The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) Read online

Liam was feeling sorry for Andy. He also reckoned that Jake would be a good influence so he invited them both to join him on his next two trips. They needn’t have bothered with the first; Social Services were on a go slow on Sundays, with only an on-call staff available and none of them inclined to help the police by opening their archives on a day of rest. Sadie Beech on the other hand was surprisingly awake, but then grief had a nasty habit of robbing you of your sleep.

  With a warning to keep his mouth shut hanging over Andy like a neon sign, Liam nodded Jake to start the questions, while he stared at the pallid mug of tea Sadie had given him and wondered if it would be cheeky to ask for a biscuit as well. He was wondering something else too; why Jake looked as badly rested as their interviewee.

  “Ms Beech, we’d like to ask you some questions about a Mr James Upton, your ex-partner.”

  Sadie snorted in an inelegant way and took a drag of her cigarette, looking far less sweet than the woman that Liam had met three days before.

  “That bastard. What about him?”

  “Could you tell us how you met?”

  She shrugged as if it should be obvious; after all this wasn’t Pride and Prejudice, with introductions made over afternoon tea; it was UK 2015. Where did most modern couples meet? In a pub, a club or through friends. Jake took one look at the empty cans on the table and plumped for the first.

  “The local bar?”

  “Aye. The Red Horse. I go down there most nights.”

  Liam saw Andy’s mouth open and he shut it again with a glance.

  “And when did you start seeing each other?”

  More Pride and Prejudice terminology, although ‘walking out’ was probably more correct in Jane Austen’s time.

  She sniffed. “Brought him home with me that night and he never left.” She lit a fresh cigarette from her butt. “Well, not till I ditched him.”

  “When would that have been?”

  She surprised everyone with her next words. “It would have been three weeks after we met except I needed his money, so he only got the boot when he messed up my Sam.”

  Jake glanced at Liam for permission to ask the million dollar question and he nodded him on. It was restful having someone else do the interviewing, especially when it was someone polite like Jake.

  Jake leaned forward, closing the space between the bereaved mother and him, then he asked the price tagged question in a soft voice.

  “How did he mess Sam up, Ms Beech?”

  Sadie shifted in her chair uncomfortably, scanning the room for somewhere to gaze before settling on out the window as her best choice. She answered without looking at them, as if the reply was embarrassing or shameful. Jake wasn’t sure if it was shame at her failure to protect her son, or shame at the events that had subsequently occurred.

  “He went into Sam’s room.”

  “When Sam was there?”

  It was a statement and question all in one.

  She nodded. “At night.” She turned to the others with a frantic look. “I didn’t know. I was asleep.”

  Jake nodded soothingly. The action said: I understand; you’re not a bad person; it could have happened to anyone. But his mind was saying, could it? Really?

  Sadie was still talking, more quickly now, her words tumbling out and over each other like a drowning person scrambling for the shore.

  “You understand, don’t you? I didn’t know and Sam never said. He should’ve told me.”

  “Yes, he should.”

  So why hadn’t he? Fear of disbelief? The knowledge that they’d needed Upton’s money? Because he was a terrified child? All or some of those; they would probably never know.

  “When and how did you find out?”

  The bereaved mother shook her head and a tear rolled down her cheek. All of them felt sorry for her. To lose your only child didn’t bear thinking about, especially if you blamed yourself.

  “I…I got up to go to the toilet one night. I never usually did but…” She looked embarrassed. “…we’d had a lot to drink.” She glanced at the clock as if it would show the time that she’d awoken. “I woke around four and Jim wasn’t there. I thought maybe he’d be in the living room, having a cig like, so I checked.” She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. “He wasn’t here. It’s a small place, so I knew straight away where he was.” Her eyes flew open and she gazed at Jake pleadingly. “I swear I didn’t know, not till then. I’d never have let him stay if I’d…”

  As the others watched, Jake took her free hand and held it firmly in his own. “No-one’s suggesting that you knew.”

  The words were like water dowsing a fire. The panic left her eyes instantly, to be replaced by a dull pain.

