Wait for it...here it comes... the ‘however’...
“However...my client maintains that he was, in fact, merely sitting in the kitchen of the home he shared with Ms Laura Warwick. When she came into that kitchen behaving hysterically. That she was holding a knife. A knife with which she had in fact already been cutting herself in self-harm that evening, before he arrived home. Just as she had cut herself many times before. Facts which have been amply confirmed by her medical records.
Mr Ewing further asserts that he attempted to stop her from harming herself, by removing the knife from her. And that, after a struggle where she tried to stab him, he defended himself by pushing her away.” He paused again, contorting his face into a facsimile of sorrow and lowering his voice to suit. “She then fell upon the knife, sadly killing herself.”
Craig was starting to wonder if it was a question or a soliloquy. Get on with it.
“Can you therefore tell the court, D.C.I. Craig, why your statement, that he was holding the knife, should be believed, when there is no forensic evidence to support that assertion in any way? Mr Ewing’s prints are not on the handle of the knife, nor indeed are they on the blade of the knife. In fact, there was nothing to show them on the knife at all! But Ms Warwick’s prints were on both the knife handle and blade. Please answer the question, Mr Craig.”
Oh, he was going to answer the question all right. Craig stood up.
“There is no need to stand, Mr Craig.”
Craig ignored Doyle’s protest and turned to the Judge. “I would prefer to, if the court has no objection. It helps me to think.”
Doyle’s objections became louder but the Judge nodded for him to go ahead. Craig thought he saw a smile in his eyes. John’s smile was much more obvious.
“As Mr Ewing entered their home, he was pictured on the estate’s CCTV weaving from side to side, in a manner consistent with alcohol intoxication. This was later confirmed by a blood test. High levels of opiates were also found. In his urine. It was a very cold evening - in fact it had been snowing earlier in the day. And in the CCTV it can clearly be seen that Mr Ewing was wearing a jacket, scarf and gloves. All of which he was seen still wearing exactly three minutes later when he re-emerged from his home.
When he re-emerged, his scarf was knotted in an identical way to when he entered. This was confirmed by laboratory measurement of the CCTV footage. Therefore it is highly unlikely that he had in fact removed his scarf in the house. And likely therefore that he had also not removed other items of clothing, including his gloves, during his brief three minutes indoors.” Each time he said three minutes, Craig made eye contact with a juror.
“The neighbours heard Mr Ewing enter his house and they heard him shouting almost immediately. The timing of this was later confirmed as the exact time that he entered. They then heard several loud bangs. These were consistent with noises that they had heard in the past. During the frequent domestic violence that Laura Warwick endured during their relationship. Violence that is confirmed by the medical records, from her frequent attendances at St Marys’ Trust. And by the many complaints made to the police, by Ms Warwick and neighbours between 2010 and 2012. Unfortunately Ms Warwick later withdrew her complaints.”
“Your Honour, I must object. These allegations were never prosecuted or proven. This is highly prejudicial to my client.”
“Objection over-ruled, Mr Doyle. D.C.I. Craig clearly stated that Ms Warwick had withdrawn these earlier charges. Continue, D.C.I. Craig.”
“Thank you, your Honour. Furthermore, on the tape we can see Mr Ewing shouting as he enters the house. Two independent lip-reading experts and our lip-reading software have since confirmed, that he was in fact repeatedly saying. ‘I’m going to kill you, bitch’.”
Doyle tried to interrupt again. But Craig drove on with his monologue, ignoring every attempt at objection or questioning. It was his turn now. The court was completely silent and the jurors remained still, listening intently. John leaned forward, urging Craig on and Amanda Graham smiled down at her notes, not daring to make eye contact in case it broke the spell.
“If Ms Warwick had been holding the knife when he approached her, as Mr Doyle would have us believe. Then he could not have got close enough to her to have inflicted all of the other fresh blunt injuries that were found on her body. She would surely have used the knife to defend herself, and stop him before she received them. Additionally, he would have displayed some signs of defensive wounds, which he did not.
