The Careless Word (#8 - The Craig Crime Series) (16 page)

“I’ll tell her, I promise. But that’s not the point. You needed protection, Carmen doesn’t; she needs a boyfriend.” She placed her hands firmly on her keyboard, signalling a return to work, and muttered determinedly under her breath. ”And whether she likes it or not that’s exactly what she’s going to get.”

Chapter Fifteen

East Belfast. 1.30 p.m.

Liam pushed his way through the crowd of severely over and underweight men milling outside the terraced row of shops, and entered Garvan’s Bookmakers and Turf Accountants, musing that the place should have had a health warning above the door, or at least a sign saying ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’.

He’d never understood gambling, the logic of putting your hard-earned money on the back of some uncontrollable four-legged animal or the turn of a playing card, knowing from the off that the odds were against you, completely passed him by. Gambling was a pastime for the rich with money to burn, he would rather spend his on something he could hold, drink or eat. Danni insisted on doing the lottery each week, regardless of what he said, convinced that someday her numbers would come up, a hope inspired and confirmed by the odd time she won ten pounds. Liam smiled, thinking about his tiny wife. He could lift two of her without breaking a sweat but she was the boss of him without a doubt.

The door opened inwards, giving a warning buzz to anyone who was interested, with each of the shop’s inhabitants taking a different message from the sound. The desperate men yelling at the TV horse race would welcome any new entrant as a friend; someone who understood the thrill of the chase or the toss of a coin, not knowing that Liam was not so secretly pitying them all. To the men behind the bullet-proof glass at the back of the dingy room the buzz meant something else entirely. It shouted ‘mug’ or ‘eejit’ or ‘here comes another one’, ready to put his money in their hands and wave goodbye to his life. Well they could think again. The only thing Liam would be putting near their hands was a pair of cuffs.

Even without the door’s buzz Liam would never have gone unnoticed in the small, cold space. His six-feet-six inches made sure of that. He’d stopped trying to be inconspicuous once puberty had hit and he’d started to tower above his friends. Instead he’d embraced his larger-than-life body by developing a larger-than-life personality and voice to match.

In two strides he was at the glass rapping on it hard and bellowing “shop”. A weasel-faced youth with bad skin appeared on the other side.

“For fuck’s sake leave us sum windee, wud ye! What di ye want? The one-thirty’s already on.”

Liam frowned for a moment, puzzled by what he meant, then he realised the boy was referring to the race running on TV. The confidence of knowing there was a land-rover full of Tactical Support cops outside made Liam display his badge. Its effect was startling. The weasel-faced youth paled, making his spots look even worse and the crowd of men watching the race quietened and thinned, exiting the shop in a buzzer symphony. Liam saw the youth’s hand reach beneath the desk, and even though he knew no gunshot could penetrate the glass he moved his own to his Glock in response. He needn’t have bothered, the boy was merely pressing an intercom and the burly man who appeared beside him a moment later told Liam who’d been on the other end. Liam gave a loud guffaw.

“As I live and breathe. Rory McCrae! I thought you were still in Maghaberry.”

McCrae was one of Tommy Hill’s crew and news of his release was an omission Liam would be taking up with Tommy another time.

McCrae sniffed; the product of years of smoking and bad adenoids. “Got out in June. Good behaviour. What do you want, Ghost?”

Liam shook his head exaggeratedly at the use of his nickname. “Tut, tut. Don’t you mean, what do you want Detective Chief Inspector, sir?”

McCrae growled. “Fuck away af.”

Liam tutted again as if he was the etiquette master at a boarding school then he leaned in towards the glass, beckoning McCrae forward. When the wary henchman had moved close enough Liam banged his fist hard on the glass, deafening his foe.

“Ow! You big fucker.”

Liam’s action had the desired effect. McCrae stormed out and Liam wedged the door open with his foot. He was inside and heading for the shop’s back room without skipping a beat. Liam slid out his gun and kicked at the thin wooden door, ignoring McCrae’s indignant shouts.

“Armed police. Put your weapons down.”

The sight that greeted him was exactly as expected. A small group of men were hunched over a table, sorting piles of notes into twenties and tens and smoking so heavily that the room was filled with a nicotine mist. Beyond the table lay another door; the one that Liam really wanted.

