The History Suite (#9 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (9 page)

Craig nodded; he’d thought it might happen. “That’s a last resort. See what you can get without it.”

“OK. Then basically there’s nothing so far.” Craig’s face fell. “I’ve viewed the tapes from W…Wednesday morning through to when you entered the E.M.U. yesterday afternoon. All there is to s…see is people going about their work. I tracked Eleanor Rudd’s movements and the last sighting of her was when she headed towards the linen room area at around ten o’clock on Thursday morning.”

“Where was Rudd going, Davy? It can’t have been to the linen room if Hannah Donard was sent there an hour later.”

Davy nodded, knocking his long hair across his face. He pushed it behind one ear and continued. “The clinical room. S…Sister Norton had sent Rudd there to check the inventory.”

Craig sighed. “So no-one noticed when Rudd disappeared for an hour – inventory can take all day.” He continued briskly. “OK, so Rudd was sent to the clinical room at ten and found dead in the linen room at eleven. That fits with John’s findings of her being dead less than an hour when she was found.” He turned back to Davy. “This may be a process of elimination, Davy, but I need you to track everyone on the unit’s movements and see who else was unaccounted for at those times, OK?”

He waved him on.

“OK. The victim, Eleanor Rudd. Twenty-five-years old, lived with her parents and brother off the Newtownards Road in Belfast. S…She got her nursing degree in 2010 and rotated through wards until she joined the unit last year. Her finances w…were unremarkable, just what you’d expect. No obvious vices, no convictions for anything, not even a parking ticket in her name.”

Annette snorted. “She probably couldn’t afford one, the price they are nowadays.”

Liam jumped in quickly. “Which means you’ve had one recently, Madam. Naughty naughty.”

Craig ignored them and moved Davy on.

“Rudd had never been married, no children and no hospital attendances on record, but I’m checking that with the GP now.” He shook his head. “All she seemed to do outside work was eat and s…sleep.”

Jake gave him a rueful look. “Sounds like most of us.”

Craig cut in. “Rudd’s completely clean? No obvious motive for murder?” He was sceptical. In his experience people usually got murdered for something they’d done or knew.

Davy shrugged. “I’m getting her computer and phone dump tomorrow s…so I can tell you more then. Maybe she had an on-line gambling habit and owed money to the mob.”

Liam guffawed. “I don’t think the Granny Bingo Sites are run by them.”

A laugh rippled round the group and was followed by some chat while Craig thought. So far they had an apparently innocent victim. No, Eleanor Rudd hadn’t been universally loved by her colleagues, but then who was? And was the dislike really enough to cause her murder? Craig checked himself. He should know better than to ask that question when people were killed for something as petty as a mobile phone. OK, so Rudd hadn’t been universally popular and perhaps she’d been in a relationship with Adrian Cooke. Tim Taylor as well? Was this really just a romantic triangle gone wrong?

His next question surprised everyone but Ken. “Is Adrian Cooke married, Davy?”

He went to say “I don’t know” then he loped across to his computer instead. A few taps later he shook his head.

“W…Why? Is it important?”

Craig nodded. “It might be; I’ll tell you in a minute. Do you have anything else for us?”

Davy shook his head. “I’ve background checks running on every s…staff member but they’ll take a while to come through. I’ll map people’s movements that morning as well.” He frowned slightly. “Checking out everyone on the research suite might be a stretch, chief. Do you w…want me to go ahead?

“Yes. The whole unit; Newman and Reilly wards. We’ll get warrants if necessary.”

Craig scanned the group for any other contributions then he nodded Ken to report on their meeting with Tim Taylor. Ken’s English accent echoed through the room, making Nicky smile. She loved his voice and a quick glance told her that Carmen did too; now she just had to love the rest of him.

“Superintendent Craig and I went to the university to meet with Professor Taylor, who was, to put it mildly, odd. He seemed far less interested in his patients’ welfare than in his own pursuit of youth and it looks like he set up the research suite to find ways to stay young.”

