Craig nodded and took out a card, scribbling his mobile number on the back.
“Mr Delaney may have been the target of the explosion which means that his life could be at risk. We won’t know for some time, so we’ll be leaving an officer here to guard him. Could you please ensure my card gets to Dr O’Neill and say that I’ll drop by tomorrow morning to speak to her?”
With that Craig headed back to Delaney’s room. As he went to enter he was greeted by an obstacle; Liam had found a chair and was sitting against the door. Craig’s entrance tipped him forward.
“What the hell?”
Craig turned swiftly towards the bed, just in time to see Fintan Delaney’s eyes fly open at the noise. He shut them tightly again, so tightly that they wrinkled like a man’s twenty years his senior, and Craig knew Delaney was keeping his eyes shut deliberately because they were the police. He crossed to the bed and leaned in close to Delaney’s ear, speaking loudly enough for Liam to hear him across the room.
“Mr Delaney, I know you can hear us and I know that you can see; I’ve spoken to your doctor.”
The only response was a further tightening of Delaney’s eyelids. Craig continued.
“You’ve been in an explosion and you were the only survivor. Four people died, so we’ll need to speak to you, no matter how long it takes. I’m leaving an officer outside your door and I’ll be back tomorrow to speak to your consultant. I realise that you’ve been through a trauma but we need your help.”
More silence. Liam joined Craig at the bedside and spoke in a stage whisper. The loudness of his voice was enough to make Delaney wince.
“Do you want me to have a go, boss? I’ll get him to open his eyes.”
The threat was clear and Craig smiled, knowing that Liam was trying to provoke a response. He did. Delaney’s previously still hands gripped the bed cover like a life-belt. A few hours of undiluted Liam and Delaney would definitely speak, if he didn’t die of shock first. Tempted as he was Craig decided against it. He leaned in again.
“D.C.I. Cullen and I will be back tomorrow morning. Let the officer outside know when you’re ready to talk.”
Craig turned on his heel, beckoning Liam to follow and they exited the room in a deliberate show of noise. Fifty feet down the corridor Liam spoke.
“Either he’s in shock or he’s guilty of something, boss.”
Craig nodded. His suspicious mind said guilty, but of what? Planting a bomb and then waiting there until it went off? Not the dissidents’ style and other terrorists did suicide bombing much more efficiently. If Fintan Delaney had meant to kill himself in the blast then he’d failed abysmally.
Possible explanations flew around Craig’s head until he settled on what he knew. Only two things were certain. Delaney knew more about the explosion than he was telling them, and it wouldn’t be long before he would talk.
***
Holywood. Tom and Mirella Craig’s home. 10 p.m.
Lucia Craig glanced at her mother’s back as she stood at the cooker, then she caught her big brother’s eye and made a face, staring at her nose until her eyes crossed and making both Craig and Katy laugh. The first two courses of the meal had passed easily enough in chat and pleasantries, but they all knew that Mirella was gearing up for the main event; to grill Katy on everything from her background and parentage to her views on children, education and, most importantly of all to Mirella, music.
Mirella had been a professional pianist all her adult life, touring prestigious concert halls for years before finally retiring, to play for charity and practice every day. It was during a tour that she’d met Craig’s father, when they’d been in the same conference centre in Venice. She’d left her home in Rome to be with him and brought up both her children to be musical and play instruments; Craig the piano and Lucia the violin. But she’d been horrified by her scientist husband’s preference for technology over music, and her son’s testosterone driven adolescent abandonment of music to run around a football pitch. Craig had started playing occasionally again, but he would never practice often enough to please his Mum, just as in Mirella’s eyes no woman would ever be good enough for her son.
Tom Craig watched as his wife turned from her Aga and drew breath for her first interrogation of the night, then he glanced quickly at his son and made his move. The worst Mirella could do was huff with him, and he could get past that by puffing his GTN spray and holding his chest in mock-pain. Having a heart attack wasn’t an experience he’d like to repeat, but the one he’d had the year before had got him out of plenty of scrapes since.
