The Sect (The Craig Crime Series)

by Catriona King

  “Agreed. That leaves men working with her.”

  “Ex-seminary?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why would be the better question. We based our search for the killers on their knowledge of Vulgar Latin, but only one of the group needed to know it and now we know that Rustin does.”

  Liam objected noisily. “We didn’t just base it on that. We’re looking at people with strict religious beliefs. The Bishop’s list still applies.”

  He was right. Craig regrouped.

  “OK. Get C.S.I.s to Rustin’s flat and office. Stay where you are till they arrive and send Andy to take over here. I want both places searched top to bottom for anything relating to Saul or any other religious sites. Now get on with it. I need to phone the squad.”

  A moment later he was connected to Davy.

  “Yes, chief?”

  “Drop everything but the search for murders at religious sites. Find me something, anything. Run two searches. Wide and narrow.”

  Davy rolled his eyes. He’d been working on them for hours, but he knew Craig was repeating the order to reassure himself.

  “I’ve already found two sites, but they’re not in Ireland.”

  Craig gripped the phone. “Where?”

  “One’s S…Santiago de Compostela in Northwest Spain; it hosts the shrine of Saint James the Greater. His feast day is the twenty-fifth of July and three years ago that week a married couple w…was found dead in their hotel room. They were Catholic tourists who’d been missing for a fortnight.”

  “Drowned, wrapped and tattooed?”

  “No. That’s why it didn’t flag at first. They w…were drowned in the bath and wrapped in towels like mummies, but there were no tattoos.”

  “What’s the investigation’s status?”

  “The Spanish police drew a blank. It’s a pilgrimage trail so they get thousands of visitors a year.”

  Craig tutted in frustration. “What about the second site?”

  “Lourdes in Southwest France. In twenty-thirteen. There were three victims that time. No tattoos but they used towels again, only this time the bodies were left in the open air.”

  “When?”

  “The third week of April. It took me a w…while to work out the significance but April the sixteenth is the feast of Saint Bernadette Soubirous. The girl the visions appeared to at Lourdes.”

  Craig began pacing Rustin’s office. “They’ve refined their ritual and increased the number of victims each time, so it’s likely the Spanish killings were their first or second run, although there might have been sporadic domestic drownings before then. Run a search on flights to Spain and France against Theodora Rustin’s passport for the past two years. Also, check with the university if she had holiday leave during those deaths, just in case she flew on a fake I.D.” He stopped pacing abruptly as something occurred to him. “Is Doctor Emiliani still there?”

  Davy grew coy. “Yes. What s…should we do with her?”

  Craig could hear that he’d been bitten by the Sofia bug as well. It was like a succubus had entered his squad.

  “Tell Nicky and Jake to take her to lunch.” The two members of his team least likely to be impressed by the psychiatrist’s charms. “Then get her a car to the lab, but not before two o’clock.”

  ****

  Teddy Rustin smiled at the man beside her then lifted The Belfast Chronicle again and read aloud, drowning out the oratorio playing in the background.

  “The Fear of God killers. It could be worse.”

  The middle-aged man shook his head. “Fame isn’t why we do this.”

  She was insistent. “Fame helps to spread the word. When people see what happens to those who live corruptly, they’ll repent.”

  The man sneered. “And what if they don’t? There’s no point unless they understand the significance of what we do and the article makes no mention of Saint Patrick or Saul. They’ve missed the message completely.”

  Rustin threw down the paper and rounded on him. “And whose fault is that? I said that we should choose a reporter and feed them information, but oh no, you said we should leave the papers to work it out for themselves.”

  She was interrupted by a deeper male voice. “Be quiet. Both of you.”

  The voice’s owner sat forward slowly, like a parent preparing to admonish squabbling sibs. The room fell quiet as he shook his head.

  “Theodora is correct, but it’s not too late. I will draft a statement and then she will call our selected journalist.” He rose and turned to leave the room, his coat sweeping the dusty floor. When he reached the door he smiled back at the man.

  “Then you must leave and begin again in Bosnia. Our work will never be done.”

  The man smiled back acidly. “Don’t you mean God’s work?”

  A cold glance warned him not to say another word, then their leader exited. For now, and here, he was in charge and he would not tolerate dissent.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thirty minutes with John and Des confirmed that Brian Devaney had been killed in the same way as the others and that, much as John found Sofia Emiliani attractive, he wasn’t convinced of her value to solving the case.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know how much help she can really be, Marc; we’ve pretty much worked out the group’s motivation and methods and it looks like a standard cult. They work in a pyramid structure; a charismatic leader with convictions so strong that he sucks in his followers, and just below him a core of senior players––”

  “His cabinet.”

  John nodded. “That’s a good way to put it. They’ll be his trusted counsellors, but only for as long as they toe the line and agree with everything he says. Any sign of dissent and––”

  He drew a finger meaningfully across his throat.

  “Men or women?”

  The pathologist was emphatic. “Men. Religious cults rarely value women as equals. Besides, a woman couldn’t have carried the bodies and I very much doubt that she could have drowned anyone. It would have taken a very strong man or two men to hold even the weakest victim down. If there are any women close to the leader they’ll be there for a particular purpose; some sort of specialist knowledge or a sexual relationship. Below the cabinet will be the proles; the people who do the leader’s bidding unquestioningly. The dirty work.”

