A Limited Justice (#1 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (7 page)

Somewhere else, Camille was getting ready to do something to someone, with whatever awareness of the turmoil she created, her selfish heart would allow.

He hit the symbol and picked up his messages. Three: John sounding anxious, Liam sounding cocky and John again with just one word. ‘Sorry’. He had nothing to be sorry about.

It was his mess and his life and his fault. Craig dialled John’s number and it cut immediately to answerphone. He was grateful for that, not leaving a message, the call itself indication of the apology that meant they could pretend it had never happened. He’d make unspoken amends over beer and football another day.

Then he dialled Liam.

“Well, what were you sounding so happy about?” Aware that he sounded like a grumpy shit, but still acting like one.

“Two things. One, McCandless was in the local chippy about one o’clock.” Craig nodded to himself, it fitted John’s findings.

“And two, we might have a witness. An old lady across the road, Ida Foster. She’s away until tonight so I’ll nip down there later. Apparently, she’s the local Poirot, so well worth a chat. One neighbour said she thought she saw a young man going into the garage about two-ish but couldn’t be sure, but she says Mrs Foster’s our woman for the details.”

Craig knew he wanted a ‘well done’ so he grunted. “Very good.”

“OK, it’s seven now, I’ll see you in the morning. Annette has some leads she’s chasing and we’ll follow up on Mrs Foster’s info when you get it. And let’s see if we can make an arrest before the press realise that a 200 pound man was probably killed by someone half his size. Or half the wives in Northern Ireland will be following suit.”

Then he cut the call quickly, realising that it was too abrupt, and feeling bad about his people skills. Must try harder tomorrow.

The light on his phone suddenly flashed with a text – John. ‘Beer in town. 8?’

Forgiven already, brilliant. Apology-free friendship, available only with a man.

***

The team of C.S.I.s stood respectfully quiet beside the Bann River, as Detective Inspector Julia McNulty knelt by the bloated, still body, oblivious to the sharp stones cutting her knees.

The girl wasn’t much more than a teenager, her thin wrist and fine chain bracelet echoing her youthful fragility. Her soft, long hair was spread across a swollen face that told of her time in the water. The brown strands were smeared bloodily, as if their ends had been dipped in dark red paint and then stroked deliberately across her pale, freckled cheeks.

Her arctic white t-shirt with its logo of Kasabian was caked with mud from the river, and half-pulled from the waistband of her dark mini-skirt. The t-shirt’s thin fabric was so incongruous in the cool October air, that Julia knew a jacket wouldn’t be far away. The C.S.I.s would find it.

She looked up from the sadness of the body towards the vibrant, early-evening sky, and then dragged her gaze haltingly down again. Past the famous beauty of Portglenone’s Lower Bann River, through the streaks of sun lighting the green bushes, and back to the death that was her job. Then, even more slowly, she forced her eyes further down. Towards the girl’s torn knees, where a rope of tights and once-white pants was hooked awkwardly between her tangled limbs.

An elderly Sergeant recognised the girl as Maria Burton a young constable from his station. He stood solemnly now, his eyes straight-ahead, as were everyone’s but Julia’s. As if to look at the girl’s last damaged tableau would be the final act of disrespect.

Julia reached behind her, taking the approved cover from the C.S.I., and laid it over the girl gently, as if tucking her into bed, careful to disturb nothing. The signs of death and damage by her killer would be the only things to give her family justice, and they had to find Maria Burton’s killer. For her, and for every woman on the force.

***

Jessie had already fed the children, leaving Fiona to tuck them in. She had ironed her new outfit and left it ready on the bed, before disappearing into the bathroom with the cardboard box and scissors. It wouldn’t serve any of them to have her recognised before she’d finished, so she had to look very different this time. It had all gone so well, she couldn’t fall at the last two hurdles.

Life in Northern Ireland hadn’t always been easy for her, but as a country, it was perfect in some ways. Yes, it had its share of criminals, like anywhere else, but thankfully, like anywhere else there were more males than females. So it was no great surprise that Northern Ireland was the perfect size to have only one women’s prison. Wharf House. It made her next step very easy.

