The Careless Word (#8 - The Craig Crime Series) (13 page)

She turned towards Davy and repeated Annette’s question. Davy’s normal fashion sense ran to dark T-shirts and a pair of black-washed jeans. The idea of him dressed in anything else was hard to imagine, although with his looks he’d have to work hard to look anything but good.

Davy shrugged. He hadn’t a clue about clothes and he didn’t really care, but he knew that Maggie would have other ideas.

“No idea. Maggie will sort it out.”

Nicky raised her eyes to heaven. “I bet that phrase is repeated in every house in Belfast at least once a week.” She sighed theatrically, with a faraway look in her eye. “Why can’t Northern Irish men be more like the Italians or French? They always look so… suave.”

Annette smiled. “I think it’s something to do with their freckles and pale skin. A tan improves everyone.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully with the only pencil that she hadn’t thrown. “I don’t know what to get for Pete. He’s a hard shape to dress.”

They fell silent as an image of Pete McElroy sprang to mind. He was a P.E. teacher so he was fit and slim enough, but he was so flat-footed that he walked like a duck and he had an unfortunate tendency to place his feet at ten-to-two. His habit of folding his arms tightly across his chest at all times was another problem. Nicky assumed it was part of being a teacher and exercising disapproval but it would play hell with a linen suit.

“Not linen, it’ll be creased before he takes his seat.”

Annette nodded. “No, not linen. But what does that really leave for men? Lightweight summer…”

Her fashion discourse was cut short by the sight of Craig striding into the squad-room with a look like hell on his face. Davy thanked God for the rescue and turned quickly back to his work. Craig strode past them and into his office, slamming the half-glass door behind him with a bang. After a moment exchanging looks with Annette, Nicky bravely knocked on the door.

“Yes?”

They all heard the same pissed-off yes, what was different was their responses. Annette sat upright nosily, Davy hid behind his screens and Nicky pressed hard on the door handle and marched straight in. She stood in front of Craig’s desk, hands on her hips in a ‘what’s your problem?’ gesture. A gesture completely wasted as his back was towards her. He was gazing through his window at the river and swearing quietly under his breath. He turned sullenly to his P.A.

“Yes, Nicky? And before you start complaining about my bad manners, Fintan Delaney was murdered.”

Nicky went to open her mouth then she closed it again, widening her eyes instead. Craig was about to give her the details when he thought better of it and ushered her out onto the floor, calling the others to take a seat. If he was going to tell one person he might as well tell them all.

He leaned back against a desk and sighed. “Fintan Delaney is dead and I’m positive that it was murder. The C.S.I.s are at the hospital now; they’re pulling the CCTV for the whole floor and the constable who was guarding Delaney is I.D.ing everyone who entered his room last night. When forensics have finished Delaney’s body will go to John; I’ll head to the lab later.” He raked his hair so hard he was almost pulling at the roots. “OK; comments or questions?”

Annette spoke first. “Do you think Delaney was the original target? And that’s why they went back to get him?”

Craig shrugged. “Perhaps, or perhaps he had something to do with the bombing and they’re cleaning house.”

Nicky interjected. “How can you be sure that he was murdered? I mean, he did have a head injury.”

“Yes he did, but he was improving, and his observations were all recorded as normal. The last time they were recorded was at seven a.m. and they were fine. The P.M. will tell us why but he died sometime after seven o’clock.”

Davy screwed up his face.

“What’s on your mind, Davy?”

“W….Well, it’s just that if people were going in and out of the room then we’ll s…see his killer on the CCTV.”

Craig decided to test him. “Which could be useful, unless they wore a disguise.”

Davy shook his head. “It can’t have been an obvious one or the officer on the door w…would have twigged.”

Craig nodded Davy was quick. “You’re right. Delaney was on two-hour nurse observations so the killer either dressed as a nurse or actually was one.”

“Do you think they were a clean-skin, sir?”

Nicky frowned at Annette. “What’s a clean-skin?”

Davy leapt in. “S…Someone with no rap sheet. Not known to law enforcement.”

Craig smiled at Davy’s excitement; he loved anything to do with the covert. “Not necessarily. The constable was a rookie; he wouldn’t have recognised even a known crook. But even if you’re right, Annette, and they are clean to us, that doesn’t mean that they won’t be wanted somewhere.” He straightened up. “Davy, get onto Joe Rice over at St Mary’s. Tell him to upload the floor’s CCTV to you, then run all the faces please; first against the hospital database, then against the DVLA and passport office. You know the rest.”

