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

  Liam and Davy looked at him blankly, and Annette nodded. “Cot-death.”

  The room fell silent, until eventually Craig broke it. “Watson wanted them to get married, but Irene Leighton was grieving so badly that she pushed him away and flew home to be with her family. He stayed in London and joined Goldbergs’ Bank. The rest is history.”

  “She married Bob Leighton two years later, sir.”

  “Yes. And Watson married wife number one, and then Caitlin fifteen years ago. But that’s not all he told me.”

  “I bet that he and Irene Leighton were seeing each other again.”

  Annette glared at Liam and then looked at Craig for denial. He shook his head and she smiled. “You see, Liam, not everyone’s unfaithful to their wives. Caitlin Watson has a good marriage.”

  The way Craig shook his head again told her that she was wrong.

  “Sorry Annette. Liam’s half-right. Watson was having an affair.”

  Liam’s smug look annoyed even Davy, and he knocked Liam’s elbow away, making him fall forward.

  “But not with Irene Leighton, Liam.”

  A shocked Davy stared at him. “God, are you over forties always at it?”

  Craig smiled ruefully, understanding his twenty-five-year-old perspective.

  “I can see where you’re coming from, Davy. Watson has been seeing a girl for a few months, and by all accounts he’s fallen hard for her.”

  “Girl?”

  “Sorry, woman. Late twenties.”

  “Even dirtier old man.”

  “Was seeing her?”

  “She hasn’t returned his calls since yesterday.”

  “That’s a convenient disappearing act.”

  “I know, but I still believe him. He’s not helping himself though; he won’t say anything about her.”

  “Hoping that she’ll come back, sir?”

  “Something like that. He says he loves her.”

  Craig shrugged; men were good at deluding themselves. He’d believed Camille was coming back for years. And just when he’d finally stopped hoping, she’d reappeared.

  “He was planning to leave his wife for her.” He turned to Annette quickly. “Do you think Caitlin knew, Annette?”

  Annette shook her head slowly. “I honestly don’t think so. But I could be wrong. I’ll question her again.”

  “Watson won’t give me a name or a description for the girl.”

  “But she would have been in the perfect position to get his prints and frame him, sir. So would his wife.”

  “She’d have plenty of access to his D.N.A., boss.”

  Annette shot Liam a warning look to keep it clean, as Craig continued.

  “I agree with both of you. And if Watson won’t tell us about her, we’ll interview his bodyguards. They’ll definitely describe her.”

  ***

  Julia was secretly pleased that he’d asked her, especially after her coolness during his last visit. It showed that he trusted her professionally, as she did him, but only professionally now. She pulled out her badge and showed it to the blue-uniformed Irish policeman guarding the white villa. They’d sealed it off at Dr Winter’s request, once it became clear that Bob Leighton hadn’t died naturally. Two men had been guarding it day and night since then, preserving what little evidence might be left.

  She lifted the crime-scene tape and walked slowly up the path, looking at the expensive house set in its private ocean driveway, where Bob Leighton had breathed his last. She stood on the elevated front step for a minute, looking out at the view. Portsalon beach stretched out below them for half a mile, sweeping towards the Atlantic Ocean inlet. It was a bright, dry day and there were crowds of people milling across the white sand, making it feel like summer.

  She could just make-out a rider ready to mount a black horse, and a kite-flyer with his bright red charge, his finger pointing high in the air looking for the wind. A little family, the mother laden down with clothes and beach toys, was walking towards a shaded area just north of the house. Her toddlers running behind her like baby ducks. It was idyllic and she wished that Craig were here to see it.

  Just then a small, uniformed officer tapped her on the back, waking her from her daydream and she shook Marc Craig from her head, turning to enter the house

  “We’re ready for you now, Inspector.” His accent was lilting and soft and Julia could feel her own softening in reply. “That’s grand. Thank you.”

