“I want to have a party, Joshua. A drinks party.”
Hamill sat down again, half-smiling. He was pleased the Ambassador was ready to meet people, so soon after his personal loss. A small soiree in a few weeks’ time would be just the thing to ease him back in. Although the use of his first name worried him. It usually preceded something irregular.
“Yes sir, I think that’s an excellent idea.” He consulted the calendar. “The last week in July looks free. Shall we say Saturday the 27th? Thirty to forty guests?”
Ackerman smiled coolly and handed him a sheet of paper. Hamill knew he wouldn’t like what came next.
“Tomorrow evening. Everyone on this list, plus the usual suspects. About two hundred I think.”
Then he stood up and left, brushing past his aide’s objections with a smile.
***
2pm
Craig stretched out on the settee and clicked on the Saturday afternoon sport. He knew he should try to sleep but he couldn’t, his mind was still on the case. It wasn’t over yet, no matter what the Chief Constable said.
He allowed himself a small smile, remembering Terry Harrison’s face when the C.C. had summoned them to his office. He’d talked about the case and then told the D.C.S. that Craig had saved his career - Harrison had nearly choked! He’d had to shake his hand because of where they were, but Craig knew he’d be planning ways to make his life hell in the short time he still had left as his boss.
He gazed sleepily around the living room, wondering where Julia was, and then slipped into a doze. He was woken a few minutes later by the sound of her key in the lock and she entered the room smiling. She bent down to kiss him and then indicated the bottle of wine she’d bought, opening it on his nod.
“I’ve got you a present.”
“Wine’s always welcome.”
She laughed. “No, not the wine. Your birthday present, for Monday.”
He went to remonstrate but she shook her head. “I won’t be here then so I’ll give it to you before I leave. And if it’s OK I’ve organised dinner tomorrow evening with John and Natalie, and asked my mum along. You don’t mind, darling - do you?”
He shook his head, smiling at the word ‘darling’. It was an endearment used in England in the same way that ‘pet’ was used in Northern Ireland. He hadn’t heard it for a while but it sounded familiar.
“I’d love to meet her. I just hope I’m awake.”
She poured the wine and sat on the floor beside him, stroking his hair. “Well then, we’ll just have to make sure you spend lots of time in bed before then.”
***
Sunday 6pm.
Joshua had worked miracles, even if he said so himself. He’d called in every favour that he was owed and managed to secure the largest function-room in the hotel, organising outside caterers from Enniskillen when the hotel kitchen had balked at the task. He gazed around the room, satisfied. It wasn’t as elegant as the party they’d held in Stockholm the month before, but people would understand if things were kept low-key, given the Ambassador’s family tragedy. In fact when people had heard he was holding a soiree at all, they were eager to help and attend, to show their support.
Hamill scanned the guest-list, puzzled. Of course the usual guests had been invited, Ambassadors and Ministers from every country - most of them personal friends of the Ambassador. But the other names were a motley crew. The only thing they seemed to have in common was their wealth. It was so extreme in some cases that it hinted at vulgarity.
He sniffed disdainfully. The Ambassador should be more careful with his acquaintances. Perhaps this wild disregard for protocol was part of his grieving.
The room’s double doors opened and Bjorn Ackerman entered, already dressed to accept his guests, an hour before the event. He marched over to his aide and took the list from him, noting the acceptance level for the night with satisfaction.
“I will greet all guests personally, Joshua.”
Hamill knew then that something was very wrong. It was the second time in two days the Ambassador had used his first name.
“As you wish, sir.”
Ackerman turned on his heel and walked from the room, making his own special plans for that night.
***
7pm
Craig was fixing his tie in the mirror when Julia emerged from the bedroom wearing a dress that he’d never seen before. It was a dark green sheath of shot-silk, and with her red curls tumbling across her white shoulders, she looked like an exotic wood nymph. It was a stunning look and his eyes told her so.
She lifted her small evening bag and opened the front door briskly, telling him it was time to go. The table was booked for eight and she wanted to have time for drinks.
Craig smiled at her powers of organisation, quite happy to be told what to do for a change. He was too tired to be the boss this evening. He glanced quickly at her bag as they walked out and her eyes caught his look.
“You’re wondering where your birthday present is, aren’t you?”
He was embarrassed that she’d guessed. It didn’t matter to him what she gave him, he’d be happy with the smallest gift. But he was curious what would fit in the tiny bag.
She moved the bag away from him pointedly and tapped the side of her nose.
“Never you mind, Superintendent Craig. You’ll find out when it’s time.”
***
Bjorn Ackerman fixed a professional smile on his face and stood by the ornate double doors, greeting each guest personally as they arrived. For the women it was a gracious bow, for the men he knew well a cheerful handshake. But Hamill noticed that for each of the wealthy men on the list he was acting like an American. Grasping their right forearms hard with one hand, while shaking with the other. He had never seen him do such a thing before - it looked most inappropriate.
Ackerman watched carefully as each man approached the door, taking their places in the formal line. Thank God for protocol. At a normal party they would have wandered in randomly and he would never have had control.
