“That stupid wee-”
Craig shook his head. “It’s not her fault. Harrison gave the order.” He frowned. “You know what he was about to say of course.”
“Suspect. They might have a new suspect.” His eyes widened. “Or maybe a witness.” Liam nodded furiously. “That’s it! Someone’s gone and alibied the wee scrote.” He slumped awkwardly in his hard backed chair. “But how the hell could they? Moriarty was alone in that house all day. The next door neighbour confirmed it. There was no-one in the frame for his father’s murder but him. We checked everything: traffic cams, neighbours’ statements, phones. No-one had a motive to kill Joe Moriarty except Les, and there was nothing missing from the house to say that it was a burglary. The cleaning lady testified to it.”
He stopped, realising that Craig had been shaking his head the whole time that he’d been speaking.
“Is that shaking because I’m talking crap or-”
Craig raised a hand to halt him. “It’s because I think that Harrison wants me gone so badly that he’s prepared to do anything to prove this was a wrongful conviction. This suspect or witness, whoever they are, is just someone that Harrison’s thought up to introduce reasonable doubt in the court’s mind.”
Liam gave a low whistle. “You really think he’d fabricate evidence just to get you? And set a murderer free on the streets?”
Craig rose sharply. “There’s only one way to find out.”
****
Annette walked slowly from the lift into the squad-room, taking a seat at her desk without anyone noticing that she was there. She was grateful for the time without greetings or demands; she needed it to decide what she was going to do about telling everyone on the squad. She was almost five months pregnant and it would soon be impossible to cover up, either with baggy clothes or the excuse that she’d been eating too many cakes. Five months. Approaching the time when she would no longer be allowed near potentially violent suspects, and definitely approaching the time when she could legitimately be allowed to put her feet up and tap away on a computer all day, if that was what she wished.
She needed the rest, so what was stopping her from telling Craig that she was pregnant and availing of the opportunity? It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t have guessed already. Mike had been bouncing around like Tigger for weeks, practically tannoying the happy news with his permanent grin. That meant John knew, which meant he was bound to have told Craig. Nicky knew, because she’d told her, and Davy had been away in France, so of the core team she saw every day that only left Liam in the dark, and unless she actually gave birth at his feet she doubted that he’d notice if she looked like a Zeppelin.
Which brought her back to her original question; why hadn’t she told Craig? Part of it was embarrassment. She was forty-seven years old for goodness sake, barely divorced, with teenage kids, and now pregnant by her new, younger lover. It wasn’t the younger bit; after all Mike was only six years younger than her, well, five and a half to be precise. And she’d bitten the bullet and told the kids the week before, to be pleasantly surprised by their reactions. Amy had got excited and hoped that it was a little girl, and Jordan had stood up tall and placed a protective arm around her shoulders; although he still wouldn’t speak to Mike in case it was a betrayal of his dad, currently languishing in prison for three years for domestic assault.
She knew that Craig would be really pleased for her and that he’d stop Liam saying anything untoward, so while embarrassment was certainly part of it, it wasn’t the main reason for her reticence in going public. So what was?
She stared down at her desk as she thought, taking in its neat rows of pens and stickies, organised so that she could find anything in a rush. Her handbag was exactly the same and so was her wardrobe; in fact everything in her life was ordered and tidy now. The kids were heading off to Uni, she and Mike were both doing well in their careers; hell, she’d even been thinking of taking the D.C.I. exams in twenty-sixteen, but how could she do that now, with a new baby in tow?
Suddenly, without thinking about it or planning it, she swept a hand violently across her desk, casting pens and stickies and paperclips halfway across the floor. She kept on sweeping, until her tray of files and a stapler and tape machine joined them. Nicky heard the noise and popped her head above her computer screen like a curious Meerkat.
When she realised where the racket was coming from she shook her head at Davy, already loping across the floor to help. He stopped mid stride and retreated as she took his place in the approach. When she reached Annette’s cubicle she leaned on the partition wall and smiled down at her sympathetically, ignoring the chaos all around.
