The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) (14 page)

T.J. was still sitting where he’d left him, nursing a cup of coffee so strong it would have had most people bouncing off the walls. He gazed down at the boy.

“We need to leave, T.J. Are you sure that you’re up for this?”

The young man wiped a tear off his thin cheek. “Better that I do it than my mum. It would kill her.” Fresh tears followed. “It will kill her anyway, but at least she won’t have to see Bobby like that.”

Jake’s voice softened. “But you will, so be sure you can cope with it.”

He knew it was a platitude. How could anyone know if they could cope with something when they’d never experienced it before? Life was one long series of shocks, most of them unpleasant, like watching his grandfather being put into a wooden box. Without waiting for T.J.’s answer Jake led the way to the car and they began their short journey to the morgue.

****

They arrived at the lab the same time as Annette and Ken and rushed to keep the relatives separate as they agreed the order of the I.D.s. Jake nodded Annette on.

“You’d better go first. You have a plane to catch.”

Annette suddenly remembered that she was off to London that evening and glanced at the clock. It was three-thirty and Nicky had booked them on the five-thirty flight. She only had an hour before check-in!

“Thanks. I’ll tell Doctor Winter that you’re waiting.”

Five minutes later the bereaved father was outside the viewing room with Ken, waiting for John to bring his daughter’s body up from the morgue, and Annette was on the road to collect Nicky and catch their plane. She was convinced that Tomasz Boraks hadn’t harmed his daughter at any age, so hopefully the others would find out who had.

Boraks’ reaction at the sight of his dead daughter left Ken in no doubt of his innocence and the full tragedy of her death. She was his only relative in the world so what would happen to him now? Only good things if they followed the instructions that Annette had left.

The next viewing was heart-breaking in a different way. If the sight of a father mourning his child was dreadful, the sight of a twenty-year-old mourning his eighteen-year-old sibling was, if possible, even worse. Terence Joseph McDonagh stood beside his little brother, stroking his hair and repeating “it’s my fault” in a keening tone. After five minutes Jake could watch no more and he entered the viewing room to guide the young man out. He found him a chair and hunkered down in front of it while John watched them both from behind the glass, knowing that Jake’s own bereavement must be making the event almost intolerable for him.

It was, but in some ways it put his loss in perspective as well. Yes, he’d lost his grandfather but at least he’d lived a long, full life; what life had Bobby McDonagh had? A teenage boy who’d had his whole future snuffed out. What life had any of their three victims experienced? Fifty-three years between them and now all gone. The pathologist watched as Jake’s empathy was replaced by anger, the change echoed in his posture as he rose.

John had phoned Craig when Boraks had arrived for the I.D. Now he entered, tapping his friend on the shoulder to say that he was there.

“Both of them?”

John nodded.

“So we have all three I.D.ed.”

“Sam Beech sixteen, Elena Boraks nineteen, and now Robert, Bobby McDonagh, eighteen years old.” John shook his head. “What a bloody waste.”

Craig didn’t disagree. He indicated Jake. “How’s he holding up?”

“Pretty well, actually. I thought this might have been hard on him, what with his granddad, but it actually seems to be helping.”

Craig smiled, unsurprised by Jake’s stoicism.

“He’s a good officer and with Annette away for a few days we could do with his help.”

John gestured through the glass to where Andy was leaning against a windowsill. It looked like the only thing keeping him vertical.

“What’s he like? Seems a bit lazy.”

Craig shrugged. “He’s trying to be cool. Probably watched too much Starsky and Hutch like us.”

John was sceptical. “Like you, you mean. I was always in a library.”

Craig conceded the point. “Anyway, he’s got a good rep for closing cases. He just doesn’t do himself any favours by the way he behaves sometimes, especially with female officers.”

“Lecherous?”

“More like God loves a trier. To be really lecherous he’d have to get past saying hello. That’s usually all it takes for them to walk away.”

John smiled with the wisdom of a newly married man. “Find him a woman then. It’ll be a service to mankind.”

As Jake led T.J. towards the exit Craig rapped the glass, beckoning them back.

“Take Mr McDonagh to the C.C.U. relatives’ room and interview him please, Jake.”

The sergeant gave a nod. “Just where I was heading.” He glanced at their sleep walking D.C.I. “And D.C.I. Angel?”

“Don’t worry about him. I have something that will wake him up. Where’s Annette by the way?”

“Gone to collect Nicky for their flight.” He indicated a small office. “Ken’s in there with Mr Boraks.”

“Fine.” Craig beckoned Andy to follow him to the small room where Ken was handing a stunned looking Tomasz Boraks a cup of tea. He called Ken outside and turned to them both.

“OK, we now have all three victims I.D.ed., but that’s all we have.” He stopped abruptly, noticing that Carmen wasn’t there. “Where’s Carmen, Ken?”

Ken winced in embarrassment. “Back at base. She and Annette had words, so Annette and I went to see Mr Boraks instead.”

Craig rolled his eyes, knowing that another discussion with Carmen was looming. Annette would never ground someone without good cause.

“OK. Andy, you and Ken sort out Mr Boraks with a family liaison officer. He looks dreadful so I don’t want him left alone––”

Ken cut in. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you should see the dump he’s been living in. His daughter was his only family and she took care of the shopping and his pension. If she’s not around…well, he already neglects himself.”

Craig nodded. He’d spotted the elderly man’s neglect immediately. “Get him an emergency social care placement and when he’s feeling up to it interview him properly. I need to know if he had any idea of his daughter’s lifestyle, contacts, anything that might help.”

“He said she worked in a shop on the Ormeau Road called SuperMark.”

