The History Suite

Catriona King

Copyright © 2015 by Catriona King

Photography: Pauline Breijer

Editor: Maureen Vincent-Northam

Design: Crooked Cat

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Publishing except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Publishing Ltd. 2014

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For my mother.

About the Author

Catriona King trained as a doctor and a police Forensic Medical examiner in London, where she worked for many years. She worked closely with the Metropolitan Police on several occasions. In recent years, she has returned to live in Belfast.

She has written since childhood; fiction, fact and reporting.

‘The History Suite’ is the ninth novel in the modern Craig Crime Series. It follows Superintendent Marc Craig and his team as they solve the mysterious murder of a health worker and leads them into a world of drugs, greed and war.

Book ten in the Craig Crime Series, ‘The Sixth Estate’, will be released later in 2015. Book eleven in the series is currently in edits.

Acknowledgements

My thanks to Northern Ireland for providing the inspiration for my books.

My thanks to Stewart Lilley, owner of ‘Bespoke Hairdressing’, Belfast.

I would like to thank Crooked Cat Publishing for being so unfailingly supportive and cheerful, as well as my editor, Maureen Vincent-Northam.

Finally I would like to thank all of the police officers that I have ever worked with, anywhere, for their unfailing professionalism, wit and compassion.

Catriona King

Belfast, April 2015

The Craig Crime Series

A Limited Justice

The Grass Tattoo

The Visitor

The Waiting Room

The Broken Shore

The Slowest Cut

The Coercion Key

The Careless Word

The History Suite

Discover more at: www.catrionakingbooks.com

The author may be contacted to engage with about her books at: Catriona_books@yahoo.co.uk

The History Suite

Chapter One

St Mary’s Healthcare Trust, Belfast. Thursday, 9th October 2014. 11 a.m.

“I’ll meet you there in five, Caro. Sister Norton needs fresh towels from the linen room.”

Nurse Caroline Hobbert mimed biting into a cake; then she licked her lips, grinned at her friend and headed for the hospital canteen. Hannah Donard turned towards the large linen room, hoping that she’d find the towels quickly; she was desperate for a coffee. She tugged absentmindedly at the room’s wide wooden door, wondering why the trolley that usually lived inside was outside in the hall. She shrugged; it wasn’t her responsibility to make sure the porters did their jobs, that’s why Norton got paid the big bucks. She’d just begun rummaging through the towels when she saw the shoe. It was a flat, black lace-up that looked familiar, although it took her a second to work out why.

There are moments when people see their reflection where they don’t expect a reflection to be: in a mirror in an unfamiliar room or a newly washed window, even in an unnoticed puddle by their feet. That was how it seemed when Hannah saw the shoe; as if it was her own mirrored unexpectedly in a passing glass. Except that there was no glass or mirror or puddle and the shoe wasn’t hers. Neither was the foot inside it, or the ankle or the leg above. Or the skirt of the pale-blue dress or the soft navy cardigan worn over the top, to keep its owner warm on a long winter’s day; a woman who was always chilly but long past feeling it now.

Hannah Donard stood there, amongst the laundered bedcovers and starched cotton sheets, gazing down at the shoe that wasn’t hers. She was seized by the urge to push away the linen and see the face above the cardigan. To see whose foot filled the shoe and whose body filled the dress; the woman who wasn’t her, lying cold on the linen room floor. But she didn’t push and neither did she run, instead she simply screamed at the top of her voice.

***

Docklands Coordinated Crime Unit. The Murder Squad. 3.30 p.m.

“Of course, you realise what comes next, don’t you?”

Marc Craig lowered his newspaper and scanned his deputy’s face with a wariness born from years of familiarity. Ostensibly Liam Cullen’s freckled countenance looked so innocent that only someone with a heart of stone, or a world-weary cynicism developed from decades of hard knocks, could ever have thought that innocence wasn’t his default mode. His birth right, coded in his DNA, the word stamped through him from head to toe like ‘welcome to Brighton’ on a stick of rock. Ostensibly.

But anyone who had known Liam for more than one week knew that behind his altar boy smile and unfeasibly unlined almost fifty-year-old face lay a piss-taker of Olympic medal standard.

So there was no excuse for Craig taking the bait; he couldn’t plead ignorance or a lack of experience in his defence. Yet take the bait he did, because not to have taken it on the assumption that Liam was working up to a joke might have caused offence, and Craig didn’t like to offend people unless he had good reason to; then he would do it all day long.

He folded his paper and took the bait. “OK, and boy do I know that I’m going to regret asking this, but what does come next?”

Liam smiled. Not the smile of a man who was about to catch someone out, but an indulgent smile that said Craig had called it right.

“Next they’ll be having a baby, that’s what. They’ve been back from honeymoon now for two months; you mark my words, you’ll be hearing the clatter of tiny stethoscopes soon.”

Craig searched his D.C.I.’s face for an imminent laugh but it was nowhere to be found. Liam was serious! He actually believed that the Director of Forensic Pathology, John Winter and his new wife Natalie would be making a happy announcement soon. Craig frowned, unsure how he felt about the idea. John had been his friend since grammar school and now they worked together solving crimes, with John in pathology and him heading up the murder squad. He’d been best man at the Caribbean wedding in August where John had married Natalie Ingrams, a surgeon at St Mary’s Healthcare Trust, and he’d just about got his head around that; the idea of them being parents someday hadn’t even occurred to him!

Liam was still pontificating so neither of them noticed Nicky Morris, Craig’s P.A., standing by his open office door. How they’d missed her was anyone’s guess, given that today’s outfit was a lime green catsuit with matching platformed boots. To say that Nicky’s fashion sense was unusual was like saying that Lady Gaga liked putting on a show; obvious.

Nicky’s husky voice cut through Craig’s thoughts. “I agree with Liam. They’re both getting on a bit, so they won’t want to waste time.”

Craig spluttered out the coffee he’d just sipped. “Getting on a bit! Don’t sugar-coat it, will you!”

Nicky folded her arms, showing a cerise lining to her cuffs that Craig guessed she’d added specially, to ‘brighten the outfit up a bit’.

“There’s no point you saying they’re not, sir. Natalie’s thirty-six and Doctor Winter’s pushing forty-five.”

“He’s just turned forty-three and he’s only year younger than me!”

Nicky shrugged. “Well, you’re pushing it too.” As Craig gawped she gazed pointedly at his desk-phone. “You’ve knocked it off the hook again.”

He glanced at the handset and saw she was right.

“I’ve been trying to put Dr Winter through for five minutes. I think we have a case.”

Craig thanked God silently. They’d been sitting around for weeks with no new cases and all their paperwork done; he was bored stiff. Plus it was giving Nicky and Liam too much time to speculate about other people’s private lives.

He grabbed at the telephone so eagerly that even he knew it was wrong; someone somewhere had died, it wasn’t a reason to get excited, but…

“Hi, John, what’s the story?”

“No small talk? A man could be offended.”

Craig smiled. If John knew what they’d just been discussing he’d have choked on his words.

“Liam’s here so I’m putting you on speaker. Fire ahead.”

Winter paused for a moment and his silence told them everything they needed to know about their victim. All murders were sad and all of them were ugly, but some provoked an added layer of sorrow, pity or disgust. When the victims were especially vulnerable, young or old, or when they were people who’d spent their lives just trying to help. It wasn’t that there was a hierarchy of victimhood or that one life was worth than another, just that sometimes the outrage that accompanied every murder felt even more raw.

John swallowed hard. “There’s no nice way to say this. It’s a nurse from St Mary’s. Female, twenty-five.”

It was Craig’s turn to be silent so Liam stepped into the gap.

“When and where, Doc? And why did they call you?”

John laughed unexpectedly, lightening the mood. “Well… the janitor was busy and I was the next one on the list.”

Liam blustered. “I didn’t mean that, I…”

Craig found his voice. “He’s just winding you up, Liam. But he’s right, John, why did they call you instead of us?”

“They didn’t. I was at St Mary’s for a meeting when they found the body so they called me to have a look.”

Liam gawped. “It happened in the hospital?”

He thought of the last case they’d had in a hospital; at the M.P.E., the Maternity, Paediatric and Endocrine unit, part of the Trust across town from the main site. It was one of the nastiest messes they’d ever had to clean up and he hoped fervently this wasn’t going to be the same. Craig was thinking the same and adding media interest to the trouble heading their way.

“OK. Bring us up to speed.”

“The deceased’s name was Eleanor Rudd. She was a nurse on the Elderly Medicine Unit, the E.M.U. She was found in the unit’s linen room.”

“What time?”

“Eleven o’clock. She’d been dead for less than an hour. Manual strangulation.”

Craig frowned. “Manual? How big was she?”

“Five-eight and around ten stone, so whoever did it would’ve had to be strong. You can start ruling out just on that.” He continued thoughtfully. “She fought back hard, Marc. There were scratch marks on her neck where she’d tried to break their grip and injuries to both her hands. They broke two of her fingers, probably when they prised them off.”

Craig shook his head, picturing the nurse’s last moments. He nodded to Liam and they readied to leave.

“We’re coming now. Don’t start the post-mortem until we do.”

***

The Ivory Restaurant. Victoria Square Shopping Centre.

D.I. Annette McElroy glanced at her watch and then slid her hand slowly from beneath the man’s opposite. He shook his head and smiled as she scanned the restaurant for the tenth time since they’d entered. It was as if she expected to be recognised, or that at any moment some ageing relative who’d travelled all the way from her childhood home in Maghera especially, would burst through the door to point a wizened finger and place a scarlet ‘A’ for adulterer on her chest.

Annette sighed, knowing that her caution was redundant. A man on a galloping horse could have spotted she was having an affair; there was no point trying to hide it. Even if the pale band of skin on her left ring finger hadn’t indicated a hastily removed wedding ring, the way she was gazing at her companion in the middle of the afternoon tannoyed it loud and clear.

She didn’t feel guilty, even though her upbringing shouted that she should. Her husband Pete had broken the trust between them, not her. She’d struggled to forgive his affair for over a year, trying not to flinch each time his mobile beeped with a text and resisting the temptation to check who it was from. She’d tried hard to trust him when he’d said that he was working late, or couldn’t go to John and Natalie’s wedding because he’d been tasked by the headmaster to lead a summer camp. But every night she’d lain awake, comparing herself to a woman whom she’d never met, and every day she’d avoided looking in the mirror, in case it confirmed what she feared most. That she was ugly: frumpy, undesirable, a career woman who had lost her man. A woman who’d put her job before her husband, the tabloid press’ most unforgivable crime of all. You can be a thief or a liar, even a mass-murderer, girls, but for goodness sake make sure you cook his dinner and iron his shirts.

Of course Pete had had an affair, to believe the media any normal man in his position would. After all, she was always at work, instead of being there to cook and clean as she had for the first twenty years of their married life. How dare she work to better herself and earn money to improve all their lives? Mea Culpa. How dare she enjoy her job and worry more about her children’s futures than she did about the needs of an adult man? An adult man who she’d thought loved her enough to understand what she, what they were both, working for: their children’s futures and their old age.

She’d tried to forgive his affair for over a year, tried to cope with the images of him in bed with another woman that had flashed into her head each time he touched her. She’d fought hard not to cry and push him away when he’d expected their sex life to return to what it had been before. Better in fact; he’d expected her to perform like a porn-star to prove that she’d been wrong to make him stray.

He’d said the affair had meant nothing to him, so that meant it should mean nothing to her. And she’d tried, God how she’d tried, but the trust had gone and its absence had been corrosive, dissolving her love for him and replacing it with hate. It had left her lonely and vulnerable to another man’s glance, and to his kind words that made her feel attractive again.

Annette smiled at the man across the table then she buttoned the jacket of her middle-range suit across her middle-aged body, struggling to be sensible again. Because she was, sensible that is. Sensible was her middle name, sandwiched between Annette and Elizabeth as if her parents had actually said it while she’d dangled above a font in the vicar’s hands. I name you Annette Sensible Elizabeth Eakin, like some Wild West pioneer wife, whose friends had names like Patience, Hope and Faith.

Her lips tightened at the image and she reached for the man’s hand again. She’d been sensible all her life. A sensible daughter and then a sensible nurse, a sensible wife and mother and now a sensible cop. Well, she was sick of it! She wanted to rip off her prim suit and run naked through the streets of Belfast, to show just how wild she could be. She wanted to get blind drunk and have a tattoo that said ‘girls just want to have fun’ on her backside. Except… she was too sensible.

So instead Annette McElroy née Eakin did the wildest thing that she could think of at that moment. She reached across the table and in full view of the shoppers in Victoria Square she kissed the man who wasn’t her husband hard upon the lips. Then she lifted the sensible handbag that held her sensible wedding ring and walked sensibly back to the murder squad to work.

***

The Pathology Lab. 4.30 p.m.

Liam spread his legs so wide apart that they threatened to squeeze Craig into one corner of John’s small office. If a normal man sat with their legs akimbo they would occupy a limited amount of space, but Liam wasn’t any normal man; he was six-feet-six and seventeen stone of inelegant blue-white flesh. Craig shoved a leg away and waved John to carry on.

“Did I say she was twenty-five?”

Craig nodded.

“She worked on the Elderly Medicine wards. Well, it’s a self-contained unit really, with an acute ward and a long-stay suite.”

Craig cut in. “Long-stay? You mean like a mini nursing home?”

“Exactly like.” John warmed to his theme. “It’s a fascinating set-up actually. The Professor of Geriatrics set up a suite where elderly people with chronic health problems could live out the rest of their lives.”

“What sort of chronic health problems?”

John smiled. “That’s the beauty of it. None of them is life threatening: asthma, diabetes, that sort of thing, but they’re too much for some residential homes to cope with so the Prof got funding for the suite. He does research on them.”

Liam’s eyes widened. “You mean he cuts them up?”

Craig and John gawped simultaneously and then John nodded his head.

“Yes, that’s right, Liam. We allow that on the NHS.” He saw Liam starting to believe him so he rolled his eyes. “Of course he doesn’t cut them up! He just carries out hearing tests, eye assessments and the rest. He’s trying to see what would happen if doctors ignored chronological age and treated elderly people as vigorously as they did the young, with all the same medication, operations etc.”

Craig gazed at him curiously, thinking of his own ageing parents. “And what does happen?”

John smiled. “They do amazingly well. The research shows that they live longer, healthier lives.”

Liam interjected. “So this suite, it’s like a home for Peter Pans then?”

John laughed. “You could say that. I’ve seen the place and it’s amazing, well worth you taking a look. It’s called Reilly Suite. There are rooms for married couples and singles, a central canteen and even a swimming pool and tennis court outside.”

“On the NHS?”

John shook his head. “No, those parts were funded by some eccentric millionaire called Reilly, hence the name. He’s probably worried about his old age. The staff are all NHS but the place looks like a five-star hotel.”

Liam was still smiling at his Peter Pan idea. “It’s like a living history suite; I bet the patients have some stories to tell. Mind you, none of them could have killed Rudd.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it stands to reason - they’re too old.”

Craig shook his head. “In my experience old people do all the things young people do, only with less fuss and a lot more skill.” He continued before Liam could say something rude. “And that’s where our victim worked?”

“There and in the acutely ill elderly ward on the other side of the unit. Newman Ward.”

Craig and Liam smiled simultaneously. Newman and Reilly – the E.M.U. sounded like Coronation Street’s fictional brewery. He nodded John on.

“OK, so Eleanor Rudd, our victim, was found around eleven o’clock by another nurse, Hannah Donard, in the linen room when she went to collect fresh towels. As I said on the phone, Rudd had definitely been strangled less than an hour before. Manually. There were no ligatures and the bruises on her neck indicate the hands belonged to either a very large woman or a man. Whoever did it they must have had considerable upper body strength.”

He glanced down at his desk and Craig knew there was something more.

“What else?”

John’s eyes darkened. “There were healed scars all over her back, the most recent a few years old. I’d say our victim had been abused when she was younger.”

He removed some photographs from a drawer and set them on the desk. Craig stared at them, not hiding his disgust. Eleanor Rudd’s back was covered with thick, linear scars and burn marks in the familiar shape of a cigarette.

“Definitely not recent?”

“No. I’d say the last was made around six or seven years ago.”

The group fell silent for a moment, imagining the childhood Eleanor Rudd must have had. Eventually Craig moved the discussion on.

“Forensics?”

“The C.S.I.s have just finished. First impressions are that the linen room was covered in prints, so you’re going to have a job on your hands.” Craig opened his mouth to speak and John shook his head. “Before you ask. No, there aren’t any prints on the body. I thought we might have got something from her neck but either they wore gloves or they wiped them off.”

Liam interrupted. “What wipes prints off skin?”

“Anything that removes sweat or oil. But they’d have had to be a cool bugger to take the time to do that. Gloves are much more likely, especially since there were boxes of them all over the place. I’ll let you know if we get anything. Des is starting the forensics now.”

Dr Des Marsham was Northern Ireland’s Head of Forensic Science and he and John made a formidable team. If there was anything to find then they would.

Craig thought for a moment, running through a checklist of questions before he shook his head. There was nothing more to be learned here until the P.M. results were through; time to visit the scene.

As they rose to leave Liam grinned at John.

“How’s married life, Doc?”

Craig knew exactly what he was getting at but John’s face broke into an innocent smile.

“Brilliant. I don’t know why I didn’t do it years ago.”

“Because you didn’t meet Natalie till 2012.”

“Ah, yes, that was probably it.”

Liam hadn’t finished. “Any plans?”

John gave him a puzzled look and Craig was just about to interject when John’s puzzle changed to comprehension and he nodded. “You’ve heard then?”

Craig froze. Liam had been right; John was going to announce a happy event. Liam squinted shrewdly, not prepared to show his hand in case he was wrong.

“I heard something. Tell us more.”

John nodded eagerly. “It’s great. Not too big and not too small. Compact really. Natalie can’t wait to dress it up.”

On the word ‘compact’ Craig laughed, more at Liam’s bewildered face than anything else. Liam thought John was discussing his developing offspring, but Craig had caught on quick. John was talking about something much bigger than a baby.

“Where is it?”

“Near you, on Annadale Embankment. It’s an 18th Century chapel, Methodist I think, but first converted into a house about ten years back. It’s really cool inside – spiral staircase, the works. We’ll have a housewarming when it’s decorated.”

Liam guffawed.

“What’s the joke?”

Craig smiled. “Liam thought you were referring to something else that Natalie might want to dress up.”

John looked bewildered for a moment and then realisation dawned. He gawped at Liam.

“A baby! Good grief, man, give us a chance. We’ve barely got our suitcases unpacked.”

Liam shook his head sagely. “You’d better get your skates on. Like Nicky said, you’re not getting any younger, Doc.”

“Now Nicky’s involved? Next thing you’ll be laying a bet on it.”

Liam shook his head. “Nah… we did that with McGregor and Smith and I’m still waiting for a return.”

He was referring to the squad’s two newest members, Carmen McGregor and Ken Smith. McGregor was a fiery detective constable from Edinburgh, who’d clashed with Liam since her secondment from Vice in July; a secondment that had since become permanent. Smith had joined the team on a year’s exchange from the British Army. He was a bomb-squad captain who’d acted as military liaison on a recent case. Nicky had been trying to match-make the pair since they’d joined, immediately spotting Smith’s attraction to the flame-haired Scot. She’d hoped that a recent work trip to Geneva might have sealed the deal, but they’d come back just as single as they’d left.

John stared at Craig reprovingly and Craig raised his hands in denial.

“Don’t blame me. The baby idea was all ‘earth mother Cullen’ here.” He headed for the door. “Give me a call when you’ve some good news.” He realised what he’d said and added hastily. “I mean about the P.M.”

Chapter Two

St Mary’s Trust Elderly Medicine Unit. 5.30 p.m.

The two detectives entered the E.M.U. groaning and muttering. Not because the unit wasn’t sealed off effectively, because it was, and not because civilians had stomped all over their crime scene as was often the case, because they hadn’t. They were groaning because the unit was situated at the end of St Mary’s lengthy ground floor corridor, adding a factor that would make their murder harder to solve; easy access from the outside.

Ground floor access meant that the killing could have been opportunistic, or at least required less effort. If you could simply hop through a waist-high window, the planning ability of a master criminal was seldom required.

Liam’s groans grew exponentially as they stepped through the police tape into the unit’s circular core. Light flooded the small space, brightening it unfeasibly on the late autumn day. That in itself was no bad thing, except that the light was pouring in through windows set in a conservatory-like ring, and smack bang amongst them was a pair of full-height doors leading to a landscaped garden and grounds. Craig shook his head. The architect had designed the space for maximum light and warmth, something that on another day he would have applauded; but not today.

They exited into the garden. It ended in a low wall bordering a busy main road.

Liam rolled his eyes. “Whoever designed this had obviously never heard of security. Any scrote worth his salt could have been out the door and over that wall in less than a minute.” He squinted in the sunshine, pointing at something Craig couldn’t make out. “There’s even a bus-stop, in case he forgot his car! We’re stuffed on this one, boss.”

Craig shook his head. “Not necessarily. Look.”

Liam followed his gaze and saw a small box above the bus-stop. A traffic camera. Craig scanned the garden and noticed something else. Standing like sentinels, pressed against the hedges so that they were barely visible, were pillars mounted with CCTV. Liam revised his earlier opinion of the architect, but only marginally.

“So we’ll be able to get a nice snap of the intruder. I’d rather they hadn’t been able to get in at all.”

After a minute’s more scrutiny, Craig led the way back through the doors in search of a police uniform. He found a well-stretched one covering the rotund shape of Sergeant Joe Rice, a Cork man who’d moved to Belfast twenty years earlier but had never lost his native lilt.

“Hello, Joe.” Craig gestured around him. “This is a bad business.”

Joe smiled incongruously at Craig’s words, not because he was being disrespectful but because he was a smiley sort of man.

“It is indeed, so.”

Liam stifled a laugh at his sing-song voice, emphasised by the way he dotted ‘so’ randomly throughout his speech. It was a familiar Cork idiom but that wouldn’t stop Liam deliberately asking questions just to see how many times it occurred.

“Show us where the body was found, please.”

Joe turned obediently and walked five hundred yards down a small corridor, away from the central core. Craig gazed around him curiously. “Is the unit designed as a hub and spoke?”

“Aye. The acute part anyway. Each spoke has single rooms, so.”

“But how do the staff keep an eye on everyone? How would they know if someone fell?”

Liam had already guessed the answer. “Internal CCTV. Each room is monitored from a central bank, probably at the nurse’s desk.”

Joe grinned, spreading his chubby cheeks even more. “Well done, Liam. You’re brighter than you look, so. Mind you, that wouldn’t be hard.”

The ensuing banter ran for a moment as Craig disappeared into an empty side-room and checked the CCTV. When he emerged he waved Joe on. They moved past the rooms and into a small square space at the end of the spoke. Three doors sat flush with the wall with no external marking to say what lay behind; crime-scene tape marked the room where their victim had been found. Craig indicated the other doors.

“So if that’s the linen room, what are those?”

Joe swung the nearest door inwards to reveal a small sluice. The second door belonged to a clinical room, equipped with needles, syringes and boxes of gloves. There were locked cupboards on the walls. Craig tugged at one of them, testing its seal.

“What do they hold, Joe?”

“Medication, so. Mostly antibiotics that the patients take, but there are controlled drugs as well. Morphine and the like.”

Craig motioned the sergeant to show him. The Cork man withdrew some keys from his pocket, tagged ‘Sister’s Keys - Hands Off!’

Liam gawped in disbelief. “Here, how did you get those? Most sisters I’ve met would die defending their keys.”

Joe tapped his nose in an effort to look mysterious then he gave up and smiled. “I knew you’d want to check the controlled drugs, to rule out a junkie, so I asked Sister Norton for hers…so.”

He opened the cupboard highest off the ground and furthest from the door. At first sight its contents seemed to be tablets and bottles of liquid. Craig pictured an apothecary’s cupboard from centuries before; apart from mahogany and glass being replaced by white wood, and pestles and mortars with boxes and spoons, nothing much had changed in seven hundred years. A second glance told them that the cupboard held something more. Behind the pills and bottles lay a steel lock-box. Craig removed the obstacles so they had a clear view.

“Controlled drugs?”

Joe nodded, opening the smaller door, and they knew immediately that theft hadn’t been their killer’s aim. There, neatly arranged and marked with precision on a list inside the door, was every ampoule of opiate accounted for.

“Sister checked them?”

“All present and correct.”

Craig nodded and left the room. When he was six feet from the linen room he stopped, staring at its door while the others watched. It was stained with print powder, revealing too many smudges to make things simple; Des had a challenge ahead sorting them out. To the right-hand-side stood a steel trolley holding sheets and other things, to the left hung the dangling end of the crime-scene tape. Craig pointed at it.

“Who took that down?”

Joe stepped forward, making sure not to invade Craig’s space; it didn’t do to rile the boss at a murder scene.

“The C.S.I.s. They finished an hour past and said we could re-open the ward when you said so.”

Craig shook his head, not with a ‘no’ but with a ‘let’s see’. He stepped closer to the door and peered at a dent in the wood. It was faint and small and set at waist height.

“What’s this?”

Neither man could see what he was looking at but they pretended they did, answering “no idea” in unison, with Joe’s “so” bringing up the rear.

Craig smiled. “You can’t see it, can you?” He beckoned them closer without waiting for an answer. They squinted and Liam saw it first.

“It’s a dent, but it hasn’t broken the wood. Man, your eyesight’s good, boss.”

Once it was pointed out Joe could see the dent as well. He asked the right question.

“So? That door must get bashed a hundred times a day.” He gestured at the trolley. “Usually by that.”

Craig nodded him on. “Show me what part of that trolley matches the dent.”

Joe stared at the trolley then back at the door several times before finally shaking his head. Nothing on the trolley protruded sufficiently to make the mark. Liam hazarded a guess.

“Maybe a trolley from the clinical room, or one of the nurses’ belts?”

Craig thought for a moment longer and then shrugged, pushing away the end of the tape. “I don’t know what it is yet, but get it photographed, please.”

His inspection over he reached for the handle to open the door, then he stared again, for so long Liam wondered if he was counting the sheets. He knew better than to interrupt Craig when he was in spook mode, so he folded his arms and leaned against the nearest wall.

Craig scanned the linen room slowly. Its interior wasn’t as small as he’d expected. It extended back the length of three good-sized men and sideways two more on top of that, giving floor space of over five hundred square feet. Each wall was lined with shelves, their designated contents indicated by tabs: shelf one - sheets, shelf two - pillowcases, and so on. When the room was full of linen, a body could have been hidden at one end and not found for days.

He beckoned Joe forward. “Show me where the body was found.”

Joe pointed to the right-hand-side of the room. “There, about halfway down, so.”

“Halfway down, you’re sure?”

“Yes. Why? Is that important?”

Craig knew that it was but he wasn’t sure why. Leaving someone halfway down the room where they might be seen could indicate many things. The killer might have been interrupted or lazy, or simply unable to drag the body any farther, except that didn’t fit with the level of strength required to strangle someone with their bare hands. Perhaps they’d actually wanted Eleanor Rudd’s body found; he would think about that one later.

He turned on his heel and strode back to the centre of the unit with the other two scrambling to keep up.

“Who found the body?”

“Another nurse. Hannah Donard. She’s been interviewed and sent home.”

“Get her into High Street tomorrow, Liam. I want Annette to interview her, with Carmen, please.”

“Why not me?”

Craig ignored the question. “Joe, do you have the notes of her interview?”

Joe patted his top pocket and they knew he was literally keeping it close to his chest. “I’ll have it typed up and with you tomorrow.”

“Good. Annette will want to see it before she starts.”

Liam turned to Craig. “Do you want Annette to interview her ’cos she used to be a nurse?” It was asked like a petulant child.

Craig nodded. “And because she’ll be sensitive.”

Liam blustered. “I’m sensitive.”

“The most sensitive part of you is the sole of your foot and that’s usually inside a boot! Annette’s doing it. Right, Joe, show us the long-stay suite now, please.”

Joe led the way with Liam walking behind Craig, pulling a face.

“I saw that, Liam, and stop pretending to be hurt. Be logical; why would I waste my most senior team member on a witness interview when I need you here?”

Liam’s annoyed expression changed to a grin. “I never thought of that. We’ll have bigger fish to fry.”

Joe led the way down a wide, bright corridor with more windows on either side. When he reached a white door he stopped. Craig stared at it, surprised. It had a knocker and door-bell just like a house. There was even a letter-box in the front!

Joe grinned. “This is Reilly Suite and you’re not going to believe the inside. I’m coming here when I get old, so.”

Liam cut in instantly. “Not long now then.”

Craig’s retort was just as quick. “And you’ll be here before him.”

Liam was older than Joe by two years. There was plenty of life in him yet, but it didn’t do to let facts spoil a quip. He gestured Joe to ring the bell. One minute later it was answered by a thirty-something woman dressed in T-shirt and jeans. She smiled at them.

“Yes. Can I help you?”

Craig showed his badge and introduced everyone then waited for the woman to give her name.

“Hazel. Hazel Gormley. I’m the sister here. Please come in.”

As she led the way Craig noticed a disgruntled look on Liam’s face. He fell back and whispered. “What’s wrong with you?”

“T-shirts and jeans. I like nurses’ uniforms, especially the ones with the little hats.”

“This isn’t your erotic fantasy, Liam. She’s wearing normal clothes because this is people’s home, not a hospital ward.”

Liam made a face. “I’m just saying.”

“Well stop.”

As the exchange ended the sister halted in front of a second door and Craig realised she’d just led them through an entrance hall; quite a grand one now that he looked at it. The inner door resembled the outer except without a letter box, and as it swung inwards Craig gasped. The communal area in front of them was parquet floored and elegant in an old fashioned way, just like his parent’s hall. If it had been designed with older people in mind it worked. Off the space were several rooms and a quick tour revealed them to be bedrooms, sitting, TV and drawing rooms, with a games room towards the rear. Other hallways led to a dining room and sports complex.

The sister stopped walking and smiled up at Craig. “Most people are at dinner at the moment but I got permission to show you one of the apartments. It belongs to a married couple – Joe and Maria Muldoon. They moved in last year.”

As she talked she led them into an airy room, decorated as if it was in someone’s house. “The residents can bring their own furniture if they wish; it makes it feel more like home.”

This particular pair of residents had brought a four poster bed!

“This apartment has a living room, bedroom and ensuite. There’s also a small kitchen if they want to cook.”

After the tour had finished the sister showed them into her office. Over tea and biscuits Craig asked questions while the others munched.

“How many residents do you have in total, and how many couples versus single occupants?”

“Twenty-two at the moment; six couples and ten single residents. The age range is sixty to ninety-two. Most are mobile, although one uses a wheelchair and some use Zimmer frames and canes.”

Craig smiled. Those had been his next questions. Liam interjected.

“Sixty. That’s a bit young, isn’t it?”

Craig smiled, knowing that he was feeling his age.

Gormley shrugged. “I suppose it is if you’re in perfect health, but our residents all have problems such as asthma and diabetes. That’s why Professor Taylor started the unit; to research the outcomes if elderly people are treated with vigorous prevention and care.”

Craig asked another question. “How often is the professor here?”

“Usually twice a day, although he spends most of his time on the acute ward: Newman. The rest of the time he’s at the university doing research.”

“And the residents here? Do they ever go onto the acute ward?”

The sister burst out laughing. “Not if they can help it! Most of them avoid Newman like the plague; it reminds them of their age.” She pointed towards the back of the suite at what Craig imagined was a door. “That’s the suite’s main entrance. It leads onto the garden and tennis courts and lots of them have their cars parked out the back.”

Another way in. Craig still needed his question answered.

“Can they access the acute ward?”

Hazel nodded. “Ah, I see. You’re thinking about the murder in the linen room. Well yes, residents can come and go as they please, and many do. They like the hospital shop and library so they often go there. But…”

“What?”

“Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but we’re talking about elderly people here and the victim was a young nurse.”

“So?”

“Well, I doubt that any of our residents would have the strength to commit murder.”

Craig smiled. She was probably right, but they still needed to be interviewed. He rose to leave.

“Thank you for being so helpful, Sister. We’ll need to interview all your residents. D.C.I. Cullen here will be in touch.”

He headed for the exit before Liam had time to complain.

***

The C.C.U. Friday, 9 a.m.

A sudden clatter came from Craig’s office followed by a loud “Damn!” Nicky was wondering whether to knock on his door when it opened and Craig emerged, clutching his right arm. She saw blood spreading down his shirt sleeve and rushed across, concerned.

“What have you done?”

Her tone was a mix of worry and reprimand that reminded Craig she was the mother of a twelve-year-old boy. He winced as she prised his fingers off the wound.

“I tripped over my sports bag and banged it on the edge of the desk. Who knew it was so sharp?”

“Everyone but you, apparently.”

Nicky pushed him onto a chair, chiding him in her husky voice. “Why you keep that stupid sports bag in your office beats me. You never get time to go to the gym.”

“Someday I might and this way I won’t have to drive all the way home to collect it.”

She rolled up his sleeve and inspected the wound. “Since your flat is only two minutes from that gym you pay exorbitant fees to, that’s hardly logical, is it?”

The question was rhetorical, but any answer Craig might have given would have been rendered inaudible by the thump of Liam’s footsteps across the room, followed by his loud guffaw.

“You been in the wars again, boss? I hope it wasn’t another bullet.”

He was referring to a case in April during which Craig had been shot in the arm and he’d taken two to the chest, or at least his armoured vest had. Craig suddenly realised the cut was in the same place he’d been shot.

“It tore my scar open, Nick; that’s what happened.”

Nicky gave him a dry look. “That might be why it’s bleeding so much but it’s not what made you trip.”

She applied a crepe bandage, tying it tight with a satisfied smile.

“There. Annette can check it if she likes, but it should hold till you can get it stitched.”

Craig had no intention of getting it stitched; it was only a cut. He pulled down his sleeve and beckoned everyone to gather round.

As Nicky made the coffee, Craig scanned his team. It had grown in size recently, although Ken was only on loan for a year and who knew when one of the more ambitious members might leave. Carmen was a constable but too bright to stay at that level, Jake was a sergeant who’d be going for inspector soon. In fact, if he had to lay a wager the only ones he could be sure would still be there by the end of 2015 were Liam, Nicky, Davy Walsh their analyst and Annette.

As Annette’s name entered his head a doubt entered too. Would she still be with them next year? Since her husband’s affair her already significant ambition had grown; who knew when she’d try for D.C.I.

He called the group to order. “OK. Let’s get on with it. Most of you know that a body was found yesterday morning on a ward at St Mary’s Trust.”

“W…Where, chief? Not the M.P.E. again?”

Craig turned towards Davy and shook his head. The young analyst was more confident now, his once constant stutter on ‘w’ or ‘s’ down to only the odd word. He’d also developed from a skinny youth whose narrow width had seemed incongruous with his six-foot height, to someone almost as muscular as him.

“The main building off the M2.” He gestured at Liam. “Where Liam seems to like the beds so much.”

Liam had been hospitalised twice in the previous two years, both times on cases. Once for poisoning and once when he’d been shot along with Craig. Craig continued.

“OK. The victim was a twenty-five-year-old nurse called Eleanor Rudd. She was found manually strangled in the linen room on the Elderly Medicine Unit. The E.M.U.” He threw out a challenge. “Suggestions please. As wild as you like.”

“Another nurse?”

The words had come from Annette who’d once been a nurse and that interested Craig. He turned to her. “Go on.”

Annette set her handbag on the floor and kicked it under the chair. As she did so they all noticed her new high heels. She’d always worn mid-height shoes and after her promotion to inspector she’d gone to sensible flats and had worn a suit every day. Craig had speculated that it was her attempt at being taken seriously by the ‘higher ups’. But today, and in fact since they’d returned from John’s wedding in Barbados, she was back in heels again, much higher than before. Not only that but she’d lost a stone in weight and was growing her hair long. It suited her, but as Nicky had pointed out at the wedding, it also smacked of a woman about to make a fresh start.

Annette’s Maghera accent cut across Craig’s thoughts.

“Ward rivalries happen all the time, sir, and they can be nasty.”

Craig nodded. “OK, let’s run with that for a minute. Eleanor Rudd was manually strangled which means her attacker had considerable upper body strength.”

Annette shrugged. “There are plenty of male nurses around. Or what about a doctor? She might have been romantically involved with one and it went wrong.”

He dragged over a white board and started writing.

“Right. So we have possible rivalry or romance. Good. Anyone else?”

Liam had been busy adding sugar to his tea but now he glanced up. “What about both together: rivalry and romance. A love triangle.”

Craig thought for a moment then drew a triangle with Eleanor Rudd at one corner and question marks on the other two. Annette jumped in again.

“Liam’s right. They happen all the time in hospitals. Two women after the same man or two men after the same woman. It’s more common than average because of the hours people work. They’re thrown together day and night in emotional situations.”

Liam guffawed. “You mean like here?”

As he preened himself, implying that he was the natural choice of man in the triangle, Annette and Nicky glanced at each other and shook their heads.

“Nope. That level of rivalry would require a gorgeous man.”

Craig smiled. Annette was only saying it to keep Liam in his place but either way none of the other men cared. Jake was gay and had been happily settled with Aaron for years, Craig was paired with Katy Stevens, a doctor at the Trust, Davy had been dating Maggie Clarke, a journalist at The Belfast Chronicle for ages, and Ken Smith only had eyes for Carmen, although whether she’d even noticed his love-sick gaze was anyone’s guess.

It was Carmen’s Scottish burr that drew them back to the case. “What if it was someone from outside? After all, hospitals are open to the public.”

Craig nodded. “Carmen’s right. There’s little security on wards unless they’re paediatrics, maternity or intensive care. Everywhere else relies on someone challenging new entrants.” He updated them on the unit’s ground-floor location and easy street access.

Carmen leaned forward enthusiastically, pushing her copper curls back from her face. “Maybe that’s exactly what happened. Maybe our victim challenged someone walking onto the unit and it got her killed?”

Craig wrote the words ‘stranger attack’ on the board, but it was more out of politeness than belief. Stranger attacks were rare, especially ones that led to murder; studies said 80% of victims knew their killers. A straightforward intruder would have been more likely to lock Eleanor Rudd in the linen room than murder her in cold blood. He thought of something else.

“Davy, get onto John and ask if our victim was sexually assaulted, please.”

“Now?”

Craig nodded. If Eleanor Rudd had been raped it added a new dimension to the case. He turned back to the group. “Any more ideas?”

Ken dragged his eyes away from Carmen’s pert profile long enough to offer a suggestion. Nicky wished he would just ask her out instead of mooning over her all day long, but she wasn’t holding her breath. If he hadn’t managed to get a date in a romantic location like Geneva, the office was an unlikely choice.

“Theft of some sort, sir? Were any drugs missing off the ward? Or money?”

Before Craig could answer, Annette leapt in. “Ward safes often contain money and valuables belonging to patients, and elderly ladies wear lots of gold.”

It was a good point. “OK. We need to get the safes on both sides of the E.M.U. checked. Jake, do that when you and Liam go back to St Mary’s, please.”

Jake stared at Craig vaguely, as though he hadn’t been listening to a word he’d said. It wasn’t like him; he was normally on the ball. Nicky watched the exchange and arched an eyebrow in a way that told Craig she’d find out what was up with the sergeant and report back.

He turned back to Ken. “On the drug thefts, Ken. Nothing seems to be missing, but I’ll ask the ward to carry out a full inventory, so thanks for that.” He wrote ‘theft’ on the board and turned back to the group. “Anything else?”

Liam went to speak but Annette got in first. “Perhaps someone was trying to get at a patient and the nurse prevented them?”

Liam was indignant. “Here, that’s what I was going to say!”

“It’s just as well I’m psychic then, isn’t it?”

Craig waved them down just as Davy said “Thanks. Goodbye.” and set down the phone. He looked at Craig and shook his head.

“Doctor W…Winter says there was no sexual assault and the nurse’s cash and jewellery were still there.”

Craig nodded. His instinct had said that rape and robbery weren’t their killer’s motives but it was good to have it confirmed. He turned back to Liam and Annette.

“Both of you. We need to know more about the E.M.U.’s patients and whether Eleanor Rudd was the sort of woman who would step in to protect one of them.”

He wrote ‘protecting patients?’ on the board and then stood back to look at the list. It read: rivalry, romance, triangle, challenging stranger/stranger attack, theft and protecting patients. He squinted at ‘romance’ and ‘stranger attack’ in light of the lack of sexual assault but decided to leave them in place; the absence of rape didn’t rule them out. Any one of the reasons could be valid and the only way to narrow them down was by sheer hard graft.

“OK. Annette, I want you to interview Hannah Donard, the nurse who found the body. Take Carmen with you on that. Find out anything you can about the culture on the ward: was Eleanor Rudd well liked, romances etc. You know the form.”

He turned to Davy. “Davy, dig into Eleanor Rudd’s background, get her phone and laptop dumps, the works. Also, take a look at the other staff on the unit, doctors and nurses. As much as you can get without raising suspicion at the moment, I don’t want people complaining we’ve violated their rights until we really have to.”

Davy nodded, throwing his black hair across his face. “How far up do I go, chief?”

“I want everyone, including the professor. His name’s in my briefing note. Also, pull the hospital CCTV for the time around the death. There are cameras on the wards, in the main corridor and in the gardens outside the unit. Also, there are traffic cams on the road running behind.”

Davy grinned; he loved the covert part of his job. It made him feel like a spy without the risk or the wet work. Craig turned to Liam.

“Liam, you and Jake go back to the ward and set up base. I want all the staff who were working yesterday interviewed. Make friends with the sisters on both wards and see what they have to say about unit relationships; if anyone will know what’s been going on they will. Also, take their advice on which patients to interview first and get Joe to help out with that. If you need back-up ask Jack Harris for some troops.”

Jack Harris had been the sergeant at Belfast’s High Street Station for thirty years and he knew everything that happened in the city. Craig used his interview rooms on cases, bringing a little excitement into Jack’s life, and in return he’d lend them uniforms to help out the odd time.

Liam nodded. “Aye, OK, but I’m not in his good books these days. He hasn’t forgiven me for telling you he dressed as a gimp that time we went undercover.”

Craig laughed. “Buy him a present then. Preferably not a leather mask.”

Everyone laughed except Jake. He was staring into space as if he was carrying the worries of the world. Craig wrapped up.

“OK, that’s it. You’ve all plenty to get on with. We’ll brief at eight and four every day.”

Ken shot Craig a puzzled look. “You haven’t given me anything to do, sir.”

Craig was realised he was right and then he remembered why he hadn’t. “You’re shadowing me, Ken, if that’s OK?”

Smith nodded vigorously. Shadowing Craig meant that he’d be at the centre of things; it was exactly why he’d wanted the secondment. He rose to follow Craig into his office but Craig motioned him to wait and walked over to Jake’s desk.

“Jake, could I have five minutes?”

The young detective glanced up, startled, wondering what he’d done wrong. Craig smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad.”

They entered Craig’s small corner office and he shut the door, beckoning the sergeant to take a seat. As he poured them both coffee Craig glanced out at the river. The Lagan was smooth and grey today; it looked quiet, too quiet. It was the quietness that signalled a coming storm.

Craig sat down, smiling at the younger man. “Do you know why I called you in?”

Jake gazed blankly at his boss. A hundred possible answers tumbled through his brain but none seemed to fit so he shook his head.

“I called you in to see if you were all right. You’ve seemed down for days. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Relief crossed Jake’s face and then he dropped his eyes. His mouth opened and closed as if he was searching for the right words, until finally he spoke.

“You know that my parents were killed in a fire when I was five, sir.”

Craig’s eyes widened; he hadn’t known. How had he missed something so big? He made up his mind to check everyone’s personnel files and said nothing. Jake was already carrying on.

“My mother’s parents raised me. They were wonderful, especially when I was confused about being gay when I was younger. But…”

His voice fell away and Craig knew instantly what was wrong. He did the sums quickly; Jake was in his late twenties, which put his parents most likely at fifty and his grandparents in their seventies or eighties now. Someone was ill. When Jake recovered he said the words.

“My grandfather has lung cancer. He never even smoked and he has lung cancer!” The outrage in his voice was palpable, as if the fates hadn’t played fair. “He’s been given three months to live. Three lousy months…”

Craig nodded. Cancer had taken both his father’s parents years before and he could still remember them wasting away. He forced the memories down and spoke quietly.

“What can I do to help? Do you need time off? I can arrange compassionate leave if that would help?”

Jake raised his eyes and Craig saw tears beginning to form. He held the younger man’s gaze. Jake’s eyes held the confusion of the soon-to-be bereaved, frantically searching for ways to hold back the coming tide. After a moment he shook his head.

“Thank you, sir, but I don’t know what to do yet. My granddad’s the only father I remember and my gran needs my help nursing him, but for my sanity’s sake I need to work.”

Craig knew the young officer was incapable of making the choice so he made it for him.

“What if you work flexitime for a while? Come in late, fit in the hours as and when?”

Jake’s eyes lit up. “Could I do that? Really? It would mean I could help sort things out in the mornings, then pop back to check on them mid-afternoon.” He nodded furiously, grabbing at Craig’s offer. “Yes, please, sir. I won’t abuse it, I promise. I’ll make up the hours.”

Craig smiled and waved away his thanks. “Don’t worry about the hours, we’ll sort those out. And come back to me if there’s anything more I can do.” He stood up briskly. “Now, off you go and I’ll sort it outwith Nicky. I’ll let the others know as necessary.”

Jake left the office thanking him profusely and Craig smiled, hoping that someone would do the same for his imaginary kids when the day came.

Chapter Three

University Faculty of Medicine. 12 p.m.

Timothy Taylor rose from behind his imposing desk and crossed to the shelves that lined one wall of his office, each one laden with books. Their covers were hard and soft, card and paper, and even, in the case of some older tomes, fine leather mottled with age. They were written in several languages, to show that he was an educated man, and their subject matters supported that. There were books on pathology and biochemistry, ageing in different cultures and religions, gerontology, longevity and even one on cryogenics after death. Subjects that a layman might assume would assist his work and help the patients that he served.

Taylor had chosen his future career in his first year at medical school, inspired by his elderly parents and his own fear of death. While other students were excited by surgery and paediatrics, he focused on the ailments of the old. Not because he particularly cared about their frail, bent bodies, but because he feared the deterioration of his own and was intent on preventing it. Like King Canute, he was determined to hold back the tide, but of ageing rather than the sea. Where a Hollywood starlet obsessed with keeping her looks might seek Botox and surgery, Tim Taylor explored medication and cellular redesign.

He was good at what he did, but more than that, timing had been his friend. In a world with an ageing population and baby boomers young in the swinging sixties who refused to ‘go gentle into that good night’ unless they were wrinkle and cellulite free, people threw funding at his specialty like it was the Holy Grail. Taylor had seized it gratefully and climbed up the increasingly vertical career ladder until he’d finally reached a Professor’s Chair. Now he was pleased with where he sat in life.

He had tenure at work and tenure at home, in the shape of his younger wife, Miranda. At thirty she was starting to fray a little around the edges but it was nothing that a quick nip and tuck wouldn’t fix. And if she wouldn’t have one, well there were plenty more nubile medical students where he’d found her…

He had his own research unit at St Mary’s with human guinea pigs, and best of all he never had to touch a patient again; he had plenty of junior staff to do that. All he had to do was find out what made some people age slowly and others fast, try interventions to improve things and write learned papers about the best. Meanwhile he would search for the one thing he really wanted, how to slow his own fifty-year-old body’s deterioration before he joined the grey, faceless ranks that he loathed so much.

Taylor had just selected a book on skin ageing and walked back to his desk when his thoughts were interrupted by a loud buzz. He jabbed the button on his intercom and his young secretary’s voice echoed through.

“A Superintendent Craig and Captain Smith are here to see you, Professor.”

He tutted irritably. “Do they have an appointment?”

The girl’s voice quivered anxiously. “No, sir. But they say it’s urgent.” She hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he’d understood the significance of Craig’s rank, and decided to add. “They’re the police.”

Taylor barked back sarcastically. “The Superintendent part gave that away, Rachael.” He sighed. “Oh, very well. Send them in.”

He folded his hands on his desk in what he thought was a suitably professorial pose, allowing his glasses to slide forward slightly on his nose. It made him look down his nose at people, literally, and experience said it had a satisfyingly intimidating effect. It may have done with students or elderly patients but he was dealing with something quite different in Craig.

The two men entered and it only took Craig seconds to sum the professor up. Educated definitely, they didn’t bestow the title without that. Arrogant? Undoubtedly. They’d heard him bark at his secretary and his carefully arranged pose said so as well. Used to underestimating people’s intelligence? Probably. Teaching students who he could intimidate with long words would allow plenty of opportunity for that. In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

Craig hoped that Taylor’s choice of a secretary just out of school was based on the same desire to intimidate, rather than a more carnal one. And his choice of specialty? Taylor was definitely an expert in his field, but was he motivated by care for the elderly or scientific curiosity? Craig settled on the latter and flashed his badge, altering his previously unbiased manner to cool disdain.

“Thank you for seeing us, Professor Taylor. I’m Superintendent Craig and this is Captain Ken Smith, seconded to us for a year from the army.”

Taylor looked down his nose and he didn’t like what he saw. He wasn’t bothered by their professions or ranks or intimidated generally by the police, what he didn’t like was visible in both of the men standing in front of his desk. Where others might just have seen men in suits Timothy Taylor saw the things they had that he was beginning to lose. Craig and Smith were fit and muscular and Taylor pictured their muscles taut, unaffected yet by waning testosterone. Both had full heads of hair just as he’d bet their grandfathers’ had had; genetic balding wasn’t their lot and chronological balding was still decades away. Taylor hated them both on sight but he hated Craig most, for his smooth olive skin that barely wrinkled at all.

While the academic broke the men down to the sum of their biological parts Craig could feel his hackles begin to rise. So he did something he rarely did; he took a seat without the offer of one and motioned Ken to do the same. Tim Taylor hadn’t uttered a word since they’d entered, so finally Craig did.

“Do you know why we’re here, Professor Taylor?”

Craig’s words broke the academic’s trance and he shook his head, reflecting the light from the window off his scalp. Between his balding and glasses he looked older than the fifty Davy had said he was. Taylor pushed his glasses up his nose, knowing that Craig wasn’t playing his game.

“No. Why are you here?”

Craig smiled. He’d given Taylor his title but he had conveniently omitted theirs. He didn’t give a damn about labels but it told him something about the man.

“As you know, there’s been a death on the E.M.U.”

Taylor nodded vaguely, giving nothing away.

“Then you know it was a member of staff?”

Taylor squinted as if Craig had issued a challenge.

“I heard something like that.”

“You haven’t been on the unit?”

Taylor hesitated for a moment then shook his head. “Not since Wednesday. I’ve been working on a paper for a conference next week.”

It was too convenient. Eleanor Rudd had been murdered on Thursday and the Prof just happened to have been absent since the day before.

“When you aren’t there, who leads the patients’ medical care?”

Taylor opened a book on his desk and Ken stiffened. It was rude; more than that, it reminded him of his army boss, Major James. Perhaps they issued handbooks on rudeness once you reached a certain rank. If they did Craig hadn’t read his, but he had read the one about uncooperative witnesses. He lurched forward, shocking the professor into leaning back and abandoning his book.

“I asked you a question, Professor.”

Taylor reinstated his earlier posture and narrowed his eyes. “I heard you, Mr Craig. My deputy is a staff-grade doctor: Dr Patrick Hamilton. He was in charge when whoever it was died.”

Whoever it was? The callousness took Craig’s breath away.

“The deceased was Nurse Eleanor Rudd.”

As Craig said it both men saw Taylor’s response before he could hide it. His eyes widened and his face grew pale; his hands froze mid-air above the book on his desk. He looked as if he was going to be sick or cry and Craig didn’t imagine that he often did either one.

“Did you know her?”

The answer was obvious, as was just how well Taylor had known her, but he lied anyway, dropping his eyes and waving a hand vaguely in the air.

“I recall meeting her a few times. She covered when Sister Gormley was away.”

Craig was undeterred. “Did you know her well?”

His emphasis left no room for ambiguity. Ken’s eyes widened; Craig was implying Taylor’s relationship with Rudd had been sexual.

Tim Taylor glanced up defiantly, but his play-acting didn’t fool anyone.

“No, I didn’t. I knew her in the way that I knew every nurse on the ward – to say hello. Nurses are there to care for the patients, not to socialise with.”

In Craig’s experience that didn’t stop many men. He glanced at Taylor’s wedding ring, added ‘affair?’ to his query list and rose abruptly, surprising the other men.

“Thank you, Professor. That will be all. We may need to speak again.”

He left the room briskly, leaving Ken to catch up. When they reached the car park Craig finally spoke.

“Sorry about the abrupt exit, but it had a point.”

“You wanted him to know you didn’t believe him, but not to show your complete hand.”

Craig nodded. “Exactly. You saw his reaction when I mentioned Eleanor Rudd?”

Smith smiled. “He nearly threw up.”

“Not the reaction of a casual acquaintance. Taylor knew her much better than he’s admitting, but in what context is the question. Sex is the obvious conclusion, but that doesn’t mean it’s correct. It’s lazy to go there before we rule out other reasons first.”

They climbed into Craig’s ageing Audi and Ken shook his head. Craig smiled, pleased that he was disagreeing with him; he’d been far too deferential since he’d joined the team in July.

“OK, then. Tell me what you think.”

Smith made a face that said he was still working it out then he spoke.

“OK. Taylor knew that a member of E.M.U. staff had been killed, but he didn’t care enough to find out which one. That tells us something about the good professor; basically that he doesn’t give a damn about his staff.”

Craig nodded. “Agreed. The death had barely registered until we mentioned Rudd’s name. Carry on.”

Smith pushed back his blond hair. Craig had noticed it was getting longer now that he was on civvy street and wondered when the earring pointed to by the hole in his earlobe would appear; hopefully not at work or they’d be having words. Smith continued.

“OK, so Taylor doesn’t care about his staff, except possibly Sister Gormley who he knew by name, and that felt like a professional relationship to me.”

Craig nodded. “My bet is she’s too old for him.”

Smith stared at him curiously but he shook his head.

“So his reaction to Rudd says that there was something between them, but what it was is the question. Taylor’s married, judging by the ring and the ‘Happy Family’ photo on his desk, but that would be no obstacle for lots of men I know.”

Craig nodded again. He was the faithful type but the military and police were full of macho men and some of them regarded their marriage vows as flexible, especially when they were out of town. ‘Detachment Rules’ – what happened on tour stayed on tour.

“OK, so we have a possible affair. What else could have been going on between them?”

Smith knew Craig probably already had a list of answers but he hazarded a guess.

“If they weren’t having an affair then maybe Rudd was doing something for him. Perhaps she was stealing ward drugs or spying on the unit staff for him or…” He paused and Craig smiled at the Machiavellian look that appeared on his face, knowing exactly what was coming next. “Maybe she was blackmailing him!”

It almost matched his list.

“She wasn’t stealing drugs. Taylor could get any drugs he wanted; he’s a doctor. But I agree with the rest. Eleanor Rudd could have been his mistress, spying for him on the unit or doing a work project for him, which I think is unlikely. Taylor strikes me as the type to keep his work tightly controlled; I can’t see him trusting anyone else. The blackmail idea is interesting. You’re saying that she might have had something over him that he wanted kept quiet?”

Smith shrugged. “Why not? I’m sure nurses hear all sorts of things.” He paused for a moment and then changed tack. “Did you notice Taylor’s hands? They’re strong enough to have strangled someone.”

Craig shook his head. “They are, but Taylor’s reaction when he heard Rudd’s name tells me he didn’t even know she was dead, unless he’s a damn good actor. There’s something I want to check with John before I say yes to him as a suspect.”

He started the Audi, listening as it coughed into life. The coughs were getting longer nowadays and their recovery less clean, even with the linctus of expensive engine oil. It was time for a new car. Craig patted the old car’s dashboard affectionately, as if he was patting his dog Murphy’s back, then he pulled away from the university and drove up the Malone Road, heading for the lab.

***

St Mary’s canteen. 1 p.m.

Liam peered suspiciously at the cling-wrapped sandwich in his hand, trying to guess what it contained. After several seconds it still didn’t have a name so he abandoned it in favour of a plate of beans and chips and shoved his tray along the metal counter towards the till. Jake was already there, paying for a plate of green stuff and a tub of something white. Liam sneaked up behind him and gave a food review.

“That crap will kill you, you know. There’re all sorts of pesticides in the ground and they seep into the plants.”

Jake glanced round as the rest of the canteen’s occupants did the same. “Say it a bit louder, Liam. I don’t think the chef heard you.”

He carried his tray towards a table leaving Liam puzzling about what he’d meant. Five minutes later they were full of baked beans and grass and Liam leaned back and slurped his cup of tea.

“Well, it’s pretty clear nobody liked Florence, isn’t it?”

Jake screwed up his face quizzically. “Who’s Florence? I thought the victim’s name was Eleanor.”

Liam shook his head. “God, do they teach you lads nothing at college nowadays? Florence Nightingale? Ring any bells? She was only the most important nurse that ever lived.”

Jake snorted. “I know who Florence Nightingale was. I just didn’t know it was a generic term for nurses.”

“Well it is, so now you know.” Liam gazed wistfully into the distance. “I dated some lovely Florences in my time.”

Jake retorted, quick as a flash. “And they all dumped you because you forgot their name.”

Liam guffawed, conceding that had probably had something to do with it. Jake sipped his bottled water and then asked a question.

“Isn’t your wife a nurse?”

Liam went to shake his head then he stopped himself. Danni worked part-time as a nursery nurse.

“I suppose she is actually.” Liam smiled. “But I remembered her name from day one.”

“She’d have killed you if you hadn’t.”

At five-feet odd Danni might have been tiny compared to her burly husband but she was easily his match.

Jake steered the discussion back to the case. “OK, so Eleanor Rudd wasn’t well liked, but no-one we’ve spoken to so far hated her enough to bump her off.”

“You think.”

“OK, I don’t think they hated her enough. Mind you, that sister was fairly caustic about her.”

