Evie’s mother and step-father lived in a manse attached to one of the town’s many churches. He found it easily, set at the top of a long side road. Its driveway was short and pebbled, edging a neat lawn filled with flowers of lilac and blue. Two trees stood by the garden-fence, one a glowing copper beech and the other an elderly willow, nodding down sleepily. The whole place was lovely. Evie Hill had lived her short life far, far away from her father’s violent world.
As the church bell struck three, Craig parked outside an imposing grey-brick house. A tall, tired-looking man came to the door to greet him, extending his hand warmly. “Mr Craig, thank you for coming all this way. I was sorry to have to ask you, I know how busy you must be. But Miriam is so distressed that I couldn’t take her from the house.”
Everything about the Reverend Geoffrey Kerr was gentle, grey and ageless. Craig guessed him at somewhere in his forties, but his hair was already snow white, matched by grey eyes set below dark grey brows. His neutral jumper and trousers completed the modest picture. Nothing about the man was showy.
They walked through the porch into a square tiled entrance-hall, with glass fanlights that dated it as Victorian. Geoffrey Kerr ushered him into a cosy study, already laid out with a tray of coffee and cake.
“Please help yourself, Mr Craig. The ladies of the parish keep us well supplied with pastries. I wonder if we might have a quiet word - before I fetch Miriam?”
“Of course. I don’t have another appointment until late, so we have whatever time you need. May I ask you some questions as well?” Kerr nodded, deferring to Craig.
“How long had you known Evie, Reverend Kerr?”
“Miriam and I met through a church group when Evie was three.” He added hastily. “Miriam was already divorced, of course.” He hesitated for a moment, as if considering whether to say something, then he continued. “I don’t know if you are aware, Mr Craig, but Evie’s father has an unfortunate history. He...he was in prison for some time during The Troubles.”
“Yes, Mr Hill is known to us. I met him earlier and he’s taking this very badly. Totally understandable, of course.”
“Of course, of course. Particularly as he was just getting to know Evie again. We never tried to stop him seeing her, but she was at school in Scotland when he was released. She only returned five years ago. Then she met Brian and married.”
“How is Mr Murray? I understand he’s staying with you.”
“Yes, poor boy. He’s upstairs. He was very distraught so our G.P. gave him something to help him sleep. We’re the only family he has now.” He stopped abruptly and paused, as if what he said next might shock. “May I be frank, Mr Craig?”
Craig nodded kindly, certain that this man’s frankness couldn’t possibly shock him.
“Brian’s a kind young man, and Evie loved him of course. But he is… How can I put this? He’s perhaps not as responsible a person as we would have wished for her. But you know young people, Mr Craig, ‘the heart wants what the heart wants’. He’s a harmless boy, but I do know that Mr Hill dislikes him.”
“Why in particular?”
The Reverend glanced away, embarrassed. “We’re not a bigoted family, Mr Craig, genuinely not. I hold and attend ecumenical services, at all the local places of Christian worship. And we work very well with the local Jewish and Muslim residents. So the fact that Brian is not of our faith is of no issue to Miriam or me. Indeed, I co-officiated at the wedding. But...I think that Mr Hill may have had a rather different opinion of him, based on that single fact. ”
“Thank you for being so honest. That’s useful information.”
Geoffrey Kerr continued talking, filling Craig in on Evie’s life as a child. And since she’d returned to Belfast five years before, and married. Craig knew, from the way that he spoke, that he was looking at Evie’s real father. This man had dried all the tears caused by Tommy Hill’s past.
“May I ask you, Mr Craig…why are the police involved in Evie’s death? Is it because of Mr Hill?”
“Reverend, there are things I need to cover that require both you and Mrs Kerr to be here. And Mr Murray if that’s possible. So I’d prefer to answer that question when they join us.” Craig hated that he would have to gauge their reactions to his questions as if they were suspects - but that was the job.
“Oh yes, quite, quite. You have a job to do. But Brian is quite impossible to rouse. Perhaps I could bring him to meet you tomorrow?”
