The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) Page 11

  “Did he say what kind of weird?”

  The younger man shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Why do you think he suggested you to help us?”

  T.J.’s reply was more definite this time. “’Cos I’m always around the scene. If anyone might hear stuff it would be me.”

  Jake wasn’t sure if that had been Rick’s whole reasoning, but it would do for now. Rick Grundy had been his snout for years and he hadn’t steered him wrong yet. He glanced at Andy in a token show of deference and was surprised to see him staring back with a gaze that said his body mightn’t move much but his brain was working on full speed.

  “OK, T.J. I don’t know if Rick mentioned this but we’re from the Murder Squad.”

  He was answered by a shake of the head and an alarmed look.

  “OK, well the reason we need your help is…” He hesitated before adding. “…we have a victim that we’re trying to I.D.”

  T.J.’s eyes widened. “A dead one?”

  What other sort did the Murder Squad have? Jake could see a wisecrack forming on Andy’s lips and shot him a warning glance before answering the question with a soft “Yes.”

  The boy reared back on the bench. “What the heck would I know about a murder? I’ve never hurt anyone!”

  Jake placed a hand on his arm, preventing his impending bolt for the door.

  “You’re not a suspect, T.J. Do you really think we’d be meeting in a café if you were? We think our victim might have been gay so I just want you to ask around for me. Use your contacts to see if anyone fitting their description has suddenly gone missing from the scene.”

  The youth relaxed slightly, relieved that he wasn’t being accused of anything. As he did Andy sat up straight and scanned his face. The kid had over reacted to Jake’s request. That suggested he was guilty of something, even if it wasn’t their victim’s death. His gaze came to rest on T.J.’s eyes, most particularly on his pupils. They were huge, even allowing for the darkness of the booth. As Andy worked out which drug he was using, Jake carried on.

  “Will you help us?”

  “I will if your mate stops looking at me like he’s ready with the cuffs. It’s not cool.”

  Jake turned to find Andy poised like a sniper ready to take his shot and signalled the D.C.I. to join him outside. When they were in the square he turned on him.

  “What are you playing at?”

  Angel’s face said that he wasn’t pleased. “Watch your mouth, Sergeant.”

  “OK, then. What are you playing at, sir? T.J.’s offering to help us I.D. our victim and you’re sniffing him like a drugs dog.”

  “He’s on something. His pupils are like saucers.”

  “Throw a stone in a gay club and you’ll find someone on drugs, but we need his help. He’s our entry to the scene.”

  Angel looked puzzled. “But you’re gay, aren’t you? So why do we need him?”

  Jake indicated his conservative haircut and well-cut suit. “Do I look like I go clubbing? They’d take one look at me and shout cop. Whatever drug T.J.’s taken it’s not worth us losing a lead.”

  “I’m not sure the Super would agree.”

  “Then phone him and when you’ve found out that I’m right, join us back inside.”

  With that he turned on his heel and headed back to their guest. When Andy re-joined them looking like a chastised toddler they were already halfway through their chat.

  “You’ve got the boy’s description now, so can you help, T.J.?”

  McDonagh shrugged. “Slim, young, with short, dark hair isn’t much to go on. It could be me.”

  The hairs on Jake’s neck suddenly stood up. He was right; the description could have been him. If Rick was playing games with him he’d haul him in.

  T.J. was still talking. “Don’t you have a photo I can show around?”

  Jake thought for a moment before reaching inside his coat. He set the photograph face down on the table and shot T.J. a warning look.

  “I can’t let you have this but if you see it, it might help.”

  “Why can’t I take it to show to people?”

  “Because the man in it is dead and his family don’t yet know.” He paused. “Be warned, it isn’t pleasant.”

  Thankfully their victim’s face hadn’t been mutilated but just the close-eyed pallor of the dead was enough to frighten some. As T.J. braced himself Jake turned over the photo slowly and the face of their second victim appeared. He’d expected the youth to fall quiet, perhaps even to see horror in his eyes, but he definitely hadn’t expected the reaction that he got.

