The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (13 page)

“Paris w...was the only one outside the U.K. This may be a new s...shooter in the past two years. Or someone who graduated to it from other things.”

“Or someone who usually operates in countries where death’s so commonplace that it doesn’t even merit an investigation.”

Davy nodded slowly. “They were professional hits without a doubt. One bullet each time. To judge the distance and velocity of a bullet like that, s...so accurately that it didn’t go through the victim and hit anyone else - this guy is very talented.”

“We’ve a contractor at work, boss. And it looks like he’s just been here for his holidays.”

Craig looked thoughtful for a moment. “Anything on the killer themselves, Davy?”

“Only that London believes they could have had an accomplice.”

The young man who walked Irene Leighton into Stormont.

“The fingerprint hasn’t traced back to anyone yet, s...sir. I’ll keep going on that and on the D.N.A. from the cigarette, but...”

“Yes?”

“W...Where did they get the gun? I’ve never heard of anything that high-tech in Northern Ireland, even looking back at The Troubles’ database. And if it isn’t from here, then how did they get it into the country? And how do they think they’re going to get it out?”

They were good points but Craig knew that there were illegal ports all over Ireland, and even some legal ones with limited checks in place. He could feel a chat with counter-terrorism coming up.

“Well done, Davy, that’s outstanding work. Follow up the Paris and London leads and let’s see what the D.N.A and print give us. Annette? How was your trip?”

Davy blushed red and Annette smiled at him, earning a glare from Nicky that she completely missed, totally unaware of the day’s events. She sighed heavily before starting.

“Belleek is beautiful, sir, but I’d rather have been there in different circumstances. Mrs Hannigan is devastated, as you would expect. Mrs Leighton went down to see her on Sunday afternoon, arriving there about five. Her mother was delighted to see her of course, but didn’t know why she’d come. Apparently the call saying that her mother was ill was a set-up.”

Craig interjected. “Davy, run a back-trace on all the Leighton’s phones.” Then he remembered something. “And the Chronicle news desk as well. Maggie Clarke was tipped off and it may have been the same caller. We’ll probably find nothing, but it’s worth a try. Sorry Annette, go on.”

“Well, once there, Mrs Leighton decided to stay for a few days. She went out to the shops for some food around eleven on Monday morning and never returned. Mrs Hannigan was frantic, calling around everyone she knew, but she couldn’t get hold of Bob Leighton because he was in Dublin. And there was no answer at home.

The first she knew of what had happened to her daughter was when the local police notified her of her death.” Annette looked down at her feet sadly. “She’s completely distraught.”

She fell silent and no one spoke. Craig gave her a minute, turning to Liam. “Liam, what have you found?”

Even Liam’s voice was hoarse at the thought of Bridie Hannigan’s loss and he coughed loudly to clear it. “Aye, well. I went to see Geoff Hamill in gang crime, and that was short and sweet. No sign of the Vors in Northern Ireland or the Republic as far as he knows, but...”

Craig and Davy leaned forward, interested, and Liam was gratified. “He did say that he’d heard a whisper they might be looking at land acquisition here. Development land. So I thought; land development would have to go through all sorts of planning permission, wouldn’t it? And...Bob Leighton’s in government and government gives land permissions, see?”

Craig saw and so did the rest of them. Liam continued enthusiastically. “Davy’s just started looking for anything relevant on that. Then I spoke to The Met about two things. They’ve been keeping an eye on Leighton and it seems he’s been spending the day visiting foreign embassies. They started to tell me the names, but he’ll visit a few more before he’s done, so they’ll e-mail the list through when he’s finished. Maybe he’s visiting them for energy discussions?”

Annette snorted and even Davy looked sceptical at the comment. Liam shrugged, that’s what he got for trying not to be cynical.

“Anyway, then I asked George Milton in headquarters about the Vors in London, and it seems there’s a whole nest of them in the East End. He wouldn’t give me any more detail and suggested a face-to-face. I thought you should do it, boss, seeing as you worked there.”

Craig looked at him sceptically, certain that wasn’t the only reason Liam was suggesting he took the trip. Liam caught his look and nodded. “Aye well, the baby’s due just after Christmas, and if I disappear to London now my life won’t be worth living.”

They all laughed. Liam had missed his toddler Erin’s birth and his wife Danni had never let him forget it. Craig turned to Annette and noticed her looking a bit happier, smiling.

“OK, that’s excellent work all of you. I’m going to chat to counter-terrorism tomorrow – Davy, I want you in that meeting with me.” Davy beamed at him, proudly.

“I’ll speak to London about the Vors, Liam, but a trip is the last resort; we’ve plenty to get on with here. Annette, go back and have another chat to Ms Moldeau, please. I want her exact whereabouts from Monday morning to Wednesday.

Liam, when Bob Leighton gets back I want his prints and his location for those unaccounted-for days. Davy, keep going with the prints and D.N.A. and anything more you can find on the bullet. And Nicky...”

He turned to look directly at her and smiled kindly. “Davy is a big boy. I know you care about him but you’re not his mother. Better to be his friend and take care of him if something goes wrong, than sit and scowl disapprovingly at him all day. Yes?”

Annette looked at them, completely puzzled, and Nicky nodded a grudging ‘yes’ with a half-smile at Davy, who grinned back. Craig could hear Liam getting ready with a smart remark and he shot him a warning look, stopping him in his tracks.

