“He can’t - the Approval in Principle’s already through.”
“He can, and he doesn’t care. The exact quote was ‘Minister Watson knows that the A.I.P.’s through, but he’s looked at the project’s return and doesn’t think that it’s the best use of public money’, end quote. I told you that this would happen, Joanne. You should have pushed it through before Burgess retired. He was much more pleasant.”
She looked at her husband, astounded by his naiveté. Thank God, one of them knew which end was up.
“Only because he was OK with taking backhanders. Watson is too bloody honest. Damn.”
Declan Greer had been prowling around the office as she spoke, but her last sentence made him stop still. He turned towards her urgently. “What do you mean backhanders? What did he need to be paid for? And who paid him?”
She looked at him pityingly. He was worse than a trophy wife and even more useless; at least one of those would cook the dinner.
“To cover up the dummy companies I’ve put in place. And I paid him of course. Don’t be dim, Declan.”
He stared at her astounded, as if some alien inhabited his wife’s designer body.
“What do you mean dummy companies? What for?”
“To make money of course.” She slowed her speech down patronisingly, as if speaking to an infant. “We needed the dummy companies to siphon off the funds.”
“What?”
She watched, bored, as realisation finally dawned on him.
“You’re stealing public money! You’ll be caught. And why? We have all this already.” He gestured around her carpeted office, aghast.
“Because as Wallis Simpson once said, you can never be too rich or too thin. You’re being tedious now and I’ve work to do. We’ll talk about this later.”
“No we bloody won’t. What about Horizon? When is the building due to start?”
Joanne shrugged and laughed, sarcastically. “It isn’t. Don’t you understand? There is no Horizon, darling. It only exists on paper. The money has been going into accounts that I’ve set up. And now Watson is interfering.
Bob Leighton’s been worse than useless; he was supposed to be handling Watson. That’s what I paid him for. Damn, damn, damn.”
Her anger grew with each expletive, and her husband stayed quiet as her outrage overtook his by miles. He knew that she’d need someone to blame now, even though it was all her own fault. And he would do. So he sat down and waited.
Joanna and Declan Greer had always been a golden couple, even by Northern Irish standards, where there were a lot of high-income families floating around. Mostly floating around Belfast 9, aptly nicknamed Belfast’s ‘Golden Mile’.
They’d met in London in the eighties, when she was a trainee barrister doing her pupillage, already tipped for the top someday, and he was studying accountancy at one of the ‘big six’. Joanne had assessed him like a portfolio investment and decided that it was a suitable match. She had no illusions about marrying for love, this was business, and Declan would make a very suitable escort for a rising barrister. But he’d actually loved her.
They’d done the shacking-up thing for a while, in the little flat in Chelsea that her father had bought for her twenty-first. Until her parents had pushed for the ‘big day’, expressing a sudden urgent desire to see their daughter floating towards the altar wearing a meringue, or they’d disinherit her.
They’d done the deed at her parent’s home church near Bangor, squeezed out a couple of puppies and then moved to the London Toast-Rack, the meshwork of parallel Victorian terraces off Wandsworth Common, costing a few million each. They’d both missed Chelsea but particularly Joanne, she was a true ‘sonly’, the London slang for Toast-Rackers excusing their child-burdened geography by saying it was ‘sonly’ five minutes from Chelsea.
The kids had been farmed out to a string of nannies with names like Felicity and Jemima until Declan opted to work from home, unable to bear their small sad faces any longer. Then Joanne had set about the much more important business of making millions, and she’d been good at it too. But her career as a criminal barrister had its drawbacks, a few too many gangsters on speed-dial for one thing, and Declan eventually used the excuse of the children to relocate them to Belfast.
God, but she’d moaned. She’d spent the first few years racking up her gold status on the Belfast-Heathrow run. It had cost them dearly for her to meet her friends and have facials in Brompton Cross, but it had been worth it for the sake of peace. Until eventually, she’d worked out that there was big money to be made in Northern Ireland, and Belfast became her new best friend. He had always appreciated Northern Ireland’s rural beauty, and the fact that the grammar schools had saved them a fortune in school fees.
