The Careless Word (#8 - The Craig Crime Series) (8 page)

Suddenly Craig felt someone staring at him and he turned to see the small group still in place.

“Did I forget something?”

Annette beckoned him back and Nicky joined them. Their faces were solemn and Craig wondered what he’d done wrong.

Annette spoke first. “Sir, we have something every important to ask you and your reply is a matter of life and death.”

Craig’s eyes widened and for a moment he was worried, then he saw Nicky giggle and he knew what was coming next. “You want to know what to get John and Natalie as a wedding present.”

Craig shook his head and headed for the double-doors. “I have absolutely no idea. What John likes Natalie will hate and vice versa, so the best of luck with that.”

Chapter Seven

10 a.m.

The British Army base was set high in the Craigantlet Hills, near the small town of Holywood, home to Tom and Mirella Craig. The setting was picturesque, overlooking countryside whose hills gave a new meaning to the word ‘rolling’. They pitched and veered unexpectedly at angles that were unfeasibly steep, only to level off suddenly to reveal a green vista that stretched for miles. It was that suddenness that made Craig love the area; he had since done he was a boy. He remembered running up and down the slopes with his gang of friends and playing hide and seek in the long, dry grass. He’d hiked the miles from home just to play there, even though there were flatter spaces closer by; but none of them held the mystery of grass that he was small enough to hide in and the chance of finding a gully that no-one had discovered before.

But the Army hadn’t chosen the location for its beauty; it had far more practical considerations. The base was positioned far enough from Holywood’s urban build-up to bestow privacy, and high enough above it so that the only neighbours who could have spied on them were the MLAs at Stormont, and even they would have needed an astronomer’s telescope. As Craig drove up the narrow mud track to the reinforced, barbed-wire topped gate he wondered whether what happened there would bear scrutiny any better than what happened in Parliament Buildings would, although undoubtedly it involved younger, fitter men.

After the theatre of name checking and badge flashing at the small gate-post, the wide, high gates opened inwards to reveal a dusty road that ended at a large building a mile further on. Modern houses lined the road and between them lay small commons, with young children running to and fro, playing the games that Craig and his friends had played thirty-five years before outside the gate. Children would always be children, playing whenever they got the chance.

Five minutes of driving at the base’s speed-limited pace brought Craig to a gravelled courtyard outside the large building; double-fronted, made of granite and named by a small signpost as the Officers’ Mess. A young squaddie appeared and pointed Craig to a parking space. He left his Audi and strode towards the Mess’ oak front door, knowing exactly what he would find behind. Long, polished corridors and high-ceilinged, brightly-lit rooms, adorned with the badges and emblems of yesteryear. Portraits of long dead warriors would hang on every wall, alongside mottos that reinforced the honour and love of duty that was the army’s stock in trade.

Suddenly a young officer emerged from a doorway, wearing a casual uniform of T-shirt and combat trews. Craig wondered why everything about the army was green; green uniforms, green jeeps and tanks, even green metal guns. He was sure it gave camouflage in the jungle, but not in colourfully populated urban streets.

His reverie was broken by the sight of the man’s cheerful grin and he recognised him as the captain he’d met two days before. Ken Smith greeted him warmly, extending his hand to shake.

“Superintendent Craig. Good to see you again.”

He sounded as if he really meant it and Craig thought that he probably did; it would be his senior officer who was less pleased.

Craig shook hands and nodded around the corridor. “Nice Mess”; he smiled at the oxymoron.

Smith shrugged. “It’s OK. To be honest they all look the same after a while.” He dropped his voice confidingly. “I think they make them identical to fool us that we’re always at home, regardless of which shithole they post us to.”

Before Craig could reply Smith waved him into a large anteroom. It was filled with high-backed, deep-buttoned armchairs set around a large, unlit fire. The portion of the room’s walls that wasn’t covered in wainscot was lined with shelves of books. Smith motioned Craig to take a seat.

“Coffee?”

Craig nodded, wondering where it would come from. A moment later a white-coated member of the catering staff gave him his answer. He set down a tray laid with a silver coffee-pot, cups and biscuits then retreated diplomatically, leaving Smith to be mother and pour. As he did so Craig glanced around the room, wondering how the army justified luxury like this. Smith read his mind.

