The Cabal (#16 - The Craig Crime Series)

by Catriona King

  “What differences would you see from the air?”

  The pilot thought for a moment.

  “Well…there’d be the obvious physical infrastructure; guard posts, dog kennels, double fencing, with power boxes if they’re electrified. And then there’s the human element, moving vehicles, patrolling men, maybe even armed guards.”

  “You can make guns out from the air?”

  “You’d be surprised what we can see using different lights and lenses. But don’t forget the men’s postures will also show if they’re carrying a rifle or machine gun. If there’s a lot of security then it’ll be easy to spot, although you might want to get your analysts on to the power companies, searching for any unusually high power usage by non-commercial properties.”

  He stood up again. “We’ll scan the country for all that and get back to you, but if the place just has domestic alarm type security then there won’t be much for us to see. I mean, we can generate a list of properties that fit for size and access, but your best bet would be searches of the alarm companies’ databases and-”

  He was cut short by a loud whoop.

  “I can see my house, boss! Look.”

  The repeated jabbing of a sausage-like forefinger told Craig that he’d better look before either Liam cracked the glass or Sheridan cracked him.

  He glanced at the map and then pulled his deputy away.

  “That’s great, Liam, but we’re going now. We’ve things to do back at the ranch.”

  “Aw. I was enjoying myself.”

  “I’m sure Theo will let you come again.”

  The combined head shaking and blade-drawn-across-the-throat signals from the jump-suited D.C.I. left no doubt what would happen if he did.

  ****

  The Police Intelligence Section. Malone Road, South Belfast.

  Kyle Spence wasn’t a man who took the trouble to be subtle unless there was a direct quid pro quo involved for him. Subtlety required more effort than secrecy, his forte, and inevitably had to be tailored to its audience. If there’d been a guaranteed-to-work, one-size-fits-all subtlety level then he might have flicked the switch to turn it on now and then, but there wasn’t so he didn’t. Thus it was that the D.I. marched brashly past a guard he knew well at the entrance to the Police Intelligence Section, flashing his badge so quickly that she didn’t have time to register it no longer held an up-to-date stamp, and was in the lift and along the upper corridor rapping on the door of his erstwhile boss before anyone caught on and kicked him out.

  On the same brisk theme, Spence didn’t wait for a shouted ‘come in’, opening the door and planting himself in a seat before D.C.I. Roy Barrett had even had a chance to speak.

  “Hi, boss. How are things?”

  The D.I. had answered his own question with “Good. Now I need to ask you something” before the Director of Intelligence’s open mouth had time to shut.

  “What do you know about high-class hookers?”

  Roy Barrett was rarely surprised by anything in life, a trait his mother had said had been present since the day that he’d been born. Apparently he’d been unsurprised by his abrupt entrance into the world, not howling as new-borns normally do, but instead staring at the midwife as coolly as if she had merely asked him the time. Things had continued in the same vein at school, with the first kick in the head he’d received at the end of a classmate’s rugby boot being greeted with the same insouciance as an aunt’s invitation to afternoon tea, and when he’d received his first-class law degree when he’d only expected a two-two it had barely caused his eyebrows to raise.

  So it was that his one-time protégé, Spence, who had left him for what he considered the navvy-like existence of a murder detective, barely raised a blink with his blunt question about recreational sex. Instead the grey-haired Barrett merely indicated the kettle and on the D.I.’s nod he rose to make them both tea.

  When the genteel arts of brewing, milking and sipping had been completed, the Director set down his Royal Doulton cup, rested back in his well-worn leather chair and folded his hands in front of him on the desk, while Kyle Spence tried his utmost to make his teeth grinding frustration not generate an audible noise. He should have known better than to approach Roy Barrett like a bull in a china shop but his impatience and disdain for the niceties had made him do it anyway, and he knew that this enforced period of waiting was his well-deserved penance. Finally, Barrett hinted that the punishment was almost over, inhaling deeply and at length before he spoke.

  “You would, I take it, like to know about the sexual proclivities of Northern Ireland’s great and good?”

