“Sorry, son. I’ve upset you now. I should have waited until you were in the house. It was over the weekend, apparently. He was found up in Donegal. They think it was natural causes. Probably grief…after his poor wife...”
Declan knew that tears were running down his cheeks because he could feel them. But they weren’t tears of grief for Bob Leighton; he’d hardly known the man. They were tears for his own life. Leighton hadn’t died of natural causes, he would bet a fortune on it. Somehow, Joanne had killed him. He had no idea what to do next.
***
Declan genuinely had no idea what to do, or where to go. He couldn’t go home and he couldn’t stay with his elderly parents. If Joanne was capable of killing Leighton, she was capable of anything. He had to protect them now.
After a cup of tea to pass himself he left his parent’s small house, with a promise to return for Sunday dinner with the girls. His father walked him out to the door. He was getting greyer and more stooped now; more vulnerable somehow. Was this the point where the child noticed that they had become the parent? All he knew was that he had to protect them, they were good people. He’d been brought up by good people to be a good person; but he’d taken a detour.
Yes, he knew he was a snob and vain, and that money mattered far too much to him. But never as much as it had, and did, to Joanne. God, how could he not have seen what she was like, what she must always have been like. It was slotting into place slowly, as he turned over the car and drove away, waving at his mother standing at the window.
All at once he could see the signs that he’d missed. Joanne defending criminals and always justifying their actions. Preferring dinner with them to a night at home with the girls. Back then, he’d thought she was just being a zealous young defence barrister, ambitious and excited by the law. But now, he could remember the secret smiles with her dark looking clients. Smiles that said ‘you’re only guilty if they can prove it’. Morality didn’t even come into it.
He’d been blind then, but he could see it all now. She hadn’t just loved criminal law, she’d loved criminals, admired them somehow. The secret smiles had said ‘we’re smarter than the rest. Sexier, more powerful somehow’. How had he missed it for so long?
Should he go to the police? But what about his parents, what about the girls? He couldn’t leave them there; they couldn’t be allowed to turn out like her. Carina was only fourteen, still too malleable for Joanne. The thought made him shiver.
She’d be in prison soon anyway; he’d make damn sure of it. Then he’d get custody and he’d make sure that she never saw them again. It wouldn’t be much of a loss - they’d thought their nanny was their mother for years. He’d been their only consistent carer.
He made a sudden decision and quickly threw a U-turn, heading back towards Belfast. He would book in somewhere and do some serious thinking. He couldn’t tell Caitlin Watson now; it might put her in danger. This had to be planned in a way that blind-sided Joanne. No, he’d think first and then call the police...
The charity race meet was on at Antrim on Thursday...maybe he would go to that. Fuck! He couldn’t believe that he was thinking of gambling at a time like this. Once an addict…
But then again…it might help him think, clear his head. Yes, that was what he’d do. He’d clear his head and the answer would come to him in couple of days, without her shrill voice shouting in his ear.
Declan’s thoughts were broken suddenly by his mobile ringing, and he picked it up; Joanne again. He ignored it. He’d call her tonight when he was ready. He was clearer now and he knew what he had to do. He’d let her know that her free days were numbered before he went to the police. He owed her that much.
***
Teresa filled the pint glass with draught Guinness, splashing it carelessly on the floor, and whole-heartedly resenting the skinny t-shirted lad waiting in front of her. She looked forlornly past him at the bar’s front door, willing Stevan to appear. But it was his night off and she was stuck here serving these boys.
Then it came to her: these were boys, and Stevan was a man. Maybe not so different in years, but there was a world behind his eyes. She thought of his strong brown arms and his wide smile, her thoughts taking her much further. They’d shared feelings that she’d never had before, and she couldn’t bear being without him now. She sighed and looked at the wall clock with its sloth of an hour-hand. Eighteen long hours until she saw him again. Except that she never would.
***
The young driver stood at the waiting area in Terminal One carrying a sign for ‘Armstrong’ and Stevan wondered again why Alik always picked such English names. He shrugged and gestured Kaisa towards the man, smiling widely.
