The Sixth Estate (The Craig Crime Series) (24 page)

“OK. Keep going, everyone. I want answers when we brief at four.”

Chapte
r Fifteen

Lauren Hayes was a typical teenage girl. One minute resolutely defiant, folding her arms and tossing her long brown hair with its sprayed-on silver streaks, the next sobbing and glancing at her mum for reassurance that she hadn’t done anything wrong. Strictly speaking she hadn’t. There was no law against running a blog unless there was a law against its content: like supporting terrorism or inciting hatred, urging people to commit crime or defaming someone somehow. And, according to Davy’s research, Father Fred simply expended his reverential energy in pointing people towards the best clubs and pubs in Derry. None of which, by the look of her mother’s pursed lips, Lauren Hayes had ever set foot inside. But the heaviest the online discussions had ever got before was whether a member of One Direction had a girlfriend, so why the blog’s sudden foray into ethical debate?

As Annette asked the question Lauren’s blush gave her the answer, but blushes didn’t record on tape so she started a conversation that she hoped would encourage the girl to speak.

“I see you run shop adverts on your blog.”

The height of which were the local sports store and a teenage fashion outlet in town.

“Do you know the shop owners?”

Lauren’s defiant arms tightened, joined by a newly sneering top lip. It moved independently in a way that would have made Elvis proud.

“I need you to speak for the tape please, Lauren.”

The girl glanced at the whirring machine in the tech-pitying way that only Generation Z can; she probably had hairdryers at home that were higher spec. When no words came, her mother gave her shoulder a push, almost overbalancing the girl’s unstable, arms folded torso.

“Answer the officer.” The subtext was silent but everyone in the room heard it. ‘Or you’re in even bigger trouble when I get you home’.

Annette struggled not to smile; she’d used similar tactics on her daughter Amy through the years. Lauren spat out her reply.

“Of course I don’t know them! I’m a kid.”

Julia interjected. “Then why let them advertise on your blog?”

Lauren’s eyes crinkled into a smile; a greedy one. All that was missing were the pound signs in her eyes.

“’Cos they pay me, stupid.”

It was too much for her mother whose veiled hints at future retribution were now voiced.

“Apologise to the officer immediately, young lady, or that blog is coming straight down and you’ll be grounded for three months.” Anna Hayes turned to Julia, flushed with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. She never used to be like this. I don’t know…”

A glance at the tape reminded her she was being recorded and her voice faded away. Julia gave a composed smile and repeated the question. This time Lauren answered while glancing warily at her mum.

“’Cos they pay me, miss.”

Annette nodded; it made sense. The girl had a blog with a huge audience and, compared to advertising in a newspaper or on TV, paying for space on a blog must be cheap as chips and reach the shops’ target audiences just as well. Annette struck while the iron was hot.

“Did a man called Ray Mercer pay you?”

Lauren’s top lip restarted its jive as she attempted to play it cool. Her mother’s glare put paid to that and she answered sullenly.

“Yes.”

Eureka!

“How much?”

Lauren glanced sideways and Annette knew she didn’t want her mother knowing how much money she’d made; she might make her put it in a bank or somewhere else boring. Too late; the question had been asked and Annette knew it would be repeated at home that night, then Lauren’s earnings would be wrested from her adolescent grip and locked up in a five year account.

She changed the topic. “When did Mr Mercer contact you?”

“On Wednesday morning.”

“To say what?”

“That he wanted me to run a discussion thread for him.”

“Then what did he do?”

“Gave me two questions to post.”

“Which were?”

The unfrocked Father Fred shrugged. “I just wrote them down. One was some blah about inequality and the second was about six million pounds. I didn’t really read them.”

Annette nodded. “We’ve seen them, and the replies.” She paused, wondering how to get proof that Mercer had paid the girl without her clamming up. Julia had an idea and signalled to intervene.

“Did Mr Mercer call you on your mobile phone?”

The girl nodded.

“Did a number show up?”

Of course. If Mercer had phoned from his own mobile they had him. Annette’s heart sank as Lauren shook her silvered head.

“It just said private.”

Withheld, like all calls from The Chronicle would be. Damn.

But Julia wasn’t defeated.

“How did you contact him?”

“He gave me an e-mail address and a mobile number, but I was only to use it in emergencies.”

Result! If it was Mercer’s mobile, then with Rory Cahill’s and Bill Reynolds’ evidence it might be enough to prove that Mercer had paid the girl to post the question on her blog. It was a small step from there to proving that he’d interfered with a police case. Annette’s heart raced as Julia closed in.

“We’ll need that number. Did you e-mail him?”

“Yes and he answered. He told me how to collect the money.” She made a face. “He was really weird about it. I said just to send it in postal orders, but he didn’t want to; he wanted to pay me in cash, so we had to arrange a drop. He left the money for me at a café he knew in town.”

She said ‘drop’ like someone who’d watched too many thrillers and the look on her mother’s face said that she thought the same. Annette saw a month of no TV heading Father Fred’s way. Julia was still speaking.

“We’ll need the e-mail address.”

There was only a slim chance that Mercer hadn’t shut down the account already, but between the e-mail provider, the calls and the drop, they would hopefully be able to nail him down. Even if Mercer hadn’t used a local ATM to withdraw the cash, CCTV inside or outside the café should have captured his face. All they needed to prove was the connection.

Lauren shrugged OK, then she smiled coyly and Annette knew that she had a bargaining chip and was wondering whether to play it. A sharp squint from her mother said not even to try. The girl’s next words were said in a sulky tone.

“I called him on the mobile when the money was late to arrive. He said he’d leave it there Thursday but it was yesterday instead.”

