The Slowest Cut (29 page)

“What do you want, Tate? Haven’t you got a house to design or something?” Carragher laughed at his own weak joke and Tate relaxed, certain that he didn’t suspect a thing. His arrest had been so low-key it had slipped under Ryan’s radar.

“I want to talk business. Can we meet?”

Carragher’s voice took on a suspicious edge. “What for? What do we have to discuss?”

Tate held his nerve. “Party business. I know you specialise and I’d like to broaden my interests.”

There was silence on the line for a moment and Tate bit his lip. Had his tone been too cocky? After all, someone about to try out paedophilia for the first time might not be so cavalier. He held his breath and Hughes and his team held theirs, then, after a pause that felt deliberate, Ryan Carragher spoke again.

“You like your party games modern, I remember that. How modern are you looking to go? 2000? 2010?”

Tate looked wildly at Hughes. It was a question that they hadn’t prepared for! Carragher was using euphemisms to describe the children he could offer, that much he understood. Their ages were being described by the year when they were born. But what should his answer be?

Hughes thought frantically for a moment and then scribbled a number down and held it close to Tate’s face. ‘2002’. Eleven or twelve; Aurelie’s age. Any younger would be too big a change from Tate’s normal choice.

Tate nodded and spoke again. “No earlier than 2002.”

“Pink or blue?” Boys or girls. Hughes wanted to throw up. This was bad, even for him.

“Pink. It’s my favourite colour.”

The line went silent for so long that Hughes would have thought the call had been cut if he hadn’t been watching the technician’s screen. After a full minute’s silence Ryan Carragher spoke again.

“I remember now, you always did like pink, but more of the ’95, ’96 variety. Why the sudden change?”

Tate was prepared for the question and trotted out the answer written on the sheet.

“It’s not sudden. I’ve been playing those games at home for years.”

Carragher laughed, remembering that Tate had children. “Coming out of the closet are we? I wondered about that a few months back.”

Tate scowled at the handset. Carragher was implying that he’d thought he was a paedophile for months. Tate opened his mouth to say ‘fuck off’ and Aidan Hughes shook a fist at him threateningly. His message was clear. ’Don’t blow this’. The subtext said ‘if you do, you’re going to prison for years.’

Tate bit his tongue and laughed in return. “The closet’s too small now.”

Ryan Carragher paused and the men listening could almost hear his thoughts. He knew Edgar Tate; he’d seen him around the party circuit for years. Tate had never shown an overt interest in children, but he had always gone for the youngest hooker in the room, and some of them had looked barely legal. Young girls might well be Tate’s thing. He wasn’t ready to believe Tate just yet but a meeting couldn’t hurt.

“OK. Let’s meet. We can discuss party plans. I’ll text you with the where and when.”

The line went dead suddenly and Tate stared at the phone. No one spoke until the technician gave the thumbs up and disconnected the line, then Aidan Hughes let out a whoop and punched the air. They had their meeting! He turned to Tate and nodded grudgingly. Thanking a criminal for lying to another to save his ass seemed wrong; so a nod was as far as it went.

Edgar Tate smiled thoughtfully and Hughes squinted at him. He’d been a bit too smooth on the phone. He’d better just have been acting. The last thing he needed was another paedophile on his patch.

***

OX Restaurant. Oxford Street, Belfast. 1 p.m.

Craig beckoned the waitress over, ordered Annette another coffee and asked for the bill. The two of them were the murder team now and the office was buzzing with talk of the sting, so Craig had thought a change of scenery might clear their heads. He glanced out the window at the metal statue across the street; it was a statuesque woman holding a globe aloft. Officially it was known as ‘The Statue of Harmony’, a symbol of peace, but some wit had christened it ‘The Doll with the Ball’ years before, and it had stuck.

They were in OX, the new restaurant close to the law courts that John had introduced him to. The food was excellent and the setting great, but if he’d thrown a stone it would have hit a lawyer on the head. Annette smiled, reading Craig’s mind and thanking heavens no bricks were available.

“It’s a lovely restaurant, sir. Thanks for suggesting lunch.” She grimaced. “The office discussions were becoming a bit too Vice-like for me.”

Craig nodded and sipped his espresso. “That’s why I wanted us to come here. Sorry about being overrun by Vice, but I wanted to keep a grip on the sting. I could have let them set up downstairs but then there would have been a delay in getting reports. And three out of four of you are working on it, so the squad seemed like the place to be.”

Annette finished her coffee and Craig paid the bill then they stepped out into the winter sunshine and turned towards the Obel building, strolling slowly back along the river towards the squad.

