The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 13

  “When you say at the scene, do you mean near the victims, or at the shooter’s location?”

  “The victims. Both times.”

  Two people. The second person who’d walked Irene Leighton into Stormont.

  “Any description or I.D.?” Craig knew it was a long shot.

  “Female, s...sir. Both reported a young w...woman.”

  There was silence in the room, but not shock. Six months ago they would have been shocked at a woman’s involvement, but not after the Jessica Adams’ case. Craig nodded. The lad in the baseball cap could have been a woman. The guard might have been mistaken, and the dark winter morning would have helped. Good planning by the killer.

  “S…She was noticed around both the London jobs, but there’s nothing concrete yet, and everyone described her differently.”

  Liam sniffed. Witnesses were hopeless. The only decent one he’d had in the past year had been Ida Foster, an eighty something!

  “Let’s pull the witness descriptions anyway, Davy.”

  “OK, s... sir. And they think they might have a gangland connection in London. With a known big player. But there’s nothing on an accomplice in Paris.”

  “Crap, we’re looking at an overseas hit here, boss. None of our muppets could muster that sort of armour, not even back in their glory days.”

  Craig nodded at Liam, agreeing, this was way out of the local terrorists’ league. But it still brought him back to the same question. Why would international players want to kill a Northern Irish housewife like Irene Leighton? And the answer was still the same. Bob.

  ***

  Davy pulled at his jacket collar nervously, feeling uncomfortable. He normally wore t-shirts and jeans, but even his brother had said that he should make an effort on a first date. He smiled to himself, imagining Nicky’s dating advice. She’d probably have just locked him in his bedroom.

  It occurred randomly to him that it was time to move out of his parent’s house. He could hardly bring a girl back there; his Mum would never let them upstairs! And he could just imagine the conversations with his granny; she’d be passing on her cake recipe in a minute flat.

  He told himself off quickly. He loved them all dearly and he shouldn’t even be thinking of taking Maggie upstairs yet, she was a nice girl and this was only a first date. He smiled naughtily; maybe on the third.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Maggie returning to the table, and he stood up hastily, remembering his manners. He looked at her smiling; she looked gorgeous, and well worth the jacket.

  Maggie looked up at him, blushing. She hadn’t felt nervous about anyone for ages and she really liked the feeling. She really liked him. She sat down, looking around curiously at their venue. When Davy had called and said that he was taking her somewhere cool, she’d racked her brains, guessing at all the mainstream venues that Belfast had to offer. She’d come up with a shortlist of three, but ‘Love and Death Inc.’ hadn’t been on it. Now she knew why. It was far cooler than she was.

  It had opened in 2010, elegantly placed in Ann Street on two floors of a long terrace. Known only to the uber-cool few at the beginning, it was really popular now, and she could see why. It was a world full of fabulous food, skulls and angels, with a cocktail menu that she’d only dreamed of.

  She gazed around enquiringly, her eye falling on a poster that made her squeal with excitement. It was her favourite Belfast singer, Duke Special! The ‘hobo-chic’ piano-based songwriter had just finished playing lunchtime concerts there! The place really couldn’t get any cooler.

  She grinned across at Davy, as impressed by his choice of restaurant as she was by him offering to take her clubbing afterwards. The older men that she’d dated had to be dragged to clubs, and once there, they lurked around the peripheries, leching while the girls gyrated. But Davy had actually promised to dance with her, and she was praying that his cool choice of restaurant would be echoed by his cool moves on the floor.

  If it was, she’d have found the perfect man. Arty looking but scientific, cool enough to choose the restaurant, but responsible enough to collect her from home. And best of all, mature, but five years younger than her. Her very own beautiful toy-boy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “The house was empty when I got here, but the neighbours didn’t see anyone leave. It seems that the last sighting of Leighton was yesterday afternoon in Rathmullan.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “No one even saw her. Only Leighton.”

  “Are there any signs of a struggle?”

