The Sixth Estate (The Craig Crime Series) (8 page)

“Was the study door open or locked?”

“Definitely open. But it was eight-thirty so that wasn’t unusual. Mr Bwye always arrived before me.”

“Tell me what you noticed when you entered.”

“Like I told the other officer; there was blood on the floor and things were all over the place. The chairs were turned over and the television was smashed…”

Annette interrupted, checking her facts. “Why was there a TV in the study? I thought it was just where Mr Bwye worked.”

Ross stared at her as if the answer was obvious. “Well yes, but Mr Bwye likes to watch the business news, to keep an eye on the stock market, and things.”

And things. It sounded weak and Craig wondered what other things Oliver Bwye had watched on that screen.

“Did he go in there when he’d had a fight with his wife?”

Ross shrugged. “Probably. I wasn’t there at evenings or weekends so I can’t say for sure.”

“Did he do anything else in there?”

Ross blushed. “That’s not my business. He’s a good boss.”

And things. Craig speculated about what bodily fluids the C.S.I.s would find in the study other than blood while Annette drew the questioning back to the Thursday morning.

“What else did you notice in the study when you entered?”

Ross sighed. “There were books on the floor with their pages torn out.”

“Torn by hand or like they’d fallen out when they’d been flung?”

Ross shook her head as if she was confused and Annette let it drop. Forensics would give them their answer.

The P.A. shuddered, remembering. “There was so much blood. It was everywhere…smeared in a trail towards the back door, like someone had dragged…”

A harsh sob cut her short and Annette waited until it subsided.

“What did you do?”

The ambiguity of the question was deliberate and the secretary glanced at her with startled eyes.

“I didn’t do anything! I’ve never hurt anyone!”

Annette repeated her question, adding “next” for clarity. Ross’ shoulders dropped in relief.

“I called 999 and waited for the police.”

“You stayed in the study?”

“I couldn’t move.”

It seemed a normal enough response and a glance from Craig told Annette to wrap things up. While Bernadette Ross was given a fresh cup of tea, Craig and Annette retired to the staff room for one of their own. Craig spoke first.

“What do you make of her?”

Annette sipped her drink before replying. “I think she knows a lot more about Oliver Bwye’s nasty habits than she’s willing to say. I’d be surprised if he didn’t have a mistress stashed away somewhere and he obviously drinks heavily.”

Craig nodded. “Davy’s checking the hospitals for reports of violence on the wife and daughter.”

“It figures. A man with a type A personality retires; he was never going to find it easy to wind down.”

Craig’s glare said it was no excuse. “That’s presupposing that the abuse has only been happening since then. My hunch is it’s been going on for years. OK, what else?”

“If there have been mistresses I don’t think Ross is one of them.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on the fact that she’s not glamourous enough. Diana Bwye’s pictures show that she’s beautiful, so it’s likely that’s where Bwye’s taste in women lies.”

Craig shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. For some men a change is…” He didn’t complete the saying.

She arched an eyebrow and carried on. “The daughter’s obviously wayward so we need to dig further there. I’d like to know more about this unsuitable man she was dating who was worrying her mum so much, and whether her father had found out about him. Also, where’s Jane’s car?”

“And why the hell didn’t the locals pick up on it and start the search last week?”

Craig’s face said someone’s head was going to roll for the omission and it might be Julia’s. Annette didn’t fancy sitting in on that conversation, although she was certain that Liam would want a ringside seat.

“What’s your gut feeling on Ross? Guilty or not guilty?”

She considered for a moment before answering.

“Not guilty. She’s a loyal retainer who sees everything and keeps her mouth shut because Bwye pays her well. But I’d like to take another run at her on the family dynamics.”

Craig nodded. “Agreed. Let her go home but say that you want to see her again tomorrow, and this time she’s not leaving until she tells you everything. That’ll give her tonight to consider which side her bread is buttered on. Also, I want you to take her back to the house and have her check that everything’s in place in the main room. We’ll be doing the same with the rest of the staff.” He checked his watch and jumped up. “Damn. It’s nearly one o’clock. I’m going to be late for the C.C.”

