A Limited Justice (#1 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (29 page)

“Maybe it’s Lynsey Taylor getting parole?”

Annette jumped in. “That’s not personal enough to her, Davy, and why not just kill Taylor and leave it at that?

“Because she’s in prison, Annette?”

She huffed back at Craig. “She still could do, sir.”

He nodded at her, conceding.

“You’re right. If it was Taylor she wanted, then why not just wait until she comes out next week and kill her then? And why so many deaths for someone that she’s not even related to? We’re nearly there, but we’re still missing something. What did Liam remember about the case?”

“Actually that’s really interesting. It seems our old cynic actually went soft. He felt sorry for the girl because of her age, so he pushed for leniency as well.”

They all looked at Annette, astonished. Nicky was the first to speak. “Liam? Our Liam? Hang-them-all Liam. Soft?”

“Yes I know, that’s exactly what I thought, but he admitted it. Then he said that he’d wised up now.”

They all laughed, imagining Liam admitting his leniency in the same way as an alcoholic does the twelve steps.

“Well, there you go, pigs do fly. That gives us serious wind-up material when he gets back.”

“Right. This is great work Davy, but let’s go further. Nicky, can you contact Wharf House and set up a meeting for me with the Governor this afternoon please. And while I’m doing that, Annette, can you get Fiona McNamee’s address and pay her a visit. We’ll brief here again at four.”

He looked down, slightly embarrassed by what he was about to say next.

“Inspector McNulty’s team have offered us any help or support we need on this, so please make use of that resource.” He looked up defiantly; ready to deal with the smile in Nicky’s eyes, but there was none.

“Everyone OK with that?”

They all nodded yes, completely deadpan, and he disappeared into his office quickly, before they could start.

***

Annette programmed the sat-nav for Poynton Avenue, Glengormley, Fiona McNamee’s home. Then she pulled out onto Pilot Street, and followed the M.2 for the nine-mile journey.

After twenty minutes, she checked again. Poynton Avenue was a left-turn three streets further on, so she called Nicky to touch base, everyone on thirty-minute contacts after Liam. She drove 400 metres further on, turning into a long, wide street of detached houses.

The street split halfway down, branching off to Poynton Heights, leaving the Avenue to end in a square cul-de-sac, with an impressive Tudor style mansion as its end. She turned her car ready for a quick getaway, and then got out, looking for number 36, in a street where every house was named instead of numbered.

Suddenly, a small blue Fiat reversed out of the driveway beside her, its open windows and heavy bass giving the occupant away as male and young before she even saw them. Annette walked over to the car, showing her badge, and the teenage driver turned-off the music quickly, the look on his face searching for reasons why the police might want to talk to him. As soon as she asked him where number 36 was he relaxed visibly, suddenly eager to help, his polite speech at odds with his cool street clothes.

“It’s that one, officer.” He indicated the mansion and she stared at it surprised, teachers must earn more than she thought. Then she realised that he was still talking.

“But she’s been gone six months or so, died abroad, I heard.”

“Died? Do you know where?”

He shook his head. “No, sorry, but the estate agent might – he was showing people around it last week. The number’s on the sign.”

He pointed at the pole attached to the gatepost and she noticed that his nails were painted black, like Davy’s. She had images of her son Jordan doing the same in ten years’ time, shuddering to herself and knowing she’d no right to mind. She’d had purple hair herself before she became ‘sensible’.

“My mum used to be friendly with her. I knew the kids a bit, but they were older than me. Kirsty’s twenty-one and Pete’s twenty-two now. I think they’re away at Uni in England, but mum could tell you more.”

“Thanks...?” She paused until he offered his name.

“Joe... Hanratty.”

“Thanks, Joe, you’ve been really helpful.”

He drove away basking in the glow of civic duty and she walked up the short drive of number 36. Five minutes of door-knocking and window-peering showed her that he’d been right; it was empty. She took out her phone and rang the agent, arranging to meet him in twenty minutes. Meanwhile she tried the surrounding houses, with no answer.

It was an almost wasted viewing, there were barely enough personal items left in the house to show who had lived there. The memories were probably too hard for Fiona McNamee to bear after her husband’s death, something the agent confirmed. Annette knew she would feel the same in her position.

He confirmed that the children were in London and the house was mortgage-free, paid off by insurance: and that all proceeds of the sale were to go to them. He’d never actually spoken to the McNamee’s, just to the family solicitor, so he couldn’t be of any more help than that. Sorry.

Annette left the house feeling sad for the family, but with serious doubts that they were blameless in everything that was happening.

***

Nicky dropped the phone and stared at it, then knocked and entered Craig’s office, slumping on a chair with a look of complete astonishment on her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, sir, but there’s no point in you going to Wharf House today to see Lynsey Taylor.”

“Why? Are they doing something special?” She looked blankly at him.

“What is it, Nicky?”

“Sir...she’s dead.”

Craig stood up urgently, stunned but only half-surprised, with the sinking certainty that their killer had struck again.

“When and how?”

“Sunday, from a heroin overdose. They aren’t convinced it was accidental.”

“I’m absolutely sure that it wasn’t. Jessica Adams did this. Somehow, she got inside a locked facility and killed an inmate.” He knew that someone at Wharf House would be paying for that with their job.

He lifted the Hoody’s sketch and grabbed his jacket, swinging it on over his head.

“I’m still going up there. Call ahead to the Governor, please. Adams reached the killer, the investigating officer and both dissenting jurors. There’s no one left to kill now except the Judge, and they’ll have a close-protection officer, but ask Annette to call and warn them anyway, please.

We need to move quickly. She’s finished her killing spree and that means that she’s looking for a way out.”

