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

by Catriona King

  If they were right then Fintan Delaney had left the God of his youth and his parents far behind and died for a completely different way of life.

  ***

  1.30 p.m.

  Determination was one of Nicky’s virtues, or faults if you were her son Jonny and the topic was his homework. Nicky’s determination to see her son graduate from university someday, preferably as a doctor or nuclear physicist, was a driving force in his life, manifesting itself in evenings spent doing homework and extra tutoring some weekends. Jonny’s determination to kick a ball around the garden with his mates was just as strong. It resulted in frequent stand-offs which Nicky inevitably won, because she was his mother and he loved her. But also because Nicky could be Machiavellian when she had to be and she considered no tactic too low when she wanted something, including tears.

  Nicky’s current problem was that being in an office instead of at home, and her target being a stubborn thirty-something woman instead of a twelve-year-old boy who loved her, things weren’t likely to go so smoothly. Her cajoling, orders and tears were unlikely to have an effect on Carmen McGregor.

  As Nicky sat plotting how to get Carmen together with the obviously adoring Ken, Liam caught her eye. He raised an eyebrow slowly to say that he knew exactly what she was up to, then lifted a file as if it contained something of portent and loped noisily across to her desk. He perched on its edge and gave her a sceptical look. After a full minute of ignoring him Nicky made a fatal mistake; she glanced up. It was only a microsecond’s glance, barely visible to the naked eye, but it was enough to tell Liam two things; A, he’d won the stalemate and B, she looked as sneaky as hell. He leaned in and spoke in his quietest voice, which meant that only Davy and Annette could overhear.

  “What are you up to?”

  Nicky sniffed indignantly. “I don’t know what you mean!”

  “Don’t kid a kidder. You’re trying to match-make McGregor and Smith, poor sod. What did he ever do to you?”

  “Carmen’s nice. She’s just lonely.”

  Liam snorted. “Nice? And I suppose you think Hitler was just misunderstood!”

  Davy strolled over to join them. “I’m running a book on them getting together. Do you fancy a bet, Liam?”

  Liam gave a look of faux-shock, like a parent pretending to surprised when his child suggested that he might ever have got drunk.

  “Tut, tut, gambling in the work-place. What would the boss say?”

  “He put down twenty quid.”

  Nicky glanced over at the contenders. They seemed absorbed in their work. Or rather Carmen seemed absorbed in her work; Ken just seemed absorbed in her.

  “Look at that; he really likes her.”

  Liam gawped at the pair. Nicky was right. “I need to get that lad drunk and find him a woman.”

  “Liam!”

  Liam ducked backwards, expecting a frontal assault from Nicky. As a smack hit him on the back of the head he realised too late that his name had been called by Annette. She’d joined the group without him noticing.

  “Ow! I was only saying.”

  Liam’s bellowed ‘Ow’ wouldn’t have gone unnoticed anywhere and Smith glanced over, to be greeted by a series of innocent smiles. He smiled in return and turned to gaze dreamily at Carmen again.

  Nicky sighed romantically. “You see. He really likes her. Now I just have to work out how to convince Carmen. Ideas anyone?”

  She was answered by shrugs, a muttered “not a baldy clue” and a dispersing crowd. She realised that Liam hadn’t gone and gazed hopefully at him, waiting for pearls of wisdom to fall. All she got was.

  “Can I have a photocopy of that woman’s feet?”

  “What?”

  “The picture in the frame at the explosion.”

  “I don’t have it. Ask Ken.”

  Liam did as he was told and Smith logged into the army forensic database and printed out what they had, handing it to Liam absentmindedly. Liam shook his head. The lad had it bad; maybe he should consider a bet. Still, he should be grateful. At least it had stopped any cracks about him having a foot fetish. His thoughts were interrupted by Craig appearing from his office. He had a satisfied look on his face.

  “I’m heading out. John’s I.D.ed the poison. Before I go, does anyone have an update?”

  Annette piped up and Nicky noticed for the first time that day that she’d done something different with her hair. She wasn’t sure what it was but it looked good.

