Had their victim been alone all along or had his companions simply abandoned him? Had he been heading here or just out for an evening walk? And if a single man had come here on a Friday night, what might he have been looking for? Maybe Liam had been right. Perhaps their victim had been in search of a date.
As he turned to leave Craig took out his mobile and called John.
“John, I know you’ll do it anyway, but can you do a tox and alcohol screen on our man, please.”
“Will do. What are you thinking of?”
Craig’s vague. “I’m not sure yet” signed him off. When he reached the crime-scene again all of his team bar Annette were there. He realised suddenly that he hadn’t asked for her. Forgetful or deliberate of him? Was he already starting to see her as something ‘other’; someone to be protected? It troubled him and yet it didn’t, and he would think about it some other time.
He cut straight to business.
“Liam, how were we notified about the body?”
“I got a call from the C.S.I.s. Here, where’s Annette?”
“Not here obviously.”
Liam glanced around and when he was certain Annette wasn’t present he reached into his pocket, retrieving a small notebook. “What month do you want then?”
Craig gave him a quizzical look. “What?”
“I’m taking bets on when the baby will be born. Half-months. I’ve got the second half of April.”
Craig’s eyes widened. “I’m not -” He halted abruptly and thought for a moment. If he won he could give Annette the money. “OK, then. The start of May. Now, how did the C.S.I.s find out about the body to call you?”
Liam’s expression said that he hadn’t asked. He scribbled ‘May’ in his notebook and then loped across to the chief C.S.I., Liz Granger, murmuring to her for a moment before he loped back.
“Stranmillis Road got a call about a body and they phoned Lizzie.”
He gestured back at the young woman and she smiled and waved.
Craig frowned. “Since when do stations call the C.S.I.s direct? They know to alert the on-call murder team first.”
Liam thought again. “Oh aye, I remember now. Stranmillis called me just after Lizzie did, so maybe they guessed we’d need the C.S.I.s and they were just trying to be efficient.”
Craig wasn’t appeased. He turned to Sergeant Joe Rice, an affable ex-Gardaí from Cork who’d worked with them for years.
“Joe, get up to Stranmillis and find out what they were playing at. And it still doesn’t answer my question; who actually found the body and called it in in the first place? Find out, please.”
As Joe ambled off to his patrol car Craig turned back to the group.
“OK. Andy, you and Liam get plans of this whole area and I want uniforms to check every building within a mile: offices, industrial plants, the Odyssey; I want every single one checked out. I need to know if anyone was around this evening between eight and ten, and if so what did they see. Split the uniforms between you and leave me two. There are some sketches of the victim over there. Take copies and hand them out.”
Ignoring their moans he turned to Reggie. “Reggie, you and I are going back to the Odyssey with the remaining uniforms.” He glanced at his watch. It was after midnight, meaning there’d be few people around for the others to interview. “OK, on second thoughts. Liam and Andy, do a quick check of all the buildings and if there is anyone around, interview them. In the likelihood that there isn’t bring everyone to the Odyssey. There are enough people there to keep us interviewing half the night.”
He strode off with Reggie close behind. They were halfway through interviewing the occupants of the third of the pavilion’s restaurants when the two D.C.I.s appeared.
“Find anything useful?”
Liam answered for them both. “No-one in any of the buildings.”
Craig sighed. “OK, go back tomorrow and try again. Especially the buildings nearest the scene. Someone might have seen something before they finished for the weekend.” He glanced around the restaurant. “Liam, get the complex’s CCTV tapes from the security office. Andy, get uniform to circulate the sketch and the victim’s description then start interviewing the occupants of the clubs. Reggie and I will finish the restaurants and then join you.”
Liam gestured towards the pavilion’s front doors, where a crowd of teenagers were giving grief to the uniforms barring their escape.
“The natives are getting restless. Can we let some of them go?”
Craig shook his head. “Only from the restaurants we’ve cleared.” He had a sudden thought. “There must be a tannoy in the security room, Liam. Use your dulcet tones to make an announcement and explain what’s happening. Then get on with the work. I’d like to get out of here before the sun comes up.”
****
Saturday 19th December. 6 a.m.
Morning hadn’t yet broken when the police officers emerged into the fresh air, tired and yawning but little further on. Craig was relaxed about the lack of progress; TV cop shows never showed the boring stuff, but wading through dross and detail in the faint hope of finding one clue was par for the course.
They hadn’t found their clue yet, but even that told him something. Their victim was nowhere on the complex’s CCTV, and not one person: young, old, drunk or sober, had recognised him from the sketch. He was satisfied that wherever their well suited man had been before his demise, it hadn’t been inside the Odyssey. That left the buildings in the Quarter: offices, sites and the apartments in between. They needed to make a start on those interviews.
Suddenly the detective heard a stomach rumble and he glanced at his watch, surprised by the time. He revised his gameplan quickly. Home, shower, change, breakfast and then back to work for them all. He turned to the group of pale-faced men.
