The Running of the Deer

by Catriona King

  “Not to death, but yes. The likeliest sequence was a period of stoning, probably as he tried to run away, then horizontal crushing, and then death by skull fracture from one sharp blow, probably also using a stone.” He shook his head. “They took their time with him. It was a horrific death.”

  Unusually for him Liam’s expletives came in a whisper. “Fuck me, how does a kid annoy someone enough to do this to him?”

  John answered him. “Not one, many. We’ve begun estimating the impacts from the thrown stones and their likely sizes, although we’ll need Des to help with that, but so far it looks like there were several people throwing stones with different forces and velocities, not just one.”

  Craig nodded. “That would fit with the different sized stones being stacked as well. This wasn’t a single killer, it was a group punishment just as Liam suggested, and they each used stones that suited their physical strength.”

  He saw the D.C.I. about to ask another question but pushed on, gesturing to the small shape on the table.

  “Before we get into that, tell me about why the boy was so small and thin, John. We were told he was a teenager, but he looks the size of an eight-year-old.”

  The pathologist searched around for a stool and sat, prompting the others to follow, then he continued reporting in a weary voice. He hadn’t exerted himself much physically that day, but what he’d seen made him feel as if he’d run fifty miles.

  “The teeth and bones say that he was mid-teens, but you’re right, his size and weight were those of a much younger child. He was malnourished and grossly underweight, and the laxness of his skin said that it wasn’t just a recent state of affairs. Wherever this child had lived in the years before his death he had been almost starved.”

  “How many years?”

  John’s forehead furrowed as he thought. “I’ll need to do some bone and tissue tests, but at a first estimate I’d say that he was fed normally until he was around five or six and then something changed. Since then he’s only grown three or four years’ worth instead of eight or nine. It’s a sign of serious long-term neglect.”

  Their victim’s story was getting darker by the minute, so Craig sought refuge in the science again.

  “You’ve re-printed him, just to make sure?”

  Of course he had, but teaching your granny how to suck eggs was a national sport, so he knew John wouldn’t take offence.

  “Yes. Those and his dental impressions went to Davy an hour ago, I hope that’s OK.”

  “Just what I was going to suggest.” Craig hesitated before continuing. “Do you remember I wondered whether the boy might be linked or related to someone prominent locally?”

  “Yes. Do you still believe that?”

  “I did, because of the C.C.’s reaction, but I’m not as sure now. If he was the child of someone well known, it’s hard to see how he could have been neglected to this extent without someone noticing.”

  The pathologist rebutted. “They could have hidden it. People do when they’re up to something they shouldn’t be.”

  Craig glanced at his deputy, to see the expected look of disgust on his face.

  “I hope you’re not talking about abuse, Doc, because I really can’t-”

  Craig waved him down. “Neglect is already abuse, Liam, but let’s not race ahead to the other sorts. The only thing that made me think this boy might be linked to someone well-known was the C.C.’s reaction when I asked. He didn’t confirm it, and I really can’t believe that if he’d known the boy’s identity he wouldn’t have told us it straight away, so…”

  Liam moved to the edge of his seat. “So, that means he mightn’t know who this boy is, but he’s seen something like this before.”

  Craig nodded. “And if he has then we need to ask him where and when. And who the perp was, if he knows.”

  As he turned back to John the clock above the pathologist’s head caught his eye. “It’s almost six. Liam, give Des a call and see if he’s staying down. If he is, ask him to meet us at the hotel. But before we leave, can you show us the body for a moment, John?”

  The pathologist nodded reluctantly and rose to his feet, then, with a movement so gentle it was as if he was rearranging the boy’s bed clothes, he folded back the sheet to reveal his small, pale face, keeping his gaze several feet above the table and fixed doggedly on the room’s far wall.

  Once again Mike took the lead, rearranging the teenager’s poker-straight black hair on the head rest they’d set beneath him and speaking when his boss couldn’t. What he chose to say shocked them all.

  “You can’t see because they’re closed, but he has brown eyes. Golden brown.”

  It was enough for Craig and too much for Miranda Hunter. She exited quickly followed a moment later by the four men, Craig and Liam exchanging a meaningful glance. They were going to get the bastards who’d caused this and put them away, and if they happened to get a hammering in the process then happy days.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Demesne Estate. East Belfast.

  “How many?”

  “One that the lads found earlier, and another that I’ve got my eye on.”

  Ellie Rawlings sighed down the phone, always torn about their activities, although never enough to stop.

  “When?”

  “We’ll have them both by tonight, but we can’t take them down to the lodge just yet. The local cops are swarming around.” The man considered for a moment and then added. “Tomorrow should do it. We can lie low until then.”

  His tone became reluctant. “I’m sorry, Ellie… I told him no way, but he’s still saying he wants three and that we could have them if you’d stop being so protective of Reilly.”

  “NEVER! He’s my son!”

  She hadn’t meant her response to emerge so harshly, but the odd rough word wouldn’t do him a bit of harm. Much as she loved him and knew that it hadn’t been his suggestion, he needed to protect them more. She couldn’t do it all by herself.