  “I’ve checked every member of the SNI Board and they’re all alive. I’m interviewing the Chair and Chief Executive at High Street later and checking other SNI employees based here. If SNI admit to paying UKUF to harass Jules Robinson to sell, can I charge them?”

  Craig thought for a moment then nodded. “If they cough to it; but link in with the serious and organised crime lads. The next step will be to charge UKUF. Make sure Liam’s with you on that trip.”

  Liam cut in. “Who at UKUF, boss? The Greers Senior are both dead.”

  “Find out who the biggest players are now that they’ve gone, and liaise with Aidan Hughes in Vice. They can get them on running the girls and drugs at least. Share whatever we have with them. The more they have the more likely they can get UKUF’s main players off the street before the fight for the crown begins.”

  Craig scanned the room and his eye fell on Davy. He strode over to his desk. “Anything more on anything yet?”

  Davy nodded. “There’s a pattern in Delaney’s phone calls. From March until last week he phoned s…someone in Pakistan every few days.”

  “That’s where he went on his charity trip. Where in Pakistan?”

  Davy shook his head. “I’m w…working on that. Whoever he called was using a s…satellite phone and their locations are tricky to pinpoint.”

  “Anything in his e-mails to shed light?”

  “I’m s…sifting through them now. So far it’s mostly s…student stuff. Asking for lecture notes, arranging tutorials etc. I searched for other accounts and he had a C-mail address. I’m waiting for the internet provider to unlock it.”

  Craig nodded. “OK, keep doing what you’re doing and we’ll brief at four. Until then I’ll be at Botanic Gardens and then the lab.”

  Liam shot him a questioning look. Botanic Gardens? Before he could vocalise the question Craig had gone. Liam glanced at the photocopy in his hand and decided to play his hunch.

  “I’ll be on the mobile if anyone wants me. I’m off to St Mary’s to see a woman about a shoe.”

  ***

  Paris. 2.30 p.m. local time

  Alain Berger gazed through the window of his pension room, his only view the business skyline of La Défense and the dusty streets below. Once the deal was done he would take a suite at the Hôtel de Crillon and have champagne and women all day long. Then he would retire to the Côte d'Azur. He glanced impatiently at the phone. That was if that bastard Augustin ever got in touch.

  Another hour of frustration didn’t make Berger feel any better so at three-thirty he lifted his attaché case and headed down stairs to get some sun on his sallow skin. As he reached the bottom step he heard the phone in his bedroom ring. He scrambled frantically back up two flights, reaching the receiver just as it stopped.

  “Merde!”

  His flow of expletives was broken by the buzz of the mobile in his pocket. He grabbed at it, almost dropping it in his haste.

  “Yes?”

  “Where were you? I told you to stay close by.”

  “I was on the stairs. Well?”

  It was on the tip of Claude Augustin’s tongue to tease him by saying “patience”, but he didn’t like Berger enough for that. Instead he said “Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock. At the bank. I will come too.”

  The phone clicked off and Berger was left staring at the closed-in skyline, for what he fervently hoped was the final day.

  ***

  Craig pushed his way through the doors of John’s outer office and called out “John? Are you here?” to no r
eply. He was on the verge of heading for the dissection room when a slight movement behind John’s glass door caught his eye. For some reason it made Craig’s hackles rise.

  Call it instinct but he knew instantly that it wasn’t just John pottering around his office and not hearing his yell; something or someone was preventing him. Craig’s mind flew back to the near fatal attack on his friend three months earlier and he reached instinctively for his Glock, crossing to the office door without making a sound.

  He pressed himself back against the wall and reached for the handle, turning it quietly. In one smooth movement he was inside with his Glock drawn and ready to shoot. “Armed police.”

  In a split second it took him to say the words Craig registered three men, one of them his friend. The other two were dressed too fashionably for pathologists and had guns drawn to match his own. After a moment’s face-off the shorter of the men smiled and set down his gun, producing his I.D. The acronym emblazoned on it was one that Craig had seen in London many times, but he’d never encountered on the streets of Belfast before. What the hell was the CIA doing in Northern Ireland?