  A gasp so loud that the whole café heard it was followed by their guest jumping to his feet. Before he could exit Andy jumped up behind him and Jake mentally applauded his presence of mind. He’d been too shocked by T.J.’s reaction to move but now he did. He slid along the bench, threw a ten pound note on the table and ushered the others outside. When they were in the white stuccoed square Jake asked the question on both detectives’ lips.

  “You recognised him?”

  It seemed redundant after his reaction but the formalities had to be observed. T.J. nodded his head.

  “How do you know him?”

  The tears that streamed down the boy’s face confirmed that there was something very wrong. They said that T.J. had known and possibly loved their victim, but even Jake was shocked by what he said next.

  “It’s my kid brother, Bobby.”

  It was enough talk for now and far too much for the location they were in. Jake turned the boy back towards the café hoping that they could calm him enough for the I.D. The photograph would stay firmly in his pocket; only the morgue was the right place for identification now and only John Winter should tell T.J. McDonagh how his little brother had died.

  ****

  Liam could still taste his lunchtime curry as he sauntered up the listed terrace of University Square in the sunshine. It wasn’t an unpleasant memory and he made a note of the restaurant’s name for his and Danni’s next evening out. When he was one third of the way up the street, outside the Queen’s Film Theatre, he fished out his phone and rechecked the meeting address; room 45, 1A University Square. Nearly there.

  Two minutes later he was standing at a modern white door, feeling slightly peeved. Theologists’ offices should have dark doors that opened to reveal fusty smelling, dimly lit rooms. His annoyance deepened when the door was answered by a woman who led the way into a modern room. He softened slightly when he noticed how attractive she was.

  As she smiled and offered him a cup of tea Liam decided to forgive Professor Rustin’s décor. After all, a man who had such a pleasant secretary couldn’t be all that bad. His world was shaken again when the woman didn’t disappear deferentially as he’d expected but poured his tea and then sat down behind the professor’s desk.

  “It’s lovely to meet you, D.C.I. Cullen. Now, what can I help you with?”

  Liam gawped, not caring how rude it seemed. “You’re Professor Rustin? You can’t be; Davy said he was a man! Theodore.”

  Theodora Rustin smiled forgivingly. She was used to people’s shock, even in these days of equal rights. Men had grown accustomed to women in the ‘normal’ professions: teaching, law and medicine. They’d even adapted to women in the church, well, at least some of them had. Others still peered over their bifocals tutting in pious disapproval, as if men alone could understand God’s will.

  All these things had grown commonplace, but for many a female professor of theological history was still a step too far. It annoyed her when academics were taken aback, but this man didn’t move in her world so she couldn’t be angry with him. She answered Liam’s incredulity in an amused tone.

  “Theodora. And my passport definitely says I’m a woman, so I think that I probably am. Tell me D.C.I. Cullen; is it the subject I’m a professor of that surprises you, or the fact that I’m one at all?”

  Liam had recovered enough to know that answering yes to the latter part of the question was a bad
idea, even if it was true. He’d a management update course coming in the next few weeks and he needed an equality one added like a hole in the head.

  “The subject matter. Unless…” He remembered that Craig had interviewed a female vicar in an earlier case; maybe the Prof was one of those. “…unless you’re a vicar?”

  Teddy Rustin laughed, more heartily than she had all term. It had been a bugger of a semester, full of students late with their assignments and academics bitching about their jobs. She warmed to the conversation, sensing that it was going to be fun.

  “Sorry, no. I haven’t been ordained in any faith. I’m more of a curious bystander as far as religion goes.”

  “But, you’re…”

  “A theological historian? Absolutely. But that just means I’m a historian who chose the history of religion as my specialism.”

  She laughed again and Liam noticed how blue her eyes were. He shook himself. It felt wrong to fancy someone churchy, as if you were somehow disrespecting God.

