The Sect

Catriona King

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously and any resemblance to persons living or dead, business establishments, events, locations or areas, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author, except for brief quotations and segments used for promotion or in reviews.

Copyright © 2015 by Catriona King

Photography: Antonov Roman

Artwork: Jonathan Temples:creative@jonathantemples.co.uk

Editors: Andrew Angel and Maureen Vincent-Northam

Formatting: Rebecca Emin

All rights reserved.

Hamilton-Crean Publishing Ltd. 2015

Discover us online: www.hamiltoncreanpublishing.com

For my mother.

About the Author

Catriona King is a medical doctor and trained as a police Forensic Medical Examiner in London, where she worked for some years. She has worked closely with the police on many occasions. She returned to live in Belfast in 2006.

She has written since childhood and has been published in many formats: non-fiction, journalistic and fiction.

‘The Sect’ is the second of two new Craig Crime Novels being released in September 2015. ‘The Sixth Estate’ is the first.

The next Craig Crime novel, ‘The Keeper’, is in edits for release in early 2016.

Acknowledgements

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

My thanks also to: Andrew Angel and Maureen Vincent-Northam as my editors, Jonathan Temples for his cover design and Rebecca Emin for formatting this book.

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

Catriona King

Belfast, September 2015

Discover the author’s books at: www.catrionakingbooks.com

To engage with the author about her books, email: Catriona_books@yahoo.co.uk

The author can be found on Facebook and Twitter: @CatrionaKing1

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Core Characters

Key Locations

The Sect

Chapter One

March 2015

The ceiling light dimmed as the girl drew her final breath and then faded to nothing as her chest sank and stilled. Her light-constricted pupils widened, their unresponsive gaze the punctuation mark to her life. All the wild thrashing and wet struggling was over now, replaced by a stillness broken only by the man’s heaving sighs. Heaving louder now, as if he was sighing for two.

He rested back on his haunches, inhaling and exhaling slowly until finally he was calm, then he rose and began the final stage. When it was finished he gazed down at the girl’s body and recited the words that would send her on her way.

****

Docklands Coordinated Crime Unit. The Murder Squad. Wednesday 25th March, 9 a.m.

“I promise I’ll talk to her, but you know how stubborn Lucia is.”

Marc Craig wrenched his tie loose and swung his legs up onto his desk, knowing that he was in for the long haul. His mother never used ten words when one hundred expressed her feelings better, and the fact that those one hundred were in Italian and uttered at breakneck speed made her even harder to interrupt.

Mirella Craig’s only son let her rant for a moment before he made an abortive attempt to interject.

“I promise…”

“Lucia no listen. She no listen to me her mother, and her father with the heart, so she no listen to you. Stubborn, disobedient, cattivo…”

Craig had stopped listening at ‘her father with the heart’, remembering his father’s heart attack two years before. Nowadays he was as fit and well as he was, give or take the ability to do eighty push-ups, but his mother never let the truth interfere with something that made her point. As he tuned back in Craig heard the words ‘murder and worse…’

He was just wondering what could be worse than murder when a sudden silence signalled his cue to agree; so he did.

“I agree.”

Big mistake. His lack of embellishment signified that either he hadn’t been listening or, even worse, that he hadn’t appreciated the import of her words. The quiet that followed was even icier than before and Mirella was just drawing breath to berate him when there was a knock on his office door. Craig thanked the Gods and shouted “come in” so loudly that she recoiled from the receiver with a loud, “Ow!”

He’d already guessed who’d knocked from its volume, but any doubts were dispelled by the door being flung back so hard that it hit the wall, and the loud “we’ve a dead one” that came next. Normally the words would have earned Liam Cullen a raised eyebrow, followed by ‘does the dead one have a name?’ but this time Craig greeted his deputy’s words with a broad smile, and an eagerness that was almost obscene. As he beckoned the D.C.I. to a seat and slung his feet down from the desk, Liam heard the reason behind Craig’s smile.

“Sorry, Mum, got to go. We have a case.” His speech accelerated to deter interruption. “I promise I’ll speak to Lucia. See you on Friday. Bye.”

He cut the call with indecent haste, knowing that he’d pay for it on Friday, and allowed himself a moment to rant and swear out the window before pouring coffee for them both. Liam couldn’t resist a quip.

“Here, leave that window alone. You’re only allowed one broken pane a year.” He considered for a moment and then added. “Mind you, I suppose if you were going to put your fist through glass, doing it when there were doctors around was the way to go.”

He was referring to an episode three months earlier, at a Christmas party at the home of John Winter, Northern Ireland’s Head Pathologist and Craig’s long-time friend. Craig’s altercation with Ray Mercer, a local journalist and uninvited guest, had ended with the detective punching a window to avoid punching Mercer in the head. Cracking Mercer one would have cost Craig his job, but cracking the window had almost lost him his right hand; it was still in a splint three months later.

Craig ignored the jibe, wondering whether to reprimand Liam for his bluntness about their new victim or not. Gratitude overcame good judgement and instead he slid a mug of coffee across the desk.

Liam gestured at the phone. “Let me guess. Lucia’s giving your mum a headache and she’s passing it on to you?”

Lucia was Craig’s younger sister by ten years and in lifestyle terms by ten more than that. She was the manager of a local charity and cared passionately about everything vulnerable in the world, almost as passionately as their parents cared about her.

Craig nodded grimly. “She wants to go to Syria to help the refugees and Mum’s going mad.”

Liam slurped his coffee and nodded in agreement. “I’m not bloody surprised. I’d nail Erin’s feet to the floor if she said she was flying off there.”

Given than Erin was only four years old flying anywhere alone would have been a challenge, but Craig appreciated the sentiment.

“Agreed, although I understand why she wants to go. What’s happening over there is dire. Anyway, now I’ve got the job of talking her out of it. That sounds a lot easier than it is; Lucia’s very determined.”

“Like her big bro.”

Craig smiled at the rap star parlance and lounged back in his chair. “So?”

“So what?”

“You said we had a murder.”

Liam’s eyes widened as he recalled why he’d entered the room. “Oh aye, so I did.” He set down his mug. “Now don’t go losing your rag.”

He stared pointedly at Craig’s strapped wrist.

“Thanks, I’ve had enough stitches for one year. Anyway, what is there to lose my temper about?”

“You’ve just missed a call from the Chief Con.”

Craig reached for the phone but Liam waved him down.

“I took it. He just called to say that he wants you on this case, even though it’s outside the big smoke.” He slurped his coffee and continued. “There’s been a dead lad found near Downpatrick. He was found in some undergrowth off the Ballintogher Road by a courting couple.” He laughed loudly. “I bet that put them off their nooky.”

It was on the tip of Craig’s tongue to say ‘show some respect’ but instead he shrugged, admitting defeat for an hour. Controlling Liam’s un-PC approach to life was like trying to catch a runaway horse, but at least he confined his comments to the squad-room nowadays which was progress; Craig shuddered as he remembered some of his earlier crime-scene gaffs.

He waved him on with a yawn, already exhausted by the argument with Lucia that he knew was heading his way.

“Cause of death?”

Liam gave him an inscrutable look. “Aye well, that’s it, isn’t it.”

“What is?”

“That’s why we’ve been called in.”

Craig leaned forward, praying for patience. “You mean because he was murdered.”

Liam gave a snort of disdain. “’Course not. If he’d only been murdered the on-call team would have caught it.”

“So it’s unusual?” It was a pointless question. His team covered murders in Belfast yet the Chief Constable wanted them on a Downpatrick case; it had to be unusual.

“I’ll say. He was found in the shrubbery stark naked, but the best of it is he was drowned.”

Craig wasn’t sure ‘best of it’ was the right term but he knew what Liam meant. Downpatrick was ten miles from the coast.

“Anywhere near a river?”

“Mile or two from the nearest; the Quoile. Lough Money’s the same distance the other way.”

Still strange; why hadn’t the man been left where he’d drowned instead of miles away? Liam was still talking.

“McCauley’s lot were on-call till eight and the call came in at five to, so they belled me and asked if we’d be interested in catching.”

Craig was just about to say a sarcastic ‘thanks for that’ when he realised he didn’t mean it. He wanted the case; in fact he was hungry for it. All they’d done since Christmas had been mop up the Bwye case in Derry and prepare for the upcoming Greer appeal. That and him having surgery on his hand and some serious counselling, courtesy of shooting an octogenarian serial killer dead in October and then punching his way through glass.

The counsellor had discharged him now, with an order to speed dial her if he was ever in need, but what he really needed was a good murder to occupy his mind. His next word was heartfelt.

“Thanks.” He added hastily. “Everyone’s getting stale sitting around.”

Not strictly true; only he was. The team’s inspector, Annette McElroy, was newly loved up with Mike Augustus, a local pathologist, and gearing up for the trial of her abusive soon to be ex-husband. Carmen McGregor, their constable, spent her days bossing around their secondee from the army, Ken Smith, in what was laughably called their true romance, and Jake McLean, their sergeant, was sadly arranging the funeral of his grandfather, the man who’d been his father since his parents had died in a fire over twenty years before. No-one was getting stale but him, but he was the boss so he got the final say.

“Who’s the pathologist?”

He was hoping for John but Mike would do as well.

“Augustus certified the body but I think the Doc will want this one himself.”

The Doc only ever meant John.

“Why?”

“’Cos it’s the second one this month. Angel’s team caught the first last week but they’re passing it to us today. I’ve just had a word.”

Craig smiled, just as he did every time he heard the detective’s name. D.C.I. Andrew Angel; he sounded more like a comic strip hero than a real life cop. Images of pumped up muscles and wings sprang to mind, although they couldn’t have been further from the truth; Andy Angel was whip thin, barely hitting ten stone. He had spiked up hair, irregular features and skin so fair that he rarely needed to shave, and at forty he already had two ex-wives, a five-year-old son and a sports car he’d bought with what was left of his salary once his divorces bit. Any residue was spent on soft shirts, narrow ties and trousers as near drainpipe as the force would allow. His small son dressed identically and no-one was sure who was mimicking whom.

Angel couldn’t have been more different from his namesake Andy White, now policing the North Coast, if he’d tried. Where White was hyperactive, Angel had the lethargy of a Pharaoh being fed and a serious chocolate habit to back it up; both in defiance of his slim build. But at least every shirt he wore wasn’t blue to ‘match his eyes’ like Andy White’s had been.

Angel lounged in his office on the floor below; an overspill caused by Craig’s enlarging murder team. Occasionally he would spring into action and for five minutes he’d dart around the room, which was so small it looked like he was ricocheting off the walls, then he’d sit down again abruptly, as if his batteries had suddenly expired, and resume his normal lethargy. Craig liked him, even if the D.C.I.’s inertia made him want to kick him up the ass, and he was a capable officer, so why had he been so quick to relinquish his case?

Before he could ask Liam told him. “The C.C. said as you’re the Head of Murder he wants you on both deaths. In case they’re linked.”

Craig frowned. “OK… By the way, why wasn’t he put through when he called?”

Liam’s brows shot up. “When you were on with your mum? Not even Nicky would interrupt that!”

Craig blew out his cheeks and nodded. Nicky Morris, his P.A., was fearless, but Mirella in full flow struck terror into everyone’s heart.

“Is Andy OK with us taking his case?”

Liam shrugged as if to say ‘tough’. “He knows the score. You’re the Superintendent so you get the tricky ones.” He drained his coffee then topped them both up. “Now, do you want to hear about these murders or not?”

Craig nodded him on, his mind on how to keep Angel involved in the case. Apart from the fact it was his job to maintain morale another D.C.I. would be a useful resource.

“OK then. The first body was a woman found on the seventeenth, last Tuesday. Pathology thinks she’s in her late teens. They haven’t got an I.D. yet and no-one’s reported a missing girl who fits the bill––”

Craig cut in. “Where was she found?”

“Hold your horses; I was just getting to that. Same vicinity as today’s; near Downpatrick, but off the Slievegrane Road this time. In the shrubbery again. Drowned like the boy.”

“Any clues on which body of water? Diatoms, plants?”

“Unlikely. It came out of a tap.”

Craig sat forward urgently. “She was drowned in domestic water?”

“Northern Ireland’s finest. Forensics are trying to narrow the source, but most of County Down’s comes from the Silent Valley Reservoir in the Mournes, so more specific than that…”

Craig frowned. Part of his role was to keep an eye on strange murders everywhere in Northern Ireland, so why hadn’t Andy told him about the girl last week? He guessed the answer; pride. It made people stupid.

“Anything else on her?”

“Aye. She was wrapped in cling-film, so that’s being looked at for prints. Also, her hair was still wet.”

Craig thought for a moment. The plastic would have sealed in any moisture for a while but it was more likely that the girl had been discovered soon after she was drowned.

“Was today’s body wrapped in cling-film as well?”

“Don’t know yet.” Liam continued eagerly. “There were restraint marks on the girl’s wrists and feet; not rope, broader than that.”

“How long were they made before death?”

Liam shrugged. “That’s all I’ve got. You’d best talk to the Doc for the rest.”

Craig nodded slowly. “OK. The boy found this morning, where is he now?”

“Morgue apparently. I was just heading over there.”

Craig shook his head. “Scene first then morgue, then back here to brief at twelve. Tell the angel to come as well.”

****

County Down is a pretty area; green and peaceful and host to Downpatrick, one of Ireland’s most historic towns. Set in the historic Lecale region, so named for an ancient Celtic King, it’s full of rivers and lakes and famed for its rolling drumlins, a legacy of glaciations during the Pleistocene.

A rural idyll far enough from Belfast to avoid the traffic and with a character all its own, it had been one of Craig’s parents’ youthful haunts; but he shelved the memories that weren’t his and dragged his thoughts back to the reason they were there.

When they’d parked the car twenty minutes earlier Liam had had a mosey around but there hadn’t been much to see; just the first signs of spring in the flowers and grass, and a line of local coppers looking as solemn as only those attending their first murder scene could. Now he was hunkered on the grass waiting for Craig, who was peering straight ahead of him like a Native American scout. When he thought he’d indulged Craig’s ruminations for long enough Liam cut through them with a deafening yell.

“Oi, boss. Are we going to spend all day here?”

Craig dragged his gaze away from the verdant woodland to where Liam was pointing at a patch of grass.

“That’s where he was found.”

The comment was redundant; the grass’s flattened dryness already said where the body had lain, after the heavy rain of the night before. Craig scanned the area for clues but there was nothing out of place; no broken branches or torn flowers, nothing to say how their victim had been conveyed to his place of rest. Liam nodded wisely.

“He wasn’t dragged overland. My bet is he came most of the distance by road then was carried in. We might be lucky and get a footprint. Last night was wet.”

Craig nodded and they glanced simultaneously towards the rural road. Liam continued.

“So the perp drove up, dumped the body and took off. He’s bound to be on a camera somewhere so we’ll get an I.D.”

Craig nodded again, more ponderously this time. Liam sighed, knowing that his reticence meant no. CCTV was a luxury on rural roads and no camera meant no easy I.D. He tutted loudly.

“OK, what if they didn’t come by road then? How else could he have dumped him? Helicopter?”

Craig smiled, knowing that he was annoying his impatient D.C.I. “Very funny. Road’s far more likely but I’ll need to know more before I’ll commit.”

“Ask away.”

“OK. Was today’s body wrapped in cling-film too, was he drowned and was the body still damp? Had he been restrained in the same way as the woman, were there signs of sexual assault on either body: any prints, fibres, debris under the nails––”

Liam raised a hand to halt him. “Forensics 101. So then what?”

Craig sprang to his feet, testing his muscle strength. He was still fit enough to do it but if he didn’t get to the gym he wouldn’t be for much longer. He answered smoothly.

“Then we piece together the timings and work out when he got here.”

“Proper order.”

“Without jumping to conclusions about how he got here on the way.” He paused, gazing up at the sky, then he spoke again, in a tone that said his mind was already elsewhere. “Who knows, we may find a helicopter yet.”

Chapter Two

The girl opened her blue eyes reluctantly, knowing that what greeted her would be the same as the day before. White walls, white floor, white sheets on her bed. It wasn’t that it was awful, it was that it was sterile; but then that’s what clinics were, clinical. Forgetting herself for a moment she went to climb out of bed, only to be jerked back by the metal bands on her limbs.

She stared at her wrists; their narrow paleness was scarred with red-white wealds, half obscured by the manacles tying her to the bed’s rigid frame. She’d made the scars herself, just as she’d made the purple track marks higher up. One from pain and one for pleasure, but both signs of the way she’d ruined her life.

She lay back down and waited for the clock to change; heralding another long day of suffering and routine. She had to believe that it would all be worth it in the end. Unfortunately she couldn’t have been more wrong.

****

The Lab. 11 a.m.

“John. Are you here?”

Craig’s question went unanswered so Liam shouted it louder, bellowing across John Winter’s outer office. Given that his yell was so loud it should have carried a health warning, even the bravest resistance fighter would have come out with their hands held high. The silence that answered said only one thing; John wasn’t there. And if he wasn’t there that only left one other place he would be; in the dissection room.

As they turned to go a small figure dressed like the cover of a Fleetwood Mac LP emerged from Winter’s inner office with her hands clamped over her ears. It was Marcie, the lab’s P.A.; she was a young Boho drama graduate, biding her time till her acting career took off. She collated reports, baked cakes, made tea and answered the phones, all while keeping John and Des Marsham, the Head of Forensic Science, in line.

Craig watched as Liam nervously patted his scrub-like hair and adjusted his tie in a courtship ritual as old as the hills.

“How do, Marcie.”

Marcie Devlin gazed up at the D.C.I. with an intensity that made him blush, then she smiled graciously which made him blush even deeper, before turning elegantly towards Craig.

“Is John around, Marcie?”

“He’s in dissection room one.”

She stared at Craig just as intently as she’d stared at Liam but it didn’t have the same effect, and after a moment she nodded as if he’d done something right.

“That’s a lovely tie, Superintendent.”

Craig squinted down at his chest to see which one he’d donned that morning while Liam peered at his own tie jealously. The approved-of neckwear was one that Katy Stevens, his girlfriend, had bought him the week before. He said as much and Marcie murmured “good taste” before re-entering John’s office and closing the door. Craig headed down the corridor with a disgruntled Liam in his wake, muttering in a sarcastic tone.

“Lovely tie, sir. Suits you, sir.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Liam was still muttering when they entered the freezing cold dissection room, but his words ceased abruptly when he saw what John was examining. On one table lay the post-mortemed body of a young woman, on the other the cling-film wrapped body of a youth. Neither was out of their teens.

John Winter grinned incongruously at them and strode across the room to say hello. It was hard to tell if his cheer was due to work nowadays as he’d worn a perpetually gleeful expression since his wedding the August before.

“Good morning, gentlemen. How’s life with you?”

Given that he’d seen both of them in the pub the night before it seemed like excessive bonhomie. Liam went to answer but John had already turned back to the cling-filmed corpse and Craig knew that his cheerfulness this morning was about their case. The pathologist stared down at the body and shook his head.

“Well, well, well. Two murders in nine days. What embarrassment of riches is this?”

Craig answered in a dry tone. “I really hope that’s a quote, otherwise we’re renaming you Hannibal.”

“It is. Léonor d'Allainval. 1726.”

“Nobody likes a smart ass, John.”

Winter grinned, unabashed, and gestured at the cling-filmed youth. “You have to admit that it’s a novel way to die.”

Liam’s bass split the cold air. “I bet he didn’t think so.”

John continued in a voice full of awe. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve seen cling-film used to suffocate; I’ve even seen it used to wrap body parts. But this? It’s like some sort of cocoon.”

Liam dragged the proceedings down a tone. “I’ve seen cling-film used by kids instead of condoms. People have inventive minds.” The others gawped as he nodded his head. “We used to find it in the parks on morning patrol.”

Craig moved things along. “Fascinating as this is, what does the film tell us?”

The pathologist thought for a moment before speaking. When he did it was to recite a list.

“The cocoon could represent rebirth; like a chrysalis. The cling-film itself could mean: sterility, a clinical approach, the killer’s a foodie, erasing their identities, neatness, finality…”

Craig held up a hand to stop him. “In other words you could go on and on.”

“I could. I’ll do his P.M. and Des will run the cling-film, then if you like I’ll do a psychological profile of the killer for you.”

John had spent time at the FBI Behavioural Sciences Unit at Quantico, where he’d done a profiling course. It was on Craig’s list of things to do, after sailing to France and painting his parents’ porch – he was a man who believed that if he didn’t know something then someone else in his team probably would.

“Could be useful. Don’t forget the rebirth part; it’s interesting.”

Liam gestured at the dead girl. “Anything exciting on her?”

John crossed to their already P.M.ed victim, nodding.

“A lot. First of all, she was killed not long before they found the body and her cause of death was wet drowning; a very painful death. There are signs of a struggle so she definitely fought back. I’m waiting for her tox-screen but my gut says it won’t show any sedation; she was definitely awake when this happened to her. There are signs of old abuse too; cigarette burns on her arms and legs and some linear scarring on her back.”

Craig interrupted. “How recent?”

“Years old. Bone and dental markers put her age around eighteen or nineteen now, so I’d say the marks were made when she was eleven or twelve.”

“Bastards.”

“Undoubtedly.” John continued. “She showed signs of mild cocaine use; her nasal mucosa is pretty frayed but…” He pointed at some raised injection sites on her arms. “I’d say her drug of choice was Heroin.”

Craig nodded; he’d seen the marks many times before. “Any signs of sexual activity?”

John shook his head. “Not recent and definitely no sign of rape.” He hesitated and Craig knew something darker was coming. Very little fazed John but this obviously had.

“She’s had more than one abortion and they’ve really messed her up. I’d say at least one was done in unsterile conditions.”

Craig shook his head, first in sadness and then in disbelief. “Why would anyone have a back street abortion nowadays when they can have one safely on the NHS?”

“You’re assuming that she had a choice.”

Craig let the words sink in. A girl who was being controlled perhaps, but by whom?

“When did she have them?”

“Not in the past six months. The first, three or four years ago, judging from the scars. The rest who knows when.”

The cold air stilled around them as each man had his own thoughts. John added to the chill with his next words.

“She has signs of past STDs and she was HIV positive.”

Liam asked the question. “From sex?”

“Possibly, but more likely from the IV drug use. It all adds up to one thing.”

Craig said the words. “She was a prostitute and not a high class one.”

It was a sad, familiar story. An abused girl who’d grown used to being objectified. Used by someone as an ashtray when she was young she’d continued being a victim into adulthood.

John shook his head. “She probably used the drugs to make life tolerable.”

“What a bloody waste.”

They stood for a moment gazing down at the girl, her youthful features peaceful in a way that Craig doubted they’d been for years. Finally John covered her and led the way back to his room. As they entered the small office Marcie leapt up from his chair. Her expression said it had been a reflex; there was no penitence on her face, in fact quite the opposite. Her next words made Craig wonder if she’d been taking lessons from Nicky on how to chastise your boss.

“Doctor Winter.”

John jerked to attention, making the others laugh. Marcie’s outrage said not to.

“This is no laughing matter. Doctor Winter forgot to list his consumables last month!”

It sounded vaguely smutty and Liam was about to say so, when Craig whispered. “Needles and syringes.”

Marcie’s voice rose. “And swabs and gloves and…”

John raised a hand in peace. “Sorry, Marcie. My bad.”

She was undeterred. “It would be your bad indeed if I hadn’t realised and ordered enough to replace them. Although how I’m supposed to know what you need if you don’t tell me what you’ve used…”

She halted mid-sentence, as if she’d seen herself and realised how ridiculous she looked. Not her words, they were accurate, but the fact that she was standing hands-on-hips as she was saying them. She dropped her slim arms to her sides and blushed.

“You know what I mean. I’m not psychic!”

John slipped past her, reclaiming his chair. “I do know and you’re absolutely right, Marcie. Now, off you go for a coffee and I promise that I’ll do them this afternoon.”

As Liam opened the door for her exit, Marcie turned to have the last word with the flair befitting a theatre school graduate. “Just see that you do, Doctor.” Then she swept out with her maxi dress skimming the ground.

When she was far enough away not to hear, Craig started to laugh. “Did she learn that at RADA?”

John shook his head solemnly. “She learned it from Nicky.” He’d been right. “I heard them on the phone the other day.” He sighed with a portent that would have done Marcie proud. “That’s all I need. A mini Nicky Morris in the lab.”

Liam guffawed. “You can call her Morris Minor!”

John smiled through his pain. “That’s not bad.”

Craig shook his head exaggeratedly. “I wouldn’t let either of them hear you say it, not if you ever want Nicky to do your expenses again, Liam.” He poured three coffees and returned to the case. “OK, so our dead girl is late teens and likely a prostitute. Local or trafficked?”

John stopped mid-sip, surprised. “Trafficked? That never even occurred to me. What makes you say so?”

The idea had started as a query but now its credence was starting to grow. Craig recalled the girl’s features and postulated an idea.

“She doesn’t look like she comes from here. Something about her bone structure.”

John thought for a moment and then reached behind him for a file. He opened it at a photo of their Jane Doe.

“Black hair and black eyes.”

Liam nodded. “How often do you see that around here? Maybe up in Derry but––”

Craig interrupted. “Not often in Belfast. Her colouring fits with somewhere in mainland Europe.”

John shook his head. “Maybe further. Even allowing for death pallor her skin has an olive tinge.”

Liam gestured at Craig. He was permanently tanned, courtesy of Mirella’s Roman genes. John shook his head again.

“No. Marc looks healthy. Our victim’s skin is a much paler olive and I’ve seen the colouring before. In Croatia, when I was there investigating war crimes.”

Eastern Europe made sense with the girl’s colouring and high cheek bones but they had to be sure or the investigation could quickly take a wrong turn.

“Could her DNA confirm it?”

“It will help. Dental and other things as well.” John shook his head to halt the impending question. “And before you ask it’ll take me till next week.”

Craig gave him a martyred look and he shaved a few days off. “OK, maybe Friday, if I have the peace to get on with things. I’ll ask Mike to P.M. the boy.”

Craig drained his cup and stood up to leave, earning a dirty look from Liam who was mid-gulp.

“Let me know what he says, and I’d be grateful if you could both come to the briefing at five.”

“I’m not sure we’ll have anything more for you.”

“Just bring your giant brains.”

****

Jake McLean gazed at the smooth, dark wood, staring blindly at his reflection in its sheen. It was the fourth casket the undertaker had shown him and they were starting to blend into one. All of them elegant and expensive yet none of them fit to hold the body of the man that he had loved. He excused himself and strode through the thickly carpeted showroom, out onto the noise-filled Belfast street; the contrast between the funeral parlour’s reverent silence and the urban cacophony making the day feel even more surreal.

He’d known for months that his grandfather’s death was imminent and people said there should be comfort in that, as if preparing for the worst should somehow diminish its impact when it came. Well, he thought, I’ve news for all you bereavement counsellors; it doesn’t. Expected or unexpected death, they were both the same; final, full stop, the end. No more cups of tea and warm chats, no more stories of his granddad’s war-time childhood to make him laugh; no more familiar deep voice saying hello when he came to call.

In the recent months spent caring for him more intimately there’d been longer talks and quieter words. ‘Take care of your granny and the insurance books are in my desk’ talks, and ‘do you remember that time you fell from the tree in the park and your granny blamed me for letting you climb?’ There’d been laughter and tears as well. As Jake stood in the street remembering he admitted grudgingly that expected death might have its benefits; more time to say the things that needed to be said, more time to ask what needed to be asked.

He made a face. And more time to imagine a week like this. The week in which he’d lost the only father he could remember and had to choose which wooden box to bury him in.

****

The C.C.U.

Craig appeased Liam by perking fresh coffee when they returned to his office, then he proceeded to pick his deputy’s brains.

“OK. Two dead people under twenty. Different sexes. The girl definitely a drug user, abused, several abortions. Probably a sex worker, possibly trafficked––”

Liam cut in. “Through where?”

“Does it matter? She ended up in Belfast.”

“It matters. It might lead us to where she came from, and ipso facto who bumped her off.”

Craig made a face; all the Latin in the world wouldn’t give them a name but he decided to follow the idea through.

“OK, so let’s say she came from Croatia, or Bulgaria, or Albania, and she arrived at one of the fifteen airports or thirty-four ports in Ireland, not to mention the private aerodromes and illegal dropping off spots. She still ended up in Belfast.”

Liam nodded. “OK. So where she was billeted when she got here will tell us more.”

“Agreed. So what do we know about trafficking in Belfast?”

“Us, nothing. But Geoff Hamill down in Gang Crime will know a shedload.”

As he finished the sentence Craig moved past him to the door, yanking it open just as Nicky’s hand dropped to knock. The result was a near collision of her fist and his face. Liam grinned.

“That’ll ruin your good looks.”

Nicky’s mouth opened and closed in surprise. She recovered quickly.

“D.C.I. Angel is here to see you.”

It was on the tip of Craig’s tongue to say ‘send him in’ then he changed his mind and beckoned Liam to follow him to where Angel was sitting by Carmen’s desk. As they approached, Liam whispered loudly.

“He’s at it again. Watch this.”

‘At it’ meant that Andy Angel was doing what he did when he met any woman whom he considered of datable age; he was hitting on her hard. But Carmen McGregor wasn’t a woman to be trifled with, not even when she was in a good mood, and she’d only had two of those confirmed since she’d joined the squad the summer before. Liam gestured Craig to hang back and they stood by Nicky’s desk watching things unfold.

Angel was lounging elegantly on a hard backed chair, something even Liam couldn’t manage despite practicing for years. His short, boyish frame was clothed in drainpipe trousers and a soft white shirt that they knew must have cost him a hundred pounds. Paired with a string tie the effect was either modern boy band or a throwback to the Mods, depending on your age; testament to there being nothing new in the fashion world.

They watched as the D.C.I. smoothed back his gelled blond hair and Liam was certain he’d spotted two holes in his ear; all very trendy except that Carmen was a traditional Scottish girl who preferred her shortbread plain. When her Edinburgh lilt hit the air it was as hard as ice.

“Is there something I can do for you, Chief Inspector Angel?”

Andy leaned forward, placing an elbow on her desk. Craig expected a klaxon to sound marking the infringement, but instead Carmen’s eyes narrowed and she pushed the offending limb off, resulting in Angel’s elbow hitting his knee. His mouth opened in shock then shut again hastily when he saw her squint. Undeterred, he regrouped for a fresh assault.

“I was wondering if you knew of any good restaurants. For dinner this evening perhaps?”

His voice was deep, not as deep as Liam’s bass but then only a bassoon compared with that, but deep nonetheless. But instead of the dark chocolate tone that he was aiming for, his chat up line emerged like an oil slick and if the technique had ever worked for him it definitely wasn’t working now. Carmen turned her back dismissively and waved in the direction of team analyst Davy Walsh’s desk.

“Davy knows about that sort of thing.”

Davy was as genuinely cool as Andy was failing to be; the fact he had twelve years and six inches advantage on the detective probably helped. But Andrew Jefferson Airplane Angel (his parents had been hippies in their youth) had the thick skin and perseverance that developed from growing up with an unusual name, so he ignored Carmen’s dismissal and rose slowly, shifting deliberately into her line of sight. Carmen rose as well and Craig saw a fight brewing that he knew she would win but her rank would ultimately make her lose. It was time to intervene.

As Carmen opened her mouth he strode across to Andy and extended a hand.

“Hi, Andy, glad to have you on board. I can’t see you now unfortunately; Liam and I have somewhere to be. Could you come back for the briefing at five?”

It was on the tip of Angel’s tongue to say ‘I’ll wait’ when Craig propelled him smoothly towards the door. As the three men walked to the lift he continued. “I see you’ve met D.C. McGregor. Good officer. You’ll meet Captain Smith, her partner, later on.”

Andy looked surprised. “You pair your officers for cases?”

Craig laughed as if it was his mistake. “Sorry, no. I meant her partner in real life. Ken Smith’s an army Captain seconded to us till July. Good man, not long returned from Afghanistan.”

If he’d said Ken had bench-pressed seven hundred pounds the effect couldn’t have been any more startling. Andy’s eyes widened wildly and Liam’s knowing nod reinforced that he’d just had a narrow escape. Andy wasn’t to know that Ken wouldn’t have hurt a fly and Carmen was the one that he really needed to watch. By the time they’d reached the fifth floor the message had sunk in and Craig and Liam disembarked, leaving Andy to look elsewhere for his next date.

Craig turned briskly back to the case. “We’ll try Gangs first and then take a trip to Vice. One of them will know where the traffickers in Belfast hang out.”

****

The Lab.

Mike Augustus shook his head as he examined the dead youth, lifting his right arm and scrutinising the black tattoo that ran from axilla to tip. The words inscribed there were unusual in two ways; first, they formed a phrase that he couldn’t understand, and second their position had rendered them invisible while the boy’s arm lay by his side but formed a bannered declaration when it was held aloft. He set the limb back in position and continued with the rest of the P.M.

The cause of death was definitely recent drowning, the boy’s hair had still been damp when his cling-film was removed; but there was little else to find, just a body tattooed with an unknown phrase and possibly, but only possibly, the faint sniff of something else. Before committing himself to anything on the record he called John from his office to take a look. Five minutes later the pathologists were agreed, but what their findings meant could be open to debate. Would be, if Craig’s five p.m. briefing was the same as they usually were.

John stared down at the youth for a moment then beckoned Augustus to the girl’s corpse. He withdrew the sheet, examining her for the same things that they’d found on the boy. There, in the crease beneath her breasts, were tattooed exactly the same words.

John tutted loudly. “I can’t believe I missed that.” It was on the tip of Mike’s tongue to say ‘neither can I’ then he decided against criticizing his boss and let him off the hook.

“It’s tiny and it’s in white ink. You can barely see it against her skin. We can only see it now because we know what to look for.”

John wasn’t comforted but it was actually true. Where the boy’s phrase had been writ large and dark the girl’s was small and pale.

“Do you recognise it?”

“The phrase?” Mike shook his mid-brown head. “No. But it looks old.”

John photographed the words then turned to Augustus’ tentative second discovery. After examining the woman’s corpse thoroughly he shook his head.

“I can’t find any sign of it on her, can you?”

“No.” The junior pathologist thought for a moment and then had an idea. “If they have the same tattoo, perhaps we should list any other similarities between them.”

John smiled. Mike was good and getting better, pretty soon he’d be ready to run his own team.

“Excellent idea.”

They set the trollies side by side and began.

****

As they entered the C.C.U.’s fifth floor Craig smiled at the sight of Susan Butler sitting behind its reception desk. Gone was the sad, beige matron who’d worked for his old boss Terry Harrison, to be replaced by an invigorated woman who looked younger than her years. In place of the stiff grey hairstyle she’d once worn there was a newly tinted bob, and where beige skirt suits had been the order of the day, there were now chic trousers and colourful shirts.

She greeted the detectives cheerfully and Craig’s pleasure at her obvious happiness was doubled by the knowledge that by finding her a new job he’d screwed over the man who’d kept her down for years, D.C.S. Terry ‘Teflon’ Harrison. It couldn’t have been more deserved.

She showed them into Geoff Hamill’s office and after a minute of Liam insulting Hamill’s short stature and Hamill insulting back, the Head of Gang Crime removed a thick file from his drawer and set it on the desk.

“Right. People trafficking.”

Hamill’s small eyes darted down the contents page then he turned it over, repeating the action with the page below. Liam finally broke the silence.

“Lovely and all as it is to watch you reading, Geoff, do you have anything useful for us or not?”

Hamill gave Craig a pitying look. “How do you put up with him?”

“He’s useful in a fight.” Craig gestured at the file. “Anything for us?”

Hamill’s face said that he wasn’t sure. “Yes and no. There are two gangs running brothels in Northern Ireland; one’s Chinese, but the Chinese tend to stick with their own, and one comes from Albania. They have forty houses between them.”

Craig’s eyes widened. He wasn’t naïve; after working in London for years it would have been hard, but he had to admit to being surprised at so many brothels in such a small place.

“Just how big is the sex trade here?”

“Open or underground?”

“Either. Both.”

Hamill shrugged like a defeated man. “Growing every day.”

“Surely demand can’t be that strong?”

Liam had only been half listening but now he roused himself. “Did you come up the Lagan in a bubble, boss? Check out craigslist for Belfast and that’ll show you what goes on here.” Suddenly he burst out laughing. “I’ve just realised. Craigslist – and you’re Craig! Get it? Have you been double jobbing?”

Craig raised an eyebrow. “I’ll leave that to the MLAs.” He waved Hamill on.

“OK, so your girl might have been trafficked by the Albanians, but if she was…”

“Why would they kill a valuable asset?”

“Exactly. Once they’ve got the girls here and hooked them on drugs they work them till they’re thirty. If they’re still alive after that they usually just throw them out.”

“Charmers.”

“Not even their mothers would call them that.” Hamill warmed to his theme. “They target girls from small villages in Eastern Europe who are desperate to leave, and entice them to the UK with fictional jobs as nannies or hotel workers. Or they find girls whose parents want rid of them for whatever reason, in which case they pay the families a small amount, smuggle the girls in, take their passports and make them work for nothing until they’ve paid back their debt.”

“Which, with high interest rates, they never do.”

Hamill nodded. “Never, and everyone agrees it’s disgusting, but they don’t kill their assets. Not unless your girl was really out of control and then the favoured murder weapon would have been a gun or a knife. They wouldn’t have wasted their time drowning her and wrapping her up.”

“Can you help us at all?”

Hamill shrugged. “I can ask around and see when or if she was brought in. Leave it with me. But if she was a hooker your best source could be Vice.”

“Next stop.” Craig rose and headed for the door. “Thanks, Geoff. We’d be grateful for anything you can find.”

He turned to see where Liam was, only to find him placing the file on the highest shelf in the room. By the time Hamill had noticed they were at the lift.

****

“Agggghhh.”

Nicky glanced up from filing her nails to see where the noise was coming from. It was emanating from Annette’s cubicle and was followed by a sigh of such despair that she grudgingly set down her emery board and went to see what was up. As she approached she gave a warning.

“This had better be worth me getting up. I’d just got comfortable.”

Annette’s glossy blow-dry appeared above her PC. “Define worth it.”

“Someone had better be dying, or at least in pain.”

“Then I qualify. Joanne Greer’s appeal is killing me. Every time I think I’ve covered every question the prosecution service want answered they hand me another bloody list! Greer killed two people for heaven’s sake and tried to kill more; what more proof do they want?”

Nicky’s expression said it wasn’t that clear cut and Annette conceded.

“Oh, OK then, so she didn’t actually pull the trigger. But she and her Russian boyfriend paid someone else to do it, which is practically the same thing. I’m so sick of villains only having to find one mistake to wriggle out of their convictions, when our case has to be watertight to even get them to court!”

Nicky was about to sympathise when a more logical voice entered the fray.

“Innocent until proven guilty. The burden of proof is on us.”

They swung round to see who’d uttered such sacrilege, only to see Davy’s youthful face grinning back.

Davy Walsh had been the team’s analyst since 2012, but apart from growing a few inches and developing some muscles he never seemed to change. He still looked twenty even though he was now twenty-eight and he still blushed shyly at some things, even when he’d heard them a hundred times before. In fact the only things that had altered in three years were that his stammer had diminished to just the occasional ‘s’ or ‘w’ and he’d developed a noticeable cheeky streak.

Annette’s retort was sharp. “Don’t push it, Davy. I’m not in the mood.”

Nicky had been about to say the same thing so she scrambled quickly for something else. “And… and you won’t get any more coffee.”

Davy lifted the thermos mug he’d brought in that morning and drained its contents with an exaggerated slurp before continuing defiantly.

“All I’m saying is that the justice system is w…weighted on the side of the accused, and so it should be.”

Nicky moved towards him ominously. “Because you think it’s worse for one innocent man to be wrongly convicted than for one hundred guilty ones to get away!”

He made a face. “When you say it like that it doesn’t sound quite right.”

Annette cut the debate short. “Fascinating as this discourse on criminal justice is, I need to get on with my list or the P.P.S. will be after me.”

Just then Nicky’s phone rang and she went to pick it up. “Murder Squad.”

It was Craig.

“Oh, hello, sir. What do you need?”

It was the tip of Craig’s tongue to say ‘perhaps I just called to say hello’ but he dismissed the idea immediately. She was right; he always needed something.

“Could you ask Carmen to join us in Vice, please.”

Without covering the receiver Nicky yelled across the floor.

“CARMEN, THE BOSS WANTS YOU ON THE SEVENTH FLOOR. NOW.”

Craig winced. Nicky’s voice was louder than a Docker’s in normal conversation; when she yelled it made his ears ring. Two minutes later Carmen entered Aidan Hughes’ small office, crowding the already full room. Craig gave up his seat, motioning Hughes to carry on.

“As I was saying. The main gang here is Albanian. They bring in the girls through the South and ship them across the border in vans. After a day or two persuading them to cooperate they get divided between the brothels in Belfast and beyond––”

Liam interrupted. “Do you have a list of the houses?”

“Yes.”

“Then why not just raid them and free the girls?”

Hughes shook his head. “It’s not that simple; we’ve tried. When we raid them they just regroup and traffick more, so we’re working with Interpol to cut them off at both ends. If we can get the recruiting gangs, traffickers and brothel owners all at once then we can make a clean sweep, but if word leaks out anywhere along the chain they’ll pack up and the girls will never be seen again.”

Carmen had been listening in silence, wondering why she was there and worrying that it signalled her transfer back to Vice. She’d been difficult with Craig since she’d joined his team so she wouldn’t blame him if he wanted rid of her, but she really didn’t want to leave; she was just starting to feel at home in the Murder Squad. She smiled at Craig more pleasantly than she ever did anything.

“How can I help, sir?”

Liam jerked upright in shock; her tone had verged on submissive and that meant she was up to something. Craig heard the tone too but he recognised it for what it was; fear of being returned to Hughes’ team.

“I’m glad you asked, Carmen. Two dead bodies have been found and we believe the first one, a girl in her late teens, may have been a prostitute, possibly Eastern European. She might have been trafficked and as you’ve worked in Vice I’d like you to act as our liaison and help get us an I.D.”

Carmen smiled as quickly as Aidan Hughes frowned. He knew her of old and he wasn’t keen to renew the acquaintance. He cut in hastily.

“We’re fine to work it ourselves, Marc.”

Craig shook his head, remembering how keen Hughes had been to have Carmen transferred from Vice to Murder, selling her to Liam as some sort of golden girl. Revenge, in the form of Carmen as liaison, was sweet.

“I wouldn’t hear of it, Aidan; you have your own work to do. Carmen knows how you operate and the sooner she starts the sooner we can let this girl’s family know that she’s dead. ” He turned to the petite Scot. “Make a start now, please, and then join us for the briefing at five. Doctor Winter has the girl’s details.”

As he opened the door Liam was certain he saw Craig grin.

“Don’t worry, Aidan. Just leave Carmen to get on with it quietly. She won’t be any trouble.”

Everybody in the room knew it was a lie.

****

As Craig went to press the button for the tenth floor, Liam whimpered, halting his finger in mid-air.

“I take it from that noise you’re hungry?”

The D.C.I.’s doleful eyes said yes.

“OK, if you promise to stop looking like one of those big-eyed paintings, we’ll go over to The James for lunch. Give the others a call.”

“Margaret Keane.”

“Who?”

“She does all that big-eyed stuff.”

Craig shot him a look that made Liam bluster out a defence.

“Danni likes them.”

“Danni? Yeh, of course.”

As they crossed Barrow Square in the sunshine Liam called the office, while Craig gazed longingly at the river as they passed.

“The Tall Ships are coming again in July.”

Liam nodded vaguely and ended his call. He’d never understood Craig’s obsession with water but he humoured him with a question all the same.

“Did you go last time?”

Craig’s face lit up. “Yes. It was brilliant.”

Liam surprised himself by being curious. “Did your folks take you sailing when you were a kid, then?”

He thought of his own land-locked farm childhood. Climbing trees and lying in the long grass with Gráinne Mullan from the dairy farm down the lane. A leer crossed his face but Craig decided not to ask who it was about.

“Yes. My mum has family near the lakes in Lombardy and we spent some summers there. And my dad’s family were involved in the shipping trade here for generations back.” He pointed enthusiastically back towards the C.C.U. “My grandmother’s house was on Pilot Street. It was amazing. At one point it even had a well in the hall to draw water from the Lagan.”

Liam had heard the story before so he composed his face to look interested while he thought of his own misspent youth. Forty minutes later everyone had finished lunch and Craig scanned the bar.

“Where’s Jake? I thought he was joining us.”

Nicky answered. “He’s gone to his granny’s for lunch. He’s pretty upset.”

As she nodded in sympathy her hair bounced into her face. Today’s hairstyle consisted of twisted strands that looked like fusilli and oscillated as she moved. Her style was nothing if not eclectic.

Her voice dropped solemnly. “He chose his granddad’s casket this morning.”

Craig nodded, dreading the day that he had to do it for his folks. It would be difficult at any age and Jake wasn’t thirty yet. After a moment’s silence Annette decided to break it with her own woes.

“This Greer appeal is a real stinker, sir. She’s determined to prove entrapment and I have to say that on paper she may have a case.”

He sighed. On paper Annette might be right but he’d arrested Joanne Greer and they’d obtained her confession by the book. The problem was that their main witness, Greer’s accomplice Alik Ershov, had since been killed, and without his live testimony things looked pretty thin.

“Is that everything she has?”

Annette made a face that said she wasn’t sure. “It seems weak which makes me wonder. But if there’s something else then her legal team aren’t showing their hand.”

Craig frowned as he ran through the list of ways that Joanne Greer could twist the events of three years earlier to suit her needs. Something whispered at the back of his mind but until it shouted at him they’d just have to deal with what they had.

“Have you spoken to Yemi yet?”

Yemi Idowu was The Met officer who’d carried out the Greer bust with him in London. He was also a friend from his years of working there.

“We’ve chatted, but to be honest it’s hard to get the full picture over the phone. I need to speak to his boss, Superintendent Chandak, as well.”

Craig smiled, sensing a London trip in Annette’s future. She was right; she needed to visit The Met to get a real feel for the case.

“OK, we’ll work the new case without you for a few days. Line up your interviews in London and Nicky can book your trip. But I want you back next week.”

Annette stifled a smile and nodded. Nicky didn’t stifle anything; the fish in the Lagan could have heard her moan.

“What about me? I know the Greer case backwards and Annette will need someone to help with all the paperwork. We trudged through it together before Christmas, when you lot were swanning around the northwest.”

Working a family homicide in Derry’s freezing snow wasn’t his idea of swanning, but she’d worked hard on the Greer paperwork so Craig could feel himself caving in.

Liam’s howl of, “But who’ll make the coffee if you’re away?” clinched it.

“OK, Nicky, you go with Annette, but remember this isn’t a jolly. I expect written reports when you get back.”

He would get them. They would work like Trojans during the day, but he knew that evenings would be spent in a flurry of shopping and shows and they both deserved the break.

The bill was paid to the theme of “I’ll book a decent hotel” and “I wonder what to pack” with a counterpoint of Liam and Davy moaning about how unfair their life was.

As they returned to the office Craig added cheerfully. “Don’t worry, Liam. You’re getting an outing soon as well. Remember we’re on that refresher course next month.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “Oh great. Three days of EU regulations and rubber chicken dinners with the brass.”

“Actually, there’s a good pub nearby so I hadn’t planned on any chicken. I was thinking of sampling the local whiskies instead.”

A much cheered up Liam re-entered the squad-room leaving Davy the only disgruntled member of the team. Craig was just wondering what he could do for him when his mobile buzzed. It was John. He bypassed the niceties.

“I know we’re coming down at five, but I’d like to see you sooner if there’s any chance?”

“I’ll come now.”

As they signed off, the phone rang on Nicky’s desk. She answered it practically singing “Belfast Murder Squad.”

The incongruity of her tone and the words made Craig smile, until he saw her face drop. Her next word made his drop as well.

“Where?”

She grabbed a pad and pen and scribbled furiously, then ended the call and handed him the ripped off page. He read it then handed it to Liam, heading back out through the double-doors. Liam shouted instructions as he followed.

“Nicky, get Mike to join us there, then call the Doc and say the boss can’t make the lab.”

Then they were in the lift and in the car, heading to Downpatrick for the second time that day.

Chapter Three

Ardfern. Saul Road, Downpatrick.

“For goodness sake, what’s happening in Northern Ireland?”

Liam glanced up from his hunkered position, at the pensioner seated in the patrol car.

“It used to be a safe place to live. Apart from The Troubles there was very little crime.”

It was true. Northern Ireland had one of the lowest crime rates in Western Europe; you were less likely to be robbed, raped or murdered there than in most other places. Apart from during The Troubles. Apart from the nearly four thousand souls who’d met a violent end, and the many more maimed by the thirty year conflict.

But Liam knew what the old man meant.

“It still is safe, sir. Now, tell me again exactly what you saw.”

He attempted to pat the man’s dachshund on the head, pulling his hand away swiftly as it growled. The eighty-year-old sighed heavily.

“I’ve already told you. I was taking Churchill for a walk when he started pulling me into the bushes.”

Churchill; a name less befitting the tiny dog would have been hard to imagine. Dogs called Churchill should be fierce or stubborn, not a chipolata on legs.

“And?”

“And then I saw it. The shine. I thought that it was metal of some sort.”

Except that it wasn’t. It was the sun reflecting off the cling-film covering their third corpse.

“Then I saw a leg.”

The elderly man shuddered, almost dislodging the trilby on his grey head. Liam admired the hat. He liked hats, but people always noticed them and he already drew enough attention with his six-feet-six height. Maybe he’d wear one if his hair thinned, although there wouldn’t be an excuse for him even then; he was so tall no-one ever saw the top of his head. His attention was dragged back to his interviewee by a sharp squeal.

“Eeeeek! That’s how I screamed.”

“Then another dog walker came and called the police?”

“Yes. And you came with all those men.”

He waved a wrinkled hand at the constables erecting the crime scene tape. As he did so Liam noticed Craig inside the cordon, staring at the body at his feet. He wanted to take a look so he rose and smiled down at their witness.

“That’s been very helpful, Mr Benson. The car will take you home now and we’ll be in touch.”

The man’s reply surprised him. He was used to people saying ‘Thank you, officer. I could do with a cup of tea after that shock’ not “I haven’t finished my walk yet and Churchill needs to stretch his legs”.

Good luck with that; four and a half inches is always something to aim for. Liam beckoned a P.C. to show the octogenarian away and then clambered over the tape. Craig barked an instruction without turning round.

“Watch where you put your feet.”

Liam stepped back hastily and they stood in silence for a moment, considering the clear cocoon on the grass. It held another youth; blond this time and so thin that they could both have lifted him with one hand. His wet hair was plastered in strands across his teenage face, and they knew that his cause of death would be the same as the other two; drowned, probably in a bath. The bodies were piling up round them and they hadn’t a bloody clue why.

Craig turned away muttering in frustration, just as Mike Augustus appeared. Liam nodded towards his feet.

“Over here, Mike. He’s young, same as the others. Looks like he was manacled and drowned.”

Craig added. “He hasn’t been here long. The grass beneath him is barely flattened.”

Before Augustus could say ‘I hope you didn’t move him’, Craig was walking back towards his car. Liam caught up in two strides.

“How’d you know that?”

“I tilted him up for a moment. The grass was hardly crushed. I doubt if he’s been here for more than an hour.” He reached his aging Audi and banged a fist hard on the roof. “Damn, this guy is arrogant. He dumps a body in broad daylight and no-one sees a thing. What are the odds?”

He didn’t need an answer, just an ear. He climbed into the car and started the engine, leaving Liam scrambling to keep up. As they swept onto the A7 heading for Belfast Liam broke the silence.

“What did the Doc want earlier?”

Craig shrugged.

“So we’re going to the lab?”

He got his answer thirty minutes later when they hit Belfast’s Saintfield Road, and as they entered the pathology unit’s outer office Craig got his. John was standing by one of his antique glass cabinets, staring into space.

“You wanted to see us?”

As the pathologist turned they saw a puzzled look on his face. “Mmm.”

He led the way to the dissection room and drew back the sheet covering their first male corpse, then he slipped on some gloves and nodded the others to do the same.

“What are we looking at?”

“Wait.”

John lifted the young man’s arm, exposing the tattoo. Its words were obscure; ‘Gentum est confessio illa veritate.’

Liam whistled, cutting it short when he remembered where he was. “I bet that hurt.”

John shook his head. “Not at all. He was dead when it was done.”

Craig’s eyes widened. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

He covered the body and crossed to the girl’s, nodding down at the sheet. “The girl has one identical except it’s in white ink, much smaller and placed beneath her breasts. I missed it at first. Again she was dead when it was done.”

Craig shook his head glumly. “They branded them like cattle. Do we have a translation?”

John shook his head. “Not yet. It’s obviously Latin, but not any Latin that I learned. Davy’s working on it. My guess is that your third body will have one as well.”

Craig glanced at him quizzically. “How did you know we––?”

“Nicky called.” He stripped off his gloves and led the way from the room. “The tattoos weren’t all that I wanted to show you.”

As they re-entered the outer office John walked to the cabinet he’d been standing at when they’d arrived and removed an unusual looking device. He collected antique medical instruments but this didn’t look like it had ever had a therapeutic use.

He turned the metal object over in his hand. “You know that I collect things.”

Craig nodded. “Antique medical instruments.”

“Yes, but not only those. Occasionally, when I’m asked to assist in a genocide investigation, I come across an instrument of torture.”

Liam’s eyes widened. “And that’s one?”

John nodded. “It is, but not a modern one.”

Craig was unsurprised. John was one of the nicest people he knew but his intellectual curiosity took him to some dark places. He worried that one day he would fall into the abyss.

“So you’ve been collecting them?”

“Some. Antique and modern. I need to understand what makes man so inhumane to his fellow man.” He held out the instrument but both detectives shook their heads. John shrugged and held it up to the light.

“This is a medieval choke pear, also known as the pear of anguish. Used by torturers in the fifteenth century. It was inserted into small orifices and widened gradually to cause pain.”

He opened the device as he spoke.

Liam gawped. “They used it on the girl?”

John shook his head. “On the first boy. A modern version; they left it with him. He had significant recent anal tearing with no indication that he’d had sex. Like the tattoo they were made after death, but…”

Craig understood immediately. “But that wasn’t all. There were older tears as well. You’re saying that he was gay.”

“Or engaged in anal penetration, which isn’t always the same thing. He might have preferred objects to people.”

Craig pressed for the details. “How old are the older scars?”

John shook his head. “Not childhood abuse if that’s what you mean. There’s no sign of that, unlike on the girl. They aren’t more than two years old and they show no signs of violence.”

He returned the implement to the cabinet and led the way into his room, taking a seat behind the desk and removing some photographs from a file. He tapped them with a finger.

“You can look if you wish but it’s just old scars and the new tears. It’s just speculation at the moment but I think that our first male victim had engaged in consensual anal penetration sometime in the past two years.”

Liam finished the thought. “And he died for it?”

It was Craig who answered. “It’s too early to say.” He glanced quickly at the photographs and then headed for the door. “Bring everything with you to the briefing, John. Liam, let’s try to I.D. our victims before we jump to conclusions about why they were killed.”

****

The meals were all eaten, the medication dispensed and now it was time for prayer. The room’s doors slid back to allow entry to a group of dull-eyed, shackled teens. They dropped to their knees as the dark-suited men watched them, their gazes like searchlights seeking signs of apathy or disrespect.

The teenagers glanced anxiously at each other and then at the man standing, arms extended, at the front of the room. Then they feigned devotion like their lives depended on it, as they undoubtedly thought that they did.

Chapter Four

Jake glanced at the clock above his grandmother’s head and then rose slowly to his feet. Her large eyes teared up instantly so he sat down again, taking her thin hand in his own. He smiled, tracing her familiar lines with his gaze until slowly she smiled back, then he spoke softly, as if saying the words more quietly would lessen their impact in some way.

“I must go to work, just for a few hours. The Superintendent has been kind but we need this job.”

We. That’s what it was now, but then that’s what it had always been. Him and them; his surrogate parents, with his partner Aaron very much the fourth wheel. Meredith McLean nodded and held her grandson’s smooth hand up to her cheek. Her voice was strong, stronger than Jake had expected it to be.

“You have your work, Jake, and you have your life with Aaron, just as your grandfather and I had ours. I’ll be fine once tomorrow is over, you’ll see. I’ll do all sorts of things; join clubs and make new friends. Don’t worry about me, please.” With that she set down his hand decisively and waved her own towards the door. “Now, go to work and I’ll see you later.” She rose briskly and turned her slim back towards him, busying herself with washing a cup. “If I turn around and you’re still there I’ll be very cross, Jake McLean.”

He took his cue and slipped out, but his mind whirred with questions about where their lives would go next. Regardless of what his grandmother said, he wanted to spend time with her; but how would Aaron feel about that? He’d been patient with his absences so far; as he’d nursed his granddad at home and then kept vigil in the hospital at the end. But it had been six months now and even a lover’s patience and sympathy only stretched so far.

Aaron would expect their life together to return to normal once the funeral was over, except that it couldn’t possibly. His granny needed him even more now, no matter what she said, and… Jake stopped by his car, realising something. And he needed her. She’d been his mother since he was five, how could he possibly abandon her now? He couldn’t and what’s more he didn’t want to. He loved talking to her, listening to her, just being there to help. Her kindness had been a constant in his life for almost twenty-five years.

He suddenly knew that in a tug of love between his partner and the small, slim woman who’d tucked him in at night, there would be no contest, and as he shifted his car into gear he prayed that Aaron never made him choose.

****

5 p.m.

“OK, let’s have some order.”

The detectives and scientists continued the business of pouring coffee and putting biscuits into their mouths, nodding as they greeted people that they hadn’t seen for weeks. Craig repeated the instruction more firmly and they started shuffling to their chairs, Liam muttering grudgingly at Davy as he went.

“You took the last custard cream.”

