Craig turned back to the constable “Anything else?”
“No, sir, but if I could suggest I act as liaison officer with the family? I might get more information as time goes on.”
“Let me think about it. OK, Geoff, could you bring them up to speed on the Reys, please.”
As Hamill filled them in on The Rock and his suspicion of a gang war, Craig topped up his coffee from Nicky’s percolator. She whispered quietly to him.
“Did you get any lunch?”
He screwed up his face, trying to remember and then nodding. The chicken sandwich seemed like a long time ago.
“Well, you still look hungry.” She slid open her drawer to reveal a plate of coffee flavoured muffins he hadn’t seen before. “Have one. You said you liked them last time.”
He smiled gratefully and helped himself, then she noticed Liam craning his neck to see and slammed the drawer shut.
Hamill was summing up so Craig stepped back in.
“OK, good. As D.C.I. Hamill said, the potential rivals for Rey’s gang are beginning to deal in girls and drugs, something that The Rock never did. That’s why we’ve asked Sergeant Rimmins from the Drugs Squad to come along. Karl?”
Karl Rimmins uncrossed his long legs and unfolded his muscled arms, leaning forward to sit with his hands clasped between his knees. The posture seemed to enthral Rhonda more than was reasonable and Annette tapped her arm to remind her of where she was. It was no use; as Karl opened his mouth to speak and Rhonda opened hers in awe, Annette gave up the fight and rested back in her chair.
“OK, there’s a lot of new stuff on the streets at the moment: Heroin, Crack and Crystal Meth mostly. Especially over the past four weeks. We managed to get hold of some to test it, and the quality’s purer than we’ve ever seen before.”
“Purer?”
The question came from Kyle Spence, who was looking interested for the first time that day. Rimmins nodded and Liam noticed suddenly that his mirror shine hair didn’t move. He must be using some sort of gel; they had gunk for everything nowadays.
“That’s what dealers do in the early days. They hook the punters by flooding the streets with high quality product and then a few months later they dilute it with all sorts of stuff. It makes it weaker but by that stage the punters are hooked so they just think they need more of it to get high. Sell more of what costs you less. The perfect business model.”
Craig asked a question. “Have you seen any cut down yet?”
“Not yet, but when they do start it’ll be cut with baking soda, talc; I’ve even seen rat poison used before.”
Hamill signalled to cut in. “Any idea who’s selling?”
The Narc’s expression was equivocal.
Liam nodded. “In other words, yes, you have an idea, but no, you’re not prepared to name them yet.”
“Correct. We’re pretty sure it’s a new gang, but all we’ve managed so far is one name. Abaz Goga.”
Hamill’s eyes widened. “That’s not a Dublin name.”
Karl frowned. “Who said anything about Dublin? We think he’s Albanian.”
Craig elaborated. “Geoff’s team picked up on the word knacker.”
Liam nodded. “Knacker’s definitely a Dublin word.” He turned to Karl. “Could your man be second generation? Foreign parents but born down south?”
Rimmins shook his head. “Not from what our snout said, he implied that his English was poor. But I’ll ask again.”
Rhonda decided it was time to make her presence felt. “Albania isn’t in the EU so he must be here illegally.”
Karl’s nod of confirmation was unnecessarily enthusiastic.
Craig was just about to move onto their second victim when the narco added something.
“I’m not sure how much use this is to you, but one of my lads heard something about an old friend of yours.”
“Go on.”
“Tommy Hill. He’s been seen asking around about gangs.”
Liam’s eyes widened. “In Belfast?”
“Yep.”
“The wee bugger. He’s supposed to be in his rocking chair up in Templepatrick.”
Rimmins shrugged. “Well, he was definitely seen in Belfast last night. Near the centre of town.”
Craig frowned. That was all they needed; Tommy up to his old tricks.
“Thanks, Karl, and you, Geoff. You might want to stay for the next bit, just out of interest.”
