“I am calling from Interpol in Lyons regarding a specimen that your police sent through. We have a match that I will send by secure email.”
A moment later the phone went down and after another the analysts were staring at a profile on their screens. Beatrix Hass, aged forty-three, although her photograph showed that she looked two decades younger. In fact, if Ash had seen her in a club he would have chatted her up. But however well the woman in front of them was aging, she had a rap sheet as long as Davy’s gangly arm. The most interesting information lay in a section named Politische Straftaten or Political Offences.
Hass had been a member of the National Offensive from nineteen-ninety to ninety-two, then dabbled in various Reichsbürger groups and Der Autonome Nationalisten (The Independent Nationalists), essentially Neo-Nazis, before moving on to join an even more extreme group earlier that year. The fine print on the groups’ constitutions probably differed, but all their ideologies were right-wing nationalism, some of which was imposed through anarchy and violence.
Ash recovered from his shock enough to ask, “What’s a Reichsbürger?”
Davy’s response was to pull up a search engine so they could both read that Reichsbürgers in general subscribed to the theory that the Federal Republic of Germany, founded in nineteen-forty-nine, had never been a legitimate state, because Germany hadn’t signed a peace agreement with the Allies, and that German ‘Basic Law’ required a public referendum for it to be voted a legitimate constitution.
The senior analyst gave a slow whistle then said what they were both thinking. “What the heck is a right-wing German activist doing killing people over here?” He went in search of the answer, starting to type. They couldn’t give Craig this information without some context, but what that would turn out to be he had no idea.
****
University Street, South Belfast.
Journalists can be tricky creatures. Not just because they can bias reports that the public is likely to be influenced by, but because the skills that enable them to sense a story, sniff out sources and persuade those sources to spill their guts, are the very same ones that can make some of them as slippery as hell.
They also had a nasty tendency to turn questions back on the questioner, bleat ‘freedom of the press’ at anyone who might listen, and refuse to keep things off the record, and Liam had no desire to see his name and face splashed across a front page.
While Ray Mercer had been a discredited freelancer it had been easy to ignore him, but now he had a soap box, albeit one as disgusting as The Belfast Journal, which meant that some well-paid inhouse legal team was willing to defend what the reporter wrote, and that way lay uncensored verbosity. Liam knew he needed to be careful what he said to the wee scrote now, which irked him enormously, when what he really wanted to do was smack Mercer around the head hard enough to make him cough up whatever he knew.
It was with those frustrations in mind that the D.C.I. parked outside the Journal’s satisfyingly dingy looking offices in University Street, hoping against hope that their aged façade was a mark of the paper’s lack of success. The glossy reception area Liam discovered once he’d pushed through the street door said that it wasn’t, and that the outward decay was more likely some sort of urban street-cred, shabby chic kind of thing. He hated that fake front shit. Businesses should be like Ronseal and be exactly what they said on the tin.
The sleek receptionist that greeted him made Liam’s heart sink even further, and when he said, “I need to see Ray Mercer” her immediate flutter told him the reporter was high up the newspaper’s food chain. He thrust out his warrant card petulantly, only to find that it didn’t have the same aphrodisiac effect.
There was no justice in the world. Mercer had contravened all the ethics that journalism possessed two years before, by feeding a story he couldn’t write himself to a teenage blogger, so that when it eventually became visible he could pick it up and reap the accolades. And yet here he was, insufficient penance time later in Liam’s opinion, back in the game in the big smoke.
It made the detective long for a lunch and a pint. He was on his second beer mentally when Ray Mercer appeared, and strangely the journalist’s appearance gave Liam a frisson of pleasure. Not because he liked the man, there was no ambiguity about that, but because the weasel faced, scrawny little ratbag looked like crap. A holiday in a gulag would have had a better effect on his looks.
Liam didn’t rise in greeting, his top-to-toe sneer easier to demonstrate from where he sat. The look got to Mercer even though he’d expected it as soon as he’d known who was waiting, and he snapped out the opening words.
“If it isn’t the big bastard himself!” He cast a look over his shoulder. “Don’t bother making coffee, Darlene, this definitely isn’t a VIP.”
Liam rose slowly to tower over them both. It was in moments like this that he loved being tall.
“No, don’t bother making coffee, Darlene, because Mister Mercer is coming with me.”
Mercer’s sharp eyes narrowed. “On what charge?”
“To help with our enquiries, like the good little citizen that you are.”
A hand beneath his elbow told the reporter not to disagree, and as Mercer was propelled towards the front door Liam waved with his free hand.
“Toodle Pip, Darlene. Don’t wait up.”
Mister Mercer is likely to be late.
Chapter Thirteen
Veronica Lewis felt nervous and she wasn’t certain why. All she had to do was the job that she’d been given and both she and Rupert would be safe, she knew that. But still, there was something in the air that was making her very afraid. She was still unsettled by her ordeal in the wood, of course, and no-one liked living under threat, but the unease the madam was feeling wasn’t to do with either of those things and she couldn’t give it a name.
She shook her head sharply to clear it and smiled at the young woman across the desk.
“It’s a really flash party this time, Jenny, so wear your glad rags. The host has said no expense is being spared.”
