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

by Catriona King

  The auctioneer nodded the man forward, rewarding his purchase with a closer inspection of the goods. He struggled onto the catwalk and waddled slowly towards the girl. His face was old and wrinkled and his body corpulent with fat. The signs of a badly done hair transplant showed in the spotlight. He approached her with a lascivious look and grabbed her wrists roughly, turning her around to show his new ‘book’ to his disappointed opponents. After a few cheers from the crowd their host quieted them again.

  “All lots are held until after the auction.”

  The old man’s face fell realising he’d have to curb his excesses for another while. The compere motioned him to return to his seat and turned back to his notes, signalling for the girl to be removed and the next lot to be brought through.

  Craig nodded at Ackerman to stay where he was and squeezed past him, walking towards the guard at the back of the room. He raised his voice slightly as the increase in volume indicated another girl had been brought in.

  “Could you tell me where the bathroom is?”

  The young man squinted at him suspiciously and then shrugged, indicating left with his head. He carried his machine-pistol ready, with the safety-catch off. Craig knew he would use it at the first sign of trouble, and probably enjoy it. The look he was giving the wealthy audience was one of pure envy.

  Craig walked quickly into the bathroom and entered a cubicle, removing his jacket. He hung it on the door and tore swiftly through the lining, exposing the microphone and whispering. “Liam.”

  Liam jerked his attention from the squirrel in front of him and sat forward urgently, grabbing at his receiver. “Here, boss.”

  Craig outlined the room’s lay-out and what they were using it for. Then he gave him exact positions for the armed guards, and his best guess at where the girls were being held. One guard brought up the girls and he reckoned on one more at the room where they were being held. It was a calculated guess and the risks were high. Although not as high as a Waco style stand-off.

  He signed off and washed his hands, just in case the guard was listening outside the door. Then he re-entered the auction with a nod to Bjorn Ackerman, knowing that Liam would do whatever had to be done.

  ***

  Armed response had been outside the tower for hours; plans made and every contingency outlined. Now Craig’s information would focus their attack. The commander nodded to Liam and the armed men moved forward in unison, covering every exit. Once Craig gave the ‘go’ they only had a few seconds to get in, disable the guards and take charge of the room. Before the men inside got away, or worse, harmed the girls.

  Liam’s palms were sweating. But not from fear, from excitement. This was real policing. Not paper-pushing and form filling, but this. Saving the victims and putting the scum away for good. Fingers crossed.

  ***

  Twenty minutes and two more sales later the atmosphere in the room had palpably relaxed. The men were getting drunk and carelessly exchanging names, no matter how often their host reminded them not to. One group of young bucks were tossing dice in a side-bet, and an elderly man wearing tails was snoozing in the corner - the price of too much brandy. The candles had burnt out minutes before, and the only remaining light came from the single spot focused on the catwalk. It was time.

  Craig strolled to the back of the room for a drink, passing the young guard on his way. He was standing arms folded now, leching at the girls. His gun was pointed towards the ground, safety on. Certain that the room was no threat.

  Craig tested the water, offering him a drink. He shook his head smiling “More than my job’s worth.” But his earlier wariness was gone and he turned lecherously back to the catwalk, foolishly turning his back.

  Craig moved quickly. He tapped hard on the microphone twice to give Liam the signal, then swooped down, pulling the spotlight’s plug from the wall.

  The guard swung round just as the room plunged into darkness, and Craig’s fist connected hard with his jaw, producing a satisfying crack. The room was pitch-black except for the flickers of a few mobile phones. Then Craig shouted, “Stop, police” and there was instant chaos.

  Chairs toppled in the rush of people scrambling for the doors. Shots spewed randomly across the room as the guards sprang into action, firing at unseen targets. Suddenly three loud bangs tore through the room and the door split in two. Liam’s men entered, amid shouts of “Halt! Armed police.”

