The Waiting Room (#4 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 7

  ***

  By eleven-forty the dinner at Deanes at Queens, Craig’s new favourite restaurant, was just winding down, after three hours of good food and banter. Craig was about to suggest coffee when his phone rang urgently. Before he reached to answer it, John’s pager buzzed in echo. They glanced at each other quickly, knowing that it only meant one thing. They mouthed an apology to their partners and moved to the street exit, shivering in the night’s cloudless cold.

  Craig gazed across at the imposing façade of Methodist College as Liam’s voice echoed down the line, telling him what he already knew. There was another body.

  But not the same as the first one. The case seemed entirely unrelated. He nodded to himself while Liam talked on, ending the call with. “See you in five.” He re-entered the restaurant just as John returned from his parallel call.

  “Sorry, I have to go.”

  Craig’s glum expression was matched by Julia’s own. She shrugged, knowing there was no option, and smiled up at him reassuringly. “We’ll be fine. You go ahead.”

  Natalie stared at John amused, knowing his farewell speech would be just as brief. She saved him the trouble. “Don’t worry, we’ll stay and have a gossip.” She lifted a half-full bottle of wine, cheerfully pouring Julia another glass. “Just don’t wake us when you come in.” They waved them away, smiling, as Craig paid the bill and left the bright warmth of the restaurant for a much darker place.

  ***

  Liam grinned at them, taking in Craig’s cool combination of suit jacket and jeans, and John’s eccentric green shoes. He’d obviously interrupted a night out.

  “Ooh, look at you two. Lucky ladies.” John gave a mock bow and quickly donned a forensic suit to match Liam’s own.

  They were in Marrion Park off the Malone Road and the body was in the large house behind them. Number Forty. Liam led the way up the drive into the wide-fronted mansion. Its white-walled façade was impressive, but not half as much as its interior.

  As they entered the low front door, the entrance hall’s ceiling rose. The architects had removed the ceiling in favour of a three-storey-high glass roof that gave a window to the stars. Craig whistled in surprise and stood for a moment, taking in the black sky overhead. It felt as if they were outside, except that the warmth of the under-floor heating made it clear that they weren’t.

  Craig’s eyes fell gradually down the wall of the atrium where they stood. Two levels were marked by mezzanines, the lights behind them the only sign of other rooms. For a moment he was puzzled how to reach them, his eyes finally lighting on spiral staircase in the corner. Liam gestured towards it, indicating they were about to take a climb.

  As they started their ascent John broke the silence. “This is serious money, Marc. I’ve never seen anything like this. Well, not outside the pages of the Bazaar.”

  Craig gave a wry smile. The Ulster Bazaar made its money telling the rich and privileged of Northern Ireland about the other rich and privileged. Just to make sure they knew who to mix with. It wouldn’t do to breed with the wrong sort.

  They reached the first floor and Liam strode ahead of them, his six-feet-six height echoed in the length of his legs. A few seconds later they stood in a completely white room, whose only patch of colour surrounded the bloody corpse on the floor. Liam nodded down at it grimly.

  “There you go. Not as gruesome as Friday night’s, but dead all the same. It looks like a single shot to the head. But sure, the Doc will be able to tell us about that.”

  John adjusted his glasses and hunkered down beside the body, studying its angles in silence. The man lay on his left side on the bleached wood floor, with a handgun beside him. His eyes were closed tight and there was a single crimson hole in his right temple. Blood trickled slowly down his cheek, pooling beneath one eye, and making him look like he was crying bloody tears. It reminded Craig of a Caravaggio painting.

  After a moment John nodded and stood up. “Liam’s right. It looks like a clean shoot. Forty-something male, one bullet to the head, straight through the right temple. Bang, you’re dead. He wouldn’t have felt much. I can’t see any other injuries but we’ll find that out at the lab.”

  “What time was he found, Liam?”

  Liam reached inside his white suit, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. Craig smiled at the incongruity of a giant man in a baby-gro. The whole scene was surreal.

