The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Read online

  She looked down at him contemptuously, feeling no pity or hesitation, and drew the liquid ceremoniously into the syringe, flicking the barrel repeatedly as she’d been taught. As if he would worry about an air bubble, when the liquid itself would have already killed him. She climbed onto the bed and straddled him, her hands trembling with anticipation and revenge. All the wet kisses and the wet hands that he’d touched her with, when he should have been mourning his kind wife. He hadn’t even been there to stop them killing her, too busy with his big job.

  She clasped both small white hands tightly around the barrel of the syringe, and pressed the needle-tip against his left breast, finding the nipple with its point. Then she pushed straight through it, down hard, through the skin and fat and muscle, and into the bony space beneath. Then on, even further, into the thick muscled wall of the organ that life depended on.

  He didn’t move, and didn’t wake and Kaisa felt cheated, even though she’d known that he wouldn’t. She liked them to see her face last.

  His breath was still warm and his body still moved with each pulse, and she knew that if she withdrew the needle now, he would still live. But she wouldn’t.

  She lay down on him for a moment, feeling his heartbeats through her hands and thighs, and watching their rhythm through the needle’s regular sway. She smiled gleefully, imagining his face if he woke at that instant. But he wouldn’t. Shrugging her disappointment away she rested one hand casually on the plunger, savouring her power. Then finally, after a long moment watching, she gave the plunger a single hard push, watching as the clear fluid drained from the syringe.

  Kaisa waited, thighs tight around his flanks, feeling their warmth, as the needle stopped swaying, and he slowly paled and died. Then she coolly climbed off his body and dressed, packing without a single backward glance. She walked downstairs, made the call and left, lifting the keys of the hire-car from the hall table and leaving the door ajar behind her, heading for Belfast for her final task.

  ***

  Craig smiled at the two small heads huddled conspiratorially in the living-room corner, deep in conversation, and caught John’s eye, watching him relax visibly. He’d managed to avoid Mirella’s conversation on ‘Natalie’s intentions’ all evening and they had nearly reached the coffee. They would be leaving soon and he’d be home free.

  Tom Craig smiled at them from his well-worn armchair, and stroked their Labrador’s head absentmindedly as he fiddled with the radio. Craig could hear his mother clattering noisily around the kitchen, knowing that any minute she would call out. “Marco, come help with coffee.”

  He stood up in anticipation and John caught his move, panicking. “Don’t leave that chair free, or your Mum will sit down and grill me.”

  Craig’s father heard the remark and laughed loudly. “It’s like the dentist son, there’s no way to avoid it. My advice is to give in gracefully. It’ll be over a lot quicker.”

  Just then, Craig’s anticipated call came and he left dutifully for the kitchen, just as Lucia and Natalie wandered over to the two men. John smiled at them both. Lucia was a ten years younger, fairer version of Craig, in high heels. She felt like his kid sister as well.

  She removed her father’s elbow unceremoniously from the arm of his chair and plonked herself down beside him, while Natalie did the same to John. It made John feel part of something, and he liked the feeling after years of bachelorhood.

  “Where’s Richard tonight, Lucia?”

  Her hand waved dismissively in the air, implying a casualness that he knew she didn’t feel about her boyfriend of three months. “Touring. He’s in Cardiff this week.”

  Richard was a pianist with the London City Orchestra and Mirella loved him for it, failing to instill her own piano virtuosity into her children. Although John had heard Craig play the Blues, and he was good. Lucia smiled wistfully, missing Richard but not admitting it. “I just hope he likes the snow they’re getting!”

  Natalie interrupted the exchange deliberately, covering Lucia’s loneliness. “Lucia suggested that we go shopping together, to get new outfits for the N.S.P.C.C. Ball.”

  “That’s just what you need, Nat, more clothes. Imelda Marcos was starting to worry.”

