The Careless Word (#8 - The Craig Crime Series)

by Catriona King

  The car drew-up parallel fifty feet away and the decade’s old rattling finally stopped. The driver sat immobile, except for turning his head, and Liam caught the unmistakable visage of Tommy Hill. Hill was well known to the police for his loyalist exploits during the Troubles. He’d served ten of a twenty-year stretch for shooting four people on their way home from a wedding. He’d climbed calmly onto their mini-bus, killing three men and the driver as they tried to escape through the windows and past him to the door. It had earned him ‘urban hero’ status amongst his paramilitary pals and twenty years in prison, but he’d been granted early release under the Good Friday Agreement, despite widespread protest. The squad’s last big encounter with him had been after the murder of his daughter, Evie, the year before. Hill had been left with a baby grand-daughter, Ella, and was a supposedly changed man.

  After a five minute stand-off the two men emerged from their cars simultaneously, as if it was part of a well-rehearsed dance. Carmen went to unfasten her seat-belt but a sharp shake of Liam’s head said ‘stay’ louder than any word. The men stared at each other across the wasteland gap for a moment until Liam spoke.

  “’Bout ye, Tommy? How’s life?”

  Tommy Hill was half Liam’s size, with a face like a warning against excess. Carmen craned her neck until she could make out the tattoos on his neck and arms. She wished that she had her camera; the scene would have made a brilliant clip for an urban noir. Tommy answered the question in a smoke-worn voice that was intent on being hard and cool, but betrayed that he didn’t actually hate the D.C.I.

  “Aye, aye, not bad.”

  Liam took the first step to close the gap, talking as he went. “And Ella? She must be getting big?”

  Hill’s craggy face cracked at the mention of his granddaughter. “She’s walkin’ nye.”

  He reached a tattooed hand inside his jacket and Liam’s finger twitched on his gun, but all that emerged was a family snap. They were face-to-face now and Hill handed it to Liam. The picture showed a well-to-do couple; Ella’s other grandparents, the Reverend and Mrs Kerr, and Tommy looking uncomfortable in a suit and tie with a beautiful baby girl perched on his knee. Hill stretched out a worn, brown finger to touch the print, smiling proudly. “That’s her christening. She’s a bonny lass.”

  Liam relaxed and smiled, taking a genuine interest. Hill’s granddaughter had been born not long after his son Rory, but in much sadder circumstances. The old lag was staying out of trouble for her sake; that and the fact that most of his gang was still banged up in Maghaberry.

  The niceties over, Tommy lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the clear summer air. “OK, Ghost.” It was a half-affectionate nickname; Liam’s extreme pallor, regardless of the season, had earned him the moniker from Hill long before. “What can I do for ye?” He nodded towards Liam’s Ford. “An’ who’s the weeman?”

  “Someone I’m showing the ropes to; no-one to bother you.” Liam paused while Hill took a last, long drag of his cigarette, then he flicked the live butt into the lough and nodded Liam on.

  “I need to know about the protection rackets running in Smithfield these days. Is it just your side or are the republicans taking a cut?”

  Hill laughed unexpectedly and Liam heard an undertone of pride. “Those dickheads? Away on with ye. They cudn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery these days.” He smiled maliciously. “It’s all ar lads. One hundred and ten percent.” He squinted up at Liam, shielding his small eyes from the sun. “Why? Ar they givin’ ye problems, officer?”

  Liam didn’t miss the optimism in his tone. Tommy mightn’t be active these days but he still liked to hear someone from the loyalist side was giving the peelers grief.

  “Aye, aye, you’re all real hard men. Sorry to disappoint you, Tommy, but they’re not giving me any problems; I just need to find out which one of your muppets is running things there nowadays. So which three letter acronym stating with ‘U’ is it this week?”

  Tommy yawned loudly at Liam’s disrespect. After a moment’s silence that proved to him he was in charge, he rasped.

  “Four letters, actually. Used to be the UKF but it’s the UKUF nye.”

  Liam’s eyebrows shot up. UKUF? It sounded like it should be a swear word. What did it stand for? Tommy answered his unvoiced question.

