The Sixth Estate (The Craig Crime Series) (10 page)

“Probably kicked him in the nuts during a rugby match and this is Standish’s revenge.”

Annette shook her head in despair. “Delicate as ever.”

But Liam’s crude assessment was closer than anyone knew.

Craig nodded. “Everyone in this country went to school with everyone else; it’s impossible to avoid.”

Annette stage whispered to Andy. “The boss went to school with Dr Winter and D.C.I. Hughes in Vice.”

Andy nodded. “And my sister went to Uni with Teflon’s daughter, but that’s another day’s tale. I just thought you should know, in case Lawton accuses Standish of bias in court.”

Craig raked his thick hair, tired just picturing the scenario. “I need to be there.”

Liam grinned gleefully. “Can I come too, boss? I’d love to watch Mercer get knocked back.”

Craig squinted at him. “Only if you promise to keep quiet. Your mouth could lose us the case.”

Liam tried to look offended but failed. Craig glanced at the clock; it was after nine and they were all tired.

“Right, that’s enough briefing for tonight. Drink, eat, sleep or do whatever you normally do at night, but I want everyone at it bright and early in the morning.”

He rose, motioning Davy to join him. They walked out into the cold night and descended a gravel slope onto a patch of frosty grass. When they were far enough away for no-one to eavesdrop, they sat down on a bench. Craig dispensed with any preamble.

“The Chief Constable and I had a chat about you today. He’s impressed with your work.”

It was hard to tell in the dark but Craig could have sworn that he saw Davy blush.

“I’m impressed as well and I don’t want to lose you from the team, but neither will I stand in the way of you getting your doctorate.”

Davy didn’t know whether to celebrate or say nothing. He settled on the latter and let Craig carry on.

“You’re already on the top of the pay scale for analysts, which in itself is a disgrace; you’re worth far more than that. But it means that the force can’t offer a pay rise to keep you.”

Davy’s heart sank, its descent only slowed by what he hoped was Craig’s impending ‘but’. He was right.

“But, because doing a PhD would cost you thousands in fees, and lost salary while you studied, I managed to persuade the C.C. that there might be something we could do there.” He glanced at Davy, encouraged by his forward leaning stance. “So…how about you do the PhD part time over a few years and the force gives you time off to study, plus it pays your fees? That way you won’t lose your salary, you don’t have to find the fee money yourself and we get to keep you on the team?”

As Davy inhaled to answer, Craig added hurriedly. “When you have your doctorate you can join the forensic team, even if you decide to stay based with us, and you’ll go onto their pay scale, which is much higher. What do you think?”

Davy paused mid-inhalation and did the sums; it would save him a fortune and it wouldn’t prevent him moving into academia or even doing some private work in the future. In fact he could build up his academic reputation and international consulting as he worked. He didn’t want to leave the squad but he needed to expand his work beyond what they did every day or he would fall asleep.

As he considered, Craig added the final touch. “I thought you might want to do your doctorate on forensic IT applications in the force and government agencies.”

Davy practically squeaked his next words. “You mean MI5?” There was a spy kid in all of them.

Craig shrugged. “Six as well and I’m sure the US agencies would be interested in linking up. It depends what you propose in your research outline I suppose.”

MI5, MI6, the CIA, the FBI, Davy’s mind was running acronyms like Liam’s ran the names of beers. Even in the dark the excitement on his face was unmistakable and he practically shouted his response.

“Yes! Definitely yes. I’ll get onto my Prof and talk it through. If I could outline a proposal about the uses of forensic IT in covert and non-covert…”

Craig smiled as he disappeared into a cloud of science speak and decided that Nicky owed him at least one favour for this.

Chapter S
even

Tuesday, 17th December. 9 a.m.

“… court … in, Nicky?”

Nicky squinted at her phone, trying to make sense of Craig’s words through the static. She’d never been to the Glenshane Pass but its mobile phone reception was driving her mad. Thankfully she spoke Craig.