He rose and walked over to the window of their fifteen-storey office building in Bedford Street, looking wistfully at the view over Belfast and beyond. There was a light snow on the Cavehill, giving the basalt outcrop ‘Napoleon’s nose’ a white tip. He smiled at the image, tuning out her ranting and thinking of the Christmas skiing at Courchevel, and next summer’s festival at Down Royal, where he could indulge his twin passions; racing and betting.
He’d heard that Joe Watson was a betting man, although not in his league. He’d lost nearly a million last year, but it was worth it, the adrenaline he felt as he watched his horses coming down the stretch was better than sex. Well, better than sex with Joanne anyway.
He pulled himself out of his dream to hear her still yelling; sincerely wishing that she had a mute button. She was saying something about Watson now, and it sounded ominous.
“It’s just as well that one of us has a brain, and thought about this possibility when Burgess retired.”
“What are you talking about, Jo?”
“Don’t call me Jo, you know I hate nicknames. And stop calling Isabella, Izzy, for God’s sake. It’s common and she hates it.”
She didn’t hate it of course, she was eighteen and she thought it was cool, but he couldn’t be bothered arguing.
She’d already moved on, speaking so quickly that he sometimes wondered how she breathed. Her voice always took on a harder, higher pitch when they were alone, and it had reached ‘fork on a blackboard stage’ now.
He looked at her distantly. She was slim and tanned, with dark hair styled like that skinny one from Desperate Housewives. Yes, she was still good looking. Yes, she’d kept her figure after two kids, but all the perfect breasts in the world couldn’t compensate for that personality.
“I thought about all the risks when Burgess said that he was retiring. Even though we had the approval, I knew it could be reversed unless the contracts were signed. So I thought ahead about how to deal with your mate, Joe.”
“He’s not my mate.”
“You’ve been to Down Royal with him.” It was said accusingly, but he knew that if Watson had proved useful she’d have applauded them socialising. Joanne never clung to principle when there was money involved.
“No, I haven’t. Yes, we’ve both been there, but not in the same box. It’s a hell of a big place.”
It didn’t matter; she wasn’t interested in mere details. “Well he’s not going to lose us all that money.”
“You.”
“Whatever.”
Izzy’s language had rubbed off on her mother. He just thanked God that she didn’t do the ‘W’ hand sign to go along with it. It barely looked cute on an eighteen-year-old.
“He’s not going to lose me all that money then. I’ve been preparing a nice little dossier on Mr Watson, amongst other things.”
“What? Jo...Joanne, you can’t be thinking what I think you are?”
“Of course I am. I’ve spent two years setting up those dummy companies so that I could award myself the contracts without a trail. Do you think that was easy? And do you really think that I’m going to sit back and let some walking dick, who can’t keep his eyes in their sockets when a woman walks past, lose me all that money? Well, you’ve another think com
ing then.”
Her voice had reached screeching pitch now, and Declan rushed to the door to check that there was no one outside. No, of course not. It was lunchtime and the hive’s occupants had escaped across the road for coffee. Good luck to them. He wished he could join them.
“Joanne, for God’s sake calm down. We can’t talk about this here.”
She suddenly remembered her conference call, grabbing the phone quickly to re-enter it.
“Now look what you’ve made me do! Get out. We’ll talk about this tonight. But I’m telling you now Declan; you won’t stop me. I’ve done a lot of background research on Watson and I’ve already set some wheels in motion. On Bob Leighton too, useless prat. And I’ll run them both over if they get in my way.”
Oh, Crap...
Chapter Ten
Maggie parked her Beetle at the narrow end of Pilot Street, in the cul-de-sac by the Rotterdam Bar, and walked into the twelve-storey glass column housing the Coordinated Crime Unit, awaiting her escort to the tenth floor.
She’d never been there alone before, always part of a pack of journalists vying for position in the pressroom; elbowed out of the way by one of the men every time she raised her hand. She often wondered how she’d ended up in such a tough job, but she loved writing, promising herself every January, ‘just one more year’ and then she’d write her novel.