  Bjorn Ackerman saw his chance in the darkness. Once Craig had headed for the drinks table he’d focused on the host and lifted his wine-glass, knowing exactly what was going to happen next. As the lights went down he launched himself across the catwalk, knocking the girl on it to one side and lunging for the auctioneer. He smashed the glass and drew his arm back, swinging down hard with its remnants and ripping the flesh away from the man’s right arm. He gripped him hard, determined not to let go. This was the leader. The man really responsible for his daughter’s death.

  Armed police swarmed into the hall, kicking chairs out of their way. Then white light flooded the room, blinding everyone. Ackerman loosened his grip for a second, shocked. Just for a second, but it was enough for the man to flee. Ackerman blinked furiously. He couldn’t see him but the exits were blocked - there was no way he could escape. And he’d marked him, he was sure of that. He would find him later.

  As Craig’s eyes adjusted to the glare he made out Liam’s tall shape across the room and picked his way through the wreckage towards him. Tactical support had disabled the guards, but not without shots being fired. They’d find out how many later. Judging by the blood on the floor it had been more than one.

  He reached Liam and nodded his thanks. “Good job. Any casualties on our side?”

  “A few cuts and bruises, but otherwise no.” Liam squinted at Craig. “You OK?”

  Craig smiled and gazed down at his filthy suit - he’d knocked over the drinks table in the dark. “Nothing that a bit of dry cleaning can’t cure. Where’s Ackerman?”

  Liam indicated some chairs in the corner where Bjorn Ackerman was slumped, with his head bowed.

  Craig walked over to him. “Are you all right, Ambassador?”

  Ackerman didn’t look at him, just stared into space. As the girls were led past, draped in blankets, Craig knew that he was thinking of Britt. Finally he croaked. “I cut him. On the arm.”

  Craig stared at him, puzzled for a second, and then realised he was referring to the host. “What! With what?” They’d been searched for knives when they’d arrived.

  Ackerman held up the bloodied wine glass and Craig smiled at his ingenuity. The blood could be useful for forensics.

  “I got to him just as the lights went out. It was definitely him that I stabbed, and when you find the cut you’ll be able to I.D. him.”

  Craig nodded. He watched the men being rounded up - none of them masked now. Their host must have removed his to mingle with the crowd. Without it he could pretend he was just a buyer, instead of the mastermind organising the whole thing. It would have given his barristers reasonable doubt to play with, but Ackerman’s quick thinking had removed that defence.

  Craig put his hand on the other man’s shoulder gratefully. But Ackerman’s lack of response told him that finding his daughter’s killer was no comfort for losing her.

  ***

  Within thirty minutes they had the men corralled and the girls in ambulances heading for St Marys’ Hospital. Liam had brought John in, to coordinate the medical operation, and he’d certified the girls fit to travel. They were to be cared-for in one place - easier to guard and to debrief. John had pulled some strings with the hospital.

  Craig scanned the large hall for security, nodding in approval at Liam’s posting of armed men at every door. Then he scanned the crowd of men with undisguised disgust. Their ages ranged from thirty to seventy but they had two things in common. Too much money and no conscience. He nodded to Liam and his loud bass boomed out, about to be used to best effect. “Roll your sleeves up.”

 
Most of the men obeyed meekly, a few even wiping tears from their faces. Craig’s heart was stone. They could cry until hell froze over for all the pity he felt. The more arrogant ones squinted defiantly and Liam stepped towards them threateningly.

  “Pull your sleeves up, or I’ll pull them up for you. And you won’t like that, trust me.”

  They grudgingly obeyed and Craig scanned their sullen faces, particularly the older ones, imagining how they’d look wearing a mask. They stood, arms bared, and Craig beckoned Bjorn Ackerman across to examine them one by one. At the end of the line he turned to Craig, shocked, but Craig already knew. No-one had blood on their arms, or anywhere else that he could see. The auctioneer had got away.

  Without warning, Ackerman fell to his knees and doubled up as if he was in pain. His grief for his daughter had only been stemmed by his belief that he’d got the leader. Now he howled like a dying animal, chilling everyone in the room. Craig felt the sound on a visceral level, imagining how he’d feel if it was a woman he loved. He wanted to grab one of the guards’ rifles and shoot every man in the group.

