The Coercion Key (3 page)

She grinned and John slumped in his chair and waved them towards the coffee, shaking his head.

“No. Marc’s right. Nat’s been on at me to set a date for weeks and I’ve been less than enthusiastic, so she’s bombarding me with pictures and wedding websites. She sets me tests at night to make sure I’ve looked at them.” He dropped his head into his hands and adopted a dramatic voice. “Will no-one rid me of this troublesome woman?”

Craig’s slow handclap made him look up. “To paraphrase Henry the Second. The answer’s no and you’d miss her if we did. Just bite the bullet and set the date, for God’s sake. She’ll stop spamming you and you can get on with your work.” He took the coffee Annette was holding out and grabbed a chair.

“Anyway, that’s enough of that. We’re here to warn you.”

“So now it’s the Ides of March?”

“Something like that.”

Annette stared at them quizzically. She pictured them thirty-odd years earlier as schoolboys, talking in some obscure private short-hand. Nothing had changed. Craig was still talking.

“Your false suicides have rattled someone’s cage. We had a threatening phone-call to the squad.”

Annette interjected. “They came straight through to the chief’s phone.”

John’s stared at them in turn, confused. “What? They managed to bypass Iron Nicky and the switchboard?”

“Iron Nicky… that’s not bad, but don’t let her hear you saying it.”

Nicky guarded Craig like his Italian mother Mirella, except Mirella was even scarier.

“They routed the call from overseas. They told me the trace would show America but I’ve put switchboard on it anyway.”

John leaned forward, interested. “So? What was the warning?”

Craig pulled Nicky’s printed sheet from his jacket and laid it on the desk for him to see. After a few seconds John glanced up, slightly paler.

“Was he serious?”

“He wasn’t laughing.”

John grinned and punched the air. “I was right! They were murdered and this proves it.”

Craig shook his head. “It proves nothing yet, except that our caller was involved with your three suicide victims in some way. Anyone can claim things, and you said it yourself; we have no forensics to suggest murder and no sign of foul play. All we have is three dead bodies and a threatening phone-call.”

John sat back, deflated. “Then why are you here?”

“To warn you and to see if you know how this leaked. Only your team, the squad, the coroner and the relatives presumably know that you had any suspicions about the deaths.”

John shook his head. “All I told the families was that I was re-examining the files for research purposes. I didn’t want to upset them until I knew if we had something to investigate.”

Annette cut in. “I meant to say this earlier, sir, but the victims’ family doctors might know by now. If the coroner got in touch.”

John’s eyes widened in realisation. “Not to mention the coroner’s office staff. Remember that I had just asked for the files. If you’re trying to locate your man by who knew that I had suspicions, I would give up now, Marc.”

Craig said nothing. There was nothing to say; they were right.

“OK. But whoever called had enough knowledge to suggest he was close to the case, and he obviously knew that you’d handed the cases off to me. Who knew we met about them last Friday?”

John thought for a moment then tapped the sheet in front of him. “Was the voice disguised in any way? Like someone messing about?”

“It didn’t sound like it.”

“Well then, it doesn’t make any sense. Only you, Des and I knew we were meeting on Friday and if none of us made that call that means…”

“That someone was watching the lab and saw me leave here last Friday afternoon with the files.”

John‘s voice was firm. “No. Even if they’d seen you leaving it could have been any three files that you were carrying. They didn’t say ‘suicide’ on the front!”

Craig shook his head and fell silent, thinking. Annette went to pour another coffee and John joined her, whispering under his breath.

“If I set a date for the wedding do you really think Natalie would stop sending me all this stuff?”

“Definitely. In fact you’ll probably never be asked your opinion again. Natalie and her mother will take over and you won’t see another flower arrangement until your wedding day.”

“But it’s my wedding as well as hers!”

Annette gave his arm a sympathetic pat. “You keep on believing that if you like. Women know different.”

They turned back to the desk to see Craig scribbling something.

“OK. Whoever phoned me has something to do with our three deaths. If not forensically then they at least knew about them. Enough to know that they weren’t suicides, no matter what the coroner’s verdict said. That implies that they had a hand in the deaths somehow. Yes?”

The others nodded dumbly.

“OK. The threatening tone of the phone call implies culpability, so either they caused the deaths somehow, or they feel that they did. Their approach was too aggressive to suggest remorse, so I’d rule out this being someone who feels guilty for not doing more to prevent the suicides. This is someone who feels they actually did something to cause them.” He glanced up and saw their blank expressions. “They actually caused the suicides; as opposed to feeling that they should have stopped them. OK?”

