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

by Catriona King

  John pointed to the computer. “Five minutes.”

  Craig nodded. Career suicide could wait for at least five minutes. He slumped down in his seat and they stared at him, knowing that something was wrong.

  “What did Liam have to say?”

  “Oh, nothing really.”

  “It was definitely something. So what?”

  “Good news on the forensic samples at St Marys, Morgan accessed them on Friday. Liam’s got a warrant and they’re out looking for him now.”

  “So what was the bad news?”

  Craig’s eyes told them that either he wasn’t ready to say, or he couldn’t. John moved back to the computer, waking the screen to display the map that Craig had seen earlier. It covered Belfast and the surrounding countryside for thirty miles.

  He’s placed two markers in Belfast, showing the scenes of their murders, and house logos, indicating Morgan’s, Ripley’s and Britt Ackerman’s homes. Everything was within two miles, fulfilling the ‘kill close to home’ rule of most cases.

  The thirty mile boundary was marked in blue and ran uniformly around Belfast, as far as Dungannon in the west, Cullybackey in the north and Newry in the south. The eastern boundary was the Irish Sea.

  Craig stared at it curiously. “What’s the blue zone John?”

  “The perimeter is thirty miles. Statistically it marks the furthest that a group with members in Belfast are likely to have their headquarters outside Belfast.”

  “But why go outside Belfast at all, when at least two of them live here?”

  “Where you have one or two killers they’ll stay close to home, but the bigger the group the more vulnerable it is to detection. Each member is a potential weak link. So they need somewhere to congregate and kill that has no direct association with most of the members. A headquarters. I say most, because people automatically gravitate to what they know, even when they don’t mean to. The law of averages says that someone in the group will have a link to the area that they’ve chosen for their headquarters, no matter how hard they tried not to.”

  “So one of our killers chose it because it’s an area that they know well?”

  “Yes, but it also has to be within easy reach of Belfast, because most people live and work here. Otherwise every trip would be too long, and long absences would arouse suspicion in their normal lives. Thirty miles would take an hour maximum. Two hours there and back. Most men can hide that in their day occasionally.”

  Craig considered the screen carefully. “The headquarters could be anywhere in that zone John. And if there are other members than Ripley and Morgan, we’ve no way of knowing which areas they’re familiar with.” He thought for a moment and then added. “Except…”

  John saw where Craig’s eyes were focused. Then he made the connection himself.

  “Ballymena. You’re thinking of somewhere near Ballymena.”

  Des looked puzzled, wondering what they were talking about. Craig enlightened him.

  “Paul Ripley met Sylvia Bryce in Ballymena. She started her business there and only moved it to Belfast in 2010. We found girls’ files in her office going back to 2007, when she was still living up there. Many of those girls are missing. If they established the headquarters around 2007 then it would make sense for it to have been near Ballymena. When they moved the business to Belfast in 2010 it would still be within thirty miles of Belfast, so why bother moving it?”

  “Maybe they didn’t move the headquarters, just the business.”

  “What?”

  “Well, if the headquarters worked so well in Ballymena for years and they’d managed to stay undetected, why risk moving it? Agreed?”

  Craig nodded him on.

  “But they decided to move the core business to Belfast in 2010, so what would have made them do that?”

  Craig stilled, thinking. Then he found the answer. “Because someone high-up in the food-chain had to move to Belfast, probably for work. That’s brilliant John. It’s another clue.”

  He stood up, readying to go and John thrust the final sheet into his hand to read later. “What is it?”

  “A forensic autopsy on Britt Ackerman and Paul Ripley, Des and I worked on it together. It might give you a bit more information.” He smiled as much as their meeting’s subject matter allowed. “Good luck with that other thing, whatever it is.”

  Craig nodded. “It’ll have to wait. Bryce’s hearing’s in forty minutes. And we still have Tim Morgan to lift.”