  Tom Craig looked over at John surprised, admiring the courage that Natalie rewarded two seconds later with a fond clip over the head, just as the others re-entered with the coffee. Mirella Craig caught the exchange and smiled, taking the radio firmly from her husband and turning it to Classic FM, determined to educate them while she had a captive audience. Then she lifted a chair very deliberately and sat beside Natalie, still perched on the arm of John’s chair, and leaned in pointedly.

  “Now, Natalie. John, he is my nice boy...” And she started the conversation on ‘intentions’ that John had been studiously avoiding all evening.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Here, boss. No one has seen Leighton since yesterday. He went to a solicitor’s in Rathmullan, left there at 5.30 and headed back to the house. But there’s been no sign of him or the girl since.”

  Craig yawned past the phone and reached across the bed to check the clock. It was nearly eleven! He sat bolt upright, lying-down again immediately when his head throbbed violently. The week had caught up with him in one night, aided by his father’s red wine.

  “Sorry, Liam. I was a bit distracted for a moment, say that again.”

  “Not a sign of Leighton for eighteen hours, boss. What do you want me to do?”

  Liam could hear the fatigue in Craig’s voice and almost volunteered to go to Donegal to check on Leighton. But a sudden vision of Danni standing in front of him, arms folded in a snit at the mention of any trip before the baby was born, made discretion the better part of everything, so he stayed silent.

  Craig was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes hard. He raked his hands roughly through his thick dark hair and yawned again, finally managing to focus.

  “OK, no-one has seen him for eighteen hours. Have the Irish Police been round to check?”

  “Aye, well...they weren’t too keen to make contact. Didn’t mind knowing that he was there, but didn’t want to question him ’cos he’s our man.”

  “They can knock the door, for God’s sake.” He could hear himself getting exasperated, but not with Liam, so he reigned it in. “Sorry Liam, I’m just tired.”

  Liam knew that he had to be wrecked even to admit that.

  “I’ll drive up there later and see what’s happening.”

  Liam immediately felt guilty for making him take the trip and was about to volunteer, Danni or no Danni, when Craig continued. “You can’t go, the baby’s too close.”

  Liam smiled gratefully but he still wasn’t happy. “Here, I’ve a better idea.”

  “What?”

  “Give that smart-ass Inspector up in Limavady a call and get her to nip up to Portsalon, it’s only sixty miles away.”

  Liam smiled to himself, waiting to see if Craig would rise to the bait. They all knew that he liked Julia McNulty, but wondered if he knew he did.

  “That smart-ass Inspector?”

  The way Liam had said it, told Craig that no one in the office had the vaguest idea that he liked Julia McNulty. He didn’t know whether to be pleased at the privacy or critical of Liam’s description. He opted for the latter. “She’s very nice you know.”

  Liam snorted derisively, intent on winding him up some more. “Nice to look at maybe, but she’d chew your head off as soon as she’d look at you.”

  Craig nodded, not spotting Liam’s bait. He had to agree. “Yes, she is a bit challenging. It’s a great idea anyway, Liam. I’ll call her now and ask her to check on Leighton’s whereabouts. I’ll meet you in the office in an hour.”

  Liam smiled, clicking the phone off without a word. Craig fell back heavily on the bed for a moment, dreading the call, but excited by the excuse for contact as well. He reached for the phone and then put it down again, bouncing to his feet instead. He needed to be awake to call Julia Mc
Nulty and that would take a cold shower and a whole cafetiere of coffee today.

  ***

  “Here, did you see today’s Chronicle, boss? There was a sudden death in Donegal last night. Since when did the Chronicle report out of town? Maybe we could export Maggie Clarke.”

  Liam said it deliberately loudly, so that Davy could hear him. Davy didn’t even look up, just raised his middle finger, smiling. It was the weekend and Liam was on the wind-up. His long legs were propped up on a desk at an angle, so that his feet deliberately obscured half of Annette’s computer screen, and she gave them a hard shove that made him swing around in his chair. Nicky watched them from her corner, smiling; her twelve-year-old niece did exactly the same thing to her brothers.

