The Cabal (#16 - The Craig Crime Series)

by Catriona King

  Katy’s mouth dried like parchment. Haemophilia. One of the most serious blood clotting disorders there was. Carried on the X Chromosome it was passed from carrier mothers to some of their sons, with some of their daughters possibly also becoming carriers.

  Her heart broke for the decisions that Natalie had in front of her, then it broke again at what it might first mean for her life with John.

  ****

  The Executive Office, Stormont Estate.

  The short, square, one year from retirement government official, pressed his back so hard against the office wall it was as if he was trying to push through to the room next door. Six inches in front of him stood a pale-eyed, pale-haired ex-Intelligence Officer with all the skills and tricks that title implied, apparently doing nothing to cause the retreat except stare.

  But what a stare. Kyle Spence’s eyes were unblinking, his pupils dilated to discs, and his jaw was set so hard it looked as though it might crack. Although strictly speaking the detective was wearing no expression, the older man could detect menace in his every pore. It emanated from the spy like a heavily spiced cologne, filling the room with the possibility of violence if he didn’t get what he’d come there for.

  “Information.”

  The short man seemed uncertain which of them had said it, so Kyle repeated the word to remove any doubt.

  “Information. That’s what I need from you, Mister Iveston. Tell me what you know of the First Minister’s private and public views.”

  Norris Iveston reached out for support, missing his desk by six inches, but his direction had been clear so Kyle immediately seized the papers lying there.

  “These? You were reaching for these?”

  He glanced down to see a printed manifesto leaflet from the last election. It said nothing but that Peter McManus stood for ‘An Independent Britain in Europe. Working in cooperation but controlling our own destiny.’

  Catchy? Kyle didn’t think so. He hurled the leaflet at the bin and turned back to the man with a scowl.

  “If I’d just wanted propaganda I wouldn’t have bothered coming all this way! That’s the rubbish you feed Joe Public, Mister Iveston, but I need the full S.P. The real stuff. What McManus said to you behind closed doors.”

  He could see the private secretary’s legs beginning to buckle, so he pulled out a chair and pushed Iveston to sit as the civil servant blurted out his defence.

  “Minister McManus” Obsequious even in death. “Was a decent man. What he said in public he said in private.”

  Not like some of them was muttered beneath the official’s breath.

  Spence perched on the desk and glared down at him. “Let’s just say I believe you. Let’s just say Mister McManus was Pro-EU, like he said, but wanted the UK to have controlled immigration and free trade with the rest of the world-”

  Iveston nodded furiously. “He did. He really did.”

  The D.I. jumped back in. “So, who didn’t? Who in the IBP wanted McManus gone?”

  The advisor’s eyes widened as if he’d been shot as well. “No-one enough to kill him!”

  Spence didn’t give the official time to breathe before he thrust the man’s chair back against the wall.

  “But someone enough to want him out?”

  “I…”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t-”

  “What? Can’t say? Can’t tell me? Who was it?” The D.I. loomed over the man. “Who, Mister Iveston? Who wanted shot of your boss?”

  He could see Iveston’s flush darkening and spreading down his neck. Any minute now the man would break, he was certain of it. As the civil servant’s lips formed a word and “Burke” emerged, the office door was flung open and Andy Angel entered the room.

  “This interview’s over! NOW, Detective Inspector.”

  His glance took in Iveston’s head-in-hands relief and then his sigh, loud enough to fill the room, but Andy failed to spot the smirk on Kyle’s face before his expression altered to faux chagrin and shame. And as the two detectives left the office, Kyle in front and Andy behind barking him on, the former Intelligence Officer, well pleased with the results of his interrogation, was already planning his next move.

  ****

  The Labs.

  Craig swung his long legs up on to John Winter’s desk and sipped at the coffee the pathologist had thoughtfully poured, before speaking.

  “You had something for me, John. What was it?”

  The pathologist shuffled the papers in front of him, reluctant to impart his DNA find immediately. If he did that Craig would jump up and leave, and, without confiding in him directly about his marital strife, he hoped that by prevaricating for long enough the detective might work out that something was wrong with him all by himself.

  In fact, all the prevarication managed to do was irritate Craig, and after five minutes of John’s hemming and hawing the policeman drained his cup and sprang to his feet.

  “If you don’t have anything, I really need to go.”

  Winter hurriedly removed a page from the bottom of his pile, floating it across the desk. Craig scanned it, his eyes narrowing, and when he glanced up again his voice was incredulous.

  “German! You’re sure?”

  “DNA doesn’t lie.”

  “Pure German?”

  “Ninety-eight percent. The rest was Nordic DNA. I compared the whole thing with some profiles of ethnic Germans and it fits the bill.”

  Craig frowned, puzzled.

  “How many German’s live here?”

  “Almost four thousand according the twenty-eleven census.”

  The detective was surprised it was that many. He considered for a moment and then asked another question. “Male or female DNA? I mean it was probably a man, to subdue Regent, but I’d still like to cross the Ts. Unless they had a gun of their own, of course…”

  John shook his head tiredly. “The processing’s still got a way to go. I should know more tomorrow.”

