The Sect (The Craig Crime Series)
Read The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) Online
Authors: Catriona King
The Sect
Catriona King
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously and any resemblance to persons living or dead, business establishments, events, locations or areas, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author, except for brief quotations and segments used for promotion or in reviews.
Copyright © 2015 by Catriona King
Photography: Antonov Roman
Artwork: Jonathan Temples:[email protected]
Editors: Andrew Angel and Maureen Vincent-Northam
Formatting: Rebecca Emin
All rights reserved.
Hamilton-Crean Publishing Ltd. 2015
Discover us online:
www.hamiltoncreanpublishing.com
For my mother.
About the Author
Catriona King is a medical doctor and trained as a police Forensic Medical Examiner in London, where she worked for some years. She has worked closely with the police on many occasions. She returned to live in Belfast in 2006.
She has written since childhood and has been published in many formats: non-fiction, journalistic and fiction.
‘The Sect’ is the second of two new Craig Crime Novels being released in September 2015. ‘The Sixth Estate’ is the first.
The next Craig Crime novel, ‘The Keeper’, is in edits for release in early 2016.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Northern Ireland for providing the inspiration for my books.
My thanks also to: Andrew Angel and Maureen Vincent-Northam as my editors, Jonathan Temples for his cover design and Rebecca Emin for formatting this book.
I would like to thank all of the police officers that I have ever worked with for their professionalism, wit and compassion.
Catriona King
Belfast, September 2015
Discover the author’s books at:
www.catrionakingbooks.com
To engage with the author about her books, email:
[email protected]
The author can be found on Facebook and Twitter: @CatrionaKing1
CONTENTS
The Sect
Chapt
er One
March 2015
The ceiling light dimmed as the girl drew her final breath and then faded to nothing as her chest sank and stilled. Her light-constricted pupils widened, their unresponsive gaze the punctuation mark to her life. All the wild thrashing and wet struggling was over now, replaced by a stillness broken only by the man’s heaving sighs. Heaving louder now, as if he was sighing for two.
He rested back on his haunches, inhaling and exhaling slowly until finally he was calm, then he rose and began the final stage. When it was finished he gazed down at the girl’s body and recited the words that would send her on her way.
****
Docklands Coordinated Crime Unit. The Murder Squad. Wednesday 25
th
March, 9 a.m.
“I promise I’ll talk to her, but you know how stubborn Lucia is.”
Marc Craig wrenched his tie loose and swung his legs up onto his desk, knowing that he was in for the long haul. His mother never used ten words when one hundred expressed her feelings better, and the fact that those one hundred were in Italian and uttered at breakneck speed made her even harder to interrupt.
Mirella Craig’s only son let her rant for a moment before he made an abortive attempt to interject.
“I promise…”
“Lucia no listen. She no listen to me her mother, and her father with the heart, so she no listen to you. Stubborn, disobedient, cattivo…”
Craig had stopped listening at ‘her father with the heart’, remembering his father’s heart attack two years before. Nowadays he was as fit and well as he was, give or take the ability to do eighty push-ups, but his mother never let the truth interfere with something that made her point. As he tuned back in Craig heard the words ‘murder and worse…’
He was just wondering what could be worse than murder when a sudden silence signalled his cue to agree; so he did.
“I agree.”
Big
mistake. His lack of embellishment signified that either he hadn’t been listening or, even worse, that he hadn’t appreciated the import of her words. The quiet that followed was even icier than before and Mirella was just drawing breath to berate him when there was a knock on his office door. Craig thanked the Gods and shouted “come in” so loudly that she recoiled from the receiver with a loud, “Ow!”
He’d already guessed who’d knocked from its volume, but any doubts were dispelled by the door being flung back so hard that it hit the wall, and the loud “we’ve a dead one” that came next. Normally the words would have earned Liam Cullen a raised eyebrow, followed by ‘does the dead one have a name?’ but this time Craig greeted his deputy’s words with a broad smile, and an eagerness that was almost obscene. As he beckoned the D.C.I. to a seat and slung his feet down from the desk, Liam heard the reason behind Craig’s smile.
“Sorry, Mum, got to go. We have a case.” His speech accelerated to deter interruption. “I promise I’ll speak to Lucia. See you on Friday. Bye.”
He cut the call with indecent haste, knowing that he’d pay for it on Friday, and allowed himself a moment to rant and swear out the window before pouring coffee for them both. Liam couldn’t resist a quip.
