You mean that you have.
The agent focused on the rising tone and speed of the other man’s voice, surprised at how his usually cool and contained caller was acting, but then he supposed that everyone reached their limit at some point, everyone but him; his decades as an active agent had put paid to that.
It made him smile at how badly some people handled stress. He’d read articles about the condition of course; you could barely open a broadsheet without seeing a piece by someone whinging on about how pressure had affected their sleep, their marriage or their bloody cat. He’d never understood it himself. Pressure and stress invigorated him, heightening his senses so much that he actually tingled, and not just in the places where that normally gave a thrill. Even his fingertips stung with the excitement of a challenge until it was successfully completed, and then he slept the sleep of a growing child.
But sadly, the days when he got paid for his adrenaline junkie side were over, age and injury not dulling his reactions but his reaction times, and so here he was, promoted to sit behind a desk, ordering about younger men who were doing what he’d done for decades, and more powerful than he had ever been in ways, but without almost all of the fun. The distinction was important, because every so often, like now, he still got to do what he’d considered fun for years, decide the fate of another human being. Perhaps he didn’t pull the trigger himself any more, but vicarious adventure was adventure all the same.
The thought made him sigh and finally respond to the other man’s question, obliquely.
“Fixing doesn’t always require denial. Just leave everything to me.”
Tired of the discussion the aging warrior set down the phone, ensuring that the receiver was neatly replaced. His attention to detail was what had kept him alive when he’d wielded a weapon, and now it was going to keep them all out of jail.
Chapter Nine
The Labs. Wednesday. 6 a.m.
Des Marsham was humming happily to himself, a country and western melody occasionally broken by a lyric when he could recall one, so that anyone walking past his office would have heard, “mmm…mmm ...mm…cowboy ….mmm….mmm …mm...horse…” on repeat.
As it happened, the only people outside at the early hour were Grace and the labs’ cleaner, a sweet natured Polish man called Szymon who had worked there long before Des or John, and the two immigrants to the country exchanged a knowing smile. Des’ love of slow-talking country and western music was well known, but they rarely heard him bust a tune himself. It could mean only one thing; the boss was in an excellent mood. Although what it took to put a forensic scientist in such a state didn’t bear deeper thought.
After the third repetition of the same stanza Grace decided to pop into the office, ostensibly to offer her boss a coffee but really out of curiosity. After a quick tap on the door, she opened it and peeped in.
“Coffee, Doctor Marsham?”
His answer was sung to the same C&W tune.
“Coffee, yes….mmm….mmm…mm...but come in first….mmm…mmm…”
The CSI pushed the door open wider, giving her a better view and an understanding of what was causing him such cheer. The workbench which ran around three walls of Des’ large office was scattered with pieces of cut stone, some as large as a portable television and others the size of a hard-backed book, but all of the straight-edged pieces were made of the same material, a substance that Grace had seen before.
“That’s from the hotel floor!” She frowned almost instantly. “But the pieces are too regular to have come from the city dump.”
Des stopped humming and his face broke into an excited smile.
“Exactly!”
He beckoned her closer and gestured to the medium-sized piece he’d been working on.
“Commander Sheridan and I spent yesterday afternoon at the site using radar, and then we had the cellar of the old DoE building excised in chunks, each one centred around an object we’d located on the screen.”
He motioned her to pull up a stool and continued.
“I’ve tested the material and it’s concrete. Standard stuff. So I’ve spent the past hour trying out various chemicals that might dissolve it.” His cheerful smile became a frown. “Nothing’s worked yet, well, nothing that didn’t require such a strong concentration to get through the stone that it wouldn’t destroy whatever evidence is in inside. I had been hoping that we could just put them in a vat of something and scoop out the evidence, but…”
As his voice tailed off Grace could see that he was still hoping such a thing might be possible, so she waited for a moment, trying not to seem too eager, and then tentatively voiced her thoughts.
“So what you’re saying is… if we choose the wrong strength of chemical, evidence could be lost. If it’s strong enough to get through the thick stone then it will destroy the evidence inside.”
“Mmm…”
It was accompanied by a nod this time not a tune and she took it as a signal to continue.
“But… if we chip away carefully until there’s only the object and a small amount of stone around it, then… well… we could use a much lower concentration to dissolve it and we might have more success. Or maybe we could even remove all of the stone without chemicals if we used...” She took a deep breath, blurted out, “How about ultrasound?” and then sat back abruptly, waiting for her boss’ ridicule or at best a look of disdain.
Grace didn’t know why she should assume such a reaction would be forthcoming, after all Des had given her no reason to, always being a supportive employer, but ever since she’d qualified and taken her first job as a CSI she’d suffered from ‘imposter syndrome’, never believing that she was good enough at her work and constantly waiting for a tap on the shoulder and a cold, “You’re hopeless and you’re sacked”.
Repeated promotions had done nothing to assuage the fear, not even when Des had head-hunted her from Scotland to join his team, so the CSI braced herself, waiting for the Head of Forensics to rubbish her idea, only to be stunned when Des once again broke into song. A different ditty this time that was something to do with wagon wheels, but its cheery sentiment was unmistakable. Des thought her idea was brilliant, and when he’d calmed down and stopped singing they discussed the logistics and he made a plan.
