The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (34 page)

She looked around at Nicky typing away with her earphones in, and Davy talking on the phone, and realised that she didn’t need to persuade anyone but herself and Liam to keep going.

Then, completely without warning, Davy stood up and shouted “Yes!” loudly. Liam saw him rising and played a dramatic drum roll on his desk. Davy had had eureka moments like this before and they were usually pretty impressive.

“Ladies and Gentleman, I think that we’ve got our connection.”

Nicky saw him standing-up and took her earphones off. “What’d you say?”

Before Davy could answer her, Annette leapt in excitedly “You mean a connection between Watson and Greer?”

He nodded and paused smugly for effect.

“Davy, if you don’t tell us right now I’m going to deck you. Get on with it.”

Davy looked over at Liam nervously and got on with it. “They were both members of S.F.F., the S…Strategic Finance Foundation. It’s the body that makes decisions about allocating public money to business and developments. Part of their job is attracting inward investment from the Republic, UK, E.U and America. In the past three years, they’ve put five billion pounds through the books in grants, loans, and joint initiatives. Things like that.

Every Enterprise Minister has to be on the board, but the reason that it wasn’t obvious at first was that Joe W…Watson only took over as Minister in February. His predecessor was that old buffer, Ron Burgess. You remember. He was on that TV debate last year about the effect of the Euro on cross-border retail margins.”

Liam raised his eyes to heaven. So that was who watched those things. “Was that on at Croke Park or Ravenhill, lad?”

Nicky laughed loudly. When he was being funny she really fancied Liam, except Gary would kill her if she even thought that way. He was the jealous type and she quite liked it, it was a good way to keep him in line.

Annette looked at her, chastising. “Oh God, don’t laugh and encourage him, Nicky. He’s been running amok with the boss away. Go on, Davy.”

“I’ll ignore that philistine remark, Liam. Anyway, Ron Burgess was the old Enterprise Minister and he retired nine months ago, so Joe W...Watson only joined the foundation in February for a months’ overlap. But Declan Greer and his wife Joanne have been members since 2008. They practically founded the thing.

To be fair, it’s done lots of good things. Helped create 8,000 jobs, built three housing estates for the over sixty-fives. That type of thing.”

“I know Greer’s an accountant, but why is his wife on the board?”

“The word is
she’s
the real high-flyer, Annette. S...She’s a lawyer, commercial and contract law mostly, and w...was a highly paid criminal barrister in London years back. I’ve phoned around a bit and Declan Greer is very well liked, an affable type, but apparently s... she’s a bit of a bitch.”

Nicky wagged her finger disapprovingly at Davy’s language and he turned his head away shyly. “Anyway, it s...seems that they’re quite the little Bill and Hilary’.”

“That’s brilliant, Davy. Can you get hold of the notes and minutes for the board meetings since Watson joined, please? I’ll start digging into Joanne Greer’s background. If Liam...” Annette turned to look pointedly at him. “Will look at Declan’s?”

From Liam’s pleased look, Annette realised that she’d just given him a free pass.

“Aye, sure. That’ll be no problem at all, Cutty, seeing as Derek Cantor’s lot have already done it for me.”

Liam pulled himself up to his full height and boomed across the section. “Now, as your acting D.C.I.” Annette snorted.

“I’ll ignore that. As your boss, I think that Davy’s mental exertion should be rewarded with a drink now. Then you two can return to the hard work at six. I’ll be heading out to Lilith’s, but only to meet Keith Ericson, of course.”

Nicky needed no encouragement, already pulling her handbag out of the drawer, and Davy was on his feet instantly. Annette knew when she was beaten and grudgingly logged-off.

***

The meal at ‘The James’ on Princes’ Dock Street was like a school outing. It wasn’t that Craig’s presence had ever inhibited them exactly, but they were like all teams when the leader was away, immediately saying the one thing that they might think twice about in their presence. Which meant that Liam got ruder, Nicky put him down harder, Davy laughed more at both their antics, and Annette became the disapproving ‘head girl’, calling them all to order. And that was just what she was going to do, when she’d finished her chips.

