“We will move to the front, but D.C.I. Craig wants a pursuit team at the back as well. Morgan will make a run for it and we can’t afford to lose him. And you’re to lock your guns, remember that. We need him alive.”
Jake watched the man’s grudging silence knowing that he would call McGurk the first chance he got. Good luck with that. Craig’d had the mobile signals blocked, and he wasn’t getting anywhere near the radio. As far as McGurk knew, the order to stay at the front would be implemented. Let him think Morgan was leaving unprotected from the back. They knew better.
A tap at the window thirty minutes later signalled a ‘go’, and Jake knew that Morgan was on the move. He’d got a call from McGurk saying it was safe to leave. Just as Craig had predicted.
Craig watched Morgan through his infrared glasses as he flitted through the darkness at the back of the house. No door or gate had opened to set him free so there was a tunnel somewhere. They were lucky that its exit had come up in their view - he could have stayed underground for miles.
But they had him. He was speeding through the trees, heading for a dark saloon with its lights off. Craig could see the heat rising from its bonnet. Turning over, ready to go when Morgan reached it.
He gave the signal and two masked officers moved forward from their hiding place amongst the trees. Guns drawn but secured. Shooting was a last resort. And he didn’t trust their misguided loyalty to McGurk. They’d followed him blindly for years. They might obey a shoot-to-kill, without knowing the real reason he was ordering it.
The men were within three strides of Morgan now. Craig could see their heat shadows merging and he wondered how Morgan didn’t feel their breath and turn. But his pounding heart and cramping legs probably filled his mind. All his focus was on the car in front of him and the safety that he thought it represented. If only he’d known he was running to his death.
The car’s occupants wouldn’t care if Morgan died from a bullet before he reached them, or from the weapon that Craig knew that they would have in the car. Except…McGurk needed to know if Morgan had talked before he died.
A heat flare rose from the engine as it readied to move and the passenger door flew open. A man’s hand reached out, poised to pull Morgan in. Just then, the officer behind him leaped forward and Morgan fell to the woodland floor, his hand stretching pathetically for salvation. The second officer shouted ‘stop police’ and a shot rang through the trees, ricocheting off the car door. Another followed, aimed at the passenger’s arm.
The car’s wheels spun as it reversed rapidly, pulling off left towards the A42 and spraying an arc of leaves and mud behind it. Craig radioed to the unmarked car waiting a mile ahead.
“They’re coming towards you. Dark saloon, first three digits T, E, Z. Follow them at a distance. Do not intercept. Repeat, do not intercept.”
He already knew who the saloon’s driver would be, Ken McGurk, but that information was no use on its own. They needed to capture all of them, or there was no hope of finding the girls alive. The unmarked car would follow him for a few miles and then let McGurk believe he’d lost them. He wouldn’t have. They would change the tail and follow for as long as they could. But they needed him to think he was safe. That way he might slip up and lead them to the others.
They’d search the house, although Craig was sure they’d find nothing but forensics. The girls were already somewhere else. But Tim Morgan was going to tell them where they were, and who was above him in the hierarchy. Or Craig would put him into the system and let him take his chances there.
***
“Have you found any information for me, Hamill?”
Joshua Hamill’s voice was hushed, as if he was imparting a state secret in a public place. But then he usually was.
“There is a rumour Ambassador, but it is only a rumour.”
“Well? What is it, man?”
Bjorn Ackerman was used to the knowing wariness of political aides, drip feeding secrets as if they were the last ounce of water in the desert. It had irritated him his whole time in the diplomatic service, but he could see its value. If they wouldn’t tell you things then they would definitely never tell anyone else.
“The G8 summit.”
The title conjured up an image of powerful men with more powerful ideas. Whispering their way through banquets and woodland walks, deciding on the future of the world.
“And?”
“It’s in four days, in Fermanagh.”
“I know it’s in four days, I’m going to it for God’s sake! Just tell me the bloody rumour.”