He waved his Glock in the men’s shocked faces, grinning cheerfully. “As you were, lads. Oh, and if any of you budding heroes are thinking of reaching for your gun, there’s a truckload of armed cops outside.”

Liam backed himself into the corner and kicked hard at the inner door, shouting the warning again. One glance inside told him he needn’t have bothered. Sitting in one corner of a small, plush office was a teenage boy flicking a remote at a TV screen. Zac Greer glanced up when Liam entered and beckoned him to a seat with the insouciance of a Napoleon.

“Fancy a drink, officer?” He glossed over Liam’s absent reply. “No? Well then, grab a pew.”

The boy yelled through the door. “McIlveen, take some cold drinks out to the lads in the land-rover. They must be hot.”

Liam stifled a smile, imagining the TSG commander’s face. He stared down at the lad, shaking his head at his head-to-toe designer gear and an arrogance so ingrained that it would take a decade of therapy to reverse its delusional effect.

“I take it you’re Zac Greer?”

Zac inclined his head regally and again waved Liam towards a chair. Liam sat, not out of any sense of deference but because he could do with the rest. He kept his gun firmly in sight and nodded towards the door, trying to handle the situation the way that he thought Craig would. There was no question that the lad was a scrote and probably a murdering one, but they’d not long identified his mother’s dead body so he deserved some sympathy. He had no idea what Sharon Greer’s relationship had been like with her son, apart from the rumours of palace coups, so he needed to play this softly.

“My boss would like you to answer a few questions. How would that be?”

Greer considered for a moment and then shrugged, revealing his youth with his next question. “Do I get to ride in the land-rover?”

Liam was taken aback for a moment then he nodded. “OK. We’re heading to High Street Station.”

Greer stood and Liam smiled at his too-long trousers as he sauntered past him to the door. Zac yelled out an instruction. “McCrae. Get Trimble to meet me at High Street. I’ll be a couple of hours.”

Liam’s smile deepened. Greer would get a surprise when he saw his solicitor was already there.

***

Paris. 2 p.m. local time

The wide Parisian boulevards were almost deserted, with barely a car traversing them. The usual stream of chic business people had been replaced by scores of badly dressed foreign tourists. They carried guide books and cameras and filled the dry summer air with shouts of “stand there while I take a shot” and “smile.”

Every accent of English could be heard, combining with Spanish and Asian languages to create a dialect soup. It made the few Parisians who hadn’t quit the summer city for somewhere cooler, scowl and shake their heads.

Alain Berger was scowling as well, except in his case the expression wasn’t because of the tourists. He had bigger poissons to fry. He clutched his attaché case closer to his chest and hurried through the narrow streets of the 3rd arrondissement, in the Marais. After five minutes of rushing he stopped outside a small café and peered through its grimy windows to see who was inside. It was empty apart from a single shape behind the counter. Berger exhaled softly in relief and pushed open the low glass door.

The light inside the coffee-house was dim, made dimmer by the dark Moroccan wood that lined its walls, but Berger could make out the tall man drying glasses; the man that he had come to see.

“Monsieur Augustin?”

The man turned, revealing his substantial girth; it was struggling for freedom through a white apron and being unsuccessfully restrained. Augustin’s scowl matched Berger’s own of five minutes earlier.

“Oui. Who asks?”

Berger rushed forward eagerly, extending his hand. “My name is Alain Berger. I have what your client wants.”

Augustin glanced around for invisible eavesdroppers then he strode to the front door and locked it, drawing down the blind. He waved Berger irritably to a seat.

“Where did you get my name? And what do you mean by my client?”

Berger smiled; he’d forgotten he was a stranger to the man.

“Apologies. I mean the gentleman in Geneva. I read of his desire online.”

Augustin feigned ignorance for a moment before his curiosity won. “Where online? How did you come by the merchandise?”

Berger smiled, feeling comfortable for the first time that day. He answered the second question. “It was a challenge. Especially after what happened in Ireland last week.”

“Ireland?”

“Oui. The north; Belfast.” Berger frowned and shook his head. “It became very messy.”

Augustin nodded. “Then you are wise to take precautions.” He shot Berger a questioning look. “Where is it?”

For a moment Berger pretended he didn’t understand. Then he laughed. “I cannot tell you that. It is far too dangerous.” He opened his attaché case and withdrew a document “Here is the paperwork. Please have your client verify it. Then we will meet again.”

