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

by Catriona King

  He left the room running and John phoned just as he reached the car.

  “Marc, something’s not right here. The primary scene should have significance to the killer - not just to Murdock.” Craig drove quickly through town as they talked. Belfast’s rush-hour traffic slowed his progress, so he finally gave up playing the civilian and blue-lighted his way towards Elmwood Avenue.

  “Melissa Pullman died in the M.P.E. Murdock was responsible and we think the killer works in the Trust. Isn’t that the link?”

  “Yes, but it’s not just the M.P.E., it’s where in the M.P.E. On the building site.”

  “Thanks John, but that makes sense for all our remaining suspects. I’m heading there now. Laurie Johns has slipped her protection detail.”

  “Stupid woman.” He didn’t get an argument from Craig.

  “Uniform are looking for Greenwood and we have McAllister in custody.”

  “OK. But watch yourself. This man’s a complete psycho.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  5.40pm.

  Charles McAllister was stuck in High Street, not best pleased to be ‘helping with their enquiries’. Tough. Jack Harris watched him through the cell-door, taking in his tense posture and drumming fingers. He was a man in a hurry to be somewhere else.

  It was cool in the cells, but McAllister was sweating hard. And there was blood on the table where his tapping must have split the skin. A guilty man if Jack had ever seen one. But guilty of what?

  ***

  There was still no sign of Laurie Johns, and when Craig finally arrived at Maternity the door was lying open. He edged in cautiously with his hand on his service weapon and walked slowly in and out of the empty rooms. Suddenly he heard something move, and the sound of a radio crackling. He followed the noise down the internal corridor, to be greeted by the sight of a stunned P.C., staring down at Beth Walker.

  She was kneeling over a body lying face-down on the floor, cradling it awkwardly in her arms. Her mouth was open to scream, but no sound emerged. Hot tears flowed unchecked down her face. Craig moved in closer and recognised a ring on the body’s limp hand as one worn by Laurie Johns. His heart sank. He was too late.

  Beth cradled the Sister’s head on her lap, her leggings dark red with blood. Johns was trussed the same way Nigel Murdock had been, and her blood was everywhere. Sticky and red and smelling of copper. Craig leaned over Beth gently, feeling for the futility of Laurie Johns’ pulse. Then he too was struck silent. Her injuries were even worse than Nigel Murdock’s! Their killer was spiraling.

  He unlocked Beth from her hopeless protection of the dead, and helped her to the ward office, leaving the P.C. to call the crime team. John’s blood covered Beth completely. Her clothes were soaked with the liquid and streaks of it flashed bright red across her cheeks, where she’d futilely tried to give Johns the kiss of life. Craig soaked a cloth and dabbed gently at her face and hands, ignoring forensic protocol.

  He coaxed her to speak, and succeeded just enough to confirm that the Sister had been alive at four-twenty. And that just as Beth had been leaving the ward she’d seen a tall man walking towards it. But she hadn’t seen his face. Four-twenty, almost an hour before they’d brought Charles McAllister to High Street. Craig left Beth in the constable’s care, and sped to High Street to interview McAllister.

  ***

  The squad phone rang loudly, completely ignored by Davy and Liam. Davy was sitting at his horseshoe of computer screens, working remotely with Des on the aging programme. He had Stephen Barron’s eighteen-year-old photo to his right, and the aging version on the screen in front of him. It was shaping up, but it was slow going. The photo had reached twenty-five-years-old now, but it still didn’t look like anyone they knew.

  Liam yawned loudly and listened to the ‘hold’ music provided by The Met, ignoring the ringing phone. The tune wasn’t much better than the ‘Greensleeves’ they used. Someone should buy both forces a copy of ‘Hits 2012’. Finally the music stopped and a woman’s voice came on the line. She had a London accent and greeted Liam brightly.

  “Hello, can I help you?”

  “Aye, hello. Can I speak to someone covering the St Arthurs Hospital area?”

  “That’ll be Battersea Division. Hold on.”