John nodded. “Ah, right. I get you now.”

“Right. So we have someone who managed to cause three people’s suicides, which suggests that they’re clever and manipulative.”

Annette cut in. “Or they threatened them.”

“OK. Good. So did they threaten them physically or in some other way? And why these three people? Were they random sadistic killings, or was there some link between them and some logic to the choice?”

Annette smiled in realisation. “Which is why Jake’s busy trying to find links between the victims. Like the Adams’ murders in 2012, where the victims were all linked because they were on the jury in a court case.”

“Yes. So what links these three people? OK, it’s our job to suss that out so let’s leave that for now. But how did the caller know that John had passed his concerns on to me?” Craig turned to John. “John, when did you first start feeling uncomfortable about these verdicts?”

John tapped idly at his PC screen as he thought, jerking back suddenly as a large wedding cake appeared. He shuddered and tapped the screen to sleep again then turned back to Craig.

“Mike Augustus did the first post-mortem, Jonathan McCafferty’s, in late February, when we were up to our necks in the Carragher case. I didn’t even see the file until after Diana Rogan’s death three weeks ago. I remember thinking then that two suicides so close together was slightly unusual.”

Craig looked sceptical. “What about the high rate amongst young men?”

John nodded, conceding that Craig was right. There was a high level of teenage suicide, especially among the boys.

“OK, it was unusual to see two suicides in middle-aged adults then. Maybe that’s what made me take a second look; the fact that the victims were older. Something made me notice them anyway. I remember mentioning it to Des after Diana Rogan’s death, but it was last Wednesday’s case, Nelson Warner, that really made me sit up and take notice.”

Craig tapped the desk as he thought.

“OK. So let’s say we have someone guilty of ‘causing’ three people to commit suicide. The first two deaths get past the coroner and after a gap of three weeks they cause the third. If I were them I’d be beginning to get anxious, wondering if my luck was going to hold out. I’d be keeping a very close eye on the third case until it got safely past the coroner. So where’s the most logical place to set up surveillance?”

John’s jaw dropped. “Here? Do you mean they’ve been watching us since Warner’s body came in?”

Craig nodded. “Perhaps even before that, on the others as well. It’s what I would do until there was a coroner’s verdict on each case.”

Annette shuddered. This was part of the reason Craig was such a good detective; his ability to think like a perp. But sometimes his ability to think like a killer worried her. Craig was still talking.

“This would be the logical place to observe, and the pathologist would be the most logical person, until the body left.”

“But they would have to have waited at the lab for days.”

“Not really. Nelson Warner’s suicide was on Wednesday evening, wasn’t it?”

John nodded.

“OK. So they waited to see Warner’s body being pulled from the river, or perhaps they didn’t even bother. They already knew he was going to end up here. Every unusual death in Belfast ends up here. It wouldn’t have been difficult to find out who the pathologist on-call was. Then all they had to do was stake-out the lab until they saw Warner being shipped to the undertakers. Probably on Friday sometime. That would signal the end of the P.M. and the cause of death would become public knowledge soon after.”

John rubbed his chin and nodded. “Except instead, they saw you entering the path lab on Friday afternoon.”

“Yep. Of course that could have just been a social call, except that I left carrying three files. When Warner’s body didn’t leave here by Friday night they must have known something was up. They probably hoped the body would leave this morning at the latest, and when it didn’t…”

“They phoned you. They realised I’d passed the files to you on Friday and you were taking them seriously because Nelson Warner’s body was still here today.” John shuddered. “They’ve been watching me for days.”

Craig shook his head. “Not you, the building. You only became a problem because you weren’t prepared to sign off the body, and because of your contact with me.” Craig paused, his face sombre. “But he’s made threats now, John. I don’t know how serious they are and they’re more likely to be aimed at my team, but just watch your back.”

John nodded. “Well at least the suicides will stop now.”

It was Annette who asked the question first. “Why would they?”

John blustered, searching for an answer. “Well…I mean…he must know that any future suicides will be treated with suspicion.”

Craig shrugged. “So what?”

“Well… because you might catch him then.”

Craig shook his head. “If the trail is going to lead to him from the first three killings anyway, he might want to kill as many as he can before the net closes in. And if the trail is really hard to pick up then he can go on killing with impunity. It all depends how clever he’s been in his choice of victims and whether they were chosen at random or for a specific reason.”