“Fancy a walk?”
Annette said nothing, just nodded, and under the bemused gaze of the rest of the squad, the two women walked purposefully off the floor, leaving a trail of stationery in their wake.
****
The C.C.U. Thirteenth Floor. 1.30 p.m.
Liam was annoyed. Not annoyed that Craig had driven like a maniac all the way back from Maghaberry; he’d expected as much from the moment Les Moriarty had returned to his cell. And not annoyed that Craig had ignored his heavy hints about having lunch before he did whatever he felt he had to do. If he took the hump every time they worked through their lunch break, he’d hardly ever have been in a good mood. No, he was annoyed, and by annoyed read seriously hacked off, by the fact that Craig was about to rip Terry Harrison’s head off and there’d be no-one there to witness it except him.
The lift doors opened to an empty thirteenth floor; far emptier than the lunch hour would have accounted for. Then Liam realised. Civil servants. The staff on the thirteenth were all civil servants, except for Harrison and his girl Friday, and even Carmen had to eat sometime. So what? Didn’t civil servants work like anyone else? They worked, and they worked hard most of the time, but with flexi-hours and time off in lieu, at Christmas most government buildings looked like the Marie Celeste, especially between twelve and two.
It was onto just such a deserted ship that the detectives stepped, but where Liam saw the disappointing lack of an audience, Craig saw the perfect conditions for a fight. The abandoned stillness became an ominous silence as they approached Terry Harrison’s firmly shut office door; closed even when there was no-one there, probably in case a passing dust mite might see it as an invitation to socialise. Craig saw the lack of personnel as a sign that he wouldn’t have to be restrained in what he said. No-one to overhear meant no-one to run amok with tales that got embellished exponentially before they’d reached the final listener’s ears.
With each step his jaw grew tighter and his eyes, normally a soft navy and on the verge of a smile, became an angry brighter blue against the reddening of his tan. Liam watched him and pictured a banner overhead. It read ‘Clash of the Superintendents’ and deserved far better than an audience of one. He might have waited outside himself if sheer nosiness and the reluctant duty of a deputy to stop his boss landing a career ending punch hadn’t forced him on ahead. Note the ‘might’.
Craig landed the first blow anyway, but not on Harrison’s jaw. He punched open the D.C.S.’ door noisily and stood two feet in front of Harrison’s low slung desk. The uniformed superintendent raised his eyes from a book that he was reading; one that Liam was sure he’d only opened when he’d heard them approaching from the lift. His small eyes were cool, as was his “Do come in, gentlemen.” Only the whitening of his knuckles as he gripped the book’s cover revealed the true extent of his nerves.
Liam smiled knowingly but Craig had missed the sign, moving another foot closer to rest both hands on his old foe’s desk. He leaned so far forward that his breath misted Harrison’s buttons and Liam watched as the older man attempted to retreat into his chair. The book was shaking now, as Harrison glanced first at the door and then at Liam, looking anywhere except into Craig’s furious eyes.
For a moment no-one said anything then Craig forced a “Why?” out through clenched teeth.
Harrison’s eyes widene
d in what Liam was surprised to see looked like confusion, but the expression scarcely lasted a second, before a more arrogant, knowing stare took its place. Teflon had been caught off guard for a second, but now he knew exactly what Craig was asking ‘why?’ about. Not ‘why are you such a dickhead, Harrison?’ or even ‘why are you going though all my old files?’ but ‘why are you prepared to pervert the course of justice just to stitch me up?’ and more importantly ‘why do you hate me enough to set a killer free?’
Even Liam, a man that his mother loved but whom even she wouldn’t claim had been gifted with sensitivity, could feel the tension rising. He watched the two men intently; Craig leaning intimidatingly on the desk, Harrison setting his book aside faux casually as a staged smirk lifted the edge of his lips, with the temperature around them dropping by the second. Seconds in which Harrison failed to answer the one word question Craig had asked.
