The Tribes

by Catriona King

  The reply was a nod and an inscrutable “Hmm.”

  Craig carried on, hoping fervently that the conversation wasn’t going to be hints and signs throughout.

  “Good. The Miskimmon and Corneau and Aaron Foster cases, I believe.”

  “Hmm.”

  The hmming was annoying Craig already and if the solicitor ‘hmmed’ one more time his politeness was likely to slip. To prevent the coming assault the detective sat back in his chair and bit his lip. If he didn’t ask anything then he couldn’t be hmmed at, and Grant would be forced to speak. It worked. The solicitor set the files he was still holding on the desk and opened the one on top. He started to recite without glancing at the page, making Craig wonder why he’d bothered to open the file at all.

  “Aaron Foster, date of birth first of June-”

  Craig raised a hand, halting him. “Let’s take the details and charges as read.”

  It threw Grant momentarily but to his credit he gathered himself quickly and moved on, turning over the page and leaning in to peer at the next. His second soliloquy obviously required an aide memoire.

  “Mr Foster’s solicitor has changed his plea to...”

  Craig’s heart sank twice. Once at the inevitability of what Grant was going to say next and then again at the idea of telling Jake.

  “Not guilty by reason of insanity.” Temporary of course.

  And there it was. The phrase that had wriggled criminals out of taking responsibility for their crimes and into the warm hugs of group therapy and soft cells for sixty years. Valid in some cases perhaps, but not half as many as the number of cons who used it. Craig heard his next words as if they were being said by someone else.

  “You’ve done a deal.”

  Grant was looking more like Cassius with every word and something about Craig’s tone must have conveyed it, because the lawyer rushed to caveat his words.

  “The Director insisted…taxpayers’ money…five years in a psychiatric unit…save months of court time…”

  All Craig heard after five years was ‘blah, blah, blah’. White noise generated by the angry rush of blood inside his head. He knew it was nothing to the anger that Jake would feel. He leaned forward, his voice rising but still controlled.

  “So Sergeant McLean won’t get his day in court.”

  Grant leaned back as Craig’s voice grew louder.

  “He won’t get to confront Foster and make him admit how he deliberately planned to end his life.”

  Nicky heard the words outside.

  Grant retreated even further as Craig stood up and leaned forward on the desk.

  “You’re going to do something for me, Mr Grant.”

  Any further retreat was barred by the chair’s high back, so the solicitor nodded hurriedly, already determined to give the obviously unhinged superintendent in front of him whatever it was he asked. Nicky moved her chair closer to the door to listen, just as Ash stood up at his desk and mouthed “what’s going on?” She shook her head and kept eavesdropping, picturing Craig squeezing out his next words through gritted teeth.

  “You’re going to explain all of this personally to Sergeant McLean, aren’t you, Mr Grant.”

  The civil servant nodded frantically. “I am. I am. I can do that. Definitely. Not a problem. Not a problem. Whatever you wish.”

  For a moment Craig didn’t move. He just stood, fists grinding against the desk’s veneer, jaw set and leaning so far forward that he was barely six inches from the hapless lawyer’s face. Suddenly he realised how he must look. He drew himself upright abruptly and strode to the door, opening it so quickly that Nicky slid off her chair. He helped her up with no comment but “two more coffees, please”, before going back inside.

  It was the pause he’d needed to admit that the Director of Public Prosecution’s decision had absolutely nothing to do with the man in front of him.

  Nicky entered with a full percolator, new cups and her best biscuits for good measure, something that made Craig shoot her a wry look; good manners said that guests should be offered coffee, but there was no need to indulge the bringer of bad news with chocolate carbs. She backed out, smiling a warning at her boss. Craig ignored the silent lecture and retook his seat, sliding a fresh drink towards his guest.

  When they had sipped in silence for a moment and Grant had confirmed that his physique was nothing to do with dieting by eating two chocolate digestives in a row, Craig nodded towards the second file.

  “Miskimmon and Corneau.”

  It was the solicitor’s turn to look angry. He set down his cup and tapped a finger repeatedly on the desk.