Davy’s reply was to drop the offending biscuit into his mouth and bite it in two with a loud crack. Craig intervened before the great biscuit war kicked off, but what he really wanted to do was crack both their heads. He was sick to the back teeth of always having to be the reasonable one, but it was a skill it had taken him years to acquire and an essential one if they didn’t want injuries. He’d learned long ago that his temper and fists had two speeds, zero and one hundred miles per hour, and he’d never mastered anything in between.

“Grow up, the pair of you! Nicky, give Liam another custard cream from your drawer and let’s make a start.”

As everyone wondered how long Nicky had been hoarding biscuits and how Craig knew the exact count, he began.

“OK, as of a few hours ago we have three dead bodies. All, and Mike and John can confirm this, in their late teens.”

Mike Augustus opened the thin file on his knee and read from the single sheet inside. “The third victim is male, aged between sixteen and twenty. He was found soon after death like the other two. I’ll have more detail after the P.M.”

Craig continued. “OK, so far we have two males and one female victim in nine days; the female was victim number one. All white, all under twenty and all found in the countryside near Downpatrick.”

As he dragged over a white board Liam muttered. “That’s ruined Downpatrick for me. I was going to take the kids there when it got warm.”

Andy interjected as Craig arranged the board. “I’m pretty sure it ruined it for the victims as well.”

Craig finished writing ‘young’, ‘white’ and ‘Downpatrick’ on the board and turned back to face the group.

“Quiet. We’ve a lot to cover. OK, first question. Why are all the victims young? Anyone?”

Andy answered him. “Easier to dupe, naïve, likely to be physically slight so easier to lift––”

Craig held up a hand, stopping him. “Good. All of those things apply. The other common findings are that all our victims were found with manacle marks, wet and wrapped in cling-film, with drowning the cause of death. Mike, was the third one drowned as well?”

Augustus nodded. “Same as the others. Probably domestic water from The Silent Valley. It serves Belfast and most of County Down.”

Craig added ‘manacles’, ‘cling-film’ and ‘drowned in domestic water’ to the list.

“The final thing is that John and Mike found the same words tattooed on the first two victims. In black ink on the boy’s right inner arm and in white beneath the girl’s breasts. Was there any sign on the third victim?”

Mike answered again. “Same phrase in the same position; right inner arm.”

Just then Jake walked through the double-doors. Craig nodded to him in respect; he hadn’t expected to see him much that week but he imagined that right now work must seem like a break. He wrote ‘tattoo’ on the board and turned to Davy.

“The tattoo isn’t in English so Davy’s been trying to get it translated. Davy?”

Davy had been picking at his nails, for once devoid of varnish. Craig suddenly noticed that his earrings had gone as well. He wasn’t sure if it was a sign of maturity or if some fresh piercing hell was on its way. The analyst shook his head.

“The translation could take a w…while.”

“Why so?”

“It looks like Latin but it’s not any Latin I ever learned; one of the words looks like confession but even that could be wrong. I tried all the translation engines but no joy, s…so I got on to the universities and so far all they’ve come back with is that it’s an ancient language.”

Liam snorted. “I could have told them that.”

Davy ignored him. “I can tell you that the tatt’s not on the PNC distinguishing marks database, s…so it’s never been found on a UK corpse before. I’m widening the search to Europe.”

As Craig said ‘OK’ vaguely, his mind searching for what the tattoo meant, he wrote ‘Ancient text?’ on the board and went to move on. His progress was halted by Liam suddenly bursting into song. Craig didn’t know what he was more surprised by, the piece he was singing or Liam’s amazing baritone voice. As the Latin words of Panis Angelicus faded away to a spontaneous round of applause he recovered enough to ask the questions on everyone’s lips.

“Where did you learn to sing like that? Why now? And how come this is the first time we’ve ever heard you?”

Liam grinned proudly. “The point is I know a lot of Latin. Choir and altar boy for ten years.” He gave Nicky a wink. “Then I discovered girls and went to hell in a handbasket.”

Craig smiled, imagining a teenage Liam chucking his sheet music into the air and racing after some girl.

“Well, if my mum ever hears you you’ll be duetting with her for years.” Mirella had been a concert pianist.

He tapped the board to focus them back on the case. “So Liam’s our resident Latin scholar but we’ll have to wait for the universities to translate the tattoo. OK, before I hand over to the Docs I need to emphasise that this isn’t a case we can drag our heels on. There have been three deaths in a short period, the last two today, so we have a serial killer on our hands and he’s escalating. If he continues at this rate… well, we all know what that means.”

He turned to where John, Mike and Des were sitting in a row, like a scientific three monkeys.

“Fire ahead, John.”

The pathologist lifted a folder beside his feet and distributed the hand-outs inside. They contained a mixture of words and photographs and as Annette flicked through the pages she gasped. He nodded.

“Quite. Try not to look at the photographs until we tell you what they are. Turn to page three please.”

It was a table.

“That’s the composition of the water found on the girl last week. We’re expecting the others to match.” He turned to the chair beside him where Des was busy stroking his beard. It was getting longer, a fact that Liam decided to point out.

Des sniffed disdainfully, sucking a strand of hair vertically as he did, then he started to explain the table.

“You’ll see that there are common chemicals listed: Aluminium, calcium, chlorine. They’re present in all purified water, but it’s the percentages that make the water peculiar to an area. This water definitely came from the Silent Valley. Narrower than that is impossible to say.”

Carmen interrupted. “How did you know to check it was purified?”

Des smiled kindly at her. He didn’t know Carmen well so he didn’t realise just how dangerous that was.

“The absence of diatoms and algae made us look. Then we found the chemicals.”

Even Craig heard the head-patting tone of his voice so he cut in before she made a caustic retort.

“So you expect all three victims to match.”

Des nodded. “We’ll obviously check each one, but yes.”

“Good. So if all our victims were drowned indoors that means our killers had privacy. It’s also more difficult than you think to drown someone, even if they’re weak. People fight back, so we know that our killer must be strong.”

Liam nodded. “A man.”

“Or two.”

Des continued cheerfully, unaware of his narrow escape.

“Yes. Sorry we can’t make the water source any more specific, but maybe CCTV will give some clue which direction the killer came from.”

Craig turned eagerly towards Davy to be met by a solemn shake of his head.

“Sorry, chief. No cameras in the area, the closest are miles away, near Ballynahinch and Dundrum.”

Craig sighed. Life was never easy. “Give Liam anything you can find.” He turned back to Des.

“OK, the cling-film round the victims. We’re fuming it for prints but I can tell you that there were no prints actually on the first two bodies; they were washed head to toe after death.”

“Definitely after?”

“Had to have been or we’d have found something from the killer. Also, they were washed in high concentration bleach as well as water and if they’d been alive they’d have scratched the skin off themselves.” He nodded to Mike. “Mike smelled it first.”

Craig was surprised. Not at the use of bleach, it was a standard forensic countermeasure that most criminals knew about, courtesy of TV cop shows. He was surprised because he hadn’t noticed it on either corpse. John saw his confusion.

“Before you start panicking that you have anosmia, don’t; I missed it too. Mike only spotted it because he removed the cling-film from the first boy. It evaporates quickly so by the time you saw the bodies it had gone.”

“It was definitely on the bodies, not on the outside of the wrapping?”

Mike nodded. “On the skin; head to toe as far as I could tell.”

Craig gave a nod. “OK, so bleach.” He wrote the word on the board and threw open the floor. “What could bleach mean? Anyone? Make it as weird as you like.”

Liam frowned. “Apart from the forensic benefits you mean?”

“Apart from that.”

Carmen was the first to speak. “Purification; he thought the victims were dirty in some way.”

“Good. Anyone else?”

Annette chipped in. “A hospital or clinic.”

“With a twisted use.”

Davy warmed to the theme. “A factory or a lab that uses chemicals. Or w…what about a drug house?”

Craig thought for a moment. “Good. Corrupt dealers sometimes cut drugs with bleach.”

Liam laughed. “As opposed to the law abiding ones?”

Craig rolled his eyes. “Very witty. OK, anything else?”

Liam showed his experience during The Troubles. “They could have been making bombs.”

As Craig scribbled the words on the board the group fell quiet. He tapped his marker against the list.

“This is a lot to go on with. Davy, check for any clinics, factories or abandoned warehouse facilities in a twenty mile radius of the dumpsites––”

Liam interrupted. “What’s to stop the bleach being something to do with the area itself? Maybe they dump chemicals there.”

It didn’t ring Craig’s bell but he added it to the list. “The Department of Environment would know, if it’s legal.”

Liam sniffed. “And if it’s illegal dumping we’re hammered.”

“Let’s leave that with Davy. OK, the bleach could be a false clue, although the fact that it was under the cling-film rather than on the outside makes it unlikely.” He turned back to Des. “Any joy on the victims’ I.D.s yet?”

“None. I fingerprinted the first two and ran them through the database but there was nothing.”

Craig thought for a moment then turned to Liam.

“Liam, check with the street patrols. If our victims were on the streets or runaways they might recognise their photographs.”

He saw the others’ confused looks and realised that he hadn’t covered the most basic points.

“Sorry everyone, I should have said; the girl was an IV drug user and we think she might have been a sex worker as well. She had needle tracks and HIV and there were also signs of old abuse.”

Annette interrupted. “Old abuse might mean she was known to social services. We should show them her photograph. And the local HIV clinics might know her.”

“Good thinking. Davy, do that, please. In fact send all the victims’ photos to social services, just in case. We’ll try everything we can locally to I.D. them but we think the girl may have been from Eastern Europe.”

He outlined his thoughts on trafficking and Nicky screwed up her face in disgust.

“They should be shot.”

“No argument on that.” He nodded at Carmen. “Carmen’s liaising with D.C.I. Hughes on the trafficking and Geoff Hamill will update us on any gangs.”

Liam swallowed his tea so fast it went down the wrong way and he practically coughed out, “Drugs.”

John was quick to retort. “You want some or you think someone should be looking into who supplied her?”

Liam recovered. “Supply. And I do the jokes around here.”

Craig wrote it on the board. “Drug supply, very good. Carmen, see if Aidan knows anything on that, and Liam, pick it up with Karl Rimmins.”

Rimmins was a rising star in the Drugs Squad. At twenty-seven he was already a sergeant in an area of policing where it was notoriously hard to survive, never mind get to the top. He was bright but he also had a biological advantage over his peers; Karl’s dark and dangerous looks suited the drug underworld almost too well. When they’d first met him in 2012 he’d played the hardened narc self-consciously, but the years had sharpened his glance and now the look in his eyes wore him. Craig hoped the world he policed didn’t drag him down but he wouldn’t have been the first officer to go astray.

Jake cut across Craig’s thoughts. “If the girl was a prostitute and a user, did you find anything similar on the first boy?”

Mike answered him. “When we found the tattoo on both of them we wondered what else they might have in common so we looked for signs of prostitution and drug use on the lad, but there was nothing. Although…”

He handed over to John.

“There was no sign of recent sex on either body but there were signs of past anal penetration with the boy, most likely consensual and in the past couple of years. He looks late teens so probably just after he’d reached the age of consent, but he’d also been abused post-mortem with…”

Craig raised a hand to halt him. “Just before John elaborates, this is a murky case and likely to get even more so. What you’re about to hear is hard core, so be warned.”

He glanced at Nicky and she opted out gratefully, leaving someone else to minute the meeting as she headed for the canteen. When she was safely through the double-doors John elaborated, describing in graphic detail the abuse carried out on their first John Doe and the injuries that it had caused.

“In your pack you’ll see photographs of his internal and external anal injuries. The minor internal abrasions were most likely from consensual sex, the major tears weren’t, but thankfully they were made after death. There’s also a photograph of the object that caused them; it was left with the body after death.”

Ken had said nothing since the start of the briefing, just nodded quietly and taken notes. Now he gasped. But it wasn’t a gasp of horror; it was a gasp that said he’d seen this before. Craig seized on it.

“You’ve seen this elsewhere?”

“When I was posted to the Middle-East.” Ken had travelled a lot of the world with his job. “It was administered as a punishment for homosexuality in some religious countries where it was taboo. Sometimes to elicit a confession as well. But the victims were always alive when it happened.”

John leaned forward eagerly. “Did they use the same type of instrument?”

Ken shook his head. “They used increasingly large objects, but it had the same effect.”

Craig’s heart sank at the mention of religion and punishment; men too often twisted belief to suit their own ends. He doubted that their killer was on God’s side, but with the bodies’ washing possibly meaning purification, some warped religious sect could feasibly be part of their case.

“Thanks, Ken. Mike, any other similarities between the victims? Apart from the bleach and the P.M. tattoo?”

Augustus shook his head and then added. “But we’re waiting for the tox-screens on all three.”

After a moment when no-one added anything Craig summed up.

“OK, we have a third victim, found a few hours ago. Another young male. Let’s see what he brings. Meanwhile, Davy – you lead on the I.D.s and forensics with Des, and get that tattoo translated. Liam – pursue the street patrol angle for all three victims; see if anyone knows them. And check the drugs angle with Karl. Ken – you help Davy with the social services links and anything else he needs. Carmen – you’re on Vice and Gang Crime; I want to know who trafficked the girl, if she was. Let’s keep this tight, everyone; we have three victims and we can’t let the trail run cold.” He nodded to the visiting scientists. “Thanks for coming. Do you mind if I join you for the third P.M.?”

John rose to leave. “I’ll see you there in an hour.”

The group dispersed and Craig beckoned Jake and Annette into his office just as Nicky reappeared. She screwed up her face.

“All done?”

Annette made a face. “Yes. You did the right thing leaving. If I hadn’t needed to hear it I’d have left as well.”

Nicky smiled gratefully. “Coffee for three coming up.”

They entered the small office and arranged themselves around the desk. When Nicky had brought in the drinks Craig began.

“Joanne Greer. Where are we?”

Annette swallowed a mouthful of coffee and shook her head. “Up the creek at the moment. Greer has hired a crack legal team and they’re pulling the case against her to bits.”

Craig frowned. “How far can they get? She confessed on tape.”

It was Jake who answered. “Entrapment. It’s what their whole appeal hinges on; they use the word in every other email to the P.P.S. They’re saying that Greer would’ve said anything to keep Ershov happy because she loved him.”

Craig exhaled noisily. “No-one’s that stupid, not even someone in love.”

Annette shook her head. “Sorry, sir, but that’s what she’s arguing and…” She glanced at him apologetically. “When you hear the tape for the first time that’s what comes across. She sounds like a besotted woman telling her lover the story he wants to hear.”

Craig raked a hand through his hair. After a moment’s angry silence he sighed.

“What does our side say?”

Annette tried for an optimistic smile. “They’re not as pessimistic as I sound. Both our lawyers and The Met’s say it was a solid bust, but that it will come down to what a new jury thinks on the day.”

Craig rose and walked to the window, gazing out at the river below. He imagined Yemi doing the same at the Thames. Without turning round he said.

“Annette, find out where Yemi is tomorrow morning and arrange a conference call for the four of us. Book an hour; I want us to get our ducks in a row.”

She nodded. “OK, I’ll let you know what time. But…”

He swung round. “More good news?”

She winced. “Sorry.”

He reminded himself not to shoot the messenger and waved her on.

“The court date’s been changed.”

Craig was only half listening, already imagining Joanne Greer preening herself in the witness box. “To when?”

“To the Friday after Easter. April tenth.”

He thudded into his chair. “It can’t be! It’s too soon.”

She glanced at Jake and they nodded in unison. “I’m sorry, but it is, sir. Greer’s defence team pushed for it because their senior barrister has major surgery scheduled. Apparently it can’t be moved so the judge gave in.”

“More like they wanted to catch us on the hop.”

This was just what he needed; three dead bodies and an appeal coming that could last for weeks. He chastised himself immediately. He wasn’t the only one involved; John would be tied up on the forensic side and Liam would be called to give evidence as well. The others watched his expression change from incredulity to rage and then settle on a closed eyed shrug. When Craig reopened his eyes he was resigned.

“OK, take me through it again from the top.”

****

Mike Augustus stared at the body on the table and then across it at his boss. John’s expression was as quizzical as his own. The boy’s body was perfect, or as perfect as a dead body could be. No scars, no needle marks and no anal tears; no signs of a struggle, past abuse or abrasions anywhere, apart from the manacle marks on his limbs. If they hadn’t known that the lad had been drowned they would have thought that he was asleep.

John pushed a strand of hair off the youth’s thin face, speaking into the microphone as he did.

“Fair-skinned, Caucasian youth of slim build. Aged between sixteen and twenty years. Eyes blue, hair dark blond. No obvious injuries except ankle and wrist abrasions. Tattoo on his right inner arm.” He paused, shaking his head and turning off the mike. “I wonder what his story was.”

Mike glanced up from the corpse, his face the picture of innocence, as if the horrors they saw every day never touched him. He looked so much younger than his forty-one years that he made John, only three years his senior, feel like an old man.

“You mean how did he meet his killer?”

That wasn’t what John had meant but he claimed it just the same. “That and what was his life like? With the others we at least have some clue to their lifestyle, but this boy…”

As his voice tailed off he knew they were both thinking the same thing; this boy looks just like I did when I was young. No sign of drugs or sex, or anything really; a bit thin but otherwise just a regular healthy teenager who someone must have noticed had gone. Neither of them said the words because to have done so would have implied that their other victims had somehow deserved their deaths, and that wasn’t true or what they meant. Nothing warranted what had been done to these three and everyone deserved someone mourning them somewhere.

What they actually meant was that the boy seemed low risk, as if his lifestyle couldn’t have exposed him to any threat. It was judgemental and the scientist in both men dismissed it immediately, but it was more than judgemental; they couldn’t have been more wrong.

****

When Craig entered John’s office two hours later it was with an apology on his lips.

“Sorry. I got caught up on the Greer appeal. Anything useful on the P.M.?”

John pushed a single sheet of paper across the desk, watching as Craig read it with widening eyes. He glanced up from the page.

“Nothing?”

John shook his head. “Nothing except drowning, a bleach wash and the same tattoo on his right arm. Not a mark on him apart from the restraints, and no sign of drugs, sex or alcohol; although his tox-screen isn’t through yet. This kid looks like a boy scout.”

Craig shook his head immediately. “He wasn’t or he wouldn’t be dead. His lifestyle just isn’t visible.”

John frowned. “You’re talking as if this is a judgement killer.”

Craig grimaced; it was the first time the idea had been vocalised but it was spot on. Liam had mooted disapproval as a motive but it had taken John to crystallise the idea.

“I suppose I am.” He paused and then spoke more firmly. “Yes. I am. That’s exactly what I think. I think that this is someone who judged our victims and found them lacking somehow, so he sentenced them to death.”

“He?”

“Or they. I’d be surprised if this was a woman, but you’re right, there’s nothing to rule that out.”

He fell silent for a moment and John stayed silent too, knowing that Craig’s quiet was the prelude to an exposé not a request for comment. The two men sat, one listening to the wall clock tick and wondering what to cook for dinner that night, the other organising his thoughts on the case. John was just on the point of choosing curry when Craig spoke again.

“Let’s say…” He stopped, letting the ticks fill the room, then he restarted, more energetically than before. “Let’s say that each of our victims was living a lifestyle that was somehow less than ideal in the killer’s eyes.”

John interrupted, all thoughts of cooking gone. “The girl was a sex worker and drug addict…”

“The first boy might have been gay and the second one…”

There was silence while both of them stared at the walls.

John spoke first. “The second boy did something that didn’t leave marks.”

“Not on him anyway. OK, let’s say that our John Doe number two had committed some evil; murder, rape, whatever, none of which would have marked him, but would still have ruined his victim’s life.”

“So why didn’t they leave a signpost to his crime like they did with the first two? The first boy had the choke pear left behind and the girl’s track marks were already obvious.”

Craig shook his head. “Perhaps there’s another dimension to the judgement that we don’t yet understand.”

“Like what?”

Craig stared into space as something else occurred to him. “Their youth is important somehow.”

“Young enough to be redeemable?”

Craig nodded furiously. “Yes! Perhaps our killer thought they were still young enough to repent and when they didn’t he judged them guilty and executed them.”

John puffed up his cheeks and blew out the air in a long whistle.

“You don’t agree?”

“I think it sounds like something from the Old Testament, or a bad movie.”

Craig’s face fell and he slumped back in his chair. “What then?”

John shook his head. “Do you really think none of them would have repented? Even to save their lives?”

“So what’s the answer?”

“I don’t know, but I think that until we identify the victims it will be impossible to say.”

His words were absolute but he gave a caveating smile. It said ‘maybe your theory isn’t complete crap’. He’d seen Craig be right too many times to dismiss anything that he said, but they needed proof.

Craig shrugged, taking the hint. “You’re right. We have days of routine enquiries ahead. But don’t dismiss the theory; it could still turn out to be right.”

John nodded. “It could. Or this could just turn out to be some nutter with a cling-film fetish.”

Chapter Five

Craig’s apartment, Stranmillis. 9 p.m.

Katy watched as Craig picked at the dinner she’d prepared, occasionally lifting a few grains of rice to his mouth and then staring into space for minutes, before repeating the action, with his fork similarly bereft of food. After ten minutes of the same routine she whisked away his plate, hopeful of a howl of protest; instead all that came was a vague ‘that was lovely’ and another blank stare into space.

She had a theory and she decided to test it. A moment’s rustling at the fridge resulted in two bowls being placed on the table. Hers contained ice-cream, Craig’s contained a fridge magnet photo of his family taken when they were kids. As his spoon hit the bowl the thud of metal against plastic made him glance down and then look up at her with a wry smile. She seized the eye contact as an opening.

“The case or your family? Which one is worrying you?”

They were the only things that ever really worried him. He nodded at the magnet; she’d guessed it right. She decided to hazard another one.

“Lucia?”

He nodded. “Lucia.”

It was the first focused word that he’d said in twenty minutes and as he considered his next one Katy replaced the magnet with some ice-cream. He waited for too long so she moved things on.

“What’s wrong with Lucia?”

Craig shrugged. “Nothing. Yet. It’s what she’s planning to do that’s the problem.”

It took her another five minutes to drag out the story and less than a second for her to picture Mirella’s hysteria and work out what needed to be done. She brewed some coffee and ushered him across to the couch, folding her legs up under her.

“OK. It’s fair to say that Lucia is as stubborn as you, yes?”

He made a face. “I’m not stubborn, just decisive.”

Katy rolled her eyes, remembering times when she’d tried to change his mind.

“Well, if you’re decisive, Lucia’s equally so. Agreed?”

He nodded.

“So any attempt to talk her out of going to Syria will fail.”

He nodded again, with a glum expression.

“It’s simple then. Just don’t try.”

His glum look changed to a frown. “Oh, that’s very helpful. I’ll just let her go and get killed then watch Mum cry for the next ten years, will I?”

She tutted gently. “Don’t be sarcastic, pet. What I meant was that if you say no to Lucia she’ll get even more determined to go, so you don’t say no, you divert her instead.”

“With what? A road sign?”

He marched over to retrieve the cafetière as Katy sighed.

“There’s that sarcasm again.” She waited till he’d sat back down to restart. “Think. What does Lucia want more than anything?”

“To save the world.”

She shook her head, infuriating him again. To Craig it seemed she was taking perverse pleasure in winding him up.

“She wants love. For all her feminism Lucia wants a boyfriend; you know how miserable she’s been since she and Richard split up. She’s lonely. But if we can find her a nice man she might just want to stay here and continue with the charity work that she normally does.”

It was on the tip of Craig’s tongue to object when he realised that she might be right. Lucia had been miserable since Richard’s punishing concert schedule had made them call it a day six months before. Since then she’d marched for Save the Whale, run a marathon for Save the Badger, and now she was going three thousand miles away to save every human being that she could. All noble causes but only the last one might get her killed.

He shook his head. “If you say that to her she’ll eat you alive.”

“Then I won’t say it.”

He leaned over to give her a kiss. When it ended his glum expression returned. Katy smiled.

“Nice to see that kissing me cheered you up so much.”

Craig sighed. “It’s not that, pet, and I’m sure you’re right, Lucia is lonely. But how do we find an eligible man in the next few weeks? Everyone I know is already paired off.”

Her smile widened to a grin. “That’s where Natalie and I come in. Leave it to us. We’ll organise a party and invite every man in the health service, if you’ll promise to invite every unmarried man in the police.”

****

The C.C.U. Thursday 26th March, 11 a.m.

Craig glared at the conference call spider on his desk and shook his head.

“I can’t believe your lawyers said that!”

Yemi Idowu’s strong voice echoed around the office, his angry tone matching Craig’s. “Neither can I, but they did. Yesterday afternoon.”

“So because all Greer’s murders were committed in Northern Ireland, they want to just bow out of the appeal? How can they do that when she confessed at Heathrow during a joint operation with The Met?”

Jake went to say something but Annette shook her head, glancing at Craig cautiously. The discussion was really pushing his buttons.

He swallowed hard, trying not to rip the head off his long-time friend.

“I’m sorry, Yemi. I know it’s not your doing.”

“Or the Super’s. He’s bloody furious. He says they’ll damage the relationship between The Met and the PSNI. It was a joint op and everyone knew it.”

Craig sighed heavily. “But your arm of the case was Alik Ershov and he’s dead, and Joanne Greer didn’t commit any crime on English soil so I suppose your lawyers have a––”

“Bollocks! It all happened in the UK.”

The line fell silent so Annette coughed quietly for attention. Craig nodded her on and she leaned instinctively towards the spider, even though its microphone picked up everything in the room.

“Hello, sir, it’s Inspector McElroy here.” It wouldn’t be soon. She’d be returning to her maiden name Eakin ASAP.

Yemi’s voice held a smile. “Hello, Annette. I’m looking forward to meeting you; Marc’s always singing your praises.”

She blushed and carried on. “We’ll be over tomorrow evening, sir, but I was just wondering something. How, if Ershov wore a wire supplied by The Met and the tape was transcribed by The Met, can The Met’s lawyers now abandon the appeal? You were involved at the moment of Greer’s arrest at Heathrow so surely you’d have to testify about the tape and arrest at least?”

They all heard Yemi thump the desk.

“Exactly! That’s what we’re arguing about with the solicitors. They want us just to send a written statement but I believe there’s merit in me being there to speak in court.” His voice hardened as he said the words, as if he’d made a decision. “Oh bugger it, Marc. I’m going to court whether they like it or not. Someone besides you has to testify about Greer’s demeanour and actions that day. She knew exactly what she was doing when she confessed to Ershov, even if he did give her a bit of encouragement.”

Craig smiled, remembering Yemi’s performances in court from when he’d been at The Met. He would have the jury eating out of his hand.

“Can you swing it with Chandak?”

“It’s what he already wants so he’ll enjoy telling the lawyers where to stick their advice. If we’re lucky he might even come over for the trial.”

Craig pictured the ebullient brummie superintendent and smiled. Rajiv Chandak was extrovert enough in normal conversation so his court performance would be a treat. A warning buzz signalled that their call was ending so Yemi wound it up.

“Time to go. I’ll see you all after Easter. I’ll come over on the Thursday morning so we’ll have time to brief. Goodbye, Annette. Jake.”

As his voice faded away Craig turned to the others for comment. Jake shook his head.

“He’ll be lucky if he’s allowed to come, sir. Lawyers can exert a lot of pressure.”

Craig nodded, knowing that he was right, but Annette was more optimistic.

“We’ll have the transcripts ready to go anyway. I’m hopeful that he’ll get here.”

Craig glanced at the clock. “It’s almost noon, Jake, you need to leave.”

Jake sighed like a man who would rather be signalling traffic than going where he had to be that afternoon. As he rose Craig followed.

“I’ll see you at the church at three.”

Annette touched the young sergeant’s elbow. “I’ll be there too, Jake. Now go; your granny will be wondering where you are.”

When he’d left Craig held up the percolator and Annette accepted the offer of coffee gratefully. She re-opened the file in front of her assuming that they would be talking about Greer, only to be surprised when Craig shook his head.

“How are you, Annette?”

She stared at him, puzzled by the concern in his eyes. Then she remembered that her decree nisi was just through and to the outside world ending a marriage of twenty years seemed like a big deal. It would have been a big deal if she’d still loved Pete, but the moment he’d pushed her to the floor and stamped on her hand, whatever love she’d had left after his affair had been snuffed out.

The suddenness of its demise had surprised her. She’d loved Peter James McElroy for twenty years, really loved him. Through the early years of financial struggle, laughing into the night over beans on toast and a bottle of Liebfraumilch, through the joy of having Amy and Jordan and watching them grow into caring, bright teens. She’d loved every minute of it and wouldn’t wish it away for the world, but…

When had her love begun to die? It hadn’t been through habit or boredom, or the apathy that had infected many of her friends’ marriages. She’d been too sensible to let things like that destroy their bond, and besides, she’d never expected that the first romantic flush wouldn’t be replaced by something else. Something quieter, warmer; a comfortable semi-detached of a life instead of the glamour of the honeymoon suite.

No, none of that had killed her love. Its erosion had started when Pete had decided he didn’t like the semi quite as much as her and had gone in search of excitement elsewhere. Another woman; it was such a cliché that she was embarrassed to admit it even to herself. But that was exactly what had happened. His childish selfishness had created a crack in their life and another woman had crawled her way in. The fact that she was the same age as her hadn’t diminished her pain at all, although Pete had seemed to believe that it should. I didn’t go for a younger model, Annette, she was middle-aged like you so what’s all the fuss about? Such sensitivity.

Even then she’d tried to forgive and forget, for a whole year, but one crack had become one hundred and finally she’d been the one who wanted to leave. Perhaps things could still have been salvaged if her loving husband hadn’t used violence to try to regain control, but a broken hand had sealed their nuptial fate forever, landing her in the E.D. and him on remand in Magilligan; somewhere a jury would hopefully consign him to for a further two years.

Annette shook herself, realising that she hadn’t responded to Craig’s question. She smiled kindly at him, as if he needed the care more than her.

“I’m fine, sir, honestly. The kids are fine too, although it’s hard for them knowing that Pete’s in jail.”

Craig’s voice was firm. “He deserves to be there and hopefully the court will give him years. By the way, how are things with Mike?”

She made a face, not about Mike Augustus but about her teenage son. “Jordan’s not happy about me seeing him.”

“Amy?”

She smiled. “She’s just pleased that I’m happy.” Her voice dropped. “But she’s refusing to visit Pete.”

Craig shook his head unsympathetically. “There’s nothing you can do about that. Let him try to make things up to her once he’s out. It’s not your job.”

Annette’s face brightened. “Actually, sir, I wanted to ask you something. Would it be OK if I started to use my maiden name at work? I know I’m not divorced just yet but I’d like to now the nisi’s through.”

Craig laughed. “Do you think Liam will be able to cope? We don’t want to confuse him.”

She thought of Liam’s reaction and smiled. “Oh yes we do. I’ll keep McElroy privately, for the kids’ sake, but I’d like to be called Annette Eakin here.”

Craig nodded. “Fine. Let admin know and I’ll announce it at the next briefing.”

She rose to leave, a broad smile on her face. “I feel years younger already. Annette Eakin. I haven’t been called that since I was in my twenties.”

“Just as long as you don’t start acting twenty something I’ll be happy. I’ve already got enough Generation Ys to deal with in this team.”

****

Davy picked at the Save the Whale sticker on his PC, slowly peeling it off. Lucia had given it to him on a night out months before and it was beginning to look tatty now. As he scraped off the last remnant the musak he’d been listening to on the phone died away and Des Marsham’s cheerful voice came down the line.

“Davy? Are you still there?”

Davy dropped the sticker in the bin and nodded, remembering to grunt yes as well.

“OK, good. Well, the short answer is that we’ve no hits on the first two victims at all. I’ve tried the police national computer, passports and driving licences, but there’s nothing on either mugshots or prints.”

Davy turned his attention to an errant strand of hair, yanking it out absentmindedly as Nicky winced.

“You s…said the first two. That means you have something on victim three.”

“Well spotted. We got a hit. I sent the photos to the education authority as well and they recognised him.” He paused before continuing solemnly. “He was still at secondary school.”

“Runaway?”

“No. The school didn’t even notice that he’d gone. The fifth form is off for three weeks on revision pre-exams, so they thought that he was at home studying. His name’s Sam Beech; aged sixteen.”

“Sixteen! That’s just a kid. How did no-one report him missing?”

“The family did. I’ve just found the file and sent it through.”

Davy clicked on his intranet and watched as the attachment appeared. After a quick read another grunt told Des that he’d received the mail. Des rose, readying to return to the three lots of cling-film that needed his attention. It was only a yelled “Des” that made him realise he hadn’t ended the call.

“Sorry. I thought I’d hung up.”

Before Davy could answer he had. Nicky had been watching the exchange and as Davy’s phone went down she bustled across the office, eager to know what he’d found out. She stood in front of his desk, arms folded and with a questioning look on her face. The analyst ignored her for a moment then remembered that she could outstare even Liam and that unless he gave her what she wanted she’d probably still be standing there at five o’clock.

He raised his almond eyes slowly, accompanying the action with an exaggerated sigh.

“Can I help you, Nicky?”

Nicky’s arms tightened and her lips tightened to match. When she realised she couldn’t speak through them she quickly abandoned the stance.

“What did Des have to say?”

“And you need to know that, w…why?”

“Don’t get funny with me, young man. I need to know everything that happens on this floor.”

Just then Craig’s office door opened and he appeared beside her desk. He gazed around for a moment before he spotted Nicky halfway across the squad.

“Nick, get me a copy of the Greer appeal, please. And we need to discuss the arrangements for Yemi’s trip.”

She didn’t budge, knowing that her immobility would draw him over and gain her an ally. Craig fulfilled the first part of her prediction, but on the second he took Davy’s side.

“Why are you giving Davy the evil eye?”

“He’s withholding information.”

It was a phrase she’d heard in briefings and had always thought it had sounded cool. Craig gave a small laugh.

“That only applies in criminal cases.” He turned to Davy, amused. “Have you done something criminal?”

“Only if denying Nicky something is a crime.”

“Strangely, it’s not.”

Craig placed his hands on her shoulders and walked her back towards her desk, ignoring the evil eye being turned on him. “Greer appeal, please. I’ll be there in a moment.” He turned back to Davy. “Care to elaborate?”

The Emo gave a satisfied smirk that if Nicky had seen it would have earned him a clip on the ear.

“Des just called. No joy on the first two victims but he got a hit on number three’s photograph with a local s…school.”

He hit a key and an image of their third victim filled the screen. He was in school uniform.

Craig gasped. “How old?”

“Sixteen. He was in the fifth form. They w…were off on three week’s study leave, probably for their mock GCSEs at this time of year.”

“Name?”

“Sam Beech. His family reported him missing two weeks ago.”

Nicky had been gearing up to put sugar into Craig’s coffee in vengeance but when she saw his expression she knew something was very wrong. She ventured close enough to hear his next words.

“Find Liam and tell him to meet me at the lab. I’ll need two copies of that file to take with me.”

He turned to catch Nicky gawping and strode past her into his office, reappearing with his jacket and keys.

“I’ll get the Greer report when I get back.”

Davy loped across with the files and Craig was at the lift before Nicky could ask him anything. When Davy brought her up to date her face dropped.

“But why didn’t we hear about a missing child on the news?”

Davy shrugged. “Because he’s sixteen I s…suppose. They probably just thought that he’d run away.”

He tapped up the Net, searching for news of a missing local boy. On the third click he found it and read aloud.

“Sam Beech, sixteen. Disappeared from the Demesne Estate. Last seen walking to the youth club to meet his friends.”

“That’s all there is? No nationwide search? No alert?”

“Teenagers leave home all the time. I’ll check the missing person’s report.”

They were still reading it as Annette entered the squad ten minutes later, cheerfully waving a piece of paper.

“Time to celebrate, people.”

Nicky’s expression said it would have to wait then Annette saw what was on Davy’s screen.

“One of our victims?”

“The third. He was sixteen. Disappeared two w…weeks ago. The Chief and Liam are meeting at the lab then they’re visiting his folks.”

Annette’s eyes widened. Liam wasn’t renowned for his tact so death notifications were normally given to her. She lifted her mobile and pressed dial; three rings later Craig answered. From the echo she knew he was already at the lab.

“Yes, Annette?”

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I’d like to help. I’m not off to London till tomorrow night and this case sounds like it could–”

He finished her sentence. “Do with some TLC. You’re right, but Liam needs the practice so he’s coming to see the parents with me. I take it Davy’s brought you up to speed, so get a copy of the boy’s file and head down to the school. We’ll meet you there in an hour.”

He clicked off just as Liam appeared, grumbling loudly.

“Why’d you drag me away, boss? I was going great guns with the street lads.”

“Why were you working with the patrols?”

Liam stared at him, wondering if it was a trick question. He answered anyway. “To try and identify the Vics.”

Craig glanced across the room at Des who was stroking his beard like it was a pet; it was verging on disturbing. He turned back to Liam, speaking deliberately slowly. “And what has Des just done?”

“Identified one of the vic…” Liam’s eyes narrowed. “Oh very funny. Ha ha. OK, so he managed to I.D. one of them but the last I heard we had three stiffs.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “Dear God, Liam, that’s someone’s children you’re talking about. Show a bit of respect.”

He started grumbling again while Craig crossed the room to Des.

“We’re heading over to see Sam Beech’s parents and I wondered if you had anything more before we did.”

Des turned to the file on his desk. “You’ve already got most of this. Sam Beech, date of birth second of January nineteen ninety-nine, attends Demesne High School where he’s in the fifth form doing his GCSEs in June. The school gave them three weeks study leave for their mock exams starting on the ninth of March, so he wasn’t due back a school till next week. According to the notes his mother reported Sam missing on the sixteenth, after he went to meet his mates at the youth club and didn’t return home.”

Craig tapped the file. “His friends said that he never reached the club. That points to a street abduction.” He turned to Liam. “I need you to canvas the youth club. One of his mates might know something.”

Liam screwed up his face. “But he never got there.”

“That’s what the report says but kids lie. Des, anything more on the body?”

“Nope. Same as the others, except no injuries other than the restraints. To all intents he looks like a low risk kid.”

Craig shook his head. “Something he did got him killed, even if it was only speaking to the wrong person.” He gestured at the fuming cabinet, where the cling-film was being exposed to cyanoacrylate. “Any prints?”

It was asked without hope of a positive answer so they were surprised when Des gave a slight nod. The forensic expert caveated it quickly when he saw optimism flash in Craig’s eyes.

“I didn’t say yes.”

“Too late, you nodded.”

“I was nodding at the possibility of finding something.”

He moved to the cabinet and pointed at something they couldn’t see, his ability to spot emerging clues honed by years on the job.

“There’s what looks like a smudge on the first outer sheet of cling-film. But don’t get excited, it mightn’t give us anything.”

Craig patted him on the shoulder. “I have faith in you.”

As he turned to leave Liam shook his head, like the grim reaper announcing the end was nigh.

“You’ve done it now, mate. Gone and got his hopes up. Prepare to be hounded to death till we’ve solved the whole lot.”

****

The Demesne Estate. 1 p.m.

The report said that Sam Beech’s parents were actually parent singular; a mother, Sarah. She’d been abandoned by Sam’s father a decade earlier and, after a succession of partners whose motives had ranged from gaining a roof over their heads to having a punch bag on whom to take out their bad moods, she’d finally decided that Sam was all that she needed in life. But not, Craig speculated, before considerable damage had been done to her young son.

He followed the twisting side roads till they reached the heart of East Belfast’s Demesne Estate and parked his elderly Audi, wondering if it would still have wheels when they emerged. The flat they wanted was two storeys up and of a type being demolished and replaced. The planners clearly hadn’t reached the Beeches yet.

As Sarah Beech answered her front door her face paled anxiously, as if she’d been waiting for someone to call. She pulled the thin door open a sliver, yanking it wider when Craig took out his badge. The door’s weight made her fall back against the wall and he wasn’t surprised; she was a wisp of a malnourished woman, barely five-feet-one in the socks she stood in and weighing around six stone. Her son had been slight as well; the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree and the worms had been at them both.

“May we come in, Ms Beech? It’s about your son.”

Any last shred of reticence evaporated and with a hopeful smile she waved them into a wood-chipped front room. Craig’s heart sank, knowing that it would be the last flicker of hope she would ever have and that he would be the one to snuff it out.

There is no easy way to break bad news; people much wiser than him had researched the options for years. Standing or sitting, fast or slow, abrupt or soft, with questions answered or mystery maintained, they all inflicted a wound that would sting for years, before, if you were very lucky, it faded to a dull throb. Craig chose to do it fast and soft with Sarah Beech firmly in a seat. She looked barely strong enough to stand normally; grief might make her drop at their feet.

For every way there is to break bad news there are even more ways for people to respond. All are chilling to the onlooker, but possibly the way in which Sarah Beech reacted was the worst. Although her mouth opened to ask them questions her eyes said that their answers couldn’t possibly be relevant to her. The police had obviously got it wrong; her Sammy was alive somewhere and any day now he would walk in through the door. She’d tell him off and run him a bath, then sit him in front of a DVD with his favourite takeaway.

She shook her head as Craig was speaking, slightly so as not to offend; after all these nice men had come all the way to see her and she didn’t like to be rude. She wondered if they’d like some tea and rose to make a pot, but Liam steered her gently back to the sofa, his expression saying that her denial was cutting him to the bone.

Craig answered every question gently, watching her face for some sign that she had already known that her son was dead. Not known in her heart like any mother would, but known in her mind because she’d been somehow involved in his demise. He hated the suspicion that made him watch and was thankful when he saw nothing to say yes. All he saw was a frail woman made frailer by losing the only thing she’d valued in the world and using her last modicum of strength to deny the truth.

As Liam led the stunned mother to the car Craig made a call, and as Liam headed to the mortuary for the formal I.D. he drove to meet Annette at the late Sam Beech’s school.

****

“How did she take it, sir?”

Craig shook his head, remembering Sarah Beech’s pallor and lack of tears. He’d seen the reaction before, just as he’d seen all the others, and he knew exactly what it meant. She hadn’t heard him. Yes, she’d heard the words, just as she would see her son’s body in the mortuary and know that he was dead, but she hadn’t really heard it in her heart. He doubted that the funeral would make her hear either or the silence that would greet her every morning when she awoke, or the school uniform hanging in the wardrobe or the computer games that Sam would never play with again. Only time would make her hear the truth and she had years ahead for that.

“What’s the principal’s name?”

“Mrs Davis. She’s on the third floor.”

They climbed the three flights in silence, as Craig thought of Sarah Beech identifying her dead son at the mortuary, and Annette thought of Pete’s years of teaching P.E. at a school exactly like this. At the top of the stairs she turned left and they walked until they reached a mahogany door. It looked out of place in the modern school and Craig realised they were in the original wing, built in 1921 according to the plaque.

He gestured at the door. “Impressive, but I thought you said her name was Mrs Davis.” The nameplate announced Dr Ruth Davis. BA, PhD, MBA – Principal. It sounded very grand.

Annette shrugged. “Shall I knock?”

“Unless you’re telekinetic.”

It was atypical sarcasm so she allowed it to pass; it had been a hard day and they still had a funeral to attend. She tapped the door twice and a formidable “come” emerged. The tone catapulted her back to being summoned to Matron’s office when she’d been a student nurse, with all the trepidation and panic that had accompanied such a command. It reminded Craig of occasions at school when he’d been dragged by the scruff of his neck to a room just like this. He’d been a good student and a cup winning jock, but he’d been too quick with his fists and it had earned him two suspensions and more detentions than he cared to admit.

Annette pushed open the door, expecting to see a harridan behind a large desk. She couldn’t have been more surprised; the most formidable thing about the headmistress was her voice. The body hosting it was slight and almost elfin, and the dark-doored office was bright and fresh; so fresh that it verged on pretty, with silver framed photographs of pupils on the wall and similar ones of her family on the desk.

Every available surface in the room was covered with flowers and ornaments, with a collection of antique perfume bottles taking pride of place. As Craig smiled at the room’s femininity the young principal walked towards him and her blue eyed smile had a disconcerting effect. To save his blushes Annette introduced them, sitting gratefully on one of the chairs the headmistress motioned them to. She felt tired suddenly, much more tired than her workload warranted. The stress of the divorce was obviously taking its toll.

As Craig regained his composure, via thoughts that said any schoolboy would deliberately commit infractions if a visit to the principal’s office meant this, Annette outlined why they’d come.

“We spoke on the phone, Dr…”

The headmistress shook her head. “Ruth, please.” She nodded solemnly. “Yes, Sam Beech. You wanted to know about him? May I ask why?”

Craig glanced at Annette, confident that she would be discreet. The boy was dead but no-one could tell the school that until Sarah Beech had agreed.

“It’s part of an ongoing enquiry. I’m sorry but I can’t say more than that.” She urged Davis on with “Anything you can tell us will be useful.”

Ruth Davis sighed and looked at a photograph on the wall. It was of a sports team and Craig knew that their victim was one of the smiling boys.

“I’m not sure what to say about Sam. He’s a nice boy; polite and attentive in class, although not particularly academic, he’s more the sporty type. He’s working towards eight GCSEs in June, but I don’t expect him to stay at school beyond that––”

Annette interrupted. “Because you don’t expect him to pass?”

The principal shook her fair hair, distracting Craig again.

“No, I actually expect him to get good grades, but…”

Craig knew exactly what that ‘but’ meant. He’d heard it said to his father about him after he’d ended up in yet another fight. He decided to add his two penny worth as an expert on adolescent boys; he still behaved like one at least once a day.

“Sam’s troubled, isn’t he?”

Davis nodded. “Yes. How did you know?”

Craig shrugged. “Teenage boys. Which particular variety of troubled is he?”

She made a face. “It’s hard to tell. I know there were problems with a step-father a while back; social services intervened to remove Sam from the family home for a while. Six months I believe, then his mother ended the relationship and he moved back.” She shook her head. “He wasn’t the same after that.”

“How so?”

“He was different with the younger boys when he returned. Bullying them.”

Craig knew from her reticence that there had been more. Annette asked the next question.

“During those six months, was Sam in a group home or with foster parents?”

“I’m sorry, social services didn’t say.” The teacher reached into a drawer and withdrew a business card, handing it to Craig. “That’s the number for Louise McIntyre, Sam’s social worker. Perhaps she can help.”

After five minute’s more on the details of Sam Beech’s final days at school, they gave their thanks and left. As they walked towards the cars Annette said what was on both their minds.

“That step-father did something to him.”

Craig nodded. “And my guess is that the care system didn’t help. Chase up that social worker, Annette. I want to know what was happening with Sam Beech that got him killed.”

Chapter Six

3 p.m.

Northern Irish funerals are rarely cheerful affairs, even when the deceased has suffered illness and death is a longed for end. There are few, if any, happy hymns sung, and bands playing and handclapping are definitely not de rigeur. Rather, such occasions smack of restraint and lengthy silences, hushed tones and solemn, Minor chords; interrupted only by tears being sobbed in a dignified way.

Philosophers speak of death as a happy release and clerics substitute blessed for happy and nod in an equally sanguine way, but who is it happy or blessed for? Do the dead see their expensive caskets and their mourners’ ceremonial black? Do they listen as they are eulogised, or even mythologised at times? Do they read their own obituaries or hear the prayers of loved ones wishing that they hadn’t gone; are they watching from some recess in the organ loft or wrapping their arms around the bereaved to ease their pain? Perhaps. Or perhaps the dead are dead from the moment their last breath hits the air and their pupils widen and fix ahead, as if there was something better worth gazing at beyond this life.

Maybe requiems were for the benefit of the living and the dead had quit the planet days before, their energy transformed and moving on to some higher plain. People of faith and quantum physicists certainly believed so. Or perhaps we simply fade to nothingness and all the atheists are right. None of us will know for sure until it is our turn.

Philosophers and theologians had struggled with such questions for centuries and Craig was very sure that he knew less than them, so he didn’t ponder the mysteries of death, he simply watched respectfully as one of his team lowered his grandfather into his grave.

As the mourners dispersed Annette glanced at him and they picked their way through the crowd towards Jake. He stood alone by the graveside, gazing at the ground as if willing his grandfather to reappear, well and young again. Annette waited for a moment then broke the graveyard’s quiet in a gentle voice.

“It was a lovely service.”

The young detective glanced up as if he was shocked that they were there, despite sitting in the pew in front of them at church. He smiled weakly and shook his head.

“It was for my granny. He wasn’t a religious man.” The smile strengthened. “Too many Gods. They can’t all be right.”

They knew they were his grandfather’s words; he sounded as if he’d been a character and Annette said as much. As her sentence ended Craig rested a hand on his sergeant’s shoulder; a gesture between two men. He left the hand there for a moment as they gazed at the ground, then he removed it briskly, a signal that it was time to go.

The silent walk to the cars was a pause in an otherwise busy day. Then they said their goodbyes as Jake left to help his grandmother, and Craig and Annette left to respect the other dead.

****

The C.C.U. 5 p.m.

Craig threw his jacket on a chair and perched on Nicky’s desk.

“Apologies for the late briefing, everyone.”

There was a communal “It’s fine” followed by a series of “How’s Jake?”

“As well as you’d expect. He won’t be in for a few days.”

He turned, signalling that the topic was closed, and rapped his pen against the board.

“OK, what do we have so far? In chronological order: one dead girl and two dead youths. The youngest confirmed as sixteen.”

Andy cut in. “Sixteen! Which one was that?”

“The second boy. He was still at school.”

The D.C.I.’s mouth opened to say more but Craig shook his head and wrote a large number one on the board.

“In a moment, Andy. Let me outline things first. Right, victim number one, the girl; and before we move on remember that the first victim often tells us something extra about the perp so we need as much detail on her as possible. OK, there’s nothing on her prints so she didn’t have a record in the UK. Street patrols are interviewing the homeless and visiting shelters and Des and Davy are checking passports, driving licences; the usual––”

Liam shook his head decisively. “You’ll find nothing if she’s not from here.”

Craig rolled his eyes at Liam’s interpretation of ‘in a moment’ and went to carry on. It was Davy who interrupted next.

“Des called. Nothing on passports or driving licences for any of them.”

Craig nodded and moved on quickly, before someone else cut in.

“As Liam said we believe she may have been from Europe somewhere, probably Eastern, so Vice and Gang Crime are checking on possible traffickers and Davy’s in touch with Interpol. The lack of an Irish or UK passport doesn’t preclude any of that. As before – other signs suggest she could have been working as a prostitute.”

Liam went to add something but Craig cut him off.

“Carmen is working with D.C.I.s Hughes and Hamill on that aspect. Liam’s leading on the street patrols and liaising with Drugs. Anything on that yet?”

Liam shook his head petulantly.

“You’re allowed to speak now.”

“There’s nothing to say. The street patrols have been showing her picture round the shelters and homeless, plus any known dealers, but so far nothing. Karl’s never heard of her.”

Carmen nodded in agreement. “She’s not in any of Vice’s files and they know most of the street girls.”

Craig nodded. “That means she could have been working in a brothel, which strengthens the case for her being trafficked.”

“Hence the track marks.”

He turned at the sound of Annette’s voice, waving her on.

“It’s a classic way to subdue the girls and keep them under the thumb. They smuggle them into the country, ostensibly to become nannies or hotel workers, then they take their passports and tell them they’ve got to trick to pay back the cost of their passage, which of course they never manage. Anyone who objects is given a drug habit to keep them docile.”

“Heroin?”

“Usually. Heroin addicts tend to be more placid than Coke or Crystal Meth. Did Doctor Winter see any signs of other drugs?”

“Some Coke use but it could have been recreational. Heroin was the main thing.”

“That fits.”

“OK, let’s keep going on her I.D. Davy and Carmen, I want you to concentrate on that. Annette’s off to London tomorrow on Greer. Andy, split the street work with Liam please for victim two, and I want both of you working victim number three with me.”

He took a sip of lukewarm coffee and returned to the board, writing a large figure two.

“OK. Our second victim. Found early yesterday morning. Young male: same geographic area, same appearance, same tattoo, washed in bleach and then wrapped in cling-film. Confirmed drowned by Doctor Marsham, probably in the same domestic water source – yet to be confirmed. As we know, this victim may or may not have been homosexual but he was violated anally after death. New ideas anyone?”

Ken leaned forward. “What if it was punishment?”

“For being gay? If he was.”

“The punishment fitted the crime in the killer’s eyes?”

Craig shook his head in disgust. It was what Liam had first suggested.

“OK, let’s carry that through to the first victim. What was her crime? Prostitution or drug addiction?”

“Both, but they couldn’t kill her by prostitution so maybe they gave her an overdose before they drowned her?”

Craig shook his head, but only halfway. He turned to Davy. “Her tox-screen?”

“Not through yet. I’ll get Des to put a rush on. But…”

“Go on.”

“S…Surely giving her drugs before death would have been too kind. Diminished the element of punishment, if that’s what this is. I think if they shot her up it was post mortem – as symbolism.”

Craig nodded, agreeing; it was partly why he’d been reticent.

“So they injected her after death to indicate why she’d been killed. It makes sense.”

Annette shuddered, reminding him this wasn’t just an academic exercise.

“OK, so the boy was raped with the choke pear and the girl may have been given excessive amounts of Heroin, both P.M., possibly as symbols of their perceived crimes. Des and John can confirm if Heroin’s present and whether it was injected after death or not.”

As he scribed on the board Annette added something.

“If we do find Heroin it could help us, sir. What grade was it and what was it cut with? It might help identify the supplier and they could lead us to the buyer.”

He added the point to his list. “Very good. Liam, chase the Heroin with Des and then pick it up with Karl. OK, anything else on the girl?”

His tone said they hadn’t yet plumbed the depths. Annette saw the men’s discomfort and glanced at Carmen, knowing that one of them had to say the words. Carmen obliged.

“OK, maybe she was drowned and given an O.D., but you can kill someone with gang rape.”

Ken was the first to turn away and it told Craig something. He’d seen rape used to kill before. He asked the question.

“Where, Ken?”

The hardened soldier shook his head. “Bosnia. Bloody animals. They should have been put down.”

Craig continued.

“Does anyone know why it’s unlikely in this case?”

Annette ventured a guess. “Doctor Winter didn’t find any signs of sex.”

“That’s true, but why was our killer unlikely to have done it anyway?”

Liam’s voice boomed from the corner. “Killers. Plural. You can’t have gang rape with just one man.”

He was right, but the lack of killers plural wasn’t what Craig had been getting at. Davy got it first.

“HIV. The killers wouldn’t have wanted to risk infection, even with condoms.”

Craig nodded. “Exactly. For a rape to be violent enough to cause death it probably requires more than one man and risks blood exchange, even with a condom. That wouldn’t have stopped them using objects, but, as we know, John found no signs. So what does that mean?”

Ken answered. “That they saw drug use as her main crime, hence the Heroin.”

“Yes. Good.”

Annette made a face and Craig backtracked.

“Sorry, not good, but a useful analysis. Right, back to victim two. Anything else on him?”

A voice echoed across the floor. “The local gay scene. He might have been known.”

It was Jake. Craig was surprised to see him.

“I didn’t expect you in.”

The sergeant shook his head. “My grandmother was tired so she went to bed. I nipped out for a few hours to clear my head.” He gestured at the board. “I meant what I said, sir. If he was gay he may be known. It makes sense that I canvas the scene.”

Craig nodded reluctantly. He didn’t like stereotyping; female officers too often got slotted into talking to relatives and holding children’s hands, while male ones went Rambo on the criminal’s ass. Sending a gay officer to investigate a possibly gay victim seemed trite, but it made sense if Jake knew the Belfast scene.

Jake pressed his case. “I know the local clubs and bars; it’s logical.”

“OK, but I want you to take Ken as well. He knows about the torture used.”

Jake sat beside Ken and nodded, looking relieved to be back at work. Strange when someone’s murder became a copper’s R and R.

“OK, that takes us to victim number three. Sam Beech. Annette can tell you about him.”

As Annette ran through how Des had made the I.D. and their interview at the school, Craig crossed to where Davy was sitting at his desk and tapped on his left hand screen. He’d expected to see the translation of their tattoo but he didn’t. As he heard Annette’s tone signal she was summing up he retook his seat.

“Thanks, Annette. OK, in my view Sam Beech is the victim that may help us break this case. The first two victims had something in their lifestyle that might have put them at risk, not high risk necessarily but risk all the same.”

Jake interjected. “You’re right. The gay scene isn’t all sweetness and light. Get two men in a relationship and what might start as a simple disagreement can often turn to blows. But that’s not what worries me here; it’s the weekend tourism that’s the real issue. The area around the Cathedral Quarter and Dunbar Link has seen the opening of a lot of clubs, bars and gyms that cater to the gay community. There are people coming in for sex weekends from all over Europe now and some of them are rough. Someone young who was new to the scene would have been a prime target.”

Craig nodded. “And if this had been a death accompanied by other injuries I would agree with you, Jake; assault linked death is commonplace everywhere. But this is something different. There were no general signs of assault on victim two or any of them; even their drownings left only slight indicators of being held down. This isn’t GBH by a weekend tourist, this is someone snatching people and meting out their version of punishment.”

Jake conceded the point. “OK. I’ll ask around. If there’s a vigilante out there someone might have heard a rumour.”

“Good. OK, back to Sam Beech. Davy can correct me on this but Des found absolutely nothing on his body, yes?”

“No signs of drug abuse, s…sexual activity, nothing.”

“So a potentially low risk lifestyle except, as we’ve just heard from Annette, Sam had issues.”

Liam had been sitting quietly, wondering what was for dinner, now he woke up. “So one of his mum’s ex-partners abused him. How?” It was said with heavy innuendo.

Annette shook her head, ignoring the hint. “We don’t know yet. Probably physically.”

Liam was undeterred. “Or he was a kiddy fiddler. Either way, if he skedaddled a while back Sam wouldn’t have any physical signs. So let’s say this scrote either beat the kid or abused him and there are no physical scars, the way the boy acted at school says that there were definitely emotional ones. What if he’d been taking things out on the other kids and someone finally hit back?”

Craig nodded. It was a good point and something they hadn’t explored with the principal.

“It’s possible. Annette, what time are you flying tomorrow?”

“Early evening.”

“Good. Follow that up with the social worker in the morning. Liam, dig deeper on Sam’s behaviour. Find out what he was like with his classmates…”

Liam shook his head. “He was small for his age. If he was going to abuse anyone it would have been the younger kids. I’ll ask around a bit.”

