He glanced across at the couple they were dining with. The wife, Amy, was a pretty little thing who looked much younger than her forty-two years. The husband was a fraudulent bore like most bankers, and unrepentant with it. He’d like to get a few of them in his court. Maybe the Libor rate fiasco would provide some soon.
He was pulled abruptly from his thoughts by the touch of Catherine’s hand.
“Jimmy has a big murder case on at the moment, don’t you darling?”
Dawson slid his hand slowly from under his wife’s and re-arranged his napkin. The banker responded by smiling lasciviously at her. If you hated the husband and he didn’t need money, then screw the wife. Even if the man didn’t want her anymore it would hit him where it hurt. Law of the jungle.
Amy leaned forward, fascinated by the legal world. “Really James? Do tell us about it. Please?”
Dawson puffed his chest out self-importantly, bestowing a half-kind look on his wife for raising a subject that attracted the other woman’s attention. He was just about to launch into a courtroom anecdote when his phone began to ring. He pulled it from his pocket, annoyed, and then rose swiftly, recognising the caller’s name.
Forgetting his guests, he left the hotel through the Waring Street exit, then stood at the top of its grand stone staircase, shadowed at a distance by his ever-present protection officer. He hissed angrily into the receiver, resting his gaze on two girls queuing for the nightclub opposite.
“What are you doing phoning me? I told you never to call.”
“I had to.” The male voice had the hard edge of an English public-school education, and a hesitant quality that pointed to a lack of confidence. It paused for a moment and then restarted.
“A well-known book’s been damaged.”
“Well-known! Is it ruined?”
“Yes...completely ruined.”
“Don’t say any more.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“I said shut-up! I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Dawson slammed the phone hard against his palm, knocking it off, and hissed, “Fuck” beneath his breath. Then he straightened up, smoothed his dark hair back, fixed on a professional smile and re-entered the restaurant quickly.
As he reached the table both women turned expectantly and he smiled mock-apologetically at his wife. “Sorry, darling. Bit of an accident with a rare book. Paul’s made a complete bollocks of things again.”
He reached for his coat and leaned across, kissing her lightly on the cheek, while staring slyly down the other woman’s cleavage. He shook hands coolly with the banker and exited, leaving Catherine to explain.
She smiled tiredly around the table. “James belongs to a group that trades first edition books. They’re worth a fortune, so if anything were to happen to one of them there would be a huge panic. It sounds as if that’s what’s happened. Paul is Paul Ripley.”
Amy’s eyebrows shot up curiously. “The church leader?”
“Yes. They’re all pretty prominent in The Library Club.”
“Is that what they call it then?”
Catherine nodded, rolling her eyes. Men’s urge to join clubs never ceased to amaze her. The banker leaned back in his chair and stared at them both cynically.
“Books? Worth thousands?”
“Millions apparently, some of them.”
“How can any church man afford that? Don’t they take vows of poverty nowadays?”
“Family money.”
They fell silent for a moment. Then the banker smiled, realising he had the uncontested attention of two women. He leaned over and topped up their glasses with largess, emptying the bottle. Then he beckoned the waiter over, smirking.
“Seeing as James is paying we might as well have another bottle. Or two.”
Chapter Two
Craig was woken by the distant sound of a ‘40’s ring tone and he opened his eyes gradually, searching for his mobile. It was lying half-way across the room and he struggled to recall how it had got there. The sight of a slim leg wrapped around his own gave him the answer. Julia. She’d cut short his plans of TV and beer by turning up a day early. He was glad. Her warmth more than made up for his sports deprivation.
He squinted at the wall clock and was surprised. It was nearly one in the morning! They should have been in bed. A smile curved his lips as he remembered why they hadn’t got there. Carefully unravelling strands of red hair from his fingers he stood up slowly, trying not to waken his sleeping girlfriend. Then he reached for the phone, answering it in a whisper.
“Hello?”
