The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 4

  “You mean apart from the murder?”

  John smiled and his fine-boned face creased-up like an accordion. He took off his black-wire glasses, rubbing them gently on his lab coat. “Harrison?”

  Craig nodded.

  “You’ll cope.”

  They both laughed at his lack of sympathy, and then lapsed into a minute’s relaxed silence. From the day they’d met at school, they’d been friends, and the friendship was a real one, based on common values and wicked humour. Expedience had played its part at times too, a pre-growth-spurt John trading the protection of Craig’s physicality and sportiness, for his understanding of quantum mechanics. At other times, circumstances had threatened them, such as when John had briefly dated Lucia. Thankfully, she’d dumped him after a week, saving Craig’s protective brother intervention from jeopardising their close bond.

  They were very different. Craig’s warm, half-Italian fieriness balanced John’s placid shyness perfectly and it had worked for thirty years, although Craig had lived in London for fifteen of them. It worked even better now that he was home.

  John cleared the chessboard abruptly, declaring it a draw. “I was playing Des but he’s on holiday until Monday. I’m not much of a challenge” adding with a smile, “I always know my opponent’s next move.”

  Des Marsham was the lab’s Head of Forensic Science and he worked closely with both of them. He was bearded, benign and a father twice over, contrasting with their terminal bachelorhood. And he was almost as eccentric as John, almost.

  “Your body is very interesting, Marc.”

  Craig laughed loudly. To anyone else the remark would have sounded strange, but he knew exactly what John meant. Irene Leighton’s body was very interesting, but until they’d solved her murder, it would feel like theirs.

  “What have you found?”

  John took a hurried bite of his sandwich and motioned Craig towards the cold dissection room, where their victim’s body was lying covered, on the lonely, steel table. He pulled on a pair of sterile gloves, motioning Craig to do the same, and then lifted a pointer and moved to the body, gently lifting the sheet down to the woman’s neck, revealing only her face.

  He started reporting concisely and quickly, knowing that they were both uncomfortable in the presence of their innocent victim.

  “I’ll just give you the main points.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Starting from the top. There are no marks, abrasions or bruises on her face, or in the mouth, pharynx or neck. There’s nothing on the scalp or in her hair. She’s a generally well-nourished female of between thirty and forty.”

  “Nearer forty would fit; they’d been married for twenty years.”

  “OK, fine. Moving down the body - I won’t lift her but there’s the entry wound of a bullet on her back, just beneath the left shoulder blade, co-linear with her heart. There was no exit wound because the bullet lodged in her fifth rib anteriorly.”

  Craig nodded. Shot. At least it had been quick.

  “What’s the bullet like?”

  “Unusual. Not one that I’ve seen before. Des is away so I’m getting the north-west labs to look at it, but it’s certainly not standard issue. The bullet penetrated the trapezius muscle on her back and went through the interim structures. It ruptured the pericardium, the heart envelope, on entrance and exit, traversed the heart, and lodged anteriorly in the rib. Most of the blood tracked down internally.”

  “The mark we saw on her back was the entry wound? And bruising?”

  “Yes, but not only that.” He paused and a mix of disgust and confusion flickered across his face. “There was a tattoo at the entry site.”

  “What?”

  “Around the wound. Healing indicates that it was about two to three days old.”

  Craig was taken aback; this was something new, even for them. “What sort of tattoo?”

  John turned to him, the professional now. “If you let me finish, Marc, I’ll show you. I have photographs of everything.”

  Craig nodded, conceding that he wanted everything yesterday. John smiled benignly and moved on.

  “There was no sign of sexual assault or recent intercourse. She’d had at least one pregnancy, and I’d say probably more. Normal deliveries. The rest is unremarkable, apart from her right foot and left hand.

  First, her hand. We saw that she had abrasions on the left knuckles and that one of her nails was torn away, almost from the nail bed. The angle of its avulsion would say that it was torn in a struggle, rather than deliberately, with pliers, for instance.”