Craig smiled. Liam knew what he was doing.

“OK. So that’s Annette and Liam on victim three, Jake and Ken on number two and Carmen and the other teams on victim one.”

He was just turning to Davy for the background report when he saw Liam swipe at something. When a loud “Ow!” followed he realised that it had been Andy. He was rubbing his arm and scowling.

“What the hell was that for?”

Liam was unrepentant. “For getting chocolate all over my chair. For the love of God would you stop eating!”

It was rich coming from a man who grazed all day. Craig quietened them both with a glare. Andy was on the periphery of the group so he’d barely noticed him before.

“Liam, you can’t go around hitting people, not even when they’re your own rank. Sorry, Andy, I almost forgot you were here.”

Liam muttered. “I wish I could.”

Craig needed to allocate the chocaholic D.C.I. to something but the only unpaired officer was Carmen and two hours with her could see Andy becoming their fourth death. He had an idea.

“Ken. Would you mind pairing with Carmen tomorrow on victim one and Andy can accompany Jake on canvassing.”

Andy’s frown made him raise an eyebrow; instead of bitching about canvassing he should have been grateful for his narrow escape. He’d brought Carmen’s enmity on himself and better that he got bored than was yelled at by her. Ken’s grin was even more disturbing; any man who enjoyed being bossed around by Carmen both on and off duty had to have a screw loose, but then Ken was used to giving the orders in the army so it was probably a relaxing break.

Craig turned back to Davy before anyone could object to the arrangements. “What have you got for us on background?”

Davy tapped his central screen, deferring Craig’s interest in the tattoo.

“OK, as we’ve s…said, only the third victim has been I.D.ed, so that’s ongoing. Sam Beech lived on the Demesne so I’ve asked Sergeant Boyd there to prepare a report. If there was something going on in the home he might know.”

Reggie Boyd was a fiftyish country man who was almost as tall as Liam; but where Liam had a voice like a fog horn Reggie was so quietly spoken that people strained to hear his words. Add in a lilting Donegal accent and quaint language, and everything he said sounded like a bedtime story; it made his visits to briefings very soothing. But Boyd was also a damn good local bobby who’d know everything there was to know about a Demesne Estate resident like Sam Beech.

Craig nodded approvingly. Davy wasn’t a cop but he thought like one; which reminded him, they needed to have a chat about his PhD topic soon. He was starting it part-time in September with the force paying, so it was in both their interests if his research focused on something that would be useful to the squad in years to come. Craig motioned him on.

“We’re still w…waiting for the tox-screens and other forensics but Des may have a partial print from one of the cling-film sheets. It will take another day to come through.”

Craig’s spirits lifted. He’d forgotten about Des’ fuming cabinet.

“As far as CCTV goes, w…we’re bang out of luck. There’re no fixed cameras on any of the roads near the three dumpsites and we struck out on the mobile speed cams as well. They obviously stuck to the limit. But Path say that all the victims were discovered soon after death so they can’t have driven far––”

Liam cut in triumphantly, directing his point at Craig. “I said they could have come from nearby! They could have used a back road, dumped them and gone back to work. We need to canvas houses and offices.”

His smugness was amusing but Craig wasn’t about to let it last for long. “They might have, but there’s another possibility. I grant that it’s unlikely but they could have carried the bodies cross country on foot.”

Liam shook his head vehemently. “No man could have carried…” His voice tailed off as he thought of their victims; none of them had weighed over nine stone. A decent sized man could have carried them easily. He added a question to his outrage. “You think the Vics were chosen for their size?”

Craig shook his head again. “I don’t think anything yet. Young people tend to be lighter anyway and for all we know this might just be one of the killers’ dumping grounds; the one where they leave the smaller bodies. We’re still in the speculation phase.”

Davy picked up the reins. “They couldn’t have been carried far, Chief; even nine stone gets heavy pretty quick. And it would have taken two men to spread the load ’cos one man carrying that w…weight would have left shoe impressions and none were found. But it gives me something else to search for; overland access paths and nature trails.”

“OK, good. Get going with that.”

He tapped the PC screen that Craig had been looking at earlier and transferred the tattoos’ words onto Nicky’s LED screen. “This was tattooed on each victim after death. On the inner arms of the males and the lady’s––”

Craig saved his embarrassment.

“Do you know which language is it yet?”

“An ancient Latin dialect. It took s…some identifying. I had to email some historians.”

“They understood it?”

“Nope. Just recognised it. Even they didn’t understand what it meant.”

Craig was puzzled. “Does it have a name?”

“Vulgar Latin.”

“Never heard of it.”

Davy leaned forward so eagerly that he almost fell off his chair. “You wouldn’t have. The version taught in schools is Classical Latin. This version was purely conversational. It was the way the masses, or the vulgus, spoke.”

“When?”

“It began when Augustus ruled; from 27 BC to 14 AD, and s…spread as the Roman Empire did. Vulgar also means that it was the common word; colloquial.” He paused for questions but was greeted by blank looks. “Anyway, eventually it became the basis for most of the romance languages.” He nodded at Craig. “Like Italian.”

“Not the modern version.”

Craig frowned in thought. Their killer was using the dialect to send some sort of message and his gut said that it was in more than the words themselves. Did the killings have some historical motive? A voice in his head said that it was more than that – Vulgar Latin was the Latin that the first Christians would have heard. Religion again. He wasn’t ready to voice his suspicions so instead he asked a question that Davy answered with a shake of his head.

“Nope. There are only limited w…written records of it, where someone wrote down what people said. Vulgar Latin was a bit like street slang is today.” He searched for an example. “OK, what if I said swag money or swerve to you, would you know what I meant?”

Liam raised an eyebrow. “I’ll bite. What do you mean?”

Davy grinned. “They both mean awesome, but in different ways and contexts, and––”

Craig finished the thought.

“And we couldn’t translate them unless we had access to someone living, like you, who spoke street slang. Anyone know any ancient Romans––”

He was interrupted by a loud ‘oh crap’ and everyone turned towards its source. Liam was staring into space and Craig immediately knew why.

“You’ve heard it spoken, haven’t you?”

Liam wasn’t listening; he had the look of someone transported in time and place. After a minute during which Davy signalled rudely that he’d lost his mind, Liam finally unfroze and answered Craig.

“I’ve just realised something, boss.”

With that he strode across the squad-room and disappeared into the lift. A moment’s gawping followed and then Craig refocused their attention on the case.

“OK. Liam’s obviously gone to follow a hunch. We’re ten days and three bodies in and so far we only have one I.D. so make that your priority tomorrow morning. I want you out there showing the victims’ photographs to anyone you can think of; you all have your contacts so use them.”

With that he headed for his office, leaving the group split between those still staring after Liam and those staring after him. When he entered the room he reread the words that had made Liam leave. ‘Gentum est confessio illa veritate’.

His schoolboy Latin only helped with one word; confessio: confess or confession. It was useless; a language’s challenge lay in words’ meanings altering with context and they’d be guessing what the other words meant. But Liam had recognised the phrase from somewhere, and his abrupt exit had said that it wasn’t from anywhere around there.

****

Danni Cullen smiled at the sight of her huge husband loping up their tarmacked driveway and she smiled again as Liam dashed past her with a hello and a nod, guessing that there was sport of some description on cable and he’d be back once he’d set the TV to record. Her smile changed to puzzle as she heard his footsteps thunder past the lounge where their small children were playing and up the stairs of their three-storeyed Victorian home. The puzzle deepened as the thunder ascended to the attic and she heard the sound of boxes being thrown onto the floor.

Checking quickly on Erin, their four-year-old, who was transfixed by TV cartoons and ignoring her two-year-old brother throwing toys at her from his pen, she raced up to the landing beneath the loft opening and yelled into the darkness.

“Liam, what are you doing?”

A muffled reply made her yell again.

“What? What’s so important that you couldn’t say hello to your children?”

At that Liam’s wide, freckled face appeared, flushed from activity, or as flushed as a man with the melanin level of a white rabbit ever got.

“Have you seen my school stuff? It was in a pile of boxes.”

Danni shook her head, bemused. “No, I haven’t seen your school stuff. It’s thirty years old – we probably threw it out! Come down and tell me why you want it.”

“Sorry, can’t.”

With that he disappeared again, leaving her coming to the boil. She ratcheted up her volume to a roar.

“Liam Mungo Ignatius Cullen” His mother had known all the saints. “If you don’t get down here this minute and say hello to your family, you’ll…” She searched for something so dreadful that it couldn’t be ignored. “…you’ll be eating salad for a month!”

The speed of his descent took her aback so much that she’d have fallen against the wall if he hadn’t caught her. Liam gazed down at his petite wife and decided to take advantage of the position they were in, lifting her off the floor and kissing her hard on the lips before she could object. When Danni had recovered she gasped out.

“What were you searching for?”

He deposited her on the ground and waved a book above her head. “This.”

It was a hard-backed notebook, covered in clear plastic to thwart the teenage Liam’s attempts at inscribing ‘Man United’ on its front. Before Danni could grab it he was shooing her down the stairs.

“What time’s dinner? I have to go out again.”

He was down the hall and out the front door before she could reply. ‘Seven o’clock’ followed him down the pathway and he muttered the Terminator’s response of “I’ll be back.” Then he was in the car and heading for the city centre, eager to follow up his hunch.

Chapter Seven

The Lab. Friday, 11 a.m.

It was eleven o’clock before anyone phoned Craig with good news and, as it often was, it was Annette. She’d been to social services to find out what she could on Sam Beech’s sad, short life. Her voice echoed down the line as Craig and John stood in the dissection room, gazing down at the face of their female victim.

“Morning, sir.”

“Hi, Annette, what have you got for me?”

John covered the young woman and ushered Craig into the corridor. His dissection room was sacred and it felt wrong to be chatting casually over a body, no matter how relevant to the case it might be. Annette paused, arranging her thoughts. Craig wanted I.D.s so she decided to start with that. She gazed around the chilly social work offices, set in a red-brick building that reminded her of every country hospital where she’d ever trained, and gave him the good news.

“I’ve I.D.ed the girl, sir.”

He glanced at the room they’d just left and the victim that would soon have a name.

“Well done, but how?”

“Pure accident. I tried canvassing for a while this morning then I came to the social services’ offices to ask about Sam Beech. On the off chance I showed them the photos of our two unknowns and one of the social workers recognised the girl.”

Craig was puzzled. How had Annette I.D.ed a prostitute from Eastern Europe when Vice had failed to do so? She told him.

“It turns out that our girl’s family is from Poland, so you were right about the European link. But she wasn’t trafficked; they’ve lived in Belfast for over twenty years.”

He knew what was coming next.

“She was recognised by a social worker who works with drug addicts.”

Which had come first, the chicken or the egg; the girl’s prostitution or drugs? They’d assumed that she’d been purposely addicted to Heroin to make her prostitute herself, but maybe it had actually been the other way around; she’d turned tricks to earn the money to feed her addiction.

He vocalised his thoughts. “So she was an addict who turned to prostitution to get the money for drugs. We all know drugs are at the heart of the trade.”

“No and yes. She’d been using drugs since she was fourteen and social services first got involved when she was lifted on a shoplifting charge. Looks like she stole to raise money for drugs long before she sold herself.”

“If she was lifted then why weren’t her prints on file?”

He and John had been walking towards the office. John entered to make the coffee while Craig stayed outside, continuing the call.

Annette shrugged. “Probably some kind cop who didn’t want to put a kid in the system.”

Officer discretion; they’d all used it in their time. Craig nodded to himself.

“So he took her to social services instead and they got her into rehab.”

“Exactly, except that the rehab didn’t take and she started using again. She attended the clinics on and off, until she finally stopped going about two years ago. I don’t have the details yet but I imagine that’s when she decided that prostitution paid better than theft.”

“They’d seen no sign of it before then?”

“None, although that doesn’t mean she wasn’t doing it. But as far as they were concerned she’d always funded her habit through theft.”

John popped his head around the door, holding a bubbling percolator. Craig signalled he would join him soon.

“What’s her name?”

“Elena Boraks. Nineteen years old, born in Belfast. She has a father living locally. I was going to follow up on him as well as find out what they have on Sam, if that’s OK?”

Craig shook his head. “It’s too much for one person and you’re leaving for London tonight. Get Carmen and Ken to take the father. If the girl was working then she was working out of somewhere; John and I had another look and there are no signs of the skin weathering she would have got from walking the streets. I’m sure she was working from a house; it might have been home.”

Annette gave a disgruntled, “Hmmm.”

“You don’t agree?”

“I agree about the house but I don’t agree that I should give her up. Can’t Carmen and Ken take Sam Beech instead?”

Craig smiled to himself. He would prefer it if Annette followed up both victims but he’d already tasked Carmen to work on the girl. He decided to meet her halfway.

“OK, how’s this for a compromise? You’re the inspector, so you keep oversight on all three cases from London with Liam, and Carmen and Ken act as support. How’s that?”

He hoped that she’d say yes quickly; he could smell the coffee wafting through John’s door. Thankfully she agreed.

“That’ll work. I’ll gather everything social services has on both and call a meeting with the A-Team before I leave.”

****

Liam had barely been in a library since he’d left school, except to change Erin’s library books when Danni didn’t have the time. Now he was defying the laws of probability by being in one twice in two days; his return that morning necessitated by the first trip being cut short by his rumbling tum.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like reading, just that library seats and choking on dust mites weren’t his thing. As soon as he’d passed his A-Levels he’d chucked his books into the loft and put on a different uniform, only to discover that police promotion required more hours studying than he had ever done at school. Still, at least he did them in an armchair at home now instead of sitting on a hard seat.

But he was definitely in a library now, Belfast’s Central Library to be exact; a masterpiece of Victorian architecture opened in 1888, with a sweeping three-storey staircase that would have done Fred Astaire proud. He’d been there for hours poring over leather bound tomes, the like of which he’d last seen on the shelves of his old parish priest, Father McGinn.

Catholic boys in Crossgar were brought up the old-fashioned way, their prayers first taught at their mother’s knee and then seared onto their souls by the Christian Brothers at school. All sorts of prayers: to their guardian angels, to the Sacred Heart, to all the saints and to God himself. Add in the rosary they said every morning in class and serving as an altar boy at weekends, and Liam had been steeped in religion since he’d been born. He’d enjoyed his upbringing, which made it all the more surprising that he was such a heathen now. Or maybe he wasn’t; even he would admit that his veneer of agnosticism shattered as soon as he was up to his ears in shit; then every prayer he’d been taught as a kid suddenly came roaring out.

But religious or not he remembered everything that he’d seen and heard, and amongst the things he remembered were the words in the notebook that he’d dug out the evening before. His first call when he’d left Danni had been to an old friend from school, his second to the library that he was sitting in now.

As he pulled down another hide bound volume and flicked through its dusty sheets he wished he’d paid more attention in Latin class. He been good enough to get a B without studying, but an A grade would have proved useful now. He’d have got one too, if all that ‘amo, amas amatting’ hadn’t given him such a headache.

After ten minutes more research he was on the verge of leaving, when Craig’s name appeared on his mobile and the decision was made. His ring tone, the roar of the football crowd at Old Trafford, plus the librarian gazing pointedly at the ‘no phones’ sign on the wall, made him drop the book he was holding into her hand and make his way through the pillared foyer and out the library’s front door.

“Yes, boss.”

It was said as quietly as he could manage and Craig noticed the attempt.

“Are you in a church?”

It was about as likely as him going shopping with Danni and far less likely than him being in the pub.

Liam snorted. “Aye, that’s right. Mind you, you’re not a million miles from the truth. I’m at Central Library and I’m heading for another one now.”

He was working his hunch and Craig was curious. “Via the lab. I’ll see you here in ten.”

When Liam arrived John greeted him with an astonished stare. “You were in a library? What for?”

The giant detective attempted chagrin but only managed the latter part.

“I should be offended by that.”

“Much as we love you, Liam, we all know academia isn’t your strong point.”

Liam shrugged. “I didn’t find what I was looking for anyway, so I’m off to the Uni Library next.”

Craig interjected. “The tattoo?”

“Aye. It rang a bell.”

“Care to tell us?”

Liam shook his head. “Not yet, if that’s OK. I want to play this through.”

Craig smiled. Liam’s hunches had a high accuracy rate. He turned to John. “Time to give Des a call.”

Five minutes later Des Marsham appeared at the door. Liam shook his head.

“Every time I see you I’m expecting flowers in that beard.”

“Apparently that’s fashionable in California.”

“So are surfboards but you don’t see many of those in Belfast.”

Craig asked the question they’d invited Des down to answer.

“The girl’s tox-screen. Anything yet?”

Des nodded his head. “An hour ago. Only the one drug, Heroin; overdose levels. Very high grade too, around eighty per cent pure.”

Liam whistled. “One shot of that and you’re dead.”

John shook his head. “She was dead when they gave it to her.”

Des set his smart-pad on the desk, tapping up pictures of Elena Boraks’ arms. Track marks crisscrossed her inner elbows and her thickened veins sat millimetres above her skin.

“She was injected there, at the left inner elbow, but there were other, older, injection sites too. Groin, between her toes, John even found a few holes in her cornea.”

Liam’s normal pallor lightened a few more shades as he screwed up his face in disgust. “How the hell can someone inject themselves in the eye? I feel sick when I go for my glasses check.”

Craig shrugged. “If you’re desperate for a fix and your veins are shot, I suppose you’ll try anything.” He turned to John. “How can you be sure the Heroin was injected after death?”

“I sampled her blood from several different sites and her levels were low; the only place the drug was concentrated was at the injection site. That means it hadn’t circulated. No pulse.”

Craig sat forward. “Exactly how low were her levels elsewhere?”

“Non-existent. If I had to guess I’d say that she wasn’t using anymore.”

No-one spoke for a moment and then Craig thought out loud.

“She’d had a habit since she was fourteen…” He turned to Des. “No other drugs on the tox-screen?”

Des shook his head. “Only the signs of occasional coke use that John found in her nose.”

“OK. So by the looks of her veins her Heroin habit was severe at some point and all her attempts at rehab had failed. That’s what Annette said; she’d been in an out of rehab for years without success.”

Liam looked surprised and Craig realised he hadn’t heard about Annette’s discovery. He brought them up to date and then carried on.

“So what makes a hardened Heroin addict stop using for long enough to drop her levels to zero?” He turned to John. “And I have another question. How long would it take for a bad habit to clear someone’s system?”

John thought for a moment before answering. “If she went cold turkey, and the absence of drugs of any sort in her blood says that she probably did, it could have taken as little as one week for the Heroin to clear her blood, although it would have been present in her other tissues for longer.”

“She’d failed for years so how did she suddenly manage to stay off Smack for that long?”

The room fell quiet while everyone thought. Liam went to say something then shook his head; the look in his eye saying he wasn’t ready to share his hunch. John was the first to speak.

“I’d have said she’d used Methadone, a Heroin substitute used for slow withdrawal, but there are no signs. She definitely went cold turkey.” He thought for a moment. “Hypnotism?”

Craig shook his head. “I think something actively prevented her using.”

Des nodded. “Or someone. It would explain the manacle marks if she’d been restrained.”

“So we’re talking about a draconian rehab regime.”

John nodded eagerly. “Maybe at a clinic. It could explain the bleach.”

Craig shook his head. “But not why they drowned her. Why get someone clean and then kill them?”

It didn’t make sense.

Des ventured a suggestion. “What if she was trying to clean herself up and when she failed she drowned herself?”

Liam guffawed. “Then she wrapped herself in cling-film and dumped herself in the bushes I suppose?”

Des shot him a huffy look. “It was just an idea.”

Craig interrupted diplomatically. “It’s as sensible as any we’ve come up with. OK, it looks like the who and why will have to wait; at least we’re piecing together her last days. Liam, have you spoken to Karl again?”

“Not yet. I’ve been…”

“At the library. I know. OK, ask him to put out feelers about any high grade Heroin coming into the country. Stuff that pure costs a fortune, so either we’re talking one of the big dealers who’d normally cut it down to sell or…”

John finished the sentence. “…a private buyer who never intended it for the street. Do we know when Ms Boraks was last seen?”

Craig shook his head. “Not yet. But now we know her name we can start asking.” He turned back to Des. “What about the prints, Des? You said you might have one from the cling-film.”

Des nodded energetically. “I did and I have. It was on the outer sheet of film found around the girl. I’m still fuming the other sheets. The good news is that it doesn’t match any of our victims.”

Liam nodded. “That makes sense. They weren’t likely to have killed each other.”

Craig disagreed. “Stranger things have happened when people are fighting for their lives.”

Des continued. “The bad news is that the print doesn’t match anyone yet. Whoever they are they’ve never darkened the justice system’s doors.”

Craig nodded slowly.

“OK, so we have Elena Boraks, a nineteen-year-old girl of Polish parentage born in Belfast, with a father living locally. She’d been stealing to fund her drug habit, bit of shoplifting etcetera, but had moved onto prostitution.”

Liam chipped in. “And was too healthy looking to be a street walker.”

It seemed a strange thing to say about a dead person but everyone knew what he meant. Craig nodded.

“My thoughts exactly. So she was working from a house.”

John cut in. “But not trafficked.”

“It seems not. Although that doesn’t mean that the house wasn’t owned by a gang. Annette’s working on that now. OK, so we’re making progress on Sam Beech and Elena Boraks, but we still have no I.D. on victim number two.”

Liam nodded. “Jake’ll find it if they were known on the gay scene.” He stood up to leave and Craig raised an eyebrow.

“Are we boring you?”

“Aye. I mean, no. There’s just somewhere I need to be.”

He tapped the side of his frequently broken nose, the trophy of too many rugby scrums, and Craig waved him out, knowing he’d be told when he knew anything. As Liam reached the car park he called Davy.

“Theology Professors.”

“Physics lecturers.”

Liam shot a puzzled look at his phone. “What?”

Davy’s voice was innocent. “I thought you were playing word games.”

“You did not, you’re just a messer. I need…”

“To see a theology professor.”

“Aye.”

“OK. Head towards Queen’s and I’ll phone you back in ten.”

Halfway down the Ormeau Road he called back.

“Theodore Rustin.”

“Is that a name or an illness?”

“It’s the name of the Prof of Theological History at Queen’s. They can see you in an hour.”

Liam’s outrage was noisy. “An hour! What am I supposed to do till then?” He’d gone off the idea of the library.

Davy was tempted to say something rude but instead he made a suggestion.

“I’m not a nutritionist but I’d say it was time for lunch, s…so find somewhere in Botanic Avenue and eat. I’ve sent the Prof’s address to your phone.”

With that he hung up and looked round for someone to tell about the conversation. His eyes fell on Annette. She was pounding her keyboard as if her life depended on it.

“Want to hear something funny?”

She shook her head, not glancing up. After a moment’s more pounding she pressed print and crossed to the printer beside Nicky’s desk.

“Carmen and Ken, would you join me in the Super’s office please?”

Ken rose enthusiastically only to have it dampened by Carmen’s condescending glance. She glared at Annette.

“Why?”

There was silence as Ken’s eyes widened. He pictured himself asking the same of a senior army officer; he’d be confined to barracks for a week. Even Davy was shocked by Carmen’s tone. Nicky merely pulled back her chair to get comfortable for the coming fight. There was none; Annette merely entered Craig’s office knowing that even Carmen’s obstinacy would be trumped by curiosity eventually. She could wait, what she wouldn’t do was explain herself to a bolshie constable.

Ken weighed Carmen’s disdain against offending Annette and walked quickly into Craig’s room. A few seconds later the Scot rose from her chair and strolled casually towards its door. Nicky slid her chair over to obstruct the way.

“Move, Nicky.”

“Or?”

It wasn’t what Carmen had expected, or Annette. Annette let the standoff continue a moment longer then appeared at the door to retrieve the D.C. She wished Carmen didn’t turn everything into such a fight. She really needed to be careful; making an enemy of Nicky was never a good idea.

Once everyone was seated Annette began. “The Super has put me in charge of all three victims with Liam and I have an update on the girl. She’s been I.D.ed as Elena Boraks, nineteen, and she has a father still alive. I need you to visit him this afternoon and report back. I’ll be busy finding out more about Sam Beech’s step-dad.”

Carmen cut in. “I’ve already been leading on the girl. Working with Vice and Gang Crime.”

“The Super wants me to supervise the cases from London, would you like to argue with him?”

Carmen thought back to when Craig had almost suspended her and grudgingly shook her head. To her disgust Ken sat forward eagerly. “Do you have anything more on the girl?”

Annette smiled and handed him the file about Elena Boraks’ petty theft and rehab attempts.

“We think that she shifted from theft to prostitution sometime over the last two years. The Super’s certain she was working in a brothel. Whether it was forced prostitution or voluntary we don’t know yet.”

Ken smiled. “That’s what you’d like us to find out.”

“Exactly. Liaise with whoever you like; Vice, Gangs; anything you can find will be useful. But first I want you to see her father and inform him of her death. He needs to identify the body.” She spotted indifference in Carmen’s eyes and her voice tightened. “Please remember that this is his daughter. He may not know she was using drugs or working as a prostitute, so be careful what you say. Just get some details of her life, the last time he saw her, what she was like generally; you know what to ask. Doctor Winter can fill in the gaps for him once he’s done the I.D.”

Carmen snorted and Annette wanted to reach across the desk and slap her. She almost did when she heard her next words.

“So Mr Boraks, what can you tell us about your Heroin addicted, hooker daughter? Did she like kittens and soft toys?”

Ken gawped at the woman beside him in horror and Annette physically recoiled. When she recovered her tone was icy.

“Who the hell do you think you are, Constable McGregor? That’s someone’s child you’re talking about. You callous, vicious little…”

A glance from Ken told her to stop, not because she wasn’t right but because she was in danger of giving Carmen mud to sling back. Annette halted mid-sentence and took a deep breath; it was followed by several more before she walked to the office door and threw it open wide.

“D.C. McGregor, you obviously can’t be trusted to visit the victim’s family so Ken and I will do so instead. You’re on desk duty until I decide what to do with you.”

She held the door as a stunned looking Carmen glared at her and then shot Ken a look that said he would pay for his disloyalty later that night. As the angry redhead made her way back to her desk Annette slumped into Craig’s chair and shook her head.

“Why does she do it, Ken?”

The soldier shook his own head in return. “I honestly don’t know. Every time I get a glimpse of how nice she can be, her defences appear and a real bitch along with them.”

Annette raised an eyebrow. Dating Carmen seemed to be eroding Ken’s gentlemanly streak. He continued.

“The thing is, if we’d actually gone to see Mr Boraks she would have been as good as gold. Maybe not held his hand, but she wouldn’t have said anything deliberately hurtful. It’s just…”

“It’s because I’m taking over and she doesn’t like having a boss. She’s just about got used to the Super and Liam telling her what to do, but having me do it is too much.”

Ken shrugged. “I think it’s defensiveness, but when I ask her why she just clams up. She gave Liam a hard time at first, in fact the only people she’s never been rude to are Davy and Jake. With you I think it’s because she wanted to run the Vice and Gang strands and now the Super’s given control to you. Carmen’s really insecure so she’ll take that as a criticism of her work.”

Annette sighed. “It isn’t criticism, just oversight. I’m heading to London tonight so she would still have been running things here if she hadn’t been so bloody rude.” She sighed. “Now I’ve just made more work for myself.” She glanced at the clock and stood up, motioning him towards the door. “The briefing’s at five so we need to get on with things, plus we haven’t had lunch yet. The James’ Bar?”

He nodded eagerly; anything was better than the food in the canteen. Annette gathered her bag, Nicky and Davy and they headed for the lift, leaving an angry constable contemplating the error of her ways. But Carmen’s thoughts were less about her own faults than everyone else’s. She headed for the canteen grinding her teeth about the injustice of the world and plotting her revenge.

****

Jake glanced at his car radio and rolled his eyes. Andy had changed the station five times in the ten minutes it had taken them to drive from Docklands to the multi-storey car park at St Anne’s Square, only stopping when he’d found some smooth rock.

When he hadn’t been pressing buttons he’d been eating a Toblerone so slowly that Jake had half expected him to nod off. If he hadn’t known the D.C.I. was a chocoholic he’d have thought his lethargic munchies were the result of smoking dope.

Jake exited the driver’s side and was halfway down the staircase when he noticed his companion was trailing behind. Andy waved the sergeant back.

“Take your time, son. Your contact won’t run away.”

Jake kept walking. “He won’t be meeting us in the car park either.” He glanced at his watch. “We can’t be late – it took me five calls to set this meeting up.”

It wasn’t worth Andy’s precious energy to argue so he merely shrugged and strolled on at his normal pace, resisting the pressure to accelerate that Jake’s enthusiasm provoked. He’d reached the rank of D.C.I. by ignoring pressure so he saw no need to change the habit now. As they emerged into the daylight Jake pointed across St Anne’s Square with the eagerness of a hunting dog.

“Over there. In the MAC.”

He led the way through the Arts Centre’s sliding doors and into one of its café’s dark wood booths. Andy’s eyes widened at the sight of a drinks list.

“Do they sell hot chocolate here?”

“We’re not here to have drinks; we’re waiting for someone.”

The D.C.I. ignored him and perused the menu, ordering a hot chocolate when the waitress came and an Americano for Jake despite his ‘no’. Two minutes of slurping later a slim, dark man of around twenty entered through the plate glass doors. He saw Jake and approached, only to stop halfway when Andy’s spikey head bobbed up. He turned to leave but Jake hurried over with his hand extended to shake.

“You must be T.J.?”

The youth’s eyes widened, displaying his Vaselined lashes to best effect. His tone was accusing. “Rick said that you’d be alone.”

Jake waved a hand dismissively towards the booth. “Ignore him. He’s just here to learn.”

Partly true but best not said within a D.C.I.’s earshot. Jake steered the youth expertly towards the booth, ordering him a coffee on the way. When T.J. was sipping the sergeant nodded at his senior officer for permission to take the lead. It was polite of him but unnecessary; he’d been leading since they’d left the C.C.U.

He turned to the young man beside him, trying to ignore Andy’s increasingly recumbent position against the booth’s wall.

“Thanks for coming T.J. Rick said you might be able to help with a case that we’re investigating.”

He paused, uncertain how much his informant had told the youth, or exactly why he’d suggested his name for the meet. All he knew about T.J. McDonagh was that he was well known on the local LGBT scene and that he’d experienced some sort of family stress. He decided on a cautious approach.

“What exactly did Rick tell you?”

T.J shrugged. “That you’re investigating some weird case.”

Good. At least he was expecting something strange.

“Did he say what kind of weird?”

The younger man shook his head. “Nope.”

“Why do you think he suggested you to help us?”

T.J.’s reply was more definite this time. “’Cos I’m always around the scene. If anyone might hear stuff it would be me.”

Jake wasn’t sure if that had been Rick’s whole reasoning, but it would do for now. Rick Grundy had been his snout for years and he hadn’t steered him wrong yet. He glanced at Andy in a token show of deference and was surprised to see him staring back with a gaze that said his body mightn’t move much but his brain was working on full speed.

“OK, T.J. I don’t know if Rick mentioned this but we’re from the Murder Squad.”

He was answered by a shake of the head and an alarmed look.

“OK, well the reason we need your help is…” He hesitated before adding. “…we have a victim that we’re trying to I.D.”

T.J.’s eyes widened. “A dead one?”

What other sort did the Murder Squad have? Jake could see a wisecrack forming on Andy’s lips and shot him a warning glance before answering the question with a soft “Yes.”

The boy reared back on the bench. “What the heck would I know about a murder? I’ve never hurt anyone!”

Jake placed a hand on his arm, preventing his impending bolt for the door.

“You’re not a suspect, T.J. Do you really think we’d be meeting in a café if you were? We think our victim might have been gay so I just want you to ask around for me. Use your contacts to see if anyone fitting their description has suddenly gone missing from the scene.”

The youth relaxed slightly, relieved that he wasn’t being accused of anything. As he did Andy sat up straight and scanned his face. The kid had over reacted to Jake’s request. That suggested he was guilty of something, even if it wasn’t their victim’s death. His gaze came to rest on T.J.’s eyes, most particularly on his pupils. They were huge, even allowing for the darkness of the booth. As Andy worked out which drug he was using, Jake carried on.

“Will you help us?”

“I will if your mate stops looking at me like he’s ready with the cuffs. It’s not cool.”

Jake turned to find Andy poised like a sniper ready to take his shot and signalled the D.C.I. to join him outside. When they were in the square he turned on him.

“What are you playing at?”

Angel’s face said that he wasn’t pleased. “Watch your mouth, Sergeant.”

“OK, then. What are you playing at, sir? T.J.’s offering to help us I.D. our victim and you’re sniffing him like a drugs dog.”

“He’s on something. His pupils are like saucers.”

“Throw a stone in a gay club and you’ll find someone on drugs, but we need his help. He’s our entry to the scene.”

Angel looked puzzled. “But you’re gay, aren’t you? So why do we need him?”

Jake indicated his conservative haircut and well-cut suit. “Do I look like I go clubbing? They’d take one look at me and shout cop. Whatever drug T.J.’s taken it’s not worth us losing a lead.”

“I’m not sure the Super would agree.”

“Then phone him and when you’ve found out that I’m right, join us back inside.”

With that he turned on his heel and headed back to their guest. When Andy re-joined them looking like a chastised toddler they were already halfway through their chat.

“You’ve got the boy’s description now, so can you help, T.J.?”

McDonagh shrugged. “Slim, young, with short, dark hair isn’t much to go on. It could be me.”

The hairs on Jake’s neck suddenly stood up. He was right; the description could have been him. If Rick was playing games with him he’d haul him in.

T.J. was still talking. “Don’t you have a photo I can show around?”

Jake thought for a moment before reaching inside his coat. He set the photograph face down on the table and shot T.J. a warning look.

“I can’t let you have this but if you see it, it might help.”

“Why can’t I take it to show to people?”

“Because the man in it is dead and his family don’t yet know.” He paused. “Be warned, it isn’t pleasant.”

Thankfully their victim’s face hadn’t been mutilated but just the close-eyed pallor of the dead was enough to frighten some. As T.J. braced himself Jake turned over the photo slowly and the face of their second victim appeared. He’d expected the youth to fall quiet, perhaps even to see horror in his eyes, but he definitely hadn’t expected the reaction that he got.

A gasp so loud that the whole café heard it was followed by their guest jumping to his feet. Before he could exit Andy jumped up behind him and Jake mentally applauded his presence of mind. He’d been too shocked by T.J.’s reaction to move but now he did. He slid along the bench, threw a ten pound note on the table and ushered the others outside. When they were in the white stuccoed square Jake asked the question on both detectives’ lips.

“You recognised him?”

It seemed redundant after his reaction but the formalities had to be observed. T.J. nodded his head.

“How do you know him?”

The tears that streamed down the boy’s face confirmed that there was something very wrong. They said that T.J. had known and possibly loved their victim, but even Jake was shocked by what he said next.

“It’s my kid brother, Bobby.”

It was enough talk for now and far too much for the location they were in. Jake turned the boy back towards the café hoping that they could calm him enough for the I.D. The photograph would stay firmly in his pocket; only the morgue was the right place for identification now and only John Winter should tell T.J. McDonagh how his little brother had died.

****

Liam could still taste his lunchtime curry as he sauntered up the listed terrace of University Square in the sunshine. It wasn’t an unpleasant memory and he made a note of the restaurant’s name for his and Danni’s next evening out. When he was one third of the way up the street, outside the Queen’s Film Theatre, he fished out his phone and rechecked the meeting address; room 45, 1A University Square. Nearly there.

Two minutes later he was standing at a modern white door, feeling slightly peeved. Theologists’ offices should have dark doors that opened to reveal fusty smelling, dimly lit rooms. His annoyance deepened when the door was answered by a woman who led the way into a modern room. He softened slightly when he noticed how attractive she was.

As she smiled and offered him a cup of tea Liam decided to forgive Professor Rustin’s décor. After all, a man who had such a pleasant secretary couldn’t be all that bad. His world was shaken again when the woman didn’t disappear deferentially as he’d expected but poured his tea and then sat down behind the professor’s desk.

“It’s lovely to meet you, D.C.I. Cullen. Now, what can I help you with?”

Liam gawped, not caring how rude it seemed. “You’re Professor Rustin? You can’t be; Davy said he was a man! Theodore.”

Theodora Rustin smiled forgivingly. She was used to people’s shock, even in these days of equal rights. Men had grown accustomed to women in the ‘normal’ professions: teaching, law and medicine. They’d even adapted to women in the church, well, at least some of them had. Others still peered over their bifocals tutting in pious disapproval, as if men alone could understand God’s will.

All these things had grown commonplace, but for many a female professor of theological history was still a step too far. It annoyed her when academics were taken aback, but this man didn’t move in her world so she couldn’t be angry with him. She answered Liam’s incredulity in an amused tone.

“Theodora. And my passport definitely says I’m a woman, so I think that I probably am. Tell me D.C.I. Cullen; is it the subject I’m a professor of that surprises you, or the fact that I’m one at all?”

Liam had recovered enough to know that answering yes to the latter part of the question was a bad idea, even if it was true. He’d a management update course coming in the next few weeks and he needed an equality one added like a hole in the head.

“The subject matter. Unless…” He remembered that Craig had interviewed a female vicar in an earlier case; maybe the Prof was one of those. “…unless you’re a vicar?”

Teddy Rustin laughed, more heartily than she had all term. It had been a bugger of a semester, full of students late with their assignments and academics bitching about their jobs. She warmed to the conversation, sensing that it was going to be fun.

“Sorry, no. I haven’t been ordained in any faith. I’m more of a curious bystander as far as religion goes.”

“But, you’re…”

“A theological historian? Absolutely. But that just means I’m a historian who chose the history of religion as my specialism.”

She laughed again and Liam noticed how blue her eyes were. He shook himself. It felt wrong to fancy someone churchy, as if you were somehow disrespecting God.

Rustin continued. “I know a lot about religions but I don’t claim to follow all of them.” She folded her hands on her lap. “Now, Mr Cullen, what can I do for the police?”

Liam suddenly remembered he was on a case and retrieved his school notebook from the back pocket of his trousers, exactly where he’d kept it as a boy. The professor watched curiously as he flattened its bent cover and started to explain.

“I was brought up Roman Catholic in the country, and country Catholics tend to do things the old fashioned way.”

She nodded. “Do the priests still say the Latin Mass?”

“Not when the Bishop’s watching. But the odd rogue one will say it for a special occasion like a marriage or a death.”

She had an image of a priest with rakishly long hair defying church orthodoxy in a windswept field. Michael Fassbender could play the part perfectly. She realised he was still talking.

“I was taught by the Christian Brothers and when we learned Latin, or religion for that matter, some of them tended to blur the lines.”

She sat forward eagerly. “So they would talk about religion in Latin class and teach some of your religion classes in Latin?”

“Aye. History class too. Anyway, one of the younger ones really liked to spin a yarn.”

Rustin knew what was coming next. Tales of sword wielding Archangels and warriors for God. Zealots martyred defending their faith and defiant worshipping in remote locales. It was the stuff of legend. She glanced at the clock and excused herself for a moment. When she returned she re-boiled the kettle and produced a biscuit tin, waving Liam on.

“I’ve moved my next meeting to four o’clock. Please carry on, Chief Inspector Cullen. I’m all ears.”

****

Annette left the social services building with a heavy heart, so heavy that she barely noticed Ken wasn’t by her side. She found him leaning against a wall with a disgusted look on his face.

“Too much?”

“Far too much.” He shook his head, sending his increasingly floppy fringe flying into his eyes. “How can people make such messes of their lives?”

She leant on the wall beside him. “Which one are you talking about; Elena Boraks or Sam Beech’s mum?”

Ken shrugged. “Both I suppose.”

She smiled, imagining what his life had been like. Nice parents, good school, then a university degree and straight into the Army on an officer’s commission, with all the three squares a day and the stability that brought. She doubted that he’d ever met the chaotic strugglers of the world before this year’s secondment, whereas she seemed to have known them all her adult life.

Her voice was soft but firm. “This is real life, Ken, once poverty or addiction set in. People feel like they’re drowning and they’ll grab at anything or anyone to stay afloat.”

He glanced sideways at her, unconvinced.

“You make it sound hopeless. Elena Boraks had a choice not to use drugs, just as Mrs Beech didn’t have to take in all those men.”

She thought for a moment, reluctant to concede the point.

“Life isn’t hopeless if you know how to cope, but perhaps they didn’t. We don’t know why Elena started using, then stealing and tricking to pay for it. And we don’t know why Sarah Beech felt that she was incomplete without a man. Perhaps she needed financial support, or maybe she was just lonely. People get screwed up in all sorts of ways.” She straightened up and turned towards the car. “All I know is it’s our job to clean up the consequences, not to judge.”

The words were hard but not her tone and Ken nodded as he followed behind.

“It’s just––”

“You’ve never seen lives like this before.”

“No. And I’m honestly not judging, I just feel…”

“Helpless. I know. I used to feel the same as a student nurse. But we can help, by finding answers for the people left behind. Bear that in mind.” She turned the ignition key. “Now, let’s grit our teeth and go tell Tomasz Boraks that his nineteen-year-old daughter won’t be coming home. And let’s also bear in mind that he might have inflicted her childhood abuse.”

****

Liam was on his fourth cup of tea and umpteenth biscuit when they finally reached the reason that he’d come. They’d got side-tracked with talk of Henry the Eight’s religious reformation and priest’s holes in the stately homes of the UK, not to mention Revelations and whether or not it should be taken literally.

He was enjoying himself. The quasi mythology of Ireland’s past mixed with religion appealed to his imaginative side. Well, not side, that implied that imagination constituted fifty per cent of his considerable bulk when in reality it was more like five, but the tiny spark within Liam that was steeped in religion, history and myth was definitely enjoying itself right now.

Eventually Theodora Rustin glanced at the clock and saw that it was after three. Time to focus on why there was a policeman in her room.

“So, D.C.I. Cullen.”

“Liam.”

She smiled as if she liked him and Liam flattered himself that she did.

“Liam. This has been a fascinating chat but we should probably discuss why you’re here.”

He glanced at his watch, surprised. Two hours gabbing was a lot, even for him. He lifted his notebook from the desk, opening it at a page near the back.

“I can’t tell you why I need to know this yet, but can you to look at this phrase and tell me if you recognise it.”

She took the small notebook and scrutinised the page, bringing it closer as if it would somehow get the words to make sense. After two minutes staring and frowning she shrugged defeat.

“I’m sorry but I haven’t the foggiest idea. It’s Latin of some description but what it means is anyone’s guess. Something to do with confession perhaps?”

Liam was disappointed. He’d guessed at confession as well, but then so had the rest of the team. He was certain that the words meant something more.

“Don’t worry, that’s not the main reason I came.” He stood up. “But until I have the translation I can’t really ask you the rest.” He headed for the door. “I’ll come back when I know what it means. Probably tomorrow; I’ll call as soon as I know.”

He walked down the stairs thinking. He hadn’t expected Theodora Rustin to translate the tattoo for him, he already had someone else in mind for that, but he was certain now that she could help with the words’ relevance once he knew what they meant. He would definitely be back.

****

If the terraced house off Belfast’s Ormeau Road had seen better days it had been several decades before. Neglect and decay had layered themselves alternately on the structure, peeling off its paintwork and stripping shards of wood from the old fashioned windows and doors. They’d crept like damp through the stonework, splitting it so badly that the only way to improve the place would have been to knock it down. The house was a mess. Feral cats would have refused to live there yet the computer said that it was still someone’s home.

Annette checked the address again then signalled Ken to knock on the front door’s cracked glass. Knock because there was no bell, but knock gently in case the cracks should spread and cave in what was left of the thin pane. Ken picked the least vulnerable spot and tapped on it twice. When no-one came and nothing shifted he risked knocking again, slightly harder this time. A faint rustling in the hallway said that someone was definitely at home; the rheumy eye appearing through the glass said that it was someone old.

“Go away.”

The words were said in a heavy European accent, telling them they were in the right place.

“It’s the police, Mr Boraks. We need to talk to you.”

The eye widened in alarm and then withdrew.

“No police. I do nothing.”

Annette’s heart sank; he was afraid of them. His age meant he’d probably experienced wartime Europe and the overzealous policing methods used.

She moved closer to the glass. “You’re not in trouble, Mr Boraks.” Not unless we find out that you caused your daughter’s death. “We just need to talk to you about Elena.”

The eye’s retreat ceased abruptly and “Elena done nothing wrong, neither,” rang through the door.

Annette’s heart ached at the words. He was defending a dead girl and he didn’t know it, and it was her sad task to make certain that he did.

She nodded Ken to knock again as she said, “Elena’s not in trouble. Please let us in.” She repeated the words until the eye had come close enough to reveal two and the old man’s breath misted the cracked glass. After a moment of sizing them up he turned a key then stepped back quickly as if he was still afraid. Ken shook his head; what sort of life had this man suffered that had made him so frightened, and was he frightened of everyone or just of them?

As the door opened inwards to reveal a long, dark hallway, painted in colours that said it was the ’70s since they’d last been refreshed, they had their first full view of Tomasz Boraks. He was younger than Annette had first thought, nearer seventy than the ninety his rheumy eyes had suggested, but as thin and pale as a ninety-year-old might be. His skin had the yellow pallor of the olive skinned who never saw the sun and his scrawny frame the look of someone underfed for years.

As he led the way into a dimly lit back room, Annette’s brain was whirring with things that they could do to improve his life. He must be entitled to some benefits: heat and light at least, but as soon as the ideas were born they died; crushed beneath her certainty that Boraks would reject any offer of help. Everything about the man said that he was defeated, from his sloping shoulders to his dirty hair and clothes. He’d stopped helping himself a long time before so why would he accept any aid from them? If he was responsible for his child’s abuse perhaps he wasn’t worth their sympathy.

She was pulled from her thoughts by Ken’s curious glance and she saw that they were standing in a small room without chairs. It felt awkward. It was hard to deliver bad news standing in the centre of a room, but she did, or at least she opened the elderly father up to the idea.

“Mr Boraks, can you confirm you have a daughter called Elena?”

Boraks squinted at her suspiciously, as if even the admission of their relationship could cause trouble in his daughter’s life. She tried a different approach.

“You admit that you know someone called Elena Boraks?”

A slight nod said that he did.

“Do you know if she has any family in Belfast?”

It was tantamount to asking if he was that family but without the directness that had made him withdraw before.

Another nod, and something else; a small smile tilting the edge of his lips. Pride. He was proud of the girl. But was it paternal pride that could survive a shock like finding out his daughter was a prostitute, or did he believe that Elena held some other job? What had she told him? What did he know? They were in a minefield, trying to avoid blowing up a father’s life.

“You are Elena Boraks’ family, isn’t that correct?”

He spoke for the first time face to face. “I am father.”

Good. They had confirmation of that much.

“Can you tell us about her? Where does she work?”

The old man turned suddenly towards what looked like a pile of junk. As Annette peered through the dimness she realised that the junk concealed a mantelpiece. He turned back, in his hand a picture frame that had seen better days. It held the image of a girl around ten years old.

“This is my Elena. She work in shop.”

Annette took the photograph politely and studied the young girl’s face; it was round and freckled, with a healthy glow later stolen by drugs. She felt sadder than she had in a long time: sad for the loss of innocence, sad for the waste of a young life, and sadder still that the father in front of her seemed to know nothing of what was coming next. After a moment she handed the photo to Ken and asked another question.

“Which shop does she work in, Mr Boraks?”

Her use of the present tense made Ken stare, but what option did she have? One ‘did’ or ‘was’ would tell this father that his child was dead and until he’d identified her body they couldn’t, shouldn’t say that for sure. Boraks’ reply said he had no idea what she was thinking.

“SuperMark. On Ormeau Road.”

Annette made a show of writing it in her notebook and continued.

“And when did you last see her?”

The proud smile reappeared.

“She bring me food beginning of every month.”

Almost four weeks earlier. Suddenly Boraks exited the room, beckoning them to follow. At the end of the hallway was a door they hadn’t noticed and he pushed it open to reveal a small but surprisingly clean kitchen. A trunk freezer sat against one wall and the pensioner yanked at the lid with a strength that he didn’t look like he possessed. Inside were enough provisions for weeks.

“Elena get these from shop and bring.”

Annette would have been surprised if Elena had been working in any shop, but wherever she’d been working she’d loved her father enough to make sure he was well fed. Perhaps he hadn’t been her abuser.

She smiled and nodded as if he was right to be proud and then indicated some chairs set around a small table. The elderly man remembered his manners and pulled back a chair for her. “Please sit.” As the men joined her Annette restarted the conversation.

“Do you see Elena at other times of the month?”

Boraks was animated now and nodded excitedly. “She come Monday to take washing and bring to me my pension.” His face dropped. “But not this week.”

Annette’s voice was soft. “Last week perhaps?”

She was answered by a shake of the head.

“She last come start of month. With food.”

The second of March. The last time he’d seen his daughter had been twenty-five days before.

His pale eyes lit up. “I think she meet someone. Perhaps she will get married soon.”

His faraway gaze said that he was picturing the happy day and Annette averted her eyes as they filled with tears. Ken intervened quickly.

“Did Elena call you in the past few weeks, Mr Boraks?”

The old man’s gaze shifted to Ken and changed from happy to puzzled as he shook his head. Ken tried again.

“Do you remember the very last date you talked, either in person or on the phone?”

Annette listened as he tried to narrow down the last time they’d spoken, but Boraks shook his head in agitation, not liking the direction the conversation was beginning to take.

“I say. Monday. Start of month. She came with food, clean clothes.”

He hadn’t spoken to his daughter in almost four weeks, so where the heck had she been since then? Ken paused, not wanting to upset him any further and Annette gathered herself to take over, her tone solemn.

“I’m sorry, Mr Boraks, but we think something may have happened to your daughter. I’d like you to come with us.”

Boraks’ eyes widened as they had at the front door and his voice took on a frantic edge. “Where is my Elena? What have you done to her?”

He went to rise but Ken placed a hand on his arm and fixed his gaze. “We haven’t done anything to harm your daughter, Mr Boraks, but we think that you can help us. Will you do that, please? For Elena’s sake?”

Whether it was Ken’s quiet authority or his firm grip, something calmed the old man down. Annette watched as his expression shifted from frantic to passive, then to realisation dawning at the speed of light. They continued watching as his eyes squeezed shut and hot tears began streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. His daughter was dead and he knew it without either of them actually saying the word.

As they drove to the morgue no-one needed to say where they were going or what they would find when they arrived, and Annette wondered sadly how long it would take Tomasz Boraks to follow his only child into the grave. Ken glanced grimly at her from the passenger seat and she knew exactly what he was thinking; for the man in the back seat’s sake thank God she hadn’t let Carmen break the news.

****

It took ten minutes for T.J. McDonagh to stop hyperventilating and several hot drinks for Jake to calm him down for their visit to the mortuary. As he did so Andy stood at the bar surveying his surroundings, deciding that the place might be worth visiting on an evening off. With talent this good mid-afternoon, night-time was bound to bring out the real lookers, and cocktails would definitely improve his chances; he found he went up in women’s estimation once they’d had a few drinks. He beckoned Jake across.

“Is he ready to see the body, then?”

Jake winced at the volume of his voice and indicated him to pipe down.

“A bit of tact wouldn’t go amiss…sir.”

As he added the appellation he wondered how the hell Angel had ever reached D.C.I. rank. Even Liam wouldn’t be callous in front of a relative. Andy raised an eyebrow in warning then decided to let the jibe pass; he had better things to waste his precious energy on than a cheeky subordinate. He repeated his question.

“Is he ready?”

Jake nodded and went to return to T.J. but Andy’s next question stopped him in his tracks.

“How often are brothers gay?”

Jake wasn’t taken aback by the question’s subject matter as much as the location the D.C.I. had chosen to ask it in. He answered, gazing out at St Anne’s Cathedral for patience as he did.

“Anecdotally, I couldn’t say; I’ve never encountered it until now. Some studies quote the likelihood of a man being gay when his sibling is as four times higher than average, but others say that’s rubbish, so who knows.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, waiting for homophobia to rear its ugly head. The lecherous D.C.I. seemed a likely candidate. He was proved wrong by Angel’s next comment.

“We’d better give him protection. If his brother was killed for being gay that must put him at risk as well.”

It might have done, although whether the risk was any higher than for other gay men was open to conjecture. Still, it showed a more caring side to Angel than Jake had expected so he nodded in acknowledgement before he turned back towards the booth.

T.J. was still sitting where he’d left him, nursing a cup of coffee so strong it would have had most people bouncing off the walls. He gazed down at the boy.

“We need to leave, T.J. Are you sure that you’re up for this?”

The young man wiped a tear off his thin cheek. “Better that I do it than my mum. It would kill her.” Fresh tears followed. “It will kill her anyway, but at least she won’t have to see Bobby like that.”

Jake’s voice softened. “But you will, so be sure you can cope with it.”

He knew it was a platitude. How could anyone know if they could cope with something when they’d never experienced it before? Life was one long series of shocks, most of them unpleasant, like watching his grandfather being put into a wooden box. Without waiting for T.J.’s answer Jake led the way to the car and they began their short journey to the morgue.

****

They arrived at the lab the same time as Annette and Ken and rushed to keep the relatives separate as they agreed the order of the I.D.s. Jake nodded Annette on.

“You’d better go first. You have a plane to catch.”

Annette suddenly remembered that she was off to London that evening and glanced at the clock. It was three-thirty and Nicky had booked them on the five-thirty flight. She only had an hour before check-in!

“Thanks. I’ll tell Doctor Winter that you’re waiting.”

Five minutes later the bereaved father was outside the viewing room with Ken, waiting for John to bring his daughter’s body up from the morgue, and Annette was on the road to collect Nicky and catch their plane. She was convinced that Tomasz Boraks hadn’t harmed his daughter at any age, so hopefully the others would find out who had.

Boraks’ reaction at the sight of his dead daughter left Ken in no doubt of his innocence and the full tragedy of her death. She was his only relative in the world so what would happen to him now? Only good things if they followed the instructions that Annette had left.

The next viewing was heart-breaking in a different way. If the sight of a father mourning his child was dreadful, the sight of a twenty-year-old mourning his eighteen-year-old sibling was, if possible, even worse. Terence Joseph McDonagh stood beside his little brother, stroking his hair and repeating “it’s my fault” in a keening tone. After five minutes Jake could watch no more and he entered the viewing room to guide the young man out. He found him a chair and hunkered down in front of it while John watched them both from behind the glass, knowing that Jake’s own bereavement must be making the event almost intolerable for him.

It was, but in some ways it put his loss in perspective as well. Yes, he’d lost his grandfather but at least he’d lived a long, full life; what life had Bobby McDonagh had? A teenage boy who’d had his whole future snuffed out. What life had any of their three victims experienced? Fifty-three years between them and now all gone. The pathologist watched as Jake’s empathy was replaced by anger, the change echoed in his posture as he rose.

John had phoned Craig when Boraks had arrived for the I.D. Now he entered, tapping his friend on the shoulder to say that he was there.

“Both of them?”

John nodded.

“So we have all three I.D.ed.”

“Sam Beech sixteen, Elena Boraks nineteen, and now Robert, Bobby McDonagh, eighteen years old.” John shook his head. “What a bloody waste.”

Craig didn’t disagree. He indicated Jake. “How’s he holding up?”

“Pretty well, actually. I thought this might have been hard on him, what with his granddad, but it actually seems to be helping.”

Craig smiled, unsurprised by Jake’s stoicism.

“He’s a good officer and with Annette away for a few days we could do with his help.”

John gestured through the glass to where Andy was leaning against a windowsill. It looked like the only thing keeping him vertical.

“What’s he like? Seems a bit lazy.”

Craig shrugged. “He’s trying to be cool. Probably watched too much Starsky and Hutch like us.”

John was sceptical. “Like you, you mean. I was always in a library.”

Craig conceded the point. “Anyway, he’s got a good rep for closing cases. He just doesn’t do himself any favours by the way he behaves sometimes, especially with female officers.”

“Lecherous?”

“More like God loves a trier. To be really lecherous he’d have to get past saying hello. That’s usually all it takes for them to walk away.”

John smiled with the wisdom of a newly married man. “Find him a woman then. It’ll be a service to mankind.”

As Jake led T.J. towards the exit Craig rapped the glass, beckoning them back.

“Take Mr McDonagh to the C.C.U. relatives’ room and interview him please, Jake.”

The sergeant gave a nod. “Just where I was heading.” He glanced at their sleep walking D.C.I. “And D.C.I. Angel?”

“Don’t worry about him. I have something that will wake him up. Where’s Annette by the way?”

“Gone to collect Nicky for their flight.” He indicated a small office. “Ken’s in there with Mr Boraks.”

“Fine.” Craig beckoned Andy to follow him to the small room where Ken was handing a stunned looking Tomasz Boraks a cup of tea. He called Ken outside and turned to them both.

“OK, we now have all three victims I.D.ed., but that’s all we have.” He stopped abruptly, noticing that Carmen wasn’t there. “Where’s Carmen, Ken?”

Ken winced in embarrassment. “Back at base. She and Annette had words, so Annette and I went to see Mr Boraks instead.”

Craig rolled his eyes, knowing that another discussion with Carmen was looming. Annette would never ground someone without good cause.

“OK. Andy, you and Ken sort out Mr Boraks with a family liaison officer. He looks dreadful so I don’t want him left alone––”

Ken cut in. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you should see the dump he’s been living in. His daughter was his only family and she took care of the shopping and his pension. If she’s not around…well, he already neglects himself.”

Craig nodded. He’d spotted the elderly man’s neglect immediately. “Get him an emergency social care placement and when he’s feeling up to it interview him properly. I need to know if he had any idea of his daughter’s lifestyle, contacts, anything that might help.”

“He said she worked in a shop on the Ormeau Road called SuperMark.”

“Get Davy to check it out. OK, we also have a name for our first male victim and Jake’s following that up now. Andy, keep oversight of the cases today and utilise Carmen, Ken and Jake on digging deeper into everyone’s lives. Keep me up to speed with whatever you find out and tell Carmen she’s to stay in the office until I get a chance to speak to her.”

