A Limited Justice (#1 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (22 page)

They all jumped suddenly as a loud klaxon sounded, a signal that information was coming through on Davy’s system. He turned to the screen excitedly, while Liam screwed up his face.

“What’s that bloody noise, Davy? I know I asked you to get rid of the dog barking, but not to replace it with that. It’s even worse.”

“Sorry, Liam.” The complete lack of contrition in Davy’s voice almost made Craig laugh, but his obvious excitement cut through the urge.

“What have you got?”

“OK, you know I’ve been looking for anything that could give me Jessica Adams’ recent movements and I’ve been hitting a brick w...wall. There have been no hits on her cards and her bank account’s been completely inactive, there’s nothing. I’ve been trying to find the children too, they’re usually easier to trace; doctors records, immunisations, that type of thing. I reckoned that if s...she was as good a mum as everyone told us, then they’d have had everything.”

“But surely she could have changed their names to anything, Davy.”

“Yes, but it’s actually not that easy. There’s nearly always a trail in the U.K. and I’ve just found it. And interestingly, s...she didn’t change their names. Maybe that goes along with her not trying to disappear completely, maybe just long enough to kill.”

“What have you got?”

“Jessica Adams had another baby, fourteen months ago. Pia Adams, born 5th August 2011.” He said it triumphantly, with a well-deserved look of pride on his face.

“Oh God.” Annette’s voice broke and she looked horrified as the full depth of Jessica Adams’ pain suddenly hit her. Liam slowly understood.

“That means she was already four months pregnant when the husband hanged himself, boss, which makes him an even more selfish bastard in my book. It certainly explains why she’s gone off the deep end anyway.”

“It’d be enough to push me over the edge, sir. Poor girl, if she wasn’t a murderer I’d feel really sorry for her.”

Craig nodded at Annette. It was typical, when nice people murdered there was usually some personal devastation as the trigger. But it was still no excuse.

“But she probably is a murderer. Although...” He turned to the others.

“I still want Joey McCandless interviewed. He’s hiding something. And let’s find Gemma Orr, she might be able to throw more light on Jessica Adams’ thinking.”

Liam leaned over Annette’s desk partition, looking as thoughtful as he ever could.

“Here, did the G.P. not mention the baby, Annette?”

“No, nothing. He only mentioned two children, and even then, we had to drag it out of him on the basis that we needed to know in case they got hurt. I really don’t think he even knew she’d had another baby.”

“Well she must have seen someone before this one was born. Danni’s never away from the flipping antenatal clinic.”

“Liam’s right. There must be a record of the birth and the baby must have been registered. Davy, where did you find out about the baby?”

“S...She took her for vaccination last Tuesday, at Farren Lane baby clinic. It’s in Belfast, about a mile away from McCandless’ garage.”

“OK, forget the G.P. for now; we can come back to him if we need to. Good work, Davy, now see if you can get onto where she had the baby. Antenatal, postnatal, birth registrations, earlier immunisations.”

“Aye, they have about four immunisations in the first year alone – poor wee things.”

“And you’ve done nothing but moan about your tetanus from Mrs Foster’s cat, you big baby.”

Craig nodded at Davy. “Anything that gives us a clue where she’s been in the past year. And if you can find us a home address, then I really owe you.”

Davy smiled, that meant something big; Craig paid his debts ten-fold.

“I’m going to speak to D.I. McNulty again, Liam, in the spirit of ‘entente.”

“But without very much of the ‘cordiale’.”

*** 

Craig took another drink of his beer and flicked the TV on, still thinking about the case. He’d been disappointed by another tense conversation with Julia McNulty, picking up where they’d left off about the handbag. He understood her tension but he’d already had to bollock her twice this week, the second for her treatment of Annette, so he really thought that she would have learnt by now. She’d been marginally more polite, although as Liam had anticipated, still not ‘cordiale’.

