The Tribes

by Catriona King

  “I doubt it, but we need to be sure.”

  Craig scanned the faces in front of him; most of them looked well rested, or as well rested as you could look working a six day week. Only Jake and he were vying for the zombie of the month prize and he was more worried about what had given Jake his look. He stood up, more slowly than usual but still faster than most of them.

  “OK, that’s it for now. Nicky, time a briefing for four o’clock and if we don’t need it we can cancel it.” He turned to Kyle Spence. “Liam and I need five minutes, Kyle, then you and I need a quick chat.”

  As he turned towards his office Ash appeared at his side. “Hill’s GPS says he’s been only in Templepatrick and Davy says the bracelets are supposed to be fool proof, but they can be cut.”

  Craig nodded, resigned to the fact they would have to catch Tommy in the act.

  As they were walking into his office Liam stopped suddenly by Nicky’s desk.

  “What the heck’s that?”

  Craig followed his gaze. There, in pride of place beside Nicky’s framed photo of her son and husband, sat a cake the like of which few of them had seen before. Craig had.

  “A croquembouche! My God, the last time I saw one of those was at a French wedding!”

  As they gawped at the glossy tower of caramel and profiteroles Nicky preened herself. “I made it last night.” Her gaze swept round the room proudly, until it alighted on Rhonda’s astonished face. The smirk the P.A. gave announced “I win” more eloquently than any words. Liam was salivating.

  “Is it edible?”

  She slapped his inquisitive fingers away with a tut. “Of course it’s edible. The profiteroles are full of fresh cream.” She smiled smugly. “I made it in an hour.”

  Craig doubted that but said nothing, his mind made up. The bake-off contest had to be brought to an end or the team’s impending obesity would be joined by blocked arteries. He raised Nicky’s right arm.

  “I hereby declare Nicola Morris champion baker of twenty-sixteen.” It would give him a year to work out how to end the competition between her and Rhonda once and for all. “No more baked goods of any description are to be brought in for the rest of the year.”

  He dropped her arm again to a chorus of moans and hastily entered his office, dragging Liam after him. Once inside he slumped in his chair.

  “Thank goodness that’s over.”

  Liam looked less convinced but he was too busy staring at Craig to moan about buns.

  “You look like crap, boss.”

  Craig laughed as he retorted. “Thank you, Miss Universe.”

  Liam continued. “But not as crap as Jake does. He was on the booze last night and no mistake.”

  Craig winced. “That was my fault.” He outlined the P.P.S. decision, provoking a long whistle from the D.C.I.

  “That must have been tough to hear. I’d have hit the bottle as well.”

  “The difference being that you would have got drunk, punched a wall and then shrugged it off. I’m not so sure that Jake can do the same.”

  Liam shook his head. “You’re overestimating me, boss. I’m not sure I’d have been as calm at thirty, if someone had half killed me and left me in a wheelchair for months.”

  Craig was curious. “What would you have done?”

  Liam stared past him at the river, thinking back to who he’d been twenty years before. After a moment he answered with a question. “You want the truth?”

  “Yes. Warts and all.”

  Liam’s pale eyes darkened and his lips tightened to a straight line. “You really wouldn’t have liked me twenty years ago. I had far too much testosterone on board.”

  Craig raised an eyebrow. “More than now?”

  “Ach, I’m a pussycat now. Must be the marriage and kids. But back then…well, let’s just say, back then I’d have made Foster pay, no matter how long it took. And I’d have covered it so well that no-one would ever have known it was me.”

  It confirmed Craig’s fears about Jake. He forgot what he’d wanted to talk to Liam about and waved him out again, spending the next ten minutes staring at the river, thinking. When he emerged from his office again he walked over to Jake’s desk and beckoned Annette to join them.

  “I’ve been thinking. Jake might be right about the deaths of McAllister and Fox being linked, so I want you two to head to Armagh. You’re to link up with a Sergeant McDonnell and his Gardaí liaison.”

