****
The update left Craig frustrated. Not at his men; they couldn’t help it if Ronan Miskimmon had played hide and seek so effectively on the CCTV, or if their best lead so far might be from a hacker closeted in her bedroom halfway across the world, but the whole Miskimmon investigation gave him an unsatisfied feeling. The evidence felt shaky, as if at any moment the ground beneath them could collapse and the whole case would fall into an un-prosecutable black hole.
He slouched in his chair and gazed out at the rain swollen river, resigned to the situation yet not resigned, all at once. Any resignation was because whatever happened at their end, Miskimmon and Corneau would still languish in a Venezuelan jail for years, and it wouldn’t be a pleasant stay. He felt a sudden pang and realised immediately where it was coming from. Eleanor Corneau; a young woman who had never known her father and been fed on her brother’s hatred from the moment that she could breathe. Having met Miskimmon he somehow doubted that their late mother’s gentleness could have combatted such vitriol. Corneau might have been redeemable if life had cut her a different break, but after years in a foreign jail he doubted that she would ever view the world favourably again.
The thought made him sit upright, defiance shunting his feelings of resignation forcibly out of the way. No, he couldn’t let it happen; he couldn’t let the visa fraud be all that they could prove. Not because of Corneau, or not wholly because of her, but because he was damned if Miskimmon was going to get off with a few years when he should spend the rest of his life in jail. He didn’t know how but he was going to stop that happening. Feeling slightly better he lifted the phone to make the call he should have made an hour before.
****
Stockmans Lane. 6 p.m.
Maureen Stevens’ eyes widened when she saw her daughter; she looked more like she’d run a marathon than just had a gentle stroll around some fashion shops. She beckoned Natalie over and turned to fill the kettle, using the rush of water to cover her voice.
“Has Katy been running? She looks very flushed.”
Natalie thought on her feet. “Ah, that’ll be excitement. She saw quite a few things she liked in Banbridge and spent a lot of time trying them on.” Adding for effect. “You know those changing rooms; some of them are so hot that you’d almost pass out.”
It caused a concerned frown. “Please remember that Katy hasn’t been well, Natalie. She needs to take things carefully.”
Natalie nodded cheerfully, thanking goodness that Katy’s mum couldn’t read her thoughts. If she could she would have pointed her towards the front door immediately and Katy would never have been allowed out to play again. She carried the tray of tea things to the table where Katy was sitting, staring blankly into space. Natalie nudged her friend’s foot beneath the table.
“Tomorrow should be fun.”
Maureen Stevens brought over the teapot and sat down with a smile. “Out again tomorrow, pet? Where to this time?”
Natalie answered before Katy could. “The Ulster Museum. They’ve got a great exhibition on.”
It opened a door that she hadn’t meant to, so before her hostess could ask what the exhibition was about Natalie glanced at her watch hastily and stood up.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs Stevens, but I completely forgot the time. John will be expecting his dinner.”
The sheer absurdity of the comment broke Katy’s trance. If John Winter had been waiting for his wife to cook for him he would have starved to death a year before. But it gave her the impetus to steer her friend quickly towards the front door and she opened it wide, hissing under her breath.
“Shopping without buying anything? Now a museum exhibition I’ve no idea about? Mum’s not stupid, Nat.”
The tiny surgeon hissed back. “Well, what did you want me to say? Mrs Stevens, the reason your daughter’s face is red and she looks shell-shocked is because she spent the day jumping out of aircraft from twelve thousand feet. Oh, and tomorrow she’ll be doing the ton around a race track! She’d never let you out of the house again.”
But Katy was on a roll. “And cooking for John? What was that? The last time you cooked for him he nearly had to have his stomach pumped.”
Natalie shrugged. “Your mum bakes so I thought she’d trust me more if she thought I was the domestic sort.”
“She’ll think you’ve had a personality transplant!”
Natalie was halfway down the path with her fingers in her ears. “Nah, nah, nah. Not listening. I’ll see you at eleven tomorrow. Bye bye.”
