The Visitor (#3 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (23 page)

She didn’t know how she was going to say it to him. How she would even start.

‘I love you, Marc, but...’ or, ‘Marco, I’ve never felt like this about anyone, but we have to stop seeing each other’. Or ‘Why can’t you see this isn’t working? Why are you so blind and stupid?’

The tears ran down her pink cheeks and she stared at herself in the mirror. Watching her own pain in some numb mime show. She’d rehearsed the words again and again and she still didn’t know if she had the courage to say them.

Eventually she climbed into bed, exhausted. Dreading her trip to Belfast the next day, when it should have been a journey full of excitement. Would she really have the courage to say it? All she knew was that she had to.

***

Tommy drove off the Lisburn Road into Owenville Park, slowing his pace to a crawl. He squinted at the house numbers, but it was too dark to see. It didn’t matter, he knew what he was looking for. After five minutes driving he glimpsed Murdock’s car on the forecourt of a house. The tip-off on his Belfast pad had been right.

He parked across the street, and then strolled past the house several times, casing it as he’d done so many others. Suddenly he glimpsed Murdock through the window. He was still awake.

Tommy snarled as the surgeon poured himself a whisky. He might be operating. If he’d been drunk when Evie had died, then he’d make him pay double.

***

By Saturday lunchtime, the diagnosis was confirmed and Tom Craig’s angioplasty was over. It would normally have waited until Monday, but the tests had showed that every coronary artery was blocked. Immediate treatment was essential. It was either angioplasty or open heart surgery and angioplasty won. He was expected to make a full recovery and Craig knew that he was a very lucky man.

Tom Craig lay flat, smiling up at his son with all the curiosity of a true scientist. The consultant had shown him his X-rays, with dye outlining blocks in the three tubes that kept his heart beating. The information had fascinated him, and made Mirella cry in the corner. She was fussing around now, forcing water on him through a bent straw, while Lucia flicked though a pile of CDs, settling on some Mozart to calm her mother down.

Tom batted his wife’s hand away with far more strength than he’d had the night before, and lifted off his oxygen mask. He smiled up at Craig, who was pacing the room. “Thanks Marc. Your quick actions saved my life.” Craig shook his head silently, not wanting to think about the night before, and not trusting his voice to be unemotional.

Lucia grinned at him cheekily. “Yes, thanks Marco. I knew you’d come in useful someday.” She smiled at her father, knowing exactly what he was thinking. “Now go back to work. Your pacing is doing my head in and you’ve got murders to solve.”

She gave him a hug and smiled up at him, saying quietly. “I can take it from here. I’ll call you with regular updates.”

His mother smiled as well, then she tried to feed their father something pink from a cup. He raised his eyes to heaven in a look that said, “Take me with you, son.” Then he smiled, waving Craig back to work.

***

Craig had thought about cancelling Julia’s visit, but her anxious voice said something was up - he needed to see her. He got home at twelve o’clock, after the night and Saturday morning from hell. And after a full pot of coffee he speed–read his way through his mountain of notes and ordered his thoughts.

One quick call to John later and they’d finalised the profile of Evie’s killer. Twenties to forties and male. Working in the Trust, well-educated and with a detailed knowledge of and access to, electrics. The well-educated part nearly ruled out Michael Randle, but only nearly. The pool of suspects was definitely shrinking.

He was just tidying-up when the entryphone buzzed and he pressed to answer it. John. His curiosity was immediately piqued. He’d just spoken to him an hour before and John always phoned rather than drop in. Then Craig remembered - he’d been going to visit his father when they’d talked. Something must be wrong with his Dad!

He buzzed him up urgently and pulled open the front door, meeting him out on the stairs “What’s wrong? Lucia didn’t ring me.”

John stared at his anxious friend, instantly joining the dots. “God no, Marc! Your Dad’s fine. I’ve just left him chatting away.”