“Right. Good work, everyone. It’s six o’clock now. Those of you on shifts hand over to your day relief and tell them to get here for eight. The rest of you, you’ve got two hours to get washed, fed and back here, ready to start again.”
As he turned towards the carpark Joe Rice approached in a speedy shuffle. It was as close to running as he ever got. He was waving a piece of paper.
“I’ve got that information for you, sir, so.”
Craig smiled at his habit of saying ‘so’ at the end of every sentence and speed read the note before passing it to Liam, while he considered what it meant. By the time he was ready to speak the whole group had read it and Liam had already said what was on everyone’s mind.
“Must have been the killer who called, boss. If not why didn’t he wait for us at the scene?”
A man had called the murder into Stranmillis Station and given his name and mobile number when he had. The name was Richard Jamison.
“If it was the killer do you really think he’d have given his own name? However, we need to check it out.” Craig turned back to see Joe smiling cheerfully. “Joe, as you look like the only one here who’s had any sleep, run this name and number please and meet me back here with it at eight.” He went to leave and then turned back. “Also, alert the ports and airports all over Ireland, please. Anyone travelling under the name of Richard Jamison is to be stopped and held. OK, that’s it for now.”
It was the signal for everyone to scatter and for Craig to head to Katy’s place rather than his own. Not only was it closer but her fridge, unlike his, was always stocked with food, and zero sleep cried out to be combatted by a slap-up Ulster Fry.
****
Katy’s apartment. St John’s Harbour. Laganbank. 6.30 a.m.
When Craig arrived at the riverside apartment it was silent and dark, apart from the small hall light which was on as usual. Not because Katy wanted him to see a welcoming glow whenever he popped round, but because, as it had taken him six months of switching off the light at night only to find it on again the next morning to discover, she was frightened of the dark and had been since she was a little girl. It was one of the many incongruities that made him love her. The professiona
l woman who needed a nightlight, and the health minded doctor who eschewed grown-up breakfasts of oatmeal and nuts in favour of Rice Krispies because she liked to listen to them ‘talk’.
As he walked past the half-open bedroom door he could feel the siren call of her bed. With considerable effort he resisted and continued into the living room, filling the percolator and then sipping his black coffee gazing out at the Lagan flowing under the Albert Bridge. The river was like a black mirror, its surface shattered only by the occasional gull. He smiled at the scene. Even if he hadn’t loved Katy he would have loved her river view.
He stood for what seemed like seconds, but had in fact, or so the small blonde who eventually wrapped her arms around his waist informed him, been almost an hour. He turned to smile at her and the smile became a lingering kiss.
“Come to bed, Marc. It’s still dark.”
He laughed gently and disentangled himself before the warmth of her embrace weakened his resolve.
“I can’t, pet. I need to get back.”
She pouted but it was brief, as her curiosity trumped any chagrin. “Your new case?”
He nodded and set his mug down on the worktop, removing his jacket and tie as he exited into the hall. She followed him into the bathroom, perching on the sink and chatting as the shower’s warm water cascaded down his back.
“Any clues yet?”
His reply was drowned out, so she occupied herself with finding him some fresh clothes. As he emerged, dried and wrapped in a towel, his lean muscles still intact despite too many months without the gym, Katy asked again.
He shook his head and then answered “yes” incongruously, prompting her eyebrows to rise.
“No and yes?”
He removed a clean shirt from her hand. “Exactly. In that there was a clue that practically solves the case for us.”
“Which in your mind means that it was left deliberately.”
“Right again.” He leaned down, kissing her on the nose. “How did I catch such a clever woman?”
She smiled mischievously. “You were just lucky, I guess.”
He finished dressing and walked back into the living room. Anywhere else and he would never have left the flat.
“Breakfast?”
Craig glanced at his watch quickly. Seven-thirty. He just had time.
“Breakfast would be great, pet.”
She entwined her arms seductively around his neck but he removed them reluctantly.
“Only breakfast, unfortunately. I really have to get back to work.”
A healthy grill that was as close as Katy was going to make to an Ulster Fry later and he was back in the car, leaving her to return to bed alone.
****
The Titanic Quarter. 8 a.m.
As the detectives began the onerous tasks of door knocking and question asking, not to mention the cold calling of any office occupants who’d had the temerity to take a Saturday off, halfway across town Jake McLean was staring at his reflection in a full length glass. Sleep had eluded him as well, but not because he’d been involved in door-to-doors. His insomnia had been caused by his thoughts, weeks and days and hours of them that all boiled down to one thing. How could Aaron have done this to him?
As his eyes met his own and then travelled down his reflection, past his shirt-sleeved arms and modern tie to the metal arms and wheels that he’d lived inside for months, he caught himself imagining Aaron sitting there instead of him and a feeling grew inside him until it felt like something approaching joy. He didn’t care if people thought it wasn’t evolved of him, it would make him happy to see Aaron suffer as much as he had. Happy to see him lying at the foot of a flight of stairs, ecstatic to see him confined to a hospital bed for months. Now he understood an eye for an eye and it made him curse the liberal justice system they functioned in. What penalty could ever be enough for this?