While Katy spent an hour convincing her mother that yes, she really could window shop for six hours without buying anything, Natalie headed home via the Thai Takeaway, entering her own house thirty minutes later like Lady Bountiful, only to find her husband lying on the sofa watching an episode of C.S.I.
“Hi honey, I’m home.” She held the soggy bags close to John’s face. “Guess what I cooked.”
He adjusted his position and kept watching. “You were coming from Katy’s so you passed the Thai Pad on the way.”
The words were out before she could stop them. “Who told you I was at Katy’s? What has she said?”
“You told me last night that you were seeing Katy.”
John turned to stare at her, in the penetrating way he did when he thought she was up to no good.
Natalie moved quickly towards the kitchen. “I’ll just find some plates.”
But he was standing in front of her before she could take a step. John leaned down so that his face was only inches from her own. “What have you been up to?”
Natalie ducked round her husband and pushed through the kitchen door, a mumbled “nothing” floating back.
The pathologist was undeterred. He set off in pursuit and plopped down at the breakfast bar, scrutinising his wife in the same way he scrutinised the cases he was involved in every day. It mightn’t have been his job to actually solve them but that didn’t mean he didn’t develop theories of his own, and more often than not they turned out to be right. After staring so hard that Natalie blushed John gave a satisfied nod.
“You’ve been up to something, my love, and as you’ve just come from Katy’s my guess is that she’s involved in it as well.”
Natalie decided to brazen it out. She believed in the mantra; if in doubt attack, so she turned towards him with her small hands on her hips. “Well! It’s coming to something when your own husband doesn’t trust you.”
She turned back to the bags and lifted a spoon, preparing to dish up the rice.
John rose and walked slowly towards her, making her back away until she’d reached the fridge. Natalie waved the utensil she was holding, menacingly.
“Don’t you dare come near me, John Winter.”
He kept walking until he was so close that she could feel his breath. His proximity made her feel strangely inclined to surrender but she brushed the distinctly anti-feminist urge aside.
“I’m warning you. I have a spoon and I’ll use it!”
John smiled seductively. “And why would you want to hit your husband when all he wants to do is to give you a kiss?”
It caught her off balance. “Oh, is that-”
He pulled her to him, kissing her harder than he had all week. When he let go Natalie had to steady herself against the fridge. John pressed his advantage.
“Now, I know that you and Katy are up to something you don’t want me to know about, so will you tell me now or do I have to kiss you until you do?”
He got his answer as the takeaway went cold.
****
Stranmillis. 10 p.m.
Craig didn’t know whether to laugh or kick the waste basket when he arrived home, so he opted for a bit of both. What he’d thought would be a ten minute ‘buck your ideas up’ call with the Chief Constable had turned out to be a summons to his office, which had been a shock in itself. He’d always imagined rank and age prevented people having to work on a Saturday night.
Ninety minutes and two whiskies later he was in a taxi home with two de
cisions to make, to add to his already long list. One of them was clear but not simple; the other was simple but not clear. As he pulled off his clothes and climbed into the shower both faded into the background, his last remaining ten minutes of consciousness full of the woman that he loved.
****
Templepatrick. 11 p.m.
Rory McCrae’s curiosity overcame his fear for a moment. The last time he’d visited somewhere Tommy had lived it had been a council flat whose nineteen-eighties’ scruffiness had testified to that decade being the last time it had seen a lick of paint. His new place couldn’t have been more different. Crisp white walls and beige carpet; apart from the kitchen which was a symphony in pine. He even had canisters marked Tea, Coffee and Sugar which prompted the UKUF boss to take his life in his hands and make a joke.
“Mine’s black with two sugars, boss.”
Boss. Years of different paths couldn’t stop him regressing to subordinate mode whenever Tommy was around. No matter how tough he might act with UKUF Tommy had killed much harder men than him in his time, and been smart enough not to get caught. If the bus killing hadn’t been so high profile that snouts of all denominations had come crawling out of their holes to shop him, he doubted that Tommy would have spent a day in prison in his life. And if he found out even now who’d dobbed him into the cops, he would be adding yet another burial to his list.