“Court One at ten o’clock. It’s the one beside the ground floor lift.”

Craig shook his head, all he could make out was ‘ten’ which he already knew and ‘lift’ which didn’t make any sense at all. So he did what people did when confronted with someone they didn’t understand, he shouted. This time Nicky understood. “Text” was fairly unambiguous unless you were a medieval scholar.

Five minutes later Craig knew exactly where he was going and who was likely to be there. The Chronicle was bringing the full weight of its lawyers to bear and he recognised the firm’s name: Cherry and Moss. Each day cost their clients approximately two thousand pounds. Craig wondered idly whether it would be Ronald Lewiston. They’d encountered him on a recent case doing his token pro bono work and even then, knowing that he couldn’t charge, he’d talked and talked. Craig sighed; if Lewiston was there they would be in court all day.

On the side of the angels were Eugene Standish, who’d decided to appear in defence of his warrant, the police lawyers and some big gun from the C.C.’s office: Assistant Chief Constable John Byrne. Craig had never heard of him but if Sean Flanagan had sent him he must be OK. Liam was huffing back in Derry; if he couldn’t say exactly what he wanted to Ray Mercer, he’d decided he might as well stay in the northwest.

By nine-forty Craig had negotiated the traffic in Belfast City Centre and was driving through the back gate of Laganside Courts. A quick park-up and sprint and he’d seated himself in the bright, pine-walled court room just in time. Court One was obviously reserved for minor cases and irritations; they put the really bad boys in the mahogany rooms. He gazed around and saw Eugene Standish robed up as if he was ready to adjudicate on his own appeal. He caught Craig’s eye and winked and Craig realised the robe was the equivalent of him wearing an expensive suit to a particularly difficult interview; there to underline his status and scare his opponents. Twenty-first century Woad.

They were the only ones in the courtroom until, at nine-fifty-eight, with an entrance that would have done a Hollywood blockbuster proud, The Belfast Chronicle’s team appeared. Craig only recognised one of them; Ray Mercer, all weasel-faced, hook-nosed, five-feet-six of him. He strutted in with an air of self-importance that was badly undermined by the way he dressed. Beside him was an expensively clad man of around forty. It wasn’t Ronald Lewiston but he had to be from Cherry and Moss, only an expense account could have afforded that suit. The brief was tall and thin, with an air of world-weariness that said he’d seen it all and thought the case was a waste of his time. The third man in the team was strongly built and regal looking and around Eugene Standish’s age; Cameron Lawton, The Chronicle’s editor-in-chief. Craig watched as he entered quietly behind the others and took a seat in a separate row. Everything about the man said ‘ignore me, I’m not here’ but Craig knew people and that very action made Cameron Lawton the one to watch.

Just then two men appeared by Eugene Standish’s side. One was dressed in black and white, the force’s barrister; the other was a vision of uniformed, shiny-buttoned gravitas, until he smiled, then his stern face softened into someone’s dad’s. He reached across the others to shake Craig’s hand, speaking in a Highland burr.

“You’re Craig, aren’t you?”

Craig nodded.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m A.C.C. Byrne, John. We haven’t met. I’m on secondment from Scotland for two years.”

Craig instantly warmed to him. “How do you like it so far?”

“Great, it doesn’t snow as much here.” Byrne laughed loudly, drawing an angry glance from Mercer. Byrne gestured towards him. “One of those misery loves company types, is he?”

Craig made a face. “And the rest.”

Their conversation was cut short by the clerk announcing “All rise. The court is now in session, the honourable Judge Donaghy presiding.”

Both sides settled down to fight their case and an hour long skirmish ensued, with Ray Mercer yapping like a small dog and the barristers confusing everyone with legalese. Eugene Standish defended his issuing of the warrant, based on Oliver Bwye’s connections with The Chronicle and the likelihood that was where any ransom call would come. They could see Donaghy was impressed by his colleague’s logic, until Cameron Lawton took the stand.