Liam had just suggested a second drink when she overruled him ruthlessly. She stood up and headed for the door, throwing. “Well, I’ve work to do,” over her shoulder, successfully hitting everyone’s guilt and duty buttons with one short sentence. They knew she was right, but that didn’t mean that she was getting away with it scot-free. Liam waited deliberately until she was at the door and then shouted across the crowded saloon. “And another thing, Annette. I’ll be home when I’ve finished at the brothel, and not before.”

***

Craig stretched his right arm out, rubbing at his wrist. It ached from the strangely shaped computer mouse that he’d been clicking at for an hour: London issue. He squinted at the dim desk-light and rubbed his eyes hard. The tape room was typical of its type, small and dark. He thought that there must be a standard U.K. uncomfortable design, to discourage loitering, as if anyone would get a thrill out of watching traffic-cam CCTV.

He turned back to the screen tiredly, and clicked on the video file for the evening of Tuesday 11th December, Joe Watson’s final evening with the girl. The tape cut to Alik Ershov’s house in Essex. There was nothing much to see, except for a dark Jaguar leaving at seven and returning again at eleven. The windows were tinted so there was no way of seeing inside. And the only view that the long-range-lens could get was of the suited driver, a young Asian man, climbing in at seven, before he drove off.

The next file in the sequence was labelled “Heathrow Airport Terminal One” at eight-thirty, about ninety minutes later. The same driver, caught as he parked in the short-term car-park, and then walking alone towards the Terminal building. He was collecting someone!

Craig tensed, hoping, no, knowing what he would see next. The surveillance camera followed the man through international arrivals on the ground floor where he entered the lift. The next view caught him emerging one floor up and walking to domestic arrivals, to stand in the greeting area by the doors. He was holding a name-card, but the camera couldn’t pick out the detail. It didn’t matter, what came next was worth far more.

The automatic doors opened and a trail of people started coming through, some carrying briefcases and some with hand luggage. Craig knew from experience that the trolleys would come last. He leaned forward and turned-up the tape’s resolution, staring at the man closely. The driver was watching everyone. He didn’t know what his pick-up looked like!

Just then a tall, tanned man walked towards him smiling, sunglasses obscuring the upper half of his face. It didn’t matter, the girl who walked alongside him identified them both well enough for Craig. It was her. She was wearing a hat and sunglasses, but the build, curves and the description of her face-shape and smile were enough to identify her.

She looked just like the Donegal photo-fit that Nicky had e-mailed across, as soon Joe Watson had corroborated the dark blonde, green-eyed version of it. Kaisa Moldeau was Ausra Mitic, and she was part of a couple.

The cameras followed them through international arrivals and out into the short-term car-park, where a final shot caught them entering the car. The registration was caught entering the Earls’ Court Road, and traffic-cams followed them, eventually parking in Sloane Crescent. Craig looked at the file; the accompanying notes said that there were hotels there. An hour later, the car was sighted heading towards Essex with only the driver exiting at Alik Ershov’s house. He’d dropped the others at a hotel!

Craig turned the page. The car had been sighted again the next day, doing the journey in reverse. Then back to Ershov’s house in Essex with only the man, returning again to London a few hours later. There had been something on at Ershov’s that day, with lots of young girls in party dresses climbing out of ritzy cars. But Craig doubted that the man was a party guest. Perhaps Ershov thought the party provided them with some sort of cover. One thing was clear; the man must matter for Ershov to send his driver for him two days in a row.

The surveillance team lost the passenger after the return journey to the hotel, but it didn’t matter, Craig knew exactly where he’d gone next. Back to Antrim to kill Declan Greer. Or not.

He called Nicky hurriedly to request Heathrow and Belfast Airports’ footage on all Wednesday’s and Thursday’s arrivals and departures from London, plus the passenger lists. Even aliases might help them in some way. Then he printed out the best images of the pair and left the room quickly, sprinting up the five flights of stairs to Chandak’s office. Yemi came out of the office just as he arrived.