  “UK Ulster Force.” He smiled proudly. “It’s brilliant, isn’t it? Does exactly what it says on the tin. There’ll be no United Ireland shite while they’re around.”

  Liam was curious. Sharpy Greer had been matriarch of the UKF for years, so had there been a gang war? Liam asked the question and Tommy laughed for an overly long time, irritating the hell out of him. Finally Liam had had enough.

  “Aye, very funny. Just answer the bloody question, Tommy.”

  Tommy raised a chastising finger. “Temper, temper, Ghost. I’ll answer ye. I’m just surprised that ye didn’t know the UKF and UKUF was the same thing. They changed their name after that flag disgrace at the City Hall. Takin’ down our flag; the scum.”

  The flag dispute had started in December 2012 after a vote by Belfast City Council limited the days the previously permanent Union flag could be flown from Belfast City Hall. It was the catalyst for a campaign of loyalist street protests in which over one hundred police officers were injured and almost seven hundred people were reported or charged.

  Tommy lit another cigarette and took a long drag.

  “So is Sharpy Greer still the boss then?”

  The question caught Tommy unawares and he coughed so hard that Liam was waiting for his lungs to appear. Eventually Hill gasped out “No weeman’s the boss of anything. The very idea.”

  It was semantics. Sharpy Greer might not have been the boss on paper but her husband had been, and everyone knew that she’d ruled Davy Greer with a rod of iron.

  Liam gestured in irritation “You know what I mean. Davy might have been named boss but Sharpy had him pussy-whipped years before he died.”

  Tommy’s coughing tailed off. “If ye mean is the UKUF the same as the UKF, then yes. They’re the only wans operating in Smithfield. But the son Zac’s the crown prince now. ”

  Liam didn’t care about their names, he cared about their business. “So… they run protection. What else? Drugs? Girls? Counterfeiting scams?”

  Tommy shook his head. “No way ye’re gettin’ that from me, Ghost. I’ve said enough. Nye, what about what yer doin’ for me?”

  Liam had expected the question and he’d come prepared. He reached into his pocket, gratified to see Tommy tense just as he had earlier. Liam withdrew a sheet of paper and handed it to his companion then he watched as Tommy read the words that were going to change his life. A small smile lit up his wizened face and a minute later Hill drove away and Liam strolled back to his car.

  Carmen turned her eyes quickly back to the lough, reluctant to give Liam the pleasure of seeing she’d been curious. They were halfway back to Docklands when she cracked.

  “Well? What was that about? He was obviously an old crim. What did you give him?”

  Liam said nothing, just gave what he liked to think of as his enigmatic smile, although Danni said it just looked like he had indigestion. Carmen clammed up, determined not to ask again. They were out of the car and in the C.C.U. lift by the time she caved in again.

  “Are you going to tell me what that was about or not?”

  Liam shook his head, enjoying winding her up. “You’ll hear it at the briefing, just like everyone else.” He stared down at the feisty constable. “Now… in a minute we’re going to enter the squad-room. Everyone will be nice to you because they don’t know what a pain in the ass you are yet. Remember what I said. Be nice and it’ll go fine for you; be your normal irritating self and it won’t.” Liam’s voice cooled. “Am I clear, Constable McGregor?”

  Carmen glared defiantly at him through two floors before capitulating, and as they walked into the squad-room, they both plastered on a smile.

  ***

  2.30 p.m.
/>   By two o’clock Craig had spoken to everyone who knew anything about Fintan Delaney. From his grieving parents who thought they knew their son best, and probably in many ways they did but not enough to explain what had happened in the past few days. Through to the consultant neurologist and Sister McHenry, who were adamant that Delaney had been on the mend and nothing medical could have caused his death. A touch too adamant if recent news reports on the UK’s hospitals were anything to go by, but Craig knew that they were probably right.

  That just left the forensics, P.C. McCormick and John to give him some explanation for the death of a healthy twenty-year-old man. Craig went to think in the ward office they’d been allocated for their investigation, he didn’t have time to think about anything before Joe Rice and Jordan McCormick clattered into the room. The constable’s face dropped when he saw Craig then he cheered up again as he remembered he had good news.

