“It’s worked out for the best. She’s getting married soon, to a doctor in Enniskillen.”
Flanagan scanned Craig’s face and he knew that he was being assessed for signs of pain. Craig shook his head.
“I’m happy for her and I’m glad that she felt she could call us, because frankly the case hasn’t been handled well so far.” He brought Flanagan up to date with what they knew, adding. “People have been tramping all over the crime scene, there were insufficient men on the perimeter search, and as soon as we arrived Harrison tried to take Julia off the case.”
Flanagan made a face and stared into the fireplace. The fire wasn’t lit but the coal and kindling were piled so high that Craig knew a roaring blaze would burn there after he’d left. Flanagan chided Craig mildly as he stared.
“D.C.S. Harrison, please. You probably call him worse than that outside this room, but I can’t be seen to undermine anyone under my command.”
Given that he’d just called Harrison an obstructive bugger it seemed the double standard was alive and well. Still, rank had its privileges and all that.
“Sorry, sir. D.C.S. Harrison put Julia on a burglary.”
Flanagan glared at the kindling so hard Craig wondered if he was willing it to ignite. There was silence for a moment, filled by the soft ticking of a clock that Craig hadn’t noticed and the sounds of Flanagan’s Red Setter rearranging itself in its sleep. Finally the C.C. spoke again.
“Waste of resources to take an officer off a case halfway through.”
“That’s what I thought, so I went to see him. He reinstated her, but only after he’d made it very clear that he didn’t want our help at all.”
Flanagan puffed angrily on his cigar. “You’re the Murder Squad for God’s sake! If he had a vice raid would he try to exclude Vice?” He turned to stare at Craig with no ambiguity in his eyes. “I don’t want your personal history with D.C.S. Harrison getting in the way of this case.”
“It won’t, sir.” Craig changed tack. “Has The Belfast Chronicle been onto you yet?”
Flanagan nodded. “They’ve been onto the press office. Bound to happen; Bwye owned the paper for too many years to miss that gift.”
Craig sighed; it hadn’t been what he’d meant but he could imagine tomorrow’s headlines. Flanagan knew there was something more.
“OK, what’s coming my way? By the sounds of that sigh it’s worse than a critical headline. Spit it out.”
Craig hesitated. He’d rehearsed telling Flanagan about The Chronicle’s phone tapping warrant on the trip there, but there seemed no way of saying it that improved the truth. He spat it out and waited for the roar. Instead the air was split by a loud laugh.
“The Chronicle’s Board must be having a fit! Tapping their precious news desk, and the editor-in-chief’s personal line. Which judge allowed that?”
Craig grinned. “Eugene Standish.”
Flanagan’s laughter became a warm chuckle. “I always liked that man. He has a sense of humour.”
Craig took the laughter as approval and elaborated. “Bwye owned The Chronicle for almost thirty years, and under his guidance its editorials were ruthless. He criticised everyone from private individuals to political parties and there were lives he damaged badly. So, until we know different, we have to assume all of his victims are potential suspects.” He paused for comment but Flanagan waved him on. “It makes sense that any ransom call will come to the house, our team, or the press. And who else but The Chronicle?”
Flanagan nodded. “Agreed. You were at The Met much of the time Oliver Bwye owned the paper but some of his headlines would have made your hair curl.” He made a face. “The police didn’t get off scot-free, I can tell you. Two C.C.s’ careers went down in flames because of Bwye.”
Craig had worked in London for fifteen years, only returning to Belfast in 2008, but he’d seen some of The Chronicle’s headlines on visits home.
“We’re compiling a list of possibilities. Basically anyone whose life was ruined by Bwye when he was at the paper.”
“You’ll be there forever on that one.”
Craig shook his head. “Davy will narrow it down using his magic.”
“Good analyst, that boy.”
Craig hesitated for a moment then segued into his second reason for being there.
“Actually, Davy’s the second thing I wanted to speak to you about.”