Liam nodded, thinking of their conversation with Newman Ward’s sister, Jane Norton. He’d dated lots of nurses before they became sisters and met a couple of St Mary’s sisters on jobs in recent years. Laurie Johns, a sister in Obstetrics; she’d been a murder victim who’d met a very sticky end, and Mary McHenry in admissions, who’d been a lady of the first degree. Jane Norton fell somewhere between the two. All sweetness and smiles when they’d arrived on Newman that morning, bending over backwards to do everything to help, but less than complimentary about their victim and acidic about a few other members of her staff. All except Tim Taylor, the big boss; Norton had practically fainted with ecstasy when they’d mentioned his name.

Liam decided it was safe to venture one of his erotic fantasies since Craig wasn’t around.

“Here, I wonder if Taylor runs that place like a harem. You know, all those women and him the big man.”

It was less facetious than it sounded. Practically every nurse they’d interviewed had giggled at the sound of Taylor’s name and the younger they were the more they’d giggled. Jane Norton was thirty-five, but she’d been giggler number one. Jake scooped out the inside of his yoghurt pot then set it aside.

“I think you could be onto something. If Sister Norton and our victim were both chasing the Prof, that could be our motive – romantic rivalry.”

Liam thought about Jane Norton for a moment and then shook his head. “Norton doesn’t have the upper body strength to strangle an adult woman. She’s barely eight stone dripping wet.”

“Well OK then, who do you think did it?”

“No idea, but it had to have been a man. We’ve only interviewed the female staff so far, we’ve a male nurse and two male doctors to talk to yet.”

“What about a patient that Rudd nursed?”

Liam snorted loudly, drawing glances from the people at the next table and a peculiar stare from a woman sitting further away.

“Most of the patients on Newman are women and frail ones at that, and there wasn’t a man there less than eighty-five.”

“So? Perhaps one of them was stronger than he looked.”

Liam decided to humour his young charge. “OK. I’ll start interviewing the male staff and you get a list of all the male patients on Newman yesterday and start interviewing them, but it’s a dead end, you mark my words.”

Jake nodded then glanced across the room. “There’s a woman over there staring at you; it was probably your Florence comments. She might be going to complain.”

Liam whipped his head round to see a woman waving across the vast canteen; she rose and moved towards them. Liam squinted to recognise her, cursing his ageing eyes. When she was a few tables away he laughed.

“Ach, hello, Mrs Boss.”

Katy Stevens laughed at the nickname and shook her head. “Don’t let Marc hear you say that; John’s wedding was close enough to matrimony for him.” She nodded hello to Jake as Liam stirred the pot.

“Mind your Ps and Qs, lad, or it’ll get back to the chief.”

Katy laughed at Jake’s nervous expression. “It will not indeed. Ignore him; he’s just winding you up.” She waved at Liam’s messy plate. “Healthy eating?”

Liam grinned. “It’s better than the plate of grass he’s just had. Danni makes me eat enough of that rubbish at home. Will you stay for a coffee?”

Katy shook her head. “Sorry, I’ve got a ward round.” She raised an eyebrow curiously. “I don’t suppose you dropped in just for the baked beans?”

“Nope. We’re on a case.”

Katy raised her hand. “Don’t tell me. Marc will at some point and I’d rather not think I was working in a hot bed of murder any longer than I have to.”

She smiled goodbye and walked away. As she reached the door of the canteen Jake spoke.

“She’s nice, isn’t she?”

Liam nodded and then added indiscreetly. “A damn sight nicer than the last one; Julia McNulty.”

“Isn’t she a D.I. in the Northwest? Helped out on the Ackerman case?”

“Aye. She’s in Limavady. Why? Did you meet her?”

Jake shook his head. “No, we just missed each other and I’m not sorry. One of my class is working up North and he says she’s pretty fierce.”

Liam imagined she’d got even fiercer since she’d broken up with Craig. He pulled the conversation back to the case.

“OK, you take the male patients and I’ll take the staff, then we’ll start the females. Annette and Carmen are interviewing the nurse who found the body and the boss and Ken are on the Prof. That’ll be nearly everyone covered.”

Jake shook his head and Liam frowned.

“Who else then?”

“Haven’t you forgotten about Reilly Suite?”

***

The Lab.

“You’re positive, John?”

John Winter gave his friend a ‘why would I not be?’ look.

“It’s my job; of course I’m positive. Whoever strangled Eleanor Rudd wasn’t wearing a wedding ring or any other rings.”

Craig nodded. It was what he’d expected but it didn’t stop him muttering “Damn.”

John was puzzled.

“Why? Who wears a wedding ring that you hoped might have done it?”

“Professor Taylor. He runs the unit. I think he was having a relationship with our victim.”

John’s eyes widened. “Tim Taylor! You’re sure?”

“Yes, why? Do you know him?”

John nodded and started to tap his pen against his desk. He kept tapping until it irritated Craig, partly from the noise but more because he was trying to be mysterious.

“How do you know Taylor? It could help us.”

John glanced at Ken then gave a smile that told Craig a woman had been involved.

“I dated his wife.” He saw the surprise on both men’s faces and added hastily. “Before she was his wife of course. They married in 2010.”

As John gazed wistfully into space Craig smiled. He’d worked in London for fifteen years and what John had got up to in that time was anyone’s guess. He knew he’d had a few relationships but as far as he knew Natalie had been the only woman he’d ever loved. John read his mind and nodded.

“It was nothing serious; we only saw each other for six months. She was a nice girl. Miranda Dwyer; she’s a middle grade doctor in general surgery now.”

Craig had just taken a sip of coffee. On the words ‘general surgery’ he almost spat it out.

“General surgery! Is she still working there?”

John nodded vaguely. “Part-time. She and Taylor have two young children.”

John’s nonchalance astounded him. His ex-girlfriend was a doctor on the same ward where his new wife was a consultant; in Craig’s book that was too close for comfort. Camille Kennedy, his ex-fiancée, was in America, and Julia McNulty was safely up the M2, sixty miles away; both as far away from Belfast and Katy as he would wish. The idea that they might meet each other at work and chat about their past loves would have made his hair fall out.

Craig found his voice. “General surgery? On Natalie’s ward?”

John nodded, not seeing his point. Craig tried again.

“Don’t you worry they’ll bump into each other?”

John frowned, puzzled. “They meet every day.”

Craig’s voice rose and Ken’s joined in. “Do they know about each other?”

“In what way?”

“That you dated them both?”

John’s frown froze like quick-setting concrete and his eyes filled with an expression that said ‘Oh crap’.

Craig nodded slowly.

“Tell Natalie before someone else does, that’s my advice. She’ll be fine about it.”

As soon as he said it he knew it was a lie – an optimistic one but a lie nonetheless. Natalie Winter née Ingrams was many wonderful things: kind, talented, funny, but tolerant definitely wasn’t on the list. To say that she was a little fiery was like saying a Phaal curry was a little hot.

John started babbling. “She won’t be fine, she’ll kill me! This is Natalie we’re talking about, not Mother Teresa! She told me about everyone she’d ever dated before we married and I did the same, but I completely forgot about Miranda, and now they’re working on the same ward!” He gave Craig a pleading look. “I’m a dead man, Marc. Help me, you know about women.”

Craig shook his head and laughed. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re on your own on this one, mate. But I’d advise you to tell her fast. It’s bound to be mentioned now that she’s married, even if it’s only as a joke.”

Craig could see John approaching a full-scale meltdown so he focused him quickly back on the case.

“What else do you know about Tim Taylor that might help us? Any history of violence towards women? Any dirt in any other way?”

John didn’t answer, just stared into space imagining Natalie’s coming storm. Craig repeated the question louder and banged his hand on the desk. John roused himself.

“Yes… Tim Taylor. Strange man. He was years ahead of me at Queen’s but reputations get around. He was obsessed with old age.”

“Isn’t that good for a geriatrician?”

“Yes and no. Taylor’s obsessed with finding ways to slow the ageing process, not helping the aged. Sometimes the two coincide and people say he’s great, other times I think if he could practice vivisection and steal his patients’ body parts to keep himself young then he would.”

Ken gawped at him. “Literally steal them?”

John pondered for a moment. “Well… obviously he couldn’t get away with that, but his obsession with staying young is extreme. Miranda’s twenty years younger than him but I bet he’s already thinking of replacing her, now that she’s turned thirty.” He had a sudden thought and turned back to Craig. “You mentioned you thought something might have been going on between him and Eleanor Rudd.”

“Yes. He reacted too strongly when her name was mentioned. Why?”

“Because Rudd was twenty-five. Perhaps Taylor was interviewing her for the job of wife number two.”

“Or maybe he was seeing her in parallel. Either way it’s interesting.” Something else occurred to him. “Do you think his research suite was set up for that purpose? For Taylor to find ways to stay young?”

John nodded. “Probably, although he’d have to have drafted a solid research proposal to get the funding. Don’t get me wrong, Taylor’s a clever doctor, he just doesn’t care about much except himself.”

Craig rose and headed for the door. “Thanks, John. Let Davy have Eleanor Rudd’s tox-screen when it’s through please.”

As they made to leave John shot them a pleading look. “So you’re just going to leave me to deal with Natalie alone?”

Craig grinned as he walked out. “One of the joys of married life.”

***

High Street Station. 2 p.m.

Annette hadn’t worked with Carmen often so she was interested in finding out more about her. She’d joined them in July on a secondment from Vice and impressed Craig enough for him to make her permanent. Liam said that she was lippy, but Liam’s view of the world wasn’t always hers, so she was prepared to give the younger woman the benefit of the doubt.

She studied the constable across the staff-room, listening to Jack Harris’ jokes with half an ear. Carmen was pretty. Actually she was very pretty, although she did her best to hide it with baggy clothes and frumpy heels. Annette had no criticism of the technique; it was hard for a woman to get on in a male dominated world, never mind one who was so cute. Hiding your looks was a well-worn ploy to deter advances and be accepted as one of the boys. She’d done it herself for years, although in her case she’d never had much cuteness to hide.

Annette had no illusions about her looks. She was what her father had called ‘homely’ and some unkind ex-boyfriends had called plain; a glance in the mirror had confirmed their views. She hadn’t minded; she was pleasant and friendly looking and it had suited her jobs, first as a nurse and then as a cop. She’d been married for twenty years and barely paid attention to her appearance for most of them, except on her wedding anniversary and Valentine’s Day, when Pete expected her to morph into his fantasy. She’d been too busy with the house, career and children to do more than put a comb through her short brown hair, but everything had changed in the past year.

Now she was a woman with a hair style, a woman who casually mentioned Stewart at Bespoke Hair as if she’d known him all her life, and understood the intricacies of straighteners and mousse. First she’d wanted to look pretty for herself and then for a special man. She allowed herself a moment to think about him and then turned her thoughts back to Carmen.

Carmen could be beautiful yet she was deliberately trying not to be, and for some reason Annette didn’t think it was entirely down to the job. There was something about the girl’s stance that was defensive and something in her blue eyes that said she’d been badly hurt. She made a note to find out more then tuned back into Jack’s words.

“So Liam fell backwards as the drainpipe bent in half…”

Annette didn’t want to show that she hadn’t been listening so she laughed and let Carmen take the lead.

“The nurses’ home!”

Jack nodded. “Aye. Liam had his eye on a pretty young nurse at the time and she lived on the fifth floor.” He shook his head. “He never did get that date.” He stared wistfully out the window. “Boy, what I wouldn’t give to be eighteen again, knowing what I know now.”

They were surprised by Carmen’s next words. “If I was, I would do everything differently.”

Her tone was sad, matching the look in her eyes. Annette seized the opening.

“Like what, Carmen?”

With a shake of red curls the opening closed and Carmen returned to work mode.

“What time are we starting the interview?”

Just then the door opened and the familiar face of Constable Sandi Masters appeared. “That’s your two o’clock just arrived, Ma’am.”

Jack winced and corrected her in a martyred voice.

“Try not to make us sound like a hairdressers, Constable. Let’s maintain some pretence of officialdom.”

Sandi stifled a giggle and Annette and Carmen headed for interview room one, leaving Jack to usher Hannah Donard through. When Carmen was safely ensconced in the viewing room with Jack, Annette gazed across the table at the young nurse, trying to imagine how she would have felt meeting a detective when she’d been one. Nervous, that was for sure, and intimidated by the austere surroundings.

Annette barely noticed the décor of police stations nowadays but she remembered what a shock their unvarnished starkness had been to her ten years before, after working on bright hospital wards. The interview rooms with their grey floors and plain white walls, without pictures or colourful curtains to break the bleakness and only a two-way mirror on one wall to break the tedium. And the noises of a police station… she’d been amazed at how different they’d been to the subdued murmurs and sounds of a ward. The echoing sounds of tannoys and radios, punctuated by the bang of a viewing slat slamming across, and the worst noise of all, the clanging shut of cell doors imprisoning their occupants for the night. Even now, if she listened, she found them hard to hear; a decade ago she’d found them as frightening as hell.

As the thoughts ran through her mind she considered the young woman in front of her. Nurse Hannah Donard, a witness, not a suspect; the difference marked by the tray of tea and biscuits at her elbow and the absence of handcuffs. She was an unusual looking girl of twenty-four; striking in the way that the French called Jolie-laide. Her face was raw-boned and olive-skinned, with deep-set green eyes that darted around the room. Annette pictured her in uniform and imagined it neat, with pens lined up in her pocket and keys firmly attached to her waist.

Hannah stared back at the woman staring at her and then at the mirror across the room, wondering if someone was behind it watching, like they did on TV cop shows. She touched her face nervously and Annette smiled, as if it was a signal for them to start. Her calm voice broke the silence making Donard jump.

“Ms Donard, my name is Detective Inspector McElroy. Thank you for coming to speak to us. I’d like to ask you some questions if that’s all right? It won’t take long.”

Hannah Donard nodded mutely and Annette indicated the tape machine.

“Would you mind if we recorded the session? It will stop us having to repeat the questions at another time.”

Again the nurse nodded and Annette began to wonder if she could speak. A second later she did, in a surprisingly throaty voice.

“I just want to help; Ellie was my friend.”

The words were followed by a soft swallow that Annette recognised as a herald for tears if she wasn’t quick. She smiled and turned on the tape, adding a loud buzz to the cacophony that belonged to the police.

“Please say your name and address.”

“Hannah Donard. 9255, Lisburn Park.”

“Also present is D.I. Annette McElroy from Docklands C.C.U. Murder Squad. Now, Ms Donard, could you recount the events of the ninth of October for me, please.”

Donard swallowed hard. “I came on duty at the E.M.U. in St Mary’s Hospital at nine o’clock in the morning, for an eight hour shift on Newman, the acute ward. I’ve worked there for eight months.”

Annette cut in gently. “If you could just recount what happened between nine and twelve p.m. that day, please.”

Donard nodded quickly. “Yes, of course. Sorry.” She paused and then restarted. “I was on the ward with Sister Norton and Nurse Hobbert, Caroline Hobbert. We were just doing the usual things; the morning drug round and breakfast, then Sister accompanied the ward round while I worked in the office till about half-past ten.”

Annette interrupted, smiling at the familiar ritual of a hospital day. “What was Nurse Hobbert doing during that time?”

“She was helping Hazel in Reilly Suite, the E.M.U.’s long-stay research ward. Hazel is Sister Hazel Gormley; she runs Reilly Suite for the Prof. It’s a separate part of the unit but sometimes we help each other out.”

Annette smiled again, remembering how often she’d been sent to help in other wards. Sometimes she missed nursing for the routine and camaraderie, but mostly because she’d got to help people all day.

“I see. Please continue.”

As Donard spoke Annette topped up their tea and moved the plate of biscuits closer to the girl. Jack smiled at Carmen in the viewing room.

“She’s good, isn’t she? Different to the Super and D.C.I. Cullen; a softer approach, even with the crims.”

Carmen nodded in the darkness, longing to be in the interview room in charge. Someday.

Hannah Donard sipped gratefully at her tea and then spoke again. “About ten-forty Sister Norton asked me to check the towels on Newman and replace any that needed it with fresh ones. They’re kept in the linen room between Newman and Reilly wards.”

Annette cut in. “The linen room serves both parts of the unit?”

“Yes. Everything’s kept in there: towels, bed linen, spare dressing gowns; even some white coats. Professor Taylor still likes the doctors on E.M.U. to wear them.”

Even though they’d been outlawed for hygiene reasons seven years before.

“Reilly’s residents prefer their own bed-linen, but there are spares in the linen room, just in case.”

Annette nodded, making a note to visit the long-stay suite. She smiled the girl on.

“At eleven o’clock I was going to the linen room and Caro was leaving the unit for her coffee break.”

“How do you know it was eleven?”

Donard made a face. “Because I was supposed to be going for elevenses too, down in the canteen, but Sister insisted that I got the towels first.”

“Fine. Carry on.”

Annette reached for her cup, frowning at the biscuits as if their presence was an affront. She’d lost nine kilos since July and she wasn’t going to let some seductress of a Jammy Dodger ruin it now.

“I was standing by the linen room door, just about to go in, when Caro left for her coffee. That’s when I noticed the trolley.”

Annette set down her cup without taking a sip. “What made you notice it? Surely there are trollies all over the ward.”

Donard shook her head excitedly and Carmen leaned forward in the viewing room, pressing her nose against the two-way glass.

“Not like this one. There are instrument and dressing trolleys everywhere, but the linen trolley is much bigger and heavier than those are. I noticed it because it’s normally inside the linen room; Sister Norton goes ballistic if it isn’t, in case someone hurts themselves on it.”

Annette wrinkled her brow quizzically. “Are the edges sharp?” She already knew the question was stupid; a sharp edge wouldn’t be allowed on a modern ward – Health and Safety.

Donard shook her head. “No, but it’s heavy. If a child pulled it down on top of them they would be badly hurt. We get lots of kids visiting their grandparents, and scout troops as well, coming to cheer the patients up.”

“So where was the linen trolley?”

“In front of the sluice room door. I thought one of the porters had just been lazy; it’s their job to make sure it stays inside the linen room.”

Annette nodded. “What happened then?”

The nurse glanced away, remembering. “I said I’d meet Caro in the canteen then I went in to get the towels.”

She paused looking ashamed and Annette knew she was chastising herself for thinking about coffee while her friend was lying dead. She smiled kindly.

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I know, but…”

Annette shook her head firmly. “No buts. Everyone looks back and feels guilty when someone dies. The only ones who don’t are murderers. Tell me what happened next.”

Carmen turned to Jack behind the mirror. “Is that true?”

“What? That only murderers don’t feel guilty?”

She nodded and he thought for a moment before shaking his head.

“Yes and no. Not everyone innocent feels guilty, especially if they hated the deceased, and not all murderers shrug it off, some of them try to justify what they’ve done and some bury it under drink or drugs, trying to forget. Depends on why they killed. But generally it’s correct; most perps don’t have the same conscience that normal people do.”

He pointed Carmen back to the interview. Hannah Donard was close to tears as she described what she’d found inside the linen room.

“I just… I just walked inside and started rummaging through the towels. I didn’t even look around me. I was annoyed that I couldn’t go to the canteen, annoyed about a bloody cup of coffee.”

Her voice broke and Annette gave her a minute before she gently urged her on. “What did you notice in the room?”

Donard closed her eyes at the memory, squeezing salty tears down her cheeks. After a moment she answered, her voice even huskier than before. “Her shoe.” She corrected herself with her eyes still closed. “A shoe. I saw a shoe.” Her eyes flew open. “I didn’t know it was Ellie’s, not…”

Annette leaned forward, anxious not to let the girl get distracted. “What do you remember seeing next?”

The nurse swallowed hard, forcing the tears away. “A foot and… a leg, then a nurse’s uniform.” She stared past Annette at the wall. “She was wearing her cardigan. Ellie was always cold – we used to tease her about it.”

Annette’s voice was firm. “Did you see her face? Did you know it was your friend?”

Donard shook her head. “I couldn’t move. I just screamed.”

“So when did you know it was Eleanor Rudd?”

“Later. Sister told me later.”

“Tell me what happened when you screamed.”

The tears flowed again. “I couldn’t move. I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

Annette already knew. She’d been afraid that the body would move suddenly, that the killer was still there or that death was contagious somehow; the usual reasons for fear when you unexpectedly find someone dead. But she still needed to hear it from Hannah Donard.

Donard shook her head. “It sounds ridiculous.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I thought that… that if I tried to walk to the door, she would grab me.” She laughed and then stifled it, aware how incongruous it seemed.

Annette nodded. “It’s a common reaction.” She urged the girl on. “What happened when you screamed?”

“Someone came. I, I think it was Dr Cooke. He took me out of the room then someone must have called the police.”

Annette’s ears pricked up. It was the first time she’d heard Cooke’s name and she was sure it would be new to Craig.

“Who’s Dr Cooke?”

Donard waved a hand vaguely as if Cooke was standing there. “Adrian? He’s the F2 on the ward.”

Medical titles had changed since Annette’s day but she knew an F2 was a doctor in training’s grade.

“Tell me about him.”

Donard’s vagueness continued. “He’s just Adrian. Nice.” Suddenly her eyes widened, as if she’d remembered something terrible. “Oh God, it must have been awful for him.”

“What?”

“Seeing Ellie like that. They…”

Her words tailed off and a cautious look entered her eyes. Annette knew she was holding something back.

“They what?”

The nurse shook her head and Annette instantly knew there’d been something between Adrian Cooke and the deceased, but Hannah Donard wasn’t going to say what. She continued the interview for five minutes, showing Donard a plan of the linen room and getting her to mark the position of the body, then she wrapped up and called Sandi to arrange Donard’s transport home. She headed for the staff-room and was slumped in a chair with a cup of fresh tea when Carmen and Jack arrived. She glanced up as they entered.

“Well? What did you think?”

Carmen wound a copper curl round her finger thoughtfully before she answered. “She’s innocent, and I think she genuinely liked Eleanor Rudd. But she knows that if she says any more about Rudd and this Dr Cooke it will make him a suspect.”

Annette nodded. “Which means they knew each other well.” She sipped her tea. “That was useful; we’ve ruled two nurses out and one doctor in. Have a cup of tea and then we’ll go and tell the boss.”

***

4 p.m.

“OK, let’s start. There’s a lot to get through.” Craig turned round from the desk he was perched on towards his P.A. “Nicky, could you join us, please. This could get complicated and I’d like some notes.”

Just then Annette and Carmen strolled onto the floor. Craig beckoned them over and their strolls became rapid strides.

“Grab a coffee. We need to get moving on this.” He scanned the faces in front of him, deciding on the order of their reports. “OK, Liam, let’s take you and Jake first, then Annette and Carmen, followed by Davy. I’ll wrap up.” He gestured at Liam. “Fire away.”

Craig drained his espresso and poured another as Liam folded his arms comfortably across his paunch. He looked like he was about to read them a bedtime story instead of give a report.

“OK. Jake and I interviewed all the ward staff and patients on Newman and there’s none who could have manually strangled Rudd. But we did learn something; she wasn’t very well liked.”

Craig cut in. “Why not?”

Liam shook his head. “No-one was saying. Just a general impression.”

“From the staff or the patients?”

“Mostly staff but a couple of the old ladies said Rudd was mean.”

Craig nodded. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it meant something. “What about the males on the ward?”

“Just coming to them. There was only one male patient on Newman – an old boy of eighty-five who wasn’t well at all. He couldn’t have killed a fly. The male staff are Drs Adrian Cooke and Patrick Hamilton. Hamilton’s the ward consultant.”

Annette interrupted. “No he’s not. He’s the staff grade. It’s a non-consultant grade.”

Liam sniffed and carried on. “Well, either way he went on holiday to Greece on Tuesday night so that rules him out.”

Craig nodded. “Davy, check him out just the same. Tell me about Adrian Cooke.” For some reason the name sounded familiar.

Liam took out his notebook, squinting at its tiny pages. Annette grinned gleefully.

“Time for glasses.”

She hadn’t forgiven him for the ribbing when she’d got a pair the year before.

“I’m just tired, that’s all. OK, Adrian Cooke. Thirty-two, graduated from med school in 2004. He’s a foundation two grade in medicine and wants to specialise in elderly medicine. Been on the unit since 2012 and finishes there in six months.”

Craig halted him. “Did you get this from him?”

Liam shook his head. “Sister Norton. Cooke’s off today; I’ll interview him tomorrow.”

Annette nodded at Craig to interrupt. “We heard about Cooke this afternoon, during the interview with Hannah Donard.”

“Heard what?”

“When Donard found the body she screamed. She was in shock but she thinks Cooke was the person who came to help. Donard said it must have been awful for him seeing Ellie like that. She went to say something else but stopped herself.”

Craig leaned forward. “There was something between them?”

Annette nodded. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions but romance would be most likely, given their ages.”

Craig nodded. “Check it out, please.” He waved Liam on.

Liam smiled at the idea of a ward romance. “Speaking of ward romances, practically every nurse we interviewed had the hots for the Prof.”

Craig gawped, thinking of the middle-aged academic. “Tim Taylor? Are you sure?”

Jake interjected. “Positive, sir. I was witness to it. There was an inordinate amount of giggling every time Taylor’s name was mentioned. The sister was the worst.”

“Which sister?”

Jake gave Liam a puzzled look.

“There is only one.”

“No, there isn’t. There’s Jane Norton on Newman Ward and Hazel Gormley on Reilly.”

Liam nodded in realisation. “We haven’t got to Reilly yet. Jane Norton was the giggler. She fancies Taylor something rotten.”

Craig and Ken Smith exchanged a glance. “We got the impression that Taylor knew our victim fairly well.”

Liam nodded sagely at Jake. “What did I say, lad? Romantic rivalry. Taylor’s running that place like a harem.”

Craig smiled at the image evoked by the words and the apoplectic expressions on Annette’s and Carmen’s faces. Before a row could break out he summarised.

“OK, so you’re saying that so far none of the patients or staff on Newman could have strangled anyone, with the caveat that Dr Hamilton was away and Dr Cooke was off. Cooke will be interviewed tomorrow as a possible suspect. Anyone else?”

“A male nurse. He was strong enough to have done it but neither of us got the vibe.”

Craig trusted Liam’s instincts but the nurse still needed to be checked. “Give his name to Davy anyway. OK, thanks Liam. There’s at least another day’s interviewing on Reilly Suite, so get Joe Rice down tomorrow to help speed things up.” He turned towards Annette. “Anything useful from Hannah Donard?”

Annette shook her head. “Just confirmation of when she found Rudd, the position of the body and the fact that she feels survivor guilt. She did say something interesting about the linen trolley though.”

“Go on.”

“Well, apparently it was always kept in the linen room because it’s so heavy; in case it fell on someone, especially a child.”

“Do many visit the E.M.U.?”

Even as Craig asked the question he knew the answer was yes. He’d visited his grandparents in hospital when he was young.

“Yes. And if it fell on one of them they’d be badly hurt. Donard said the porters must have left it outside the room, being lazy.”

“OK, check that out and Davy can pull the CCTV for you.”

Davy shook his head. “S…Sorry chief, I can’t. There’s CCTV pretty much everywhere in the unit but there. The linen, s…sluice and clinical rooms are in an uncovered area.”

Craig was astounded, not because of the linen room but because of the drugs in the clinical room lock-box. “There’s no security where they keep the controlled drugs?”

Davy smiled cheekily. “I didn’t say that. There’s CCTV inside the clinical room, just not in the area outside.”

“It’s an omission that makes choosing the linen room as a kill site look deliberate. It also points to someone who knew the unit well; who else would have known about the lack of CCTV?” He waved Annette on. “Did you get any impression of Donard’s relationship with the deceased?”

“It seemed cordial, judging by her use of her nick-name, Ellie. You don’t call someone you hate by a pet name.”

“Good point. Anything more?”

Annette shook her head and looked to Carmen for anything she’d forgotten. Carmen’s soft burr made Ken turn towards her and Nicky smile; she hadn’t forgotten her bet that she could get the two of them together someday.

“I agree with everything Annette said. Donard seemed fond of Eleanor Rudd and I’m sure something was going on between Rudd and Dr Cooke.”

“Good. OK, Davy, what have you got?”

Davy sat forward with his hands clasped between his knees. It was a new posture for him and it didn’t look very comfortable; somehow Craig doubted the try out would last.

“I pulled the CCTV from Newman W…Ward and the main hospital corridor leading to the unit, but I’m struggling to get the tapes from Reilly S…Suite. The sister says it’s the residents’ home, so we may be looking at a w…warrant there.”

Craig nodded; he’d thought it might happen. “That’s a last resort. See what you can get without it.”

“OK. Then basically there’s nothing so far.” Craig’s face fell. “I’ve viewed the tapes from W…Wednesday morning through to when you entered the E.M.U. yesterday afternoon. All there is to s…see is people going about their work. I tracked Eleanor Rudd’s movements and the last sighting of her was when she headed towards the linen room area at around ten o’clock on Thursday morning.”

“Where was Rudd going, Davy? It can’t have been to the linen room if Hannah Donard was sent there an hour later.”

Davy nodded, knocking his long hair across his face. He pushed it behind one ear and continued. “The clinical room. S…Sister Norton had sent Rudd there to check the inventory.”

Craig sighed. “So no-one noticed when Rudd disappeared for an hour – inventory can take all day.” He continued briskly. “OK, so Rudd was sent to the clinical room at ten and found dead in the linen room at eleven. That fits with John’s findings of her being dead less than an hour when she was found.” He turned back to Davy. “This may be a process of elimination, Davy, but I need you to track everyone on the unit’s movements and see who else was unaccounted for at those times, OK?”

He waved him on.

“OK. The victim, Eleanor Rudd. Twenty-five-years old, lived with her parents and brother off the Newtownards Road in Belfast. S…She got her nursing degree in 2010 and rotated through wards until she joined the unit last year. Her finances w…were unremarkable, just what you’d expect. No obvious vices, no convictions for anything, not even a parking ticket in her name.”

Annette snorted. “She probably couldn’t afford one, the price they are nowadays.”

Liam jumped in quickly. “Which means you’ve had one recently, Madam. Naughty naughty.”

Craig ignored them and moved Davy on.

“Rudd had never been married, no children and no hospital attendances on record, but I’m checking that with the GP now.” He shook his head. “All she seemed to do outside work was eat and s…sleep.”

Jake gave him a rueful look. “Sounds like most of us.”

Craig cut in. “Rudd’s completely clean? No obvious motive for murder?” He was sceptical. In his experience people usually got murdered for something they’d done or knew.

Davy shrugged. “I’m getting her computer and phone dump tomorrow s…so I can tell you more then. Maybe she had an on-line gambling habit and owed money to the mob.”

Liam guffawed. “I don’t think the Granny Bingo Sites are run by them.”

A laugh rippled round the group and was followed by some chat while Craig thought. So far they had an apparently innocent victim. No, Eleanor Rudd hadn’t been universally loved by her colleagues, but then who was? And was the dislike really enough to cause her murder? Craig checked himself. He should know better than to ask that question when people were killed for something as petty as a mobile phone. OK, so Rudd hadn’t been universally popular and perhaps she’d been in a relationship with Adrian Cooke. Tim Taylor as well? Was this really just a romantic triangle gone wrong?

His next question surprised everyone but Ken. “Is Adrian Cooke married, Davy?”

He went to say “I don’t know” then he loped across to his computer instead. A few taps later he shook his head.

“W…Why? Is it important?”

Craig nodded. “It might be; I’ll tell you in a minute. Do you have anything else for us?”

Davy shook his head. “I’ve background checks running on every s…staff member but they’ll take a while to come through. I’ll map people’s movements that morning as well.” He frowned slightly. “Checking out everyone on the research suite might be a stretch, chief. Do you w…want me to go ahead?

“Yes. The whole unit; Newman and Reilly wards. We’ll get warrants if necessary.”

Craig scanned the group for any other contributions then he nodded Ken to report on their meeting with Tim Taylor. Ken’s English accent echoed through the room, making Nicky smile. She loved his voice and a quick glance told her that Carmen did too; now she just had to love the rest of him.

“Superintendent Craig and I went to the university to meet with Professor Taylor, who was, to put it mildly, odd. He seemed far less interested in his patients’ welfare than in his own pursuit of youth and it looks like he set up the research suite to find ways to stay young.”

Craig smiled at the truism.

“Apart from being a middle-aged man with a much younger wife and an obsession with youth, Taylor came across as arrogant and unpleasant. But I don’t think he killed Eleanor Rudd, if anything he seemed shocked when he heard about her death.” He turned to Craig. “Actually, that’s a thing, sir. Why wasn’t Taylor called down when they found the body? Especially if Hamilton, his deputy, was away on leave – although Taylor didn’t seem to know that either. In fact, he doesn’t seem to know much about what’s going on in his unit.”

Craig nodded. It was a good point. Why hadn’t someone told Taylor that it was Eleanor Rudd who was dead? Ken carried on.

“Then we met with Dr Winter and he confirmed Taylor’s self-absorption.” He gave Craig a puzzled look before he made the next comment. “The Super asked Dr Winter if whoever had strangled our victim had been wearing a ring.”

He handed back to Craig who smiled.

“The killer wasn’t wearing any rings. There would have been a mark on Eleanor Rudd’s neck if they had been.”

Davy cut in. “That’s why you wanted to know if Adrian Cooke was married.”

“Yes. Taylor is and unfortunately he wears a ring to prove it.”

Liam was the next to interrupt. “Taylor could have removed it before he strangled her.”

“He could have, but his reaction when he heard it was Rudd who’d died makes me believe not. The ring was just a grope in the dark.”

Annette shook her head. “Not true, sir. If whoever strangled Ellie Rudd didn’t wear any rings, that’s something. Yes, they could have removed them before they killed her, but how likely is that in the heat of the moment, and why bother if they were wearing gloves?”

Craig shrugged. “That’s supposing Rudd was killed in the heat of the moment, Annette. Someone could have been waiting for her for hours. That’s what makes Davy’s movement-mapping essential. We need to rule people in or out of that linen room area between nine and eleven o’clock.”

He nodded at Ken to continue but his face was blank. “I don’t think there’s anything else, sir. Except that we’re awaiting the victim’s tox-screen from the lab.”

Craig straightened up briskly. “OK. Davy, you know what to do. Carmen, you know your way around computers, can you help Davy with the checks? Jake and Liam, go back to the unit tomorrow and see how quickly you can get through the rest of the interviews, Ken and Joe can help.”

Annette gave a little wave. “What can I do?”

Craig made a face. “You’re coming with me to see Eleanor Rudd’s grieving family.”

Chapter Four

Holywood, County Down. 10 p.m.

Craig pushed a strand of spaghetti around his plate until it finally split in two. He selected another, repeating the routine while he thought about the case. A metal spoon rapped his hand, brutally interrupting his ruminations; Mirella Craig hadn’t spent hours bent over a steaming pot of pasta for her son to play with it! In fact she hadn’t spent hours bent over anything, it had only taken her thirty minutes to prepare dinner, but that wasn’t the point.

As Craig yelled “Ow!” she swooped in and grabbed his plate, depositing its contents in the bin.

“I was eating that!”

Mirella faced her first born with her hands on her ample hips and began to berate him in a half-Italian, half-English stream. The English part said.

“You play with food, no eat it. You must no like.”

The Italian half was less polite but Craig could see both of them about to bring on tears. His mother was a volatile Roman Italian, made even more volatile by her creative musician side. She might have retired from being a concert pianist, but her artistic temperament definitely hadn’t been put out to grass.

He rose and gave her a hug, under the amused gazes of his laid-back father and sister, who were both about to laugh. He shot them a warning look and mollified his mother by taking a fresh plate of food. As Craig tucked in Mirella squinted suspiciously at him.

“So! It wasn’t that you no like food. You think of murder! At my table you think of murder!”

She swung towards her husband looking for support, but Tom Craig was gazing eagerly at his son.

“What’s the case, son? Is it the one at the hospital?”

Craig was puzzled. “How did you hear about it?”

Craig Senior waved towards the TV. “It was on the News.”

Craig sighed heavily. Great, the media had got hold of it, now they’d be crawling all over the E.M.U. He was inventing threats for any of his team who leaked things to the press when he realised he had no control over the ward staff. He sighed again and asked his father what the report had said.

“Just that someone had been found dead under suspicious circumstances.”

Suspicious circumstances; the magic words. A death at a hospital wouldn’t have attracted attention otherwise. Craig was about to say something about the case when both men became aware of Mirella’s proximity and her hands again placed threateningly on her hips. Father and son clammed up as Lucia marvelled at the power of her mother’s ire and made a note to emulate it when she had kids. Craig shot his father a look that said ‘I’ll tell you later’, then, like the good son he was, he returned to the Friday night family meal.

***

Saturday, 11th October 10 a.m.

Craig had waived the standard eight o’clock briefing in favour of one at twelve; there was too much legwork still to be done. He and Annette were on their way to see Eleanor Rudd’s parents and the others knew their tasks. As he pulled his soon-to-be retired Audi into the narrow street off the Newtownards Road his heart sank. Outside their destination sat a row of cars, far more than would feasibly belong in the small cul-de-sac. Craig’s heart sank further as he recognised one of the drivers; Ray Mercer, The Belfast Chronicle’s scummiest reporter and its most highly paid. Mercer didn’t earn the big bucks for erudite prose; he earned it by writing sensationalist crap. Crap that sold tabloids.

Craig and Annette glanced at each other then they opened the car doors simultaneously, swallowing the words they wanted to say to Mercer and replacing them with expressionless professional masks. Craig went first to break through the crowd, with Annette following in the path he cleared. At the front door of the house stood their nemesis; Raymond James Mercer, a wizened, bitter weasel of a man, made even more bitter by his impending divorce. He was thin, dark and angular, with a nose that could have opened cans. His harsh looks served him well, scaring eager cub reporters out of his way, but his motivation had nothing to do with reaching the truth or even getting the best story; whatever interviewees said Mercer wrote whatever he liked. His God was money and the Chronicle’s was the same. It was the perfect match.

Mercer smirked at Craig then flicked his eyes down Annette’s body in a judgemental, chauvinistic arc. Craig willed her not to react, knowing that ten other reporters stood ready to take a snapshot if she did. He spoke before anyone else could.

“Move aside, Mr Mercer.”

Mercer drew himself up to his full five-feet-eight and sneered up at Craig.

“Or what, Craig? You’ll threaten me again?”

Their last encounter had been at a particularly gory murder scene, where Craig had intervened to stop Mercer rattling Liam’s cage so hard that Liam picked Mercer up and rattled him. To be strictly accurate he hadn’t actually threatened the reporter, merely informed him that there were quite a few criminals who would like his home address.

Craig ignored the taunt and reached above Mercer’s head for the door knocker. When Mercer saw he was getting no reaction he turned to Annette and prepared to insult her in his customary way. Annette raised a hand to stop him.

“If you’re going to call me ‘frumpy cop’ again, save it, Mr Mercer. Sticks and stones.”

Mercer licked his lips lecherously. Craig was about to intervene when a glance from Annette said that she had it under control.

“I was just going to say you’re looking well, Inspector. Lost weight?” What he said next shocked Annette to the core. “Maybe you’re in love?”

She stared into the journalist’s tiny eyes, searching for the meaning of his words. Did he know about her affair? Was he about to expose her in the press? But she saw nothing there except Mercer pissing in the dark to see what he hit. She followed Craig through the opening front door, but not before both men had seen her flinch.

The door opened inwards to reveal a small woman standing in a short, narrow hall. She was around fifty, with the stunned look Craig had seen on relatives’ faces many times before. It began as shock from losing a loved one in a premature and evil way then morphed into a daze from the questions and procedure, press enquiries and neighbours’ inquisitive looks. The paraphernalia of murder left people lost and exhausted sometimes for years, and the woman in front of them bore its stamp, along with the half-dried tears of a mother who’d just lost her child.

Margie Rudd turned slowly down the hallway and led the way into a sunny back room; half-house and half-conservatory. The sun seemed incongruous somehow in a murder victim’s home but October was often the brightest month of the year. She turned towards a man that Craig hadn’t noticed, hidden as he was in a winged armchair that obscured his presence from the door.

For the first time since she’d opened the front door Margie Rudd spoke. Her accent hailed from the country somewhere and Craig guessed that her voice was normally strong, in the way a working-class voice was often loud to make itself heard in a world dominated by the rich. But today there was no strong voice, just a weak whisper that murmured her husband’s name.

“Billy, the police are here to speak to us. They want…” She paused for a moment as if unsure whether she needed to say what came next. Her frightened glance at her husband said that she was also gauging his potential rage. However the sums stacked up they fell on the side of her saying “…want to…to talk to us about Ellie.”

At the mention of his daughter’s name William Rudd lurched forward angrily. He was a thick-set man with a neck the size of his head and hands that were red and rough. They clenched into fists far too quickly and Craig understood his wife’s frightened glance. He made a note to check domestic violence calls just as Rudd sprang to his feet.

“Don’t mention that whore’s name in my house!” He waved his hand angrily towards the front door. “Look what she’s brought to my door. Peelers and news scum, digging into our lives.” He pointed a thick finger at his wife. “It’s your fault, she was your daughter. Staying out all hours of the night and dressing like a slut. It’s not a wonder someone killed her!”

Annette moved towards Margie Rudd as she shrank back against the door and Craig stepped into her husband’s line of sight. The next thing Rudd would do was raise his hand to his wife, to take out his frustration at the world. If he did they would have to nick him and he would do it happily, but it would only defer and magnify the beating she would get when he was released.

“Calm down, Mr Rudd.”

Rudd’s face reddened and spittle gathered at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t you tell me to calm down, peeler. This is my house.”

Craig raised his hands in truce and Rudd pushed him out of the way, grabbing for his wife. In a second Craig had Rudd’s burly arm up his back and had pushed him to the floor.

Billy Rudd yelled at the top of his voice as his wife cowered behind Annette. “You can’t do that. This is my house!”

Craig’s normally warm voice was ice. “That doesn’t mean that you can hit your wife.”

Rudd’s voice was muffled by his position but they could still make out his words. “I’ll hit her if I want to. I own her, that’s what the bible says.”

Craig sighed despairingly and glanced at the conservatory door, calculating whether they could get Billy Rudd out the back without some canny reporter spotting them. He nodded to Annette then said the words that opened a can of worms that had probably needed opening for years.

“William Rudd, I’m arresting you…”

Annette threw across her cuffs and as Craig secured his prisoner she helped Margie Rudd to gather some overnight things. Then they walked their murder victim’s unhappily married parents through their back garden for the trip to High Street.

***

St Mary’s Hospital. 10.30 a.m.

Liam swung his legs onto the desk in the office they’d been allocated on Newman, just as Jake and Ken entered the room. Jake shoved Liam’s legs aside to make room to sit, nodding Ken to take the only free chair.

“Well, that was a waste of time. Everyone on Reilly was too busy with chess, aerobics and organising day trips to the coast, to pay any attention to what was happening here on Thursday!”

Liam nodded and smiled at the younger men. “It’s fair cheered me up.”

Ken wrinkled his brow, wondering if he should take the bait. “OK, I’ll ask. Why?”

Liam grinned broadly. “Because it tells me that there’s life after retirement. That bunch must have an average age of seventy-five but they’re still out partying every day.”

Ken laughed. “I’d hardly call chess and tea dances partying.”

“You will when you’re their age.”

“One of the old ladies said she remembers when there was no TV!”

Liam’s reply was heavy with sarcasm. “O.M.G., how did people survive?”

He noticed Jake studying his notebook with a perplexed look on his face.

“Penny for them, lad?”

Jake considered for a moment and then tapped on a page. “This old boy’s ninety-two and there’s hardly anything wrong with him. How is that fair?”

“Fair on who?”

Jake realised what he’d said and that they didn’t know about his grandfather yet. He shook his head. “On anyone younger who dies.”

Liam shook his head solemnly. “Ours is not to reason why, lad.” He swung his legs down and his feet hit the floor with a bang. “OK. What have we got?” He nodded Ken on.

“Right. There are twenty-two long-stay residents at the moment; they have room for up to thirty. There are six couples and ten single residents, seven women and three men. The age range is sixty to ninety-two, like Jake said. The ward also runs day sessions for any local pensioners who wish to attend.”

“Like tea dances?”

“Exactly. Sing-songs, day trips and the rest.” He turned over the page. “OK, out of twenty-two most are mobile, although there’s one who uses a wheelchair, two who use Zimmer frames and four canes.”

Liam raised a hand. “Do you know why?”

Ken nodded. “One of the Zimmer framers has nerve paralysis in her left leg and one had a hip fracture about six months ago; the frame’s part of her rehab. The cane users mostly have arthritis and the man in the wheelchair had a leg amputated from diabetes.”

Liam made a face, glad that his last blood sugar had been OK.

“OK, so that leaves us fifteen mobile and seven with limited mobility.” He turned to Jake. “How many have the upper body strength to strangle a fit young woman?”

Jake thought for a moment, tapping his pen against his teeth until it irritated Liam so much he grabbed it. “Well?”

“I’d like your opinion on that…sir.”

The ‘sir’ was said in an amused tone and Liam thought back wistfully to Jake’s early days on the team, when reverence had tinged the word every time. He was getting as cheeky as Davy.

He rephrased his question.

“Your best estimate as to how many have the upper body strength, then. Start with the ones who definitely don’t have it.”

Jake nodded. “Four of the old ladies looked as if they would blow away in the breeze. I tested the grip of the others and out of the remaining nine women only two could even squeeze my fingers hard enough to make them hurt.”

“Any chance they were faking?” Cynicism ran through Liam like graphite through a pencil.

Jake shook his head. “I got Ken to try and he agreed.”

Smith nodded.

“OK. So that gives us two women with a slightly strong grip. How strong?”

“One of them said she could tear telephone directories in half when she was young.”

Liam raised an eyebrow. “Was she in a circus?”

Jake shook his head. “No. She had five children and she used to wring out their nappies by hand.”

Everyone laughed and Liam gestured towards Jake’s notebook. “OK, put those two names down then, although I’m still sceptical. Ken, what about the men?”

Smith recited from memory. “There are nine men in total on Reilly and I’d say that three of them could have done it. The others are too weak.” He hesitated for a moment until Liam said “spit it out.”

“One of the three is the man in the wheelchair, so he couldn’t have done it. That only leaves two.”

Liam shook his head. He could see where Ken was coming from but he’d leave any de-selection of suspects to the boss.

“Put him down and get those five names to Davy to do background checks. I need them as well. OK, what’s happening with the CCTV?”

Jake shook his head. “There’s no CCTV inside Reilly Suite at all.”

Liam gawped. “What? How come?”

“It’s their home. You wouldn’t have cameras inside your house, would you?”

Liam blustered. “No, but I don’t live in a government building, although the way Danni runs our house you’d wonder sometimes.”

He thought for a moment. They had CCTV in the garden, street and Newman Ward but Davy already had all of those. They would tell them nothing about what went on inside Reilly, or who’d entered the linen room area between the wards. He had an idea.

“Is there a camera outside Reilly, trained on the front door? That would tell us who went in and out to the main hospital.”

Jake shrugged. “I’ll check, but remember they could have gone out by the front door and re-entered by the back, and even if they returned the same way, we’d need to prove that they’d headed towards the linen room in between.”

Liam rose to his feet, annoyed at being told his job. “Don’t be a smartass. I know fine well what we have to prove. You just gather the information and leave me to worry about the challenging stuff.”

He headed for the door at a dignified pace, completely missing the grins behind his back. Jake risked a question.

“Where are you off to?”

Liam attempted a mysterious look. “That’s for me to know and you to mind your own business about.”

***

So many uniforms. White uniforms and checked uniforms and now heavy dark ones, with stripes and chrome buckles and noisy radios on their hips, spitting out static to remind everyone they were there. Why did the world have to be so messy? People running around, disturbing this nice clean place, this haven designed to combat ageing and cure the sick.

The dead girl had been noisy too; demanding and cruel. Greedy, like everything in life belonged to her and she wanted it now and didn’t give a damn who she hurt. Too greedy; manipulating the vulnerable people that she’d met. She couldn’t be allowed to live.

***

Hazel Gormley wasn’t Liam’s idea of a nursing sister. Sisters were clean and neat, with little white hats and their hair tied back, pristine nails and small feet in soft shoes that tapped quietly as they passed the sick. The loudest sound they made was a heightened ‘Shhh’ as someone noisily passed a sleeping patient’s bed, or the accidental clink of a tea-spoon while handing a relative a cup of tea. Sisters were the mother superiors of the ward, gliding smoothly through the cloisters to ensure that all was well. Hazel Gormley was none of those things.

Liam stared at the young woman in front of him. She was young by anyone’s standards, no more than thirty-five, but if her face hadn’t betrayed her youth her style of dress definitely would have done. She wore an emerald green T-shirt that said ‘Stop me and buy one’ and jeans that Liam recognised as this years’ fashion from both Nicky and his wife. Her long, thick hair was streaked with alternate blonde and pink stripes and a small blue butterfly adorned one inner wrist. But it was her feet that bothered Liam most. They were shod in flip-flops the same colour as her top and her toenails were painted green to match.

He shook his head, unaware that disapproval was written all over his face. Hazel Gormley smiled up at him, reading his mind.

“You’d rather I was dressed like Sister Norton, wouldn’t you, Chief Inspector?”

Liam sniffed. “Not for me to say.”

“Ah, but you already have. Very loudly.” She smiled again as Liam blushed. “Don’t worry, you won’t be the first. Practically everyone over fifty has the same idea.”

Liam’s eyes widened as he blustered. “I’m not over fifty.” He was forty-nine and he was staying there till he reached his sixtieth.

The sister laughed. “Sorry. But you know what I mean. Your generation was brought up with ‘Carry on Nurse’ and you think all of us should dress like that.”

Liam pointed through her office door, indicating the residential suite. “What do they make of you, then? Half of them must remember the lady with the lamp!”

Gormley poured two cups of tea and Liam thought that at least she knew how to do that. When she replied it wasn’t the answer he’d expected to hear.

“They asked me to dress like this.” She added milk and sugar to her cup and nodded Liam to do the same. “They took a vote at the beginning against people wearing hospital uniforms. You see, this isn’t a hospital ward, Inspector. Not really. Yes, all of the people here have slight health issues, but show me someone over fifty who doesn’t have some complaint.” She glanced pointedly at him. “I saw you holding your back earlier on.”

Liam blustered again. “That’s not health, that’s my height. It’s always taken a toll on my spine.”

“Whatever it is there won’t be anyone in the world who doesn’t have something similar at your age, even if it’s only aches and pains. My residents are just as fit as you, give or take.”

“Why are they here then?”

“Because they answered an advert.”

She said it so matter-of-factly that he laughed.

“What?”

“They answered an advert in their GPs’ surgeries. Many of them had already given thought to selling their houses and moving into folds or homes, but they weren’t chronically ill. They could easily have continued to live independently for years.”

Liam interrupted. “Here, the other day you said your people were too frail to have killed anyone, now you’re saying they’re fit and well.”

Gormley shook her head. “They aren’t sick, that doesn’t mean that they’re strong enough to kill. I stand by what I said.” She shot Liam a challenging look and he liked her for it. “Do you want to hear about this advert or not?”

He nodded her on.

“OK. The Prof designed a long-term trial, and when I say long-term I mean over ten years, to look at the effect of older people receiving immediate and appropriate care. So, basically, what would happen if they lived in a community where any illness they suffered, big or small, would be picked up immediately.” She paused and sipped her tea. “They also get the best of food, vitamin supplements and regular check-ups.”

Liam scratched his head, finding it hard to imagine anyone wanting to live in such a supervised way. It was like a lab with curtains. Gormley smiled.

“They can and do go out, see their families, go to the pub etc. But I agree it wouldn’t suit everyone as a way of life. That’s why it was advertised, that way you get a pool of volunteers to select from. Oh, and did I mention that it was completely free? They still have the money from their house-sales in the bank and don’t have to pay nursing home fees.”

Liam was starting to find the idea appealing. The realisation disturbed him and he swiftly changed tack.

“OK, so everyone here volunteered. What was the percentage rejected?”

Gormley twisted a strand of hair round her finger as she thought. “Ninety-two percent. Of the eight percent accepted a few dropped out in the early months, but we’ve had this cohort of residents since 2009.”

“No-one died yet?”

It was a conversational swerve and Gormley swerved in response. “No, and no pregnancies either.”

Liam guffawed. It was cut short by her next words.

“Although we have had a few STDs.”

Liam gawped and she nodded. “Oh, yes. They can be a bawdy bunch. One of the married men played away with a woman he met at the pub and caught syphilis. Thankfully it was treated quickly. The Prof was very pleased.”

Liam’s eyes widened. “Pleased that someone caught a dose!”

“Yes. It means they aren’t living in a bubble. The research is supposed to see what happens if people are diagnosed and treated quickly, not if they never get sick at all.”

Liam’s eyes narrowed, as if he’d just thought of something. “How well did you know Eleanor Rudd – the nurse that died?”

An uneasy look crossed Gormley’s face. “I…I knew her well. She used to work here sometimes, on her days off.”

Liam nodded. “Agency nurse?”

“Yes. Professor Taylor pays excellent rates.”

Something about the sister’s expression made Liam dig further.

“You either didn’t like Rudd, didn’t rate her as a nurse, or something happened while she worked here. Which was it?”

Gormley didn’t answer so Liam decided to get the information by the back door.

“Don’t tell me. One of the patients got her pregnant.”

Gormley laughed and then stopped herself, as if the idea wasn’t as ludicrous as it seemed. “No. But I wouldn’t have put it past some of our patients, or Rudd. She got around.” As soon as her words hit the air she tried to bite them back. “I mean…if she had got…” She gave up halfway and pursed her lips in disapproval. “Very clever, Chief Inspector. All right, you asked me how well I knew Eleanor Rudd, the answer is too well and I didn’t like her.”

She paused as if reluctant to betray a colleague, especially a dead one, but Liam urged her on.

“Eleanor Rudd wasn’t very nice, not in my book. She always had her eye to the main chance, if you know what I mean.”

Liam knew exactly. He’d worked with cops like that over the years; all for one and one for all, except when it came to their turn, then it was every man for himself. They were the men who would climb over anyone to get promotion and made sure their errors always fell at someone else’s feet. He nodded the sister to continue.

“Rudd did her work, but only just. She was lazy and cut corners and I know that if Sister Norton was being truthful she would say the same.” She smiled. “Janey will never speak ill of the dead but I bloody well will. Eleanor Rudd didn’t care about anyone but herself, not her friends and definitely not her patients. She probably didn’t even care about the men she dated, except for what they could give her.”

Liam interjected. “Who was she dating? Do you know?”

Gormley paused for a moment and then shrugged as if she’d decided to be hung for the whole sheep. “The ones I know of for sure were Adrian Cooke, the unit’s middle-grade doctor, and Prof Taylor, but there might have been more.” She shrugged again. “More fool them. Rudd was a good looking girl, but there are lots of those about and a lot nicer as well.”

Liam sniffed carefully for the scent of sour grapes but there was none. Hazel Gormley read his mind.

“No, I wasn’t jealous of her. I’m happily in love and she was welcome to both Taylor and Cooke. Neither of them is exactly a prize.”

Liam smiled, liking Hazel Gormley more by the minute. Craig had often told him he shouldn’t judge a book by its cover and in this case he was right.

“OK, so I’ve two more questions for you. One, did the Prof and Cooke know about each other? And two, you said that Rudd used to do agency work here. Did that stop when she died or before then?”

Gormley laughed. “Very sharp. To answer your second question first. She stopped working here two months before she died because some of the residents complained that she’d been harsh with them, and they weren’t people who normally complained about anything.”

“What sort of harsh?”

Gormley face clouded. “We have some elderly ladies who need help dressing. Rudd was rough and rushed them. She dug her nails into one, which I’m pretty sure was deliberate, and she left bruises on another’s arms.” She furrowed her brow. “They’re the things I found out about, God knows what else she did. I told the agency that I wouldn’t have her back.”

Liam nodded. Cruelty might have been motive for murder if a relative had found out. “What about my first question; did Cooke and the Prof know about each other?”

Gormley shook her head. “I honestly have no idea. But it’s a small place and if I knew what Rudd was doing I can’t imagine that the men didn’t.”

Suddenly her eyes widened and Liam knew something had just occurred to her.

“You’ve just thought of something, what is it?”

The sister shook her head hastily but Liam stared insistently into her eyes. “What?”

Gormley sighed and shook her head. There was a sadness about it, as if what she was about to say was a betrayal. Her voice dropped.

“Adrian…Dr Cooke…he’s a bit of a waster but he’s a good doctor, he really is. He cares about his patients.”

Liam leaned forward, straining to hear her words. “OK, he’s a good doctor. But?”

“But…he had a problem…last year.” She rushed to add. “He got help for it, I know he did.”

Liam was unyielding. “What did he need help for, Sister Gormley?”

Hazel Gormley’s next words were so soft that Liam asked her to repeat them. He heard them loud and clear the second time.

“Drug abuse. But he got help, I know he did.”

Liam’s voice became stern. “What sort of drugs?”

She shook her head. “He was using a mixture. Cocaine mainly and…”

“And?”

“He’s very physically fit.”

She tightened her lips, signalling that she would say no more. She didn’t need to; the very fit Dr Cooke had obviously been using steroids. Mixed with cocaine and a two-timing girlfriend it was the perfect recipe for rage. Murder was just the next step.

***

The C.C.U. 12 p.m.

“Right, what have we got? Davy, you first, then Annette, then Liam. Fire away.”

Davy began, running through the CCTV or lack of it, on and off the unit. “There’s nothing inside Reilly S…Suite at all, just cameras outside the door leading to the car park and tennis courts...”

Nicky’s husky voice cut across his words. “Tennis courts! What is this place, a holiday camp?”

Davy smiled. “Pretty much. OK, so I decided to check the cameras for three hours before and after the murder and I’ve s…shots of everyone who came and went. Could you all I.D. them with the staff?”

Everyone nodded.

“Great. OK, so the front door of Reilly S…Suite; that leads to the linen room area, Newman Ward and the rest of the hospital. I’ve got some faces there. The tricky part is trying to work out who, if anyone, from Reilly left by either the front or back door and then entered the linen room area. W…We have no cameras there so I’ll have to pull the CCTV from the s…street outside Reilly’s back door and the rest of the hospital inside. Even that will only tell me who headed back towards the linen room and at w…what time; it won’t tell me where they’d been.”

Craig nodded. “True, but if there’s a time gap between heading in that direction and re-appearing at Reilly we can narrow it down and ask people to account for their time in the gap.”

