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

by Catriona King

  “What did I tell you? And how many bloody times?”

  Dawson’s normally elegant tones were anything but now. He was shouting at the top of his voice. If words had a colour then his would have been crimson. His neck veins bulged against the collar of his Ralph Lauren shirt, and any minute now Morgan expected him to turn green and burst out of his jacket.

  Dawson drew himself up to his full five-feet-nine and stared hard at the taller man sitting in front of him. Ripley leaned back as far as he could in the sleek high-backed chair, trying to escape the sheer volume of his words. He remained seated, afraid to move, even though standing up would immediately have led to him looming over the smaller Judge. But what James Dawson lacked in height he carried in authority. He’d co-founded the club and he’d been its first funder. He held all of the power in the room, and in life.

  He slowed his speech as if each word was giving him reason to think. “You stupid, fucking, bastard.” Ripley went to open his mouth and then thought better of it, shutting it again silently. “I’ve told you a million times to touch nothing without my permission. Nothing. Who gave you the right to do this without my say so? WHO?”

  The volume of his words rose incrementally, until ‘who’ was shouted with enough force to vibrate Morgan’s ears halfway across the room. He could only imagine what it was doing to Ripley’s an inch away.

  Ripley sat completely still, his eyes fixed on the wall behind Morgan, letting the question echo around the room. It bounced from wall to wall until it finally reached the floor and died on the luxurious carpet. Dawson leaned in menacingly until his mouth was within touching distance of the other man’s cheek. Suddenly his re-formed fist swooped down in an arc and pounded, not against the desk this time, but against Ripley’s chin. It connected with such force that the chair flew back and Ripley thudded to the floor, banging his head hard against the skirting board.

  Morgan smiled at the spectacle for a minute and then reluctantly moved in, his proximity enough to remind Dawson to withdraw. Paul Ripley stared up at both of them pathetically, holding his rapidly swelling jaw. He knew he deserved the blow. He’d jeopardised the club’s valuable trade, and all of them with it. After a moment’s silence his English tenor broke the silence pleadingly. “I repaired the damage, James.”

  Dawson turned towards him angrily, curling his fist again. “Once a rare item is damaged there’s no way to repair it without massive cost to everyone.” His arm was rising to deal another blow when Morgan stilled it firmly. “Let him talk, James. He has it under control.”

  Dawson turned to object but was halted by a look in Morgan’s eyes that said he would like what he heard next. He nodded at the floor grudgingly and Ripley sighed, relieved. Then he clambered to his feet and spelled out first how the item had been damaged, and then what he had done to insure the club’s future.

  Chapter Three

  Saturday 8am

  “Are you going to eat that toast?”

  “Yes. So leave it alone, fatso.”

  Hannah leaned over her younger brother’s head and scooped the butter-soaked slice from the plate in front of him, pulling her hand away just as he grabbed for it. She stuck her tongue out, taunting him.

  “Too quick for you, Bobby? You need to work on your backhand.”

  “Mammy, she stole my breakfast! Tell her to give it back.” Their mother turned, just in time to see the last buttered corner disappear into Hannah’s smirking mouth.

  “Oh for goodness sake, you two, just put some more toast on. And Bobby, if you want a lift to Jason’s you’re on a five minute countdown, then I’m leaving. I’m delivering a medical student’s workshop today. Hannah, do you need a lift to the library?”

  “No thanks, Mum. I’ll walk down. And remember, I’m staying at Fiona’s until Monday night. We’ve an exam on Tuesday and we’re studying for it together.”

  “OK pet. But give your father a call about eleven to let him know that you’re safe. Otherwise he’ll spend all night driving around the streets looking for you.”

  Hannah whipped around, glaring angrily at her mother. Her next words were a yell. “He’s not my father!”

  Mary Stewart sighed heavily. Hannah had never accepted her step-father, mourning her father’s premature death since she was nine. But she’d been left a widow at thirty, with two young children. She needed someone to care for her, and them. So when Damien Stewart had come along she’d jumped at it - too quickly in Hannah’s mind. But she’d fallen in love.