  Rustin continued. “I know a lot about religions but I don’t claim to follow all of them.” She folded her hands on her lap. “Now, Mr Cullen, what can I do for the police?”

  Liam suddenly remembered he was on a case and retrieved his school notebook from the back pocket of his trousers, exactly where he’d kept it as a boy. The professor watched curiously as he flattened its bent cover and started to explain.

  “I was brought up Roman Catholic in the country, and country Catholics tend to do things the old fashioned way.”

  She nodded. “Do the priests still say the Latin Mass?”

  “Not when the Bishop’s watching. But the odd rogue one will say it for a special occasion like a marriage or a death.”

  She had an image of a priest with rakishly long hair defying church orthodoxy in a windswept field. Michael Fassbender could play the part perfectly. She realised he was still talking.

  “I was taught by the Christian Brothers and when we learned Latin, or religion for that matter, some of them tended to blur the lines.”

  She sat forward eagerly. “So they would talk about religion in Latin class and teach some of your religion classes in Latin?”

  “Aye. History class too. Anyway, one of the younger ones really liked to spin a yarn.”

  Rustin knew what was coming next. Tales of sword wielding Archangels and warriors for God. Zealots martyred defending their faith and defiant worshipping in remote locales. It was the stuff of legend. She glanced at the clock and excused herself for a moment. When she returned she re-boiled the kettle and produced a biscuit tin, waving Liam on.

  “I’ve moved my next meeting to four o’clock. Please carry on, Chief Inspector Cullen. I’m all ears.”

  ****

  Annette left the social services building with a heavy heart, so heavy that she barely noticed Ken wasn’t by her side. She found him leaning against a wall with a disgusted look on his face.

  “Too much?”

  “Far too much.” He shook his head, sending his increasingly floppy fringe flying into his eyes. “How can people make such messes of their lives?”

  She leant on the wall beside him. “Which one are you talking about; Elena Boraks or Sam Beech’s mum?”

  Ken shrugged. “Both I suppose.”

  She smiled, imagining what his life had been like. Nice parents, good school, then a university degree and straight into the Army on an officer’s commission, with all the three squares a day and the stability that brought. She doubted that he’d ever met the chaotic strugglers of the world before this year’s secondment, whereas she seemed to have known them all her adult life.

  Her voice was soft but firm. “This is real life, Ken, once poverty or addiction set in. People feel like they’re drowning and they’ll grab at anything or anyone to stay afloat.”

  He glanced sideways at her, unconvinced.

  “You make it sound hopeless. Elena Boraks had a choice not to use drugs, just as Mrs Beech didn’t have to take in all those men.”

  She thought for a moment, reluctant to concede the point.

  “Life isn’t hopeless if you know how to cope, but perhaps they didn’t. We don’t know why Elena started using, then stealing and tricking to pay for it. And we don’t know why Sarah Beech felt that she was incomplete without a man. Perhaps she needed financial support, or maybe she was just lonely. People get screwed up in all sorts of ways.” She straightened up and turned towards the car. “All I know is it’s our job to clean up the consequences, not to judge.”

  The words were hard but not her tone and Ken nodded as he followed behind.

  “It’s just––”

  “You’ve never seen lives like this before.”

  “No. And I’m honestly not judging, I just feel…”

  “Helpless. I know. I used to feel the same as a student nurse. But we can help, by finding answers for the people left behind. Bear that in mind.” She turned the ignition key. “Now, let’s grit our teeth and go tell Tomasz Boraks that his nineteen-year-old daughter won’t be coming home. And let’s also bear in mind that he might have inflicted her childhood abuse.”

  ****

  Liam was on his fourth cup of tea and umpteenth biscuit when they finally reached the reason that he’d come. They’d got side-tracked with talk of Henry the Eight’s religious reformation and priest’s holes in the stately homes of the UK, not to mention Revelations and whether or not it should be taken literally.

