The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (39 page)

The plan was to give Joanne’s bag to the driver and then for Ershov to take her to the airport’s main cafe for coffee, for as long as it took her to talk. They couldn’t let her get into a car with him; the risk of her disappearing was far too great. He might kill her now for implicating him.

The automatic doors opened again, and Craig finally saw the chic middle-aged woman, pictured in the photographs that Annette had sent. Walking behind her at a safe distance were the two plain-clothes-officers, dressed as tourists. They peeled off to sit in the smoker’s area, making moves to light their cigarettes just as Alik Ershov moved forward, with his arms wide-open and a broad smile on his cold, tanned face. He drew Joanne Greer’s face towards him with both hands, for a kiss. Judas.

She smiled at him happily. Yes, he looked older, greyer, maybe a bit softer around the edges, but he was still the man that she had loved fifteen years before. The man she would love again now. Her smile widened and she kissed him properly, full on the lips. It surprised Ershov for a second and he looked into her eyes, confused: she’d changed. She seemed softer somehow, and a moment’s doubt entered his mind. Maybe there was another way. Maybe he could get her out of the airport.

Craig watched Ershov’s resolve crumble in moments while they embraced, and he moved quickly towards the exit doors. He mingled with the emerging travellers and stood just far enough behind Joanne Greer for Ershov to see him clearly. He stood there completely still, as people created a path around him, and stared intensely at the Russian, willing him to look at him. Finally he did. The implication was clear. You and the life you’ve built up, or Joanne Greer. You choose. Right now.

Craig watched the calculations being done and the answer quickly becoming obvious. Ershov was back on track; his self-preservation was much stronger than any love. He started talking gently to Joanne Greer, like a confiding lover, but with an inaudible subtext. Sorry Joanne. Should have got me while I was young and trusting. Too late.

He relieved her of her bag like a gentleman and handed it off to the driver, leading her gently by the arm towards the cafe. “Let’s have a coffee before we start our journey.” She acquiesced, happy to be dominated by him now.

Craig followed at a reasonable distance but he could hear everything through Ershov’s wire. The two smoking officers had stubbed out their cigarettes and were front and following now. Keeping Joanne in their sights at all times, and ready to move as soon as Craig gave the signal.

Joanne was relaxing by the minute. She’d got out of Belfast and he was here to greet her, it was all going beautifully.

“Alik darling, it’s so good to see you. I can’t believe we’re together again.”

“Neither can I, Dushyenka. It must have been a terrible strain for you, you must tell me everything.”

“I’m so sorry I phoned you. It was really stupid of me, but I was at my wits end, the police were all over the house.”

“I know. Don’t worry. I forgive you.” Adding, “you stupid bitch,” silently. Without that phone-call, the police would have had nothing.

They arrived at the cafe, and stopped talking briefly while the waitress led them to a table, taking their order. Then he eased her smoothly back into the conversation, as if the gap had never existed.

“Tell me everything, Joanne. Why such steps? And the full background, I want us to share everything.” Perfect, he’d walked her right into it without implicating himself.

She looked at him, confused for a moment. He already knew everything, so why go over it again? After all, he’d been involved since the start. He saw her doubt immediately and looked at her lovingly, taking her hand. She melted, humouring his need to savour their victory, and over the next ten minutes, Joanne Greer told the story that sealed her fate.

They couldn’t have got any more from her if Craig had written her script. She talked about Horizon and the dummy companies, underlining why first Irene and then Bob Leighton had to die. Then about Watson’s blackmail and her stupid husband finding out and threatening to tell the police. He’d had to go as well. Once she’d started she just kept talking. Ershov had done his bit well; they had the whole thing on tape. All that was left now were the account numbers, and they would come.

Craig was sitting alone at the table nearest the door. Officer one was at the table nearest Ershov, and officer two, the female officer, was seated beside the ladies’ toilets, just in case Joanne tried to escape that way.

