The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) (3 page)

He’d known for months that his grandfather’s death was imminent and people said there should be comfort in that, as if preparing for the worst should somehow diminish its impact when it came. Well, he thought, I’ve news for all you bereavement counsellors; it doesn’t. Expected or unexpected death, they were both the same; final, full stop, the end. No more cups of tea and warm chats, no more stories of his granddad’s war-time childhood to make him laugh; no more familiar deep voice saying hello when he came to call.

In the recent months spent caring for him more intimately there’d been longer talks and quieter words. ‘Take care of your granny and the insurance books are in my desk’ talks, and ‘do you remember that time you fell from the tree in the park and your granny blamed me for letting you climb?’ There’d been laughter and tears as well. As Jake stood in the street remembering he admitted grudgingly that expected death might have its benefits; more time to say the things that needed to be said, more time to ask what needed to be asked.

He made a face. And more time to imagine a week like this. The week in which he’d lost the only father he could remember and had to choose which wooden box to bury him in.

****

The C.C.U.

Craig appeased Liam by perking fresh coffee when they returned to his office, then he proceeded to pick his deputy’s brains.

“OK. Two dead people under twenty. Different sexes. The girl definitely a drug user, abused, several abortions. Probably a sex worker, possibly trafficked––”

Liam cut in. “Through where?”

“Does it matter? She ended up in Belfast.”

“It matters. It might lead us to where she came from, and ipso facto who bumped her off.”

Craig made a face; all the Latin in the world wouldn’t give them a name but he decided to follow the idea through.

“OK, so let’s say she came from Croatia, or Bulgaria, or Albania, and she arrived at one of the fifteen airports or thirty-four ports in Ireland, not to mention the private aerodromes and illegal dropping off spots. She still ended up in Belfast.”

Liam nodded. “OK. So where she was billeted when she got here will tell us more.”

“Agreed. So what do we know about trafficking in Belfast?”

“Us, nothing. But Geoff Hamill down in Gang Crime will know a shedload.”

As he finished the sentence Craig moved past him to the door, yanking it open just as Nicky’s hand dropped to knock. The result was a near collision of her fist and his face. Liam grinned.

“That’ll ruin your good looks.”

Nicky’s mouth opened and closed in surprise. She recovered quickly.

“D.C.I. Angel is here to see you.”

It was on the tip of Craig’s tongue to say ‘send him in’ then he changed his mind and beckoned Liam to follow him to where Angel was sitting by Carmen’s desk. As they approached, Liam whispered loudly.

“He’s at it again. Watch this.”

‘At it’ meant that Andy Angel was doing what he did when he met any woman whom he considered of datable age; he was hitting on her hard. But Carmen McGregor wasn’t a woman to be trifled with, not even when she was in a good mood, and she’d only had two of those confirmed since she’d joined the squad the summer before. Liam gestured Craig to hang back and they stood by Nicky’s desk watching things unfold.

Angel was lounging elegantly on a hard backed chair, something even Liam couldn’t manage despite practicing for years. His short, boyish frame was clothed in drainpipe trousers and a soft white shirt that they knew must have cost him a hundred pounds. Paired with a string tie the effect was either modern boy band or a throwback to the Mods, depending on your age; testament to there being nothing new in the fashion world.

They watched as the D.C.I. smoothed back his gelled blond hair and Liam was certain he’d spotted two holes in his ear; all very trendy except that Carmen was a traditional Scottish girl who preferred her shortbread plain. When her Edinburgh lilt hit the air it was as hard as ice.

“Is there something I can do for you, Chief Inspector Angel?”

Andy leaned forward, placing an elbow on her desk. Craig expected a klaxon to sound marking the infringement, but instead Carmen’s eyes narrowed and she pushed the offending limb off, resulting in Angel’s elbow hitting his knee. His mouth opened in shock then shut again hastily when he saw her squint. Undeterred, he regrouped for a fresh assault.

“I was wondering if you knew of any good restaurants. For dinner this evening perhaps?”

His voice was deep, not as deep as Liam’s bass but then only a bassoon compared with that, but deep nonetheless. But instead of the dark chocolate tone that he was aiming for, his chat up line emerged like an oil slick and if the technique had ever worked for him it definitely wasn’t working now. Carmen turned her back dismissively and waved in the direction of team analyst Davy Walsh’s desk.

“Davy knows about that sort of thing.”

Davy was as genuinely cool as Andy was failing to be; the fact he had twelve years and six inches advantage on the detective probably helped. But Andrew Jefferson Airplane Angel (his parents had been hippies in their youth) had the thick skin and perseverance that developed from growing up with an unusual name, so he ignored Carmen’s dismissal and rose slowly, shifting deliberately into her line of sight. Carmen rose as well and Craig saw a fight brewing that he knew she would win but her rank would ultimately make her lose. It was time to intervene.

As Carmen opened her mouth he strode across to Andy and extended a hand.

“Hi, Andy, glad to have you on board. I can’t see you now unfortunately; Liam and I have somewhere to be. Could you come back for the briefing at five?”

It was on the tip of Angel’s tongue to say ‘I’ll wait’ when Craig propelled him smoothly towards the door. As the three men walked to the lift he continued. “I see you’ve met D.C. McGregor. Good officer. You’ll meet Captain Smith, her partner, later on.”

Andy looked surprised. “You pair your officers for cases?”

Craig laughed as if it was his mistake. “Sorry, no. I meant her partner in real life. Ken Smith’s an army Captain seconded to us till July. Good man, not long returned from Afghanistan.”