“Armstrong?”
The look was Delhi but the accent was pure ‘Sarf London’ and Kaisa laughed, happy to be back. She gave the boy her full wattage smile and Stevan watched him melt into a puddle. She knew her power well.
“We have no bags. Where are we going?”
He loved the anonymity of London. You could be whoever you wanted to be and no one gave a shit. It was just one big theatre.
“To the Randle Hotel, sir. Your uncle insisted on it. It’s a five star in Kensington.” The driver started to describe it in detail, as if they couldn’t possibly know the place. Then Stevan looked down at his scruffy jeans and Kaisa’s woollen hat, acknowledging that they looked like mature students, at best.
They walked down the single flight of stairs leading to the short-term car-park, and soon they were in the back of a quietly elegant Jaguar, driving swiftly through the Heathrow tunnel and onto the M4 motorway, towards London. Kaisa was tired from her earlier tears and she curled up against him, just as she had always done as a little girl. He stroked her hair gently. Sleep, pet. She looked so innocent. But the things that she’d seen, and the things that she’d done...
***
Joe Watson yawned loudly without covering his mouth and Michael tutted mentally, disapproving. He’d have disapproved even more if he’d known why he was so tired. Joe smiled at his secret life that would soon be in the open, when Ausra was with him 24/7. He couldn’t wait. But for now, he needed to focus on the work piled-up in front of him. He lifted the top file, and read the summary. ‘Roads’. Boring.
A better idea struck him. “Have we heard anything back from the Conduct Commissioner yet?”
Michael sighed. Joe had the attention span of a goldfish at the best of times but he was worse than usual today, jumping topic every five minutes.
“No, Minister. Nothing yet.”
“Well, there must be something better to do than this lot.” He gestured to the files. “Go and find it for me.”
He waved the young man out impatiently, and two minutes later he was back with an envelope marked ‘Urgent and confidential.’
“This just arrived by courier, Minister. I thought that you should see it.”
He handed Watson the large buff envelope and waited expectantly for him to open it. Watson turned it over in his hand uneasily, not quite sure what he was uneasy about, then he looked up at his advisor coolly. “Is there some reason that you’re still here, Michael?”
The young man was taken aback momentarily. It was dismissive, even for Joe.
“Oh. No Minister, not at all.”
He left, face flaming, and stormed down the hall to chastise one of his subordinates, for natural balance.
Watson considered the envelope for a moment and then opened it tentatively, removing the sheaf of paper inside. His first reaction was relief; it was just another boring brief. Then he turned over the top sheet and gasped at what was behind it. It was a colour photograph, close-up and detailed, with every landmark of his body and Ausra’s highlighted. His face was clearly visible and easily recognised. He thumbed quickly through the following sheets. Him and Ausra in the shower, on the floor, on the bed. His face clear in every one, but never hers. Even through his shock, he registered that none of them identified her. Very clever.
He could
feel a cold sweat dripping down his face and his chest tightened urgently. He reached quickly into his briefcase and grabbed at the small spray, pumping it twice under his tongue and then sitting back until the pain in his chest had passed, but not the one in his heart. Blackmail. She didn’t love him at all. She’d been playing him all along. But what did she want?
He turned back to the sheaf of paper, flicking furiously through it for a note, a highlight, something to tell him her demands. But there was nothing. For one happy moment, he thought that the pictures might have been sent by a journalist, warning him of an impending story. She might be innocent after all. She might still love him.
He was reaching for his phone when the landline beeped, and Michael knocked lightly at the door. “There’s a call for you Minister, line one. It sounds important, something to do with the Strategic Finance Foundation.”
Oh bugger, he wasn’t interested in that today, but he knew that he had to pretend. He grabbed rudely at the phone and Michael retreated hastily, listening outside the door.
“Joe Watson.”
“Hello, Joe.” The woman’s voice was familiar but he couldn’t place it immediately. He ran quickly through a list, landing on the name confirmed two seconds later.