  Hannah was still shouting. “I’m moving out next year, so he’d better get used to me not being at home.”

  Her mother shook her head quietly. “I know that’s what you want, pet. And I promise that we’ll talk about it, but not just yet, please. I’m easing him into the idea gently. So don’t you go scaring him or he’ll never let you out the door...”

  “I’ll do what I want. I’ll be a qualified doctor in two years...I’m twenty, not two.”

  “You’ll always be twelve to your step-father...”

  Hannah turned on her heel dramatically and stomped off down the hall, running up the two flights of stairs to her bedroom. They lived in a town-house on Belfast’s Malone Road and had done ever since she’d known where she was.

  She pulled her overnight bag from beneath the bed and slid open the zip, looking behind her to make sure her door was closed. The last thing she needed was her young brother watching. Then she pulled out a folder full of lecture notes and fingered the clothes below. Her shortest party dress was pushed well down, anchored with her new red platforms. Her vanity case sat neatly in the side pocket.

  She caught sight of her make-up-free face in the dressing room mirror. She looked too young, with her fair lashes and pale, even skin. Well, she wouldn’t look anything like this tomorrow night. Excitement bubbled-up in her chest, and lower. Her step-father might treat her as a little girl, but there were plenty of other men who didn’t.

  ***

  8.30am.

  The main briefing room in the Dockland’s Coordinated Crime Unit was being painted, like everything else in the building. Since the appointment of the new Assistant Chief Constable, McGurk, the force seemed to have decided that instead of a new brush sweeping clean it was going to be busy painting.

  Everywhere but Craig’s small office smelled of turpentine so the briefing was being held in there, accompanied by sea-gulls dancing outside the windows.

  It was eight-thirty by the time they’d all crammed in, propped against the cupboards and sills as usual. Until Liam decided that sitting on the floor would be easier on his Saturday morning hangover. Craig leaned over his desk and grinned down at him. He was resting close-eyed against the wall.

  “Bad head?”

  “Don’t ask. Rory’s been screaming the place down all night, teething. The only way to get any sleep is to drink your way into it. Then you have the bad head the next day.”

  Annette smiled at him virtuously. “I gave up drinking for Lent and never restarted. I feel great on it.”

  “Well, aren’t you just the perfect one.”

  Craig could see a spat brewing, not helped by Annette taking her Inspector exams the coming week, making Liam feel insecure. Craig knew she would pass easily, leaving him with two Inspectors. The number wasn’t a problem. He’d only agreed to take superintendent rank if he could keep them both. But he knew that when they were both Inspectors they’d compete even more than they did now. He shrugged inwardly. That was next month’s problem.

  “Right then. Let’s keep this short and sweet.”

  “Aye. Cos I’ll have a numb bum to match my head in a minute.”

  “Here’s what we know so far. The victim is a twenty to twenty-five year old female, healthy looking and well nourished. No birth marks or tattoos, and no obvious needle tracks at the scene. John’s checked the other injections sites now; between the toes, frenulum, eyes etc. But there’s nothing. She’s not an injecting drug user. Davy’s running her photo now.”

 
He nodded at Davy, their young Emo analyst. He was fiddling absentmindedly with his earlobe, pulling hard at its latest piercing. Craig winced and glanced away - it was making him feel nauseous.

  “Eyes!”

  They all turned towards the sound of Mariella Frostrup in shock. The husky voice belonged to Nicky, Craig’s personal assistant. She was turning an odd colour in the corner, reminding Craig that she wasn’t au fait with drug addicts more interesting injection sites.

  Instead of rising as other voices did, her throaty voice growled even more deeply when she was surprised.

  “Did you really say eyes, sir?”

  Craig nodded. “Don’t go there, Nicky. If I told you everywhere that addicts injected themselves you’d never get the pictures out of your head.”

  Liam opened his mouth to make a rude comment, shutting it quickly again at Craig’s warning look. A loud beep came from Nicky’s desk computer, indicating that she had mail. She slipped out to check as Craig continued.

