The Careless Word (#8 - The Craig Crime Series) (9 page)

“I’m sorry but I must go. I have another meeting. Thank-you for your help, Major.” He turned to Smith. “And thank you, Captain. Perhaps you would show me out?”

Smith grabbed at the request eagerly and before Stephen James could say anything more they were out of the anteroom and halfway down the hall, under the stern gaze of heroes from the past. As they emerged into the morning sunshine Smith gave a loud laugh that Craig knew had been bottled up for the past half-hour.

“I’m glad that’s over. He’s a tough old stick but you handled him well. Thanks for that.”

Craig smiled. “He reminds me of a boss I once had, although James seems more reasonable.” His mind flew back to ‘Teflon’ Terry Harrison and he thanked God that he wasn’t his problem anymore. Julia was stuck with Harrison now in Limavady.

They crunched across the gravel to the Audi and Craig paused before he got in. “That bomb signature info is interesting. If it’s definitely not one of the dissidents, what are the odds that it’s some old bomber harking back to his glory days? But if it is why destroy a bookshop?”

Smith frowned. “The odds I can help with, by finding the signature if it’s out there, but you’re on your own with the bookshop bit.”

Craig climbed into the car and wound down the window as Smith talked on.

“I promise I’ll get everything we discussed over to your lab and analyst; James will have to stop blocking it now. And I’m happy to stay as involved as you like in the case.” Smith cast a look towards the Mess. “To be honest there’s bugger all else for us to do here at the moment. Most people are on leave before deployment and I’m bored rigid, so if you need a spare pair of hands…”

Craig smiled. “How would Major James feel about that?”

Smith shrugged. “I think he’d be glad. I’m driving him mad at the moment, asking for work that he doesn’t have to give me.”

Craig thought for a moment and then nodded briskly. “Fine. We could do with the help for the next few weeks. I’ll clear it with my Chief Constable and Major James and come Monday you can work with us as army liaison on the case. There’s just one thing…”

Richard leaned in eagerly. “Yes? Anything you need.”

“I need you in a dark suit. All this green is giving me a headache.”

***

Donegall Street, Belfast. 12 p.m.

Liam parked his car in the quiet city-centre street, scanning both sides for some sign of a dwelling. This was the address he had for the Robinsons, but there seemed to be nothing here except tall, red-brick terraces housing business and restaurants, and aging churches sandwiched between them trying to make God’s voice heard. He re-checked the note Nicky had given him, smiling as her exaggerated calligraphy leapt off the page. It was theatrical, just like everything about her; from her ever-changing clothes to her hair. Liam allowed himself a moment’s musing about what it might be like if they were a couple, hastily adding the caveat ‘if his wife and Nicky’s husband hadn’t met them first’. It allowed him to muse guilt-free and the result was bliss. Marriage to Nicky would be one long roller coaster of banter and laughter, not to mention the sex.

The appearance of St Xavier’s Church in the periphery of his vision cut Liam’s daydream short. At heart he was still an altar boy, steeped in religious guilt. Imagining a relationship with Nicky was as far as he would ever go and he would never swop Danni for the chance, but even imagining it this close to a church made him want to confess his sins. With his fantasy firmly packed away he returned to the task in hand and rechecked the address.

Just then he noticed a small white house set back fifty feet from the road, hidden between a takeaway and a charity shop. He smiled to himself; Jules Robinson had owned a quirky bookshop so it was fitting that he’d lived in a quirky house. As Liam approached the house’s front door he saw just how quirky it was.

A small patch of garden sat behind a white wooden fence, recently painted if the smell was any sign. There, dotted in a random pattern across the grass was a selection of garden gnomes; more than Liam had ever seen before. They played the violin, fished and laughed all over the place, with red, round cheeks and ample stomachs to match. There were gnomes of every race and sex and Liam wondered dryly if they crossed the political divide as well. One particularly large one sat in a corner holding a pair of binoculars; a sign round its neck said ‘Gnome CCTV’. Liam guffawed and then caught himself, remembering that he was there to speak to a widow; but a widow with a sense of humour if the garden was anything to go by.