She looked at her reflection in the glass reception desk. She was thirty but didn’t look it, everyone said so. And she wasn’t bad looking, they said that as well. So why hadn’t she had a date in a year? Surely she wasn’t that scary.
Then she remembered the man at the MAC the previous morning, and her hiding away when he’d waved, and she shrugged, acknowledging that she didn’t help herself much. Craig wasn’t bad looking, of course, but too old. She didn’t like men in their forties, far too old-fashioned, even if they liked to call it chivalry.
Just then, the lift-door opened and she recognised Craig’s P.A. from earlier briefings, smiling to herself at her glittery top and leggings. Nicky caught the smile and made a mental note to seat Maggie at the back in future briefings, behind the lights, then she fixed on her smile and walked to where the younger woman was sitting.
“Ms Clarke?”
“Yes.”
“I’m here to take you to D.C.I. Craig.” It was said in a tone that left Maggie under no illusion about her disapproval.
They travelled the ten floors silently, and then Nicky showed her to a sofa by the squad’s glass double-doors. Maggie looked around her curiously. It was a typical modern office. Large and open-plan, filled with desks and cubicles and computers. A few people were gathered at one end by a vending machine, and a very tall man who she recognised as Liam Cullen, was sitting with his feet up on the desk, chatting on the phone.
Just then, a young man loped through the doors past her, and over to a horseshoe of desks bearing computers. He bent over Cullen’s desk as he passed and they shared a brief joke, then he turned to take his seat behind the screens. Maggie could feel her mouth opening in surprise, in a way that she’d thought overacting in the movies. He was gorgeous.
She blushed hotly, aware that she was staring, and looked away hastily. Her eyes were soon drawn back to him. He had chin-length black hair and a lean, muscled look, highlighted by his tight black t-shirt and jeans. He wore a silver chain around his neck matched by the bracelet on his pale arm and his short nails were painted in black varnish. But it was his face that drew her attention most. His dark brown eyes were shaped like almonds, with long lashes that no mascara could ever create. With his aquiline nose and full lips, he almost approached feminine beauty; the contrast with his defined biceps was nearly too much for her. What was this amazing, modern creature doing in such a formal world?
Nicky watched Maggie staring at Davy, part amused, but a bigger part annoyed. He was a shy boy like her son Jonny, and he was no match for a calculating journalist. She marched over to Maggie and deliberately stood, arms folded, in her line of sight, blocking her view of him. But it was already too late, Davy had noticed her too, and he liked what he saw. He arrived at Nicky’s side quickly, and she turned to him annoyed.
“Have you no work to do?”
“No. Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Maggie smiled up at him, entranced, and held her hand out shyly. “Maggie Clarke.”
Davy shook it and smiled. “Davy W...Walsh.”
Maggie’s heart melted immediately at his mild stutter and she gazed up at him, entranced. He gazed back and Nicky immediately knew that she was fighting a losing battle. Just then, the lift-door opened and Craig strolled out, pushing through the doors and bumping straight into Davy.
“Sorry, Davy.” Davy smiled, not taking his eyes off Maggie. “No problem, boss.”
Craig beckoned Maggie to follow him, completely missing the tableau. And while she got her exclusive interview, Davy got Nicky’s ‘mother’s lecture’ on dangerous women, making him even more determined to date Maggie Clarke. He wasn’t half as shy as they all thought.
***
The eleven o’clock briefing was short and sweet, with Liam reporting that Bob Leighton had taken a flight to London the night before, and The Met were following him. There’d been no way to stop him going. He was an M.P., and he might be doing business in Westminster. Anyway, he’d be back tomorrow evening. Craig smiled wryly; Leighton wouldn’t get far with Liam on his tail.
Davy had drawn a blank on the Vors. Fraud, vice and drugs hadn’t had a sniff of them and that only left gang-crime and terrorism to check, but he was following up the tattoos. He’d soon be even busier with John’s ballistics. Annette had left for Enniskillen unhappy. She’d gone to interview Irene Leighton’s mother, reluctant to see the pain that she was suffering. She’d be back at three.
