Chapter Twelve
Annette was struggling. Not physically, after all the baby in her arms only weighed twenty pounds and even with her energetic wriggling she could easily cope, but emotionally she was all at sea, and she wasn’t quite sure why. Carina, or Carrie as she called her, wasn’t her first baby; her son and daughter with her ex-husband were in their late teens, and she’d held down a full-time job and run a house when they were young, so why did everything feel so different this time?
She was tempted to say it was because she was older, but that would only explain fatigue and she felt as fit as she always had. So, why was leaving her baby every day for work ripping her apart this time? And making the idea of being a stay-at-home mum seem attractive?
Mike was a great dad, and apart from her having to concede and name the baby Carina, pretty, but an anatomical term to describe part of the lungs, a true pathologist’s choice, he would have given her anything under the sun. The thought brought Annette up short. Could that be it? With Pete, she’d never had the option of staying at home, both of their salaries desperately needed, but Mike had enough money for both of them so now she had the freedom to choose, and in ways that freedom was screwing her up. If she didn’t have to work but chose to, did that make her selfish, a bad mum?
She stared into her daughter’s bright eyes as she thought, replaying all the arguments about being a good role model for her versus fourth-wave feminism giving women real freedom to choose. Telling a woman that they were letting down the side by staying at home was now considered every bit as dictatorial as telling them that they couldn’t or shouldn’t work.
As her baby snuggled into her and Annette started to count the lashes resting on her cheeks, the detective knew that whichever decision she made she’d be damned in someone’s eyes. So, she did what she always did when she didn’t know the answer to something, she deferred it to another day.
****
The Labs. 7.30 p.m.
Craig had been summoned. Not by a barked order but by a strangulated gurgling on his phone twenty minutes earlier, a sound that always indicated John had something exciting to impart. He was unsurprised then to see his friend waiting at the carpark entrance to the labs, mentally hopping from foot to foot.
“Couldn’t this have waited, John? I was supposed to collect Katy from work.”
The question went unanswered, the pathologist already halfway down the corridor. Craig was surprised when, instead of entering his lab, John began the three-flight ascent that led them to Des Marsham’s office. He was equally surprised to find the Head of Forensics still inside, his experience of the man saying that, short of a national disaster, Des logged off his computer at five p.m. and was in his car by ten past.
“Hello, Des. John shanghaied you as well, I see.”
The scientist shook his hairy head. “Didn’t have to. I wanted to see you as well.”
Craig knew this was something good. He reached for a stool and sat down.
“Fire away.”
“Very apropos.”
To prove the point Des tapped on his computer and the image of a gun that Craig recognised appeared on the screen.
“The sniper rifle Billy Regent used to kill the First Minister…allegedly.”
To Des’ dismay Craig seemed only mildly surprised.
“So, you either don’t think he made the shot, or you think that he made it under duress.”
Craig knew he should probably have feigned ignorance of the possibility but he wanted to get home. He felt a forensic scientist’s huff coming on.
“Well, if you put it like that…”
The detective relented. “Sorry, Des. Why don’t you take me through it?”
Just don’t take all night.
Des perked up again.
“OK, well, the GSR on Regent’s hands definitely came from the rifle and his prints are all over it, although some have been smeared but I’ll come to that. Also, it was a hell of a tricky shot, so I doubt there’d be many men capable of making it, and few of them in Belfast, so on balance I’d say that Billy Regent did make the shot that killed Peter McManus.”
“But?”
“Well, that’s the thing. This is where it gets confusing. There’s no GSR from the handgun on Regent’s hands.”
Craig sat forward. “Hang on. I thought you couldn’t tell the difference.”
Des hemmed and hawed. “Well… you can and you can’t, sort of. But even on quantity alone there was only enough GSR for one shot-”
Craig cut him off. “So why was it definitely the shot from the rifle?”
“Because it was smeared.”
Now Craig was confused. The scientists saw it and cheered up immediately, then Des lifted a rifle that Craig hadn’t noticed and began to demonstrate.
“OK, here’s where Regent’s hands would have been when he was firing the rifle. Inches away from the working parts. Any residue on his hands from the shot should have been minimal, but it isn’t. There’s far too much of the stuff!” Before Craig could interrupt again he produced Regent’s handgun. “OK, now this is the pistol that killed Regent. See how close to the working parts his right hand would have been if he’d committed suicide. Lots of GSR from the pistol you’d think, and you’d be correct, except that there’s too much GSR on Regent’s hands for the rifle shot, but not enough for if he’d fired both guns.”
“You’re saying he fired the rifle but not the handgun. But we already know that. Someone else fired the pistol to make it look like suicide and they wore latex gloves.”
Des shook his head. “Not so fast. You think you know what happened, but you really don’t. We didn’t until Reggie found those gloves in the bin.”
“The ones worn by the second man.”
John’s eyebrows shot up but he said nothing, whereas Des’ “NO” was very clear.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean those gloves weren’t worn by your second man, they were worn by Billy Regent. His DNA was all over their insides.”
