The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 10

  They all laughed. Liam had missed his toddler Erin’s birth and his wife Danni had never let him forget it. Craig turned to Annette and noticed her looking a bit happier, smiling.

  “OK, that’s excellent work all of you. I’m going to chat to counter-terrorism tomorrow – Davy, I want you in that meeting with me.” Davy beamed at him, proudly.

  “I’ll speak to London about the Vors, Liam, but a trip is the last resort; we’ve plenty to get on with here. Annette, go back and have another chat to Ms Moldeau, please. I want her exact whereabouts from Monday morning to Wednesday.

  Liam, when Bob Leighton gets back I want his prints and his location for those unaccounted-for days. Davy, keep going with the prints and D.N.A. and anything more you can find on the bullet. And Nicky...”

  He turned to look directly at her and smiled kindly. “Davy is a big boy. I know you care about him but you’re not his mother. Better to be his friend and take care of him if something goes wrong, than sit and scowl disapprovingly at him all day. Yes?”

  Annette looked at them, completely puzzled, and Nicky nodded a grudging ‘yes’ with a half-smile at Davy, who grinned back. Craig could hear Liam getting ready with a smart remark and he shot him a warning look, stopping him in his tracks.

  “Now, I’ve got a meeting with D.C.I. White in drugs, and I’ve no idea what it’s about, so...” He stood and turned quickly for the door. “Play nicely children. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Bob Leighton lifted his case quickly from the airport carousel and headed through the automatic doors for the car-park, saddened. Irene had always met him at the door, smiling widely, with Ben’s small hand held up in a wave. A tear sprang to his eye but he held it back, determined to focus on his coming journey, his life could depend on it. There’d be time to mourn Irene later, and he would mourn her. He had really loved her. He could feel the tears coming again and he dumped his bag quickly in the boot, over-revving the car in a show of self-control and then pulling out speedily onto the M3 towards Belfast. He’d come back a day early to fool Joanne and it was eight o’clock now. By eleven tonight he intended, no, he absolutely needed to be in a different country.

  ***

  Craig dropped his bag in the hall and pulled off his leather reefer, throwing it over the modern bronze by the door and wondering idly why Andy White had asked for a meeting and then disappeared before he’d arrived. Then he shrugged, understanding. Something always came up to wreck your diary; maybe he should try that excuse on Nicky.

  He had just pulled a cold beer from the tall American fridge and hit the sports’ channel, when the sound of his mobile disturbed his long awaited peace. He placed the beer on the counter with a sigh and clicked the phone onto speaker without looking.

  “Marc Craig. Can I help you?”

  The silence that followed could only have belonged to one person. No. To one woman, Camille. He started speaking quickly, before she did.

  “Camille, I promised to call you tomorrow.”

  Her soft, perfectly rounded vowels honed from years at R.A.D.A. flowed seductively down the line at him, wrapping him in their warmth, and he could feel himself about to be manipulated. But forewarned was forearmed, and he was well forewarned after nine years of her warmth, followed by an arctic winter.

  “Marco...” She was the only one but his family who routinely used his Italian name, automatically creating intimacy. But instead of achieving her aim of warmth, it made him wary now. “I’d like to see you again.”

  He’d known that it was coming, of course. They’d left things hanging after their lunch a month before; their first real exposure five years after she’d left him for the ‘Prick’. And four since he’d returned to Belfast from London.

  He didn’t know what he’d expected from their London meeting. A Damascene moment where everything would immediately become clear? Why she’d left him, why she’d come back, what she really thought he was going to say and do after her infidelity and years of silence? ‘Lovely to see you again, Camille. Of course I forgive you. Now here’s my heart, just crush it again.’

  That was never going to happen, and he’d been astounded by her arrogance that it even might. And by her contrition.

  Her tears had been genuine, and not just for herself, but for what she’d done to him. By the end of their few hours together, he’d berated her, punished her, and nearly forgiven her. Forgiven her for five years of pain in three hours. He was disgusted by his own weakness, and for loving her again even a little, so quickly. And yet... Something was lacking, and she knew it.

