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

by Catriona King

  “Oh, I am sorry, Inspector. Of course. SNI stands for Saudi Northern Ireland.”

  It was Annette’s turn to be shocked. She wasn’t even aware that Northern Ireland had a Saudi population.

  “Are there many Saudi people here?”

  Hilary Stenson looked shocked again and then she laughed; a tinkling melody of a laugh that rose and fell for far too long. When she’d finished her song she explained.

  “The Saudis don’t live here, they invest here. Let me explain. The Saudis have owned property in England, principally London, for many years, but they wish to expand to other areas of the UK. Northern Ireland is one of those areas.”

  “So they’re here to develop?”

  Stenson smiled beatifically. Annette wanted to wipe the smile off her face for no other reason than that it irritated her, so she parked her planned questions about Belfast developments in general and went straight in for the kill.

  “Why do they wish to develop in Smithfield? It’s hardly the most elegant area of Belfast.”

  Stenson’s default shocked expression reappeared but this time Annette saw something real behind it. Anxiety? No, the emotion in her eyes was too strong. It was fear. Fear of what? She watched as Stenson scrambled frantically for words to hide behind and decided not to give her the time.

  “Why Smithfield, Mrs Stenson?”

  “Well… because… well… it’s up and coming.”

  Annette raised an eyebrow, remembering her mother’s, a Maghera farmer’s wife, verdict on the area; ‘It might be up and coming but it’s still too low for my daughter’.

  “What were you going to build there? What was the development?”

  Annette continued with a rat-a-tat-tat of questions as Hilary Stenson opened and shut her mouth like a fish. Finally when Stenson was stressed in the way Annette wanted her, she paused and sipped her tea, waiting for the fading debutante to answer.

  “It… it was, is, a condominium. Apartments, but very high end. Swimming pool, gymnasium…”

  Exactly as Sadie Robinson had said.

  “And you needed the land cleared of local businesses so you offered to buy them out.”

  Stenson nodded so hard that she almost dislodged her hair-sprayed bob. “It’s all quite legal. We offered them a lot of money to move.”

  Annette set down her cup with a bang and lurched forward, closing the gap between them.

  “But some of them didn’t want to sell, did they, Mrs Stenson? Some of them were preventing you from getting what you wanted.” Stenson’s eyes widened and she reached for the phone. Annette continued relentlessly. “Did you employ people to put pressure on them, Mrs Stenson? The same people who had been running protection in the area? Did they go too far without your permission, or did you tell them to do whatever had to be done?” Her voice rose for the most important question. “Did SNI cause the explosion in Gresham Street last week?”

  Annette paused for breath, watching as a faint flush tinged the woman’s porcelain cheeks. She was enjoying working alone, even though she knew that she would get told off by Craig. He’d told her specifically not to go unaccompanied but when she’d tried to get Liam to come he’d said she would have to wait until after five. Besides, if Liam had been there he’d have asked the questions, and if she’d had Jake in tow she would have had to be more polite.

  Hilary Stenson’s shocked expression became one of full-blown fear. She let the phone fall back into its cradle and stared at Annette. Then, to Annette’s complete surprise, she started to cry. It was the last thing she’d expected from the prim exec, and if she’d thought about it she’d have expected a ladylike sob, but Hilary Stenson’s tears were like a banshee’s howl.

  “I told them not to have anything to do with those thugs, but they wouldn’t listen. They said they had too much invested in surveys and costs already to let two small shops stand in their way.”

  Annett jumped in. “What were the shops’ names?”

  Stenson shook her head vaguely. “I don’t know. All I know is that they were at either end of a terrace and they wouldn’t budge. They were holding up the builders and costing the company money, so they brought those common thugs in.”

  “UKUF?”

  Stenson nodded and howled again. “I think that was their name. They ran protection in the area, some woman called Greer. They already knew the shopkeepers so they were asked to pressure them to leave.”

  “For a big payment?”

