Harrison’s face froze.
“Sorry, but it gets worse, sir. She had a pentagram carved into her back and was chained upside down to the altar rails at a church in the Holyland. It definitely wasn’t the kill site - the body was moved after she bled out.”
The horror on Harrison’s face grew with each sentence, and by the time Craig finished his mouth was wide open. There was silence for a moment before he spoke.
“Dear God, what sorts of animals are running around out there? I’m positive it’s got worse since The Troubles ended, or maybe they just kept a lower profile then.”
Craig nodded sadly. “We had similar things in the Met. Some really bad stuff. Is there any way we can keep the details quiet, sir? At least until we I.D. the girl? This is the sort of stuff the tabloids love.”
“Yes, any rag that prints ‘a celebrity ate my gerbil’ has no dignity at all. OK, let’s keep this quiet, but we’ll only be able to do it for a short time. I’ll talk to press liaison and draft a very brief statement. Do you have anything that might identify her at all?”
Craig shook his head. “Nothing yet, but everyone’s on it today. I’ll keep you posted.” He got up to leave and Harrison leaned forward, feigning hurt.
“Don’t you want a macchiato then ...?”
“I’ll tell you what, sir. If my mum ever made you a real Italian one, you’ll never touch your machine again.”
***
Liam leaned back in his swivel chair with his long legs up on the desk. He was talking on the phone and picking hard at the edge of his notebook. Annette knew by the look on his face that it was from frustration, not boredom.
“Aye well, I’m sending her picture over to you now, Alma.” He sighed and stuck his tongue out at the phone. Then he rolled his eyes at Annette and tried hard to remember what he’d learned on his last personal skills course. When he spoke again it was with laboured politeness and Annette smiled to herself, imagining the thoughts in his head.
“Sorry…Anna. Yes, I know that it’s the weekend, but you’re on-call for all of it, aren’t you? Just check her against your database, will you?” He paused for a moment listening, and then rolled his eyes again. “Sorry. Please check then. No, I’m not sure she’s from the U.K. But then, with respect, she can’t tell us now, can she?”
Annette smiled as Liam’s sarcasm finally broke through, and she knew that even saying ‘with respect’ had taken all his limited self-control. Liam was tempted to tell the woman where to shove her weekend. But instead, he continued slowly, counting to ten. She had information that he needed.
“If she’s not from the U.K., then from the looks of her we’re talking Northern Europe. Light grey eyes and natural blond hair; possibly Scandinavian. OK, thanks.”
He swung the phone down hard towards its cradle, and then stopped a centimetre above it, lowering it slowly to cut the call. Then he swore loudly as Annette wandered over from her cubicle, smiling.
“Actually Liam, that’s a good point. We need to try the Embassies too. I’ll get onto them. She could be American or Canadian as well. Let’s make a list of possibilities; U.K., U.S.A., Scandinavia, all EU passports. Where else?”
Davy swung his chair round from his horseshoe of computers. “The non-EU countries like Russia, Norway, Iceland, and the Ukraine?”
“Ah, you see now, Cutty. That’s a university education for you. I’ve Erin’s name down already.”
“She’s only three!”
“Forward planning is everything. Let’s run our Jane Doe past Interpol too, Davy. Can we get another analyst to help out on this? There’ll be a lot for you to do.”
Davy smiled at him in gratitude. He didn’t like to complain but sometimes they all forgot how much research went into a simple yes or no response.
“Karen’s over there. She’s on for the w…weekend. I’ll try her.” Annette was already half-way across the floor.
Karen Atherton was a hefty, complacent-looking girl who had a First Class degree in statistics and could have made a fortune out in the ‘real world’. But her father had been a sergeant and she’d grown up around the police, so working for them seemed logical somehow. Plus she was surrounded by men all day, and that suited her just fine. Fewer women meant less romantic competition. She’d been dating a young constable from Moira for a year and everyone expected wedding bells soon.
