“OK. The voice on the tape w…was, like we thought, a man in his twenties-”
Craig cut in, breaking his resolve not to interrupt. “Definitely not teens?”
Davy shook his head. “Twenties; early twenties. They were adamant.”
He paused for another comment but Craig waved him on.
“The voice was in the baritone range, signalling a man likely to exhibit obvious s…secondary sexual characteristics -”
It was Julia who interrupted this time. “Like what? Secondary sexual characteristics are body hair, broken voice, musculature, etc. and most men have those. His voice has obviously broken, so how can they say more than that?”
Davy shrugged. “Apparently they can. I think they’re implying that the man, w…when we find him, will look quite butch. Broad, big jaw…”
Andy cut in. “Maybe he’ll have a beard and smoke a pipe, hey.”
“Like Santa Claus.”
Craig brought them back to the point. “Go on, Davy.”
“OK. The accent is most likely from the North of Ireland and its capital city, Belfast. Belfast accents can be narrowed to within a few streets by the s…skilled listener and this accent hails from w…west Belfast, more precisely the area around the lower Falls Road.”
Craig nodded, Vera Patterson had been right. Davy saw him nod and shook his head, turning back to the paper.
“However, it is our opinion that this accent, whilst a good facsimile, may not be native to the speaker. W…We are therefore unfortunately unable to identify the s…speaker’s real accent from this brief sample and request a longer sample.”
There was silence while Craig thought and the others exchanged confused looks. Davy broke it.
“They always add that caveat to cover themselves. Even if the caller put on the accent at least that means he knew how to; maybe he’d lived in the Falls Road area s…sometime in the past.”
Craig shook his head. “Anyone who’d watched movies about The Troubles would have been able to mimic one. Thanks for trying but it doesn’t get us much further.”
Annette jumped in. “I disagree, sir. It tells us that our man is definitely early twenties and not a wimp.”
“True, but that doesn’t rule out Brendan Gordon. He’s small but he’s got muscles like the Spartan 300. And twenty-five isn’t far out of the age range.” He sighed heavily. “I wish to hell we’d kept a recording of his voice, we’ll have to go back and get one now. OK. Let’s keep going. Liam, you and Davy chase the van, Annette and Andy are taking O’Hare, and get him on tape please. There are still all of Mrs Bwye’s friends and Bwye’s enemies to chase. Julia, you and Gerry start on Diana Bwye’s charity friends. When you’ve finished with them go to the golf-club and see who you can find there. John Ellis witnessed Bwye’s behaviour that Wednesday evening so he can give you the names from that night.”
Liam interjected, looking sheepish. “We did keep a record of Gordon’s voice. I knocked on the recorder just before he came in.”
Craig tutted and everyone knew Liam hadn’t told Gordon he was being taped. Craig decided to save the lecture; the tape could be useful this time. When he nodded Liam on he knew he’d skated past.
“I’ll give the tape to the lad for comparison. Here, what about the lake? The work there’s only just started.”
Craig thought for a moment before admitting there was too much to do to tie Liam up with MOT checks, no matter how much he wanted to teach him a lesson. He relented grudgingly.
“OK, you take the lake tomorrow. Sorry, Davy, you’ll have to do the MOT checks on your own.” He glanced at the clock on Oliver Bwye’s desk. It was after five. “Let’s take a break for dinner. Anyone who wants to go home, do. Anyone who’s staying locally tonight get ready to work.”
He scanned the row of faces, searching for the most exhausted looking ones. “Julia: you, Gerry and Andy take the night off; the rest of us will keep going.”
Gerry’s face lit up but Julia stubbornly refused.
“I’m staying. Matt’s on-call so I’ve a free evening. I’ll take tomorrow night off, if that’s OK?”
“Fine. But Gerry and Andy, go home after dinner or now if you want to, you both look wrecked.” He stood up. “Right, someone find us a decent restaurant. Dinner’s on me.”
****
By nine p.m. Liam had walked the arc of the lake nearest the house, no mean feat in the pitch dark. Only the muddiest part of the shore was lit, by lamps jerry-rigged by the local uniforms to make sure that none of them fell in. The water would claim their lives quickly; they’d drown, become entangled in weeds or simply die from the cold.
He squinted out over the black disc. Any boats on the lake when they’d first arrived had gone now, the water off limits to any but the police. It was normally used by the locals for fun and fishing, its public rights preserved by its perimeter bordering on some council land. Liam wondered if Oliver Bwye had tried to control access to it the way that he’d controlled the rest of his kingdom, if he had then the law had thwarted him.
Liam switched off the lamps and stood in the dark, picturing what he would have done if he’d kidnapped the Bwyes. It didn’t make pretty viewing. First, he would have loaded them into the van at the study door, just the way their perp seemed to have done. He stopped abruptly, realising something. There was no way one person could have lifted an injured man without help. Oliver Bwye was big; overweight would have been more accurate. If he was as injured as the blood in his study suggested then he would have been spark out. How could one man possibly have got him into the van?
