The Killing Year (The Craig Crime Series Book 17) Read online

  He made up his mind to re-interview the good Mrs Richards and get to the truth of it, then he moved down through the details of Nathan Richards’ temperate life, yawning more by the second. When the man hadn’t been preaching in a church about something he’d been doing the next best thing; Richards had been a life-long Stormont civil-servant whose final post had been spent preaching at new entrants, presumably instructing them how to bow and scrape.

  The image made the ex-spook laugh, so loudly that a few of the pub’s more unsavoury looking patrons turned to look. “Nothing to see here” and a flash of his badge soon ensured that his privacy was returned.

  OK. He’d covered Nathan Richards’ work and some of his hobbies, so that just left the rest, and of course his private life. Kyle read on, hoping for something salacious, only to find that Richards had worked hard for the boy scouts and apparently loved his wife and only son. No drugs, no mistresses; not even the odd prostitute to enliven his tedious existence. If someone hadn’t done the man a favour and topped him Nathan Richards would probably have topped himself.

  Now, anyone reading Kyle Spence’s mind would tut ‘How cynical’ at this point; after all, not everyone needs their life filled with sleaze to be happy. But the jaded detective had seen too much of the low-slung underbelly of society as an Intelligence agent to believe in the goodness of any man.

  He ordered another drink, a stronger one, and moved on to Jason Cornell, reading again what he already knew.

  Jason Cornell. A forty-eight-year-old business man found at his desk with his frontal bone crushed in. The weapon had had a curved arc with a bevelled texture, but the blow hadn’t been the cause of his death, just window dressing; Cornell had definitely died from alcohol poisoning.

  Spence smiled to himself; he sounded like a man after his own heart.

  There’d been no other signs of violence, but some benzodiazepine found in his blood stream, although not a lot. As Cornell had been a reformed drunk the possibility that the whisky had been administered while he was unconscious couldn’t be ruled out. Kyle shook his head. He hoped that Cornell had drunk himself to death, at least he would’ve enjoyed a few shots.

  He turned to Cornell’s background information and it made for a more interesting read than Nathan Richards’. Our Jason had been a bit of a boy. Twice divorced, the second time from an ex-Miss Belfast, so probably a looker. Kyle felt it was his duty to check out the grieving divorcee, even though the marriage had been dissolved in two thousand and thirteen. No kids, probably just as well, but a healthy portfolio that Cornell had accrued from the spoils of his job as an investment banker.

  The DI stopped reading and took out his phone. To his knowledge there weren’t many investment bankers in Northern Ireland, and yet Ash’s map said that Cornell had worked in town. A moment’s search of the firm’s name cleared up the mystery; Cornell had worked for a foreign bank based in Dublin, running their small branch office in Belfast.

  He turned the page of his handout for more information, only to find nothing there. No hobbies, risky or otherwise, and nothing about Cornell’s current squeeze, whom there was bound to be. If he knew anything about life he knew that men like Jason Cornell didn’t go four years without having sex.

  Spence sipped his drink for a moment and then made a list for both of the men: hookers, drugs, gambling, perversions, finances, domestic situations, violence. One of those reasons had got the men killed and he intended to find out which it was.

  ****

  Strangford Lough.

  The GP didn’t know what she’d expected to find as she’d edged her way tentatively towards the crumbling beach hut. She’d traversed the final few yards lifting her feet exaggeratedly, so as not to make a noise on the wet grass, and then clung to the rear of the wooden edifice with both hands, grateful for something solid to support her, even if it was covered in tide-borne slime that stuck to her palms.

  She remained there for several minutes, gaining confidence with each added second that no-one emerged to shout at her or beat her away with a stick. But still she stayed hidden, the safety of invisibility something she was reluctant to relinquish just yet.

  It was physical weakness that finally did for her, a sudden wash of tiredness that seemed to emanate from her bones. It made the medic fall noisily to the ground, her last vestige of anonymity suddenly stolen. The noise almost masked the sound of her host emerging from the hut, but not quite. Fear overwhelmed Sarah and she reared back in her prone position, placing a hand above her face as if it could prevent her from being seen.

  “Get away from me! Get away!”

  Her companion said nothing, just stood six feet away, stock still. It prompted the GP to inch her hand sideways so that she could see their face, and to her shock it was a round, kind one and resolutely feminine. The medic scanned the woman in front of her quickly from head to toe, surprised to see that the woman wore an old-fashioned but expensive dress above a pair of wellingtons, her outfit topped off by a quilted coat and headscarf.

  Sarah jerked upright, more confident now that it was worth the defiant gesture. She rejected the woman’s immediately offered hand, instead continuing her scrutiny. The face beneath the scarf was of indeterminate age but definitely north of sixty, and it bore the weathered tan of someone who had spent their life outdoors, although Sarah doubted that it had been a homeless life, there was something about the woman that shouted privilege. That raised another question in her mind, a clinical one. If this woman didn’t need to live alone on the shore and yet chose to, what might that say about her mental health?

  Any associated questions about risk and safety were cut short by the woman disappearing and reappearing with a cup of tea. This time the GP took the outstretched hand when it was offered and joined her hostess inside the hut.