Craig had heard enough, and he got ready to move. The arrest had to be Belfast’s; otherwise Joanne Greer would end up in London’s system for months. Rajiv Chandak and Terry Harrison had agreed everything and her arrest warrant had been issued in Northern Ireland. It was sitting in officer one’s top pocket right now.

Craig nodded quickly to the others and they stood up simultaneously, moving towards the table together. He took up position between Ershov and Joanne, and Yemi walked into the cafe to join them. The plan was to arrest them both to keep Ershov’s cover. Ostensibly he was being investigated for fraud, but Yemi would take him back to the office. His oily solicitor was waiting there for the full debrief and release, in the full knowledge that they would be watching him very closely in the future. Joanne would be taken back to Belfast without ever know that it was Ershov who had betrayed her. Neat.

Craig and Yemi stood by the table and Joanne looked up at them as if they were annoying her. She stared at Yemi arrogantly. “Can I help you with something? This is a private conversation.”

“Yes. I think you’ll find that you can both help us, Mrs Greer.”

She froze, her coffee-cup immobile in mid-air. Ershov pretended shock at their presence.

“Mr Ershov will be helping me in a fraud investigation, and I believe you will be helping D.C.I. Craig back in Belfast. Marc, would you like to do the honours.”

Craig reached his hand out to officer one, taking the warrant that he was holding. He opened it and read clearly.

“Mrs Joanne Greer, I have a warrant for your arrest for the murders of Mr Robert Leighton, Member of Parliament and his wife Mrs Irene Leighton. I also have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of the attempted murder of your husband, Mr Declan Greer.” Shock flashed across Joanne’s face and the coffee cup fell out of her hand, slowly breaking into pieces on the floor. A young waitress hovered nearby watching them, uncertain if she should clear it up.

Craig continued. “Please stand Mrs Greer. We will be taking the next plane back to Northern Ireland.”

The two officers moved forward to read her rights and escort her, but Joanne just sat immobile, seeing everything that she had built in life falling apart. Ershov stood up protesting, and reached-out for her, led away shouting, by Yemi. Craig thought that he should get an Oscar.

Joanne Greer was still sitting, staring into space, and Craig could see her mind racing, trying to find an escape. He nodded Yemi good-bye and looked down at her, rigid and silent. He couldn’t feel any sympathy for her. She’d killed two people and had planned to kill more.

Finally, he stepped away and called Annette. “Annette, we’ve got her and we’ll be back on the 16.10. Could you get a Dr to meet us, please? It looks like she’s going to need some help.”

Then they guided her, sleepwalking, to the departure gate. And boarded, returning her to Belfast four hours after she’d left. She stared through the window for the whole one-hour journey, watching the rest of her life disappear.

***

A triumphant Liam and Annette joined them in Belfast, as a doctor accompanied Joanne Greer to High Street station. She would be held there, until some slick lawyer got her out on bail, and tried to unpick the case that they’d worked so hard to make watertight. All part of the game.

By 6pm they’d completed the paperwork and briefly toasted the safe arrival of Liam’s baby son, before he returned to the hospital, promising a bigger celebration next week. Annette had gone home for a well-earned rest and Craig was lying on the settee in his Stranmillis flat, flicking through the channels, but not really seeing the screen. He was wrecked, but it was the tiredness of relief as much as anything. They had their guilty party, and he’d finally ended a chapter in his life.

He and Camille had seen each other again for lunch, this time staying well away from her apartment. It had been easier somehow. They had kept it brief: she had a matinee performance, and he’d invented a meeting, in preparation for the operation at two.

Last night had confirmed it, they still loved each other. Their lovemaking had filled the night and early morning cathartically, breaking down the barriers of five years as it waned, and freeing them to talk.

