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

by Catriona King

  Craig rubbed his eyes tiredly, certain they had sand in them for real today. He repeated the question more firmly. “Who else, Mr Morgan?”

  Morgan shook his head. “I only know the name of one other, but there are three more at the top. The one I know is called Janos. He’s Hungarian nobility, so good luck convicting him in the U.K. courts.”

  “Let me worry about that. Tell me about the others.”

  “Another was about fifty, with long grey hair and a beard. I never knew his name but Dawson used to call him The Cavalier. I can do you a sketch of him.” He said it as if he was being magnanimous. “The top man never showed his face to anyone but McGurk. He was his right hand man. Number two.”

  Liam interjected incredulously. “You’ve got numbers!”

  Morgan nodded and then straightened his arm abruptly, showing off his cuff. A silver link shone in the room’s neon light. Craig made out the number six.

  His voice grew colder. “Ripley was seven?”

  “Yes. McGurk is two, Dawson three, Janos and the Cavalier are four and five.” He laughed. “I can never remember which is which.”

  John had been spot on. It was a hierarchy. And the key to everything was its number one.

  “Do you have any clue to the leader’s identity? Accent? Height? Anything?”

  Morgan went to shake his head, and then stopped as if he remembered something. He debated for a moment whether he should tell them and then he shrugged. Craig knew then that he’d decided to take as many people down with him as possible. There was no honour among murderers.

  “He sounded older than us. Probably sixty. And he was English, definitely English. And public school educated. You could tell by his accent and cufflinks.”

  “How did you see those? I thought you’d never met him.”

  “I didn’t. But he was on the video-link one day and he stretched out his arm. I noticed his cufflinks because they were expensive. And because the rest of us just wore a number.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “A white metal square. With a crest.”

  “Would you recognise the crest again?”

  Morgan nodded, smiling at his own cleverness. “Yes. It was heraldic. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  Craig stood up to leave. “Liam, wake up a sketch artist and get them here now. Then take McLean and lift Dawson and McGurk.” He reached into his pocket and handed him some folded paper. “I got warrants for them both earlier.” He gave a small smile. “Judge Standish seemed particularly happy when he signed Dawson’s.”

  Liam stared at the papers. The boss was always three steps ahead, something he’d have to learn before he went for D.C.I. That and keeping his temper under control, even when he hated the bastard in front of him.

  “I’ll get Davy on to the Heraldry websites first thing. I’m off to find a copy of Debrett’s.”

  Morgan spoke again just as Craig reached the door. His tone was sly, and when Craig turned he saw that the look on his face matched. “Don’t you want to hear my last little snippet?”

  Craig walked slowly back to the table and loomed over him, with a look that said ‘this had better be important.’

  Morgan glanced at the wall clock and smiled. It was five o’clock on Friday morning. “The auction takes place this evening at six. And I’ve no idea where. I heard them refer to the tower but I don’t have a clue where it is. You’ve thirteen hours to find it before the girls disappear forever.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Friday 14th June. 5.30am

  Craig walked quietly across the bedroom as the first rays of dawn seeped through the light summer curtains. He’d dropped home to have a shower and change his clothes. As he was leaving, he leaned down to kiss Julia farewell. A small hand reached out from beneath the covers, beckoning him seductively towards her. He sidestepped it deftly. If she pulled him into bed now he would never get out.

  “Marco, you haven’t stopped for days. At least let me make you some breakfast.”

  “Sorry, pet. I can’t stay. I’ll get something at the office.”

  He gazed affectionately at her for a moment and allowed himself the indulgence of ruffling her hair. Her long red curls were covering the white bed-sheets like a rambling rose. Craig leaned over to touch them and her warm floral scent filled the air, its soft notes calming him immediately. He steeled himself hard not to climb in beside her and turned swiftly for the door. “I’ll see you later.”

  She called something after him and he heard it just as he closed the door. “When?”