“Fine, but s…shouldn’t I just run the last person in the room before Delaney was found; they must have been the killer.”

Craig shook his head. “Only if whatever they used to kill him was fast-acting. If it was me I’d have used something with a delayed onset. It would kill him a few hours after I’d left and give me time to get away.”

Annette smiled; she’d have never thought of that. Craig continued.

“The tox-screen will tell us what killed Delaney but it won’t tell us why.” Craig turned to leave the floor then he turned back.

“Davy, make that I.D. your first priority, when you find the face that doesn’t belong in the hospital get it to every port and airport on the island. They may try to skip the country and if so they’ve probably already gone, but it’s worth a shot.” He glanced at his watch. “OK, we’re briefing at four, so focus on whatever you were doing and let’s see what we can get before then. I’m heading back to the hospital.”

***

Liam glanced at the woman seated beside him and for one moment he thought about just dumping her in the squad-room and leaving Nicky to sort her out, then the part of him that enjoyed a challenge kicked in. That and the part that knew he’d get the blame for bringing a mouthy constable on board to disrupt the team. He turned the key in his old Ford’s ignition and raked the gearstick into reverse.

“Buckle up, constable. I drive fast.”

Carmen Mc Gregor winced at the crunching gears then said her first words in ten minutes, in a Scottish accent so lilting it sounded like mood music and almost disguised her sarcastic intent.

“Don’t you mean buckle up because if you drive anything like you change gears we’ll both be dead soon?”

Liam hit back immediately. “With a mouth like that I’m surprised you aren’t already!”

He raked the car into neutral and jerked on the handbrake, leaving the Ford’s rear-end protruding from the parking space. Then he unbuckled his belt and turned as dramatically as he could in the confined space. The tone in his voice was unambiguously pissed off.

“Now listen to me, Little Miss Mouthy. You might be used to Vice, where everyone is so politically correct that they’ll let you say anything in case you cry sexism, but you aren’t working in Vice now. This is the Murder Squad and we have serious crap to deal with every day. That means pressure to get results and stress from the top. The last thing we need is more shit from inside the team. Do you understand me?”

McGregor folded her arms defiantly and said nothing, so Liam raised his voice just a notch. In the small space it transformed his already loud bass into a roar and his passenger howled “Ow!” and clamped her small hands over her ears. Liam was undeterred. He leaned forward and stared into McGregor’s sky-blue eyes, signalling her to remove her hands.

“Do you understand?”

Carmen nodded grudgingly and Liam carried on. “Now, the Super’s a nice man and he worries about things like people’s feelings; unlike me. He likes to run a happy team, so it’ll take him longer to say these things to you. But make no mistake, if you piss him off enough he will. Then he’ll chuck you back in the pool with all the other little constables. I, on the other hand, don’t give a monkey’s about your feelings, or why you’re such a grumpy cow. Maybe someone stole your ice-cream when you were a toddler, or you didn’t get invited to the school dance; I. Don’t. Care. You have two choices. You can be nice and work hard, get on with everyone for the next two weeks and leave with a good reference, or you can behave as you obviously do normally; mouthing off and acting like the world owes you a break. In which case I’ll make your life hell and eventually Superintendent Craig will give you the push.”

Liam raised his voice again to underline the point, watching amused as his companion recoiled at the sound.

“Well? Which is it to be?”

Carmen glared at Liam with real hatred in her eyes and he knew she wasn’t used to anyone standing up to her. He wondered in passing why she was so angry with life, after all, she seemed to have everything going for her, and then he decided that he didn’t care. Not his problem.

While Liam was carrying out his analysis, the woman seated next to him was calculating her best way to go. Marc Craig obviously liked to keep the peace, that made him a wimp in her book; but even wimps had power. She could behave however she liked, last one week and wreck her name forever in the force, or she could bite her tongue and count down the days until she’d be back in Vice. Carman decided on the latter and contorted her lips into a false smile.

“I’ll play nice with the other girls and boys.”

Her words were dripping with sarcasm and Liam knew she didn’t mean them, but he’d take whatever he could get. His headache was blinding after just ten minutes of arguing with her. He decided on one last gift to himself.

“Sir.”

