The Broken Shore
by Catriona King
Praise for A Limited Justice:
“a fantastic achievement... There is a new star on the scene... Belfast needs its own detective - and in D.C.I. Marc Craig it now has one”
Andy Angel, Ebookwyrm Reviews
“this is what crime books should be like; realistic, believable and slightly unnerving”
Page Central Book-Shelf Reviews
Praise for The Visitor:
“a fantastic nail-biting book...a must read... roll on her next book”
James W. Wallace, Amazon Review
Copyright © 2013 by Catriona King
Photography: Andrey Yurlov
Artwork: Crooked Cat
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Publishing except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Publishing Ltd. 2013
Discover us at www.crookedcatpublishing.com
Contact Information: [email protected]
Tweet a photo of yourself holding
this book to @crookedcatbooks
and something nice will happen.
For my mother.
About the Author
Catriona King trained as a Doctor and a police Forensic Medical examiner in London, where she worked for many years. She worked closely with the Metropolitan Police on several occasions. In recent years, she has returned to live in Belfast.
She has written since childhood; fiction, fact and reporting.
‘The Broken Shore’ is the fifth novel in the Craig Modern Thriller Series. It follows Marc Craig and his team through the streets of Northern Ireland in their hunt for a young woman’s killer and sees them uncover links to a terrorist from the past.
The sixth novel in the Craig series, is nearing completion.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to my friends for always being there.
Thanks to Crooked Cat publishing for being so unfailingly supportive and cheerful.
And I would like to thank all the police officers that I have ever worked with anywhere, for their unfailing professionalism, wit and compassion.
Catriona King
Belfast, December 2013
The Craig Modern Thriller Series
A Limited Justice
The Grass Tattoo
The Visitor
The Waiting Room
The Broken Shore
The Broken Shore
Chapter One
Tuesday 29th October 2013: Portstewart.
The woman’s hand lay palm-up on the ice-cold sand and the grey Atlantic water filtered between her fingers, wrinkling each pale tip. The hand was delicate, with slender fingers, each one with its nail broken and torn. The smoothness of its skin said youth, just as its pallor indicated death.
The man dug the grave deeper, tiring from the task, until finally he gathered his detritus and strolled away. He inhaled the sea air deeply and smiled, enjoying the final rays of the evening sun. A couple jogged gently in the distance, listening to the noisy, breaking waves. They completely missed the mound of sand, covered in a moment by the coming tide, and they missed the man who had made it. The sun set behind the cliffs as the lone figure entered the high grass, all signs that he’d ever been there erased by the night.
***
Friday 1st November 4 p.m. Docklands Coordinated Crime Unit.
Craig threw the file down hard on his desk, swearing in frustration at his wasted time. The sudden thud caught Nicky’s ear and she stood up outside at her desk, peering through his frosted-glass office door. She thought for a moment then sat down again, choosing discretion as valour’s better part, then she pressed her percolator’s button and beckoned Liam Cullen over with a wave.
He was glad of the interruption. Studying for his Chief Inspector board had been bad enough, but now that he’d passed it they wanted him to read more crap to ‘bring him up to speed’. He pictured unseen senior officers making the parentheses with their hands and shuddered. Paperwork bored him to death, but they hadn’t had a good case in weeks to give him an excuse to stop.
He stood at Nicky’s desk listening to the coffee boil, until Craig’s swearing finally died down and she tapped gently at his door. She gauged the tone of his ‘come in’ then entered, pushing Liam in front of her as she did.
Liam kicked a pile of papers from his path and gazed at his boss. His tie was loosened halfway down his neck and his dark hair was standing on end, indicating he’d been raking it hard. He looked like an advert for hair wax. Liam grinned and then risked an old joke, pointing at the word Superintendent on the door.
“You asked for it, now you’ve got it, boss.”
Nicky braced herself for the tirade that never came. Instead, Craig gave a rueful grin and beckoned them in. He smiled gratefully at the coffee and nodded them both to a seat. Liam normally stood, arguing it was better for his back, but now was no time to insist.
They’d barely sat down when Craig started to complain in a voice so pitiful that Liam mimed playing a violin. Craig laughed, acknowledging that he wouldn’t get any sympathy for taking higher rank. He’d known what the job entailed when he’d taken it on and anything was better than having Terry Harrison as his D.C.S. They sipped their coffee in amiable silence for a moment then Craig had a thought.
“Nicky. Do you remember that sergeant, Jake McLean; the one who helped us on the Ackerman case?”
She thought for a moment then nodded, setting her newly auburn pony-tail bouncing.
“What about him?
“He wanted to come back and work with us, didn’t he?”
“Yes. He was really disappointed when he had to go back to Stranmillis. He definitely wanted to stay.”