  He sat back again, swinging his legs onto the desk, and resigned himself to a long wait. The phone on Nicky’s desk started ringing again and he turned to see where she was. Her chair was empty. Then he remembered she’d gone home to take Jonny to her Mum’s and he covered his receiver with a hand, hissing at Davy to answer the other line.

  Davy missed the hint and clicked repeatedly on the image in front of him, adding another few years.

  When Liam’s voice came again it was like thunder.

  “Answer that sodding phone, Davy. It’s doing my head in.”

  Davy startled and jumped off his chair, grabbing the receiver. “Hello. Nicky’s desk.”

  He stood silently for a moment, his mouth opening wider as he listened. Then he dropped the phone abruptly and loped over to Liam’s desk, cutting off his call.

  Liam’s mouth flew open to yell but Davy stopped him mid-flow.

  “That was Jersey. They’ve been calling us for ten minutes. Melissa Pullman’s parents have recognised one of our photos.”

  ***

  Liam reached Craig just as he entered High Street and Craig knew from ‘hello’ that it was urgent. “We’ve got an I.D. from the grandparents, boss. They weren’t sure at first ‘cos he’s changed so much, but it’s Ted Greenwood - he’s Stephen Barron! And you were right; his degree was engineering not architecture. It all fits. McAllister’s not our killer. He’s still on the loose.”

  Craig spoke quickly. “Step up the search for him, Liam. Laurie Johns is dead. Beth found her in Maternity. She’s up there now with uniform.”

  “Shit.”

  Shit indeed. And there was no doubt who Ted Greenwood’s next target was.

  “Get Greenwood’s photo to Moore’s protection detail. He’s heading out to Cultra.”

  Craig radioed Robert Moore’s detail. Greenwood couldn’t outrun a radio. Unless he was already there...

  Liam contacted C District and put an all point’s bulletin on Greenwood’s car, while Craig raced up the A2 like Sebastian Vettel. He called Tactical Support and Armed Response to meet them at Moore’s house. It was always going to come to this.

  ***

  Ted Greenwood followed his sat-nav hungrily, searching for the oversized display of wealth that was Robert Moore’s home. When he saw it he was unsurprised by its vulgarity. How many lives to pay for this I wonder? Blood money. Everything here echoes the life you’ve led and the friends you have. The sense of entitlement your inner circle reinforces in you every day.

  His bile rose, heightened by the sight of a trailer in the driveway, the expensive boat perched on it barely touched by the sea. The house’s electronic gates were closed and Greenwood pulled swiftly off the road into a copse, considering his next steps.

  It was simple. The gates would be no barrier, he’d come well prepared. He pointed the universal remote at them and pressed it softly. Adjusting its frequency until the invisible trigger yawned the gates open onto the road.

  He held them there suspended, waiting for what would come next. All the time edging his car forward slowly. Waiting...waiting...until his patience was finally rewarded.

  A slim man walked warily towards the gate. A single policeman, with his radio to his mouth and his gun pointed down. He glanced this way and that. Then at the gates’ opening device - the keypad against the wall. Then he made a single mistake, just one, but the one that Greenwood had been waiting for. He turned his back.

  Greenwood drove fast and hard towards the man. Before he could turn, his feet were knocked away by the high-fronted bar of the SUV, forcing him cruelly under its wheels. His radio fell to one side, his gun to the other. Greenwood reversed quickly and climbed out, collecting them both and kicking the fallen man with his foo
t. Not dead.

  Good, he was innocent. That would have been unfortunate. His death wouldn’t have been right. But he would be dead, if it was necessary. The work must be completed at all costs.

  He dragged him into the garden, placing him under the hedge and injecting him quickly for security. Then he drove in smoothly, closing the gates behind him and changing the opening code for delay. Just then the radio crackled into life.

  “Officer Whitely to base. Officer Whitely, come in.”

  “Whitely here.” He mimicked the Ulster accent of his youth.

  “The killer is Ted Greenwood. Consider him highly dangerous.” They named and described him, saying that a picture would follow.