Carmen gave him a puzzled look. “What?”

“I’ll play nice with the other girls and boys, sir.”

Liam folded his arms, indicating that they were going nowhere until she said the words, so after a moment’s defiant silence Carmen capitulated, in a tone so saccharin sweet that Liam could feel his teeth beginning to rot. As he drove out onto Pilot Street he knew that she was already plotting her revenge.

Chapter Twelve

Dublin. 1 p.m.

Jennifer Weston completed the flight safety briefing and strapped herself in for the steep ascent, relieved that she was home and dry. The mission had been successfully completed; they’d achieved their goal and the only man who could have incriminated them was dead.

She gazed around the small galley and thought of Fintan and his crooked smile. He’d just been the wrong man in the wrong place all those months ago. She was sorry that he’d had to die, and she was sorry that she’d had to lose her chance at a healthy love, instead of her addiction to Fareed. But Fintan’s death would serve a higher cause and they’d been bred for sacrifice. Her sacrifice was that she would never see her family again.

***

Belfast. 1 p.m.

Liam drove for ten minutes in silence, down Queen’s Road and past the iconic Titanic Belfast building, until finally, when the new apartments and office blocks that signalled the city’s inward investment were behind them, he pulled off the road onto a patch of wasteland. Its only occupants were seagulls, signalling how close they were to Belfast Lough. They were everywhere. Perching on the old fence-posts that said something more than pebbles and remnants of piping had once stood here, and in the air above them, circling in patterns so seemingly random that it was only scientists who could prove that they weren’t. They surrounded the car like curious children, cawing and flapping for attention and food as the car’s five minute immobility turned into fifteen and Carmen finally spoke.

“Are we waiting for someone, or did you just come here for the nice view?”

Liam tutted at her sarcasm and raised a warning eyebrow, but he had to admit that she was right about the view. The vista that stretched in front of them was impressive. The lough’s industrial Belfast shore had given way to clear water, unobstructed by people or boats of any sort. It stretched in front of them for miles until, just as the next logical step was to transform into open sea, it was fringed by a shore so green that it belonged to a different place. It was. It was Bangor; home to boats, regattas and other rural pleasures that Belfast’s inhabitants drove out of town to see, and the few who made their lives there enjoyed every day.

Finally, when he’d drunk in the view for long enough, Liam answered the question. “We’re here to meet someone. He has information that I want.”

Carmen sat forward eagerly and Liam was certain he saw a smile in her eyes. Well, well, so that’s what it took to make Little Miss Mouthy happy.

“Is this about the protection racket you mentioned? Are they loyalist paramilitaries?”

Liam sniffed knowingly. “They might be, indeed they might. But don’t you know there are no paramilitaries anymore, only misunderstood ex-combatants? We have peace nowadays.”

He was about to wink conspiratorially then thought better of it; she would probably call it sexist. Liam sighed heavily, knowing that he was looking at two weeks of watching his back. He was about to say something else when the sound of a badly out-of-tune engine made him turn. A battered silver Nissan had pulled onto the wasteland and was driving slowly towards them. Liam watched it in his rear-view mirror with a smile. He knew who the driver was but that didn’t stop his hand resting on his gun; you never knew who might be hiding in the back seat.

The car drew-up parallel fifty feet away and the decade’s old rattling finally stopped. The driver sat immobile, except for turning his head, and Liam caught the unmistakable visage of Tommy Hill. Hill was well known to the police for his loyalist exploits during the Troubles. He’d served ten of a twenty-year stretch for shooting four people on their way home from a wedding. He’d climbed calmly onto their mini-bus, killing three men and the driver as they tried to escape through the windows and past him to the door. It had earned him ‘urban hero’ status amongst his paramilitary pals and twenty years in prison, but he’d been granted early release under the Good Friday Agreement, despite widespread protest. The squad’s last big encounter with him had been after the murder of his daughter, Evie, the year before. Hill had been left with a baby grand-daughter, Ella, and was a supposedly changed man.

After a five minute stand-off the two men emerged from their cars simultaneously, as if it was part of a well-rehearsed dance. Carmen went to unfasten her seat-belt but a sharp shake of Liam’s head said ‘stay’ louder than any word. The men stared at each other across the wasteland gap for a moment until Liam spoke.

“’Bout ye, Tommy? How’s life?”