  “OK. John’s preliminary findings give the cause of death as exsanguination from a wound in her side. The weapon entered the abdomen and transected the abdominal aorta. She would have died within five minutes. None of her jewellery or cash is missing, so theft wasn’t a motive. But she doesn’t have any identification at all. No cards and no driving licence. Although they left her handbag behind.”

  Nicky reappeared and handed him a sheet of paper. “Just came through from Dr Winter, sir. Preliminary findings.”

  Craig scanned it quickly before speaking. “Thanks, Nicky. OK, cause of death was definitely aortic wounding. We don’t have an idea of the weapon yet. John says that the knife left in-situ was too small and the wrong shape to have caused the cut. Annette, can you work that up with Des and John please. And something may show up on her tox-screen, so follow up on that as well.”

  He paused and then said quietly, “John’s confirmed rough sexual contact, and there’s more than one man’s D.N.A.”

  “Group sex gone wrong? Or a gang-bang, boss?”

  “He thinks the second - there are signs that she put up quite a struggle. Hopefully the bastards will have left something behind that we can use. Davy, can you chase for anything similar through the home office computer, and with the Irish police please.”

  Davy glanced up, still twiddling his earring. Craig tried not to look directly at it. “W…Will do.”

  He grinned, knowing exactly why Craig was averting his eyes and Annette glanced at Nicky, marvelling at how confident Davy was nowadays. When he’d joined them the year before his shyness had stopped him even talking to Craig. Every time he had done, his mild stutter on ‘s’ and ‘w’ had escalated wildly. Now he could banter with the best of them.

  Craig continued. “John says that as well as the superficial wounds in the sites of the crucifixion there are some other anomalies. I’ll cover those in a minute.” He paused, absentmindedly raking his hair to a standing position. Nicky smiled affectionately at him. He was too handsome for his own good, but the effect was softened by the habit and it always made her smile.

  “Emily Streeter, you all met her last night, is going to have a go at victim and perp profiles for us. So work with her on that please. Also, the chains that were used to tie our victim to the railings, there must be something there. Try ironmongers and chain manufacturers. Davy, can you help Liam on all that? Get her photograph to the DVLA, passport office and other U.K. forces. We need to I.D. this girl quickly. Someone must be missing her.”

  “What about her fingerprints, sir?”

  Craig shook his head and a grim look crossed his face. “There are none Annette, they’ve been burnt off.” He paused sadly. “And they removed all her teeth.”

  “God, it’s like a mafia killing! They definitely didn’t want her I.D.ed, boss.”

  Craig nodded quietly. They definitely didn’t. But that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t be.

  “John’s working on getting prints from elsewhere.”

  Annette leaned forward, fascinated. “Elsewhere? But if her fingers have gone, then surely that’s it sir?”

  “Apparently not, Annette. I’m not sure how he’s going to do it, but the e-mail says he’s trying. So I believe him.”

  Davy opened his mouth to interject but Craig held up a hand, stilling their looming questions.

  “Sorry, but it gets worse. The place we found her definitely wasn’t the kill site. She was washed superficially and moved after she bled out. We’re looking for somewhere with privacy and cleaning facilities. Davy, can you start looking for anything local that fits the bill on that. Until Des comes back with something from the forensics we’ll have to look at generalities. I’ll get time of death from John and try to narrow things down.”

  “But couldn’t privacy and cleaning facilities just describe someone’s house, sir? It could be anywhere.”

  Davy nodded, his question just asked by Annette. Craig was about to answer when Liam raised a finger. He nodded him on. “Well it’s just a thought, boss, but if they washed-off most of her blood why not remove all D.N.A. as well? It’s a bit careless isn’t it? And why not dump her handbag? The bag itself might give us an I.D.”

  “And the shoes, sir. They’re a real fashion item.” He smiled at Nicky’s fashion knowledge and her Saturday outfit of four-inch-heeled ankle boots and mini-skirt.

  Davy leaned forward quickly, joining in. “Especially as they took that much trouble with s…staging to throw us off track?”

  Craig scanned their faces. They were right. The D.N.A. had been planted deliberately. Which meant it would probably be useless.