“OK, now what do we have on the murders? Four bodies, Eileen and Ian Carragher, Alan Rooney and Gerry Warner. All tortured using the Ling Chi method then killed by having their throats cut. What else?”

“Well, they added acid to Ian Carragher’s killing, to make it more painful.”

“Yes, because?”

“They hated him more because he failed in his duty to protect his child.”

Craig raked his hair thoughtfully. “OK. Initially Ian Carragher had been a good father and Jonathan had a nanny he loved, Tian Liu. Carragher had met Eileen Burns at Marcheson’s School before he was widowed, but her negative influence only started after his first wife, Marianne, died of cancer. Then they started the abuse that continued until 2004 when Marcheson’s closed.”

Annette cut in. “Hence the symbolism of leaving the bodies at a school.”

“Yes, that’s clear enough. They met at a school and started their abuse there. In the basement boiler-room, which is where Des says they’re finding bodies now.”

Craig stopped walking suddenly and stared at the river, letting it wash over his thoughts. Annette watched him in silence. Water seemed to give him some sort of peace; she noticed it anytime they were nearby. After a moment Craig smiled and they strolled on.

“OK. Let’s say that Eileen was the dominant, but they were worse together than they would ever have been apart. A kind of Folie à deux or shared psychoses.”

“Like Myra Hindley and Ian Brady.”

“Or Rosemary and Fred West… OK...When Gerry Warner came to teach at the school the environment grew even more ripe for abuse. The Carraghers had bought the house in Newcastle when they got married in ’95 and they continued the abuse down there when Marcheson’s closed in 2004.

“Where did Rooney come into it?”

Craig searched for an answer for a moment. “His age suggests that he was a pupil at Marcheson’s. Ask Davy to check. That would have made him a victim, but even if he started as a victim he must have become an abuser or he wouldn’t have been murdered.”

It was Annette’s turn to stop walking. She stared up at Craig and shook her head. “No, sir. Rooney was only twenty-six years old. Even if he did abuse Jonathan Carragher or the girl when he was young, it would have been as Warner’s victim, and they’d have known that. They wouldn’t have blamed another child, so why did they target him when he grew up? And how would they even have recognised him?”

Craig’s eyes widened. “Annette, you’re a genius! You’re absolutely right. There’s only one reason they’d have killed Alan Rooney; if they knew he was still an abuser now. That can only mean one thing; they know about Newcastle!”

A look of confusion covered Annette’s face. “What? But, of course Jonathan Carragher knew about Newcastle, it was where he lived with his parents after the school closed.”

Craig shook his head. “Remember he went away to school at thirteen, but it’s not only that. Jonathan Carragher must have known Newcastle was being used to abuse children and he must have seen Rooney there abusing, as an adult.”

Annette nodded slowly. “So you’re saying that they killed Rooney, not for what he did to either of them, but for what they knew he was still doing in Newcastle. They wanted to stop it to help the other kids?”

“Probably, and to exorcise their own ghosts.”

“But, doesn’t that mean they must know Ryan Carragher is involved? He was bringing the children to Newcastle to be abused and killed.”

Craig furrowed his brow for a moment then his expression changed to a smile.

“What? You’ve just thought of something, sir. What is it?”

“OK, if Jonathan knew Ryan was involved, then we can assume that Ryan would be next in line to be murdered. Right?”

“Right.”

“But then he wouldn’t be talking to him on the phone about his parents’ funerals. What if Jonathan just sees Ryan as his big brother who was away at college and didn’t know that he was being abused at Marcheson’s?”

“So he thinks Ryan’s completely innocent?”

“It’s very possible, if Ryan stayed well behind the scenes until Jonathan went away to University. And what’s more, if Jonathan sees Ryan as his only living family he may even turn to him for help escaping.”

It was exactly what Annette would do in their situation. “Will he? Help him, I mean?”

Craig shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. On one hand Jonathan killed their parents and the fall-out has ruined Ryan’s set-up in Newcastle. On the other, he’s got rid of Ryan’s competition; his parents, Warner and Rooney. Now Ryan has everything to himself. If Jonathan leaves the country and keeps his head down, Ryan will inherit everything and he can keep running his paedophile ring in luxury. It’s a hard one to call, but my money’s on Ryan either helping them escape or killing them both. He won’t want Jonathan caught, that’s for sure. If he is then there’s every chance Jonathan will unwittingly incriminate him. But the real question isn’t will Ryan help them escape, but will Jonathan and the girl find out that Ryan was involved in Newcastle and kill him?”

Annette summarised the options in one line. “That depends on whether we expose Ryan as a paedophile and his brother finds out.”