  Abduction, torture and death.

  “So Rustin’s there for her knowledge of Vulgar Latin and maybe history.”

  John turned to straighten his tie in the office mirror. It was stylish; orange and grey, part of Natalie’s makeover regime. Craig wondered if he was fixing it for himself or for his coming guest.

  “Pretty much.”

  Craig lifted a paper knife and tried to balance it on its tip. “I don’t like the word cult, it sounds too benign. It’s a sect.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Sects are heretical and deviant and this lot definitely deviate from the beliefs of any accepted church.” He changed the subject before they got bogged down in semantics. “Anything on Bobby McDonagh’s histopathology yet?”

  John turned, wearing an expression that said he’d found something but he wasn’t sure, and when John was unsure he did what any scientist would. He got a second opinion.

  “I’ve sent it to Queen’s for them to take a look.”

  Craig sat forward, knowing what that meant. He spoke over the clatter of the knife hitting the floor. “That means yes. What was it?”

  “I’ll tell you when I’m certain.”

  Craig’s voice became firm. “A second opinion could take days. I won’t hold you to it but tell me what you found, please.”

  The pathologist sighed like a martyr; speculation was anathema to him. “Oh all right. I think Bobby McDonagh’s body might have been deep frozen.”

  Craig was on the edge on his chair. “For how long after he died?”

  “It’s hard to say, but if I had to…” The scientist winced as if th
e next word caused him pain. “…guess, I’d say around a fortnight.” He added a hasty caveat. “But it’s only a possibility.”

  “That makes McDonagh the first murder!”

  John shrugged, reluctant to give even a calculated guess validity.

  “Brilliant!”

  The scientist’s eyes widened in panic. “I didn’t say it was definite.”

  But Craig was already at the door. “As good as. Bobby McDonagh was the first victim, not Elena Boraks.”

  He was on the phone as he walked through the main exit.

  “Annette, if Philip McDonagh hasn’t been lifted yet then do it now. His wife as well. Bring them to High Street for interview. I’ll explain why when I arrive.”

  ****

  The contrast between the McDonaghs couldn’t have been starker. Eileen McDonagh hunched red-eyed and sniffing in interview room one, while her husband lounged, arms folded and eyes shut in the room next door. Neither of them had requested a solicitor but Craig knew it was only a matter of time. He weighed up the benefit of letting them stew versus the risk of a brief appearing if he delayed. Stewing won and as he and Annette sat behind their respective two-way mirrors watching their detainees, it finally paid off.

  Annette lifted the internal phone and pressed ‘2’, watching Bobby McDonagh’s mother crumble before her eyes.

  “She’s ready, sir.”

  Craig’s ‘OK’ had the ring of inevitability. He didn’t believe for one minute that Eileen McDonagh had caused her son’s death so he’d guessed that she would be first to break, but just occasionally he would like a surprise. He didn’t know it but he would get one in the next few weeks that was nothing to do with the case. He joined Annette in her viewing room and peered through the two-way glass.

  “No solicitor?”

  “She hasn’t asked for one, just told Jack that she’d like to speak to us.”

  He opened the door, ushering Annette out. “Let’s not keep the lady waiting.”

  She heard his resigned tone immediately. “You don’t think that she’s involved.”

  “No. But I live to be corrected.”

  The exchange ended at the door of the interview room and as they were replaced in their observation position by Jack, Craig introduced them both for the tape.

  “Mrs McDonagh, could you state your name and address for the record, please.”

  She did, in a tearful tone, adding. “I’d like to make a statement.”

  He waved her on, watching as her faded blue eyes reddened with another wave of tears. He wondered who they were for; her dead son or her husband next door. Or were they the tears of any innocent shocked at finding themselves in an interview room? He had his answer ten seconds later.

  “I don’t know why I’m here, I honestly don’t. Or my husband. Why is he here too? I know it must be something to do with Bobby because that’s what the officer said, but what? We both loved Bobby; he was my baby.” She sobbed in a harsh gulp. “My baby – and someone hurt him.”

  She gazed at Craig with a bewildered look that he’d seen many times before, but only from the genuinely uncomprehending. It had an intensity that was impossible to fake, and he knew then, if he’d ever doubted, that the woman in front of him could never have harmed her son.

  He leaned forward; closing the gap he’d deliberately created to isolate her.

  “We need you to tell us everything about the time leading up to Bobby’s death. Anything that you can remember: about his friends, his behaviour, his relationship with you and his father.”

  He sat back again with the room more relaxed, an ambience added to by Jack’s entry with fresh tea. Eileen McDonagh’s sniffing subsided slightly and a small smile touched her lips. Craig recognised its origin; he’d given her an opportunity to talk about her dead child. How many more of those would she have before friends tired of hearing and changed the subject to more cheerful things?

