He saw Liam’s mouth opening and shook his head.
“That doesn’t mean whoever was viewing the hotel CCTV was in on the abduction. Anyone nearby with a bit of tech knowledge could have piggybacked the hotel system and been seeing everything that it saw.”
Damn.
“OK, pursue what you can there, Davy.”
He turned back to his junior analyst, who was tugging hard on his earring. Body piercings always made him feel nauseous so he averted his eyes as he waved him on.
“OK, so anyway, Quattro said the passport offices at airports hold lists of DMs, that’s what they call distinguishing marks, and they copy them to the passport authorities and embassies for the issuing countries. So I asked him to check if any DMs had been noted at our listed airports in the time frame we have and he’s doing it now. I should have the list by tomorrow.”
Craig held his breath at what it might mean, hardly daring to let himself hope that they might still find Bella Westbury alive.
Depressingly, the analyst’s next slide was about Pierre Galvet.
“These are the records from where Galvet was working during the period Bella disappeared, and you were right, chief. The farm’s owners knew him well and said they docked his pay on the day of the girl’s disappearance, because although Galvet clocked in as normal at six he left the farm at eleven and was missing for the rest of the day.”
Andy couldn’t believe his ears. “How the hell did the local cops miss that? All the statements I read said Galvet had a solid alibi. He was picking fruit all day long.”
The analyst shook his head glumly. “They didn’t really check, that’s why. I suppose they were under pressure looking for the girl, so after they’d searched Galvet’s digs and found nothing they must just have just taken his word.”
Human error.
To be honest Craig wasn’t that shocked. There’d been cock-ups in their own backyard and there would be plenty more in the future, although never any of that magnitude thankfully and he’d be lodging a complaint with the French about this one when their case was done.
“Did Galvet have a car, Ash?”
“Not one registered to him, but I’m sure nicking one wouldn’t have been tough.”
Craig frowned, thinking about what they’d heard for a moment before speaking again.
“OK, bear in mind that this is all just speculation at the moment, but if it isn’t...logistically could someone have been watching Bella from a distance for months, piggybacking onto say the hotel or other local CCTV? Then when they spotted a gap when her mother left to go into-”
Liam cut him off. “Rewind a bit, boss. Say the bastards were watching on CCTV and spotted the girl and her mother go into the garden. The boy’s older, so at school, and it’s a nice sunny day, so they’re likely to stay out there for hours. Yes? That makes the watcher zoom in to take a closer look, maybe even move Galvet to somewhere close-by on the off-chance, hence why the scrote was away from his fruit picking for most of the day. Then the watcher sees Nicola Westbury go into the house leaving the girl alone in the garden and spots his chance...”
He paused, waiting for Craig to comment.
“I’m not sure that part could work, Liam. It could have taken too long for the watcher to alert Galvet and we know the mother was only gone a minute.” Craig was working out the steps as he spoke. “But... if you’re right and Galvet got orders to go down there and wait... he leaves the farm, steals a car, sits in it near the Westburys’ house, somewhere that he can keep their garden in view, then he’s close enough that as soon as Nicola enters the house he spots it and he can rush to snatch Bella, take her to car, drive somewhere else and pass her on.”
Aidan wasn’t convinced. “But Galvet’s a paedophile, Guv, so would he really have had the self control to do all that without taking advantage of the girl?”
Liam answered first. “Galvet’s a Hebephile. They like kids eleven to fourteen. The Westbury girl was too young.”
Craig nodded vigorously. “And remember if he was being watched the whole time on CCTV he couldn’t have harmed the girl without getting caught, not if he’d wanted to get paid. He was on the clock too, and if someone was going to all that trouble to steal that particular girl they wouldn’t have wanted her harmed.” He shook his head. “No, all Galvet was there to do was grab Bella and transport her to whoever was watching. It was easy money for a lowlife like that.”
Aidan made a face. “Even so... using a paedo of any sort was risky.”
Liam was on Craig’s side. “What other sort of criminal could they have persuaded to get involved in snatching a child? Most other crooks would have dobbed them into the police out of disgust, or hoping for a reward.”
There was silence for a moment while people took everything in, and then Craig shrugged.
“Like I said before this is all just speculation until we get some facts to support it. OK, we need to find Galvet. Andy, take the lead on that, please. Right, anything else, Ash, before we wrap it up?”
“Yep.”
He tapped up his next slide and Des Marsham’s aged-up photographs of Bella Westbury appeared.
“These are from Doctor Marsham’s aging software and show Bella at different ages from three to the almost seven year-old she is today. I’ve sent them to social services in every country I can think of in case she’s become known to them over the years, also to Vice downstairs and Child Exploitation and Online Protection, so they can use their contacts to check the...”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence; everyone was well aware that they would be checking the photos against an international database of children’s images, gleaned from porn websites, videos, DVDs and magazines, and they all hoped Bella’s image wasn’t found amongst them at any age.
Craig broke the uncomfortable silence with a question. “Did you manage to do that other thing I asked, Ash?”