  The flat tone in which he said it made Craig straighten up. An unexpected result like this would normally have had John doing cartwheels; something was wrong with his friend. His humanity said he should ask what, but his curiosity got in first.

  “OK, so a German…a tourist?”

  “A tourist who came here just to kill McManus? Unlikely. Oh, I think I’ll just go to Belfast for the weekend to see a concert, and I might just bump off the First Minister while I’m there!”

  The sarcasm added to Craig’s concern so he allowed his humanity to come to the fore.

  “Something wrong, John?”

  The pathologist batted it back. “Who? Me? What could possibly be wrong in my perfect life?”

  The sarcasm was tinged with huff this time at Craig not asking the caring question before, and, in the ancient Irish tradition of cutting off your nose to spite your face, John deflected the concerned look on Craig’s face by returning to the DNA.

  “You should get Davy to check out German nationals living here.”

  “Could that DNA be found in any other group?”

  “You mean a Polish or Eastern European immigrant?”

  There were plenty of those in Northern Ireland, but John shook his mouse-brown head.

  “It’s unlikely, unless they were Germans who’d been living there. I’d say this person had both parents and all four grandparents German, which is unlikely unless they actually came from there. First generation German immigrants here and maybe tourists would be Davy’s best bet.”

  Craig frowned. Why the hell would a German want to kill Peter McManus? Unless they’d been hired to do so. He reached for the desk phone.

  “Mind if I make a call? My battery’s running low.”

  Within seconds Davy was on the line and John was pouring Craig a second coffee hopeful that it might make him stay.

  “Davy, the DNA found under Billy Regent’s fingernails indicates an ethnic German. Check for German nationals living or working here, and get passport control to check for anyone who travelle
d here in the past two weeks. Boat and plane. Get onto Interpol and see how their DNA matching’s going, and give the German Federal Police in Berlin a call. There’s a Chief Inspector Vala Raske there. I met her on a secondment she did at The Met and we’ve kept in touch. Mention my name and ask for her assistance, please.”

  As he dropped the call, his mobile rang, displaying Andy Angel’s name.

  “Andy. Did you find Kyle?”

  “I did…Interrogating McManus’ private secretary at close range… We’re heading back to the ranch now.”

  Craig rolled his eyes, knowing that his pauses indicated bad news. He didn’t want to hear the detail until he had to but he was already wondering whose ass he would have to kiss to calm the situation down.

  “Keep him there. He’s not to leave until he’s seen me. Understand?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  He cut the call and took the cup John was proffering, but instead of sipping the coffee he set it on the desk and sat forward, staring hard at his friend.

  “Huff, sarcasm, and I’ve never seen you so unexcited about a DNA result. There’s something wrong with you, John, so tell me what it is. Please.”

  It was as if he’d said Open Sesame. John Winter’s floodgates opened and all his marital woes came rushing out.

  ****

  Craigantlet Army Base, The Craigantlet Hills, County Down. 2 p.m.

  Liam was on his second meeting within an hour and he was far more impressed by the Officers’ Mess coffee than he’d been with Tommy’s tea. There were biscuits as well this time, and decent ones at that, all served by some sort of batman who reversed away. It seemed a high old life being an officer and the D.C.I. was just wondering whether he should have joined the military at eighteen instead of the police, when Ken Smith appeared beside him dressed in battle greens. The biliousness of the colour was enough to confirm to Liam that he’d made the right career choice; he could never have spent thirty years wearing that.

  Ken fell into the armchair opposite and poured himself a drink, seeing Liam’s envious glance around the high-ceilinged sitting room, with its carved wood and portraits of old generals, and allowing himself a small smirk.

  “Impressed?”

  Liam gestured at the embossed ceiling with its heavy crystal chandelier.

  “You’ve got to admit it’s better than neon lighting.” He indicated the tray in front of them. “We have a drinks machine and you have a silver tray.” He added a loud guffaw that drew glances from a group in one corner. “Oops. Do you have a noise policy here?”

  The soldier smiled, shaking his head. “It wouldn’t take us to. Mess nights can be pretty rowdy occasions.” He set down his cup and relaxed back in his chair. “But I won’t miss it you know. Fifteen years is long enough to move from country to country. It’s time to settle down.”

  The twinkle in his eyes said that he didn’t plan to settle alone.

  “Anyway. How can I help you, Detective Chief Inspector?”

  “Ach, get away with you. It’s Liam to you.”

  Ken shook his head firmly. “Not during working hours. I’m starting basic training next week and I’ll be a P.C. for quite a while to come, so I’d better start getting used to the rank system in the police.”

  It was a fair point, although Liam had a hunch the captain wouldn’t be a constable for long, not with his experience.

  “OK, then, P.C. Smith. There are two things. One, what do you know about arms smuggling?”

  Ken looked surprised. “Generally, or in the army?”

  “Whichever. I’d like you to do a bit of digging on it if you could.”

  “I’m only here for another few days, so it’ll be a push.”

  “Do what you can. We’ve customs and excise and the border force digging as well.”

  Ken made a note. “And the second thing?”