He took out his notebook and jotted the question down, followed quickly by another. Disabled ramp? Then he turned back to the water and his thoughts. OK then, let’s say their perp had managed to get all the Bwyes into the van. Liam stopped again; there’s been no sign of Jane Bwye’s blood, what did that mean? Was she an accomplice or so frightened that she’d done what she was told without needing to be hurt? Had her dog been injured to subdue her instead? Liam scribbled the questions down then gazed at the water again.
OK, so you’ve got them all in the van, the parents too injured to fight back and Jane scared half to death; then what? You drive away from the back door. He jotted down; ‘chase the weight/tread link’. Then where? The lake? The tracks’ direction outside the door had been ambiguous and they’d found nothing but mush in the mud beside the lake. The van might not have driven to the lake at all, or it might have done and gone right up to the edge. So how did they get the Bwyes into the water… or onto a boat? It brought Liam back to the idea of a ramp. He shivered violently but not because of the cold.
Just then Craig appeared at his side and they stood, not speaking, just staring at the lake, its darkness growing more oppressive with each breath. Craig broke the silence.
“They’re dead.”
Liam didn’t move, his eyes fixed on the dark. He stared into it, through it, at the starless sky and the invisible horizon, then down, down through the still water to the tombs below. Finally he nodded.
“I know. It was the only thing they could have done once they’d left the tracks. If it had been a dry night they might have lived.”
On a dry winter’s night even the soil near the warm house would have been frozen and nothing would have left an impression. But the evening’s showers plus the warmth had caused mud, and on wet mud tracks were unavoidable and the Bwyes’ fates had been sealed.
Craig sighed; it was a defeated sound. Liam glanced at him, surprised. The boss never gave up. Craig’s next words said it was just a momentary lapse.
“They probably didn’t intend to kill them, at least not that fast. If they had they would just have done it in the house.”
“So…they came to take them but they also came prepared to do serious harm. That’s obvious from the blood.”
“You mean if the perp hadn’t been prepared the Bwyes would have fought back using whatever was to hand, and nothing in the house was missing or bloody. OK, so they brough
t a weapon, or they had Bwye’s rifle.”
“Yep. They intended to take them, maybe for money or maybe to kill later, but not here. That wasn’t the plan.”
“They must have had help to get them into the van, or it was adapted in some way, to let them be dragged or rolled in easily.”
Liam smiled in the dark; it was exactly what he’d written in his book.
Craig continued. “At some point they noticed the tyres were leaving tracks.”
“Before they’d gone very far. They saw the trail they’d left by the door and knew smoothing it out would mean leaving more clues. They might as well have sent up a flare. We’d have their treads and once they’d got on the main road they’d be caught on traffic cams eventually and we’d follow the trail straight to them.”
Craig turned to him. “We’ll do that anyway. So what are you saying? That they drove or pushed the van and everyone in it into the lake and then left alone by foot?”
Liam shook his head. “Too risky. There was always a chance that they’d drown themselves. Once the van hit the water there’d be no predicting the whirlpool effect. Unless they were one hell of a swimmer they could have been killed.”
Craig smiled. This was why, for all his bumbling clown routine, Liam was so good. Experience. Thirty years of seeing people die in every possible way, including, it seemed, drowning.
“So they dumped the bodies and drove the van away.”
“You think they dumped all of them? Including whoever was still alive?”
Craig shook his head sadly and Liam knew that he was thinking of the girl. “God knows. There’s only one way to find out.”
He made the call and Liam turned on the lamps to guide the soon-to-arrive diving crews. Then the two detectives walked slowly back towards the house, for another hour’s debate on the fate of the Bwyes and to drink whatever booze Oliver Bwye had left concealed.
Chapter Twelve
Thursday. 9 a.m.
At first Davy had just gawped at the weblink on his screen, scarcely able to believe his eyes. It was too much of a coincidence to be true; things like this only happened in the movies and even then only to Tom Cruise. He closed down the internet and returned to work, typing the names from Cameron Lawton’s list into the PNC. When he’d set the searches running and poured a fresh cup of tea he re-opened the browser that he’d closed.
Strictly speaking he wasn’t supposed to be checking the internet at work; there were memos about hackers in his inbox every day. Talk about paranoia. The government need to chillax. Besides, he had industrial strength firewalls in his browser, so if anything he should be worried about government viruses infecting him.
Just then an e-mail popped up. It was from Maggie and he smiled as he typed back a reply, thinking idly that now he was still going to have a salary, they should think about getting a place. Shuttling between family dinners at his mum’s with his granny constantly forgetting who Maggie was and having to run through the same questions each time, and nights of passion at her flat that made him feel faintly grubby when he went home the next day to change, was starting to get old. An immediate image of his mother crying and his granny looking lost filled his mind and he knew that he couldn’t move out without a papal dispensation or a ring, and marriage was still a long way away. He finished his e-mail, resigned to more family dinners, and turned back to the URL that had caught his eye.
It linked to a blog by someone making a name for themselves on Derry’s local scene; the wittily named Father Fred. Wherever he was he liked to check the local blogs, it was the best way to get to know a place. Davy scanned the site, glancing at the door occasionally as if he expected the IT police to burst in. The discussion topic running was wealth and its redistribution, and the question asked was ‘was it moral to rob the rich to give to the poor?’ The post had started normally enough the day before, talking about the inequalities in Northern Irish society and particularly in the northwest. As he read on, he ran a trace on the IP address. It was local, in Derry City Centre to be precise.