  Liam saw his glance towards the guns and stepped forward, ready to move. Craig’s eyes were wild, like he’d never seen them before. In that split second Liam knew that he could kill all of them and not feel any guilt.

  Craig stared at him, eyes burning, while everyone in the room watched the tableau. Then the moment passed and he turned abruptly, hunkering down beside Bjorn Ackerman. He rested a hand on his back, breaking his isolation then murmured a promise that they would find the leader, or pull Northern Ireland apart trying.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Saturday

  Craig swung his chair around and gazed out the window at the Lagan. He was nursing a whisky in his bruised hand. They weren’t supposed to drink at work but the Chief had sent a bottle across as a thank you. And who was he to exercise restraint when he had permission not to?

  The women were being cared for at St Marys, under armed guard. It wasn’t likely the auctioneer would come looking for them, but you never could tell. And there could be others out there besides him.

  One by one the girls were taking back the identities that had been stripped from them by months of brutality. The room they’d been kept in had beds eight deep and three high, packing two dozen in at any one time. With no toileting or space to wash, they were dirty and broken and weak. Too weak to fight - exactly how their captors had wanted them. Break the body and you break the will. A technique used by torturers for centuries.

  A few of the newer girls could still speak, but those who’d been there for months were silent. Too traumatised to even give their names. The process of identification would be slow, but hopefully, with kindness, they would regain their voices. Helped by their families claiming them, and the knowledge that they would never be tortured again.

  The men were singing like Pavarotti to save what was left of their asses. Craig hoped it would do them no good in court. Only a prison sentence could begin to pay for what they’d done. Interpol would follow the trail of traded girls and snuff movies across borders, hoping not to find more corpses at the end of it. But they all knew that Britt Ackerman wouldn’t be the only dead daughter they’d discover.

  Davy and John had started the process of identifying the missing; the briefing room was a meshwork of D.N.A. and prints. If they could match them with anyone known to be dead, then they could help the search for the living.

  Craig gazed out over the river, tapping his glass in time to a Snow Patrol track playing softly in the background. The sky outside was dull and cold, the only movement was a gull swooping towards the water in search of food. He watched the grey waves bob up and down in the wind, occasional gusts whipping up white froth, making the Lagan look like a drab cappuccino.

  The rhythm hypnotised him so that the ring of his desk phone went unheard. Everything but Gary Lightbody’s voice faded into the background. Nicky tapped the door urgently and when he didn’t answer she opened it, tapping his shoulder instead. “Sir, the Chief Constable’s on the line.”

  She lifted his desk phone and handed it to him, half-smiling at the whisky.

  Craig shook himself from his reverie and listened, ending the call with a frustrated, “Sir.” He wondered how he could tell Bjorn Ackerman what he’d just heard.

  ***

  They’d talked long into the night but finally fell into bed, forced to share one by the lack of a spare bedroom and Annette’s concern for the children. Any right Pete had to worry about them had been lost the moment he’d had an affair.

  Annette woke up, her head heavy from lack of sleep, and stumbled sleepily into the shower, dreading another day spent talking. When she re-entered the bedroom Pete was already dressed, with his car-keys in his hand. She knew she should be frightened that he was leaving for good, but she was five days past fear and twenty-four hours past caring. So she asked the question.

  “Are you leaving?”

  He gazed at her, knowing exactly what she meant but using the question’s ambiguity for time to pause. Annette scrutinised his face, waiting for an answer. His hair was standing on end like it had done when he was young, and for a moment she could see the man that she’d fallen in love with. A wave of affection washed over her and she was shocked by its force. She still loved him despite what he’d done, even though she’d hated him for days.

  He nodded in reply to her question and then saw the look of shock that crossed her face, adding hastily. “I’m going to tell her it’s over.” His face softened. “And that I love you too much to ever leave.”

