A Limited Justice (#1 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (27 page)

She turned on the tape of fairytales and started the two hours of storytelling and singing to Dublin airport. A grandmother and her two granddaughters heading on holiday. What could possibly be more normal?

***

Craig sped up the M2, thinking. He knew that he should call John, but he dreaded the inevitable questions about his ‘convenient’ memory lapse about the theatre. So instead he took the route of male resistance and put on a Snow Patrol C.D.

If Craig ever admitted to obsession, which he didn’t, it took two forms. Sport of any description; especially Man. United playing anywhere, Ulster Rugby playing at home, and any Northern Irish golfer hitting a ball. And Snow Patrol, not because they were home-grown, but because they were the best.

Turning the volume up to maximum, he attempted to block out his thoughts, and he had half-succeeded, managing to get through one side of the disc, before the phone rang. John’s voice cut through Gary Lightbody ‘Chasing Cars’.

To his relief John launched immediately into a thesis on poisons.

“Aconite’s clever stuff, Marc. It’s a neurotoxin – acts by paralysis of the heart and respiratory centre. Liam’s bloody lucky to be alive, although you’d never believe it from the moaning he’s doing. I’ve just left him and he was ready to make a run for it down the corridor.” Craig laughed, imagining Liam shinning down the I.C.U.’s drainpipe.

“Well he needn’t think he’s getting back on this case, it’s far too personal now. I wouldn’t trust him within ten miles of a suspect, and we’re not losing a conviction because Liam says the wrong thing.”

“True enough, that mouth is hard to control. Where are you?”

Craig hesitated, feeling bad about tonight, but knowing that he could cover all lapses with ‘the job’.

“On my way to Limavady to ‘liaise’. I’ve just passed Maghera.”

“What time are you back? I have tickets for tonight, remember? Camille.”

John thought halfway up the M2 was a safe enough distance to mention her name, but the silence that followed almost made him rethink.

“To be honest, John, with all this going on I haven’t given it much thought.”

Craig paused for a long time before continuing. “Did I tell you she called my folks on Friday?” He laughed awkwardly, “Apparently my mum gave her hell.”

“Yes! Way-to-go Mirella, I wish I’d heard that conversation.”

“Dad had told me she’d called and gave me her number, but...” He was considering the damage that Camille could still do to his heart, and whether the call would be worth the pain. John changed the subject diplomatically, already knowing that he’d be going alone tonight.

“Are you off to view the beauty of the North West then?”

Before Craig could pretend to misinterpret the question, he added, “And by that, yes, I do mean the lovely Inspector McNulty. Liam told me she’s a real looker.”

“Well, we only have Liam’s word for that, and he’s probably winding you up.”

“Not true, Nicky confirmed it.”

“Well whatever they told you, I don’t care if she is good-looking, she was bloody rude on the phone. So whatever romantic thoughts you’re thinking, don’t bother. You’re getting worse than Nicky.”

“Give her my number then, I don’t meet many live women down here. Speaking of which, the budget manager’s coming to give me an earful in thirty minutes, so I’d better look at the books. I’ll have those final reports for you tomorrow, plus a short one on Liam. And I’ll give you a full review of tonight’s play. Bye.”

The phone clicked off and Craig hit the C.D. again, accelerating up the motorway. He was more curious about Julia McNulty than he’d admitted, and surprisingly, less curious about Camille than he’d been in years.

St Pancras Station. 2pm

The flight to London had been no problem. Despite having her forged passport ready, Jessie hadn’t been asked for I.D., normal for some intra-U.K. flights. Fiona had said it might happen. She just hoped that the Dublin to Paris leg was going as smoothly for the others.

They’d agreed zero contact until they met in Gare de Nord station, so all she could do for now was hope. She and Pia were sitting in Carluccios waiting for the Eurostar from Paris to arrive. Soon they would be on board, and in a few more days, no one would ever find them.

She spooned apple puree into Pia’s eager mouth, thinking. The next, joint part of their journey from Paris would be tricky, but security outside the U.K. wasn’t half as bad as inside. And once they were in Paris, it would be Disneyland and then two-day’s sunny drive to their final home; where the girls would become fluent in their new language, and she would prepare for the final step that would keep them protected forever.

***

Craig pulled into an empty space in the small car-park and walked quickly towards the double door of the low, brick building, only the police logo distinguishing it from a Victorian grammar school. It certainly had character. He thought of the steel and chrome of Docklands, uncertain which he preferred, until the Lagan finally clinched it.

The desk officer rechecked his pass and indicated the lift, but running up the three flights would be good exercise for him. He got little enough of that nowadays, remembering the sports kit abandoned in his office. He headed towards the stairs ready to take them two at a time, when a voice behind him called out his name.

“D.C.I. Craig, hello. I didn’t expect to see you here. ‘Liaising’?”

He turned, expecting to see Terry Harrison, and he was right. He was standing there in all his shiny-buttoned glory, with Mrs Butler a respectful two steps behind.

“Take the lift and we’ll talk.”

Just then, the lift doors opened, rendering excuses useless, and they crammed into the small steel cage. Harrison pressed the seventh floor button, ensuring that Craig would account to him before he did anything else.

“That was a bad business with D.I. Cullen. How is he?”

“Improving, sir, but it was a close call.”

“Bloody ridiculous they managed that on our property. I’ve ordered a complete review of security. There are far too many temporary staff floating in and out, and they cost us a fortune as well.” From his tone, the cost appeared to concern him more than Liam’s health.

“Aconite or something obscure wasn’t it? What is that anyway?”

“John said it’s derived from a plant called Monkshood that’s common on the farms round here. That’s what I hope to look at this afternoon.”

The lift shuddered to a halt on the seventh and Craig made to get out. But the conversation had obviously already satisfied the D.C.S.’s need for control and he waved him goodbye, walking off grandly with Mrs Butler in hot pursuit.

