“Did you get it?”
John raised an eyebrow and considered lecturing Craig on his conversational skills. Instead he answered in kind.
“Running the database now.”
“Brilliant! Get it over to Davy as and when.”
“I’ll see you at four.”
Craig dropped the phone, forgiving his own rudeness; John was just as bad when he was fixed on an idea. They had their bomb victim’s DNA and soon they would have a name. Even Craig knew that his optimism was touching; if their victim wasn’t on a database he might be John Doe forever.
Craig sipped his cooling coffee and turned back to the niggle that had kept him awake half the night. He reached hard for the elusive idea as it disappeared, first down one rabbit hole and then down the next. Finally he had it cornered in the darkness. What if it hadn’t been Papyrus or a particular person that the bomber had wanted to destroy, but something else? But what?
A concept? A brand? No, too intangible. Suddenly the rabbit-hole’s light flickered on and Craig could see the answer clearly; it was something he’d already thought of and dismissed. A book. What if they really had bombed Papyrus to get rid of a book, or books? What if Jules Robinson had found a valuable book that someone had wanted? Or wanted to destroy? But why? For its worth? A collector trying to maintain their own rare book’s value; a value that only held true if you owned the only copy?
Craig was out the door and across to Davy before Nicky had time to turn.
“Davy!”
Davy raised his eyes calmly, quite used to Craig’s eureka moments. Carmen on the other hand was not. She gawped at the speed that he crossed the room; Aidan Hughes had barely moved beyond a stroll.
“Yes, chief?”
“Books.”
Davy nodded and tapped on the screen to his right. A document appeared and Craig grinned.
“Is that Jules Robinson’s inventory?”
“Yup. All except whatever he’d ordered in the past two w…weeks.”
“Damn.”
“Don’t w…worry. I’m going through the order books his w…wife gave me and following up a few other leads.”
Craig nodded. “Print me a copy of that list and keep me up to speed with anything you get.”
A moment later Craig was holding twenty hot pages and heading back to his room.
***
1 p.m.
Davy swung between his three computer screens and frowned as he tried to link the traffic-cam views and street CCTV around Papyrus with what was left of the feed from inside the shop. He was tapping so frequently on his keyboards that it was irritating. Eventually Nicky had had enough and she rose to tell him just as an athletic looking man entered the squad. From his confident stride and upright posture Nicky guessed military. Ken Smith’s clean-shaven smile backed her supposition up.
“Ken Smith to see Superintendent Craig.”
A small frisson of excitement made Nicky brush back her already smooth ponytail, then she reminded herself that she was married and reluctantly accepted that someone else would have to benefit from Smith’s charm. As she turned to show him into Craig’s office she had a mischievous thought. She knocked Craig’s door once and opened it, ushering the captain in.
“Captain Smith, sir. I’ll bring fresh coffee.”
Craig rose and the two men shook hands. Nicky returned quickly with coffee and biscuits then left the door open just a crack, knowing that any information she gleaned would aid her plan. Craig poured the coffees, talking as he did.
“We’re glad to have you, Captain Smith.”
“Ken. I can’t go around being called Captain.”
Craig smiled. “Fine. Well, we’re glad to have you, as I said. Jake McLean our sergeant is off sick, and we have a new member of staff seconded to us from Vice, just for two weeks. That just leaves five core team members. Nicky, who you’ve already met. Just remember that she owns this floor and you’ll be fine. D.C.I. Liam Cullen, who you met at the explosion site. Detective Inspector Annette McElroy; she and Liam are both out on enquiries, and Davy Walsh our analyst, who I’ll introduce you to in a moment. We also work very closely with the Northern Ireland Forensic labs and our lead pathologist and forensic scientist are coming to the briefing at four o’clock.”
“Who’s the other secondee?”