As Craig struggled to keep up, Des woke his computer and started a simulation. It showed two men appearing on Carson Tower’s roof, each carrying a bag. As they watched, the Billy Regent avatar opened his bag, withdrew a rifle and donned a pair of gloves, positioning himself to take the kill shot.
Craig nodded, realising what he’d missed.
“Regent was wearing gloves when he took the rifle shot because he’d expected to leave that roof alive. But he wasn’t sure what would happen, hence showing his face to the lift CCTV, to prove his coercion even after his death.”
John glanced at him, surprised. “I didn’t know you’d got CCTV.”
“Ash found it. I’ll have him send it across. Regent was forced to kill McManus. A second man held him at gun point in the lift up to the roof.”
He missed John’s small smile as Des called their attention back to the screen.
“OK, but at this point Regent still thought that he was getting off that roof, which is why he wore latex gloves to cover his prints when he took the rifle shot.”
“So how did he get the rifle’s GSR on his hands?”
“Keep watching.”
As he did Craig saw Regent’s avatar make the McManus kill shot and then start packing up his rifle, only to be stopped by a handgun pressed to the side of his head, causing first a struggle and then forcing Regent to lie down.
“This is where Billy Regent dies.”
The second avatar, also wearing latex gloves, shot Regent’s in the right temple. Craig nodded.
“OK, so you’ve explained the latex traces on Regent’s hands, and I understand the lack of two lots of GSR. But if Regent wore gloves and only took the rifle shot, where did the GSR he did have on his hands come from? He shouldn’t have had any at all. And explain the quantities to me again.”
Des fast forwarded to where the German avatar carefully removed Billy Regent’s latex gloves right side out and smeared the GSR from their exteriors onto Regent’s palms.
They then placed the sniper rifle in the dead man’s hands, holding it there for a moment before returning it half-packed to its plain black bag. Craig’s mouth fell open in realisation.
“Ah…Hence Regent’s smeared prints on the rifle.”
“Exactly. Also…”
Des forwarded the sim and Craig watched as the German avatar removed its own gloves, again right side out, and smeared the GSR from the handgun onto Billy Regent’s palms.
“Not all of the GSR will have transferred from the two sets of gloves-”
Craig cut in. “So, they left too much GSR for one shot but not enough for two.”
John nodded. “I’ve found some epithelial cells that match the German’s DNA amongst the GSR on Regent’s hands. They had to have come from the gloves they wore.”
Craig followed the logic through.
“And I’m presuming that somewhere along the line, long before they reached the roof, Billy got a piece of his killer’s DNA under his nails.”
“That’s the only thing explains it.”
John chipped in. “So, then the killer took Billy’s latex gloves and dumped them on the estate sometime later, just to delay or confuse us, I presume. But they must have taken their own gloves away.”
“Probably burned them somewhere else.” Craig shook his head. “Very clever, and they might have fooled us but for your hard work.”
As Des preened himself John added excitedly. “Don’t forget we’ve got the DNA under Billy’s nails as well. The killer mustn’t have known about it, or my guess is they would have chopped off his hands and taken them away.”
Craig nodded and stood up. “The only thing missing in your sim is that there were two bags, and the killer took the outer one with them. It had a logo that Davy’s checking.” As Des opened his mouth to ask, Craig explained. “Someone from a neighbouring block saw Billy with another man on the way there. OK, the important thing is this clears Billy Regent completely, so his family will get his benefits. The poor sod was chosen for his shooting ability and threatened to make him do what he did. We think they probably told him they’d kill his mother and daughter if he didn’t go along with things.” He turned to go. “Thanks for this. Hopefully the German’s DNA will soon get a hit.”
He couldn’t miss John’s smile this time.
“You’ve already got a name?”
The pathologist demurred hastily. “No, sorry, it’s not that. It’s something else on the DNA. Something that I suppose shouldn’t surprise me in these days of kick-ass, warrior-”
Craig finished the sentence for him.
“Princesses…The German is a woman!”
“You might have let me say it!”
The pathologist’s lips clamped together in what Craig knew was going to be a sulk. He calculated quickly. Katy had gone on home after he’d called to cancel her lift, and he’d said he’d come by later with a takeaway. But that could wait for an hour, so with a contrite smile he suggested they all go for a pint, and John’s sulk faded like hot snow.
****
Whitehall.
“You’re certain they found the gloves?”
The Fox sipped at his just poured rum. He was a whisky man but had decided that as someone else was paying he would try it just for a change. The red-brown liquid slid down his throat more smoothly than even the best whisky, but it was its instant warming effect that surprised him most. He was just adding it mentally to his list of regular tipples when the older man spoke again.
“Well? Are you?”
Irritated at his drinking being interrupted, the silver-haired man answered more abruptly than he’d meant.
“For God’s sake, yes! How many times do I have to say it?”
His host’s sudden lurch forward from his wing-backed armchair and the wrinkled hand gripping his throat said the words had been a mistake.
“You may speak to your superiors at home like that, but never make the mistake of confusing me with them. This is a gentleman’s club and you will behave like one. Do. You. Understand?”
A nodded yes and The Fox’s throat was released to cough and splutter into his glass, then the elderly man continued as if nothing had occurred.