“It’s Joanne Greer.”
He didn’t like her, and he was convinced that she was up to her eyes in the Horizon fiasco. His cool tone reflected his conviction.
“Hello, Joanne. What can I do for you?”
“I hope you liked the pictures, Joe. There are plenty more where they came from.”
Her words confused him for a moment. What was the connection between her and the photographs in front of him? He was about to ask when she saved him the bother.
“So, here’s the thing, Joe. You’ve been a naughty boy. And unless you do what I ask, I’ll make sure that your wife, children and the whole of Northern Ireland has evidence of just what a naughty boy you’ve been.”
“What? What are you talking about?” His tone was still cool but he could feel the fist in his chest tightening again.
“I’m talking about the Horizon project. If you don’t stop asking awkward questions and cooperate with me, I have couriers ready to take those photographs straight to your wife and the Belfast Chronicle. And that’s just for a start.”
He spat down the phone at her. “You stupid bitch. Do you really think that will stop me exposing you? Until now, I wasn’t 100% sure that there was a fraud, but you’ve just confirmed it. And as soon as you get off this line, I’m calling the police. You’ll spend the next ten years resting your skinny Malone Road ass in jail, you embezzling cow!”
Instead of the fear that he’d expected to hear, her voice became colder, and the calmness of her next words surprised him. “You sad old man. Did you really think that a girl like that could love you? With your flab and grey hair. Oh, please.” Bitch. She knew exactly where to hit him. “You go to the police then, Joe. But be sure you have the evidence to back-up your accusations, or you’ll spend years in court for slandering me. If I were you, I’d take blackmail as a gift, because if you don’t, you’ll find that there’s a lot worse coming in the future. Back off Horizon.”
Before Watson could say anything more, the line went dead, and he was left wondering who it was safe to call next.
***
Craig skipped the gym and was in the office by 7.30. He’d finished his last phone-call just as Nicky arrived and bounded out of his office and past her to the lift, heading for the twelfth floor.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes, Nicky. Could you get everyone together for nine please?
She nodded quickly after him as the lift-door closed, wondering what he was so energised about. He was always quick but not as quick as that. She smiled to herself at the certainty that something new had happened in the case, and meandered into the kitchen to fill the percolators with water. The chief would need extra caffeine after a meeting with Harrison.
Craig emerged from the lift two floors above and walked straight over to Susan Butler, Terry Harrison’s sedate P.A., especially chosen by his wife for her non-romantic potential.
“Good morning Mrs Butler. Is the D.C. S. in?”
She looked at him over her glasses; in a way that he felt sure she’d practiced in the mirror, and nodded, slowly. She was a beige woman. Beige suit, beige shoes, beige hair, set against the beige carpeted background of the twelfth floor, the superintendents’ domain. He’d insist on staying on the tenth if he ever took promotion. The quiet up here would kill him within a week.
She pursed her lips tightly and looked at her screen. “Detective Chief Superintendent Harrison could see you for five minutes, D.C.I. Craig. But only five.”
She gestured him to a seat and he perched on it restlessly while she murmured quietly into the phone. Then she nodded him in, to tell Terry Harrison the details of Bob Leighton’s death and ruin his day.
***
Craig re-entered the squad cheerfully at eight-thirty, remembering Harrison’s face at the news, and Nicky handed him the first brew of the day. Everyone was there so he pulled up a chair and started the briefing early. Davy and Liam rode their wheeled chairs into the centre and Annette demurely lifted a high desk chair, sitting beside Craig with her neat notes resting on her knee. He linked his hands above his head and stretched. Then he began.
“OK, I need to bring you all up to speed on Bob Leighton. He’s dead.”
Liam leaned forward to interject but Craig held a hand up to halt him. “I’ll answer questions in a minute, Liam. Let me brief you first.”
He updated them on the unpleasantness of Bob Leighton’s demise and Liam let out a low whistle. “Boyso, that’s clever. These boys are professionals.”
