Craig cut the call and turned to his deputy with a quizzical look.
“The first place he worked as a parish priest – you really think that’s important to him?”
Liam was about to lecture him on the insight being an altar boy provided into the mind of parish priests when he decided that he was too tired. Instead he led the way to a café he’d spotted across the street. Over a large cheeseburger and fries he turned back to the topic in hand.
“When I saw Murray he said he wished he was still a parish priest. Just God and man, without all the bureaucracy. His words. And as far as a priest’s first parish being important to him, put it this way; don’t you remember your first job?”
Craig was just thinking of his time as a constable in Fulham when his mobile rang again. As he answered, Liam yelled at the phone.
“What does your tattoo mean?”
Davy’s voice came down the line. “Ask the chief. OK, Murray’s first parish was in Ballynahinch. He w…was there for ten years.”
Ballynahinch to Ardglass was only sixteen miles.
“Check if Carlton was near there last night and phone me back.”
He cut the call and nodded solemnly.
Liam’s eyes widened. “Murray? Really?”
“You met him. Do you think it’s possible?”
Liam thought of the cheerful grey-haired cleric and hoped that Craig was wrong. But he was long past being shocked at the things men did, even religious men.
“It would make sense if he was the brains behind it but I can’t see him getting his hands dirty.”
Craig stared straight ahead for a moment before agreeing. “Murray might be the boss in Northern Ireland, but if this is an international operation we’re looking for much bigger fish.” He thought for a moment then decided to put Liam out of his misery. “By the way, Davy’s tattoo-.”
“Aye. Na-Nu. What the heck does that mean?”
“Mork and Mindy?”
The D.C.I. looked blank.
“Robin Williams played an alien. It was on TV in the eighties. Ring any bells?”
“But the lad wasn’t even born then.”
“Williams will always be a genius.” He wiped his hands with a napkin and turned his thoughts back to the case. “The more I think of it the more I’m sure Murray’s just a small cog.”
“So who’s the big boss?”
“No idea yet. Let’s crack this cell first.”
“But why would Murray return to his old parish now?”
Craig sipped his coffee and stared into space. “Memories of a simpler time, perhaps? Like you said; just God and man, without all the bureaucracy.”
“OK. So what’s the plan?”
“Watch and wait. Someone will slip-up soon.”
****
Three hours later Ronnie Carlton still hadn’t made a move and the therapy offices were closing for the day. As the doors were locked and the shutters drawn down Jake climbed out of his Golf and flashed his I.D. at the woman with the keys.
“Who’s left inside?”
She looked surprised. “No-one. We’re only a small office.”
“No security? None of the counsellors.”
She shook her head emphatically. “We only have two and one is on holiday.”
“Let me guess. Mr Carlton.”
She wrinkled up her face, puzzled. “Yes, how did you know? He went on holiday last night.”
Ronnie Carlton had given them the slip. Jake thanked the woman and lifted the phone to Craig.
“Sir, I’ve screwed up. Carlton’s given us the slip – I’ve just been told that he went on leave yesterday. Shall I ask Davy to check the airports and ports?”
Craig sighed heavily. The group was taking no chances. “Yes. For Rustin and Bishop Murray as well.”
He cut the call and brought Liam up to speed. He didn’t look half as depressed as the news warranted.
“Look, we already knew that the killings were over; their newspaper piece said as much. And we knew that Rustin might have disappeared already, so it stands to reason that anyone else who could leg it would. But…” He arched an eyebrow like Hercule Poirot. “Even if Murray is involved why would he imagine for one minute that we knew? He had no direct contact with any of the victims, he’s cooperated with us every step of the way and I haven’t darkened his door since he gave me the list. He can’t possibly know that we’ve connected the dots. In fact, I bet he’s making a point of showing his face everywhere that he can.”
Craig nodded. Criminals’ arrogance was astounding and often their un-doing. He called Nicky. She sounded happier which meant that the dishy doctor had gone.
