The Slowest Cut (12 page)

“Karl took the drugs bust and we held onto the prostitution and forced sex side. Most of the hookers were well known to us, girls well over the age of consent who were getting decently paid for the party. But there’s one girl I think you should meet. She’s new and by the looks of her she didn’t come willingly. She’s been badly beaten.”

Craig’s face darkened. “Is she in hospital?”

Hughes shook his head. “Wouldn’t go. I think she was afraid to leave our sight in case she was snatched.”

“Any idea by whom?”

“No. But judging by how scared she is, she’s terrified of them.” Hughes paused. “Listen. I’ve no idea how old she is, Marc. She looks well underage but she won’t tell us anything, so maybe you could have a try? I’ve a W.P.C. sitting with her at the moment.”

Hughes led the way back into the hall and up a short flight of stairs to a mezzanine. At the end of the corridor was a room with its door lying wide open. Craig could see the W.P.C. leaning forward, as if she was talking to someone young. He was unprepared for just how young.

Craig gasped inwardly at the sight that greeted them. Liam gasped as well, only not as quietly. On the settee was a young girl no taller than four feet. Her hair was white blond and straight, pushed back from a fine-featured face that bore the stains of cried-off make-up and a developing bruise on her chin. There were other darkening bruises on her legs and arms, but Craig knew that her thin T-shirt and skirt would be concealing the worse of her injuries. People who caused visible bruises like this knew how to leave others much worse, where they wouldn’t be seen.

Craig stood six-feet away from the girl so as not to make her more afraid. Then he noticed Liam’s face reddening, signalling that he was about to explode. Craig grabbed his arm and dragged him outside.

“She’s a kid! What sort of bastard does that to a kid? I’d like to get them alone for five minutes.”

“We all would, Liam. But she doesn’t need this now. Get hold of yourself before you come back in.”

Craig re-entered the room with Liam following a moment later. If the girl had heard anything she gave no sign of it, just sat staring into space. Craig walked over to the W.P.C. and spoke quietly.

“Has she told you anything?”

“Nothing, sir. Not even her name. She didn’t seem to mind so I looked in her bag.”

She indicated a pink backpack on the floor with a kitten logo on the outside. It was the sort carried by girls at primary school.

“There was nothing inside but a hanky and a strawberry lip-gloss.”

“Was the hanky paper or material?”

“Actually it was material, sir. White cotton, very worn but quite good quality. It had a logo on it. A little castle.”

Craig nodded. “Get a copy for D.C.I. Cullen, please. He’ll see if our analyst can match it.”

He turned to see Liam and Hughes both standing by the door, wary of approaching the girl. Craig walked slowly to the end of the sofa farthest from her and sat down on the arm, then he said “Hello” very softly.

The girl turned her small face towards him uncertainly and gazed into his eyes. Craig smiled and sat patiently, while her gaze travelled to his hands and suit and shoes and then back again to his face. Craig willed her to see some kindness there but he knew that she could probably only see a man, just like the ones who had hurt her. He was wrong. After a long moment while their eyes locked and everyone in the room held their breath, a faint smile tugged at the edge of the girl’s mouth. It was a breakthrough, and it was followed by another one.

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

The girl’s voice had a high-pitched pre-pubescent tone and her accent was pure French. They had a battered young French girl sitting in a house off Belfast’s Newtownards Road. What the hell was going on?

Craig smiled gently and replied. “Bonjour, ma petite. Quel est votre nom?” (Hello, little one. What is your name?)

“Aurelie.”

“Quel âge avez-vous, Aurelie?”(How old are you, Aurelie?)

“J’ais onze ans.” She was only eleven. Craig hid his shock and disgust and pressed on.

“Parlez-vous anglais, Aurelie?” (Do you speak English?)

She shook her head and made a ‘tiny’ gesture with her hand.

“Ce n'est pas un problème. Votre mère. Où est-elle?” (That’s not a problem. Your mother, where is she?)

A tear that had been threatening to fall since they’d entered, spilled over from the corner of the girl’s eye. It rolled alone down her cheek as Aurelie shook her head and said that she didn’t know. “Je ne sais pas.”

