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

by Catriona King

  Liam interrupted. “Bit of luck. She forgot all about it until she put on her overall today, boss. She gave it to Martin immediately. So we’ve sent it off to the lab.”

  “Martin - would you like to tell everyone what the note said?”

  Martin beamed gratefully at Craig. “It was typed - just five words. It said ‘I’m sorry, but it’s necessary.’ That’s all it said, nothing else. It doesn’t look like hospital paper, just a white A4 printer sheet. Do you think it’s significant, sir?”

  “Definitely. So well done. The lab will tell us more, but this could be a break. It’s not something that you would see written randomly, so let’s hope it’s from our killer. And it’s an educated sentence construction, so think back to the Double-O profile. We could have an educated killer. Right, let’s keep going. The note’s of interest, but we can’t base a case on it.”

  Annette raised her pen politely to interrupt and Craig mentally contrasted it with Liam’s bulldozer style of interjection. “Annette?”

  “Yes, sir. Just on the note. They wanted it found, didn’t they? They must have wanted it found?”

  “I’m sure that they did.” Craig nodded her on.

  “Well also, remember that I mentioned Mr Murdock’s slightly fast lifestyle? His sailing crowd is known to use coke. And they swop their wives around.”

  Joe’s eyes nearly popped out.

  “Here Joe. If you’re shocked at that, you need to get out more, man.”

  “Anyway, there’s information that Murdock socialises heavily with that crowd. After Deborah McCance’s death in January, there was a query about whether he was entirely sober when she died. He’d been on the ward about thirty minutes before she was found, and one of the junior nurses noticed a strong smell of alcohol from him. If he smelled of alcohol, that might mean he was also on coke. And he was supposed to be on call that whole week.

  But it was all hushed up as usual. There was nothing on the second death to suggest anything irregular in his behaviour, but Martin is still trying to get the last twenty years’ records out of the Trust archives. They had everything on hard copy files but they were scanned to disc, and now some of the discs have corrupted. So we’ve had to send for all the original paper files again.”

  “How many deaths were there on the Unit in that time?”

  “Very few until 2006, sir – just what you’d expect from Dr Winter’s statistics. It went up in 2006, about the time that Murdock became a consultant there. But still not up to three deaths a year.”

  “When did Beth Walker join the Unit?”

  “2008.”

  “OK. Martin, just focus on the cases since 2008 initially. They were both working on the Unit then. But I’m not ignoring that we could be being fed a false trail, so do a quick scan of the Unit’s cases for twenty years. And all Murdock’s clinical practice as far back as you can.”

  A panicked look flew across Martin’s face.

  “Yes, I know he’s been a doctor for nearly thirty years. But for the years before 2008 just look for anything reported for P.M., or to the Coroner, the General Medical Council and medical insurers. That should cover it. Even Murdock can’t have that many of those in his career. Nicky and Davy have probably got most of it for you already.”

  Nicky nodded at Martin comfortingly.

  “And I want to see the paper files ASAP, Annette. Go to the archive and pull them manually if you have to. Don’t they do random alcohol and drugs tests on healthcare staff? The military and airlines have been doing them for years.”

  “No, not randomly, sir. They closed the hospital bars a few years back though.”

  “You used to have bars in hospitals, Cutty? Happy Days! Can we have one, boss?”

  Craig laughed. He remembered one of his RAF friends telling him about the ‘bottle to throttle’ rule. The minimum time between drinking and flying a plane. It made sense that the rule should apply to anyone handling lives, but it obviously didn’t.

  “Joe, what’s the story on Tommy Hill and the ‘80s’ families?”

  “There are only two people from the families who are local, young and fit enough to kill. I interviewed them and they both have sound alibis. They actually seemed sad that Evie had been killed, and made it clear that if they were going to kill anyone it would’ve been Tommy himself. As far as Tommy’s behaviour nowadays is concerned...” He pointed towards the group’s two new members. A skinny lad of about twenty-five, with a spiky, gelled hairstyle, and a tall older man.

  “This is D.C. Karl Rimmins from the Drugs Squad, and Sergeant Reggie Boyd from uniform up at the Demesne, Tommy’s stamping ground.”

