“Tell me what’s bothering you.”
She waved her list again, but with less vigour this time, and moaned in her husky voice.
“I’ve had the Canavans’ solicitor on complaining about harassment of his clients, I’ve had Judge Standish’s clerk moaning about some warrants he signed or something like that, and,” she jerked the list slightly in a momentary revival, “I’ve had D.C.S. Harrison on from Brussels, shouting about his old case.”
She set the paper down on her desk and turned to Craig with pleading eyes. “And can you please make Mary get those earrings out. Piercings don’t close up in a few days, she’s just playing you. And Aidan’s smoking’s really worrying me too, and-”
Craig raised a hand, sensing her need for control of her small empire and its inhabitants, and uncertain as he was whether it was just bossiness or caring or even perhaps a mixture of both, he decided that the PA deserved a lot more respect than she was being given all round.
The solicitor could go screw himself, Harrison’s and the clerk’s return calls would have to wait until tomorrow, and he wouldn’t betray Aidan’s confidence no matter what she asked, but there was one small concession that he could give her, and he was going to do it right away.
He scanned the office until his eyes fell on Mary, and after a second waiting for her to look up he beckoned her firmly across the floor, waiting until she was at Nicky’s desk before speaking.
“Constable Li.”
“Yes, sir.” The new team member tensed, certain that she was about to see the dark twin in Craig’s Gemini star sign appear.
“Please remove your piercings, as we discussed.”
“But the holes will close over, and-”
He raised a hand to halt her. “Before you give me a story about having such miraculous healing powers that the perforations will seal before the weekend, remember that I can call on any one of a number of doctors to tell me the truth.”
The D.C.’s small, full mouth opened to object then a second later it clamped shut again, her lips contorting into a sulky twist.
“I realise that you’re new, Mary, so you may not be aware of this yet, but Nicky has my full support, therefore everything she requests should be regarded as having come from me.” A sharp glance at his PA said not to push that backing too far. “Now, please go and remove your piercings immediately and I don’t want to see them at work again.”
Nicky had the sense not to look triumphant, making do with a grateful smile. As Craig rose to enter his office, desperate for a coffee, she remembered something else.
“Davy needs a word.”
“Can’t it wait for the briefing?”
He was answered by her glancing meaningfully towards the analyst, who was sitting on the edge of his seat looking as nervous as if he was about to give birth. The detective had barely beckoned him into his office when Liam reappeared on the floor. A flash of Craig’s eyebrows said that he knew the D.C.I. had disappeared deliberately and he would get his revenge at another time, probably when Liam least expected it, but for now he needed to deal with Davy and then have some peace and quiet and caffeine alone to order his thoughts.
Unfortunately, Davy was about to disturb that peace, although Craig’s cheerful manner as the analyst entered said that he had no idea.
“Take a seat, Davy, and tell me what’s so urgent.”
The computer expert remained standing, the better for a quick exit when Craig blew his top. He slowly withdrew The Chronicle’s front page from his pocket, spread it out on the desk and waited for the blast. It wasn’t long in coming and it was noisy, but to Davy the moments of silent reading and astonishment that had preceded it were in some ways even worse.
The sound of a chair being scraped back followed by swearing brought Liam hurtling into the room, but when he saw what Craig was jabbing his finger at he joined in, just getting out, “What the fuck, boy?”, before Nicky entered with a scowl on her face.
“Stop this, all of you! This is an office, not fight club! Whatever this is about sit down and deal with it like adults.” And then the killer post-script. “Or I’m calling personnel!”
The appearance of Annette at her shoulder reinforced the message and Craig slowly retook his seat, waving the women out with a nod. He motioned the others to sit as well, and then, summoning his inner calm, he quietly asked Davy what he had to say.
The analyst was more angry than nervous now; he’d been doing his best to deal with things all day, and the two of them had responded by almost ripping his head off. His annoyance showed in his voice.
“I s…saw this headline earlier and went to see Maggie at the court, but she wasn’t there; the judge had adjourned the hearing over some law query of Drake’s. Anyway, I finally caught up with her about to go into The Chronicle’s offices, where she’s hardly been for two days. She didn’t w…write this, her deputy Toby Foster did it, without her permission. He spotted the story in a couple of country dailies on Monday and decided to dig, despite her explicitly telling him not to. Maggie’s gone to ask her managing editor to deal with Foster, but she’d really like ten minutes with you.”
There was no ‘chief’ or ‘sir’ and their absence from the always respectful Davy told Craig just how pissed off he was. He scanned the newsprint again, trying to work out the possible damage. The Canavan brothers would see the article for sure, but they already knew they were on the squad’s radar so there was no harm done there, and the article contained no secrets about their investigation, just general conjecture, so the most that might happen if whoever had taken Joey Parfitt saw it, was that they would be on their guard. The likeliest fall out of all would be a few panicked locals in Tyrone calling the plods, and the search team could deal with them.
After a moment’s consideration Craig nodded, then he stared gravely into his lead analyst’s eyes, surprising both him and Liam with his next words.
