On balance he decided that he probably loved it, and what that said about his personality only a psychiatrist could assess, but as he’d had as much sleep as he was going to get and it was too early for breakfast, he decided not to waste the extra hours daydreaming and take himself into work.
When Craig entered the dark, quiet squad-room thirty minutes later and turned on the overhead lights, he was taken aback by the sight of his junior analyst slumped at his desk, slack jawed and snoring, while his computer display was changing image repeatedly at high speed.
A quick scan showed that Ash was wearing different clothes to the day before which meant he’d also come in absurdly early, but why he’d felt the need to be there at six a.m. was something that Craig wanted to find out. The detective tip-toed across the floor and whispered, “Ash” in his analyst’s ear several times, finally giving an impatient shout of, “ASH!” when he didn’t wake.
It prompted a cartoon like sequence of head jerking, eye widening alarm, followed by the analyst straightening up in his seat and grabbing for a pen in an attempt to look hard at work.
“What are you doing here so early?”
The analyst glanced around him frantically for the words’ source, until his blurred vision eventually cleared and he realised that the speaker was Craig.
“What? Me? I’m in early all the time, chief.”
A sceptical look from the detective provoked a second, more honest answer, with Ash motioning at his computer as he spoke.
“The time difference with the passport countries was slowing things up and I wanted to get on with it.”
“So anything useful yet?”
In reply the younger man sat forward and began to type. “Give me five minutes.”
“Fine. I’ll make us some coffee.”
True to his word, five minutes later they were sitting together in front of the analyst’s screen while he pointed out what he’d found.
“OK, some basic stuff first. Davy checked the rock types and rainfall levels and they fit with the quarry holding a lot of water last winter when Kincaid was drowned. We’ve also got the department store CCTVs and all the tapes and newspaper coverage of the protests now, so someone will need to view those.”
Craig thought for a moment. All his detectives had work allocated for that day and neither he nor Liam was going to spend their time doing the tedious and essentially junior job. So who did he give it to?
As the answer became obvious he sighed, not because it was an onerous task or he’d decided on the wrong person, but because he knew that the right person, Mary, was going to moan. But handling staff grumbles was part of his management role, so he set himself a reminder to call Andy at seven-thirty to notify him he’d be going to Tyrone alone, and another to phone the constable after that to say that her road trip was off.
Decision made the detective turned back to his analyst. “OK, Mary will view the photos and CCTV. But can you or Davy nail down the reason the quarry shut, please. And don’t forget we still need the names of whoever owned it as well.”
“I’m pretty sure Davy’s already got something on that. I’ll check.”
As the analyst scribbled himself a note, Craig had had another thought.
“Who was looking into the photography paper for the photo found in Kincaid’s pocket?”
“Davy. It was French, same as in the original pic you brought from the Westburys’ house. Nicola Kincaid must have had both prints made while they lived in Nice.”
“OK, good. And I’m presuming Davy did Kincaid’s and Morrow’s criminal checks as well?”
“Yep. All clear. Do you still want us to look into Kincaid’s company?”
Craig nodded. “When you find time. I don’t imagine you’ll find anything, but just for completeness sake.”
Suddenly he noticed a file on the analyst’s desk that definitely wasn’t one of theirs.
“Is that the French file on the abduction?”
“Yep.” He glanced pityingly at Craig the Luddite. “It came through by email late yesterday, but I know how much you like paper, so I printed the whole thing out.”
“You make it sound like it’s papyrus! I just like to hold something in my hand as I read.”
Ash’s pointed glance at his smart-pad made Craig feel old and abandon the debate. He lifted the file and began to flick through it, then he stopped himself; it could wait for half an hour.
“Carry on with what you were saying.”
“OK, still on the old stuff. Davy checked on the Westburys’ car accident and they were sideswiped by a jack-knifing lorry. He checked the police and insurance files and there’s nothing weird there.”
“Fine.”
Another loose strand snipped off.
“And I’m trying to get into that mums’ chat-room again. I managed it for a while but it locked me out again. Its firewalls are pretty good. I haven’t detected any other attempted hacks so far but I’ll keep looking.”
Craig smirked. “I have every faith in you.”
The analyst’s hacking ability was legendary in the force and they’d availed of it several times, not always strictly legally. It gave the detective an idea, also not strictly legal.
“Ash, nothing to do with this investigation, but how would you fancy checking something that might help Annette out?”
The analyst nodded so hard his earring got caught in his long hair.
“Any time. I can’t believe they’re giving her such shit.”
He realised just how loud swearing sounded in an empty office and gave a sheepish smile, but Craig hadn’t even heard the expletive, his mind on far bigger crimes.
“You’ll need to keep this completely to yourself. No confiding in the rest of the squad or your mates.”
“Not even Davy?”
“Davy’s fine, but the fewer people who are involved the better. I’d like you to see if Pete McElroy had any social media accounts, net diaries and so on. Anywhere at all where he might have recorded his private thoughts.”
“Sure. But two problems. One, he’s dead so they might be locked now, and two, how could he have accessed them in Mahon?”