  ****

  The C.C.U. 7.30 p.m.

  The briefing had finished over an hour before and the squad-room was all but clear, the only sounds Craig pacing repeatedly in his office as he thought and the clicking of Davy’s computer mouse. The analyst enjoyed the mechanical sound; it reassured him somehow. Much as he liked the portability of smart-pads and wasn’t averse to a quick stroke and pinch, there was really no substitute for the solidity of a mouse and keys. He was just speculating on whether the clicks had been deliberately pitched by the computer’s manufacturer to have the relaxing effect that they seemed to have on him, when the right-hand computer in his horseshoe gave a most un-relaxing beep.

  It jerked Davy out of his semi-hypnotised state and into a flurry of tapping and scrolling, until he’d found what the beeping was about. Craig’s hearing being almost bat-like, he opened the door of his office and emerged.

  “I hope that beep was good news.”

  His only answer was Davy signalling him to wait. He did so obediently, pulling over a seat and sitting in front of the analyst’s desk for what seemed like thirty minutes, but in reality was nearer two. Finally, Davy sat back triumphantly, making Craig shuffle closer to the desk.

  “Well?”

  Smug wasn’t a word that he would normally have used to describe Davy, but there was no other word for him right now as he folded his arms across his black shirt. It was a good look with his dark hair, and made Craig wonder whether he should purchase one himself.

  “I’ve got an ID on our man.”

  “Yesterday’s victim?”

  “Yep. Doctor Marsham’s bone marrow info came through and I’ve just checked with passports.” He turned the terminal around so that Craig could see, and a photograph of their John Doe in healthier times filled the screen.

  “Walter Gruber.”

  Craig said the first thing that popped into his head.

  “He doesn’t look like a Walter.” Then, realising how odd that sounded, he added. “I mean, it tends to be a name that you’d expect in an older man.”

  It was a stereotype, but not one entirely without foundation; names tended to move in and out of vogue with each generation, and like the Martha
s and Ediths of this world, names like Walter and Wilfred were more often associated with people well over seventy, at least in the UK.

  Davy smiled in a way that said Craig had hit upon something.

  “Turns out he was older than he looked, but anyway, he’s Austrian. Maybe the name W…Walter’s more common in young people there.”

  It made Craig sit back in surprise. He wasn’t sure why, but somehow he’d expected all of their victims to be home grown. He recovered quickly and got down to the details.

  “Was he living here or on holiday?”

  Davy squinted at the screen in a way Craig knew heralded spectacles, although knowing Davy he’d rather have his corneas fried by some robotic laser arm.

  “Neither. He was seconded for a year to work at an engineering firm in Bangor.”

  “Making what?”

  Davy’s expression said it was unexciting even before he said the words. “Car parts.”

  Craig frowned; he knew instinctively that the fact would be relevant, but he had no idea how. His frown deepened as he remembered Davy’s comment about the man’s age.

  “How old?”

  Davy knew he wasn’t referring to the cars.

  “Forty-nine. He fits with Rhonda’s age theory.”

  Craig admitted to being surprised, both at Gruber’s age and at how accurate Rhonda’s theory appeared to be. Along with the alcohol and angles, the vintage of their victims was now definitely a clue.

  He gestured at the image. “He looked younger. OK, what else do you have on him?”

  Davy shook his head. “Basic height, weight and age, just the usual passport stuff.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly nine o’clock in Vienna, that’s where Gruber was from, too late to call any offices tonight. The engineering firm here w…will be closed as well, unless you’d like to get the local-”

  The detective shook his head. “He won’t be any deader by tomorrow, so let’s just leave it till then.” He stood up, pushing back his chair. “Get Ash whatever address details he needs for his maps and keep digging.” He stopped suddenly, realising the time. “Why are you still here anyway? You should have gone home an hour ago.”

  Davy shut down his screens and began to pack up. “Maggie’s at the law library, gathering details on past criminal cases. I’m heading over to collect her now.”

  As they walked towards the lift Craig asked the obvious question.

  “Is it for an article she’s writing?”

  It was then that he discovered Maggie Clarke’s quest to immortalise Northern Ireland’s most notorious serial killers in print.

  ****

  Strangford Lough.

  Sarah didn’t take her eyes off the woman. Not when she brewed some fresh tea, trickling clean water from a container into a metal kettle that looked like it had been new in the nineteen-sixties; nor as she stoked her narrow stove, sharp smoked from the salty driftwood used to fuel it, the mixture of brine and kelp creating a scent that made the GP feel strangely relaxed.

  She felt her eyelids droop for a second and jerked herself upright immediately, her belief that the posture could prevent her dozing off again a triumph of optimism over fact.

  She felt safer than she had in days but not safe yet, and a moment’s consideration told her why. Her hostess hadn’t uttered a word since she’d first seen her, and it was disconcerting, but then she’d been silent as well, except to fend her off. Eventually the GP decided to make the first move.

  “I’m Sarah Reilly.” Her voice sounded puzzled and unsure, as if she were questioning her own identity, so she repeated the words more firmly, adding, “I’m a GP in Belfast.”