  “I want to know what you’re doing about this case.”

  Craig raised an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. Grant hadn’t come to say that the P.P.S. didn’t have enough to prosecute the siblings; his words implied that they just needed something more. The Public Prosecution Service applied two tests to a case to decide whether to prosecute or not: One; was there enough evidence to provide a ‘realistic prospect of conviction’. Although of course there was no guarantee of that when the barristers got to their feet in court. And two; was it in the public interest to prosecute? On number two, there could be no doubt that the answer was yes. Ronan Miskimmon and Eleanor Corneau were dangerous and everyone would be safer without them on the streets, so Grant’s words had to refer to test number one. They needed more evidence to convince the D.P.P. to proceed.

  “What more do you need?”

  Grant squinted, searching for some sarcasm in the words. When he found none he became enthused.

  “I need something that puts Miskimmon near that plane.” He was referring to a private jet that Miskimmon had sabotaged, killing an MLA and his staff. “Or some concrete proof of his hacking, even at just one of the incidences here, then we can make a case for all of the rest.”

  Craig sat back and closed his eyes, reluctant to commit on either. Andy had been viewing the CCTV tapes from the airport for two weeks, but he still had another week’s worth of footage to go, and Des and the tech division were finding the computers they’d seized from Miskimmon’s home in Moygashel absolutely impossible to crack. The computer genius had set programmes to wipe all content as soon as they turned the laptops on.

  After a moment’s thought Craig opened his eyes and got ready to obfuscate. Ash was working on the hacking and would tie it to Miskimmon given time, and Andy was a super-recogniser; someone with enhanced facial recognition and other cognitive abilities that gave them an uncanny ability to recognise faces from even the poorest angle, so there was no doubt that if Ronan Miskimmon was anywhere on the airport tapes he would spot him eventually, regardless of any disguise.

  “We can get you both. We just need more time.”

  Grant shook his head. “The Venezuelans are pushing for a prosecution on the visa fraud.” Miskimmon had cleverly committed the lesser crime of visa fraud when setting up their escape to Venezuela, preferring the few years possible sentence for that to a life sentence in the UK for murder. “And if we convict on that they’ve openly said they want them to serve their time in a Venezuelan jail.”

  Craig felt surprise, pleasure and hope all at once. Surprise that a foreign government was actually following through on their initial anger; in his experience very few actually did. Pleasure at the thought of Ronan Miskimmon serving time in a prison system far less benevolent than their own, although he wasn’t so sure that his sister deserved quite the same fate. And hope, because Martin Grant had just given him a last resort idea if they failed to gather enough evidence. The threat of the overseas penal system might be enough to get Eleanor Corneau to turn.

  Grant was still speaking. “Plus, the Director is kicking off about them still being on remand. He wants the case finalised and a court date set-”

  Craig suddenly saw the man opposite for what he had always been; a potential ally. He knew that he let his personal prejudices blind him at times, and studying law at university had made lawyers one of his favourite bêtes noi
res. Perhaps it was because he was too similar to them, and their proximity made him see something in himself that he disliked. Cold logic topped the list.

  He lifted the still hot percolator and topped up the solicitor’s cup. Grant stared at the drink, knowing that so much caffeine would keep him up half the night but not fancying telling Craig that he’d had enough. He sipped dutifully as Craig asked the all-important question.

  “How long do we have?”

  Grant looked glum. “Seven days maximum, then it’s the visa fraud and nothing else.”

  Seven days; it would take Andy that long to view the rest of the tapes. Craig took a punt.

  “We can do it in ten.”

  Grant’s eyebrows shot up and he leaned toward intently. “You’re bluffing.”

  Damn. Not only lean and hungry looking but sharp as well. But Craig was sharp too.

  “Prove it.” He knew the lawyer couldn’t so he pressed on. “Tell the D.P.P. we’ll have your evidence, providing we get ten days.”

  Whether Grant believed him or not he would never know because he was literally saved by an old fashioned bell. Grant’s ring tone. After a few moments muttering and nodding the lawyer rose to his feet.