He left the squad, throwing. “The briefing’s still at four – try to get John and Des here as well, please,” over his shoulder, as he disappeared.

***

Wharf House sat in the most beautiful part of the North Antrim coast, the Glens between Larne and Cushendall. Nature had designed it for a Narnian fantasy and an engineer called William Bald had made it accessible by a winding coast road. The motorway branched off at Junction 2 and Craig drove quickly. Until the ‘A’ roads transformed into a series of slow curves and turns that opened out suddenly, into a wide horizon of 100metre-high cliffs to the left, and a calm, wintry Irish Sea to the right.

It was a drive that almost hypnotised travellers, like the Amalfi Coast. Drawing them irresistibly towards the water, as if some ancient siren stood on the rocks below, calling.

Craig could feel his romantic Italian side breaking cover and he shook himself, casting around for directions to the prison. But there were none.

He switched on the sat-nav, pleased to find that Wharf House was only two miles further west. Five minutes later, he pulled up an un-signposted gravel track, its narrow anonymity providing the perfect exile for Northern Ireland’s most dangerous women. He wondered if the local sheep knew who their neighbours were.

They’d never had an absconder from the centre, and Craig had always thought it was down to the relaxed regime that had made court officers christen it the ‘holiday camp’. But seeing its location now, he was veering more towards the sheer impossibility of escape. Even if an inmate managed to reach the pavement-less cliff road, a speeding lorry would kill them before they’d ever hitch a lift.

He showed his warrant card to the young gate officer, waiting while he checked his list, then he was waved a mile further on into a wide courtyard, where a female warden pointed him to a parking space. He thought that he recognised her from somewhere, and the notion was confirmed by her warm greeting as he emerged from the car.

“Hello, Inspector Craig. I bet you don’t remember me?”

Craig looked down at the small, round woman and racked his brains for the context of their meeting. Then he remembered. She’d been the Revenue officer on a joint fuel-smuggling case, Denise something. He smiled at her and she saved him from his memory lapse.

“Denise Robinson – we met in Armagh when we nicked those petrol-stretchers.”

“I remember. Good case. When did you change jobs?”

“Two years ago. It’s a long story, but I love it here. Instead of locking them up, now I help to stop them leave.” She smiled at him wryly. “Well that’s the theory anyway. You’re in the murder squad now aren’t you?”

He nodded. “For my sins. What’s been happening up here?”

“The Governor will tell you. She’s waiting for you in her office, best china and all. But I’d better warn you, she had a visit from the civil servants yesterday and she’s not a happy woman. Word is she’s hanging on by a thread.”

“Is that good or bad?”

She laughed, acknowledging bad bosses from the past. “Bad actually – she’s not the worst. A bit hard, but then who isn’t at her stage? It’d be a pity if she had to go.”

Then she grinned. “Don’t spread it around but we quite like the old girl – she means well. So anything you can do to help would be welcome. She can fill you in, but there’s a feeling that this was no accident.

Taylor wasn’t well liked, she was dealing heroin as well as using it and she got a few of the younger girls hooked. So if you’re looking for a suspect-list there’s about twenty names on it,” she jerked her head toward the building, “all locked-up in there.”

Craig spoke quietly. “We’ve already narrowed it to one, and unfortunately my money says that she isn’t locked up anywhere.”

***

“Davy, could you give me a hand for an hour? I need you to chase up the McNamee’s and find out what’s been happening to them since the trial. I’m seeing their solicitor at 1.30.”

“Aye, OK. Give me the details and I’ll get on it. W...what happened in Glengormley?”

“The teenage neighbour said the two kids went to university in England and the wife moved to Spain. Apparently, she died there six months ago, but he didn’t know any more than that. His mother might know more, but she wasn’t in, so maybe you could give her a call as well? It’s number 30 Poynton Avenue. The Hanratties.

All the details are on the sheet and the solicitor’s number is there as well – John Dunn. If you need me I’m on the mobile, but I’ll be back by three.”

“Leave it with me.”

Nicky smiled, knowing that Annette was asking him deliberately. Davy loved feeling like a detective so they gave him telephone enquiries to deal with when it wouldn’t affect due process. Annette left him happy as a sand-boy and went to see Mr John Dunn.

***

The cars hands-free was crackling so much that Craig was shouting.

“Can you hear me John?”

“What?”

“John, I’ve just come from Wharf House.”

“What were you doing up there?” He answered his own question. “There’s been another death hasn’t there?”

“Yes, hang on, I’m pulling over. “ Craig pulled off into a small picnic area and lifted the phone.

“Are you still there?”

“That’s better, I can hear you now “

“A girl called Lynsey Taylor died in Wharf House on Sunday. Do me a favour and check the pathologist’s report. I’m sure it’s fine, but I need to keep this tight. I showed Adams’ sketch to the warders and they identified her as an inmate on remand calling herself Kate Rogers, in for assault. I’m sure she staged it deliberately to be arrested. The prints will confirm it was her.”

“You’ve got her then, well done.”

“No, we haven’t.” Craig sighed heavily. “She was bailed on Sunday by a woman calling herself Susan Daley. We’ve got her photo; mid-forties, short brown hair. We’ll circulate it, but ten to one it won’t give us anything; she looks just like a million other women – probably deliberately.”

John pictured her, forties, short brown hair. It was an ubiquitous description.

“Any idea who she is?”

“None, but we’re following up some new leads at the moment. We’ve a briefing at four, could you and Des be there?”

“We’ll try. How did Taylor die?”

“Looks like an overdose but I want to make sure. They found white powder at the scene. The forensics should be back on that later if Des could have a look.”

“Well at least she died happy, whether she deserved to or not.”