The Waiting Room

by Catriona King

Praise for A Limited Justice:

“a fantastic achievement... There is a new star on the scene... Belfast needs its own detective - and in D.C.I. Marc Craig it now has one”

Andy Angel, Ebookwyrm Reviews

“this is what crime books should be like; realistic, believable and slightly unnerving”

Page Central Book-Shelf Reviews

Praise for The Visitor:

“a fantastic nail-biting book...a must read... roll on her next book”

James W. Wallace, Amazon Review

Copyright © 2013 by Catriona King

Photography: Serg Zastavkin, Andreas Krappweis

Artwork: 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. 2013

Discover us at www.crookedcatpublishing.com

Contact Information: enquiries@crookedcatpublishing.com

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this book to @crookedcatbooks

and something nice will happen.

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 Waiting Room’ is the fourth novel in the modern Belfast D.C.I. Thriller Series. It follows Detective Chief Inspector Marc Craig and his team through the streets of Northern Ireland in their hunt for a powerful and corrupt international group.

A fifth novel in the D.C.I. Craig series is nearing completion.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my parents and brothers for challenging me.

I would like to thank Crooked Cat publishing for being so unfailingly supportive and cheerful.

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

Catriona King

Belfast, May 2013

The D.C.I. Craig Series

A Limited Justice

The Grass Tattoo

The Visitor

The Waiting Room

The Waiting Room

Chapter One

Wednesday 5th June 2013. Belfast.

Two dark leather couches faced each other across a low table, and a percolator bubbled quietly on a sideboard set against one wall. The scent of fresh coffee wafted towards the young woman, its dark aroma warming the modern room. It reminded her of the café where she met her friends each Sunday, to gossip about their adventures. This week’s story would be her best one yet.

She felt suddenly self-conscious and pulled her short dress down over her bare, tanned thighs. Too much thigh, but you had to make the effort. She gazed around the room where they’d left her, her nervousness growing. Waiting always made her nervous, too much time to think. Still, if you had to wait somewhere, it was a nice room for it. She had no idea who she was meeting and her curiosity was growing by the minute. But Sylvia had promised secrecy for both parties.

The girl’s high-heeled feet rested on a smooth pelt that covered the room’s wide floor. Its pale softness reminded her of snow, and home. The high wooden walls were so dark that only the glint of a silver handle showed where they ended and the door began. The whole room said a man with money.

Without warning the handle moved and the wall seemed to move with it. The door swung inwards heralding the entrance of a dark-haired man. He smiled down at her and she thought he looked like Inger’s Dad, except that Viktor Lindholm had never stared at her like that.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. We’re ready for you now.”

Britt nodded silently and rose. The waiting was over. She would soon wish that it wasn’t.

***

Friday June 7th. Belfast Crown Court.

“Do you have any more questions for the witness, Mr Holland?”

Ian Holland peered down at his papers, adjusting his heavy-framed glasses. Strands of grey hair protruded from under his wig at the temple, and he breathed heavily, as if he had a sinus problem. He shuffled from foot to foot for a moment so long that the young Judge finally stared at the wall clock, coughing pointedly.

“Well?”

Holland glanced up, startled, and Joanne Greer raised her eyes to heaven. If this was the best defence barrister in Belfast then she was completely screwed. He pulled himself upright, and smiled close-mouthed at Marc Craig, reminding him again that he was on oath.

Craig scanned the court, smiling inwardly at the theatre. Everyone was performing, with the jury as the audience. He considered the puffed-up defence barrister and the sleek woman in the dock, dabbing her eyes vulnerably with a handkerchief. As if she hadn’t ordered the murders of three people six months earlier; except that she had.

Judge James Dawson stared absent-mindedly at Holland, waving him on in irritation. Then he sat back in his chair, bored, his mind on other things. The youngest judge in Northern Ireland, the grey-haired Holland thought he showed the impatience of the internet generation. And their lack of social skills.

Holland shrugged indifferently, accepting that he’d played for silence long enough. He stared at Craig again, narrowing his eyes.

“Detective Chief Inspector Craig, isn’t it true that you lay in wait for my client, Mrs Joanne Greer?” He paused, not for an answer but for effect. An effect that James Dawson completely ruined by snapping his fingers impatiently, making him hurry through his planned count of five. “While a known criminal, Mr Alik Ershov, trapped her into a false confession?”

Craig stared at him, completely unperturbed. “No.”

Holland was as disturbed by the one word answer as Dawson was amused.

“But isn’t it the case Chief Inspector, that without the testimony of that discredited and now deceased witness, you would have no case at all against my client? Who, I would remind you, has not been linked to any murder. Or to the hire of the fictitious assassins that you have asked the jury to believe in?”

He stopped and paused again, sniffing noisily for breath. Craig leapt into the gap.

“No, again, Mr Holland, that wasn’t the case. Your client freely confessed and we found financial ties between her and the deceased, Mr Ershov, who had a direct link with the assassins. Your client was also the person who benefited most from the murders.”

Holland was drawing breath to ask the same question in another way, when Dawson yawned widely and waved his hand.

“Fascinating though this line of questioning is, Mr Holland, I think four o’clock on a Friday is quite late enough to detain the jury. I suggest we adjourn and reconvene on Monday morning at ten.”

He stood quickly as the clerk sang out, “all rise.” Holland tutted audibly in irritation. Not for the first time Craig thought how much power judges wielded.

Craig was as annoyed as Holland that he had to return the following week. There was work to do back at Docklands. He flicked on his mobile, watching as the missed calls stacked up. Exiting the court quickly, he dialled the murder squad’s number as he walked.

Nicky picked-up the phone on the second ring and smiled as her boss’ warm voice came down the line. “God what a boring day, Nicky. How anyone defends someone like Greer amazes me.”

She laughed huskily and made soothing noises, until he realised that he was being humoured and laughed with her.

“Anything exciting happening?”

“Only paperwork piling up on your desk.” She paused, waiting for his sigh. She wasn’t disappointed.

“Is that what I’m coming back to? Can’t Liam do some of it?”

“Don’t worry. He’s already taken a pile. But there are things that need your signature.” She paused, then relented kindly. “Actually, there are only three files and a memo. You’ll get through them in five minutes. When will you be back?”

“Monday afternoon I think. Holland was halfway through when the judge adjourned, so I’m not sure if they want me back Monday morning or afternoon. Go home if it’s quiet there, Nick. Just leave the papers on my desk. I’ll nip in tomorrow and sign them.”

“I will, thanks.” She saw a hand waving in her peripheral vision and turned to see who it belonged to. “Liam wants a quick word.”

She transferred the call and Liam Cullen swung his long legs off the desk, answering it quickly. His deep voice boomed across the office and Annette McElroy, the unit’s sergeant, laughed at its sheer volume, wandering over to join him.

“How’s the world of justice, boss? Have they banged Greer up yet?”

Craig shook his head, smiling at Liam’s talent for being politically incorrect every time he opened his mouth. “We’re only halfway through the trial.”

“Guilty as sin, that one. If she gets off I’ll resign.”

“I doubt it somehow, on both counts. Anyway, what’s happening, murder-wise?”

“It’s deathly quiet.” Liam laughed loudly at his own joke and then underlined it, needing an audience. “Get it?”

“I got it. Very witty. Who’s on the rota this weekend?”

“We are. Again!”

Craig started to sigh and then stopped; smiling to himself and admitting that he enjoyed on-call. It was where all the action was and he wasn’t giving that up. Even though he would become a superintendent in two weeks’ time.

“Right. Tell everyone to go home. I’ll be back by Monday afternoon at the latest. Hopefully no-one will get murdered over the weekend.”

The phone clicked off just as Craig reached the car-park and he crawled his aging black Audi out into the rush-hour traffic on Oxford Street. He clicked on the radio and tapped along to a track he recognised as he headed home for a quiet evening. His parents’ trip to Italy meant that their usual Friday family dinner was cancelled, so he had an appointment with a beer and the sport’s channel tonight. Julia was arriving tomorrow for the weekend and he could do with some thinking time before then. Or as much as could be expected when Ulster Rugby and Man United were both on the box.

***

Near Queen’s University Belfast. Saturday 12.30am.

“For goodness sake, Scott, stop messing about! I have to get home. I’m up early to revise. Or have you forgotten that we’ve an exam on Monday?”

“You’re being a real bore Chrissy. It’s only half-twelve, we could still go clubbing.”

“Go if you like. I’m going home to bed.”

The young man pulled his petite girlfriend towards him with a hug, smiling down at her.

“Oh, all right. But you’re a real pain in the bum sometimes. You owe me big-time for being the perfect boyfriend.” He leaned forward to kiss her forehead, lingering for a much longer time on her lips.

Finally the kiss ended and they walked on in companionable silence, turning left off Botanic Avenue into LeRoy Street. As they turned the corner the girl noticed a shoe lying on the pavement, its style and five-inch-heel making it this season’s design.

“Scott, look. That’s brand new. And expensive. Over two hundred pounds worth. Who would just have left it? We should hand it into lost property at the union tomorrow.”

“Some girl probably walked out of it and was so pissed that she didn’t even notice...”

He bent down to have a look in the yellowing street light and then recoiled. “There’s blood inside it! Maybe someone’s hurt? We’d better look around, just in case. They might still be nearby.”

The broad street was quiet and dark, with rows of slim terraced houses on either side creating a boulevard atmosphere. The only light visible was cast by street lamps, or seeped through an occasional late-night studier’s window. They were in ‘The Holyland’, Belfast’s student quarter, whose street names like Jerusalem, Palestine and Damascus had earned it the nickname. It was an overpopulated mesh between the Ormeau Road and Queens University, where nearly every house was a hive of students. Undiluted teenage hormones fuelled by alcohol and exam pressure - it was a flammable combination. An injured girl seemed very possible.

Chrissy looked slowly around her. The street’s traffic-free quiet became an eerie silence as the friendly student playground took on a different feel. She grasped the boy’s hand tightly and they inched forward. After a moment, she pointed at a white building ahead.

“Isn’t that the church Sarah goes to?”

Scott nodded. He’d been there a few times in first year, when he’d dated a good-living girl. “Let’s have a look in there first. Can you see any blood on the ground?”

Chrissy pointed at some broken paving near the church’s iron gates. Then she peered at it, nodding. “There’s a bit there as well, by the edge of the kerb.”

As they got closer to the blood, the pale Victorian church loomed out of the darkness, its white stone thrown into stark relief against the street light’s saffron glow. It was a small building, ornate and ceremonial, with silver wrought-iron gates that opened out onto the pavement. They were unlocked, and a chain and padlock was draped over one of them. Scott smiled to himself. Whoever had left it open probably thought the sight of the chain would deter vandals. Touching naiveté in a student area.

“I wonder how many people have slept off their hangovers in there.”

“Ssshhh. The vicar might hear you.”

“Wise up, Chris! They don’t sleep in the cupboard like you thought your teachers did.”

She pouted and thumped his arm, then quickly grabbed it again for security.

“Should I lift the shoe up?”

“No! Don’t touch it, just in case. I saw on TV that you shouldn’t handle evidence.”

She thumped him again half-heartedly, smiling this time. Then they both fell silent.

Scott touched the gate lightly and it swung open. The top felt wet. Rain water? No, the wet wasn’t cold enough, and it had been dry all week. He examined his right hand reluctantly. The red liquid smearing his palm was unmistakable. He pushed his hand into his pocket.

“Chrissy, you wait here with the shoe.”

She opened her mouth to object and he looked down at her solemnly, as if what he said next carried weight. He just hoped it would convince her to stay put.

“It’s important you stay. Just in case someone steals the shoe. Or accidentally kicks it out of position. And I think you should call the police, just in case.”

“Shouldn’t we both go in and look first?”

“NO!”

His response was unexpectedly loud in the crisp night air, and the look on her face told him that he’d frightened her. He squeezed her hand in reassurance, softening his tone. “Just call them, pet. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He turned swiftly, before his courage failed and hurried through the gate into the small church garden, leaving her pressing her phone in silence.

The church’s low porch door lay ajar, allowing a small blade of light to escape and cast a glow over the front step. Scott wiped his hand with the hanky that his mother made him carry for emergencies, and grabbed the door’s ring-handle bravely. The thin blade of light widened as he slowly swung the door inward.

He couldn’t work out where the light was coming from at first. There was no illumination on the pulpit and no candles burning near the pews. Then he saw that the back door was open. Blinding white light shone into the chapel like a beam. So perfectly arranged that it might have been done deliberately, to highlight the horrific sight displayed on the altar rails.

Scott stood frozen by the oak door. Unable to hear, feel, or cry out. Every sense stolen by the horror in front of him.

On the altar, chained inverted to the highest rail, was a young woman of his age, or even less. She was fully clothed, in a short green dress that clung to her slim thighs; its material saturated in what he knew instantly was blood. It had seeped from a myriad of large and small wounds that pierced her body. Small trickles had dried around all but one. A gaping wound in her right side. A wide patch of blood surrounded it, spreading across her abdomen and down her right thigh. The weapon that had caused them all remained in place. A knife. It lay protruding from the largest tear, silver, razor-sharp and shining in the light.

Scott eye’s travelled slowly to the girl’s face. It was slender and white and her blond hair was red and matted, its ends clinging to cheeks streaked with blood and tears. Her large grey eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. No-one could have survived what was done to her, but his instinct was still to help. He wanted to cut her down and hold her, offer her comfort. But instead, he stood rigid, too shocked to move forward or back. Deaf to the approaching police, and the voices speaking kindly to him. Until a gentle hand guided him out onto the street, leaving the uniformed men alone in their world.

***

James Dawson loosened his tie, poured himself another glass of Petrus, and then stared disinterestedly at his wife across the table. His mind was on other things, and none of them legal. He surveyed the glossy restaurant in The Merchant Hotel, one of Belfast’s most elegant venues. The dinner had been arranged by Catherine, just like most of his social life. But not all.

He glanced across at the couple they were dining with. The wife, Amy, was a pretty little thing who looked much younger than her forty-two years. The husband was a fraudulent bore like most bankers, and unrepentant with it. He’d like to get a few of them in his court. Maybe the Libor rate fiasco would provide some soon.

He was pulled abruptly from his thoughts by the touch of Catherine’s hand.

“Jimmy has a big murder case on at the moment, don’t you darling?”

Dawson slid his hand slowly from under his wife’s and re-arranged his napkin. The banker responded by smiling lasciviously at her. If you hated the husband and he didn’t need money, then screw the wife. Even if the man didn’t want her anymore it would hit him where it hurt. Law of the jungle.

Amy leaned forward, fascinated by the legal world. “Really James? Do tell us about it. Please?”

Dawson puffed his chest out self-importantly, bestowing a half-kind look on his wife for raising a subject that attracted the other woman’s attention. He was just about to launch into a courtroom anecdote when his phone began to ring. He pulled it from his pocket, annoyed, and then rose swiftly, recognising the caller’s name.

Forgetting his guests, he left the hotel through the Waring Street exit, then stood at the top of its grand stone staircase, shadowed at a distance by his ever-present protection officer. He hissed angrily into the receiver, resting his gaze on two girls queuing for the nightclub opposite.

“What are you doing phoning me? I told you never to call.”

“I had to.” The male voice had the hard edge of an English public-school education, and a hesitant quality that pointed to a lack of confidence. It paused for a moment and then restarted.

“A well-known book’s been damaged.”

“Well-known! Is it ruined?”

“Yes...completely ruined.”

“Don’t say any more.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“I said shut-up! I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Dawson slammed the phone hard against his palm, knocking it off, and hissed, “Fuck” beneath his breath. Then he straightened up, smoothed his dark hair back, fixed on a professional smile and re-entered the restaurant quickly.

As he reached the table both women turned expectantly and he smiled mock-apologetically at his wife. “Sorry, darling. Bit of an accident with a rare book. Paul’s made a complete bollocks of things again.”

He reached for his coat and leaned across, kissing her lightly on the cheek, while staring slyly down the other woman’s cleavage. He shook hands coolly with the banker and exited, leaving Catherine to explain.

She smiled tiredly around the table. “James belongs to a group that trades first edition books. They’re worth a fortune, so if anything were to happen to one of them there would be a huge panic. It sounds as if that’s what’s happened. Paul is Paul Ripley.”

Amy’s eyebrows shot up curiously. “The church leader?”

“Yes. They’re all pretty prominent in The Library Club.”

“Is that what they call it then?”

Catherine nodded, rolling her eyes. Men’s urge to join clubs never ceased to amaze her. The banker leaned back in his chair and stared at them both cynically.

“Books? Worth thousands?”

“Millions apparently, some of them.”

“How can any church man afford that? Don’t they take vows of poverty nowadays?”

“Family money.”

They fell silent for a moment. Then the banker smiled, realising he had the uncontested attention of two women. He leaned over and topped up their glasses with largess, emptying the bottle. Then he beckoned the waiter over, smirking.

“Seeing as James is paying we might as well have another bottle. Or two.”

Chapter Two

Craig was woken by the distant sound of a ‘40’s ring tone and he opened his eyes gradually, searching for his mobile. It was lying half-way across the room and he struggled to recall how it had got there. The sight of a slim leg wrapped around his own gave him the answer. Julia. She’d cut short his plans of TV and beer by turning up a day early. He was glad. Her warmth more than made up for his sports deprivation.

He squinted at the wall clock and was surprised. It was nearly one in the morning! They should have been in bed. A smile curved his lips as he remembered why they hadn’t got there. Carefully unravelling strands of red hair from his fingers he stood up slowly, trying not to waken his sleeping girlfriend. Then he reached for the phone, answering it in a whisper.

“Hello?”

Liam Cullen’s deep bass shook the line. “Hi, boss. Here, why are you whispering? Are you asleep?”

Even through Craig’s stupor he knew the question made no sense. But it didn’t matter. Liam wasn’t waiting for an answer. He talked on quickly and Craig decided to corral the conversation. Even his loudest whisper was less likely to wake someone than Liam’s distant boom.

“Where is it, Liam?”

“Off Botanic. Church on LeRoy.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

He knocked-off the call quickly and smiled affectionately towards the couch. Julia hadn’t stirred. Even Liam’s tannoy of a voice couldn’t manage to wake her. He distanced himself from her warmth and glanced down ruefully at his black jeans. There was no time to change, but no-one at the scene would mind. There’d be far more important things to worry about there.

Craig bent down and lifted her off the settee in one strong movement, smiling as she nuzzled into his chest and murmured softly in her sleep. He carried her into the bedroom, depositing her like a fragile parcel on the bed. Then wrapped her warmly in the duvet, clicked-off the light and closed the door, leaving swiftly for the scene.

Five minutes’ drive down University Road took him to the church, where a cluster of blue-lighted patrol cars were loudly disturbing God’s peace. Yellow tape marked the crime’s perimeter and a crowd of curious students had gathered to gawp. They were a mixture of party animals wandering home and the just-woken. Most probably the latter, judging by their outfits. Mind you, it was hard to tell with students.

Craig yawned and nodded hello to Liam and Annette, already standing by the church’s oak doors.

“What have we got?”

Annette hesitated. “You’d need to see it, sir. It’s hard to describe.”

Liam nodded heavily, agreeing with her, and they slowly entered the small church. Annette put her head down as they entered and Craig immediately knew it was messy. She always found gory scenes hard. They walked down the centre aisle, their steps echoing loudly on the hard mosaic floor. Until Liam stopped abruptly at the last pew, ten feet from the altar, and Craig had his first view of the scene.

He stood quietly for a moment, scanning the altar and their victim, his dark blue eyes unreadable. The crime scene investigators were moving efficiently about their work, but there was no sound, except for the metallic click of the measuring tape, and the muffled sealing of evidence bags. Instinctively closed more quietly than normal, aware of the place they were in.

Craig stood in stunned silence, gazing at the sight before them. The young woman’s body hung upside-down, locked in its last position. Forced to remain that way until the pathologist arrived. The white-suited C.S.I.s worked around her, averting their eyes and gathering whatever evidence they could. Until the girl’s slight body could give them something more.

“A bloody mess and no mistake...”

Craig shot Liam a reproving look. “True. But hardly tasteful, Liam.”

Liam nodded, subdued, apologising with a glance.

“Annette, can you chase pathology please. We need to get this poor girl down.”

As Annette walked outside to make the call, a bright blue Chrysler Crossfire pulled up to the taped cordon. John Winter, Director of Forensic Pathology and Craig’s long-time friend climbed out. He was wearing a dinner jacket and looking like an extra from the Great Gatsby. He strolled into the small church garden to join her.

“Good morning, Annette. What have you got for me?”

Annette smiled at his attire. It was light relief in a nightmarish scenario. Craig saw his friend arrive through the church door and walked out. Standing behind Winter was a plump girl of about twenty, dressed in a soft pink cocktail dress. It definitely wasn’t Natalie, his girlfriend, and Craig raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

“Hello John, I thought you were at a conference. Why are you on call?”

“Aine’s gone into labour early so I caught the weekend rota. Personnel didn’t manage to recruit a maternity locum for her… despite nine months warning! Typical. Not to worry though, you did me a favour. Got me out of a boring Medical Club dinner.”

He caught Craig’s look at the young girl standing behind him, and returned it with another that said, ‘don’t be stupid, Marc.’ He moved to one side and swept his hand theatrically.

“D.C.I. Marc Craig, allow me to introduce Ms Emily Streeter. Emily’s a psychology student, attached to the labs for six weeks. She fancies a career in forensics. She was at the dinner as well, and nearly as glad to escape as I was. I was just dropping her home when I got your page.”

Emily nodded furiously; dislodging a pile of dark hair perched precariously on top of her head, in some semblance of a bee-hive. She smiled widely, spreading a mass of dark freckles across her tanned cheeks. Her broad Armagh accent cut through the night air eagerly. “Yes, Med Club. It was…well, a bit boring really. Full of old fogies.”

She glanced at John, adding hurriedly. “Except Dr Winter of course. He’s not old. Well, not as old as some of them.”

Liam had just joined them and he laughed loudly, enjoying someone else putting their foot in it for a change. Annette gawped at the girl, stunned by the uncensored confidence of modern youth. Her teenagers, Amy and Jordan, were exactly the same.

Emily continued enthusiastically, completely missing their looks. “And those never-ending speeches. How can anyone talk for that long without falling asleep?”

John laughed. “You’ve just said what I’ve been thinking all evening.”

He turned to face Craig, suddenly business-like. “Right now. What do we have?”

Craig moved silently to one side, giving him his first clear sight of the altar. Even Emily’s freckled tan couldn’t hide her sudden pallor. “Oh, my...Oh!”

Craig immediately realised she was unprepared for what she was seeing and he stepped back again, obscuring the view. Then he placed his hands on the girl’s shoulders, turning her firmly towards Annette.

“Annette, could you take Emily away for a moment? John and I need to chat.”

He turned angrily to his friend. “For God’s sake, John!”

“I agree. It’s pretty nasty, even for me.”

“Surely you’d warned her about coming to a crime scene? It’s always a shock first time and this one’s particularly bad.”

John’s rational scientist kicked in and he answered Craig coolly. “I didn’t know the details, but yes, I warned her, Marc. They just never listen. They’ve all watched ‘Silent Witness’ and think that’s how it really is. Just like TV. All nice clean scenes and samples. They forget that in a murder case the ‘evidence’ is a dead human being.”

His tone softened. “I’m sorry if that seems harsh, but she needs to see this. Before she makes the wrong career choice. I really don’t think forensics is for her.” He paused and then smiled. “Hey, you didn’t really think she was my date...?”

“Well...”

“For God’s sake, she’s a child! Give me some credit. And Natalie would murder me.”

He winced and cast a look towards the church’s interior. “Sorry, that was unnecessary. I’m competing with Liam for political incorrectness tonight. Long day.”

“No, I didn’t really think you were dating her. I just couldn’t work out what she was doing in evening dress with you at a crime scene. But then…our lives are always strange.” They smiled at each other tiredly.

“Right then, now that we have that sorted. Let’s see what we’ve got. When was the body found?”

“A couple of students found her half-an-hour ago. They were on their way home and saw a shoe in the street, covered in blood. The boy came in here alone. He’s in a bad way. The medical examiner’s with him.”

John nodded and went to suit-up and Craig joined Annette in the street, where a still-pale Emily was sitting in a liveried patrol car.

“Are you OK? It is a nasty one.”

“It just seems different somehow...”

“On TV? Yes, I know.” He smiled kindly at her and then turned back to business, beckoning two uniformed constables across.

“Someone get the students’ statements and details, and then let them go home. Someone needs to go with the boy and keep an eye on him. And call both their parents - they’ve had a huge shock. Liam, see what you can find out about this church and the neighbouring area. And check if there have been any other cases of this sort; locally, mainland and Republic.”

A young C.S.I. appeared beside him. “Dr Winter says could you come and have a look at something, sir.”

Craig re-entered the church and walked over to John. He was kneeling over the girl’s body, released now from its vertical position.

“She wasn’t killed here, Marc. There’s not half enough blood. She also has fixed Lividity on her back, showing that she was left somewhere for at least six hours after she was killed. Time of death was at least six but not longer than twelve hours ago. She’s not in full rigor yet, and her Glaister temperature confirms it.”

He lifted a probe and held it six inches above the girl, pointing as he talked. “There are multiple lacerations and stab wounds, with healing around some of the smaller ones. They were inflicted before they killed her. Approximately one to two days before. Torture possibly? Then she was killed, allowed to bleed out and brought here for this little show. One of the C.S.I.s said that the back door was left open, deliberately allowing light in to spotlight her.”

“What light?”

“It came from a lamp above the back door. It was switched on.”

Craig nodded, his eyes clouding. “That probably means the blood was left on the gate deliberately too. And the shoe was staged, to ensure she was found.”

John nodded and then lifted an evidence bag, holding it out to Craig with a gloved hand. It held a knife, of a type that Craig had never seen before.

“This was in the abdominal wound. My first thoughts are that she was cut, allowed to bleed out, then the knife was put back in position for display. Only the abdominal wound was deep enough to kill her; I’m pretty sure it was the cause of death. I think they tore the aorta. My impression is this knife doesn’t fit the incision, but I can’t be sure until the post-mortem.” He hesitated for a second. “There’s something even nastier, Marc.”

Craig squinted at him incredulously. “Nastier than this?”

John nodded and took off his black-wire glasses, wiping them on the arm of his suit. He stopped, realising what he’d done. He’d have to change or contaminate evidence. Craig knew then, that despite John’s apparent insouciance, he was rattled by what he had seen. He would never have forgotten protocol otherwise.

After a moments silence, Winter restarted. “Didn’t you notice the position of the larger wounds?”

Craig looked puzzled.

“They’re in the sites of the crucifixion. Hands, feet, side and crown.”

Craig shook his head heavily. He hadn’t made the link - too much blood. His heart sank. “A religious murder?”

“Or staged to look like one. The crucifixion wounds were made post-mortem.”

Liam wandered in, joining them. “Oh great. That’s all we need, a religious nutcase. The moral majority will have a field day with this lot.”

“And the tabloids.”

Craig rubbed his eyes tiredly, wishing he was back home in bed. John continued more briskly.

“OK. What else have we got? She’s about twenty to twenty-five and well nourished. No obvious track marks to indicate drug-use, but I’ll check the less obvious sites when I get her to the lab. There’s evidence of bruising on her thighs and genitalia, and possibly fluids if we’re lucky. I’ll be able to tell you more after the P.M., and I’ll get Des onto the knife.” Dr Des Marsham was Head of Forensic Science, and he and John worked most of Craig’s cases.

John turned to go. “I’m off now, Marc. I’ll meet her at the lab as soon as.” He took a few long steps up the aisle and then turned back. “Oh, by the way, I’m going to ask Emily to work-up victim and perpetrator profiles for us, if that’s OK with you? She did a few in the first two years of her degree and was good at them by all accounts.”

He sounded like a proud father and Craig said as much.

“I know. Worrying isn’t it? Probably means that I need to settle down and have my own soon.”

“I think you need a willing woman for that part...”

***

Malone Road Belfast. Saturday. 1am.

Paul Ripley poured a large whisky and sat rigid, bracing himself for the explosion. He wasn’t disappointed. James Dawson’s angular face reddened to the point of scarlet and he banged his fist down hard on the table, spilling the liquid from Ripley’s glass.

Tim Morgan leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. He watched the two men with a detached air and a slight smirk upon his face. Ripley was an idiot and he’d said so years before. They should never have let him join the club. At least now he’d get to say ‘I told you so’.

There were too many ways to mess up the valuable items they dealt in, and Ripley was careless. Always believing that God would bail him out if something went wrong. Well it had gone wrong now all right, and no matter how much Dawson tried to shift the blame he was partly culpable. He’d brought the churchman in.

“What did I tell you? And how many bloody times?”

Dawson’s normally elegant tones were anything but now. He was shouting at the top of his voice. If words had a colour then his would have been crimson. His neck veins bulged against the collar of his Ralph Lauren shirt, and any minute now Morgan expected him to turn green and burst out of his jacket.

Dawson drew himself up to his full five-feet-nine and stared hard at the taller man sitting in front of him. Ripley leaned back as far as he could in the sleek high-backed chair, trying to escape the sheer volume of his words. He remained seated, afraid to move, even though standing up would immediately have led to him looming over the smaller Judge. But what James Dawson lacked in height he carried in authority. He’d co-founded the club and he’d been its first funder. He held all of the power in the room, and in life.

He slowed his speech as if each word was giving him reason to think. “You stupid, fucking, bastard.” Ripley went to open his mouth and then thought better of it, shutting it again silently. “I’ve told you a million times to touch nothing without my permission. Nothing. Who gave you the right to do this without my say so? WHO?”

The volume of his words rose incrementally, until ‘who’ was shouted with enough force to vibrate Morgan’s ears halfway across the room. He could only imagine what it was doing to Ripley’s an inch away.

Ripley sat completely still, his eyes fixed on the wall behind Morgan, letting the question echo around the room. It bounced from wall to wall until it finally reached the floor and died on the luxurious carpet. Dawson leaned in menacingly until his mouth was within touching distance of the other man’s cheek. Suddenly his re-formed fist swooped down in an arc and pounded, not against the desk this time, but against Ripley’s chin. It connected with such force that the chair flew back and Ripley thudded to the floor, banging his head hard against the skirting board.

Morgan smiled at the spectacle for a minute and then reluctantly moved in, his proximity enough to remind Dawson to withdraw. Paul Ripley stared up at both of them pathetically, holding his rapidly swelling jaw. He knew he deserved the blow. He’d jeopardised the club’s valuable trade, and all of them with it. After a moment’s silence his English tenor broke the silence pleadingly. “I repaired the damage, James.”

Dawson turned towards him angrily, curling his fist again. “Once a rare item is damaged there’s no way to repair it without massive cost to everyone.” His arm was rising to deal another blow when Morgan stilled it firmly. “Let him talk, James. He has it under control.”

Dawson turned to object but was halted by a look in Morgan’s eyes that said he would like what he heard next. He nodded at the floor grudgingly and Ripley sighed, relieved. Then he clambered to his feet and spelled out first how the item had been damaged, and then what he had done to insure the club’s future.

Chapter Three

Saturday 8am

“Are you going to eat that toast?”

“Yes. So leave it alone, fatso.”

Hannah leaned over her younger brother’s head and scooped the butter-soaked slice from the plate in front of him, pulling her hand away just as he grabbed for it. She stuck her tongue out, taunting him.

“Too quick for you, Bobby? You need to work on your backhand.”

“Mammy, she stole my breakfast! Tell her to give it back.” Their mother turned, just in time to see the last buttered corner disappear into Hannah’s smirking mouth.

“Oh for goodness sake, you two, just put some more toast on. And Bobby, if you want a lift to Jason’s you’re on a five minute countdown, then I’m leaving. I’m delivering a medical student’s workshop today. Hannah, do you need a lift to the library?”

“No thanks, Mum. I’ll walk down. And remember, I’m staying at Fiona’s until Monday night. We’ve an exam on Tuesday and we’re studying for it together.”

“OK pet. But give your father a call about eleven to let him know that you’re safe. Otherwise he’ll spend all night driving around the streets looking for you.”

Hannah whipped around, glaring angrily at her mother. Her next words were a yell. “He’s not my father!”

Mary Stewart sighed heavily. Hannah had never accepted her step-father, mourning her father’s premature death since she was nine. But she’d been left a widow at thirty, with two young children. She needed someone to care for her, and them. So when Damien Stewart had come along she’d jumped at it - too quickly in Hannah’s mind. But she’d fallen in love.

Hannah was still shouting. “I’m moving out next year, so he’d better get used to me not being at home.”

Her mother shook her head quietly. “I know that’s what you want, pet. And I promise that we’ll talk about it, but not just yet, please. I’m easing him into the idea gently. So don’t you go scaring him or he’ll never let you out the door...”

“I’ll do what I want. I’ll be a qualified doctor in two years...I’m twenty, not two.”

“You’ll always be twelve to your step-father...”

Hannah turned on her heel dramatically and stomped off down the hall, running up the two flights of stairs to her bedroom. They lived in a town-house on Belfast’s Malone Road and had done ever since she’d known where she was.

She pulled her overnight bag from beneath the bed and slid open the zip, looking behind her to make sure her door was closed. The last thing she needed was her young brother watching. Then she pulled out a folder full of lecture notes and fingered the clothes below. Her shortest party dress was pushed well down, anchored with her new red platforms. Her vanity case sat neatly in the side pocket.

She caught sight of her make-up-free face in the dressing room mirror. She looked too young, with her fair lashes and pale, even skin. Well, she wouldn’t look anything like this tomorrow night. Excitement bubbled-up in her chest, and lower. Her step-father might treat her as a little girl, but there were plenty of other men who didn’t.

***

8.30am.

The main briefing room in the Dockland’s Coordinated Crime Unit was being painted, like everything else in the building. Since the appointment of the new Assistant Chief Constable, McGurk, the force seemed to have decided that instead of a new brush sweeping clean it was going to be busy painting.

Everywhere but Craig’s small office smelled of turpentine so the briefing was being held in there, accompanied by sea-gulls dancing outside the windows.

It was eight-thirty by the time they’d all crammed in, propped against the cupboards and sills as usual. Until Liam decided that sitting on the floor would be easier on his Saturday morning hangover. Craig leaned over his desk and grinned down at him. He was resting close-eyed against the wall.

“Bad head?”

“Don’t ask. Rory’s been screaming the place down all night, teething. The only way to get any sleep is to drink your way into it. Then you have the bad head the next day.”

Annette smiled at him virtuously. “I gave up drinking for Lent and never restarted. I feel great on it.”

“Well, aren’t you just the perfect one.”

Craig could see a spat brewing, not helped by Annette taking her Inspector exams the coming week, making Liam feel insecure. Craig knew she would pass easily, leaving him with two Inspectors. The number wasn’t a problem. He’d only agreed to take superintendent rank if he could keep them both. But he knew that when they were both Inspectors they’d compete even more than they did now. He shrugged inwardly. That was next month’s problem.

“Right then. Let’s keep this short and sweet.”

“Aye. Cos I’ll have a numb bum to match my head in a minute.”

“Here’s what we know so far. The victim is a twenty to twenty-five year old female, healthy looking and well nourished. No birth marks or tattoos, and no obvious needle tracks at the scene. John’s checked the other injections sites now; between the toes, frenulum, eyes etc. But there’s nothing. She’s not an injecting drug user. Davy’s running her photo now.”

He nodded at Davy, their young Emo analyst. He was fiddling absentmindedly with his earlobe, pulling hard at its latest piercing. Craig winced and glanced away - it was making him feel nauseous.

“Eyes!”

They all turned towards the sound of Mariella Frostrup in shock. The husky voice belonged to Nicky, Craig’s personal assistant. She was turning an odd colour in the corner, reminding Craig that she wasn’t au fait with drug addicts more interesting injection sites.

Instead of rising as other voices did, her throaty voice growled even more deeply when she was surprised.

“Did you really say eyes, sir?”

Craig nodded. “Don’t go there, Nicky. If I told you everywhere that addicts injected themselves you’d never get the pictures out of your head.”

Liam opened his mouth to make a rude comment, shutting it quickly again at Craig’s warning look. A loud beep came from Nicky’s desk computer, indicating that she had mail. She slipped out to check as Craig continued.

“OK. John’s preliminary findings give the cause of death as exsanguination from a wound in her side. The weapon entered the abdomen and transected the abdominal aorta. She would have died within five minutes. None of her jewellery or cash is missing, so theft wasn’t a motive. But she doesn’t have any identification at all. No cards and no driving licence. Although they left her handbag behind.”

Nicky reappeared and handed him a sheet of paper. “Just came through from Dr Winter, sir. Preliminary findings.”

Craig scanned it quickly before speaking. “Thanks, Nicky. OK, cause of death was definitely aortic wounding. We don’t have an idea of the weapon yet. John says that the knife left in-situ was too small and the wrong shape to have caused the cut. Annette, can you work that up with Des and John please. And something may show up on her tox-screen, so follow up on that as well.”

He paused and then said quietly, “John’s confirmed rough sexual contact, and there’s more than one man’s D.N.A.”

“Group sex gone wrong? Or a gang-bang, boss?”

“He thinks the second - there are signs that she put up quite a struggle. Hopefully the bastards will have left something behind that we can use. Davy, can you chase for anything similar through the home office computer, and with the Irish police please.”

Davy glanced up, still twiddling his earring. Craig tried not to look directly at it. “W…Will do.”

He grinned, knowing exactly why Craig was averting his eyes and Annette glanced at Nicky, marvelling at how confident Davy was nowadays. When he’d joined them the year before his shyness had stopped him even talking to Craig. Every time he had done, his mild stutter on ‘s’ and ‘w’ had escalated wildly. Now he could banter with the best of them.

Craig continued. “John says that as well as the superficial wounds in the sites of the crucifixion there are some other anomalies. I’ll cover those in a minute.” He paused, absentmindedly raking his hair to a standing position. Nicky smiled affectionately at him. He was too handsome for his own good, but the effect was softened by the habit and it always made her smile.

“Emily Streeter, you all met her last night, is going to have a go at victim and perp profiles for us. So work with her on that please. Also, the chains that were used to tie our victim to the railings, there must be something there. Try ironmongers and chain manufacturers. Davy, can you help Liam on all that? Get her photograph to the DVLA, passport office and other U.K. forces. We need to I.D. this girl quickly. Someone must be missing her.”

“What about her fingerprints, sir?”

Craig shook his head and a grim look crossed his face. “There are none Annette, they’ve been burnt off.” He paused sadly. “And they removed all her teeth.”

“God, it’s like a mafia killing! They definitely didn’t want her I.D.ed, boss.”

Craig nodded quietly. They definitely didn’t. But that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t be.

“John’s working on getting prints from elsewhere.”

Annette leaned forward, fascinated. “Elsewhere? But if her fingers have gone, then surely that’s it sir?”

“Apparently not, Annette. I’m not sure how he’s going to do it, but the e-mail says he’s trying. So I believe him.”

Davy opened his mouth to interject but Craig held up a hand, stilling their looming questions.

“Sorry, but it gets worse. The place we found her definitely wasn’t the kill site. She was washed superficially and moved after she bled out. We’re looking for somewhere with privacy and cleaning facilities. Davy, can you start looking for anything local that fits the bill on that. Until Des comes back with something from the forensics we’ll have to look at generalities. I’ll get time of death from John and try to narrow things down.”

“But couldn’t privacy and cleaning facilities just describe someone’s house, sir? It could be anywhere.”

Davy nodded, his question just asked by Annette. Craig was about to answer when Liam raised a finger. He nodded him on. “Well it’s just a thought, boss, but if they washed-off most of her blood why not remove all D.N.A. as well? It’s a bit careless isn’t it? And why not dump her handbag? The bag itself might give us an I.D.”

“And the shoes, sir. They’re a real fashion item.” He smiled at Nicky’s fashion knowledge and her Saturday outfit of four-inch-heeled ankle boots and mini-skirt.

Davy leaned forward quickly, joining in. “Especially as they took that much trouble with s…staging to throw us off track?”

Craig scanned their faces. They were right. The D.N.A. had been planted deliberately. Which meant it would probably be useless.

“There was even more staging. She had a pentagram carved into her lower back.”

Nicky gasped. Craig nodded. “It’s probably a red herring, but we have to rule everything out. They’re throwing in the kitchen sink to confuse us.”

“And s…slow us down.”

“OK. Annette, can you check-out her clothes? Anything at all on the labels, sales outlets, recent purchases, and anyone who used a credit card to buy any of them. The girl that found her shoe said that it’s this season’s at some place called Kurt Geiger - apparently that means they’re quite expensive. Let’s see who bought them. Try Belfast and all Northern Irish and Republic stockists first, and then go UK wide. Ditto on her jewellery, and check out that watch. It isn’t a knock off; it’s a real Rolex Datejust. They cost a lot of money so there can’t be that many sold every year.”

“How do you know that, boss?”

He glanced away quickly. “I knew someone who wore one once. Someone must remember selling it, and there’ll be a serial number. Chase the forensics on hair, blood, mud on her shoes. C.S.I. found the other shoe on the altar. Look for anything at all that might give us information.” He turned to Liam. “The D.N.A. might still help, Liam, even if it was planted. We need to dig for anything that can help us on where she died.”

“What about the universities and colleges, boss? She was left in the Holyland and she looks the right age to be a student.”

“Good idea Liam. OK, go ahead, but without scaring the other students please. I don’t want a full-scale campus alert. Get uniform going door-to-door in the area as well. Someone definitely saw something last night.”

He stood up abruptly and grabbed his jacket. “Right. I’m off to meet the Minister at the church.”

“You should leave it until tomorrow boss.”

Craig squinted at Liam, knowing that a joke was coming and taking the bait anyway.

“OK, I’ll bite. Why?”

Liam guffawed loudly. “’Cos it’s Sunday. God will be paying a wee visit, so the Minister’s bound to be at work.”

Craig smiled. Liam could be very funny, when he wasn’t being politically incorrect or rude. And sometimes even then.

“Nicky, could you ring the church office and confirm my visit for ten, please. Let’s see why they chose that particular place. I’m nipping up to see Chief Superintendent Harrison, then I’ll go straight there. ”

He slipped-on his jacket and glanced at the post mortem head shot of their victim. She looked about seventeen with all her makeup scrubbed off - like a teenager sleeping. Someone had just lost the most important thing they had, and they didn’t even know it.

“I’ll be at the lab after eleven if anyone needs me.”

***

Terry Harrison’s office had been moved from the twelfth to the thirteenth floor, to make room for the Assistant Chief Constable’s new team. All change. Harrison didn’t care; his main base was in Limavady now. And when Craig took over Murder in two weeks’ time he’d only ever be back in Belfast for meetings with the Drugs Squad.

Craig ran quickly up the three flights. When he arrived on the thirteenth, Harrison’s office was empty. He scanned the open-plan floor. It was covered in boxes and cellophane, but Craig finally spotted the D.C.S’s dark head in the corner. He wandered over and Harrison saw him approach, beckoning him to a new coffee area near the window.

“Hello sir. This is all new!”

“Yes, it’s all change with the new A.C.C. He wants people to have relaxation spaces. Hmm…I’m not sure people need any encouragement to relax.”

He pointed to a shiny coffee machine by the wall. It looked like it dispensed every type of drink known to man.

“Are we getting one of those? John Winter has one in the Path lab.”

“Do his guests have much call for coffee then?”

They smiled wryly at each other, acknowledging the incongruity. Gallows humour was a buffer from the things that they saw every day, but not everyone outside the job understood it. Liam had been told to keep it in the office a few times.

“I’d like to update you on a case we caught last night, sir. It’s a nasty one I’m afraid.”

“Aren’t they all? No-one has invented a nice murder yet.”

“This one’s particularly bad. Young woman, sexual assault and fatal wounding. There were multiple stab wounds and a knife was left in-situ…” He paused, knowing the reaction that his next words would cause. “The wounds were in the marks of the crucifixion.”

Harrison’s face froze.

“Sorry, but it gets worse, sir. She had a pentagram carved into her back and was chained upside down to the altar rails at a church in the Holyland. It definitely wasn’t the kill site - the body was moved after she bled out.”

The horror on Harrison’s face grew with each sentence, and by the time Craig finished his mouth was wide open. There was silence for a moment before he spoke.

“Dear God, what sorts of animals are running around out there? I’m positive it’s got worse since The Troubles ended, or maybe they just kept a lower profile then.”

Craig nodded sadly. “We had similar things in the Met. Some really bad stuff. Is there any way we can keep the details quiet, sir? At least until we I.D. the girl? This is the sort of stuff the tabloids love.”

“Yes, any rag that prints ‘a celebrity ate my gerbil’ has no dignity at all. OK, let’s keep this quiet, but we’ll only be able to do it for a short time. I’ll talk to press liaison and draft a very brief statement. Do you have anything that might identify her at all?”

Craig shook his head. “Nothing yet, but everyone’s on it today. I’ll keep you posted.” He got up to leave and Harrison leaned forward, feigning hurt.

“Don’t you want a macchiato then ...?”

“I’ll tell you what, sir. If my mum ever made you a real Italian one, you’ll never touch your machine again.”

***

Liam leaned back in his swivel chair with his long legs up on the desk. He was talking on the phone and picking hard at the edge of his notebook. Annette knew by the look on his face that it was from frustration, not boredom.

“Aye well, I’m sending her picture over to you now, Alma.” He sighed and stuck his tongue out at the phone. Then he rolled his eyes at Annette and tried hard to remember what he’d learned on his last personal skills course. When he spoke again it was with laboured politeness and Annette smiled to herself, imagining the thoughts in his head.

“Sorry…Anna. Yes, I know that it’s the weekend, but you’re on-call for all of it, aren’t you? Just check her against your database, will you?” He paused for a moment listening, and then rolled his eyes again. “Sorry. Please check then. No, I’m not sure she’s from the U.K. But then, with respect, she can’t tell us now, can she?”

Annette smiled as Liam’s sarcasm finally broke through, and she knew that even saying ‘with respect’ had taken all his limited self-control. Liam was tempted to tell the woman where to shove her weekend. But instead, he continued slowly, counting to ten. She had information that he needed.

“If she’s not from the U.K., then from the looks of her we’re talking Northern Europe. Light grey eyes and natural blond hair; possibly Scandinavian. OK, thanks.”

He swung the phone down hard towards its cradle, and then stopped a centimetre above it, lowering it slowly to cut the call. Then he swore loudly as Annette wandered over from her cubicle, smiling.

“Actually Liam, that’s a good point. We need to try the Embassies too. I’ll get onto them. She could be American or Canadian as well. Let’s make a list of possibilities; U.K., U.S.A., Scandinavia, all EU passports. Where else?”

Davy swung his chair round from his horseshoe of computers. “The non-EU countries like Russia, Norway, Iceland, and the Ukraine?”

“Ah, you see now, Cutty. That’s a university education for you. I’ve Erin’s name down already.”

“She’s only three!”

“Forward planning is everything. Let’s run our Jane Doe past Interpol too, Davy. Can we get another analyst to help out on this? There’ll be a lot for you to do.”

Davy smiled at him in gratitude. He didn’t like to complain but sometimes they all forgot how much research went into a simple yes or no response.

“Karen’s over there. She’s on for the w…weekend. I’ll try her.” Annette was already half-way across the floor.

Karen Atherton was a hefty, complacent-looking girl who had a First Class degree in statistics and could have made a fortune out in the ‘real world’. But her father had been a sergeant and she’d grown up around the police, so working for them seemed logical somehow. Plus she was surrounded by men all day, and that suited her just fine. Fewer women meant less romantic competition. She’d been dating a young constable from Moira for a year and everyone expected wedding bells soon.

Annette wandered towards her desk just as Karen was picking silver paper off a chocolate bar. She was about to sink her teeth into it when Annette leaned over the cubicle wall and used her best wheedling tone. “Karennn…”

Karen stared up at her with the look of someone unimpressed by all attempts to get round her. But she liked Annette. In fact she liked all women over thirty who were married.

“OK...I’ll bite. What do you want?”

Annette nearly laughed aloud at her words, said as they were six inches from the chocolate. She stifled her laugh and eagerly handed Karen the file containing the girl’s photo, and the list of possible countries they’d generated.

“Can you help us? We’re having real trouble I.D.ing her. Anything you can find would be great. I owe you a drink for this.”

“Yes, you do. But I’d settle for a Twix from the machine.”

“You’re on. I’ll buy you a couple.”

***

Craig parked on LeRoy Street and walked through the low wrought-iron gate into the pretty church garden. He hadn’t noticed it last night, but it was beautiful. The day was sunny and the garden was full of brightly coloured flowers, highlighted by the morning light. It seemed incongruous in a street filled with bedsits, and even more incongruous set against what had greeted them there last night.

Craig scanned the street, remembering his student years. It was broad and elegant looking, full of high-walled terraces with ivy rambling across their stones. He remembered going to parties there with John. He hadn’t noticed much elegance when he was throwing up in a drain.

He turned back towards the church, gazing admiringly at the archway above its door. The white stone brickwork was worked with wandering roses, leading to its apex where the two sides entwined into a Celtic cross. He wasn’t a religious man, but memories of churches and their silent uninhabited beauty were carved deep into his childhood psyche.

He pushed open the small oak door and his footsteps echoed on the tiles, just as they had the previous night. He walked respectfully towards the altar, still seeing their victim’s sad display.

“Hello.”

The softly spoken word pulled him out of his day-dream and he turned, to be greeted by an unexpected sight. The woman standing in front of him was big-eyed and petite, with short dark hair, cut like a young Mia Farrow. Except on her it seemed more French fairy than American starlet. She was unexpected in this solemn world.

”Mr Craig?”

“Yes. Sorry for just walking in. I’m here to meet the Reverend Hinton.”

She smiled. “Churches are there to be walked-in-to. And I’m Reverend Hinton.” She caught his shocked look before he could hide it. “Yes, I know. I don’t look like a Reverend.” She extended a small tanned hand in greeting. “It’s Wendy.”

Craig felt disturbed. Everything he’d been taught said that it was deeply wrong to find a vicar attractive. He gathered himself quickly, certain that she hadn’t spotted anything.

“Reverend.”

“Wendy.”

“Sorry. Wendy. Obviously you were contacted about last night.”

“Yes, I spoke to an Inspector Cullen. A very tall man.” He nodded. Liam’s six-feet-six never passed without a comment. “It's dreadful. That poor girl… How could anyone do it? Do you know her name yet?”

“No, but I’m hoping that you can help us with that.” He pulled a small photograph from his pocket, a miniature of John’s least gory image.

“Have you ever seen her at church, or around the area? Could she be a student or a member of your congregation? Anything that you can think of would help.”

She thought for a minute and then shook her head slowly. “I’m really sorry but I’ve never seen her before. My congregation is small and mostly elderly, with some young families who have just moved into the side streets further up the Ormeau road. I only have a handful of young people, and she definitely wasn’t one of them. I’m very sorry, Inspector Craig.”

He nodded again. It had been a long shot. Whoever had left the girl’s body there would’ve had to be stupid to have left an obvious trail. He realised that she was still talking.

“Do you belong to a church, Inspector?”

Craig regarded her calmly, his days of religious rebellion long put to rest. He wasn’t sure what he believed about a creator, or if he believed in one at all. But if one existed he wouldn’t believe anyone’s version of it but his own. He spoke gently, out of respect for her job and her point of view.

“If I believed in something Reverend, I’m afraid I wouldn’t believe what anyone else told me about it. To paraphrase a well-known comedian.”

She smiled at him knowingly and he knew that she wasn’t giving up. “We have a lovely service on Sunday evenings. Very modern.”

He smiled ruefully at her recruitment speech, trying to imagine the murder squad touting for business in the same way. It lost something in translation. He changed the subject smoothly.

“Location usually has significance in a murder, either to the perpetrator or the victim. So the fact that the girl was left here is relevant. Would you mind working with one of our people, Emily Streeter, to help with a profile that we’re creating? Ms Streeter was here when we found the victim.”

“Anything I can do to help, please just let me know.”

“Thanks. Would Monday afternoon be possible?

“Of course. Mondays are quiet for me.”

“Thank you, I’ll arrange a car. Now, could we have a look at the altar please?”

