The Running of the Deer
Page 1
THE RUNNING OF THE DEER
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 © 2018 by Catriona King
Photography: Vlad Sokolovsky
Artwork: Jonathan Temples: creative@jonathantemples.co.uk
Editors: Andrew Angel and Maureen Vincent-Northam
Formatting: Rebecca Emin
All rights reserved.
Hamilton-Crean Publishing Ltd. 2018
Discover us online: www.hamiltoncreanpublishing.com
Contents
Acknowledgements
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
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Core Characters in the Craig Crime Novels
Key Background Locations
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 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 Running of The Deer’ is book eighteen in The Craig Crime Series.
Each book can also be read as a standalone.
The Craig Crime Series So Far
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
The Tribes
The Pact
The Cabal
The Killing Year
The Running of The Deer
The nineteenth Craig Crime novel will be released later in 2018, and the audiobook of the first Craig Crime novel, A Limited Justice, will be released in the summer of 2018.
The author’s first fantasy/ mythology novella, Aurora, was released in August 2017.
She has also released a science fiction novel set in New York City, entitled The Carbon Trail.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Northern Ireland and its people 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 work.
I would also like to thank all the police officers I have ever worked with, for their professionalism, wit and compassion.
Catriona King
July 2018
Discover more about the author’s work at: www.catrionakingbooks.com
To engage with the author about her books, email: Catriona_books@yahoo.co.uk
The author can also be found on Facebook and Twitter: @CatrionaKing1
Chapter One
Killeter Forest, County Tyrone. Sunday, March 11th, 2018. 1 a.m.
Young eyes surveyed the brutal scene through other eyes decades old, as the stench of stale blood mingled with fresh, and then mingled again with the scents of pine and death.
The youthful gazes shifted slowly, perusing each feature around them in turn: the starless sky, the high, broad trees, and the dry earth beneath them, with corpses arranged artfully upon it, as if to say, ‘come and see’.
Their cold, dead beauty, animal and human, drew a sigh from the leader before he turned. Turned away to be followed by his acolytes, silent and straight and proud of what they had done.
Obedient and unquestioning, young yet old, they disappeared once again amongst the trees.
****
The Coordinated Crime Unit (C.C.U.), Pilot Street, Belfast. Monday, March 12th, 9.30.a.m
“You really did it?”
The question came not from the youngest or oldest member of the Belfast Murder Squad but from its most aesthetically inclined, D.C.I. Andy Angel, and in a strange way it pleased Marc Craig that it had. His opening mouth, although obviously a sign that he was preparing to reply, didn’t deter Liam Cullen from jumping in first; Craig’s second in command not being a man gifted with sensitivity.
“He did it all right! And so did I.”
The add-on was uttered with a solemnity befitting the signing of an international treaty.
Andy turned to face the deputy, issuing a challenge.
“Well, let’s see them then,” whispering to Annette Eakin, the squad’s lead inspector, “I bet Liam bought exactly the same as last time.”
Liam’s bat ears didn’t miss a word. “Now, that’s where you’re wrong.” His tongue projecting and ‘so there’, were present if virtual.
Andy chortled sceptically.
“So, you’re saying that it’s not a grey Ford this time.”
The scathing truth of the words made Craig give an embarrassed wince, knowing that they could equally be applied to him.
He and Liam had finally decided to change their cars, both of which had given far too many years of faithful and abused service. And, after so many weeks of poring over manuals and websites, traipsing around car showrooms and holding such repetitive debates that he’d almost been kicked out of bed by his partner Katy, and Liam consigned to sleeping in his garage, so bored had their other halves, and in fact most of the people who knew them, become, they had finally made their decisions.
Craig had swopped his twelve-year-old Audi for a nearly new one, the A7 this time in place of the A4, and a dark navy instead of black, the marginally lighter colour in celebration of his more thoughtful than solemn moods nowadays, although to be fair even he could hardly tell the difference on either count. And Liam had bought another Ford. OK, so it was the Mondeo Hybrid and not the Granada this time, and it was a metallic granite colour instead of dove-grey, but otherwise nothing had changed. So not surprisingly, when asked to admire their purchases both Katy and Liam’s wife, Danni, had stared at the new vehicles long and hard and then admitted that they couldn’t tell them from the old, causing two distinctly masculine huffs.