Annette smiled and shook her head. “No you’re not. His office rang and asked if you could meet him at home in Portrush rather than going back to Belfast. It’s only thirty miles so you’ll be there in plenty of time.”

Craig nodded but he didn’t retake his seat, heading for the door instead. “Fine. You’ve all got plenty to get on with. Ask Davy to book everyone into a cheap hotel and let me know which one. I’ve things to do but I’ll meet you there for dinner around six. And warn everyone I expect a full briefing afterwards.”

Chapter Six

Sean Flanagan rose as Craig entered his warm, smoke-aged study, but not out of respect for Craig. He liked him but not that much, or next thing he’d be inviting him to the prom! No, Flanagan stood because his wife had shown Craig into the room and even after forty years of marriage he had that kind of respect for her. Craig could understand why. Helen Flanagan was feminine in a way that made most men long for a woman like her, and some women dismiss her as a throwback to the 1950s, before feminism had really left its mark. They would be wrong if they thought that. In fact, they couldn’t have been more wrong.

Helen Flanagan hadn’t been a stay at home wife, warming her husband’s slippers by the fire, she’d been a teacher of such skill that she’d won the teacher of the year award twice. All while bringing up two children and dealing with a rugby playing, gun-toting cop of a husband, during decades of some of the worst civil strife the western world had ever seen.

To have managed it at all was miraculous; to have managed it without shouting at or divorcing that husband was a canonisable achievement. And yet she had. With a combination of well-placed head shaking, wise words and arched eyebrows, Helen Flanagan had ruled her home for four decades without any of her family ever feeling controlled. Forget equality, in this marriage she was most decidedly the boss. The woman deserved more than a husband who rose when she entered the room; she deserved a baton twirling parade.

As Craig and Flanagan shook hands she glanced tolerantly at the study’s open window on the cold winter’s day, knowing full well that a half-lit cigar was smouldering somewhere out of sight. It didn’t require comment. Sean Flanagan knew it was bad for his heart and his wife knew that he knew, so she brought in a tray of coffee things and retired, leaving her burly husband in no doubt that she’d smelled the smoke without uttering a word.

The Chief Constable laughed and waved Craig to a chair, retrieving his cigar from the metal waste bin he’d purchased specially for such subterfuge.

“I’ll get told off after you leave.”

Craig nodded. “Looks that way.”

“Does your young lady tell you off?”

Craig smiled, thinking of Katy. He suddenly realised what felt so familiar about Mrs Flanagan’s approach. It certainly wasn’t because she reminded him of his mother; Mirella’s fieriness would have resulted in the bin being hurled out the window and it being slammed shut. No, Helen Flanagan reminded him of Katy; they had the same even tempered approach to life.

“In exactly the way you’ve just been chastised.”

Flanagan laughed. “Hang on to her, then. It makes life easier all round.” He poured the coffee before retaking his seat. “Now then, what did you need to see me about?”

Craig took a sip from his cup and set it back down. “Two things. The case is the main one. We were asked for assistance by D.I. McNulty at Limavady.”

Flanagan frowned. “I was sorry to hear that you two had split up. She’s a striking girl. Terry Harrison’s an obstructive bugger but I couldn’t go over his head on her transfer, much as I wanted to.”

“It’s worked out for the best. She’s getting married soon, to a doctor in Enniskillen.”

Flanagan scanned Craig’s face and he knew that he was being assessed for signs of pain. Craig shook his head.

“I’m happy for her and I’m glad that she felt she could call us, because frankly the case hasn’t been handled well so far.” He brought Flanagan up to date with what they knew, adding. “People have been tramping all over the crime scene, there were insufficient men on the perimeter search, and as soon as we arrived Harrison tried to take Julia off the case.”

Flanagan made a face and stared into the fireplace. The fire wasn’t lit but the coal and kindling were piled so high that Craig knew a roaring blaze would burn there after he’d left. Flanagan chided Craig mildly as he stared.

“D.C.S. Harrison, please. You probably call him worse than that outside this room, but I can’t be seen to undermine anyone under my command.”

