Crossing The Line

by Catriona King

  He walked briskly across to join him, muttering, “Sorry, Governor. I was miles away.”

  Royston smiled at him hopefully. “Finding me some answers?”

  The medic’s response was an equivocal nod. “Mmm... and questions. First, tell me how and when the victim was found, please.”

  The governor stared at the tarmacked ground as he answered. “The officer on that landing unlocked Smyth’s cell at seven o’clock and found him lying across his bed. He said Smyth had no pulse, but it’s procedure to call an ambulance anyway and when they arrived they tried to resuscitate him, as you saw. When it failed I called your on-call service.”

  John nodded briskly. The cell’s locked door backed up his ruling-out of a violent attack; it also told him that no-one else had been present at the moment of Derek Smyth’s death.

  “Your prisoner died alone, of asphyxiation. He was gasping for air in his final minutes which is why he looked that way: open mouth, cyanosis of the lips, etcetera. He used his accessory muscles of respiration; they’re the ones in the upper chest and neck, in an attempt to get some air in. That’s why his neck was hyper-extended.”

  The governor’s pale brown eyes lit up hopefully. “So you’re saying that he just choked on something?”

  His next few days promised to be a frenzy of ‘PRISON DEATH!’ tabloid headlines and official meetings where he would have to defend himself, so if he could say that the death had just been an unfortunate accident then it would be happy days all around. Apart from for Derek Smyth of course.

  John shook his head, instantly deflating him. “Very doubtful. Although... I can’t rule it out just yet.”

  Not realising that was the caveat John always gave until he had actually cut someone open, Royston’s next words were even more foolishly hopeful than before.

  “Heart attack, perhaps?”

  Death from natural causes would be even better than an accidental choking for getting the event quickly tidied away.

  The pathologist shook his head again, more emphatically. “No, no there were no obvious signs of that. Although again that doesn’t completely rule it out.”

  Realising that he’d been excited before by a caveat Royston became exasperated and decided to let it show.

  “Well, what can you say for sure then, Doctor?”

  John arched an eyebrow at the dig and responded in a dry tone.

  “Would you rather that I got the cause of death correct, or just gave you any old thing to tell the press?”

  The recoil in the governor’s eyes said that John had scored a goal, and embarrassment made Royston’s next words contrite.

  “I’m very sorry, Doctor. Pressures from above, mostly idiots at the Law Department, you understand.”

  As John had to answer to an Assembly of idiots at Stormont himself he understood all too well. He smiled comfortingly at the obviously stressed Royston, whom he suspected was probably a good decade younger than he looked.

  “I tell you what I’ll do, Governor. I’ll carry out the post-mortem this afternoon and give you whatever information I can. But before I do that I’d advise you to preserve the cell as a crime-scene and give the on-call Murder Squad a ring.”

  Royston’s eyes almost bulged out of his well-rounded face. “Murder Squad! Why in God’s name would we want them? Smyth died of unknown causes, yes, but he was alone in a locked room and only my guards had the keys. Surely you’re not suggesting-”

  John raised a hand to halt the tirade. “I’m suggesting nothing other than you need the Murder Squad to look at this. Mister Smyth died of unknown causes and I can’t yet be sure that they were natural ones, and murder doesn’t always require a human hand to be present at the moment of death.”

  He turned sharply to re-enter the building and then turned back. “If you don’t involve the police now you’ll lose valuable evidence, Governor, and then the Law Department will be really unhappy, mark my words.”

  Chapter Two

  Mahon Prison. Sunday. 11 a.m.

  George Royston had dragged his heels about informing them about the death and Craig knew it. He knew it because of the time of death first noted by the ambulance staff, eight-ten that morning, and their note saying that they believed Derek Smyth had been dead long before they were called. He knew it from the fact that he’d only got the call at nine-forty-five, ten minutes after the duty murder team had received it and their D.C.I. had called to inform him, saying that even though he knew Craig was still supposed to be on holiday, a prison death inevitably meant government interference ensuring that as Head of Murder he would have to get involved eventually, so he’d taken the decision that that time should be now.

