Andy cast a pointed look behind him at where sherbet and gums were sticking to the Ford’s back seat.
“Kids have an excuse. You don’t.” Liam jerked the car to a halt. “We’re here now, so stop whining.” He flung open the door and was up the path to the rehab centre before Andy could protest.
The centre was where Louise McIntyre spent her Mondays and as they entered the one-storey building it was easy to spot who she was. The social worker’s fresh-faced enthusiasm contrasted strikingly with her wan clients’ haphazard lounging on a row of plastic chairs. Liam noticed the chairs were fused to the floor and smiled; someone had had the foresight to see them for the potential weapons that they were. He flipped open his warrant card and approached the denim clad brunette.
“Ms McIntyre? I’m D.C.I. Cullen and this is D.C.I. Angel.”
He paused, anticipating a wise crack, they’d heard one every other time he’d said Andy’s name. It didn’t come; instead McIntyre whispered something to an older man then led the way to a staff room, leaving him holding the fort.
“Would you like some coffee, officers? I’m making one for myself.”
“One tea, one coffee, please. Plenty of milk in both.” Liam pulled out a chair, one that actually moved. “We won’t keep you long. We’d just like to ask about some of your clients.”
She turned to face them as the kettle boiled. “I’ll tell you whatever I can without breaching confidentiality, if you’ll tell me why you want to know.”
Liam shook his head. “Sorry. It’ll have to be a one way street. The client’s names are Sam Beech, Elena Boraks and Bobby McDonagh. The families know we’re asking.”
McIntyre’s mouth opened long enough for Liam to notice her teeth; they were covered in metal braces even though she was in her twenties; another trend they’d imported from across the pond. She closed her mouth again but he knew what she’d been about to say – I’ll need the families’ permission in writing. She’d obviously thought better of it, probably reckoning that even if she didn’t trust the cops she didn’t fancy her chances of winning the argument. She handed the drinks round and leaned back against the sink.
“I…” She paused for a moment, frowning as if she was choosing how to frame her words. She restarted more confidently. “Sam Beech was removed from the family home for six months. He was taken to a place of safety––”
Andy cut in. “Foster parents or a group home?”
It was a distinction Annette had made as well.
McIntyre frowned. “Group home unfortunately. It wasn’t my choice.”
Or Sam’s. Liam knew that if they dug a bit they’d probably find kids there that he’d bullied as well.
She continued. “He did well enough there, but we were all glad when his mother finally threw the man out and Sam could return home.”
“Jim Upton.”
She nodded in a way that said she knew Upton far too well. Liam was curious but Upton wasn’t why they were there. He moved onto their female victim.
“Elena Boraks. What can you tell us about her?”
The social worker shook her head sadly. “Poor girl. We tried everything to get her off Heroin; rehab, therapy––”
Liam’s ears pricked up. “Who was her therapist?”
“We sent her to our best, Ronnie Carlton, but it didn’t work.”
“Did Sam have therapy as well?”
“Yes, but he was under children’s services so it was a different counsellor.”
Damn. Another commonality bit the dust.
“We’ll need the name.” Liam doodled for a moment while she went to find it and then noticed that Andy had his eyes shut. Surely even he couldn’t fall asleep at work? He kicked his chair sharply and the eyes wide, head jerking way that the D.C.I. responded said that he’d been wrong. He’d dozed off! Liam shot him a look that said ‘we’ll discuss this later’ just as McIntyre reappeared.
“Sam saw Josie McLaughlin, one of our child psychologists.”
“Thanks. What about Bobby McDonagh? We know that he saw a counsellor for two years.”
She nodded firmly. “Ronnie saw him as well. But it was private therapy.”
Andy asked a question, trying to seem alert. “Is it normal for your therapists to charge people?”
“Definitely not, but once Bobby’d finished his mandated therapy we discharged him. After that it’s fine for a therapist to continue seeing a client privately if that’s what the client wishes.”