  “Yes.” Stenson sniffed and quietened for long enough to lift a handkerchief from her bag and give her nose an elegant blow. “SNI offered them ninety thousand pounds to pressure the last two shops to close. One of the shops agreed to take our settlement figure quickly after that.” She gazed at Annette, pleading to be understood. “They were generous offers, honestly. The shopkeepers got one hundred and fifty thousand pounds each.” She shook her head, remembering something. “But the last shop’s…the bookshop’s owner still refused to leave. We raised the offer to two hundred thousand but the old man still wouldn’t take it; he said that the shop was like his child, so…”

  “So you told UKUF to go ahead and do their worst.”

  “The company Board did. But they only meant to rough him up; intimidate him a bit until he would sell. They didn’t mean to blow the place up!”

  Hilary Stenson’s look of horror said that she was telling the truth. Annette sat back and softened her voice.

  “When did you hear about the explosion?”

  “On Thursday’s six o’clock news. I couldn’t believe that UKUF had gone that far. They must have known that the Board wouldn’t sanction it and they’d never get paid.”

  Annette’s ears pricked up. “The company hadn’t already paid UKUF the ninety thousand?”

  “They got thirty in advance and thirty when each shop owner agreed to sell.”

  Annette shook her head; it didn’t make any sense. Why would UKUF blow the shop up when they knew it would prevent them getting their last thirty thousand? But then why blow it up at all with Sharon Greer inside? Annette nodded to herself as Hilary Stenson watched, wondering what sort of trouble she was in. But Annette wasn’t nodding because UKUF and SNI were responsible for the explosion; she was nodding because it was becoming clearer that they weren’t.

  Annette straightened up. “You realise that intimidation is a crime, Mrs Stenson?”

  Stenson nodded.

  “I need to know exactly who in SNI sanctioned such a tactic.”

  Annette watched as Stenson considered obfuscation and then thought better of it. Her shoulders slumped and her voice fell to such a low whisper that Annette could barely hear. She made out one word. “Board.”

  “The whole Board sanctioned the intimidation of the shopkeepers?”

  “Yes.”

  “And whose idea was it to blow up the shop and kill the people inside?”

  Annette already knew that SNI hadn’t but she wanted to shake the tree and see what fell out. Stenson flew to her company’s defence.

  “No-one’s! No-one ever agreed to that. It must have been those thugs’ own idea.”

  Annette stood up. “I’m going to read you your rights and call for back-up now, Mrs Stenson. Then you’re going to give me the names of SNI’s Board members and Chair. You’ll all be brought in for questioning.”

  Thirty minutes later Annette was on her way back to Docklands and Hilary Stenson was on her way to meet James Trimble at High Street. Annette called Jack Harris on the car-phone.

  “Jack. You’re getting a new prisoner; Hilary Stenson. If Trimble wants to arrange bail, let him. She’s cooperating and she’s not a flight risk. I’ll interview her tomorrow at some point.”

  “Same case as the Super’s?”

  “Yes, another branch of it. The uniforms have sealed off her office and I have a C.S.I heading over there to secure the papers. We’ll deal with the rest centrally.”

  Jack smiled at her efficiency. “Grand. I’ll see you tomorrow around two, if that sui
ts?”

  “Put the kettle on.”

  ***

  Banque de Paris, Rue des Lilas d'Espagne. La Défense district, Paris. 4 p.m. local time

  Alain Berger waited while the bank manager made a show of opening the basement security vault and then another show of checking his fingerprints and the number he’d given him for the fifth time, glancing suspiciously at him between each check. Berger shrugged. His faded windcheater and tatty attaché case weren’t what they normally saw in a place like this. He gazed around the high-ceilinged, marble-floored vault and then at the gleaming wall of safes, and smiled as he imagined what was in each one. Precious jewels and family heirlooms, and stolen treasures belonging to other, less fortunate families, long dead at the hands of their conquerors in the last world war.

  The safes were larger than the security boxes beloved by writers of crime, inevitably used to hold fresh passports, currency or guns. But the principle was the same; absolute discretion for an obscenely high price. It was why everyone came there.

