The Visitor (#3 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series)

by Catriona King

  “The deceased’s surgeon was Nigel Murdock, and her midwife was called Beth Walker.”

  Annette’s eyes rolled at the mention of Murdock’s name.

  “Anything you’d like to share with us, Cutty?” Liam’s loud bass boomed at her. For all its volume it had a curiously soft quality, enhanced by his affectionate country language.

  “All I’m going to say is that Murdock deserves his reputation for arrogance. Ask Dr Winter.”

  “Thanks Annette, I will. It might be relevant.”

  “Or it might just be part of a surgeon’s job requirement.”

  Liam laughed at his own joke and Craig half-smiled, raising a warning eyebrow.

  “You may be right Liam, but don’t say that at the Trust. Annette, keep him right for God’s sake. And remember. Don’t speak to the media. Hospital cases are P.R. dynamite.”

  Annette nodded. Her nursing background might come in useful on this one. Public relations weren’t Liam’s forte. He longed for the ‘good old days’ when he could say anything he liked. He got a lot of flak for it and he took it well, unless it came from ‘arrestees’. Then all the coffee-house bonhomie was seen for the politically correct bullshit that he really thought it was. And “What part of, ‘we cops-you scrotes’ do they not understand?” rumbled from his desk.

  But his local knowledge couldn’t be bought, after twenty-odd years policing during ‘The Troubles’. While Craig had been at Uni and The Met, and Annette was nursing in Maghera. Plus, he made everyone laugh, even when they knew they definitely shouldn’t.

  “Liam, do you have a try-out next week?”

  “Aye, for the football team.”

  Nicky popped her head around the corner and Liam was suddenly bashful. “What’s that for?”

  Annette was surprised she didn’t know the World Police and Fire Games were coming in August. Then she realised she was feigning ignorance just to see Liam blush, confirming their office flirtation. Craig caught Liam’s colour and gave them a wry look.

  “OK, that’ll do. Right, before we go. Is everyone up to speed for Warwick tomorrow?”

  “As long as Doyle doesn’t do his usual, and try to chuck the confession out.”

  “Which he will, you can bet on it. He’ll say we obtained it under duress.”

  “But Ewing confessed in front of his solicitor, sir.”

  “That’s never stopped a barrister trying before, Annette. Don’t worry, just stick to the facts and we’ll be fine.”

  “Aye. That the bastard killed her ‘cos she wouldn’t do what she was told.”

  “I’d bring back the death penalty for this one, and happily push the button myself.”

  “Between us we’d have the prison’s cleared out, Cutty.”

  Craig smiled, interrupting. “When did we move to Texas?”

  Annette laughed.

  “Look, God knows we’re all angry about Ewing, but stick to the point in court. I’m not handing Doyle an acquittal because someone loses their temper.” They nodded at him, agreeing.

  “But Dr Winter would just love Texas, sir. Just think of all those serial killers.” John’s obsession with American crime shows was legendary.

  Craig smiled and stood up, ready to leave. “Right, I’m off to see D.C.S. Harrison. I’ll meet you at the lab at eleven. By the way Liam, John says the ward Sister is a bit difficult, so bear that in mind please. Nicky, can you set me up an appointment with the Trust’s Chief Executive today? Don’t take no for an answer. And ask their press person to join us at the end. Thanks.”

  Then he left the floor quickly, disappearing into the lift.

  Annette wandered back to her desk and slumped down in her chair, looking mournfully at the pile of unfinished files. She’d needed today to polish them for the prosecution service. And to type up her 14 font crib-cards for the trial. Doyle was a cocky bugger who’d teased her before for squinting at her notes. He’d even offered her his glasses once, and she wasn’t letting that little party-trick happen again. There was nothing else for it. She’d have to do them tonight.

  Pete wouldn’t be happy. The kids were staying at friends and she knew that he had a romantic interlude planned. She was dragged out of her thoughts rudely, by Liam booming in her ear.

  “What’re you doing, still sitting on your backside? Come on girl...”