  “We think we have them.”

  Craig leaned forward urgently. “You’re sure?”

  McCormick nodded and launched into the process of elimination they’d used on the CCTV.

  “We showed Sister McHenry the footage and she was able to identify everyone on the tape as a female nurse she knew, except for one man. He entered Delaney’s room about two hours before he died and no-one seems to know who he was.”

  “Did you see him at the time?”

  McCormick nodded sheepishly. “Yes. He was wearing a nurse’s uniform and he showed me I.D. like the rest. We had quite a chat as well.” He nodded towards the door. “I’ve just done a composite with the sketch artist.”

  Craig’s heart sank. Whoever the man had been he wasn’t their killer, he’d lay money on it. No killer would stand and talk to a policeman long enough to have his face recalled. The man would turn out to be a nurse that the sister didn’t know.

  Craig shook his head. “He’s not our man. Check and see. He’ll have come from another ward to cover the night shift. That’s why the sister didn’t recognise him.”

  But it told Craig something. “Our killer was a woman.” He sprang to his feet. “Where’s the tape?”

  McCormick’s wary expression said he thought he was in trouble again so Craig smiled reassuringly. “Good work, constable, but the man you spoke to was innocent. Our killer was one of the female nurses that Sister McHenry recognised.” He turned to Joe Rice. “Set up somewhere to view the film and get the sister there, please.”

  Five minutes later they were in Mary McHenry’s office watching the tape. McCormick handed Craig the name of their male suspect. Just as Craig had suspected, he was innocent; a nurse sent from another ward to provide night cover. As each female nurse’s face appeared on the CCTV tape, Craig signalled to stop and asked McHenry her name and background. When the tape reached 7.a.m. Craig said a sharp “stop” and peered closely at the screen. He turned to the sister.

  “Who is this?”

  McHenry squinted at the woman’s face. “That’s Jenny. Jenny Weston.” She smiled warmly. “She’s a lovely girl; kind to the patients as well as being very bright.”

  Craig didn’t have time for sentiment. Something about Weston’s demeanour as she left Delaney’s room told him that they had their girl. “How bright?”

  McHenry looked puzzled for a moment then she shrugged. “She got a degree in some subject I can’t remember before she decided to do nursing. She said it was religious faith that drove her to help people.” She paused before continuing. “To be honest, I’m surprised to see her on the tape; the agency must have sent her over.”

  “Isn’t she one of your usual night nurses?”

  “Oh, no.” She widened her eyes suddenly, aghast. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Is that what the constable thought when I said I knew her? I do know her but Jenny hasn’t worked with us for ages. She went abroad about a year ago. I didn’t even know that she was back until I saw her on the tape.”

  Craig’s heart sank. Abroad. That was all they needed, an international dimension. He’d had his fill of that in cases the year before. He smiled tightly.

  “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” They ran through the remainder of the tape then Craig rose, signalling that the meeting was at an end. “We’ll get the ward re-opened as soon as possible, Sister. Constable McCormick will let you know when.”

  McCormick ushered the sister from the room and Craig grabbed his mobile and hit dial. Nicky answered immediately.

  “Nicky, put me on to Davy please.”

  Nicky transferred the call then turned her attention back to the desks she was arranging for their new guests. Davy answered cheerfully.

  “Yes, chief.”

  “The hospital CCTV footage. Pull it up, will you?”

  “I’m looking at it now.”

  “Good. Fast forward to around seven o’clock and you’ll see a woman that the ward sister has just identified as Jenny Weston. What have you got on her?”

  Davy smiled. He’d already got Weston on his list of possible suspects, but then he had the benefit of her background checks. How had Craig known? He decided that now wasn’t the time to ask and started reporting.

  “Jennifer Louise W…Weston. Aged twenty-five. Born in Newtownards to Melanie and Geoff, both teachers. She had a pretty uneventful life until she w…went to Queen’s. She studied Theology and was a member of quite a few debating groups and cliques. Graduated in 2010 then trained as a nurse before going to work abroad a year ago.”

