Craig’s only way in was with the Ambassador. He was certain their driver would hood them to conceal the route; it was what he would have done. Normal trackers were off the menu too. They would scan them for metal before they got into the car. Most of their cover would come from the undercover cars tailing, and the team covering the venue, if it was on the coded list.
It wasn’t enough to catch all the men who would be attending, and protect the girls. Craig phoned the Chief Constable and ended the call, assured of back-up from every armed force in the north. All they were waiting for was the location. But, so far, all they had was an arc based on the distance from two hotels, and a list of six codes.
Allowing for a sixty mph average on the motorway, it would be a maximum of thirty miles from the hotel in Kesh and one hundred and twenty from The Merchant. They had to believe that the tower wasn’t a nickname but a description. Craig knew there would be no trace on Land Registry, so they were looking for an invisible venue somewhere in large arc. It was a near impossible task.
Davy was narrowing the list as best he could, but unless the locations were on Land Registry, they were limited to local knowledge and aerial photography for their clues. Craig stared at the coded list, frustrated. It made no bloody sense. The buzz of the desk phone dragged him from his thoughts.
“Yes.”
His voice sounded despairing, even to him. He had to watch that. The last thing the others needed was to see him losing hope. He took a deep breath and started again.
“Good afternoon, D.C.I. Craig.”
He didn’t know the voice on the other end but the accent was pure cockney. If he’d heard it on any other day it would have made him nostalgic for London. He urged the caller on.
“Who is this?”
“That’s not important and you can’t trace this call. Just listen. The bastard you want is called James Dawson. He’s a Judge.”
“We already have him.”
There was a brief pause and Craig could almost hear the man nodding.
“But do you know where they meet?”
Craig gripped the phone hard, afraid to believe his ears. “Do you?”
“I think it’s in Conagher Forest, near Enniskillen. An old round tower. That’s all I can give you.”
Craig sat rigid, not trusting his ears. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Dawson’s an evil bastard; I’ve known it for years. I’ve been in front of him for burglary a load of times. Now he threatens to stitch me up every time he wants something done. I only did the woman’s home because he made me.”
He stopped for a moment. When he restarted his voice was full of disgust. “I saw the girls’ photos at her house and put two and two together. I have a daughter that age. So I followed Dawson. He went to Conagher on Wednesday night. They must meet there.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m not scum like them.”
The phone dropped abruptly and Craig was out of the room like an Olympic sprinter.
“Davy, put this address into the list and see if it gets you any further with the code. Karen, check the location and see where it is, then Liam, get onto the local station and see if they know it. If not, get them to check it out.”
They stared at him, the staccato speed of his delivery surprising them all. Liam was the first to ask. “Where did this come from boss?”
“A tip-off. It might be nothing but we have to check it out. So go on, check it.”
He raced for the lift, heading for the I.T. section to see if they could pull anything from the call. There was nothing. The caller had covered their tracks well. By the time he re-entered the squad the place was buzzing.
Davy rushed over with a map in his hand and Craig beckoned him into his office. He spread it out on the desk indicating six points, nearly falling over the desk in his eagerness.
“W…when I fed it into the computer the code started to unravel.” He pointed to one of the markers. “That’s where Morgan hid out in the woods.” He slid his finger slowly towards the south west corner of the province and stopped at another mark. “And that’s the address you were just given.”
He smiled at Craig triumphantly. “It’s within thirty minutes’ drive of the G8 venue.”
The call had been genuine, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still a bluff. It could be a set-up and the bastards could switch to another venue at the last minute.
“How many of the venues are within thirty minutes of Kesh, Davy?”
“Three of them. The fourth is the house that we already know about and the fifth and sixth are here in Belfast.” He pointed to the house in Marrion Park and another at the top end of the Crumlin Road.
Craig thought for a minute. “Does this help with the other code?”
Davy shook his head. “No. We’ve put Amanda Wilson and Grainne McCrory’s names in, but nothing yet. W…We’ll keep going, but at least we might prevent more names being added to the list.”
Craig patted him on the shoulder, then he opened the door and called Liam and Jake in for an update. He tasked them with alerting the other forces and getting men with warrants in place at each of the venues. They would concentrate armed forces on the three venues near Kesh, but any of the addresses could be used for remote viewing.
Just as they were wrapping up Karen knocked the door. She was smiling and it suited her.
“I’ve found your tower, and it really is a tower. An Irish round tower to be precise, derelict since the 9th Century according to the records. It’s not on the map and there’s no record of them even having a post code. As far as the government’s concerned the place doesn’t even exist.”
She was holding two rolls of paper. The first was brightly coloured and Craig recognised it as an aerial photograph. She indicated the desk for permission to spread it out and he nodded. She laid it over Davy’s map, placing each of their hands at a corner to prevent it curling up.
“There.” Her finger hovered six inches above the coloured image, pointing to a white mark that looked like artefact. Craig peered closely at. It was a perfect circle set within another one.
“The inner ring is the tower. The outer ring is a recent addition. Irish round towers didn’t have outer walls, or moats.”