She nodded and a look of disgust crossed her small face. “I’ve…I’ve tried to clean it, but I’m afraid some of the blood is still in the floor mosaic.”

“I’ll get our lab people to contact you, to see if they can help with that.”

Craig turned towards the altar, walking slowly towards it. The iron rails sat approximately four feet from the ground, except for a ten-feet-high screen to one side, where the girl had been suspended. He couldn’t pull his eyes away, the images from the night before already added to the library in his head.

“You can still see her, can’t you?”

He was shocked by her quick reading of him.

“Yes.”

He paused, then continued slowly, wondering why he was confiding in her. “I can still see them all, Reverend. Especially when we haven’t caught the killer.”

She nodded, understanding. “I feel the same when one of my parishioners dies. In whatever way.”

He felt calm talking to her and wondered why. Then he realised he was responding to her wisdom. She’d seen a lot in life, like him. He changed the subject hurriedly – she was getting too close for comfort.

“Who has access to the church?”

She thought for a moment, counting in her head.

“Three others, apart from myself. The lay preacher Joe Higginson, the caretaker-gardener Johnny, and the lady who does the altar flowers for us; Mrs Macaulay. But only Mr Higginson and I have the keys, and the church is locked after the last service at seven.”

“We’ll need to speak to all of them. Someone will be in touch for their addresses.”

He stared at the scene for a full five minutes, considering it from every angle. Then they walked past the high carved pulpit, to the back door that had been lying open the previous evening.

“Does this use the same key as the front?”

“No, it’s different. But it’s on the same key-ring. And the padlock on the gate was unlocked as well. That’s a third key. Whoever did this must have had access to all three.”

Craig scrutinised the heavy back door. There was nothing to see but the dust from the C.S.I.’s printing. It opened out slowly, with a grinding noise that showed that its hinges needed oiling. Behind it stood a high hedge of Leyland cypress, with only a narrow path separating it from the door. The back of the church would be constantly sheltered from view. It wouldn’t be seen from the street, even during the daytime. He looked at the light above the door, covered in finger print dust, and thought aloud.

“They could have entered through here and only opened the front door and gate just before they left. That would have given them hidden access, and the certainty that no-one could have walked in and disturbed them until they’d finished. This was well planned.” They walked down the small path and within thirty seconds they were back on LeRoy Street. Whoever had left the girl’s body there knew the church’s layout very well.

Craig took his phone from his pocket, and was just about to make a call when he remembered the vicar’s presence. He turned apologetically, taken aback momentarily by his own absorption. Julia was always complaining about it.

“Thank you Wendy, I think that’s all for now. Someone will call you for those contact details. And they’ll collect you and bring you to High Street station on Monday afternoon for the meeting with Ms Streeter. We may have more questions at a later stage.”

Craig was itching to make his call but politeness meant he made small talk until they arrived by the church garden.

The Reverend turned to face the street. “I’m always around, Inspector. I just live over there.”

She indicated a whitewashed building at the corner of LeRoy and Botanic. He hadn’t noticed it before. It was modern and well-tended and nothing like the surrounding scruffy terraces. “That’s the church house. I’m either there or here most days.”

She pulled out a business card and handed it to Craig. It had her title and mobile number on it, and he raised an eyebrow at the sight of a twitter address. God was getting very modern these days. She caught his look and laughed, crinkling her large brown eyes attractively.

“What did you expect, Inspector? A tablet of stone? The church has to be modern to get through to people nowadays.”

They chatted about nothing for a few minutes more, until Craig realised that he’d forgotten his call and was enjoying himself far too much. He was saved by his mobile buzzing. John.

“Sorry, but I have to take this. I’ll organise the car to collect you Monday about three. OK?”

She mouthed ‘yes’ and waved as she walked back towards the church. Craig turned his back determinedly, flipping open his phone and smiling to himself.

“Hi John, thanks for the call. You’ve probably just saved my soul...”

Chapter Four

Sunday. Midday.

Dawson pulled off the M1 and headed down the A4 towards Enniskillen. He’d been swearing since the night before and inventing new punishments for Paul Ripley in his head. When he’d finally got home it had been four o’clock and the house was in darkness. The up-side was that Catherine had been asleep, so he wasn’t subjected to her endless questions about where he’d been. He’d have to get rid of her soon. She’d hit her sell-by-date ten years before. But he had other things to deal with at the moment.

He pulled his Jaguar onto a narrow lane that led to Conagher Forest. From the main road it looked like a normal wood, completely unremarkable. And it was, apart from the solitary granite dwelling at its heart. He drove at a snail’s pace between the tall trees, careful not to damage his paintwork. They leaned towards each other so far that they seemed to embrace; their long branches reaching out like lovers’ arms.

After a minute Dawson emerged into the daylight of a man-made opening. At its centre stood a high wall, nestling just below the tree-tops. He pressed a remote control and a section retracted seamlessly, revealing a windowless stone tower within. It was high and sheer with no visible openings, apart from a low front door the same shade as its walls. Walls that cast a pall that had nothing to do with their colour. Even for Dawson, the sense of isolation lowered his mood. It was like a tomb.

He parked his car sharply behind the forbidding structure and lifted his briefcase, as if heading for a meeting. After pressing six numbers into the door’s keypad his mood lifted, anticipating the reward that came later. He deserved it after the last thirty-six hours.

The door swung inwards revealing a high-ceilinged circular entrance hall, with balconies on each floor, overlooking its centre. Dawson walked briskly across the marble floor, each step clipping the air, and entered a lift in the corner, ascending four floors in silence. As the doors opened a man stepped forward urgently, showing him down a carpeted walkway into a board room.

The two men already there nodded briefly as Dawson entered, looking pointedly at the clock. He was almost an hour late. No-one spoke until he’d poured a whisky and seated himself, lounging arrogantly in the chair at the head of the table. Then he took a deep drink and waved the younger of the men to speak.

The young man was thirty or thereabouts, with the leanness of the very fit. His skin glowed with health and a tan not earned in Ireland. As he leaned forward he shot his cuffs, showing links of platinum engraved with the number five. His voice was soft and heavily accented, with inflections of southern Europe.

“This is very bad.”

The man beside him barely blinked, echoing his words with a nod, and a sonorous. “Very.”

He was around fifty with immaculate shoulder-length grey hair, matched by a neat pointed beard. With his flamboyant velvet jacket and perfect Received Pronunciation he always reminded Dawson of a Cavalier. He reached elegantly for his drink, revealing identical cufflinks bearing the number four.

Dawson shrugged. Not with indifference but in agreement. It was bad, but they had it under control. “The book was too well-known. We were misled.”

The grey-haired man sat forward angrily. “That doesn’t matter now. The fact is that it can be traced. It was careless.”

Dawson nodded heavily. It was careless, and he would take it out of Ripley’s hide. Sylvia’s too, once the trail had gone cold. But he was in charge today and wouldn’t brook being questioned. His voice hardened.

“Six and seven dealt with it. They’ve assured me that they covered their tracks well. No-one will trace it, and if they do, it will never come back to us.”

“To you, you mean.” The words hung in the air and Dawson regarded the young man coldly, countering with a word of his own. “Us.”

Silence descended on the room, until finally Dawson leaned forward, pressing on a button flush with the table’s surface. A screen slid up from its far end and flickered once before revealing a man’s face. His expression was stern and he tapped his desk impatiently, opening the meeting.

He was older, over sixty, and carried an authority that none of them had managed to attain. His short grey hair was thrown into stark relief against a deep tan, redolent of years of privilege. His suit whispered of money.

The young man leaned forward to speak and he stilled him with a raised fingertip. He broke the silence with a mellifluous baritone that would have been warm if his words hadn’t chilled the room.

“This is unforgivable.”

He paused and no one broke the silence. He owned them all. His tone cooled even further. “This book was well-known. It will be missed. The mistake must be covered quickly - before next week, or our guests will not join us on the 14th. We have waited years for this moment. It will be our biggest auction ever.”

His voice rose abruptly and he lunged forward, as if he could reach out of the screen. Dawson could almost feel his breath.

“This is an international auction. You will not ruin this, number three, or you will pay for it.”

He lounged back in his chair and turned his head slowly as if staring at each of them in turn. His hand moved towards the off-switch, his finger hovering above it for two seconds. “Deal with this. There will be no more warnings.” Then the screen went black and he was gone.

Dawson took another sip of whisky and waited for the others to start. He wasn’t disappointed. They threw the blame back and forth, and after a minute’s noisy debate they handed it to him. He stood up silently and left the room without a backward glance, leaving them to moan. Then he took the lift five floors down to the library, to re-read one of his private collection.

***

“I hate him, Fiona, I really hate him.”

“Why? He’s not bad, as step-dad’s go. You should try having mine.”

Hannah regarded her friend sceptically as if no one could be worse than Damien Stewart. Then she decided it wasn’t worth arguing about and gazed around the Lyric Theatre café instead. The theatre had been established over sixty years before in a suburban house. Now they’d rebuilt it in an architect’s dream overlooking the Lagan. Its cafe had become a gathering place for all ages. Her mum’s lecturer friends were never out of the place.

Hannah picked idly at her sandwich and Fiona eyed it greedily.

“If you’re not going to eat that I’ll have it. I’ve a shocking hangover.”

Hannah swatted her friend’s hand away, laughing and taking a decisive bite. She glanced towards the entrance, checking her watch.

“Have you seen Britt? She’s never usually late.”

Fiona shook her head slowly, wincing at the effect of last night’s alcohol. “Now you come to mention it, I haven’t seen her since Wednesday. At Maggie Mays.” She pulled out her mobile. “I’ll give her a call.”

After a moment listening, she gazed at her friend, puzzled. “It’s dead! Sounds like it’s been disconnected.”

Hannah laughed. “Well it can’t be that she didn’t pay the bill, her dad’s loaded. It’s probably just your phone. I’ll try her.” After a few seconds more listening she shook her head as well. “Nothing. Do you think we should go round there and make sure she’s OK?”

“We’ve got revision to do, remember. I’m sure she’s fine. I tell you what, let’s do a few hours’ work then we can call round later. The network’s probably down. Either way she won’t thank us for waking her if she has a hangover.”

Hannah nodded, the worried look leaving her soft face. “You’re on. And we’re going to work really hard this afternoon, you. None of your usual skiving. I need to pass dermatology this time.”

***

“I’m sorry pet. I’m not going to make it back for lunch. What are you going to do all afternoon?”

Craig shifted the phone to his left ear and flicked open the file Nicky had left on his desk on Friday. He started signing the memos inside, waiting for Julia to speak, knowing that the length of her silence would signal her annoyance. Another weekend ruined by his job. To his surprise she spoke immediately and he was surprised by her cheerfulness.

“Don’t worry, I can think of lots of things to do that I never get a chance to, like e-mailing all my friends. Then I’m going to tidy your wardrobe.”

He groaned inwardly, knowing it would take him forever to find anything when she’d finished. But if it kept her happy…

“Great. I promise to make it up to you this evening. Remember we’re having dinner with Natalie and John.”

“Excellent. You can buy me an expensive meal, and I’ve all afternoon to work out the rest of your punishment.”

***

The Pathology lab

“What have you got for me, John?”

John Winter peered up from his file sleepily. It had been an early morning post-mortem yesterday, followed by hours of work. Not to mention his boozy Sunday lunch with Natalie, his long-term girlfriend. She was a surgeon and she drank like one. His wimpy pathologist’s liver just couldn’t keep up.

Thank God she was on call this week. That only left dinner tonight before he could get some rest. He wondered what that said about their relationship, and then turned his attention back to the file.

“She died sometime on Friday, Marc. Six to twelve hours before you found her. So, working back, I’d say that she was dead by lunchtime on Friday at the earliest. Whoever did it tortured her, and then raped her very roughly. There are shallow lacerations from a small knife all over her, as well as the crucifixion wounds. Healing shows the lacerations were made while she was alive, between twenty-four and thirty-six hours before death. So, although she died on Friday, I think they’d had her at least twenty-four hours before that. Maybe thirty-six. That puts her abduction around midnight on Thursday. Perhaps even earlier, if they held her for a while before the torture.”

Craig nodded, praying that they’d tortured her immediately. Waiting and wondering what they had planned would have been an even bigger hell. He nodded John on.

“The fatal abdominal wound was caused by a large knife, much larger than the one they left behind. That was left to confuse us. You’re looking for something like a large kitchen knife - very sharp, with a pointed end and serrated edge. Des can find you a comparator.”

“What about the crucifixion wounds, John?” Craig asked the question at his normal soft volume, but John winced and held his head theatrically. Craig laughed and he winced again.

“Bad session?”

“Natalie.”

The one word answer made Craig laugh again. Natalie Ingrams could drink like a six-foot man, or two of them, even though she barely made five-feet tall herself. Years of medical school training.

“In answer to your question, they were made post-mortem, as I thought.”

Craig rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The crucifixion wounds were staging, just like the choice of display site at the church. But even the way a killer staged a death might tell them something about them. People leaked information constantly, even when they didn’t mean to. John continued talking.

“They raped her. The genital bruising indicates more than once. We’re checking the D.N.A. at the moment. But her final cause of death was shock, due to exsanguination. She bled out somewhere, then the body was superficially washed and moved to the church. Superficially, because they left some of her dried blood to scare people. Washed, because she still had water evaporation marks inside her ears. The water’s composition might tell Des something.”

“Or not.”

John nodded gently, acknowledging that water sanitation could have removed some natural clues. “I think they left her blood because they knew we would identify her eventually, they just wanted to slow us down. The pentagram was done post-mortem as well. More window-dressing. There’s a lot of staging in this one Marc; the crucifixion cuts, the pentagram, the church.”

“It’s all religious.”

It was said matter-of-factly, but it opened up a world of possibilities. Especially in a quasi-religious place like Northern Ireland. There were more churches in the place than you could shake a stick at.

Craig kept going. “Think about it, John. The wounds of the crucifixion; Christian symbolism. The pentagram; Pagan. The church; Christian again.”

“Neopagan.”

“What?”

“They’re called NeoPagans nowadays. Anyway, and?”

“Whoever did this has links with a church. I’ll lay money on it.”

“I’d take the bet but you’re probably right.”

He paused for a moment and then handed Craig some surgical gloves, beckoning him solemnly into the dissection room. Their breath frosted in the cold air as they walked towards the body at the far end. The slim shape under the sheet was unmistakable as a woman’s, and Craig hoped that John wouldn’t draw the cover back to reveal her face. It was easier when you didn’t look at their face; especially when it was a woman. Staring into the abyss somehow. He thought Nietzsche would agree with his interpretation.

John knew Craig well so he lifted only the smallest corner of the sheet, to reveal the fatal wound in their victim’s side. He reached over to the steel instrument table and lifted the knife left behind, still sealed in its plastic evidence bag. It was far too small to have made the incision and its edge was smooth.

Craig nodded and took the bag, turning it over in his sterile hand. “Did you find anything on it?”

Winter shook his head. “Only what you’d expect, her blood. But the knife’s unusual.” He stripped his gloves off and nodded towards the office. They left the girl in peace, and after five minutes of silent black coffee John re-opened the conversation.

“I think you’re right.”

Craig raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“About the religious aspect. I can’t be certain, but I want to check something.” He reached forward and tapped his computer keyboard twice, then typed in a single word. After a few seconds scrolling he turned the screen towards Craig, without any hint of triumph. Scores of knives just like their specimen were displayed on the screen.

“It’s called a Sakin. A knife used for the act of shechita - killing in the kosher way. It has to be completely smooth, without a point and with absolutely no serrations. So it definitely didn’t cause her wounds.”

Craig’s eyes opened wide in shock.

“Yes, exactly what you’re thinking. It’s used to produce meat eaten by people observing a kosher diet.”

“And that would be mainly the Jewish community.”

“Especially the Orthodox ones.”

Craig sighed heavily. Their murderer had already brought in Christianity and Neopaganism - why not throw Judaism into the mix? Just to offend as many people as possible. They were deliberately throwing in red herrings to knock them off-track. John was still talking.

“Although…it could have made the superficial cuts she received before death. They weren’t fatal, but they would have been very painful. So sadism was part of the killer’s modus operandi.” He hesitated, as if there was worse to come. Craig sighed and waved him on.

“She was partially strangled as well, Marc, judging by the marks on her neck. The bruising indicates that it was repeated. About a day before they killed her, judging by the stage of the bruises. It wasn’t the cause of death - exsanguination was, so I think the strangulation was probably sexual. Sadism again.”

Cut, strangled, raped and then murdered. They’d used her for gratification in every way possible and then they killed her. She was someone’s child and they’d killed her.

Craig sat thinking for a moment, working out the scene. John’s look told him that he was already there.

“Of course, you’ll need to rule everything out, Marc. But when you have, my guess is the killing had nothing to do with religion, but the killer did.”

Craig nodded slowly, deep in thought. “The killer will have something to do with the denomination of the church where she was found.”

John leaned forward, curious. “Why? Surely they wouldn’t be so stupid as to leave the body somewhere that obviously linked back to them? If they’re a church-goer wouldn’t they have left it somewhere completely unrelated? Churches are easy enough to break into.”

Craig shook his head. “Yes and no. The church wasn’t broken into. The doors and gate padlock were unlocked. Which means our killer had the keys.”

“That must narrow your suspect pool to a few people?”

“That’s what I thought initially - just the vicar and the lay preacher, a man called Joe Higginson.” His face told John that it wasn’t so. “Then Davy called the church’s national office and found out that they hold skeleton keys for every church of their denomination. That means that a lot of people could have accessed them.”

“How many?”

Craig shook his dark head ruefully. “Basically the whole senior clergy.”

“Work men and admin staff as well?”

Craig shook his head. He paused thoughtfully, realising the number mightn’t be as large as he’d first thought.

“No. Only the senior church people. They were kept in a safe in central office and only they would have had the combination. I’ll get Davy to check, but there can’t be that many senior people in any church. Not even in Northern Ireland.”

John smiled wryly at the truth of it. For a small place Northern Ireland had more than its fair share of religion, and some of it had very little to do with God. Craig was still talking.

“The killer told us something about themselves, even if it’s only that they have access to church central.”

“And knew the nearest church to leave the body?”

“Maybe. But if not the nearest to the murder scene, they definitely knew it was an area that would be quiet.” He turned quickly to his friend. “John, can you…?”

“Yes, I’ll do a geographic profile. And let’s see what Emily comes up with on hers.”

John had been on sabbatical in America in the spring, on an F.B.I. profiling course. He was eager to put his new skills to the test.

Craig rose to top up their coffees, and John reached into his desk drawer, bringing out a file. It had two pages inside it and Craig recognised the header of a D.N.A. report.

“D.N.A.? That was quick.”

“I called in a favour. Des owed Natalie and me for babysitting last month, so that he and Anna could go on a dirty weekend.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not called that when you’ve got children. More like a good night’s sleep.”

John smiled then fingered the pages with a puzzled expression on his face, as if he had an answer in front of him that he couldn’t quite believe.

“What have you found?”

“The D.N.A. could either solve your crime immediately, or it’s another red herring. And I’m afraid I’m an old sceptic.”

“Too easy to identify?”

“Exactly. It was almost shouting. ‘Me, me. I did it’.”

Craig sighed. He’d already guessed that finding the D.N.A. was too easy. It was too convenient a clue at such a complex scene. The killer wasn’t going to be caught that way.

“OK. Who are they, then?”

John turned the paper towards him and Craig nearly laughed out loud. He would have done if the case hadn’t had a real victim.

“Tommy Hill and Rory McCrae! This is really taking the mick.”

Tommy Hill was an ex-paramilitary and convicted killer whose own daughter Evie had been murdered two months before. In some of the saddest circumstances that Craig had ever encountered. Hill’s response had been to ricochet between vengeful stalker and grieving father, finally settling on the latter. He might have been a sociopath but raping and killing young women definitely wasn’t his style.

He shook his head and put down the paper, picking up Rory McCrae’s match. It was even more ludicrous. McCrae was in Maghaberry prison doing an eighteen month stretch for attempted kidnapping; his extension of Tommy’s stalking. Craig could have believed him for a rape, but there was no way he would have got a few days’ pass from jail to commit one in Belfast. And he didn’t have the brains to plan a scenario as complex as this.

He thought for a moment. “Was there any semen?”

“None, just the blood D.N.A.”

Craig stood up quickly, half-smiling, surprising John with the sudden shift. John stared up at him questioningly. He’d worked Evie Hill’s case too and he knew that the D.N.A.s were frame-ups, what he didn’t know was why Craig was so pleased.

“This is brilliant John, thanks.”

“Why brilliant?”

“Because whoever this idiot is, he’s given us a real break by attempting to frame Hill and McCrae.”

John went to interrupt but Craig kept going, stilling his query with a look. “They left blood D.N.A at the scene.”

“Yes, and?”

“That means that not only did they access the case files, and only a few people, probably just police and judiciary, could have managed that, but they also accessed their actual blood for D.N.A. I very much doubt that Tommy would give up his blood freely to anyone. McCrae might have given some in prison for some reason, but we can easily check both of them for recent blood taking. And if they haven’t had sampling since April, then someone probably accessed the blood taken during the case.”

John nodded. “You’re right. The blood probably came from storage.”

“Why?”

“The blood on the girl and the blood on the front gate of the church both came from Hill and McCrae. But neither of the samples had clotted.”

“And? I don’t understand.”

“If it was fresh blood it would have clotted almost immediately, but it hadn’t. So that means it was treated with anti-coagulant, to keep it liquid. Blood taken for lab testing uses a substance called EDTA to stop it clotting. Ethylenediaminetetraacetic acid. Blood taken in a police investigation would be stored that way. So… who could access blood from a police investigation?”

“Who should access it would be very limited. But who could might include the police, lab staff, even prisons maybe.”

“And judiciary and hospital medical staff. But not church people, Marc, never the clergy. So tell me where the link is between the church and this D.N.A.?” He answered his own question. “There isn’t one.”

“Exactly!” Craig spoke quickly. “I’m not certain of my logic yet, but let’s say that the church doors had to have been opened by someone linked with the national church.”

“Or the vicar or lay preacher.”

Craig nodded. “OK, let’s include them as well for now. And the D.N.A. must have been accessed by one of the groups that we mentioned. So, unless we have a senior churchman whose work overlaps one of those areas…?”

John interrupted urgently. “What about a prison chaplain, or someone who was a lawyer or doctor and was also religious? And what about doctors who work with the police?”

“Lawyers and doctors religious enough to be senior in the church’s hierarchy? No, that’s a separate career. The prison chaplain and police medical link might be something. I’ll get Davy to take a look. But I’m thinking of something else entirely.”

He paused to let John theorize, but John said nothing, puzzled.

“What about if there was more than one person involved in her death, John? The church man, and someone else who had access to the D.N.A.? I think they could have killed her together.”

Craig glanced away, sad for a moment. “And almost certainly both raped her. You said the extent of her injuries indicated rough sex, probably with more than one man.”

John nodded. It would fit the signs of trauma. It had definitely been group rape and two was a group.

“They were smart enough to remove their own D.N.A. Hill’s and McCrae’s were the only D.N.A. hits on her. And there were no prints anywhere.”

“They thought they were being clever by not leaving their own D.N.A., John. And if they’d actually stopped there, it might have been enough to keep them safe. But they decided to be smart and try to frame Hill and McCrae. It was careless, especially as McCrae is still in prison.”

Craig tapped his pen hard against the desk. “They would only have thought of Hill and McCrae if they had access to police records. And senior access too, to get into a murder squad file. We could be looking at someone high up in the police or judiciary here.”

Disgust flickered across his face as he realised this might go even further than he’d thought. He turned to leave, muttering ‘bastards’ as he pushed through the lab’s PVC doors.

John answered his mutter with a word of his own, “Locard’s,” determining to have Des go back over the evidence and scour for the tiniest clue. Locard’s principle. Short hand for everyone bringing something to a crime scene, and leaving with something from it. Now they just had to find out what it was.

Chapter Five

“It’s definitely Hill’s and McCrae’s D.N.A. then, boss?”

Craig nodded, and glanced at the clock. It was seven o’clock on Sunday night and they were crammed in his office again. None of them had seen anything of the weekend and he knew that the week ahead would be even worse. Liam yawned, not even trying to hide it.

“Davy, can you chase up access to the church skeleton keys? And Liam, get Tommy Hill in for a chat. We need to rule him out if nothing else. Reggie Boyd will know what he’s been up to on the Demesne.”

“He’ll not be a happy boy being lifted to the cells on a weekend.”

“That’ll make two of us then.” Craig thought briefly of Julia’s long legs lying across him, but quashed the thought quickly before resentment blurred his focus. “Annette, can you give Maghaberry a call and just make sure that Rory McCrae didn’t go walkabout? And find out if he’s had blood taken recently, and by whom.”

Annette nodded quietly, her shoulders slumped. Craig had noticed her looking sad that morning- it hadn’t lifted. He made a mental note to speak to her privately.

He continued with the briefing and was just reaching his theory about the second perpetrator when Davy leaned forward eagerly to interrupt. Craig nodded him on with a smile.

“I can understand about one man maybe being a doctor, and another being police or legal, but not the prison’s bit, s…sir.”

Craig smiled inwardly at Davy’s newfound confidence. He put forward theories regularly now and nine out of ten of them were correct. As he talked, Craig glanced at his green nail varnish, smiling at their resident Emo’s Avant Garde style. He was pleased that his romance with the Chronicle’s journalist, Maggie Clarke, hadn’t made him a member of the establishment. If anything it was the other way around. Maggie’s formerly conservative dark hair now bore a streak of bright red and her singly pierced ears had three new holes each. Craig hoped that she would stop there, just in case they ever broke up.

“Why not Davy?”

Liam turned towards him, curious, and smiled openly at his green nails.

“Aye, why not, lad? And did you know you’d got grass all over your fingers?”

Davy smiled. “Very funny, Inspector.” He turned pointedly to Annette. “Oh w…wait. There’ll be two of you in a month.”

Craig dropped his head to avoid laughing at Liam’s inevitable look of indignation, and Annette’s anticipated smile. Liam didn’t disappoint him, coming out with a “here now, don’t you be cheeky, lad” at high volume. But when Craig turned to Annette she wasn’t smiling. Instead she was gazing past him through the window. He turned to see what she was looking at. The Cairnryan ferry was sailing down the Lagan into the Irish Sea and she gazed longingly after it, as if she wished she was on board. The plaintiveness of its horn was echoed by the look on her soft, round face.

“Annette, are you OK?”

She startled and gazed stared at him confused, then realised she’d been a million miles away. “Yes, sorry sir. I’m just tired.”

She averted her eyes quickly but not before Craig saw they were wet. There was more than tiredness wrong. He decided to ask her to stay after the briefing and waved Davy on, repeating his question. “Why not prison, Davy?”

“Because anyone linked to prisons would know Rory McCrae was s…still in Maghaberry, and they’d never have chosen his D.N.A. for the frame-up. It’s a really obvious mistake.”

He was right. This was someone who had access to some details of the case, but not the sentence. Or they’d simply missed the detail that McCrae had been sent down, which meant that they couldn’t have worked the case personally. Not that he would ever have suspected any of his team.

“Davy’s right. Anyone working in prison would have known McCrae had been sentenced, the same with the solicitors and barristers directly involved with the case.” He drew the only conclusion left. “But someone in the police or courts with only a vague knowledge of the case might have missed it.”

Davy smiled smugly and Liam mentally stuck his tongue out at him.

“OK. That means we’ve got a senior church person, someone with access to labs, police or maybe judiciary. They’re at a high enough level to access the notes of Evie’s murder, but not the full sentencing details.”

“But here, boss. The sentences would have been on TV. And the cases were all over the Chronicle.”

“Not everyone pays attention to the news, Liam. Or maybe they weren’t here then. This is someone with peripheral knowledge of the case. Enough to know that Hill and McCrae were part of the investigation and had their D.N.A. checked, but not enough to follow through on the details. Davy - find out who took their blood for D.N.A. during the case.”

“Wouldn’t it have been Dr Marsham’s lab, boss?”

“Not necessarily, Liam. Sometimes they sub-contract the work to hospital haematology or pathology staff. And Davy, find me anyone who accessed the case files in the past two months. I want names, dates and times.” He sat back, thinking. “I think we have a gang here, and someone has been careless. My bet is that when the others find out they won’t be happy.”

“They’ll likely eat their own.”

Liam was probably right, but Craig hoped that they didn’t eat them before they were caught. If they disposed of their weak links gangs were often never found. And that meant they went on to kill again.

He shook his head suddenly, angry at himself. He’d been so absorbed in the hunt for their killer that he’d almost forgotten their victim.

“Davy, Annette, anything on the girl yet? I.D., clothes, nationality?”

Annette turned at the sound of her name as if she was wakening from sleep. Then she shook her head so heavily that Craig though she was going to cry. His concerned look found a match in Davy’s eyes. Only Liam seemed to be oblivious to her unhappiness.

“Nothing yet, sir. The shoes are this season’s Kurt Geiger, just as the witness thought. But they can be purchased in a number of shops around Ireland, and on-line. The only positive thing is that the size is unusual.”

“In what way, Annette?”

“They were very small, a size three. They sell far fewer pairs of those in a year. They’re pulling the orders for me now, so we may get a name.”

“If they paid by card, Cutty.”

She turned towards Liam loud bass, nodding. None of her usual whip-sharp banter followed. “Her clothes’ labels are a mixture of Scandinavian and American, so we’ll follow up on that. “

“Her colouring would fit with either, s…sir.”

Annette turned towards Davy and a faint smile crossed her lips. “The watch might give us more. You were right, sir. They all have a serial number.”

Craig nodded at her, smiling kindly. “Thank you Annette.” He filled them in on the pentagram, the kosher knife and his and John’s theories on the wounding, winding up the briefing at seven-thirty.

As they filtered out, he called softly to Annette to stay behind, pouring them both a cup of fresh coffee.

***

Sunday 7.30pm

Hannah smoothed down her dress and laid it across the bed in preparation, running quickly into the ensuite to switch off the bath. She combed her tawny hair and played with different styles for five minutes, before deciding on half-down and soft as her best look. She was nervous enough about her appointment, without worrying about her up-do wilting at the optimum moment.

She lay in the bath thinking, running her hands absentmindedly through the water. She wasn’t quite sure why she’d agreed to the meeting - some vague act of rebellion probably. Or maybe just to see if she could. She studied herself in the mirrored wall tiles, searching for her honest side and found it buried beneath two decades of good schools and politeness. Be honest, Hannah, this was more ‘fuck you’ than ‘fuck me’.

She was doing it because she was still a child, but in a woman’s body. Because, if she told anyone about it, she knew that they would be shocked, and that gave her a thrill. She was doing it because she could, and because it would give her money and independence. But most of all she was doing it because her step-father would be horrified when she told him, scandalised to his middle-class core. And she hated him, so she would tell him. With pleasure.

***

“Marco, have you seen my other shoe? I left it in the living room somewhere.”

Craig smiled up at Julia, breaking off from his work thoughts. She was half-hopping in one high-heeled shoe and rummaging through his small living room for the other. She wore a tight red dress with a chignon to match and he had a sudden thought that he’d like to disturb them both.

She turned, feeling his smile, and wagging a finger first at him and then at the clock. “There’s no point you smiling at me like that. We’re late. And unless I find my shoe we won’t be going anywhere. I only brought one pair down from Limavady.”

He stood up abruptly and reached down behind the settee, producing the runaway high-heel. He admired its elegant shape for a second, while wondering how on earth she walked in them. Julia hunkered down, extending her hand in a ‘give’ gesture, and he held it above her head playfully for a moment. Then he gave in and handed it to her, heading quickly for the shower.

She yelled after him in mock-exasperation. “The reservation’s for eight and it’s ten to now. John and Natalie will kill us.”

His voice echoed around the glass cubicle. “No they won’t, they’ll be glad of the chance to talk.” She sat down on a chair, slipping on her shoe. Then she flicked idly through the channels and resigned herself to a ten minute wait. She completely missed the sound of the water being turned off and the fact that he was still talking. “In fact, we’ve got plenty of time. I changed the table to eight-thirty.”

On the word ‘thirty’ she turned to see him standing there wearing only a towel, the last few drops of water drying on his muscled torso. Her heart skipped at the sight of his dark eyes and white grin, just as it had the first day they’d met nine months before. He caught her look, fixing her eyes intensely as he approached. Then he pulled her to her feet with a smile that left her in no doubt that he was about to remove her shoes again, along with everything else.

Chapter Six

Sunday. 8pm.

There was no point bitching about it; it had to be done, and the quicker the better. Ripley was a liability to the group. First, he’d lost self-control and destroyed valuable merchandise, and then he’d made a shambles of repairing the damage. They simply couldn’t afford to lose money like this, or take the risks that he’d brought them. Not at any time, but especially not this week.

James Dawson yawned and flicked off the television in his small dark study. Then he lifted his briefcase and pulled the door closed behind him, calling goodbye down the hall as an afterthought. Catherine glanced at the clock. Eight o’clock on a Sunday evening and he was going out, again.

She didn’t fool herself that it was for work, but she knew he’d have his briefcase in his hand anyway, pretending. He did it every weekend. She didn’t care anymore. She’d given up wondering how he spent his time years before. Just as long as he left her in peace, she’d be happy.

Dawson walked into the double garage and clicked open the car, dumping his briefcase in its immaculate boot. Then he drove quickly through the back exit of their horseshoe drive and into the private avenue that led to the Malone Road. Slipping away from his protection detail, and not for the first time.

He drove for five minutes, heading towards Queen’s University. But just before the Stranmillis Road turn-off he pulled hard right into a wide, curving street. It had the air of a Georgian crescent, with far apart houses and high Cherry Blossoms, casting their petals gently to the ground. He drove deep into its heart, his wide tyres slippery with the light evening rain, until he reached a white wall shielding a detached house. The gates responded smoothly to his remote touch and he drove in as they yawned closed behind him, hiding the business inside from the world.

***

Hannah paid the taxi and climbed out, standing nervously in the dark avenue. She peered closely at the address and then back towards the white wall. She was reluctant to put on her glasses, in case they smeared her makeup, and ruined her appearance of twenty going on thirty. It fooled nobody but her. After a few second’s peering she nodded to herself - it was definitely the right place.

The woman had been insistent that she tell no-one the address, swearing her to secrecy. With her I.D. checks and internet searches of Hannah’s false name and address, it was more like joining MI5 than becoming an escort! She didn’t understand the need for so much security. Except that the Madam hinted at important men protecting their ‘vital’ jobs. She didn’t care what they called themselves. After all, she’d lied about her name, age and home, so why shouldn’t they? It was just business after all. Although she thought the insistence on her parents being dead was a bit over the top.

She shivered in the evening air and scanned her surroundings. The street lights’ covers had been replaced with Victorian wrought iron, and the name plate on the road was discrete. As if anyone who visited should already know where they were. The road was wide and leafy, and the fading sky cast a glow over the large homes, set well back from the road. None of their numbers were visible and Hannah thought the postman much be psychic. Or well-schooled in the ways of the rich.

Hannah stood in the shadows opposite the white wall, thinking. She’d been looking forward to this all week, still angry at her mother’s choice of new husband. She’d been angry for ten years. What right did she have to remarry? And what right did he have to treat her like a child and tell her what to do. She was a woman now and she could look after herself.

Sylvia’s agency had given her a way to prove it, and to hurt them both. The money would come in handy too. And after all, what was it really? Just sex.

She gazed down the street and recognised her prep-school friend Rachael’s house, where they’d played together in the garden for years. They’d lost touch when Hannah had changed schools, at Damien’s insistence. Another good reason to hate him. Hannah wondered what she was doing right now. Not about to sell her body she would bet.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car rushing past and she pulled further into the shadows, surprised by its speed in the short road. It seemed familiar somehow and she tensed as it pulled up to the white-walled house. Its occupant leaned hurriedly out of the window, pressing the intercom by the gate and hissing. “It’s me.” Only two words and a brief glimpse, but it was enough for her to recognise him.

Hannah’s blood chilled and the hairs on her arms stood up in quick reply, as the urge to vomit overcame her. As the gates opened and the car pulled quietly through them she leaned into a dark corner and retched. Then she turned urgently towards the well-lit Malone Road, pulling out her mobile to call a taxi, and hurried back to the safety of her student life.

***

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

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

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

“Sorry, I have to go.”

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What time was he found, Liam?”

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

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

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

“You’re certain John?”

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

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

“He definitely shot himself?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir.”

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

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

“Harkin, sir.”

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

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

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

“Great find by the lad, boss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Seven

Monday 7.55am

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sorry love. I have to go.”

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

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

“No!”

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Why, don’t worry?”

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

“I saw that.”

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

“Is Annette coming in, sir?”

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

“Annette’s on a week’s study leave, Nicky. Her exam’s tomorrow.”

She winced in sympathy at the thought of exams, glad that she’d left them behind at sixteen. Davy nodded in empathy. He’d only finished studying the year before, when he’d got his masters in computing. He sincerely hoped that he’d never have to do another one, although his tutor was pursuing him to do a doctorate now.

“OK. We have two deaths to sort out. Number one is an obvious murder – the young woman on Friday night.” He updated their findings on the girl’s body and failure to identify her yet, ending with. “Davy, can you make her I.D. your top priority today. We need to let her family know.”

Davy nodded his head vigorously, his long hair falling randomly across his face. “W…will do. Karen’s got a useful programme running and I’ll chase up on that.”

“Good. And Liam, keep going on her clothes and prints please. OK. The second death was a middle-aged male late last night, at 40 Marrion Park, off the Malone Road. First impressions said that it was a suicide. But the time of the gunshot is wrong so I’m not convinced.

Davy, there was a laptop rigged to play a fake gunshot at ten-forty, but John says that he definitely died a couple of hours earlier. The gunshot was guaranteed to bring us to the scene, so someone definitely wanted us to find the body. We can’t rule out that the victim himself wanted the timing altered for some reason. But we also can’t rule out that someone murdered him and wanted us to believe that it was suicide. They may have delayed the shot to give them time to get away.

Can you have a good look at that computer please? Also, Liam, the trail on the house ownership needs to be followed through, and the male victim’s identity, once C.S.I. gives you the prints. Run them through all the usual databases. If there are no hits there, then try further afield.”

“I’ve Jack Harris’ team from High Street giving us a hand on the house-to-house enquiries for the LeRoy and Marrion Park scenes. They’re not busy today.”

Craig nodded. There was a lot of basic leg-work ahead. He stared down at his desk and picked at its edge. Liam could have sworn he saw a blush starting.

“Detective Inspector Julia McNulty is in Belfast on a few days leave.”

Nicky smiled to herself, knowing exactly where she’d be staying.

“And she’s offered us a spare pair of hands for some of those days - if we get snowed under with Annette away. Just bear it in mind.”

He stood up hastily, heading for the door with a look that said he had urgent business elsewhere. Liam was tempted to ask a question just to delay his escape, and then decided not to. He would store the slagging up for another day.

“I’m off to the lab, if you need me.”

Then Craig was out of the office and across to the exit, leaving them smiling at his still-new romance.

***

Hannah wasn’t sure what to do but she knew that she had to do something. She decided to confide in Fiona, in the spirit of a problem shared meant that it was two people’s problem now.

Fiona stared at her open-mouthed, shock spreading further across her face with each sentence Hannah uttered. Hannah listened to the inevitable ‘How could you be so stupid? ‘Why?’ and ‘what made you change your mind?’ But she kept on going and by the time she reached the man’s name Fiona was on the edge of her seat. When she heard it she screamed aloud.

“Oh my God Hannah, you have to tell your Mum. You have to.”

“But how do I tell her where I saw him, without telling her why I was there?”

“Just tell her that you were visiting a friend in Marrion.”

“And just how would I know he was there to buy sex then? There wasn’t a big sign in the window saying ‘Hookers and Johns.’”

“Hookers and Johns? God, where do you hear these things?”

“The movies. Anyway, unless I can tell her that, all I’ve got is that I saw him in Marrion Park on Sunday evening. Big deal.”

Fiona stared at her blankly and shook her head. “What the hell possessed you to sell your body anyway? Just get a boyfriend for God’s sake, like the rest of us. Colin Irwin in the year above likes you, you know that.”

Hannah shook her head shyly. “No boy will want me while I’m still a virgin.”

Fiona’s mouth flew open in surprise. “You’re still a virgin! Honestly? Is that why you were doing it? Anyway, even if you are still one, don’t you think your first time would be better with someone you know and like? Instead of some sleazy geriatric?” She shuddered. “I couldn’t bear the thought of an old man touching me.”

“I don’t think they’re old, old. I think they’re about forty.”

“Forty! That’s ancient! My Dad’s forty!”

Hannah nodded ruefully. “It’s…it was just …if I was going to do it for money, they wouldn’t laugh at me. Colin would laugh at me.”

“No he wouldn’t.” Fiona thought of the young rugby player and nodded, conceding. Hannah was right, he probably would have laughed, and then told his mates. Hannah was still talking.

“And they pay an absolute fortune for…you know…if you haven’t done it before. It’s like it’s a rarity or something.”

“They’re dirty old men, Hannah.” Fiona paused, then continued curiously. “How much?”

“The Madam said ten thousand pounds.”

“What! My God, that would mean you could move out from home.”

“That’s why I was doing it, Fi. I hate him - I really want to get away from him.”

A look of concern shot across Fiona’s face. “Does…does he touch you?”

Hannah stared at her uncomprehendingly. “What?”

“You know…touch you…where he shouldn’t. I’ve heard that sometimes…”

Hannah’s mouth flew open in astonishment. “God no! He’s not like that. He’s just over-protective.”

She realised what she’d said and suddenly understood. Damien Stewart hadn’t done anything awful. He’d just behaved like a father! Maybe a bit too protective sometimes, but that was all. Her mind ran through the hours he spent taking her to riding and ballet over the years, and the birthday presents he’d bought her. He’d put up with her moods and cruel words, endlessly reminding him that he wasn’t their real father. And he’d never said a harsh word in return.

Tears ran down her cheeks again, but this time from remorse. She’d treated him terribly, and nearly sold herself to pay him back. For what? For daring to love her mother, and them.

They lapsed into silence for a minute until Fiona finally spoke. “You have to tell your Mum about this, Hannah. You have to.”

“I can’t. It would kill her.”

“You have to.” Fiona paused, thinking. “Where did you get the name of the agency from anyway?”

Hannah stared at her blankly. “What?”

“The agency, the Madam? How did you know who to contact?”

A look of horror crossed Hannah’s face. “Oh my God!”

“What? What’s wrong?”

Hannah’s tears restarted and her friend rushed to comfort her.

“What’s wrong? Tell me, please.”

“Oh Fiona, it was Britt. Britt told me about the agency.”

Fiona’s mouth dropped open in realisation and she stifled a scream.

“She missed coffee at the Lyric and her phone’s dead. Oh God Fi, anything could have happened to her.”

Chapter Eight

“Look. There, Marc.”

Craig stared at their victim’s body, puzzled, as John pointed at the man’s left hand. He was so tired that he could hardly focus, much less see John’s invisible clue.

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to tell me. I’m a bit dim this morning.”

“I know how you feel. Natalie insisted on talking about medicine all through breakfast. She might as well have been speaking Chinese for all I took in. I’m exhausted, and the week’s only starting.”

He shrugged, knowing that sympathy was no substitute for sleep in making them feel better. John took a magnifying glass from his pocket and picked up the dead man’s left hand, leaning in for a closer look.

“Can you see now? Look, there, along the side of the left middle finger.”

Craig peered at it for a moment and then nodded. Now he could see what John meant. The man had a callous at the inner top edge of his left middle finger. He studied his own right hand, it had the same mark. It was faint but unmistakable; it was from where the man had held a pen. He glanced quickly at their victim’s right hand, in case he was ambidextrous. Nothing. Their victim had definitely been left-handed.

But if he was left-handed, then how the hell could he have shot himself in the right temple at a perfect angle. And even if he’d been supple enough to manage it, why bother? Suicides picked the easiest route to achieving their goal. If he’d killed himself he’d have shot through the left temple, not the right.

“Someone staged it.”

John nodded. “Yes, and they went to all the trouble of holding his hand and making him shoot himself, to get the G.S.R. on his hand. Pity they didn’t realise he was left-handed.”

“Either they were in a hell of a hurry or they didn’t know him well enough to have noticed. They guessed at him being right-handed because most people are.”

“No, they weren’t in a hurry. Remember they took the time to stage the gun-shot noise. They just didn’t notice which hand he wrote with. They’re probably right-handed themselves, so they chose it instinctively. Most people would.”

“That begs the question, how well did they know him?”

They lapsed into silence, thinking. Eventually John spoke.

“Emily’s meeting your vicar this afternoon and doing the profiles on the church murder for me. We should have them tomorrow.”

“Could she do some on this one as well?”

“I’m sure she could. I’ll do a forensic autopsy and geographic profile too, as far as I can.” He nodded down at their victim. “Des will have his bloods and prints ready later.”

“Great, thanks.”

“Do you think they’re linked? The cases?”

Craig nodded. He was certain that they were, but he wasn’t sure why. Gut instinct. Two days apart, two miles apart, different methods, different sexes, different ages, but he knew they’d find some evidence to link them. Then both cases would unravel. Until then he’d just have to trust his gut.

***

“We have to tell someone, Hannah. I’ve tried Britt’s phone again and it’s still dead. I called Andrea and she said Britt wasn’t at her lectures Thursday or Friday. And the last time we saw her was Wednesday. We need to let her Dad know.”

Fiona was sitting on the edge of the bed, prodding her dozing friend with her finger. Hannah opened one eye and then the other, fighting the urge to throw up again. She’d only had three hours sleep the night before and it had been tense sleep at that.

When her vision un-blurred she saw Fiona staring at her anxiously. She shook her head to clear her thoughts then nodded. When she spoke it was to agree; with two caveats.

“We need to phone her granny in Dublin and see if she’s heard from her first, and if she hasn’t then we need to check her flat. If she’s not there, I promise you we’ll call the police, even if I have to tell them everything.”

***

“Has Tommy Hill been brought in yet, Liam? And what about McCrae - was Maghaberry his alibi?”

“Aye, McCrae doesn’t qualify for a pass or parole for at least another year. There’s no way he’d even met the girl. Tommy’s cooling his heels in High Street now. I’m sure Jack will be feeding him tea and buns.”

Liam guffawed loudly and Craig smiled. Thank God for him. Even in the worst situations he always managed to find some humour. Although some of it was dubious and his timing wasn’t always great, he stopped the work taking over their lives.

Craig gazed thoughtfully out the window at the pale summer sky. The last thing they needed was to take the work home, to add to any problems they already had. An image of Annette’s tearful face came to mind and he shook his head sadly. One of his team already had more problems than they could deal with.

Liam watched him calmly, letting him think. He knew exactly what was going through his mind. He might play the class clown but he was very far from stupid. And although there was only a few years between them all, except Davy, he felt like the squad’s father in a way. He’d already guessed at what was bothering Annette and called her an hour before.

She’d confided in him readily, grateful to have a shoulder to cry on, although none of them would ever know that. In the meantime, banter was a great thing to hide behind, and it was time for a bit more.

“Here, what really rules Tommy out from murdering the girl is the location, boss.”

Craig turned towards him curiously, giving him the perfect opening.

“He’d never have gone inside a church. Too afraid of being hit by a lightning bolt.”

He laughed loudly and Craig joined in, bringing Nicky’s pretty face peeping around the corner of her desk.

“I bet he hasn’t been in one since God was a boy.”

“He might’ve had to, Liam, given that his ex-wife married a vicar. They would have insisted on Evie’s baby being baptised in church.”

“Ah, now. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Nicky laughed and they both turned at the husky sound. “Imagine Tommy Hill in a suit with all his tattoos. Especially that one on his neck.”

They smiled at the image for a moment, and then Craig pulled them back to work.

“Nicky, I’m heading to High Street to interview Tommy now. They called and want me in court at three, so I’ll head on there after that. Would you mind checking how things are with Evie’s baby and let me know before I see Tommy? She’s living with Evie’s mother and step-father out in Templepatrick.”

Nicky nodded, setting her newly coiffed curls bouncing. The motion had a hypnotic effect on Liam, but then so did everything Nicky did.

“Will do sir, I remember their details. The Reverend Geoffrey Kerr.”

“Here, you’ve got a good memory girl! That was months ago.”

She smiled, pleased, and once again Craig thought the place would fall apart without her. Then he had a thought.

“Nicky, he was the same denomination as the church in LeRoy, wasn’t he?”

She nodded, more slowly this time, one hand flying protectively to her head.

“Could you ask him generally about access to churches? Say that it’s for a paper I’m writing or something.”

“Will do, sir. I’ll call it through to High Street when you get there.”

“It’ll take me ten minutes. It’s a nice day so I’m going to walk - it might wake me up.”

He smiled at her, showing even white teeth set against his year-round tan that darkened every time he saw the sun’s rays. A gift from his Italian mother. Nicky caught her breath slightly, still able to being surprised by his good looks. They forgot about them because he did, but every so often they came into focus. It was just as well he wasn’t vain or there’d be chaos amongst the W.P.Cs.

“Right, does everyone know what they’re focusing on?” He was answered by a series of nods. “Good, then we’ll meet at five for an update.”

***

Monday 2pm

Hannah tapped tentatively on the red-painted door and they stood looking around Wellesley Avenue, waiting for an answer. It was a busy, narrow street full of the high red-brick terraces that the Queen’s University area was peppered with. Students wearing an eclectic fashion mix wandered up and down it sleepily, recovering from hangovers or studying the night before. Their faces were slim and pale, signalling youth and bad food, their vitamins most likely coming from alcohol. Hannah and Fiona fitted right in.

Hannah went to tap again when Fiona reached across her impatiently, banging hard on the low front door. There was no reply so she squinted through the ground floor window and saw a small shape scurrying quickly across the living room floor.

“God, I think that’s Mitzy!” Britt’s tiny Shih Tzu.

She peered hard through the window for a moment and could just make out the shape of a small white dog. It was cowering in one corner of the living room and whimpering pitifully.

“It is Mitzy.” She turned to Hannah urgently, certain now that something was very wrong. “Britt never leaves her alone for more than a few hours. There’s something wrong Hannah.”

She hammered on the door again, shouting their friend’s name at the top of her voice. “Britt, Britt. Answer the door right now, or I’m calling the police.”

Again, silence.

“God, I used to envy her having a flat all to herself, but not now. There’s no-one to know where she is.”

Hannah stared at the ground, terrified, imagining what could have happened to their friend. And what might have happened to her if she’d entered the house in Marrion Park the night before. How could she have been so stupid?

She shook herself and reached swiftly into her bag for her mobile, hitting ‘999’ and opening the can of worms that they had no option but to open now.

She had no way of knowing the trail it would unravel.

Chapter Nine

Tommy stared around the interview room and, for once, he couldn’t think of a reason he’d been lifted. No, not lifted, ‘invited to help with police enquiries’. He shrugged, bored. It was the same thing.

He waved at the glass wall with a fake smile, knowing someone was watching on the other side. Then he mimed drinking hopefully, and was surprised when a pot of tea and biscuits appeared two minutes later. The Pigs were being friendlier than he’d ever seen them. What was all that about?

He slurped the tea quickly before they changed their minds, biting hard into a digestive and thinking. He’d stayed out of trouble since they’d got Evie’s killer, for two reasons. One, they’d lifted his whole sodding crew and stuck them in Maghaberry. Just for tailing some women, for fuck’s sake.

And two, the main reason, Evie’s baby daughter Ella. She was the spitting image of her mother and he wasn’t going to make the same mess of things with her that he’d made with Evie. He’d done nothing even slightly hinky for months, not even dealing a bit of blow, so what did the Pigs want him for?

Craig smiled to himself, watching Tommy through the glass. He’d be happy to lock him up but it looked as if the old lag had really seen the light. And that light came in the shape of a two-month-old baby girl whom he adored. He shrugged. Everyone had their reason to be good in this world. Just then the large figure behind Craig stepped forward, peering intently through the mirror. Craig gave him a second to look and then asked the question.

“Well, Reggie. Are you certain you’re right? Is he really clean?”