  Just for emphasis she slid her illegal handgun from her jeans’ back pocket and ratcheted its trigger close to her mobile phone.

  “What? You’re going to kill? When we couldn’t do it before?”

  “He’s old enough for me to kill.” Her voice chilled to match her words. “I might even enjoy it, lover. So, you should warn him about that if he ever suggests using one of my kids again.”

  There was no more conversation, only silence, and then with a sharp click the call was done. Ellie rested back on her worn couch and closed her eyes, dreaming of the day when they’d made enough money to leave.

  ****

  Rush-House Hotel. Castlederg, County Tyrone. 9 p.m.

  “What did you find on the heads, Des?”

  The forensic scientist gave Craig a sceptical look. “Now? You really want to discuss them over dinner?”

  The detective thought for a moment and then shrugged, deferring to the clear majority around him who seemed to prefer eating their meal without any talk of death.

  “Afterwards then.”

  Afterwards proved to be two hours later, after the four-course meal including cheese board and follow-on drinks in the bar had mellowed everyone except him to the grinning stupidly point. The fact that it had cost a shed load of taxpayers’ money to get them there had made Craig feel so guilty that he’d paid for the drinks himself, but it was worth it to get John and Liam past their revulsion to the point where they could comment on the case dispassionately, even if some of those comments were now slurred.

  Craig seized the moment.

  “OK, Des. Tell us what you found at the labs.”

  He was answered by a loud guffaw that prompted Liam to join in.

  “You met the Munster Family then?”

  “I’ll say. God, that girl Erica was seriously weird, and what colour was Underwood’s hair?”

  John turned to Craig, puzzled. “What colour was it? I feel like I’m missing out on something here.”

  Craig rolled his eyes. “Vermilion, scarl
et, something like that, but it’s got nothing whatsoever to do with why we’re here. Forensics, Des? Remember those?”

  The head of service looked contrite for a moment and then burst out laughing again, and Craig realised that somewhere between his fourth and fifth pints Des Marsham had tipped past merry into drunk. He decided that some coffee was in order, and ten minutes later when they were marginally soberer he nodded the scientist on again. This time he made some sense.

  “OK. So, OK, they got the ages slightly wrong. Five of the heads are old, killed between three and four decades ago, four others were killed sometime in the last five to fifteen years, and the tenth died the same day as the boy. They told you the truth about them dying slowly, the signs of slow exsanguination were all there.” He turned to John. “I’ve got close-ups of the vessels, and I took samples of the vitreous from head ten and sent them back to Belfast so we can run more tests, but yes, I’d say that the slow death theory pans out. Although it’ll be impossible to ID the knife, there were no clean cuts to compare with, the heads were basically sawed off.”

  He took another swig of his coffee and topped it up from the pot before continuing.

  “So, then I took swabs from several places: the necks of all ten heads, the insides of the hollow ones, the corneas of the tenth, and I printed every inch of all ten exteriorly. I also managed to print about six inches up inside the hollow nine, all around.” He gave a satisfied look. “If there’s anything to find I’ll have it, DNA or prints. John, any prints on the boy?”

  It was Mike who answered. “We swabbed and printed him all over. It took a good two hours, but like you, if there was anything left there that doesn’t belong to him we’ll find it as soon as we get back to the labs-”

  Craig interrupted. “What about the boy himself? Any hit on his prints or DNA yet?”

  Liam shook his head. “Not yet. I checked with Davy just before he left for the night, and I sent him the boy’s least awful photo to run against missing persons. If he’s been reported missing by anyone we’re bound to get a hit.”

  Craig shook his head sadly. “I’m not holding out much hope. Does that malnutrition suggest that anyone gave a damn about him? Enough to care if he went missing?”

  Mike was indignant. “But surely his school would have noticed him gone?”

  Craig sighed. “You would hope so, if he attended. But what if he was a chronic truant? They might just have assumed that he was doing it again. And if he turns out to have been sixteen or a street kid then there mightn’t have been a school involved at all.”

  He made a noise of disgust and then turned back to Des, changing the subject. “What did you think of the facility generally?”

  The forensic scientist thought for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. With his heavy beard it looked strangely like a small, furry animal eating itself, a point that Liam felt he needed to point out. While the others chuckled Des pointedly ignored the jibe, sharing his thoughts.

  “It’s a research facility, and not a nice one. I went to walk down two different corridors by mistake and got sent back sharpish by men who definitely didn’t look like scientists.”

  John frowned. “What do scientists look like?”

  Liam got in first.

  “Nerdy, geeky, speccy. You know, like the sort of kid who never gets picked for team sports.”

  Craig rolled his eyes. “God, Liam, where were you when tact was being handed out?”

  “Playing for the first team.”

  When even the scientists laughed Craig took the win and moved on swiftly before Liam had time to cause more offence.

  “Were they armed, Des?”

  “Not visibly, but their weapons could have been concealed. They were pumped up though. They looked like they were about to burst out of their suits.”

  “Suits as in forensic suits?”

  Des shook his head. “Two-piece suits, shirts and ties.”

  Liam said what Craig was thinking. “Spooks.”

