A Limited Justice (#1 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (17 page)

Except that this would have disgusted him. This would have made him angry and confused, and he would have blamed himself. This would have widened the gap and driven a wedge between him and his wife, her siding with her child, always with her child.

It was better that he’d died than hear this. Joey nodded to himself in guilt and justification. Perhaps it was kinder to all of them, better for all their futures. Yes, it was. He nodded to himself again, yes. Nodding all his guilt and blame away, nod by nod.

Now his Dad would never know, and never be disappointed, and never hate him. It had been for the best, for all of them. Successful justification. But that still left him with the guilt.

*** 

They’d spent thirty minutes arguing. Craig’s reasoning that the sketch of their Hoody should be released, being over-ruled by the D.C.S.’ insistence that it would drive the killer underground if they plastered her face all over the news. They’d finally agreed to compromise, on a paragraph’s description of the person they needed to help them with their enquiries. They were just preparing themselves for the onslaught of journalists, when they heard a set of heels clicking towards the room. Nicky’s dark head suddenly appeared and she knocked at the smoked-glass office door.

Harrison saw her first through the glass and smiled. His smile always reminded Craig of a shark with indigestion but he recognised the sentiment; he was genuinely pleased to see her, and of the respite from their debate.

“Nicola – how lovely to see you. To what do we owe this visit?”

She smiled broadly at him, all the petty irritations of working together forgotten, in the genuine affection that she always held for old bosses.

“Hello sir. How are you? And Mrs Harrison?”

Craig smiled to himself, knowing that it was her way of marking his infidelities, and her own loyalty to the woman whose tears she’d heard on more than one occasion.

“Good, good – excellent. Sian’s just got a post with Aymes and Boyce Marketing in town you know.”

“That’s brilliant, sir. You and Mrs Harrison must both be very proud.”

Thirty-Love, Nicky.

Her subtle digs passed completely over Harrison’s head and he nodded, smiling.

“Yes, yes we both are. Very. Well Nicola, was it me or D.C.I. Craig that you wanted to speak to?”

The question was delivered as if it must be him, daring her to say otherwise. Craig didn’t mind what she said, but she reacted diplomatically, as he knew she would.

“Well actually, sir, it’s both of you.”

Craig stood up and offered her his chair and Harrison nodded her down, flicking his eyes over her slim thighs, nicely outlined in dark winter tights. She smiled at Craig in thanks and sat down, crossing her long legs elegantly, and then started to speak in her growling voice.

“I’ve just been down at the press room, sir.”

Harrison raised a quizzical eyebrow but Craig smiled, quickly realising what she’d been up to.

“And exactly what were you doing there, Nicola?”

That had been Craig’s question the first time she’d done it, but despite his objections she’d done it again, insisting that it was her contribution to ‘undercover operations’. He knew better than to try to stop her; he’d about as much control of Nicky as he had of Lucia.

“I just happened to be passing with some papers, sir. Anyway...”

Harrison looked at her sceptically “Yes ...?”

“Well, I just happened to overhear them talking. And they’ve a few nasty little questions lined up to ask you both.... Live on air, sir.”

Craig’s ears picked up, Nicky might just win his argument for him. Harrison was listening intently now.

“Such as?”

“They’ve made a link between the two cases, and they’re planning all sorts of mischief. I heard one of them say that they’re going to play up the Dissident angle for the evening news. Another one was talking to his editor about a headline that went something like, ‘Rape and murder spree against W.P.C.s.’”

A look of disgust flicked across her face as she added. “And he was trying to make it rhyme as well.”

Craig would have happily put all hacks and defence barristers in a watery grave.

“What did he look like, Nicky?”

“A weasel. But I know who it was sir. It was Ray Mercer from the Belfast Chronicle. He door-stepped me once last year, remember. When we were doing that Robertson case?”

She smiled, remembering. “Gary thumped him.”

Craig grinned, he remembered. Mercer had complained of assault so Craig had a few words with Gary, over a pint.

The sudden explosion that came from Harrison wasn’t completely unexpected, but Craig hadn’t quite anticipated its volume. Nicky had been even more effective than usual.

“Those hacks, they should all be put up against a wall and shot – and I don’t want that comment going outside this room.” He glared at Craig and looked at Nicky as if she was a naughty child.

“Totally irresponsible, panic-mongering, illiterate...”

Craig had watched her light the blue touch-paper, and now they both watched as the rocket launched, treating them to five minutes of Harrison pacing up and down his long office several times. Finally he sat down heavily in his orthopaedic chair and lapsed into complete silence, looking down thoughtfully.

Craig had been resting his hand calmly on the back of Nicky’s chair, and he gave it thirty more seconds of quiet before he finally spoke.

“Sir, with respect, there’s a very easy way to diffuse all their headlines and make them look very stupid into the bargain.”

Harrison’s head shot up, and his eyes fixed Craig’s fiercely.

“How? I’d love to hear it.”

The tone was sceptical but with a hint of desperation, as if he’d consider wire- walking if it would stop tomorrow’s headlines.

“All we have to do, is release the sketch of the girl.”

Harrison opened his mouth to object but Craig drove on. “No, hear me out, sir.” The D.C.S.’s following silence giving him permission.

“If we say that we’re looking for the same person in connection with both crimes, that means that it isn’t linked to W.P.C.s in particular, so they lose their spree angle. Then we release the sketch and say that our prime suspect is a woman; that will completely throw them. At the same time, we leak that we have strong reasons to believe that W.P.C. Burton’s death was staged to look like a rape, but that it definitely wasn’t.”

Harrison was slightly calmer and nodded to himself. “That’s a possibility but...it doesn’t take account of the Dissidents.”