Regardless, the detectives had ignored the calls of “boring” and “creatures of habit”, preferring to think of themselves as solid, reliable characters unchanging in the face of a fickle world. Clearly no-one else agreed, as Liam’s response of, “it’s called Magnetic and it’s a premium colour, and it’s a Mondeo, and a Hybrid as well”, was greeted by a group heckling that still possessed energy a full minute later, when a visitor appeared on the squad-room floor.
At the sight of the new entrant Craig froze, not from horror or fear but in a puzzled, ‘what the hell’s he doing here?’, kind of way.
He levered himself to his feet, his muscles aching from the day before’s session at the gym, his first that he’d found time for in six months because people would keep murderi
ng each other, and crossed the floor to greet Sean Flanagan, the force’s Chief Constable and the man who was everyone’s boss.
“Hello, sir. I wasn’t expecting you. Did Donna call to say that you were coming?”
He could already tell that the answer was no, from the frantic shaking of his PA Nicky’s head behind the Chief Constable’s back.
Sean Flanagan didn’t answer the question for a moment, too busy scanning the faces in front of him, most still mid smile or laugh. When he did eventually respond it was cheerfully.
“Good to see a happy squad, especially one dealing with murder.”
Annette rushed to reassure him. “We don’t laugh about cases, sir.”
Flanagan shook his head. “Wouldn’t matter if you did, Inspector, as long as the public didn’t hear. Dark humour has prevented many a copper’s nervous breakdown.” He turned back to Craig. “Can I borrow you for a moment?”
The detective gestured towards his office, ushering his visitor inside and indicating a seat. Flanagan nodded at Craig’s offer of coffee and then added. “We’ll have Liam in as well, if that’s OK.”
It was more than OK, it was comfort. For the C.C. to visit a squad-room on a day when there wasn’t a ribbon to be cut indicated that there was trouble, either for them or for some other poor sod.
A minute later the three men were sipping coffee, two of them waiting politely for the third to speak. Finally, Flanagan set down his cup and began.
“You’re used to strange deaths, Craig, aren’t you?”
A series of cases flashed through the detective’s mind: religious fanatics, arm’s length murders via blackmail induced suicides, murders by computer hacking, paramilitaries being bumped off by their handler years after the event, and their most recent serial killer, a malignant narcissist who’d used his broken marriage as an excuse for eleven deaths. Strange was too tame a word for them, but Craig didn’t bother correcting him, just answered the question with a nod.
Flanagan gazed past him through the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows and out at the river Lagan for a moment before he spoke again, tugging repeatedly at one pristine white shirt cuff as he did, as if what he was about to say was already causing him distress.
“I’m not going to give you much background, because I want you to investigate this situation with an open mind.”
It was exactly the way that Craig preferred to work; no prejudices or preconceived ideas to send them down the wrong track.
“But I will tell you that the death involved is that of a young boy-”
Liam couldn’t stop himself. He jerked forward in his seat, interrupting.
“How young?”
He had two small children and loathed cases that involved kids’ deaths. Their last big one had involved a paedophile gang four years before, and it had taken him weeks to sleep properly after it. And he’d practically handcuffed his son and daughter to their mother for months afterwards.
Flanagan nodded, understanding. He had young grandchildren. But sadly, he’d had to deal with many child deaths in his career.
“He was a teenager. The pathologist put him around fourteen.”
Craig wasn’t sure that the boy being in his teens made it any easier; they could all remember being fourteen-years-old and empathy was a bitch. He broke the tension with a question.
“May I ask where he died, sir? And when?”
Flanagan nodded. He had a hunch about the importance of geography in the case, so where the boy had died was particularly relevant.
“He was found in Killeter Forest in County Tyrone at about five yesterday morning. By a young couple who’d thought it might be fun to visit the forest at night.”
His raised eyebrow said he knew exactly what sort of fun they’d had in mind.
“The local GP who attended said the victim had been dead for around three or four hours. I’ll ask Donna to send the scene photos across, but there are still a few we’re waiting for from the locals. She’ll forward those when they come.”
Craig stared at Flanagan curiously. Tyrone was well out of their Greater Belfast jurisdiction area, although that hadn’t stopped the C.C. posting them to the countryside before of course, when a local squad had hit a brick wall with a case.
His next questions were designed to find out if that was the situation now.
“Has it been the only recent death there, sir?”
Flanagan gave a thoughtful smile. “That we know of.”