  He was enjoying himself. The quasi mythology of Ireland’s past mixed with religion appealed to his imaginative side. Well, not side, that implied that imagination constituted fifty per cent of his considerable bulk when in reality it was more like five, but the tiny spark within Liam that was steeped in religion, history and myth was definitely enjoying itself right now.

  Eventually Theodora Rustin glanced at the clock and saw that it was after three. Time to focus on why there was a policeman in her room.

  “So, D.C.I. Cullen.”

  “Liam.”

  She smiled as if she liked him and Liam flattered himself that she did.

  “Liam. This has been a fascinating chat but we should probably discuss why you’re here.”

  He glanced at his watch, surprised. Two hours gabbing was a lot, even for him. He lifted his notebook from the desk, opening it at a page near the back.

  “I can’t tell you why I need to know this yet, but can you to look at this phrase and tell me if you recognise it.”

  She took the small notebook and scrutinised the page, bringing it closer as if it would somehow get the words to make sense. After two minutes staring and frowning she shrugged defeat.

  “I’m sorry but I haven’t the foggiest idea. It’s Latin of some description but what it means is anyone’s guess. Something to do with confession perhaps?”

  Liam was disappointed. He’d guessed at confession as well, but then so had the rest of the team. He was certain that the words meant something more.

  “Don’t worry, that’s not the main reason I came.” He stood up. “But until I have the translation I can’t really ask you the rest.” He headed for the door. “I’ll come back when I know what it means. Probably tomorrow; I’ll call as soon as I know.”

  He walked down the stairs thinking. He hadn’t expected Theodora Rustin to translate the tattoo for him, he already had someone else in mind for that, but he was certain now that she could help with the words’ relevance once he knew what they meant. He would definitely be back.

  ****

  If the terraced house off Belfast’s Ormeau Road had seen better days it had been several decades before. Neglect and decay had layered themselves alternately on the structure, peeling off its paintwork and stripping shards of wood from the old fashioned windows and doors. They’d crept like damp through the stonework, splitting it so badly that the only way to improve the place would have been to knock it down. The house was a mess. Feral cats would have refused to live there yet the computer said that it was still someone
’s home.

  Annette checked the address again then signalled Ken to knock on the front door’s cracked glass. Knock because there was no bell, but knock gently in case the cracks should spread and cave in what was left of the thin pane. Ken picked the least vulnerable spot and tapped on it twice. When no-one came and nothing shifted he risked knocking again, slightly harder this time. A faint rustling in the hallway said that someone was definitely at home; the rheumy eye appearing through the glass said that it was someone old.

  “Go away.”

  The words were said in a heavy European accent, telling them they were in the right place.

  “It’s the police, Mr Boraks. We need to talk to you.”

  The eye widened in alarm and then withdrew.

  “No police. I do nothing.”

  Annette’s heart sank; he was afraid of them. His age meant he’d probably experienced wartime Europe and the overzealous policing methods used.

  She moved closer to the glass. “You’re not in trouble, Mr Boraks.” Not unless we find out that you caused your daughter’s death. “We just need to talk to you about Elena.”

  The eye’s retreat ceased abruptly and “Elena done nothing wrong, neither,” rang through the door.

  Annette’s heart ached at the words. He was defending a dead girl and he didn’t know it, and it was her sad task to make certain that he did.

  She nodded Ken to knock again as she said, “Elena’s not in trouble. Please let us in.” She repeated the words until the eye had come close enough to reveal two and the old man’s breath misted the cracked glass. After a moment of sizing them up he turned a key then stepped back quickly as if he was still afraid. Ken shook his head; what sort of life had this man suffered that had made him so frightened, and was he frightened of everyone or just of them?

  As the door opened inwards to reveal a long, dark hallway, painted in colours that said it was the ’70s since they’d last been refreshed, they had their first full view of Tomasz Boraks. He was younger than Annette had first thought, nearer seventy than the ninety his rheumy eyes had suggested, but as thin and pale as a ninety-year-old might be. His skin had the yellow pallor of the olive skinned who never saw the sun and his scrawny frame the look of someone underfed for years.