The Waiting Room (#4 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series)

by Catriona King

  The Waiting Room

  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: Serg Zastavkin, Andreas Krappweis

  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: enquiries@crookedcatpublishing.com

  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 Waiting Room’ is the fourth novel in the modern Belfast D.C.I. Thriller Series. It follows Detective Chief Inspector Marc Craig and his team through the streets of Northern Ireland in their hunt for a powerful and corrupt international group.

  A fifth novel in the D.C.I. Craig series is nearing completion.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my parents and brothers for challenging me.

  I would like to thank Crooked Cat publishing for being so unfailingly supportive and cheerful.

  And I would like to thank all of the police officers that I have ever worked with, anywhere, for their professionalism, wit and compassion.

  Catriona King

  Belfast, May 2013

  The D.C.I. Craig Series

  A Limited Justice

  The Grass Tattoo

  The Visitor

  The Waiting Room

  The Waiting Room

  Chapter One

  Wednesday 5th June 2013. Belfast.

  Two dark leather couches faced each other across a low table, and a percolator bubbled quietly on a sideboard set against one wall. The scent of fresh coffee wafted towards the young woman, its dark aroma warming the modern room. It reminded her of the café where she met her friends each Sunday, to gossip about their adventures. This week’s story would be her best one yet.

  She felt suddenly self-conscious and pulled her short dress down over her bare, tanned thighs. Too much thigh, but you had to make the effort. She gazed around the room where they’d left her, her nervousness growing. Waiting always made her nervous, too much time to think. Still, if you had to wait somewhere, it was a nice room for it. She had no idea who she was meeting and her curiosity was growing by the minute. But Sylvia had promised secrecy for both parties.

  The girl’s high-heeled feet rested on a smooth pelt that covered the room’s wide floor. Its pale softness reminded her of snow, and home. The high wooden walls were so dark that only the glint of a silver handle showed where they ended and the door began. The whole room said a man with money.

  Without warning the handle moved and the wall seemed to move with it. The door swung inwards heralding the entrance of a dark-haired man. He smiled down at her and she thought he looked like Inger’s Dad, except that Viktor Lindholm had never stared at her like that.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. We’re ready for you now.”

  Britt nodded silently and rose. The waiting was over. She would soon wish that it wasn’t.

  ***

  Friday June 7th. Belfast Crown Court.

  “Do you have any more questions for the witness, Mr Holland?”

  Ian Holland peered down at his papers, adjusting his heavy-framed glasses. Strands of grey hair protruded from under his wig at the temple, and he breathed heavily, as if he had a sinus problem. He shuffled from foot to foot for a moment so long that the young Judge finally stared at the wall clock, coughing pointedly.

  “Well?”

  Holland glanced up, startled, and Joanne Greer raised her eyes to heaven. If this was the best defence barrister in Belfast then she was completely screwed. He pulled himself upright, and smiled close-mouthed at Marc Craig, reminding him again that he was on oath.

  Craig scanned the court, smiling inwardly at the theatre. Everyone was performing, with the jury as the audience. He considered the puffed-up defence barrister and the sleek woman in the dock, dabbing her eyes vulnerably with a handkerchief. As if she hadn’t ordered the murders of three people six months earlier; except that she had.

  Judge James Dawson stared absent-mindedly at Holland, waving him on in irritation. Then he sat back in his chair, bored, his mind on other things. The youngest judge in Northern Ireland, the grey-haired Holland thought he showed the impatience of the internet generation. And their lack of social skills.

  Holland shrugged indifferently, accepting that he’d played for silence long enough. He stared at Craig again, narrowing his eyes.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Craig, isn’t it true that you lay in wait for my client, Mrs Joanne Greer?” He paused, not for an answer but for effect. An effect that James Dawson completely ruined by snapping his fingers impatiently, making him hurry through his planned count of five. “While a known criminal, Mr Alik Ershov, trapped her into a false confession?”

  Craig stared at him, completely unperturbed. “No.”

  Holland was as disturbed by the one word answer as Dawson was amused.

  “But isn’t it the case Chief Inspector, that without the testimony of that discredited and now deceased witness, you would have no case at all against my client? Who, I would remind you, has not been linked to any murder. Or to the hire of the fictitious assassins that you have asked the jury to believe in?”

  He stopped and paused again, sniffing noisily for breath. Craig leapt into the gap.

  “No, again, Mr Holland, that wasn’t the case. Your client freely confessed and we found financial ties between her and the deceased, Mr Ershov, who had a direct link with the assassins. Your client was also the person who benefited most from the murders.”

  Holland was drawing breath to ask the same question in another way, when Dawson yawned widely and waved his hand.