Halfway down, the post began to discuss whether six million pounds would be enough to redress the societal imbalance and hit a power broker where it hurt. Six million; the exact amount mentioned on the ransom call! It had to be more than coincidence. The more he read the more the hairs on his neck stood up. He decided he needed a reality check so he made a call. It was answered by Nicky’s husky voice.
“Belfast Murder Squad. Can I help you?”
“Hi Nicky. How’re things in the big s…smoke?”
Nicky smiled. Hearing Davy’s voice made her glance towards his empty desk and reinforce how much she missed him.
“Boring. We’re reading Joanne Greer’s case notes and trial transcripts with the lawyers, looking for ways to get her appeal thrown out. What about you?”
Davy gazed around him. “I’m in a s…study with a wall of books full of whisky. I’ll send you a photo.”
She adopted a maternal tone. “Just don’t send me a selfie of you drinking it.”
The chat continued for ten minutes until she had to go. Davy returned to his work, certain that he was back on planet earth. He checked all his searches and then returned to the blog, reading it again with more distance. There was no doubt about it; whoever Father Fred was he had to know something about the ransom demand. Six million was the exact figure he’d mentioned under the redistribution of wealth.
He was just about to call Craig when he and Liam wandered in through the back door, yawning as if they’d both been up all night. Craig’s urgent grab for the percolator said that they had. He greeted Davy between yawns and took a seat.
“Morning, Davy. Anything new?”
Liam shoved a Danish pastry into his mouth and gulped at a cup of tea, then he repeated Craig’s question with a full mouth, scattering crumbs across Davy’s screen. Davy brushed them away in disgust.
“Possibly. How’s it going at the lake?”
He turned his screen away quickly, to avoid Liam’s next spray. Thankfully it was Craig who replied.
“It’s deep so it’ll take a while.” He gestured at the computer. “Lawton’s list?”
Davy nodded. “Yes. And s…something else.”
Craig raised an eyebrow, too tired to cross the room and take a look. They’d been at the lake with the divers until four a.m. and started again at eight. Four hours sleep was a new low, even for him. He motioned Davy on and watched, puzzled, as he kept glancing at the door.
“Are you expecting someone?”
Davy laughed nervously. “No…it’s just…”
Liam drained his cup and headed for a refill, answering Craig’s question as he did. “He’s been accessing outside internet sites and he’s waiting for the thought police to take him in.”
Davy gawped at him. “How did you know?”
Liam shrugged. “’Cos you’re always doing it. I never say anything because if you don’t know how to put up a solid firewall then no-one does.”
Craig watched the exchange through drooping eyes while he waited for Davy to say what he’d found. He seemed more upset that Liam had guessed his secret than anything else. Craig prompted him again.
“You said you found something?”
Davy glanced back at his screen. “W…Well…one of the things I do when I travel somewhere is to check the local blogs. They tell you about the local scene.” He changed tack suddenly. “Hey, did you know blogs and things outside the mainstream media are called the fifth estate, like the independent press is called the fourth?”
Liam gestured around him. “If they’re the fifth estate does that make this place the sixth?”
He was rewarded by a weak laugh. Craig motioned Davy to get back to the point.
“Well, when you’re abroad the local bloggers know w…where the best clubs are and things like that.”
“Does Derry count as abroad?”
Davy grinned. “That Glenshane pass is harder to cross than the Alps when it snows. Anyway, I w…was checking f
or a good restaurant to take Maggie to; she’s coming up tonight…”
Liam interrupted before starting on his second Danish. “That place we went for dinner last night was good.”
Davy glanced at Craig apologetically. “It w…was nice and thanks for dinner, chief, but it was…”
Craig finished his sentence. “For old people and you want somewhere cool.”
Davy nodded. “Anyway, I came across a blog by a guy called Father Fred.”
Liam guffawed. “Father Fred…like Father Ted. I get it.”
“Anyway, he was holding a discussion about inequality in Northern Ireland and the redistribution of w…wealth. Like, is it moral to rob the rich to give to the poor?”
Craig lids lifted.
“Then he mentioned a figure of s…six million pounds and asked whether it would be enough to redress the balance and hit a power broker where it hurt…”
Craig was suddenly wide awake.
“I thought it was too much of a coincidence so I checked his IP address. He’s somewhere in the centre of Derry.”
Craig was across the room in seconds. “Show me.”
Liam joined them, not quite sure what was happening but certain that it wasn’t good. They stared at Davy’s screen; reading for a moment as fresh comments appeared on Father Fred’s debate. Craig ran his eyes over the post. ‘Is six million pounds enough to redress the balance and hit a power broker where it hurts?’ It was far more than a coincidence.
“Narrow that IP down and get me a real name and address.”
“I’ll try, but bloggers like this use routers to prevent being traced.”
Craig wasn’t listening to excuses.
“And check the blogs’ archives for anything else relevant, before they catch on and shut it down. Ring us in the car.”
The Sixth Estate (The Craig Crime Series) Page 15