  “I went to Sammy’s bedroom and opened the door…”

  She shook her head violently in disgust, picturing the image. They all were. A grown man and a teenage boy, taken against his will.

  Jake finished the sentence. “Upton was in bed with Sam. Is that right?”

  She nodded.

  “And that’s when you threw him out?”

  Another nod, less firm this time.

  “What happened next? How was Sam?”

  Sadie Beech shook her dry, bleached hair and tightened her lips as if afraid to answer. Her gaze skittered across the worn carpet, back and forth, from corner to corner, joined by her rocking rhythmically as it did. Rocking and sucking her cigarette down to a butt, only stilling to light another one before she resumed.

  Finally Liam glanced at Jake and nodded him to come outside. He glared at Andy with a different message; not to say a word while they were gone. As they stood on the grey stone balcony gazing at the courtyard below, Jake turned to Liam with a question.

  “I don’t understand. She was giving us clear answers and then suddenly nothing. Why did she stop so abruptly?”

  Liam shook his head. “Think, lad, and tell me what you saw.”

  The sergeant furrowed his brow, re-running the conversation from five minutes before. “She’d just told us that she’d found Upton in Sam’s bed.”

  “Aye. And how did she look?”

  “Guilty. Like she thought we’d hate her.”

  “Good. Then what?”

  Nothing clicked in Jake’s brain. “Then I asked if she’d thrown him out of the flat and she nodded again.”

  Liam raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “You mean that she hesitated?”

  “I mean she nodded, but it was weak. Like it was the answer that she thought you wanted to hear. What she should have done.”

  Jake’s jaw dropped. “You mean she found Upton in bed with her kid and she didn’t throw him out?”

  Liam’s nod was followed by an admission. “It was only when Sadie answered you that I remembered. Annette said something about Sam being taken away from her and put in care. They only let him home when Sadie finally cut all ties with Upton. Six months later.”

  Jake’s jaw fell further.

  “My guess is that when she found him in Sam’s room that night she gave him hell but she let him stay, on a promise that he wouldn’t touch the boy again, which of course he did. She probably convinced herself Upton had just got into the wrong bed ’cos he was drunk.”

  The men fell silent for a moment, watching kids playing in the courtyard as they thought. Finally Liam restarted.

  “You can call her on it but we’ll get nothing more today; she’ll just clam up. Or you can restart the interview as if you believe her version.”

  Jake bit his lip. “That’s your suggestion.”

  “That’s my suggestion. Take it from the point of her throwing Upton out and ignore the six months vacillation in between.”

  A minute more spent watching the children and Jake nodded, pushing open the front door to re-enter the chilly room. To their surprise Andy was carrying a tray of fresh tea to the table and Sadie Beech looked happier than when they’d left. Maybe the un-PC detective was redeemable after all.

  They retook their seats and drank for a mo
ment then Liam shot Jake a glance. He set down his cup and smiled weakly at their interviewee.

  “Do you feel up to carrying on, Ms Beech?”

  A flicker of fear crossed the bereaved mother’s eyes; it disappeared when Andy smiled and gave her a nod. She lit a fresh cigarette and motioned Jake to restart.

  “Thank you. OK, so you threw Mr Upton out. How did Sam react after he’d gone?”

  Sadie relaxed visibly, relieved that Jake had accepted her version of events.

  “He said nothing, he didn’t even cry. It was only when the social got involved he admitted it’d been going on for months.”

  Months when you allowed Upton continued access to your child.

  She stubbed the cigarette hard against the table and clenched her fist as if Upton’s jaw was close enough to punch. “Bloody pervert. Bloody paedo.”

  She wouldn’t get an argument from them.

  “I called the police and that big cop Boyd was on. He’s all right, him. He tried talking to Sam, but he wouldn’t say nothing, so they went after Upton and the social took Sam to hospital.” Her expression shifted from fury to hurt. “They looked at me like I knew. How could I know? Sam never told me, he never said.”

  History had been reinvented in her mind.