Equally, had she been holding the knife by the handle as one normally does, and had he attempted to remove it from her, then he would have received cuts, either to his bare hands or to his gloves, from grasping the blade. Neither of these was found. The absence of his fingerprints on the knife handle can easily be explained by his wearing gloves.” Craig paused and took a sip of water and John knew he was about to start summing up. He restarted more forcefully.
“Mr Ewing freely confessed to the killing, in the presence of the duty solicitor. He admitted that he walked into his home that evening fully intending to kill Ms Warwick, falsely believing that she was having a relationship with another man. You heard other witnesses testifying that he had said as much earlier that evening, in the Reverie Bar. He also admitted on tape that he walked into their kitchen and hit her with his fists several times. He accurately described those fresh injuries and their positions. He admitted that he then, without removing his gloves, lifted the knife from the kitchen drawer and stabbed her several times with it. First, superficially on her face and arms, as she attempted to defend herself, effectively mimicking the injuries of self-harm. And then the deeper, fatal abdominal wound described earlier by Dr Augustus. She lay on the floor bleeding to death while he watched her. He did not call an ambulance. Instead he casually left their home, again captured on CCTV, having taken a total of three minutes to kill Laura Warwick. Mr Ewing’s signed confession gives us the only version of events which is entirely consistent with the post-mortem findings and forensic evidence that you have already heard.”
As he described the signed confession, Craig turned and made eye contact with the jury, underlining in graphic detail each of the wounds received by Laura Warwick. He couldn’t let himself look at her parents as he spoke, in case their hopeful pain distracted him. He only had one chance to make the jury hear the truth.
Doyle hadn’t managed to divert or stall him. And Craig really hoped that any questions he asked now, attempting to discredit the evidence, were going to fall on deaf ears. Finally he sat down in the witness box, exhausted, catching the Judge’s quick acknowledgement of a job well done.
Doyle blustered on for another thirty minutes, trying to find gaps in his testimony. Re-asking each question with different angles and cadences. But Craig had done his case serious damage and he knew it. And as Craig stepped out of the witness box, he finally allowed himself to look at Laura Warwick’s parents, hopeful that it would be enough.
Chapter Seventeen
Friday Evening.
The answer phone was flashing ‘one’ as Craig walked through the living-room, pulling open a cold beer. He knew who it was without listening - everyone but his Mother called his mobile, but she hated them. He rang her back, the phone in his right hand, holding his beer with his left.
“Buon giorno Mum, what do you want? I promise I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Now Marco, don’t ask your Mama what she want. You know she only ever want what best for you.”
He laughed as the long running banter between himself and his vivacious mother ramped up.
“I’ll tell you what I want. I want you please to pick up some oregano for me on way. And no be long. You have not see your sister in weeks.”
He rubbed the cool bottle over his forehead. She was right, as usual. “How is Luce?”
“Lucia is fine...except for mad old boyfriend. He is stalking her!”
“What? Which one? Can’t Richard sort him out?” Richard was Lucia’s long-term boyfrie
nd. A concert pianist who was away on tour.
“Ah, you see now...if you came ‘ome more you would know these things. We see more of you when you live in London.” They both laughed.
“OK. This is me, Mum. Leaving right now.” He thought of all the paper work that he should be doing, burying the thought quickly under her excitement.
“Excellente. We ‘ave Penne al' Arrabiata.”
“That’s great, but go easy on the garlic please. I’m on-call all weekend, and I have to work with non-Italians remember. Have some pity on them!”
He ended the call and turned his back determinedly on the mountain of paperwork in the corner, throwing his suit jacket deftly over it. It would wait until tomorrow. Julia wasn’t arriving until lunchtime, so he could make headway on it in the morning. He pulled off his tie and grabbed a worn leather jacket, and a box of chocolates he’d bought in France the month before. Then he pulled the front door hard behind him, relaxing already.
The block’s communal hall light flickered on, just long enough to brighten his four flights to the car park, and he held the door open for one of his homecoming neighbours as he left. She was carrying a pile of books. He wasn’t the only one working at the weekend then. Strangely it didn’t make him feel any better.