He turned his chair so that his back was to the mirror, his mind racing with what he would do to his ex-lover if he ever got the chance. He was just fantasising about smuggling a gun into the interview room when he heard a light voice call out from the living room.
“Breakfast’s ready, Jake.”
The interruption irritated him just as the voice that had said it made him smile. What would he have done without his grandmother? Even if his love for her had been the death knell for his relationship and the excuse Aaron had used to almost cause his death.
As the detective wheeled himself into the kitchen and sipped at his fresh orange juice, his mind returned to his impending meeting at High Street, and then further, to how he would one day get his revenge.
****
Dublin Airport. Departures. 9 a.m.
Richard Jamison ushered his wife in front of him and handed their passports across the airline desk, expecting to be shown through the discreet side door that led to the first class lounge and greeted there deferentially with a glass of champagne. After all, it was the least they could do when he was paying six thousand for the flights. As he anticipated the luxury that was to be his future, only one thing detracted from his pleasure. He’d resented having to give a pencil pusher like Dom Guthrie ten percent of everything he’d made. The fact that it was ten percent of everything that they had both stolen didn’t prevent his sense of entitlement.
He leaned in to let his wife’s quiet chatter sooth him and adjusted his Egyptian cotton shirt cuffs so that just the right amount showed beneath his jacket sleeves, all the time wondering why it took so long to open a bloody door and admit them airside, ready to escape to their new life. His answer came soon after, in the shape of three official looking suited men. The leader strode towards him with none of the smiling deference Jamison had expected to see upon his face.
“Mr Richard Jamison?”
Something about the man’s tone said that he wasn’t about to congratulate him, so Jamison glanced first at his wife and then at the concourse, calculating how long it would take them to run to the lift. Just then a second man blocked his way. It only left one approach to take. Jamison drew himself up to his full six-feet and glared arrogantly at his questioner.
“Yes. Who is enquiring?”
The man produced a badge. “An Garda Síochána, Mr Jamison. Please come with us. Mrs Jamison as well, please.”
Inspector Sean Lowry was winging it. They’d only been asked to detain the man, but as the charge was murder he wasn’t about to let his missus hop on a plane.
Richard Jamison didn’t budge. “On what basis? We’ve done nothing wrong. I demand to know the charge, if there is one.”
The last sentence was accompanied by a sneer that got right up Lowry’s nose, so he obliged.
“The charge is murder.” As Jamison blanched and Sarah Jamison became unsteady on her feet the Garda continued, watching the businessman’s reaction with a hint of schadenfreude. “Now, I suggest you accompany us quietly, Mr Jamison. Your wife is already quite distressed enough.”
****
The Titanic Quarter. 9.30 a.m.
As Richard Jamison asked repeatedly who had died and why on earth he might be accused of killing them, one hundred miles away in Belfast’s Docklands, Marc Craig was wondering almost the same thing. He’d paused mid-search to read the file that Joe had brought him, perching on a low table in one of the Quarter’s multi-storey buildings as he scanned the words.
Richard Jamison, fifty-one years old. Successful businessman with interests from export and airlines to I.T. He’d been celebrated as one of Northern Ireland’s wealth makers for thirty years, establishing firms in import/ export and security contracts. He even had ownership of a minor airline! Married twice with one step-son, there wasn’t a whiff of scandal about the man anywhere in his past. No drugs, no drunk driving, even his masonic lodge members seemed to like him; so what was the deal? Why would a man with luxury houses in places like the Malone Road, Belgravia and Vermont suddenly kill someone? That was if he had.
Craig’s thoughts were disturbed by the table he was on wobbling suddenl
y and without even looking he knew that Liam had just sat down.
“What are you reading, boss?”
“A file on Richard Jamison. Joe pulled it together.”
He passed it across and continued thinking. After Liam had read for a moment he gave a rude snort.
“I’m surprised they haven’t given him a gong.”
Craig gestured vaguely. “Next page.”
Liam flicked to the next sheet. “Oh aye. He’s been nominated for the Honours List next year.” He closed the file and set it on the table. “So why does the man with everything want to kill someone?”
Craig made a face and Liam shook his head quickly in response.
“Oh no, you don’t. I know that look. You already don’t think Jamison’s our man.”
Craig’s shrug said that the jury was still out. “Which doesn’t mean he isn’t involved somehow.”
“And you didn’t want him to run off abroad.”
Craig’s eyes widened suddenly. “He’s not the only one thinking of running. Annette’s at six o’clock, and she doesn’t look a happy girl.”
It was an understatement. Annette was powering towards them with a face like thunder and Liam decided he was getting out of her firing line. He rose and pointed a finger at Craig accusingly.
“It was him who didn’t want to call you, Annette. I was all for getting you out of bed.”
Craig’s jaw dropped. “You spineless-”
Annette’s normally calm tones screeched at them both. “You’re a liar, Liam Cullen.” She swung round to face Craig. “And as for you, sir, well! I expected better. If you’re going to spend the next four months treat-”
The Talion Code Page 7