Annette nodded to herself. “A man died of high potassium when I was nursing. It was nearly missed.”
“So was this, Annette. And it would have been, but for John.”
“The Doc rides again. He’s clever, right enough.”
“We’ll come back to Leighton in a moment. What does everyone else have? Annette?”
Annette lifted the top sheet from her pile and squinted at it. She refused to wear glasses, despite Davy’s heavy hints, and the writing on the sheet was already in fourteen font.
“Kaisa Moldeau doesn’t exist.” They looked at her curiously. “There’s no record of anyone from Estonia bearing that name, or from any of the other Baltic States. I’ve got feelers out to Croatia, Serbia, Romania and other countries in the region, but there are no hits yet.”
“You might be out of luck, Annette. There were thousands of displaced people in eastern Europe after the various conflicts, and few surviving records.”
She nodded at Craig, agreeing. “She dropped Ben off at his grandparents last Thursday and we thought she’d taken off permanently, to Donegal with Leighton. But apparently, she told the grandparents that she’d be back on Monday. It’s Wednesday now and they haven’t seen her, sir.”
“What about her things?”
“Some of them are still at the Leighton’s house, but not Kaisa. She could be hurt, sir.”
He smiled at her mildly. “Or she could be guilty, Annette. OK, let’s step up the hunt for her please. Get uniform to check any of her known haunts. Liam?”
“Aye, well. I’m still waiting for McNulty to contact me. She went back up to Portsalon to see if there was anything left after the ambulance took Leighton, but I wouldn’t hold your breath, boss.”
“Don’t underestimate her, she’s good.” He turned immediately to Davy, ignoring Liam’s quick grin.
“Davy?”
Davy sat forward eagerly and Craig knew that he had something.
“There are two things, s...sir. London mailed through the description of the woman, but I’m not sure how much good it will do us.”
“Why?”
“It’s very vague. Late twenties. Light complexion, fair-hair, thin and w...wearing modern dress. It could be anyone. One w...witness thought he heard her saying so
mething in another language. ‘Draga’. It means ‘darling’ or ‘dear’ in some eastern European languages. But s...she didn’t say it to the victims, and she definitely w…wasn’t a relative of either of the men who died.”
“That doesn’t make sense, lad.”
“I know.”
“Unless...” Craig thought for a moment. “Unless she was referring to the shooter. They could be a couple.”
“It would go along with two people killing Irene Leighton, sir.”
Liam nodded. “I’ll get onto terrorism and see if there are any ‘tag-teams’ working.”
Craig nodded Davy on.
“The other thing is that we’ve just got a hit on the prints, about ten minutes ago. But...” He looked uneasy and Craig was immediately curious.
“Something wrong with the hit?”
“Yes s...sir. It’s a bit too convenient. It came in as a tip-off. The prints were identified in a note delivered to Jack Harris at High S...Street.”
He handed each of them a sheet of paper as he spoke. It was a photocopy of a typed note.
‘For the attention of the Belfast Murder Squad, working the murder of Irene Leighton. The prints you found belong to Joe Watson. Enterprise Minister. They had a past.’
How convenient. But what if they were Joe Watson’s prints? An M.P. dead and a Minister implicated, Craig could already picture Harrison shooting himself in the head…after he’d checked his hair.
“I didn’t know how to proceed. Do we take this s…seriously or not?”
Craig sat forward urgently. “Yes we do, but not because I believe that he killed her, although I’ve no doubt that the prints and probably the D.N.A on the cigarette, are his. We take it seriously because someone badly wants us to believe that he killed her, and that means that Watson might be able to tell us something useful about the Leightons’ deaths.”
He stood up. “Liam, Annette, go to High Street. Find out anything you can about who delivered the note, or who ordered it delivered, anything. Then visit Joe Watson. Don’t tell him about the tip-off but invite him in for interview, to help with enquiries into the death of Irene Leighton. Just tell him that we’ve uncovered a past connection between them.”
The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 16