“Here, leave that window alone. You’re only allowed one broken pane a year.” He considered for a moment and then added. “Mind you, I suppose if you were going to put your fist through glass, doing it when there were doctors around was the way to go.”
He was referring to an episode three months earlier, at a Christmas party at the home of John Winter, Northern Ireland’s Head Pathologist and Craig’s long-time friend. Craig’s altercation with Ray Mercer, a local journalist and uninvited guest, had ended with the detective punching a window to avoid punching Mercer in the head. Cracking Mercer one would have cost Craig his job, but cracking the window had almost lost him his right hand; it was still in a splint three months later.
Craig ignored the jibe, wondering whether to reprimand Liam for his bluntness about their new victim or not. Gratitude overcame good judgement and instead he slid a mug of coffee across the desk.
Liam gestured at the phone. “Let me guess. Lucia’s giving your mum a headache and she’s passing it on to you?”
Lucia was Craig’s younger sister by ten years and in lifestyle terms by ten more than that. She was the manager of a local charity and cared passionately about everything vulnerable in the world, almost as passionately as their parents cared about her.
Craig nodded grimly. “She wants to go to Syria to help the refugees and Mum’s going mad.”
Liam slurped his coffee and nodded in agreement. “I’m not bloody surprised. I’d nail Erin’s feet to the floor if she said she was flying off there.”
Given than Erin was only four years old flying anywhere alone would have been a challenge, but Craig appreciated the sentiment.
“Agreed, although I understand why she wants to go. What’s happening over there is dire. Anyway, now I’ve got the job of talking her out of it. That sounds a lot easier than it is; Lucia’s very determined.”
“Like her big bro.”
Craig smiled at the rap star parlance and lounged back in his chair. “So?”
“So what?”
“You said we had a murder.”
Liam’s eyes widened as he recalled why he’d entered the room. “Oh aye, so I did.” He set down his mug. “Now don’t go losing your rag.”
He stared pointedly at Craig’s strapped wrist.
“Thanks, I’ve had enough stitches for one year. Anyway, what is there to lose my temper about?”
“You’ve just missed a call from the Chief Con.”
Craig reached for the phone but Liam waved him down.
“I took it. He just called to say that he wants you on this case, even though it’s outside the big smoke.” He slurped his coffee and continued. “There’s been a dead lad found near Downpatrick. He was found in some undergrowth off the Ballintogher Road by a courting couple.” He laughed loudly. “I bet that put them off their nooky.”
It was on the tip of Craig’s tongue to say ‘show some respect’ but instead he shrugged, admitting defeat for an hour. Controlling Liam’s un-PC approach to life was like trying to catch a runaway horse, but at least he confined his comments to the squad-room nowadays which was progress; Craig shuddered as he remembered some of his earlier crime-scene gaffs.
He waved him on with a yawn, already exhausted by the argument with Lucia that he knew was heading his way.
“Cause of death?”
Liam gave him an inscrutable look. “Aye well, that’s it, isn’t it.”
“What is?”
“That’s why we’ve been called in.”
Craig leaned forward, praying for patience. “You mean because he was murdered.”
Liam gave a snort of disdain. “’Course not. If he’d only been murdered the on-call team would have caught it.”
“So it’s unusual?” It was a pointless question. His team covered murders in Belfast yet the Chief Constable wanted them on a Downpatrick case; it had to be unusual.
“I’ll say. He was found in the shrubbery stark naked, but the best of it is he was drowned.”
Craig wasn’t sure ‘best of it’ was the right term but he knew what Liam meant. Downpatrick was ten miles from the coast.
“Anywhere near a river?”
“Mile or two from the nearest; the Quoile. Lough Money’s the same distance the other way.”
Still strange; why hadn’t the man been left where he’d drowned instead of miles away? Liam was still talking.
“McCauley’s lot were on-call till eight and the call came in at five to, so they belled me and asked if we’d be interested in catching.”
Craig was just about to say a sarcastic ‘thanks for that’ when he realised he didn’t mean it. He wanted the case; in fact he was hungry for it. All they’d done since Christmas had been mop up the Bwye case in Derry and prepare for the upcoming Greer appeal. That and him having surgery on his hand and some serious counselling, courtesy of shooting an octogenarian serial killer dead in October and then punching his way through glass.
The counsellor had discharged him now, with an order to speed dial her if he was ever in need, but what he really needed was a good murder to occupy his mind. His next word was heartfelt.