“Who owns it?”
“No idea. There’s some vague reference to a company in the records. But I’ve never heard of them.”
Davy glanced at her quickly. “W…What company?”
She shook her head slowly, as if trying to remember. “I think it was called Armour or something like that.”
“Arim?”
“Yes. That was it. How did you know?”
Davy turned to Craig. “That’s the company that owns the houses in Marrion. I traced it back to the Cayman Islands then lost it.”
“It’s another link between the tower and this bunch of animals, Davy. That’ll do us for now.”
He noticed the roll Karen was holding in her other hand. “What’s that one?”
She stared at it vaguely and then remembered. “An infrared photograph.”
“When was it taken?”
“Twenty minutes ago.” She smiled sheepishly. “My boyfriend Dougie’s on the helicopter detail and I knew they were flying today, running a practice. So when we got the tip I asked them to pop over with their thermal imager.”
Craig stared at her, astonished. It must have cost a fortune! For a second he wondered how they’d explain the detour, then he shrugged. As long as it didn’t end up on his tab he didn’t care.
She spread the image out and Liam gasped as she stood back, revealing the clear signs of heat generating from the supposedly derelict tower. A lot of heat. Amongst the coloured mass Craig could make out the shape of bodies, at least fifty of them. They were clustered together on the lowest floor of the building. Single figures were dotted between the two circles, their heat patterns indicating that they were on different levels. Guards.
Karen waved her hand above the photograph, pointing at the gener
al glow.
“Dougie says that this shows the background warmth in the building. You know, like central heating.” Then she pointed to the group of bodies. “He said that bit shows a lot of people in a small space. About five floors down.” A basement. Or a dungeon.
She indicated the patrolling guards. “And these are single figures.” She turned to Craig smugly. He was gawping at her and the picture in turn. “It means something, doesn’t it, sir?”
Yes, it meant something. It meant that this was definitely tonight’s venue. The girls were being held together in a small space, waiting to be sold. And there were guards, probably armed, in the grounds. He could have hugged her. But instead he smiled and added her to the list he’d given Nicky.
***
4pm
The dark Mercedes pulled up on Waring Street and waited; its engine purring softly. Craig glanced out of the hotel window at the sound. He exchanged a look with Ackerman and they walked calmly down the stone staircase.
No one was visible through the car’s tinted windows, and for one brief moment Craig thought how easy it would be to shoot them and drive off, unknown. Then the rear door opened and a man’s immaculately manicured hand beckoned them in. They entered without a word, Craig first, to keep Ackerman away from their companion. He didn’t trust the Ambassador’s restraint.
The car pulled off, heading slowly for High Street and the M1 motorway. The driver needn’t have worried about speeding. Traffic division had been briefed to stay back, no matter how fast they drove. Their business was too important to allow anything to impede it.
Craig could see the man beside him in his peripheral vision. He wore an Armani suit and his lean face was obscured by a black hood. He was sleek; there was no other word for it. Groomed to within an inch of his self-indulged life. James Bond without the integrity. He fitted with Craig’s image of the night that lay ahead and vindicated their expensive choice of clothes.
When they reached the Dunbar Link the car pulled in and stopped abruptly. The tinted divide between them and their driver slid down, and without turning round he handed them hoods to match their companion’s. They knew what they had to do. As Craig put his on he sent up a prayer that Jake had picked them up on High Street. And that the helicopter overhead was watching their back. If all else failed Liam only had three destinations to choose from. And that would narrow as they drove. The tower was still the most likely.
The hoods were followed by a metal detecting wand and their driver waited coolly as they scanned themselves from head to toe. Once he was satisfied the car continued, and Craig felt the road change from rough street to smooth motorway. The background noise of the city becoming the wind of a faster road. They sat back, saying nothing, for the journey that would take a father straight to his daughter’s killers.
***
6pm. Fermanagh.
The men gathered quietly in the circular hall, surveying their elegant surroundings. Craig watched them through the holes in his newly donned eye-mask. Some wore tuxedoes; others were sheathed in Armani or D&G. All of them smelled of wealth and moral bankruptcy. He tugged slightly at his Armani jacket, resurrected from his London wardrobe for the occasion. The movement disguised his tap on the fibre-glass microphone stitched into its lining, evading the metal searches in the car. A tap that gave Liam the signal they were in the right place. He would pull back all but skeleton troops at the other locations and focus their efforts here.
Craig turned to Bjorn Ackerman and saw his clenched jaw and the pallor of his face, as he gazed murderously at the evil around him. Evil walking, drinking and laughing without a care. Or a thought for the girls on the receiving end of its depraved need.
Craig moved to face him, smiling brightly for their audience. He fixed Ackerman’s eyes intensely, forcing them to meet his. His heart was full of sympathy for the father in front of him, but he had to think of the other daughters locked-up beneath their feet. Finally Ackerman nodded and Craig knew that he was back.