Andy had been nodding lethargically, now he asked a question. “What’s Liam doing?”

Craig smiled; knowing that whatever he was doing it would be something good. “He’s following up some hunch; we’ll find out more at the briefing.” He glanced at his watch wondering if Annette would make her flight. “Right, it’s after four so get on with it and I’ll see you both at the ranch in an hour. Remember that we’ve no Nicky for a few days so call me directly for anything you need.”

****

Liam’s curry had disappeared two hours earlier, leaving a hole in his stomach that needed to be filled. A garage-bought pie did the trick and as he chomped his way through it he thought about the case; the meal mundane but his thoughts less so. They were of dead languages and long ago times, before reporters and cameras had stripped the world of all its mystery.

Aloysius had been the Christian Brother’s name; Brother Aloysius McGovern, Bachelor of Arts. He could picture him now in his black cassock, hair flying as he raced down the parqueted corridors on his way to class. He’d been young, nearer their age than any of the other staff, and fit, as alive on the Gaelic field as he’d been telling tall tales in class. One of the lads. It had given him credibility with his class of teenage boys, as had his desire not to use the strap on every errant youth.

He’d taught them history, religion and Latin and had often mixed the three, livening up the boring verbs and declensions with tales of daring-do from centuries before. They’d suspected that not every story was true of course, but no-one had really cared. Lessons became half learning, half adventure, as Aloysius painted pictures of combat and intrigue that had made them want to race to class.

Liam swallowed a final mouthful of pastry and balled up the wrapper, sliding down the car window to pot it in a nearby bin. He checked the time then reclined for ten minutes’ more reverie.

One of Aloysius’ stories had always stuck with him; not Roman but later, part of medieval history, Roman Catholic to be precise. But not modern day Catholic with its bright churches and cheerful priests who cared if their congregation liked them and wanted to be their friends. No, this story was old school. Hell fire and damnation, men in rich regalia sweeping through darkened corridors at night. Corridors lit by flaming torches, leading to iron-doored cells where unfortunates languished under lock and key.

He could picture the men just as Aloysius had described them. Unwashed, unfed converts and faith born men who had lost their way, chained against walls dripping with filthy water and shivering on stone slab floors, their only crime not to conform to the orthodoxy of the medieval church. Liam laughed out loud, not at the caricature it painted but at the knowledge that some older clergymen probably still believed it was the best way.

He pictured a medieval Guantanamo, minus the orange jumpsuits and sunlit exercise yards. Cell doors creaking open and the men inside being led in flickering darkness to larger rooms where instruments of torture had greeted them with a smile, although not, he guessed, as wide a smile as their torturers’.

Aloysius had told them of the implements used: Strappado, the Judas Chair and the rack, in a hushed voice that begged them not to repeat his words outside the classroom. Liam tried to imagine a teacher describing such things nowadays; they’d be hauled away screaming by the PC police. But they’d been testosterone rich teenage boys desperate for a thrill and it was testament to the excitement they’d felt that Aloysius’ history and Latin grades were the highest in the school.

Latin. The key to this case was Latin but he wasn’t yet sure how. He knew the language well; years of schooling had ensured that, so he’d known immediately that the words tattooed on their victims’ bodies were all wrong. ‘Gentum est confessio illa veritate’ wasn’t any Latin that he’d learned, but he was pretty sure he knew a man who could translate.

He pulled out his mobile and made a call, smiling as he snapped shut the phone. Then he threw his car into a U-turn and headed down the A24 to Crossgar to visit a tall, wild-haired man that he’d thought he would never see again.

****

The Relatives’ Room. Docklands.

T.J. McDonagh tightened his grip on the mug of tea and sniffed back the end of his tears. Then he thought of his mother and having to tell her that her baby son was dead and they began flowing again. Jake leaned forward to catch his eye.

“T.J., can we talk about Bobby? I need to ask a few things.”

The youth sniffed assent and gazed into his still full cup.

“When did you last see him?

The big brother answered in a dull voice. “Four weeks ago. He was getting ready for a gap year trip to Spain. He was planning to do Spanish and French at Uni next year.”

“When was he due to leave?”

T.J. screwed up his face, remembering. “I think it was the first Wednesday in March.” The fourth.

“Was he travelling with anyone?”

The boy shook his head, half smiling. “Bobby liked his own space. Used to say that a companion would hold him back.” He glanced up at Jake with pride in his eyes. “He was an organised kid. Booked his own flights, the Paradores he was staying in, everything.”

Davy would check everything, but his hunch was that Bobby McDonagh had never made his plane. He changed tack.

“When did Bobby realise that he was gay?”

It was a bluff – they still had no proof that he had been. He held his breath as T.J. went to shrug then changed his mind and shook his head.

“I don’t know for sure when he knew. But…he started asking me questions when he was around fourteen.”

They had their confirmation. Their second victim had definitely been gay.

He stared directly at Jake, his voice firm. “And before you ask, no I didn’t give him any details and I definitely didn’t glamourise the life. Mum and Dad would have killed me if I’d influenced him.”

Jake remembered his own confusion at fourteen. He would have given anything for a brother to talk to but his granddad had been the next best thing.

“And later? Did he keep asking?”

T.J. nodded, his dark hair falling across reddened eyes. “All the time.” He hesitated before continuing. “He used to ring me and cry down the phone.” He shook his head sadly, as if he was thinking that he could have done more to help. “That was when he started getting into trouble.”

Jake’s eyes widened. This was something, he knew it.

“What sort of trouble?”

The boy smiled incongruously, as if the trouble was a happy memory now. They all would be eventually.

“Bobby was always such a fricking Boy Scout; helping Mum and mowing the lawn for Dad. He made me look bad. So when he was first caught nicking from our local shop, I cheered. Finally he wasn’t the blue-eyed boy.” He made a face. “The first time was funny. Dad had a word with the shopkeeper and he let it drop, then Bobby did it again, and again. He got caught every time; he was a really crap thief. The last time he practically danced in front of the shop’s CCTV.”

Jake interrupted. “Did anyone ask him why he did it?”

It was blindingly obvious to him that Bobby had been crying out for help, but he wanted to see what his brother knew.

T.J. shrugged. “He probably wanted the stuff he stole.”

“I mean why he deliberately tried to get caught.”

T.J.’s eyes widened, as if the deliberateness had never occurred to him. “He didn’t…did he?”

Jake nodded. Bobby McDonagh had been desperate for someone to listen to him. He’d been confused about his sexuality and it was his way of acting out.

“Was he arrested?”

“Nah. He was only fifteen so the cop took him to see a social worker instead. Dad was ripping mad but at least he didn’t get a record. Anyway, a year later Bobby told me he was gay and the trouble stopped.”

Something T.J. had said was niggling him but Jake couldn’t give it a name. He’d play back the conversation later, but right now he needed to take him home. As they were readying to leave the door opened and Craig appeared.

“Hello, Jake. Hello, Mr McDonagh, I’m really very sorry for your loss. Thank you for agreeing to answer some questions.”

T.J. nodded and Craig beckoned Jake outside.

“Did he give you anything?”

“Bobby was definitely gay. The rest I need to check out.”

“Right. Get a car to take him home.”

Jake shook his head. “I’d like to do it, sir. His family don’t know yet and they’ll want to view the body.”

“OK. I just came down to say I’m moving the briefing to nine tomorrow morning. Annette and Nicky have left, Ken and Andy are still with Mr Boraks and Liam’s gone AWOL, following up some hunch.” He glanced back at the room. “Thanks for doing this, but don’t spend all evening, please. Your week has already been hard enough.”

Chapter Eight

Craig didn’t know which he was dreading more; talking to Carmen or trying to decide what to do with her. He’d spoken to Annette and Nicky briefly in the departure lounge and got the gist of what the recalcitrant constable had said. He knew that her rudeness stemmed from insecurity, hurt pride and a stubborn streak, but he’d been making allowances for her now for nine months and enough was finally enough. He didn’t care how she treated him but speaking about a bereaved relative the way she had was the final straw.

As he walked decisively into the squad-room he was shocked to see that no-one but Davy was there; he’d told Andy to ground Carmen until he’d had a word! He was on the point of shrugging off Andy’s neglect as his laissez-faire approach to life when he heard the lift door slide open and Carmen appeared, holding a baguette from the canteen.

She walked past him and deposited it on her desk saying, by way of explanation. “I thought you’d probably keep me late.”

As Craig struggled to work out if it was insight or sarcasm she surprised him yet again.

“Before you say it, I know I’m in big trouble and I know that I probably deserve to be. What I said to Annette was rude and cruel and as soon as the words were out I regretted them. I’ve been bollocking myself ever since, far more brutally than anyone else could.”

She wished. If it was a tactic to soften him it wouldn’t work. Craig turned on his heel.

“Join me in my office.”

She thudded down at her desk and shook her head. “Let Davy hear. I don’t care.” She continued as if talking to herself. “The problem is I know it will happen again and that next time a relative might hear.”

Craig sat down opposite, not softening but curious at the turn the conversation was taking. “Do you know why you do it?” Whatever her reply he’d already decided to call her old boss in Leith once the case was done. Something had to be at the root of her problems and at the moment he felt as if he was working in the dark.

Carmen went to shake her head again then she stopped and gave a slight nod. “I…I think I’m angry.”

Craig watched her face, wondering if he was being played and at any moment she would sob and throw herself on his mercy, hoping that his chivalry would make him say ‘there, there’. It probably would have done in the past, but not this time.

But she didn’t cry, instead she seemed genuinely puzzled. Davy looked up from his computer and waited to see what came next, while Craig barely blinked, knowing that the angry detective had more to say. Her puzzled look changed to realisation.

“Yes…yes that’s it. I’m angry.” Suddenly her small fist slammed onto the desk. “No, I’m not angry, I’m bloody furious.” She glared at Craig as if he would be the next thing slammed. Her words confirmed it. “In fact I’d like to punch you right now.”

Craig was relaxed. She couldn’t hurt him, short of using her gun, and he was interested in where this was heading.

He played devil’s advocate. “Two questions. A, why so you want to punch me? And B, what’s stopping you?”

She frowned as if confused by his words. “What’s stopping me is the fact that you’re my boss and you could wreck my career.”

“Not because it’s wrong.”

She shrugged. “Maybe, although the way I’m feeling I’m not sure that it would be.”

He raised an eyebrow, half amused.

“And why…why is because you’re slick.” She gestured at him contemptuously. “With your perfect teeth and nice suits. And you’re so bloody calm all the time. You never get angry! It’s not normal.”

Craig thought back to the Christmas party and almost laughed. She read his mind and shook her auburn curls.

“You know what I mean. When you get angry it’s deserved, but you never just let rip because you’ve had a bad day or you’re annoyed.” She glanced around for an audience and found none; at the mention of punches Davy had ducked down to inspect his shoes. “None of you do. I’m the only one here who wants to scream all day. You’re not normal!”

Craig saw that she was dangerously close to tears then saw her realise it and blink them back. Maybe if she cried she wouldn’t be so angry all the time but he thought better of saying so; tears were probably a feminist issue nowadays even though they didn’t belong to just one sex. Instead he summed up.

“Constable McGregor, I believe you have serious personal issues that need to be addressed. Until they are I don’t want you anywhere near victims’ relatives.”

She nodded mutely, dropping her eyes to the floor as he continued. As her hair fell forward curtaining her face it looked like she was revealing her neck for the executioner’s blade.

“It might surprise you how often other people around here want to shout and punch something, but they don’t because they’ve developed self-control. Boring I know, but necessary at work.” He paused, picturing the times he’d wanted to punch his old boss Terry Harrison and allowing himself a smile, then he straightened up briskly. “Right, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re a bright officer and it’s not in anyone’s interest to ruin your career, so I’m going to offer you a simple choice.”

Carmen’s eyes lifted as if she’d been granted a stay.

“You will apologise to Ken, and to Annette and Nicky when they return, and I’m confining you to the office.”

Her mouth opened; it shut again quickly as Craig narrowed his eyes.

“Your duties will be paperwork and helping Davy on the IT side.” He ignored Davy’s sudden reappearance and his mime of hanging himself behind her back. “While that’s happening, and it could take months, I want you to undergo in-depth psychological assessment and treatment, not the quick fix we tried before – that obviously didn’t work. Until they sign you off as fit to work in a team and on the streets you won’t, and if there is one more incident or complaint before or after that time I’ll transfer you off this team so fast you won’t have time to pack.” His voice hardened. “Do you understand me? This is absolutely your last chance on this squad.”

“But what about me liaising with Vice and Gangs on the Boraks case?”

Craig gritted his teeth, torn between admiring her cheek and telling her not to push it.

“You’ve forfeited that role because of your behaviour. Someone else will take over.” She glanced away and Craig leaned sideways so that she couldn’t avoid his eyes. “Do you understand me, Constable McGregor? Your very last chance.”

There were no more words. Just a mute nod of acceptance and a rustling as she packed quickly to leave. Craig walked towards his office, turning just as she reached the double doors.

“Take the weekend off. I don’t expect to see you before Monday afternoon because you’ll be at psychological services in the morning. Goodnight.”

With that he entered his office and slumped at his desk, wondering if there was a job out there that didn’t involve dealing with other people’s crap.

****

Crossgar. 8 p.m.

Roadworks had ensured that by the time Liam reached Crossgar it was after seven and his pie was a fond memory. He’d tossed up between eating and then meeting or doing it in reverse, and eating first won, as it always did. One hour and a large cheese and pepperoni pizza later, courtesy of an eatery that had been a dry cleaners when he’d been a boy, he hit the Derryboy Road praying that he saw no-one that he knew. His sister Mary’s house was only a mile down the road and if she heard that he’d been local and hadn’t dropped in there’d be hell to pay. The thought of his brother-in-law’s slack-jawed conversation replaced his guilt with relief, and a resolution to invite her for a day’s shopping in Belfast sealed the deal.

As he sat outside the seminary’s imposing gates, waiting for them to open in answer to his buzz, Liam wondered what he would feel when he was inside. The large building wasn’t a school now; just a place of prayer and a retreat for exhausted souls, but it affected him in the same way it had always done. Trepidation, tinged with the knowledge that he’d get in trouble for something he’d done, or more likely hadn’t done; his homework to be precise. But there was no homework today, just a short Latin sentence that rang a bell in his head and a man that his school notebook recorded as having said something similar years before.

As the high iron gates swung inward and he drove on in first gear he saw a man standing in the road ahead. Even from a distance he could tell that he was a Brother, with his familiar black cassock skimming the ground. Part of Liam was pleased that the man still wore traditional garb. It was unusual; even the nuns nowadays seemed to show their legs and hair. Another part of him shuddered at the memory of cassocks swishing across the floor, far too often followed by the louder swish of a cane.

As he drew closer the man’s face crystallised and Liam let out a gasp. It was the very man that he’d come to see; Brother Aloysius thirty years on. It was only then Liam realised how young he must have been when he’d taught them; he looked barely older as him, and good living had kept him suspended in time.

As the detective stopped the car to avoid hitting him, Aloysius McGovern strode forward with his hand held out. He yanked open the driver’s door and stuck his hand in his old pupil’s, pumping it up and down with an iron grip.

“Young Cullen, as I live and breathe. Let me look at you, lad.”

Liam exited the car, blushing, and stood ready to be inspected as if he was still a kid.

“It’s good to see you, Brother Aloysius.”

The Brother grinned, spreading his line-free face wide as he did. The only sign of the intervening years was a light greying at his temples and a small scar on his cheek that Liam knew would have been earned during some kind of sport. Aloysius pumped his hand again.

“And you, boy. You’ve hardly changed.” He poked Liam in the paunch as he spoke. “Apart from that. Too much good living in the police.” Before Liam could demure and tell him of his hard life, Aloysius gestured at his aging Ford. “Park over there and come on in.”

Liam was puzzled, the school still lay half a mile ahead, then he noticed Aloysius was heading towards a small detached house. A cottage really; red brick with a slate roof and a smoking stack that said it had an open fire.

“Home sweet home.” He waved at the school. “Far better than living at ‘the big house’. But you’d know all about that.” He chuckled at the prison reference. “We just use it for conferences and retreats nowadays. The remaining Brothers are dotted all over the grounds.”

Liam was about to ask why the pupils had stopped coming when the cleric disappeared through the low front door. He parked the car and joined him and two pots of tea and several scones later Aloysius McGovern stared his old pupil directly in the eye.

“Now, lovely and all as it is to see you, Liam, you didn’t come all this way just for a chat.” He arched an eyebrow wryly. “If you’d wanted one of those you could have dropped in any of the umpteen times you’ve been to see your sister on the farm.”

Liam swallowed his tea hastily and blustered out a defence, as if he was still the gangly kid who’d forgotten his homework, or the eighteen-year-old caught snogging a local girl behind the gym. The teacher waved a hand, dismissing his guilt.

“I’m only winding you up, lad. Getting my own back for all those times that you talked in class. Tell me what I can do for you.”

Liam grinned, joining in the joke, then he withdrew his school notebook, flicked to a page near the back and handed it to the cleric. Aloysius squinted at the paper for a moment then gave up and pulled a pair of glasses from his robe, shooting Liam a glance that dared him to make a quip. After a few seconds scrutinising the page he stared at Liam, confused.

“What’s this?”

“I was hoping that you could tell me.”

Aloysius tutted. “I don’t mean what language is it; surely even you recognise Latin when you see it. I meant what’s it about?”

Liam frowned, tossing up whether to confide in the Brother or not. He decided on yes. If you couldn’t trust the clergy with a secret then there was no hope left for the world.

“If I tell you, you mustn’t tell anyone. It’s part of an ongoing case.”

His warning tone made the teacher smile; Liam had a long way to go to achieve the fear of God voice that he’d used on him in class.

“I promise.”

Liam nodded and folded his hands on his paunch, readying to tell the sorry tale. Five minutes and three corpses later Aloysius McGovern shook his head.

“It’s a shocking world we live in, but thank goodness for the police. If you didn’t hold the line it would be even worse.” He thought for a moment. “So you’re saying that this was carved…”

“Not carved, tattooed.”

“Tattooed then. That’s interesting in itself; tattooing takes time and artistry. That tells you something about your killer.”

Liam looked blank.

“Well, for instance, that he’s not young. A boy would have panicked and grabbed the nearest Stanley knife; they wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of buying a tattoo kit. Then there’s the language itself; it’s complex. That means they’re educated…”

He broke off abruptly and Liam saw a look of realisation cross his face. He leaned forward eagerly.

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

Aloysius wasn’t ready to commit himself so he threw in a deflection instead, nodding at the small notebook now lying beside their cups.

“Go on then, you tell me what the sentence means. Prove that I wasn’t talking to myself in class all those years ago.”

Liam hesitated. He’d been steeped in Latin since birth. It had been part of the soundtrack of his childhood, like the rumble of tractor wheels and the cattle’s moos. Its cadences had risen and fallen depending on the time of year. Sometimes quiet and gentle, burbling along in the background like the small stream on their farm, like when his mother practiced her Ave Maria for the Christmas recital at the church, with dominus and benedicta words he recognised like modern kids knew the lyrics of a Pharrell song. At other times the stream had burst its banks; when the priest’s voice had soared in a Latin mass or the whole school had recited a passage at assembly on a Holy Day. He’d thought of Latin as one of his best subjects but the phrase in front of them had him confused, so he shook his head and answered his old teacher in the only way that he could.

“I used to be good at Latin, you know that. But this isn’t any Latin I recognise and our analyst can’t find anyone to translate.” He narrowed his eyes at the Brother, half suspicious, half amused. “I bet you could.”

Aloysius guffawed and punched his arm in camaraderie. “Well done, boy. I wondered if you’d remember. Yes, you were good at Latin, Classical Latin that is.” He waved his hand at the notebook. “But what you’ve got here is as Vulgar as it comes. Its use started when Augustus became Rome’s first emperor, in 27BC.” Just as Davy had said.

Something occurred to Liam. “Here, when did your man Augustus quit?”

“He didn’t. He died in 14 AD.”

“So Christ was born during his reign?”

“Well spotted. Is it relevant to your case?”

He made a face that said he wasn’t sure and waved the cleric on.

“Right. A modern comparator to Vulgar Latin would be the banter people used every day on the streets, rather than the formal language in which Ovid and Virgil chose to write their works.” Aloysius warmed to his topic. “Depending upon the city and occupation of the speaker, it could be harder to understand than text speak or rap are now to the uninitiated.” He smiled at Liam. “But you knew that I’d know this. It’s the reason that you’re here.”

Liam nodded. When Aloysius had paced round the classroom telling tales of daring do he’d almost always used Vulgar Latin to tell them in and he’d kept a note of some phrases in his school notebook.

The Brother shook his head, remembering. “I’m not as fluent as I was when I taught you. The headmaster caught me telling a story in it one day in the nineties and warned me off.” He drew himself up in his chair and adopted a solemn tone. “Only Classical Latin will be taught in this school, Brother Aloysius, and if you cannot adhere to that you should consider your future here. The humourless old…”

Liam cut in quickly, before Aloysius’ next word shattered childhood memories of him as a man apart.

“Does that mean that you can’t translate it?”

He lifted his notebook only to have it wrenched from his hand. Aloysius shot him a reproving look.

“Did I say that? I can translate it all right, but you’ll have to work out its relevance to your case yourself.” He opened the book and read aloud. “‘Gentum est confessio illa veritate’ translated into Classical Latin would be ‘a persona est confessio veri.’” He turned back to Liam with a pleased smile. “Very few people even recognise Vulgar Latin, you know, so I’m not surprised your analyst is having trouble getting it translated. It would take an academic versed in ancient languages, and even then they mightn’t understand the slang.”

Liam glanced at the clock. It was after ten and with the roadworks he’d have an hour’s drive home. Danni’s roast dinner was a lost hope. He urged the teacher on.

“So? It means…”

“Roughly it means ‘a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true’. And I know exactly where it originates from.”

As Liam scribbled down the words Aloysius rushed over to a bookcase, rummaging through its contents and returning with a red-backed tome. He stood over Liam, urging him on.

“Read me that translation again.”

His excitement was infectious and Liam found himself sitting on the edge of his chair. It felt like they were on a treasure hunt. “A person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true. What does it mean? That people always tell the truth?”

The pastor didn’t answer. He was too busy flicking through the book, first to the back page references and then forward to the index, running a finger down it till he’d found the page that he was searching for. He scanned the page quickly and then stabbed it triumphantly with a finger.

“There it is! I knew that I’d heard it before.” He retook his seat, continuing eagerly. “‘Confessionem esse veram, non factam vi tormentorum’. It’s Classical Latin and it means, literally – a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true, exactly the same as your Vulgar Latin tattoo, but it’s the next bit that’s important ... not made by way of torture. The whole sentence reads ‘a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true, not made by way of torture.’”

He paused for so long that Liam knew something important was coming. Aloysius didn’t disappoint. When he restarted his voice held disbelief.

“But this can’t possibly be right, Liam. This phrase is centuries old. What is it doing tattooed on three dead youngsters in twenty-fifteen?”

Liam wanted to shout “I don’t know, so hurry up and tell me” But instead he bit his tongue and asked, “Where is it from?” with as much patience as he could muster. His restraint paid off.

“It’s a phrase linked to the Spanish Inquisition. You know who they were of course; a tribunal set up by Aragon and Castile in the late fifteenth century, to maintain Catholic orthodoxy in their kingdoms. The words usually followed a description of how, once torture had ended, the torture victim freely confessed to their offenses. Thus confessions following torture were always deemed to be made of the confessor's free will, and hence valid. The Romans believed the same. In fact they believed that without torture no confession would possibly be true. Or legal.”

Aloysius sat back, gazing into space with an expression akin to ecstasy. Liam was still catching up.

“OK, so the tattoo’s the Vulgar Latin version of a Classical Latin phrase from the middle ages, that means even if it was tortured out of someone their confession was definitely true?” He slumped in his chair. “How the heck does it link to three modern murders?”

Aloysius frowned, thinking. “I think…either they believed that no-one would be able to translate the tattoo and it would stay their secret, or they were deliberately setting you a puzzle to solve. They’re taunting you, but why is anyone’s guess. Although I have a nasty feeling that your case somehow hinges on religion.”

Liam groaned, picturing trying to convince the rest of the team of the words’ relevance, especially the ones who thought Latin was an ancient myth. But they couldn’t dismiss what Aloysius had said; torture fitted with the choke pear they’d found with their second victim.

He turned his attention back to the here and now, smiling at his old teacher admiringly.

“How could you possibly have remembered that? There must be millions of Latin expressions used in religion.”

Aloysius beamed. “Ah but, remember that I taught history as well. The Spanish Inquisition always caught my imagination. They were pretty vicious, but then so was everyone in those days.”

Liam guffawed. “Their image wasn’t helped by Monty Python.”

“No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

They laughed at the catchphrase from their youth and the discussion shifted to comedy, prompting the teacher to bring out a bottle of whisky and his old pupil to call home and explain that he’d be staying with his sister overnight. The Spanish Inquisition could wait until tomorrow and Liam already knew a woman who could help him there.

****

London.

Annette signed the hotel register then she and Nicky took the lift to the seventh floor, to gaze out of her window across London like two teenagers on a gap year. Tomorrow they would meet Yemi and his superintendent but tonight there were more important matters requiring attention; like dressing up in outfits they would never wear in Belfast and dancing the night away.

Annette felt a moment’s guilt about leaving the others to work the case and then Nicky held aloft the Greer folder and it evaporated. They locked it with their laptops in the hotel safe then removed a bottle of duty free Champagne from Annette’s suitcase and started the weekend as they intended to go on.

****

The Craig’s house. Holywood.

Dinner had been a quiet affair, well, as quiet as Mirella’s banging down of cutlery and repeated tutting and sniffing had allowed. When she hadn’t been doing that she’d alternated between gazing pathetically at Lucia and glaring daggers at Craig, as if his sister’s impending trip to the Middle East was somehow his fault. As she rose to get the dessert from the fridge Tom Craig beckoned his son into the hall, leaving a diplomatic Katy to engage the others in a discussion about Italy.

Craig senior edged them as far from the kitchen as he could without setting off Mirella’s abandonment alarm and turned to his only son, shaking his head.

“Don’t take it personally, son. Your mother’s just worried sick.” He glanced back towards the kitchen. “To be honest so am I. Your sister’s not as worldly wise as she’d like everyone to believe and Syria’s dangerous for anyone, never mind for an outspoken woman like her.” A note of anxiety entered his voice. “They’ve killed charity workers there.”

Craig looked at the man they’d almost lost two years earlier and saw the toll Lucia’s decision was taking on him. He looked paler than he had in a long time and Craig wondered how often his angina spray was being used. He was suddenly furious with his sister for putting their parents under this strain; he wanted to lock her in a cell until she saw some sense but instead he placed a hand on his father’s arm.

“I can’t tell you that it’s not dangerous, Dad. You’re right, they have killed aid workers, but Lucia’s so pig headed that if we try to tell her not to go she’ll get even more determined.” He glanced towards the kitchen and dropped his voice. “Katy has a theory that it’s partly because she’s lonely.”

To his surprise his father nodded. “I agree. She’s been unhappy since she and Richard called it a day. But what can we do about it?”

Craig dropped his voice even further. “If you can stop Mum from blowing a gasket, leave the rest to us. Luce hasn’t resigned yet and her job needs a month’s notice, so that gives us a little time.” He put an arm around the man who’d raised him, momentarily shocked by how thin he felt beneath his clothes. “Trust Katy, if anyone can stop Lucia going she will. Now we’d better go back before Mum sends out the troops.”

As they walked down the hall they could hear that the chat had shifted to the coming Westminster elections. Any topic was fine, just as long as it didn’t touch on faraway countries full of heavily armed men. As Craig retook his seat Katy gave him a smile that said the party plans were well under way.

Chapter Nine

Queen’s University Belfast. Saturday, 11 a.m.

Liam had phoned to say he had info that warranted moving the briefing to one o’clock, and when he’d disentangled himself from his nieces and nephews after a broken night’s sleep and persuaded his sister that he didn’t need a packed lunch he’d finally managed to leave Crossgar. Now he was draining his third coffee and wincing at his hangover; he and Aloysius had hammered a whole bottle of whisky the night before; he hadn’t reckoned with the Brother having a hollow leg.

He smiled weakly across the desk at Theodora Rustin, flattered that she’d agreed to see him on a Saturday. He was pretty sure that she fancied him and had had her hair freshly styled because she did.

Rustin broke the silence. “Did you manage to get it translated?”

He withdrew his notebook with a flourish that said he had.

She sat forward eagerly, gracing him with an admiring smile. “May I ask who translated it? It wasn’t a language that I recognised.”

“It’s Vulgar Latin. Basically the street slang that was spoken in ancient Rome.”

Her eyes widened in a way most women reserved for the first day of the sales.

“Vulgar Latin! You found someone who understands it?”

Liam preened himself; her admiration was doing wonders for his hangover. “Speaks it too. A Brother who taught at my old school. He used to tell us stories in it, off the book so to speak. He hasn’t taught in a while but he remembered enough.”

Her eyes widened further. “Can you give me his name? It’s just that a friend in the classics department at Oxford has had problems with translations and they might be able to use his skills.”

Liam shrugged; it hadn’t occurred to him that Aloysius might get a job out of helping him but it was worth a shot.

“I’ll check with him and if it’s OK I’ll put you in touch.” He gestured at the text then spoke in the masterful tone that he was sure women liked. “Now, if it’s all right I’d like to focus on what I found out.”

She sat back, composing herself. “Of course. It’s just so exciting.”

He couldn’t help thinking that she was easily pleased.

“Right, the Vulgar Latin was ‘Gentum est confessio illa veritate’ and my source said that in Classical Latin the equivalent phrase is ‘a persona est confessio veri’ and that they both mean ‘a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true.’” He gazed at her hopefully. “Does that mean anything to you? In the history of religion stuff?”

She gave nothing away. “It might do. Do you have anything else?”

“Aye.” He quoted verbatim. “He said it originated from a phrase ‘Confessionem esse veram, non factam vi tormentorum’ which means that a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true, not made by way of torture. Apparently it’s a phrase linked to the Spanish Inquisition, meaning that confessions following torture were considered to be made of the confessor's free will and completely valid.”

Teddy Rustin gazed past him with a mysterious smile, as if she was deciding whether or not to reveal something. Liam watched her, puzzled. Something felt wrong but he couldn’t work out whether it was his hangover-distorted imagination or his copper’s gut. Before he could choose, she spoke again.

“I wrote my doctoral thesis on them. The Spanish Inquisition; ‘The myth versus the truth.’”

He smiled. “Catchy. You should have turned it into a novel, like those ones about Opus Dei.”

The academic gave a distant smile. “Perhaps someday.” She walked over to a shelf and lifted a bound volume, turning it so Liam could see her name embossed on the spine. “This is my thesis. Eighty thousand words.”

The number made his headache worse.

He gazed at her curiously. “OK then, what was the difference? Between the myth and the truth I mean.”

“You should read it and find out.”

Liam smiled. He could barely get through a newspaper with the kids crawling over him every night.

“Just give me the highlights.”

She retook her seat, turning the thesis’ pages slowly as she talked. “The Inquisition was originally intended to ensure the orthodoxy of those who converted to Christianity from Judaism and Islam. Later they got slightly more involved in crimes against the church, but they were never as bad as they were painted.”

Liam raised an eyebrow sceptically. “So basically you’re saying they just got bad press and all the torture and executions were a myth.”

Rustin laughed; it was like a musical scale. “Let’s just say they didn’t do everything that the tabloids said they did. They just had strong beliefs, like a lot of people nowadays.” She leaned forward, fixing him with an inquisitive stare. “You still haven’t told me what your case is about.”

It was a question that he couldn’t and wouldn’t answer. He closed his notebook and stood up, fudging his answer with “I’m not sure yet but I’ll be back when I am.”

It wasn’t a lie; he wasn’t sure yet. But even when he was, something suddenly told him that the lovely professor wasn’t someone that he should tell.

****

The C.C.U. 1 p.m.

Craig scanned the squad-room, waiting until everyone was seated before beginning. His eye fell on the vending machine cup Liam was holding and he shook his head in disgust.

“Seriously? You’re so lazy you couldn’t make some real coffee?”

Before anyone could answer he strode into his office and re-emerged with a full percolator, pouring himself a cup before passing it on to Ken.

Liam shrugged defensively. “Machine coffee means no effort making it and no washing up.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “Nicky will be so proud when she gets back.” As Liam had spoken first he gestured him to start. He did, with a grin on his face.

“Who wants to know what the tattoo’s about, then?”

Davy had been adding milk from his drawer stash to his mug but his hand froze mid-air at Liam’s words. Deciphering puzzles was his job and he didn’t like being beaten.

“I was w…working on that!”

“And I solved it. Life’s tough.” He withdrew his school notebook from its resting place, opening it at the relevant page and settling back to spin his tale.

“OK, I thought I recognised the words from something I’d heard at school, so, long story short, I chased up my old teacher, a Christian Brother called Aloysius McGovern. He taught us Latin, religion and history.” He threw Davy a bone. “As Davy said, the tattoo’s written in Vulgar Latin; a spoken version used on the streets of Ancient Rome and as different from Classical Latin as how teenagers nowadays speak is from the Oxford English Dictionary.”

Craig halted him. “They didn’t teach us Vulgar Latin at school.”

“Aye, well, Aloysius was pretty cool. He used to tell us stories in it behind the headmaster’s back.” He gestured at his notebook. “I wrote some of the exciting ones down and I remembered a few words.” He preened himself. “I was quite the wee swot back in the day.”

He ignored the simultaneous snorts from Davy and Jake and carried on.

“Anyhow… Aloysius translated the Vulgar stuff into Classical Latin and then into English for me. ‘Gentum est confessio illa veritate’ in Vulgar Latin translates to ‘a persona est confessio veri’ in Classical Latin, and they both mean ‘a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true.’”

Craig nodded admiringly, to be joined by almost everyone in the room. In fact the only person who didn’t nod was Davy. He was feeling put out so he cut in childishly.

“Latin is a dead language, as dead as dead can be. It killed the ancient Romans and now it’s killing me.”

Liam guffawed at the old rhyme, neutering the attempt at bitchiness. “We used to say that at school.”

Craig motioned him to hurry up.

“OK, so then Aloysius recognised the reference as a phrase associated with the Spanish Inquisition. ‘Confessionem esse veram, non factam vi tormentorum’. It means a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true, not made by way of torture. It sometimes followed a description of how, after torture had ended, the subject freely confessed to their offenses––”

Ken interrupted. “So confessions following torture were deemed to be made from free will and valid?”

Liam nodded. “Basically yes. Apparently the Romans took it even further. Unless it was made under torture a confession was never considered true.”

“ISIS would love that.”

Craig let the group chat for a moment; he was busy thinking. After a minute he smiled at Liam. “Excellent work.”

“Thanks, but that’s not all. I went back to see that professor, Theodora Rustin, early this morning.”

Davy objected. “That’s a woman’s name!”

“That’s because she is one. She’s basically an historian who specialises in religion and she did her thesis on the Spanish Inquisition. The way she talked about them you’d think they were just nice guys who were misunderstood. Basically warriors for Christ.”

He made a face and Craig picked up on it.

“What?”

“I’m not sure but I think she might know more.”

“Any idea what?”

He shrugged and Craig understood. Right now it was just an instinct; he would share it when he had something.

Liam continued. “Aloysius said a few other things about the tattoo.”

“For instance?”

“For instance, that the killer’s not young. A kid would have panicked and grabbed the nearest Stanley knife, not gone to the trouble of buying a tattoo kit. Then there’s the language itself. It’s complex so that means they’re educated…”

Craig nodded. They were good points. He turned towards Davy, only to find him seemingly pouring milk out of his drawer. He decided not to ask.

“Davy, see if there’s any way you can find out who bought a tattoo kit––” He stopped abruptly, shaking his head. “No, scrap that. They could have bought it online or had it for years.”

Davy said nothing, just smiled in gratitude. He was good but not that good; it would have taken him all week to generate a list.

Liam carried on as if Craig hadn’t spoken. “Anyway, I’m not sure the tattoo moves us forward much. We’d already guessed that the poor sods were being judged; maybe it means they confessed but it still didn’t save them?”

Craig nodded. “Perhaps; it’s too soon to say. But it’s all information, so well done.”

He leapt to his feet and grabbed a marker, writing the phrase and it’s translation on the board. Beneath it he wrote Spanish Inquisition, then a bullet pointed list. When he’d finished it read: educated men – possibilities: 1, Religious: clerics and theologians. 2, Academics: historians, archaeologists, classics scholars, linguists. He retook his seat with a gesture that said ‘discuss’.

Ken’s response was to add something else to the list; intelligence agencies. Craig looked at him quizzically.

“Explain.”

“Well, think about it, sir. We have a medieval instrument of torture used on one victim.”

Jake interjected. “Bobby McDonagh. We’ve got his name now.”

“On Bobby McDonagh. And we also have another reference to torture by the Spanish Inquisition, if Liam’s translator is correct. I hate to say it but the modern day equivalent of an inquisition would be an intelligence agency of some kind.”

Davy leaned forward excitedly, warming to the theme. “What about judges? Like that movie ‘The Star Chamber’ where a bunch of vigilante judges right miscarriages of justice.”

Ken shook his head. “The real Star Chamber was much more than that. It was a court that sat in Westminster from the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries, to try rich and powerful people that ordinary courts would have hesitated to convict.”

“W…Well, that leaves out our victims.”

Craig dragged a hand down his face. What if they were dealing with some sort of high level moral vigilantism? He gazed at the board. Any attempt to narrow their suspect pool based on the quotation would cast a net over half the educated people in Northern Ireland. He wiped off the list and retook his seat.

“OK, let’s start again. Let’s not look at what the words mean for a moment, let’s just look at the language they were written in.” He turned to Liam. “How many people know Vulgar Latin?”

Liam shrugged. “Very few, I’d say.” He gestured at the board. “A lot fewer than were on your list. Some religious orders, Theologists maybe, people specialising in ancient languages and maybe a few classic scholars.”

Craig scanned the group. “Anyone else?” He was answered by shaking heads. “OK, so our first clue is the phrase being written in Vulgar Latin. There’s likely to be a pretty small group of people that even know the language exists, never mind how to construct a sentence in it.”

He jotted the words religious and ancient languages on the board and turned back to the group.

“What else?”

Liam drained his coffee and reached for the percolator to top up. “Tattooing says that they’re older.”

Craig scribed ‘older’ and waited for someone else to speak. It was Jake.

“Self-righteous. They think they have the moral right to stand in judgement and administer the death sentence. It’s biblical justice.”

“Christian?”

Jake shook his head. “Not necessarily. Look at Sharia law.”

Davy disagreed. “No, it has to be some sort of Christianity. Because of the link to the Inquisition’s w…words.”

Craig nodded. “I agree. And because Vulgar Latin began around the same time as Christianity. Sorry, Jake, but it’s definitely Christian self-righteousness that we’re dealing with here.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “Great, just what we need. Pin the tail on the religious fanatic; that puts half of Northern Ireland in the dock.”

Craig shook his head. “Let’s be clear about this. What these people are doing has nothing to do with real Christianity or Christians; they’re just distorting the doctrines to suit their own ends. And on that point, everyone be diplomatic on enquiries, please. I don’t want a stream of complaints from people whose faith you’ve offended.”

There was silence while everyone thought of their respective religious upbringings. Whether you were Catholic or Protestant, hell fire and brimstone had been the order of the day in Northern Ireland at one time. Liam decided to stick his neck out.

“OK, I know someone will shoot me for saying this and I know that I’m going to hell, but I think we’re dealing with old school Roman Catholicism here, in all its confess and repent glory.”

He was dismayed when no-one disagreed.

“Here, isn’t anyone going to say I’m being sectarian? Gone are the good old days when I was able to shock.”

Craig laughed. “It’s pretty hard to be sectarian when you’re blaming your own side, Liam. Besides, you’re not insulting anyone’s religion; whoever is doing this is. These fanatics left God behind a long time ago.”

He scanned the team looking for disagreement. There was none, so Roman Catholic was added to the list on the board. He tapped the word ‘religious’ with his pen. “This isn’t necessarily limited to practicing clergy; we could be talking lay preachers, Theologists…”

“Latin teachers at religious s…schools.”

“Good point.”

After a moment when no more comments came, Craig nodded and returned to the routine briefing. Ten minutes later they had three names on the board: Bobby McDonagh, Sam Beech and Elena Boraks, with their ages and what they knew so far. The only common themes were their youth and that they’d been drowned, tattooed, bleached, wrapped and dumped soon after death. Liam raised a finger.

“Point of order. Does anyone know what religions the victims were?”

He was answered by silence.

“If we think religion’s part of this I suggest we check.”

Craig turned to Davy. “Do that please, Davy and let me know ASAP. OK, anything more on CCTV?”

Davy reached under his T-shirt and scratched at something on his upper back as he talked. “Nothing.” He gestured at the board hopefully. “But now that I’ve got the Vics’ names I can s…start looking for things in common. I’ll compile a list of people who fit the religious and language links as well.”

He scratched again and Craig rolled his eyes. If Davy had a new piercing he could live very happily without seeing it; if it was something worse he definitely didn’t want to know.

“OK, good. Ken. Anything more on the girl?”

Ken shook his head. “The father was too upset to answer many questions yesterday. I’ll go back today with whoever’s free.”

Liam raised an eyebrow curiously; Ken normally worked with Carmen. Come to think of it, where was she? There was only one answer. Something had happened and the boss had kicked her into touch. Craig was speaking again so he tuned back in.

“Jake, did you get much from Bobby McDonagh’s brother?”

“A bit, but I’ll get more today. It seems Bobby acted out for a while before he came out as gay. Confusion probably. I’ll flesh it out further and report back. There’s one other thing I think you should know.”

“Go on.”

“The snout who suggested T.J. as a possible source is someone that I’ve been using for five years; Rick Grundy. T.J. being suggested seemed like too much of a coincidence when it turned out to be his brother who was dead so I called Rick last night. He’s adamant that he only suggested T.J. because he knows everyone on the scene.”

“You think he might know something about Bobby’s death?”

“Not specifically, but I think he might have heard something about abductions on the grape vine. He’s not a killer, I’m sure of that. If I find out anything more I’ll report it.”

“OK. Keep digging and call Andy if you need any help.” He gestured at the board. “Annette and Nicky are in London on the Greer case, so we’ll need someone working Sam Beech on the ground.” He turned to where Andy was seated, only to find a gap. He’d gone to brew more coffee and returned just as Craig was tasking Liam.

“OK, Liam, you and Andy work Sam Beech, please. Of them all he’s the strangest. There’s no sign of injury to his body and his lifestyle seemed low risk, apart from some possible past abuse by the mother’s partner. But there’s a reason he was chosen and I need you to find out what it is.”

He paused and a puzzled look crossed his face. Liam saw it first.

“You’ve just thought of something, haven’t you?”

Craig made a face that said he wasn’t sure. He stood up, signalling that the briefing was over, and beckoned Davy to follow him into his room, giving him something to chase that made the scratching analyst smile.

****

St Mary’s Healthcare Trust. The canteen.

Natalie Winter pushed her plate to one side and made a face. “We’re stuck here all weekend and look at the slop we get to eat! I’m ordering a takeaway tonight.” She nodded at Katy’s food. “For instance, what’s that stuff you’re eating? It’s not anything I recognise.”

Katy ignored her and put another forkful of cottage cheese into her mouth. She didn’t share Natalie’s obsession with food, in fact the only other person she knew who did was Liam. Come to think of it, in the right light and with Natalie on stilts they were more alike than either would ever admit. She took a sip of tea and turned to more important matters, retrieving an A4 pad from her bag.

“OK, how many men do we have for the party so far?”

Natalie perked up immediately and tapped the pad’s top page.

“Have you got all the sports teams down?”

Katy’s eyes lit up; she’d completely forgotten about the Trust’s rugby and football teams. Natalie hastily added a caveat.

“But no tennis players. They’re mostly women and we don’t need any competition when we’re trying to find Lucia a man.”

Katy rolled her eyes. “We’ll have to invite some women or it’ll look too obvious. Lucia and sixty men might give away what we’re up to, don’t you think.”

Natalie folded her arms and gave a grudging nod. “OK then, but just ugly ones.”

It was on the tip of Katy’s tongue to say ‘how the heck can we judge?’ when suddenly a chair was scraped back and a dark-haired woman joined them at the table. Katy gazed at her in surprise; Natalie glared at her preparing to say ‘take a hike’.

The woman brushed past both their reactions by extending a hand towards Katy, bumping Natalie’s elbow on the way.

“Sofia Emiliani, psychiatry. Pleased to meet you.”

Natalie opened her mouth to say what she was thinking but Katy cut her short by shaking the proffered hand. It was lightly tanned with perfectly manicured nails and Natalie instantly went on high alert. She wasn’t sure why but she knew that this woman was trouble.

“I’m Katy Stevens and this is Natalie Winter; medicine and surgery. Are you a new consultant?”

“Yes.”

As Katy made small talk Natalie scrutinised the woman from head to toe and she didn’t like what she saw. Everything was too perfect, from the thick black hair on her dainty head to the pale blue Jimmy Choos on her feet; even her teeth looked like they’d been cut from a magazine. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. This Sofia was after something and she wanted to know what it was.

“What do you want?”

It was out before Natalie had realised that it was more than a thought. The look on Katy’s face said that it had sounded just as sharp as it had in her head. Sofia Emiliani turned her dark gaze slowly towards Natalie and then turned it away again without a word, continuing her conversation with Katy as if she wasn’t there.

“I am seconded from the Maudsley Hospital in London for six months and…”

Six months too long in Natalie’s book. She didn’t even know the woman and she hated everything about her, including the languid, breathy way she spoke. Save it for the men, love, ’cos it’s wasted on us.

“…I have expertise working with the Metropolitan Police in cults and ritual murders...”

Nice for you. Hopefully one of them will finish you off.

“…I am told you know the Head of the Murder Squad here, Marc Craig. I think he may find my skills of use…”

It was all Natalie could do not to yell ‘Yes, she knows him, and in the biblical sense as well. Hands off, you tart!’ She signalled Katy frantically with her eyes but the helpful physician appeared not to notice and replied cheerfully.

“I’m sure Marc would value your opinion. John Winter, Natalie’s husband, is the lead pathologist and he’s trained in profiling as well. I’ll contact them both for you if you give me your number.”

Natalie cut in quickly. “John’s too busy to see anyone, and how do you know Marc’s name?”

Sofia ignored her again and before Katy could say anything more she was on her feet. “This Marc seems to be the person I should speak to. Tell me, exactly where does he work?”

“They’re based in Pilot Street, in the Docklands. Tall building, you can’t miss it. Would you like the exact address?”

The psychiatrist smiled distantly, reserving a much colder smile for Natalie. “Not to worry. I can find it. Thank you so much, Katy.”

With that she swivelled on her perfect heels and undulated out of the canteen, followed by the gaze of every man in the place. Katy took a sip of tea and turned back to her notepad, oblivious to what had just occurred.

“So, how am I supposed to exclude pretty women from the party, and isn’t that a bit cruel?”

Natalie didn’t answer. She was too busy glaring after the witch who was so obviously after her friend’s man.

Chapter Ten

The Lab. 3 p.m.

It was almost three when Craig reached the lab and he was surprised to see John and Des exiting as he approached the building’s main doors.

“Off somewhere?”

“It’s called lunch. We’re allowed it at the weekend.”

The tone was sarcastic, unusual for John.

“What’s eating you?”

Des intervened before the chance encounter turned into a fight. “Nothing that you’ve done, Marc.” He made a face. “Stormont’s sent another memo ordering budget cuts. We’re skin and bone as it is.”

Craig glanced at his substantial girth but decided against making a quip.

The scientist sighed dramatically and continued. “You’d think that they’d give us some peace at a weekend. Especially with their election only five weeks away.”

John sniffed derisively. “Too sure of their bloody seats, that’s the problem. I should run for election and give them all a scare.”

That one definitely required a pass so Craig turned back towards the car park, walking along with the two men. John raised an eyebrow.

“You’re joining us?”

“Even cops have to eat. I’ll buy as you obviously don’t have any money.”

Forty minutes of moaning and eating later, during which time John and Des slagged off every politician in Stormont’s Assembly as useless, something Craig had no problem agreeing with, they’d identified cuts that wouldn’t impact on the lab’s front line services but included no coffee and limited toilet roll for the coming year.

“I’ll bulk buy toilet roll if you get the coffee.”

“Deal.”

Craig chipped in with a year’s supply of decent biscuits and they had Northern Ireland’s budget crisis solved. He wondered aloud how much Parliament Buildings spent on refreshments for MLAs and the moaning started again. By four o’clock they were ready to head back and John was sufficiently mollified to ask what Craig had come to see them about.

“It can wait till we get to the lab.”

“And I make the last coffee the government will ever pay for.”

Ten minutes later they were in his office and Craig was outlining why he’d come. He turned to Des first.

“Anything more on the print you found?”

Des brushed some crumbs off his beard and shook his head. “It’s not on any database that Davy or I can find.”

As he squinted down, searching for more errant food, Craig was tempted to ask why, if his facial hair caused him such problems, he didn’t just shave it off. He’d done it before and it had made him look years younger. He’d grown a beard once but Lucia had said it’d made him look deranged.

Des returned to his point. “I found a second print on one of the other victim’s cling-film. Both were right thumbs.” He raised a hand, pre-empting Craig’s request. “It’s been with Davy since this morning.”

Craig sat forward eagerly. “So a different owner.”

“Definitely. I can confirm that you have at least two killers and by the size of the prints both of them were men.”

It was something.

Craig tested the theory. “Couldn’t one be a woman with large hands?”

Des shook his head as John topped up their cups. “Most times I’d say that was possible, but this time no way.” He held up his hand. “I take a size eleven glove and one of the prints I found was bigger than any of mine; the other was as large.” He took a gulp of coffee. “You definitely have two men, both big.”

It gave credence to their victims being carried to the scenes. Craig turned to John, readying to ask a different question when Des spoke again.

“Don’t you want to know what else I found?”

Craig nodded him on.

“Your three victims’ stomach contents had an identical chemical composition, and before you ask, no I can’t say what it was yet, but it was fully digested which means they’d all eaten around three to four hours before death. Any longer than that and it would have passed into the small intestine.”

Craig said nothing; his mind was busy racing with possibilities. John voiced his as quickly as they came.

“Part of some sort of ritual? Maybe it was poison or sedation?”

Des shook his head. “There was no sign of poisons or sedatives in their systems; in fact, the only one with any chemicals on board was the girl.” He thought for a moment before adding. “As far as a ritual goes, I suppose with the tattooing that’s always a possibility, but not one that wears a forensic tag so you’ll have to chase it up yourself. Oh, by the way, your tattoo ink was just the usual stuff, nothing special to identify where it was purchased from. Sorry.”

John looked disappointed but Craig wasn’t. He’d learned something from his visit and with any luck the stomach contents would tell them more.

“Send me the chemical composition of the stomach contents, please.”

John asked first. “You have an idea?”

“I have a couple at the moment. In fact I wanted to ask you about the second one. Have you had any other drownings recently? Young people in particular.”

John frowned; the question rang a bell.

“There was one about a month ago but it wasn’t like your case. A teenage girl was found in the Quoile, washed up near the yacht club.”

Craig’s eyes widened. It had been a long shot and it might turn out to be nothing, but…

John was still talking. “But she had none of the markers you’re looking for. No tattoo, no cling-film and the water in her lungs was river water––”

Craig cut in. “Do you know where from in the Quoile, exactly?”

John shook his head. “Sorry, it wasn’t examined. There was no need. The algae was clearly visible and she was found washed up on the river bank, so––”

“Everyone assumed that she’d just fallen into the river nearby and drowned.”

John’s jaw dropped. “And you think––”

“I think that if you still have her lung and stomach contents Des should examine them and tell me what you find.”

****

As Liam and Andy drove towards the Demesne Estate Liam wondered idly about the collective term for D.C.I.s. Two of them were probably just a pair, but what about three or four? A Badge? A Baton? As he thought of appropriate collective nouns Andy’s thoughts were on something far more basic; women, or rather his lack of one. Anyone reading their minds would have been shocked to learn that Liam was no longer the least PC member of Craig’s team.

Andy’s last relationship had ended a year before and he was afraid that if he didn’t date someone soon he might lose his touch. He’d just concluded that such an idea was preposterous when Liam indicated left, taking them away from Sarah Beech’s home. Andy stuck his pointed finger under Liam’s nose, risking a nasty death.

“The Beech’s flat’s that way.”

Liam shoved his hand away without answering, his rationale becoming clear a moment later when they pulled up outside the brick building that housed the branch police station on the estate. It said everything about the Demesne Estate that it needed one.

Reggie Boyd had already been briefed on the case but Liam wanted to discuss Sam Beech with him in person. They were heading inside just as the uniformed figure of Sergeant Reginald Boyd appeared at the front door. The plus sized men greeted each other with a respect born of years on the job.

“Well hello, Dumbo. To what do I owe this honour?”

Liam guffawed. “Came to see the shambles you’re making of the place.”

The exchange was accompanied by slapped backs and offers of tea, while Andy trailed in their wake like a small child. Five minutes later, with the niceties over, Reggie cut to the chase.

“You want to know about Sarah Beech and the boy.” He produced a file an inch thick. “It’ll take a while.”

Liam’s eyes widened. “That’s all hers?”

“Hers, her men’s and the boy’s. Just your typical Demesne extended family.” He flicked open the file but it was clear the action was unnecessary; he knew its contents by heart.

“Sarah, known as Sadie, Beech. First encounter with us was when she was fifteen, for shoplifting. She moved on to petty theft, credit card scams and then graduated to benefit fraud in ninety-six. She did ten months in Wharf House and she’s been clean ever since. However…” He turned to a section marked in blue. “When it comes to her choice of boyfriends, there’s nothing clean about it. She’s dated most of the scumbags on the estate and a few from further afield.”

Liam interrupted. “Who’s the boy’s father?”

Reggie shrugged. “Your guess is probably as good as hers. It says father unknown on the certificate.”

Andy interjected. “Great start in life.”

“Quite. Anyway, our Sadie comes across as sugar and spice when you meet her, but her choice of companions tells a very different tale. Addicts, thieves, one banged up for GBH––”

Liam interrupted. “Who was the one forced to leave the home?”

Reggie nodded; less in acknowledgement than in an impersonation of a hangman.

“Jim Upton. A class A scrote. One of those ones who make you want to scrub yourself after you meet.”

“Did he hit the boy?”

“Probably. And more besides. It had to have been bad for Sadie to chuck him out. We couldn’t prove anything but the word was he abused the kid, and I don’t mean with the odd slap.”

Andy nodded. “A nonce.”

“That’s one word for it. Pervert’s the one I’d use.”

Liam cut in. “Where’s Upton now?”

Reggie gulped down a mouthful of tea.

“Don’t know and I don’t care. Every district has his description and if he rears his ugly mug he’ll get lifted for questioning. The real problem is what he left behind.”

“She went off the rails?”

Boyd snorted in derision. “Sadie’s been off the rails since she could walk. I was talking about the boy.”

“OK. How?”

“He was a good lad before Upton, then he started bullying kids at the youth club.” And at school. “Always the younger ones. Boys. He didn’t seem interested in the girls.”

The hairs on Liam’s neck stood up. Andy asked a question.

“You think it was anger; lashing out for what Upton did to him?”

Reggie shook his head. “That’s what we told ourselves and the mum.” He paused, restarting hesitantly. “Then…”

Liam knew the reasons for his reticence. He pitied the boy, yes, but it was tempered with disgust. He finished the sentence before Boyd could.

“You’re talking about sexual abuse. You’re saying that Sam interfered with the younger boys.”

Interfered with; a delicate euphemism to sooth the mind. No onomatopoeia there. Oblique enough so that the casual listener could say they’d been mistaken in what they’d heard, and polite enough so that no-one could be offended by the words. God forbid that anyone should be offended. God forbid that they should face the truth; that a sixteen-year-old boy had forced sex on younger ones in the same way it had been forced on him. Reggie nodded.

Liam whistled. It wasn’t a cheerful sound. “You’re sure?”

The sergeant’s face said that he almost was. “I spoke to him once at home but got nothing. We were just about to lift him for official questioning when he disappeared. We’d had suspicions for a while then one of the younger boys’ dads made a complaint.”

Liam was thoughtful. “What are the odds? I mean how many abused kids go on to abuse, and so young?”

To his surprise Andy had the answer. “Some studies estimate ten per cent go on to abuse children when they grow up, and abused kids are nine times more likely to get involved in crime generally. But none of it’s inevitable; violence and neglect make things worse, counselling can make them better.”

The others stared at him, impressed. It answered the question of how he’d made D.C.I. when even sitting upright seemed like too much work.

Liam’s deep voice deepened further. “Kids abusing kids. It’s the last taboo.”

Reggie shook his head. “I’m sure there are a few more we haven’t thought of yet.”

“Tell us about the father who complained. Any chance he took the law into his own hands?”

“Kidnapped and killed Sam, you mean? I doubt it. He’s a Deacon at the local Baptist church.”

Liam snorted, lightening the mood. “I could tell you about a few clergymen who’ve gone off the rails.” He thought back to Paul Ripley, a church leader involved in a trafficking ring that they’d cracked two years before.

Reggie nodded. “Aye, well, I don’t think this one did but you can never tell.”

A religious man would fit their suspect list. Liam made a note to raise it with Craig and then stood up.

“Does Sadie know your suspicions about the boy?”

“No, we never got that far. Although she may have had fingers pointed at her around the estate. They’re not backward in coming forward around here.”

“OK, we’ll pay her a call. Meanwhile text me the Deacon’s address and let’s see what he has to say.”

****

The Relatives’ Room. Docklands.

“Do you want me to come with you, to tell your parents?”

