The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series)

by Catriona King

  The tall protection officer resisted the urge to raise his eyebrow like Roger Moore. ‘Do some work’...Yeah right.

  “Of course Minister. One of us will be outside if you need us.”

  Watson headed to the lift and then straight for room 517. He had the same room every time; end of the corridor, large window, beside the fire escape, with no-one facing. Complete privacy, and no neighbours to complain about their noisy lovemaking.

  He dumped his briefcase and jacket quickly, and ran the bath, reaching for the phone to order room service and champagne for six pm. She’d be here soon and everything had to be perfect.

  He opened his standard ministerial briefcase and withdrew the unmistakable pale-blue Tiffany box from its resting place, laughing to himself. He’d spent the budget of a small country on this little trinket, mentally thanking Goldbergs for all those years of lovely bonuses.

  Opening the box gently, he looked down at the white-gold circle studded with twenty square-cut diamonds. What was money for, except to spoil people you loved? He knew that it would fit her slim wrist perfectly; he’d measured her watch when she was in the shower the week before. He locked it back in the case, not wanting anyone to see his folly. Then he laid out fresh clothes and sank slowly into the bath, crooning to himself.

  Ryan Drake was sitting outside the room, with his long legs stretched across the doorway, and his bulky arms folded. He heard the Sinatra number being murdered and smiled wryly; Joe was going to have a big night. Yes, he was.

  ***

  Stevan packed his bag in his small bedroom in Fitzroy Avenue, a wide street in Belfast’s Holyland district, just off the Ormeau Road. The area was terraced and studenty, and he’d been too old for it ten years ago.

  He looked around the cosy room, smiling and wishing it goodbye. Last night had been his final one at the bar and he’d had the pleasure of Teresa’s strong young body until an hour ago. She wasn’t half-bad. He’d been pleasantly surprised the first time, and he’d almost be sorry to stop now.

  He hadn’t told her that he was leaving of course, she would only have cried, and he couldn’t bear to hear women crying. Kaisa never cried. Not healthily anyway. But that was a bad thing, she hadn’t cried healthily since she was seven...

  Teresa had left for work, and he’d lied, saying that he’d meet her there at seven. It was a pity that they couldn’t say goodbye, but he was used to that, and it certainly wasn’t worth another night of grubby students pouring in for Happy Hour.

  He didn’t have much to pack, that was one of his rules. Travel light, easier to burn. He looked down ruefully at the scruffy Levis and t-shirt that had been his uniform for months. He really missed his Armani suits, and somewhere to wear them that he wouldn’t be arrested.

  The heavy equipment was already in the car - Kaisa had sorted everything. She was a good girl, his little sister. He loathed what she had to do to prepare his targets, but her beauty was just as strong a weapon as his rifle.

  Stevan thought reluctantly back to the day that had made them both who they were. And of the men who had taken whatever they wanted, and destroyed the rest. His face hardened with tension, remembering. He wouldn’t let himself go there, to the memories, the images. It had taken him years to bury them and Kaisa never had. Thirty minutes, that was all it had taken to destroy five lives. Since then they’d both fought to survive in different ways, earning their livings the only way they knew how.

  Someday he would find the men again, when he had enough money, enough to get Kaisa the help she needed and make her safe. And when he found them he would do to them what they had done. Make them watch helpless, while he destroyed everything good in their lives.

  He shook himself, angry that he’d gone there; he needed to focus on tonight’s work. He scanned the room for any debris that might trace him, and then ran down the two flights of stairs to his landlady’s rooms, knocking gently on her door.

  Jeanie Rogan looked through the peephole and then answered the door quickly, smiling. Her greying brown hair curled neatly to her shoulders and her floral dress fell demurely below her knees. Her round face wrinkled softly into fine lines as she smiled up at him. She was a motherly sort and Stevan liked motherly women, there was something fitting about them.

  “Hello, Stevan, nice to see you. Is anything wrong, pet?”