Given that he’d just called Harrison an obstructive bugger it seemed the double standard was alive and well. Still, rank had its privileges and all that.

“Sorry, sir. D.C.S. Harrison put Julia on a burglary.”

Flanagan glared at the kindling so hard Craig wondered if he was willing it to ignite. There was silence for a moment, filled by the soft ticking of a clock that Craig hadn’t noticed and the sounds of Flanagan’s Red Setter rearranging itself in its sleep. Finally the C.C. spoke again.

“Waste of resources to take an officer off a case halfway through.”

“That’s what I thought, so I went to see him. He reinstated her, but only after he’d made it very clear that he didn’t want our help at all.”

Flanagan puffed angrily on his cigar. “You’re the Murder Squad for God’s sake! If he had a vice raid would he try to exclude Vice?” He turned to stare at Craig with no ambiguity in his eyes. “I don’t want your personal history with D.C.S. Harrison getting in the way of this case.”

“It won’t, sir.” Craig changed tack. “Has The Belfast Chronicle been onto you yet?”

Flanagan nodded. “They’ve been onto the press office. Bound to happen; Bwye owned the paper for too many years to miss that gift.”

Craig sighed; it hadn’t been what he’d meant but he could imagine tomorrow’s headlines. Flanagan knew there was something more.

“OK, what’s coming my way? By the sounds of that sigh it’s worse than a critical headline. Spit it out.”

Craig hesitated. He’d rehearsed telling Flanagan about The Chronicle’s phone tapping warrant on the trip there, but there seemed no way of saying it that improved the truth. He spat it out and waited for the roar. Instead the air was split by a loud laugh.

“The Chronicle’s Board must be having a fit! Tapping their precious news desk, and the editor-in-chief’s personal line. Which judge allowed that?”

Craig grinned. “Eugene Standish.”

Flanagan’s laughter became a warm chuckle. “I always liked that man. He has a sense of humour.”

Craig took the laughter as approval and elaborated. “Bwye owned The Chronicle for almost thirty years, and under his guidance its editorials were ruthless. He criticised everyone from private individuals to political parties and there were lives he damaged badly. So, until we know different, we have to assume all of his victims are potential suspects.” He paused for comment but Flanagan waved him on. “It makes sense that any ransom call will come to the house, our team, or the press. And who else but The Chronicle?”

Flanagan nodded. “Agreed. You were at The Met much of the time Oliver Bwye owned the paper but some of his headlines would have made your hair curl.” He made a face. “The police didn’t get off scot-free, I can tell you. Two C.C.s’ careers went down in flames because of Bwye.”

Craig had worked in London for fifteen years, only returning to Belfast in 2008, but he’d seen some of The Chronicle’s headlines on visits home.

“We’re compiling a list of possibilities. Basically anyone whose life was ruined by Bwye when he was at the paper.”

“You’ll be there forever on that one.”

Craig shook his head. “Davy will narrow it down using his magic.”

“Good analyst, that boy.”

Craig hesitated for a moment then segued into his second reason for being there.

“Actually, Davy’s the second thing I wanted to speak to you about.”

Flanagan stubbed his cigar on the edge of the bin and threw the butt onto the fire. He had second thoughts and rearranged the kindling to hide it, before saying “What about him?”

“He’s a brilliant analyst.”

Flanagan retook his seat and shook his head. “If you’re going to say that we need to pay him more, I agree but we can’t. The analyst’s pay scale is fixed and he’s already at the top of it above men twice his age.”

Craig gave a weak smile. Flanagan was nearer the mark than he knew.

“He’s thinking of leaving.”

Flanagan nodded. “It would be a pity but it figures. A brain like that could earn ten times as much in the private sector.”

Craig shook his head. “Not for the money. To go back to university and do his doctorate.”

He let the words hang in the air for a moment, hoping they would set Flanagan’s brain running in the direction his already was. After a few seconds he added a hint.

“The fees are costly and he’ll lose his salary.”

The Chief Constable stared into the hearth without moving an inch. Craig could see his mind working and fought the urge to push him in the direction he wanted him to go. This must be what his wife felt like when she wanted him to do something; knowing that if she gave in to the urge to shout “just do it” Flanagan was sufficiently stubborn that he would go the opposite way. So instead, Craig planted the seed then held his silence until it took root by itself.

