The Slowest Cut (6 page)

Chapter Eight

The moment Craig and Liam walked onto the squad-room floor, Jake beckoned them over to his desk. He started speaking before they had time to say hello.

“I went to see Ian Carragher. Ask me what I found out?”

Liam humoured him. “What did you find out?”

“He’s expecting the worst to happen to him. He’s expecting the same fate as his wife.”

Craig pulled up a chair. “What makes you think that, Jake?”

“Something he said. ‘It’s the price you pay.’ So I thought; the price you pay for what?”

Liam looked puzzled, but Craig could see where Jake was heading. He waved him on.

“People who say that usually work in risky jobs, or take risks somewhere else in life. Yes?”

Craig nodded.

“Well Carragher’s a house surveyor, so there’s no risk there, is there? I suppose he could indulge in high-risk pastimes outside work, like gambling or bungee-jumping, but he doesn’t seem the type. And he said it when I warned him he could be in danger linked to his wife’s death, so...”

Liam finished the sentence. “So you reckon that whatever got the wife killed was high risk and he was part of it?”

Jake glared at him; put-out that Liam had stolen his punch line. His sunny demeanour returned quickly and he nodded. “Yes, that’s exactly it. I think that whatever got his wife killed, he was part of it as well.”

Craig smiled. Jake was as good as he’d thought he was when they’d met on the Ackerman case. It had been his initiative then that had helped them make essential links.

“So what have you been doing with your theory?”

Jake pointed to a pile of print-outs and beckoned Davy over from his desk. “Davy kindly ran a whole host of background checks for me on Ian and Eileen Carragher, separately and together. Something very interesting has come up.”

Davy ambled over holding his computer tablet and Craig hoped it would have Jake’s print-outs collated in one neat table. He wasn’t disappointed. Davy tapped the screen and a table popped up, showing everything relevant in the Carragher’s lives.

They didn’t gamble, they didn’t even have credit cards. If anything they were careful with money, pouring everything into paying off the mortgage on the townhouse Liam had visited the day before. There were no criminal records; in fact there was nothing that seemed a motive to kill them. And Ian Carragher definitely didn’t bungee-jump.

Liam snorted. “Mr and Mrs exciting, not.”

Craig hid a smile at the modern expression. Davy and Jake were rubbing off on him.

“Don’t be so quick, Liam.” Craig pointed to a line on the table. “What’s that, Davy?”

“Glad you noticed it. That’s the Carragher’s little hideaway. A house in Newcastle, near the Mourne Mountains. And not a s…small one either. Quite the mansion if the estate agents blurb from its s…sale in 1995 is to be believed. It cost one hundred and fifty thousand back then.”

Liam whistled. “Mortgage?”

Davy shook his head. “Bought outright with cash.”

Liam sat forward, suddenly interested. “Now you’re talking, lad. A teacher and a surveyor affording that? Something stinks.”

Craig interjected and pointed at another line.

Davy smiled again. “That’s when they got married. 1995, two months before they bought the house.”

“Any idea where they met?”

“Every idea, boss. From 1989 until 2004 they worked together at a private school in Bangor.”

“I can see why she might have been teaching there, but what was a surveyor like Ian Carragher doing at a school?”

“He didn’t w…work there. He was on the Board of Governors.”

Liam sat back, disinterested in the Carraghers’ romance. “That’s fair enough, boss. Lots of people meet at work.”

“True, but how many buy a mansion for cash two months after they get married?”

Craig turned to Jake and Davy in turn. “Excellent work, both of you. Now, I need to you do something else…”

***

Bar Red. 6 p.m.

The interior of Bar Red was full of wood and welcoming leather chairs that just begged to play host to conversations; deep or trivial depending upon the occupant’s mood. They’d certainly witnessed several of John and Craig’s meaning-of-life discussions through the years, and they were about to witness another one now. John was standing at the long curved bar when Craig arrived, his loosened tie and swiftly removed jacket saying that it was evening louder than any clock.

“Hi, John.”

“The usual?”

“Thanks.” Craig scanned the room. “Let’s sit down. There are some chairs over there.”

“Bad day?”

