“Yer a miserable bugger, Craig. I was just askin’.”
But Craig wasn’t that gullible. “You were just trying to get some skin in the game.” He glared at their interviewee. “Tell me.”
Tommy shrugged. “Ach, all right… if it’s nat victims then it’ll be rival gangs. Nat from here though.”
The Eastern Europeans and the Chinese.
“Why?”
“Why do ye think? They want a slice of the pie. Gambling, drugs, girls – they’re competing on all of them an’ they dun’t take sides. They’ll kill anywan who gets in their way. So if yer looking for who’s killin’ on both sides of the fence, yer victims or foreign gangs wud be my bet.”
It was useful input and for a moment Craig wondered if telling him the names of their victims would yield even more, then a sharp glance from Liam reminded him who they were dealing with. They might have to trust Tommy at some point but they definitely weren’t there yet. He rose to his feet.
“We may need to talk to you again, Tommy, so don’t go anywhere.”
“Damn, an’ there’s me plannin’ a cruise round the Caribbean.”
Liam couldn’t resist the last word. “Somehow I don’t think that your ankle tracker would reach that far.”
****
The C.C.U. 4 p.m.
“OK, let’s keep this short.” Craig turned to his right. “Liam, what did you and Carmen find out about Billy Hart?”
Liam was still huffing about not being allowed to rip Tommy a new one so he answered without enthusiasm.
“We saw the grandparents. Hart collected the kids from his ex-wife on Saturday and took them to the caravan to see his parents-”
“Where?”
“In a field near Newcastle. Anyway he left the van soon after he arrived at nine, heading for the pub in the next village. Seems the ladies around there are the obliging sort.”
He gave a lecherous laugh and Craig rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed was for the briefing to turn to smut. He turned firmly towards Carmen.
“You interviewed the occupants of the pub, Carmen. What did you find out?”
She shook her head. “Not much. When I arrived it was quiet; only the barman and the manager said they’d been there that Saturday night.” She opened her notebook. “The barman remembered Hart because they don’t get many strangers. He said he drank by himself for about an hour then a local woman called Norma Pengelly came in and Hart began plying her with drinks.”
Liam opened his mouth to make a quip but a frown from Craig closed it again.
“The manager said Hart left the pub around ten-thirty. I’ve got Pengelly’s address and I’m going back to interview her tomorrow.”
“Good. Take Andy with you, please.” He ignored her scowl and turned to face the whole group. “OK, Liam and I went to see Reggie Boyd-”
Still huffing, Liam interrupted “He said that Rowan Lindsay had been one of the good ex-paramilitaries-”
Davy interjected. “There’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one.”
Liam shot him a quizzical look. “They’re all morons if you ask me.”
Davy was about to correct him then he decided against it; it could take hours to explain.
“Anyhow, Reggie said Lindsay had reformed for real and did good work stopping the estate’s youngsters from joining gangs. I’ll take a trip back there and ask around.”
Craig nodded. “Good. And McCrae? What happened at the bookies?”
As Liam launched into his tale of the meeting and subsequent raid Craig seized the opportunity to get a fresh drink. He was just re-joining the group when Liam laughed and said.
“We were sitting outside watching as they lifted him-”
Craig interjected. “Well done. Pass the drug and gun details onto Karl Rimmins and Geoff Hammill, please; they can follow them up. What more did you find out about our dead men?”
Liam sniffed at having his story interrupted. “Hart owed ninety grand to Dusty Wilson.”
Davy leaned forward urgently. “Head of the UFU? W…Wasn’t his nickname The Butcher?”
“It still is.”
Everyone was interested now. Annette asked the obvious question.
“Why the butcher?”
As soon as she’d said it she guessed the answer. Wilson was a killer and not at arm’s length. Liam obliged her with the detail.
“Because even amongst that bunch of murdering psychos Wilson stood out. He didn’t waste bullets on his enemies during The Troubles, he just carved them up.”