T.J. and Jake were back where they’d been the day before; in the relatives’ room on Docklands’ second floor. They’d got as far as Dunmurry Lane the previous evening when T.J. had chickened out of telling his folks, instead begging Jake to take him to his flat so that he could get some rest before telling them later that night. Jake had been sceptical of him ever doing it, at least not without some sort of upper on board, but he’d been powerless to force him. T.J. had already I.D.ed his brother; it would have been excessive to involve another relative when Bobby had been eighteen.

He’d been right to be sceptical and less than surprised when T.J. had pitched up at the C.C.U. that day, still wearing the same clothes as the day before. He looked like he’d been up all night, in all senses of the word. But lecturing him would have achieved nothing, so instead Jake offered him coffee and a trip to his folks again, ambivalent about his reply. Part of him was hoping that the young man would say no or go with his liaison officer; he wanted to nip home and check on his gran. Another part was frustrated; something that T.J. had said the day before was niggling him but he couldn’t work out what.

They’d been talking since T.J. had arrived twenty minutes earlier and Jake still didn’t know much more about Bobby McDonagh’s last weeks than he had after his I.D. A teenager confused about his sexuality, who’d acted out by creating trouble before he’d finally accepted that he was gay two years before.

But Bobby’s bad behaviour had been a thing of the past; once he’d come out he’d settled down to work for his A-Levels and was heading to university in the coming year. He’d obviously had some sexual encounters, the post-mortem attested to that, but they’d been a while ago. There was no steady boyfriend and he hadn’t been cruising the local scene; T.J. had made sure of that. All Bobby McDonagh appeared to have done in the past two years was study and help his dad in their garage. He seemed just like any other kid on a gap year, excited about going travelling; so what, if anything, about his current lifestyle had put him at particular risk?

T.J. answered the question with a shake of his head, following it with a sniffed reply.

“As far as I know, nothing. He was just planning his trip to Spain.”

He hadn’t cried so far that day but the thought of telling his parents their younger son was dead suddenly proved too much and tears began streaming down his face.

“I don’t know how to tell them. It will kill my mum. I just hope our Karen can be there when I do. I called her just before I came here.”

“Is she younger or older than you?”

“Older. She’s thirty and more sensible than Bobby and me ever were. She’s a teacher.”

Jake nodded mutely, knowing that any comment would be redundant. It wasn’t the time to discuss the education system.

After another few minutes’ empty conversation he led the way down to reception. As they waited for the liaison officer to take T.J. to his parents, Jake had a sudden thought. He sat on the banquette beside the still sniffing youth.

“T.J., was Bobby still seeing anyone at social services?”

The answer was a shake of the head. Jake’s heart sank slightly; it had been a long shot and he wasn’t even sure what he’d been shooting for, but still… He perked up when T.J.’s expression changed to say he was about to add a caveat.

“Not social services, but he’d been seeing a counsellor for two years. It was someone the social referred him to.”

Jake tried to hide his excitement, partly because it was unseemly and partly because he didn’t quite know what he was excited about; it just felt like a thread that should be pulled.

“Do you have a name?”

“No, but I might be able to get it from mum. If I do I’ll call you later.” He snorted suddenly. “Mind you, what they could tell you is anyone’s guess. Bobby only told people what he wanted them to hear.”

The car arrived, ending their conversation and taking T.J. McDonagh to a place that he really didn’t want to go.

****

4 p.m.

As Craig was scrutinising the report Des had sent through his desk phone rang. It was Katy. He was surprised; she rarely rang him at work and when she did it was always on his mobile.

“Hello, pet. Is something wrong?”

His tone was concerned; hers was briskly professional.

“Hi, Marc. I was thinking about your case and I might know someone who could help. That’s why I’ve phoned you at work. Because…” She giggled, proving that her professional approach was only a veneer. “…it’s official police business.”

He was torn between smiling at her playfulness and panicking that she’d shared details of the case. The words were out before he could stop them.

“You didn’t––”

Her response was indignant. “No, I did not! You know me better than that. I’m calling about someone I met at work; a psychiatrist. She’s worked on some high profile criminal cases and I thought she might be able to help.”

He could have kicked himself; he knew she would never give anyone details of a case. He grovelled furiously as her annoyance turned to hurt.

“I didn’t mean that you would share details. I know you would never do that.”

Silence. He wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad sign so he ploughed on, digging himself a deeper trench.

“It’s kind of you, and I may take you up on it, but we’re not quite at that stage. Maybe if you could give me your friend’s name.”

Wrong move.

“So that you can get her checked out! Forget it. She’s a respected psychiatrist; I’m not having you running her through your criminal checks!”

Craig could feel a slammed down phone in his near future so he searched for some mollifying words. “You’re right.” Always a safe bet. “Look, why don’t we discuss it tonight? Dinner at Hadskis?”

It was her new favourite restaurant and he crossed his fingers that it would be enough. Her next words reminded him why he loved her. She rarely lost her temper and when she did it was over in a flash, then she felt so bad about shouting that she worried he was hurt.

“I’m sorry, pet, I overreacted. Of course you must check her out. Her name’s Sofia Emiliani and she’s seconded to St Mary’s psych unit for six months, from the Maudsley in London. I think she’ll come and find you; she asked me where you worked.” She paused and her next words held a promise. “Let’s not go out tonight. Let’s have dinner at my place.”

He wasn’t about to argue.

“Sounds great. I’ll see you at eight?”

They signed off happily; blissfully ignorant of the can of worms Katy had just opened in both of their lives.

****

5 p.m.

“OK everyone, gather round. We’ve a lot to get through and I don’t want to be here all night.”

Liam nudged Andy’s elbow, splashing his coffee across Carmen’s chair. Luckily it was empty or there’d have been hell to pay.

“Aye, aye. The boss has a romantic evening planned.”

Craig raised an eyebrow.

“Thanks for making it everyone’s business, Liam. OK, I know you’ve all been busy, but I’m going to start. I’ve just had some information from the lab. First, the print that Doctor Marsham found. In fact there were two different prints, found on the outer sheets of cling-film. The sizing says that they both belong to men.” Liam went to interrupt but Craig cut him off. “Before you ask, they’re definitely from different men, unless our perp has two right thumbs.

Liam’s mouth snapped shut and his brain went into gear. “Two men could have carried the bodies easily without leaving footprints on the mud.”

“They could. OK, Des and Davy are running the prints now and we’ll hear if they get any hits, but that’s not all Des found. It seems that our three victims had identical stomach contents, ingested three to four hours before death––”

Jake cut in. “Some sort of ritual?”

Craig nodded. “That was my thought. We don’t yet know what the food was; hopefully when we do it will tell us more.” He turned towards Davy. He was scratching again. “I’m sure you can get a cream for that.”

Davy grinned impishly. “Why? Is it bothering you, Chief?”

Craig didn’t rise to the bait. If Davy wanted him to ask why he was scratching he’d be waiting for a very long time.

“Did you get anything on the checks I asked for?”

The analyst kept itching with one hand and tapped his smart-pad with the other. “A lot. It’s coming up on Nicky’s screen now.”

They formed a semicircle around Nicky’s desk, knowing that she would be moaning about the interruption if she were there. A list of five names appeared. Craig gasped.

“All of these fit the parameters I gave you?”

It should have been a statement, because as a question it was a waste of breath; Davy always did his job. He crossed to the screen and lifted a laser pointer, running it down the list as he spoke.

“All five were under twenty-five years old and all were found drowned near Downpatrick in the past s…six months. The most recent was a girl a month ago…”

Craig finished the sentence. “A teenage girl who fell into the River Quoile. Her body washed up near the yacht club, close to the coast.”

Davy nodded. “She had none of the markers of our case. No tattoo, no cling-film and the w…water in her lungs was––”

Liam interjected. “From the river, so everyone assumed that she’d fallen in and drowned?”

Davy nodded. “One of the five drowned while out sailing with his brother––”

Craig shook his head. “Accident. We can rule him out. ”

“Another walked into the sea near Kilclief.”

“Suicide. We can rule them out as well.”

As the others watched, puzzled, Davy erased the two names. It left them with three: two males and one female. Ken was the first to comment.

“Five seems a lot of young drownings in six months.”

Jake shook his head. “We’re an island race so drowning is fairly common. If you raised the age limit you’d get the fishing deaths as well.”

Craig returned to his seat and the others followed. “OK, I have a hunch, but that’s all it is––”

Liam whispered deliberately loudly. “He’s batting ten for ten at the moment.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence but listen before you say yes. OK, my hunch says that if Elena Boraks was the first murder they committed then it was far too slick, so they must have had practice runs that weren’t so smooth and they might tell us something. They may have been careless and left something behind.”

Liam gestured at the board. “These three were the practice?”

“Some of them, perhaps. I’ve asked John to see if the lung and stomach contents of the last girl were saved and if they were to get Des to examine them.” He turned to Davy. “Davy, do the same with the males. I don’t want to waste much time on this. If it gives us something, great, but till then we work the case as usual. OK, let’s go round. Jake, tell me about Bobby McDonagh.”

As Jake ran through their second victim’s early years Craig poured himself a fresh drink, tuning back in on the word ‘trouble’.

“What sort of trouble?”

“He acted out for a while: shoplifting, drinking, the usual stuff. He was referred to a social worker and eventually realised he was gay. Once that happened everything settled down. By all accounts he’d been a normal kid for the past two years, just helping in his dad’s garage and studying for A-Levels. He’d applied to Uni to do Spanish and French, and T.J. said he was getting ready to go on a trip to Spain when he last saw him at the beginning of March.”

His tone said that there was something more.

“And?”

“And it turns out he’d been seeing a social work counsellor for the past two years. T.J.’s phoned me with the name.”

“Good. Let me know what you find out.” He turned to see Ken doodling Carmen’s name. He didn’t know whether to roll his eyes or be glad no-one else seemed to have noticed. Glad won. “Ken, what else did you find out about Elena Boraks?”

The romantic straightened up quickly.

“Well, her father seems to have had no idea what she really did for a living.” He made a face. “Or he didn’t want to know.”

“What about the old abuse scars?”

“It seems that her dear dead mother was responsible for those. She resented Elena’s birth for stopping her having a career as a dancer.” He shook his head. “And as the dad didn’t know Elena was a prostitute he can’t really help us with where she worked.”

Craig tossed up whether to comment on something that had been bothering him or let it pass for the sake of peace. His sense of right won. “OK, good, but can we all stop referring to the girl as a prostitute, hooker or street walker, please; the correct term is sex worker.” He scanned the row of faces. “That goes for everyone, including me. I’ve been as guilty as the rest of you.” He moved on before anyone could comment. “Liam and Andy?”

Liam began reporting, drawling in a perfect imitation of Reggie Boyd.

“Aye well, we paid the bold Reggie a visit and he gave us the story on Sarah, or should I say, Sadie Beech. It seems she’s quite a girl and has been since she was a kid; theft, fraud, all the usual ladylike skills. They earned her a stretch in Wharf House in ninety-six.”

“And since?”

“Good as gold except for her taste in men.”

Andy interjected, making even Liam blush. “She puts it about a bit, or a lot is nearer the mark. Sleeps with every man who doesn’t run too fast and most of them Class A scum. Though God knows how she gets them; I’ve seen her photo and she’s no oil painting.”

Craig thanked his lucky stars there were no women in the room to object, especially Carmen. But before he could tell Andy to tone it down, Jake did it for him.

“And I suppose you’re Tom Cruise?”

Craig stifled a smile but he knew he had to act. He couldn’t reprimand Carmen for the way she’d talked about relatives and not do the same for a D.C.I., so he did something he rarely did but it was what the group needed. He shouted across the room, jerking everyone to high alert. Even Andy was roused, demonstrated by the fact that he finally sat up straight.

“D.C.I. Angel, see me in my office after the briefing. The rest of you, I’ve had enough of this crap!” He glared at each of them in turn. “It’s probably my fault for being too easy-going, but there have been things said in the past few days that verge on the unprofessional and enough is enough! Three young people are dead and they all have grieving families. We have a job to do and I refuse to waste my time correcting officers’ behaviour every five minutes as if you were teenagers at school. I like a joke the same as the next person but this is getting ridiculous.” His warm baritone turned ominously cold. “Take this as a verbal warning, all of you, and the next person who makes a comment that I feel is unprofessional in any way will be given an official written one. Andy, apologise to everyone for those comments about a bereaved relative. NOW!”

Liam was impressed. Craig’s voice was normally soft, made softer by his mixed accent, but it had taken on the force of a tannoy, and for once he wasn’t the only one being told off. The group froze, awaiting Andy’s response. One second later he proved he hadn’t the sense God gave him and began arguing with Craig.

“But that’s what Reggie said.”

Liam snorted. He didn’t want to land a fellow PC violator even deeper in it, but he had to tell the truth. “Not in those words he didn’t.”

Craig’s next words held real menace. “It isn’t so much the fact that you said someone tended towards promiscuity, but your language. Although how Ms Beech’s social life is your business is beyond me! If you can’t see the problem here then we’ve a lot to talk about.” He turned sharply towards Liam, effectively erasing Andy from the group. Liam knew his cue.

“Aye well, Reggie said she wasn’t a good picker of men. They all seemed to be bad lots. The one who was asked to leave the home was called Jim Upton. Reggie’s got his details out everywhere but he’s done a bunk. After he left Sam started bullying the younger boys in the youth club, and possibly doing more than bullying. One of the kids’ dads was just about to complain when Sam disappeared.”

“Any sign he could be involved?”

Liam shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s unlikely. He’s a church Deacon; pillar of the community sort. I’m chasing it up.”

As the atmosphere thawed slightly Jake interjected. “Sam was known to social services, so were Bobby McDonagh and Elena Boraks. Could there be a link there?”

Craig nodded. “Good call. It’s worth looking into, although I suspect if you threw a stone in some parts of Belfast anyone you hit would be known to them. Liam, follow up the social services’ links, as well as looking into the Deacon. Take whoever you need. Ken and Davy, check out James Upton. Davy, chase the details on the three drowning victims and the prints and stomach contents with Des. When you’ve got the information on the drownings let me have it immediately, please.”

He glanced at the wall clock; it was almost six. “OK, as Liam surmised, I’m going to attempt to have a life this evening, I hope the rest of you will do the same.” He stood up and turned towards his office. “D.C.I. Angel, follow me. The rest of you, please leave.”

Everyone wanted to hear Andy getting reamed but when Liam heard the ice in Craig’s order he cleared the floor. It was all fine and dandy getting called out by your boss, but it didn’t do to let your subordinates hear. What happened in fight club stayed in fight club, especially when that fight club involved senior officers who needed credibility with the lower ranks.

He made certain everyone was in the lift then he returned and hid in Annette’s cubicle, just in time for Craig’s finale.

“I am NOT discriminating against you as a man; I had a similar talk with a female member of staff less than twenty-four hours ago.”

Liam’s ears pricked up. Which one was it: Nicky, Carmen or Annette? The question answered itself and explained Carmen’s absence from the briefing.

Andy made an abortive rebuttal but Craig squashed it with a ‘be quiet’. Liam smiled. He had to admire Andy’s guts answering the boss back, but not knowing when to shut up was probably the reason for his failed marriages. As Liam listened Craig’s office finally fell quiet, then the door was flung open and Andy stormed across the floor at a pace he probably hadn’t achieved since he was a kid, narrowly missing Liam hunkering in his hiding place.

As the lift door closed Craig gave a sigh so loud that it was probably heard on the ground floor. His next words surprised Liam.

“You can come out now, Liam. I’ve got the coffee on.”

Liam didn’t know whether to stay hidden to prove him wrong, but that could mean him crouching down for hours and he had a bad back, or saunter nonchalantly across the floor as if he hadn’t been hiding at all. He settled on the latter and took a seat in Craig’s office. If he’d expected confiding camaraderie then he’d got it wrong. Craig turned on him accusingly.

“This is your fault.”

The D.C.I. gawped. “Mine? How the heck––”

“You should have warned Andy about my exchanges with Carmen, never mind given him the benefit of your last equality course.”

He was half-smiling and Liam knew the moment of danger had passed. Craig’s temper wasn’t pretty but it only blew a few times a year and it was never physical. Well, not with people; there was always John’s plate glass. If he’d known about Craig’s near conviction for assault when he was seventeen he might have changed his mind, but that was a secret only Annette and Craig’s family held.

He shot Craig his offended innocent look.

“Andy’s a law unto himself and he has a hell of a mouth on him. Not even I would have said what he did.” He shook his head and whistled.

“That had better not be an admiring whistle.” The whistling stopped. “And you would have said it a few years ago, so don’t go pretending that you’re some sort of saint.” Craig’s face turned grim again. “I’m sending him on an equality course, but talk to him, Liam. If he does that again he could be out of the force. The same goes for hitting on female officers the way he does. I’ve told him it has to stop…” His face suddenly cracked into a smile “…can’t you find him a girlfriend?”

Liam shook his head swiftly. “Oh, no, you’re not landing me with that. The only women I know are Danni’s friends and if I introduced him to one of them and it went wrong I’d be hearing about it till I died.” He grinned. “Katy or Natalie might know someone who could be his match.”

It was a joke, but they didn’t know what surprises the future held.

Chapter Eleven

Moira, County Antrim. Sunday 29th March, 6 a.m.

The men watched as the rust haired teenager strolled erratically down the empty morning street. They knew where he was heading and it wasn’t to early mass; more importantly they knew where he’d been the night before. As their eyes followed him dispassionately, the boy paused outside an open shop and, with a difficulty bordering on farcical, withdrew some coins from his pocket before pushing open the door.

He could have been any youngster on a Sunday morning, hung over and doing the walk of shame, except that he wasn’t and no level of shame would compensate for the things that he had done.

As the youth re-emerged with his bag of basics and staggered five minutes down the road, he passed a layby where he was dragged, yelling, into a tinted windowed SUV. The driver made a call and then drove swiftly towards the motorway, before any neighbours could be woken by the screaming and the forces of law and order could arrive.

****

9 a.m.

Liam was feeling sorry for Andy. He also reckoned that Jake would be a good influence so he invited them both to join him on his next two trips. They needn’t have bothered with the first; Social Services were on a go slow on Sundays, with only an on-call staff available and none of them inclined to help the police by opening their archives on a day of rest. Sadie Beech on the other hand was surprisingly awake, but then grief had a nasty habit of robbing you of your sleep.

With a warning to keep his mouth shut hanging over Andy like a neon sign, Liam nodded Jake to start the questions, while he stared at the pallid mug of tea Sadie had given him and wondered if it would be cheeky to ask for a biscuit as well. He was wondering something else too; why Jake looked as badly rested as their interviewee.

“Ms Beech, we’d like to ask you some questions about a Mr James Upton, your ex-partner.”

Sadie snorted in an inelegant way and took a drag of her cigarette, looking far less sweet than the woman that Liam had met three days before.

“That bastard. What about him?”

“Could you tell us how you met?”

She shrugged as if it should be obvious; after all this wasn’t Pride and Prejudice, with introductions made over afternoon tea; it was UK 2015. Where did most modern couples meet? In a pub, a club or through friends. Jake took one look at the empty cans on the table and plumped for the first.

“The local bar?”

“Aye. The Red Horse. I go down there most nights.”

Liam saw Andy’s mouth open and he shut it again with a glance.

“And when did you start seeing each other?”

More Pride and Prejudice terminology, although ‘walking out’ was probably more correct in Jane Austen’s time.

She sniffed. “Brought him home with me that night and he never left.” She lit a fresh cigarette from her butt. “Well, not till I ditched him.”

“When would that have been?”

She surprised everyone with her next words. “It would have been three weeks after we met except I needed his money, so he only got the boot when he messed up my Sam.”

Jake glanced at Liam for permission to ask the million dollar question and he nodded him on. It was restful having someone else do the interviewing, especially when it was someone polite like Jake.

Jake leaned forward, closing the space between the bereaved mother and him, then he asked the price tagged question in a soft voice.

“How did he mess Sam up, Ms Beech?”

Sadie shifted in her chair uncomfortably, scanning the room for somewhere to gaze before settling on out the window as her best choice. She answered without looking at them, as if the reply was embarrassing or shameful. Jake wasn’t sure if it was shame at her failure to protect her son, or shame at the events that had subsequently occurred.

“He went into Sam’s room.”

“When Sam was there?”

It was a statement and question all in one.

She nodded. “At night.” She turned to the others with a frantic look. “I didn’t know. I was asleep.”

Jake nodded soothingly. The action said: I understand; you’re not a bad person; it could have happened to anyone. But his mind was saying, could it? Really?

Sadie was still talking, more quickly now, her words tumbling out and over each other like a drowning person scrambling for the shore.

“You understand, don’t you? I didn’t know and Sam never said. He should’ve told me.”

“Yes, he should.”

So why hadn’t he? Fear of disbelief? The knowledge that they’d needed Upton’s money? Because he was a terrified child? All or some of those; they would probably never know.

“When and how did you find out?”

The bereaved mother shook her head and a tear rolled down her cheek. All of them felt sorry for her. To lose your only child didn’t bear thinking about, especially if you blamed yourself.

“I…I got up to go to the toilet one night. I never usually did but…” She looked embarrassed. “…we’d had a lot to drink.” She glanced at the clock as if it would show the time that she’d awoken. “I woke around four and Jim wasn’t there. I thought maybe he’d be in the living room, having a cig like, so I checked.” She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. “He wasn’t here. It’s a small place, so I knew straight away where he was.” Her eyes flew open and she gazed at Jake pleadingly. “I swear I didn’t know, not till then. I’d never have let him stay if I’d…”

As the others watched, Jake took her free hand and held it firmly in his own. “No-one’s suggesting that you knew.”

The words were like water dowsing a fire. The panic left her eyes instantly, to be replaced by a dull pain.

“I went to Sammy’s bedroom and opened the door…”

She shook her head violently in disgust, picturing the image. They all were. A grown man and a teenage boy, taken against his will.

Jake finished the sentence. “Upton was in bed with Sam. Is that right?”

She nodded.

“And that’s when you threw him out?”

Another nod, less firm this time.

“What happened next? How was Sam?”

Sadie Beech shook her dry, bleached hair and tightened her lips as if afraid to answer. Her gaze skittered across the worn carpet, back and forth, from corner to corner, joined by her rocking rhythmically as it did. Rocking and sucking her cigarette down to a butt, only stilling to light another one before she resumed.

Finally Liam glanced at Jake and nodded him to come outside. He glared at Andy with a different message; not to say a word while they were gone. As they stood on the grey stone balcony gazing at the courtyard below, Jake turned to Liam with a question.

“I don’t understand. She was giving us clear answers and then suddenly nothing. Why did she stop so abruptly?”

Liam shook his head. “Think, lad, and tell me what you saw.”

The sergeant furrowed his brow, re-running the conversation from five minutes before. “She’d just told us that she’d found Upton in Sam’s bed.”

“Aye. And how did she look?”

“Guilty. Like she thought we’d hate her.”

“Good. Then what?”

Nothing clicked in Jake’s brain. “Then I asked if she’d thrown him out of the flat and she nodded again.”

Liam raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“You mean that she hesitated?”

“I mean she nodded, but it was weak. Like it was the answer that she thought you wanted to hear. What she should have done.”

Jake’s jaw dropped. “You mean she found Upton in bed with her kid and she didn’t throw him out?”

Liam’s nod was followed by an admission. “It was only when Sadie answered you that I remembered. Annette said something about Sam being taken away from her and put in care. They only let him home when Sadie finally cut all ties with Upton. Six months later.”

Jake’s jaw fell further.

“My guess is that when she found him in Sam’s room that night she gave him hell but she let him stay, on a promise that he wouldn’t touch the boy again, which of course he did. She probably convinced herself Upton had just got into the wrong bed ’cos he was drunk.”

The men fell silent for a moment, watching kids playing in the courtyard as they thought. Finally Liam restarted.

“You can call her on it but we’ll get nothing more today; she’ll just clam up. Or you can restart the interview as if you believe her version.”

Jake bit his lip. “That’s your suggestion.”

“That’s my suggestion. Take it from the point of her throwing Upton out and ignore the six months vacillation in between.”

A minute more spent watching the children and Jake nodded, pushing open the front door to re-enter the chilly room. To their surprise Andy was carrying a tray of fresh tea to the table and Sadie Beech looked happier than when they’d left. Maybe the un-PC detective was redeemable after all.

They retook their seats and drank for a moment then Liam shot Jake a glance. He set down his cup and smiled weakly at their interviewee.

“Do you feel up to carrying on, Ms Beech?”

A flicker of fear crossed the bereaved mother’s eyes; it disappeared when Andy smiled and gave her a nod. She lit a fresh cigarette and motioned Jake to restart.

“Thank you. OK, so you threw Mr Upton out. How did Sam react after he’d gone?”

Sadie relaxed visibly, relieved that Jake had accepted her version of events.

“He said nothing, he didn’t even cry. It was only when the social got involved he admitted it’d been going on for months.”

Months when you allowed Upton continued access to your child.

She stubbed the cigarette hard against the table and clenched her fist as if Upton’s jaw was close enough to punch. “Bloody pervert. Bloody paedo.”

She wouldn’t get an argument from them.

“I called the police and that big cop Boyd was on. He’s all right, him. He tried talking to Sam, but he wouldn’t say nothing, so they went after Upton and the social took Sam to hospital.” Her expression shifted from fury to hurt. “They looked at me like I knew. How could I know? Sam never told me, he never said.”

History had been reinvented in her mind.

She started to cry again. “They took him away from me. Put him in bloody foster care.” She shook her small head. “It made him worse.”

Jake glanced towards the kitchen and Liam took the cue to remove the tray, taking Andy with him. He was grateful for the opportunity to dump the tar that he’d just drunk. Why could no-one make a decent cuppa nowadays? When they returned Jake was still talking and Sadie was wearing a faint smile.

“So Sam liked his social worker, what was their name?”

Sadie’s smile widened. “Louise McIntyre. Nice wee girl. Didn’t look much older than Sam. She works in an office on the Holywood Road.” She shook her head. “She did her best but our Sam was never the same. Started picking on the younger kids. Beating them up.”

By the sound of it that wasn’t all he’d done. Jake’s heart sank. Sam had had a female social worker and the bodies had to have been dumped by men; he felt them heading for a dead end.

“We’ll see Ms McIntyre tomorrow.”

“Say hello for me. She’s not to blame for what happened.” Her top lip curled. “Your lot never caught that pervert.”

She glared at Liam as if he was responsible for the failure of all police. He reassured her.

“There’s a warrant out for Mr Upton’s arrest and every district is looking for him. If he’s still in Ireland he’ll be found.”

Sadie gave an unexpected smile and disappeared into the bedroom, returning a moment later with a passport in her hand. It was Jim Upton’s.

“He left it here. He’ll not get far without it.” She handed it to Jake. “Here, you take it. Maybe it’ll help.”

Jake wrapped things up as Liam glanced pointedly at the clock. “We’ll speak to Ms McIntyre and keep you up to date. It’s early days but we’ve got a lot of leads.”

Before she could ask what leads they were at the door. Jake saw the unmistakable stain of loneliness fill her eyes and he knew that Budweiser would be her companion for another night.

****

12 p.m.

Craig clicked off his mobile and rested back in the driver’s seat, thinking. Davy had called through with details of the drownings, but none except the girl in the Quoile could prove any sort of match. If she had been a rehearsal killing then it had obviously only taken the killers one. He shook his head. There was a shape emerging to the case, but what did it mean?

Four teenagers unexpectedly dead from drowning, three of them murdered and definitely troubled, enough to be known to the authorities. Three left on dry land with fresh water in their lungs and identical contents in their stomach, ingested long enough before death to have broken down. Perhaps the river girl’s stomach contents would match. Either way the contents would tell them something, he was sure of that.

What else did they have? Bodies that bore some symbol of their lifestyle. A Heroin addict who’d been given a massive O.D. after death: a gay youth who’d been left with a symbol of medieval torture. And what about Sam Beech; what had been his crime? Bullying younger kids, or worse? And why had no sign of it been left after his death?

Then there was the tattooing and the washing of the bodies with bleach, before leaving them at remote sites. It smacked of ritual, but what ritual and what did it mean? Was it as simple as someone judging their victims and then executing them for their supposed guilt? If it was then who had set themselves up as judge and executioner?

He shook his head in frustration; angry at not being able to answer his own questions and fearful that Sam Beech’s death wouldn’t be the last. When he thought he’d berated himself for long enough he turned over the engine and headed for the lab.

The sight that greeted him on entering John’s office was almost unseemly. John was hunched over his computer wearing a maniacal grin and Des was holding a mug in the air like he was toasting something or someone. Craig heard enough to realise it was someone; himself.

“Am I a smart bastard or what?”

John concurred. “You’re a smart bastard.” He sat back in his chair and shook his head. “How the hell did you work it out? Of all the things that it could have been?”

Des stared into space as if he was stunned by his own genius then he shrugged and said “It was red. There’s not that much red food around.”

Neither man had noticed Craig in the doorway so when he spoke they jumped.

“Tell me that you’ve identified the stomach contents.”

John beckoned him in. “Just wait till you hear this. You’ll be impressed.”

Craig took a seat and nodded hopefully at an empty mug. Des took the hint and filled it and then drew breath to speak. He was too slow. John couldn’t wait.

“Des identified red wine and flour. Well actually he––”

The volume of Des’ interruption surprised them. “Just once! Just once I’d like to report my own bloody findings. Is that too much to ask?”

For ‘report’ read ‘get credit for’ but they knew what he meant. John’s mouth snapped shut and he looked contrite. Craig prevented a row by saying, “Carry on, Des.”

Des’ squint said that he was searching for sarcasm, when he found none he sat down beside Craig and started again.

“I pulled the stomach contents of all three victims and noticed that in one of them in particular, Sam Beech’s, there was a red tinge. It was faint but it was there. Digested food in the stomach is called Chyme; it has a greyish colour regardless of what it is, so at first I thought that it was blood contamination, but it tested negative. So then I thought, OK, if it’s still red it’s obviously food that’s only been partially digested so I pipetted the reddest part and tested it. Guess what it was?”

Given that John had already told him Craig thought it would be disingenuous to feign ignorance, but he tinged his response with diplomatic surprise.

“Red wine? Really?”

Des shot John a withering look and nodded. “Yes. Rioja, to be specific.”

Craig made a mental note. The type of wine could be significant, or not.

His diplomacy continued. “So what did you do then?” He ignored John’s gesture that said he was sucking up.

Des sat forward eagerly. “I already knew the chemical composition overall was identical so I set about subtracting the composition of wine from the rest and examined what was left behind.” He smiled triumphantly. “It left flour and salt. Most likely from bread. They’d have needed water as well, but that would’ve been in the Chyme.”

Craig pushed it. “Any particular sort of bread? Can you isolate it to a particular country or culture, or was there anything special about it?”

The scientists frowned; the bread’s specifics obviously hadn’t occurred to them and now a non-scientist was telling them their trade. John blustered out a defence.

“It’s not that easy, you know. Once it’s broken down it could––”

Des raised a hand to stop him. “The truth is we didn’t even think of it.”

“You still have time. It would just be worth knowing if there was anything special about the bread, or whether it was just a simple final meal.”

John screwed up his face in a way that said something wasn’t quite right. “Hang on. The last victim was sixteen, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. So what?”

“So who gives a sixteen-year-old wine? In fact who gives wine to anyone they’re judging? If that’s what we think happened to these three.”

Craig thought for a moment. “We don’t know that it is yet, but I take your point. That could mean it was more than a simple meal.” He shook his head, halting John’s next question. “Before you ask, I don’t know what more. That’s still open to debate.” He stood up. “Well done, Des. Brilliant catch; keep going with it please. John, anything on the girl found in the river yet?”

“I’ve got her lung and stomach contents coming later. I’ll take a look before I leave tonight, although why you’re so sure she’s connected to your victims beats me.”

“Instinct. Let’s just hope that I’m right.”

****

The magnificent three were on their way to interview the Deacon, Nigel McKibben, about Sam Beech’s episode with his son, and as Liam drove up the Newtownards Road he could feel his thoughts tending incongruously towards the past. Deacon Blue had been his favourite pop group in the ’80s, when he was still a man about town, slapping on the aftershave at the end of a busy shift and venturing into one of the few Belfast nightspots that hadn’t been blown up.

He’d smiled inanely and showed off his dance moves in the hope of attracting some female company for the night, or better yet meeting someone with whom he could have a relationship that actually lasted for more than a week, before either his bluntness or their fear of him having been blown to bits every time an explosion was announced on the News killed their passion stone dead.

That had been his life for years: Jack Harris’ and Reggie Boyd’s as well, before one by one they’d found women stupid enough or hopeful enough to marry them and consign their dancing to family weddings for ever more. He didn’t miss that life, or The Troubles. Actually, he thought, as he parked his Ford in a leafy side road near Stormont that revelled in the lofty title of Gloriana Avenue, he did miss it sometimes if he was being honest. In the same way that people got nostalgic for awkward first dates and nights when they’d drunk so much that they’d thrown up, and the way that survivors of disasters retold their stories of near death again and again.

However bad The Troubles had been, they’d formed part of his history and most of his youth. The era when he’d hung out with the lads and got drunk in pubs, storing up tales to embarrass each other with when they were grey-haired old men. The Troubles had been his backdrop to many a fumble, and the first time a girl had ever let him get to second base. Unlike the well behaved girls of Crossgar, the ladies of the big smoke had seemed to him to move at one hundred miles an hour.

As they exited the car and walked up the path Liam laughed out loud, while Jake and Andy shot him looks that said he was clearly insane. Getting to second base in less than a month had seemed like one hundred mph to him back then, how quaint that seemed compared to what the youngsters did now. A quick hello and a handshake nowadays and they ended up in bed; God only knew what they’d be up to by the time his son Rory was eighteen. Erin of course was entering a nunnery. He shook his head as the other two watched, and wished it was still like when he was young; it must mean he was getting old that he longed for the slower path.

As they reached their complainant’s glossy front door, flanked on either side by well-behaved rose bushes trimmed to waist height, Liam pulled his thoughts back to 2015 and banged twice with the knocker in a manner that said I don’t care if it’s Sunday in the suburbs, get this door open right now. A sudden rustling behind the wood and the sound of a lock being undone and they were faced with a very short red faced man whose narrowed eyes said that this had better be good. He opened his mouth to speak but Liam got in first.

“Mr McKibben?”

It was accompanied by a flash of his warrant card so Nigel McKibben’s mouth closed with a snap and he was answered by a nod and one of the many expressions that people adopted when faced with the police. Exaggerated, wide eyed innocence and closed mouth suspicion were top of the pops, followed in third and fourth places by wavering lipped, teary eyed shock and belligerent, defiant rage. Number four was Liam’s personal favourite because it was usually followed by a stream of vitriol that meant he could question the speaker with less finesse. The others just made him feel guilty and his upbringing already ensured that he felt enough of that.

Unfortunately the man in front of them went with expression number five; the one that Liam hated most of all. He smiled like he was really pleased to see them, which meant that he was unlikely to be one of their perps.

“I’ve been expecting you, officer. Please come in.”

The Deacon’s widening eyes as three of them traipsed past him into a chintz styled sitting room with a plethora of ornaments dotted around, said that he hadn’t been expecting quite such a show of force. Still, good manners obliged the offer of tea and, as it was a Sunday, cake, and after the introductions were over and crumbs and cups lay on their laps, Liam decided to kick the proceedings off.

“We’re here about Sam Beech.”

A slow nod and pained smile said that although their host was reluctant to say something bad about a child, his conscience obliged him to. Liam’s pained smile was saying something else; God save me from people who always believe right is on their side.

“Ah yes, Sam.”

As McKibben folded his hands on his lap Jake noticed he wore a gold sovereign ring on one hand. Along with his grey hair, worn in the combed forward style once so popular with emperors, he looked like Caesar ruling all that he surveyed.

“Sam is a very troubled boy, and that’s sad, but he can’t be allowed to do what he did to my son-”

Jake leaned forward, cutting in. “Where is Trevor, Mr McKibben?”

McKibben turned as if he’d barely registered the others’ presence, other than as Liam’s backing group.

“At Sunday School. He goes twice, once in the morning and once in the afternoon.”

Liam drew him back to the alleged assault. “Give us exact details of what happened, please.”

The father’s face grew red and he blustered out a reply. “It was disgusting. I’ve already given the details to Sergeant Boyd. Trevor was in the bathroom at the youth club and Sam followed him in and tried to…” His voice faded away and when it returned it had acquired an Old Testament tone and the accompanying words. “…Sodomy. Sodom and Gomorrah! He’s tried it with others and it’s a disgrace. Sam Beech needs to be punished.”

He already had been but Liam wasn’t letting on, instead he pushed for the details of what the man in front of them considered a suitable penalty.

“How exactly would you like him punished?”

The irate father was surprised by the question and scrambled for a suitable response. “He should…he should be sent to borstal and got some help. It’s unnatural.”

Even Liam, unevolved as he was, winced at the word unnatural.

“What was unnatural, sir? The fact that Sam attempted anal intercourse with your son, or the fact that it was against Trevor’s will? If it was against his will then it was, of course, illegal.”

He gave a satisfied smile; Craig would have been proud of his diplomacy but Jake’s approving nod would have to do instead.

Their host wasn’t smiling. “Of course it was against his will! My son’s not gay; it’s unnatural.”

That answered that question.

Jake picked up the gauntlet. “And in your opinion, Mr McKibben, what is a suitable punishment for being gay?”

McKibben looked confused. “Well…they should be…” His words trailed off, only to return with renewed zeal. “Maybe one of those reprogramming camps they have in America. I’ve heard that they work. But even if Sam Beech is gay it doesn’t give him the right to try to convert my son!”

Convert? He made it sound like changing energy providers. Liam had heard all that he needed to hear. Whatever the man’s personal views on homosexuality he’d constantly referred to Sam in the present tense, which meant that he didn’t know the teenager was dead. Plus, his worst idea of punishment was a conversion camp, which, bad and all as they were, usually didn’t kill the people that they sought to convert.

Nigel McKibben wasn’t one of their killers but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t enjoy giving him a shock. Liam reserved it until they were walking down the front path to the car. He turned and stared at the man they’d just interviewed then delivered the news in a solemn tone.

“I think that you should know, Mr McKibben, that Sam has already been punished far more harshly than anything the law could do.”

He didn’t give any more detail and decided not to wait for what came next, knowing that it would include speculation then realisation, followed by the usual mixture of shock and guilt that decent people experienced when they felt they’d been too harsh.

Chapter Twelve

5.30 p.m.

The briefing had been perfunctory at best with the only new information Jake’s report on meeting his snout. Rick Grundy had remained adamant that his suggesting T.J. McDonagh had been pure coincidence and Jake couldn’t get him to shift. If abductions had occurred in the gay community before or after Bobby’s they hadn’t been reported so it was a dead end for now, but it raised the question of how many more youngsters might have disappeared.

By five-thirty Craig was alone in his office with his thoughts, wondering whether to take Katy’s friend up on her offer of a profile or whether it would tread on John’s toes. He’d just decided that they could produce one together when Nicky’s desk phone rang. He went out and answered it, expecting somewhat illogically to hear her voice.

“Superintendent Craig, Murder Squad. Can I help you?”

A young man answered, his breathless tone saying either he’d been running or he was excited to be making the call.

“Yes!”

It was practically shouted. Craig kept his tone neutral.

“Who is this?”

“Constable Joe Brunton, sir. I’m in Downpatrick.”

At the word Downpatrick, Craig’s heart sank and his voice grew sharp.

“You’ve found a body.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Where?”

“The Mearne Road.”

“I’m transferring you to Doctor John Winter. He’ll bring a team and we’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

****

By the time Liam had joined him and they’d raced to the scene, John was already there, cordoning it off. They suited up and joined him inside the tape. Craig stared down at their fourth corpse, his face grim.

“The same?”

Winter nodded, indicating the red-haired youth at their feet.

“Certainly looks like it. Wet and covered in cling-film. I haven’t removed it to check but I’m pretty sure that’s a tattoo on his right arm.”

They peered at where he was pointing and made out ‘te’ just above the man’s elbow. Craig stepped back as Liam scanned the wood that they were standing in. A young man hovered just outside the tape, looking like a cop even though he was in T-shirt and jeans.

Craig strode across with his hand held out. “P.C. Brunton?”

As they shook, Craig noticed a Labrador at his feet. He reached down to pat its head.

“What’s his name?”

Brunton had been standing to attention but now he relaxed. “Winchester, sir. After the characters in a TV show; Supernatural.”

Craig nodded and beckoned Liam across. “This is D.C.I. Cullen. P.C. Brunton here notified us about the body.”

Liam nodded a greeting. “Tell us exactly what you found.”

Brunton glanced quickly at where John was kneeling then looked at Craig, patting his dog’s head as he spoke.

“I was taking Winchester for a walk before dinner.” He pointed through the copse to low stone walls and the pretty houses behind them, dotted along the narrow road. “I live there with my parents, so I always walk him here. Anyway, I’d thrown a stick and was expecting him back with it, when he started barking. It was really loud, like he was hurt, so I ran over to look and he was standing there, right beside the body.” He nodded towards the shining cling-film, dulling now in the early evening light.

Liam cut in. “How’d you know to call Belfast?”

The youth shook his head. “I didn’t. I called my station and the desk sergeant said they’d been told murders in Downpatrick should be referred to Belfast.”

Craig wondered who’d had the presence of mind to make that ruling and decided on Annette.

“I called your office and the Superintendent here answered.”

Craig turned to stare at the houses and then back at the P.C.

“That’s the main road, isn’t it? We’ll need any tapes. Also, I need you to canvas those houses and any regular passers-by.”

Brunton nodded eagerly. “You’ve had the tapes from the past two weeks, haven’t you? Did they show anything?”

Craig decided to trust the boy; the more the locals were on their side the sooner they might catch a break. He shook his head.

“Nothing yet. But there’s always a chance they’ll get lazy and make a slip.”

He wasn’t holding out much hope. He strode across to where John was tidying up.

“How long has the body been here?”

“Around an hour I’d say. The grass is barely flattened.”

Craig had already walked back to the others.

“He’s only been here an hour. That means he was dumped around five o’clock.” He turned to Brunton “What time did you arrive?”

The P.C. glanced at his watch. “About half-four. We always stay for an hour; I was just about to leave when we found him.”

Liam chipped in. “That means they dumped the body while you were here.”

Craig nodded. “Where did you enter the wood?”

Brunton pointed into the distance. “Around a mile away. I like to give him a decent run.”

Damn. A mile in dense wood was as good as ten. Brunton wouldn’t have seen a thing.

Liam wasn’t giving up. “Think. Did you hear anything, like a car starting or a thud? Maybe some branches breaking. Anything.”

The young officer glanced feverishly at him and Craig saw fear enter his eyes. It was no use to them; if he was afraid of them he’d never risk making a mistake.

His next words were soothing. “Look, I realise we’re putting you on the spot and it’s intimidating. Don’t worry. Even if you saw nothing we got here soon after he was dumped and that tells us something.”

It did tell them something; that the killers were still somewhere close. There were police in the area so they wouldn’t have risked speeding in case they’d got stopped, and on a rural road that meant a maximum of sixty miles per hour. Craig was praying the narrowness of Mearne Road had slowed them even more.

As Liam phoned through to arrange roadblocks Craig’s relaxed approach worked and Brunton started to nod. They were about to catch a break.

“I heard some branches break about ten minutes after we arrived. I remember thinking that it was kids messing about, cracking the branches as they walked. But thinking back, the cracks were really loud, like the branches were thick. Kids couldn’t have done that.”

Craig urged him on. “Which direction?”

The P.C. scanned his surroundings and oriented himself in the wood, then he started to walk away from the scene. After a minute he turned to face them.

“We were here. I remember because Winchester was still on the leash and he went to tear into those flowers.” He nodded at a bank of Blackthorns. “I tugged him back and that’s when I heard the cracks.” He raised an arm and pointed. “They came from over there.”

They sprinted simultaneously and one minute later they reached an area where the thick roots of Sycamore trees were emerging from the earth. Craig scanned the wood’s floor, praying that they’d caught a break. As the evening light dimmed they did and it was Liam who caught it first.

“Over here.”

He was staring at a thick brown root, broken to reveal its snow white inside.

“That’s recent.”

Brunton’s voice cut through the gloom. “There’s another one here.”

Craig made a decision. “Joe, head back to the crime scene and tell the C.S.I.s to bring some lights. Liam, cordon off this patch.”

He kept walking till he’d followed the trail of broken roots to a small back road, and as he hunkered down by the tarmac he thanked God for Northern Ireland’s rain. There, as clear as day, was the muddy track of a tyre. With any luck it would yield a make of car and they would be on their way.

****

Belfast Social Services. Monday 30th March, 9 a.m.

“I don’t know what more I can tell you, Sergeant McLean.” The middle-aged manager looked sad, as if she was recalling something painful. “Bobby came to us very troubled. Louise saw him and referred him for therapy.”

Louise? Louise McIntyre, the same social worker who’d removed Sam Beech from his home and had referred Elena Boraks to rehab? Jake mentioned the coincidence and the woman smiled warmly.

“That’s not a surprise. Louise deals with most of our troubled adolescents. Anyway, Bobby. Well, after a few sessions with a counsellor he came to terms with his sexuality and he was like a different boy. Pleasant, well mannered…”

It fitted with T.J.’s version of events, but if therapy had been so successful then why had Bobby still been seeing someone two years on? The manager shook her head.

“I really can’t answer that. Perhaps it helped him to have someone to talk to? It wasn’t mandated by us I can tell you that. Our contact with him ended after six weeks.”

The sergeant thought for a moment and then rose to leave. “Thank you, Mrs Hinds. We’ll need to chat to Ms McIntyre and I’ll need the name of that therapist.”

As he left the ageing building with the counsellor’s name in his pocket it occurred to Jake that he could benefit from some therapy himself. Six months of watching someone he’d loved dying had taken its toll, but if the last few days had been anything to go by, not as much toll as the future would. He winced as he remembered Aaron’s yells the night before, when he’d finally got home at one a.m. He knew that it was hard on him, but he had a busy job and a widowed grandmother to care for and if Aaron couldn’t understand that then he needed to grow the hell up.

He’d spent the night in the spare room again and after a restless hour he’d given up on sleep and logged on to online poker to pass the time. At least the other players didn’t nag and ask him where he’d been. He’d greeted the sunrise exhausted and two hundred quid down, to be met by a silent breakfast and Aaron’s judgemental scowl.

Jake banged the steering wheel hard with his fist, wishing that it was Aaron’s head. He had enough crap at work without getting more when he got home and he knew that he was looking at a repeat performance that night. As he put the car in gear and pulled out onto Circular Road he made up his mind. He wouldn’t be looking at another night of Aaron’s nagging because he wouldn’t be there. His grandmother didn’t know it yet but she’d just acquired a long term guest.

****

Liam bit into his bacon butty so hard that the sauce he’d added trickled down his chin. He’d barely caught it in the wrapper when Andy did exactly the same. His packaging wasn’t as efficient and the sauce dripped onto Liam’s passenger seat, resulting in Liam grabbing his butty, lowering the window and chucking it into the bin. He ignored Andy’s howls of objection and started the car, pulling a left-turn onto the Saintfield Road.

“That was my breakfast!”

“Then you should’ve put it in your mouth and not all over my car. I’ll have to shampoo it now.”

Andy cast a pointed look behind him at where sherbet and gums were sticking to the Ford’s back seat.

“Kids have an excuse. You don’t.” Liam jerked the car to a halt. “We’re here now, so stop whining.” He flung open the door and was up the path to the rehab centre before Andy could protest.

The centre was where Louise McIntyre spent her Mondays and as they entered the one-storey building it was easy to spot who she was. The social worker’s fresh-faced enthusiasm contrasted strikingly with her wan clients’ haphazard lounging on a row of plastic chairs. Liam noticed the chairs were fused to the floor and smiled; someone had had the foresight to see them for the potential weapons that they were. He flipped open his warrant card and approached the denim clad brunette.

“Ms McIntyre? I’m D.C.I. Cullen and this is D.C.I. Angel.”

He paused, anticipating a wise crack, they’d heard one every other time he’d said Andy’s name. It didn’t come; instead McIntyre whispered something to an older man then led the way to a staff room, leaving him holding the fort.

“Would you like some coffee, officers? I’m making one for myself.”

“One tea, one coffee, please. Plenty of milk in both.” Liam pulled out a chair, one that actually moved. “We won’t keep you long. We’d just like to ask about some of your clients.”

She turned to face them as the kettle boiled. “I’ll tell you whatever I can without breaching confidentiality, if you’ll tell me why you want to know.”

Liam shook his head. “Sorry. It’ll have to be a one way street. The client’s names are Sam Beech, Elena Boraks and Bobby McDonagh. The families know we’re asking.”

McIntyre’s mouth opened long enough for Liam to notice her teeth; they were covered in metal braces even though she was in her twenties; another trend they’d imported from across the pond. She closed her mouth again but he knew what she’d been about to say – I’ll need the families’ permission in writing. She’d obviously thought better of it, probably reckoning that even if she didn’t trust the cops she didn’t fancy her chances of winning the argument. She handed the drinks round and leaned back against the sink.

“I…” She paused for a moment, frowning as if she was choosing how to frame her words. She restarted more confidently. “Sam Beech was removed from the family home for six months. He was taken to a place of safety––”

Andy cut in. “Foster parents or a group home?”

It was a distinction Annette had made as well.

McIntyre frowned. “Group home unfortunately. It wasn’t my choice.”

Or Sam’s. Liam knew that if they dug a bit they’d probably find kids there that he’d bullied as well.

She continued. “He did well enough there, but we were all glad when his mother finally threw the man out and Sam could return home.”

“Jim Upton.”

She nodded in a way that said she knew Upton far too well. Liam was curious but Upton wasn’t why they were there. He moved onto their female victim.

“Elena Boraks. What can you tell us about her?”

The social worker shook her head sadly. “Poor girl. We tried everything to get her off Heroin; rehab, therapy––”

Liam’s ears pricked up. “Who was her therapist?”

“We sent her to our best, Ronnie Carlton, but it didn’t work.”

“Did Sam have therapy as well?”

“Yes, but he was under children’s services so it was a different counsellor.”

Damn. Another commonality bit the dust.

“We’ll need the name.” Liam doodled for a moment while she went to find it and then noticed that Andy had his eyes shut. Surely even he couldn’t fall asleep at work? He kicked his chair sharply and the eyes wide, head jerking way that the D.C.I. responded said that he’d been wrong. He’d dozed off! Liam shot him a look that said ‘we’ll discuss this later’ just as McIntyre reappeared.

“Sam saw Josie McLaughlin, one of our child psychologists.”

“Thanks. What about Bobby McDonagh? We know that he saw a counsellor for two years.”

She nodded firmly. “Ronnie saw him as well. But it was private therapy.”

Andy asked a question, trying to seem alert. “Is it normal for your therapists to charge people?”

“Definitely not, but once Bobby’d finished his mandated therapy we discharged him. After that it’s fine for a therapist to continue seeing a client privately if that’s what the client wishes.”

Liam shut his notebook and quickly drained his cup. He was at the door when something else occurred to him.

“Would you mind if I asked you a personal question, Ms McIntyre? Feel free not to answer if it makes you feel uncomfortable.”

She stared at him suspiciously for a moment and then slowly nodded her head.

“Are you religious?”

She shrugged. “Not really; more agnostic than anything else.”

“Protestant or Catholic agnostic?”

Only in Northern Ireland would someone know exactly what that meant. McIntyre laughed.

“Jewish agnostic, if you must know.”

Liam nodded, satisfied. He’d give Craig everything he knew about the social worker but his gut said that the woman in front of them knew nothing about their deaths.

****

By eleven o’clock Jake had had enough of the therapy department bureaucracy that insisted on protecting clients’ confidentiality even though he had their families’ permission to inquire. His retort was that as three of their clients had been victims of crime, if they didn’t assist him their famed reputation for protection might suffer a fatal blow. It resulted in the appearance of Bobby McDonagh’s counsellor at the front desk.

As Ronnie Carlton appeared through the staff door Jake scrambled to hide his surprise. Carlton’s reputation had suggested dynamism but it seemed barely credible now. He walked with a slowness of the very elderly, despite being just fifty years old; he was a barrel of a man which probably didn’t help. But it wasn’t just his torso that was spherical; his head was round from pate to chin and, as he turned towards the clerk, Jake saw it was round from front to back as well. The man looked like he’d been made from two balls of Plasticine.

Suddenly Jake noticed Carlton staring at him, as intently as he’d been scrutinising him, so he broke his gaze hastily, extending a hand instead.

“Detective Sergeant McLean, Murder Squad. I’d like to ask some questions about two of your clients, Robert McDonagh and Elena Boraks.” Liam had brought him up to date on his meeting with Louise McIntyre ten minutes before.

The therapist ignored the hand, instead tapping a file that he was hugging in his arms. “I was expecting you. I have Bobby’s notes here, I’ll ask someone to bring Elena’s down. Follow me.”

He opened and closed the door so quickly that it almost trapped Jake’s hand and Jake knew that it was payback for the judgement Carlton had read on his face. The therapist led the way to a sterile room where Jake hoped clients told their troubles to someone warmer than him, and without any preamble Carlton opened the file and began to read.

“Robert, Bobby McDonagh, date of birth fifth of May, nineteen ninety-six. Referred to social services by the police in October twenty-twelve, following an episode of shoplifting. Social worker Louise McIntyre saw him, carried out a home visit and interviewed his parents and school. The decision was made to refer him to therapy.”

Jake interrupted the speech; Carlton’s monotone was giving him a headache.

“Social services said Bobby was discharged by them after six weeks, so why did he continue with therapy?”

Carlton sniffed as if the answer was too obvious to dignify a reply. When Jake failed to translate his inhalation, the therapist sighed and did it himself.

“He continued with therapy because he found it useful. I should think that that was clear.”

Jake admitted he hadn’t warmed to Carlton and was ashamed to say it had probably been because of his looks, but now he felt justified in his initial prejudice; the therapist was an abrupt ass. His voice cooled.

“Clear or not, someone had to pay for Bobby’s continued sessions, so who footed the bill?”

The counsellor flicked through the pages so slowly that Jake was sure it was to wind him up. Finally he read from a receipt.

“Eileen McDonagh. His mother.”

Why hadn’t T.J. said that his mum was paying for Bobby’s therapy? He parked the question for later and turned back to his host.

“Could you tell me the upshot of your sessions?

A smile flickered across Carlton’s lips. There was something unsavoury about it. If Bobby was still alive he would be pursuing why; now it might have to stay an itch he couldn’t scratch.

“He came fully to terms with his homosexuality.”

Carlton sneered so openly that Jake wanted to punch him. Instead he hardened his voice.

“As I’m sure you know, Bobby’s older brother is also gay, so why was it such a challenge for him to come out?”

Carlton’s brown eyes widened and the sneer tinged his next words. “Well, well, I thought the police knew everything but it seems that you don’t. The reason Bobby was having such a hard time was precisely because his older brother was gay. His father had disowned his brother and focused all his energies on Bobby, so he felt additional pressure to be the butch son and heir.”

Jake was shocked; T.J. hadn’t said anything about being disowned. He should have guessed when T.J. had said Bobby had cried down the phone when he was young; he obviously hadn’t lived at home for years.

He thought aloud. “So that’s why his mother paid for the therapy.” His father hadn’t known that Bobby was gay.

“Even when Bobby had admitted it to himself, he still couldn’t tell his father.”

Another thing T.J. hadn’t mentioned. Jake changed the subject to Elena Boraks just as a secretary brought in her file. The discussion didn’t yield much except that Elena had been in and out of addiction therapy since she was fourteen.

“She funded it through shoplifting at the beginning and then by prostituting herself.”

The reappearance of the sneer said that Ronnie Carlton wasn’t beyond judging his clientele.

“Do you know where?”

To his surprise Carlton nodded. “Everyone knows. From a flat in the city centre with two other girls.”

Jake leaned forward eagerly, giving Carlton more power than he’d intended. “Do you have an address?”

He was in luck; Carlton couldn’t be bothered winding up the police that day. He tore off a scrap of paper and scribbled down the address, adding contemptuously. “I believe her clientele mainly consists of paramilitaries; she must enjoy taking risks.”

Carlton’s use of the present tense didn’t make Jake rule him out; it felt contrived, and he doubted any of their killers would be stupid enough to out themselves. He rose abruptly and headed for the door. “Thank you, Mr Carlton. I’ll be in touch.” By the time the therapist responded Jake was outside on his phone.

T.J. answered in three rings and twenty minutes later they were in a café on the Lisburn Road. Jake didn’t hide how pissed off he was, mainly with himself for being so slow on the uptake. The moment T.J. had said Bobby had phoned him crying he should have realised that he wasn’t living at home.

“Why didn’t you tell me that your dad threw you out?”

The youth averted his eyes so quickly that Jake knew the exit hadn’t been pretty. He changed tack.

“And that Bobby was still in the closet with him? You said that they were close.”

“They are…were.” His eyes widened, pleading for Jake to understand. “Bobby couldn’t tell Dad, it would have killed him after me coming out. He’s a real macho man: football, rugby, fixing cars, you know the drill. He needed at least one of his sons to be like him, and what harm did it do for Bobby to pretend at home? He was out everywhere else that mattered.”

Jake shook his head. No wonder Bobby had continued with his therapy, the charade at home must have been tearing him apart.

“Your mother knew.”

T.J. nodded. “Yeh. But Dad doesn’t know even now. I’m positive.”

Jake was sceptical; even more than that, he was troubled. His next question didn’t make sense to the younger man.

“T.J., is your father a religious man?”

****

1 p.m.

By the time they’d finished at the murder scene the night before it had been knocking on 1 a.m. and Craig was wrecked. Restarting at seven hadn’t improved his mood but by lunchtime every broken branch, muddy trail and driver who’d responded to their canvassing was bagged, preserved or documented and he was ready for something to eat. As he drove back to Belfast he phoned Liam to meet him in The James.

They ate in silence, if the sound of Liam chomping and gulping and Craig listening to his messages didn’t count. It wouldn’t qualify in a cloister but it was as close as they got to silent on their best day. When Liam had pushed away his plate and folded his hands on his paunch Craig finally spoke, nodding at his phone.

