A Limited Justice (#1 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (4 page)

“Hi Marc. Are you seeing John later?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Well, nip down here as well please; I want to show you something. This wire is proving very interesting; it’s not something I’ve ever seen before, or the hammer for that matter. John said he’ll have finished the P.M. by three, so I’ll see you about four then?”

“Sure. See you then.”

Craig’s curiosity was piqued, and he walked to the office door, waving Liam in.

“Where’s Annette?”

“She’s gone to see McCandless’ wife to arrange the formal identification, then she’s bringing her back here for a chat. I’ve Davy looking at the murder to see if there’s anything like it in the mainland. And I’ve just spoken to the Irish police, they’ll check their records and get back to us.”

Craig nodded him to the desk-chair opposite. He had a ‘comfy area’ in one corner of his office, but his 6ft 2 and Liam’s 6ft 6 made it so difficult to fold themselves into the low chairs, that watching them get out again was standard office entertainment. The high desk-chairs suited them both better.

Liam talked on as Craig poured him a coffee from the now-bubbling percolator.

“Seems McCandless was in a bit of financial bother. The garage went under about two months ago, about the time of that last till receipt. The High Court was chasing him for a couple of smaller debts as well, so that’s probably what the letter was about.”

“I’m seeing Des later so I’ll get a copy. “

“Grand. Anyway, he had a wife, 32 years married, and two sons. One’s a bricky working in England, and the younger one’s at the Tech doing Media studies. Here, what exactly are media studies?”

“It’s where you get a degree for studying Kylie Minogue.”

“Half the force deserves that one then.”

They laughed loudly and Craig could see Nicky turn round at her desk, smiling at Liam while she eavesdropped.

“Des says he has something on the wire and hammer. And if we’re very lucky the C.S.I.’s have found some prints. Anything on the close circuit TV?”

“There are some shop cameras on the Belmont Road but nothing up Harkinson Street. And we’re out of luck on patrols. I’ve checked and there were no car or foot patrols around there all day yesterday. But the good news is...” Liam played a drum roll on the desktop.

“The garage is overlooked front and back, so I’ve some of the lads from Richard Street Station starting a house-to-house. I know John Ellis, the Sergeant down there, pretty well; his wee lad plays football with my nephew. So I’ll nip down when Annette gets back and see what I can find out.”

Liam had been a detective in Belfast during most of ‘The Troubles’ so there was hardly anyone he didn’t know. Or who didn’t owe him a favour.

“Good. We need to find out why someone wanted him dead badly enough to kill him like this. So far, we have no theft or sexual motive, or any at all in fact. When the formal I.D. is done, see if anything might have been taken from the shop or cars. Ask his wife. But be sensitive please, Liam.”

Liam pretended to be offended, but nodded, conceding; ‘people skills’ weren’t one of his strengths. It was something he’d never quite mastered, like doing his expenses. He was old time police, when they’d been a bit too busy with the bombs and bullets to worry about the smiles and glad-handing. He’d been on every sensitivity course ever invented, and he knew what he
should
do, but all his good intentions went out the window once he had his eye on a Perp.

“Aye well, Annette will keep me right there; she has the old people skills in spades. Nurse or nature?”

“Nature. Nursing just topped it up. And thank God we have her or you’d have the political correctness brigade lining up to hang you.” Then he relented, adding. “And me too, when I’m busy.”

They lapsed into silence while Craig thought. Finally he spoke.

“Of course, McCandless could just have hacked someone off, but somehow I doubt it’s as simple as that. If he’d just got on the wrong side of a creditor, or a thug in a bar, they’d have used more direct methods. And anyone he owed money to wouldn’t want him dead, or they’d never get paid.”

“Aye. They’d just have taught him a lesson.”

“There’s something more twisted going on here, Liam, and the answer’s in his life. Head over to East Belfast now and I’ll interview his wife with Annette. Whether Mrs McCandless is aware of it or not, she knows why he was killed.”

