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

by Catriona King

Augustin glanced around for invisible eavesdroppers then he strode to the front door and locked it, drawing down the blind. He waved Berger irritably to a seat.

  “Where did you get my name? And what do you mean by my client?”

  Berger smiled; he’d forgotten he was a stranger to the man.

  “Apologies. I mean the gentleman in Geneva. I read of his desire online.”

  Augustin feigned ignorance for a moment before his curiosity won. “Where online? How did you come by the merchandise?”

  Berger smiled, feeling comfortable for the first time that day. He answered the second question. “It was a challenge. Especially after what happened in Ireland last week.”

  “Ireland?”

  “Oui. The north; Belfast.” Berger frowned and shook his head. “It became very messy.”

  Augustin nodded. “Then you are wise to take precautions.” He shot Berger a questioning look. “Where is it?”

  For a moment Berger pretended he didn’t understand. Then he laughed. “I cannot tell you that. It is far too dangerous.” He opened his attaché case and withdrew a document “Here is the paperwork. Please have your client verify it. Then we will meet again.”

  He rose quickly and headed for the door, leaving Augustin to gaze at the file. Before Berger could exit Augustin spoke again. “They.”

  Berger turned, unsure that he’d heard correctly and fervently hoping that he hadn’t. “What did you say?”

  “They. It is not ‘he’ who is my client but ‘they’.”

  A group. Berger’s heart sank, knowing that their chances of surviving the transaction alive had just been severely reduced. The more people who knew about the deal the more chances of a leak and all their deaths. What had happened in Belfast five days before was proof of that.

  ***

  High Street Station. 2.30 p.m.

  Craig raked his dark hair, exasperated by the man in front of him. James Trimble smiled at the effect he was having. Causing exasperation was one of his best techniques. It had resulted in a constable punching him once; the man hadn’t been in uniform for long after that.

  While Jimmy Trimble’s university classmates had been studying Tort and Contract Law, he’d spent hours in front of a mirror rearranging his features into a mask of this or that, trying to work out which expressions best produced the effects he desired. He’d decided long ago to leave oratory to the barristers; after all, they were basically show-offs who loved strutting their stuff in court. You could spot the budding barristers from the first day in undergrad; how many of them were frustrated thespians was anyone’s guess. No, he’d leave the long speeches to the Oliviers of the courtroom; his skill in defending his clients lay in what he didn’t say. If he was good enough at that then they’d never see inside of a court.

  Carmen watched the men from the small, dark viewing room behind the mirror, unsure if Craig’s exasperated gesture was for effect, or whether he really was fed up with the smug brief. A voice from the darkness answered her.

  “The Super’s playing him.”

  Carmen swung round sharply towards the man who’d been silent since they’d entered twenty minutes earlier. Jack Harris smiled at her brittleness. If she stayed in the Murder Squad it would wear down naturally, and if not then it would be her cross to bear. Jack unfolded his arms and rose, walking across to the glass. He nodded his head towards Craig.

  “He looks annoyed, doesn’t he?”

  Carmen nodded, giving the elderly sergeant a quizzical look.

  “Well he’s not, but he knows Trimble wants him to be, so he’s giving it to him.”

  Jack gazed at the young woman and shook his head, not, as Carmen thought, at their conversation or her obvious inexperience, but in puzzlement. How had such a bonny lass, because that’s what she was, ever developed such a prickly shell?

  Nicky had phoned to brief him during the ten minutes it had taken Craig and Carmen to walk from Pilot Street to his station’s reception desk, but even if she hadn’t he would have spotted what ailed Constable McGregor straightaway. She was lonely, desperately lonely. It was written all over her in big letters, letters etched by her family being far away in Edinburgh and made deeper by her lack of social circle here. The etching had made her curl into herself like a child who wished that someone would give her a hug, but was cloaked in a coat of spikes so sharp that no-one would dare approach.

  Jack had seen it before, too many times; in perps and victims and relatives. He’d felt it himself when he was young and posted to a faraway station, he even felt it now on the occasional day. They were all alone in this world and they were all alone inside their heads, but the company of others sometimes made the solitude easier to bear.

