The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (17 page)

“D.C.I. White would still like that word when you have time. Would this afternoon at two suit you?” She looked meaningfully at him. “Because of course, you’ll be too busy doing your letters until then.”

“Nicky, don’t be mean. It’s the w…weekend.”

She shot Davy a cold look and Craig sighed heavily; he preferred a crime-scene to an office any day. It made taking rank a real challenge.

“It’s OK, Davy. We’re all in until this is solved, so I might as well do them. I tried Andy on Thursday, Nicky, but he’d been called out. Two’s fine. Do you know what he wants?”

“Something about your work in London. He‘d like to pick your brains.”

And before Liam could form the words, Craig swung around. “No cracks from you and a bit more worshipping. Unless you want to be doing those letters for me?”

***

Andy White was slim and quick, like a bantamweight boxer. He hailed from Dungiven, punctuating every other sentence with ‘hey’, as per the local habit, in the same way that a lot of Belfast people said ‘like’.

He wore exactly the same colour of blue shirt every day, and even men noticed that it matched his eyes perfectly. Everyone thought that his wife had bought him a job lot, either that or he washed the same one every night. He took a lot of amiable flak for it, and he took it well.

He couldn’t sit in a chair without fidgeting, and was propped against the edge of his desk reading a file when Craig entered.

“Hi Marc. Great day, hey?” Craig smiled. He had a lot of time for Andy.

“What’s so great about it?”

“Another one bites the dust. That bastard O’Brien’s snuffed it, hey.”

“Did you have dealings with him?”

“Sure. He was heavily involved in the drugs traffic across the border. Probably using it to fund the ‘armed struggle’. We got close to making something stick last year, then a junior player gave himself up instead.”

Craig nodded. It often happened when the heat got too close to the big boys. They’d throw a small fish at the police to deflect them. It was known as ‘playing your pawn’. All in the game.

Craig instantly thought of something. “What age was he?”

“Twenty-eight. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Just that there was a forty-year-old sudden death in Donegal yesterday.”

White shook his head. “Yes, I saw that. Not our boy.”

“Anyway, what can I do for you, Andy? Nicky said you wanted to pick my brains on something?”

“I did surely. Did you ever come across Ketamine when you worked in London?”

“Yes. More than once. Nasty stuff. John Winter’s your man for the detail, and Des Marsham in Forensics, but he’s on holiday. They used to call it special K. A bad overdose was known as being in the K-hole. Is there much of a market for it here?”

“Well. And keep this to yourself, hey. But the Donegal Coroner got onto us two days ago. They think O’Brien was a suspicious death.”

“Murder?”

“Well, they’re not saying murder just yet, but they’re pretty sure he was high on a regular basis. Well God, you’d have to be, wouldn’t you? Nipping across the border with a bomb in your bag.”

“Fair enough.” Craig had never thought of it like that.

“They found Ket, coke and roofies in his system on the P.M, and gave us the nod in the spirit of cooperation. Just in case they’d added Ketamine to the shit they’re smuggling to our side. I remembered you’d been in London, and everything London has, we get eventually.”

Craig nodded, unfortunately it was true. “Ketamine’s nasty, especially in high doses, and nearly undetectable by the victim until it’s too late.”

White shrugged. “The odds are that it’s not murder and he was just using it. He had a shed load of coke in him as well, so his heart probably just gave up the ghost. I just don’t want more shit being added to the stuff we’re already trying to get rid of. I’ll give the Doc a call.”

A sudden thought came to him. “I say it wasn’t murder, but…”

Craig looked at him sharply. “What?”

“Well it might be nothing, hey. But we’re hearing rumblings about some new bunch of eejits crawling out of the woodwork. I think they’re called the NIF.” He laughed. “Or the naff, more likely.”

“Never heard of them.”

“No one has. Ach, it’s probably nothing. Just the usual tripe. Hey, maybe they’ll start a gang war and kill each other off. Save us some work.”

Craig smiled wryly, turning to leave. Then he thought of something and turned back quickly. “We might be taking a trip up there later, Andy. Let me know if you need us to pick up on anything. And John would probably offer you a second P.M. if you wanted it? It might be an idea, just in case they missed something.”

“Good thought, but we’d never get permission. The dissidents won’t want their glory boy being seen as a junkie, hey. They’ll want a hero’s funeral.”

Craig raised his eyes, knowing exactly what that would entail, and wondering how many pictures of it the Sunday Chronicle would have.

***

When Craig returned to the squad, Davy was pacing the floor excitedly.

“I talked to London again, s... sir. They’ve more on the Lapua.”

Craig nodded him on, perching on a nearby desk.

“They think there w...was definitely an accomplice in both murders.”

“An accomplice? Take it from the beginning, Davy.”

“You know how there were two s...shootings in London?”

“Yes.”

“They believe that it’s an international killer, based on the Paris connection. And in both London cases there w...were reports of another person, at the s... scene.”

“When you say at the scene, do you mean near the victims, or at the shooter’s location?”

“The victims. Both times.”

Two people. The second person who’d walked Irene Leighton into Stormont.

“Any description or I.D.?” Craig knew it was a long shot.

“Female, s...sir. Both reported a young w...woman.”

There was silence in the room, but not shock. Six months ago they would have been shocked at a woman’s involvement, but not after the Jessica Adams’ case. Craig nodded. The lad in the baseball cap could have been a woman. The guard might have been mistaken, and the dark winter morning would have helped. Good planning by the killer.

“S…She was noticed around both the London jobs, but there’s nothing concrete yet, and everyone described her differently.”

Liam sniffed. Witnesses were hopeless. The only decent one he’d had in the past year had been Ida Foster, an eighty something!