Tom Craig’s baritone reached the air before Mirella’s Italian-English could. “So Katy, Marc tells me you’re a physician at St Mary’s? Do you enjoy it?”
Katy spotted Mirella’s quick scowl at her husband, immediately knowing what she’d had planned. She answered his cue gratefully, starting a ten minute round table discussion on medicine and science that everyone genuinely enjoyed. As it reached its natural conclusion over pudding Mirella drew breath again, squinting at her husband as if daring him to speak. He didn’t but Lucia did, launching into a Q and A about Natalie and John’s wedding that lasted through coffee and relocation to the living room. This time it was Craig who headed his mother off at the pass, recounting the painting of John’s laboratory with jokes that even she laughed at, although they could all see that her good humour was starting to fray. Craig felt vaguely guilty about blocking her every attempt to question Katy but a quick glance from his father said not to; he knew exactly what was on Mirella’s list.
At eleven o’clock Craig noticed Katy starting to fade and he grabbed at the opening, retrieving her coat from the hall. As they were leaving Katy smiled at Mirella and said.
“Ringraziamento per il pasto meraviglioso, la signora Craig. La linguine era incredibile, come era tutto. Spero di rivederti presto” (Thank-you for the wonderful meal, Mrs Craig. The linguine was amazing, as was everything. I hope to see you again soon.)
Everyone gawped, including Craig, but Mirella beamed from ear to ear, answering Katy in an effusive flood of her native tongue, that said everything from “You’re very welcome, please come again” to “would you like the recipe?”
As she kissed Katy goodbye they all heard the subtext that said she’d passed Mirella’s first test. When the front door had closed behind them Craig turned to face his girlfriend and smiled. “That was very sweet of you. Did you learn that sentence just for tonight?”
To his surprise Katy shook her head. “No. I said it on the spur of the moment. I learned Italian at night class a few years ago. I’m not great but I can get by.”
Craig wrapped his arms around her waist. “There’s a lot I don’t know about you, isn’t there, Dr Stevens?”
She smiled mischievously. “More than you’ll ever find out, Signore Craig.”
Craig bent down and kissed her tenderly, picturing two uninterrupted weeks of kissing her under a Caribbean sky, then he took her hand and led the way to the car.
“What’s the hurry, Marc?”
Craig smiled. “I think it’s about time I taught you the Italian for romance.”
Chapter Five
St Mary’s. Friday 18th July. 7 a.m.
The small side-room was bright and clean and smelled of a nameless combination of detergent and summer. The sheets on the bed were starched to near-board stiffness and the pale cotton cover was sterile and threadbare, its salad days long gone. Fintan Delaney lay very still, listening to the chatter of nurses in the corridor, and the sharp, delft clatter of breakfast being served. Every so often soft footsteps would halt outside his door without entering, their owner giggling softly with his uniformed guard instead.
Guard. That’s what he called him because that’s what the police officer was. There to prevent him leaving, without any proof that he’d done anything wrong. His freedom curtailed, guilty until proven innocent, in a Lewis Carroll skewing of the justice system; the law through a looking glass.
The young man sc
anned the room urgently for an escape route as frustration at his lack of words overcame him. He couldn’t speak; but why not? Shock was the doctor’s diagnosis, guilt the policeman’s the night before. He didn’t know the answer because he couldn’t remember a thing. Not about what had brought him to hospital and not about his life in the years before. They’d even had to tell him his name, gleaned from a bankcard found in his clothes.
The desire to be free suddenly overwhelmed him and he knew that if he couldn’t achieve it physically then spiritually would have to do. Slipping from the pristine bed he searched the room for some way to end his short life. Delaney seized a sharp metal bolt that formed part of his bedside locker, wrenching it from its moorings. With his mind racing he laid its sharp edge against his vulnerable inner wrist. He halted suddenly, surprised at the feeling of revulsion that the action provoked. Was he a religious man? It sounded right. It would explain his hesitation; if he was Christian then suicide must be against his code.
