John interrupted in a sceptical tone. “Or this is a first-time bomber who isn’t known to anyone.”
Craig raked his hair. “Don’t even think that. We need a break.”
The percolator signalled the coffee was ready and there was a brief pause before the conversation restarted.
John speculated thoughtfully. “OK, let’s just say that the bomber’s someone from Northern Ireland’s delightful past, then what?”
“Then we follow it where that leads, but my money says that it won’t be. There’s something about this explosion and the target that feels all wrong.”
John smiled. “More wrong than an explosion normally feels?”
Craig sipped his coffee for a moment before answering. “OK, why a bookshop? And if you wanted the large crowd of people that you could find in a retail outlet, then why a small antique bookshop? Why not one of the big high-street chains? God knows there are enough of them around.” He shook his head. “No. This is personal.”
“To the bookshop?”
“Or to its owner. Perhaps even to a particular customer.”
Suddenly Craig grabbed for his mobile and pressed Liam’s name, mouthing at John. “Liam may have got something from the owner’s wife.”
The phone was answered quickly and Craig set it on the desk, pressing speaker. It wasn’t necessary; Liam’s voice was so loud that they could have heard his words without the help.
“Hi, boss. What’s up?”
Craig leaned towards the phone. “I’m at the lab, Liam, and John and I are talking about motives for bombing Papyrus. Did Mrs Robinson suggest anything in the way of motive?”
Liam smiled to himself. He liked having information that no-one else had, even if only for ten minutes; it allowed him to impart wisdom to the masses. In the split second Liam hesitated Craig read his mind and added. “And before you make us drag it out of you admiringly, don’t bother. I’m not in the mood.”
Liam harrumphed loudly and launched into a shorter than planned summary. He finished with. “So basically it’s because Robinson was in the RUC, because of the local protection racket, or because SNI developers wanted him out of the shop. Take your pick. They were all out to get him.”
Craig let out a low whistle and Liam felt more appreciated. “Good work, Liam. Thanks. Where are you heading now?”
“Off to have a look through Robinson’s RUC record to see if anything stands out. I’ll see you back at the ranch.”
With that Liam cut the call and Craig knew it was his way of saying he was annoyed at his shortened exposition. John nodded.
“Well, there’s your list of motives, Marc. Take your pick.”
Craig shook his head. “Maybe… or maybe there’s something else. One of those might explain some things but none of them feels one hundred percent right.” John went to speak and Craig raised a hand. “Before you ask, no, I don’t know why I feel that, I just do. Call it instinct.”
“Or delusion.”
They both smiled. They had a long running debate about logic versus instinct with John always erring on the logic side. He was an empirical scientist and had been all his life; if it couldn’t be measured and replicated then it simply didn’t exist. Craig agreed, up to a point, and it was at that point that his instinct and ‘sense’ of things took over, and their methods of crime solving diverged. John didn’t know where Craig’s instinct came from, perhaps his romantic side, but either way he’d seen him pull an answer out of the vapour of ideas and be correct. John decided it was time to change the subject.
“Katy’s took Natalie to some new wedding shop yesterday.”
Craig smiled. “Yes, she said they were planning it. She was hoping they’d come up with something spectacular.”
It was John’s turn to smile. “Something that wasn’t bright yellow taffeta, you mean.”
They laughed for a moment then Craig gestured towards the outer lab. “Glad to see it back to its subdued glory.”
“Not half as glad as I am. Yellow might be fine for one day but I was starting to need sunglasses to venture outside. Now all I have to do is tell Natalie it’s been changed back.”
***
Karachi, Pakistan. 9 a.m. local time
Jennifer Weston cast a last look down the runway and then walked briskly towards the plane, adjusting her neat uniform. She didn’t like it, but needs must when she had a job to do. As she gripped the metal stair-way to the Boeing 747 she was joined by three women of varying ages, identically clad. She listened to their chatter, pretending to be interested, but all she was interested in was reaching her goal.
A red-haired girl was the most vocal. Her broad Dublin accent rang through the air, echoing the others’ thoughts. “Who’s the captain today?”