“I apologise, Davy. I completely over-reacted and you didn’t deserve to be shouted at when you were just trying to help. The article hasn’t caused any damage we can’t handle, so please tell Maggie that there’s no harm done, although, she does need to deal with that runaway deputy of hers.”
He looked shame-faced. “I’m genuinely sorry for shouting, and so is Liam.” He turned towards his deputy. “Aren’t you, Liam.”
The D.C.I. blustered out. “Aye, well, aye, no harm done then.”
Davy folded his arms tightly across his chest, not ready to let him off the hook. “I didn’t hear you say sorry.”
Liam mumbled inaudibly until Craig gave him a swift kick beneath the desk, eliciting a clearer response.
“Ach, OK, aye, I’m sorry. Happy now?”
Davy stood up with a sarcastic “Ecstatic.” Then he left the room without even a nod, leaving Craig feeling stupid and ashamed.
“I made a mess of that one.”
“Ach, he’ll get over it. Send him flowers or something.”
It earned him the look it deserved but it did give Craig an idea, and by the time the briefing started Davy was the proud recipient of a hipster’s dream gift, a voucher for twelve months’ supply of microbrewery beers.
****
East Belfast. 5.50 p.m.
Dermot Canavan did the usual, as instructed. He read the text that Ellie had sent him and then left his apartment immediately, leaving both of his mobile phones behind and removing a brand new one from his car boot before climbing in. He activated the pre-paid mobile and sent a text, then he drove to the fifth location on their pre-arranged list as instructed, where he abandoned his car and started to walk. As he did he glanced behind him at intervals in case he had been followed, the opportunities for any tracker to conceal themselves diminishing as he entered increasingly open spaces where a quick scan would reveal every face.
The faces had dropped to a handful by the time Canavan received a text in response whose orders he followed to the letter, traversing narrow streets, parking lots and wasteland until he reached his destination,
an empty school football pitch where only air inhabited the stands.
Ellie was already standing in its centre but as he approached she shook her head, making him frown quizzically. A moment later Dermot understood her reasoning; a flashing light in her pocket saying that she was setting up interference before either of them spoke, just in case a determined listener with a microphone might try to hear to their words.
Finally, she smiled and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“You weren’t followed.”
It was a statement not a question, but Dermot shook his head anyway.
“Our solicitor blocked their surveillance warrants, but even if they’d tried it I’d have lost them along the way.” He stroked a hand through her silky, purple-tipped dark hair. “I’ve missed you this week.”
“I needed time to think.”
She kissed him again, more tenderly this time, but with determination in her heart. She would give him a choice, and if he didn’t make the right one then no amount of love would make her stay. When they’d finished their embrace, she stepped back.
“It’s over, Dermot.”
Her ambiguity was deliberate; she needed him shocked into alertness. For all that she loved him for his easy-going nature, it made him too relaxed about things at times and she needed him to take the situation seriously.
Dermot’s blue eyes widened in shock and he immediately jumped to the conclusion she’d wanted him to.
“We’re finished? You don’t love me any more?”
She shook her head. “It’s not us that’s finished, Dermot, not unless you choose that. But I’m done with all the rest. No more drugs, no more lodge, no more boys. I’ve enough money stashed away for a new life in Europe with the kids, and we’re going. Tonight. I’ve booked us on the six a.m. from Dublin to Paris, and we’ll decide where else we go to once we’re there. I’d like you to come, if not for me for Milly’s sake. She needs her dad.”
She took another step back and watched his face intently. “I won’t change my mind.”
There was no equivocation in her tone and she could see her words slowly sinking in.
When her lover opened his mouth again it was to bargain.
“But, what about Niall? And what about the land? It’s half mine. Don’t you want to share it with me?”
She tutted in disgust. “Yes, it’ll be half yours, if it’s ever sold. But that won’t happen till Niall’s dead, and meanwhile he keeps you on an allowance and under his thumb. He even takes a bigger share from the drugs and they were our bloody idea to start with! Don’t you hate him for that?”
Dermot turned his head this way and that in confusion, scanning the grass, the sky and her face in turn, as if the answer was written somewhere and was his to grasp without having to make a decision of any sort. Ellie saw it all and turned to walk away, a single-parent future set for her by his lack of decisiveness, when to her surprise he suddenly grasped her arm.
She turned to see his eyes on fire with desire and fear, and even, perhaps, a flash of hatred. He hated her for making him choose, but he loved her more, so he knew what he had to do.
Dermot’s words when they came were squeezed out. “I’m coming with you.”
She gazed up into his eyes. “Say it again and mean it.”
He pulled her to him and she could feel his heart thudding against hers, his arms gripping her so tightly that she could barely breathe.
“I love you and I’m coming with you.”
Then he kissed her roughly, every emotion he felt in the contact, and she knew what the choice had cost him and willed herself not to cry.
She almost did a moment later when he released her just as roughly and stepped back.
“But I have to go home and tell Niall and the boys first. It’s only fair.”
Dread gripped her instantly.