  Annette jumped and the whole squad laughed. So she grabbed her handbag and swung it at him, rewarding their hummed Cagney and Lacey theme tune with a bow. The place became more like school every day.

  Chapter Three

  D.C.S. Terry Harrison was one of five superintendents at Dockland’s C.C.U. He ruled the Drugs and Murder Squads from his twelfth-floor office, keeping an iron fist on every case with his name on it. He wasn’t a bad boss, as long as things went well. But he was a political animal, and they didn’t call him ‘Teflon Terry’ for nothing.

  Craig had earned a reputation in The Met. So when the Chief Constable heard, in 2008, that he was coming back, he’d pursued him for superintendent. Craig had railed hard against the promotion. The superintendents he knew in London were buried in budgets and community-policing meetings. Always accounting for the five things wrong, instead of the ninety-five right. Some of them never saw a crime scene. Paper-pushers and mouthpieces. He couldn’t think of anything worse.

  But he’d wanted to come home. His parents were getting older and London had lost some of its charm. Plus, John wanted his best friend back. And spent hours pointing out the benefits of 21st Century Belfast, like a tour-guide on speed.

  Craig knew that he couldn’t dodge rank forever, so they’d finally struck the only deal that he could accept. He’d come back in 2008 as a D.C.I. and make superintendent in a few years. Providing he could still get on the street doing the job, and keep his team. The clincher had been getting Nicky as his P.A. She’d been Harrison’s for years and he never let Craig forget that she was his gift. He still borrowed her occasionally for meetings, just to prove it.

  He’d done it once too often lately and Craig had finally been persuaded. Having Harrison as a boss was beginning to wear, so he’d agreed to take rank in July. Then Harrison would leave Docklands- he knew what was coming and he wasn’t a happy man.

  Harrison was sitting at his standard-issue veneer desk, writing, when Craig knocked. His slicked-back hair always made Craig think of an RAF officer from a World War Two movie. Christopher Plummer. It was probably exactly what he wanted. Image was everything. After a long wait while he kept writing, he finally beckoned Craig in.

  “Come in Craig, and tell me about the Warwick case tomorrow. Reassure me we’re on top of it.”

  Craig sat down in the indicated chair and was suddenly surprised - it was a good six inches lower than the last time he’d visited! For a split-second he considered standing again to balance things up. Then he decided that he couldn’t be bothered and relaxed down even further, making Harrison lean forward to make eye contact.

  “We’ll be OK, sir. We have all the statements and witnesses in, and we have Ewing’s confession. We’ve definitely tied the murder weapon to Laura Warwick’s wounds. And, although the forensics putting it in Ewing’s hands are weak, the close circuit TV pictures are useful. They were poor quality but the lab cleaned them up. And the witnesses are excellent.”

  He paused thoughtfully.

  “Unfortunately his barrister is Roger Doyle - he’s a real Rottweiler. I’ve been up against him before. He’ll try to get the confession thrown out, but we’re solid there. Ewing confessed with his solicitor present.”

  “I know Doyle. I encountered him a few times as an Inspector. He’s a bugger, so keep it tight. And I don’t need to remind you the media and politicians are all over this one. We need a good result.”

  No pressure at all then.

  “We’ll do our best.”

  Craig paused for a moment, considering whether to brief Harrison on the case that wasn’t a case yet. Then he decided. “While I’m here, I need to tell you about a case
we caught this morning, sir. It came in from Dr Winter’s office.”

  Harrison sat up sharply. John was shit-hot and everyone wanted to be on his right side. Particularly operators like Harrison. Craig briefed him quickly, and when he’d finished Harrison shook his head in disgust.

  “People aren’t even safe in hospital now. That’s a bad business. But it’s early days yet, so just keep me up to speed. And handle the media carefully. You know what they’re like on hospital cases. And with a young mum as well. They’ll be screaming negligence. Watch them -especially that bugger Mercer at The Chronicle.”

  Craig nodded. Ray Mercer was a new low in the species ‘tabloid scum’. “I may need to come back to you on that side of things.”

  Harrison puffed himself up importantly, convinced of his own indispensability and eager for any opportunity to show it in public. “Good. You concentrate on catching the bugger and I’ll deal with the press.”