Craig nodded. Given the other deaths, Brian Murray wasn’t high on his list of suspects. Tomorrow would do.
The Reverend rose to get his wife, lingering for a moment by the piano against the wall. He ran his hand over its mahogany lid, as if he was re-living a memory. “Do you enjoy music, Mr Craig?”
“Yes. My mother is a pianist.”
“How wonderful for you. Evie played nicely you know. This was her piano.” His eyes clouded over. “I must lock it now...her mother...you understand.” Craig understood only too well. He would do the same the day his mother died.
“There’s something else you should be aware of Mr Craig. Brian is quite feckless - he would admit that himself. And he has no close living family. He spent a much of his youth in care. So Miriam and I intend to seek custody of the baby, we feel it will give her a better chance. Mr Hill may contest it of course, but we have Brian’s assurance that he supports us.”
Craig nodded. He’d half expected it. “I doubt Mr Hill would win a custody battle, Reverend Kerr, given the circumstances.”
“I believe in giving everyone second chances, so we will engage him in the child’s life, of course. But not custody, you’ll understand our reservations on that. Also Mr Craig...Miriam is desperately shocked by what has happened. I hate to ask, but you will take care when you question her, won’t you?”
Craig nodded. “As far as I can. But I must be honest, there may be difficult moments. There’s a great deal that neither of you are aware of yet.”
The other man stared questioningly at him, then nodded and left the room. Craig sat waiting for Evie’s mother to come down, his coffee untouched. He was dreading the encounter.
Miriam Kerr entered the room slowly. Her face wore the confused look that Craig had seen on many people who’d lost someone they loved. She was a small woman with short, dark hair and enormous brown eyes, dressed simply in a green floral skirt and cardigan. She looked just like the picture he’d seen of Evie, or how Evie would have been in twenty years. Her eyes were completely dead.
She crossed her arms, hugging herself, and sat down, turned half-away from him. She gazed out of the window at the trees, rocking slightly in her seat. And after five minutes of silence, broken only by the faint sound of traffic, she started to speak, in the softest voice that Craig had ever heard.
“Ask me anything that you like, Inspector. If I can first ask you...why are you here? Surely the police don’t investigate hospital deaths? It’s a medical issue. But the Sister told me that your men have been interviewing her staff all morning. Why? Why is that Mr Craig?”
Her accent echoed her husband’s soft Antrim lilt, no trace of her harder origins on Belfast’s Springfield Road leaking through. Craig had the impression that the change wasn’t deliberate. She had simply loved a different man and lived a different life for twenty years. This wasn’t the woman who had married Tommy Hill. Not in any way.
She turned to him with a dull look, and continued speaking before he could answer her.
“I know that you’re trying to picture me with Tommy. It’s all right, I don’t mind. I’ve seen lots of people with that look before. But I was very young then, and he was very different...before The Troubles. That’s no excuse for his actions. There’ll never be an excuse for what Tommy did. But he changed from the man I married. And now he has to grieve for Evie, just as he left other families’ grieving. God pays debts without money, Mr Craig.”
Geoffrey Kerr sat down on the arm of his wife’s chair, more dominant now in her defence.
“Wh
y are the Police involved in Evie’s death, Mr Craig? Do you think that there was medical malpractice? Is that why? I heard that Mr Hill said as much to the ward staff last night – quite loudly I believe.”
“Reverend and Mrs Kerr…” Craig hesitated, finding the next words almost impossible to say. He’d thought about enlisting Geoffrey Kerr’s help, by telling him that it was a murder enquiry before he brought his wife downstairs. But he needed to tell them both together, to gauge their immediate reactions. It was a sad thought and very unlikely, but even they were suspects in Evie’s death until proven not.
“My team has become involved at the request of Dr John Winter, the Director of Pathology for Northern Ireland. He feels...I’m very sorry...but he feels that there may be irregularities in your daughter’s death.” He paused to let the words sink in.
