The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) (20 page)

What else did they have? Bodies that bore some symbol of their lifestyle. A Heroin addict who’d been given a massive O.D. after death: a gay youth who’d been left with a symbol of medieval torture. And what about Sam Beech; what had been his crime? Bullying younger kids, or worse? And why had no sign of it been left after his death?

Then there was the tattooing and the washing of the bodies with bleach, before leaving them at remote sites. It smacked of ritual, but what ritual and what did it mean?
Was
it as simple as someone judging their victims and then executing them for their supposed guilt? If it was then who had set themselves up as judge and executioner?

He shook his head in frustration; angry at not being able to answer his own questions and fearful that Sam Beech’s death wouldn’t be the last. When he thought he’d berated himself for long enough he turned over the engine and headed for the lab.

The sight that greeted him on entering John’s office was almost unseemly. John was hunched over his computer wearing a maniacal grin and Des was holding a mug in the air like he was toasting something or someone. Craig heard enough to realise it was someone; himself.

“Am I a smart bastard or what?”

John concurred. “You’re a smart bastard.” He sat back in his chair and shook his head. “How the hell did you work it out? Of all the things that it could have been?”

Des stared into space as if he was stunned by his own genius then he shrugged and said “It was red. There’s not that much red food around.”

Neither man had noticed Craig in the doorway so when he spoke they jumped.

“Tell me that you’ve identified the stomach contents.”

John beckoned him in. “Just wait till you hear this. You’ll be impressed.”

Craig took a seat and nodded hopefully at an empty mug. Des took the hint and filled it and then drew breath to speak. He was too slow. John couldn’t wait.

“Des identified red wine and flour. Well actually he––”

The volume of Des’ interruption surprised them. “Just once! Just once I’d like to report my own bloody findings. Is that too much to ask?”

For ‘report’ read ‘get credit for’ but they knew what he meant. John’s mouth snapped shut and he looked contrite. Craig prevented a row by saying, “Carry on, Des.”

Des’ squint said that he was searching for sarcasm, when he found none he sat down beside Craig and started again.

“I pulled the stomach contents of all three victims and noticed that in one of them in particular, Sam Beech’s, there was a red tinge. It was faint but it was there. Digested food in the stomach is called Chyme; it has a greyish colour regardless of what it is, so at first I thought that it was blood contamination, but it tested negative. So then I thought, OK, if it’s still red it’s obviously food that’s only been partially digested so I pipetted the reddest part and tested it. Guess what it was?”

Given that John had already told him Craig thought it would be disingenuous to feign ignorance, but he tinged his response with diplomatic surprise.

“Red wine? Really?”

Des shot John a withering look and nodded. “Yes. Rioja, to be specific.”

Craig made a mental note. The type of wine could be significant, or not.

His diplomacy continued. “So what did you do then?” He ignored John’s gesture that said he was sucking up.

Des sat forward eagerly. “I already knew the chemical composition overall was identical so I set about subtracting the composition of wine from the rest and examined what was left behind.” He smiled triumphantly. “It left flour and salt. Most likely from bread. They’d have needed water as well, but that would’ve been in the Chyme.”

Craig pushed it. “Any particular sort of bread? Can you isolate it to a particular country or culture, or was there anything special about it?”

The scientists frowned; the bread’s specifics obviously hadn’t occurred to them and now a non-scientist was telling them their trade. John blustered out a defence.

“It’s not that easy, you know. Once it’s broken down it could––”

Des raised a hand to stop him. “The truth is we didn’t even think of it.”

“You still have time. It would just be worth knowing if there was anything special about the bread, or whether it was just a simple final meal.”

John screwed up his face in a way that said something wasn’t quite right. “Hang on. The last victim was sixteen, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. So what?”

“So who gives a sixteen-year-old wine? In fact who gives wine to anyone they’re judging? If that’s what we think happened to these three.”

Craig thought for a moment. “We don’t know that it is yet, but I take your point. That could mean it was more than a simple meal.” He shook his head, halting John’s next question. “Before you ask, I don’t know what more. That’s still open to debate.” He stood up. “Well done, Des. Brilliant catch; keep going with it please. John, anything on the girl found in the river yet?”

“I’ve got her lung and stomach contents coming later. I’ll take a look before I leave tonight, although why you’re so sure she’s connected to your victims beats me.”

“Instinct. Let’s just hope that I’m right.”

****

The magnificent three were on their way to interview the Deacon, Nigel McKibben, about Sam Beech’s episode with his son, and as Liam drove up the Newtownards Road he could feel his thoughts tending incongruously towards the past. Deacon Blue had been his favourite pop group in the ’80s, when he was still a man about town, slapping on the aftershave at the end of a busy shift and venturing into one of the few Belfast nightspots that hadn’t been blown up.

He’d smiled inanely and showed off his dance moves in the hope of attracting some female company for the night, or better yet meeting someone with whom he could have a relationship that actually lasted for more than a week, before either his bluntness or their fear of him having been blown to bits every time an explosion was announced on the News killed their passion stone dead.

That had been his life for years: Jack Harris’ and Reggie Boyd’s as well, before one by one they’d found women stupid enough or hopeful enough to marry them and consign their dancing to family weddings for ever more. He didn’t miss that life, or The Troubles. Actually, he thought, as he parked his Ford in a leafy side road near Stormont that revelled in the lofty title of Gloriana Avenue, he
did
miss it sometimes if he was being honest. In the same way that people got nostalgic for awkward first dates and nights when they’d drunk so much that they’d thrown up, and the way that survivors of disasters retold their stories of near death again and again.