A woman with short hair, nearing the end of her career, answered. “Groggins.” She rolled her eyes and the others groaned.
“Gropey Groggins… God help us. Right then, we’re drawing lots to see who serves the cockpit. Last time I went in there he put his hand right up my skirt. “
Jennifer smiled as if she was listening, but in reality her mind was 4,000 miles and 13 hours away. The job was a means to an end, like so many others she did; an occasional front for her real work in life. Work she needed to ensure hadn’t been compromised by the stupidity of the man at her destination.
As the plane soared into the air she caught a last glimpse of the strong Eastern sun and said a silent prayer that she would return to see it again.
***
Belfast. 3 p.m.
Annette slipped off her flat shoes and rubbed her instep, soothing the hot ache as best she could. She’d never suffered this much pain when she wore heels, but she wanted to be taken seriously for promotion and flat shoes said serious officer so, no pain no gain. She slipped her shoes back on and rechecked the address, glancing at the neat semi-detached house she was parked outside. This was it, the McGovern residence. She braced herself for the emotional encounter she knew was coming and left the car, walking down the path to the house and wishing that it was longer. Anything to defer the moment when she had to see three children cry.
The McGovern’s house was unremarkable; an off-white, pebble-dashed semi, like so many others in Belfast. Its small front garden had been neglected until the grass was patchy and beige, and the flower border had died and turned to scrub. Annette pictured three small children doing their worst and a father who’d given up worrying about the garden until they were grown. Barry McGovern would never have to worry about it again.
As Annette adjusted her jacket and raised her hand to knock, the front door opened a crack and a sullen-looking girl appeared. The McGovern’s eldest; thirteen-year-old Kathleen. The girl stared at Annette with hostile eyes and Annette gazed back with sympathy in hers. How could this child possibly understand that the father she loved had been blown apart for something that was probably nothing to do with him? Just an ordinary man on an ordinary day, standing in a bookshop reading a book.
As she gazed into the girl’s blue eyes a sob caught unexpectedly in Annette’s throat. She swallowed it down, thinking again how much she admired Liam. She never told him but her awe at his work during the Troubles was enormous. How many times had Liam stood on a doorstep like this, about to talk to someone whose love and life had been ripped apart by a bomb? How had he coped? With alcohol? Definitely. And with a sense of humour as well. By growing bitter? No, she didn’t think so. Liam was irritating and politically incorrect, and at times his inappropriate banter drove her mad, but he was never really hard.
In the split second it took the thoughts to race through Annette’s mind a woman joined the young girl by the door. She opened the small crack wider and beckoned Annette in, ushering her through to a warm back room. Annette’s sob subsided during the journey but it threatened again when she saw who else was there. A determined looking boy of around eight was seated at the table, his arms folded and his chin jutting up as if he was the new man of the house. A tiny girl, a toddler, was
playing at his feet and as Annette entered the boy reached down and pulled her protectively onto his knee.
Maria McGovern motioned Annette politely to a seat and disappeared for a moment, returning with a ready-prepared tray of tea and cake. She broke the silence as she poured, in a voice so soft that Annette had to strain to hear.
“You’ll have to forgive the children, Inspector. Their only other encounter with the police was on Thursday when…”
The young widow’s voice tailed off and she dropped her head, hiding her face behind her long fair hair. Annette leaned forward, seeking her eyes. She smiled into them sympathetically, encouraging Maria McGovern to sit down, then she took over the conversation, smiling at each of the children in turn.
“I’m sorrier than I can say about your husband, your father. It’s a terrible, terrible thing that has happened to you. But I’m not here with more bad news; I’m here to ask for your help.”
On her last few words Annette directed a smile at the boy, making him feel as if he was in charge. His high voice cut through the air.
“You have to get them. The men that did it to my dad.”
Annette nodded. “Yes, we do. But we need your help.” She scanned the faces in front of her. The girl’s no less hostile than before and the baby’s and mother’s lost and confused. “We need all your help. Please. Anything that you can tell me about your father, his love of books, why he went to the shop that day, did anyone ever threaten him? Anything you know might help.”