Tommy Hill was half Liam’s size, with a face like a warning against excess. Carmen craned her neck until she could make out the tattoos on his neck and arms. She wished that she had her camera; the scene would have made a brilliant clip for an urban noir. Tommy answered the question in a smoke-worn voice that was intent on being hard and cool, but betrayed that he didn’t actually hate the D.C.I.

“Aye, aye, not bad.”

Liam took the first step to close the gap, talking as he went. “And Ella? She must be getting big?”

Hill’s craggy face cracked at the mention of his granddaughter. “She’s walkin’ nye.”

He reached a tattooed hand inside his jacket and Liam’s finger twitched on his gun, but all that emerged was a family snap. They were face-to-face now and Hill handed it to Liam. The picture showed a well-to-do couple; Ella’s other grandparents, the Reverend and Mrs Kerr, and Tommy looking uncomfortable in a suit and tie with a beautiful baby girl perched on his knee. Hill stretched out a worn, brown finger to touch the print, smiling proudly. “That’s her christening. She’s a bonny lass.”

Liam relaxed and smiled, taking a genuine interest. Hill’s granddaughter had been born not long after his son Rory, but in much sadder circumstances. The old lag was staying out of trouble for her sake; that and the fact that most of his gang was still banged up in Maghaberry.

The niceties over, Tommy lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the clear summer air. “OK, Ghost.” It was a half-affectionate nickname; Liam’s extreme pallor, regardless of the season, had earned him the moniker from Hill long before. “What can I do for ye?” He nodded towards Liam’s Ford. “An’ who’s the weeman?”

“Someone I’m showing the ropes to; no-one to bother you.” Liam paused while Hill took a last, long drag of his cigarette, then he flicked the live butt into the lough and nodded Liam on.

“I need to know about the protection rackets running in Smithfield these days. Is it just your side or are the republicans taking a cut?”

Hill laughed unexpectedly and Liam heard an undertone of pride. “Those dickheads? Away on with ye. They cudn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery these days.” He smiled maliciously. “It’s all ar lads. One hundred and ten percent.” He squinted up at Liam, shielding his small eyes from the sun. “Why? Ar they givin’ ye problems, officer?”

Liam didn’t miss the optimism in his tone. Tommy mightn’t be active these days but he still liked to hear someone from the loyalist side was giving the peelers grief.

“Aye, aye, you’re all real hard men. Sorry to disappoint you, Tommy, but they’re not giving me any problems; I just need to find out which one of your muppets is running things there nowadays. So which three letter acronym stating with ‘U’ is it this week?”

Tommy yawned loudly at Liam’s disrespect. After a moment’s silence that proved to him he was in charge, he rasped.

“Four letters, actually. Used to be the UKF but it’s the UKUF nye.”

Liam’s eyebrows shot up. UKUF? It sounded like it should be a swear word. What did it stand for? Tommy answered his unvoiced question.

“UK Ulster Force.” He smiled proudly. “It’s brilliant, isn’t it? Does exactly what it says on the tin. There’ll be no United Ireland shite while they’re around.”

Liam was curious. Sharpy Greer had been matriarch of the UKF for years, so had there been a gang war? Liam asked the question and Tommy laughed for an overly long time, irritating the hell out of him. Finally Liam had had enough.

“Aye, very funny. Just answer the bloody question, Tommy.”

Tommy raised a chastising finger. “Temper, temper, Ghost. I’ll answer ye. I’m just surprised that ye didn’t know the UKF and UKUF was the same thing. They changed their name after that flag disgrace at the City Hall. Takin’ down our flag; the scum.”

The flag dispute had started in December 2012 after a vote by Belfast City Council limited the days the previously permanent Union flag could be flown from Belfast City Hall. It was the catalyst for a campaign of loyalist street protests in which over one hundred police officers were injured and almost seven hundred people were reported or charged.

Tommy lit another cigarette and took a long drag.

“So is Sharpy Greer still the boss then?”

The question caught Tommy unawares and he coughed so hard that Liam was waiting for his lungs to appear. Eventually Hill gasped out “No weeman’s the boss of anything. The very idea.”

It was semantics. Sharpy Greer might not have been the boss on paper but her husband had been, and everyone knew that she’d ruled Davy Greer with a rod of iron.

Liam gestured in irritation “You know what I mean. Davy might have been named boss but Sharpy had him pussy-whipped years before he died.”

