“I’ve just had Harrison’s office on, shouting about you ‘coming to see me for coffee’ when you should be at some press conference in Belfast. Thanks very much for getting me the blame for whatever you’re up to!”
The words flew out without punctuation, in her crisp light accent, and Craig couldn’t stop himself from smiling, both happy to see her and amused by the tirade. He looked down affectionately at the absurdly pretty, absurdly angry woman in front of him.
A red curl from her chignon was straying onto her cheek, like an escaping prisoner and he wanted to reach forward and stroke it back, already knowing that the action would earn him a slap. He wouldn’t do it anyway, it wasn’t fair on her, but he gifted himself a moment longer, drinking in her beauty.
Her soft blue eyes were on fire, set against flushed cheeks sprinkled lightly with glitter-fine freckles. His eyes moved unbidden down her fine up-turned nose to her curved lips, remembering their kisses that evening months ago, and his overwhelming desire to repeat the event. He was dragged rudely from his reverie by the sheer volume of her next words.
“And then, she had the cheek to tell me to send you right back. As if I’m a bloody delivery service!”
He slipped easily past her through the gap by the door, and entered the office, lifting a seat from the wall and seating himself calmly at her desk. She turned around quickly, incensed by his cheek, and sat down proprietarily in her chair. Her office.
She stared at him with a mixture of anger and affection, trying desperately to hide the latter, while he didn’t at all.
“Mind if I help myself to coffee?” The words were only a courtesy, he was already doing it. He returned to his seat and took a sip of the too-hot drink, knowing immediately that she’d brewed it fresh for his visit, and encouraged by the sign.
“Don’t worry about Mrs Butler; she’s just letting off steam.”
She half-smiled, and then stopped herself, determined not to be charmed. She was ex-army and war had been declared between them two months ago. She was in ‘no surrender’ mode today.
“Why did you ask for this meeting, D.C.I. Craig?”
He didn’t answer, just smiled at her infuriatingly and she continued, flustered. “I’m very busy, and it seems that you are too.” She sniffed. “Although you obviously take your duties less seriously than I do.”
She’d scored and he bristled, then he spotted what she was doing. He’d read Sun Tzu’s ‘Art of War’ as well. He controlled his temper and leaned forward, placing his cup on the desk slowly, and as he relaxed, so did she and they fell into a less hostile silence.
Finally, he spoke. “The conference is a token to appease the press, so that they can write something bland and justify their own oxygen. The D.C.S. is just flexing his muscles.”
She interrupted him quickly. “So are you, and I’m getting caught in the middle. I...”
He held both hands up signalling truce and she stopped abruptly, letting him speak. “We caught a tricky case this morning that involves politicians, so Harrison is covering his back. That’s all the press conference was about, appeasing the local hacks.” She could see him getting angry now. “We don’t have anything solid yet, and he shouldn’t be going near the press, so I’m damned if I’m supporting it by standing beside him while he name-drops.”
“That’s all they wanted you back for?”
“Yes.”
She smiled at him, then realised that she had, and turned away abruptly, towards her computer. She stared at the screen as she spoke. “Why did you want to meet me, D.C.I. Craig? I’m in a hurry to get home.”
She realised immediately that her tone was too abrupt for a senior officer, even one who’d hurt her, and she rushed for a balance, overbalancing on the way.
“My brother is here. I promised to cook...We don’t get to see each other often...we...”
Craig could see her getting flustered and rescued her, kindly. “Is he older or younger?”
“Younger…by seven years. He’s a doctor at Peter’s Hill in Enniskillen.”
Then she realised that they were being friendly again, and stopped. He wasn’t her friend, he was her senior officer and her...What? Possible past lover. Except he wasn’t. Possible future? No, she couldn’t allow herself to think that, or hope that. Back to business.
“Why did you want to meet with me, D.C.I. Craig?”
Craig sighed. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him, and half of him knew that she shouldn’t. So he pulled out the copy of the file that they both knew he could have posted to her, and they had their meeting. Their relationship would have to wait for another day.
Chapter Nine
Joe Watson stared at the clock tiredly. Six am. He still had an hour. He looked at the empty space beside him, relieved. Caitlin had left for Pilates and he had the place to himself, just him and the dogs. He needed the time to think.
Not about Irene. No. He couldn’t let himself think about her, or he’d get nothing done. Except…He wondered if he could send flowers, would that be OK? Or hypocritical when her husband and he were political rivals? But did that really matter when the flowers were for her, for them. For Rebecca.
He pushed his emotions down and thought about Tuesday night’s S.F.F. meeting, and yesterdays with John Cabot. He’d been shocked on Tuesday, although in retrospect he really shouldn’t have been. Everyone had known that Ron Burgess was an idiot, and a crooked idiot to boot, there was no surprise about that.
But that the whole Foundation had been fooled, that had shocked him. Politicians and business people together, all denying that there was anything wrong with Horizon. Honestly Minister. That was where he and doubt had parted company, he was certain that at least some members of S.F.F. were up to their ears in fraud.