  He was rewarded by Jake’s expression brightening, just as much as Annette’s darkened. She pulled Craig to one side but he’d raised a hand to halt her before she’d even opened her mouth.

  “I know what you’re going to say, Annette. You’ve got enough to do and McDonnell can handle things well enough.” He turned his back to Jake and dropped his voice. “Trust me on this, please. Jake needs to be so occupied with work that he doesn’t have a chance to think.”

  She did trust him so she nodded.

  “As soon as I can tell you what it’s about, I will. Just best not to mention the court case to him for now.”

  He turned to see Jake readying to leave. Maybe if he got his teeth into two murders he would forget his own near miss with Foster, although even as he thought it Craig didn’t hold out much hope.

  He nodded them out and turned to find his two D.C.I.s in a huddle.

  “You two had better not be talking about football.”

  Liam’s snort said that he was very wide of the mark. “The Reys more like. Andy’s just been explaining Matias’ tattoo.”

  Craig perched on a desk. “Go on.”

  Andy pointed to a doodle he’d done of the tattoo during the briefing. “Apparently the castle is the symbol of Castile. That’s where the Rey family originate from. Xavier has one too.”

  “And I assume the word Rock is because of the gang’s name.”

  “Yes. Gang members have the word Rock and a symbol depending on where they come from: Castile, Antrim, Tyrone, wherever.”

  Craig shrugged. It was interesting but of no use to their investigation. “OK. The Reys are exactly who I want to talk about. Liam and I are going to re-interview Xavier-”

  Liam looked at him askance. “Since when?”

  “Since I just said so. Andy, I want you to chase up Matias’ movements on Tuesday night and find out why his mates left him alone long enough to get killed. It might have been innocent or it could be something else.”

  “A setup?”

  Craig nodded and motioned behind him. “Take Constable Freeman with you, please.”

  Andy didn’t have to be asked twice. The youngster had grown on him. When the floor was clear apart from Kyle, Rhonda, Davy and Ash, Craig allowed himself a smile. He was good at tidying up. He really should do some of it at his flat.

  “OK… Rhonda, now that Davy’s back, I want you to shadow one of the analysts for the rest of the day; Davy can decide which one. It’s time you found out how they support operations.”

  If he’d expected an argument from her he didn’t get one; she quite fancied spending a day in the warm. He ignored Ash’s finger pointing her firmly towards Davy’s desk and Davy’s immediate shake of the head. They could fight it out between them; he had better things to do.

  He headed for the lift with Liam in hot pursuit. When they’d reached it Craig realised he’d forgotten about talking to Kyle and stuck his head back round the double doors.

  “Get a move on, Inspector.”

  As Kyle had just found a comfortable spot in his chair and slung his long legs up on his desk, he was less than happy to be disturbed.

  “Get a move on where?”

  “High Street, with us. You’re going to watch us extract the truth from the leader of the gang.”

  Spence tried for an innocent expression. “Certainly, sir, except…”

  “What?”

  “I thought I could be more use ringing around my intelligence contacts. To see what they might have heard about Belfast and Dublin gangs.”

  Craig thought for a mome
nt. Kyle hated the street; he’d always been the same, so he could just be playing him to stay in the office. Or… he could be killing two birds with one stone; staying in the office but gathering Intel as he did. Pragmatism won out.

  “OK, today you stay in the office and pump your sources, but tomorrow you’re working with me all day and that means out in the big bad world.”

  Spence’s smile had a definite hint of ‘we’ll see’.

  ****

  Armagh Police Station. 11 a.m.

  Magnus O’Shea pulled his people carrier into the carpark of Armagh’s high-walled police station, marvelling at how official everything was in the north. He’d had his I.D. checked twice already; once at the outer gate and then by a spotty young carpark officer before he would let him in. He wasn’t quite sure if everyone got checked so rigorously or whether his number plate from south of the border made him a special case. The plaque on the wall beside his parking space, commemorating officers killed during The Troubles, made him plump for everyone.