Craig laughed. “No. But my back’s a wreck. Lucia had me under her car all day Saturday, fixing a leak in the petrol tank.”

Lucia was Craig’s younger sister by eleven years and she worked for a charity. Her fifteen-year-old car had deserved a decent burial years before, but she didn’t earn enough money to replace it and she was too stubborn to let her family buy her another one, so big brother had got roped in.

John grabbed the drinks and carried them across to two seats by the window. Craig threw his jacket down and took a deep drink of cold beer, like a man dying of thirst.

“Do you fancy eating here or going on, Marc? There’s a new restaurant I fancy trying.”

Craig laughed. John was always finding unusual new places to eat. He bowed his head in mock submission. “Whatever you want. What is it this time? Bolivian or Eskimo?”

“Vegetarian. There’s a great place called Archana on the Dublin Road. Did you know there’re thousands of vegetarians living in Belfast now? A girl told me the other day in the bank.”

“Good looking, was she?”

John liked pretty women. Didn’t they all? But whereas most men had an agenda, John just talked to them. It was as if a conversation signalled that they found him attractive and he didn’t need to pursue it any further. Natalie was quite safe.

Craig set down his beer and wrenched his tie lower; oblivious to the fact that he’d was revealing some dark chest hair. The women sitting to their right weren’t quite so oblivious. Craig decided to start the real conversation, knowing it would take John an hour to get round to it.

“So what was so bad that you wanted to start drinking at six o’clock, without even taking time to change?”

John stared into his beer, unconsciously tapping a rhythm against the glass with his thumb. Craig watched him absentmindedly for a moment, then his eyes widened in astonishment.

“My God! You’re getting married.”

John looked at Craig, aghast, unsure how he’d guessed what he wanted to talk about. “What? No. No I’m not. I’m definitely not getting married. Where the hell did you get that idea?”

Craig grinned and pointed at his hand. “You’ve just been tapping the wedding march against the side of the glass. Da-dat-da-da.”

“I wasn’t!” John stared at his errant thumb as if it belonged to someone else. “Was I?”

“Yep!”

“Bloody hell. My subconscious should know better than to tap that in front of someone who’s Mum played classical music to him in the womb.”

Craig’s Italian mother Mirella had been a concert pianist and she’d force-fed her children classical music all their lives.

“My Mum has nothing to do with it. A man on a galloping horse could have worked that one out.” Craig lifted his class in salute. “When’s the big day?”

“What? Don’t talk rubbish! There’s no big day, and for God’s sake don’t say that in front of Natalie or I’ll be fitted for tails before I can blink. I haven’t asked her.”

“Yet.”

John furrowed his brow and Craig knew that was what he’d wanted to discuss.

“If you want my opinion on whether or not you should propose to Natalie, then the answer’s yes.”

John blustered. “Now hang on, I didn’t say that.”

“Look mate. If you’re even thinking about doing it, that means you want to, and in my opinion it would be a bloody good thing.”

John scowled. “I didn’t ask your opinion.”

Craig was unoffended, but now that the horse had got to water he wasn’t going to let it die of thirst. He continued undeterred.

“What did you want to ask me then?”

“Well…I feel...”

John stopped mid-sentence and Craig filled in the gap. “Confused?” He glanced at the clock and laughed, amused at his friend’s discomfort. “Hungry?”

“What? No. I’m not hungry… Well I am.” John was always hungry. “But that’s not it. I…I feel guilty.”

Craig gawped at him. What did he have to feel guilty about?

“I feel I should make some sort of commitment to her. After all, we’ve been together for well over a year. It doesn’t seem right to keep on living in sin.”

“You’re not. She has her own place.”

John shot him an anguished glance. “You know what I mean.”

Craig could see that he was genuinely upset so he eased up on the banter. “You mean that you love her too much not to make a commitment.”

John nodded. “Does that sound all Jane Austen and shit?”

Craig laughed. “And shit? Any minute now you’re going to break into a rap. No, it doesn’t sound all Jane Austen and shit. Or maybe it does, but so what? Natalie’s perfect for you. You love her and you want to be fair to her. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

John gulped down a mouthful of beer, then gazed warily at Craig over the top of the glass.

