The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (24 page)

“You have done well Stevan, very well. The police are chasing their tails just as we’d hoped, and soon the confusion will grow even more.” Stevan shot him a questioning look but Alik ignored it, continuing. “The client is very pleased.”

Stevan could hear the ‘but’ coming. “But ...?”

Alik laughed. “Quick as usual, boy. Yes, there is a ‘but’. You are not finished yet, you go back tonight.”

“But we removed the problem and blackmailed the other. Was that not the plan?”

“Of course, of course. The M.P. caused trouble financially and the other was blocking progress on a project. But my friend is also interested in running trade to the North of Ireland; girls and drugs mainly. And now that they have no conflict it is too peaceful over there. The police have too much time to catch criminals; it is bad for business. They needed some false political unrest created. That is why I chose Stormont and the M.P’s wife to kill. Turn one side against the other and create fear. Make them believe that there is still much terrorism, when there is very little. It provides cover, a distraction. You understand.”

He laughed sarcastically and Stevan nodded. Terrorism provided a smokescreen for ordinary crime; he knew that well enough from his past. He also knew that his next question would be greeted with anger, but he asked it anyway, in a cold voice.

“Is that why we had to mark the wife and mother? To create fear?”

Alik’s blue eyes narrowed sharply and he leaned forward, growling. “That is not for you to ask, boy. Be careful.” He looked at Stevan angrily and then smiled coldly, resting back in his leather chair. “But…I will answer your question because it pleases me to.” He drank the shot of vodka in one swallow and poured himself another one before starting.

“The Vory v Zakone is my religion and my father’s before me. It will not be dishonoured, especially not by a Petukhi, an insect. Robert Leighton was such an insect, a man who took money for doing nothing and then stole more of mine to feed his habit. He was warned many times, yet still he continued. But he might still have been useful, so we needed to make him afraid. The death of his wife was for that.”

He shrugged. “The location and markings were to make people believe that terrorism might be the cause. That the Vor worked with local terrorists to kill her. Also my little indulgence if you like, to mark her as my territory. This I can do. You understand?”

Stevan understood, and it made him despise the man in front of him. He stored the feeling away for the future and nodded, returning to the job ahead.

“Who is the target?”

Alik smiled like an amiable uncle “Patience boy, I will get to that. The young are so impatient. Be careful, it breeds mistakes. If I hadn’t been so hasty I would never have married my wives. In the old code it was not allowed.” He laughed loudly at his own joke and even Stevan smiled at the thought.

“But then you wouldn’t have your children.”

Alik reached over and slapped his arm hard. “You’re right, you’re right. No action is 100% wasted.”

He fell silent and reached forward into a drawer, lifting out a small black box. It contained a delicate mesh of platinum laced with thirty diamonds, each at least half a carat. Stevan swallowed hard. It was amazing, and worth at least a million.

“For Alexa’s birthday. You think she will like it?”

Stevan laughed at the thought of any sixteen-year-old girl not liking it. “It’s stunning, but she’ll need a body-guard to wear it.”

Alik smiled, pleased by his reaction.

“To business then. The client has another problem. Her husband, who is her business partner, is not happy about the death of Robert Leighton. He knows nothing of her part in the wife’s death, but she foolishly told him of the M.P. Now it seems that he has trouble with his conscience and means to talk to the police. Conscience is such a burden to some people.”

Stevan was shocked, surprised that the client was a woman, although why should he be? Kaisa was proof of how lethal women could be; but her murders came from trauma, not from money. But the honesty of their client’s husband was unexpected and it pleased him somehow. Alik read his mind, but not completely.

“I see what you are thinking, and you are right of course. But only she was the client, the husband knew nothing. And even worse than telling the police, he is trying to alienate her from her daughters.”

An angry darkness crossed his face at the idea. “That, I cannot allow. This client and I have knowledge of each other for many years. She helped me many times as my barrister and...she was someone to me.”

