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

But somewhere in her ‘normal citizen’ past she could feel a conscience stirring, boring her with ‘duty’ and all that it implied. Call the police. But that was what he wanted, and Maggie didn’t like giving people what they wanted, not until they deserved it, and often not even then. Calling the police would be the responsible, moral thing to do. But even she would admit that they weren’t words often used to describe her.

Her brief tug of war was interrupted by the heavy thump of files on her desk, dropped so close that they caught the edge of her hand. She let out a yelp and swung her arm back at the newsboy who had dumped them, catching him on the nose.

“Ow, that hurt.”

Maggie grabbed her bag and phone and stood up, waving a sore finger in his young face. “And so did that.” And then without further discussion, she left her office, stomped across the newsroom floor and yelled. “Tell Ray I’ll be at Stormont, following a lead.”

She took the lift to the car-park and gunned her V.W. Beetle down the Dunbar Link, past the Albert Clock and over the bridge, her mind made up. Of course she’d do the responsible thing and phone the police, but not until she was sitting outside Stormont’s front gate.

Chapter Two

Marc Craig was sitting in his car outside Belfast’s City Hall, stuck in the dense morning traffic. It was even worse than usual, people still confused by the new road system after three months, and Christmas adding to the crowds.

He smiled, watching as the crowds milled by on the pavement, waiting for the Christmas market to open, and tapped his fingers on the wheel in time to a carol playing from its tannoy. He was late for work. Well, not late by anyone else’s standards, but by his, he was late.

He blamed it on his sudden urge to regain his fitness, without which he would never have been in the gym at seven, pounding away on the rowing machine. But he had to admit that he felt better for it, after only two weeks. So he was late, but not really.

His car-phone vibrated loudly. ‘Liam’. He quickly pressed answer and Liam Cullen’s gruff voice boomed over the line, waking him up.

“Morning boss, nice day for it.”

Craig looked out at the drizzle, smiling sceptically. “Nice day for what? I’ll be there in five minutes. Can this wait until then?”

“Aye, well, that’s why I called. Don’t go to the squad, come here. We’ve a case.”

“Where’s here?”

“Stormont. You’ll see why when you get here.” Then, without ceremony, the line clicked off. Liam was being mysterious again, but Craig knew better than to dismiss it as a tease, he was a good detective. Whatever it was, it was important.

He accelerated down Chichester Street and cut through the Lagan Courts, preparing to show his badge if challenged. Then over the Albert Bridge, and up the Upper Newtownards Road faster than was strictly legal, reaching the Stormont Estate within ten minutes.

As he pulled into the concrete semi-circle outside the Estate’s main gates, he noticed an incongruous, lime-green Beetle nestling amongst the liveried police cars. It had a giant sunflower on its dashboard that gave it a ‘hippy’ air more common in Berkeley than Belfast, and a pink furry toy stuck to its back window.

He climbed out of his car and strode across to a uniformed officer, quickly showing his badge. “Morning, constable. D.C.I. Craig.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“Is Inspector Cullen around?”

“Down there, sir.”

The young red-haired constable turned, pointing through the black wrought-iron gates into the distance. Craig could vaguely make out the very tall, very pale figure of Liam Cullen, standing a mile away down Prince of Wales’ Avenue, in front of the white-stone edifice of Parliament buildings.

He nodded his thanks and was about to get back into the car when he remembered the Beetle. He walked over to it, expecting a female occupant, and knocked lightly on the passenger window.

The young, dark-haired woman inside jumped, staring at him, startled. Craig smiled amiably and indicated to roll down the window, but instead she jumped out, storming around angrily to where he stood.

“What do you mean banging my window like that? You scared the life out of me!”

The constable stepped forward indignantly. “That’s D.C.I Craig.”

“I don’t care who he is.”

She looked up at him challengingly and Craig smiled, half-amused for a moment; whoever she was, she certainly liked drama. Then he recognised her, and instantly looked less amused, sighing inwardly.

“What are you doing here, Ms. Clarke? You know journalists aren’t allowed at crime scenes. You’ll get a briefing later.”

Maggie was taken aback by him knowing her name. Then she shrugged: journalists in Northern Ireland earned their own sort of fame.

“Who are you to tell me where I can be? I gave the police this murder.”

A curt response sprung immediately to his lips, but he bit it back out of politeness, looking down at her more coldly.

“So you ‘gave’ us this murder, did you? Enlighten me.”

She completely missed his froideur, and obliged. “A man called the news desk and told me that Irene Leighton was here. Then he told me to call the police, so I didn’t imagine she was opening a fete.”

Her sarcasm reminded Craig of Ray Mercer at the Chronicle, so he asked the question. “Are you at the Chronicle nowadays, by any chance?”

“Yes.”

Her quizzical look asked for an explanation, but he merely nodded. It figured.

“What exactly did this man say? Please tell me anything you noticed about his voice, any background noise, anything.”

She reluctantly detailed her conversation with the anonymous caller as he listened, storing it away for future reference. Then he nodded, turned on his heel and waved her goodbye, throwing “please escort Ms. Clarke away from the area” over his shoulder to the constable.

Maggie’s face burned in a combination of embarrassment and anger, and she stormed after him, yelling. “I gave you this murder. You owe me the story.”

Craig wheeled round to face her, and she saw his barely controlled anger. There was no love lost between the murder squad and the Chronicle, but that had been Ray Mercer’s irresponsible coverage of the Adams’ case, not her fault. She’d been in Derry then and she wasn’t taking his bloody blame.

She decided to try another tack, her voice softening. “Look, I know that you hate the Chronicle. Ray’s coverage of the Adams’ case wasn’t good, we all know that.”