  “Fascinating though this line of questioning is, Mr Holland, I think four o’clock on a Friday is quite late enough to detain the jury. I suggest we adjourn and reconvene on Monday morning at ten.”

  He stood quickly as the clerk sang out, “all rise.” Holland tutted audibly in irritation. Not for the first time Craig thought how much power judges wielded.

  Craig was as annoyed as Holland that he had to return the following week. There was work to do back at Docklands. He flicked on his mobile, watching as the missed calls stacked up. Exiting the court qu
ickly, he dialled the murder squad’s number as he walked.

  Nicky picked-up the phone on the second ring and smiled as her boss’ warm voice came down the line. “God what a boring day, Nicky. How anyone defends someone like Greer amazes me.”

  She laughed huskily and made soothing noises, until he realised that he was being humoured and laughed with her.

  “Anything exciting happening?”

  “Only paperwork piling up on your desk.” She paused, waiting for his sigh. She wasn’t disappointed.

  “Is that what I’m coming back to? Can’t Liam do some of it?”

  “Don’t worry. He’s already taken a pile. But there are things that need your signature.” She paused, then relented kindly. “Actually, there are only three files and a memo. You’ll get through them in five minutes. When will you be back?”

  “Monday afternoon I think. Holland was halfway through when the judge adjourned, so I’m not sure if they want me back Monday morning or afternoon. Go home if it’s quiet there, Nick. Just leave the papers on my desk. I’ll nip in tomorrow and sign them.”

  “I will, thanks.” She saw a hand waving in her peripheral vision and turned to see who it belonged to. “Liam wants a quick word.”

  She transferred the call and Liam Cullen swung his long legs off the desk, answering it quickly. His deep voice boomed across the office and Annette McElroy, the unit’s sergeant, laughed at its sheer volume, wandering over to join him.

  “How’s the world of justice, boss? Have they banged Greer up yet?”

  Craig shook his head, smiling at Liam’s talent for being politically incorrect every time he opened his mouth. “We’re only halfway through the trial.”

  “Guilty as sin, that one. If she gets off I’ll resign.”

  “I doubt it somehow, on both counts. Anyway, what’s happening, murder-wise?”

  “It’s deathly quiet.” Liam laughed loudly at his own joke and then underlined it, needing an audience. “Get it?”

  “I got it. Very witty. Who’s on the rota this weekend?”

  “We are. Again!”

  Craig started to sigh and then stopped; smiling to himself and admitting that he enjoyed on-call. It was where all the action was and he wasn’t giving that up. Even though he would become a superintendent in two weeks’ time.

  “Right. Tell everyone to go home. I’ll be back by Monday afternoon at the latest. Hopefully no-one will get murdered over the weekend.”

  The phone clicked off just as Craig reached the car-park and he crawled his aging black Audi out into the rush-hour traffic on Oxford Street. He clicked on the radio and tapped along to a track he recognised as he headed home for a quiet evening. His parents’ trip to Italy meant that their usual Friday family dinner was cancelled, so he had an appointment with a beer and the sport’s channel tonight. Julia was arriving tomorrow for the weekend and he could do with some thinking time before then. Or as much as could be expected when Ulster Rugby and Man United were both on the box.

  ***

  Near Queen’s University Belfast. Saturday 12.30am.

  “For goodness sake, Scott, stop messing about! I have to get home. I’m up early to revise. Or have you forgotten that we’ve an exam on Monday?”

  “You’re being a real bore Chrissy. It’s only half-twelve, we could still go clubbing.”

  “Go if you like. I’m going home to bed.”

  The young man pulled his petite girlfriend towards him with a hug, smiling down at her.

  “Oh, all right. But you’re a real pain in the bum sometimes. You owe me big-time for being the perfect boyfriend.” He leaned forward to kiss her forehead, lingering for a much longer time on her lips.

  Finally the kiss ended and they walked on in companionable silence, turning left off Botanic Avenue into LeRoy Street. As they turned the corner the girl noticed a shoe lying on the pavement, its style and five-inch-heel making it this season’s design.

  “Scott, look. That’s brand new. And expensive. Over two hundred pounds worth. Who would just have left it? We should hand it into lost property at the union tomorrow.”

  “Some girl probably walked out of it and was so pissed that she didn’t even notice...”

  He bent down to have a look in the yellowing street light and then recoiled. “There’s blood inside it! Maybe someone’s hurt? We’d better look around, just in case. They might still be nearby.”