“They may busy themselves postulating about why McManus was killed. That doesn’t concern me at all. Just as long as the evidence leads them in the direction we wish.”
“It will. I assure you.”
The words were accompanied by a red-faced nod and then the older man gestured at the door.
“Leave then. We have no further need of you.”
As being dismissed went it was unequivocal, but The Fox remained where he was, taking his life in his hands with his next utterance and pushing his chair back to a safe distance before he spoke.
“I disagree. I must remain in Northern Ireland for the party. It is to be the final one there before the vote.”
The host’s face went first pale and then red at being contradicted, fading slowly to pink as he considered the validity of the words. He was also considering a second grab of his companion’s carotid, but decided that would have to wait for another day. He liked to practise his wet-work skills occasionally but it seemed that now wasn’t the time.
“Very well. Attend the event, but do not take part. Observe and report to me. I will let Darrian know that you are coming and he will take you to the group.”
A second, sharper indication of the exit persuaded The Fox not to push his luck again. He would go straight to Heathrow and return to Belfast, back to his obligingly smoke friendly bar to think.
****
9 p.m.
Craig was still shaking his head on his third pint. A woman. Half of him still disbelieved it even as the other half was thinking ‘of course’. In many ways, it made sense.
An unknown woman could have got closer to Billy Regent than an unknown man. More quickly as well. Men were susceptible to a pretty face. The thought brought the detective up short. Who said the German was pretty? And yet the more that he thought about it the more that it made sense.
Both sexes could be influenced by good looks; it wasn’t just men’s weakness, no matter what the tabloids implied. And if approached by an attractive stranger, both sexes would be more likely to engage them in conversation than not. It told him something else; the German was probably Regent’s age or a few years either side; he doubted that a grandmother figure would have engaged the young man in quite the same way.
So, if it was a woman, why was she German? It wasn’t a nationality with a large population living in the province. Polish, Lithuanian, Indian, all those groups had substantial communities in Northern Ireland, but a German was still more likely to be a tourist or a student than anything else. A tourist on a killing spree? A narrowly targeted one.
His mind turned back to the figure on the CCTV. It could easily have been a woman; tall and slim, with her hair concealed under a baseball hat. The detective gave a snort of disgust. Tall and slim, the description was ubiquitous. They needed to look at the tapes again, see if there were other clues: hair colour from a wayward strand perhaps or a distinctive walk, something, anything that could help identify the killer in the crowd caged within the cordon when they’d arrived on the estate.
He was making a note for Davy to distribute the CCTV to Bill McEwan, Des, Aidan, Reggie and anyone else who might be able to help when he had another thought; everyone within the cordon who wasn’t in uniform would have given their name and address. In their killer’s case, it would be false of course, but it meant someone might have spoken to them at least once. He scribbled down ‘talk to the interviewing officers’ and finally looked up from his notebook just in time to see John rise to his feet.
“You leaving, John?”
A glance said the pathologist had been thinking of it, but he slumped back down again.
“What for? All I’m going home to is an argument.”
Des took it as his cue to leave. Craig was John’s best friend and he could give him better advice than he ever
could, besides which, he had two small children to kiss goodnight. As the forensic expert left the pub Craig ordered another round and prepared himself for a tale of marital woe, with half of his mind still on a killer from a thousand miles away.
****
The Demesne Estate, East Belfast. Thursday. 9 a.m.
Liam’s morning was being ruined by Craig. The D.C.I. had had the hours from nine to twelve all planned: chase up on the guns’ serial numbers to see if he could trace their origins and then follow up with Ken and Davy on Regent’s mental health; after that it would be off to The James at twelve o’clock to see what was on for lunch. But the call he’d received from Craig at eleven the night before had put paid to all that. He’d had to delegate the gun and psychiatric stuff and get himself down to the Demesne, where Reggie Boyd was now back in permanent residence, just how permanent was being indicated by the way the sergeant had his feet up on his desk.
He didn’t move when Liam arrived, not even to offer him tea, preferring instead to point the D.C.I. to the kettle with “Make one for me as well.”
“What did your last servant die of, Reg?”
“Gratitude. There’re some biscuits in the tin, just underneath there, so you can bring those across as well.”
Several Jaffa Cakes later Liam was feeling better so he announced what he’d driven there for.
“You’ve seen the CCTV, I suppose?”
Reggie nodded, dropping his feet to the floor with a thud and switching on his computer. As the aging P.C. booted up the sergeant elaborated.
“The lift shots mainly, but there’s another clip your lads found and sent across about twenty minutes ago.”
He tapped ‘enter’ and they watched as a grainy video flickered to life. Liam said what they were both thinking.
“I wish to God they’d improve the quality of those things. It’s impossible to tell who’s who.”
As it happened it wasn’t an issue; there were only two figures on the screen. Two tall, straight figures that looked like youngish men. They were walking across the optimistically named ‘Travis Square’ between the tower blocks, the man wearing a baseball cap also carrying a logoed bag.
The Cabal (#16 - The Craig Crime Series) Page 22
