Annette had always thought ‘stunning’ was a much overused word, beloved by women’s magazines. This stunning reality star, that stunning pop star, always applied to perfectly ordinary looking girls with extraordinary egos. Stunning had never applied to any of them that she’d seen. But it did apply to the girl making the coffee.
She had white-blonde hair that looked unfeasibly natural, and a lightly tanned perfection that made Annette conscious of her own forty-something flat shoes and bitten nails. When she smiled it was through even, white teeth, and her clothes, what there were of them, were moulded to her. Irene Leighton must have been a saint or insane to hire this girl, while her husband had a pulse.
Kaisa returned with a tray of coffee and sat down opposite her, with the magnanimous charm of a woman who knows that she’s perfect, faced with another one that she knows isn’t.
“Can I ask you a few questions, Ms Moldeau? Just to clarify timings, and get a picture of life with Mr and Mrs Leighton?”
The girl leaned forward to pour the coffee, and although Annette couldn’t see the expression in her eyes, she could have sworn that she was smiling. When she sat back again the smile was no-where to be seen, a fixed sadness in its place.
“Poor Mr Leighton, poor Mrs Leighton.” Interesting order. “They are both so kind.”
One more than the other, if Bob Leighton’s earlier outburst was anything to go by.
“They bring me to care for leetle Ben five month ago. He is lovely boy.”
“May I ask where you’re from, Kaisa?”
“Ah yes, I am from Estonia. I come to Ireland six month and type, but now I love the children.”
“Can you tell me when you last saw Mr and Mrs Leighton?”
“Ah yes, Mr Leighton was saw on Saturday evening. And Mrs Leighton, she leave for Mama house on Sunday noon.”
Irene Leighton had been there on Sunday. She’d disappeared less than three days earlier.
“Did they often leave Ben with you?”
“No, but Mrs Leighton Mama very sick. She got phone-call, so she rush to see.”
“Had either of them called you since Sunday?”
“Yes, Mr Leighton he call every day, and Mrs Leighton she call when she reach Mama, Sunday night-time.”
“Not since then?”
The girl shook her head once, firmly. Irene Leighton had last called home nearly seventy-two hours before. Annette thought of her own children - no mother would leave their child that long with anyone without calling. Not unless something was stopping her.
“Weren’t you surprised that she hadn’t called?”
“Her Mama sick.”
The girl’s eyes clouded unexpectedly at the mention of...what? Mrs Leighton? No, she’d mentioned her before. Her mother? Yes, she looked sad about Mrs Leighton’s mother. Annette made a mental note to interview her next and turned back to Kaisa. She was still talking in her high, light accent.
“Mr Leighton call, and I call him. He tell me take Ben to his parents for few days, so I take him Monday. There was no worry.”
She smiled down at the toddler by her side, in what seemed like genuine fondness. “Ben and I have fun, we go to park. We go for burger and chip.”
Very few chips in your case, Annette thought ruefully.
***
Liam was loping back across the squad just as Annette returned from her interview, and by the look of him she’d had the better deal. Craig met them in the middle of the open-plan floor, beckoning both of them and Davy into his office for a briefing.
As usual, Liam and Davy took the walls. Liam for comfort, his six-feet-six making standing easier than sitting in low chairs, and Davy in imitation, always copying the cops, but preferring the safety of his high-tech computers. Annette sat-down opposite Craig at the desk and dropped her enormous handbag by her feet. He wondered idly what she kept in there. What did any woman? It was more than his life was worth to ask.
“OK, where are we?”
As he asked the question, he rose to make coffee, holding the glass percolator out in silent offer, answered by three quick nods.
“Liam?”
Liam ran a large freckled hand down his face and sighed. “Absolutely nowhere, boss, as far as I can see.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I just checked on Leighton and he’s crying again. Can’t we let him go home?”
Annette looked at him, surprised, it had sounded remarkably like sympathy, not something that Liam was known for. He caught her look and continued quickly, correcting her assumption with macho defensiveness. “He’s blocking the relative’s room and drugs want it.”