  But even if Craig hadn’t had the timings to rely on he would have known of George Royston’s reluctance to involve the police from one look at his sagging face. The governor’s olive skin bore an unnatural ashy hue and his eyes were filled with anxiety and guilt, when the man could even bear to look at him that was. But the detective was less interested in beating up a government functionary for being tardy than he was in scrutinising the dead man lying on the cell’s low slung bed, and to that end Royston was just a nuisance now, and making Derek Smyth’s cell seem even smaller than it was.

  Three was always a crowd in Craig’s book, but even more so when one of those three was a six-foot-six monster of a cop. D.C.I. Liam Cullen read his boss’ mind and converted the thoughts into action, turning to the governor and hoisting his own exhausted and baggy Sunday morning countenance into a tight smile. There was absolutely no joy in it; his planned lie-in had been disturbed first by Rory, his five-year-old son, thinking it was a great idea to bounce up and down on his stomach at eight a.m., and then by Craig’s call two hours later telling him to haul his ass out of bed. It was sacrilege; Sunday’s were for family, food and watching football, not freezing his butt off in some godforsaken Victorian hole.

  So Liam’s smile was forced and his words came squeezing out through his teeth in his naturally deep voice.

  “Could you leave us for a while, Governor. It’s a little tight for space in here.”

  After several seconds of looking blank Royston caught his meaning, and backed out of the cell quickly, muttering platitudes. The door was closed pointedly behind him, removing even the joy of observing detection in action from the man’s day.

  Liam turned back to find his boss hunkering down beside Derek Smyth’s bunk, Craig’s dark gaze running slowly and methodically over the man’s body just as John Winter’s had done earlier, but looking for very different things. The scan was matched by one of Liam’s own, this time aimed at the room’s floor, toilet, sink and small bedside cabinet, its three drawers opening and closing noisily as he performed his search. As Craig stood up again and raised his eyes towards the cell’s small, barred window and high ceiling, his deputy’s gaze transferred to beneath the bed, until a sudden “Ah!”from his boss made him straighten up again, curious to see what Craig had found.

  “Give me a hoist up, Liam, will you.”

  One hoist in the air and a long peer later, Craig nodded to be let down again, gesturing to an air vent high on the wall that Liam had initially failed to see.

  “There’s something in there, behind the grille. We need a ladder and a screwdriver.”

  As it was ten foot up and he was knackered, Liam didn’t offer to try reaching the vent by standing on the bed; the thought that he might have stood on a dead man as well didn’t occur to him at all.

  Five minutes later Craig was at the top of a ladder painstakingly turning the first of six screws, and Liam had decided to forgive him for ruining his Sunday lie-in and have a chat.

  “What time did you get the call?”

  “Shortly before you did, but I’d been up for a while.”

  “Well, how come you’re so chipper then? Doesn’t a Sunday sleep-in mean anything at your place?”

  A metallic clang in the sink said that the first of the screws was out. It was followed by a second before Craig replie
d.

  “I was at Katy’s.”

  His delay in answering had been caused by him wondering whether to admit it, but he needn’t have worried because Liam didn’t register any significance in the words. And why would he have done? He had been spending nights at Katy’s riverside apartment for years.

  The D.C.I. was still moaning about his lack of sleep.

  “Doesn’t she sleep either? It’s a Sunday, for God’s sake. It’s called a day of rest for a reason.”

  A third and fourth screw fell and then Craig tried to pull the grating away from the wall to no effect. It made sense that the prison wouldn’t want to make it too easy, they were probably afraid of inmates stashing things in the vents, or maybe even the more adventurous trying to enlarge the hole into an escape route, although it would have taken Olive Oyl to get out through this one.

  He returned to his unscrewing, responding as he did.

  “Yes, she sleeps. We both do. Just not all day long like you.”

  Liam’s retort was drowned out by two final clangs in the sink and then a grey metal grille being dropped into his hands.

  “Hold that for a moment.”

