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

by Catriona King

  He stopped and looked lovingly into her eyes, and then thrust again and watched as she submitted to him. Stroking her hair and nipples unhurriedly, and tenderly caressing her skin, he moved rhythmically, again and again, until finally they thrust in time with each other.

  He finally felt her body tense and arch, signalling his own longed-for release, in a fire of warmth and sensation between their thighs that neither had ever felt before. He held her close for minutes, as if she was fragile and could break, until finally her breathing slowed and his own matched hers, and finally, their bodies pulled apart. Then without a word, they dressed and left, walking slowly to her apartment, and a night that neither of them would ever forget.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I have no idea why you bring me here. I say nothing without my lawyer.”

  Craig was in a much brighter interview room than the C.C.U.’s; London obviously had better interior design than they could afford. The table had no scorch marks from abandoned or stubbed cigarettes, and the sign on the wall, bearing testament to ‘no smoking or mobile phones’ hadn’t been defaced at all. Even the tape-machine was more high-tech than he’d used before. But none of that altered the facts - he was looking at a criminal, and they were the same whatever the decor.

  True, Ershov hadn’t been caught with stolen goods, or bloody hands. And no one was waiting on the other side of the wall to identify him. They didn’t even have a charge. But he knew a criminal when he saw one. No matter how hard they scrubbed, and covered their bodies in expensive cologne, they couldn’t wash away the stench of what they’d done. It was always there, like some indefinable shadow, darkening the room.

  He much preferred the street villain, the obvious crook. Who ‘f’ed and blinded’ when you arrested them, called you a pig and took a swing. There was a kind of honesty about that approach. In your face. It was this type that he couldn’t stomach, the type who never got their own hands bloody.

  He wanted to reach across the table and grab Ershov by his scrawny, be-jewelled throat. But they had to deal with this filth to get to the ones who did the killing. They all knew it. But it still made him want to throw up.

  The lawyer was taking his time in appearing, so they left Ershov alone in the room, with a cup of coffee and his requested newspaper. The Financial Times - ever the respectable businessman. Then they headed back upstairs, where Rajiv Chandak was waiting for them at his office door.

  “What’s happening down there?”

  “Nothing yet, sir. He’s lawyered-up and saying nothing until they get here.”

  Chandak shrugged, too long in the tooth to let it bother him. Just the games people played.

  “Right. Marc, something has come through from Belfast, Rita has it. RITA...”

  The round, comfortable figure of Rita came ambling into the office with a transparent plastic folder in her hand. She followed it with a ready-prepared tray of coffee and biscuits. Chandak smiled down at her warmly. “If I didn’t know better I’d swear my mother had moved down from Birmingham to take care of me. Thank you, Rita.”

  Yemi needed a quick word on another case, so Craig drank his black coffee pulling out the sheets of A4 that Annette had faxed over. She’d done just as he’d asked, and she’d got a result. He punched the air. Yes!

  Yemi caught his friend’s familiar gesture, and looked over at him, smiling. “You’ve got leverage on Ershov?”

  “We have. Annette’s worked the oracle. We haven’t got the money trail yet, but we do have something that’ll make him pretty damn uncomfortable.”

  “Well, are you going to tell us? Or do I have to get Yemi here to torture you?”

  Craig laughed. He wished he could take this double act back with him, Liam would love them. He pulled a page from the pile and put it in front of them on the desk. Then he pointed to the line that he’d circled heavily in pen...

  ***

  Joanne had had enough. She’d had police all over her home, her business and her life since yesterday and she was sick of it. She was even more tired of acting like ‘the wronged wife’. There were only so many facial scrubs that a woman could take.

  She was finally alone in the house. Carina had been dispatched to school and Isabella to Uni. She couldn’t stand them moping around anymore, saying ‘poor Daddy, someone tried to shoot him’. Pity they missed the bastard.