  John spoke first. He smiled nervously and then introduced Craig as if they were at a cocktail party.

  “Superintendent Marc Craig, these are Agents Ross and Mulhearn of the CIA. They’d like a chat.”

  Craig kept his gun cocked for a moment longer, then he nodded and put it back in its rarely disturbed resting place, thankful that Liam hadn’t been with him. Liam was quicker on the draw than anyone he knew; God knows what might have happened. As the second agent re-holstered his gun Craig extended his hand.

  “Marc Craig.”

  The shorter man shook hands first. “Owen Ross and this is Mike Mulhearn.” Mulhearn nodded a very large head that perched on a matching neck.

  John urged them to sit and poured fresh coffees. “The agents arrived ten minutes ago.”

  Craig stared questioningly at them. “From where? Since when has the CIA had a presence in Northern Ireland?”

  Ross answered. “Since we got wind you were researching the DNA of a terrorist combatant.”

  John nodded in confirmation. Their bomb victim was the known terrorist, Ibrahim Kouri.

  Craig decided that caution was the order of the day. He had nothing against the CIA but this was Belfast business. “We’ve had terrorists here for years. What’s so exciting about this one?”

  As Ross answered again Craig realised that the bulky Mulhearn was the muscle and Ross was the brains; a neat allocation of duties.

  “This isn’t a republican terrorist; it’s a terrorist who killed Americans in the Middle East. A member of the Militant Islamic Army.”

  He paused as if he’d asked a question but Craig said nothing.

  Ross continued. “What’s your interest in Ibrahim Kouri?”

  Craig avoided the question by turning to John. “What do you have on the poison?” He knew he was being rude but something about Ross’ high-handedness was pissing him off.

  The agent went to object but Craig stilled him with a glare. “You might think that your countrymen’s lives are more important than ours, but we have families here who would disagree.” He nodded John on. “The poison please, John.”

  “I’ll show you later.”

  Craig nodded. John wasn’t giving the CIA anything that they didn’t already have.

  Ross persisted. “What’s your interest in Kouri?”

  Craig went on the attack. “What the hell was he doing in Belfast planting a bomb? Do you know?”

  Ross snapped back. “We have no idea! All we were told was there’d been a hit on the database and to get here fast. We’re based in London.”

  Craig read the truth in the man’s eyes and nodded, winding his neck in. “OK. So we have an Islamic radical working with a university student to blow up a bookshop in Belfast.”

  Ross’ eyes narrowed. “A student? Who is he? We need to speak to him.”

  “You’ll need a séance. He’s dead.”

  “In the explosion?”

  “No.”

  Craig gave John a look that said not to volunteer anything and stood up. “It’s kind of you to visit, gentlemen, and I hope you enjoy the local sights, but this is our investigation so we’ll take it from here.”

  Ross sprang to his feet and barely reached Craig’s chin. If he wanted to have a pissing contest he was going to lose.

  “We have instructions to stay and assist you.”

  Craig shook his head. “We don’t need your assistance; this is local business. I can’t stop you staying in Northern Ireland, unless you obstruct me, in which case you’ll be on a plane faster than you can blink. Enjoy your visit but stay out of my way. If there’s anything we need your help with then I’ll give you a call.”

  Craig opened the office door pointedly. “Goodbye Agent Ross, Agent Mulhearn.”

  After a moment’s glaring, Ross nodded to his companion and they exited the lab. Once Craig was certain they’d gone he gave a loud laugh.

  “You don’t see that every day.”

  John looked flustered. “No, you do not. I thought they were going to haul me off to Guantanamo.”

  “You’ve seen too many episodes of ‘24’.” Craig nodded at the percolator. “Is there any chance of coffee?” He kept talking as John put a fresh batch on. “You know they’re going nowhere, don’t you? They’ll be tailing me from now until the end of this case.”

  John grinned gleefully. “It’s just like that time in NCIS when…”

  They indulged in five minutes of banter and then Craig pulled them back to the case, updating John on what they’d seen on the CCTV. John nodded thoughtfully.