Liam shut his notebook and quickly drained his cup. He was at the door when something else occurred to him.
“Would you mind if I asked you a personal question, Ms McIntyre? Feel free not to answer if it makes you feel uncomfortable.”
She stared at him suspiciously for a moment and then slowly nodded her head.
“Are you religious?”
She shrugged. “Not really; more agnostic than anything else.”
“Protestant or Catholic agnostic?”
Only in Northern Ireland would someone know exactly what that meant. McIntyre laughed.
“Jewish agnostic, if you must know.”
Liam nodded, satisfied. He’d give Craig everything he knew about the social worker but his gut said that the woman in front of them knew nothing about their deaths.
****
By eleven o’clock Jake had had enough of the therapy department bureaucracy that insisted on protecting clients’ confidentiality even though he had their families’ permission to inquire. His retort was that as three of their clients had been victims of crime, if they didn’t assist him their famed reputation for protection might suffer a fatal blow. It resulted in the appearance of Bobby McDonagh’s counsellor at the front desk.
As Ronnie Carlton appeared through the staff door Jake scrambled to hide his surprise. Carlton’s reputation had suggested dynamism but it seemed barely credible now. He walked with a slowness of the very elderly, despite being just fifty years old; he was a barrel of a man which probably didn’t help. But it wasn’t just his torso that was spherical; his head was round from pate to chin and, as he turned towards the clerk, Jake saw it was round from front to back as well. The man looked like he’d been made from two balls of Plasticine.
Suddenly Jake noticed Carlton staring at him, as intently as he’d been scrutinising him, so he broke his gaze hastily, extending a hand instead.
“Detective Sergeant McLean, Murder Squad. I’d like to ask some questions about two of your clients, Robert McDonagh and Elena Boraks.” Liam had brought him up to date on his meeting with Louise McIntyre ten minutes before.
The therapist ignored the hand, instead tapping a file that he was hugging in his arms. “I was expecting you. I have Bobby’s notes here, I’ll ask someone to bring Elena’s down. Follow me.”
He opened and closed the door so quickly that it almost trapped Jake’s hand and Jake knew that it was payback for the judgement Carlton had read on his face. The therapist led the way to a sterile room where Jake hoped clients told their troubles to someone warmer than him, and without any preamble Carlton opened the file and began to read.
“Robert, Bobby McDonagh, date of birth fifth of May, nineteen ninety-six. Referred to social services by the police in October twenty-twelve, following an episode of shoplifting. Social worker Louise McIntyre saw him, carried out a home visit and interviewed his parents and school. The decision was made to refer him to therapy.”
Jake interrupted the speech; Carlton’s monotone was giving him a headache.
“Social services said Bobby was discharged by them after six weeks, so why did he continue with therapy?”
Carlton sniffed as if the answer was too obvious to dignify a reply. When Jake failed to translate his inhalation, the therapist sighed and did it himself.
“He continued with therapy because he found it useful. I should think that that was clear.”
Jake admitted he hadn’t warmed to Carlton and was ashamed to say it had probably been because of his looks, but now he felt
justified in his initial prejudice; the therapist was an abrupt ass. His voice cooled.
“Clear or not, someone had to pay for Bobby’s continued sessions, so who footed the bill?”
The counsellor flicked through the pages so slowly that Jake was sure it was to wind him up. Finally he read from a receipt.
“Eileen McDonagh. His mother.”
Why hadn’t T.J. said that his mum was paying for Bobby’s therapy? He parked the question for later and turned back to his host.
“Could you tell me the upshot of your sessions?
A smile flickered across Carlton’s lips. There was something unsavoury about it. If Bobby was still alive he would be pursuing why; now it might have to stay an itch he couldn’t scratch.
“He came fully to terms with his homosexuality.”
Carlton sneered so openly that Jake wanted to punch him. Instead he hardened his voice.
“As I’m sure you know, Bobby’s older brother is also gay, so why was it such a challenge for him to come out?”