  They might have their drug wars and burglaries to contend with in the Republic; even the odd ‘normal’ murder now and then, but their counterparts in the north had done a far more dangerous job for thirty years so he’d forgive them a few I.D. checks here and there. He locked the car and turned towards the station’s rear entrance, to be greeted halfway by a man whose voice he recognised from the phone.

  Fred O’Donnell extended a hand. “Hello. You must be Inspector O’Shea.”

  “Sergeant O’Donnell, is it yourself?”

  The expression made the sergeant smile. Delivered in O’Shea’s southern accent it had a lyrical quality, far more musical than the usual “’Bout ye, O’Donnell” that he got from his own.

  “It is indeed. And thank you for coming.” O’Donnell swiped open the door and gestured to the left. “We’re in a room down here. Two of our Belfast Murder Squad colleagues are joining us as well.”

  O’Shea laughed jovially. “The big guns, is it?” He meant it both ways; he hadn’t seen so many cops carrying guns since an episode of Chicago PD.

  When Annette and Jake had been introduced and the coffees and teas had been handed around, O’Donnell outlined the details of Calum Fox’s death. Annette nodded Jake on to ask the questions. She’d resolved to do as little as possible on the trip because she’d worked out why Craig had wanted the sergeant involved. Something must have happened to hinder Aaron Foster’s prosecution so Jake needed a distraction, and there was no better way to distract him than by making him do all the work.

  “Inspector O’Shea, is Calum Fox known in the Republic?”

  O’Shea crossed his arms over his thin frame, wondering again why he’d never developed a paunch like other men of his age. It wasn’t for his lack of eating, that was for sure, but for some reason fat always settled on his arms and legs and nowhere else. It made him careful with his diet; a stick insect with balloon limbs would be a distinctly cartoonish look.

  “Ah, well now…”

  Jake sat forward eagerly. “You mean he is known?”

  O’Shea nodded his greying head. “He is. Nothing we could pin on him, you understand, or we’d have done it. But let’s just say that Calum Fox wasn’t a man who would’ve been given cream tea at the Taoiseach’s house.”

  As a roundabout way of saying that Fox had been a bad ’un, it was pretty obscure. Annette cut in.

  “Are you saying that Fox was unsavoury rather than criminal?”

  O’Shea turned to her with a smile that said he liked the fairer sex. “You’ve got it in one, young lady.”

  At forty-seven even Annette knew young was pushing it. She decided to press the point; being patronised gave her the hump.

  “So have you never had enough evidence to convict Fox or did you just not bother trying?”

  The sharpness of the remark made O’Donnell jerk upright in his seat. “Now, I don’t think-”

  A raised hand from O’Shea halted him. His smile was still in place although Annette sensed that it was cooler than before.

  “No, now, the Inspector here has a valid point. And very fiery ladies you have up north, if I may say.” You may not. “Fox had a house in Donegal, so I never encountered him personally, policing in Dublin and Louth, but my information is that although he sailed close to the wind there was never anything concrete to pin on him.”

  Annette hadn’t finished. “So his death came as a complete surprise to the Dublin Gardaí?”

  O’Shea made a face. “Not a surprise but not entirely expected was what I was told.”

  She nodded. She still didn’t like O’Shea but his answers made sense. They had quite a few of their own population whose deaths would leave them unsurprised, even though they would die without a conviction to their names. They were known as Teflon Targets. People who they knew were up to something but it could never be proved. She sat back, knowing that Jake was itching to ask more.

  “Inspector, could Fox’s sailing close to the wind have been linked with his bookmaker’s businesses?”

  “I believe it could.”

  “Syndicates, bribes or money-laundering?” Gambling was fertile ground for all three.

  O’Shea shrugged. “I don’t have the details but I would imagine all of those, plus Fox was heavily into the racetracks. Horseracing is big in the Republic, there’s millions to be won and lost and he had men at every major fixture in the land, so doping might have been happening as well. I can get you more details on that if you’d like?”