She screwed up her face. “Knives. I hate knives.”
Liam warmed to his theme. “Not just any knives. Machetes were his weapon of choice. He chopped them up so well that some of his victims still haven’t been found.”
Her jaw dropped in horror. “How the heck is he still on the streets?”
This time Craig answered. “Welcome to the Good Friday Agreement. The compromises definitely brought peace but along with the politically motivated offenders that they freed a fair smattering of indiscriminate psychopaths were released. Like Wilson.” He thought for a moment. “Actually that’s a good question; is Wilson on the streets at the moment? Davy?”
He turned to look at their analyst only to find there were two. Ash Rahman gave a small wave hello then returned to straightening his pens. Davy introduced them.
“Ash, this is Superintendent Craig.” Craig nodded at their blue-haired guest. “Chief, this is Ash. We w…went to Uni together. He’s the one I mentioned, helping me out on the analysis.”
Craig smiled. “Nicky said. Welcome to our merry band of miscreants, Ash.”
Liam roused himself. “Here, speak for yourself. I’m a paragon of virtue.” He peered at the analyst’s hair and Davy braced himself for the inevitable joke. After a few seconds thought Liam nodded.
“Smurf. I’m going to call you Smurf, ’cos of your blue hair. Get it?”
Ash stared directly at him and said in a deadpan voice. “Hashtag Farm Boy.”
Liam’s eyes narrowed. “What’s hashtag mean? Is that an insult?” He turned to Davy. “Is your mate saying that I’m fat?”
Davy shook his head. “It’s from Twitter. Like if you want to tag something.”
Craig rolled his eyes. “That explained nothing. Ash, tell Liam what you meant please.”
Rahman glanced up from his pens, wearing the especially pitying expression that he reserved for luddites. “It means that you can call me smurf if I can call you farm boy. How would that be?”
There was a second’s silence while everyone looked from the analyst to Liam and then back again. It was finally broken by Liam’s guffaw.
“Fine with me.”
Craig cut through the new bromance, returning to the point. “Davy? Dusty Wilson?”
Davy tapped hastily on his keyboard and began to read. “Derek ‘Dusty’ W…Wilson; his last prison term started in twenty-thirteen; for firearms offences. He got out early, this January.”
“So he’s on the streets which means that he could have killed Hart for owing him ninety grand, but what motivation would he have had for killing the other two?” The question was rhetorical; if Wilson had had a motive they’d find it in the next few days. Craig straightened up in his chair. “OK, good. Anything significant on the background stuff?”
“We’re w…working through all the CCTV and reports from uniform patrols but none of the victims had ever lived close to where they were found. I’ve requested all their criminal records but we already know they were found close to s…sites of their crimes during The Troubles.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I’ve also had a phone call from Interpol. They might have something on S…Stevan Mitic.”
Craig’s eyes widened. He’d put Davy on the assassin’s pursuit without much hope of it yielding anything. “What did they have to say?”
“They think they’ve caught his trail somewhere in Egypt, but with all the migration in the Middle-East at the moment, they can’t be sure. They…they s
aid they might want me over there for a while. Apparently their analyst can’t hack as well I can.”
Craig smiled. Davy had hacked every government website in the UK and quite a few further afield; if the CIA found out they’d either hire him or jail him. “OK. We’ll discuss it if it becomes a firm request. Any idea how long they might want you?”
Davy winced. “They mentioned a few months.”
Craig rolled his eyes. “Like I said, we’ll discuss it as and when.” He turned to Annette, his mind on what they would do without an analyst. “Annette. Any joy on possible witnesses?”
Annette nodded her head so vigorously that it suddenly made her feel faint. As she reached out a hand to steady herself Craig saw the movement and stared at her with an unspoken question. She shrugged ‘I don’t know’ and carried on as he resolved to speak to her after the briefing.
“OK, Andy and I visited the usual places where the homeless gather.”
At the mention of Andy’s name Carmen gave a loud “huh”. It seemed the only men that she didn’t “huh” at were Davy and Jake. Annette ignored her and continued.