  He closed his eyes for a second in realisation. He’d known that Annette had made inspector for nearly four hours and he hadn’t called her yet. That had to be number one on the list. He smiled at John, grateful for his kick-up-the-ass session.

  An hour ago he’d been an unfocused mess, now he was close to solving two murders.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “It’s really boring here. Can’t we go shopping or something?”

  Julia glanced up from her magazine and stared across the room at Hannah, stunned by her belief in her own invincibility. Youth. She bit back her urge to say ‘grow up’ and put down the magazine, walking over to her with a kind expression on her face. She’d had a lot to deal with in the past few days and shouting at her wouldn’t help. Her mother had already done that for hours by the sounds of it. When she’d collected Hannah for protective custody she’d practically jumped into the car.

  Julia sat on the edge of the bed and smiled at the younger woman. She had a pale prettiness. Her eyes were soft and blue and her long wavy hair was a tawny blonde. Her hands were tiny, smooth and white like a child’s. The oversized ring she wore emphasised their fragility. Anger welled up in her at the image of old men groping her, even if she had volunteered for their touch. That had been before she’d known what they were capable of.

  Hannah read her thoughts and tears filled her eyes. They teetered unbidden across their boundaries, rolling down her cheeks until they reached her chin, and then dropped softly onto her shirt. She threw herself into Julia’s arms desperately, underlining her youth, and cried for a long time.

  She cried for her dead friend, and for herself, about the room they were sitting in and the innocence that she’d lost. But most of all she was crying for her father, whom she mourned and needed now, very much.

  ***

  2.40pm. Laganside Court.

  Craig stood by the door of the brightly lit anteroom with his arms folded, staring contemptuously at the fifty-something woman at the table. She looked nothing like a prostitute, if literary stereotypes were anything to go by. There was nothing of the Miss Whiplash or ‘Hollywood Madam’ about her, with her neat brown hair and understated jewellery. There was no low-cut top or hint of leopard-skin, not even a stiletto heel to add a hint of raciness. She could have been someone’s mother. Maybe she even was, although Craig doubted very much that they’d know what their mum did for a living. She couldn’t have had daughters or she’d never have been able to do what she did.

  She stared up at him with dull eyes that had seen too much of life, especially its shadowy side. But that was her choice. She’d chosen to live in the dirt and he had little sympathy for her.

  Her rotund solicitor walked towards him with an extended hand. Craig stilled his advance with a look. There was something grubby about the man and it wasn’t just his client. They’d chosen each other in some dark symbiosis and wondered if he’d been one of her clients too. Quid Pro Quo.

  The man dropped his hand awkwardly and spoke in a reedy voice, its weakness unexpected from his chubby frame. “Mr Craig.” His accent was hard to place, a vague southern lilt mixing with some harder northern tones. From where? A few more words gave Craig the answer; Ballymena. It all seemed to return to there.

  “My client would like to speak frankly. Off-the-record, as it were.”

  Craig shook his head once. There was no off-the-record in murder, and there were definitely no deals. The best she could hope for was that her information would be considered in sentencing, and perhaps not even that. He d
idn’t need to vocalise the facts, her solicitor already knew them and so did she. Saying it might just scare the horses and stop her giving him enough to prevent another death.

  He waved the man to sit beside his client and took up position opposite, standing behind a hard high chair for a moment before taking a seat. His delay enough to signal his distaste at being so close. He motioned them on and the brief sat back, whispering his client to start.

  The Sylvia Bryce in front of Craig was a different creature to the one he’d met in High Street the day before. Gone was her bravado and in its place was a quiet fear. He’d felt it emanating from her as soon as he’d entered the room. But what was she afraid of today that she hadn’t been afraid of then?

  He watched as words formed on her lips and she swallowed them back, forming new ones that never reached the air. It was as if she was searching for the perfect sentence that would set her free, and she knew she had only one chance to create it. Open Sesame.

