The Waiting Room (#4 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series)

by Catriona King

  “And? I don’t understand.”

  “If it was fresh blood it would have clotted almost immediately, but it hadn’t. So that means it was treated with anti-coagulant, to keep it liquid. Blood taken for lab testing uses a substance called EDTA to stop it clotting. Ethylenediaminetetraacetic acid. Blood taken in a police investigation would be stored that way. So… who could access blood from a police investigation?”

  “Who should access it would be very limited. But who could might include the police, lab staff, even prisons maybe.”

  “And judiciary and hospital medical staff. But not church people, Marc, never the clergy. So tell me where the link is between the church and this D.N.A.?” He answered his own question. “There isn’t one.”

  “Exactly!” Craig spoke quickly. “I’m not certain of my logic yet, but let’s say that the church doors had to have been opened by someone linked with the national church.”

  “Or the vicar or lay preacher.”

  Craig nodded. “OK, let’s include them as well for now. And the D.N.A. must have been accessed by one of the groups that we mentioned. So, unless we have a senior churchman whose work overlaps one of those areas…?”

  John interrupted urgently. “What about a prison chaplain, or someone who was a lawyer or doctor and was also religious? And what about doctors who work with the police?”

  “Lawyers and doctors religious enough to be senior in the church’s hierarchy? No, that’s a separate career. The prison chaplain and police medical link might be something. I’ll get Davy to take a look. But I’m thinking of something else entirely.”

  He paused to let John theorize, but John said nothing, puzzled.

  “What about if there was more than one person involved in her death, John? The church man, and someone else who had access to the D.N.A.? I think they could have killed her together.”

  Craig glanced away, sad for a moment. “And almost certainly both raped her. You said the extent of her injuries indicated rough sex, probably with more than one man.”

  John nodded. It would fit the signs of trauma. It had definitely been group rape and two was a group.

  “They were smart enough to remove their own D.N.A. Hill’s and McCrae’s were the only D.N.A. hits on her. And there were no prints anywhere.”

  “They thought they were being clever by not leaving their own D.N.A., John. And if they’d actually stopped there, it might have been enough to keep them safe. But they decided to be smart and try to frame Hill and McCrae. It was careless, especially as McCrae is still in prison.”

  Craig tapped his pen hard against the desk. “They would only have thought of Hill and McCrae if they had access to police records. And senior access too, to get into a murder squad file. We could be looking at someone high up in the police or judiciary here.”

  Disgust flickered across his face as he realised this might go even further than he’d thought. He turned to leave, muttering ‘bastards’ as he pushed through the lab’s PVC doors.

  John answered his mutter with a word of his own, “Locard’s,” determining to have Des go back over the evidence and scour for the tiniest clue. Locard’s principle. Short hand for everyone bringing something to a crime scene, and leaving with something from it. Now they just had to find out what it was.

  Chapter Five

  “It’s definitely Hill’s and McCrae’s D.N.A. then, boss?”

  Craig nodded, and glanced at the clock. It was seven o’clock on Sunday night and they were crammed in his office again. None of them had seen anything of the weekend and he knew that the week ahead would be even worse. Liam yawned, not even trying to hide it.

  “Davy, can you chase up access to the church skeleton keys? And Liam, get Tommy Hill in for a chat. We need to rule him out if nothing else. Reggie Boyd will know what he’s been up to on the Demesne.”

  “He’ll not be a happy boy being lifted to the cells on a weekend.”

  “That’ll make two of us then.” Craig thought briefly of Julia’s long legs lying across him, but quashed the thought quickly before resentment blurred his focus. “Annette, can you give Maghaberry a call and just make sure that Rory McCrae didn’t go walkabout? And find out if he’s had blood taken recently, and by whom.”

  Annette nodded quietly, her shoulders slumped. Craig had noticed her looking sad that morning- it hadn’t lifted. He made a mental note to speak to her privately.

  He continued with the briefing and was just reaching his theory about the second perpetrator when Davy leaned forward eagerly to interrupt. Craig nodded him on with a smile.

