“Oh yes. Sorry, I forgot. Is Julia up?”
“Not until tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’m glad you called. You’ve just saved me from being tortured to death by Mum. What can I do for you?”
“Well... it might be something, or it might be nothing at all.”
“A new case?” Craig didn’t try to keep the eagerness from his voice. After three weeks of paperwork he thought he deserved a break.
“Yes and no. It’s a strange one… I’m up on the North Coast.”
Craig knew immediately where he was.
“Portstewart?”
“How did you know?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute when I call you back.”
He ended the call unceremoniously and checked his missed calls, pressing the latest to redial. It was answered immediately by a familiar voice. Andy White. He’d headed up the Drugs Squad in the C.C.U. until recently, now he was a D.C.I. up the coast, inching closer to Dungiven by the year as he made his way home.
“Hey, Andy. You called me?”
“Marc Craig, as I live and breathe. I did indeed. Fancy a wee trip to the seaside, hey?”
Craig smiled at Andy’s Dungiven accent. Liam mimicked it perfectly, never omitting his tendency to say ‘hey’ after every other phrase.
“Who and where?”
“A young girl on Portstewart Strand. It’s a strange one in more ways than I can count. I’ve cleared it with the Chief and he says you’re good to go, hey. Can you come up on Monday?”
“I can do better than that, I’ll come up tonight.” He glanced at his watch: nine p.m. “How does an hour sound?”
“It sounds like you’re driving a Lamborghini these days! Don’t kill yourself rushing, hey. I’ll have the kettle on when you arrive.”
Craig clicked off the call and quickly re-dialled John.
“Where are you staying, John?”
“Brewster’s.”
“Right, I’m meeting with Andy White around ten o’clock. I’ll see you in the hotel bar afterwards?”
“You’ll see me in the mortuary before that.”
***
The easy late-night drive almost made Craig forget what he was driving to. A life ended before its time and parents weeping and mourning their loss, certain that it was somehow their fault. He wondered why parents always blamed themselves for whatever ills befell their child, as if they could form a shield at birth and protect them from the world. The world had a habit of getting in, whether you shielded people or not.
He pulled into Portstewart town and caught sight of its famous beach. The Strand was one of Northern Ireland’s Blue Flag beaches, and one of the few where cars were still allowed to drive. Its smooth beauty looked peaceful, undamaged by hands or wheels, all traces wiped clean by the North Atlantic tides. It looked too peaceful; perhaps the rough water pushing at its shore was a truer sign of what awaited him.
Craig shook his head at his maudlin thoughts and flicked on the CD in the deck. It was one of Julia’s, Adele’s ‘19’, a departure from his usual Snow Patrol. He let the melodies wash over him as he drove, wondering what to do about their romance. The miles between Belfast and Limavady were sapping the life from the relationship and the only two options he could think of wouldn’t fly. That only left the third way.
The phrase made him smile, despite the darkness of his mood. It reminded him of Cool Britannia and songs by D Ream. The 1990s in London and everyone caught up in the buzz; before it had all fallen flat on Iraq. So much had happened to him since then.
An image of his father in the cardiac ward reminded him why he’d moved back to Belfast and strengthened his resolve. His parents needed him now, far more than anyone else. In that moment his decision was finally made. The third way it would have to be. He wasn’t leaving Belfast and Julia would have to make her choice, even if it meant them splitting up. He allowed himself a moment’s grief then turned up the volume and drove towards someone else’s pain.
Chapter Three
The dark-haired man smiled to himself and he pulled back the tent flap until his view of the Strand was clear. The forensic tape and uniforms had diminished by the hour and now only a lone police officer stood guard. Guarding what? The body was gone and all useful traces had long been erased by the tide. Yet still he stood, like some monument to grief; honouring the dead.
Anger filled the man suddenly and he slammed his fist into the tent-pole, shaking his temporary home. Where was the grief for him? Where were the kind words and caring hands when he’d been left alone? Nowhere. It had made him what he was. Cruel and lost. He smiled. He had no self-delusion left. He was cruel. But had he been born that way, or had life moulded him and made him hard?
He shook his head hard, trying to force the answers loose. Only one appeared: the image of a child, loving and gentle, happy with his own games. Defenceless and left alone, to meet with what? Harsh words and harsher hands. Dark spaces and little food. Every word greeted by silence or blame or God’s word, until he’d learned. Learned to keep it all inside. Learned to be cruel and cold. Learned to do onto others before they did it to him. He’d learned well.
***
Craig smiled as he crossed the station reception, extending his hand to his friend. Andy looked just the same. The same upright, energetic stance and the same blue shirt. He always wore one, every day, come rain or shine. The colour matched his eyes. The rumour was that his wife had bought a job lot, coaxing him into wearing them with promises of delight at home. Whatever the reason, Andy’s shirts were as constant as the Atlantic Ocean. Craig found it strangely comforting.
Andy White was an easy-going man, until he got a villain in his sights. Then his affable Dungiven ways morphed into cool precision and his blue eyes grew steely to match. He’d headed up Drugs in Belfast for years, seeking a transfer home with every promotion round. Craig was glad he’d finally managed the move north, even though he did miss the sound of his Dungiven ‘heys’ echoing across Dockland’s canteen.