  As Jack was thinking his thoughts Carmen was waiting to be enlightened about Craig’s technique, so he obliged. He pulled a chair up to the window and waved a hand at Craig.

  “OK. Perps fall into many categories but solicitors only have three. First you have the ordinary, decent solicitors who want to do the best for their client, whether they’re guilty or not. Because they believe that’s their job, or in some cases their vocation. Right?”

  Carmen nodded. She’d thought all solicitors were like that so what were the other categories? Jack folded his arms on his stomach and continued, warming to his theme.

  “Then you have number two; the crusaders. The ones who want to change the law and the world and really believe that they can. They come in here with books full of arguments, most of it labelled ‘Human Rights’. “

  Carmen went to protest and Jack held up a hand to stop her. “Let me finish please, constable.”

  The appellation reminded Carmen that detective she may be, but in terms of rank the man’s beside her was higher than hers.

  “Human Rights are all well and good, and like it says, everybody human should have them, but the crusaders forget that victims have Human Rights as well. Now don’t get me wrong, some laws need to be changed and some have been, thanks to campaigning lawyers and people who complain. But some laws don’t, and trying to say that the law is wrong just to get your client off doesn’t wash. But crusaders try it all the same and it gives all of us more work, not to mention earache listening to them.”

  Carmen waited until he’d finished and then cast a look through the glass. Craig had stopped looking exasperated and was giving Trimble what for. She knew Craig was asking about links between Trimble’s two clients; UKUF and SNI. She wanted to turn on the microphone and listen but Jack continued with his third category.

  “Now category number three is the one that Mr Trimble falls in.”

  Carmen dragged her eyes from Craig and asked the question that she knew she was supposed to ask. “And that is?”

  “Ah well, now. Mr Trimble is what you’d call a player.” He caught Carmen’s narrowing eyes and clarified hurriedly. “I mean player in the legal sense, not in any other way.”

  The coldness of her gaze gave Jack more information. Carmen wasn’t just homesick, she’d been hurt by a man, perhaps by more than one. A ‘player’ who’d messed her about. He’d tell Nicky later; it might affect her match-making plans.

  Carmen’s interest was piqued now and she listened with only the occasional glance at Craig. He was lounging back in his chair and James Trimble was leaning forward across the desk, gesticulating and mouthing some words that she couldn’t hear. She didn’t need to hear; it was clear that Trimble was feeling defensive. Whatever Craig had hit him with had worked. She turned to Jack.

  “What do you mean?”

  “OK. Take Mr Trimble for instance. He only takes certain clients; criminals. Not ordinary folk who find themselves being treated like criminals for a while, until it’s clear that they are or not, but career criminals. Some of them wear tattoos signposting it and some of them wear nice suits, but their stench is still the same.”

  Carmen interrupted. “So he never has an innocent client?”

  Jack shrugged. “They might be innocent of the odd thing, but not of most
. Trimble knows that going in and he doesn’t care. His job is to get them off and he’s good at it. Either he’ll find a procedural error that some rookie P.C. has made, or he’ll cite misconduct by the custody staff, cruelty or some other tripe. You know the sort of stuff.”

  Carmen nodded. She’d seen a bit of it in Scotland, but the legal system there was as tight as a drum.

  “I’d say he gets about twenty percent off on that. Then he’ll turn to the Human Rights and Equality stuff.”

  “Does he know his law?”

  Jack smiled tightly. “Oh, yes. He knows it even better than some of the crusaders. Make no mistake about it; Trimble’s a bright boy. The difference between him and the other bunch is that he doesn’t give a monkey’s about Human Rights, he just uses the words to spring the crooks.”

  He stared through the glass and smiled as Craig leaned forward, nose-to-nose now with his foe. Sweat was pouring through Trimble’s Egyptian cotton shirt and droplets of it rolled off his thick top lip. Jack gestured towards the two men.

  “Trimble tried tactics A and B and they failed, so he tried C, and now that’s tanked as well.”