She turned back to Maria McGovern and repeated her plea. “Anything, Mrs McGovern, no matter how trivial it seems.”
Maria McGovern nodded and started talking, with her children joining in, and an hour later Annette left the house with a list of speculations and memories, and one possible solid lead.
Chapter Nine
Docklands. 4 p.m.
“Everyone gather round, please. Nicky, can you take notes; we need to get this into some sort of order.”
Nicky lifted her notepad and perched on a chair beside her boss, just like a secretary from sixty years before. Liam wheeled himself over on his desk chair and Davy did the same, while Annette tutted disapprovingly at the tracks they’d left on the carpeted floor.
“I’ll do a brief intro, then Davy; I’d like to hear anything you’ve found, followed by Liam and Annette. Then we’ll open it up. OK?”
Craig was answered by a series of nods and slurps.
“I’ve had two meetings today. At the army base and at the lab with John. A quick summary is that Captain Ken Smith of The Swords Regiment will be acting as liaison for us and working out of the squad here from Monday.” He glanced at Nicky. “Can you find him a desk please, Nick and get all the passes etc. sorted out.”
Nicky nodded and smiled. Craig knew immediately what her smile was about. “Yes, he’s youngish and yes, he’s probably good looking, although Liam can tell you more about that sort of thing. He had a serious case of hair envy.”
Liam had just taken a gulp of tea and he almost spat it out in surprise. “I did not!” He wiped down the front of his jacket then uttered a grudging. “Smith’s all right looking, I suppose, although why I’d be expected to know I’m…”
“You’re being wound up.”
Liam’s eyes widened in realisation. “Oh, right. Nice one.”
Craig carried on. “OK. Smith told us that the bomb was basic Semtex with a timer; they used an old pocket watch for that, probably 18th Century, no idea why. The signature doesn’t match anything they’ve seen from the dissidents in the past ten years. They’re checking it against the whole Troubles’ database now, so let’s hope that they get a hit.”
“Or not, boss. I’d rather this wasn’t some sad old scrote from the ‘war’ having their death rattle, if you don’t mind.”
“So would I, Liam. But better that than a completely unknown bomber who we’ll never find. Smith also said that the scrollwork that they found attached to the bomb was, as they thought, a photo-frame. They found a fragment of an image in it which they’re reconstructing now.” Craig glanced at Davy; he was scribbling furiously on the back of a page.
“Something important, Davy?”
Davy looked up and realised that all eyes were on him. “Actually yes. I’m w…writing a programme for pulling the image out of a photograph.” He grinned cheekily. “You were going to s…say that next, weren’t you? That Captain Smith was going to send the image across for me to look at as well?”
Craig laughed, both at Davy’s genius and his cheek. The genius had been there from the beginning but the cheek was relatively new and it still surprised him.
“That’s exactly what I was going to say. Captain Smith said he would send it over to Des. But he said that days ago and he was prevented.” He glanced at the time; ten-past-four. “If it’s not here soon give Smith a call. And can you and Des check the watch fragments they found in the bomb. It seems strange they used it instead of a modern timer. It must have some significance.”
Craig took a quick gulp of coffee then carried on, updating them on his conversation with John. “John seems convinced that the volume of remains they found indicates two more dead but he’s only found the thumb of one. Hopefully we’ll get an I.D. off that.”
Davy interrupted. “We already have.”
Craig’s eyebrows shot up. “Already? Brilliant work. I’ll hand over to you on that in a minute. OK, that means that we now have three dead victims identified and one that we’re still clueless on. It could have been a man of any age, perhaps even a woman; all the shoes were flat lace-ups but one was only a size seven.
Nicky sniffed. “A woman with big feet.”
Craig ignored her. “Hopefully CCTV will give us something, or Fintan Delaney will if he regains his memory.” He turned to Davy. “Right. Over to you, Davy. What have you found?”
Davy turned over the sheet he’d been scribbling on and started to report.