  She struggled in silence for minutes, the occasional ‘so’ and ‘I’ escaping, before being snatched back. Until finally the realisation dawned that the sentence that would take her home didn’t exist, and all she could find was some weak compromise to keep her safe.

  Finally she shrugged, as if she’d been arguing with herself and had lost. She gave a tired half-smile to her solicitor and started to talk. Outlining why she’d done what she’d done, after she’d realised the girls were being sold. She pleaded fear for her own life; an excuse that Craig knew might sway a Judge, but only a little. When she was satisfied that she’d made her case as a vulnerable woman she finally uttered two words that made Craig pay attention. Tim Morgan.

  “What about him?”

  She smiled and Craig saw the real Sylvia Bryce, self-protective to the last.

  “You were right. About the video of our meeting at the station I mean. He was the man who attacked me on Monday.”

  “Why did you deny it?”

  She leaned forward quickly, prodding the air between them with her finger. “Because he can do me a lot more damage than any of you. He’s a real bastard.”

  “Go on.”

  She pulled dramatically at the scarf draped around her throat, revealing a necklace of two-day-old bruises. “This is what he did, and he’d have killed me if I hadn’t got away.”

  She sneered and the expression twisted her homely face. “He used to do it in bed - strangle me.”

  “Was he your lover?”

  She snorted rudely and then laughed. “Lover! He was a punter dear, they were only ever punters. I wouldn’t trust any man with something important like love.” Her tone became almost wistful. “Only women know what it is.”

  Craig stared at her, wondering how many women shared her view. Probably too many.

  “When was he a punter?” He quickly thought of John’s map. “And where?”

  “I’ve known him since he was a junior doctor. Back in 2003. He used to come to me for ‘stress relief.’” She smirked, leaving Craig with no illusions as to how she’d relieved it. “He was a nasty little bastard, even back then. Far too much choking and smacking for my liking.”

  Craig interrupted her urgently. “Where was he your client?”

  She squinted at him, knowing that she had clout, if only for that moment. She decided to use it. “A cup of tea would be nice.”

  “You’re in court in fifteen minutes.”

  “The kettle only takes one to boil.”

  He nodded to the W.P.C. by the door and turned back to her impatiently, his soft voice more insistent. “Where was he your client Mrs Bryce?”

  She sniffed and then thought, taking her time, reluctant to relinquish the upper hand too quickly. Finally she said one word, but it was the one that he needed. “Ballymena.”

  She corrected herself hastily. “Well, first in 2003 when I was in rooms near Cullybackey. He was working at the local hospital then. Then I moved to Ballymena in 2005 and he moved to the Ballymoney Hospital and became a regular. I was running a few girls by then so I passed him off to one of them. Rachel she was called. She liked it rough.”

  She smiled and Craig was surprised at the fondness in her expression. “She was a lovely girl, has her own kids now. She brings them to see me regularly.”

  The W.P.C. entered with the tea and whispered something into Craig’s ear. He nodded his thanks and waved Bryce on. She took a sip, smiling approvingly at the china cup, and sighed heavily before continuing.

  “Then he started to bring his friends around. They had plenty of money, so I was pleased at the start.” She screwed up her face. “Until I found out that they were all as bad as him. Even worse. Some of my girls were bruised for weeks after they’d been.”

  Craig knew that he needed to hurry her. The Judge was in his rooms and they were up in ten minutes. But if he hurried her too much she might clam up. He composed his body language to look attentive but not desperate. She laughed, spotting immediately what he was doing. She knew men far too well to be fooled by any of them.

  “You needn’t worry Inspector; I’ve started now so I’ll tell you everything I know. But there’s a lot I don’t, you need to understand that. These men aren’t stupid so I had limited contact with them, and even then only with a few. We did most of our business by phone and e-mail.”

  Craig had always known that she was a small cog, but he’d take anything that he could get. “Were all of Morgan’s friend’s doctors?”