***

Jonathan wrapped Mai in his arms and they lay down to watch TV, trying to distract themselves from reality with mindless pap. Or rather, he was trying to distract Mai. To give her restless brain a break and stop her thinking about the past. He didn’t hold out much hope of it working and even if it did, what then? Fill her every waking hour with trivia? Even if that was possible, not thinking didn’t mean that she couldn’t feel.

Jonathan reached for the remote and muted the sound, watching the flickering images race across the screen. Mai turned towards him quizzically, knowing that he had something to say. She was totally unprepared for what it was.

“We have to leave, Mai.”

“The house?”

“The continent.”

“For where? There’s nowhere they won’t find us nowadays.”

Jonathan shook his head. “Venezuela. Even if they find us there, they can’t bring us back.”

Mai smiled into his eyes then traced his full lips with her own, whispering softly as she did. “And then what? Peace? There is none, pet. Not for us.”

Jonathan held her at arm’s length and shook his head. “There is. There will be. It’s all arranged, we leave in two days’ time and when we arrive I’m going to get you help. Doctors, therapists, whatever it takes.”

He stopped abruptly, willing her to say yes, while Mai willed herself not to say no. She gazed into his eyes and felt his love for her. She had to go with him. Not because she believed in peace; she didn’t. And not because she thought that she should. But because she loved that Jonathan loved her enough to try, and because she loved him so much.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Castle Court Shopping Centre, Belfast.

Wednesday p.m.

Ryan Carragher was always suspicious. It’s what had kept him safe for so long. So it was natural that he’d insisted on meeting Edgar Tate in a public place. Two men having a coffee in Belfast’s Castle Court shopping-centre; well-known, bright and full of high-street shops and fast food joints. What could be more normal? It was an event so innocuous that none of the mid-week shoppers would ever have guessed what the two men’s discussion was really about; bartering children’s lives for adult pleasure.

This wasn’t some sleazy nightclub, wallpapered with bodies and lit with pulsing strobes, and they weren’t lurking in a rain-soaked alley on a Friday night. That’s where people believed such exchanges took place. Not here, near normal people, surrounded by fluorescent lighting and well-stocked stores. A shopping centre was bright and in the open, a place full of lively chatter, teenagers looking cool and worn-out mums exchanging their woes.

Meeting for coffee there was also a scenario that any half-decent barrister would find easy to defend, and anyone out to incriminate Ryan Carragher would find almost impossible to use. Liam smiled down from the security room above the mall and then scanned the bank of camera screens. Almost impossible, but not quite. Not when one half of the coffee-drinking duo would be wearing a wire.

Edgar Tate walked slowly through the centre’s ground floor, released from a white van outside in Berry Street. He rubbed at his shirt collar, desperate to pull out the wire inside that was making him itch. But his future promised prison if he gave himself away, so Tate did exactly as he’d been told. He glanced around him like a normal shopper, but not too much; he was still the male of the species after all. Shopping should be treated like a hunting trip; know what you want and head straight for your prey. He would leave the window shopping to the fairer sex.

Liam watched Tate’s progress, nodding approvingly. He was sticking to the plan. Not too fast and not too slow. If Ryan Carragher was watching him from somewhere he’d see nothing amiss. Liam tapped his microphone once and Jake picked up.

“Tate’s reached the stairs and he’s climbing them now. How’s the reception?”

Jake had forgotten that surveillance vans were so small. He shifted around in the limited space, trying to get comfortable and banging his elbow on Davy’s knee. Once all the equipment and people were inside, there was hardly room to swing the proverbial. He couldn’t bring himself to think ‘cat’, remembering his tabby Caspian at home. He would be sunning himself in the conservatory about now, while Aaron worked away at the drawings his job as an engineer required. Jake shifted again and wished that he was there. A loud booming in his ear reminded him that he wasn’t.

“Well, lad? The reception?”

Jake made a face and answered, reassuring Liam that it was fine. He could hear the changing echoes as Tate climbed up the stairs and knew exactly when he’d reached the top.

“He’s outside the food court now.”

Liam squinted at the handset, wondering how the hell Jake knew. He shrugged. He didn’t understand machines and he didn’t care how they worked, as long as they did as they were told. Jake signed off and Liam tapped the microphone twice. Aidan Hughes’ Belfast tones came on the line.

“Get off the bloody line, Cullen. We need to keep it clear.”

Liam huffed. “I was only checking.”

“Well now you know. Take a hike.”

The line cut out abruptly and Liam mouthed an obscenity. He’d get Aidan later for that. He was plotting his revenge when Ryan Carragher suddenly appeared on a screen, walking along the lower floor of the mall. He was meandering slowly, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. If things went to play he’d soon have more of them than he could handle.

