The Keeper Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Core Characters in the Craig Crime Novels

  Key Background Locations

  The Keeper

  Catriona King

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously and any resemblance to persons living or dead, business establishments, events, locations or areas, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author, except for brief quotations and segments used for promotion or in reviews.

  Copyright © 2015 by Catriona King

  Photography: Melis

  Artwork: Jonathan Temples: [email protected]

  Editors: Andrew Angel and Maureen Vincent-Northam Formatting: Rebecca Emin

  All rights reserved.

  Hamilton-Crean Publishing Ltd. 2015

  Discover us online: www.hamiltoncreanpublishing.com

  For my mother.

  About the Author

  Catriona King is a medical doctor and trained as a police Forensic Medical Examiner in London, where she worked for some years. She has worked with the police on many occasions. She returned to live in Belfast in 2006.

  She has written since childhood and has been published in many formats: non-fiction, journalistic and fiction.

  ‘The Keeper’ is a new Craig Crime Novel being released in December 2015.

  The next Craig Crime novel is in edits for release in 2016.

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks to Northern Ireland for providing the inspiration for my books.

  My thanks also to: Andrew Angel and Maureen Vincent-Northam as my editors, Jonathan Temples for his cover design and Rebecca Emin for formatting this book.

  I would like to thank all of the police officers that I have ever worked with for their professionalism, wit and compassion.

  Catriona King

  Belfast, December 2015

  Discover the author’s books at: www.catrionakingbooks.com

  To engage with the author about her books, email: [email protected]

  The author can be found on Facebook and Twitter: @CatrionaKing1

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Core Characters

  Key Locations

  Chapter One

  People are just people. Sex; race; ethnicity; none of these things matter. Only one thing is important: is someone good or are they bad?

  The good are life’s background music: benign, peaceful, occasionally uplifting, with moments of being truly wonderful. They meander through life harming no-one and helping some: raising their children, carrying old people’s bags, sticking to the speed limit and opening doors. These are the good.

  But the bad. Oh, the bad. Shades of dark and smears of black; from the coolly indifferent to the pure psychopaths. People who kill, and worse. Worse? Yes, there are many things worse than a quick death, even if it is at someone else’s hand.

  Death with a prelude of torture, finally disposed of in an alley. Death marched to the centre of a field, with no hope of a marked grave or a funeral for your family to mourn. Death in front of your young children, mouths still smeared with their beans on toast. Death for no other reason than someone else’s warped ideological whim.

  What is a suitable penalty for such evil, for people whose darkness is jet black? Arrest? A convenient court date? A lifetime in a cell with a TV and a comfortable bed? Or perhaps, as in some countries, a nominal death penalty, deferred for so many years through tax funded appeals that the evil get to live out their normal span?

  No, only one penalty could possibly fit for such crimes, and the bad were about to find out exactly what it was.

  ****

  Docklands Coordinated Crime Unit, Belfast. The Murder Squad. Thursday 8th October 2015, 12 p.m.

  Marc Craig stared at his ringing mobile and scratched his head. What should he do? Wait till it cut to answerphone and then delete the call; answer it and try, yet again, to get the caller to stop their incessant pursuit; or take the coward’s way out and change his number? Cowardice was just starting to look attractive when there was a rap on his office door.

  “Come in.”

  The face that appeared was one he rarely saw and wouldn’t have cared if he never had again, especially this week. Since he and Katy had returned from holiday three days before, he’d spent every morning in court on an old case, finally wrapping it up an hour before; and each afternoon working with Interpol on two international pursuits. To wit; searching for the murderer of a convicted felon Joanne Greer, Stevan Mitic, who’d blown her away in broad daylight as she’d left the Laganside Courts six months before; and attempting to pick up the trail of a perverted religious sect that had murdered five people in the province in March. Both were slow going and both were keeping him up at night, not to mention the fresh wave of killings that had started in Belfast since his return from sailing off the coast of Sardinia.

  If his visitor’s face was one that he saw infrequently, the smaller face behind it, one that he saw every day, was mouthing wildly “it’s not my fault.” Nicky Morris finally found her voice and stated the obvious.

  “D.C.S. Harrison is here to see you, sir.”

  Craig’s tone was dry. “I can see that. Thank you, Nicky; that will be all.”

  For the moment. After Harrison’s departure he’d be asking how his ex-boss had managed to get past her desk, when her usual response to people without appointments was a frosty “no” and an implied electrified fence. Sadly a real fence would have hammered his budget.

  He stared at his erstwhile nemesis and asked the question that he really couldn’t be bothered to ask, except that politeness dictated that he did and he usually tried to be polite.

  “Superintendent Harrison. To what do I owe this honour?”

  He regretted the words as soon as he’d said them, remembering that Harrison wouldn’t recognise sarcasm if it bit him in the ass and had probably taken the ‘honour’ part literally. He was right. After a faux modest smile Harrison found a chair and sat down, uninvited.