  “Will you get your big feet out of the way, Liam? I’m writing a report for the prosecution service. If you’re having a slow day, I can easily find you some work.”

  She gave him her best threatening look. No one had the heart to tell her it made her look like an angry toddler.

  “Here, missy, I’m your boss. You’re supposed to worship me. It was in your contract.”

  Just at that moment, Craig entered the squad room. “Actually, I think you’ll find that I’m your boss, and I haven’t noticed much worshipping in my direction lately.”

  Nicky stifled a laugh at Liam being put in his box, but the reprimand by-passed Liam completely.

  “Here, boss. There’s been a sudden death in Donegal, some forty-year-old from Belfast. Can we investigate it?”

  The vision of a Saturday road–trip perked Annette up; just then Craig surprised them all by urgently seizing the paper from Liam’s desk.

  “God, I was only joking, boss. It was natural causes.”

  But something about the death made Craig uneasy. “Liam, get onto the Chronicle and find out more about this, please. We need a name and cause of death. And put John onto their pathologist if necessary.”

  Annette realised what he was thinking. “You think it’s a murder, sir?”

  Liam sat bolt upright, annoyed that she’d joined the dots before him.

  “It’s not murder, boss. The article says the father died of the same thing around forty. It’s called sudden heart disease or something. And anyway, it’s out of our jurisdiction.”

  “It’s called S.A.D.S, Liam. Sudden adult death syndrome. And humour me; my instinct says this is something. Bob Leighton’s forty and as you told me earlier he hasn’t been seen for eighteen hours. By the way, D.I. McNulty’s on her way up there.”

  “He was seen in Rathmullan yesterday afternoon, sir.”

  Annette interjected. “But that was yesterday, Nicky”

  Nicky looked at her grumpily for jumping on the bandwagon. “They promised us an update if he left the house.” Her tone was peevish and all that was missing was her tongue sticking out.

  “And he hasn’t left the house since yesterday afternoon, Cutty? Aye, right.”

  Craig raised his hand calmly to stop the childish exchange. They were all getting tired.

  He turned to Annette kindly. “He hasn’t been seen since yesterday, Annette, and after what happened to his wife…Well, D.I. McNulty’s heading up there now to check the situation out. Call her in an hour and get an update please. She’s liaising with the Derry police before she crosses the border.”

  Derry-stroke-Londonderry was commonly known as ‘Stroke City’. And its name historically depended on which side of the political divide you belonged, although sheer laziness made ‘Derry’ more commonly used by everyone. Craig had been so confused by the nickname that he’d spent his first year back from London thinking that ‘stroke’ referred to the illness!

  It had been the capital of the Northwest since the sixth century and was the only completely walled city in the British Isles. It was a pretty place; full of charm and surrounded by beautiful countryside, but its proximity to the Irish border had always made it an easy run, the few miles into a different country.

  Craig jumped at a tap on his shoulder, not noticing Nicky moving to stand beside him. “What can I do for you, Nicky?”

  “D.C.I. White would still like that word when you have time. Would this afternoon at two suit you?” She looked meaningfully at him. “Because of course, you’ll be too busy doing your letters until then.”

  “Nicky, don’t be mean. It’s the w…weekend.”

  She shot Davy a cold look and Craig sighed heavily; he preferred a crime-scene to an office any day. It made taking rank a real challenge.

  “It’s OK, Davy. We’re all in until this is solved, so I might as well do them. I tried Andy on Thursday, Nicky, but he’d been called out. Two’s fine. Do you know what he wants?”

  “Something about your work in London. He‘d like to pick your brains.”

  And before Liam could form the words, Craig swung around. “No cracks from you and a bit more worshipping. Unless you want to be doing those letters for me?”

  ***

  Andy White was slim and quick, like a bantamweight boxer. He hailed from Dungiven, punctuating every other sentence with ‘hey’, as per the local habit, in the same way that a lot of Belfast people said ‘like’.