  She would be looking into that, it wasn’t what she’d paid for. But at least Declan had kept his mouth shut about Joe Watson so far. She knew it was only for the girls’ sake but she would take anything she could get. The worst thing was that he had gone from gambling waster to Nelson Mandela in five seconds, just because he’d been shot at! She’d completely forgotten that it would elevate him to sainthood in the girls’ eyes. Damn, damn, damn. Still, at least he was out of her life now.

  Now she had another problem, the plods had hinted at it yesterday but they’d actually stated it today. She was a suspect in his shooting! And for all the wrong reasons, that was almost what annoyed her most. Stupid fucking man, why did he have to announce his plans to divorce her in front of a tent full of people? Now everyone thought that she was some sort of pathetic woman who’d ordered him shot out of love.

  She unfolded her long brown legs and stood up, strolling over to the window and staring-out at the drive absent-mindedly. There they are, like insects, crawling all over my Aston, staring at every dent Declan inflicted, as if they’re an indicator of motive. As if I would have killed him over those. Mind you...

  There was a soft knock on the door behind her, and without looking she impatiently said. “Oh, come in, for God’s sake.”

  She immediately heard heavy feet entering, and then a second lighter pair. They stopped abruptly behind her, as if expecting her to acknowledge their presence. Well they’d be waiting until hell froze over. Eventually the man spoke.

  “Mrs Greer. We need to ask you a few more questions. Could you take a seat please?”

  Could I take a seat? In my own house. Could I take a seat? How about, ‘I own the fucking seats’. But she bit her tongue and said nothing, turning and smiling, ever the charming host.

  The fat balding one was standing there, Canter or Cantor, or something like that. He was accompanied by a smallish slim woman with a boring brown bob, and boring brown shoes. I bet they have flat heels, she just looks the type.

  “Of course, D.C.I. Cantor. And may I ask who this is?”

  “Detective Sergeant McElroy, from the Docklands Coordinated Crime Unit.”

  Joanne disliked her immediately, self-important little thing.

  “Yes, well. I’m quite sure that all crime is terrible. Do sit down.”

  She sat back down in her armchair, folding her long legs up again. She reminded Annette of an elegant flick-knife, and every bit as sharp.

  “I’m very tired. Must we have more tedious questions? Is it really necessary?”

  “I appreciate that, and I’m very sorry Mrs Greer, but we do need to ask you a few last questions. Or rather sergeant McElroy does.”

  He nodded to Annette and she opened her handbag, removing a small tape recorder. Joanne thought that the bag was small and cheap, like the woman.

  “Do you mind Mrs Greer? It saves me writing everything down, and with my handwriting that makes it much easy to transcribe later.”

  She looked at Annette as if she was a tiresome child, and waved her hand dismissively. “Whatever you wish, just get on with it.”

  Annette had spent ninety minutes that morning digging into the Strategic Finance Foundation and into Joanne Greer, and she was very sure of her ground. Now that she’d met her, she knew that it wasn’t just her duty to interview her as an attempted murder suspect; she was positively going to enjoy it. This acidic creature couldn’t have been more different from Caitlin Watson, who still loved her husband even though he’d been planning to leave her for an Eastern European hooker.

  “Thank you Mrs Greer. I only have a few questions. Firstly, could you please tell me how
long you and your husband have worked with Mr Joe Watson, on the Strategic Finance Foundation? And could you also please tell me what you know about the Horizon Project?”

  Joanne tensed imperceptibly but Annette saw it, knowing immediately that they were on the right track. “My final question is about your time spent as a criminal barrister in London...”

  ***

  The newly-painted white door of the interview room opened, and a young man entered arrogantly, wearing a suit with a vulgar pin-stripe, and a badly ironed shirt. He thumped his briefcase down on the table; barely missing Yemi’s calmly clasped hands, and sat down heavily in the chair beside Alik Ershov with a sigh.

  He folded his arms lazily, shooting his cuffs to display a pair of white metal cufflinks bearing a family crest. Within one moment, he’d firmly established his origins in the English upper classes and Craig just knew that an affected drawl would emerge from his mouth next.