“So you think that I should?”

“Well, I’m hardly a success story romantically, but if you want my opinion I think you should do what will make you happy. You’re obviously not happy just dating Natalie anymore, so you either need to formalise things or break up. Do you want to break up with her?”

John’s face dropped. “God no. I’d…”

Craig didn’t make him say it. “OK, then breaking-up’s not an option. Marriage then? Or co-habiting.”

“No.”

The ‘no’ was so firm it took Craig a moment to realise that he didn’t know which ‘no’ John had meant.

“No to co-habiting, or no to marriage?”

“No to co-habiting. I don’t like it. It’s a cop-out. And all the research from Scandinavian countries shows it leads to a higher divorce rate later on.”

Craig nodded. He didn’t much like the thought of it either. It felt like dipping one foot into the lake, instead of having the balls to take the plunge. He and Julia had discussed it, but that was because of geography. He and Camille had actually done it, but they were young and poor. At forty-three there was just no reason that seemed to fit.

“OK then. You don’t want to be without her, you love her and you don’t want to co-habit. Marriage it is then. Go for it.”

John blanched visibly. Craig left him to it and went to bar for another round of drinks. When he got back John’s fingers were tapping again, more cheerfully this time. Craig watched the thoughts running across his friend’s face and knew exactly what they were. He’d had them himself just before he’d proposed to Camille.

“Don’t worry about where you ask her; just ask her when it feels right. And for God’s sake don’t actually buy an engagement ring. By all means look and have an idea, but she’ll want to choose her own.”

John’s face fell suddenly. “What’ll I do if she says no?”

Craig shook his head, laughing. “She won’t. Julia told me Natalie knew you were the man for her after your second date. Don’t ask me how they know these things but women seem to.”

Craig fell quiet for a moment, remembering Julia. He missed her. They’d broken up just before Christmas. It was the worst time of year for a split, but was there ever a good one? They’d agreed not to see or call each other for at least six months, so they could adjust to being colleagues again instead of lovers, but it was hard. He seemed to have too many weekends to fill now.

John stared at Craig’s handsome face then glanced at the girls to his right. They were smiling across at them flirtatiously so John asked the question.

“Those girls seem to like us. Do you want to send them over a drink?”

Craig laughed loudly. “Do I have ‘sad lonely man’ tattooed that obviously across my forehead? Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not looking for another relationship. Besides, it’s you we’re here to sort out.”

“Well, if you’re not interested in a relationship then you won’t want to hear who I met today in the lab.”

“Who?”

“You said you weren’t interested.”

Craig squinted at John like a member of MI5 and he caved in.

“Katy Stevens. You met her during the case at St Mary’s last year. She said you interrogated her. I bet you gave her that exact look.”

“I didn’t interrogate her! I interviewed her like several others.”

“Well, she remembers you well. She must have enjoyed it” He smirked. “You didn’t tell me you bumped into her on the Trainor case as well.”

Craig squinted at him. “Who are you? My mother? I chatted to her in an art gallery for all of two minutes. I’d completely forgotten about it until now.”

It was John’s turn to laugh. “Don’t ever commit a crime, Marc, because you’re a lousy liar.”

Craig stared into his glass, rubbing the rim irritatingly until it whined. Finally he spoke without looking up. “How did she look?”

“Better before I accidentally walked into her and almost broke her nose.”

Craig gawped at him. “You did what?”

John folded his arms defensively. “I didn’t mean to. I was thinking about Natalie and I walked out of the lift straight into her…she was very good about it, but she’s got a huge bruise.”

Craig didn’t know whether to thump John or laugh, so he did both.

“Ow! Anyway. I think she likes you, so why don’t I get Natalie to organise a double date?”

“Not unless you want me to let slip that you’re planning to propose…”

Chapter Nine

The C.C.U. Wednesday. 8 a.m.

John had meant to tell Craig about the lab results the night before, but he’d forgotten when their early evening banter had turned into another drunken night. He dialled the Murder Squad’s office and was greeted by Nicky’s voice. She sounded flat and sad, completely unlike her usual lively self.