“That was John about our new victim.”

Liam picked his teeth with his knife, making Craig wince.

“Oh, aye. The usual? Tattooed, washed, cling-filmed?”

“More. He was castrated.”

Liam clamped his legs shut in sympathy. “Poor bugger.” He thought for a moment. “I didn’t notice anything wrong down there, did you?”

Craig shook his head, recalling the cling-filmed cocoon lying amongst the leaves the day before. “The cling-film’s opacity hid the excision. Apparently everything was left behind.”

Liam’s jaw dropped. “So they chopped off his bits and left them there? This case gets weirder by the hour.”

“Symbolism again. And I suppose it removes any ambiguity that he might have been castrated sometime in the past.” He pulled out his wallet. “The point is we have a Heroin O.D., anal penetration with a choke pear, and now a castration, but not a mark on Sam Beech. It’s telling us something.”

“Aye. That our killer has a warped sense of humour.”

Craig shook his head.

“At first I thought it was just telling us that they were tailoring the punishment to fit the victim’s perceived crime, but now I’m convinced that it’s more than that.” He stood up to go. “Let’s get back for the briefing. We need more brains than ours to speculate on this.”

****

The C.C.U.

Everyone was seated and drinking coffee by the time they arrived so Craig began without preamble.

“Just after five p.m. yesterday a fourth body was discovered. Same general area; in a patch of woods near Downpatrick. Fortunately it was discovered by an off duty P.C. walking his dog so he alerted us immediately and we got there within the hour. Long story short, it fits the pattern: young victim, tattooed, washed and wrapped in cling-film––”

Ken asked a question. “Was he slight like the others?”

Craig’s forehead creased then he shook his head. “I hadn’t thought about it until now, but no, he wasn’t particularly; about twelve stone. Good call, Ken.” He turned to Liam. “That might be why they used a car this time. He was too big to carry far.”

Liam shook his head. “Nah, I think they used a car every time. Dead weight’s dead weight, even if it is only nine stone.”

Craig turned to find Davy, who for once was paying attention. He was becoming fascinated by the case; it was giving him ideas for his PhD.

“Davy.”

“Yes, chief.”

It was accompanied by an itch.

“Calculate the range of distances the killers might have travelled, using timing and local speeds. They’ll have stuck to the speed limit both ways to avoid getting stopped. Give me options for both car and foot, one and two killers carrying the first three bodies, and for bringing the last body by car. We lifted a tyre track from a back road so we’re pretty sure a car was involved this time. Also, the local lads were stopping traffic yesterday, so can you pick up on their reports as well.”

“Has Des got everything?”

Craig nodded. “The tyre track, he’s fuming the new cling-film for prints and we found lots of broken tree roots. P.C. Brunton heard them being broken so we’re pretty sure the killers stepped on them between five and six p.m.” He turned back to the group. “OK, there are a few other things before I start going round. Victim four was tattooed on his right inner arm in the same way as the others and we expect his stomach and lung contents to match as well; I’ll come back to that in a moment.”

He stifled a smile as Liam grimaced in anticipation of what was coming next. “Our newest victim was also castrated. Everything was left with the body.”

The male leg crossing that followed was as synchronised as a ballet, as were their identical winces. The only person unmoved was Carmen. No-one but Craig had noticed her taking a seat at the back of the room five minutes earlier but now she commented loudly in a factual voice.

“Strictly speaking castration just means the removal of the testicles. Was that all they cut off?” The legs tightened further and she smiled innocently at Craig. “I’m just asking.”

He answered her with one word, “everything”, and moved on; Carmen’s session with the psychologist obviously hadn’t dampened her defiance.

“Whatever the correct term for it is, victim four’s mutilation seems to follow some pattern in the killer’s mind. Of our four victims only Sam Beech was left unmarked.”

Davy raised a hand languidly and Craig nodded, grateful to be leaving the topic of excised body parts.

“I’ve been doing a bit of research on Doctor W…Winter’s choke pear. It’s just one of a number of medieval torture methods.”

He tapped his smart-pad and the screen beside Nicky’s desk flickered on. When Craig saw what appeared next he was glad she wasn’t there. A series of torture images sat side by side, with their titles printed underneath: Strappado, Toca and other joys.

Liam squinted at the screen. “What’s Toca? That image doesn’t make sense.”

“Medieval waterboarding. Seems there’s nothing new in the torture world.”

He tapped his screen again and enlarged the choke pear, reading aloud from another page.

“The pear can be inserted into any bodily orifice and widened to inflict pain. It was classically used to choke, or on women––”

Craig raised a hand to halt him. “Thanks. We get the picture.” As he scanned the images he thought aloud. “Torture, body parts removed and drugs given, all of which we think may be symbolic of our dead victims’ perceived crimes––”

Liam cut in. “Which means victim number four was a rapist.”

No-one disagreed. Craig continued.

“A medieval torture implement and a Latin phrase that we believe resembles one used by the Spanish Inquisition, also medieval.”

Davy cut in. “That meant s…someone’s confession is valid even if it’s given after torture. That’s what I was getting at.”

Craig motioned him on.

“The torture implement left with Bobby McDonagh w…wasn’t used until he was dead. Likewise any excisions and injections were done post-mortem, yes?”

Craig half nodded. “I think the castration was done P.M. but check that with John, please.”

“If they were done P.M. they weren’t done to inflict pain, so why do them at all? Yes, as a symbol of their victim’s supposed crime, but surely part of the reason the choke pear was left could have been to s…show that they’d all been tortured when they were still alive? It fits with what the tattoo says. They’d all been tortured and confessed to their perceived s…sins and the killer wants us to know that they had.”

Andy cut in. He’d been quiet throughout the briefing, as had Jake who was staring out the window looking exhausted.

“What torture methods did they use on them? None of the bodies except Bobby’s had torture marks, except maybe the manacles.”

Ken answered before Davy could. “I can give you an exhaustive list of torture methods: white noise, sleep deprivation, emetics, enemas, electric shocks. It’s endless. Some never leave a mark and the marks from the others fade in a few days.”

Carmen turned to stare at her boyfriend as Craig asked the question they all wanted to ask.

“How do you know, Ken?”

The soldier shook his head. “Don’t worry; I was never tortured. But before we’re sent out to a warzone we have to be prepared, so they demonstrate the interrogation techniques the enemy might use if we fall into their hands––”

Liam interrupted. “Does torture ever work?”

Ken shrugged. “Unlikely, even if the average soldier knew anything but their name, rank and serial number, which they don’t. That’s the stupid part. The enemy think we all know everything about the military’s plans but only the top brass really do.”

Craig nodded. “So they get told a lot of lies to make the torture end.”

“Exactly. Even the US Senate Intelligence Committee concluded that enhanced interrogation techniques didn’t yield useful intelligence.”

A debate on the morality and effectiveness of torture started and Craig let it run while he poured himself a fresh drink, then he quietened the group and summarised.

“OK. We have four victims, three that Jake says were known to social services and we’re waiting to hear on the fourth. There’s symbolic post-mortem mutilation on all of them except on Sam Beech, and we think the implement left with Bobby McDonagh could also be pointing us to torture having being used on all the victims before death, as does the tattoo. There’s also an element of ritual to all the crimes: the washing of the bodies, the bleach, although that could just be a forensic countermeasure, and the wrapping and leaving above ground.”

Liam interrupted. “As opposed to what?”

“Burial.”

He nodded. “OK, but why’s the over ground location important?”

A bell rang in Craig’s head but he wasn’t going to say anything until he was sure. He shook his head at Liam and continued.

“There’s something else that also points to ritual; the identical stomach contents on victims one to three. Doctor Marsham has managed to narrow the food to red wine and some form of bread. We’re waiting to hear what sort. The odds are that victim four will have the same––”

He was cut short by Liam. “Damn.”

“What?”

Craig read the answer in his eyes. Bread and wine; the symbolism of communion. He’d been brought up ecumenically but if his mother knew how slow he’d been to connect the dots she’d berate him for forgetting the Italian Catholic part of his heritage.

Liam shook his head in disgust. “Bread and wine. Communion. The bastards are feeding them communion before they die.” He spotted some blank faces so he filled in the gaps. “Torture, confession, Latin tattoo, bread and wine, drowning; these gits are taking people they perceive as sinners and performing a ritual sacrifice.”

Ken asked the obvious. “Satanic?”

Liam snorted. “Not in their minds. There are no pentagrams or ram’s heads if that’s what you mean. This is religious and these eejits probably think that they’re saving their souls. They think they’re true Catholics, and by true I mean pre-reformation, burn all the heretics at the stake Catholics. They think they’re doing God’s work, sending sinners to their graves cleansed of their sins.”

Suddenly he gave a heavy sigh and Craig practically shouted his next question.

“What? What else have you realised?”

Liam shook his head. “How could we have missed it? It’s so bloody obvious!”

“What is? I swear, if you don’t hurry up––”

Liam strode over to Davy’s desk and muttered something in his ear. Another tap of the smart-pad and the image of a cling-filmed victim appeared on Nicky’s screen.

“Look.”

Everyone looked and several shook their heads.

Craig frowned. “What are we looking at?”

“Washing, bleach for purification, drowning, cocooning like a chrysalis. It’s rebirth. They were being baptised into a new life!”

****

Craig cut the meeting short and beckoned Liam and Davy into his office. He scribbled nine points on a notepad: sin, selection, abduction, torture, confession, baptism, communion, death, cocooned for rebirth? Then turned it to face the others and threw open the floor.

Liam pointed to the list. “Normally people are baptised years before they take communion but given that this baptism involved drowning, the communion should come first. You can’t eat when you’re dead.”

Fair point.

Davy hazarded a guess at the killers’ rationale.

“We know these guys are educated; the Latin s…says that, so does the complexity of the crimes -”

Liam cut in. “We already narrowed it to academics and religious.”

Davy nodded, throwing his black hair forward and giving Craig a glimpse of what had been making him scratch. He’d got a tattoo on his upper back! The glimpse was long enough to reveal it was a word, but not long enough to read what it was. Davy continued.

“OK, so, we have academic or religious men, probably at least two of them, who…” He paused, searching for inspiration. “…who don’t believe s…society is punishing people enough for their crimes?”

It sounded weak, but the look in his eyes dared the others to do better. Liam took up the baton.

“If they’re Catholics then how about them thinking that the modern church is too lenient on sinners? There’re plenty of those around.”

Craig nodded. “Go on.”

“Well, I remember my granny ranting about Vatican Two when I was a kid; she wasn’t best pleased at losing the Latin Mass and what she saw as a watering down of doctrine. What she would have said about the latest Pope doesn’t bear thinking about.”

Craig was surprised. “I thought people liked him. He’s presenting a more tolerant church.”

“Aye, most people do; they think tolerance is a good thing. But what if you don’t? What if you’re a vengeance kind of guy? There’re plenty of those in Ireland.”

Davy was indignant. “That’s what I said! They don’t think s…society is punishing people enough for their crimes.”

Craig stared into space. “Mind you, half the cops in the country think that as well.” He tapped the list again.

“Right, let’s say we have a group of disgruntled uber religious people, whether that’s their day job or not we can debate later, but they believe that punishing people who they view as sinners is a good thing. OK, first on the list, sin; how do they know what supposed sin these people have committed? Two, selection; how or why do they choose them and not some other addict, rapist or paedophile? They must be getting our victims’ details somehow. Then abduction. How do they get access to their targets?”

Liam cut in. “Social service files? They would have the details of what they’d done and where they lived.”

“That’s always supposing that victim four turns out to be known to social services like the first three. How else?”

Davy recited a list. “Prisons, schools, courts, council run homes, s…support services like counselling…”

Craig halted him. “In other words, half the public sector. OK, so far we have three victims known to social services, so we have to pursue that route. Liam, tell Jake to focus there. He can call on Ken for support. Davy, dig into the victims’ backgrounds and see exactly which services each one was known to and if any of them overlapped. Add in our rehearsal victim as well. Hopefully it will narrow down to social services but I’m not holding my breath.” He took a gulp of coffee. “OK, what else? They abduct the victims, so how and where do they do it? Then they torture them and get them to confess to their so-called crimes, so they must have somewhere secluded to keep them. And do they baptise them and then give them their version of communion before drowning them, or, as Liam said, is the drowning itself the baptism? Then they’re put in a chrysalis and reborn into the next world? Are we missing anything?”

Liam shook his head. “You’ve forgotten the most important thing of all.”

“Which is?”

“Penitence. There’s no point confessing unless you repent, it’s what the whole process of forgiveness and absolution is based on.”

“And what if they didn’t repent?”

“Execution.”

“And if they did?”

“Absolution and then execution, although maybe in a slightly gentler form. They were never going to let them go alive.”

Craig thought for a moment. Elena Boraks had been shot up with Heroin post-mortem, Bobby McDonagh had been violated and victim four had been castrated. So why had nothing been done to Sam Beech? If he’d been a paedophile there were plenty of unpleasant things they could have done to symbolise his crime.

Liam read his mind. “Sam must have repented and begged for forgiveness. The others must have told the killers to get stuffed, so evidence of their crimes was left to shame them when their bodies were found.”

Craig was about to explore the point when Davy interrupted.

“But w…why dump them where they did? They’re all nondescript rural locations, insignificant unless the killers live in Downpatrick. And all the victims so far came from County Antrim, so why not find a dump site nearer them?”

Liam shrugged. “You’ve said it. The killers may live in Downpatrick.”

Davy continued. “They could do. It’s called the nearness principle or RAT, relative activity theory. The killer balances their need for anonymity with the desire to operate in an area where they feel comfortable. W…White killers travel further than black, old further than young, but typically there’s a central buffer zone round where the killer lives.”

Craig shook his head. That wasn’t it but he wasn’t sure exactly what was yet. He changed tack. “That reminds me, how is that search for clinics and factories going?”

“I’ve found a few possibilities. I’ll get them to you.”

Liam returned to the earlier points like a dog with a bone. “And why leave them in the open air? Why not bury them? We wouldn’t have found them for years if they had.”

Craig didn’t answer, just stared into space, tapping a pen irritatingly against his teeth as he did. They were very white and Liam wondered how he kept them that way, given the amount of coffee and red wine he drank. Suddenly the tapping ceased and Craig grabbed Davy’s smart-pad. He realised instantly that Davy would work much faster and handed it back, urging him to pull up a map of Downpatrick as he talked.

“OK, I think they left the bodies above ground because they wanted them found. Simple as that. Although given the early Christian element, maybe that’s also how bodies were disposed of in those times?”

He glanced at Davy for an answer and the analyst shook his head. “Nope. Irish people were buried in tombs long before Christianity arrived.”

“OK, so they just wanted the bodies found quickly and they chose one area to leave them. Not the same location each time but very close by.”

Liam interjected. “We’d cordoned off the earlier scenes so maybe that’s why they had to shift to different spots.”

“Or maybe they would have done so anyway.” Craig pointed to the map. “Mark each of the dumpsites please.”

As Davy obliged, Liam returned to an earlier point. “But why Downpatrick when the Vics all came from Antrim?”

The answer was about to become clear. Davy tapped his smart-pad and four red crosses appeared. Craig’s eyes widened in disbelief; he couldn’t believe that he hadn’t seen it before but he couldn’t trust it just yet.

“Join them.”

Red lines appeared, forming an almost perfect square. Liam leaned in urgently.

“Enlarge it, lad.”

“W…What is it? What can you see?”

Liam’s pork sausage finger jabbed at the screen.

“There! Smack bang in the centre of the square.”

“The buffer zone where the killer lives?”

Liam snapped back. “No. Look, for goodness sake.”

The others peered at the screen, shaking their heads as Liam rolled his eyes.

“You mean you can’t see it? What sort of Irishmen are you?” He jabbed again and Davy swatted away his hand. “There, in the centre. It’s Dichu’s Barn!”

Craig made a face. “OK, you’ve officially lost me. Who the hell is Dichu?”

Liam tutted exaggeratedly, relishing the chance to show off. “Dichu was a pagan chieftain converted to Christianity in the fifth century by St Patrick. He gave him a barn to hold his services in and they called the whole area…” He gestured at the map. “…Saul, from the Irish Sabhall Phádraig, meaning Patrick's barn. It’s the modern name for a townland near Downpatrick.”

Light was starting to dawn.

“Anyway, the modern Saint Patrick’s Memorial Church is said to be built on the site of the original barn.” He jabbed the centre of the square. “Right there. They’ve only gone and drawn a square around the church using dead bodies!”

Davy eyes widened in awe. “That’s brilliant!”

Liam was still expounding. “It’s Church of Ireland nowadays but back then, pre-reformation, everything was the same. It’s a nice place; they have a round tower. Real wee tourist attraction. I took Danni down once when we were courting.”

Craig had already tuned out. He was too busy thinking about what it all meant to speak. By choosing Saul the killers had harkened back to the start of Christianity in Ireland, when belief was strong and people lived in the fear of God. They’d also mimicked the torture and execution of later rigid, pre-reformation Christians, the Spanish Inquisition. After a moment he tuned back in, to find the others engaged in a religious debate that ranged from Paganism to Christianity and back again. He interrupted.

“This is all fascinating but it’s not getting us any closer to catching them.”

“But we can s…stop them killing again, boss.”

“How?”

“Cordon off everywhere around the s…square. If they can’t dump there then maybe they won’t kill.”

For a moment Craig was tempted. It seemed simple and would show the brass and the media that they were doing something. Then he shook his head.

“All they’ll do is find somewhere else with religious history and there are plenty of those in the North. What we can do is mount surveillance to catch them next time they try to leave a body. Davy, what’s the perimeter’s mileage?”

He tapped for a moment before answering.

“About nine miles. Do you think the area round the church is the killer’s buffer zone? That they live or w…work there?”

“No, it’s the historical significance they’re after. Check the limits of the church grounds; I don’t want an argument over territory when we leave officers there. Wherever the property boundary is that’s where we start surveillance and we’ll end it on the other side of the red lines. My money says these guys are so obsessive that they’ll have to leave bodies along the lines they’ve already drawn.

Liam whistled. “Surveillance will take a hell of a lot of uniforms.”

“The locals can help and ask Jack for some men. Andy can run that side.”

Liam guffawed. “And the fact it’ll keep him twenty miles away is just an added bonus.”

Craig smiled. He loved it when a plan came together.

“OK, that might catch them leaving future victims there, but we’ll have to cut them off at the source if we want to avoid more deaths.” He turned back to Liam. “Jake’s seen the therapist for Bobby McDonagh and Elena Boraks and he’s working on some things from that. Andy’s going to be in Downpatrick, so when Ken and Jake have finished whatever they’re doing they can start working their way down Davy’s list. Liam, you and I will focus on the main suspect groups; religious and academics. Guess which one you’re taking.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “Just what I need in my life; more priests. OK, what are we looking for?”

“Even if our killers are finding their victims through the services Davy listed it’s unlikely that they began life there. These are highly educated people with knowledge of a rare language, religious history and symbolism, and my gut says they developed it in either the church or academia. It may even have got them kicked out. Look for any priests or brothers who were asked to leave, or who left voluntarily when their interests and the church’s diverged. Narrow it to men between the ages of twenty and fifty.”

“Why?”

“Statistics. The most common serial killer is male and their peak age at first kill is late twenties. Also, younger men would find it easier to move the bodies. Killers don’t stop when they hit fifty but they do decrease in activity, so if one of our killers is older I think he’ll be in a leadership role. It’s a blunt instrument but it’ll do as a first cut. I’ll do the same for the academics––”

Davy cut in. “They won’t necessarily have left the university, chief. There were plenty of weirdoes s…stalking the corridors when I was there.”

Craig laughed. “True, but hopefully these men are so strange they’ll stand out even in that rarefied environment. The people who’ll know will be the Universities’ Vice-Chancellors. But it’s a good point; Liam, ask about priests who are still practicing as well, but maybe under supervision.” He glanced at the clock. “You both know what you’re doing and you can find me at the lab and then at Queen’s. I need to see Carmen before I go. Send her in please, Liam.” As Davy turned to leave he added. “Care to tell us what your tattoo says?”

Liam screwed up his face. “Ach, you never went and got one of those, did you? I swear, if Erin or Rory ever––”

“By the time they’re old enough it’ll be something far worse.”

Davy set down his smart-pad and obliged by lifting his hair, to reveal a word Craig recognised tattooed in black ink.

“Curiosity satisfied?

Craig smiled but Liam was still in the dark.

“No. What does it mean?”

The analyst yanked open the door, smiling. “You know what curiosity did…”

****

Carmen’s defiance had obviously required a group audience because when she entered Craig’s office it was as timidly as a mouse. He beckoned her to sit then rested back in his chair waiting for her to speak. Several false starts and distracted gazes through the window later he gave up and started himself.

“I can phone occupational health for an update if you don’t want to tell me.”

It was a bluff, they wouldn’t give him any detail, but it was a bluff that worked. She shook her head so gently that he almost felt sorry for the recalcitrant Celt; but not quite. After a few seconds she began.

“The therapist said that I’ll need at least six months with them.”

The words were spat out pizzicato with her hands wound together tightly in her lap. Her whole posture smacked of resentment, but then resentment had been Carmen’s trademark since she’d joined the team and Craig’s sympathy with her moods had finally worn out. His voice was cool.

“When do you start?”

Her grip tightened.

“They’ve offered me sessions two evenings a week so that I can keep working.”

She glared at him, daring him to say ‘working where?’

Instead he merely nodded and leaned forward, lifting his pen. He drew a series of squares on a notepad as he spoke, each edge digging deeper into the page.

“You realise that you can’t work in the field.”

She opened her mouth to object but closed it again immediately, before she dug herself into a bigger hole. It didn’t matter; Craig had already read what she thought of him in her eyes.

“Which means you’ll be confined to the office for at least six months.”

A squint said that she’d heard him.

“But that won’t work either if you’re rude to members of the team.”

This time her gaze said ‘any other rules, Hitler?’ He ignored it; he had better things to waste his energy on.

“If you adhere to these conditions, support investigations well on the research side and receive a good report from the therapist at the end of your counselling, the matter will be completely forgotten. I won’t record it on your evaluation and you’ll remain on the team. If not, you’ll be leaving without further appeal. Do you understand, D.C. McGregor?”

Silence. He paused for a moment and then asked again. This time he was answered by a sharp nod and a ‘fuck you’ glance. He rose to his feet.

“Good. Think of yourself as having a broken leg that limits you to desk work. There’ll still be plenty for you to do.” He opened the door wide. “Now, goodbye. Davy could use your help on some background searches. I’ll see you at the briefing.”

When Carmen had left he walked to the lift, waited until the door had closed, kicked the wall hard and then pressed basement to leave the C.C.U.

****

Jake balanced the cup and saucer on his knee, mesmerised by the frantic signalling of Eileen McDonagh’s eyes. It was a mime that begged him not to discuss her dead son’s sexuality even now. He turned towards Philip McDonagh, assessing his strength and whether he could have drowned his younger son. His strong mechanics’ arms said that he could have, easily, but whether his homophobia was so strong that he’d committed filicide was a question Jake knew that he couldn’t answer by himself. Instead he asked the question made obvious by the rosary beads gripped in the bereaved father’s hands.

“Are you a religious man, Mr McDonagh?”

McDonagh bristled and gripped the beads tighter. “If I am, so what? It’s not against the law is it?”

Not unless it drove you to kill your son.

Jake’s tone was conciliatory. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I just wondered which particular religion you followed.”

It was disingenuous and he knew it, but he was following through an idea. McDonagh relaxed slightly, seeming pleased by the chance to talk about his faith.

“We’re Roman Catholics.” He glanced meaningfully at his wife, now seated slightly behind him, deliberately repositioned to shoot Jake covert warning looks. “We believe in the church’s teachings.”

On the word ‘believe’ he reached for her hand, as if daring her to disagree. Jake imagined that his beliefs had left little room for two gay sons to come out. He set down his cup and Eileen McDonagh reached forward to take it, using the movement to break her husband’s grip.

“Were you schooled by the church?”

McDonagh looked blank for a moment. There was no sign that he’d guessed where the questions were leading so after a few seconds he nodded cautiously.

“The Christian Brothers.” He smiled as if remembering something. “With the odd dash of the Jesuits thrown in.” He shook his head and chuckled at the obviously happy memories. “Those Jesuits were a laugh. Always telling jokes.” He glanced quickly at his wife. “And not all of them polite, if you know what I mean.”

Jake could imagine. “Why did they visit the school? The Jesuits I mean. Are they a teaching order?”

McDonagh’s eyes widened and he leaned forward with a warm smile. “Some of them. Are you a Catholic yourself, then, sergeant?”

Jake was tempted to lie to build rapport but the memory of his grandfather’s service five days earlier wouldn’t let him. He shook his head.

“Sorry no, but I’m interested in religion.”

Not so much before this case.

McDonagh sat back and shrugged, as if he’d accepted that Jake was going to hell. “The Jesuits came to run retreats. Two days of brimstone and stories; all the boys loved it.”

Jake wasn’t sure what a retreat was but he decided to ask Liam rather than risk McDonagh’s disgust. He pressed on with the reason that he’d come.

“Did you learn much Latin at school, Mr McDonagh?”

The details of the victims’ mutilation had been withheld, so McDonagh couldn’t know why he’d asked unless he was involved.

He stared at Jake suspiciously. “Of course I did. I was good at it too.”

Jake leaned in, reinforcing their bonhomie. “How about Vulgar Latin? Did you ever hear of that?”

McDonagh checked that his wife had left the room and then chuckled. “I heard plenty of vulgar stories in Latin, if that’s what you mean. Those ancient Romans were quite the boys.”

Jake decided not to press it. If McDonagh understood why he was asking he wasn’t going to admit he knew the dialect, and if he did admit it what difference would it make? He was on Jake’s radar now and it would take more than a few lies to take him off.

****

By three o’clock Craig was sitting in John’s office, watching as he shook his head.

“Natalie doesn’t like this Doctor Emiliani.”

“Natalie won’t have to work with her, we will.” He set down his mug. “Anyway, why doesn’t she like her? Katy says that she’s nice.”

John snorted in a way that would have done Liam proud. “Katy thinks everyone’s nice. She’s naïve.”

Craig laughed, thinking of his girlfriend. “Nice yes, but not naïve. She knows more about human nature than I ever will.”

“Yes, but she chooses to ignore the bad bits. Natalie says she’s always getting taken advantage of at work.”

Craig sat forward, annoyed. “Who takes advantage of her? She didn’t tell me.”

John waved him back. “Because she knows you’ll go riding in there like Sir Galahad.” He rose to pour more coffee. “Anyway, it’s nothing serious. Just patients being demanding and her clinical director dumping extra work on her. Apparently she can’t say no.”

Craig smiled. “I bet Natalie can.”

John nodded ruefully. “Especially to me.” He sat back down. “Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that Natalie thinks this Sofia woman is devious.”

Craig raised an eyebrow. “She should meet some of the people we put away. The important question is can you work with her to draw up a profile? If she has expertise in cults and ritual, she could be of use.”

John shrugged, his mind still on Natalie’s ability to deny him things. He was certain that hadn’t been in the wedding vows. Love, honour and never let him get his own way. Nope, it didn’t ring a bell. Craig repeated the question, interrupting his daydream.

“Can I work with her? Well yes, I suppose so, but it’ll put me in Natalie’s bad books. Mind you…” He gave a mischievous smile. “…it’ll do no harm for her not to get her own way just this once. Show her who’s boss in this marriage.”

Before he could ask Craig’s opinion on who really was, Des came bursting through the door, waving a lab report.

“I’ve worked it out! It’s been driving me mad but I’ve finally found your bread.”

Craig sat forward eagerly. “And?”

“And it fits with religious ritual, so you were right. I knew something was missing from the stomach contents and it was; yeast. Bread without a raising agent is called unleavened and it’s used in Western Churches’ communion sacraments. As opposed to the Eastern Churches which use bread made with yeast.”

One more thing had just slotted into place.

****

As Liam approached the Bishop of Carrickfergus’ substantial residence, he self-consciously smoothed down his sandy hair and straightened his tie. He wasn’t actually visiting the headmaster’s office but he felt as if he was. The feeling was heightened when the brass-plated front door opened and an angry-faced woman barely as high as his waist barked “Yes? What do you want?” She might have been tiny but in that one phrase she catapulted Liam back forty years.

His life seemed to have been full of tiny women, each them gifted with an iron will and the ability to scare the bejeesus out of boys and men. He’d even married one; Danni was barely five-foot-one; you’d think he would have known better after his granny and mum. He corrected himself quickly, Danni might have been tiny but the most terrifying thing about her was how she looked in a face pack. There wasn’t an angry bone in her body, unlike the woman who’d just greeted him.

He stammered out a reply and fumbled for his I.D., not meeting the woman’s gaze in case it turned him to stone.

“I’m D.C.I. Cullen. Here to see the Bishop.” He added a weak supporting line. “They said to come, on the phone.”

A small hand shot out and snatched his I.D. then the door slammed in his face and he heard block heels clicking rapidly down a hall. After what felt like ten minutes but was probably nearer two, the door creaked open again and another phrase snapped out. “Come in. And wipe your feet.” The gorgon pushed his warrant card at him then turned sharply, leading the way down a mosaic floored hall. At the fourth door she stopped, glared up at Liam and then knocked once, leaving him to open the door on the word ‘come’.

Liam wasn’t sure what he’d expected the Bishop to be like. He’d seen him on TV of course, so he knew that he was tall and thin, with a full head of white hair and a stoop that implied decades spent head bowed, in prayer. Angular faced and raw boned – Samuel Beckett in a cassock; but more than that he didn’t know. Would he be fearsome like his headmaster, quicker to smack than sooth, criticise than congratulate? Or a frocked version of the Chief Constable, Sean Flanagan: bluff and cheerful, one of the lads. The next moment gave him his answer.

Just as the housekeeper had been acidic, Bishop Francis – Frank to his friends – Murray was emollient. He rose from his seat and moved smoothly across the room, stretching out a hand in welcome and motioning Liam towards a claret velvet chair. As Liam gazed around him he saw that the rest of the chamber was its match; dark wood and jewel colours were clearly the order of the day. The effect was so soothing he wondered that the cleric didn’t fall asleep.

He was still gazing when he heard a question.

“Sugar, Chief Inspector?”

Liam turned so quickly he knocked the tongs from the churchman’s hand then showed his fast reflexes by catching them as they fell. As Murray exclaimed, “Howzat!” Liam smiled at the cricketing term and handed back the tongs, seizing on sport to form a temporary bond.

“You’re obviously a cricketer.”

Murray’s narrow face creased into a smile.

“Watch every test match, when I have time.” He added the sugar then waved a hand around him. “It’s quite a place, isn’t it? Seventeenth century. I keep meaning to research the history but…” He gestured at a desk covered in papers. “…as you can see I never have the time.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wish I was still a simple parish priest. Just God and man, without all the bureaucracy.”

He handed Liam his tea and set the sugar bowl on the desk. “Now, Chief Inspector Cullen––”

“Liam, please, Your Grace.”

The sports fan inclined his head. “Liam then. What can I do for the police? My clerk said that it was urgent.”

Liam took a gulp of tea then balanced the tiny china cup on his knee. “It is. Basically, and I know you won’t disclose details of an active investigation so I’ll tell you as much as I can; basically it’s like this. You’ve probably seen on the news that three dead bodies have been found?”

Murray nodded. “Terrible, truly terrible.”

“Well, it’s four deaths now and as we progress the investigation certain things are pointing to there being a religious element in the––”

Murray cut in, in a most un-bishop-like way. “Sectarianism? I thought most of that was over.”

Liam wanted to say ‘What planet are you on? Bigots are alive and well and living in Belfast’. Instead he shook his head. “Not sectarianism, or at least that’s not our feeling. I can’t go into detail but there are certain factors that point to the killer having knowledge of the Roman Catholic Church.”

The Bishop’s hands flew up in defence. “Half of Northern Ireland could lay claim to that, and anyone can research things on the internet.”

Liam shook his head, frustrated that he wasn’t getting his message across. “Please don’t press me for details, just trust me that this knowledge isn’t the sort that’s easy to find. It points to someone highly educated and fanatical. Someone who may feel that the modern church doesn’t deal firmly enough with transgressions.”

Murray looked blank and Liam sighed, all of his earlier nerves gone. “Someone with a detailed knowledge of Latin.”

“Schoolboys have that.”

“Vulgar Latin?”

Liam watched as the penny dropped, every step of its descent reflected on the old priest’s face. After a moment his mouth fell open and Murray found his voice.

“They don’t teach that in school. Only a classicist or…”

“A religious scholar might know it.” Liam nodded. “We know. That’s why I’m here. We’re exploring the academic route as well but we think that one or more of the killers may have been involved with the Catholic Church at some point.”

The chamber fell silent as Murray searched frantically for some other answer and Liam watched his search and drank his cooling tea. When all the options were exhausted the Bishop rose reluctantly and walked to his desk, opening a drawer. He withdrew a ledger and as he turned to a page near the back Liam’s heart sank. Instead of the one or two drop outs and errant priests that he’d been praying for, columns of names covered the page.

****

Craig was halfway up University Road when his car phone rang. He answered it quickly, expecting an update from Liam. Instead Annette’s cheerful tones came down the line.

“Hello, sir. How are things in sunny Belfast?”

He glanced at his rain spattered windscreen and laughed. “Wet as usual. London?”

“It’s quite sunny here actually, but not that warm.”

“OK, now we’ve got the weather out of the way, to what do I owe this honour? Not that it’s not lovely to hear from you.”

It was Annette’s turn to laugh, but it had an edge he spotted immediately.

“I’m not sure you’ll think it’s so lovely in a minute. Superintendent Chandak’s been told he can’t testify at the appeal. Someone on high.”

He pulled the car over hurriedly, parking on a yellow line.

“But it’s a joint case and we arrested Greer in London, so how can The Met get away with this?”

Even as he barked out the question he knew the answer. He’d worked at The Met for fifteen years and enjoyed every minute, but their reputation for being slippery was well earned. He sighed heavily before continuing.

“Let me guess. They’re saying that their arm of the Op was only to turn Ershov, not to arrest Greer.”

He could hear her nod. “Got it in one. The Super’s spitting tin-tacks about it but his hands are tied.”

Craig’s next words were as defeated as he felt. “I suppose that means Yemi’s not coming either.”

He sensed her mood lightening. “No. I mean yes, he is. The Super said Yemi’s entitled to testify as a private citizen and The Met can go and get stuffed.”

Craig imagined the ebullient Chandak’s pleasure as he’d said it and laughed. “Well, that’s something.” He paused and Annette knew what was coming next. “I don’t suppose…”

She put him out of his misery. “We’ve done everything that we need to here and Nicky’s started butting heads with the Super’s P.A., so I think that it’s time to come home.”

Craig thought of Rita Henwood and Nicky bickering and knew which one his money was on.

“Thanks, Annette. This case is tricky and I could do with you being hands on.” He saw a traffic warden approaching and restarted the car. “When can we expect you?”

Annette thought of the tickets they had to see a musical that evening and made up her mind; Nicky would kill her if she tried to cancel. “We’ll get the red eye in the morning and see you at nine.”

He pulled out into the traffic. “I’ll update you then. Enjoy your last evening in London and have some drinks on me.”

****

Queen’s University. 4 p.m.

By the time Craig arrived at Queen’s it was four o’clock and the swarm of students changing lectures made him feel suddenly old. That had been John and him twenty-five years before, dressed in the ’90’s fashion equivalents of fingerless gloves and combat boots. John heading up Stranmillis to the Keir Building for biochemistry, and him to the law library to sleep in the stacks when he should have been studying; both of them severely hung over from the night before.

He shut down the memory reluctantly and glanced at his watch. Five past four, five minutes to find the Vice-Chancellor’s office and get ready for the fray. He didn’t imagine for one minute that the head of a university would volunteer the names of its possibly homicidal academics willingly. In fact he didn’t know what he expected, but he knew what he’d do if someone came asking questions about his staff; he’d batten down the hatches and refuse to cooperate. So it was with astonishment that ten minutes later he was sitting opposite Vice-Chancellor Eleanor Thompson, Professor of Civil Engineering, watching her volunteer names and opinions faster than a runaway train.

The five-feet-six V.C. was a soft looking woman, with a wide eyed face above a well-rounded body, and short fingers on hands that when he’d shaken one had been spongy to touch. She was the human equivalent of a children’s cuddly toy and it wasn’t an unattractive look, but the gleam in her eyes when Craig had explained why he was there had said that there was absolutely nothing soft about her brain. Her green eyes crackled with intelligence and her alto voice was cool, giving a lie to her amiable exterior, and, after a cursory objection that she should be expected to estimate the murderous potential of her staff, she’d given them up with a speed and malice that said she’d wanted to stick the knife into some of them for years.

After a five minute rant that displayed a particular dislike of the physics department, something Craig made a note to tell his ex-physics-lecturer father about, the professor of engineering leaned forward seriously, fixing his gaze in a way that said she was about to settle some old scores.

“It’s just my opinion, Mr Craig, but your real culprits are likely to lie in the history and theology departments. We don’t have a classics department so that’s where all the Latin obsessives lurk.” The physicists may have been her bête noir but they obviously weren’t going to get the blame this time. “They’re the only ones who’d care enough about Latin to know what you were talking about.”

She stared at the far wall as if something fascinating was written there, continuing. “Well, I suppose anyone could look it up on the internet nowadays; even Vulgar Latin probably has a fan site.” Not that Davy had managed to find. “But to be so obsessive about it that they might kill someone…” She shook her well-coiffed head, as if non-scientists were completely beyond the pale. “…that kind of obsession takes a particular type.”

She punctuated the sentence with a sigh and then dropped her voice conspiratorially. “Sadly universities have many of them. Some academics aren’t quite normal, you know; especially the ones who’ve never worked in the outside world. They lead a cloistered existence, like a monk or a nun. If it wasn’t for the students they’d probably never speak to anyone, and frankly, some of them would prefer it that way.”

She rolled her emerald eyes and Craig caught a flash of blue. She was wearing coloured lens; clearly running a university still left time for vanity. Thompson continued in a war-weary tone. “You wouldn’t believe the battles I have to get them to teach an extra class.”

Either the Professor finally heard how much she was droning on or Craig’s glazed look did the trick because she suddenly leapt off her chair and opened the office door, beckoning her secretary in.

“Vanessa, I’d like the files for Doctors Daly and McNeilly please, oh yes, and Doctor Black from social anthropology and…”

Within five minutes Craig was returning to his car with a list, and a mental image of the V.C. pushing her academics off a cliff with unseemly zeal.

****

5 p.m.

“OK, settle down, please.” Craig cast a look around. There was no sign of Andy. He turned to Liam. “Where’s the cherub?”

Liam gestured at the map on Nicky’s screen.

“In Downpatrick?”

“Suppose so. I’m not my brother’s keeper.”

“You are now. Check on him, please.” As he made the call Craig crossed to the whiteboard and lifted a marker. “Right, before we start you’ll be glad to hear that Annette and Nicky will be back in the morning.” He stared pointedly at Davy; his detritus had spread onto Nicky’s desk and was beginning to invade the floor nearby. “I suggest you get this place tidied ASAP unless you want to bring the wrath of Mrs Morris down on your heads.” He tapped the board, indicating a list he’d written there earlier.

“We now have four confirmed victims; three male, one female, and the jury’s out on a possible rehearsal victim found at the yacht club. Excluding her, why the gender discrepancy? Suggestions anyone?”

Ken raised a finger. “Maybe they don’t like killing women.”

Liam guffawed. “Chivalrous killers. That’d be a first.”

Jake interjected in a tired voice. “Because fewer women commit crimes that our killers deem punishable?”

Craig nodded. “That’s it exactly. Not only do women commit fewer crimes in general but when they do they’re more likely to be minor or financially based; shoplifting, credit card fraud, possibly not the sort of thing that our killers would bother with.”

Carmen glanced up sharply. “So what had Elena Boraks done that was so awful? Taken some drugs and charged men for sex. How was that hurting anyone but her?”

Craig counted to five inside his head, wishing that she wouldn’t turn everything into a battle. Briefings were becoming a minefield that no-one could cross without setting her off.

“No-one’s saying that she hurt anyone, but in the mind of these killers her drug abuse and/or prostitution ranked as punishable––”

Jake cut in again, half yawning. “I’ve got something on that, sir. You were right, Elena was working out of a flat, but it wasn’t run by gangs; she and two other girls had set themselves up in the city centre. I got the address from the therapist and checked it out. It seems OK. I asked the other girls and they were adamant that Mr Boraks knew nothing about the place, or Elena’s real work. The last time they saw her was on the sixth of March. They thought she’d been staying with her dad since then.”

“Good work, Jake. OK, as I was saying it was most probably Elena Boraks’ drug abuse that the killers were punishing her for, based on the Heroin left behind. I’m not saying that it’s right but it appears to be the case.” Before Carmen could retort he tapped the next point on the board. “OK, Davy’s confirmed that our first three victims were baptised Roman Catholic––”

Liam cut in. “Here, what’s a Catholic doing living on the Demesne? It’s always been a Protestant estate.”

Davy’s heart sank; he hadn’t questioned Sam Beech’s religion just reported it, but what if he was wrong? He tapped furiously on his keyboard while the others watched, then after a minute’s frowning his face broke into a smile.

“Yep, I was right. Sam was baptised Catholic, along with twenty per cent of the Demesne’s residents. S…Seems that Northern Ireland’s integrating at last.”

Craig continued as if the interruption hadn’t happened. “So our first three victims were Roman Catholic. Indicating?”

Liam gave him a martyred look. “That people hate us.”

Craig knew he was trying to lighten the mood but the subject matter precluded him joining in. “I think the mode of killing rules out a simple sectarian attack, Liam. So––”

Davy surprised him by interrupting. He normally only answered technical questions at briefings and even then only when Craig allocated him a slot, preferring to beaver away quietly and let his work speak for itself.

“If the killers are Catholic maybe they deliberately picked Catholic victims because they expected better of them. Like they’d had the benefit of being taught right and wrong and still failed, so they judged them more harshly, and w…when they transgressed they thought they deserved more severe punishment.”

Craig knew what was coming next and Carmen didn’t disappoint. She rounded on Davy indignantly.

“Are you saying that Catholics are better people so when they transgress it’s somehow a bigger fall? Like they’re on some sort of moral high ground?”

Craig held back, wondering what Davy’s reply would be. He didn’t disappoint.

“I’m saying that may be the killers’ perception, not that it’s a fact. Remember these people are obviously insane. But they must be w…working to some perceived moral descent rather than just a perceived crime or they’d be killing every drug addict, paedophile etc. in Northern Ireland, rather than just these few. People always judge their own more harshly.”

Carmen’s mouth opened and then closed again as she was outgunned. Craig nodded. It was a good point and not one that had occurred to him. He added the detail to the board.

“OK, I want us to look at the crimes themselves.”

Liam raised a finger to interrupt. It was unusually polite of him.

“On the Heroin, boss. Karl’s hit a brick wall on possible suppliers and there’s nothing useful coming from Gangs or Vice, so we have to assume that the killers have some private route to bring in the high grade stuff.”

“If they have it’s bad news. That could mean they’re connected internationally.”

Liam shrugged; he had enough to worry about on his own turf. Craig parked the point for later and turned back to the board.

“We now have four perceived transgressors or sinners, for want of a better term. Three that we know about and a fourth victim whose crime we don’t yet know––”

Davy shook his head. “Yes we do. I got a match from his prints. The fourth victim was Brian Devaney, nineteen, just finished a six year s…stretch for raping a nurse when he was thirteen. He served the first part in Wharf House and the rest in Magilligan. He only got out on Tuesday. And before you ask, yes, he was Catholic as well. It was on his prison notes.”

Liam shook his head. “Last week! Blimey, it didn’t take him long to get up to his old tricks. And rape would explain why they chopped his willy off.”

It was on the tip of Craig’s tongue to tell him off for his slang when he decided that it could have been far worse and added Brian Devaney – rapist to the board instead.

“Thanks, Davy. OK, so we have four young Roman Catholic victims, all guilty of some sin in our killers’ eyes. Let’s look at the murder methods. Liam, would you like to cover that?”

Liam took the marker gleefully as Craig topped up his cup.

“OK, here we go. All the victims were drowned in fresh water; Des narrowed it to the supply from the Silent Valley but we can’t get closer than that.” He glanced at Davy. “Unless you know something I don’t?”

“I know a lot you don’t, but no, Des hasn’t got an address for where they were drowned.”

Craig stifled a smile at his cheek and urged Liam on.

“OK, then. Fresh water drowning was the cause of death in all four victims then they were washed in bleach, wrapped in cling-film and dumped.” He glanced at Craig. “We think the cleansing and drowning was some sort of baptism ritual, unless anyone can think of anything else?”

Frowns of concentration and exchanged looks resulted in no new answers.

“The other thing is that each victim except Sam Beech was either mutilated or contaminated somehow after death. Boraks was given a Heroin O.D.––”

Ken cut in. “How do we know it was given post-mortem? Surely it would be impossible to tell.”

Craig answered the question; technical details weren’t Liam’s forte.

“The concentration of Heroin at the injection site was a lethal dose but sample blood levels elsewhere were low, meaning that it hadn’t circulated, which it would have done in less than a minute if the heart had still been beating.”

Ken nodded slowly. “Clever.”

Liam continued. “Bobby McDonagh was penetrated anally with an instrument used in medieval times, which also links with the Spanish Inquisition quote, and Devaney had his willy chopped off, so each mutilation fits the perceived crime.”

Carmen cut in. “So why wasn’t Sam Beech mutilated? His body was completely untouched.”

Jake asked the question on everyone’s lips. “What mutilation fits a paedophile?”

“Amputated hands” and “castration” were thrown out in answer.

Craig halted the speculation. “I’ll come back to Sam later. We have a theory there.”

Liam nodded sagely. “Aye, we have a theory. Anyhow, there were three other things about all the bodies. One, Elena Boraks, who we know was a regular Heroin user, was almost completely clean of drugs, apart from the O.D. after death. Two, the first three victims, and we’re presuming Devaney as well, had a meal at least three hours before they died which consisted of bread and wine.”

Craig interjected. “Des has narrowed the bread to unleavened; that means it had no raising agent.”

Liam nodded; unleavened fitted with his communion idea. He searched the group’s faces for signs of comprehension but they were blank apart from Davy’s and Craig’s. He tutted and carried on. “And three, they all had the tattoo, basically saying that confessions achieved even after torture are still valid.”

Jake leaned forward to interrupt and Liam nodded him on. Jake frowned, as if there was something he didn’t quite understand.

“It’s something that occurred to me last night.” Late last night judging by the bags under his eyes. “I understand the relevance of the Spanish Inquisition quote, it goes with the fanaticism of our killers and the whole judgement and punishment theme, and I get the early Christian links, but why bother using Vulgar Latin? Why not just write something about early Christianity in ordinary Latin, instead of being so obscure?”

Craig smiled. He’d wondered why no-one had asked the question earlier; luckily he’d thought of an answer. He waved Liam to sit for a moment.

“I asked myself the same question and came up with some ideas; you can tell me what you think. OK, we have a killer or group of killers who are judgemental and arrogant. Yes? They believe they’re morally right and probably that the rest of us are corrupt idiots. They’re also very well educated. What does that add up to?”

Davy answered first. “A s…superiority complex.”

Craig nodded eagerly. “Exactly. And therefore the rest of us are inferior. How better to demonstrate that than to play games with us, the plebeian police?”

Jake nodded. “So writing a straight Latin quote would have been too easy for us to work out.”

“Yes. And if we’d worked it out quickly we might have caught them quick-” He stopped abruptly as he realised what it meant. The tattoo hadn’t just been a demonstration of the killers’ arrogance; it had been a play for time. But time for what? To kill more people or to get away?

Liam watched as Craig retreated into his own thoughts and quickly took back the briefing.

“OK, back to torture. We’re pretty sure they deliberately left the choke pear with Bobby McDonagh to show us that torture had occurred, and not just to him. Ken’s already given us a few methods that wouldn’t have left marks, or where they would have faded quickly.”

Davy interjected. “Think about when the victims were last seen. Elena hadn’t been seen since early March, Bobby McDonagh’s parents thought he went to S…Spain around the same time and we know Sam Beech was abducted two weeks before his death. All w…weeks before they were killed, so what were they doing with them during that time? If it was torture then they had plenty of time for the marks to fade.”

Liam gave a snort. “With Devaney they went straight for killing him. He’d been out of Magilligan less than a week.”

Jake frowned as he tried to put everything together. He’d been brought up Presbyterian so high church rituals were unfamiliar to him.

“So you’re saying that they were all held somewhere for weeks, tortured to make them confess, given a last supper of bread and wine, and then drowned in some bizarre baptism?” As he was speaking realisation dawned. “You think Sam Beech wasn’t symbolically mutilated because he repented and the others didn’t!”

Craig looked up from his ruminations, pleased that he’d worked it out. “Yes. We think the others, maybe because they were older or more stubborn, refused to repent, so they were shamed in death by having their transgressions revealed. Sam was only a kid so he may have said that he was sorry, hoping to save himself, but I don’t think they ever had any intention of letting them go.”

“Why only keep Beech and Boraks for around two weeks, Devaney for less than one but McDonagh for almost three?”

“Perhaps some confessed more quickly. We’ll only know when we find the killers.”

As Craig finished the sentence something occurred to him. He parked it for later.

Liam remembered something. “We met with the father of the boy Sam tried it on with at the youth club. He said Sam attempted buggery on his son and some of the other boys.”

Craig nodded. “So we have our four perceived sins: drugs, homosexuality, paedophilia and rape.” He turned towards the screen. “There’s something else that appears to have significance to our killers.” A nod to Davy and the map lit up. “This is the area near Downpatrick where the four bodies were left. Add the markers please.” Four red crosses appeared. “These indicate the dump sites and if Davy joins them something very interesting shows up.”

The near square appeared and the team’s murmurs turned to gasps.

“As you can see we have an almost perfect square. We originally thought that they’d changed dump sites because of the police presence but this symmetry shows that it was probably planned all along. Liam can tell you what’s at the centre.”

As Liam displayed his historical knowledge Craig scrutinised Jake’s face. He looked tired, more tired than he’d ever looked during his grandfather’s illness. It could have been grief but his sixth sense said that something else was up.

Liam’s lecture ended with, “And D.C.I. Angel’s there now, in charge of surveillance. So you could say that an angel’s watching over sacred ground.”

The groans that followed were Craig’s cue to signal a five minute break. He walked over to Jake.

“You look tired. Are you OK?”

The sergeant was taken aback by the question; he hadn’t expected his all night poker sessions to be so obvious. He hastily invented a respectable excuse.

“My grandmother hasn’t been great so I’m staying with her for a while. The bed’s lumpy so I don’t sleep much when I’m there.”

It would have been a cheaper reason for insomnia than losing eight hundred quid online to a bunch of strangers, and drinking vodka as he did. Craig knew he was only getting half the story but he let it lie and after a quick coffee he summoned the group back to work.

“OK. This is all theory so far but the out working of that theory is that we’re looking at academics and religious men. I’ll come back to them in a moment but first I want to know what more you’ve found on each of the victims. Anyone?”

Jake answered first. “I went to see Ronnie Carlton, Bobby and Elena’s therapist. Bit of a creep but long story short, Elena was heavily addicted despite several rehab attempts, and Bobby had been in therapy for two years to cope with fact he’d been lying to his dad about being gay.”

“That could be important. We’ll come back to it. Anyone else?”

There was a moment’s silence then Craig shook his head. “Has anyone but Jake been doing any work?”

Liam wasn’t about to let that pass. “Here, I was at the Deacon’s about Sam, and with Jake at Sadie Beech’s when she gave us Louise McIntyre’s name. Andy and I went to meet her; turns out she was the social worker for all of our first three victims.”

Craig raised an eyebrow but Liam shook his head.

“Don’t get excited; she deals with all the adolescents in Belfast. Turns out Sam saw a therapist as well, but it wasn’t Carlton because he was a kid. He was taken away from Sadie for six months and sent to a group home.”

“Did you ask Ms Beech why it took her so long to chuck Upton out?”

Liam shook his head despairingly. “She caught him in bed with Sam but made excuses till the damage was really obvious. Love is blind and all that guff.”

“So when Sam returned home he started attacking younger boys at the youth club and school.”

“Yep.”

Craig turned to lift his mug, just in time to see Ken smiling affectionately at Carmen. The man deserved a medal, to join the ones the army had already given him.

“OK. Good. Jake, anything more on Bobby McDonagh?”

Jake set down his coffee, the strongest he could tolerate to keep him awake.

“I went to see the McDonaghs and, as Carlton said, the father still seems to have no idea that Bobby was gay. He threw the older brother out of the house when he admitted that he was.”

Craig’s ears pricked up at “seems”.

“The mother Eileen knew; she paid Carlton’s counselling fees. Bobby became comfortable with his sexuality, but he still had to hide the truth from his dad at home and they were very close, so that must have caused him a lot of stress, hence the continuing therapy. T.J. said because he was a disappointment to his father Bobby couldn’t bear to be.”

“So you’re saying that Philip McDonagh could be a suspect?”

Jake shrugged uncertainly.

“I really don’t know, sir. He’s certainly very religious; he had rosary beads in his hands the whole time we talked. It’s just possible that he found out Bobby was gay and killed him; he wouldn’t be the first.”

It was something but Craig wasn’t sure what. Would someone really murder four people if they just wanted to kill their son? That would mean the other three victims had been a smokescreen. And had Philip McDonagh done it alone, or did he have links with fanatics and had told them about Bobby deliberately?

“OK, Jake, put McDonagh under surveillance for the next few days and let’s see what he does. Andy’s already watching the disposal sites so we’ll know if he appears down there.” He glanced at the time. It was almost six and his stomach was rumbling like he was sure everyone else’s was.

“Another ten minutes and we’ll wrap up. Davy, keep pushing the lab on our possible rehearsal victim and Devaney’s stomach contents. Liam, what did you find out at the diocese?”

“That there’s a few rogue priests out there. I’ve a list of twenty who were kicked out of seminary, unfrocked or are being supervised.”

“Not many compared to the thousands of decent ones. Anyone in particular stand out?”

“Not yet.”

“Annette can help you with those tomorrow. I went to see one of the Vice-Chancellors and left with a list of names and the distinct impression that she didn’t like academics.”

It earned him a laugh.

“If I was as disloyal to you lot as she was to them you’d be very worried. Davy’s got the names, forensics is working up the tyre track from Mearne Road and tomorrow looks like another day of interviews. Let’s just hope we don’t have any more deaths.”

Liam guffawed. “We’d better have or our little cherub will be sitting all night with nothing to do.”

Chapter Thirteen

Downpatrick. 11 p.m.

It had only been a matter of time before the police set up surveillance, hoping to catch them in the act. The cops were stupid but not as stupid as they were painted in TV shows. It didn’t matter, they could sit there all night for a year and they’d still see nothing. Their mission was complete for now, and when they began again it would be at a different time and place. If the murder squad worked out their motives then they might really be onto something, but unless they did the investigation would run cold, the way that all the others had.

The suited man changed position and gazed at the round tower, thinking of a time when the fear of God had meant exactly that. Absolute, certain; unchanging with the mores of time and politics. A Christianity that didn’t bow to fashion or with every new vogue in Human Rights.

He made a small sound of disgust and edged slowly backwards across the field, watching as the patrol cars’ outlines faded and the church receded in the dusk. They would disappear now to rise again elsewhere and the police would eventually move on, frustrated by a trail gone cold. They’d reckoned without Craig’s team.

****

00.30 a.m.

It was past midnight when Craig fell into bed still damp from the shower, his mind ruminating on the case. It was a strange one, stranger than any he’d encountered for years. Murder was commonplace of course, more so amongst high risk victims like some of these, but murder as ritual was still unusual enough to excite the tabloids. He sighed and turned over, knowing that an encounter with the media lay ahead. At least Ray Mercer wouldn’t be at the briefings; now that he was no longer at The Chronicle.

He pictured the headlines: ‘Wrath of God Killers’, ‘Satanic Rites’; knowing very well that the journos wouldn’t distinguish between Christian ritual and Satanism. After all, why waste an opportunity to scare the public half to death? He punched a dent in his pillow and closed his eyes tight, trying hard to sleep. He was close to achieving his goal when his mobile rang, starting a rapid run-through of reasons why. By the time he’d answered he’d covered a fifth murder, one of his parents taking ill and, best scenario, Katy ringing to say that her on-call was cancelled and she was coming round. He definitely didn’t expect the voice that spoke.

“Hey, guess what?”

Craig squinted at the screen to see that it was almost one a.m.

“What the hell, John?”

John Winter was puzzled; Craig seemed far more excited by his question than it warranted. His next words explained why.

“It’s almost one o’clock! Why the hell are you phoning? I thought someone had died!”

“Oh.”

John’s tone said he hadn’t noticed the time and Craig knew immediately that Natalie was on-call as well. When he was left to his own devices John was like a kid who refused to go to bed, sitting up till the wee small hours watching boxsets of TV shows. If he’d called to tell him the plot of one he’d reach down the phone and grab him by the throat. John was contrite.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise it was so late. Were you asleep?”

“Trying.”

“Oh, OK. I’ll call you tomorrow then.”

Craig pictured his face; it would be the hurt one he’d worn when people had bullied him at school. He relented grudgingly.

“I’m awake now. What was it?”

John’s immediate recovery told him that he’d just been played.

“Have you met Sofia yet?”

“Who?”

“The psychiatrist who’s working the profile with us.”

Before Craig could answer he added an appreciative whistle that made Craig yank the phone back from his ear.

“God, John, it’s not enough that you wake me up at one a.m. but you ring me up to tell me about some woman I’ve never met!”

John was undeterred. “You will tomorrow. She’s gorgeous. I can see why Natalie doesn’t like her.”

Even through his annoyance Craig knew that he was wrong; Natalie would never hate another woman because she was prettier. More intelligent, definitely, doing better at work, a cert, but not on the basis of something as trivial as looks. As far as Natalie was concerned good looks were a genetic accident and he had to say that he agreed.