Delaney slumped defeated against the white linen of his bed, his pallor making them seem as one, then he dropped the bolt to the floor, knowing that the noise would bring his watchdog running in. With that single action he knew that he’d given up his search for a way to end his life, resigning himself instead to hours of questions that he couldn’t answer and days or years spent in limbo, unable to remember a thing.
***
Docklands Coordinated Crime Unit. 8 a.m.
Liam raked his close-cut sandy hair as hard as its limited volume would allow. He envied Craig his thick hair, not for any desire to look like a matinee idol but for the sheer pleasure of a dramatic gesture now and then. Raking three inches of hair looked much more effective than raking half-an-inch of sandy scrub, and he bet that it made a head massage a whole different experience as well.
Craig squinted across the desk at his deputy, wondering why Liam was staring so hard at his head. He shrugged; who knew what went through Liam’s mind. Usually football, beer and women, except when they were on a case, then Liam’s sharp insights sometimes surprised even him. Just then the double-doors to the floor swung open and a wave of noise hit them both. High volume chatter from Nicky’s loud laughter mingled with Davy’s and Annette’s more subdued tones. Nicky’s husky voice carried furthest. “All I’m saying is that yellow and white is a nice colour scheme.”
Craig raised his eyes to heaven. Liam had obviously told them about the makeover at John’s lab. He’s had enough of the interior design discussion at dinner the night before, now he had to hear it all again at work. Davy laughed.
“There’s a difference between a bit of yellow in the bride’s bouquet and painting your husband’s whole lab to fit in w…with the theme! Besides, yellow’s a girl’s colour.”
Annette raised an eyebrow. “Now there you’ve lost me, Davy. I agreed with you up to the point where you started allocating colours a sex!”
Craig rose so that he appeared from behind Liam’s filing cabinet and the small group smiled sheepishly, all except Nicky who was undeterred. Her husky voice echoed through the room, even more audible because of the other’s sudden silence.
“Barbados’ national flower is called Poinciana. It comes in lots of colours; red, orange and yellow. So I think yellow and white will be lovely.”
Craig smiled. “If you don’t mind looking like a giant blancmange, according to Katy.” He waved them all to take a seat and Nicky put the coffee on to perk.
“OK. That’s enough wedding talk, at least until Liam and I leave. We’re heading to St Mary’s to see the consultant after her ward-round but I wanted to catch you all first and start things rolling.” He indicated Liam. “Liam will update you on the explosion site, I’ll bring you up-to-date with the lab findings and then we’ll both tell you about our visit to the hospital last night.”
He nodded Liam on and mimicked drinking a cup of coffee to Nicky. As she brought it over Craig saw that a lemon biscuit accompanied it. He smiled, knowing that they were doomed to be wedding themed for the next two weeks.
Liam sniffed loudly before starting. In the absence of hair to rake it was the most fitting detective gesture he could think of. It implied knowledge that no-one else held and a slightly jaded view of life; well it did on the TV anyway, to Annette it seemed to imply something else.
“Are you getting a cold, Liam? I’ve some Lemsip in my desk.”
Craig smiled to himself, knowing that Annette had just ruined Liam’s big moment but not sure if she’d done it deliberately or not. The beatific smile on her face gave no clues. Before Liam could remonstrate Craig waved him on.
“Aye, well, the scene. Basically the place was blown to buggery. It was a one- roomed shop with a wee staff area and toilet off the back leading out to a yard. As far as we could make out the room had free-standing bookshelves, as well as the ones around the walls.” He was interrupted by Nicky handing him a mug and a slice of yellow and white Battenberg. He took a deep slurp of coffee and continued, eyeing the cake as he did. “What was left of the bookshelves was on the floor, brushed to one side by the army forensic lads.” He added hastily. “After our C.S.I.s had done their stuff of course. It was mostly wood shards and paper, ripped to bits.” He snorted. “If those books were worth a fortune, they aren’t any more.”