“Nicky. Do a search on Bishop Francis Murray for me and see if he’s been at any public events today.”
A few taps later she came back. “He visited a primary school this afternoon. Do you want the address?”
“No, thank you. You should go home, it’s late.”
“Take it as payback for London. By the way, everyone but Andy and Jake is still here if you need them.”
He was pleased they’d stayed without being asked.
“Anything else you need?”
“No, nothing. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up. “Frank Murray’s still here; he made a public appearance today as you predicted. Carlton’s in the wind.”
“Or he’s with the Bish and Rustin.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it.” He thought for a moment. “Armed Response is at the factory waiting for my command.”
“And the hired guns inside are waiting for their boss’ command as well. Checkmate.”
“Stalemate you mean. Time to break it.”
Craig exited the café so quickly that Liam barely had time to catch up, then they were in the Audi and on the M1 heading for Bishop Francis Murray’s old stamping ground.
****
Ballynahinch.
By the time they’d reached the parish church Davy had a tap on every phone owned by the sect’s known members and he was listening in, ready to intercept anything that sounded vaguely like an order to shoot. There’d been no shots heard from the factory and no movement there at all, but from their vantage point outside the small church Craig and Liam could see three cars. Davy confirmed they belonged to Rustin, Carlton and the Bishop. It seemed that the sect’s whole hierarchy was inside, or else it was their personal car park.
Liam stared through the windscreen and then at Craig, wondering what his next move would be; rush the church and hope they managed to gain entry before someone inside fought back, or wait it out until one of the sect appeared. Craig chose neither. Instead he opened the driver’s door and ordered Liam to pop the trunk, then Liam heard rustling and Craig reappeared a moment later with a pair of pliers. He handed them over.
“Cut every phone line and cable going into that house. I’m going to get Davy to block the mobile networks here and at the factory. We can’t risk them ordering anyone killed.”
It was quickly done. A moment later Craig made another decision.
“We can wait it out here but the men at the factory can’t.”
“You’re ordering the ARU to do a reccy?”
Craig nodded. “We need to see what we’ve got.” He lifted the dashboard radio and made the call. Thank goodness old fashioned radios worked even when you blocked the phones. One minute later the ARU Commander had been briefed to reconnoitre and report back. Ten minutes more and they had their answers.
Inspector Lou Warton’s cigarette smoked voice crackled down the line.
“They’re all in one room, sir, or rather it’s a small hall. Two exits. The lads say it looks like some sort of church; there’s a big cross mounted on the wall.”
That wouldn’t stop them killing everyone in there; the Church of Jim Jones sprang immediately to Craig’s mind. Nine hundred dead with no rhyme or reason.
“How many guards?”
“Three that we can see, all heavily armed. There are none in the grounds or anywhere else where we can see
in through a window.”
“Hostages?”
Warton swallowed hard, thinking of his own kids. “Around twenty, both sexes.”
Liam cut in. “Twenty! They were planning to kill more?”
Craig waved him down. “How old, Lou?”
“Most of them look in their late teens. They’re all wearing white tracksuits.” He paused and Craig knew something worse was coming. “They’re manacled to the walls all around the room and the ones at the doors have explosives strapped to their chests. One of the guards has a manual trigger.”
Damn! The detonator wasn’t dependent on the mobile network so they couldn’t block it; the group had thought of everything.
“Is his finger on it?”
“No. It’s not a dead man’s switch.”
Not quite everything then. It was good news; the bomb wouldn’t detonate if the guard was dropped. Still, his money was on the guards not wanting to kill themselves anyway. Warton’s next words said that he was wrong. The sect’s warped ideology went all the way down the ranks.
“We’ve got audio close enough to hear. Until now they’d been praying in English but the guards have just started some sort of Latin chant. They’re making the kids join in.”
“Patch it through. I want Liam to hear.”
Liam listened intently for a moment, his face grim, then he confirmed Craig’s worst fear.