The slow Donegal drawl that emerged from Reggie Boyd’s mouth reverberated softly around the small viewing room. He was a fiftyish country man who was as tall as Liam. But where Liam could give a fog-horn competition, Reggie’s soft lilt always drew people close, as if he had a secret that was worth hearing. He headed up the uniform section on the Demesne estate, and if anyone knew Tommy Hill’s habits he did.

“It’s true, sir. He’s been as good as gold since April, not a word out of place. Even pushes the baby round the Demesne in a pram.”

Craig raised an eyebrow at the image. “How does that go down with the local hard men?”

“I don’t think Tommy gives a monkey’s, to put it crudely. Some of the young lads tried to wind him up the first few times, but Tommy faced them down. Whatever he said to them, they ran away with their tails between their legs.”

Craig nodded. Tommy was scarier than any of the youngsters nowadays could ever be. His exploits during the Troubles had earned him a twenty-year stretch in the Maze prison, and ‘urban hero’ status amongst his paramilitary pals. He’d served ten of the twenty before being granted release under the Good Friday Agreement, despite widespread disapproval. He understood the feeling. Tommy had shot four people dead on their way home from a wedding. He knew how he’d feel if someone who’d killed a member of his family went free.

Since his release Tommy’d repackaged himself as a community worker, except that the Drugs and Fraud Squads knew very different. Craig nodded ruefully.

“He still has his reputation on the street then?”

“Aye, he does that. Once a killer always a killer.”

“Nicky spoke to Evie’s step-dad, Geoffrey Kerr. He’s a Reverend of the same denomination as the church the girl was found in, but he’s not high-up. He couldn’t throw any light on the skeleton keys.”

Reggie stroked his chin slowly and Craig knew he’d thought of something.

“What is it, Reggie?”

“Well, I know this is cynical and, at the risk of sounding like Liam, any chance the step-dad wants Tommy off the scene and framed him?”

Craig startled - it hadn’t even occurred to him that Geoffrey Kerr might be involved, although it probably should have. He considered the idea for a moment and then shook his head, dismissing it.

“No, I don’t think so. He’s a good man and he’s being kind to Tommy, if only for Evie’s sake. Besides, no D.N.A. but Tommy’s and McCrae’s showed up at the scene.”

Reggie shrugged. It had been a long shot.

“When do his crew get out of Maghaberry, Reg?”

“Not for a while yet. Gerdy will be out in three months, but Coyler and McCrae are banged up until the end of next year.”

“So there’s no way McCrae’s D.N.A. got onto our victim through direct contact.”

Reggie shook his head lugubriously. “None. Much as I’d dearly love to pin another few years on him, he couldn’t have done it.”

Craig turned away from the mirror and sat down heavily at the back of the small room, raking his hair in exasperation. “Do you have any idea who could have accessed McCrae and Hill’s D.N.A.?”

“Blood?”

“Yes. There was no semen, although she’d definitely been raped.”

“Then I suggest you go through the court samples, sir. You could be looking at anyone from the lab or hospital, the evidence officer, court staff, judiciary. Basically anyone who might take a bribe.”

Craig glanced up quickly. Bribes; he hadn’t thought of that. It was an approach that someone with money might take, rather than get their own hands dirty stealing the samples. He thought for a moment and then shook his head. His gut told him it wasn’t the way to go.

He was certain that more than one man was involved here, from the roughness of the sex and access to churches, case-files and blood. But, for some reason that he couldn’t quite pin down, he knew they would keep things tight and do their own dirty work. Bribing third parties to steal samples risked more people finding out and whoever this was liked to be in control. The girl’s injuries were proof of that.

No, whoever had done this wouldn’t want too many people knowing. Which meant they’d stolen McCrae and Hill’s blood themselves. But at which point in the chain of evidence? He answered his own question. The lab.

Evie’s case had closed seven weeks before. So unless they’d been planning to murder the girl for that whole time, they’d taken the blood spontaneously. They’d killed her and needed a quick way to cover it up. They must have accessed the samples in the past few days, so they could only have been taken from the lab.

He stood up quickly and motioned Reggie to lead the way, entering the interview room behind him. Tommy was dunking his way through his third digestive as they entered. He didn’t look up, completely ignoring their entrance, and Craig knew he would handle it as he did all interviews. No-commenting his way through to the end. Unless they set the context early.

They remained standing gazing down at the smaller man’s shaven head.

“Hello, Mr Hill.” Silence. Craig shrugged, too used to the game to get annoyed. “Thank you for coming in to help us.”

Tommy focused on his biscuit, waiting for ‘with our enquiries’ to follow. When it didn’t he squinted up curiously.

“Help you? What with? I’ve done nothin’ and Reggie here knows it.” He gestured casually towards the well-worn sergeant, in a manner that said he didn’t actually hate him. It was as close as Tommy would get to being pleasant to a ‘Pig’.

“That’s why I said help us, Mr Hill. We’re not accusing you of anything. We need your assistance to solve a crime.”

Tommy lurched across the desk angrily. “I’m no fuckin’ snitch Craig. I’ll tell you nothing.”

He lounged back in his chair, smirking unpleasantly. “Whatever they’ve done, good luck to them.”

Craig stared down at him, his face showing none of the contempt that he felt, and certain that his next words would wipe the smile off Hill’s face. “They murdered a girl of around twenty years old.”

Hill’s head jerked back as if he’d been hit and he glared at Craig with hatred in his eyes. “You bastard, you know’d that would get me because of our Evie. You’re a liar.”

Reggie shook his head slowly. “No, Tommy. He’s not. The girl was found early on Saturday morning.”

A quick look of sadness crossed Hill’s face and Craig knew he was thinking of his daughter. He hated himself for what he said next, but they needed Hill’s help.

“She was raped, several times. Then they killed her.”

Hill flew to his feet in anger, curling his small fist. Reggie squinted at him quickly, but he needn’t have worried, the fist only came down on the room’s Formica table.

“Fuckers and bastards. Evie was only a child.” He scowled accusingly at Craig. “You killed Barron way too quick, Craig. You robbed me. I’d have made him die for days. Bastard.”

Craig had given the order to shoot Evie’s killer Stephen Barron, to disable him, but it had resulted in his death. It was always a risk. It had been too quick a death for the families of his victims, especially Tommy Hill.

He leaned in, facing Hill. “Whoever killed the girl tried to frame you and Rory McCrae, Tommy. They left your blood at the scene.”

Hill froze mid-tirade and stared first at Craig and then at Reggie for confirmation. On the older man’s nod he sat down again heavily, staring straight ahead. Craig pressed his advantage.

“They got both of your D.N.A.s and left them at the scene, as if you’d raped and murdered her Tommy. We can rule out McCrae because he’s in Maghaberry, but you…”

Hill’s eyes widened and for a moment Craig saw genuine horror in them, followed by an almost pleading look. The vulnerability was short-lived, replaced by more anger.

“I didn’t do this Craig and you know it. And if I find the fucker who framed me I’ll cut his balls off.” He realised what he’d said and smiled disconcertingly. “I’ve never touched a woman who didn’t ask me to. And as far as I’m concerned rapists should be put up against a wall and shot. But cutting off their balls would be good for a start.”

Craig cut through his reverie. “Where were you from Thursday to Saturday early morning, Tommy?”

Hill thought for a moment and then started reeling off a schedule of baby-minding, shopping and Friday night pub, where tens of people had seen him. It would be easy to check.

Craig nodded, confident that he hadn’t done it. Now he needed his help.

“Can you think of anyone in the past three months who has shown an unhealthy interest in your daughter’s case? Asked about the details with too much interest, or even bought too many copies of the Chronicle? Is there anyone that you’ve really hacked off in the past? Someone who thinks you got off on something that you shouldn’t? Anything at all?”

He stared at the hard man in front of them.

“Someone tried to frame you, Tommy. And, while their choice of you and McCrae could have been random, I wouldn’t bet on it. So rack your brains and see what you can come up with, and then give your statement to Sergeant Boyd.”

He turned to leave and then turned back. “Believe it or don’t believe it Tommy, but I’m glad you’re keeping your nose clean. I’m sure it’s what Evie would have wanted.” Then he left the room quickly before Hill could turn his kind words into an insult.

***

The flashing blue lights of police cars lit up Wellesley Avenue, attracting the attention of students living nearby, and the glances of curious motorists driving through. Uniformed officers wandered back and forth through the red front door, into the warm flat. They ducked their heads down as they entered, careful only to walk on the metal pathway provided by the C.S.I.s.

To one side a dark-haired W.P.C. sat taking notes as Hannah reluctantly talked. Fiona’s fierce gaze reminding her that withholding anything could mean that Britt was never found.

“You last saw her on Wednesday?” The girls nodded in unison and Fiona answered.

“We had coffee at Maggie Mays café, opposite Methody.”

“What time did she leave?”

They glanced at each other for confirmation. “About three-forty. She said that she had a lecture.”

“Would she have walked to it?”

Hannah nodded. “Yes, we all do. It’s easy to walk everywhere on campus.”

Fiona leaned forward, interjecting. “But she has a car, her father’s very generous. He bought her the flat too.”

The W.P.C. scanned the room curiously. She’d thought that that the décor was nicer than the average student digs. The wide-screen television in the corner should have alerted her that this was no poor student scraping by.

“Is her family wealthy then?”

The two girls glanced at each other hesitantly, but there was no way of hiding things anymore. It would all have to come out.

Hannah spoke first. “Very wealthy. Her...her father’s the Swedish Ambassador to Northern Ireland.”

The W.P.C’s eyes opened wide, knowing this had implications way above her pay grade. She stood up quickly and scanned the room, her eyes lighting on a photograph of a smiling girl with a tall man in a ski-suit. He had his arms wrapped protectively around her, in a way universal to fathers.

She looked at the nearest C.S.I., indicating the picture with her eyes. He lifted it on her nod. The girl in the picture was small and pretty and the man gazed at her as if she was his world. The constable’s heart sank at the thought someone was about to destroy it for him. She gloved up and held the photograph out by the edges, for Hannah to see.

“Is this your friend?”

Hannah nodded sadly. “Yes. And that’s her dad. Bjorn. He’s really nice.” A single tear trickled down her cheek and she wiped it away unconsciously. It was joined immediately by more and Fiona reached over and took her hand, as the officer gave her a hankie.

“I need to speak to my senior officer, girls. Please stay here for a moment.”

She retired to the hall for a minute and the crackling of her radio told them that someone up the chain was being informed. They would be coming to join them very soon.

***

Sylvia leaned back on her pale leather sofa, worried. She fingered her cat’s fur, running her hands rhythmically through its coat as she thought. The girl had got her in trouble by not turning up for her appointment. They’d made her try every card, phone and address that she’d given her, but all of them had drawn a blank. Clever girl.

She smiled, pleased that she couldn’t find her. If she couldn’t, then they couldn’t. But she’d better hide herself well, because Belfast was a small place. If they saw her again they’d have her and take it out on her hide. She sent up a silent prayer that she would keep on running.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a single ding of the doorbell. She pushed the cat quickly to the floor and stood up, straightening her clothes and fixing on her best smile. It could be a member of the club and they didn’t like their women grumpy.

As she walked down the cream-walled hall she saw the dark silhouette of a man against the glass front door. His stance gave away his breeding as upper-middle-class. It was one of them. She hoped that it was the kindest one then remembered the police gathering at the house next door. He was dead. And the rest of them were cruel bastards.

She turned quickly, checking her makeup in the mirror and opened the door with a flourish, smiling and posing as if she’d won an award. Her pose was short-lived as a leather-gloved hand seized her neck, lifting her forcefully off her feet and pushing her backwards down the hall. The man kicked the front door closed behind him, glaring down at her with contempt.

“You silly bitch. You didn’t do your homework so we had to clean up your mess.”

Her face reddened as she struggled for breath and the man recognised the blue tinge on her lips as cyanosis. The next stage was death, and then she would pale completely. He watched the changes dispassionately. He found the body’s death changes fascinating, like performance art. But he needed her alive for a few more minutes to get information, so he loosened his grip reluctantly, dropping her hard on the floor.

She lay there for a minute, coughing, and he watched her gasp for breath desperately, just like she did everything in life. As her breath returned so did her defiance. Sylvia spat her next words at him, even though she knew exactly what he was capable of. She didn’t care what they did to her anymore; living like this was hell, so she might as well go there for real.

“It’s your fault, you sadistic prick. You and those other animals. If you behaved like normal men sex would be enough for you, especially with virgins. But no, you have to hurt them too. You’re filth, all of you. Sad privileged filth.”

The man swung his hand down rapidly, stopping its momentum an inch from her face. She recoiled and fell back on the floor, moving to avoid the blow that never came. His hand reached forward slowly, stroking her face as gently as she stroked her cat. Except that her strokes had never been that sinister.

Her eyes widened as she realised that if she pushed him, he could exceed the aggression that even she’d seen. Survival instinct kicked in and she smiled up at him quickly, composing her body language into the facsimile of subservience that she knew he needed.

The speed of his response was electric and he reached forward, pulling her to her feet and kissing her firmly on the mouth. She knew sex would follow unless she could talk fast.

“You asked me for virgins and I supplied them. I did my part.” Her words were firm but her tone was coy, as if she was totally under his control.

His cultured voice was calm. “Yes, you did. But you failed to check.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “Failed to check what?”

He smiled coldly. “That they had no family. Our requirements were very clear. Only virgins with no family to come looking for them.”

“I did my checks - none of my girls have family. I have them checked and followed for days. They have no families.”

She stared up at him, cold sweat dripping down her back as her mind ran rapidly through the last month’s girls. This must be about someone recent, they’d been happy with her work for years. He watched the confusion fly across her face, enjoying her fear. He could smell it and the scent excited him. He leaned forward and pressed hard against her, forcing her to feel his arousal.

Her mind was racing. It couldn’t be the girl who’d missed her appointment. She hadn’t even got that far. So who? He answered her silent question, smiling darkly.

“The blonde from last week.”

Inger; that was her name - pretty girl. But it couldn’t be her; she was an orphan from Norway. She’d had her followed to her flat in Wellesley Avenue. She lived there alone with a dog. It couldn’t be her. But the look in his eyes said that it was.

He nodded as realisation crossed her face, vacillating between explaining before he killed her, and letting her die in confusion. He decided to tell her, not from any kindness but because he enjoyed hearing himself speak.

“She was a virgin as you said, and very valuable. She would have fetched us a high price at auction. Then one of our members realised that she had family. He’d seen them in the newspaper. We might still have had some use for her, but he got carried away and damaged her. Badly.”

Her mind ran back to the weekend’s news. The girl found dead in LeRoy!

“You killed her? Yes, you killed her. You bloody animals!”

He laughed harshly in her face. “Don’t pretend that you didn’t know what we did to some of them. It just happened without an audience this time.”

She spat in his face, her dread erased by disgust. “I knew nothing except what you told me. That you sold them or kept them, not that you killed them. Never!”

He smiled. “Well now you know. We trade them as virgins and make good money, or we keep them for personal use. Until we’re bored, then they die as movie stars.” He laughed brutally. “There’s good money in videos.”

His eyes hardened and he smiled, remembering. “First editions, the library, then immortalised on the silver screen.”

Sylvia heard her own voice scream “snuff movies!” Then she wrenched herself away from him, calculating the chances of reaching the front door. The odds of staying alive were higher than if she stayed there.

He was still talking, enjoying her disgust and too engaged in his soliloquy to notice her edging slightly towards the door.

“The member was careless and he had to kill her. Once she was dead I had to help him. If he’d involved me earlier we could have got rid of her quietly and the trail would have run cold. But he insisted on an elaborate charade to put her father off the scent, and confuse the police.” He spat angrily. “The idiot had already decided on the church and there was no arguing with him. Even the plods couldn’t miss her draped across a bloody altar.”

She wanted to vomit, but she fixed on his face as if she was listening attentively. Edging imperceptibly towards the door as his tale of the club member’s stupidity grew.

The man’s voice took on an almost careless tone and he stared into space. “We diverted the police’s attention with D.N.A. then cleaned-up the scene of her death. He’d washed her down before we moved her of course, but there were still some traces in the drains. I got rid of all that as well. But he had to die of course, for making such a mess. He’d endangered the whole club.”

She took advantage of his distraction to move six inches closer to the door. He didn’t even notice, too mired in his own memories to pay attention. A sudden angry look flashed across his face and he stared straight at her. She froze and then realised that he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring into the past. She moved again before he focused, and stood rigidly in the corner beside the front door.

“The stupid bastard kept her cards as a souvenir.” His eyes narrowed. “It’s just as well he did because they included her driver’s licence. That was how he knew who she was.”

He took two steps towards her, stopping again abruptly mid-step, like a cat stalking its prey. The air of menace in the small space grew and his voice dropped ominously.

“Her name wasn’t Inger, it was Britt. Britt Ackerman.” He paused, watching her face as the information sank in. “She wasn’t an orphan, she has a father.”

Sylvia glanced desperately at the door handle, calculating the time it would take him to reach her. She readied herself for flight.

“Not only is her father alive but he’s the bloody Swedish Ambassador. A Diplomat! You incompetent bitch.” Sylvia knew she would die when he reached her, so, on his last word she grabbed for the door and pulled it open wide. She ran into the street, screaming ‘fire’ at the top of her voice.

She’d read in a magazine that if you wanted help, don’t shout ‘rape’ or help’, shout ‘fire’. Most people’s sense of their own preservation made them react to the threat of being burned, far quicker than any cry for assistance. She wasn’t disappointed. A man walking his dog opposite flew across the street. She ran into his arms screaming.

“999, 999 please, please. Police.”

The suited man ran furiously down the hall after her, halting at the front door. He recoiled at the sight of the dog-walker, like Dracula from sunlight, and retreated swiftly, exiting the house at the rear. He cut through the gardens in the elegant crescent and walked briskly to his car, parked on a nearby street.

They would still get her. She would end up in the justice system eventually, and the club owned that world.

***

3.20pm

Craig yawned, loosening his tie angrily. Then he shifted position on the court bench, trying to get comfortable and already knowing it was impossible. His discomfort was increased by his frustration. They had two murders to solve yet he had to spend hours here waiting to testify. But it had to be done, to make sure Joanne Greer got the punishment she deserved.

He glanced at his watch again. Only two minutes since the last time. They’d been late starting back after lunch. Now some barrister was taking their time and wasting his. Just then he heard his name called and turned to see the clerk beckoning him forward. He yanked his tie into place. Then he stood, ready to give what he hoped would be his last piece of evidence, before Joanne Greer went away for life.

***

Sergeant Jake McLean surveyed the small apartment gravely, determined that its occupant wouldn’t be just another missing girl, forgotten about, except by her parents. Not in his patch. He rubbed his youthful face hard, taking in the room’s pink décor, dotted around with pretty knickknacks and cards.

Every surface was covered with pictures of happy scenes. Friends and family, countryside, even a signed picture of a medallist at last year’s Olympics. Signs of a happy life. The girl who lived here had friends who loved her, if the tears of the girls’ opposite were any indication.

He hunkered in front of Hannah, smiling kindly. “You last saw Britt on Wednesday afternoon, is that right?”

Hannah nodded, numb at the implications Britt’s disappearance carried for both of them. Everything was going to come out now.

“We had lunch at Maggie Mays at the junction of University road and Stranmillis.”

He knew it well. He often nipped in there for a coffee himself.

“What was her normal routine from Wednesday to Saturday?” His voice was soft with a lilting Antrim accent and Fiona thought that he had kind eyes. Green eyes.

Jake stared at the girls, shocked at how young they looked, and what that said about him. He was only ten years older than them and being a student was a very recent memory. His digs had been in Eglantine Avenue, the parallel street.

He didn’t feel young today. The job had aged him already.

“We usually met on Wednesday afternoon’s for coffee.”

Fiona leaned forward, chipping in. “And Sunday morning, we always met on Sundays. Up at the Lyric Theatre.”

He smiled. Typical student debrief on the weekend’s adventures. They’d held theirs in the Student’s Union.

Hannah restarted. “We might have bumped into each other on campus on Thursdays or Fridays. Or out and about on Friday nights. But not always. Britt…” She paused for a second, gathering herself. “Britt’s studious, so she often stayed in on Friday nights, working.”

“What is she studying?” Hannah smiled gratefully at him for using the present tense.

“Law.”

“And does she have a boyfriend, or a part-time job?” Most students had one nowadays, to supplement their student loans.

Fiona shook her head vigorously. “No to both. Her father was very protective. Britt…she wouldn’t have been allowed a boyfriend. So…she, she was naive.” Her eyes flicked towards Hannah as she said it and Jake caught the exchange. “And her father would never have allowed her to work. He said college was for studying and having fun, and…”

Hannah finished her sentence. “And she didn’t need to work anyway, her Dad’s wealthy.”

Jake nodded and his fair hair fell over one eye. As he pushed it back he noticed Fiona staring at him. She blushed and he sighed inwardly. It was always flattering to be fancied, but now wasn’t the time. And even if it had been she definitely wasn’t his type; wrong sex. He turned back to professional mode.

“I understand her father’s the Swedish Ambassador?”

“Yes.”

“We’re trying to get in touch with him now.”

“Her mum died when she was young and her granny lives in Dublin.”

“Yes, we’ve already asked the Irish police to go and see her. Just in case Britt’s gone to stay with her for a few days.”

Hannah shook her head miserably. “She hasn’t. We called her earlier, before we came to check the flat.”

Jake glanced at his notebook and started to work his way through more questions, none of them yielding good news. The photograph that the W.P.C. had found was already being scanned and circulated throughout the force. On the off-chance that someone knew something, or that Britt flagged-up in another case.

After twenty minutes the C.S.I. nodded they’d finished and he began to wrap up. He only had one question left to ask.

“Is there anything, anything at all that you know of, that might suggest to you that Britt is in any danger?”

Hannah swallowed and Fiona glared at her fiercely, her look clearly saying ‘you tell him or I will’. She started talking and Jake McLean hid his shock, as he got the information that would help solve two of the murder squad’s cases.

***

Monday 4pm

Wendy Hinton followed the constable into the C.C.U.’s lift and travelled the eight floors to the small office Nicky had found for Emily to create her profiles in. The door opened quickly to her knock and she was greeted by the cheerful smile of a robust young woman. The one the Chief Inspector had said visited her church on Saturday morning.

Emily lifted some papers from a chair and beckoned the vicar to sit down, hitting the switch on the kettle on her way past. “Tea or coffee, Reverend?”

“Wendy please, Miss Streeter.”

Emily smiled at the unfamiliar maturity of her title. “Emily.”

They both smiled and as the kettle boiled Emily indicated a coffee area set to one side of the room. It had softer chairs and a low table and the vicar decamped there gratefully, struggling to relax in such an unfamiliar world.

Emily read her thoughts and grinned. “I know, scary isn’t it? That’s what I thought when I first came here. But actually they’re all very nice.” She smiled impishly. “Unless you’re a criminal that is.”

Wendy nodded, imagining Craig’s easy charm turning off quickly when he met a murderer.

“Shall we make a start? I’d like to ask you about anyone with access to the church. About your routine, a normal week, the Holyland area, and a few more questions. Then let’s see if we can create a picture of what sort of person might have entered your church on such terrible business.”

Chapter Ten

Julia hung-up the phone and looked around the apartment, trying to think of something to do. She’d already sorted out Craig’s wardrobe and she knew the kitchen cabinets needed doing next. But she drew the line at year-old ketchup when she was on holiday. Her mum wasn’t arriving until Wednesday and, although she knew she should do the galleries and give her brain a treat, she was finding it hard to motivate her cultural side.

After a minute, she reached for her laptop and clicked on the search engine. She day-dreamed for a moment then typed in her fantasy requirements, and set up enough appointments to fill her next two days.

***

The young woman gazed around the musty room. It was small and dark. Always dark, no matter what the time of the day.

What time was it? She had no idea, there were no windows. It made it hard to count the hours. The only illumination came when the door opened and one of them entered, letting a few rays of light in from the hall. Then a girl left, taken for hours to some other place, only to return crying and bruised. Or not to return at all.

Anger surged up in her and she searched the others’ faces of the others for the same. But there was nothing. Just dull submission and acceptance of their fate. She wanted to scream at them to do something. Cry, shout, anything. Just something. But she knew there was no point. They weren’t to blame for their lethargy. They’d just been here too long.

She was new. But how new? She remembered doing her exams at Easter and then going on the ‘date’. But then… It was easy to lose track of the days in the dark, when there was nothing to tell the time. They’d taken her watch when they’d put her here.

Her eyes fell on a girl lying on the next bed. She was frail. Thin and pale with large dark eyes, like a Dickensian orphan. She stared into space, as if her mind was somewhere else. The young woman scanned her body, her eyes falling on her bandaged wrists and the scratches on her legs. Self-harm, inflicted by a mind so broken that she wondered if it could ever be repaired.

How long did it take to get to that place, where all hope of escape was gone, and death seemed for the best? She shook her head hard, convincing herself that the girl must have always been frail, always a victim. The sort of schoolgirl who missed P.E. at school on vague excuses. She was stronger than that, always had been. She’d never stop trying to get home.

A thought of her parents, frantically searching, flew through her mind. She bit back the tears. And the guilt. This was her fault, all her fault. Tempted by easy money. There was no such thing in life.

A sound in the hall made her turn and the room became a flurry of movement, as the girls scrambled frantically to hide. But there was nowhere that they couldn’t be seen, so she sat still. Amidst the cries and whimpers she looked towards the door. Knowing that when it opened it would bring light. And for one of them a fate that might be worse than dying.

***

Monday. 5pm

“Here, have you seen that Vicar? She doesn’t look like any I’ve ever met.”

Nicky had her headphones on and was typing furiously. She wasn’t listening and Liam admitted to himself that he missed Annette.

Just then Craig strode through the squad’s double-doors, heading angrily for his office and grunting a vague hello. Liam gave him five minutes and then loped over to Nicky’s desk. She was pouring strong coffee into a mug and arranging biscuits on a plate.

“You expecting visitors then?”

She smiled up at him ruefully. “No, they’re for the boss. He’s just back from court on the Greer case.”

Liam’s eyes opened wide, remembering. “Oh aye, I’d forgotten about that. Is that him finished then?”

“Pretty much, but I think the defence barrister was a bit nasty.”

“So what else is new?”

She indicated the biscuits. “I’m dispensing T.L.C.”

Liam grinned. He’d enjoy a bit of Nicky’s tender loving care himself. Then his marriage vows popped into his head, subtitled under a video of hellfire and damnation, and he thought again.

Nicky tapped Craig’s door gently and entered on his muttered. “Come in.”

When he saw the biscuits and Liam’s grin, he smiled, despite himself, and beckoned them both to sit down.

“Call Davy in as well, Liam. We might as well catch up while the steam comes out of my ears. Bloody barristers.”

“The lad’s not about, boss.”

Craig nodded, remembering where he was. They sat in amicable silence for a moment, while Liam slurped coffee and forced a handful of biscuits into his mouth. Finally, Craig broke the silence.

“OK. The Greer case first. Ian Holland did his best to rip me apart this afternoon, but thankfully he failed. Or at least that’s what the prosecution barrister told me afterwards. Closing arguments are on Wednesday and we’ve done everything we can to secure a conviction. So let’s park that one for now and just hope we have a sensible jury.”

He paused for a second and gazed through the window, momentarily lost in the clouds. Nicky frowned, knowing that he’d had no sleep all weekend. She reminded herself to get some vitamin tablets to keep in her desk - that way she could at least ensure he took one every day.

Craig pulled himself up, remembering where he was. “OK, let’s park Greer and get back to our new cases. Right. We have two murders, apparently unrelated. Although I’m not sure I believe that, given they occurred only two miles and less than two days apart.”

Liam nodded. “Way too coincidental.”

Craig glanced at Nicky in a way that meant his next words would be hard to hear. She nodded him on, her need to know stronger than her squeamishness.

“In the first we have a young woman, tortured, raped, probably by more than one man, and brutally murdered. She was left in a local church, in a scene that was mocked up to implicate Christians, Jews and Pagans. In other words, to confuse us. Her body was laced with D.N.A. from two men, Tommy Hill and Rory McCrae, involved in a case we investigated two months ago.”

Just then Davy rushed onto the floor, raising a hand in apology. Craig smiled. It was his twenty-sixth birthday and he’d been having lunch with Maggie. Even the murder squad were allowed some sort of life. He thought of Julia sitting alone in his apartment and changed it to ‘his team’ were allowed a life. He wondered how much less free time he would have when he became a superintendent.

“OK. Both men have confirmed alibis for the murder, so it was definitely a frame-up. But we can’t rule out that one or both of them were chosen because of something they did to our murderer in the past. Opportunistic vengeance. If you’re covering up a murder then why not implicate someone that you have a personal grudge against? And we know that Tommy has plenty of enemies.”

“Aye, he has that all right.”

“The girl in question was dressed expensively and had a valuable watch which was left behind, so theft isn’t a motive. But her I.D. was nowhere to be found, so hiding her identity for a while was important to our killers. But not essential, or they’d have washed off all of her blood. I believe they knew we’d identify her for some reason, and they were just trying to delay it.”

Davy leaned forward to speak and Craig waved him on. “Her clothes were S…Swedish and her shoes were American. Only one of the brands is sold in the U.K or Ireland. I think she was northern European, possibly S…Swedish. The Rolex is numbered and it’s running against the database now. The computer will let us know if we get a hit. The weekend delayed us a bit. And, s…sorry, but the chain used to hold her to the altar can be found in any hardware store.”

“Thanks Davy, I thought it might be a dead end. Des agrees with you on her nationality - he says her D.N.A. is northern European, but that doesn’t get us very far with nothing to compare it to. OK. John said that she wasn’t a drug addict and she was tortured by being cut with knives. The smaller superficial cuts happened over a period of one to two days, so sadism was part of the killer’s M.O. And she was also partially strangled, judging by the marks on her neck.”

He paused, thinking of the last few days of their victim’s life and then shook his head hard, trying to erase the images. “John said she was strangled repeatedly and revived.”

Nicky gasped and even Liam seemed shocked.

“Why, boss?”

Craig bit his lip, reluctant to say the next words. When he spoke, his anger surprised them all. “To give some sick bastard a sexual thrill, that’s why! If I could get my hands round their throats I’d do the same to them.”

As he spoke, his fists tightened and Liam knew he was squeezing the life out of their killer in his mind. After a brief silence his shoulders slumped. He continued quietly.

“Asphyxia wasn’t the cause of death, exsanguination was. From the abdominal laceration. They carved the pentagram and made the marks in the pattern of the crucifixion post-mortem. She bled to death somewhere, was cleaned up then they deliberately left a kosher knife in the fatal wound. It wasn’t the knife that caused her death; too small and the wrong shape. Then she was moved to the church and displayed as we found her.”

Nicky shuddered. “There are some real monsters out there.”

Craig nodded. Far too many of them. “OK. The priority is identifying our victim, so keep going on that.”

“Des sent her prints through but there’s nothing on the U.K. database, sir.”

“Here, I thought we had no prints? Didn’t they cut her fingertips off?”

Davy interjected quickly. “They got them from her ears, palms and feet, Liam. It’s a new method.”

Liam’s eyes widened in surprise. “Boys-oh, what’ll they think of next? I just hope the scrotes don’t find that out or they’ll be skinning their victims completely.”

“Liam!”

A pen flew past Craig and bounced off Liam’s forehead. He howled loudly.

“Oww! That hurt! What did you do that for?”

Craig swung round to see Nicky looking unrepentant, with another missile ready in her hand. “That’s someone’s daughter you’re talking about, Liam. Stop it and behave yourself!”

The look on her face showed that she meant business. Craig laughed, impressed by her ferocity, and her aim. Liam rubbed his forehead and Craig saw a welt appear.

“Frick me! Come back Annette, all is forgiven. At least when she tells me off she doesn’t clobber me.”

“Well, she should. She should have done it years ago.”

Craig called the room to order. “OK everyone, behave. Liam, learn to be more sensitive please.” He swung around, admonishing Nicky with a look. “Nicky, no matter what you think of Liam, you can’t go around hitting him.”

He stared at her gravely and then turned back to the wounded soldier in the corner, his tongue firmly in his cheek. “Liam, would you like to press charges for assault against Nicky?”

The howl that came from Nicky matched Liam’s earlier one and Craig feared for his windows. “He can’t do that, sir. It was only a pen!”

Liam glanced across at her and rubbed his head dramatically. “It was a metal one!” When he spoke again it was in martyred tones. “I’ll need to think about that, boss. It’s wild sore.”

The look of panic that shot across Nicky’s face almost made Craig relent, but Liam deserved his five minutes of revenge. The charges were nonsense but if she’d used something heavier there’d have been hell to pay, so it wouldn’t do any harm to drive things home.

Liam gazed at the floor as if seriously considering Craig’s offer. Davy covered his face with his hair but Craig saw his shoulders shaking as he tried not to laugh. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Nicky’s colour change from her natural sun-bed bronze to pale beige. Just as he was about to put her out of her misery, Liam raised his head and a massive grin spread across his face.

Then he picked up the pen that had hit him and put it his pocket. “I’m keeping this as evidence Mrs Morris, just in case you step out of line in the future.”

He burst out laughing and Nicky exhaled sharply, not even aware that she’d been holding her breath.

Craig laughed. “Sorry, Nicky. But no matter what he does I can’t have you going around hitting him. That’s my job!”

He turned briskly back to the case, leaving Nicky to throw angry looks at Liam, instead of office supplies.

“OK, the man we found last night. All we have on him is that he definitely didn’t kill himself, although it was staged to look like it. The house is owned by a dummy company. Davy, anything yet on the property records? Or the laptop?”

Just then the phone on Nicky’s desk rang and she left grumpily to answer it.

Davy shook his head ruefully. “Nothing yet. The laptop is a common make and has a totally clean hard drive. I think it was bought just for this. The upside is that it’s got a new virus programme that only came out recently, so I’m trying to trace the purchase through the manufacturer’s number. The w…weekend delayed us getting answers on that and on the house ownership. Although I’ve managed to peel back the front company, and it looks like they mightn’t have covered their trail quite as w…well as they thought.”

“Good work, Davy. Do what you can on that.”

“Just one other thing, s…sir. The lay preacher, Joe Higginson, is in the clear. He was away in Donegall all last w…week. And he still has his keys, so whoever accessed the church didn’t do it with those. The gardener and flower lady didn’t have keys. Anyway, they have solid alibis.”

Craig nodded. The preacher had been a long shot. He turned and his eyes landed on Nicky. She was standing at her desk, no longer on the phone but leaning over her computer screen, clicking on a file. She stared at it for a moment before hitting print, and re-entered the room carrying some sheets of paper.

“Nicky?”

The look on her face told Craig that it was something sad. When she handed him the sheet he could see why. It was a photograph of two people. From the body language he read father and daughter, with a good relationship. They were wearing heavy winter clothes, and the high pine trees in the background said that it was somewhere cold and northern. He scanned it quickly, trying not to look at the girl’s face.

The room was silent as they all stared at the picture, waiting for a signal from Craig that it was OK to speak. He couldn’t look at the print any longer without the young woman’s face coming into focus. Any chance that she wasn’t their victim disappeared in front of his eyes. He knew he would break the heart of the man beside her very soon.

He turned slowly towards Nicky. “Who is she?”

She sighed heavily. “That was Stranmillis Road Station on the phone, sir. A Sergeant Jake McLean. He’s just come from the apartment of a student called Britt Ackerman, who’s been reported missing by two of her friends. No-one has seen her since Wednesday.”

Wednesday. The timing fitted.

“Sergeant McLean interviewed her friends and circulated her picture. Then he started digging through the past few days’ cases and got a hit on ours. He’s asked if he can meet with you. Apparently there are things that make this even more complex than we thought.”

Craig nodded, placing the picture face-down on his desk. He couldn’t look at the girl’s smiling face any longer, not when he knew the pain he was about to bring her parents. He stood up, signalling the end of the briefing, and nodded at Liam to join him for the journey to Stranmillis Road. They took the lift down to the car-park in thoughtful silence, both of them thinking of the women that they loved.

***

The last time Craig had been at Stranmillis Road Station was in April. It had been midnight, and he’d been in a dark interview room facing a hardened criminal. Tommy Hill to be exact. This time was very different.

The two women in the relatives’ room looked barely more than children. Yet in two years’ time they would both be doctors, taking responsibility for people’s lives. Craig wasn’t sure what he should treat them as; woman or girls. He tried to remember John at that age and smiled to himself. He wouldn’t have let him treat his dog, much less a human being. Yet, look how well he’d turned out, even if all his patients were dead.

He decided that they were women and pushed firmly at the door, entering the sunny room. A tray of tea and biscuits sat in front of them, but their cups sat untouched as they huddled together on the dark settee. An image of the fairy-tale ‘Babes in the Wood’ sprang into his mind. His mother had read them the Italian version, “Neonati nei boschi" every night when he was a child, determined to make him and his sister Lucia bilingual if it killed her. She’d succeeded, despite their objections.

The idea was whimsical but it was exactly what they women looked like, set in the austere surroundings of a police station. As they clung together Craig revised his earlier assessment - they were still girls.

“Good afternoon. My name is Detective Chief Inspector Craig.” His voice was soft and measured and he indicated a seat opposite them, sitting down at Fiona’s glance.

“Could you tell me which one of you is Hannah Benner please?”

The fairer of the two gazed at him with wet eyes, nodding. Her tears were soft and silent and Craig thought he saw more in them than concern for her friend. But what? Guilt? Her wide eyes answered him. She was afraid of something. His antennae twitched and he determined to find out what.

The door opened and Liam entered noisily. The volume he generated wasn’t always deliberate, his size made even the act of breathing loud. On Craig’s nod he sat down near the door. Not saying a word, just observing everything. Craig turned to the second girl.

“Fiona Torney?”

She sat forward confidently, quite clearly the leader. Just of the pair, or of a larger pack?

“That’s me.”

Her voice was assertive; years of supportive parents and agreeing friends. Her hand shot forward, slim and tanned - each finger a testament in silver.

Craig shook her hand and then fixed on them each in turn. Deciding on the silent girl as the one who held the information, and the other as the one who would give it up.

“Ms Torney, could you tell me exactly what happened between the last time you saw Ms Ackerman, and this afternoon when you called the police?”

Fiona took a breath and started clearly. Recounting the events since their Wednesday afternoon coffee with Britt, through Thursday and Friday at lectures, until Hannah had arrived at her flat for the weekend. She covered their studying and lunch at the Lyric on Sunday, then skipped quickly across Sunday night and Monday morning, to end more quietly with their trip to Wellesley Avenue that afternoon. Her vagueness on Hannah’s visit caught his attention, and he could see from Liam’s sudden lean forward that he thought the same.

Craig kept his voice soft, not for the leader but for her friend. She was a more fragile proposition, but she was the one who held the reason for Britt Ackerman’s death. He was sure of it.

“When Ms Benner arrived at your apartment on Saturday evening, it was for a studying sleepover, is that correct?”

“Yes, but not only that. We were going to have fun as well.”

He nodded, remembering weekends spent at his mates’ houses. Ostensibly to study but actually to party hard. The hangovers had lasted for days.

“And what form did that fun take?” As he asked the question of Fiona he watched Hannah’s reaction out of the side of his eye. On the word fun she looked down and away, as if she wanted to run from what might be said next. Fiona was still talking.

“We have a dermatology exam tomorrow. I was off for a few weeks last term having my appendix out, so I’d missed some lectures and needed to catch up on the work. We went shopping in town on Saturday afternoon and studied when we got back. Then we had a quiet night in with a DVD. We went for coffee at the Lyric on Sunday morning, like we always do, and studied again in the afternoon. I studied all evening on Sunday as well, because Hannah had a date…”

She glanced at her friend on the word date, continuing hesitantly. “We’d planned to take a road trip today and study again tonight, but...”

It hadn’t happened, halted by an empty flat and police interviews.

Craig nodded thank-you and turned to look intently at her companion. She was slumped back on the settee, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair. He could see Liam straining to see through it and smiled, visualising him doing the same with his daughter in years to come.

Craig allowed silence to fill the room for a moment, while Hannah tried to become invisible, anticipating his questions. He calculated that she’d respond best to a kind but firm approach, so when he finally spoke it was in a voice that was gentle but authoritative.

“Can you please look at me, Ms Benner? I need to ask you some questions.”

Hannah jumped then sat forward urgently. She pushed her hair back from her face with a shaking hand, revealing a look of complete terror. What was she so frightened of? Craig’s natural kindness made him want to take things slowly with her, but they didn’t have the time for preamble. At any minute their parents could appear and they might clam up. His only window to get the truth was now.

“Who was your date with, Ms Benner?”

The words were unambiguous and Hannah stared at him, shocked, as if his directness was rude. But this wasn’t afternoon tea, no matter how nice the room was. Britt Ackerman was dead and Craig knew that the girl in front of him had information why. There was no time to mess about.

He stared intently into her eyes, making it impossible for her to escape. He could see Liam straining to speak in the periphery, but he moved his hand slightly, stilling his words. She was going to tell them something, but not if they terrified her.

Hannah glanced nervously towards Liam and then pleadingly at Craig. He nodded, knowing what she wanted, and signalled Liam to exit and send in a W.P.C. He didn’t miss his annoyed look, but Liam’s hurt feelings were a low priority right now.

As the female officer sat down, Hannah’s shoulders dropped, signalling surrender, and he knew that when she spoke, it would be to tell them the truth. And to explain what she was so afraid of. Whatever it was, it had killed her friend.

***

“Can you really get the time off, Natalie? It would be brilliant if you could. We could look at places together and then have lunch.”

Natalie grinned and turned John’s credit card over in her hand. Then she laughed down the phone.

“That would be great, but only if we hit the shops first. I feel the need for shoes.”

“Shoe shopping it is then. And I need to get Marc a birthday present. It’s next Monday, the 17th, and I’ve no idea what he wants.”

Julia cheered up instantly and smiled down the phone at her friend. Natalie was taking two days off to keep her company, whether at Craig’s request or her own suggestion, she didn’t care. With two murder cases to be solved there was no chance she’d see him, so it would be great to have someone to talk to.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Natalie’s strong voice. “By the way, does Marc know that you’re looking at new houses for him this week?”

***

Once Hannah started talking she didn’t stop for an hour. She covered everything from her conversation with Britt Ackerman two weeks earlier, through to her near miss the night before at Marrion Park.

Britt had told her about the escort agency, run by a woman called Sylvia Brooks. When she’d first said what she was going to do, Hannah had tried to dissuade her. But she was determined. She couldn’t seem to see past her father’s restrictions, to look clearly at her privileged life.

How many students had their own apartment and car? She even had a credit card that let her indulge her expensive taste in clothes, paid off every month by her loving Dad. But like everyone who’s had everything they ever wanted in life Britt looked for reasons to be unhappy. And she found one, in her father’s overprotective nature.

She railed against his telling her to study and forget boyfriends until she graduated, citing his urge to see her have a good career as just another form of control. Like her allowance and car. But Hannah hadn’t noticed her giving either of them up to prove her independence! She liked Britt, loved her even, after all, they’d been friends since school. But even she thought she was behaving like a spoilt brat. Then she heard how much the agency was paying and all of a sudden her dream of being able to move away from her step-father seemed possible.

At Craig’s querying look she’d rushed to reassure him. Damien Stewart had never touched her, not even a tap on the hand when she was a stroppy teenager. In fact he’d shown her nothing but kindness if she was being honest. But he wasn’t her real father and he behaved as if he was. Telling her where she could go and when. It didn’t sound like a huge crime to Craig, but she’d had enough of it.

So, when Britt had mentioned the ten thousand pounds for one night of sex, something she admitted to being curious about. Well, it seemed like it was too good a chance to turn down. Britt was doing it in defiance, but she was doing it purely for the money.

Britt had been in touch with the agency weeks before and she’d given her the contact details for the Madam. Hannah hung her head, embarrassed. Craig wondered if it was because of what she’d agreed to do, or for her own stupidity.

She’d had no idea that Britt had already agreed a day and time for her appointment when they talked. And she definitely hadn’t known she was going that week, or she would have called to ask her how it had gone, before her own date on Sunday.

Hannah paused for a moment, sobbing quietly, and Craig knew she was thinking of her friend. Having God-only-knows-what done to her, while the rest of her class were planning their weekends.

She continued more slowly, outlining how she’d applied online, receiving a reply inviting her to visit an office in Cornmarket. She’d gone, but for some reason that she couldn’t work out she’d had the sense to give false contact details. Maybe she was more streetwise than Craig had thought.

Brooks had called her back a week later and told her that she was hired. Then she’d been given an address to go to on Sunday night - 40 Marrion Park. With strict instructions not to tell anyone about her appointment.

Craig interrupted her. “Did she say why you weren’t to tell anyone?”

Hannah nodded. “Because the men were very important, and some of them were well-known.” She shot him a look of disgust. “They didn’t mind doing it, but God forbid anyone at the golf-club should find out.”

Craig nodded, knowing that what she said was true. Northern Ireland was a small place. That was a good thing in lots of ways but it could make for snobbishness and hypocrisy.

She kept on talking, outlining her planned meeting the night before. And the myriad of phone-calls she’d received from Sylvia Brooks, leading up to it.

“She called me every hour on Sunday, right up to when I was in the taxi to Marrion. She was driving me mad so eventually I turned off my phone. Then she called me again late last night, furious that I hadn’t turned up. I ripped the SIM out of the phone. It was the pay-as-you-go number I’d given her.”

“Good. If you gave her false details it’s unlikely she’ll be able to trace you. We’ll warn her off you when we lift her. Tell me what happened when you got to Marrion Park last night.”

Hannah swallowed and outlined her journey in the taxi, and disembarkation in Marrion Park. Across the street from number forty, the house with the white wall where they’d found their male victim. She recounted how a car had accelerated past her and turned to enter the house, pausing at the intercom.

Craig was convinced that intercom had saved her life. He didn’t need to say it, the look on Hannah’s face said that she already knew.

“I recognised him. The man who was driving the car. His name is Timothy Morgan. He’s a surgeon at St Marys.”

A doctor. Craig wondered what other high status men would crawl out of the woodwork in this case. He kept his face neutral and asked her how she knew him.

“I’m a medical student. He was one of my tutors last year.”

“You’re sure that it was him? It was getting dark and you were across the street.”

She nodded furiously. “Positive. He taught a group of five of us every week for three months. I would recognise him anywhere.” She looked away. “He was always so nice.”

Craig wasn’t surprised. Evil men looked and acted like everyone else, except when they didn’t. He would bet when Hannah looked back she’d see he was much nicer to the female students than the males.

Craig looked at her. She was flagging. She needed a rest, and so did her friend. She’d been willing Hannah on through every word. He nodded to the W.P.C. and stood up, smiling at them.

“Thank you Hannah. And you, Fiona. You’ve been very helpful. Now, the officer will get you some refreshments and wait here with you, until your parents arrive.”

He turned towards Hannah pointedly. “It’s up to you what you tell them Miss Benner. But, if you want to say you’ve been assisting us with enquiries on your friend’s disappearance, I’ll support that. Please don’t either of you give anyone Britt’s name yet. We need to contact her father first.”

Hannah nodded at Craig gratefully and he left the room.

Chapter Eleven

Sylvia leaned forward, tapping out a cigarette as the P.C. scribbled furiously in his notebook. Her hand trembled so much that the whole pack emptied onto the floor. She scrabbled around beneath her settee with both hands, searching for one to calm her nerves. She found it and lit it urgently, inhaling the nicotine as if it was oxygen. Its calming effect was more psychological than real, but perception was everything.

“So, Mrs Brooks. Tell me again why you allowed this man into your home if you didn’t know him?”

The young man’s tone was sceptical, already cynical beyond his years. Sylvia tutted mentally. It had taken her until she was forty to get that disillusioned with life.

“He said he was from the council. He had a pass and everything.”

He eyed the darkening marks on her throat cynically. “But why would he attack you without, and I’m sorry to push this, but without trying to steal anything or sexually assault you? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Sylvia shrugged as if she was equally puzzled, but the P.C. was starting to annoy her now and she needed to get out of Belfast. She stood up quickly, extending her hand.

“Well, thank you constable. You’ve been very helpful, but I really need to get on now.” She indicated the chaos in the hall. “He’s left rather a mess as you can see.”

The constable eyed her suspiciously. Something was definitely ‘off’ about the scenario.

“No Mrs Brooks.”

His tone had changed abruptly, from conciliatory to firm, taking Sylvia by surprise.

“This man is dangerous and he could assault someone else. I’m calling my sergeant and we’ll be investigating this matter further. Please sit down. I’m afraid you’re going nowhere.”

***

6.30pm

“OK. Each of you tell me where you are with things, then I’ll update you with I have. Liam?”

Liam hastily swallowed his mouthful of Rich Tea. “Aye, right. The girl first. The neighbours saw nothing as expected, but then it was Friday night in a student area so what can you expect? What with partying and hangovers. I tell you when Erin gets to that stage she’ll be living at home.”

Craig smiled at him fast-forwarding his toddler’s life sixteen years.

“Anyway. We have the girl’s I.D. now and I’ve a call out to her father, so that joy lies in our future.”

Craig thought that anyone listening might think Liam was being callous, but they didn’t know him. He was angry at the killer and sometimes forgot that the nice words mattered too. This was where they needed Annette. His mind wandered for a second, wondering how she was. He made a note to call her later, and then realised that Liam was still talking.

“The wee lassies she was friendly with have given us a lead and a name, Dr Timothy Morgan. And, coincidentally, he links to the house where we found the second body, so we’re following-up on that now.”

Craig leaned forward, interrupting. “Before we leave that topic I’d better update the rest of you on the interview we held earlier with Hannah Benner and Fiona Torney. They’re the two friends of Britt Ackerman who reported her disappearance.”

He paused, rubbing his hand across his face, hardly believing what he was going to say next. “It turns out that Britt Ackerman and Hannah Benner had both joined an escort agency.”

Nicky gasped loudly. “For goodness sake why, sir? They came from good families, didn’t they? So presumably they weren’t short of money?”

Craig nodded tiredly. “That was my first reaction too, Nicky. But apparently it runs deeper than the money. We can only guess at Britt’s motive but Hannah said that she thought she felt over-protected, even controlled, by her father. Hannah’s excuse was the same, only this time it was her step-father.”

“So they became hookers to rebel? Couldn’t they just have got a tattoo or something?”

“I know, it sounds crazy. But who knows what makes teenagers tick.”

He thought ruefully of some of his younger sister’s early rebellions. And the number of times she still got told off by police at protests even now, at thirty-two years old.

“We’re not talking about street-walkers, Nicky. These girls were being offered thousands of pounds. That’s a lot of money to a student.”

Liam snorted derisively. “Aye and the Madam made even more I bet. Anyway, we have a name for the Madam now, Sylvia Brooks. And an office address. So I’ve uniform out lifting her today.”

“There was another dimension to this that made it even more sinister, Liam. That was why Hannah wanted you to leave the room. She didn’t want to talk to two men.”

Liam sniffed, still huffing about his forced exit.

“Sorry about that, but we needed their information urgently.” Craig paused. “The agency dealt in a very special market.”

Nicky looked at him, puzzled, and Liam screwed up his face, thinking. Only Davy nodded, understanding instantly and saving Craig’s blushes by saying the word. “Virgins, s…sir.”

Nicky was as horrified as Liam, but his expression changed quickly to one of murderous anger. “The dirty bastards, I’ll bloody kill them.” He knew now why Craig had wanted him to leave the room. His reaction would definitely have made the girls clam up.

“S…Some men pay a fortune for sex with inexperienced girls. There’s a lot of it on the internet.”

“So I hear Davy, but I had to admit to being shocked that it was happening in Northern Ireland.”

Nicky snorted. “Wherever there are men there’ll be prostitution.”

Craig nodded at her, unoffended. He knew that she didn’t mean them.

“I’d like to apologise on behalf of our sex, Nicky. You’re right. There are some animals out there and we need to catch them and put them away. Hannah Benner was due to meet a man for the first time on Sunday night, but as she approached her rendezvous point she saw someone that she recognised. A Dr Timothy Morgan. He was one of her tutors at medical school last year. Thank God Belfast’s so small. That type of co-incidence would never have happened in London. It probably saved her life.”