Flanagan stubbed his cigar on the edge of the bin and threw the butt onto the fire. He had second thoughts and rearranged the kindling to hide it, before saying “What about him?”
“He’s a brilliant analyst.”
Flanagan retook his seat and shook his head. “If you’re going to say that we need to pay him more, I agree but we can’t. The analyst’s pay scale is fixed and he’s already at the top of it above men twice his age.”
Craig gave a weak smile. Flanagan was nearer the mark than he knew.
“He’s thinking of leaving.”
Flanagan nodded. “It would be a pity but it figures. A brain like that could earn ten times as much in the private sector.”
Craig shook his head. “Not for the money. To go back to university and do his doctorate.”
He let the words hang in the air for a moment, hoping they would set Flanagan’s brain running in the direction his already was. After a few seconds he added a hint.
“The fees are costly and he’ll lose his salary.”
The Chief Constable stared into the hearth without moving an inch. Craig could see his mind working and fought the urge to push him in the direction he wanted him to go. This must be what his wife felt like when she wanted him to do something; knowing that if she gave in to the urge to shout “just do it” Flanagan was sufficiently stubborn that he would go the opposite way. So instead, Craig planted the seed then held his silence until it took root by itself.
He sipped at his now cold coffee for what seemed like an hour until finally Sean Flanagan changed from an effigy into a man again. He rose abruptly and strode to the study door, opening it and saying three words. The first two sounded like a command; “fresh coffee”. The third, “please?” was so soft and hesitant that it said they were anything but. As Helen Flanagan appeared with a fresh pot the C.C. settled back in his chair and waved Craig on to pour. When he held a cup of steaming liquid he turned to Craig with a smile.
“How’s this for an idea? You don’t want to lose young Mr Walsh and the force can’t afford to, but we can’t give him a pay rise either. So… how about we give him sufficient study leave to do his PhD over say, three or four years, plus we pay his fees? I can swing that under the training budget. That way we both get what we want and when he’s Dr Walsh he can apply to be part of the forensics team; even their starting salary’s higher than he’s on now.”
Craig pretended to be surprised. It was a pretence Mrs Flanagan must have perfected years before.
“That’s a brilliant idea, sir! I’m certain he’ll stay with us on those terms. And he’ll probably do his PhD on some aspect of forensic IT that will be valuable to the force.” He played out the scene to the end, as if it had all been Flanagan’s idea. “Would you like to tell him?”
Sean Flanagan’s weathered face creased in a half-embarrassed smile. “No, no. You do it. I’m just pleased to be able to help.” He rose to his feet, almost demolishing a tower of books by his chair. “Now, if you don’t mind I’m going to throw you out. Helen’s making our afternoon snack. Keep me up to date with the case, please; I don’t like surprises.” He guffawed as he pulled open the door. “I imagine Eugene Standish has already given The Chronicle quite enough of those.”
****
Four days earlier. Thursday, 11th December. 00.10 a.m.
The heaviness of her body had surprised him. He’d known that her husband would be heavy; fat bastard that he was, and made even heavier by the concrete overcoat he wore. But she was slim and small, yet in death she felt as if she weighed a ton. Her death was such a waste; she’d been so kind
. But it was outside his control. He was simply doing what he’d been asked to do.
The man tipped the larger body over the side of the boat and felt the small vessel rise on the lake. He watched the black plastic float and swell, until the burden inside dragged first one end and then the other down through the liquid dark. He stared after it; imagining that he could make out the shape long after it had gone, then he lifted his eyes to the skyline and found his bearings from the lights on the opposite shore. It was a beautiful night; fresh and clear with a sky like cold ink. Such a pity to ruin it this way, but he had no time for contemplation; he had more work to do.
Brushing a sprinkling of rain drops from his gaunt face he turned back to the smaller form, still identifiable as human despite its plastic packaging. He felt tears fill his eyes and smiled at his sentimentality. He’d never seen someone die until that night and it had been far harder than he’d thought; staring into her wide brown eyes as her life had seeped away. He’d wanted to open the door and shoo her free, but he’d had his instructions and once she was dead it had been too late to retreat.