She knew that she could get there right now, by confessing to the police. But that would leave her last target completely unreached, and there was far too much danger in it. Danger that they’d take her to hospital instead of prison. Danger that they’d identify her and find her girls before she’d tied everything up. And danger that they’d link Fiona to her. No, tonight’s plan was the best way, and their only guarantee.

She changed, smoothing the short skirt down over her too thin thighs and smiled at the low-cut top that she’d chosen – it was perfect for what she had in mind. Her make-up was heavier than she’d ever worn but it suited her newly blonde crop. And she needed it nowadays, to cover the dark hollows and lines brought on by the pain. Suddenly her head swam, and she half-fell backwards onto the bed. Her balance was a growing problem but even that could serve a purpose now; it made her look drunk when she wasn’t and that would be doubly useful tonight.

She pushed gently at the swinging cot beside her bed, starting a soothing rhythm, and watching two small, white hands curling in happy answer. Pia’s bright, wide eyes stared up at her and their smiles matched - her world was safe and Jessie was going to keep it that way.

Opening the bedside drawer, she pulled out the small bottle of tablets. Three now and three in six hours’ time. And many more for the small travel bag she’d packed, for Fiona to bring to her tomorrow. She pulled herself up and looked down at her baby one last time. Then, fixing her smile and lifting the bag, she walked unsteadily into the small, bright living-room where three smiling faces greeted her: two small and one long grown-up.

“Mammy, Mammy, you look beautiful.” Their toothy grins and chorus of praise reminded Jessie that she’d once been considered a pretty girl. Two warm, soft bodies hurled themselves at her, their just-bathed perfume better than any scent she’d ever owned. Their small fingers ran wonderingly through her newly shorn blonde fringe.

“Mammy, are you going dancing?”

Jessie turned to her sophisticated four-year-old and laughed. “Yes, Ruby, funny dancing. Like you saw me do last week in the supermarket.”

Then she deliberately wobbled. It didn’t take any effort nowadays and it always made them laugh. They didn’t understand, and that was how it would stay for years to come, thanks to Fiona.

Fiona smiled at her “You look really lovely, Jessie – when will you be back?”

It was said anxiously as the two women looked at each other above the small heads, having a second, silent conversation.

“I’ve packed enough for three days – that should do it.”

She looked down at their shiny faces again. “You be good girls for Fiona and do everything she tells you. Now, wish me good luck.”

A high-pitched chorus of “Good luck, Mammy” filled the air, although neither child understood what it meant. Fiona reached across and hugged hard at the younger woman’s thin frame, tears springing to her eyes.

“Good luck, Jessie,” she whispered. “For both of us.”

***

Danni wasn’t happy about the overtime but Liam’s gut told him that this witness would be important, so evening or no evening he wanted to take her statement himself. He scanned the terraced street as his young driver grabbed his cap, then they entered the garage forecourt in Harkinson Street and stood for a minute, looking at the derelict lot. The cars had been towed and metal shutters were locked to the shop’s windows now, guarding its precious chocolate bars. Yellow crime tape made it clear that entry was definitely ‘verboten’.

“What are we looking for, sir? Wouldn’t the C.S.I.s have got everything already?”

Liam stayed silent, sniffing the air, but there was only a vague vapour of petrol left. Nothing else hinted at yesterday’s gruesome scene. He was searching for the unidentified but he’d know it when he saw it. There was always something.

He beckoned the constable over to the guilty pump. “Have a look around and see if there’s anything they might have missed, son. Give me a yell if you spot anything. It doesn’t matter how stupid it sounds.”

Then he walked quickly out of the forecourt, past the marked police car and pushed open the low garden gate of an elderly terraced house opposite. The house that three neighbours had said held his eyewitness.

Although the gate was warped and split, the house itself was of clean, red brick and boasted a new wood and glass front door. Four small windows overhead were dressed in crisp, white netting and the front bay held a green plant that stretched out hopefully for the sun. There was no movement and no sound, but the house was definitely alive; Liam could feel someone at home.