“If you take people away from their life and family and offer the likelihood they’ll be killed, the least you can do is feed them well.”

They drank coffee and chatted for five minutes then Craig put down his cup and cut to the chase.

“Major James isn’t going to see me, is he?”

Smith blushed and swallowed the biscuit he had in his mouth. “No, he is. I mean, yes he is. He’s just been delayed.”

Craig shot him a sceptical look. “You mean he’s on the phone checking how much he’s allowed to tell me.”

Smith gave a weak smile. “Something like that. The bomb’s…”

His sentence was aborted by sharp footsteps behind them and a well-bred baritone slicing through the air. “Captain Smith.” The words were innocuous but their tone carried a clear warning not to say any more.

Smith snapped to his feet before Craig had time to turn. When he did he saw Smith standing, arm raised and hand pinned sharply to his forehead. The word “Sir” said that a senior officer had entered the room and as Craig rose he could see the source of Smith’s nerves.

An older man than both of them was standing in the doorway. He was six-feet-five if he was an inch, making Craig wish that he’d brought Liam along. The old soldier’s fatigues were so crisply pressed that each irregular green smudge in the fabric’s pattern looked as if it was an affront and should tidy its edges immediately and conform. Each button shone and each scrap of leather: boots, belt and cane, was buffed until it gleamed. But what impressed Craig most was the beret set precariously on the man’s greying head. It hung there, plumped perfectly and angled steeply with the certainty of a mountain goat, defying gravity to do its worst.

Craig took in the details in a second and then settled his gaze on the man’s face. To say that it was craggy didn’t do it justice. Craggy applied to ranges of bare rock, all sharp edges and protuberances, but they paled into a vista of smooth concrete compared to this. Each feature on the man’s face was exaggeratedly large and each crevice overly deep, the skin a battered, ruddy mahogany that screamed of years of sun exposure overseas. No-one was born looking that extreme; life and the elements had left their mark. Craig knew instantly that the man welcomed the rugged effect, for the fear and respect that it would make others feel.

Craig broke the silence. “Major James.” It wasn’t a question.

James nodded and entered the room, shaking Craig’s extended hand in a surprisingly throwaway manner. It was almost rude, except that James was too well-bred for that. Smith stepped back, ushering his boss into the circle of chairs then he poured everyone fresh coffee as Craig and James sat in silence sizing each other up. Smith retook his seat mutely and Craig knew what was coming next. Major James and he would converse and Smith would listen; the rules of rank rendering him mute unless invited to speak. Craig smiled inwardly, trying to imagine Liam behaving that way.

For a moment Stephen James said nothing, merely stared at Craig. Craig knew the stare was supposed to make him nervous; it didn’t, it merely amused him instead. It was a tactic criminals employed to try to unnerve their interrogators, especially if they were inexperienced. It wouldn’t work on him but he could imagine its effect on a raw recruit. His thoughts flew suddenly to Julia McNulty. She’d been unhappy in the army and if James was typical of her senior officers then he could understand why.

Craig decided he’d had enough of standing on ceremony. It was eleven o’clock and he had other things to do.

“So, Major James. Two things. The forensics that your team collected and the bomb itself. What can you tell me?”

From the corner of his eye Craig could see Smith’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise that he’d taken the lead. James squinted, knowing that he held no rank over Craig and had to rely on body language to give the impression that he did. Craig ignored the squint and repeated his question.

The standoff ended a few seconds later when James nodded Smith to lift the wall-phone. It was the signal for a young woman to enter the room. She was younger than twenty, although her tightly wound bun, drab outfit and flat, laced shoes did their best to make her look like a maiden aunt. Craig strained to imagine the glamorous Julia dressed that way and gave up; Julia was a woman who wouldn’t be easily parted from her high-heels.

The girl carried a buff-coloured file that she handed to James without a word, then she turned briskly and left the room. James began reading in a monotonous tone.

“The forensics revealed that the device was situated at the back of the shop and the blast radius was approximately twenty feet. The unidentifiable victims would have been standing nearest to the device when it exploded, the other deceased were within the radius but not shielded by any substantial obstacle. The sole survivor was by the shop’s front door, furthest away from the device and shielded by five high bookshelves that we believe were almost the width of the shop. They saved him from certain death.”