Liam Cullen’s deep bass shook the line. “Hi, boss. Here, why are you whispering? Are you asleep?”
Even through Craig’s stupor he knew the question made no sense. But it didn’t matter. Liam wasn’t waiting for an answer. He talked on quickly and Craig decided to corral the conversation. Even his loudest whisper was less likely to wake someone than Liam’s distant boom.
“Where is it, Liam?”
“Off Botanic. Church on LeRoy.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
He knocked-off the call quickly and smiled affectionately towards the couch. Julia hadn’t stirred. Even Liam’s tannoy of a voice couldn’t manage to wake her. He distanced himself from her warmth and glanced down ruefully at his black jeans. There was no time to change, but no-one at the scene would mind. There’d be far more important things to worry about there.
Craig bent down and lifted her off the settee in one strong movement, smiling as she nuzzled into his chest and murmured softly in her sleep. He carried her into the bedroom, depositing her like a fragile parcel on the bed. Then wrapped her warmly in the duvet, clicked-off the light and closed the door, leaving swiftly for the scene.
Five minutes’ drive down University Road took him to the church, where a cluster of blue-lighted patrol cars were loudly disturbing God’s peace. Yellow tape marked the crime’s perimeter and a crowd of curious students had gathered to gawp. They were a mixture of party animals wandering home and the just-woken. Most probably the latter, judging by their outfits. Mind you, it was hard to tell with students.
Craig yawned and nodded hello to Liam and Annette, already standing by the church’s oak doors.
“What have we got?”
Annette hesitated. “You’d need to see it, sir. It’s hard to describe.”
Liam nodded heavily, agreeing with her, and they slowly entered the small church. Annette put her head down as they entered and Craig immediately knew it was messy. She always found gory scenes hard. They walked down the centre aisle, their steps echoing loudly on the hard mosaic floor. Until Liam stopped abruptly at the last pew, ten feet from the altar, and Craig had his first view of the scene.
He stood quietly for a moment, scanning the altar and their victim, his dark blue eyes unreadable. The crime scene investigators were moving efficiently about their work, but there was no sound, except for the metallic click of the measuring tape, and the muffled sealing of evidence bags. Instinctively closed more quietly than normal, aware of the place they were in.
Craig stood in stunned silence, gazing at the sight before them. The young woman’s body hung upside-down, locked in its last position. Forced to remain that way until the pathologist arrived. The white-suited C.S.I.s worked around her, averting their eyes and gathering whatever evidence they could. Until the girl’s slight body could give them something more.
“A bloody mess and no mistake...”
Craig shot Liam a reproving look. “True. But hardly tasteful, Liam.”
Liam nodded, subdued, apologising with a glance.
“Annette, can you chase pathology please. We need to get this poor girl down.”
As Annette walked outside to make the call, a bright blue Chrysler Crossfire pulled up to the taped cordon. John Winter, Director of Forensic Pathology and Craig’s long-time friend climbed out. He was wearing a dinner jacket and looking like an extra from the Great Gatsby. He strolled into the small church garden
to join her.
“Good morning, Annette. What have you got for me?”
Annette smiled at his attire. It was light relief in a nightmarish scenario. Craig saw his friend arrive through the church door and walked out. Standing behind Winter was a plump girl of about twenty, dressed in a soft pink cocktail dress. It definitely wasn’t Natalie, his girlfriend, and Craig raised an eyebrow inquisitively.
“Hello John, I thought you were at a conference. Why are you on call?”
“Aine’s gone into labour early so I caught the weekend rota. Personnel didn’t manage to recruit a maternity locum for her… despite nine months warning! Typical. Not to worry though, you did me a favour. Got me out of a boring Medical Club dinner.”
He caught Craig’s look at the young girl standing behind him, and returned it with another that said, ‘don’t be stupid, Marc.’ He moved to one side and swept his hand theatrically.