He reached the house’s cheerful red front door in two strides, composed his face into a sombre mask and raised his hand to knock. Before his fist fell the door opened and a small, round woman in her seventies who could have been the gnomes’ sister, beckoned him inside.

Liam reached for his badge. “Mrs Robinson, I’m D.C.I…”

But the woman had already turned and was halfway down the hall, motioning Liam to keep up. Her voice was quiet but cheerful.

“Cullen. I know; your office rang. My name’s Sadie and we’re in the kitchen.”

She bustled into a small, warm kitchen, which boasted an open fire despite the summer day. For a moment she worked in silence, putting out a plate of warm scones and a large pot of tea, glancing at Liam’s large hands before eschewing the china cups for larger mugs. She placed a pot of jam on the table and nodded Liam to sit. As the tea brewed Sadie Robinson began to talk.

“Help yourself, Inspector. There’s plenty here.”

Liam opened his mouth to speak but she ignored him and continued in a brisk tone.

“Right, now. You’re wearing your sad face because I’m a widow now. Some little sod blew up my husband and destroyed our shop. The shop is insured, my Jules is gone and nothing on God’s good earth can ever bring him back.” She raised her eyes to heaven mid-diatribe. “God rest his soul. I’ll pray for him every day of my life and anyway, I know that he’s still here with me. But no amount of sad faces will make me feel any better or worse, so smile, let’s have a nice cup of tea and then you can ask me whatever you’ve come to ask.”

With that she sat down on a small, cushioned chair and started to pour the tea. Liam smiled quietly in admiration. This was why he loved old people; he always had since he’d been a kid and spent summers at his grandparent’s farm, exploring the fields all day and coming home every evening to a feast not unlike this. Old people were calm, with none of the histrionics of teenagers or women of his own age. They’d seen it all, felt it all, not only worn the T-shirt but probably designed and printed it as well. They didn’t overreact when you told them things; just shed a silent tear, much as he imagined Sadie Robinson had done when she’d been told that her husband was dead. He was dead but she was still alive; that was her gift and her trial until she could join her Jules. And by the sounds of it she already had inside her head.

They slurped and munched in silence for five minutes until Liam finally broke the quiet.

“Nice gnomes.”

The old woman beamed from ear to ear and started to tell him how the gnome garden had come to be; she and Jules had been great travellers and each gnome was a souvenir of one of their trips.

“Where did you get the CCTV one? It’s brilliant.”

Sadie smiled, twinkling her already twinkly brown eyes. “That’s Frederick, after my father. We got him in New York. Jules has cousins there.”

Liam was touched by her use of the present tense then he remembered that she believed her husband was still around. Sadie read his thoughts and smiled.

“I know you think I’m doolally, Inspector, but Jules is still here. I knew the second that he died, even though I was here at home. Two o’clock on Thursday afternoon. I felt him leave.”

Liam didn’t think she was doolally at all; he’d heard things like that said many times before by the relatives of victims. He’d even felt it himself once or twice with close mates killed while they were on patrol, and his Mum had known the moment his father had died in an accident in the fields. Sadie elaborated enthusiastically.

“You know how when you walk into a room, even in the dark, you can sense if someone is there? Not because you can see them or even hear them breathe, but because you just sense their presence. Well that’s what happens when someone dies, except in reverse; it’s as if they’ve suddenly left the room. Even if you see can their body you just can’t sense them anymore.”

Liam lifted another scone and spread butter on it, nodding his elderly hostess on.

“Jules and I were happy for forty years; that’s more than a lot of people ever get. He bought Papyrus in 1995 after retiring from the RUC.”

Liam’s ears pricked up. Jules Robinson had been a police officer! Davy had said he’d been a civil servant, but that was a euphemism a lot of policemen in Northern Ireland used when they were asked what they did. It made it harder for terrorists to I.D. them. Had Robinsons’ police career been a motive for the bombing? Sadie read his mind.