The men headed towards their agreed rendezvous, in a noisy café on the first floor. Carragher had chosen well, almost as if he’d anticipated a trap. If Tate was being watched, the background noise of a café would put paid to their words being overheard. Carragher would have been right, if they’d only been using directional mikes. That was the problem with criminals; most of them were thick, but their arrogance invariably made them believe that they were smarter than everyone else. Carragher’s arrogance hadn’t allowed for the fact the police had joined the twenty-first century as well.

Carragher spotted Tate and indicated a seat, waiting until they’d placed their order before covering his second base.

“Raise your arms.”

Tate didn’t argue. He’d been expecting it. He endured Carragher’s pat-down, masked as a lengthy man-hug, while Liam stared at the screen and smiled. It was going exactly to plan. Carragher hadn’t thought of checking Tate’s collar. When Ryan Carragher had satisfied himself that his companion wasn’t wired he gave a cool smile. Liam tapped the mike three times, connecting with both Jake and Aidan Hughes.

“He’s patted him down and found nothing. This should be interesting.”

He signed off before Aidan gave him another lecture, and grabbed a seat, ready to watch the show.

Carragher led the conversation and Tate followed as he’d been told to do. His nerves subsided slowly as they discussed Ulster Rugby and the latest local football match. Liam smiled. Craig should be listening to this; he was sports mad. They drank and chatted their way through a coffee and then the conversation reached a hiatus, punctuated by Carragher ordering another set of drinks. Liam was just wondering why his bladder didn’t cave in, his would have ten minutes ago, when Carragher leaned forward like a man with something to confide. Instead he asked Tate a question.

“Why now?”

Tate stared at him, his expression deliberately confused. He’d known that the question was coming. It was one of the scenarios they’d prepared. “Sorry?”

“You heard me.”

Carragher scrutinised Tate’s face and waited for his reply.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I told you.”

“You told me more than that. Tell me again.”

Tate hesitated for a moment, as a man about to admit he’d molested his daughters would. He felt a small squirt of bile fill his throat at the lie he was about to tell. He loved his daughters, but definitely not that way. But he loved them enough to stay out of prison, so he swallowed hard.

“I have two daughters. Fifteen and thirteen.”

Carragher smiled lasciviously. “Great ages. Are they blonde or brunette?”

Tate wanted to lie about their appearance; telling the truth made it all too real. But he knew Ryan Carragher would have done his homework so he described the girls.

“Suzie, the fifteen-year-old, is brunette. Clare, my baby, is blonde.”

Carragher leaned in and Jake could hear every sordid word. “Your baby. Is that what you say when you make love to her? Do you stroke her lovely blonde hair?”

Tate knew Carragher was trying to make him incriminate himself for insurance, so that if he went down he would drag him down too. Tate bit back the words he was longing to say and answered.

“She’s my baby but she’s a woman too. She loves what I do to her.”

They locked eyes and whatever Carragher thought he read there satisfied him. He sat back in his chair and smiled, recognising a kindred soul. It made him indiscreet.

“I love them blonde.”

Tate came back with questions from the list in his head.

“What’s your preference? Boys or girls?”

“Girls. Under twelve. Before they get too knowing.” He gave Tate a sly look. “Although sometimes I like them slightly older too. Perhaps you would share Clare with me sometime? I’m gentle.”

Tate nodded, unable to say the word. Then he remembered the tape and croaked out a ‘yes’. It sounded forced to him but it seemed to satisfy Carragher. He’d probably put his reluctance down to jealousy.

Suddenly Carragher leaned in again, as if he’d made up his mind. “OK. I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”

Liam tensed, knowing that this was it. They already had enough to get a warrant on Carragher for his comments about the kids, but they wanted his smuggling route and connections as well.

“I ship them in.”

“What?”

Carragher continued impatiently. “The kids. I ship them in from abroad.” He gave a smug smile. “It’s stupid to source them locally, that’s where people always go wrong. The police here have informants all over the show. Plus, kids who speak English will always find someone to talk to. I get them from elsewhere and they don’t speak a word.”

Liam punched the air. It was the money shot! Ryan Carragher had just boasted his way to years inside.

Tate looked puzzled. “But how do you get them in? Don’t they need passports and stuff like that?”

Carragher laughed so loudly that a woman at the next table turned and smiled. “You’re thinking like a law-abiding citizen, Tate. You don’t think we bring them through City Airport, do you?”