“It’s the Latin prayer of absolution. I think they’re preparing them for death.”
The guards weren’t hired guns, they were zealous followers. And they weren’t waiting for orders; even if the hierarchy didn’t contact them the disciples already knew what they had to do. Kill all the sinners and then kill themselves. They were going to mow the hostages down then detonate the explosives. They only had minutes to save a score of lives.
Taking a life never got easy and if it did then you were in the wrong job. It should make you feel sick every time, make your pulse race, your face flush; you should feel the sweat trickling and then flooding down your back. Each shot should take a second but feel like it was taking an hour and afterwards you should pray to make peace with your God. Craig could feel it all now, the same as if he was pressing the trigger himself, but easy or not it had to be done so he gave the order quietly down the line.
Then they listened. Listened to the yells of “armed police” followed by nine loud cracks. Liam thought he could hear the guards hit the ground and they both heard the screams of the kids, then everything grew muffled until finally Warton’s voice came through again.
“The guards are dead. We’re in through the windows and the hostages are safe.”
Craig nodded. John and Des would catalogue the forensics and tie it all up with a bow. Now they just had the leaders to round up. It sounded easier than it was.
“Good work, Lou. Check that the place is empty then get them to hospital and checked over. Notify their folks they’re OK but hold everyone; they need to be interviewed. And be careful, some of them might be Stockholmed.”
“What about the leaders?”
“If we’re right we’re looking at their Alamo now. I’ll let you know.”
He handed Liam the radio and listened as he gave some round up instructions, then he nodded him to get Davy back on the line.
“Any sign of anyone leaving the country?”
Davy sucked air through his teeth and they knew it was bad news. “Carlton’s gone, chief. He caught a flight to Zurich through Heathrow last night.”
He was cut short by Craig’s swearing.
“Damn, damn, damn! That’s my fault for not moving quick enough.”
Liam disagreed. “You couldn’t have stopped him. Davy only caught him on camera this morning and by then he’d already gone. They must have known they were taking a risk buying the paper so they cleared him out immediately.”
Craig wasn’t appeased. He barked down the line, “What about Rustin?” This time Davy breathed normally.
“As far as I know she’s still here.”
Liam nodded. “Maybe she’s Murray’s favourite.”
“Or maybe he knew her cover was blown so she was dispensable. Carlton’s probably joining a cell we know nothing about yet.” He realised Davy was still on the line. “OK, thanks, Davy. Armed Response freed the factory hostages but the three guards are dead. I’d like to avoid the same happening here if possible. Send me some armed uniforms but tell them to approach with sirens off.”
He cut the call and gazed straight ahead as Liam stared at him quizzically.
“You really think that they’re coming out alive?”
Craig went to shrug then shook his head instead. “I think they’re probably already dead, although I hope not. I want the locations of the other cells.”
Liam shook his head slowly, but not in disagreement. Craig was surprised by his next words.
“If they’ve killed themselves they’re going to hell. Suicide’s a sin.”
“As opposed to the murder of countless people?”
“In their warped minds, yes. They thought they were murdering for God, old style biblical justice, saving their souls stuff. But I don’t remember it allowing suicide in any scripture I ever read.”
Craig gave a small smile. “What’s that Shakespeare line? The Devil can cite scripture for his purpose. I imagine he can twist it to suit himself as well.” He gave a shrug. “Who knows, maybe I’m wrong and they’ll give themselves up with a smile.” He climbed out of the Audi as two liveried patrol cars drove silently into the grounds. “We’ll soon find out.”
As they approached the priest’s house the first thing they encountered was the incumbent parish priest unconscious in the vestibule. He was hypothermic but at least they hadn’t killed him, but then he hadn’t been on the sect’s sinners list.
