The Sect (The Craig Crime Series)

by Catriona King

  It was ten-past-five now - they had less than an hour. It wasn’t enough time.

  “Do you post online simultaneously?”

  “Yes. They said they’d check our website and if it wasn’t there then they’d buy the paper from the shops. If it wasn’t in the print version then they’d kill again tonight.”

  Craig had an idea but he needed to discuss it. “OK, here’s what I want you to do. Write your article and get it ready to go. Someone will get back to you in twenty minutes. If Cameron Lawton gives you grief put him onto me.”

  “But, Marc––”

  His voice was firm. “Twenty minutes, Maggie.”

  He cut the call and raced out to Davy’s desk, beckoning the others over to listen to the tape. Liam nodded when he heard the voice; it was definitely Teddy Rustin’s. She hadn’t attempted to disguise it; she knew her identity was blown. As the tape ended Craig galvanized his team.

  “Liam, get Rustin’s photo to every foot patrol and shops, supermarkets; anywhere that sells The Chronicle. Their distribution office can give you a list. Carmen, get it to central CCTV surveillance as well; they cover all the in-shop cameras. It’s a long shot but if Rustin’s already exposed she may be dispensable; they might send her to buy the hard copy.”

  Liam shook his head. “Safer to send someone we have no I.D. on.”

  “I said it was a long shot, but if she does go and we miss her there’ll be hell to pay.”

  He swung round to locate Annette. “Annette, there’s still skeleton surveillance at the Saint Patrick’s site, contact the local uniforms and beef it up. It’s part of the ritual to dump there, so if they kill again tonight it’s where they’ll leave the body and we might catch them in the act. Everyone else, drop what you’re doing and help Liam and Annette.” He turned back to Davy. “Davy, I need you for a special task.”

  Forty minutes later Carmen was on computer watch, Annette was at The Chronicle calming Maggie, and Liam and Ken were primed to go if Rustin’s image flagged at a shop. Craig and Davy were hunched over a computer, trying to build a dummy Chronicle website to replace the official one; banking on the stats that most Chronicle readers still preferred print to pixels. Those that didn’t would already have the real site’s URL in their browser and there was nothing that they could do to change that, but a slight alteration to the URL in the search engines might send the killers to the dummy site and fool them for a while.

  Posting the article there at eight would reach the smallest audience and buy them time. It was a Hail Mary pass but with any luck Rustin would see it, think they’d complied and a life would be saved, if not she might go to buy the paper and they’d catch her in the act.

  Worst case scenario, another member of the group whom they didn’t know would buy the paper and realise that The Chronicle hadn’t complied, but by then everyone would be in place at Saul. It could mean another death but at least they would catch them when they left the body this time. It wasn’t ideal but it was the only thing Craig could think of in the time.

  Fortunately or unfortunately the decision was taken out of his hands. Not by Sean Flanagan, whom he’d meant to ring but hadn’t had the time, but by a much less savoury man. A second call from Maggie at five-fifty interrupted their preparations. Her voice held a mixture of sorrow, panic and relief.

  “God, Marc, I’m sorry.”

  Craig gripped the receiver. “Tell me.”

  “It’s already in print. The Belfast Mirror ran it in its early edition. There was no way that we could have known.” She paused. “The killers obviously didn’t trust us to do it.”

  He nodded. “They must have known of our connection. They were playing you all along.” It was his turn to pause as a light flicked on in his head. “Whose name is on the article?”

  As he asked he already knew the answer. Ray Mercer. This was payback, but the stupid bastard was paying other people back to get revenge on him.

  He mouthed ‘Belfast Mirror’ to Davy and watched as the bright red headline appeared on his screen. “God’s Judgement.” What followed was every bit as bad as he’d feared; a religious rant masquerading as a manifesto from God.

  Maggie answered just as Craig read the reporter’s name.

  “Ray Mercer’s. He’s freelancing now. They must have offered him a lot to do it.”