“It might have been why Jules was killed, Mr Cullen, although we’d never had any threats. But there were other reasons why people might have wanted him gone.”

Liam leaned forward urgently. “Why? What had he done?”

Sadie smiled mysteriously. “Jules did plenty of things in his life, good and bad, but it wasn’t what he did that I was referring to.”

At that moment she touched the tea-pot and made a face, tutted “it’s cold” then rose to re-boil the kettle. After the tea ceremony was completed to her satisfaction she retook her seat and started again.

“I don’t know how much you know about Smithfield, Inspector, but let’s just say that it’s a varied area. There are plenty of respectable business people there but there are plenty of others who see it as their private playground.”

Liam’s curiosity was piqued. “In what way?”

Sadie sniffed disapprovingly. “They’d like it to be like Soho in London used to be; all naked girls, porn-shops and drugs. The places that are already there are bad enough, we certainly don’t need any more.”

“So, what? They wanted you out, or they wanted you to pay protection money?”

Sadie sipped her tea and nodded. “Both. They charged Jules protection every month just to trade; I don’t know how much.”

Liam interrupted. “Do you know who?”

She wrinkled her nose as if there was a bad smell. “I know who all right and I’ll gladly give you their names. But they wouldn’t have wanted the shop destroyed or they’d have lost their income.”

Liam shook his head thoughtfully. “Unless your husband refused to pay them?”

It was Sadie’s turn to shake her head. “Jules wouldn’t have done that. He loved the shop and he’d got over being angry about the extortion years ago. No, he paid them and I don’t think they destroyed the shop, but I‘ll give you their names and perhaps you can stop them doing it to others.”

“So if it wasn’t the protection racket, why else? You said someone wanted you out of the shop?”

Sadie nodded. “Not just us, all the shops on that row.”

“Developers?”

“You’ve got it in one. So called progress.”

She waved a hand around and Liam realised that she was indicating Smithfield, not the room they were in. “Belfast is starting to grow again, now that we’re almost out of the recession. That means that a lot of apartment developments that had stalled for years are restarting and others are being planned. Jules was offered a lot of money to sell the shop.”

Liam nodded. It was a fair assessment of what happened once money started to flow. “Who’s the developer?”

“A company called SNI. They first approached Jules last summer. They made him a fair offer but he said no. We thought that was the end of it, then the two shops beside us were sold one after another. That only left us at one end of the terrace and the convenience store at the other. We heard last weekend that they were leaving as well.”

“That only left your bookshop in the developer’s way.”

Sadie nodded and bit into a scone. “They want to build new apartments. A ‘boutique’ development they call it. Apartments, a gym, swimming pool; the whole shebang.” Her face fell and for a moment Liam thought she was going to cry. “They’ll get their way now that the shop has gone.”

Liam nodded kindly but he was thinking of other things. In one conversation Sadie Robinson had added three potential motives and suspects to their list; SNI the developers, the extortionists and someone who might have wanted Jules Robinson dead because of his past life in the RUC. The case was beginning to look unsolvable before the wedding. Liam parked his doubts and focused, gazing across the table at the woman whose life he knew had just been destroyed, no matter how brave she was trying to be about it. He spoke in the softest voice that he possessed.

“Do you have any family, Mrs Robinson?”

Sadie Robinson shook her head sadly and then sighed. “We had no children. God didn’t bless us that way. I have a sister in England, but…”

Liam cut in. “I think you should go and stay with her for a while, at least until we get this sorted out.”

Sadie’s brown eyes widened. “You do? You think that I might be at risk?”

Liam shook his head. “It’s unlikely, but until we’re certain who did this, I’d rather that you were safe.”

She smiled, pleased that someone cared. She patted Liam on the cheek as if he was her son. “I’ll do it, Mr Cullen, if you promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“That you’ll come and take tea with me another day.”

Liam nodded. Not out of politeness and not to make her go to her sisters, but because he meant it. Sadie Robinson had just made a new friend.

Chapter Eight

The Lab. 1 p.m.