Carlton’s brown eyes widened and the sneer tinged his next words. “Well, well, I thought the police knew everything but it seems that you don’t. The reason Bobby was having such a hard time was precisely because his older brother was gay. His father had disowned his brother and focused all his energies on Bobby, so he felt additional pressure to be the butch son and heir.”
Jake was shocked; T.J. hadn’t said anything about being disowned. He should have guessed when T.J. had said Bobby had cried down the phone when he was young; he obviously hadn’t lived at home for years.
He thought aloud. “So that’s why his mother paid for the therapy.” His father hadn’t known that Bobby was gay.
“Even when Bobby had admitted it to himself, he still couldn’t tell his father.”
Another thing T.J. hadn’t mentioned. Jake changed the subject to Elena Boraks just as a secretary brought in her file. The discussion didn’t yield much except that Elena had been in and out of addiction therapy since she was fourteen.
“She funded it through shoplifting at the beginning and then by prostituting herself.”
The reappearance of the sneer said that Ronnie Carlton wasn’t beyond judging his clientele.
“Do you know where?”
To his surprise Carlton nodded. “Everyone knows. From a flat in the city centre with two other girls.”
Jake leaned forward eagerly, giving Carlton more power than he’d intended. “Do you have an address?”
He was in luck; Carlton couldn’t be bothered winding up the police that day. He tore off a scrap of paper and scribbled down the address, adding contemptuously. “I believe her clientele mainly consists of paramilitaries; she must enjoy taking risks.”
Carlton’s use of the present tense didn’t make Jake rule him out; it felt contrived, and he doubted any of their killers would be stupid enough to out themselves. He rose abruptly and headed for the door. “Thank you, Mr Carlton. I’ll be in touch.” By the time the therapist responded Jake was outside on his phone.
T.J. answered in three rings and twenty minutes later they were in a café on the Lisburn Road. Jake didn’t hide how pissed off he was, mainly with himself for being so slow on the uptake. The moment T.J. had said Bobby had phoned him crying he should have realised that he wasn’t living at home.
“Why didn’t you tell me that your dad threw you out?”
The youth averted his eyes so quickly that Jake knew the exit hadn’t been pretty. He changed tack.
“And that Bobby was still in the closet with him? You said that they were close.”
“They are…were.” His eyes widened, pleading for Jake to understand. “Bobby couldn’t tell Dad, it would have killed him after me coming out. He’s a real macho man: football, rugby, fixing cars, you know the drill. He needed at least one of his sons to be like him, and what harm did it do for Bobby to pretend at home? He was out everywhere else that mattered.”
Jake shook his head. No wonder Bobby had continued with his therapy, the charade at home must have been tearing him apart.
“Your mother knew.”
T.J. nodded. “Yeh. But Dad doesn’t know even now. I’m positive.”
Jake was sceptical; even more than that, he was troubled. His next question didn’t make sense to the younger man.
“T.J., is your father a religious man?”
****
1 p.m.
By the time they’d finished at the murder scene the night before it had been knocking on 1 a.m. and Craig was wrecked. Restarting at seven hadn’t improved his mood but by lunchtime every broken branch, muddy trail and driver who’d responded to their canvassing was bagged, preserved or documented and he was ready for something to eat. As he drove back to Belfast he phoned Liam to meet him in The James.
They ate in silence, if the sound of Liam chomping and gulping and Craig listening to his messages didn’t count. It wouldn’t qualify in a cloister but it was as close as they got to silent on their best day. When Liam had pushed away his plate and folded his hands on his paunch Craig finally spoke, nodding at his phone.
“That was John about our new victim.”
Liam picked his teeth with his knife, making Craig wince.
“Oh, aye. The usual? Tattooed, washed, cling-filmed?”
“More. He was castrated.”
Liam clamped his legs shut in sympathy. “Poor bugger.” He thought for a moment. “I didn’t notice anything wrong down there, did you?”