“No, but there’s been no organisation claiming either murder, and they always do. And we’ve no intelligence to support a Dissident angle. The rape of a young woman is low, so it’s likely they’ll come out and deny it very soon anyway. If we argue all those points we can direct it firmly towards motive-based killings by one person, most probably a young woman.”

Harrison rubbed his chin pensively back and forth, as if enjoying the feel of his own stubble, in some sort of virility-affirmation ritual. Nicky had told Craig that the habit creeped her out and he could see why.

Craig leaned against the chair while Nicky remained totally still; hardly breathing, then Harrison looked up at both of them, triumphantly.

“I’ve decided exactly how we’ll handle these press boyos.”

Nicky smiled and leaned forward encouragingly. “How, sir?”

“I’m going to release the sketch of our prime suspect for both murders. Deride any suggestion of genuine rape, or of a vendetta against W.P.C.s, and firmly link the crimes together as the acts of one warped woman with a personal grudge.”

I’m?

“Then I’m going to make it clear that Dissidents invariably claim their kills and to suggest this is anything to do with any of those groups is completely laughable. That’ll make all those journos look like complete idiots.”

Nicky smiled up at him, openly admiring, and Craig could see her tongue firmly in her cheek. “Oh, well done, sir.”

Harrison slapped his open hand down hard on the desk and smiled broadly, standing up to pull open the door. “Mrs Butler, come in please and take a new draft for the press release.”

As he dictated the changes, Craig smiled to himself, trying to avoid Nicky’s eye in case he laughed aloud. Only then did he realise that she was wearing a short skirt, instead of the leggings she’d been wearing two hours before. Her motto had always been ‘whatever works, within reason’ and he thanked something, somewhere, yet again, for the day he’d inherited her from the D.C.S.

***

It was 6pm by the time Craig finally returned to the squad, exhausted. The press conference had been argumentative but they’d managed to hold the line. He wondered again if the press realised how much police time was wasted dealing with their questions. Maybe they could charge them all with obstruction of justice, except for the headlines it would cause.

Now he was just waiting for the Dissidents to deny Maria Burton’s death, outraged. And then play some petty game to re-assert their ‘genuine’ terrorist credentials, as they did every time they felt they were being ‘disrespected’.

It was a Friday evening, but as he walked tiredly past Annette’s desk he noticed her poring over some papers, still working away.

“Annette, go home please, I’ll be here until seven if anything comes up. There’s no point in you being here as well.”

She smiled up at him, knowing that it was only his family’s insistence on Friday dinner that dragged him away at all.

“I just wanted to check through a few things, sir. I spoke to the nursing home where Joey volunteers and he hasn’t been there for over a week, so he wouldn’t have had any reason to use the cream on Wednesday. They did say he’s been there a bit less recently, they think maybe he’s got a new girlfriend, although his mum didn’t say anything about it.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to know about her, lads his age are secretive. OK, dig a bit on that and then get him in again. And use an interview room this time. Don’t make it too cosy for him. I want to know more about his relationship with his father and exactly where he was on Wednesday. That lecture alibi is rubbish.”

She nodded. “I know. If it’s alright, I’ll try to crack his alibi before I waste time interviewing sixty students.”

“Fine. Whatever you think.” He looked at what she’d been poring over. It was the sketch of their Hoody.

“This sketch is amazing, isn’t it? It’s like a photograph. Someone has to recognise her from this.”

The artist had captured the image of a thin woman somewhere between twenty and thirty years of age, but there was another, deeper dimension to the sketch. An awful weariness that stared out from her hollowed eyes, watching the world as if it was a punishment. She looked sick, or an addict. Craig had seen plenty of heroin eyes like that when he’d worked in Earls Court.

“Let’s see if the database knows her. The postman and paperboy will be easy to find, and I think our Spiv will be too. She’ll be the real challenge. Speaking of Spivs, have you heard anything from Liam?”

She gave a wry smile and nodded.

“Oh yes, I’ve heard from him. He’s been on the phone four times since he got there and mostly in words of one syllable. It seems D.I. McNulty wasn’t too happy to have our assistance. His last call was ten minutes ago on the way to the Adams’ farm and it ended with the words ‘dead body’, and I’m pretty sure he meant McNulty’s. He did say he agrees with her on one thing though, he doesn’t think Paul Burton did it. Not only was he on-line at the time, but he ordered an afternoon grocery delivery and signed for it at 2.47.”

She anticipated his next question. “They’ve corroborated it with the supermarket; the delivery guy recognised his photo.”

“So, how did his sperm get all the way to Limavady?” Craig rubbed his temple thoughtfully. “His dead sperm?”

Paul Burton had never donated sperm, he’d obviously never been a starving student like he and John had; the going rate was £10 a time when he was eighteen. And John’s conversation with the North West had ruled out rape, so why the dead sperm?

Craig snapped his fingers suddenly, in a Damascene moment.. He grabbed Annette’s phone, dialling Liam.

“Liam, where are you right now?”

He hit the speakerphone and Annette could hear the sudden rush of traffic and Liam’s muffled voice, confirming that he was on the car ‘hands-free’. His loud bass forced its way through the static, but only alternate words were clear.

“...Road...”

“Right, when you get there, call D.I. McNulty and tell her to ask Burton two questions. Did he have sex recently with a woman he didn’t know? And did they use a condom?”

The next phrase from Liam was crystal clear.

“You ask her, boss. That one’s like a viper and I value my balls. She was eating the head off her sergeant when I left. She needs a good...”

His last word was drowned out by a car-horn but they all knew what it was, and Craig made a mental note to give him the political correctness lecture again. He had to do it every few months or Liam’s ‘natural exuberance’ led to some W.P.C. complaining, and yet another compulsory course attendance.

“OK, I’ll give her a call. Update me when you meet Michael Adams. Nicky’s sent the sketches through to your phone so check if he’s our Spiv please.”