Finally Craig’s temper blew and Liam watched as his fist rose in what seemed like slow motion and came down on Harrison’s now prone book with a thud. The D.C.I. exhaled gratefully. At least it hadn’t come down on his head, although he wouldn’t take bets on where the next one would land if Harrison didn’t tell Craig what he’d come to find out.
The over-groomed D.C.S. sprang to his feet, his eyes swivelling wildly towards Liam for support.
“You’re my witness, Cullen. He threatened me!” His gaze swept back to Craig. “You’ll be out for good for this. Even your pet Chief Constable won’t be able to save your bacon this time.”
Craig snorted. “You don’t have the balls, Harrison. The truth of what you’re up to would come out.” He went to leave and then turned back again. “But if I’m going to be done for it then I might as well give you something to remember me by.” He grabbed the corrupt lothario by the lapel, yanking him forward and knocking him off balance so that Harrison’s cheek hung only inches above his desk. Craig leaned in, a hiss in his next words. “If Les Moriarty is freed because of fabricated evidence, I’ll make certain that you go down for years.”
Harrison’s reply was a gurgle that sounded vaguely like “wrongful conviction” although Liam couldn’t be certain as he was turning that Christmassy shade of red that inhibited speech. When he’d turned plum Craig released his grip with a shove and the D.C.S. fell backwards, missing his chair and landing on the floor on his ass. Craig was halfway out the door when a gasped. “You saw that, Cullen” followed him.
Liam scratched his head slowly as if he was confused. “Saw what, sir?” A quick sweep of the room found a drinks cabinet and in seconds he’d opened a bottle of whisky and sprinkled some over Harrison’s head. “Only to you falling over drunk, sir.” He gave a fake laugh. “But then it is the season of good will, so we’ll say no more.”
As they reached the stairwell the full strength of Harrison’s voice returned, and his yell followed them down the three floors to the murder squad. Craig stopped outside the squad’s double-doors and breathed deeply, until his temper had subsided and his face was barely pink. When they entered the office they could see that there’d been an upset there as well. Craig picked up a tape machine and stapler and set them on Nicky’s desk as Liam gave a chuckle.
“I see the Christmas spirits are running high here too.” He glanced pointedly at the ceiling. “Just as well they’re too cheap to pay for CCTV.”
Craig shrugged, still on the episode upstairs. “I wouldn’t have cared who’d seen me. If Harrison’s prepared to put a killer back on the streets just to screw me, then he’d better be prepared for whatever comes.” He grabbed a nearby chair. “And that means we need to find out who or what they’re going to use to get Moriarty’s conviction overturned, and stop them before they do.”
Liam nodded then turned back towards the exit.
“Where are you going? We’ve got work to do.”
“I’m doing nothing until I’ve had something to eat, and since I’ve got two hundred quid of your dosh in my pocket, I’m buying everybody lunch at the James.”
****
The Titanic Quarter, Belfast. 2 p.m.
Richard Jamison gazed out of his top floor office window, admiring the view across Belfast Lough. It was a sunny day and as the light tipped the waves with shades of orange, he watched their gentle up and down motion and felt calm. He moved to a second window, standing so close to a ferry readying to leave the dock that he could read the smallest lettering on its hull. He inhaled deeply, imagining he was on his yacht in the Dominican Republic, completely untouchable. He would be soon, if everything went to plan.
A knock on the door disturbed his daydream and he muttered a grudging “come.” It was his secretary Amanda; a sensible thirty-something mother who ran his office as tightly and benevolently as if she was running her children’s morning routine. She waited until Jamison had turned from his view before speaking.
“Your two o’clock is here, sir.”
The businessman smoothed back his silvering hair and took a seat behind his modern desk. “Show him in and then take a long lunch, Amanda. I won’t need you for the next couple of hours.”