“OK, Commander Sheridan decided to work his team in shifts all through the night, so we should have the rest of the blocks here soon. As soon as the other CSIs get in, I’d like you to organise them into teams and start them chipping away the outside of each one. Gently now, and using the smallest hammers you can find, and make sure they work to the images I’ll give you, to keep the bones inside intact. Meanwhile, I’ll contact St Mary’s Hospital and see if they’ll let us use their lithotripsy machine. Its ultrasound can shatter enormous kidney stones without damaging the surrounding bones and organs, so it should be able to clear away the remainder of our concrete without shattering anything inside.”
He paused for a second and shook his head, setting Grace’s insecurity raging again, but only for a moment.
“No, I’ll get John to speak to the hospital for me. Medic to medic sort of thing.”
It was a barely veiled dig at the medical profession’s tendency to cliqueness, something that was infamous amongst other related professionals. Des couldn’t be certain, but he thought that doctors probably had some way of recognising each other even when no titles were being flung around. Maybe it was a funny walk or a secret wink or something, or perhaps, as he thought back on his darker days, they could spot each other’s arrogant self-importance at a hundred yards. Still, why have a dog and bark yourself? And in this case... he gave a smirk at the double meaning; John could be his bitch. The thought made him feel instantly guilty, and Grace watched puzzled as what was visible of her boss’ face through his beard suddenly flamed red.
Des shook his head hard, continuing his inner conversation and confusing her further; John wasn’t arrogant, the very opposite, and he was his friend. When a quick adjustment to his thoughts
about doctors to include only the arrogant ones made him feel only slightly less disloyal, he decided to postpone his now inevitable guilt trip till later and moved towards the door.
“We can’t do anything until everyone else has arrived, Grace, so let me treat you to a decent coffee down the road. It will probably be our only break today.”
****
The C.C.U. 8 a.m.
Craig gazed out of his window over the River Lagan, watching it flow past Sailortown, past Titanic Belfast and the Port, into the widening mouth of the river and on towards the Irish Sea. Even at this early hour the waterway was busy, although not so much that it disturbed his thoughts, and he allowed the rhythmic bobbing of its waves to half-hypnotise him, setting aside work considerations to ponder the events of the previous few months.
He hadn’t seen any of it coming: Katy leaving him, her pregnancy, and his heartbreakingly deep sense of loss, first of her and now, in anticipation, of the possible lack of contact with his child. The detective shook his head violently, correcting his thoughts. NO. He hadn’t lost them yet, and he refused to accept that there was nothing that could halt the downward slide.
He and Katy were still talking, and he would do anything that he had to, to insure that he kept her in his life. Guilt stung him suddenly, not at his determination but at whether he had the right to it, the right to hold on to her so hard when it was obvious that he hadn’t given her what she’d needed. If he’d only thought beyond his own desires to hers, if he’d only suggested, even considered, marriage back then, then neither of them would have spent the past few months alone.
Guilt bit at him this time, tearing out a gnarled chunk that screamed, “Stop lying to yourself, man! That isn’t the only thing that you’ve done wrong.”
It made Craig close his eyes, as if shutting out the view could erase the thoughts from his mind, but they were replaced instantly by memories of a drunken night that should never have happened, a drunken night that he had tried and failed to forget for the past three months. It filled him with self-disgust and made him hate himself.
His eyes flew open again suddenly as he jumped to his own defence. Katy had left him, refused to speak to him and he hadn’t known that she was pregnant then; if he had have done it would never have happened, but he had been single then.
So why did he feel so bloody guilty, and feel that he should tell her now? No. He couldn’t. It would only hurt her. It had been a drunken aberration at a law-school reunion that he’d regretted the moment that he’d woken the next day. Not the woman, no; Eimear was lovely and he’d known her since they were students after all, but in some ways that made it even worse. He’d chosen someone familiar to make himself feel better, someone who had got hurt by what they’d done.
He found himself shaking his head again but this time at his arrogance. How could he possibly know that? Why assume that she’d wanted anything more than one night? Eimear had known how he felt about Katy and she’d known that he was in the reunion bar that night looking for solace in the bottom of a glass. She couldn’t, shouldn’t have believed that it was anything more than what it had been; a twenty-five-year-old nostalgia trip with someone who was hardly in his right mind.
He gazed out at the water again, his mood taking yet another turn. They’d both been consenting adults, said goodbye kindly, but without any promises, and neither had contacted the other one since, so why did he still feel like such a shit? Was it guilt for the imagined impact he might have had on the solicitor or for the very real impact he knew that he’d had on Katy’s life? Or... had he shattered some inflated chivalric image that he’d held of himself, and had he ever been entitled to hold it if he had?
He focused hard on a passing motor launch, trying to drown out the questions, but inevitably they just came down to one; if he told Katy about that night he might feel less guilty but she would be devastated, so shouldn’t he just suck it up like the flawed human being that he was and move on?