As he drove the six miles to Holywood deliberately slowly, he could feel himself starting to relax. Flicking-on the CD player to what he thought was ‘Snow Patrol’s ‘I’m Ready’ he was surprised at the song that crooned out instead. Annette... She’d been changing the stations again.
Instead of the CD or his usual Radio One it was an overly sentimental ballad. It seemed familiar and for a moment he tried to place it, then he suddenly did and fell down the rabbit hole back to 1992. It was ‘I will always love you’, a song he really hated. The original by Dolly Parton was bad enough, but he’d wanted to hang himself every time Whitney Houston’s version had come on. And it had come on in every bar and restaurant in London between ’92 and ‘94.
It reminded him of his long-term ex, Camille. But not in a bad way anymore. They’d made their peace in London before Christmas and moved on. He’d been seeing Julia McNulty for four months now and it was going well. Although she worked at headquarters in Limavady, and the travelling distance was wearing them both down. Limavady was Terry Harrison’s part-time base, soon to be permanent. So Julia would soon have the joy of his company full-time.
Craig pulled into the driveway of the 1940s house he’d grown up in and sat in the car for a moment, his forehead resting tiredly against the cool steering-wheel. He thought of Julia’s cherubic face and smiled, wishing that she could have come up tonight. But it was a long drive after a tiring week.
Just then, the light went on in the porch, as Murphy his elderly Labrador ran out, recognising the car. He knew that his mother would be next and he didn’t want her to see his fatigue - she worried enough about her children.
Lifting the chocolates quickly he headed through the open porch-door, holding them high above Murphy’s barking mouth. Then he turned into his mother’s old-fashioned kitchen, its rustic atmosphere a world away from the violence he worked with.
It was warm and brightly-lit, with weathered wooden floors and overhead beams. Dean Martin sang soulfully in the background. The décor exactly mimicked her family’s house outside Rome. Craig thought of the courtroom he’d been in that afternoon - how could six miles create two such different worlds? It was a silly question when two miles took you from the Shankill Road to the Falls in Belfast. And from Blair’s Islington to the day-light drug dealing of Hackney.
Mirella Craig was standing at her Aga stirring a pot. Craig hugged her warmly, wrapping his arms around her increasingly ample waist. “Marco pet – it so good to see you,” burst out in her hybrid Belfast-Italian accent. She greeted him so enthusiastically that anyone would have thought she hadn’t just seen him a week ago.
“Have some bread and wine. Your father he gone for Lucia and her friends. Her car is broken again. Please have look at it - your father is hopeless with practical things. How that man ever run a laboratory?”
She didn’t pause for breath once, and the musical way she said lab-or-at-or-y clearly revealed English as her second language. When they were kids John had deliberately asked her to say long words, just to enjoy the melody of her accent.
“OK, Mum, I promise. I’ll take a look over the weekend. Here are some of those chocolates you like. I forgot to give them to you last week.”
“Oh Bella, Bella. Thank you, thank you.” She kissed him quickly on both cheeks, excited and happy. If he’d given her a cup of tea she’d have been just as excited. Anything from her children was gold to Mirella. Then she launched into her next tirade and he laughed - his mother could talk for Ireland and Italy.
***
The Visitor watched the young man return to his car. They’d exchanged greetings and commented on the evenings getting brighter, then the package had been signed for and he’d left. The Visitor closed the door and walked back into the empty storeroom. Everywhere felt empty nowadays, but there would be peace soon, once the father made his move.
The boxes were opened, and their contents scrutinised. Each item stroked lovingly, never to be used. But Evie had been the last time they’d needed to kill. Soon the father would act and that would suffice. Should suffice.
A wave of regret rose at the thought that they would view justice at arm’s length, as a mere spectator. But that was how it was, and as long as the father played his part, that was how it would stay.