  “That fits with Sharon Greer, Jules Robinson and Barry McGovern being innocent victims and Delaney and Kouri planting the bomb the night before. But if the bomb was on a timer why did Delaney and Kouri bother returning the next day to die? I know there are Islamic suicide bombers, but isn’t it usually only done that way if it’s necessary to get the bomb in the right place? Surely they’d already achieved that.”

  Craig shook his head thoughtfully. “Unless they believed the reason they were bombing the shop made it an honour to die.”

  John removed his glasses and rubbed them on his sleeve. “What reason? To destroy a small book shop in a business area of Bel…” He stopped abruptly, suddenly following Craig’s train of thought. “You think there was something in the shop offensive to Islam? What?”

  Craig raised his hands in semi-denial. “It’s only a hunch at the moment.”

  John’s eyes widened. “A book! You think one of the books in the shop was the target!”

  Craig shook his head. “Yes and no. The book part is right, but I think they also wanted Jules Robinson and the shop destroyed. If Robinson had bought a book that was blasphemous to Islam then they might have issued a Fatwā on him, even if the book was very old. I’ve just been up at Botanic Gardens at the Museum. I had an interesting discussion with the Curator of Antiquities on the subject.”

  John slumped back in his chair. “This was all about Robinson and a book. The other victims were just collateral damage.”

  “I think so, but it’s still speculation at the moment. I’ve been scanning the legitimate book collectors’ forums online but there’s nothing concrete. Davy’s hooked me into the Dark Web, so I’m trying that now.”

  “The illegal book trade? Is there one?”

  Craig nodded. “You’d be surprised. Some of these collectors are fanatics; I wouldn’t put it past them to kill for what they wanted. There’s a big trade in stealing to order.” Craig set his cup down. “Like I said, it’s all just speculation. It might be nothing to do with a book. For all we know someone who was killed could have said something anti-Islamic in public, or harmed a Muslim in some way. God knows UKUF have been indiscriminate in who they’ve robbed and assaulted amongst the immigrant populations here.”

  John shook his head, puzzled. “So why kill Delaney afterwards? If he was a mu
jahedeen, then surely it was a good thing that he didn’t die in the bomb. He could have lived to fight again.”

  Craig shrugged. “Perhaps they thought he might talk and give something away.”

  John nodded then reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a blue headered toxicology report.

  “Delaney’s?”

  “Yes. I was puzzled by the choice of poison at first but now it’s starting to make sense.” He turned the report towards Craig. He read for a moment and then whistled.

  “My God these guys are inventive. Saxitoxin. That’s a new one on me.”

  “It’s a neurotoxin and one of the most potent natural poisons known. Some shellfish like butter clams can store it for up to two years.” John nodded at the door. “In fact the CIA made an assassination method from it during the Cold War. Look up Gary Powers and the U-2 spy plane.”

  “So Jennifer Weston killed Delaney by injecting this into his I.V.?”

  John nodded. “Des found traces on the tubing. It’s normally given orally so injecting even a tiny dose would have caused instant death by respiratory failure. She killed him then recorded his seven a.m. observations as normal to play for time, in case someone checked him before the nine o’clock ones. Delaney was dead before she left the room. If Weston wanted to keep him quiet she has to be part of the Islamic movement as well.” John shook his head. “Who’d have thought it; here in Belfast.”

  “It’s in the mainland so why not here as well? Just because we have home-grown terrorists doesn’t mean we can’t get tourists too. Speaking of tourists, did our American friends ask you anything else?”

  John smiled. “They asked me everything, but I didn’t answer. The Hippocratic oath teaches you to keep your mouth shut.”

  Craig rose to leave. “Can you come to the briefing?”

  John stood up with an eager smile. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’ve got a taste for freedom after Des’ jaunt to the base.”

  Craig turned to leave but he was halted by John’s solemn next words.

  “Good luck, Marc.”

  “Why so sad?”

  “Because you’re entering murky waters and if you get yourself killed, I’ll murder you. I need my best man in two weeks.”