He turned to Liam. “That’s who Liam is going to be lifting today. Even more interestingly, the address she was given to go to was the same house in Marrion Park where we found our male victim.”

“So the murders are definitely linked, boss? When we get Morgan in he’ll be able to tell us who killed Britt Ackerman.”

Craig shook his head ruefully. “Somehow I don’t think it’s going to be that easy Liam.” He was about to wave him on with the rest of his update when Davy interjected.

“There’s an even darker s…side to this.” Craig stared at him curiously. “They don’t just have s…sex with virgins, they trade the girls and they disappear for good.”

Davy glanced away, hesitating over his next words and looking at Nicky as if he wished she would leave the room. She folded her arms stubbornly and he knew she was going nowhere.

“They torture and kill the girls, in s…snuff videos.”

Nicky gasped in shock. “Oh God Davy, they can’t.”

Craig shot her a defeated look. “I’m sorry Nicky, but they do. And Davy’s right, I think that’s the level we could be dealing with. Britt Ackerman’s was tortured before she died.” He nodded Liam on.

Liam ran through the practicalities of lifting Sylvia Brooks and Tim Morgan. If they got them they would interview them both in High Street that evening. Davy took over the briefing with details of Britt Ackerman’s watch, its serial number yielding her name too late. His searches on the theft of Hill and McCrae’s D.N.A. and the church access were still on-going.

Craig wrapped up quickly, telling them that they would have profiles from both John and Emily by tomorrow. He drew the two cases together and told them John said he had more on the man’s death. He would be at the lab if they needed him, and meet Liam at High Street as soon they had their two suspects for interrogation.

***

Monday 7pm

“Jimmy, don’t forget you’re collecting Melanie. She’s coming into Central Station on the 19.05 Enterprise.”

James Dawson frowned over the top of his Times, raising a questioning eyebrow at his wife. Anger coloured his voice. “Why so late? She was due back this morning.”

Catherine gave a nervous laugh. “You know girls. She was probably partying with Sinead all weekend.” She glanced at him pleadingly. “Please don’t tell her off, James. She’s young and she needs to have fun.”

He stared at her grimly, his voice cold. “She needs to study and pass her law exams, not gallivant around Dublin all weekend dressed like a slut.”

“She doesn’t dress like a slut! It’s just fashion.”

His voice rose menacingly. “Don’t argue with me! She looks like a tramp and I’m not having it. I know exactly how men think about women, and I’m not having my daughter drooled over by some grubby adolescent.”

Catherine stood up and faced him, foolishly brave in her daughter’s defence. She knew she would pay for it later. “So it’s one rule for you and another one for everybody else. Is that how it is?”

Dawson sprang to his feet and crossed the drawing room in three strides, his face flushed with anger. He shouted his next words into her face. “I said don’t argue with me you stupid bitch. Or don’t you remember what happens if you do?”

He stood so close that his breath felt warm on her cheek and she could see her reflection in his glasses. She had a random thought that she looked quite pretty today, but her pleasure was short-lived. His hand shot forward, grasping her throat and cutting off her breath as he lifted her off her feet. His other hand curled in a fist and then swung through the air, making loud contact with her jaw and splitting open her lip. He dropped her on the floor and she curled up in a ball, bracing herself for the beating she’d been expecting since Friday night’s dinner.

Chapter Twelve

Stranmillis Road Station

“There’s no point in your being silent. Now is there?”

Sylvia gazed coolly at the young man and tapped her long nails against the interview room desk. She scanned her surroundings with the eye of a woman used to placing value on appearance.

“A few flowers would make this place much homier. You should try it sometime.”

Jake McLean sat across from her, wiling her to stop the tapping and fighting the urge to grasp her hand. But that would be assaulting a prisoner and he needed the paperwork like a hole in the head. He straightened the papers in front of him and read the top sheet again slowly, letting her cope with his silence.

Sylvia Brooks was really Sylvia Bryce, well known as a Madam in Ballymena in the early 2000s. Running small groups of girls from rooms above a chippy - there were lots of chippies in Ballymena. She been lifted a few times for ‘living off immoral earnings’ but nothing had ever stuck. Rumours of friends in high places.

She’d moved to Belfast in 2010 and was suddenly able to afford a large house in Marrion Park, and discrete offices near the back of Belfast’s showcase shopping centre, Victoria Square. Sylvia had gone up-market in a hurry and there was no way that she’d done it by herself.

Jake squinted at her curiously, wondering what made her tick. Prostitution was always with them, like drugs and all the other plagues. But he couldn’t help feeling that supply and demand weren’t so much inevitability, as market opportunity for people like the woman in front of him.

“You haven’t been arrested since 2008 Mrs Bryce, how has that happened?”

She shrugged and the action set her earrings oscillating, like some strange modern Zebedee. She answered him in a hybrid Ballymena/Belfast accent. It wasn’t a good mix.

“I’m out of the game. Have been for years.” She smiled coyly at him and he was reminded of Harry Enfield’s creation of a pensioner leering at a ‘Young man’. He shuddered slightly and shook his head.

“Sorry, but I don’t believe that. Where did you get the money to set up in Belfast?”

She ignored his question, lifting an Emory board from her handbag and starting to file her nails. He continued undeterred. To the rest of the world it might look as if she was filing her nails, but he knew it was a displacement activity. Nail filing, finger inspecting, lighter flicking and scanning the room. Just some of the things guilty people did rather than meet the police’s stare.

“Are you going to help us find the man who attacked you?”

“No. He didn’t hurt me, so why should I?”

Jake stared pointedly at the finger-tip bruising on her neck.

“He did hurt you. He’s dangerous. And you should tell us, because if you don’t he could hurt someone else.”

She sniffed indifferently. “Not my problem.”

He leaned forward, still staring and she regarded him curiously. His eyes were almost hypnotic. Green and angled, like a cats. It was an interesting look and not unattractive. She warmed to him slightly and decided to throw him a small bone. It would lead him nowhere, but it would keep her in custody and she’d decided that was what she wanted for a while. She needed time to think about her next step and while she was here she was safer from the club. Although not completely.

“If you sat me down with coffee and a sketch artist, I might be able to remember what he looked like.”

Jake scanned her face. He knew exactly what was running through her mind, and he was willing to go along with it. There was something behind her attack, and he needed to find out what. And that would be far easier if she was somewhere he could watch her.

***

7.30pm

Craig sipped at the steaming espresso, smiling gratefully at John for lots of things.

“Thank Natalie for me, will you? Actually I was thinking of sending her flowers, if she likes them?”

“She loves them and she doesn’t get them often enough from me. I keep meaning to, but…”

“You forget. I know, so do I usually. But it’s very good of her to take some leave and keep Julia company. She didn’t warn me that she would be staying this week, or I would have booked some time off myself. And then…” Two murder cases intervening hadn’t helped.

“Not to worry, Nat’s just pleased to have someone to shop with. I’m hopeless. When do you think Julia will move down permanently?”

Craig gave a sharp intake of breath, the reality of the next step in their relationship hitting home. They’d been talking about finding a place for two months. But the market was stagnant so selling his apartment wasn’t an option. Staying there wasn’t one either - it was too small for a couple. The third way was renting his place out and buying another one together. They’d talked about it the week before. He knew that Julia was itching to leave Limavady, but there was no point her requesting a transfer until they had somewhere to live. And even then, jobs in Belfast were scarce.

She’d accused him of stalling on looking at places. And he knew he had, but even he couldn’t understand why.

“Sorry to focus you on the case, John, but I need to get back. You said you had something more on our male victim?”

“He had Ketamine in his system, and Rohypnol.”

Roofies and Ket, the old favourites. One to make the victim suggestible and the other to paralyse them so they couldn’t fight back. A bullet to the brain would be easy after that. Or a ‘no-brainer’ as Liam had so indelicately put it.

Craig nodded. It was a drug combination they’d seen only two months before, in the murder of Nigel Murdock, a consultant at St Marys’ hospital. The Drugs squad had said there was a lot of Ketamine floating around Northern Ireland.

“There was something else as well, Marc. We got a hit on his prints.”

Craig leaned forward, more interested now. “Which database?”

“The Republic. A case in Dublin. Driving under the influence four years ago. Des said Davy’s running them through the others to check for more hits.”

He slid a sheet of paper across the desk. It carried a picture of their dead man and his name. ‘Paul Ripley’.

“Paul Ripley. Great, it’s a start. I’ll get Davy on to next-of-kin.”

“He might want to contact church headquarters as well.”

Craig glanced up from the photo. “Why?”

“Because he’s the Reverend Paul Ripley, late senior churchman of this parish.”

Craig whistled in surprise. He was interrupted by his mobile ringing. He clicked it on, still thinking about John’s news. “Yes Liam. Any sign of our suspects yet?”

He listened for a minute, then nodded and grunted goodbye. He sat back and loosened his tie in a way that John knew signalled the end of the day.

“No joy with finding them?”

Craig shook his head. “Nope. The woman’s nowhere to be found and Morgan’s apparently away for work until tomorrow.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “To be honest I’m glad, John. We’ve been working all weekend, so an early night will do us all good. It will still be there in the morning.”

***

Tuesday. 12pm.

The court rose for lunch and James Dawson rushed into his chambers, already disrobing. He headed for the car-park and gunned his car through the exit from Laganside Courts, slipping smoothly into the slow-moving midday traffic. He was heading for the docklands building that housed the man he urgently needed to see.

No one would question his presence at Dockland’s Coordinated Crime Unit, or that of his protection detail, following a respectful two paces behind. Always trying to blend in, but never managing it, their hyper-vigilant fitness giving them away.

Dawson pulled into Pilot Street and parked in the Unit’s car-park, pressing the basement lift button impatiently. He disembarked on the floor he’d chosen and thrust open the glass doors without announcement, heading for the office of the man he’d come to see. The man’s sedate secretary rose urgently as he approached, hesitating to move towards him, his hostile body language screaming a warning to anyone nearby.

Dawson pushed through the office door and banged it closed behind him, leaning over the desk towards his friend. He spoke in an aggressive whisper, too low for the secretary and armed detail outside to hear the words.

“We’re in trouble and you have to get us out of it.”

The sleek uniformed man smoothed his hair down, and gestured at the chair across the desk. He spoke quietly, with the lack of affect that comes from having killed once too often.

“Sit down James. You’re scaring the help.”

His calmness infuriated Dawson even further, fanning already hot embers. He ignored the chair and brought his palm down hard on the desk. The officer saw his secretary reach for the telephone, preparing to call for support, so he rose and opened the door.

“Could Judge Dawson and I have some tea please? Earl Grey for me.”

He smiled at her confusion as she realised that the angry man was a senior member of the Judiciary. She nodded, moving hastily across the floor towards the kitchen. He re-entered the room smoothly, taking his seat again behind the desk.

James Dawson paced the room aggressively. He was still standing when the P.A. re-entered with the tea. The man thanked her with a smile and decamped to a coffee area in the corner, staring up coolly at Dawson.

After a moment he spoke, in a voice laced with sarcasm. “Why don’t you just wear a badge saying ‘guilty’, James? You might as well. Your body language is already saying it for you.”

Dawson glared at him and grudgingly took a seat.

“They’ve got the girl’s name. I heard the talk in court.”

The man shrugged, straightening his trousers and pulling at the crease with sharp precision.

“So they know who she is. So what? It means nothing without a link to us, and they don’t have that. Hold your nerve man.”

“Sylvia’s still out there.”

The man glared at him. “I thought she was being dealt with!”

Dawson shook his head. “She gave him the slip. Clever little whore.”

The man thought for a moment and then shrugged again. “It doesn’t matter, she’ll never talk. If she did, she would implicate herself.”

The Judge leaned forward. “Call your men off, they’re getting too close.”

The man smiled with a mixture of pride and concern at the murder squad’s abilities. Marc Craig was on the case and he was good. It wouldn’t take him long to fill in the gaps. “I’ll see what I can do at this end.”

An angry look flashed across Dawson’s face. “Don’t ‘see what you can do’, just bloody stop them! This is partly your fault. If you hadn’t told Ripley which D.N.A. to plant they would’ve had nothing.”

“They still have nothing. It was only blood from some local thugs. The murder squad will lift them and that’ll be that.”

Dawson gawped at him. “For God’s sake, man! You didn’t think it through, did you? The very fact the D.N.A. was there at all will set them hunting. And who could have accessed it except the police?”

“Try the men whose D.N.A. it is! And St Marys’ labs, or the doctor who took the blood. The list is endless. Just because you know how Ripley got it doesn’t mean that they do. I’ll say it again, man. Hold your bloody nerve.”

“What the hell were you thinking of, letting him display her in a church like a trophy? She could have just disappeared quietly.”

The man shook his head. “Not once we realised who she was. That silly bitch Sylvia was supposed to supply us with orphans. As soon as Ripley found out the girl’s real name she had to die or we’d all be finished.” The policeman’s voice growled more loudly than Dawson had ever heard it and he recoiled.

“She couldn’t even have been traded - her father’s an international diplomat for God’s sake! We had to kill her and she couldn’t just have disappeared or he would never have stopped looking. This way he’s got a body to mourn and he thinks she was the victim of some local nutcase.”

His voice regained its normal monotone. “Don’t worry so much. I’ll make sure Craig pins it on someone.”

Dawson startled slightly at the mention of Craig’s name - he knew from his performance in court how determined he was. He shook his head despairingly. “You should have called me as soon as you found out her name.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment while the policeman sipped his Earl Grey. Dawson thought of something. “What were the men’s names?”

“What men?”

“The ones who’s D.N.A. you used.”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? You chose them!”

“Well actually no, I didn’t. I chose one of them; Tommy Hill. Nasty little bastard. I put him away for twenty in ’98 and those pricks up at Stormont let him out early.” He sneered in disgust. “I pulled a recent file with his name in it. The case fitted and they’d taken his blood for elimination, so I gave Ripley the names to get the blood out of St Marys’ Labs.”

“My God! It was that random?”

“Not random at all, Hill’s a known killer. The recent case was his daughter’s murder and she was close in age to our girl. It would be easy to make it look as if he was unbalanced over his daughter’s death, and killed another young woman through grief.” He smiled. “Besides, it’s about time he did the rest of those years.”

Dawson nodded, conceding the tenuous link to Hill’s daughter. It might stand up in court. “Who was the other man?”

“Just one of his crew.”

He glanced at his watch and stood up briskly. “I have a two o’clock meeting at Stormont and you need to get back to court. I don’t want the Greer case being messed up. That woman’s as guilty as sin.”

He smiled at his own irony and then opened the door, speaking loudly enough to ensure that the whole floor heard his platitudes. “Lovely to see you, James. Give my love to Catherine and Melanie. We must have dinner sometime soon. Goodbye now.”

Then he closed the door quickly, leaving the Judge standing in reception under the scrutiny of the curious P.A. He exited the floor quickly followed by his detail, to pass on his anger to the recipient of his next call.

***

“How the hell could she have gotten away? You only had to go round there and finish her off quickly!”

Dawson was sitting in his car in the courthouse car-park, yelling down the phone at the man that he really blamed for Paul Ripley’s stupidity. Ripley had been an idiot but Morgan had no bloody excuse. He was an intelligent man. A cardiac surgeon for fuck’s sake!

“OK, it was my bad. She’s a clever little bitch and I admit I got careless. But we don’t see you getting your hands dirty, James, do we?”

“I can’t kill someone, I’m a sodding Judge. I wouldn’t last two days in prison without being knifed.”

The protection officer watched Dawson from the rear door of the court. He was gesticulating wildly and that meant that some poor bastard was getting it in the neck. Just as long as it wasn’t him he’d be happy.

Morgan was still arguing. “Tough! If we go down for this then we’re all going down together, James. Anyway, stop making a federal case of it. Sylvia won’t say anything; she has too much to lose.”

“For your sake you’d better hope so. What about the D.N.A.? Whose bright idea was that?”

Tim Morgan sighed heavily. “When Paul found out she had family who were bound to come looking, he panicked and called me. He had no option but to kill her. He couldn’t let her go. She’d seen him, and the house in Marrion.”

“So? You could have just dumped the body somewhere, instead of turning it into a sodding sideshow!”

Morgan rubbed his eyes tiredly and smiled at the waitress refilling his coffee. He’d been planning this quiet lunch at his surgical club for a week. He really didn’t need it ruined by James Dawson.

“No, we couldn’t. Her father’s a diplomat, James. That means this is an international incident. If she’d disappeared he’d have hunted for her. We’d have had Interpol crawling up our ass for years and then bang goes our European market. At least with a body and the killer’s D.N.A. all over it, her father gets closure. And the police get their crime solved.” He paused. “There’s no link between Paul’s death and hers. Everyone will believe his was suicide. Pressure of work.” He laughed coldly. “God was obviously a tough boss.”

He sipped at his coffee and sniffed indifferently. “Besides, he had to go. He was too stupid to live. Now everyone’s happy.”

Dawson snorted at his distorted idea of ‘happy’. “What about the D.N.A.?”

“That was no problem. They keep old samples for years on the off-chance that cases are re-opened. I work at St Marys on Fridays, so one quick trip to the freezer and Bob’s your aunty.”

“I know one of them was Tommy Hill – good choice. Who was the other?”

“Some idiot on the same case. A real animal. He’s been done for rape and assault before, so he was perfect. His blood work was in the same freezer as Hill’s so it only meant one trip. Less chance of being caught.”

Dawson’s tone became insistent. “What was his name?”

Morgan shrugged. James had always been a picky bastard. He’d been pedantic at school and he hadn’t changed. He wasn’t going to give up until he got the name.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Hold on.” Morgan reached into his pocket and flicked on his Smartphone, scrolling through the notes section until he found it. Dawson realised what he was doing and yelled down the phone.

“Tell me that you haven’t written it down somewhere? You cretin! Get rid of it immediately.”

Morgan mouthed an obscenity at the phone and then read the name out in a bored tone. “He was called Rory McCrae. Happy now?”

Morgan had expected his reassurance to end the conversation, if not pleasantly then at least in an armed truce. So he was stunned by the roar that greeted the name. Dawson bellowed down the phone so loudly that his protection officer heard the yell and started over from the gate. As he got closer he realised that Dawson wasn’t in trouble, the person on the other end of the phone was. Tim Morgan dropped his phone, shocked at the sudden rise in volume. When he retrieved it from under the table Dawson was running through every expletive he knew.

“You fucking imbecile, you’ve ruined us all. McCrae’s in Maghaberry prison. I put him there myself. You planted the D.N.A. of a man who couldn’t possibly have done it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You stupid fuck!”

Tim Morgan froze and cold sweat ran urgently down his back. He realised what he’d done and what it would mean for him. Ripley had been expendable, and he could be next. Unless he could find a way out of it.

“We need to convene the club.”

***

“Liam I’m heading to High Street for two o’clock. Did you manage to find Morgan yet?”

“Twenty minutes ago, at some posh lunch-club. Fairly ruined his dessert.” Liam guffawed and Craig nodded.

“Good. What about the woman, Sylvia Brooks?”

“Nothing yet boss, but we’re still looking. The lads called at her office but it was locked up, and we’ve no home address yet.”

“Tell them to keep on it. Can you ask Davy to give John a call? It’s about our male victim’s prints. John got a hit in the Republic, and I want Davy to keep on it.” He paused for a second before continuing. “He’s a Reverend.”

Liam whistled and Nicky turned around, knowing that it meant new information. “That’ll give the Chronicle some tasty headlines. I can see them now. ‘Vicar rushes to God’ will be the first.”

Craig smiled at his wit.

“Here, boss. This is a bit coincidental, isn’t it? One body found in a church, another one a churchman? There has to be a link.”

“I’ve always thought the cases were linked, but I still want us to work them separately, Liam. They have to be safe convictions, and they won’t be if we start looking for shortcuts.”

“Right enough. OK, I’ll tell Davy and see you there at two.” He went to sign off then remembered something. “Oh, aye. A Sergeant Jake McLean is looking for a quick word with you, boss. Was he the one up at Stranmillis, when we met the two girls?”

“That’s him. What’s his number?”

Craig wrote it down quickly and then signed off, grabbing a five minute sandwich and a call to Annette, just to make sure she was OK. Then he sat in his elderly Audi and called Stranmillis.

“Sergeant McLean, D.C.I. Craig here. What can I do for you?”

“Well, it might be nothing sir, or it could be important. I don’t know which.”

One of those. He needed a sounding board that wouldn’t make him feel stupid and Craig was happy to help. After all, he had I.D.ed Britt Ackerman for them.

“Fire ahead.”

“Well, we had a strange call earlier to a house in Marrion Park.”

Craig sat bolt upright, interrupting him quickly. “What number?”

McLean stared at the phone, surprised. He’d expected Craig to feign interest but not at this level.

“Number 42.” The house next door to Paul Ripley’s final resting place. This was too much to be coincidence.

“Sorry sergeant, continue please.”

“Well, the call came from a woman who was found by neighbours in the street. She screamed fire first of all, but then she told them a man was trying to kill her.”

Craig was tempted to ask more questions but he decided against it. There was a story here and he wanted to let it come out.

“Then, as soon as she was safe she refused to say anything about him. Except some lame story that he was from the council and that’s why she’d let him in. It was obvious she was lying. The constable told her she needed to help us because he might hurt someone else, but she completely refused. So he got suspicious and called me in.”

Craig smiled to himself, the lad was good.

“I did a background check on her. She’d given us a false name, Sylvia Brooks.”

Craig snapped his fingers in a way he thought people only did in bad movies, and gripped the phone hard.

“Her real name is Sylvia Bryce and it turns out she was a Madam in Ballymena for years. She was lifted several times and is well known to the local team. Then all of a sudden in 2010 she appears in Belfast. Big house on the Malone, offices in Cornmarket. Mrs Respectable. I was just about to threaten her with ‘obstructing enquiries’ when she ups and asks to meet the sketch artist. She’s downstairs with him now, probably creating some fantasy man that we’ll never find.”

The Sylvia Brooks that Hannah and Britt had met was really Sylvia Bryce. Craig wanted to fill in the gaps for McLean, but he decided to see what else he’d got.

“You’re probably right sergeant, and that’s great work, but what has it got to do with our cases?”

The younger man hesitated and Craig could almost hear him blushing at the other end, wary of taking the next step. He willed him on and he wasn’t disappointed.

“Well. You know the girls I brought you to meet earlier, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I was interested in the case. So when you left I checked the notes and I saw a reference to an escort agency. I, well I put two and two together and checked it out. It belongs to our woman. Sylvia Bryce is your Sylvia Brooks who runs the escort agency.”

He paused and through the silence Craig could hear he was still uncertain. He didn’t need to be.

“Sergeant, that’s brilliant work.”

“Jake, sir.”

“Jake, that’s excellent. Now, can you do me a favour?”

“Yes, sir. Whatever.”

“Bring Mrs Bryce down to High Street station at three this afternoon. Don’t tell her where she’s going, or why. I want the element of surprise. And in the meantime, show her photograph to Hannah Benner to confirm her I.D. You’ve just given me a solid link between our two murder cases.”

***

Craig walked briskly into High Street at two o’clock, deliberately ignoring the slim, well-dressed man seated in reception. Sandi, the desk officer, buzzed him through and he entered the well-worn staff room, heading straight for the kettle. It was half-boiled by the time Jack Harris the station sergeant wandered in, pleased to have a bit of chat.

“Sure, hello there, sir. How are things in the world of murder? You’re certainly keeping our interview rooms warm this weather.”

Craig smiled ruefully, acknowledging that it was true. Murder was a thriving industry in Belfast.

“Jack, I’ve a plan for this afternoon and I wonder if you can help me? I have to warn you though; it’s not strictly procedure.”

Harris smiled knowing that it would only be for a case. As long as it wasn’t criminal, he was game for anything that caught the bad guys. And a detour from the rules occasionally broke the boredom. He started a mock bow towards Craig just as Liam entered, filling the doorway of the small room.

“Here, I hope you don’t expect me to start bowing to you, boss. Mind you, that would mean Annette would have to curtsey. It might be worth it just to see that.”

Jack swooped back to the vertical and ended with a flourish, while Liam mimicked making himself sick in the bin. Jack kept the joke going in a faux-regal voice. “Only tell me what you need sir, and your wish is my command.”

***

Sandi showed the man into the interview room, with instructions to take a chair at the back of the room well into the shadows, say nothing and wait. Liam positioned himself in the viewing room on an ear piece, and listened to the sound of their interviewee breathing. Craig stood beside him, waiting and timing their entrance to the exact moment when Dr Timothy Morgan’s patience started to fray.

Hannah had recognised Morgan the moment she’d seen him outside their Marrion Park rendezvous. That knowledge and the revulsion she’d felt at seeing her tutor there had probably saved her life. And definitely saved her from a fate worse than any death.

Morgan had played dumb at his lunch venue when they’d invited him to ‘help with their enquiries’. And he would probably play dumb now and refuse to answer their questions. But what liars never realised was that words were only one way they gave the police information. His tense foot-swinging under the desk was already speaking to Craig, loud and clear.

They were surprised by his lack of solicitor after their experience at St Marys’ Health Trust during the Barron case. Every doctor down to the newly qualified had arrived for interview with one tucked under their arm. Brandishing the excuse that ‘the insurance companies had insisted’. Still, that case had involved the deaths of patients, and this one… Well it was safe to say that this one would involve the good doctor’s leisure activities far more than his working day.

They watched through the mirror as Morgan shifted on the hard interview chair, controlling his body language as best he could. He managed it well with his top half, but his legs were letting him down badly. His arms were folded across a firm torso that Liam imagined was the product of work-outs and road runs. He sucked in his own burgeoning stomach and then let it out again with a sigh, reassuring himself that Danni loved him anyway. His toddler daughter saw it as an interesting bump in the human slide that he became most weekends.

Morgan glanced around the room, not nervously but curiously, turning finally to the window they stood behind, smiling. He waved once, acknowledging their presence and then returned to his arms-folded pose, closing his eyes and relaxing back in the chair.

After several minutes a nervous flicker crossed his face and Craig leaned forward urgently, peering hard through the two-way glass. On the second flicker he nodded at Liam and opened the door, ready to enter the room.

It was the sign of weakness that he’d been waiting for, the ‘tell’. A micro-expression so small that most people would have missed it. But it was large enough to show Craig that Morgan was feeling the stress and ready to crack.

Liam slipped out his ear piece and they entered the room. Him first and Craig following, to confuse their prey which one to focus on and which one was safe. Craig nodded imperceptibly at Sandi and she slipped out past them in the darkness, relieved to be back at her desk. Jack took their place behind the mirror with a coffee in his hand, taking a seat for the show.

They sat down side by side, across from the man they were certain knew something about Britt Ackerman’s death. Hannah Benner’s too if she hadn’t seen him and slipped away. Craig considered the man opposite them. He was slim and muscled, with the year-round tan of the privileged. Craig thought that he was probably handsome, insofar as a man can ever judge another. But not overly handsome, in a way that would irritate other people.

His left hand bore a white-metal wedding ring and his nails were manicured and immaculately clean, matching his pristine cuffs. He looked every inch the prosperous doctor that he was and Craig doubted he would ever find attracting women a challenge. So why get mired in such a grubby world? But then, why does an evil bastard do anything?

On his nod, Liam leaned over and pressed the tape machine hard, it’s loud buzzing nearly making Morgan jump, except his impressive self-control restrained his recoil. Craig stared into the man’s eyes - they were small and colourless. He scanned their faces in return, unable to decide which one of them was the leader that he needed to impress.

A man like Morgan only ever dealt with the organ grinder, never the monkey, and Craig knew it. Refusing to allocate status when they’d entered had been deliberate, to throw him off-balance. It had worked nicely. But now he would.

“For the benefit of the tape, present are, Detective Chief Inspector Craig.”

“Detective Inspector Cullen, and…”

There was a moment’s silence and the only noise in the room was the whirring of the tape. Morgan stared at Craig, identifying his opponent, and knowing that he wanted to hear him say his name. Defiance crossed his face and he held Craig’s gaze for a long moment, until he was satisfied that he’d stalled for long enough. When he identified himself it would be in his time, not theirs.

Craig smiled inwardly at the game. He knew that giving Morgan this small victory would make him feel that he had the upper hand, and hopefully make him careless.

He played the ball back to him with an obliging. “Would you mind saying your name for the tape please, Mr Morgan?” Adding a diffident, “I’m sorry, I know that it seems overly formal, but it’s routine.”

Morgan smiled elegantly and nodded with a charm that he hadn’t shown since he’d arrived. “Certainly. My name is Dr Timothy Morgan.”

At the emphasis on ‘Dr’ Liam’s hand twitched. Craig knew he was itching to haul the man across the table by his expensive tie. But he wouldn’t. He knew Craig’s game and he’d seen it work many times.

Timothy Morgan had identified himself as arrogant and status conscious. He’d also shown the charm and coldness that they’d seen in the truly dangerous before. The man was a sociopath and his ego would cause his end. Maybe not today on their first encounter - that would be too much to hope for. But if they could set him running they could follow, and he might lead them to someone else. Into the spider’s web. Neither of them knew then just how big that web would turn out to be.

***

Tommy Hill pulled his battered BMW into the prison car-park and raked its gears to a harsh stop. He could have stolen a more modern car, but this one had done him for months, and there was no point in making the Pigs nervous. He’d sworn on Evie’s grave that he would go straight, and he was going to stick to it. Within reason. Or at least until McCrae got out.

Getting a visitor’s pass had been a bit of a challenge. But that’s what challenges were put there for, to overcome. It would be good craic to see McCrae again and re-assert his authority. He had no crew to order about nowadays, not until Gerdy got out in September, so he would have to make do with pushing McCrae about today. He’d be out next year and they could pick up the real business then.

But that wasn’t why he’d come. Someone had tried to frame them both for rape and murder and he was pissed-off about it. And much as McCrae couldn’t do much to help up here, they could at least be pissed-off together. Maybe he’d hear something useful on the prison wire.

He locked the car, for security in a place full of criminals. Then he sauntered cheerfully towards the prison’s imposing entrance, preparing for an hour’s craic and planning for the future.

***

They’d played the game for half an hour. Morgan jockeying for seniority and Craig letting him believe that he had it. They meandered around the real reason that he’d been invited in. Using the false pretext of needing information, about a report of attempted burglary at his imposing Upper Malone home.

“You’ll understand that we need to check out every lead, Mr Morgan. There have been a number of burglaries in that area recently, with some valuable items taken. Many of them antique.”

Morgan nodded, relieved this was why they wanted to see him, his relief leaking more information than he could ever have realised. Craig continued.

“So when we had a report of two young men seen looking into your windows on two occasions, we had to make you aware. In case you might be burgled next.”

“Of course, Chief Inspector. Thank you for that.”

Craig half-smiled in acknowledgment while Liam remained grim-faced. Partly because he could never fake charm to crack a suspect, a failing he recognised in himself. And partly because it was his job today to play bad cop to Craig’s good.

Morgan straightened up as if readying to go. Craig lifted a sheet from the bottom of the file, relocating it to the top.

“There was one other small matter, Mr Morgan.”

Morgan smiled at him pleasantly. He completely missed Craig’s shift in tone. From the amiable concern suited to a potential victim, to one of calculated coolness, ready to pounce.

“Oh yes, what was that?”

“Could you tell me what you were doing visiting number 40 Marrion Park on Sunday evening?”

Craig’s deep voice sped through the question so quickly that Morgan was caught momentarily off-balance. He blustered out an answer as Craig watched his face. The ‘tells’ of looking up and to the left, and his voice’s sudden rise in pitch, indicating that he was lying. The answer was out before Morgan had the sense to ask why Craig needed to know.

“Oh, I was visiting a friend there. Well, no, not there, but at number 42.” Sylvia Bryce’s address. He realised his mistake too late and scrambled to correct it, instantly revealing that he knew all about Bryce’s business.

“No, not 42, it was… number 50. But they weren’t there.” His face brightened as he thought of a better excuse. “I had the wrong address entirely.”

He sat back, satisfied that his lie was convincing and Craig saw Liam’s thumb go up under the table. He held back his smile and said calmly. “Would you have that friend’s name for us, Mr Morgan?”

Morgan thought for a moment, confusion and fabrication clouding his eyes. Then he gave the name of a hospital colleague. Craig knew he would be on the phone to him five minutes later, begging him to corroborate. It didn’t matter, they knew that he was lying, and if need be they could destroy his alibi later.

He’d admitted to being in Marrion Park on Sunday evening, confirming Hannah Benner’s sighting of him. The same evening that Paul Ripley had been killed there. That was all they needed to know. They would confirm his relationship with Sylvia Bryce another way.

Craig rose quickly, motioning Liam to leave the room. His next words matched his physical speed, pushing past Tim Morgan asking who had reported his whereabouts on Sunday evening.

“A patrol car covering the area. Now, thank you, Mr Morgan. Would you mind waiting here for a moment? My colleague will come and show you out.”

Craig had no intention of telling him that he’d been witnessed. Hannah Benner couldn’t be mentioned or she would never be safe. Far better to imply that a routine patrol might have seen him. They could say they’d been watching Sylvia Bryce’s house, if it ever came to it.

Craig was out the door before Morgan had a chance to answer, joining Jack in the viewing room. They watched for a moment longer, as Morgan shifted nervously in his chair, looking around the room like it was a prison. Hopefully he’d see inside a real one soon.

Gone was the confident, smooth body language of earlier, replaced now by a worried man. He stilled, as if he’d had a sudden thought. Then he reached inside his jacket for his mobile, just as Craig had hoped he would.

He scrolled quickly through the numbers, finally pressing a button. Then he glanced around, remembering where he was, and knocked it off again in case they were listening. It didn’t matter, the call had been dialled and the phone provider had a record of the number now. More evidence for when they needed it.

Craig looked at Jack, smiling. “Do we have reception sorted out, Jack?”

“We do indeed sir. Sandi knows what to do and we have the cameras on.”

Craig nodded, pleased. This might just work. “OK, go and relieve Sandi please and let’s watch the show. Liam, you stay here until Morgan leaves the room, and then join us in the staff room.”

Jack left the room first, followed by Craig. Liam folded his arms, ready for the next feature. A few seconds later Sandi entered the interview room smiling pleasantly; blissfully unaware of the type of man she was showing to the front door. She ushered Tim Morgan from the room, making small talk. As soon as the door closed Liam slipped down the back corridor and into the staff room. He clicked the kettle on and waited for the others to appear.

As Sandi brought Morgan into reception, Jack was standing behind the desk, casually rearranging papers. Craig stood in the back office, watching the show on the CCTV. It was set to be a movie classic.

Seated in reception, half-behind the door where Morgan wouldn’t see her until he turned, sat Sylvia Bryce. Jack had angled the cameras perfectly, to capture Morgan’s expression and hers on separate views.

As Morgan entered reception they caught Bryce’s first sighting of him, before he had even seen her. As he turned towards the front door they would catch his first view of her. When Sylvia Bryce saw his face her hand flew to her throat and she recoiled. Then she pushed herself back against the bench she was sitting on, with a look of complete horror on her face. It was swiftly replaced by fear and her hands covered her face in self-defence, even though Morgan was still six feet away.

Her handbag fell to the ground noisily and Morgan turned quickly at the sound, seeing her for the first time. His eyes locked on her face and murderous rage replaced the smile that he’d been giving Sandi two seconds earlier. His fists clenched and Craig could see him take a step towards her, then stop himself abruptly, realising where he was. He turned away and pushed past Sandi, grabbing the heavy front door and storming through it into the street. Then he was gone.

Sandi ran out after him and watched him disappear into the afternoon shoppers, turning up Donegall Place towards the City Hall. She re-entered the station as Sylvia Bryce scrambled around the floor, retrieving the contents of her bag. She bent down to help her, then showed her pleasantly into the interview room, to regain her composure and wait for Craig.

Jack locked the front door of the station and walked into the staff room, joining the others men over their cup of tea. They sat for ten minutes watching and re-watching the video. It showed that Morgan and Bryce definitely knew each other. And that Morgan would cheerfully kill Sylvia Bryce and she knew it. Perhaps because he’d already tried.

***

Hannah grinned at her young brother across the table and he stared back warily, trying to work out if she was going to steal his food or pat him on the head. She did the latter, ruffling his hair fondly. Her mother caught the gesture and stared at her curiously, far more used to the sibling rivalry that had punctuated every meal for months.

“Are you feeling ill, Hannah?”

Hannah smiled. She knew that she hadn’t always been the easiest child, especially since her mother had remarried. She’d resented her paying attention to any man who wasn’t her father, elevating him to the status of hero when he died.

Maybe that explained why she’d put herself in a position that could have led to such danger? She felt powerful when men desired her and impotent the rest of the time. Their attention was like a drug.

She shook her head and shuddered, thinking again what might have happened if she’d actually entered the house in Marrion Park. She would have done if she hadn’t recognised Morgan driving through the gates. Something somewhere had been watching out for her; maybe it was her father.

Her mother walked over from the sink and placed a hand on her forehead, to check that the shudder wasn’t a sign of fever. Hannah gazed up at her and took her hand, resting it on her own cheek. Mary Stewart’s look of concern made her daughter’s eyes fill with tears. She’d promised Craig she would tell her mother before events brought things out. But she knew that what she was about to hear would mean she’d never look at her daughter the same way again.

Chapter Thirteen

The court clerk hovered respectfully behind the Judge, waiting for him to acknowledge his presence. After a few minutes of waiting he was rewarded by James Dawson inclining his head backwards, indicating that he should approach. “Your Honour, there’s an urgent call for you in your rooms.”

Dawson turned sharply to face the elderly man. “You know better than to interrupt the court when it’s sitting. Who is it anyway?”

The clerk coughed, chastened. “It’s a Mr Timothy Morgan, M’Lord. I do apologise. I wouldn’t have interrupted had he not said it was urgent.”

Dawson waved him back with a gesture of irritation and then stood abruptly. “I must apologise to the court.” He hammered hard with his small gavel, signalling that proceedings would adjourn. “The court will rise for twenty minutes.”

He left hurriedly as the clerk sang out, pulling off his wig and running his hand irascibly through his hair. What in God’s name did Morgan want? He already knew the club was convening that evening.

He grabbed the phone rudely from his secretary’s hand and shooed her out the door, winding himself up for a rant. “What the hell do you mean, phoning me when we’re in session?”

“The police have Bryce.”

The words fell flatly on the air. Dawson gasped as if he’d been punched in the gut. When he regained his composure Morgan was still talking.

“They brought me in on some pathetic excuse of burglars casing my house then asked me about the house in Marrion. Someone saw me there on Sunday night!”

“Who?”

“No idea. Probably the police watching Bryce.”

Dawson shook his head then realised he was on the phone and had to vocalise his disagreement. “No, she’d have known if she was under surveillance. Trust me; it’s pretty damn obvious when you are.”

“Who then?”

Dawson thought for a moment, searching for the answer. He found it quickly. “The tart that didn’t turn up. She must have seen you and known who you were.”

Morgan’s mind raced quickly through the faces of every twenty-something female that he knew, but it was hopeless. He met thousands of patients each year and a myriad of medical students, sixty percent of them female. He’d never be able to narrow it down. Unless…

“I see hundreds of girls each year and there’s no way I can pinpoint the one who might have sold herself as a whore. If I saw her photo that would be a different case. I always remember faces.”

“Didn’t Bryce take pictures of them?”

“Yes. Remember, that’s how we selected the best. She must keep them in her house or office. We need to find out who this girl is and shut her up.”

“OK, leave it with me. I know someone who can get the photos and make it look like a burglary.”

The door knocked once, signalling that the adjournment was coming to an end. Dawson pushed his wig down hard on his head and ended the call, returning to his high moral position of sitting in judgement of others.

***

3.30pm

Sylvia Bryce sat in the interview room flatly denying that she knew Timothy Morgan, even when they showed her the video of her earlier reaction. She insisted that he couldn’t possibly have been the man who’d assaulted her earlier in the day, and pointed to the fairy-tale sketch of a bearded twenty-something she’d created earlier at Stranmillis Road. Jake McLean had joined them and was watching from the other side of the wall. Craig knew he must be shaking his head at her lies.

The fact that she lived next door to a house where a murder had occurred two days before was purely coincidental. Yes, wasn’t it awful, Inspector? And in such a nice street too. She hadn’t know the gentleman of course, a lie that Craig tested by showing her a photograph of Paul Ripley in life. He watched as the small crease between her eyebrows deepened for a few seconds, and then smoothed out almost instantly. A ‘tell’ that lasted just long enough to tell him she was lying. She’d known Paul Ripley all right and he would prove it.

How had she managed to afford her new home and offices in Cornmarket? She’d been very fortunate - an old friend had left her some money in his will. She had a lot of old friends, you know. She willingly confirmed that some of them had been intimate, without confirming her past profession. Craig fervently hoped that Davy could unpick her finances and find something that linked her house’s ownership to the building next door.

She denied all knowledge of Britt Ackerman, but Hannah had already identified her from a photograph. They were certain of Bryce’s connection to Britt but they needed more evidence to prove it.

Craig tried every tactic to make her talk. Charm and tea, cajoling and pleading, and finally, threatening her with withholding evidence. Both on the assault and on unnamed other cases that they were investigating.

But she didn’t even flinch when Liam charged her with obstruction of justice and had her locked up in Wharf House for the night, pending a remand hearing the next day. There was no doubt that she was up to her neck in all of this, but how exactly? Warrants to search her house, office and finances would give them the answers.

***

“What do you think of this one?”

Julia held up a jumper that even she knew wouldn’t suit Craig, but she and Natalie had been shopping for hours and they’d both reached the point of apathy.

Natalie raised an eyebrow sceptically and lifted her handbag, turning determinedly towards the lift.

“I’m off to the nearest wine-bar unless you think of something better than that. If you were married he’d have legitimate grounds for divorce right there.”

“Well, you come up with a better idea then. We’ve only been dating six months and even then it’s only every weekend.” It dawned on her how little she knew about Craig. She’d spent a total of six weeks with him! Something started to niggle at her, then Natalie interrupted.

“Use your imagination, woman. What sort of things does he like doing? When he’s not working that is.” A rueful expression crossed her face as she acknowledged that none of them had much of a life outside their jobs.

Julia looked blank for a moment and then clicked her fingers. “I’ve got it!” She grabbed their shopping bags and headed for the lift, leaving Natalie trailing in her wake.

“Where are you going now?”

“The cocktail bar at The Merchant. I’ll sort out his present when we get home.”

***

Dawson drew proceedings to an end for the day and hurried to his car, shadowed at a respectful distance by his detail. They preferred to stay as far as possible from him while still doing their job. He was an arrogant prick at the best of times, but his moods had been off the scale for the past few days.

He sat in the car-park for a moment, running quickly through the contacts in his phone, until he hit on the one he was looking for. It was answered in three rings and a gruff cockney voice on the other end greeted his withheld number warily.

“Hello. Who’s this?”

“It’s me.”

“Who’s ‘me’?”

“The man who can do you a lot of harm if you don’t play ball.”

There was silence for a moment and, when the man spoke again, his tone was deferential. “What can I help you with, Judge?”

“I need you to do a little job for me. Tonight.”

***

“Nicky, have we managed to get those warrants from Judge Standish yet?”

Nicky bit the end of her pen, stilling her quick retort. Craig had asked the same question five times in the past hour. But he’d had virtually no sleep since Friday and she’d be stressed too in those circumstances, so she repeated her earlier response patiently.

“We’re just waiting for them now, sir.” She glanced at the clock. Seven pm and they were all still in the office, but at least Davy’s and her day would end soon. Liam’s and Craig’s couldn’t.

“Sergeant McLean from Stranmillis will be leading the search of Bryce’s home, Nicky. Liam and I will take her offices in town.” Craig raked his hands through his thick hair, thinking. “Do we have a slot for her remand hearing yet?”

Nicky smiled at him, adopting her best mothering tone. “Yes, sir. Three o’clock tomorrow.”

She scrutinised him and diagnosed caffeine deficiency, so she headed for the percolator. The phone rang and Davy answered it. It was ground floor reception informing them that a pizza had been delivered. Liam bounded across the floor racing Davy for the lift and Nicky laughed huskily. She smiled at Craig’s generosity and brewed him some fresh coffee, before he and Liam left for the hunt.

***

The large echoing hall was lit with a myriad of candles, their light flickering across its sleek stone walls. They cast shadows back and forth across the faces of the men. Some of them were already seated at the oblong oak table. Others took drinks from the serving staff’s trays. They were holding important conversations, in equally important tones.

Tim Morgan stood quietly in one corner, watching as the men circled each other warily. Ostensibly friends and members of the same club, but each of them aware that their wealth and status had been grasped over the heads of others. Always competing, always on guard. Ready to save themselves at any cost.

He thought that some of them were staring at him judgementally, as if his failure to kill Sylvia Bryce had brought them all to this. But it had been the churchman, one of the most revered of their number, who had threatened all of their safety. He had merely cleaned it up. But not perfectly, and that was clearly a worse crime in their eyes.

The wall opened suddenly and James Dawson marched in, like the Lord High Executioner in Gilbert and Sullivan’s Mikado. Morgan half-expected a coterie of footmen to follow, or a slave carrying a large feathered fan. But it was only him. He nodded and murmured to a few men in passing, making his way across to where Morgan stood.

Dawson lifted a drink and half-smiled at him conspiratorially. “It’s happening right now.” Morgan raised a questioning eyebrow and then nodded. All evidence of them knowing Britt Ackerman would soon be erased, and by tomorrow they would know the name of the girl who’d identified him in Marrion Park. After that her disappearance would be easy to arrange. Long before that bastard Craig was able to prove anything.

The room brightened slightly and a slim screen rose silently from the table’s end. A dark man standing by the door locked it, then banged hard on the floor with a staff, declaring the meeting open. Morgan smiled at the ornate ceremony, but one look at his companions faces said they were taking it deadly seriously. They took their places around the table, their position allocated by rank, and the room quieted, waiting for their Chair.

Morgan sat near the front with Dawson and noticed the policeman sitting opposite. He acknowledged them with a dry nod before turning back quickly to the screen. They sat in order of seniority - the policeman number two and Dawson three. The Cavalier sat at four and the young royal at five. He sat at number six and there was an empty space for Ripley at seven. The lower ranks arranged themselves further down. There were no women in the room. Woman had their place but it was never in a position of control.

The screen flashed quickly to life and the darkened shape of a man appeared, sitting well back into the shadows. He was mature, above sixty, although his exact age was impossible to tell. His hands were folded; the only clues to his life were his cufflinks, and a ring on his right hand wedding finger. Divorce in some countries and marriage in others. The room quieted without a murmur and he waited for a minute longer before speaking, exerting his absolute control.

“This meeting has been called because there is a problem.” A quiet murmur started, halted immediately by his silence. He resumed more sternly, his voice deep and sonorous. “One of our members, number seven, destroyed a valuable first edition. He has paid the ultimate price.”

He paused as if in respect and Morgan laughed inwardly. He’d ordered Ripley’s death and now he was distancing himself by faking grief. The voice resumed.

“However, this edition had to be destroyed. It was too well-known. Its owners would have come to claim it, and others would have come looking. It was not number seven’s destruction of the item, but rather his method that has endangered our group.”

He turned his head towards the policeman, as if they were in the same room. “Numbers two and three are engaged in efforts to deal with the problem that has been created.” He stared in their direction and his next words carried open menace. “Be sure that you do it well, and before the 14th. I will not bring the buyers unless I am certain.”

Dawson swallowed and nodded yes. The 14th would be the biggest gathering they’d ever hosted. It was worth a billion pounds to them. There could be no mistakes.

The man turned back to the group and his voice lifted slightly. “Now, gentlemen. Let us review the first editions and plan the entertainment for the event. We have some truly illustrious guests coming.”

***

The search of Bryce’s office yielded exactly what they’d hoped for. Pictures of Britt Ackerman and Hannah Benner, plus at least one hundred other girls. The paperwork accompanying them was detailed and enlightening. The girls had been selected for their declared virginity, but not only for that.

“None of them have any living family, boss. Not one!”

Craig stared at the two photographs in his hand. “They said that they had no family, Liam. We know that Hannah and Britt lied about it, so who knows how many others did as well?”

“Why the hell would they do it? They all look like well-cared-for girls. What could have driven them to want money so much?” Liam shuddered, visualising his daughter’s face on one the sheets.

Craig shook his head sadly. “Who knows? But I’m not sure it’s a coincidence that Bryce moved to Belfast in 2010 – that’s the year the cap was raised on student tuition fees. University used to be free. Nowadays kids graduate with debts of thousands. Maybe some of the girls were desperate for money.”

“Surely to God they could get a job flipping burgers?”

“When they can earn thousands in one night?” Craig shook his head again. “Sylvia Bryce pandered to their greed.”

“The men behind her did anyway.”

Craig gestured at the files on the desk. “Get the men to box these up and ship them back to Davy. We need to identify these girls against any missing persons who didn’t come home. I’m going to check on the search up at Marrion Park, and see if we can get some extra bodies to help us. Sorting through this lot is going to take us days.”

Liam shook his head. “Sorry boss, McLean’s just phoned through. Someone got to the house before us. They cleaned the place out.”

Craig shook his head angrily. “Damn! If there were files in the house they could have Hannah’s I.D in them. We can’t take a chance with her safety. Get a protection detail over to her house now, Liam.”

“She’ll not like that. She mightn’t have told her family about her nocturnal activities.”

“Fudge it with a ‘material witness to a crime’ cover. I’ll call her and warn her they’re coming.” He stared at Liam grimly. “I think they’re cleaning up. And if they are, they’ll want Hannah out of the way for good.”

Chapter Fourteen

Wednesday 12th June 9am

Hannah woke up slowly and scanned the room, bewildered by her surroundings. Instead of her own warm bedroom, she was in an unfamiliar place with dull beige curtains and a paisley rug on the floor. She went to cry out but her voice was stilled by the sight of a smiling woman beside the bed. She had long red curls and a pale prettiness that made her look like an alabaster doll. It was an illusion shattered quickly when she smiled, spreading a host of unexpected freckles across her small, fine nose. It elevated her cool prettiness to a cherubic beauty.

For a moment Hannah thought she’d died and gone to a better place, until Julia’s high Anglo-Irish lilt broke through the air. Then she remembered. She was under police protection. And they’d thought it was safer for her family if it happened away from home.

“Morning, Hannah. How are you feeling?”

Hannah struggled to sit up but tiredness made her slump back again. She wasn’t sure why she was so tired, but the three-hour shouting session with her mother yesterday probably hadn’t helped. She’d been relieved when they’d told her the armed protection would take place away from home. It would save her more earache.

A quick flash of guilt told her she was being bitchy and that it was her that had caused all of this. She’d brought a real risk of harm to her family’s door. She should be grateful they hadn’t disowned her, and that the police cared enough to make sure she was safe.

Julia watched the thoughts running quickly through the girl’s mind, her expression changing as each new penny dropped. She’d been glad when Marc had asked her to help. She was lonely with him working day and night, even with Natalie’s occasional company. And there was only so much shopping that a girl could do.

She walked over to the bed, handing Hannah a cup of hot tea and glanced at the end of the bed for permission to sit. Hannah waved her on lethargically. Julia chatted about neutral things, not sure how she would feel in such circumstances. It was hard enough being in danger when you were an innocent victim or a witness, but Hannah’s situation was tinged with ambiguity. Julia knew she was blaming herself for putting her family at risk. But to deny that she had done so would be a lie.

She smiled kindly at the girl. Her make-up free face looked young and innocent but that innocence had nearly been the death of her. And Julia knew that whatever Hannah did in the future, she would forever thank her lucky stars that she’d recognised the man in Marrion Park. Hopefully they’d catch the bastards, then other girls in the future would thank them too.

***

10am

Craig pulled-up a chair out on the open-plan floor and beckoned Liam and Davy to join him. Nicky lifted her notepad from the desk and pulled up a chair beside him, then glanced around her. The floor felt empty without Annette here.

“Sir, when does Annette get back? Her exam was yesterday wasn’t it?”

Craig replied without lifting his head from his file. Not from rudeness, but because Nicky saw everything and she would read the truth in his eyes.