***
Tommy shivered in the cold living-room. He made up his mind to fix the draughts soon, once he’d fixed the people who had killed Evie. He flicked on the electric fire and sat down, pulling his leather jacket round him. His thoughts went straight to Evie. He could almost feel her long hair tickling his cheek, the way it had done when she’d hugged him. She’d hugged him a lot in the last two years, her strangeness with him finally wearing off. He closed his eyes tight, picturing her face - soft and round, with huge dark eyes like her mother. Regret overwhelmed him at the way that he’d hurt them both. Miriam had loved him since they were kids, and he’d taken that love and ripped it in two, leaving her alone with their baby daughter. Tears pricked at his eyes as he thought of Evie’s little girl, left now, just as he’d left her. He was going to kill whoever had done this. They’d destroyed his family.
As Tommy sat shivering and thinking, feeling sad about his life, he didn’t spare one thought for the four families he’d left feeling the same.
***
“And please move Lucia from that place she live – it really not safe.”
Mirella was setting out the plates for dinner, still talking. She’d hardly paused for breath since Craig had arrived twenty minutes before. He laughed to himself. His mother should have been a politician instead of a pianist; the opposition wouldn’t have stood a chance.
His sister Lucia lived in an area of Belfast that was politely called ‘distressed’, although she told everyone it was ‘up and coming’. His mother’s response had been scathing. “It may be up and coming, but it still too low for you.”
Lucia had ignored the jibe. The Georgian house she’d bought would have cost a fortune anywhere but an historical trouble spot. She was stubborn and independent and Craig could remember her being the same when she was three.
A car pulled into the driveway and a dark-blonde head appeared at the kitchen window, smiling. Lucia ran into the kitchen and hugged him. Then “Hi Marco, great to see you. What’s for dinner Mum, I’m starving. Dad tried, but he said he can’t fix the car, so will you fix it?” flew out in one breath.
Craig smiled down at her fondly. He was always surprised at how pretty she was, and how determined. She would march to ban the war, save the whale and even the disenfranchised ducks if they needed it. He admired her for it, but he dreaded every march - Tactical Support ribbed him about her for days afterwards.
They all knew her. She was too noisy to miss
. And, as they never failed to tell him, ’we don’t fancy you half as much, sir’. Craig hoped she never dated a policeman, he’d find it hard not to interfere. But she’d date who she wanted to, regardless of what he thought – as the parade of Goths and Rockers over the years had proved. At least Richard played the piano - his mum would forgive him anything for that.
Lucia threw a bread-stick across the table at him interrupting his thoughts, and they sat down at the scarred wooden trestle, lapsing into in-jokes. His father entered the room, much more sedately. He looked paler than Craig had ever seen him. They needed a trip to Italy.
“Hi Dad, how are you? Do you fancy a Northern Ireland match soon?”
“Ah, hello son. That would be grand. But...I’m a bit tired at the moment. Maybe in a few weeks.”
His voice was quiet and he eased himself gingerly into a chair, loosening the tie that he always wore, even though he was retired. Craig could barely hear his words against the background music and asked him to repeat himself. When he spoke again, Tom Craig’s voice was frail, a shadow of its normal cheerful tone. “How’s work going, son?”
Mirella spun round and frowned at him. “No, no, Tom. NOT the work talks this evening, he need a rest. Look at him, he’s exhausted. He needs to eat and drink, and forget about dead people.”
The words flew from her mouth in a sharp staccato, until she realised what she’d said and smiled sheepishly. “For few hours...please.” Her pleading made Lucia play an imaginary violin, until Mirella threw a dishcloth at her.
Craig said nothing, just watched intensely as his father sat silent in the chair, not joining in the fun. It wasn’t like him. Suddenly Murphy’s cheerful barking stopped and he sat down beside the chair, whimpering. Craig’s father sat back ashen-faced and silent, closing his eyes.
“Dad? Are you all right?”
Tom Craig didn’t answer the anxious words, just waved his hand weakly towards his chest. Craig moved quickly to his side, recognising the signs. “Are you having chest pain?” Mirella turned instantly from her cooking and rushed across the kitchen, a look of fear on her face. His father nodded and Craig pulled out his mobile, dialling 999 and nodding Lucia to calm their mother down.
The Visitor (#3 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 16