Annette shuddered again. “If it’s random we might never catch him.”

Craig smiled at her reassuringly. “My gut tells me there’s some warped logic behind his choice of victims and we’ll find a connection between them. But that doesn’t mean that he’ll stop killing while we’re looking.”

John took off his black-wire glasses and wiped them on the sleeve of his white coat. “So when you find him, Marc, what will you charge him with? These people killed themselves, there’s no forensic ambiguity about that. So what is he actually guilty of?”

Craig raked his hair for a moment then shook his head. “I don’t know yet. Blackmail, threatening behaviour, whatever we can find evidence of. At the moment we don’t even have a link between the victims, never mind know how he made them do it.”

Craig slipped the sheet of paper back into his pocket then stood up and smiled at his friend.

“Watch your back and let me know the minute you get another suspicious death or suicide in.”

He leaned forward and tapped John’s screen, guffawing at the new image of lilac bridesmaids’ dresses that popped up. John retreated several feet, horrified.

“And for God’s sake set a date or Natalie will have you wearing one of these very soon.”

Chapter Four

Bedford Street, Belfast. 3.30 p.m.

Natasha Nunes’ phone buzzed angrily and she dropped the file she was carrying and rushed back to her desk. She stared at the handset for a moment, reluctant to lift it, knowing from its ring-tone that it was an internal call. She was a grown woman with a daughter for God’s sake, so why should the mere buzz of a phone reduce her to a quivering mess? She already knew the answer and it was confirmed as soon as she picked up the phone.

“Where is the Girton file? I told you I needed it ten minutes ago.”

The woman’s voice at the other end was cool and its aggression was as controlled as a tightly clenched fist. Even so, in any other context such a voice wouldn’t have frightened Natasha half as much, but this wasn’t any other context. This was the chambers of Linton and Roche, Barrister’s at Law, and Victoria Linton wasn’t a woman to be trifled with.

Natasha grabbed the file hastily, knocking her coffee cup off the desk in the rush. She swore quietly and reached for a cloth to stem the flow of liquid before it reached the pink-ribboned briefs resting on her desk. As she turned she caught sight of the morning post. The mail-room had left it there without her noticing. The young P.A. quickly sifted the ones addressed to Ms Linton and carried them into the room with the Girton file.

Victoria Linton regarded her secretary icily. “How many times have I told you to knock?”

“L…Lots of times, Ms Linton.”

“Many times. Not ‘lots of’, Natasha. Now, where’s Girton?”

Natasha rushed forward and placed the file on Linton’s desk then stood holding the mail in her hand. Victoria Linton had already dismissed her secretary in her mind so she was surprised when the girl didn’t leave. Girl. It was a strange word for a twenty-four-year-old mother, particularly as Linton had been a qualified lawyer at that age. It just went to show that infantilising someone was rarely an age-based approach. Class, intellect and power were just as useful.

“Well? Was there something else?”

“Y…Yes, Ms Linton.”

Natasha stepped forward and placed a white padded envelope on Linton’s dark-wood desk. The other post she’d recognised as letters from solicitors and chamber’s bills, but the envelope was marked private.

“I thought I should bring it in. It’s marked private.”

Linton arched an eyebrow at her statement of the obvious then stared curiously at the small jiffy bag. She was a naturally suspicious person and it had served her very well in life, so she lifted the envelope and turned it over then held it up to the light. It felt heavy, heavier than a letter but not as heavy as a gift. In the glow of her newly-purchased green-glass lamp, one she’d copied from a law drama she’d seen on TV, she could just make out the outlines of a small object and a note. There were no wires and nothing else that suggested it might be some dissident terrorist’s game. Besides, she never prosecuted terrorist cases – she valued her life too much.

Linton glanced up from the envelope and saw her P.A.’s curious gaze. She glared at her and Natasha stepped quickly back.

“That will be all.”

Natasha nodded hurriedly and headed for the door, glad of her escape. She only had one more month left in the office, although Victoria Linton didn’t know that. She’d got a job offer nearer home, with better hours for her daughter. She’d tell Linton tomorrow when she put her notice in and then she’d pack her bags and vote with her feet. She was owed four week’s holiday and what with Easter as well, she’d never have to darken Linton and Roche’s doors again.