  Carmen’s eyes widened and eagerness tinged her voice. Jack smiled inwardly; so the girl had some enthusiasm left after all.

  “What’s tactic C?”

  “Do you remember when the Super looked exasperated earlier?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that was him pretending that C was working. C’s a tactic that players use to exasperate the police. Stonewall every question and refuse to answer. Not a word. The gifted ones can keep it up for hours, just saying nothing or ‘no comment’. They gaze around the room, look bored, lounge back in their seats, fold their arms…”

  Carmen grinned, thinking of her older brother’s behaviour when they were kids. “You mean they behave like a teenager?”

  Jack laughed loudly, thanking goodness that the microphone was off. Craig had Trimble on the ropes and he wouldn’t thank him for breaking his flow.

  “That’s exactly what they do, but you’d be surprised how effective it is. They can stonewall for hours until a police officer makes a mistake and says or does something that they shouldn’t.” He gestured through the glass. “Or until they meet their match and come up against someone who can play as hard as them.”

  As Jack said the words Craig smiled, as if he’d heard their conversation. He closed the file in front of him and rose to his feet. They watched as James Trimble glanced away in disgust and then reached for his mobile phone. Craig didn’t stop him using it; there was no need, he’d obviously won. One minute later Craig was beside them in the viewing room, watching Trimble’s perspiration soak through more of his shirt.

  Jack turned to the younger man and smiled. “Quite the performance.”

  Craig grinned. “Trimble’s a player, Jack, you know that. So we just played the game until he gave up.” He turned to Carmen. “You probably heard but he’s admitted he’s the solicitor for both UKUF and SNI, although he’s still denying any links between the two.”

  “Is UKUF proscribed under the 2000 Terrorism Act?”

  Craig shook his head. “Sadly not, if it was then we’d have more leverage. But I’ve put a shot across Mr Trimble’s bow. If he’s benefiting from the proceeds of crime and we can prove it then his own possessions could be forfeit.”

  “It would be hell to prove.”

  Craig nodded at Jack. “It would, but it was enough to get him worried. He doesn’t want to lose his nice house. He’s probably transferring his assets to his wife as we speak.”

  Jack gave a loud laugh and just then an even louder man entered the room. Jack saw Liam first.

  “Ach, it’s the boul Liam. What are you doing here?”

  Craig turned to see his deputy squeezing himself through the door. “Yes, what are you doing here, Liam?”

  “Lovely to see you too, boss.”

  Liam caught Carmen’s eye and nodded curtly and she felt a moment’s embarrassment about how badly their acquaintance had begun. Liam waved in the direction of reception.

  “It was getting a bit crowded at UKUF central so I’ve brought Zac Greer in for a chat. Well, actually a chat and to tell him about his Mum. He definitely doesn’t know, boss.”

  Craig swore under his breath. John had spoken to the Robinson, Delaney and McGovern families but he hadn’t got round to Sharon Greer’s.

  “Damn. That’s my fault, Liam. I’ll tell him.”

  Liam shook his head. “Never worry yourself, I’ll do it. The lad and I have formed a rapport.”

  Craig looked sceptical but Liam obviously had his own reasons for wanting to do the deed. Liam nodded through the two-way glass.

  “I see Trimble’s still here. That’s handy. Zac just gave him a call.” He turned to Craig. “Did you get anything from him? Anything useful that is. You’re bound to have got a headache.”

  Craig nodded. “I’ll update you at the briefing. When you’ve had your chat with the boy, take him to the mortuary if he wants to go. There’s nothing left to see of his Mum but he might want to ask John something.”

  Craig suddenly noticed how crammed the room was and ushered Liam into the corridor. The others followed and they headed for the staff-room and five minutes of coffee and chat.

  “Jack, I’m going to leave Liam and Carmen in your capable hands.” He gestured at Liam. “And if he gets out of line you deal with him.”

  “Aye, you and whose army, Harris?”

  As Carmen went to the sink to wash her cup Liam shot Craig a pleading look and attempted a whisper. “Do you not think it would be better if she went back to the ranch with you, boss?”

