Crossing The Line

by Catriona King

  CROSSING THE LINE

  CATRIONA KING

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously and any resemblance to persons living or dead, business establishments, events, locations or areas, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author, except for brief quotations and segments used for promotion or in reviews.

  Copyright © 2019 by Catriona King

  Photography:Image by Cunaplus

  Artwork: Jonathan Temples: creative@jonathantemples.co.uk

  Editors: Andrew Angel and Maureen Vincent-Northam

  Formatting: Rebecca Emin

  All rights reserved.

  Hamilton-Crean Publishing Ltd. 2019

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Core Characters in the Craig Crime Novels

  Key Background Locations

  For My Mother

  About the Author

  Catriona King is a medical doctor and trained as a police Forensic Medical Examiner in London, where she worked for some years. She returned to live in Belfast in 2006.

  She has written since childhood and has been published in many formats: non-fiction, journalistic and fiction.

  ‘Crossing The Line is book twenty in The Craig Crime Series.

  Each book can also be read as a standalone.

  The Craig Crime Series So Far

  A Limited Justice

  The Grass Tattoo

  The Visitor

  The Waiting Room

  The Broken Shore

  The Slowest Cut

  The Coercion Key

  The Careless Word

  The History Suite

  The Sixth Estate

  The Sect

  The Keeper

  The Talion Code

  The Tribes

  The Pact

  The Cabal

  The Killing Year

  The Running of The Deer

  The Property

  ‘Crossing The Line’ is the twentieth book in the series. The twenty-first will be released in 2019. The audiobook of the first Craig Crime novel, A Limited Justice, is now available on Amazon ACX.

  Aurora, the author’s first Irish fantasy/mythology novella was released in August 2017.

  She has also released a science fiction novel set in New York City, entitled The Carbon Trail.

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks to Northern Ireland and its people for providing the inspiration for my books.

  My thanks also to: Andrew Angel and Maureen Vincent-Northam as my editors, Jonathan Temples for his cover design and Rebecca Emin for formatting this work.

  I would also like to thank all the police officers I have ever worked with for their professionalism, wit and compassion.

  Catriona King

  February 2019

  Discover more about the author’s work at:

  www.catrionakingbooks.com

  To engage with the author about her books, email:

  Catriona_books@yahoo.co.uk

  The author can also be found on Facebook and Twitter: @CatrionaKing1

  Chapter One

  Her Majesty’s Prison Mahon. County Armagh. Saturday, December 15th 2018.

  10 p.m.

  As soon as he swallowed the tablet he could feel the familiar warmth spreading; through his chest and into his arms, and then further, right to the tips of his fingers, even as what was causing the sensation slid down his throat. Into his stomach then to do its job: to make the remnants of his day tolerable, perhaps even comfortable, and his night’s sleep long; the drug’s sole job to gift him nine hours of distance from his surroundings, surroundings inescapable for another twelve months, until finally the heavy front gate of the long past its use Victorian building would be flung open, and a weary guard would hand over a survival package and point him to the street.

  Derek Smyth lay down on his narrow trestle bed and closed his eyes, enjoying the comforting waves of lethargy and peace flowing over him as he followed through on his thoughts. Mahon wasn’t the worst nick he’d experienced by a long way, and by rights he deserved to be there; he wasn’t an innocent man and he didn’t claim to be, unlike the martyrs who occupied most of the other cells on his wing. Five years for what he’d done had been a gift really, what the cops and court had known that he’d done that was; if they had even uncovered one tenth of his true misdemeanours then he would, and maybe even should, have gone down for life.

  So he would put up with the coming year, with its endlessly hopeful group psychology meetings to assess men’s mindsets and longed-for contrition in the futile hope of preventing their returns, far too many old lags like him acquiring a preference for being banged-up over struggling with life or the benefits’ system in the big, cold world outside. But he would endure them because each dreary, “Tell me how you’re feeling, Derek” encounter brought with it the chance that a good report from the Doc might make the parole board do-gooders take the head staggers and let him out earlier than he was due.

  He would cope with the banging doors and the lights going out earlier than his mum had ordered when he’d been a teenager, accept the bland food and endless boredom, relieved mostly by TV soaps and exercise, his fifty-year-old biceps now larger than they’d ever been, and grin and bear the classes that he was ‘encouraged’ to sign up for every year, this year’s drama and metalwork, plus his computer course, which was OK, and another short one called Mindfulness that the rest of the lads had nick-named, “Starin’ at yer gut”.

  He would tolerate it all, them all, could tolerate anything courtesy of the diazepam that he took several times a day. Mother’s Little Helpers they’d been called when they’d been prescribed by doctors back in the sixties, but sod prescriptions and all the mental health questions and written records that went with them, he got his supply the old-fashioned street way.

