Tomorrow evening would be her last performance for the Honourable’s Member... and his last performance of anything at all. She wouldn’t miss the work, but at least his conversation had been better than Bob Leighton’s. She laughed at her own wit. Everything would be perfect. And by this time tomorrow, Joe Watson, Enterprise Minister would be perfectly dead.
***
It was seven o’clock when Craig pulled up a stool at the end of the long bar in Ten Square, waiting for John to appear. His only concession to being off-duty was to remove his tie and loosen the collar of his white shirt. The look worked on him.
A slim, twenty-something barman approached him, wiping a tray as he walked. “What can I get for you, sir?”
“Lager please. Whatever sort you have.”
“Will you be wanting to eat? The restaurant menu’s there.”
He indicated a laminated menu perched on the counter, and then decided to bring it over, handing it to Craig.
“Maybe later, thanks. Just the drink for now.”
The barman smiled and nodded, pulling a bottle from the freezer and reaching for a glass.
“The bottle’s fine, thanks. Cheers.”
Craig took a long drink of the icy liquid, even the action of tipping it back making him feel more relaxed. He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the taste, and then cast a casual look around the quickly filling venue. It was early yet and the Monday evening occupants were mostly workers from nearby offices, postponing the inevitable trip home. To cook or be cooked for.
A few small groups of women were gathering, already glammed-up for the evening’s hunt. Larger crowds of men milled around the peripheries, talking to their mates about work or football. The brave ones shot occasional looks at the women, hiding it from their friends, to avoid the inevitable ruthless slagging that men subjected each other to, in the name of friendship. The first sign of a repeat glance and the ‘pack’ would eat its own.
Girlfriends were different. Once they joined, the conversation changed, sanitised, and then slowed. Until the male crowd broke apart and drifted off to their separate destinations. Craig had seen it, been it, a million times. From eighteen, to…when? Death? Did they still do it in retirement homes? Fewer men by then, smaller packs.
John stood by the street-door watching his friend. Craig was completely blind to the two women staring at him, while he watched others, ever the observer. Was it any wonder that he was single? But that was only partly true, Camille really deserved the blame.
At school, Craig’s half-Italian charm had been the perfect foil for John’s nerdiness. Girls followed them around, worshipping Craig from afar. But he didn’t even notice it, much more interested in his sport, while John sat on the touchline comforting them. They both scored, in entirely different ways.
He wandered over and rested his elbow on the bar, neither of them saying a word. Craig had seen him watching and John knew it, so any planned dating lecture would be redundant. Craig broke the amicable silence just as the barman approached.
“What do you fancy, John? Do you want to have a drink and go on, or stay here and eat?”
He handed him the menu and John peered at it vainly, then caved in and took his glasses from his pocket. The food looked really good, but he fancied Japanese, so he ordered a beer and turned around to check out the room. Craig laughed.
“How’s Natalie then - still seeing her?”
John smiled wryly. ”Yes, we haven’t split up, despite your Mum’s grilling on Friday.” Craig smiled at the quick retort. John was more confident than he’d been in years.
“And thanks for the reminder to behave. Nat’s great, but I can still look, you know. She certainly does. By the way, she told me to ask why you aren’t taking Julia to the N.S.P.C.C. ball.”
Craig blushed deep-red, and John instantly felt bad about his jibe. Craig had blushed a lot when he was at school, but it was only ever over women now. The rest of the time, he was almost effortlessly cool.
“Are you going to give me a hard time, John? And if so, can I get something to eat first? I hate being bollocked on an empty stomach.”
“I just thought that you really liked her. I was surprised when you told me you weren’t seeing each other anymore.”
“We only had one dinner together! And I do really like her, it’s just that...”
Camille. He didn’t need to say it, Camille had broken his heart, or as near as damn it. It hadn’t helped that she’d reappeared after a five-year absence, expecting to pick up where they’d left off. He had been a mess ever since and there was zero point in giving him any grief about it.