As the door closed Victoria Linton reached for her paper knife and slit the bag open. She widened the opening and peered in. Nothing suspicious so far. Just a sheet of white paper and what look like a curiously shaped metal object. As she tipped it out she saw that the object was a key, cut in a gothic design. As Linton turned it over, examining its delicate scrollwork, her eyes widened. It was made of platinum! She would recognise the metal anywhere; Julian had given her a necklace made of it for Christmas. The key weighed at least three ounces, worth a couple of thousand pounds.

Linton scrutinised the key closely and saw that there was something lodged inside its wide, engraved shaft. It was a memory stick. She slid it out and examined it curiously, tempted to put it straight into her PC. It would never accept it of course. Every computer in chambers was locked against the theft of files, so no USBs but chamber’s issue would work. Never mind. She would see what was on it when she went home.

Linton turned her attention to the note, expecting it to be a love-letter from some admirer. After all, who else would possibly send her something worth so much? The words she read left her even more puzzled than before. ‘I am from the past.’ Nothing else. She turned the paper over repeatedly then held it up to the light, certain that there must be something more; but there was nothing.

‘I am from the past.’ What the hell did that mean? That it was from an old lover? She thought back to her exes and dismissed the idea at once; none of them had the imagination to think up something like this, never mind have been willing to spend the money. So, what was it? An old case? She doubted it. She was a prosecutor and the people she put away didn’t tend to send presents. Linton peered hard at the note’s font and the paper it was typed on, as if they would yield some clues, but they were common and available everywhere.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her office line ringing. Linton seized the receiver irritably.

“What?”

“S…Sorry, Ms Linton, but the High Court’s on the phone. Can I put them through?”

Victoria Linton sighed and packed away her curiosity. She pushed the cryptic note and key into her handbag and returned to the mundane business of her day.

***

By the time Craig and Annette arrived at Diana Rogan’s home on Belfast’s Glen Road, the long road’s backdrop of the Black Mountain was lit by a reddening sky. It made the urban landscape strangely beautiful and made sense of the road’s name. They drove past the tall spire of a church and its companion school and into a prosperous, suburban housing estate, whose modern houses were made older looking by their nods to the Tudors long ago.

The cul-de-sac that held the Rogan’s house was still and quiet, apart from the occasional child’s squeal splitting the air, as they played in some nearby back garden, and the echo of car doors slamming, punctuating the close of the working day.

Craig checked the number that Nicky had texted through then he took a deep breath and walked up a short, tarmacked drive, readying himself to knock on the half-glass front door. He didn’t need to. Before Craig’s hand fell the door sprang open and a small figure stood in front of them. A boy of around eight year’s old. Exactly eight year’s old in fact; Nicky had texted that the boy’s birthday had been the day before. Craig smiled down at the child sadly, knowing that his birthday celebrations had lacked one extremely important thing – his mother.

The boy gazed up at them with solemn brown eyes then he pulled the door wide, almost falling backwards under its weight. Craig slipped out his badge and held it out for the boy to take a look.

“Is your father…Daddy home? I’m…” He hesitated at the use of rank when he was talking to a bereaved child and instead changed the word to Marc. “Marc Craig and this is Annette. Could you tell your Daddy that we’d like to speak to him, please? He knows we’re coming.”

The boy frowned seriously as befitted his important role. He scanned Craig’s badge exaggeratedly then reached out a small hand to Annette, gripping hers. Just then a slim young man with a shock of blond hair came rushing into the hall. A small girl was clinging to his leg, giggling and hindering his approach. The man extended his hand to Craig and smiled, his face a grown-up version of his daughter’s.

“I’m Conor Rogan. Thank you for coming.”

Rogan stepped back, taking his daughter with him, and waved them into a bright kitchen-dining room. As they took their seats he detached his small daughter gently and she hovered in the doorway beside her brother, watching everything. Annette smiled warmly at them and gave a small wave, tempting the pair to move cautiously into the room as their father carried a ready-prepared tray of refreshments to a table.

“Tea or coffee?”

Craig nodded Annette to answer first and smiled down at the boy, who had taken up residence beside his chair.

“Coffee please.” She glanced at Craig. “Two cups would be great.”

After the drinks were poured and biscuits offered round, Rogan shooed the children to play in another room.

“I’m sorry. David’s fascinated by the police. It’s all cops and robbers at that age, isn’t it?”

Craig nodded, remembering his own childhood games. He’d never grown out of them. After a moment’s silence Craig started to speak, introducing himself and Annette again and broaching the reason why they’d come. Conor Rogan halted him with an outstretched palm.