Craig shook his head, recalling the cling-filmed cocoon lying amongst the leaves the day before. “The cling-film’s opacity hid the excision. Apparently everything was left behind.”
Liam’s jaw dropped. “So they chopped off his bits and left them there? This case gets weirder by the hour.”
“Symbolism again. And I suppose it removes any ambiguity that he might have been castrated sometime in the past.” He pulled out his wallet. “The point is we have a Heroin O.D., anal penetration with a choke pear, and now a castration, but not a mark on Sam Beech. It’s telling us something.”
“Aye. That our killer has a warped sense of humour.”
Craig shook his head.
“At first I thought it was just telling us that they were tailoring the punishment to fit the victim’s perceived crime, but now I’m convinced that it’s more than that.” He stood up to go. “Let’s get back for the briefing. We need more brains than ours to speculate on this.”
****
The C.C.U.
Everyone was seated and drinking coffee by the time they arrived so Craig began without preamble.
“Just after five p.m. yesterday a fourth body was discovered. Same general area; in a patch of woods near Downpatrick. Fortunately it was discovered by an off duty P.C. walking his dog so he alerted us immediately and we got there within the hour. Long story short, it fits the pattern: young victim, tattooed, washed and wrapped in cling-film––”
Ken asked a question. “Was he slight like the others?”
Craig’s forehead creased then he shook his head. “I hadn’t thought about it until now, but no, he wasn’t particularly; about twelve stone. Good call, Ken.” He turned to Liam. “That might be why they used a car this time. He was too big to carry far.”
Liam shook his head. “Nah, I think they used a car every time. Dead weight’s dead weight, even if it is only nine stone.”
Craig turned to find Davy, who for once was paying attention. He was becoming fascinated by the case; it was giving him ideas for his PhD.
“Davy.”
“Yes, chief.”
It was accompanied by an itch.
“Calculate the range of distances the killers might have travelled, using timing and local speeds. They’ll have stuck to the speed limit both ways to avoid getting stopped. Give me options for both car and foot, one and two killers carrying the first three bodies, and for bringing the last body by car. We lifted a tyre track from a back road so we’re pretty sure a car was involved this time.
Also, the local lads were stopping traffic yesterday, so can you pick up on their reports as well.”
“Has Des got everything?”
Craig nodded. “The tyre track, he’s fuming the new cling-film for prints and we found lots of broken tree roots. P.C. Brunton heard them being broken so we’re pretty sure the killers stepped on them between five and six p.m.” He turned back to the group. “OK, there are a few other things before I start going round. Victim four was tattooed on his right inner arm in the same way as the others and we expect his stomach and lung contents to match as well; I’ll come back to that in a moment.”
He stifled a smile as Liam grimaced in anticipation of what was coming next. “Our newest victim was also castrated. Everything was left with the body.”
The male leg crossing that followed was as synchronised as a ballet, as were their identical winces. The only person unmoved was Carmen. No-one but Craig had noticed her taking a seat at the back of the room five minutes earlier but now she commented loudly in a factual voice.
“Strictly speaking castration just means the removal of the testicles. Was that all they cut off?” The legs tightened further and she smiled innocently at Craig. “I’m just asking.”
He answered her with one word, “everything”, and moved on; Carmen’s session with the psychologist obviously hadn’t dampened her defiance.
“Whatever the correct term for it is, victim four’s mutilation seems to follow some pattern in the killer’s mind. Of our four victims only Sam Beech was left unmarked.”
Davy raised a hand languidly and Craig nodded, grateful to be leaving the topic of excised body parts.
“I’ve been doing a bit of research on Doctor W…Winter’s choke pear. It’s just one of a number of medieval torture methods.”
He tapped his smart-pad and the screen beside Nicky’s desk flickered on. When Craig saw what appeared next he was glad she wasn’t there. A series of torture images sat side by side, with their titles printed underneath: Strappado, Toca and other joys.
The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) Page 20