Liam watched the conversation in open admiration. He would have barged in like a bull in a china shop, blasting about getting the men who’d done this and scaring the life out of the child. Craig’s approach had already yielded her name and age. Craig spoke soothingly and they watched as the girl slowly leaned towards him, sensing that he was kind.

“Ne pas avoir peur, ma petite. Tout va bien.” (Don’t be afraid, little one. Everything is good.)

Liam had reached the limits of the French Danni was making him learn for their camping holiday, but it didn’t matter. They all got the gist. The girl’s name was Aurelie and she was eleven years old. She was terrified and seemed to have no idea where her mother was. Liam bit his tongue to prevent himself saying what he thought. If he got his hands on the bastard who’d hurt her he was going to kill him.

Craig said something else to the girl and she took the hand of the W.P.C. They walked slowly towards the door then the girl stopped and turned back to Craig, her eyes imploring him to come as well. Craig turned to Liam.

“Liam, they’re taking her to High Street station and I’m going along to translate, until they find a native French-speaker. She might give us something. Take the handkerchief back to Davy and see what he can learn from the logo. I’ll be back around three for the briefing.” He turned to Hughes. “Can I call down and see you after that, Aidan? About four o’clock?”

“Sure.” Hughes smiled at the girl. “Well done, Marc, I’m surprised. I didn’t notice you paying that much attention in French class at school.”

“I didn’t, but we spent a few summer holidays with our cousins on the French/Italian border. You either picked up the language or they’d rip off your pocket money.”

They went their separate ways and Craig climbed into a squad car with Aurelie. He wasn’t certain that the girl’s presence at the party had anything to do with their double murder, but he didn’t believe in coincidence either.

***

2 p.m.

It was taking Annette forever to find ‘The Cutting Edge’ knife shop and she expected it to be as naff as its name suggested when she did. The computer had given the shop’s address as Joy’s Entry but Annette had been through that alleyway a million times since childhood and she’d never noticed it there. She’d parked at High Street Station, promising to have a cup of tea with Jack another time and headed for the narrow alley. Annette scanned its four-centuries-old brick walls as she walked, wishing they could tell her all the things they’d seen.

Belfast’s Entries were narrow conduits in the city centre that ran mostly between the shopping meccas of High Street and Ann Street. Some of them dated as far back as 1630. Joy's Entry was one of the most famous, named after Francis Joy McCracken, who in 1737 had founded the oldest English language general daily newspaper still in publication in the world. The paper, The News Letter, was still in business, like some of the entry’s original pubs.

There’d been dance classes held in the entries for generations, the sound of youngsters tapping and leaping, reverberating through the allies’ walls. Pete’s Mum had gone to them and she’d told them stories of laughter, even during Belfast’s fatal 1941 Blitz. Annette pictured young girls and their boyfriends cuddling in the darkness during World War Two. The perfect place for a kiss after they’d waltzed the night away at the luxurious Grand Central Hotel across the street; where Castle Court shopping centre now stood.

Annette shook herself from her romantic dream and scanned the narrow street. It had atmosphere and history but none of the shops that lined its walls were the one that she was looking for. She tutted in frustration and turned to look at the map Davy had given her again. As she did so Annette noticed a small, red door flush with the entry’s wall, with a tiny brass plate that said ‘The Cutting Edge’ embedded beside its bell. She revised her opinion of the shop from naff to strange and pushed hard at the door. It was locked. She peered through the low glass fanlight and saw a shape inside waving and shouting ‘bell’. As Annette pressed it the door opened remotely for her to step inside.

Annette didn’t know what she’d expected a specialist knife shop to look like, but it certainly wasn’t this. The red door swung inwards to reveal a high-ceilinged vault of a room, stretching back further than she could see. Shining swords and machetes hung from the walls, each one lovingly polished to within an inch of its life. Racks of others in varying sizes stood to attention against one wall, while a horseshoe of glass cabinets glistened in the centre of the room. It was like Aladdin’s Cave! She wouldn’t have been surprised if someone dressed as Ali Baba appeared any moment wielding a sabre. Instead, a young man with his arms covered in tattoos popped up from behind a counter on one side.

“Just give me a minute will you? I’m in the middle of sharpening a blade.”