He was curious about her but he didn’t know why, except that something must have happened to make her so aggressive; no one was born fighting the world that way. He contrasted her macho approach with Lucia’s sunny younger-child cool. If he hadn’t been ten when Lucia was born, he’d have been tempted to say personality was nurture not nature, but he remembered her being the same from the cradle. Even as a sulky teenager, he’d hardly resented baby-sitting her. No, D.I. McNulty definitely had issues.

He shrugged, not really caring, and surfed the channels until he found some football. Then he switched off his thoughts completely, to spend a blissful Saturday evening undisturbed by murder, or women.

Chapter Thirteen

It was Sunday afternoon by the time Jessie’s bail was posted. She gathered her few possessions together and waved good-bye to a smiling Becky, far safer now that Lynsey Taylor was dead.

She stepped out through the open gate, her hands full of written warnings about breaching bail, and walked slowly towards Fiona’s newly bought Prius parked at the end of the driveway. Two fair, tousled heads were clearly visible in the back seat.

Her left leg had been dragging slightly since that morning so she climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat, kissing Fiona lightly on the cheek and answering her hopeful glance with a single nod. Fiona relaxed visibly, gripping her hand in gratitude. “Thank you, Jessie.”

Jessie half-turned to face her three pretty daughters, relaxing into her own soft accent after days of pretending harder Belfast vowels.

“Have you all been good girls for Fiona?”

The high chorus of “Yes, Mammy,” made any memory of her recent mission fade immediately.

“And did Fiona tell you where we’re going now?”

“No, Mammy,” Anya’s eager six-year-old face looked up at her, smiling, her imagination of sweet shops far surpassed by Jessie’s next words. She smiled gratefully at Fiona for letting her tell them.

“Well... you know Fiona has packed your little travelling bags, just like Mammy’s?”

“Yes, yes where are we going, Mammy? Where are we going?”

“Where would you like to go, pet?”

It was directed at six-year-old Anya, but she looked at her four-year-old sister for guidance, always deferring to Ruby’s stronger personality. Ruby was a natural leader, just like Michael had been so when she yelled, “Disneyland, Disneyland,” the two of them jumped up and down, bouncing Pia’s rocker in unison. Pia gurgled, and then laughed at them all, enjoying the game.

“We’ll go to Disneyland soon, pet, but not for a few more days, because ...”

“Yes, yes, where, where?”

“This weekend we’re going to... Sunny Days Play Camp.

Excited squeals and chants of “Sunny Days, Sunny Days, Sunny Days,” filled the car as Fiona drove down the gravelled lane, turning left for the journey south, intent on breaking Jessie’s bail.

Jessie looked across at her. “Can bear a bit more noise?” Fiona nodded, waiting for the next explosion.

“And then in a few more days...we’ll really be in...Disneyland...all thanks to Fiona.”

Her last three words were completely drowned out by squeals of pleasure, as their high voices and Pia’s gurgles jumbled into a tangle of ‘Snow White’, ‘Mickey Mouse’ and ‘Sleeping Beauty’ for the next few miles. Until they finally sat back, happy and exhausted.

Jessie handed them the books hidden earlier in the glove box, so they could colour in pictures of all the things they were soon going to see, and they headed for the motorway. She rested her head back against the seat for the long trip to Dublin, remembering happy times with Michael and letting the tension that she’d been carrying for the past week seep out of her. Then she fell into a deep dream of her final target and the life beyond him. But before that, she dreamt of the next two days when she’d get to be just a Mum again.

***

Julia scrolled through her Monday morning e-mails trying to focus, but she still couldn’t clear the image of Maria Burton’s mother from her mind, after a weekend of trying. No matter how tough they all believed ‘the job’ had made them, it was a lie. A lie they told themselves to be professional. And as protection to deal with the guilt when they didn’t catch the bad guys. But it always collapsed when you had to tell a parent that their child was dead, no matter what age that child was, and that had been her job last week. She could still hear the screams.