  With that, Craig pushed his right arm into the vent right up to the armpit and groped around until his hand landed on some paper. He pulled it out, glanced at the two porn mags now in his hands and then dropped them in the sink as well, knowing as soon as he’d done it that Liam would take a peek. He decided to make it an official one.

  “Check out those to see if they’re legal, Liam.”

  They were, and after a minute’s browsing with one hand still cursorily resting on the ladder, the D.C.I. decided that his Sunday was starting to look up. Not for long, as the next thing Craig found, and handed down this time, was a switchblade.

  “Bag that, will you. Just as well I reminded you to glove up when we arrived, isn’t it.”

  Liam ignored the jibe, holding the lethal weapon between two of his thick fingers and abandoning his ladder holding duties to press the button on its side with his other hand, his eyes widening as a six-inch blade popped out, its edge sharp and shiny enough to say that Derek Smyth had kept it ready for use.

  “Boys-oh! You wouldn’t survive long if that bugger went into you.”

  Craig’s answer was muffled, his whole body now pushed up against the wall to extend his reach.

  “I think that’s the aim.”

  “Aye, well, Smyth must have been expecting trouble. The blade’s been newly sharpened.”

  The words made Craig halt his rummaging for a moment. Had Derek Smyth been expecting trouble? Or had it just been the natural caution that any man in a high security prison might have felt? And if someone at Mahon had murdered him then what was the reason? A dispute? And if so, over what? Whatever the cause they would need to know a lot more about the man to find it.

  He resumed his search with such renewed vigour that the ladder wobbled, reminding Liam swiftly of his job, and a moment later their efforts were rewarded when Craig yanked a small plastic freezer bag from the vent.

  “Bingo!”

  Liam noticed there was something blue inside. “Drugs?”

  “It certainly looks like it. Here.” Craig handed them down. “Stick the whole thing inside an evidence bag. I think there’s something more in here too, but I can’t see. Do you have a torch?”

  “Out in the car.”

  Craig climbed down the ladder. “OK, nip out and get it, will you. And if the governor gets nosey, say I don’t want anyone coming in here yet.”

  As the door closed behind his deputy the D.C.S. examined each item in the sink in turn and took out his phone to make a call. It was answered by a strangely-alert-for-a-weekend Des Marsham, the country’s Head of Forensics, and Craig could hear something in the background that said he wasn’t at home.

  The loudness of the scientist’s greeting confirmed it.

  “HELLO, MARC.”

  “Hi. Why are you shouting?”

  “I’M STANDING IN THE WIND. HANG ON A MINUTE.”

  The detective heard heavy footsteps and a car door opening and closing then the background noise dropped to a low roar. The forensic scientist pushed his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes before speaking again. “That’s better. Sorry, I’m up on the north coast. Brilliant views but it’s a bit blustery.”

  Craig smiled at the rare real-life glimpse of someone he only really knew through work. They related to each other through cases, apart from the occasional after-work drink at the Murder Squad’s local bar, The James, and he sometimes forgot that people had whole other sides to their lives.

  “Metal detecting by any chance?”

  He knew that Des made regular trips to pursue the hobby on Ireland’s Atlantic Coast beaches, usually with his university friends but sometimes also taking High Street Station’s custody sergeant Jack Harris along.

  “Got it in one. Right, what can I do for you?”

  “Sorry to wreck your Sunday, Des, but we need some CSIs at a scene.”

  “No problem. It won’t be my Sunday that gets wrecked anyway; I’m not on-call. It’s Grace that you need.”

  Grace Adeyemi was Des’ conscientious lead CSI, who’d joined his team from Glasgow a year before.

  “Where’s the scene?”

  “Mahon Prison in Armagh. That’s why I called you instead of going straight to the locals. You always attend prison cases yourself, don’t you? Because there has to be an inquest.”

  The scientist swore beneath his breath; he did like to take prison cases himself, right from the scene. It saved a lot of hassle when the Department got on its high horse, and stopped its civil servants nagging his staff to death.

  He cast a quick glance through his windscreen at the group of five men gathered on Benone Beach on a jaunt that he’d organised personally, and realised that he would have to delegate just this once.