He wouldn’t need her because the meeting didn’t bear minuting, but also because it would alert her to the end of her job with the firm. They’d had a good run together but at just over fifty the time was right for him to retire; his third age would be spent in warm climes with Sarah his second wife, and her troublesome teenage son David, if he agreed to come. Hopefully his visitor could facilitate the deal he needed to wave the UK business world goodbye, and ensure that his daily viewing of Belfast’s ferries would be over for good.
****
Liam’s largesse with Craig’s money was tempered by the fact that when the squad arrived at the James Bar Nicky and Annette were already there, and had been for quite a while judging by their empty pudding bowls. Craig knew that something was up immediately and as the others found a table nearby he wandered over to the two women under the pretext of buying them both a drink. His offer declined he slipped into the seat beside Nicky and smiled kindly at an obviously disgruntled Annette.
“Anything I can do to help?”
They all knew what he meant. Annette shrugged, her face tight.
“Not unless you can give birth and spend the next twenty years helping me in the house.”
It was as close to a maternity announcement as they were going to get. Craig’s smile deepened.
“I can’t do the former, but I can let you work as flexibly as you wish. Would that help?”
The mother-to-be relaxed enough to smile so he thought that he would push it.
“And you know Mike will split the workload with you at home. In fact, you’ll probably have to fight him to change nappies; he’s so excited about being a dad.”
Her suspicions had been right. Everyone on the squad already knew except Liam and Davy, and there was no time like the present. Before Craig could say another word she was on her feet tapping her teacup with a spoon.
“I have an announcement to make.”
As Liam turned, a sharp glance from Craig said that he wasn’t to crack a joke no matter what came next.
“As some of you know and others may have guessed, I’m expecting a baby.”
Davy gawped and Liam’s mouth opened so wide that Craig walked over and tipped it shut.
“Mike and I are very happy.” It was half true at least. “And the baby is due in a few months.”
She sat down with a thud and glanced at the other table’s occupants expectantly. As she did so a round of applause rippled around the bar and the landlord, Joe Higginson, approached her with a grin. He grabbed her hand and pumped it hard.
“Well done.”
Craig turned his face away, half-laughing. It sounded as if Annette had run a marathon. When he turned back Higginson was telling the barman to bring out a bottle of champagne that Annette couldn’t drink, and the sound of it popping open and the other patron’s chatter covered Liam and Davy’s silence long enough for their shock to pass. When
the landlord had left, Liam walked across to the smaller table, and everyone waited expectantly for him to put his foot right in his mouth. To their surprise he lifted Annette off her feet in a huge hug and Craig was certain that he saw a tear forming in his eye.
“Congratulations, girl. You deserve a fresh start.” He pulled out her chair hastily, ushering her to sit again, then he let out a loud guffaw and slapped the recently engaged Davy on the back. “That Mike’s some boy. You and Maggie had better get your skates on if you hope to keep up with these two.”
It suddenly occurred to Craig that with Des Marsham’s and Liam’s toddlers, Annette’s baby and the likelihood of John and Davy soon adding to the brood, a crèche for forensic and detective staff might have to be on the Chief Constable’s next budget plan.
****
The squad’s return from lunch brought more news, but nothing like as pleasant. Andy Angel, the squad’s other, far sleepier D.C.I., had opted to stay and answer the phones and he waved a piece of paper in Craig’s face as soon as he walked onto the floor.
“Foster’s been spotted!”
Aaron Foster had been the partner of the squad’s detective sergeant, Jake McLean, until his method of dealing with the end of their relationship in October had been to push Jake down the stairs of the home that they had shared. It had resulted in Jake suffering a fractured skull and spinal bruising that had led to his, hopefully temporary, confinement to a wheelchair. Foster had been on the run ever since.
Craig read the note then handed it quickly to Liam. Annette stood on her toes trying to glimpse what it said as Liam deliberately raised it above her head. Craig rolled his eyes at his adolescent antics.
“It says that Foster’s been spotted in Portavogie.” It was a small fishing village on the Ards Peninsula. He turned to his P.A. “Nicky, get the inspector in Bangor for me. They can keep an eye on him until Liam and I get there.”
The Talion Code Page 3