  “Corporal William Regent of the Mercette Regiment. You were finding stuff out on him for me.”

  A slim blue file appeared from inside Ken’s tunic, finally explaining to Liam why soldier’s top halves always looked so puffy. They could probably carry a small child, an encyclopaedia and a year’s supply of nuts in there without anything showing up on the outside. Ken opened the document and started to read.

  “This is Regent’s service record. The big things were two tours of Iraq in two thousand and three and seven. He received several commendations for bravery and when he left in twenty-fourteen he got an honourable discharge.”

  Liam snorted. “Don’t give me that old flannel. He had PTSD.”

  The captain nodded. “He did, but there’s no dishonour in that, and it wasn’t why he left. He cited his young daughter as the reason.”

  Liam gestured at the document, itching to get his hands on it. “I don’t suppose you’d let me look?”

  “You don’t suppose correctly, but if you ask me specific questions I won’t lie.”

  Liam took a swig of coffee before going on.

  “OK. Regent’s medical records. Are they in there?”

  Ken loosened a single page and held it up. “I can’t give it to you, but if you put in a written request the base doctor will most likely release it.” As Liam opened his mouth to object he carried on. “I can tell you that there was no indication that Regent was violent. Quite the opposite in fact. He was a gentle lad overall, and so depressed at the end that it had rendered him almost catatonic. The report says that before he left it was an effort for him even to get out of bed at times.”

  Liam frowned. How the hell could Regent have got motivated to shoot a man?

  “Anything about him hating politicians? We’ve been tipped the wink.”

  Ken scanned the page, stopping halfway down. After a moment’s indecision, he began to read aloud.

  “Corporal Regent resents the American political regime that entered Iraq in two thousand and three, but on questioning does not appear to harbour the same resentment towards the UK, with the exception of the British Prime Minister and his cabinet at that time.”

  Liam’s eyebrows shot up. “It says that?”

  Ken nodded. “They asked the question specifically, in case Regent was a threat to the politicians here on discharge. He was an expert sniper, after all. The base doctor was convinced he wasn’t, although in light of what’s happened-”

  He was cut short by Liam shaking his head and standing up. “The more I learn the more I think that your doc was right. Billy Regent would never have killed Peter McManus if he hadn’t been being used by someone else.”

  ****

  The Travis Estate.

  Reggie Boyd took off his uniform cap and wiped a hankie over his thinning hair. It was hard work questioning people who didn’t want to speak to you, especially when it was scores of them a day, but he’d felt guilty sending the youngsters to do all the leg work so he’d taken a floor of Faulkner Tower himself. Between the slammed doors when they realised he wasn’t the bloke from the housing executive there to fix their windows, and the woman in number forty who’d answered hers wearing nothing but a pair of leggings and an inviting smile that had had him picturing Mrs Boyd’s ire if she’d ever found out, he reckoned he’d got off lightly if all he’d done was sweat.

  He blamed his urge to get down in the trenches on his interview with Kelly Atkins the night before. She hadn’t added much to her written statement, other than that Billy Regent’s companion had been wearing a pulled down baseball cap so she hadn’t seen his face, but if she had done she was certain that ‘he wudn’t have been as good looking as Billy wus, specially in his uniform.’ But he had managed to get her to draw the logo that she’d seen on the sports bag and passed it on to Davy Walsh. It might produce something, or not.

  The sergeant’s meditation on urban life was interrupted suddenly by a sharp tug on his jacket, and he glanced down expecting to see a child from the estate, only to be taken aback at the sight of a W.P.C. so youthful looking that if she’d asked him for fifty pence for a bar of chocolate he wouldn’t have be
en at all surprised.

  The Donegal man closed his increasingly myopic eyes and counted to five for strength. When he reopened them, the constable was standing in exactly the same place, completely failing to foresee her impending chastisement, just as she’d failed to comprehend that tugging your sergeant’s jacket as if he was your dad wasn’t the way to go.

  Reggie tried for world-weary tolerance in his words.

  “W.P.C. Prentiss, since when do you attract the attention of a senior officer by tugging on their coat?”

  The girl’s blank look said that she needed more instruction in life than he had the time to give so after a brief pause Reggie carried on.

  “What can I help you with?”

  Her face brightened. “There’s a woman, sir.”

  “There are many women in this world, Prentiss.” Too many at that moment for him. “To which particular lady are you referring?”

  She walked to the edge of the balcony they were standing on and pointed left, towards a block of apartments that he hadn’t asked anyone to check. Reggie counted from six to ten before speaking again.

  “Is that Andrews Tower?”

  The estate was arranged in two clusters of three blocks, Carson, Brookeborough and Faulkner Towers together, and then a distance away, across a courtyard, Andrews, Chichester and O’Neill. He’d deemed the second cluster too far away from the scene of the shooting to be worth investigation.

  She nodded energetically. “Yes, sir.”

  “And did I ask you to check Andrews Tower?”

  “No, sir.”

  He waited for the penny to drop. Unsurprised when it didn’t he carried on.

  “Leaving aside that I didn’t, why would this lady interest me, Prentiss?”