****
The Operating Theatres, St Mary’s HealthCare Trust. Tuesday, 7 a.m.
Natalie Winter née Ingrams felt like hell, whatever that was supposed to feel like. She’d spent four hours the night before listening to her husband banging on about a hole in the First Minister’s forehead, then annoying her by swearing her to secrecy about it at frequent intervals. As if she had nothing better to do than bore her theatre team with the detail of how Peter McManus’ lights had been snuffed out!
It always irritated her when John did his secret squirrel act but last night’s performance had kept them up till two, irritating her even more than usual and exhausting her, and as Natalie wasn’t much given to introspection she was disinclined to blame any part of that outcome on herself.
The sudden clang of a steel kidney dish hitting the tiled floor made the surgeon swing round so fast that the nurse who’d dropped it jumped back with a “Holy God.”
Natalie’s response was caustic. “Not yet, but I’m expecting a promotion soon. Try not to wreck the place, can-”
The gimlet gaze of the theatre sister halted her mid-word.
“I’ll thank you not to tell my nurses what to do, Ms Ingrams, unless you’d like your junior doctors to experience the same from me.”
Natalie’s planned acid retort was prevented by an unheralded light-headedness that made her reach for the nearest surface with a small, gloved hand. She was going to kill John! Keeping her up late and exhausting her when she had to operate all day. It was a threat that she would never carry out because life would get in the way.
****
Liam was not a happy bunny, although were-rabbit would probably have been a better description based on his nature and size. Either way, he was pissed off at Craig. He’d been looking forward to a leisurely start to his day with a nine o’clock breakfast at The James Bar, timing his casual dander into the squad-room for fifteen minutes before he predicted the boss would return from his confab with the C.C.
Instead he’d been woken at seven by his mobile, while Danni was still dozing, warm and curvy beside him, and the fiends, as he liked to call his two young children, were still angelic looking, something they only ever managed to achieve while asleep.
His Pavlovian answering of the offending smart-phone was something that would probably take twenty years of retirement and a trip to his grave to halt, as it would his standard “Who’s this?” response, something which his ladylike spouse had been trying to cure him of since he’d first invited her out on a date.
Too late, the words were out, followed by “at this unholy hour”. All of which Craig ignored because he had information to impart.
“Haul ass and join me at Headquarters. John and I will be there just after eight for a pre-meet before we brief the C.C.”
Liam shook his head and then realised that Craig couldn’t see the joy that was his puffy morning countenance.
“You don’t need me. The C.C. just wants you two.”
That decided, he went to lie down again. Craig must have been psychic because his next words said that he could tell.
“Don’t lie down and go back to sleep. He may not want you there but I do. Three heads are better than two.”
Craig glanced at his watch, and then past it at his slumbering girlfriend, Katy, his mind shifting randomly through thoughts of the sex that he didn’t have time for, to a far more practical one that was prompted by her right arm dangling over the side of the bed. His bed was too small, he needed a bigger one. He’d just muttered “Super King” when Liam countered with a bid of his own.
“How about I just meet you there at nine, then. I can come in and the Chief can ask questions of all three of us.”
But Craig had already made up his mind, partly out of a genuine desire to hear Liam’s input, and partly from the same adolescent devilment that makes boys shave off one of their sleeping friend’s eyebrows for a joke.
“If we’re up, you’re up. Get your ass in gear.”
As the phone went down Katy moved sinuously in her sleep, making Craig think that perhaps he did have the time after all.
****
The C.C.U. 9 a.m.
“So what’s the latest on Dudaev, then?”
The question was asked casually, as if the questioner was only vaguely interested in the reply and the lack of one wouldn’t bother him one whit. In truth Davy wanted to shake the information out of his junior, Ash not having rushed up to him the day before full of news about New York and the CIA taskforce making him almost blow his legendary cool.
Ash smiled inwardly and slid further down at his desk, making Nicky wonder if it was even possible for him to see his computer screen from where he was. The junior analyst decided to milk the situation.
“What was that you said, Davy?”
It made even Nicky want to pound him on his red, white and blue head. As a substitute for such violence she repeated Davy’s question loudly, thwarting the international traveller’s wind-up attempt. Other than saying he was deaf from his flight Ash had no further excuse not to reply, so he answered the question with what he’d told Craig the day before.
“His trips since Amsterdam have all been in Southern Europe, the most recent sighting was in Greece. So-”
Davy cut him off. “His destination is probably in the north somewhere. Scandinavia, Germany, The Baltic States; they must be a strong possibility because Dudaev’s Chechen and they’re ex-commun-”
Ash cut him off huffily, annoyed that he’d worked things out so fast. The international stuff was his baby and he wasn’t sharing it.
“We’ve agents in every country, so he won’t be able to disappear.”
Nicky chimed in. “Except that he has, hasn’t he?”
Davy was still on the fact Ash had said ‘we’ve’.
“Who the hell’s we? Have you joined the s…spook brigade now?”
The junior analyst had the decency to blush. “You know who I mean! MI6 and the CIA.”
“So. Not you then.”
He made up his mind to get Davy’s coffee order wrong for the next week, but his boss was already on to other things.