He disappeared again and Annette heard the high-pitched whine of a knife-grinder doing its thing. She gazed around her as she waited. The glass cabinets were filled to the brim with knives of every sort. She recognised a Swiss Army Knife inside one, red lacquered and intricate. It had about twenty attachments and Annette wondered which man in her life she could buy it for. High on one wall were exotic blades that she’d never seen before, secured with clamps that would take a key to unlock. The place was a psychopath’s paradise; she could understand now why the front door had to be secure.

The young man popped up again just as the machine’s whining slowed and stopped. He walked round the counter to greet her, cheerfully extending his hand. The tattoos on his arms were matched by more on his chest. Annette loathed tattoos but somehow they didn’t make him unattractive; the look was more David Beckham than circus strong man.

“I’m Hugo. What can I help you with?”

She flicked open her badge and he added “Officer.”

“Do you own the shop, sir?”

He shook his head. “Sadly no. It belongs to my uncle, he’s asleep upstairs. I help him out sometimes.”

Before Annette could recover from the revelation that the shop had another floor the young man had disappeared up a spiral staircase. He reappeared one minute later with an elderly man with sparse grey hair. He climbed gingerly down the stairs and took a seat, while his nephew made tea for them all.

“This is an amazing place you have, Mr…” She consulted her computer printout. “Archer?”

The old man nodded. “Frederick Archer. Yes, it is, but sadly it’s getting too much for me now.” He indicated a travelling staircase like the ones libraries used. “I can’t climb it like I used to, to reach the knives higher up.” He smiled at the young man. “But most of our customers are by appointment now and Hugo helps me out when he can.” Archer sipped at his tea. “What can I help you with, officer?”

Annette outlined the knife that they were trying to match, leaving out the exact reasons why. Archer senior peered at the computer image Davy had given her, then he nodded.

“Yes. We supply it. A lovely blade; used by meat restaurants. They’re two hundred pounds each. I’ve sold five of them this year.”

“Is the edge serrated like that when it’s sold?”

He looked more closely and nodded again. “Yes. It’s unusual I know, but excellent for chopping large cuts of meat.”

Archer signalled his nephew to fetch his order book then ran his finger slowly down a page. “Yes, here it is. Three were bought by a steak restaurant in town; Millennia, I have their details if you require them. They’ve been a customer of mine for years. The other two were bought by a young man.”

“How did he pay, Mr Archer?”

“I’ve written here; cash. In early January.”

“Do you ask for names and addresses? After all, knives can be dangerous.”

The old man nodded with more force than Annette thought his thin frame possessed, then he spoke in an offended tone.

“I certainly do, officer. I’m a responsible merchant. This shop has been in the Archer family for two hundred and fifty years.”

Annette saw that she’d offended him and quickly apologised, pausing for a moment before pushing him a little more. “Could I have his name, please?”

As soon as Archer had showed her the name Annette knew that he’d been had. It belonged to a member of a boy-band that her daughter Amy loved. Annette knew the address would be fictitious too, but she didn’t say so, just wrote them both down and carried on.

“Can you describe the man to me, Mr Archer?”

He smiled, mollified by being of use. “I can indeed. He was tall.” He turned towards his nephew and gestured him to stand. He was six-feet-four. “He wasn’t as tall as Hugo, but not much less. And he was young, well under thirty I’d say. He had dark hair with that stuff in it. The kind that makes it stand up.”

Hugo leaned in kindly. “You mean gel or wax, Uncle.”

Archer sniffed. “I may well. It’s all girly muck to me. Men never used to wear such rubbish.”

Annette smiled. Frederick Archer was around seventy and she would bet that he’d used plenty of Brylcreem in his younger days. She carried on, working out ways to ask about the man’s ethnicity without seeming racist.

“Did you notice anything about his eyes, Mr Archer?”

Archer gave a wide smile. “I did indeed.”

Annette wanted to punch the air in celebration, until Archer said what he’d seen.

“He wore dark glasses the whole time he was here, never took them off. In January too.”

Annette slumped, disappointed, then she tried a different tack. “Did you notice anything about his voice? Anything that might have hinted that he wasn’t from here?”

He shook his head. “No, no, I don’t think so. He didn’t sound foreign, just normal, like a local. That was all I really noticed.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “There was one other thing. He was carrying a hold-all, one of those plastic ones, with unusual markings down the side.”