  He smiled his huge white smile and saw its immediate softening effect on her. She genuinely liked him, and it was mutual. Time for the broken English.

  “No wrong, nothing wrong, Madam. I have this for you.” He handed her a brown envelope containing three month’s rent and more.

  “What’s this?”

  “It is rent for next month. I have go home for one week and rent fall when I am away, so I pay you now.”

  She beamed up at him; he was such a kind boy. Her husband was disabled, and he often helped her out, putting up shelves and changing the oil in her car. Whatever she asked of him he did, without an excuse.

  “Is everything OK at home? I hope nothing’s wrong that you have to go so quickly?”

  “Yes, nothing wrong. I have Grandfather - he is ninety. Big family party. I am back next week.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely. Ninety, what a great age. Please take some photographs; I’d love to see them when you get back. Have a lovely time, Stevan, and thank you again for the rent.”

  She reached up and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Goodbye, pet.”

  He loved the local endearment ‘pet’ and he smiled at her again, unexpected tears filling his eyes. She reminded him of his mother. They were both proof that there was goodness in the world. Part of him wanted to hug her tight, and stay living this simple life, just to feel her kindness. But there could be no peace like that for him.

  He looked down at her sadly, imprinting her image to memory. Then he reluctantly walked out of the front door onto the street, leaving behind another kind woman that he would never see again.

  ***

  “Oh Joe, it so beautiful. I never had such a thing.”

  Joe looked down at her protectively. She was so petite, barely reaching his chin. Long strands of dark-blonde hair had fallen delicately across her cheek, and he stroked them back gently as she held her slim brown wrist up to the light, totally absorbed. She turned the bracelet round and round, entranced, the diamonds’ lights reflecting in her green eyes.

  She adored it, and she said that she adored him. He hadn’t been this excited by anyone for years and he told her so. He wanted to leave Caitlin and be with her, even if it meant losing his political career. He didn’t care. He had plenty of money and he wanted her, and he usually got what he wanted.

  Kaisa smiled to herself. It was a beautiful bracelet and for one quick moment she almost regretted that he’d be dead soon. In a few more weeks she’d probably have got the necklace to match.

  “Joe, I am so sorry, but my father he is not well today. I cannot stay long. I must go in only thirty minutes.”

  His face fell, and she reached over and stroked it affectionately, smiling at him seductively until he forgot his disappointment. She decided to be charitable, and give the condemned man his last wish.

  “But…we have time...”

  Thirty minutes later she dressed, while he watched her, totally content. This would be the last time that she’d ever leave him. She’d agreed to live with him, as long as they could have her father as well. A granny flat was no problem.

  His kids would come round eventually and they’d love her too. How could anyone not love her? She lifted her handbag, ready to go. It was cheap and glittery, but he’d buy her Gucci, a beauty like her should be dressed up.

  “Will you call me later, Ausra, so that we can see the same sky?”

  She mentally vomited, but turned, smiling sweetly. “Of course. I get home later, I will call. It will be very soon, not so late tonight.” Before the light fades for Stevan.

  She sat on his knee stroking his grey hair with her tiny fingers and then kissed him sympathetically,
at length. She didn’t hate him nearly as much as Bob Leighton; but he would still die. Then she left quickly, sunglasses on, and smiled at the ‘man in black’ outside as she sashayed past him for the last time. She climbed into her battered Ford and drove out of the hotel car-park, carefully observing the speed limit, and followed the sat-nav to the designated spot across the fields.

  The evening was bright and clear and there were no strong crosswinds, but as Stevan always said, ‘conditions mightn’t be so good in thirty minutes’. The call had to be made soon. When she arrived, she was shocked and pleased to see her big brother already there. He was packing something large into a bag and he turned as she drove up, smiling quickly.

  Stevan knew she was going to be angry and he prepared himself for the onslaught. She jumped out of the old car and hugged her handsome brother. They hadn’t seen each other for weeks.