Lawton took his seat in the witness box and nodded deferentially to the judge, smiling the smile of the deliberately underplayed. Craig felt himself go cold. Lawton was going to smash their case to pieces; he could feel it. In a voice so low and soft that everyone strained to hear, Cameron Lawton cited the independence of the press and civil liberties with an eloquence that would have put Bill Clinton to shame. Much to the defence team’s dismay they could see the judge’s opinion beginning to shift and Craig knew that when he retired to his chambers to consider there was only one verdict that Donaghy was going to return. They were going to lose their phone taps.

Just as Lawton was summing up with Thomas Jefferson’s famous line “To preserve the freedom of the human mind then and freedom of the press, every spirit should be ready to devote itself to martyrdom” Donaghy’s clerk appeared through a side door and approached him with a note. The judge read it then nodded at Craig and raised a hand to halt Lawton’s flow.

“Gentlemen, it would seem that the defence team’s case has just been made.”

He beckoned Craig across and handed him the paper while he brought the others up to date.

“A ransom call was received twenty minutes ago.” He turned pointedly to Lawton. “To your direct line at The Chronicle.”

At that, Donaghy banged his gavel on the bench with the words. “Case rejected.” He smiled at Craig, said “good luck” and dismissed the court. Craig he handed the note to John Byrne and slipped out his mobile to call Davy.

“Davy, there’s been a call to the editor-in-chief’s line at The Chronicle, asking for a six million ransom. Trace it if you can and tell Liam I’m heading there now to interview whoever took the call.”

He turned to Eugene Standish in gratitude.

“Thanks for taking a chance on this.”

Standish grinned, not because he’d been vindicated but because the development made him feel like he was at the centre of the case.

“Your job’s exciting, isn’t it? Let me know how it goes.”

“I will.” He glanced at Byrne. “I need to go.”

Byrne nodded. “I’ll update the C.C.”

Twenty minutes later Craig was in The Belfast Chronicle’s offices on St Anne’s Square, calming a middle-aged secretary who was gripping her mug of tea as if it was a life belt.

Vera Patterson liked a quiet life, or a moderately quiet one at least; that was why she’d left copywriting in the news room for the more sedate world of the P.A. When Ray Mercer had been made news editor she knew that she’d definitely made the right choice; he ruled the newsroom by fear.

She’d worked for Cameron Lawton for almost two years now, mostly arranging his meetings, taking dictation and making tea. It suited her. Occasionally she got the perk of a trip to a conference abroad, but not so often that it annoyed Brian, her husband of nineteen years.

Cameron Lawton was a brilliant man and brilliant men seemed to her to fall into two camps; either thoughtful academics like Lawton, or aggressive bullies like his predecessor, Oliver Bwye. If Bwye had offered her the job of P.A. she’d definitely have said no, but thankfully he’d taken Bernie Ross to work for him and she’d taken over as Lawton’s P.A. Bwye had left in 2012 so she’d been surprised when the man who’d phoned forty minutes earlier had mentioned his name.

Craig sat down beside her, watching as her violently shaking hands gradually stilled. When he was sure that she was ready to answer, he walked her through the previous hour.

“Can you tell me what you were doing when the call came in, Mrs Patterson?”

She stared at him blankly, as if she hadn’t heard. He repeated the question and eventually she screwed up her face in thought.

“I was…oh yes, I was filling some envelopes.”

“With what?”

Craig couldn’t care less what she’d been filling the envelopes with, but the small talk was putting her at ease.

Her face lit up. “We’re running a competition for the best fundraising scheme in Northern Ireland and I was sending out the entry forms.”

The Chronicle’s sudden philanthropy had to be Lawton’s idea; it hadn’t been a feature of Oliver Bwye’s reign.

“And how was that going?”

“I was nearly half way through when the telephone rang. It was to Mr Lawton’s line but that automatically redirects to me when he doesn’t answer.”