“I told her to take the rest of the week, Nick. She hasn’t had a holiday in months and we can cope.” He lifted his eyes, scanning their faces, then said wryly. “Two murders in a week is nothing to us, is it?”

Liam guffawed and the rest laughed with him, breaking the awkwardness. Nicky knew Craig hadn’t answered her real question but she left it for another day. He was still talking.

“Besides, we have Inspector McNulty kindly helping out with Hannah Benner, and Karen helping Davy.” He turned to Davy quickly. “Actually Davy, it mightn’t be a bad idea if Karen joined us on alternate briefings. Would that be OK with you?”

Davy nodded regally, unthreatened by the idea of another analyst. It would have been a different reaction last year when he was new and shy, but he’d proved himself repeatedly now. He was sure of his place in the team so he could afford to be generous.

“Karen’s not in today, s…sir. But I’ll get her here tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I’ve also asked for Sergeant McLean to be seconded to us for the remainder of the case, to cover for Annette. Liam, he’ll report to you if that’s OK?”

Liam puffed out his chest and nodded. Nicky smiled to herself knowing that Craig was easing the team’s transition to him becoming superintendent, and Annette taking Inspector rank. The realisation hit her that they would need more junior staff to work under two Inspectors. Perhaps Jake McLean would be permanent? If not him then some other sergeant would.

“OK, let’s start. First, I’ll update you on yesterday’s interview with Sylvia Bryce. I’ll come back to Dr Morgan’s interview at the end. Then Liam, can you cover the searches? Davy, update us on Paul Ripley and the houses’ ownership. And if you’ve had a chance to look at the records we got from the search that would be great as well. I’ll wind up with Morgan and Hannah Benner’s status.” He took a deep drink of black coffee before starting.

“OK. Sylvia Bryce is a Madam. She started her career in the early 2000s in Ballymena, running small groups of girls out of back-street locations. She was lifted plenty of times on suspicion but unfortunately no charges stuck. Then, in 2010, she mysteriously ups-sticks and moves to a large house off the Malone Road – in Marrion Park. She also has an office in Cornmarket; carpets, coffee-machine, the works. When she was questioned about where the money came from she implied that an old friend had left her something in their will.”

Nicky snorted and pursed her lips disapprovingly. Some people would do anything for money.

Davy leaned forward. “Her address is Marrion Park?” He was new to the information. “But that’s w…where Ripley was found!”

Craig nodded. “You’re right, Davy. Just next door in fact. Sylvia Bryce lives in number 42 and Paul Ripley’s body was found at number 40. Number 40 was also the address where Hannah Benner was told to meet her customer. And where she saw Tim Morgan driving in. Hannah Benner was also one of our murder victim Britt Ackerman’s best friends.”

“Not coincidence, boss.”

“I agree. But we’ll need watertight proof to tie our two murders together, and to link them to Bryce and her circle.”

“Evil bastards.”

Craig turned quickly towards the words, surprised at them coming from Nicky’s mouth. She and Annette rarely swore, but where children or women were involved they’d make an exception. He smiled at her and she blushed.

“Bryce is denying everything of course. I’ll come back to her at the end, but that’s the context of the searches. We had warrants for her home and office, but unfortunately someone got to her home first. We believe they took Hannah Benner’s photograph and intend to silence her. That’s why we have her in protective custody.” He nodded towards Liam, handing over.

“Right, well. The search of the office was good. And bad. The good bit was that we found lots of records; girl’s names, ages, addresses, next-of-kin. Or rather, no next-of-kin in most cases.”

Nicky glanced up from her shorthand. “No next-of-kin? But surely they were all young? Wouldn’t most of their parents still have been alive?”

Liam nodded. “Aye, they were all between eighteen and twenty-five, so that’s what you’d expect, right enough.”

He continued. “Aye, well, as I said, there were lots of girl’s records. We’re going to start looking for them today and let’s just pray that they’re all living happy lives somewhere. The bad bit is that the records go back to 2007, so this was going on long before Bryce moved to Belfast. I’ll contact Ballymena and see what they have on her.”

“Sergeant McLean can help you there, Liam. He’s done a bit of digging into her past already.”

“Great, all help gratefully received. Anyway, Bryce’s house was broken into and we think that nothing was taken except paperwork. The place was clean and tidy, except for a wrecked filing cabinet in an upstairs bedroom, so whoever did it knew what they were looking for. C.S.I. did their best, but I doubt that we’ll get a print. This was a professional job and I’m betting they won’t have left a trace.”

Liam took a quick swig of his tea and made a face, then shot Nicky a pleading look. She raised her eyebrow and went to fill the kettle.

“Now, the lovely Sylvia Bryce, or Josie Rocks as she once was. It doesn’t have quite the same ring, now does it?” He laughed and they all laughed with him. “Our Sylvia was attacked at her house on Monday, by a man who she says she doesn’t know.” He snorted derisively. “She did a sketch with the artist at Stranmillis that looked more like someone from Dallas than anyone real. When we questioned her on it she clammed up. That could be bravado or fear, but given what they did to Britt Ackerman my money’s on fear.”

Craig nodded.

“The boss engineered a little encounter between her and Dr Morgan in High Street’s reception. That showed that she definitely knew him and he scared the bejeesus out of her. She denied everything, of course, but we caught it on tape and the boss will show you that in a minute. My view is that she’s in with a bad crowd. I think she’s been procuring for them for years. And now that things have gone wrong with Britt Ackerman they’re cleaning house. She’s dangerous to them, so they want to shut her up for good.”

He sat back with a smug look indicating that he’d finished. Craig turned to Davy.

“Davy?”

Davy was deep in thought, picking at his nail varnish. He jumped when Craig said his name, knocking over his dead coffee cup and blushing furiously. Thankfully the cup was empty. Liam took the break as a chance to brew a fresh pot of tea, and after a minute they settled again. Craig waved Davy on just as his blush was subsiding.

“Paul Ripley w…was very high-up in the church. I mean, right hand of God high-up. The only one above him was a Dr Henry and he’s about ninety.”

Craig rubbed his face. “How does someone so young get to the top of the church? He was only in his forties.”

“That’s what I thought, s…so I did a bit more digging. It turns out that Mr Ripley was actually Earl Ripley. His family have a s…stately home just outside Birmingham. From my research I think he was the family black s…sheep.”

Craig’s eyes widened suddenly, realising that they had two bodies and no relatives had identified them yet. In his urgency to stop more killings he’d completely forgotten the next-of–kin. Nicky saw his look and patted his arm reassuringly.

“Don’t worry sir. I knew Annette normally chased the relatives for you, so I did it instead. Britt Ackerman’s father is coming in today to do the formal I.D. and I got in touch with the Ripley’s as soon as Davy told me their name. One of them is flying over from Birmingham tomorrow.”

Craig exhaled noisily and smiled at her, making a mental note to organise some flowers for her desk. They really needed more staff. Annette’s time off was showing just how much extra work she’d been doing.

Davy restarted. “OK, Paul Ripley. It was the driving under the influence charge in Dublin that first identified him, but I did a bit more digging. He w…was also lifted for kerb-crawling in 2001. And again in 2005, in a police prostitution sting. Both times were in Ballymena, and doing a cross-check, both of the prostitutes were run by, guess w…who?”

“Sylvia Bryce.”

“Correct. And in 2008 Paul Ripley gave Bryce a character reference when she was accused of running a brothel. The charge was dismissed.”

Paul Ripley knew Sylvia Bryce, and so did Tim Morgan. And Morgan was seen entering the house where Ripley was killed. Davy’s next words vocalised Craig’s thoughts.

“We’ve hit a dead end on the house w…where you found Ripley - the dummy company front is holding up. But the forensic accountants are on it now, so hopefully they can get behind that. The good news is that Mrs Bryce’s house is owned by the s…same company. That’s another connection between them. And w…when we find out who owns the company that might implicate others.”

“That’s brilliant work Davy, well done. Say thanks to Karen for her help when you see her.”

Craig shot him a wary look, knowing they’d only got the files from Bryce’s office the day before. And that they were all working too hard already. But he still hoped Davy had managed to find something on them, so he asked the question tentatively.

“Anything on the office files yet?”

Davy’s pale face took on a sudden darkness and Nicky was sitting close enough to see a tear flash into his eye. His shoulders drooped, giving him a funereal air, instead of his usual Emo cool. He nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”

A chill permeated the small group. Craig’s sense of dread grew, but it still underestimated the facts. What came next horrified them all.

“We had over a hundred girls’ names, so I started running them in batches. I ran the first ten through the database and they all came back as missing persons. Still. One since 2007. I ran the next ten and it was the s…same, except…”

He hesitated and Nicky could see perspiration forming on his smooth forehead. He looked like a child with a fever. She understood why after his next words.

“Except two of that group w…were found. Both dead. Their bodies were left at different locations near Belfast, in May and September 2010. The cases were never solved. I’m running the third group now.”

Liam’s mug stopped mid-air, its journey to his mouth no longer seeming important. Craig’s face paled as he realised the implications. There could be dozens more girls dead. He shocked them all by smashing his palm down hard on the desk. “Damn.”

The word echoed around the vast floor, stilling people at their distant work stations and turning all eyes towards the small group. Craig rose without a word and entered his small glass office. They all followed and there Davy detailed how Britt Ackerman’s murder was only the tip of the iceberg. The men they were dealing with were worse than criminal; they defied description.

***

“I need more staff, sir.” Craig was leaning forward on Terry Harrison’s desk, staring at him intently. “This case is going to blow wide open soon and we need to be on top of it.”

Harrison stared up at the man who was taking his job in a month’s time, unsure whether he wanted to help him break a case that might make his career. But then…he was still Craig’s line manager for a few weeks, so he could control the direction that he took.

He did the calculation in his head and Craig saw him doing it, disgusted that he could hesitate, even for a minute. Even more disgusted that he was agreeing based on self-interest, rather than any sense of right and wrong. He bit back the urge to tell him where to stuff his extra staff, but the missing girls were worth any pride that he had.

Harrison slicked back his hair with a manicured hand and stood up, bringing his nose level with Craig’s chin. He saw the disparity and quickly nodded Craig to sit, redressing the imbalance.

“You know you’ll only have them for the duration of the case?” If his calculations were correct it wouldn’t last out the month.

“Yes.” Craig couldn’t bring himself to squeeze out a ‘sir’.

Harrison noticed the omission but ignored it. He would take his revenge in the future. “How many staff do you need?”

“I need full time use of Karen Atherton, one of the Unit’s analysts. D.I. McNulty from Limavady, Sergeant Jake McLean from Stranmillis, and two other sergeants; one uniform and one detective. That should be enough.”

“McNulty? Aren’t you and she in a relationship?”

Craig glared at him defiantly. It was irrelevant, she was already here and she was good.

“With all due respect sir, that isn’t pertinent to the case. She’s already here on a few days leave and she stepped in to help us protect Hannah Benner.”

Harrison’s face reddened and Craig thought he was going to burst a vessel.

“Don’t you tell me what’s pertinent, Craig! I’ll decide that. You can keep her until Sergeant McElroy gets back, or should I say Inspector McElroy. She’s passed her board so you can call her and congratulate her now. But as soon as she’s back, D.I. McNulty goes straight back to Limavady. I’ll be there full-time soon and I’ll need her.”

Craig could feel his hand twitch as the urge to grab Harrison by the throat grew. He pushed it down hard, focusing on the case. But he knew right then that the man in front of him would never give Julia a transfer. They would have some difficult choices to make soon. He frowned and nodded, turning to leave the room.

“Did I say that that you could leave?”

Craig stopped in his tracks and turned, a look of open contempt on his face. Harrison smirked and kept on talking.

“No, I didn’t think so. I’ll put in for the additional staff, but the G8 summit starts in Fermanagh on Monday so deployments will be subject to approval by the new Assistant Chief Constable. In the meantime, second Sergeant McLean and D.I. McNulty, and borrow the analyst. If they aren’t approved they’ll all have to go back, so make the most of them over the next few days.”

Harrison turned his back abruptly and walked to the window, dismissing him. Craig didn’t give a damn about his giant ego. He was a little man with too much power and they had much bigger fish to worry about.

Chapter Fifteen

Wharf House Remand Centre.

Sylvia Bryce peered through the window of the small laundry room, catching a glimpse of cloud as it drifted across the sun. She turned back to the dryer she was unloading and frowned as she broke a nail. If they convicted her, this would be her life for twenty years. She’d be seventy-something when she got out.

She shuddered at the thought of decades of bad hairstyles and poor conversation. She’d miss shopping in Victoria Square most of all. Her office was close enough to lunch at Ivory every day, then wander through the House of Fraser to buy some small trinket.

Anger rose up in her, and she threw the sheet she was folding in a heap on the floor. God knows she wasn’t perfect, and most people would think she deserved whatever she got. But she’d come from nothing, and no-one knew what that meant unless they’d lived through it. She’d only given men what they wanted. It was business, pure and simple. It wasn’t as if they kidnapped the girls off the street! They’d all phoned her office of their own volition. Their choice only got limited once they’d made the deal.

She shook her head hard, trying to erase the girls’ faces from her mind. But it didn’t work. It hadn’t worked since they’d hinted that they’d sold them, ten months before. A lot had fallen into place then. Why they’d wanted girls with no families, why the girls never came back to her looking for more work. She’d always assumed that they’d decided to stop and that the ‘no families’ rule was some sexual quirk - ‘poor little orphan girl’. Just like the virginity clause. It had never occurred to her…

Or had it? She’d racked her brains when they’d told her. Looking back at the times they’d called and asked her to find them a blonde, or brunette. A tall girl, an Asian girl, a size eight, size twelve, freckles, whatever…

But no, she honestly hadn’t thought it strange. No stranger than the foibles of the men she’d known when she was on the game. Dress up as my teacher, my mother, the traffic warden. Make me clean your kitchen with a toothbrush. Beat me, whip me, but don’t wreck my hair. Men were just strange in her book, so the virginity and orphan requests didn’t seem any more abnormal than the ones she’d obliged many times over the years. It had honestly never occurred to her. Back then.

When they’d told her about the selling she’d refused to do it anymore. But the beatings they inflicted on her each day for a week, convinced her that they’d kill her if she tried to stop. She fingered her stomach gingerly, the raised scars always there to remind her to obey.

Bile rose in her throat as she touched the raised wealds. More followed at the thought of what Morgan had told her, joined by tears rushing wholesale to her eyes. A lot had fallen into place since her fight with him.

The lucky ones had been sold but the others were dead, immortalised in snuff videos. Faces flashed in front of her eyes. Young, pretty faces, full of life. Full of their futures. Dead now, because they’d met her.

She turned hastily towards the sink and retched, throwing up her breakfast in guilt. Then she sank to the floor and rested her back against a cool, steel machine, thinking hard.

They would kill her now anyway. She had no doubt about that. They had contacts everywhere. The real question now was, was she safer inside prison or out?

***

1pm

Craig sprinted from the car-park to meet John in the morgue, where Britt Ackerman was waiting for her father to come and claim her. As he entered, John was flicking through some files. He turned sharply at the sound of Craig’s footsteps, his grim expression showing that he’d heard Davy’s findings.

He started talking immediately. “This is evil, Marc. There’s no other word for it. They could have killed hundreds of girls. Hundreds.”

Craig nodded and John could tell from his clenched jaw that he was on a very short fuse. “And that bastard Harrison has just weighed up whether to give me more staff, on the basis of how it might affect him.”

The dam that had been restraining Craig’s temper for days gave way, and he slammed his fist hard against the wooden bench, splitting the skin. Blood dripped down the side of the table and formed a puddle on the floor. He watched it grow in silence, as John watched his expression range from loathing Harrison to blaming himself, and back again.

After a minute John reached for a sterile pack and sat Craig down, dressing his hand in silence, his anger acting as anaesthetic. The ritual calmed them both and when it finished Craig smiled thinly and nodded, acknowledging his Latin temper had had its moment. It was time to move on.

He spoke quietly, sounding almost Italian, his mixed accent always more obvious when he was emotional. “We started with two murders and there could be scores by the time we’ve finished.”

John dropped his gloves into the bin. “Better that you find them than the deaths remain unsolved.”

He led the way to his office and made them both coffee, then chewed on the end of his pen for a moment before speaking. “You can’t think about the girls in the office files, Marc.”

Craig leaned forward to interject but he stilled him with a hand. “No, hear me out. If you let yourself think of all of them then you’ll lose your focus. And focus is all you have to nail these bastards.”

“But why wasn’t this picked up years ago, John? From the dates of the girls’ disappearances it’s been going on since 2007.” He shook his head. “They just didn’t look hard enough. It’s a real cluster-fuck.”

“Forget about who did and didn’t do their jobs. That can be sorted out later. You have to solve Britt Ackerman’s and Paul Ripley’s murders and protect Hannah Benner. That’s your priority. If you do that, you’ll get the evidence to solve the other cases. I’m sure of it. But if you don’t solve their murders then your follow-on evidence will be useless, and these bastards won’t get convicted. Remember. K.I.S.S.”

K.I.S.S. Not a suggestion but an acronym. Keep It Simple Stupid. Something that Craig had been in danger of forgetting. He nodded, grateful for the reminder. If he didn’t work Ripley’s and Ackerman’s deaths properly then they wouldn’t convict anyone. And he’d take a bet that their killers had enough money to buy the best barristers in the U.K. He shrugged off his anger and felt clarity taking its place. What did they have?

Britt Ackerman, the twenty-year-old daughter of the Swedish Ambassador, had gone to Bryce’s agency looking for some quick money. Or some freedom. She lied to fulfil the requirement of having no relatives. A requirement that could only be explained by them wanting girls that they could do anything to. Even ‘disappear’ without their families coming looking.

By the time the men had found out that Britt had lied and had a living father, she knew too much and they had to kill her. And why not take their pleasure while doing it? It had been too late for Britt Ackerman the minute she’d gone to the rendezvous Sylvia Bryce had arranged.

Paul Ripley was found dead in a mocked-up suicide at 40 Marrion Park, the house next door to Sylvia Bryce’s. He was killed by someone who knew him, but not well enough to notice or care that he wrote with his left hand, not his right. Obscenely wealthy and a senior churchman, he would have had access to church skeleton keys. Those keys would have opened the doors to the church in LeRoy Street where Britt Ackerman was left dead.

He knew Bryce well enough to have used her prostitutes in Ballymena, and to give her a good enough character reference in 2008 to keep her out of court. But Paul Ripley became dispensable the day after Britt Ackerman was found. Dispensable to whom?

Tim Morgan, doctor and liar. He was a man who claimed to know nothing, but had been identified by Hannah Benner as the man who’d entered 40 Marrion Park on Sunday evening. In time for Paul Ripley to be killed there. She’d recognised Morgan because he’d tutored her the year before as part of her medical studies. Sylvia Bryce had physically recoiled from Morgan as if he was going to hit her, when she’d seen him in High Street. He was the man who’d previously tried to strangle her, Craig was sure of it.

Craig sat listening to the lab’s perpetual background music and thinking, while John refilled both their cups. He reached for his mobile and pressed Liam’s number. It was answered on the first ring and he cut directly to the chase. He’d apologise for his curtness later, if Liam had even noticed.

“Tell Davy to get on to forensic storage at St Marys ASAP– I need confirmation on who accessed Hill’s and McCrae’s blood. If the blood’s still there, get it over to Des for safe keeping. And chase the force intranet for who viewed the files for the Stephen Barron case. I need the names of anyone outside our immediate team who’s even glanced at those files since April. That’s how they got Hill’s and McCrae’s names.”

He listened for a moment while Liam updated him on Sylvia Bryce’s hearing later that afternoon, and the fact that her solicitor wanted a chat before they went into court. Craig cut off with a quick, “good” and turned quickly back to John.

“You were right, John. I was chasing too many things and losing my focus.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, I came here an hour ago because you had something to tell me. Sorry, you haven’t even got a word in.”

He lifted his coffee, signalling John to start. He reached behind him and lifted a file, opening it to reveal five sheets of paper. Then he tapped the computer and a map appeared on the screen. He spread four of the sheets in front of Craig. Each bore the heading of a psychological profile.

“OK. These are the victim and perpetrator profiles for each of your two victims; Britt Ackerman and Paul Ripley.”

“What’s on the other page?”

John stared at him over his glasses and tutted exaggeratedly. “Patience, patience, Master Craig, as Mr Pogue used to say.” Craig laughed at his perfect imitation of their third year maths teacher, conceding that he wanted everything yesterday.

“OK, your work has already overtaken some of this but there are still a few new things of interest. I have to say that Emily’s been right on the money with both of them, given that she didn’t have any I.D.s at the time. First, Britt Ackerman. Wealthy, indulged child. Either an only daughter or only child, and definitely a younger sibling if there are any others. Travelled extensively, and constantly having to fit in at new schools and with new friends. It made her a people pleaser, unlikely to stand up for herself. Essentially the perfect victim. More secure in places that she knew and unlikely to stray far from them. So it makes sense that wherever she went to meet the man was within two square miles of the place she lived. Wellesley Avenue to Marrion Park is only half a mile.” He stopped to take a sip of coffee and let Craig ask questions, but Craig stayed silent.

“In the perpetrator profile we have a man with access to the church and familiar with the layout of a church and its grounds. That fits Paul Ripley. This was also someone who has sadistic tendencies, from the repeated strangulation and number of non–fatal stab wounds on Britt’s body before death. It had to be someone with a wide enough knowledge of religions to know that Sakin knives are used for kosher food and would cause offence to Jews if used in a murder. And that a pentagram is a symbol of Neopaganism, and would offend them. Pretty much everyone in Ireland knows that desecrating an altar with a dead body would cause offence in a Christian church of any denomination. And the marks of the crucifixion.

The display and abuse was overkill, and overall, there’s an element of frenzy. So I think that he didn’t expect to have to kill her. I think that for some reason he had to do it, perhaps because he realised that she had family who would come looking? But I believe that Ripley actually doing the killing was unexpected. He was clumsy at it and that’s why he botched the kill and disposal. That implies that someone else normally kills the girls. The fact that there was so much bruising on her genitalia indicates more than one rapist, I’m sure he was one of them, but I don’t think Ripley was comfortable with the kill.”

He sipped at his coffee as Craig gazed at the sheets in front of him.

“OK. The other man or men involved in Britt’s killing included someone who had access to Hill’s and McCrae’s D.N.A. The samples we hold are still sealed, so that only leaves St Marys lab samples. Hopefully Davy will throw some light on that later. Either they accessed it themselves, or they paid someone else to do so, and I doubt if these men want third parties involved in their business. I think that we’ll find that one of them accessed the samples directly, probably Tim Morgan. It wouldn’t be hard for a doctor to get into a hospital lab.

The killers were likely to be familiar with the place in which they killed Britt Ackerman and live in the same locality. Individuals kill and dispose to bodies close to home. Large groups of people murder in a different way.”

Craig interjected. “Paul Ripley lives on the Lisburn Road and Tim Morgan lives on Upper Malone, up near the Mary Peters’ track.”

John nodded. “That fits for both of them. I don’t think either Ripley or Morgan were skilled killers, I think it happened in a hurry when they realised she had a father who would come looking.” A look of disgust soured his face. “But they both took full advantage of her before, or even after she died.”

He paused for a moment. “That brings me to Paul Ripley’s death. This was a straight forward fake suicide. But they botched it. They thought he was right-handed instead of left. My best guess is that they chose the house to do it in because it was the place they used to meet the girls and had easy access from both their homes. That’s why Hannah was told to go there as well, close to a student area. Although it was careless to kill Ripley the same night she was due to visit. Again, someone botched things up.”

He paused and lifted the phone. “Des, do you have the forensics on 40 Marrion Park yet? Yes? Could you bring them up? Marc’s here.”

He dropped the receiver and turned back to his sheets. “Emily believes that the person that killed Paul Ripley was a man. Fair enough. Although he had enough medication in him to fell Finn McCool, so I suppose a strong woman could have done it.” He looked at Craig keenly. “Is Sylvia Bryce big?”

Craig shook his head. “No. Five–three and thin. She couldn’t knock over a teenage boy.”

John shrugged. “Far more likely to be a man anyway, from the violent method of killing. Emily’s profiled that if Ripley killed Britt Ackerman, then it was his accomplice in her murder that killed him.”

Craig nodded. Morgan had disposed of Britt Ackerman with Paul Ripley, and then killed him a few days later. But even if Ripley found out Britt had a father how did he get up the nerve to kill her? He wasn’t their usual assassin. John answered the thought as if he’d heard it.

“Because he was ordered to kill her by someone else, Marc. And he was scared of them, rightly as it turned out. Ripley wouldn’t have made the decision to kill Britt by himself. I don’t think it was Morgan either. Whoever was waiting for her to be delivered made it. Ripley and Morgan are part of the food chain but my bet is that they’re not at the top of it, no matter how wealthy they are.”

He considered for a moment. “I think whoever ordered her death is a man so used to killing that it’s his default solution. Perhaps he’s military.” He looked at Craig cautiously. “Or even police.”

Craig startled at the word ‘police’ and then nodded. He’d met good and bad men in the force, and the bad ones could be really evil. It would explain a lot. The lack of prosecutions over the years, the poor investigation of the missing girls, and the accessing of the case records involving Tommy Hill’s D.N.A. If someone high up in the force was involved it would answer a lot of questions.

“Ripley and Morgan, ordered by someone senior?”

“Yes. Morgan’s obviously capable of killing, judging by the attack on Sylvia Bryce. And it would make sense that he could access the D.N.A. at St Marys. But I still think he acts on orders.”

“Who told him which D.N.A. to access?”

“You already know the answer to that. That’s why you asked Liam to check the police intranet.”

Craig stared at the ground grimly. “It could still be someone in the prison system.”

John gave a hollow laugh. “Come off it, Marc. You know that won’t wash. That would only have given them McCrae’s D.N.A. Whoever did this knew to get Tommy Hill’s as well, so that means they looked at the case file, not just the individuals. I know you don’t want to believe it, and neither do I, but all the signs point to this being someone in the police.”

He stared at Craig intensely. “We both know that no-one below Inspector could have accessed those records without clearance from higher up. And only someone close to the case would even have known to look. They’d have to be pretty senior to have the respect of men with wealth and status like Ripley and Morgan. This is someone in high up in the C.C.U. command structure”

“Or the judiciary.”

John smiled at his friend’s unwillingness to accept the inevitable. “They wouldn’t have the password to access the files.”

They sat in tense silence until Des Marsham the Head of Forensic Science broke it by entering. He greeted them both cheerfully, completely missing the atmosphere, and waved a sheet of paper in the air, giving both of them their own copy.

They read as he talked, running through the confirmation that Paul Ripley’s suicide was a mock-up. The gunshot residue on his hand confirmed the shot had been fired with his right hand. But the quantity was small, meaning that most of the G.S.R. was probably somewhere else, on a pair of latex gloves.

Ripley’s blood was positive for Rohypnol and Ketamine, both delivered orally. There were no signs of a struggle, meaning that he’d most likely taken a drink with his killer. A drink laced with roofies and Ket.

Craig nodded. It confirmed what they already knew and it would stand up in court.

“Thanks Des, that’s great. It will make our case for us.”

Des smiled broadly. His beard was so thick that it curled up as he smiled, completely hiding his lips. It looked as if he had hairy teeth.

“That’s not all Marc. Don’t forget the other forensics from the house.”

Craig fixed on him excitedly, knowing he wouldn’t have mentioned it if it wasn’t good news. “What did you find?”

“A lot.” Des pulled a chair in from the hall, and sat down. Then he gazed pointedly at the coffee machine, until John remembered his manners and jumped up, drawing an Americano from its nozzle.

“We have D.N.A. from several women and men in the house, indicating that it was well-frequented, despite the pristine décor. Just on the décor - the carpets in the bedroom Ripley died in had been replaced recently. Very recently, judging by the tackiness of the glue. I’d say less than a day before you found him.”

Sometime between Britt Ackerman’s death and his.

“But we managed to find blood and hair in the underlay anyway. They’d had a good go at cleaning up but there were minuscule traces that they’d missed. There was more blood in the drain of the upstairs shower.”

Craig and John exchanged a glance, willing it to belong to Britt Ackerman.

“I know what you’re thinking and yes, some of the blood in the drain belongs to Britt Ackerman. We’ve matched the blood in the underlay to her as well. Both of your victims died at 40 Marrion Park.”

Craig’s voice was insistent. “You said there was D.N.A. from several women and men at the house?”

Des nodded, waving his coffee cool with his page. “There was. Not all of it was from blood…” He paused for a second. “There’s blood D.N.A. from four other females in the drain. And we found other female D.N.A. in skin cells.”

He sipped at his drink. “We found a few prints as well. We’re running them through the database now.”

“Can you get them over to Davy, Des? We have some other cases to match them to.”

Des was about to ask but a look from John told him he’d explain later.

“OK. The men’s D.N.A. was from skin cells and a few hairs, but mostly semen. There were a lot of people through that house.”

Yes! Craig almost punched the air. “Can you check those for a match with Ripley?”

The more hard evidence they had the better. He wondered if they had grounds yet for D.N.A. warrants on Bryce and Morgan. If they could prove that Sylvia Bryce had been in number 40, it would tighten her links with the men, not only to procuring but to knowing about the whole sordid mess next door.

“Des, that’s brilliant. How soon can you isolate the D.N.As for me?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Great.”

Just then Craig’s mobile rang, it was Liam back again. He excused himself to answer it outside, leaving Des and John to get excited over D.N.A.’s double Helix, in the way only true scientists could.

“What have you got for me, Liam?”

“You were right about St Marys, boss. Morgan accessed the bloods last Friday. I’ve got a warrant to lift him and McLean’s out there looking now.”

“That’s great news, so what’s the doom and gloom voice for?”

“It’s the intranet. You’re not going to like it.”

Craig braced himself for Liam having hit a dead-end. “Go on.”

But he was wrong. It was as far from a dead-end as it was possible to get. And it left Craig with the biggest headache he’d ever encountered in his career.

He snapped the phone shut and stood in the hallway for a moment, thinking. When he re-entered the room Des and John were telling mad scientist jokes, completely missing the irony.

“I need to go. Sorry.”

John pointed to the computer. “Five minutes.”

Craig nodded. Career suicide could wait for at least five minutes. He slumped down in his seat and they stared at him, knowing that something was wrong.

“What did Liam have to say?”

“Oh, nothing really.”

“It was definitely something. So what?”

“Good news on the forensic samples at St Marys, Morgan accessed them on Friday. Liam’s got a warrant and they’re out looking for him now.”

“So what was the bad news?”

Craig’s eyes told them that either he wasn’t ready to say, or he couldn’t. John moved back to the computer, waking the screen to display the map that Craig had seen earlier. It covered Belfast and the surrounding countryside for thirty miles.

He’s placed two markers in Belfast, showing the scenes of their murders, and house logos, indicating Morgan’s, Ripley’s and Britt Ackerman’s homes. Everything was within two miles, fulfilling the ‘kill close to home’ rule of most cases.

The thirty mile boundary was marked in blue and ran uniformly around Belfast, as far as Dungannon in the west, Cullybackey in the north and Newry in the south. The eastern boundary was the Irish Sea.

Craig stared at it curiously. “What’s the blue zone John?”

“The perimeter is thirty miles. Statistically it marks the furthest that a group with members in Belfast are likely to have their headquarters outside Belfast.”

“But why go outside Belfast at all, when at least two of them live here?”

“Where you have one or two killers they’ll stay close to home, but the bigger the group the more vulnerable it is to detection. Each member is a potential weak link. So they need somewhere to congregate and kill that has no direct association with most of the members. A headquarters. I say most, because people automatically gravitate to what they know, even when they don’t mean to. The law of averages says that someone in the group will have a link to the area that they’ve chosen for their headquarters, no matter how hard they tried not to.”

“So one of our killers chose it because it’s an area that they know well?”

“Yes, but it also has to be within easy reach of Belfast, because most people live and work here. Otherwise every trip would be too long, and long absences would arouse suspicion in their normal lives. Thirty miles would take an hour maximum. Two hours there and back. Most men can hide that in their day occasionally.”

Craig considered the screen carefully. “The headquarters could be anywhere in that zone John. And if there are other members than Ripley and Morgan, we’ve no way of knowing which areas they’re familiar with.” He thought for a moment and then added. “Except…”

John saw where Craig’s eyes were focused. Then he made the connection himself.

“Ballymena. You’re thinking of somewhere near Ballymena.”

Des looked puzzled, wondering what they were talking about. Craig enlightened him.

“Paul Ripley met Sylvia Bryce in Ballymena. She started her business there and only moved it to Belfast in 2010. We found girls’ files in her office going back to 2007, when she was still living up there. Many of those girls are missing. If they established the headquarters around 2007 then it would make sense for it to have been near Ballymena. When they moved the business to Belfast in 2010 it would still be within thirty miles of Belfast, so why bother moving it?”

“Maybe they didn’t move the headquarters, just the business.”

“What?”

“Well, if the headquarters worked so well in Ballymena for years and they’d managed to stay undetected, why risk moving it? Agreed?”

Craig nodded him on.

“But they decided to move the core business to Belfast in 2010, so what would have made them do that?”

Craig stilled, thinking. Then he found the answer. “Because someone high-up in the food-chain had to move to Belfast, probably for work. That’s brilliant John. It’s another clue.”

He stood up, readying to go and John thrust the final sheet into his hand to read later. “What is it?”

“A forensic autopsy on Britt Ackerman and Paul Ripley, Des and I worked on it together. It might give you a bit more information.” He smiled as much as their meeting’s subject matter allowed. “Good luck with that other thing, whatever it is.”

Craig nodded. “It’ll have to wait. Bryce’s hearing’s in forty minutes. And we still have Tim Morgan to lift.”

He closed his eyes for a second in realisation. He’d known that Annette had made inspector for nearly four hours and he hadn’t called her yet. That had to be number one on the list. He smiled at John, grateful for his kick-up-the-ass session.

An hour ago he’d been an unfocused mess, now he was close to solving two murders.

Chapter Sixteen

“It’s really boring here. Can’t we go shopping or something?”

Julia glanced up from her magazine and stared across the room at Hannah, stunned by her belief in her own invincibility. Youth. She bit back her urge to say ‘grow up’ and put down the magazine, walking over to her with a kind expression on her face. She’d had a lot to deal with in the past few days and shouting at her wouldn’t help. Her mother had already done that for hours by the sounds of it. When she’d collected Hannah for protective custody she’d practically jumped into the car.

Julia sat on the edge of the bed and smiled at the younger woman. She had a pale prettiness. Her eyes were soft and blue and her long wavy hair was a tawny blonde. Her hands were tiny, smooth and white like a child’s. The oversized ring she wore emphasised their fragility. Anger welled up in her at the image of old men groping her, even if she had volunteered for their touch. That had been before she’d known what they were capable of.

Hannah read her thoughts and tears filled her eyes. They teetered unbidden across their boundaries, rolling down her cheeks until they reached her chin, and then dropped softly onto her shirt. She threw herself into Julia’s arms desperately, underlining her youth, and cried for a long time.

She cried for her dead friend, and for herself, about the room they were sitting in and the innocence that she’d lost. But most of all she was crying for her father, whom she mourned and needed now, very much.

***

2.40pm. Laganside Court.

Craig stood by the door of the brightly lit anteroom with his arms folded, staring contemptuously at the fifty-something woman at the table. She looked nothing like a prostitute, if literary stereotypes were anything to go by. There was nothing of the Miss Whiplash or ‘Hollywood Madam’ about her, with her neat brown hair and understated jewellery. There was no low-cut top or hint of leopard-skin, not even a stiletto heel to add a hint of raciness. She could have been someone’s mother. Maybe she even was, although Craig doubted very much that they’d know what their mum did for a living. She couldn’t have had daughters or she’d never have been able to do what she did.

She stared up at him with dull eyes that had seen too much of life, especially its shadowy side. But that was her choice. She’d chosen to live in the dirt and he had little sympathy for her.

Her rotund solicitor walked towards him with an extended hand. Craig stilled his advance with a look. There was something grubby about the man and it wasn’t just his client. They’d chosen each other in some dark symbiosis and wondered if he’d been one of her clients too. Quid Pro Quo.

The man dropped his hand awkwardly and spoke in a reedy voice, its weakness unexpected from his chubby frame. “Mr Craig.” His accent was hard to place, a vague southern lilt mixing with some harder northern tones. From where? A few more words gave Craig the answer; Ballymena. It all seemed to return to there.

“My client would like to speak frankly. Off-the-record, as it were.”

Craig shook his head once. There was no off-the-record in murder, and there were definitely no deals. The best she could hope for was that her information would be considered in sentencing, and perhaps not even that. He didn’t need to vocalise the facts, her solicitor already knew them and so did she. Saying it might just scare the horses and stop her giving him enough to prevent another death.

He waved the man to sit beside his client and took up position opposite, standing behind a hard high chair for a moment before taking a seat. His delay enough to signal his distaste at being so close. He motioned them on and the brief sat back, whispering his client to start.

The Sylvia Bryce in front of Craig was a different creature to the one he’d met in High Street the day before. Gone was her bravado and in its place was a quiet fear. He’d felt it emanating from her as soon as he’d entered the room. But what was she afraid of today that she hadn’t been afraid of then?

He watched as words formed on her lips and she swallowed them back, forming new ones that never reached the air. It was as if she was searching for the perfect sentence that would set her free, and she knew she had only one chance to create it. Open Sesame.

She struggled in silence for minutes, the occasional ‘so’ and ‘I’ escaping, before being snatched back. Until finally the realisation dawned that the sentence that would take her home didn’t exist, and all she could find was some weak compromise to keep her safe.

Finally she shrugged, as if she’d been arguing with herself and had lost. She gave a tired half-smile to her solicitor and started to talk. Outlining why she’d done what she’d done, after she’d realised the girls were being sold. She pleaded fear for her own life; an excuse that Craig knew might sway a Judge, but only a little. When she was satisfied that she’d made her case as a vulnerable woman she finally uttered two words that made Craig pay attention. Tim Morgan.

“What about him?”

She smiled and Craig saw the real Sylvia Bryce, self-protective to the last.

“You were right. About the video of our meeting at the station I mean. He was the man who attacked me on Monday.”

“Why did you deny it?”

She leaned forward quickly, prodding the air between them with her finger. “Because he can do me a lot more damage than any of you. He’s a real bastard.”

“Go on.”

She pulled dramatically at the scarf draped around her throat, revealing a necklace of two-day-old bruises. “This is what he did, and he’d have killed me if I hadn’t got away.”

She sneered and the expression twisted her homely face. “He used to do it in bed - strangle me.”

“Was he your lover?”

She snorted rudely and then laughed. “Lover! He was a punter dear, they were only ever punters. I wouldn’t trust any man with something important like love.” Her tone became almost wistful. “Only women know what it is.”

Craig stared at her, wondering how many women shared her view. Probably too many.

“When was he a punter?” He quickly thought of John’s map. “And where?”

“I’ve known him since he was a junior doctor. Back in 2003. He used to come to me for ‘stress relief.’” She smirked, leaving Craig with no illusions as to how she’d relieved it. “He was a nasty little bastard, even back then. Far too much choking and smacking for my liking.”

Craig interrupted her urgently. “Where was he your client?”

She squinted at him, knowing that she had clout, if only for that moment. She decided to use it. “A cup of tea would be nice.”

“You’re in court in fifteen minutes.”

“The kettle only takes one to boil.”

He nodded to the W.P.C. by the door and turned back to her impatiently, his soft voice more insistent. “Where was he your client Mrs Bryce?”

She sniffed and then thought, taking her time, reluctant to relinquish the upper hand too quickly. Finally she said one word, but it was the one that he needed. “Ballymena.”

She corrected herself hastily. “Well, first in 2003 when I was in rooms near Cullybackey. He was working at the local hospital then. Then I moved to Ballymena in 2005 and he moved to the Ballymoney Hospital and became a regular. I was running a few girls by then so I passed him off to one of them. Rachel she was called. She liked it rough.”

She smiled and Craig was surprised at the fondness in her expression. “She was a lovely girl, has her own kids now. She brings them to see me regularly.”

The W.P.C. entered with the tea and whispered something into Craig’s ear. He nodded his thanks and waved Bryce on. She took a sip, smiling approvingly at the china cup, and sighed heavily before continuing.

“Then he started to bring his friends around. They had plenty of money, so I was pleased at the start.” She screwed up her face. “Until I found out that they were all as bad as him. Even worse. Some of my girls were bruised for weeks after they’d been.”

Craig knew that he needed to hurry her. The Judge was in his rooms and they were up in ten minutes. But if he hurried her too much she might clam up. He composed his body language to look attentive but not desperate. She laughed, spotting immediately what he was doing. She knew men far too well to be fooled by any of them.

“You needn’t worry Inspector; I’ve started now so I’ll tell you everything I know. But there’s a lot I don’t, you need to understand that. These men aren’t stupid so I had limited contact with them, and even then only with a few. We did most of our business by phone and e-mail.”

Craig had always known that she was a small cog, but he’d take anything that he could get. “Were all of Morgan’s friend’s doctors?”

She sipped her tea, shaking her head. “No, none of them were. I remember one was a lawyer, and one was studying religion of all things!” She laughed and then pursed her lips grimly. “Paul Ripley. He was the nicest of them, although that’s not saying a lot. Dirty little man. He deserved everything he got. ”

“What about the lawyer? Do you have a name for him?”

She shook her head hard. “No, but I’ve had enough barristers not to be shocked at what they get up to.” She gave him a sly look. “Policemen are no angels either.”

He ignored the innuendo. “Did you ever hear him called anything by Morgan or Ripley?”

She thought for a moment. “I think they called him Jimmy. Yes, that was it. Jimmy.” She shrugged again. “He stopped coming after a while. I thought he must’ve married someone. Poor cow.”

She stared into space and her tone became informative, as if she was imparting useful research. “They do that you know. Stop coming when they get married. For a few years anyhow. But they always start again. It’s like a drug for some men; paying for it. Power you see. Being rich enough to buy a woman.” She paused and then restarted.

“It went on the same way for about a year. Then, one day in 2007, Morgan came to me with a proposition. He and some of his rich mates wanted to club together and buy me a place, where I’d keep girls exclusively for them. Well, I was getting tired of being busted by your Ballymena heavies by then. Not that anything ever stuck, mind you. Every time they charged me it mysteriously disappeared a few days before the hearing. It was their doing of course. I knew that. I wasn’t complaining, but I did wonder how they pulled it off. Anyway, I was fed up going through the whole raid, arrest, charge, and then waiting for a court date rubbish. So when Morgan made me the offer I jumped at it.”

Craig leaned forward, urging her on. “Where was the house?”

She sniffed snobbishly. “House! It was a mansion, even had turrets. Up near Ballymena, big dark place in the country, off the A42. But a lot of the punters came from Belfast, so in 2010 they bought me Marrion Park. And set me up with the office in town.”

She stared at the floor with a heavy expression and Craig knew that was when her world had gone from straight prostitution to something much darker.

“They came to see me last year.”

Craig interrupted. “Who came to see you?”

She gave him an exasperated look. “Morgan and Ripley. I only ever dealt with those two.” She went on. “They said they fancied a change and in future they wanted a special type of girl.” She bit her lip. “Nice girls, normal girls…” She spat out the next word. “Virgins! They wanted virgins.”

A look of panic entered her eyes as she remembered. “I said ‘how the hell do I find them?’ And they said that they’d write the advert. I just had to meet them, take their picture and ask them questions.”

“What sort of questions?”

She broke Craig’s gaze and he thought that he saw tears forming in her eyes. Her brief leaned forward to interject but she stilled him with a hand.

“They…they wanted me to ask the girls if they’d ever had sex.”

“You’ve already said that they wanted virgins. What else did they want you to ask them?” His tone was insistent and forced her to look at him again. “What else, Mrs Bryce?”

The tears were fully formed now and started to trickle down her face, but Craig wasn’t moved. She had led Britt Ackerman to her death, and God only knew how many more. He stared hard at her, his soft voice growing louder from need and lack of time. “What else?”

“They…they told me to ask them about their families. If they didn’t have any I was to send their photographs up for them to choose from.” She lurched across the table towards him, pleading and desperation in her voice. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know.”

Her voice broke tearfully. “I honestly didn’t know.”

He sat back and stared at her without an ounce of pity. “But you found out, didn’t you? When did you find out what they were doing?” He stood up and leaned towards her. “WHEN?”

To Craig’s surprise she didn’t lean back to protect herself from his anger, just sat frozen in its path. He knew her lack of self-protection was coming from guilt, but there was something more…What? Then he saw the deadness in her eyes and realised what he was seeing, sitting down again abruptly. Frozen awareness. The look of someone so used to abuse that something had died in them, and a dull acceptance of whatever came next had taken its place.

She hadn’t protected herself when he’d reared up, because it had happened to her so many times before. Probably all of her life. It wasn’t an excuse for her part in this sordid mess, but it could be a reason.

He dropped his voice to its normal softness, speaking more slowly. “When did you find out?”

She blinked as if she was waking from a trance. “Ten months ago. That was when they told me they sold some of them.” Sold them. Dear God, if only that had been the whole story.

Her eyes pleaded with him. “I swear I didn’t know until then. I found out when a man turned up looking for his daughter. He said she’d disappeared and they’d found my office number on her phone. I recognised her picture - she was one of the girls who’d answered Morgan’s advert.”

She sobbed desperately. “She’d told me she had no family, but she had. She had parents and a brother who were going mad looking for her.” She sniffed, continuing. “I called Morgan and told him I wasn’t doing it anymore.”

She stared at Craig, begging him to comprehend. “You have to understand, I was only a Madam, prostitution was my game and my girls were always happy. I wasn’t into violence or anything like that. When Morgan hurt my girls, years before, only the ones that agreed to it kept seeing him. And I made him pay them double. I didn’t want any part of this and I told him so. I didn’t know they sold them, I thought it was just sex.”

Her eyes dropped and she continued quietly. “When I tried to say no they took me somewhere. I don’t know where, they blindfolded me. But I think we headed north-west.”

Ballymena again?

“They…they beat me so badly that I nearly died.” She stood up suddenly and lifted her jumper. Craig gasped. Her abdomen was covered in livid red scars only months old. “Morgan stitched me up. They didn’t want me going to hospital. I can’t hear out of one ear now either. They told me if I ever tried to stop again they would kill me.”

She sat down and Craig interrupted quietly. “Why didn’t you go to the police? Ask someone for help?”

She gave him a look of despair. “Haven’t you realised yet? They have the police and courts in their pockets, that’s why all my charges were dropped over the years.” She shook her head. “There’s nowhere I can go where they won’t find me.”

“So you kept on going.” It was a statement of fact. But for the first time in twenty minutes he had no judgment in his tone.

“Yes. But I did my best to protect the girls. I changed a lot of their answers to rule them out. Then Morgan realised what I was doing and he broke my wrist.”

She indicated her left wrist and Craig saw a bony deformation that he hadn’t noticed before. He kicked himself mentally. He’d allowed his anger against Sylvia Bryce to blind him.

“What about Britt Ackerman?”

She hung her head sadly and Craig produced a copy of the photograph from his pocket. She fingered it tentatively for a second, and then nodded in recognition, fresh tears filling her eyes. “They killed her. Morgan told me they did it before he tried to choke me.” She whispered the next words. “I didn’t know, I swear to God I didn’t know they were going to kill her.” She stared down at the table. “They told me they sold them. Never kill.”

“Tell me about Tim Morgan attacking you.”

She exhaled softly; glad to be leaving the topic of the girls. She recounted the attack in her home and how she’d escaped. Repeating everything that she’d told Jake McLean, and confirming that she’d recognised Morgan at High Street station.

“Why did he try to kill you?”

A resigned look crossed her face. “Cleaning house.”

The words explained Paul Ripley’s death and would have covered hers too, if she hadn’t been clever enough to slip out of Morgan’s grasp. Just then the door was knocked once, indicating that the Judge was ready for them.

“Just one last question, Mrs Bryce. How were you paid?”

“Into my bank account.”

That meant there would be a trail for Davy and the forensic accountants to unpick.

Craig scrutinised her for a moment. She was a Madam, true. But there was a big difference in running a brothel, something that was legal in some countries, and procuring girls that you knew were going to certain death. She didn’t have a clue that they were going to kill Britt Ackerman, so he would bet that she didn’t know about the others.

If some of the police and judiciary were in on this, and from what Liam had told him earlier that was a definite possibility, then she wouldn’t have known who to trust. She was still a target.

Her story about changing the girls’ answers would be easy to check, and her injuries were pretty hard to fake. Faking frozen awareness was impossible. Craig stood up quickly, his decision already made. He was recommending the Judge release her to his protection. She would face whatever charges she deserved later. In safety.

***

“Any word on Morgan, Liam?”

Liam stared at the phone. Craig should know he’d have called him if he had, but he humoured him anyway.

“Not a dickybird, boss. We’ve tried his work and home and we’ve got Traffic onto the car. The last time he was seen was at twelve-thirty in St Marys’ canteen. The nurse he was with said he took a call, and then just abandoned his lunch. Maybe it was the sprouts.”

He gave a loud laugh, amused by his own wit. Craig would normally have joined in, but not today.

“Tell Traffic to concentrate on the M2 to Ballymena. But if they see him they’re just to follow, not lift him.”

Liam was surprised and disappointed. He’d been looking forward to a good session with Morgan.

Craig answered his next question before he asked it. “Bryce said they took her somewhere. She was blindfolded but she knew they were heading north-west. I think it was somewhere near Ballymena.”

Liam inhaled to interrupt but Craig got there first. “Don’t ask. Let’s just say it was a trip that she’d rather forget. But I think that’s where Morgan’s heading, so I don’t want anyone stopping him. Make sure that they all know Liam. If they sight him they just follow and report back.”

“Will do.” Liam hesitated, wanting to ask more. In his experience knowledge was power, so he didn’t like anyone knowing more than him. He bit back his questions, knowing that the information he’d given Craig about the intranet was giving him a headache. If he ignored it he was culpable, and if he followed it up he was going to open a big fat can of worms.

“Any word yet?”

Craig said nothing but Liam read his mind. His only option was to take it to the Chief Constable. “I’ll see you back at the squad at four. Can you get everyone there for a briefing please? Reggie Boyd, and John too if they’re free. I need to do something before then.”

The phone clicked off and Liam knew he was going to check his findings about the intranet. He wasn’t offended. In fact he’d prefer it if Craig did. Better to get the facts right before they brought a shit storm down on all their heads.

***

“I told you never to call me here! And what the hell are doing using your mobile? You know how easy those things are to tap.”

Dawson paused then restarted more calmly. “Where are you anyway?”

“Heading for Headquarters.”

“Shut up! We never use that word.”

Morgan swallowed hard, fighting the urge to say ‘stuff your rules’. Then he saw the sense of it and apologised. “Sorry. I’m heading for the house.”

“Why?”

“The police went to St Marys and checked the bloods. My P.A. phoned to say that they were looking for me, with a warrant for my arrest!”

“On what charge?”

“She didn’t know. But they must have something. I had to get away.”

“Alright. Make sure you aren’t being tailed and then stay there. I’ll see what I can find out at this end. And don’t phone anyone else.”

He slammed the phone down and walked quickly to his office door. His young secretary glanced up from her computer and smiled innocently. He had a second’s thought that she would look good in chains. Then he shook it away quickly and barked an order.

“Get Assistant Chief Constable McGurk on the phone.” She turned back to her screen to shut down a file, then jumped as his sudden shout told her it was urgent. “Not next bloody week. Now!”

Chapter Seventeen

Craig sat in the C.C.U. car-park, rubbing his eyes and thinking. Liam’s information had been correct. The case file containing Hill and McCrae’s names had been accessed by a senior officer last Friday. Nicky had checked and rechecked it. Then she’d got on to the Chief Constable’s office and arranged a meeting for him at five o’clock.

He toyed with the idea of confronting the man first. To give him the chance to defend himself. Although he didn’t owe him any particular loyalty, it seemed fair. But there was no question of the computer being wrong. And if he did confront him it would alert him to the information they had, and he would have time to cover his tracks. He’d concoct some cock-and-bull story about how he’d been checking on the case for some reason. A case that had been closed for over a month. No, he couldn’t tell him. So why did he feel so bad about it?

