A Limited Justice (#1 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (21 page)

It’d been the same at school. John reading quietly, while Craig, the school’s golden boy in sport, and charm, and pretty much everything else, ran around the rugby field holding a book. It still amazed John that anyone could run and read, but his grades had proved it was possible, and thirty years later, he was still prowling.

“Why are you here, John?”

“Is that an existential question, or do you mean why am I here on a Saturday?”

“Saturday.”

“Catching up with paperwork, until you arrived.”

He hit the switch on the coffee maker, grabbed his sandwich and sat down again at the desk, knowing that Craig would join him when the smell became strong enough. The perking and gurgling grew to a crescendo and just as the heat knocked the light off, Craig returned, as if he’d heard the faint click sixty-feet away at the end of the lab, which was impossible.

Craig continued talking as if they were still on the same sentence.

“Of course, if it is pure revenge, then why the need for such violation of both bodies? The petrol pump and the mock-rape were real overkill. Do you think the methods had any specific significance?”

John looked up from his cheese and pickle thoughtfully, wondering what ‘Joe-Public’ would think if they knew how often crimes were solved over a sandwich.

“There was a case on C.S.I. once.”

Craig groaned and looked for something to throw at him.

“No, hear me out. It was a case where the killer wasn’t killing for his own revenge; he was acting as some sort of hit-man, doing the Moscow Rules thing.”

“Moscow what?”

You know, cold war assassins, two shots to the chest and one to the head. It’s called the ‘Moscow Rules’ and if you watched less sport, you’d know that. Anyway, maybe that’s what this one’s doing? Maybe she’s a hit-woman?”

“Great, thanks for that. Now we have a woman who, for no particular reason, decides to kill a man and a W.P.C. with no apparent links to her, in a series of random hits. We don’t know why anyone else wanted them killed either. And, by the way, she’s about five-foot-four, skinny as hell, possibly ill and doesn’t use a gun. Some hit-man. Tell me, if you wanted someone ‘taken-out’ would that be your best bet?”

John refused to be deterred by his sarcasm and kept going.

“Well it’s better than anything you’ve come up with. Have a coffee, there’s a spare sandwich and for God’s sake Marc, sit down – you’re making me feel sick walking round in circles. Or go and find a football pitch.”

Craig laughed and slumped in the proffered chair. John was right as usual and if he wasn’t a mate that would be really irritating. Craig couldn’t make any sense of it, so he supposed some sort of ‘contract killing’ was as logical as anything else. John continued his theme between chews.

“Do you remember during ‘The Troubles’ when they used to sign guns out from the paramilitaries and use them for contract kills?”

“Five hundred quid wasn’t it?”

“Allegedly. I wonder how many domestics were sorted out that way and written off as sectarian. Five hundred pounds for a quickie divorce. You’d really have to hate your ex to do that, wouldn’t you...?”

He stopped suddenly, realising what he’d just said, and bit harder into his sandwich while Craig said absolutely nothing. When they’d been kids, he had often offered academic solutions to Craig’s occasional confusion. But he’d learned years ago, through a series of arguments and silences that the best answer to anything personal, was almost invariably: listen, say nothing and watch from a safe distance, while he sorted it out himself.

He would take professional input gratefully, but personal advice, no-way. And it had got ten times worse after Camille.

John had watched his friend’s career trajectory closely over the years. Targeted by The Met’s high potential scheme as soon as he’d joined, Craig had made D.I. at 27 and D.C.I. by 35. Then, just as he should have been going for superintendent, Camille did her worst. Now, no matter how many times the Chief Constable pressured him, he wouldn’t go for promotion. She’d put out every spark he had.

Time to change the subject.

“Des says the wire matches the stuff Liam found at the farm. By the way, his wife had a little boy. They’ve called him Rafferty, great name, don’t you think?”

Craig nodded, glad of the change of theme. They descended into five minutes of banter that had Rafferty alternately growing up into James Bond, or the dashing artist, writer or adventurer that his name would undoubtedly force upon him. Craig imagined his first day at school; Marco had been a hard enough to cope with in Belfast, but Rafferty...

All of a sudden Craig’s mobile rang, making them both jump. He picked it up, staring at the screen. It was a number that he didn’t recognise. “Yes, D.C.I. Craig.”

The voice that came through was female and hesitant, and not one he knew. For one distracted second he thought that Jessica Adams was calling him, just as she’d called Ian McCandless’ mobile. Then, “it’s Julia McNulty,” came through, and his heart sank even further. He didn’t need grief from her today.

“Yes.” John’s quick look told him that he was being brusque so he turned his back on him.

“Oh, sorry. If you’re busy?” Too late, she realised that it was a Saturday, and not everyone kept her hours.

“No, it’s fine. What can I do for you?” Her hesitance softened him, and his voice.

“Well. Perhaps it’s small, but Maria Burton’s handbag has just been recovered, and...” She was having second thoughts and Gerry’s old-fashioned look wasn’t helping, so she pushed his chin back round to face the road.

What had seemed exciting back in the smoking area didn’t seem quite so important now, until the sudden eager tone in Craig’s voice said that perhaps it was.

“Yes?”

“Well, her warrant card was cut in two and her name badge was broken into small pieces, and it definitely wasn’t trauma from the river because her perfume bottle’s unbroken. I think they were damaged before the bag entered the river and ... well, I just thought, they’re symbols of ‘the job’ and maybe justice somehow?”

It sounded weaker aloud than it had in her mind, but she kept going.

“As if they hated the police...maybe?”

Of course, why hadn’t he seen it? That was what it was about. The badge, the warrant card, calling them at the garage on McCandless’ phone...hatred, contempt for law and order, all of it.

