The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (27 page)

***

Davy was daydreaming happily about Maggie when he was rudely interrupted by a ding from his right hand screen, indicating that he had mail. He’d meant to turn the noise down after Nicky’s scolding for disturbing her, and he could already see her tutting across the room. He leaned forward to his skull’s-head computer mouse and clicked – it was from The Met, probably just some boring UK-wide circular. Then he opened it and immediately took a copy to Craig’s office.

Nicky was sitting at her desk outside, checking her Christmas-red lipstick in the mirror, and re-applying it with such concentration, that he was loath to interrupt. It looked like a delicate operation, one slip and she’d look like a vampire. He decided to be brave.

“Boss around, Nicky?”

She looked around exaggeratedly in every direction and then back at him, expertly finishing her lipstick during the sweep. “Nope, I can’t see him.”

He smiled down at her, knowing that it was her last gasp of disapproval at Maggie. He didn’t mind, his Mum was just the same. “Very funny. Everyone round here’s a comedian. Could you tell me where he is then? I have an important memo for him.”

She smiled cheekily and pointed towards the door. “He’ll be coming through that door in 5...4...3...2...”

All of a sudden, Marc Craig walked across the floor towards them, and Davy stared at her as if she was psychic. Then he said it, in a way that risked his own death.

“Are you like one of those dogs who knows when its master is about to get home?” He moved quickly to stand beside Craig before she could grab him.

“Hi, Davy. Do you need me? Come on in. Coffee? Thanks, Nicky.”

They entered Craig’s corner office before Nicky could answer, but Davy knew she would get her revenge later. Craig’s office was summer-bright even in December. It was full of long slim windows that only opened slightly, in case anyone decided to commit suicide. Hadn’t anyone ever told architects that you could commit suicide with a paperclip if you wanted to?

From the room’s tenth-floor height, the view over the river and East Belfast was panoramic; Davy could look at it all day. Which is probably why he’d never be allowed a view – he would get no work done.

If he hadn’t worked here, he would never have known the history of Sailortown, the river and the docks, with its war scars and old churches. Centuries of stories of life and death.

He thought that it hadn’t been made enough of. School kids should meet the people who’d worked the area, before the generation that had lived there died out. It was like a living history exhibition.

“What can I do for you, Davy?” Craig sat down at his desk and lounged back in his chair, loosening his tie - it was the most relaxed they ever saw him. He gestured Davy to the chair opposite.

“I thought you should see this, s...sir. It’s just come through from London marked urgent, in response to my flag on the 338 Lapua. I’ll give them a call now.”

It was from a D.C.S Rajiv Chandak at headquarters, requesting a contact, and suggesting a call to La préfecture de police in Paris, if it hadn’t already been done.

“Great. I’ll give London a call if you chase up the Paris connection.”

“I passed the details to Interpol two days ago but nothing more came back from them, or from the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. H.O.L.M.E.S.2. I’ve s…searches running on the other international databases.”

“I’ll ask about Paris when I call. Maybe we’re finally catching a break.”

Davy smiled shyly, still in awe of his boss. Craig always reminded him of a TV detective, all London suits and interesting back-story. And a bit deep, unlike Liam. He smiled quietly to himself, but none of his thoughts made it into speech.

“The labs have been trying to narrow the gun down and w...we’re sure that it was a TR-42 now. I’m on to firearms to find out about dealers and trafficking.”

“Thanks.” Craig nodded him out and picked the phone up, just as Nicky entered the room holding two cups of coffee. He took the sweet black one gratefully.

“Thanks. Davy’s just gone back to his desk, Nicky. Would you mind taking it over to him?”

He pretended to miss her glare, and threw her a wide smile instead. “And would you mind closing the door? I’m going to call London. Thanks.”

She gave up glaring after a few seconds; it never worked with him anyway. Either he saw it and ignored it, or he really didn’t see it. She’d never quite managed to work out which.

Craig dialled and waited to be put through. A strong Birmingham accent came on the other end; he loved English accents, there were so many of them.

“Could I speak to chief superintendent Chandak, please?”

“You’re speaking to him, son. Who’s that?”

The brummie twang almost made him laugh, it was such a change. He didn’t know why people voted brummie an unpopular accent, he loved it. It was Geordie that he had a hard time with, rarely understanding the words, although he could still appreciate the melody.

“Good afternoon, Detective Chief Superintendent Chandak.”

“God, that’s a mouthful. Super will do.”

The accent laughed in a deep bass and Craig continued, smiling. “It’s Marc Craig from the Belfast Murder Squad, sir. I’m calling about your e-mail to our analyst.”

“That was quick, what can I tell you then?”

“Well. We’ve had a recent high profile killing, the wife of a member of parliament, and it looks like a professional job. We have the bullet, but no gun.”

“I saw your bulletin. Single shot, 338 Lapua. No trace of the shooter?”

“That’s about the size of it, except that we believe they had an accomplice.”

The superintendent’s voice became urgent. “A woman?”

“We think it might be. Your shootings had the same pairing, didn’t they?”

“Yes. We’ve had two over the past thirteen months; both single shots, both Lapua Magnums, no sign of the guns. And we’ve got nothing on the shooter at all. There was a vague sighting of a girl around the same time, but nothing concrete. What we do believe we have, is some hint of a gangland connection; with a pretty senior player over here that’s well known to us.”

“That could help us. At the moment, we’ve no idea of who commissioned the killing or why. What was the Paris reference?”

“They had a similar killing in Paris two years back. 338 Lapua, no gun, but nothing on the shooter or a girl. The Lapua’s not one that we come across in the average gun crime. That’s why your bulletin flagged up.”

“Is there anything further back that you know of, anywhere?”