  “None. There’s nothing to indicate that anything untoward happened. Except...”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, all his clothes are still here. And not packed. So it doesn’t look as if he’s gone very far.”

  Something occurred to Craig. “Any sign of forced entry?”

  “No, the door was shut when I arrived with the police. We had to smash the glass to get in. But no damage, other than that.”

  “Are the girl’s things still there?”

  Julia paused, realising that she hadn’t noticed. She grudgingly said “No”, reluctant to acknowledge that she’d missed it.

  Craig thought quickly, no Kaisa Moldeau or her clothes. And no sign of Leighton. But his clothes said that he hadn’t left. No forced entry and the police hadn’t been called to the house during the past 24 hours. He snapped his fingers. Of course...

  “Call the local hospitals and the coroner. She called him an ambulance and left the door open...”

  ***

  Joe Watson knew that he had to consider his position carefully; he was a government Minister for God’s sake, and a good one. Even his political enemies admitted that he worked his ass off for the people of Newry. In fact, he was so good that they’d made him Enterprise Minister. No mean feat, considering that he was the only Commerce Party member in the Assembly. His years of success merchant-banking in London had finally made even the doughboys on the hill realise that he could do his sums.

  The close-protection officer standing outside his hotel-room door was a quiet indicator of his status. They were good lads. Well, except for that dickhead Sinclair who though he was Northern Ireland’s version of Jack Bauer, scaring the bejeesus out of the airline staff with his glares. He’d have to go. But Drake was fine.

  Very understanding of his little foibles they were too. And of his sudden changes of itinerary, especially the ‘unofficial’ ones. But those couldn’t continue and he knew it. It was only a matter of time before the shit hit the fan, and some hack at the Chronicle door-stepped him somewhere very awkward.

  Yes. He’d have to consider his position carefully. But right now, the only position he was considering, was lying on his back, looking up at the most beautiful girl he’d ever known.

  “Your thoughts. They are not with me tonight, Jo-es-ph. Where are you?”

  The tanned dark-blonde pouted as she pulled her jeans on. “You will get me in trouble with Madame if she thinks that you are not pleased. You must say to me if there is something that does not please you. Please do not tell her.”

  Joe looked into two black fringed green eyes that sat above the most perfect nose that he’d ever seen, and his heart flipped, several times. Then he noticed that the eyes were glistening with threatened tears and he shook himself out of his reverie.

  “No, no pet. You’re perfect, really perfect.” He reached hurriedly for his briefcase, keen to please her. “Look what I’ve brought you.”

  He took out the largest bottle of perfume that he’d been able to find in duty-free and she smiled. A soft, sweet smile that dimpled her cheeks. He wanted to drink champagne from those dimples, amongst others. She seemed genuinely pleased with the gift and he loved to please her. There was nothing selfish about Joe, in his own mind at least.

  He loved their little arrangement. He flew to London from the City airport every Monday morning, telling Caitlin that he wouldn’t be back until late that night. She was well used to his short political absences,
although lately he’d noticed that she’d been a lot less reasonable. Then he flew back into Belfast International in the afternoon. And, after ‘considering his position’ for a few hours in the Castleton hotel in Antrim, he had a regular boys-only poker game alibi, before heading home to Helen’s Bay at 2am. It worked perfectly.

  The game was full of rich men lying to their wives so it was the perfect cover story if anything leaked. And everyone would forgive him playing poker with the boys; it might even make voters think that he was exciting. It was the perfect arrangement, and it had been working for two years with different girls from Lilith’s, until he’d met Ausra three months before.

  It was decent of the Madam to let her come to the hotel, not that Lilith’s wasn’t perfectly pleasant; it had always suited him before. But he was a Minister now, and well, you couldn’t be too careful, could you.

  Lilith’s brothel was located in a Victorian detached house three miles from the International airport, in a narrow anonymous lane set well back from the road. It provided every service that a businessman could possibly need, and some that he hadn’t even imagined. Joe had used it happily for years. But once he’d seen Ausra, he’d known that no other girl would do. And it would always have been hard to explain emerging from Lilith’s to some hack, the four-star Castleton was much more anonymous.