Stevan understood. Every man had a woman who was special to him. He had yet to meet his.

“So you see, we need a quick remedy for this husband. Can you do this, Stevan? I know that you are tired and just returned, but this is two days work at most.”

Stevan nodded slowly. “Of course, I will. But not Kaisa please. She’s tired and must rest.”

Alik smiled avuncularly. “Agreed. Not Kaisa. She stays in London.”

He reached into the drawer again and pulled out a white padded-envelope. Stevan knew exactly what it would contain. False I.D, tickets, a burn phone, money and a legend. He opened it to see who he would be this time, and where he would get his weapon. He couldn’t return to the gun they’d left at the airport. The police would find it eventually, but without a single print.

He read quietly for a minute. He was to be a Nordic businessman on a trip, arriving in Belfast for an imaginary meeting. He would stay in a hotel this time, ‘The Lagan Warehouse’ - not too high, not too low. He was to meet a man in the bar, exchanging money for information - the key to an unmarked weapon and the wherewithal to destroy it. So many guns still at liberty in that conflict-weathered country. But it would be only two more days and one more death. Then rest, and never again.

They talked on about the target, about life, about the birthday girl. Then Stevan waved good-bye and climbed into the car, for the journey back to his shortened evening with Kaisa. An early dinner and then she would have to amuse herself. He had a plane to catch at eight o’clock. She would fret about him, but they both knew the life. The more work, the more money, and the more money the sooner they would leave it behind forever.

***

Joe Watson was either a bloody good actor or he really had no idea that Bob Leighton was dead. And he was like no politician that Craig had ever met. There was none of the usual arrogance and bluster, or apparent belief in his own infallibility. The man in front of him sagged like a deflated balloon.

Joe slumped in his chair, observing the scene in an ‘out of body’ way. This had to be happening to someone else. Three hours ago, he’d been at work in Stormont and now he was being interrogated about murder. He remembered the Chinese curse, ‘May you live in interesting times’ and smiled. His life was certainly that.

Craig clicked on the tape-machine and relaxed back in his seat, mimicking the other man’s posture. He stared hard across the table, trying to work him out. There was something exhausted about him; but not physical tiredness, more a sense of futility with the world.

“Mr Watson. Do you know why you’re here?”

Watson looked at him blankly, either not hearing him or not caring what he’d said. Craig repeated himself more firmly, and was rewarded with a nod.

“It’s something to do with Irene.”

“Yes, it is. Did you know Mrs Leighton well?”

His eyes immediately said yes, and Craig wondered if his mouth would do the same. It did.

“I knew her very well.”

Then unprompted, Joe Watson gave them enough information to close a gap in their case.

***

Ross Ellis was a medium bloke in every way. Medium height, medium weight and medium-brown colouring. In fact, the only things that stood out about him were his overly large feet, which were size thirteen. He joked that some six-foot-five man was running around with his size nines, and he wanted them back.

Pretty much everybody liked him, except his ex-wife, and that was only because he had asked his lads to tail her on the ‘front and follow’ to catch her with her boyfriend, hence the divorce proceedings. Davy didn’t know what he’d expected a Chief Inspector in counter-terrorism to look like, but it was definitely more James Bond than Ricky Gervais.

Ellis was hunched down behind his desk when they arrived at his glass-doored office, so Davy knocked tentatively and waited, Craig letting him take the lead. He knocked deliberately lightly so as not to anger the room’s occupant. Davy had a healthy respect for the cloak and dagger boys and you never knew what spooks would do if they were angered.

Ellis looked up and they suddenly saw why he’d been hunching. One hand was covering a half-smoked cigarette, in a ‘smoking forbidden’ force. He laughed and waved them in, grinning at the younger man’s floppy hair and black nails.

“Hi, Marc. Come on in, son. I don’t bite.”

He stubbed the cigarette out slowly in a cup as he talked; walking to the wall sink to rinse it. Then he lifted a can of air-freshener from his desk drawer and sprayed it around liberally to mask the smell.