  He wore exactly the same colour of blue shirt every day, and even men noticed that it matched his eyes perfectly. Everyone thought that his wife had bought him a job lot, either that or he washed the same one every night. He took a lot of amiable flak for it, and he took it well.

  He couldn’t sit in a chair without fidgeting, and was propped against the edge of his desk reading a file when Craig entered.

  “Hi Marc. Great day, hey?” Craig smiled. He had a lot of time for Andy.

  “What’s so great about it?”

  “Another one bites the dust. That bastard O’Brien’s snuffed it, hey.”

  “Did you have dealings with him?”

  “Sure. He was heavily involved in the drugs traffic across the border. Probably using it to fund the ‘armed struggle’. We got close to making something stick last year, then a junior player gave himself up instead.”

  Craig nodded. It often happened when the heat got too close to the big boys. They’d throw a small fish at the police to deflect them. It was known as ‘playing your pawn’. All in the game.

  Craig instantly thought of something. “What age was he?”

  “Twenty-eight. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just that there was a forty-year-old sudden death in Donegal yesterday.”

  White shook his head. “Yes, I saw that. Not our boy.”

  “Anyway, what can I do for you, Andy? Nicky said you wanted to pick my brains on something?”

  “I did surely. Did you ever come across Ketamine when you worked in London?”

  “Yes. More than once. Nasty stuff. John Winter’s your man for the detail, and Des Marsham in Forensics, but he’s on holiday. They used to call it special K. A bad overdose was known as being in the K-hole. Is there much of a market for it here?”

  “Well. And keep this to yourself, hey. But the Donegal Coroner got onto us two days ago. They think O’Brien was a suspicious death.”

  “Murder?”

  “Well, they’re not saying murder just yet, but they’re pretty sure he was high on a regular basis. Well God, you’d have to be, wouldn’t you? Nipping across the border with a bomb in your bag.”

  “Fair enough.” Craig had never thought of it like that.

  “They found Ket, coke and roofies in his system on the P.M, and gave us the nod in the spirit of cooperation. Just in case they’d added Ketamine to the shit they’re smuggling to our side. I remembered you’d been in London, and everything London has, we get eventually.”

  Craig nodded, unfortunately it was true. “Ketamine’s nasty, especially in high doses, and nearly undetectable by the victim until it’s too late.”

  White shrugged. “The odds are that it’s not murder and he was just using it. He had a shed load of coke in him as well, so his heart probably just gave up the ghost. I just don’t want more shit be
ing added to the stuff we’re already trying to get rid of. I’ll give the Doc a call.”

  A sudden thought came to him. “I say it wasn’t murder, but…”

  Craig looked at him sharply. “What?”

  “Well it might be nothing, hey. But we’re hearing rumblings about some new bunch of eejits crawling out of the woodwork. I think they’re called the NIF.” He laughed. “Or the naff, more likely.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “No one has. Ach, it’s probably nothing. Just the usual tripe. Hey, maybe they’ll start a gang war and kill each other off. Save us some work.”

  Craig smiled wryly, turning to leave. Then he thought of something and turned back quickly. “We might be taking a trip up there later, Andy. Let me know if you need us to pick up on anything. And John would probably offer you a second P.M. if you wanted it? It might be an idea, just in case they missed something.”

  “Good thought, but we’d never get permission. The dissidents won’t want their glory boy being seen as a junkie, hey. They’ll want a hero’s funeral.”

  Craig raised his eyes, knowing exactly what that would entail, and wondering how many pictures of it the Sunday Chronicle would have.

  ***

  When Craig returned to the squad, Davy was pacing the floor excitedly.

  “I talked to London again, s... sir. They’ve more on the Lapua.”

  Craig nodded him on, perching on a nearby desk.

  “They think there w...was definitely an accomplice in both murders.”

  “An accomplice? Take it from the beginning, Davy.”

  “You know how there were two s...shootings in London?”

  “Yes.”

  “They believe that it’s an international killer, based on the Paris connection. And in both London cases there w...were reports of another person, at the s... scene.”