The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (22 page)

“This just arrived by courier, Minister. I thought that you should see it.”

He handed Watson the large buff envelope and waited expectantly for him to open it. Watson turned it over in his hand uneasily, not quite sure what he was uneasy about, then he looked up at his advisor coolly. “Is there some reason that you’re still here, Michael?”

The young man was taken aback momentarily. It was dismissive, even for Joe.

“Oh. No Minister, not at all.”

He left, face flaming, and stormed down the hall to chastise one of his subordinates, for natural balance.

Watson considered the envelope for a moment and then opened it tentatively, removing the sheaf of paper inside. His first reaction was relief; it was just another boring brief. Then he turned over the top sheet and gasped at what was behind it. It was a colour photograph, close-up and detailed, with every landmark of his body and Ausra’s highlighted. His face was clearly visible and easily recognised. He thumbed quickly through the following sheets. Him and Ausra in the shower, on the floor, on the bed. His face clear in every one, but never hers. Even through his shock, he registered that none of them identified her. Very clever.

He could feel a cold sweat dripping down his face and his chest tightened urgently. He reached quickly into his briefcase and grabbed at the small spray, pumping it twice under his tongue and then sitting back until the pain in his chest had passed, but not the one in his heart. Blackmail. She didn’t love him at all. She’d been playing him all along. But what did she want?

He turned back to the sheaf of paper, flicking furiously through it for a note, a highlight, something to tell him her demands. But there was nothing. For one happy moment, he thought that the pictures might have been sent by a journalist, warning him of an impending story. She might be innocent after all. She might still love him.

He was reaching for his phone when the landline beeped, and Michael knocked lightly at the door. “There’s a call for you Minister, line one. It sounds important, something to do with the Strategic Finance Foundation.”

Oh bugger, he wasn’t interested in that today, but he knew that he had to pretend. He grabbed rudely at the phone and Michael retreated hastily, listening outside the door.

“Joe Watson.”

“Hello, Joe.” The woman’s voice was familiar but he couldn’t place it immediately. He ran quickly through a list, landing on the name confirmed two seconds later.

“It’s Joanne Greer.”

He didn’t like her, and he was convinced that she was up to her eyes in the Horizon fiasco. His cool tone reflected his conviction.

“Hello, Joanne. What can I do for you?”

“I hope you liked the pictures, Joe. There are plenty more where they came from.”

Her words confused him for a moment. What was the connection between her and the photographs in front of him? He was about to ask when she saved him the bother.

“So, here’s the thing, Joe. You’ve been a naughty boy. And unless you do what I ask, I’ll make sure that your wife, children and the whole of Northern Ireland has evidence of just what a naughty boy you’ve been.”

“What? What are you talking about?” His tone was still cool but he could feel the fist in his chest tightening again.

“I’m talking about the Horizon project. If you don’t stop asking awkward questions and cooperate with me, I have couriers ready to take those photographs straight to your wife and the Belfast Chronicle. And that’s just for a start.”

He spat down the phone at her. “You stupid bitch. Do you really think that will stop me exposing you? Until now, I wasn’t 100% sure that there was a fraud, but you’ve just confirmed it. And as soon as you get off this line, I’m calling the police. You’ll spend the next ten years resting your skinny Malone Road ass in jail, you embezzling cow!”

Instead of the fear that he’d expected to hear, her voice became colder, and the calmness of her next words surprised him. “You sad old man. Did you really think that a girl like that could love you? With your flab and grey hair. Oh, please.” Bitch. She knew exactly where to hit him. “You go to the police then, Joe. But be sure you have the evidence to back-up your accusations, or you’ll spend years in court for slandering me. If I were you, I’d take blackmail as a gift, because if you don’t, you’ll find that there’s a lot worse coming in the future. Back off Horizon.”

Before Watson could say anything more, the line went dead, and he was left wondering who it was safe to call next.

