The History Suite (#9 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (37 page)

“She died. Natural causes. Pitt’s outlived a lot of people.”

Craig nodded. Caleb Pitt had lost a lot of loved ones. He wondered if it made life seem cheap.

“Pitt’s had health problems in the past nine years, mostly his chest. He’s a heavy s…smoker and it’s left him with emphysema; that’s a lung disease.”

Liam interjected. “Are the cigs why he lost his leg, or was that combat?”

“Neither. He got diabetes in his s…seventies and lost the leg from that.”

Craig nodded. The same thing had happened to an uncle of his in Rome. “OK. So when did Pitt move into Reilly?”

“2012. He was one of the first residents recruited by Prof Taylor.”

“Any reports of what he’s like there?”

“Fine, apparently. Helps new residents s…settle in, goes to get things for people from the shop. Even drives them into town if necessary; he has an adapted car. Never a cross w…word.”

“And his hands fit for strength?”

“Yes.”

Craig thought of something and turned to Carmen. “Did Dr Kirk have any scent of mint about him, Carmen?”

She shook her head. “None. No aftershave and he doesn’t smoke. I suppose he might chew gum occasionally but he doesn’t seem the type for that. Sorry. By the way, Annette called and said they don’t use any cleaning fluids with a mint or menthol scent on the wards, sir.”

It was the first ‘sir’ and ‘sorry’ they’d heard for months and Liam opened his mouth to say as much. Craig shut it with a glance; whatever was making Carmen pleasant he could do without Liam hexing it. She hadn’t finished.

“Annette wasn’t happy when she heard Ferdy Myers had been held. She said he had PTSD and a cell wasn’t the best environment for him.”

“I’m inclined to agree but we can’t release him till we’re sure.” He turned to Davy. “Davy, tell Jack to keep Myers on close watch and get the FME to make regular checks.”

Liam objected noisily. “He’s not that fragile! You should have seen his face when he talked about Rudd and Cooke.”

Craig ignored him and carried on. “OK, we need to look at Pitt very hard. Why has he moved around so much in retirement, what happened when he was in the military, where was he exactly at the time of the crimes?”

Jake opened his mouth to object but Craig shook his head.

“Before anyone says it, I know we already have a suspect in custody and I know an eighty-year-old killer seems far-fetched, but something tells me we haven’t cracked this case yet.” He turned to Liam. “Liam, dig into Pitt’s background with Jake. Carmen, you and I are going to chat to Mr Pitt on the ward. Davy, is there any match on that print on Cooke’s watch strap?”

Davy grimaced. “S…Sorry, chief. Nothing on the usual databases. Myers has been printed and we’re waiting for a match, but Kirk and Pitt both refused. We might need w…warrants there. I’ll run it against military databases, given that all three men were in the forces, although I doubt the Yanks will open theirs to us. Pitt’s an American citizen so he has rights.”

“He doesn’t have a UK passport?”

Before Davy could answer Liam asked Ken a question. “How the hell is he affording his medical care?”

“He must have money tucked away.” Ken made a face. “Military pensions in the US must be a damn sight better than ours.”

Davy interjected. “Pitt has dual citizenship so the NHS is free.”

Craig steered the discussion away from economics. “Maybe the Americans will let you send them the print to check it themselves.”

Davy shrugged. “I’ll try.”

“OK. If you can’t I’ll get the Chief Constable onto it. Ken, I want you to act as military liaison for us. Go to the American Embassy and see if you can speak to someone connected to their military. Pitt isn’t going anywhere at the moment so we have a little time. Carmen and I will keep an eye on him. OK, that’s it for now. Everyone knows what they have to do. Get ready for a late night. We may need to brief again.”

As the group dispersed Craig leaned over to Davy.

“I need you to run a new search.”

Davy stared at him, wondering what more there was to search for.

“On?”

“Deaths of drug-dealers in the UK and America, and can you also check on something else…”

Chapter Fourteen

The Chief Constable’s office. 8 p.m.

“I know it’s unusual, sir, but...”

“It’s necessary for the case.”

Craig nodded. “If we can’t trace this print then we can’t tie anyone definitively to the murder and any halfway decent barrister will get it chucked out of court.”

Sean Flanagan rolled his eyes at the thought of fighting through yards of American red tape. UK departmental officials were tough enough without dealing with the Yanks. He wondered if civil servants everywhere took a course on ‘how to obstruct’; it certainly seemed to be their usual M.O.

He sipped at his cooling coffee and made a face and then yelled for his P.A. “Donna, fresh coffee for two.”

Craig grinned, wondering what Nicky’s response would be if he tried that on her – probably a pot tipped over his head. Donna ambled in, seemingly unperturbed by her boss’ less than polite summons. She lifted the cold pot and reappeared two minutes later with a hot one. The exaggerated slowness with which she set it in front of Flanagan and her long-suffering smile at Craig told him that Flanagan would get the lecture once he’d gone. Summoning her like a housemaid might impress the troops but there’d be a price to pay.

They turned back to the case.

“You’re convinced we need to check US military fingerprints?”

Craig nodded.

“Care to run me through why?”

It was said without expectation.

“I’d prefer not to at the moment, sir.”

Flanagan shrugged and dialled a number. Craig could hear Donna answering on the other side of the wall.

“Get me the American Ambassador will you?”

“I might.”

“What will it take?”

“Chocolates.”

“OK. Now put through the call.”

Two minutes later Flanagan’s phone rang.

“John. How are you? And how’s Diane? Good, good. We must have dinner soon.”

Craig heard Ambassador John Richie’s voice clearly then Flanagan made his request.

“So, we need to send a print through, to be run against your military database.”