But he admitted his interest about Sofia Emiliani had been piqued, although he still refused to start a discussion about her in the middle of the night.

“I doubt that’s why but I’ll tell you tomorrow. Is that all you called to say?”

The pathologist’s voice took on a huffy tone. “Yes.”

“Then bugger off and goodnight. Some of us need to sleep.”

He’d hung up before John could think of a suitable retort.

****

Egypt. Tuesday 31st March, 10 a.m.

Stevan Mitic scanned his laptop screen quickly then he pressed refresh and scrolled down it again, swearing quietly in his native Serbian. There it was, in size fourteen font; Joanne Greer, lawyer and business woman, had been granted leave to appeal her conviction. He had no idea why he’d suddenly checked the Northern Irish news, it wasn’t as if he did it every day; Belfast was just somewhere that he’d lived for a while, in what felt now like a different time. He’d barely thought of the place since he’d left in 2012, just as he rarely thought of his old life. He’d set down his SAKO rifle three years earlier, praying to God that he would never have to use it again.

A flash of bile filled his mouth at the memory of his last paid kill; at Greer’s behest a Russian mobster, Alik Ershov, had ordered him to kill an innocent wife and mother just to pull her politician husband into line. He’d hated himself for agreeing and even though he’d killed the Russian for it, time still hadn’t managed to erase his guilt. He squinted at the woman on the screen, tracing her fine features with his eyes. Joanne Greer: Ershov’s lover and the bitch who’d set up the job; the woman whose greed had caused his guilt.

A peel of laughter made him glance up from his screen and he smiled as he watched his sister Kaisa playing in the pool. She rested her hand gently beneath his infant son’s stomach and guided him across the water, a child again herself. He’d been sorry when his brief marriage had ended, but happy that he’d got custody of his son. Dejan would be the playmate that Kaisa had never had, in the belated childhood of which they’d both been robbed by war.

Since they’d lived in Egypt everything had changed and geography, sun and counselling had seen Kaisa’s gentler side re-emerge. But she was still damaged and if he did one thing before he died it would be to ensure that she was never hurt again.

He turned back to his laptop, surfing the Net till he found other articles on the Greer appeal. The more he read the more his heart sank. The papers said it had been granted because Greer claimed that her confession had been entrapped, but in his heart Stevan knew she would need more than that to win. There was only one other card she could possibly have to play; Ershov must have given her their real names before he died.

He felt a shiver run through him, suddenly cold in the hot morning sun. Interpol had been searching for them for years and found nothing, their new identities were watertight. But if Greer had something, anything that could break them, they’d have to abandon everything and start running again.

He watched as his sister placed the baby on the edge of the pool then clambered out and wrapped them both in a towel. She waved at him cheerfully, indicating that it was time for lunch and in that instant his mind was made up, even as his heart sank at the thought of what he had to do.

Memories of his finger squeezing the SAKO’s trigger came flooding back, and with it a steely determination from the life he’d left behind.

****

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

When Craig arrived for the briefing he was yawning from lack of sleep, due to a combination of nightmares about the case and a grudging curiosity about the mysterious Sofia. The first person he saw was a pale Annette. The second was Nicky, holding her head in her hands.

“Hello, you two. Did you come straight from the airport?”

Annette nodded. “I’m exhausted.” She really was, far more than usual after a night on the tiles. In fact she hadn’t felt well for weeks.

Craig laughed. “By the look of you both, you were on the tear last night.”

Nicky shot him a jaundiced look. “Do you have to shout?”

“Wait till Liam starts.”

“Wait till Liam starts what?”

It was a testament to all three’s grogginess that they’d missed Liam’s customary noisy entrance until he was standing by Craig’s side. One glance and he knew what was up.

“You drunken hussies. Alone in the big smoke for three days and you come back looking like death warmed up!” He saw the circles under Craig’s eyes and shook his head. “What’s your excuse?”

“John phoning me at one a.m.” He raised a hand to halt the inquiries. “I’ll tell you later. Liam, join me in my office, please.” He smiled at Annette. “I suggest that you two drink some coffee. It’s going to be a long day.”

As Craig filled the percolator Liam gazed out at the river. It was busy this morning, with ships docking and unloading and the warden’s small craft chugging slowly upstream. He broke the silence as he sat down.

“So what did he want, then?”

“Who?”

“The Doc. He must have had a good reason to call at that time. Was it a break in the case?”

Craig waved the question away and opened his door, beckoning Annette in. The next twenty minutes were spent updating her on their findings as of the evening before.

“We’ve a psychiatrist called Sofia Emiliani joining us, to help John provide a profile. She’s worked with ritual killers elsewhere so we’re hoping for some insight.” He turned to Liam. “Anything happen last night?”

“Well, I had dinner and played with the kids.” An arched eyebrow urged him on. “If you mean was there anything at the scene then no. Andy said it was as quiet as a church.” He guffawed at his own joke and turned, expecting Annette to smile. Instead she was frowning. Craig asked why.

“Well, it’s just…hasn’t anyone noticed the date?” She turned to Liam. “And before you say it’s the thirty-first of March, I mean the date that the first body was found. The seventeenth.”

Craig thought for a moment. “OK, so it was the seventeenth. So what?”

She stared at him incredulously. “Given everything you’ve told me about ancient––”

Liam suddenly saw where she was going. “You’re right! And we all missed it! The first body was left on the seventeenth of March; Saint Patrick’s Day. But that means…”

Annette nodded. “That means that not only was the site significant to the crimes but the date was as well. They’re linked. The bodies were dumped at Saint Patrick’s site starting on Saint Patrick’s Day.”

A sudden bang made them jump and they turned to see Craig thumping his desk with his good hand. “Damn, damn, damn. How could we all have missed this? Well done, Annette.”

Liam raised an eyebrow. “Why so angry?”

“Because it’s bad news. The worst possible news and it fits with a suspicion I’ve had since yesterday.” He started to pace the small room.

“When?”

“When we were discussing why the tattoo was in Vulgar Latin. It wasn’t just showing off. They were playing for time to finish what they’d planned, and now they have.”

He picked up the phone to Nicky. She was scrubbing congealed coffee and crumbs off her keyboard and planning her revenge on everyone. She couldn’t trust them alone for three days without some eejit dirtying her desk. Her telephone manner reflected her mood.

“Murder Squad. What do you want?”

Craig stared at the handset and almost laughed. But not quite; he wasn’t in the mood.

“Call Downpatrick please. Tell them the surveillance will end tomorrow.”

Her face flamed; she hadn’t noticed it was an internal call. It didn’t cross her mind that answering an external one in the way she had would have been even worse.

“OK.”

She set down the phone grumpily, blaming the incident on whoever had messed up her desk, and cast a glare around the squad-room as she scrubbed and moaned. No-one looked back to signal their guilt, but she wouldn’t rest until she found the culprit.

As Craig set down the phone Liam stared at him, puzzled.

“Why withdraw the surveillance? They’ve dumped every body there.”

Annette shook her head. “Because they’ve finished. If the significance was in both the time and the place, it’s been two weeks since the first body was left, so Saint Patrick’s fortnight is over. They’ll move on to somewhere else with Christian significance on a different date. It could be months or years before they kill again.”

Craig nodded. “We’ll give the surveillance till tomorrow, just in case.”

Liam thought for a moment, his face glum. Suddenly it lit up with a grin. “It’s not bad news.”

Craig shot him a baleful look. “Well it’s not good.”

“No, think about it for a minute. If the time and place matters so much then there may be other places where they’ve done the same thing. Maybe in Ireland and maybe not, but it’s worth a look, isn’t it? If we can get the dates then we can see who, if any, of our suspects have alibis––”

Craig was nodding. “As well as alerting other forces to keep their eyes open on certain future dates.” He yanked open the door and saw Davy just arriving. “Davy, I want a list of all the significant dates in the Christian calendar, for Ireland and Europe first, then the rest of the world. And any locations that have particular religious significance; concentrate on sites important to the Catholic Church. When you’ve got those start a search for murders at religious sites in Ireland and Europe, please.”

Davy nodded and strolled to his desk. It was on the tip of Nicky’s tongue to ask Craig to tone down the volume when he disappeared into his office again. Annette warmed to their theme.

“It may be that some have a significant date and place together like Saint Patrick’s, and others just have the date or place.”

Craig nodded. “We’ll soon find out. It’ll take Davy a while to do that, so can you get Carmen to give him a hand, please, Annette.” He turned to Liam. “OK, let’s say they stay in Ireland for a while, what other religious sites are there here?”

Liam thought for a moment. “Off the top of my head I’d say Lough Derg, Knock––”

Annette cut in. “Would they really be that obvious, sir? To stay in Ireland I mean? I’d disappear pretty quickly if it were me.”

Craig was torn. “Maybe, maybe not. They’ll know we’re investigating and they’ve probably seen the surveillance at Downpatrick. It might only take us to have already talked to one of them to make them wary of any hurried moves, including doing a sudden disappearing act abroad.” He turned back to Liam. “That makes it imperative that we interview the church misfits and suspect academics today. I want everyone on this immediately, including Andy. Get Reggie and Joe Rice to help as well. The only one not out there interviewing will be Carmen.”

Liam opened his mouth to ask why but Craig shook his head. So far only Carmen and he knew what they’d agreed; he’d tell Annette next but that would be all. Carmen’s chance of remaining on the team hung in the balance, the last thing they needed was a thoughtless crack from Liam pushing her over the edge. He continued.

“And make it obvious please; I want our killers to see a police presence everywhere. I want them nervous, so nervous that they slip up. Haul in anyone who feels even slightly wrong, for interview. Start with Philip McDonagh.”

Annette was surprised. “Bobby McDonagh’s dad? Why?”

“He threw his other son out when he said that he was gay, and we know Bobby never told his father he was because he would have been furious. When Jake met Philip McDonagh yesterday he wasn’t sure that he didn’t know about Bobby and I agree. Liam, I want to know the exact details of T.J.’s exit. Did Philip threaten him, did he fear for his life? Does he think that his father’s capable of murder? Jake can help you with that.”

Liam had been listening quietly, now he shook his head.

“You disagree?”

“No, I agree. Let’s kick the tree and see what falls out. I wasn’t shaking my head because of that. Something’s just occurred to me.”

Craig nodded. He knew exactly what it was; he’d thought of it the night before.

“The first victim.”

Liam nodded. “Exactly.”

Annette was puzzled. “Elena Boraks. What’s special about her?”

Craig shook his head. “Not Boraks. Bobby McDonagh.”

“But he wasn’t the first body, sir. She was.”

Craig had already lifted the phone. John answered in a few rings.

“John. I need you to check something.”

The pathologist’s tone was wary. “Hello. Forgiven me yet?”

“What? Oh, yes, sorry for being grumpy last night. I was wrecked. That’s not why I called you.”

John took the case file from his drawer. “Fire ahead. What do you want to know?”

“Bobby McDonagh’s body. How soon after death was he found?”

“One to two hours. Same as the rest.”

Craig said nothing and John had a sinking feeling that he’d missed something.

“Oh crap. You mean––”

“Can you check it out and phone me back?”

“It’ll take a while.”

“Quick as you can.”

As he hung up Annette asked the question. “What am I missing, sir?”

“Probably the same thing as John. It’s just speculation but…”

He stopped mid-sentence and handed over to Liam.

“The first victim’s always significant, yes?”

She rolled her eyes. “Do I look like a rookie?”

“Pass. OK, so we’re thinking maybe Bobby McDonagh was actually killed first and kept somewhere, then dumped second, out of order, to throw us off.” He turned to Craig. “What do you think? Deep frozen?”

Craig nodded. “I can’t think of anything else that would fit. Of course, this could be rubbish and Elena Boraks might still have been the first, but I don’t think so. Bobby feels right.”

Annette understood. “So if Bobby was the first…”

“His dad’s more likely to have been involved and they rearranged the order deliberately to throw us off his trail.” He sounded a note of caution. “We could still be wrong.” He glanced at the clock and motioned them out, calling the team together.

“This is going to be short. Davy knows what he’s doing and he’s got a lot to do, so Carmen, help him today, please. The rest of you take your briefing from Liam and Annette. We’ll reconvene at five o’clock and until then I’ll be contactable on the phone. Liam, make sure to brief Andy please and keep me up to speed on McDonagh. Nicky, I’ll be at Queen’s and then the lab. That’s it.”

He turned towards the lift but Nicky stopped him.

“You can’t leave yet, sir, you have a visitor. A Doctor Sofia Emiliani. She’s waiting in reception.”

Craig tutted more loudly than he’d meant to, but he had better things to do than speak to a shrink; he’d had enough of those after Caleb Pitt’s death. He checked the clock grudgingly then nodded Nicky to bring her up. Five minutes later he understood John’s late night call.

Sofia Emiliani didn’t just walk into the squad-room; she entered like she was leading a parade. Her steps were slow and languorous and her voluptuous figure mesmerised everyone, even the women; it curved like a coastal road up to her face, an equally miraculous feat of engineering. Each angle was perfectly measured, each rise and fall delicately placed, to support a pair of brown eyes so dark that they were almost black and lips that formed a soft smile even at rest. She looked like she’d been sculpted, and even Craig, as monogamous as they came, was taken aback. But only for a moment; he would leave the stunned gawping to the more impressionable members of his team.

He strode across the floor with his hand extended, more surprised than impressed at the languid way the psychiatrist slid hers into his.

“Devi essere Marco.” (You must be Marco.)

He was surprised. Katy hadn’t said the consultant was Italian, or maybe she had. Her name should probably have tipped him off anyway, but he had to admit that he hadn’t heard anything except ‘psychiatrist’. He smiled politely, feeling everyone’s eyes on them.

“Doctor Emiliani. Thank you for coming.”

“Sofia.”

“Doctor.”

Even in her languid state she heard the steel in his words. He ignored her blatant flirtation and nodded her towards a chair, beckoning Liam across. Someone might as well enjoy themselves; he had work to do.

“I’m afraid I have a meeting, so I’ll leave you in the capable hands of D.C.I. Cullen.” He turned quickly, but not quickly enough to miss the annoyance on her face. “Liam, Doctor Emiliani is a forensic psychiatrist working with Doctor Winter on a profile of our killers. Could you familiarise her with the ritual aspects of the case and then arrange a car to take her to the lab.” He turned back to their guest with a brisk smile. “I’ll leave you with D.C.I. Cullen.”

Said D.C.I. gawped at her like a sixteen-year-old boy as Nicky mimicked being sick into her waste paper bin.

“Goodbye.”

With that Craig was across the floor and in the lift, knowing that by the time he’d reached the garage Nicky would be on the phone. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Ooh, she’s not a happy girl. She was looking daggers at you as you left.”

“It’s not my job to keep her happy, or yours. Give her a coffee and then ship her off to John.”

Nicky slowed her tone, mimicking the Italian Goddess. “But she… like… you… ver… much, Super… intendant.”

He snorted and started the car but Nicky hadn’t finished.

“How did she get involved in the case anyway?”

“Katy met her at work and suggested her.”

“Then, with all due respect, Katy’s bonkers. I wouldn’t let that boa constrictor anywhere near my man.”

He laughed and pulled out onto Pilot Street. “She’s obviously more trusting than you.” He ended the call with a firm, “Goodbye, Nicky. Call me if you need me, and remember to handle the good doctor with care or Liam will cry.”

****

Interviewing his way through the V.C’s hit list of academics was like spending a morning stepping back in time. Each time he knocked on an office door Craig wasn’t sure whether he’d be greeted by a ponytailed sixties throwback, a parental figure or an earnest nerd. The most normal of the bunch was the final name on his list; the Professor of Archaeology, George Robinson. At least he seemed normal, until he began to speak, then his unfortunate tendency to slip in and out of eras and dialects made Craig feel like he was in an episode of Doctor Who. After twenty minutes of being lectured on the value of primary school children learning Ancient Greek, he steered the discussion firmly back to the point.

“So you’ve heard of Vulgar Latin, Professor Robinson?”

Robinson turned from the bookshelf he’d been scanning, a volume of Sophocles in his hand.

“Of course I have! Everyone knows about Vulgar Latin.”

Craig was damn sure that everyone didn’t. If he stood at the City Hall and tannoyed the question he’d get nothing but blank looks. He smiled patiently and pressed on.

“Do you know anyone who would know enough to write it?”

The academic tutted and took a seat behind his desk, pushing two piles of books apart so that he could see Craig’s face.

“Vulgar Latin isn’t written!” It was said with a horror usually reserved for national disasters. “Vulgar Latin is a spoken dialect. The word of the common man in Ancient Rome.”

Craig pictured men in togas greeting each other with ‘Salve’ like people said ‘Hiya’ in a Belfast street.

“But surely anything that’s said can be written, even if it’s just phonetically.”

The academic opened his mouth to object then his eyes widened and he shut it again, giving Craig a grudging nod.

“Well… yes… yes, I suppose that it can.”

He leaned forward urgently, the movement disturbing the dust on one pile of books.

“But why would they? Why would they write it? That’s the question.” He said the words inquisitively, as if an idea for a new research topic had just appeared.

It wasn’t Craig’s question; he was far more interested in finding a name.

“Surely who would write it is more pertinent? Can you think of anyone at the university particularly familiar with Vulgar Latin?”

He’d been through everyone on the V.C.’s culprit list and drawn a blank. Time to use start using them as informants.

Robinson turned from side to side for a moment, as if he was having a conversation inside his head. The movement was accompanied by raised eyebrows and the occasional half nod. Finally the nodding became more definite and he scribbled a name on a scrap of paper and passed it through the book flanked gap. Craig’s eyes widened when he saw it.

“You’re positive?”

The scholar nodded. “Guest lectures on Vulgar Latin. I attended one.”

Craig rose to leave, knowing he was about to piss off Liam two fold. His phone was out of his pocket before he’d hit the street and Liam answered the call just as he reached his car.

“What’s happening, boss?”

He sounded as cheerful as a man spending time with a beautiful woman would, and Craig knew instantly that Sofia Emiliani was still there.

“Why hasn’t she left for the lab yet?”

Liam went to ask how he knew she hadn’t and then shrugged instead. Craig heard the action as if it had made a noise.

“Because you were too busy chatting her up, that’s why.”

“Sorry.” His contrition was hollow. “I’ll send her now.”

Craig answered quickly. “Don’t!” He caveated the order. “I mean, don’t send her until after lunch. I need John and Des alone for a while.”

The last thing he needed was two scientists drooling while he was trying to work.

Liam was happy to oblige. “Grand. We’ll take her to The James then. Is that what you rang about?”

For a moment Craig completely forgot why he’d called. The paper in his hand reminded him.

“Theodora Rustin. Tell me about her.”

“Nice lady. Professor of History with a special interest in the history of religion. She wrote her thesis on the Spanish Inquisition.”

“What did your gut say when you met her?”

Liam wondered if it was a trick question. In the context of the sexy psychiatrist it could have been Craig’s way of taking the mick. He answered warily, repeating himself.

“Nice lady.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What did you talk about?”

“The Inquisition, like I said.”

Craig was confused. “She said she knew Vulgar Latin?”

“No. She definitely didn’t know it, but once Aloysius had translated it and given me the phrase about torture she recognised that. Why?”

Craig was insistent. “She definitely said that she didn’t know Vulgar Latin?”

Liam sighed, exasperated. “Yes, definitely. She only recognised the words once they were translated into Classical.”

Craig sighed. “Then you were played. She guest lectures on it.”

Liam’s face flamed as Craig continued.

“She probably lied about not being religious too. Where’s her office? And I want you at her home address ASAP.”

Liam swung round to find Davy. “I need Rustin’s home address.”

Sofia Emiliani gawped as he abandoned her and raced to the lift, barking the office address down the phone to Craig. Craig ran to University Square, arriving at the Victorian terrace by the time Liam was in his car, and by the time Liam had arrived at Theodora Rustin’s city centre apartment, Craig was standing in her empty office. It wasn’t simply empty of her presence; the dust gaps on the shelves said that she’d taken every belonging as well.

“Damn, damn…”

His tirade was interrupted by Liam calling back.

“Have you found her?”

Liam’s pause said he didn’t have good news.

“She’s gone, boss. The caretaker let me in and the flat has been cleaned out. He hasn’t seen her since Saturday.”

“The last time you met with her. As soon as she knew we’d translated the tattoo she skipped. Her office has been cleared out too.” He sighed heavily. “I think it’s safe to say we’ve found the academic amongst our killers.”

Liam was gutted that he’d missed it and he scrambled for something to redeem himself. “She wasn’t working alone. A woman couldn’t have carried the bodies, not even Sam Beech’s.”

“Agreed. That leaves men working with her.”

“Ex-seminary?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Why not?”

“Why would be the better question. We based our search for the killers on their knowledge of Vulgar Latin, but only one of the group needed to know it and now we know that Rustin does.”

Liam objected noisily. “We didn’t just base it on that. We’re looking at people with strict religious beliefs. The Bishop’s list still applies.”

He was right. Craig regrouped.

“OK. Get C.S.I.s to Rustin’s flat and office. Stay where you are till they arrive and send Andy to take over here. I want both places searched top to bottom for anything relating to Saul or any other religious sites. Now get on with it. I need to phone the squad.”

A moment later he was connected to Davy.

“Yes, chief?”

“Drop everything but the search for murders at religious sites. Find me something, anything. Run two searches. Wide and narrow.”

Davy rolled his eyes. He’d been working on them for hours, but he knew Craig was repeating the order to reassure himself.

“I’ve already found two sites, but they’re not in Ireland.”

Craig gripped the phone. “Where?”

“One’s S…Santiago de Compostela in Northwest Spain; it hosts the shrine of Saint James the Greater. His feast day is the twenty-fifth of July and three years ago that week a married couple w…was found dead in their hotel room. They were Catholic tourists who’d been missing for a fortnight.”

“Drowned, wrapped and tattooed?”

“No. That’s why it didn’t flag at first. They w…were drowned in the bath and wrapped in towels like mummies, but there were no tattoos.”

“What’s the investigation’s status?”

“The Spanish police drew a blank. It’s a pilgrimage trail so they get thousands of visitors a year.”

Craig tutted in frustration. “What about the second site?”

“Lourdes in Southwest France. In twenty-thirteen. There were three victims that time. No tattoos but they used towels again, only this time the bodies were left in the open air.”

“When?”

“The third week of April. It took me a w…while to work out the significance but April the sixteenth is the feast of Saint Bernadette Soubirous. The girl the visions appeared to at Lourdes.”

Craig began pacing Rustin’s office. “They’ve refined their ritual and increased the number of victims each time, so it’s likely the Spanish killings were their first or second run, although there might have been sporadic domestic drownings before then. Run a search on flights to Spain and France against Theodora Rustin’s passport for the past two years. Also, check with the university if she had holiday leave during those deaths, just in case she flew on a fake I.D.” He stopped pacing abruptly as something occurred to him. “Is Doctor Emiliani still there?”

Davy grew coy. “Yes. What s…should we do with her?”

Craig could hear that he’d been bitten by the Sofia bug as well. It was like a succubus had entered his squad.

“Tell Nicky and Jake to take her to lunch.” The two members of his team least likely to be impressed by the psychiatrist’s charms. “Then get her a car to the lab, but not before two o’clock.”

****

Teddy Rustin smiled at the man beside her then lifted The Belfast Chronicle again and read aloud, drowning out the oratorio playing in the background.

“The Fear of God killers. It could be worse.”

The middle-aged man shook his head. “Fame isn’t why we do this.”

She was insistent. “Fame helps to spread the word. When people see what happens to those who live corruptly, they’ll repent.”

The man sneered. “And what if they don’t? There’s no point unless they understand the significance of what we do and the article makes no mention of Saint Patrick or Saul. They’ve missed the message completely.”

Rustin threw down the paper and rounded on him. “And whose fault is that? I said that we should choose a reporter and feed them information, but oh no, you said we should leave the papers to work it out for themselves.”

She was interrupted by a deeper male voice. “Be quiet. Both of you.”

The voice’s owner sat forward slowly, like a parent preparing to admonish squabbling sibs. The room fell quiet as he shook his head.

“Theodora is correct, but it’s not too late. I will draft a statement and then she will call our selected journalist.” He rose and turned to leave the room, his coat sweeping the dusty floor. When he reached the door he smiled back at the man.

“Then you must leave and begin again in Bosnia. Our work will never be done.”

The man smiled back acidly. “Don’t you mean God’s work?”

A cold glance warned him not to say another word, then their leader exited. For now, and here, he was in charge and he would not tolerate dissent.

Chapter Fourteen

Thirty minutes with John and Des confirmed that Brian Devaney had been killed in the same way as the others and that, much as John found Sofia Emiliani attractive, he wasn’t convinced of her value to solving the case.

He shook his head. “I don’t know how much help she can really be, Marc; we’ve pretty much worked out the group’s motivation and methods and it looks like a standard cult. They work in a pyramid structure; a charismatic leader with convictions so strong that he sucks in his followers, and just below him a core of senior players––”

“His cabinet.”

John nodded. “That’s a good way to put it. They’ll be his trusted counsellors, but only for as long as they toe the line and agree with everything he says. Any sign of dissent and––”

He drew a finger meaningfully across his throat.

“Men or women?”

The pathologist was emphatic. “Men. Religious cults rarely value women as equals. Besides, a woman couldn’t have carried the bodies and I very much doubt that she could have drowned anyone. It would have taken a very strong man or two men to hold even the weakest victim down. If there are any women close to the leader they’ll be there for a particular purpose; some sort of specialist knowledge or a sexual relationship. Below the cabinet will be the proles; the people who do the leader’s bidding unquestioningly. The dirty work.”

Abduction, torture and death.

“So Rustin’s there for her knowledge of Vulgar Latin and maybe history.”

John turned to straighten his tie in the office mirror. It was stylish; orange and grey, part of Natalie’s makeover regime. Craig wondered if he was fixing it for himself or for his coming guest.

“Pretty much.”

Craig lifted a paper knife and tried to balance it on its tip. “I don’t like the word cult, it sounds too benign. It’s a sect.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Sects are heretical and deviant and this lot definitely deviate from the beliefs of any accepted church.” He changed the subject before they got bogged down in semantics. “Anything on Bobby McDonagh’s histopathology yet?”

John turned, wearing an expression that said he’d found something but he wasn’t sure, and when John was unsure he did what any scientist would. He got a second opinion.

“I’ve sent it to Queen’s for them to take a look.”

Craig sat forward, knowing what that meant. He spoke over the clatter of the knife hitting the floor. “That means yes. What was it?”

“I’ll tell you when I’m certain.”

Craig’s voice became firm. “A second opinion could take days. I won’t hold you to it but tell me what you found, please.”

The pathologist sighed like a martyr; speculation was anathema to him. “Oh all right. I think Bobby McDonagh’s body might have been deep frozen.”

Craig was on the edge on his chair. “For how long after he died?”

“It’s hard to say, but if I had to…” The scientist winced as if the next word caused him pain. “…guess, I’d say around a fortnight.” He added a hasty caveat. “But it’s only a possibility.”

“That makes McDonagh the first murder!”

John shrugged, reluctant to give even a calculated guess validity.

“Brilliant!”

The scientist’s eyes widened in panic. “I didn’t say it was definite.”

But Craig was already at the door. “As good as. Bobby McDonagh was the first victim, not Elena Boraks.”

He was on the phone as he walked through the main exit.

“Annette, if Philip McDonagh hasn’t been lifted yet then do it now. His wife as well. Bring them to High Street for interview. I’ll explain why when I arrive.”

****

The contrast between the McDonaghs couldn’t have been starker. Eileen McDonagh hunched red-eyed and sniffing in interview room one, while her husband lounged, arms folded and eyes shut in the room next door. Neither of them had requested a solicitor but Craig knew it was only a matter of time. He weighed up the benefit of letting them stew versus the risk of a brief appearing if he delayed. Stewing won and as he and Annette sat behind their respective two-way mirrors watching their detainees, it finally paid off.

Annette lifted the internal phone and pressed ‘2’, watching Bobby McDonagh’s mother crumble before her eyes.

“She’s ready, sir.”

Craig’s ‘OK’ had the ring of inevitability. He didn’t believe for one minute that Eileen McDonagh had caused her son’s death so he’d guessed that she would be first to break, but just occasionally he would like a surprise. He didn’t know it but he would get one in the next few weeks that was nothing to do with the case. He joined Annette in her viewing room and peered through the two-way glass.

“No solicitor?”

“She hasn’t asked for one, just told Jack that she’d like to speak to us.”

He opened the door, ushering Annette out. “Let’s not keep the lady waiting.”

She heard his resigned tone immediately. “You don’t think that she’s involved.”

“No. But I live to be corrected.”

The exchange ended at the door of the interview room and as they were replaced in their observation position by Jack, Craig introduced them both for the tape.

“Mrs McDonagh, could you state your name and address for the record, please.”

She did, in a tearful tone, adding. “I’d like to make a statement.”

He waved her on, watching as her faded blue eyes reddened with another wave of tears. He wondered who they were for; her dead son or her husband next door. Or were they the tears of any innocent shocked at finding themselves in an interview room? He had his answer ten seconds later.

“I don’t know why I’m here, I honestly don’t. Or my husband. Why is he here too? I know it must be something to do with Bobby because that’s what the officer said, but what? We both loved Bobby; he was my baby.” She sobbed in a harsh gulp. “My baby – and someone hurt him.”

She gazed at Craig with a bewildered look that he’d seen many times before, but only from the genuinely uncomprehending. It had an intensity that was impossible to fake, and he knew then, if he’d ever doubted, that the woman in front of him could never have harmed her son.

He leaned forward; closing the gap he’d deliberately created to isolate her.

“We need you to tell us everything about the time leading up to Bobby’s death. Anything that you can remember: about his friends, his behaviour, his relationship with you and his father.”

He sat back again with the room more relaxed, an ambience added to by Jack’s entry with fresh tea. Eileen McDonagh’s sniffing subsided slightly and a small smile touched her lips. Craig recognised its origin; he’d given her an opportunity to talk about her dead child. How many more of those would she have before friends tired of hearing and changed the subject to more cheerful things?

“Bobby…he was a lovely boy. Affectionate, always giving me little presents.” She glanced at a silver bracelet on her wrist. “This was for my last birthday. He’d searched for ages to find the match for a chain I had.” She glanced at Annette as if she would understand. “He cared about the little things…”

Craig interrupted gently. “Your elder son T.J.; when did he tell you that he was gay?”

Her eyes dropped as if the memory caused her pain. He knew instantly the pain wasn’t because of T.J.’s sexuality but something else.

“Just before he was eighteen. I’d always known, ever since he was little, so it was a relief when he realised and told me. But his father––”

She stopped abruptly, her eyes fixing on Craig’s with a plea. “Please don’t think Philip’s a bad man. He really isn’t. He just believes that some things are wrong. It’s the way he was brought up.”

They listened as she made excuses for her husband of thirty years, all of them knowing that many people of his generation believed the same. Christianity in Northern Ireland was fundamental on both sides of the divide. Craig stilled her defensiveness with a touch and his hand on hers had an instantly calming effect. She smiled and sipped her cooling tea.

“Tell us what happened when T.J. told his father.”

The effect of his words was electric. Eileen McDonagh recoiled in her seat, closing her eyes and shaking her head repeatedly, as if the memory could somehow be erased. They already knew what she would tell them. Philip McDonagh’s response to his elder son’s declaration had been violent, if not with his fists then definitely with his tongue. She squeezed out the words.

“It was terrible, really terrible. Terence had just started to explain that he was gay when Philip jumped up and put his hands around his throat.”

As if by preventing T.J. saying the word, it would somehow stop it being true.

“Bobby and I pulled him off. If we hadn’t I think Philip might have killed him.” As she uttered the words she realised what she’d said and gabbled a denial. “I don’t…I don’t think he really would have. He would have stopped himself, I know he would. We, we just jumped in first.”

Annette interrupted by topping up her tea, knowing that most people’s manners force them to acknowledge a kindness with a ‘thank you’ and no matter how brief an intervention it serves to limit hysteria and calms things down.

It had the desired effect on Eileen McDonagh, enough to create a gap that Craig could fill.

“What did Terence do then?”

She sipped the warm tea and shook her head. “He ran out of the house.”

“He didn’t hit his father back?”

Her eyes widened as if such a thing was unheard of. “He would never do that!”

Probably because McDonagh had always ruled his family with fear.

“He called me later from a friend’s.” She shook her head sadly. “He hasn’t lived at home since.”

“Does he ever visit?”

“Never when his father’s there.” Fresh tears flowed down her cheeks. “They hadn’t seen each other since then until this week. Philip wouldn’t even let Terence’s name be mentioned at home. It hit Bobby very hard.”

Craig imagined that it had. Brothers separated by only two years must have been close. As he tried to imagine never being allowed to mention Lucia again Annette picked up the slack.

“Mrs McDonagh, would it be fair to say that your husband invested a lot of energy in Bobby after that?”

The mother nodded.

“And that he engaged him in traditionally masculine pursuits?”

Another nod. “Bobby helped Philip with the car and DIY. He even took science at school when he’d rather have taken art. Just to please his father.”

Philip McDonagh had been so afraid of his second son being gay that he’d tried to mould him into a macho man. Such things rarely worked, people’s true selves will always out. Craig signalled to interrupt.

“When did you realise that Bobby was also gay, Mrs McDonagh?”

The small smile reappeared; Bobby was her favourite topic. “I never did. With Terence it was obvious but with Bobby I really didn’t know, not until he began getting into trouble and told the social work therapist. Then things fell into place. I just hadn’t noticed.”

“Is that when you started paying for his therapy? After the mandated sessions came to an end?”

She nodded and Craig was just wondering how she’d funded the sessions when her smile became one of pride. “I used some money my mother had left me. She would have approved. Philip never knew I had it.” She glanced meaningfully at Annette. “Everyone needs their running away fund. That was mine but Bobby needed it more than me.”

Craig pressed her. “What did you hope the therapy would achieve?”

“Not to make Bobby straight, if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s how you say it, isn’t it? No, I just wanted to help him cope.”

“With being gay?”

She shook her head. “With hiding it from his father.”

Annette glanced at Craig, uncomprehending. Bobby had seen his father’s violent reaction to T.J.’s declaration so why hadn’t he just left home and lived with his brother? It would have been a damn sight easier than walking a tightrope for years. Eileen McDonagh saw her question and answered it with a simple phrase.

“Bobby stayed because he loved his father.”

“So he wanted to please him?”

She nodded. “More than anything. He couldn’t bear to disappoint Philip in anything, so he made up his mind to hide he was gay until he left for university. He wouldn’t be living at home then and he could be himself with Philip being none the wiser.”

“So you helped Bobby keep his secret.”

“Yes.” The word eased out as if it was a burden that she could finally set down.

Craig nodded. It had made sense to Bobby and her, even if the rest of the world might ask why.

“I have a few more questions, Mrs McDonagh and then you’ll be free to go.”

Her invisible burden shed another few pounds.

“You said Bobby left home on the fourth of March, yet we only found him on the twenty-fifth. Why didn’t you report him missing in that time?”

It was a question he’d already guessed the answer to but he still needed to check.

She looked surprised. “Because he wasn’t; he was on a trip to Spain. To improve his Spanish before university.”

Craig leaned forward, needing her to make better sense of the three week gap. “But hadn’t you expected to hear from him in that time?”

She smiled; a boys will be boys smile. “I knew he wouldn’t phone very often; he was on an adventure.”

“How often did you hear from him?”

If his guess was correct it would have been once or twice and in writing.

“He sent a postcard from Spain a week after he left.”

Posted so that she wouldn’t raise any alarms; the killers had been thorough. It reinforced the idea of an international group.

He nodded. “We’ll need to see it.”

“I have it at home.”

“So you thought that Bobby was in Spain the whole time?”

“Yes.”

“Who else would have known about his trip?”

She looked puzzled.

“His friends. They were all taking gap year trips, although not to Spain. His school probably knew as well, although they weren’t organising it.”

“Did his father know? And T.J.?”

“Yes, of course.” Her eyes grew suddenly wild. “Why are you asking me all these questions? Is there something I could have done to prevent Bobby’s death? Was it my fault?”

Annette saw her impending meltdown and reached across the table, enclosing Eileen McDonagh’s housework-worn hand with her own. “No-one’s saying that, Mrs McDonagh. We just have to ask. We’ll check with the school and Bobby’s friends.” She made a mental note to check if it had already been done.

Craig watched as Eileen McDonagh’s breathing gradually slowed and her narrow face became less flushed, then he nodded Annette to keep hold of her hand and asked the question he’d been dreading asking but needed to, if only to gauge her response.

“I only have one more question, Mrs McDonagh. Please think very carefully about your reply.” He was answered by a nod and he braced himself for the coming storm. “How would your husband have reacted if, despite all your efforts to hide it, he had found out that Bobby was gay?”

Eileen McDonagh didn’t need to speak; her sharply withdrawn hand and look of terror were answer enough. Craig left the room quietly and entered the viewing room to join Jack. The sergeant was shaking his head.

“That poor lady will be crying for hours.”

Craig nodded. “I’d rather you sent Sandi in to sit with her if that’s OK? I need Annette next door.”

Jack sighed, not at the thought of his W.P.C. being purloined for an hour but at what he had to say next.

“Sorry, sir, you’re not going to like this. The male McDonagh’s acquired himself a brief.”

Craig was irritated but not shocked. They’d taken longer with Eileen McDonagh than expected; it stood to reason that her husband would have taken advantage of the delay. Jack read his mind and shook his head again.

“The solicitor’s been here the best part of an hour. Arrived just after you went in.” He screwed up his face, puzzled. “The thing is, McDonagh didn’t make any calls.”

Craig dragged his eyes away from the glass. “Who then?”

Jack shrugged. “You’d best ask the brief. I tried but he wouldn’t say. He was also clear that he was just here for the husband. I tell you what though; McDonagh must have friends in high places. It’s Seamus Bell and he’s not cheap.”

Craig doubted that Philip McDonagh’s benefactors gave a damn about his welfare; they just wanted to ensure that he didn’t talk. But it told him something; the killers had money. It was another piece of the puzzle. But much as his gut might say that the grieving father was involved in their murders, proving it to a jury was a whole other thing.

****

Thirty minutes of dead ends resulted in Craig signalling the interview’s close. But even no comments and silences say something; there are endless varieties of obfuscations and lies. Twitchy, nervous ones and sweaty, eyes widened feigns at innocence. Overcompensating leans forward; the posture imploring the interviewer to trust me, believe me, I’m a really good guy. And the opposite; disinterested lounging, so far back in the room’s hard chair that the occupant looks as if they’re about to take a nap. See how cool I am under pressure, pig; you’ll get nothing from me. As if obvious movements were all that an interviewer saw. Big mistake; seventy-five per cent of communication is non-verbal, or were you asleep in psychology class?

Every blink and gulp and drip of sweat from Philip McDonagh had told Craig something, and all of them added up to guilt. But not only that. It was Annette who’d spotted it first, nudging Craig gently beneath the table to focus his gaze. There on McDonagh’s face, behind all the flags and dirt of guilt and moral degradation, had lain something else. It had ebbed and flowed as changing stances and sharp glances from Bell drew McDonagh’s attention in warning, but it was always there. In the sweat on McDonagh’s top lip and the dilation of his pupils, in the dry mouth that had made him grab at the water jug and glug down glass after glass.

All the guilt in the world wouldn’t have caused that, not when McDonagh was supposedly protected by his brief. It was the product of pure adrenaline and Craig knew that if he’d checked Philip McDonagh’s pulse it would be racing. From fear. Fear was the something else, but not fear of them.

Jack had watched McDonagh through the glass before they’d arrived and he said that he’d been calm, even relaxed. He’d watched for five minutes more, sound off, as the accused had conversed quietly with his solicitor and they’d discussed their strategy. He couldn’t hear their words; a nod to confidentiality, but it hadn’t taken an expert to spot McDonagh’s demeanour change halfway through Seamus Bell’s whispered words. The solicitor he hadn’t called when no-one should have known that he was there was making him very nervous, but it wasn’t with any threat.

And now, even though McDonagh was apparently safe in the arms of one of the best legal minds in Belfast, his demeanour had changed again, this time to terror. It wasn’t anything that Craig had asked or that Bell had threatened; Philip McDonagh was just plain terrified. As if in the time between Bell arriving and now realisation had dawned on him, and that reality was scaring him half to death.

Jack and Craig realised why simultaneously. McDonagh hadn’t been frightened of being lifted or even of being found guilty, but he was terrified of Bell getting him released. That could mean only one thing; that his real fear was of whoever was paying for his defence.

Craig watched as an idea crossed McDonagh’s mind and for an instant the light of hope brightened his gaze, and then just as quickly it was snuffed out. For a moment he’d been tempted to tell them everything and ask for help, then he’d guessed that his benefactor’s reach would extend even to jail. So instead, Philip McDonagh said nothing, just glugged down water like a desperate man and perspired heavily into his glass.

They left McDonagh alone with his brief and retired to the staff room to talk. Annette spoke first.

“He’s terrified. Bell told him not to talk.”

“Hence all the no comments.”

She was ambivalent. “We’d have got those with any perp whose brief had said to say nothing. It was more than that.”

Craig nodded. “He was terrified, but not of Bell.”

Jack interjected, looking up calmly from his tea. “McDonagh was a different man when you were in with his wife. Peaceful almost. When Bell first walked in he was still OK, puzzled at him being there but not scared. Then Bell said something and McDonagh’s mood shifted, but he still wasn’t as scared as he was just now.”

Annette nodded. “He’d had time to think about it, whatever it is.”

Jack slurped his tea and then set it down. “I thought he was going to have a heart attack; I’m going to ask the medical examiner to take a look.” He gazed ahead, looking puzzled. “The thing is, McDonagh definitely didn’t call anyone so how the heck did Bell know that he was here?”

Craig shrugged. “Someone has a long reach and that’s who he’s afraid of.” His shrug looked more nonchalant than he felt. Behind it he was thinking of who could have alerted Bell’s firm to McDonagh’s arrest and the list made for an uncomfortable read.

Annette nodded in agreement. “Is there any way we can find out who hired him?”

Craig shook his head. “Not legally. Bell’s firm is under no obligation to disclose it, but it’s likely to be our missing killer.”

“One of them.”

Jack added sagely. “The boss. Whoever it is, you’re not cutting McDonagh loose are you?”

Craig shook his head. “Not a hope in hell. We’ll hold him the full time PACE allows, for his own sake.” He changed tack. “Theodora Rustin and Philip McDonagh, what the hell do they have in common? And how did a mechanic, that’s what McDonagh is, isn’t he?”

Jack nodded. “Owns a wee garage near the Dublin Road.”

“OK, so how did a mechanic and a professor meet, unless he fixed her car?”

“He might have; his garage is close to the university.”

Annette chipped in. “Religion? Maybe they belong to the same church.”

Craig shrugged. “Perhaps. Rustin told Liam she wasn’t religious, just interested in history, but then she lied about other things so my guess is that she’s probably devout. Davy can check.” He pulled out his mobile and a moment later Davy was on the line. “Sorry to add to your burden, Davy, but could you check if Theodora Rustin and Philip McDonagh belong to the same church, and/or if he services her car.”

“W…Way ahead of you. They don’t. McDonagh goes to mass every day at a church on the Ormeau Road. The Prof doesn’t worship anywhere public.”

Craig wasn’t giving up. “OK, check the car servicing.” He was about to hang up when something else occurred to him. “Or if McDonagh’s ever shown an interest in the history of religion.”

Davy made a face, wondering where he would find such information. He cheered up quickly; he liked a challenge. “Roger, Wilco.”

Craig smiled at the military jargon; he must have been listening to Ken. He turned back to Annette. “OK, it’s a no to them attending the same church so let’s just hope that McDonagh goes brass rubbing.”

He was interrupted by the crack of a biscuit snapping and turned to see Jack shaking his head.

“You don’t agree?”

“I think you detectives make things complicated. If McDonagh’s interested in religious history think where he’d go to find out about it: courses or conferences run by churches or universities, library books or the internet. All of those can be easily checked.”

He was right.

Craig smiled. “You’ll be stealing Davy’s job next. Thanks, I’ll give him that list.” He glanced at the clock. Four-twenty; they needed to get back. “OK, we need to decide what to do with the McDonaghs.”

Jack and Annette spoke together. “Release her and hold him.”

Craig laughed. “You two should get hitched.”

Jack shook his head vehemently. “One wife’s enough for me, thanks.”

“OK, release Mrs McDonagh and hold the husband here for his own safety. If he’s moved anywhere he’d be too easy to kill. If Bell objects say we still have time left on PACE and we’ll be questioning him again. Who knows, a night in a cell might loosen McDonagh’s tongue.”

Jack shook his head. “Bell’s already trying to get him released on the grounds he’s a grieving father.”

Annette snorted. “Not so you’d notice. He didn’t shed a tear when we mentioned Bobby.”

Craig was unperturbed. “We know Bell will try and he knows that we’ll oppose it, and with four victims we have a good case.” He stood up to leave. “Tell Mr McDonagh we’ll be questioning him again in the morning and make it clear I’m happy to talk before then should he wish, with or without his brief. Be his new best friend, Jack. He’s more scared of them than us now so he may well bite.”

****

John watched fascinated as a pair of elegant limbs twisted themselves around the leg of a chair and wondered if they taught girls how to do that at school. His eyes were forced higher by an equally elegant voice.

“So, Marco Craig. He is your good friend, yes?”

He nodded dumbly and then found his voice. “Since school. He’s half Italian, like you.”

It came out wrong; Sofia Emiliani never did anything at fifty per cent.

“I am all Italian. I was born in Milan. Marco’s mother only, she come from Rome.”

The words made John pause for a second; how did she know so much about Craig? His curiosity was replaced by chagrin. And why wasn’t she as interested in him? A sudden image of Natalie taking a scalpel to his bits pulled him abruptly back to earth. He had no business being jealous of anyone; he was a happily married man. In the instant it took the thoughts to run through his head, he nodded a casual yes to the question, now he turned the conversation back to the case, which, after all, was the reason that she was there.

Twenty minutes later he was impressed by the psychiatrist’s knowledge of cults and ritual but more certain than ever that she couldn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know, so he ended the meeting politely and rose to open the door. The psychiatrist didn’t budge and for a moment hostage scenarios raced through John’s head, with him as the victim. They weren’t unpleasant; he would defy any man to object to being held captive by a woman like this. But kidnap wasn’t on the good doctor’s agenda or at least not John’s kidnap anyhow. She kept her seat and started asking about Craig again.

This time even John’s vanity wouldn’t allow him to miss what was happening and he began to feel uncomfortable. He shook his head noncommittally and opened the door as wide as it would go.

“I really must get on with my work, Doctor Emiliani. Thank you for all your help.”

She finally took the hint, rising sinuously and strolling past him far too close. As soon as she left, John lifted the phone to Natalie, convinced that she’d been right all along. Sofia Emiliani didn’t give a damn about their murders but she definitely had Craig in her sights.

Chapter Fifteen

The briefing lasted five minutes. They didn’t have time to hang around when there was so much still to do. The only two updates looked like dead ends; Theodora Rustin had never travelled to France or Spain, although Italy had been her favourite holiday destination for years and, as Liam had pointed out, EuroRail provided access across the continent. Sadly it hadn’t done on any of the relevant dates. Whatever Rustin’s role was in the group it wasn’t as an assassin. The other update was that the tyre track belonged to a BMW. They could narrow it to a five series but as no-one they’d interviewed owned any series at all it was back to the drawing board on both points.

Craig passed on Jack’s list of suggestions and went to his office to phone Des. He was halfway through asking if Devaney’s stomach contents matched the others when there were several hard raps on the door. He could see Nicky’s outline through the glass.

“Hang on, Des. Nicky wants me.”

He said “come” and Nicky entered the room at breakneck speed.

“You need to talk to Maggie.”

Craig frowned. It sounded like something that could wait. “Tell her I’ll get back to her.”

Suddenly Nicky did something she never did. She pressed the top of the phone to cut Craig’s call then raced back to her desk and transferred another as he gawped.

“That was Des!”

“You need to take this. Trust me.”

Because he did he reserved his tirade for later and lifted his phone quickly when it rang.

“Hello, Maggie.”

Maggie Clarke’s brisk tones came down the line. They’d got brisker since she’d become The Chronicle’s news editor.

“Marc, listen. I’ve had a call from your killers.”

Craig’s eyes widened and he nodded at the anxious P.A. standing by his door.

“You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be. The one I spoke to identified herself as a Professor Theodora Rustin. I’ve checked and she’s on the staff at Queen’s.”

He shouted at Nicky to find Liam, delaying Maggie till he’d lifted the other line.

“Say that again, Maggie.”

“Professor Theodora Rustin. Do you know her?”

Liam cut in. “Aye. I met her twice. What about her?”

“She’s just phoned me with a statement she wants printed in this evening’s paper -”

Craig interrupted. “Or what?”

“Or they’ll kill someone else. She said they had finished here, but they would start again if I didn’t comply.”

“Here?”

“That’s what she said; I tape every call to my line so I played it back. She was very specific. It sounds like they’re planning to do the same thing elsewhere.”

It fitted with the killings shifting religious sites.

“Did she give you any names, Maggie?”

“No, but she definitely talked about ‘they’. I’ve emailed the recording to Davy. He can play it for you.” Her brisk voice wavered. “I don’t know what to do, Marc. If we print it we’re giving these bastards a platform, but if we don’t they’ll kill someone else.” She paused for a moment and her next words held real panic. “She says if we don’t print it she’ll contact other journalists, and none of us can control what they do.”

It confirmed his fear. The group had no intention of stopping and just like terrorists they wanted publicity, to make the world see what they were doing and why. As if anything could make their actions understandable!

But Maggie was agitated enough so he kept his voice calm.

“What’s the latest time you can go to print?”

“The deadline’s six o’clock, to be in the shops at eight. But there’s no way Mr Lawton and the Board will let us print this.”

It was ten-past-five now - they had less than an hour. It wasn’t enough time.

“Do you post online simultaneously?”

“Yes. They said they’d check our website and if it wasn’t there then they’d buy the paper from the shops. If it wasn’t in the print version then they’d kill again tonight.”

Craig had an idea but he needed to discuss it. “OK, here’s what I want you to do. Write your article and get it ready to go. Someone will get back to you in twenty minutes. If Cameron Lawton gives you grief put him onto me.”

“But, Marc––”

His voice was firm. “Twenty minutes, Maggie.”

He cut the call and raced out to Davy’s desk, beckoning the others over to listen to the tape. Liam nodded when he heard the voice; it was definitely Teddy Rustin’s. She hadn’t attempted to disguise it; she knew her identity was blown. As the tape ended Craig galvanized his team.

“Liam, get Rustin’s photo to every foot patrol and shops, supermarkets; anywhere that sells The Chronicle. Their distribution office can give you a list. Carmen, get it to central CCTV surveillance as well; they cover all the in-shop cameras. It’s a long shot but if Rustin’s already exposed she may be dispensable; they might send her to buy the hard copy.”

Liam shook his head. “Safer to send someone we have no I.D. on.”

“I said it was a long shot, but if she does go and we miss her there’ll be hell to pay.”

He swung round to locate Annette. “Annette, there’s still skeleton surveillance at the Saint Patrick’s site, contact the local uniforms and beef it up. It’s part of the ritual to dump there, so if they kill again tonight it’s where they’ll leave the body and we might catch them in the act. Everyone else, drop what you’re doing and help Liam and Annette.” He turned back to Davy. “Davy, I need you for a special task.”

Forty minutes later Carmen was on computer watch, Annette was at The Chronicle calming Maggie, and Liam and Ken were primed to go if Rustin’s image flagged at a shop. Craig and Davy were hunched over a computer, trying to build a dummy Chronicle website to replace the official one; banking on the stats that most Chronicle readers still preferred print to pixels. Those that didn’t would already have the real site’s URL in their browser and there was nothing that they could do to change that, but a slight alteration to the URL in the search engines might send the killers to the dummy site and fool them for a while.

Posting the article there at eight would reach the smallest audience and buy them time. It was a Hail Mary pass but with any luck Rustin would see it, think they’d complied and a life would be saved, if not she might go to buy the paper and they’d catch her in the act.

Worst case scenario, another member of the group whom they didn’t know would buy the paper and realise that The Chronicle hadn’t complied, but by then everyone would be in place at Saul. It could mean another death but at least they would catch them when they left the body this time. It wasn’t ideal but it was the only thing Craig could think of in the time.

Fortunately or unfortunately the decision was taken out of his hands. Not by Sean Flanagan, whom he’d meant to ring but hadn’t had the time, but by a much less savoury man. A second call from Maggie at five-fifty interrupted their preparations. Her voice held a mixture of sorrow, panic and relief.

“God, Marc, I’m sorry.”

Craig gripped the receiver. “Tell me.”

“It’s already in print. The Belfast Mirror ran it in its early edition. There was no way that we could have known.” She paused. “The killers obviously didn’t trust us to do it.”

He nodded. “They must have known of our connection. They were playing you all along.” It was his turn to pause as a light flicked on in his head. “Whose name is on the article?”

As he asked he already knew the answer. Ray Mercer. This was payback, but the stupid bastard was paying other people back to get revenge on him.

He mouthed ‘Belfast Mirror’ to Davy and watched as the bright red headline appeared on his screen. “God’s Judgement.” What followed was every bit as bad as he’d feared; a religious rant masquerading as a manifesto from God.

Maggie answered just as Craig read the reporter’s name.

“Ray Mercer’s. He’s freelancing now. They must have offered him a lot to do it.”

Craig’s tone was cynical. “I doubt it. If it meant he could screw us he would have done it for free.” She didn’t argue, they both knew Mercer too well. “OK, thanks, Maggie. Let me know if there’s anything new. I’ll hand you over to Davy.”

Davy covered the receiver with his hand and returned to the practicalities. “Do you want Mercer lifted, chief?”

Craig nodded. His overt reason was to see what, if anything, Mercer had learned about their killers, but beneath it he could feel the cold frisson of revenge.

“Get Jack’s team to do it. Throw him in a room at High Street and I’ll get there when I’ve nothing better to do.”

At least it solved one problem; no-one else would die this week. Now they had another; how to handle the public and press. He didn’t have the time for press conferences or to deal with a microphone shoved in his face. Time to delegate.

“Nicky, send Annette in to see me when she gets back. I have a job for her.” He turned towards his office. “Don’t disturb me unless someone’s dying. I need to think.”

The thinking was accompanied by a pacing that everyone on two floors could hear. It was as rapid as the thoughts racing through his head. They knew two members of the sect now: Rustin and McDonagh, but neither of them had the balls to be the boss. He stopped pacing abruptly. It was more than a sect, it was an international movement. Some distorted Christian Jihad. He would never say it out loud but to his mind the term fitted, but whatever it was called it had at least three local members and probably far more than that.

He ran through what they knew. Rustin knew Vulgar Latin but she could never have carried the bodies, no matter how thin most of them were. McDonagh and some other man maybe? They needed to check McDonagh’s alibis for the abduction and disposal times. Jake could do that, if he could get through the wall of legalese that Seamus Bell would erect.

What if McDonagh was clear, who else could have carried out the abductions and how many of them were there? Bell’s presence at High Street said there was at least one more and that they were wealthy. In his experience wealthy men hired others to do their dirty work so if McDonagh was successfully alibied they were looking for at least three more men; the boss and two to carry the bodies without leaving footprints.

So that made five group members: Rustin, McDonagh and three more men, one of them the boss. Or was there a sixth? Would the big boss really get close enough to hire a brief? And who looked after the victims between abduction and kill? The men who dumped them?

He shook his head. What did it matter if there were ten or twenty, they could count them when they’d stopped them and they were no closer to doing that now than they had been on day one. He was about to resume pacing when Nicky knocked gingerly on the door, entering without waiting for his word.

“Sir, Mercer’s at High Street creating hell, Annette and Liam are outside and Davy says he’s got something for you.”

Craig stared into space as if he hadn’t heard. She went to repeat herself but he cut her off.

“Send Davy in first, please.” He glanced at the clock. Almost seven; they weren’t getting home anytime soon. “And would you mind phoning my Dad and apologising. I said I’d call in this evening.”

A moment later, Davy entered. Craig nodded him to a seat.

“What have you got for me?”

The analyst winced then set his smart-pad on the desk. The screen was split into two maps.

Craig squinted for somewhere he recognised amongst the place names. “Where are they?”

“The s…site on the left is Fátima in Portugal; the Sanctuary of Fátima to be precise. The one on the right is Mexico City; the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Two more religious sites.

“When and how many?”

“Mexico, one death in twenty-ten, drowned and wrapped in towels in their hotel room. Portugal, three killed in twenty-fourteen in exactly the same way as ours, all on dates significant to the Catholic faith. The Portuguese victims each had a religious medal in their hands.”

A medal; it was the beginning of the group marking their victims. The tattoos had come next.

“I’ve emailed all four local forces for the files. I’m checking for other sites in the Americas and then I’ll s…start elsewhere.”

Craig shook his head. “Leave that for now and find out if the group contacted the local press at any of the sites. If not, this press release means that they’re ready to come out of hiding, which means they must think they’re strong enough to evade the authorities now.”

His heart sank. How many years had this been happening and how the hell had it been missed?

“Hand the searches off to Carmen, and give her Jack’s list to work as well, but everything can wait until we all get something to eat.” He yelled through the half-open door. “Nicky, order some food please. See what everyone wants, and send Liam and Annette in.”

Twenty minutes later everyone was eating, talking or tapping on a computer screen and Annette and Liam were in Craig’s room. Annette had been tasked with handling the media. She was pleased; it was something she’d need on her CV when she went for D.C.I. She swallowed a chip then asked Craig’s advice on the press.

“Which is better, sir; wait till they start asking questions or hold a pre-emptive conference?”

“Pre-emptive, although I’m not sure we can call it that now, thanks to The Mirror. Get in front of it quickly or they’ll hound you every day.” He gestured towards the door. “Nicky can set up a conference for tomorrow.”

“TV as well?”

He thought for a moment, exhausted by the thought of clamouring journalists. “Yes. Best to get it all over at once. If you draft a statement I’ll check it in the morning.”