The analyst brightened up. “Sure. I also sent the images to the heads of all the photography databases across the world: Getty Images, Reuters, the intelligence agencies and others, to check if she’s in their databases, even innocent images that might have appeared in newspapers. They’ll have copies of everything from photos of school sports teams and choirs to randomers just taken for interviews.”
It made Liam laugh despite the seriousness of the topic. “So if anyone’s been stupid enough to allow her photo to appear in their local school magazine we might get them?”
Craig nodded. “Yes, but it’s a long shot. If these people stole the girl to order they’ll have raised her to be camera shy.”
“Still. Good call.”
Craig set down the marker that he was still holding; noting idly that it had stained his fingers bright green.
“OK. This is good progress, and we’ll make more tomorrow. Everyone, go home now and be in tomorrow bright and early.” He turned to the pathologist. “Pub?”
“Pub.”
“What about you, Liam? Fancy a pint?”
The D.C.I. unfolded himself from his chair, nodding. “Just give me a second, will you, boss?”
Before Craig could say “Yes” he’d loped across to the LED screen, ready to give the team’s junior analyst a clip round the ear.
“You needn’t think I’d forgotten that Dumbo crack, son.”
Thankfully for Ash he was smaller and nimbler than the lumbering policeman so he ducked just in time and wove away between the desks, calling out, “D.C.I. Dumbo, D.C.I. Dumbo” and generally dicing with death until Craig finally managed to drag his deputy out the door.
Chapter Seven
Dublin.8 p.m.
Róisín Casey was torn between two options. Not because she was indecisive you understand; she would rather die in a ditch than admit to something so weak. No, it was just that having made the decision that she had two options and carried outa risk analysis on each, the pros and cons were so finely balanced that she was genuinely unable to choose.
The banker sensed that the net was closing in
on her, the silent respondent on Arthur’s phone had told her as much; even if the people wielding that net weren’t yet aware of what they might want her for or even who she was. But the way they’d known to hold their silence and let her use the pause to hang herself meant that they had to be working for the cops.
So the police had the old man’s phone and it would soon yield... well, what would it yield? The numbers of her burn mobile and the bank’s switchboard certainly, because she’d called Arthur from both; perhaps even her first name because he might have saved her numbers under it, or perhaps she’d said it when she’d left him messages, she honestly couldn’t remember whether she had or not. Even in the best possible version of events those things would bring the cops close to her within a day or two, not to mention that if they had Arthur’s phone then they also had the old man himself.
Hence her two options. Did she stay put, carry on with life as normal, and bluff the police when they arrived? After all, what could they actually prove? Even if Arthur talked all he could say to get her in trouble was that they’d worked together on the quarry and cut some corners environmentally, and he’d paid the girl to deflect from Derek Morrow’s possible role in that. The old man knew nothing of the much bigger venture in which she and Derek had been involved.
Or... did she disappear? Temporarily, until the noise died down, somewhere warm and impossible to extradite from, or even permanently, by faking her death? She had the resources stashed away to do either, but... Róisín pictured a future where her capital shrank and offered diminishing returns, and her five star lifestyle of champagne and penthouses was degraded to a weekly spritzer and a bungalow, and shuddered violently. True, that would only happen in the distant future, but it would happen all the same, and as someone who had clawed her way out of poverty she had no intention of ever going back.
The issue was how did she choose? A normal person when flummoxed would ask the opinions of their nearest and dearest, but she had no friends and was estranged from her family, which left her with only one person that she could tell. But if she worried him without knowing whether the police were even close then she might risk his anger, and she was well aware of what happened to people who did that.
The argument was circular and repetitive and lasted until the sun came up heralding a new day, a day in which the controlled and calculating banker would make a mistake that Craig would cause her to regret.
****
Laganside. Katy’s Apartment. Friday, 5 a.m.
Right now the detective was busy with other things, which considering that it was five o’clock in the morning he would really rather not have been; but, as with on-call medics and other professionals that deal with the unpredictable side of human nature, his responsibility for criminal behaviour and all its consequences was no respecter of time. That was why he was standing in the apartment’s hallway, hair on end, eyes half-shut, with his mobile clamped to his ear and trying hard not to yawn down the line.
He’d grabbed the phone on its second ring, years of conditioning making him react instantly to its trill, and left the still-dark bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him so as not to disturb his new wife before whispering, “Hello.”
In truth he expected the caller to be Liam, his deputy’s uncanny ability to learn about crimes in Belfast almost before the criminals had been booked a product of thirty years policing there, and knowing almost every cop and bad lad within its forty square miles. Not to mention the favours that he’d done endless local coppers through the years that ensured he was always the first to get the tip-off about tasty things.
But this time the caller wasn’t Liam, and Craig was surprised to hear a sheepish voice on the line that sounded like it belonged to Des.
“Hello, Marc.”
“Des? Is there something new about the case?”
Although what sort of forensic finding could constitute a five a.m. emergency, the detective’s sleep addled brain was struggling to name.
After an embarrassed swallow the forensic expert answered him.