What do you say when someone screams “Why, why, why?” for ten minutes. Not pausing for breath and with thick tears streaming from their eyes so fast that they dripped into their mouth, choking on them as if they might suffocate in their own pain. What do you say when they ask you. “How did they die?”

Do you say. “Please don’t ask me, because you’ll never forget the words I say”, or “it’s better if you don’t know, because the images will haunt you to your grave?”

Better not to know. Better only to see the face of your child clean and calm in the viewing room, and believe they had a peaceful end. Not the skull-crushing, air-gasping reality of it. Not the indignity and violation of it. Not the fact that even if we catch them, nothing will give you justice or compensate. That no form of execution, even if it existed here, would ever hurt them as much as they’ve hurt you, or condemn them to the hell you’re in.

Please don’t ask me to tell you how they killed your lovely daughter by the water that she loved to walk beside, her love of nature engendered by the way you brought her up. So that you’re going to ask yourself every day. “What if we hadn’t owned a farm? Then maybe she’d never have been outside admiring the morning, walking by the Bann that drowned her?”

Please don’t ask me.

But these were her needs not theirs, so she’d answered whatever they’d asked her. Now she’d help them deal with the images that her words had created, images to live with for the rest of their lives.

***

“Right. OK, I want to go over everything again.”

They were crammed into Craig’s office. Craig pacing, Annette and Nicky sitting at the desk, and Liam and Davy leaning like bookends against the wall.

“We have someone, most probably Jessica Adams, who killed Maria Burton and framed her husband for rape. We know she was the woman who slept with Paul Burton and ‘stole’ his semen, using it at Maria Burton’s scene to mislead us. Burton’s got a solid alibi so they’ve had to release him, but from his encounter we have an up-to-date physical description of a very thin female, long brown hair, about thirty years old, with no distinguishing marks except for a pierced navel.”

“Trendy farmer’s wife.”

Nicky leaned forward, agreeing with Annette. “That’s exactly what I thought – piercings are more East Belfast than East Derry.” Liam was about to say something rude, but Craig ignored him and moved on.

“Maria Burton was definitely tripped up, confirmed by the same knee and hand abrasions as those found on Ian McCandless. She also had the same razor-sharp cuts on her shins that he had. And although no wire has been found yet at any point along the river, the cuts on both Burton and McCandless’ shins match exactly with the sample of flat razor-wire that Liam found at Michael Adams’ farm.

What also match are their skull damage and the location of their head injuries. Both fractures match a captive bolt-gun, and one of the same type and manufacturer was missing from the set that the C.S.I.s found at the farm. They were both hit where the skull-bone was thin and the blow was most likely to kill them. Which thankfully it did immediately with Maria Burton, but unfortunately, it didn’t with Ian McCandless – he eventually drowned in petrol.

But I believe that his petrol pump and fire scenario was just as much staging as Maria Burton’s rape – done purely to misdirect and delay us.”

“Although bloody vicious, boss, so that tells us something as well.”

Craig nodded at Liam in agreement. Yes it did.

“I don’t think the killer delayed us just to evade capture. They delayed us to play for time. They didn’t really mind us finding the fingerprint because although they haven’t finished yet, I believe that our killer feels they have nothing to lose, which makes them very, very dangerous. There’s a link between Maria Burton, Jessica Adams and Ian McCandless, I’m sure of it. But even if Jessica Adams is our killer, her choice of victims may not link them directly to her.”

They looked at him, puzzled, until he told them about John’s throwaway ‘hit man’ remark, and one by one, they slowly nodded agreement. Annette was the first to speak.

“That makes sense, sir. Just imagine that you’re a young widow with no money and three children to feed, you’ve no family to turn to and you’re only skilled as a wife and mother. Remember that she only worked for two years before she got married so she had no real work experience or training in anything else. How do you get a job that pays enough to feed them? Then you see a way to make money, by killing people on someone else’s behalf, sort of a ‘gun for hire’. She’s already lived on a farm where they slaughtered cattle, so maybe killing doesn’t seem so bad to her?”