  “Thanks for coming along. What can you tell us?”

  Karl spoke first. He had a dark and dangerous look that would blend in well at clubs and drug haunts. Craig wondered if it was his own style or an undercover one. When he spoke his voice was slow, with a surprisingly polite accent, although Craig was sure he could switch it to Belfast slang at a moment’s notice. It was almost a job requirement.

  “Several of your people are known to us, sir. Beth Walker, Nigel Murdock and Tommy Hill.”

  Liam whistled. “Dear-oh. It’s junkies anonymous up at the M.P.E.”

  “Walker and Murdock are just users, but Tommy’s definitely dealing. Walker’s been seen by the undercover teams at Sarajevo, on Ecstasy for sure. But it looks as if she’s only taking it herself.

  Murdock’s little crowd are known as the White Waves locally. There’s so much coke up their noses when they go sailing that I’m surprised no-one’s fallen over board. But, again, they’re just users, so less interesting to us than the dealers.” He smiled at Craig with a glint in his eye. “Although we can bust them both if you want us to?”

  Craig laughed, imagining Murdock being arrested at the yacht club. “Thanks, but not at the moment Karl. Although if we find out it’s affected their patients in any way, you can have them both with my blessing. What about Tommy?”

  “Yes, he’s dealing everything he can get his hands on. Crack, coke, hash, skunk, Mephedrone, roofies; the lot. About all we don’t have him on are the heavy opiates. Smack...sorry, that’s Heroin.

  “What about Pethidine?”

  “It’s not common on the street, but some users will take it if they can’t get their hands on Heroin. But there’s no sign of Tommy actually dealing it. That’s not to say that he couldn’t get his hands on it if he wanted some. But I understand that it was his daughter that was killed?”

  “Amongst others.”

  “Then, with respect, sir, why would he kill her? And I know Tommy’s made a few enemies around the Demesne because of the drugs, but they’re mostly rival dealers rather than users. And no-one springs to mind as the sort to kill his daughter to get back at him. Unfortunately there are more than enough addicts up there to keep all the dealers in business.”

  “What about an addict’s family?”

  “It’s possible, but Reggie could tell you more on that than me.”

  Reggie Boyd was a fiftyish country man who was nearly as tall as Liam. But where Liam could give a fog horn a run for its money, Reggie was so quietly spoken that people strained to hear him. His lilting Donegal accent and quaint language made everything he said sound like an episode of Jackanory. Craig could almost picture the big storybook in his hand as he spoke.

  “Well now, ladies and sirs, our Tommy’s been out and about since he was released from the Maze in ’98. He was a good wee boy for about two years, finding his feet again I suppose. And a lot of his playmates were up in Maghaberry for various bits of naughtiness. But since they’ve re-grouped he’s been up to all manner of evil.

  We know that his youth-club work is a front for a load of scams. Drugs, DVDs, counterfeit goods, petrol-stretching. You name it, Tommy will flog it. He’s a real wee Demesne Del-boy. But everyone knows how much he loved Evie. He thought the sun rose and set on that girl. He missed a lot of her growing-up - she was only a year old when he went inside. So he’d been trying to
make up for lost time recently.

  The word is that his ex-wife is very saintly, and was being as good as gold. Supporting Evie getting to know her daddy and all that, ‘aul lag that he is. I hear she’s a good-living Christian woman who believes that Tommy will improve with forgiveness.”

  A derisive snort went around the room.

  “Aye well...my feelings exactly. But there you go, it takes all sorts. Anyway, Tommy’s been running around buck-daft for the past few days. Gathering up his crew and telling anyone who’ll listen that he’s got no faith in us. He calls us ‘Pigs’, which is lovely of course. And he says that he’ll find her killer before we do - ‘for sure’.

  We’ve had words with him a few times already this week. But, to be fair, unless he actually steps out of line, there’s not much we can do to stop him talking the big fight. I actually feel sorry for the wee villain. He really loved Evie. And I don’t think there’s any chance of him having killed her.”