“OK. I’ll tell Natalie to mind her own business, and then duck.”
They laughed loudly and a group of women by the front door looked over quickly at the sound, checking them out. They were high-maintenance beauties, but beauties nonetheless.
John motioned toward the window. “Do you know where the Wheel’s gone to?”
The Wheel, Belfast’s miniature version of the London Eye, had left two years before, and John was just noticing it now!
“It went to Dublin in 2010 but it’s left there now. I heard a rumour that it might be going to Derry for the City of Culture next year. I’ve never been up in it, have you?”
“Yes. Natalie dragged me up one day when I had a bugger of a hangover. I nearly threw up. It would have served her right. Typical surgeon that girl, no finesse.”
“I thought you only met her recently, at a conference?”
“I did, properly. But we were in a crowd together a few times, years back. When she was teaching anatomy to the medical students.”
Craig nodded and they fell into ten minutes of amicable silence. Then the crowd began to grow, drowning out their thoughts, so they finished their beers quickly and headed to Zen for sushi. Much to the disappointment of the beauties by the door.
Chapter Sixteen
Craig walked across the open-plan office, and stood looking out of the window nearest Davy’s desk. It was early yet and no one else was in, so he gifted himself five minutes to think. He gazed at the modern buildings of Clarendon Dock, watching as their fluorescent lights flickered on, one by one, throwing the dust on the high, square windows into stark relief. Below them the morning commuters were parking their cars neatly in named slots. He’d always hated allocated parking, rebelling by parking randomly whenever possible, in some small measure of civic defiance.
He quickly ordered his thoughts. Irene Leighton had been killed professionally in a way linked with three other hits and the Vory v Zakone. Her husband had panicked more at the number ten than at any of the other symbolism attached to her death. But he seemed to have loved her. None of that stopped him preparing to skip the U.K. for a non-extradition country, and taking their beautiful nanny with him. The nanny had disappeared and so had Leighton, the difference being that she had packed her clothes. Or been packed for, and taken by force?
He paused for a moment, admiring the pale-blue cloudless sky and for the first time the air really felt like December, cold and crisp. It conjured up visions of ski-trips with Camille and warm Italian Christmases when they’d been happy together. He pulled his thoughts reluctantly back to the present.
OK, no one had seen the girl or Leighton since Friday and, so far, Julia had struck out with the hospitals in Donegal. But that didn’t mean that Bob Leighton wasn’t lying in one unidentified; he might have changed his name for his new life. But then, how did he leave the house at all without the neighbours seeing? It was a small cul-de-sac. Craig shrugged; it wouldn’t be the first time that people had ignored their neighbours.
Neither Leighton nor Kaisa had been back to the house in Stranmillis, and the boy was still with his grandparents. No one had heard from either of them. So where the hell were they? He raked his hair impatiently, wanting to kick something. He was focussing on the sky, looking hard for inspiration, when a light tap on his shoulder brought him abruptly back to earth. He turned to see Nicky smiling at him, poi
nting at the percolator bubbling by her desk so he smiled gratefully and followed her across the floor, pressing ‘Julia’ on his mobile as he walked.
***
The call to Julia McNulty had yielded nothing but earache, so after five minutes of her ranting about the unhelpful neighbours and bloody bureaucracy, Craig left her to it. He spent the remainder of his morning weighed down by paperwork on two other cases until finally, at twelve, he gave notice that it was Lucia’s birthday and he’d be at Cayenne having lunch if anyone wanted him. The restaurant’s name prompted Davy to ask what it was like for a date, nearly resulting in his assault by Nicky.
Craig had been there for less than thirty minutes when John paged him and he left the restaurant to take the call. After five minutes he returned, avoiding his mother’s eye, and slowly lifted his jacket to leave, trying hard to look as if he wasn’t. This wouldn’t be popular.
“Sorry Mum, but I did tell you that I was on duty. I really have to go. Lucia, I’m sorry. I’ll send you shopping on Saturday to make it up to you. Here’s my credit card, just pay the bill at the end.”