Jenny Wasson knew better than to ask who that host was, or where the event was going to be held. It would be the same routine as usual: blindfolds and a limo, with the same on the journey back. Yet she felt nervous as well, although her nervousness was tinged with excitement; she’d known when she’d given the list of party dates to the police that they’d do something with them, and this weekend’s party would be her first chance to see what that was.
She secretly hoped that they’d follow her, burst through the door at just the right moment, and catch all the dirty old buggers with their trousers around their feet. OK, it would mean no more parties and her losing money, but she’d been for an interview that week for a teaching post so she hoped that her escort days were numbered anyway.
It was time. Her kids were starting to ask why she had so many glittery dresses in her wardrobe, when her social life with them consisted of nothing but PTA meetings and visits to the flicks.
She suddenly realised that Lewis had asked her a question and brought her attention back to the here and now.
“Sorry, Vero, I missed that.”
Lewis smiled. Jenny was her favourite girl by far. Apart from really liking her she was always punctual and polite, and, as comfortable at the opera as the art gallery, she was the one her best clients asked for again and again.
“I said there’ll be a bonus for you for this one. Five thousand.”
Jenny gawped. “That’s my fee?”
“That’s on top of your fee. The host’s paying it, for what he said will be some very special guests.” Her tone changed to a warning. “But just be careful, Jen. There’ll be a lot of blow around, and God knows what else. One of the customers is bringing it this time. So just watch that no-one spikes your drink. I’ve heard one of them likes it a bit rough.”
It made up Jennifer Wasson’s mind. She would stick to water this time, from a bottle, and this party would definitely be her last.
****
1.30 p.m.
The call when it came was unwelcome. Craig had planned to drive to the Travis and see what was what with the search for their assassin’s hiding place and then on to headquarters to bring the C.C. up to date, so when Liam’s name appeared on his mobile his instinct was to ignore the call. They’d be catching up later at the office anyway and there was nothing that couldn’t wait. By the third missed call Craig was exasperated so he called the D.C.I. back.
“What do you want?”
Liam was so pissed off after an hour with Ray Mercer that he missed the terseness in his boss’ voice.
“Ah, good. You got my messages.”
Craig hadn’t, having deliberately chosen not to listen to them. There was a reason for that. Liam’s telephone messages always fell into one of two categories: a single word, usually ‘shit’ because he’d had to use the answerphone, which he hated doing; or rambling opinion pieces woven around the facts he needed to impart, that often made Craig think the D.C.I. should write a column for the Daily Blah.
He decided not to lie about it, bluntness being the mark of a true friend.
“Didn’t listen to them. So, what do you want? I’m on my way to the Travis.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you, boss.”
“Why not?”
“Let Wensley take the grief from McEwan and tidy things up afterwards. It’ll be easier all round.”
Craig knew he was right, although he felt a bit guilty leaving Aidan Hughes to take all the flak.
“OK. Then I’m off to headquarters to update the C.C.”
“Nope. That can wait too. You need to get to High Street. I’ve someone for you to see.”
Highhanded though the statement was it made Craig curious.
“Who?”
“An old -” Liam stopped mid-sentence. He had been going to say ‘friend’ because the saying required it, but he couldn’t stomach using that word in relation to Ray Mercer.
Craig tutted impatiently.
“Old what, Liam? Man? Woman?… Enemy?”
Liam’s sigh said that he’d got it in three. Craig’s pulled onto the M1 cityward and continued speculating into his hands free.
“Enemy then. So, OK, who? Harrison, Susan Richie…?”
D.C.S. Terry (Teflon) Harrison was Craig’s erstwhile boss and now oversaw both Drugs and Vice. The fifty-six-year-old was a lecherous, ambitious snob whose trail of mistresses, often younger than his daughter, had recently resulted in his divorce. The two men had clashed on many occasions, whereas with Susan Richie it had just been once. When Craig had been given oversight of the Intelligence Section she’d been its ruthless Director, protecting killers just to get their information and score career points. He’d kicked her out to work in Staff Training. It was safe to say that neither officer would be sending him a Christmas card.
Craig was onto enemy number five when it occurred to him just how many people he’d pissed off through the years, and that as Liam hadn’t halted him he hadn’t even reached the end of the list.
“OK. No more guessing. Who is it?”
Liam swallowed hard. “Mercer.”
Craig was incredulous. “Ray Mercer?”
Liam’s sarcastic ‘how many Mercers do you know?’ remained unsaid.
“Yep. He’s back in Belfast working at the Journal.”
Craig didn’t know whether to be disgusted or furious. He still had the scar where he’d punched a window instead of Mercer’s head, at a Christmas party two years’ before. It still hurt when it was cold which in Northern Ireland meant that the journalist was never out of his thoughts for long.
Finally, he opted for jaded.
“Why do I care?”
Surprised at how lightly he’d got off, Liam went on enthusiastically. “Because Maggie says he’s about to publish a piece about some secret club.”
Silence.
“A club linked with McManus’ death.”
Still silence, but this time only because Craig’s jaw had dropped. A headline two days before they got to the party and hopefully exposed the whole plot! No bloody way.