  “I’m pleased that you see it as such, Craig.”

  Craig didn’t bother to hide his disdain. “You’ve obviously never heard of sarcasm.” He rose to pour a fresh coffee, not offering one to his guest. “So what do you want?”

  “So what do you want, sir?”

  “Nope, just what do you want? We’re both Superintendents now.”

  He flashed back to the years when Harrison had been one and he’d been a lowly D.C.I.; he’d never tired of reminding him of rank then either.

  “I think you’ll find that I’m a Chief Superintendent.”

  “And I think that you’ll find I don’t give a damn. Now, what do you want? I have work to do.”

  As Terry Harrison considered the words, wondering whether they constituted sufficient insult for the Chief Constable to be informed, Craig could feel his loathing build.

  Terry ‘Teflon’ Harrison was a bastard of the first water in every part of
his life. First to grab the glory for any work success, and to dump all over his subordinates when things didn’t go so well, making political capital either way. He’d dumped on his marriage vows as well, until the long suffering Mrs Harrison had caught him with a girl younger than their daughter and finally indicated what he could do with his shiny uniform. The remainder of his clothes she’d dropped in a bath full of bleach and the courts were currently debating how everything else would be split. Craig sincerely hoped it would result in Harrison in a bedsit warming his dinner over a candle, but he knew the man too well not to know that he would emerge from the divorce with at least fifty percent.

  As the thoughts raced through his mind he held Harrison’s small-eyed gaze, his eyes taking in the D.C.S’s slick, suspiciously black hair for a fifty-something, and the abnormally clean arch of his jaw. He wondered if he’d had a face lift, attempting to hold back time to aid his extra-curricular pursuits, but that was something to speculate on another day.

  Harrison lounged back in his chair, trying to mimic Craig’s insouciance and failing.

  “There’s no need to be rude…” He paused for a moment and then added “Marc” in a self-conscious way. It made Craig shudder and wonder why he’d said it, but he remained silent, watching as Harrison searched the walls for his next words. “As you may or may not know, I’m moving back to Belfast.” Mistress number twenty was obviously in residence nearby.

  The shiny uniformed D.C.S. paused for a moment, as if preparing to deliver a devastating blow. “D.I McNulty…” His veneer of politeness slipped as he gave an amused laugh. “Oh, I forgot, she must be D.I Thomas now that she’s married.” The laugh became a sneer. “You two were close once, weren’t you?”

  Craig’s gaze didn’t waver. Harrison’s refusal to transfer Julia McNulty had been the beginning of their relationship’s end, but if that was his best shot to wind him up then it had definitely failed. After a few seconds Harrison gave up trying to bait him about an ex whom he was pleased was happily married and coughed to cover his failed coup.

  “Anyway, D.I. Thomas will be acting D.C.I. in Limavady until they find someone to take over, and I’ve been put in charge of Belfast Gang Crimes and Vice.”

  How appropriate. It had only been a matter of time before photos emerged of him snorting coke off some sex worker’s chest, now when it happened he could say that he had done it for the job.

  Craig shut his eyes for a moment; not in upset but in sympathy for Aidan Hughes and Geoff Hamill, the D.C.I.s in Vice and Gangs. The poor buggers deserved better than getting Teflon as their boss. He was just wondering if he could get them both transferred to Murder when he felt a breeze and opened his eyes to find Harrison waving a hand across his face. He squinted threateningly and Harrison hastily retook his seat.

  “I thought you’d fallen asleep.”

  “Why? Are you that boring?”

  He was saved from a blustered defence by a loud knock and the unbidden entry of Liam Cullen, the most un-PC D.C.I. in the force. Well, nearly. He’d almost ceded that honour to Andy Angel in recent days and the jury was still out on which of them was the worst. Angel was a recent addition to Craig’s team, although not to Murder; he’d been a D.C.I. working on cases for five years. He was the most lethargic officer any of them had ever worked with, although he was bright and Craig liked him, even if his inertia and habit of smearing chocolate everywhere made him want to give him a swift kick.

  Liam’s jaw dropped when he saw Craig’s companion.

  “Oh, sorry, boss. I thought that you were free.”

  Craig rose, signifying the end of his meeting. “I am. D.C.S. Harrison was just leaving.”

  Harrison’s eyes narrowed to match Craig’s own, but thankfully he took the hint. At the door he turned back to see the detectives exchanging a smile and his lifelong paranoia took hold.

  “You can grin all you want, Craig, but we’ll have to do business together.”

  Craig nodded past him to Nicky. “Then I suggest that you make an appointment when we do.

  ****

  Liam slung his feet onto the desk and adjusted his position a few times in his chair, when it failed to make him more comfortable he opted to stand and lean against the wall.

  “What did Teflon want?”

  Craig poured two fresh coffees and shook his head. “To make my life hell again.”

  “He can’t. You’re equal rank now.”