  “Let’s see…OK, timeline. A neighbour heard a shot at about ten-forty and called us. I got here at eleven and forensics arrived ten minutes later. I called you at eleven-forty. So he must have been killed about an hour and fifteen minutes ago.”

  John shook his head. “Sorry, but no. He’s been dead two to three hours judging by his body temperature.”

  “You’re certain John?”

  “Yep. He shot himself once, but it was two to three hours ago, not one.”

  Craig looked around urgently. If he’d been shot three hours ago then what had the neighbour heard at ten-forty?

  “He definitely shot himself?”

  John nodded. “He’s positive for gun-shot residue on the right hand, so he’s definitely fired a gun recently. Most likely this one.”

  Craig thought for a minute and then realisation hit him. “Liam, get uniform to look for anything that can make a noise and be set on a timer. Tape recorder, computer, DVD. These houses are set far apart, with thick walls, so it must have been outside for someone to hear it. Check the garden and walls nearest the neighbour’s house.”

  Craig left John to arrange the body’s move and wandered through the mansion’s almost sterile rooms, trying to picture what sort of person lived there. There were no personal touches anywhere. Each room was completely white, and simply furnished with a bed, like a modern hotel. Except for one. It had soft leather couches and dark wood walls, and a coffee percolator in one corner. Its heavy air made Craig shudder. There was no warmth anywhere in the expensive house. After five minutes he wandered back to the scene.

  A C.S.I. was busily taking photographs and Liam re-joined them breathlessly, dragging a stocky constable behind him. He was dark-haired and swarthy in the style of the ‘black Irish’. A legacy of the Spanish Armada some speculated. Liam waved him forward, but he stood in silence, shifting from foot to foot until Liam finally prodded him into action by booming in his ear.

  “This is Dermot and Dermot’s got something to tell you. Haven’t you Dermot?”

  The twenty-something sprang forward, to escape Liam’s volume, and blushed, bleeding bright red from his face into his hair. It made for an interesting colour scheme.

  “Sir.”

  Craig smiled benignly, urging the boy on with his eyes. “There’s, there’s a computer in the garden, sir. It was set to play a gun-shot at ten-forty.”

  Craig nodded. It was what he’d expected. “Very good, constable…?”

  “Harkin, sir.”

  “Good, constable Harkin. Right then, can you get the crime scene investigators to take it back to the lab please. Dr Winter will know what to do with it.”

  John peered up from his camera lens. “Mark it for the attention of Dr Des Marsham, Head of Forensic Science, please.” Des would work out anything that John couldn’t.

  The constable blushed again and nodded respectfully, leaving for his task. Craig wandered over to Liam. He was smiling as proudly as if the boy had been his son.

  “Great find by the lad, boss.”

  “Yes.” Craig smiled. “Is he a relative by any chance?”

  Liam blushed slightly and laughed. “My cousin’s boy. How did you guess?”

  “Call it intuition. OK, do we have anything on the victim yet? Or on who owns the house?”

  “It’s owned by a company called ‘Arim Holdings’. Never heard of them, but I’ll get Davy to check it out. Apparently a lot of this street is owned by companies - houses for their executives. Nice for some, eh?”

  It was common practice for companies to buys houses for senior staff posted somewhere to work. It
was cheaper than hotels or renting. Although very few would be in areas as salubrious as this.

  He indicated the body. “Anything on the victim?”

  Liam shook his head slowly. “Not a dicky bird. No I.D. or wallet on him and the house is clean of paperwork. I’ll get on it tomorrow when we have his prints.”

  “And the door-to-door. Tell the lads to cover from seven to eleven pm this evening. Someone around here saw something.”

  “Aye.” Liam paused, giving Craig a curious look. “Here boss, where’s Annette? She didn’t answer her page.”

  Craig turned away quickly, scanning the room in faux-interest. “I gave her a week’s study leave. Her exam’s on Tuesday.”