  “I can understand about one man maybe being a doctor, and another being police or legal, but not the prison’s bit, s…sir.”

  Craig smiled inwardly at Davy’s newfound confidence. He put forward theories regularly now and nine out of ten of them were correct. As he talked, Craig glanced at his green nail varnish, smiling at their resident Emo’s Avant Garde style. He was pleased that his romance with the Chronicle’s journalist, Maggie Clarke, hadn’t made him a member of the establishment. If anything it was the other way around. Maggie’s formerly conservative dark hair now bore a streak of bright red and her singly pierced ears had three new holes each. Craig hoped that she would stop there, just in case they ever broke up.

  “Why not Davy?”

  Liam turned towards him, curious, and smiled openly at his green nails.

  “Aye, why not, lad? And did you know you’d got grass all over your fingers?”

  Davy smiled. “Very funny, Inspector.” He turned pointedly to Annette. “Oh w…wait. There’ll be two of you in a month.”

  Craig dropped his head to avoid laughing at Liam’s inevitable look of indignation, and Annette’s anticipated smile. Liam didn’t disappoint him, coming out with a “here now, don’t you be cheeky, lad” at high volume. But when Craig turned to Annette she wasn’t smiling. Instead she was gazing past him through the window. He turned to see what she was looking at. The Cairnryan ferry was sailing down the Lagan into the Irish Sea and she gazed longingly after it, as if she wished she was on board. The plaintiveness of its horn was echoed by the look on her soft, round face.

  “Annette, are you OK?”

  She startled and gazed stared at him confused, then realised she’d been a million miles away. “Yes, sorry sir. I’m just tired.”

  She averted her eyes quickly but not before Craig saw they were wet. There was more than tiredness wrong. He decided to ask her to stay after the briefing and waved Davy on, repeating his question. “Why not prison, Davy?”

  “Because anyone linked to prisons would know Rory McCrae was s…still in Maghaberry, and they’d never have chosen his D.N.A. for the frame-up. It’s a really obvious mistake.”

  He was right. This was someone who had access to some details of the case, but not the sentence. Or they’d simply missed the detail that McCrae had been sent down, which meant that they couldn’t have worked the case personally. Not that he would ever have suspected any of his team.

  “Davy’s right. Anyone working in prison would have known McCrae had been sentenced, the same with the solicitors and barristers directly involved with the case.” He drew the only conclusion left. “But someone in the police or courts with only a vague knowledge of the case might have missed it.”

  Davy smiled smugly and Liam mentally stuck his tongue out at him.

  “OK. That means we’ve got a senior church person, someone with access to labs, police or maybe judiciary. They’re at a high enough level to access the notes of Evie’s murder, but not the full sentencing details.”

  “But here, boss. The sentences would have been on TV. And the cases were all over the Chronicle.”

  “Not everyone pays attention to the news, Liam. Or maybe they weren’t here then. This is someone with peripheral knowledge of the case. Enough to know that Hill and McCrae were part of the investigation and had their D.N.A. checked, but not enough to follow through on the details. Davy - find out who took their blood for D.N.A.
during the case.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been Dr Marsham’s lab, boss?”

  “Not necessarily, Liam. Sometimes they sub-contract the work to hospital haematology or pathology staff. And Davy, find me anyone who accessed the case files in the past two months. I want names, dates and times.” He sat back, thinking. “I think we have a gang here, and someone has been careless. My bet is that when the others find out they won’t be happy.”

  “They’ll likely eat their own.”

  Liam was probably right, but Craig hoped that they didn’t eat them before they were caught. If they disposed of their weak links gangs were often never found. And that meant they went on to kill again.

  He shook his head suddenly, angry at himself. He’d been so absorbed in the hunt for their killer that he’d almost forgotten their victim.

  “Davy, Annette, anything on the girl yet? I.D., clothes, nationality?”