Craig turned to Liam for confirmation. He was fishing a piece of soggy biscuit from his cup. Each time he reached for it, it slipped from his grasp and he muttered under his breath. Nicky sighed heavily then slipped two red-nailed fingers straight into his tea, grabbing the biscuit and depositing it deftly on his saucer without skipping a beat. Liam went to object but he was stopped by an arched eyebrow. Craig laughed at the exchange, then turned Liam’s attention back to McLean.
“What do you think of him, Liam?”
Liam shrugged. “Aye he was good, right enough.” He smiled knowingly, reading Craig’s mind. “And he’s good with the old paperwork as well.”
“That’s not what I…”
Liam shot him a sceptical look and Craig stopped mid-sentence and smiled, knowing he’d been caught out. Liam crammed another biscuit into his mouth then started speaking again, much to Nicky’s disgust.
“I think he enjoys it myself. Some people are weird like that, aren’t they?”
Craig laughed again, his navy eyes crinkling up.
“Check if he wants to come back, Liam, would you? But do it on the Q.T. or Chief Inspector Nugent will moan that I’m poaching his staff. I’ll talk to him if McLean says yes.” He waved at the files on his desk. “We need him. If I don’t get rid of some of this paperwork soon, you’ll have to dig me out of here one day.”
They drank their coffee in silence for a moment until Nicky broke it.
“I probably shouldn’t say this until I’m sure, but Portstewart Station was on the phone.”
The two men leaned forward simultaneously, like synchronised swimmers about to enter a dive. Nicky laughed at their eagerness and waved them b
ack.
“Don’t get excited. I’m sure it’ll turn out to be nothing, but…”
Craig sprang to his feet and grabbed the phone, dialling the small station on the North coast. The call was answered with a yawn.
“Hello. Portstewart Station.”
“Hello, is that D.C.I. White’s office? It’s Superintendent Craig from Docklands C.C.U.. Is he free?”
Jim O’Neill jerked upright. He’d been the sergeant at Portstewart for five years and nothing much ever happened. Well, not unless you counted cows on the beach as a crime. He’d expected the call to be a routine query about meetings or court reports, not a Superintendent from the big smoke.
“Sorry sir, he’s at Headquarters this afternoon, meeting with the Chief Constable. Can I take a message?”
“Thanks. Just ask him to call me when he gets back.” Craig hazarded at guess at why White had called the C.C.U.. No-one dialled them just to ask directions. “I believe you had a murder recently?”
“Yes, sir. A very nasty case. That’s what the D.C.I’s meeting is about.”
“Excellent.”
The word was out of Craig’s mouth before Nicky’s expression told him it was the wrong choice. He backtracked quickly. “Excellent that he’s meeting the Chief Constable, I mean. Terrible about the case.”
The man at the other end smiled, knowing exactly what Craig had meant.
“I’ll get him to call you when he comes in, sir.”
The line clicked off softly and Craig glanced at his watch. Four-thirty. It was Friday and they were all tired. He crossed to the door and scanned the open-plan office outside. It was like the Marie Celeste. Then he remembered. Annette was on a course for new Inspectors and Davy was spending the day with his girlfriend Maggie. He made up his mind quickly.
“Give Jake McLean a call, Liam. Nicky, re-direct the phones to my mobile. I’ve made an executive decision.”
Liam smiled, knowing exactly what it was.
“We’re heading for the pub.”
Chapter Two
Portstewart
The young man watched for days as the police vans appeared and left; their flashing lights incongruous on the sunny beach. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out in a stream, watching as it wafted away on the afternoon breeze. They’d found the body quickly and moved even quicker after that. He was glad, not from any sense of concern, but it saved him from having to camp there for too long. They’d be finished the forensics soon then he could up sticks and go home, to wait for the report on the local news.
He squinted at the sun then peered at the white-suited shapes, moving within their taped-off square like figures in a boxing ring. Suddenly a car appeared and he sat upright, craning his neck to see who disembarked. He smiled as he recognised the driver. Dr John Winter; Head of Forensic Pathology for Northern Ireland. He’d been hoping that he would come. That was only left one man missing and he would soon appear. He poured out more tea and lit another cigarette, lounging back in his deckchair to watch the rest of the show.
***
Craig clicked on the light and headed for the fridge, pulling out a cold beer. He ran it across his forehead then slumped down on the settee and flicked on the seven p.m. news. He just had time for a shower before he headed to his folks for the traditional Friday dinner his mother insisted on. He gulped down half the bottle then glanced ruefully at a picture on the coffee table, lifting it for a closer look. The woman in the frame was pretty, with long red hair that twisted and curled down her back. She was smiling, but not with her eyes. Julia McNulty. She was an Inspector working in Limavady and they’d been seeing each other for nearly a year, mostly at weekends.. It made for a long distance relationship and yet another Friday night spent apart. It wasn’t ideal and it was growing even less so by the week.