  “Yes.” It emerged through Kyle’s gritted and slightly nicotine-yellowed teeth.

  “May I ask why?”

  “It’s confidential, sir.”

  “Well then.” The smaller man rose to his feet. “My answer shall remain confidential as well. You can show yourself out.”

  The D.I. didn’t move, instead emitting a frustrated sigh. He’d wondered if Barrett would adopt this approach all the way from the C.C.U. to his office door, but he hadn’t been certain, just as now he couldn’t be certain that if he’d approached the man with some deference he mightn’t be helping him more now.

  Spence waved his old boss back to his seat and regrouped, starting again in an entirely different way.

  “This is highly sensitive, sir.”

  “As am I, as you well know, Kyle.”

  Spence really couldn’t argue with that; the man was telling the truth. Even under pain of torture Roy Barrett would never reveal something passed to him in confidence.

  He nodded.

  “I know that, sir, it’s just that D.C.S. Craig won’t be happy if this gets out. He was entrusted with it personally.”

  It told the Director all he needed to know. Only one person warranted such secrecy and he was known to have relied on Craig a good number of times.

  “So this is a direct request from the Chief Constable.”

  “It is.”

  He could truthfully tell Craig that Barrett had worked it out for himself.

  “Well, as D.C.S. Craig is head of this section as well as Murder, and by logical progression my boss as well as yours, you can be assured that it is not in my interest to get on his wrong side.” Barrett gave a shrug of futility that would have done a Parisienne proud. “However, unless you’re prepared to give me more information my hands will still be tied.”

  Kyle Spence thought about it for a moment, running through the probability tree of how telling Barrett meant that something could go wrong and land him in the shit. But the likelihood of things going nowhere at all and him having to return to the squad and admit the horror of having no useful information loomed even larger, so over a fresh cup of tea and a chocolate covered snack the D.I. told his old boss the minimum that he needed to know to keep his new boss off his back.

  ****

  The C.C.U. 2 p.m.

  “Ah, now, that’s what I like to see. The teenage geeks hard at work.”

  The insult was delivered in as loud a voice as Liam could muster and with all the subtlety of a truck, yet it didn’t sound offensive to anyone’s ears but his. Davy didn’t hear him, so embroiled was he in his searches, and all Ash had registered was ‘teenage’, and in his book, anything that pointed out his youthful appearance had to be a good thing. Offended by their lack of offence, Liam had another go, while Craig checked the messages Nicky had just handed him and poured himself an espresso so strong that her teeth were pained even by the look of it.

  “Of course, it’d be hard to tell which of you two had the crappiest dress sense. The Smurf with those baggy things he’s wearing, like that MC Hammer guy, or the boy for wearing jeans so tight he can hardly walk without his knees joined.”

  Liam had christened Ash the Smurf during his blue hair phase, and he saw no reason to alter the title now. This time the insults hit their mark; not on Davy with his ineffable cool, but on Ash’s image of himself as a transatlantic style icon becaus
e of the comparison to a nineties music star. The colourful analyst was just drawing himself up to his full five-foot-nine when Craig decided that Liam had had enough fun. He walked across to Davy and pointed at his screen.

  “And that is?”

  Davy smiled, not looking up. “Already on your phone.”

  It prompted Craig to quickly check his mobile, which he’d had on silent all day, hence the messages Nicky had just passed him accompanied by a reproachful look.

  “Sorry, I missed it. Explain.”

  “I decided to search kidnap victims who were prostitutes in the UK and Republic, so far I’ve found four, including ours. Manchester, Edinburgh, and Dover on the south-east English coast.”

  “And?”

  Liam had just read his message. “All dead, boss.”

  Davy nodded. “Five days for Manchester, the others after a w…week.”

  Liam strode across, looking for attention. It had taken two insults to get even a slight rise from Ash, so he would have to get his limelight in another way.

  “A week till they were found, or a week till they were killed?”

  Craig nodded. It was a good point.