“Hi, Nicky. Is Marc there?”

“I’ll just put you through, Dr Winter.”

Before John could enquire how she was, Craig’s voice was on the phone. “Hi, what did you forget to tell me last night?”

“The lab results. And it’s your fault. You moved us onto whiskey.”

Craig laughed, pushing his hangover to its edge. “Fire away.”

“We were right. Eileen Carragher’s corneas were being lubricated using artificial tears. Check with the husband that she didn’t use them for any other reason, but if not, they lubricated her eyes after they cut off her eyelids, so she could watch. I’ve sent the chemical composition over to Davy, but good luck with finding out where they were bought, they’re pretty common. I also found a clotting agent on her. They must have used it to stem the blood so she didn’t die too soon.”

“Great. Any more good news?”

“Yes actually. I think Des and Davy may have found your knife, but I’ll leave Davy to tell you about that. And the C.S.I’s lifted a print from one of the items at Eileen Carragher’s feet.”

Craig interrupted eagerly. “A print? I don’t suppose you’ve found a match?”

“Sorry, no. But I can tell you it came from someone tiny. I’m talking Natalie tiny.”

Natalie Ingrams was only five-feet-tall. Craig smiled. He’d wondered how long it would take John to drop her name into the conversation. John was still reporting.

“I’ve compared it to standard sizes and it matches a child of either sex up to the age of eleven, or an adult with very tiny hands – probably a small woman. With hands that small you’re looking at a shoe size of around a ladies’ three, and surprise, surprise, the C.S.I.’s found a lady’s size two-and-a-half shoe print at the scene.”

“Couldn’t it have been from someone using the playground the day before?”

John shook his head, and then realised that Craig couldn’t see him. “No. It’s not a child’s shoe, it had a stiletto heel. And it was in the arterial blood spray. It was definitely made after Eileen Carragher’s throat was cut and no-one but the caretaker would have been in the playground before we were called. It’s locked at night.”

If the playground was locked how had their perps got in? Craig parked the query and carried on.

“So one of Eileen Carragher’s murderers was a tiny woman or a young girl?”

“Seems so. A woman’s more likely. It’s a primary school so it’s unlikely any ten-year-old would be wearing stiletto heels. A small woman would explain why it would have taken more than one person to do the job.”

“I suppose.”

John heard the thoughtful tone in Craig’s voice. “What? You’ve got a theory, haven’t you?”

“Maybe. But nothing that I’m ready to share.”

John paused for so long that Craig thought he’d lost the call. “John? Are you still there?”

“I’m here. Look… it’s not my business, but is Nicky all right? She sounds miserable.”

“I know, but she won’t talk about it. Don’t worry; I’m digging around to see what I can find out. Send over the print, will you; I want Davy to check it out. Now, go and do some work. I’m off to see what else he’s found.”

***

They’d rested for long enough, now it was time to move. Yesterday had been about watching and waiting for news about the bitch’s death, and gathering together the things for tonight’s kill. The local news had been quiet. Nothing except ‘the body of a fifty-five-year-old woman was found in south Belfast’. No name, nothing about the school and nothing about the way she’d died.

Mai wasn’t surprised. Typical bloody authorities, never there when you needed them. She’d found that out too often to her cost. She ruffled her dark hair and gazed in the mirror. She was pretty, she knew that. She’d caught men’s admiring glances all her life and they were hard to miss. Slavering dogs the lot of them. The women weren’t much better. Something about her doll-like prettiness had drawn their hatred, making them cling desperately onto their men whenever she entered a room.

They were stupid. All she’d ever wanted was their friendship, not their ugly men. But it didn’t matter now. She was beyond all that. Once they’d completed their task they would go somewhere that no-one could touch them anymore.

***

8.30 a.m.

“Tell me about the knife, Davy.”

Davy jumped. He’d been surfing men’s fashion sites and hadn’t heard Craig walking up behind him. Craig leaned over his shoulder and clicked on an image. It was a slim-cut black suit paired with a dark red shirt. It was like something he would have worn, tieless, into the office in London. Now he only got to wear it on a big night out. Belfast fashion had a way to go.

