The Slowest Cut (11 page)

Craig wrote all the things they’d discussed up on the board. He circled Ling Chi repeatedly then turned to face them.

“If they chose Ling Chi as a method of killing they thought the crime was severe enough to warrant it.”

“No-one kills for treason nowadays, boss, but what if the Carraghers killed the parents of one of our killers?”

Craig shook his head, not at the suggestion but at its limitations. “Yes, that’s possible, but I think we need to look further, Liam. It might not have been a crime that the state views as severe, but it obviously felt severe to our killers.”

Annette interjected. “But if this Ling Chi thing is meant to cause public humiliation, then why not put a video of Eileen Carragher’s murder out on the Web?”

“Something stopped them doing that, Annette, and I think it’s because they wanted the death to be private. Their reasons for killing are personal to them. The public display of the bodies after death might have been enough.”

Craig paused and they watched as he worked out the scene in his head. After a moment he spoke.

“OK. Let’s say that the Carraghers did something to our killers, something so severe that it made them feel that they deserved the Ling Chi punishment and death. And let’s say that our female killer is Chinese and knew about Ling Chi. Chinese would fit with her shoe size and likely height. Would that help your search for the knife, Davy?”

“It might.”

Liam leaned forward enthusiastically. “I could go back to Aidan Hughes on Chinese women involved in the BDSM scene, boss. Do you think the man is Chinese as well?”

“Might be, but we’ve no evidence to say he is. Stick to the woman at the moment.”

“We’ve no age range, sir. And without that we’re looking at a lot of people. There’s been a big Chinese population in Northern Ireland since the 1960s.”

Craig raked his hair. “Good point, Jake.” He thought for a moment then sighed. “OK, at the risk of sounding unimaginative, let’s go for the fit adult range; twenty to fifty.”

“Wouldn’t sixty be better, boss. Given that’s around Ian Carragher and Warner’s age? If this is someone who knows them well enough to hate them, then they could be the same age group.”

“Fair point, Liam. Sixty it is then, Davy.”

Craig thought for a moment longer then tightened his tie and grabbed his jacket. “Right. That’s about as far as we can get for now. You all know what you’re doing.” He headed for the door. “I’m off to the lab to see whether Ian Carragher suffered the same fate as his wife.”

***

The Lab.

Craig arrived in John’s office just as he was writing on a small card. He pushed it hastily into his top drawer and Craig knew from John’s flustered look that the words were for someone else’s eyes. He smiled to himself and grabbed a chair.

“Is that percolator boiling? I could do with a cup.”

“Why? Have you only had five this morning instead of your usual ten?”

Craig laughed. Everyone knew about his caffeine addiction but only John was brave enough to slag him about it. He scanned his friend’s face. Something had changed since their meaningful conversation two nights before.

“I take it you’ve made up your mind?”

John swung round from the percolator so quickly that he knocked the milk carton off the bench. Craig caught it before it hit the floor.

“Good catch. And with your left hand too.”

“You can give me a round of applause later. Have you?”

“What?”

Craig sighed, knowing John was being evasive. “Made up your mind.”

John ignored the question and handed Craig a mug, then he sat down behind his desk and busied himself with a file, closing the subject.

“Eileen Carragher’s blood and stomach contents tests have gone across to Davy.”

“I know. How many days have you been sitting on them?”

John blushed. He’d collected them on Tuesday, the day that he’d bumped into Katy Stevens, but he’d forgotten about them and left them on his desk. He nodded, acknowledging his mistake. “Longer than I should have, but you already know that.”

Craig smiled. “You’re allowed to be pre-occupied sometimes, John. It’s called having a life. Besides, Davy would have been shouting for them if they’d been urgent. Any joy on her time of death yet?”

John shook his head. “I can get it down to the time of darkness that night, but the overnight frost makes it hard to be precise. Do you need it exact?”

“Not really, the range will do. We know she left Gerry Warner just before nine o’clock on Saturday night and her car was found clamped on Chichester Street, near the bar. They probably abducted her as she walked back to it then kept her alive until Monday morning at the playground when they cut her throat.”

“The last cut was the deepest.”

“Isn’t that a Rod Stewart song? And a romantic one too, if memory serves me”

John laughed. “You’re not back on that topic again, are you? Actually the song said ‘the first cut’ and yes, it is a Stewart number. In Eileen Carragher’s case it’s factual. The last cut was the deepest. The cuts on her body were shallow and rough, designed to produce maximum pain. The last one on her throat was so deep that it almost severed her spinal cord.”

Craig screwed up his face. “Have you ever heard of Ling Chi?”

John’s face fell and he banged his forehead with his palm. “Of course… that’s what it was! I’m stupid. I should have known.” He looked at Craig enthusiastically. “I saw one, you know, on a study trip to China.”