  Craig’s tone was cynical. “I doubt it. If it meant he could screw us he would have done it for free.” She didn’t argue, they both knew Mercer too well. “OK, thanks, Maggie. Let me know if there’s anything new. I’ll hand you over to Davy.”

  Davy covered the receiver with his hand and returned to the practicalities. “Do you want Mercer lifted, chief?”

  Craig nodded. His overt reason was to see what, if anything, Mercer had learned about their killers, but beneath it he could feel the cold frisson of revenge.

  “Get Jack’s team to do it. Throw him in a room at High Street and I’ll get there when I’ve nothing better to do.”

  At least it solved one problem; no-one else would die this week. Now they had another; how to handle the public and press. He didn’t have the time for press conferences or to deal with a microphone shoved in his face. Time to delegate.

  “Nicky, send Annette in to see me when she gets back. I have a job for her.” He turned towards his office. “Don’t disturb me unless someone’s dying. I need to think.”

  The thinking was accompanied by a pacing that everyone on two floors could hear. It was as rapid as the thoughts racing through his head. They knew two members of the sect now: Rustin and McDonagh, but neither of them had the balls to be the boss. He stopped pacing abruptly. It was more than a sect, it was an international movement. Some distorted Christian Jihad. He would never say it out loud but to his mind the term fitted, but whatever it was called it had at least three local members and probably far more than that.

  He ran through what they knew. Rustin knew Vulgar Latin but she could never have carried the bodies, no matter how thin most of them were. McDonagh and some other man maybe? They needed to check McDonagh’s alibis for the abduction and disposal times. Jake could do that, if he could get through the wall of legalese that Seamus Bell would erect.

  What if McDonagh was clear, who else could have carried out the abductions and how many of them were there? Bell’s presence at High Street said there was at least one more and that they were wealthy. In his experience wealthy men hired others to do their dirty work so if McDonagh was successfully alibied they were looking for at least three more men; the boss and two to carry the bodies without leaving footprints.

  So that made five group members: Rustin, McDonagh and three more men, one of them the boss. Or was there a sixth? Would the big boss really get close enough to hire a brief? And who looked after the victims between abduction and kill? The men who dumped them?

  He shook his head. What did it matter if there were ten or twenty, they could count them when they’d stopped them and they were no closer to doing that now than they had been on day one. He was about to resume pacing when Nicky knocked gingerly on the door, entering without waiting for his word.

  “Sir, Mercer’s at High Street creating hell, Annette and Liam are outside and Davy says he’s got something for you.”

  Craig stared into space as if he hadn’t heard. She went to repeat herself but he cut her off.

  “Send Davy in first, please.” He glanced at the clock. Almost seven; they weren’t getting home anytime soon. “And would you mind phoning my Dad and apologising. I said I’d call in this evening.”

  A moment later, Davy entered. Craig nodded him to a seat.

  “What have you got for me?”

  The analyst winced then set his smart-pad on the desk. The screen was split into two maps.

  Craig squinted for somewhere he recognised amongst the place names. “Where are they?”

  “The s…site on the left is Fátima in Portugal; the Sanctuary of Fátima to be precise. The one on the right is Mexico City; the Basilica of Our Lady of G
uadalupe.

  Two more religious sites.

  “When and how many?”

  “Mexico, one death in twenty-ten, drowned and wrapped in towels in their hotel room. Portugal, three killed in twenty-fourteen in exactly the same way as ours, all on dates significant to the Catholic faith. The Portuguese victims each had a religious medal in their hands.”

  A medal; it was the beginning of the group marking their victims. The tattoos had come next.

  “I’ve emailed all four local forces for the files. I’m checking for other sites in the Americas and then I’ll s…start elsewhere.”

  Craig shook his head. “Leave that for now and find out if the group contacted the local press at any of the sites. If not, this press release means that they’re ready to come out of hiding, which means they must think they’re strong enough to evade the authorities now.”

  His heart sank. How many years had this been happening and how the hell had it been missed?

  “Hand the searches off to Carmen, and give her Jack’s list to work as well, but everything can wait until we all get something to eat.” He yelled through the half-open door. “Nicky, order some food please. See what everyone wants, and send Liam and Annette in.”