“That works for me. You’ll do the grieving widow bit far better.”

“And you can forget the flattery; it won’t get you out of doing your expenses. The D.C.S. is looking for them personally. You’re in trouble if he doesn’t have them on his desk tomorrow morning.” Craig knew the next comment was guaranteed to wind him up.

“Apparently the word disciplinary was mentioned.”

Panic shot across Liam’s face and Craig almost relented, but he held his ground, seeing Nicky winking at him. She had leverage and he was going to make sure she got to use it. Liam’s shoulders slumped, as he resigned himself to hours on the computer.

“Of course.”

Liam detected a ‘get-out clause’ and leaned forward hopefully.

“What? Tell me. I’ll do it, whatever it takes. Anything’s better than all night on a spread-sheet.”

“Well...I think...It’s only a possibility now...But I think.”

“What?” Craig knew that Liam wanted to reach over and shake it out of him. This was torture, but Nicky was enjoying it.

“I think that perhaps if you asked Nicky really nicely, and took whatever terms she stated, then she might–”

He could see Nicky convulsing outside now, her hand clamped over her mouth to keep her loud laugh in check. Liam leapt in.

“Do them for me. She’d do them for me, would she? Do you think she would?”

His head shot round and he just caught sight of Nicky’s back, heading towards the lift area. Craig had to admire her timing; she was going to milk this one for everything it was worth.

“It’s not her job, but perhaps you two could come to some sort of terms? Anyway, you go and speak nicely to her, and then head off to Richard Street.”

He nodded him out, smiling as Liam moulded his best ‘suck-up face’ before he even reached Nicky’s desk. If she had any sense at all, she would make him suffer. It should cost him at least two bottles of perfume.

Chapter Three

Annette slumped at her desk for a minute, resting her head against its cool, vertical partition. Her heart was sore. She’d seen things in nursing that had saddened her, but at least she’d felt that she could help then. But with victim I.D.s, there was no escape from the relentless sense of waste.

They’d cleaned Ian McCandless up as much as possible before the viewing. Thankfully, his face hadn’t been badly burnt, the killer’s flames spluttering out at his waist. But even his peaceful look hadn’t stopped his wife’s screams echoing through the desolate viewing room, freezing them all.

The screams had ripped through her, but she was there to support and she wished that she could do more. She wished that she could bring him back; bring them all back for every family.

Craig watched her through the glass, giving her time, and knowing exactly what she was feeling. He felt it every time with every murder, and it had turned him into a hunter. Finally, she straightened up and he walked across the squad. He set a cup of sweet, white tea at her elbow and propped himself on the edge of her desk.

“Fancy some lunch before we start? Delaney just called and the son can’t get here until 1.30, so we can’t start until then anyway.”

She sipped gratefully, nodding, and some of her usual high colour flashed back to her cheeks.

“Right then. I’ll give you ten minutes, and then we’ll head to ‘The James’. Nicky’s joining us. And I warn you, she’s being Machiavellian.”

She raised an eyebrow quizzically, smiling over at Nicky. She walked over to them, and Annette smiled to herself at her sparkly belt and leggings.

“You haven’t heard the best of it yet. I’m taking Liam to the cleaners for doing his expenses. I’ll tell you my evil plan over lunch, but all suggestions for his torture will be gratefully received.” A few ideas sprang immediately to Annette’s mind, and she felt better instantly.

***

Liam pushed open the heavily re-enforced steel door, pleased that they hadn’t replaced all the old barricades with glass niceties. It made him feel strangely at home. Now all he needed was a Kevlar vest and they’d be back in the ‘80s, when he didn’t have a paunch.

John Ellis was standing behind the desk with his head down, writing. The last man to use a biro in a world of laptops. He was almost as tall as Liam, so his bald patch usually remained a mystery. But the daylight was hitting it now, making his scalp reflect the emergency number from the window, so that he looked like a Satanist.

“Here John, did you know you’ve got 666 on your head? Hold on and I’ll get a priest to exorcise you.”