John was in his outer office arranging his newly reinstated cabinets when Craig arrived, and from the prints and paintings leaning against the wall Craig knew what his next task was going to be. He stood in the doorway and considered his best friend for a moment. John looked happy, happier than Craig had seen him in… well, ever really.

John had been a solitary only child when they’d met at grammar school; small and thin for his age and wearing glasses. He hadn’t exactly been bullied but he’d spent every lunchtime alone, reading a book or working on experiments in the lab. Everyone had thought he was doing it to suck up to the teachers but the years had proved them very wrong. What had started as childhood curiosity had become John’s way of life.

Craig had been curious about the quiet boy from the start. He was an uber-fit jock who played every sport at school and most of them to Captaincy. But he was something else as well; he’d been raised by educated parents and his grades were always good. It had set him apart from some of his more Neanderthal teammates who’d used brute force and ignorance to carve a path through life. That and his half-Italian parentage had isolated him at times and he’d recognised the same loneliness in John. It had driven him to make the first move towards friendship, and once past the awkward first conversations they’d become inseparable, bonded by a wicked sense of humour.

Their friendship had weathered the years, through his time in London and years of emotional purdah after his split from Camille. Through the loss of both John’s parents and Mirella’s unofficial adoption of him as her second son. Now here they were, preparing for John’s wedding and solving crimes like some latter-day Holmes and Watson, although Craig often wondered who was who.

John saw Craig watching and knew what he was thinking, but a moment’s sentimentality was all that either of them could bear so he held up an antique stethoscope and broke the mood.

“Are you going to stand there all day doing nothing, or are you going to give me a hand with this?”

‘This’ was the task of putting John’s antique medical devices back in their rightful places and Craig joined in, talking as he worked.

“Any joy on the other bodies yet?”

John was staring at a small metal device that looked as if its use had been some form of torture. He replied without looking at Craig.

“Give me a chance. You’ve got McGovern’s and Robinson’s I.D.; isn’t that enough to go on with?”

Craig shrugged. It was something but it was never enough.

“Liam’s interviewing Mrs Robinson at the moment and Annette’s at the McGovern’s, but that still leaves us with two unknowns. Can’t you get something from the remains?”

John shook his head and motioned Craig to pass him a scalpel bearing a small tag. Craig read it before he handed it over; ‘Auschwitz 1945.’ He shuddered as he realised that the implement had probably killed hundreds.

“Hell John, what do you want this stuff for?”

“It might be horrific but it’s important. To remind us never again.”

John placed the artefact firmly inside a cabinet and answered Craig’s original question.

“To get something from the remains we’d have to find recognisable prints and so far all we have is one thumb. Des is printing it as we speak, so I’m hopeful we’ll get a match on one more victim soon. We’re depending on DNA alone for the final victim, always hoping we can isolate it from a possible five DNAs in the shop. We’ll do our best but you need to prepare yourself for us never finding out who they were.”

Craig interrupted. “Davy and Liam are working on the CCTV and traffic cameras. If we can find an image of them entering the shop that might be enough.”

John’s reply was instant. “Unless they left by the back door.” He gave Craig a baleful look. “We might be looking for a missing person appeal.”

Craig’s face fell. He hated TV appeals; they were sad and desperate and although they sometimes yielded information they were a dreadful way for a family to discover that their loved one had gone. He grasped at the final straw.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance that you’re wrong?”

John raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

“That there were five people in the shop. Couldn’t there just have been four? Delaney, McGovern, Robinson and the owner of the thumb?”

John shook his head and set down the antique pill bottle he was holding. “Not unless one of them was morbidly obese. There was too much flesh for just one unknown victim. Army forensics agrees with me.”

Craig screwed up his face at the image then conceded, changing the subject quickly before John started to explain exactly why the amount of flesh was too much.

“I’ve just been to the army base.”

John headed for his office with Craig in tow. He switched on the percolator and took a seat before asking the question.

“And?”

“Captain Smith is being helpful; in fact he’s going to join us as liaison for the next two weeks if I can wrangle it. He’s bored and we need the help if we’re to get everything wrapped up in time for the wedding.”