Craig already knew it all but he smiled politely. James glanced up from the file. “There is more forensic detail that we have sent to your pathologist this morning.”

Craig nodded. “Thank-you; it will help us piece together the scene. And the explosive device itself?”

Smith tensed visibly and averted his eyes from his superior’s face, as if he was waiting for him to roar. Stephen James merely shrugged and tapped the page. “It’s in here. Standard Semtex-based device with a crude timer; five kilos of Semtex. Nothing exciting.”

Craig persisted. “We both know that bomb makers have a signature, Major; so who signed this one?”

James shook his head. “It’s no-one that we know.”

Craig snapped back. “You mean it’s not a dissident?”

“If it is then they have a new bomb maker on their staff. The signature doesn’t match any of the devices in Northern Ireland in the past ten years.”

Craig raked his hair, thinking. If it wasn’t a known dissident they could be at a dead end early in the game. He thought of something and re-framed his question.

“Does it match any signatures from the past fifty years?”

James’ face cracked slightly and from his subordinate’s decrease in tension Craig realised that it was probably what passed for a smile.

“Very good, Superintendent. The answer is we’re checking that at the moment. Quite a few of the records sit with MI5, or in archives in London, so it will take us a few days. I’ll let you know as soon as we do.”

Craig nodded, slightly mollified but not satisfied yet. “And the other metal found on the bomb? The scrollwork and the watch?”

James shook his head. “I confess that we’re at a loss there. The scrollwork was titanium, not part of the bomb material, and it was far too ornate to be useful. I’ve never seen anything like it. The watch was an 18th Century pocket watch, quite valuable I imagine. It acted as the timer. But why they didn’t use a modern digital device I have no idea.”

Craig scrutinised the major’s face and could see he was telling the truth; he hadn’t a clue. Craig decided to share their speculations in the spirit of entente cordiale.

“You know there were glass fragments near the bomb site.”

James sat forward, more interested now. “Yes, but they could have come from a window or cabinet.”

Craig shook his head. “No. There were no glass cabinets in the shop as far as we know and any windows were at the front of the shop. Flying glass from those would have blown outwards or been halted by the bookshelves and never reached the area round the bomb. Besides, the glass was much finer than either of those sources could explain. We…”

He hesitated for a moment and then shrugged; they were all on the same side, and even if James thought that rivalry helped to build teams, he didn’t.

“We thought that it might have come from a picture frame; the titanium scrollwork forming the frame. In fact it was Captain Smith who first suggested as much.”

Craig smiled as Smith blushed. James turned sharply towards the young officer.

“Why is this the first I’m hearing of your suggestion, Captain Smith?”

Smith stammered wildly, reminding Craig of Davy when he’d first joined the squad.

“I…I…We…We didn’t like to bother you with it, sir. It was only a wild idea.”

James set his jaw. “Well, wild idea or no, you should have told me.” He sniffed grudgingly. “In either case it seems you may have been right. Well done.”

Smith’s blush deepened and a look of pride covered his face. “Yes, sir. Thank-you, sir.”

He was about to say something else when Craig cut in, calculating that anything more Smith said would irritate James and it was better for him to quit while he was ahead.

“If it was a photograph, the question is of whom and why was it attached to the bomb?”

The question was rhetorical. Craig knew that he and John would speculate much more creatively than the stolid James ever could. James’ silence said he was right so Craig tried another tack.

“Captain Smith, you mentioned that there was the remnant of a photograph in the scrollwork and you were giving it to your tech people. Any progress on that?”

Smith shook his head, avoiding James’ eyes and gazing directly at Craig. “I’ve sent it to our lab in London and they’re piecing it together now. Would you like whatever we have?”

Craig nodded but his eyes said Smith should already know the answer; the full forensics should have been with them by now. “It would help if you could send it over to Dr Marsham and also to Davy Walsh, our analyst. He can do amazing things with images.”

Craig felt James about to object and he realised why Smith hadn’t confided about the picture to his boss. Craig continued before James had time to block the idea. “We all want to find whoever did this and the photograph could be a clue to that. Thank-you for working closely with us on this, Major. Captain Smith has been most helpful.”

Before James could counter Craig glanced at his watch and rose, extending his hand.