  “OK, I’ll get you ten days.” Craig was about to say ‘great’ when Grant added a caveat. “Providing that you tell Sergeant McLean about Aaron Foster’s sentence.”

  He had him over a barrel and he knew it. As Craig nodded him out, dreading his next conversation, he remembered again why he’d disliked Grant on sight.

  Chapter Three

  5 p.m.

  Liam was leaving The James just as Craig was heading in. It resulted in a rapid U-turn and another cup of tea while Craig added an espresso to the barrel of coffee he’d just drunk. He was grateful for the company and Liam’s presence would deter any of the team joining him at his table if they decided to pop out for afternoon tea, certain as they were that senior officers spent their coffee breaks discussing things of major import. It also gave him some breathing space - he wasn’t ready for questions, from Jake in particular. After five minutes of Liam’s slurping, Craig was finally ready to speak.

  “Anything to report?”

  His tone said he expected a “no” in return.

  Liam gulped down the mouthful of tea he’d just taken and nodded his head. “We’ve got a case.”

  Craig was just wondering how he’d found out about the slurry death when he realised Liam was talking about another death. His eyes widened as his deputy carried on.

  “A lad washed up against the Lagan Weir earlier. Definitely drowned, but his hands say it was murder. They’d been stamped on. A lot.”

  Craig pushed away his drink. “You’re saying he was forced in.”

  “Yup. So the question is when and where.”

  Craig was put out that he hadn’t been informed immediately and it made him picky. “That’s two questions. Third and fourth; who is he and who killed him?”

  Liam shrugged. “Not a clue. That’s as far as we’ve got. He’s at the morgue, so I’m heading down there now.”

  Craig shook his head, marvelling at how quickly their workload had gone from no cases to two. Now he wouldn’t have time to breathe, never mind think about Katy. Even better, he had a legitimate excuse for deferring telling Jake what the P.P.S. had agreed.

  Liam was puzzled. “Why are you shaking your head?”

  “John has a possible case for us too, so I’ll come with you to the lab, but it will have to wait for an hour. We have a team to brief.”

  ****

  McMorrow’s Bar. Oxford Street, Belfast. 5 p.m.

  The saloon bar’s glass and mahogany door swung open, just as it had done to admit frock coated gentlemen generations before; inviting revellers to a hostelry in permanent dusk, regardless of the time of day. It wasn’t a cold dusk, being broken by the gleam of brass fittings, and because it was winter, the orange-red of an open fire. Here and there blue lights flickered incongruously, as some early evening patrons stroked and tapped at their mobile phones. Without them it could have been nineteen hundred and sixteen instead of one hundred years further on. But it was twenty-sixteen and the traditional setting had been chosen because it echoed Michael Hanratty’s old-fashioned view of the world.

  Michael ‘Micky’ Hanratty was a man of tradition. Traditions like ‘listen to your enemies, but only once’ and ‘raising a hand in anger is likely to get it cut off’. He was a man who kept a low profile; everything about him quiet and restrained. His suits were bespoke and dark; ditto his shoes, socks and ties. Refined, restrained and high quality, fit to be worn by a City of London banker or a Manhattan CEO, except that Micky was neither but richer than both, and the secret to nobody ever questioning where his money came from was looking less like a criminal than anyone you would ever meet.

  Hanratty wasn’t an old man but he liked the old ways; he put a fresh rose in his lapel every morning and he wouldn’t deal in girls, drugs or guns. It made him feel like he had a moral code and that was important to him. He was a family man was Micky: two daughters under ten and a wife, Gráinne that he adored. None of them knew about his shadier ventures, living the life of the gentleman horse breeder’s family on his spread near Navan. He intended to keep it that way, and anyone who threatened different would find themselves being dealt a rough hand.