  Craig winced, reminded of nails that he had seen ‘pliered’ in London, during gang disputes. It required a particular sort of callousness. At least Irene Leighton had been spared that horror. He realised that he’d been too optimistic after John’s next words.

  “I believe the injuries were caused in a struggle, while she was still alive, possibly to insert the note. I think the left was her dominant hand, so she used it to fight with. Her husband can confirm that.”

  He closed his eyes for a minute, as if preparing for the worst.

  “Her feet tell the rest of the story. As well as the tattoo on her back, there’s a fresh one on the sole of her right foot. We didn’t notice it at the scene because she had her shoes on. It might be linked to the tattoo on her back, but it’s much newer.”

  Craig tensed, already guessing what came next.

  “It was tattooed within thirty minutes of her death, Marc.” John paused and cleaned his glasses, like he always did when he was unhappy. Craig said nothing, just looked down at their victim sadly, waiting for him to restart.

  “The tattoo was so fresh that it was still bleeding, while she either walked or ran barefooted onto an area of grass. It was probably the grass at Stormont, but we’re awaiting confirmation of that. Her shoes were on when she was found, but her killer could easily have replaced them after she died.”

  Then he delivered the words that outlined Irene Leighton’s final ignominy too clearly.

  “The grass attached itself to the tattoo as the blood clotted.”

  As he talked, he lifted the sheet to reveal the sole of Irene Leighton’s right foot, and Craig could clearly see the mixture of ink, blood and grass, combining to form exactly what John said next. “It’s a grass tattoo, Marc.”

  Craig looked at him horrified; this was something that neither of them had seen before. Irene Leighton’s back had been tattooed two to three days earlier, and then her right foot tattooed thirty minutes before she’d been brought to Stormont that morning. There, she had either walked or run bare-footed across the grass, so that its wet blades had embedded in her fresh wound. She’d been shot and lain face-down in front of Parliament Buildings in the shape of a cross, or lain down and then shot through the back. Her shoes had been replaced, and finally, a note had been forced into her hand as she was dying. Craig shuddered. It was chilling.

  Neither man spoke as they returned to John’s office and sat there in silence for several minutes; thinking about Irene Leighton’s suffering. Craig formulating scenarios and questions for her husband, and John wondering about the bullet.

  Finally, John removed a cardboard file from his desk drawer, setting it in front of his friend. Craig stared silently at it for a moment and then removed the photographs inside, spreading them across the desk. They both stood, looking down at them. Two were of special interest. One, of the area below Irene Leighton’s left scapula, the other, of the sole of her right foot. They were tattooed in the same ink and style.

  The image on Irene Leighton’s back was easily recognisable, a Madonna and child, a symbol of many Christian and orthodox religions. The excoriated image on her foot was less clear. John had magnified it and Craig could see that it was writing, but it wasn’t made up of English words, and it wasn’t in any script that he recognised.

  «Я здесь и я жду».

  What did it mean?

  John interjected, reading his thoughts. “I’m pretty sure it�
�s the Cyrillic alphabet. Used in Russia and some other eastern countries. I’ve sent it off to be translated, so we should have it back later. The design on her back is interesting, and so is the note.”

  Yes, they were. A Madonna and child. And the number 10. But what was the connection? And what had they to do with Stormont? Craig was more puzzled than he’d been in a long time, but at least he had more to go on than before, so he stood up quickly to go, ready for another session with their victim’s husband.

  “Will you be back for the translation?”

  “Davy will call you. What time suits?”

  “Any time before six. I’ve a squash game at seven, up at Queens.”

  “Who’s your victim?”

  John had competed in squash for the university and had won every match that he’d played. Every other sport had been Craig’s domain, but squash wasn’t called ‘jet-propelled chess’ for nothing, and what John lacked in strength he made up for in strategy. It was perfect for him. Craig just wished that his coordination on the court carried into normal life, but one glance at his office was coffee-stained proof that it didn’t.

  He immediately looked shy, and Craig knew who he was playing.