Davy nodded and pushed his hair back from his face. Craig winced, seeing that the once solitary piercing on his earlobe had been joined by two more on the helix. He just hoped he wouldn’t play with them while he was around; people pulling at their piercings made him nauseous. The analyst saw what Craig was staring at and playfully moved a finger towards his ear. Craig continued hastily.

“What about Newman Ward?”

Davy smiled and turned back to the paper in his hand. “Everyone’s accounted for there, according to where they said they’d be. The only people who left the w…ward in that period were Eleanor Rudd, Caroline Hobbert and Hannah Donard.”

“No-one went from Newman to Reilly, or vice versa?”

Davy shook his head again. “No. S…So by that reckoning the only people who would have been anywhere near the linen room were the three nurses I just mentioned and anyone from Reilly w…who had detoured there.”

Annette interjected. “Or anyone from anywhere else in the hospital that’d just wandered in.” She turned to Craig. “Even if we see people heading in the right direction, we can’t place them definitively at the scene because we’ve no CCTV in or around the linen room.”

Craig sighed. She was right. All they could do was narrow down the pool.

“We need a lot more than this. Any court would throw it out.”

Jake cut in. “What about new visitors to the ward? Were there any relatives in or out?”

“No again. Newman’s visiting hours are restricted to the afternoons. And any visitors to Reilly in that time will be I.D.ed off the CCTV outside.”

Craig thought for a moment and then banged his forehead hard with his hand. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of it? Davy, have the forensics come through yet?”

“Rudd’s tox-screen was clear. I won’t get the rest till Monday.”

“OK, when you do, ask Des to isolate any prints on the linen room door. There were no prints on the body, so either our killer wore gloves or wiped them off, but they might have got careless and not put their gloves on until they were inside the room. It’s worth a shot.”

“Cool. I’ll check.”

“Anything else on Rudd?”

“Just the usual. Twenty-five; had been a nurse for four years, moving around the Trust. One younger brother and both parents still alive.”

Craig frowned, remembering Billy Rudd’s aggression. He wondered what Eleanor Rudd had learned growing up in that home.

“One reprimand on her record and mediocre reports all the w…way through her career.”

“What’s the general gist of them?”

“Uncaring, veering towards cruel.” Davy shook his head. “She s…shouldn’t have been a nurse and that’s not just my opinion. It’s actually written on her assessment from the ward she was on before geriatrics.”

A squeak from Annette made everyone turn. “Not geriatrics, Davy. It’s called Elderly Medicine nowadays.”

“OK, whatever it’s called. The ‘Medicine for people over forty’ ward.”

It was Craig and Liam’s turn to squeak. Craig recovered enough to speak. “OK, get me those reports. Anything else?”

“Carmen and I did background checks on the s…staff and patients on Newman but there was nothing there. We’re still doing the ones on Reilly.”

“Well done, and thanks for helping with that, Carmen. Keep digging. This seems as good a time as any to tell you about our visit to Eleanor Rudd’s home. Annette?”

Annette wagged a finger at Davy for his ageism and started to report.

“Well…the Rudds. It’s a highly dysfunctional family. The mother’s been beaten by her husband for years, if her demeanour and his willingness to try it in front of two cops is anything to go by.”

Jake gawped. “He didn’t!”

“He would have if we hadn’t been there to stop him. He’s in High Street now under arrest.” She shook her head. “He called his dead daughter a whore as well, so God knows what sort of life he gave her when she was alive.”

Craig interjected. “Annette’s right. His mood wasn’t improved by the press camping outside their door.”

Liam’s bass echoed through the room. “Mercer?”

Craig nodded. “Being his usual charming self.” He was about to ask Liam to have a word then he remembered that every time Liam saw Ray Mercer he struggled to control his fists. He turned to Jake and Ken instead. “Jake, take Ken and have a word with Ray Mercer.”

Ken looked at Craig curiously. “Who is he?”

“One of the most unpleasant tabloid journalists you’ll ever meet – a real bottom feeder. Have a word with his editor as well please, Jake. You know what to say; obstructing enquiries, interfering with a case. The usual.” He smiled. “Tomorrow’s time enough.”

Liam saw Craig’s smile. He was about to ask what was wrong with Jake seeing Mercer sooner when Annette nipped him on the calf. “Ow! What the hell?” The look in Annette’s eyes said ‘shut up. I’ll tell you later.’ Craig had updated her on Jake’s home situation on the way to the Rudd’s.

Craig restarted. “OK, so Eleanor Rudd didn’t have the happiest family in the world and she was undoubtedly beaten by her father. She has old scars and if he hits his wife I’m sure the children didn’t escape.” He turned to Carmen who was scribbling furiously on her pad. “Carmen, you and Ken interview Ellie Rudd’s brother tomorrow please. If he’s not living at home Davy can get you his address.”

Ken blushed and Liam rolled his eyes. He stopped quickly at Craig’s sharp glance.

Craig continued. “So we know Eleanor Rudd had a hard past and we know she wasn’t the nicest person. Anyone anything more on that?”

Liam reported Hazel Gormley’s reasons for banning Rudd from working in Reilly Suite. He was about to continue when Craig crossed the room and brought back a white board. He wrote up the heading ‘Motive’ and beneath it ‘harsh/cruel’ then he waved Liam on.

“Aye well, Rudd was so bad she actually bruised an old lady’s arms helping her dress.” His brow furrowed. “If I ever saw…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. “Apparently she was a bit of a girl for the men as well.”

Annette cut in. “We’d already guessed that. Dr Cooke and the Professor.”

Liam reclaimed the floor decisively. “Aye well, Mrs Smartass, did you also know that Adrian Cooke was a drug addict?”

Everyone looked shocked.

“No, you didn’t. You see now. I’m a chief inspector for a reason.”

Craig laughed. “Dear God, Liam, all that’s missing is you sticking out your tongue. Grow up and get on with it.”

Liam sniffed. “Aye, well, I’m just saying. A bit more respect wouldn’t go amiss around here. Anyway. Adrian Cooke had or has a drug problem. Sister Gormley said he’d got help for it but for all we know it might still be there.”

Craig thought for a moment. There was no such thing as an ex-addict but that didn’t mean Cooke was still using. “What sort of drugs?”

“Coke mostly.”

Craig was surprised. Most drug–addict doctors’ poison of choice was Morphine; it was easy to find in the medical world. Cocaine meant that Adrian Cooke had gone to a dealer. Risky behaviour. Liam was still speaking.

“That’s not the worst of it. He was using Roids as well.”

Steroids! That brought all kinds of possibilities. Craig asked the obvious question.

“Is he a body builder?”

Liam shrugged. “Might be. I don’t know yet. Fit was all Gormley would say. But if Cooke was on steroids then Roid-rage isn’t a million miles away.”

Craig nodded. “Especially if he’s on coke too. OK, check it out. I want him looked into and interviewed.”

Annette said something and Craig turned to see her musing to herself. “Do you have something, Annette?”

“Just…if Cooke knew that Rudd was seeing the Prof and he was taking that cocktail, jealousy’s a good trigger for murder.”

Craig nodded. “It is, but not the only one. Cooke’s a suspect but not our prime one yet.” He turned back to Liam. “Good work, Liam. What else did your team find out on the ward?”

Jake and Ken exchanged a look on the word ‘team’ and smiled as Liam preened himself.

“We interviewed everyone on Reilly and came up with a five person shortlist of those who might have the strength to strangle Rudd. Two women and three men; some of them are a bit of a stretch.”

Craig nodded. “OK, make sure Davy has that list. Anything else?”

“Nope.”

Craig nodded, rounding up. “OK. Everyone go home, but fair warning, tomorrow’s a full day and we’re briefing at four.” He waved down the moans, allocating tasks. “Davy has a lot of background checks still to do, so Carmen, when you and Ken have interviewed Eleanor Rudd’s brother come back here and help Davy with that. Annette and Jake, I want you to re-interview both ward sisters and see if there’s anything more: on ward rivalries, Rudd’s work misdemeanours, general background etc. I want to know about all the doctors on the ward, especially the Prof. But don’t get specific about Cooke’s drug problems please; Liam and I will deal with him in the morning. We’ll interview William Rudd as well, but he can wait till the afternoon. Annette, while we’re with him, go to their house and interview his wife.”

“She’s in a women’s refuge at the moment, but if Rudd’s not getting out she can go back to the house. You’ll know if he’s being held tomorrow, won’t you?”

As Craig nodded Liam leaned forward enthusiastically. “Are we arresting Cooke then, boss?”

Craig smiled at his eagerness to make a collar. He’d spent too long in uniform.

“No, we’re not. We’re going to do what detectives do, we’re going to chat to Dr Cooke and detect.”

***

Craig’s apartment. Stranmillis. 11 p.m.

“Sorry I’ve been neglecting you, pet. It’s been a busy few days.”

Craig set down his glass of wine and pulled Katy closer on the settee. She smiled and rubbed his chin, deciding she quite liked his one day stubble; it gave him an edgy look.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been busy myself. We have a grant application to submit, so tomorrow’s going to be spent doing that.”

Craig pushed a strand of hair from her face, marvelling at the delicacy of her nose. He was about to test the delicacy of her lips when she burst his bubble mischievously.

“I saw Liam in the canteen yesterday. So who’s been murdered at St Mary’s and where?”

Craig sighed heavily; the last thing he wanted to talk about was Liam, especially when he had a beautiful woman in his arms. He turned his attention to the top button of her cardigan and began to work his way down. Katy laughed.

“I take it you don’t want to discuss it.”

He leaned forward and with a smile that said ‘tomorrow’ and began to kiss her neck.

***

Sunday morning, 10 a.m.

It was ten o’clock by the time Carmen and Ken reached the Rudd’s small house. Ken parked his Golf and walked to the passenger side to open Carmen’s door and act as a human shield. His intent was to repel any journalist who approached, preparing to battle them like an Arthurian Knight, but she gawped at him as she got out, wondering what he was on. First, men didn’t hold doors open nowadays, well not any man that she’d ever dated, and second, she was the one carrying the gun! She didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended. Unfortunately her feminist side won.

She glared fiercely at him, hissing. “What are you doing? Everyone’s staring at us.” Ken gazed around with a bewildered look and Carmen hissed again. “This isn’t bloody Camelot. Don’t open my door, ever.”

Then she marched ahead so fast that she was at the Rudd’s front door before he had time to lock the car. He caught up just in time for a reporter to take a snap, as the house door opened and Carmen stormed inside. A thin youth of barely eighteen was standing in the hallway. He stared at Ken and then at Carmen, who was so busy glaring at Ken that she’d forgotten to show her badge. Ken saw the boy’s confusion and extended a hand.

“I’m Ken Smith and this is Detective Constable McGregor. We’re here to ask you a few questions, Mr Rudd.”

The lad hadn’t given his name but Rudd was a fair bet. Who else would be standing in his bare feet in their hall? Carmen showed her badge hurriedly and smiled at the young man.

“Mr Edward Rudd?”

Edward and Eleanor; the Rudd’s had favoured the letter ‘E’ in the baby book.

The boy nodded. “Eddie.” His voice dropped sadly. “You’re here to ask questions about Ellie, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Is that all right?”

Eddie Rudd shrugged his thin shoulders and led the way towards a small kitchen. He flicked on the kettle and nodded them to a PVC covered banquette, talking as he set out three mugs.

“I don’t know what I can tell you that Mum didn’t. Our Ellie could be a cow, but she was always OK to me.”

Carmen smiled kindly, recognising that the boy was close to tears and Ken had a rueful thought that she’d never been that kind to him. She urged Eddie to sit down.

“I’ve only a few things to ask, it won’t take long.” After a short pause she started. “When did you last see your sister?”

The boy thought for a moment before he replied. “Wednesday night, around ten. As I was coming in she was heading out to see some man.”

Carmen leaned forward eagerly. “Do you know his name?”

Rudd shook his head. “Could have been anyone. She got around.”

It would have verged on ‘speaking ill of the dead’ except that there was no malice in his words, just the knowledge and familiarity of a sibling.

“Perhaps you could write down the names of any men your sister dated for me?”

As Carmen handed the boy pen and paper Ken nodded to himself. ‘For me’… so much for partnership; she probably didn’t believe in it on the job or off. He could feel himself cooling towards her as she continued speaking.

“Has your sister always lived at home?”

Rudd answered without looking up and Ken could see from the tip of his tongue extending between his lips that writing required all his focus.

“Yeh. Except when she lived with a bloke for a year and in the nurse’s home. Dad kept us home from school, but Ellie studied when he couldn’t see so she got out to be a nurse. She was clever.”

“Put that boyfriend’s name on the list for me.” Carmen read the name upside down and smiled. “They broke up, did they?”

“Yeh. She gave him the push, I think. She never said. Anyhow, she moved back here after that.”

“Why didn’t she get a place of her own?”

Rudd glanced up sharply and Carmen saw she’d hit a nerve.

“Whadya mean? Why not move back home?”

“Most twenty-something women wouldn’t have. They’d have got their own place.”

Carmen thought of the apartment she’d bought when she’d arrived in Belfast ten years earlier; her little nest. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to live with her folks after university. As she readied to press the issue Ken spoke for the first time since they’d arrived. His voice was soft.

“Did your sister move back home for you, Eddie?”

Eddie Rudd’s eyes widened and he tugged quickly at his sleeve, but Ken had already seen the marks on his arm. He stared into the boy’s eyes for permission and then rolled back his sleeve on his nod. There were scars all over his forearm. Some were old – silvered cords of flesh that Ken knew must have been opened and healed time and again to appear like that; signs of repeated beatings. There were fresh wounds too, some red and healing only weeks old, others newer and scabbed, surrounded by yellow bruising. Carmen’s eyes widened at the signs of abuse. Eddie was barely eighteen; what age had it begun?

She glanced at Ken gratefully then recoiled at the sudden indifference in his eyes, not for the boy but for her. For the boy there was nothing but empathy, but for her... She recovered enough to ask a question.

“Your father did this?”

The boy nodded. “He punches and…and he has a strap…”

Carmen remembered Craig’s report of his earlier visit. “Your sister and mother as well?”

Rudd nodded again, harder this time, indicating that the Rudd women had been his father’s favoured punching-bags. Something occurred to Carmen. She checked her notes and then shook her head; Eddie Rudd wasn’t a minor so they had no power to make him safe. All they could do was ensure that his father didn’t come home.

They finished their questions then Carmen took the list the boy had scribbled, thanked him for his time and headed back through the crowd of journalists to the car. She stood waiting for Ken to open the doors, then she realised that he’d opened them remotely and was already inside. The journey back to the C.C.U. passed in silence. Carmen occasionally glanced at Ken to see what he was thinking, expecting his usual smile in response. But there was no smile and no pleasant chat on their way up in the lift, and immediate abandonment by him the moment they walked through the squad’s double-doors.

Nicky saw the couple enter and spotted Ken’s frosty reply to a question Carmen asked. She saw his indecent haste to escape to his desk, ostensibly to bury himself in work, but what was most interesting was the copper-haired constable’s response. Instead of Carmen’s usual spiky hostility she was gazing at Smith with sad eyes. The look was tinged with something else and it took Nicky a while to work out what it was. Sorrow! Carmen ‘Prickly’ McGregor was sorry for something she’d done or said to him while they were on the road, and Ken wasn’t giving an inch. Good for him.

She wanted to race across and congratulate him, for finally, after four months of politeness, kindness and gazing at Carmen with puppy dog eyes, giving her the kick up the ass that she deserved. Instead she perked some coffee and beckoned Ken across to her desk.

“Ken. Could I ask you something, please?”

Being the gentleman he was Smith was across the room and smiling down at Nicky in a flash.

“Yes, Nicky. What can I do for you?”

She asked an inane question about a report he’d filed and nodded him to a seat, pouring them both a coffee. As they sipped and chatted she glanced meaningfully at Carmen’s bent head.

“Has Madam been spikey today?”

A hurt look flashed across his face and she had her answer. More than just being spikey, Carmen had managed to hurt him in some way. With a little urging Ken confided what had happened when he’d gone to open her car door. When Nicky gave a little smile he bristled.

“All I did was what any gentleman would do. I don’t see what was wrong with that?”

Nicky calmed him down. “There was nothing wrong with it at all. In fact it was very sweet, especially when there were so many journalists around. But…”

He looked bewildered. “But what?”

“I have the impression that Carmen hasn’t been treated well by men and she doesn’t know how to handle real charm.”

Ken only heard one thing, that Carmen had been hurt. He saddled up his white charger and readied to ride over to her desk. Nicky grabbed his arm to stop him.

“No.”

“But you said…”

“I said she’d been hurt by men, not that you were one of them. She’s got to learn that she can’t use all men as whipping boys for the ex that ‘done her wrong’.”

He re-took his seat, glancing longingly at Carmen’s curly head. Nicky whispered confidingly.

“Do you want to ask her out?”

Ken’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You heard me. Do you?”

A faint blush crept up his neck. “Well…”

“OK then, here’s how to get what you want. She’s feeling guilty about how she treated you, so for the first time in months you have the advantage. Don’t lose it. She deserves to suffer a little bit, so stay as frosty with her as you have been and watch what happens over the next few days.”

“But she…”

Nicky smiled wisely. “She likes you and you’ve been nothing but nice to her. She’s in the wrong and she knows it. Let her grovel a bit.”

Ken shook his head glumly. “She won’t.”

Nicky glanced across at Carmen just in time to see her glance away; she’d been watching them. It confirmed everything that Nicky thought.

“She will, mark my words. Now, the Super’s office is empty. Take your coffee and work in there until he and Liam get back. He won’t mind.”

As Ken went to object, Nicky raised a hand, halting him.

“Just do as I say and watch. Operation Carmen is about to start.”

***

Adrian Cooke had just entered Reilly Suite’s staff-room and slipped on his white coat when Craig and Liam walked in. He stared at them curiously and then pointed to a sign on the door.

“Sorry, this is the staff-room. If you’re looking for a patient, sister can help.”

Craig pulled out his badge and held it up for the doctor to see. “Police, Dr Cooke. We need a few words.”

As Cooke stared at the symbol of authority, Liam was staring at Cooke, impressed. Adrian Cooke was six-feet-two of solid muscle. His pumped-up biceps barely squeezed into the arms of his white coat and the flat-buttoned shirt he wore struggled to conceal the six or eight pack below. He was shorter than him but Liam was pretty sure that Cooke could take him in a fight. Eleanor Rudd wouldn’t have stood a chance. Craig knew what Liam was thinking and as he glanced at Cooke’s muscled hands he imagined them circling a woman’s throat, but his face gave nothing away.

The doctor gazed at Craig’s badge and then at both men with a puzzled look on his face.

“What about?”

Craig saw nothing in his body language that said he was about to run and nothing that screamed guilty. Cooke just looked genuinely puzzled.

Craig waved him to an armchair and sat opposite. “Do you know a nurse called Eleanor Rudd?”

Cooke glanced from Craig’s face to Liam’s and back again, then he did something that surprised them both; he laughed. Too loudly. A host of questions raced through Craig’s mind. What sort of laugh was it? Sarcastic? False? Deflecting? Probably. It was also a laugh that said ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? Of course I know her. Why do you ask?’

And what about the body language that accompanied it? Fight or flight? Was Cooke about to bolt for the door? No, he was lounging back in his chair as if he didn’t have a care in the world. A mite too careless to be genuine but in that second Craig knew they didn’t have a murderer in their sights, a liar yes but not a killer. Adrian Cooke might have known Ellie Rudd and be up to his neck in drugs, but he wasn’t responsible for killing her, he would bet his badge on it.

Craig’s slight shake of the head made Liam’s heart sink; Adrian Cooke wasn’t their perp. They were going to ask questions anyway so Craig continued, pushing past the doctor’s surprise.

“Where were you last Thursday, Dr Cooke?”

“On leave. Hill-walking in the Mournes. Why?”

The first lie and not a blink – he was good. Liam’s eyebrows shot up. Hannah Donard had said Cooke had come to the linen room when she’d screamed, now he was saying he’d been up a mountain that day! Craig ignored Liam’s expression and continued smoothly.

“Did you have a phone with you?”

Liam snorted at the question. What the heck was the boss playing at? Everyone carried a phone. But Cooke confounded him by shaking his head.

“No, sorry. The guide had one but I deliberately left mine at home. I get bleeped and called all day at work; it’s lovely to have some peace now and then.”

Another lie. No-one went anywhere without their mobile, even if they kept it turned off. Cooke was lying to put them off checking its GPS. Craig had already guessed he was going to say it so he continued smoothly, phrasing his next question to elicit a yes or no.

“Did you have a companion on the walk?”

Cooke nodded. “Yes, my girlfriend Abigail. She introduced me to hill-walking months ago. It’s great fun.”

Too much information, a sure sign of someone covering their ass.

“Where is she now?”

Cooke shrugged. “At work. Look, can I ask why you want to know all this?”

Craig shook his head. “Not yet. What is Abigail’s full name and what does she do?”

“Abigail McIvor and she’s a solicitor.”

Liam sighed loudly, earning a sharp glance from Cooke. A bloody lawyer; that was all they needed. Craig nodded Liam to check out the name and he slipped out of the room while Craig carried on.

“When did you leave for your trip and when did you return?”

“We went on Wednesday morning and returned last night.”

More lies.

Cooke folded his arms defiantly, stretching his white coat tight across his chest. “I refuse to answer more questions unless you tell me what this is about.”

Craig shook his head. “In a moment. And if you don’t want to answer them here we can always go to the station. I have a patrol car waiting outside.”

Cooke unfolded his arms hastily and shook his head. “No, no. It’s not a problem. Carry on.”

“Did you see a news bulletin or read a newspaper while you were away?”

“Yes to the first and no to the second. I never read papers, they print nothing but crap. I saw the BBC News in the hotel at night.”

“Then you’d have seen that a young woman was found dead.”

Cooke narrowed his eyes, in a show of remembering. “In a hospital, wasn’t it?” As he said the words the expression on his face changed to one of exaggerated shock. “You’re not saying…? No, it can’t be. It can’t!”

He closed his eyes and shook his head as if it would make the knowledge disappear. But you can’t un-know something; once it’s there it’s there. Cooke’s eyes re-opened and he gasped out the words.

“Ellie? It was Ellie?”

Craig nodded, his eyes on Cooke’s face as he did. What he read there was what he’d known he would read one minute through the door – Adrian Cooke hadn’t killed Eleanor Rudd but he was a Class A liar. He hadn’t been up the Mourne Mountains that day; he’d been exactly where Hannah Donard had said. But why lie, unless he thought it would stop them digging into his life? He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Liam re-entered the room waving Abigail McIvor’s confirmed I.D. They’d interview her to break Cooke’s alibi so the good doctor wasn’t off the hook.

“Tell me about your relationship with Ms Rudd.”

Cooke was shaking his head mournfully, vying for the best actor Oscar, so Craig repeated the question in a louder, sterner voice, shocking him back to earth.

“We…we dated for a while.”

“How long?”

“Two years on and off.”

“That’s more than a while, Dr Cooke. What made it on and off?”

Cooke tightened his lips in the way novelists usually described as being ‘sealed’.

“Silence isn’t an option. If you don’t want to speak ill of the dead, your sensibilities do you credit, but don’t worry, we already know a great deal about Nurse Rudd’s life. So I’ll ask you again, why was your relationship with Eleanor Rudd on and off?”

Cooke dropped his head and mumbled. Liam moved closer and repeated his words.

“He says there were other men, boss.”

Craig leaned forward. “Who were they, Dr Cooke?”

The cuckold shook his head and Craig suddenly barked, making him jerk upright.

“This isn’t a bloody game! A woman’s dead and we’re trying to find her killer. Unless you want to be charged with obstructing a police investigation, answer the question.”

Cooke shouted his next words. “I don’t know all their names.”

“Then tell us the ones that you do.”

Just then the staff-room door opened and a student entered. Cooke hid his face quickly as the girl stared at Liam and then at Craig. Liam steered her gently back out the door.

“But I need to get to my locker.”

“Room’s occupied, pet. Come back in an hour.”

As the door closed, Craig urged Cooke on and he gabbled out two names. “Prof Taylor, they’ve been at it for ages.”

Tim Taylor! No wonder he’d looked shocked when he’d found out Rudd was dead.

Liam nodded. “That confirmed what the sister said.”

Cooke was still talking.

“And there was some guy she met in a bar – Joe or Joey I think. She didn’t tell me the rest.” A sour look crossed his face. “Her slut girlfriends will know, especially Hannah Donard; they used to go on the hunt all the time.”

Interesting that Donard hadn’t mentioned that to Annette. Craig stood up, beckoning Cooke to do the same.

“Come along, Dr Cooke.”

Cooke’s face fell. “But I’ve told you everything I know. I had nothing to do with Ellie’s death!”

Craig shook his head. “You probably didn’t, but you’ve just lied to the police.”

Cooke went to object and Craig raised a hand to stop him. “Please don’t waste my time denying it. There’s also the small matter of your illegal drug use to discuss. The Drugs Squad will want a little chat.”

***

John Winter’s Apartment. Lisburn Road. 12 p.m.

Craig sipped at his extra strong coffee and gazed around John’s living room.

“This looks…different.”

He was used to having work conversations amongst the rose coloured walls and stainless steel instruments at John’s lab. Instead they were sitting in his once characterless bachelor pad, now a cushion and flower-filled nest courtesy of Natalie. There were ornaments on every surface where once dust had gathered happily undisturbed, and pictures of people Craig didn’t recognise dotted all around. The strange thing was that John seemed happy about it! In fact, he looked positively euphoric. John, who was rarely seen in anything less formal than a shirt and tie, was wearing a T-shirt and track-suit bottoms and wiggling his bare feet on a rug that Craig had never seen before. The dedicated pathologist, who’d once spent all weekend working in his lab, had only crawled out of bed ten minutes before!

John took a gulp of coffee and grinned inanely, in a way that would have done Stan Laurel proud.

“I know.” He waved a hand around the room. “Isn’t it great? Really homely.”

Craig realised that if John actually liked Natalie’s floral kitsch he was probably beyond saving, so he said nothing, just smiled. After a short pause he restarted on the case.

“Steroids. Run me through what they do to someone.”

John stared into space as if he was flicking through some celestial formulary, searching for drugs beginning with ‘S’.

“OK, steroids…” He halted abruptly and stared at Craig. “Why? You’re not thinking of taking them are you? I know you like to keep fit, but…”

“Do I look that stupid? It’s part of the case. Eleanor Rudd’s ex has been taking them.”

John nearly dropped his mug. “Weedy Taylor?”

Craig shook his head. “Not Taylor. No, it’s Adrian Cooke, the foundation grade doctor on the ward.”

John tutted. “Stupid bastard. Steroids have nasty side effects.”

“That’s exactly what I need to know about.”

John set down his mug and returned to his formulary, listing steroid’s effects as if he was reading them off a page. Craig had long ago stopped being surprised by his memory, but the staring into space and reciting was disturbing, even for him.

“Aggression, genital atrophy, high blood pressure, baldness…”

“Thank you, Rain Man. Do you know every drug’s side effects off by heart? Because that was strange, even for you.”

John smiled serenely and lifted his coffee again. It was on the tip of Craig’s tongue to ask what was in it, but he knew John’s euphoria couldn’t be bought in tablet form. He had a severe dose of prolonged honeymoon and Craig hoped it lasted for years.

“Cooke was using cocaine as well.”

John shook his head. “Bad combination. Coke and Roid-rage is a nasty mix; he might have killed anyone who got in his way.”

“He’s saying he had an alibi for the time of the killing.”

“You’ll crack that, if it’s crackable.”

Craig laughed. “Is that even a word?”

“It’s one of Natalie’s.”

Craig raised an eyebrow. “I take it the Miranda Taylor transgression was forgiven?”

John nodded. “Natalie said she’d known for months.” He looked puzzled. “How do women know these things?” There wasn’t a short reply. “Anyway, my punishment for the omission is having her parents to dinner once a month. I like them so that’s OK.”

He gave such a loved-up grin that Craig shook his head and stood up to leave. He smiled as John reclined on his old leather sofa surrounded by new cushions and throws.

“You’re a lost cause.”

John smiled. “I know. Isn’t it great? Honestly, Marc, you should try marriage, it’s brilliant.”

“This from the man who’s been married all of ten weeks. Thanks, but I’ll leave it for another while.”

“You might want to check what Katy thinks about that.”

Craig froze instantly, knowing that conversations had been taking place behind his back. He loved Katy but marriage was a whole other deal. He intended to do it once or not at all and he wouldn’t be corralled into it by anyone. His next words were sharp and he knew it.

“What has she been saying to Natalie?”

John’s face fell and he jumped to his feet.

“Nothing. It was only a joke. My joke. Natalie never even mentions you as a couple.”

The look on Craig’s face said he wasn’t convinced. He turned to go and John grabbed his arm, staring him down.

“Listen to me, Marc, Katy has said nothing. I don’t think she’s even sure how you feel about her.”

It was Craig’s turn to be surprised. How could she not know how he felt? He’d told her, hadn’t he? In that moment he realised that he hadn’t. He’d never actually said ‘I love you’, in either English or Italian. Sure, he’d said romantic things, but all of them oblique and usually in bed. In Katy’s mind they probably didn’t count and he knew that. It was possibly why he’d only ever said them there.

As John watched realisation dawn he determined to say nothing else. Craig was just stubborn enough to cut off his nose to spite his face, and cut himself off from Katy as he did. He changed the topic swiftly.

“Cooke may have been reported to the General Medical Council for his drug use. Would you like me to check it out?”

Craig nodded vaguely, his mind on other things. “Good idea. And Des might get onto you for help with his tox-screen.”

“Fine. Keep me up to date on anything you need. Sorry that you had to come here instead of the lab. I slept late.”

Craig nodded again and wandered towards the front door, his thoughts a mixture of romance and the case. He decided the case was a much safer bet.

***

High Street Station. 1.20 p.m.

“Is Cooke in a cell?”

Liam nodded vaguely, staring down at his paunch. He’d been reclining on a chair in the station’s staff-room since lunch and he’d had to let out his belt a notch. He wasn’t happy about middle-aged spread but giving up his grub would make him even less happy so he was stymied. Craig gave a wry smile.

“It won’t shrink just because you stare at it, you know. If that worked the diet companies would go bust.”

Liam nodded resignedly, glancing at Craig’s lean shape. “Do you think I should try those steroids, then? Would they get me back in shape?”

“John says they make your genitals shrink.”

Liam’s eyes widened. “What! I’m not having that. We might want another kid.”

“You’ll be working until you’re a hundred if you have any more.” Craig sprang out of his seat athletically, just to annoy him. “Come on. It’s time to interview William Rudd. Who’s coming to see Cooke from Drugs?”

Liam rose more sedately. “Karl Rimmins.”

They smiled simultaneously, remembering Rimmins from a case eight months earlier when he’d led the drug side of an S&M murder case. He was a lean and edgy looking young sergeant, who in reality was about as edgy as his mother’s chicken soup.

“What time is he arriving?”

“Two o’clock. We might see him before he goes in.”

Craig nodded. “Good. I’d like a word. John’s checking Cooke out with the GMC and Davy’s running him for any arrests.”

Liam shook his head. “They’ll find nothing.”

“Why?”

“Because Davy’s just called to say that Daddy is Patrick Cooke, the High Court Judge.”

Of course! That was why the name Cooke had sounded familiar. But Patrick Cooke was one of the more honest judges in Belfast so he might not have helped his wayward son – they would soon find out. Craig motioned Liam towards the interview room where Jack was waiting with William Rudd. Ten minutes later the names were recited and Jack was ensconced on the other side of the glass.

Craig considered the man in front of him. Billy Rudd was over fifty but still powerfully built and Craig imagined him scaring his wife and children half to death for years. Carmen had phoned twenty minutes before, updating him on the scars on Eddie Rudd’s arms, and John had already shown them Rudd’s signature all over his dead daughter’s back. Craig was certain they’d find similar marks on his wife. The man was an animal, except animals only attacked for food or defence. Billy Rudd had done it for…what?

Why had Rudd beaten his wife and children? Because he ruled his family with a rod of iron and it was his house, his rules? Because he was an arrogant, mindless bully like so many men of his ilk, who cited God’s word to justify whatever he did? Or was it even simpler than that, more basic? He beat them because he was bigger and sadistic and he enjoyed it. He could terrify them so he did. But had Rudd killed his daughter? It was unlikely. If he’d wanted to do it, home would have been a much more likely venue than the linen room of a hospital, but until they’d confirmed his movements that day, they couldn’t rule him out. Whatever the reason Billy Rudd had terrorised and beaten his family, he was facing two grown men now. Craig and Liam were his equals and both had zero tolerance with what he’d done.

Craig stared into Rudd’s fat enveloped eyes so coldly that Liam could almost feel his hate. He’d just made up his mind that if Craig snapped and grabbed Rudd by the throat he wouldn’t stop him, when Craig began to recite the charges in a monotone.

“William Mervyn Rudd, you are charged with assault and grievous bodily harm on Mrs Margie and Mr Edward Rudd of 10a Rilstone Close, Belfast. You will be arraigned tomorrow at Belfast Crown Court where we will be asking for bail to be denied. You are free to appoint your own counsel or counsel will be provided to you.” Craig stared calmly at Rudd. “Do you have anything to say regarding the charges I have just read to you?”

Rudd spewed out a stream of expletives, most of which mentioned God’s will and the bible. He strained forward in his chair, his face red and bulging with rage.

Liam sniffed. “That’ll be a no then.”

On Craig’s nod they rose and he turned towards the mirror, signalling Jack to return Rudd to his cell. As they walked back to the staff-room, Liam spoke.

“Here, that was a bit short and sweet, boss. What happened to interviewing him?”

Craig shook his head. “I considered it, then I decided I didn’t want to be in the room with that scum any longer than I had to.”

Liam gave a wry smile. “Didn’t want to, or couldn’t have held your temper if you did?”

Craig shrugged. Six of one…

“Besides, Carmen already got Eddie’s statement and Annette will get the wife’s. We have images of the scars on Eleanor Rudd’s back and Carmen’s arranging for the son to be photographed. We have enough to make our case without listening to that sick bastard use scripture to justify why he had the right to terrorise his family.” He clicked on the kettle. “Get Jake to check Rudd’s movements on the day of his daughter’s death and the day before.”

Liam’s eyes widened. “You think he did it?”

“No. But we need to rule him out. Just crossing the ‘T’s. ”

Craig shook his head. There were very few crimes that shocked him and only one that made him want to kill the perps; abuse of anyone weaker, whoever they were. It covered child and elder abuse and domestic violence. In fact it covered a hell of a lot, and if he couldn’t do to the perp what they’d done to someone else, then he had to walk away. He knew it was a weakness, but thankfully one he could deal with by working in a team.

He poured the coffees and took a seat, glancing at the clock and wondering what to do next. It was one forty-five. The interview had taken twenty minutes – it was a record even for him. Everyone was busy working and they weren’t briefing again until four o’clock. He thought for a moment and then reached for his phone, dialling the C.C.U.

It was answered quickly but Nicky’s ‘Hello’ was nowhere to be heard, instead Craig heard her chatting in the background to someone else. He thought he’d got a crossed line and was just about to redial when he recognised the other voice. Nicky and Annette were discussing romance! Craig bellowed “Nicky” loudly enough for Liam to cover his ears and in a second she was on the phone.

“Sorry, sir. I picked up the phone then immediately forgot that you were there. Annette and I were chatting.”

“I heard. I was just ringing to ask you to move the briefing to three o’clock. We’ll be back before then.”

“Fine. Everyone’s here already, except Jake. Annette has Hannah Donard coming into the relative’s room, but they should be finished by three.”

“Good. Now off you go, back to your chat.”

As he clicked the phone off, the rangy shape of Karl Rimmins entered the room. From the back he could have been mistaken for Davy, tall and slim with flowing dark hair, but that was where the similarities ended. Where Davy’s eyes were guileless, thinking of computer bytes and his next Star Wars fest, Karl’s were like a hawk’s. They darted everywhere assessing real and imagined threats, and the years had hardened his glance. Where once his narrow black suit had looked like fancy dress on a student, its vampire like menace ruined by an innocent grin, now he wore it like the jaded look in his eyes wore him, eyes that had seen too much to view the world through a naïve lens again.

When he saw them Rimmins smiled, a small twist of the lips that didn’t show his teeth. Liam was the first to speak.

“Boyso, Karl. You look more like Dracula every day. Get some sun, lad.”

Rimmins twisted again. “And you look like a candle. A melting one.”

Craig let them banter for a moment then he cut in. “Are you here for Dr Cooke?”

The question seemed redundant but you never knew what other addicts might be lurking in Jack’s cells. Liam cut in, the opening too good to miss. He crooned.

“If your body’s had enough of me…”

It took ten seconds for Craig to catch on. “Very good, Liam. Dr Cooke the pop group, except that it was Dr Hook.”

Karl screwed up his twenty-something face. “Who?”

Liam shook his head. “What do they teach at school nowadays? They were a pop group, big in the ‘70s. I suppose that was before your teens.”

“It was before I was even thought of!”

Before Liam’s dismay got noisy, Rimmins turned to Craig. “Yes, sir. It’s Cooke. Have you seen him yet?”

Craig nodded. “Briefly, see what you think of him. A word of warning, his father’s Judge Patrick Cooke. He’s at the High Court.”

To Craig’s surprise Rimmins smiled more broadly than he’d done since he’d entered the room.

“How old is Cooke?”

Craig turned to Liam for the facts.

“Thirty-two. Why?”

“Because if Patrick Cooke’s his dad, then he was friends with my big brother Sean at school.” Rimmins shook his head. “Small world.” His eyes darted back to Craig. “You don’t think he committed your murder, do you?”

Craig shrugged. “Unlikely, but we’ve evidence still to gather, including an alibi.” His eyes narrowed in curiosity. “Why do you ask?”

“Because if it’s the Adrian Cooke I knew, he wouldn’t have hurt a fly. He was bullied by everyone at school, including our Sean, and he was his mate. What was the method?”

“Manual strangulation, but don’t mention that to Cooke.”

Karl shook his head again. “There’s no way he did that. I saw him playing with his dogs in the garden a few weeks back; he has two spaniels he dotes on. He was really gentle with them. If he turned out to be a killer I’d be shocked.”

Liam gave a sceptical snort. “I bet Ted Bundy’s mates thought the same.”

Craig looked thoughtful. “Thanks for the insight, Karl, and I’ll take it on board, but we could be talking high dose steroids and cocaine. It’s a violent mixture.”

Rimmins shrugged and headed for the door. “That’s my bit. I’ll find out what he was on and how much of it. You do the rest.”

***

The C.C.U. relatives’ room.

Annette considered the nurse in front of her and compared her demeanour to their earlier meeting. True, she’d been in a station interview room, with a whirring tape and tannoys booming out, and now she was sitting on a comfortable settee. But even so, Hannah Donard’s new found confidence was a stark contrast to her nervousness of two days before.

Donard tossed her long hair over her shoulder and sat straight-backed on the low slung couch, staring ahead with a glint in her eyes that said she was scared of nothing now. Annette narrowed her gaze, trying to work out why. OK, the station had been scary and yes, she had just found her friend dead, but the difference was more than that. Hannah Donard was acting as if she was protected, but protected from what and by whom?

Annette glanced at the transcript of their previous interview and prepared to start.

“Thank you for coming in again, Ms Donard. I have a few things that I’d like to check from our last encounter. You were very upset then.”

Donard smiled and Annette noticed her eyes flick towards a bracelet encircling her wrist. It was made of white metal so bright that it had to be new and the diamonds embedded in it added to the glint. Annette felt uneasy suddenly and decided to go straight to Donard’s most important words.

“Last time we met you said that when you found Eleanor Rudd’s body you screamed and Dr Cooke came to help you.”

Donard shook her head immediately and Annette’s heart sank. This was why she’d felt uneasy. Hannah Donard was about to lie. “It wasn’t Dr Cooke.”

“Oh? Who was it then?”

Donard shook her head. “I can’t remember. It was a man, maybe one of the porters. They’re often around there, bringing linen.” She stared at Annette unflinchingly, as if daring her to contradict.

Annette’s voice was firm. “I have you on tape as saying…” She glanced down at her papers. “When I asked you ‘What happened when you screamed?’ you answered, without any prompting ‘Someone came. I, I think it was Dr Cooke. He took me out of the room then someone must have called the police’.”

Donard’s gaze didn’t waver. “I said I thought it was Dr Cooke. I was wrong. I was in shock.”

Annette was equally immovable. “You then said ‘Oh God, it must have been awful for him’. To which I asked ‘What?’ and you answered ‘Seeing Ellie like that. They…’ with the clear implication that Dr Cooke and Eleanor Rudd had been close.”

A laugh rang through the room and Hannah Donard rose to her feet. “I implied nothing of the sort, Inspector. Dr Cooke wasn’t even on the ward that day, he was on holiday. And as far as him being close to Ellie, he has a girlfriend.” She turned towards the door. “If you’ve finished with me, I have to meet my mother in town. We’re going shopping.”

Annette was struck dumb. Hannah Donard had obviously been got at by someone, but there was no point asking anything more until she had her ducks in a row. She led the way to the exit in silence, partly from anger and partly because to say anything would have shown what was left of her cards.

***

The C.C.U. 3 p.m.

“Grab a coffee and let’s start.”

Liam scanned the group. “Where’s Jake?”

Craig shook his head. “Busy with other things.” He continued before Liam had a chance to ask more. “OK, I’m going to kick off with our interviews with William Rudd and Dr Cooke. Liam will step in as and when.”

He propped his chair against a desk, tilting it back precariously on two legs. Nicky’s husky voice echoed across the floor. “If you break that you’re filling in the forms.”

He waved a hand to show that he’d heard and continued. “Right. Rudd first. Billy Rudd is a wife-beater who’s been doing it for years. He thinks it’s his divine right and God’s will so I cut the interview short and he’s being remanded without bail.”

Liam chipped in. “Short wasn’t the word for it. The whole thing took sixty seconds; has to be a record.”

Craig shrugged at his exaggeration and Carmen interjected. “He didn’t just beat his wife.”

Annette turned to face her. “Eleanor Rudd had old scars.”

“The son has newer ones. Rudd’s been ruling that family with a strap for years.”

Craig nodded. A strap made sense and fitted some of the marks on Ellie Rudd. “Did you find it?”

Carmen shook her head. “The boy told us he used one. I’ll ask uniforms to do a search, but the son’s already agreed to testify against him.” She glanced at Annette for confirmation of Margie Rudd’s cooperation but Annette was a million miles away so she continued. “William Rudd thought his daughter was promiscuous.”

Liam interrupted. “Was she?”

Carmen’s face soured and her tone matched. “By whose standards? Yours? Let’s just say if she’d been a man she’d have been back-slapped in the pub, but because she was a woman she got called a whore.”

Liam was about to bite back but Craig waved him down. Carmen had a point; society had a double standard for men’s and women’s sexuality, but even if she’d been talking rubbish he needed Liam and her bickering like a hole in the head. Craig nodded Carmen on and she sniffed grudgingly, resentful that he’d curtailed their spat.

“Her brother gave me a list of her boyfriends.”

That was too much for Liam. “Me? Wasn’t Ken with you?”

Ken cheered inwardly and Carmen’s face soured even more.

“He gave us a list of her boyfriends then, OK?” Craig’s eyes warned Liam not to reply. “Eleanor Rudd lived at home and the nurses’ home, except for a year when she lived with a man.”

It was Craig’s turn to interrupt. “Adrian Cooke?”

Carmen smiled smugly and shook her head. “No. Tim Taylor. They lived together from 2007-2008, when Rudd was a student nurse.”

Craig leaned back heavily with a look that said that something had just slotted into place. He waved Carmen on but she’d finished so he picked up on their trip to High Street.

“Liam and I arrested Dr Cooke and he’s in High Street now being interviewed by Karl Rimmins…”

Just then Liam’s mobile rang and he went to Craig’s office to take the call. Craig was halfway through reporting when he returned.

“That was Karl. He’s just opened a can of worms.”

Craig leaned forward so quickly his chair banged on the floor and Nicky shook her fist at them both.

“Tell us the worst, Liam.”

“Aye well, it seems that our Dr Cooke was pumping steroids as often as he was pumping iron. He bought them from the gym he trained in: Get-Fit Gym. It’s that poncey one on the Lisburn Road. ”

“So Karl’s going after the dealer.”

It was a statement not a question and Liam nodded. He rubbed his hands gleefully at the thought of dark Drug Squad officers raiding one of Belfast’s glossiest gyms, but Craig could tell from his face that there was something more.

“What else?”

Liam grinned. “Aye well, that’s the really good news. Cocaine.”

“We already know Cooke’s a user.”

“Aye, but he might give up his dealer there too.”

Annette shook herself from her listening trance. “What? You’re sure?”

Liam furrowed his brow curiously. Annette had said nothing for the past ten minutes but now she was full of life.

“Aye, so Karl says. Cooke might give up both names in exchange for a deal.”

Craig shook his head. It was too damn convenient.

Annette’s voice was insistent. “Is Cooke denying the murder?”

Craig nodded. “Yes, he says he was halfway up the Mournes at the time. Why, what do you have?” He waved Liam down. “I’ll come back to you in a minute, Liam. Go on, Annette.”

Annette’s insistence changed to confusion. “Well…it might be nothing, sir, but…” She pulled out her notebook. “I interviewed Hannah Donard, the nurse who found the body, at High Street on Friday. She was very agitated so I thought I would check on her again today, here, in more pleasant surroundings.”

“And?”

Annette grimaced. “Well, I can’t be certain, but…I think she’s been bought off.”

“What’s changed?”

“On Friday she said that when she found Ellie Rudd’s body and screamed, Adrian Cooke came running. Now she’s saying that she was shocked and got it wrong. It wasn’t Cooke at all but some other man. She can’t remember who, probably a porter.”

“What makes you think she was lying rather than just recalling more accurately?”

“Her whole demeanour had changed; she was almost arrogant today. That plus the brand-new diamond bracelet on her wrist.”

Liam nodded. “Bought off. Sure as shit.”

Craig pressed Annette further. “Donard implied that Cooke was close to Ellie Rudd. What’s she saying now?”

Annette shook her head. “She’s denying that they were close at all. Says Cooke has a girlfriend.”

Craig nodded resignedly. “OK, so let’s look at Adrian Cooke. We were initially told he was close to Eleanor Rudd and Sister Gormley said he’d had a drug problem. Hannah Donard said Cooke was the one who came when she found Rudd’s body but she now denies that. Cooke admits that he and Eleanor Rudd dated but he says he was just one of her men, and that he knew nothing about her death until I informed him today, because he was on holiday when she died. Now, between Cooke and Donard, we have the good doctor alibied as forty miles away with his girlfriend and Donard denying that he and Ellie Rudd were ever close, contradicting her earlier statement, so we think Donard may have been bought off. So all we have for sure is that Cooke is a drug user and he admits to dating Ellie Rudd in the past.” He swung round suddenly. “Davy!”

Davy had been browsing his smart-pad throughout the briefing, glancing up the odd time something had caught his ear. On Craig’s sudden use of his name he jerked to attention like a squaddie caught dozing on parade. Ken smiled, remembering how often that had actually happened to him.

Davy’s eyes widened. “What?”

Craig knew that even when Davy seemed asleep he picked up more than most of them, but even so he allowed mild sarcasm to colour his words. “Sorry to bother you, but did you happen to find anything useful in your background scans?”

The analyst nodded and ran a silver-ringed forefinger down his pad. He tapped it twice and the E.M.U.’s floor plan appeared on the screen beside Nicky’s desk. She tutted, knowing that they would all gather round now and untidy her paperwork. Davy led the way across the floor and pointed at the diagram.

“OK. On the left is Newman, the acute w…ward, on the right the long-stay ward, Reilly Suite. In between is the area housing the clinical room, sluice and linen room; it’s an open area accessed from both parts of the E.M.U.” He glanced round the group, waiting for their nods.

Craig was the only one who spoke. “Yes. And?”

Davy tapped the screen again and a cross signifying Eleanor Rudd’s body appeared inside the linen room, a second tap brought up a series of multi-coloured dotted lines.

“The lines s…show the pathways of everyone I’ve been able to find on the CCTV.”

“Which one’s Adrian Cooke?”

Davy shook his head. “None of them. Cooke may have been there on Thursday but he managed not to appear on any of the CCTV feed.”

Craig raked his hair thoughtfully. “OK, if Cooke was there that day instead of being up some hill, someone must have seen him.” He turned to Liam. “Anyone mention him during the interviews?”

Liam shook his head. “No, but we didn’t ask about Cooke specifically. We were checking if anyone saw anything related to Rudd’s death.”

Craig made an unpopular decision. “Sorry, but everyone needs to be re-interviewed and specifically asked if they saw Cooke anywhere on the unit last Thursday.” Liam’s face was like thunder so Craig turned towards Annette. “Annette, take Ken, Jake and Carmen and you’ll get through them all in a day.” Before anyone could object he waved Davy on.

“There’s no sign of Cooke on the s…street or car park CCTVs either, but just because we can’t s…see him, it doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. I believe Hannah Donard’s original statement.”

Annette nodded. “So do I.”

Ken interjected. “Which begs the question, if Cooke was there and arrived first when Donard screamed, did he kill Rudd and hide nearby or was he simply passing and rushed to a woman’s aid?”

Annette jumped in. “There’s a second question. If Cooke was on the unit that day, why was he there? Work or some other reason? Work will be easy to check; all we have to do is look at the Rotas.”

Craig nodded. “Do that but we’ll only know why else he might have been there when he tells us, and we’ll need to put pressure on him for that. We need someone besides Donard who’s willing to testify that Dr Cooke was on the ward that day.”

Liam interrupted, his thunderous expression had subsided to a dark cloud. “We can speculate before then. OK, let’s say Cooke was on the ward but no-one saw him. He knew enough to avoid the cameras and there’re none around the linen room anyway.”

Davy cut in. “There were two cameras broken as well.”

Liam nodded slowly. “Maybe Cooke broke them. If he was there working, on or off the Rota, then his signature must be somewhere on that day. Doctors sign their name all the time. If he wasn’t working then did he go specifically to see Rudd and kill her for some reason? If so why? Jealousy or something else? And if he didn’t kill Rudd, why else would he have been sneaking around? Drugs? Were any missing from anywhere?”

Craig smiled at Liam’s train of thought. “Good. We can rule out whether Cooke was there working and we already know there were no drug thefts. That only leaves Cooke going there to see Rudd or someone else. It is just possible that Cooke went to the ward that day to see Rudd but that he didn’t kill her.”

Davy tapped his pad again and all but one dotted line disappeared. It led straight from Newman Ward to the area housing the clinical and linen rooms.

“That’s Eleanor Rudd’s pathway at ten o’clock on Thursday morning, w…when she was sent to inventory the clinical room. It’s a s…straight line. If she met Cooke it was there.”

Craig had a thought. “I want Rudd’s exact movements since she arrived at the hospital that morning. Can you do that, Davy?”

“You mean go back and track just her from the CCTV?”

“Exactly. How long would it take you?”

Davy thought for a moment. “Tomorrow afternoon, providing I can find the right camera angles.”

“Great.” Craig was just about to move on when he said. “Don’t you w…want to know what else I found?”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“OK. People entered and left Newman W…Ward all day, visitors and the doctors and nurses, mostly going on their breaks, and none of them entered Reilly Suite. Reilly S…Suite on the other hand had a lot of traffic. Three residents w…were in and out though the front door. I tracked them through the hospital and they went to the chapel, library and foyer s…shop. But because there were no cameras outside the linen room I can’t say whether any of them detoured there yet. I’ll have what I can get on that tomorrow.”

“Good. Check to see if any of them match the shortlist for upper body strength.”

“OK. Also Professor Taylor was between the two w…wards a lot that day.”

Craig’s eyes lit up. “Was he indeed? That’s interesting. He denied being there and pretended to be shocked when we told him about Rudd’s death.”

Carmen cut in. “Unless he left before it happened, sir?”

Craig shook his head. “He said he wasn’t there on Thursday at all. Davy, what time was the last sighting of Taylor that day?”

He scrolled down the screen. “Four-twenty in the afternoon.”

Craig turned back to Carmen. “Eleanor Rudd’s body was found at eleven o’clock in the morning. If Taylor was there later than that he would have known that someone had died. Even allowing for the fact that he mightn’t have known it was Rudd until we told him; he lied to us about not being on the E.M.U. that day. He lied to us, Donard lied to us and Cooke lied to us and I’m getting fed up being lied to! Davy, see if you can match Taylor’s movements with any of Eleanor Rudd’s, and Liam, you’re with me tomorrow when I interview the Prof.”

Davy nodded. “Two last things. Des has been in touch. None of the prints on the linen room door match anyone but the unit porter, Ferdy Myers.”

Craig startled. Had anyone interviewed the porters? He turned to Liam just in time to see him glance away, muttering “we’ll do them tomorrow, boss.”

Craig sighed. “The lack of prints doesn’t tell us anything anyway; the killer could have worn gloves. The fact the porter’s prints are there at all points to him probably being innocent. What was the second thing, Davy?”

Davy tilted his head in a way that showed he was puzzled by what he was about to report next. “The dent on the linen room door.”

Liam shrugged. “What about it? It was probably made by someone banging a trolley into it.”

Davy shook his head. “That’s w…what I thought at first, but then I got the unit’s w…works schedule. The doors in the whole unit were s…sanded and painted last month as part of a tidy up. Part of the remit was to fill in any holes or cracks.” He tapped his pad again. “Here’s the work s…sheet from the Trust’s estates department. It’s very detailed.”

Page after page of details scrolled down the LED screen, some of the items as tiny as ‘crack, left wall clinical room filled, sanded and painted with two coats’. Craig whistled. He wished he could find workmen like that to paint his place.

Davy stopped scrolling at a page headed ‘linen room’. It started with the room’s interior and ended with two lines about the door. ‘Door, white wood, all surfaces inspected, planed, filled and painted; two coats white satin.’

“There’s nothing there about a dent as of the 12th S…September so it was definitely made after that.”

Craig started to nod then the nod turned into a shake. “It could still have been accidental, Davy; a trolley.”

Davy shook his head determinedly. “Not unless it’s an old one that used to be there. The C.S.I.s measured all the trollies and checked for any edges that could have caused the dent and nothing matches.”

“A walking stick or shoe kicking the door?”

Davy shrugged. “I hadn’t thought of those. I’ll keep looking.”

Craig smiled. Davy was like a dog with a bone, there was no way he would stop until he’d found out what it was.

“OK, good. So we have all the ward staff to re-interview on the question about Dr Cooke, and the porters to interview for the first time. Annette’s taking Ken, Carmen and Jake with her on that. Carmen, Annette will be too busy so can you and Ken also interview Mrs Rudd about her daughter, please. Get what you can from her about the violence as well then hand that over to the Domestic Abuse Unit. Liam, you and I are interviewing Tim Taylor in High Street this time. He lied to me and I’ve been polite for long enough. We also need to interview Adrian Cooke.”

He turned, just in time to see Nicky tiptoeing towards the double-doors.

“Nicky…”

She stopped abruptly and Craig saw that she was carrying her bag.

“Off somewhere?”

Nicky retorted. “To have a life if that’s OK? It’s five o’clock on a Sunday, in case you hadn’t noticed?”

He glanced at the clock. She was right; they’d been talking for nearly two hours.

“Sorry, go home, but can you get Prof Taylor into High Street tomorrow morning please? Whatever time you like.”

She nodded regally and continued on her way, still tiptoeing, until she realised it was redundant and straightened up haughtily. Craig turned back to the group.

“Sorry everyone. We’ll finish in five minutes, I promise. OK, that leaves the three long-stay residents that Davy saw on the CCTV. Annette, when you’ve finished with the others, interview them, please. Liam , contact Karl Rimmins and say that I want him there when we see Adrian Cooke tomorrow.”

Davy glanced up from his pad. “W…What do you want me to do, chief?”

Craig thought for a moment. “Follow up what we discussed, dig into the big players’ backgrounds until you hit a wall and chase violent deaths of hospital staff anywhere in Europe.”

Davy raised an eyebrow. “Are you expecting to find any?”

Craig shook his head. “Our killer is much closer to home, but I want to rule everything out. At the moment we have two possible suspects, both ropey: Adrian Cooke and Tim Taylor. I could stretch to three if we could prove Billy Rudd was anywhere near the hospital that day. I’m not sure any of them did it yet but they’re all we have.” He headed for his office to think. “We’ll be briefing at eight and four every day till I say stop.”

Chapter Five

The C.C.U. Monday, 11 a.m.

At eleven o’clock the next morning the squad-room was like the Marie Celeste, with only the ghosts of Nicky and Davy there to steer the ship. Nicky typed the last line of a court report and saved the file, then looked round for someone to socialise with. Davy was tapping at one of his screens in a manner that said he wasn’t to be disturbed, but that had never stopped her before.

“Coffee, Davy?”

He didn’t answer, just continued tapping like a man bent on winning a Nobel Prize. Nicky recruited the help of her glass percolator and marched to his desk, undeterred. She knew he wasn’t ignoring her; he valued his life too much for that, so that only left one thing – he hadn’t heard. When she was standing six inches in front of him she waved the percolator and asked again, in her loudest voice.

“COFFEE?”

Davy’s head jerked up at the sudden assault and as it did so he slipped off his chair, sliding under his desk and landing at her feet. It was hard to tell who was more surprised but for sheer shock Nicky’s expression won. She gawped down at him.

“How did you manage that?”

He scrambled to his feet, blushing and deeply grateful that Liam hadn’t been there to witness his descent, he’d have suffered the jokes for weeks. Nicky brushed off his jumper.

“Sorry, pet. I didn’t mean to shock you. I called you from my desk.”

Davy dusted down his black jeans. “I w…was focusing.”

“On what?”

“On finding s…something to fit the dent in the linen room door.” He shook his head. “No joy” and gestured at the percolator. “Time for a break?”

Nicky went back to perk the coffee, beckoning him to follow. As she set out the mugs and biscuits she got a mischievous look on her face. Davy read the signs and shook his head.

“W…Whatever you’re up to, I’m not getting involved.”

Her face was a picture of innocence. “Moi? As if.”

They drank in silence for a moment before Davy caved in. “OK, I can’t s…stand not knowing. What are you planning?”

The P.A. glanced around the room exaggeratedly, like a spy with the coordinates of a nuclear bomb, then she whispered in her husky voice.

