The Killing Year (The Craig Crime Series Book 17)

by Catriona King

  “Why did Marc say alcohols then?”

  Craig could see Liam enjoying Mike’s wriggling a little too much, so he responded before his deputy could.

  “My fault, Mike. It’s just a shorthand we’ve developed over the past year. I nicknamed them The Alcohols because alcohol appears to have played a part in all of their deaths.”

  “Alcohol plays a part in a lot of deaths. Car collisions, domestic violence-”

  Craig cut him off.

  “You’re right. Deaths was the wrong word. Murders then. Since December last year there’s been a series of murders, and in each case the bodies smelled of alcohol and had extremely high levels on their tox-screens.”

  A question popped out of Augustus’ mouth. “What sort?”

  It made Craig smile and Liam raise an admiring eyebrow.

  “Very good, and your assumption is correct. It was the same sort of alcohol each time. MacDonald Red Label Whisky. Scottish. Des couldn’t pin down the exact year but it’s high grade stuff. Over one hundred quid a bottle.”

  Liam shook his head. “Shocking waste of good booze.”

  Craig ignored him, asking another question.

  “Anything else occur to you, Mike?”

  “Yes. How much alcohol each time?”

  Liam knocked the pathologist’s elbow off the desk in a show of approval.

  “Here, you’re on fire today, boy! It took us a week to get to that.”

  Craig nodded. “Right again. Allowing for evaporation John estimated between one thousand and fourteen hundred mls was present in, on or around each victim, depending on their size. Approximately two bottles as sold.” He saw Mike’s mouth open again, so he halted him with a raised hand. “Let me continue for a moment.”

  He glanced down at the list. “John can fill you in on the P.M. details, but since last December there’s been what initially appeared to be a series of nine random murders, not counting today’s, scattered across the east of the province-”

  Liam jumped in. “That’s as well as all the domestic murders and one punch cases of course.”

  “Quite. This list doesn’t give the locations where the bodies were found, but Davy will send those on to you.” Craig tapped the first name on his page. “None of the deaths were our cases. They all happened north and south of Belfast.”

  “Antrim and Down directions?”

  “Exactly. The County Antrim ones reached as far north as Ballycastle and as far west as Kilrea, and involved three separate detective teams, coordinated by the Antrim Murder Squad. The Down ones spanned from Bangor to Warrenpoint and Poyntzpass on the west, and covered four jurisdictions, coordinated by the County Down team.”

  He took a sip of coffee before continuing.

  “OK, so, until today there were five dead men and four dead women, all found in different locations: indoor and outdoor, city and rural. They came from all walks of life, from a housewife to a judge, and there are no connections that we can find between any of them, despite extensive research by-”

  Liam had been champing at the bit to say something and now he cut in. “Which is a hell of a feat in itself, when you think about how small this place is.”

  Mike nodded in agreement. “Everyone I know seems to be married to someone they work with, play golf with, or friends of friends. No connections at all?”

  Craig shook his head. “None. Trust me. Despite the fact that they weren’t our cases, Liam and I were briefed on the deaths around June, so Davy and Ash volunteered to run some support searches whenever they had free time. They’ve been looking for connections for six months, and each time a new body was found they would look again. It’s almost as if the lack of connections between the victims was deliberate, except that that’s unlikely if we assume one motive links all of the deaths.”

  “And one killer?”

  Craig shrugged equivocally. “That would be the obvious answer, but until we find out why they were killed we can’t say for sure. Liam, you carry on.”

  Liam waved his list in the air as he did. “There’d been nine murders so far until today, spread over eleven months, December last year to this November. No prints or fibres were found at any of them, so our killer is a very careful man. The alcohol is one link between them, and like the chief said, the quantities vary slightly. Less for the women and smaller men, more for the big blokes-”

  Mike had been bouncing in his seat since the word ‘women’ and his next question came blurting out.

  “Pre or post-mortem?”

  Both detectives frowned, confused.