“Get Davy to check it out. OK, we also have a name for our first male victim and Jake’s following that up now. Andy, keep oversight of the cases today and utilise Carmen, Ken and Jake on digging deeper into everyone’s lives. Keep me up to speed with whatever you find out and tell Carmen she’s to stay in the office until I get a chance to speak to her.”

Andy had been nodding lethargically, now he asked a question. “What’s Liam doing?”

Craig smiled; knowing that whatever he was doing it would be something good. “He’s following up some hunch; we’ll find out more at the briefing.” He glanced at his watch wondering if Annette would make her flight. “Right, it’s after four so get on with it and I’ll see you both at the ranch in an hour. Remember that we’ve no Nicky for a few days so call me directly for anything you need.”

****

Liam’s curry had disappeared two hours earlier, leaving a hole in his stomach that needed to be filled. A garage-bought pie did the trick and as he chomped his way through it he thought about the case; the meal mundane but his thoughts less so. They were of dead languages and long ago times, before reporters and cameras had stripped the world of all its mystery.

Aloysius had been the Christian Brother’s name; Brother Aloysius McGovern, Bachelor of Arts. He could picture him now in his black cassock, hair flying as he raced down the parqueted corridors on his way to class. He’d been young, nearer their age than any of the other staff, and fit, as alive on the Gaelic field as he’d been telling tall tales in class. One of the lads. It had given him credibility with his class of teenage boys, as had his desire not to use the strap on every errant youth.

He’d taught them history, religion and Latin and had often mixed the three, livening up the boring verbs and declensions with tales of daring-do from centuries before. They’d suspected that not every story was true of course, but no-one had really cared. Lessons became half learning, half adventure, as Aloysius painted pictures of combat and intrigue that had made them want to race to class.

Liam swallowed a final mouthful of pastry and balled up the wrapper, sliding down the car window to pot it in a nearby bin. He checked the time then reclined for ten minutes’ more reverie.

One of Aloysius’ stories had always stuck with him; not Roman but later, part of medieval history, Roman Catholic to be precise. But not modern day Catholic with its bright churches and cheerful priests who cared if their congregation liked them and wanted to be their friends. No, this story was old school. Hell fire and damnation, men in rich regalia sweeping through darkened corridors at night. Corridors lit by flaming torches, leading to iron-doored cells where unfortunates languished under lock and key.

He could picture the men just as Aloysius had described them. Unwashed, unfed converts and faith born men who had lost their way, chained against walls dripping with filthy water and shivering on stone slab floors, their only crime not to conform to the orthodoxy of the medieval church. Liam laughed out loud, not at the caricature it painted but at the knowledge that some older clergymen probably still believed it was the best way.

He pictured a medieval Guantanamo, minus the orange jumpsuits and sunlit exercise yards. Cell doors creaking open and the men inside being led in flickering darkness to larger rooms where instruments of torture had greeted them with a smile, although not, he guessed, as wide a smile as their torturers’.

Aloysius had told them of the implements used: Strappado, the Judas Chair and the rack, in a hushed voice that begged them not to repeat his words outside the classroom. Liam tried to imagine a teacher describing such things nowadays; they’d be hauled away screaming by the PC police. But they’d been testosterone rich teenage boys desperate for a thrill and it was testament to the excitement they’d felt that Aloysius’ history and Latin grades were the highest in the school.

Latin. The key to this case was Latin but he wasn’t yet sure how. He knew the language well; years of schooling had ensured that, so he’d known immediately that the words tattooed on their victims’ bodies were all wrong. ‘Gentum est confessio illa veritate’ wasn’t any Latin that he’d learned, but he was pretty sure he knew a man who could translate.

He pulled out his mobile and made a call, smiling as he snapped shut the phone. Then he threw his car into a U-turn and headed down the A24 to Crossgar to visit a tall, wild-haired man that he’d thought he would never see again.

****

The Relatives’ Room. Docklands.

T.J. McDonagh tightened his grip on the mug of tea and sniffed back the end of his tears. Then he thought of his mother and having to tell her that her baby son was dead and they began flowing again. Jake leaned forward to catch his eye.

“T.J., can we talk about Bobby? I need to ask a few things.”

The youth sniffed assent and gazed into his still full cup.

“When did you last see him?

The big brother answered in a dull voice. “Four weeks ago. He was getting ready for a gap year trip to Spain. He was planning to do Spanish and French at Uni next year.”

“When was he due to leave?”

T.J. screwed up his face, remembering. “I think it was the first Wednesday in March.” The fourth.

“Was he travelling with anyone?”

The boy shook his head, half smiling. “Bobby liked his own space. Used to say that a companion would hold him back.” He glanced up at Jake with pride in his eyes. “He was an organised kid. Booked his own flights, the Paradores he was staying in, everything.”

Davy would check everything, but his hunch was that Bobby McDonagh had never made his plane. He changed tack.

“When did Bobby realise that he was gay?”

It was a bluff – they still had no proof that he had been. He held his breath as T.J. went to shrug then changed his mind and shook his head.

“I don’t know for sure when he knew. But…he started asking me questions when he was around fourteen.”

They had their confirmation. Their second victim had definitely been gay.

He stared directly at Jake, his voice firm. “And before you ask, no I didn’t give him any details and I
definitely
didn’t glamourise the life. Mum and Dad would have killed me if I’d influenced him.”

Jake remembered his own confusion at fourteen. He would have given anything for a brother to talk to but his granddad had been the next best thing.

“And later? Did he keep asking?”

T.J. nodded, his dark hair falling across reddened eyes. “All the time.” He hesitated before continuing. “He used to ring me and cry down the phone.” He shook his head sadly, as if he was thinking that he could have done more to help. “That was when he started getting into trouble.”