“That bet we had on Carmen and Ken…”

He laughed loudly, taking her aback. She began again, more seriously.

“It’s not a laughing matter. I have five pounds on them getting together.”

Davy shook his head, sending his dark hair flying into her face. As she picked strands of it from her mouth he said.

“Give it up, Nicky. They’ve been on the s…squad nearly four months and there’s no sign of movement. The boss even sent them to Geneva and nothing happened! If it didn’t happen in a setting like that, s…sunny Belfast is hardly going to w…work the charm.”

She thumped him hard on the upper arm, making certain it wasn’t the arm that held his mug; she had no intention of mopping coffee off her desk.

“OW!”

“You’ll get another one unless you’re more helpful. I’m well aware nothing happened in Geneva, that’s why we have to try even harder now.”

Davy moved to a safe distance, rubbing his arm. “That hurt.”

“Baby.”

She smiled, pushing a biscuit his way in apology. He took it grudgingly and sat down again.

“Anyway, if they don’t fancy each other there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Nicky shook her head. “Ah, but they do. They fancy each other like mad; they just don’t know it yet.”

He wrinkled his face, puzzled. “How can you not know if you fancy s…someone? It’s either there or it’s not.”

She sighed. “I meant that Carmen knows she fancies Ken and Ken knows he fancies her, but neither is letting the other one know. Well, Ken’s tried telling her, but she definitely hasn’t told him.”

Davy shook his head, leaning back to avoid the inevitable cuff around the ear. “I’m s…sure that made sense in your head.”

The cuff didn’t come. She wagged a finger at him instead. “Cheeky pup. I bet you don’t talk to your mother like that.”

“My mother doesn’t live her life like an episode of ‘Blind Date’!”

She laughed then returned to her task. “We have to get them together. They both want to but Carmen’s being so bloody-minded that the poor man can’t get close.”

Davy thought for a moment then his face took on a serious look. “Have you thought of asking her w…why she’s so anti-men?”

Nicky glanced at him sharply. “Has she been rude to you?”

“No…but she doesn’t like Liam, and she was pretty s…suspicious of the chief until a few weeks ago.” He shrugged. “I don’t think she looks at Jake or me as men ’cos we’re younger than her.” He thought for a second then added. “More like pets…you know, like she doesn’t know w…whether to kick us or cuddle us.”

Nicky’s face dropped. “You don’t kick pets!”

“I don’t, but who knows w…what Carmen does.”

“If she ever…”

Davy laughed and she realised she was being had. “Chill, Nicky. I was winding you up.”

After a moment’s tutting she admitted that he had a point. “You’re right, she doesn’t like men much, although I’m not sure that she’s mad about women either. I think she’s been badly hurt.”

“And she’s taking it out on the rest of the w…world. What a grown-up.”

Nicky sipped her coffee and then her expression suddenly changed. Davy knew what was coming and headed back to his desk.

“David Walsh, come back here.”

“For w…what? So you can enlist me in some matchmaking mission. Oh no you don’t.”

But her expression said that he’d better help or there would be no coffee and biscuits for a month. It was blackmail, but whatever worked…

He retook his seat and listened as Nicky confided her master-plan. All that was missing was the voiceover saying “this tape will self-destruct…”

***

High Street Station. 11.15 a.m.

The overhead light in the interview room had raised the temperature a few degrees, but not as much as Tim Taylor’s perspiring forehead implied. Tiny beads of sweat grew into large clear droplets, until eventually their weight dragged them down towards Taylor’s brows, only to be dashed to their deaths by his irritable hand. Craig wondered whether the sweat was hot or cold; a product of the lights or fear. It didn’t matter; either the lights or fear were making Taylor sweat and overheating or anger was turning his face bright red. Whatever the biological mechanism it was working in their favour to produce a man teetering on the brink.

Craig restarted the tape, ten minutes of introductions and refusal to answer his questions already recorded before they’d turned it off at Taylor’s request. The professor hadn’t imparted any wisdom in the unrecorded gap, just grown redder and sweatier as the seconds passed. Now it seemed that he was ready to cough. Craig would believe it when it happened.

“For the benefit of the tape, the time is eleven-twenty a.m. on Monday, October 13th 2014. Interview resumed. Present in the room are Professor Timothy Taylor, D.C.I. Cullen and myself, Superintendent Marc Craig. Is there something you would like to tell us, Professor Taylor?”

Taylor nodded mutely and Liam intervened, his deep bass echoing round the room. “You need to speak.”

Taylor glared at him, indignant that a mere police officer should dare to correct a man with four degrees. He croaked, “I’d like to make a statement, but I want to see my solicitor first.”

Craig sighed inwardly. He’d wondered how long it would take for Taylor to pull one of those out of the hat, but they had no choice but to agree.

“Fine, Professor. I’ll get the sergeant to call your brief and we’ll restart when they arrive. Interview terminated at eleven twenty-five, awaiting legal counsel.” He beckoned Jack in through the glass and left the room quickly with Liam in tow. They pushed through the fire-door to the cool day outside and Craig kicked a stone at his feet, hard.

“Damn, damn, damn. I thought he was going to give us something. Now he’ll lawyer up and all we’ll get will be sanitised crap.”

Liam watched Craig with a faint smile on his lips. It was good to see the chief’s control slipping for once. He decided to play the voice of reason, to see if it slipped even more.

“Now now, chief. We don’t know what he’ll say. He might give us a statement yet.”

Scepticism was normally Liam’s bag, but it was Craig’s turn this time. He pointed at the sky. “You see that pig…”

Liam laughed and after five minutes of fresh air and banter Craig felt better and they headed for the staff-room and a cup of tea. Work calls followed, punctuated by the football scores and then Jack entered the room.

“We’re ready.”

Craig glanced at the clock; it was only eleven-fifty. He gawped at the sergeant. “Twenty-five minutes to find his brief and consult! That has to be a record.”

Jack grinned. “Aye well, I can’t claim all the credit, the brief was already next door with Dr Cooke. All they had to do was nip in.” He waved at the clock. “Anyhow they’re ready and I’d be grateful if you vacated my staff-room now. It’s Sandi’s birthday and the girls from Musgrave Street are coming down for lunch. They’ve baked and I want a bun.”

Craig smiled, remembering when he’d been a constable. Their idea of a birthday lunch had involved the pub, not tea and cakes in the station café. They returned to the interview room and two minutes later they were joined by Tim Taylor and a young woman who looked barely old enough to be out of school.

Liam flicked on the tape and restarted. When he got to the ‘present are’ bit he paused for the solicitor’s name.

“Abigail McIvor, of Morris and Harden’s solicitors.”

The detectives’ eyes widened simultaneously. Abigail McIvor; Adrian Cooke’s girlfriend! Why had she been in seeing Cooke; as a brief or as a girlfriend? And why was she acting as Taylor’s solicitor if Cooke and he had been rivals over Eleanor Rudd?

Craig’s head reeled with the possible significance. He didn’t believe in coincidence, so that meant that either the doctors hadn’t been romantic rivals, or there was something else murky going on. Liam read his mind and took up the slack.

“Right, Professor Taylor. You asked for a break to consult with your brief, what would you like to say to us now?”

He sent up a silent prayer that Taylor’s next words weren’t “no comment” and stared at the young solicitor beside him. Abigail McIvor was chubby; ‘well covered’ would have been his mother’s term. Not fat, just bonny; it was a much nicer word. Her face was broad and freckled, with wide-set dark eyes and lips fuller than any Liam had seen, except on some starlet pumped full of collagen. His beauty pageant scoring was interrupted by McIvor’s high, soft voice.

“My client has asked me to read a statement. He will not be taking questions unless you charge him with some crime.”

Craig nodded her to continue, questions racing through his head. The brief removed a page from her case and began to read.

“I, Professor Timothy Taylor, admit to a relationship with the deceased, Ms Eleanor Rudd. We met in 2007 and co-habited for thirteen months, at which time our relationship ended and we parted amicably. At no time since then have I had a romantic or physical relationship with Ms Rudd. I had no knowledge of her death until informed by the police on Friday, 10th October.”

She stopped and placed the paper face-down on the table, gazing coolly at Craig. Taylor smiled so smugly that Liam wanted to grab him by the throat and show him how Ellie Rudd had felt. Craig stared at McIvor and then at the man by her side, saying nothing for a full minute. He ignored Taylor’s falling face and the blush rising on the solicitor’s cheeks and continued staring, knowing that he was disconcerting them both.

Liam smiled inwardly; he’d seen Craig do it before, sometimes for a purpose and sometimes just for effect. It always resulted in the other side breaking first and they weren’t to be disappointed now. Much to Abigail McIvor’s shock, Tim Taylor started to talk. He started slowly and gathered pace until by the end he was gabbling.

“I didn’t kill her…I wasn’t there…I mean, I was, I was on the unit, but I wasn’t in the linen room…I knew someone was dead, but I said I wasn’t there because I didn’t want to get involved… I didn’t know it was Ellie…not until you told me…Everyone likes me on the wards, they do…I’m nice…I mean I’m a good doctor…Ellie and I were finished ages ago…we never...since…well, only once, at a party in September…and…”

McIvor’s face fell and she hissed “shut-up”. But it was too late. Taylor had blown his perfectly prepared statement by contradicting his declaration that he hadn’t slept with Eleanor Rudd after 2008. Craig watched the half-mimed, furious exchange in front of him and then raised a hand, stilling the room. After a pause during which he stared pointedly at the now redundant paper on the desk, he spoke. His tone was so cool that only Liam could detect the undertone of amusement.

“You obviously need more time with your client to agree an honest statement, Ms McIvor. Until you do we will be holding Professor Taylor for questioning as allowed under PACE.”

He rose as Liam clicked off the tape. As they turned to leave Craig stared meaningfully at the brief. “We’ll be interviewing Dr Cooke next. If you’re acting as his solicitor you may wish to be there. Let Sergeant Harris know when you’re ready to start.”

McIvor recoiled as if he’d slapped her, knowing exactly what he’d meant by the emphasised ‘if’. She’d given Adrian an alibi as his girlfriend; if she was his solicitor it was a conflict that could render the alibi useless and leave him open to accusations of visiting the ward on the day of Rudd’s death. If she stood down legally but continued to give the false alibi on record she could be struck off, and if she wasn’t his solicitor Cooke mightn’t get anyone else who would defend him as vigorously. She was screwed every way and Craig knew it.

They left the young lawyer with her dilemma and walked through reception on their way to the station’s front door. Jack was at the desk and he nodded approvingly when they appeared.

“Off to pay for your coffee this time?”

Craig smiled. “We’re going for lunch. There’s nowhere here for us to sit and Ms McIvor needs a while to sort her clients out.”

Liam laughed. “And herself by the looks of it. The boss fairly flummoxed her.”

“Do you want us to bring you back anything?”

Jack thought for a moment, gazing ruefully at his paunch. “I shouldn’t really…”

“But you will.” Liam patted his own stomach gently, as if it was his child. “It’s taken us years to grow these, Jack. We can’t neglect them now.”

“Ach, OK, you’ve persuaded me. Bring me back some donuts. The jam ones.”

Craig smiled. “Fine. Call me when Ms McIvor is ready. We’ll see Dr Cooke next and then we may need to return to the professor again. By the way, Karl’s coming down. We’ll be at The Merchant if he arrives before we’re back.”

With that he pushed open the station’s steel door and they wandered across High Street for lunch.

***

Reilly Suite. 1.30 p.m.

Annette tucked her long hair back from her face, remembering why she’d kept it short for years; it may not have looked as pretty but it was serviceable. She looked across the table at Carmen and Jake and then glanced at Ken standing by the door. She noticed that he rarely sat; the sign of a fit man. He specifically hadn’t sat beside Carmen that day. Something was eating the pair of them but she didn’t have the time to wonder what.

Jake was staring into space and Annette knew exactly what he was thinking; Craig had told her about his grandfather so that she could help work around his hours. The case had to be hard on him. It couldn’t be easy being in a ward full of the elderly when someone old who you loved was likely to pass away.

Suddenly she sat upright and they all sprang to attention, Ken’s hand twitching towards his face in an aborted military salute. She laughed.

“You can salute me if you like, Ken.”

He blushed as the others turned to look and she carried on.

“OK. So far no-one we’ve interviewed recalls seeing Dr Cooke here last Thursday. That could either mean he wasn’t here or he somehow managed to slip in and out.” She turned to Carmen. She was scribbling down every word in her notebook. Annette wasn’t sure if it was record keeping or a ‘how to become a female Inspector’ guide.

“Jake, I want you and Carmen to go and interview Mrs Rudd. You know what to do.”

Everyone was surprised by Carmen’s next words, including her. “But the Super said I had to take Ken.” It was said in such a disappointed whine that her attempts to back-pedal were no use. “I mean, not that I don’t want to go with Jake…he’s great…it’s just…”

Annette smiled, knowing Carmen had realised what she’d just given away. Ken had realised as well. Carmen wanted him with her; she liked him, perhaps even more than that. He glanced away, sparing her embarrassment, but not before Annette had seen his smile.

“Off you go with Jake, please.”

She wanted Jake as far away from elderly people as she could get him for a few hours, and the others didn’t need to know why.

“Ken and I will interview the porters and the three residents who were elsewhere in the hospital then we’ll see you back at the ranch.”

She beckoned Ken to follow as Carmen and Jake left for the Rudd’s family home. She didn’t hear Jake’s phone ringing as they walked away, or the detour that he and Carmen were instructed to make.

***

High Street Station.

It was two-thirty by the time Cooke and Taylor were ready for re-interview, and Cooke’s solicitor McIvor had decided to be his girlfriend instead and leave. She’d recused herself from Taylor’s defence as well, much to his chagrin, to be replaced by a shiny-faced associate from her firm who looked almost as young.

Craig took Taylor first. The professor had decided that discretion was no longer the better part of valour. Instead he talked so fast that the tape had trouble keeping up. What he said didn’t add much. Yes, he’d lived with Eleanor Rudd for just over a year, but it was years ago, before he was married. He’d like to deny that anything had happened between them since but, well, Ellie was a sexy girl and there’d been a few times…

Because he’d stood in front of a vicar and said “forsaking all others” Taylor nodded contritely in a mime of shame, but he couldn’t hide his pleasure at his memories of Ellie Rudd or his complete lack of guilt at his lustful thoughts. Craig had pitied Mrs Taylor since he’d met the prof; until he’d found out that she’d left her student boyfriend for him, a richer, consultant bet. It sounded like they deserved each other.

By the time Taylor had stumbled and stammered his way through his list of transgressions with Ellie Rudd, it became obvious that Rudd’s timelines for carnal knowledge of Taylor and Cooke had overlapped. That meant they couldn’t rule out jealousy as a motive for her murder, although Craig’s bet for that motive was on Adrian Cooke. After thirty minutes of listening Craig had heard enough. Taylor had lied but he hadn’t killed her so he was released without charge to concoct a story with Shiny Face that would prevent a ruckus at the University, and Craig and Liam were left mulling over their next steps as they waited for Karl Rimmins to appear.

As Liam picked his way through the leftover sausage rolls and cheesecake from Sandi’s girly lunch, Craig stared into space. Liam waved a roll in his face.

“Sausage roll for your thoughts, boss.”

Craig pushed it away, wondering where Liam managed to put it all. They’d had a big lunch at The Merchant and an hour later he was hungry again.

“I was trying to work out the timeline, but it’s much easier when Davy displays it on a screen.”

“It is that. Especially when he colour-codes the perps for you.”

“Taylor and Eleanor Rudd ended their live-in relationship in 2008. Adrian Cooke joined the ward in 2012 and that’s probably when he and Rudd met. What we don’t know is when they started their relationship.”

Liam looked puzzled, as if the answer was obvious. “We can ask him.”

Craig gave him a sceptical look. “Now why didn’t I think of that? Of course we can ask him, but that doesn’t mean he’ll tell us the truth! Or the truth about what their relationship was.”

Liam’s puzzled look deepened. “What do you mean, what it was? It was a relationship!”

Craig went to sigh and then stopped himself. Liam was right; that was the obvious answer, and Liam couldn’t be expected to follow the random meanderings of his mind. He vocalised his thoughts.

“What if their relationship was more than a romantic one?”

“What do we have that points to that?”

Craig shrugged. “Nothing, but…”

“But your brain’s seen something that none of the rest of us have.”

The team were used to Craig’s eureka moments. They usually occurred when an answer seemed obvious to everyone, then Craig would announce that the truth was actually something else. Liam felt one coming on but instead Craig leapt to his feet and headed for the station’s back door.

“Where are you going?”

“I just heard a car pulling in. If it’s Karl, we can start.”

It was and after a few seconds’ chat they headed for the interview room. The room was small and Cooke and his new solicitor were already there so Craig glanced meaningfully at Liam. Only two of them would fit in the room and Karl needed to be there. That meant either he or Liam should be in the viewing room. Liam took the hint, secretly pleased. He had a cheese sandwich in his pocket that was about to find a good home.

When the preliminaries were over Craig readied himself to start but the solicitor held up his hand. He was a partner from Morris and Harden’s; Shiny Face would have had a conflict representing both men. This man was older and his only shine was on shoes that had doubtless cost him hundreds of pounds.

“Before we start the questioning, I’d like to know why a Drug Squad officer is here. Dr Cooke has already told the Drug Squad everything he knows, including giving up his steroid dealer.”

Craig’s words were as dry as a bone. “I’m quite sure Dr Cooke hasn’t told anyone everything that he knows.”

The solicitor retorted swiftly. “Everything that he’s going to without a deal on the table.”

“Let’s see about that.”

He turned sharply to the young doctor, who was perspiring heavily despite the newly cranked air conditioning making the room freezing cold. “Dr Cooke, would you like to rethink your alibi for the time of Eleanor Rudd’s murder?”

Cooke’s eyes widened and he glanced quickly at his brief, who advised him with a swift shake of his head.

“No, I wouldn’t.” The words hit the air at a higher pitch than they’d been inside Cooke’s head.

Craig shook his head, making it clear the answer was a mistake. “Then you should know that your girlfriend, Ms McIvor, is at this moment being interviewed by a member of my team at Stranmillis Road Station and they will break the alibi she gave you, have no doubt of that.”

Liam smiled to himself in the dark. Stranmillis Road was Jake’s old station. So that was who Craig had telephoned at lunch; Jake must be up there with McIvor now. Cooke lurched forward until he was almost in Craig’s face.

“Leave Abbie alone. She has nothing to do with this. You’ll ruin her legal career.”

Craig was unmoved. “You’ll ruin her career if you insist on having her lie for you.” He slipped out his mobile. “Tell me the truth and I’ll stop her interview. I’m not interested in ruining anyone. The truth, Dr Cooke.” His voice rose to a shout. “RIGHT NOW!”

Liam watched as Cooke’s eyes darted from Craig to his solicitor and then all around the room, as if he might find something on the walls to save him, to prevent him having to say the words that could send him to prison and stop him practicing medicine ever again. He was a good doctor, he cared about his patients, and he’d hoped to make elderly medicine his speciality someday. Now all that would be lost because of a woman that someone else had killed.

Craig read the younger man’s panic and prepared to throw him a life-belt. He’d heard enough from the ward interviews to know that Cooke was liked by both patients and staff; even Katy had heard nice things about him around the Trust. He had no desire to get him struck off but he wanted the truth. He stared hard into Cooke’s eyes and his next question shocked everyone.

“Was Eleanor Rudd dealing cocaine, Dr Cooke?”

The doctor’s eyes widened and Craig read two things there. He’d hit a nerve and Cooke thought he’d found a gap to wriggle through. Karl glanced quickly at Craig, and Liam held his breath as he watched, fascinated to hear what came next. The boss had transformed Eleanor Rudd from innocent victim to criminal in one short phrase.

Cooke dropped his head and his solicitor hissed something urgently in his ear. Cooke waved him away and gazed at Craig, nodding.

“How did you know?”

Craig shrugged. “I didn’t, for sure. Not until now.” Craig paused; the doctor’s reply to his next question might ruin his career. “We already know that you use cocaine, Dr Cooke, do you deal it as well?”

Cooke’s eyes were opaque and Craig knew even Karl was struggling to read what was there, but he knew exactly what was running through Adrian Cooke’s mind. They had him on using illegal drugs which meant a guaranteed sentence and a mandatory rehab programme. He’d have his licence suspended by the GMC but with time and rehab he would probably get it back. On the other hand, if he’d been dealing drugs Cooke could kiss goodbye to being a doctor and say hello to a stretch in Maghaberry.

Behind his eyes’ opacity Adrian Cooke was trying to recall anything that linked him to drug-dealing, either cocaine or Roids. Evidently he thought there was nothing if his next words were anything to go by.

“I used coke and steroids, but I never dealt them. That’s the truth.”

His face was implacable and Craig didn’t know if he was lying or not. He glanced at Karl and saw his jaw set hard. Karl spoke for the first time in ten minutes.

“You’re lying, Doctor and I’m going to prove it. Tell us the truth now and we may be able to help you.”

Cooke’s eyes widened as he realised that of the two men Craig had been the softer touch.

“I’m not lying! Ellie had been dealing for years, long before I met her.”

“Where did you first meet her?”

“At a party at the nurse’s home, about six years ago. I wanted some stuff and someone pointed me to her. I bought some coke and we got chatting…”

“You slept with her?”

Cooke shook his head. “Not then. That came later, when we met on the E.M.U. in 2012. We had a few drinks and one thing led to another.”

“How long?”

Karl’s tone was unflinching and Craig knew it came from years of lying addicts and parasitic dealers – he didn’t have much sympathy left.

“How long what?”

“How long were you buying drugs from her, and having sex?”

Cooke shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glanced at his solicitor for advice. The solicitor had all but given up trying to muzzle his client, but he gazed at Cooke with a final warning to shut up that he knew would be ignored, then he straightened his cuffs, the legal equivalent of a shrug.

“Buying from her since 2008. The sex was on and off from 2012.”

“Until when?”

Cooke’s shoulders slumped and he stared at the table. Craig knew he’d decided to tell the truth, at least about the sex.

“Last week.” He looked up quickly. “But Abbie can’t know about it.”

Rimmins nodded curtly; the sex didn’t interest him. Liam smiled in the viewing room, reckoning that his perfect partner was probably a Goth who slept in a coffin at night. Karl was still talking.

“If you’re lying about not dealing we’ll find out.”

Cooke said nothing, just stared into Rimmins’ gimlet eyes. Karl decided to try a different tack.

“Where did she keep her book?”

The solicitor glanced up from his cuffs and decided to earn his money. “How could my client possibly know that?”

Karl turned towards the man exaggeratedly, as if he’d just noticed him in the room. “Your client was sleeping with the deceased and buying drugs from her for years. I imagine he saw her dealing book and where she kept it many times.”

Craig smiled inwardly, knowing exactly what the young sergeant was at. If Cooke acknowledged that he knew about the book it could be a motive for murder; God only knew what Eleanor Rudd had written in it about him. If Cooke said he’d never seen it, then he was lying again. Adrian Cooke decided to play for time.

“I saw the book but Ellie never let me read it, and I’ve no idea where it is. She used to move it about.”

Clever boy, his brain wasn’t completely screwed by the drugs. Craig knew the first thing Cooke would do when he was bailed would be to search for the book.

He took back the questioning.

“You’re in deep trouble, Dr Cooke. Yes, you’ve given us your steroid dealer but you’re telling us that your cocaine dealer is dead. Eleanor Rudd may or may not have sold you coke, but either way it’s very convenient. You give up the name of a dead woman and we stop looking for anyone else. Why should we believe you?”

Cooke’s eyes raced wildly from the detectives to his solicitor and back again as he reached for words that wouldn’t come. Finally he dropped his head in his hands and his voice broke.

“I can’t prove that Ellie was my dealer, or that I wasn’t dealing. That’s up to you.” He looked up at Craig with frantic eyes. “But I’m begging you to believe me. I’ve used drugs but I’ve never dealt them, and I didn’t kill Ellie, Roid rage or not.”

Craig seized his chance. “Did you pay off Hannah Donard?”

Cooke thought for a moment then nodded. “Yes. She screamed when she found Ellie’s body and I ran to help. I needed her to say that I wasn’t there.”

“That’s tampering with a witness.”

“I know, but I was scared. I asked Abbie to give me an alibi as well. It wasn’t her fault.” A panicked look entered Cooke’s eyes and his tone became pleading. “You have to stop whoever’s interviewing her. Please.”

McIvor’s interview hadn’t even started; Craig had told Jake to lift her but not to start interviewing her till he called back. But he knew that whether he let Abigail McIvor off the hook or not, Cooke had just incriminated her as giving a false alibi in front of a partner from her firm. Craig just hoped the solicitor felt client privilege prevented him repeating anything said in the room. He pressed his advantage.

“Why were you so desperate for no-one to know that you were on the E.M.U. last Thursday?”

Cooke’s voice dropped so low that Craig struggled to hear his words.

“Repeat that for the tape please, Dr Cooke.”

The words were clearer the second time, but said with an exhaustion that signalled defeat.

“I didn’t want anyone to know that I was there because I wasn’t supposed to be working that day.”

“And? Couldn’t you have just been calling in to collect something?”

“No. There were people on the unit who…”

“Who knew about your drug problems?”

“Yes. They would have seen me there and thought I was there to score.”

“Were you?”

Cooke stared at Craig and then shrugged. “Yes, but not from the ward stock. Ellie was bringing me in some coke. I’d arranged to meet her to collect it.”

“Where?”

“In the linen room. There are no cameras in there or in the area outside. I broke some of the other unit cameras so I could get in and out without being seen. We met there around ten on Thursday morning.”

“Why were you still around at eleven when Hannah Donard found the body and screamed?”

“I was in the sluice off my face.”

Craig nodded. It fitted Cooke arriving at the linen room immediately after Donard had screamed and Davy not finding images of Cooke anywhere on the unit that day. Jake had confirmed that no-one they’d re-interviewed had seen Cooke either. If they looked at CCTV elsewhere in the hospital they might see him sneaking in or out, but his money was on Cooke wearing a hoodie to hide his face.

Cooke continued. “Hazel Gormley and some of the other staff knew that I had a drug problem, but they thought it was in the past…”

Craig interrupted. “Didn’t they ever report you to the GMC?”

Cooke shuddered. “Thankfully no.” His tone became defensive. “ I’m still a good doctor, you know.” He paused as if waiting for an argument, restarting when none came. “Anyway, like I said, some people knew and they might have put two and two together if they’d seen me there on a day off, then both Ellie and I would have lost our jobs.”

“Better than her losing her life.”

The way Cooke’s face fell reinforced Craig’s view that he hadn’t helped Eleanor Rudd to her death. He pressed his advantage before Cooke dried up.

“What about Professor Taylor?”

Cooke gazed at him curiously. “What about him? He isn’t a user as far as I know.”

“Thanks for the opinion but I wasn’t talking about drugs. I meant what about him and Nurse Rudd?”

Cooke shrugged. “He still fancied her, even though he was married.”

“Who left who?”

Craig already knew the answer but he wanted to hear it confirmed.

“Ellie left him. She said Taylor wasn’t happy about it. Ellie was a beautiful girl and she knew how to use it, if you know what I mean?”

Craig knew exactly what he meant but he had no intention of being vulgar about the dead. He needed answers from what was likely to be their last interview; the Drug Squad would take over Cooke’s case now.

“Was Taylor obsessed with Nurse Rudd?”

Cooke smiled as if remembering something. “You could say that. He tailed us one night last year when we left the ward. Sad git. We were in Bar Red and we saw him watching us from the street.”

“Obsessed enough to kill her?”

Craig watched as the junior doctor calculated whether to incriminate his boss by lying, or to tell the truth. He plumped for the latter.

“Nah. Taylor’s too much of a wimp. I can see him stealing her underwear and stalking her, but he’d never have the balls to kill someone.”

“You say that as if you admire murder.”

“Not really. I wouldn’t have the balls either.”

Craig thought for a moment and then glanced at the clock. It was after three o’clock; time to wrap up. He straightened his papers and recited the charges in a bored voice, ending with.

“Detective Sergeant Rimmins has more questions to ask you. I suggest you be as cooperative as possible; it will help your case. You’ll be bailed and your solicitor will advise you how to proceed with regards to your defence and employment.”

He left the room quickly and joined Liam in the viewing room, phoning Jake to release Abigail McIvor with a warning that they might need to speak to her again. “I want someone tailing Cooke when he’s bailed. One of the team that he hasn’t met.”

Liam thought for a moment. “McGregor? He’s less likely to suspect a woman.”

“Good. If Cooke’s going to search for Rudd’s Black Book then he’ll do it quickly. He won’t want us finding it first in case it undermines whatever lies he’s just told.”

“Fine. I’ll get Jack to hold him until after the briefing so McGregor has time to catch him up.” He gestured through the glass. “What do you reckon? Did he kill Rudd?”

Craig shook his head. “My gut says no. Taylor as well. Cooke’s right, Taylor would never have the balls.”

Liam nodded. “A stalker not a fighter.” He shot Craig an admiring look. “Here, that bluff about Rudd being a coke dealer was tasty, boss.”

“It wasn’t a bluff. I had a hunch. There was something about Ellie Rudd that made someone want to kill her. OK, so she wasn’t particularly nice, but that wasn’t enough. We found no sign of anyone being blackmailed by her and she wasn’t robbed or raped, so if it wasn’t love and jealousy by either Taylor or Cooke, then with Cooke involved what other possible reason did that leave but drugs?”

“She might have been a real cow to someone?”

Craig laughed quietly, so as not to break Karl’s flow; he had Adrian Cooke on the ropes.

“She might have been but that’s hardly motive for murder, is it?”

Liam shook his head. “I don’t know. Some of the women I…”

Craig cut across him. “You know murder needs a motive that makes sense, even if only to the killer. Love, sex, revenge, theft of something valuable…”

“You think Rudd was killed because someone wanted her stash of coke?”

Craig shrugged. “They left her cash behind so it doesn’t look like theft but maybe they took some coke or her customer book, or perhaps someone wanted revenge for something that she’d done.”

Liam thought as Craig motioned him from the room and into the car park.

“So, if Rudd was dealing but no stash was found on her that could mean the killer nicked it.”

“Or she only brought enough coke with her that day for Dr Cooke. Cooke’s the only addict we know about and he wouldn’t have killed her for a small amount, especially if he’s been buying from her for years.”

They climbed into Craig’s car and he pulled out smoothly onto High Street, heading for the C.C.U.

“Unless Cooke’s a dealer as well and he wanted her book to cover the fact.”

Craig nodded. “Unless he’s a dealer as well. But my money’s still on Rudd being killed in revenge for something she did. Something drug related.”

“So…someone whose relative she turned into an addict?”

“Or an addict themselves…”

They postulated until they’d reached the C.C.U. car park.

“This is all just speculation. We need that book and we need Davy’s background checks into everyone on the ward before we can even start to narrow it down.”

Chapter Six

Reilly Suite. 3 p.m.

Movie stereotypes aren’t real. They’re caricatures created by a writer, based on the foibles of people they’ve met, or seen on some TV show. Irish movie stereotypes are even more extreme; either tweedely-deeing their way across the screen, unfailingly cheerful despite living in a ramshackle cottage with a leaky thatched roof and pigs running across the kitchen floor, or dark-haired, dark-eyed handsome men who meet in bars and alleys to plan the quasi-patriotic destruction of their own land. All with a grain of truth but none of them actually real.

Annette and Ken both knew that. They were intelligent, worldly people who’d spent hours in darkened cinemas watching movies, or in their own living rooms watching a DVD. So they knew that Ferdy Myers had to be putting it on; fulfilling his stereotyped role as the eccentric hospital porter, so that even the strangest patient wouldn’t feel alienated and the clinical staff could feel that all was well in ‘hospital world’.

His battered boots and baggy trousers pulled tight around his middle, and his too-small porter’s coat, were for the ‘tourists’. Just like his thick glasses, rough Aran jumper and the poorly kept teeth in his wild-haired head. Myers was good at the role, muttering into his chest when he was asked a question and then throwing his head back suddenly and breaking into rhyme. Even Annette was impressed with how enthusiastically he inhabited the part – Stanislavski would have been proud. But Ferdinand Myers was acting and she was determined to break through his front.

Forty minutes and endless questions later Annette gave up and headed to Newman’s nurses’ station, leaving Ken with their guest. A student nurse not much older than her daughter sat there, filling in a form with a diligence that suggested her life relied upon it.

“Is Sister Norton around?”

The girl glanced up, startled by the voice, even though Annette had clicked noisily towards her down the ward. After a second she shook her head and pointed towards a small office with blurred words on its door. Annette hated wearing her glasses; glasses made people look old even when they weren’t, so instead she squinted until ‘Sister J Norton’ crystallised. A knock and a light “come in” permitted her entrance.

“Sister?”

Jane Norton glanced up; it lengthened to a gaze when she saw it was the police.

“Can I help you, officer?”

Annette took the words as an invitation to sit.

“I’d like to ask about your ward porter, Mr Myers.”

Jane Norton’s slim face broke into a smile. “Let me guess. Ferdy’s muttering and breaking off at a tangent when you ask him anything, and you think he’s being obstructive?”

Annette nodded eagerly. “Yes. Is he?”

Norton smiled again. “Welcome to my world. Ferdy’s barely said a straight word in the five years that I’ve known him.”

Annette shook her head. ”How do you work with him?”

“He does his job and the patients love him.” She set down her pen and stared past Annette as if recalling something. “Ferdy joined us five years ago straight out of a psychiatric unit. The government closed a lot of the big hospitals and placed the people who they thought could cope in the community. Ferdy’d been in there for ten years, since he’d left the army on mental health grounds. PTSD; too much conflict.”

Annette nodded; a lot of military veterans had problems coping with what they’d seen. The sister was still talking.

“He’s not insane if that’s what you’re thinking, he’s as normal as you and me. He just puts on an act to stop people asking what happened to him. When he first joined us he wouldn’t speak to anyone but me; he’d had a good relationship with the sister on his hospital ward. Gradually he began to relax and a really chirpy personality came out. The patients love him, he talks about Star Trek or sings when he’s taking them places and it really cheers them up.”

“Where does he live now?”

“A community psychiatric house on the Demesne Estate.”

“What will happen when he retires? He’s in his fifties now.”

Norton shook her head. “He never will. We’re his family. Besides, he does the work of three younger men without complaining, so I doubt the management would ever let him go.” She gave Annette a knowing smile. “Proving hard to get a statement from, is he?”

Annette laughed. “Impossible. But I know the words of ‘The Wild Rover’ now.”

Norton walked past her to the door. “I’ll come and help. He’ll answer you when I’m there and whatever he tells you will be true. Ferdy can be sharp as a tack when he wants to be, he just doesn’t bother usually. But you’ll only get one shot at your questions and then he’ll get bored, whether I’m there or not.”

Ten minutes later they had their statement. Ferdinand Myers had replenished the linen room from the main laundry at seven a.m. on the day of Ellie Rudd’s death. He hadn’t been near the room after that, so whoever had pulled out the linen trolley it hadn’t been him. Where had he been between seven and eleven o’clock that morning? Helping with the breakfasts and then taking a patient from Reilly to the hydrotherapy pool and waiting to bring them back. He’d gone off at eleven for a break because he’d been on since six a.m.

Annette bade the porter and sister goodbye and beckoned Ken to join her for coffee in the canteen. Ferdy Myers had been the sole porter on the E.M.U. that day and he’d seen nothing out of place – no strangers, no-one wandering where they shouldn’t. They’d asked about the area round the linen room especially, but Myers hadn’t seen anyone entering or leaving when he was there and at the time of Rudd’s death he’d been at physiotherapy. As Annette bit into a low calorie crisp-bread trying to imagine it was a cream cake, she realised that whoever had killed Eleanor Rudd might have to kill again for them to get any clues.

***

Stranmillis Station.

Jake had let Abigail McIvor stew then on Craig’s call he’d put the fear of God into her and let her go. Dopey woman, prepared to destroy the career she’d worked so hard for by giving a false alibi to some man she barely knew, just because she ‘loved’ him. In Jake’s book there was love and then there was complete stupidity.

Adrian Cooke had admitted he’d been on the unit that day so McIvor’s false alibi was redundant now, but she’d still carry the can for giving it. Even if the police didn’t pursue her that didn’t mean Morris and Harden’s would be happy with what she’d done, and at least one partner there already knew.

When McIvor had gone Jake entered the station staff-room, where Carmen had been waiting, reading the Chronicle. She folded the tabloid roughly and threw it on a chair.

“How do they get away with printing that crap?”

Jake nodded. He never read the Chronicle but he could imagine what it contained.

“Let me guess. ‘Hospital Death Horror’?”

“Worse. ‘Nursing angel’s killer runs free while useless cops flounder’.”

Jake shrugged. “I doubt it will bother the boss. Ray Mercer will have written it and everyone knows he hates the police.” He glanced at his watch. It was after three o’clock. “We’d better get to Mrs Rudd’s if we want to make it back for the briefing.”

Carmen shook her head, in a way that brooked no argument. “We’ll never get there and back in time. Let’s head back to the ranch.”

She said the words with such authority that it took Jake a moment to remember he was the senior officer. Carmen had a way of saying things that made them sound like government policy. He shook his head firmly.

“We’re going to Mrs Rudd’s.”

Ignoring her objections he exited to the car park and climbed into the car, turning over the engine impatiently as Carmen hurried to catch up. She gave him a look of grudging respect and Jake knew exactly what was going through her mind. She’d tried to dominate him and failed so he’d risen in her estimation; it was tiresome and predictable, and recognising that she viewed everything as a power play simply made her go down in his.

***

4.10 p.m.

Nicky had just finished distributing the coffees and Liam was in the middle of impersonating Karl Rimmins when Jake and Carmen joined the briefing, the tension between them palpable. It wasn’t because they were late; Jake had called to say they were stuck in traffic on the way back from Margie Rudd’s. That meant the tension was coming from something else and Liam knew immediately what it was. He broke off from his version of Karl as Dracula questioning someone, with the mimed cloak over his head and slow Transylvanian voice that it entailed, and muttered to Annette “I bet she’s been giving him earache, the same as she does with me.”

Annette hissed “be quiet” as Jake and Carmen approached and pointedly took seats on opposite sides of the group. Craig signed inwardly, his sympathy with Jake. Carmen could be spikey, especially with men. He’d experienced a bit of it, although he knew she probably tempered it with him because he was the boss, not out of respect but out of self-preserving common sense. Liam had had earache from her from day one and, even allowing for the fact that Liam gave as good as he got, he was inclined to believe his version of events. Nicky said Carmen had been rude to Ken as well and now she was moving on to Jake, as if the poor man didn’t have enough on his plate. Enough was enough. If this was a man picking arguments with every woman on the squad the sexual equality police would be down on him like a ton of bricks. Constable McGregor was about to find out that sexism worked both ways.

Craig made up his mind to speak to her after they’d finished then he started to report, summing up their meeting with Adrian Cooke. When he dropped the bombshell that Ellie Rudd had been a drug-dealer a loud gasp went around the room. Annette was the first to speak.

“It’s not the first time a health professional has been involved with drugs, although usually they don’t deal.”

Craig nodded, thinking of the Harold Shipman case. “John said a guy in his year was a Heroin addict, started injecting diamorphine from the ward stock.”

Liam cut in. “Aye well, in a way that’s understandable. Stress of the job, easy access and Bob’s your Aunty.”

Jake stifled a laugh as he continued.

“It wouldn’t be the first time a cop had dipped into the drugs in the evidence store either, especially during The Troubles. Some of the lads I worked with in the ’80s were as high as kites when they went out on the streets. It was all that got them on patrol when any night could’ve been their last.” He nodded sagely. “I was a whisky man myself.”

Craig shook his head; he could never work out how much of what Liam said was true. Liam’s covert wink didn’t enlighten him.

“OK. So we know Adrian Cooke has been using steroids and cocaine. Karl’s after his steroid dealer at the gym and Cooke says Eleanor Rudd sold him his coke. But I’m not convinced that Cooke wasn’t dealing himself so I’ve asked Jack to hold him until I call and I want one of you to follow him tonight. If he’s been dealing he’ll go looking for Rudd’s Black Book and that’s information that we need. It might contain her killer’s name.”

Carmen and Annette leaned forward simultaneously but Annette spoke first. “Who’s tailing him, sir? I’d like to volunteer.”

Craig had wanted a woman to do it; Cooke was less likely to make them as a tail. He’d been going to ask Carmen, but her bad behaviour had to be dealt with first, so he nodded at Annette. Part of him wondered why she preferred an evening in a cold car to going home to her family, but only part.

“Thanks. I’ll give you the details after the briefing.”

He scanned the other’s faces, watching as Carmen’s face fell and Jake cast a quick look at the clock, eager to get to his grandparent’s home. Craig smiled kindly at him.

“The briefing will be quick, I promise.”

Carmen glared sulkily at the sergeant, the question “where’s he off to that’s so important?” on the tip of her tongue. A quick look from Craig told her not to ask.

“OK, so Eleanor Rudd was dealing cocaine and possibly other things. Adrian Cooke was her customer and/or her dealing partner and he went to the ward on the day of her death, ostensibly to buy coke. He used it in the sluice room so when Hannah Donard found Rudd’s body next door and screamed, Cooke was first on the scene to help. He’d successfully managed to avoid anyone, including the CCTV cameras, seeing him there that day.” He turned to Annette. “By the way, you were right.”

“Great.” A second later came. “What was I right about?”

“About Hannah Donard being bought off. Cooke paid her to keep quiet about seeing him on the ward that day, just as he’d asked his girlfriend Abigail McIvor to say he was with her out of town.”

Davy had been sitting quietly but now he spluttered into life. “But s…she’s a lawyer! And she lied to the police.”

Annette patted his head. “You sweet young thing. Haven’t we seen enough corrupt lawyers to show you they’re not all Perry Mason?”

“W…Who?”

She scrambled for a modern day legal equivalent and hit on Ally McBeal. Davy shot her a look that said it was naff and turned back to Craig.

“W…Won’t McIvor lose her job for lying?”

“If people lost their jobs every time they lied there’d be no-one left at work. But you’re right, that’s why I didn’t want her interviewed on the record. I’ve no desire to ruin a silly young woman’s career so I asked Jake to put the fear of God into her and let her go.”

Liam sniffed. “I’d have scared her more.”

Craig was deadpan. “If I’d wanted her to throw herself in the Lagan I’d have let you try.”

He waved Jake to report on his meeting with the solicitor. The young sergeant raked his fingers through his hair. It was getting long and Craig wondered if he and Ken were both aiming for the Davy look. If it got below their collars they’d be getting it cut or tying it back and Liam would have a field day joking about the latter.

“McIvor was worried before I even spoke to her. She knew what she’d done so I just warned her sternly and let her go. I don’t think she’ll do it again, but it’s beyond me how anyone could be that dim.”

Craig smiled. He understood Abigail McIvor’s urge to protect someone she loved; he’d done stupid things himself in the past but he wasn’t admitting them to his team. Annette already knew about one of his youthful transgressions, when he’d fought a man who’d been a threat to his sister.

“Ms McIvor won’t get off scot-free. One of the partners from her firm was present when Cooke admitted that she’d lied. If she keeps her job I’ll be surprised.”

Annette pursed her lips primly. “She shouldn’t have lied then, should she?”

Craig shot her a knowing look and she blushed. There weren’t many of them equipped to cast the first stone nowadays.

“Did you ask her about that other thing, Jake?”

Carmen gave Jake a sharp look that said ‘why wasn’t I told?’ While her mouth opened to ask “What thing?”

His answer removed the need. “Yes. She said she offered to represent Prof Taylor because Cooke asked her to. He wanted to know what Taylor said to you.”

It figured. Adrian Cooke had a Machiavellian streak.

“OK, thanks. What happened with Margie Rudd?”

“She confirmed that her husband had beaten both her and the children all their lives. He was particularly hard on Eleanor. When she reached puberty he tried to keep her in the house but the more he tried to control her the wilder she got. Men, tattoos…”

Liam boomed out. “Drugs.”

“It seems so. She moved into the nurse’s home as soon as she could and then lived with Tim Taylor for a year.”

Davy spluttered again. “Taylor? But he’s married.”

He saw Annette reaching to pat his head again and swatted her away.

Liam chipped in. “It was before Taylor was married, but apparently they’ve been at it on and off since then. Cooke as well, as recently as last week. Ellie was a bit of a girl.”

Annette glowered at him. “And what were they?”

Craig saw the war of the sexes about to start and he motioned Jake on.

He took out his notebook and read. “Billy hit us all the time, with his hands and a strap. I tried to protect the kids but I wasn’t strong enough. Ellie moved back home to stop him taking everything out on us. She stood up to Billy and it made him hit her hardest of all.”

“Did Mrs Rudd say anything about drugs?”

Jake vacillated. “She didn’t say it explicitly, but she did say ‘Ellie did things to cope’. Perhaps using drugs was one of them?”

Liam shook his head. “Cooke didn’t say Rudd was a user, boss. Just a dealer.”

Craig conceded the point. “You’re right, he didn’t, and John would have found some signs. Anything else, Jake?”

“Mrs Rudd confirmed that her husband was at home when Ellie was killed. She said he’d got drunk the night before and was sleeping it off. She didn’t want to wake him in case he hit her.”

“What a prince.”

“I think she’s hoping they’ll lock her him up and throw away the key. I contacted the D.A.U. like you said and they’re going to get her and Eddie some help.”

“Good. Thanks for that.”

Craig turned to Annette and Ken. Ken was gazing at Carmen like she was Miss World.

“Annette, Ken.” Craig made the ‘Ken’ louder to break his trance. “What did you find with the ward porters and the people on Davy’s list?”

Annette shook her head. “Sorry, sir. It took us so long to interview the porter that we’ll have to do the rest tomorrow.”

“OK. Tell us about the porters.”

“Porter. There is only one. Ferdy Myers.”

For the next five minutes Annette and Ken made everyone laugh as they ran through their interview with Myers. Annette summed up.

“The upshot was that he was nowhere near the linen room after seven o’clock that morning and the trolley wasn’t left in the corridor by him.”

Craig thought of something. “Davy, were there any prints on the trolley that shouldn’t have been there?”

“Nope.”

“Damn… OK, so we have someone strong enough to drag the trolley out of the linen room and strangle a fit young woman by hand, but we can’t find anyone on the CCTV. Is that right?”

Davy shrugged. “I found Cooke on the main hospital CCTV, coming through the front entrance at nine-thirty on Thursday morning and leaving again around half-eleven, but nothing on the E.M.U. footage.”

“He knew how to avoid the cameras.”

“He broke them.” Davy paused. “The only other people from the unit that w…went in and out were the three names I gave Annette.”

Craig slumped back in his chair and the group fell quiet. They had no forensics tying their murder to anyone and every suspect they’d had: Cooke, William Rudd and Tim Taylor, was being eliminated one by one. He motioned Davy to report on the background checks and similar M.O.s elsewhere, but there was nothing. All their hopes lay with their killer making a mistake and that could mean someone else had to die.

Craig wrapped up the meeting and beckoned Annette over, briefing her on tracking Cooke. She left for High Street to start the tail and Jake left for his grandparents’. That left six people waiting to hear what he said next, including him.

“OK, it’s five o’clock. Everyone go home. Carmen, could you join me in my office please.”

With that he turned on his heel and a startled Carmen trailed in his wake. As she entered Craig’s office and closed the door Nicky drew a finger across her throat, then she moved closer to the door to listen. Liam joined her while the others went home, or in the case of Ken loitered protectively by Carmen’s desk. Nicky and Liam needn’t have stood so close; they could have heard Craig’s words from the end of the room.

As Craig entered his office he wheeled round to face the woman who was giving his male staff so much grief. His voice was pure steel.

“Do you know why you’re in here, Constable McGregor?”

Carmen jutted her chin out defiantly; it made her look like a sulky child. “No, sir.”

“Then it’s even worse than I thought. You have no insight into your behaviour.”

She went to pull out a chair and Craig barked. “Remain standing.”

He paced the short space between his desk and the window in silence while Carmen watched, her nerve failing by the second. She genuinely had no idea what she’d done but the Super obviously thought it was bad enough to warrant this. Finally Craig turned towards her, his voice changing to a narrative tone.

“Picture a workplace where three men and five women work, with one man and one woman working in a support role. Yes?”

Carmen nodded dumbly. She didn’t have the foggiest clue what Craig was on about but she thought it was best to humour him. There weren’t three men and five women in the Murder Squad, but the story obviously meant something to him.

“Now picture what happens if one of the men has a problem with the female sex and barks, snipes and is generally as difficult as possible with every woman on the team. What would you do?”

Carmen screwed up her face. “Am I the boss?”

“Yes.”

“Am I male or female?”

Craig considered the question. “Female. Although it shouldn’t make a difference.”

She thought for a moment. “Unless there were good reasons for their behaviour and if they were pleasant to the men and only nasty to the women, I’d give them a warning. Their behaviour is sexist.”

Craig banged his palm down on the desk, making her jump back. “Exactly! Their behaviour is sexist and unless they stop it the equality police will come down on them like a ton of bricks.”

Carmen nodded dumbly.

“That’s what you’ve been doing, Constable. Since you arrived here four months ago you’ve been hostile to every man in this team without, as far as I can see, having any legitimate reason. You’ve done it to me as well, although I think you’ve tempered it because I’m your boss.”

Carmen blustered. “But I…”

“But nothing. You’ve been unpleasant to every male team member and I don’t know why; I’m not even sure that I care. But if you want to remain working here, you need to face whatever demon is causing you to behave this way.”

Carmen drew herself up to her full five-feet-three and was about to say something she would regret when Craig held up a hand to stop her.

“If the next words out of your mouth are anything except ‘Yes, sir’ you’re off this squad. So think very carefully.”

Carmen’s lips tightened and her face grew red. Craig watched her fists curl into a ball and he knew she wanted to pummel him with them, but she wisely stayed mute. After a moment he said “Good” and sat down behind his desk, beckoning her to sit while he gave her a note to see the force’s psychologist the next day. Then he waved her out.

As Carmen’s shadow approached the door Nicky scooted quickly across the squad-room, leaving Liam standing alone. Carmen yanked open the office door and saw him. She glowered and pushed past him, grabbing her handbag from her desk and completely ignored Ken’s sympathetic glance. Then she stormed off towards the lift.

Craig glanced up to see Liam standing in his doorway. He sighed heavily. “How much of that did you hear?”

Liam feigned innocence. “Who me?”

“Don’t give me that. You and Nicky were probably listening to the whole thing.”

Just then Nicky’s small face appeared and Liam sniffed at her in chagrin. “She legged it and left me in the lurch.”

Craig beckoned them in and Liam kicked the door shut, then, when they were certain the others had left, the three old hands had a serious chat.

Chapter Seven

5.30 p.m.

Annette parked her hatchback on High Street and waited for Jack Harris’ call. He’d held Cooke in the cells as agreed and now he was deliberately taking his time with the paperwork to let Annette get into position. At five-fifty her mobile rang and Jack’s avuncular tones came down the line.

“He’ll be out in five. There’s a cab coming.”

The line clicked off just as the taxi arrived. Annette instinctively ducked down in case Cooke saw her and then realised how stupid she must look, and how suspicious. A woman sliding down in her driver’s seat outside a police station – people had been arrested for less. Why was she hiding anyway? Cooke had never seen her. To him she was probably just a middle-aged mum waiting to pick up her kids.

As Adrian Cooke climbed into his taxi Annette regained her decorum, slipping into the traffic and following the cab towards Carlisle Circus and the Antrim Road. Cooke definitely wasn’t heading for the hospital. If the address Davy had given her was correct, he was heading home. Perhaps they were wrong about Ellie Rudd having a Black Book, or Cooke had already stashed it somewhere.

Cooke paid the cab and entered a tall, terraced house on Serpentine Road that Davy had said held three flats. The doctor lived on the top floor and Annette pictured him trudging up the stairs, thinking about his life. If his expression as he’d left High Street was anything to go by they wouldn’t be happy thoughts. She glanced at her watch; six-twenty. She’d give it an hour to see what happened.

As the evening’s gloom deepened the lights on the Victorian building’s top floor blinked on and Annette could make out Cooke pacing around his bay-windowed front room. As the TV flickered she imagined him watching the evening news, knowing that he might hear his own name on it someday soon. What did a man who’d thrown his life away think about? She’d seen Cooke’s file; wealthy parents and a good school, followed by a rapid passage through medical school with stellar grades. He had academic papers and publications galore to his name and had been tipped for the top in his career, all destroyed now by a powder he shoved up his nose.

She shook her head. She’d never understood addiction, but then she’d never really understood weakness of any sort. She’d been a responsible teenager and a strong adult, always walking the orthodox line. She made a face in the dim evening light and corrected herself. She’d walked the line until now. Just as her mind prepared to wander to less professional things Annette registered a movement in her peripheral vision. A car was pulling out of the house’s driveway; a sleek blue MG. It was Cooke’s!

She glanced at the third floor window, seeing the lights still on and the TV flickering as if there was someone there, but it was all for show. Cooke must have suspected he was being watched. Now he was gunning towards the city centre and as Annette tailed him it became obvious what his destination was. Twenty minutes later they were in St Mary’s car park and Cooke was running swiftly across the tarmac and through the hospital’s automatic front doors. Annette stayed well behind. There was only one place Adrian Cooke was heading: the E.M.U. If she tailed him there then he would see her, better to let him bring back whatever he’d gone to find.

Twenty minutes later there was still no sign of the doctor. He’d had plenty of time to retrieve the book from wherever Rudd had stashed it and return to his car. It was time to take a look. Annette was just crossing the car park when she heard the sirens approach. Not the swooping sirens of ambulances driving in and out of casualty, but the unmistakeable ‘nee-naw’ that signalled the arrival of the cops. As the patrol cars disgorged their uniformed contents her heart sank. She raced through the hospital main door, almost colliding with the officers in reception. They turned towards the E.M.U. simultaneously and before the men could say a word, Annette had displayed her badge.

“Elderly Medicine Unit?”

A young officer nodded. “Yes, Ma’am. A man’s body’s been found.”

She already knew what his name was. Dr Adrian Cooke.

***

8.30 p.m.

“I’m really sorry, sir.”

Craig shook his head and gazed down at the body. He wore a puzzled expression that said he was working something out.

“Tell me again, Annette. With exact timings.”

Annette sighed. Not because she’d already told him and was fed up repeating herself, but because the more often she said it the surer she became that there was something she could have done to prevent Adrian Cooke’s death. Craig hadn’t blamed her, he didn’t need to; her guilt was strong enough.

“Dr Cooke left the lights and TV on in his apartment, as a decoy probably, then he took off for the hospital at six-fifty. He parked in the car park at seven-ten and entered the building approximately one minute later. I didn’t follow because I thought he would have seen me as soon as I’d entered the E.M.U. I was planning to search him when he returned to his car and retrieve the book if he’d had it, but the squad cars appearing put paid to that.”

Craig nodded and hunkered down beside Adrian Cooke’s immobile body, staring expertly at his bloodshot eyes and darkening neck. He’d been strangled, manually if the finger marks were anything to go by, exactly the same as Eleanor Rudd. John would confirm it but he already knew that they were looking for the same man. But what was more interesting than Cooke’s premature demise was the small book that lay in his hand. Annette had had to argue with the C.S.I.s not to move it; she’d wanted Craig to see everything still in place.

Craig scrutinised the book from every angle. It was small and unremarkable. Not black of course, but then ‘Black Books’ seldom were. Its navy cover was embossed with the word ‘Notebook’ in silver gilt, like a million others that were sold every day. He shivered at the banality of it; what was written beneath that cover had probably got two people killed. Something stopped him finishing the thought and he rested back on his heels, staring straight ahead as Annette looked on.

She knew that he wasn’t looking at the C.S.I.s, or even at the hospital staff who had gathered outside the tape, driven by curiosity and a ghoulish sense of the event. Craig wasn’t looking at either of those, he was searching the recesses of his brain for some clue that he had missed. Without warning he sprang to his feet and beckoned a female C.S.I. across, pointing to the book.

“Bag that please and get it straight to Dr Marsham at the lab.”

He signalled Annette to join him in the stairwell, waiting until the fire-doors had closed for privacy before he spoke.

“Why was Cooke wearing his white coat?”

Annette shrugged. “Habit probably. He probably put it on whenever he entered the unit.”

Possible. Craig continued. “Why didn’t they take the book?”

Annette stared at him blankly and then realised what he’d meant. It was a good question. Why not take it? If Adrian Cooke had been killed by a rival drug dealer, the book would be like manna from heaven; a ready-made list of junkies waiting for a fix and not fussy who they bought it from. She vocalised her thoughts and Craig nodded.

“I agree. Not a rival dealer then.”

“And not an addict either, sir. An addict would have taken the book on the off-chance that someone else on the list knew of a good place to score.”

“Or they would try to sell it, or even blackmail some of the names.” He nodded. “OK, so not an addict and not a dealer. They would both have taken the book if drug supply was why Cooke was killed.”

Annette interrupted. “If?”

Craig was still talking. “Someone whose family Cooke and Rudd had hurt?”

“You mean someone who loved an addict? Maybe.”

Craig half-nodded then he shook his head, answering his own question. “No. Why would they do it here? Why not at Cooke’s home? Unless…”

Annette waited, knowing that he didn’t need an answer. He would provide his own in a moment. It came in fits and starts.

“They killed Cooke here because…the book was here and… they wanted to catch him red-handed with it.”

Annette played devil’s advocate. “If the book was the reason.”

Craig nodded. “Even if the killer didn’t want the book, it may have given them the proof they needed to execute Cooke. Either way, unless you saw someone tailing you from the Antrim Road the killer was already here when Cooke arrived.”

Annette glanced through the glass fire-door at where Adrian Cooke’s body lay. He’d been found in the same area as Eleanor Rudd, but lying on the floor between the linen room, clinical room and sluice. The E.M.U. definitely held the answer to their killer’s identity.

“No CCTV in this area, which would fit with your theory that it’s someone who knows the unit. Maybe they work here?”

Craig followed her gaze through the glass as she kept talking.

“Where was the book, sir? Before Cooke lifted it, I mean.”

Craig gestured through the door. “One of those three rooms would be my bet. Eleanor Rudd must have hidden it there.”

“Perhaps that’s why her body was found in the linen room? Maybe she kept the book in there.”

