Craig was puzzled. He needed to call John.
“OK, thanks Annette. Go home now, and send that information over to D.C.S. Chandak’s office tomorrow if you would. I think you’ve just broken our case for us. Great job.”
***
Joanne wasn’t exactly panicking. No, not panic, that wasn’t a word in her vocabulary, but she certainly felt an urgent need to talk to Alik. The police had appeared thirty minutes after Declan’s botched shooting, and questioned her all bloody afternoon. There were still two of them outside, just in case. Just in case of what? She’d spent the time since they’d left thinking hard, retracing her actions and words, looking for mistakes, but there were none.
It was only 6.30 and the evening was still bright, but she’d closed the curtains on the arched sitting-room window. She couldn’t bear to see them standing in her driveway, talking on their echoing radios. They’d acted as if they knew more than they said. Maybe she’d underestimated the Northern Ireland plods. She’d always known that they were good at the terrorist stuff, but their basic policing must surely have slipped during the Troubles. They couldn’t possibly be as good as The Met, could they? And she’d tied them in knots in court often enough in the past.
And then that phone-call five minutes ago, from some woman. Asking sneaky little questions about her barrister work, and naming criminals that she’d defended. Thank God, they hadn’t mentioned Alik. But she’d had a long list; he must have been in there somewhere. And she was coming here, to her home, tomorrow! This was getting too close for comfort; she needed to talk to Alik, now. Sod his stupid pay-as-you-go rules. She was fed-up waiting to be contacted, waiting to be told when she could and couldn’t talk to him. His control-freakery was getting very old.
She picked up the faux 1940’s phone sitting in the window bay, and quickly made the call. The ring-tone said that he was in the U.K, although you never knew with Alik. He picked-up quickly and she had a fleeting thought that calling his mobile would be expensive, she told the girls off about every bill. The thought disappeared as soon as he spoke.
“Yes.” His dark voice made the line vibrate, and her as well.
“Alik, darling, I need to talk.”
“Why are you calling me?” He hung up abruptly and tears sprung to her eyes, a mixture of hurt feelings and pride. Almost immediately, her handbag vibrated. She grabbed at it, pulling the cheap pay-as-you-go phone out and fumbling with the controls.
“You stupid bitch.” He was shouting at her so loudly that the only thing shaking now was her hand. “What are you doing? You have no idea what you have done. Why are you so stupid?”
Then Joanne did something completely out of character that shocked them both. She cried. Not the manufactured wronged-wife’s tears of the past few days, or the useful business tears that she kept for difficult meetings. Not even the tears of frustration at Declan’s constant stupidity. But the genuine tears of a frightened woman, looking for comfort from the only man that she’d ever really loved.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Craig knew that he’d missed curtain-up, but he’d already made his choice. He couldn’t sit through a performance watching her like a normal punter. Besides which, he had paperwork to do for tomorrow. He immediately felt like a coward, then he defended himself against his own accusation. He would go backstage after the play and see her face-to-face. It would be private, and it was all he could handle.
There was no point beating himself up about something that he couldn’t do. His job brought him enough challenges; he didn’t need to test himself in his leisure time as well. He nodded to himself, only half-convinced, but felt better for making the choice. The indecision had been killing him ever since Yemi had handed him the ticket.
Curtain down was 9.30. Plenty of time to work, and then change into a few years older and slightly more expensive version of the man that she’d first met. He brightened up, like a man who’d just received a stay of execution, and decided to call John. He needed some details on the rifle, and on the girl’s mysterious past.
John didn’t answer the phone for what seemed like ages, and he was puffing like the Portrush Flyer when he did. Craig was curious.
“Don’t tell me. You’ve taken up jogging?”
For a moment all he could hear was John inhaling deeply. It was starting to worry him, when he finally spoke in a wheeze. “You fit people can mock all you like, but I’m determined to get in shape. If you saw the inside of people’s arteries like I do, you’d understand why.”
God, he was jogging.