  Liam stared at Craig sceptically, knowing he was lying and wondering why. He wasn’t a bad liar actually. He would have believed him except for the lack of eye contact.

  But he’d bide his time. He’d find out what was going on with Annette from Nicky. He smiled, pleased at the excuse for a long conversation with her. Their mutual crush was an open office secret, kept in check by loyalty to their spouses. But a long coffee about Annette’s welfare couldn’t possibly count as infidelity, could it?

  In the thirty seconds it took for the possibilities to play out in Liam’s mind, Craig worked out exactly what he was planning. He made a note to warn Nicky off saying anything, unless Annette decided to tell people herself.

  John interrupted their thoughts by leaping up and starting to strip-off his suit. Then he signalled the removal of the body to the morgue. There was nothing more to do tonight so they filtered off in their different directions. Each heading for home, bed and a warm companion. In stark contrast to the man lying dead on the floor.

  ***

  Hannah threw her bag on the bed and changed quickly, almost ripping the dress off her thin body in disgust. She’d been drinking and crying in the Union bar for hours, shocked at her own behaviour and at the man she’d recognised. How could he? He had responsibilities.

  She’d never liked him, but in a strange way she must have trusted him. Otherwise he couldn’t have shattered her trust by going to that place, could he? But who was she to talk? She’d been prepared to sell sex, so why should she be shocked that someone else was prepared to buy it. But him?

  She threw herself under the shower, trying to wash away the memory, and the images that his presence conjured up in her head. The effort made her vomit again and she staggered back into the bedroom wrapped in a towel, and slumped on the bed, staring at the spinning ceiling.

  All of a sudden a phone rang in the distance. It took Hannah a moment to realise it was coming from her handbag. The pay-as-you-go phone she’d used for the agency. She shot a look towards the bedroom door, praying that the sound wouldn’t bring Fiona running, and lifted it, staring as if it would bite.

  The caller cut off abruptly and she pulled feverishly at its back cover, reaching for the battery, just as they rang again. Her thoughts raced between answering, ignoring it or throwing it at the wall. Finally she settled on the first option, pressing the green key.

  She sat in silence, half- naked, waiting for the caller to speak. When they did it was angrily. A high-pitched screech distorted the seductive tones of the agency Madam.

  “Why didn’t you go to your appointment? These are wealthy men - they aren’t used to being stood up.”

  Hannah said nothing, just stared at the phone as Sylvia’s voice got angrier. “Listen to me, you little bitch. If you think you can get away with this you’ve another think coming. You gave your address.”

  Hannah panicked for a moment and then relief flooded over her. Sylvia had no way of tracing her - she’d given her false information. Then she remembered a vague internet snippet that a phone’s location could be traced while the SIM was live. She cut the call quickly. Then ripped out the SIM and battery and flushed them down the toilet, before falling back on the bed exhausted. She lapsed into a tear induced sleep, her thoughts still full of the man that she knew she should tell her mother about.

  Chapter Seven

  Monday 7.55am

  Craig leaned across Julia’s slim body, lifting his phone. He had no idea why it was on the other side of the bed, until he remembered that he’d started off there the night before. He’d arrived back at one-thirty intending to slip in quietly and go to sleep, but a tipsy Julia had other plans.

  He smiled at the memory, considering a repeat performance, until a glance at his mobile showed it was nearly eight and he had two missed calls. He sat up too quickly and tiredness nearly pulled him back down. After ten minutes of a warm shower running over his body he was nearly revived. He was just grabbing some coffee, when Julia wandered sleepily into the kitchen. She was wearing his shirt from the night before and smiling wanly. The pallor of her skin against his white shirt made her look almost ethereal, only the deep russet of her curls adding colour. It was a medieval look.

  He kissed her quickly on the cheek and slipped one arm into his jacket, making for the door, before the sight of her slim thighs pulled him back to bed. They had two murders and he was a team member down. He would be working late every evening this week.

  “Marco, where are you going without breakfast? Was your call last night another murder?”

  “Yes, sorry love. I have to go.”