  Craig punched the air. She was their killer; he could feel it in his bones. “Davy. Focus on the groups and cliques for me and also the exact subjects she studied. And I want to know exactly where abroad.”

  “You think she’s involved in some s…sect, chief?”

  “I think she’s involved in something that got Fintan Delaney killed.”

  ***

  The Lab. 3.10 p.m.

  Craig had slumped in a chair in John’s office ten minutes earlier, with no greeting beyond a grunt. He’d said nothing for the whole ten minutes, despite John’s banter about the wedding and two coffees so strong that they would have shocked anyone else into gabbling by now. Finally John had had enough. He slammed his file shut, cursing the fact that paper didn’t make a satisfying bang.

  “You know, much as you’re decorative to look at, well that’s what Natalie says and who am I to argue, a conversation would be nice, Marc. Even the odd ‘yes’ or a laugh at one of my jokes would be enough.” John’s cultured tones grew artificially loud, as if he was speaking to someone who didn’t speak English. “Anything to stop me thinking that I’d hired a statue for company would do it.”

  He leaned over and waved a hand so close to Craig’s face that it clipped him on the nose. Craig’s howl of indignation was the first noise he’d made for almost a quarter of an hour.

  “Ow! What did you do that for?”

  “Halleluiah! It speaks!” John retook his seat. “I did it because, great as it is to have your company, unless you want something specific I have work to get on with. So?”

  “So what?”

  John gave an exasperated sigh.

  “So what do you want, Marc? I have things to do, like finish the post-mortem on your man Delaney.”

  Craig thought for a moment then rose and headed for the door. John shrugged a goodbye and turned back to his file. After a moment he realised that Craig was waiting for him, so with an exaggerated sigh John followed him to the dissection room. Fintan Delaney’s body lay shrouded on the centre table, flanked by two others covered with the charred remnants of two human beings. Craig finally spoke.

  “I’ve been thinking…”

  “He speaks! Thank God for that. I thought someone had found your off-switch.”

  Craig ignored him with the rudeness of thirty years of friendship.

  “…about two things. The fourth bomb victim and Delaney’s cause of death.”

  He updated John on what they knew of the two intact victims; Jules Robinson and Barry McGovern, outlining the theories of protectio
n rackets, ambitious developers and Robinson’s history in the RUC.

  “That brings us to Sharpy Greer...”

  “Who?”

  Craig realised that John hadn’t spoken to Liam or Davy so he updated him on their third body. John whistled. “Well, well, shades of the Troubles.”

  Craig shrugged. “It’s a pity we couldn’t work out how many thugs just joined in the Troubles because they were criminals, and how many actually believed they had a cause.”

  “I imagine the numbers who’ve stayed involved in crime since The Good Friday Agreement should provide your answer.”

  “True. OK, Liam and Annette are following up the leads, so that leaves us with bomb victim number four.” Craig stared intently at his friend. “OK, first, are you positive that there was a fourth victim, John?”

  John’s fine-boned face creased into a smile. “Unless one of the others had three hands, then yes.”

  Craig’s eyes widened. “You found another hand? Can we get a print?”

  John shook his head apologetically.” Sorry, Marc. When I said three hands, I meant my idea of a hand, like the scaphoid bones. There was nothing that we could fingerprint. Frankly there was no intact skin at all.”

  Craig was undeterred. “But you can get DNA, can’t you?”

  “From the scaphoid?”

  “It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

  John made a face, thinking. “OK… yes, I might be able to get it, but you’ll have to find something to match it against. I’ve always said that a world-wide DNA database…”

  Craig cut in before John climbed onto his favourite hobby-horse. “If we get any images from the shop’s CCTV, then we might have a shot at finding someone to match.” Craig smiled for the first time since he’d arrived at the lab. “Excellent.”

  John smiled as well but for a different reason; amusement. Craig didn’t need an answer to be happy; he just needed the hope of one. Craig continued.

  “Right, so that brings us to Fintan Delaney. We think he was killed by a woman.” Craig had a thought. “Actually, how would you and Des fancy coming to the four o’clock briefing tomorrow. You should have the forensics by then.”