He’d struggled with what to do when he found the leader. If he found him. He had to believe that he would come, that his vanity would make him attend the party of a man, whose daughter he’d sanctioned killing. Just as he’d sanctioned the rape and killing of so many more.
He wanted to kill him of course, quickly and brutally. Or slowly, torturing him, just as he’d tortured hundreds of daughters. But what would be the point? It would be too easy, too final. The idea of him in prison would be so much sweeter, especially some of the prisons in the countries he might come from.
The crest had narrowed his identity to one of three men, but he couldn’t invite them alone, that would have been too obvious. The larger crowd would make the leader feel safe; convince him of his own invincibility.
The first of the three was approaching now and Ackerman considered the man with venom. He was small and non-descript, with fair hair. He’d seen enough of the auctioneer to know that it wasn’t him. But he grasped his arm anyway, just in case. Nothing. Ten minutes later the second arrived, a slim, dark man too young to be his prey. A brief greeting later and it was ‘pass friend.’
Then he saw him in the line. Tall and silver haired, elegantly dressed in a tuxedo. He was talking down to an older woman with a look that said she was nothing, her value all gone with the passing years.
Ackerman gazed at his face, dragging his eyes away at intervals, to greet another guest. It was him, he knew it. He glanced across the room at the muscled men in evening dress. None of the guests had noticed them standing beside the doors. Only Hamill had questioned their right to be there, brushed away by Ackerman with one word, ‘security’.
He nodded to their leader and watched as he whispered into his cuff. The men moved from their relaxed poses to a tense alertness, walking calmly towards the line of guests and ready to act on Ackerman’s nod. He’d done his homework, hoping and praying that of the three entitled to wear the crest this man was the auctioneer. The only one w
ith dual nationality.
As the man approached the head of the line two of the guards moved forward, enough of their number still left to block all exits. Then there he was, standing in front of Ackerman, extending his hand and smiling as if he was just another guest.
Ackerman fixed his eyes coldly and took the extended hand, grasping his right forearm hard. The man winced at his purposeful grip, his pain confirming that he was injured. Ackerman could feel a raised ridge of sutures beneath his hand - if he’d ever had any doubt it was gone. He’d gashed the auctioneer’s right arm in the dark and the ridge was exactly where he’d thought it would be.
The grey-haired man’s eyes widened as he realised it was a trap. He wrenched his arm away from Ackerman’s grasp, and turned to run, knocking over his female companion. Even as he turned he registered that Ackerman didn’t follow. There was no move to grab him, no wild shout, no rapid pursuit - he knew that was bad news, not good.
Ten seconds later he was on the floor with a gun at his head. The security detail cuffed him and pulled him to his feet as Ackerman turned to his guests and soothed them. Then he nodded to the band to play lively music and lift the mood.
He turned and walked towards the anteroom, beckoning the guards to follow. Joshua Hamill watched with his mouth open, wondering how he could stop the scandal hitting tomorrow’s news.
***
Craig was on his first pre-dinner drink in The Merchant’s cocktail bar. Natalie was chatting to Julia and her mother, who was a twenty years older and just as beautiful version of her daughter. And he was standing with John at the end of the bar, trying to relax after a hard week. The ring of his mobile wasn’t a welcome sound.
He turned away quickly to answer it, hoping that Julia wouldn’t notice. It was a withheld number.
“D.C.I. Craig.”
Bjorn Ackerman’s fluid tones came down the line. “Good evening Mr Craig.” The triumph in his voice told Craig what he was going to say, before any words followed. He’d found the auctioneer. He interrupted Ackerman urgently, walking into the foyer as he talked.
“Where?”
The Ambassador outlined the party he’d organised, and the steps he’d taken. Craig shook his head; it was unorthodox to say the least. But he’d found him, that was the important thing. They could worry about the legality later.
He ended the call quickly, promising to phone him back in a minute, then he called the local force to go the hotel and secure the prisoner. Ackerman’s men had no powers to detain. The next number he dialled was Liam’s.
He phoned Ackerman back promising he’d be there in an hour, then returned to the bar to ruin his own birthday party.
***
Ninety minutes later Craig was at Enniskillen police station. He stood outside its front door watching Bjorn Ackerman, while he smoked his third cigarette in a row. Liam had been visiting his brother’s farm in Dungannon, and reached the hotel not long after the uniforms. Liam was in the cells now with John, who’d insisted on joining Craig for the trip. There would be hell to pay with Julia and Natalie when they got back, but they’d both wanted to see the case through.
The Ambassador was staring at the stars and blowing a stream of smoke into the cool night air. Craig knew he was thinking of his daughter. He hoped she was somewhere better than this.
Ackerman outlined the last-minute party and its extensive guest list, all to provide a smokescreen for his pursuit of one man. John would check their prisoner’s D.N.A. against the glass that Ackerman had used to cut him, but he’d already confirmed that the wound matched. Craig wondered how they’d negotiate the legal minefield of nationality and rights that they were in, but his queries were answered when Ackerman finally spoke.