  “Stevan, Stevan...Nedostajao si mi.”(I’ve missed you so much)

  It was so good to be able to speak their native Serbian again. Stevan looked down at his little sister, hugging her tight. He was sorry for what she wore and he was sorry for every man that she’d ever had to endure. But soon they would have enough money for her never to suffer their touches again.

  “Nedostajala si mi.” (I’ve missed you)

  “Volim te puno! Ali Požuri, Stevan” (I love you so much. But hurry, Stevan)

  Kaisa quickly opened the car boot for him to retrieve the rifle. Then she handed him a pair of high-powered binoculars, readying herself to phone Joe Watson and entice him out of the hotel, into Stevan’s sights. Stevan didn’t move, and she looked at him, puzzled.

  “Stevan, you must hurry. I told him I would call soon. He will get suspicious.”

  He stared at the bright new bracelet glittering on her arm; it was expensive. This man cared for her. Then he looked at his sister sadly, pained by her eagerness to kill the man who had given it to her less than an hour before. He shook his head quietly.

  “There will be no shooting today, Draga. Get ready to leave.”

  She looked up at him, totally uncomprehending and he slowly lifted the bag that he’d been fastening when she’d arrived, unzipping it for her to see its contents. Inside, lay a DSLR camera with a zoom lens, powerful enough to reach the hotel. She’d seen him use one before, and in an instant she knew what he’d done, throwing herself at him hysterically.

  “You have to kill him, you promised to kill him for me. You promised.”

  She screamed at him like a wounded animal, lacerating the country silence, and his heart broke again, knowing that her memories had never faded. Then she cried, for long cruel minutes like a widow keening at a funeral, mourning for the life that she’d lost, and she had.

  Finally her raw cries weakened until she stopped, exhausted by her efforts, and sobbed softly, like the child that she’d been before they came. He held her, rocking her gently until the sky darkened and her eyes dried, explaining that blackmail was their only task this time, unless it didn’t work. He’d been grateful for the news, sick of the killing now.

  But why hadn’t he told her, why Stevan? Told you that I would take pictures of you with a man, Draga; but how could I?

  Eventually she became quiet, exhausted, and they changed silently into the universal uniform of the young; jeans and leather jackets. They emptied their pockets, bags and every other possession onto the ground beside the field, and set them alight. Then he drove the old car with its false I.D., down the motorway to the City airport, abandoning it in the long-term car-park.

  They walked casually to the ticket machine and through security, boarding the last flight to Heathrow. It had gone beautifully again. They were home free.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What the hell have you done, Joanne? When is all this supposed to happen? I can’t be any part of it, you’ve gone too far now. And have you even thought about the girls? What do you think it will do to them if their mother ends up in prison? You selfish, stupid cow.”

  Joanne watched her husband rant, looking him up and down in absent distain. He’d always been weak; she’d been the man in their marriage for years. Her face twisted in disgust and her next words came spitting out.

  “You’re pathetic, Declan. You’ve always been pathetic. I’ve been carrying you for years. With your gambling, and your stupid friends from school. You haven’t taken off that bloody uniform since you were ten; you still need them to like you. Who cares if they bloody well like you? They’re nothing, just another incestuous little Northern Ireland clique.

  And don’t you dare bring my daughters into this; it’s their future I’m doing this for. To give them the life they would already have, if you’d ever stepped up.”

  She turned her back, catching his reflection in the wall mirror, and then spun round again, venomously. “I even make more money than you - what a man!”

  Then she walked towards him and stood with her face perilously close to his. “And, if you even think about telling the girls anything...anything negative about me, even by a hint or a look, then Daddy’s little girls will get these.”

  She leaned forward into her Chanel shopper and pulled out some folded sheets. “They’ll find out exactly what the man they worship is really like. You can keep these for your office wall, I have plenty of copies.”

  He grabbed the sheets from her and pulled them open, tearing at the edges. They were pictures of him with a woman. In the car, the street, at the races, and...Oh shit, in bed, in every position. And he’d no idea who she was! Joanne had faked the pictures somehow but they looked real, and the idea of his young daughters seeing them, made him want to vomit.