At the word wedding John smiled; he was a man going willingly up the aisle. Craig continued.

“Major James on the other hand is an old sod. It was like pulling teeth getting information from him.”

“But you did.”

Craig smiled. “Yes. They agree Delaney survived because he was by the front door and the bookshelves shielded him. They’ve sent the bomb signature off to be looked at but it doesn’t match any recent dissident attempts so that just leaves the past fifty years’ efforts to compare against.”

John interrupted in a sceptical tone. “Or this is a first-time bomber who isn’t known to anyone.”

Craig raked his hair. “Don’t even think that. We need a break.”

The percolator signalled the coffee was ready and there was a brief pause before the conversation restarted.

John speculated thoughtfully. “OK, let’s just say that the bomber’s someone from Northern Ireland’s delightful past, then what?”

“Then we follow it where that leads, but my money says that it won’t be. There’s something about this explosion and the target that feels all wrong.”

John smiled. “More wrong than an explosion normally feels?”

Craig sipped his coffee for a moment before answering. “OK, why a bookshop? And if you wanted the large crowd of people that you could find in a retail outlet, then why a small antique bookshop? Why not one of the big high-street chains? God knows there are enough of them around.” He shook his head. “No. This is personal.”

“To the bookshop?”

“Or to its owner. Perhaps even to a particular customer.”

Suddenly Craig grabbed for his mobile and pressed Liam’s name, mouthing at John. “Liam may have got something from the owner’s wife.”

The phone was answered quickly and Craig set it on the desk, pressing speaker. It wasn’t necessary; Liam’s voice was so loud that they could have heard his words without the help.

“Hi, boss. What’s up?”

Craig leaned towards the phone. “I’m at the lab, Liam, and John and I are talking about motives for bombing Papyrus. Did Mrs Robinson suggest anything in the way of motive?”

Liam smiled to himself. He liked having information that no-one else had, even if only for ten minutes; it allowed him to impart wisdom to the masses. In the split second Liam hesitated Craig read his mind and added. “And before you make us drag it out of you admiringly, don’t bother. I’m not in the mood.”

Liam harrumphed loudly and launched into a shorter than planned summary. He finished with. “So basically it’s because Robinson was in the RUC, because of the local protection racket, or because SNI developers wanted him out of the shop. Take your pick. They were all out to get him.”

Craig let out a low whistle and Liam felt more appreciated. “Good work, Liam. Thanks. Where are you heading now?”

“Off to have a look through Robinson’s RUC record to see if anything stands out. I’ll see you back at the ranch.”

With that Liam cut the call and Craig knew it was his way of saying he was annoyed at his shortened exposition. John nodded.

“Well, there’s your list of motives, Marc. Take your pick.”

Craig shook his head. “Maybe… or maybe there’s something else. One of those might explain some things but none of them feels one hundred percent right.” John went to speak and Craig raised a hand. “Before you ask, no, I don’t know why I feel that, I just do. Call it instinct.”

“Or delusion.”

They both smiled. They had a long running debate about logic versus instinct with John always erring on the logic side. He was an empirical scientist and had been all his life; if it couldn’t be measured and replicated then it simply didn’t exist. Craig agreed, up to a point, and it was at that point that his instinct and ‘sense’ of things took over, and their methods of crime solving diverged. John didn’t know where Craig’s instinct came from, perhaps his romantic side, but either way he’d seen him pull an answer out of the vapour of ideas and be correct. John decided it was time to change the subject.

“Katy’s took Natalie to some new wedding shop yesterday.”

Craig smiled. “Yes, she said they were planning it. She was hoping they’d come up with something spectacular.”

It was John’s turn to smile. “Something that wasn’t bright yellow taffeta, you mean.”

They laughed for a moment then Craig gestured towards the outer lab. “Glad to see it back to its subdued glory.”

“Not half as glad as I am. Yellow might be fine for one day but I was starting to need sunglasses to venture outside. Now all I have to do is tell Natalie it’s been changed back.”