  “Both. They were killed just before they were found and none of them were s…sexually assaulted. I’m still trying for more details. Getting info from other forces is harder than getting Ash to wear normal clothes.”

  Liam tutted; there’d be no fun to be had soon if the nerds began to insult themselves. Meanwhile Craig was frowning. Veronica Lewis had disappeared three days before so she mightn’t have much more time.

  “Let me know if you need me to apply any pressure, Davy.” He gestured to the new returnee. “Ash, there’ll be some addresses coming in from D.C.I. Sheridan in surveillance. When you get them, I need you to do some searches on alarms and power usages. Before then, you and I need a few words.”

  He moved away to let Davy get on with things and beckoned Ash into his office, taking a seat behind his desk and waving the analyst to one opposite. His amused scan of the younger man’s hair made his next words no surprise.

  “I take it you enjoyed New York then?”

  Ash sat forward enthusiastically, expounding on how fast a New York minute actually was compared to their own until Craig diverted him.

  “So, what can you tell me about Dudaev?”

  Bakar Dudaev was a Chechen national who’d been linked with stealing American satellite codes and part of the reason the New York cybersecurity taskforce had been established.

  Ash’s cheerful expression was replaced by a scowl. “He’s not proving easy to find, chief. After he left Amsterdam in April the next place he surfaced was Valencia in Spain, then Milan a month after and last week he was seen in Crete.”

  Craig looked puzzled, causing Ash to nod.

  “Yeh, that’s what we thought. Where the heck is he going?”

  Craig rested back in his chair, steepling his fingers. The CIA had postulated that the market for US satellite codes would have three main buyers: Russia, Iran and North Korea. The last two had edged ahead when they’d realised Dudaev was Chechen, given the no-love-lost status between Russia and the republic, and yet Dudaev’s trek was taking him away from all of them.

  “I take it the CIA have tried geolocation algorithms to make sense of his journey?”

  The analyst was impressed. Perhaps Craig’s knowledge of computing was better than he’d realised.

  The detective read his mind.

  “Sorry. I wish I could take the credit but it came from the box-set of Homeland we watched last weekend. Still, it’s true, isn’t it? Their software should be able to make some sense of what Dudaev’s doing? At the moment, it looks like he’s deliberately spaghetti trailing across Europe to throw them off.”

  Ash screwed up his face, uncertain how much of the task force’s work he was permitted to divulge. Once again Craig read his mind.

  “I’m Head of Police Intelligence now as well, remember? I get written briefings on the taskforce’s work every week, but I’m afraid I haven’t read this week’s just yet.”

  “Ah. OK, then. Yes, they think they may have some sense of where he’s going, or rather where he’s desperately trying to pretend he’s not going. His trips since Amsterdam have all been in Southern Europe, so-”

  Craig cut him off with a smile. “His destination is somewhere in the north. Given his Chechen nationality probably somewhere ex-communist Bloc. The Baltic States maybe?”

  “Or East Germany, Poland, the Czech Republic, etcetera. Wherever he’s going Dudaev’s taking his time, trying to throw us off, but MI6 and the CIA have agents in every country, so he’ll have his work cut out.”

  “Except that with the Schengen Agreement pretty much abolishing border checks inside the EU, he could have reached his destination already and we wouldn’t know. Damn.”

  He jumped to his feet abruptly, taking the analyst by surprise.

  “OK, keep me up to date, Ash, and check my Intelligence briefings, please, in case anything’s been left out. Nicky has them in a file.”

  With that he nodded towards the door and then turned to the window to look out at Belfast Lough, his thoughts returning almost instantly to their missing madam.

  ****

  The Ormeau Road, South Belfast.

  Jake McClean was less than amused to be heading for a sex-worker’s apartment on his first day back at work, especially as that apartment was on the thirteenth floor of a tower block whose lift had given up the ghost. He glanced at Andy Angel with considerably less deference than his D.C.I. rank warranted.

  “Couldn’t we have asked the girls to come to High Street for interview?”

