The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (5 page)

He reached swiftly for the door handle, pulled the door open, and with a wave and a falsetto “keep me up to date” he strode across the floor to the lift. Ready for his brief journey back to the isolated luxury of the C.C.U’s twelfth floor.

Craig thrust himself immediately out of the low, soft chair, as Liam grabbed for the door handle, pulling himself vertical.

Craig watched him ruefully. “That’s why my handle keeps falling off! Nicky blames me every time.”

Liam grinned and Craig knew that he was about to launch into a diatribe about Harrison, so he quickly checked that he’d gone, and then waved him on.

“When was the last time he worked a case? 2010?”

Craig shrugged, his temper subsiding as quickly as it came. “Earlier than that. He’s been in the ‘political wing’ since I came back in 2008, and staff posts long before that.”

“Here, is the political stuff why they call him ‘Teflon’?”

‘Teflon’ had been Terry Harrison’s nickname for as long as Craig had known him -nothing bad ever stuck to him, although there’d been a few near misses. Everyone knew he was aware of his nickname, but Liam still would be in trouble if he heard, so Craig reluctantly said so. Liam just shrugged, after twenty–eight years in the force he’d said a lot worse than that and survived.

Liam’s stomach rumbled loudly and they were reminded of their original destination, heading quickly back to the lift before anything else stopped them. They strolled out into the wet December sunshine, across the wide expanse of Dockland’s Barrow Square and past the tram-lines in Princes’ Dock Street, heading for The James’ bar and a very well–earned lunch.

Chapter Six

By two o’clock Craig was accelerating down the narrow length of Pilot Street, then left onto Garmoyle Street and on towards the A55. Heading for the pathology labs, set in a high-tech science park on the Saintfield Road.

Annette and the others had re-appeared with their booty just as they’d returned from lunch and she’d already left to interview the mysterious Kaisa. Liam was busily checking every inch of Leighton’s alibi, but Craig already knew that he’d find nothing there.

He parked randomly outside the labs and pushed through the opaque PVC doors nearest pathology. He headed straight for the dissection room, knowing that John would be in there, having a sandwich and a game of solitaire in his cluttered, corner office.

He was there exactly as expected, the only change to his habits today was that he was playing chess with himself instead of solitaire, and winning. Craig drew an espresso from the machine, needing the caffeine, and sat down heavily at the desk.

“The way you sat down says that it wasn't a perfect morning.”

“You mean apart from the murder?”

John smiled and his fine-boned face creased-up like an accordion. He took off his black-wire glasses, rubbing them gently on his lab coat. “Harrison?”

Craig nodded.

“You’ll cope.”

They both laughed at his lack of sympathy, and then lapsed into a minute’s relaxed silence. From the day they’d met at school, they’d been friends, and the friendship was a real one, based on common values and wicked humour. Expedience had played its part at times too, a pre-growth-spurt John trading the protection of Craig’s physicality and sportiness, for his understanding of quantum mechanics. At other times, circumstances had threatened them, such as when John had briefly dated Lucia. Thankfully, she’d dumped him after a week, saving Craig’s protective brother intervention from jeopardising their close bond.

They were very different. Craig’s warm, half-Italian fieriness balanced John’s placid shyness perfectly and it had worked for thirty years, although Craig had lived in London for fifteen of them. It worked even better now that he was home.

John cleared the chessboard abruptly, declaring it a draw. “I was playing Des but he’s on holiday until Monday. I’m not much of a challenge” adding with a smile, “I always know my opponent’s next move.”

Des Marsham was the lab’s Head of Forensic Science and he worked closely with both of them. He was bearded, benign and a father twice over, contrasting with their terminal bachelorhood. And he was almost as eccentric as John, almost.

“Your body is very interesting, Marc.”

Craig laughed loudly. To anyone else the remark would have sounded strange, but he knew exactly what John meant. Irene Leighton’s body was very interesting, but until they’d solved her murder, it would feel like theirs.

“What have you found?”

John took a hurried bite of his sandwich and motioned Craig towards the cold dissection room, where their victim’s body was lying covered, on the lonely, steel table. He pulled on a pair of sterile gloves, motioning Craig to do the same, and then lifted a pointer and moved to the body, gently lifting the sheet down to the woman’s neck, revealing only her face.

He started reporting concisely and quickly, knowing that they were both uncomfortable in the presence of their innocent victim.

“I’ll just give you the main points.”

“Thanks.”

“Starting from the top. There are no marks, abrasions or bruises on her face, or in the mouth, pharynx or neck. There’s nothing on the scalp or in her hair. She’s a generally well-nourished female of between thirty and forty.”

“Nearer forty would fit; they’d been married for twenty years.”

“OK, fine. Moving down the body - I won’t lift her but there’s the entry wound of a bullet on her back, just beneath the left shoulder blade, co-linear with her heart. There was no exit wound because the bullet lodged in her fifth rib anteriorly.”

Craig nodded. Shot. At least it had been quick.

“What’s the bullet like?”

“Unusual. Not one that I’ve seen before. Des is away so I’m getting the north-west labs to look at it, but it’s certainly not standard issue. The bullet penetrated the trapezius muscle on her back and went through the interim structures. It ruptured the pericardium, the heart envelope, on entrance and exit, traversed the heart, and lodged anteriorly in the rib. Most of the blood tracked down internally.”

“The mark we saw on her back was the entry wound? And bruising?”

“Yes, but not only that.” He paused and a mix of disgust and confusion flickered across his face. “There was a tattoo at the entry site.”

“What?”

“Around the wound. Healing indicates that it was about two to three days old.”

Craig was taken aback; this was something new, even for them. “What sort of tattoo?”