“I want to be completely honest with you. But I must also insist on your complete confidence regarding everything I say now. And that includes not discussing anything with Mr Murray. We will speak to him separately. Tomorrow.” He stopped speaking until they both nodded, then continued. “There are things about your daughter’s death that we need to clarify.”
Miriam Kerr found her voice. “You mean medical negligence?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps something...” He paused. God, he hated this job sometimes. “Something worse.”
“But what could be worse than that?”
The sudden dawning of the truth on relatives was one of the hardest things that Craig had to deal with. And something that they all steeled themselves for, working in murder. That suspended moment when they realised that not only had they lost the person that they loved, but that someone had deliberately taken them away. There was nothing that could prepare the families. Or prepare the police for the pain that their honesty would inflict.
The wail that forced its way from Miriam Kerr froze her husband completely for a second. Then he moved quickly to grab her, before she fell from her seat onto the floor.
“Oh God, he’s saying that Evie was murdered. Stop him saying that, stop him, Geoff.”
Her soft brown eyes turned pitifully towards her husband, and tears edged rapidly from them and streamed across her cheeks. Geoffrey Kerr’s eyes filled quickly in return. Craig felt like joining them, but he had to stay professional. He helped them back into their seats, their unguarded reactions underlining their barely-questioned innocence. Then he hunkered in front of Miriam Kerr, taking her hand.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs Kerr. I’d like to say that we don’t believe it’s murder.” There, the word was out now... “Or that we don’t believe it’s even a possibility. But sadly we do. You see...Evie may not have been the first.”
Geoffrey Kerr regained his composure and helped his wife across to a small settee. Then he held her in his arms while she cried and Craig continued. He asked them all the difficult questions. About any possible enemies that Evie and Brian or their families might have. Their answers yielded nothing except bewilderment, just as he’d expected. Evie and her husband were just innocent youngsters starting a family.
Then he outlined what they knew already, emphasising that they wouldn’t stop searching until they’d caught those responsible for Evie’s death.
He stayed with them for hours, answering their questions until the afternoon light faded; long after the liaison officer had arrived. Finally he gave Geoffrey Kerr his private number, outlining his availability, and his sorrow for the hurt that he knew he’d added to. Craig’s frustration grew as he headed for his car, crunching angrily past the willow, definitely weeping now. All they could do for victims was find the killers. Then make sure that the case was so well sealed, that no arrogant bastard of a defence barrister would ever get them off.
He sat in the car for ten minutes listening to his messages. Nicky had worked wonders as she always did. He called her back, just to let her husky voice wash over him therapeutically.
“I finally got hold of the Chief Executive, sir. He can see you at six at their management offices. I’ve e-mailed you the map. Did you manage any lunch?”
He suddenly realised that he’d forgotten to eat again, the manse’s cakes still untouched. “Don’t worry, I’ll grab a sandwich on the way. That’s brilliant work, Nicky. Will he have his P.R. guy there?”
“For the last ten minutes as requested - it’s all arranged. And I’ll put everything for Warwick on your desk before I leave. I went round everyone and they’re ready.”
“Great. I’m in court tomorrow morning and at High Street all afternoon, so my phone will be off for most of the day. Just leave me messages and I’ll get them. And see what you and Davy can find out for Dr Winter on the other two cases, please. He’ll give you all the details.”
“Other two cases?” His silence answered her, and she knew better than to push.
“That’s grand, sir. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. And remember to give that C.E.O.’s secretary a dirty look for me.”
Chapter Seven
The Chief Executive’s offices were in an old training centre on Belfast’s leafy Knock Road. Craig wondered why they were so far out of town. Sure, it was a picturesque setting, near Shandon Park’s popular golf club, but driving to the St Marys’ site must have taken him ages. Then he realised it was equidistant from the Trust’s six hospitals and that the unions had probably pushed for the equality. ‘All about the politics’ as usual. All it would achieve was high petrol bills and wasted time. Welcome to the public sector.