  “It’s Natalie Ingrams, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, embarrassed. Not because there was anything wrong with Natalie, but because everything was right about her. He was falling hard and Craig knew exactly how that felt.

  “She’s not bad at squash, you know.” It was high praise, but Craig decided not to tease him, turning back to the case to save his friend’s blushes.

  “Davy will call you later. Liam’s busy checking Leighton’s alibi, and Annette’s at the house interviewing the nanny.” He paused for a second.

  “It’s unlikely that Leighton did this, John. He’s been in Dublin for days.”

  John nodded. “He was very cut-up when he I.D.ed her. I think he really loved her. But where did he think she was all week?”

  “At her mother’s in Fermanagh. Of course, he could have arranged for someone else to kill her, but why, if he loved her? You were right about children, they have a son.”

  “I’d be surprised if there weren’t more, Marc. The bracelet around her neck was the right size for a baby girl.”

  Like Lucia’s. Craig nodded briskly and headed quickly for the door. “I’ll call you later.” Then he turned and smiled. “And let Natalie win a game this time.”

  ***

  The re-interview with Bob Leighton yielded some more information, although how useful it would be in finding their killer remained to be seen.

  He had a son, Ben, three-years-old, a precious baby after many years of trying. He was at home with the nanny, Kaisa. But there were no other children and Leighton had never even asked his wife about the bracelet around her neck. It indicated a level of indifference that took Craig’s breath away.

  Yes, he’d been away for the past four days, in Dublin for the last two, back for a meeting of the Strategic Finance Foundation at Stormont last night. But he wouldn’t disclose his location for the first two days; ‘no-commenting’ Craig into frustration. His solicitor was briefing him well and Craig couldn’t insist on Leighton telling them. He wasn’t under arrest. Yet.

  Yes, his wife often went to stay with her elderly mother in the Fermanagh Lakelands, in a small village near Enniskillen called Belleek, where the porcelain came from. Craig knew of it, his mother had a set.

  No, he hadn’t spoken to her that week, but then that wasn’t unusual. They often went for days without speaking, more often now that he was in Westminster.

  Of course their marriage was fine, absolutely fine, why wouldn’t it be? And do you really need to ask such personal bloody questions when my wife has just been killed, D.C.I. Craig? I’m a victim here too.

  Craig was astounded at his selfishness, insisting on equal victimhood with a dead woman. But they’d exhausted every option they had without charging him, so after another wasted hour he headed for the lift, taking it the eight floors back to the squad. He was fitter, but not that fit yet.

  Annette McElroy, his sergeant, was still out, so when he entered the floor only his personal assistant Nicky, and Davy Walsh their technical analyst, were there. He strolled past Nicky’s desk quietly, praying for temporary invisibility. No such luck.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Your diary says that you have half an hour free, that’s if you haven’t booked yourself something.”

  She gave him her best ‘head-teacher’ look for daring to fill his diary himself, a frequent sin that led to double–booking. Then she looked up at him pertly, her pretty, darkly-tanned smile holding a challenge. “Can I come in?”

  Craig sighed, mock-heavily. “I haven’t booked anything else, Nicky. But just give me five minutes to grab a coffee please, before you hit me with your ‘list’.” He said it fondly but his need for caffeine was urgent and genuine. It had been a very long hour since his last fix.

  Nicky had invented her ‘list’ of tasks years before, and now it was infamous. It hadn’t been Craig’s problem until he’d inherited her full time from Terry Harrison, but now it was, and it was still a small price to pay for getting the best P.A in the Docklands C.C.U.

  It detailed the tasks, dates and progress of every file that needed to be completed, every memo that hadn’t been actioned, and every letter that lingered unsigned. He knew that she was planning mini-versions for Annette and Liam, and he wanted a ringside seat when she told them.