  The broad street was quiet and dark, with rows of slim terraced houses on either side creating a boulevard atmosphere. The only light visible was cast by street lamps, or seeped through an occasional late-night studier’s window. They were in ‘The Holyland’, Belfast’s student quarter, whose street names like Jerusalem, Palestine and Damascus had earned it the nickname. It was an overpopulated mesh between the Ormeau Road and Queens University, where nearly every house was a hive of students. Undiluted teenage hormones fuelled by alcohol and exam pressure - it was a flammable combination. An injured girl seemed very possible.

  Chrissy looked slowly around her. The street’s traffic-free quiet became an eerie silence as the friendly student playground took on a different feel. She grasped the boy’s hand tightly and they inched forward. After a moment, she pointed at a white building ahead.

  “Isn’t that the church Sarah goes to?”

  Scott nodded. He’d been there a few times in first year, when he’d dated a good-living girl. “Let’s have a look in there first. Can you see any blood on the ground?”

  Chrissy pointed at some broken paving near the church’s iron gates. Then she peered at it, nodding. “There’s a bit there as well, by the edge of the kerb.”

  As they got closer to the blood, the pale Victorian church loomed out of the darkness, its white stone thrown into stark relief against the street light’s saffron glow. It was a small building, ornate and ceremonial, with silver wrought-iron gates that opened out onto the pavement. They were unlocked, and a chain and padlock was draped over one of them. Scott smiled to himself. Whoever had left it open probably thought the sight of the chain would deter vandals. Touching naiveté in a student area.

  “I wonder how many people have slept off their hangovers in there.”

  “Ssshhh. The vicar might hear you.”

  “Wise up, Chris! They don’t sleep in the cupboard like you thought your teachers did.”

  She pouted and thumped his arm, then quickly grabbed it again for security.

  “Should I lift the shoe up?”

  “No! Don’t touch it, just in case. I saw on TV that you shouldn’t handle evidence.”

  She thumped him again half-heartedly, smiling this time. Then they both fell silent.

  Scott touched the gate lightly and it swung open. The top felt wet. Rain water? No, the wet wasn’t cold enough, and it had been dry all week. He examined his right hand reluctantly. The red liquid smearing his palm was unmistakable. He pushed his hand into his pocket.

  “Chrissy, you wait here with the shoe.”

  She opened her mouth to object and he looked down at her solemnly, as if what he said next carried weight. He just hoped it would convince her to stay put.

  “It’s important you stay. Just in case someone steals the shoe. Or accidentally kicks it out of position. And I think you should call the police, just in case.”

  “Shouldn’t we both go in and look first?”

  “NO!”

  His response was unexpectedly loud in the crisp night air, and the look on her face told him that he’d frightened her. He squeezed her hand in reassurance, softening his tone. “Just call them, pet. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He turned swiftly, before his courage failed and hurried through the gate into the small church garden, leaving her pressing her phone in silence.

  The church’s low porch door lay ajar, allowing a small blade of light to escape and cast a glow over the front step. Scott wiped his hand with the hanky that his mother made him carry for emergencies, and grabbed the door’s ring-handle bravely. The thin blade of
light widened as he slowly swung the door inward.

  He couldn’t work out where the light was coming from at first. There was no illumination on the pulpit and no candles burning near the pews. Then he saw that the back door was open. Blinding white light shone into the chapel like a beam. So perfectly arranged that it might have been done deliberately, to highlight the horrific sight displayed on the altar rails.

  Scott stood frozen by the oak door. Unable to hear, feel, or cry out. Every sense stolen by the horror in front of him.

  On the altar, chained inverted to the highest rail, was a young woman of his age, or even less. She was fully clothed, in a short green dress that clung to her slim thighs; its material saturated in what he knew instantly was blood. It had seeped from a myriad of large and small wounds that pierced her body. Small trickles had dried around all but one. A gaping wound in her right side. A wide patch of blood surrounded it, spreading across her abdomen and down her right thigh. The weapon that had caused them all remained in place. A knife. It lay protruding from the largest tear, silver, razor-sharp and shining in the light.

  Scott eye’s travelled slowly to the girl’s face. It was slender and white and her blond hair was red and matted, its ends clinging to cheeks streaked with blood and tears. Her large grey eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. No-one could have survived what was done to her, but his instinct was still to help. He wanted to cut her down and hold her, offer her comfort. But instead, he stood rigid, too shocked to move forward or back. Deaf to the approaching police, and the voices speaking kindly to him. Until a gentle hand guided him out onto the street, leaving the uniformed men alone in their world.

  ***

  James Dawson loosened his tie, poured himself another glass of Petrus, and then stared disinterestedly at his wife across the table. His mind was on other things, and none of them legal. He surveyed the glossy restaurant in The Merchant Hotel, one of Belfast’s most elegant venues. The dinner had been arranged by Catherine, just like most of his social life. But not all.