The Tribes
Page 1
THE TRIBES
Catriona King
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously and any resemblance to persons living or dead, business establishments, events, locations or areas, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author, except for brief quotations and segments used for promotion or in reviews.
Copyright © 2016 by Catriona King
Photography: Dima Sobko
Artwork: Jonathan Temples: creative@jonathantemples.co.uk
Editors: Andrew Angel and Maureen Vincent-Northam
Formatting: Rebecca Emin
All rights reserved.
Hamilton-Crean Publishing Ltd. 2016
For my mother.
About the Author
Catriona King is a medical doctor and trained as a police Forensic Medical Examiner in London, where she worked for some years. She has worked with the police on many occasions. She returned to live in Belfast in 2006.
She has written since childhood and has been published in many formats: non-fiction, journalistic and fiction.
‘The Tribes’ is a new Craig Crime novel, being released in September 2016.
The Craig Crime Series
A Limited Justice
The Grass Tattoo
The Visitor
The Waiting Room
The Broken Shore
The Slowest Cut
The Coercion Key
The Careless Word
The History Suite
The Sixth Estate
The Sect
The Keeper
The Talion Code
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Northern Ireland for providing the inspiration for my books.
My thanks also to: Andrew Angel and Maureen Vincent-Northam as my editors, Jonathan Temples for his cover design and Rebecca Emin for formatting this book.
I would like to thank all of the police officers that I have ever worked with for their professionalism, wit and compassion.
Catriona King
Belfast, September 2016
Discover the author’s books at: www.catrionakingbooks.com
To engage with the author about her books, email: Catriona_books@yahoo.co.uk
The author can be found on Facebook and Twitter: @CatrionaKing1
CONTENTS
Core Characters
Key Locations
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
The Tribes
Chapter One
The River Lagan, Belfast. Wednesday 27th January 2016. 2 a.m.
One hand; gripping and slipping off the slime covered path. Scrambling for safety. The other one numb. Frozen. Finger pulps whitening, tips blueing in the cold of the urban waterway. The youth gazed up, drowsy from his struggle; his eyes beseeching, begging for reprieve. He already knew that it was futile; there was no sympathy in his attacker, much less for a man he considered an enemy.
The killer watched his victim coldly, no emotion there but curiosity at how long it would take for him to die. He viewed the process of dying inquisitively, like it was performance art. The long overture of resistance and struggle, then the frantic gaze backwards at the water as he fell, to the real commencement of the show in the winter river; the true beginning of his end.
The boy was fighting the cold now instead of him, grabbing and scrabbling for a hold on the tributary’s sleek stone wall; until finally he nodded, defeated, acknowledging that his opponent would stamp on any further attempt at escape.
The watcher saw his victim’s eyes droop and then close slowly, flickering until exhaustion stripped his hand from safety for the final time and he sank backwards, limp and exhausted, submerging slowly into the river’s murk.
He waited for a while longer, as the ripples grew smaller and the bubbles shrank and moved away, and when his burning cigarette had reached its filter he launched it into the stream, a smouldering symbol of disrespect.
****
Docklands Coordinated Crime Unit, Pilot Street, Belfast. The Murder Squad. Thursday 28th January 2016. 12 p.m.
Marc Craig ripped up the card that he’d been writing and threw it into the bin, the graveyard of its five predecessors. He shook his head in disgust at his inability to write a simple ‘missing you’ without believing it was enough, and turned his chair to face the river, a howling wind-ripped mass of grey. It suited his mood and the month. January, glaring back at twenty-fifteen and staring disdainfully at the coming year. Aptly named for the two-faced Roman god.
Normally the Lagan cheered him, buoyed him if you were into bad sailing jokes. But today its gloomy aspect just magnified his own, focusing his mind on the very question he’d been trying for weeks to avoid. What happened if Katy never forgave him? What would he do if she never took him back? He wouldn’t blame her; there weren’t many women who could get past one of their partner’s murder suspects almost killing them. It wasn’t something that could be glossed over with chocolates.
He shook his dark head, unable to cope with a negative answer, and kept shaking until his neck hurt so much that he realised no amount of pain would wipe away his guilt. Because he was guilty, wasn’t he? If he’d had a normal job like an academic or a doctor, one where his role with psychopaths was limited to theory or therapy instead of hunting them down and locking them up, Ronan Miskimmon would never have targeted Katy to slow him down.
Ronan Miskimmon and Eleanor Corneau, a brother and sister team of computer hackers, had hacked a series of operating systems before Christmas, causing several deaths. Katy had almost been one of them. So right now it was no comfort that someone had to catch the bad guys, or that he was bloody good at it; he’d almost got the woman that he loved killed.