  They knew him! But how could they know him? Then realisation dawned. They’d found the woman. They knew him, and now they were coming. Two miles away. There was no time. But the work had to be completed ...for Melissa.

  He looked down at his dark clothes and had an idea. He parked by the large brick house and ran to its front door, activating the radio and strengthening his accent. “Mr Moore, its Officer Whitely. Please come to the front door, sir.”

  It crackled once and then silence. Damn. Was it broken? He bit hard on his lip, tasting his own blood. Then he tried again urgently, rewarded by broken static in response. A few seconds later Robert Moore spoke. “I’m coming.”

  Yes.

  Robert Moore entered his hall, approaching the stained-glass front door. All he saw was the expected outline of a man in black, holding a gun. He opened the door just a crack, but wide enough and long enough, before his mistake registered on him. And gave plenty of time for access.

  Greenwood pushed Moore to the ground, ripping the radio from his hand and crushing it furiously with his heel. A television was on somewhere and its normality enraged him even more. He kicked the man at his feet hard enough to draw blood, his own lips bleeding freely in response. Then he pressed the cold gun-barrel against Moore’s neck, until his veins blued and throbbed, and forced Moore to crawl down the narrow hall, into a large bright room at the end.

  This would suit well. It would be his stage, for when they came. They would come soon, but they would come too late. They were two miles away, the gates were locked, and he had time. And if he couldn’t leave, then at least neither could this thing, and this theatre would suit the final act very well.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “I’ll be there in five minutes, Liam. The others are already in position. They’ve covered the perimeter and the road’s being cordoned-off now. Where are you?”

  “On the Bangor Road, boss. Just behind you.” Craig glanced in the mirror and saw Liam’s grey Ford. Blue light flashing and keeping pace with his 100mph.

  Robert Moore’s house was off the Clanbrassil Road in Cultra. It nestled in acres of ground and fronted the road with high electronic gates. The look-out reported that a black SUV matching Greenwood’s was already in the grounds. He’d used his electrical skills to gain entry and re-lock the gates. But after a ten minute struggle the police technician got them open, breaking the complex code.

  They’d arrived without sirens and Craig radioed everyone to park out of sight. They would approach on foot. Cars and armoured vehicles were abandoned three hundred metres from the gate and the men spread out, covering every access point. Some lay in the fields behind the house, the rest concealed at all points of the compass. An ambulance stood ready around the corner.

  The spring evening was quiet and still, the road’s other occupants too far away or other-worldly to interfere. The cul-de-sac meant that no-one would turn in looking for a shortcut to the A2. It helped the situation as well as anything could. The story would’ve been very different on the Demesne. Craig welcomed the silence. The last thing they needed was Greenwood being warned.

  From his vantage point Craig could hear the sea’s waves hitting the shore. The early evening sky was shot with greys and oranges, like a Monet sunset. Its beauty was almost surreal set against the incongruity of their task.

  Greenwood’s SUV was parked in the drive, its driver’s door lying open. The garden gate behind it lay ajar. Everything said that Greenwood was already inside the house. He could have killed Moore already. Or be holding him hostage, and somehow Craig didn’t think hostages were part of the plan. They couldn’t delay any longer. Liam’s radio crackled quietly, breaking the eerie silence.

  “Officer down, front garden. Under the right hand hedge.”

  The protection officer. Greenwood must have caught him unawares. Craig craned his neck and could just see a body on the ground. “Is he breathing?”

  “Yes. He’s out, but he doesn’t look too bad, sir. His weapon’s gone.”

  The words validated his call for armed back-up.

  “Get him to safety. Liam, line up Armed Response but keep them out of sight. And send their Commander up to me.”

  Time to move.

  ***

  Ted Greenwood pushed the barrel deep into Robert Moore’s neck, tempted for one brief moment to end it all quickly and leave. But a bullet wasn’t enough. Moore had to feel everything. He had to suffer and beg and bleed. Then die.