“That would suit you. If you’re trying to impress Maggie, that is.”

Davy swivelled his chair round to face his boss, flustered by being caught out. He hid his embarrassment, not as he’d done for years, by blushing and stammering, but behind a show of detailed forensic knowledge that said he was all grown up.

“The knife’s very unusual, chief.”

Craig smiled inwardly. Gone were the ‘sirs’ that once preceded every conversation between them, often elongated for so long by Davy’s stutter that Craig had been tempted to tell him to call him Marc, just to ease his pain. He hadn’t, for one reason. Not because he liked standing on ceremony or because he was impressed by his own rank, but because Nicky had scolded him for a year before Davy had joined for telling people to do just that. He remembered her words being forced out through pursed lips.

“This isn’t London and it isn’t The Met, sir. You can’t come back here after fifteen years away, all cool and ‘street’ and expect everyone in Northern Ireland to suddenly understand. It’s traditional here, remember that. You’re the boss, not everyone’s best friend.”

Craig had railed against it, having angry words with her the first few times that she’d told him off. If he was the boss then it was his house, his rules. Finally he’d realised that she was right. They might be his rules, but the first time one of his sergeants had said “as soon as I’m ready, Marc,” when he’d given an order during an armed assault, Craig knew that Nicky had been spot-on. Calling him ‘sir’ might be a pain in the office, but in a shoot-out it might be the only thing that saved lives.

Craig was shaken out of his reminiscing by Davy pulling a photograph up on the screen. At first glance it looked like raw sausage meat; Craig didn’t want to think what part of the human body it was. Davy leaned in and pointed to a slash down its centre.

“Can you see how deep that cut is?”

“Yes.”

“And that it penetrates s…sideways as well?”

“Sure. And?”

“That’s because the blade was broad and they angled it as it went in. Des has made a cast of it.”

Craig realised he was staring at a piece of Eileen Carragher so he quickly stared at Davy instead. “What does it show?”

“The blade was twenty-two centimetres long and eight point five deep.” Davy tapped a second screen to his left and a page of images pulled up. They were meat cleavers. “The cut was uniform all the way through s…so the blade didn’t narrow from hilt to tip.”

Craig peered at the screen. “Like a meat cleaver.”

“Yes. But there was s…something else unusual about it. The edge was s…serrated.”

“How could Des tell?”

“Tiny tears in the muscle. It wasn’t just serrated, boss. It was razor-edged. Like it had been s…sharpened especially. If Mrs Carragher w…was awake the pain would have been unbearable.”

Craig glanced at him. “My guess is she was awake the whole time.”

Davy shook his head. “No. You’re w…wrong. She couldn’t have been.”

His voice was adamant and Craig stared at him curiously. Even if he was still young enough to overreact emotionally Davy was a scientist. If he said ‘no’ that firmly they’d better listen.

“Why not?”

Davy pointed to the knives. “Look at the razor-edges.” He pointed back to the other image. “Now look at how deep the cut in her muscle was.” He stared at Craig. “Do you really think anyone could cope with that level of pain unless they were anaesthetised? They would die from s…shock.”

Craig’s eyes widened. He was right! He’d missed it. John had missed it. They’d all missed it except Davy.

“Davy, you’re brilliant!”

Davy blushed, then realised that he hadn’t asked why. Liam asked for him. He’d entered the squad a moment before and heard the last part of their debate.

“Why’s he brilliant, boss?”

Craig beckoned him across and brought him up to speed with the blade and Davy’s theory that Eileen Carragher had to have been anaesthetised as they cut. Liam shook his head.

“It wouldn’t have been a punishment then, lad. And these bastards wanted her to suffer.”

“But s…she’d have blacked out from the pain.”

“He’s right, Liam she would. Unless…”

They gazed at Craig. He contemplated drawing out his explanation to make himself look good then decided against it.

“Davy’s right. The only way that Eileen Carragher would have been awake for long enough to suffer was if, either she was anaesthetised locally in each area while they cut her…”

Liam shook his head. “Too kind.”

“Too kind to make you w…watch while they hacked away bits of you one by one! I’d hate to be your enemy, Liam!”