It helped him that she’d seemed hurt by the way it had ended years before. Not out of revenge, but because somehow it made their time together seem less worthless. She’d left him out of ambition, not because her love had died, but she’d left him just the same. She’d chosen her career, as had he, and nothing would change if they tried again now. They both knew that, and they’d finally made their peace with it.

His life was the police, his parents were aging and he wouldn’t leave them alone. And hers was acting, the theatre, the movies, and for that she needed to be in London and America. If they were both being truthful, they still loved each other, but they each loved other things more.

He was glad that they’d made love one last time. The ghosts of their relationship weren’t laid to rest, but they were less restless now. And quiet enough to free them both to get on with life.

He smiled to himself, remembering her for the first time in five years without pain. He held on to the memory for a moment and then he clicked off the TV and set the alarm for an hour’s time, closing his eyes. He had an important call to make.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Craig ushered her tentatively towards their seats, settling down in the century-old Abbey theatre, warm, although December winds were howling down Lower Abbey Street, freezing Dublin’s fair city. As the lights dimmed and the pre-show ‘phones off’ announcement was made, he stole a secret look at her profile, tracing her pretty nose and pert chin slowly with his eyes.

Her soft green angora jumper contrasted warmly with her titian-red curls, rambling unbound across her shoulders and down her back, making her look like a pre-Raphaelite angel. He wanted to reach forward and touch them, but he held back shyly, still nervous in their fragile peace.

Julia turned towards him as if reading his thoughts, and reached slowly for his hand. She entwined her slim white fingers in his strong tanned ones, resting them between them with a smile, finally understanding his months of delay. But that was over now and there was everything to hope for.

As the lights dimmed she reached across quickly, kissing him impishly on the cheek. He smiled, pleased, as they settled back to watch Owen McCafferty’s new play, ‘Quietly’ and Julia waited excitedly to see her favourite Irish actor, Patrick O’Kane, bring the character of Jimmy to life, in a way that no one else could hope to better.

She wondered how Craig had found the coveted last-night tickets so late, but she didn’t want to ask him, preferring their secrets to emerge naturally, tired of interrogation in her daily life.

She sank down into the warm velvet seat and rested her head on his shoulder, curving her body towards him. And as the opening words flowed over them, they both thought of their first Christmas together, excited and nervous by what might lie ahead. Until eventually all thoughts of Christmas were forgotten as the performance in front of them carried them away, into Jimmy’s world.

***

“Show me the pictures then. Who does he look like?”

“Ach, he’s a fine big boy. Five kilos.”

“Five Kilos! Poor Danni.” Nicky and Annette winced in maternal solidarity, while Liam continued, unheeding.

“He’ll cost us a fortune in clothes. But what do you mean who does he look like? He looks like a baby. Well, mind you. No, he doesn’t actually. At the moment he looks like a squashed tomato; all red, and sort of like this.”

He pulled a face intended to look like a squashed fruit, and Craig laughed.

Annette hit his arm in mock-outrage. “That’s your son you’re talking about. Don’t you let Danni hear you say that.”

“She threw me out! Says I’m getting in the way and her Mother will help. So much for paternity leave.”

“You can take it when he’s sixteen, and play football with him.”

“Or teach him how to chase girls...”

“Liam!”

“I’m only joking.”

“No, you aren’t. That’s the problem. Have you picked a name yet?”

“I like Danny, but the wife says that would cause chaos. So at the moment he’s called Bruiser.”

Craig and Davy laughed, and Annette sighed despairingly. “He must have a real name, Liam. You can’t call him Bruiser for life.”

Craig looked at Liam wryly. “Oh yes, he could. If Danni would let him.”

“We’ve all sorts of names in the hat at the moment. I’m running a book on the top five. Fancy a bet, Davy? The leader at the moment is Rory, mind you, I like Micky myself.”

Annette raised her eyes to heaven, looking for support from Nicky. But they all sided with Liam and made their bets, even Nicky agreeing that all babies looked like squashed fruit for a few weeks. So much for maternal instinct.