Liam stared at him. “You’ve just thought of that, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
The D.C.I. groaned. “As if we don’t have enough motives and suspects to get on with, we can’t even narrow it by age now.”
“It doesn’t change anything. When we find the motives they’ll steer us to the man.” Craig rose to his feet. “Meanwhile, Reggie, keep this to yourself and send through the names of anyone useful you can think of for us to speak to. We’ll be in touch when we’re coming back.”
****
The Antrim Road. 5 p.m.
“Gerry, I forgot to buy the organic wine for dinner so I’m popping back down to the market. Do you need anything while I’m there?”
Eilish Murnaghan was answered by a grunted “no”, so she lifted her coat and bag and headed for the car. One hour later she had a long-life bag full of produce and was turning out of the market’s car-park when she noticed a saloon broken down by the side of the road. The man beside it was gazing under the bonnet looking perplexed, so she rolled down the window of her car.
“Can I help? I could call a repair van?”
He glanced at her and smiled in a helpless way. “You wouldn’t have some jump leads by any chance?”
She answered by parking in front of him and climbing out of her Prius. “I do in fact. My husband insists that I carry them, in case my battery ever goes flat.”
How domestic. Her husband had had far more inventive uses for jump leads back in the day. Gerry and Eilish Murnaghan, the thug and the organic gardener with the fashionable dress sense. They’d been a real power couple back then; him torturing and killing, her using her brain to justify why they should. Now he worried about car safety and she tended the weeds and did the weekly shop. The banality of the truly evil.
The man smiled again, marvelling that she couldn’t read his mind; if she had then she would have known exactly what was coming next. But then no-one expects to be kidnapped in broad daylight, especially not with their groceries in the boot.
It only took one minute, from her searching for the jump leads to her being bundled into his boot. Then one more, as he drove her car back into the car-park and pulled out into the traffic in his, no longer alone. The police would find no prints; he’d been wearing gloves, ostensibly to save his hands from the engine dirt. All they would find was an abandoned low emission hatchback and a woman who suddenly wasn’t there.
****
5.30 p.m.
Helen Connolly sighed heavily at the last item on her agenda; Ivor Watson. They were running behind time despite her best efforts and the late start to Watson’s slot already meant that none of them were likely to see their homes before eight o’clock. So, much as she dreaded the session, she couldn’t keep him waiting any longer; she’d already deferred him to the final item of her only meeting that month. Her annual holiday and Halloween meant that Rachel would be chairing the next two.
She rose with the heaviness of a woman heading to the dentist and traversed the Boardroom to open the rarely used door at its end. It gave access to a small victims’ suite, the arrangement designed to ensure that victims and perpetrators would be separated and avoid them meeting each other in the loo. She pictured a likely encounter and shuddered. The idea was unthinkable.
The thought was still running through her head as she entered the suite, opening its inner door into a room holding a low couch and a coffee table bearing a tray of drinks. The man on the couch didn’t rise as she entered; in fact he didn’t look up from the newspaper that he scanned. Instead he reached forward for his coffee, and continued drinking and reading as if she simply didn’t exist. That was how it was going to be, but she wasn’t shocked because that’s how it had been for years, ever since she’d accepted the Secretary of State’s invitation to Chair the heart-rending organisation that was Victims’ League. It was a high status but melancholy task and many a meeting with relatives ended in tears, but she really believed in what they were doing; she just wished that she had better members to aid her in the task.
She steeled herself for Watson’s rudeness, understanding its roots, and extended a chubby hand; trying to picture herself somewhere serene, a technique her therapist had taught her to cope with moments such as this.
“Mr Watson. Thank you for coming in.”
Even she knew the words were hypocritical since she’d been instrumental in refusing him an audience for the past eight weeks. Eight weeks; it was the minimum interval she could bear to see him at. And like clockwork every eight weeks for four years, being unable to ease Ivor Watson’s pain had left her feeling guilty and accelerated her progress towards a stroke.
Her hand was left hanging as Watson continued to read and sip. She was turning towards the exit when he finally spoke.
“Finally embarrassed you into seeing me then?”
His voice had the tenor of a headmaster chastising a child and it added to Connolly’s shame. She turned back slowly, counting to five in her head before she replied.
“We have many victims to see, Mr Watson, and we must give equal time to them all.”
He lurched across the table, making her step back in reflex and then curse the nervousness the movement had betrayed. He couldn’t harm her unless he used his fists, and even he wasn’t angry enough not to realise that assaulting a government official wouldn’t get you what you wanted nowadays. She gritted her teeth and stepped forward again as Watson turned his lurch into rising to his feet. He wanted the last word.
“Aye, but less time to us Prod victims. But of course that’s always been the way.”
It was a familiar, unfair accusation but Connolly absorbed the words like a blow that she felt she deserved, then she waved him ahead, half in politeness and half because she’d learned from bitter experience never to show men of violence your back.
****
The C.C.U. 6 p.m.
When Jake entered the squad-room he didn’t get the barrage of questions he’d expected, probably because Davy was getting them instead, mainly from Nicky and Annette. The former was standing behind him, pointing at his neck and Annette was aiming her smartphone at his face.