He sipped at his now cold coffee for what seemed like an hour until finally Sean Flanagan changed from an effigy into a man again. He rose abruptly and strode to the study door, opening it and saying three words. The first two sounded like a command; “fresh coffee”. The third, “please?” was so soft and hesitant that it said they were anything but. As Helen Flanagan appeared with a fresh pot the C.C. settled back in his chair and waved Craig on to pour. When he held a cup of steaming liquid he turned to Craig with a smile.

“How’s this for an idea? You don’t want to lose young Mr Walsh and the force can’t afford to, but we can’t give him a pay rise either. So… how about we give him sufficient study leave to do his PhD over say, three or four years, plus we pay his fees? I can swing that under the training budget. That way we both get what we want and when he’s Dr Walsh he can apply to be part of the forensics team; even their starting salary’s higher than he’s on now.”

Craig pretended to be surprised. It was a pretence Mrs Flanagan must have perfected years before.

“That’s a brilliant idea, sir! I’m certain he’ll stay with us on those terms. And he’ll probably do his PhD on some aspect of forensic IT that will be valuable to the force.” He played out the scene to the end, as if it had all been Flanagan’s idea. “Would you like to tell him?”

Sean Flanagan’s weathered face creased in a half-embarrassed smile. “No, no. You do it. I’m just pleased to be able to help.” He rose to his feet, almost demolishing a tower of books by his chair. “Now, if you don’t mind I’m going to throw you out. Helen’s making our afternoon snack. Keep me up to date with the case, please; I don’t like surprises.” He guffawed as he pulled open the door. “I imagine Eugene Standish has already given The Chronicle quite enough of those.”

****

Four days earlier. Thursday, 11th December. 00.10 a.m.

The heaviness of her body had surprised him. He’d known that her husband would be heavy; fat bastard that he was, and made even heavier by the concrete overcoat he wore. But she was slim and small, yet in death she felt as if she weighed a ton. Her death was such a waste; she’d been so kind. But it was outside his control. He was simply doing what he’d been asked to do.

The man tipped the larger body over the side of the boat and felt the small vessel rise on the lake. He watched the black plastic float and swell, until the burden inside dragged first one end and then the other down through the liquid dark. He stared after it; imagining that he could make out the shape long after it had gone, then he lifted his eyes to the skyline and found his bearings from the lights on the opposite shore. It was a beautiful night; fresh and clear with a sky like cold ink. Such a pity to ruin it this way, but he had no time for contemplation; he had more work to do.

Brushing a sprinkling of rain drops from his gaunt face he turned back to the smaller form, still identifiable as human despite its plastic packaging. He felt tears fill his eyes and smiled at his sentimentality. He’d never seen someone die until that night and it had been far harder than he’d thought; staring into her wide brown eyes as her life had seeped away. He’d wanted to open the door and shoo her free, but he’d had his instructions and once she was dead it had been too late to retreat.

He gazed sadly at the small, black shape; her death was bad enough without erasing all traces of her femininity with a concrete case. Instead, he’d left her face uncovered and weighed her slight body down with stones. He lifted her slim form to the edge and kissed her cheek once, then, reciting a prayer, he slipped her very gently over the side, forgetting that she was already beyond pain. He held her upright as her feet slid through the surface, breaking it into ripples that spread and widened as she disappeared, until he caught a final glimpse of dark curls as she descended to join her husband of twenty-five years.

A third black parcel followed swiftly to its grave and the man watched long after they’d all gone, careless of his safety. Long after the ripples had faded and the water’s glass surface had reformed, until finally he turned the small craft towards shore and went home to await whatever happened next.

****

The Ardmill Hotel, Drumahoe. 8 p.m.

By eight o’clock even Liam had eaten enough to satisfy him and the whole team was sitting in the hotel bar with drinks in their hands. The only other occupant was a vacant looking barman whose task in life seemed to be drying the same glass repeatedly; that and staring at Annette’s legs. Craig wandered over to order another round.