However bad The Troubles had been, they’d formed part of his history and most of his youth. The era when he’d hung out with the lads and got drunk in pubs, storing up tales to embarrass each other with when they were grey-haired old men. The Troubles had been his backdrop to many a fumble, and the first time a girl had ever let him get to second base. Unlike the well behaved girls of Crossgar, the ladies of the big smoke had seemed to him to move at one hundred miles an hour.

As they exited the car and walked up the path Liam laughed out loud, while Jake and Andy shot him looks that said he was clearly insane. Getting to second base in less than a month had seemed like one hundred mph to him back then, how quaint that seemed compared to what the youngsters did now. A quick hello and a handshake nowadays and they ended up in bed; God only knew what they’d be up to by the time his son Rory was eighteen. Erin of course was entering a nunnery. He shook his head as the other two watched, and wished it was still like when he was young; it must mean he was getting old that he longed for the slower path.

As they reached their complainant’s glossy front door, flanked on either side by well-behaved rose bushes trimmed to waist height, Liam pulled his thoughts back to 2015 and banged twice with the knocker in a manner that said I don’t care if it’s Sunday in the suburbs, get this door open right now. A sudden rustling behind the wood and the sound of a lock being undone and they were faced with a very short red faced man whose narrowed eyes said that this had better be good. He opened his mouth to speak but Liam got in first.

“Mr McKibben?”

It was accompanied by a flash of his warrant card so Nigel McKibben’s mouth closed with a snap and he was answered by a nod and one of the many expressions that people adopted when faced with the police. Exaggerated, wide eyed innocence and closed mouth suspicion were top of the pops, followed in third and fourth places by wavering lipped, teary eyed shock and belligerent, defiant rage. Number four was Liam’s personal favourite because it was usually followed by a stream of vitriol that meant he could question the speaker with less finesse. The others just made him feel guilty and his upbringing already ensured that he felt enough of that.

Unfortunately the man in front of them went with expression number five; the one that Liam hated most of all. He smiled like he was really pleased to see them, which meant that he was unlikely to be one of their perps.

“I’ve been expecting you, officer. Please come in.”

The Deacon’s widening eyes as three of them traipsed past him into a chintz styled sitting room with a plethora of ornaments dotted around, said that he hadn’t been expecting quite such a show of force. Still, good manners obliged the offer of tea and, as it was a Sunday, cake, and after the introductions were over and crumbs and cups lay on their laps, Liam decided to kick the proceedings off.

“We’re here about Sam Beech.”

A slow nod and pained smile said that although their host was reluctant to say something bad about a child, his conscience obliged him to. Liam’s pained smile was saying something else; God save me from people who always believe right is on their side.

“Ah yes, Sam.”

As McKibben folded his hands on his lap Jake noticed he wore a gold sovereign ring on one hand. Along with his grey hair, worn in the combed forward style once so popular with emperors, he looked like Caesar ruling all that he surveyed.

“Sam is a very troubled boy, and that’s sad, but he can’t be allowed to do what he did to my son-”

Jake leaned forward, cutting in. “Where is Trevor, Mr McKibben?”

McKibben turned as if he’d barely registered the others’ presence, other than as Liam’s backing group.

“At Sunday School. He goes twice, once in the morning and once in the afternoon.”

Liam drew him back to the alleged assault. “Give us exact details of what happened, please.”

The father’s face grew red and he blustered out a reply. “It was disgusting. I’ve already given the details to Sergeant Boyd. Trevor was in the bathroom at the youth club and Sam followed him in and tried to…” His voice faded away and when it returned it had acquired an Old Testament tone and the accompanying words. “…Sodomy. Sodom and Gomorrah! He’s tried it with others and it’s a disgrace. Sam Beech needs to be punished.”

He already had been but Liam wasn’t letting on, instead he pushed for the details of what the man in front of them considered a suitable penalty.

“How exactly would you like him punished?”

The irate father was surprised by the question and scrambled for a suitable response. “He should…he should be sent to borstal and got some help. It’s unnatural.”

Even Liam, unevolved as he was, winced at the word unnatural.

“What was unnatural, sir? The fact that Sam attempted anal intercourse with your son, or the fact that it was against Trevor’s will? If it was against his will then it was, of course, illegal.”

He gave a satisfied smile; Craig would have been proud of his diplomacy but Jake’s approving nod would have to do instead.

Their host wasn’t smiling. “Of course it was against his will! My son’s not gay; it’s unnatural.”

That answered that question.

Jake picked up the gauntlet. “And in your opinion, Mr McKibben, what
is
a suitable punishment for being gay?”

McKibben looked confused. “Well…they should be…” His words trailed off, only to return with renewed zeal. “Maybe one of those reprogramming camps they have in America. I’ve heard that they work. But even if Sam Beech is gay it doesn’t give him the right to try to convert my son!”

Convert? He made it sound like changing energy providers. Liam had heard all that he needed to hear. Whatever the man’s personal views on homosexuality he’d constantly referred to Sam in the present tense, which meant that he didn’t know the teenager was dead. Plus, his worst idea of punishment was a conversion camp, which, bad and all as they were, usually didn’t kill the people that they sought to convert.

Nigel McKibben wasn’t one of their killers but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t enjoy giving him a shock. Liam reserved it until they were walking down the front path to the car. He turned and stared at the man they’d just interviewed then delivered the news in a solemn tone.

“I think that you should know, Mr McKibben, that Sam has already been punished far more harshly than anything the law could do.”

He didn’t give any more detail and decided not to wait for what came next, knowing that it would include speculation then realisation, followed by the usual mixture of shock and guilt that decent people experienced when they felt they’d been too harsh.