Julia glanced at Annette and they nodded and rose. They had what they needed to nail Ray Mercer, unless he’d been extremely clever and they were reluctant to credit him with that.

“We’ll need your mobile, Lauren. We’ll get it back to you when the techs have finished.”

Anna Hayes shook her head. “Don’t bother. There’ll be no phone for her for the next six months.”

Annette gazed at her, wondering if she should say what she thought. The answer was yes but not with the noisily protesting Lauren in the room. Annette glanced at Julia and then at the girl, waiting until they’d left before she switched off the tape and retook her seat.

“I have a teenage daughter as well. Amy.”

Anna Hayes sighed. “Is she as bad as mine?”

Annette laughed. “Yes, in different ways. I hope you don’t mind me saying this but try not to be too hard on Lauren. She’s showing signs of entrepreneurship by setting up her blog and getting paid to advertise local businesses. We’ve checked back and there’s nothing bad on there, just local information on shows and venues. In fact, I think the tourist board should be paying her as well.”

Anna Hayes was unimpressed. “She’s landed us in a police station! Her father is mortified!”

Annette wasn’t giving up. “She’s young and naïve. The man who manipulated her into putting up those questions, questions which in themselves looked innocent, is a real player that we’ve had dealings with before. He used her.”

She could see the angry mother softening and pressed her case.

“Perhaps you should read the blog in future so that you can spot if anything strange is posted. I wouldn’t make her shut it down.”

Anne Hayes smiled, relenting but not completely. “Maybe not, but she’ll definitely be opening a savings account.”

****

Craig stared at Cameron Lawton’s list of seven names and then at the background details Davy had attached. There was no doubt that Oliver Bwye had made enemies during his years heading The Chronicle and, when he read their back stories, Craig understood why. Bwye had screwed the men into the ground, completely ignoring the effect of his articles on them and their families.

The list contained businessmen and politicians; there was even a well-known entertainer. Sure, some of them had sailed a bit close to the wind, but that wind had been whipped into a tornado by Bwye once he’d set his sights on their story, and those tornadoes had devastated their lives. They’d lost fortunes and families and more than one had committed suicide, leaving grieving wives and children; all in the name of newsprint that would fade in the next day’s sun.

Craig shuddered. He hated the media of all sorts, even when they were on their side. It was too easy for them to make allegations and twist peoples’ words. Now the twisting was happening online as well, merely a click away. He stayed as far away from journalists as possible and the men on the list must have wished they could have done the same. People would argue that if they were guilty of crimes and misdemeanours the public had a right to know. Some of them had been, but what of the ones who weren’t? The ones whose innocent lives had been ruined by Oliver Bwye’s hints and lies.

He scanned the list again; only three of the seven were still living and two of their names were circled in green, Davy’s code for innocence. All three had been ruined by Bwye’s coverage of their stories, and in the case of the innocent ones none of his allegations had proved true. They must really have hated Bwye; he knew that he would. He rose to make fresh coffee and then wandered over to Davy’s home from home at Oliver Bwye’s desk.

“This list, Davy. It says who was innocent but it doesn’t say how many are free?”

Davy tapped the names circled in green. Only two were still breathing outside jail.

“OK. Concentrate on those two then. I need their movements for the past month. If they got their hair cut I want to know where.”

“You think one of them…”

“I wish I did. I don’t think anything except that they hated Bwye and they’re walking the streets, but it’s the only lead we have.”

Just then the back door opened and Andy and Gerry clattered through, tramping snow onto the parquet floor. Flurries flew in to join them and Craig motioned them to shut the door fast.

“The coffee’s fresh.”

They weren’t listening, preferring instead to huddle round the fire. After a brief thaw, Andy spoke.

“It’s brewing another blizzard out there, hey. We almost didn’t make it up the drive.”

Craig frowned. They were briefing at four and he had a meeting with Sean Flanagan at six; the last thing they needed was bad weather making the case even more difficult.

“Are the divers still working?”

Andy nodded. “Aye, though God knows how.”

Gerry shook his head. “Their dry-suits keep them warm. I sail and if you wear one you’re warm even in winter.”

Craig was tempted to ask about the local sailing, but he stuck to the case instead.

“What did you find out?”

Everyone took a seat at Davy’s desk, much to his annoyance. Andy shook his head.

“Nothing at the golf-club that John Ellis didn’t already report. Bwye was getting hammered that evening, but seems he did that pretty often. He got a taxi home.

“Remind me about the taxi.”

Davy piped up. “Liam checked. They collected Bwye at nine-twenty and arrived here at nine-forty-five. The driver confirmed he was drunk; he said Bwye could barely stand and he had to w…walk him into the house.”

Craig shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like a man who was planning to kill someone.”

Gerry cut in. “But Bwye was a violent drunk.”

Craig was sceptical. “It’s hard to be violent in any effective way if you’re falling over. Anyway, I’m sure the body inside the concrete will be Oliver Bwye’s and it would have been impossible for him to do that to himself.”

Davy looked pensive.

“What are you thinking, Davy?”

He hesitated, as if what he was going to say was too far left of field to voice.

Craig urged him on. “It doesn’t matter how irrational it sounds. At this point I’d be glad of anything I can get.”

Davy tugged his hair from its pony tail, agitated.

“It’s just…w…what if Bwye deliberately got falling down drunk that night?”

Andy interjected. “Why would he have?”

“Humour me. How often did he get that bad?”

Andy shrugged. “The barmaid said he got hammered regularly.”

Davy pressed him. “To the point where he could hardly s…stand?”