  He dumped his briefcase by the floor-to-ceiling window that gave his office one of the best views in the building, and poured a coffee from his ever-hot percolator, allowing himself a brief look across Belfast’s winter Docklands. The new Titanic building was shining in the mid-afternoon light, its textured silver exterior rippling like the water beside it, reflecting the City’s maritime history. Further up-river he could see the redbrick Odyssey Arena, home to exhibitions and concerts, movies and clubs, gearing up for another good night. There was no shortage of entertainment in Belfast nowadays.

  The morning’s rain had morphed into a beautiful afternoon and it lit up Sailortown, the historic area that they worked in. Its narrow streets and old buildings nestled below the C.C.U.’s glass shard and he knew that if they could speak, three hundred years of stories, including his family’s own, would come flowing out. The seasonal feeling made him want to join the pre-Christmas social scene, and all at once he felt sad at the certainty that he’d be spending the evening alone again.

  His thoughts were broken by Nicky unsubtly dropping a file on his desk, and he turned away from the view and smiled at her, resigned to his fate. She sat down, crossed her festive red leggings, tucked into what could only be described as pixie boots, and handed him a warm copy of her latest list.

  Craig smiled quietly at her eclectic fashion sense. He’d given up being surprised by what women wore years before and had learned not to comment long before that. Lucia and his flamboyant Italian mother Mirella had trained him well, but Nicky’s style managed to raise even his eyebrows. She mixed old and new, Goth and punk and emerged with something like early Madonna. Well, whatever it was, it suited her, signposting her quirky personality even before she spoke.

  She lifted her pen ostentatiously and they started. The session turned out to be like many things in life, not half as bad as he’d dreaded. It was twenty minutes of ‘this is what needs to be done, and here’s how we can do it’ requiring only an occasional nod from him. And not for the first time he reflected that she should be running the whole police service - it would definitely be more efficient.

  Craig watched her as she talked, quickly and in a deep, loud voice that belied her thirty-seven years and slight build. Dockers and sailors had inhabited Docklands for hundreds of years, but he doubted if many of them had a louder voice than Nicky.

  She could feel his attention wandering and waved a naughty finger at him. “You’re not paying attention, sir. And we’ll never get through this unless you do. You don’t want me back t
omorrow, now do you?”

  They both laughed. She’d always behaved like his mum, despite Craig being five years older, but it had got worse since her recent holiday in Venice. Now she behaved exactly like Mirella - she’d be listening to opera next.

  He was rescued by his mobile phone ringing, and with a mock-apology, he answered it gratefully. “Marc Craig.”

  “It’s Maggie Clarke, Inspector Craig. What have you got for me?”

  He didn’t know whether to be surprised or annoyed at her cheek, so he opted for neutrality. “Absolutely nothing, Ms Clarke. I told you this morning that I would call you when we were ready.”

  “But there are other reporters sniffing around your press office, and you promised me an exclusive.”

  He sighed. She was right; it was never going to take the hacks long. A dead body anywhere was hard enough to keep quiet, but in a place full of five thousand civil servants, there was no hope. He shrugged silently, conceding defeat.

  “OK, Ms Clarke.”

  “Maggie”

  “Ms Clarke. Leave it with me. I’ll be in touch later.”

  “But...”

  “Later. Now, goodbye.”

  He clicked the phone down and looked at his watch, feigning surprise.

  “Is that the time, Nicky? I have something for Davy to chase-up with John, and I need to catch Liam.”

  She looked up at him sceptically, tapping her long painted nail on a file. “Dr Winter has already called Davy, and Liam is still checking Mr Leighton’s alibi, so we have at least ten more minutes.”

  He gave up on the escape, smiling, and slumped back in his chair, adjusting it very deliberately, at some length. At least he could control that.

  ***

  Kaisa Moldeau didn’t look like a nanny to Annette, well, not one that any sensible woman would want anyway. She was nothing like Mary Poppins. She was barely thirty, barely eight stone, and barely dressed at all.

  When she’d first answered the door at the Leighton’s opulent home on Belfast’s prosperous Stranmillis Road, Annette had thought that she was going clubbing, wondering who the mini-skirt was for, certainly not the giggling three-year-old hiding behind her tanned legs. She was stunning.