  “Good day to you, officers. I am Harry Montgomery of Montgomery and Windsor Solicitors, Hyde Park Corner, and I’m here to tell you that you have absolutely no business with my client. And that he only came with you this morning to be of assistance, because he is a law-abiding citizen. So I insist that you conclude your business with him.

  Furthermore...as you dragged my client here at an unearthly hour, without giving him time to organise his affairs for the day, I’ve a mind to bill the police for his loss of earnings and inconvenience.”

  “That would be the police in Northern Ireland.”

  “What?” The word stretched out into a drawl.

  Ershov looked away quickly at the words ‘Northern Ireland’, and they all saw it.

  “What business do you have in London then, and with my client? You have no jurisdiction here.”

  He turned to Ershov. “We’re leaving now, Mr Ershov. They have no right to even question you.”

  To his solicitors’ surprise, but not Craig’s, Alik Ershov didn’t move a sinew. Instead, he remained immobile, staring straight ahead and past them, focussing on the wall at their back. To a novice it might have looked like a complete absence of movement, but to Craig and Yemi, it looked like rapid calculations going on inside Ershov’s head. A gambler calculating the odds.

  If Northern Ireland was involved, what did they know? How had it happened, and just how exposed was he? Ershov needed the answers to several questions, and they knew that he did.

  Craig leaned forward and placed an A4 sheet on the table in front of him, watching the Vor’s face closely as he strained to read the circled detail upside down. Then watching even more closely as his recognition of the number dawned. The twenty-second call that Joanne Greer had made to him the evening before.

  Ershov’s poker face changed to one of murderous rage in an instant, and even Montgomery saw it. That stupid bitch, she had ruined him. He would kill her with his own bare hands now, and enjoy it.

  Harry Montgomery looked at the paper, not understanding the significance of what lay in front of them. “This is nothing, just some phone records. My client has no comment to make.”

  He pulled back his chair and lifted his briefcase, moving to take Ershov’s coat from the stand. Then Ershov finally spoke, his carefully broken English instantly improving as he turned to his brief. “We need five minutes.” It was an order, not a request.

  Craig and Yemi left dutifully and stood outside in the corridor, while client privilege gave the room’s occupant’s time to concoct a fairy-tale. One designed to save Alik Ershov from whatever they knew; if they could. Eventually, the door reopened and Montgomery beckoned them back in.

  “My client would like to be helpful to your investigation, because he is a law-abiding citizen. He will be as forthcoming as he can, for certain considerations. Otherwise he is saying nothing.” Game over, Mrs Greer.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Liam watched Joanne Greer walk confidently through security at Belfast City Airport. Once her bag, belt and shoes had cleared, he nodded to the searcher to let her pass without any further checks, following at a safe distance. If she saw him it wouldn’t matter. They’d never even met.

  She looked every inch the casual morning traveller, off to London for business, or for shopping and shows. Her large tortoiseshell sunglasses set off a brown leather jacket, that’s cost could have fed a small family for years. She pulled up the collar in a pretentiously chic way, slipped on her Gucci loafers and headed for the stairs to the business lounge, where Annette was already seated, watching quietly from behind a screen.

  She sailed past the greeting hostess and threw her bag down on the lounge’s carpeted floor with an exaggerated sigh. Then she strolled over to the coffee-machine for a cafe-au-lait, looking around her while she waited. Good, there was no one here that she knew - Friday was always good for outward travel.

  It was quiet in the lounge, just a few pairs of women eagerly anticipating their weekend away from the kids. And a tired-looking businessman, heading home for two more days overworking, hammering on the keys of his laptop in some desperate final act. Annette wondered how his work had become so much more important than his life, and then she laughed, realising their whole team had been working late all week. People in glass-houses.