  When the manager thought that he’d checked the number often enough he lifted his hands wide in a Gallic gesture of defeat. It wasn’t his problem if someone owned something that they shouldn’t or even if they’d liberated it from another theft. Berger had the verification required to open the safe so he could take what was inside, or climb into it himself for all he cared; he had done his job.

  With a final glance at Berger’s scruffy appearance that Berger knew was subtitled ‘mon Dieu!’ the manager turned on his heel and left the vault, closing the security grille. He gestured at a telephone on the wall.

  “Call when you wish to leave. Just press zero.”

  Then he was gone. A pinstriped ghost who wandered the vaults then faded back into his own dull world. When Berger heard the man’s footsteps enter the lift he turned swiftly to his task. He rotated the dial on the safe’s steel door nine times this way and that, until, with a final fall of levers, a satisfying click said the safe was ready to reveal whatever lay inside.

  Berger pulled the heavy grey door towards him and stared at the object. It was small, barely occupying one thousandth of the safe’s large space, but it was heavy, so heavy that he struggled to carry it by himself. Whether it was heavy or not he had to see it again so he hefted it slowly from its box and set it on a steel trolley nearby, then he stood back to marvel. Its colours were sombre, aged with years of sun and sweat, making the once-bright leather rigid and its gold lettering fade. Berger smiled. No matter how it looked now, it had been a thing of beauty in medieval times. No wonder it had been hidden away, look what happened when such things became known.

  He marvelled for a moment longer then he closed the safe quickly, spinning the tumblers to lock it tight. Once the buyers were content with the paperwork and transferred his money, he would tell them where to collect their prize. Until then it would sleep undisturbed.

  ***

  Docklands. 4 p.m.

  “OK, settle down everyone. John and Des are joining us and they’ll be here in a moment, so meantime grab a coffee and one of the cakes that Nicky has so generously supplied.”

  Everyone knew that Nicky had purchased them on Craig’s orders but it seemed redundant to point it out and detract from his compliment to his P.A. Craig set his chair against a desk at the front of the squad and the others formed a loose arc on either side. As the last two helped themselves to cakes the doors slid open and the familiar shapes of John Winter and Des Marsham crossed the floor.

  “Hello. Nicky will sort you out with drinks then I’d like to start. We’ve a fair bit to cover.” Craig scanned the room. “Anyone seen Annette?”

  A moment later she dashed in, with a pleased look on her face that made Liam sit up and take note.

  “OK. I’m going to update you on the bomb, Fintan Delaney and my interview with James Trimble, then John, Des and Davy on the forensics, Annette on the developers, Liam on UKUF and so on. Everyone chip in, as and when.”

  Craig was just about to start when a quiet cough from Nicky made him turn. She gazed pointedly at Carmen and Ken and Craig realised that they didn’t know everyone else.

  “Sorry, I forgot to introduce everyone.” He waved his hand towards the two newcomers, noting briefly that they were sitting side by side. For security? A glance at Nicky said that she thought it was something else. Craig brushed past his P.A.’s romantic machinations and continued.

  “This is Detective Constable Carmen McGregor, seconded to us from Vice for two weeks. Beside her is Captain Ken Smith, from army bomb disposal based out at Craigantlet. He’s acting as liaison on the case for the same period.”

  Des’ cheerful voice cut through the introductions. “Both here to make sure that we get John to the church on time.”

  John blushed and Craig turned to the secondees. “Carmen, Ken, the hairy biker who just spoke is Dr Des Marsham, Head of Forensic Science for Northern Ireland; appearances can be deceptive.” Des gazed down at his T-shirt and heavy boots with mock indignation. “The soon-to–be married man beside him is Dr John Winter. Believe it or not they have a combined IQ of over three hundred.” Craig rolled his eyes. “God help us all.”

  A chorus of hellos followed then Craig nodded the group into silence and began to report. He covered the bomb-blast and then stopped, turning to Smith.

  “Can you tell us anything more about the bomb?”