  Annette turned at the sound of her name as if she was wakening from sleep. Then she shook her head so heavily that Craig though she was going to cry. His concerned look found a match in Davy’s eyes. Only Liam seemed to be oblivious to her unhappiness.

  “Nothing yet, sir. The shoes are this season’s Kurt Geiger, just as the witness thought. But they can be purchased in a number of shops around Ireland, and on-line. The only positive thing is that the size is unusual.”

  “In what way, Annette?”

  “They were very small, a size three. They sell far fewer pairs of those in a year. They’re pulling the orders for me now, so we may get a name.”

  “If they paid by card, Cutty.”

  She turned towards Liam loud bass, nodding. None of her usual whip-sharp banter followed. “Her clothes’ labels are a mixture of Scandinavian and American, so we’ll follow up on that. “

  “Her colouring would fit with either, s…sir.”

  Annette turned towards Davy and a faint smile crossed her lips. “The watch might give us more. You were right, sir. They all have a serial number.”

  Craig nodded at her, smiling kindly. “Thank you Annette.” He filled them in on the pentagram, the kosher knife and his and John’s theories on the wounding, winding up the briefing at seven-thirty.

  As they filtered out, he called softly to Annette to stay behind, pouring them both a cup of fresh coffee.

  ***

  Sunday 7.30pm

  Hannah smoothed down her dress and laid it across the bed in preparation, running quickly into the ensuite to switch off the bath. She combed her tawny hair and played with different styles for five minutes, before deciding on half-down and soft as her best look. She was nervous enough about her appointment, without worrying about her up-do wilting at the optimum moment.

  She lay in the bath thinking, running her hands absentmindedly through the water. She wasn’t quite sure why she’d agreed to the meeting - some vague act of rebellion probably. Or maybe just to see if she could. She studied herself in the mirrored wall tiles, searching for her honest side and found it buried beneath two decades of good schools and politeness. Be honest, Hannah, this was more ‘fuck you’ than ‘fuck me’.

  She was doing it because she was still a child, but in a woman’s body. Because, if she told anyone about it, she knew that they would be shocked, and that gave her a thrill. She was doing it because she could, and because it would give her money and independence. But most of all she was doing it because her step-father would be horrified when she told him, scandalised to his middle-class core. And she hated him, so she would tell him. With pleasure.

  ***

  “Marco, have you seen my other shoe? I left it in the living room somewhere.”

  Craig smiled up at Julia, breaking off from his work thoughts. She was half-hopping in one high-heeled shoe and rummaging through his small living room for the other. She wore a tight red dress with a chignon to match and he had a sudden thought that he’d like to disturb them both.

  She turned, feeling his smile, and wagging a finger first at him and then at the clock. “There’s no point you smiling at me like that. We’re late. And unless I find my shoe we won’t be going anywhere. I only brought one pair down from Limavady.”

  He stood up abruptly and reached down behind the settee, producing the runaway high-heel. He admired its elegant shape for a second, while wondering how on earth she walked in them. Julia hunkered down, extending her hand in a ‘give’ gesture, and he held it above her head playfully for a moment. Then he gave in and handed it to her, heading quickly for the shower.

  She yelled after him in mock-exasperation. “The reservation’s for eight and it’s ten to now. John and Natalie will kill us.”

  His voice echoed around the glass cubicle. “No they won’t, they’ll be glad of the chance to talk.” She sat down on a chair, slipping on her shoe. Then she flicked idly through the channels and resigned herself to a ten minute wait. She completely missed the sound of the water being turned off and the fact that he was still talking. “In fact, we’ve got plenty of time. I changed the table to eight-thirty.”

  On the word ‘thirty’ she turned to see him standing there wearing only a towel, the last few drops of water drying on his muscled torso. Her heart skipped at the sight of his dark eyes and white grin, just as it had the first day they’d met nine months before. He caught her look, fixing her eyes intensely as he approached. Then he pulled her to her feet with a smile that left her in no doubt that he was about to remove her shoes again, along with everything else.

  Chapter Six

  Sunday. 8pm.