“Schengen’s going to hammer them finding him, you know.”
“We’ve already thought of that.”
Of course you have.
“We’ve got facial recognition software working at all ports, border posts and airports.”
Davy poured scorn on that fast. “He could just walk into another European country through some wood! You need it on traffic cams, trains, buses and the rest. Dudaev could get from Bulgaria to Finland and never trigger any of your checks.”
The debate was prevented from getting more fractious by a ping on one of Davy’s PCs. He broke off to read the message and then turned back.
“Veronica Lewis’ phone logs are through.”
Nicky nodded. “And her computers have just arrived downstairs. Des says, can you call him when you’ve had a look.”
It was the signal for an hour of peace.
****
The Merchant Hotel, Belfast.
It was all going to plan. The First Minister was dead and soon Lewis would be back in place, the fear of God put into her, and even more importantly the fear of him. The Fox removed a cigarette from his pocket and tapped the stiff white column languidly against the coffee table’s edge. He resented the law that prevented him lighting it but couldn’t risk any unwanted attention till his job was done, his satisfaction from the panic the action provoked in nearby staff having to suffice for the moment, as his mind returned to his earlier thoughts.
The madam had never liked their arrangement, going along with it grudgingly from the start. And that had been OK. Sort of. He didn’t need people to like him to do their job, few ever had, and despite all her moaning she had done what was required of her, and when it hadn’t been sufficient Peter McManus had paid the price.
No-one could say that the politician hadn’t been warned. He’d had warnings of what would ha
ppen if he didn’t cooperate and, typical arrogant official, had chosen to ignore them all. Political deadlines might be elastic, Minister McManus, but in his world it was three strikes and you were out, so there was no point anyone complaining if they ended up dead.
But The Fox was also a realist. You might have been able to leave a trail of corpses forty years ago without being caught quickly, but nowadays Northern Ireland adhered to the strict rule of law. Already some thick-set plod would be investigating McManus’ death, and if he’d been forced to kill Lewis as well they might have doubled their efforts and that was a headache that he didn’t need.
He glanced at the espresso being set down in front of him and sent the waiter away with a nod, gazing languidly at his surroundings as he did. The velvet backed chairs and quiet elegance of the hotel’s cocktail bar reminded him of Vienna; a timeless, dignified oasis in an over-heated world. He scanned a passing young waitress casually, bemoaning the fact that he didn’t have the time before his flight to pursue his desire, it brought his thoughts reluctantly back to Veronica Lewis, and he speculated on ways to further subdue her should the need arise.
She was a woman and women were easily frightened, so the kidnapping might have done the trick, but the odd heroic member of her sex was still capable of causing an almighty fuck-up, so it might require more than fear for her own safety to guarantee the continued cooperation of the whore. The idea came to him gradually, growing until it had legs. If Madam Lewis showed the slightest hint of reluctance to run future parties exactly as he directed then she would lose her only child.
****
Police Headquarters. 9.30 a.m.
“Aye, well, that was a big fat heap of nothing!”
Craig stifled a laugh as they clattered down the stairs to the car park, John not bothering to stifle his at all.
“Don’t you sugar coat it, Liam! Give us all you’ve got.”
“You.”
Liam stopped dead on the landing, his tone the verbal equivalent of putting his hands on his hips.
“You.”
One hand was off the hip and pointing at Craig.
“Woke me up at seven this morning and dragged me down here, for a five minute How’s Your Father that we could have put in an email!”
Craig stopped stifling and laughed. “Do you know what How’s Your Father means?”
Liam shrugged. “A chat?”
Craig started down the next flight with a grin. “It means a quickie. You’ve just accused me of dragging you out of bed to have sex with the Chief Con.”
The D.C.I.’s eyes widened and he set off in pursuit. “You’ve just made that up!”
John’s shaking head said otherwise.
“Ach. Well, that’s not what I meant and you both know it!” They stepped out into the fresh air. “The point is you didn’t need me here, and he didn’t need to see you two either. He’d already had a briefing on the shooting from Stormont House!”
Craig beeped open his Audi. “Maybe he just wanted company.”
“Aye, and maybe you didn’t want me snug in my pit while you provided it.” Liam tried for a hurt look. “That’s cruel and unusual punishment, boss. Danni was really upset that I had to leave.”
Craig scoffed. “Both your wives were probably glad to get the bed to themselves for a few hours.”
John shook his head as he climbed into the passenger seat. “Natalie was already at work, actually. But to be honest, even if she hadn’t been I’d have been glad to leave. She was in a hell of a snit this morning. Blamed me for it too. She said I’d kept her up half the night talking about McManus’ death!”
Craig swallowed his ‘as if’ and started the engine. “Liam, follow us to the lab. We’re going to look at the bodies.”
“Before breakfast?”
It received the grunt it deserved and twenty minutes later they were staring down at the square-jawed face of Peter McManus, his forehead neatly covered by a drape.
“Let’s see the wound, please, John.”
The pathologist obliged, whipping off the cloth with the flair of a matador. Liam rolled his eyes and gave a noisy yawn.