They were just wrapping up when the phone rang, and Nicky interrupted. “It’s the lab, sir. Dr Winter.”
Craig was surprised. He’d only left John an hour ago, but he waved her to put him through, on speakerphone.
“Yes, John?”
“Two new things have just come through. We’ve found a print on the plastic bag in Irene Leighton’s hand. I’m sending it over to Davy now.” Davy nodded at the phone. “And the tox-screen shows that she was drugged. Rohypnol.”
‘Roofies’. They would have made her confused and suggestible. Irene Leighton would have done whatever she was told.
“It would have been easy to walk her anywhere without her struggling, John.”
Liam interjected. “The gates on Massey Avenue opened at 7.30, Doc. The guard reported that a woman walked through just after that, with a young man.”
It was news to Craig. “What did the man look like, Liam?”
Liam saw his puzzled look. “We’ve just got the info, boss. The guard went off yesterday at nine and uniform have just caught up with him. He was pretty vague, but he said that he thought it was a young lad, wearing a baseball cap. He didn’t stop them because the public walk through the grounds all the time. There are thousands of people up there every day, and lots of people come early, to walk the dogs or get fit.”
“Any close circuit TV?”
Liam shook his head. “Wrong angle.”
Craig doubted that the early morning visitors were a coincidence. “OK, thanks, John. Send the print over.”
He clicked the phone off, thinking. “Liam, nip down to gangland and find out what they have on the Vors, and then ask The Met what their presence is like in London. I’ve got a hunch...”
***
Annette had made good time on the M1, reaching the A4 within an hour. But it was by-roads the rest of the way and she was torn between gratitude, wanting to delay her interview, and stress, desperate to get it over with. She was dreading it.
She looked at the road ahead, narrow and winding, slowed to 10mph by weekday ‘Sunday’ drivers and tractors full of grain. The hedgerows were quietening down for the winter but she could see festive holly growing amongst them now, a
nd late conkers falling from the overhanging trees onto the road, reminding her of her Maghera childhood. She was tempted to stop and collect some for Jordan, and then she reminded herself that her son was sixteen, not six anymore.
The road forked into the edges of a small village that the sign announced as Belleek and she stopped, programming the sat-nav with the address of Irene Leighton’s childhood home. She followed its detailed directions through the town and into a narrow country lane, which ended in an iron gate to a gravelled driveway.
Belleek was a thriving market town set deep in the Fermanagh countryside, close to Lower Lough Erne. It was part of the region’s rural Lakelands, an area of almost ethereal beauty. Well known locally and to purposeful tourists, the seven hundred kilometres of rivers, lakes and canals were home to a myriad of small islands, dotted throughout. They were used by cruisers, pleasure craft and anglers, travelling the peaceful waterways, fishing, exploring and stopping-off for picnics on the tiny isles.
She remembered visiting the lakes on a school trip many years before. Their concealing mists and glass-smooth surfaces had made her romantic teenage soul imagine the ‘Lady of Lake’ appearing at any minute, holding Excalibur.
The town’s small size was no reflection of its industry, with the oldest pottery in Ireland producing flawless Parian china. The exquisite porcelain travelled the world as expensive gifts and resided locally in every other home in Northern Ireland. Annette bet that even the unrefined Liam had a set at home, the feminine Danni’s attempt at civilising him.
She parked by the gate and swallowed hard, ringing the local sergeant who was meeting her at Bridie Hannigan’s neat home. The voice that came through was gruff and warm and Annette liked him immediately.
“Sergeant McElroy. Hello. Are you here then?”
“Yes, Sergeant Creen. How’s Mrs Hannigan?”
“Ach, as well as you’d expect when your daughter’s dead. But she’s a country woman for all that.”
She understood the reference. Country living faced people with life and death in a different way to cities, breeding stoicism. Her own father had grown up on a farm and her mother said that it would have taken an anvil dropped on his head to upset him, offering to try whenever he annoyed her.
The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 8