  “The alcohol.”

  Craig nodded in realisation. “Ah, I see what you mean. When I said the alcohol was found with the victims I didn’t mean that they drank it all. Some of it was scattered around-”

  Mike cut in. “But was the ingested amount taken in before or after death?”

  As the detectives went to answer he cut them off, thinking out loud.

  “It must have been before if it showed up in their blood levels. If they’d been fed it after death it wouldn’t have been there. But was there any sign that they were forced to drink it? Abrasions or broken teeth, for instance?”

  Liam scribbled the questions down, leaving his boss to muse.

  “Surely John would have told us if…”

  Craig’s words tailed away as he realised that John’s mind had been elsewhere for quite a while.

  Before the investigators had a meltdown that a yearlong case could have been solved before that day’s new deaths, Mike reassured them with a smile.

  “Don’t worry, Doctor Winter would definitely have pointed out any signs of violence or force-feeding. There’ll be something about it in the files.”

  Craig crossed his fingers mentally and nodded his deputy on.

  “OK, another thing is the way the bodies were left. They were all left lying at angles.”

  Mike’s eyes widened. “Like today’s pair!”

  “Not all, Liam. Some were just left lying straight up or down.”

  “Tut tut, boss, remember your maths. That’s still an angle. Ninety degrees to the horizontal.”

  Craig nodded ruefully. “Good call. Anyway, Mike, you can see why we weren’t thrilled by Grace moving things around.”

  Liam added a post-script. “And all different angles, before you ask.”

  The pathologist gave the detectives a look that said, ‘this is getting weird’. He returned quickly to an area where he was more comfortable.

  “What killed them? Did John find injection sites like on today’s?”

  Craig shook his head. “No injections as far as I can recall, but I know the external injuries differed with each body, and some of them were pretty bad. When you pull the files, you’ll see.”

  “Any other similarities? Alcohol, angles…another ‘A’ by any chance?”

  Liam shook his head. “There’s an S…or maybe it’s a G.” He turned to Craig. “What do you think, boss? Could the lack of another A be significant?”

  “Right now, I wouldn’t rule anything out, but as you’ve asked, Mike, it’s S for superglue.” He paused suddenly, pulling out his phone. “Give me a moment. I’ve got a hunch about something.”

  A moment later Jack Harris came on the line.

  “Who goes there? And before you ask, no, we’re not the flipping tourist office. They’re across town.”

  Craig raised an eyebrow. “Do you always answer the station phone that way?”

  “What? Who’s this?”

  “Marc Craig. Who were you expecting?”

  Harris felt a blush warm his weathered cheeks. “Ach, sorry, sir. I’ve just had a day of it. Someone put our phone number on the tourist website and we’ve been getting calls for hours. If one more person asks me how much the Larne Cairnryan ferry costs…”

  Craig stifled a laugh and got to the point. “Jack, when you called me this morning about the deaths in Tyrella, who’d informed you about them?”

  “The Chief Constable’s office. His PA
Donna called me.”

  Craig was confused. “Why did she call you?”

  “Damned if I know. She must think I’m your secretary these days. Anyway, what happened-”

  He was cut short by Craig muttering “sorry” and ending the call to dial again, as Liam and Mike watched him curiously, topping up their tea.

  “Donna? It’s Marc Craig here. Is the Chief Con around by any chance?”

  The PA smiled to herself, tempted to ask, “What took you so long?” Instead she replied, “He certainly is” and put Craig through.

  Sean Flanagan was the force’s larger than life Chief Constable. A cigar smoking, whisky drinking colossus of a man, at almost six-feet-six the only person taller than him on the force was Liam and they had more in common than their height. Flanagan had been both a GAA and rugby star in his day and Liam had been the same. Craig could imagine them both shunting their way around the pitch, brute force and ignorance the order of the day, then into the bar until midnight, full of songs and drunken cheer.