  She ducked as she walked through the low front door and was immediately surprised. The ceiling rose spectacularly into a wide open-plan living area. It was enormous; one thousand feet of cream-carpeted luxury. Two squashed-leather sofas were angled in front of a wide, open fireplace, with an imitation animal rug lying in front of it. At least she hoped that it was imitation. She had a sudden vision of Bob Leighton frolicking naked on it and shuddered.

  She wandered through the rooms slowly, the luxury growing with every high-ceilinged bedroom, and marbled ensuite. Finally she returned to the living room and sat down on a sofa, reaching into her pocket for the list that Annette had e-mailed through. Bob Leighton had been murdered, which meant that his murderer had definitely been here. Was it his son’s nanny? Was she capable of murder? Or was she a victim as well? She’d certainly disappeared.

  No one but police and ambulance staff had entered since his death, so any forensics that they found should link to Leighton’s killer. But they’d be here for days finger-printing the place, unless they narrowed it down somehow.

  He’d died in bed after recent intercourse and Julia knew that Annette was right. The only person that he would have let close enough to kill him in bed was his lover. And he’d left Belfast with Kaisa Moldeau - although it was unlikely that was her real name.

  She looked at the list closely. Annette had identified all of the places that a woman might have touched. Julia smiled at some of them. In the kitchen: sink, cooker, fridge door. Dishwasher door, low cupboards more likely than high, cleaning materials and the bin. In the bathroom: mirrors, bath-taps etc.

  But it was the bedroom that was the best. Apart from the expected mirrors and wardrobe doors, Annette had added one that really made her laugh; bed headboard, top and front. Naughty, naughty, Annette.

  As she watched the C.S.I.s working, she thought of every boring regulation possible to stop herself wondering whose prints would show up on Marc Craig’s headboard. Definitely not hers.

  ***

  Joe Watson had two close protection officers, as they called bodyguards in polite circles, Ryan Drake and Ian Sinclair. They took it in twelve-hour shifts to guard him. Craig had finished interviewing Drake and was waiting for Sinclair’s version, but if it was as bland as Drake’s was then they’d strike out completely.

  One of them was always with Watson, travelling with him. Sitting outside the hotel room while ‘the girl’ was with him. And watching him play poker for hours. They were even with him when Watson received her weekly romantic call, outside the hotel’s front door. Standing just far enough away to be politely deaf, while he had phone sex, or phone love, or whatever it was called. He was never out of their reach or sight for one minute.

  They’d checked Drake out and he seemed as clean as they came. Fifteen years police, tactical support, firearms trained, one of only four guarding Watson since he’d become an M.L.A. There’d been a few threats against him in his early days as a politician, but they’d settled. Now there were only two of them on the detail, Watson insisting on the counter-intuitive reduction when he became a Minister.

  Drake liked Watson. He was a bit too fond of the ladies, and could be a spoilt dickhead when he was under pressure, but mostly it was an easy gig. Well, compared to guarding a judge during a terrorist enquiry, which had been his last one. But he had told Craig to ask Ian Sinclair’s opinion.

  “Ian’s more conscientious than me, always putting himself out more than he has to. You know the type. ‘Gives a fuck even when it isn’t his turn.’”

  Craig had smiled; it
was one of John’s favourite quotes from ‘The Wire’.

  Sinclair was waiting for him now at High Street, and Craig took up Liam’s offer of a joint interview, driving them both there. As they walked in the door, he recognised the unmistakably fit shape of a protection officer perched on the hard bench in reception, and nodded to him. “We’ll be with you in five minutes, officer Sinclair.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  Ian Sinclair folded his bulky arms and closed his eyes, resting his head back against the cold magnolia wall.

  Just at that moment Jack Harris, the station’s long-time desk sergeant, came ambling out amiably. “Ah. Hello sir. And so nice to see you too, Inspector Cullen.” He bowed in mock-respect to Liam. They’d known each other since college and Jack never let Liam forget that he’d taken rank.

  They went into the back office and Liam helped himself to coffee, ready for a gossip but they were interrupted almost immediately by a female constable, introduced as Sandi.

  “Shall I take the coffee straight into the interview room, sir?”