  She sipped her tea, shaking her head. “No, none of them were. I remember one was a lawyer, and one was studying religion of all things!” She laughed and then pursed her lips grimly. “Paul Ripley. He was the nicest of them, although that’s not saying a lot. Dirty little man. He deserved everything he got. ”

  “What about the lawyer? Do you have a name for him?”

  She shook her head hard. “No, but I’ve had enough barristers not to be shocked at what they get up to.” She gave him a sly look. “Policemen are no angels either.”

  He ignored the innuendo. “Did you ever hear him called anything by Morgan or Ripley?”

  She thought for a moment. “I think they called him Jimmy. Yes, that was it. Jimmy.” She shrugged again. “He stopped coming after a while. I thought he must’ve married someone. Poor cow.”

  She stared into space and her tone became informative, as if she was imparting useful research. “They do that you know. Stop coming when they get married. For a few years anyhow. But they always start again. It’s like a drug for some men; paying for it. Power you see. Being rich enough to buy a woman.” She paused and then restarted.

  “It went on the same way for about a year. Then, one day in 2007, Morgan came to me with a proposition. He and some of his rich mates wanted to club together and buy me a place, where I’d keep girls exclusively for them. Well, I was getting tired of being busted by your Ballymena heavies by then. Not that anything ever stuck, mind you. Every time they charged me it mysteriously disappeared a few days before the hearing. It was their doing of course. I knew that. I wasn’t complaining, but I did wonder how they pulled it off. Anyway, I was fed up going through the whole raid, arrest, charge, and then waiting for a court date rubbish. So when Morgan made me the offer I jumped at it.”

  Craig leaned forward, urging her on. “Where was the house?”

  She sniffed snobbishly. “House! It was a mansion, even had turrets. Up near Ballymena, big dark place in the country, off the A42. But a lot of the punters came from Belfast, so in 2010 they bought me Marrion Park. And set me up with the office in town.”

  She stared at the floor with a heavy expression and Craig knew that was when her world had gone from straight prostitution to something much darker.

  “They came to see me last year.”

  Craig interrupted. “Who came to see you?”

  She gave him an exasperated look. “Morgan and Ripley. I only ever dealt with those two.” She went on. “They said they fancied a change and in future they wanted a special type of girl.” Sh
e bit her lip. “Nice girls, normal girls…” She spat out the next word. “Virgins! They wanted virgins.”

  A look of panic entered her eyes as she remembered. “I said ‘how the hell do I find them?’ And they said that they’d write the advert. I just had to meet them, take their picture and ask them questions.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  She broke Craig’s gaze and he thought that he saw tears forming in her eyes. Her brief leaned forward to interject but she stilled him with a hand.

  “They…they wanted me to ask the girls if they’d ever had sex.”

  “You’ve already said that they wanted virgins. What else did they want you to ask them?” His tone was insistent and forced her to look at him again. “What else, Mrs Bryce?”

  The tears were fully formed now and started to trickle down her face, but Craig wasn’t moved. She had led Britt Ackerman to her death, and God only knew how many more. He stared hard at her, his soft voice growing louder from need and lack of time. “What else?”

  “They…they told me to ask them about their families. If they didn’t have any I was to send their photographs up for them to choose from.” She lurched across the table towards him, pleading and desperation in her voice. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know.”

  Her voice broke tearfully. “I honestly didn’t know.”

  He sat back and stared at her without an ounce of pity. “But you found out, didn’t you? When did you find out what they were doing?” He stood up and leaned towards her. “WHEN?”

  To Craig’s surprise she didn’t lean back to protect herself from his anger, just sat frozen in its path. He knew her lack of self-protection was coming from guilt, but there was something more…What? Then he saw the deadness in her eyes and realised what he was seeing, sitting down again abruptly. Frozen awareness. The look of someone so used to abuse that something had died in them, and a dull acceptance of whatever came next had taken its place.

  She hadn’t protected herself when he’d reared up, because it had happened to her so many times before. Probably all of her life. It wasn’t an excuse for her part in this sordid mess, but it could be a reason.