Craig suddenly remembered Carmen and nodded. “Ah yes, sorry. That’s Detective Constable Carmen McGregor; she’s outside now.” Craig glanced at his watch. “Sorry to rush you but Carmen and I are interviewing at High Street Station at two. We often use the rooms there for interviews. I’ll introduce you to anyone who’s here now and Nicky has prepared a pack with up-to-date findings for you to read before the briefing.” Craig glanced at the percolator. “Top your coffee up and follow me.”
A moment later they were standing in front of Davy’s desk, listening to him swear beneath his breath as his eyes darted back and forth between three screens. Smith gazed at him with an amused expression until eventually Craig coughed and Davy registered that they were standing there. He sighed dramatically, launching into a rant about street cameras until Craig’s sideways glance at Smith drew him to a halt; he’d been so focused that he’d hadn’t noticed they had a guest. Davy sprang to his feet and nodded hello. Smith nodded hello back. He considered shaking hands then realised that the gesture was too old- fashioned for the young Emo.
“Davy, this is Captain Smith; Ken. He’s joining us for two weeks as military liaison.”
Smith interjected. “And general dogsbody. I’m happy to help in any way I can.”
“Good. Davy’s your man for cameras, computers, phones and links with Dr Marsham in forensics. For pretty much everything really.”
Nicky chipped in. “Everything that I don’t do.”
Craig smiled. “Like Nicky said. OK, Davy, Ken’s going to remain here and get up to speed for the next few hours. Give him any help you can, please.”
Davy nodded eagerly. “I’d love to talk to you about bomb s…signatures.”
“Sure. Give me time to read the briefing pack then I’m all yours.”
Before the two men disappeared into a discussion about wires and chemicals Craig steered Smith towards the empty desk that Nicky had set up.
“This will be your home for two weeks; let Nicky know if you need anything.”
He was just about to head back to his office when he caught Davy’s eyes signalling towards Carmen. He’d forgotten all about her! Craig’s horror at his bad manners was mitigated only by the fact that she was so new. He covered his mistake by turning smoothly towards Carmen’s desk, set diagonally opposite Smith’s own.
“Captain Ken Smith, let me introduce you to Detective Constable Carmen McGregor.”
Craig completely missed the colour rising in Smith’s cheeks as Carmen rose to shake his hand.
“Carmen McGregor.”
“Ken Smith.”
Smith lingered a second too long on his handshake and both Davy and Nicky read the situation in a glance. Nicky smiled to herself. She’d been planning to match-make the newbies since Smith had walked onto the floor, but now that he was so obviously attracted to Carmen, it would be even easier. Carmen’s disinterested expression made her think again.
Carmen’s happiness at being invited to the pub the evening before had underlined her social isolation and Smith’s obvious attraction to her seemed like the answer to a maiden’s prayer. So why wasn’t she sending out interested vibes?
The secondees settled back to their desks and Craig strolled back to his office, throwing. “We’re leaving in twenty minutes, Carmen” behind him as he did. He re-entered his office, completely missing the direction of Nicky’s continued gaze. Davy didn’t. He loped over to her desk and perched beside her.
“Are you planning w…what I think you are?”
Nicky turned briskly towards her screen. “What are you talking about?”
Davy squinted at her. “You know w…what. You’re planning to match-make those two.�
��
Nicky thrust out her chin stubbornly. “What if I am? I think they’d make a great pair.”
Davy’s voice rose an octave in indignation. “W…Well first, I’m not sure Carmen agrees with you and s…secondly, how come when Maggie and I were getting together you tried to s…sabotage it at every turn, but this time you’re setting it up?”
Nicky was outraged. “I did not try to sabotage it!”
“Oh yes you did. You told me she was too old for me and that I couldn’t possibly date a journalist because she would try to s…snoop on our cases!”
Maggie was a journalist at The Belfast Chronicle and five years older than Davy. In Nicky’s opinion she’d been far too sophisticated for the twenty-five-year-old Davy when they’d met, although she liked her now.
Nicky was about to deny everything then she thought for a moment and laughed instead, making Davy even more irate. She raised her elegant hands in surrender.
“OK, OK. I admit that I was protective of you and I was wrong; Maggie’s lovely.”