“Hello Andy. How’s life on the wild Atlantic coast?”
Andy smiled and led the way to the staff room. He knocked-on the kettle and nodded Craig to a chair, grabbing one from across the room. Craig was surprised.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sitting down!”
“Special measures, hey. This is a bad case and it’s about to get worse. We’ve just got the victim’s I.D.”
The look in his eyes said that there was something very wrong. Not that someone’s death could ever be right, but something was compounding it this time.
“It’s Lissy Trainor.”
Craig looked at him blankly so Andy said the name again. It still rang no bells.
“Assistant Chief Constable Trainor’s girl.”
Craig’s mouth fell open as the penny dropped. Melanie Trainor’s daughter was their dead girl!
“You’re positive?”
The question was out before he could even think, even though no-one would ever make the mistake.
Andy nodded. He poured Craig a coffee then took a deep draught of his tea.
Craig shook his head. “Does she know yet?”
“Not yet, I’m on my way to the mortuary now.” Andy nodded at his drink. “This should be whisky, for Dutch courage, hey. The body was found on Thursday morning but there was no I.D. or match on her prints. We’ve just got her name.”
“How?”
He gave a rueful smile. “Your mate John. She had an unusual tattoo on her inner thigh; a number. He recognised what it was.”
“A phone number?”
Andy shook his head and took another sip. “No. A hospital case number. “
He laughed grimly. “Only John would have recognised that, hey. He checked it and the girl’s name and photo came up. Seems she had a kidney transplant when she was fifteen. She must have got the tattoo as a souvenir.”
“God, hadn’t she been through enough in life already, without this happening?”
It was rhetorical. They fell into si
lence and Craig broke it first.
“How old was she?”
“Twenty-one. Just finished law at the University of Ulster. A bright wee girl with her whole life ahead.”
“How did she die?”
Andy shook his head and stood up, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.
“Let’s go and find out.”
***
The morgue was small and cold with faint traces of formaldehyde scenting the air, a legacy from someone passed. The cosy red-brick of the entrance gave way to lines of white corridors, all leading to one place. John Winter stood at the end of one, his pleasure at seeing his friends tempered by decorum and respect for the dead. He greeted them in a subdued voice.
“Hello Marc, nice to see you. Hi again, Andy.”
They nodded in return, all urge to banter dampened by the building’s name. John turned and they followed him in silence into a bright, steel-coloured room where the air was cool and their footsteps made the only sound. He walked to a table and lifted the white sheet on it back from a young woman’s face. Craig gazed at her small, round countenance, the first hints of cheekbone just starting to show through the puppy fat. Thick dark lashes swept down to her cheeks, their colour matched by the tendrils of hair that fell across her brow. She was a child in all but years. She was Melanie Trainor’s child.
Trainor had been Craig’s Superintendent for four weeks when he’d first come back from The Met. She’d been OK. He corrected himself immediately, knowing that his assessment was being made kinder by the pain about to overwhelm her life. She’d been OK-ish, if ruthless ambition and barking orders were your definition of OK. He shrugged; she had it in common with a lot of the higher ranks. Perhaps it was something you acquired, or perhaps it was what had got them there. He’d probably never know.
He stared intently at the girl and saw the strong resemblance to her Mum. It made the macabre coincidence too real and he turned away quickly, not envying John and Andy the task they had ahead. John covered the girl’s face respectfully and ushered them into an office where he’d managed to find coffee and some mugs. They drank in silence for a minute until Andy’s clear voice cut through the air.
“Does she know yet, John?”
Winter shook his head and glanced involuntarily at the clock. It was almost midnight. Craig knew what he was thinking. Did he let the mother have a good night’s sleep before he plunged her into a nightmare that she would never escape, or tell her now and ruin her sleep for years to come?
Craig voiced his opinion. “Let her sleep, John and tell her first thing. Andy and I can start the work tomorrow and by the look of you, you need a good rest.”
They fell into silence again then Andy asked the one thing they needed to know. “How did she die, John?”
“Strangulation.” That one word conjured up a hundred methods and images too gruesome to entertain. He continued. “Approximately three days ago.”
“Tuesday?”
“Around then. The cold water affected Rigor so it’s hard to be accurate. The strangulation was manual and before you ask, no, I don’t think she wasn’t raped. She was still dressed when she was buried.”
Craig nodded, grateful for the little things, then he stood up to go. John stilled him with a hand. There was something else. He swallowed hard then pulled a file from the drawer, laying it face-down. The cardboard cover was faded and badly frayed at the edge, as if it had been read and read again. Craig hazarded a guess at its age; 1970s or ‘80s. But what did it have to do with Lissy Trainor’s death? John sighed heavily then answered Craig’s silent question.
“Do either of you remember a case in ‘83, at the height of The Troubles?”
“We were still at school, John, and so were you!”
Winter smiled. He and Craig had known each other since they were twelve, over thirty years before. They’d gone to the same integrated grammar in Belfast. They’d been thirteen-years-old in 1983 and Andy would only have been ten.
“I didn’t mean did you work it! I meant did you remember hearing about it on the news.”