She hid her smile as Craig continued. “Did he say anything more?”
“Not a dicky-bird. Either he’s a brilliant actor, or he’s genuinely upset. He fell apart at the lab when the Doc said how she died.”
Craig stopped mid-pour, thinking. “When exactly did he fall apart, Liam, really fall apart? Was it when he knew it was his wife, or when John told him how she’d died? It’s important.”
Liam knew what he was getting at and he had noticed, but he hadn’t registered its importance at the time.
“When he saw her face he went a bit pale and there were a few tears, quiet ones like. But when the Doc told him about the note and tattoos...”
Annette leaned forward, shocked. “She had tattoos, a lady like Irene Leighton?”
Liam turned to her, half-amused. “Not the tramp-stamp type.”
Now Craig was puzzled. “What’s a tramp-stamp, when it’s at home?”
“You know those ones women get on their lower backs, flashing them when they bend over, trying to look cool.” He snorted. “Mostly middle-aged housewives as far as I can see.” He paused and then grinned cheekily. “Here, Annette, have you got one?”
She bristled immediately. Craig wasn’t sure if it was being called middle-aged that did it, or solidarity for women everywhere, but before he could admonish Liam, Annette had let rip, taking them all by surprise. Their mild rivalry had definitely been increasing lately.
“And you’re the arbiter of good taste now, are you? Who died and made you King?”
“I’m just saying that you might be a secret raver for all we know.” He looked at Davy conspiratorially. “Take my word for it, lad. It’s the quiet ones you have to watch.”
Before she could retaliate, Craig shot them both a look that said ‘zip-it’ and handed out the coffees, sitting down thoughtfully behind the desk.
“Go on, Liam. What did Leighton do when John told him?”
“Buckled completely and started crying. We had to get him a chair. It took ages to calm him down, and all my powers of diplomacy.”
Even Davy, their gentle computer expert snorted at that one and Craig smiled. Liam wasn’t known for either his diplomatic skills or his political correctness, and after his ‘tramp-stamp’ comment, there was another equality course looming in his future.
“At what point did he buckle? The shot, the tattoos or the note?” Knowing that John would have staged the information very precisely.
Liam looked at him, confused for a second, as if the distinctions hadn’t occurred to him. And they hadn’t, at the time. But his powers of observation and recall were legendary and they didn’t disappoint him now. He closed his eyes for a second, ordering his thoughts, and then started.
“When we went in, the first thing that happened was that the Doc exposed her face, and Leighton cried a bit and I.D.ed her. Then the Doc told him that her death had been caused by shooting, and he cried a bit more, but it was still for her at that point. You know what I mean? He was still crying for her, not himself.”
Craig and Annette nodded at him; they’d seen the difference many times. Tears for a loved one had a very different feel to tears of self-pity, and to tears of fear.
Liam kept going, his face screwed up in concentration, remembering. “Then...the Doc took us into the office and told us about the tattoos. He didn’t show us, just told us, but right then Leighton’s e
yes widened. I mean really widened, like one of those cartoons where the eyes pop out.”
“Fear?”
“Nope, not fear exactly. More shock I guess. Aye, shock. But he looked a bit puzzled too. Until the Doc showed us a copy of the note – that was when he really lost it. Totally freaked-out.”
They were unconsciously leaning forward, awaiting Liam’s punch line.
“Did he definitely react less to hearing about the tattoos, than to the number 10?”
Liam thought for a moment, Craig was right; there had been a major difference.
“He howled about the tattoos all right, but it was definitely when he saw the note that he buckled. He was scared rigid, boss, and he didn’t look puzzled by anything after that. He just wanted to get the hell out of there.”
“And did he?”
“Aye, he bolted out of the office saying he needed some air, and by the time I caught him he was on the phone. He wouldn’t tell me who to...and I couldn’t make him.”
Liam’s last comment was said with regret and they all smiled. Liam never crossed the line but his opinions on suspects’ rights were well known.