  “Bobby…he was a lovely boy. Affectionate, always giving me little presents.” She glanced at a silver bracelet on her wrist. “This was for my last birthday. He’d searched for ages to find the match for a chain I had.” She glanced at Annette as if she would understand. “He cared about the little things…”

  Craig interrupted gently. “Your elder son T.J.; when did he tell you that he was gay?”

  Her eyes dropped as if the memory caused her pain. He knew instantly the pain wasn’t because of T.J.’s sexuality but something else.

  “Just before he was eighteen. I’d always known, ever since he was little, so it was a relief when he realised and told me. But his father––”

  She stopped abruptly, her eyes fixing on Craig’s with a plea. “Please don’t think Philip’s a bad man. He really isn’t. He just believes that some things are wrong. It’s the way he was brought up.”

  They listened as she made excuses for her husband of thirty years, all of them knowing that many people of his generation believed the same. Christianity in Northern Ireland was fundamental on both sides of the divide. Craig stilled her defensiveness with a touch and his hand on hers had an instantly calming effect. She smiled and sipped her cooling tea.

  “Tell us what happened when T.J. told his father.”

  The effect of his words was electric. Eileen McDonagh recoiled in her seat, closing her eyes and shaking her head repeatedly, as if the memory could somehow be erased. They already knew what she would tell them. Philip McDonagh’s response to his elder son’s declaration had been violent, if not with his fists then definitely with his tongue. She squeezed out the words.

  “It was terrible, really terrible. Terence had just started to explain that he was gay when Philip jumped up and put his hands around his throat.”

  As if by preventing T.J. saying the word, it would somehow stop it being true.

  “Bobby and I pulled him off. If we hadn’t I think Philip might have killed him.” As she uttered the words she realised what she’d said and gabbled a denial. “I don’t…I don’t think he really would have. He would have stopped himself, I know he would. We, we just jumped in first.”

  Annette interrupted by topping up her tea, knowing that most people’s manners force them to acknowledge a kindness with a ‘thank you’ and no matter how brief an intervention it serves to limit hysteria and calms things down.

  It had the desired effect on Eileen McDonagh, enough to create a gap that Craig could fill.

  “What did Terence do then?”

  She sipped the warm tea and shook her head. “He ran out of the house.”

  “He didn’t hit his father back?”

  Her eyes widened as if such a thing was unheard of. “He would never do that!”

  Probably because McDonagh had always ruled his family with fear.

  “He called me later from a friend’s.” She shook her head sadly. “He hasn’t lived at home since.”

  “Does he ever visit?”

  “Never when his father’s there.” Fresh tears flowed down her cheeks. “They hadn’t seen each other since then until this week. Philip wouldn’t even let Terence’s name be mentioned at home. It hit Bobby very hard.”

  Craig imagined that it had. Brothers separated by only two years must have been close. As he tried to imagine never being allowed to mention Lucia again Annette picked up the slack.

  “Mrs McDonagh, would it be fair to say that your husband invested a lot of energy in Bobby after that?”

  The mother nodded.

  “And that he engaged him in traditionally masculine pursuits?”

  Another nod. “Bobby helped Philip with the car and DIY. He even took science at school when he’d rather have taken art. Just to please his father.”

  Philip McDonagh had been so afraid of his second son being gay that he’d tried to mould him into a macho man. Such things rarely worked, people’s true selves will always out. Craig signalled to interrupt.

  “When did you realise that Bobby was also gay, Mrs McDonagh?”

  The small smile reappeared; Bobby was he
r favourite topic. “I never did. With Terence it was obvious but with Bobby I really didn’t know, not until he began getting into trouble and told the social work therapist. Then things fell into place. I just hadn’t noticed.”

  “Is that when you started paying for his therapy? After the mandated sessions came to an end?”

  She nodded and Craig was just wondering how she’d funded the sessions when her smile became one of pride. “I used some money my mother had left me. She would have approved. Philip never knew I had it.” She glanced meaningfully at Annette. “Everyone needs their running away fund. That was mine but Bobby needed it more than me.”

  Craig pressed her. “What did you hope the therapy would achieve?”

  “Not to make Bobby straight, if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s how you say it, isn’t it? No, I just wanted to help him cope.”

  “With being gay?”

  She shook her head. “With hiding it from his father.”

  Annette glanced at Craig, uncomprehending. Bobby had seen his father’s violent reaction to T.J.’s declaration so why hadn’t he just left home and lived with his brother? It would have been a damn sight easier than walking a tightrope for years. Eileen McDonagh saw her question and answered it with a simple phrase.

  “Bobby stayed because he loved his father.”

  “So he wanted to please him?”

  She nodded. “More than anything. He couldn’t bear to disappoint Philip in anything, so he made up his mind to hide he was gay until he left for university. He wouldn’t be living at home then and he could be himself with Philip being none the wiser.”

  “So you helped Bobby keep his secret.”

  “Yes.” The word eased out as if it was a burden that she could finally set down.

  Craig nodded. It had made sense to Bobby and her, even if the rest of the world might ask why.

  “I have a few more questions, Mrs McDonagh and then you’ll be free to go.”

  Her invisible burden shed another few pounds.

  “You said Bobby left home on the fourth of March, yet we only found him on the twenty-fifth. Why didn’t you report him missing in that time?”