Annette wandered towards her desk just as Karen was picking silver paper off a chocolate bar. She was about to sink her teeth into it when Annette leaned over the cubicle wall and used her best wheedling tone. “Karennn…”
Karen stared up at her with the look of someone unimpressed by all attempts to get round her. But she liked Annette. In fact she liked all women over thirty who were married.
“OK...I’ll bite. What do you want?”
Annette nearly laughed aloud at her words, said as they were six inches from the chocolate. She stifled her laugh and eagerly handed Karen the file containing the girl’s photo, and the list of possible countries they’d generated.
“Can you help us? We’re having real trouble I.D.ing her. Anything you can find would be great. I owe you a drink for this.”
“Yes, you do. But I’d settle for a Twix from the machine.”
“You’re on. I’ll buy you a couple.”
***
Craig parked on LeRoy Street and walked through the low wrought-iron gate into the pretty church garden. He hadn’t noticed it last night, but it was beautiful. The day was sunny and the garden was full of brightly coloured flowers, highlighted by the morning light. It seemed incongruous in a street filled with bedsits, and even more incongruous set against what had greeted them there last night.
Craig scanned the street, remembering his student years. It was broad and elegant looking, full of high-walled terraces with ivy rambling across their stones. He remembered going to parties there with John. He hadn’t noticed much elegance when he was throwing up in a drain.
He turned back towards the church, gazing admiringly at the archway above its door. The white stone brickwork was worked with wandering roses, leading to its apex where the two sides entwined into a Celtic cross. He wasn’t a religious man, but memories of churches and their silent uninhabited beauty were carved deep into his childhood psyche.
He pushed open the small oak door and his footsteps echoed on the tiles, just as they had the previous night. He walked respectfully towards the altar, still seeing their victim’s sad display.
“Hello.”
The softly spoken word pulled him out of his day-dream and he turned, to be greeted by an unexpected sight. The woman standing in front of him was big-eyed and petite, with short dark hair, cut like a young Mia Farrow. Except on her it seemed more French fairy than American starlet. She was unexpected in this solemn world.
”Mr Craig?”
“Yes. Sorry for just walking in. I’m here to meet the Reverend Hinton.”
She smiled. “Churches are there to be walked-in-to. And I’m Reverend Hinton.” She caught his shocked look before he could hide it. “Yes, I know. I don’t look like a Reverend.” She extended a small tanned hand in greeting. “It’s Wendy.”
Craig felt disturbed. Everything he’d been taught said that it was deeply wrong to find a vicar attractive. He gathered himself quickly, certain that she hadn’t spotted anything.
“Reverend.”
“Wendy.”
“Sorry. Wendy. Obviously you were contacted about last night.”
“Yes, I spoke to an Inspector Cullen. A very tall man.” He nodded. Liam’s six-feet-six never passed without a comment. “It's dreadful. That poor girl… How could anyone do it? Do you know her name yet?”
“No, but I’m hoping that you can help us with that.” He pulled a small photograph from his pocket, a miniature of John’s least gory image.
“Have you ever seen her at church, or around the area? Could she be a student or a member of your congregation? Anything that you can think of would help.”
&nb
sp; She thought for a minute and then shook her head slowly. “I’m really sorry but I’ve never seen her before. My congregation is small and mostly elderly, with some young families who have just moved into the side streets further up the Ormeau road. I only have a handful of young people, and she definitely wasn’t one of them. I’m very sorry, Inspector Craig.”
He nodded again. It had been a long shot. Whoever had left the girl’s body there would’ve had to be stupid to have left an obvious trail. He realised that she was still talking.
“Do you belong to a church, Inspector?”
Craig regarded her calmly, his days of religious rebellion long put to rest. He wasn’t sure what he believed about a creator, or if he believed in one at all. But if one existed he wouldn’t believe anyone’s version of it but his own. He spoke gently, out of respect for her job and her point of view.