After a minute more thinking Craig shook off the mood, and dialled a number. He smiled to himself. At least it was good news this time. He just hoped that Annette’s conversations at home were yielding such positive results.

She picked up on two rings, recognising his number and greeting him with a “Hello sir.” Her tone was flat and Craig could hear that she’d been crying, instantly feeling like an intruder. But his news was good and she had a right to know it. So he told her, in five words. “Good afternoon, Detective Inspector McElroy.”

Her whoop of joy didn’t disappoint him and her questions came thick and fast, tumbling over themselves. “When did you find out? Who told you? Is it true sir? Really?”

He let her speak for a minute uninterrupted, and then stopped her kindly. Aware that so much else that was happening in her life wasn’t kind at all.

“It’s true, Annette, D.C.S. Harrison told me a few hours ago, but this is the first chance I’ve had to call. I’m sorry.”

He talked over her reassurance that it didn’t matter, feeling guilty that he hadn’t told her before. “You can get your scores from the college but I’m sure you did very well. You deserve this, Annette, and I’ll be a lucky superintendent to have two such good Inspectors.”

“Does Liam know yet?”

Craig heard the note of glee in her voice and smiled. “No, I thought you should be the one to tell him.”

Liam would be happy for her, and he wouldn’t. Not much would change in practice, but the shift in dynamic could be fascinating.

“I’ll call him later. What’s happening at the ranch?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.” His voice softened. “Forget work, how are you?”

She breathed in heavily and then started five minutes of who said what to whom, when it had happened and what she was going to do about it, ending with a sob. “You always think these things only happen to other people, but they don’t.” She hesitated. “Do the others know anything?”

“No. And they never will unless you tell them. This is your business Annette. And…Pete’s.”

She heard his reluctance to say Pete’s name and thanked him mentally for his loyalty. They chatted for a moment longer and then Craig checked his watch, realising that everyone would be gathering for the briefing. “I’m sorry Annette, I really have to go.”

“Of course. Thanks for the call, sir. And tell everyone I’ll be back next week.” He could hear her smiling and he was pleased that he’d cheered her up, for a little while at least.

“Tell Liam I’ll give him a call at five. And then listen out for the explosion.”

***

The whole team was there except Annette. They were joined by Karen, Reggie, Jake and John. Craig’s office was too small so he grabbed a seat out on the main floor, signalling them all to bring over their chairs. Nicky dispensed papers, followed by the coffee and cakes she’d bought earlier on Craig’s instructions.

Liam grabbed a fresh cream éclair and pushed it into his mouth without any preamble, talking as he chewed. Nicky frowned and he realised what he was doing, making an attempt at politeness by covering his mouth and swallowing hurriedly.

“Here, why the buns, boss?”

“Because this week’s been hard enough, and it’s about to get harder.”

He updated them on his interview with Sylvia Bryce and their warrant for Tim Morgan. But he glossed over the fact that a senior officer at C.C.U. had accessed information that made it clear they were linked with the crimes. Liam went to raise it and Craig stilled him with a look. He wanted to wait until his discussion with the Chief Constable before it became common knowledge.

When he mentioned Bryce’s opinion that both the police and judiciary were involved, a buzz went around the room. John glanced at him in acknowledgement - it made sense. How else could she have operated for so long without being prosecuted? Jake McLean reported the frustration he’d heard from one Ballymena sergeant when he’d mentioned Bryce’s name. He’d called her the Teflon Tart. Nothing ever stuck to her. Not politically correct, but accurate.

John updated them on their earlier discussion in the lab and confirmed the D.N.A. findings at 40 Marrion Park. He summarised the profiles and then turned to Craig, whose face said he was a million miles away.

“Did you get a chance to look at the forensic autopsies yet, Marc?”

Craig jumped, realising that he was being spoken to. He shot John an apologetic look. “Sorry, no, not yet. I’ve been with Sylvia Bryce since you gave them to me.” Not strictly true, but close enough.

John smiled and took out a file containing more copies. He handed them around and summarised quickly.

“OK. A forensic autopsy basically looks at the deceased for any information that pertains to them as a person, and hopefully also to the manner of their death. That isn’t just medical information. I’ll take Paul Ripley first. He was a slim man so it only took drugs to make him sufficiently pliable to be taken to 40 Marrion Park. Or perhaps he went to the house willingly and was then drugged. After all, he’d been there plenty of times before.

There are no signs of injury or struggle on his body, so he willingly took the drink containing the drugs. That means he was given it by someone that he trusted. His stomach contents show that the drugs were given a couple of hours before death, so it fits with them being given at Marrion. But who would give someone something to drink? Thoughts anyone?”

Davy leaned forward enthusiastically, fascinated by the game. “A friend? Or the owner of the house?”

John smiled and nodded. “Exactly Davy, someone who was in the position of host. But we know that the house is owned by a company. So that implies that whoever gave Paul Ripley the liquid, probably tea from his stomach contents, was his superior in some way. People typically take things from people higher in rank than them. Or more dominant. The person who gave him the drugs treated the house as if he owned it. I believe that when we unravel this mess we’ll find that we’re dealing with a hierarchy. In the true sense of the word. These men will have some sort of overt ranking system.”

Craig nodded. It made sense.

“Ripley was shot in the right temple, but we know from the callous on his hand that he was actually left-handed.”

Davy leaned forward again. “The man at his church’s central office confirmed it.”

“So we know that whoever faked Ripley’s suicide didn’t know him well enough to care or notice which hand he wrote with. That tells us two things, again it’s a sign of seniority and disinterest. And secondly it means that they were unlikely to have ever worked with Ripley, or they would have seen him writing. The chances are they only knew each other socially. They guessed at him being right handed because most people are.” He took a sip of coffee and continued.

“Right. Ripley lived on the Lisburn Road and we’re pretty certain he killed Britt Ackerman at 40 Marrion Park, less than half-a-mile away. People typically kill in places they know, and where they leave the body often tells us something about the killer. In this case a church. The symbols of religion surrounding the victim were red herrings to throw us off. They covered Judaism by using kosher knives, Christianity by leaving her in a church and mimicking the sites of the crucifixion wounds, and Neopaganism with the pentagram. But the very fact that the killer knew enough to mimic all of those told us he had an extensive knowledge of religion. An educated man in the ways of the church.

Plus, he didn’t break into the church. He opened the doors with keys. And we know that skeleton keys are held in the church’s central office. So if we follow the keys, access, knowledge and blood at Marrion Park I believe we have a tight case that Paul Ripley was Britt Ackerman’s murderer.” He paused and took a bite of his cake. No one spoke as he chewed, fascinated by his logical approach.

“So far so good, Ripley brought Britt Ackerman to the church in LeRoy Street. But he couldn’t have displayed her like that alone. It would have required far more strength than he possessed, so he had an accomplice. That’s confirmed by the injuries on Britt Ackerman showing that she was raped repeatedly. That points to more than one man. It was most probably the same man who killed Ripley two days later. The man who was seen entering 40 Marrion Park on Sunday evening by Hannah Benner. I’ll give you back to Marc on that in a minute, but first I’d like to look at Britt Ackerman in more detail.”

All eyes turned to the photos of Britt Ackerman’s scene that Nicky had handed out. It was the first time that Jake and Reggie had seen them and they both gasped. The descriptions they’d heard from Liam hadn’t prepared them for this. Liam grabbed at the pause to interrupt.

“Britt Ackerman’s father is touching down at six, boss. I’ve sent a car so he’ll be at the path lab by seven to do the I.D. I said I’d meet him there.”

John nodded - it wasn’t something to look forward to. “O.K. Britt Ackerman. She was twenty years of age, five-feet-two, seven stone and wore size three shoes. No match, even for a small man.” He hesitated for a moment and Craig knew that he was thinking of Natalie. She was as tiny as Britt Ackerman had been. He restarted.

“She was healthy and well cared for. Better than well cared for, loved, and probably indulged. Her jewellery and clothes were far more expensive than a student could have afforded. And she had highlighted hair and artificial nails, both expensive. There were no signs of drugs or substance abuse. All her blood tests showed a fit young woman. She wasn’t drunk or under the influence of anything when she died.”

Craig stilled him with a hand. “Hold on John, are you saying that she was fully conscious through all of this? They didn’t give her anything to sedate her at all?”

John shook his head. “Nothing.”

The word hung in the air for a moment as they scanned her injuries, knowing that she’d been fully aware the whole time. Nicky excused herself, ostensibly to make more coffee.

It was a step too far, even for Liam who’d seen a lot over the years. “Fucking bastards. I like to do it to them.” He turned to Craig. “Give me ten minutes alone with them when we make the arrests.”

Craig said nothing but his eyes agreed. John spoke again, accelerating, as if he could gloss over the horror if he said it fast enough.

“We know she was raped by more than one man. But they must have worn condoms because they left no D.N.A. behind, except the false trail of Tommy Hill and Rory McCrae’s blood. Leaving none of their own only tells us they watch C.S.I., but leaving the false D.N.A. was overkill. It tells us that they knew about the Stephen Barron case and had access to the file. And that they also had access to the blood samples. That could have been done by Morgan; he could have tampered with the samples at St Marys.”

Craig nodded, bringing them up to date with Liam’s find. Then John continued.

“The only people who would have known which case to access and could have given Hill’s and McCrae’s names to Morgan to obtain their D.N.A., was someone in either the police or judiciary. Someone who was aware that the Barron case existed, and had the clearance to get through the firewalls into the file.”

He turned towards Craig questioningly. “Am I right in saying those files are password protected, Marc?”

Craig nodded, shooting him a warning look not to ask the name of the man who’d accessed the file. They all saw it but no-one asked why, and John moved on. “The problem of course was that whoever did it didn’t realise that Rory McCrae was still in Maghaberry. So he couldn’t possibly have killed Ms Ackerman.”

Reggie raised a finger to interrupt and John nodded, glad of the break. Reggie’s slow voice was so quiet that they had to lean forward to catch his words. Their shift in posture gave Nicky cover to slip back into the circle virtually unnoticed. Craig smiled at her in concern and she smiled back, signing that she was O.K. She usually coped well with their gorier cases, unlike Annette, but the girl’s un-sedated pain had been a step too far.

Reggie updated them on Tommy Hill’s activities since their interview. “Aye well. As we expected he took a day-trip to Maghaberry, to pay McCrae a visit. There was no way to stop him. Tommy miraculously has no record since he got out in ’98.”

“More by good luck than good judgement. Any dirt from the visit, Reggie?”

Reggie turned towards Liam, the only man in the room tall enough to look him in the eye when they stood. They knew each other well, crossing paths many times over the years, although Reggie was older and his kids were long grown. Liam would be working till he was seventy if he kept having babies.

“Just the usual rubbish. Moaning about the ‘Pigs’ and what have you. Of course Tommy says they’re going to get whoever framed them when McCrae gets out. Mind you, the Governor said Tommy was pretty fed-up about us accusing him of a young woman’s murder. When his own daughter only died in April.”

“Ah… did we hurt diddums’ feelings then?”

“Aye. Diddums was wild upset.”

The whole group laughed at the baby talk coming from men with a combined height of thirteen feet. Craig joined in for a minute and then interrupted, apologising for breaking the mood. “Sorry everyone, but I have a meeting at five, so much as I’m enjoying the Morecambe and Wise show we need to push on. Reggie, had you finished?”

“Aye. Except to say that we’ll keep a close eye on Tommy, in case anyone unusual tries to contact him. The Governor’s monitoring McCrae’s visitors just in case.”

“Good, thanks for that.” Craig thought for a moment, realising something. “Not knowing that McCrae was inside would point away from it being someone closely involved with the Barron case. So it’s unlikely to be the Judge on the case, or either of the barristers. And Hill and McCrae’s solicitor would definitely have known McCrae had been sent down until 2014. So if it’s someone in the judiciary it’s someone further away from the case.”

Sylvia Bryce’s young lawyer client sprang to mind. What if he’d reappeared as she’d predicted? He would be old enough to be senior now. Something else occurred to him and he turned to Liam.

“And if it’s someone in the police, then again it can’t be someone directly involved with the case. And all of us, up to and including D.C.S. Harrison, would have known that Rory McCrae went down for eighteen months.”

Liam’s eyes met his and he nodded imperceptibly. Relief flooded across Craig’s face and he turned to Davy and Karen quickly. “Davy, pass whatever you can to Karen. I’ve something special for you to work on.”

Karen frowned - she didn’t like too much work.

Craig turned to Nicky, checking his watch. It was nearly four-thirty. “Nicky, can you cancel my five o’clock meeting please? Say that I’ve an urgent lead to follow. Remake it for tomorrow, late afternoon if possible. I need twenty-four hours to check something out.”

She went to make the call, leaving everyone but Liam looking at Craig curiously. He shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t tell you what it’s about yet, but it’s important to the case. Bear with me until tomorrow’s briefing.”

He turned back to John, signalling him to move on.

“Britt Ackerman was, as her clothes and colouring indicated, northern European. We now know she was Swedish. Her father is the Swedish Ambassador to Northern Ireland. She was studying law - in her second year. She was a very bright girl by all accounts, specialising in equality and Human Rights. Her closest friends were Hannah Benner and Fiona Torney and, as we know, Hannah herself nearly became a victim too. There’s nothing about Miss Ackerman’s profile that links to prostitution and she certainly wasn’t short of money. So we need to look at her family dynamics for a clue as to why she did something so dangerous, and so likely to destroy her chances of being a lawyer. It was guaranteed to disgrace her father as well.”

John answered his own queries. “We know that Hannah Benner lost her father when she was young and greatly resented her step-father, so did Britt Ackerman have problems with her father as well? If so, it may tell us why such a privileged young woman diced with danger in this way.”

He turned to Karen. “It might be worth trying to source the kosher knife as well. There may be more information there.”

Craig glanced at Karen warily, knowing that he was about to add further to her burden. One look at her grudging face made him appreciate Davy’s amiable willingness even more.

“Karen, the pictures that Davy was working on from the office raid are top priority too. We need to see how many of the girls in those photographs are missing, and how many are confirmed dead. We’re looking at deaths going back years here.”

Karen sighed theatrically and bit hard into her second cake, wrapping her chubby fingers around it protectively. Liam squinted at her, biting back a sarcastic comment. Her moaning drove him mad. Craig made a note to keep her supplied with chocolate, as Annette had suggested. It might be the difference between her being tolerable and Liam killing her.

“Anything more, John?”

“Nope, not until we get the full forensics from the house and office.”

“Thanks for all of that. Right. Liam, where are we with Morgan?”

“Traffic picked him up on the M2 half an hour ago heading towards Ballymena. He turned off at the A26 and they followed him, staying far enough behind not to be spotted. Last I heard they were heading towards Portglenone Forest on the A42.”

“Give them a quick call and check where he is please. Everyone else, let’s call it a day and meet back here at four tomorrow please. John, I’ll call you later.”

They dispersed quickly and Craig turned towards his young analyst, beckoning him into his office. He closed the door behind them and Davy stared at him curiously. Craig’s tone said this was something very important.

“Davy, it’s essential that you don’t discuss this with anyone but Liam or me. Do you understand?”

“Not even Nicky?”

Craig thought for a moment and then shook his head. Not because he didn’t trust her but because these were dangerous men and he wouldn’t put her harm’s way. “Just Liam and me please.”

Davy nodded and Craig repeated the intranet information that Liam had called him with earlier. Davy let out a low whistle. This was dynamite. “I understand now w…what you meant when you talked about someone in the force accessing the files. Liam’s certain that it was accessed by D.C.S. Harrison?”

“Positive that the file was accessed on Harrison’s computer, using his password. Just as positive as I am that this is another red herring, just like McCrae’s D.N.A. But this could end up with an innocent man being accused and his career ruined, Davy. Mud sticks, so I need to you find out what’s behind this before I meet with the Chief Constable.

I think someone discovered Harrison’s password and accessed his computer with it. Probably more to cover their tracks than implicate him, although it will have that effect. With the office move going on upstairs they could easily have slipped into his office in the confusion.”

“You’re certain he’s innocent then?”

Craig nodded. Terry Harrison was many things; smarmy, a political operator and a snob. He’d made his life hell on many occasions and used him ruthlessly on others. He was also an inveterate womaniser, especially with young women, pursuing them relentlessly. But if they finally said no he always took it for an answer. Craig could believe him guilty of being lecherous and social climbing, but not of this. But someone who knew his proclivities had obviously thought that he’d make the perfect fall guy.

“Absolutely certain. And he’s not an idiot. Only someone who didn’t know the detail of the case or couldn’t be bothered finding it out, would have made that mistake with McCrae’s D.N.A.”

He stared seriously at the young man in front of him, whose genius with computers rivalled John’s in pathology.

“Can you find me something, anything, Davy, that will trace this back to someone else? I need you to help me prove Harrison’s innocence, before five o’clock tomorrow. If I tell the Chief Constable it will trigger a major investigation and ruin Harrison’s reputation. Worst of all, it will alert the real killer that we’re on to them.”

Davy nodded, genuinely excited. He’d always wanted to be a spy and now he had his chance.

Chapter Eighteen

7pm

The cold air held Bjorn Ackerman’s breath in a cloud, moving ahead of him as he entered the freezing mortuary with Liam. It grew and shrank as if it had a life of its own, except that there was no life in this place, or anywhere else for him now.

John led the way, solemn and sad faced, as sad as if this was his first time. Except that the rows of names in the sign-in book said it wasn’t. He reached the door and turned silently towards the father, with a look that said ‘are you sure?’

They all knew that he had to be. Who else could say ‘this is my daughter’ with such certainty and love? Only her father. He had to do it for Britt.

Liam watched as the lean man beside him guarded himself against what he was going to see. His heart burned with pain for him, imagining himself performing such a task when Erin grew up. He shuddered inwardly. It didn’t bear thinking about. He sent up a prayer that she stayed two-years-old forever, and he never had to school her against bad men.

But time didn’t freeze like breath, and after a nod from Bjorn Ackerman John opened the door to the small viewing room. In its centre sat a long table, draped with pure white cloth. Beneath it lay a daughter.

The word conjured up pictures of smiles and tears and childhood cuddles. Pretty dresses and bows in her hair, and dolls clutched tightly in her arms during sleep. It held the sounds of giggles and whispers, and then fights, about curfews and dresses that were too short. It meant disapproving looks at unsuitable boyfriends and ‘concentrate on your studies until you graduate’. Bribed with shoes and cars, and a little dog called Mitzy.

But daughters don’t stay two-years-old and, one day, other men claim Daddy’s little angel, and Daddy’s little angel says yes. Time doesn’t stop, no matter how much we will it to.

Bjorn Ackerman gazed down at the sheet that covered his daughter, and the look of pain that seared across his face tore through the other men’s hearts. Even after years of cruel sights they weren’t immune. As the man beside them prepared to look at his child for the last time, they shielded their hearts against the pain they knew was coming.

On Ackerman’s nod John withdrew the sheet and their small clouds of breath stilled in the cool air. Not ebbing or flowing with life any more, but suspended now as no one breathed.

The father lowered his gaze slowly and his eyes ran across his daughter’s pretty face. Across her full cheeks and pert nose, and then slowly to her eyes and hair. His gaze moved back to rest on her soft long lashes, staring hard at them. Willing her to open her eyes and smile.

He reached forward and Liam noticed his hands. Tanned and thin with long slim fingers. They stroked her blonde hair gently, smoothing it away from her face as if she could feel his touch. Tears ran unfettered from his eyes and he dashed them away with his palm. Then he stroked her hair again, as if to say ‘there there, Britt. There there.’

Liam recognised the action as his own with Erin and his tears fell in sympathy. He turned away quickly, and John motioned him to leave the room, and allow the father time with his child.

They waited outside, neither of them speaking, until finally Bjorn Ackerman joined them, walking straight-backed from the mortuary. He turned to look at Liam, his grey eyes wet and the words he said echoed Liam’s own thoughts.

“You must find these men before me, or I will kill them.” Then he walked out alone into the warm evening air.

***

“I’m sorry pet; this has been a hopeless holiday for you.”

Craig was sitting at the dining-room table with a glass of chilled Semillon in his hand, grasping the bulb in a way that was guaranteed not to improve the taste. Julia turned around from the sink and smiled at him, more concerned by the tiredness in his face than by her wasted annual leave.

She walked over and stood behind him, running her hands through his thick dark hair. He laid his head back against her gratefully and closed his eyes, dangerously close to sleep. Encouraged by the soft Sinatra playing in the background. He had a fleeting thought that if this was what marriage was like he could cope with it. Then he checked himself and sat forward slowly, disengaging her seductive fingers. He wasn’t ready for that just yet.

She caught his shift and smiled knowingly, then turned to serve dinner. She chatted brightly about her shopping trip with Natalie and her outing to the coast with her mother the next day. Anything but the case, or commitment. Craig smiled as her words washed over him in her high light voice, planning his own paradise of a Man United replay and a cold beer in an hour’s time.

***

Thursday 13th June. 9.45am.

Craig stared through the glass wall of windows that gave his tenth floor office one of the best views in the C.C.U. The bright summer light glinted off the waves below as they rose and fell hypnotically with every breeze.

The Cairnryan ferry was docking, yawning open its stern to release hundreds of eager tourists onto dry land, ready to explore Belfast. And beyond, to the country, where trees and lakes and the City of Culture 2013 lay waiting for their cameras.

A hard knock at the door broke his reverie and he threw ‘enter’ over his shoulder, reluctant to pull his eyes from the sunny view, back to dark reality. He said. “Good morning Liam,” before looking around - the loud knock couldn’t belong to anyone else. He moved to make coffee for them both, knowing that the evening before would have taken its toll on Liam in at least two ways.

Liam sat heavily in the chair, instead of taking his normal stance by the wall. It was as close as he’d ever come to admitting he was tired. Craig broke the silence first, Liam’s grim face saying that he wouldn’t.

“Have you heard from Annette yet?”

He watched Liam’s face closely as he nodded acknowledgement, prepared for his annoyance. He was surprised by the wry smile that curved his lips, and even more surprised by his next words.

“About bloody time. The girl should’ve got it years ago.” He shook his head. “I suppose she didn’t have the confidence to try before.” Then he smiled broadly at Craig. “I’m looking forward to her coming back. What with you making Super, and us two Inspectors. We’ll make a good team.”

Craig was genuinely pleased by his reaction, and decided to say what he’d been thinking of all month. “I’ll need a new D.C.I. Liam, and I want you to go for it.”

Liam gawped at him, then a kaleidoscope of emotions crossed his pale face. Gratitude and fear mixed with disbelief. Then came the denial. “Naw, I couldn’t boss. They’d never give it to me, what with my record of putting my foot in it. I’ve broken every political correctness rule in the book in my time.”

Craig shook his head. “You’re excellent operationally. All we have to do is get you through the board. Once you’re in rank you’ll just have to bite your tongue a bit more outside the squad.” He laughed. “But for God’s sake don’t change too much, it would be boring.”

He took a sip of coffee and Liam restarted. “You’re not blowing sunshine up my ass, are you? ‘Cos it’s nice of you and all that, but I’d rather you told me the truth.”

Craig waved away his objections. “Listen, I’m not in the habit of empty flattery.” He gave a rueful look. “Something I get reminded of by Lucia all too often. Yes, you’d have to study hard, and you’ll have to reign in some of your humour. Not too much, just at crime scenes. But I really believe you’d make a good D.C.I. You have more street experience than all of us put together. And most importantly, I want you.”

At that he reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper, sliding it across the desk. “The board’s in December so you have six months to prepare. I’ll do you a recommendation.”

Liam lifted the paper gingerly, as if it might bite him.

“Take that home and read it. We can talk about it next week. Now, we need to get on with the case.”

With that the subject was closed. Liam tucked the paper in his pocket for reading later and Craig nodded him on for an update.

“Aye well, two main things.” His expression became grim. “I took Bjorn Ackerman to I.D. the girl last night. God, it was rough. I wouldn’t like to be in her killers’ shoes if he ever finds them. He as much as told the Doc and me that we’d better find them first or they were dead men.”

“Was it grief talking?”

Liam shook his head. “I wouldn’t lay money on it. I’m pretty sure he meant it and he has the resources to back it up. I did a bit of checking and as well as being an Ambassador, he’s richer than God. Throw in a diplomatic passport and he could pull in favours from all over the world.” He grinned widely. “Good luck to him, I say.”

Craig didn’t disagree but he had to think of the bigger picture. “Except that if he kills them, he’ll kill our trail too. And there are other people’s daughters out there that we might never find.” He thought for a moment. “I need to meet him, Liam. Do you know where he’s staying?”

“Aye. The Merchant Hotel. Nicky’s got the details. I see what you mean about killing the trail, I hadn’t thought of that.”

He grimaced. He’d have to start thinking about things like that if he wanted to be a D.C.I.

“By the way, that wee lass Emily was right about the girl being the youngest. She only has one brother. Fourteen years older, from Ackerman’s first marriage.” Britt had been a late baby and probably even more precious because of it.

“OK. What about Morgan?”

“Aye well, the Traffic lads followed Morgan up the M2 and off at the A26. Then he took the A42 towards the forest and disappeared.”

Craig leaned forward urgently. “Disappeared! How did they let that happen?”

Liam smiled, creasing his pale face. “Don’t worry. They know exactly where he is.”

Craig sat back again abruptly. The look on his face told Liam to get on with it, and quickly.

“He drove into the woods and when they followed him he’d disappeared. Except that he can’t have, he must have holed up somewhere in the forest. The only building for miles around is an abandoned house, or so it says on the map.”

He pulled a page from his pocket and spread it out on the desk. It was a line drawing of the roads and Portglenone forest, with the house marked with an X. He traced the landmarks with a large finger as he talked.

“The forest here is made up mostly of oak trees. They grow pretty high. Our Fergal had them at his farm and he couldn’t keep hold of them. They grew over a hundred feet tall. He had to cut them all down in the end.” He saw the ‘hurry up’ look in Craig’s eye and moved on hastily.

“Aye well, the trees hide the house from the road. So the only people who would find the place would be people who knew it was already there. Even if they did find it they’d never get in.” He tapped the page hard. “It’s like a fortress. Sheer walls and electric gates. No access unless you have the code or a helicopter.” He laughed loudly. “James Bond would have his work cut out getting in there.”

Craig stroked his face thoughtfully. “What is it?”

“No one knows. Some sort of private kingdom, maybe? It doesn’t even exist according to the Land Registry. No deeds, no postcode, nothing. It’s just a derelict house left over from World War Two.”

“Somebody owns it.”

Liam shook his sandy head. “Not according to the government they don’t.” He shrugged. “Anyway, that’s where Morgan is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. The local uniforms took over from Traffic and they’ve been watching it all night. No-one went in or out.” He paused, looking at Craig hopefully. “Do you want us to go in and lift him? We have the warrant.” The vision of an S.A.S. type raid made Liam’s eyes gleam with excitement.

Craig thought for a moment. If this was where they took the girls then they had to be cautious. If Morgan saw them coming they could end up in a siege situation, and the last thing they needed was another Waco. Morgan could kill himself if he wanted to, but Craig doubted that he’d leave the girls alive. And it would still leave the others out there, to regroup and start their sordid little game again.

He shook his head firmly. “No. We watch and wait. Morgan isn’t worth another girl’s death.” His voice grew harder by the word. “He isn’t the biggest fish here, Liam. There are men above him, I’m sure of it, and I want them all.”

Liam saw the ruthlessness in his eyes and knew he meant it. It was a side of Craig they rarely saw, but the case was one of their worst in a long time.

“I want every single one of these bastards. And I’m going to get them if it kills me.”

***

The book flew hard against the wall and then fell, ripping its spine and shaking two pages loose onto the carpeted floor. James Dawson bellowed loudly then lifted another one to throw. His wife stood outside the study with her ear to the door, praying that whatever had riled him would make him leave the house quickly. Before he had time to take it out on her.

Dawson gripped the phone harder and howled into the receiver. “What do you fucking mean you only cleared the house? I paid you to sort out everything! The office as well, you stupid bastard. Everything that was in the house was copied there on the hard drive. And God knows what else that careless bitch left lying around.”

He was shouting so loudly that Catherine felt the door vibrate. She stepped back hastily, in case it burst open and crushed her against the wall. A vision of James stepping over her body in complete indifference flew into her mind.

Dawson ended the call with the phone going the same way as the book. Then he ripped the wire furiously out of the wall, and pulled at it as if he could shred its plastic casing with his hands.

He was ruined. After all his years of hard work. That moron Ripley had done for him, and now Morgan was completing the job. He was surrounded by cretins and incompetents. They would all be destroyed, but he didn’t give a damn about the others. It was his career and his liberty at stake. He thought quickly, ideas racing desperately through his mind as he formulated his escape.

What did they actually have on him? O.K., so he knew Morgan. So what? Northern Ireland was a small place and its professional classes even smaller. Of course they knew each other, it would be hard not to. He could say that they played golf together occasionally, or cards, and had hit it off.

Morgan was a murderer? My God, I had no idea. How could I have? He always seemed so charming. And to think I let him meet my wife and daughter. Dear Lord, I shudder to think what could have happened to them.

The ideas came thick and fast and he convinced himself more with each one. People would believe him, there was no doubt about that. James Dawson, the youngest Judge in Northern Ireland. Pillar of the community and all round good egg. He stood above criminality, passing sentence on the scum below. He wasn’t one of them. No, he wasn’t. He had to get rid of the evidence, get rid of them all.

He talked to himself for twenty minutes as Catherine listened outside the door, hearing his voice rise and fall in one-sided debate. She remembered him doing it often when they were young. Rehearsing his cross examinations and closing arguments. Using her and Melanie as the audience, and revelling in their open admiration and applause. She’d loved him then. Before the power had made him cruel, and she’d become just another person that he judged and found lacking.

She listened again and heard desperation in his voice that had never been there before. His next words made her freeze. “Get rid of them, I have to get rid of them.” Get rid of who?

All at once the room fell silent and she startled, stepping back quickly into the shadows as his feet approached the door. She hid in an alcove listening, as he marched angrily across the hall. Then sighed with relief as she heard his feet crunch on the gravel pathway, heading for his car.

She stayed still until she heard its engine rev, and the sound finally become distant. Then stepped out from her hiding place and set her face determinedly, taking the stairs to the bedroom to pack. She’d sensed for days that something serious was happening and she felt it even more strongly now. The house wasn’t safe for her anymore and the threat didn’t come from outside. It came from the man that she’d married. Whatever was wrong she couldn’t save him now, but she would save her daughter.

Chapter Nineteen

Karen sighed and pursed her lips. Nicky marvelled again at how full they were. She wondered if they were naturally plump or if they’d had some help from injections. Karen pouted as if she’d heard her thoughts and rose heavily from her chair, crossing the floor towards her. She just caught the end of Nicky’s grin, as she struggled to adopt the more serious look that befitted a soon-to-be-superintendent’s P.A.

Of course she’d been a Super’s P.A. once before, with Terry Harrison, but she’d never felt comfortable in the carpeted silence of the twelfth floor. Craig had insisted on staying on the tenth, so she’d feel much more normal this time.

She turned brightly towards the grumpy analyst, hoping her cheerfulness would be contagious. It wasn’t. Karen stared at Nicky’s perpetually sunny face as if she was ill, or insane. It wasn’t normal for anyone to be so happy all the time. She sniffed hard and then spoke, in a ponderous tone that matched her mood.

“Is D.C.I. Craig around?”

It was hard to hide anywhere in an open-plan office, so Nicky was tempted to point to Craig’s glass-walled room like a magician’s assistant, and mimic reversing his invisibility. But somehow she didn’t think Karen would appreciate the joke. Instead, she smiled even more widely. Then said “no, sorry” in the sugariest voice that she could manage, intent on overdosing the younger woman with good cheer.

“Can I help you in any way?”

Karen sniffed again and considered the question. She didn’t actually dislike Nicky. She was like Annette, old and married, which was always good. But she did wish that she’d be grumpy occasionally - all this optimism wasn’t normal.

“Maybe...” She paused for a moment and thought, then she went on. “Tell him the kosher knife’s sold in at least forty shops, and I’ve found matches for the girls. Not all of them, but some. And what does he want me to do with them?”

Before Nicky could answer she turned and walked away, satisfied that she’d done what was asked of her. She lifted her handbag and took out a half-eaten chocolate bar, finishing it off then headed off to the canteen for elevenses.

***

Davy gawped at his screen, stunned by what was in front of him. He turned around to tell Annette, as he normally did, but her desk was empty. She was on leave. He remembered. But he wasn’t allowed to tell her anyway. Craig’s explicit order. He scanned the floor for Liam but he was nowhere to be seen, so he disembarked his wheelie chair and crossed the floor to Nicky.

“Have you s…seen the boss, Nicky?”

She smiled up at him and Davy returned it double. She thanked the universe again that he was their analyst, not Karen. “He’s gone to The Merchant Hotel, Davy.”

“Nice for him.”

“Not really. He’s meeting Britt Ackerman’s father.”

Davy bit his lip in apology and nodded his commiserations. “Do you know w…when he’ll be back? It’s just; I’ve got the information he needs.”

“It’ll be after one. Give me the message and I’ll give it to him if he rings in.”

She smiled up at him in expectation and he went to open his mouth, then Craig’s warning about her safety rang in his ear. He shook his head like a child with a secret and a look of annoyance crossed her face. She didn’t like secrets, especially when they were kept from her.

“S…Sorry Nicky, I can’t. Boss’ explicit orders. Just tell him I need to talk to him urgently, please.”

He turned away quickly before he saw the hurt look that he knew would follow, and left Craig to deal with a sulky P.A. He’d have a much bigger headache than that to deal with soon.

***

Liam lifted the radio and got patched through to Ballymena. The crackling on the line was soon replaced by a strong north-coast lilt that announced itself as belonging to ‘Sergeant Mul-doon at Bally-mena station.”

Liam stifled a smile at the oft-caricatured accent. The caricatures didn’t do it justice. It was much stronger than they ever were.

“Hello Sergeant Muldoon, it’s Inspector Cullen here from Belfast Docklands. I believe you lent us some of your lads last night?”

“Aye, I did too. When can-y have them back? We’ve a concert on and the young’uns will be running buck daft the night. I’ll need all hands on deck.”

“Aye well. Sorry about that, but we’ve no end in sight just yet. We’ll need the surveillance to continue. D.C.I. Craig appreciates it and you’ll get credit when we crack the case. But for now my thanks will have to be enough.”

The sergeant sniffed. “Aye, all right then. What’s it all about anyway?”

“Sorry again, but I can’t tell you. I’ll tell you what though, I’m feeling generous. I’ll send one of my lot up there to relieve one of yours. He’ll stay for the duration.”

“Grand. Anything’s better than nothin’. What’s his name?”

“Jake McLean. Sergeant from Stranmillis Road. He can take over the op and relieve your top lad. He’ll be there at six-thirty.”

“Right, bye now.”

“Bye.”

Liam was pleased with himself. This delegation lark was easy once you got the hang of it. Or ‘wee buns’ as they said in Ballymena.

***

Craig walked reluctantly up the wide stone steps of The Merchant Hotel, telling himself that the conversation needed to happen. He had hardly enough belief in his task to convince himself, never mind Bjorn Ackerman.

What if it had been his daughter lying in the morgue? Wouldn’t his first thought after his heart broke be to find her killer and punish them? He knew that it would. His belief in justice would stop him ultimately, but that was him and this was theory. Ackerman was living with the facts.

He walked into the imposing, plushly carpeted foyer and stopped, casting a look around him. The high ceiling was gilded and ornate and the floor was dotted about with small, elegant tables. The atmosphere was hushed and expensive, as befitted the ‘best hotel UK’ award.

A waist-coated waitress smiled welcomingly at him, walking over sedately. She suited the opulent room. “Can I help you, sir?” She smiled and the whiteness of her teeth matched her pristine shirt. It made Craig think of an old toothpaste ad. All she needed was a ring of confidence to appear around her head.

His voice was always quiet, but he noticed that he’d unconsciously lowered it further, to match the carpeted hush. “I’m meeting one of your guests. Ambassador Ackerman.”

She smiled and beckoned him to follow, heading across reception into the cocktail bar. She indicated off the bar to a smaller, more secluded room. It was empty apart for one man. He was seated by the window with his back to the door and Craig glanced around instinctively for his protection or officials. The only people he could see were two women chatting in the outer bar. They smiled at him, a slight inclination of their heads confirming who they were. If the occasion hadn’t been so serious he’d have smiled at their casualness, but it was too sad a day for jokes.

As he approached the table Bjorn Ackerman turned instinctively and rose, extending his hand. “D.C.I. Craig, thank you for coming.”

They shook hands, and Craig noticed that despite his age being over sixty, he had the tanned fitness of a much younger man. He indicated the seat opposite, beckoning a nearby waiter to bring drinks. “Tea? Coffee? Or something stronger perhaps?” He lifted a glass tumbler from the table, swirling the amber liquid inside. He was starting early, or finishing late.

“Just coffee, thanks.”

The waiter reversed politely and Craig sat in the proffered chair, silently considering the Ambassador. He was Britt Ackerman’s father - there could be no mistake about that. His sandy-blonde hair and light grey eyes were ubiquitous in northern Europe. But the angle of his jaw, and his high, clear brow were a perfect echo of his child’s. He leaned forward and Craig saw that his watch was the match of hers. It had been his gift. They’d been close, and Bjorn Ackerman’s heart was breaking.

They sat in silence until the waiter came and left, and longer. Until Craig finally spoke, in a soft voice. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ambassador.”

Ackerman raised a hand, quickly but politely. “Bjorn please, Chief Inspector. We Ambassadors are an informal bunch, contrary to the rumours.”

Craig nodded, liking the man more with each word. He kept talking, knowing that his words were going to fall on deaf ears. They would if someone said them to him, but he still had to try.

“Bjorn, I know what you want, and possibly intend to do. And privately, I know that I would want the same thing in your position.” Ackerman nodded in agreement. “But I must ask you not to.”

He turned his face away and Craig thought that it was as close as a diplomat probably got to a refusal. But as Craig continued, explaining about the scores of pictures they’d found and the other missing girls, Ackerman started to understand.

He listened and nodded and made Craig a promise that was the best he could give. He’d do nothing until they’d ensured the safety of the living, and had the evidence to name the dead. But only until then.

***

Craig drove back towards the C.C.U., grabbing a sandwich at Doorsteps in Garmoyle Street. He started eating it as he walked onto the squad and Nicky tutted at his unaccustomed bad manners, and guaranteed indigestion. She followed him into his office with a coffee and a plate.

“You’re going to get an ulcer before you’re much older. You live on coffee, and when you do remember to eat it’s always on the run.”

She stood in front of him with her arms folded and Craig stifled a laugh at today’s fashion combination. She’d been reading about something called colour-blocking in a magazine, and her bright orange t-shirt and pink leggings were testament to the fact that it definitely didn’t work. Her next words forced his laughter out loud.

“Give me twenty pounds, sir.”

She extended her hand in such a ‘no arguments’ way that he automatically reached for his wallet, handing her the cash without a query.

She waved the note at him like a wagging finger. “Now, I’m going to buy in healthy food for you for a week, and show you how much better you feel when we’ve finished.”

He smiled, thinking that as he spent more time in the office than at home it wasn’t a bad idea. But he wasn’t going to admit it, instead giving her a wry ‘Yes Mum’ look before waving her out the door. Her head popped back round the jamb almost immediately.

“I forgot to tell you that Davy wants a word.”

“Send him in, Nicky. With another coffee?”

Davy entered a minute later with a sheaf of paper in one hand and Craig’s coffee in the other. He said nothing until Craig screwed up his napkin and threw it in the bin, guaranteeing his full attention.

“OK. What have you got for me?”

Davy placed two sheets of paper on the desk and started to speak confidently. Craig noticed his stutter almost disappeared when he spoke on a subject he knew, only returning when new people entered the room. Maggie Clarke, his journalist girlfriend, was even curing him of that now, dragging him to every social event she was invited to. His picture ended up in the Ulster Bazaar so often that Liam teased him he’d go to the ‘opening of an envelope’.

“The first s…sheet is from Karen. She’s matched some of the girls’ photographs.” He shook his head sadly. “They’re girls who disappeared between 2007 and 2013. All s…still missing.”

Craig’s mouth flew open as he thought of the implications. They were all traded or dead.

Davy pointed at two names on the list. “These are the two girls w…whose bodies were found in 2010. No-one w…was convicted.”

His face saddened and Craig realised this must feel close to home for him. The victims were late teens and early twenties. They would remind him of girls he’d gone to University with.

“Their parents pushed and pushed, but eventually they were told the trails had gone cold. Their names were Amanda W…Wilson and Grainne McCrory. They were nineteen and at University.”

Craig wondered if the trails had cooled naturally, or if influence by the police or judiciary had had a hand to play.

“I need to see the files for both of them please, Davy. And tell Karen good work, but can she please keep going. There were nearly a hundred photographs in that office.”

“W…Will do.”

Davy paused, swallowing nervously, and Craig knew that what was on the other sheet was important as well. He scanned it urgently as Davy talked.

“I managed to find out the exact time the Barron file was accessed on the intranet. It was on Thursday the 6th at 4.05pm.”

Perfect timing for someone to access Hill’s and McCrae’s information, so that Morgan could steal their D.N.A. on the Friday. It gave him time to plant it on Britt’s body before they dumped her in the church.

“W…Whoever did it used D.C.S. Harrison’s log in name and password. But they could only have known them if they’d been told.”

“Or if Harrison was careless enough to leave them lying around.”

Davy stared at him, surprised. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone would be stupid enough to write them down. But given that Harrison was older than God and an idiot, it shouldn’t surprise him if he did something that no savvy sixteen-year-old would do. People got careless with their passwords and PIN numbers and then wondered why they got ripped off.

“It couldn’t have been D.C.S. Harrison logging on anyway. I checked and he was in Limavady that day.”

“Couldn’t he have logged on from there, Davy?”

“Yes, but the log-on definitely happened on his computer on the twelfth floor. Every computer has a different number.”

Craig rubbed his temple. “OK, so who did log on then?” Something occurred to him. “Mrs Butler?”

Susan Butler was Terry Harrison’s sedate P.A. She’d taken over from Nicky when Harrison had gone half-time in Limavady, Nicky’s eleven-year-old son Jonny the perfect excuse for staying close to home. Craig shook his head, dismissing the idea immediately. Why would Susan Butler have wanted the information? Unless…

“It definitely happened from his computer, Davy?”

“Yes sir. And I checked the floor CCTV tape. It was on because the decorators were w…working there last week. D.C.S. Harrison’s confidential files were being moved to the thirteenth, to clear space on the twelfth for the new A.C.C.’s team. So they used the CCTV to keep a close eye on things.”

Of course! The A.C.C.’s team was taking over the twelfth floor. That was why Harrison had met him for coffee up on the thirteenth.

“And? What was on the tape?”

“The only people that went anywhere near D.C.S. Harrison’s office were him the day before, and Mrs Butler helping sort out the files.”

Craig shook his head. He really couldn’t see Susan Butler stealing information. “Was anyone else on the floor that week?”

“Some of the new Assistant Chief Constable’s team. The A.C.C. was there himself a few times.”

“Tell me that you’ve checked the tapes for the time the file was accessed, Davy?”

Davy smiled, nodding. He lifted another sheet from his pile and started to read. “The file was accessed at 4.05pm on Thursday. Ten minutes before that, Assistant Chief Constable McGurk paid a visit and looked around the floor.”

“Did he go into Harrison’s office?”

“No. But he spoke to Mrs Butler and she disappeared off somewhere. S…She came back a few minutes later with some files. Then she went into D.C.S Harrison’s office, came out with some papers and handed them to him.”

“She could have accessed the Barron file at his request and printed off the details for him.”

Davy nodded. “The time fits exactly.”

This was it. Susan Butler would never question an order from a senior officer, and McGurk had deliberately chosen a time when he knew Harrison wouldn’t be there.

Harrison must have given her his log-on for emergencies, like a lot of bosses did. Craig smiled, conceding his own bad habits. Nicky had all his codes, including his bank PINs. McGurk had been smart enough to try on the off-chance.

Craig grabbed for the phone and then put it down again, deciding against the call. Some things were better done face-to-face.

“Stay here, Davy. I’ll be back in a minute.” He left the office quickly and took the lift to the thirteenth floor. When he reached it he walked quickly across to Susan Butler, mustering all the charm he possessed. People said it was effective, when he really tried.

“Hello Mrs Butler. You’re looking very well today.”

Susan Butler’s hand flew instinctively to her hair and she patted it, preening. “Oh, do you think so? I had my hair done a different way.”

Craig smiled broadly at her and its softening effect was gratifying. Not for his ego but to get the information that he needed to save her boss’ ass. She smiled back at him. Partly out of reflex and partly because Craig was about to become a superintendent, so he warranted some warmth.

“D.C.S. Harrison isn’t here I’m afraid.”

Craig smiled again and perched on the edge of her desk, looking down at her. “Actually, it was you that I came to see.” He saw her blush slightly and felt guilty at his ploy, then reminded himself it was for her boss and Britt Ackerman.

“Really, Mr Craig? What can I do for you?”

He composed his face to convey gravitas, hoping that it would cover the bluff he was about to perpetrate.

“The Chief Constable asked me to check what date you gave A.C.C. McGurk the details of the Stephen Barron case? We have a meeting at five o’clock and I need the information for then.”

He hoped that by the time she discovered his lie he’d have briefed the Chief Constable and he’d back-up his story. It was a gamble worth taking.

At the mention of the Chief Constable, Susan Butler melted even further and reached straight into the top drawer of her desk, lifting out a neat ledger. She flicked to a page headed with 6th June. It held a list of names, files and dates and she ran a perfectly manicured nail down it quickly.

She stopped at an entry and ran her finger across the page to confirm her findings, then she smiled up at him. He thought how attractive she was when she smiled. She was widowed and Craig felt suddenly sorry for her, making up his mind to be more charming in future.

“Yes, here it is. A.C.C. McGurk asked for the Barron file on the 6th of June at four o’clock. I accessed it at 4.05 and gave him a printout. It was for a presentation he was doing, and he wasn’t directly privy to the files because he wasn’t working in murder at the time of the case.”

Just then something dawned on him. If anyone knew the details of senior officer’s lives, Susan Butler would. She would consider it her job to know the names of their wives, children and pets, as well as useful details of their career. For a political boss like Harrison it would be essential. Craig took a wild stab and scored.

“A.C.C. McGurk was up in Ballymena before this, wasn’t he?”

He was still sitting on the desk and his tone was warm and conversational. She took the bait eagerly.

“Yes, from 1999 until 2010, then he was at High Street for a while. He was at Staff College after that, until he was made A.C.C. in April this year.”

Bull’s-eye! McGurk had been in Ballymena the whole time that Sylvia Bryce had been working up there. And his move to Belfast in 2010 fitted with Bryce’s new office and Marrion Park home.

Craig stood up slowly, not wanting to appear abrupt and break the rapport. He smiled again. “Mrs Butler, you’ve been very helpful. The Chief Constable will be very pleased.”

Craig turned to go, leaving her puffed-up with pride, and was halfway across the floor when he turned back kindly. “D.C.S. Harrison is very lucky to have you. I hope he realises that.”

He turned away again quickly, but not before he saw a wistful expression on her face answer ‘no’. Harrison was an unappreciative sod and Craig wondered again why he was saving his bacon.

Davy was still waiting in the office when he returned confirming his findings. Harrison hadn’t accessed the Butler file, it had been Ken McGurk.

“Can you put all of this on one page, Davy? I’ll need two copies at about four. And pull McGurk’s service record and the files for the girls’ cases now please. I want them with me when I see the Chief.”

He paused and considered the younger man, smiling inwardly at today’s dark blue nail varnish and matching navy t-shirt. At least Maggie was getting him out of black, although not far enough out.

“You’re doing outstanding work Davy, and I should tell you that more often.” He smiled. “You have full permission to remind me when I forget.”

Davy blushed and stood for a moment, eye-to-eye with him. Then he smiled his thanks and left. Craig followed him out of the small office and leaned over Nicky’s desk, whispering a request to her, before returning quickly to his office. He picked up his mobile quickly, pressing John’s lab number. Marcie, his secretary, answered.

“Hi Marcie, is John around?”

“He’s in court Mr Craig. Can I help you?”

“I need him to pull two post-mortem reports for me and get them over to Davy today please. Amanda Wilson was found in May 2010 near the Cavehill. Grainne McCrory was found in September that year, out in Bellevue, near the zoo.”

“Will do.”

“Marcie, tell him it’s urgent please. Now, would you mind putting me through to Des?”

***

“We need to talk. Face-to-face.”

“When and where?”

“Half an hour, in my chambers. Bring a file so it looks as if we’ve something to discuss.”

Ken McGurk clicked the phone down and reached under his desk for his briefcase, checking that his personal protection weapon was inside. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Dawson exactly, but it never did any harm to be careful.

If it came to it he’d been tasked by number one to cover their tracks. And if that meant they all had to die then they would, including Northern Ireland’s youngest Judge.

Chapter Twenty

Thursday 3pm

“What was so important that it couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?”

McGurk started talking as soon as the clerk left, scanning Dawson’s luxurious office as he spoke. It had a low ceiling and heavily panelled walls. A deep-pile damson carpet lay underfoot. The whole impression was of power and solemnity, and Dawson wore an expression to match. It probably worked well on criminals, but he’d been immune to Jimmy’s bullshit since university.

He was sitting sideways on, not looking at him, like some bad imitation of Perry Mason. McGurk nearly laughed out loud. He’d known him since he was a grubby student, and he’d seen him in plenty of positions that would outrage the court.

“Morgan.”

Dawson spat the word out venomously and McGurk knew that the doctor’s days were numbered.

“What’s he done now?”

“He’s left a bloody great trail, that’s what. He didn’t finish Bryce off, and the stupid bastard left his cyber fingerprints all over the D.N.A. samples.”

Dawson swung round to face him, fury in his look. “You gave him a case where one of the men is still in prison, you fucking idiot. Rory McCrae. I sent him to Maghaberry myself in May. Ripley and Morgan might as well have posted a sign saying ‘fit-up’ in the church.”

McGurk shrugged, constantly amazed at the things that people got worked up about. He dealt with the reality of death every day at work, not the safe aftermath like the man opposite.

Dawson was still talking. “Morgan could have got away with it if he’d just killed Ripley and Bryce, instead of all that rubbish with the D.N.A.”

“He did kill Ripley.”

The matter-of-factness in McGurk’s tone irritated the Judge even further and he stood up in his chair, leaning across the desk. His next words were almost a shout. “But he didn’t kill the bloody woman!”

McGurk stared at him and shrugged again provocatively, deliberately prodding him to explode. He’d seen it work many times over the years and he wasn’t disappointed now, relaxing back to watch the fireworks. Dawson’s tirade on their incompetence went on for nearly five minutes, before a single knock at the door stopped him mid-yell.

The clerk’s nervous voice filtered into the room. “Is everything all right, M’Lord?”

Dawson saw McGurk’s wry smile and his own standing position and realised he’d been wound up. They must have heard him halfway down the court. He forced out a “Yes, thank you. Perfectly fine,” and sat down again abruptly, slumping back in his chair.

“You need to watch that temper, James.” McGurk’s voice cooed patronisingly. “It will be the death of you.”

After a minute’s deep breathing Dawson spoke again, more calmly. “There’s a warrant out for Morgan’s arrest.”

“I know. My old team are watching him at right now, up at Headquarters.”

“Your team from Ballymena?”

McGurk nodded and they both smiled.

“Will they do what we want them to?”

“They’ll do what I want them to.”

Dawson shrugged, conceding that even his power had boundaries that McGurk’s could cross. “What’s your plan?”

“I’ll call them and get them to focus on the front of the house this evening. You call Morgan and tell him to take the tunnel out of the back. Say we’ll pick him up on the A42 as soon as it’s dark.” He glanced at his watch. “About ten-thirty.”

“OK, and?”

“We kill him and get rid of his body. I’ve a weapon from evidence that we can easily lose. But we need him to be seen leaving by someone. Can you organise a witness to phone it in?”