He summarised the background to Colin McAllister’s murder, adding the details of the rubber cement in his initialled air tank and the fact that they couldn’t yet rule the wife and farm manager in or out, despite Annette’s report of her second interview. Then he outlined Joe Rice’s finding of the underground tanks and waited for the laughter to die down before he nodded Liam on to report.
“Well basically, if it turns out to be what it looks like, it seems McAllister was supplementing his farm income with a bit of fuel smuggling-”
Craig cut in. “A lot of fuel smuggling. That tank was the size of a large pond.”
“Aye, it’s like that IRA job all over again. Allegedly.” He saw Ash’s mouth open. “And don’t you go saying ‘what?’ If you’re too young to remember then use your internet search doodah to look it up. Anyway, we’ll know more once Joe’s finished digging. But it could account for the money the wife found in the house.”
Craig nodded. “It could, but we still only have her word that she found it. She might have been in on the whole thing.”
Annette was unconvinced. “I don’t think so, sir. The Kennedys are worth millions. She definitely wouldn’t have needed the cash. And why would she have bothered reporting it?”
“Could have been a diversion tactic. The rich stay rich by gaining more money, Annette, but we’ll see. OK, that takes us onto our third murder.”
A mixture of groans and shocked ‘What?s’ assaulted his ears. When they’d died down he summarised.
“Liam and I were asked to look at a case in Armagh today, again in a field just on the border. A man, named as Calum Fox, a well-known bookie, was found with his throat cut-”
“And his dick hanging out.”
Craig dropped his head into his hands at the vulgarity, and waited for the next wall of noise. It came mostly from Nicky and Annette.
“Liam Cullen! You crude-”
Geoff Hamill shook his head despairingly, while Liam gazed around him, genuinely surprised.
“What? Would you have preferred me to call it his-”
Craig cut him off just in time. “I’d have preferred that you hadn’t mentioned it at all! OK, everyone has the idea now, so move it along.”
Liam shrugged. “Ach, you’re all far too sensitive, that’s your problem. Aye, well, anyway, it looks like Fox had been with a prostitute, or a killer pretending to be one. His throat was cut with a sharp blade and he bled out before he was found. We think the killer hopped the fence into the Republic, so, long story short, the Armagh police will be working with the Gardaí and we’ll be supporting the lot.”
Jake raised a finger to speak. “It’s a bit of a coincidence that McAllister’s pipe runs across the border and now, how many miles away, another man is killed by someone who nips across too.”
Craig nodded. “Ash, how many miles is McAllister’s tank from Calum Fox’s murder scene?”
But Jake hadn’t finished. “And D.C.I. Hamill has a transmission that mentions knackers, a term that’s rarely used up here. Couldn’t the new gang and McAllister’s and Fox’s deaths all be connected to each other, and to the Republic?”
Liam made a sucking sound. “That’s a bit of a leap, son.”
Craig wasn’t so sure. “It is a leap, but not something I would dismiss entirely. OK, good, Jake. Let’s work the three cases separately, but I’m tasking you to keep an eye out for any links that might emerge.”
He glanced at his watch. It was almost six-thirty. Just then Ash spoke.
“One.”
“What?”
“
The two deaths happened one mile apart.”
It was too close for comfort but he would think about it tomorrow.
“OK, let’s call it a day everyone. We’ll reconvene in the morning at nine, but bear in mind that we’re on call all weekend.” He couldn’t put off speaking to Jake any longer. “Jake, would you mind waiting behind for a moment.”
Anticipating the conversation was already stressing him out, almost as much as that night’s impending family dinner, which would be spent fending off his mother’s questions about why Katy wasn’t there. He was just thinking of an excuse to avoid it when Liam appeared at his side and gave his elbow a nudge.
“Look.”
Craig scanned the room, not sure what he was supposed to be looking for.
“What?”
The D.C.I. nudged him again, even harder, almost earning himself a punch.
“There. Karl’s lurking around Rhonda’s desk. Imagine the kids if those two get together.”