Hill’s reply was as predictable as the Ulster rain. “Get yer own bloody tea, McCrae. An’ make me wan as well.”
As McCrae scuttled off Tommy’s voice followed with the words. “And dun’t untidy my kitchen or ye’ll be picking yer teeth out of the trash.”
The niceties over McCrae sat down nervously on the low sofa, holding his mug carefully in both hands and over a copy of ‘Guns and Ammo’ that lay on the low coffee table. One drop of liquid on the carpet might see him flat on his back. Tommy squinted hard at his friend, because even though McCrae didn’t realise it he was closer to receiving that appellation than anyone in Tommy’s life. The friend gabbled nervously under the ex-paramilitary’s scrutiny.
“Nice place ye huv here, boss. Nat like the council places out ar way.”
Hill said nothing, letting him gabble. He wanted his old running mate nervous before he spoke; it was the only way he could guarantee McCrae would do exactly as he was told. McCrae shifted awkwardly in his seat, wondering whether to risk a sip of tea. His mouth had other ideas.
“The Demesne’s still a shitheap. I wus dyne there earlier, seein’ Gerdy Bonner like. He’s out of The Mag.” The ex-cons’ nickname for HMP Maghaberry. “Nearly seven months nye. Says he wus aff tee the jab centre. Sumthin’ about a job on a buildin’ site.”
After a minute’s more gabbling, Tommy moved to the edge of his chair. The effect was like an electric shock, making McCrae rear back so sharply that he almost spilt his drink. Even Tommy’s ensuing “tut” held menace.
“Fer fuck’s sake put that cup dyne, before ye wreck my carpets.”
McCrae obeyed so hastily he spilt some of the black, sticky liquid on the magazine. Tommy wanted to slap him but instead he rolled his eyes. A slap now might lose him the advantage and there was plenty of time before he left. He twisted his lips into a smile.
“I’ve a job fer ye, McCrae. But first I want everythin’ ye know about gangs, like I asked ye to gather. I’ll tell ye the rest when I’m satisfied with that.”
There followed ten minutes of Rory McCrae mentally thanking his stars that Tommy hadn’t exploded about the magazine, and giving him chapter and verse on the main gangs that ran Belfast north, south, east and west. Tommy pushed for more.
“Wat about the city centre? Who’s working things dyne there?”
McCrae made a face and shrugged. “No-one’s sure. Some say the Chinese have it, especially the bits round Bradbury Place. I asked Gerdy and he tawl me the east Europeans huv Smithfield, Royal Avenue and the Cathedral streets. They’ve stayed tight there, in case they foul someone else’s turf, I guess.”
Tommy considered for a moment; it made sense. Any further in any direction and they would encroach on the compass point gangs. Then he thought again, realising that someone already had and that was the very reason they were there. He decided to take his old lieutenant into his confidence, or as close in as anyone ever got. McCrae could be a lippy wee sod but he would never double cross him; he valued his scrawny neck too much.
“Sumwan’s already dun it.”
McCrae’s eyes widened.
“Up west and south. The home gang up there’s called The Rock, run by some Spaniard called Rey. His boy was just killed.”
McCrae gawped. “The Rock? I’ve heered of them.” He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling. “Counterfeits, launderin’, gamblin’ and cigs.” They sprang open again and he added, fearful of one-upping Tommy’s knowledge. “As far as I know, like, boss.” He added a low whistle for effect. “Whoever dun them mustn’t like their faces much. There’s some heavyweight punchers in that bunch.”
Tommy lounged back in his chair. “Well, sumwan tuk the risk. The Rocks might have the muscle but they’re nat known for killin’.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “Always a mistake, that. If word gets out ye dun’t kill, sumwan will always fancy a crack.”
He narrowed his eyes suddenly, making McCrae shift nervously in his chair. “That’s why there’s more fer ye to do. I reckon either the Chinese or European lot have been swimming outside their pond. I need ye to pit out yer feelers and find me which wan it is.”
