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

by Catriona King

  Stevan understood, and it made him despise the man in front of him. He stored the feeling away for the future and nodded, returning to the job ahead.

  “Who is the target?”

  Alik smiled like an amiable uncle “Patience boy, I will get to that. The young are so impatient. Be careful, it breeds mistakes. If I hadn’t been so hasty I would never have married my wives. In the old code it was not allowed.” He laughed loudly at his own joke and even Stevan smiled at the thought.

  “But then you wouldn’t have your children.”

  Alik reached over and slapped his arm hard. “You’re right, you’re right. No action is 100% wasted.”

  He fell silent and reached forward into a drawer, lifting out a small black box. It contained a delicate mesh of platinum laced with thirty diamonds, each at least half a carat. Stevan swallowed hard. It was amazing, and worth at least a million.

  “For Alexa’s birthday. You think she will like it?”

  Stevan laughed at the thought of any sixteen-year-old girl not liking it. “It’s stunning, but she’ll need a body-guard to wear it.”

  Alik smiled, pleased by his reaction.

  “To business then. The client has another problem. Her husband, who is her business partner, is not happy about the death of Robert Leighton. He knows nothing of her part in the wife’s death, but she foolishly told him of the M.P. Now it seems that he has trouble with his conscience and means to talk to the police. Conscience is such a burden to some people.”

  Stevan was shocked, surprised that the client was a woman, although why should he be? Kaisa was proof of how lethal women could be; but her murders came from trauma, not from money. But the honesty of their client’s husband was unexpected and it pleased him somehow. Alik read his mind, but not completely.

  “I see what you are thinking, and you are right of course. But only she was the client, the husband knew nothing. And even worse than telling the police, he is trying to alienate her from her daughters.”

  An angry darkness crossed his face at the idea. “That, I cannot allow. This client and I have knowledge of each other for many years. She helped me many times as my barrister and...she was someone to me.”

  Stevan understood. Every man had a woman who was special to him. He had yet to meet his.

  “So you see, we need a quick remedy for this husband. Can you do this, Stevan? I know that you are tired and just returned, but this is two days work at most.”

  Stevan nodded slowly. “Of course, I will. But not Kaisa please. She’s tired and must rest.”

  Alik smiled avuncularly. “Agreed. Not Kaisa. She stays in London.”

  He reached into the drawer again and pulled out a white padded-envelope. Stevan knew exactly what it would contain. False I.D, tickets, a burn phone, money and a legend. He opened it to see who he would be this time, and where he would get his weapon. He couldn’t return to the gun they’d left at the airport. The police would find it eventually, but without a single print.

  He read quietly for a minute. He was to be a Nordic businessman on a trip, arriving in Belfast for an imaginary meeting. He would stay in a hotel this time, ‘The Lagan Warehouse’ - not too high, not too low. He was to meet a man in the bar, exchanging money for information - the key to an unmarked weapon and the wherewithal to destroy it. So many guns still at liberty in that conflict-weathered country. But it would be only two more days and one more death. Then rest, and never again.

  They talked on about the target, about life, about the birthday girl. Then Stevan waved good-bye and climbed into the car, for the journey back to his shortened evening with Kaisa. An early dinner and then she would have to amuse herself. He had a plane to catch at eight o’clock. She would fret about him, but they both knew the life. The more work, the more money, and the more money the sooner they would leave it behind forever.

  ***

  Joe Watson was either a bloody good actor or he really had no idea that Bob Leighton was dead. And he was like no politician that Craig had ever met. There was none of the usual arrogance and bluster, or apparent belief in his own infallibility. The man in front of him sagged like a deflated balloon.

  Joe slumped in his chair, observing the scene in an ‘out of body’ way. This had to be happening to someone else. Three hours ago, he’d been at work in Stormont and now he was being interrogated about murder. He remembered the Chinese curse, ‘May you live in interesting times’ and smiled. His life was certainly that.