Tommy’s coughing tailed off. “If ye mean is the UKUF the same as the UKF, then yes. They’re the only wans operating in Smithfield. But the son Zac’s the crown prince now. ”

Liam didn’t care about their names, he cared about their business. “So… they run protection. What else? Drugs? Girls? Counterfeiting scams?”

Tommy shook his head. “No way ye’re gettin’ that from me, Ghost. I’ve said enough. Nye, what about what yer doin’ for me?”

Liam had expected the question and he’d come prepared. He reached into his pocket, gratified to see Tommy tense just as he had earlier. Liam withdrew a sheet of paper and handed it to his companion then he watched as Tommy read the words that were going to change his life. A small smile lit up his wizened face and a minute later Hill drove away and Liam strolled back to his car.

Carmen turned her eyes quickly back to the lough, reluctant to give Liam the pleasure of seeing she’d been curious. They were halfway back to Docklands when she cracked.

“Well? What was that about? He was obviously an old crim. What did you give him?”

Liam said nothing, just gave what he liked to think of as his enigmatic smile, although Danni said it just looked like he had indigestion. Carmen clammed up, determined not to ask again. They were out of the car and in the C.C.U. lift by the time she caved in again.

“Are you going to tell me what that was about or not?”

Liam shook his head, enjoying winding her up. “You’ll hear it at the briefing, just like everyone else.” He stared down at the feisty constable. “Now… in a minute we’re going to enter the squad-room. Everyone will be nice to you because they don’t know what a pain in the ass you are yet. Remember what I said. Be nice and it’ll go fine for you; be your normal irritating self and it won’t.” Liam’s voice cooled. “Am I clear, Constable McGregor?”

Carmen glared defiantly at him through two floors before capitulating, and as they walked into the squad-room, they both plastered on a smile.

***

2.30 p.m.

By two o’clock Craig had spoken to everyone who knew anything about Fintan Delaney. From his grieving parents who thought they knew their son best, and probably in many ways they did but not enough to explain what had happened in the past few days. Through to the consultant neurologist and Sister McHenry, who were adamant that Delaney had been on the mend and nothing medical could have caused his death. A touch too adamant if recent news reports on the UK’s hospitals were anything to go by, but Craig knew that they were probably right.

That just left the forensics, P.C. McCormick and John to give him some explanation for the death of a healthy twenty-year-old man. Craig went to think in the ward office they’d been allocated for their investigation, he didn’t have time to think about anything before Joe Rice and Jordan McCormick clattered into the room. The constable’s face dropped when he saw Craig then he cheered up again as he remembered he had good news.

“We think we have them.”

Craig leaned forward urgently. “You’re sure?”

McCormick nodded and launched into the process of elimination they’d used on the CCTV.

“We showed Sister McHenry the footage and she was able to identify everyone on the tape as a female nurse she knew, except for one man. He entered Delaney’s room about two hours before he died and no-one seems to know who he was.”

“Did you see him at the time?”

McCormick nodded sheepishly. “Yes. He was wearing a nurse’s uniform and he showed me I.D. like the rest. We had quite a chat as well.” He nodded towards the door. “I’ve just done a composite with the sketch artist.”

Craig’s heart sank. Whoever the man had been he wasn’t their killer, he’d lay money on it. No killer would stand and talk to a policeman long enough to have his face recalled. The man would turn out to be a nurse that the sister didn’t know.

Craig shook his head. “He’s not our man. Check and see. He’ll have come from another ward to cover the night shift. That’s why the sister didn’t recognise him.”

But it told Craig something. “Our killer was a woman.” He sprang to his feet. “Where’s the tape?”

McCormick’s wary expression said he thought he was in trouble again so Craig smiled reassuringly. “Good work, constable, but the man you spoke to was innocent. Our killer was one of the female nurses that Sister McHenry recognised.” He turned to Joe Rice. “Set up somewhere to view the film and get the sister there, please.”

Five minutes later they were in Mary McHenry’s office watching the tape. McCormick handed Craig the name of their male suspect. Just as Craig had suspected, he was innocent; a nurse sent from another ward to provide night cover. As each female nurse’s face appeared on the CCTV tape, Craig signalled to stop and asked McHenry her name and background. When the tape reached 7.a.m. Craig said a sharp “stop” and peered closely at the screen. He turned to the sister.