Good. She’d brought up the phone call herself. Craig let her talk.

“I picked it up and a man spoke. Actually he was whispering, so I had to ask him to speak up.”

Craig interrupted in a casual voice, so as not to scare her off. “Did he sound like he had a sore throat?”

Vera shook her greying head. “No, no, he wasn’t hoarse, just whispering.” She pursed her lips. “I thought it was someone playing silly buggers, we get hoax calls all the time.”

Craig gestured at the phone on her desk. “To this line?”

She furrowed her brow. “Well, no, to the news desk mainly, but I thought perhaps he’d come through to the wrong place. I know most of Mr Lawton’s regular callers.”

The words were said with a pride that Craig recognised from Nicky; the sign of a good P.A. was to know who was calling their boss before they gave their name. He nodded her on.

“He spoke up a little, but not much. And when he said what he said…well, at first I thought it was a joke.”

Craig smiled encouragingly. “What exactly did he say?”

“He said ‘six million for them’. Well, I’d no idea what he was talking about, had I? So I asked him, six million for what? That was when he said ‘the Bwyes’.” She gave him an anguished look. “I didn’t like Mr Bwye, nobody did, but I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Craig thought for a moment. How had she known that it wasn’t a hoax? They’d kept the information about the Bwyes’ disappearance as secret as they could. And why had she phoned the court instead of Cameron Lawton’s mobile or the police? He asked the questions and she blushed.

“My friend works in legal and she told me all about the case this morning, so I checked Mr Lawton’s diary.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s always putting in meetings and not telling me. How he expects me to keep track and not double-book him, I don’t know.”

It was a cry he’d heard from Nicky many times.

“I tried his mobile but it was off so I phoned the court.”

It made sense. “OK, Mrs Patterson, tell me more about the call.”

She shrugged apologetically. “That’s really all he said. After he said ‘the Bwyes’ he said ‘no police’ and hung up.”

“Nothing else? No instructions for paying the money, or a deadline?”

She looked puzzled. “Now you mention it, that was strange, wasn’t it? I suppose that means he’ll phone back.”

They hoped.

“Was there anything about his voice? Did he have an accent, or could you perhaps tell me his age?”

“Yes.”

Craig was surprised by her confident tone and by the fact that she hadn’t mentioned it before.

“Which? Age or accent?”

“Both. He was young, twenties I’d say, and he had a west Belfast accent.”

It was very specific and he said as much.

“Age is easy; if you answer calls all day like I do you can tell age from a voice. His was young, he might even have been in his teens but definitely not as old as thirty.”

“And his accent?” It was the first Craig had heard of a difference between an east and west Belfast voice.

Vera Patterson nodded firmly. “You can tell. First of all a Belfast accent is easy to spot, wouldn’t you agree?”

Craig couldn’t argue with her on that and it dawned on him that if he could tell a south Belfast accent, which he could, why shouldn’t someone else be able to tell east from west.

“Agreed, but what’s the difference between east and west?”

“East Belfast is sharp and flat, west Belfast is sharp but much faster. Plus it goes up and down more, and some of the words are said like Irish words.”

“Like?”

She’d lost him and she knew it. “Just trust me, Superintendent. I’m from west Belfast and I know a west Belfast man.”

West Belfast, not west of the Bann; it was a new twist for the Derry based case. Craig shook her hand and left, apologising that she’d have to recount her story again in a statement. He was exiting The Chronicle’s offices onto St Anne’s Square just as Cameron Lawton entered. Lawton stopped and smiled at him.

“Good for you, Superintendent.”

Craig wasn’t sure which ‘good for you’ he was referring to; winning the case or being right in the first place. Lawton read his mind.

“You were right to tap us. I thought so all along, but the lawyers wanted me to fight it; in case it established a precedent and you decided to tap us every other week.” He chuckled. “As if you’ve nothing better to do.”