  Craig shook his head firmly. Carmen was prickly but not half as much as Liam implied; it was six of one as far as he could see. He dropped his voice to match Liam’s and Jack leaned in conspiratorially. “Suck it up and deal with her, Liam. It’s one of the joys of rank.”

  Craig leaned back and raised his voice again. “Captain Smith has joined us, so we’ll have a full team at the briefing except for Jake.”

  Jack gave Craig a puzzled look.

  “He’s army liaison. The case started with a bomb.”

  “Not more of that rubbish. I had enough of that for thirty years.”

  Jack had been station sergeant at High Street all through the Troubles in Belfast. If he hadn’t seen it then it probably hadn’t occurred.

  “Different reason for the bomb this time.”

  Just then the staff-room door opened hesitantly and the smiling face of Constable Sandi Masters appeared. “Sorry to disturb you, Sarge, but that wee lad in reception is making an awful lot of noise.”

  Liam sighed heavily, drained his mug and grabbed a handful of Rich Tea before he rose to his feet. He beckoned Carmen to join him.

  “It’s time to watch the youth of today in action and Jimmy Trimble doing his Rottweiler impersonation.”

  Craig stifled a smile. “I’ll see both of you back at Pilot Street, no later than four o’clock. We’re starting on time.”

  With a wave Liam and Carmen disappeared and Jack put on the kettle for another pot of tea.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Annette parked her small saloon on Linenhall Street and glanced up at the building that was marked on her map. It looked normal enough; seven stories of concrete façade, periodically interrupted by glass. Why couldn’t architects come up with something more original? That particular look had been around since the sixties, not that she was old enough to recall.

  Annette made a face, remembering just how long she had been around. She would be forty-five on her next birthday, time to start counting backwards. One of her friends had perfected the use of some ancient calendar, telling everyone her age by that; thirty-one. And people actually believed her! Not only because she looked considerably younger than her years, aided by her thin, blond looks, but also because no-one wanted to show their ignorance of ancient counting techniques, so they nodded as if they understood. Annette stare
d in the mirror and pulled a face, counting the wrinkles beneath her eyes. She got to five and gave up. At least she could do something with her hair. She’d worn the same brown bob since she was seventeen and she badly needed a restyle.

  She glanced at the clock and climbed out of the car, crossing the street sensibly at the lights. In less than a minute she was in Regis House, being shown to a fifth floor waiting room. As Annette waited she gazed around her, taking in the expensive beige carpet and the elegant beige and white logo of SNI. Her interior design review was interrupted by an impossibly slim woman entering the room, impossible not just by Annette’s standards but by anyone’s who had ever eaten a meal. The woman was around forty years old and so blond and pale that she almost blended into the décor. She smiled and when she did so her skin stretched tightly across her face.

  “Inspector McElroy?”

  A thin hand touched Annette’s own for a second then the woman turned, leading the way into an office. Annette walked behind her wishing that she was slim, not as slim as this woman, she would blow away in a breeze, but much slimmer than her hefty ten stone. Her determination to have a makeover grew stronger until her reverie was broken by the woman’s next words.

  “Tea or coffee?”

  “Tea please.”

  After some whispered words into an intercom the drinks miraculously appeared. In a moment Annette was ready to begin.

  “Mrs…?”

  It was Mrs, if the woman’s heavily decorated ring finger was anything to go by.

  “Stenson. Hilary Stenson.”

  “Well Mrs Stenson, as I told your secretary on the phone, your company’s name has come up in our enquiries so I need to ask you a few routine questions.” Annette was sincerely hoping that the answers would be anything but routine, but it never did to reveal your dreams.

  Hilary Stenson smiled gracefully and Annette imagined that she did everything that way. It must make cleaning the oven a real performance.

  “First of all, your company name; SNI. Could you tell me what that stands for?”

  Hilary Stenson looked shocked and glanced at the business cards beside her as if she was surprised by what was written there. It would soon become obvious that shocked was her default expression.