She snapped it out of his hand, grinning. “You realise that I’m ordering Dom Perignon as soon as you leave. And that you’re never getting this back!”
“Don’t you worry, son. Just you do your job, and pay no attention to these two.” His mother mock-strangled his father, and he laughed.
“Luce, will you take the folks home in a taxi please?” He looked at her eyes gleaming from an earlier bottle of bubbly. “I need my car. Besides, you’re well over the limit.”
“And I intend to be even more over it in five minutes.”
***
He reached the lab in fifteen minutes and headed straight for the mortuary, curious about John’s page. All it had said was that he needed to see him urgently, and John was rarely urgent about anything. When he reached the freezing-cold room, John was standing in scrubs, re-arranging some files on a bench. A covered body was lying in an extended open drawer; the size indicated a man.
“What was so urgent? I left Lucia drunk in charge of my credit card at her birthday lunch.”
John half-smiled, then looked puzzled. “It’s not her birthday, is it?” A panicked look shot across his face as he realised that he’d forgotten to get her a present.
“Don’t panic, it’s her second birthday on the 13th. But she’s away on a course so we held it today.”
John relaxed, smiling as he remembered the Italian custom of ‘Onomastico’ or ‘Name Day’ when people had a second birthday on the day of their namesake saint. Mirella had brought her children up with all the Italian customs.
His expression suddenly became grim. “Sorry I had to drag you away, Marc. But I thought that you’d like to hear this before Harrison...or the press.”
Craig tensed, knowing that whoever was in the drawer was linked with his case.
John opened the file in his hand and spoke quietly. “There was a death in Donegal on Friday night. A man from Belfast.”
“Yes, I heard. Liam looked into it, but he couldn’t get a name. A forty-year-old, from S.A.D.S, wasn’t it?”
John nodded.
“But why are you involved? Didn’t they handle the P.M in Donegal?” As Craig asked the question he went cold, already knowing the answer.
“They did, and normally that would be fine, but the police there weren’t happy. It wasn’t natural causes, despite what the Chronicle reported. So, because he was from here, they asked me to take a look.” He paused for a moment, looking down at the body. “It’s Robert Leighton, Marc.”
Craig looked blankly at him for a moment, before the name registered. Then he nodded. Robert, Bob. Of course… He’d tried to run, not from them, but from someone much more dangerous. Well, he hadn’t run far enough, and now whoever had killed his wife had killed him.
John was still talking. “They initially thought his death was natural causes. He had a family history of heart disease. It’s called sudden adult death syndrome. S.A.D.S.”
He beckoned Craig over to the drawer and pulled back the sheet to reveal Bob Leighton’s narrow face. It was peaceful, even innocent looking, much more innocent in death than he’d ever been in life. John moved the sheet down to waist level, lifting a sharp probe, then he waved Craig closer and they leaned over the man’s pale body.
“Have a look... just here. Can you see that red mark?”
John was indicating a tiny red dot on the man’s left nipple. It was so tiny that anyone else would have dismissed it. Craig looked at him the same way he had in their science class at twelve, with a mixture of awe and ‘what the hell?’
“It just looks like part of the nipple to me, John. What’s the significance?”
“Let’s go upstairs and discuss it. And I saw that look by the way. You used to give it to me when we were kids, when you thought I was some sort of brainiac.”
“You were!”
They laughed. The twelve-year-old Craig hadn’t hidden his emotions well.
“I’ll be honest with you. I did notice the dot, but I didn’t actually realise its significance until I opened him up. And I wasn’t sure even then, not until I got his blood results.”
They got the lift the three floors up to John’s office, grabbing a coffee before he started.
“OK. The doctor who did the first P.M. missed two signs that this was a murder. Actually, I can’t believe that he ever thought it was natural causes. What I showed you downstairs was a small red dot on Leighton’s left nipple.”
Craig nodded.