The quiet murmuring on the other end rose to a higher pitch. Flanagan’s pitch matched.

“Necessary? Of course it’s necessary, man. It’s a murder case! Two murders in fact. We’ve a print and the evidence is pointing towards a possible military link. Don’t worry, we’re asking the British Army to check their records as well.” Flanagan listened for a moment and then rolled his eyes. “Yes, OK… And if you find a match we’ll meet face-to-face before you give us a name.”

The two men chatted on for a moment then Flanagan signed off and turned to Craig.

“Send me the print. But you’d better hope it matches someone because I’ve just made the ultimate sacrifice. I agreed to play golf and John Richie’s the worst player I’ve ever seen.”

***

“Des, get the print from Cooke’s watch over to the Chief Constable, please.”

Des stared at the phone and made a face. He had no choice but to comply but he didn’t like copies of his evidence going walkies around the force. He’d have been even less pleased if Craig had told him it was going all the way to America. Craig clicked the phone off then dialled again and got Ken. Smith was trudging back to his car, metaphorically bruised and bloodied after his encounter with the US military liaison. Craig heard the defeat in his ‘hello’ and made his first word an apology.

“Sorry.”

Ken squinted at the phone, wondering what he deserved an apology for but magnanimous in his acceptance just the same.

“No problem, sir. What are you sorry for?”

“Sending you to deal with the US officials. Was it hopeless?”

Ken grimaced, remembering how many times the tanned officer had ‘yes and no sirred’ him. You could lose years wading through those salutes.

“Pretty much.”

“Leave it and get on to Craigantlet army base. You might get more joy from the M.O.D.”

“Are we forgetting about the Yanks then?”

Craig shook his head as he answered. “The C.C. has got the US Ambassador onto it. So just check the UK databases and bring me whatever you get.”

One of the military databases would ping with their print eventually and Craig knew which one his money was on.

***

Craig dumped his Audi in the car park at the back of Reilly and rang the bell. It was answered by Hazel Gormley. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something about her affair but he decided to let it go. She looked embarrassed enough without him rubbing it in.

“Hello, Sister. Is D.C. McGregor here yet?”

Gormley nodded and led the way to her small office. They passed elderly people playing chess, watching TV and chatting in small groups on the way; they looked happy, happier perhaps than some would have been sitting alone at home. Craig pictured himself there in forty years’ time but it didn’t scan; if he was still alive then he’d be on a balcony in Italy drinking wine.

Carmen rose briskly as he entered the office and he marvelled at the seemingly ungrudging show of respect. Perhaps her counselling session had worked or perhaps something between her and Ken was working even better. When the sister left to collect Caleb Pitt he brought her up to date.

“One of the military databases will match the print on Cooke eventually, but a good lawyer will argue it could have been left in some innocent way. We need a confession. We haven’t got one from the others so let’s see what we can get from Pitt.”

There was no point prescribing the interview questions, interviews were living things: silent, meandering or abrupt.

“Follow my lead and don’t be surprised by what I ask. I have background info that you don’t.”

A moment later the door was knocked and Caleb Pitt’s wheelchair forced its way in with a bang. Pitt was grey-haired, what was left of it, with muscular arms and shoulders built by years of strong living, kept that way now by pushing a chair. His skin was weathered, but something about its clarity said that he’d had a privileged life. His eloquent first words confirmed it, and that he intended to play games.

“Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.” Hamlet. It suited his sonorous voice. He extended a hand to Craig and strengthened his American accent deliberately. “Caleb Pitt. And you are?”

Craig shook his hand, gauging its size and strength as he did. Something about the grip said Pitt was a man used to getting his way.

“Superintendent Craig and this is Constable McGregor.”

Pitt inclined his head politely towards Carmen and then turned back to Craig. “Well now, ain’t that a strange first name? ‘Superintendent’. Where I come from folks call their kids things like Caleb and George.”

Craig ignored the jibe, knowing that Pitt was jockeying for supremacy. He had no intention of giving it to him.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr Pitt. This is a formal interview so I’m going to caution you.”

“I’m going nowhere.”

“Would you like legal counsel present?”

Pitt guffawed. “A lawyer? No thanks. Best place for them is in the grave.”

Even Craig didn’t dislike the legal profession that much.

As Craig read him his rights Pitt manoeuvred his chair expertly to face the desk, forcing Craig to sit behind it or talk to his back. Carmen positioned herself at the short end so that the three sat so close in the small room that they could feel each other’s breath. Craig deliberately slowed his speech to exert control and the glint in Pitt’s eyes said that he recognised a worthy foe.

“You’ll be aware of the two recent murders in the unit.”

“Who could miss your boys all over the place?”

“You were here on both occasions.”

“I live here, Mr Craig. You know that.”

Carmen watched as the men batted words skillfully back and forth. It felt like a warm-up at Wimbledon. Craig leaned back in his chair, increasing the space between them and Carmen watched Pitt lean forward to compensate. The desk halted him halfway.

“Tell me a little about yourself, Mr Pitt.”

The old man smiled, showing his teeth. They were large and slanted, like a shark’s. He strengthened his US accent deliberately.

“Come now, Mr Craig. Let’s not play games. You already know plenty about me I ’spect.”

Craig smiled coolly. “Humour me.”

Pitt folded his hands and nodded. “Well now…let me see. I was born in Georgia, that’s in the southern states of America ’case you don’t know. My daddy was a peach farmer and a darned good one too, so I grew up in what people might call comfortable circumstances.” He turned to Carmen and Craig was curious to see what came next. “You should go to Georgia, missy. Pretty little thing like you would be fêted there.”