  Smith’s clear English accent rang across the room. “Actually yes. We may have had a breakthrough. We knew that the device was basically Semtex and a timer, but we’ve managed to source the Semtex. Well, when I say source, we’ve got the chemical composition. But it leaves us with a slight problem.”

  Des leaned forward eagerly. He’d missed all but the last few years of the Troubles and explosives fascinated him. “What’s the problem?”

  Smith made a face. “The Semtex was military grade.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “No, it’s not. Don’t ask me which army owned it; we don’t have tags that will tell us that.”

  Craig interjected. “But you’re saying the explosion wasn’t organised by amateurs.”

  Smith nodded. “It’s either military or well-organised paramilitaries from somewhere. It’s nearly impossible to get hold of otherwise.”

  Craig nodded. It made sense. But whose military? He waved Smith on.

  “Every bomb maker has a unique signature. For example, they crimp wires exactly the same way in every bomb they make or they utilise fragmentation in a similar way. Our forensic team is looking at all that.” Smith sipped his tea and then carried on. “It’s also harder than it sounds to actually get a device to work. It’s easy enough to put these things together. I mean, there’s practically a ‘how to’ guide on the internet, but to be able to explode them when you want to is much harder than it sounds.”

  Des cut in. “You have a database of signatures.”

  Smith nodded. “Yes, and we’re almost ready to start the wider search. It took a bit longer than we thought to get the info. We’ll start running it tomorrow.”

  Craig interrupted. “Major James was going to run it against the past fifty year’s bombs here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get the message that I’d like the search to include international devices?”

  Smith nodded and gave Craig a quizzical look. Craig shook his head.

  “I can’t say much more at the moment but can you do it?”

  Smith nodded. “I’ve asked for it, but I’d rather you didn’t mention it to the old man or he’ll find some reason to block it.”

  “Fine. What about the photo-frame?”

  Smith warmed to his subject.

  “The frame’s interesting. The metal was titanium and the scrollwork was decorative. That and the shape lead us to believe that someone put a photograph in the bomb, but what of is in the lap of the Gods.”

  Des shook his head. “It’s in the lap of forensics. Your team found scraps of photograph?”

 
Smith nodded. “Yes, but very little. They’re trying to reconstruct it now.”

  Des leaned forward so quickly that Craig thought he was going to topple his chair. “Send it over. They were supposed to send it to me days ago. We have state-of-the-art laser technology. It can pull an image off anything.”

  Craig interjected angrily. “The remains of the watch they used as a timer as well. Why hasn’t it happened, Ken?”

  Smith looked sheepish. “Major James being obstructive again, sorry. I’ve been chasing them, honestly. I promise I’ll get them both to you after the briefing, but frankly there isn’t much on the photo to see.”

  “I’ll make you a bet that we can get more than your labs.”

  Smith nodded. Craig waited for him to continue but there wasn’t anything more to say; they were at the mercy of the bomb database and forensics. Craig continued reporting until he reached Fintan Delaney’s cause of death then he turned to hand over to John. John was just wondering whether to have another cup of tea when he vaguely heard Craig call his name.

  “Preoccupied with bigger things, John?”

  “Yes, namely that I’d love another cup of tea but the pot’s empty.”

  Nicky took the hint.

  “OK, Fintan Delaney. Well…he was murdered, no question of it. Everything about his P.M. showed a young, fit man recovering from a mild head injury, nothing that would have caused his death. But the tox-screen is interesting, more in what it doesn’t show that what it does.”

  Craig frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Well… there are some poisons, because that’s the likeliest cause of death given that we’ve ruled everything else out, there are some poisons that defy measurement. You can’t simply say ‘oh look, there’s so much of X or Y in the blood’, like you can measure insulin or potassium levels. You can only tell that the poisons have been given by their effect on particular organs or electrolytes.”

  “And Delaney was killed with one of those?”

  John nodded. “Yes, I’m pretty sure that he was. They’re quite rare so I want to be sure I’m right. I should have an answer for you tomorrow.”