He arrived ten minutes early so he parked up and flicked on a Duke Special C.D. He listened to ‘Lucky Me’ and picked half-heartedly at the tuna roll he’d bought in transit, way past hungry. He was perusing a piece of lettuce warily, deciding it was too long dead, when his phone rang and John’s name flashed up. He answered it quickly, grateful for the company.
“Hi John - what can I do for you?”
“Are you hungry?” The man was a mind reader. “I should be finished in an hour, and I was thinking of giving that place, Ivory, a turn. I can’t be bothered cooking.”
Translation. ‘I’m too lazy even to microwave’.
Craig glanced at his watch, considering. Thirty minutes with the Chief Exec then sixty back at the ranch reading tomorrow’s statements. Yes. John had rescued him from the lettuce, so the least he could do was rescue him from a salmonella dinner.
“You’re on. I’ll meet you there about eight, OK?”
“See you there - I’ll be three drinks ahead by then.”
The call ended with abrupt familiarity, giving Craig the nudge that he finally needed. He left the car and pressed the Management Offices’ intercom. It was answered sharply by a woman and the door opened remotely to admit him.
The office block was pretty comfortable by public sector standards, but it was definitely no Michelin Building. There were steel-railed stairwells and peeling-paint walls, but at least the lift worked.
A frosty P.A. showed him into an oak-panelled office with Chief Executive marked on the door. A middle-aged man was sitting behind a modern plywood desk. It seemed incongruous in the room’s wood-lined grandeur. The overall impression was the inherited oddment décor of a first home. The C.E.O. stood up urgently to shake Craig’s hand, while the woman grudgingly took orders for tea, her lack of charm echoing Nicky’s earlier description.
Charles McAllister was tall and nearly as round as his wide chair could hold. He had a florid complexion that probably owed a lot to outdoor pursuits...or alcohol. Craig thought that his clear eyes ruled out the booze, and he’d already noticed the golf-bag leaning against the wall. Shandon Park was handy then. He revised his earlier thoughts about the unions.
McAllister spoke quickly in a strong Northern English accent that Craig immediately recognised as Manchester. Shades of the Gallagher brothers. It was deep and thick, and without the cool intonation he was used to, from London and the south-east.
“Well Mr Craig, what can I do to help you? I’m sorry we’re not meeting under better circumstances.
It’s a very sad business - mothers and babies touch us all.”
“Yes it is, Mr McAllister.”
“Charles.”
“Charles.” Craig didn’t offer his name in return and McAllister quickly spotted the distinction, immediately on-guard.
“Before I outline the situation, I’ll need your assurance that our conversation doesn’t leave this room.”
“Of course, whatever you say. But what are we talking about? And why are the police even involved? Isn’t this straightforward medical negligence?”
“I’m sorry, but we believe it may be more than that. We’re at the early stages of the investigation, but we’re treating Mrs Murray-Hill’s death as suspicious.” He paused, watching the man’s face carefully as each snippet of information sank in. “And we believe it may not be the first.”
McAllister’s’ politeness slipped rapidly and his round face flushed bright red. “What in God’s name do you mean, man? You’re not talking about murder?”
Craig sat quietly, leaving the abrupt words hanging. He was never rude, just selectively polite. Or totally silent. McAllister filled the quiet with scores of agitated words while Craig listened. People often had whole conversations with themselves in front of him.
“Now look, Chief Inspector, I know that Nigel Murdock’s practice has been queried for being ropey, and he’s sky-high on my list for early retirement. But murder?”
“Why do you mention Mr Murdock?”
“Well, he was her consultant, wasn’t he? And they’re responsible for the patients.”
McAllister’s slight emphasis on ‘they’ was unmistakable, and Craig could see the buck about to be passed. McAllister’s voice dropped suddenly, almost to a whisper, as he searched around for invisible listeners. Craig had seen it before. At the first sign of the police everyone thought they were in a TV series.
The Visitor (#3 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 6
