It was a question he’d already guessed the answer to but he still needed to check.
She looked surprised. “Because he wasn’t; he was on a trip to Spain. To improve his Spanish before university.”
Craig leaned forward, needing her to make better sense of the three week gap. “But hadn’t you expected to hear from him in that time?”
She smiled; a boys will be boys smile. “I knew he wouldn’t phone very often; he was on an adventure.”
“How often did you hear from him?”
If his guess was correct it would have been once or twice and in writing.
“He sent a postcard from Spain a week after he left.”
Posted so that she wouldn’t raise any alarms; the killers had been thorough. It reinforced the idea of an international group.
He nodded. “We’ll need to see it.”
“I have it at home.”
“So you thought that Bobby was in Spain the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Who else would have known about his trip?”
She looked puzzled.
“His friends. They were all taking gap year trips, although not to Spain. His school probably knew as well, although they weren’t organising it.”
“Did his father know? And T.J.?”
“Yes, of course.” Her eyes grew suddenly wild. “Why are you asking me all these questions? Is there something I could have done to prevent Bobby’s death? Was it my fault?”
Annette saw her impending meltdown and reached across the table, enclosing Eileen McDonagh’s housework-worn hand with her own. “No-one’s saying that, Mrs McDonagh. We just have to ask. We’ll check with the school and Bobby’s friends.” She made a mental note to check if it had already been done.
Craig watched as Eileen McDonagh’s breathing gradually slowed and her narrow face became less flushed, then he nodded Annette to keep hold of her hand and asked the question he’d been dreading asking but needed to, if only to gauge her response.
“I only have one more question, Mrs McDonagh. Please think very carefully about your reply.” He was answered by a nod and he braced himself for the coming storm. “How would your husband have reacted if, despite all your efforts to hide it, he had found out that Bobby was gay?”
Eileen McDonagh didn’t need to speak; her sharply withdrawn hand and look of terror were answer enough. Craig left the room quietly and entered the viewing room to join Jack. The sergeant was shaking his head.
“That poor lady will be crying for hours.”
Craig nodded. “I’d rather you sent Sandi in to sit with her if that’s OK? I need Annette next door.”
Jack sighed, not at the thought of his W.P.C. being purloined for an hour but at what he had to say next.
“Sorry, sir, you’re not going to like this. The male McDonagh’s acquired himself a brief.”
Craig was irritated but not shocked. They’d taken longer with Eileen McDonagh than expected; it stood to reason that her husband would have taken advantage of the delay. Jack read his mind and shook his head again.
“The solicitor’s been here the best part of an hour. Arrived just after you went in.” He screwed up his face, puzzled. “The thing is, McDonagh didn’t make any calls.”
Craig dragged his eyes away from the glass. “Who then?”
Jack shrugged. “You’d best ask the brief. I tried but he wouldn’t say. He was also clear that he was just here for the husband. I tell you what though; McDonagh must have friends in high places. It’s Seamus Bell and he’s not cheap.”
Craig doubted that Philip McDonagh’s benefactors gave a damn about his welfare; they just wanted to ensure that he didn’t talk. But it told him something; the killers had money. It was another piece of the puzzle. But much as his gut might say that the grieving father was involved in their murders, proving it to a jury was a whole other thing.
****
Thirty minutes of dead ends resulted in Craig signalling the interview’s close. But even no comments and silences say something; there are endless varieties of obfuscations and lies. Twitchy, nervous ones and sweaty, eyes widened feigns at innocence. Overcompensating leans forward; the posture imploring the interviewer to trust me, believe me, I’m a really good guy. And the opposite; disinterested lounging, so far back in the room’s hard chair that the occupant looks as if they’re about to take a nap. See how cool I am under pressure, pig; you’ll get nothing from me. As if obvious movements were all that an interviewer saw. Big mistake; seventy-five per cent of communication is non-verbal, or were you asleep in psychology class?