  There was no point bitching about it; it had to be done, and the quicker the better. Ripley was a liability to the group. First, he’d lost self-control and destroyed valuable merchandise, and then he’d made a shambles of repairing the damage. They simply couldn’t afford to lose money like this, or take the risks that he’d brought them. Not at any time, but especially not this week.

  James Dawson yawned and flicked off the television in his small dark study. Then he lifted his briefcase and pulled the door closed behind him, calling goodbye down the hall as an afterthought. Catherine glanced at the clock. Eight o’clock on a Sunday evening and he was going out, again.

  She didn’t fool herself that it was for work, but she knew he’d have his briefcase in his hand anyway, pretending. He did it every weekend. She didn’t care anymore. She’d given up wondering how he spent his time years before. Just as long as he left her in peace, she’d be happy.

  Dawson walked into the double garage and clicked open the car, dumping his briefcase in its immaculate boot. Then he drove quickly through the back exit of their horseshoe drive and into the private avenue that led to the Malone Road. Slipping away from his protection detail, and not for the first time.

  He drove for five minutes, heading towards Queen’s University. But just before the Stranmillis Road turn-off he pulled hard right into a wide, curving street. It had the air of a Georgian crescent, with far apart houses and high Cherry Blossoms, casting their petals gently to the ground. He drove deep into its heart, his wide tyres slippery with the light evening rain, until he reached a white wall shielding a detached house. The gates responded smoothly to his remote touch and he drove in as they yawned closed behind him, hiding the business inside from the world.

  ***

  Hannah paid the taxi and climbed out, standing nervously in the dark avenue. She peered closely at the address and then back towards the white wall. She was reluctant to put on her glasses, in case they smeared her makeup, and ruined her appearance of twenty going on thirty. It fooled nobody but her. After a few second’s peering she nodded to herself - it was definitely the right place.

  The woman had been insistent that she tell no-one the address, swearing her to secrecy. With her I.D. checks and internet searches of Hannah’s false name and address, it was more like joining MI5 than becoming an escort! She didn’t understand the need for so much security. Except that the Madam hinted at important men protecting their ‘vital’ jobs. She didn’t
care what they called themselves. After all, she’d lied about her name, age and home, so why shouldn’t they? It was just business after all. Although she thought the insistence on her parents being dead was a bit over the top.

  She shivered in the evening air and scanned her surroundings. The street lights’ covers had been replaced with Victorian wrought iron, and the name plate on the road was discrete. As if anyone who visited should already know where they were. The road was wide and leafy, and the fading sky cast a glow over the large homes, set well back from the road. None of their numbers were visible and Hannah thought the postman much be psychic. Or well-schooled in the ways of the rich.

  Hannah stood in the shadows opposite the white wall, thinking. She’d been looking forward to this all week, still angry at her mother’s choice of new husband. She’d been angry for ten years. What right did she have to remarry? And what right did he have to treat her like a child and tell her what to do. She was a woman now and she could look after herself.

  Sylvia’s agency had given her a way to prove it, and to hurt them both. The money would come in handy too. And after all, what was it really? Just sex.

  She gazed down the street and recognised her prep-school friend Rachael’s house, where they’d played together in the garden for years. They’d lost touch when Hannah had changed schools, at Damien’s insistence. Another good reason to hate him. Hannah wondered what she was doing right now. Not about to sell her body she would bet.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car rushing past and she pulled further into the shadows, surprised by its speed in the short road. It seemed familiar somehow and she tensed as it pulled up to the white-walled house. Its occupant leaned hurriedly out of the window, pressing the intercom by the gate and hissing. “It’s me.” Only two words and a brief glimpse, but it was enough for her to recognise him.

  Hannah’s blood chilled and the hairs on her arms stood up in quick reply, as the urge to vomit overcame her. As the gates opened and the car pulled quietly through them she leaned into a dark corner and retched. Then she turned urgently towards the well-lit Malone Road, pulling out her mobile to call a taxi, and hurried back to the safety of her student life.