***

Craig skipped the gym and was in the office by 7.30. He’d finished his last phone-call just as Nicky arrived and bounded out of his office and past her to the lift, heading for the twelfth floor.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes, Nicky. Could you get everyone together for nine please?

She nodded quickly after him as the lift-door closed, wondering what he was so energised about. He was always quick but not as quick as that. She smiled to herself at the certainty that something new had happened in the case, and meandered into the kitchen to fill the percolators with water. The chief would need extra caffeine after a meeting with Harrison.

Craig emerged from the lift two floors above and walked straight over to Susan Butler, Terry Harrison’s sedate P.A., especially chosen by his wife for her non-romantic potential.

“Good morning Mrs Butler. Is the D.C. S. in?”

She looked at him over her glasses; in a way that he felt sure she’d practiced in the mirror, and nodded, slowly. She was a beige woman. Beige suit, beige shoes, beige hair, set against the beige carpeted background of the twelfth floor, the superintendents’ domain. He’d insist on staying on the tenth if he ever took promotion. The quiet up here would kill him within a week.

She pursed her lips tightly and looked at her screen. “Detective Chief Superintendent Harrison could see you for five minutes, D.C.I. Craig. But only five.”

She gestured him to a seat and he perched on it restlessly while she murmured quietly into the phone. Then she nodded him in, to tell Terry Harrison the details of Bob Leighton’s death and ruin his day.

***

Craig re-entered the squad cheerfully at eight-thirty, remembering Harrison’s face at the news, and Nicky handed him the first brew of the day. Everyone was there so he pulled up a chair and started the briefing early. Davy and Liam rode their wheeled chairs into the centre and Annette demurely lifted a high desk chair, sitting beside Craig with her neat notes resting on her knee. He linked his hands above his head and stretched. Then he began.

“OK, I need to bring you all up to speed on Bob Leighton. He’s dead.”

Liam leaned forward to interject but Craig held a hand up to halt him. “I’ll answer questions in a minute, Liam. Let me brief you first.”

He updated them on the unpleasantness of Bob Leighton’s demise and Liam let out a low whistle. “Boyso, that’s clever. These boys are professionals.”

Annette nodded to herself. “A man died of high potassium when I was nursing. It was nearly missed.”

“So was this, Annette. And it would have been, but for John.”

“The Doc rides again. He’s clever, right enough.”

“We’ll come back to Leighton in a moment. What does everyone else have? Annette?”

Annette lifted the top sheet from her pile and squinted at it. She refused to wear glasses, despite Davy’s heavy hints, and the writing on the sheet was already in fourteen font.

“Kaisa Moldeau doesn’t exist.” They looked at her curiously. “There’s no record of anyone from Estonia bearing that name, or from any of the other Baltic States. I’ve got feelers out to Croatia, Serbia, Romania and other countries in the region, but there are no hits yet.”

“You might be out of luck, Annette. There were thousands of displaced people in eastern Europe after the various conflicts, and few surviving records.”

She nodded at Craig, agreeing. “She dropped Ben off at his grandparents last Thursday and we thought she’d taken off permanently, to Donegal with Leighton. But apparently, she told the grandparents that she’d be back on Monday. It’s Wednesday now and they haven’t seen her, sir.”

“What about her things?”

“Some of them are still at the Leighton’s house, but not Kaisa. She could be hurt, sir.”

He smiled at her mildly. “Or she could be guilty, Annette. OK, let’s step up the hunt for her please. Get uniform to check any of her known haunts. Liam?”

“Aye, well. I’m still waiting for McNulty to contact me. She went back up to Portsalon to see if there was anything left after the ambulance took Leighton, but I wouldn’t hold your breath, boss.”

“Don’t underestimate her, she’s good.” He turned immediately to Davy, ignoring Liam’s quick grin.

“Davy?”

Davy sat forward eagerly and Craig knew that he had something.

“There are two things, s...sir. London mailed through the description of the woman, but I’m not sure how much good it will do us.”

“Why?”