Outside his office Craig’s deputy, Liam Cullen, was perching on his P.A.’s desk, and for once Nicky Morris wasn’t pushing him off or moaning about him untidying the place. Strangely she was finding Liam’s bulky presence comforting today, although her tolerance was suddenly pushed to its limit by a loud crunch and a spray of apple juice across her computer screen. The D.C.I. started speaking with a mouth full of Granny Smith, completely missing the baby-wipe the secretary was rubbing ostentatiously across the glass.
“Of course, there’re only two choices.”
He paused for a nod or a yes but got neither. Nicky was at the kitchen-roll stage now, drying the wipe’s residue with a loud tut.
Liam continued undeterred.
“Which are… morose and grumpy, or sad and driven.”
The P.A. glanced up from her cleaning with a puzzled frown. “What are you talking about?”
The detective sighed dramatically. The sound said ‘why does no-one ever listen nowadays?’ He wouldn’t have dared say the actual words.
“The boss. I said he’ll either turn morose and grumpy or sad and driven.” He turned his apple around to an unbitten portion and was just preparing to sink his teeth in again when Nicky grabbed it and chucked it into the bin. Liam’s whine was instant.
“That was mine!”
She was devoid of sympathy. “Then keep it to yourself in future. Half of it ended up on my screen.” She softened her theft with an encouraging smile. “Anyway, what do you mean, mo
rose or sad?”
The smile had the desired mollifying effect so Liam obliged with an answer.
“When the boss shot old man Pitt he was hell to live with for months. Morose and grumpy and snarky as hell. He said he felt guilty, although God knows why; if he hadn’t shot Pitt he would have shot me.”
His expression said everyone knew that would have been a very bad thing and that in a choice between an octogenarian serial killer being shot and him there was no contest. Nicky’s raised eyebrow said there’d never been a poll. He continued.
“OK, so now he feels guilty again, this time about Katy, so my guess is it’ll be morose and grumpy on repeat.”
The P.A. shook her head immediately. “It won’t. He’s sad. Barely said a word to me for weeks. Driven…? I’m not sure about that bit.”
They got the answer to the driven part a second later, when Craig’s office door burst open and he raced past them onto the main office floor.
“Gather round, everyone.”
Five everyones peered up from their desks, with expressions that ranged from shocked and wary to curious and pleased. They’d barely seen their boss since Christmas Eve. Craig was in his office by the time they arrived each morning, and was still cloistered in there when they left at the end of the day. Anything he’d wished communicated had been delivered by Liam, his noisier and far less erudite mouthpiece. It had worked well enough because they hadn’t had a new case, so part of the ‘everyones’’ curiosity was why the sudden change now? As far as anyone knew Katy still wasn’t seeing him and no-one had been murdered in Belfast for weeks, so why Craig was suddenly re-appearing now was anybody’s guess.
They were about to find out. When the group had gathered the sad and driven superintendent scanned the row of faces and then began to speak.
“OK. We have a rare respite from murder and mayhem in Belfast at the moment, so I intend to use the free time to tidy up loose ends.”
He turned towards the team’s inspector, Annette Eakin, to find her shifting about in her seat, attempting to find the single elusive comfortable position in the hard-backed chair. Even more elusive given that she was six months pregnant and her abdomen was growing at an alarming rate.
“Annette, I want all the court summaries for outstanding cases completed by the end of next week. You’re in charge of that.”
Before she could argue or sulk he swung round in search of Andy Angel, the most sugar addicted and lethargic, yet skinniest chief inspector on the force. Craig’s mind was still on the fact that it was time to find Annette a more comfortable seat and he glanced at Nicky in silent request as he passed.
Craig found his junior D.C.I. slumped so far down in his chair that he was eye level with the top of his desk. He barked “ANDY” so loudly it jolted the D.C.I. upright, making him bang his knee and swear not so quietly beneath his breath.
Andy rubbed his leg hard and nodded in reply, wondering sulkily why Craig always seemed to think that he was deaf. He wasn’t deaf; he just thought deep thoughts, mostly about chocolate if the content of his desk drawers meant anything. When Craig was certain he had everybody’s attention he continued with his speech.
“Right. I want you to look at any cases going to court in the next three months and check them for outstanding reports from forensics, victim statements, etcetera. Same deadline. End of next week.” He turned to find another victim and then changed his mind, turning back to stare pointedly at a heap of folders beside Andy’s desk. “Unless you’re deliberately building a model of the Eiffel Tower with those files, Andy, get them off the bloody floor!”
As Craig turned again, this time in search of Ash Rahman, the team’s temporary analyst until their permanent team member Davy Walsh returned from France the next day, Liam glanced at Nicky meaningfully. The boss was definitely sad; the dullness of his normally lively eyes was as eloquent as if he was weeping openly. But he was obviously driven as well which, preferable as it was to him being morose and grumpy and pissing them all off, meant that he’d be finding extra work for everyone in the coming weeks. Liam fancied that like a hole in the head and was just trying to think of a way out of the jobs inevitably heading his way when they were rescued by the appearance of someone who knew Craig better than anyone but his mum.