  The seasoned criminal shifted slightly in his bunk, so slim that he could almost feel the tablet dissolving in his stomach and amusing himself by picturing it fizzing and bubbling away, until suddenly he felt his limb and chest muscles begin to twitch and then spasm, and his breaths grow shorter and shallower so that he had to make his mouth into a maw to catch one, and its value was so limited that he had to stretch out his neck and lift his head higher to suck for more. His search grew faster and wilder and more desperate with each second, until the muscle spasms tore fibres and his sucks for air became gasps, failing rapidly in their task and allowing the warmth in his body to fade to an icy cold even as a sharp, acrid sweat seeped out of each pore to cover him, its fear-ridden stench revolting him even as he struggled to breathe.

  It was a frantic fight that barely lasted for a minute, a battle that throttled his cry for help deep in his tightening throat, as the stomach acid that moments before had promised Derek Smyth sweet oblivion did its job so efficiently that it gifted him his death.

  ****

  Laganside, Belfast. Katy Stevens’ Apartment. Sunday, December 16th. 9 a.m.

  Marc Craig ran his tanned fingers lightly through the blonde hair curling on the pillow beside him, smiling at their owner even as he still felt numb with shock. This was it. This was what normal people’s lives looked like; companionship every day instead of solitude, mornings spent conversing instead of drinking his coffee alone deep in
thought. It felt… different. Good, yes, but different. Permanent.

  The word sent a jolt of fear through him, a needle-sharp shock, not through his heart but his mind. He retreated from it swiftly, back to different, a description that he thought he could still cope with, although things felt so different that although he would never admit it he was seriously wondering how he would adjust.

  Not to Katy. He smiled as strands of her hair ran through his fingers. No, he wasn’t worried about how he would adjust to her; if he’d ever been going to do this marriage thing with anyone then it could only ever have been with the woman by his side.

  They fitted together. Her: open, kind and loving; but sharp as a whip, so bright and empathetic that she often understood what people were thinking before they did, yet so gentle that if any advice was offered it was almost as an aside. Whereas he knew that he could be difficult, however unintentionally: distant and moody at times and too secretive, holding people at arm’s length, and even to those that he allowed closer he still never revealed his whole mind.

  With friends and acquaintances it was for privacy, but with crime victims and their families it was almost always as a shield, because he could feel their pain. In both cases he took the quickest, easiest route to safety and walled himself off, to cope, and to be able to do his work. And he was restless too, that was another fault; always pacing, mentally and physically, seeing the things that others seemed not to notice and unable to ignore them, and following the ideas that came with that as well. In the early days Katy had compared him to a caged animal, and recently she’d added that she didn’t want him feeling their marriage was in a trap. It was that that had prompted her radical suggestion; her suggestion, he had never uttered the words; in fact he was pretty sure they hadn’t even occurred to him.

  They had come within a week of their secret registry office wedding in September, so secret that no-one but them had known about it and only their families had been told since, the desire for a quiet life necessitating that their mothers in particular be informed before Katy’s pregnancy bump went from a disguisable swelling to something so large that no amount of, “I had a big lunch” excuses were going to wash.

  Their reactions had ranged from joy from Katy’s widowed mum, Maureen Stevens, through hand-shaking congratulations from his dad, to tears and beratement from his mother, Mirella, whose dramatic wails of, “My only son” in a mixture of English and Italian had been quickly followed by an insistence by all three on repeating the wedding in a church in case they and their coming offspring were all condemned to hell.

  Craig rested back on his pillow and folded his arms behind his head, continuing the thought. He wasn’t sure how he felt about there being a God, although he hadn’t entirely ruled one out, his logical mind saying that there was far too much symmetry in nature for it all to just be a random thing. And if it made their parents happy, well, church had seemed a small enough gift to give, although as soon as they’d agreed to it he had wondered where his ‘Rebel Without a Cause’ youth had gone. So they’d had the churching, but now there was the issue of Katy’s radical suggestion to deal with and he had to be honest and admit that he wasn’t quite sure how to proceed.

  There would be comments from everyone about the unconventional arrangement of course but that didn’t bother them, especially as no-one outside the family even knew that they were married at all, but it was more why Katy had suggested the arrangement that concerned him, even as his heart had almost immediately leapt in happiness when she had.

  Craig recalled the moment that her words had been uttered, the scene carefully staged with candles and a lovely meal.

  “I think we should keep our own places for a while, Marc.”

  He’d been startled, then hurt and rejected, but within seconds his reaction had changed to one of joy. He could still slump in front of his big screen TV at his place in Stranmillis and watch the football, eat rubbish, drink red wine and not worry if he kicked over the glass, his dark carpet already tattooed with mysterious stains. He could still stare into space mulling over a case without fear of interruption until his espresso grew cold in his hand, then leave the cup on the floor without fear that anyone would complain and return to reheat it in the microwave in a few hours time. Best of all, he could still be free, be himself, be alone.