  “There was even more staging. She had a pentagram carved into her lower back.”

  Nicky gasped. Craig nodded. “It’s probably a red herring, but we have to rule everything out. They’re throwing in the kitchen sink to confuse us.”

  “And s…slow us down.”

  “OK. Annette, can you check-out her clothes? Anything at all on the labels, sales outlets, recent purchases, and anyone who used a credit card to buy any of them. The girl that found her shoe said that it’s this season’s at some place called Kurt Geiger - apparently that means they’re quite expensive. Let’s see who bought them. Try Belfast and all Northern Irish and Republic stockists first, and then go UK wide. Ditto on her jewellery, and check out that watch. It isn’t a knock off; it’s a real Rolex Datejust. They cost a lot of money so there can’t be that many sold every year.”

  “How do you know that, boss?”

  He glanced away quickly. “I knew someone who wore one once. Someone must remember selling it, and there’ll be a serial number. Chase the forensics on hair, blood, mud on her shoes. C.S.I. found the other shoe on the altar. Look for anything at all that might give us information.” He turned to Liam. “The D.N.A. might still help, Liam, even if it was planted. We need to dig for anything that can help us on where she died.”

  “What about the universities and colleges, boss? She was left in the Holyland and she looks the right age to be a student.”

  “Good idea Liam. OK, go ahead, but without scaring the other students please. I don’t want a full-scale campus alert. Get uniform going door-to-door in the area as well. Someone definitely saw something last night.”

  He stood up abruptly and grabbed his jacket. “Right. I’m off to meet the Minister at the church.”

  “You should leave it until tomorrow boss.”

  Craig squinted at Liam, knowing that a joke was coming and taking the bait anyway.

  “OK, I’ll bite. Why?”

  Liam guffawed loudly. “’Cos it’s Sunday. God will be paying a wee visit, so the Minister’s bound to be at work.”

  Craig smiled. Liam could be very funny, when he wasn’t being politically incorrect or rude. And sometimes even then.

  “Nicky, could you ring the church office and confirm my visit for ten, please. Let’s see why they chose that particular place. I’m nipping up to see Chief Superintendent Harrison, then I’ll go straight there. �
��

  He slipped-on his jacket and glanced at the post mortem head shot of their victim. She looked about seventeen with all her makeup scrubbed off - like a teenager sleeping. Someone had just lost the most important thing they had, and they didn’t even know it.

  “I’ll be at the lab after eleven if anyone needs me.”

  ***

  Terry Harrison’s office had been moved from the twelfth to the thirteenth floor, to make room for the Assistant Chief Constable’s new team. All change. Harrison didn’t care; his main base was in Limavady now. And when Craig took over Murder in two weeks’ time he’d only ever be back in Belfast for meetings with the Drugs Squad.

  Craig ran quickly up the three flights. When he arrived on the thirteenth, Harrison’s office was empty. He scanned the open-plan floor. It was covered in boxes and cellophane, but Craig finally spotted the D.C.S’s dark head in the corner. He wandered over and Harrison saw him approach, beckoning him to a new coffee area near the window.

  “Hello sir. This is all new!”

  “Yes, it’s all change with the new A.C.C. He wants people to have relaxation spaces. Hmm…I’m not sure people need any encouragement to relax.”

  He pointed to a shiny coffee machine by the wall. It looked like it dispensed every type of drink known to man.

  “Are we getting one of those? John Winter has one in the Path lab.”

  “Do his guests have much call for coffee then?”

  They smiled wryly at each other, acknowledging the incongruity. Gallows humour was a buffer from the things that they saw every day, but not everyone outside the job understood it. Liam had been told to keep it in the office a few times.

  “I’d like to update you on a case we caught last night, sir. It’s a nasty one I’m afraid.”

  “Aren’t they all? No-one has invented a nice murder yet.”

  “This one’s particularly bad. Young woman, sexual assault and fatal wounding. There were multiple stab wounds and a knife was left in-situ…” He paused, knowing the reaction that his next words would cause. “The wounds were in the marks of the crucifixion.”