Ellis answered him without looking up, Liam’s booming Crossgar accent instantly identifiable.

“Oh aye, that’d be very original, except every probationer’s already made that joke. Save your priest, I’d singe his eyebrows with my sins. To what do we owe this honour, Whitey?”

Liam’s height and Celtic pallor made him instantly visible, even in a force full of tall men. Years back, it had earned him the nickname ‘Big Whitey’, although Craig said they’d have to change that after the first complaint of racism.

Liam laughed loudly. “How’d you know it was me? I was trying for undercover.”

Ellis looked up at him with a sceptical smile, throwing open the door into the back office, already knowing what Liam would do first.

“Aye, please do help yourself to our tea and biscuits, Inspector Cullen. We only live to serve.”

They both laughed and, after a few minutes banter, sat down in the battered staff room with mugs of steaming tea, as Liam ran through the purpose of his visit. Ellis’ men had carried out the first house-to-house enquiries the evening before, but they’d come back empty-handed, with only one glimmer of hope.

“There’s a wee woman in Harkinson Street who might be helpful. Mrs Ida Foster. The lads said three different neighbours mentioned her.”

“Why so useful?”

“Apparently she’s the local Agatha Christie, sees everything. I checked and we’ve had a few good tips from her over the years. You know the sort of thing, young lads hanging around, casing houses. We’d a spate of burglaries last year and she identified two lads who’d been casing the houses when people were on holiday. We convicted them on her evidence. Otherwise, there was nothing in the whole area.”

“OK, thanks. I’ll pay her a visit.”

“It’ll have to be this evening; she’s not there at the moment. Her neighbour says she stays with family every Wednesday night.”

Liam blew hard on his tea and grabbed another handful of Rich Tea. “Do you have anything on McCandless?”

“Aye, we had words with him last year about the cars on the forecourt. None of them were taxed and he’d been test-driving them round the streets. He was pleasant enough, on his uppers like most people round there. One of the lads says he was in the chippy on Bonn Street most lunchtimes. It’s called the ‘Bacon Butty’, great chips.”

“Sounds like my kind of restaurant. Maybe I’ll take Danni there for our anniversary.”

“That’ll be your last meal ever...”

***

Craig and Annette left The James at one o’clock and strolled back towards the C.C.U. slowly. They took the long route along Pilot Street and the waterfront, as advance therapy for the interview. It was a bright October day, with the best mixture of sun and cold that Belfast ever saw. Halloween preparations had made it Craig’s favourite time of year as a kid, and it still was.

The cobbles that had once covered Pilot Street were replaced by characterless tarmac now, but he still remembered playing on them outside his Granny’s four-storied ‘Captain’s’ house. All the street’s past occupants employed by the sea in some way. Tramlines still traced some local streets, echoing the life led there for generations.

They walked past the boarded-up Rotterdam bar. There since 1797, recently closed. It had been many things in its time. A respite for sailors, and a lock-up for prisoners awaiting transportation. In the 20
^th
century, it had been a famous music venue, attracting players that included Bob Dylan and audiences that had held Martin Scorsese. Now it lay empty. Sailortown had been a place full of ships and Dockers, sailors and travellers, until the planners’ pogrom in the ‘80s devastated a community built up over three centuries. Five years to destroy three hundred. And they’d called it ‘progress’.

Nicky had left ten minutes before them, with her head full of new tortures for Liam. So they walked and talked slowly, sketching out the details of the coming interview.

“You lead on this one, Annette. Mrs McCandless has already met you, so it will be better for her. I’ll just chip in, as and when.”

She nodded, feeling much better than earlier. The warm comfort of the relatives’ room would replace the cold formality of the morgue, and tea and biscuits would add to the relaxed approach. These people weren’t suspects; they were victims, although she knew Craig would be watching for signs that they were involved. That was partly why he’d sit back. Always watching. Everyone a suspect, until they weren’t.