Craig shook his head. “Too risky, any nurse or porter could have found it.”

“She was inventorying the clinical room that morning, so perhaps she stashed it somewhere in there when she knew she was going to be killed.”

Craig shook his head. Ellie Rudd wouldn’t have had time to stash the book anywhere once her killer had telegraphed his intentions. The book had been returned to its regular hiding place long before; a hiding place that Adrian Cooke had known about all along.

The look in Craig eyes said he’d returned to his original question. Even if the deaths were somehow linked to the E.M.U. why kill both victims in such a public place? OK, the area didn’t have CCTV but the bodies were bound to be discovered soon after death. Craig smiled in realisation.

“Our killer wanted the bodies found. He wants people to see what he’s done.”

Annette looked shocked. “But that means he doesn’t care if he’s caught! Or worse, he doesn’t think he will be. Who would have known Cooke was coming here tonight?”

Craig glanced at her. “You’re positive you weren’t followed?”

Annette shook her head vehemently. “I would have noticed a tail.”

“All right. So that leaves someone who knew that Cooke was coming to the ward before he arrived or, less likely, someone who just saw him here. Unless he was due on duty, which he wasn’t, that could only mean someone that Cooke told. Davy can check his phones for calls.”

“It could have been opportunistic. Someone who saw Cooke here tonight and took their chance?”

Craig didn’t answer, just pushed open the fire-door, startling the officers standing there.

“What were Dr Cooke’s movements from the minute he entered the unit?”

A series of puzzled faces turned towards him and he asked the question again. A middle-aged uniform was the first to speak.

“The sister said he dropped in to say hello.”

Craig strode across to the man. “Which sister?”

A voice answered from behind the tape. “Both of us.”

It was Jane Norton. Craig lifted the tape and beckoned her through.

“Dr Cooke said hello to both you and Sister Gormley, you’re sure?”

“Positive. He called in to see me in Newman, but I was busy with a new admission so he said he was popping into Reilly. He looked sad, like he was saying goodbye.”

Cooke had been on the wards, hence donning his white coat. Craig swung round to find Annette. “Check that out with Sister Gormley.”

One minute later she returned, nodding. “Sister Gormley said Cooke popped in to say a quick hello and goodbye.”

“Damn. That means the staff and patients on both wards knew that he was here.”

Jane Norton screwed up her face quizzically. “What difference does that make?”

Craig suddenly realised he’d said too much and ushered her away with a request to give them a list of every patient, visitor and staff member on her ward.

“Annette, get Hazel Gormley to do the same.”

“You think one of the staff killed Cooke?”

Craig’s quick shake of the head told Annette that they’d said enough. He needed more information before he’d know exactly what he thought.

***

Midnight

Craig yawned and Annette caught the bug, yawning a moment later. They had good reason; it had been a long day. Adrian Cooke’s body was safely in the morgue, along with his erstwhile girlfriend, Eleanor Rudd, waiting for John to do his thing. They also had a list of every patient, visitor and member of staff who’d been on the unit that evening, waiting for Davy to do his. One name jumped out at both of them. Annette yawned again, stifling it with a hand, then she pointed to the page Craig was holding.

“Why was he here at that time of night, sir? I thought rank brought some perks.”

Craig laughed. “Tell me what they are someday, will you?” His face became serious. “But you’re right. Why was Tim Taylor wandering around the unit at seven o’clock in the evening and why had he conveniently disappeared by the time we arrived?”

Annette wondered if the question was rhetorical then decided to risk a reply. “He was here when Cooke arrived; he saw him, took his chance and killed him, then legged it when he heard someone scream.”

Ah yes, the scream. That reflex that activated when you happened to find someone dead. He knew that dead bodies were a shock to the uninitiated but he did wish that occasionally people would think more like cops. Cops saw dead bodies and got straight on the radio. Civilians saw them and screamed at the top of their lungs, giving the killer ample warning to run away.

Craig sighed and Annette waited for a reply to her comment. It came in the form of a question.

“Tell me who found the body again?”

Annette recited from memory. “Nurse Kelly Gill. Second year student on her way to the sluice.”

“Young?”

“Eighteen.”

“That explains the scream.”

Annette was going to ask what he meant but she knew he was finishing some conversation inside his head so instead she glanced at the clock.

“It’s after twelve, sir.”

Craig glanced at the time-piece, surprised, but he still made no move to leave.

“Someone who didn’t want the Black Book but was here tonight…Davy will have to compare who was here tonight with who was around when Ellie Rudd died.”

“Except that they had hours to get away that time, before the place was sealed off.”

“If they’d wanted to. OK, then, whoever was here tonight is our suspect pool.” He leapt to his feet. “Time to go home.”

As they walked towards reception Annette hazarded a question. “Carmen?”

His expression became glum. “I’m telling you because you’re a nurse and I know that you’re discreet, but don’t discuss it, please.”

She gave him an ‘as if’ look.

“I’ve sent her to Occupational Health with the suggestion that she sees the psychologist. She has real issues with men.”

“Nicky thinks she was hurt badly by someone.”

Craig nodded. “And if that’s the case I feel for her, but she can’t bring it into work. If this was a man treating you and Nicky the way she treats the men on the team, the gender equality people would come down like a ton of bricks. It has to be dealt with. If Carmen can’t sort it out then she’ll be off the squad.”

“Is she out for the rest of the case?”

Craig shrugged. “Depends what O.H. says.” He sighed. “If she is then that just leaves us with Jake part-time because of his grandfather, you, Liam, Ken and me.”

Annette grinned. “We’re more than a match for the St Mary’s Strangler, sir. You wait and see.”

***

It was finished. The evil had been purged and life could return to its usual peaceful flow. Hospitals were supposed to be sanctuaries. Places where the sick were healed or passed peacefully into another world, not places where people took their misery out on the vulnerable and peddled filth to make profit for themselves.

Well, it was done now and no-one would disturb the peace again. Best of all, the police couldn’t prove a thing.

Chapter Eight

Tuesday, 8 a.m.

Craig kept the eight o’clock briefing short and sweet, a task aided by the small number of people there.

“Adrian Cooke was found dead on the E.M.U. last night. Annette tailed him to the hospital from his flat and he was only inside for twenty minutes. He had Eleanor Rudd’s deal book in his hand and we can be fairly certain that he’d gone there to collect it. He also called in to say goodbye to the sisters on both wards, either because he knew he would be suspended or because he was planning to run. John’s starting the P.M. this morning but my bet’s on Cooke being killed by the same person as Rudd. Let’s hope they left some prints this time. Annette and I have a list of everyone there last night and Davy will dig into that.”

He took a breath and turned towards Liam. He was shaking his head.

“OK, out with it.”

“Aye, well. It’s just…how the hell did they spot Cooke and kill him in twenty minutes? It’s bloody fast. And no witnesses?”

“I didn’t say there were no witnesses; we don’t know yet. No-one’s come forward but that’s nothing new.”

He smiled meaningfully and Liam shook his head vehemently.

“Oh no, you don’t. I’m not spending all day taking statements again. Ask uniform to do it.”

“I already have. But you and Annette need to supervise, so get over there now, please.” He gestured at Ken who was gazing mournfully at Carmen’s empty desk. “Ken’s coming with me to see Professor Taylor.”

Liam made a face like a thwarted child. Craig ignored it and turned towards the door.

“You all know what you’re doing. Ken, follow me. Nicky, call John and say we’ll be at the lab around eleven.”

That was how Craig and Ken came to be standing outside Tim Taylor’s oak office door again. Craig contrasted it with the half-glass door he had; his seemed less imposing somehow. Taylor’s secretary was nowhere to be seen so Craig knocked on the oak and walked straight in. As he entered he saw why the P.A. hadn’t been sitting at her desk, she was sitting on Tim Taylor’s knee instead. The professor’s mouth said “how dare you?” but his eyes said that he’d been caught out.

He rose hurriedly, depositing the girl on his desk, and attempted to cover his embarrassment with stern words.

“That will be all, Rachael, and please ensure that meeting is organised properly next time.”

Craig couldn’t have cared less what Taylor did in his office, although he was sure Taylor’s wife would have a different idea. He waited until the red-faced girl left then he marched across to the desk followed by Ken and they both took a seat.

“What were you doing on the E.M.U. last night, Professor?”

Taylor’s flushed face looked puzzled, as if he’d expected Craig to make some reference to his indiscretion so that he could tell him a lie. Then they’d go through the niceties of ‘Good morning’ before the questioning would begin. But Craig liked his suspects off balance, so before Taylor could recover he asked him again.

“The E.M.U. Why were you there last night?”

“It’s…it’s my unit. I was…”

Both men watched as the academic searched for some significant reason why he’d been on the unit at seven p.m. and kept watching as he gave up and shrugged.

“I just thought I’d call in and see how everyone was.”

It was so lame that Craig’s heart sank. In his experience guilty people did one of two things. Either they said nothing, pleading their right to silence and yelling for some grubby solicitor to cover their ass, or they wouldn’t shut up. They would talk and talk about anything; blaming the weather or the world for their sad lives, or saying that they weren’t even there when their victim had been killed. They’d been in the supermarket or park, or watching a football match or movie somewhere far away. They would go into so much unrequested detail that eventually they’d make a mistake in their alibi and disappear down a big fat rabbit hole to jail. What guilty people didn’t do was give pathetic, mundane excuses like “I just thought I’d call in and see how everyone was.”

Taylor was telling the truth, no guilty person would give an alibi as pathetic as that. Craig decided to test his gut, checking what time Taylor had arrived and left. The professor had exited the unit and the building by five-past-seven.

“Didn’t you notice the police cars all over the place?”

Taylor nodded blankly. “So what? They’re always being called to the E.D.”

Craig decided to test something.

“Where is Dr Cooke today, Professor Taylor?”

Taylor’s face soured at the mention of his love rival. “Hanging his head in shame I should hope. Drug addict. He’ll be suspended and I hope they never let him practice again.”

Craig saw Ken’s eyes widen and he shook his head. Taylor caught the exchange. He leaned forward, setting his bony elbows on his desk.

“What was that look? What’s going on?”

Craig scrutinised Taylor’s face, wondering how long he could withhold the information about Cooke’s death and whether it was even useful to try. He decided it wasn’t and opted for watching Taylor’s reaction instead.

“Dr Cooke’s dead.”

As Craig watched, Tim Taylor’s expression morphed from shocked to pleased, then into the faux-sadness that he knew people would expect to see. It wasn’t a nice sequence but it was an honest one. Tim Taylor knew nothing about Adrian Cooke’s death.

When Taylor thought he’d pretended to be sad for long enough he spoke. “That’s dreadful. When did it happen?”

Craig kept his eyes firmly on the professor’s face, searching for ‘tells’ that would give him away.

“Last night. Between seven-ten and seven-thirty.”

“Where?”

As soon as he’d asked the question Taylor realised he already knew; that’s what the police cars had been about the night before. He answered himself, “St Mary’s” then he repeated the words, attaching a question mark. “St Mary’s?”

Taylor jumped to his feet and Ken jerked backwards as if he was going to be hit, but Craig could tell the difference between a jump that heralded a blow and one that came from shock. Taylor’s next words made Ken relax.

“On my E.M.U.? Are you saying Cooke was killed on my E.M.U. last night?”

Craig gave a quick nod and watched as Taylor’s face grew frantic.

“Why did nobody tell me? It’s my unit and no-one thought I should know about a second death! The university will shut down my research; we’ll lose all our grants!”

Craig watched Taylor go into a tailspin then he encouraged the frantic academic back into his chair with a gentle shove. His calm voice cut across Taylor’s rant.

“No-one told you because I instructed them not to. I wanted to see you myself. And I very much doubt that two unforeseeable murders will lose you your grants.”

Taylor was still raving. “You don’t know. Some of the money comes from drug companies and they hate bad publicity.”

As Craig listened to Taylor run through the importance of image and bad P.R. it occurred to him that he hadn’t asked how Adrian Cooke had died.

“Aren’t you interested in how and where Dr Cooke was found? He was a member of your team.”

Taylor spat back. “He was a liability, always late or stoned.” He halted suddenly, realising that he should pretend to be concerned – it went with his title. The question came grudgingly. “How did he die?”

“Post-mortem will tell us exactly, but he was found in the area outside the linen and clinical rooms.”

Taylor snorted derisively. “He was probably breaking into the drug cupboard looking for a fix.”

Craig shook his head disapprovingly; there was ‘no love lost’ between two people and then there was hatred. Cooke and Taylor’s relationship had definitely been the latter. Craig stood up, giving Ken his cue to do the same. There was nothing further to be learned from Tim Taylor today.

“We’ll send someone along to take your statement, and the E.M.U. could probably do with a visit to boost morale.”

Taylor nodded and was about to say something else. By the venomous look on his face it was more bile about Adrian Cooke. Craig held up a hand to stop him.

“A word to the wise, Professor. Even if you hate someone, if they’ve been murdered it’s better to keep that fact to yourself.”

Taylor’s face fell and Craig turned to leave, waiting until they were past his still-blushing P.A. and in the stairwell before he laughed. Ken joined in.

“Did you see his face when we walked in?”

Craig nodded. After a moment’s more laughter Ken spoke again.

“Do you really think he’s innocent, sir?”

“Unfortunately yes, but even if he is we’ll watch to see what happens next.”

***

Reilly Suite. 11.30 a.m.

Annette sighed heavily. “If I have to ask one more old lady where she was at ten-past-seven last night I’ll scream.”

Liam looked thoughtful and Annette thought she spied a joke coming. For once she was wrong.

“Imagine what it would be like to be old, Cutty. To know that the most excitement you’d ever have again would be whether to watch Corrie or Emmerdale.”

“That’s the most excitement I have now!”

He gave her a look that made her blush. She drained her coffee cup quickly and rose to leave, but Liam wasn’t letting such a perfect opportunity go to waste.

“You’ve had a spring in your step for weeks, girl. In fact…ever since we got back from the Doc’s wedding.” He waited until Annette’s hand was on the doorknob to deliver his coup de grâce. “Must be the ‘august’ company you’ve been keeping.”

Annette froze, uncertain of what to do. Keep walking and pretend that she hadn’t heard or swing round and deliver a devastating conversational blow. Liam saved her the decision, seeing the confusion on her face.

“Here now, I wasn’t trying to upset you. I like Mike Augustus, he’s a good bloke. And God knows you deserve a bit of fun.”

Annette turned, expecting to see a grin on Liam’s pale face but instead it wore a look of genuine concern. His voice softened.

“Just don’t get hurt, Cutty. I know Pete’s been a Class A bastard to you, but you’re still married to him. Some people can have affairs and shrug them off but others feel the toll.”

Annette’s acid retort dissolved on her tongue and she shook her head, knowing that he was right. Liam nodded her back to her seat and waited while she gathered her thoughts.

“Mike’s…he’s kind.”

Liam nodded. “Aye, he is that. I always liked the man.”

“And…I tried to make things work with Pete…for a year after...”

She gave Liam a look that begged him to understand and see that she wasn’t just some ‘faithless hussy’ as her mother would have said. As practically every Northern Irish forty-something’s mother would have said.

“Pete…when he had the affair he blamed the job…he said I was always working.” She shrugged. “He probably had a point. That’s why I agreed to try again, forgive and forget, but…”

Liam cut in. “But he didn’t appreciate that you had, did he?”

Annette shook her head. “I tried, honestly I did, but I started to hate him. I made excuses to stay out…and now the kids are almost grown…”

Liam smiled kindly. Annette had married at twenty-five, not long out of nursing school. Years of work and building a home had been followed by Jordan and Amy and then years more. She loved the police and worked her socks off. Pete McElroy should have been proud of her, not screwing around behind her back. His voice was gentle.

“What are you going to do, lass?”

She shook her head, close to tears. Liam filled the silence.

“Well, whatever you do have fun, because God knows you deserve it.” He stood up and she joined him. “Whoever you choose someone is going to get hurt; my best advice is this time just make sure that it isn’t you.”

***

The Lab. 12 p.m.

Craig and Ken pushed through the lab’s PVC doors heading for John Winter’s corner office. He wasn’t there, which only left the dissection room as a possibility after a fresh murder. Craig led the way into the white-walled, sealed floored room and found John leaning over a microscope at the side bench. The micro-pathology usually went off for analysis but he liked to play ‘guess the cell’ sometimes, just to keep his hand in.

John glanced up as they entered and both men noticed the red silk tie peeking above his buttoned-up white coat. Craig smiled, seeing Natalie’s influence at work. Now, if she could just sort out the old ’90s jeans John wore on his days off…

“Sorry we’re late.”

The pathologist greeted them cheerfully, no mean feat when there were two dead bodies lying on your slab.

“No problem. Nice to see you again, Ken. How’s life in the Murder Squad?”

Ken came back like lightening. “Usually dead.”

John grinned. “Excellent. You’ve got a comedian on your hands here, Marc.”

Craig glanced at Smith, vaguely surprised. He was usually so quiet. Craig wondered if Nicky had been right when she’d said he was only quiet because Carmen was around.

“Liam could do with a bit of competition.”

Craig waved at the larger of the two shrouded mounds on the tables, knowing that Adrian Cooke’s steroid enhanced body lay beneath the sheet.

“What have you got for us?”

John folded back the cover to show Cooke’s head and neck and pointed out the classic strangulation signs. “Same as Eleanor Rudd. Petechial haemorrhages in his eyes, fractured hyoid bone and the bruises of manual strangulation.”

Craig was about to ask a question when John lifted Cooke’s right hand and held it up.

“His nails are torn and there are abrasions on his knuckles. He fought back. I’m hoping Des has got something useful from the debris beneath his nails.”

Craig nodded thoughtfully. “Any other injuries?”

“Quite a few. He put up a hell of a fight.” He turned Cooke’s head to one side. “He had a blow here that would have stunned him at least and there are bruises on his trunk and the back of his knees.”

He uncovered the dead man’s legs and Craig peered closely. “I can’t see anything.”

“Wait.”

John lifted a lamp and turned off the overhead light, shining the lamp on the back of Cooke’s knee. A linear mark appeared.

“UV light. Specific frequencies show injuries the human eye can’t see. There’s a matching mark on the other side.”

Craig was impressed but puzzled. “The back of his knees? Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

John nodded. “Very. First time I’ve seen it. But…”

He covered Cooke’s body and moved to the second shrouded corpse, lifting the sheet gently to expose one of Eleanor Rudd’s legs. He pointed the lamp at the back of her thigh and a similar mark appeared.

Ken stared at it, confused. “What is it, Dr Winter?”

“A bruise; there’s one on her other thigh in the same position. When I saw Cooke’s I went back and checked. At first I thought they were from transit trauma, bringing her to the lab, then I realised both sets of marks are exactly 685 millimetres from the ground. Cooke was taller so they’re in a lower position on his legs.”

Craig opened his mouth and John shook his head. “Before you ask, I haven’t a clue what caused them. I’ve passed the images to Des, along with the marks on Cooke’s head and trunk, but your guess is as good as mine at this point. One last thing, Cooke had obvious signs of drug abuse – injected and snorted. Nothing similar on Rudd.”

He ushered them back to his office and five minutes later they were drinking coffee and formulating ideas. Craig kicked off.

“OK. So, we have two dead health professionals; a doctor and nurse from the same unit. We know Cooke was a drug user and they were probably both dealing, at least cocaine but maybe harder stuff as well. We have Eleanor Rudd’s Black Book; Cooke went back to retrieve it and whoever killed him left it behind.”

John interrupted. “Deliberately?”

Craig nodded. “We’ve no reason to think anything else. But if it was deliberate, then why? Did the killer just not want it, or did they want us to know what the deceased had been up to, and to follow up the people in the book?”

“Which rules out a rival dealer or junkie, but rules in someone wanting revenge.”

Craig nodded just as Ken cut in.

“Someone anti-drugs then. Are you thinking of an addict’s relative, sir?”

“Maybe. Or maybe a reformed addict, someone Rudd and Cooke dealt drugs to in the past who blamed them. Des is examining the book now.”

John shook his head. “Surely if it was an ex-junkie they’d have taken the book, in case their name came out?”

“Only if they’d kept their habit a secret, but I take your point. An ex-addict is less likely than an irate relative.”

John unbuttoned his white coat, revealing the full glory of his tie. It was snappy; Natalie obviously had better taste in clothes than she did in soft furnishings. He topped up everyone’s coffee then retook his seat.

“If one of the names in that book matches someone on the ward, then you’ve got your man.”

Craig made a face that said he wasn’t so sure. “Well A, are you positive that a man did this, John? And B…”

“In answer to the first part, yes, I’m certain it’s a man. With Eleanor Rudd it was just conceivable that a woman could have killed her, if she’d been strong enough. Rudd’s neck was narrow enough for a woman’s hands to circle. But with Cooke there’s no ambiguity. Adrian Cooke was very muscular with a thick neck; only a very strong man could have strangled him and the bruising clearly shows large hands this time.”

Craig cut in. “What about the blow to his head? If Cooke was knocked out he would have been easier to kill.”

“True, but we have no guarantee that the blow knocked him out completely, and even if it did the marks on his neck are unambiguous.” John stared into space, thinking. “It could have been a woman with huge hands, I suppose…” He pulled himself back to earth. “There’s something else as well. The marks on Eleanor Rudd’s throat were indistinct, indicating that the assailant possibly wore gloves but with Cooke they’re much more defined. I think they strangled him barehanded.”

Craig leaned forward excitedly. “The finger marks show that whoever killed Cooke didn’t wear gloves?”

“Yes. They’re much more distinct than on Rudd and I’m sure with new images we can match the size.”

Craig punched the air. “Brilliant!”

Ken stared at Craig, confused, while John merely waited for what came next. He’d been privy to Craig’s air-punching since they were twelve. Craig saw Ken’s blank look and explained.

“Cooke’s death was opportunistic, we already knew that. Unless someone had tailed him to the hospital, which Annette would have noticed, they couldn’t possibly have known that Cooke was going to the E.M.U. last night. So when the killer saw Cooke there he was surprised…”

Smith interrupted, ignoring rank in his excitement. Craig smiled; it was about time he realised he wasn’t in the army anymore.

“So they saw Cooke and seized their chance, but because they were rushing they got careless and didn’t use gloves.”

“Yes. But they still had the sense to kill him in the area of the unit that had no CCTV.”

“But there’s CCTV above both ward doors. Davy will find someone on that to fit the timing and we’ll have our perp.”

Craig was about to say yes but something made him hesitate. For some reason he didn’t think it was going to be as easy as that.

***

The C.C.U. 2.30 p.m.

Davy crossed the squad-room faster than Nicky had ever seen him move. He was about to knock on Craig’s door when she shook her head. He stared at her quizzically.

“Has the chief gone out again?”

She shook her head again and he nodded, understanding.

“He’s on the phone.”

On her third shake Davy rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“OK, I give up. W…Why can’t I knock?”

Nicky grinned. “You can knock. I never said you couldn’t. I was just testing your obedience level.” She turned away before he could say something rude and gestured at Craig’s door. “He’s not busy.”

Davy frowned. “You can be really annoying, Nicky.”

“And you’re just working that out now?”

He gave up, knowing he wouldn’t win and knocked on Craig’s door, entering on his “yes.”

Craig glanced up from the file he was reading, surprised to see the young analyst standing there. Davy had overcome most of his natural shyness inside the team, but even now he rarely approached him directly. Whatever he’d found must be important.

“What is it?”

“Adrian Cooke.”

“What about him?” Craig waved him to a seat.

“He was assaulted by a patient’s relative a few months ago.”

Craig leaned forward urgently. “Why? Did they have some problem with their treatment?”

“No. A fight just s…started out of the blue and the police were called. I’ve checked the report. The man lashed out at Cooke in the area between the w…wards.”

Craig’s eyes widened. “The area outside the linen room?”

Davy nodded eagerly. “It gets better. There was a w…witness, a junior nurse. She heard the man call Cooke ‘druggie scum’, then he punched Cooke and split his lip.”

Craig grinned. “Brilliant! Well done.”

To his surprise Davy shook his head. “Not so great in one w…way, but awesome in another.”

“Explain.”

“The assault case didn’t hold up because it was just the nurse’s word against the man’s.”

“But Cooke corroborated her account, didn’t he?”

“No. Cooke s…said he didn’t want a fuss and refused to proceed.”

Craig nodded slowly. It made sense; Cooke hadn’t wanted what had been said about drugs to be made public in court. “OK, so why is it awesome then?”

Davy grinned. “Two reasons. The s…same man, Ian Jacobs, was on the ward last night, visiting the same patient, his mum, again. S…She was readmitted.”

It gave Jacobs the opportunity to kill Cooke. It sounded as if he already had the motive.

“Good and…”

“In the original case report it says there was no CCTV in the area to back up the nurse’s account, so Jacobs knew there was no CCTV there.”

Craig gave a low whistle. They had a man with an obvious grievance against Adrian Cooke who had opportunity and knowledge of the lack of CCTV. And if drug-dealing was relevant to Jacobs, Eleanor Rudd might have been targeted by him as well.

“Tell me about Jacobs.”

Davy smiled, pleased that Craig knew he’d already have checked-out Jacobs before bringing him the lead.

“His name is Ian Peter Jacobs. His mother, June, is an eighty-year-old asthmatic who gets regular chest infections that end her up on Newman W…Ward. Jacobs is a car mechanic; w…works for one of the big dealers on Boucher Road, and apart from the incident with Cooke he’s never been in trouble with the law. But here’s the important bit. His son Evan died from a bad dose of ecstasy not long ago. You know; the ‘Rolex’ version that was killing lots of kids.”

Craig nodded sadly. There’d been a spate of deaths from green and speckled ecstasy tablets stamped with crowns; they’d contained toxic levels of PMA. He stared at Davy, already knowing the answer to his next question.

“Is the boy’s name in Rudd’s Black Book?”

Davy nodded. “Yes. I called Des to check. He says the notebook uses a code s…system. ‘C’ for cocaine, ‘H’ for Heroin...”

Eleanor Rudd had been dealing the hard stuff.

“‘M’ for crystal meth…”

“And the boy had an ‘E’ beside his name.”

Davy nodded again. “I checked the death records. One day after Evan Jacobs bought the ‘E’ from Eleanor Rudd he died. The dad could have put two and two together…”

“And blamed Rudd.” Craig thought for a moment. “But how did he know Cooke was involved?”

Davy shrugged. “Kids talk. Maybe the boy dealt with Cooke directly at some point. Or maybe…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Maybe Eleanor Rudd had given Adrian Cooke’s name to her clients as insurance against Cooke turning on her. Craig thought for a moment. Ian Jacobs had had motive, opportunity, knowledge of the lack of CCTV, and if he’d seen Cooke unexpectedly on the ward that night, he might have had an impulse that made him careless enough not to put on gloves. They had to lift him.

They headed out onto the main floor. Everyone was there except Carmen and Jake so they might as well hold the briefing now. Craig had a feeling they were going to have a busy night.

“OK, everyone. This will be quick. I’ll kick off, then Davy, then Liam and anyone else. As you’ll all know by now, Annette tailed Dr Cooke from his apartment to the E.M.U. last night. He was only in the hospital for twenty minutes during which time he was killed.”

Annette interjected. “I was waiting for him to come back to his car.”

Liam snorted. “That’ll be clamped by now. St Mary’s wardens are shocking.”

Craig smiled at Liam’s talent for making death sound inconvenient.

“While Dr Cooke was on the unit he called into both the acute and long-stay wards to say hello. He also retrieved Eleanor Rudd’s Black Book from somewhere.”

Liam nodded wisely. “Probably some secret drop they had.”

It was Annette’s turn to snort. “Thank you, Kim Philby.”

“Wherever Cooke lifted the book from it didn’t do him much good. Des is looking at it now and Davy will tell us more about that in a minute. The important thing is that Cooke’s visit to the ward was completely unexpected so the killing was opportunistic, possibly by a visitor but it could also have been by a member of staff or a patient who saw Cooke on the unit last night.”

Liam guffawed. “Have you seen the patients, boss? Most of them couldn’t strangle a fly.”

Ken interjected. “How do you strangle a fly? That doesn’t even make sense.”

Craig ignored them and carried on. “That’s why Liam and Annette have spent the morning re-interviewing. Did you find out anything?”

Liam shook his head. “We got a list of everyone on the ward last night and gave it to Davy. But no-one saw anything, as usual.”

“OK. There’s no CCTV in the linen room area as we know, but Davy and Des are pulling the other cameras on the unit. The fact that Rudd’s Black Book was left behind pretty much rules out a rival dealer; they would have taken it for the names. Or an addict; they would have taken the book to cover their own habit, or to sell it on. So that leaves us with an addict’s relative or someone who hates drug-dealers on principal.”

Liam interjected. “Worst case scenario we have a motive that has nothing to do with drugs at all and we have to go back to the start.”

Craig made a face but he knew that Liam could be right. He turned to Ken. “Ken, could you cover our meeting with John, please, then I’ll report on Prof Taylor.”

Ken recounted the marks on Adrian Cooke’s body. “The marks on his knees and the others on his torso and head haven’t been identified yet, and Dr Marsham is checking out his body for possible prints as the killer didn’t wear gloves this time.”

Liam shot Craig a questioning look and Craig shook his head.

“No idea what the marks are. Maybe Cooke knocked his legs against something hard. John said he found similar marks on Eleanor Rudd’s thighs.”

“It wasn’t the linen trolley. Too high. I’ll go back and take a look around.”

Craig nodded. “Thanks. OK. We also went to see Prof Taylor again. We walked in on him just as his secretary was sitting on his knee. Not the most faithful of husbands.” Liam went to say something rude and Craig shook his head. “Save it for the locker room. Taylor admitted to being on the unit last night but said he didn’t see Cooke and was leaving the hospital just as the police arrived. Davy, check that out on the CCTV, please. Taylor seemed shocked about Cooke and I think he may be telling the truth, but we’ll double check just to be sure. There was definitely no love lost between them.”

“Any chance that the Prof killed Cooke because he was in on the drug dealing, sir?”

Craig shook his head. “It’s unlikely, Annette. Taylor was pretty scathing about Cooke’s drug habit and a partner would have taken the book in case it incriminated them.” He turned back to Liam. “Anything useful on the E.M.U. today?”

“Just a lot of shock about Cooke’s murder. He was pretty well liked. But like I said, no-one saw anything.”

“OK. Thanks. Leave the E.M.U. for now; I want you and Annette to interview someone for me.”

Liam leaned forward expectantly. “Who?”

“Davy’s just going to tell you.”

Davy repeated what he’d told Craig about Ian Jacobs and Liam whistled.

“Bloody hell, lad. You’d make a great cop.”

“If it didn’t mean cutting my hair, I might.”

Liam glanced at Craig. “So we’re bringing him in for questioning?”

“Arrest him if he doesn’t come quietly. We have sufficient grounds. But I want him questioned properly, Liam. No trying to make him fit the bill, please.”

Craig stared at Annette meaningfully; she would keep Liam’s bully-boy tactics in line. He nodded Davy on.

“There’re some things that I’m s…still waiting for. I’m comparing the list of people around at the time of Rudd’s murder with the ones there last night. I’m mapping the movements of everyone in and out of the w…wards from the CCTV. Then we have Rudd and Cooke’s phone dumps, the Black Book and all Des’ forensics s…still to clear.” The look on his face said that he’d just realised how much there still was to do.

Craig smiled kindly. “Don’t worry. Carmen will be back tomorrow and so will Jake. They can give you a hand. Ken and I will drop back to the lab to see Des and see what we can do to speed him up.”

Annette smiled, knowing that Craig was doing his best to keep Carmen and Ken apart until Carmen calmed down. Davy suddenly thought of something. He turned to Annette.

“W…What happened to the three names on that list I gave you?”

Annette shook her head. “They all said they were at the library or shop and they had proof.”

“But they headed back to the E.M.U. in time for Rudd’s murder.”

Annette nodded. “The problem is we can’t pin down their movements inside the unit because of the broken cameras and blind spot. But don’t worry; we’re treating the whole unit as suspects now.”

Craig leapt to his feet, glancing at his watch.

“OK. It’s almost four o’clock. Annette, go home, you were working late last night. Liam and I will lift Jacobs and book him into High Street. He can stew overnight then you and Liam can see him first thing in the morning. Ken, if you could help Davy for the next hour or so, that would be great.”

He headed for the lift and then realised Liam wasn’t with him. He popped his head back through the doors to see him chatting to Nicky then gave a piercing whistle that made everyone turn and Liam take the hint.

Chapter Nine

High Street Station. Tuesday, 6 p.m

By six o’clock Ian Jacobs was in custody, looking shocked. Craig couldn’t work out if his shock was at being in a police station, because he’d been caught at all or... As he watched Jack Harris lead the forty-year-old mechanic to be printed, he frowned. Liam saw the look and rolled his eyes.

“Now what?”

Craig shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. Just…”

“God, boss, I don’t know what would make you happy. Jacobs came quietly, coughed to being on the ward last night and to seeing Cooke.”

“But not to the murders. And he didn’t make us arrest him.”

Liam shook his head. “Give me strength… It’s just bravado! You’ve seen it a thousand times before. Jacobs thinks he’s a master criminal and that we’re all thick. You know the approach; smile and cooperate enough with the dumb cops and they’ll just have a nice chat and let you go.”

Craig’s head shaking became more pronounced. “Jacobs doesn’t feel like a guilty man, and before you go rationalising it, you know exactly what I mean.”

Liam said nothing for a moment then he shrugged. “We’ll see. Annette and I will give him the third degree and let you know.”

They lapsed into silence as Craig peered through the reception door, watching Ian Jacobs offer up his prints in an almost obscenely eager way. Either Jacobs was very clever and had worn gloves, so he knew that any prints they found would rule him out, or he was innocent and keen to prove it. The more Craig watched the more convinced he became it was the latter.

His thoughts returned to Adrian Cooke’s death. Only a visitor, patient or one of the staff on the unit that evening could have killed him, but no-one had seen anything. Tim Taylor would be ruled out or in by CCTV and his money said out, so who did that leave who’d hated Adrian Cooke enough to kill him, and who was capable of manually strangling an uber-fit young man? No woman could have strangled Cooke, which left male staff, male patients or a male relative of someone on the wards. Craig was just making a note to check with Davy when something shifted in the back of his mind, as if it was waving for attention but he couldn’t see it in the dark.

Liam said something and he jumped.

“I missed that, sorry.”

“I said, what do we do if the prints rule Jacobs out? He could have worn gloves.”

“Only if he carried them around with him all the time; he wouldn’t have expected to see Cooke there last night.”

“There were boxes of gloves everywhere.”

“He’d have had to go looking for one.”

“OK. Say he carried gloves around with him, then what?”

“Then we pray that Des finds some other trace evidence that makes Ian Jacobs indisputably our man.”

***

The Lab. Wednesday, 9 a.m.

After a cursory coffee with John when he confirmed that Adrian Cooke had been high when he’d died, Craig and Ken took the lift up to Des Marsham’s world. As the doors opened they saw him approach; his opening words made Craig’s heart sink even though he’d half-expected them.

“There were prints on Cooke but they don’t match your man Jacobs. Sorry.”

As Des turned on his heel Ken pressed the button again for the ground floor. When Craig followed the scientist the army man looked confused.

“But he said he had nothing.”

“No he didn’t. He only said that the prints didn’t match. He wants us to follow him.”

He strode off with Ken trailing in his wake. By the time they reached Des’ office he was sitting smiling at his desk. Craig got to the point quickly.

“Show me what you’ve got, Des.”

“Sheesh. So much for small talk.”

He waved the two men to a seat and slid a lab report across the desk. Craig glanced at it and then passed it on to Ken.

“Wool?”

Des nodded, dislodging some crumbs from his beard. Craig wondered if he’d just dropped them or if something inside his beard was having a snack.

“Dark green wool. Pure wool, mind you, not a mix.”

“And oil.”

“Engine oil to be precise. There was a patch on Dr Cooke’s throat.”

Oil. Craig thought for a moment; Ian Jacobs was a mechanic. When they’d lifted him he’d been wearing a navy sweatshirt and jeans, nothing green, but then it was a day after Cooke’s death.

“No prints?”

“Like I said. None that match your man.”

Craig’s eyebrow rose in curiosity while Ken stared at the report as if it would yield a name. “What does this mean, sir? Is Ian Jacobs our man?”

Craig shook his head but not with a no. “If I’m correct, Dr Marsham is about to tell us exactly what it means. Des?”

Des smiled, his teeth barely visible through his greying beard.

“I found two prints but neither matches Ian Jacobs. One was on Cooke’s lapel badge and one on his watch; it has a metal strap. You’ll need to print everyone who was on the unit to eliminate them. You’ll also need to search Jacobs’ house for something made of dark green wool.” He turned to Craig. “And I need a sample of every oil in the garage where he works.”

Craig was more confused than he’d been the night before. They’d lifted Jacobs although he hadn’t been convinced he’d killed Cooke, but now Des had found engine oil on Cooke’s throat. Jacobs was a car mechanic and Cooke had been manually strangled; the oil was almost a smoking gun. Ken found his voice.

“But that’s around seventy people to print, sir, what with all the patients, relatives and staff. It’ll take us days.”

“Get Joe Rice and Jack Harris to lend you some men. It’ll go much faster.”

Craig stood up. Des looked disappointed.

“Off already, Marc? Don’t you want some tea?”

“Sorry, no. I’ve a search warrant to organise.”

***

High Street Station. 10 a.m.

Liam set down the phone and punched the air gleefully. “That’ll teach Jacobs to smile at me last night.”

Annette glanced up from the newspaper she was scanning. They were in the staff-room readying to interview Ian Jacobs and she was recovering from a late night before. Not work this time but something much more pleasant.

“Can’t you be a bit quieter? I have a headache.”

Liam squinted across the table recognising the signs of dissolution – he’d seen them in the mirror many times.

“Have you been a dirty stop-out then?”

Annette tried for indignation but ended up looking astonished instead. It was an overreaction to such a benign question and they both knew it was being amplified by guilt.

“My social life is my business.”

Liam shook his head and smiled, torn between his pleasure at seeing her less buttoned-up and his certainty that he would soon be witnessing a marital road-crash. He shrugged. Whatever or whoever Annette was doing, she looked good on it. She was slimmer than he’d ever seen her and with her newly long hair and sleek suits she’d shed ten years. He could even fancy her himself if wouldn’t feel like incest.

In the time it took the thoughts to run through his head Annette’s interest in the case had returned.

“Who was that on the phone and what were you smiling about?”

“The boss and never you mind.”

“It’s my interview as well.”

Liam realised she was referring to his smile as he’d spoken to Craig. “Oh, aye, that. The boss is getting a warrant for Jacobs’ place and we’re to charge him.”

A surprised look crossed Annette’s face. “On what grounds?”

“Des found a smear of engine oil on Cooke’s throat. Jacobs is a mechanic. So ipso facto and Bob’s your mother’s brother!”

Annette screwed up her face.

“What’s that look for?”

“Jacobs doesn’t feel right for this.”

Liam guffawed. “That’s what the boss said last night. Anyway, how would you know, you haven’t even met him yet.”

Annette was adamant. “Think about it. He’s too obvious. A bereaved father suddenly sees the drug-dealer who supplied his son with the drugs that killed him and decides to strangle him then and there on the ward, and no-one sees or hears anything?” She shook her head. “No way. Where’s the passion? Jacobs would never have strangled Cooke without angry words.”

Liam went to object and then he thought about what she’d said, picturing what he would have done in Ian Jacobs’ place. If it had been one of his kids killed with drugs and he’d seen Cooke unexpectedly, he’d have swung for him. There’d have been one hell of a fight and he might have strangled Cooke during that, but he wouldn’t have waited coolly until Cooke entered the blind spot on the ward and strangled him without saying a word. Annette was right.

Suddenly he remembered something and shook his head triumphantly.

“The Doc said there were signs of a fight on Cooke. He had abrasions all over his hands and stuff beneath his nails. And he had bruises all over the place.”

“No! Ian Jacobs didn’t kill Cooke.” Annette’s denial was so loud that it made her wince and hold her head.

Liam pursed his lips as if he was teetotal. “The devil’s milk giving you a headache, Inspector? Tut tut.” He leaned forward, his interest in their debate growing. “So why couldn’t Jacobs have killed Cooke? They fought, Cooke was strangled and there was oil on his neck. What more do you want?”

“I want yelling that someone overheard and…” Annette’s voice tailed off just as her face lit up. “And I want some signs on Jacobs’ hands that he was involved in a fight.”

With that she was out the door and at the custody desk, reaching eagerly for Jack Harris’ book. Jack lifted the book swiftly above her head.

“That’s station property. No-one touches it but me.”

“Sorry, Jack. Can you check something for me? Please.”

Her tone was so wheedling that Liam would have laughed if he hadn’t been so interested in what she was looking for. Jack was puzzled, not to mention shocked by how glamorous Annette was looking these days. He acquiesced grudgingly.

“What is it?”

“Last night, when Ian Jacobs was brought in, he would have been inspected for injuries before he was put in a cell. Yes?”

Jack stared over his glasses at her. “You know he would. In case he injured himself in custody and accused us. So?”

“Did he have any injuries anywhere, especially on his hands?”

As Jack turned his gaze to the book and leafed slowly through the pages as Annette held her breath, willing him to say no. He was less obliging than she’d hoped.

“Now then…” The sergeant scanned the page in front of him and then turned back to the previous one, prolonging her agony. “Ah, yes, here he is. Ian Jacobs. Prisoner fit and well. Distinguishing marks: small tattoo of Manchester United’s crest on his right upper back…”

Jack ran through Jacobs many tattoos deliberately slowly, winking at Liam to show that he was winding Annette up. She bit her tongue and waited until he reached Jacobs’ hands.

“Left forearm, old scar across back of arm, prisoner says it was a work accident three years ago. Right hand, multiple fresh cuts, left hand, bruising on the back of the hand and knuckles…”

Annette’s heart dropped. Ian Jacobs had cuts all over his hands, they might have come from work but distinguishing them from the marks of a recent fight was a task for Des and John. There wasn’t going to be a quick way of ruling him out. She shrugged in defeat.

“Has Dr Winter seen Jacobs, Jack? I think he’ll want to see his hands. You’d better bag them.”

Over forty hours had elapsed since Adrian Cooke had died and it was likely that any evidence under Ian Jacobs’ nails would have been lost, but they had to try. Jack shook his head.

“He’s not been charged.”

Liam nodded. “He has now.”

***

Two hours later Ian Jacobs’ hands had been examined and samples taken. John shook his head.

“It’s hard to say until we get the results, but my feeling is he’s not your man, Liam. The cuts and bruises on his hands don’t match.”

“How so? He has recent cuts and bruises and there was oil on Cooke’s neck.”

John shook his head again. “The cuts are recent but the bruises are two to five days old and they’re on the wrong hand for a fight. Jacobs is right handed and they’re on his left.”

Liam punched the air in front of them in a one-two motion using both hands. “He led with the right and followed through with the left. It’s a common move.”

“Common or not, Mike Tyson, the bruises’ positions still don’t fit.” John raised a hand to stop Liam’s next objection. “And no, I can’t explain the oil smudge yet, we’ll have to…”

He stopped mid-sentence and stared at Annette. A few seconds later they said the same words.

“He was checking his pulse!”

Liam stared at them, confused, so Annette explained quickly.

“Let’s say Jacobs’ cuts and bruises come from work; he works with heavy cars all day, there are bound to be a few bumps and scrapes. So, his mum’s taken into hospital as an emergency and in his rush to see her he doesn’t clean all the oil off his hands...”

John cut in eagerly. “He sees Adrian Cooke unexpectedly on the E.M.U. that night and goes to look for him, probably to have things out about his son. Jacobs finds Cooke all right, but he’s already dead, lying in the blind spot between the two wards. Jacobs reaches down to feel for a carotid pulse…”

“Hence the oil on Cooke’s neck, but no prints that match Jacobs anywhere else. If Jacobs had fought and killed Cooke barehanded his prints would be everywhere on him, and if he’d worn gloves to do it he wouldn’t have got the oil on Cooke’s neck.”

John and Annette exchanged a glance then nodded triumphantly. Liam was less impressed.

“This is all just speculation. We need to check the samples from Jacobs’ hands and he hasn’t even been interviewed yet.” He grinned suddenly. “I tell you what. Missy and I are going to interview him now. How about a wager on what he says?”

John extended his hand to shake. “You’re on.”

Annette smacked Liam’s arm. “Missy! When did I become Missy?”

“OK, Inspector Missy then. Are you in or out?”

She scowled for a moment then reached into her bag and pulled out a five pound note. “In. Can you stay and watch the interview, Dr Winter? Just in case Liam cheats.”

John smiled. Liam would fix any bet, given half a chance, but even he wouldn’t do it to land a man in jail.

“I’ll stay because I believe Jacobs is innocent and because I want to see Marc’s face when he arrives and finds out.”

***

Ian Jacobs lived in a typical suburban semi with his wife Melanie and two dogs. There were toys everywhere, the sort that could only belong to a very small child. A glance at the Jacobs’ family tree gave Craig the answer. Their surviving child, Gemma, was the mother of a three-year-old boy and she was living at the Hotel of Mum and Dad.

All in all it was an ordinary family home, its level of tidiness around the same as Craig’s own flat. It didn’t look like it housed a murderer, but then murderers were only glamorous and exciting on TV. In real life murder was a humdrum business, carried out by ordinary people with grubby hearts and minds.

Still, as Craig signalled the uniformed officers to start the search he already knew what he expected to find; nothing. Adrian Cooke may have had oil on his neck and it might well match oil from the garage where Ian Jacobs worked, but it would also match a thousand other garages. Even if they tied it to Jacobs and found a green wool jumper that still didn’t mean he was their man.

Craig scanned the living room he was standing in as he thought. One oil smudge on a neck that Jacobs had supposedly wrung barehanded? No, he really couldn’t see it. If Jacobs had strangled Cooke in a hurry without wearing gloves, Cooke’s neck would have been covered with oil, not one small smudge. He watched the search for a minute longer then he beckoned the lead sergeant across.

“Don’t waste too much time on this, John. I have a hunch that he’s not our man.”

John Daly nodded then turned back to his work, Craig’s words already forgotten. Nice and all as it was of the Super to try to spare them the effort, his men would be searching the Jacobs’ house until there was nothing left to find.

***

High Street Station. 2 p.m.

Ian Jacobs squinted as he was led into the bright interview room. Jack pointed him to a chair beside his solicitor, set across from Liam and Annette, then he went into the viewing room to join John Winter in his ringside seat. The desk sergeant smiled at John’s excitement; he didn’t watch interrogations every week like he did. If he did he would soon tire of the endless lies and obfuscations, the stalling tactics of tea and toilet breaks and the oily solicitors paid thirty pieces of silver to get their murdering clients off.

He nodded at John in the near darkness. “Seen one of these before then?”

John shook his head and stared straight ahead through the glass. He corrected his shake so that it became a half nod. “Well… once, but it was very short. Just a ‘did you do it? No comment, ten minute thing.’”

Jack sniffed. “Not sure this’ll be much longer.” He gestured through the glass. “Although that’s Ronald Lewiston he’s drawn as his brief.”

“And?”

“And he’s one of the highest paid solicitors in Belfast, slumming it for the day.”

John gave him a puzzled look. “Why is he? Slumming it, I mean.”

“To keep his hand in. Word is his practice is going to concentrate on criminal law, so they’ve been told to do some pro bono hours on the shop floor.”

Jack laughed, quietly so that Annette and Liam wouldn’t be disturbed. They were in the silent, pre-questioning phase, where their body language was designed to unsettle the perp. Annette was lining up a pile of paper topped by the charge sheet parallel with the table’s edge, and Liam was sitting hands clasped and bolt upright, staring unblinkingly at their man. Jack continued.

“Lewiston is bucking for partner so he’s eager to be seen and make himself felt.” He smiled knowingly. “I bet he’ll do his Clarence Darrow speech.”

John dragged his eyes away from Liam. “What?”

“You know, the one with ‘I insist that there is nothing but prejudice in this case’. You wait and see, if he can wriggle it in he’ll do it, mark my words.”

John was about to say something when Jack put a finger on his lips. “Ssshhh. Liam’s about to start.”

All that was missing was the conductor and they could have been in a concert hall. Liam drew himself up to his full height and switched on the tape.

“It’s Wednesday, the 15th of October at 2 p.m. We are in High Street Station. Present are D.C.I. Liam Cullen…”

Annette spoke next. “D.I. Annette McElroy.”

The solicitor turned to his pale client and nodded him on to say his name. Ian Jacobs was so white that Annette thought he was going to faint. It meant nothing; innocence or guilt, she’d seen the pallor on both. Jacobs’ deep voice whispered weakly. “Ian Jacobs” It was followed by a booming “and Ronald Lewiston, solicitor. Partner at Cherry and Moss.”

Liam smiled at the name, certain there was a joke there somewhere. Once the formal introductions were over he poured Jacobs some water from a jug. John thought it was like some bizarre cocktail party where Liam was the host. Any minute now, someone would start chatting about the weather. Liam started talking but it wasn’t about the rain.

“Do you understand the charges against you, Mr Jacobs?”

Ian Jacobs nodded mutely and Liam asked him to say it aloud for the tape.

“Yes.”

The word sounded faint and tired and more than a little shocked, as if Jacobs couldn’t quite believe that he was there. Annette imagined that he couldn’t. He’d gone to St Mary’s to see his sick mother and ended up on a murder charge. Hardly an average day.

Liam’s next question was unusual; not only for what he asked but because of how he asked it. He leaned across the desk till he was eye-to-eye with his prey and then he smiled, asking in an almost friendly way.

“You didn’t do it, did you?”

Annette’s jaw dropped in shock. She didn’t believe the man in front of them had committed murder but they had to go through the motions at least. Ask the questions seriously and expect to get lied to at least once; it was the way things were done. Liam was breaking tradition by shortcutting his way to the end. Ronald Lewiston looked even more surprised. His mouth opened as if he was readying to expound, then he realised that Liam had just let his client off and he closed it again.

Jack tutted behind the glass. “Damn. I thought Lewiston was about to give us some Darrow there.”

Annette’s shock with Liam had turned to a glare and she nudged his knee beneath the desk. When he ignored her she started to ask the questions herself, but even she could hear that she was half-hearted in her interrogation. The more she looked at Ian Jacobs the less she thought that he’d killed Adrian Cooke, but they still needed the questions asked and answered for the tape.

After ten minutes of Annette asking things formally, gathering background, timings, feelings and Jacobs’ lack of alibi, she stopped. Yes, Ian Jacobs had been on the ward that night. Yes, he’d seen Adrian Cooke and gone to have things out with him; the man had given his son drugs after all. Maybe not the precise tablet that had killed him, but Cooke was drug-dealing scum and if he hadn’t killed Evan then it was purely by chance. He’d be happy to give them chapter and verse on Dr Cooke, happier still if it led to other dealers being locked up.

“But I didn’t kill him, honestly I didn’t. When I caught up with him he was already lying on the ground.”

“Where?”

“Between the wards.” Jacobs’ voice dropped. “He was just lying there. There was no blood. Just… just his eyes were open…staring.”

“What happened then, Mr Jacobs?” Annette asked the question already knowing what the answer would be.

Ian Jacobs leaned forward, a cold sweat covering his face. “I knew he was dead but I reached down to check his pulse anyway. At his neck.”

It was exactly what she and John had thought. As Jacobs said it Craig joined John and Jack in the viewing room and took a seat.

“How did you know to do that?”

“I’m a first-aider at work. We have to be trained. There are accidents in the garage sometimes.”

“All right. But why didn’t you call someone?”

“Because Cooke was dead and I knew exactly what they’d think – that I killed him.”

“Did you see or hear anything when you found Dr Cooke? Even the smallest thing might help us.”

Craig left the room and wandered into the car park for some fresh air. Annette would wrap things up and then Jack would take Jacobs back to his cell under the smug gaze of his brief.

He shrugged in the cold October afternoon. He was glad that Ian Jacobs hadn’t done it; a family that had already lost a child didn’t need the grief of a criminal trial. Des would confirm that the dirt under Jacobs’ nails was just grime from work and they would release him pending further enquiries. He was pleased for Ian Jacobs but it left them back at square one, with no suspects for either Rudd’s or Cooke’s deaths.

Craig re-entered the viewing room just in time to see Jacobs heading back to his cell. He was just about to press the intercom to suggest that they met in the staff-room when Annette lifted her papers and whacked Liam over the head. Her hardest thump couldn’t make a dent in Liam’s skull but Craig intervened all the same. His voice echoed round the interview room like a celestial parent’s.

“Stop arguing and meet me in the staff-room, now!”

When they entered the untidy staff-room Craig kept the two detectives on their feet while John made the tea. His tone said he was unamused.

“What was that about?”

Annette pointed at Liam indignantly. “He practically told Jacobs that we didn’t think he’d done it!”

Craig glared at Liam. “First, is that true? And second, exactly what did you say?”

Liam glanced at Annette with a smugness that said ‘when the boss hears, he’ll agree with me’.

“I said ‘you didn’t do it, did you?’”

Craig didn’t agree with him, in fact he was furious. “You may not have believed him guilty, Liam, but he had to be questioned properly anyway. Now we’ll have to do it again or the Crown Prosecutors will have our jobs.”

Annette interrupted, shaking her head. “It’s OK, sir. I took over and asked everything formally. It’s all on the tape.”

Craig glanced at John for confirmation. He nodded and dropped a teabag in the pot. “Annette nudged him to shut up and ran everything by the book. Jacobs volunteered that he’d seen Cooke and gone to find him, but that Cooke was already dead when he did. He checked his carotid pulse; the oil smudge matches the position. Des will confirm it but the debris under Jacobs’ finger nails will probably just be oil and dirt.”

Craig wasn’t appeased. He glared at Liam. “Nevertheless, Chief Inspector Cullen, your behaviour could…”

He stopped abruptly mid-rant, feeling like a hypocrite. He’d done practically the same thing at Jacobs’ house. He’d told John Daly not to waste too much time on the search because his gut had said Ian Jacobs wasn’t their man. John would have ignored him, just as Annette had done with Liam, but it told Craig something. Experience could make you cocky and careless. Both he and Liam needed a refresher course.

Liam stared phlegmatically at Craig, awaiting the rest of his tirade, when it didn’t come he smiled, knowing that Craig had done something naughty himself. As John set out the mugs Craig confessed what it was and then followed it up with words he knew Liam wouldn’t want to hear.

“You and I are going on a refresher course, Liam.”

Liam’s howls of protest filled the room. Craig let him rant for a moment and then waved him down.

“Experience and gut instinct are all very well, but they made both of us cocky and impatient today. If it wasn’t for Annette and John Daly we’d be in trouble now.”

John nodded. “We have to be revalidated every five years. Stops people getting sloppy and keeps you up to date with new techniques.” He sipped his tea and gave Liam a sly glance. “You’ll enjoy it, Liam. It’ll smooth off some of the rough edges.”

It was Annette’s turn to laugh. “If you smoothed off his rough edges there’d be nothing left.” She turned to the disgruntled looking giant by her side with a curious look. “What made you say it anyway? You went in there betting against Jacobs’ innocence.”

Liam shrugged. “I took one look at him and I just knew. He looked far too worried to have been guilty.”

“Well, you still owe Dr Winter and me five pounds each. That’ll teach you to think the worst of people.”

As Liam paid up Craig and John glanced at each other, thinking the same thing. If Jacobs was innocent and Tim Taylor’s alibi panned out they were back at zero with two murders to solve.

Chapter Ten

The C.C.U. 4 p.m.

Craig was in his office with the door open when the others arrived. As Liam strolled past he beckoned him in.

“Listen to this.”

He indicated a tape machine on his desk. It was playing Jacobs’ interview from a few hours earlier and for a moment Liam thought Craig was going to rant at him again. Craig stopped the tape halfway through.

“What do you make of that?”

Liam screwed up his face. “What?”

Craig sighed and waved him to a seat then he rewound the tape and played the segment again. Ian Jacobs’ voice came through, his nerves audible.

“I followed Cooke.”

Annette spoke next. “With what intention?”

“I don’t know…to tell him what he was, I suppose. Filthy drug-dealing scum.”

“Anything else?”

“I suppose…” Jacobs whispered something to his brief then carried on. “I wanted to hit him. Hurt him like he’d hurt us.”

Annette’s follow-up was smooth. “And did you? Hurt him I mean.”

Craig gestured at the tape. “That’s how it should be done.”

Liam made a face and kept listening. Jacobs spoke again, more energetically this time.

“No. I didn’t, honestly I didn’t. When I caught up with him he was lying on the ground.”

“Where?”

“Between the wards.” Jacobs’ voice dropped. “He was just lying there. There was no blood. Just…just his eyes were open…staring.”

“What happened then, Mr Jacobs?”

“I knew he was dead but I reached down to check his pulse anyway. At his neck.”

“How did you know to do that?”

“I’m a first-aider at work. We have to be trained. There are accidents in the garage sometimes.”

“All right. But why didn’t you call someone?”

“Because Cooke was dead and I knew exactly what they’d think; that I killed him.”

“Did you see or hear anything when you found Dr Cooke? Even the smallest thing might help us.”

That was the point Craig had left the viewing room. There was silence on the tape for a moment and Craig pictured Jacobs trying to recall the events of a fraught five minutes in an already fraught day. To his surprise he did.

“I smelled something strange…like mint. It was probably just disinfectant. Maybe the wards use that sort?”

Craig made a note to check. Jacobs was still talking.

“And…”

Annette voice was encouraging. “Yes?”

“You’ll think I’ve lost it.”

“No, I won’t. Anything you noticed, however small, Mr Jacobs. Please.”

Annette had flipped from interrogator to confidant, making Jacobs believe he could help and bringing him to the angels’ side. Well done, Annette.

“Well…I could have sworn that I heard squeaking.”

“Like an animal, a mouse? Or a small child?”

“No. Like rubber, like rubber squeaking against the plastic floor. Like when you have shoes that squeak, but not quite like that.” Jacobs sighed heavily. “This probably sounds like rubbish.”

Annette said “No, it doesn’t.”

Craig switched off the tape and turned to Liam. “Jacobs couldn’t remember any more than that. But it gives us something to go on.”

Liam stared at him sceptically. “What? That our killer chewed gum and wore squeaky shoes! He sounds like a Raymond Chandler character.”