***

Karachi, Pakistan. 9 a.m. local time

Jennifer Weston cast a last look down the runway and then walked briskly towards the plane, adjusting her neat uniform. She didn’t like it, but needs must when she had a job to do. As she gripped the metal stair-way to the Boeing 747 she was joined by three women of varying ages, identically clad. She listened to their chatter, pretending to be interested, but all she was interested in was reaching her goal.

A red-haired girl was the most vocal. Her broad Dublin accent rang through the air, echoing the others’ thoughts. “Who’s the captain today?”

A woman with short hair, nearing the end of her career, answered. “Groggins.” She rolled her eyes and the others groaned.

“Gropey Groggins… God help us. Right then, we’re drawing lots to see who serves the cockpit. Last time I went in there he put his hand right up my skirt. “

Jennifer smiled as if she was listening, but in reality her mind was 4,000 miles and 13 hours away. The job was a means to an end, like so many others she did; an occasional front for her real work in life. Work she needed to ensure hadn’t been compromised by the stupidity of the man at her destination.

As the plane soared into the air she caught a last glimpse of the strong Eastern sun and said a silent prayer that she would return to see it again.

***

Belfast. 3 p.m.

Annette slipped off her flat shoes and rubbed her instep, soothing the hot ache as best she could. She’d never suffered this much pain when she wore heels, but she wanted to be taken seriously for promotion and flat shoes said serious officer so, no pain no gain. She slipped her shoes back on and rechecked the address, glancing at the neat semi-detached house she was parked outside. This was it, the McGovern residence. She braced herself for the emotional encounter she knew was coming and left the car, walking down the path to the house and wishing that it was longer. Anything to defer the moment when she had to see three children cry.

The McGovern’s house was unremarkable; an off-white, pebble-dashed semi, like so many others in Belfast. Its small front garden had been neglected until the grass was patchy and beige, and the flower border had died and turned to scrub. Annette pictured three small children doing their worst and a father who’d given up worrying about the garden until they were grown. Barry McGovern would never have to worry about it again.

As Annette adjusted her jacket and raised her hand to knock, the front door opened a crack and a sullen-looking girl appeared. The McGovern’s eldest; thirteen-year-old Kathleen. The girl stared at Annette with hostile eyes and Annette gazed back with sympathy in hers. How could this child possibly understand that the father she loved had been blown apart for something that was probably nothing to do with him? Just an ordinary man on an ordinary day, standing in a bookshop reading a book.

As she gazed into the girl’s blue eyes a sob caught unexpectedly in Annette’s throat. She swallowed it down, thinking again how much she admired Liam. She never told him but her awe at his work during the Troubles was enormous. How many times had Liam stood on a doorstep like this, about to talk to someone whose love and life had been ripped apart by a bomb? How had he coped? With alcohol? Definitely. And with a sense of humour as well. By growing bitter? No, she didn’t think so. Liam was irritating and politically incorrect, and at times his inappropriate banter drove her mad, but he was never really hard.

In the split second it took the thoughts to race through Annette’s mind a woman joined the young girl by the door. She opened the small crack wider and beckoned Annette in, ushering her through to a warm back room. Annette’s sob subsided during the journey but it threatened again when she saw who else was there. A determined looking boy of around eight was seated at the table, his arms folded and his chin jutting up as if he was the new man of the house. A tiny girl, a toddler, was playing at his feet and as Annette entered the boy reached down and pulled her protectively onto his knee.

Maria McGovern motioned Annette politely to a seat and disappeared for a moment, returning with a ready-prepared tray of tea and cake. She broke the silence as she poured, in a voice so soft that Annette had to strain to hear.

“You’ll have to forgive the children, Inspector. Their only other encounter with the police was on Thursday when…”

The young widow’s voice tailed off and she dropped her head, hiding her face behind her long fair hair. Annette leaned forward, seeking her eyes. She smiled into them sympathetically, encouraging Maria McGovern to sit down, then she took over the conversation, smiling at each of the children in turn.