The aide inhaled sharply, unused to being sworn at. For a moment he considered remonstrating, but then thought better of it, as he did with everything. The Ambassador was normally charm itself but his daughter’s death had hit him hard. Feelings were running high and allowances must be made.
“There is talk of an auction.”
“Auctioning what?”
The aide coughed, embarrassed by the excesses of powerful men. Diplomatic Immunity could breed corruption.
“Of some valuable contraband, that is all I could find out. It could be anything, Ambassador.”
Ackerman had tuned out his aide’s voice on the word contraband. It could be anything, but he knew exactly what it was. Women. It would happen without the summit’s knowledge. Its only role was in bringing powerful men together in one place. But where powerful men gathered, corruption could feed.
“When?”
“Tomorrow evening.”
Ackerman lowered his voice and spoke with an intensity that his aide had never heard before. “I want the location.”
The aide objected timidly as his employer spoke on. “And I want the names, Hamill. All of them. But especially the man at the top. There’s one more thing.”
He paused and Joshua Hamill wondered what more he could possibly ask of him. Then he asked the impossible. “I want to attend.”
***
Midnight.
“I’ve pulled the girls’ post-mortem records Marc. They make grim reading, although not quite as grim as Britt Ackerman’s.”
John rubbed his eyes tiredly and yawned down the phone. He lifted the first file in front of him and flicked it open to the summary. Amanda Wilson, nineteen. Studying French at University and found dead in a skip at the foot of the Cavehill, a mountain of basalt and granite that guarded Belfast. She’d been burned with cigarettes and raped repeatedly. Most of her bones had been broken while she was alive, and finally she’d been suffocated. Most probably with a carrier bag, judging by the plastic shreds that had been found between her teeth.
He opened the second file. Grainne McCrory, an art student, also nineteen. Found in the foliage near Belfast’s Zoo without even an attempt at burial. Her injuries were similar to Amanda Wilson’s. He could see how neither of them had turned up on Davy’s searches. Nothing about their deaths matched Britt Ackerman’s, apart from being raped and murdered. Sadly it was a description that covered hundreds of women’s murders worldwide every year.
Neither girl had Britt Ackerman’s ante-mortem lacerations or strangulation. She had died from exsanguination while the other two girls had been suffocated. Britt had been displayed indoors using religious symbolism, while the others had been left like rubbish, abandoned to the elements. But all of them had been girls with a future ahead of them.
“They weren’t killed by the same man as Britt Ackerman, Marc. Everything about the murders is different to hers, but the same as each other.”
Craig nodded, then realised that John couldn’t see him down the phone. “You’re right. Britt’s death was frenzied and clumsy, as if they didn’t know what they were doing. Ripley killed her, and I doubt he got his hands dirty very often. Someone else killed these two girls, someone who enjoyed it.”
“And took their time. They were burnt repeatedly for at least a week.”
Craig sighed heavily, knowing that it was unlikely they’d pin individual murders to particular men, and give the families a name to
hate. But if they could catch the whole group they could argue about that then.
***
Friday. 1.30am
“Who else is part of this?”
Liam brought his fist down on the table in front of Tim Morgan’s face and then leaned in so close that he could hear his heartbeat. Morgan recoiled visibly and Craig unfolded his arms, knowing that after ninety minutes of Liam’s yelling he was almost ready to fold.
Craig leaned forward and saw the sweat running freely off Morgan’s forehead. Then his breathing suddenly became shallow and speeded up. He was deliberately hyperventilating! Knowing he would black out from lack of oxygen to the brain. He was playing for extra time, but the girls didn’t have time. Craig shocked him into stopping with his next words.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you Mr Morgan. We’ll still be here when you wake up.”
He leaned forward slightly, closing the gap between them in artificial warmth.
“You’re looking at taking the fall for everything unless you cooperate. But if you do, then I’ll speak up for you at sentencing. It can make the difference to where you’re housed and for how long.”