  As he said it, Annette stopped pretending she didn’t care what his answer was, and started crying. He walked over, and took her tentatively in his arms.

  “I’m sorry love. I should have told you how unhappy I was. We can make it work, I know we can.”

  She looked up at him and nodded, acknowledging that her job affected him as well as her. They could make it work again, but not alone.

  “We need to go to counselling, Pete. There’s fault on both sides.”

  ***

  Bjorn Ackerman arrived at the C.C.U. hoping for good news, but enough of a pragmatist to know there would be bad mixed in with it. Craig met him in reception and brought him up to the squad. It was quiet. Only the on-call staff were still around, covering any cases that might come in. Nicky was making fresh coffee when they arrived and Liam was in his usual position of feet up on the desk, dictating the case report for the raid. Davy was off with Maggie to a friend’s wedding, and everyone was getting back to normal. Except for the man seated across from Craig.

  Nicky brought the coffee and then left. Craig poured a cup for them both, sipping at his in silence while the Ambassador read his thoughts.

  “You’re going to tell me that your Chief Constable is sorry, but only some of the men you arrested can be prosecuted in the U.K. Aren’t you Chief Inspector?”

  Craig nodded, too angry with the system to speak. But relieved that the Ambassador seemed to be taking it so well. Ackerman saw his anger and put down his cup.

  “Their countries will deal with them Mr Craig, believe me. If not with prison then with disgrace. But I wouldn’t underestimate how many will be incarcerated for this. I have influence, and many of my friends are Ministers around the world. The D.N.A. from the glass will help to find the leader, but if I were to see the names of the men that you arrested last night…”

  Craig had anticipated the request but he knew couldn’t fulfil it. Officially. He opened his desk drawer slowly and lifted out a sheet of paper, placing it face-down on the desk. Then he talked on about the men that they could prosecute. In addition to McGurk, Dawson and Morgan eleven more men at the auction were U.K. citizens, without diplomatic immunity. They were definitely going down. Forty-five others belonged to countries the U.K. had extradition agreements with, although five of those were diplomats so they were crying government protection.

  That left around fifty whose countries weren’t likely to p
lay ball with the U.K. courts. Although as Ackerman said, their own countries’ punishment might be worse than anything the U.K. could devise.

  After a few minutes more discussion Craig excused himself to speak to Liam, leaving the door ajar as a shield against accusations. He knew that as soon as he left Ackerman would turn over the paper, and photograph it with his camera-phone. It had the names of everyone at the auction on it, arranged in a table for convenience. Name, address, country, extradition treaty level, immunity - yes or no. Laying it out for anyone who was interested.

  At the bottom of the page was another short list with only three names on it. The three men whose crests resembled the one described by Tim Morgan. Craig knew Ackerman had seen the auctioneer’s cufflinks and recognised the symbol. It wouldn’t take him long to narrow the list to one.

  Five minutes later Craig returned and the men shared another cup of coffee, then he slipped the sheet of paper back into his drawer. He stood up and shook the Ambassador’s hand, certain that it wouldn’t be their last meeting.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Joshua Hamill was sitting at his desk, enjoying a well-earned rest in preparation for the summit starting in two days. Then it would be “where are my papers?” and “what’s that country’s position on nuclear weapons?” for forty-eight hours. As well as supporting the Ambassador, he’d be working with the other political aides, to keep things running smoothly throughout. He was exhausted even thinking about it.

  The door opened abruptly and Bjorn Ackerman entered unannounced. Hamill sprang to his feet, knocking over his cup of tea in the process. He watched balefully as the brown liquid spread slowly across the floor.

  He hadn’t seen the Ambassador since they’d discussed Friday night’s event, and he was curious about what had happened. Not that he’d ever ask him. That wasn’t the diplomatic way.

  Ackerman pulled up a chair, ignoring the mess, and beckoned his aide to sit. He steepled his fingers, as he always did when he was contemplating a major decision, so Hamill was surprised at what came next.