“Are you Murder’s new analyst?”

Davy nodded, half-smiling. He liked this man already for his rule-breaking, convinced that people needed the occasional rebellion. Ellis was still talking, quickly and with a vague north-coast twang.

“You lot on the tenth put us all to shame, with your fashion sense. What with Craig and his London suits, and you with your Goth chic. I tell you, when the force makes a ‘boys of the police’ calendar for charity, there you’ll be, Mr June and July. Posing with your Armani jackets strategically draped over your designer bits.”

He laughed loudly at his own joke and Craig and Davy laughed along. When the laughing finally stopped, Davy spoke.

“Emo.”

“Emo?”

“I’m an Emo, not a Goth, just for accuracy.”

“Ooh, that’s me told.” He smiled and waved them to two chairs. “Right then, Emu. What can I do for you?”

Craig made the introductions and then excused himself, leaving Davy to fill Ellis in on the bullet, the gun, the Vors and Liam’s earlier conversation with Geoff Hamill. Ellis’ eyes widened as Davy first picked his brains and then buried him in information, leaving him with a huge headache that would get bigger very soon.

***

Caitlin Watson was a slim, glossy dark-blonde who looked just like the Miss Northern Ireland that she’d once been. She’d been married to Joe for fifteen years and they’d each brought children from their previous lives, to form the perfect modern family. So perfect in fact that Annette remembered them being photographed ‘en famille’ in the glossy pages of the Ulster Bazaar. ‘Here is my lovely over-styled wife, reclining on our over-styled bed, in our incredibly over-styled and expensive bedroom.’

Craig had tasked Annette with interviewing her about the Leighton’s, without alerting her to the fact that Bob Leighton was dead. Or that her husband Joe was helping them with their enquiries into Irene Leighton’s death. When she’d complained about the impossible task, Craig had said that he had ‘every faith’ in her powers of diplomacy. She only wished that she had.

Caitlin had opened the door smiling five minutes before, and now she was pouring coffee from an exquisite porcelain pot into minuscule matching cups. As she poured, Annette looked around the modern room admiringly. Whoever had chosen the colour scheme had matched it perfectly to Caitlin’s own and the effect was striking.

She took the proffered cup tentatively, smiling at its size. Even Liam’s little finger wouldn’t have fitted through the handle. She balanced it on her knee with her left hand and opened her notebook with her right, turning to the purpose of her visit.

“If you could just tell me anything that you know about the Leightons generally, Mrs Watson. Did you socialise with them? Or did your husband ever talk about them, for instance?”

Caitlin Watson stared into space, recalling. Then she spoke, in a strangely still voice, so monochromatic and quiet that Annette strained to hear.

“We didn’t socialise with them, but I met them both at functions, of course.”

“Government functions?”

She nodded. “Yes. But others too. Irene was involved in lots of charities. She was always throwing fund-raisers. She was a very nice woman.”

“Did you know her well?”

“No.” She looked down at her perfectly manicured nails, sadly. “I don’t mean it unkindly, but she wasn’t into fashion really, and most of my friends are. But I liked her very much, everyone did.”

Her expression changed to one of disgust. “Which is more than I can say for her husband.” She shuddered slightly. “A nasty man. Joe doesn’t like him much either, I can tell you that.”

Annette leaned forward and placed her cup on the too-low coffee table between them, trying not to ask her next question too eagerly. “Do you know why your husband dislikes him?”

“I think loathes him would be a better word, sergeant. Joe loathes him. He’s lazy, hardly does any work in his constituency, and Joe says that he’s crooked.”

Annette was writing furiously in her small notebook and looked up sharply at her last word, echoing it. “Crooked?”

“Yes. I’m not sure of the details but Joe says he fiddles everything, even his expenses. The man’s loaded and he fiddles his expenses. And his father was honest to a fault.”