“You can tell her that at the w…wedding. She’s still terrified of you.”
Nicky was about to say “really?” but she stored the fact away for future use instead. It was no bad thing to have people a little afraid of you; it stopped them taking liberties. The old expression ‘Keep in with the bad for the good will do you no harm’ held more than a grain of truth. Nicky smiled.
“I’ll tell her, I promise. But that’s not the point. You needed protection, Carmen doesn’t; she needs a boyfriend.” She placed her hands firmly on her keyboard, signalling a return to work, and muttered determinedly under her breath. ”And whether she likes it or not that’s exactly what she’s going to get.”
Chapter Fifteen
East Belfast. 1.30 p.m.
Liam pushed his way through the crowd of severely over and underweight men milling outside the terraced row of shops, and entered Garvan’s Bookmakers and Turf Accountants, musing that the place should have had a health warning above the door, or at least a sign saying ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’.
He’d never understood gambling, the logic of putting your hard-earned money on the back of some uncontrollable four-legged animal or the turn of a playing card, knowing from the off that the odds were against you, completely passed him by. Gambling was a pastime for the rich with money to burn, he would rather spend his on something he could hold, drink or eat. Danni insisted on doing the lottery each week, regardless of what he said, convinced that someday her numbers would come up, a hope inspired and confirmed by the odd time she won ten pounds. Liam smiled, thinking about his tiny wife. He could lift two of her without breaking a sweat but she was the boss of him without a doubt.
The door opened inwards, giving a warning buzz to anyone who was interested, with each of the shop’s inhabitants taking a different message from the sound. The desperate men yelling at the TV horse race would welcome any new entrant as a friend; someone who understood the thrill of the chase or the toss of a coin, not knowing that Liam was not so secretly pitying them all. To the men behind the bullet-proof glass at the back of the dingy room the buzz meant something else entirely. It shouted ‘mug’ or ‘eejit’ or ‘here comes another one’, ready to put his money in their hands and wave goodbye to his life. Well they could think again. The only thing Liam would be putting near their hands was a pair of cuffs.
Even without the door’s buzz Liam would never have gone unnoticed in the small, cold space. His six-feet-six inches made sure of that. He’d stopped trying to be inconspicuous once puberty had hit and he’d started to tower above his friends. Instead he’d embraced his larger-than-life body by developing a larger-than-life personality and voice to match.
In two strides he was at the glass rapping on it hard and bellowing “shop”. A weasel-faced youth with bad skin appeared on the other side.
“For fuck’s sake leave us sum windee, wud ye! What di ye want? The one-thirty’s already on.”
Liam frowned for a moment, puzzled by what he meant, then he realised the boy was referring to the race running on TV. The confidence of knowing there was a land-rover full of Tactical Support cops outside made Liam display his badge. Its effect was startling. The weasel-faced youth paled, making his spots look even worse and the crowd of men watching the race quietened and thinned, exiting the shop in a buzzer symphony. Liam saw the youth’s hand reach beneath the desk, and even though he knew no gunshot could penetrate the glass he moved his own to his Glock in response. He needn’t have bothered, the boy was merely pressing an intercom and the burly man who appeared beside him a moment later told Liam who’d been on the other end. Liam gave a loud guffaw.
“As I live and breathe. Rory McCrae! I thought you were still in Maghaberry.”
McCrae was one of Tommy Hill’s crew and news of his release was an omission Liam would be taking up with Tommy another time.
McCrae sniffed; the product of years of smoking and bad adenoids. “Got out in June. Good behaviour. What do you want, Ghost?”
Liam shook his head exaggeratedly at the use of his nickname. “Tut, tut. Don’t you mean, what do you want Detective Chief Inspector, sir?”
McCrae growled. “Fuck away af.”
Liam tutted again as if he was the etiquette master at a boarding school then he leaned in towards the glass, beckoning McCrae forward. When the wary henchman had moved close enough Liam banged his fist hard on the glass, deafening his foe.
“Ow! You big fucker.”