  His single gripe was that she could only manage Monday nights because of her elderly father, only managing a sitter one night a week. It elevated her in his opinion of course, such a kind girl looking after her father. And it boded well for the future, when he was so much older than her.

  And now that he was her only client, it allowed him to believe that they were really lovers, and that she actually had feelings for him. It was a little self -deception that was helped by no money ever changing hands. He’d convinced himself that making the large cash payments straight to Lilith protected her too. He wasn’t selfish.

  Joe shook himself from his thoughts and watched her stretch out across the bed, playing with her perfume bottle like a small child, her tiny hands dwarfed by its girth. She was tanned and bare-footed, and her low-slung jeans revealed a sliver of flat brown stomach beneath her white t-shirt. He could feel his position being reconsidered again and she smiled up at him, laughing knowingly.

  “You have no time; already your friends wait for the poker. We will meet again tomorrow, I promise.”

  Tomorrow. His heart soared. Two nights this week, she was keeping to her promise. She was still talking, but he couldn’t hear her words now, full of love, and listening instead to the music in her voice. Her accent was a soft mystery, somewhere east of the Alps for sure, but it could have been from any number of places. Hungary, Latvia...Who cared? She was here now and she was stunning.

  She bounced up from the bed and leapt off deftly, avoiding his impending lunge, and danced away from him, giggling. Then, putting on her ridiculously high-heeled shoes, she grabbed her huge shoulder-bag and stepped quickly to the bedroom door.

  Joe leapt off the bed after her and pulled her against his bare chest. He couldn’t bear to let her go, and in that split second, he knew he was in trouble. He was in love. She looked up at him gently as if she had some sixth sense, and stroked the grey hair at his temple with a single finger. “Until tomorrow, Joe. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Then she wriggled expertly through his arms, pulling her dark glasses from her bag. No one knew how she earned her money and her father would die from the shame, so she needed to protect her identity, and the glasses were perfect for that. The bedroom door opened and closed quickly, leaving him standing alone.

  The nicer protection officer was sitting outside the room tonight, with his arms folded. He yawned tiredly as she emerged and she smiled at him sympathetically, with her full red pout. Then she wiggled quickly past him to the lift, catching his admiring look in the reflecting wall. She liked this one; the other man looked at her far too suspiciously. She hurried through the lobby, head-down avoiding the cameras, and left quickly for her destination.

  Joe lay back on the bed looking at the clock. She’d only been gone ten minutes and already he felt bereft. Get a fucking grip, man. He had to shower and change to meet the others in the bar at nine otherwise his alibi would be blown. Normally he enjoyed the game, but the realisation that he’d fallen for her wasn’t adding to his mood tonight.

  Now started the ‘tearing lumps off his heart’ bit. Falling in love with Ausra but still loving Caitlin and his kids, knowing that he should be sensible, but feeling his skin raw at the thought of giving her up. He’d been here once before, sixteen years ago, with his first wife after Gemma had been born. It was painful, but simpler then. He was still idealistic about marriage and they had a new baby, the other girl had been no contest. But nowadays, he was rarely home, and Caitlin spent seventy-percent of her time angry with him. Plus he’d already cast Ausra in the role of ‘self-sacrificing daughter who needed rescuing’. All of a sudden divorce seemed very possible.

  ***

  She walked quickly across the forecourt heading for the car. It would be dark soon, so there were only two hours left to do the trial run. She resisted the urge to gun the small Ford’s engine. It wasn’t her usual calibre of ride but the aim was not to draw attention, and a flashy car would have attracted far too many looks. She cleared the long driveway from the hotel sedately; heading left onto the Antrim Road, and driving until she reached a small copse of Birch trees, pulling in.