“Thanks.” He added hastily. “Everyone’s getting stale sitting around.”
Not strictly true; only he was. The team’s inspector, Annette McElroy, was newly loved up with Mike Augustus, a local pathologist, and gearing up for the trial of her abusive soon to be ex-husband. Carmen McGregor, their constable, spent her days bossing around their secondee from the army, Ken Smith, in what was laughably called their true romance, and Jake McLean, their sergeant, was sadly arranging the funeral of his grandfather, the man who’d been his father since his parents had died in a fire over twenty years before. No-one was getting stale but him, but he was the boss so he got the final say.
“Who’s the pathologist?”
He was hoping for John but Mike would do as well.
“Augustus certified the body but I think the Doc will want this one himself.”
The Doc only ever meant John.
“Why?”
“’Cos it’s the second one this month. Angel’s team caught the first last week but they’re passing it to us today. I’ve just had a word.”
Craig smiled, just as he did every time he heard the detective’s name. D.C.I. Andrew Angel; he sounded more like a comic strip hero than a real life cop. Images of pumped up muscles and wings sprang to mind, although they couldn’t have been further from the truth; Andy Angel was whip thin, barely hitting ten stone. He had spiked up hair, irregular features and skin so fair that he rarely needed to shave, and at forty he already had two ex-wives, a five-year-old son and a sports car he’d bought with what was left of his salary once his divorces bit. Any residue was spent on soft shirts, narrow ties and trousers as near drainpipe as the force would allow. His small son dressed identically and no-one was sure who was mimicking whom.
Angel couldn’t have been more different from his namesake Andy White, now policing the North Coast, if he’d tried. Where White was hyperactive, Angel had the lethargy of a Pharaoh being fed and a serious chocolate habit to back it up; both in defiance of his slim build. But at least every shirt he wore wasn’t blue to ‘match his eyes’ like Andy White’s had been.
Angel lounged in his office on the floor below; an overspill caused by Craig’s enlarging murder team. Occasionally he would spring into action and for five minutes he’d dart around the room, which was so small it looked like he was ricocheting off the walls, then he’d sit down again abruptly, as if his batteries had suddenly expired, and resume his normal lethargy. Craig liked him, even if the D.C.I.’s inertia made him want to kick him up the ass, and he was a capable officer, so why had he been so quick to relinquish his case?
Before he could ask Liam told him. “The C.C. said as you’re the Head of Murder he wants you on both deaths. In case they’re linked.”
Craig frowned. “OK… By the way, why wasn’t he put through when he called?”
Liam’s brows shot up. “When you were on with your mum? Not even Nicky would interrupt that!”
Craig blew out his cheeks and nodded. Nicky Morris, his P.A., was fearless, but Mirella in full flow struck terror into everyone’s heart.
“Is Andy OK with us taking his case?”
Liam shrugged as if to say ‘tough’. “He knows the score. You’re the Superintendent so you get the tricky ones.” He drained his coffee then topped them both up. “Now, do you want to hear about these murders or not?”
Craig nodded him on, his mind on how to keep Angel involved in the case. Apart from the fact it was his job to maintain morale another D.C.I. would be a useful resource.
“OK then. The first body was a woman found on the seventeenth, last Tuesday. Pathology thinks she’s in her late teens. They haven’t got an I.D. yet and no-one’s reported a missing girl who fits the bill––”
Craig cut in. “Where was she found?”
“Hold your horses; I was just getting to that. Same vicinity as today’s; near Downpatrick, but off the Slievegrane Road this time. In the shrubbery again. Drowned like the boy.”
“Any clues on which body of water? Diatoms, plants?”
“Unlikely. It came out of a tap.”
Craig sat forward urgently. “She was drowned in domestic water?”
“Northern Ireland’s finest. Forensics are trying to narrow the source, but most of County Down’s comes from the Silent Valley Reservoir in the Mournes, so more specific than that…”
Craig frowned. Part of his role was to keep an eye on strange murders everywhere in Northern Ireland, so why hadn’t Andy told him about the girl last week? He guessed the answer; pride. It made people stupid.
“Anything else on her?”
“Aye. She was wrapped in cling-film, so that’s being looked at for prints. Also, her hair was still wet.”
Craig thought for a moment. The plastic would have sealed in any moisture for a while but it was more likely that the girl had been discovered soon after she was drowned.