  Then he had noticed the smile in his new wife’s eyes and realised just how clever she really was. She knew that if he felt trapped he would be miserable, and she knew how much he needed his own space, just as she needed hers. They were marrying late by average standards and the forced intimacy of living under the same roof all the time was going to be a hard adjustment. Keeping both places wouldn’t be a never-ending arrangement, just until their places sold and they could buy somewhere large enough that they could both still have somewhere to retreat to when they felt the need. Matching his and hers caves. It was an ingenious suggestion and had almost removed his terror of commitment, although whether that would ever disappear completely remained a doubt in his mind.

  Craig suddenly swung his feet onto the bedside rug and grabbed his jeans and jumper from the nearby chair, heading for the kitchen still deep in thought.

  He had another decision to make as well. Tomorrow was Monday, important for two reasons. One, Sean Flanagan, the force’s Chief Constable, had given him and two other D.C.S.s joint oversight of Serious and Organised Crime (SOC), so he would have that as well as Murder to contend with, and the only possible way of coping would be to make good use of his three D.C.I.s. Two, it was his first day back after two weeks’ holiday, which as far as his team was concerned had just been his annual skiing trip, none of them having any idea that the fortnight had been a semi-honeymoon spent looking at prams and cots instead of snowy slopes.

  So... did he tell everyone that he’d got married? He hated wearing jewellery so there was no wedding ring, which Katy was fine with, she wasn’t wearing one either; at the moment her hands were too swollen but even when they weren’t she wasn’t sure it was her thing. They hadn’t even bought any, dispensing with that exchange in both ceremonies; the upshot being that there was no way any of his team could tell that he was married unless he mentioned it.

  He stopped dead, the spoon he’d inserted into a container of coffee beans left standing upright as something occurred to him; did he look different now? Would they be able to tell? What did married look like anyway? Did people acquire a settled look, a smug one even? Would he suddenly start wearing Fair Isle jumpers like his dad?

  He gave a shudder and continued with what he’d been doing, watching as the coffee grinder did its thing. None of his team had looked any different when they’d committed to a relationship so there was no earthly reason why he should. He was happy that he’d tied the knot, so if someone asked him he would admit he had, but he wasn’t going to announce or advertise it, mainly because he never did anything that way.

  The detective’s increasingly circular rumination was interrupted by a pair of warm arms enfolding him from behind.

  “Fifty pence for them.”

  It made him laugh. Inflation had even affected the value of thought.

  He turned to face his new wife and bent down to kiss her forehead.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you, pet.”

  “You didn’t, your child did.”

  She gestured at the coffee that he’d just ground and walked across to the breakfast table.

  “That smells wonderful, but could I have a camomile tea please? I don’t want to get the baby any more excited than they are.”

  Craig smiled to himself, realising that he was living in Disney movie domestic bliss.

  It was soon to be disturbed.

  ****

  Mahon Prison. Armagh. 9 a.m.

  Governor George Royston gazed down at his dead prisoner’s immobile body, lying diagonally across his now untidy bunk, the detritus of a futile resuscitation, needles, swabs and gel defibrillation patches, cast this way and that around him in a montage that faile
d to distract for long from the main event.

  John Winter was gazing at Derek Smyth too, his expert eye running up the dead man’s short but wiry legs and torso and then across to his arms and hands, the whole still covered by his jeans and now ripped blue-striped shirt, not prison issue but the final year civvies of a soon to be freed man. When his sweep had yielded everything that it could have done the Director of Pathology’s gaze moved to his patient’s face, and what he saw written there told him immediately how the man had died. Smyth’s green eyes, probably unexceptional in life, were now an unnaturally vivid emerald, their reddened whites and wide-open, beseeching for help dehydration deepening and brightening their hue. They sat in a thin, middle-aged face contorted in desperation, and above a blue-tinged mouth so extended that the jaw around it had been partially unhinged. Below all of it lay a neck so wrenched back and corded that only one diagnosis made any sense.

  The government pathologist, always called to deaths in prisons, nodded to himself and turned to step out of the cell, striding purposefully down the gantried landing it was on and past curious inmates’ stares and mutterings, until a guard saw him approaching and unlocked the door to a courtyard and some much needed fresh air. George Royston joined him there a minute later, first taking time to scatter his noisy charges towards the recreation room and order the sealing of Smyth’s cell door.

  The middle-aged governor watched as the pathologist traversed the Victorian prison’s courtyard twice, achingly slowly and in silence, eventually halting his third passage with a quiet cough. John glanced up from his ruminations, startled, to see that Royston was beckoning to him.