  “Marco, when can we see each other again? I could come over at the weekend. I’m free and we could go away for a few days.”

  Oh, Camille. You live in a world of self-important freedom, never bound, except by performances when you have to be there. The rest of your life is completely unfettered. He always had duty, even when he wasn’t at work.

  “We’re in the middle of a case, Camille. I can’t just drop everything and go away.”

  “I could come there and stay with you.”

  He could hear her entering the role of 1950s housewife already. Dinner prepared, when his Marlow-esque detective came home from work. And she wouldn’t just play it, she’d actually believe it. It was what made her such a good actor.

  His voice was firm. “No, Camille. I need to focus on the case. You would be a distraction.” His tone said that wasn’t a good thing and he could feel her retreating through the gauze, realising that he’d been too sharp. He softened slightly, taking no pleasure in her pain.

  “After this case is wrapped up, we’ll talk...maybe go away for a few days...” As soon as he’d said it, he regretted the words, said to be kind, but creating a whole world of pain in the future, and not only for him.

  “Oh yes, Marco, please. When it finishes.” Her eager voice confirmed it. A whole world of pain. He waited to feel happy for pleasing her at least, but it didn’t come, and he knew then that something was very wrong.

  ***

  “I don’t give a shit about the money, Joanne; you can’t do this, OK. Even if you’ve lost a lot of money.”

  “We. We’ve lost a lot of money.”

  Declan shrugged, knowing that although Joanne had planned it alone and planned to keep the proceeds for herself, she’d make damn sure that he would share in any losses. He couldn’t be bothered arguing with her.

  “You need to cut and run now. It’s just a bloody project. There was always a risk they would pull it, that’s business.” He took a deep breath, before making another mistake. “It was illegal anyway, insider trading. So you can hardly complain now, can you?”

  Joanne was sucking at her red wine like a vampire sucked blood, and talking, God was she talking. It was 8pm and it had been pouring out of her since they’d got home. What she’d been doing, what she’d planned, what she was still planning - it all spewed out. The wine had stained her tongue and teeth black, and she looked ugly.

  Declan looked at the woman that he’d once loved. Everything about her glamorous exterior seemed hideous now, twisted out of shape by greed and spite. It made him so sad that he ached. The best he could hope for was that their daughters took after their grandparents, because neither of them was an example to follow.

  It was his fault that she’d gone this far, it must be. She hadn’t been like this when they’d met. Spoilt yes, selfish yes, but between him and her parents over-indulging her, and the moneyed friends she’d made in London making her desperate to keep up, she was completely screwed-up now. She was fifty, too late to change her. He could only hope to control her now, if that was even still possible. He hadn’t believed his ears when she’d told him what she’d been doing behind his back...for months now...for bloody months.

  “I’ve got a little book on Joe Watson. His comings and goings, his gambling, his tarts, every dirty little thing he’s ever done. ”

  “Blackmail? Are you mad? There’s no way I’m going along with this,
Joanne. He’d never cave in any way, he’s not the type.”

  “How do you know? He has a family and a position; he’s got a lot to lose. ”

  “He’s independently wealthy, Joanne, he made a mint working at Goldbergs’. He doesn’t even take his government salary. And I’m damn sure his wife already knows about the women. Wouldn’t you?” He’d never been unfaithful but he looked at her for confirmation that she would care if he had, but she was too busy ranting.

  “I’ll leak if to the press, then.”

  “Oh, Jo. Get a grip, will you.”

  “Joanne.” Whatever...

  “Do you really think that the press here don’t know everything about politicians? It’s a tiny country; you can’t keep secrets in Northern Ireland. Anyway, he won’t give in to blackmail.”

  “You said that already. But how the hell do you know? You would.”

  “Yes, I would. But he’s not me and I know men. Watson will just tell you to ‘shove it’.”