Craig thought for a moment. The ‘10’ on the note had scared Leighton stiff. Why? Ten what?
“How is he now?”
“Nursing a coffee and scared stupid.”
Craig nodded. The tattoos might be a clue to their killer’s identity, but the figure 10 linked with Leighton himself.
“I think the tattoos are significant – they link to the I.D. of our killer. But the ‘10’ means something special to him, something that he’s afraid of.”
“His brief won’t let him answer anything.”
Craig nodded. “I’ll try again when we finish. He may not have killed her but he definitely knows who did, or why. OK, thanks Liam. Annette?”
Annette looked up from the file on her lap and started reporting, by the book. She was efficient and intuitive and Craig knew that it wouldn’t be long before she was ready for her inspector exams, then she’d really keep Liam in line. That’s if he was allowed to keep them both. Maybe if he became superintendent?
He was torn from his thoughts by her words. “Kaisa’s the nanny. She seems nice enough, came over from Estonia six months ago, and she seems very fond of the little boy, Ben. But I wouldn’t have her as my nanny, that’s for sure.” She pursed her lips and looked at Craig. “Far too pretty. The girl should be on a catwalk.”
Liam and Davy both leaned forward, staring at Annette’s notes, as if a picture of the nanny would miraculously appear.
“Here, boss, you should have let me interview her. Seniority has to have some perks.”
Craig smiled ruefully. “After your tramp-stamp comment, you’ll be interviewing men for the next six months.” He turned back to Annette. “Did you get the sense that there was anything between her and Leighton?”
Annette smiled. Senses were her territory, honed by years of nursing before she’d entered the force. “Possibly. She didn’t give anything away, but there were lots of phone-calls from Leighton when the wife was away, ostensibly about the boy.
In the four days that he was away, Ben was at Leighton’s parents for two of them and Ms Moldeau wouldn’t be pinned down as to where she was for those days, especially on Monday night. There were some vague comments about shopping, and visiting friends, but nothing solid. I’d be surprised if she wasn’t with a man for at least part of that time. I suppose that it could have been Leighton.”
“Couldn’t have been him, boss. He was in Dublin ‘til last night.”
“When did she collect the boy from his grandparents, Annette?”
“This morning about eleven, sir.”
“Thanks. Where did you say she was from again?”
“Estonia.”
Something was gnawing at him, as if he’d forgotten something. “Was her accent strong?”
“Yes, sir. Very, in fact. Is that important?”
Craig looked thoughtful. “I think it is, but I’m not sure why yet. We’ll come back on that. Thanks, Annette. Davy?”
Davy Walsh was their tall, handsome twenty-five-year-old, reed-thin, technical expert. He was an Emo, and his height, uber-tight dark clothes and black floppy hair made him look like long black chimney-brush, soon to be adorned with piercings by the sound of it. He had a wicked sense of humour and an occasional stutter on ‘s’ and ‘w’, turning both to his own benefit when swearing. Nicky and Annette mothered him mercilessly and he loved it.
“Dr W...Winter e-mailed over the photos of the tattoos earlier. The text on Mrs Leighton’s foot has just been translated, and I’ve got information on the tattoo on her back.”
Annette looked at him quickly and Craig realised that she didn’t have the full detail. He nodded a promise to brief her later, and waved Davy on.
“The one on the victim’s back is of the Madonna and child, a common icon in Christian and Orthodox religions, Greek, Russian etc. But if you look at the images.” He handed out copies of the photographs as he spoke. “You can s...see that the child is overly large in comparison to the Madonna.”
He was right, and neither Craig nor John had noticed it.
“Is that important, Davy?”
“In the context of other things, yes, it might be s...sir. I’ll come back to that in a moment.”
Craig smiled to himself at Davy’s confident delivery. When he’d started with them a year before, he’d been so shy that he would hardly look at Craig. Now he was flying.
“The other tattoo, the one from her right foot.” Annette looked shocked again, but Davy kept talking.
