craig. The main one is that you are treating Mr Robert Leighton, Member of Parliament for West Antrim, as if he’s a criminal. The poor man’s just lost his wife!”
Craig was standing in his own office in front of his own deputy, being asked to explain himself by the fat, pompous prick in his chair, and Liam could see his temper flaring. It didn’t go often, but when it did, it wasn’t pretty.
“It would be useful if you would turn to face us, sir.”
His tone was barely civil and Harrison heard it, swinging the chair around sharply. Craig really hoped that his obesity wouldn’t ruin the suspension; it had taken him years to wear it in.
“I don’t like your tone, D.C.I. Craig.”
“And I don’t like either myself or my men being accused of things that we haven’t done...sir!” The ‘sir’ was definitely an afterthought.
“Explain yourself.”
“I will!”
It was half-shouted and Craig knew that he needed to wind it in quickly, before he reached over and grabbed Harrison by the throat. He looked around for a less violent way to even the power-balance, quickly finding one.
The only free chairs in the room were in the low coffee area to one side of the office. Craig groaned inwardly. They were for visitors, and his and Liam’s height made them murder to get into and out of. But he was damned if he was going to stand there like some school-boy being told off by the headmaster, so he gestured Liam to sit down, taking them both out of Harrison’s view.
It had the desired effect. Harrison had to walk around the desk to see them, getting him out of Craig’s chair before he completely ruined it, and throwing him momentarily off topic. Craig kept talking without skipping a beat.
“Robert Leighton is not under arrest. He expressed a wish to find his wife’s killer, so he’s helping us with our enquiries.”
Harrison went to speak but Craig ignored him.
“He’s being afforded every courtesy and we’ve only had brief sessions with him. One to inform him about the death, and the second of which yielded information as to his whereabouts at the time of Mrs Leighton’s death. We’re currently checking that information to eliminate him as a suspect.”
Harrison’s mouth kept opening to speak, and then shutting again as Craig ignored him, deftly. Liam stifled a laugh. He looked like a Guppy.
“Mr Leighton identified his wife initially from a photograph that we showed him from the scene, and later confirmed that I.D. at Dr Winter’s laboratory on the Saintfield Road.”
Harrison wagged an overweight finger in the air, and Craig quickly added. “The photograph was of her face, which was completely uninjured.”
The finger dropped and Liam laughed aloud at the pantomime. Craig shot him a quick warning look; there was a time to push it with Harrison and this wasn’t it.
Craig could see the D.C.S. hesitating and decided to play his trump card. He was in the mood to wind him up. “John...”
This time Harrison did interrupt. “John?”
Craig looked at him coldly. “Dr Winter.”
The police hierarchy viewed John Winter with a wary respect, knowing that he could make their lives easy or hell. But Craig had the familiarity of a thirty-year friendship and it irritated Harrison immensely. That and the Chief Constable’s attempts to make Craig superintendent, doing Harrison out of a job at the Docklands. He’d resisted the rank so far, too many meetings and not enough crime scenes, but Harrison knew that he couldn’t resist it forever.
Craig could feel the conversation’s power balance shifting. “The post-mortem is being rushed through and we’ll have his preliminary findings after lunch. We already have lines to pursue.”
Harrison leaned forward eagerly, forgetting to be angry. “Have we indeed?”
Craig nodded curtly and Harrison looked pleased. “Yes. Good, good.” He crossed to where they were sitting and half-smiled: it was like a Malthusian gap. Then he started back-peddling with Olympic skill.
“Well Marc, I know I can trust you to be diplomatic with Mr Leighton. Politicians are a tricky bunch, not to be trusted really. Not like us. They try to interfere in policing, you know. Not good enough.”
He reached swiftly for the door handle, pulled the door open, and with a wave and a falsetto “keep me up to date” he strode across the floor to the lift. Ready for his brief journey back to the isolated luxury of the C.C.U’s twelfth floor.
Craig thrust himself immediately out of the low, soft chair, as Liam grabbed for the door handle, pulling himself vertical.
Craig watched him ruefully. “That’s why my handle keeps falling off! Nicky blames me every time.”
Liam grinned and Craig knew that he was about to launch into a diatribe about Harrison, so he quickly checked that he’d gone, and then waved him on.
“When was the last time he worked a case? 2010?”
Craig shrugged, his temper subsiding as quickly as
it came. “Earlier than that. He’s been in the ‘political wing’ since I came back in 2008, and staff posts long before that.”
“Here, is the political stuff why they call him ‘Teflon’?”
‘Teflon’ had been Terry Harrison’s nickname for as long as Craig had known him -nothing bad ever stuck to him, although there’d been a few near misses. Everyone knew he was aware of his nickname, but Liam still would be in trouble if he heard, so Craig reluctantly said so. Liam just shrugged, after twenty–eight years in the force he’d said a lot worse than that and survived.
Liam’s stomach rumbled loudly and they were reminded of their original destination, heading quickly back to the lift before anything else stopped them. They strolled out into the wet December sunshine, across the wide expanse of Dockland’s Barrow Square and past the tram-lines in Princes’ Dock Street, heading for The James’ bar and a very well–earned lunch.
Chapter Six
By two o’clock Craig was accelerating down the narrow length of Pilot Street, then left onto Garmoyle Street and on towards the A55. Heading for the pathology labs, set in a high-tech science park on the Saintfield Road.
Annette and the others had re-appeared with their booty just as they’d returned from lunch and she’d already left to interview the mysterious Kaisa. Liam was busily checking every inch of Leighton’s alibi, but Craig already knew that he’d find nothing there.
He parked randomly outside the labs and pushed through the opaque PVC doors nearest pathology. He headed straight for the dissection room, knowing that John would be in there, having a sandwich and a game of solitaire in his cluttered, corner office.
He was there exactly as expected, the only change to his habits today was that he was playing chess with himself instead of solitaire, and winning. Craig drew an espresso from the machine, needing the caffeine, and sat down heavily at the desk.
“The way you sat down says that it wasn't a perfect morning.”
The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 3