“Yes, D.I. McNulty, yes.”

He was excited and it showed. He could have hugged her. “Thank you, that’s very helpful – very.”

Then John’s puzzled look reminded him of something else.

“Has your lab had a look at the bag yet?”

“No, it was only found this morning.”

“Right, would you mind if we looked at it first then? We’ve a particular forensic trace that we’d like to match.”

“Yes, absolutely.” Julia was relieved and excited. He was taking it, and her, seriously. She was back in the game.

“I’ll get it up to you this afternoon.”

“Thank you.” They clicked off at the same time and he turned to John. “You heard?”

“Only half of it. What?”

Craig filled him in quickly and then left for Docklands, praying that the single forensic trace he was hoping for would be all over Maria Burton’s wet possessions.

***

“I’ve talked to Jessica Adams’ General Practitioner, but he wouldn’t give me much. I just got the usual confidentiality clause, but he did drop a big hint that she doesn’t have any contact w...with either of her parents.”

Craig looked up from his file, interested. “Any idea why, Davy?”

Annette stood up from her desk and looked over her cubicle wall at them.

“Yes, why? They’re definitely alive; they live in Spain somewhere. Wouldn’t she have automatically taken the children to them after her husband died?”

“Didn’t someone else comment that she hates them?”

“Yes, you’re right. It was the Barnardstown sergeant, Eamon Ross. He said that there was no love lost with her parents, but Liam didn’t say why. Right, Annette, ask Liam why and then follow it up with the local station. We need to know why she hates them. Then call them in Spain and get their side of the story.

We’ll have a final catch-up at three and then everyone can go home and come back fresh Monday. I’ll take anything else until then. We’re all getting too tired to be effective.”

He laughed dryly. “And for some strange reason it comforts me to believe that some of you have a life, even if I don’t.”

*** 

The major incident alarm sounded just after Coronation Street ended and the women in the recreation room stared at each other glumly, knowing that it meant hours of lock-down, no matter what the cause. Jessie was playing cards in the corner with Becky and she threw down her hand in mock-disgust, grinning to soften the action.

“I was winning and don’t you forget it. That’s a lip-gloss you owe me.”

Her charge smiled at her in hero worship, safe from the bullies while Jessie was nearby. Becky really wished that she wasn’t being bailed tomorrow, but she seemed to have wealthy friends.

“Can we play again later...please?”

Jessie nodded, looking at the younger woman. She’d defrauded some credit card company to escape a boyfriend who hit her. Probation or helping out in an old folk’s home would have been fair, not locking her up in here with addicts and murderers. Good old British justice, an all-round cock-up.

“Yeh, we’ll play later, I need to win some mascara as well.”

They both laughed and shuffled out to join the lines of women already standing against the four walls of the main floor. Jessie turned to the guard beside her, whispering. “What happened?”

She whispered back conspiratorially, half-smiling, “Lynsey Taylor’s overdosed.”

Jessie feigned surprise and looked along the line. The women were whispering and the information reached everyone quickly. No one looked even slightly sad, one brave soul even venturing a muttered “good riddance.”

Taylor had bullied the smaller girls and annoyed the guards by boasting how she’d played the system in court. Well, the system had caught up with her now all right. Even Becky felt brave enough to speak out.

“She was always picking on me and I’m glad she’s dead. She started two of the younger girls on smack.”

A vision of someone starting her own daughters on drugs flashed through Jessie’s mind, and she’d happily have killed Taylor again just for that. Her death felt like a personal bonus now.

An abrupt quiet fell over the room, and the guards suddenly straightened up, tidying their hair. That meant only one thing, the Governor was on the floor.

The grey-metal outer door unlocked noisily and a strong-jawed woman walked into the centre of the gathering. She looked silently along the lines of women, the eyes of all but the most defiant dropping to the floor as she stared. Satisfied of her complete control she turned towards Lynsey Taylor’s room, standing just inside the door staring at the bed. She touched nothing and said nothing until she emerged, turning to face the restless women.

“Lynsey Taylor is dead, her next of kin will be informed and there will be a post-mortem. It has been alleged that she was a heroin user but we will be investigating this fully. I want anyone who saw anything unusual in any way today to inform the guards. In absolute confidence, of course.”

Then she stared at them all for a long moment, like a zoologist trying to name their species, before turning on her heel and walking off the floor so fast that Jessie bet she was rushing to disinfect herself.

As soon as she was out of sight, the once-timid girl beside her stepped forward, waving her arms above her head. “Taylor’s dead,” and the floor erupted with whoops and hollers of celebration, so genuine that even a guard allowed herself a grin. Lynsey Taylor wouldn’t be missed much by anyone at Wharf House.

***

“There were allegations that the father abused her when she was young, sir, and the mother stood by him. There was nothing definite proved, child protection not being what it should have been back then. But it seems like a case of thirteen-year-old Jessica accusing Daddy, and Mammy telling her that she had a dirty little mind.”

Davy sat forward, and chipped in. “I called her parents - her father called her a liar. He said that they didn’t care what happened to her, but they’re determined to go for custody of her girls after s... she’s caught.”

Craig drew a hand down his face despairingly, it was a story they heard with terrible frequency. This time it wasn’t a member of the clergy involved, but it was just as bad in a different way; a mother who chose the father over the child, a crime against nature as well as a crime against Jessica Adams.

“What happened to her after she made the accusations?”

“As far as I can find out she moved in with her best friend’s family at fifteen, and continued living locally until she left school – the friend was called Gemma Orr. Then she got a job in SuperMark in Limavady, met Michael Adams and the rest we know. The G.P. wouldn’t say anything more. Do you want me to get a warrant for the records?”

“When did he last see her or her children, Annette?”