Craig inched down one side of the house’s Edwardian inner hall, pressing his back against its glazed green tiles. Liam mirrored him on the other wall with two armed officers close behind. As they reached each room they kicked open the door, checking first one side and then the other with their Glocks steady in their hands. It took less than a minute and led them all to the same spot, standing outside the door at the end of the passage knowing that one of three scenarios lay behind. A shootout, surrender or suicide, and there was a long tradition of people killing themselves for their beliefs. Any one of the three was fine with Liam; he just wanted the cell wiped out.
With a sharp nod the detectives kicked the door simultaneously, Craig twisting to one side, Liam to the other so that their lines of fire covered the whole room. It wasn’t necessary; Craig’s gut had called it right. There, slumped across the humble priest’s desk and dressed in a plain black cassock lay Frank Murray, pastor of the Church, with an empty whisky glass in his hand. Theodora Rustin sat beside him, her head back and eyes open, reclining in a small armchair. In one of her hands hung a small glass, its contents half spilt onto the floor, the other rested on the desk, almost touching the Bishop’s own.
Liam checked their pulses but it was redundant; their stomachs would hold poison, they’d seen its effects before. Craig stared coldly at the scene for a few seconds, then he turned on his heel and walked briskly back down the hall.
Chapter Sixteen
The C.C.U. Press Room. Thursday 2nd April.
No-one noticed the single cold smile as Craig rose to his feet in front of the media, amongst the half-smiles of interest and the fuller ones of genuine acclaim. There was pleasure at a crime solved and a ring of fanatics broken, then more pleasure for the journalists at the thought of their headlines for the week: ‘Cult Cracked’, ‘Sect Shattered’, or some other alliterative crap.
All the great and good were there to take credit for the squad’s success, from church representatives, local MLAs and Cameron Lawton, through to Sean Flanagan and a host of A.C.C.s. But Craig was blind to everything except the lights blanking out the crowd’s faces, and deaf to all sound but the cameras’ clicks as he stood. What eyes he could make out held
expressions that ranged from Terry Harrison’s grudging acknowledgement of a case solved to Nicky’s smile for a job well done. If he’d thought about it he would have wondered why Harrison was there at all; Limavady was his stamping ground so how come he was back at the C.C.U.? It was a question for another day and one he was too nervous to think about now; globally from a hatred of the limelight but specifically from his fear of giving the journos one wrong word to twist.
If he hadn’t been he would have noticed the man’s icy smile. A smile that didn’t reach up to his eyes but down, down to a much darker place; a smile that said you missed me, you missed me Craig and I was there right under your nose. More than that, it was the confident smile of a leader who’d made sure that no-one had even known his name to reveal.
But as the detective moved forward to the microphone the sect’s leader wasn’t entirely safe, because Craig knew that somewhere out there was an international ringmaster and he would never let it go. In fact he’d already begun the search, with Davy chasing the sect’s hierarchy with Interpol as a dry run for his PhD. They’d finally found a topic for his thesis that would satisfy both the force and the analyst’s love of all things covert; the use of technology in international criminal pursuits. He could cut his teeth on Interpol then it would be on to MI6, the CIA, Mossad and who knew where else. If the smiling man could have read Craig’s mind his arrogant smile might have been erased.
****
Laganside Courts. Wednesday 15th April.
They’d sat through four long days of Joanne Greer smirking and whispering to her barrister, like teenagers with a secret that only they knew. She hadn’t changed one iota since the day she’d been led from the dock to prison two years before; still the same sneering arrogance, still the same sense of entitlement. Craig marvelled at how her attitude had endured despite the penal system and wondered how many years it would take to break it down. He wasn’t optimistic; arrogance was like waste that would never biodegrade.
The way the defence was hammering at their case the long shot that Greer would win her appeal was looking shorter every day so, as the judge signalled an adjournment, Craig slipped speedily from the court in search of coffee and respite. He found both in the Waterfront Hall café and watched through its high windows as Yemi dodged the Oxford Street traffic on his way to join him. Two minutes of drinking and shaking their heads passed before either of them spoke. It was Yemi who finally broke the gloom; he adopted a hopeful tone that didn’t gel with his frown.
The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) Page 31