  Good question. He answered it quietly in the stairwell, but she didn’t hear.

  “Not before this evening. Or until we catch them all.”

  ***

  8am

  Craig yawned and gazed out through the window of his office, watching the sun’s rays creep across Belfast Lough. He’d been back since six doing paperwork, now he was sipping a well-earned coffee and dreaming. Before everyone arrived and the phone started ringing.

  A sharp rap on the door dragged him back to eight o’clock. He answered it without looking, recognising Liam’s steps. “Come in.”

  Liam entered and slumped heavily in a chair, prompting Craig to turn. He looked like death, not even slightly warmed up. His voice croaked with tiredness.

  “You look like shit, boss.”

  Craig laughed, despite his exhaustion. “And you look like Brad Pitt of course.”

  They laughed ruefully, knowing it would only get worse in the next twelve hours.

  “Anything more from Morgan?”

  “Nope. Slimy bastard.” Liam stared at the ground, momentarily embarrassed. “Thanks for earlier.”

  “You mean when I stopped you killing him? Don’t thank me, I was sorry I had to do it, but it would have ruined your career. He would have deserved whatever you did to him.”

  Liam raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t like Craig, but this case was plumbing new depths of depravity. And they all had a limit.

  “Dawson’s in Stranmillis and McGurk’s in High Street. Which one do you want?”

  Craig shook his head. They were missing something and he needed time to go back over the evidence. “Have you got Morgan’s sketch of the top man yet?”

  “Aye. It’s not bad.”

  “Good. Get it to Davy with the description of the others. I’ll get him working on the crest as soon as he gets in. You take whichever one you choose, Dawson or McGurk, and give Jake first go at the other one. I’ll join you later.”

  Liam grinned broadly. “I’ll have McGurk then. I always fancied giving an A.C.C. hell.”

  ***

  Bjorn Ackerman tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair and stared at his mobile as if it would explode at any moment. At eight o’ clock he got his reward. He listened as Hamill whispered.

  “It will cost a lot of money, Ambassador.”

  “I don’t care. How did you get the information?”

  Ackerman could hear his aide smile, pleased with his own performance. “Diplomacy, sir. And I called in a few favours. You might find that you have to host a few more parties than normal this year.”

  It would be a small price to pay. Hamill swallowed before speaking again. “Entry is a minimum of five hundred thousand Euros, Ambassador. In cash.” He hesitated. “They…they said it’s redeemable…against the contraband.”

  Ackerman’s jaw clenched. Then he thanked God he had the money to do what had to be done. Half a million Euros was less than one month’s interest on his trust fund. He decided to test his aide’s ignorance, to see if it was genuine or not.

  “Do you know what the contraband is?” Hamill’s sharp intake of breath said that he didn’t.

  “No! And I don’t want to. It’s above my pay grade and it can stay there.”

  Ackerman nodded to himself. “Thank you. One last question. Did they ask my name?” Hamill had been briefed to give a false one if asked. But then, even asking would tell him something.

  “
No, sir. They asked nothing. Just whether you could afford the entrance fee.” He paused, restarting with distaste in his voice. “He said that was the only passport anyone needed.”

  If you had money in this world, everything else could be bought.

  “Tell your contact I will be there with the money. But tell no one else. No one, do you hear me?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Hamill would stick to his word. Discretion was his job and whatever the Ambassador was up to, he didn’t want to know. Although he had a nasty feeling he’d be cleaning up the mess afterwards, whether he wanted to know or not.

  ***

  Craig was tapping a pen against his forehead and staring into space when Nicky knocked the door and offered him fresh coffee. He nodded and kept on thinking, but his mind was fogged up. His brain alone wasn’t going to crack this - he needed help. He threw open the door and called Davy’s name across the floor.