“Now, I’ve got a meeting with D.C.I. White in drugs, and I’ve no idea what it’s about, so...” He stood and turned quickly for the door. “Play nicely children. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Chapter Eleven

Bob Leighton lifted his case quickly from the airport carousel and headed through the automatic doors for the car-park, saddened. Irene had always met him at the door, smiling widely, with Ben’s small hand held up in a wave. A tear sprang to his eye but he held it back, determined to focus on his coming journey, his life could depend on it. There’d be time to mourn Irene later, and he would mourn her. He had really loved her. He could feel the tears coming again and he dumped his bag quickly in the boot, over-revving the car in a show of self-control and then pulling out speedily onto the M3 towards Belfast. He’d come back a day early to fool Joanne and it was eight o’clock now. By eleven tonight he intended, no, he absolutely needed to be in a different country.

***

Craig dropped his bag in the hall and pulled off his leather reefer, throwing it over the modern bronze by the door and wondering idly why Andy White had asked for a meeting and then disappeared before he’d arrived. Then he shrugged, understanding. Something always came up to wreck your diary; maybe he should try that excuse on Nicky.

He had just pulled a cold beer from the tall American fridge and hit the sports’ channel, when the sound of his mobile disturbed his long awaited peace. He placed the beer on the counter with a sigh and clicked the phone onto speaker without looking.

“Marc Craig. Can I help you?”

The silence that followed could only have belonged to one person. No. To one woman, Camille. He started speaking quickly, before she did.

“Camille, I promised to call you tomorrow.”

Her soft, perfectly rounded vowels honed from years at R.A.D.A. flowed seductively down the line at him, wrapping him in their warmth, and he could feel himself about to be manipulated. But forewarned was forearmed, and he was well forewarned after nine years of her warmth, followed by an arctic winter.

“Marco...” She was the only one but his family who routinely used his Italian name, automatically creating intimacy. But instead of achieving her aim of warmth, it made him wary now. “I’d like to see you again.”

He’d known that it was coming, of course. They’d left things hanging after their lunch a month before; their first real exposure five years after she’d left him for the ‘Prick’. And four since he’d returned to Belfast from London.

He didn’t know what he’d expected from their London meeting. A Damascene moment where everything would immediately become clear? Why she’d left him, why she’d come back, what she really thought he was going to say and do after her infidelity and years of silence? ‘Lovely to see you again, Camille. Of course I forgive you. Now here’s my heart, just crush it again.’

That was never going to happen, and he’d been astounded by her arrogance that it even might. And by her contrition.

Her tears had been genuine, and not just for herself, but for what she’d done to him. By the end of their few hours together, he’d berated her, punished her, and nearly forgiven her. Forgiven her for five years of pain in three hours. He was disgusted by his own weakness, and for loving her again even a little, so quickly. And yet... Something was lacking, and she knew it.

“Marco, when can we see each other again? I could come over at the weekend. I’m free and we could go away for a few days.”

Oh, Camille. You live in a world of self-important freedom, never bound, except by performances when you have to be there. The rest of your life is completely unfettered. He always had duty, even when he wasn’t at work.

“We’re in the middle of a case, Camille. I can’t just drop everything and go away.”

“I could come there and stay with you.”

He could hear her entering the role of 1950s housewife already. Dinner prepared, when his Marlow-esque detective came home from work. And she wouldn’t just play it, she’d actually believe it. It was what made her such a good actor.

His voice was firm. “No, Camille. I need to focus on the case. You would be a distraction.” His tone said that wasn’t a good thing and he could feel her retreating through the gauze, realising that he’d been too sharp. He softened slightly, taking no pleasure in her pain.

“After this case is wrapped up, we’ll talk...maybe go away for a few days...” As soon as he’d said it, he regretted the words, said to be kind, but creating a whole world of pain in the future, and not only for him.

“Oh yes, Marco, please. When it finishes.” Her eager voice confirmed it. A whole world of pain. He waited to feel happy for pleasing her at least, but it didn’t come, and he knew then that something was very wrong.

***

“I don’t give a shit about the money, Joanne; you can’t do this, OK. Even if you’ve lost a lot of money.”

“
We.
We’ve lost a lot of money.”

Declan shrugged, knowing that although Joanne had planned it alone and planned to keep the proceeds for herself, she’d make damn sure that he would share in any losses. He couldn’t be bothered arguing with her.

“You need to cut and run now. It’s just a bloody project. There was always a risk they would pull it, that’s business.” He took a deep breath, before making another mistake. “It was illegal anyway, insider trading. So you can hardly complain now, can you?”

Joanne was sucking at her red wine like a vampire sucked blood, and talking, God was she talking. It was 8pm and it had been pouring out of her since they’d got home. What she’d been doing, what she’d planned, what she was still planning - it all spewed out. The wine had stained her tongue and teeth black, and she looked ugly.

Declan looked at the woman that he’d once loved. Everything about her glamorous exterior seemed hideous now, twisted out of shape by greed and spite. It made him so sad that he ached. The best he could hope for was that their daughters took after their grandparents, because neither of them was an example to follow.

It was his fault that she’d gone this far, it must be. She hadn’t been like this when they’d met. Spoilt yes, selfish yes, but between him and her parents over-indulging her, and the moneyed friends she’d made in London making her desperate to keep up, she was completely screwed-up now. She was fifty, too late to change her. He could only hope to control her now, if that was even still possible. He hadn’t believed his ears when she’d told him what she’d been doing behind his back...for months now...for bloody months.

“I’ve got a little book on Joe Watson. His comings and goings, his gambling, his tarts, every dirty little thing he’s ever done. ”

“Blackmail? Are you mad? There’s no way I’m going along with this, Joanne. He’d never cave in any way, he’s not the type.”

“How do you know? He has a family and a position; he’s got a lot to lose. ”

“He’s independently wealthy, Joanne, he made a mint working at Goldbergs’. He doesn’t even take his government salary. And I’m damn sure his wife already knows about the women. Wouldn’t you?” He’d never been unfaithful but he looked at her for confirmation that she would care if he had, but she was too busy ranting.

“I’ll leak if to the press, then.”

“Oh, Jo. Get a grip, will you.”