  Craig roused himself quickly. “Thanks. That would be great.” And they followed her quickly into the small neon-lit interview room. She placed the tray on a bench to one side, and left.

  Ian Sinclair was already seated in the room, his arms resting over a chair-back, relaxed. He’d sat in too many of these rooms to be anything else but. He stood up as they entered and Craig extended his hand. Sinclair shook it firmly, no fat visible, even on his hands. He removed his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, every muscle on his torso etched out through his shirt.

  “I signed my gun in at the desk, sir.” His accent was from England somewhere but Craig could only narrow it to somewhere in the southeast. “I’d like it back when I leave; I hope that’s in order? I’ve been temporarily reassigned while the Minister helps you with enquiries, and I’m on duty at six.”

  “Of course. Who are you guarding next?”

  “A Judge. He’s ruffled a few people’s feathers and they’re making threatening noises.”

  Craig nodded. “This shouldn’t take us too long, officer Sinclair.”

  “Ian, please.”

  “Right, Ian. We’ve already interviewed officer Drake, but any information you have about Mr Watson would be useful. Particularly about the girl that he was seeing?”

  “OK, sir. First, you need to know that I didn’t get on particularly well with Mr Watson.”

  Liam sat forward and boomed ominously. “Well now, why was that?” Craig signalled him to back off and Liam sat back again, disgruntled.

  “Well frankly, he’s a careless prat and a bloody nightmare to guard. He didn’t want us there at all, and if he could have slipped the leash, he would have done. He kept changing his schedule, making unplanned and unwarranted stops, and was far too familiar with everyone; from the aircrew to the hotel staff. He was a typical politician, so desperate to be popular that he would have told you the combination of his safe if you’d vote for him.”

  He sat back abruptly, shocked at his own candour.

  “Here, did he have a safe?”

  “Yes, probably.” Sinclair laughed and relaxed again “My point is…He couldn’t or wouldn’t keep himself safe, and he resisted most of our efforts to do so. I think he was going to ask for me to be moved, because he thought I was restricting him.”

  Craig nodded; Watson had already put the request in. But it seemed to Craig that Sinclair was just a conscientious officer being driven mad by an irresponsible charge. There’d been occasions at The Met, during the run-up to the Iraq War, when he’d protected M.P.s visiting public protests. They were a nightmare to guard, seeing every request for their cooperation as some dictat from the fascist police, instead of realising that they were just bloody trying to keep them alive.

  “I know that some charges rail against the restrictions of having protection. It’s not easy keeping them safe when they won’t help you. Just tell us anything that you think might help.”

  “Well, I didn’t trust the girl that Watson was seeing. It was bad enough and a possible media nightmare when he insisted on visiting Lilith’s - that’s a brothel out at Antrim.”

  “Here, a brothel? A real one?”

  Sinclair nodded and Craig looked at Liam, astounded at his naiveté. Then he remembered that brothels weren’t as common in Northern Ireland as they were in London, where they’d been in every house on some streets. He made a mental note to catch up with the local police about Lilith’s and nodded Sinclair on.

  “He took a shine to one particular girl and started bringing her to the hotel. I tried to talk to him about it, so did Ryan, but he wouldn’t listen. He was too busy thinking with his dick.”

  They all nodded, understanding.

  “She was a stunner, I’ll give her that. Well, none of us except Joe ever saw her face, but you can always tell. Petite, slim, curvy. A pocket-rocket.”

  They understood Joe Watson’s behaviour perfectly now.

  “Dark-blonde hair, shoe size three or four, five feet one. Size eight, 36 inch chest, no visible tattoos or scars.”

  “You’re good.”

  “It’s my job to see things. I can also tell you that she wasn’t naturally dark blonde.”

  ”How do you know?”

  “Her sunglasses wiped off some of her eyebrow pencil once, and the end of her eyebrow was white-blonde. In my experience only white-blonde girls have white-blonde eyebrows.”

  “White-blonde hair is attractive, so why would she dye it darker?”