“Yes. But why?”

“Because unless someone sees him leave and tells the police, they’ll be watching the house for days. And it still needs to be an option on the 14th.”

“Surely they’ve got to search it anyway?”

McGurk smirked coldly. “It’s just as well one of us thinks ahead. I cleared it out two days ago. The girls are elsewhere.”

Relief crossed Dawson’s face, followed by confusion. “They’re not in the tower. I was there last night, having a bit of R&R. So where are they?”

“How do you know its location? Even I don’t have that!”

Dawson smiled knowingly and McGurk glared at him. Then he shrugged and moved on. He was still the number two.

“Don’t worry about the girls being moved. They’ll be at the auction tomorrow night, that’s all you need to know.”

“But why did you move them? We could have held the sale at Headquarters. It’s nearly as close to the hotel where the buyers will be staying.”

McGurk shrugged. “Maybe. But number one wanted the choice of locations. I figured if Morgan was busted he would head straight to Headquarters and Craig’s lot would follow. We don’t know what else they’ll find out before tomorrow night, so we need to keep the girls moving until then. By Saturday they’ll be gone and Craig will find nothing, no matter where he searches.

I’ll do what I can to block things at my end and you get your name on the Rota to sign search warrants for the next few days. They’ve got one for Morgan, but they won’t risk going in in case he goes berserk. If they request another to search Headquarters, stall it on some grounds or other. Just to make them think there’s still something worthwhile in there, after we get Morgan out. ”

“There is! The girls’ D.N.A., and ours. All over the sodding place!”

“Let me worry about that. Doing the forensics on that place will delay them, and samples have a funny way of disappearing before they reach the labs.”

After a moment Dawson nodded. “All right. I’ll make sure the warrants come to me. But it’ll take a bit of doing, they have Judges in Ballymena too you know.”

McGurk waved away his caveat. “I don’t want the bloody details. Just get it done.”

Dawson turned sharply, ready with a retort. He didn’t like being told what to do. He thought better of it. There’d be time enough for arguments later.

“We’ll need to dispose of Morgan so that they don’t find a trace.”

McGurk smiled coldly. “Don’t worry. It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve done it.”

Dawson exhaled noisily, much calmer now. “Good. And if we do it tonight then there’s no reason why Friday can’t still be the party of a lifetime. Plus, make us all very rich men.”

***

Julia wandered into the living room, followed at a distance by the others. The room was pretty and bright. It led out through French doors to a patio, with a small garden at the end. She smiled to herself at the thought of drinks there after work. Then she smiled again at the thought of Craig mowing the lawn, erasing the image quickly and replacing it with one of herself. There were domestic animals and wild ones and Craig definitely fell into the second box.

She gazed around for a moment and then smiled at the estate agent and her mother. “I think it’s lovely, but my partner needs to see it. I’ll check his diary and get back to you tomorrow with some times.”

Even as she said it she wondered if she would ever be back. Not only because of Craig’s doubts, but because of her own.

***

4pm

“Right everyone. Thanks for coming. We’ve a lot to get through so let’s make a start. Liam first, then Davy and Karen. I’ll round it off. Liam?”

Liam was leaning back in his chair with his long legs propped up on his desk. His back was playing up again so Craig had shifted the briefing close to him, rather than make him move. He appreciated it, and reciprocated by giving them a detailed briefing that showed just how effective he could be when he wasn’t messing about.

He reported on the evidence trail for five minutes before reaching Morgan’s surveillance. “The Ballymena lads know the area well and none of them have ever heard of a derelict house. They’re hunting the local archives but it’s never come to their notice before. They were a bit short of men so I sent Sergeant McLean up to take over. I hope that’s OK, boss? He knew a lot about Bryce’s operation in that area so I thought he’d like to follow it through.”

Craig nodded. “That’s fine Liam. What’s the status at the moment?”

“No movement. Nothing in or out of the house since Morgan disappeared. We’ve men front and back. Do you want us to get a search warrant?”

Craig thought for a moment and then shook his head. There was a risk to not going in; Morgan might escape. But there was bigger risk to entering if the girls were there. He could kill them all before they breached the gates.

“Not just yet, let’s see what he does. His friends will know we’re watching him by now and they’ll try something, I’m sure of it. Most likely after dark. We need to be ready.”

He stared at Liam thoughtfully. “I want you to make sure that if any senior police officer contacts the men in Ballymena that they appear to acquiesce with anything they ask. We’re pretty sure that a very senior officer is involved in the killings, and that he’ll attempt to get Morgan out. If that happens then McLean’s men aren’t to stop Morgan, just keep an eye from a distance and follow him wherever he goes.”

They all looked shocked, except Davy. Liam sat forward so quickly that his legs slipped off the desk. The bang with which they hit the floor was echoed by the yell he let out as his hand flew to his back. “Ah, shit.”

Nicky rushed forward concerned, as he screwed-up his face, only relaxing it slightly as the pain eased.

“Liam, get your back checked out, will you? It’s not right.”

Liam squeezed his words out in reply. “Aye, aye. Soon, Cutty.” He waved Craig on. Craig shook his head ruefully, knowing that Liam would do anything rather than visit a doctor. He was the same.

“O.K. While Liam recovers I’ll tell you why I think that will happen.” He nodded Davy to cover the accessing of the Barron file, without mentioning the name of the officer implicated. Craig picked it up, reporting on speaking to the anonymous P.A. Nicky smiled, knowing exactly who he was talking about and made a note to pull him about not trusting her earlier.

“I’ve confirmed that the senior officer being deliberately framed was not in fact the guilty culprit. I’ll be giving the name of the guilty person to the Chief Constable later. Davy, have you got the information I requested?”

Davy nodded and handed him an A4 envelope. It contained the two girls’ murder files and McGurk’s service record. Plus the one page summary that he’d requested. Liam was sitting more upright, watching the exchange between the two with interest. He would get the details later.

“I know that everyone’s urge is to go in there and get Morgan, but there are major risks there. Some of the girls may still be alive and we want to keep them that way. When I speak to the Chief I’ll be recommending that we don’t immediately arrest the senior officer involved either. It’s tempting to do so, but if we do the trail could go cold. I’ll hand you over to Karen and Davy to tell you more on that. Karen?”

Karen pulled herself up from her semi-recumbent position, brushing the crumbs from a biscuit off her lap and onto the floor. It wasn’t anyone else’s idea of hurrying but Craig recognised that it was hers. Nicky tutted quietly at the crumbs and Karen ignored her. She was just opening her mouth to speak when Davy interjected impatiently.

“Karen found links with the photographs and some disappeared girls. Two of them are confirmed dead.”

Karen’s face dropped in indignation at Davy stealing her thunder and Nicky giggled. Craig stifled his amusement at Davy’s bad manners, shaking his head at him in mock remonstration. Then he turned pointedly back to Karen. “Karen, perhaps you’d like to continue?”

She sniffed and picked up a sheet of paper, reading aloud from it. “Fifty–four of the photographs match girls aged between eighteen and twenty-five who went missing in the Ballymena area between 2007 and 2010. Another twenty-six match girls who’ve gone missing in Belfast since 2010.”

She noted Nicky’s horrified face with satisfaction; that would teach her to be so happy all the time. Then she realised that she was scoring points with dead girls and frowned at herself, a little ashamed. She continued more quietly.

“There were two bodies found in the Belfast area in 2010.” She handed out copies of a second sheet showing a map of Belfast and the environs. “The first girl, Amanda Wilson, was found at Point A, off the Cavehill Road in May 2010. The second, Grainne McCrory, was found at Point B, near Bellevue that September. Neither case was solved. The trails ran cold after initial investigations.”

Craig halted her, smiling his thanks. “Davy’s already pulled the case files for those for me Karen, thank you.”

She squinted at Davy in open rivalry and then at Craig, smiling sarcastically. The implication was clear - teacher’s pet. All that was missing was her tongue sticking out and they’d be back in junior infants.

Liam leaned forward cautiously and Nicky winced in sympathy. “Without telling us the details boss, was the investigating lead on those cases by any chance the senior officer who accessed the Stephen Barron file? And the one that you expect to contact the lads, trying to mess up the surveillance on Morgan?”

Craig gave him a stare that said he’d tell him everything after the briefing, and then answered with one word. “Yes.” Then he turned back to the group and brought them up to date on his discussions with Des and Bjorn Ackerman.

The semen D.N.A. Des had found at the house had come from four men, one of them Paul Ripley. He was running the others through the database but Craig doubted that he’d get a hit. Not unless Ken McGurk and Tim Morgan had criminal records. He was less worried by them than by the identity of their fourth man. They’d have McGurk and Morgan in custody soon, he was convinced of that, but they hadn’t a clue who the fourth man was.

He turned to his meeting with Bjorn Ackerman. Saying that he believed that when they cracked the case, Ackerman would be relentless in his pursuit of justice, and not necessarily though the courts.

He updated the security arrangements for Hannah Benner and Sylvia Bryce and Bryce’s likely future. Then he closed the briefing, beckoning Davy, Liam and Nicky into his small office.

Liam took up position against the wall pressing his back against its coolness as gratefully as if he was sinking into a warm bath. Craig frowned at him, concerned. “For God’s sake get that sorted, Liam. I don’t want you out of action for six weeks with slipped disc.”

“And here’s me thinking that you were worried about me, boss.” He laughed once and then decided it was too painful.

“Right, quickly. Here’s where we are. Nicky, apologies for not confiding in you, it wasn’t a lack of trust, but as a woman you’re especially vulnerable. That’s a fact. These men have infiltrated the police and the courts and I didn’t want to take a risk with your safety.”

She smiled at his chivalry, understanding.

“Liam, Davy found the time and computer that the Barron file was accessed from. It was in D.C.S. Harrison’s office on the twelfth floor.”

Liam boomed out a laugh. “Old Teflon Terry’s heading for a fall then.”

Craig shook his head at Liam’s use of Harrison’s nickname, no matter how many times he’d been told not to say it at work. “Sorry to disappoint you Liam, but no. He was in Limavady that day, and Davy’s proved that the only person who entered his office was Susan Butler.”

Nicky looked askance at him, her face showing that she was trying to imagine the beige Mrs Butler involved in anything as exciting as espionage. He shook his head again, dispelling the notion.

“I went to see her and confirmed that it was A.C.C. McGurk who asked her to access the file for him. On the pretext of needing it for a presentation. She had Harrison’s log in and password, so she printed off the file quite innocently on the instructions of a senior officer. Davy’s got it all on CCTV.”

Nicky nodded. Mrs Butler would never say no to an Assistant Chief Constable.

Craig’s dark eyes took on a serious look. “Ken McGurk spent his entire career up in Ballymena. He was there until 2010, then he moved to Belfast.”

The penny dropped on Liam and Nicky immediately. That was when Sylvia Bryce’s business had moved as well. Craig indicated the envelope that Davy had handed him earlier.

“I’m updating the Chief at five o’clock and we’ll come up with a strategy. Liam, I’ll call you afterwards so that you’re briefed on everything. My money’s on them trying to get Morgan out tonight.

Davy, can you check that everything’s OK with Hannah and Sylvia Bryce. Then I want you to pick Amanda Wilson and Grainne McCrory’s cases apart for me. Look for anything that fits with Britt Ackerman’s, and keep going on the companies behind all the properties.”

He turned to Nicky, smiling gently. “Nicky, you be careful around McGurk and anyone from court services. And if any senior officer calls asking to see you by yourself – don’t. These men view women as objects, to do whatever they want with. Run any requests past me first, please. We don’t know who else is working with McGurk.”

He had a random thought. “Nicky, add one for my mother onto that list please.”

She smiled and the others stared at her inquisitively. She sniffed and turned away as if it was her secret. Then Craig’s expression darkened, things would soon be coming to a head.

“When we follow Morgan he’ll lead us to McGurk, and others, I’m certain of that. But I’m pretty sure they’ll try to kill Morgan tonight, under the pretext of helping him escape. Morgan’s weak and they know he’ll crack under interrogation. We need him alive, Liam, so brief the men on that, no matter what orders they get from anyone else. If it’s a choice between catching everyone tonight, and capturing Tim Morgan alive, Morgan’s the priority. He can lead us right to the top.”

“But how do I get them to ignore an order from McGurk, boss? He’s a senior officer, and some of them have known him for years. Can I tell them that we suspect him?”

“No! We don’t know who else McGurk has in his pocket.”

Craig thought for a moment longer before continuing. “I’ll confirm this with you after my meeting, but tell them that our orders come directly from the Chief Constable and anyone below that is to be ignored. That should do it.”

“It would for me. They know which side their bread’s buttered on.”

Craig stood up, heading for the door. He turned back to Nicky.

“Nick, call Harrison’s office and leave a message with Mrs B. Tell her than we’ve had to commandeer more troops from Jack Harris at High Street, and John Maguire at Stranmillis Road. We’ve Hannah Benner and Sylvia Bryce under close protection and we’re running an operation in Ballymena under the lead of the Chief Constable.”

He glanced quickly at his watch. “But don’t call her until six–thirty, that way Harrison will find out too late to interfere.”

***

6.30pm

The meeting with the Chief Constable went on longer than Craig thought it would, and when he emerged the summer sky was darkening. It had gone well after the initial awkwardness. It was never easy informing the boss that there was corruption in his top ranks. But once he’d heard the number of girls missing, his attention had been guaranteed.

Add in that D.N.A. evidence had been stolen and planted at one of the most grotesque murder scenes that any of them had seen. And the fact that investigations indicated the involvement of high-level professionals; from the church, health and police so far. And you had a recipe that would have made any Chief Constable sit up and pay attention.

Craig had set out the framing of Rory McCrae and Tommy Hill and the framing of D.C.S. Harrison. No one would really have been happy if that had been true. Although the CC had allowed himself a small smile, at the idea of Terry Harrison spending time in jail. He’d been a thorn in his side since he was an Inspector and he really hadn’t liked it when he’d passed him in rank.

“Just as he won’t like you making superintendent, Craig. Or when you make A.C.C. in the future.”

Craig had smiled reluctantly at the last comment, letting it hang in the air between them, to be considered another year. For now he had what he needed. Complete discretion to use the C.C.’s authority to control this evening’s operation, and to follow the trail wherever it led.

He called Liam with an update as he left the meeting and then climbed into his aging Audi and gunned the engine, heading for the M2. He was going to Ballymena to take over the stake-out, before Ken McGurk tried to.

Chapter Twenty-One

7pm

Bjorn Ackerman drew hard on his cigarette and exhaled its smoke into the cooling night air. He stood on the hotel’s high stone steps, watching the laughing young women as they teetered on high heels into the restaurant opposite. Sharp tears flew into his eyes thinking of his daughter. Britt should be here, laughing with her friends in the same way.

She had been beautiful, and it wasn’t just a father’s pride that made him think it. Everyone had said so. The blonde baby had grown into a coltish teen and then to a beautiful girl. She had just been entering womanhood, with all that life held for her. And now…

Why had she done it? Was it his fault? Had he really been such a strict father? He shook the questions from his mind. He had years ahead to torture himself with them. He squinted at the darkening sky and wondered where she was now. Was there anywhere after this? He wasn’t religious, but he knew there was something more than this. There had to be. The human race couldn’t be the best that the universe could produce, not when scum like Britt’s killers formed part of it.

He dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his heel, then lifted it to deposit in the bin. Just then a thought occurred to him, and he abandoned it untidily, rushing to his room instead. One minute later a secure phone call started a trail of events that would have consequences thousands of miles away from this small city.

***

10pm

Craig and Liam sat in the car in absolute darkness. There were no neon street lights here, no shop fronts or car head-lamps to break the ink-black night. Craig could barely see his hand but he focused hard and made out the highest third of the house, reaching for the sky beyond the wall.

Nicky had informed Mrs Butler about the extra men, and then dealt with the predicted follow-up call from Terry Harrison. His arrogant shouts could be tolerated, knowing that by next week he would hear that Craig had saved his neck. He’d never thank him of course, but they’d all have the satisfaction of knowing it.

Jake McLean had briefed the Ballymena forces that for the rest of the operation Craig was the Chief Constable. And they were to ignore orders from anyone else. When Ken McGurk’s expected call came through at ten o’clock most of them worked with him. Only one misguided sergeant objected.

“I’ve known A.C.C. McGurk for years and he knows this area like the back of his hand. If he says we should cluster at the front then I agree with him.” Jake didn’t object to the move, only to the reasons behind it.

“We will move to the front, but D.C.I. Craig wants a pursuit team at the back as well. Morgan will make a run for it and we can’t afford to lose him. And you’re to lock your guns, remember that. We need him alive.”

Jake watched the man’s grudging silence knowing that he would call McGurk the first chance he got. Good luck with that. Craig’d had the mobile signals blocked, and he wasn’t getting anywhere near the radio. As far as McGurk knew, the order to stay at the front would be implemented. Let him think Morgan was leaving unprotected from the back. They knew better.

A tap at the window thirty minutes later signalled a ‘go’, and Jake knew that Morgan was on the move. He’d got a call from McGurk saying it was safe to leave. Just as Craig had predicted.

Craig watched Morgan through his infrared glasses as he flitted through the darkness at the back of the house. No door or gate had opened to set him free so there was a tunnel somewhere. They were lucky that its exit had come up in their view - he could have stayed underground for miles.

But they had him. He was speeding through the trees, heading for a dark saloon with its lights off. Craig could see the heat rising from its bonnet. Turning over, ready to go when Morgan reached it.

He gave the signal and two masked officers moved forward from their hiding place amongst the trees. Guns drawn but secured. Shooting was a last resort. And he didn’t trust their misguided loyalty to McGurk. They’d followed him blindly for years. They might obey a shoot-to-kill, without knowing the real reason he was ordering it.

The men were within three strides of Morgan now. Craig could see their heat shadows merging and he wondered how Morgan didn’t feel their breath and turn. But his pounding heart and cramping legs probably filled his mind. All his focus was on the car in front of him and the safety that he thought it represented. If only he’d known he was running to his death.

The car’s occupants wouldn’t care if Morgan died from a bullet before he reached them, or from the weapon that Craig knew that they would have in the car. Except…McGurk needed to know if Morgan had talked before he died.

A heat flare rose from the engine as it readied to move and the passenger door flew open. A man’s hand reached out, poised to pull Morgan in. Just then, the officer behind him leaped forward and Morgan fell to the woodland floor, his hand stretching pathetically for salvation. The second officer shouted ‘stop police’ and a shot rang through the trees, ricocheting off the car door. Another followed, aimed at the passenger’s arm.

The car’s wheels spun as it reversed rapidly, pulling off left towards the A42 and spraying an arc of leaves and mud behind it. Craig radioed to the unmarked car waiting a mile ahead.

“They’re coming towards you. Dark saloon, first three digits T, E, Z. Follow them at a distance. Do not intercept. Repeat, do not intercept.”

He already knew who the saloon’s driver would be, Ken McGurk, but that information was no use on its own. They needed to capture all of them, or there was no hope of finding the girls alive. The unmarked car would follow him for a few miles and then let McGurk believe he’d lost them. He wouldn’t have. They would change the tail and follow for as long as they could. But they needed him to think he was safe. That way he might slip up and lead them to the others.

They’d search the house, although Craig was sure they’d find nothing but forensics. The girls were already somewhere else. But Tim Morgan was going to tell them where they were, and who was above him in the hierarchy. Or Craig would put him into the system and let him take his chances there.

***

“Have you found any information for me, Hamill?”

Joshua Hamill’s voice was hushed, as if he was imparting a state secret in a public place. But then he usually was.

“There is a rumour Ambassador, but it is only a rumour.”

“Well? What is it, man?”

Bjorn Ackerman was used to the knowing wariness of political aides, drip feeding secrets as if they were the last ounce of water in the desert. It had irritated him his whole time in the diplomatic service, but he could see its value. If they wouldn’t tell you things then they would definitely never tell anyone else.

“The G8 summit.”

The title conjured up an image of powerful men with more powerful ideas. Whispering their way through banquets and woodland walks, deciding on the future of the world.

“And?”

“It’s in four days, in Fermanagh.”

“I know it’s in four days, I’m going to it for God’s sake! Just tell me the bloody rumour.”

The aide inhaled sharply, unused to being sworn at. For a moment he considered remonstrating, but then thought better of it, as he did with everything. The Ambassador was normally charm itself but his daughter’s death had hit him hard. Feelings were running high and allowances must be made.

“There is talk of an auction.”

“Auctioning what?”

The aide coughed, embarrassed by the excesses of powerful men. Diplomatic Immunity could breed corruption.

“Of some valuable contraband, that is all I could find out. It could be anything, Ambassador.”

Ackerman had tuned out his aide’s voice on the word contraband. It could be anything, but he knew exactly what it was. Women. It would happen without the summit’s knowledge. Its only role was in bringing powerful men together in one place. But where powerful men gathered, corruption could feed.

“When?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

Ackerman lowered his voice and spoke with an intensity that his aide had never heard before. “I want the location.”

The aide objected timidly as his employer spoke on. “And I want the names, Hamill. All of them. But especially the man at the top. There’s one more thing.”

He paused and Joshua Hamill wondered what more he could possibly ask of him. Then he asked the impossible. “I want to attend.”

***

Midnight.

“I’ve pulled the girls’ post-mortem records Marc. They make grim reading, although not quite as grim as Britt Ackerman’s.”

John rubbed his eyes tiredly and yawned down the phone. He lifted the first file in front of him and flicked it open to the summary. Amanda Wilson, nineteen. Studying French at University and found dead in a skip at the foot of the Cavehill, a mountain of basalt and granite that guarded Belfast. She’d been burned with cigarettes and raped repeatedly. Most of her bones had been broken while she was alive, and finally she’d been suffocated. Most probably with a carrier bag, judging by the plastic shreds that had been found between her teeth.

He opened the second file. Grainne McCrory, an art student, also nineteen. Found in the foliage near Belfast’s Zoo without even an attempt at burial. Her injuries were similar to Amanda Wilson’s. He could see how neither of them had turned up on Davy’s searches. Nothing about their deaths matched Britt Ackerman’s, apart from being raped and murdered. Sadly it was a description that covered hundreds of women’s murders worldwide every year.

Neither girl had Britt Ackerman’s ante-mortem lacerations or strangulation. She had died from exsanguination while the other two girls had been suffocated. Britt had been displayed indoors using religious symbolism, while the others had been left like rubbish, abandoned to the elements. But all of them had been girls with a future ahead of them.

“They weren’t killed by the same man as Britt Ackerman, Marc. Everything about the murders is different to hers, but the same as each other.”

Craig nodded, then realised that John couldn’t see him down the phone. “You’re right. Britt’s death was frenzied and clumsy, as if they didn’t know what they were doing. Ripley killed her, and I doubt he got his hands dirty very often. Someone else killed these two girls, someone who enjoyed it.”

“And took their time. They were burnt repeatedly for at least a week.”

Craig sighed heavily, knowing that it was unlikely they’d pin individual murders to particular men, and give the families a name to hate. But if they could catch the whole group they could argue about that then.

***

Friday. 1.30am

“Who else is part of this?”

Liam brought his fist down on the table in front of Tim Morgan’s face and then leaned in so close that he could hear his heartbeat. Morgan recoiled visibly and Craig unfolded his arms, knowing that after ninety minutes of Liam’s yelling he was almost ready to fold.

Craig leaned forward and saw the sweat running freely off Morgan’s forehead. Then his breathing suddenly became shallow and speeded up. He was deliberately hyperventilating! Knowing he would black out from lack of oxygen to the brain. He was playing for extra time, but the girls didn’t have time. Craig shocked him into stopping with his next words.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you Mr Morgan. We’ll still be here when you wake up.”

He leaned forward slightly, closing the gap between them in artificial warmth.

“You’re looking at taking the fall for everything unless you cooperate. But if you do, then I’ll speak up for you at sentencing. It can make the difference to where you’re housed and for how long.”

Morgan stared at him suspiciously, but Craig saw the rise and fall of his chest slowing as he began to breath normally again. He kept talking, still sitting close.

“Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you’re a very small player in this venture. Whatever it is. Yes?”

Morgan nodded slowly and Liam watched the interaction, smiling inside. There was no one better than Craig at playing ‘good cop’ when he needed something.

“And let’s say that you got in deeper than you meant to, but when you tried to break away they threatened your life?”

Morgan nodded again, a glimmer of hope lighting his eyes. It was all bollocks of course - Morgan had been up to his eyes in the whole thing. But if Craig gave him an out, he might talk. They could worry about the logistics later. The only important thing now was finding the girls.

They’d searched the house but it was empty, just as Craig had predicted. That meant they were keeping the girls somewhere else and he needed to find out where.

Craig could see Morgan calculating. Coerced into helping in fear of his life. Why, he was a big a victim as the women, wasn’t he? Craig knew exactly what his skewed logic was saying and the lies he was telling himself. He disgusted him, but he pushed his distaste down hard, fixing a sympathetic look on his face as if he was talking to a victim. Poor Dr Morgan, you wanted to break away but they threatened your life, didn’t they? Like hell they did.

As Morgan did his sums, Craig was doing his own. They knew about McGurk, but there was a lawyer too and they needed his name. If the girls had all been killed more bodies would have been found. That meant that most of the missing girls might still be alive somewhere. Sold and used, but alive.

He shuddered inwardly, imagining Lucia as one of them and wanted to kill the weak-chinned bastard opposite him with his bare hands. But this wasn’t about what he felt, or the urges he wanted to express. They could wait. Then he’d beat the hell out of his liver with alcohol instead.

He watched Morgan carefully, scrutinising his body language. After a moment Morgan let out a low sigh, and lowered his shoulders just a fraction. That was it, the ‘tell’. He was going to cooperate.

When Morgan spoke his voice was firm and professional, nothing like the pleading whine of earlier. Liam stepped back, shocked at his sudden composure.

“I need some things from you.”

Craig nodded curtly and he went on. “Right now I need a coffee and a cigarette.”

Liam’s hand moved towards the no-smoking sign and Craig stopped it with a glance. Morgan could smoke out of both ears and his nose if he gave them the girls.

“OK, and?”

“I want this signed off by a Judge before I go any further.” He leaned forward slowly, fixing Craig with his eyes. “But not James Dawson. It has to be another Judge.”

Craig knew he’d just given them the lawyer’s name. James Dawson - the man he’d appeared before on Monday. A High Court Judge. Dear God, how high did this go?

He rose quickly to leave. “We’ll get that sorted out immediately. Liam, organise the coffee please and I’ll sort out the Judge. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Liam looked curiously at him, and then nodded, knowing not to ask. He buzzed Jack Harris grudgingly, and ordered coffee and some cigarettes for their ‘guest’.

***

3.30am

Craig had managed to get Judge Standish to sign Morgan’s deal, certain that Dawson would block them at every turn. James Dawson, the youngest Judge in Northern Ireland. The man he’d stood in front of four days before, giving evidence on the Greer case. A kidnapper, rapist and murderer. He shook his head sadly. Absolute power bred absolute corruption.

Once Morgan had his deal he talked well into the night. He named names and told them how long the sales had been going on. Since 2007. First it was just a few girls each year, then more and more, until the floodgates had opened in the last year. Six years when vulnerable women had been kidnapped and sold and killed. Six years when they’d been taken from everything they knew, never to be returned. Tearing their families apart.

The ordinary prostitution they started with in 2003 hadn’t been enough for any of them after a while. They’d moved onto more sinister games in 2007, once they’d set Sylvia Bryce up in her own place. He admitted that they’d been careless in the beginning, not caring whether the girls had families or not until they’d moved to Belfast in 2010. The operation had gone up-market then and they’d really got security conscious. And choosy. Virgins and orphans, and the police and judiciary sewn up. Was it any wonder they’d gone undetected for so long?

Craig gritted his teeth and delved into the questions that no-one wanted to ask, never mind hear the answers to.

“What did you do with them?”

Morgan squinted at him slyly, certain of his safety but not certain enough to admit that he’d played any part in the crimes. “They took them to Headquarters.”

“Headquarters? Where you were hiding?”

Morgan nodded and Liam leaned forward, interrupting.

“We’ve searched it.” His voice grew angrier by the word. “There was nothing there. No girls, nothing.”

No, there’d been nothing there. Nothing except dark basement rooms with sealed doors, the detritus of young women scattered all around them. And a double garage filled with film equipment and internet links, conjuring up images of movies made for audiences far afield. Films that neither of them ever wanted to watch.

Nothing to see but the signs of the girls’ rapid exit. Forced and bound with gaffer tape and rope. Frightened and alone, with only a look into each other’s eyes to provide them with any comfort.

The semen stains told them exactly what had happened in those bedrooms. The straps and chains and blood embedded in the garage floor underlying the movies’ stories. How many girls had died like Amanda Wilson, Grainne McCrory and Britt Ackerman? With the life squeezed or skewered out or them to arouse some man’s lust? Some animal’s lust. Ordinary sex or love wasn’t enough for them. These bastards had to watch women die to get their thrills.

Liam visualised the girls’ terror as he talked, picturing his wife Danni in that place. Finally his temper burst through the dam of his professionalism, and before Craig could stop him he kicked hard at Morgan’s chair, knocking him onto the floor. He stood above him, fists clenched, and bellowed as loudly as Craig had ever heard him. “Where the hell are they, you bastard?”

Craig leaped across the room and grabbed his arm, staring directly into his eyes. The look said everything, but its clearest message was ‘It’s what he wants. Don’t give it to him.’ For a moment the room was still, and then Liam nodded imperceptibly. Craig reached down, lifting up the chair and Morgan, continuing the interview as if the incident had never occurred.

He ignored Morgan’s cries of ‘police brutality’ making his voice as calm as he ever could. His warm mixed accent seemed to sooth Morgan, and with a brief grudging glimpse at Liam he continued, knowing that his deal was contingent on the safe rescue of the girls.

“Who else is involved, Mr Morgan? Where have they taken the girls?”

Morgan tapped another cigarette from the pack and Craig leaned forward, lighting it for him. After a couple of drags’ delay to assert control, he started to speak.

“McGurk. Ken McGurk. And James Dawson, the Judge.”

Liam gave a gasp at the second name but Craig sat unsurprised. Morgan continued. “Ripley you know about.” His face contorted in disgust. “He was an idiot. They should never have brought him in. But he was loaded, and he went to school with Dawson and McGurk. Inbred pricks.”

Craig agreed with him, wondering how much of it would have happened if moral outrage hadn’t been dulled by youthful loyalty. Morgan finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on the table, making Liam’s fist twitch. He was pushing his immunity as far as it would go.

Craig spoke again, more urgently, certain that neither McGurk nor Dawson was the group’s leader. “Who’s above them? They don’t have the power to take this as far as the film equipment indicates. Who else?”

Morgan smirked. “Clever little plod, aren’t you? But you’re right. The locals wouldn’t appreciate the type of movies they made. They moved into the international market. The web made it easy.”

‘They’ again. Craig knew that by the end of the day Morgan would have convinced himself he’d had no part in anything. No case for him to answer. Well, Judge Standish might have been lenient to help them catch the rest, but he hadn’t been that lenient. Morgan was going away for years, albeit in more comfort and for less time than his friends.

The part of the deal that really stuck in Craig’s throat was Morgan’s insistence on not being labelled a sex offender. He knew what happened to them in prison. Craig shrugged inwardly. Word would get out anyway, even if they did send him down for Ripley’s murder.

Craig rubbed his eyes tiredly, certain they had sand in them for real today. He repeated the question more firmly. “Who else, Mr Morgan?”

Morgan shook his head. “I only know the name of one other, but there are three more at the top. The one I know is called Janos. He’s Hungarian nobility, so good luck convicting him in the U.K. courts.”

“Let me worry about that. Tell me about the others.”

“Another was about fifty, with long grey hair and a beard. I never knew his name but Dawson used to call him The Cavalier. I can do you a sketch of him.” He said it as if he was being magnanimous. “The top man never showed his face to anyone but McGurk. He was his right hand man. Number two.”

Liam interjected incredulously. “You’ve got numbers!”

Morgan nodded and then straightened his arm abruptly, showing off his cuff. A silver link shone in the room’s neon light. Craig made out the number six.

His voice grew colder. “Ripley was seven?”

“Yes. McGurk is two, Dawson three, Janos and the Cavalier are four and five.” He laughed. “I can never remember which is which.”

John had been spot on. It was a hierarchy. And the key to everything was its number one.

“Do you have any clue to the leader’s identity? Accent? Height? Anything?”

Morgan went to shake his head, and then stopped as if he remembered something. He debated for a moment whether he should tell them and then he shrugged. Craig knew then that he’d decided to take as many people down with him as possible. There was no honour among murderers.

“He sounded older than us. Probably sixty. And he was English, definitely English. And public school educated. You could tell by his accent and cufflinks.”

“How did you see those? I thought you’d never met him.”

“I didn’t. But he was on the video-link one day and he stretched out his arm. I noticed his cufflinks because they were expensive. And because the rest of us just wore a number.”

“What did they look like?”

“A white metal square. With a crest.”

“Would you recognise the crest again?”

Morgan nodded, smiling at his own cleverness. “Yes. It was heraldic. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

Craig stood up to leave. “Liam, wake up a sketch artist and get them here now. Then take McLean and lift Dawson and McGurk.” He reached into his pocket and handed him some folded paper. “I got warrants for them both earlier.” He gave a small smile. “Judge Standish seemed particularly happy when he signed Dawson’s.”

Liam stared at the papers. The boss was always three steps ahead, something he’d have to learn before he went for D.C.I. That and keeping his temper under control, even when he hated the bastard in front of him.

“I’ll get Davy on to the Heraldry websites first thing. I’m off to find a copy of Debrett’s.”

Morgan spoke again just as Craig reached the door. His tone was sly, and when Craig turned he saw that the look on his face matched. “Don’t you want to hear my last little snippet?”

Craig walked slowly back to the table and loomed over him, with a look that said ‘this had better be important.’

Morgan glanced at the wall clock and smiled. It was five o’clock on Friday morning. “The auction takes place this evening at six. And I’ve no idea where. I heard them refer to the tower but I don’t have a clue where it is. You’ve thirteen hours to find it before the girls disappear forever.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Friday 14th June. 5.30am

Craig walked quietly across the bedroom as the first rays of dawn seeped through the light summer curtains. He’d dropped home to have a shower and change his clothes. As he was leaving, he leaned down to kiss Julia farewell. A small hand reached out from beneath the covers, beckoning him seductively towards her. He sidestepped it deftly. If she pulled him into bed now he would never get out.

“Marco, you haven’t stopped for days. At least let me make you some breakfast.”

“Sorry, pet. I can’t stay. I’ll get something at the office.”

He gazed affectionately at her for a moment and allowed himself the indulgence of ruffling her hair. Her long red curls were covering the white bed-sheets like a rambling rose. Craig leaned over to touch them and her warm floral scent filled the air, its soft notes calming him immediately. He steeled himself hard not to climb in beside her and turned swiftly for the door. “I’ll see you later.”

She called something after him and he heard it just as he closed the door. “When?”

Good question. He answered it quietly in the stairwell, but she didn’t hear.

“Not before this evening. Or until we catch them all.”

***

8am

Craig yawned and gazed out through the window of his office, watching the sun’s rays creep across Belfast Lough. He’d been back since six doing paperwork, now he was sipping a well-earned coffee and dreaming. Before everyone arrived and the phone started ringing.

A sharp rap on the door dragged him back to eight o’clock. He answered it without looking, recognising Liam’s steps. “Come in.”

Liam entered and slumped heavily in a chair, prompting Craig to turn. He looked like death, not even slightly warmed up. His voice croaked with tiredness.

“You look like shit, boss.”

Craig laughed, despite his exhaustion. “And you look like Brad Pitt of course.”

They laughed ruefully, knowing it would only get worse in the next twelve hours.

“Anything more from Morgan?”

“Nope. Slimy bastard.” Liam stared at the ground, momentarily embarrassed. “Thanks for earlier.”

“You mean when I stopped you killing him? Don’t thank me, I was sorry I had to do it, but it would have ruined your career. He would have deserved whatever you did to him.”

Liam raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t like Craig, but this case was plumbing new depths of depravity. And they all had a limit.

“Dawson’s in Stranmillis and McGurk’s in High Street. Which one do you want?”

Craig shook his head. They were missing something and he needed time to go back over the evidence. “Have you got Morgan’s sketch of the top man yet?”

“Aye. It’s not bad.”

“Good. Get it to Davy with the description of the others. I’ll get him working on the crest as soon as he gets in. You take whichever one you choose, Dawson or McGurk, and give Jake first go at the other one. I’ll join you later.”

Liam grinned broadly. “I’ll have McGurk then. I always fancied giving an A.C.C. hell.”

***

Bjorn Ackerman tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair and stared at his mobile as if it would explode at any moment. At eight o’ clock he got his reward. He listened as Hamill whispered.

“It will cost a lot of money, Ambassador.”

“I don’t care. How did you get the information?”

Ackerman could hear his aide smile, pleased with his own performance. “Diplomacy, sir. And I called in a few favours. You might find that you have to host a few more parties than normal this year.”

It would be a small price to pay. Hamill swallowed before speaking again. “Entry is a minimum of five hundred thousand Euros, Ambassador. In cash.” He hesitated. “They…they said it’s redeemable…against the contraband.”

Ackerman’s jaw clenched. Then he thanked God he had the money to do what had to be done. Half a million Euros was less than one month’s interest on his trust fund. He decided to test his aide’s ignorance, to see if it was genuine or not.

“Do you know what the contraband is?” Hamill’s sharp intake of breath said that he didn’t.

“No! And I don’t want to. It’s above my pay grade and it can stay there.”

Ackerman nodded to himself. “Thank you. One last question. Did they ask my name?” Hamill had been briefed to give a false one if asked. But then, even asking would tell him something.

“No, sir. They asked nothing. Just whether you could afford the entrance fee.” He paused, restarting with distaste in his voice. “He said that was the only passport anyone needed.”

If you had money in this world, everything else could be bought.

“Tell your contact I will be there with the money. But tell no one else. No one, do you hear me?”

“Yes sir.”

Hamill would stick to his word. Discretion was his job and whatever the Ambassador was up to, he didn’t want to know. Although he had a nasty feeling he’d be cleaning up the mess afterwards, whether he wanted to know or not.

***

Craig was tapping a pen against his forehead and staring into space when Nicky knocked the door and offered him fresh coffee. He nodded and kept on thinking, but his mind was fogged up. His brain alone wasn’t going to crack this - he needed help. He threw open the door and called Davy’s name across the floor.

Davy hastily dropped the file he was reading and entered Craig’s office a second later. Craig put a coffee on the desk in front of him, then sat down again, falling into silence. Davy thought he was day-dreaming, but a soft tap on the door a minute later showed that he’d been waiting instead. Nicky entered with the conference comm. and nodded that he was through to the lab. A three-way call with John and Davy was as close as Craig could get to a think-tank today.

He leaned forward and pressed the comm. “You’re on, John. Davy’s in the room with me.”

The disembodied voice of John Winter came clearly down the line. “Hi Marc. Hi Davy. What was so urgent that you couldn’t have organised a meeting?”

Craig brought him up to date with Morgan’s interview and Liam and Jake McLean’s whereabouts, finishing with the reason for the rush. “We had twelve hours from six o’clock this morning John.” He shot a look at the clock. It was nearly ten o’clock. “Now we have eight. Once the auction takes place those girls will be lost forever and our trail will go completely cold.”

Davy leaned forward and started shouting into the comm. as if it was a deaf grandparent. It was his first conference-call and Craig smiled as John let out an “Oww” at the other end.

“There’s no need to shout Davy, John can hear you if you speak normally.”

“S…Sorry. I’ve never done this before.”

“What did you want to say, anyway?”

“It’s just… the man above Dawson and McGurk w…wears cufflinks with a crest. Oh, by the way, I think I’ve found it, s…sir. The crest.”

Craig’s eyebrows shot up in admiration. He nodded him on. “W…Well, with a crest, aren’t we really looking for people on two levels?”

John’s voice came through. “Yes, I think you’re right Davy. One group would be members of the aristocracy or royalty…”

Davy finished his thought. “And the others might be high government officials.”

Craig interjected. “Why not both together?”

“House of Lords, Marc?”

Craig nodded and then remembered that John couldn’t see him. “Yes.”

Davy nodded, and then shook his head furiously.

“For the intercom Davy please. Remember John can’t see you.”

“S…Sorry, but no. Look at the date.”

“What?” The word came from the others simultaneously. What date? It was the fourteenth of June. What was so special about that?

“This w…weekend. Remember what’s happening this weekend. And w…who’s going to be here.” He saw Craig’s blank face and added a clue excitedly. “In Fermanagh.”

John’s stunned voice echoed down the line. “God, of course... preparations for the G8 summit. Well done Davy.”

Craig’s heart sank and he knew Davy was right. The G8 was being held at Lough Erne in Fermanagh for the first time ever. He’d been banking on dealing with rich men. Perhaps even powerful men, who would try to buy their way out of everything, with expensive lawyers and back-handers. But not with men whose diplomatic status gave them a passport around the world and immunity from prosecution. But he knew Davy was right. This was the answer.

“That’s w…why they’re having the auction tonight. They’ll all be gathering for the G8 at the weekend. How better to get powerful men in one place without raising questions?”

He was in full flow and Craig interrupted him gently. “That means all the girls for auction are from here. The others would never chance bringing girls into the country to sell. Dawson’s group are supplying the girls and the venue, and the others are bringing the money.”

John interjected urgently. “There’s no way these men will give their true identities, Marc. That means there’s some other entrance criteria.”

They fell silent for a moment and then spoke simultaneously. “Money.” No, more than that. Cash. It was a passport to anywhere and it didn’t carry any risk of identification.

Davy spoke first. “That means two things, s…sir. No names will be given but they’ll also have to hide their I.D.s so they don’t recognise each other. And they’ll have s…smuggled large amounts of cash into the country, breaching currency laws. The import limit’s ten thousand euros. ”

He was right. It could give them an opening if they wanted to perform searches and catch the buyers. Although they’d have miles of red tape to cut through to get permission. But searches would alert the men that they were onto them, then the girls would disappear quickly, perhaps forever. No. It was too big a risk.

“The first sign we’re onto them and they’ll get rid of the girls.” The words hung in the air as they each visualised what that meant.

Then John spoke. “Bjorn Ackerman.”

It was as much as question as a statement and Craig murmured “Yes”. It was what he’d been thinking for hours, not daring to trust his own tired ideas.

“Would he do it, Marc?”

“I think he would. But we’d have to make it watertight. The Chief’s supporting us all the way, but a dead diplomat might be a step too far even for him.”

The new Chief Constable fancied himself a bit of a maverick. More Sweeney than Heartbeat. But sanctioning Ackerman risking his life would be a step to far.

“Dead, sir?”

Craig nodded at Davy, remembering that behind his huge brain there was still a naïve young man. And a civilian whose part in solving their crimes was always at the clean end.

“If they find Ackerman’s undercover, there’s no way they’ll let him out alive.”

“He might want the chance to help, Marc. And surely he’s entitled. These bastards killed his daughter - wouldn’t you want to catch them in his position?”

“I’d w…want to do more than catch them. If I was Mr Ackerman I’d kill them all myself.”

Craig sighed in agreement. That was exactly what he was worried about.

***

Dawson had clammed-up on McLean, just as Craig knew that he would. There was no way a lawyer was ever going to incriminate himself. He just hoped that Liam was having better luck with McGurk. Davy had narrowed the owner of the crest down to three possibilities, and was chasing which of them was coming to the summit. He was also scanning maps for anything that resembled a tower, between Ballymena and Fermanagh.

Tim Morgan was flicking through every photograph of diplomats and government officials that they possessed, trying to identify the minor royal and the bearded man. Now Craig was left with the task of getting Ackerman to volunteer for a dangerous mission, without, as Lucia would say, ‘turning Rambo’.

***

When Bjorn Ackerman finally returned Craig’s call, the diplomat’s tone of voice suggested he viewed the police more as an obstacle than an ally. Craig already knew that he hadn’t been sitting quietly mourning his daughter, judging by the number of probing calls that Fiona Torney and Hannah Benner had received. The police had no right to question them on the calls’ content, but they would only be about one thing. Britt Ackerman’s life in Northern Ireland, and her movements in the days before she got killed.

Craig knew that diplomats heard bullshit all day long from people covering their true motivation with an elegant disguise. So he decided that calling a spade a spade was the only way to go.

“Mr Ackerman, can we meet again?”

Ackerman said nothing, but Craig could hear his thoughts and they weren’t pretty. He tried again, cutting straight to the words that he thought would capture the diplomat’s attention.

“There have been a number of developments in your daughter’s case. They’re leading us to the summit.”

The word summit was deliberately ambiguous, in case the line was tapped. But the slight intake of breath at the other end told Craig that Ackerman understood him perfectly.

He kept going. “We have reason to believe that there is an event planned for this evening.”

“Go on, Mr Craig.”

“I’m sorry but the rest of this has to be face to face. We have no idea who else is on this line.”

Ackerman conceded the logic. “My hotel, thirty minutes. Just us two.”

***

11am.

Ken McGurk sat in High Street’s garishly lit interview room as if he owned the place. In a way, he almost did. True, he’d spent most of his youth in Ballymena, but when he’d come to Belfast three years ago, before Staff College, High Street had been his base. He’d sat in this room countless times, on Liam’s side of the table.

Jack Harris stood behind the two-way mirror watching as the men faced off. He was really disappointed. He’d liked Ken McGurk when he’d worked there. Had drinks with him plenty of times over the years. His face screwed up in disgust. If he’d known what he was doing then, he’d have poisoned his whisky.

He watched as Liam leaned forward, pressing the tape machine on, readying himself for his third try in the past three hours. He had some stamina, and more patience than Jack had given him credit for. He must have wanted to reach over and throttle McGurk, wearing their uniform like it was still his right. He gave up that right the first time he touched a woman’s body against her will.

Liam stared at Ken McGurk coolly, as if he couldn’t name his species. He’d spoken to Craig five minutes before and it had given him a fresh wind. Jake had struck out completely with Dawson, so a lot was riding on his skill.

When he spoke for the tape it was in his usual bass tones, but there was steel in them that Jack hadn’t heard before. McGurk heard it and twitched slightly in his seat. Not a lot, but enough for Liam to register it and spot a gap to widen. He leaned forward and Jack held his breath, willing him to form the right question first time. He did.

“We know you’re running an auction. And we know it’s at six o’clock tonight.” He paused for a few seconds, delivering the next words like a well-aimed blow. “We know that attendees at the G8 summit are going.”

On the word summit McGurk twitched again and Liam knew he had him. He pushed past the movement and accelerated. “We know that you moved the girls from the house in Portglenone Forest earlier this week. And we know you’ve taken them to a location known as the tower. Somewhere between there and the summit venue. We’re going to find it very soon, and every one of your accomplices. We’ve already got James Dawson in custody.”

Jack watched McGurk’s face carefully. With each new piece of information Liam revealed, his eyes had widened further. And while his body remained fairly still, the rapid tapping of his fingers on the table gave away his true level of anxiety.

Liam spelled out the information about the minor royal and the Cavalier, even using his nick-name. By the time he reached the crest belonging to the group’s leader McGurk buckled, knowing that all that was left to him was to negotiate some sort of deal. He had no idea that Morgan had already cut the best one that any of them could get.

***

Craig’s phone rang as he parked his car in Waring Street. He answered it in the hotel foyer, with a random thought that the restaurant looked nice. Maybe once the case was over he would take Julia there. If she was still speaking to him that was.

The husky voice that came through couldn’t have belonged to anyone but Nicky. “Hi Nick. What can I do for you?”

“Sir, I’ve just had a strange call from a Mrs Catherine Dawson. She wants to meet one of the team urgently.”

Craig tightened his grip on the phone. “James Dawson’s wife?”

“Yes. That’s what she said. I thought she was going to complain about his arrest, but she says she has information for you.”

Dawson had given them nothing, but maybe his wife would. His voice took on an urgent tone. “Is Jake around?”

Nicky scanned the squad and saw him hunched over Annette’s desk. She called him over to take the call.

“Jake McLean.”

“It’s Marc Craig. I’ve an important job for you, Jake. The husband may have clammed up on us, but apparently Mrs Dawson’s ready and eager to talk.”

***

Bjorn Ackerman poured himself a cup of tea and listened in silence as Craig laid out his proposition. There was to be an auction that evening. And they believed that the items being auctioned were women. Ackerman gave no sign that he knew what Craig was talking about.

They had three of the auction’s organisers in custody, but there were three more in the hierarchy that they needed to find. Plus the many buyers who would be there from all across the world.

He proposed that Ackerman should go undercover and take him along. Whatever disguise attendees were expected to adopt would cover Craig’s identity as well. And even if they saw his face, the only men who could recognise him were in custody. They would be wired, and back-up would be outside the venue, waiting to move on their word.

When Craig had finished Ackerman lit a cigarette, ignoring the glare of the waiter. He knew he would tell the manager any minute, but it would be worth it for the few hits of nicotine that he would get first. Craig waited through the short ritual for the diplomat’s reply, knowing that if he pushed too hard he would lose him.

A minute later Ackerman stubbed out his smoke, just as the manager rounded the corner. An amused smile twitched at the edge of his mouth as the manager halted at the sight of the dead butt. The Ambassador was a man who took risks in life. Craig was hopeful that it applied to every situation.

He turned and gazed coolly at Craig. “I am already going, Mr Craig.”

Craig nodded. He’d suspected as much when Ackerman hadn’t jumped at his suggestion, certain that it wasn’t from cowardice.

“This way we can be sure of getting all of them, Ambassador.”

“Maybe. But it’s the man at the top that I’m interested in.”

“He’ll be among them. He won’t get away.”

Ackerman stared at his cup thoughtfully before speaking. “There is an entry fee. Half a million euros.” He nearly spat the next words out. “Redeemable against any purchase.”

Craig thought he saw tears in his eyes but he turned away too quickly to be sure. He couldn’t conceive what it was like knowing your child would have been just another purchase.

After a few seconds more silence Ackerman inclined his head, agreeing. “We will do as you suggest Mr Craig. I will pay your entrance fee, providing that you make sure none of them get away.”

“None of them, I can promise you that.” Craig spoke more confidently, now that he had agreement. “Do you have a location yet?”

“No. I was told they will collect me at four o’clock this evening and that the auction starts at six. That is all.”

“Are they expecting you to come from here?”

“Yes. But most summit attendees are booked into a hotel in Fermanagh from this afternoon. Near a place called Kesh.”

“So the venue’s within two hour’s drive from here.”

“And probably closer for the others. I’d suggest half-an-hour from their hotel? I can give you its address. I’m booked in there tomorrow.”

Craig nodded and stood up quickly, draining his coffee.

“Thank you for this, Ambassador. You’ll save lives and help us put these men away.”

Ackerman’s eyes clouded over and Craig knew what he was thinking. It was too late to save Britt.

***

11.30am

Catherine Dawson showed Jake into the drawing room of the large house on the Stranmillis Road. They talked about trivia and the weather for five minutes, as she poured tea and he watched her.

She was a slight woman of around forty, aged far beyond her years. She wore a long skirt and high-necked jumper, despite the sunny day, and Jake went on the alert immediately. He’d seen outfits like that worn by women during his years in domestic abuse. No one could see the bruises. When she spoke her voice had a slight catch that implied wariness, or fear. The tremor in her hand hinted at the latter.

The small talk finally ended and she sat back a little, still perched on the edge of the chair. She was struggling to form a sentence, and he understood why when she finally spoke. There was none of the expected remonstration about her husband’s arrest, nor defence of his innocence, but something altogether much more surprising.

“My husband is an evil man, sergeant. Truly evil.”

McLean sat forward in his chair, listening intently. Afraid to speak in case she stopped and never restarted.

“He is cruel to me and has been since we married. I have bones that have healed badly, because he broke them and refused to let me go to hospital to be treated. Now I can see him about to abuse my daughter in the same way.” Determination filled her eyes and her voice grew louder. “But he won’t do to her what he did to me.”

She nodded to herself as if reinforcing that she was doing the right thing. Then she reached into her pocket and withdrew a key and a piece of paper, holding them out towards him.