McCrae blustered out a reply. “But I’m busy with Garvan’s. How the heck-”
Tommy lurched forward, his face turning a dark red. “I’m nat interested in how, ye wee shite. Just dee it. I’ve tried kneecappins and gat nathin’ but ye’ve got ears everywhere. Git Coyler and Gerdy on the job. I’ll bung them fifty when I get paid.”
Realisation lit up McCrae’s eyes. “Yer workin’ fer The Rock! Are ye? Ye must be if yer getting’ paid.”
Tommy’s growl was so loud and low it sounded as if it had come straight from hell. “DUN’T QUESTION ME, YE WEE BASTARD. JUST DO AS YER FRIGGIN’ WELL TOLD!”
McCrae shrank like a slug dowsed in salt. “Sarry, Tommy. Honest ta Gawd, I didn’t mean nathin’.”
He was immediately angry at himself for the subservient display. He was the head of his own gang now yet saying sorry like a kid was the best that he could do. He rose to his feet, attempting to regain some control.
“I’ll git the word out-”
“Nowan’s to know who’s asking.”
“Nowan. Honest, boss. I’ll get back to ye when I huv anythin’.”
Tommy opened the living room door, casting a pointed look back at the wet magazine.
“Ye’ll get back to me by tomara. Ony later and I’ll cum lookin’.”
He followed his subdued follower to the front door, yanking it open. But if McCrae had thought he was getting away unscathed it had been a fool’s hope. Just as he started walking through the door Tommy slammed it hard in his face, drawing blood.
“That’s fer ruinin’ my magazine.”
The message was clear. Failure to deliver his information would exact a penalty far worse.
Chapter Ten
Stranmillis. Sunday, 5.50 a.m.
Craig’s dreams didn’t last long, his imaginary make-up conversation with Katy interrupted by a noise that wasn’t inside his head. He grabbed his phone and checked the screen. It wasn’t ringing and there were no missed calls. Nothing except a clock that was displaying five-fifty in a very inconsiderate way. It was then that he realised the noise was coming from the front door. Someone was hammering it and they’d better have a damn good reason why.
He stormed down the hall and yanked it open, shouting a hoarse “YES”, only to be greeted by Liam’s horrified face and then be pushed out of the way as the D.C.I. went in search of tea. It took Craig a moment to realise that he was naked and another to pull on his jeans and enter the kitchen in the same mood that he’d ans
wered the door.
“You’d better have-”
Liam raised his eyes to heaven. “Thank God you’ve put on some trousers. I’ve just got to know you better than I’d never hoped.” He reached into a cupboard. “Where’re the teabags? They used to be here. I wish the hell you wouldn’t keep moving things about.”
Craig spotted his deputy’s bustlings for the displacement activity that it was, so he took a seat, suddenly sober, and waved at the cupboard opposite.
“Bottom right. Coffee’s in there too. Make mine strong.”
As Liam boiled the kettle Craig grabbed a jumper from a nearby radiator and wrestled it on, then he waited until they both had hot drinks in their hands before asking the only question possible.
“Who’s dead?”
Liam shook his head and took another sip of tea. Craig’s tone turned insistent.
“Who’s dead, Liam? NOW. Tell me it’s not one of the team.”
Liam’s face was impassive but his pale eyes filled with fire. “None of our lot.”
Craig released a breath that he hadn’t even realised he’d held, then he inhaled again sharply. “Not Katy?”
The ‘please God’ was silent but definitely there.
Liam shook his head immediately. “Not Katy. Not anyone that we know or care about.”
Craig could feel his anger building, aided and abetted by last night’s two Bushmills. “Well, what the hell are you doing here then?”
Liam pushed away his cup. “Andy’s been arrested for murder.”
Craig gawped at him. “What? No. No way. Andy doesn’t have the energy to stay upright, never mind kill someone!” He paused for a moment, marshalling his thoughts before asking the most important question. “Who’s he accused of killing?”
Liam made a face. “Some woman. One of his neighbours heard screams so they dialled nine-nine-nine. Uniform broke in and found Andy in bed with a naked girl. She’d been killed by a single shot to the head.”
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