He hunkered down and lifted the low, brass letterbox, peering into a narrow hallway. A sudden flash of movement at floor level was followed by something cutting his face, and he pulled back quickly. Too late to stop a sharp claw gouging the skin from his nose.

He lost his balance and felt backwards onto the gravelled path, ripping his trousers in the process. His bellowed, “ah shit,” brought the young P.C. rushing from the forecourt. Liam waved him back quickly, more embarrassed than hurt.

He knelt up to have another look, at a safer distance this time, and a large ginger cat stared defiantly at him from the end of the hall. It looked clean and well fed which was something at least. It wouldn’t save him from a tetanus jab, but it did imply a caring owner, so he’d learned something already.

With Danni’s regulation-issue white hanky held firmly across his nose, he stood up, knocking the door hard now. “Police. Open up please, Mrs Foster.”

A small shadow slowly appeared through the glass and remained stock still, halfway down the hall. It looked like a small woman or a child and Liam could sense that he was scaring them, so he softened his voice and hunkered down again, peering in.

Standing half-out of the first doorway was a small elderly woman. She was eighty at least, and not a modern eighty. Her thick brown tights and laced shoes reminded him of his granny in the country. A proper sensible granny, not one of these modern ones filling themselves with Botox.

Her hair was white and curled and she looked at him apprehensively through large glasses. She looked frightened, as if she rarely opened the door, and he decided on a softer approach.

“Hello Mrs Foster. My name’s Detective Inspector Liam Cullen.”

He had a second’s thought that in this staunchly Loyalist street ‘Liam Cullen’ might sound like a Dissident and scare her even more, but he ploughed on regardless.

“Could we have a quick chat about what happened across the road yesterday?” He lifted his warrant card and pushed it through for her to see, hoping that the cat wouldn’t see it as a new invitation to assault.

As she edged her way slowly down the hall, he could see that her left leg dragged slightly, and her frailty touched him, reminding him why they did the job. She reached out hesitantly, steadying herself, and took the proffered card. She held it close to her glasses for what seemed like minutes before she seemed satisfied. Then she leaned over and opened the front door inwards, allowing him to enter.

Liam’s heart sank at her eyesight. How could she possibly have seen enough to be a good witness, no matter what her neighbours said? But he always lived in hope.

He stood in the tiled hallway looking down at her. His 6ft 6 made him stand above most people but this tiny woman barely reached his hip. Yet her large eyes danced, hinting at a lively girl inside. She looked up at him trustingly and then smiled, handing the card back. “My name’s Ida Foster, officer. Please come in.”

Her voice was much stronger than he’d expected, with a lilt from somewhere that he couldn’t quite place. As she turned slowly into the small front room, decorated, not as he’d expected with chintz and china but with Australian arts and crafts, her accent slotted into place. Despite his protests, she insisted on making him tea. Remembering the constable waiting by the car, Liam called him in, and together they kept the old woman company over tea and digestives for an hour. An hour that would help their investigation more than he could ever have hoped.

***

Julia sat at her desk in Limavady, sucking at an un-lit cigarette and working out the order of play. Was this a girl who’d been beaten, raped and dumped, who just happened to be a police officer? After all, being in ‘the job’ didn’t provide you with a force field, although she sometimes wondered if everybody realised that. Some of her colleagues thought they wore superhero suits under their uniforms.

Or, had Maria Burton been raped and murdered
because
she was a police officer? The answers to the two questions were very different. The first, a sad fate for anyone, the second carrying implications for the whole force. Especially its women.

She already knew that her answer didn’t matter, because she had to treat it as both. Work it as a rape murder, but use wider intelligence to find out if the whole force or its women were under attack. She picked up the phone with a heavy heart, dialling and waiting to hear the deep voice of the man she studiously avoided. Dreading the contact, but accepting it was part of her job, and prepared for it by her years in the army.