Craig smiled at the image; it fitted plenty of detectives on the force. “Des can help with scents and sounds; set up a session for Jacobs with him. In the meantime, how’re you doing printing the people on the unit?”

Liam dragged a hand down his face in tiredness. “It’s slow. Some people are objecting so we’re going the warrant route. It’ll be tomorrow before we’re done. Then however long it takes for Davy to run them and Des to match them with the two he found on Cooke.”

Craig nodded. They were still in the legwork part of the case, but then when were they ever not?

“OK, keep everyone on that. I’ll speak to Des about the other things.”

Suddenly Liam rose and strode to Craig’s door. He checked that no-one was eavesdropping then he retook his seat.

“What’s the story with Carmen and Jake?”

Craig realised that he’d only told Annette.

“Sorry, I should have updated you. Jake’s grandfather’s very ill and he’s helping his grandmother with his care. He’s only got months to live and Jake’s pretty cut up about it.”

Liam nodded. “So he’s working flexitime. Helping to get the old boy sorted and fitting in everything else in-between.”

Craig nodded, puzzled how Liam had got it so quickly. Liam saw his question.

“It’s what I did when my granny was ill. The force was good about it, right enough. Must have pissed off my mates though, they were carrying my work load for months.”

“Everybody dies and everyone needs help.” Craig thought for a moment and then frowned. “Carmen’s a different kettle of fish. I’ve sent her to the psychologist. Her behaviour towards the men in the squad is unacceptable.”

“Aye, and what’s even more unacceptable is Aidan Hughes filling her post while she was seconded to us, and us having to keep her for good! I owe him one for that.”

Craig shrugged. “If Carmen can get past this she’ll make a good detective. She’s nearly as good as Davy on some of the I.T. stuff.”

Liam shook his head slowly. “Don’t let the lad hear you say that. He guards his turf like a Spartan.”

The image of Davy in a crimson cloak wielding a sword made Craig laugh. “OK, I won’t say it. Anyway, I only said on some of the I.T.; Davy is undisputed king of that world.”

He motioned Liam towards the door. It was time for the briefing and time to tell everyone that they’d just lost their main suspect and had to start the hunt anew.

***

Thursday, 9 a.m.

Craig took the lift up to Des-World and found the bearded scientist with his nose pressed against a fuming cabinet and a Meatloaf track on. He didn’t hear Craig enter so he was treated to a one minute display of what Des probably thought was a dance, although not any that he recognised from their youth, followed by an air guitar flourish at the end. As the track ended the scientist turned, jumping when he saw Craig.

He grinned sheepishly. “How long have you been there?”

“Enough to know that the National Ballet’s loss is our gain. I’m here to pick your brains.”

Des turned off the CD before an even louder track filled the room and Craig gestured towards the cabinet, where a set of prints was appearing from the fumes.

“Are those anything to do with us?”

“No. A burglary. I’d ask what I could do for you but you’re here for whatever I found under Ian Jacobs’ and Adrian Cooke’s nails, aren’t you?”

“Amongst other things. I want to ask you about scents and sounds first.”

Des looked faintly puzzled. “OK…fire away.”

“We’ve interviewed Jacobs and I don’t think he killed Cooke.”

Des interrupted. “Who does that leave you with?”

Craig shrugged. “The invisible man. That’s all we can be sure of at the moment, that our killer is a man. However…”

He smiled and Des knew there was work ahead.

“Go on.”

“Jacobs has given us some other information. Obviously you had to check whatever you found under his nails, but my guess is it was nothing. Just a smudge of engine oil and dirt. Am I right?”

“You’re right.”

“What was under Cooke’s nails?”

“Skin cells we can match to his killer when we find him, but otherwise nothing useful. They were remarkably clean actually, although I suppose you’d expect that from a doctor. There was no sign of Ian Jacobs if that’s what you mean.”

Craig nodded. It all pointed to Jacobs being innocent. He was moving into the witness camp.

“OK, that brings me to why I came. Obviously the prints you found on Cooke need to be checked. We’re gathering prints from everyone who was on the unit that night to compare against, and Davy’s doing the database checks.”

Des’ voice was dry. “Obviously. Not that you would tell the Head of Forensic Science their job or anything.”

Craig smiled, acknowledging that was exactly what he’d just done. “Sorry. But while all that’s happening I might have something else for you. Except…”

“It’s a challenge?” Des rubbed his hands gleefully. He had a PhD in Forensic Science from King’s College and every so often he got bored with the routine stuff. A challenge was just what he needed to wake him up. “OK, shoot.”

Craig screwed up his face, wondering how Des could possibly identify a scent and a noise.

“OK. Jacobs admits that he recognised Adrian Cooke on the unit that night and followed him to have it out. But he’s saying that by the time he found him, in the area outside the linen room, Cooke was already dead on the ground. He checked his carotid pulse…”

Des interrupted. “How did he know where it was? Most people wouldn’t have a clue.”

“He’s a first-aider at work. Anyway, he checked Cooke’s pulse with one finger…” They said the next words simultaneously. “Hence the oily fingerprint.” Craig carried on. “Jacobs had got a phone call at work to say that his mum was ill so he rushed out without washing his hands properly. The oil will match something from the garage.”

Des nodded; it made sense so far. “OK, so Jacobs is innocent of Cooke’s death. Now what?”

Craig made a face. “This is where it gets complicated. Jacobs says that as he reached Cooke he heard something. A squeaking noise, like rubber against a plastic floor. He also smelled mint. I know it’s not much to go on, but…”

He glanced at Des hopefully, expecting to see a thoughtful frown. Instead he saw a look of almost unseemly glee.

“This is brilliant! I’ve wanted one of these for years. The closest I got was a burglary where the resident heard a strange noise. It turned out to be the burglar’s leather jacket rubbing against a wall. It took us ages but we finally pinned it down. Of course, it wasn’t admissible, but it did help when we nailed them on other things.” He turned to Craig. “You realise what you’ve done, don’t you? You’ve given me a sensory array; sound and scent. This is awesome!”

Craig smiled at his schoolboy enthusiasm but dragged him back to the case before he started talking in geek-speak.

“I’m glad you’re happy, but the question is, can you help I.D. what caused them? Jacobs is willing to work with you for however long it takes. He hated Cooke but he was pretty shocked by his death.”

Des didn’t answer. Instead he rushed to a bookshelf and removed a hard-backed volume, muttering to himself.

“I’ll have to get onto the British Library…they have one of the biggest sound archives in the world. One of my postgrad mates works there. Then there’s the scent…of course, I have a small olfactory collection myself…”

Craig knew he’d lost him to that faraway world scientists inhabited and to the rarefied language that they spoke. But he had his answer. Yes, Des would help, now they just had to hope that Ian Jacobs’ memory was as good as he thought.

***

2 p.m.

“Davy, could you come in for a moment?”

Davy roused himself from ‘the zone’, that zombie-like state he entered when he’d stared at a computer for too long. It was a level of self-hypnosis called parallel awareness, where he knew enough about what was happening around him to react to threats, but had tuned out everything else. He did some of his best work in the zone, although to the outside world it looked like he’d shut down.

“Bring any mapping you’ve got and the background checks.”

Davy glanced at Craig and then around the squad-room. It was peaceful with only them and Nicky there and he’d got more done in the previous five hours than in the whole day before. He knew why; Liam wasn’t there. He made a note to wear ear plugs in future to tune him out.

He gathered his papers and joined Craig in his office, taking a chair and the coffee he’d poured. Craig smiled, amused by the analyst’s T-shirt. It had a picture of Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory – he was Davy, John and Des rolled into one.

“OK. I want to go through the mapping for both days: the Thursday morning when Eleanor Rudd was murdered and the evening of Dr Cooke’s death. Is that OK?”

Davy smiled. Of course it was OK. He’d had it ready since yesterday, just waiting to be asked. Forty minutes later they’d listed everyone who’d entered or left the wards, either to leave the hospital entirely through the main entrance or the back of the long-stay suite, or to wander around it for any reason and return. Davy excluded all but those people who could possibly have been in the linen room area at the time of both deaths. It still left fifteen people – three patients, four visitors and eight staff.

“The problem is that w…whether by design or coincidence, both murders occurred at busy transit times. Eleanor Rudd’s w…was mid-morning and Adrian Cooke’s at visiting time, so narrowing the list down further is nearly impossible.”

Craig raked his hair in frustration. “It doesn’t help that the unit’s so open anyone can wander in and out.”

Davy shook his head. “Only Newman Ward. Reilly S…Suite is only opened by bell or key. Although…”

“That doesn’t narrow it down any because we already know which three long-stay residents we’re looking at from Eleanor Rudd.”

“Two of them match the list for upper-body s…strength but unless we find something more…”

There was silence for a moment then Craig gestured at a sheet beside Davy’s elbow.

“What’s that?”

“The background checks.”

“Anything interesting?”

Davy shrugged. “Interesting, but I’m not certain how relevant they are to the case. There are a few minor drug users amongst patients and visitors, and a fair number of financial problems amongst the s…staff.” His face lit up. “One guy did time for bigamy.”

“Which one?”

“An elderly man in long-stay. And one of the old ladies did time for growing w…weed in 2005.”

Craig shook his head at people’s secrets and wondered what lurked inside his team. Better not to ask.

“So nothing relevant to the murders?”

Davy shook his head. “Not so far, but now that we’ve narrowed the list to fifteen I’ll dig deeper into that group. The prints Des found s…should help.”

Craig nodded. He wondered if he should call the others and tell them just to print the fifteen people on that list, then he dismissed the idea. That would make one piece of evidence contingent on another being correct, it was a dodgy way to proceed. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and Nicky popping her head in.

“Dr Marsham on the phone for you, sir.”

“Put him through.”

Davy stood up to leave but Craig waved him back down. “It might be about the prints on Cooke.”

He pressed speakerphone and greeted Des for the second time that day.

“Davy’s here as well, Des. Fire ahead.”

“Hello, Davy. Well, I got onto the sound archive, Marc. They can’t do it but they’ve put me onto another group that’s going to work with us, so if someone could bring Ian Jacobs to the lab this afternoon we can start that. I warn you, it might take a while.”

Davy leaned eagerly towards the phone. “Is this s…sound matching?”

“Yes. We might I.D. it, if we’re lucky.”

“I’d love to see how it w…works.”

He shot Craig a hopeful glance.

“Can Davy join you, Des?”

“Glad to have him. OK, that’s not why I rang. I’ve I.D.ed the print on Cooke’s lapel badge.” Craig leaned in as he continued. “You’re not going to like it.”

Craig’s heart sank. “Tell me.”

“It belongs to Edward Rudd. Eleanor Rudd’s younger brother. He’s on the PNC database for a shop-lifting offence when he was twelve.”

Craig didn’t know what he was more dismayed by, the owner of the print or the fact that juvenile records were still held on the Police National Computer. The UK courts wouldn’t seal juvenile records, despite several individual appeals, and it just seemed wrong that some sweets a kid nicked when they were twelve should show as a criminal record for the rest of their life.

Des continued. “If Edward Rudd is your killer, do you still want me to work on the sound I.D.?”

Craig nodded then realised Des couldn’t see him. “Absolutely. Eddie Rudd’s print might be there but it feels wrong, and we’ve still got the one on Cooke’s watch. Any idea how old Rudd’s print is, Des?”

“Sorry, I can’t tell. The technology to date prints is coming but it isn’t mainstream yet.”

Craig signed off and turned to see Davy’s puzzled face. He looked like Craig felt.

“It doesn’t make s…sense, chief. Eddie Rudd can’t be the killer; he wasn’t even on the unit that night.”

“Perhaps he got away before the police arrived.”

Davy frowned. “But w…why would he have been there? He wouldn’t have been visiting anyone, unless…”

“Unless he was waiting to see Cooke and have things out with him. He might have blamed him for his sister’s death.”

As he said the words Craig shook his head. The print couldn’t be argued with but Eddie Rudd just didn’t feel right. They needed him in for questioning. He crossed to the door.

“Nicky, get me Liam, please.”

One minute later the desk-phone rang and Liam’s voice boomed “hello.” Craig put the call on speaker and watched as Davy held his ears. Liam was even louder than usual today.

“Liam, the print on Cooke’s lapel badge matches Eddie Rudd. Bring him to High Street for interview, and take a W.P.C. to go with you, please. Carmen said he was pretty fragile.”

Liam said nothing for a moment but Craig could hear him struggling with himself. Finally he spoke.

“Much as I’d like nothing better than to do as you’ve asked, boss, I think Annette’s better placed to interview the lad. She’s better with the nervy ones than me.”

She was, but it was the first time that Liam had admitted it.

“OK. Brief Annette and send her instead. I’m taking Ian Jacobs to see Des at the lab. Davy’s coming with me. Bye.”

Before Liam could say another word Craig killed the call and returned to the papers that Davy had brought in. Somewhere on the pages lay the name of their double murderer. Ian Jacobs was innocent of anything but checking a pulse and he seriously doubted Eddie Rudd had killed Cooke, although they had to rule him out. That was the problem with forensic evidence; much as they relied upon it in court, it could spoil a perfectly good theory. It only told them what was there, not how, why or when it had got there. Eddie Rudd’s fingerprint could have been on Cooke’s badge for any number of reasons and it might have been there for months.

Rudd might have been visiting his sister on the ward one day and touched Cooke’s coat. Eleanor Rudd and Cooke had dated so perhaps the boy had even tried the coat on, in make believe. Or perhaps the print was there because Eddie Rudd and Cooke had had an altercation that night, maybe even because he’d killed Cooke, not in premeditated murder but in the heat of the moment, in anger about his sister’s death.

That was where the human element in crime solving came in. Annette would get the answers, either verbally or through whatever Eddie Rudd’s body language said. As Craig drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the desk he prayed that the young man hadn’t killed Adrian Cooke, or a bad childhood would become a much worse future in Maghaberry.

***

Eddie Rudd came without a struggle, without a murmur in fact. He simply gave his mother a defeated look, much as Annette imagined him doing when his father had struck him in the past. It made bringing him in for interview an easy task, but it was a very unhealthy sign; the passivity of a victim waiting to be abused again. Margie Rudd had wrung her hands and sobbed as her son, the only close family she had left in the world, was helped into the marked police car. Eased in by his uniformed guard and then driven away, eyes down and wrists cuffed, not knowing if he would be freed again. Annette placed a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“This is routine, Mrs Rudd, believe me. I would be very surprised if Eddie isn’t home again tonight.”

Margie Rudd glanced up with hope in her eyes, then experience or memory extinguished it and she stared at the ground again. Annette squeezed her shoulder once and then left. She’d meant what she’d said. Like Craig her gut was saying Eddie’s print was on Cooke’s badge for some other reason, he probably hadn’t been near the ward that night. She drove down the narrow street with that hope in mind, knowing that there was only one way to find out.

***

High Street Station.

Jack had the kettle already boiled when Annette arrived and after five minutes of chat she shifted her brain to a different place, one where she needed to extract information from someone who didn’t want to give it, information that might incriminate them in a murder. Interviewing or interrogation, whichever term was currently in vogue, was an art. Not a nice one like painting or sculpture or classical dance, but a hard, nuanced battle between two people, where one wanted to say nothing and the other was tasked with making them speak.

There were plenty who entered an interview room and asked questions like ‘did you do it?’ or ‘tell me where the gun is’, but they left again just as quickly, with ten minutes of ‘no comments’ and a solicitor’s smug grin in their head. That wasn’t art, it was judgemental clumsiness. To Annette and Craig, and even Liam to an extent, interviewing a suspect was like a first date; both parties trying to create an impression that was nothing like the truth. Add to that the fact that one side had secrets they didn’t want to give up, then easing, cajoling and seducing those secrets from them was the mark of a detective’s skill.

Annette psyched herself up to use all her skill now. Not because Eddie Rudd was some criminal mastermind; he definitely wasn’t if shoplifting had been the height of his career. And not because she believed that he’d killed Adrian Cooke that night; she’d seen the lad, he was thin and undersized, he’d have been lucky if he could squeeze out cold ketchup never mind strangle a steroid bulked man. No, she had to use her skill because Eddie Rudd had given up on life, just like his mum. Years of an abusive father had sapped his energy and taught him that life was always going to mean pain.

That mind-set could walk him into Maghaberry if he wasn’t careful, because of what he said on a tape and a random fingerprint, if a lazy defender and an angry Judge got together on a bad day. She needed all her skill, not because she was trying to convict Eddie Rudd, but because she needed to elicit something that would get him off.

***

The E.M.U. 3 p.m.

“Here son, that set of prints looks a bit rough. Go back and do them again.”

The young P.C. shrugged and turned back towards Newman Ward, muttering something under his breath.

“I heard that.”

Liam hadn’t heard it, but his words had the desired effect, quickening the constable’s steps. Ken grinned after him and Liam shrugged.

“Bet you do that all the time with young squaddies.”

“I do, but usually with less effect. Maybe I need to drop my voice an octave or two.”

Liam’s grin widened. His voice was one of his best features, or so he thought. To everyone else it was either too loud or too low, although it had halted more than one street brawl before it kicked off. Ken straightened the pile of cards in his hand.

“That’s Newman Ward all printed: staff, relatives and patients who were there on Monday evening when Cooke died. Apart from a couple who were discharged.”

“I’ve sent a P.C. to their homes to do them.”

Ken glanced at the door to Reilly Suite and then at his watch. It was three o’clock and they still hadn’t had lunch.

“What do you say we stop for a sandwich?”

Liam nodded. “I say yes to a sandwich but no to a delay. Uniform can keep going till we get back.”

***

Annette didn’t know whether to hug or shake the young man in front of her so she settled for a verbal mixture of both. The mother in her wanted to take Eddie Rudd home, feed him up and imbue him with confidence, until he stopped acting like a doormat for the world to wipe its feet on. The detective wanted him to tell the truth quickly so that she could eliminate him from enquiries and send him home. She took an approach somewhere in between.

“Please tell me where you were between six and eight p.m. on the 13th of October.”

Eddie Rudd raised his eyes from the table and opened his mouth for the first time since they’d lifted him. His voice was unusual. Not in its tone, which was fairly monotonous, but in its unexpectedly deep timbre and strength, emerging as it did from a body so thin that it could have graced the ‘before’ pictures in a body-building magazine. Annette wondered idly why Carmen hadn’t mentioned it but then Carmen’s approach to life was a puzzle to them all.

Rudd also had virtually no accent. He was from East Belfast, an area with a dialect all of its own and a strong, hard accent to match, yet his voice bore no trace of the flat ‘e’ that became ‘eh’ or the ‘a’ that stretched to ‘ay’ in the middle of a word. Instead the boy sounded as if he’d learned to talk from a tape where the speaker had been English and middle-class. Radio or TV? It made sense if William Rudd had kept his family shut in the house for control. Whatever the reason Annette was surprised when he spoke.

“What day was that?”

“Monday. Tell me where you were please.”

The young man closed his eyes, as if he was remembering. “The hospital.”

Annette was shocked; maybe he’d killed Cooke after all? Then logic took hold, why admit to being somewhere if you knew it would incriminate you in a death? She hadn’t told Rudd the reason they’d lifted him, just ‘helping with our enquiries’, and Adrian Cooke’s death had been kept quiet so far. The only way Eddie Rudd would have known Cooke was dead was if he’d killed him, and if he had she doubted he would have volunteered his location that night. She kept her voice calm.

“Which hospital?”

He looked at her as if it was a trick question. “The big one off the M2. The one Ellie worked at.”

“Why were you there, Mr Rudd?”

A sad look flitted across his face. “To collect Ellie’s things. The sister phoned, said there was stuff in her locker.” He shrugged. “I think they needed the space.”

It would be easy to check.

“Why that evening? Couldn’t you have gone during the day?”

He gave a grin that said he was proud of something. “I’ve got a job. Forty hours a week at SuperMark. I work till five so I went up after that.”

Annette smiled at his obvious happiness; the supermarket had obviously decided to ignore his pilfering offence. Thank goodness for common sense. From the joy on the boy’s face it was probably the first freedom he’d had since he was born, but, much as she would have loved to let him talk about it for longer, she had to get back to the point.

“So you went to the hospital after five to collect your sister’s things. Tell me what happened.”

He stared at her blankly.

“When you went to the hospital. Tell me your movements when you entered the unit.”

“Oh…well, I went to the sister, Gormley I think her name is, and she gave me the key to Ellie’s locker.”

“Where are the lockers?”

“At the back of the long-stay ward, in the staff-room there.”

If the staff-room was where she pictured it, it was a distance away from where Cooke’s body had been found.

“What did you do then?”

“Opened the locker and got Ellie’s things. There wasn’t much. Just a sweatshirt and some make-up.”

His voice faded away and he looked down. There was no doubt he’d loved his sister.

The mother in Annette took over. “Tell me about Ellie. What was she like?”

Rudd’s face lit up and he looked even younger than he was.

“She was brave, really brave. No matter what Da did to her she never gave in.” He leaned forward eagerly. “She had her own place and all.” His face fell again. “She only moved back home for Ma and me, to see we were OK.”

Annette’s voice was soft. “And her drug-dealing?”

He shook his head hard. “You lot say she did, but I know it’s not true. Ellie wouldn’t have; she was a nurse.”

But Ellie had and no amount of deifying her would make it untrue. Something occurred to Annette.

“Do you take drugs, Eddie?”

His head shaking was vehement now. “No way. That’s a mug’s game. Ellie would have killed me. Nothing, not even weed.”

Eleanor Rudd wasn’t averse to dealing drugs to other kids but she’d wanted to keep her brother clean; it was a double standard they saw a lot but Annette was pleased for him. Eddie didn’t do drugs and he’d got himself a job, now all they had to do was clear him of murder…

“Tell me what else you did on the ward.”

Rudd looked confused. “What do you mean? I just got Ellie’s stuff and left.”

“Which exit did you use?”

The boy screwed up his face, trying to remember. “It…it was the back one. Out to where the old people park their cars. It’s close to the road so I got a bus home.”

It was feasible, another thing to check.

“Which bus did you get?”

“I…I think it was the 2B or D. I’ve the ticket at home.” He smiled shyly. “I collect them.”

Between the street cams, bus CCTV and ticket that placed Eddie out of the unit before Adrian Cooke had even arrived. So how had his fingerprint got on Cooke’s badge? Annette decided to ask straight out.

“Did you see Dr Cooke on the ward that night?”

The solicitor who’d been apparently indifferent suddenly leaned forward and whispered in his client’s ear. Probably something like ‘don’t answer that’, but whatever he’d said Eddie ignored it.

“I didn’t see him and if I had I’d have punched him in the face. If Ellie got involved in drugs that bastard must’ve done it.” His voice broke. “Without him our Ellie would still be alive.”

It was debatable, given that they were both dead at someone else’s hand, but Annette agreed that Adrian Cooke and Ellie Rudd together had been a lethal mix. She decided to play her ace.

“Dr Cooke is dead and your fingerprint was found on the badge on his white coat. Can you explain that?”

Instead of the horrified retreat she’d expected from him, from anyone accused of leaving their fingerprint on a badge worn by a corpse, Rudd shocked her by giving a loud cheer.

“Cooke’s dead? He’s really dead? Who did it, because I’d like to buy him a beer.”

It sounded like a line he’d heard somewhere. Annette imagined it was on the radio that had taught him how to speak. Rudd had focused on the first part of her sentence and completely missed or ignored the rest, but one thing was certain; he’d wanted Adrian Cooke dead. The boy was still speaking.

“If he got Ellie involved in all sorts then he killed her as sure as if he’d strangled her himself. I hope whoever did for him gets away and you never catch them.”

He said it like an innocent man but Annette repeated her question in an insistent voice.

“How did your print get on Dr Cooke’s badge?”

Rudd shook his head. “Haven’t the foggiest. I probably tried on his coat one day before I knew what a bastard he was.” He gazed at the ceiling as if trying to remember. “Yeh…I remember now. I borrowed it for a school play.”

“I thought you rarely went to school, your father wouldn’t allow it.”

“The social made him send me for a bit. We did a show for end-of-term. Frankenstein. I played the mad doctor and Cooke lent me his coat.”

Again, easy to check. In the modern world where every phone had a camera, someone must have taken a picture of the show. Annette closed her folder and stood up to leave. Rudd leaned forward with an intense look on his face.

“How did Cooke die?”

She shook her head. “I can’t tell you that.”

His voice deepened so much his words took on a movie-trailer’s doom. “I hope it really hurt. Nothing was bad enough for him.” He folded his arms defiantly, ignoring his brief’s warning glance. “I hope that whoever did it gets a medal for killing the bastard.”

Annette shook her head then the mother and detective spoke together. “We’ll be checking everything you’ve told us, Eddie, and you’ll remain here until we’re satisfied. But…please don’t let your hatred of Adrian Cooke twist you. You seem like a nice lad.”

Before he could come back with something that changed her mind, she was out the door.

***

It was the strangest I.D. parade that Craig had ever attended. Instead of a two-way mirror into a room, where men holding numbers faced front and recited words dictated by the victim and the crime, they were sitting outside a sound-proofed room in Des’ fifth floor lab. They watched through the glass as Ian Jacobs sat wearing headphones, nodding ‘yes’ or ‘no’ each time Des turned a dial. ‘Yes’ meant they were getting closer to the squeaking sound that he’d heard and ‘no’ meant the opposite.

Craig and John lounged on their chairs with an insouciance befitting their age and vast experience of the world. In reality it was the onset of exhaustion that this stage in a case always brought. Craig felt slightly guilty, knowing that his team was being industrious elsewhere, all except Annette who’d called to ask for a few hours personal time. Mysterious but not his business to ask.

As the old hands lounged Davy sat forward eagerly with his face close to the glass. Craig couldn’t work out if it was because he was on an outing from the C.C.U. or because the scientist in him was excited by the libraries of scents and sounds.

John nodded at the young analyst. “Doesn’t he get out much?”

Craig raised an eyebrow sceptically. “Listen to the international playboy! This from a man who thought a trip to a nightclub was exciting until two years ago.”

John laughed despite himself. “I beg to differ. I’ve travelled all over the world in my job.”

“Yes, and when you got to wherever you were going how much of the local nightlife did you see? None! Airport, hotel, mortuary or burial-site and back again. It’s only since you met Natalie that you’ve even been to a cinema!”

John’s reply was truncated by a loud “Ssshhh” and Davy shaking his head.

“I’m trying to listen.”

John laughed in disbelief; not at being told off, he’d been told off plenty of times before, but that Davy was trying to listen to an inaudible sound.

“You can’t hear anything through the glass!”

“I can. He’s s…saying ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and if you two weren’t talking you’d know that it’s much more ‘yes’ than ‘no’ at the moment. W…We’re getting close.”

John’s interest was piqued even if Craig’s wasn’t. He adopted Davy’s pose while Craig shook his head and smiled. After five minute’s more ‘yes-ing’ Des emerged from the room.

Craig’s eagerness suddenly matched the others’. “Well?”

Des made a face that said ambivalence. “He narrowed it to one of two things. Rubber soled shoes rubbing against the unit’s polymer flooring, or rubber wheels of some sort doing the same. I’m not sure that it gets you much further.”

Craig sighed heavily. Even if the wheels belonged to a ward trolley it didn’t narrow it down; there were a dozen on the unit. It had been too much to hope that it would help. Davy asked a question.

“What about the s…smell? The mint.”

Des’ hirsute face broke into a grin.

“We had a bit more luck with that. It wasn’t mint, it was menthol”

Craig perked up. “As in…?”

“Menthol’s the base note in some perfumes and it’s an ingredient in medications, cleaning products and pesticides. Then of course there’s the obvious: menthol gum, mouthwash and cigarettes; although I can’t see cigarettes being smoked on a ward.”

“It doesn’t mean that someone hadn’t been smoking them earlier.” Craig leapt to his feet. “Thanks Des, that’s been helpful. Thank the archive and we’ll let them know if it helps us solve the case.”

The others watched as he headed for the door. John spoke first. “Now what?”

“Now we’re heading back to the ranch to search for a different set of clues.”

***

Balmoral Avenue.

Annette hadn’t expected the flowers, or the invitation to his house for an elaborate dinner, but later, as she gazed at the kind man across the table, she wondered why she hadn’t. It seemed so typical now that she knew him. She scanned Mike Augustus’ open face; he was six years younger than her and comfortably rounded, with a thatch of mousey-brown hair and a permanently innocent look, despite the horrific things he saw all day. His shy demeanour made people underestimate him but he had a brilliant mind, John would never have hired him otherwise. And even if he wasn’t a matinée idol he was plenty handsome enough for her.

Mike had had a reputation as genuine and uncomplicated since he’d started work with John, but he’d barely registered on her when he’d attended briefings, other than as a nice man. She’d been too wrapped up in the cases, too busy with her marriage to Pete, a marriage that until a year before she’d thought would remain unchanged until she died.

But that was then and now she had a decision to make. They couldn’t keep having an affair. The deceit was making Mike ill and if she was being honest it was doing the same to her. Her marriage had been over for months, now she had to admit it. She also had to admit that their relationship, which had begun as a directionless tryst at John’s wedding, had suddenly turned into love. Annette stared into Mike Augustus’ soft brown eyes and answered their silent question with a nod. Tonight they would make love under the pretence of her working late and tomorrow she would go home and change her life.

***

The man stared out the window, thinking about what he’d done. What had he really done wrong? He’d rid the world of two drug-dealers and made it safer for people’s kids. They should give him a medal yet he knew the police would arrest him if they got the chance. He shook his head in disgust, drawing a curious glance from a woman nearby. There wasn’t much that he couldn’t abide in life but drug-dealers were definitely top of the list. Parasitic leeches who fed off the vulnerable; they made pond life look evolved.

Social commentators would say that addicts wanted to buy drugs; therefore dealers were merely fulfilling a need. Market forces, supply and demand. But commentators were just talking heads, members of the chattering classes who earned money saying things they didn’t believe and giving opinions as mutable as mercury. They called it informed debate to ease their consciences, when really it was egocentric crap. The truth was simpler than anything they said. Addicts needed to be helped, not fed drugs by dealers whose only interest was in making money off their backs. And drug-dealers had to be killed.

Cooke and Rudd had had good jobs, enough to eat and the respect of practically everyone that they’d met, yet it hadn’t been enough for them. Some people never had enough.

Cooke he could find some excuse for; he was addicted. Once that craving took hold, he’d seen people rip off their skin for a fix. Nurse Eleanor Rudd he had no sympathy for at all.

The man sighed as he remembered the first time he’d seen an addict in withdrawal. Screaming in pain as their long dulled nerve endings suddenly felt everything and their clothes became too painful to wear. Scratching at the injection sites on their feet and arms and groin, as if they could free whatever residual opiate might lurk there, to numb themselves for another few hours. He’d seen addicts of every sort but for him Heroin was definitely the worst. He’d seen people eat it, smoke it and inject it anywhere they could find a vein, infecting their tissues with dirty needles hosting hepatitis and HIV.

As he thought of it the man clenched his hand into a fist and smacked it hard against the glass, drawing gasps and looks. He didn’t care. It was only a matter of time before the cops caught him but he had no regrets; it was payback for all the lives he’d seen destroyed. He stared out at the trees and made his decision. If they were going to find him then they were going to do it on his terms.

***

Friday, 8 a.m.

“Right. I want your updates then we need to get out there and wrap this up, before we have another death.”

Even as he said it Craig felt sure that they wouldn’t; their killer’s work was at an end. He’d killed whoever he was going to kill and now it was a question of when they caught him, not if.

He glanced around the group counting heads. Liam, Davy and Ken were all present and correct. Carmen was back that afternoon, hopefully less angry than she’d left. Jake was helping his grandparents and Nicky was making drinks. That just left Annette absent. He took the coffee Nicky offered and asked where she was.

Liam pushed a Rich Tea into his mouth before answering. “Interviewed Eddie Rudd yesterday afternoon. Haven’t seen her since.”

Nicky glanced at him, disgusted. “Stop talking with your mouth full, and the occasional personal pronoun would be nice.”

“Little Miss Manners.”

Craig didn’t have time for their banter. As he was drawing breath to continue Annette rushed onto the floor.

“Sorry, sir, the traffic was dire on Boucher Road.”

Liam spotted her mistake immediately and the fact she was wearing the same clothes as the day before. Mike Augustus lived in Balmoral Avenue.

“You don’t come in from Cregagh on Boucher Road. Where were you last night?”

“When did that become your business?”

Craig was impressed by her quick comeback, remembering the reserved Annette of the past. He was even more impressed that she didn’t fill the ensuing silence with facts. He shot Liam a warning glance. Whatever Annette had been doing was her business and he could save his speculation for outside working hours.

“Right, let’s start. We’ll take Annette, Liam, Davy, then Ken and myself. By the way, Carmen will be back this afternoon and I want no cracks from anyone. Is that understood?”

He started pointedly at Liam as he said it and Liam attempted a look of innocence; it ended up somewhere between Dumb and Dumber.

“OK. Annette.”

Annette fished her notebook from her handbag and glanced quickly at the relevant page. Craig wondered why she bothered with the book when she barely gave it a second look nowadays. He supposed it was a security blanket, like his need to wear a tie at work. There were days when other Superintendents dressed informally, when they weren’t on a case or were at a conference, but even then he only got down to his shirt sleeves, keeping his tie anchored firmly around his neck. A tie said work and the lack of one said something else: fun, leisure, holidays, even sex. No tie at work just said sloppiness.

Annette began speaking.

“I brought Eddie Rudd into High Street.”

“Any resistance?”

“Not a peep. He was cooperative during the interview too. Said that he’d gone to the E.M.U to collect his sister’s belongings from her locker; it’s in the staff-room at the back of Reilly Suite. He left by the rear exit so he didn’t even see Dr Cooke. He caught a bus home so we can check his timings, but I believe him, sir.”

“How did he explain his print being on Cooke’s badge?”

“He didn’t at first then he remembered Cooke had lent him his coat for a school play.”

Craig thought for a moment. If the evidence confirmed Rudd had left the unit before Cooke had arrived he wasn’t their killer and they’d have to take his word on when he’d left the print. He nodded.

“OK, rule him out then let him go.”

“He’ll be a happy boy twice over then. He was over the moon when he heard Cooke was dead, said he’d got Ellie into drugs, not vice versa. I think it was probably six of one…”

Craig had little sympathy for either of their deceased, although Eleanor Rudd’s abusive home life made him err slightly on her side.

“They were both old enough to know better. OK, thanks Annette. Rule Rudd out please.”

He turned to top up his coffee and saw Liam staring at a female analyst from another team. A sharp “Liam – report” focused his mind.

“Aye, OK…well the lad and I got on with printing everyone while the rest of you were swanning around.”

Two ‘lads’ glanced across at him, unsure which of them he was referring to. Liam nodded at Ken and the thirty-something army officer suddenly felt young again.

“And?”

“We sent the prints from the acute ward staff and patients through to Des and most of the ones on the long-stay ward as well, but some of the staff and residents from Reilly were on a day-trip yesterday to Newcastle and didn’t get back till late last night. We’ll finish them off today.”

Annette interjected. “Was Hazel Gormley one of them?”

“She was. Why?”

“It’s just something Eddie Rudd told me. Gormley knew he was on the ward the night Cooke was murdered. She pointed him towards Ellie’s locker.”

Craig cut in. “And she didn’t tell anyone he’d been there? Liam? Ken?”

As they shook their heads Annette caveated her suspicion.

“Maybe she thought we only needed whoever was there at the actual time Cooke was killed?”

Craig shook his head. “She should still have mentioned it. Check it out, Annette, and I’m still waiting to hear if they use menthol based cleaner on the wards. I need an answer on that ASAP. Anything else, Liam?”

“Nope.”

“OK, finish the prints today and Davy will run them through.”

He was just about to update them on their sensory I.D. session when Nicky’s phone rang. She rushed over to answer it then covered the receiver and beckoned Craig across.

“It’s the sister on the acute ward, sir. She sounds in a real state.”

Craig took the handset and motioned the group to be quiet. “Sister Norton, what can I do for you?”

Everyone could hear the near hysterical voice on the other end, if not the words.

“You can get this reporter off my ward, her cameraman too. She’s questioning my patients! These are sick people, Superintendent. Some of them aren’t long for this world and the last thing they need is to have a microphone pushed in their face.”

“What’s the reporter’s name?”

“Maggie Clarke. She’s from that rag The Belfast Chronicle. I wouldn’t line my dog’s bed with it.”

Craig reassured her that someone would be there ASAP. When he got off the phone he shot Davy a rueful look.

“Maggie’s on Newman trying to get a story.”

Davy blushed to the roots of his hair. Maggie was his girlfriend but he had about as much control over her as a parent with a runaway two-year-old.

“S…Sorry, boss.”

“It’s not your fault. It was only a matter of time before someone tried. Did she mention anything to you?”

Davy shook his head vehemently. “No way. I didn’t even say we were w…working the case. I never talk about what we do. But Maggie would’ve mentioned it if she’d been on the story, in fact she was complaining last night that things were really s…slow at work.”

Craig nodded. Someone had tipped off the press deliberately, possibly their perp. If they had it meant they were getting close to catching them. Perhaps they’d hoped the press would divert police attention or perhaps it was something else. Either way he had to nip the story in the bud.

“Nicky, give the officers on the ward a call and tell them to warn Maggie off, then call Maggie directly and say that I’d like to see her here ASAP. Liam, Ken, get over there after we finish and take the last prints. I don’t want anything obvious for Maggie to see if she goes back later on.” He nodded to Davy. “OK, Davy, report on the sound and scent I.D. please.”

Davy updated the group on what they’d witnessed the previous day, handing out a list of the possible things that had caused the squeaking noise and menthol smell.

“W…When you go back to the ward, it will give you something to check for.”

Liam guffawed. “So we’re looking for a gum-chewing, menthol smoking, rubber-shoed man wheeling a baby’s pram.”

Craig let the group laugh for a moment then he focused them by making a statement. “Our perp tipped off the press.”

Annette stared sceptically at him. “Why would they do that?”

“Humour me for a moment. Let’s say Rudd and Cooke were killed because they were dealing and someone took exception to it.”

Liam laughed. “Serious exception, I’d say.”

Craig pushed on. “Now that they’re dead our perp’s work is done and it’s only a matter of time before we catch him.”

“Or he runs, chief.”

Craig nodded at Davy. “Or he runs. But what if he’s not going to run because he thinks we’ll still catch him eventually?”

Liam shook his head. “Why would he? All we have is a squeak and a smell. Every print so far has been a dead end.”

“We still have the one on Cooke’s watch. Our killer will know we’re printing everyone and if their prints are on a database anywhere they’ll know it’s only a matter of time till we get a match.”

Annette interjected. “OK, so they see the net closing in and they call the press, trying to distract us. As a delaying tactic it’s pathetic. They’re obviously not stupid, so why bother?”

Liam answered. “Messing us about?”

She shook her head. “Why? If they think we’re going to catch them eventually then why not just run? Unless they plan to kill again.”

It was Craig’s turn to shake his head. “It’s simpler than that. They weren’t just playing for time by calling the press; they really want this story told.”

“What story? Two drug-dealers get killed for what they’ve done. It’s hardly headline news, sir.”

Craig felt the pieces slotting into place. “Exactly! Which means there must be another twist that they want revealed.”

He ignored the confused faces and wrapped up the briefing just as Nicky nodded at the clock in a way that said Maggie would arrive soon.

“Put her in the relatives’ room, Nicky.”

He headed to his office for his jacket and just as he reached the door he turned back to the group.

“I should have added something. There could be another reason they’re not going to run.”

“And that is?”

“Because something is keeping them here.”

***

The Relatives’ Room.

It was always a struggle being authoritative with someone you knew and cared for, like a parent trying to chastise their child. Making a serious face and standing rather than sitting, then telling them do so too, as if being vertical somehow imbued your words with more gravitas or ire. All the time you were fighting a smile from twitching at your lips or entering your eyes, because once that smile became visible you were done for. The sharp eyes of youth would see it instantly and their equally sharp intelligence would know what it meant. I’ve won and Dad’s lost, because he’s my dad and he loves me. Then the arrogance of the winner would show its cheeky face and the battle would be done. Craig was fighting that smile now with everything in him.

He liked Maggie. What had started as a tense stand-off between the press and police two years earlier had matured into evenings of chat in the pub when she’d accompanied Davy, and two weeks of getting to know her at John and Natalie’s wedding. She was fun, kind and as sharp as a tack, and she loved the other worldly Davy to his bones, guarding him fiercely from the wickedness outside. They’d probably get hitched one day and he’d be there to cheer if they did, but today Maggie was back in that box marked ‘media pains in the ass’ and he had to make her see that she was.

Craig seized the door’s handle and opened it smoothly, his eyes taking in everything in the room. Maggie standing by the window gazing out at Clarendon Dock and the coffee and biscuits Nicky had organised, weakening his ‘this is business’ position before he’d even arrived. Maggie smiled as she turned and saw him standing there, a genuine smile that reached her eyes.

Craig held his position in the doorway, his face erring on the dark side of neutrality and his unsmiling first words setting the tone, or rather un-setting the tone of the amiable friends’ chat that Nicky’s hospitality had created. They stood facing each other, Maggie’s brown eyes widening slightly as she saw the message that he was trying to get across. She gave a small nod of acknowledgement and he sighed, relieved. She understood this was business and she wasn’t going to hold it against him.

With the agenda and mood set Craig nodded her to a seat and said, “Hello.” For a microsecond he’d toyed with ‘Hello, Ms Clarke’, aiming for formality and overbalancing on the way, but it would have sounded ridiculous. He wouldn’t do that in a meeting with anyone he knew well, no matter how formal it was. Besides, it wasn’t necessary; she was as professional as he was and she’d got his message straight away.

Maggie smiled, a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes this time, befitting the occasion. She liked Craig as much as he liked her but crinkling eyes could wait for another day.

“Hello, Marc. You wanted to see me?”

Craig sat and poured them both a coffee.

“Thanks for coming in.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say “did I have any choice?” But she let it pass and nodded instead.

He cut straight to the chase.

“I don’t know what you know about this case, Maggie, but it’s at a crucial stage.”

“And you don’t want journalists messing things up.”

Craig smiled. “Let’s just say I don’t want anything to jeopardise us catching the guilty party.”

She sipped at her coffee and stared him in the eye. “Before you even hint at it, Davy told me nothing; he never does. I knew nothing about St Mary’s, other than what Ray Mercer had written, until I got the call today.”

“I didn’t think Davy had. Tell me everything you can about the phone call, please.”

She shrugged. “It was like a million other tip-offs that come through to the news desk every day, saying. ‘I think you should know that such and such did this and that to so and so.’ Usually it’s someone trying to land an enemy in trouble. You wouldn’t believe the dross we have to sift through in our job.”

Craig laughed. “Sounds familiar. So what made you take this one seriously? Out of all the calls you get.”

Maggie shook her head. “I didn’t at first. It was just one of a dozen that came through this morning, although it came in early – seven a.m. Luckily I was on early call. Anyway, they started to give me details so I asked where they were calling from. They said St Mary’s and that I could ring them back to check.”

Craig lurched forward. “Where were they phoning from?”

She gave him a surprised look. “No idea. I just did as they asked. I rang St Mary’s switchboard and asked to be put through to the extension they gave me.”

“Do you still have the details?”

She nodded and reached for her bag, withdrawing a small smart-pad. “OK, it was St Mary’s main switchboard and then extension 207. It sounded like somewhere with…”

Craig wasn’t listening. He’d pulled open the door and grabbed the phone outside on the wall. Maggie heard a voice say “Hello” on the other end and smiled affectionately.

“Davy. Find out where extension 207 at St Mary’s is and phone me back, please.”

He swiftly retook his seat. “It sounded like a somewhere with…?”

Maggie scrambled to keep up. “Yes…OK, it sounded like a bathroom or someplace like that. You know, echoey, as if there were a lot of hard surfaces and no furniture.”

“Good, good. When you called back how long did it take them to answer?”

“Two rings.”

“Did you hear anything unusual in the background?”

She thought for a moment then shook her head. “Sorry, just what I expected to hear I suppose. It sounded like a hospital.”

“No other voices, phones ringing; anything?”

He was asking her to recall things as if she was there. Cognitive interviewing. She did as she was asked and after a moment she smiled.

“There was something. It was a squeaking noise, like a trolley.”

Craig nodded. Exactly what Ian Jacobs had heard. Could it have been a trolley? Who wheeled trollies? Not doctors and usually not nurses, that left healthcare assistants and the portering staff. He made a note to find out more about Ferdy Myers and just then the phone rang in the hall.

“Yes, Davy… Where? ... You’re certain? ... Good, thanks.”

He re-entered the room looking confused and Maggie sat forward eagerly.

“Where was it?”

He glanced at her sharply, his message clear. If it goes outside this room I’ll know you leaked it. She tried to look offended and then laughed.

“OK, even though I could have found out myself, I promise I won’t say a word. So where was the extension?”

“In the porters’ store. It’s a room on each floor where they keep trollies, old beds etc. There’s one just down from the E.M.U.”

Maggie grinned. “Well, there’s your answer then! The porter did it. It’s not quite a romantic as the butler but it’ll do.”

It was too damn neat. Anyone with half a brain would’ve known they’d trace the call and then start chasing their tails checking out the porters. They’d have to check them now but Craig’s money was still on it being someone else. He parked the information and returned to their discussion.

“OK, tell me about the person you spoke to. Male or female?” He already knew but he wanted to hear it again.

“Male. How many female porters are there?”

Craig ignored her and carried on. “Age, accent, type of voice – educated, uneducated?”

She thought for a moment then said “Older, but not decrepit old. I’d say sixties or at a push seventies. Strong, deep voice; not Prince Charles but middle-class. Accent…”

She paused, screwing up her face in recall. After a moment she shook her head.

“You can’t remember?”

“No, it’s not that. I can hear his voice clearly; I just can’t say what the accent was. It’s one of those voices that sounds like it comes from everywhere, as if its owner has travelled a lot.”

“Is there anyone on TV who sounds similar?”

She thought for a moment then snapped her fingers with a loud crack. Craig was impressed. He’d been trying to teach Lucia how to do that since they were kids.

“Kiefer Sutherland!”

“From 24?”

“The very man.”

24 was a popular US TV show; one of John’s favourites. Sutherland had been born in London but raised in Canada.

“You mean the voice sounded Canadian?”

Maggie went to nod and then stopped herself. “Damn…no, it definitely wasn’t Canadian. I have an uncle who lives there. It was…” She thought for a moment. “Mid-Atlantic. Like someone who’d lived in both the States and UK, and maybe elsewhere as well. It was a very faint accent but they still didn’t speak English like they were born here.” She looked at Craig hopefully. “Does that make any sense?”

Craig smiled. It probably would when they had their perp but right now it wouldn’t get them very far, unless… He made a note to check something and waved her on.

“What did he say?”

“Just ‘there have been two murders on the Elderly Medicine Unit at St Mary’s hospital, not one’. Then he hung up.”

“Those were his exact words. There have been?”

“Yes.”

“Then he’s educated. OK, he gave you absolutely nothing else?”

“Nothing. Anyway, I checked with my contacts at the mortuary and they said they’d removed two young people’s bodies from the E.M.U., on the ninth and the thirteenth. Both violent deaths. I knew about Eleanor Rudd but who was the second death?”

Craig ignored the question and made a note to tell John he had a leak in his morgue. Five minute’s more chat yielded nothing extra so he rose to leave. Maggie smiled up at him hopefully.

“So I can go back to the hospital now?”

Craig gave her a ‘what do you think?’ look and her face fell.

“You know you can’t, Maggie, but I promise you an exclusive when we break the case, providing this is kept under wraps. If other journalists start harassing the ward staff I’ll know where the leak came from.”

She made a face and he relented long enough to give her a “thanks and well done”, then he was outside beckoning a constable to show her the front door. As Craig re-entered the squad, Annette was preparing to leave.

“Going somewhere, Annette?”

“Just home…to collect some things I forgot this morning.”

Her sheepish glance at the floor confirmed what Liam had thought – she hadn’t been home the night before.

“When you get back I want to talk to you about the interviews you held with the porters.”

He answered her quizzical look with an update on his meeting and then crossed to Davy’s desk.

“Davy, those background checks you were doing…”

Davy looked up with a question that had nothing to do with backgrounds. Craig smiled.

“Maggie’s not in trouble, don’t worry. In fact what she told me was helpful. That’s what I want to check with you.”

Davy hit a key on his right-hand screen. “Background checks. Fire away.”

“I’m looking for a man, aged sixty or seventy.”

Davy typed in the search and then shook his head. “There was no-one that age on the unit w…when Dr Cooke died.”

Damn. Craig thought again. “OK, let’s say he was younger or older than Maggie thought he was. Try men in their fifties and eighties.”

Davy typed again and smiled. “There were three men in their eighties on the unit when Cooke died, one in Newman and two in Reilly S…Suite. There were even more men in their fifties. Prof Taylor, another doctor, two relatives, a porter…”

Craig stopped him. Not because he really believed a porter was their killer but because Davy’s list sounded as if it could go on for quite a while.

“Print those out for me, then I want you to narrow your background checks. I want anyone who’s spent a significant amount of time living in both the UK and abroad, including the States or Canada, who was on the unit at the time of both deaths. I’ll be in my office.”

Craig left the analyst staring after him curiously and entered his office. He poured a coffee and stared out at the river, nursing the drink in his hands. Their perp had tipped off the media because he wanted them on the unit, either because he wanted them to obstruct the police or because he wanted the story of Rudd and Cooke’s deaths told. Why? Because they were drug-dealers who’d got their comeuppance from a vigilante? Or because there was something more behind their deaths?

The killer had called Maggie from the hospital, meaning he wasn’t making any attempt to escape. Either he didn’t believe they’d ever catch him, which meant that the fingerprint they’d found on Cooke’s watch wasn’t his or it wasn’t on a database anywhere, or he knew they’d catch him eventually but he simply wasn’t intending to run. Maybe he had nowhere else to go or no means to get there, or he simply couldn’t leave. Which begged the question, why couldn’t he? Family ties, a job he couldn’t sacrifice, a relative too sick to abandon or…

The answer Craig had been reluctant to look at was right in front of him now. His reluctance hadn’t delayed the investigation, they’d done exactly what they’d needed to do when it had needed done and if he’d reached his conclusion any earlier they could have wasted valuable time on a fishing trip.

He gazed out at the Lagan, thinking of the real-life fishing trips he’d taken with his uncle when he’d been a kid. They’d sat in boats on lakes and at the end of piers, in places like Portavogie and Ardglass. Fishing in amiable silence, knowing that they would probably catch nothing but just enjoying the peace. He loved peace and quiet, there wasn’t nearly enough of it in life.

His thoughts were interrupted by a cough at the door and he turned to see Davy standing there. Craig beckoned him in, knowing that he couldn’t ignore the answer for much longer but uncertain how to prove he was right. They’d take the time to do the checks and rule people in or out, because if he was right about who their perp was then he had no intention of going anywhere.

Chapter Eleven

11 a.m.

Annette slid her credit card into the front door lock, praying that neither of her teenage children had decided to be diligent for once and secure the mortice lock below. She’d no idea where she’d left her keys. She corrected herself immediately, remembering her untidy passion of the night before; they had to be at Mike’s but she didn’t have the time to look right now.

To her relief the front door clicked open so she entered the small hallway and stood there, listening for the sounds of someone at home. The silence made her relax. She would have to say where she’d been the night before eventually, but work could be her alibi if she could change her clothes and escape before anyone else appeared.

The plan was progressing well until, in the middle of brushing her teeth, Annette heard a key turn in the front door. The footsteps that followed belonged to neither of her children. Pete was home! She tugged a comb hurriedly through her hair then grabbed her handbag and went to leave. As she opened the bedroom door she was confronted by her husband’s muscular shape blocking her way.

“Oh! You startled me. I was just heading back to work.”

Pete McElroy didn’t move or speak. Instead he stared at her in a way that said she was going nowhere. Annette rushed to fill the silence, her heart racing.

“Where are Amy and Jordan? Jordan has an exam next week, he should be studying… There’s no milk in the fridge, I’ll pick some up on the way home tonight…”

His silence deepened and grew, filling each pause in her gabbled monologue like quicksand, just waiting for the word that would suck her in.

“And Amy has…”

Tired of waiting for his wife to lie about where she’d been the night before, to say that she’d been at work, the catch-all excuse, Pete McElroy broke his frozen silence by doing something he’d never done before. His large hand rose and covered Annette’s face and with one shove she was on her back on the bedroom floor. Her eyes widened in astonishment and her suddenly high, anxious voice sounded like some other woman’s. Annette knew immediately who she was; a victim.

“What are you doing, Pete? Stop, please. Please tell me what this is about.”

She already knew that her pleading was useless; her husband of twenty years was staring at her as if he didn’t recognise his own wife. For a moment Pete said and did nothing then he began moving towards her again. Annette scrambled to grab her handbag and phone for help but he saw what she was reaching for and stamped hard on her right hand. She gasped as she heard the bones crack and break then she gasped again from the sudden pain, but still she kept inching towards her mobile, knowing that it was her only hope.

As the sweat of pain dripped down her back and she struggled hard not to be sick, Annette McElroy tried frantically to reason with the man she’d married. The good man, the hard-working man, the man who had never laid a hand on her or his kids. The man who until his affair the year before she would have said was the love of her life. He’d broken the trust between them then and despite all her efforts to mend things her love for him had finally died. Mike was just a symptom; the disease was the broken fidelity between Pete and her.

It was too dangerous to say that now and what would she say anyway? That she’d tried and failed to forgive him, and now she wanted a divorce because she’d met a man who didn’t make her feel like second choice? This new Pete would kill her.

Annette glanced up at the man she’d laughed and made love with for decades, the father of her children, a man she still loved in so many ways, just not in the one way that marriage required. Part of her thought she deserved what he was doing to her, after all she’d wanted to kill him when she’d learned of his affair. Now, somehow, he’d found out about hers and what had been a fantasy for her was being turned into action by him.

Through her thoughts and pain Annette registered that Pete had stopped moving towards her and was staring contemptuously at her instead. He hadn’t said a word since he’d entered the house but she prayed that he’d say something now. If he spoke she could reason with him, before he did something that destroyed four lives.

Pete McElroy’s lips curled into a sneer, a sentiment echoed in his words. “You’re a whore. My wife the whore.” His hand curled into a fist and Annette winced, anticipating the blow, but more words came instead. “Don’t tell me that you were working last night, because I checked and you weren’t.”

Even through her haze Annette knew he couldn’t have been sure. But his next words said that he was.

“I followed you all day. Saw his nice house; he must be rich. What’s his name, whore? And don’t bother to lie, I can find out myself.”

“Pete, it’s…”

She stopped mid-sentence, not knowing what to say. If she said he was mistaken he’d hit her again and she would never survive a full-on punch; he was a P.E. teacher and as fit as they came. What if she told him the truth? That there was someone but he wasn’t the reason that their marriage was finished. But she still couldn’t tell Pete that he was the reason, that his affair had frozen her heart and Mike Augustus was just the warmth that had thawed it after thirteen months. Whatever she said would anger him. Her only hope was to keep him talking until someone at work noticed she’d gone or one of the kids arrived home.

As the thoughts raced through Annette’s mind the pain in her crushed hand grew and the urge to throw-up overcame her. She turned her head and vomited and then the room began to swim. As her head hit the floor and the room faded away Annette Elizabeth McElroy’s last thought was that at least she wouldn’t feel her own death.

***

11.30 a.m.

“Has anyone seen Annette?”

Craig scanned the squad-room but Annette was nowhere to be seen. His question was answered by Davy shaking his head. Craig tutted to himself. He’d asked her to find out why Hazel Gormley hadn’t mentioned Eddie Rudd’s presence on the ward. It wasn’t like her not to come back with an answer in two hours. He turned to Nicky.

“Has she called you?”

Nicky shook her head. “I haven’t seen her since we briefed.”

For a moment Craig wondered if Annette was somewhere pursuing her romance then he dismissed the thought immediately; she was far too conscientious to do that when he’d set her a task. A frown creased his brow.

“Try her mobile, Nick.”

Nicky dialled the number and a few seconds later she shook her head. “It’s ringing but no answer.”

“Try the ward.”

Still no Annette. The hairs on Craig’s neck stood to attention. He turned to the rest of the team.

“Liam, where was Annette going?”

Liam grinned. “Home to change; she’d been a dirty stop-out last night. Then she was heading to the ward to speak to Gormley. That’s what she said anyway.”

There were many uncertain things in life. The outcome of a football match or a game of poker, the weather in the UK, the date and time of their next case, but to counter that the Universe had made some things fixed. Mountains and seas rarely shifted, the sun rose each morning and set every night and, most certain of all, if Annette McElroy said she was going to do something then without fail she did. Something was wrong. Craig headed for the lift, scattering orders in his wake.

“Liam, come with me, Nicky, call everywhere you can think of till she turns up. Davy, ping her mobile and find out where she is. Phone me with the information.”

Nicky called after them anxiously. “Where will you be?”

It was Liam who answered. He’d worked out where they were going and he looked as worried as Craig. “Annette’s house. Get the information, fast.”

***

Craig’s Audi screeched into the suburban street off Belfast’s Cregagh Road and halted outside the McElroy’s semi-detached home. Davy had confirmed that was where her phone was, so Annette had to be there as well. Craig was out of the car before Liam had unbuckled his belt.

“Wait, boss.”

Liam’s firm tone halted Craig in his tracks and he pulled him behind a hedge.

“If Pete’s found out she’s been playing away, God knows what’s happening inside that house.”

“That’s why we need to get in.”

“No. We need to find out where they are and what’s happening before we run off half-cocked. Pete’s a strong man; he’s beaten me in more arm wrestling matches than I can count. If he loses it he could kill her.”

Craig grew pale beneath his tan. Liam was right. If Annette was alone in the house with an angry Pete she could be badly hurt. Bile filled his throat. Pete had just expected her to suck-up his infidelity and carry on loving him as if she’d suffered nothing more than a broken nail, yet if his male pride was wounded by her doing the same, he could kill her. Pride and honour killings – women were still a long way from equality. He nodded.

“What do you suggest?”

He was the boss, but his temper was shredding his logic now; he’d kill Pete if he’d laid a finger on Annette. Liam was calmer, he should lead.