Tate feigned an embarrassed smile, surprising himself with his acting talent. He wanted to punch Carragher in the face, except that he wouldn’t soil his hands. He smiled again, more broadly this time, focusing on one thing. Carragher was scum and he was going to help put him away. He might use prostitutes the odd time, but they were always over the age of consent; the thought of someone touching a child made him feel sick. Edgar Tate sat forward eagerly. He wasn’t doing this just to save his own skin now; he really wanted Ryan Carragher locked up. “So how do they come in?”

Carragher sniffed knowingly. “The docks down south. Dublin mostly. They load and unload containers every day. It isn’t difficult to slip some extra cargo through the net.”

“But how do they breathe?”

Carragher shrugged. “Some of them don’t, but the majority make it through. Young and healthy, you see. They’re all under fourteen.”

“Where do you ship from?”

Liam winced. Tate was pushing too fast. Carragher would smell a rat. He needn’t have worried; Carragher was on a roll, glad to have an audience.

“Greece and France mostly. But the kids come from all over. It changes every year. This year it’s mainly Greek kids, easier to lift them there now because of the recession. A couple of years ago it was Eastern Europe. Wherever my supplier can source them from.” Carragher smiled and Tate saw pure evil in his eyes. “Wherever there are men who love children, there are men who will supply them. My main man’s in Beirut. Good guy.”

Tate sat back and Liam exhaled. He was about to play it cooler, just like they’d agreed. He had Carragher on the hook, now he just had to reel him in.

Tate shot Carragher a sceptical look. “Sorry, but you’re telling me there’s a big enough market in Northern Ireland to make it worthwhile shipping kids in? No way!”

Carragher looked offended. “I’m not a liar!”

Liam spluttered his coffee all over the screen. This was a man who stole, smuggled, abused and killed children, and he was indignant about his honesty being questioned? If it hadn’t been so serious he would have laughed.

Tate mollified him. “I didn’t mean that, but it all just seems so incredible. Not that the kids can’t be taken, but that there are enough men here that want them.”

“Not only men. There are plenty of women who like a bit of young fun too. My step-mother was a case in point.”

Tate’s eyes shot open. It hadn’t even occurred to him that women might be involved. He’d thought maternal instinct was a universal constant.

“Did she…?”

Carragher shook his head. “To me? No, I was too old. Not her taste. Now my kid brother, that’s a different story. She’d been messing with him since he was five-year’s old.”

Jake’s eyes widened. Ryan Carragher had known of his brother Jonathan’s fate all along, and he’d done nothing to stop it!

“As for there being enough people here interested in what we ship…” Carragher tapped his pocket as if he had a notepad inside. “I have them all. Bank managers, Clergy, even the odd Judge or two. Very handy people to know in times of crisis.” He stared coldly at Tate. “And now I have you. Next time I need a house designed for free I’ll give you a call.”

Tate heard Liam before he saw him. The sound of Liam’s size thirteens thundering down the concourse made everyone turn and stare. Five seconds later the table was surrounded by police and the shopping centre crowd was agog. Ryan Carragher glared at Tate as both men were hauled roughly to their feet. Tate feigned shock.

“What is this? We’ve done nothing wrong! What are you arresting us for?”

Liam read the charges and rights to both men and watched as Carragher scowled at Tate. Tate resisted arrest, as they’d agreed he would. He was so convincing that he fell to the ground and split his lip, making Carragher’s expression change to doubt. Good. If Carragher believed Tate hadn’t betrayed him it could be useful.

Liam hauled Edgar Tate to his feet and inspected his face. “This one needs the M.E. I’ll get him to meet us at High Street.”

They filed through the shopping centre followed by astonished eyes then Liam shoved both men in the back of an armoured car. As it drove away he wandered to the surveillance van and banged hard on the back doors.

“Wake up in there!”

The door was flung outwards and Jake jumped out and took several deep breaths.

“Well lad. Not bad for an afternoon’s work. Did you get everything?”

Jake grinned and smoothed down his suit. “Every word. And it’s enough to put Ryan Carragher away for life.”

***

High Street Station

“I want to make a phone-call.”

“You can want all you like but that doesn’t mean you’ll get it.”

Jack Harris set his mouth in a determined line and folded his arms. He’d seen some scum in his time but Ryan Carragher was the worst, and as far as he was concerned he could rot. Jack left the cell and banged the door hard, locking Carragher inside, then he walked into the small staff- room wearing a grim look.

The room was crowded. Liam and Aidan Hughes were lounging on the worn armchairs and Jake and Davy gave Jack an exhausted wave from the couch. Craig was the only one standing. He was spooning coffee into mugs and waiting for the kettle to boil.