  Twenty minutes later everyone was eating, talking or tapping on a computer screen and Annette and Liam were in Craig’s room. Annette had been tasked with handling the media. She was pleased; it was something she’d need on her CV when she went for D.C.I. She swallowed a chip then asked Craig’s advice on the press.

  “Which is better, sir; wait till they start asking questions or hold a pre-emptive conference?”

  “Pre-emptive, although I’m not sure we can call it that now, thanks to The Mirror. Get in front of it quickly or they’ll hound you every day.” He gestured towards the door. “Nicky can set up a conference for tomorrow.”

  “TV as well?”

  He thought for a moment, exhausted by the thought of clamouring journalists. “Yes. Best to get it all over at once. If you draft a statement I’ll check it in the morning.”

  “Great.”

  They turned towards the sound of loud chomping. Liam was picking anchovies off his next slice of pizza while the one in his mouth was already meeting its death.

  “What’s happening with the newspaper shops, Liam?”

  He shook his head and swallowed with a gulp. “We changed the brief to The Belfast Mirror outlets but there’s no sign of Rustin buying any papers. Mind you, it was a long shot once it went online. They’d got what they’d asked for so why risk nipping out for proof?”

  Craig shrugged. “Paranoia. Plus, ego’s stronger than common sense, so keep looking.”

  Liam nodded and dropped a small slice of pizza into his mouth, swallowing it in one go.

  “I’d hate to see your arteries.”

  Liam grinned. “They’ll be well padded, just like the rest of me.”

  Annette hadn’t the energy to tell him that wasn’t a good thing but she made a note to have a chat about his diet soon. She and Liam might have a love hate relationship but the love was stronger, so the last thing she wanted was him dying of a heart attack. Craig updated them on the other murder sites Davy had found.

  “So it’s a cult, boss.”

  “Sect fits better but actually I think it’s closer to a religious terror group. They’re killing anyone they deem a transgressor, and while it’s individuals at the moment there’s nothing to stop them targeting larger groups. We’ll have more information on the earlier killings tomorrow so Davy can see if there’s anything else that helps our case. Until then we’re working on Rustin, McDonagh and at least three other members locally, probably men. Meanwhile we have another problem; Ray Mercer. He could be a witness but if Liam or I question him he’ll clam up.”

  “Aye, and there’s no way I’m letting you near an interview room mirror with him around.”

  “I need to watch the interview even if I’m too far away to punch him.”

  Annette took what she thought was a hint. “I could do it now. My sister’s staying with me, so she can keep an eye on the kids.”

  Craig shook his head. “I was just thinking out loud, Annette. You’ve enough to do. Actually I think Andy and Jake might be a good match for him.”

  Liam nodded. “Jake’s already at High Street getting McDonagh’s alibis. Andy’s outside eating.”

  “Call him in.”

  When Liam returned he was alone and wearing a grin. “He’ll be a minute.”

  Craig shook his head wearily. “Let me guess, he’s chatting up some poor woman who doesn’t know his track record.”

  “He is. A wee girl from Vice who came to collect a file.”

  Craig strode out onto the floor, as much to ask Davy something as to check that Andy wasn’t giving the girl a hard time. He wasn’t. The girl had gone and he was looking crestfallen.

  “Struck out?”

  It was said with more sympathy than he would have got from Liam.

  Angel nodded pragmatically. “It’s a numbers game.”

  “That attitude could explain where you’re going wrong. Join Liam in my office, please. I’ll be in in a moment.”

  He re-joined the group just as Liam was starting a fresh round of insults about Andy’s love life. Andy’s expression said he’d already had enough so Craig cut him off.

  “Andy, I want you and Jake to interview Ray Mercer at High Street. We’ll head over there now. I’ll be observing.”

  Andy eyed the last slice of pizza, earning a warning glance from Liam. “Who’s Ray Mercer?”

  Liam answered as he grabbed the slice. “Lousy journo scrote. Used to be news editor at The Chronicle till he was booted out.”