“Lift him.”
Liam smiled the smug smile of the clever boy.
“Already done. That’s why you need to come to High Street. I had a quick go at him but he gave me nothing but crap, so I thought that you might fancy a try.”
Anticipation brought a cold smile to Craig’s lips. “I definitely do. Well done. But let’s leave him to stew until after this afternoon’s briefing. I want to see what everyone’s got first.
****
Craigantlet Army Base.
Ken Smith gazed at the equipment spread out on his bed, ticking each piece methodically off his clip-boarded list and memories along with it. His dress uniform, worn at summer and winter balls where he kissed many pretty dates. His service dress and combat dress, just two of the many uniforms that he’d worn around the world. The list went on, but no matter how long it was it didn’t seem much of an epitaph for a fifteen-year career, even if they did all have pips. The soon to be ex-captain lifted a pair of black boots and sat down in a chair, polishing them absent-mindedly for five minutes before returning to his count of the berets, caps, belts and tunics that sketched out a soldier’s career.
But even through the wave of nostalgia he was surfing Ken couldn’t deny the bubble of excitement in his chest. He paused his inventory for another moment, trying to identify the feeling’s origin. It couldn’t be excitement at not having to wear a uniform any more, he’d just be wearing a different one in the PSNI; and it couldn’t be excitement at not having to obey orders, there would still be plenty of those. Then it came to him, and if Lucia Craig had been able to read her boyfriend’s thoughts at that moment he’d have found himself kicked into touch for at least a week. Ken Smith was excited by several things but the most exciting one of all didn’t bear her name.
It was the promise of physical freedom. No more having to move to a new country at a day’s notice, with no option but to comply, and no more being confined to base for any number of reasons, most of which they never knew. The only place he’d be confined to in future would be a home of his own with a wide screen TV, and then only ever by his own choice.
The soldier smiled to himself as the more feminine reason for his excitement came back into view. And when he was in that home with its super-king bed and luxurious bathroom his companions wouldn’t be a bunch of hairy great soldiers, but the woman he loved and the Red Setter pup that they were going to buy.
****
German Federal Police (The Bundespolizei/BPOL). Berlin, Germany.
At first Erster Polizeihauptkommissar (Chief Inspector) Vala Raske had been surprised to hear the name, and then her surprise had given way to a smile. Marc Craig, old Mister Heartthrob himself, although to be fair he’d probably never known that had been his nickname at The Met. She dragged her gaze away from the view from her office window to the photo of London that she kept on her desk, casting her mind back to the years that she’d been seconded there.
She’d learnt a lot from The Metropolitan Police and hopefully taught them something too, that was what exchange visits were about. But her strongest memories were of Covent Garden and summer nights spent drinking there with her new friends. Now here was one of them popping up again; not, as she’d expected him to be, still at The Met but back in his home town of Belfast, and it made her wonder about Camille.
Camille Kennedy had been Craig’s long-term girlfriend and she’d never liked the bitch. She’d been one of those women who’d thought the world revolved around her and had used her pretty face and body to get her way. As if she was speaking to someone else, the BPOL chief inspector rushed to defend herself. It wasn’t envy that had made her hate the girl, she was attractive herself in a dark, slim way and very happy in her personal life, but she’d seen women like Camille ruin men with their wiles and she found herself hoping that Craig hadn’t met the same fate. For all his slick suits and charm he had been a
nice guy, and perhaps even slightly naïve in ways. He’d loved Camille for years, genuinely loved her, and unfortunately it had made him blind to her tricks.
Vala Raske smiled to herself, an old expression springing to mind. It takes a woman to know a woman; sometimes far too true. She feared that Craig had got the rough end of his relationship with Camille and that might explain why he was no longer at The Met. Or perhaps he had simply decided to return to his roots. She couldn’t argue with that when she’d done the same thing herself.
The chief inspector shook the past away with a single movement and turned her chair towards the glass wall that separated her from her team, lifting the criminal file that lay on her desk. Beatrix Hass: thief, fraudster, political terrorist, but never until now an assassin. Yet you couldn’t argue with DNA, especially not with a perfect match. Beatrix had gone on a hunting vacation to Northern Ireland and her old friend Marc Craig needed her help to find out why.
****
The C.C.U. 3 p.m.
As Vala Raske was gearing up to phone the UK, Craig was gearing up for a briefing. He stood by Nicky’s desk surveying his troops, pleased to find everyone present and correct, although displaying varying signs of fatigue.
“OK, let’s get to this.”
The most fatigued looking amongst them nodded his head and Craig waved Aidan Hughes on.
“Swear if you like, Aidan. You deserve a bit of leeway after what you’ve been through.”
For the benefit of the unknowing, Liam set the background, both of Bill McEwan’s character and the reason Hughes had visited his lair hours before.
Aidan’s words were heartfelt. “I have never…” He paused, casting a look around for sympathy. Craig obliged him with a knowing nod. “Never, ever been bollocked so loudly in my life-”
Liam interrupted incredulously. “McEwan communicated using words?”
The Cabal (#16 - The Craig Crime Series) Page 24