He scanned the hall quickly. It was full of men, over one hundred of them. There wasn’t a woman in sight. The venue was arranged like a fashion show, with an elevated catwalk in the centre and chairs on either side for the best view. As he looked around, the ceiling lights dimmed, and candles that no one had noticed being lit flickered into life, casting a medieval glow across the room. He wasn’t fond of the effect outside the bedroom, too many dark places for predators to hide.
The crowd of men parted with a drama that warranted a fanfare, and Craig turned to find the movement’s source. The room fell silent as a group of black-shirted young men entered. The machine pistols they carried leaving no-one in doubt that lives would be forfeit if anyone threatened their charge.
A small group of men entered. They wore tuxedoes and had the tanned, well-cared-for look of extreme wealth, inherited or earned. They wore the same masks as the rest but Craig noticed a discrete silver badge on each of their lapels. At their head was a man of around sixty. His bearing said he was the leader more loudly than any title.
Craig turned back to the room – no faces but the black-shirted men’s were uncovered. Everyone else was too important to have their identity known, or thought they were. He stared hard at the small group again and recognised the young Royal and the bearded man from Morgan’s descriptions. He had no doubt that Morgan, McGurk and Dawson would have been standing with them, had they not all been resting at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
The leader turned to the crowd and raised a hand to still them. He was tall and tanned and his clothes whispered money and generations of breeding, none of it good. As he silenced them his cuff fell back to reveal the crested links that Morgan had described.
He said nothing for a full minute and then, when he was sure they’d accepted the import of the occasion, he spoke. As the first word left his mouth Craig recognised his accent. It wasn’t English. It hailed from the French/Italian border. He’d grown up with cousins whose accents were the same. The man’s R.P. was perfect, and Craig could see how someone could mistake him for English born and bred. But he wasn’t.
His cufflinks caught the light, glinting with status, and Craig saw Ackerman nod imperceptibly. He recognised the crest! He stored the information and turned towards the group, watching as others deferred to the man. He spoke slowly, in an incongruously warm voice, rallying them for the evening’s entertainment like a sinister compere.
“Welcome gentlemen. We have a wonderful night planned for you and I’m sure you won’t be disappointed. All of the books are first editions, none are well-known, and many have the best possible origins. These factors are reflected in their reserve prices.”
Craig’s mouth filled with bile as he realised that the man was using euphemisms to refer to the girls. First editions: virgins. None well-known: orphans. And the best possible origins meant that these girls were intelligent and from good families. Families who believed they were dead because the girls had lied to get the job. Thank God they’d had the sense to keep up the pretence where it was one. Britt Ackerman had been found out and had died because of it.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden movement, as the man spread his arms wide and opened the auction with the words. “Welcome to the Library Club.”
As the men laughed and toasted each other Craig turned to check on Bjorn Ackerman. He was staring at the leader with undisguised venom and Craig turned him quickly towards him, changing his line of sight.
He hissed “focus” under his breath, no time for sympathy or understanding. Then he took a risk that could easily have backfired. “For Britt’s sake.” It worked. Ackerman startled suddenly and dropped his gaze, nodding. He would have time for anger later.
After a few minutes more mingling they were beckoned to their seats and given a gilded brochure, outlining the evening’s items for sale.
***
Liam rubbed his eyes tiredly, trying to remember the last time that he’d eaten. He couldn’t. He shrugged and turned back towards his target, adju
sting his night-vision glasses.
It was a starry night but the shadow of the tower shut out what overhead light there was. He gazed up, extending his neck back as far as he could. He could just make out Orion. He smiled and told himself that he’d take the kids camping when they were older. He’d teach them the constellations, just like Patrick Mower had taught him.
He turned to look around, only catching the occasional squirrel’s movement through his lens. Then he took off the glasses and rubbed his face again, settling down for a long night.
***
The young girl stood alone and naked on the catwalk, sobbing and blinking into the candlelight. Her pale face was filled with terror, and Craig wanted to jump up and wrap her in his jacket. Tell her it would be OK and return her to whoever loved her. But he couldn’t. It would blow the operation and the girls below her would die. The guards would have been briefed to kill them all.
The murmuring of the audience had risen as she’d entered and Craig shut out the callous words surrounding him. He would get his revenge later, when he had each of them in an interview room. The microphone whistled loudly and their host stood, holding a page of notes in his hand. He nodded to the back of the room and a spotlight flooded the catwalk, highlighting the girl’s vulnerability. She recoiled, trembling, trying futilely to cover her nakedness with her hands.
“Gentlemen, we have lot number one. The reserve price is one million euros. Today’s sterling and dollar rate will apply. The lot is eighteen years old, a first edition and inherited from an excellent family. Who will start the bidding?”
Craig watched the girl protectively as the bids rose. She stared around her with the same frozen awareness he’d seen in Sylvia Bryce. How long since they’d kidnapped her? And what had the scum done to her since then?
The bidding reached two million and then slowed, and he turned to see who’d made the final bid. It was an elderly man, seated in the front row opposite. He basked in his moment’s glory, the look on his aging face saying he got more gratification from his peer’s admiration than from the girl in front of him. Then the gavel fell and the girl was his.
The Waiting Room (#4 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 27