  She started to cry again. “They took him away from me. Put him in bloody foster care.” She shook her small head. “It made him worse.”

  Jake glanced towards the kitchen and Liam took the cue to remove the tray, taking Andy with him. He was grateful for the opportunity to dump the tar that he’d just drunk. Why could no-one make a decent cuppa nowadays? When they returned Jake was still talking and Sadie was wearing a faint smile.

  “So Sam liked his social worker, what was their name?”

  Sadie’s smile widened. “Louise McIntyre. Nice wee girl. Didn’t look much older than Sam. She works in an office on the Holywood Road.” She shook her head. “She did her best but our Sam was never the same. Started picking on the younger kids. Beating them up.”

  By the sound of it that wasn’t all he’d done. Jake’s heart sank. Sam had had a female social worker and the bodies had to have been dumped by men; he felt them heading for a dead end.

  “We’ll see Ms McIntyre tomorrow.”

  “Say hello for me. She’s not to blame for what happened.” Her top lip curled. “Your lot never caught that pervert.”

  She glared at Liam as if he was responsible for the failure of all police. He reassured her.

  “There’s a warrant out for Mr Upton’s arrest and every district is looking for him. If he’s still in Ireland he’ll be found.”

  Sadie gave an unexpected smile and disappeared into the bedroom, returning a moment later with a passport in her hand. It was Jim Upton’s.

  “He left it here. He’ll not get far without it.” She handed it to Jake. “Here, you take it. Maybe it’ll help.”

  Jake wrapped things up as Liam glanced pointedly at the clock. “We’ll speak to Ms McIntyre and keep you up to date. It’s early days but we’ve got a lot of leads.”

  Before she could ask what leads they were at the door. Jake saw the unmistakable stain of loneliness fill her eyes and he knew that Budweiser would be her companion for another night.

  ****

  12 p.m.

  Craig clicked off his mobile and rested back in the driver’s seat, thinking. Davy had called through with details of the drownings, but none except the girl in the Quoile could prove any sort of match. If she had been a rehearsal killing then it had obviously only taken the killers one. He shook his head. There was a shape emerging to the case, but what did it mean?

  Four teenagers unexpectedly dead from drowning, three of them murdered and definitely troubled, enough to be known to the authorities. Three left on dry land with fresh water in their lungs and identical contents in their stomach, ingested long enough before death to have broken down. Perhaps the river girl’s stomach contents would match. Either way the contents would tell them something, he was sure of that.

  What else did they have? Bodies that bore some symbol of their lifestyle. A Heroin addict who’d been given a massive O.D. after death: a gay youth who’d been left with a symbol of medieval torture. And what about Sam Beech; what had been his crime? Bullying younger kids, or worse? And why had no sign of it been left after his death?

  Then there was the tattooing and the washing of the bodies with bleach, before leaving them at remote sites. It smacked of ritual, but what ritual and what did it mean? Was it as simple as someone judging their victims and then executing them for their supposed guilt? If it was then who had set themselves up as judge and executioner?

  He shook his head in frustration; angry at not being able to answer his own questions and fearful that Sam Beech’s death wouldn’t be the last. When he thought he’d berated himself for long enough he turned over the engine and headed for the lab.

  The sight that greeted him on entering John’s office was almost unseemly. John was hunched over his computer wearing a maniacal grin and Des was holding a mug in the air like he was toasting something or someone. Craig heard enough to realise it was someone; himself.

  “Am I a smart bastard or what?”

  John concurred. “You’re a smart bastard.” He sat back in his chair and shook his head. “How the hell did you work it out? Of all the things that it could have been?”

  Des stared into space as if he was stunned by his own genius then he shrugged and said “It was red. There’s not that much red food around.”

  Neither man had noticed Craig in the doorway so when he spoke they jumped.

  “Tell me that you’ve identified the stomach contents.”

  John beckoned him in. “Just wait till you hear this. You’ll be impressed.”

  Craig took a seat and nodded hopefully at an empty mug. Des took the hint and filled it and then drew breath to speak. He was too slow. John couldn’t wait.