“D.C.I. Marc Craig, allow me to introduce Ms Emily Streeter. Emily’s a psychology student, attached to the labs for six weeks. She fancies a career in forensics. She was at the dinner as well, and nearly as glad to escape as I was. I was just dropping her home when I got your page.”
Emily nodded furiously; dislodging a pile of dark hair perched precariously on top of her head, in some semblance of a bee-hive. She smiled widely, spreading a mass of dark freckles across her tanned cheeks. Her broad Armagh accent cut through the night air eagerly. “Yes, Med Club. It was…well, a bit boring really. Full of old fogies.”
She glanced at John, adding hurriedly. “Except Dr Winter of course. He’s not old. Well, not as old as some of them.”
Liam had just joined them and he laughed loudly, enjoying someone else putting their foot in it for a change. Annette gawped at the girl, stunned by the uncensored confidence of modern youth. Her teenagers, Amy and Jordan, were exactly the same.
Emily continued enthusiastically, completely missing their looks. “And those never-ending speeches. How can anyone talk for that long without falling asleep?”
John laughed. “You’ve just said what I’ve been thinking all evening.”
He turned to face Craig, suddenly business-like. “Right now. What do we have?”
Craig moved silently to one side, giving him his first clear sight of the altar. Even Emily’s freckled tan couldn’t hide her sudden pallor. “Oh, my...Oh!”
Craig immediately realised she was unprepared for what she was seeing and he stepped back again, obscuring the view. Then he placed his hands on the girl’s shoulders, turning her firmly towards Annette.
“Annette, could you take Emily away for a moment? John and I need to chat.”
He turned angrily to his friend. “For God’s sake, John!”
“I agree. It’s pretty nasty, even for me.”
“Surely you’d warned her about coming to a crime scene? It’s always a shock first time and this one’s particularly bad.”
John’s rational scientist kicked in and he answered Craig coolly. “I didn’t know the details, but yes, I warned her, Marc. They just never listen. They’ve all watched ‘Silent Witness’ and think that’s how it really is. Just like TV. All nice clean scenes and samples. They forget that in a murder case the ‘evidence’ is a dead human being.”
His tone softened. “I’m sorry if that seems harsh, but she needs to see this. Before she makes the wrong career choice. I really don’t think forensics is for her.” He paused and then smiled. “Hey, you didn’t really think she was my date...?”
“Well...”
“For God’s sake, she’s a child! Give me some credit. And Natalie would murder me.”
He winced and cast a look towards the church’s interior. “Sorry, that was unnecessary. I’m competing with Liam for political incorrectness tonight. Long day.”
“No, I didn’t really think you were dating her. I just couldn’t work out what she was doing in evening dress with you at a crime scene. But then…our lives are always strange.” They smiled at each other tiredly.
“Right then, now that we have that sorted. Let’s see what we’ve got. When was the body found?”
“A couple of students found her half-an-hour ago. They were on their way home and saw a shoe in the street, covered in blood. The boy came in here alone. He’s in a bad way. The medical examiner’s with him.”
John nodded and went to suit-up and Craig joined Annette in the street, where a still-pale Emily was sitting in a liveried patrol car.
“Are you OK? It is a nasty one.”
“It just seems different somehow...”
“On TV? Yes, I know.” He smiled kindly at her and then turned back to business, beckoning two uniformed constables across.
“Someone get the students’ statements and details, and then let them go home. Someone needs to go with the boy and keep an eye on him. And call both their parents - they’ve had a huge shock. Liam, see what you can find out about this church and the neighbouring area. And check if there have been any other cases of this sort; locally, mainland and Republic.”
A young C.S.I. appeared beside him. “Dr Winter says could you come and have a look at something, sir.”
Craig re-entered the church and walked over to John. He was kneeling over the girl’s body, released now from its vertical position.