If Craig had been waiting for an answer from the river, or expecting someone to walk in and make him feel better then he was about to be disappointed, because as he turned to sit down at his desk his office door opened and his red-eyed PA set down his post with a loud sniff. The detective’s eyes narrowed protectively, his first thought, ‘someone’s upset Nicky’ and his second, ‘where are they? I’ll kill them!’.
The words weren’t vocalised but Nicky heard them anyway, and as he made for the door she gripped hard on his arm.
“It was no-one out there. It’s Jonny. He didn’t come home last night and we don’t know where he is.”
All of Craig’s self-indulgent guilt and angst vanished and he led her gently to a seat.
“Tell me everything that you know.”
A renewed wave of sobbing rendered speech impossible for a moment, but when it subsided he got his reply.
“You know how I got that text before I went home last night?”
“Yes, that he wasn’t going to be home until ten.”
“Yes. Well, Gary and me, we didn’t go to bed until eleven and there was still no sign of him. Gary was furious, said he would kill him when he finally got home, but then it got to two o’clock and there was still no sign so we went out in the car, visiting anywhere we could think he might have gone. Town, his school, his best friend, but nobody’s seen him.” She began to wail. “He’s only sixteen; he could be lying somewhere hurt.” Her eyes widened in alarm. “Or someone might have taken him! Oh my God, what if someone’s taken him?”
Her anguish ripped through the detective and he hunkered in front of her chair and took both of her hands in his, speaking as soothingly as he could.
“We’re going to find him, Nicky. I promise you.” His tone changed swiftly from soft to brisk. “Do you have a recent photograph?”
The PA hastily pulled her phone from her trouser pocket, turning it to show Craig an image of a round-faced adolescent boy.
“That was taken in January.”
“Good. Print off some twelve by twelves for me in colour, and write his height, weight, mobile number if he has one, what he was wearing yesterday and where he likes to hang out on the back. Stay in here and do that now. I’ll be back in a moment.”
With that he strode out on to the floor, hoping to find the person he needed. He was in luck; Annette had just arrived and was draping her jacket over her chair. Craig beckoned her across.
“Come with me, please, Annette.”
A minute later she was in his office and up to speed on Nicky’s situation, and he watched as the motherly D.I. took over, making a plan.
“OK, we’ll email this photo to every station in Belfast and I’ll call all the sergeants before they send their uniforms out on patrol, so they can keep an eye out for him. Then I’ll drop you home, Nicky, and start driving around the streets myself. Every place you can think of.”
The PA shook her head weakly. “I’m needed here.”
Craig was firm. “Go with Annette. Someone else can pick up your work today.”
The response was a frantic howl. “I can’t sit at home, I’ll go mad!”
He understood instantly; inactivity affected him the same way.
“OK, then, Annette, take Nicky with you, but make sure she stays safe. Who do you need as back-up here?”
“If Mary could call round the hospitals, just in case-”
It brought another cry from the PA, which Annette ignored with the confidence of a nurse.
“She could answer the phones too, while she’s helping Davy. And if you could spare Ryan for a few hours as back-up that would be great.”
Nicky was about to object to her choice of phone proxy then decided she didn’t have the energy.
Craig nodded his confirmation. “That’s a plan. OK, off you go, and please keep me up to date. And anything you need, Nicky, anything, you’ve got my number. Liam and I will just be spending the morning interviewing so we can easily reschedule those if you need help.”
As the two women went
to leave the office he called after them.
“What about Gary?”
Nicky looked glum. “He’s out prowling the streets, but I’m worried what he’ll do if he finds someone hurting Jonny.”
Craig handed her his mobile. “Put his number in there for me and I’ll give him a call.”
Then they were gone, just as the rest of the team began filtering in for their day’s work. As soon as Liam appeared Craig summoned him, Mary and Ryan into his office to update them, swearing them all to secrecy before allocating their tasks.
As he joined Liam in his car for their trip to High Street he called Gary, feeling guilty again, this time at his self-indulgent meditation of an hour earlier when there were real problems to be solved.
****
High Street Station. 9 a.m.
Brian Tanner lifted his head out of his hands for a moment to scan the police station’s reception, casting a bored glance at a wall poster on not texting and driving and another one warning of thieves snatching mobile phones, before dropping his gaze again to the reception’s grey vinyl floor and then deciding that it was boring too and finally opting for an arms-folded, resting back in his seat position with his eyes tightly closed.
It was the least of all the available evils, as the only alternative left to the ex-caretaker had been to look at the uniformed constable seated beside him who’d insisted that he come there an hour before, waking him up from his sleep to give him the unwelcome message and not even waiting until he’d had a cuppa before he’d shoved him into the back of a police car.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like speaking to the police, well actually no, that was true, he didn’t; he’d had quite enough of their heart-to-hearts on various misdemeanours when he was a youngster and he considered himself a fine upstanding citizen nowadays. But mainly he didn’t like speaking to anyone but his nearest and dearest until he’d had two cups of tea and an Ulster Fry, and not starting his morning that way left him feeling out of sorts all day long.
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