“I appreciate your diplomacy, Superintendent, but you don’t need to tiptoe around my wife’s death. In fact I’d rather that you didn’t. I’ve never believed that Diana committed suicide; she had everything to live for and she certainly wasn’t depressed. Quite the opposite in fact. We were planning a trip to Disneyland this summer with the kids and she was more excited than either of them.” He paused and Craig could see tears brightening his eyes. “When a verdict of suicide was handed down I was devastated. No, more than that, I was furious.”

Craig leaned forward. “Did you ask for the inquest to be re-opened?”

Rogan nodded then rubbed his face in frustration. “For months. I tried everything, but the coroner’s office was adamant. They said the forensics were indisputable. I even asked my senior partner to intervene. He tried but it made no difference.”

Craig could only imagine the anger Rogan felt.

“You’re a solicitor, Mr Rogan. Is that correct?”

Rogan nodded and sipped his coffee. “I deal mainly with employment law.”

“And what exactly did Mrs Rogan do for a living?”

Craig already had the information that Nicky had sent through, but it was generic. Diana Rogan had been a middle manager in a firm of brokers in town. That could have meant anything.

“For a living… that sounds so strange now.” Rogan gazed into space for a moment then asked a question of no-one in particular. “Why do we get so obsessed with money and material things? Can you tell me that?” He carried on, not waiting for an answer. “We both worked so hard to give our children the things we thought they needed, the latest toys and games, but they won’t touch them now. All they want is their mum; they don’t care about anything else.”

His voice broke suddenly and he dropped his face into his hands, sitting in silence for a moment as the two officers looked on, powerless to help. Eventually he looked up and gave a weak smile.

“What was your question? Ah, yes, for a living. Diana was a manager at a small brokerage firm in the city centre; Murphy Johnson Limited. She trained as an accountant originally then moved sideways into stocks and shares; mostly for small investors.” Rogan laughed. “She used to try to explain it to me; swaps and futures and hedge-funds, but I never understood a word of it. Numbers aren’t my strong point I’m afraid.”

Annette smiled in agreement. “Nor mine. Not when they get to that level.”

Craig asked another question. “Had your wife complained about any problems at work? Any disagreements with colleagues – anything at all?”

Rogan shook his head. “No. Quite the contrary, she loved her job. It’s a very small office, only her, an actuary and her boss Jacob Johnson. They were all on good terms as far as I know. Apart from that they had a couple of secretaries and the occasional student attached from Queens, or from one of the local accounting firms. In fact they had a student there last month as far as I know.”

He shook his head vaguely and stared into space again. Craig could hear the children chattering in the other room but Rogan seemed oblivious to the noise. Finally he shook himself from his reverie and turned to Craig with a defiant look on his face.

“There was no reason for Diana to take her life and I will never believe that she did.”

Twenty minutes of routine questioning later, Craig completely agreed with him.

***

It was almost six o’clock by the time they left Diana and Conor Rogan’s warm family home so Craig dropped Annette home, instead of back to the office to collect her car. He offered to collect her the next morning but she shook her head.

“Don’t worry, sir. Pete can drop me in tomorrow morning on his way to school.”

Pete McElroy was a P.E. teacher and Head of Sport at a secondary school near Newtownards. It was rare that the team ever saw him, even rarer since his and Annette’s marital problems the year before. Craig drove the twenty minutes to Annette’s house and parked. As she went to open the door he placed a hand on her arm.

“How is everything?”

Annette smiled thinly, knowing he was referring to Pete’s affair the previous year. It had almost ended their marriage and it had definitely ended her willingness to take second place in it. Pete had cited her job and working hours as his excuse for infidelity and she’d gone along to marriage guidance, willing to do anything to make things work. But it had had the opposite effect. She was more ambitious than ever now and more determined that she wouldn’t let Pete or his petty insecurities stand in her way. She would go for Chief Inspector in a few years, when Craig said she was ready, and Pete could bloody well lump it.

Craig watched the thoughts running through Annette’s mind, knowing that she was composing the answer that she thought would fit, and sanitising the facts for her boss. He’d watched her change and grow since the affair and he’d wanted to cheer her on. She was a good detective and she’d get better. Pete’s attempt to control her had backfired badly and if anyone had the upper hand in their marriage now it was Annette.

Annette smiled and gave the answer that Craig knew she would. “Everything’s fine, sir. Would you like to come in for a coffee?”