  Craig beckoned the thwarted seraph towards the door.

  “I’ll brief you on the way. He’s the reporter who wrote the piece for The Belfast Mirror this evening, which means he may know something about our killers.”

  “Happy to give any journalist a hard time, but why don’t you two want the pleasure?”

  Liam stared pointedly at Craig’s right hand. “Let me tell you a story about a man and a pane of glass…”

  ****

  Theodora Rustin scanned her smart-pad slowly, checking that everything she’d said to the journalist was there. As she read, the man watching her flicked slowly through a book, then replaced it on a shelf and lifted another one down. Finally he tutted.

  “You’ve read that bloody thing fifty times. It’s all there.”

  She rounded on him. “It might be on a screen but for all we know Mercer played us. It could be a dummy site, or it could be online but not in print. We need to see a real paper.”

  The man’s relaxed stance changed to alertness and he banged his fist on the back of a chair.

  “NO! That’s exactly what they’ll be waiting for. They know who you are. Your face must be pasted all over the North.”

  She rose to leave. “I don’t care. I want to see it in print.”

  The man moved swiftly, reaching the door before her to block the way. He grabbed her hair and pulled her face close to his. “I said no.” Then he threw her to the ground. “Do as you’re bloody well told.” He turned to an older man playing patience at a desk. “I told you we shouldn’t have involved a woman. They’re unstable.”

  The second man’s tone was sanguine. “Do you speak Vulgar Latin? No. Do you know every historical site of worship in the world? No. But she does.” His tone changed to conciliation and he turned to where Rustin was picking herself off the floor. “It pains me to say it, Theodora, but he’s right. You can’t leave.” He raised a hand to halt her objection and a note of steel entered his voice. “He will go instead. They won’t be looking for him and he could do with the exercise.” He turned to the man with a sarcastic smile. “Buy all the evening papers. And make sure you get every edition.”

  He beckoned Teddy Rustin towards him and drew out a chair for her to sit. “Join me in a game of whist, Theodora. We’ll be waiting for some time.
”

  With that he turned his back on the man, telling him exactly where in the pecking order he stood.

  ****

  Ray Mercer’s interview was hardly worth the trip. After twenty minutes of saying nothing to make himself feel important he tired of the game and told them exactly what Maggie had two hours before.

  He’d received a phone call from a woman, self-identified as Theodora Rustin, who’d read out a statement and asked him to print it, anywhere but The Chronicle. Calling Maggie had just been a dummy play to keep the police occupied. It was a safe bet that Mercer would have avoided The Chronicle even if he hadn’t been told to; no-one gives a scoop to the newspaper that canned them months before.

  Andy had been wearing a bored expression as Mercer rattled on, now he raised a hand to interrupt.

  “How much did they pay you?”

  Craig rolled his eyes in the viewing room. Finally! It would have been the first question out of his mouth. Mercer gave a grin so sleazy it should have been a criminal offence.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know. And before you go looking for bank transfers, it was cash left somewhere there were no cameras. Although feel free to waste your time looking.”

  Jake shook his head in disgust. “You heard what they wanted printed. Didn’t any part of you think of contacting the police?”

  Mercer stared at him. “Let me think about that for a minute.” After a long pause he grinned. “The answer’s no. I can honestly say that it never occurred to me.”

  Jake sprang to his feet and Andy moved quickly to hold him back. Mercer raised his hands in mock horror.

  “Ooh, I’m scared. Please don’t hit me, Mr Policeman.” He smirked. “Is this where you start the good cop bad cop routine?” He gestured at the glass with the unlit cigarette he’d been holding for half-an-hour. “Let me guess. You’re trying to impress the big boss. Craig’s in his hidey-hole watching ’cos he’s too shit scared to face me himself.”

  He turned his chair to face the mirror and sat back, arms folded, as if daring Craig to appear. But Craig wasn’t rising to the bait. Months of physio and shrinks had taught him not to give Mercer what he wanted, and after ten minutes of arm folding the journalist finally got the message loud and clear.