Craig really didn’t care.
“Thanks for that, cupid, but I have better things to worry about. Come in for a minute, but just a minute. I have things to do.” As he entered his office he gestured back at Sid Freeman. “SPAD.”
Liam’s eyes widened. “Here, that’s a bit rough, boss. I know the lad’s chubby but calling him a potato’s going too far.”
Craig burst out laughing. “I said SPAD not Spud. A SPAD’s a special political advisor.”
Liam tried to look like he understood.
“When I worked in London you’d see them all over Whitehall, wearing rucksacks over their suits, just like Freeman does. It was a style thing. Made them feel special.”
“Oh, aye, aye. I see what you mean. Looks bloody stupid if you ask me.”
“That’s my point. It ruins your suits as well.” He sat down. “OK, what did you want?”
“Me?”
“There’s no-one else here.”
“You asked me in!”
Craig realised that he had but didn’t admit it, waving Liam out again with a request to send in Jake. Liam had guessed the meeting meant bad news even before Craig’s expression shifted to grim.
Chapter Eight
The Cathedral Quarter, Belfast. Friday. 11 p.m.
Why were people so predictable? Correction. Why were young and immature people so predictable? The older members of society usually had a grip of their impulsive urges, or at least enough of a grip to do their misbehaving behind closed doors. But youth alone couldn’t explain why Jake was in a dark alleyway with a complete stranger, so drunk that he could barely stand and wouldn’t have done if he hadn’t been supported by his crutch.
OK, so he was still young. Ish. But he wasn’t a student or even on his first job, newly flush with money and determined to spend it on getting blocked. And perhaps someone who saw the full range of human nature at work should have had more maturity, except… it had been a hell of a six months. Twenty-fifteen would definitely go down as his annus horribilis, the one when he had almost died, and at the hand of his lover no less. Top that for trauma, TV soaps.
But he was a copper; he should be disapproving of his own semi-public PDA even as it happened. Except that he felt he deserved a reward tonight, just as he’d felt many times over the previous few months: the pampering in hospital post-attack, and again by his grandmother when he’d returned home; the odd blowout meal when he’d reached a milestone in his physio rehab; and of course there’d been his online gambling, secret sessions lit by the HEV light of his laptop when his granny had gone to bed. No major losses now, just the odd hundred pounds here and there; he couldn’t even enjoy a good uncontrolled addiction without thinking through the outcomes like a good little cop.
So no disapproval tonight. Not in the club where he’d watched young men dance, writhing, their silhouettes projected against the ceiling like some modern shadow show. Not now either, here in a cold, wet alleyway, drunk and letting a stranger grope him, knowing exactly what came next. Leaning against a brick wall, his other crutch propped beside him like some reproving reminder of who he was. Still a victim, still dependent on props for support.
But that wasn’t who he was, it was who he’d become because of Aaron. He shuddered suddenly, pulling his face away from his amorous companion’s, barely able to think his ex-lover’s name.
He’d been coping, sort of, or at least going through the motions at work and home, all the time psyching himself up for the trial and having to see his attacker again in court. The thought made him laugh suddenly, a harsh, angry sound that forced his companion to a wary distance. He repeated it, louder; making the distance between them grow and the light of flight narrow the younger man’s eyes. He didn’t blame him; he would run too if he was faced with him tonight. His laugh changed to a scowl and then a roar. It started in his chest and stomach and rumbled up until it spewed from his throat as a shout.
“LEAVE.”
The youth stared at him, confusion clouding his dark good looks, until the sound of Jake’s crutch smashing against a dumpster and an even louder “NOWWWWWW” decided his next move and left Jake alone in the alley, his head held up to a security light, awakened by his companion’s sprint away. Tears began rolling down the detective’s yellow-tinted face, strangely cold tears that tasted of salt as they ran past his nose and mouth. So many months’ worth falling and flooding, choking him and soaking his shirt, yet he couldn’t stop. He hated Craig for telling him the P.P.S. decision and he hated himself for barely being able to walk, but most of all he hated Aaron, the man that all this was about, safe in a psychiatric unit until he was miraculously ready to tell the doctors that he was sane.