“Mmm... no, sorry, not about the case... it’s just...well...it’s just...”
Craig was awake enough now to detect another sound behind the scientist’s stumbling words.
“Is that a station tannoy?”
Des’ immediate, “Ah” conveyed confirmation, relief and shame in one syllable but moved them no further on, so Craig thought he should probably issue a prompt.
“You’re in a police station, so which one?”
As he asked the question he was wondering why Des had sounded ashamed, given that his work took him to police stations all the time.
This time the forensic lead answered with more confidence, as if with fact she was on solid ground.
“High Street.”
“So you’ve been called to collect evidence from a prisoner.”
Even as Craig said it he knew that had to be wrong; no station sergeant would summon the head of forensics for the whole country to do the job of a junior CSI.
It was then that the penny dropped, and his next words cut across Des’ mumbled, “Not exactly.”
“You’re the prisoner!”
He heard relief in the scientist’s next words, as if even though the truth was unpalatable he was glad that it was out.
“Yes...yes, sorry, I am, Marc. I’m afraid I’ve been arrested and I wasn’t sure who else to call but you.”
Dismissing a serious offence instantly, not because everyone, including Des, wasn’t capable of committing one, but because the scientist’s placid personality would have made it just too much of a chore, Craig ran through the list of possible misdemeanours that the man could have committed in the time since he’s last seen him, landing on something involving alcohol. Des had been known to punish a pint or six in his time.
Without bothering to ask more Craig said, “Pass me over to the custody officer.”
Jack Harris’ night-time counterpart Angus Thompson came on the line, the recently immigrated Scot’s world weary tone undoubtedly accompanied by his favoured habit of rolling his eyes and his head at the same time.
“Yes, sir. Angus Thompson here.”
“Doctor Marsham told you who he was phoning, Sergeant?”
“Several times, sir, in entitled, obstreperous and then pleading tones.”
Craig chuckled at the man’s wit, vividly picturing Des’s indignation at finding himself on ‘the other side of the wire’.
“Well, Angus, care to tell me why he’s been arrested?”
“Oh, it isn’t just the Doc, sir. I’ve got ten of them here. And all their equipment.”
The drollness of his delivery was so perfect that a comedy career obviously lay ahead.
“Equipment?”
Images of Des carrying a jemmy, a blowtorch and a bag labelled ‘swag’ filled Craig’s mind.
“Metal detecting stuff and shovels, sir. The bunch of them were found in the grounds of Cranross Castle an hour ago by Lord Cranross himself, digging for so-called treasure. There were warnings issued to another lot in Fermanagh for digging at Tully and Monea Castles recently.”
This time Craig did laugh. A bunch of middle-aged men sneaking around in the middle of the night like they were members of the Hatton Garden Gang. It was bizarre, although oddly not the strangest thing that he’d ever heard in his job.
“OK. So what do you propose to charge them with?”
He heard Thompson move somewhere quieter as he lowered his voice.
“I’m not. I’m going to keep them here for a few hours and then let them off with a warning. If they’d actually found anything and taken it we would be looking at theft and court, but thankfully they’re hopeless at what they do. But the castle is private property and they left some pretty big holes in the grass so I can’t vouch for Lord Cranross not taking a civil case.”
Craig was wondering what metallic objects had prompted the detectorists to dig in the first place as the sergeant carried on.
“Anyway, I
’ve put the fear of God into them, so that should work. I’ll pass you back on to the Doc now, shall I, so you can calm him down?”
“Before you do that, how long were you planning to hold them?”
“Long enough to underline things, so I thought it’d be the cells till eight, then give them some breakfast and chuck them out.”
Craig made a decision that he knew Des wasn’t going to like, the scientist’s reason for calling him so early undoubtedly to get set free.
“What time does Jack come on?”
“Around then. Eight-thirty’s his scheduled start, but he’s always here before then.”
“OK, then can I ask you a favour? By all means lock Doctor Marsham up with the others but let him out just before eight. He works with Jack a lot and it might undermine him in his eyes.”
Unlikely but possible.
The Scot sounded surprised. “I can do that, surely, but I actually thought you’d want me to let him go now.”
Craig was tempted, but nepotism was a slippery slope and he was already halfway down it with Annette. Her case was really serious, and when it came out that he’d been investigating it without approval, and he had no doubt that it would soon, if he’d got caught also using his influence for Des it might make people question any justification that he managed to find for her release.
He tried to extinguish the guilt he felt at leaving Des in jail and adopted a serious tone.
“No. They all need to learn a lesson or the next time they will end up in court. Just tell Des that I’ll call him soon after eight.”
Craig hung up before he relented, and with there being no hope of further sleep he made himself an extra strong coffee and took a seat at the kitchen table to think about their case.
He was never sure whether he loved or hated this stage in an investigation, when there was nothing but unanswered and new questions, and strands that wouldn’t seem to knit. It was exciting because he never knew whether the tiniest clue could be the answer to everything, but nerve-wracking because all it took was missing that tiny clue for a trail to run fatally cold.
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