His thoughtfulness bothered Craig. It warranted further investigation, but for now he would stick to the facts.
“So, it’s not a serial murder case then, and not a case where the local squad have been given time to fail as it only happened yesterday.”
They were intervening early, and the question was why. Craig sighed inwardly. His next query was going to verge on the impertinent and he knew it.
“So, someone or something important locally is obviously involved here. Who or what?”
He heard a sharp whoosh as Liam sucked in air, even before his words were completely out. The sound said, ‘You cheeky bastard’, and the D.C.I. stifled a smirk as he thought it. Craig had balls, he’d give him that, although whether he’d still have them in five minutes time remained to be seen.
Strangely Sean Flanagan didn’t seem annoyed by the query, but nor did he take the bait. He merely rose to his feet, elegantly for such a large man, and extended a hand to each of them in turn, gripping Craig’s just a bit too tightly.
“I’m trusting you here, Craig. This is an important case for more reasons than you can imagine, and it will attract media coverage, so keep it tight from the start. I’ll do my best to fend the press off, but you know they’ll find a way.”
Then he was gone, leaving the two detectives staring at each other, puzzled but also disturbed. There was more to this than the death of one teenager. How much more they would soon be shocked to find out.
Chapter Two
The Demesne Housing Estate. East Belfast.
Eleanor Rawlings stared idly out her kitchen window as she washed the dishes, not really seeing what was in front of her but deriving some pleasure from the warmth of the mid-morning sun. It was unusually strong for the month and made the drabness that characterised the area she lived in a pale rather than a dark grey, allowing her to believe that she wasn’t being over-optimistic and that perhaps her life really would soon change for good.
The delusion lasted only as long as her washing-up did, and as she turned away from the sink the truth of her dispiriting existence was plain to see and made her slump down heavily on her worn couch.
How the hell had she got here? Thirty, no proper job, and with three kids under twelve. She wasn’t stupid, although a spectator might argue with that given the place that she was sitting, but she held certificates for A-Levels that confirmed she was bright and had even had a place at university in the distant past. Her lousy taste in men and an inability to say no had seen her knocked-up by eighteen and put paid to all of that. Of course, her bible-thumping, poor but proud of it parents’ attitude to her ‘bringing sin to their door’ had played a fair part as well.
Chucked out of home and with a baby soon coming, the next one had seemed inevitable, and so her script had been written for three years. Couldn’t work and couldn’t go to Uni because childcare for the we’ans had cost too much, and their shit of a father, who hadn’t even bothered to give her a ring to make it decent, had preferred to see her tied to the home. He had had no ambition beyond lifting the dole and drinking it away at the weekend and had wanted to keep her the same, so there she’d sat until she’d finally found the wit to chuck him out, not bad looking, still young and still with promise, consigned to the benefits’ scrap heap for as long as she could see.
But not now. As she nudged the baby rocker at her feet, Ellie reached into her well-worn tracksuit bottoms, withdrew a wedge of fifty-pound notes and smiled. She had a new man now and his new daughter Milly, and she’d always had more ambition than peo
ple had given her credit for. She’d finally found a way to make their fortune, and soon they’d have enough cash to leave for good.
****
The C.C.U. 10 a.m.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Craig continued walking as he replied to his PA’s question, knowing that if he turned around her glare might just turn him to stone.
“Tyrone. The C.C.’s just given us a case there. Remember those photos I asked you print out?”
He indicated the folder beneath his arm and kept moving. Liam was bringing up the rear, but unfortunately not quickly enough to avoid Nicky’s sudden leap into his path. It brought him up short and knocked him so off-balance that the rest of the squad were treated to the sight of the D.C.I. lurching frantically from side to side, in a bid to stop himself hitting the deck. When Nicky thrust out a straight-armed hand she almost finished the job.
“STOP!”
It made Craig sigh and turn around just as he’d reached the squad’s exit doors.
“Yes? I take it you have an objection to Liam and…”
He paused for a moment to watch his deputy, who was apparently doing some sort of dance. When Liam finally managed to stabilise himself, Craig picked up exactly where he’d left off.
“…I leaving?”
The secretary folded her arms determinedly across her chest.
“I most certainly do! You both have reports to write for the Drake court case, which begins tomorrow, in case you’d forgotten. And we have a new team member starting today, so you need to be here to greet them.”
Damn. Craig had forgotten about both things, but there was no way that they weren’t hitting the road, so he thought fast.