Craig smiled at the truism.

“Apart from being a middle-aged man with a much younger wife and an obsession with youth, Taylor came across as arrogant and unpleasant. But I don’t think he killed Eleanor Rudd, if anything he seemed shocked when he heard about her death.” He turned to Craig. “Actually, that’s a thing, sir. Why wasn’t Taylor called down when they found the body? Especially if Hamilton, his deputy, was away on leave – although Taylor didn’t seem to know that either. In fact, he doesn’t seem to know much about what’s going on in his unit.”

Craig nodded. It was a good point. Why hadn’t someone told Taylor that it was Eleanor Rudd who was dead? Ken carried on.

“Then we met with Dr Winter and he confirmed Taylor’s self-absorption.” He gave Craig a puzzled look before he made the next comment. “The Super asked Dr Winter if whoever had strangled our victim had been wearing a ring.”

He handed back to Craig who smiled.

“The killer wasn’t wearing any rings. There would have been a mark on Eleanor Rudd’s neck if they had been.”

Davy cut in. “That’s why you wanted to know if Adrian Cooke was married.”

“Yes. Taylor is and unfortunately he wears a ring to prove it.”

Liam was the next to interrupt. “Taylor could have removed it before he strangled her.”

“He could have, but his reaction when he heard it was Rudd who’d died makes me believe not. The ring was just a grope in the dark.”

Annette shook her head. “Not true, sir. If whoever strangled Ellie Rudd didn’t wear any rings, that’s something. Yes, they could have removed them before they killed her, but how likely is that in the heat of the moment, and why bother if they were wearing gloves?”

Craig shrugged. “That’s supposing Rudd
was
killed in the heat of the moment, Annette. Someone could have been waiting for her for hours. That’s what makes Davy’s movement-mapping essential. We need to rule people in or out of that linen room area between nine and eleven o’clock.”

He nodded at Ken to continue but his face was blank. “I don’t think there’s anything else, sir. Except that we’re awaiting the victim’s tox-screen from the lab.”

Craig straightened up briskly. “OK. Davy, you know what to do. Carmen, you know your way around computers, can you help Davy with the checks? Jake and Liam, go back to the unit tomorrow and see how quickly you can get through the rest of the interviews, Ken and Joe can help.”

Annette gave a little wave. “What can I do?”

Craig made a face. “You’re coming with me to see Eleanor Rudd’s grieving family.”

Chapter Four

Holywood, County Down. 10 p.m.

Craig pushed a strand of spaghetti around his plate until it finally split in two. He selected another, repeating the routine while he thought about the case. A metal spoon rapped his hand, brutally interrupting his ruminations; Mirella Craig hadn’t spent hours bent over a steaming pot of pasta for her son to play with it! In fact she hadn’t spent hours bent over anything, it had only taken her thirty minutes to prepare dinner, but that wasn’t the point.

As Craig yelled “Ow!” she swooped in and grabbed his plate, depositing its contents in the bin.

“I was eating that!”

Mirella faced her first born with her hands on her ample hips and began to berate him in a half-Italian, half-English stream. The English part said.

“You play with food, no eat it. You must no like.”

The Italian half was less polite but Craig could see both of them about to bring on tears. His mother was a volatile Roman Italian, made even more volatile by her creative musician side. She might have retired from being a concert pianist, but her artistic temperament definitely hadn’t been put out to grass.

He rose and gave her a hug, under the amused gazes of his laid-back father and sister, who were both about to laugh. He shot them a warning look and mollified his mother by taking a fresh plate of food. As Craig tucked in Mirella squinted suspiciously at him.

“So! It wasn’t that you no like food. You think of murder! At my table you think of murder!”

She swung towards her husband looking for support, but Tom Craig was gazing eagerly at his son.

“What’s the case, son? Is it the one at the hospital?”

Craig was puzzled. “How did you hear about it?”

Craig Senior waved towards the TV. “It was on the News.”