“Natalie’s persuaded me to do the half-marathon at Forfar, and it’s only seven weeks away “
It was worse than jogging, he was running. Craig was normally the athletic one; he didn’t think John even possessed a pair of trainers.
“You’re kidding! You, running? Where are you at the moment?”
“Half way down Annadale Embankment on an eight-mile route. And it’s only my first day, in fact it’s my first ever run, so don’t take the piss.”
Craig laughed, disbelievingly. “I have to; you know that. That’s what mates are for. Don’t you think you should have tried something shorter than eight miles, after forty years of inertia?”
Craig could hear him sitting down. His breathing gradually quietened to the point where it didn’t drown out the background noise, and the sounds of traffic and birds were finally audible. He talked on while John couldn’t.
“Listen, I agree with Natalie. You need to get fit. But you can’t go from nought to one hundred in your first run, John! You’ll kill yourself. And there’s no way she told you to do eight miles straight off. ”
“You’re right, she didn’t. But I can’t be bothered building things up slowly. I get bored. So I thought I’d just go for it.”
Craig raised his eyes to heaven. “For a man with a big brain you’re really thick sometimes, John. When I get back, we’ll do some weights and cardio at the gym, before you kill yourself. Besides which, Natalie loves you for your mind.”
They both laughed. “Well, she’d better. I look like the weed in the Mr Muscle adverts in this outfit. And I don’t think that I love anyone enough for this. Where are you, by the way?”
“In my hotel room.” Craig looked around the small, overheated room, lying. “It’s not too bad. I’ll ring you back when you can talk without gasping.”
“I can talk now. And if I can help you, I’ll feel less of a useless dick, knowing that I’m good at something. What can I do for you?”
“We’re bringing in a suspect tomorrow morning for interview. So I’d like a bit of background on the rifle, and on the D.N.A. hit that Annette said you got.”
“Right, yes. Did you get my report today?”
“Sorry, I haven’t had time to look at it in detail yet. I’ve spent most of the day staring at surveillance tapes and sketches. Can you give me the quick version?”
“OK. Well, you know both rounds were 338 Lapuas?”
“Yes.”
“And you know there are two main rifles used for that round, but I’ll get onto that in a minute. I checked with Norris and they followed the trajectory back from Declan Greer’s position. They found aluminium residue at a site about 1.5 kilometres from where he was shot. Up in Dublin Road, near the back of the course’s hospitality pavilion. Do you know it?”
“Yes. Could the metal be identified as a rifle?”
“No, just a heap of metal. It had high concentration Sodium Hydroxide residue on it.”
“You think it was used to melt the rifle down?”
“Definitely, it’s nasty stuff, burn a hold in nearly anything. The shooter dissolved the rifle and left, probably ditching the gloves and containers elsewhere. If they search around there’ll be a PVC container with some Sodium Hydroxide residue, I’m sure of it. I’ve asked Derek Cantor to have a check, just in case a child accidentally lifts it.
Anyway, it wasn’t completely dissolved so Des has done the calculations. He thinks the aluminium weig
hed about 5.5 kg, which makes it most likely it was a SAKO, rather than the A.I. They’re both aluminium but the A.I. is about a kilo heavier.”
“You’re quite the expert on rifles nowadays.”
“It’s exciting stuff.”
Craig smiled. John had always wanted to be the cowboy when they were kids.
“In fact, I was thinking of taking up shooting, just targets. Fancy joining me?”
“Sure, I’ll take you to the range. Targets are fine, but nothing living.”
“Agreed. Ross Ellis shoots, doesn’t he?”
“He goes deer hunting. We’ve had a few arguments on it. What about the D.N.A.?”
John was silent for a moment, and Craig could feel his sadness before he said anything. His voice confirmed it.
“Marc, I know this girl is probably, well, almost certainly a killer. And I know your sympathy always lies with the victims. But I have to tell you, after what she went through, I don’t think anyone would be normal.”
“Tell me.” Craig knew that whatever he heard next would be terrible.