As the analyst ended his question they both laughed; Mahon’s lax cyber-security had been a factor in their earlier case there.
“Point taken, chief.”
Craig stifled a yawn that made him remember it was still the middle of the night.
“Even if Pete didn’t access them inside Mahon, he’d been out for a few hours before he went to Annette’s place so he might have done then.”
“What sort of thing are you expecting to find?”
Craig had a fair idea, but shook his head to signal that it was best he didn’t influence any findings.
“Fair enough. I’ll take a look.” The analyst gestured at his still changing screen. “Do you want the up to date stuff now?”
“Fire ahead.”
“OK, so, Quattro’s sent me through the list of DMs from the airports. And who knew? There were three flowers listed on kids’ hands.”
Craig stopped him. “Three out of fifteen?”
“Yep. It seemed a bit much to me too, people going around tattooing their kids, but maybe it’s down to different cultures and all that stuff.”
The detective wasn’t so sure. “Hang on a minute. Tattoos? You’re sure they were tattoos? They couldn’t have just been those transfer things that children stick on themselves? I remember plastering myself with mini pirates when I was a kid, and my sister walked around so covered in flowers she was like Botanic Gardens.”
The look Ash gave him said he hadn’t a clue what he meant, so Craig lifted his nearby smart-pad and found an example of a transfer in the shape of a Minion. The analyst still looked perplexed.
“They soak them in water and they stick on?”
“Yes, that’s it. You didn’t have these when you were a kid?”
“Nope. We just drew on ourselves and the walls with markers like normal kids. Anyway, what you’re saying
is that not all three of the flowers might be real tatts or scars, but it doesn’t matter anyway because at least it’s narrowing things down while I’m waiting for the passports to run. The bad news is that one of the three kids went to Russia. The others went to Canada and the U.S.”
Craig nodded; he could live with a two in three chance of retrieving the Westbury girl. It was better than none.
Just then Ash’s desk-phone rang, making him arch a dark eyebrow in surprise.
“Who’s calling me at,” he checked his computer clock, “a quarter to seven!”
He’d stated the time as if no-one normal could possibly be awake at such an hour.
“There’s one way to find out.”
When the analyst lifted the phone a voice that they both recognised came down the line.
“Hi Grace. How come you’re calling this early?”
He set the call on speaker as she replied.
“Because I’m stupid, that’s why. I came in early tore-check something I rushed through last night and discovered that I hadn’t looked deeply enough. That man Arthur Norris, the one at High Street, well, the woman who called his phone left a lot of messages, and as well as the ones from her pay-as-you-go phone I’ve just found a second number. A Belfast one. I called it and it’s the switchboard of a Merchant Bank. The switchboard’s based here in town, but when I checked the bank has branches all over Ireland and the U.S., so I’m not sure how much use the switchboard will be to you without an extension number, but do you want its number anyway?”
Craig passed him a pen.
“Fire ahead.”
As Ash scribbled down the information Craig mouthed a question.
“OK, the chief’s asking if you know how many extensions the bank has.”
“What’s he doing there at this hour?”
When Craig answered her his smile was audible. “Good morning, Grace. I’m here because I couldn’t sleep.”
He omitted to say that it was her boss who had woken him up.
“Oh, sorry, sir, I wasn’t being cheeky.”
“Didn’t think you were for a second. So… the number of extensions?”
The answer came in a satisfied tone that said she was sure of her ground.
“Seven hundred and forty two. Three hundred and ten of them are in Dublin, so, bearing in mind that the woman’s mobile had an Irish number too....”
Craig gave a thumbs-up.
“That’s great, Grace. Thanks.”
“OK. I should have that data dump over to you before ten too.”
Suddenly remembering that Des was her boss, Craig lifted the receiver. “Just to say that I spoke to your boss earlier and he may be in a little late this morning so just carry on.”
Des was bound to go home at eight to change after his night in the slammer, so he would phone him to grovel then.
The CSI frowned quizzically and then shrugged. Des must get even less sleep than she did, but then maybe that was how he’d got to be the boss.
When he hung up Craig stretched and yawned noisily.
“OK, I’ll leave you in peace to get on with things, Ash. I’m heading down to the canteen to get some breakfast; can I bring you anything back?”
Ten minutes later he was ascending the stairs with a bag of food and his mind on how best to re-interview Ben Frampton. The man would view him as the enemy because cops and prisoners were never cosy, but that animosity was bound to be increased because he was a cop from the same squad as Pete’s wife. Even if George Royston hadn’t been explicit as to why Frampton was being transported to Belfast he would have been told by whom, so there was no question that the burglar would continue to be on his guard.
Frampton owed Pete McElroy loyalty for teaching him how to read, and in his experience loyalty often grew stronger after death, tinged as it often became with a rose-tinted hindsight where the deceased had never done anything wrong during their life. His father had once caustically referred to the phenomena as being ‘retrospectively elevated to the sainthood’ which was just one example of how his staunch childhood but now very lapsed Presbyterianism and his mother’s still devout Italian Catholicism had sometimes butted heads over the years. Only the former’s relaxed approach to life had stopped religion becoming a deal breaker between them and leading to two seriously confused kids.