  “Exactly my thoughts. She was disguising her natural colouring for a reason. I saw a bit at the back of her hair that was white too, as if she’d missed a bit. I’d say she was a natural white-blonde and was tinting it dark-blonde for Joe.”

  “Anything else you noticed?”

  “She liked to wind us up, wiggle past, stand close, that sort of thing. We were both there one day, handing over, when she deliberately leaned in close to Ryan, and I could see her eyes though the side of the glasses. They were green and the colour looked natural. It’s harder to cover darker eyes with a believable lighter lens, so I reckon that maybe green or blue was her natural eye colour.”

  “White-blonde, with blue or green eyes. Northern European?”

  “Yep. But there was no point saying anything critical about her to Joe, he was daft about her.” Sinclair paused for a moment, thinking, and Liam noticed that even his clenched jaw looked muscled, lifting his own chin in reflex.

  “Our routine never varied, which was another mistake and I said so. But Watson wouldn’t listen. We’d get back from London and check in at The Castleton at about five on a Monday. Then she arrived about six and Joe’s poker game was at eight or nine. We got him the same room, 517, end of the corridor, no access other than past us, the usual safety rules. She’d arrive, there’d be some chat and giggling between them, and then, regular as clockwork, the shower would start to run at about 6.15 - 6.20. Every week, same routine, so we reckoned that they nipped into the shower together and got to it.”

  He took a sip of coffee and looked at Craig, in a way that instantly told Craig that his next revelation had meant going slightly ‘off piste’

  “I was suspicious of her from the start. So eventually, one evening about two months ago, I asked Ryan to stay for a ninety-minute overlap. Normally we just do a ten-minute handover and then the outgoing officer goes home, but this time I asked him to cover me. As soon as I heard the shower running I nipped into the room.”

  He paused again as if expecting a bollocking, but Craig said nothing.

  “I bugged the room so that I could hear a bit, not gratuitously; just for Joe’s safety. And I had a quick look in her bag. There was nothing much, a few mints and the car keys to an old Ford - she drove it every week.”

  “Did you get the registration plate?”

  “Already checked. It was registered to Lilith’s and insured in their name. Anyway, she also had a can of spray-on bandage, but no I.
D. No licence, no cards, nothing. Nothing else except a handbag mirror and a lip-gloss. So...”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out two small evidence bags, sealed and dated 15th October 2012.

  “I finger-printed the mirror and took off the end of the lipstick for D.N.A. traces, then re-blunted the lipstick and returned the bag before they left the shower. I knew they’d be in there for twenty minutes.”

  Liam smiled lasciviously. “Tight squeeze.”

  “Not really. The room had a double shower, deliberately chosen for it.”

  Craig looked at Liam in warning. “I’m sure Liam was referring to your timing. I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be too impressed. If I’d been really effective she would never have been in there.”

  His jaw clenched again and there was silence for a minute while he regrouped.

  “The bug in the room only gave up three useful bits of information, and some of it might be false of course. She said that she lived with her father who she cared for - that’s why she could only get away to meet Joe on a Monday. She said she’d given up working at Lilith’s after she met him, you know, the whole ‘you’re so special Joe’ routine. But you could check that easily enough.”

  “Yeh, it ranks up there with ‘you’re the first’ ”

  Craig rolled his eyes at the things Liam came out with, and then they all laughed.

  “She also said that her name was Ausra and that she was Lithuanian.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, Joe might’ve believed her, but there’s no way that she was Lithuanian. I was in the army and worked with N.A.T.O for a while.”

  Craig nodded; he’d already known about it from Sinclair’s background check.

  “I was out in Yugoslavia, and I can tell you, she wasn’t from Lithuania or any other Baltic state. That accent was pure Serbian.”

  “Phew...that’s a hell of a lot of information.”

  “Yes well, like I said, it wasn’t enough to stop him.”

  Craig could see Sinclair beating himself up and he leaned in firmly. “Listen, you did your best. If someone wanted him tricked this badly, then it was always going to happen. It could have been a lot worse.”