John turned to him, the professional now. “If you let me finish, Marc, I’ll show you. I have photographs of everything.”

Craig nodded, conceding that he wanted everything yesterday. John smiled benignly and moved on.

“There was no sign of sexual assault or recent intercourse. She’d had at least one pregnancy, and I’d say probably more. Normal deliveries. The rest is unremarkable, apart from her right foot and left hand.

First, her hand. We saw that she had abrasions on the left knuckles and that one of her nails was torn away, almost from the nail bed. The angle of its avulsion would say that it was torn in a struggle, rather than deliberately, with pliers, for instance.”

Craig winced, reminded of nails that he had seen ‘pliered’ in London, during gang disputes. It required a particular sort of callousness. At least Irene Leighton had been spared that horror. He realised that he’d been too optimistic after John’s next words.

“I believe the injuries were caused in a struggle, while she was still alive, possibly to insert the note. I think the left was her dominant hand, so she used it to fight with. Her husband can confirm that.”

He closed his eyes for a minute, as if preparing for the worst.

“Her feet tell the rest of the story. As well as the tattoo on her back, there’s a fresh one on the sole of her right foot. We didn’t notice it at the scene because she had her shoes on. It might be linked to the tattoo on her back, but it’s much newer.”

Craig tensed, already guessing what came next.

“It was tattooed within thirty minutes of her death, Marc.” John paused and cleaned his glasses, like he always did when he was unhappy. Craig said nothing, just looked down at their victim sadly, waiting for him to restart.

“The tattoo was so fresh that it was still bleeding, while she either walked or ran barefooted onto an area of grass. It was probably the grass at Stormont, but we’re awaiting confirmation of that. Her shoes were on when she was found, but her killer could easily have replaced them after she died.”

Then he delivered the words that outlined Irene Leighton’s final ignominy too clearly.

“The grass attached itself to the tattoo as the blood clotted.”

As he talked, he lifted the sheet to reveal the sole of Irene Leighton’s right foot, and Craig could clearly see the mixture of ink, blood and grass, combining to form exactly what John said next. “It’s a grass tattoo, Marc.”

Craig looked at him horrified; this was something that neither of them had seen before. Irene Leighton’s back had been tattooed two to three days earlier, and then her right foot tattooed thirty minutes before she’d been brought to Stormont that morning. There, she had either walked or run bare-footed across the grass, so that its wet blades had embedded in her fresh wound. She’d been shot and lain face-down in front of Parliament Buildings in the shape of a cross, or lain down and then shot through the back. Her shoes had been replaced, and finally, a note had been forced into her hand as she was dying. Craig shuddered. It was chilling.

Neither man spoke as they returned to John’s office and sat there in silence for several minutes; thinking about Irene Leighton’s suffering. Craig formulating scenarios and questions for her husband, and John wondering about the bullet.

Finally, John removed a cardboard file from his desk drawer, setting it in front of his friend. Craig stared silently at it for a moment and then removed the photographs inside, spreading them across the desk. They both stood, looking down at them. Two were of special interest. One, of the area below Irene Leighton’s left scapula, the other, of the sole of her right foot. They were tattooed in the same ink and style.

The image on Irene Leighton’s back was easily recognisable, a Madonna and child, a symbol of many Christian and orthodox religions. The excoriated image on her foot was less clear. John had magnified it and Craig could see that it was writing, but it wasn’t made up of English words, and it wasn’t in any script that he recognised
.

«Я здесь и я жду».

What did it mean?

John interjected, reading his thoughts. “I’m pretty sure it’s the Cyrillic alphabet. Used in Russia and some other eastern countries. I’ve sent it off to be translated, so we should have it back later. The design on her back is interesting, and so is the note.”

Yes, they were. A Madonna and child. And the number 10. But what was the connection? And what had they to do with Stormont? Craig was more puzzled than he’d been in a long time, but at least he had more to go on than before, so he stood up quickly to go, ready for another session with their victim’s husband.

“Will you be back for the translation?”

“Davy will call you. What time suits?”

“Any time before six. I’ve a squash game at seven, up at Queens.”

“Who’s your victim?”

John had competed in squash for the university and had won every match that he’d played. Every other sport had been Craig’s domain, but squash wasn’t
called ‘jet-propelled chess’ for nothing, and what John lacked in strength he made up for in strategy. It was perfect for him. Craig just wished that his coordination on the court carried into normal life, but one glance at his office was coffee-stained proof that it didn’t.

He immediately looked shy, and Craig knew who he was playing.

“It’s Natalie Ingrams, isn’t it?”

He nodded, embarrassed. Not because there was anything wrong with Natalie, but because everything was right about her. He was falling hard and Craig knew exactly how that felt.

“She’s not bad at squash, you know.” It was high praise, but Craig decided not to tease him, turning back to the case to save his friend’s blushes.

“Davy will call you later. Liam’s busy checking Leighton’s alibi, and Annette’s at the house interviewing the nanny.” He paused for a second.

“It’s unlikely that Leighton did this, John. He’s been in Dublin for days.”

John nodded. “He was very cut-up when he I.D.ed her. I think he really loved her. But where did he think she was all week?”

“At her mother’s in Fermanagh. Of course, he could have arranged for someone else to kill her, but why, if he loved her? You were right about children, they have a son.”

“I’d be surprised if there weren’t more, Marc. The bracelet around her neck was the right size for a baby girl.”

Like Lucia’s. Craig nodded briskly and headed quickly for the door. “I’ll call you later.” Then he turned and smiled. “And let Natalie win a game this time.”

***

The re-interview with Bob Leighton yielded some more information, although how useful it would be in finding their killer remained to be seen.