Liam’s action had the desired effect. McCrae stormed out and Liam wedged the door open with his foot. He was inside and heading for the shop’s back room without skipping a beat. Liam slid out his gun and kicked at the thin wooden door, ignoring McCrae’s indignant shouts.
“Armed police. Put your weapons down.”
The sight that greeted him was exactly as expected. A small group of men were hunched over a table, sorting piles of notes into twenties and tens and smoking so heavily that the room was filled with a nicotine mist. Beyond the table lay another door; the one that Liam really wanted.
He waved his Glock in the men’s shocked faces, grinning cheerfully. “As you were, lads. Oh, and if any of you budding heroes are thinking of reaching for your gun, there’s a truckload of armed cops outside.”
Liam backed himself into the corner and kicked hard at the inner door, shouting the warning again. One glance inside told him he needn’t have bothered. Sitting in one corner of a small, plush office was a teenage boy flicking a remote at a TV screen. Zac Greer glanced up when Liam entered and beckoned him to a seat with the insouciance of a Napoleon.
“Fancy a drink, officer?” He glossed over Liam’s absent reply. “No? Well then, grab a pew.”
The boy yelled through the door. “McIlveen, take some cold drinks out to the lads in the land-rover. They must be hot.”
Liam stifled a smile, imagining the TSG commander’s face. He stared down at the lad, shaking his head at his head-to-toe designer gear and an arrogance so ingrained that it would take a decade of therapy to reverse its delusional effect.
“I take it you’re Zac Greer?”
Zac inclined his head regally and again waved Liam towards a chair. Liam sat, not out of any sense of deference but because he could do with the rest. He kept his gun firmly in sight and nodded towards the door, trying to handle the situation the way that he thought Craig would. There was no question that the lad was a scrote and probably a murdering one, but they’d not long identified his mother’s dead body so he deserved some sympathy. He had no idea what Sharon Greer’s relationship had been like with her son, apart from the rumours of palace coups, so he needed to play this softly.
“My boss would like you to answer a few questions. How would that be?”
Greer considered for a moment and then shrugged, revealing his youth with his next question. “Do I get to ride in the land-rover?”
Liam was taken aback for a moment then he nodded. “OK. We’re heading to High Street
Station.”
Greer stood and Liam smiled at his too-long trousers as he sauntered past him to the door. Zac yelled out an instruction. “McCrae. Get Trimble to meet me at High Street. I’ll be a couple of hours.”
Liam’s smile deepened. Greer would get a surprise when he saw his solicitor was already there.
***
Paris. 2 p.m. local time
The wide Parisian boulevards were almost deserted, with barely a car traversing them. The usual stream of chic business people had been replaced by scores of badly dressed foreign tourists. They carried guide books and cameras and filled the dry summer air with shouts of “stand there while I take a shot” and “smile.”
Every accent of English could be heard, combining with Spanish and Asian languages to create a dialect soup. It made the few Parisians who hadn’t quit the summer city for somewhere cooler, scowl and shake their heads.
Alain Berger was scowling as well, except in his case the expression wasn’t because of the tourists. He had bigger poissons to fry. He clutched his attaché case closer to his chest and hurried through the narrow streets of the 3rd arrondissement, in the Marais. After five minutes of rushing he stopped outside a small café and peered through its grimy windows to see who was inside. It was empty apart from a single shape behind the counter. Berger exhaled softly in relief and pushed open the low glass door.
The light inside the coffee-house was dim, made dimmer by the dark Moroccan wood that lined its walls, but Berger could make out the tall man drying glasses; the man that he had come to see.
“Monsieur Augustin?”
The man turned, revealing his substantial girth; it was struggling for freedom through a white apron and being unsuccessfully restrained. Augustin’s scowl matched Berger’s own of five minutes earlier.
“Oui. Who asks?”
Berger rushed forward eagerly, extending his hand. “My name is Alain Berger. I have what your client wants.”
The Careless Word (#8 - The Craig Crime Series) Page 16