Relief flooded Craig’s face and John turned to leave again. “I’m sorry, it was thoughtless of me to come.”

Craig smiled at him, ignoring his protests. “Don’t be stupid. It was my mistake. Come in.”

He waved him into the flat and turned the percolator to high, re-heating the ever-ready coffee. As he was putting out the mugs John walked to the window, gazing through it miserably. Craig knew he needed to talk.

He quickly sent Julia a text asking her not to come until three. Then they sat down with a coffee, and he waited for John to speak.

He sat staring at his feet for almost ten minutes, sipping at the slowly cooling drink. Craig let him think, running through the things that could be bothering his friend. Top of the list was Natalie Ingrams.

He was right. When John finally spoke, it was in a whisper. As if admitting, even to his best friend, that there were things that he couldn’t deal with, was somehow a failure. He was used to having the answers, not asking for them.

He spoke haltingly at first and each time he stalled Craig urged him on, reminding him he’d listened to him after Camille. He’d put up with his moods for years, now he would return the favour.

When John finally got the words out they made little sense. On one hand praising Natalie’s virtues, on the other saying that he couldn’t be with her, but couldn’t explain exactly why.

“It all crystallised when I was in America.”

“What crystallised?”

He shook his head, as if not understanding things himself. After ten minutes of broken, faltering words, he fell into a long silence and Craig interjected.

“It’s hard missing someone. Not only if they’ve left you, but sometimes even when they still love you. Like Natalie does.”

John glanced up from his cup hopefully, urging Craig to continue.

“Missing someone means you’ve got feelings for them. And that makes you vulnerable. You saw that with me after Camille.”

John stared hard at the ground, and Craig knew he was on the right track. Might as well be hung for the whole sheep.

“You can spend your life alone, and never get close to anyone. That way you’ll avoid all the pain that relationships can bring.”

John stared pathetically at him and Craig’s voice softened. “But you’ll also never know the happiness.”

The look in John’s eyes said that he’d missed Natalie desperately in America, and it had made him feel unsafe. John’s world was science. Logic and answers. Love was far too uncontrolled for him to cope with. That was why he’d ended their relationship when he’d returned. He’d probably thought it would make him happier, but it hadn’t.

“Let me ask you something, John. Did you really think that you would stop missing Natalie just because you dumped her?”

Confusion flashed across Winter’s face, followed by realisation. He nodded. “I suppose...yes...I did.”

Craig shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that. To use an analogy you’re familiar with, falling in love is like being dead. And you can’t be a little bit dead. Once you fall in love, it doesn’t disappear just because you stop seeing the person. All you do by ending the relationship is leave yourself with all of the feelings, but none of the fun.”

“I thought...if I didn’t see her, then...”

“Then she could never hurt you?”

John nodded, looking down at the floor.

“Well, missing her will fade eventually, except when you’re reminded in some way.” Craig remembered how long he’d missed Camille. Then he shook himself back to the present. “Then you’ll get on with your life alone. Or maybe you’ll meet someone else, and have emotions for them that aren’t so strong. Feelings that you can control. But tell me something...Do you really want to feel less, John? Do you want to be with someone you don’t love, or be on your own? You can do that if you want to. Or do you want to be with someone you really love? And take all the risks of being hurt that come with that?”

John shook his head. “I...I don’t know, Marc. I really don’t. What should I do?”

“No one can tell you that. But you’re a scientist, so look at it logically. Life with Natalie, loving her, with all that brings. Or life without her feeling like this?”

John didn’t answer, and a minute later he stood and left without a word, wandering slowly down to the car-park.

Craig watched him drive away and shook his head, hoping he would make the right choice. He would understand whatever he chose.

He’d leapt into love wholeheartedly with Camille and suffered five years of pain when she’d left, building a wall around himself that no one else could climb. Now he was taking the risk again with Julia. Was he the wise one, or was John?

***

7pm.