  Craig’s glance said that it wouldn’t stop Harrison trying. He handed his deputy a coffee and retook his seat.

  “Not that I don’t love seeing you, Liam, but what did you come in for?”

  The D.C.I. added some milk to his drink before replying. “Murder.”

  “If you’re volunteering to commit one then your victim has just left.”

  Liam answered in a regretful voice. “Tempting, but no. I want my pension. We have another body; that’s why I came in.”

  Craig sat forward urgently. “Same M.O.?”

  Liam made a face. “Yes and no. Yes it’s a man, and he was kneecapped before they shot him in the head, but he came from the other side of the fence.”

  Kneecapping. Once a favoured punishment of the IRA, more recently adopted by every psycho with a gun.

  “You mean a republican was executed this time?”

  “Aye, and the C.S.I.s say a paramilitary one judging by his tattoos. ’Cos the first two were loyalists and there’s been a lot of in-fighting in their gangs, as of yesterday we were working on the theory that some loyalist group was starting an internal war.” As he lifted a biscuit and dunked it he shot Craig a look of disgust. “Now they go and do this and confuse everyone.”

  The last words were a whine and Craig said “there, there” in mock sympathy. Liam warmed to his theme.

  “Why can’t they just stick to killing their own? They’ve no bloody consideration the paramilitaries nowadays. ”

  “I’m guessing that the dead men would agree with you.” Craig sipped his drink before continuing. “Refresh me on the details. My head’s still full of court.”

  Liam talked through a mouthful of Rich Tea. “OK. Well you know the first one was found early Monday morning. Billy Hart, well-known member of the UK Ulster Force, UKUF. That’s Tommy Hill’s old gang, although back when he ran with them they were happy enough with three letters, UKF.” He gazed out the window wistfully. “Why’s everything about one-upmanship nowadays?”

  Craig rolled his eyes. “Ask your MLA. Oh no, wait, they’re too busy fighting amongst themselves again to do any work.”

  Northern Ireland’s parliament was in uproar again, this time about the existence of paramilitaries who were thought to have gone away. That and an ongoing argument about finance had combined to make the usual sniping of Stormont’s politicians deteriorate into a brawl, with a JCB’s worth of mud being flung across the political divide.

  Craig had a sudden idea. He parked it for later and waved Liam on.

  “Aye, it’s meltdown time again up on the hill. Anyway, Hart was found about half a mile from here. On wasteland near where the old Gallaher’s factory used to be on York Street-”

  Craig cut in. “Close to where the Cityside Shopping Centre is now?”

  “Yup, and just a heads up; the dumpsite was only a street away from one of Hart’s major scores during The Troubles. Where he shot two Catholic workmen. Anyway, he was kneecapped, definitely when he was alive, then finished off with a shot to the base of the skull. Tuesday was his running mate Rowan Lindsay’s turn, on the Shankill. Again close to one of his past glories; the street where he shot a rival loyalist who’d dissed his wife. Anyhow, they were both killed just a few hours before being found. Probably between one and three a.m. Pathology’s seeing if they can narrow the times of death any further.”

  Lindsay had been a real charmer whose main claim to fame had been bursting through the front door of a Catholic off-duty policeman’s home and gunning him down in front of his wife and kids. He’d also been part of a gang who�
��d abducted Catholics off the street in the nineteen-eighties and driven them to their torture and death.

  Craig nodded. “So both killed in the wee small hours, both UKUF and both with the same M.O. And today’s lucky winner is?”

  “No I.D. yet, but he was found in an alley near Divis Street on the Lower Falls.”

  Doubtless another low life who’d maimed and killed in support of ‘the cause’ until the Good Friday Agreement, the GFA, had been signed in nineteen-ninety-eight.

  Liam was still talking.

  “Of course, they’re all public service killings so I really don’t give a shit, but still…” He sighed heavily. “It would have made things easier if they’d just stuck to killing one side. Now we’ll have to rule out sectarianism.”

  Public service killings; a phrase used by police officers the world over to describe the killing of one criminal by another. In many cops’ minds it was street cleaning and barely counted as a negative act. It was wrong and intellectually they all knew it; but if there were shades of morality from white to black, such deaths counted as white with hint of grey, although no-one would ever say that out loud. No-one except Liam that was.

  Craig admonished him in a noticeably half-hearted way.

  “Don’t let anyone hear you say that.”

  Liam nodded. “Aye. I suppose I’d better practice my sad face.”

  “Yes, you’d better. Their families will have loved the dead men, no matter what we might think of them.”

  The D.C.I. rolled his eyes rudely. “There’s only the two of us here, so is that the political correctness update over?”

  Craig laughed at his cheek. “Yes. Fire ahead.”

  Liam lifted another biscuit, waving it as he talked. “The thing is, if they’d just stick to killing one side or the other, we could look inside their camps, or for rival gangs on the same side. But now that they’ve crossed over-”