“When? They stopped doing it in 1905.”

John shook his head irritably, the way he only ever did when he was talking about his work. “No, I don’t mean I saw an actual execution, I mean I saw a body that had undergone Ling Chi. It was preserved in a private collection. It was fascinating.”

“It was disgusting.”

John gazed at Craig as if he’d just remembered he was talking about a human being. “God, yes, you’re right. Of course you’re right. It is disgusting. But…”

“From a medical perspective, seeing what the human body can tolerate, it’s fascinating to you as a doctor. Is that what you meant to say?”

“That’s exactly it. How did you know?”

“Twenty years of listening to you talk about your work.”

John gave him a sheepish smile. “You really believe it was Ling Chi?”

“Don’t you? And the husband, what about him?”

“I’m going to start the post-mortem now if you’d like to stay.”

Craig drained his mug and set it down. “No thanks. I’ll give that a miss. But check his bloods urgently, will you?”

“You think there’ll be something to find?”

Craig nodded. “My money’s on some form of pain relief. It would make sense if the killers didn’t hate him quite as much as his wife.”

“Why did they hate them at all?”

Craig stood up to go. “Ah now, that’s my bit. By the way, if you’ve decided to propose to Natalie I’m really glad. She’s funny and kind, and perfect for you.”

A blush covered John’s cheeks. “You think so?”

“I do.”

They smiled together and then John said quietly. “I do too.”

Chapter Fourteen

High Street Station.

Gerry Warner tapped his feet on the floor of his cell in a rhythm that he knew from somewhere. He racked his brain for the tune, amusing himself by segueing into memories from the past to match each wrong melody he named in his quest. He’d almost remembered the right song when the cell door opened, cutting short his daydream. He jerked round to see who’d disturbed him.

Craig’s lean shape filled the doorway and he nodded Jack Harris to escort Warner from the cell. Warner’s saturnine face twisted in an un-teacherly scowl and he stubbornly refused to rise.

“No. No more questioning without my brief present.”

He folded his arms and leaned back against the cell’s cool wall, in a gesture of defiance older than time. Craig imagined he must see it from ten teenagers a day. He shrugged.

“Fine. Whatever you want, Mr Warner. I was only going to ask you a couple more questions, then let you go.” He turned to leave. “But if you’d rather stay here…”

Warner jumped to his feet and headed for the door so fast that Jack was caught on the hop. He fell back against the wall, surprised. Craig swung around, ready to intervene, just as Jack steadied himself and grabbed Warner’s arm. They needn’t have worried. Warner was just eager to follow Craig, the thought of going home for a shower and a change of clothes had made him forget he was a prisoner, instead of in charge.

He raised his hands in surrender. “Calm down, boys. I just want to get out of here. Ask me your questions then let me go the hell home.”

One minute later they were sitting in the interview room with coffees at their elbows, and Craig turned on the tape. Instead of Jack watching from the viewing room as he always did, he stood by the door menacingly, despite Craig’s assurance that he would be fine.

Craig stared at Warner for a moment, not quite sure what he could see. Yes, he was a teacher; a respectable pillar of society to the outside world. But Craig had seen his lascivious response to Annette and Aidan Hughes had confirmed that he was well known to Vice. What Gerry Warner did in his free time wasn’t respectable at all.

Craig checked himself mentally. What Warner did outside work wasn’t his business, unless it was illegal. He might think BDSM was grubby but what consenting adults did to each other in private wasn’t a crime. Warner having drinks with Eileen Carragher wasn’t a crime either, even though she was another man’s wife. Although he knew if Liam had his way there’d be a whole section in PACE just for that.

So what had Warner done that they could charge him for? Well, he’d tried to run away from them at the school; not smart, but not illegal. And he was lying about something by omission; Warner knew something about why Eileen Carragher had been killed but he wasn’t saying what. Again, not a crime. The only thing they had him on was assaulting Annette, and he’d already been charged with that.

Craig rubbed the back of his neck. They had to let Warner go, but before they did, he was going to pump whatever he could out of the man. He sipped his coffee and then started.

“Mr Warner, you know that Eileen Carragher is dead.”

“Yes. You informed me of that several days ago.”

Warner’s tone was sarcastic and Craig could see Jack’s eyebrow rising menacingly in response.

“I want to ask you a few questions which may not seem relevant to the enquiry but bear with me, please. Do you frequent BDSM clubs?”

Warner snorted and folded his arms defensively. “You obviously already know the answer, Craig, so don’t play games.”

“Fair enough. Do you also attend private BDSM parties?”

“Private clubs you mean?”