  Davy hastily dropped the file he was reading and entered Craig’s office a second later. Craig put a coffee on the desk in front of him, then sat down again, falling into silence. Davy thought he was day-dreaming, but a soft tap on the door a minute later showed that he’d been waiting instead. Nicky entered with the conference comm. and nodded that he was through to the lab. A three-way call with John and Davy was as close as Craig could get to a think-tank today.

  He leaned forward and pressed the comm. “You’re on, John. Davy’s in the room with me.”

  The disembodied voice of John Winter came clearly down the line. “Hi Marc. Hi Davy. What was so urgent that you couldn’t have organised a meeting?”

  Craig brought him up to date with Morgan’s interview and Liam and Jake McLean’s whereabouts, finishing with the reason for the rush. “We had twelve hours from six o’clock this morning John.” He shot a look at the clock. It was nearly ten o’clock. “Now we have eight. Once the auction takes place those girls will be lost forever and our trail will go completely cold.”

  Davy leaned forward and started shouting into the comm. as if it was a deaf grandparent. It was his first conference-call and Craig smiled as John let out an “Oww” at the other end.

  “There’s no need to shout Davy, John can hear you if you speak normally.”

  “S…Sorry. I’ve never done this before.”

  “What did you want to say, anyway?”

  “It’s just… the man above Dawson and McGurk w…wears cufflinks with a crest. Oh, by the way, I think I’ve found it, s…sir. The crest.”

  Craig’s eyebrows shot up in admiration. He nodded him on. “W…Well, with a crest, aren’t we really looking for people on two levels?”

  John’s voice came through. “Yes, I think you’re right Davy. One group would be members of the aristocracy or royalty…”

  Davy finished his thought. “And the others might be high government officials.”

  Craig interjected. “Why not both together?”

  “House of Lords, Marc?”

  Craig nodded and then remembered that John couldn’t see him. “Yes.”

  Davy nodded, and then shook his head furiously.

  “For the intercom Davy please. Remember John can’t see you.”

  “S…Sorry, but no. Look at the date.”

  “What?” The word came from the others simultaneously. What date? It was the fourteenth of June. What was so special about that?

  “This w…weekend. Remember what’s happening this weekend. And w…who’s going to be here.” He saw Craig’s blank face and added a clue excitedly. “In Fermanagh.”

  John’s stunned voice echoed down the line. “God, of course... preparations for the G8 summit. Well done Davy.”

  Craig’s heart sank and he knew Davy was right. The G8 was being held at Lough Erne in Fermanagh for the first time ever. He’d been banking on dealing with rich men. Perhaps even powerful men, who would try to buy their way out of everything, with expensive lawyers and back-handers. But not with men whose diplomatic status gave them a passport around the world and immunity from prosecution. But he knew Davy was right. This was the answer.

  “That’s w…why they’re having the auction tonight. They’ll all be gathering for the G8 at the weekend. How better to get powerful men in one place without raising questions?”

  He was in full flow and Craig interrupted him gently. “That means all the girls for auction are from here. The others would never chance bringing girls into the country to sell. Dawson’s group are supplying the girls and the venue, and the others are bringing the money.”

  John interjected urgently. “There’s no way these men will give their true identities, Marc. That means there’s some other entrance criteria.”

  They fell silent for a moment and then spoke simultaneously. “Money.” No, more than that. Cash. It was a passport to anywhere and it didn’t carry any risk of identification.

  Davy spoke first. “That means two things, s…sir. No names will be given but they’ll also have to hide their I.D.s so they don’t recognise each other. And they’ll have s…smuggled large amounts of cash into the country, breaching currency laws. The import limit’s ten thousand euros. ”

  He was right. It could give them an opening if they wanted to perform searches and catch the buyers. Although they’d have miles of red tape to cut through to get permission. But searches would alert the men that they were onto them, then the girls would disappear quickly, perhaps forever. No. It was too big a risk.

  “The first sign we’re onto them and they’ll get rid of the girls.” The words hung in the air as they each visualised what that meant.