Every blink and gulp and drip of sweat from Philip McDonagh had told Craig something, and all of them added up to guilt. But not only that. It was Annette who’d spotted it first, nudging Craig gently beneath the table to focus his gaze. There on McDonagh’s face, behind all the flags and dirt of guilt and moral degradation, had lain something else. It had ebbed and flowed as changing stances and sharp glances from Bell drew McDonagh’s attention in warning, but it was always there. In the sweat on McDonagh’s top lip and the dilation of his pupils, in the dry mouth that had made him grab at the water jug and glug down glass after glass.
All the guilt in the world wouldn’t have caused that, not when McDonagh was supposedly protected by his brief. It was the product of pure adrenaline and Craig knew that if he’d checked Philip McDonagh’s pulse it would be racing. From fear. Fear was the something else, but not fear of them.
Jack had watched McDonagh through the glass before they’d arrived and he said that he’d been calm, even relaxed. He’d watched for five minutes more, sound off, as the accused had conversed quietly with his solicitor and they’d discussed their strategy. He couldn’t hear their words; a nod to confidentiality, but it hadn’t taken an expert to spot McDonagh’s demeanour change halfway through Seamus Bell’s whispered words. The solicitor he hadn’t called when no-one should have known that he was there was making him very nervous, but it wasn’t with any threat.
And now, even though McDonagh was apparently safe in the arms of one of the best legal minds in Belfast, his demeanour had changed again, this time to terror. It wasn’t anything that Craig had asked or that Bell had threatened; Philip McDonagh was just plain terrified. As if in the time between Bell arriving and now realisation had dawned on him, and that reality was scaring him half to death.
Jack and Craig realised why simultaneously. McDonagh hadn’t been frightened of being lifted or even of being found guilty, but he was terrified of Bell getting him released. That could mean only one thing; that his real fear was of whoever was paying for his defence.
Craig watched as an idea crossed McDonagh’s mind and for an instant the light of hope brightened his gaze, and then just as quickly it was snuffed out. For a moment he’d been tempted to tell them everything and ask for help, then he’d guessed that his benefactor’s reach would extend even to jail. So instead, Philip McDonagh said nothing, just glugged down water like a desperate man and perspired heavily into his glass.
They left McDonagh alone with his brief and retired to the staff room to talk. Annette spoke first.
“He’s terrified. Bell told him not to talk.”
“Hence all the no comments.”
She was ambivalent. “We’d have got those with any perp whose brief had said to say nothing. It was more than that.”
Craig nodded. “He was terrified, but not of Bell.”
Jack interjected, looking up calmly from his tea. “McDonagh was a different man when you were in with his wife. Peaceful almost. When Bell first walked in he was still OK, puzzled at him being there but not scared. Then Bell said something and McDonagh’s mood shifted, but he still wasn’t as scared as he was just now.”
Annette nodded. “He’d had time to think about it, whatever it is.”
Jack slurped his tea and then set it down. “I thought he was going to have a heart attack; I’m going to ask the medical examiner to take a look.” He gazed ahead, looking puzzled.
“The thing is, McDonagh definitely didn’t call anyone so how the heck did Bell know that he was here?”
Craig shrugged. “Someone has a long reach and that’s who he’s afraid of.” His shrug looked more nonchalant than he felt. Behind it he was thinking of who could have alerted Bell’s firm to McDonagh’s arrest and the list made for an uncomfortable read.
Annette nodded in agreement. “Is there any way we can find out who hired him?”
Craig shook his head. “Not legally. Bell’s firm is under no obligation to disclose it, but it’s likely to be our missing killer.”
“One of them.”
Jack added sagely. “The boss. Whoever it is, you’re not cutting McDonagh loose are you?”
Craig shook his head. “Not a hope in hell. We’ll hold him the full time PACE allows, for his own sake.” He changed tack. “Theodora Rustin and Philip McDonagh, what the hell do they have in common? And how did a mechanic, that’s what McDonagh is, isn’t he?”