  In between gasps for breath Andy summoned the energy to shake his gel spiked head. He really needed to go to the gym; there was Jake not even breaking a sweat and he thought he was going to die. He leant against a graffiti covered wall, wondering why the only variation between Belfast’s Catholic and Protestant graffiti seemed to be whether to do the obscene things it suggested to the Queen or the Pope. Apart from the lack of creativity there seemed to be no respect for pensioners of any persuasion nowadays.

  After a full minute of puffing he mustered an answer to the sergeant’s question.

  “They’re not suspects so we’d like their co-operation, that’s why. And judging by the outfit the last one was wearing when we knocked her door I’d say a trip to the station might have cut into her day’s work. Plus, what Jack Harris would say if we filled his reception with hookers doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  “Sex-workers. The chief said.”

  “Well, whatever you call them, Jack would choke on his tea.”

  High Street Station was the closest nick to the C.C.U. and Sergeant Jack Harris normally welcomed the break from his daily tedium that the Murder Squad’s interviews provided. But even his tolerance had a limit and Andy thought this case might breach it.

  Semi-refreshed by his brief rest he gestured the politically correct sergeant towards the next flight of stairs, only to be answered by a shake of Jake’s head and his finger pointing towards an aptly painted red front door.

  “We’re already here. That’s Jennifer Wasson’s flat. Apparently, she’s one of Lewis’ best girls.”

  Andy was certain he detected a twinkle in the younger man’s eye as he said the words. Given that Jake was gay it was unlikely to be lechery, and lewdness wasn’t his character type, so he asked the question.

  “Why is that amusing?”

  Jake laughed out loud, the first time Andy had heard him do so since he’d been sent to rehab months before.

  “I was just picturing a flabby businessman clambering up these stairs and collapsing outside her door in a breathless heap. She’d have to be amazing at what she does to get any passion out of that.”

  Andy instantly glanced down at his own abdomen. Thankfully he still had his youthful wiry build, but one day all the chocolate he’d eaten would impact and he would turn into a giant whale overnight. He sucked in his
stomach and marched towards the red door hand raised, only to have it open inwards before his fist fell.

  The figure that greeted the detectives was unexpected. The petite redhead in front of them couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, and dressed in jeans and wearing no make-up she provided a stark contrast to the negligée wearing, false-eyelashed seductress that they’d interviewed an hour before. A small hand shot out to shake Andy’s.

  “Jenny Wasson. Come in, Chief Inspector.”

  The woman turned briskly on her heel and was in the small apartment’s living room before the detectives had even entered the hall.

  “Come along, then. I have to collect my kids from school in twenty minutes.”

  As Andy entered the tastefully decorated room she had another thought.

  “In fact, perhaps you could drop me off there? It’s only a mile away.”

  The D.C.I. nodded and took the indicated seat, while Jake remained in the room’s doorway with both arms hanging by his sides. The woman gestured at him.

  “What’s wrong with your mate? Morals? Does he disapprove of me then?”

  “More of the men who visit you.” Seeing the girl was becoming embarrassed Andy’s tone became unusually terse. “Sit down, Sergeant. Now.”

  As he turned back to her, his gaze fell on a framed photograph displayed on a bureau. It was of Wasson, dressed up and looking stunning and he suddenly understood why some men would pay hundreds of pounds for her time. The photo was surrounded by silver cups and a range of rosettes.

  “Who won the prizes?”

  She glanced at them. “Me. Horse-riding and piano.”

  Jake inhaled sharply, making her roll her eyes.

  “Aren’t whores supposed to have posh hobbies, then?”

  It was then that Andy noticed her accent: modulated and middle-class. It said that she’d come from a very different place than this. She explained without him asking.

  “My parents had money and I have a degree in Italian, in case you’re interested. But they didn’t like my husband so they cut me off. When he left me two years ago, proving them right of course, it was too late to mend things between us and I was flat broke with two kids. There are limited openings for an Italian teacher in Belfast.” She swept a hand around the room sarcastically. “And so here you find me, in all my glory. Mouths to feed and only my winning smile to depend on.”