“That image contains text, as you can s... see.” He pointed to the photograph of Cyrillic text in front of them. The ‘«Я здесь и я жду»’ that Craig had seen earlier.
“The translator came back earlier than expected.”
Liam was puzzled, but interested. “What does it say?”
“It’s Cyrillic and translates as ‘I’m here and I’m waiting’ ”
“What the hell does that mean?” Liam hated anything cryptic, far too much like hard work.
“You could look at it literally, that they’re w...waiting for her, but there’s another link between the text and the tattoo on her back. And maybe with the position of her body too.”
Davy took their silence as assent, and continued. Craig was already making the connection.
“The Madonna and Child is known as an apotropaic, intended to fend off evil, as is a cross, and s...she was laid out in the shape of one. They’re both common in eastern countries. The letters are from the Cyrillic alphabet, used in Russia and a few other eastern countries. I can narrow that down for you later. But w...with the Madonna and cross, and the Cyrillic text, I think we’re looking at the killer coming from either Russia or an eastern country. Perhaps one that used to be part of the s...soviet republic.”
Liam and Annette stared at him open-mouthed.
“The phrase ‘I’m here and I’m w…waiting’ is commonly used by a criminal group known as the Vory v Zakone, usually from Russia.”
Craig nodded, he’d heard of them. In a recent movie he’d seen, the actor Viggo Mortensen had played a Vor, covered in tattoos. But what were they doing in Northern Ireland?
“They often wear crucifixes called Dukhs to ward off danger. Again a cross, like the position of the body. And the large child is used to indicate a criminal w...who has been one from an early age.”
Davy stopped, waiting for their questions, but they all remained silent, stunned and thinking. Questions ran quickly through Craig’s mind. What did the Vory v Zakone want in Northern Ireland? And what did they want with a quiet housewife like Irene Leighton? They’d left her body at the seat of Northern Ireland’s government, so was it a political statement? An act of defiance by political dissidents? Were the Vors working with local terrorists?
He shook his head thoughtfully. No, this didn’t feel like political dissent, this felt a criminal smokescreen, and he knew i
mmediately that Bob Leighton was up to his political eyes in it. He leapt to his feet and beckoned Liam to follow him, throwing “Thanks a million Davy, well done” over his shoulder, and they headed for the second floor relative’s room and another, much more pointed conversation.
Chapter Seven
The re-interview proved completely fruitless, with Leighton ‘no commenting’ to every question, particularly concerning the number ‘10’. But one thing was certain, he was petrified, and not of them.
His alibi for the time of his wife’s death had been verified. He’d arrived in Dublin on Sunday evening, before his wife had called home from her mothers. The previous thirty-six hours unaccounted-for were too early to be important, so they had nothing to charge him with. They had no choice but to let him go, with uniformed surveillance.
Craig wasn’t worried. Liam would find out where Leighton had been for the lost time, and where he was going to next. He was an expert in exposing people’s secrets; he’s missed his vocation as a tabloid journalist.
By the time they returned to the squad it was nearly five and Annette beckoned Craig over, confirming that Ben Leighton had been with his grandparents since Monday afternoon. But she was no nearer to pinning down Kaisa Moldeau’s whereabouts since then, including at the time of Irene Leighton’s murder.
Nicky appeared unexpectedly beside them, coughing her presence loudly, a mannerism that always indicated bad news. “Superintendent Harrison has called a press conference for six-thirty, sir”
Craig looked at her, immediately knowing the briefing’s agenda. Harrison was desperate to vindicate Leighton and feather his own political nest. Well, he’d be doing it without him; it was far too early to involve the media. Now he needed a viable excuse for absenting himself.
He went into his office and swung his chair round to face the river. The seagulls were having a party outside, swooping and cawing in front of the window like it was Christmas. He laughed to himself, remembering that in three weeks’ time it would be. He always lost track of time when he was preoccupied, and it had been a busy few months for murders.
The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 5