A last vain hope rose in him, maybe he was wrong, maybe all the contracts were kosher, maybe Horizon would be built and this was all just him being suspicious. But as soon as it rose, the hope died again. This was fraud on a massive scale: he knew it. And the Commissioner for Public Conduct agreed with him.
***
As Craig followed John down the ballistics’ lab corridor, he could have sworn that he saw him saunter. Yes, there it was again, a definite spring in his step. He decided that banter was in order.
“Good squash game, John?”
Winter took the bait innocently. “Yes actually, it was. I won four games to one. Natalie wasn’t too pleased, though.”
John was happy and Craig was pleased for him. As long as he’d known him he’d never had a serious relationship, and he’d never understood why. He was kind and chivalrous, a New Age Knight in every way, and attractive, Lucia had told him so. So Craig could only put it down to; wrong girl, wrong time or ‘the job’, plumping for the last.
Few women would or could tolerate their 24/7 sense of duty, but Natalie seemed different, she never complained about John working too hard. She was a surgeon and even Craig didn’t work the gruelling hours that they did. John’s voice broke through his thoughts, his next words surprising him.
“I really like her, Marc.”
Craig was astounded, it was the closest that John had ever got to saying he was in love. He was pleased he’d confided in him.
“She’s great, John.”
John hesitated. “I know, but I’m...I’m not great about showing it. I don’t really know how. Now she...she wants to meet my family.”
John had been the much-loved only child of parents in their forties when he was born. They were academics, bemused by children and childhood generally, while unconditionally adoring their small son. But he had grown up shy and solitary, until he’d met Marc Craig.
After that, he’d never been away from the Craig’s lively house, with his parent’s blessing, relieved that their overly adult twelve-year-old was finally behaving like a child. Now that both of his parents were dead, the Craigs were the only family that he had.
Craig thought of something. Tomorrow was Friday and that meant that his mother woul
d insist on the full Italian family dinner, plus guests.
“Bring Natalie to my folk’s tomorrow evening.”
An immediate look of gratitude crossed John’s face, followed by one of abject terror. Mirella Craig was quite an experience, even for him. Craig laughed, knowing exactly what he was thinking, and warmed to the idea.
“It’ll be great. Natalie and my Mum will get on brilliantly, you wait.”
John looked at him warily, and then said hopefully. “Will Lucia be there? Natalie and she could chat.”
Craig’s younger sister could chat to anybody, at length, about anything. She worked for a charity and cared about everyone, passionately, so he was certain they would find plenty of common ground. He laughed at John’s anxiety.
“Don’t worry. Lucia will keep Mum in check. And she won’t let her ask Natalie her intentions towards you.”
John smiled nervously, that was exactly what he was worried about. Since his parents had died, Mirella had acted as if she was his mother as well, and they both knew that was exactly what she’d ask.
“At least it’ll make a change from her pushing me to get married.”
“Oh, thanks Marc.” Then he smiled, blushing slightly and warming to the idea. “I’d love to come. But let me ask Natalie before you tell your Mum.”
“Sure.” Craig turned briskly back to business. “What are we going to look at?”
He was puzzled. They were outside the ballistics’ lab, not John’s usual habitat. John smiled at him conspiratorially, back in professional mode and feeling much more comfortable.
“Well, you know that I sent the bullet up to the north-west for typing yesterday?”
“Did they manage it?”
“I’ll tell you about that in a minute. But in Des’ absence I thought I’d have a go at the trajectory myself.”
Craig looked at him, surprised. It wasn’t like John to leave his comfort zone; Natalie was obviously good for him.
“Go on.”
“I’ve watched him do it plenty of times, so I worked-up the bullet’s pathway, using the injuries, angle of entry and wind speed, and ...”
Craig interrupted him kindly. He was enjoying John’s preamble but he had a meeting with Maggie Clarke at ten. She’d caught him on his way back from Limavady, furious after Harrison’s press briefing. He’d wasted all their time by calling them in when he’d nothing to tell them, just as Craig had predicted. Now she was holding Craig to his deal so he’d grudgingly allocated her thirty minutes this morning.
He urged John on. “Can you show me, John? You know I’m better with images than words.”
John startled, looking at his watch. They’d been talking for thirty minutes. “God, is that the time? Sorry.”
Without further delay, he threw open the lab’s heavy white door. The ballistics’ lab was very different to the dissection room, with an area set aside for test-shooting bullets to match barrel markings, and another full room of laptops and screens, winking randomly. John moved quickly to a laptop in the corner.
“I’ll give you a quick run through the simulation. Then tell you about the bullet.”
“Thanks.”
He flicked on a laptop as they spoke and it booted up, to display a simulation of Irene Leighton’s shooting on the wall plasma.
“The simulation allows for the wind-speed recorded at City Airport yesterday morning, so it should be accurate. We’ve also allowed for the victim’s height and weight, and the fact that she dropped forward when she was hit. There was no backward transit of the body on impact that we can determine - that’s confirmed by the lack of blood spatter.”
His words were clinical but the sadness in his eyes wasn’t. Craig nodded him on, thinking.