  He scanned the bar, admiring its antique furnishings but not the town that it was in. He didn’t like Belfast, didn’t like any big city if the truth was told, but if he’d had to state a preference for any conurbation then it would have been for the Dub. He’d been born in Dublin, the Liberties, long before it had become trendy. He knew everyone there, from the knackers in the street to the politicians preening themselves in the Dáil. He preferred the knackers; they were by far the more honest men.

  He only knew a handful of the Belfast equivalents but he knew they were men who’d cut your throat and steal your drink before you’d hit the floor. Men like that were useful to keep an eye on things while he was at home, and it was things in the north that were proving problematic that were the reason for his visit that day.

  McMorrow’s was his branch office when he was in town and its landlord Billy Ross acted as his P.A., arranging his meetings and serving alcohol to his clients, plus topping up his own twelve year old Jameson without him having to say the word. It was the perfect arrangement; no company registered at Companies House in Parnell Street, no tax paid and no address for the Gardaí to raid, but a comfortable location to hold his meetings and a landlord who knew which side his bread was buttered on.

  He and Billy had an understanding; he’d bought the bar to launder some Euros and Billy could run it as he wished so long as he kept an ear out for anything going down. Which was why he was sitting there now when he should’ve been taking his daughters to ballet class. Billy’s ears had been burning red hot for weeks so he’d decided the time was right to come north and see what was going on.

  Ross was just topping his boss’ whisky when the bar door swung open again. The barman withdrew to a respectful distance when he saw who had just walked in.

  Tommy Hill stood in the saloon bar’s entrance, glaring into its corners as his eyes adjusted to the dusty gloom. Most of the phone-strokers stroked on in blissful ignorance, but the few that recognised him finished their drinks hurriedly and then left by the bar’s side door. Tommy might have been old but he was still a legend in Belfast and the thing that made him legendary was his ability to kill without a blink. His Loyalist exploits during The Troubles had earned him a twenty-year stretch for shooting four Catholics, although early release under the Good Friday Agreement had meant that he’d served only ten. Now he lived in the rural idyll of Templepatrick, near Antrim, to be close to Ella, his young grand-daughter; a supposedly changed man, except that no-one believed a word.

  When the bar was almost empty and his eyes had adjusted to the dark Tommy glanced at Ross and followed his finger to where it pointed near the back of the bar. The street fi
ghter approached Michael Hanratty’s high-backed booth cautiously, taking up position behind it, just out of sight of its occupant. It was a stand-off; Tommy not prepared to step forward into what might be a bullet - there were still plenty of Catholics who hated him for what he’d done; and Hanratty who couldn’t be arsed to coax an old lag to sit down and join him, especially an old lag who’d been firmly on the other side.

  It was Ross who eventually broke the stalemate, bringing over two fresh glasses and a bottle of Jameson’s and setting them on the table as he made the introductions.

  “Mr Hanratty, this is Tommy Hill. Tommy, this is Mr Michael Hanratty. I think that you two should talk.”

  And so it was that the staunchly Loyalist Tommy and the ideological Republican Micky Hanratty shared a whisky on a winter afternoon, while less than a mile away the Murder Squad was unaware what was about to be unleashed on their patch.

  ****

  The C.C.U. 5.30 p.m.

  Craig stared at his team through eyes that were only slightly less dull than that morning but he noticed several things. Almost everyone was there: Jake, Annette, Andy, Liam and Ash. Even their jet-haired, pale-skinned Snow White lookalike Rhonda, fresh back from her course on voice projection, was watching him eagerly. He was pleased that she’d agreed to attend the course and hoped that it had worked; weeks of trying to hear what she was saying in her naturally abnormally quiet voice had almost worn him out.

  The two people missing were Davy, who was still in Paris, and Sergeant Reggie Boyd who was on annual leave. Craig wondered how much longer he could legitimately hold on to the experienced sergeant, given that he’d only been brought in to cover Jake’s sick leave and he was back now, and they were getting a new inspector that week in preparation for Annette’s maternity leave. But he was keeping Reggie until someone from HR turned up and pointed out that he was overstaffed, or until the sergeant decided he wanted to return to his nine-to-five existence on the Demesne, one of Belfast’s worst sink estates.