“She wasn’t killed here, Marc. There’s not half enough blood. She also has fixed Lividity on her back, showing that she was left somewhere for at least six hours after she was killed. Time of death was at least six but not longer than twelve hours ago. She’s not in full rigor yet, and her Glaister temperature confirms it.”
He lifted a probe and held it six inches above the girl, pointing as he talked. “There are multiple lacerations and stab wounds, with healing around some of the smaller ones. They were inflicted before they killed her. Approximately one to two days before. Torture possibly? Then she was killed, allowed to bleed out and brought here for this little show. One of the C.S.I.s said that the back door was left open, deliberately allowing light in to spotlight her.”
“What light?”
“It came from a lamp above the back door. It was switched on.”
Craig nodded, his eyes clouding. “That probably means the blood was left on the gate deliberately too. And the shoe was staged, to ensure she was found.”
John nodded and then lifted an evidence bag, holding it out to Craig with a gloved hand. It held a knife, of a type that Craig had never seen before.
“This was in the abdominal wound. My first thoughts are that she was cut, allowed to bleed out, then the knife was put back in position for display. Only the abdominal wound was deep enough to kill her; I’m pretty sure it was the cause of death. I think they tore the aorta. My impression is this knife doesn’t fit the incision, but I can’t be sure until the post-mortem.” He hesitated for a second. “There’s something even nastier, Marc.”
Craig squinted at him incredulously. “Nastier than this?”
John nodded and took off his black-wire glasses, wiping them on the arm of his suit. He stopped, realising what he’d done. He’d have to change or contaminate evidence. Craig knew then, that despite John’s apparent insouciance, he was rattled by what he had seen. He would never have forgotten protocol otherwise.
After a moments silence, Winter restarted. “Didn’t you notice the position of the larger wounds?”
Craig looked puzzled.
“They’re in the sites of the crucifixion. Hands, feet, side and crown.”
Craig shook his head heavily. He hadn’t made the link - too much blood. His heart sank. “A religious murder?”
“Or staged to look like one. The crucifixion wounds were made post-mortem.”
Liam wandered in, joining them. “Oh great. That’s all we need, a religious nutcase. The moral majority will have a field day with this lot.”
“And the tabloids.”
Craig rubbed his eyes tiredly, wishing he was back home in bed. John continued more briskly.
“OK. What else
have we got? She’s about twenty to twenty-five and well nourished. No obvious track marks to indicate drug-use, but I’ll check the less obvious sites when I get her to the lab. There’s evidence of bruising on her thighs and genitalia, and possibly fluids if we’re lucky. I’ll be able to tell you more after the P.M., and I’ll get Des onto the knife.” Dr Des Marsham was Head of Forensic Science, and he and John worked most of Craig’s cases.
John turned to go. “I’m off now, Marc. I’ll meet her at the lab as soon as.” He took a few long steps up the aisle and then turned back. “Oh, by the way, I’m going to ask Emily to work-up victim and perpetrator profiles for us, if that’s OK with you? She did a few in the first two years of her degree and was good at them by all accounts.”
He sounded like a proud father and Craig said as much.
“I know. Worrying isn’t it? Probably means that I need to settle down and have my own soon.”
“I think you need a willing woman for that part...”
***
Malone Road Belfast. Saturday. 1am.
Paul Ripley poured a large whisky and sat rigid, bracing himself for the explosion. He wasn’t disappointed. James Dawson’s angular face reddened to the point of scarlet and he banged his fist down hard on the table, spilling the liquid from Ripley’s glass.
Tim Morgan leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. He watched the two men with a detached air and a slight smirk upon his face. Ripley was an idiot and he’d said so years before. They should never have let him join the club. At least now he’d get to say ‘I told you so’.
There were too many ways to mess up the valuable items they dealt in, and Ripley was careless. Always believing that God would bail him out if something went wrong. Well it had gone wrong now all right, and no matter how much Dawson tried to shift the blame he was partly culpable. He’d brought the churchman in.
The Waiting Room (#4 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 2