  “Des identified red wine and flour. Well actually he––”

  The volume of Des’ interruption surprised them. “Just once! Just once I’d like to report my own bloody findings. Is that too much to ask?”

  For ‘report’ read ‘get credit for’ but they knew what he meant. John’s mouth snapped shut and he looked contrite. Craig prevented a row by saying, “Carry on, Des.”

  Des’ squint said that he was searching for sarcasm, when he found none he sat down beside Craig and started again.

  “I pulled the stomach contents of all three victims and noticed that in one of them in particular, Sam Beech’s, there was a red tinge. It was faint but it was there. Digested food in the stomach is called Chyme; it has a greyish colour regardless of what it is, so at first I thought that it was blood contamination, but it tested negative. So then I thought, OK, if it’s still red it’s obviously food that’s only been partially digested so I pipetted the reddest part and tested it. Guess what it was?”

  Given that John had already told him Craig thought it would be disingenuous to feign ignorance, but he tinged his response with diplomatic surprise.

  “Red wine? Really?”

  Des shot John a withering look and nodded. “Yes. Rioja, to be specific.”

  Craig made a mental note. The type of wine could be significant, or not.

  His diplomacy continued. “So what did you do then?” He ignored John’s gesture that said he was sucking up.

  Des sat forward eagerly. “I already knew the chemical composition overall was identical so I set about subtracting the composition of wine from the rest and examined what was left behind.” He smiled triumphantly. “It left flour and salt. Most likely from bread. They’d have needed water as well, but that would’ve been in the Chyme.”

  Craig pushed it. “Any particular sort of bread? Can you isolate it to a particular country or culture, or was there anything special about it?”

  The scientists frowned; the bread’s specifics obviously hadn’t occurred to them and now a non-scientist was telling them their trade. John
blustered out a defence.

  “It’s not that easy, you know. Once it’s broken down it could––”

  Des raised a hand to stop him. “The truth is we didn’t even think of it.”

  “You still have time. It would just be worth knowing if there was anything special about the bread, or whether it was just a simple final meal.”

  John screwed up his face in a way that said something wasn’t quite right. “Hang on. The last victim was sixteen, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. So what?”

  “So who gives a sixteen-year-old wine? In fact who gives wine to anyone they’re judging? If that’s what we think happened to these three.”

  Craig thought for a moment. “We don’t know that it is yet, but I take your point. That could mean it was more than a simple meal.” He shook his head, halting John’s next question. “Before you ask, I don’t know what more. That’s still open to debate.” He stood up. “Well done, Des. Brilliant catch; keep going with it please. John, anything on the girl found in the river yet?”

  “I’ve got her lung and stomach contents coming later. I’ll take a look before I leave tonight, although why you’re so sure she’s connected to your victims beats me.”

  “Instinct. Let’s just hope that I’m right.”

  ****

  The magnificent three were on their way to interview the Deacon, Nigel McKibben, about Sam Beech’s episode with his son, and as Liam drove up the Newtownards Road he could feel his thoughts tending incongruously towards the past. Deacon Blue had been his favourite pop group in the ’80s, when he was still a man about town, slapping on the aftershave at the end of a busy shift and venturing into one of the few Belfast nightspots that hadn’t been blown up.

  He’d smiled inanely and showed off his dance moves in the hope of attracting some female company for the night, or better yet meeting someone with whom he could have a relationship that actually lasted for more than a week, before either his bluntness or their fear of him having been blown to bits every time an explosion was announced on the News killed their passion stone dead.

  That had been his life for years: Jack Harris’ and Reggie Boyd’s as well, before one by one they’d found women stupid enough or hopeful enough to marry them and consign their dancing to family weddings for ever more. He didn’t miss that life, or The Troubles. Actually, he thought, as he parked his Ford in a leafy side road near Stormont that revelled in the lofty title of Gloriana Avenue, he did miss it sometimes if he was being honest. In the same way that people got nostalgic for awkward first dates and nights when they’d drunk so much that they’d thrown up, and the way that survivors of disasters retold their stories of near death again and again.