“OK. You’re fitter than me. Annette showed me round the house once and there’s a conservatory at the back, just below their bedroom. If you climb onto its roof you can see in. I’ll look for a ground-floor window to jemmy. Meet me back here in five minutes.”

Craig took the roof and Liam took the ground and five minutes’ later they reconvened by the front door.

Craig’s face was grim. “She’s in the bedroom, on the floor. I can’t see any blood but her hand looks broken. She’s not moving.”

“Where’s Pete?”

Craig shook his head. “Not there. Probably downstairs somewhere. Did you find a way in?”

Liam nodded. “Yep. The conservatory door looks easy to crack. Time to pay Mr McElroy a visit.”

Craig motioned him on and hoped that he reached Pete before he did. Annette’s hand looked like it had been stamped on; bastard. Liam nipped to Craig’s car for a suitable tool then he moved to the back of the house, surprisingly stealthily for a man of his size. He jemmied open the door like a pro and Craig followed him in, signalling he’d take upstairs if Liam took the down. He wanted to check on Annette as quickly as he could. He was halfway up the staircase when he heard a thud and a crack. He ran back down and found Liam in the living room, with Pete McElroy sprawled out on the floor. Blood was gushing from his nose and Liam stood above him glaring in a way that said the best thing he could do was stay down. Craig shot him a look of disgust and raced up the stairs, pulling out his mobile to make the call.

“It’s the police. I need an ambulance at 53 Mission Road. Stat.”

As he cut the call Craig knelt down on the floor beside Annette. He checked her pulse, it was slow and strong, a testament to her fitness; all those years of circuit training had paid off. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically and he knew she would be OK. He glanced at her left hand ruefully, wishing that it said the same. It was deep purple and the bones were definitely broken, she was looking at an operation and months of physio, but compared to what could have happened she was fortunate.

As they waited for the ambulance Craig suddenly heard a key turn in the front door; the kids! He raced down the stairs, reaching the front door just as Jordan, Annette’s eighteen-year-old son, entered the hall. He stepped back, shocked to see Craig, then he glanced past him anxiously.

“What’s wrong? Where’s Mum?”

Craig gave a calm smile. “It’s all right, Jordan. Your mum just had a fall and hurt her hand. She’ll be fine. An ambulance is coming now. Why don’t you go with her to the hospital?”

The boy went to push past him but Craig gripped his arms and held him at the bottom of the stairs. Annette wouldn’t want her kids knowing what had happened unless she told them.

“It’s better if you stay here, Jordan. And phone your sister? She’ll want to meet you at the hospital.”

“What about Dad, he’ll want to know?”

Craig bit his tongue and prayed that Pete McElroy had the sense to keep quiet; Liam’s clenched fists should do the trick.

“I’ll tell your dad, don’t worry.”

Just then an ambulance pulled up and Craig thanked heavens for their quick response.

“There’s the ambulance now. Let’s step outside and let them do their work. They’ll look after your mum.” He nodded to the paramedics. “Upstairs, first room on the right. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Craig deposited Jordan in the front garden with a look that said to stay put, then he went to the bedroom to update the ambulance crew.

“I think she was knocked out and her hand stamped on. Don’t tell her son, please.”

As Annette was being lifted onto the stretcher her eyes fluttered open and she saw Craig.

“Sir…Pete…”

Craig grasped her uninjured hand. “We know, Annette. Jordan’s downstairs, we haven’t told him. I said you had a fall.”

Annette shook her head weakly. “No…don’t…I’ll…”

Her words faded away in a mist of pain-relief and Craig hoped that she would sleep for hours. He watched as the stretcher was loaded onto the ambulance and Jordan jumped in, then he set his jaw hard and re-entered the living room.

Liam was looming above Pete like the Colossus of Rhodes and each time his prisoner shifted his giant fists twitched. Craig signalled to stand him up and Liam grabbed McElroy aggressively by the shirt and hauled him to his feet.

Craig faced the wife-beater with a look of contempt, not trusting himself to speak. After a moment Liam realised it was up to him to cuff their prisoner and read him his rights. By the time the ritual was complete Craig had regained his self-control. While Pete’s hands had been free there was a risk that he would have swung for him, knowing that it would’ve been a fair fight. Now he was cuffed it would be unequal, the equivalent of what he had done to Annette.

Craig gestured Liam to put their prisoner on a chair and he complied with forceful glee. Craig sat down opposite and scanned McElroy’s face for some sign of remorse. But there was nothing there, nothing except hatred and anger for a wife he’d loved for twenty years. Craig’s voice was cold.

“What were you thinking of? She’s half your size.”

Pete sneered. “You and your bloody job have made her more of a man than me. She earns more; she’s more ambitious, pretty soon she’ll grow a set of balls. The Annette I married was a nurse; gentle, not this…this thug you’ve turned her into.”

Craig rose and glared down at him. “You pathetic little man. The truth is you’re not man enough to cope with a woman who’s doing well in her career. Annette’s one of the kindest, most caring women I’ve ever met but you only see what you want to. You had an affair and ruined your marriage. I don’t know what Annette’s chosen to do with her life since then but whatever it is it came after you’d destroyed her feelings for you.”

The sound of a car pulling up made Liam look out the window. “They’re here to take him to High Street. Do you want me to go with him?”

Craig scanned McElroy contemptuously and then shook his head. “No special treatment. Let uniform take him in.”

As Liam wrenched him to his feet the teacher turned to Craig and smirked. “Annette will never press charges. She won’t want to hurt the kids.”

Craig knew it was true, even though he would do his best to persuade her. They could prosecute without Annette’s support but he would never do it against her wishes, although Pete wasn’t going to know that for twenty-four hours. He smiled into the teacher’s face, his fists twitching.

“Didn’t you know? We don’t need the partner to press charges now. We can do it ourselves.”

Pete’s face fell and Liam shunted him to the car quickly, before he could see the defeated glance the detectives exchanged behind his back.

***

Four p.m.

“Right, let’s get on with it.”

Nicky scanned the squad-room and then stared at Craig curiously. Annette was nowhere to be seen and Carmen still wasn’t back from the shrink’s. Liam was glaring at nothing in particular, although the look in his eyes said his glare was reserved for someone specific, even if they weren’t there. Ken was picking at the edge of his notebook in an accelerating rhythm that said he was stressed and Davy was reclining at his desk. It was the motliest crew she’d ever seen and she said so.

“No.”

Craig squinted as if he’d heard her incorrectly. “No?”

Liam pulled his gaze from the far distance and started to pay attention. If a fight was gearing up he wanted a ring-side seat.

Nicky folded her arms. “No. Not until you tell us what’s going on. You and Liam have had faces like Lurgan spades since you got back. Where are Annette and Carmen?”

Craig’s squint hardened and with it his voice. “If I say we’re going to brief, then that’s what we’re doing. You and I will have a conversation later, Nicky.”

With that he scanned the faces around him and Liam watched their expressions shift to heightened alertness, one by one. All except Nicky who buried her head in her notebook and poised her pen ready to start. She’d minute the briefing exactly even if she did it with a hurt expression and pursed lips, but Craig would have hell to pay later for telling her off in front of everyone.

“OK. Davy, what have you got for us?”

Davy’s eyes darted from Craig to Nicky and then back again, as if he was waiting to see who blew first. Seeing Craig about to shout he pushed his hair behind his ears and started to report.

“You asked me to look for men in their fifties and eighties w…who were on the unit at the time of both deaths. Focusing on men w…who’d spent a substantial time in Canada or the S…States as well as the UK.”

He paused for Craig’s input. There was none, just Craig’s jaw set so hard that it looked like it would crack and his swift nod to carry on.

“That brought the number down to three.”

Liam interrupted in an astonished voice. “Three men who’ve lived across the pond in a group that size! What are the odds?”

Craig relaxed his scowl to smile at Liam’s incredulity. “Given that nearly twenty percent of North America is of Irish descent, not as unlikely as it seems, I’d say.”

Liam paused, remembering something. “Aye, right enough. Two of my uncles were there for years. They came back, mind.” He grinned and Craig felt a joke coming. “Must’ve missed the rain.”

As Liam guffawed the small group relaxed and Craig sneaked a look to see if Nicky did the same. She didn’t. Her face, what he could see of it given that she was studying her notepad as if it was the Bible, was granite, and he knew he’d pay for chastising her for quite a while. He waved Davy on.

Davy gave Liam a look that said ‘thanks for breaking the gloom’ and continued.

“The three men are the w…ward porter, Ferdy Myers. He’s in his fifties obviously; you couldn’t have a porter in his eighties, could you?”

Liam laughed. “You could the way the pension age keeps rising.”

Davy continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “A doctor who was visiting from another ward; Dr Brian Kirk. He’s fifty odds as well.”

Craig lifted a hand to still him. “Why was he there, Davy?”

“I’ll come to timings next but he w…was on Newman the morning Rudd died to see a patient. He’s a chest s…specialist.”

Craig was curious. “Who was he there to see?”

“A lady with asthma. Mrs Bains.”

Craig nodded him on. They’d come back to the details once he’d laid everything out.

“The last man who fits the criteria is a patient on Reilly. Caleb Pitt; he’s in his eighties.”

At the mention of Pitt Craig shifted in his seat. Liam noticed and earmarked a question for later.

“All three were there both times? The morning Eleanor Rudd was killed and the evening Adrian Cooke’s body was found?”

Ken perked up; the question was bound to highlight a single suspect. From the crestfallen looks when Davy nodded his head, he wasn’t the only one who’d thought it would be that easy.

“S…Sorry. I thought I’d said. All three were in and out of the unit both times. Myers was taking patients back and forth w…when Ellie Rudd died, and on the evening of Dr Cooke’s death he was covering for a porter who’d gone off s…sick. Pitt was on Reilly or thereabouts both times and Dr Kirk was on the unit the evening of Cooke’s death as well.”

Craig interrupted. “Seeing another patient?”

Davy made a face. “Same patient, but I did a bit of digging and it also turns out he and S…Sister Gormley have a thing.”

Liam laughed lecherously. “So the doctor and nurse stories are true, then. Canoodling in the clinical room, kissing in the…”

Suddenly Nicky looked up from her pad. “Canoodling? How old are you, Liam? That’s a word my granny would have used.”

Liam gave her a huffy look. “Aye, well, I grew up in the country. We still say things like that.”

Craig watched from the side of his eye as Nicky re-joined the briefing, studiously avoiding his glance as she did. So that’s how it was going to be; ignoring him hadn’t done the trick so now she was going to freeze him out, no mean feat given that he was her boss.

“Carry on, Davy. How long has it been going on with Sister Gormley?”

“Over a year, boss. Apparently Kirk’s going to leave his w…wife for her.”

“Is that why Gormley forgot to mention that Eddie had called in?”

Davy looked as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him. He moved swiftly to his computer, tapped up a table and then gave Craig a nod. “Probably. S…She’s unaccounted for part of the time he was on the ward.”

Liam snorted. “Probably having a quickie in the clinical room.” Before Nicky had time to tell him off he added. “Do they use words like quickie in Belfast?”

Craig was curious about what was on Davy’s table so he walked over to his desk. What he saw made him even more impressed by the analyst. On Davy’s central screen was a colour-coded table that charted everyone who’d been on the ward during both murders according to location and time. The only blanks were against their three suspects’ names. Even Hazel Gormley’s indiscretion was labelled as ‘off Reilly - unaccounted for’.

Craig pointed at the screen. “Why have you left the blanks against our three possibles?”

“I had s…something in for them, but I removed it five minutes ago just to demonstrate. S…Shall I put it back?”

Craig nodded. “Just for a minute. The blanks are a good idea; focuses us on who we need to question.”

Davy tapped a key and the blank boxes filled with colour and words. Craig nodded him to explain.

“OK. Dr Kirk was on Newman seeing Mrs Bains during Rudd’s death and he saw her again the evening of Cooke’s. I need to refine those times but they still give him time to kill.”

“Or be off somewhere with Sister Gormley.”

Craig pointed to Caleb Pitt’s name.

“He w…was somewhere in Reilly Suite or the main hospital both times.”

“Again, we need exact timings. What about the porter, Ferdy Myers?”

“He was the most mobile. He was on and off the unit all the time. With trollies, taking patients to X-Ray…”

Craig shook his head. “During Rudd’s death yes, but not Cooke’s. He wouldn’t have been taking someone to X-Ray in the evening, not unless they were an emergency.” He’d learned something from dating a doctor.

Ken had been listening quietly but now he spoke. “Trollies? Could that have been Ian Jacobs’ squeaking sound?”

Davy nodded. “One of the possible I.D.s was rubber wheels.”

Liam gave a satisfied smile. “It’s Myers then.”

A series of nods ran round the group until Craig put up a hand to still them.

“Sorry to rain on everyone’s parade but, let me ask, Davy, does Caleb Pitt use a wheelchair?”

Davy tapped another key and a photo of Pitt popped onto the screen with a paragraph of text beneath. He’d lost a leg and used a chair, but he also had a prosthetic leg and cane.

“S…Sometimes but not always, sometimes he uses a cane. But wheelchairs have rubber wheels as well, don’t they?”

Craig didn’t answer just walked thoughtfully back to his seat. After a moment’s silence he summarised.

“OK, we have three men who fit the age groups and possible transatlantic background of the man who phoned Maggie. Two are fifty-somethings and fit, one is in his eighties and disabled. Two had access to either a chair or trolley with wheels that could make the sound Ian Jacobs heard. One may have been occupied with Sister Gormley, who so conveniently forgot to mention that Eddie Rudd had been there that night. So basically any of them could have committed both our murders and we need to narrow things down.”

“Surely the younger ones are more likely, boss? An eighty-year-old’s not likely to have the strength.”

Craig shook his head. “Never underestimate someone based on their age, Liam.” He nodded at Smith. “Ken tested their strength. Davy, did Pitt have a strong grip when the long-stay patients were assessed?”

Davy read for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, and he was on the list of residents out and about in the hospital.”

“OK, then all three men are suspects. I want them checked out quietly, to narrow it down. I don’t want them suspecting anything till we’re ready or God knows what they’ll do next.”

“God knows what who’ll do next?”

Everyone turned to see Annette entering the floor with her hand in a plaster cast. Nicky was the first on her feet.

“Oh my God, Annette! What happened to you?”

Annette smiled weakly and Liam and Craig glanced at each other, wondering what she’d say.

“Fight with a criminal. Someone from the past. The chief and Liam turned up just in time.”

As she said the words her eyes fixed on Craig’s and she gave a small nod. Nicky saw the exchange and knew that something was being left unsaid. She ignored Craig’s quick shake of the head telling her not to ask.

“Who was it, Annette? Someone you arrested?”

“Someone I should have sorted out last year.”

Craig cut across the conversation before Nicky dug any deeper. If Annette decided to tell people about her domestic situation that was her prerogative but he wasn’t having her interrogated in front of the whole squad.

“OK, you all know what you’re doing. Davy, dig deeper into the three backgrounds and keep chasing that fingerprint with Des. It must be on a database somewhere. Ken, find Carmen and interview Sister Gormley; I want her movements during both deaths, and check out Dr Kirk’s alibis for the murders. I want every second accounted for. Liam…”

“Aye?”

“You take Ferdy Myers. Check with the estates department first to see what the porter’s Rota was for those two days. It’s a bit too convenient that someone went off sick and Myers had to cover on the night Dr Coke got killed.”

“Didn’t you mean Dr Cooke, boss?”

“I know what I meant.”

Craig smiled at Annette and nodded towards his office as the others watched curiously. At the door he turned and shot them a pointed look. “Get on with it and I want everyone back here at seven sharp.”

***

Craig poured two coffees then sat down and gazed at Annette across the desk, waiting for her to speak first. When she did so it was hesitantly.

“Sir…I…”

She broke off and shrugged weakly, as if words couldn’t convey what she needed to. Craig looked at her for a moment, really looked, in a way that people rarely did at colleagues they saw every day. She was tired and in pain, but behind the fatigue Craig suddenly noticed how attractive she was. It wasn’t that he’d thought her unattractive before, but he was a man who separated the personal from the professional, never crossing the line with female colleagues in the way that a lot of his peers did. He had enough challenges with the women he already had in his life without going looking for more.

But even he’d noticed how much weight Annette had lost in the past few months and how long she’d grown her hair. It was softer and more feminine, as if she’d decided she was post-feminist now and didn’t need to play down her looks to be taken seriously at work. He thought of Julia’s tendency to torture her red curls into a chignon and scrub her face clean for work. Annette hadn’t been the only woman to worry her femininity would get in the way in a male world. Her transformation had started with Pete’s infidelity but accelerated after she’d danced with Mike at John’s wedding. Mike was a good guy and he’d treat her better than Pete McElroy ever had.

As the thoughts ran through Craig’s mind, he knew that Annette was having her own. A quick glance to check that his door was shut and Nicky wasn’t pressing her ear against it outside, then he started on neutral ground.

“I didn’t expect you back for at least a month, Annette.”

She smiled and Craig read happiness in her eyes. Happiness when she’d just been assaulted? Her tone of voice confirmed it.

“It’s only a fractured scaphoid and little finger, sir.” She gave a pragmatic shrug. “Pete obviously wasn’t as strong as he thought.”

“But surely you want time off?”

She nodded. “A few days to explain to the kids. If that’s OK?”

“Of course it’s OK.” He stopped, hesitant about his next question. “Can I ask…what will you tell them?”

“The truth. All of it. The end of the marriage, how hard I tried to make it work, and…”

“What Pete did to you today? Will you tell them that?”

Annette glanced away. “I don’t know, I really don’t. He’s their father and they love him…this is nothing to do with them…”

Craig’s voice grew firm. “Are you saying you don’t want to press charges? You’re going to let Pete get away with this?”

Annette went to shake her head and then stopped, searching for the words. “I… I don’t want him to get away with it. It would be wrong. He could do it to some other woman in the future.”

“He said you’d never press charges against him. He was pretty smug about it.”

Annette laughed unexpectedly and Craig saw the happiness again. Why the heck was she so happy? She’d been beaten up by her husband and none of them knew how far things would have gone if they hadn’t arrived. Plus her marriage was in tatters so, much as Craig was pleased that she was, what was she happy about?

“Pete knows me too well. He’s right; I could never press charges against him because it would destroy the kids. But…”

She stared at Craig, willing him to read her mind. He did and he smiled.

“We’ll pursue him on domestic abuse or assaulting a police officer, whichever works best. I won’t back down, even though you’ve pleaded with me not to proceed, and I’ll tell Amy and Jordan that you did. I’ll make it clear that we only found out because we came looking for you on something to do with work. Will that do?”

Annette’s smile widened into a grin. “That will do fine, sir.” She lifted her handbag and Craig was pleased to see that some things never changed. This might be a new, more glamorous Annette but her sensible black bag was still the same.

“Would it be OK if I took a whole week, sir? Just to get the kids settled.”

“Take two, we should have the case wrapped up soon and you’re due some holiday. Perhaps you should take the kids away?”

“A week in Maghera will be enough. My mum will spoil them rotten for a few days.” An anxious look crossed her face. “Sir, you…”

Craig nodded. “I’ll oppose Pete’s bail, don’t worry. What do you want me to tell the team about your hand? They’ll ask.”

Annette shrugged. “Ladder?”

“You climbed up to get something, then slipped and stretched your hand out to break your fall?”

“Hand palmed against the wall, that’s the angle for a scaphoid break.”

Craig smiled. Annette always got the details right. He stared at his injured inspector for a moment and then asked the question on his mind.

“You look really happy, Annette. For the first time in over a year.”

She grinned. “I am happy. I’m ecstatic in fact, although I’ll have to hide it from the kids of course.”

He raised an eyebrow quizzically. “May I ask why?”

Annette sighed. “Even after Pete had the affair last year I still thought I had to try to make things work between us. It’s the way I was raised and there are the kids, and…”

“Let me guess. Pete told you his affair was your fault?”

Lust, Dante’s second circle of hell.

“How did you know?”

“It’s Bastard 101. First page in the adulterer’s handbook.”

Her eyes widened and he knew she was wondering if there really was such a tome. He waved her on.

“Even though I was miserable I could never have made the break, not even when I met…” Neither of them said Mike Augustus’ name but he was in the room with them just the same. “In fact, seeing him just made me feel guiltier and try harder to make things work with Pete.” She paused for a moment. “But now…”

Craig nodded, understanding. “Now that Pete’s assaulted you, you’re certain that things weren’t your fault, because no-one ever deserves that. So now you can leave him guilt-free.”

She gazed past him to the river, looking more peaceful than she had in a year.

“There’s still guilt about the kids, but not about Pete anymore. That’s why I’m happy. It’s as if I’ve been given another chance at life.”

Craig understood completely and he decided to underline the extent of her freedom. “If I have anything to do with it Pete’s going to get a couple of years inside, Annette.”

She nodded, praying that they threw the book at her soon-to-be-ex-husband. Every last bit of love she’d felt for him was gone but that wasn’t why she wanted him punished; she was genuinely afraid he would do it again unless he paid a price.

“I’m divorcing him, sir, and if you’ve any sway, please recommend that he has counselling inside. I don’t want him ruining someone else’s life when he gets out.”

“I’ll do what I can.” Craig walked around the desk and rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll brief Liam to support the ladder story with the others.”

Annette nodded and got up to leave. Craig stilled her with his next words.

“You deserve to be happy, Annette, and I hope you’ll let Mike help you with that.”

Chapter Twelve

Craig spent the rest of the afternoon re-checking every lead but nothing about his conclusions changed. Eleanor Rudd had come from an abusive family where no-one had had the strength to leave but her. The word courage sprang to Craig’s mind but he dismissed it; it wasn’t a lack of courage that had kept Margie Rudd with her abusive husband but something else.

In the beginning it was probably love; standing in front of a preacher and saying ‘till death do us part’, even if Billy Rudd hadn’t meant the ‘cherish’ part. Love had brought Margie Rudd to that point, love of a young man whose smile had made her blush and whose strong hands had seemed reassuring then, not the weapons they later became.

What had made her stay after that? Duty? The public display of commitment and resolute words in church making her believe that it was her fault if her marriage failed? A belief no doubt reinforced by her husband’s accusations. ‘It’s your fault, you made me hit you’. ‘You brought this on yourself’. ‘Any man would have done it in my place’. Was that why she’d stayed? Duty and belief that it was all her fault? As if any amount of provocation ever warranted the strong raising their hands to the weak.

Craig wondered how big a part religion played in women staying to be beaten and how big finance. God knows there was little enough money floating round Northern Ireland and an abundance of holy words, well intended in their sentiments but twisted by people to suit whatever their purpose was that particular day. Obey me, believe me, follow me, do as I say. Craig shuddered at the power the speaker wielded over those who believed; whether from the pulpit or in the home. Had that been it? Had Margie Rudd believed so implicitly in God that she’d thought her husband’s abuse was punishment for her sins, and subjected her children to the same?

He glanced at the page in his hand and shook his head, setting it to one side. Eleanor Rudd had chosen her way out, inflicting her unhappiness on vulnerable others in the pursuit of money. He had no sympathy for Eleanor the woman, even though he had plenty for Ellie the child.

He lifted a second page headed Adrian Cooke. He had even less sympathy for him and yet in some ways more. Less for his education and decent family; Cooke had been privileged in every way until addiction had taken a grip and that was where his ‘in some ways more’ sympathy came in. Addiction was like a ravening dog, chewing at every vessel and sinew and minute and hour, making each day nothing but the search for your next fix or the fading high from your last. He had sympathy for that, whether someone’s beast was alcohol, drugs or gambling. He’d seen what it could do to good men when it took hold, a friend from school a sad example of its effects.

When had Cooke’s habit started and had he been a dealer as well? Craig turned over the page searching for the moment Adrian Cooke had first smoked or snorted or injected drugs, but the day and hour wasn’t there, just a list of opportunities. His school; well known for its avant garde approach to teaching and even more lax one to discipline. Craig imagined rich kids spliffing up in the bike shed or snorting in the science lab after hours; their parents too rich for the teachers not to turn a blind eye. Or had it been at medical school? From the tales John had told him of students lying in pools of their own vomit from booze and stress and the easy access to drugs, it wasn’t a huge leap. Harold Shipman hadn’t been the first doctor to succumb to oblivion.

Craig shook his head and set aside the page. It was no excuse. Rudd and Cooke had both been adults, and worse, they’d both seen the damage drugs could do in their jobs. Between them they’d probably caused more than one addict’s death so he wasn’t about to waste his sympathy.

He read through the other pages, checking and rechecking everything they’d found. The bruising on both murder victims’ legs and Cooke’s body, the manual strangulation method of death, the people they’d eliminated and the new clues that Maggie had given them. It all came back to three men: Ferdy Myers, Caleb Pitt and Brian Kirk. They were all on the unit during both deaths and it was time to rule them in or out. He already had his favourite but no court would convict him unless they’d eliminated every last doubt.

He opened his door and called Davy in.

“Davy, I want to go over the evidence against the three men again.”

Davy tapped the smart-pad he’d brought. “Fire away.”

“OK. Ferdy, Ferdinand Myers. Tell me about him.”

“Fifty-two years old, born in the Demesne Estate in East Belfast. S…Spent time in the US then joined the army and fought in Kosovo and the Gulf War. Discharged in 1999 with mental health problems. He was in a psychiatric hospital for ten years and came out five years ago.”

“Any family?”

Davy shook his head. “Parents dead and he’s never married. He lives in a half-way house on the Demesne.”

“Anything more on him?”

“He was violent when he was younger.”

Craig leaned forward. “How violent?”

“GBH twice. He got into fights w…with other squaddies and almost killed one of them.”

“How?”

“A punch to the head. The guy was lucky that he s…survived.”

Craig sat back, less interested. “A fist-fight’s a long way from strangling people.” He thought of something. “We have Myers’ prints now. Do they match the one on Cooke’s watch?”

Davy shook his head. “They’re not through yet. If they don’t does that rule him out?”

“Not unless we find a direct match to one of the others. Myers fits on other counts. He stays in.” Craig’s face brightened. “I don’t suppose he wears menthol aftershave?”

Davy gestured at the phone. “Liam’s with him now. S…Shall I ask?”

Craig nodded. It was a long shot but everything was at the moment.

***

High Street Station.

Liam flipped shut his mobile with “I’ll call you later” and turned back to the man he’d been interrogating. Ferdy Myers gazed around the small interview room, wondering whether the cops would pay someone to give it a coat of paint. He did some decorating on the side and he could definitely do a better job than this. Mind you, he doubted they would pay him cash and that was the only way he did the biz; the taxman already got enough of his meagre wages, thank you very much.

Liam saw his interviewee’s attention wandering so he smacked the table hard to reinstate the assiduousness he thought two murders deserved. The porter jumped back a few inches and Liam gave a satisfied smile.

“Now. Back to Monday evening. Where were you between six and eight?”

Myers stared at Liam as if he had something on his face, then Liam realised that his gaze was focused elsewhere, it was hard to tell with bifocals that thick. He turned to see what the porter was looking at and saw his eyes fixed on the room’s back wall.

“Thon’s shockin’.”

Liam turned back to his captive. “What?”

“Thon paintwork. Look at the drips! Whoever did that should be shot.”

Liam squinted in the neon light, uncertain whether the porter was taking the piss or was nuts. He opted for nuts and repeated his question in a louder voice. This time Myers answered.

“I’ve told you. I took Mrs Bains to X-Ray at six, then came back to take the dinner trollies to the canteen.”

“X-Ray’s shut after five.”

“Emergency service. Dr Kirk said she needed the X-Ray.” He smiled, revealing teeth that made Liam resolve to floss. “Dr Kirk, Captain Kirk, Mr Spock on the ward.”

“What?”

“Bones McCoy, Scotty…”

Liam nodded to himself; Myers was definitely doolally. The sooner this interview was over the better.

“You hated Dr Cooke, didn’t you?”

Myers screwed up his face quizzically. “Where’s that coming from? It’s not in the script, Spock.”

Liam wasn’t letting go. He’d seen something behind Ferdy Myers’ puzzled looks. “Privileged doctor, lots of money, nice car, nice pad. I bet Cooke got all the women that you couldn’t, didn’t he?”

Myers guffawed. “Not if he’s dead, he doesn’t. Pushed up daisies.”

Liam ignored the poor use of tense and continued. “He did though, didn’t he? How many nurses have you asked out, Ferdy? Eh? And how many of them have knocked you back? Why would they date a porter when they can get a wealthy doctor instead? Was that it? Did it piss you off?”

He watched as his jibes drew blood and Myers rose to the bait.

“Snobby tarts, all of them. They wouldn’t know a decent man if he jumped in front of them. Me, I’m decent me, but they’d rather have some rich junkie like Cooke.” He laughed caustically. “Well he won’t be junkie-ing anymore, will he? He’s on the home planet now, Spock.”

Liam altered his body language from hostile interrogator to a more confiding pose. “Did Cooke have many nurses after him, then?”

“Just Gormley and that dead tart Rudd.” Myers sneered. “She put out for everyone, her. Thought she was high and mighty ’cos she’d caught a doctor. I know where she was from. Her da was at our school. Billy Rudd, fat stupid bastard, he was. Way stupider than me but they didn’t put him in a looney bin.”

Liam listened as the affable porter changed into an angry, rejected man and marvelled at the faces people hid. His tone became sympathetic. “Did Rudd knock you back?”

Myers began to sing in a loud tenor. “Three times I asked the bitch out and three times she said no.” His eyes narrowed. “She laughed at me last time. Said I’d be better going after one of the kitchen staff.” He laughed suddenly. “Well, she’s not so high and mighty now, is she. I hope the mortuary porter gave her one just for luck.”

Liam’s eyebrows shot up at the image. He’d heard rumours about mortuary staff but he hadn’t wanted to believe them. Myers was probably making it up. He made a note to be cremated quickly anyway.

Liam stood outside himself for a moment and stared at the scene. He was leaning on the table towards Myers, nodding his head in sympathy at the hard, hard world of women and the men they gave grief to. Myers was sitting with his elbows on the table, head propped in his hands, wearing alternating expressions of vengeful glee and glumness on his face. It was the perfect time to slip in the question the boss had phoned him about.

Liam sniffed and nodded at the no-smoking sign on the wall. He already knew Ferdy Myers didn’t wear aftershave, never mind a menthol one; deodorant would have been a luxury for the man. He didn’t chew gum either. They’d lifted him hours before and he hadn’t chewed a stick. That only left one source of menthol that Liam could think of; cigarettes. He played his card.

“Pity you can’t smoke in here. I could do with a cig.”

To his surprise Myers shook his head. “They’ll kill you. You wanna see the wrecks admitted to the wards. Dalek Davros is in better shape.”

Liam’s heart sank. “Don’t you smoke then?”

Myers sniffed virtuously. “Used to. Gave up.”

Liam wasn’t about to do the same. Danni said perseverance was one of his greatest charms.

“Oh aye. When was that then?”

“A year back.”

Liam’s heart plummeted further but Myers hadn’t finished. He glanced round the brightly lit room for invisible eavesdroppers.

“Well, on and off a year. I still have the odd one now and then.”

“Is that OK then, the odd one? Don’t they do the same damage?”

Myers was indignant and Liam thought he’d pushed it too far. Ex-smokers were like people who’d lost weight; any hint that the cream cake they were chomping on might be part of a slippery slope was greeted by a martyred expression that would do a missionary proud. He was in luck.

“Not when you’ve had a forty-a-day habit like me. Besides, I only smoke menthol. They’re not the same. They clear your lungs.” He spread his fingers suddenly in the Vulcan symbol of peace. “Live long and prosper, Mr Spock.”

Liam wanted to punch the air. Myers had been on the ward both times and by the size of his biceps he was strong enough to kill. He’d hated Cooke and Rudd, wheeled squeaky trollies and he smoked menthol cigarettes. But instead of the cheer Liam wanted to give he merely said, “Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve a telephone call to make.”

The porter glanced at him suspiciously and then decided that tea was safe. Liam nodded towards the glass wall then exited the room quickly to return Craig’s call.

“It’s Myers, boss. He’s nuts and he hated Rudd and Cooke. Rudd knocked him back when he asked her out and he was jealous of Cooke and his job. He was on the unit both times and he wheels squeaky trollies.”

Craig wasn’t convinced. Ferdy Myers didn’t feel right. “Menthol scented aftershave?”

Liam snorted. “Aftershave! I wish. The odd shower would be nice. No aftershave and he doesn’t chew gum, but guess what, he’s just admitted that he smokes menthol cigarettes. We’ve got him.”

Craig shook his head slowly as Davy watched. On paper Ferdy Myers ticked every box: means, motive and opportunity, so why wasn’t he convinced? But they had to hold him.

“Hold him on suspicion.”

Craig’s words made Liam want to cheer but his tone said that he didn’t believe the porter was their man. Liam’s cheer died in his chest; he’d known his boss for too long not to know that he was usually right. Craig’s next words did nothing to reassure him.

“Get the forensic medical examiner to check him out, and for God’s sake stop calling him nuts, Liam. That’s an order. He served his country and suffered PTSD so show the man some bloody respect!”

***

Craig turned back to Davy and then glanced at the clock. “Hang on a minute, Davy.” He yanked open his door and called Nicky in. “It’s half-past-five. I don’t know about you two but I need something to eat.”

Nicky didn’t answer, just handed him some takeaway menus as Craig scanned the open-plan floor. Jake had arrived an hour earlier and was typing quietly at his desk and Carmen was at the ward with Ken, sorting out Dr Kirk. It was quiet without Annette there.

“Nicky, call Liam back and tell him after he’s finished with Myers he’s to join Carmen and Ken.”

Davy piped up. “What about Caleb Pitt? Is he going to be brought in?”

Craig stared into space for a moment and then shook his head. “He’s eighty odds and in a wheelchair. When we’ve finished tonight I’ll go to the unit and interview him there.”

There was something final about his tone and both Nicky and Davy heard it. Craig glanced at the menus then left the others to choose whatever they liked and excused himself. He took the lift to the exit then walked across Barrow Square till he stood by the river’s edge. The water was dark, darker than he’d seen it for a long time, as if someone had tipped in ink till it had stained the Lagan blue-black.

He stared into its depths, letting the ebb and flow calm him and wash away the noise in his head. His concerns about Annette floated away and with them his sadness about Jake’s imminent loss; time would heal them both. Next to go were Nicky’s hurt feelings and Carmen’s problems with men; they would both be there tomorrow and he needed to focus on today. As he breathed in the crisp October air he gazed out at Belfast Lough, listening as the sea called him in the way it always did. He’d finally taken the advanced sailing lessons that Julia had bought for him the summer before. He thought about her for a moment, hoping that she was happy with someone.

Finally, when all the noise of his life and office had died down Craig turned his mind back to the case. Ferdinand Myers ticked every box but his gut said that he was wrong; that left Brian Kirk and Caleb Pitt. They were on the unit both times, but what about the means? The background checks said both men had been in the military – Kirk as a doctor and Pitt decades before in Vietnam. Both combat hardened men, but Pitt was eighty and spent most of his time in a chair. Kirk was younger and fitter but his experience of professional men said they didn’t like their hands getting soiled. Why would Kirk strangle his victims when a small injection could do the trick? And even if they both had the means what was their motivation for killing Rudd and Cooke?

A hatred of drug-dealers? Or perhaps it was nothing to do with drugs; perhaps someone’s elderly relative had suffered at Rudd’s and Cooke’s hands? They were health professionals after all. Or maybe someone had objected to the dead pair letting their professions down. Could that have been a motive for Brian Kirk? Craig shook his head; it was weak.

He glanced up at the sky and watched as a jet circled the City Airport in the distance before swooping in to land. It left a trail of vapour and as it faded so did Craig’s doubts. He already knew the answer, now he just had to back it up with something more tangible than instinct.

Chapter Thirteen

People like him were rarely noticed in a hospital; after all, there were so many of them and everyone was so busy. Men and women rushed down the corridors to this meeting or that ward, always with the urgency and importance of knowing that what they did was morally right. Nurses were angels weren’t they, and doctors wise and fair? People had to believe that otherwise the whole structure would collapse into a moral morass.

But what if a nurse was a drug-dealer and her ex-boyfriend the doctor was the same. How did that fit with nice neat senses of right and wrong? Spending all day helping one group, while dealing poison to another; kind and caring, yet stupid and callous in their off-duty hours. How would the man in the street cope with that?

There had been precedents of course. Amelia Dyer, the nursemaid who’d killed every baby in her care and more recently Beverly Allitt, the angel of death. The doctors who’d gone bad were too numerous to mention; Crippen, Mengele and Shipman were only some of the ones who’d been named. Did professionals’ daily exposure to death somehow lessen its impact, so much so that dealing illegal powder and pills to help people blow their minds somehow seemed acceptable?

He’d seen what happened when men did that in times of war, not only blowing their minds but blowing out someone else’s as well. White powder and brown sugar became blood and brain matter on the floor.

Eleanor Rudd and Adrian Cooke had dealt death and he had convicted, sentenced and executed them. He would gladly do it again to save other lives.

***

“Will you please talk to me, Carmen?”

Carmen stormed ahead as Ken tried not to break into a run to catch her. She was smaller than him but what her legs lacked in length they made up for in speed. Eventually he got fed-up speaking to her back so he put on a spurt and caught up with her just as her hand reached out for the unit’s door. He blocked her way and stared down at her copper-curled head. There was no mistaking the message in his eyes: I’ve put up with your moods and silence for months but now you’re going to talk.

Carmen squinted at him, her eyes saying ‘move’ while her brain tried to recall another entrance to the E.M.U. There was none close so she stood her ground in silence.

“Well? Are you going to tell me how things went at Occupational Health?”

Carmen’s annoyance overcame her pursed lips and she blurted out. “What business is it of yours?”

“I have to work with you, that’s what. And…”

Ken’s impending confession that he liked her was aborted by her sharp retort.

“No, you don’t. Ask to be paired with someone else if you don’t like me. I don’t care.”

The momentary twinge that shot through his chest was replaced almost instantly by command. Yes, her words hurt, but he was used to leading soldiers whose way of saying they didn’t like you was a lot rougher than petulant words. If he could handle 80 kilos of brawn he could handle one small girl.

“You do care and you know I like you. But you’re so bloody determined to do everything alone that you put up ridiculous walls no-one can break through.”

Her widening eyes said he’d struck home and he was emboldened enough to place a hand on her arm. His voice softened.

“Carmen. The team is mostly male. If you don’t work with me you’ll just have to work with another man. I know for some reason you don’t like men, I think one hurt you somewhere along the way.” His voice hardened slightly. “But it bloody well wasn’t me and I’m fed up paying the price for their mistake.”

Seeing her resistance faltering he drew her to a seat against a wall. “Just tell me, did the counsellor help at all?”

Carmen’s eyes had widened so much that she looked like a Disney cartoon and Ken suddenly wanted to kiss her, but that was sexual harassment and could end him up in court. He bet the princes in fairytales had never had to contend with all these rules. How was a man to make passionate gestures when everything was forbidden by some law?

Carmen stared at the man in front of her as if she was seeing him for the first time. He was handsome and he cared what was going on inside her head, but…how could she trust him not to turn out like the rest; kind and loving until they had you and then demeaning and undermining you with every other word.

As the thoughts raced through her mind Ken read them, and as her eyes narrowed as if she’d tried him and sentenced him to death, he did what every good romantic hero through time has done when he sees the woman he likes slipping away, he kissed her. Just once, gently on the lips, but he kissed her all the same, in a hospital corridor while they were at work.

As he reached forward and brushed Carmen’s lips softly with his own Ken wondered idly how many regulations he’d just broken: police, hospital and army all at once. He didn’t care; all he cared about was comforting the pretty, broken woman in front of him and he prayed that she would see it that way.

After a moment he sat back and waited for the explosion of words: sexist brute, typical man, the list would go on and on. With one eye closed he waited and watched as Carmen’s eyes widened and then narrowed again. The sequence repeated several times while he tossed up whether to apologise or push his luck and kiss her again. Either way he’d acted like a mouse for months, a gentlemanly one but a mouse nonetheless, playing the long game with some strange belief that she would come round in the end. If she’d been shy or it had just been him that she was unsure of, then perhaps time would have done the trick, but he’d reckoned without her hatred of his whole sex. Even as he thought it Ken corrected himself. She didn’t hate men, she was terrified of them; some bastard had wounded her in ways that he hoped he never found out or he would have to hunt him down.

While all those thoughts ran through Ken’s head Carmen was having her own. They were shorter and less complex, ranging from ‘how dare he’ to ‘I quite enjoyed that’. She heard them and realised something; nowhere in her thoughts was one that said she hated Ken Smith, in fact quite the opposite. But he was a man and she didn’t trust men on principle so she had to be in control. Her next words were cool.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

Ken’s heart sank but what happened next confused him even more. There, in the hospital corridor, against every regulation, Carmen McGregor decided to take a risk on a man, but only on her terms. She stared into Ken’s eyes and when she was completely ready she leaned in to kiss him, oblivious to the people passing and the job that they were there to do. She added a caveat to her sentence.

“Unless I tell you to.”

Then she stood up, entered the unit and they got back to work.

***

Liam wasn’t quite sure what reaction he’d expected when he’d told Ferdy Myers he was being held. Nonchalance maybe; that’s what men usually attempted when they were looking at charges that could put them away for life. Perhaps some token act of defiance, like reaching for a cigarette in a no-smoking zone. The odd young lad would cry for his mum, but that was to be expected at that age. None of it moved Liam at all; they never shed a tear for their victims, only for themselves, not even when they were being sent down.

Some people deserved to be locked up; they were animals. Actually, to call them animals was unfair. Animals killed for food or defence, some of the scum he’d put away had killed for the change in a pensioner’s purse. His only doubt about prison was the cost; why they couldn’t just dump the whole bunch on a desert island with only their own gender beat him. They could fight and bugger each other to death for all he cared, just as long as they left the innocent alone. He glanced around High Street’s staff-room as if someone could hear his thoughts; that was all he needed, some telepathic Human Rights’ lawyer to appear. But the room was empty, with only his tea and a packet of digestives to silently disapprove.

Still…he admitted he’d been surprised when Myers had crumbled so completely. He wasn’t a kid; he was a fifty-year-old man. A wet eye would have been acceptable but not the full blown tsunami that Ferdy Myers had cried. There was none of his interview bravado, just denial after denial. At one point he’d actually dropped to his knees and begged Liam to let him go, saying that he hadn’t killed Rudd or Cooke, just hated them both, that was all. Here’s a hint, Ferdy. Telling a cop you hate a victim has a nasty habit of getting you charged.

Liam dunked another digestive in his tea. He was almost ashamed to admit it but he’d felt quite sorry for the porter by the end, not that anyone but him and Jack would ever know it of course. Letting that sort of thing leak out got you a rep for being a soft touch and that way lay Armageddon on the streets. Next thing you knew prisoners would be sending you Christmas cards saying ‘thanks for being kind’. It would disturb the natural order of things. Me cop, you scrote, me shout, you confess and go to jail. Do not pass go and definitely do not collect two hundred.

Just then the door opened and Jack slumped in, looking like a defeated man.

“Is there any tea left?”

“It’s a bit stewed but it’s OK.”

He poured a cup, shooting Liam an annoyed look.

“Thanks for that.”

Even Liam spotted the sarcasm.

“Is he still bad?”

“Take a look for yourself. The doctor was in there for ages trying to calm him down. We thought we’d have to send him to St Mary’s at one point.”

Liam nodded. “Sedatives?”

“Aye.” The sergeant glowered at him. “What the hell did you say to him? He was fine during the interview.”

Liam raised his hands in denial. “All I said was that we were holding him. You should know, you were watching from your hidey hole.”

Jack shrugged. It was true; Liam had done it strictly by the book. He thought for a moment and then said the words that every copper dreads.

“Well, for him to take on like that I’d say you’ve got the wrong man.”

***

Carmen and Ken glanced at each other and then back at Brian Kirk. He looked like a typical doctor, or what the movies had thought was one for years. Male, fifties, greying hair, what was left of it, glasses set low on his nose. In fact if central casting had been looking for someone to play the part a decade earlier Brian Kirk would have been quids in. Since then the typical TV doctor had morphed into an intelligent looking woman, usually brunette, reflecting medical schools’ female intake across the world. When they cast one who looked like Marilyn Monroe there’d finally be true equality.

But even if Kirk looked like Dr Perfect that didn’t rule him out on murder charges; if they could narrow down where he’d been at the times of deaths they would ship him to High Street and take it from there. As Carmen stared at their interviewee, Kirk twiddled nervously at his wedding ring, sliding it up and down his finger like it was used to coming off.

“How long have you been married, Dr Kirk?”

The doctor blinked in the brightly lit office and shook his head, not because he didn’t know the answer but because the question puzzled him.

“Twenty-three years in January.”

“Children?”

The conversational tone of the questions created a relaxed mood where it seemed perfectly normal for Kirk to discuss his kids.

“Two boys. Twenty and sixteen.”

Carmen nodded. “University and school I suppose?”

“Yes.” The physician leaned forward, emboldened by the coffee-shop chat that the interview had become. “Look, can I ask you what this is about? I’ve already told you that I was on the unit on the dates you mentioned and I’ve given you the name of the patient I was called to see. Mrs Bains will confirm that I was with her, so I couldn’t have committed or seen who committed the murders.”

He sat back decisively, folding his hands in front of him on the desk. Ken noticed how starched and pristine his white coat was, and the fact that he was wearing one at all; every other doctor he’d seen in the hospital seemed to prefer a handbag or their stethoscope draped round their necks. It looked untidy; he preferred the coat.

Carmen wasn’t looking at Brian Kirk’s white coat; she was too busy staring at his face. After she’d done it for long enough to disconcert him her voice changed from chatty to challenging and she said what she’d come to say.

“You’re a liar, Dr Kirk.”

Kirk railed at her words then leaned forward so fast that Ken wondered if he’d have to intervene. A warning glance was enough to make Kirk sit back again. His indignant words would have to suffice.

“How dare you!”

Carmen was undeterred. Her voice hardened and her soft Edinburgh lilt took on an edge. She tapped meaningfully on the notepad in front of her. “I dare because, while Sister Norton confirms that you saw Mrs Bains both days, she also gave me the exact times you were with her.”

She reached for the pad, turning the pages slowly in a deliberate attempt to ratchet Kirk’s tension up.

“On the morning of the ninth of October you were with Mrs Bains from ten to eleven o’clock, yet the CCTV doesn’t show you back in the main hospital corridor until eleven-forty. On the evening of Dr Cooke’s death we have a similar story. That leaves approximately forty minutes unaccounted for on each occasion.” She set down her notebook and folded her hands, echoing Kirk’s earlier pose. “Would you like to tell me where you were during those times?”

Ken watched as the consultant searched for a plausible alibi; he arrived at the clinician’s failsafe. “In the ward office.”

Carmen shook her head. “No you weren’t. We have footage of people entering and leaving both wards and the unit. You appear on the tapes heading for Reilly Suite on both occasions but never entering. Now, would you like to tell the truth?”

Kirk opened his mouth to lie again and Carmen shook her head. “I should tell you, Dr Kirk that we know all about your affair with Sister Gormley. Now, carry on lying by all means but all it will get you is a visit to a cell.”

Brian Kirk shook his head, but not angrily, rather he shook it like a man who’d given up. What he was giving up on was anyone’s guess. His lies? His affair? His marriage? Whichever it was, in the next ten minutes he answered their questions and outlined his relationship with Hazel Gormley, recounting exactly what they’d been doing while people were being killed.

***

The C.C.U. 7 p.m.

“Did you believe Kirk?”

Carmen nodded at the small briefing group. “Yes. It’s almost impossible to turn that shade of purple from embarrassment if you’re faking it. He said they usually meet in the clinical room.”

Liam laughed. “There’s CCTV in there. If they’re not careful the tape will end up on the Net.”

Craig shook his head at how careless they’d been.

“Does Kirk wear a wedding ring?”

“Yes, though it looks like it comes off pretty easily.”

“Our killer wore no rings and it’s unlikely Kirk would have taken the time to remove his if he’d killed Cooke in a hurry.” Craig paused before asking something else. “Is it serious between them?”

It was an inappropriate question and he knew it, but he was tired of watching his suspects disappear one by one. He didn’t believe Ferdy Myers was a solid contender and now Brian Kirk’s peccadillo was going to rule him out; he was going to allow himself the details.

Carmen shrugged. “Kirk said so and so did Gormley when we asked. Whether it is or not, it’s unlikely that Kirk’s good for the deaths.”

Craig nodded. “OK, double check the times and Davy will watch the clinical room CCTV.” He stared at Liam. “Only Davy. Tell Kirk and Gormley not to leave Belfast as we may want to question them again.” He dragged his hand down his face, fatigued. “OK, that leaves us with Ferdy Myers in custody but denying it.”

“Well, as Mandy Rice-Davies said ‘he would, wouldn’t he’.”

“True. There are no guilty men in prison. What does your gut say, Liam?”

Liam made a face. “It says I’m not sure. Myers is perfect in a lot of ways but you should have seen the carry-on when I held him. Fair gave me a headache.”

“Headaches aren’t a defence in court but if Myers’ solicitor pleads diminished capacity, your interview might be thrown out.”

Craig was silent for a moment and Nicky seized the gap to pour fresh coffees and hand them round. He thought for another minute before he spoke, attempting a neutral tone; he didn’t want to bias opinions by revealing his preferred killer.

“OK. Let’s park Myers and Kirk for a moment, who does that leave us with? Caleb Pitt, an eighty-four-year-old amputee who spends most of his time in a wheelchair. Comments anyone?”

Nicky watched as Carmen glanced at Ken in a way that said something had happened between them. She made up her mind to call Annette for a gossip certain that none of the men would have noticed a thing. She was wrong. Craig had spotted the warmth between them the moment they’d entered but he wasn’t saying a word in case he jinxed it. Anything that improved Carmen’s mood worked for him.

Liam had heard Craig’s deliberate neutrality and he knew what it meant. He ventured a quip anyway. “Maybe Pitt beat them to the ground with his Zimmer and then strangled them.”

Jake had been quiet since they’d started but now he spoke. “He doesn’t use a Zimmer.”

His words had an edge to them and Craig knew accusing an elderly man of murder when his grandfather was sick was hard for him, but not considering Caleb Pitt as a suspect was an omission that he couldn’t allow.

“OK, let’s look at what we know about Pitt. Davy?”

Davy remained in his semi-recumbent position, not from insolence but exhaustion; none of them had had any rest for a week. He tapped on his smart-pad and read.

“Caleb Pitt. Aged eighty-four last month. Born in Atlanta, Georgia in 1930, lived in New York for a time then came to live in the UK in 1986. He w…was in the US military until 1977, reached the rank of Major General when he was thirty-five. Married Edna Crowe in 1950 and they had two s…sons: Nathan and Joshua. Both in the military and both deceased.”

Liam interrupted. “That’s rough.”

Davy nodded. “One died in 1974 and the other in 1980.”

It was Craig’s turn to interrupt. “Where?”

Davy scoured his screen and then shook his head. “Doesn’t say. Do you need me to find out?”

Craig nodded. The unease he’d felt for days was growing.

“Will do. Edna Pitt died in 1982 and Caleb got a job with an oil company than brought him to the UK in ’86. He lived outside London until he retired in 1995, then he relocated, first to two different parts of S…Scotland and then here in 2005.”

Carmen cut in. “Why keep moving?”

It was a good question. Why would a retiree move three times in ten years? Davy shrugged and added it to his list of things to check.

“He’d been living in Newtownards since 2005. There was a w…woman around till two years ago; Mary Hart.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died. Natural causes. Pitt’s outlived a lot of people.”

Craig nodded. Caleb Pitt had lost a lot of loved ones. He wondered if it made life seem cheap.

“Pitt’s had health problems in the past nine years, mostly his chest. He’s a heavy s…smoker and it’s left him with emphysema; that’s a lung disease.”

Liam interjected. “Are the cigs why he lost his leg, or was that combat?”

“Neither. He got diabetes in his s…seventies and lost the leg from that.”

Craig nodded. The same thing had happened to an uncle of his in Rome. “OK. So when did Pitt move into Reilly?”

“2012. He was one of the first residents recruited by Prof Taylor.”

“Any reports of what he’s like there?”

“Fine, apparently. Helps new residents s…settle in, goes to get things for people from the shop. Even drives them into town if necessary; he has an adapted car. Never a cross w…word.”

“And his hands fit for strength?”

“Yes.”

Craig thought of something and turned to Carmen. “Did Dr Kirk have any scent of mint about him, Carmen?”

She shook her head. “None. No aftershave and he doesn’t smoke. I suppose he might chew gum occasionally but he doesn’t seem the type for that. Sorry. By the way, Annette called and said they don’t use any cleaning fluids with a mint or menthol scent on the wards, sir.”

It was the first ‘sir’ and ‘sorry’ they’d heard for months and Liam opened his mouth to say as much. Craig shut it with a glance; whatever was making Carmen pleasant he could do without Liam hexing it. She hadn’t finished.

“Annette wasn’t happy when she heard Ferdy Myers had been held. She said he had PTSD and a cell wasn’t the best environment for him.”

“I’m inclined to agree but we can’t release him till we’re sure.” He turned to Davy. “Davy, tell Jack to keep Myers on close watch and get the FME to make regular checks.”

Liam objected noisily. “He’s not that fragile! You should have seen his face when he talked about Rudd and Cooke.”

Craig ignored him and carried on. “OK, we need to look at Pitt very hard. Why has he moved around so much in retirement, what happened when he was in the military, where was he exactly at the time of the crimes?”

Jake opened his mouth to object but Craig shook his head.

“Before anyone says it, I know we already have a suspect in custody and I know an eighty-year-old killer seems far-fetched, but something tells me we haven’t cracked this case yet.” He turned to Liam. “Liam, dig into Pitt’s background with Jake. Carmen, you and I are going to chat to Mr Pitt on the ward. Davy, is there any match on that print on Cooke’s watch strap?”

Davy grimaced. “S…Sorry, chief. Nothing on the usual databases. Myers has been printed and we’re waiting for a match, but Kirk and Pitt both refused. We might need w…warrants there. I’ll run it against military databases, given that all three men were in the forces, although I doubt the Yanks will open theirs to us. Pitt’s an American citizen so he has rights.”

“He doesn’t have a UK passport?”

Before Davy could answer Liam asked Ken a question. “How the hell is he affording his medical care?”

“He must have money tucked away.” Ken made a face. “Military pensions in the US must be a damn sight better than ours.”

Davy interjected. “Pitt has dual citizenship so the NHS is free.”

Craig steered the discussion away from economics. “Maybe the Americans will let you send them the print to check it themselves.”

Davy shrugged. “I’ll try.”

“OK. If you can’t I’ll get the Chief Constable onto it. Ken, I want you to act as military liaison for us. Go to the American Embassy and see if you can speak to someone connected to their military. Pitt isn’t going anywhere at the moment so we have a little time. Carmen and I will keep an eye on him. OK, that’s it for now. Everyone knows what they have to do. Get ready for a late night. We may need to brief again.”

As the group dispersed Craig leaned over to Davy.

“I need you to run a new search.”

Davy stared at him, wondering what more there was to search for.

“On?”

“Deaths of drug-dealers in the UK and America, and can you also check on something else…”

Chapter Fourteen

The Chief Constable’s office. 8 p.m.

“I know it’s unusual, sir, but...”

“It’s necessary for the case.”

Craig nodded. “If we can’t trace this print then we can’t tie anyone definitively to the murder and any halfway decent barrister will get it chucked out of court.”

Sean Flanagan rolled his eyes at the thought of fighting through yards of American red tape. UK departmental officials were tough enough without dealing with the Yanks. He wondered if civil servants everywhere took a course on ‘how to obstruct’; it certainly seemed to be their usual M.O.

He sipped at his cooling coffee and made a face and then yelled for his P.A. “Donna, fresh coffee for two.”

Craig grinned, wondering what Nicky’s response would be if he tried that on her – probably a pot tipped over his head. Donna ambled in, seemingly unperturbed by her boss’ less than polite summons. She lifted the cold pot and reappeared two minutes later with a hot one. The exaggerated slowness with which she set it in front of Flanagan and her long-suffering smile at Craig told him that Flanagan would get the lecture once he’d gone. Summoning her like a housemaid might impress the troops but there’d be a price to pay.

They turned back to the case.

“You’re convinced we need to check US military fingerprints?”

Craig nodded.

“Care to run me through why?”

It was said without expectation.

“I’d prefer not to at the moment, sir.”

Flanagan shrugged and dialled a number. Craig could hear Donna answering on the other side of the wall.

“Get me the American Ambassador will you?”

“I might.”

“What will it take?”

“Chocolates.”

“OK. Now put through the call.”

Two minutes later Flanagan’s phone rang.

“John. How are you? And how’s Diane? Good, good. We must have dinner soon.”

Craig heard Ambassador John Richie’s voice clearly then Flanagan made his request.

“So, we need to send a print through, to be run against your military database.”

The quiet murmuring on the other end rose to a higher pitch. Flanagan’s pitch matched.

“Necessary? Of course it’s necessary, man. It’s a murder case! Two murders in fact. We’ve a print and the evidence is pointing towards a possible military link. Don’t worry, we’re asking the British Army to check their records as well.” Flanagan listened for a moment and then rolled his eyes. “Yes, OK… And if you find a match we’ll meet face-to-face before you give us a name.”

The two men chatted on for a moment then Flanagan signed off and turned to Craig.

“Send me the print. But you’d better hope it matches someone because I’ve just made the ultimate sacrifice. I agreed to play golf and John Richie’s the worst player I’ve ever seen.”

***

“Des, get the print from Cooke’s watch over to the Chief Constable, please.”

Des stared at the phone and made a face. He had no choice but to comply but he didn’t like copies of his evidence going walkies around the force. He’d have been even less pleased if Craig had told him it was going all the way to America. Craig clicked the phone off then dialled again and got Ken. Smith was trudging back to his car, metaphorically bruised and bloodied after his encounter with the US military liaison. Craig heard the defeat in his ‘hello’ and made his first word an apology.

“Sorry.”

Ken squinted at the phone, wondering what he deserved an apology for but magnanimous in his acceptance just the same.

“No problem, sir. What are you sorry for?”

“Sending you to deal with the US officials. Was it hopeless?”

Ken grimaced, remembering how many times the tanned officer had ‘yes and no sirred’ him. You could lose years wading through those salutes.

“Pretty much.”