“There w…were a couple of traffic cameras in the street outside the shop so we’re pulling those images, but I’m having a hard time getting any joy because it’s the w…weekend. I’ll try again on Monday. The shop’s interior CCTV might yield something as well. Des says that the back-door to the s…shop was shut but not locked, s…so it’s unlikely that the bomber left that way but not impossible.”
Liam cut in. “That’s if he left at all, lad. He might have blown himself up. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Craig raked his hair thoughtfully. Idiot or suicide bomber? “By accident or on purpose, Liam?”
“Aye well, that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? There were idiots during the Troubles who blew themselves up with their bombs and they definitely didn’t mean to, but there are plenty of people nowadays who’ll deliberately kill themselves for a cause.”
Davy asked the question that was on everyone else’s lips. “Muslims?”
Craig shrugged. “It’s very unlikely in Belfast, but we can’t rule anything out until we get the bomb signature.”
He waved Davy on before the briefing turned into a debate on world politics.
“OK. I s…started checking on the victims. First, the new I.D. from the thumbprint. W…We struck gold there.”
Annette frowned. “In what way?”
“W…Well, first it belongs to a known paramilitary, albeit retired, and secondly it was a w…woman. Sharon Greer, member of the UKF. They’re loyalist paramilitaries.”
Liam lurched forward. “You’re sure, lad?”
“Positive.”
Liam whistled so loudly that Nicky held her ears. “Well, I’ll be buggered. Sharpy Greer! We looked everywhere for her but she dropped out of sight after the Good Friday Agreement in ’98.”
Craig interrupted Liam’s trip down memory lane. “The UKF’s a new one on me. Who was Sharon Greer and what had she done?”
Liam was still reminiscing. “Sharon ‘Sharpy’ Greer was a real bad bitch, if you’ll pardon my French. Hard as nails and twice as bad as the men. S
he was married to David Greer, head of the UKF. They were a loyalist splinter group that worked on the fringes of the Troubles, mostly making a profit from them, but they also carried out targeted attacks on Catholics. David Greer was a bastard but Sharpy was even worse. She tortured men before her hubbie killed them and by all accounts she got off on it.”
Nicky’s husky voice cut in. “Rose West and Myra Hindley. When you get a bad woman she’s ten times as bad as a man.”
Liam gestured at the menacing way she was waving her pen. “Remind me not to hack you off.” He warmed to his theme. “Anyway, Sharpy was wanted for everything you can think off. Wounding, shooting…”
“Bombs?”
Craig’s question brought Liam down to earth with a bump. He shook his head grudgingly. “No, no I don’t think so. Davy?”
Davy shook his head. “I’ve got her record here and it’s as Liam s…says. No bombs.”
Annette ventured an opinion. “It could just be coincidence, sir. She could just have been a book lover in for a browse.”
Craig smiled at her determination to believe the best of everyone. “She could have been but somehow I doubt it, Annette.” Something occurred to him. “Liam, the protection racket in Smithfield. Any word on who runs it yet? “
Liam shook his head. “Not yet, but I like how you’re thinking, boss. Ex-paramilitaries turned extortionists.”
Annette broke in, annoyed. “What protection racket?”
“Sorry Annette, we haven’t got to that bit yet. Let Davy finish first.”
Davy re-started with a look that said they weren’t to interrupt. “OK, S…Sharon Greer’s our fourth victim. There’ll be more on her when I get it. Barry McGovern was a forty-two-year-old accountant married to Maria, thirty-eight. They had three children: thirteen-year-old Kathleen, eight-year-old Darren and three-year-old Petra. McGovern looks clean s…so far, not even a parking ticket. He was however a member of four libraries, so we have a pretty s…solid history of book loving there. Then there’s Jules Robinson, the shop’s owner. Owned Papyrus since 1995, before that he was in the RUC. Married to Sarah, no children. No financial problems so far, no criminal offences, good reputation in the book world; he’s a member of the RBDA; the rare book dealers’ association.”
The Careless Word (#8 - The Craig Crime Series) Page 9