“One of the men at the gathering spot, Richard Schofield, said that he might know something so, long story short, I interviewed him two hours ago in the relatives’ room. It proved very useful. He was walking down York Street just before three a.m. on Monday morning, on his way to bed down in an abandoned garage; Floods in Garmoyle Street. Apparently lots of the older men go there at the weekend. They avoid the shelters then because there’s more drinking and fights.” She sipped her tea. “Anyway, as he was walking past the wasteland between Nelson and Dock Street in the pitch dark; the streetlights on that stretch of road were broken, a dark saloon pulled up so he hid behind an advertising board. He saw the driver open the boot and pull out another man.”
Craig cut in. “Did he get the make or model?”
She shook her head. “Just that it was a navy or black saloon; unfortunately he doesn’t know much about cars. But we’ve got something even better. He wrote down the first part of the registration number, WEZ. I gave it to Davy earlier.”
All eyes turned back to Davy but he shook his head. “Ash has been working on it but as far as I know…” He stopped, nodding for his friend to speak. The smurf’s face was glum.
“Not much progress so far. It’s obviously a Northern Irish registration and the WZ ties it to Belfast, but I’ve found one thousand, nine hundred and sixty dark saloons with the reg WEZ. It was a popular plate in two thousand and nine.”
Liam nodded. “My car’s the same age, but I just got a standard WBZ reg. You had to request the ones that sounded like words.”
Ash continued. “So we know that our killer’s a poser. Pity he didn’t get a plate with his name on it. Anyway, I’m cross matching them now with names linked to the case and checking out any owner with a criminal record.”
Davy cut in. “We’re looking at s…stolen and hired cars too.”
Craig shook his head. “It won’t be hired. Too old. Car hire firms get rid of their cars after three years.”
He nodded Annette to pick up her report.
“OK, so Mr Schofield watched as the driver walked the man onto the wasteland-”
“Was it Hart?”
“He fitted his description. The witness is with the sketch artist at the moment, but I’ll show him the photo books when we’ve finished here. Anyway, unfortunately he never saw the driver’s face; he had his head down the whole time-”
Liam interrupted in a cynical voice. “Deliberately.”
“Probably. Even at that time of night he was being careful. But we do have a general description. Tall and slim, but broad shouldered, and he was wearing an overcoat of some sort.”
Liam quipped. “Flip me, an elegant murderer.”
“Schofield said it was long and dark. Mouflon was the word he used.”
Craig’s eyes widened. “You mean like a military overcoat?”
“Yes.”
It could be relevant or it might be nothing.
“Schofield guessed the shooter’s age at late fifties by his posture, and he saw his hands.” She paused for someone to say something. No-one did so she carried on. “The other man was smaller and his hands were tied behind his back.”
Craig held up a hand to halt her. “Davy, what height was Billy Hart?”
Davy glanced at his screen. “Five-seven. All the victims were five-feet-ten or under.”
“Annette, ask your witness how much taller our killer was than his victim.”
“Sorry, I should have said. He said Hart was a good head shorter than his killer.”
“That’s eight to ten inches, which puts our man between six-three and five. Tall.”
He waved her on again.
“Anyway, Schofield said that Hart, if that’s who it was, looked defeated. Like all the fight had gone out of him.”
Liam snorted. “Well you would, wouldn’t you, if you were about to be bumped off.”
She ignored him. “The driver was pushing him forward with his left hand and he had a gun in his right. Hart begged him for a cigarette so he took one from Hart’s pocket and put it in his mouth.”
“The butt that Liam found. If he used Hart’s cigarette it looks like our killer doesn’t smoke.”
“Or his brand could identify him too easily?”
Craig’s expression said that the suggestion was weak. “I doubt he smokes anything that unusual.” Something moved in his peripheral vision so he turned, just in time to see Andy sit up straight.
“Nice to have you with us, Andy. Something that you’d like to share?”