Craig pushed on. “Or if they didn’t anaesthetise her but let her black out, then revived her again.”

“They w…would have had to resuscitate her, chief. The risks of cardiac arrest would have been very high.”

“Good thinking. So either she passed out or she arrested, but either way they resuscitated her every time. That means they had equipment and the location to do it in.”

“A hospital? Clinic?”

Craig shook his head. “They aren’t medical. John said the cuts showed they had a limited knowledge of anatomy. Besides, everyone’s seen people being resuscitated on TV. They could have bought everything they needed over the internet. All they needed was enough space and privacy so that no-one heard her scream.”

He leaned in and typed a few words on Davy’s keyboard. The lab report from John’s eye-drops popped up.

“John says her eyes were lubricated regularly using these. Can you run them through the usual databases, Davy? John says they’re common so he doesn’t hold out much hope they’ll give us a lead, but you never know.”

Liam pulled up a chair and sat down, resting his long legs up on a nearby desk. “So let me get this right, boss. They kidnapped her sometime between Saturday and Sunday and cut off her eyelids so she was forced to watch everything they did to her. Then they chopped her up while she was awake and feeling everything, and resuscitated her each time she collapsed?”

“Until they were ready to let her die, then they cut her throat. Yes.”

Liam puffed out his cheeks, deep in thought, and Craig smiled as Davy unconsciously mimicked the look and wrinkled his brow. Davy secretly fancied himself as a detective but every time Craig raised the idea of training for the police, the thorny question of physical danger popped up and Day decided that he preferred his desk. Instead he lived vicariously through their adventures.

Liam dropped his feet to the floor with a thud and exclaimed. “BDSM!”

Craig’s automatic response was to crack a joke. “Not just at the moment, thanks.” Then he wrinkled his brow in thought. Liam was right. Just then Annette and Jake arrived, looking puzzled. They’d heard Liam’s shout all the way from the hall so Annette asked the obvious question.

“What’s BSDM when it’s at home?”

Liam gave her a pitying look and adopted a posture befitting a man of the world. “BDSM. Bondage, domination, sadism and masochism. Sex games.”

Jake shook his head knowledgeably. “You’ve missed out two. Discipline and submission.”

Liam sniffed, put out. “When did it change?”

Annette interjected like lightening. “Around the time you started pretending you’d tried it, I expect.” Her tone was so dry that even Nicky laughed.

“Whatever it stands for Liam is right. BDSM fits.”

Craig ran quickly through their earlier discussion, much to Annette’s disgust, then he theorised further about their killers.

“Only someone who has knowledge of restraints and torture would have been able to do this. And they’d need a particular mind-set. It’s all very well reading about BDSM, but actually hurting another human being for hours and being oblivious to their pain requires something else.”

“Aye, sadism, boss. Real sadism, not your ‘tie me up with a silk scarf and whack me on the backside on a Saturday night sort’.”

Annette arched one eyebrow. “And you know this how, Liam?”

“Ah now. Beneath this sophisticated exterior…”

The sound of Nicky snorting loudly made them all laugh again.

“Seriously, Liam. Annette’s right. How do you know so much about the BDSM scene?”

Liam smiled as if he was remembering something. “During the Troubles one of the big loyalist paramilitaries had a BDSM club in Smithfield market that he used as a front for his little war games. We staked it out for months, then Jack Harris and I went undercover inside.”

“Jack Harris! Our Jack Harris, everybody’s Dad?”

Jake’s words echoed everyone’s thoughts. Craig looked around the group. Every face was screwed up; trying to imagine Jack Harris dressed as a leather gimp. It was like hearing that Santa Claus wore stockings and suspenders under his suit.

“Here. How come you’re shocked at the thought of Jack doing it, but not me?”

Craig gestured him to get on with it before the conversation deteriorated even further.

“Aye well, we went under cover for two weeks and I saw more in those two weeks than I ever want to see again. Suffice it to say there’s plenty up at Stormont that have stripes on their backs. Anyway, most of the stuff was mild but there was a back room where the rough stuff went on, and more than once an ambulance had to be called when things went too far.”