  “Normally I do, but it’s taken months to get everyone together for this outing, so I’ll have to trust the field work to Grace. But you were absolutely right to call me. The Law Department wouldn’t have wanted the local Armagh team getting involved.” He glanced at his watch. “OK, I’ll call her now and she should be down there by one. Has John seen the body yet?”

  “Yes, earlier. There’s just one thing, Des…Mahon’s a high security men’s prison, so I’m not sure Grace should come here. These guys don’t see women very often so she might get a lot of abuse.”

  Des’ eyes widened in horror at the image of the prim scientist being cat-called and heckled as she passed ranks of men who only ever saw a woman on visiting day. Why hadn’t he thought of that himself?

  “Damn! You’re right, Marc, thanks. That was thoughtless of me. I’ll send an all-male team down.”

  “Great. They’ll need to treat it as a murder scene. The death might still turn out to be natural causes, but I wouldn’t lay money on it. We’ve found drugs.”

  “Still doesn’t rule out N.C.”

  “True, but…”

  “You’ve got a hunch that it isn’t. OK, I’ll send a team now and I’ll examine the drugs myself tomorrow.”

  Craig’s silence told him that wasn’t quick enough.

  “Or tonight if I get back in time, but no promises. This is gearing up to be a ten pints in the pub night, so it’s a big if.”

  It was more than Craig had a right to expect on a weekend off.

  “Thanks, Des. Tell your team to find Governor George Royston when they arrive and he’ll bring them to the cell. Then have them ship the body to your labs afterwards, please. John will be doing the PM later today.”

  Both the country’s forensic and pathology headquarters were at Northern Ireland’s Science Labs on Belfast’s Saintfield Road.

  Craig was just about to sign off when his deputy reappeared with a torch in his hand and gestured at the mobile phone. “Des?”

  “Yes.” Craig swopped his mobile for the torch. “Have a word with him. He’s up on the north coast.”

  Liam snorted ru
dely into the handset. “Again? Have you nothing better to do than dig up the ground, man? You can do my garden next if you’re that keen.”

  Des couldn’t resist rubbing his leisurely Sunday in. “Don’t forget the bang-up Ulster Fry we’ve just had for breakfast, and the ten pints we’ll be having after we’re done.”

  Liam sighed longingly. “Aye, aye, go ahead and gloat, why don’t you. And then thank your lucky stars that you don’t have a boss who drags you out of your pit in the middle of the night.”

  Craig yelled out a comment as he shone the torch deep into the vent. “IT WAS TEN O’CLOCK, YOU LAZY SOD.”

  Liam wasn’t placated. “Ten on a Sunday! That’s like five any other day. I didn’t even get my first breakfast in me.” He turned his attention back to Des. “Anyway, bugger off, you skiver. Some of us have work to do.”

  He cut the call before the scientist had time to retort and called up to Craig.

  “Find anything?”

  “There’s something glinting in here but I can’t reach it. Pass me up one of those magazines.”

  The D.C.I. wagged a disapproving finger. “Here, now, you’ve no time to read porn. And on a Sunday too. Tut tut.”

  Craig rolled his eyes. “Very funny. I need it to pull this thing out.”

  A moment later he was holding up a SIM card triumphantly, and Liam had to admit to being impressed.

  “Well, now, would you look at that! Derek the dead man was making illicit calls.”He turned to the corpse and waved a chastising finger. “Bad boy.”

  Craig stifled a laugh as he descended the ladder and dropped the SIM into an evidence bag. “This SIM is probably worth a fortune in here.”

  The limited ability to communicate with the outside world was one of the most punishing things about prison, and made mobile phone equipment rare and valuable.

  Liam rolled his eyes. “Not for long if the do-gooders get their way. They’re suggesting some prison cells should have landlines in future. Bloody landlines. It was on the news the other night. The eejits haven’t thought it through at all. All sorts of stuff will happen if cons can just phone anyone they like. There’ll be witness intimidation and two hundred pizzas arriving at the governor’s office, mark my words.”He sighed meaningfully. “Next thing they’ll be giving them keys to their flipping cells.”