  Flanagan was standing in front of his open trophy cabinet admiring a silver cup when Craig’s call was transferred. The Chief Constable sighed as he read its inscription, ‘EU Police Golf Champion - Two Thousand and Five’, realising mournfully that ever since he’d reached the superintending ranks he’d had no time for sport of any kind.

  He was still sighing when he answered his phone.

  “Yes, Donna?”

  “I’ve got DCS Craig on the line, sir.”

  “Put him through.”

  As the line clicked, Flanagan parked his sporting regret and boomed, “What took you so long, man?”

  It was the murder detective’s turn to sigh. “I take it that means you’re handing me the year-long investigation, sir?”

  The C.C. chuckled. “I thought I just might, seeing as Antrim and Down seem to be getting nowhere fast. Today’s victims fit the bill?”

  “More than likely, but we’ll know more after their P.M.s are complete.” The detective swallowed before asking the question whose answer would dictate just how easy or difficult his life was about to be. “How did the other murder teams greet the news that Belfast was taking over, sir?”

  Flanagan rubbed the cup’s silver handles gently with his handkerchief, buffing them to a shine for a moment before he replied.

  “Ah, well, I haven’t exactly told them yet. I just said I’d like you to view today’s victims.”

  Craig took a deep breath to prevent himself swearing. Great. Now he had to gather together a bunch of pissed-off DCIs and Superintendents and explain why he was taking over their jobs.

  He decided to chance his arm.

  “I think it would come better from you, sir. That the Belfast Murder Squad will be leading from now on, that is.”

  Flanagan replaced the cup in its case and closed the glass door with a smile that Craig heard in his reply.

  “I’m sure you do, Craig, but then that wouldn’t be a challenge for you, would it now? And challenging situations are part of what will take you further up the ranks.”

  Craig could hear the C.C. walking as he spoke, knowing that his destination was probably a chair. The senior officer wound up the call cheerfully, for him anyway.

  “You’ll handle it all admirably, I’m sure, Chief Superintendent. Just keep me up to date.”

  The line went dead before Craig got a chance to object further, or to ask Donna why she’d chosen to use Jack Harris rather than Nicky to act as his PA.

  Liam had been following the conversation avidly, and he greeted Craig’s mobile returning reluctantly to his pocket with a sucked-in breath.

  “You’re in trouble now, boss. Nick Dawlish up in Ballymena won’t take this lying down.” He thought for a second before adding. “Or Dee Murray in Newcastle, although she won’t moan as much. I don’t fancy being you when you have to tell them we’re taking over their investigation. Their failed investigation.”

  “One more word, Liam, and you’re doing it.”

  Liam shook his head smugly. “Can’t. It’s a privilege of the superintendent rank.”

  Mike knew he would burst out laughing if he didn’t say something serious soon, so he turned back quickly to the case.

  “You realise the chances of solving a murder are slim after the first week?”

  “Read that in a cracker, did you?”

  Craig brushed aside Liam’s comment, nodding. “I realise, and now we’ve got nine of them months old.” He gave a sigh so deep that it must have started in his boots. “We’re in it now all right. Liam, tell Mike about the superglue.”

  Liam shrugged. “Not much to say really, just that some of the Vics were found with their eyes open and others with theirs shut. Random, no apparent sex bias, but the lids were all superglued in place.”

  Mike was at a loss for words, apart from the one that kept popping into his head, ‘weird’. He didn’t think it would be respectful to say it, so he let Craig carry on.

  “Des looked at the glue, but so far it’s just been generic 2-cyanolacrylate that you can buy in any store. The open/closed pose must mean something to our killer but we’re a long way from knowing what.”

  Liam nodded glumly. “Eleven dead now. The killer’s stumped the cops all year and it looks like we’re about to be stumped again.”

  Craig drained his coffee and rose to his feet. “Let’s try some optimism for a change, Liam. Maybe they got careless this time and left us a print. Right, Mike, can you complete the P.M.s and bring your findings to the briefing at five o’clock? If you could get John there too it would be a help. He knows the old cases.” He headed for the door, still talking. “Maybe your injection sites will yield something useful.”