Morgan stared at him suspiciously, but Craig saw the rise and fall of his chest slowing as he began to breath normally again. He kept talking, still sitting close.
“Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you’re a very small player in this venture. Whatever it is. Yes?”
Morgan nodded slowly and Liam watched the interaction, smiling inside. There was no one better than Craig at playing ‘good cop’ when he needed something.
“And let’s say that you got in deeper than you meant to, but when you tried to break away they threatened your life?”
Morgan nodded again, a glimmer of hope lighting his eyes. It was all bollocks of course - Morgan had been up to his eyes in the whole thing. But if Craig gave him an out, he might talk. They could worry about the logistics later. The only important thing now was finding the girls.
They’d searched the house but it was empty, just as Craig had predicted. That meant they were keeping the girls somewhere else and he needed to find out where.
Craig could see Morgan calculating. Coerced into helping in fear of his life. Why, he was a big a victim as the women, wasn’t he? Craig knew exactly what his skewed logic was saying and the lies he was telling himself. He disgusted him, but he pushed his distaste down hard, fixing a sympathetic look on his face as if he was talking to a victim. Poor Dr Morgan, you wanted to break away but they threatened your life, didn’t they? Like hell they did.
As Morgan did his sums, Craig was doing his own. They knew about McGurk, but there was a lawyer too and they needed his name. If the girls had all been killed more bodies would have been found. That meant that most of the missing girls might still be alive somewhere. Sold and used, but alive.
He shuddered inwardly, imagining Lucia as one of them and wanted to kill the weak-chinned bastard opposite him with his bare hands. But this wasn’t about what he felt, or the urges he wanted to express. They could wait. Then he’d beat the hell out of his liver with alcohol instead.
He watched Morgan carefully, scrutinising his body language. After a moment Morgan let out a low sigh, and lowered his shoulders just a fraction. That was it, the ‘tell’. He was going to cooperate.
When Morgan spoke his voice was firm and professional, nothing like the pleading whine of earlier. Liam stepped back, shocked at his sudden composure.
“I need some things from you.”
Craig nodded curtly and he went on. “Right now I need a coffee and a cigarette.”
Liam’s hand moved towards the no-smoking sign and Craig stopped it with a glance. Morgan could smoke out of both ears and his nose if he gave them the girls.
“OK, and?”
“I want this signed off by a Judge before I go any further.” He leaned forward slowly, fixing Craig with his eyes. “But not James Dawson. It has to be another Judge.”
Craig knew he’d just given them the lawyer’s name. James Dawson - the man he’d appeared before on Monday. A High Court Judge. Dear God, how high did this go?
He rose quickly to leave. “We’ll get that sorted out immediately. Liam, organise the coffee please and I’ll sort out the Judge. I’ll be back in an hour.”
Liam looked curiously at him, and then nodded, knowing not to ask. He buzzed Jack Harris grudgingly, and ordered coffee and some cigarettes for their ‘guest’.
***
3.30am
Craig had managed to get Judge Standish to sign Morgan’s deal, certain that Dawson would block them at every turn. James Dawson, the youngest Judge in Northern Ireland. The man he’d stood in front of four days before, giving evidence on the Greer case. A kidnapper, rapist and murderer. He shook his head sadly. Absolute power bred absolute corruption.
Once Morgan had his deal he talked well into the night. He named names and told them how long the sales had been going on. Since 2007. First it was just a few girls each year, then more and more, until the floodgates had opened in the last year. Six years when vulnerable women had been kidnapped and sold and killed. Six years when they’d been taken from everything they knew, never to be returned. Tearing their families apart.
The ordinary prostitution they started with in 2003 hadn’t been enough for any of them after a while. They’d moved onto more sinister games in 2007, once they’d set Sylvia Bryce up in her own place. He admitted that they’d been careless in the beginning, not caring whether the girls had families or not until they’d moved to Belfast in 2010. The operation had gone up-market then and they’d really got security conscious. And choosy. Virgins and orphans, and the police and judiciary sewn up. Was it any wonder they’d gone undetected for so long?