“But what you would’ve seen if I’d opened him up, was that the dot was directly above his heart. There was a track right through the chest wall with a matching hole and track through the wall of the heart. Whatever made the dot went straight through the nipple into the heart.”
“What was it?”
“An intracardiac needle.” He reached into a small sample cabinet by the door, pulling out a needle so long that Craig shuddered.
“It’s nine-centimetres long and used to inject drugs straight into the heart from the outside, through the chest wall. It’s mostly used in cardiac arrests and some surgery. I’m checking for the exact match but they’re pretty standard needles. They have to be very strong, to penetrate skin, fat, muscle, and sometimes cartilage, without breaking. You wouldn’t want one snapping off in the middle of surgery.”
Craig could picture it clearly. The needle went right through Bob Leighton’s chest wall into his heart. “Surely the needle wouldn’t have killed him?”
“You’re right, it wouldn’t. But whatever it injected would, and that was the second sign that the doctor missed. Leighton’s blood screen showed a potassium level that was dismissed as normal post-mortem elevation. But there’s no way that this was a simple P.M rise; the level is far too high. I believe that potassium, probably in the chloride form, was deliberately injected into his heart, stopping it immediately.”
He paused for a second.
“We’ve got the preliminary tox-screen back and there’s also evidence of significant Rohypnol, as well as some low level cocaine. That’s backed up by the state of his nasal membranes. He’d obviously been using coke for a while, but the level wasn’t high enough to kill him.”
Craig nodded. “He was on it when we went to tell him about his wife.” He paused, thinking. “Rohypnol. That was used to sedate Irene Leighton too.”
“Yes. In a high enough dose it can subdue someone very effectively.”
“Enough for someone to kill Leighton with the potassium?”
John nodded. “And a Potassium death looks natural, so it’s hard to detect.”
“OK. So roofies to subdue him, potassium to kill. They wanted this to look like a natural death.”
“And with the family history of S.A.D.S they managed it for a few days. Long enough to cover their escape?”
Craig shook his head. “I don’t think they’re worried about escaping. They can get away whenever they want to. And if all t
hey’d wanted was Leighton dead, they would have just shot him, like his wife, and then disappeared immediately. They took the time to research his family history and tailored the murder to look like natural causes, to delay us. They needed time for something.”
He thought for a moment and then nodded. “They’re planning something else, John. They haven’t left Northern Ireland yet.”
“There are two more things, Marc. And they might give you a clue to the killer.”
“Yes?”
“Lividity shows that Bob Leighton was horizontal when he died, and he had unprotected sex immediately beforehand.”
***
It was five o’ clock on Tuesday and Joe felt excited. The last time he remembered being this excited was when he was a kid. Back then, one of his favourite TV catch phrases had encapsulated the mood. “It’s Friday, It’s five o’ clock and it’s Crackerjack!”
They’d all sat watching the black and white TV at his cousin’s Deidre’s house, cheering along loudly with the invisible studio audience. Then his Aunt had brought in Sukie orange juice and Jammy Dodgers, and school was over for the weekend. There’d been no feeling quite like it. Even his frustration at not understanding how the man got inside the little box couldn’t detract from it. And that excitement was exactly what he was feeling now, sitting in the back of his staff-car being driven towards the Castleton.
He loved her. He’d thought about it all week and he really loved her. And he was going to tell her tonight. He smiled at the thought of the diamond bracelet lying inside his briefcase, and imagined fastening it onto her slim brown wrist. She would love it. She would love it, and...he felt a second’s nervous hope...she would love him? Oh God, please let her love me back. It’ll give me the strength to do what I have to, to be with her.
Even if she didn’t love him now, he’d convince her to love him in the future. But it would help so much if she already did. Help him deal with the fallout at home, with the kids, with the press. Of course she’d love him back.
He didn’t even notice that the car had stopped, until Ryan Drake, his bodyguard, opened the door for him. “Thanks. Could you check me in, Ryan. I’m going to shower, and then do some work.”
The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 14