  Craig nodded. Tommy wasn’t one of his suspects but he still needed to be watched - for what he would do to anyone who actually was. Reggie was still talking and his soothing tones were calming the whole room. Craig couldn’t imagine anyone staying agitated for long when he was around.

  “Evie was a lovely wee girl. I met her a couple of times - bonny and polite as they came. Of course that’ll be the mother’s influence. Tommy didn’t go to the right kind of finishing school.” He broke off for a well-earned laugh, led by Liam. “But, well sir, it’s a huge loss to him. Of course, we’ll keep a close eye on him and report back.”

  Craig nodded. “Thanks Reggie, and everyone, for the updates.” He brought them up to speed on the D.C.S. meeting and the likely weekend press coverage. Finishing with his last few doctors’ interviews, and pretty much ruling-out Iain Lewes. Liam shrugged, disagreeing.

  “OK, thanks everyone – keep on the background research today. I want to know of any connections between these women, anything at all please. I’m authorizing weekend over-time if it’s needed. We need to find out who this is very quickly. And I’m available 24/7 - you all have my number.”

  He glanced at Nicky for confirmation.

  “Yes. And switchboard has it too, sir.”

  “OK everyone, just do what you can and we’ll meet on Monday morning at eight.”

  They all started to leave and Nicky walked past, smiling at him.

  “You need a break. Have you had any lunch? I can get you something from the canteen.”

  “Thanks Nicky, a sandwich would be great – whatever there is except prawn. I’m in court again at two, and then I’m going home at five for a quiet night in.” Then he startled, remembering. “Oh hell! No I’m not. I’ve just remembered I promised I’d go to my folks. And then on to the Cathedral Quarter with some of Lucia’s friends. They’re heading for some place called ‘Job’s Haven’. I don’t know what it is, but it sounds like hell.”

  Martin overheard and chipped in. “It’s a club, sir, in the basement of a restaurant. It’s great - really dark. I might see you there. A crowd from my year is going tonight.”

  Oh God. Craig’s heart sank, that meant it was a kid’s place. There was no way he was going now.

  “It’s one of Lucia’s friend’s birthdays. Probably their eighteenth, judging by how young they all look. I’m not going to a kid’s club - I’ll look like a dirty old man!”

  Nicky wagged a finger at him, and Martin stared open-mouthed at someone chastising a D.C.I.

  “They won’t be that young! Lucia’s only ten years younger than you - you’re just too serious these days. And don’t you dare cancel your sister. I’d kill our Ron if he ever cancelled me. A good night out with a bunch of giggly women will do you a power of good. And you never know, you might even dance.” She stifled a laugh at the thought of it.

  “Now listen, Mrs Morris - just because you think I’m boring! When I lived in London I was last out of the Ministry of Sound at 7 am, and then on to breakfast with the traders at Smithfield market. Now, I wonder what I did with my tight jeans...”

  Nicky laughed. “Stick to the leather jacket, sir. I don’t think anyone could cope with those...”

  ***

  The court room was only half full and John knew that Craig would be relieved. He hated an audience. It was Friday afternoon, and even those people who’d been ghoulish enough to spectate earlier in the week, obviously preferred to start their weekend in some happier place. John wasn’t testifying, just here to support Mike Augustus, one of his team. But he knew that Craig would be sitting outside on an unforgiving bench, waiting to be called.

  He was. Sitting with him was Augustus, and Laura Warwick’s best friend. All of them due to give testimony about the hell that Laura Warwick had lived and died in.

  All of a sudden the court’s side door opened, and a swarm of black-gowned barristers entered, like a murder of crows. The court stood and an elderly Judge appeared at the front, beckoning them all to sit, as the barristers took up their opposing positions.

  Amanda Graham, the prosecutor, smiled out at Craig just before the door closed. She was all right - he’d known her since Uni. He just hoped that she was tough enough to cope with Roger Doyle. Annette and Nicky had given him the ‘stay calm’ lecture just before he’d left the squad. But they needn’t have worried. He’d stay calm. He had to. Letting Doyle rile him wouldn’t help the Warwicks, or the conviction that they’d worked for months to achieve. He wouldn’t let anyone goad him into blowing it now.