“It isn’t any different to yesterday, so what are we looking for?”
Lack of respect aside Craig had to admit that he had a point. He moved along to McManus’ next door neighbour and waited for the pathologist to withdraw his shroud. It revealed the more youthful face of William H Regent, Billy to his mates, once Corporal Regent of the Mercette Regiment.
“How old was he, John?”
“Thirty-six in April.”
“It was definitely suicide?”
The pathologist looked surprised to be asked. “Well, there’s gunshot residue on his hand, a hole in his right temple, and a bullet that matches the handgun found by his side.”
Liam had stopped yawning and started thinking a few seconds before. It produced a question that even Craig had to admire.
“How can you be sure the GSR came from the handgun, Doc? I mean, couldn’t it already have been there from the rifle?”
It caught John on the hop but he resisted blustering out a defence, turning instead to a nearby stool to sit down. Craig shifted his eyes from the body to his friend, watching as the wrinkles on John’s forehead did an elastic dance while he thought. Finally, Liam got his answer.
“The answer is that you’re right, Liam, I can’t be sure. So, well asked. I can speculate that the rifle’s barrel is so long there was unlikely to be substantial GSR on Regent’s hands from the shot that killed McManus, so it must have come from the pistol, but until we do tests on both I can’t be certain at all.” He stared at the D.C.I., narrowing his eyes inquisitively. “What’s your thinking here?”
Liam perched on a nearby bench, leaving Craig to take the only other stool in the room.
“OK … Well, let’s say, just for the sake of an argument, that Billy here.” The D.C.I. gestured casually at the corpse, “Took the big shot. He killed McManus, probably asked to do it by someone else, unless we find out that he harboured a secret loathing for the man. But then, when the job was done and he was packing up to go, and probably to collect his payment-”
Craig cut in. “So, you’re saying Regent was paid to hit McManus?” It was said in a ‘you’re probably right’ tone.
Liam shrugged. “To be decided, depending on what else we find out. But right now, let’s say it was a paid hit. The rifle was only half packed away when we got there, but if Regent was a marksman and a soldier he’d have taken proper care of his equipment, so why shoot himself in the head before everything was neatly back in its box?”
John raised an eyebrow. “You’re basing your theory on the fact that Regent was untidy?”
Craig intervened, halting Liam’s impending retort. “Murder cases have hinged on less, John.”
It was the pathologist’s turn to shrug.
Liam picked up his theory with renewed vigour.
“But if whoever had hired Regent to kill McManus had wanted to tie up loose ends, he might have followed Billy up to the roof and taken him out with the handgun, then left it behind to make us think that Billy’d committed suicide.”
Craig followed the thought through. “And even if the GSR does match the handgun, there’s no proof someone didn’t force Regent to hold it and shoot himself. Everyone was so busy clearing the tower they might have missed someone getting on and off the roof, maybe via the fire escape.” He turned quickly to his deputy. “Is there one in that building?”
“Two. I saw them when I walked round. Although…” Liam shook his head. “Allowing that a second shooter might have managed to kill Billy and get down off the roof somehow, Hughesy had already chucked a cordon round Carson and its evacuees before we arrived. Remember? All the residents and the cops were standing inside it when we got there.”
John was warming to Liam’s scenario now. “So, you’re saying that this second man went up to the roof after McManus had been shot, to kill Regent.”
Craig nodded i
n confirmation but Liam had another idea.
“Or he was with Regent the whole time, and shot him when he wasn’t expecting it. After McManus had been taken out.”
“Wouldn’t the locals have noticed a stranger?”
“Might have, but if he’d been with Billy the whole time he might’ve been given a pass.”
Craig rose from his stool. “But someone might remember seeing him, either with Billy or hanging around on his own afterwards, inside the cordon. Good catch, Liam. OK, it’s time for a door-to-door on the Travis. Tell Andy and Jake to get down there with some uniforms, plus give Reggie the heads up on everything. He needs to keep his ear to the ground.”
Liam followed him to the exit with a reminder. “What about Spence doing something? That skiver always gets off light.”
Craig tugged open the door. “He won’t this time. I want him with us when we meet with Tommy. Text him the address and say that you and I are heading out there now.” He turned back just in time to see John covering up the bodies. “John, can you chase up those GSR possibilities with Des, and get the rest of the details by this afternoon? I’m calling a briefing at three o’clock.”
It cheered the pathologist up instantly. The only daytime outings he usually got were to inspect an unusual death at a scene, so a C.C.U. briefing with its promise of a pint at The James afterwards would be a welcome buffer for an evening at home that he was sure would see him being blamed for something new.
****
Templepatrick Village, Country Antrim.
Craig’s tolerance of his team members’ lateness had always been limited, but if the officer in question had the good sense to look apologetic when they eventually rolled up he would usually bite his tongue. Kyle Spence had no such sense, or sense of anything but his own importance it seemed, as his leisurely three goes at reversing into a parking space to ensure his new Alpha’s paintwork didn’t get scratched and the following walk around the vehicle proved. Liam could feel his lips widen into a grin as he saw Craig’s always close-to-the-surface temper come to the boil.
The Cabal Page 7