If he’d said Ken had bench-pressed seven hundred pounds the effect couldn’t have been any more startling. Andy’s eyes widened wildly and Liam’s knowing nod reinforced that he’d just had a narrow escape. Andy wasn’t to know that Ken wouldn’t have hurt a fly and Carmen was the one that he really needed to watch. By the time they’d reached the fifth floor the message had sunk in and Craig and Liam disembarked, leaving Andy to look elsewhere for his next date.

Craig turned briskly back to the case. “We’ll try Gangs first and then take a trip to Vice. One of them will know where the traffickers in Belfast hang out.”

****

The Lab.

Mike Augustus shook his head as he examined the dead youth, lifting his right arm and scrutinising the black tattoo that ran from axilla to tip. The words inscribed there were unusual in two ways; first, they formed a phrase that he couldn’t understand, and second their position had rendered them invisible while the boy’s arm lay by his side but formed a bannered declaration when it was held aloft. He set the limb back in position and continued with the rest of the P.M.

The cause of death was definitely recent drowning, the boy’s hair had still been damp when his cling-film was removed; but there was little else to find, just a body tattooed with an unknown phrase and possibly, but only possibly, the faint sniff of something else. Before committing himself to anything on the record he called John from his office to take a look. Five minutes later the pathologists were agreed, but what their findings meant could be open to debate. Would be, if Craig’s five p.m. briefing was the same as they usually were.

John stared down at the youth for a moment then beckoned Augustus to the girl’s corpse. He withdrew the sheet, examining her for the same things that they’d found on the boy. There, in the crease beneath her breasts, were tattooed exactly the same words.

John tutted loudly. “I can’t believe I missed that.” It was on the tip of Mike’s tongue to say ‘neither can I’ then he decided against criticizing his boss and let him off the hook.

“It’s tiny and it’s in white ink. You can barely see it against her skin. We can only see it now because we know what to look for.”

John wasn’t comforted but it was actually true. Where the boy’s phrase had been writ large and dark the girl’s was small and pale.

“Do you recognise it?”

“The phrase?” Mike shook his mid-brown head. “No. But it looks old.”

John photographed the words then turned to Augustus’ tentative second discovery. After examining the woman’s corpse thoroughly he shook his head.

“I can’t find any sign of it on her, can you?”

“No.” The junior pathologist thought for a moment and then had an idea. “If they have the same tattoo, perhaps we should list any other similarities between them.”

John smiled. Mike was good and getting better, pretty soon he’d be ready to run his own team.

“Excellent idea.”

They set the trollies side by side and began.

****

As they entered the C.C.U.’s fifth floor Craig smiled at the sight of Susan Butler sitting behind its reception desk. Gone was the sad, beige matron who’d worked for his old boss Terry Harrison, to be replaced by an invigorated woman who looked younger than her years. In place of the stiff grey hairstyle she’d once worn there was a newly tinted bob, and where beige skirt suits had been the order of the day, there were now chic trousers and colourful shirts.

She greeted the detectives cheerfully and Craig’s pleasure at her obvious happiness was doubled by the knowledge that by finding her a new job he’d screwed over the man who’d kept her down for years, D.C.S. Terry ‘Teflon’ Harrison. It couldn’t have been more deserved.

She showed them into Geoff Hamill’s office and after a minute of Liam insulting Hamill’s short stature and Hamill insulting back, the Head of Gang Crime removed a thick file from his drawer and set it on the desk.

“Right. People trafficking.”

Hamill’s small eyes darted down the contents page then he turned it over, repeating the action with the page below. Liam finally broke the silence.

“Lovely and all as it is to watch you reading, Geoff, do you have anything useful for us or not?”

Hamill gave Craig a pitying look. “How do you put up with him?”

“He’s useful in a fight.” Craig gestured at the file. “Anything for us?”

Hamill’s face said that he wasn’t sure. “Yes and no. There are two gangs running brothels in Northern Ireland; one’s Chinese, but the Chinese tend to stick with their own, and one comes from Albania. They have forty houses between them.”

Craig’s eyes widened. He wasn’t naïve; after working in London for years it would have been hard, but he had to admit to being surprised at so many brothels in such a small place.

“Just how big is the sex trade here?”

“Open or underground?”

“Either. Both.”

Hamill shrugged like a defeated man. “Growing every day.”

“Surely demand can’t be that strong?”

Liam had only been half listening but now he roused himself. “Did you come up the Lagan in a bubble, boss? Check out craigslist for Belfast and that’ll show you what goes on here.” Suddenly he burst out laughing. “I’ve just realised. Craigslist – and you’re Craig! Get it? Have you been double jobbing?”

Craig raised an eyebrow. “I’ll leave that to the MLAs.” He waved Hamill on.

“OK, so your girl might have been trafficked by the Albanians, but if she was…”

“Why would they kill a valuable asset?”

“Exactly. Once they’ve got the girls here and hooked them on drugs they work them till they’re thirty. If they’re still alive after that they usually just throw them out.”

“Charmers.”

“Not even their mothers would call them that.” Hamill warmed to his theme. “They target girls from small villages in Eastern Europe who are desperate to leave, and entice them to the UK with fictional jobs as nannies or hotel workers. Or they find girls whose parents want rid of them for whatever reason, in which case they pay the families a small amount, smuggle the girls in, take their passports and make them work for nothing until they’ve paid back their debt.”

“Which, with high interest rates, they never do.”

Hamill nodded. “Never, and everyone agrees it’s disgusting, but they don’t
kill
their assets. Not unless your girl was really out of control and then the favoured murder weapon would have been a gun or a knife. They wouldn’t have wasted their time drowning her and wrapping her up.”

“Can you help us at all?”

Hamill shrugged. “I can ask around and see when or if she was brought in. Leave it with me. But if she was a hooker your best source could be Vice.”

“Next stop.” Craig rose and headed for the door. “Thanks, Geoff. We’d be grateful for anything you can find.”