  After a pause that yielded nothing but more silence she tried again, this time asking a question.

  “May I ask your name?”

  She was answered by a shake of the head. Not an aggressive or defiant shake, but one that said the woman might not know what to say. Reilly’s medical training kicked in.

  “If you like you can just answer me by shaking or nodding your head. How would that be?”

  A nod said that she was on the right track.

  “Good. Can you speak?”

  There was no yes or no, just a shrug.

  “You’re not sure?”

  A nod and Sarah suddenly realised that she’d seen similar behaviour before. She tried another question.

  “Do you know your name?”

  A shake of the head confirmed that her hunch was right, so she continued on.

  “Do you remember anything about your life?”

  This time the shake was accompanied by a tear and the GP’s diagnosis was almost complete. This lonely, kind woman had helped her and now perhaps she could help her in return.

  ****

  The Labs. 8 p.m.

  John Winter was doing it again and he knew it; deliberately looking for extra work to prevent him having to go home. The pathologist’s heart sank at what it meant; he was avoiding his wife again. The last time it had happened had been when Natalie was pregnant but hadn’t told him, and was just behaving like a she-devil, making everyone’s life hell. That had all settled as soon as they’d talked things through and decided to have the baby, and he couldn’t be happier that Kit was in their lives, except that he and Nat had such different ideas about parenting that he could see twenty years of battles ahead and he honestly didn’t know if he could cope with that hell.

  He knew what he should do; insist that they went to see a family therapist who could help them find a way through things, and he would, just as soon as he could find the energy for the argument that even hinting at such a thing would cause. His still nagging hangover headache said that definitely wasn’t tonight.

  The medic had been wandering through the labs as he’d been thinking, and he suddenly found himself down in the morgue, standing in front of a marker saying John Doe. He withdrew the drawer containing the body of their latest victim, wondering what had killed the man. The tox-screen hadn’t come back yet but by tomorrow they should know. It made John think of forensics and by association Grace, and as he closed the drawer again, he pictured the CSI sitting facing him across his desk.

  How would he deal with Des’ dilemma? First of all, Grace would wonder why he was talking to her when she wasn’t directly a member of his staff, but he supposed that he could get around that one by saying that everyone in both labs reported to him ultimately, even Doctor Marsham, her boss.

  He smiled at the idea of it; Des might well report to him on paper, but he could never imagine telling him what to do. Live and let live was his motto, and as long as Des continued to do the excellent job that he always did then he would never receive an order from him.

  OK, so that might explain to Grace why she was in his office, but then it would be on to the next step. How did he broach the subject of her behaviour at the crime scene, without landing Des in the soup? It was forensic business, so she would know that the information had come from her boss.

  The pathologist ascended the stairs again, smiling to himself. Of course, the simplest thing would be to just tell her the truth. ‘I’m speaking to you, Grace, because your boss is a big wimp’.

  It had a nice ring to it and the virtue of honesty, except… if he said that she would lose all respect for Des, and he was the main reason that she’d moved to Belfast. She was an excellent CSI and Glasgow had fought hard to keep her, and, although some of her family had moved from Nigeria to Northern Ireland the year before, the main reason Grace had come was that she’d been desperate to work with Des for years.

  Similarly, Des had been desperate to have her because of her skill, so on balance his ‘Des is a big wimp’ approach probably wasn’t the best way to go.

  What then? John had reached his office, so he poured himself a coffee and settled into his chair to think. He needed a legitimate excuse for Des not having the conversation with her, something that would explain his role in the discussion and yet still leave Grace respecting her boss. After wracking his brains for
five whole minutes John’s face broke into a grin. Of course… He knew exactly how to leave Grace still respecting Des professionally after their encounter, even if it would leave her pitying him as a man.

  ****

  The Glens of Antrim. Friday. Early morning.

  How he’d managed to sleep would continue to puzzle him, but Dan Torrance had managed it, so heavily in fact that he wondered if he would have woken that day at all had he not experienced a searing pain.

  His green eyes sprang open in alarm, and it was then that he noticed the smell of burnt flesh. Still, for one half-blissful moment still protected by ignorance, he imagined that someone was cooking breakfast. Some bacon perhaps or even ham; it had been a long time since he’d eaten, and bacon would hit the spot well.

  Suddenly the sponsor realised where the aroma was coming from and he yelled, horrified. His gaze shot to his right forearm and the red-hot steel pipe pressed against its flesh, his immediate attempt to jerk the limb away hampered by his continuing paralysis. He couldn’t move but he could feel? What sort of bloody drug could manage that?

  But it wasn’t a question that emerged from Torrance’s lips, just a deafening shout. His gaze shifted to the other end of his torture implement and the final confirmation that his captor was a man. Although his face was shielded behind a scarf and hat that obscured everything but a pair of dull grey eyes, his assailant’s build was unmistakably male. A man in full adulthood but not yet decline, just as he’d estimated from his voice.

  Torrance fought through his pain and accompanying nausea and tried not to look at his blistering flesh, instead focusing on his captor and trying to appeal to whatever humanity he possessed.