Doctor John Winter entered the squad-room quietly, the same way he did everything. The Director of Pathology was a gentle man as well as a gentleman, and carried himself with the self-effacing modesty of the truly intelligent. He’d known Craig since school and they each possessed tendencies that the other lacked. Where Craig was passionate, physical and with a tendency to be dark, Winter was cerebral, rational and almost too calm. If anyone could stop the detective spiralling into obsession, something that his driven moods had a tendency to become, it was John, so Liam and Nicky exchanged a look of relief as the pathologist took a seat behind their boss and tapped him gently on the back.
Craig spun round as if he was under attack, only for his face to break into the first smile that they’d seen that week.
“John! What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to discuss something with you, if you have time?” He glanced at his watch. “Lunch?”
Craig went to object but Liam jumped in before he could.
“I can finish up here, boss. I know what needs doing.”
Craig went to object again but it was half-hearted this time. “Don’t forget-”
“The Public Prosecution Reports. I know.” He waved Craig out briskly, before he handed someone a vacuum and told them to clear the floor. “Off you go to The James, lads. We’ll join you there in half-an-hour.”
He was surprised when Craig didn’t refuse and even more surprised by the almost meek way he followed the pathologist off the floor. That was when Liam knew things were really serious. They’d seen the boss sad and moody and they’d seen him obsessed, but if Katy didn’t reconcile with him he was pretty sure that they didn’t want to see what came next.
****
The James Bar. Pilot Street.
The James Bar had been the squad’s watering hole for years and with the blindness that came from familiarity Craig never noticed when anything changed. It was no different that day as he slumped in a dark-wood booth with his hands wrapped around a coffee mug, so it was up to John to express surprise at the expensive upgrade wrought on the bar by its new landlord.
“Joe Higginson’s really improved this place, hasn’t he?”
He waved a thin hand at the shining brass maritime fittings and then at the stained glass panels set randomly around the space. Craig gazed around him dully, taking in the indicated alterations without emotion or surprise. He turned back to his coffee almost immediately, making his friend emit a loud tut. It made the detective raise an eyebrow and John took it as a good sign; it was the most emotion Craig had shown in weeks. He decided to take his life in his hands and mention the ‘K’ word.
“Natalie saw Katy last night.”
Natalie was his wife of eighteen months and a surgeon at the same local hospital where Katy was a physician.
Craig inhaled sharply, the mention of her name like a blow. After a long pause he croaked out a response. “She’s back at work? But she’s not well enough.”
John was tempted to say ‘did I say it was at work?’ but decided that sarcasm didn’t fit the topic, never mind that he’d be taking his life in his hands. Craig might be his best friend but he was quick with his fists at the best of times and especially unpredictable right now. He softened his voice.
“She visited Katy at her mum’s. She’s staying there while she has rehab on her wrist because it’s closer to the physios.”
Amongst Katy’s injuries during her accident, although accident definitely didn’t describe it accurately, given that Ronan Miskimmon had computer hacked her car straight into a high stone wall, had been a broken wrist. It had healed but left her with some nerve damage that her consultant hoped would be improved by physiotherapy.
Craig nodded, try
ing to ignore the burning pain in his heart. He would have been tempted to dismiss it as indigestion if he hadn’t been there constantly for over a month. As John waited expectantly for some comment, Craig wondered what he wanted him to say. ‘Oh, that’s good’ or ‘Her mum’s house is closer so that makes sense.’
He was thinking neither. What he was thinking was far less altruistic and he would have been ashamed to hear it hit the air. He was thinking thank God that Katy wasn’t out socialising yet, in case she met another man. As he blushed from shame John watched his friend carefully and decided that the Katy topic was too dangerous to pursue any further that day.
He shifted tack to one that wasn’t.
“I wanted to see you because I have a case that -”
He was cut off by Craig lurching towards him, as if the case was something that he could physically grab from his hand.
“I need every detail.”
They were back on solid if ghoulish ground. A dead person and a less than straightforward explanation as to how they’d got dead. Happy days.
John topped up their coffees and sat back, adopting his puzzled scientist face.
“I had a body brought in this morning. Colin McAllister, a dairy farmer near Armagh who was working at his slurry pit around seven a.m. and collapsed.”
Slurry pits were a common fixture on farms; places where farmers gathered organic matter and animal waste, often to convert it into fertiliser. The problem was that decomposing waste produced deadly gases, presenting farm workers with a lethal threat.
Craig’s expression changed from wide-eyed excitement to ‘been there done that’ apathy in the space of a breath. He slumped back, his tone changing to bored.