The tears flowed on, slowly clearing Jake’s mind like they were washing it, and as it cleared a calm resolve replaced his hate. He would bide his time, no matter how long it took, and when he was ready he would exact the just penalty that the state had failed to take.
****
High Street Station. 11 p.m.
Craig felt bad about lying to his mother, but the thought of answering twenty questions about Katy, especially twenty questions in Italian, with Mirella growing more emotional with his every monosyllabic reply, and the inevitable tears about how she’d hoped Katy would be her daughter-in-law, and how she would have to wait for years now to hold a bambino in her arms (not if Lucia and Ken get careless you won’t, Mum) had been too much to think about after the two days he’d just had. So he’d lied.
As lies went it hadn’t been a big one, or a black one as she’d taught him when he’d been young. White lies like ‘yes, I really like that dress on you’ had been viewed with some tolerance because they hadn’t been for personal gain. You think not, Mum? He would have said that not having to deal with a sulk because he’d said he didn’t like her dress was gain aplenty, but who was he to question Mirella’s morality rules?
And by those rules, saying that he couldn’t come to dinner because he was working to solve three murders had obviously ranked somewhere amongst the lighter shades of grey. It hadn’t kept the disappointment from her voice, which had made him feel even guiltier, but the pale enough grey had tinged her disappointment with pride and somehow made things OK. Much as she hated the danger he encountered on the job, his mother took a grudging pride in saying that he was a detective; so, after an uncomfortable five minutes of lying, she’d handed him over to his father who’d known immediately why he wasn’t coming to dinner and empathised, saying that they would hopefully see him next week.
But the call had left him feeling bad, so instead of settling back to enjoy the football he’d recorded and cracking open a well-earned can of beer, he was sitting in High Street station opposite Mara Kennedy again, certain that she thought he was a sad git for having nothing better to do on a Friday night.
He scanned her face, only part of his scan being linked to the case. She was a beauty and he was a man, so he admired her for a moment before returning to the subject of her husband’s death. Johnny Corbett sat half-dozing beside he
r so Craig made a fanfare of switching on the tape. He was rewarded by the elderly solicitor jerking forward in his seat. He cut immediately to the chase.
“Mrs McAllister-”
“Ms Kennedy.”
He waved her objection away. For the purposes of the interview it suited him to emphasise her link to the man who had died.
“You said you found money at the farm that you were surprised at finding. Remembering that you’re still under caution, please tell me the exact sequence of events leading up to the find.”
She glanced quickly at Corbett and started speaking on his nod.
“It was a week ago-”
“Do you have an exact date?”
She frowned and then asked him for a calendar. Craig found one on his phone and after a moment she pointed to the twenty-second.
“It was a week ago exactly.”
Craig slipped the mobile back in his pocket. “How can you be so sure?”
She gave a tight smile. “Because I’d just got back from Pilates and the class is only held on Fridays.”
She’d leaned forward so he sat back, reinstating the distance that stopped this being just a chat.
“What time did you get back from your class?”
“I was early. The class starts at ten and normally lasts an hour, so with changing it’s usually around ninety minutes overall before I get home. But the instructor was in a rush last week so she cut it short and I got home around eleven.”
“Would your husband have been expecting you?”
She shook her thick hair and he wondered how it looked so groomed after the week she’d had.
“No. I’d told Colin I was taking Ben to the park afterwards, but it started to rain so I didn’t.”
“Your son went to Pilates with you?”
She smiled, broadly this time at the mention of her child. “He’s only at school in the afternoons on Fridays so he always comes; lots of the girls bring their kids. They play in the courtyard outside. We can see them through the glass.”
Nice as the image was it wasn’t going to move them forward.
“So you and Ben arrived home, and then what?”
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