He gazed sadly at the small, black shape; her death was bad enough without erasing all traces of her femininity with a concrete case. Instead, he’d left her face uncovered and weighed her slight body down with stones. He lifted her slim form to the edge and kissed her cheek once, then, reciting a prayer, he slipped her very gently over the side, forgetting that she was already beyond pain. He held her upright as her feet slid through the surface, breaking it into ripples that spread and widened as she disappeared, until he caught a final glimpse of dark curls as she descended to join her husband of twenty-five years.
A third black parcel followed swiftly to its grave and the man watched long after they’d all gone, careless of his safety. Long after the ripples had faded and the water’s glass surface had reformed, until finally he turned the small craft towards shore and went home to await whatever happened next.
****
The Ardmill Hotel, Drumahoe. 8 p.m.
By eight o’clock even Liam had eaten enough to satisfy him and the whole team was sitting in the hotel bar with drinks in their hands. The only other occupant was a vacant looking barman whose task in life seemed to be drying the same glass repeatedly; that and staring at Annette’s legs. Craig wandered over to order another round.
“Does it get busy here at night?”
The young man dragged his eyes from Annette’s limbs to look at him, and Craig noticed that one of his eyes was brown and the other blue: heterochromia, just an interesting anomaly, but it added to the bar’s almost surreal air. Late evening in a country hotel bar; it was the perfect setting for a mystery. After a long pause the man answered in a flat, tired tone.
“Nah.”
Craig marvelled at what three letters could do in the wrong hands and continued.
“Then you won’t get many more customers tonight?”
On a Monday evening in December, they were hardly expecting a marching band. The man continued rubbing the glass like it was Aladdin’s lamp and at any moment he expected a genie to appear.
“Nah.”
His intonation was deeper this time, implying a stronger negative.
“Could I see your manager for a moment, please?”
The man’s eyes widened for a second then the glimmer of curiosity behind them that said he was still alive, flickered out as quickly as it had come. He set down the glass and nodded, not bothering to waste a syllable this time, then he turned on his heel and walked through a door that Craig hadn’t noticed before. He returned a moment later with an older man, whose excited smile and gesticulation made the pair seem like night and day.
“Can I help you?”
Craig drew the manager to one side.
“We’re here on a police case and I’d like to hire a room for our briefing.”
They could have travelled the few miles to Derry Station, but everyone was tired and a lino floored room with neon lights was no substitute for a warm carpeted one with beer. Besides, they’d all had a drink, so he wasn’t letting anyone drive.
The enthusiastic man’s eyes ran over Craig’s face and then flicked quickly across his team’s. He frowned for a moment, staring up at the ceiling as if visualising every room in the small hotel. Finally he sighed. The sound held decades of frustration. It said ‘we don’t have briefing rooms because we’re not that sort of hotel. A hotel that hosts conferences in rooms filled with bottled water, spare pens and file pads headed with our name. A hotel that carries a crest so recognisable that its name springs to people’s minds as the place to be’.
Craig knew the sigh held even more than that; it was the sound of thwarted ambition and a failed career. He pictured the man at twenty, dynamic and hoping to run a large chain; preferably one with a capital ‘H’ or ‘R’ in its name. The manager’s next words were said with an embarrassment that bordered on shame.
“We don’t have briefing rooms. I’m sorry.”
They could have retired to a bedroom but that seemed too informal even for him, so Craig thought laterally.
“Then could we hire the bar for the rest of the evening? It would mean closing it to everyone else.”
The man’s eager look reappeared as if he’d spied an innovation, a money spinner that he could boast to his wife about. He nodded sharply.
“Certainly. Will you need George?”
George had returned to rubbing his glass.
“No thank you. If he could leave out a few bottles of beer and wine, and show me where the coffee percolator is, that would be fine.”