It didn’t help that his ex-D.C.S, Terry Harrison, had taken over as her boss and refused her transfer request to Belfast. He was deliberately obstructing it just to cause them grief. It left them with two options. Either he left Belfast and transferred to the North-West, or Julia quit the force and moved to Belfast to be with him. A third option shouted for attention, forcing him to look at it: they could split up. He shook his head hard, as if he was trying to convince someone else. It wasn’t what either of them wanted and it would be a last resort. A failure; and a reward for Harrison’s jealousy.
Terry Harrison was a self-seeking bastard who abused his power and hated Craig, most recently for saving his ass in the Ackerman case and ‘making him look like a fool’. Some people just couldn’t say thanks. Harrison had resented him since he’d come home in 2008 after fifteen years in London at The Met. Now he was getting his revenge.
There had to be some way to thwart him. Even as Craig asked himself the question the answer was ‘what?’ He’d returned to Belfast because his parents were getting old. His father’s heart attack in April had reminded him again of their age and how much they needed their children nearby. At the moment he only lived seven miles away, but if he moved to Limavady to be with Julia it would take him nearly as long to reach them as when he’d lived in London. And leave his sister Lucia with all the responsibility for their care. She’d held the fort for years, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, do it to her again.
Julia understood, but she loved being in the police and he couldn’t ask her to leave. Even if he did he doubted that she ever would. He took a long drink of his beer then stood up and headed for the shower, still thinking as the water ran down his muscled back. His mind drifted back to the third option, afraid that there was no escape. It felt as inevitable as tomorrow and he knew they’d have to have the conversation soon. He towelled himself dry and shook the sad thoughts from his mind. Tonight he’d be the dutiful son and eat a home-cooked meal. When Julia arrived tomorrow they would talk.
***
John Winter stared at the girl on the table. She was around twenty years old and petite, and she looked so peaceful that he was tempted to tuck her in and turn off the light. Only the pale blue tinge to her lips and the coolness of her skin said that she wasn’t dreaming; she would never wake up from this nap. He sighed loudly, knowing that no-one would hear him and then lifted a scalpel, resigned to his work.
It wasn’t often he was called to the north coast for a case but they’d been insistent that he came, without telling him why. ‘Didn’t want to prejudice his findings’ was Andy White’s excuse. As if they ever could. He shrugged and turned back to his task, keen to complete the post-mortem as swiftly as he could. Not from any sense of impatience, but because he knew that somewhere there was a parent about to hear a painful truth. The sooner he was finished, the sooner they could. Could what?
Stop hoping and praying their daughter was staying with friends, and soon they would hear her key in the door? Get past the horror of identification and get on with mourning their loss? Start healing and accepting the future without their child? That was all his speed could provide, but perhaps it was something. As he made the first cut he already knew that it was nothing at all.
***
“Marco, where is pretty Julia this evening?”
Craig pulled himself from his thoughts at the question and glanced curiously at his Italian mother, Mirella. She never asked about his girlfriends, not since Camille, his ex-fiancée. He was convinced they were invisible to her unless they wore a ring. He was about to ask why she was inquiring when he saw the concern in her eyes. She knew! She knew about his problems with Julia. He glanced accusingly at his sister Lucia, her tawny hair hiding her face as she slipped some spaghetti to Murphy the dog. No, Lucia couldn’t have told her, he hadn’t said a word. It convinced him again that his mother was a witch, albeit a white one in every way. He smiled, knowing that she wouldn’t stop asking until he gave her a plausible reply.
“She’s working, Mum. Up in Limavady. She’s coming down tomorrow.”
Mirella Craig tutted so loudly that even Craig’s laid-back father turned to look. Tom Craig lived inside his own head most of t
he time, dreaming of scientific inventions and books he was about to read. His main connection with the world was through his vivacious wife. Other than that he let it pass by undisturbed. He raised an eyebrow and they all sat waiting to see what followed Mirella’s tut.
“This work is no good. Not for you and definitely not for a girl.”
Craig smiled at the thirty-something Julia being called a girl and waited for Lucia’s feminist hackles to rise. Instead she just smiled, still loved-up from her boyfriend Richard’s recent visit and giving her mother a pardon every time.
“She should be pretty and sing and dance, not carry guns and chase across the fields. You also. All this death is bad.”
Craig laughed out loud at the image. It made their lives sound like an episode of ‘24’. He couldn’t entirely disagree with her, there was easier work they could do and it would make life a lot simpler if they were both in different jobs. But it wasn’t an option for either of them. Julia had left the army to join the police and she wasn’t going to leave the police to sing and dance for anyone. He was rescued by his mobile ringing. He answered it gratefully, mouthing an apology to his Mum.
“D.C.I. Craig.”
The laugh on the other end made him smile and the voice that followed was instantly recognisable.
“You really need to get used to saying Superintendent, Marc. Otherwise they might take it back.”
“Hi John, what can I do for you on a Friday night?”
Craig walked out of the kitchen as he talked, feeling his mother’s daggers in his back.
“Where are you?”
“At my folks.”
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