  That suited Craig fine, the farther away he was from journalists the better. He’d been trotted out for one too many photo-shoots, using his Italian half to show how ‘European’ the force was.

  All of a sudden, Harrison’s expression morphed into what he thought was an engaging smile. It flattened his nose and showed his teeth, making him look like a Bull Shark.

  Craig recognised the signs immediately. He wanted something.

  “Now, let me ask you, Marc. How is your lovely mother?”

  His use of the word ‘lovely’ made Craig’s hackles rise instantly. But not half as much as if he’d used it about his younger sister, Lucia. Harrison had a reputation for womanising, preferably with women twenty years his junior. And Craig’s retribution would be swift if he ever tried it with her.

  “She’s absolutely fine.” His tone was cool but Harrison didn’t register the change in temperature. Instead he leaned back confidently, steeple-ing his fingers.

  “Good, good. I was just wondering... How do you think she’d feel about playing at the Police Benevolent ball? And, maybe at the ceremony for the new Assistant Chief Constable?”

  Craig smiled to himself. So that was what he wanted. He was tempted to mess him about, but he knew there was no point playing hard-to-get. His mother, Mirella, was a concert pianist, and she loved to play for charity, even more since she’d stopped touring.

  She lived with his father Tom, a retired physics lecturer, in Holywood, six miles outside Belfast. Their marriage was a great one, their domestic bliss only marred by his father’s newly diagnosed angina. But he wouldn’t let it stop him doing anything, despite all their begging.

  Craig knew his mother would want to play at both events, so he nodded at Harrison. “She’ll cook the food too, given half a chance. I’ll ask her to give you a call. Now I’d better head off to the lab.”

  Just as he said it his mobile rang - Liam. Harrison nodded him out and he strolled into the twelfth floor’s carpeted reception, under the dry gaze of Susan Butler, Harrison’s regal P.A.

  “What do you have for me, Liam?” Liam’s voice was as subdued as Craig had ever heard it. The case was getting to him. He had two children himself, the younger only three months old.

  “They delivered her at four-twenty, boss. She was only twenty-six, so no-one expected problems. She was scheduled for Caesarean tomorrow. They checked her about midnight and she was grand. But when the midwife went back after four, she found her dead. And no one saw a thing, as-per-bloody-usual.” Craig nodded to himself. Good witnesses were rare. Most people walked through life in a daze.

  “They took her to theatre and delivered the baby safely. But that just was sheer luck. Doc Winter was on call and he started the post-mortem about seven. I just spoke to him and he’s not a happy man.”

  “I know. We talked earlier.”

  “Aye. But here, there’s an extra complication. Her father is Tommy Hill. Evie Murray-Hill was the daughter.”

  “Tommy Hill, the Maze release case?”

  “Aye, that’s the one.”

  Tommy Hill was well known to the police, for his exploits during the Troubles. He’d served ten of a twenty-year stretch for shooting four people on their way home from a wedding. He’d climbed calmly onto their mini-bus, killing three men and the driver as they tried to escape through the windows, and past him to the door.

  It had earned him ‘urban hero’ status amongst his paramilitary pals. And twenty years in prison. But he’d been granted release in ‘98 under the Good Friday Agreement, despite widespread disapproval. Since then he’d apparently been a good little boy, working in youth-clubs, teaching young kids the error of his ways. Except that the Drugs Squad knew very different.

  “He’s going ballistic up here. Threatening the staff with all sorts of hell.”

  “Bugger.” Craig let out a low whistle, and a prim-looking woman by the lift glared over. He held a hand up in apology.

  “OK. What’s the chance he’ll do something stupid?”

  “Two hundred percent, I’d say. He’d to be dragged out of theatre last night by security. He punched Nigel Murdock, the surgeon. Happy Days.”

  Craig smiled to himself. “Liam...”

  “Aye right, not diplomatic. Sorry. Anyway, he’s calling the doctors bastards and threatening the midwives. Can’t you hear him?” Hill’s yells grew louder as Liam held out the phone.