Craig pushed button three gratefully, leaning against the lift’s cold wall. One minute later, he was in a narrow, windowed corridor lined on one side with doors. He scrutinised each of them for a sign that Julia McNulty lived inside.

He struck lucky at the fourth and knocked on its glass panel, less confident than he should have been but not sure why. A quiet female voice beckoned him to enter, so he pushed the door open and stepped into the small wood office.

A titian-red head was bent over a desk directly opposite the door, and the woman who owned it was writing away vigorously in an old-fashioned copperplate. Her small hand gripped tightly at an elderly fountain pen, her head not lifting an inch from the page as he entered.

“I’ll be with you in a second, please take a seat.”

So he sat, unsure if she was game-playing or in complete ignorance of her visitor’s identity. The latter was confirmed when she eventually lifted her head to face him, her surprised look indicating that she had no idea who he was. He reached his hand quickly across the desk. “Marc Craig.”

She flushed, suddenly embarrassed, as if she hadn’t expected him, despite confirming the appointment time. For a moment, she looked genuinely puzzled, just time enough for Craig to cover his own confusion. He didn’t know what he’d expected from their brief conversations but it certainly wasn’t this.

She was beautiful, genuinely, unselfconsciously beautiful. And not beautiful in any cold, aristocratic army officer mould, but like some 1940’s starlet. She had soft red-gold curls and cornflower-blue eyes. Pale freckles were scattered liberally across her small nose. He thought that she looked like a strict cherub.

He was surprised and suddenly shy, then angry with himself that he’d imagined her plain, just because they’d argued. Lucia would hang him up by her feminist banner if she ever heard that one.

Julia stood up and he moved reflexly to match her, unsure why either of them was standing. Until her straight-backed declaration came rattling out. “Sir, I’d like to apologise for what I said on the phone”.

He recognised years of army discipline and, somewhat embarrassed, he nodded her to sit down. She looked at him as though still expecting a bollocking, until he smiled. Then she smiled back, involuntarily.

“Is there any chance of a coffee? I’ve been caffeine-free for hours and it’s not good for my health.”

She laughed at his weak joke, a clear, half-English sound that reminded him of how much he missed London. Then she turned to an old coffee-maker in the corner, pressing the button and moving crockery about on a tray until it perked, before arranging some biscuits on a plate and re-joining him.

“Did you get any lunch? I can offer you half a cheese sandwich?”

“Thanks, but tempting as that sounds, I’ll pass.” They were laughing together now.

“How’s Inspector Cullen? Your secretary was very upset.” The genuine concern in her voice echoed Nicky’s description of her, and he liked her more by the minute.

“On the mend. Complaining about the food and harassing the nurses, so he’ll be out soon, I’m sure. Although, as he was nearly one of our killer’s victims, he’s on the bench for the rest of the case.”

Suddenly an idea hit him but his self-control nearly dismissed it, until an image of Camille loomed and he decided to go for it anyway.

“I was just wondering. As our cases are obviously linked, and we’re a man down now. I was wondering...”

“Yes?” Julia knew what he was about to say, or hoped she did, and she fought hard to stop herself saying yes too soon.

She’d sneaked a quick look at him while she was making the coffee and his combination of mixed accent and dark good looks had piqued her curiosity. He was more attractive than any man she’d met in years, without looking as if he was sure of it. She wanted to know more about D.C.I. Marco Craig, including the origins of his unusual first name.

Craig was still talking. “I think our teams should work closely together on this one. We have excellent lab and analyst support and Liam and McCandless are Belfast victims. While you have W.P.C. Burton, and the fact that our main suspect comes from this area. So what do you say Inspector McNulty, truce?”

Julia liked that he hadn’t ordered her to agree, when he so easily could have done. She liked that he hadn’t mentioned the D.C.S. when he also could have done, and she liked his side-burns. But more than any of that, she liked his addiction to caffeine, it might make him more understanding about her own to cigarettes. Might...

So she half-smiled at him, looking at once like a very un-strict cherub. “It’s Julia. And yes, truce.” Then they finished their coffee in amicable silence, before setting out for the Adams’ farm.

***

“No, this isn’t right, it can’t be.”

Annette was sitting quietly at her desk, marvelling at how peaceful the place was. Liam was off, Craig was in Limavady and Nicky was sipping cappuccino somewhere with Mirella Craig, hearing about the best shops in Venice. It was lovely and silent and she was getting lots of work done; they should all disappear more often. Only the occasional sound of Davy talking to himself was disturbing her peace and quiet.

“It can’t be right. Honestly, I don’t believe this.”

She could tell that Davy wanted an audience so she stopped typing and took the bait.

“OK, Davy, I know you’re dying for me to ask you what you don’t believe. So...OK...what don’t you believe?”

“Come here and look.”

She knew that she’d get no peace until she did. So, with an exaggerated sigh, she saved the document that she was working on and picked her way past a pile of notes propped precariously beside Liam’s desk. They were outstanding public prosecution reports and, death’s door or no deaths’ door, there was no way she was doing them for him.

Davy was almost hopping off his chair with excitement now, his thick Emo hair flopping in his eyes.

“Calm down for God’s sake or you’ll end up next to Liam. What have you got?”

He turned the computer screen towards her and sat back triumphantly. “There.”

“There, what? All I can see is a set of court papers.”

“No.” He leaned forward and jabbed the screen with a pale, black-nail-varnished finger. “There.”

She peered at it closely, her aging short-sightedness defeated by the vanity that refused glasses. “I give up – just tell me, Davy.”

He smiled to himself, careful not to let her see. Annette was good-natured to a fault, unless you pointed out that she was forty-odd and needed glasses, then she’d get grumpy on sixpence.