  Even as he said it he didn’t believe it, but they had to try.

  Chapter Four

  Annadale Embankment. The Home of John and Natalie Winter.

  John Winter had often had the urge to kiss people in his life, but he had never before wanted to kiss a phone. As it would have looked ridiculous and offended his sense of dignity to snog an inanimate object, he made do with giving the kitchen wall phone that had just started ringing a grateful stroke as he picked it up.

  Had Craig known the scenario he would be interrupting when he’d made the call, he would have more likely sent his friend a text and waited to be called back, but as he wasn’t psychic he blundered in blissful ignorance into the maelstrom that was John Winter’s day.

  The setting was familiar enough; a man, a woman and a nine-month-old baby, safe in the warmth of their home. A charming domestic scene you might think, except for one ingredient, the occasionally less-than-charming mother, Natalie. Natalie Winter was not what you would call an old-fashioned, storybook mother, suited to a life of gentle cuddles and quiet play by the fire; no, she was as dynamic in her approach to child-rearing as she was to everything else in life, a dynamism sufficiently powerful to have taken her to the top of the still male-dominated, hospital surgical tree.

  Whereas the cerebral John wanted their tiny daughter to take life gently, exposing her to music and dance and visits to art galleries since she’d taken her first breath, Natalie wanted her unfettered by what she saw as gender stereotypes, but John saw simply as refinement, and planned on putting her name down for the toddlers’ rugby team just as soon as she could.

  It had made each day of Kit, short for Kitten in John’s mind, Winter’s short life so far a struggle of agendas, and it was into one such tug-of-war that Craig’s phone call had come, with John’s quiet playing of the Nutcracker Suite sparring with Natalie’s loud heavy metal, while the bewildered infant lying on the rug between them was probably wondering who these insane people were.

  The conversation before the phone had rung had gone something like this.

  “She’s a baby, Natalie. Loud music scares her!”

  “Why? Just because she’s a girl? Girls don’t have to have everything gentle in life!”

  “Not because she’s a girl, because she’s a baby! And
incidentally, neither does she have to become a sumo wrestler just to prove that she’s the equal of some man!”

  So it was that John Winter had experienced the desire to kiss the phone, as a refuge from his instinct to scream at his wife, but grateful though he was for the interruption his frustration spilled over slightly as he answered, making his first words bark out.

  “YES? WHO IS THIS?”

  Craig knew immediately what was happening, if not the exact script; he’d interrupted a similar debate the Saturday before when he’d dropped down to see John unannounced.

  “Hi, John. Bad time?”

  “What? Oh, no, not particularly. It’s pretty much always like this here.”

  If that really was true, Craig could see trouble up ahead.

  “What can I do for you, Marc?”

  Craig winced as he heard the competing soundtrack change to pure heavy metal, to be followed by a baby’s screams, and then as the noise became more muffled, telling him that John had shifted room. He toyed with mentioning the cacophony but decided that would require a longer chat than he had time for, so he just cut to the chase.

  “What are you doing at five o’clock?”

  “Today?”

  Craig bit his tongue before the automatic comeback “no, next year” whipped out.

  “Yes. We’re having a briefing. There’ve been two more murders. Mike’s doing the P.M.s so he’s coming along, but I think we could be dealing with more of the alcohol cases, so I thought-”

  John’s eagerness cut him off. “I’ll be there! I’ll speak to Mike beforehand as well.” He paused for a moment and Craig knew what he was about to say. “I’m sorry about that ruckus when I answered, Marc.”

  Craig took a deep breath before he responded. As far as he was concerned John had nothing to apologise for, whatever went on in his own home was his and Natalie’s business, but he was worried for his friend and he had to say that he was.

  “John…” He thought better of it instantly, changing his planned comment to a question. “Would you be free for a drink tonight, after the briefing?”