  “How did you make these? I’ll get them looked at, it’ll be easy to prove they’re fakes.” Then he looked at her murderously. “You cold bitch, how could you even think of hurting your children like this.”

  He threw the pages on the floor and reached for her arm, grabbing it with his left hand and clenching his right into a fist. He stood above her, his face so red that it was almost purple. They stood locked in position, silently, his left hand grasped around his wife’s slim upper arm, his right fist poised one inch from breaking her perfect fucking nose. He hated that nose, it sneered without even trying.

  After a moment’s anger he threw her to the ground dismissively, like the soiled rubbish that he thought she was. She fell back against the Louis Quinze card table that she’d been given on leaving chambers in London, breaking a corner off it in her fall. But only her pride was hurt. She sat on the floor leaning back on her hands and laughed tauntingly up at him. “You can’t even beat me up like a man...”

  Declan turned on his heel abruptly and walked out, heading for the car before he killed her. His kids were all that mattered now. Her silver Aston was parked across the broad driveway, deliberately blocking him in. He pulled at its door angrily. Locked.

  He looked inside it, disgusted. It was immaculate. Not a single sign of the kids, or anything human. She was a cold bitch. Why hadn’t he noticed it before?

  He climbed into his own BMW, pushing Izzy’s CDs off the seat, and gunned the engine, ramming it directly into her car. Back and forth, back and forth, until he’d shunted it right off the path and onto the lawn, virtually destroying it in the process.

  He saw her standing at the window watching and she waved sarcastically at him, then he raked out into the avenue and turned left onto the Malone Road. Heading for the outer ring-road and the countryside, where he could drive and think.

  His mobile rang immediately and he glanced at the screen. It was her, probably bitching about the state of her car. He ignored it and knocked the phone off, driving at 80mph past Newforge Lane and on through the lights, heading for the back roads past the Giant’s Ring. He drove and drove until the evening had changed into night and his boiling blood had finally dropped to simmering point.

  Then he vaguely recognised a road. Where was he? The area looked familiar. He searched around for a signpost, and then realised that he’d driv
en the forty miles to his parent’s small house near Armagh. Homing instinct. He stopped the car outside their immaculate semi and rested his head back on the seat support. How had he let Joanne get them into this mess, and how the fuck did he get out of it?

  The car clock said 9.30. He’d lost time driving and thinking. But it hadn’t been wasted, he’d made a decision. He felt better instantly and looked through the windscreen. His father was leaning against the gatepost, arms folded, watching his eldest son wisely.

  Declan held up a spread palm, indicating that he’d be five minutes. He switched on his mobile, ignoring the answerphone ringing back; it would only be Joanne. And he started to make the call that he’d decided on. He would phone Caitlin Watson, she would be the quickest route to Joe and his minders.

  He already knew how insane it would all sound, ‘my wife’s intending to blackmail and possibly kill your husband, and I think she’s already killed other people’. He knew that it would be the end of his peaceful existence, and he also knew that it was exactly the right thing to do.

  But before he could do anything, his father walked towards the car. He lowered the driver’s window out of respect. “I’ll be there in five minutes, Dad. Tell Mum to put the kettle on.”

  “Have you and Joanne been fighting again, son? It’s just...she’s been ringing here for the last hour, really frantic about you.”

  Yeah...Frantic, but not for the reasons his father thought. His father was still talking and Declan half heard him say ‘Bob Leighton’.

  “What did you say, Dad?”

  “Joanne was worried that you were upset about Bob Leighton dying. She said that you two were friends?”

  “Leighton?”

  Declan heard his own voice saying the name but he still didn’t believe it. The urge to vomit hit him and he opened the car door, throwing up on the grass verge and narrowly missing his father’s feet. Fuck, he was already too late. She’d done it, she’d actually killed someone and she wanted him to know that she had. She was warning him to keep quiet.