“If I believed in something Reverend, I’m afraid I wouldn’t believe what anyone else told me about it. To paraphrase a well-known comedian.”
She smiled at him knowingly and he knew that she wasn’t giving up. “We have a lovely service on Sunday evenings. Very modern.”
He smiled ruefully at her recruitment speech, trying to imagine the murder squad touting for business in the same way. It lost something in translation. He changed the subject smoothly.
“Location usually has significance in a murder, either to the perpetrator or the victim. So the fact that the girl was left here is relevant. Would you mind working with one of our people, Emily Streeter, to help with a profile that we’re creating? Ms Streeter was here when we found the victim.”
“Anything I can do to help, please just let me know.”
“Thanks. Would Monday afternoon be possible?
“Of course. Mondays are quiet for me.”
“Thank you, I’ll arrange a car. Now, could we have a look at the altar please?”
She nodded and a look of disgust crossed her small face. “I’ve…I’ve tried to clean it, but I’m afraid some of the blood is still in the floor mosaic.”
“I’ll get our lab people to contact you, to see if they can help with that.”
Craig turned towards the altar, walking slowly towards it. The iron rails sat approximately four feet from the ground, except for a ten-feet-high screen to one side, where the girl had been suspended. He couldn’t pull his eyes away, the images from the night before already added to the library in his head.
“You can still see her, can’t you?”
He was shocked by her quick reading of him.
“Yes.”
He paused, then continued slowly, wondering why he was confiding in her. “I can still see them all, Reverend. Especially when we haven’t caught the killer.”
She nodded, understanding. “I feel the same when one of my parishioners dies. In whatever way.”
He felt calm talking to her and wondered why. Then he realised he was responding to her wisdom. She’d seen a lot in life, like him. He changed the subject hurriedly – she was getting too close for comfort.
“Who has access to the church?”
She thought for a moment, counting in her head.
“Three others, apart from myself. The lay preacher Joe Higginson, the caretaker-gardener Johnny, and the lady who does the altar flowers for us; Mrs Macaulay. But only Mr Higginson and I have the keys, and the church is locked after the last service at seven.”
“We’ll need to speak to all of them. Someone will be in touch for their addresses.”
He stared at the scene for a full five minutes, considering it from every angle. Then they walked past the high carved pulpit, to the back door that had been lying open the previous evening.
“Does this use the same key as the front?”
“No, it’s different. But it’s on the same key-ring. And the padlock on the gate was unlocked as well. That’s a third key. Whoever did this must have had access to all three.”
Craig scrutinised the heavy back door. There was nothing to see but the dust from the C.S.I.’s printing. It opened out slowly, with a grinding noise that showed that its hinges needed oiling. Behind it stood a high hedge of Leyland cypress, with only a narrow path separating it from the door. The back of the church would be constantly sheltered from view. It wouldn’t be seen from the street, even during the daytime. He looked at the light above the door, covered in finger print dust, and thought aloud.
“They could have entered through here and only opened the front door and gate just before they left. That would have given them hidden access, and the certainty that no-one could have walked in and disturbed them until they’d finished. This was well planned.” They walked down the small path and within thirty seconds they were back on LeRoy Street. Whoever had left the girl’s body there knew the church’s layout very well.
Craig took his phone from his pocket, and was just about to make a call when he remembered the vicar’s presence. He turned apologetically, taken aback momentarily by his own absorption. Julia was always complaining about it.
“Thank you Wendy, I think that’s all for now. Someone will call you for those contact details. And they’ll collect you and bring you to High Street station on Monday afternoon for the meeting with Ms Streeter. We may have more questions at a later stage.”
Craig was itching to make his call but politeness meant he made small talk until they arrived by the church garden.
The Reverend turned to face the street. “I’m always around, Inspector. I just live over there.”
She indicated a whitewashed building at the corner of LeRoy and Botanic. He hadn’t noticed it before. It was modern and well-tended and nothing like the surrounding scruffy terraces. “That’s the church house. I’m either there or here most days.”