The Visitor watched from a distance, focussing on the exit from Owenville Park onto the Lisburn Road. It was a warm Saturday evening and Belfast’s bars and restaurants had grabbed desperately at the weather, setting their tables out on the pavement, adorned with giant umbrellas more fitted to a sandy beach. This was BT9’s answer to St Tropez, except the only St Tropez around here came in a bottle. The Visitor smiled wryly, amused by their own cold wit.

Young girls draped themselves against the railings, like pretty jewellery glittering to catch the eyes of passers-by. Men ostentatiously placed their car-keys on the table, ensuring that their high-end symbols were right side up, advertising their worth. It was entertaining enough street-theatre, and of course it was always fun to watch the watchers. Sitting in their cars, trying to blend-in with the locals, but so obviously far from home.

The father was in Owenville now, watching Murdock. But why hadn’t he made people listen yet? Why hadn’t he exposed them all? The Visitor had tried hard to be patient, to wait and see, to trust in the father’s anger. Now that patience was running out. The father
must
act tonight.

***

Katy struggled through the block door buried under shopping bags, and half-fell into the communal foyer. She hit the lift button and slumped in, lying back against its mirrored wall. It was badly-lit and worn, like in a ‘70s Fonda movie, except without the ‘Musak’. She reached her apartment and dropped her bags in the hall, pushing off her high heels and relaxing. Fingering her mother’s heels as a toddler had left her with a love of them, and all they implied about a woman. But ten hours walking in them was enough.

She stood by the window, squidging the cool carpet between her toes. Across the river were the yellow steel cranes of Harland and Wolff. They
were
Belfast. Strong, dirty, aggressive. And modern and arty. The planners had finally realised what ‘every man’ already
knew, Belfast already had its monument to urban renewal. Who needed a Hirst on the wall, when a glance out the window gave you Samson and Goliath?

The early evening sky was dimming, reddening the river. The closer sights faded as the faraway view grew, dominated by Stormont, Belfast’s very own ‘White House’. The graffiti artists had been at work on the wall opposite, with SICKO spray-painted eight feet high. Michael Moore had reached the Lagan. The brick canvas might be gone soon, a new development taking its place. Then the artists would have to find a new screen.

She fingered her waves, freed from her work chignon, and wondered what Craig would think of them. Then she shook the idea away quickly - he probably had a wife and children.

After a minute’s more dreaming she yawned and poured herself a glass of wine. Shopping the week’s stress out had definitely helped, but the thought of an evening spent in a noisy bar held no appeal. So she grabbed her mobile, cajoling Natalie into a quiet evening with a DVD. It didn’t matter what it was; the wine would wash over it anyway.

***

Tommy sat in his battered Saab, parked opposite Murdock’s house in Owenville Park. He’d done his homework. Murdock never went home to Cultra when his private patients were in labour, preferring to stay in his Belfast home. His wife was safely tucked-up in the suburbs, so Tommy wasn’t surprised when a BMW pulled into the driveway and a slim brunette got out, carrying an overnight case. He doubted Mrs Murdock knew about her.

He lifted his camera and shot off a few frames. They might come in handy if blackmail was in order. Then he checked his watch. Seven-thirty. Murdock hadn’t gone out and, now the brunette had arrived, it looked as if it would be a long wait before he did.

Tommy was in no hurry. He settled back in his seat, thinking of Evie and the baby. He pictured them together, happy, and sudden tears coursed down his face. They flowed unchecked for a moment, then he sniffed loudly, wiping them away with the back of his hand. He pushed all thoughts of Evie away and replaced them with ones of vengeance, returning to his sojourn. That was one good thing about doing time. It taught a man patience.

Ninety minutes later Murdock rushed out to his white Mercedes, driving it down Owenville Park to the Lisburn Road exit. Then he turned right, towards the M.P.E. Tommy followed at a safe distance, keeping his lights off until he got to the busy road. If Murdock was going to see a patient, he could get him in the car-park afterwards. It was all working out.