Craig sighed heavily. Great, the media had got hold of it, now they’d be crawling all over the E.M.U. He was inventing threats for any of his team who leaked things to the press when he realised he had no control over the ward staff. He sighed again and asked his father what the report had said.

“Just that someone had been found dead under suspicious circumstances.”

Suspicious circumstances; the magic words. A death at a hospital wouldn’t have attracted attention otherwise. Craig was about to say something about the case when both men became aware of Mirella’s proximity and her hands again placed threateningly on her hips. Father and son clammed up as Lucia marvelled at the power of her mother’s ire and made a note to emulate it when she had kids. Craig shot his father a look that said ‘I’ll tell you later’, then, like the good son he was, he returned to the Friday night family meal.

***

Saturday, 11
^th
October 10 a.m.

Craig had waived the standard eight o’clock briefing in favour of one at twelve; there was too much legwork still to be done. He and Annette were on their way to see Eleanor Rudd’s parents and the others knew their tasks. As he pulled his soon-to-be retired Audi into the narrow street off the Newtownards Road his heart sank. Outside their destination sat a row of cars, far more than would feasibly belong in the small cul-de-sac. Craig’s heart sank further as he recognised one of the drivers; Ray Mercer, The Belfast Chronicle’s scummiest reporter and its most highly paid. Mercer didn’t earn the big bucks for erudite prose; he earned it by writing sensationalist crap. Crap that sold tabloids.

Craig and Annette glanced at each other then they opened the car doors simultaneously, swallowing the words they wanted to say to Mercer and replacing them with expressionless professional masks. Craig went first to break through the crowd, with Annette following in the path he cleared. At the front door of the house stood their nemesis; Raymond James Mercer, a wizened, bitter weasel of a man, made even more bitter by his impending divorce. He was thin, dark and angular, with a nose that could have opened cans. His harsh looks served him well, scaring eager cub reporters out of his way, but his motivation had nothing to do with reaching the truth or even getting the best story; whatever interviewees said Mercer wrote whatever he liked. His God was money and the Chronicle’s was the same. It was the perfect match.

Mercer smirked at Craig then flicked his eyes down Annette’s body in a judgemental, chauvinistic arc. Craig willed her not to react, knowing that ten other reporters stood ready to take a snapshot if she did. He spoke before anyone else could.

“Move aside, Mr Mercer.”

Mercer drew himself up to his full five-feet-eight and sneered up at Craig.

“Or what, Craig? You’ll threaten me again?”

Their last encounter had been at a particularly gory murder scene, where Craig had intervened to stop Mercer rattling Liam’s cage so hard that Liam picked Mercer up and rattled him. To be strictly accurate he hadn’t actually threatened the reporter, merely informed him that there were quite a few criminals who would like his home address.

Craig ignored the taunt and reached above Mercer’s head for the door knocker. When Mercer saw he was getting no reaction he turned to Annette and prepared to insult her in his customary way. Annette raised a hand to stop him.

“If you’re going to call me ‘frumpy cop’ again, save it, Mr Mercer. Sticks and stones.”

Mercer licked his lips lecherously. Craig was about to intervene when a glance from Annette said that she had it under control.

“I was just going to say you’re looking well, Inspector. Lost weight?” What he said next shocked Annette to the core. “Maybe you’re in love?”

She stared into the journalist’s tiny eyes, searching for the meaning of his words. Did he know about her affair? Was he about to expose her in the press? But she saw nothing there except Mercer pissing in the dark to see what he hit. She followed Craig through the opening front door, but not before both men had seen her flinch.

The door opened inwards to reveal a small woman standing in a short, narrow hall. She was around fifty, with the stunned look Craig had seen on relatives’ faces many times before. It began as shock from losing a loved one in a premature and evil way then morphed into a daze from the questions and procedure, press enquiries and neighbours’ inquisitive looks. The paraphernalia of murder left people lost and exhausted sometimes for years, and the woman in front of them bore its stamp, along with the half-dried tears of a mother who’d just lost her child.