Jack nodded. “Owns a wee garage near the Dublin Road.”
“OK, so how did a mechanic and a professor meet, unless he fixed her car?”
“He might have; his garage is close to the university.”
Annette chipped in. “Religion? Maybe they belong to the same church.”
Craig shrugged. “Perhaps. Rustin told Liam she wasn’t religious, just interested in history, but then she lied about other things so my guess is that she’s probably devout. Davy can check.” He pulled out his mobile and a moment later Davy was on the line. “Sorry to add to your burden, Davy, but could you check if Theodora Rustin and Philip McDonagh belong to the same church, and/or if he services her car.”
“W…Way ahead of you. They don’t. McDonagh goes to mass every day at a church on the Ormeau Road. The Prof doesn’t worship anywhere public.”
Craig wasn’t giving up. “OK, check the car servicing.” He was about to hang up when something else occurred to him. “Or if McDonagh’s ever shown an interest in the history of religion.”
Davy made a face, wondering where he would find such information. He cheered up quickly; he liked a challenge. “Roger, Wilco.”
Craig smiled at the military jargon; he must have been listening to Ken. He turned back to Annette. “OK, it’s a no to them attending the same church so let’s just hope that McDonagh goes brass rubbing.”
He was interrupted by the crack of a biscuit snapping and turned to see Jack shaking his head.
“You don’t agree?”
“I think you detectives make things complicated. If McDonagh’s interested in religious history think where he’d go to find out about it: courses or conferences run by churches or universities, library books or the internet. All of those can be easily checked.”
He was right.
Craig smiled. “You’ll be stealing Davy’s job next. Thanks, I’ll give him that list.” He glanced at the clock. Four-twenty; they needed to get back. “OK, we need to decide what to do with the McDonaghs.”
Jack and Annette spoke together. “Release her and hold him.”
Craig laughed. “You two should get hitched.”
Jack shook his head vehemently. “One wife’s enough for me, thanks.”
“OK, release Mrs McDonagh and hold the husband here for his own safety. If he’s moved anywhere he’d be too easy to kill. If Bell objects say we still have time left on PACE and we’ll be questioning him again. Who knows, a night in a cell might loosen McDonagh’s tongue.”
Jack shook his head. “Bell’s already trying to get him released on the grounds he’s a grieving father.”
Annette snorted. “Not so you’d notice. He didn’t shed a tear when we mentioned Bobby.”
Craig was unperturbed. “We know Bell will try and he knows that we’ll oppose it, and with four victims we have a good case.” He stood up to leave. “Tell Mr McDonagh we’ll be questioning him again in the morning and make it clear I’m happy to talk before then should he wish, with or without his brief. Be his new best friend, Jack. He’s more scared of them than us now so he may well bite.”
****
John watched fascinated as a pair of elegant limbs twisted themselves around the leg of a chair and wondered if they taught girls how to do that at school. His eyes were forced higher by an equally elegant voice.
“So, Marco Craig. He is your good friend, yes?”
He nodded dumbly and then found his voice. “Since school. He’s half Italian, like you.”
It came out wrong; Sofia Emiliani never did anything at fifty per cent.
“I am all Italian. I was born in Milan. Marco’s mother only, she come from Rome.”
The words made John pause for a second; how did she know so much about Craig? His curiosity was replaced by chagrin. And why wasn’t she as interested in him? A sudden image of Natalie taking a scalpel to his bits pulled him abruptly back to earth. He had no business being jealous of anyone; he was a happily married man. In the instant it took the thoughts to run through his head, he nodded a casual yes to the question, now he turned the conversation back to the case, which, after all, was the reason that she was there.