He rose quickly and headed for the door, leaving Augustin to gaze at the file. Before Berger could exit Augustin spoke again. “They.”

Berger turned, unsure that he’d heard correctly and fervently hoping that he hadn’t. “What did you say?”

“They. It is not ‘he’ who is my client but ‘they’.”

A group. Berger’s heart sank, knowing that their chances of surviving the transaction alive had just been severely reduced. The more people who knew about the deal the more chances of a leak and all their deaths. What had happened in Belfast five days before was proof of that.

***

High Street Station. 2.30 p.m.

Craig raked his dark hair, exasperated by the man in front of him. James Trimble smiled at the effect he was having. Causing exasperation was one of his best techniques. It had resulted in a constable punching him once; the man hadn’t been in uniform for long after that.

While Jimmy Trimble’s university classmates had been studying Tort and Contract Law, he’d spent hours in front of a mirror rearranging his features into a mask of this or that, trying to work out which expressions best produced the effects he desired. He’d decided long ago to leave oratory to the barristers; after all, they were basically show-offs who loved strutting their stuff in court. You could spot the budding barristers from the first day in undergrad; how many of them were frustrated thespians was anyone’s guess. No, he’d leave the long speeches to the Oliviers of the courtroom; his skill in defending his clients lay in what he didn’t say. If he was good enough at that then they’d never see inside of a court.

Carmen watched the men from the small, dark viewing room behind the mirror, unsure if Craig’s exasperated gesture was for effect, or whether he really was fed up with the smug brief. A voice from the darkness answered her.

“The Super’s playing him.”

Carmen swung round sharply towards the man who’d been silent since they’d entered twenty minutes earlier. Jack Harris smiled at her brittleness. If she stayed in the Murder Squad it would wear down naturally, and if not then it would be her cross to bear. Jack unfolded his arms and rose, walking across to the glass. He nodded his head towards Craig.

“He looks annoyed, doesn’t he?”

Carmen nodded, giving the elderly sergeant a quizzical look.

“Well he’s not, but he knows Trimble wants him to be, so he’s giving it to him.”

Jack gazed at the young woman and shook his head, not, as Carmen thought, at their conversation or her obvious inexperience, but in puzzlement. How had such a bonny lass, because that’s what she was, ever developed such a prickly shell?

Nicky had phoned to brief him during the ten minutes it had taken Craig and Carmen to walk from Pilot Street to his station’s reception desk, but even if she hadn’t he would have spotted what ailed Constable McGregor straightaway. She was lonely, desperately lonely. It was written all over her in big letters, letters etched by her family being far away in Edinburgh and made deeper by her lack of social circle here. The etching had made her curl into herself like a child who wished that someone would give her a hug, but was cloaked in a coat of spikes so sharp that no-one would dare approach.

Jack had seen it before, too many times; in perps and victims and relatives. He’d felt it himself when he was young and posted to a faraway station, he even felt it now on the occasional day. They were all alone in this world and they were all alone inside their heads, but the company of others sometimes made the solitude easier to bear.

As Jack was thinking his thoughts Carmen was waiting to be enlightened about Craig’s technique, so he obliged. He pulled a chair up to the window and waved a hand at Craig.

“OK. Perps fall into many categories but solicitors only have three. First you have the ordinary, decent solicitors who want to do the best for their client, whether they’re guilty or not. Because they believe that’s their job, or in some cases their vocation. Right?”

Carmen nodded. She’d thought all solicitors were like that so what were the other categories? Jack folded his arms on his stomach and continued, warming to his theme.

“Then you have number two; the crusaders. The ones who want to change the law and the world and really believe that they can. They come in here with books full of arguments, most of it labelled ‘Human Rights’. “

Carmen went to protest and Jack held up a hand to stop her. “Let me finish please, constable.”

The appellation reminded Carmen that detective she may be, but in terms of rank the man’s beside her was higher than hers.

“Human Rights are all well and good, and like it says, everybody human should have them, but the crusaders forget that victims have Human Rights as well. Now don’t get me wrong, some laws need to be changed and some have been, thanks to campaigning lawyers and people who complain. But some laws don’t, and trying to say that the law is wrong just to get your client off doesn’t wash. But crusaders try it all the same and it gives all of us more work, not to mention earache listening to them.”