  Des shrugged. “Very likely. I saw signs on the doors in the corridors they wouldn’t let me down. They were radioactivity and biohazard warnings.”

  “Radioactivity!” Craig felt astonished and depressed at the same time. “We really have a covert weapons facility?”

  The irony that paramilitaries had had covert weapons dumps all over the country for years wasn’t lost on him.

  Liam shook his head. “Nah, we can’t have. The government wouldn’t allow it.”

  Des got in first. “What government? Stormont hasn’t opened its doors in over a year!”

  Craig was surprised by Liam’s trusting comment as well. “Seriously, Liam? You’re trusting that bunch of incompetents? I never thought of you as believing in fairy-tales.”

  The D.C.I. gave him a sceptical look. “Not that lot, boss, I meant the Irish government. The Dáil. Didn’t old cherry-head say it was a jointly funded facility between them and Westminster?”

  Craig nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right, she did. But why would Westminster even bother? They already have Porton Down for that stuff-”

  John cut in. “But the Irish Republic doesn’t. Unless they access some facility in Europe as a member of the European Union, they could be defenceless in the face of a chemical attack.”

  “They could get help from the UK.”

  “After Brexit, who can be sure? Perhaps they feel vulnerable.”

  Liam shook his head. “I don’t believe they would do it even in self-defence.”

  His conviction that the Irish Republic was morally superior to all other countries never wavered an inch.

  John stuck to his point, not wanting to get bogged down in an ethical debate.

  “Let’s say Ireland is involved, why site it in Northern Ireland, which is covered by the UK?”

  Mike thought he had the answer. “Because if Liam’s attitude is widespread then there might be uproar in the south if they put a covert weapons facility there, but as the UK already allows weapons research they could legitimately put one here, just over the border, with the south jointly funding it, so they could benefit from the use of the research if they needed to. They’d just need to keep it quiet.”

  “Which they have.”

  There was silence for a moment and then Craig gave a shrug. “We can speculate all we like, but we won’t get any answers until Kyle and Andy do their thing. I’ve tasked them to find out what they can about the place. Then we need to consider what, if anything, it has to do with our murder case.” He halted any further debate by beckoning the barman across. “That’s enough work talk until tomorrow. It feels to me like it’s time for another drink.”

  ****

  The Oaks Care Home. Midnight.

  It was an easy task for someone who had the codes. Unlock the door to the boys’ corridor, and then count one, two doors down until he was at the right room. The man pressed down gently on the levered handle and swung the light wood door inwards without a creak, its smooth silence ensured by giving the caretaker a list of recalcitrant hinges to oil the week before.

  For a moment he merely stood there with the dim corridor light glowing behind him, observing the three adolescents sleeping the heavy, almost drugged sleep of the young, except that almost didn’t apply tonight, their slumber guaranteed by the tablets he had crushed into their night-time drinks.

  His gaze fell on each youthful face in turn. Jack Rooney: cheeky, impish, someone who could have been loved and given the same in return. Too late now, he would soon be an adult, set loose on the world without ever having known unconditional affection, to do all the damage he could by seeking it too hard and fast.

  Brian McCausland: churlish, sour, a boy who couldn’t and wouldn’t be liked. What hope was there for somebody that even childhood couldn’t render endearing, someone who’d probably been fighting the world from the day that he’d been born?

  The observer’s last port of call was the smallest boy, although born within a year of the other two. Joey Parfitt, the perfect victim:
malleable, obliging, and seldom rebellious enough to defy. More emotionally stable in some ways than the two others, the boy had been treated well in his early years. Until his father had died and his mother had become an addict, then he’d been thrown into the system, no close relatives to prevent him becoming just another faceless institution boy.

  Parfitt was just the sort he liked. Normal enough not to cause them trouble, but quiet enough to do as he was bid. With a quick scoop up into his arms that merely made the boy murmur in his sleep, they were down the corridor and at the building’s rear door, where he handed Joey Parfitt on to the next link in the chain.

  Then he returned to his station to continue doing his job, his satisfaction at the smooth operation as usual tinged with guilt; the abused had become the abuser, no matter how much he wished he could deny the fact.

  Chapter Twelve

  Belfast. Tuesday, March 13th. 9.15 a.m.

  Maggie Clarke gathered together everything that she needed: pens, notebook, hand-sized tape recorder, and then slipped them all into the black leather satchel that she thought looked official enough to be seen in court. She’d bought the bag especially the week before after rummaging through her wardrobe for something suitable, Davy’s increasingly elevated eyebrows finally forcing her to acknowledge that pink, electric blue and London-Bus red handbags probably didn’t convey the serious image she was aiming for.

  She’d needed something that said true-crime author not teen-mag reporter, so black and leather had become the order of the day. The fact that no-one would know who she was or why she was there, given that she wouldn’t be sitting with the reporters and Alison Dunwoody would already be there for The Chronicle, was irrelevant. She would know why she was there, and she needed to take this seriously, so in addition to her black leather bag Maggie was wearing a neat, dark trouser suit liberated from the back of her wardrobe, its only fault being that its tightness was shouting at her to lose five pounds.