  She slumped abruptly in the preposterously expensive Corbusier chair he’d given her for their twentieth anniversary, and put her head down. Declan could see tears running down her cheeks and he instantly felt sorry for shouting. Then he shivered, as the white clenching of her fists said that they were tears of fury. He felt as if she was walking over his grave. No, not his...

  She raised her head and looked at him and the room felt completely still. Her brown eyes were like slits and, combined with her darkened lips, the whole effect was pure movie evil. She didn’t say a word, she didn’t need to, Declan could see now that their argument about blackmailing Watson had just been a charade, put on for his sake.

  She’d wanted him to argue that it wouldn’t work, it gave her just what she wanted, confirmation that there was only one option left. And it was something much worse. She’d been planning this all along. But for how long?

  He couldn’t believe the thoughts running through his head, as he looked at his Malone Road wife sitting on her expensive anniversary present. Surely he must be wrong. But he wasn’t.

  Joanne sat back, casually, drawing her long tanned legs up beneath her to form an elegant curve, a trick learnt from her student modelling jobs. Her eyes locked onto his and she carefully rested her empty glass on the black marble lamp-table. It was as if she was gauging his thoughts, while not caring, not even a little, what they were.

  When she finally spoke, she was calm, all sign of hysterics gone. “You know I’m right Declan, you’ve just confirmed it.” She’d walked him straight into it. “He won’t be blackmailed. You said it. That means if he doesn’t cave in there’s only one way out of this.”

  He froze, willing her to stop before she said the words that would end his love for her, end their marriage, and perhaps even ruin lives. He knew with certainty that theirs would be among them.

  Every ounce of him willed her not to say it, but she did.

  “If the blackmail fails, I’ll have to kill him.”

  There, it was said. But she didn’t stop there. She was on a roll.

  “Well of course, I won’t actually kill him myself, but he’ll have to be killed. Don’t you worry, I’ve organised everything. There’s no way it can be traced back to me.” His eyes widened as she talked. “I’ve done it before so don’t worry. Here’s what’s going to happen.”

  ***

  Liam stared at the list that Davy had handed him, totally confused. When Leighton had hit the tarmac a day early, two hours ago, they’d been on him immediately, and they were on him now. He was heading to Donegal, somewhere that they could easily watch him, albeit from a distance. But that didn’t explain the list in his hand.

  He looked down at the paper, puzzled. It held the names of nine countries, but what did they have in common? Apart from the fact that Leighton had spent the past twenty-four hours visiting their Embassies.

  International energy partners? Or maybe he was buying a holiday home. Liam looked sceptically at some of the countries listed: he would need to wear a flak jacket with his sunglasses there.

  He made a note for Davy to run more checks tomorrow and looked around the empty floor. Everyone else had the sense God gave them and had gone home, time that he was away too. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, catching sight of the wall clock. 10pm. Oh crap. Danni would kill him.

  Ten was bad at the best of times, but his wife’s normally placid nature had been replaced with a temper that could melt glass in this pregnancy, so he knew that he’d get it in the ear. He stood up and stretched, smiling at the thought of his five-foot-four wife yelling up at him. He’d never admit it at work but he loved her dearly, and he couldn’t wait for this baby to be born. He loved kids, for their jokes and fun and unconditional affection. A sudden thought struck him and he smiled mischievously. No, he couldn’t wait for this baby to be born. Then they could start working on the next.

  ***

  Bob Leighton pushed quickly through the front door, looking around for Kaisa. He found her in the kitchen. He stood hesitantly in the doorway, admiring her slim waist and pertly curved backside and instantly feeling guilty about Irene. He pushed it away quickly. There’d be time to mourn later. But right now, he had to get out of here, and he wanted Kaisa to get out with him.

  She stood, washing a glass and pretending that she hadn’t seen him. She’d seen him all right, pulling hastily into the wide double drive, not even bothering to remove his travel bag from the boot. He’d nearly tripped over the suitcases in the hall in his rush.