Craig shook his head, thinking back. The deaths and murders in the eighties were too many to recall, especially for a sports mad boy who never watched TV. Andy looked as puzzled as he felt.
“I doubt it, John, but give us some more detail. Was it one that Melanie Trainor worked?”
John stared at him, astonished. “How did you guess?”
“I’m a genius, hey. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s after midnight and some of us need our sleep. Could you hurry up?”
John startled and glanced at the clock. He forgot everything when he was fascinated by a case.
“Quickly then. Not only did Melanie Trainor work this case as a young Inspector but the M.O. is almost identical to her daughter’s death. Young woman, strangled and buried at exactly the same spot on Portstewart beach. No signs of sexual assault.”
“Who was she?”
“Her name was Veronica Jarvis. Her family called her Ronni. She was suspected of being an informer for MI5. They pinned her death on the IRA.”
“Pinned it?”
“Well, the IRA didn’t actually claim it, but they convicted one of their commanders for the death and he was sentenced to twenty years inside. He did fifteen. Got early release under the Good Friday agreement in 1998.”
Andy interrupted eagerly. “Didn’t the IRA always claim the things they did?”
“Mostly, except for some of the people they disappeared. That’s one of the things that makes me suspicious.”
Craig nodded. John definitely had something. For Melanie Trainor’s daughter to die in the same way as a murder she’d investigated was way beyond coincidence. His mind filled with questions. Two dominated. Why? And why now, thirty years after the fact? Was it straight forward revenge? Every police officer knew that some cases put them and their families more at risk than others. Thankfully it was rare and rarely this extreme, but they spent their days dealing with dangerous criminals not boy scouts.
Craig stood up again and Andy stood as well, signalling the close of discussions for the night. John reluctantly locked up and then they made their way to the hotel, all of them dreading what tomorrow morning would bring.
Chapter Four
Saturday. 7 a.m.
Julia pulled the brush through her curls without any mercy then wound her hair into a tight chignon. She was going to see the Chief Constable to beg him to arrange her transfer so she needed to look smart. He’d agreed to see her at Headquarters in Belfast but she wasn’t telling Marc she’d be in town until afterwards. It was her last chance of a transfer, and the last chance at making their relationship work. She didn’t need any more pressure today.
She pulled her jacket down sharply and stared at her reflection in her polished shoes, years of military training in every glint. Perhaps if she hadn’t already had one career change she wouldn’t be clinging so tightly to the police. But from the army to the police had been a hard enough shift, leaving the police for Civvie Street would be a step too far.
She loved Marc with all her heart, except she mustn’t do, or her giving up the police and moving to Belfast would be a done deal. There was something holding her back. Was it really as simple as her desire to stay in the police, or did she simply not love him enough? She shook her head, rejecting the idea. She loved him desperately. She wanted to have his children and be his wife. Dear God, she’d even started trying out recipes for food he liked. But…
She needed her own career. It made her feel safe. The future could bring anything but she would always have the job. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him; she just didn’t trust life enough not to throw her a curve. She lifted her bag and stood up straight then turned and left her flat; praying that Sean Flanagan would take her side and she could tell Terry ‘Teflon’ Harrison where to stick his Limavady job.
***
Craig woke when the first shards of daylight hit his eyes and lay in bed thinking. If someone had
killed Melanie Trainor’s child in the same way as a case she’d led, it was an obvious link. But to what? Was someone trying to tell them something, or was it just simple revenge? He thought for a moment longer and then thrust himself out of bed in one smooth leap. As he stood in the shower with warm water running down his back his thoughts moved to other things. Julia was going to see the Chief Constable today to request a transfer. She hadn’t told him, Nicky had found out. Her secrecy told him something, but what?
He admired her drive but he felt guilty at the same time. She’d never ask him to use his credit with the Chief to get her moved, but he knew that she thought he should have tried. Why hadn’t he? He didn’t know why. He shook his head beneath the shower, trying to clear it. Was he worried about his own career? No, that wasn’t it. He didn’t give a damn about promotion; he hadn’t even wanted the one he had. Was he getting cold feet about her moving down? Or was part of him secretly hoping that she wouldn’t come, so the decision to end their relationship would be taken out of his hands? No. Even as he thought it he knew the ‘no’ was weaker than before. Did he want to end their relationship but he simply didn’t have the guts? And if so, why? Was he happier single? No. The ‘no’ was surer this time. That wasn’t it. He wanted a relationship, and marriage and children someday. What then?
The water ran through his hair and into his ears, shutting out all sounds but the rushing in his head. He focused as it flowed down his body, thinking of the last question he’d asked. He knew he wanted marriage and kids, so what was wrong? Did he want them with someone else? The image of a woman flashed through his mind and he reeled back against the shower’s wall in shock. It wasn’t Julia! He tried to focus on the face. Was it Camille? No, definitely not. Then who the hell was it? Someone he’d already met or some fantasy?
He shook the urge away quickly, filled with guilt. He’d never been unfaithful and he wasn’t about to start now but he knew in that split second that if Julia and he broke up, someone else was already waiting in his heart.
***
9 a.m.
The Broken Shore Page 2