  Jake nodded eagerly. “That would be great. Anything that you can find.”

  As O’Donnell called a five minute comfort break O’Shea grabbed two cups of tea and carried one over to Jake.

  “Sergeant O’Donnell said you might be linking Fox’s death to another case. Can I ask you what that’s about, Sergeant McLean?”

  Annette intervened. “We’ll be getting on to that in a moment, Inspector. As soon as Sergeant O’Donnell is back.”

  Jake glanced at her questioningly but he waited for O’Shea to leave for the bathroom before he voiced his thoughts.

  “You really don’t like him, do you, Ma’am?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t. He thinks he’s God’s gift.”

  Jake smiled knowingly. “That can’t be the only reason or Liam would’ve been in your bad books for years.”

  She laughed at his astuteness. “Liam’s delusional, not a patronising chauvinist like O’Shea. I just don’t like the man. He’s the sort that likes women tied to the stove.”

  She heard the others returning and made a show of sipping her tea daintily just as they opened the door.

  O’Donnell settled in his seat and started again. “I’ve had some word on the forensics. The blonde hair found at the scene was synthetic.”

  The girl had been wearing a wig.

  “And the print doesn’t trace to anyone on our books.” He turned to O’Shea. “But perhaps the Inspector here would run it through the Gardaí’s as well?”

  It earned him a smile and a nod.

  “Right. Now perhaps one of our Belfast colleagues would like to update us on their possible linked case?”

  Jake took the lead, outlining Colin McAllister’s demise and that they had two possible suspects. He finished with.

  “Of course, that may all alter now that the tank has been found.”

  O’Shea sat forward abruptly, the light of interest in his eyes. “Tank?”

  “Yes. A tank containing laundered red diesel. It was found underground in McAllister’s southernmost field with a pipe flowing from it to the border. Your colleagues in Monaghan are checking the adjoining field for anything it might be connected to.”

  O’Shea turned to his northern counterpart. “Fuel smuggling. We’ve seen it before.”

  O’Donnell nodded. “He probably thought we wouldn’t expect anyone to try it again, so he’d be safe enough.”

  The Garda turned back to Jake.

  “So what makes you think this is linked
to Fox’s death? He had his throat cut and you said your man McAllister died from a faulty air supply.”

  As Jake hesitated Annette noticed that his hair was hitting his collar. It had almost stopped growing after his accident so she was pleased, although if it hit it much harder Craig would be pointing him towards the nearest barbershop.

  “I’m not sure. But two murders only a mile apart...” It sounded weaker than it had at the C.C.U.

  “And you said you had two suspects for McAllister?”

  “The wife and the farm manager. They had an affair last year.”

  Annette felt a sudden urge to make Jake stop talking; to hold things back from O’Shea even though they were working together. She felt suddenly ashamed of her dislike of him, or at least that’s what she hoped it was; if it was bias against him because he came from another force then she would feel even worse. Nonetheless she signalled to cut in.

  “Our only real link is the deaths’ geographic locations. One mile apart with both fields backing onto the border.”

  O’Shea stated matter-of-factly. “But McAllister didn’t die in that field, did he.”

  She was caught off-guard by his logic. “Well no…he died at the slurry pit-”

  “Which is where?”

  An embarrassed blush lit her cheeks. “The north side of the farm.”

  Jake jumped in. “But the fact is that in two fields edging onto the border, one mile apart, a man has his throat cut and we find a tank that leads across. It’s too close for coincidence.”

  O’Shea shrugged. “Sure the evidence will tell us. You might be right yet.” He changed tack. “What about the girl Fox was with? Have you found anything on her yet?”

  It was what they’d been planning to do that afternoon but Annette decided to bluff; it always worked for Liam.

  “We’re pursuing some leads. But I understood that part of your role was to help us find out where she went once she’d left the north?”

  “Indeed it is.” O’Shea reached into a briefcase that none of them had noticed him bringing and removed a DVD. He nodded towards a TV at the other end of the room. “May I?”