“The D.N.A. went back to a War Crime’s database, compiled after the Bosnian conflict in 1992-1995. It belonged to a seven-year-old Serbian girl called Kaisa Mitic.”
Not Moldeau. “Both the D.N.A. and the prints match her.”
Craig’s voice was gentle. “What happened to her, John?”
He hesitated for a moment, and then started. “She was living in a small village in Serbia with her family; parents, an older brother and a baby sister. The older brother was fourteen. They were poor, just making enough to live on. They had a smallholding near some woods, beside the river Sava.” His voice became angry. “They had absolutely nothing to do with the war, or the army.” He paused for breath again, and then went on.
“One day the Serbian army came through. It was 1991. Just before they went into Bosnia and before the worst of the atrocities against the Bosnians started. They came to the house looking for food and refreshments, but the family only had a few cattle and chickens - you can imagine the poverty. Anyway...they saw the little girl, and...”
He stopped again and Craig’s blood chilled, the hairs standing-up on his neck. He knew what was coming next. It was like some bad horror movie where the plot is inevitable, and you want to shout at the screen and warn the victim, but you’re powerless to help.
“The soldiers took it in turns to rape her, Marc. Grown men, five of them. The records said there were five of them. They raped a seven-year-old girl, in front of her parents and brother. When they’d finished, they stood the parents back to back and shot them through the head with a single bullet - they died instantly. Then they turned to do the same to the children. They stamped the baby to death first, presumably to keep it quiet, but the older boy managed to grab Kaisa and drag her off into the woods.
They managed to lose themselves. The soldiers shot after them but they missed, then the bastards torched the farm and the bodies and just walked away. Probably to do the same thing to the Bosnians. In fact, definitely to do the same.”
Craig started to ask him questions quickly. Mainly to take his mind off what John had said, because to dwell on it would have generated such a murderous rage in him that he’d have put his fist straight through his flimsy wardrobe door.
“What did the children do next, John?”
“The boy got her to a doctor and reported what had been done, brave little thing. He was able to identify the soldiers. He knew them, Marc. They were men from the next village, men that would have said hello to their family at local events. They were just animals who saw an opportunity to take something that they’d probably already seen and wanted, the little girl. The boy testified against them after the war. His name was Stevan.”
Craig nodded to himself. Of course. “He’s our shooter, John. They aren’t a romantic couple, they’re brother and sister. The war destroyed them and now they destroy other people.”
“You’re certain they’re both involved?”
Craig told him about the surveillance tapes.
“That makes sense. Look, I know what they did here was completely wrong, and there’s no excuse. But dear God, Marc, where does all that anger go if it’s not dealt with? And the girl, how much damage did they do to her?”
They were quiet for a moment, thinking. She was only seven. Craig thought about how he’d have reacted if it had been Lucia, and his parents. He’d love to believe that he’d have been as brave as Stevan the boy, and that he’d be better now than Stevan the man. But he couldn’t be sure of it. War created a lot of killers, and not just at the time.
The phone-call ended itself. There was nowhere else to go with it, just a quiet ‘thanks’ and ‘talk tomorrow’ and then, click. Each of them left trying to work out who the real victims were.
***
Craig paid the black taxi and stepped out into the cold night air on Shaftesbury Avenue .The faces of people walking past were dappled with light from the bright overhead signs, announcing that ‘Chariots of Fire’ was on at The Gielgud Theatre, and ‘Les Miserables’ at Queen’s.
He looked around, feeling the excitement of the West End, and smiling despite his tiredness. The three glasses of wine he’d drunk in the hotel bar helped. As John often said, ‘fatigue is directly soluble in alcohol’, and who was he to argue with a doctor.
A small group of teenagers walked past him on the narrow pavement, laughing. Young and unburdened. They reminded him of Davy, and he hoped that he’d stay that way; that Maggie Clarke was kind to him.
He picked his way past the pavement detritus, not remembering it as bad five years before, but still loving London anyway. For its noise and life and variety; and its rainbow of people. He hoped that Belfast would be as cosmopolitan too someday, on a smaller scale.