She pulled out a business card and handed it to Craig. It had her title and mobile number on it, and he raised an eyebrow at the sight of a twitter address. God was getting very modern these days. She caught his look and laughed, crinkling her large brown eyes attractively.
“What did you expect, Inspector? A tablet of stone? The church has to be modern to get through to people nowadays.”
They chatted about nothing for a few minutes more, until Craig realised that he’d forgotten his call and was enjoying himself far too much. He was saved by his mobile buzzing. John.
“Sorry, but I have to take this. I’ll organise the car to collect you Monday about three. OK?”
She mouthed ‘yes’ and waved as she walked back towards the church. Craig turned his back determinedly, flipping open his phone and smiling to himself.
“Hi John, thanks for the call. You’ve probably just saved my soul...”
Chapter Four
Sunday. Midday.
Dawson pulled off the M1 and headed down the A4 towards Enniskillen. He’d been swearing since the night before and inventing new punishments for Paul Ripley in his head. When he’d finally got home it had been four o’clock and the house was in darkness. The up-side was that Catherine had been asleep, so he wasn’t subjected to her endless questions about where he’d been. He’d have to get rid of her soon. She’d hit her sell-by-date ten years before. But he had other things to deal with at the moment.
He pulled his Jaguar onto a narrow lane that led to Conagher Forest. From the main road it looked like a normal wood, completely unremarkable. And it was, apart from the solitary granite dwelling at its heart. He drove at a snail’s pace between the tall trees, careful not to damage his paintwork. They leaned towards each other so far that they seemed to embrace; their long branches reaching out like lovers’ arms.
After a minute Dawson emerged into the daylight of a man-made opening. At its centre stood a high wall, nestling just below the tree-tops. He pressed a remote control and a section retracted seamlessly, revealing a windowless stone tower within. It was high and sheer with no visible openings, apart from a low front door the same shade as its walls. Walls that cast a pall that had nothing to do with their colour. Even for Dawson, the sense of isolatio
n lowered his mood. It was like a tomb.
He parked his car sharply behind the forbidding structure and lifted his briefcase, as if heading for a meeting. After pressing six numbers into the door’s keypad his mood lifted, anticipating the reward that came later. He deserved it after the last thirty-six hours.
The door swung inwards revealing a high-ceilinged circular entrance hall, with balconies on each floor, overlooking its centre. Dawson walked briskly across the marble floor, each step clipping the air, and entered a lift in the corner, ascending four floors in silence. As the doors opened a man stepped forward urgently, showing him down a carpeted walkway into a board room.
The two men already there nodded briefly as Dawson entered, looking pointedly at the clock. He was almost an hour late. No-one spoke until he’d poured a whisky and seated himself, lounging arrogantly in the chair at the head of the table. Then he took a deep drink and waved the younger of the men to speak.
The young man was thirty or thereabouts, with the leanness of the very fit. His skin glowed with health and a tan not earned in Ireland. As he leaned forward he shot his cuffs, showing links of platinum engraved with the number five. His voice was soft and heavily accented, with inflections of southern Europe.
“This is very bad.”
The man beside him barely blinked, echoing his words with a nod, and a sonorous. “Very.”
He was around fifty with immaculate shoulder-length grey hair, matched by a neat pointed beard. With his flamboyant velvet jacket and perfect Received Pronunciation he always reminded Dawson of a Cavalier. He reached elegantly for his drink, revealing identical cufflinks bearing the number four.
Dawson shrugged. Not with indifference but in agreement. It was bad, but they had it under control. “The book was too well-known. We were misled.”
The grey-haired man sat forward angrily. “That doesn’t matter now. The fact is that it can be traced. It was careless.”
Dawson nodded heavily. It was careless, and he would take it out of Ripley’s hide. Sylvia’s too, once the trail had gone cold. But he was in charge today and wouldn’t brook being questioned. His voice hardened.
The Waiting Room (#4 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 4