Warner smirked and Craig knew he was going to make him drag every scrap of information out of him. He shrugged mentally. He’d done this dance a thousand times with a thousand different criminals. He didn’t care how long they paced around the floor; he would win in the end.

“Private clubs then, Mr Warner. In people’s homes.”

Warner sniffed and stared at Craig, then he smiled. “You should come to one, Craig. A handsome man like you would do well with the ladies, especially when they find out about your job. It’s surprising how many women fantasise about being handcuffed.”

Craig ignored him and continued, his voice insistent. “Have you been to private BDSM groups, clubs or parties in other people’s homes, Mr Warner?”

“Again, you know the answer to that, Craig, so why bother asking?”

“Where?”

Warner unfolded his arms and leaned on the table, waving a finger in Craig’s face. “Tut, tut. That would come under the heading of things I need to know and you don’t.”

Jack moved forward from the door and Warner sat back, smiling defiantly.

“I’ll tell you this much. No-one knows where the parties are until the day, then we’re all taken there in a van. No-one knows the exact address except the driver, and they move around so much that unless you’ve a damn good memory it would be hard to remember a single place.”

“General location would do for now.”

Warner thought for a moment then nodded. “OK. Generally, Malone Road and out near Cultra. Specifically, lots of big houses set in their own grounds, where people can get naked and scream without being heard.”

A look of distaste flickered across Jack’s face but Craig just smiled and shook his head. Warner wasn’t going to tell them any more than he already had. He took a different tack, watching Warner’s thin face carefully as he spoke.

“Do you know of a Chinese woman or girl, very tiny, who is on the BDSM scene?”

It’s amazing how many emotions the human face can display; four thousand in all. In ten seconds Gerry Warner had managed to show half of them; the shocked, guilty, caught-out and ‘Oh Fuck’ half.

Craig watched as each word of his question registered on the man opposite, assessing their impact in turn. The first one that registered was ‘Chinese’, resulting in Warner’s eyes widening then filling with the clear question. “How the hell does he know?” By the time Craig got to ‘woman, very tiny’ something else had entered the mix. Craig puzzled for a moment about what it was and then he recognised it. It was fear. Warner was afraid of this woman, whoever she was. The acrid stench of his sweat filled the room, underlining that Craig was right.

Then something different. As soon as he reached the words ‘BDSM scene’ Warner’s tension dropped, his shoulders sloping downwards in relief. His eyes dropped to the table and he shook his head. Craig understood instantly. The Chinese woman wasn’t part of the BDSM scene, or she wasn’t part of it now. Or… that wasn’t where Gerry Warner knew her from. They were on the wrong track. Warner knew exactly who he was talking about, he just knew her from elsewhere.

“Who is she, Mr Warner?”

Warner’s eyes fixed on the Formica table and for a moment they sat in silence, only the sound of the tape-recorder’s whirring breaking the quiet. Craig rephrased his question.

“You know this woman, but not from the BDSM scene nowadays. That much is obvious. And you’re afraid of her; that’s also clear. Why? Why would any man be so afraid of a tiny woman?”

Warner shook his head again and then raised his eyes. They were unreadable.

“I know her but I’ll never tell you from where, Craig, no matter how long you hold me. Do your worse, because trust me, nothing you can do will ever get close to her.”

***

12.45 p.m.

They’d had to let Warner go with a date for his court appearance and a clear warning to watch his back. Craig couldn’t tell him about Ian Carragher’s death until the next of kin had confirmed it, but he’d hinted as hard as he could that they had reason to believe Warner might be next. His offer of protection was waved away.

Craig was walking down High Street on his back to the ranch when his phone rang. It was Davy.

“Yes, Davy. What’s up?”

“Two things, boss. One, Liam says he’ll pick you up at Custom House S…Square in five minutes. You’re going somewhere to meet D.C.I. Hughes.”

“But D.C.I. Hughes is three floors down at the CCU.”

“Not today apparently. Liam w…will tell you more when he sees you.”

“What was number two?”

“OK, I’ve found the knife, serrations and all. I’ll have the info ready for when you get back.”

“Suppliers?”

“There’s only one here.”

“Good. If Annette’s there, Davy, can you put her on? And thanks, that’s great work.”

Five seconds later Annette’s came on the phone. “Yes, sir?”

“Annette…”

The sound of a car rushing past as he crossed Victoria Street to Custom House Square drowned out the rest of Craig’s words.

Annette squinted at the phone. “I didn’t get that. Too much noise. Where are you?”

“Waiting for Liam at Custom House Square; he’s taking me on some mystery tour to meet Aidan Hughes. I’ve just been at High Street with Warner. We’ve had to release him; I’ll brief you later on it. I couldn’t tell him about Ian Carragher, but I’ve warned him to be careful. Did you manage to get hold of Rooney to do the same?”