“Leave it and get on to Craigantlet army base. You might get more joy from the M.O.D.”

“Are we forgetting about the Yanks then?”

Craig shook his head as he answered. “The C.C. has got the US Ambassador onto it. So just check the UK databases and bring me whatever you get.”

One of the military databases would ping with their print eventually and Craig knew which one his money was on.

***

Craig dumped his Audi in the car park at the back of Reilly and rang the bell. It was answered by Hazel Gormley. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something about her affair but he decided to let it go. She looked embarrassed enough without him rubbing it in.

“Hello, Sister. Is D.C. McGregor here yet?”

Gormley nodded and led the way to her small office. They passed elderly people playing chess, watching TV and chatting in small groups on the way; they looked happy, happier perhaps than some would have been sitting alone at home. Craig pictured himself there in forty years’ time but it didn’t scan; if he was still alive then he’d be on a balcony in Italy drinking wine.

Carmen rose briskly as he entered the office and he marvelled at the seemingly ungrudging show of respect. Perhaps her counselling session had worked or perhaps something between her and Ken was working even better. When the sister left to collect Caleb Pitt he brought her up to date.

“One of the military databases will match the print on Cooke eventually, but a good lawyer will argue it could have been left in some innocent way. We need a confession. We haven’t got one from the others so let’s see what we can get from Pitt.”

There was no point prescribing the interview questions, interviews were living things: silent, meandering or abrupt.

“Follow my lead and don’t be surprised by what I ask. I have background info that you don’t.”

A moment later the door was knocked and Caleb Pitt’s wheelchair forced its way in with a bang. Pitt was grey-haired, what was left of it, with muscular arms and shoulders built by years of strong living, kept that way now by pushing a chair. His skin was weathered, but something about its clarity said that he’d had a privileged life. His eloquent first words confirmed it, and that he intended to play games.

“Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.” Hamlet. It suited his sonorous voice. He extended a hand to Craig and strengthened his American accent deliberately. “Caleb Pitt. And you are?”

Craig shook his hand, gauging its size and strength as he did. Something about the grip said Pitt was a man used to getting his way.

“Superintendent Craig and this is Constable McGregor.”

Pitt inclined his head politely towards Carmen and then turned back to Craig. “Well now, ain’t that a strange first name? ‘Superintendent’. Where I come from folks call their kids things like Caleb and George.”

Craig ignored the jibe, knowing that Pitt was jockeying for supremacy. He had no intention of giving it to him.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr Pitt. This is a formal interview so I’m going to caution you.”

“I’m going nowhere.”

“Would you like legal counsel present?”

Pitt guffawed. “A lawyer? No thanks. Best place for them is in the grave.”

Even Craig didn’t dislike the legal profession that much.

As Craig read him his rights Pitt manoeuvred his chair expertly to face the desk, forcing Craig to sit behind it or talk to his back. Carmen positioned herself at the short end so that the three sat so close in the small room that they could feel each other’s breath. Craig deliberately slowed his speech to exert control and the glint in Pitt’s eyes said that he recognised a worthy foe.

“You’ll be aware of the two recent murders in the unit.”

“Who could miss your boys all over the place?”

“You were here on both occasions.”

“I live here, Mr Craig. You know that.”

Carmen watched as the men batted words skillfully back and forth. It felt like a warm-up at Wimbledon. Craig leaned back in his chair, increasing the space between them and Carmen watched Pitt lean forward to compensate. The desk halted him halfway.

“Tell me a little about yourself, Mr Pitt.”

The old man smiled, showing his teeth. They were large and slanted, like a shark’s. He strengthened his US accent deliberately.

“Come now, Mr Craig. Let’s not play games. You already know plenty about me I ’spect.”

Craig smiled coolly. “Humour me.”

Pitt folded his hands and nodded. “Well now…let me see. I was born in Georgia, that’s in the southern states of America ’case you don’t know. My daddy was a peach farmer and a darned good one too, so I grew up in what people might call comfortable circumstances.” He turned to Carmen and Craig was curious to see what came next. “You should go to Georgia, missy. Pretty little thing like you would be fêted there.”

Before Craig could intervene Pitt turned back to him and spent the next five minutes running through his early military career. His face darkened when he reached the Vietnam War.

“Worst hell-hole I’ve ever been in. Godforsaken place and godforsaken folk and we only made their hell worse. Lost my boy Nathan there.”

He stared into space as if he could still see the horrors, then as abruptly as his face had darkened it twisted into a smile. The contrast was disconcerting.

“I came home to my wife Edna. Finest woman you ever did see.”

Craig interrupted sympathetically. “She died.”

A look of anguish crossed Pitt’s face.

“And your other son, Joshua.”

The anguish was replaced by a fury that made Carmen jerk back in her chair. Craig imagined Pitt’s temper unleashed and knew that it wouldn’t be a pretty sight.

“He was murdered!”

Craig spotted a sore and pressed on it. “That’s not what the police reports say. They say he was found dead.”

“Murdered by scum.”

“Cause of death was listed as a drug overdose.”

Pitt lurched forward so fast that Craig didn’t have time to react. He grabbed Craig’s tie and yanked it, banging his cheek hard against the desk. As Carmen went to intervene, Craig’s eyes signalled no and she realised this was what he’d been trying to provoke. Pitt leaned forward and hissed in his ear.

“It was a set-up.”

Craig gasped out his words. “They found the needle in his arm.”

“My boy didn’t put it there. That damn scum did.”

As suddenly as the octogenarian had grabbed Craig he released him. Craig jerked upright, loosening his tie and gasping as Carmen spoke.

“You’ve just assaulted a police officer, Mr Pitt.”

Pitt smiled coldly. “Ask Superintendent here if he wants to arrest me.”

She turned to see Craig shake his head. “But, sir…”

He waved her down and fixed Pitt’s pale eyes with his own. The older man spoke first.

“Ask your boss why he don’t want to charge me, missy.”

She glanced at Craig. “Sir?”

Craig said nothing so Pitt spoke again.

“I’ll tell you why he won’t charge me. It’s ’cos he wants me so bad for bigger things that he’s aching. But he ain’t got no evidence.” He grinned at Craig, taunting him. “Have you, boy?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he swivelled his chair round expertly and headed for the door. As it opened he waved back over his head.

“Bye now. Y’all come and find me when you actually have a case.”

Carmen went to speak but Craig shook his head. When Caleb Pitt’s shadow had faded saying he was far enough away not to hear he grabbed his mobile and phoned the squad.

“Nicky, get a C.S.I. over to Reilly ward. Just one man and not suited up. I want a set of prints lifted.”

Carmen stared at the desk where Caleb Pitt had sat. He’d set his left hand flat on the desk when he’d grabbed Craig’s tie with his right. She gawped at her boss.

“Very clever.”

Craig smiled and rubbed his neck. “Bloody painful too. He has a hell of a grip.” He gestured at the door. “Would you mind scrounging some coffee? I’ll bring you up to speed when you get back.”

Five minutes later he started. “Davy got Pitt’s military record. He made Major General in the infantry at thirty-five and his career looked set for great things until he was send to Vietnam.”

Carmen knew something important was coming.

“His son Nathan was nineteen when he died.”

She looked blank and Craig realised she was too young to remember the song. ‘19’ by Paul Hardcastle had been a worldwide hit in 1985. Nineteen was quoted as the average age of American forces in Vietnam, although the US Army said it was actually twenty-two.

“The Vietnam War lasted twenty years; 200,000 US troops were killed or injured.”

Carmen shook her head, half in sadness and half because she still didn’t understand where Craig was heading.

“The ones that didn’t die in combat often ended up Heroin addicted. Some put addiction rates as high as fifteen percent. Many soldiers stayed out there and were never heard from again.”

Realisation dawned on her. “But Pitt’s other son Joshua came home.”

“With a habit. He had Heroin in his system when he died.”

She nodded. “So the scum Pitt was referring to were drug-dealers. He hates them.”

Craig nodded.

“And he killed Rudd and Cooke because they were dealing drugs.”

Craig shook his head. “Slow down. We might believe that’s what happened but we’ve a way to go to prove it.” He indicated the desk. “Even if his print matches the one Des found on Cooke’s watch, we have no proof as to how it got there.”

“But if the US Army…”

Just then the C.S.I. arrived to print the desk so they left the ward, restarting the conversation once they were clear.

“The most the army will do is confirm that Pitt is who he says he is. We need more, so Davy will be circulating that print to the US and UK police.”

Carmen still wasn’t sure what he was hoping for but Craig prayed they would have what they needed by the end of the day.

***

The C.C.U. 10 p.m.

“Sorry for calling you all back in but things are heating up. Davy first, then Liam and Jake.”

Craig waved his hand in Davy’s general direction and was disappointed by his shaking head.

“Nothing from the police in either country yet, s…sorry. We’re being delayed by the time difference and the 50 States’ approach. The UK’s just taking its time.”

Craig rolled his eyes in frustration. “Not your fault.” He thought for a moment. “OK, let’s narrow it down.” Nicky saw him searching for a piece of paper and thrust an A4 sheet into his hand. Craig scribbled something and passed it to Davy.

“Forget the general approach; go directly to the forces on that list. Tonight please, Davy.”

Davy read the paper then excused himself to send some e-mails while Craig motioned Liam on.

“Aye well. You already know we have Weirdy Myers in custody.”

Ken frowned. “I’m sure that’s not P.C.”

Liam guffawed and shot Craig a defiant look. “When was anything I did? Well Weirdy or Ferdy, or whatever he’s called, is being held on suspicion of the murders.” He gestured at Craig in a way Ken knew would get him cashiered if he tried it with Major James, his army boss. “Except the boss here doesn’t think that he did it.”

Craig shook his head. “I didn’t say that. I said my gut’s saying different.”

“Aye well then, the boss’ innards are saying no.”

Nicky screwed up her face in disgust.

“But…” Liam bowed towards her. “…with all due deference to Milady’s delicacy, I think his bowels are wrong.”

Her look of disgust was joined by a groan from the rest of the group and a ‘get on with it’ glance from Craig.

“Myers is a fit fifty odds with combat training, mental illness and a history of GBH. He has strong hands and he hated both Rudd and Cooke. He was on the unit during both murders, wheels squeaky trollies and wheelchairs around and smokes menthol cigarettes.” He folded his arms decisively. “I rest my case.”

Ken was curious. “Why did he hate Rudd and Cooke?”

“Fancied Rudd and she knocked him back.” He gazed at Carmen and Nicky with spaniel eyes. “You’ve no idea how much that hurts us men.”

Nicky snorted.

“And he thought Cooke was a privileged twat, if you’ll excuse my French.”

Craig raised a warning eyebrow at his language. “That wasn’t in the version of French I learned.”

He signalled Liam to stand down.

“OK, everything Liam says it true but I just don’t believe in Ferdinand Myers as a suspect. Either way he’s in custody so let’s park him for now. Ken and Carmen, anything more on Dr Kirk?”

Davy re-joined the group with a nod at Craig. He liked being the only one who knew what he’d written on the paper, it played to his love of the covert.

Ken deferred to Carmen.

“OK. As reported Ken and I interviewed Dr Kirk. He admitted to being on the unit at the time of both deaths, seeing Mrs Bains. He also admitted to meeting Sister Gormley in the clinical room. They’ve been having a romantic relationship for a while.”

It was Nicky’s turn to interrupt. “Affair. They’ve been having an affair.”

Carmen shrugged. “They say they love each other and Kirk’s intending to leave his wife and marry her.”

“He should have done that first then, shouldn’t he?”

As Nicky glared, daring anyone to object, Craig wondered what she would make of Annette’s new relationship when it came out.

Carmen was getting frustrated. “Whatever it’s called, it’s what they were doing while Dr Cooke was being killed!”

“Independent witnesses, Carmen?”

“That they weren’t on the ward for a while? Yes. Two of the patients on Reilly said they saw them disappearing together in the direction of the clinical room. Said they often did it and everyone knew what was going on.”

Jake had been silent but now he leaned forward, looking quizzical.

“Yes, Jake?”

The sergeant screwed up his face as if uncertain whether he was about to put his foot in it. After all, he’d only been around sporadically during the case so he might have missed something. Craig read his mind.

“Don’t worry if you think it’s something you should already know. Just ask.”

“Well, sir. It’s…it’s just…I’ve read all the briefing notes and…isn’t the clinical room in the blind spot between the wards, where Dr Cooke was killed?”

Craig nodded, seeing where he was going.

“Then if Dr Kirk and Sister Gormley were in there during Dr Cooke’s murder how could they not have noticed it happening right outside the door? It must have been noisy; Cooke fought hard. And why didn’t Ian Jacobs see either of them when he found Dr Cooke? Also, if Dr Kirk was with Mrs Bains until eleven o’clock on the morning of Ellie Rudd’s death but didn’t leave the unit until eleven-forty, surely he would have seen something if he’d been anywhere near the clinical room with Sister Gormley? Rudd’s body was found around eleven!”

All good questions but, contrary to the ‘gotcha’ looks on Liam and Carmen’s faces, Craig was sure they would have simple answers.

“Well done Jake, none of us spotted those anomalies. My guess is that they didn’t use the clinical room on the morning of Rudd’s death because they’d heard that something had happened there. As you say, the body was found at eleven when Dr Kirk was still with his patient, so they could have heard about Rudd and arranged another venue. But why they lied about using the room then is anyone’s guess. On the Monday evening they were already in the clinical room by the time Cooke and his assailant appeared and they possibly didn’t hear anything because they were so engrossed. They must have slipped away after the nurse found Cooke’s body and screamed.”

He saw Liam about to object and stopped him.

“However, we’ll check. Carmen, you and Jake do that immediately after the briefing. Take Gormley and Kirk separately and then together; see if they remember seeing or hearing anything. Get their timings nailed down then confirm them with Davy; he has the tapes. I want to know why they lied about being in the clinical room after Rudd was found and where they really were. ”

He turned to Ken. “Did Dr Kirk have any combat training? Or any reason to hate Cooke or Rudd?”

Ken shook his head. “We asked about their relationships with the deceased and there was nothing relevant. Carmen asked Dr Kirk about his time in the army and there was no hint of combat; he was a medic the whole time.” He smiled. “I deliberately shook his hand when we arrived and left and his grip was weak. I doubt he’d have been able to strangle a grown man.”

Carmen glanced at him in admiration and Liam mimicked being sick. That was all they needed, a full-blown squad romance. His mild flirtation with Nicky was one thing, but if those two were going to start slobbering over each other at work, well, it could drive a man to drink.

Craig thought for a moment. “OK. Just check what we’ve discussed and if the answers satisfy we can rule Kirk out.” He paused before continuing more slowly. “That just leaves us with Caleb Pitt.”

An elderly patient doing the killing; it was the option he’d been reluctant to face. Everyone but Carmen gawped at him. Old people were supposed to be gentle and smiling, or at worst grumpy and know it all. They weren’t supposed to have homicidal urges and they definitely weren’t supposed to commit the act!

A muttered ‘no’ ran round the group but Carmen barely raised an eyebrow at the thought of the octogenarian amputee being their man. What she’d seen of Pitt earlier that day had said he was quite capable of causing someone’s death.

Craig parked his statement and recounted the challenges of getting the print on Cooke’s watch I.D.ed by the military. Ken updated them on his conversations on the same.

“The M.O.D. finally ran it but it came up blank. Whoever left that print wasn’t in the British forces.”

Jake jumped in. “So that rules out Myers and Kirk.”

Liam shook his head. “Only if we think the print was definitely left by the killer. It could have been left at some other time.”

Craig nodded in agreement. “And that’s where we hit a brick wall. Even if it matches someone on the US database, all that tells us is that someone who was in the US forces touched Dr Cooke’s watch at some time. We already know we have a member of the US military on the ward; Caleb Pitt.”

Carmen nodded. “He’s a creepy, aggressive old man.”

Craig laughed. “Good description. We got his print today and we’ll run it against the one found on Cooke’s watch. I’m sure they’ll match, but that still doesn’t prove that Pitt killed anyone, merely that he touched Cooke at some stage. Cooke was Pitt’s doctor so a barrister will drive a truck through that.”

Liam interrupted. “What was Pitt’s grip like?”

Craig rubbed his neck and smiled at Carmen. “Strong enough to strangle a grown man.”

“Did he have motive?”

Carmen answered in an excited voice. “Yes! He hates drug-dealers, called them scum. His younger son died from a Heroin overdose.”

The last of the gawping and muttering disappeared and Liam screwed up his face. “His kid was a junkie?”

Craig shook his head. “Yes and no. He was in Vietnam too.”

Liam nodded solemnly and Ken swallowed hard. “Oh God.”

Only Davy and Jake looked puzzled. Davy leaned forward to catch Craig’s eye.

“W…What does that mean?”

They were both too young to remember the song. Craig wished that he was; its relentless hook was playing in his head on a loop. "N-n-n-n-nineteen" and "d-d-d-d-destruction" set against images of war and young men; young men who’d died in their droves in a war that their country had been embarrassed by.

“It was a song. Popular in the mid-eighties. Nineteen was said to be the average age of the young soldiers sent to fight in Vietnam, although the US said it was more like twenty-two. Two hundred thousand of them were killed or injured and many of the survivors got hooked on drugs out there.”

Jake interjected. “So both Pitt and his son were in Vietnam?”

“Pitt was a Major General in the Infantry. He got the Distinguished Service Medal and Silver Star for gallantry. Both his sons were out there: Nathan and Joshua. Nathan died in combat and Joshua ended up an addict and died of an overdose years later, in New York.”

Davy nodded. The NYPD was one of the police forces Craig had him checking out.

“Pitt hates drug-dealers, OK. But is there any proof he knew that Cooke and Rudd w…were?”

Craig’s jaw dropped and he gazed at Carmen. She shook her head, confirming that nowhere in their ten minute conversation had Pitt mentioned Cooke’s and Rudd’s drug links. Craig banged his head with his hand; he couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid! It was basic interviewing; prove that the suspect had a motive for the crime.

“Davy, you’re a genius. We know Pitt is strong enough to have strangled them and we know he hates drug-dealers but he hasn’t admitted to knowing that Cooke and Rudd were.”

Liam shook his head exaggeratedly and Craig felt his irritation rise; he was tired and he’d missed something, now wasn’t a good time for Liam to take the piss. If he tutted he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. Thankfully Liam didn’t tut; he threw Craig a bone instead.

“It wouldn’t have mattered if Pitt had admitted he knew Cooke and Rudd were dealers. Any decent lawyer would have said that he’d just heard gossip about it around the ward. Whether Pitt admits he knows or not, it’s feasible that he did and that’s what we should go on.”

Craig smiled gratefully, but he still knew he’d made an error and his anger with himself was worse than anyone else’s could ever be.

“OK, so Caleb Pitt hates drug-dealers and it’s feasible that he’d heard some gossip about the victims, but we need to prove it by finding someone he discussed it with. Also, he’s strong enough to have strangled both victims but…”

Carmen nodded. “How did he do it if he was in a chair? And he definitely wouldn’t have been stable enough to do it if he’d been using his Zimmer or stick.”

Craig almost yelled across the room. “The wheelchair!”

He leapt to his feet and headed for his office, returning a moment later with his coat. As he slipped it on he grabbed his mobile and dialled the lab. John answered immediately. Natalie was on call so he was working late.

“I’m coming down.”

The others could hear John’s calm “OK” as if he was unsurprised by Craig’s call. Craig murmured something to Davy and then turned back to the group.

“OK. Liam, you’re with me. Davy, you know what I need, call me when you get anything. Chase everything and if anyone gives you any crap about the time of night tell them the Chief Con is taking an interest in the case.” He turned to Jake. “Jake, you, Ken and Carmen go back to Reilly. Re-interview Gormley and Kirk…”

“Should we take them to High Street? It might focus their minds.”

“Good idea, Jake, you do that. Carmen and Ken, stay on Reilly and talk to every nurse and patient, until one of them confirms that Caleb Pitt knew about Rudd’s and Cooke’s links with drugs.”

Carmen looked at him anxiously. “But sir, Pitt’s violent, we saw that earlier. We could be putting them at risk.”

Craig nodded, they could. He sensed that Caleb Pitt wouldn’t harm anyone except people he regarded as scum but they couldn’t take the chance.

“OK. Confine Pitt to his room and set a uniform on the door. Then take the residents and staff into Sister Gormley’s office one by one. Carmen’s right; Pitt’s violent and we don’t need any more deaths. Station more uniforms around Reilly, including the exit to the car park.”

He gestured to Liam and they strode to the lifts, leaving a stunned team in their wake.

Chapter Fifteen

The Lab.

When Craig and Liam reached John’s office he was nowhere to be seen. His mobile lay on the desk so Craig phoned Marcie his secretary instead; when John worked late so did she, she was saving the overtime for a round the world trip.

To say that Marcie was John’s secretary wasn’t strictly true and made the relationship sound very grand; she was actually the secretary for the whole forensic lab. The guru who collated gory and garbled evidence from Des, the C.S.I.s and John and turned it into beautifully bound, lab-logoed police and court reports, while all the time dispensing home-made cakes. From her job description and performance Marcie should have been a woman of sixty who crocheted in her spare time, instead she was a twenty-two-year-old nouveau-hippie drama graduate, biding her time before her acting career took off.

She answered the phone in modulated theatre school tones.

“Good evening, pathology labs.”

“Hi Marcie, it’s Marc Craig. Is John with you?”

Her formal tones softened. “He’s right beside me.”

“Where are you?”

“In dissection room three; I’m taking dictation on the run.”

Craig imagined John rushing around the steel dissection room with Marcie pursuing, clothed in vintage seventies dress.

“We’ll come to you.”

In a minute they were in the dissection room and the scene exactly matched the one in Craig’s head. Marcie’s outfit was flowing green velvet, as befitted a child of the earth, and her long black hair was woven loosely with ribbons that matched. She was Woodstock re-incarnated forty-five years on.

Liam grinned down at the girl. “How do, Marcie.”

His bass bounced off the room’s hard surfaces and boomed loudly in her ears. She winced slightly and then laughed.

“Good evening, Chief Inspector.”

“Here now, none of that rank stuff. You’re making me feel like your dad.”

John rolled his eyes at Liam trying to impress the girl. “You could almost be her granddad. Leave her alone and come over here.”

As Marcie flitted gracefully from the room Craig smiled.

“I hope you don’t lose her; she keeps you all under control.”

John sighed. “We will if she gets a good acting role.”

He exited the room abruptly, leaving the two policemen trailing in his wake. His voice echoed back down the hallway.

“I take it you want to look at Rudd and Cooke again? I’ve had their bodies brought up.”

“Yes. We need to check something.”

As they arrived in dissection room one Craig took a brief call, cutting it with “Call again when you have the rest.”

John crossed to two trollies set against the wall.

“What did you want to check?”

Craig stared at the neat black body bags wondering why the world was obsessed with orderliness in death. Liam’s next words broke his thoughts.

“Aye, what are we here to look at, boss? We already know what killed them.”

Craig nodded at John to unzip the first bag. It was Adrian Cooke. His smooth white skin and goatee beard gave him an almost Restoration air. Coupled with his slightly long hair he looked like a cavalier.

“Can we look at their necks first, John, then at their legs.”

John drew the material back to reveal the dead doctor’s neck. The purple bruising from strangulation was clearer now, with the finger shaped markings that said it had been done by hand. Craig held his hand above Cooke’s neck and John handed him a pair of gloves.

“You can touch him if you need to.”

Craig screwed up his face in distaste but he did what he had to do. He placed his hands around Adrian Cooke’s neck, in the grip that a strangler would have used. His hands were slightly too small so he beckoned Liam to don some gloves and do the same; his were too big. Craig glanced at Liam and then repeated the action on Eleanor Rudd’s body with the same result.

Craig shook his head and John interrupted the mime show.

“What have I missed?”

“You, nothing, but we have a man under arrest whose hands are far too small to have done this.” Craig stared at Liam. “Did you notice Ferdy Myers’ hands? I had Davy get Jack to measure them and they’re far smaller than either of ours, with narrow fingers; they don’t fit. The man who did this has large hands and thick digits.”

Liam conceded the point grudgingly. Ferdy Myers might have hated Cooke and Rudd and been capable of violence, but he might not have killed them. Craig indicated Cooke’s legs.

“Show us the bruises behind his knees, please.”

John covered Cooke’s face then unzipped the bag from the other end with an eager look on his face. “Do you know what caused them?”

“Maybe. I’ll tell you in five minutes.”

John lifted one of Cooke’s heavy, cold legs and they stared at the dark bruises on the back of his knees.

“The ones on Rudd’s thighs are the same?”

“Identical.”

“Same height from the ground?”

“685 millimetres on both bodies.”

Craig gestured towards Adrian Cooke’s back. “You found other bruising on his back. Same age?”

John nodded and rearranged the body. “Yes, but made by something else.”

“Any on Eleanor Rudd?”

John shook his head. “Just the abuse scars.”

Liam was shaking his head as well, but this time in confusion.

“Here, boss, we already know they died from strangulation; what’s the bruising on their legs got to do with that.”

Craig smiled. “Humour me, Liam. Do you have pictures of all the bruises, John?”

“In my office.”

“Then get Des back in with his books and get the coffee on. I have a theory that I want to discuss.”

***

Hazel Gormley was on a break and Brian Kirk was dealing with a sick patient. Until he could question the lovers about their deafness during Cooke’s murder, Jake helped Carmen and Ken begin the questioning on the ward. Every resident they questioned seemed to have been fooled by Caleb Pitt’s amiable helpfulness and none were willing to incriminate him. By the sixth “Caleb drives me to get things from town” and “Caleb sorts out my pension” Jake knew they’d hit a dead end.

He scanned the suite and then had an idea. He’d been out of the loop for most of the case; it was time to prove that he still had what it took. He whispered something to Carmen and she nodded, then she glanced around the residents till her eyes lit on a small, grey-haired woman in her seventies. She was pretty in a soft, mumsy way and Carmen imagined her as a bonny girl. She looked just the sort of woman Caleb Pitt would like. She signalled Jake and Ken to stay where they were and walked across. As she drew up a chair and sat down the woman gave her a startled look.

“I don’t know anything.”

Carmen smiled. She did know something, she was sure of it, now she just had to find out what. She extended her hand to shake and the woman automatically did the same.

“My name’s Carmen.”

The woman gave a quick smile and Carmen noticed how pretty her eyes were; green and soft. She wondered if the woman had been a redhead like her.

“You’re Scottish.”

Carmen nodded. “From Edinburgh. Have you ever been there, Mrs…?”

The woman’s rings said she’d been married and her lack of companion said she was widowed or divorced.

“Margaret. Margaret Rankin. But my friends call me Peggy.”

“Have you ever been to Scotland, Mrs Rankin?”

“Once.” She glanced away. “When my husband was alive. It’s a pretty country.”

Carmen nodded. “It is indeed.” She sat in silence for a moment, as she readied to ask what Jake had tasked her to as casually as she could. “Do you know Mr Pitt?”

Peggy Rankin shook her head quickly then corrected herself with the honesty of a woman who never lied. “Well…I mean…everyone knows Caleb. He’s a big character.” She added hastily. “And very kind to all of us.”

Carmen kept her voice soft. “I’m sure he is… Maybe he has a special friend on the ward? You, perhaps? After all he’s a handsome man.”

It was true; even in old age Caleb Pitt had a virility that few men possessed. Carmen allowed herself a caveat; except Ken. Ken was handsome; she’d seen it from the beginning but it was only now she could admit it to herself. She saw a blush rise on Peggy Rankin’s cheeks and knew that they’d struck gold.

“I…I don’t know what you mean. We only play cards and chat, that’s all. I…”

She squirmed with old-fashioned shyness lest Carmen think there’d been anything ‘improper’ going on. Carmen put her out of her pain, reaching forward to enclose the woman’s ageing hand with her own.

“I’m sorry to embarrass you, Mrs Rankin. I didn’t mean to imply anything improper; just that as special friends, Mr Pitt might have confided in you.”

Peggy Rankin stopped squirming and gave Carmen a look that said she knew exactly what she was asking.

“You want me to say that we discussed that doctor and nurse, don’t you?”

“Yes. If you did.”

Peggy pursed her lips. “Well I won’t. Caleb’s a good man and he’s got a right to hate drug-dealers after what happened to his son.”

Bingo! Carmen stayed completely still while her mind raced, formulating her next question. Her tone was casual.

“Did everyone on the ward know they were drug-dealing?”

Peggy smiled, feeling on more certain ground now that Pitt’s name was out of the frame. Carmen felt almost guilty tricking the woman, then she reminded herself there were two dead bodies in the morgue.

“Oh yes.” She pursed her lips. “No-one liked that Rudd girl; she was a nasty piece of work. Deliberately stuck her nails into Mrs Lewis one day when she was helping her into the bath.”

Carmen urged her to focus. “But how did you know she was involved in drugs?”

“It was obvious. Just like in the movies. She was always sneaking about talking to Dr Cooke.” She smiled broadly. “He was such a nice young man; always so pleasant.” She shook her head. “Such a sad death.”

Carmen steered her back to the point. “Yes…but how did you know drugs were involved? They could have been talking about anything.”

Peggy shook her head firmly. “No. Mr Jones saw them exchanging little bags of white powder one day. They didn’t see him of course; no-one ever notices an old man.”

Carmen thought it was sad but probably true.

“And did Mr Jones come back and tell everyone?”

Peggy smiled excitedly. “Oh yes. We had a discussion about it over dinner that night and decided to keep a close eye on them both.”

“To tell the police?”

Peggy shook her head. “We hadn’t made any plans. Just to keep a close eye.”

Carmen swallowed, knowing that her next question might be the one that made Peggy Rankin clam up.

“At the dinner…did everyone have an opinion?”

Peggy nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, especially Mr Jones and Caleb. They’d both seen drugs before.”

“Where was that?”

“Mr Jones in London, that’s where he’s from, you know. He lived in the East end – Hackney. It’s just like EastEnders, you know, on TV. He said there are lots of drugs there.” She pursed her lips disapprovingly. “Terrible. Young people nowadays have no chance. When I was young women didn’t even drink.”

Carmen smiled, remembering her grandmother saying the same. She continued cautiously. “And where had Caleb seen drugs before? With his son?”

She deliberately said Caleb instead of Mr Pitt, trying to keep things casual so as not to break the flow.

“Not just that. He was in Vietnam you know, terrible war. They made films about it, like that one ‘The Deer Hunter’.” She shook her head. “Very sad.”

“So everyone agreed to watch Nurse Rudd and Dr Cooke?”

“Yes, and keep notes. Caleb said if we went to the police they wouldn’t do a thing. He’d tried all of that in New York.”

Carmen nodded sympathetically and then rose. “Thank you, Mrs Rankin. It’s been really lovely to chat.”

Peggy Rankin smiled warmly and Carmen felt guilty again, but she had a job to do. She said goodbye and crossed to the waiting men.

“She’s just confirmed that a Mr Jones saw Rudd and Cooke exchanging bags of white powder and the whole ward discussed it and agreed to watch them, including Caleb Pitt.”

Jake nodded. He found it hard to believe that a pensioner could be a killer but it was looking more likely by the hour.

“Then what?”

“Wait and see. Pitt was against going to the police. Mrs Rankin said he’d tried it before in New York and no-one had listened.”

“Great. We have what the chief needs. Pitt knew that Rudd and Cooke were involved with drugs and he wasn’t inclined to go the justice route. Let’s head back; I’ll speak to Kirk and Gormley later.” He threw the car keys to Ken. “You drive. Carmen and I need to call the boss.”

***

Craig took two calls in the space of ten minutes and by the time they were over his decision was pretty much made; all he needed was confirmation of the forensics from Des. John handed round the coffees and gave Craig the floor.

“OK. Those calls were from Jake and Davy. Before I tell you what they said I want to run a scenario past you. We have two deaths of suspected drug-dealers, one of whom, Adrian Cooke, was also an addict. Yes?”

A series of nods went round the group. Liam interjected. “That reminds me of a joke; a junkie, a priest and…”

Craig cut him off. “Save it for later. OK, both Cooke and Rudd were manually strangled by a man with large hands. Through a process of elimination we narrowed the possibles to three; Ferdy Myers, a fifty-something porter and ex-squaddie with psychiatric issues who hated Rudd and Cooke, Brian Kirk, an ex-army doctor, and Caleb Pitt, an eighty-four-year-old veteran with a grip I can testify to as herculean. We also have a witness who identified a squeaking noise that the archive has as rubber on polymer, which could be shoes, a trolley or even a wheelchair, and a mint scent. Everyone with me so far?”

Liam folded his arms, miffed that his joke had been interrupted, and Des and John sipped their coffee. By the look of Des it was all that was keeping him awake; having small children took its toll. Craig took their silence as agreement and carried on.

“OK, we now know that all three had some knowledge of their involvement with drugs. Kirk knew about Cooke from his girlfriend, Hazel Gormley. Pitt…”

Liam jerked upright. “Here, when did we confirm Pitt knew?”

“Ten minutes ago. That’s what Jake was calling about. They’ve confirmed that Pitt definitely knew what Rudd and Cooke were up to.”

Liam was put out. He’d arrested Myers and he wanted him to stay that way. He muttered sulkily. “Pitt’s in a wheelchair…he couldn’t…”

“That’s a good point and I’ll come back to it. The second call I got was from Davy. He had quite a bit of news. Caleb Pitt lived in New York, London, Glasgow and Edinburgh before he settled here in 2005. There are unsolved murders of drug-dealers in every one. He didn’t find any hospital deaths that matched ours because none of the dealers were hospital workers except for here.”

Liam’s eyes widened and Des leaned forward so quickly his coffee spilled down his jeans. He ignored the spreading stain.

“Were there any prints, Marc?”

Craig smiled and nodded. “In some of the cases, yes. Davy’s sending them to you now. If you can match any of them with the print we got from Pitt this morning then we’ll be closer to solving them.”

Des shook his head ruefully. “That print won’t stand up in court. It was a dodgy lift and you know it.”

Craig nodded. “I know that. It’s just a stop-gap until we get a warrant, or the US army comes through. Did it match the one on Cooke’s watch?”

“Yes, but that could have got there innocently. I’ll run the others and keep it off the books, then I’ll run them again when I get a legitimate set.”

John shook his head. “If you nail Pitt for the unsolved murders against the print Marc lifted it’ll ruin any chance of conviction. Fruit of the poison tree.”

Craig smiled. “I know that. Charging him will have to wait till we get a good set of prints. I’m just mentioning it now as part of a scenario.”

John waved him on.

“OK, so let’s say that Caleb Pitt was an officer in the US Army during Vietnam and he saw what happened there. The young men addicted by drug-dealers who never recovered. It could have planted the seed of hating dealers.”

Liam was feeling less grudging now that he’d learned about the other deaths. “OK.”

“Pitt loses a son in combat and arrives back in the States after an unpopular war, but at least his other son Joshua is still alive. Then his life falls apart. His wife dies and Joshua turns out to be a Heroin addict and dies from an overdose. Pitt’s got nothing left; no wife, no kids and retired from the military.”

Liam played devil’s advocate. “He could have re-enlisted.”

“He wasn’t going to re-up when he hated the military after the war! He joined an oil company. But what did he do with all his anger?”

Des answered for everyone. “He killed the dealer in New York who he believed killed his son. That’s what I’d do.”

Craig nodded. “That would be my bet. God only knows how many more dealers Pitt killed in New York, then he moved to the UK and did the same.”

John interrupted. “Aren’t we forgetting something here? Pitt’s been a partial amputee for years.”

Craig shook his head. “His leg was only amputated in 2004, just before he moved to Northern Ireland. He didn’t lose it in the war, he lost it from diabetes.”

Liam leaned an elbow on John’s desk, knocking a file onto the floor. John lifted it with a sigh.

“Here, boss. Why did Pitt come to Northern Ireland anyway?”

“It showed up on Davy’s background checks. Pitt’s father’s family were Planters who settled in Fermanagh and then emigrated to the States in the 19th Century.”

Des smiled. “He returned to his roots.”

“Something like that. He has a UK passport from his mother’s side and the UK’s not a bad place to spend your old age, whatever we might say about it.”

He topped-up the coffees before restarting.

“OK. Unlikely as it sounds let’s say we have a drug-dealer hating serial killer who has retired to a long-stay ward in Belfast. By the way, the other murders were committed with a variety of implements: guns, knives, ropes, hands, pretty much anything you can name. The M.O. differed but the victimology was consistent.”

John urged Craig on. It was after ten and Natalie had cooked. She wouldn’t be happy if her once a month offering ended up in the bin.

“OK, quickly. So Pitt retires to Reilly Suite and probably from murder altogether, then he’s faced with two drug-dealers on his ward. Health professionals who are supposed to help people, not sell them poison. What does he do?”

Des obliged with the answer. “He decides to kill them. But that still leaves us with the same problem, Marc. How? How the hell does a man that age in a wheelchair kill two healthy twenty somethings?”

“Well first of all, forget that he’s eighty. Caleb Pitt has the strength of a forty-year-old. Trust me; I have the sore neck to prove it.” He pushed past John’s looming question and carried on. “Secondly, we’ve been thinking of this as the killer using only his hands as a weapon, but what if he used something else as well?” He turned to Des. “That’s why I asked you to bring those books. John, can you lay the photos of the bruising on Rudd and Cooke on the desk.”

John obliged and the three men stared at Craig quizzically.

“OK. There were bruises on the back of Cooke’s knees and Rudd’s thighs that were at exactly the same height from the floor. Which was?”

“685 millimetres exactly.”

“There were also round bruises on Cooke’s back and I’ll come back to those. When Jake called me to confirm that Caleb Pitt definitely knew about the drug-dealing I asked him to check something out.”

John’s hunger was suddenly replaced by frustration. “For God’s sake spit it out. What did he find?”

Craig lifted his mobile and showed them the text. There were three numbers on the screen: 915, 760 and 685. Des asked first.

“What are those?”

“Wheelchair measurements. Floor to handle, floor to armrest and…”

John finished the sentence. “Floor to lap tray. And I bet it extends.”

Craig nodded. Caleb Pitt’s wheelchair was standard hospital issue and the stainless steel lap tray he set things on was exactly 685 millimetres from the ground and adjustable. Its maximum extension reached beyond Pitt’s feet.

“He’s also confirmed that Pitt keeps a metal cane in a slot across the back of his chair.”

Liam’s jaw dropped and Des flicked eagerly through the books he’d brought. He reached a page and turned it towards the group. It showed the bruising left by trollies, wheelchairs and other mobile edges on the human body; they matched the bruising on Adrian Cook and Eleanor Rudd’s legs. He flicked to another page that showed bruising from rods and canes. One of the canes matched the other bruises on Cooke.

“I’ll tell you what else matches – Pitt’s armrest’s height and shape would fit the dent on the linen room door. He must have bashed it when he went in.”

John and Liam crowded round to look at the books while Craig rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. After a minute’s discussion he waved them down.

“My guess is that Pitt came up behind Rudd and Cooke and drove into the back of their legs using his protruding steel tray as a weapon; he rammed them hard if the bruising’s anything to go by. As they lost their balance and fell backwards on top of him he grabbed them around the neck and strangled them. The cane marks on Cooke were probably because he was harder to subdue. Rudd had no other bruises, although her hands show that she fought him hard.”

John recovered from his shock enough to ask a question. “But how did he get Rudd into the linen room? He couldn’t have dragged her in there easily in a wheelchair.”

“He didn’t need to drag her. He killed her inside the linen room. It’s huge; big enough to hold metal trollies, so a wheelchair could have entered and hidden easily. Pitt pulled out the linen trolley and then waited in the room till she arrived.”

It was Des’ turn to interrupt. “But he couldn’t have known she was going in there that day.”

Craig shrugged. “For all we know he’d waited there every day until he got her; it was just her misfortune that she chose that morning to give Cooke his drugs. It’s a big room full of laundry so Pitt could have concealed himself easily for hours. OK, so when Cooke left with his cocaine Pitt killed Rudd, left her where she fell and then wheeled himself back to Reilly. She wasn’t found for an hour. The whole thing confirmed to Pitt that Adrian Cooke was involved with drugs as well, if he’d needed confirmation, but Cooke’s actual death was opportunistic. Cooke called into Reilly that Monday evening to say hello and Pitt just saw his chance. He left Cooke where he dropped and I think he left the book behind to show that Cooke was involved in the dealing as well as being an addict.”

“So the squeaking noise Jacobs heard was Pitt’s chair wheeling away? But what about the mint smell, boss? What was that?”

Craig smiled at Liam’s last try at keeping Ferdy Myers in jail.

“Pitt’s a heavy smoker; I noticed the nicotine stains on his hands this morning when we met. My guess is that when we search his room we’ll find menthol cigarettes or mouthwash.”

Craig’s words hung in the air. When they searched it; they couldn’t go near Pitt until his prints were confirmed and linked with the deaths elsewhere. Des’ excited voice cut through Craig’s thoughts.

“I can swab his wheelchair and cane for trace evidence…”

Craig shook his head. “We can’t touch him until we legitimately confirm his prints. Strictly speaking we shouldn’t even be confining him to his room.” He sighed. “We’ll have to let him out and tail him.”

Liam shrugged. “He won’t get far in a chair.”

“He drives a car. He can get as far as he likes and we’re powerless to do a thing. Excuse me a minute, I need to make some calls. Liam, call High Street and have Myers released after the FME clears him. And let his community house know he’s fragile please so they can keep an eye.”

He disappeared to the corridor leaving the others to talk amongst themselves. When he reappeared minutes later he had a resigned look on his face.

“Davy’s still heard nothing from the US so I’ll have to get the C.C. onto it again. Carmen’s chasing a warrant for Pitt’s prints and the others are staying on the ward to keep an eye on him. I’ve called off the guard but Pitt’s still inside his room so I’m heading over there now.” He glanced at Liam. “You look wrecked. You should call it a night.”

Liam shook his head. “I’ll come with you.”

Craig was pleased to have him. He threw him the car keys; he had a call to the C.C. to make on the way.

Chapter Sixteen

St Mary’s Hospital.

“Thanks for chasing that, sir. Until we get Pitt’s I.D. confirmed and match his prints to the cold cases we can’t bring him in.”

Liam drove smoothly through the night-time streets, half-listening to Craig’s conversation with his other half wondering why the hell there were always roadworks on the M2. Did the Department of Environment not have enough to do with the annual round of snow without ruining his day? He pulled into Reilly’s car park and they began their fast walk to the ward. As they reached the back door they were surprised to see Annette standing there. She spoke before Craig could.

“I’ve been thinking, sir.”

Craig glanced pointedly at her hand. Her return glance begged him not to send her away so instead he answered. “Yes?”

“Given that no-one noticed anyone near the linen room doesn’t that raise a question?”

“Go on.”

“Well, who’s practically invisible?”

Craig smiled, knowing that she’d reached the conclusion of their whole day’s deductions on her own.

“It was something we discussed once when I was a nurse; it started when a child had been abducted in a shopping centre. We asked who could have taken them and yet have no-one notice or object?”

They chipped in one after another. “A mother.” “An authority figure.”

Liam threw in a topical ten pence worth. “A priest or vicar?”

But Craig knew exactly who Annette meant.

“Someone that society sees as harmless, vulnerable and incapable of harm.”

Annette nodded. “An elderly person…”

Craig nodded Liam on to relieve Jake then he drew Annette to one side and brought her up to speed. Her mouth dropped open.

“My God! The man in the wheelchair! I chatted to him days ago and never guessed.”

“You couldn’t possibly have known. No-one could. It’s taken us this long to narrow it down and we still can’t touch him until we get everything confirmed.”

Just then Liam re-emerged, looking far from amused.

“Pitt’s got a gun, boss.”

“What!”

“Service weapon. One of the old ladies told Jake; Pitt showed it to her once. It might be decommissioned but…”

Craig sped past him into the long-stay ward. The terrified stares that greeted him said the gun rumours had spread faster than a chant at a football match. He strode across to a stunned looking Hazel Gormley.

“Start evacuating; I don’t care where to.”

Before she could object he was at Caleb Pitt’s door where a uniformed officer was still hovering, contrary to orders. The P.C. saw the question in Craig’s eyes and rushed to defend himself.

“I didn’t like to leave the ward without protection…”

Craig nodded. “You did right.” He gestured at a group of pensioners. “Help the sister evacuate them through that door. Inspectors McElroy and Cullen are outside. Ken and Jake, help him, please.”

As the group dwindled amidst muttered questions and objections, a macabre stillness descended over Reilly’s common room, deepening when Craig switched off the TV. Finally the ward was empty apart from Caleb Pitt, still firmly inside his room. As the last resident left Liam joined Craig, speaking in his best stage whisper.

“The others are keeping everyone calm. What do you need from me?”

Craig shook his head, thinking. He beckoned Liam into the sister’s office and took a seat.

“Everyone’s safe and both exits are blocked. Now we wait.”

Liam glance said he was about to object. “Until what? Pitt shoots a hole in the door! The last thing we need is a siege with an OAP; the press will set up a tent!”

“We don’t have grounds to arrest Pitt on suspicion of the earlier killings until we get confirmation that his prints match. We also can’t lift him just because someone may or may not have seen a souvenir gun, and if we storm in there he could shoot one of us or himself. So what would you suggest, Rambo?”

Liam laughed despite himself. Rambo was what Danni called him sometimes, although Craig couldn’t know that; their role-playing fantasies were no-one’s business but their own. Before he could answer Craig a voice came booming from Caleb Pitt’s room.

“I know you’re out there, Craig. How many are with you?”

Liam went to answer but Craig shook his head. If Pitt thought the ward was empty there was just a chance that he’d emerge. After a long pause Pitt repeated his question, frustration in his voice.

“I’ve got a gun. It’s a M16 and it works, so forget anyone who told you it was a dud.”

An M16 adapted for automatic fire had been the US’ weapon of choice in Vietnam, but how the hell had Cooke got it into the country? Even as Craig thought it he shrugged; fifty percent of the UK’s thousands of decommissioned weapons were capable of being reactivated, and Ireland had a lot of access routes if Pitt had wanted a gun brought in live.

The silence took on a different edge. If Pitt had a live weapon they needed armed response. Craig decided to try something first. He broke his silence and yelled across the floor.

“What do you hope to gain by this, Mr Pitt?”

Pitt sounded surprised. “Gain? There’s nothing left to gain, boy. Is that Craig?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know I’ve already lost everything I ever loved. Losing my life was something I’d expected to happen long before now.”

Craig moved to the door of the small office and Liam hissed. “Get down. If you get your head blown off it’s me who’ll have to do the paperwork.”

Craig gave a wry smile. He was no martyr; he’d calculated the arc that Pitt’s bullets could reach and they were well out of range.

“Do you want to die, Mr Pitt? Is that it?”

Silence.

“Is this suicide by cop? We call in armed response and you fire, knowing you’ll end up with more holes in you than a sieve?”

Pitt said nothing, confirming his guess. Craig’s next words held disgust.

“You’re a coward, Pitt. You’d prefer some poor bastard to carry the guilt of shooting you to facing your punishment like a man.”

The roar from Pitt’s room would have done Liam proud. Liam leapt to his feet and joined Craig by the door.

“For God’s sake, boss, stop bear baiting.”

Craig shook his head. “I’m soldier baiting. Pitt’s no coward; he’s fought in too many battles to suck that up. I think I can get him out.”

“And then what? You think he’s just going to drop his gun and say ‘it’s fair cop, guv’? Get real.”

Craig swung round and the look in his eye told Liam he’d said enough. “What’s the alternative? We call in SWAT and they do exactly what we’re doing, or more likely they barge in there and Pitt gets blown away, taking one of them with him.”

Liam wasn’t giving up. “They can shoot to stop and they have more accurate guns than us. Just because you’re frustrated is no reason to have a death wish. I’ve seen more cops die than you have and I don’t want to see another one.”

They faced-off long enough for Caleb Pitt to speak again.

“You called me a coward, boy. I’m no coward.”

“Prove it. Throw out your weapon and take your chance in court.”

The old soldier laughed sarcastically. “Court? And spend my last days in some British shit-hole? That’s not happening so forget it.”

“What then? What do you want?”

Liam peeked around the corner of the office and saw something shift beneath Pitt’s door. He gestured to Craig.

“My money says he’s facing the door, so his back will be to the window. If I circle outside I can come up under it and check.”

Craig shook his head firmly. “And then what? You watch him facing the door, or he turns and blows you away? The M16 is automatic and he’s probably got it set on full. I’d rather take my chances face on.”

Liam was insistent. “If he turns I’ll shoot his gun arm.”

Craig thought for a moment then made a decision. “I’ll do it.”

“No.”

Craig was firm. “I’m the boss. I’ll do it.”

But Liam wasn’t budging.

“You can’t. Pitt’s talking to you. If you hand over to me now he’ll know there’s something up. It has to be me.”

At that he was out of the door on his hands and knees hissing “keep him talking.” Craig watched as he scuttled out of the ward and made a note to give him an earful when the case was done. He covered Liam’s exit by repeating his question.

“What is it you want, Pitt?”

The answer was swift. “Just this: the chance to go down fighting. You already know I killed that bitch nurse and her boyfriend. They were drug-dealing scum and they deserved to die. It won’t take you much longer to prove it and then you’ll find out about the rest. They deserved it, every last one of them.”

He was right; they had a serial killer on their hands.

“Why did you kill them? Because of your son?”

There was a lengthy pause before Pitt answered.

“Not only him. I did it for every poor kid in uniform who came back a junkie, and for the kids who never even had a chance at life because some whore dealer hooked them on that filth. If I’ve stopped even one life being ruined then I’m good with that. It’s a war, boy.” His next words surprised Craig. “I’ve made a list of everyone I killed. You’ll get it when I’m dead.”

Craig knew Liam must have reached the window by now. Pitt was still talking.

“I’m eighty-four-years-old; an old man in anyone’s book. I’ve got another two, three years maybe before the diabetes gets me. Do you really think I’m spending it in a UK prison or going back to the States to let some red-neck Governor execute me for votes?”

Craig had to admit he had a point; it wasn’t an attractive proposition either way. Pitt had no wife, children or grandchildren to live for, nothing but the here and now. Just then Craig’s phone flashed with a text. Liam. ‘Cooke facing door’.

But they’d reckoned without Caleb Pitt’s acute hearing. He heard Liam move outside the window and turned, roaring so loudly that Liam thought he was going to shoot him through the glass. As he ducked down Craig heard the roar and knew that Liam’s cover was blown. So much for surveillance. Craig readied to call armed response and then thought again; they still had no proof that Pitt had a viable gun. He called Liam instead, whispering.

“Did you see a weapon?”

“No. He turned too quick, must have ears like a bat.”

Craig decided to try one last thing. He shouted across the ward.

“Pitt.”

“I saw your man. He’s real lucky I didn’t shoot him.”

“With what? All you have is a decommissioned weapon.” Liam hadn’t even seen that. “Come out and we can talk.”

“No way. If I come out it will be shooting. If you don’t believe I’ve a live weapon, you come in.”

Craig smiled; did anyone ever fall for that? It was time for SWAT. He was about to hit dial when Pitt’s bedroom door suddenly swung outwards. Craig slipped out his Glock, waiting for him to appear.

For a few seconds nothing happened then a hail of bullets fired into the ward’s main wall and he knew that Pitt’s M16 was live. As the Vietnam veteran emerged from his room Craig ran the logic. Liam would have heard the shots and be on his way back in. Pitt needed one hand to wheel his chair and the other to hold his gun. If he could draw his fire, Liam could approach from behind and disarm him.

Liam had read his mind. He appeared at the rear door of Reilly and went to move into position, but once again they’d underestimated the combat Vet. Pitt swung his chair round and got Liam in his sights before he even had a chance to raise his gun.

In that second Craig knew that he’d run out of choices. If the M16 was on automatic; one touch of the trigger could end Liam’s life. If he shot Pitt’s arm there was no guarantee he would drop it and if he shot him anywhere but the head he might still set it off. He had to shoot to kill.

In the moment it took Craig to make his decision his whole career flashed in front of his eyes. A career where he’d drawn his gun plenty of times but never had to shoot, always managing to talk the man down before he did. He’d trained for this moment, attended regular tests at the firing range and he’d seen Annette shoot an assailant only six months before. Liam had killed men during The Troubles; he knew that, even though it was never discussed. Now it was his turn.

As Caleb Pitt got Liam firmly in his sights Craig got Pitt in his and with a double tap in what felt like slow motion, the elderly rogue warrior was dead. Then there was nothing; no feeling in Craig’s hand and no sound but his ears ringing, until Liam’s deep voice seeped gradually through the bells and he lowered Craig’s outstretched arm and eased his Glock gently from his grip.

Craig watched Liam’s lips move like he was watching a mime, only catching a word here and there. “Dead…headshots…” Gradually his hearing cleared and he fought the urge to throw up, until he walked over to Pitt’s slumped body and then he did, in a bin by the door. Liam was still talking, more audibly now.

“Thank God you took a headshot. He had me bang to rights. That bloody thing was on full automatic; one touch from Pitt and it would have strafed me to death.”

But Craig wasn’t listening. He was staring at an old man in a wheelchair who’d just died an ignominious death. A war hero who had come to this. He shuddered in disgust at what he’d done and walked off the ward without looking back.

***

It was almost midnight by the time the C.S.I.s had finished and Caleb Pitt’s body was on its way to the morgue. Liam and Annette helped settle the residents back on the ward, with instructions to Hazel Gormley on how to contact victims’ support. She’d have plenty of help with the shocked OAPs anyway; this was a hospital after all.

Liam searched the unit for Craig and then wandered back to Annette. “The boss is AWOL.”

She shook her head. “He won’t have gone far.”

Liam turned to start the search but she stilled him with a hand. “Let me look for him, Liam. I know how he feels.”

It was on the tip of Liam’s tongue to say ‘when he gets to his tenth dead perp he can complain’ then he realised that his Troubles’ hardened approach wasn’t necessarily right. When he’d killed his first man it had been nothing to do with The Troubles; it had been during a burglary and the lad had only been eighteen. It had hit him as hard as it was hitting Craig now.

Annette found Craig sitting outside the hospital on a low brick wall. He was smoking a cigarette he’d cadged off a passer-by. She perched beside him, smiling at the picture they must make. Her with her hand in plaster and Craig with his tie halfway down his chest, his black hair raked vertical and a cig hanging from his mouth. Northern Ireland’s finest.

When she finally spoke her voice was soft. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

Craig squinted down at the cigarette as if someone else had put it there. “I don’t. The odd cigar at weddings perhaps…”

His voice tailed off and Annette knew he was thinking of a happier day three months before, when John and Natalie had tied the knot. Anything rather than think of the man that he’d just killed. She kept her voice steady.

“Everything’s settled on the ward and we’re ready to go.”

Craig said nothing, just nodded and took another drag, exhaling the smoke in a perfect stream. She teased him gently.

“They’re thinking of banning smoking outside hospitals, you know.”

He stared straight ahead. “Quite right. Hard to enforce though.”

“Any law worth having is hard to enforce.”

Craig smiled at her smooth segway and rose to his feet, stubbing out his butt in the bin. He helped her off the wall and straightened his tie, then cast a last look at the hospital where he’d just killed a man, knowing he would re-run the events of that evening for a long time. Tomorrow the Ombudsman would question everything that he’d thought and done as well. Perhaps it would be therapy.

Chapter Seventeen

The C.C.U. One week later, 11 a.m.

Caleb Pitt’s identity had been confirmed and his prints linked to cold cases in two continents, as well as to the murders of Eleanor Rudd and Adrian Cooke. The residents on the E.M.U. were having counselling to deal with having a murderer living in their midst, and what’s more, being fond of him. Peggy Rankin was having particular problems reconciling things but, as Liam often said, the pragmatism of the elderly was a wonderful thing. When you’d lived through tragedy before it seemed to bring the calmness to help cope with it again.

Hazel Gormley and Brian Kirk had chosen the chaos as the time to go public with their affair, shamefacedly admitting that they’d used the fire escape two floors up for their illicit trysts, accessed via the stairs outside the clinical room. They’d lied about using the clinical room because it had sounded more respectable than al fresco sex. The outdoor venue explained their deafness during the murders, if not their distinct lack of taste.

Craig’s choices on that day had been successfully defended, with the Chief Constable weighing in on his behalf. Armed response would only have done what he and Liam had done. If they’d appeared at Pitt’s window he would have heard them and shot, and they’d have returned fire, killing him outright. Storming the room would have had the same result, putting even more officers at risk. That just left Pitt surrendering, which was never going to happen. Caleb Pitt had had no intention of dying in jail.

He was always going to go down shooting which left a choice of Liam, armed response or Craig shooting him, and it seemed that it was Craig’s turn this time. A fatal shot was the only option once he’d turned his gun on Liam and Pitt had known it; suicide by cop. He wasn’t the first and he wouldn’t be the last, but assisting his suicide had hit Craig hard.

Craig gazed out at the Lagan and watched as the warden’s boat sailed upriver on its rounds. He wondered what it was like to sail every day at work and made up his mind to visit the marina more often when he had time. His mind was restless; he knew the facts of the case but none of them were a comfort, neither was anything that John, Annette or Katy had had to say. Even Nicky forgiving him for snapping at her and mothering him all week hadn’t made a dent.

Caleb Pitt had been an old man and a decorated soldier, someone who’d deserved a death in combat when he was younger or a peaceful end in his own bed. He knew Pitt had given up his right to both once he’d killed his first dealer in New York but that didn’t stop him wishing it all the same.

A loud knock on the door interrupted Craig’s thoughts. He knew it was Liam without looking and yelled for him to come in. Liam took one look at the bottle of Bushmills on the desk and his boss staring soulfully out at the river and knew exactly what sort of mood Craig was in. Thankfully he had the solution.

“Stop thinking deep thoughts and writing sad poetry, or whatever it is you’ve been doing for the past week. We’ve a new case.”

Craig swung his chair round and gave Liam a ‘who cares’ stare. To Liam’s ‘I’m taking no shit’ gaze, he just looked like he was drunk. He gestured at the bottle.

“How much of that have you had?”

Craig held up his almost empty glass and Liam removed it briskly from his hand, ignoring his remonstrations.

“Sort yourself out, boss. We’re briefing in ten and Nicky’s got the coffee on.”

With that he exited as noisily as he’d arrived, leaving Craig with two choices: keep beating himself up or get his ass back to work.

He stood up and straightened his tie.

THE END

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