“Say cheese.”
What Davy said bore no resemblance to any food. He squinted down at his keyboard in an attempt to deter the office photographer. It gave Nicky an even better view of his nape. She prodded it with a long red nail.
“Aren’t you cold now, without any hair?”
His muttered “no” left her undeterred.
“What does Maggie think of it? Is there a name for that style?”
Annette answered helpfully. “Boy’s regular. Jordan used to get it all the time.”
Just then Liam entered, completely missing Jake’s presence at his desk. “Aye, when he was twelve.”
Davy had had enough. He drew himself up to his full six-feet and pointed towards his head. “OK, in order. No, it’s not cold and w…why don’t you ask King-Kong and the boss that? They’ve had short hair for years! It’s called a short and messy and it’s fashionable right now, and I did it because I fancied a change. OK?” He stared pointedly at Annette’s high heels. “You remember change, don’t you, like when you used to wear flat s…shoes. How come no-one ever commented on that?”
Liam flung his legs onto his desk and sniffed. “’Cos she wouldn’t rise to the bait like you. You’re much better value. And who’s King-Kong? It had better not be me.”
Davy sat down again with a thud. “You’ve all had your fun now, s…so bugger off, please.”
He’d forgotten that Nicky was still behind him. She placed her hands on his shoulders and spoke in a soothing voice. “Now, now, pet. We’re only teasing. Your hair’s lovely and it looks really smart.” She saw a blush appear and called a truce, waving the others back to work. “Davy’s busy, so leave him in peace.” As she turned to retake her seat she spotted Jake head down, at his desk. “Hi, Jake. Are you feeling better?”
A muffled “Yes, thanks” made her walk towards h
im. Jake decided that Davy’s tactics were a better approach than the slow reveal so he stood up defiantly.
“Before anyone asks. Yes, I was in a fight and you should see the other guy.” It sounded better than ‘he beat me to a pulp’. He pointed to his face. “It was in town last night. I intervened in a punch-up and got this.”
Annette gawped at him. “Did you arrest them?”
“Hardly. They were mates.”
She opened her mouth to say more but he shook his head. “It’s over. I just want to get on with work.”
Liam shook his head firmly. “You’re not going on the street looking like that. There’s no way the boss will have it.”
Davy seized the opportunity. “He can help me then. I’ve a ton of stuff and the chief said I could s…second another analyst, but he can’t come till tomorrow so Jake could help me out tonight.” It was the solidarity of the ridiculed.
Jake nodded. “Fine.”
Carmen smiled and Liam knew exactly what it meant. She was going to ask for a return to street work a week early; and with only him, Craig, Andy and Annette to cover everything, she might just be in luck. But there was no way he was going to let her know that, so he gave a small shake of the head and smiled as her face dropped. It was a limited victory. Craig could reverse his decision if he needed the help.
Annette glanced around, looking puzzled.
“Where’s the boss? I thought you went with him to the Demesne.”
“I did. He’s gone to the lab for the times of death.” He rose and pulled the white board into the centre of the floor. “Don’t panic, I’m not holding a late briefing, just bringing everyone up to date on what Reggie said.”
As he did so Craig was in John’s office topping up his coffee. He set his mobile on the desk, pressing mute and the pathologist shook his head.
“How many times has Sophia phoned you today?”
Craig shrugged and then obliged him by pressing ‘missed calls’. Fifteen and it was only six o’clock.
“Is it happening at night as well?”
He already knew that the answer was yes; the bags under Craig’s eyes said it all.
The detective sipped his espresso before answering. “Not as often. Only three times last night.”
John tutted. “You can’t continue like this, Marc. You’ll be a zombie within weeks.”
Craig laughed. “Zombie cops. That could be the next big thing.” His face grew suddenly sombre. “To be honest, John, I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried everything short of a restraining order and I don’t want to do that. It would ruin her career.” He gulped down a mouthful of coffee and made a face. There was milk in it. As he brewed some fresh he turned back to the pathologist. “Besides, I thought you said you might know how to help? What happened to that?”
“I’m working on it but these things take time.” John leaned forward seriously. “Until I have what I need, promise me that you won’t see Sophia alone.”
Craig raised an eyebrow. “She’s not dangerous.”
John repeated the words louder. “Promise me, Marc.”
Craig was about to laugh when he saw how serious he was. “OK, OK. But I don’t know why; she can’t hurt me unless she brings a gun.”
John slumped back in his seat. “Just humour me.” He waved at the files on his desk, changing the subject. “Liam was right to call forensics back in to the scenes; they found cigarette butts at two out of the three. Des is running them now.” He shook his head. “For some reason the C.S.I.s had only worked the area inside the tape.” He tutted loudly. “That’s that new course they’re doing at Uni. It doesn’t cover half of what the old one did.”
He grabbed a pad and started writing; completely forgetting that Craig was in the room. After five minutes of watching him scribble the investigator gave a cough. John glanced up, looking surprised that Craig was still there.
“Don’t tell me. You’ve just started writing an adjunct course for any new C.S.I.s that join Des’ team.”