“Yes. He was offered protection but he refused. Jake saw him. I didn’t fancy another encounter with that slime ball. I wanted to scrub myself for hours after last time.”

Craig laughed. He knew what she meant. Warner had the same effect on him.

“I’ve got something else for you to do, Annette. Davy’s found the sole supplier of the knife. Can you go and check them out?”

A sharp rumbling in Craig’s stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since the night before. They would have to grab a sandwich on the way. He glanced at his watch.

“Look. It’s almost one o’clock. Get some lunch before you go. Take Davy and Jake to ‘The James’ on me and I’ll square up with you when I get back. We’re briefing at three-thirty. And Annette…”

“Yes?”

“Drag Nicky to lunch with you and tell her I said it was an order. She needs cheering up.”

***

Liam was picking lettuce from his teeth and moaning when they pulled up outside the uber–modern detached mansion on the Upper Newtownards Road. It was set back from the main carriageway in several acres of ground and whoever it belonged to definitely wasn’t poor. Craig undid his seat belt and swung round to face him.

“Why the hell did you get salad in your sandwich if you hate lettuce so much?”

“I didn’t know they were going to ruin a perfectly good cheese bap with bits of grass, did I? They should have listed the ingredients on the cling film. It’s false advertising, that’s what it is.”

“Take it up with your MP.”

They climbed out just as Aidan Hughes appeared at the house’s front door. Craig indicated their surroundings.

“Slumming it, Aidan?”

“Aye well, I only go to the best parties.”

“Party?”

“Yep! That’s why I wanted to meet you here. There was a BDSM party held here last night that got a bit exuberant. Three assaults and a rape allegation.”

“Just a regular Friday night in the student quarter.”

Hughes laughed. “You’ve been hanging out with Liam too long, Marc. And here’s the lovely D.C.I. Cullen himself.”

Liam loped towards them wearing a grumpy expression.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Lettuce.”

Craig raised a hand to halt the diatribe that was about to follow. “Don’t ask. Right. Tell us about the party.”

Hughes waved them inside the house. Its wide hall and spacious rooms were painted white, and furnished in a style that was much more than modern; it was decades ahead of the curve.

“Let me guess. The owner’s an architect or a designer.”

“Got it in one. Edgar Tate. He’s designed half the new buildings in Belfast.” Hughes led the way to a small room at the end of the hall. “We can sit in here. The C.S.I.’s have already done their stuff.”

He grabbed a chair and nodded the others towards a low-slung black leather couch. They sank into it and Liam spoke about something other than lettuce for the first time in half-an-hour.

“This is really soft. You wouldn’t think it to look at it, would you? I wonder how much it cost.”

“More than any of us can afford, I imagine.” Craig turned to Hughes. “Fire ahead.”

“Right. Uniform were called to a fair old disturbance here at about five a.m. When they arrived the scene that greeted them wasn’t their usual. Instead of drunken youngsters, or even a couple having a domestic, there were round fifty…” He stopped abruptly and consulted his notebook, reading aloud. “Fifty-eight, semi-naked adults of between twenty-five and seventy. Carrying whips and wearing various costumes, including a dominatrix and two full leather gimps.”

Liam shrugged. “Sounds like one of my mother-in-law’s dinner parties.”

Craig burst out laughing and they descended into a moment of banter before Hughes picked up the reins.

“You can imagine Uniform’s response, especially since it was two rookie constables who answered the shout. They started arresting everyone for being perverts and it took until ten o’clock this morning for their Inspector to sort it out. “

“So who’s in the cells at the moment?”

“Five men who appeared to be involved in the assaults. The alleged rape victim is being examined up at Antrim. It’s going to be a hard sell, given she’d already had sex with four men beforehand, but that’s the problem of the sex-crimes team.”

“And your problem is trying to find Tate?”

Hughes shook his head. “Not so much. Throwing a private sex party is neither here nor there; they can shag each other stupid for all I care. It’s the drugs, prostitution and coercion bits that I’m here for.”

“You fairly know how to live, Aidan.”

Hughes smiled sarcastically at Liam and Craig leapt into the gap.

“Which drugs did you find?”

“A fair amount of cocaine and some heroin. They were chasing the dragon halfway down the Newtownards Road. I’ve handed that bit off to Sergeant Rimmins in the Drugs Squad.”

Liam interrupted. “Is that Karl Rimmins?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“We met him on a case last year, boss. Remember? He looked like he was using drugs himself.”

Craig nodded. Karl Rimmins had been a constable when they’d met him on a murder case at St Mary’s Healthcare Trust. He’d had a dark, dangerous look that fitted in well when he went undercover, but his accent had been pure Malone. Hughes continued.