“Paris is the only one we’ve heard of outside the U.K. This could be a new shooter, or someone who’s graduated to it from other things.”

Chandak paused, considering. “How would you feel about a quick trip over to put our heads together? I’m not a great one for doing business over the phone. I prefer to see the whites of your eyes.”

He laughed a big booming laugh and Craig already liked the man. He’d love a trip to London, even an overnighter; it had been his world for so many years. And he thought he could justify it now that they had two deaths.

“That would be great; I used to be at The Met.”

“Even better, I won’t have to warn you about the canteens then. Where were you based?”

“Fulham when I was in uniform, then I did the high potential scheme and worked in Kensington. Usually in Earls Court Road, with D.C.S. Merton.”

“Trevor Merton? He’s just retired, but he’s still knocking around the building somewhere. Hates to leave us. We’ll get you two together for a coffee. That sounds like a plan, D.C.I. Craig, leave it with me. Let’s say tomorrow then. I’ll contact your Super and clear it with him now, Terry Harrison, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. I can transfer you.”

“Fine. I’ll smooth the way and you bring us whatever you have. If it’s the same shooter then maybe between us we can catch a break. See you tomorrow.”

Craig went to the office door and asked Nicky to transfer the call, then gathered whatever he needed. Five minutes later Harrison called, giving permission for the trip. Emphasising that it was costing public money and expenses were to be kept to a minimum. Craig had no intention of living it large, and he’d happily spend his own money. It would be well worth it to see London again.

Chapter Nineteen

“Sorry Marc. The print that your guy pulled from the mirror was Joe Watson’s. There’s nothing there from the girl at all. Maybe the lipstick will give us a hit. Come down and have a look at the bullet.”

“I’ll be there in twenty, John. Just let me move some things.”

Craig was disappointed and John could hear it. He needed to catch a break. It took volumes of evidence to prove someone guilty, when all the guilty ever had to do was be smart enough not to leave any. He tried to help, although he shouldn’t have been on the shop-floor half as much as he was. But he loved getting involved - it was the closest adults ever got to playing cops and robbers.

Craig drove fast and accurately through the late afternoon traffic, up the Ormeau Road, towards the Saintfield Road. The road was full of new bars and restaurants and luxury urban living, once you’d got past the untidy-looking student quarter. Students made everything look scruffy; he’d been the same when he was one. It must be in the jeans.

Within ten minutes, he was holding a coffee and staring at John’s computer screen open-mouthed. John was right; it was like no bullet he’d ever seen before.

“So that’s a Lapua.”

“A 338 Lapua Magnum to be precise. Des is back from holiday. I’ll see if he’s free to join us. He’s working on a court case for Monday.”

As they waited for Des Marsham, John pulled-up a print on the screen.

“The print Sinclair found was from Joe Watson.”

“It was too much to hope that we’d get the girl from it.”

“Yes, but it does tell us something.”

Craig looked at him questioningly.

“Watson may have touched the mirror, but what sort of woman doesn’t leave a single print on her own handbag mirror?”

“One completely without vanity?”

John laughed. “How many of those do you know?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Didn’t you say Sinclair found a spray bandage in her bag as well?”

“Sure. He assumed she’d cut herself.”

“I think she was using it for something much more interesting. There was a presentation on it at last year’s Forensic conference. If it’s sprayed on the fingertips it covers up prints.”

“God. If she was doing that then she was definitely up to something. Sinclair’s instincts were right on the money.”

John flicked back to the image of the bullet and a minute later the bearded figure of Des Marsham came bouncing in, excited.

“I’ve never seen one of these rounds and I’ve just been reading up on them. Amazing little things, wait till you hear this.”

He pulled out an A4 sheet and started to read. “The only calibre designed specifically for sniping, designed to penetrate five layers....”

Craig raised a hand gently to stop him. “Sorry Des, I’ve already heard it all from Davy and he was as excited as you are. You should ring him for a chat.”

He turned to John. “Thanks, both of you. Watson’s girl is up to her ears in this. Liam’s pulling the tapes from the Castleton and we’ve Keith Ericson at Antrim, chasing the brothel where Watson met her, so we’ll get something on her. I may need to call you to a late briefing, John.”

“No problem. I’ll be here until six and at Natalie’s after that if you need me.”

Craig grinned. He was already writing his best man speech.

***

“OK. As you can see we’re being joined by Dr Winter, D.C.I. Ellis from counter-terrorism and Sergeant Ericson from Antrim. Annette’s had to go home early, to take Jordan to the orthodontists. And Nicky’s kindly taking notes.”

He nodded at Ross Ellis and the larger rounder figure of Keith Ericson, bringing them up to date. There was nothing much new, until Keith Ericson made his contribution.

Ericson was in his last year before retirement and if he’d had his way, he’d have gone years before. There was a slightly wistful air about him, as if he was longing to be playing golf, somewhere hot. His faraway look was amplified by the long shape of his lugubrious face, which reminded everybody who met him of Deputy Dog - it had been his nickname for as long as Liam had known him. He spoke painfully slowly, and nothing, neither person nor natural disaster could ever speed him up.

“Well now...There are a few things, sir.”

Everyone’s hearts sank; it would take him an hour to report at least. They couldn’t spare the time so Craig interjected, pleasantly. “Just the most important thing please, Keith.” Ericson looked a bit put-out, but he continued undeterred, and Liam mentally went to sleep.

“Joe Watson went to London every Monday morning for business, Westminster stuff. Then he’d slip back early that evening via Aldergrove airport. He’d meet the girl at the Castleton Hotel, play poker with his mates and then go home to the missus later, with her believing that he’d been in London all day. Apparently it had been going on for months.”