“He has a U.K. passport.”
“What?”
“I knew it was one of three men from the crest. I recognised it. It was old Norman. The other men only had French and Swiss passports, so I was praying it wasn’t them - although their governments are reasonable and would probably have cooperated. But as soon as I saw him I recognised him, and the pain grasping his arm confirmed it.”
He paused and lit another cigarette. His next words were delivered with venom.
“His name is Henry Cotillard. He’s a banker - stocks and shares. A wealthy man, with no need for money. He has dual nationality - French/English. But he foolishly travelled here on his U.K. passport.”
A U.K. citizen subject to U.K. law. Craig nodded and they smiled at each other, as happy as they could be when Britt and other girls had died. They stood for a moment longer and then went inside. To interview the man in the cells and hopefully find a trail that would lead them to free more girls.
***
By the time they got back to Belfast it was five o’clock in the morning and the sun was starting to rise. They said their goodbyes and went their separate ways to face the music. Craig had agreed to meet Ackerman for lunch on Wednesday, on his way back through Belfast after the summit. Meanwhile they’d be processing their prisoner, when he was transferred to High Street the next day.
As he entered the flat Craig saw a trail of Julia’s clothes leading to the bedroom. He undressed quickly and climbed into bed, trying not to wake her. She had to be on the road to Limavady in three hours.
She turned in her sleep and her head fell onto his chest. He stroked her curls gently and she opened sleepy eyes and smiled at him.
“Successful trip?”
He nodded, praying her good temper would still be there in the morning. Then he wrapped his arms around her, and they both fell asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Monday 17th June. 8am
Julia entered the living room dressed for work, and smiled as Craig missed his mouth with a slice of toast, too tired to see straight. He glanced gingerly at her, waiting for a telling off that didn’t come. Instead she handed him an envelope, and kissed the top of his head.
“Happy birthday, darling.”
She sat down opposite, watching eagerly as he tore it open. Instead of the card that he expected there was a receipt inside. Craig gazed at it sleepily, struggling to work out what it meant.
“We had a lovely dinner, just gossiping. Natalie made mum laugh all evening.”
He considered her warily, waiting for the storm.
She laughed. “Don’t worry. We knew it must have been urgent for both you and John to leave. You can tell me all about it next weekend. Just tell me – did you catch them?”
He nodded and she smiled. Then he lifted the receipt and stared at it uncomprehending.
“It’s lovely pet, but what is it?”
“It’s for the Abercorn Marina. A course of ten advanced sailing lessons. I know you can already sail, but if you’re going to take it up again I thought you’d need a refresher.”
Craig grinned broadly. He’d talked about taking the sport up again but never done anything about it. Now he had to. He kissed her, genuinely pleased. What she said next pleased him even more.
“Marco, I’ve been thinking. We’ve been seeing each other for six months, but only at weekends, so it’s really more like six weeks. It’s a bit soon to be thinking of buying a place together, isn’t it?”
Craig nodded. It was what he’d been thinking but hadn’t wanted to say. “But this place is still too small for two of us.”
She nodded. “Yes, it is. So what do you say that we rent somewhere bigger together first, say for six months? Then maybe halfway through, if it’s all going well, we can think about buying? And I can apply for a transfer.”
He kissed her again deeply, and nodded. Then he abandoned his toast and they both left for work.
***
Wednesday 12pm
Craig’s lunch with Bjorn Ackerman was a quiet, almost solemn affair. They covered Henry Cotillard’s likely charges and the extent of his operation. McGurk had I.D.ed him willingly, the only member of ‘The Library Club’ to have ever seen his face. He’d already been guaranteed protection in prison, so he didn’t
have to do it. But he’d taken pleasure in bringing Cotillard down, and in confirming James Dawson’s role in the criminal ring. With Sylvia Bryce’s testimony they would all be going away for life. Her coercion meant she was likely to get a short sentence, perhaps even probation.
They were following-up the trails on the trafficking and movies. Interpol was helping unravel that. But it was a case that Craig knew would keep shocking them for months. He proposed a toast before they left the restaurant, to Britt. Reiterating his prayer that she was somewhere much better than this. Then the two men said their goodbyes, unlikely ever to cross paths again.
Craig re-entered the squad at one-thirty to see pens flying across the room between Nicky and Liam. They stopped as soon as he entered and Nicky answered his raised eyebrow with a grin.
“I was just showing Annette how hard I threw the pen at Liam. To show what a big baby he was for whinging.”
“It really hurt when she did it, boss. It was a close-quarter attack.”
Annette laughed and he turned towards the cheerful sound. It was great to hear it after her terrible week. She was sitting with Davy and Jake McLean, testing her own aim by throwing sweets into their mouths.
Craig shook his head in mock-despair and called them to order, laughing. He updated them on his lunch and the other calls concerning the case, formally congratulated Annette on her success and welcomed Jake to the team. Then he told them to work for another hour and go home, and headed into his office to dream of sailing on Belfast Lough.
THE END
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The Waiting Room (#4 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 29