He reached his destination and gazed-up at the overhead sign. The red and green lights announced her loudly. Camille Kennedy, gifted actress. The lead in ‘The Cold Stone’ by Stephen Maray. The play that she’d performed in the festival in Belfast, now in the West End. The photograph on the billboard showed her as a 1930s siren, and he remembered watching her in the Grand Opera House. The role suited her.
He glanced at his watch. 9.25. The play ended in five minutes. He’d timed it perfectly. He walked quickly to the stage door and gave his name. It opened inwards immediately, the manager briefed to admit him and show him to her dressing room.
He entered the large warm room with the star on its door, impressed, and happy for her. For years she’d shared cold storage-cupboards with five others. He was pleased that she finally had the star status that her talent warranted. No matter what it had cost them both.
Craig looked around while he waited, at the flower-bouquets and good-luck cards, some from well-known names. And then he saw his own. Not one that he’d sent her for this show, because he hadn’t, but one from years before. Ten years before when she’d played Rosalie, the maid in an Oscar Wilde play called Lady Windermere’s Fan. She’d been so nervous that he remembered her shaking in the wings and gripping his hand tightly. He’d left the card and a present for her to find when she came off.
He picked it up, smiling at the words that he’d written all those years ago. He’d been a different man then, and they’d had a different relationship. He felt torn between leaving immediately, preserving the past as it was, and staying for five more minutes, to discover if they had a future.
Just then the door opened wide and she rushed in. Slight and blonde, red-lipped and Marcel-waved, in a sheath of gold lame, looking exactly like the screen siren she was supposed to be. She looked stunning, and he couldn’t breathe for a moment. She was even more beautiful than he remembered.
She saw immediately what was running through his mind, looking up into his dark eyes while he looked down into hers. She stepped slowly towards him, lifting her hand to his cheek. He didn’t retreat and she moved nearer, so that his breath stopped still, making the air between them silent.
They were so clos
e now that only the colours that they wore said where she began and he ended. She reached her other hand to his hair stroking its thick dark strands seductively, rhythmically. Until he pulled her to his chest, his arms around her waist and his thighs tight against hers, and their lips met, for the first time in years.
Softly and tentatively at first, exploring each other gently. Then he pressed down harder and her lips parted in submission, opening to his taste and feel. She sank into his arms so entirely, that she felt as if she was falling backwards and him with her. He whispered her name softly. “Camille,” as if all the years had fallen away, back to when they first met. They were young again, when they would make love for hours and then name the stars from the balcony of their small flat.
He moved swiftly to the door and locked it, cutting off the light outside and leaving only the faint glow of the table-lamp to highlight her beauty. In one smooth movement he lifted her onto the couch and caressed her lips with his, forgetting time, until she begged him hoarsely to make love to her. In a memory and movement as natural as breathing he slipped her dress straps down one by one. Until her lame sheath fell to the floor, and her bare, tanned perfection lay in front of him, unchanged and just as he remembered her.
He stood, pulling off his jacket, and knelt down before her, reaching forward to stroke her smooth thighs gently. Her skin was like gossamer, even softer than he remembered and she moaned quietly and went to speak. He placed a finger on her lips, stilling all conversation, and started to kiss her slowly, from her feet, through her thighs and beyond. Taking time and patience, never hurrying, never stopping. Bringing her gently to ecstasy once, and then turning her over and caressing her again. Using first his tongue and then his hands, losing himself in her scents and sighs. Then stronger strokes, arousing her again, until she cried out for mercy.
He stood for a moment, looking down at her, watching her gentle, quick recovery. He looked at her shining eyes and at the sweat dripping off her sleek, tanned skin. And more than anything, at her longing. Her parted lips and languid eyes begged him for more and he drew her firmly to her feet, and to him. Then he lifted her further, and entered her with one hard thrust, to give them both what they had wanted for hours.
The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 27