“Let’s pull the witness descriptions anyway, Davy.”

“OK, s... sir. And they think they might have a gangland connection in London. With a known big player. But there’s nothing on an accomplice in Paris.”

“Crap, we’re looking at an overseas hit here, boss. None of our muppets could muster that sort of armour, not even back in their glory days.”

Craig nodded at Liam, agreeing, this was way out of the local terrorists’ league. But it still brought him back to the same question. Why would international players want to kill a Northern Irish housewife like Irene Leighton? And the answer was still the same. Bob.

***

Davy pulled at his jacket collar nervously, feeling uncomfortable. He normally wore t-shirts and jeans, but even his brother had said that he should make an effort on a first date. He smiled to himself, imagining Nicky’s dating advice. She’d probably have just locked him in his bedroom.

It occurred randomly to him that it was time to move out of his parent’s house. He could hardly bring a girl back there; his Mum would never let them upstairs! And he could just imagine the conversations with his granny; she’d be passing on her cake recipe in a minute flat.

He told himself off quickly. He loved them all dearly and he shouldn’t even be thinking of taking Maggie upstairs yet, she was a nice girl and this was only a first date. He smiled naughtily; maybe on the third.

His thoughts were interrupted by Maggie returning to the table, and he stood up hastily, remembering his manners. He looked at her smiling; she looked gorgeous, and well worth the jacket.

Maggie looked up at him, blushing. She hadn’t felt nervous about anyone for ages and she really liked the feeling. She really liked him. She sat down, looking around curiously at their venue. When Davy had called and said that he was taking her somewhere cool, she’d racked her brains, guessing at all the mainstream venues that Belfast had to offer. She’d come up with a shortlist of three, but ‘Love and Death Inc.’ hadn’t been on it. Now she knew why. It was far cooler than she was.

It had opened in 2010, elegantly placed in Ann Street on two floors of a long terrace. Known only to the uber-cool few at the beginning, it was really popular now, and she could see why. It was a world full of fabulous food, skulls and angels, with a cocktail menu that she’d only dreamed of.

She gazed around enquiringly, her eye falling on a poster that made her squeal with excitement. It was her favourite Belfast singer, Duke Special! The ‘hobo-chic’ piano-based songwriter had just finished playing lunchtime concerts there! The place really couldn’t get any cooler.

She grinned across at Davy, as impressed by his choice of restaurant as she was by him offering to take her clubbing afterwards. The older men that she’d dated had to be dragged to clubs, and once there, they lurked around the peripheries, leching while the girls gyrated. But Davy had actually promised to dance with her, and she was praying that his cool choice of restaurant would be echoed by his cool moves on the floor.

If it was, she’d have found the perfect man. Arty looking but scientific, cool enough to choose the restaurant, but responsible enough to collect her from home. And best of all, mature, but five years younger than her. Her very own beautiful toy-boy.

Chapter Fifteen

“The house was empty when I got here, but the neighbours didn’t see anyone leave. It seems that the last sighting of Leighton was yesterday afternoon in Rathmullan.”

“What about the girl?”

“No one even saw her. Only Leighton.”

“Are there any signs of a struggle?”

“None. There’s nothing to indicate that anything untoward happened. Except...”

“Yes?”

“Well, all his clothes are still here. And not packed. So it doesn’t look as if he’s gone very far.”

Something occurred to Craig. “Any sign of forced entry?”

“No, the door was shut when I arrived with the police. We had to smash the glass to get in. But no damage, other than that.”

“Are the girl’s things still there?”

Julia paused, realising that she hadn’t noticed. She grudgingly said “No”, reluctant to acknowledge that she’d missed it.

Craig thought quickly, no Kaisa Moldeau or her clothes. And no sign of Leighton. But his clothes said that he hadn’t left. No forced entry and the police hadn’t been called to the house during the past 24 hours. He snapped his fingers. Of course...

“Call the local hospitals and the coroner. She called him an ambulance and left the door open...”

***

Joe Watson knew that he had to consider his position carefully; he was a government Minister for God’s sake, and a good one. Even his political enemies admitted that he worked his ass off for the people of Newry. In fact, he was so good that they’d made him Enterprise Minister. No mean feat, considering that he was the only Commerce Party member in the Assembly. His years of success merchant-banking in London had finally made even the doughboys on the hill realise that he could do his sums.

The close-protection officer standing outside his hotel-room door was a quiet indicator of his status. They were good lads. Well, except for that dickhead Sinclair who though he was Northern Ireland’s version of  Jack Bauer, scaring the bejeesus out of the airline staff with his glares. He’d have to go. But Drake was fine. 

Very understanding of his little foibles they were too. And of his sudden changes of itinerary, especially the ‘unofficial’ ones. But those couldn’t continue and he knew it. It was only a matter of time before the shit hit the fan, and some hack at the Chronicle door-stepped him somewhere very awkward. 

Yes. He’d have to consider his position carefully. But right now, the only position he was considering, was lying on his back, looking up at the most beautiful girl he’d ever known.

“Your thoughts. They are not with me tonight, Jo-es-ph. Where are you?”

The tanned dark-blonde pouted as she pulled her jeans on. “You will get me in trouble with Madame if she thinks that you are not pleased. You must say to
me
if there is something that does not please you. Please do not tell her.”

Joe looked into two black fringed green eyes that sat above the most perfect nose that he’d ever seen, and his heart flipped, several times. Then he noticed that the eyes were glistening with threatened tears and he shook himself out of his reverie.

“No, no pet. You’re perfect, really perfect.” He reached hurriedly for his briefcase, keen to please her. “Look what I’ve brought you.”