  Then John spoke. “Bjorn Ackerman.”

  It was as much as question as a statement and Craig murmured “Yes”. It was what he’d been thinking for hours, not daring to trust his own tired ideas.

  “Would he do it, Marc?”

  “I think he would. But we’d have to make it watertight. The Chief’s supporting us all the way, but a dead diplomat might be a step too far even for him.”

  The new Chief Constable fancied himself a bit of a maverick. More Sweeney than Heartbeat. But sanctioning Ackerman risking his life would be a step to far.

  “Dead, sir?”

  Craig nodded at Davy, remembering that behind his huge brain there was still a naïve young man. And a civilian whose part in solving their crimes was always at the clean end.

  “If they find Ackerman’s undercover, there’s no way they’ll let him out alive.”

  “He might want the chance to help, Marc. And surely he’s entitled. These bastards killed his daughter - wouldn’t you want to catch them in his position?”

  “I’d w…want to do more than catch them. If I was Mr Ackerman I’d kill them all myself.”

  Craig sighed in agreement. That was exactly what he was worried about.

  ***

  Dawson had clammed-up on McLean, just as Craig knew that he would. There was no way a lawyer was ever going to incriminate himself. He just hoped that Liam was having better luck with McGurk. Davy had narrowed the owner of the crest down to three possibilities, and was chasing which of them was coming to the summit. He was also scanning maps for anything that resembled a tower, between Ballymena and Fermanagh.

  Tim Morgan was flicking through every photograph of diplomats and government officials that they possessed, trying to identify the minor royal and the bearded man. Now Craig was left with the task of getting Ackerman to volunteer for a dangerous mission, without, as Lucia would say, ‘turning Rambo’.

  ***

  When Bjorn Ackerman finally returned Craig’s call, the diplomat’s tone of voice suggested he viewed the police more as an obstacle than an ally. Craig already knew that he hadn’t been sitting quietly mourning his daughter, judging by the number of probing calls that Fiona Torney and Hannah Benner had received. The police had no right to question them on the calls’ content, but they would only be about one thing. Britt Ackerman’s life in Northern Ireland, and her movements in the days before she got killed.


  Craig knew that diplomats heard bullshit all day long from people covering their true motivation with an elegant disguise. So he decided that calling a spade a spade was the only way to go.

  “Mr Ackerman, can we meet again?”

  Ackerman said nothing, but Craig could hear his thoughts and they weren’t pretty. He tried again, cutting straight to the words that he thought would capture the diplomat’s attention.

  “There have been a number of developments in your daughter’s case. They’re leading us to the summit.”

  The word summit was deliberately ambiguous, in case the line was tapped. But the slight intake of breath at the other end told Craig that Ackerman understood him perfectly.

  He kept going. “We have reason to believe that there is an event planned for this evening.”

  “Go on, Mr Craig.”

  “I’m sorry but the rest of this has to be face to face. We have no idea who else is on this line.”

  Ackerman conceded the logic. “My hotel, thirty minutes. Just us two.”

  ***

  11am.

  Ken McGurk sat in High Street’s garishly lit interview room as if he owned the place. In a way, he almost did. True, he’d spent most of his youth in Ballymena, but when he’d come to Belfast three years ago, before Staff College, High Street had been his base. He’d sat in this room countless times, on Liam’s side of the table.

  Jack Harris stood behind the two-way mirror watching as the men faced off. He was really disappointed. He’d liked Ken McGurk when he’d worked there. Had drinks with him plenty of times over the years. His face screwed up in disgust. If he’d known what he was doing then, he’d have poisoned his whisky.

  He watched as Liam leaned forward, pressing the tape machine on, readying himself for his third try in the past three hours. He had some stamina, and more patience than Jack had given him credit for. He must have wanted to reach over and throttle McGurk, wearing their uniform like it was still his right. He gave up that right the first time he touched a woman’s body against her will.