Craig’s eyebrows rose at the understatement, but she ignored his scepticism and kept going. “I was on the Derry Telegraph then, and I covered the story responsibly. Ask Inspector McNulty at Limavady, she’ll tell you.”

He softened slightly at the mention of Julia McNulty’s name. They were sometime ‘friends with a future’ and she
had
mentioned Maggie’s account favourably. He nodded her on.

“Look, how’s about I leave, for now?”

“Good idea. After giving your statement to the constable.”

“Of course.”

“OK, and?”

“When you’re ready to see the Press, I get an exclusive interview. Say...six hours before the main briefing?”

He looked down at her shrewdly, knowing her game. Six hours meant that she’d make the early edition, with the others losing out to the ‘late’. But he could turn the request to his advantage. If he could control what she wrote and it hit the newsstands first, the others might have to behave better. ‘Might’ being the operative word.

He nodded slightly to himself and Maggie caught the move, smiling inwardly. Her smile was short-lived.

“OK, Ms. Clarke. I’ll give you an exclusive. But I want to see your copy before printing. And if you play games with me, I’ll make life very challenging for you in the future. Do you understand?”

The look in his eye showed that he meant it. There would be no messing.

Maggie nodded grudgingly. “Agreed.”

Craig turned to go and she moved to give her statement to the constable. Then she remembered something important.

“Chief Inspector.”

“Yes?”

“You do know that Irene Leighton is the wife of Bob Leighton, don’t you?”

“Who?”

“The Energy Party M.P. for West Antrim.”

And with that, his normal day went to hell.

Chapter Three

Liam Cullen was kneeling back on his substantial haunches, wearing a too-small forensic suit. Its seams were struggling, and so was he. He stared at the grandeur around him in a mixture of sadness and anger. And then reluctantly back at the body of the blonde woman, face-down in the damp grass beside Parliament Buildings’ steps.

She was fully-clothed in black trousers and an elegant beige-silk blouse, tucked loosely into the trousers’ narrow waistband. Her slim body lay in the unmistakable shape of a cross; her arms at right angles to her body and her legs set tightly together. She looked so vulnerable that even Liam’s world-weary heart broke.

He couldn’t see any obvious trauma, apart from some faint grazes on her left hand. But that didn’t mean that there wasn’t any, he knew his limitations. The crime scene investigators had just arrived, so thankfully his view wasn’t the last. What he could see were clumps of new grass clasped in both of her hands, and a small dark area below her left shoulder blade, clearly visible through the blouse’s thin material.

A shape above him blocked his light unexpectedly, and he knew it was Craig without looking. “Hi, boss. What kept you?”

It was said tiredly and Craig immediately heard the fatigue. So he smiled at Liam’s cheek, lifting the mood. He had no intention of explaining his lateness, and Liam didn’t really want him to. He was just filling-in the silence, the way that he always did.

Craig looked down thoughtfully at the woman on the grass, and then spoke quietly. “She’s the wife of an M.P.”

Liam looked at him, surprised. “How do you know that? There’s no I.D.”

“I met one of our friends from the fourth estate.”

He filled Liam in on Maggie’s information and his bargain with her, and Liam let out a low whistle. “Shit, that’s all we need. The press will be all over this like a rash.”

Craig nodded. “Let’s solve it quickly then. I called John and he’s agreed to take it. He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Just then, a bright blue car pulled up on the elegant avenue, and Dr John Winter extricated his long limbs from its interior, loping towards them. His brown hair blew randomly across his eyes and he pushed it away absentmindedly, adjusting his glasses and dropping his briefcase in the process. He looked like the stereotype of a youthful nutty professor, because he was. He was also Director of Forensic Pathology for Northern Ireland and Craig’s long-time friend. They often worked together, when time and the system allowed.

He speedily donned a suit from the C.S.I.’s pile and ambled over to them, scanning the body expertly. “The traffic was dire. I nearly had to send Trevor.”

“I thought he was in the north-west, John?”

Winter gazed intensely at the body as they talked.

“Nope. He moved down here last month, and I’m pleased to have him. He’s good.”

“Limavady won’t like you poaching their staff, Doc.”

Winter looked over his glasses at Liam, half-smiling. “I think you’ll find that as Director they’re already mine, Liam.”

Craig smiled benignly at his friend’s unfamiliar ego. John had never pulled rank yet, and Liam understood his bluff immediately. “Trevor asked you for the move, didn’t he?”

Winter smiled as his cover was blown. “Oh, OK then. He has a new woman in Belfast. I just thought I’d try acting the boss for a day.”

“Give it up, Doc.”

They laughed together for a second, and then Winter turned seriously towards the woman and started reporting.

“No sign of blunt force trauma anywhere on the posterior aspect of the body, except...”

He leaned in, peering at the woman’s back through the thin fabric of her blouse.

“There’s a tear in the material, here.” He pointed at a miniscule rip that Liam had missed. “And this dark area below the left scapula might be a bruise, or congealed blood. I’ll tell you more when we get her back to the lab.”

“What can you give us quickly, John?”

Winter stared at the woman for a moment longer, before speaking.

“Right. The victim is thirty to forty years of age, well nourished, and judging by her skin and hair, not deficient in nutrition or vitamins. Definitely not a smoker. She’s wearing a wedding ring so probably married. She has new abrasions on her left knuckles and torn clumps of grass in both hands. The cruciate positioning of her body is interesting.”

“It’s deliberate.”

“I agree. It might have significance; perhaps even tell us something about the murderer.”

“Definitely a murder then, Doc?”

Winter sat back on his haunches, surprised by Liam’s question. ‘Natural causes’ hadn’t even occurred to him, and it always should. But this was definitely a murder.