His sarcasm missed the D.C.I. completely.
“More of a question. If Schofield saw the killer’s hands clearly enough to tell his age, he can’t have been wearing gloves, not even latex ones, so how come his prints weren’t on the cigarette butt, if they weren’t?”
Davy shook his head. “Only Hart’s prints were found.”
Craig would have loved to have said that he’d already thought of Andy’s point, but they’d all missed it.
“Good point, Andy, although I disagree that he couldn’t have worn latex gloves. Some of them are transparent. Davy, get Des to recheck the butt for prints. It’s a long shot but we’ve had longer.” He nodded Annette on again.
“When Hart had finished the cigarette he asked for another, probably playing for time, but the driver said no and pushed him onto the ground.” She looked at Craig apologetically. “I’m afraid the witness ran as soon as he heard the first shot so he didn’t see the full kneecapping and murder. That’s all I have so far, but we’re retracing his steps tomorrow.”
“Excellent work, Annette.”
He missed Carmen pretending to be sick in her bin.
“OK, it’s slow progress but hopefully things will speed up in the next few days. We’re in all weekend so I’ll see everyone here tomorrow at four. Meanwhile, Annette, could you join me in my office, and the rest of you enjoy your Friday night.”
As people tidied their desks and filtered off the floor Craig entered his office and made fresh drinks. Annette entered, but instead of taking a seat she stood with her hands resting on the back of the chair.
“Before you say that I should see a doctor, sir, Mike’s already done every blood test he can think of and they’re all fine. On paper I’m fit and healthy.”
He waved her to sit, brooking no objection, then smiled sympathetically. “You know you’re not fine, Annette. You’ve looked like a ghost for months.”
She sat down with a sigh as he continued.
“Look, it might just be the stress of Pete’s court appearance, but I’m sure that you’d prefer to make certain. I’m no doctor, but we’re fortunate enough to have access to quite a few.”
Annette’s ex-husband had assaulted her during the breakdown of their marriage a year before and his trial was finally starting in three weeks’ time.
She went to interrupt but Craig forged on.
“Mike’s an excellent pathologist but, let’s face it, all of his patients are dead.”
She laughed despite herself. She’d never really thought of it that way.
“So, would you consider seeing Katy? She is a consultant physician so she’s definitely qualified to help, and if she can’t help then I’m sure Natalie can chop something off and make you feel better.”
The image of Natalie sharpening her scalpel made them both smile. Annette thought for a moment before answering. He was right; she couldn’t go on feeling this ghastly and do her job, so eventually she gave a reluctant nod. Craig’s nod was more decisive.
“Good. I’m seeing Katy tonight so I’ll arrange it with her and she’ll be in touch.” He stood up. “Meanwhile, finish up with your witness then go home and put your feet up, and if you don’t feel up to coming in tomorrow just let me know. We can cope.”
She had no intention of not coming in; she had a murder scene to visit and the bit between her teeth.
****
The Malone Road, Belfast. 9.30 p.m.
Helen Connolly was on her second G&T and just settling down to watch Desperate Housewives when her mobile started to ring. She tutted loudly and lifted her feet from the tapestry pouffe they were resting on, searching for her phone and swearing under her breath. It would be Roger forgetting something again; it always happened no matter how often she recited the list. Olive oil, tomato puree and a bottle of Bolognese sauce. How could a grown man not remember three simple things? It wasn’t as if she asked him to do much else, was it? She’d been in a meeting until eight, then raced home, chopped the vegetables and taken the mince out of the fridge. She’d even made a cheesecake the day before for dessert. All he had to do now was uncork the wine!
She searched the living room in vain for the offending smartphone, until the ringing finally ceased. Where in heaven’s name had she left it? It wasn’t beside her keys in the hall and it wasn’t in her bag. She’d just entered the kitchen, on the off chance that it had mysteriously migrated there, when the strains of ‘Rule the World’ began again. She answered the call in a grumpy voice.
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