  Joanne lifted a copy of the Ulster Bazaar from the rack, and sat flicking idly through it. Her top half looked completely relaxed, but the rapidly tapping foot below gave away her true level of tension. She calmed herself with the reminder that should she would soon be safe with Alik. That sergeant had been a real cow, with her double-edged comments and her snide little looks; she’d felt uneasy since they’d left. How the hell had they latched on to Horizon? Why that specific project? And how had they managed to connect Joe and Declan?

  Then all of a sudden, sergeant Frumpy had left a message to say - thank you for helping with our enquiries and there’ll be no further action. No explanation. Joanne hadn’t needed to be told twice. Her next call was to the airline.

  She didn’t believe in God, it was just an invention to keep children well-behaved, but if she had done, then she would have thanked him for getting away with everything. Even to her it seemed slightly churlish to take all the credit herself. She was still smiling as the lounge tannoy announced the departure of the 12.55 flight to London Heathrow.

  Annette watched Joanne Greer as she stood, drew herself up to her full height and then cast a last contemptuous look at the lounge, and Belfast. She walked unsmilingly past the hostess, through the tunnel and turned right, into her window-seat in row one. Annette rang through to the two plain-clothes officers in rows six and eight, handing them the observation. Then she walked downstairs to meet Liam in the foyer, and they settled down to wait for the last few hours, until the game played out.

  ***

  Alik Ershov and his driver stood outside the door at Terminal One waiting for Joanne, as if he was ready to whisk her away to safety. He smiled, as if he was meeting the woman he loved, which he was. But their reunion would be short-lived. He was a survivor and Joanne was much too dangerous to him now; she had to be sacrificed. She really should understand. After all it was exactly what she would do to anyone who got in her way, she’d already proved that.

  Besides, he’d offered her a life once before and she’d rejected him, and he had a long memory. Maybe he’d never really forgiven her. He thought not, otherwise surely he would have found another way to appease the police? Even he thought that he’d jumped at their proposed solution a little too quickly.

  He knew one thing for sure. When he’d been given the choice of giving up Stevan and Kaisa, or Joanne, the choice had only taken him a moment. True, they were all killers. But in the moral hierarchy of murderers, he respected Stevan’s quest to give his wounded sister a future, much more than he respected Joanne’s endless greed. He fingered the Dukh around his neck unconsciously, he had the Vor code and Stevan had his. He respected that.

  Stevan was like the son he should have had. He loved his little sister more than the world and Alik admired
that too: family was everything. Besides which, he was a supremely practical man. Stevan could be useful again, and Kaisa was beautiful, and he loved beauty.

  He looked at his watch, yawning. 2.30, not long now. He was quite looking forward to seeing Joanne’s face when they arrested her, her arrogance had always been one of her least endearing qualities.

  Craig and Yemi watched him from their seats in the cafe, listening to the voices of the Belfast officers, narrating Joanne Greer’s journey. She’d just collected her bag from the carousel, and was heading for the automatic doors. Craig could see them opening and closing from where they sat, and he signalled, alerting the officer posing as Ershov’s driver.

  They didn’t have the money trail confirmed yet. It would take time to strip the front companies back far enough to tie them to Joanne, so they needed a confession on tape to get her back to Belfast. They needed Ershov to greet her by name, and get her to say something that implicated her in the murders of Bob and Irene Leighton. And the attempted murder of her husband. Ershov had been confident that he could get it from her within five minutes; after all, she trusted him.

  The plan was to give Joanne’s bag to the driver and then for Ershov to take her to the airport’s main cafe for coffee, for as long as it took her to talk. They couldn’t let her get into a car with him; the risk of her disappearing was far too great. He might kill her now for implicating him.

  The automatic doors opened again, and Craig finally saw the chic middle-aged woman, pictured in the photographs that Annette had sent. Walking behind her at a safe distance were the two plain-clothes-officers, dressed as tourists. They peeled off to sit in the smoker’s area, making moves to light their cigarettes just as Alik Ershov moved forward, with his arms wide-open and a broad smile on his cold, tanned face. He drew Joanne Greer’s face towards him with both hands, for a kiss. Judas.