Craig gritted his teeth and delved into the questions that no-one wanted to ask, never mind hear the answers to.
“What did you do with them?”
Morgan squinted at him slyly, certain of his safety but not certain enough to admit that he’d played any part in the crimes. “They took them to Headquarters.”
“Headquarters? Where you were hiding?”
Morgan nodded and Liam leaned forward, interrupting.
“We’ve searched it.” His voice grew angrier by the word. “There was nothing there. No girls, nothing.”
No, there’d been nothing there. Nothing except dark basement rooms with sealed doors, the detritus of young women scattered all around them. And a double garage filled with film equipment and internet links, conjuring up images of movies made for audiences far afield. Films that neither of them ever wanted to watch.
Nothing to see but the signs of the girls’ rapid exit. Forced and bound with gaffer tape and rope. Frightened and alone, with only a look into each other’s eyes to provide them with any comfort.
The semen stains told them exactly what had happened in those bedrooms. The straps and chains and blood embedded in the garage floor underlying the movies’ stories. How many girls had died like Amanda Wilson, Grainne McCrory and Britt Ackerman? With the life squeezed or skewered out or them to arouse some man’s lust? Some animal’s lust. Ordinary sex or love wasn’t enough for them. These bastards had to watch women die to get their thrills.
Liam visualised the girls’ terror as he talked, picturing his wife Danni in that place. Finally his temper burst through the dam of his professionalism, and before Craig could stop him he kicked hard at Morgan’s chair, knocking him onto the floor. He stood above him, fists clenched, and bellowed as loudly as Craig had ever heard him. “Where the hell are they, you bastard?”
Craig leaped across the room and grabbed his arm, staring directly into his eyes. The look said everything, but its clearest message was ‘It’s what he wants. Don’t give it to him.’ For a moment the room was still, and then Liam nodded imperceptibly. Craig reached down, lifting up the chair and Morgan, continuing the interview as if the incident had never occurred.
He ignored Morgan’s cries of ‘police brutality’ makin
g his voice as calm as he ever could. His warm mixed accent seemed to sooth Morgan, and with a brief grudging glimpse at Liam he continued, knowing that his deal was contingent on the safe rescue of the girls.
“Who else is involved, Mr Morgan? Where have they taken the girls?”
Morgan tapped another cigarette from the pack and Craig leaned forward, lighting it for him. After a couple of drags’ delay to assert control, he started to speak.
“McGurk. Ken McGurk. And James Dawson, the Judge.”
Liam gave a gasp at the second name but Craig sat unsurprised. Morgan continued. “Ripley you know about.” His face contorted in disgust. “He was an idiot. They should never have brought him in. But he was loaded, and he went to school with Dawson and McGurk. Inbred pricks.”
Craig agreed with him, wondering how much of it would have happened if moral outrage hadn’t been dulled by youthful loyalty. Morgan finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on the table, making Liam’s fist twitch. He was pushing his immunity as far as it would go.
Craig spoke again, more urgently, certain that neither McGurk nor Dawson was the group’s leader. “Who’s above them? They don’t have the power to take this as far as the film equipment indicates. Who else?”
Morgan smirked. “Clever little plod, aren’t you? But you’re right. The locals wouldn’t appreciate the type of movies they made. They moved into the international market. The web made it easy.”
‘They’ again. Craig knew that by the end of the day Morgan would have convinced himself he’d had no part in anything. No case for him to answer. Well, Judge Standish might have been lenient to help them catch the rest, but he hadn’t been that lenient. Morgan was going away for years, albeit in more comfort and for less time than his friends.
The part of the deal that really stuck in Craig’s throat was Morgan’s insistence on not being labelled a sex offender. He knew what happened to them in prison. Craig shrugged inwardly. Word would get out anyway, even if they did send him down for Ripley’s murder.
The Waiting Room (#4 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 24