  Craig clicked on the tape-machine and relaxed back in his seat, mimicking the other man’s posture. He stared hard across the table, trying to work him out. There was something exhausted about him; but not physical tiredness, more a sense of futility with the world.

  “Mr Watson. Do you know why you’re here?”

  Watson looked at him blankly, either not hearing him or not caring what he’d said. Craig repeated himself more firmly, and was rewarded with a nod.

  “It’s something to do with Irene.”

  “Yes, it is. Did you know Mrs Leighton well?”

  His eyes immediately said yes, and Craig wondered if his mouth would do the same. It did.

  “I knew her very well.”

  Then unprompted, Joe Watson gave them enough information to close a gap in their case.

  ***

  Ross Ellis was a medium bloke in every way. Medium height, medium weight and medium-brown colouring. In fact, the only things that stood out about him were his overly large feet, which were size thirteen. He joked that some six-foot-five man was running around with his size nines, and he wanted them back.

  Pretty much everybody liked him, except his ex-wife, and that was only because he had asked his lads to tail her on the ‘front and follow’ to catch her with her boyfriend, hence the divorce proceedings. Davy didn’t know what he’d expected a Chief Inspector in counter-terrorism to look like, but it was definitely more James Bond than Ricky Gervais.

  Ellis was hunched down behind his desk when they arrived at his glass-doored office, so Davy knocked tentatively and waited, Craig letting him take the lead. He knocked deliberately lightly so as not to anger the room’s occupant. Davy had a healthy respect for the cloak and dagger boys and you never knew what spooks would do if they were angered.

  Ellis looked up and they suddenly saw why he’d been hunching. One hand was covering a half-smoked cigarette, in a ‘smoking forbidden’ force. He laughed and waved them in, grinning at the younger man’s floppy hair and black nails.

  “Hi, Marc. Come on in, son. I don’t bite.”

  He stubbed the cigarette out slowly in a cup as he talked; walking to the wall sink to rinse it. Then he lifted a can of air-freshener from his desk drawer and sprayed it around liberally to mask the smell.

  “Are you Murder’s new analyst?”

  Davy nodded, half-smiling. He liked this man already for his rule-breaking, convinced that people needed the occasional rebellion. Ellis was still talking, quickly and with a vague north-coast twang.

  “You lot on the tenth put us all to shame, with your fashion sense. What with Craig and his London suits, and you with your Goth chic. I tell you, when the force makes a ‘boys of the police’ calendar for charity, there you’ll be, Mr June and July. Posing with your Armani jackets strategically draped over your designer bits.”

  He laughed loudly at his own joke and Craig and Davy laughed along. When the laughing finally stopped, Davy spoke.

  “Emo.”

  “Emo?”

  “I’m an Emo, not a Goth, just for accuracy.”

  “Ooh, that’s me told.” He smiled and waved them to two chairs. “Right then, Emu. What can I do for you?”

  Craig made the introductions and then excused himself, leaving Davy to fill Ellis in on the bullet, the gun, the Vors and Liam’s earlier conversation with Geoff Hamill. Ellis’ eyes widened as Davy first picked his brains and then buried him in information, leaving him with a huge headache that would get bigger very soon.

  ***

  C
aitlin Watson was a slim, glossy dark-blonde who looked just like the Miss Northern Ireland that she’d once been. She’d been married to Joe for fifteen years and they’d each brought children from their previous lives, to form the perfect modern family. So perfect in fact that Annette remembered them being photographed ‘en famille’ in the glossy pages of the Ulster Bazaar. ‘Here is my lovely over-styled wife, reclining on our over-styled bed, in our incredibly over-styled and expensive bedroom.’

  Craig had tasked Annette with interviewing her about the Leighton’s, without alerting her to the fact that Bob Leighton was dead. Or that her husband Joe was helping them with their enquiries into Irene Leighton’s death. When she’d complained about the impossible task, Craig had said that he had ‘every faith’ in her powers of diplomacy. She only wished that she had.