  The evening’s sunset was bright, and the sky was warm, streaked with red lights. She remembered a rhyme that Bob had quoted at her; ‘red sky at night, shepherd’s delight.’ How many shepherds did you know, Bob? She gave a wry laugh and then chastised herself. Focus, you can laugh later.

  She scanned her surroundings quickly, it was isolated. Then she climbed out and opened the boot, reaching behind the spare wheel for the black bag. It was heavy and she struggled to pull it out. Stevan had wedged it in so tightly. Typical boy, not remembering how strong they are...or not realising how weak we are. She smiled to herself. Stevan had always over-tightened the jars at home, she remembered Mama chiding him for it. Oh, Mama...that was so long ago, and such a different time.

  She shrugged the bag out of the boot, dragging it along the driver’s side, using the car for support. Until it rested on the seat, hidden from prying eyes by the open door. Pulling at the metal zipper, she opened it, reaching inside quickly to finger the magazine, while Stevan wasn’t there to stop her. Her only jobs were to check that the bullet was there, the scope was spotless and the mechanism was smooth. And then to drive to Stevan’s chosen point and make the call. Just to test, one last time.

  Over the next thirty minutes, she worked coolly and efficiently, then zipped the bag and returned it to its hiding place. Then she sealed the boot with a special fail-safe locking mechanism that would resist even her opening it again. Stevan was clever with the gadgets, his little toys...And of course, he wasn’t a virgin at this. She snorted to herself; her big brother wasn’t a virgin at anything.

  She gunned the car now, with nothing but a few birds to disturb, and crossed the gravel track from the copse back to the main road. Then she followed her sat-nav to the exact position that they’d chosen carefully, many weeks before.

  She reached her destination at the old bridge within ten minutes. It was only a mile across country from the Castleton, but she’d had to cross the motorway to get there. She stopped the car at some fields to the rear of the hotel and stepped out, taking the binoculars from the glove compartment and looking down. The view was unobstructed. Excellent.

  The sunglasses that she rarely removed clouded her eyes, and the evening light was dimming, but even so, she could see everything for miles around. And Stevan could use his night-sights. There would be no problem.

  She watched Joe for a moment, wandering around the bedroom that she’d just left, and she smiled. He wasn’t in bad shape for an old man. Then she pulled the cheap pink ‘pay-as-you-go’ mob
ile from her pocket. It was hideous, but exactly what Ausra would use, to go along with the cut-off t-shirts and over-tight jeans that got Joes’ motor running. She couldn’t wait to reclaim her fifth generation phone and designer suits.

  She made the call and waited for him to answer. Three rings and he picked up, just as she’d expected, pathetically predictable like all men. Still, she gave him credit for being an honest prick at least; even in front of his poker buddies there was no embarrassment when she called.

  “Hi, Joe.”

  She could hear him leaving the room and entering the bathroom to speak to her, watching him as he went. Perhaps his armed-guard overhearing was too much to expect, even for her.

  “Hello darling. I am here with my Papa and I come outside to call you. It is such a beautiful evening ...no?”

  “I can’t see it. I’m inside this dark room and I’d much rather be back in bed with you.”

  She raised her eyes to heaven, and imitated making herself vomit.

  “Of course, also would I darling. But I think, as we cannot be together, why not we look at the same sky. Go look at the sky for me, as we do every week. No?”

  Her husky voice had taken on the girlish wheedling tone that she knew he couldn’t resist. Sucker.

  She knew exactly what he would do next, and he did. Just as he had done it last week, and for the two weeks before. He walked and talked to her as he left the room, and then stood in the hotel forecourt looking up at the sky. Then she whispered sex and sweet nothings to him, with his dark protector standing just far enough away to allow for privacy.

  She could see them both now, through the binoculars that she held to her eyes, the lens already adjusted to the exact distance that Stevan had calculated. Joe was so close that she could see the pores in his skin, and the trendy two-day growth on his armed guard’s cheeks. Perfect. Stevan had calculated the perfect distance, the perfect position and the perfect angle.