“NO! Call Niall if you must before we go, although I don’t want you to, you could call him from Paris just as well. But don’t go to the boys, Dermot, please don’t go to the boys.”
He knew that her panic and fear was really love for him, so after a moment’s internal struggle he agreed.
“All right. I’ll just call him. He can keep running things if he wants to, so the boys won’t even need to know that we’ve gone.” He stepped forward again and touched her hair gently. “Happy now?”
Ellie pressed herself against him and shut her eyes tight, trying to think only of their future but with fear still knotted in her chest.
“I’ll only be happy when we’re on the plane.”
****
The Belfast Chronicle.
It was almost six o’clock by the time Maggie got in to see her managing editor, but thankfully the delay had proved useful. Davy had phoned her to say that surprisingly Craig wasn’t annoyed with her, so at least she didn’t have to warn Greg McDonald to expect a visit from the cops, never a good message to have to give your boss. She was still thanking her lucky stars when the opaque glass door of his office finally opened, and the bespectacled McDonald beckoned her in and nodded her to a seat, bypassing the niceties and getting down to business with a brisk,
“Well, Maggie? What can I do for you?”
The news editor had rehearsed the whole encounter, including her statement, McDonald’s response and the likely emotions accompanying both, so she was slightly thrown when after her, although she said so herself, perfect outlining of: the problem, the culprit and his compete disregard of her explicit instructions, the possible fall-out had the senior police investigator not been so reasonable, and the likely reasons for what Toby had done, with all her attendant indignation, her boss had merely stared at her.
That wasn’t supposed to be his response and Maggie almost said so. In her version McDonald had been scripted to show horror, anger and then storm out to shout at Toby, so why was he just sitting staring at her? Didn’t the man know his script?
When the managing editor didn’t speak for almost half a minute she decided that a prompt was in order.
“Maybe Toby should be moved from the news section?” When the silence continued she added a much less confident, “what do you think?”
The veteran newsman finally reacted by leaning forward on his desk and linking his hands together slowly. The laboriousness of the sequence made Maggie’s heart sink, and McDonald’s tone when he eventually spoke dropped it further.
“Maggie…”
Yes?
“You know that I like you and think you’re very good at your job.”
Oh, crap. Was that an axe she heard being sharpened?
She nodded mutely, waiting for the ‘but’, and she didn’t have to wait for long.
“But…”
Maggie thought she read amusement in her boss’ eyes and it confused her.
“You really must stop being such a bloody girl.”
The journalist was shocked. Not by the bloody, there were far worse things said in a newsroom, and not even by the sexist implication that being a girl was somehow necessarily a bad or weak thing. It wasn’t that the slur didn’t annoy her, but they’d only just managed to stop people smoking and boozing in the place while they were working, so embedding evolved feminism in such a macho environment was probably going to take another while.
McDonald’s amusement was obvious now, so Maggie queried it.
“You think this is funny, sir?”
She tried hard to keep her anger from her voice, but the edge was definitely there.
It was the managing editor’s turn to be confused but he quickly understood.
“Amused that Toby damn near blew a police investigation halfway through? No, I don’t find that amusing at all. But that you can’t seem to keep the little pipsqueak under control when you’re his boss, that I do find amusing. You’re the sodding news editor, woman, so start acting like it! The job title brings with it a responsibility for managing staff, and you’re quite capable of slapping down an ambitious kid like that, so why aren’t you doing it? I could move him o
ut of news, but you’re short-staffed as it is so you would end up carrying his job as well as your own. Do you want that?”
Maggie shook her head immediately, much too fond of her weekends off with Davy to want to spend them hanging around the newsroom. Slapping Toby Foster down sounded like not only a good idea but one she might enjoy, but short of giving him a literal slap, which would see her arrested, she wasn’t sure what McDonald meant.
“Do you have any suggestions that might help, sir?”
McDonald rose and walked past her to the door, opening it wide.
“The clue’s in his job title, Maggie. Deputy editor. I suggest that you take a military approach and show young Mister Foster who’s boss by stripping him of his rank.”
Chapter Eighteen
The C.C.U. 6 p.m.
“Right, everyone find a seat. We’ve a lot to get through and I don’t want to be here all night”
Annette called out, “I thought you slept here, sir”, and Craig’s retort of, “it feels like that sometimes” gave the late entrant, Karl Rimmins, time to help himself to a coffee before he took his seat.
Craig wasn’t lying; it did feel as if he lived at work at times, as his call five minutes earlier to Katy cancelling dinner for the second evening in a row had underlined. She’d been annoyed, or as annoyed as her gentle personality ever allowed for. If Craig had been less work obsessed and more sensitive, as he was well capable of being when he took the time, he would have listened beneath the fleeting annoyance in his girlfriend’s voice and heard the nuances that said she was reassessing her life.
But he was in work mode, which meant his personal feelings had gone out the window two days before, and empathy and sympathy for anyone but his dead victims had joined it. Craig sat forward in his chair and gazed slowly around the gathered group, until the slightest sound from any of them would have seemed like disrespect. Then he began.
The Running of the Deer Page 30