  Caitlin had opened the door smiling five minutes before, and now she was pouring coffee from an exquisite porcelain pot into minuscule matching cups. As she poured, Annette looked around the modern room admiringly. Whoever had chosen the colour scheme had matched it perfectly to Caitlin’s own and the effect was striking.

  She took the proffered cup tentatively, smiling at its size. Even Liam’s little finger wouldn’t have fitted through the handle. She balanced it on her knee with her left hand and opened her notebook with her right, turning to the purpose of her visit.

  “If you could just tell me anything that you know about the Leightons generally, Mrs Watson. Did you socialise with them? Or did your husband ever talk about them, for instance?”

  Caitlin Watson stared into space, recalling. Then she spoke, in a strangely still voice, so monochromatic and quiet that Annette strained to hear.

  “We didn’t socialise with them, but I met them both at functions, of course.”

  “Government functions?”

  She nodded. “Yes. But others too. Irene was involved in lots of charities. She was always throwing fund-raisers. She was a very nice woman.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “No.” She looked down at her perfectly manicured nails, sadly. “I don’t mean it unkindly, but she wasn’t into fashion really, and most of my friends are. But I liked her very much, everyone did.”

  Her expression changed to one of disgust. “Which is more than I can say for her husband.” She shuddered slightly. “A nasty man. Joe doesn’t like him much either, I can tell you that.”

  Annette leaned forward and placed her cup on the too-low coffee table between them, trying not to ask her next question too eagerly. “Do you know why your husband dislikes him?”

  “I think loathes him would be a better word, sergeant. Joe loathes him. He’s lazy, hardly does any work in his constituency, and Joe says that he’s crooked.”

  Annette was writing furiously in her small notebook and looked up sharply at her last word, echoing it. “Crooked?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure of the details but Joe says he fiddles everything, even his expenses. The man’s loaded and he fiddles his expenses. And his father was honest to a fault.”

  “His father?”

  “Yes, Robert Leighton senior, his father. He was high up in government here for years. Everyone knew him, and respected him.”

  Annette’s interest in local politics was zero, so she sincerely hoped that someone’s back at the ranch was higher. She swallowed, forming her next question as diplomatically as possible.

  “Did your husband have any direct dealings with Mrs Leighton? Perhaps in her charity work?”

  Caitlin Watson just stared at her uncomprehending, and then laughed lightly. “Joe? Charity work! He’s a good man, but not a saint. No, I don’t think he ever met Irene except at functions. Why?”

  Annette closed her notebook and slipped it into her handbag, standing to go. The woman in front of her obviously knew nothing that could help them.

  “Just general background questions, Mrs Watson. That’s been very helpful, thank you. I’ll leave you now.” She extended her hand and the other woman shook it without rising. “I’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”

  Then, without giving Caitlin Watson time to ask ‘what questions’, she was out of the door and into her car, heading back to Docklands.

  ***

  The briefing had been called for three and everyone had gathered, ready, apart from Davy. Craig nodded Annette on and she’d just started reporting when Davy hurtled in, raising a hand in apology and sliding his chair in beside Liam’s.

  “I did my best not to give Mrs Watson any clues, sir. And she didn’t seem to pick up on anything.” Annette paused for a moment, looking wistful. “You should see the house. My whole downstairs could fit into the living room. And the decor...”

  “How the other half live, eh, boss.”

  “You mean how the other five-percent live nowadays, Liam.”

  Annette smiled at Craig, continuing. “The only contact they had with Irene Leighton was at charity functions; Mrs Leighton ran a number of fund-raisers.”

  “Did Joe ever see her separately, Annette?”

  “Not as far as Mrs Watson was aware. And I think she was being truthful, sir.”

  “The wives are always the last to know...”

  Annette turned on Liam angrily. “God, Liam. Do you have to drag everything into the gutter? There’s no sign that Joe Watson was having an affair with Irene Leighton.”

  Craig looked at her ruefully. “I’ll come back to that in a minute, Annette. Carry on.”

  “You mean he was?”

  Craig shook his head sadly, not answering, and waved her on.