  “OK. Look, I know he’s a criminal, but it’s a real loss for him. So handle him carefully. But he can’t go around threatening people, so ask uniform to take him to High Street to cool off. Don’t charge him, just invite him firmly. I’ll see him there later. And get the doctor to check him- he’s had a shock.”

  Liam shrugged. His sympathy didn’t extend to criminals, no matter what the circumstance. He acquiesced, grudgingly. “We’ll get him there now.”

  “Fine. The ward-staff need to make themselves available for interview. And pull any close circuit footage Maternity has. Have the C.S.I.s arrived yet?”

  “They’re here now.”

  “What about Evie’s husband?”

  “Young lad called Brian Murray.”

  Murray-Hill. They’d hyphenated their names. Craig pictured the confusion ten generations on.

  “He’s a real mess, apparently. Fell to bits last night, so Evie’s mother took him home with her. He doesn’t have anyone else.”

  Craig raked his hair despairingly. It happened every time. One person was murdered and the whole family died.

  “OK. I’ll see you both at the lab. Quick as you can please. I’m heading over there now.”

  He re-entered the squad just as he ended the call, and walked over to Nicky’s desk.

  “Nicky, I’m off to see John. Did you set-up that meeting with the Chief Executive?”

  “No, sir. He’s not free until after four. He’s stuck in meetings all day and his secretary has refused to free-up his diary. She’s a real piece of work.”

  “Keep trying please - I need to see him today. But leave that just now. Would you mind checking whoever’s in court on Warwick tomorrow? Make sure they’re prepared and call me with any problems. And I’ll need a statement pack at about five. Thanks. I’ll give you a call after I’ve seen John.”

  He turned to leave and she called him back. “Sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “Come here a wee minute.”

  Craig walked back to her desk, bemused. Nicky stood up and patted his hair down, as if he was her little boy. Then she handed him a takeaway cup full of hot coffee. He blushed, touched.

  “Thanks Mum. I’ll be on the mobile if you need me.”

  Chapter Four

  When Craig reached the lab, John was hunched over his desk, reading a folder. Craig poured himself a coffee and took a sip, letting it wash down before he spoke.

  “This is a bad one, John.”

  “Even more than you know. Let’s wait till the others arrive before we start. There’s a lot to go cover.”

  At that moment, Liam and Annette pushed through the double PVC doors, looking fluste
red. Liam started talking immediately. “Here, your man on the gate is a bit much isn’t he, Doc? He nearly strip-searched me.”

  Annette’s eyes widened. “God forbid! Liam’s exaggerating as usual, but he was pretty unpleasant.”

  John laughed. “Yes, sorry about that. He’s new. I should have warned you, they’ve decided they don’t like visitors these days. They prefer us in splendid isolation.”

  The newly built Northern Ireland Pathology Labs were set in a Science Park on the Saintfield Road, two miles from Belfast’s city centre. They shared the park with valuable research facilities, whose high security and alarms were a condition of the huge grants they received. Stormont had signed them up to it. Now they had to make it work.

  Just then Liam noticed his surroundings, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. The lab looked like a brothel! It was a cavernous space, with steel instruments and tables like most dissection rooms, but that was where the comparisons ended.

  John had always hated ‘NHS green’; he thought it was the colour of public toilets. So when Stormont had given him a naive young manager ‘to keep an eye on him’, he’d brought her to the lab on her first day and swept his hand around dramatically.

  “Now...tell me Mary. What do you see?” Given that there’d been a dead body on the table, she’d been speechless for the five seconds he’d allowed her to answer.

  “I’ll tell you what you see...it’s cold and lonely. Don’t you think the dead feel bad enough, without the place looking like a public lavatory? Does it have to be quite so stark around here?”

  She didn’t stand a chance. So after completing forms in triplicate, the ‘NHS green’ walls were now a soft, dark-rose colour. And alongside the laminated health and safety notices hung Manet prints and countryside scenes. There were plants in John’s office, the blinds had been replaced by draped curtains, and music played softly throughout the floor. The whole impression was one of incongruously inviting warmth.