The upshot was if he went in hard against Pete then Ben Frampton could either be vigorous in his defence or clam up, and once that happened there would be little he could do to make the man cooperate; the usual threats of arrest, charge, court and prison tended to mean very little to someone who was already there.
So… if the big stick approach was out that just left the carrot. The thought spurred Craig to dump the bags of croissants and doughnuts that he was carrying on his analyst’s desk and speed into his office, lifting his phone receiver and dialling before he’d even sat down. The call he made was to Mahon Prison and it was the first of four, the others made to inform Andy that his trip to Tyrone would be solitary and tell Mary that she was to come into the office, which thankfully reached her answerphone so he was spared having to repeatedly explain why in answer to her accusations of sexism, juniorism and whatever other ‘ism’ happened to be the politically correct flavour of the week.
His last call was timed for just after eight o’clock and was to Des Marsham; the call he’d been looking forward to least of all. Craig’s lack of enthusiasm was justified when the scientist answered his mobile in a dull voice that said despite Angus Thompson undoubtedly having treated him with kid gloves his experience in lock-up hadn’t exactly been a thrill.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Des.”
Silence. It could mean one of two things; either, optimistically, because he was calling from an office extension the scientist might not be sure yet who was speaking, or, more likely, because he was furious.
When he added, “It’s Marc” to test the water, a lengthy pause was followed by the musical tones of Annie Marsham coming on the line.
“Hi, Marc. He says he’s not talking to you.”
She sounded amused enough that Craig decided to push his luck and broach the subject head-on.
“Sorry about last night, Annie, but I couldn’t have got him out without being accused of nepotism.”
She relayed the words verbatim to her husband, albeit dispersed between instructions to their two sons to put on their shoes and coats because they would soon be leaving for school.
The scientist’s reply was relayed disjointedly as well.
“Des says… Stop that, Martin! Don’t hit your brother… What?...I told you, your gym gear’s in the dryer so just go and take it out… Des says he thought you two were mates but you couldn’t even do him a favour so you’re obviously not.”
Craig could hear her husband’s huffiness in the words even when relayed in her cheerful tones and went to explain further, but after a couple of words he stopped speaking and gave an exaggerated tut.
“Annie could you just set his mobile on speaker, please, and I’ll explain everything so that he can hear.”
“Gladly. Martin has Raff in a headlock now so I need to go anyway.”
Craig heard the mobile being set down and the echo of a speakerphone cutting in, and pictured its owner standing with his arms crossed listening while he tied himself in knots trying to explain.
“Des, I need you to keep this to yourself, but I’m involved, without permission, in trying to follow up a new theory on Pete McElroy’s death-”
He smiled as he heard the speaker cut out immediately and knew the father had done so to keep whatever came next from inquisitive little ears. When the line didn’t go dead Craig took it as a sign to keep on speaking.
“I’m calling in favours, including having Pete’s cellmate at Mahon brought up for interview at High Street, and I’m aware it could all land me in the shit. But I don’t care as much about that as that someone could try to negate whatever I do find to help Annette by saying it’s been manufactured
from nepotism, which would be more likely-”
He was cut off by a grudging, “Which would have been more likely if you’d also shown nepotism by getting me out of jail last night.”
“Yes.” Craig softened his tone. “I’m sorry, Des. Any other time I would have done my best to get you and your friends released, but I just couldn’t this time. Can you understand why?”
He could almost feel the scientist’s sulk draining away and the response when it came was hurt but logical.
“I understand, Marc, but I’m still pissed off with you. I didn’t get a bit of sleep on that plank Angus Thompson calls a bed!”
Craig reached into his, admittedly fairly limited, psychology kit and pulled out, “I can hear you’re angry and I don’t blame you. Look, I tell you what. I’ll ask Liam to see what he can find out about the odds of a civil case being pressed by Lord Cranross for you digging holes in his grounds. He’s probably just pissed, so he might be amenable to you just paying-”
He was cut off by a whine. “We thought it was public ground! I mean, who the hell owns a castle nowadays apart from the Queen?”
“Quite a few people apparently. There’ve been digs at two others in Fermanagh that have caused disputes-”
“Well, nobody told us we couldn’t dig there or we wouldn’t have gone!”
“Nobody told you not to dig up Royal Avenue either, but you wouldn’t have dreamt of doing that!”
There was renewed silence until the detective spoke again, more sympathetically.
“OK, look, leave it with me and I’ll get Liam on it. In fact, I’m sorry, I should have thought of him when you first called me but I didn’t. I just know that I can’t be anywhere near this with Annette’s case at such a delicate stage. OK?”
“Well...I suppose…”
“Good man. Liam will be in touch later. Oh, by the way, Grace called us with some info earlier and I told her you might be in late-”
“You didn’t tell her I-”
“God, no! She probably thinks you’re at the dentist or something. All I meant is that you can take your time going in because she seems to have things in hand. OK, I have to go and interview Pete’s cellmate now. I’ll buy you a pint next time we meet.”
The Depths Page 25