  She turned to him and smiled calmly, wiping her hands on a cloth. Then she moved slowly towards him, meeting him in the middle of the room. They both remained silent, all the talk about ‘the future’ that she’d known was coming, had already come on the phone last night. She’d agreed to pack the cases, leave Ben at his parents and get ready to go as soon as he arrived. Just for a few days, just to Donegal, just to talk. Both of them already knowing that Bob Leighton never intended to see Belfast again.

  ***

  Liam yawned and smiled to himself, staring out the window at the bright morning. Danni had been in a sympathetic mood the night before, even though he’d got home very late. They’d spent a pleasant few hours researching names on the internet, agreeing on a shortlist for girls, but differing wildly on the boys. There was no way his son was being called Tristan! He pulled his mind reluctantly back to work, attempting to focus.

  “Here, Davy. What’s the story with the print and D.N.A.? Any matches?”

  Davy was swinging around in his chair energetically, and Annette was waiting for the wheels to come off, literally. He was in a good mood and they all knew why. His first date with Maggie was on Saturday and they’d all be eagerly awaiting an update on Monday. All except Nicky that was.

  “Nope, nothing. Nowhere in the U.K. or Ireland, and nothing from Interpol yet. But I have news on your list, Liam.”

  Annette stood up and leaned on her partition wall, curious. “What list?”

  “The Met have been tailing Leighton for us since Wednesday.”

  She looked at Liam competitively. “You told us that, yesterday.” Irritated at his ownership of the information when she was stuck finding background on Kaisa Moldeau, or not finding background more to the point. And not finding the lady herself to re-interview either.

  Liam ignored her sharpness, putting it down to hormones, but only in his head. He could do without a feminist lecture; he’d learned the hard way to avoid those.

  “Aye, but Leighton visited nine embassies in his London trip and Davy’s looking at the list, for connections, like.”

  Before she could comment, Marc Craig strolled onto the floor, tiredly.

  “You look exhausted, sir.”

  Annette said it kindly and Craig nodded at her, smiling. “Busy week.” The truth was slightly different. Busy week followed by no sleep after Camille’s call. He’d overheard the last part of their conversation and picked it up quickly, still blushing under Annette’s maternal scrutiny.

  “What
have you found, Davy?”

  “Nothing yet on the prints or D.N.A, but Liam’s list of countries is interesting.”

  Craig put his hand out and Liam placed a copy of the list in it. He scanned it quickly.

  “Non-extradition countries.”

  Davy nodded at him, smiling, and Liam looked baffled.

  “None of the countries on that list have an extradition agreement with the U.K, Liam.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Davy was sitting forward eagerly so Craig nodded him on, pulling over a chair.

  “If there’s no extradition agreement, then the country w...won’t allow other countries to demand that people are deported back to them. S...So, if I commit a crime in Belfast and run to Venezuela, then even if the U.K. government ask for me to be s...sent back for trial, Venezuela won’t make me go. Brilliant isn’t it?”

  Craig looked at him dryly. “I’m not sure brilliant is the right word, Davy. But I take your point.” Davy looked down, hiding a smile. Extradition appealed to his wilder side.

  “You’re saying Leighton’s looking to do a runner?”

  Annette interjected. “And those countries will grant him asylum, just like that?”

  Craig yawned. “I imagine that he’s made some useful contacts through his job, but he’ll probably still have to pay them. I can’t see them going through the hassle just for love.”

  “But why’s he gone to Donegal, boss?”

  Craig looked at Liam, interested. “Since when?”

  “Since two hours after he landed last night. He landed a day early at the City, belted home, collected Kaisa Moldeau, and then ran.”

  Annette smarted; Liam had located the girl and she hadn’t. Then she smirked knowingly. “Oh, did he now? Was the little boy with them?”

  Davy shook his head. “He’s at Leighton’s parents.”

  “Leighton nipped over the border into Donegal, boss. We’re keeping a loose eye.”

  Craig looked at Liam sharply. He should have called him last night with an update, but then, he really should have called-in to check. Camille had distracted him and he wouldn’t let it happen again.