“I’ve also taken into account the size and shape of the entry wound, which was slightly angled, consistent with her turning to her left just before the impact. It’s common for people to turn to their dominant side and I believe that she was left-handed”
Craig interrupted, nodding. “Her husband confirmed it.”
“Good. There was no exit wound because the bullet embedded in the fifth rib anteriorly, but even if we didn’t have the bullet the type of entry wound made it likely to be a .33 calibre.” He paused and looked at Craig. “It’s likely that it was travelling at over 800 metres per second, Marc.”
“What?”
“It was a sniper round. This was a professional job.”
Both men were quiet for a moment, while John let Craig take the information in. Irene Leighton, housewife and mother had been the victim of a professional hit.
“Using the speed and angle of entry, we know the likely location of the shoot-site.” He flicked on a map of the area surrounding Stormont, and indicated. “I can get it more accurately for you, later.”
Craig stared incredulously at the leafy streets around the Stormont Estate. Someone had shot Irene Leighton from one of them.
Something struck John. “Marc, there’s no way that she would have walked voluntarily into an open space to be shot. She’d been kidnapped and tattooed; she must have known that they weren’t going to let her go. So why would she go without much more of a struggle?”
“But how would she have known, John? They were taking her to Stormont for God’s sake. A public place, somewhere that she was completely familiar with from her husband’s job. They might have told her that they were releasing her.”
“Bastard.”
“Bastards. There was more than one of them.”
“How do you know?”
Craig spoke quietly. “One of them must have taken her to the lawn by the steps and kept her there, long enough for the other to shoot.”
“Do you think that the proximity of Carson’s statue is significant?”
Craig startled, realising that it hadn’t occurred to him. But, even though John had said it, his gut still said no. She’d been deliberately walked past the statue, towards the main steps to assembly buildings.
He shook his head and they fell silent, neither of them wanting to relive Irene Leighton’s final moments. John focussed hard on the screen in front of him, tapping gently at a key, and the simulation started to readjust, displaying a trajectory that curved from the shot’s likely origin.
“For the angle of entry to be correct she had to be facing the steps from the Massey Avenue entrance. The left side of her back would likely have been towards the killer, but for some reason she must also have turned to the left.”
“Do you think she saw something at the last moment?”
“Well, she was looking in the direction of the shooter.”
Craig looked down, sadly. “I think that she turned to plead with the person who brought her there. Then they forced the note into her hand as she was dying.”
“God.”
They sat looking at the screen for a moment, imaging their victim’s helpless pleading and knowing that it had been ignored. Anyone callous enough to kill her like that would never have been moved by her tears. Eventually John broke the silence.
“The bullet is a .338 Lapua Magnum, Marc. In clear weather conditions it can travel at around 800 metres per second.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Neither has anyone else. Lapuas are sniper rounds, usually shot from one of two rifles: SAKOs or A.I.s. SAKOs come from Finland and the one that would fire this round is most likely to be the TR-42 SAKO model. The A.I. is from a British Manufacturer called Accuracy International. Both were used in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The 338 is the only calibre designed specifically for sniping. Its range is about 1600 meters, and in the right shooting conditions, 2,000.”
Craig interjected. “That means we’ve a range of possible shooter locations. Can you mark the outer limit on the map?”
John adjusted the map’s gray scale to colour and drew an arc outwards from Irene Leighton’s body in the likely direction of the bullet. The farthest point took them over a mile away from Stormont, close to a multi-storey car-pa
rk on Vernon Road.
Craig thought for a moment. “We’ll search the area and hope that we can still find something after 24 hours. Particularly in the car-park, the height of its roof would make it a good vantage point.”
“The bullet’s markings don’t match anything that we have on file, but we’re linking up with the Irish and UK forces and Interpol.”
Craig looked at the screen incredulously. Could there be a Finnish hit-man in Northern Ireland? He was even more convinced now that Irene Leighton’s death was linked with her husband’s political career.
He moved quickly, heading for the door. “Thanks, John. Get the ballistics to Davy please. I’ve a few leads to follow up and then we’ve a full briefing at five if you can make it.” Before John could answer yes or no, he was gone.
***
The door of the luxurious modern office swung open and Joanne Greer looked up from her phone-call, irritated. She waved her husband away angrily, putting her hand over the receiver when he ignored her.
“Can’t you see I’m on a conference call?”
“I don’t care. Cut out of it for five minutes. I need to talk to you.”
He was in one of his stubborn moods and she knew that there was no arguing with him. She interrupted the speaker at the other end and excused herself out of the four-way call, turning on him furiously.
“For God’s sake, Declan, that was Buruli in New York. I’m trying to bring a huge land deal here. It looks terrible you interrupting me like that. Anyway, what’s so damn important that it couldn’t have waited until tonight?” Then she looked at him horrified. “God, tell me you haven’t crashed the car?”
“It’s not about your stupid car.” He enjoyed saying it, just to see her outrage. She loved that car so much he thought she’d like to sleep with it. Unpleasant images entered his head and he shook them out vigorously.
“It’s about that dickhead, Joe Watson. Apparently, he’s going to pull the Horizon project. I’ve just found out from my mole at Stormont.”
The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 7