Davy interrupted unexpectedly, with a faraway look in his eyes. “I bought my Dad a first edition from there the year before he died. It w…was beautiful. Leather bound with a gold embossed title.”
Craig saw Liam about to speak and caught his eye, silencing his response. It was the first time Davy had ever mentioned his parents and it was a sign of something; after almost three years on the team he felt safe enough to confide in them. They knew very little about Davy, except that he was exceptionally bright and Queen’s University kept asking him back to do his doctorate. Craig knew they would lose him to research someday; it was only a matter of when. But they knew nothing more except that the young Emo was desperately shy, something that his stutter had signposted from the start. Craig’s asked the question quietly.
“When was that, Davy?”
Davy glanced up, surprised, as if he’d intended to say the words only to himself; then he smiled. “Four years ago. He w…was… w…was…”
Craig knew from Davy’s increased stuttering that the next words were painful for him to say. He leaned forward encouragingly.
“It w…was a car accident. On the Lisburn Road.”
“I’m sorry, Davy. We didn’t know.”
Davy smiled and Craig knew he was remembering his father in happier times. “My Dad loved books; he was a Professor of Literature. I bought it for him with my first month’s s…salary.”
He suddenly sat up very straight and Craig knew it signified the end of the confidence. Davy waved Liam on before he could and Liam picked up the conversation and ran with it for ten minutes, accurately describing the scene and the location of the bomb. He mimicked Ken Smith’s pukka English accent perfectly, making everyone laugh. Craig wondered idly when someone would start calling mimicry racism; the powers that be shifted their politically correct goalposts every day. They’d probably get him for imitating his mother’s broken Italian-English soon.
Finally Liam finished and Craig decided to add to the lightened mood with a vivid description of John’s lab that Liam couldn’t help but embellish.
“It was like being inside a giant sherbet lemon! The Doc thought he’d no choice.”
Craig cut in. “It’ll be back to normal by Monday, but no-one’s to mention that to Natalie. OK?”
He scanned their faces until he was sure that the innocent expressions weren’t concealing mischievous intent, thinking how fed-up he got having to be the grown-up all the time.
“OK, back to work. According to John there were five people in the shop. Two bodies were found intact but badly burnt. They would have been standing further away from the bomb than the two others, with the sole survivor, Fintan Delaney, standing furthest away, behind the bookshelves.
That’s what protected him.”
Annette cut in. “So he was standing near the front door?”
Craig nodded. “There were free-standing bookshelves between the back door and the front. They provided sufficient cover from the blast.”
Liam interjected. “Delaney’s not small so they must have been nearly ceiling height.”
“How do you work that out?”
“Well, otherwise Delaney’s top half would have been exposed to the explosion, whether he was standing by the front door or not. If they’d been waist-high jobbies the blast would have gone clean over the top of them, so only the lad’s legs would have been saved. There’s hardly a mark on him so he must have been shielded head to toe.”
Craig nodded. The shop must have been laid out with six-feet-plus bookshelves front to back to avoid killing the young man. Liam continued.
“And if he was by the front door it stands to reason he’d just entered the shop or was just leaving.”
Davy had been tapping his pen quietly against the desk but now the volume suddenly increased. Craig turned towards him.
“Yes, Davy?”
Davy had been so deep in thought he jumped at the sound of his name.
“W…Well… this is just a thought, but if you owned a shop that s…sold expensive books, things that are easily stolen and carried out of the shop, and you had high bookshelves preventing a clear view...”
Annette finished the question, smiling. “How could you see shoplifters?”
Davy nodded, setting his long hair flying. Liam had a fleeting thought that he would rake his hair all day if he owned that. He parked his follicular envy and answered before anyone else could.
“CCTV.”
Davy and Annette squinted at him menacingly for stealing their thunder and Craig jumped in like the good boss he was.
“Well done Davy, good call. There had to be CCTV in the shop or books would have been stolen every day.”
The Careless Word (#8 - The Craig Crime Series) Page 4