Twenty minutes later he was impressed by the psychiatrist’s knowledge of cults and ritual but more certain than ever that she couldn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know, so he ended the meeting politely and rose to open the door. The psychiatrist didn’t budge and for a moment hostage scenarios raced through John’s head, with him as the victim. They weren’t unpleasant; he would defy any man to object to being held captive by a woman like this. But kidnap wasn’t on the good doctor’s agenda or at least not John’s kidnap anyhow. She kept her seat and started asking about Craig again.
This time even John’s vanity wouldn’t allow him to miss what was happening and he began to feel uncomfortable. He shook his head noncommittally and opened the door as wide as it would go.
“I really must get on with my work, Doctor Emiliani. Thank you for all your help.”
She finally took the hint, rising sinuously and strolling past him far too close. As soon as she left, John lifted the phone to Natalie, convinced that she’d been right all along. Sofia Emiliani didn’t give a damn about their murders but she definitely had Craig in her sights.
Chapter Fifteen
The briefing lasted five minutes. They didn’t have time to hang around when there was so much still to do. The only two updates looked like dead ends; Theodora Rustin had never travelled to France or Spain, although Italy had been her favourite holiday destination for years and, as Liam had pointed out, EuroRail provided access across the continent. Sadly it hadn’t done on any of the relevant dates. Whatever Rustin’s role was in the group it wasn’t as an assassin. The other update was that the tyre track belonged to a BMW. They could narrow it to a five series but as no-one they’d interviewed owned any series at all it was back to the drawing board on both points.
Craig passed on Jack’s list of suggestions and went to his office to phone Des. He was halfway through asking if Devaney’s stomach contents matched the others when there were several hard raps on the door. He could see Nicky’s outline through the glass.
“Hang on, Des. Nicky wants me.”
He said “come” and Nicky entered the room at breakneck speed.
“You need to talk to Maggie.”
Craig frowned. It sounded like something that could wait. “Tell her I’ll get back to her.”
Suddenly Nicky did something she never did. She pressed the top of the phone to cut Craig’s call then raced back to her desk and transferred another as he gawped.
“That was Des!”
“You need to take this. Trust me.”
Because he did he reserved his tirade for later and lifted his phone quickly when it rang.
“Hello, Maggie.”
Maggie Clarke’s brisk tones came down the line. They’d got brisker since she’d become The Chronicle’s news editor.
“Marc, listen. I’ve had a call from your killers.”
/> Craig’s eyes widened and he nodded at the anxious P.A. standing by his door.
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as I can be. The one I spoke to identified herself as a Professor Theodora Rustin. I’ve checked and she’s on the staff at Queen’s.”
He shouted at Nicky to find Liam, delaying Maggie till he’d lifted the other line.
“Say that again, Maggie.”
“Professor Theodora Rustin. Do you know her?”
Liam cut in. “Aye. I met her twice. What about her?”
“She’s just phoned me with a statement she wants printed in this evening’s paper -”
Craig interrupted. “Or what?”
“Or they’ll kill someone else. She said they had finished here, but they would start again if I didn’t comply.”
“Here?”
“That’s what she said; I tape every call to my line so I played it back. She was very specific. It sounds like they’re planning to do the same thing elsewhere.”
It fitted with the killings shifting religious sites.
“Did she give you any names, Maggie?”
“No, but she definitely talked about ‘they’. I’ve emailed the recording to Davy. He can play it for you.” Her brisk voice wavered. “I don’t know what to do, Marc. If we print it we’re giving these bastards a platform, but if we don’t they’ll kill someone else.” She paused for a moment and her next words held real panic. “She says if we don’t print it she’ll contact other journalists, and none of us can control what they do.”
It confirmed his fear. The group had no intention of stopping and just like terrorists they wanted publicity, to make the world see what they were doing and why. As if anything could make their actions understandable!
But Maggie was agitated enough so he kept his voice calm.
“What’s the latest time you can go to print?”
“The deadline’s six o’clock, to be in the shops at eight. But there’s no way Mr Lawton and the Board will let us print this.”
The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) Page 27