  The witnesses stood up and sat down, entering and exiting in turn to give their evidence, while Craig sat waiting on the bench outside like a team reserve. Finally he heard his name being called, cutting through his thoughts. Lucia said it was called the ‘Cocktail Party Effect’. Where you always heard your name being said, regardless of other distractions. Just like at a party. Some party.

  Craig stood up and entered the court, taking his indicated seat on the front row. The courtroom was modern and bright, with pale wooden benches and a high bright ceiling. But the gravitas that hung over it made it feel like a tomb.

  Roger Doyle was sitting in front of him, so close that Craig could have hit him. And he would have done if he’d had less self-control. John sat in the front row, listening intently. He nodded at Craig reassuringly then shot Doyle a look that said ‘pompous wanker’. Craig hoped that the jury agreed.

  The defendant, Kenny Ewing, was sitting in his accused position, staring into space. He was a tall, muscular man with swarthy skin and coarse black hair, and hands that looked like slabs of ham at the ends of his arms. Even without a knife, any of the blows he’d landed on Laura Warwick would have killed her easily.

  He had the dull look of a man whose mind had left him long before, aided and abetted by his ‘little helpers’. First skunk, then Ecstasy, and finally Heroin. By the time he’d met the Warwick’s lovely daughter, all thought and conscience had already left him. Replaced by need and addiction, and every selfish human urge.

  Craig could see Laura’s parents sitting across the atrium, ashen and tired, with their heads down. Saying nothing to each other, afraid to break the silence. He glanced again and her mother was gazing straight at him now, with a desperate look that said, “Help us...help Laura.”

  He thought of how his parents would feel if Lucia was the victim, and it made him despise Doyle even more than Kenny Ewing. Which one should you hate more? The wild animal? Or the person who sets them free to kill again?

  Craig heard his name called and walked to the witness box. He was sworn in taking a seat, and Amanda Graham took her position close in front of him. She questioned him well on the evidence, so that it came out focusing the jury on the certainties. The signed confession, the witness statements, and the enhanced, clear images shown on the CCTV. He could see the jurors nodding, gazing at Ewing’s dull stare and lack of emotion, and then back at him as he described their findings. He hoped they would look past his professional front and see how much the case moved him.

&nbs
p; He stopped for a drink of water, swallowing hard, and the Judge smiled encouragingly at him, knowing that even the most senior officers found his world daunting. Craig appreciated the smile, but it wasn’t that he found the place or proceedings too much. It was fear. The fear that giving Doyle any small gap to widen, would lead to the Warwicks never receiving justice. And that was all anyone could give them now.

  After twenty minutes Amanda Graham nodded and sat and Roger Doyle stood up. He leaned over to his sycophantic junior to whisper something, with a sarcastic smile. And then, with a swish of his gown, he walked over and stood directly in front of Craig.

  “Good afternoon, Detective Chief Inspector Craig. I am, as you know, Roger Doyle, Queen’s Counsel. I am now going to ask you some questions. Most particularly regarding the lack of forensic evidence linking the alleged weapon to the defendant, Mr Kenneth Ewing. Please answer them succinctly.”

  Cheeky bastard - telling him how to give evidence.

  “Now...” Doyle paused for so long that Craig thought he was waiting for a drum roll. He looked like some grotesque pantomime villain in his black cloak. All that was missing was a handlebar moustache.

  “On the evening in question, the 20th December 2012, my client does not deny that he was at his home, at 28 Morris Heights Belfast 4. A home that he shared with Ms Laura Warwick, and had done so happily for five years.”

  Happily? Not judging by the number of old fractures she had.

  “Nor does he deny that he returned home that evening, as confirmed by the extremely poor quality CCTV photographs.” He paused and stared at the jury, emphasising his next words. “Photographs so kindly ‘cleaned-up’ by your police laboratories.” Craig could see annoyance on some of the jurors’ faces. He hoped that it was directed at Doyle, not the evidence.

  “He also does not deny that Ms Warwick received a fatal injury from a knife, shown and entered into evidence as Exhibit 15. No-one denies any of this. It was confirmed by your Forensic laboratory and by the post-mortem evidence given earlier by Dr Augustus.”