  He threw the gun away, hard against the wall, removing the temptation. It was too weak, too easy. There would be no pleasure with a gun. No blood to touch and hold, and no release.

  He slipped his hand into one pocket, removing the needles and rope. From the other he withdrew the blade and paper. It all had to be there. It had to fit.

  He subdued Moore with the first needle, and he slumped on the carpet, the rope soon trussing him like the others. The note sat to the right, the blade alongside, while Robert Moore lay face-down on the floor, immobile.

  Greenwood gazed down at him, feeling distant, as if he was outside his own body. No longer just watching them die, but watching himself, watching them.

  This was almost the last of Melissa’s killers, the ones who had ended his life with hers. There was only one left in England, and he would be next. And when they were dead he would do this for other victims, other voiceless pawns. He would avenge them too. For Melissa.

  ***

  Two black-suited officers entered the garden under cover of the SUV, and circled the back of the house. Craig nodded the Commander to radio them.

  “Is there any movement inside?”

  “This is Johnson at Back Right. There’s someone in the downstairs back room. I’m moving in for a closer look.”

  “If you spot him, hold back. Don’t go in. Repeat, do not go in. Just update your status.”

  The dark officer moved swiftly, hidden from the house’s interior by a fortunately placed garden wall. He ran quickly and silently across the stone patio, reaching the brick column of the bay window unseen. Once there he stretched slightly and Ted Greenwood came into view.

  He was standing in the centre of the room with every light glaring, throwing a spotlight on the scene. His eyes burned as he stared wildly towards something at his feet. Johnson stretched another inch and Robert Moore came into sight. He was lying on his stomach, wrists and ankles bound behind him, his four limbs roped together.

  With one swift movement Greenwood dropped to a kneeling position, falling hard onto Moore’s back. A sequence of loud cracks made the bile rise in the Johnson’s throat. It was the sound of a spine being snapped. Greenwood lifted the second syringe, holding it just above Moore. Then his arm froze and he drove his knee in deeper. No, no Pethidine yet. This thing should feel the pain for longer.

  Johnson saw something shine on the carpet and a single sheet of paper lying beside it. He signalled and another man moved in to replace him, then backed off to radio Craig. His replacement scanned the scene and hid behind the column, lining-up his rifle, ready to take the shot.

  “He’s got Moore trussed like a turkey, sir, and I think he’s broken his spine. He’s kneeling on his back with what looks like a syringe in his hand.”

  “Did you see the gun or a knife?”

  “The gun’s there
but it’s ten feet away, he wouldn’t reach it before we got him. There was something shining on the floor but I couldn’t see what it was. It might have been a knife. There was a sheet of paper in the way.”

  The note and the knife. The gun wouldn’t have fulfilled his ritual.

  The Commander looked at Craig and they nodded in silent agreement. There was no time to negotiate - that was a blade shining on the floor. They had to give the order.

  “Give the warning and if he doesn’t surrender, shoot to stop.”

  They would aim for the torso to stop him but they all knew it might end in death. Craig had no other choice. Greenwood’s next step would be to slice Moore open. He had to complete his ritual. It was a compulsion.

  Ted Greenwood gazed at the thing at his feet and pushed the syringe hard against its neck. He could feel the heat building between his thighs, and the urge to kill growing stronger. He needed to touch its blood, and maybe this time...dare he taste it? Would that be too much reward?

  He would. This time he would drink the thing’s blood.

  His tongue swelled in anticipation and his saliva flowed freely, wetting his lips. His pulse raced and his eyes focussed more sharply, every sense heightened by desire. His heartbeat drowned out every sound. He urged the needle deep into Moore’s neck, releasing the Pethidine deep into his blood. Moore’s body relaxed instantly, inviting the next step.

  The officer at the window put a finger to his neck, signalling Greenwood’s action. With a heavy heart Craig nodded to give the warning.

  The black-suited officer shouted loudly through the window. “Armed police, Mr Greenwood. Step away from Mr Moore, now. We don’t want to shoot you, but we will. Step away.”