“Ah, Marc. I was just coming to see you. This came through from your office. From a Dr Winter.”

“Thanks, but come back in with me. I’ve got something to show you both.”

They listened patiently as Craig outlined the evidence, and then compared the girl from the tape to the photo-fit of Kaisa Moldeau. It was close enough. Chandak called Earl’s Court quickly, sending officers to every hotel in Sloane Crescent with copies of the images, without holding out any real hope of still finding them there.

“If they’re the professionals that we think they are, they’ll be in the wind by now.”

“At least it gives us a definite link between Ershov and the two shootings in Northern Ireland, sir. The information John has sent will stand comparison to your cases, I’m sure of it. And probably Paris’ as well.

It must be the same shooter in all five cases. The 338 Lapua isn’t a commonly used round and we’ve got metallic residue at the racecourse now, which I’m certain will be a sniper rifle. The two main rifles to use that ammo are the SAKO and A.I. and it’s likely that he sticks to the same type, the SAKO. Maybe the guns will lead the firearms team somewhere. But whatever else, we must have enough to get Ershov in for questioning now, sir. Surely?”

Chandak nodded. “We can have a go anyway. His driver picking up your pair, and the male visiting him at the house the following day was very careless of him. But there’s no way Ershov will have taken that risk without having a good story prepared, so I doubt we’ll make the murders stick to him directly. Although…it might give us some leverage. We might get something on your two.” He smiled broadly. “And I’d like to give this bastard a few uncomfortable hours.”

Chandak gave the order to lift Ershov the next morning at seven. Allowing for London traffic he would be in the interrogation room by 10.30am at the latest. Plenty of time to gather their thoughts for the interview.

“Right, now, he’s not coming in under arrest. We don’t have enough for a warrant, and I don’t want to shoot our bolt too soon. He’ll lawyer-up of course, uses a bunch of slick bastards at Montgomery and Windsor in Hyde Park. But we’ll get him for a day at least, so see what we can get out of him. In the meantime, I’m going to get his phone records reverse-checked. Let’s see if he’s been a careless little Russian...”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Stevan disembarked with his hand luggage, and moved quickly to the Terminal One exit he’d walked through with Kaisa just two days before. He pressed the lift’s call button impatiently, with one eye on the three armed airport police officers who were wandering casually past the waiting relatives at domestic arrivals.

He was being paranoid; they weren’t interested in him. It was confirmed as they strolled past him and he entered the lift unimpeded, feeling relaxed enough to hold the doors open for an elderly man.

The lift descended to the trains’ floor and he walked rapidly down the long neon concourse, past the electronic hoardings and ticket machines until he reached the Express platform. He stood to one side, scanning the emerging crowd for Kaisa’s familiar white-blonde hair.

A small hand waved frantically through the crowd at him, and she ran towards him, hurling herself at his chest for a hug, as if she hadn’t just seen him the day before. It was her child-like trust and constant need for his presence that made him adamant never to leave her. He would be her protector forever, at any cost.

“Stevan, are you OK? Was it OK? Why are we leaving so quickly?”

He smiled down at his baby sister, remembering her chubby little legs when she first started to walk. Not so chubby now, she was far too thin. It was beyond fashionable. He had to get her away from all this death.

“We will not talk of these things now, Draga. I will explain later. You have the luggage?”

“Yes, I left it at the Terminal ready. The taxi-man was so kind, he helped me with everything, for a big tip of course.” He smiled wryly; not that big if he knew her.

“Good.”

He looked at his watch; five thirty and their flight was at seven. Only ninety minutes to get through security. She opened her bag and handed him the fresh passports. For once, the pictures looked vaguely like them, although the names were still false. It didn’t really matter. After all, what evidence did they have on them? They wouldn’t find them, and if they ever did, what could they prove?