They agreed a price and shook hands, then George did as he was bid and left, gleefully locking the door and setting a ‘do not disturb’ sign outside, before he disappeared into the night to do whatever turned him on. Not much if the previous twenty minutes were any indication.
Craig returned to the group to a ripple of applause and Liam brought over the drinks as he readied to start.
“OK, I’m going to begin then we’ll go around. First, logistics. We’ve got additional uniforms on the search and the perimeter is now two miles. The C.S.I.s have been back to the house to go over the main room and the study.” He turned to Andy. “Is that almost finished?”
Andy nodded and gulped down a mouthful of beer. “They gutted the study last night and wrapped up the main room an hour ago.”
“Good. OK, all we can do now is wait for the forensics to come back.”
Annette rose to put on some coffee, talking as she went. “Mike says they’ve had to ask Des for help; their lab is busy on another case. The C.S.I.s are sending some of the samples from the Bwyes’ down to Belfast tonight.”
Craig nodded. “That will speed things up.” He nodded that he’d like coffee as well. “Was there a safe in the study?”
Andy nodded. “Under the floor. Nothing there except passports and some jewellery.”
“Fine. We saw Bernadette Ross again today. She seemed genuine enough but I want her to take another look at the house tomorrow, to see if she can spot anything out of place in the main room. Annette’s arranging that. Ross is definitely holding back information on the family dynamics. We know that Oliver Bwye ruled that house with a rod of iron and we think his wife and daughter were frightened of him. Ross admitted that Bwye had been violent to them in the past; hospital and possibly police reports should tell us about that.”
Liam cut in. “Already on it.”
“Good. Ross worked for Bwye when he was at The Chronicle and he poached her two years ago when he retired. Not that he has apparently; he’s still on two Boards and handling all his own stocks and shares.”
Craig could feel someone’s eyes boring through him so he turned in his seat; Davy was staring at him intently. Craig knew he was searching his body language for some hint of what his discussion with Sean Flanagan had produced, so he glanced at the clock so briefly that only Davy saw. The message was clear; we’ll talk later. He covered the exchange with a request.
&n
bsp; “Davy, I want you to find out anything that you can on Bwye’s companies, Board duties and stock portfolio.”
Davy nodded. “I had a call about Jane Bwye’s car around s…six o’clock. They’ve found it.”
Craig leaned forward eagerly. “Where?”
“Burnt out just off the Fincairn Road.”
Craig leapt to his feet and Davy knew he was going to search for a map. He waved him back down and produced his smart-pad, tapping one up on the screen. The group crowded round as he displayed the long road. It ran from Drumahoe to Kilnappy and had two turn-offs near where the car had been dumped. They led variously to scrubland and open countryside and up towards the A2. Craig sighed; the arsonist could have gone in any direction.
Davy closed down the screen. “Forensics are out there now; maybe they’ll find s…something.”
Liam shook his head. “Fire is a forensic countermeasure. We’ll be lucky if they even find the number plate.”
Davy gave a small smile. “They did, in a field half a mile away.”
Craig knew that his smile was for the science behind the explosion, but it irritated him all the same; they’d lost evidence because of those flames. Liam saw Craig’s temper building and stepped in before it turned into words. It did that far too quickly these days.
“Why take the car at all?”
Craig frowned. “Why not? It’s transport. Bernadette Ross saw Jane driving it towards the house on Wednesday evening so it’s odds on that the kidnappers saw it as well.”
“Exactly. They saw a small two-seater. If you’re a kidnapper dragging three injured people from their house, you’re going to use something large and enclosed, in case someone looks inside. You’re not going to ferry them using a sports car.”
Craig’s eyes widened. Liam was right and he’d missed it. So why take Jane’s car at all? Annette chipped in.
“Maybe they thought it was too valuable not to nick?”
“Then why burn it out?”
“Then…maybe one of them forced Jane to drive it?”
The Sixth Estate (The Craig Crime Series) Page 8