“It’s very vague. Late twenties. Light complexion, fair-hair, thin and w...wearing modern dress. It could be anyone. One w...witness thought he heard her saying something in another language. ‘Draga’. It means ‘darling’ or ‘dear’ in some eastern European languages. But s...she didn’t say it to the victims, and she definitely w…wasn’t a relative of either of the men who died.”

“That doesn’t make sense, lad.”

“I know.”

“Unless...” Craig thought for a moment. “Unless she was referring to the shooter. They could be a couple.”

“It would go along with two people killing Irene Leighton, sir.”

Liam nodded. “I’ll get onto terrorism and see if there are any ‘tag-teams’ working.”

Craig nodded Davy on.

“The other thing is that we’ve just got a hit on the prints, about ten minutes ago. But...” He looked uneasy and Craig was immediately curious.

“Something wrong with the hit?”

“Yes s...sir. It’s a bit too convenient. It came in as a tip-off. The prints were identified in a note delivered to Jack Harris at High S...Street.”

He handed each of them a sheet of paper as he spoke. It was a photocopy of a typed note.

‘For the attention of the Belfast Murder Squad, working the murder of Irene Leighton. The prints you found belong to Joe Watson. Enterprise Minister. They had a past.’

How convenient. But what if they were Joe Watson’s prints? An M.P. dead and a Minister implicated, Craig could already picture Harrison shooting himself in the head…after he’d checked his hair.

“I didn’t know how to proceed. Do we take this s…seriously or not?”

Craig sat forward urgently. “Yes we do, but not because I believe that he killed her, although I’ve no doubt that the prints and probably the D.N.A on the cigarette, are his. We take it seriously because someone badly wants us to
believe
that he killed her, and that means that Watson might be able to tell us something useful about the Leightons’ deaths.”

He stood up. “Liam, Annette, go to High Street. Find out anything you can about who delivered the note, or who ordered it delivered, anything. Then visit Joe Watson. Don’t tell him about the tip-off but invite him in for interview, to help with enquiries into the death of Irene Leighton. Just tell him that we’ve uncovered a past connection between them.”

“Do we tell him anything about Bob Leighton, boss?”

“Or the prints and D.N.A., sir?”

Craig shook his head, firmly. “Nothing. Tell him as little as possible. Just ask him about his connection with Irene Leighton until I see him.”

He turned to Davy. “Brilliant work, Davy. Now, as Liam is going to be busy with Watson, could you dig a little further with terrorism on the ‘tag-team’ please? And look into Bob Leighton’s life; habits, past, finances, everything. We’ll meet back here at three.”

He turned to see Nicky tapping a pile of paper with her pen and sighed heavily. “Because I’m going to be locked in my office until then, signing forms.”

Liam guffawed. “Who
said
rank doesn’t have any privileges?”

***

Kaisa woke up late and looked around, uncertain of where she was. Then she remembered. She was at The Randle. By the time they’d arrived last night, it had been midnight, and she’d fallen into bed un-showered, make-up still on. Her skin really needed a holiday.

She pulled herself upright and took in her surroundings slowly. Alik had done them proud. The door of her bedroom was open, and she could see the sitting-room with its glass walls and expensive rugs from where she lay. Stevan’s familiar voice was speaking very quietly so as not to waken her; he must have been up for hours. Just then, he entered from the adjoining room and she called-out to him, dramatically.

“Coffee – urgently.”

She flopped back down, laughing as she realised that she was still wearing her t-shirt and jeans from the day before. She didn’t care, there were no men to seduce her or hog her duvet and she wrapped it around her, curling-up so that only her head was exposed. At least she’d remembered to take her hat off.

Stevan reappeared, holding a large mug of steaming coffee just as she liked it. He put it into the small hand popping out from under the duvet, and sat down at the end of the bed, still talking on his mobile. Eventually he said goodbye, in Russian, and clicked his phone shut. Alik. He only spoke Russian to Alik.