John’s face lit up. “Yes, how did you guess?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Des will have to write half of it, of course, but I think if we put them through it in their first month here then we can avoid things like Liam uncovered today and get a tip top service.”
Craig stood up. “Good to hear. Was there anything more on the cases you wanted to share, other than Liam’s brilliance?”
John remembered the three files on his desk and skimmed through them. “Ah…no, no, I don’t think there was. I’ve given you the times of death now, as close as we can get them; they were all found within nine hours of their deaths which occurred at between one and three a.m. Ballistics is still fiddling around with the bullets, and other than that the relatives are coming to I.D. the bodies formally tomorrow so do you want to be here?”
A “yes” accompanied Craig walking out the door.
To anyone else it would have seemed an abrupt exit, but John had already returned to scribbling on his pad.
****
Craig re-entered the squad-room just as Liam was winding up. The briefing had been perfunctory. Just Liam boasting about calling forensics back to the scene, Reggie’s comments and Annette recounting her visit to Fernwood.
“I’ll start canvassing the homeless congregation spots tomorrow, sir.”
“Take Andy with you, Annette. Just in case things get rough.” She went to object but he waved her down. “And, as Liam apparently said earlier, Jake can’t go on the street until his bruises have healed. So, although it’s well done for stopping a fight, sergeant...” He didn’t believe Jake’s heroic tale for one minute but he was keeping his powder dry. “…try to keep your guard up better next time. You’ll stay here and help Davy for now, and Carmen, that means you’re back on the street a week early.”
Liam groaned inwardly. He’d called it right.
Craig stared at the small Scot pointedly and everyone heard his unspoken words. ‘Don’t disappoint me again or you’re out, Carmen. Immediately. You won’t pass go and you definitely won’t be collecting two hundred pounds.’
Liam raised a finger. It was either uncharacteristically polite of him or he was taking the piss. His next words said the latter. “And who will our Scottish cousin be paired with, sir?” He hadn’t called Craig sir since the first day they’d met. It was a triumph of sarcasm in one word.
“I think you’ll find that will be you, Detective Chief Inspector.”
Oh crap.
Before Liam could object Craig had turned to other things. “Right. Doctor Winter’s times of death confirm that all three victims were killed at night, as we thought. The estimates vary from one a.m. for Lindsay and Mulvenna, to three a.m. for Billy Hart. That has implications that Liam and Annette have already outlined, for likely passers-by, police patrols, traffic in the areas, etcetera. The victims are being formally I.D.ed by relatives tomorrow and I’ll be there. We have a list of snouts and informants as long as our arms to interview and none of them can be brought here or into a station for their own safety, so go to meet them on their turf but watch your backs-”
Liam cut in. “Pairs would be safer, boss.”
Craig nodded. “Pairs it is then. We’ll split the list into three alphabetically, with a few exceptions for our own snouts. Annette, after you interview the homeless tomorrow, you and Andy start working your way through your section. Liam and Carmen will do the same, and I’ll take Ken with me. OK. Any questions?”
His eye fell on Andy; he was sitting suspiciously still. In fact he hadn’t moved for the previous five minutes, not even to chew on the Toblerone that he always kept on his desk. His inertia often made Craig want to shake him and he had that urge right now, but he decided to test out a theory first. He crossed to the D.C.I.’s desk and repeated his last two words.
“Any questions?” Then, leaning in. “Andy?”
Andy possibly would have asked a question, if he’d been awake. But he’d perfected the art of sleeping with his eyes open and had spent the prev
ious five minutes in the land of nod. Craig gawped at the hibernating officer and Liam leaned in closer to listen to him breathe. When he was certain that Andy’s regular sighs weren’t ecstasy he kicked hard at the slumbering detective’s chair, jerking him awake.
“God! Is it morning?”
Liam’s deep voice silenced the laughter that erupted. “I’m not God, son, and you’re busted.”
Andy had already realised that. He scanned the laughing faces and alighted on Craig’s, which wasn’t looking amused at all. He pulled himself bolt upright.
“Sorry, sir. I was up late.”
Liam chipped in. “What was the unfortunate lassie’s name?”
Andy swung round to face him. “How did you know?”
Craig’s tone was dry. “He didn’t. You just told him. OK, you don’t need me to say that falling asleep at work is unacceptable, so sort yourself out, D.C.I. Angel.” He gestured at Liam. “Bring him up to date on whatever he missed, please, and give him some work to do. Everyone else go home. We’ve a lot to do tomorrow.”
With that he strode into his office and shut the door, turning his thoughts to dead paramilitaries, Italian psychiatrists and the two staff members who were giving him real cause for concern.
Chapter Five
Central Belfast. 8 p.m.
Eilish Murnaghan was shocked into consciousness by a metallic grinding that she’d never heard before. It shook her bones and ripped through her like a tide, making her want to scream aloud. She was shocked yet again when she opened her eyes; harsh white light flooded her vision, making her squeeze them shut again in pain. The pain didn’t abate, merely transferred to her auditory nerves, the grinding increasing in volume till it became squealing and she clamped her hands tightly over her ears. Not for long; one by one her fingers were peeled away and her arms strapped firmly behind her back, exposing her to the cacophony once again.
The Keeper Page 7