  She wrapped her arms around him, and her bed-warmth radiated seductively. He laughed, knowing exactly what she was doing, and removed her hands gently, holding them at arm’s length. Her voice was a wheedling as his was insistent.

  “Do you have to go in?” She smiled naughtily. “We could have all day in bed.”

  “No!”

  He could hear that his voice was too firm so he adjusted it to a softer tone. “No, pet. The murder last night was within two miles of the church one - they could be linked. Annette’s off this week and I’m in court sometime today as well. I can’t leave Liam to do all the work.”

  His last words were said in a way that he knew she couldn’t argue with. She would never leave her team in Limavady to work two cases alone. Lover or no lover.

  She smiled up at him and shrugged, turning back towards the bedroom with a coquettish smile. He felt guilty about her coming up for the weekend and seeing so little of him, but what could he do? He had a thought.

  “What time do you have to go back today?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, maybe we could have an early dinner before you go?”

  She smiled tiredly. “Don’t worry about it.”

  She didn’t sound angry but her words said ‘don’t bother’. Craig was bewildered. She smiled and yawned, stretching her arms wide and taking his shirt dangerously high on her thighs. He could tell from her face that was exactly what she’d intended. He mustered all his self-control and asked the question.

  “Why, don’t worry?”

  “Because I’m not leaving today; I have a week’s holiday. So, if you’ll have me, I was going to stay with you for a few days and spend some time with my Mum. She’s over from London, staying in The Merchant.”

  He was genuinely pleased and his grin showed it. He leaned over, pulling her to him in a tight embrace. Then he made for the front door quickly, opening it just as her next offer reached him. “And if you want a hand while Annette’s off, I’d be glad to help out.”

  He considered the offer, parking it for future reference. “Be careful what you suggest, because you might end up working your holiday.”

  ***

  It had needed to be done so they’d done it, and there was no way that it could be traced back to them. The house was in the name of a dummy company. If the police ever managed to work through the currencies swops they would hit nothing but a dead end. They were in the clear.

  Ripley’d had to go. He hadn’t just made one mistake; this was the latest in a long line. And when you were dealing with merchandise that there was a million pound market for, you couldn’t take chances. Not to mention the reputational damage when you damaged a product. No, he’d ha
d to go.

  The police would put it down to…what? Drugs? They’d made sure that there were plenty of those in his system. Alcohol? Ditto. It would just look like suicide. A single gunshot to the temple, gun by his side and residue on his hand showing that he’d fired it. What other conclusion could they come to except suicide? If they were any good at their jobs, as another member had said they were, they would link Ripley with the church and the girl’s murder. That would solve her murder, and throw the plods off their trail.

  It was just as well Sylvia’s girl hadn’t turned up. Dawson frowned for a moment at the unreliability of the young. It was a good thing she wasn’t one of his students - he’d have failed her for absenteeism. Then he shrugged. Just as well she’d been unreliable or they’d have had to dispose of her as well. But they’d be dealing with Sylvia for her inefficiency anyway. It was sloppy work and they couldn’t afford a risk like that again.

  ***

  “OK, we’ll go round everyone in a minute, but I wanted to say thanks to all of you for working so hard at the weekend. Keep a note of your hours and I’ll sign the overtime.”

  Liam leaned forward eagerly. “Here, me too boss?”

  Craig smiled wryly and swung his chair around to face the river. Liam knew he was chancing his arm. “You already get it reflected in your salary.”

  Nicky and Davy smiled smugly, and Liam waved his fist playfully at Craig’s back.

  “I saw that.”

  Liam gawped at him, astonished, and then laughed, realising that he was reflected in the window.

  “Is Annette coming in, sir?”

  Nicky’s husky voice drew the word ‘sir’ into a throaty growl and Craig turned. He smiled to himself and wondered, not for the first time, how such a slight body could generate such resonance. He stifled another smile at her pleather leggings and off-the-shoulder top, wishing that Harrison could see them. But then again, with his tendency to lech, maybe not.