  “Apparently Bob Leighton is crooked. Everyone knows that he fiddles his expenses and maybe more.”

  “Did she give you any details?”

  “No. But she did say that Joe hated him. No, sorry, she said he loathed him.”

  “That’s worse, isn’t it, boss?”

  “It’s certainly sounds like it. Anything else?”

  “No. Nothing, sir. I didn’t get any sense that there was animosity between Mrs Watson and Irene Leighton at all.”

  “OK, thanks. Davy?”

  “Yes, s...sir. As you know I’ve been downstairs with Ross Ellis, from counterterrorism.” Davy laughed. “He w...was having a cig when we arrived.”

  Craig smiled. Ellis had been addicted to nicotine since university. One of the last surviving smokers. Him and Julia McNulty.

  “Who’s we, lad?”

  “I introduced Davy and then left them to it. Did Ross throw any light on the bullet, Davy? Or the Vors?”

  “None. And he looked really w...worried when I left. He was already calling D.I. Hamill.”

  It was just as Craig had thought; the Vors had no presence in Northern Ireland. If they were here now it was for a specific reason.

  “Liam?”

  “Nothing much, boss. The prints match Watson and we’re waiting for the D.N.A. to come back. When we lifted him, either he did a good imitation of knowing nothing about Bob Leighton’s murder, or he was telling the truth. We’ve sent his prints to London, on a long shot, but I doubt they’ll match anything else. Oh, and Bob Leighton was playing golf in Scotland on the lost weekend before he went to Dublin. Innocent enough but he obviously didn’t want the wife to know.”

  Craig nodded. “Detachment rules.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a military expression. It refers to when you are away playing and tell no one the details. OK, then. As you all know, Liam and Annette picked Joe Watson up at Stormont at lunchtime and brought him in for interview on a voluntary basis. That has now been made more formal since his prints matched. But I still don’t think that he had anything to do with Irene Leighton’s murder. In fact, I’m sure that he didn’t, although I’m certain that his D.N.A will match that found on the cigarette. By the way Annette, did his wife confirm that he smoked?”

  Annette nodded. “Yes, then went into a rant about how awful it made the house smell.”

  Liam leaned forward, looking serious. “Why so
sure he’s innocent, boss? The prints look pretty convincing.”

  Craig shook his head. “Too convincing. I was convinced that he didn’t do it before the interview, and I’m positive of it now.”

  “What did he say, sir?”

  “First of all, he was devastated by Irene Leighton’s death and he had no idea that Bob Leighton was dead until I told him.” Craig was like a lie detector and they knew that he wouldn’t have been fooled.

  “W...why devastated?”

  Craig looked down sadly, and what he said next surprised them all. “Because he loved her, Davy.”

  Liam opened his mouth ready with cynicism, but Craig kept going. “Twenty-two years ago.”

  “What?”

  “But she was only eighteen, sir”

  Craig nodded. “And he was thirty.”

  “Dirty old man.”

  “Here Davy, don’t you be too quick to say thirty’s old, you’re only five years off.”

  “I meant the age-gap.”

  Annette was nodding furiously in the background as Craig continued. “Yes, that was an issue, but it seems to have been a genuine relationship.”

  He paused and looked down, his next words quiet. “Irene Leighton, or Irene Hannigan as she was known then, became pregnant. Watson wanted them to get married, so they went to England.”

  Davy leaned forward, innocence written all over him. “W...Why didn’t they stay here?”

  Annette turned to him gently. “It was 1990, Davy. You were only three. But a girl who got pregnant and wasn’t married in Northern Ireland back then, would have got a very hard time from her family.”

  Liam nodded. “Even worse if she lived in the country.”

  “And the man?”

  “A bit, but not as much, lad.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  Craig nodded, agreeing. “But it’s the truth, Davy. Equality wasn’t always what it is now. Anyway, they left for London and the baby was born, a little girl called Rebecca.” The ‘R’ on the baby bracelet.

  “They were planning to marry and return home afterwards, when...” He hesitated. “The baby died at three months from S.I.D.S.”