“Two years ago I broke into his study when he was out. I found a key and a set of numbers in his desk drawer. I don’t know why but I felt they were important, so I made copies. I think they’re for the safe in his study.”

Jake reached forward and took the proffered items tentatively, still wary that she would suddenly realise she was ending her marriage and pull them back. She read his mind and shook her head, giving him a small smile, the first he’d seen since he’d arrived.

“I won’t change my mind Sergeant McLean. This has been a long time coming. Although to be honest, if he wasn’t in custody I might not have the courage.”

She drew back her jumper at the wrist showing him fresh bruises and confirming his earlier judgment.

“But I think you’ll hold him long enough for me and my daughter to leave here. I must protect her. You understand?”

He nodded. “He won’t get out Mrs Dawson, I can promise you that.”

She nodded, satisfied, and stood up, walking briskly out of the room. “Follow me please.”

“Where are we going?”

“To his study. I’ve waited for two years to see what’s in that safe.”

***

“S…Sir, the crest isn’t English. It’s French. Dates back to the eleventh century. The Normans to be precise.”

Craig was in the lab with John and he placed his phone on the desk, putting Davy on speaker.

“Who does it trace to?”

“Unfortunately it could be three of the men going to the summit. There’s a link to all of them. I’m using the accent to narrow it to those educated in English public schools.”

John shook his head. “Lots of people around the world learn R.P., Davy”

“R.P? W…What’s that?”

“Received pronunciation. It’s the formal English that used to be heard on the BBC, and in 1940’s black and white movies. There are schools all over the world that still teach it. India, the Middle East…”

Craig interrupted. “Morgan said the leader was about sixty. So go back and cross-reference with countries where R.P. was taught fifty years ago please. What about the tower?”

“I’m looking for places that are isolated and fortified within two hour’s drive of The Merchant, and about thirty minutes’ from the hotel in Kesh. But it’s s…slow going. It means cross-referencing maps, land registry and aerial views. I’ll keep on it.”

“We need to find it before five, Davy. The men have to be in position long before this goes down. Keep going, and tell Nicky I’ll be back at the squad soon. Thanks.” He went to cut the call when Liam’s voice boomed through.

“Hang on a minute boss, Jake’s got something for you.”

Jake McLean came on breathlessly and Craig knew he had something to be excited about. “Sir, Mrs Dawson opened her husband’s safe for me.”

“Did you get a warrant, Jake?” The last thing they needed was inadmissible evidence because of sloppy procedure.

“No sir, it was in her home so she could claim ownership. I checked with the lawyers before she opened it and they said that we didn’t need one.”

“OK, good. What did you find?”

“Everything. Well, lots of things. I’m not sure they all link to the case, or how, but that might become obvious later. But there was a notebook.”

Craig leaned closer to the phone. “What was in it?” He closed his eyes willing it to lead them to the girls.

“It looks like code sir. Numbers and letters. There are six rows of them. Then on the back page there’s another set. Just letters this time.” He swallowed and Craig’s worst fears were realised. “There are nearly a hundred rows.”

The line went quiet and no one spoke at either end. John broke the silence, saying what they were all thinking. “One hundred girls. They’ve kidnapped one hundred girls in six years. All the girls in Bryce’s files.”

The enormity of what they’d stumbled on hit Craig and he felt like throwing up. But he couldn’t let feelings slow them down. “Jake, get copies that to Davy, Karen and any other analyst you can get your hands on.”

John pointed to himself.

“And to Drs Winter and Marsham please. We need anyone with an analytic brain and a computer working on this.”

“But what are they, sir?”

Liam’s bass vibrated the phone. “Aye, what the hell are they boss? They just look like PIN numbers gone mad.”

“You’re not far off it Liam. I can’t be certain but I think the six could be the coordinates of six locations that they move the girls between.”

“That would fit with something McGurk said. He said he’d give us the venue for the auction except that they might change it at the last moment. They must have a choice of places.”

“If we assume that they’re venues then we have a starting point to crack the code.”

“How, sir?”

“We already have one of them – the house Morgan ran to. The address or GPS coordinates for that should give you a way in.” His voice quieted. “The other list will be the girl’s names, I’m sure of it. But don’t assume that the code is the same, Davy. It could be completely different.

Remember you’ve got Amanda Wilson and Grainne McCrory’s names already. They should be amongst the hundred on that list. So that might help. Liam, see if The Met can help out with this. We need to crack both codes quickly or these bastards could get away.”

***

Annette made a coffee and took it through to the small living room, finally getting angry after five days of feeling numb. When Pete had first started to tell her how he was feeling, she’d been so shocked that she hadn’t heard the end of the sentence. Focusing on the five words “I think we should separate” instead. They were all that she’d heard of his five minute monologue, explaining and justifying his choice.

She’d been so surprised that she hadn’t even asked why. Just watched his lips move unhearing, like he was a muted TV presenter. She hadn’t cried or moved, just stared at him uncomprehendingly, while thinking she should collect the kids from school, something her teenagers had stopped her doing years before.

It had gone on for days, the shock and conversations, until she finally heard the words properly and had questions to ask. Why? was the first. And the second, who?

He denied that there was another woman, but then people did, didn’t they? Believing that if they denied it their partner would believe them, as if it was only their words that people heard.

As if ‘no, there’s no-one else’ meant that there wasn’t. Except that it didn’t mean that. ‘No’ said with a gaze that was too long or with a quick glance away, meant ‘yes, there is someone else’. I just don’t want you to know that there is.

Why? Because I don’t want to hurt you. As if leaving without someone else to go to will hurt me any less. Or ‘no’, because I might want to come back, and if you find out there’s another woman you might never let me. And I want that option open to me. Forever. Regardless if it means you put your life on hold.

That only left ‘why?’

His reply was unambiguous. Your job, Annette. Your job. But she’d always worked long hours, ever since they’d met. As a nurse and now as a detective. Why now?

Because I’m tired of coming last behind the job and the kids. Because when you were a nurse you seemed softer somehow, less driven. Translation -because I’m a selfish bastard and I need to be the centre of a woman’s world again.

Now she was angry. After five days of his self-pitying justification she’d finally had enough.

She’d sat on her ambition to join the police for years when the kids were little, and refused to go for promotion when she had joined. First to work hours that fitted around them, and then to stop Pete feeling threatened. Now she finally knew that she was good the job, good enough to become an Inspector. And she was damned if he was going to rain on her parade.

She sipped at her coffee and formulated a plan. When he came in from work she would give him an ultimatum. Her, with all the positives and negatives that came from being married to a police Inspector. Or his bimbo, with all that went with that. He could make his choice. She’d already made hers.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Craig had been expecting one of their phones to ring. He’d just prayed that it was Morgan’s or McGurk’s when it did. Dawson would never co-operate, but the other two were more pragmatic. They knew that their bargaining chips were limited and that Craig held all the power.

When the call finally came it came to McGurk, as befitted the hierarchy’s second in command. Jack Harris fast-paged Craig and listened in remotely, knowing McGurk was being watched closely as he talked. One wrong word and any hope that he had of a deal went down the drain. The only thing they were offering him was the protection wing inside, but for a police-officer facing a long stretch that could mean the difference between life and death.

McGurk kept the conversation general until Craig was on the line, turning it to the auction on Jack’s nod.

“Are we still on for the tower?”

“Perhaps. It depends how well you’re controlling your troops.”

“Don’t you worry about my men. They’ll do exactly what they’re told.” Jack had to admire McGurk’s self-delusion. He sounded as if he still had the power to make it true.

“Have you heard from three and six? They were supposed to check in an hour ago.”

“We had to dispose of six, he was becoming a liability. Three was called to court on something urgent.”

Jack watched McGurk lie with ease - if he hadn’t known he was he could never have told. His mind went back to his time at High Street, wondering how many times the man had lied to him.

McGurk tried to get the tower’s location but the caller gave nothing away. Finally he seemed satisfied that things were on-track and signed off. McGurk turned to Jack challengingly. He’d kept his side of the bargain, now it was their turn.

Craig exited the call, more relieved than he’d expected. They hadn’t managed to get the venue but at least the event was going ahead, something that wouldn’t have happened if McGurk had given them away. They were still in with a chance of saving some lives.

***

Friday 14th June: 12.30pm

Until the codes were cracked they had no venue, only what they found out before six o’clock. That left five-and-a-half hours to work out every option and cover them all.

Craig’s only way in was with the Ambassador. He was certain their driver would hood them to conceal the route; it was what he would have done. Normal trackers were off the menu too. They would scan them for metal before they got into the car. Most of their cover would come from the undercover cars tailing, and the team covering the venue, if it was on the coded list.

It wasn’t enough to catch all the men who would be attending, and protect the girls. Craig phoned the Chief Constable and ended the call, assured of back-up from every armed force in the north. All they were waiting for was the location. But, so far, all they had was an arc based on the distance from two hotels, and a list of six codes.

Allowing for a sixty mph average on the motorway, it would be a maximum of thirty miles from the hotel in Kesh and one hundred and twenty from The Merchant. They had to believe that the tower wasn’t a nickname but a description. Craig knew there would be no trace on Land Registry, so they were looking for an invisible venue somewhere in large arc. It was a near impossible task.

Davy was narrowing the list as best he could, but unless the locations were on Land Registry, they were limited to local knowledge and aerial photography for their clues. Craig stared at the coded list, frustrated. It made no bloody sense. The buzz of the desk phone dragged him from his thoughts.

“Yes.”

His voice sounded despairing, even to him. He had to watch that. The last thing the others needed was to see him losing hope. He took a deep breath and started again.

“Good afternoon, D.C.I. Craig.”

He didn’t know the voice on the other end but the accent was pure cockney. If he’d heard it on any other day it would have made him nostalgic for London. He urged the caller on.

“Who is this?”

“That’s not important and you can’t trace this call. Just listen. The bastard you want is called James Dawson. He’s a Judge.”

“We already have him.”

There was a brief pause and Craig could almost hear the man nodding.

“But do you know where they meet?”

Craig gripped the phone hard, afraid to believe his ears. “Do you?”

“I think it’s in Conagher Forest, near Enniskillen. An old round tower. That’s all I can give you.”

Craig sat rigid, not trusting his ears. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Dawson’s an evil bastard; I’ve known it for years. I’ve been in front of him for burglary a load of times. Now he threatens to stitch me up every time he wants something done. I only did the woman’s home because he made me.”

He stopped for a moment. When he restarted his voice was full of disgust. “I saw the girls’ photos at her house and put two and two together. I have a daughter that age. So I followed Dawson. He went to Conagher on Wednesday night. They must meet there.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m not scum like them.”

The phone dropped abruptly and Craig was out of the room like an Olympic sprinter.

“Davy, put this address into the list and see if it gets you any further with the code. Karen, check the location and see where it is, then Liam, get onto the local station and see if they know it. If not, get them to check it out.”

They stared at him, the staccato speed of his delivery surprising them all. Liam was the first to ask. “Where did this come from boss?”

“A tip-off. It might be nothing but we have to check it out. So go on, check it.”

He raced for the lift, heading for the I.T. section to see if they could pull anything from the call. There was nothing. The caller had covered their tracks well. By the time he re-entered the squad the place was buzzing.

Davy rushed over with a map in his hand and Craig beckoned him into his office. He spread it out on the desk indicating six points, nearly falling over the desk in his eagerness.

“W…when I fed it into the computer the code started to unravel.” He pointed to one of the markers. “That’s where Morgan hid out in the woods.” He slid his finger slowly towards the south west corner of the province and stopped at another mark. “And that’s the address you were just given.”

He smiled at Craig triumphantly. “It’s within thirty minutes’ drive of the G8 venue.”

The call had been genuine, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still a bluff. It could be a set-up and the bastards could switch to another venue at the last minute.

“How many of the venues are within thirty minutes of Kesh, Davy?”

“Three of them. The fourth is the house that we already know about and the fifth and sixth are here in Belfast.” He pointed to the house in Marrion Park and another at the top end of the Crumlin Road.

Craig thought for a minute. “Does this help with the other code?”

Davy shook his head. “No. We’ve put Amanda Wilson and Grainne McCrory’s names in, but nothing yet. W…We’ll keep going, but at least we might prevent more names being added to the list.”

Craig patted him on the shoulder, then he opened the door and called Liam and Jake in for an update. He tasked them with alerting the other forces and getting men with warrants in place at each of the venues. They would concentrate armed forces on the three venues near Kesh, but any of the addresses could be used for remote viewing.

Just as they were wrapping up Karen knocked the door. She was smiling and it suited her.

“I’ve found your tower, and it really is a tower. An Irish round tower to be precise, derelict since the 9th Century according to the records. It’s not on the map and there’s no record of them even having a post code. As far as the government’s concerned the place doesn’t even exist.”

She was holding two rolls of paper. The first was brightly coloured and Craig recognised it as an aerial photograph. She indicated the desk for permission to spread it out and he nodded. She laid it over Davy’s map, placing each of their hands at a corner to prevent it curling up.

“There.” Her finger hovered six inches above the coloured image, pointing to a white mark that looked like artefact. Craig peered closely at. It was a perfect circle set within another one.

“The inner ring is the tower. The outer ring is a recent addition. Irish round towers didn’t have outer walls, or moats.”

“Who owns it?”

“No idea. There’s some vague reference to a company in the records. But I’ve never heard of them.”

Davy glanced at her quickly. “W…What company?”

She shook her head slowly, as if trying to remember. “I think it was called Armour or something like that.”

“Arim?”

“Yes. That was it. How did you know?”

Davy turned to Craig. “That’s the company that owns the houses in Marrion. I traced it back to the Cayman Islands then lost it.”

“It’s another link between the tower and this bunch of animals, Davy. That’ll do us for now.”

He noticed the roll Karen was holding in her other hand. “What’s that one?”

She stared at it vaguely and then remembered. “An infrared photograph.”

“When was it taken?”

“Twenty minutes ago.” She smiled sheepishly. “My boyfriend Dougie’s on the helicopter detail and I knew they were flying today, running a practice. So when we got the tip I asked them to pop over with their thermal imager.”

Craig stared at her, astonished. It must have cost a fortune! For a second he wondered how they’d explain the detour, then he shrugged. As long as it didn’t end up on his tab he didn’t care.

She spread the image out and Liam gasped as she stood back, revealing the clear signs of heat generating from the supposedly derelict tower. A lot of heat. Amongst the coloured mass Craig could make out the shape of bodies, at least fifty of them. They were clustered together on the lowest floor of the building. Single figures were dotted between the two circles, their heat patterns indicating that they were on different levels. Guards.

Karen waved her hand above the photograph, pointing at the general glow.

“Dougie says that this shows the background warmth in the building. You know, like central heating.” Then she pointed to the group of bodies. “He said that bit shows a lot of people in a small space. About five floors down.” A basement. Or a dungeon.

She indicated the patrolling guards. “And these are single figures.” She turned to Craig smugly. He was gawping at her and the picture in turn. “It means something, doesn’t it, sir?”

Yes, it meant something. It meant that this was definitely tonight’s venue. The girls were being held together in a small space, waiting to be sold. And there were guards, probably armed, in the grounds. He could have hugged her. But instead he smiled and added her to the list he’d given Nicky.

***

4pm

The dark Mercedes pulled up on Waring Street and waited; its engine purring softly. Craig glanced out of the hotel window at the sound. He exchanged a look with Ackerman and they walked calmly down the stone staircase.

No one was visible through the car’s tinted windows, and for one brief moment Craig thought how easy it would be to shoot them and drive off, unknown. Then the rear door opened and a man’s immaculately manicured hand beckoned them in. They entered without a word, Craig first, to keep Ackerman away from their companion. He didn’t trust the Ambassador’s restraint.

The car pulled off, heading slowly for High Street and the M1 motorway. The driver needn’t have worried about speeding. Traffic division had been briefed to stay back, no matter how fast they drove. Their business was too important to allow anything to impede it.

Craig could see the man beside him in his peripheral vision. He wore an Armani suit and his lean face was obscured by a black hood. He was sleek; there was no other word for it. Groomed to within an inch of his self-indulged life. James Bond without the integrity. He fitted with Craig’s image of the night that lay ahead and vindicated their expensive choice of clothes.

When they reached the Dunbar Link the car pulled in and stopped abruptly. The tinted divide between them and their driver slid down, and without turning round he handed them hoods to match their companion’s. They knew what they had to do. As Craig put his on he sent up a prayer that Jake had picked them up on High Street. And that the helicopter overhead was watching their back. If all else failed Liam only had three destinations to choose from. And that would narrow as they drove. The tower was still the most likely.

The hoods were followed by a metal detecting wand and their driver waited coolly as they scanned themselves from head to toe. Once he was satisfied the car continued, and Craig felt the road change from rough street to smooth motorway. The background noise of the city becoming the wind of a faster road. They sat back, saying nothing, for the journey that would take a father straight to his daughter’s killers.

***

6pm. Fermanagh.

The men gathered quietly in the circular hall, surveying their elegant surroundings. Craig watched them through the holes in his newly donned eye-mask. Some wore tuxedoes; others were sheathed in Armani or D&G. All of them smelled of wealth and moral bankruptcy. He tugged slightly at his Armani jacket, resurrected from his London wardrobe for the occasion. The movement disguised his tap on the fibre-glass microphone stitched into its lining, evading the metal searches in the car. A tap that gave Liam the signal they were in the right place. He would pull back all but skeleton troops at the other locations and focus their efforts here.

Craig turned to Bjorn Ackerman and saw his clenched jaw and the pallor of his face, as he gazed murderously at the evil around him. Evil walking, drinking and laughing without a care. Or a thought for the girls on the receiving end of its depraved need.

Craig moved to face him, smiling brightly for their audience. He fixed Ackerman’s eyes intensely, forcing them to meet his. His heart was full of sympathy for the father in front of him, but he had to think of the other daughters locked-up beneath their feet. Finally Ackerman nodded and Craig knew that he was back.

He scanned the hall quickly. It was full of men, over one hundred of them. There wasn’t a woman in sight. The venue was arranged like a fashion show, with an elevated catwalk in the centre and chairs on either side for the best view. As he looked around, the ceiling lights dimmed, and candles that no one had noticed being lit flickered into life, casting a medieval glow across the room. He wasn’t fond of the effect outside the bedroom, too many dark places for predators to hide.

The crowd of men parted with a drama that warranted a fanfare, and Craig turned to find the movement’s source. The room fell silent as a group of black-shirted young men entered. The machine pistols they carried leaving no-one in doubt that lives would be forfeit if anyone threatened their charge.

A small group of men entered. They wore tuxedoes and had the tanned, well-cared-for look of extreme wealth, inherited or earned. They wore the same masks as the rest but Craig noticed a discrete silver badge on each of their lapels. At their head was a man of around sixty. His bearing said he was the leader more loudly than any title.

Craig turned back to the room – no faces but the black-shirted men’s were uncovered. Everyone else was too important to have their identity known, or thought they were. He stared hard at the small group again and recognised the young Royal and the bearded man from Morgan’s descriptions. He had no doubt that Morgan, McGurk and Dawson would have been standing with them, had they not all been resting at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

The leader turned to the crowd and raised a hand to still them. He was tall and tanned and his clothes whispered money and generations of breeding, none of it good. As he silenced them his cuff fell back to reveal the crested links that Morgan had described.

He said nothing for a full minute and then, when he was sure they’d accepted the import of the occasion, he spoke. As the first word left his mouth Craig recognised his accent. It wasn’t English. It hailed from the French/Italian border. He’d grown up with cousins whose accents were the same. The man’s R.P. was perfect, and Craig could see how someone could mistake him for English born and bred. But he wasn’t.

His cufflinks caught the light, glinting with status, and Craig saw Ackerman nod imperceptibly. He recognised the crest! He stored the information and turned towards the group, watching as others deferred to the man. He spoke slowly, in an incongruously warm voice, rallying them for the evening’s entertainment like a sinister compere.

“Welcome gentlemen. We have a wonderful night planned for you and I’m sure you won’t be disappointed. All of the books are first editions, none are well-known, and many have the best possible origins. These factors are reflected in their reserve prices.”

Craig’s mouth filled with bile as he realised that the man was using euphemisms to refer to the girls. First editions: virgins. None well-known: orphans. And the best possible origins meant that these girls were intelligent and from good families. Families who believed they were dead because the girls had lied to get the job. Thank God they’d had the sense to keep up the pretence where it was one. Britt Ackerman had been found out and had died because of it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden movement, as the man spread his arms wide and opened the auction with the words. “Welcome to the Library Club.”

As the men laughed and toasted each other Craig turned to check on Bjorn Ackerman. He was staring at the leader with undisguised venom and Craig turned him quickly towards him, changing his line of sight.

He hissed “focus” under his breath, no time for sympathy or understanding. Then he took a risk that could easily have backfired. “For Britt’s sake.” It worked. Ackerman startled suddenly and dropped his gaze, nodding. He would have time for anger later.

After a few minutes more mingling they were beckoned to their seats and given a gilded brochure, outlining the evening’s items for sale.

***

Liam rubbed his eyes tiredly, trying to remember the last time that he’d eaten. He couldn’t. He shrugged and turned back towards his target, adjusting his night-vision glasses.

It was a starry night but the shadow of the tower shut out what overhead light there was. He gazed up, extending his neck back as far as he could. He could just make out Orion. He smiled and told himself that he’d take the kids camping when they were older. He’d teach them the constellations, just like Patrick Mower had taught him.

He turned to look around, only catching the occasional squirrel’s movement through his lens. Then he took off the glasses and rubbed his face again, settling down for a long night.

***

The young girl stood alone and naked on the catwalk, sobbing and blinking into the candlelight. Her pale face was filled with terror, and Craig wanted to jump up and wrap her in his jacket. Tell her it would be OK and return her to whoever loved her. But he couldn’t. It would blow the operation and the girls below her would die. The guards would have been briefed to kill them all.

The murmuring of the audience had risen as she’d entered and Craig shut out the callous words surrounding him. He would get his revenge later, when he had each of them in an interview room. The microphone whistled loudly and their host stood, holding a page of notes in his hand. He nodded to the back of the room and a spotlight flooded the catwalk, highlighting the girl’s vulnerability. She recoiled, trembling, trying futilely to cover her nakedness with her hands.

“Gentlemen, we have lot number one. The reserve price is one million euros. Today’s sterling and dollar rate will apply. The lot is eighteen years old, a first edition and inherited from an excellent family. Who will start the bidding?”

Craig watched the girl protectively as the bids rose. She stared around her with the same frozen awareness he’d seen in Sylvia Bryce. How long since they’d kidnapped her? And what had the scum done to her since then?

The bidding reached two million and then slowed, and he turned to see who’d made the final bid. It was an elderly man, seated in the front row opposite. He basked in his moment’s glory, the look on his aging face saying he got more gratification from his peer’s admiration than from the girl in front of him. Then the gavel fell and the girl was his.

The auctioneer nodded the man forward, rewarding his purchase with a closer inspection of the goods. He struggled onto the catwalk and waddled slowly towards the girl. His face was old and wrinkled and his body corpulent with fat. The signs of a badly done hair transplant showed in the spotlight. He approached her with a lascivious look and grabbed her wrists roughly, turning her around to show his new ‘book’ to his disappointed opponents. After a few cheers from the crowd their host quieted them again.

“All lots are held until after the auction.”

The old man’s face fell realising he’d have to curb his excesses for another while. The compere motioned him to return to his seat and turned back to his notes, signalling for the girl to be removed and the next lot to be brought through.

Craig nodded at Ackerman to stay where he was and squeezed past him, walking towards the guard at the back of the room. He raised his voice slightly as the increase in volume indicated another girl had been brought in.

“Could you tell me where the bathroom is?”

The young man squinted at him suspiciously and then shrugged, indicating left with his head. He carried his machine-pistol ready, with the safety-catch off. Craig knew he would use it at the first sign of trouble, and probably enjoy it. The look he was giving the wealthy audience was one of pure envy.

Craig walked quickly into the bathroom and entered a cubicle, removing his jacket. He hung it on the door and tore swiftly through the lining, exposing the microphone and whispering. “Liam.”

Liam jerked his attention from the squirrel in front of him and sat forward urgently, grabbing at his receiver. “Here, boss.”

Craig outlined the room’s lay-out and what they were using it for. Then he gave him exact positions for the armed guards, and his best guess at where the girls were being held. One guard brought up the girls and he reckoned on one more at the room where they were being held. It was a calculated guess and the risks were high. Although not as high as a Waco style stand-off.

He signed off and washed his hands, just in case the guard was listening outside the door. Then he re-entered the auction with a nod to Bjorn Ackerman, knowing that Liam would do whatever had to be done.

***

Armed response had been outside the tower for hours; plans made and every contingency outlined. Now Craig’s information would focus their attack. The commander nodded to Liam and the armed men moved forward in unison, covering every exit. Once Craig gave the ‘go’ they only had a few seconds to get in, disable the guards and take charge of the room. Before the men inside got away, or worse, harmed the girls.

Liam’s palms were sweating. But not from fear, from excitement. This was real policing. Not paper-pushing and form filling, but this. Saving the victims and putting the scum away for good. Fingers crossed.

***

Twenty minutes and two more sales later the atmosphere in the room had palpably relaxed. The men were getting drunk and carelessly exchanging names, no matter how often their host reminded them not to. One group of young bucks were tossing dice in a side-bet, and an elderly man wearing tails was snoozing in the corner - the price of too much brandy. The candles had burnt out minutes before, and the only remaining light came from the single spot focused on the catwalk. It was time.

Craig strolled to the back of the room for a drink, passing the young guard on his way. He was standing arms folded now, leching at the girls. His gun was pointed towards the ground, safety on. Certain that the room was no threat.

Craig tested the water, offering him a drink. He shook his head smiling “More than my job’s worth.” But his earlier wariness was gone and he turned lecherously back to the catwalk, foolishly turning his back.

Craig moved quickly. He tapped hard on the microphone twice to give Liam the signal, then swooped down, pulling the spotlight’s plug from the wall.

The guard swung round just as the room plunged into darkness, and Craig’s fist connected hard with his jaw, producing a satisfying crack. The room was pitch-black except for the flickers of a few mobile phones. Then Craig shouted, “Stop, police” and there was instant chaos.

Chairs toppled in the rush of people scrambling for the doors. Shots spewed randomly across the room as the guards sprang into action, firing at unseen targets. Suddenly three loud bangs tore through the room and the door split in two. Liam’s men entered, amid shouts of “Halt! Armed police.”

Bjorn Ackerman saw his chance in the darkness. Once Craig had headed for the drinks table he’d focused on the host and lifted his wine-glass, knowing exactly what was going to happen next. As the lights went down he launched himself across the catwalk, knocking the girl on it to one side and lunging for the auctioneer. He smashed the glass and drew his arm back, swinging down hard with its remnants and ripping the flesh away from the man’s right arm. He gripped him hard, determined not to let go. This was the leader. The man really responsible for his daughter’s death.

Armed police swarmed into the hall, kicking chairs out of their way. Then white light flooded the room, blinding everyone. Ackerman loosened his grip for a second, shocked. Just for a second, but it was enough for the man to flee. Ackerman blinked furiously. He couldn’t see him but the exits were blocked - there was no way he could escape. And he’d marked him, he was sure of that. He would find him later.

As Craig’s eyes adjusted to the glare he made out Liam’s tall shape across the room and picked his way through the wreckage towards him. Tactical support had disabled the guards, but not without shots being fired. They’d find out how many later. Judging by the blood on the floor it had been more than one.

He reached Liam and nodded his thanks. “Good job. Any casualties on our side?”

“A few cuts and bruises, but otherwise no.” Liam squinted at Craig. “You OK?”

Craig smiled and gazed down at his filthy suit - he’d knocked over the drinks table in the dark. “Nothing that a bit of dry cleaning can’t cure. Where’s Ackerman?”

Liam indicated some chairs in the corner where Bjorn Ackerman was slumped, with his head bowed.

Craig walked over to him. “Are you all right, Ambassador?”

Ackerman didn’t look at him, just stared into space. As the girls were led past, draped in blankets, Craig knew that he was thinking of Britt. Finally he croaked. “I cut him. On the arm.”

Craig stared at him, puzzled for a second, and then realised he was referring to the host. “What! With what?” They’d been searched for knives when they’d arrived.

Ackerman held up the bloodied wine glass and Craig smiled at his ingenuity. The blood could be useful for forensics.

“I got to him just as the lights went out. It was definitely him that I stabbed, and when you find the cut you’ll be able to I.D. him.”

Craig nodded. He watched the men being rounded up - none of them masked now. Their host must have removed his to mingle with the crowd. Without it he could pretend he was just a buyer, instead of the mastermind organising the whole thing. It would have given his barristers reasonable doubt to play with, but Ackerman’s quick thinking had removed that defence.

Craig put his hand on the other man’s shoulder gratefully. But Ackerman’s lack of response told him that finding his daughter’s killer was no comfort for losing her.

***

Within thirty minutes they had the men corralled and the girls in ambulances heading for St Marys’ Hospital. Liam had brought John in, to coordinate the medical operation, and he’d certified the girls fit to travel. They were to be cared-for in one place - easier to guard and to debrief. John had pulled some strings with the hospital.

Craig scanned the large hall for security, nodding in approval at Liam’s posting of armed men at every door. Then he scanned the crowd of men with undisguised disgust. Their ages ranged from thirty to seventy but they had two things in common. Too much money and no conscience. He nodded to Liam and his loud bass boomed out, about to be used to best effect. “Roll your sleeves up.”

Most of the men obeyed meekly, a few even wiping tears from their faces. Craig’s heart was stone. They could cry until hell froze over for all the pity he felt. The more arrogant ones squinted defiantly and Liam stepped towards them threateningly.

“Pull your sleeves up, or I’ll pull them up for you. And you won’t like that, trust me.”

They grudgingly obeyed and Craig scanned their sullen faces, particularly the older ones, imagining how they’d look wearing a mask. They stood, arms bared, and Craig beckoned Bjorn Ackerman across to examine them one by one. At the end of the line he turned to Craig, shocked, but Craig already knew. No-one had blood on their arms, or anywhere else that he could see. The auctioneer had got away.

Without warning, Ackerman fell to his knees and doubled up as if he was in pain. His grief for his daughter had only been stemmed by his belief that he’d got the leader. Now he howled like a dying animal, chilling everyone in the room. Craig felt the sound on a visceral level, imagining how he’d feel if it was a woman he loved. He wanted to grab one of the guards’ rifles and shoot every man in the group.

Liam saw his glance towards the guns and stepped forward, ready to move. Craig’s eyes were wild, like he’d never seen them before. In that split second Liam knew that he could kill all of them and not feel any guilt.

Craig stared at him, eyes burning, while everyone in the room watched the tableau. Then the moment passed and he turned abruptly, hunkering down beside Bjorn Ackerman. He rested a hand on his back, breaking his isolation then murmured a promise that they would find the leader, or pull Northern Ireland apart trying.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Saturday

Craig swung his chair around and gazed out the window at the Lagan. He was nursing a whisky in his bruised hand. They weren’t supposed to drink at work but the Chief had sent a bottle across as a thank you. And who was he to exercise restraint when he had permission not to?

The women were being cared for at St Marys, under armed guard. It wasn’t likely the auctioneer would come looking for them, but you never could tell. And there could be others out there besides him.

One by one the girls were taking back the identities that had been stripped from them by months of brutality. The room they’d been kept in had beds eight deep and three high, packing two dozen in at any one time. With no toileting or space to wash, they were dirty and broken and weak. Too weak to fight - exactly how their captors had wanted them. Break the body and you break the will. A technique used by torturers for centuries.

A few of the newer girls could still speak, but those who’d been there for months were silent. Too traumatised to even give their names. The process of identification would be slow, but hopefully, with kindness, they would regain their voices. Helped by their families claiming them, and the knowledge that they would never be tortured again.

The men were singing like Pavarotti to save what was left of their asses. Craig hoped it would do them no good in court. Only a prison sentence could begin to pay for what they’d done. Interpol would follow the trail of traded girls and snuff movies across borders, hoping not to find more corpses at the end of it. But they all knew that Britt Ackerman wouldn’t be the only dead daughter they’d discover.

Davy and John had started the process of identifying the missing; the briefing room was a meshwork of D.N.A. and prints. If they could match them with anyone known to be dead, then they could help the search for the living.

Craig gazed out over the river, tapping his glass in time to a Snow Patrol track playing softly in the background. The sky outside was dull and cold, the only movement was a gull swooping towards the water in search of food. He watched the grey waves bob up and down in the wind, occasional gusts whipping up white froth, making the Lagan look like a drab cappuccino.

The rhythm hypnotised him so that the ring of his desk phone went unheard. Everything but Gary Lightbody’s voice faded into the background. Nicky tapped the door urgently and when he didn’t answer she opened it, tapping his shoulder instead. “Sir, the Chief Constable’s on the line.”

She lifted his desk phone and handed it to him, half-smiling at the whisky.

Craig shook himself from his reverie and listened, ending the call with a frustrated, “Sir.” He wondered how he could tell Bjorn Ackerman what he’d just heard.

***

They’d talked long into the night but finally fell into bed, forced to share one by the lack of a spare bedroom and Annette’s concern for the children. Any right Pete had to worry about them had been lost the moment he’d had an affair.

Annette woke up, her head heavy from lack of sleep, and stumbled sleepily into the shower, dreading another day spent talking. When she re-entered the bedroom Pete was already dressed, with his car-keys in his hand. She knew she should be frightened that he was leaving for good, but she was five days past fear and twenty-four hours past caring. So she asked the question.

“Are you leaving?”

He gazed at her, knowing exactly what she meant but using the question’s ambiguity for time to pause. Annette scrutinised his face, waiting for an answer. His hair was standing on end like it had done when he was young, and for a moment she could see the man that she’d fallen in love with. A wave of affection washed over her and she was shocked by its force. She still loved him despite what he’d done, even though she’d hated him for days.

He nodded in reply to her question and then saw the look of shock that crossed her face, adding hastily. “I’m going to tell her it’s over.” His face softened. “And that I love you too much to ever leave.”

As he said it, Annette stopped pretending she didn’t care what his answer was, and started crying. He walked over, and took her tentatively in his arms.

“I’m sorry love. I should have told you how unhappy I was. We can make it work, I know we can.”

She looked up at him and nodded, acknowledging that her job affected him as well as her. They could make it work again, but not alone.

“We need to go to counselling, Pete. There’s fault on both sides.”

***

Bjorn Ackerman arrived at the C.C.U. hoping for good news, but enough of a pragmatist to know there would be bad mixed in with it. Craig met him in reception and brought him up to the squad. It was quiet. Only the on-call staff were still around, covering any cases that might come in. Nicky was making fresh coffee when they arrived and Liam was in his usual position of feet up on the desk, dictating the case report for the raid. Davy was off with Maggie to a friend’s wedding, and everyone was getting back to normal. Except for the man seated across from Craig.

Nicky brought the coffee and then left. Craig poured a cup for them both, sipping at his in silence while the Ambassador read his thoughts.

“You’re going to tell me that your Chief Constable is sorry, but only some of the men you arrested can be prosecuted in the U.K. Aren’t you Chief Inspector?”

Craig nodded, too angry with the system to speak. But relieved that the Ambassador seemed to be taking it so well. Ackerman saw his anger and put down his cup.

“Their countries will deal with them Mr Craig, believe me. If not with prison then with disgrace. But I wouldn’t underestimate how many will be incarcerated for this. I have influence, and many of my friends are Ministers around the world. The D.N.A. from the glass will help to find the leader, but if I were to see the names of the men that you arrested last night…”

Craig had anticipated the request but he knew couldn’t fulfil it. Officially. He opened his desk drawer slowly and lifted out a sheet of paper, placing it face-down on the desk. Then he talked on about the men that they could prosecute. In addition to McGurk, Dawson and Morgan eleven more men at the auction were U.K. citizens, without diplomatic immunity. They were definitely going down. Forty-five others belonged to countries the U.K. had extradition agreements with, although five of those were diplomats so they were crying government protection.

That left around fifty whose countries weren’t likely to play ball with the U.K. courts. Although as Ackerman said, their own countries’ punishment might be worse than anything the U.K. could devise.

After a few minutes more discussion Craig excused himself to speak to Liam, leaving the door ajar as a shield against accusations. He knew that as soon as he left Ackerman would turn over the paper, and photograph it with his camera-phone. It had the names of everyone at the auction on it, arranged in a table for convenience. Name, address, country, extradition treaty level, immunity - yes or no. Laying it out for anyone who was interested.

At the bottom of the page was another short list with only three names on it. The three men whose crests resembled the one described by Tim Morgan. Craig knew Ackerman had seen the auctioneer’s cufflinks and recognised the symbol. It wouldn’t take him long to narrow the list to one.

Five minutes later Craig returned and the men shared another cup of coffee, then he slipped the sheet of paper back into his drawer. He stood up and shook the Ambassador’s hand, certain that it wouldn’t be their last meeting.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Joshua Hamill was sitting at his desk, enjoying a well-earned rest in preparation for the summit starting in two days. Then it would be “where are my papers?” and “what’s that country’s position on nuclear weapons?” for forty-eight hours. As well as supporting the Ambassador, he’d be working with the other political aides, to keep things running smoothly throughout. He was exhausted even thinking about it.

The door opened abruptly and Bjorn Ackerman entered unannounced. Hamill sprang to his feet, knocking over his cup of tea in the process. He watched balefully as the brown liquid spread slowly across the floor.

He hadn’t seen the Ambassador since they’d discussed Friday night’s event, and he was curious about what had happened. Not that he’d ever ask him. That wasn’t the diplomatic way.

Ackerman pulled up a chair, ignoring the mess, and beckoned his aide to sit. He steepled his fingers, as he always did when he was contemplating a major decision, so Hamill was surprised at what came next.

“I want to have a party, Joshua. A drinks party.”

Hamill sat down again, half-smiling. He was pleased the Ambassador was ready to meet people, so soon after his personal loss. A small soiree in a few weeks’ time would be just the thing to ease him back in. Although the use of his first name worried him. It usually preceded something irregular.

“Yes sir, I think that’s an excellent idea.” He consulted the calendar. “The last week in July looks free. Shall we say Saturday the 27th? Thirty to forty guests?”

Ackerman smiled coolly and handed him a sheet of paper. Hamill knew he wouldn’t like what came next.

“Tomorrow evening. Everyone on this list, plus the usual suspects. About two hundred I think.”

Then he stood up and left, brushing past his aide’s objections with a smile.

***

2pm

Craig stretched out on the settee and clicked on the Saturday afternoon sport. He knew he should try to sleep but he couldn’t, his mind was still on the case. It wasn’t over yet, no matter what the Chief Constable said.

He allowed himself a small smile, remembering Terry Harrison’s face when the C.C. had summoned them to his office. He’d talked about the case and then told the D.C.S. that Craig had saved his career - Harrison had nearly choked! He’d had to shake his hand because of where they were, but Craig knew he’d be planning ways to make his life hell in the short time he still had left as his boss.

He gazed sleepily around the living room, wondering where Julia was, and then slipped into a doze. He was woken a few minutes later by the sound of her key in the lock and she entered the room smiling. She bent down to kiss him and then indicated the bottle of wine she’d bought, opening it on his nod.

“I’ve got you a present.”

“Wine’s always welcome.”

She laughed. “No, not the wine. Your birthday present, for Monday.”

He went to remonstrate but she shook her head. “I won’t be here then so I’ll give it to you before I leave. And if it’s OK I’ve organised dinner tomorrow evening with John and Natalie, and asked my mum along. You don’t mind, darling - do you?”

He shook his head, smiling at the word ‘darling’. It was an endearment used in England in the same way that ‘pet’ was used in Northern Ireland. He hadn’t heard it for a while but it sounded familiar.

“I’d love to meet her. I just hope I’m awake.”

She poured the wine and sat on the floor beside him, stroking his hair. “Well then, we’ll just have to make sure you spend lots of time in bed before then.”

***

Sunday 6pm.

Joshua had worked miracles, even if he said so himself. He’d called in every favour that he was owed and managed to secure the largest function-room in the hotel, organising outside caterers from Enniskillen when the hotel kitchen had balked at the task. He gazed around the room, satisfied. It wasn’t as elegant as the party they’d held in Stockholm the month before, but people would understand if things were kept low-key, given the Ambassador’s family tragedy. In fact when people had heard he was holding a soiree at all, they were eager to help and attend, to show their support.

Hamill scanned the guest-list, puzzled. Of course the usual guests had been invited, Ambassadors and Ministers from every country - most of them personal friends of the Ambassador. But the other names were a motley crew. The only thing they seemed to have in common was their wealth. It was so extreme in some cases that it hinted at vulgarity.

He sniffed disdainfully. The Ambassador should be more careful with his acquaintances. Perhaps this wild disregard for protocol was part of his grieving.

The room’s double doors opened and Bjorn Ackerman entered, already dressed to accept his guests, an hour before the event. He marched over to his aide and took the list from him, noting the acceptance level for the night with satisfaction.

“I will greet all guests personally, Joshua.”

Hamill knew then that something was very wrong. It was the second time in two days the Ambassador had used his first name.

“As you wish, sir.”

Ackerman turned on his heel and walked from the room, making his own special plans for that night.

***

7pm

Craig was fixing his tie in the mirror when Julia emerged from the bedroom wearing a dress that he’d never seen before. It was a dark green sheath of shot-silk, and with her red curls tumbling across her white shoulders, she looked like an exotic wood nymph. It was a stunning look and his eyes told her so.

She lifted her small evening bag and opened the front door briskly, telling him it was time to go. The table was booked for eight and she wanted to have time for drinks.

Craig smiled at her powers of organisation, quite happy to be told what to do for a change. He was too tired to be the boss this evening. He glanced quickly at her bag as they walked out and her eyes caught his look.

“You’re wondering where your birthday present is, aren’t you?”

He was embarrassed that she’d guessed. It didn’t matter to him what she gave him, he’d be happy with the smallest gift. But he was curious what would fit in the tiny bag.

She moved the bag away from him pointedly and tapped the side of her nose.

“Never you mind, Superintendent Craig. You’ll find out when it’s time.”

***

Bjorn Ackerman fixed a professional smile on his face and stood by the ornate double doors, greeting each guest personally as they arrived. For the women it was a gracious bow, for the men he knew well a cheerful handshake. But Hamill noticed that for each of the wealthy men on the list he was acting like an American. Grasping their right forearms hard with one hand, while shaking with the other. He had never seen him do such a thing before - it looked most inappropriate.

Ackerman watched carefully as each man approached the door, taking their places in the formal line. Thank God for protocol. At a normal party they would have wandered in randomly and he would never have had control.

He’d struggled with what to do when he found the leader. If he found him. He had to believe that he would come, that his vanity would make him attend the party of a man, whose daughter he’d sanctioned killing. Just as he’d sanctioned the rape and killing of so many more.

He wanted to kill him of course, quickly and brutally. Or slowly, torturing him, just as he’d tortured hundreds of daughters. But what would be the point? It would be too easy, too final. The idea of him in prison would be so much sweeter, especially some of the prisons in the countries he might come from.

The crest had narrowed his identity to one of three men, but he couldn’t invite them alone, that would have been too obvious. The larger crowd would make the leader feel safe; convince him of his own invincibility.

The first of the three was approaching now and Ackerman considered the man with venom. He was small and non-descript, with fair hair. He’d seen enough of the auctioneer to know that it wasn’t him. But he grasped his arm anyway, just in case. Nothing. Ten minutes later the second arrived, a slim, dark man too young to be his prey. A brief greeting later and it was ‘pass friend.’

Then he saw him in the line. Tall and silver haired, elegantly dressed in a tuxedo. He was talking down to an older woman with a look that said she was nothing, her value all gone with the passing years.

Ackerman gazed at his face, dragging his eyes away at intervals, to greet another guest. It was him, he knew it. He glanced across the room at the muscled men in evening dress. None of the guests had noticed them standing beside the doors. Only Hamill had questioned their right to be there, brushed away by Ackerman with one word, ‘security’.

He nodded to their leader and watched as he whispered into his cuff. The men moved from their relaxed poses to a tense alertness, walking calmly towards the line of guests and ready to act on Ackerman’s nod. He’d done his homework, hoping and praying that of the three entitled to wear the crest this man was the auctioneer. The only one with dual nationality.

As the man approached the head of the line two of the guards moved forward, enough of their number still left to block all exits. Then there he was, standing in front of Ackerman, extending his hand and smiling as if he was just another guest.

Ackerman fixed his eyes coldly and took the extended hand, grasping his right forearm hard. The man winced at his purposeful grip, his pain confirming that he was injured. Ackerman could feel a raised ridge of sutures beneath his hand - if he’d ever had any doubt it was gone. He’d gashed the auctioneer’s right arm in the dark and the ridge was exactly where he’d thought it would be.

The grey-haired man’s eyes widened as he realised it was a trap. He wrenched his arm away from Ackerman’s grasp, and turned to run, knocking over his female companion. Even as he turned he registered that Ackerman didn’t follow. There was no move to grab him, no wild shout, no rapid pursuit - he knew that was bad news, not good.

Ten seconds later he was on the floor with a gun at his head. The security detail cuffed him and pulled him to his feet as Ackerman turned to his guests and soothed them. Then he nodded to the band to play lively music and lift the mood.

He turned and walked towards the anteroom, beckoning the guards to follow. Joshua Hamill watched with his mouth open, wondering how he could stop the scandal hitting tomorrow’s news.

***

Craig was on his first pre-dinner drink in The Merchant’s cocktail bar. Natalie was chatting to Julia and her mother, who was a twenty years older and just as beautiful version of her daughter. And he was standing with John at the end of the bar, trying to relax after a hard week. The ring of his mobile wasn’t a welcome sound.

He turned away quickly to answer it, hoping that Julia wouldn’t notice. It was a withheld number.

“D.C.I. Craig.”

Bjorn Ackerman’s fluid tones came down the line. “Good evening Mr Craig.” The triumph in his voice told Craig what he was going to say, before any words followed. He’d found the auctioneer. He interrupted Ackerman urgently, walking into the foyer as he talked.

“Where?”

The Ambassador outlined the party he’d organised, and the steps he’d taken. Craig shook his head; it was unorthodox to say the least. But he’d found him, that was the important thing. They could worry about the legality later.

He ended the call quickly, promising to phone him back in a minute, then he called the local force to go the hotel and secure the prisoner. Ackerman’s men had no powers to detain. The next number he dialled was Liam’s.

He phoned Ackerman back promising he’d be there in an hour, then returned to the bar to ruin his own birthday party.

***

Ninety minutes later Craig was at Enniskillen police station. He stood outside its front door watching Bjorn Ackerman, while he smoked his third cigarette in a row. Liam had been visiting his brother’s farm in Dungannon, and reached the hotel not long after the uniforms. Liam was in the cells now with John, who’d insisted on joining Craig for the trip. There would be hell to pay with Julia and Natalie when they got back, but they’d both wanted to see the case through.

The Ambassador was staring at the stars and blowing a stream of smoke into the cool night air. Craig knew he was thinking of his daughter. He hoped she was somewhere better than this.

Ackerman outlined the last-minute party and its extensive guest list, all to provide a smokescreen for his pursuit of one man. John would check their prisoner’s D.N.A. against the glass that Ackerman had used to cut him, but he’d already confirmed that the wound matched. Craig wondered how they’d negotiate the legal minefield of nationality and rights that they were in, but his queries were answered when Ackerman finally spoke.

“He has a U.K. passport.”

“What?”

“I knew it was one of three men from the crest. I recognised it. It was old Norman. The other men only had French and Swiss passports, so I was praying it wasn’t them - although their governments are reasonable and would probably have cooperated. But as soon as I saw him I recognised him, and the pain grasping his arm confirmed it.”

He paused and lit another cigarette. His next words were delivered with venom.

“His name is Henry Cotillard. He’s a banker - stocks and shares. A wealthy man, with no need for money. He has dual nationality - French/English. But he foolishly travelled here on his U.K. passport.”

A U.K. citizen subject to U.K. law. Craig nodded and they smiled at each other, as happy as they could be when Britt and other girls had died. They stood for a moment longer and then went inside. To interview the man in the cells and hopefully find a trail that would lead them to free more girls.

***

By the time they got back to Belfast it was five o’clock in the morning and the sun was starting to rise. They said their goodbyes and went their separate ways to face the music. Craig had agreed to meet Ackerman for lunch on Wednesday, on his way back through Belfast after the summit. Meanwhile they’d be processing their prisoner, when he was transferred to High Street the next day.

As he entered the flat Craig saw a trail of Julia’s clothes leading to the bedroom. He undressed quickly and climbed into bed, trying not to wake her. She had to be on the road to Limavady in three hours.

She turned in her sleep and her head fell onto his chest. He stroked her curls gently and she opened sleepy eyes and smiled at him.

“Successful trip?”

He nodded, praying her good temper would still be there in the morning. Then he wrapped his arms around her, and they both fell asleep.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Monday 17th June. 8am

Julia entered the living room dressed for work, and smiled as Craig missed his mouth with a slice of toast, too tired to see straight. He glanced gingerly at her, waiting for a telling off that didn’t come. Instead she handed him an envelope, and kissed the top of his head.

“Happy birthday, darling.”

She sat down opposite, watching eagerly as he tore it open. Instead of the card that he expected there was a receipt inside. Craig gazed at it sleepily, struggling to work out what it meant.

“We had a lovely dinner, just gossiping. Natalie made mum laugh all evening.”

He considered her warily, waiting for the storm.

She laughed. “Don’t worry. We knew it must have been urgent for both you and John to leave. You can tell me all about it next weekend. Just tell me – did you catch them?”

He nodded and she smiled. Then he lifted the receipt and stared at it uncomprehending.

“It’s lovely pet, but what is it?”

“It’s for the Abercorn Marina. A course of ten advanced sailing lessons. I know you can already sail, but if you’re going to take it up again I thought you’d need a refresher.”

Craig grinned broadly. He’d talked about taking the sport up again but never done anything about it. Now he had to. He kissed her, genuinely pleased. What she said next pleased him even more.

“Marco, I’ve been thinking. We’ve been seeing each other for six months, but only at weekends, so it’s really more like six weeks. It’s a bit soon to be thinking of buying a place together, isn’t it?”

Craig nodded. It was what he’d been thinking but hadn’t wanted to say. “But this place is still too small for two of us.”

She nodded. “Yes, it is. So what do you say that we rent somewhere bigger together first, say for six months? Then maybe halfway through, if it’s all going well, we can think about buying? And I can apply for a transfer.”

He kissed her again deeply, and nodded. Then he abandoned his toast and they both left for work.

***

Wednesday 12pm

Craig’s lunch with Bjorn Ackerman was a quiet, almost solemn affair. They covered Henry Cotillard’s likely charges and the extent of his operation. McGurk had I.D.ed him willingly, the only member of ‘The Library Club’ to have ever seen his face. He’d already been guaranteed protection in prison, so he didn’t have to do it. But he’d taken pleasure in bringing Cotillard down, and in confirming James Dawson’s role in the criminal ring. With Sylvia Bryce’s testimony they would all be going away for life. Her coercion meant she was likely to get a short sentence, perhaps even probation.

They were following-up the trails on the trafficking and movies. Interpol was helping unravel that. But it was a case that Craig knew would keep shocking them for months. He proposed a toast before they left the restaurant, to Britt. Reiterating his prayer that she was somewhere much better than this. Then the two men said their goodbyes, unlikely ever to cross paths again.

Craig re-entered the squad at one-thirty to see pens flying across the room between Nicky and Liam. They stopped as soon as he entered and Nicky answered his raised eyebrow with a grin.

“I was just showing Annette how hard I threw the pen at Liam. To show what a big baby he was for whinging.”

“It really hurt when she did it, boss. It was a close-quarter attack.”

Annette laughed and he turned towards the cheerful sound. It was great to hear it after her terrible week. She was sitting with Davy and Jake McLean, testing her own aim by throwing sweets into their mouths.

Craig shook his head in mock-despair and called them to order, laughing. He updated them on his lunch and the other calls concerning the case, formally congratulated Annette on her success and welcomed Jake to the team. Then he told them to work for another hour and go home, and headed into his office to dream of sailing on Belfast Lough.

THE END

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