“Great.”

They turned towards the sound of loud chomping. Liam was picking anchovies off his next slice of pizza while the one in his mouth was already meeting its death.

“What’s happening with the newspaper shops, Liam?”

He shook his head and swallowed with a gulp. “We changed the brief to The Belfast Mirror outlets but there’s no sign of Rustin buying any papers. Mind you, it was a long shot once it went online. They’d got what they’d asked for so why risk nipping out for proof?”

Craig shrugged. “Paranoia. Plus, ego’s stronger than common sense, so keep looking.”

Liam nodded and dropped a small slice of pizza into his mouth, swallowing it in one go.

“I’d hate to see your arteries.”

Liam grinned. “They’ll be well padded, just like the rest of me.”

Annette hadn’t the energy to tell him that wasn’t a good thing but she made a note to have a chat about his diet soon. She and Liam might have a love hate relationship but the love was stronger, so the last thing she wanted was him dying of a heart attack. Craig updated them on the other murder sites Davy had found.

“So it’s a cult, boss.”

“Sect fits better but actually I think it’s closer to a religious terror group. They’re killing anyone they deem a transgressor, and while it’s individuals at the moment there’s nothing to stop them targeting larger groups. We’ll have more information on the earlier killings tomorrow so Davy can see if there’s anything else that helps our case. Until then we’re working on Rustin, McDonagh and at least three other members locally, probably men. Meanwhile we have another problem; Ray Mercer. He could be a witness but if Liam or I question him he’ll clam up.”

“Aye, and there’s no way I’m letting you near an interview room mirror with him around.”

“I need to watch the interview even if I’m too far away to punch him.”

Annette took what she thought was a hint. “I could do it now. My sister’s staying with me, so she can keep an eye on the kids.”

Craig shook his head. “I was just thinking out loud, Annette. You’ve enough to do. Actually I think Andy and Jake might be a good match for him.”

Liam nodded. “Jake’s already at High Street getting McDonagh’s alibis. Andy’s outside eating.”

“Call him in.”

When Liam returned he was alone and wearing a grin. “He’ll be a minute.”

Craig shook his head wearily. “Let me guess, he’s chatting up some poor woman who doesn’t know his track record.”

“He is. A wee girl from Vice who came to collect a file.”

Craig strode out onto the floor, as much to ask Davy something as to check that Andy wasn’t giving the girl a hard time. He wasn’t. The girl had gone and he was looking crestfallen.

“Struck out?”

It was said with more sympathy than he would have got from Liam.

Angel nodded pragmatically. “It’s a numbers game.”

“That attitude could explain where you’re going wrong. Join Liam in my office, please. I’ll be in in a moment.”

He re-joined the group just as Liam was starting a fresh round of insults about Andy’s love life. Andy’s expression said he’d already had enough so Craig cut him off.

“Andy, I want you and Jake to interview Ray Mercer at High Street. We’ll head over there now. I’ll be observing.”

Andy eyed the last slice of pizza, earning a warning glance from Liam. “Who’s Ray Mercer?”

Liam answered as he grabbed the slice. “Lousy journo scrote. Used to be news editor at The Chronicle till he was booted out.”

Craig beckoned the thwarted seraph towards the door.

“I’ll brief you on the way. He’s the reporter who wrote the piece for The Belfast Mirror this evening, which means he may know something about our killers.”

“Happy to give any journalist a hard time, but why don’t you two want the pleasure?”

Liam stared pointedly at Craig’s right hand. “Let me tell you a story about a man and a pane of glass…”

****

Theodora Rustin scanned her smart-pad slowly, checking that everything she’d said to the journalist was there. As she read, the man watching her flicked slowly through a book, then replaced it on a shelf and lifted another one down. Finally he tutted.

“You’ve read that bloody thing fifty times. It’s all there.”

She rounded on him. “It might be on a screen but for all we know Mercer played us. It could be a dummy site, or it could be online but not in print. We need to see a real paper.”

The man’s relaxed stance changed to alertness and he banged his fist on the back of a chair.

“NO! That’s exactly what they’ll be waiting for. They know who you are. Your face must be pasted all over the North.”

She rose to leave. “I don’t care. I want to see it in print.”

The man moved swiftly, reaching the door before her to block the way. He grabbed her hair and pulled her face close to his. “I said no.” Then he threw her to the ground. “Do as you’re bloody well told.” He turned to an older man playing patience at a desk. “I told you we shouldn’t have involved a woman. They’re unstable.”

The second man’s tone was sanguine. “Do you speak Vulgar Latin? No. Do you know every historical site of worship in the world? No. But she does.” His tone changed to conciliation and he turned to where Rustin was picking herself off the floor. “It pains me to say it, Theodora, but he’s right. You can’t leave.” He raised a hand to halt her objection and a note of steel entered his voice. “He will go instead. They won’t be looking for him and he could do with the exercise.” He turned to the man with a sarcastic smile. “Buy all the evening papers. And make sure you get every edition.”

He beckoned Teddy Rustin towards him and drew out a chair for her to sit. “Join me in a game of whist, Theodora. We’ll be waiting for some time.”

With that he turned his back on the man, telling him exactly where in the pecking order he stood.

****

Ray Mercer’s interview was hardly worth the trip. After twenty minutes of saying nothing to make himself feel important he tired of the game and told them exactly what Maggie had two hours before.

He’d received a phone call from a woman, self-identified as Theodora Rustin, who’d read out a statement and asked him to print it, anywhere but The Chronicle. Calling Maggie had just been a dummy play to keep the police occupied. It was a safe bet that Mercer would have avoided The Chronicle even if he hadn’t been told to; no-one gives a scoop to the newspaper that canned them months before.

Andy had been wearing a bored expression as Mercer rattled on, now he raised a hand to interrupt.

“How much did they pay you?”

Craig rolled his eyes in the viewing room. Finally! It would have been the first question out of his mouth. Mercer gave a grin so sleazy it should have been a criminal offence.

“Wouldn’t you like to know. And before you go looking for bank transfers, it was cash left somewhere there were no cameras. Although feel free to waste your time looking.”

Jake shook his head in disgust. “You heard what they wanted printed. Didn’t any part of you think of contacting the police?”

Mercer stared at him. “Let me think about that for a minute.” After a long pause he grinned. “The answer’s no. I can honestly say that it never occurred to me.”

Jake sprang to his feet and Andy moved quickly to hold him back. Mercer raised his hands in mock horror.

“Ooh, I’m scared. Please don’t hit me, Mr Policeman.” He smirked. “Is this where you start the good cop bad cop routine?” He gestured at the glass with the unlit cigarette he’d been holding for half-an-hour. “Let me guess. You’re trying to impress the big boss. Craig’s in his hidey-hole watching ’cos he’s too shit scared to face me himself.”

He turned his chair to face the mirror and sat back, arms folded, as if daring Craig to appear. But Craig wasn’t rising to the bait. Months of physio and shrinks had taught him not to give Mercer what he wanted, and after ten minutes of arm folding the journalist finally got the message loud and clear.

He turned back to Jake and Andy and after ten more minutes of self-important rhetoric Craig’s rap on the glass told them to let him go, but not before spending a night in the cells, while Jack searched for his mysteriously lost paperwork.

****

Wednesday, 1 a.m.

Craig groped for his vibrating mobile and clamped it to his ear, then fell back into a semi-doze as John began talking about the case. His one a.m. calls were becoming a habit.

“Devaney’s stomach contents weren’t as well digested as the others’ so we think that they killed him quicker than the rest. And Des got a male print from his cling-wrap that matches one of the other two, but still no I.D. And before you ask, none of them match Philip McDonagh’s.”

He didn’t pause for queries, which was probably just as well. Craig was so tired he could barely think never mind form a coherent question.

“And, oh yes, your girl in the Quoile had the same stuff for her last meal as the others, but it was barely digested so she died very soon after eating. I’d say less than an hour. And it was definitely river water in her lungs not fresh.”

Craig woke up enough to query what it meant. The girl’s stomach contents were too much of a coincidence so she’d definitely been a rehearsal killing, but why had the group needed a rehearsal if they’d already killed elsewhere? The only answer was that they had some new members in Northern Ireland, or worse, that they were training up local teams.

He was too tired to work it out so he gave an exhausted “mmm” that he hoped would end the call. It was a vain hope. Natalie’s high pitched voice suddenly sliced through his doze, shocking his eyes open wide. He hadn’t expected John to phone again this late and he most certainly hadn’t expected Natalie to be on the call when he did. At any other time the double act would have amused him, but broken sleep and corpses were combining to make it a bloody week.

The surgeon was halfway through a sentence when Craig remembered that at one a.m. most sane people were in their beds.

“Are you two still at work?”

John went to answer but Natalie’s forcefulness beat him down. “Why would we be at work? It’s one o’clock in the morning!”

Craig didn’t know whether to answer her or laugh. He answered, more angrily than he meant to.

“Exactly! So why the hell are you calling me? Don’t you like sleeping?”

His attempts at keeping his eyes closed were being undermined by some bizarre need to make facial expressions as he spoke. He blamed his Italian half, but whichever half of him was to blame he was suddenly wide awake. He propped himself up against the wall and took a deep breath, cutting politely across Natalie’s tale of how she often survived on a mere three hours sleep.

“Natalie. Nice as it is to chat to you, could I suggest that one p.m. might be a better time?”

John interjected. “That’s what I said.”

Her icy tone cut him off. “No.”

No what? No, he couldn’t suggest it, or no it wouldn’t be better? She saved him the bother of asking, her doom laden tone insisting he paid attention to her next words.

“We called ’cos Sofia has got you in her sights.”

Craig wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “What? Like a sniper?”

John laughed. “That’s quite funny.”

Natalie tutted loudly, telling both men that she wasn’t amused.

“Don’t be stupid, you two. This is serious. She’s obsessed with you, Marc. From the moment Katy mentioned you she was plotting some way to meet you. After she did she talked about you obsessively to John, then she came back to the hospital and picked Katy’s brains again, for every detail she could get. And you know Katy; she’s so flipping nice that she told her everything. How that girl manages to navigate life beats me.”

Craig could hear John muttering “she’s right” and “mm” in the background, like the chorus of a rap song. He let Natalie continue for a moment longer then he silenced them both with one word. “So?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Anything less than ‘Oh my God’ told Natalie that he hadn’t understood the portent of her words. She started again in exaggerated tones. “The. Italian. Hussy’s. After. You. Do. You. Understand?”

Craig yawned loudly, forgetting to cover his mouth, making John laugh and Natalie purse her lips. He irritated her even more with his next words.

“I repeat. So? I’m sure you’re just being dramatic, but even if you aren’t what the hell’s the problem? She’s a woman not an axe murderer. I’ll just refuse to see her and she’ll take the hint.”

Natalie’s high pitched voice dropped an octave in what both men knew was her attempt at gravitas. “She’s a stalker, mark my words. Just don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

Then John committed a faux pas he would regret for days. “Mind you, if you have to be stalked…”

Craig had already slid down to the horizontal when he heard Natalie’s outraged squeak. He murmured “thanks for the warning” then fell asleep on top of his phone.

****

The C.C.U. Wednesday, 8 a.m.

They didn’t so much have a briefing as people talked while they grazed on the buffet that Nicky had arranged. Everyone was exhausted and in Craig’s experience only two things helped with that: caffeine and sugar. Andy was already getting both from a Toblerone.

Craig took a seat, yawning at length before he spoke. He’d managed to get back to sleep after Natalie’s warning but he was running on a severe deficit.

“OK. As you know, last night The Belfast Mirror ran the killers’ statement. It was a freelance piece by Ray Mercer. Jake and Andy interviewed him but he was no help. He’s still in High Street if anyone wants to try again, but I wouldn’t waste your time. What damage to public confidence The Mirror piece has caused, Annette’s about to find out at a press conference downstairs.”

He turned to see a pale Annette flicking through her notes.

“Just let me see the statement before you go down, Annette. Nicky will be accompanying you.”

Nicky gave her a thumbs up.

“This seems like an appropriate moment to announce that from now on Annette will be known as Annette Eakin instead of McElroy.”

As he said it he fixed Liam with a ‘shut up’ look.

“It doesn’t require explanation but any questions you have should be addressed to Annette privately. OK, let’s carry on. Doctor Winter has informed me that our fourth victim, Brian Devaney, had stomach contents that matched the others, as had the girl who was found in the Quoile. That’s too much of a coincidence for me so I believe we’re now looking at five local murders by the same gang.”

Ken raised a hand and Craig nodded him on.

“You believe the girl was a rehearsal killing?”

“Yes. They obviously hadn’t perfected their M.O. then.”

It was Davy’s turn to interject. “But if they’d killed before elsewhere, why the need to rehearse?”

“I asked myself that at one a.m. when John rang to tell me. The best scenario is that they have a new member, the worst case is that they’re training separate teams in each country.”

Liam nodded sagely. “Like terrorist cells.”

Craig made a face; it was too near the truth for comfort.

Ken’s face said he was still unsure about something. “I was just thinking, sir. Is it possible that the girl wasn’t actually killed by them, but instead she fell in the river and drowned when she was escaping?”

Craig was surprised. None of them had thought of it but it would explain why the girl hadn’t been wrapped in cling-film and disposed of at the site, and why she’d drowned in river water instead of fresh.

“Excellent. That explains something I was struggling to work out; why the girl had the same stomach contents but nothing else. If she was being prepared for baptism but escaped between the meal and the ceremony that would fit. Her stomach contents were less than an hour old when she died.”

Liam’s interest was piqued. “Here, that might give us a clue about where she was held. We can check what she was wearing, but I seem to remember she was in her bare feet when she washed up and no shoes were ever found. How far could she have run in bare feet? That means the place they held her must have been close to where she fell in.”

Ken interjected. “And from where she washed up and the tides Davy should be able to calculate where she entered the water.”

Craig had heard enough to tell him it was worth exploring. “Good thinking, Ken, look into it, but don’t spend too much time please. Carmen can help you with CCTV for the days around when the girl was found. We might be very lucky and catch her running from members of the group.”

He turned to the sound of Davy tapping noisily on one of his PCs.

“Got something, Davy?”

He was answered by a nod and further tapping.

“OK, we’ll come back to that. We need to get a few reports from yesterday.” He turned to Liam in time to witness a Danish pastry’s demise. “Liam. The Bishop’s list. Update us on that please.”

Liam nodded, sending a shower of crumbs across Carmen’s desk. She brushed them off in disgust and then turned her gimlet gaze back to Ken. Any normal girlfriend would have been pleased by Craig’s praise of him but she looked furious. Everyone saw it, except Ken who was smiling innocently around the room. Liam flicked through his notebook as he talked.

“OK, Bishop Murray gave me a list of twenty names of seminarians and practicing priests. All were either chucked out or are practicing under supervision.”

Craig interrupted. “Why?”

“The seminarians mostly got in trouble for hopping over the walls to see the local ladies. Two were caught viewing online porn and one for running up debts, bringing the bailiffs to the seminary door.” He laughed loudly. “I bet that went down well.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “Did any of them actually leave on religious grounds i.e. they believed the church was becoming too modern?”

Liam scanned the list. “Nope. Sorry, boss. Of course they might have thought it but just not said. And before you ask, there were no names I recognised on the list, but it only goes back ten years. The priests are being watched for various reasons. One has a nasty habit of betting on the gee-gees, one’s under suspicion of having an affair with his housekeeper and one’s been fraternising with the local dissidents.”

Davy had stopped tapping. He interjected, looking pleased with himself. “I can help with s…something further back. Philip McDonagh.”

“What about him?”

“He was in a s…seminary for five years. Left in mid eighty-four.”

Craig sat forward, suddenly energised. “Any idea why?”

Davy smiled. “Here’s a clue. He got married two months later and his daughter was born three months after that.”

Liam interjected cheerfully. “Maybe his wife was one of the local ladies.”

Maybe. It told them two things. Philip McDonagh took his religion seriously enough to have considered becoming a priest and he could have made contacts at the seminary.

“Thanks, Davy, keep digging on that, and how he might have met Professor Rustin.” He was about to move on when the analyst shook his head.

“I haven’t finished. There’s s…something you need to see.”

He beckoned them across and tapped on a computer key. On his central screen was a grainy black and white CCTV shot.

“I had an idea and came in early to set it up.”

As everyone watched he tapped again and the images began to move. After thirty seconds of viewing Jake gasped.

“That’s Ronnie Carlton! The therapist who saw Bobby McDonagh and Elena Boraks.”

Davy nodded and paused the video. “Statistically one of the group was likely to buy the print edition of The Mirror, just to make s…sure they’d actually published their diatribe.”

Liam chuckled. “Diatribe. That’s exactly what it was.”

Craig cut in. “Explain your thinking, Davy.”

“OK. So I thought; who would have known all four victims? Only Devaney made it to court and prison so that ruled them out, and only three of the victims were known to social services.”

He paused for comments but Craig urged him on.

“Just two of the four saw Carlton, and Philip McDonagh knew Bobby but, as far as we can tell, none of the other victims. They w…were all Roman Catholic but all lapsed, so that ruled out attending the same church and although they all lived in the same county it was miles apart. There w…was no one thing that linked all four victims, except for––”

Liam finished the sentence. “Cops.”

Craig’s heart sank as Davy nodded.

“Correct. All four vics had been seen by the police: Devaney multiple times, McDonagh and Boraks for s…shoplifting and Sam by Sergeant Boyd, although only Devaney was ever charged.” He saw Craig’s grim expression and grinned. “Cheer up, chief. I checked and they were different officers from different s…stations and none of them seem to know each other.”

Craig was ashamed to say it but he was relieved. They’d had a corrupt A.C.C. two years before and they didn’t need another police scandal so soon.

“Then I realised they didn’t each need to know every victim, just as long as they knew all of them between them, s…so I decided to create a fantasy sect.”

Liam’s face lit up. “Like a fantasy football team.”

“Sort of, except with possible sect members. I got photos of Louise McIntyre, Carlton, Rustin and McDonagh from their driving licences, plus shots of all the arresting officers, Sergeant Boyd, McDonagh’s solicitor, Devaney’s barrister and the prison guards from his wing at Magilligan, and ran a s…search against every CCTV tape we got in from last night.” He tapped again then gestured at the screen with a smug smile. “And hey presto, Ronnie Carlton at a newsagent’s shop in Ardglass. He’s definitely buying a newspaper. I can’t see the title, but my money’s on it being last night’s Mirror. I’m having the frame enlarged at the moment then it’s over to you lot to check it out.”

No-one knew who’d started the applause although they suspected that it was Nicky; she was certainly beaming with maternal pride. But whoever started it was irrelevant because everyone joined in, much to Davy’s shock.

Craig added to his blushes. “Astounding work, Davy. You may just have found our third killer.” He turned to Jake. “Jake, as you interviewed Carlton you follow this one up. Get the Ardglass uniforms to the shop with his photo. Davy will see what the traffic cams show and hopefully we’ll catch a break and see which direction he came from or went last night.” In the periphery of his vision he saw Annette readying to leave. He gestured her to wait, and rose to his feet.

“We still need to hear about McDonagh’s alibis, so everyone stay put for a minute. I’ll be back.”

With that he beckoned Annette and Nicky into his office, scanned their prepared press statement, tidied a few words and nodded, handing it back to Nicky to rejig.

“That’s fine. Nicky, print out some copies, please.” As she exited he turned to Annette. “Thanks for doing this.”

She smiled. “I know how much you hate journalists and I need it on my CV.”

“Thanks anyway. OK, just read out the statement while Nicky distributes the copies, then say you’ll take one or two questions. Keep it to that. If you stick to the facts you’ll be fine.”

Annette wasn’t so sure. “What will I do if they start on last night’s headlines?”

“Tell them it’s unfair on the victims and unhelpful to the investigation to glorify killers with nicknames and sound bites.”

Nicky reappeared carrying the print-outs and a golf umbrella.

“Where did you get that?”

“It’s Gary’s. I brought it in especially, just in case those press boys get out of line.”

Craig didn’t doubt she would use it so he removed it gently from her grasp. “Thanks, Nick, but assault wouldn’t look good on your résumé. Annette will be fine.” He opened the door, showing them out. “Tell me how it went afterwards.”

As they crossed the floor he beckoned Andy, Jake and Liam in, completely missing the hostile vibes emanating from Carmen.

“OK, if Davy’s right and I think that he probably is, Ronnie Carlton is involved somehow. We might be lucky and catch his direction of travel last night on a camera, but we also need a tail on him right away. You take that, Jake.”

He turned to see Jake giving a wide yawn.

“Are we keeping you up?”

The sergeant swallowed the yawn halfway and shook his head apologetically. “Sorry. I haven’t been sleeping much.”

It was understandable for all sorts of reasons, so why did he think that none of them applied? The answer would have to wait.

“Unless they’re stupid they’ll be maintaining their normal routines, so get over to Carlton’s office. Before you go, was there anything on McDonagh’s alibis?”

“He’s clean for all the abduction and disposal times. Sorry.”

Craig shrugged and waved him out, then he turned to Andy. “Andy, McDonagh’s brief’s been making noises about his release. Tell Jack to do it, but only when you’re in place to follow. See where McDonagh goes and report back.”

Andy didn’t move, eyeing Craig’s percolator instead, so Craig said “now!” more forcefully than it had sounded inside his head. When he was alone with Liam he began tapping a pen annoyingly against the desk, until finally Liam had had enough and grabbed it.

“OK, what?”

The words could have meant absolutely anything but in the shorthand developed between them over seven years it meant ‘there’s something on your mind, so spit it out’. Craig spat.

“Carlton, McDonagh and Prof Rustin.”

“The three stooges.”

Craig smacked a palm hard on the desk. “Exactly! That’s exactly my point. None of them have what it takes to be the leader.”

He thought for a moment and then shook his head in frustration, before turning back to what they already knew.

“OK, between them they knew the history of ancient religious sites, Vulgar Latin––”

“Courtesy of Rustin.”

So it was Rustin now, was it? Liam’s crushes dissolved faster than snow in the sun.

“And she knew about the Inquisition, boss, so she could have advised them on torture techniques.”

Craig nodded. “The three of them had access to Bobby McDonagh and, through Carlton’s contacts, Elena Boraks and possibly Sam Beech––”

Liam cut in again. “Beech went to a different therapist. Unless you’re saying Louise McIntyre’s involved?”

Craig went to say an emphatic no but shrugged instead. “I don’t think so, but we’ll need to make sure. She’s an unlikely candidate. Too young for one thing.”

“Agreed; less likely to be fanatical. And anyway, she’s Jewish.”

“I didn’t know that, but if that’s the case then it strengthens my no. No-one would get involved unless they believed in the cause religiously.”

Liam chortled. “Religiously. I like it.”

Craig ignored the joke and carried on. “OK, so McIntyre might not be involved but if social services is anything like this place, people talk, so Carlton could have learned about Sam Beech on the grapevine. That explains access to everyone but Devaney.”

Liam made a face that said he’d forgotten to report something. “Uniform at Antrim called a few hours ago.”

Craig’s eyes widened. “Another death?” Even as he said it he knew it couldn’t be right. Wrong county.

“Nope, but when they heard that we’d found Devaney dead they put two and two together. There was a rape in Moira on Saturday night and the victim I.D.ed Devaney from a photo array.”

Craig could hardly believe his ears. “So Devaney left prison on Tuesday, raped a woman on Saturday night and was dead by the following afternoon! They must have been watching him, but who the hell would have known that he was out?”

“And have his licence address.”

Neither of them said anything for a long time then Liam ventured something that Craig hadn’t wanted to hear again.

“Only a cop or a prison officer would have access to that information.”

Craig shook his head emphatically. He wasn’t ruling anything out but it was too easy a conclusion to draw. “Or someone at the probation service, or someone involved in getting Devaney’s benefits set up.”

Liam nodded. “OK. That takes us back to social services.”

“Maybe.”

“You mean hopefully, don’t you?”

“OK, hopefully. But I’m not blind to the possibilities, and if the trail leads to police corruption we’ll go there.”

Craig rose, signalling that the discussion was at an end.

“Fair enough.” Liam’s feet had been propped up on the desk, now he dropped them to the floor with a thud and leapt up. “Tailing Carlton and McDonagh has to be our best bet, but there’s no point tapping their phones or houses; the leader would have to be thick to fall for that.”

“Agreed.”

Craig yanked open the door, just in time to see Nicky straightening up ostentatiously from tying a shoe that had no lace. They smiled at her obvious eavesdropping.

“You back already, Nick?”

“Annette was doing fine and I’ve work to do.”

Eavesdropping counted as work in her book.

Craig re-entered his office as Liam headed for the lift. “I’m off to check on Jake and Andy.”

He was stopped in his tracks by Nicky making wild eyed movements towards her right hand side and did a double take at the sight of Sofia Emiliani. He would love to have stayed for the fireworks but duty called, so he loped off the floor just in time to hear Nicky announce to Craig that he had a visitor.

The psychiatrist rose went to enter Craig’s office, but he turned her instead towards a seat at Annette’s desk. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust himself alone with the beautiful doctor; rather that he didn’t want to give her any encouragement. His words were pleasant but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Did we have an appointment, Doctor Emiliani?”

She purred out a reply. “Not as such but I have some thoughts on the case.”

“Thank you for your expertise but it’s Doctor Winter you should be sharing it with rather than me.”

“But you are the boss. No?”

“Yes, but––”

“Then it is you.”

Craig shook his head. She was persistent, he’d give her that.

“I’m afraid that I don’t have time at the moment.”

She crossed her slim legs and rested back in her chair. “Then I wait until you do. Perhaps we could discuss over dinner.”

Craig could feel Nicky’s gaze boring a hole right through his back; Annette’s opinion was more visible as she appeared by the double doors. He seized his chance to escape and crossed the squad-room in two strides.

“Annette. The very person. Join me.”

With that she was back in the lift and hurtling down to reception. Neither of them had noticed Carmen and Ken arguing in the tenth floor stairwell, and given Craig’s recent warnings it was probably just as well. Carmen was standing with her arms crossed tight and her face turning a dark red.

“You always have to show me up, don’t you?”

Ken gazed down at her blankly, wondering what the hell he’d done wrong.

“What?”

“You just had to score brownie points by saying that you could work out where the girl had been held.” She jabbed a small finger into his chest. “I’m the cop, not you. It doesn’t matter whether people here respect you or not; you’ll be back on your stupid army base in four months. But it matters what they think of me and you’re making me look like an idiot.” She drew breath for a fresh assault, jabbing harder to make her point. “You’re always sucking up, always smiling…”

Ken’s face darkened and his normally soft voice turned cold. “Stop it, Carmen, before you say something that you’ll regret––”

Her voice rose to a screech. “Why the hell would I regret it? Because you think you love me? Is that it?” Her face twisted into a sneer and she pushed at his chest with both hands. “You’re so pathetic; running around the countryside playing soldiers like a kid! I’m sick of you––”

Ken stepped back just as a small fist swung through the air. He caught it in his hand and then caught the second as it headed for his ear. He stood; holding both of his petite girlfriend’s fists as she struggled to break free, then he shook his head sadly and let them drop. His voice was dull.

“You have a problem, Carmen, and you need help. I’d like to help if I can––”

She spat out her next words. “I don’t need your help. You’re weak; you’re all weak, always pretending to be nice. People aren’t nice; they suck you in and let you care about them, then they destroy you. Just like you’re trying to destroy my career.”

He turned to walk back to the C.C.U. and she grabbed at his arm, glaring up into his eyes. “I trusted you and you used me. You just wanted to pick my brains and learn how to be a cop. Well you’re not a cop and you never will be.” She turned sharply towards the lift and banged on the button. “I’m going for some air. When I get back I don’t want you anywhere near me and I never want to see you again outside work. We’re finished.”

As Ken watched the lift doors shut his shoulders drooped, but he knew that part of their fall was from relief. Much as he loved Carmen and had meant his offer of help, he’d been getting worn down lately by her moods. Part of him was relieved she’d dumped him; they couldn’t go on like this. He would help her as a friend as much as he could but for his sanity it had to be at a distance now. As he walked back into the squad-room hoping that the others hadn’t heard, he was wondering if he should tell Craig how serious her problems really were.

Ten floors down Craig had his own issues to deal with. He was striding across Barrow Square as Annette scrambled to catch up, and throwing questions back at her over his shoulder.

“Did the press conference go OK?”

“As you’d expect, sir. I asked them to be responsible in their reporting but I’m sure they didn’t listen to a word.”

“Any awkward questions?”

“A few, but I was prepared.”

Suddenly it started to rain and she ran for a doorway, leaving Craig talking to himself. He joined her beneath the building’s awning and she glanced at him with a smile twitching at her lips.

“I see the good doctor is back again.”

He laughed at her coy tone. “Don’t give me that look. I told her to go and see John, but she won’t take no for an answer.”

“That’s because she’s a woman on a mission and your no was too polite. Leave her to me.”

As she took out her phone his eyes widened.

“You’re not going to tell her to bugger off, are you?”

“Heaven forbid. I’m going to get Nicky to do it instead, in not so many words.”

A grumpy Nicky came on the line, recognising the number. “Where did you two disappear to?”

“Is Dr Emiliani still there?”

“Is she heck! She’s helping herself to my tea and biscuits, so tell himself to get back up here and deal with her. And tell him that Ken and Carmen have had a fight.”

Ken’s hope that no-one had heard their argument had reckoned without her bat-like ears.

Nicky’s voice was so loud that Craig heard every word she said. Annette stifled a laugh and shook her head at him not to speak.

“I don’t know where the boss is. He got a phone call and had to leave. He won’t be back in the office for hours.”

Nicky’s snort said that she didn’t believe a word of it.

“So just get rid of the lovely doctor, will you.”

Another snort, followed by a grudging reply. “I will this time, but tell him not to make a habit of it. And when I get my hands on Katy Stevens…”

She hung up without detailing what she would do to Katy and they returned to discussing the press conference. When the topic was exhausted Craig raised an eyebrow curiously.

“What was that about Carmen and Ken?”

Annette shook her head. “Lovers’ tiff. Best to stay out of it.”

He nodded; he really didn’t want to know. As they were walking back to the C.C.U. he actually did have a call. It was Andy, sounding out of breath.

“You need to get to the McDonagh house ASAP. Liam’s already there.”

Craig was about to ask for more details when the D.C.I. cut the call. Ten minutes later he was staring down at the body of Philip McDonagh, spread-eagled on his neat front lawn. A W.P.C. was calming his wife and T.J. was standing by a flowerbed, looking as if he’d completely shut down. Craig shook his head wearily.

“Let me guess. They dropped McDonagh as soon as he got out of the car.”

Liam sniffed in disdain at the clichéd nature of the kill.

“No finesse. Nine millimetre Parabellums. Two shots to the head.”

“Andy saw it?”

Liam nodded. “Just as well you put him on McDonagh’s tail; he saw the shooter. He was in a BMW five series.” The tyre track. “Andy took off after him and called me; I’ve traffic tailing them both at a distance.”

“Any joy on the car’s registration?”

“Nope. They’d removed the plates so we’re managing the tail on Andy’s car. They’re on the M1 heading south.”

Craig beckoned him into the street. “This is why McDonagh didn’t want to be released. He knew exactly what would happen to him.”

“Which must mean that it’s happened before.”

Craig nodded. “True, but we’ll have to wait to find out when.” He gestured to a C.S.I. leaning over the corpse. “They’re checking the bullet markings?”

“Once they get him to the morgue. It was definitely a professional hit.”

“The sect must be using hired guns; I can’t see Rustin or Carlton making that shot. Speaking of Carlton, anything from Jake or Davy?”

“Jake’s parked outside his office, waiting for him to move. You’ve just come from the squad so you’d know more about Davy than me.”

Craig hadn’t the energy for the Emiliani conversation with Nicky so he called Davy direct and put it on speaker for Liam to hear. The analyst cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder as he typed.

“Carlton. Anything so far?”

They could barely hear for the sound of Davy’s long hair rubbing against the phone, but Craig made out the important words. “…traffic cams… Ardglass Road away from the shop. Ken’s got s…something.”

Before Craig could object he was transferred to Ken. His words were crystal clear.

“We’ve found their headquarters, sir.” He decided immediately that he’d been too absolute and back peddled a bit. “At least, we think we have. From the tides and the location of where the girl washed up, we calculated her point of entry into the Quoile. Allowing for her running in bare feet and from the P.M. condition of her soles, we did a best guess at how far she might have come. One or two miles maximum. But even if it had been as much as four or five there’s only one place on Davy’s list of properties that fits.”

He inhaled long enough for Craig to jump in. “Where is it?”

“Wasteland off the Killyleagh Road.”

The direction McDonagh’s assassin was heading.

“It’s an abandoned toy factory that was condemned years ago but never demolished.”

“Owners?”

“No-one new since the toy business left in twenty-ten. The planners say that as far as they know it hasn’t been converted for other use.”

Except that it had; it was a religious torture camp with God only knew how many kids still inside. They had to tread carefully. Craig thought for a moment. They had no idea how many weapons were in there and if they barged in all the prisoners could be killed. His gut said the sect would never surrender and the last thing they needed was Waco, Ulster style.

He noticed Liam frowning and nodded him to speak.

“Who’s in there, boss? McDonagh’s dead, Carlton’s in his office; that leaves Rustin and the ones we don’t know––”

“The leaders won’t be there, they’ll think they’re too valuable. It’ll be the hired guns and they could kill everyone.”

Liam’s face said that he wasn’t so sure. “Do you really think that foot soldiers would start a shootout off their own bat?”

He was right. Unless the killers’ hired guns were as fanatical as them they’d need someone from the leadership to give the order. If the leaders weren’t in the factory that meant they might be able to play for time.

Craig made up his mind.

“Liam, radio Andy to tail the shooter but make no attempt to intercept him. Just observe.” He turned back to the phone still in his hand. “Ken, once Andy’s perp enters the factory I want armed response to surround the place. They’re to block all exit roads and stay out of sight until they hear from me.”

Liam frowned. A delay presupposed that none of the main players were inside and in his book that was still a big supposition, given they didn’t know who else but Rustin was still on the loose.

Craig cut his call and began to pace, staring at the ground. When Liam had finished his he leant against the hedge and watched his boss’ mind at work. He was thinking out loud.

“OK, Rustin is still on the loose but we’ve no idea where and Carlton obviously drove south east down the Ardglass Road last night to buy the paper.” He stopped suddenly, glancing up. “Where does Carlton live?”

Liam quickly withdrew his notebook. “Cushendall. Nowhere near Ardglass.”

Craig tutted and restarted his pacing. “OK. So let’s say Carlton was with the main group last night and he was ordered to go and buy the paper. He’ll have been told to drive a distance away for caution but I doubt that we’re talking halfway across the country, so let’s say the shop’s within twenty miles of the group’s lair.”

Liam shrugged irritatingly. “It gets us no further. From Ardglass to the dumpsites is about ten miles but we’ve already got them all staked out. The only other relevant place nearby is the factory.”

Craig swung round angrily. “THE LEADERS AREN’T IN THE BLOODY FACTORY!”

Liam made a face. “Keep your hair on.”

Craig shook his head, frustrated. He knew that he was onto something, but it kept evading his grasp. “OK, forget the dumpsites and the factory; is there anything else in the investigation linked to the area, no matter how tenuously? Anyone we’ve interviewed?”

Liam frowned as he worked mentally through the list, but nothing fitted. All the academics were based at Queen’s and Rustin’s apartment was in central Belfast. The McDonaghs lived in Belfast as well, on the Crumlin Road. The McKibbens were up near Stormont, Sadie Beech lived on the Demesne and the Bishop’s official residence was in Carrickfergus, forty miles away on the coast. It was on the tip of his tongue to say no when Craig’s mobile rang. He could hear Davy scratching as he shouted excitedly down the line.

“Guess who McDonagh went to seminary with?”

“Tell me.”

Davy made an annoyed face at his handset. He didn’t ask for much but a moment of tension now and then would have been nice.

“Your friendly Bishop. Francis Murray.”

Murray hadn’t mentioned he’d known McDonagh when Liam had gone to see him, despite the fact Bobby’s death had just been reported in the press.

Craig played a hunch. “Where does Murray live, Davy? Anywhere other than his official residence?”

Some clergy kept second homes away from the ranch. Craig held his breath while Davy searched, then he dashed his hopes.

“Nope. The Bish has lived at his residence for ten years. And before you ask, his only living family is a s…sister in Donegal.”

Damn. Carrickfergus to Ardglass was too far for Carlton to have driven to buy a newspaper. Suddenly Liam yelled over Craig’s shoulder into the phone.

“Where was Murray’s first parish, Davy?”

“No idea. I’ll find out and get back to you.”

Craig cut the call and turned to his deputy with a quizzical look.

“The first place he worked as a parish priest – you really think that’s important to him?”

Liam was about to lecture him on the insight being an altar boy provided into the mind of parish priests when he decided that he was too tired. Instead he led the way to a café he’d spotted across the street. Over a large cheeseburger and fries he turned back to the topic in hand.

“When I saw Murray he said he wished he was still a parish priest. Just God and man, without all the bureaucracy. His words. And as far as a priest’s first parish being important to him, put it this way; don’t you remember your first job?”

Craig was just thinking of his time as a constable in Fulham when his mobile rang again. As he answered, Liam yelled at the phone.

“What does your tattoo mean?”

Davy’s voice came down the line. “Ask the chief. OK, Murray’s first parish was in Ballynahinch. He w…was there for ten years.”

Ballynahinch to Ardglass was only sixteen miles.

“Check if Carlton was near there last night and phone me back.”

He cut the call and nodded solemnly.

Liam’s eyes widened. “Murray? Really?”

“You met him. Do you think it’s possible?”

Liam thought of the cheerful grey-haired cleric and hoped that Craig was wrong. But he was long past being shocked at the things men did, even religious men.

“It would make sense if he was the brains behind it but I can’t see him getting his hands dirty.”

Craig stared straight ahead for a moment before agreeing. “Murray might be the boss in Northern Ireland, but if this is an international operation we’re looking for much bigger fish.” He thought for a moment then decided to put Liam out of his misery. “By the way, Davy’s tattoo-.”

“Aye. Na-Nu. What the heck does that mean?”

“Mork and Mindy?”

The D.C.I. looked blank.

“Robin Williams played an alien. It was on TV in the eighties. Ring any bells?”

“But the lad wasn’t even born then.”

“Williams will always be a genius.” He wiped his hands with a napkin and turned his thoughts back to the case. “The more I think of it the more I’m sure Murray’s just a small cog.”

“So who’s the big boss?”

“No idea yet. Let’s crack this cell first.”

“But why would Murray return to his old parish now?”

Craig sipped his coffee and stared into space. “Memories of a simpler time, perhaps? Like you said; just God and man, without all the bureaucracy.”

“OK. So what’s the plan?”

“Watch and wait. Someone will slip-up soon.”

****

Three hours later Ronnie Carlton still hadn’t made a move and the therapy offices were closing for the day. As the doors were locked and the shutters drawn down Jake climbed out of his Golf and flashed his I.D. at the woman with the keys.

“Who’s left inside?”

She looked surprised. “No-one. We’re only a small office.”

“No security? None of the counsellors.”

She shook her head emphatically. “We only have two and one is on holiday.”

“Let me guess. Mr Carlton.”

She wrinkled up her face, puzzled. “Yes, how did you know? He went on holiday last night.”

Ronnie Carlton had given them the slip. Jake thanked the woman and lifted the phone to Craig.

“Sir, I’ve screwed up. Carlton’s given us the slip – I’ve just been told that he went on leave yesterday. Shall I ask Davy to check the airports and ports?”

Craig sighed heavily. The group was taking no chances. “Yes. For Rustin and Bishop Murray as well.”

He cut the call and brought Liam up to speed. He didn’t look half as depressed as the news warranted.

“Look, we already knew that the killings were over; their newspaper piece said as much. And we knew that Rustin might have disappeared already, so it stands to reason that anyone else who could leg it would. But…” He arched an eyebrow like Hercule Poirot. “Even if Murray is involved why would he imagine for one minute that we knew? He had no direct contact with any of the victims, he’s cooperated with us every step of the way and I haven’t darkened his door since he gave me the list. He can’t possibly know that we’ve connected the dots. In fact, I bet he’s making a point of showing his face everywhere that he can.”

Craig nodded. Criminals’ arrogance was astounding and often their un-doing. He called Nicky. She sounded happier which meant that the dishy doctor had gone.

“Nicky. Do a search on Bishop Francis Murray for me and see if he’s been at any public events today.”

A few taps later she came back. “He visited a primary school this afternoon. Do you want the address?”

“No, thank you. You should go home, it’s late.”

“Take it as payback for London. By the way, everyone but Andy and Jake is still here if you need them.”

He was pleased they’d stayed without being asked.

“Anything else you need?”

“No, nothing. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up. “Frank Murray’s still here; he made a public appearance today as you predicted. Carlton’s in the wind.”

“Or he’s with the Bish and Rustin.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it.” He thought for a moment. “Armed Response is at the factory waiting for my command.”

“And the hired guns inside are waiting for their boss’ command as well. Checkmate.”

“Stalemate you mean. Time to break it.”

Craig exited the café so quickly that Liam barely had time to catch up, then they were in the Audi and on the M1 heading for Bishop Francis Murray’s old stamping ground.

****

Ballynahinch.

By the time they’d reached the parish church Davy had a tap on every phone owned by the sect’s known members and he was listening in, ready to intercept anything that sounded vaguely like an order to shoot. There’d been no shots heard from the factory and no movement there at all, but from their vantage point outside the small church Craig and Liam could see three cars. Davy confirmed they belonged to Rustin, Carlton and the Bishop. It seemed that the sect’s whole hierarchy was inside, or else it was their personal car park.

Liam stared through the windscreen and then at Craig, wondering what his next move would be; rush the church and hope they managed to gain entry before someone inside fought back, or wait it out until one of the sect appeared. Craig chose neither. Instead he opened the driver’s door and ordered Liam to pop the trunk, then Liam heard rustling and Craig reappeared a moment later with a pair of pliers. He handed them over.

“Cut every phone line and cable going into that house. I’m going to get Davy to block the mobile networks here and at the factory. We can’t risk them ordering anyone killed.”

It was quickly done. A moment later Craig made another decision.

“We can wait it out here but the men at the factory can’t.”

“You’re ordering the ARU to do a reccy?”

Craig nodded. “We need to see what we’ve got.” He lifted the dashboard radio and made the call. Thank goodness old fashioned radios worked even when you blocked the phones. One minute later the ARU Commander had been briefed to reconnoitre and report back. Ten minutes more and they had their answers.

Inspector Lou Warton’s cigarette smoked voice crackled down the line.

“They’re all in one room, sir, or rather it’s a small hall. Two exits. The lads say it looks like some sort of church; there’s a big cross mounted on the wall.”

That wouldn’t stop them killing everyone in there; the Church of Jim Jones sprang immediately to Craig’s mind. Nine hundred dead with no rhyme or reason.

“How many guards?”

“Three that we can see, all heavily armed. There are none in the grounds or anywhere else where we can see in through a window.”

“Hostages?”

Warton swallowed hard, thinking of his own kids. “Around twenty, both sexes.”

Liam cut in. “Twenty! They were planning to kill more?”

Craig waved him down. “How old, Lou?”

“Most of them look in their late teens. They’re all wearing white tracksuits.” He paused and Craig knew something worse was coming. “They’re manacled to the walls all around the room and the ones at the doors have explosives strapped to their chests. One of the guards has a manual trigger.”

Damn! The detonator wasn’t dependent on the mobile network so they couldn’t block it; the group had thought of everything.

“Is his finger on it?”

“No. It’s not a dead man’s switch.”

Not quite everything then. It was good news; the bomb wouldn’t detonate if the guard was dropped. Still, his money was on the guards not wanting to kill themselves anyway. Warton’s next words said that he was wrong. The sect’s warped ideology went all the way down the ranks.

“We’ve got audio close enough to hear. Until now they’d been praying in English but the guards have just started some sort of Latin chant. They’re making the kids join in.”

“Patch it through. I want Liam to hear.”

Liam listened intently for a moment, his face grim, then he confirmed Craig’s worst fear.

“It’s the Latin prayer of absolution. I think they’re preparing them for death.”

The guards weren’t hired guns, they were zealous followers. And they weren’t waiting for orders; even if the hierarchy didn’t contact them the disciples already knew what they had to do. Kill all the sinners and then kill themselves. They were going to mow the hostages down then detonate the explosives. They only had minutes to save a score of lives.

Taking a life never got easy and if it did then you were in the wrong job. It should make you feel sick every time, make your pulse race, your face flush; you should feel the sweat trickling and then flooding down your back. Each shot should take a second but feel like it was taking an hour and afterwards you should pray to make peace with your God. Craig could feel it all now, the same as if he was pressing the trigger himself, but easy or not it had to be done so he gave the order quietly down the line.

Then they listened. Listened to the yells of “armed police” followed by nine loud cracks. Liam thought he could hear the guards hit the ground and they both heard the screams of the kids, then everything grew muffled until finally Warton’s voice came through again.

“The guards are dead. We’re in through the windows and the hostages are safe.”

Craig nodded. John and Des would catalogue the forensics and tie it all up with a bow. Now they just had the leaders to round up. It sounded easier than it was.

“Good work, Lou. Check that the place is empty then get them to hospital and checked over. Notify their folks they’re OK but hold everyone; they need to be interviewed. And be careful, some of them might be Stockholmed.”

“What about the leaders?”

“If we’re right we’re looking at their Alamo now. I’ll let you know.”

He handed Liam the radio and listened as he gave some round up instructions, then he nodded him to get Davy back on the line.

“Any sign of anyone leaving the country?”

Davy sucked air through his teeth and they knew it was bad news. “Carlton’s gone, chief. He caught a flight to Zurich through Heathrow last night.”

He was cut short by Craig’s swearing.

“Damn, damn, damn! That’s my fault for not moving quick enough.”

Liam disagreed. “You couldn’t have stopped him. Davy only caught him on camera this morning and by then he’d already gone. They must have known they were taking a risk buying the paper so they cleared him out immediately.”

Craig wasn’t appeased. He barked down the line, “What about Rustin?” This time Davy breathed normally.

“As far as I know she’s still here.”

Liam nodded. “Maybe she’s Murray’s favourite.”

“Or maybe he knew her cover was blown so she was dispensable. Carlton’s probably joining a cell we know nothing about yet.” He realised Davy was still on the line. “OK, thanks, Davy. Armed Response freed the factory hostages but the three guards are dead. I’d like to avoid the same happening here if possible. Send me some armed uniforms but tell them to approach with sirens off.”

He cut the call and gazed straight ahead as Liam stared at him quizzically.

“You really think that they’re coming out alive?”

Craig went to shrug then shook his head instead. “I think they’re probably already dead, although I hope not. I want the locations of the other cells.”

Liam shook his head slowly, but not in disagreement. Craig was surprised by his next words.

“If they’ve killed themselves they’re going to hell. Suicide’s a sin.”

“As opposed to the murder of countless people?”

“In their warped minds, yes. They thought they were murdering for God, old style biblical justice, saving their souls stuff. But I don’t remember it allowing suicide in any scripture I ever read.”

Craig gave a small smile. “What’s that Shakespeare line? The Devil can cite scripture for his purpose. I imagine he can twist it to suit himself as well.” He gave a shrug. “Who knows, maybe I’m wrong and they’ll give themselves up with a smile.” He climbed out of the Audi as two liveried patrol cars drove silently into the grounds. “We’ll soon find out.”

As they approached the priest’s house the first thing they encountered was the incumbent parish priest unconscious in the vestibule. He was hypothermic but at least they hadn’t killed him, but then he hadn’t been on the sect’s sinners list.

Craig inched down one side of the house’s Edwardian inner hall, pressing his back against its glazed green tiles. Liam mirrored him on the other wall with two armed officers close behind. As they reached each room they kicked open the door, checking first one side and then the other with their Glocks steady in their hands. It took less than a minute and led them all to the same spot, standing outside the door at the end of the passage knowing that one of three scenarios lay behind. A shootout, surrender or suicide, and there was a long tradition of people killing themselves for their beliefs. Any one of the three was fine with Liam; he just wanted the cell wiped out.

With a sharp nod the detectives kicked the door simultaneously, Craig twisting to one side, Liam to the other so that their lines of fire covered the whole room. It wasn’t necessary; Craig’s gut had called it right. There, slumped across the humble priest’s desk and dressed in a plain black cassock lay Frank Murray, pastor of the Church, with an empty whisky glass in his hand. Theodora Rustin sat beside him, her head back and eyes open, reclining in a small armchair. In one of her hands hung a small glass, its contents half spilt onto the floor, the other rested on the desk, almost touching the Bishop’s own.

Liam checked their pulses but it was redundant; their stomachs would hold poison, they’d seen its effects before. Craig stared coldly at the scene for a few seconds, then he turned on his heel and walked briskly back down the hall.

Chapter Sixteen

The C.C.U. Press Room. Thursday 2nd April.

No-one noticed the single cold smile as Craig rose to his feet in front of the media, amongst the half-smiles of interest and the fuller ones of genuine acclaim. There was pleasure at a crime solved and a ring of fanatics broken, then more pleasure for the journalists at the thought of their headlines for the week: ‘Cult Cracked’, ‘Sect Shattered’, or some other alliterative crap.

All the great and good were there to take credit for the squad’s success, from church representatives, local MLAs and Cameron Lawton, through to Sean Flanagan and a host of A.C.C.s. But Craig was blind to everything except the lights blanking out the crowd’s faces, and deaf to all sound but the cameras’ clicks as he stood. What eyes he could make out held expressions that ranged from Terry Harrison’s grudging acknowledgement of a case solved to Nicky’s smile for a job well done. If he’d thought about it he would have wondered why Harrison was there at all; Limavady was his stamping ground so how come he was back at the C.C.U.? It was a question for another day and one he was too nervous to think about now; globally from a hatred of the limelight but specifically from his fear of giving the journos one wrong word to twist.

If he hadn’t been he would have noticed the man’s icy smile. A smile that didn’t reach up to his eyes but down, down to a much darker place; a smile that said you missed me, you missed me Craig and I was there right under your nose. More than that, it was the confident smile of a leader who’d made sure that no-one had even known his name to reveal.

But as the detective moved forward to the microphone the sect’s leader wasn’t entirely safe, because Craig knew that somewhere out there was an international ringmaster and he would never let it go. In fact he’d already begun the search, with Davy chasing the sect’s hierarchy with Interpol as a dry run for his PhD. They’d finally found a topic for his thesis that would satisfy both the force and the analyst’s love of all things covert; the use of technology in international criminal pursuits. He could cut his teeth on Interpol then it would be on to MI6, the CIA, Mossad and who knew where else. If the smiling man could have read Craig’s mind his arrogant smile might have been erased.

****

Laganside Courts. Wednesday 15th April.

They’d sat through four long days of Joanne Greer smirking and whispering to her barrister, like teenagers with a secret that only they knew. She hadn’t changed one iota since the day she’d been led from the dock to prison two years before; still the same sneering arrogance, still the same sense of entitlement. Craig marvelled at how her attitude had endured despite the penal system and wondered how many years it would take to break it down. He wasn’t optimistic; arrogance was like waste that would never biodegrade.

The way the defence was hammering at their case the long shot that Greer would win her appeal was looking shorter every day so, as the judge signalled an adjournment, Craig slipped speedily from the court in search of coffee and respite. He found both in the Waterfront Hall café and watched through its high windows as Yemi dodged the Oxford Street traffic on his way to join him. Two minutes of drinking and shaking their heads passed before either of them spoke. It was Yemi who finally broke the gloom; he adopted a hopeful tone that didn’t gel with his frown.

“It’s not over yet.”

Craig gave a cynical grunt.

“Let’s face it, it’s not looking brilliant. What gets me most is the way Greer keeps smirking. She’s got something up her sleeve, I know it.”

The Met officer added more sugar to his drink. “The only thing they have is that Ershov might have entrapped her and the tape disputes that.”

Craig gazed through the window, wishing he could see the river from where they were. It always chilled him out. He knew the main reason that he thought they were losing was Joanne Greer’s permanent Cheshire Cat grin; the jury had given no sign of what they were thinking and the force’s barristers were still gung ho. But there was something else as well and he’d just worked out what it was.

“OK, she’s trying to psych us out and it’s working. But I’ve just worked out the other reason I’m pessimistic.”

Yemi looked at him questioningly.

“The contract killers. I think if the appeal fails Greer’s going to give them up in exchange for a shorter stretch. With time served she could be out on licence right away.”

The D.C.I. shook his head. “Surely she wouldn’t be that stupid? By admitting she knows their details she’s basically saying that she knew about the assassination plans.”

Craig shook his head. “Not necessarily. She could say that Ershov’s successor gave her the information.”

Yemi laughed loudly, showing his sparkling white teeth. “What? Out of the goodness of his heart?”

Craig shrugged, unwilling to be cheered. “The Met would have to prove otherwise, and do you really think they’d bother if it meant getting their hands on a pair of assassins wanted all over Europe? Greer’s small fry compared to them. Wait and see. When the verdict comes in either Greer will go free on appeal or she’ll be looking for a deal.”

Yemi whistled slowly, before conceding that it was possible. “That pair will ice her if she gives them up. She might as well paint a target on her back.”

“Greer won’t think so. She thinks she’s invincible.”

****

Natalie and John’s house. Saturday 18th April, 1 a.m.

A party was the last thing that Craig was interested in but he knew it was his last chance to stop Lucia heading for Syria and the only thing that would stop his mother giving him grief for years. So he’d plastered on a polite smile for an hour and then got plastered over the following two, as he watched Katy and Natalie introduce his sister to every eligible man in Belfast in a last ditch attempt to keep her at home.

By one a.m. it looked as if they’d failed. Annette had gone home tired, Jake and Davy had disappeared hours before and Craig was just about to find Katy and slip away when he felt a hand insinuate itself into his and pull him firmly onto the dancefloor. He was just about to say ‘let’s leave, pet’ when he glanced down and saw that the woman holding his hand had black hair. As she wound her arms around his neck he stepped back, glancing around hastily to see if Katy was close enough to see. Sofia Emiliani was undeterred. As she reached her arms up again Craig planted them firmly by her sides.

“I don’t want to dance, thank you.”

She wasn’t listening; instead she slipped beneath his arm and placed his hand provocatively on her waist. He went to walk away, but not before Katy had approached, eager to pass on some news. She stopped halfway when she saw where his hand was, then turned and rushed away quickly though the crowd. Craig detached the psychiatrist unambiguously and set off in pursuit, followed by a glare that would have melted stone. By the time he caught up with Katy she was in a bedroom searching for her coat. He stood in front of her.

“It’s not what you think.”

She didn’t look up, just renewed her search more vigorously.

Craig reached for her hand but she pulled away, so he reached again, this time for her shoulders. He gripped them firmly, turning her round so she could see his face.

“It wasn’t what you thought. She was coming onto me.”

Katy twisted, trying to free herself, but he wasn’t letting go. His words grew firmer.

“I’m not interested in her. Not at all.”

She glared up at him, unconvinced. “Why? What’s wrong with you? Every other man drools when she walks past.”

He could see tears glistening dangerously in her eyes and he knew he had to make things crystal clear, so he slid his arms round her waist and pulled her towards him; kissing her until finally she relaxed and kissed him back. He pulled her gently onto the bed and kissed her more deeply, oblivious to the door opening and closing and people’s muttered apologies. When they finally fell back laughing it was one-thirty and Craig was vaguely aware that they had an audience. A round of applause told him instantly who it was; Liam. Danni was standing beside him, giggling into her hand.

“Well, here’s me thinking you were mature and now we find you snogging like teenagers on top of a pile of coats! This’ll take some living down, boss, I can tell you; but it’s nothing compared to what’s just happened outside.”

Danni stopped giggling for a moment to nod solemnly, then she glanced at Craig and began laughing again.

Craig straightened his jacket and helped Katy off the bed. “Why? What’s happened?”

Liam tried not to look pleased but failed badly. “It’s been kicking off for the last half hour. Some bloke arrived and started a fight with Jake––”

Danni cut in. “It was Aaron. You’ve met him before.”

Liam gazed into space, trying to recall. “Oh, aye. At the pub one night. Anyway, that’s not the best of it – your kid sister’s only gone and waltzed off with Ken! They disappeared outside half an hour ago and never came back.”

Katy nodded furiously. “That’s what I was coming to tell you.”

Liam shook his head slowly, in an attempt at gravitas. “When Carmen finds out there’ll be hell to pay.”

Danni thumped him on the arm. “You told me that she’d dumped him.”

“That won’t stop her kicking off. Mark my words.”

Craig nodded in agreement. Technically Ken was a free man, although whether Carmen would remember that she’d said so was another thing. He thought about the Lucia/Ken match for a moment and smiled. It made sense; Ken was definitely Lucia’s type looks wise, he was also well-travelled so maybe his tales of the Middle East would be enough to quell her wanderlust. Either way Katy’s idea of a match-making party might just have worked. Craig squeezed her hand and she looked mollified, but Liam hadn’t finished yet.

“Here, I saw the black widow coming onto you, boss. You did well to escape there, but you know damn fine that she’ll be back.”

Craig felt Katy free her hand and he quickly retrieved it as Liam puffed out his chest and adopted his best man of the world tone.

“She tried it on with me of course, but I was busy drinking.” He noticed a glint in Danni’s eye and added a hasty caveat. “Not that I ever would, of course.”

The glint deepened. “You’d better not, Liam Cullen, or…” She curled her hands into fists.

Craig laughed. “Are those for him or her?”

“Both of them, but Liam will get it first.”

Liam hugged his petite wife. “She’s no competition for you, love.” His next words were a mistake. “Besides, I saw Andy trailing after her a minute ago.”

Danni wriggled free. “And what if he hadn’t been? Eh? What then?”

It was Craig’s cue to find somewhere more romantic than a pile of coats.

****

Laganside Courts. April 22th. The Verdict.

“Is the jury agreed upon a verdict?”

The jury foreman rose in his seat and coughed hesitantly before answering yes.

“Is it the verdict of you all?”

The foreman glanced at the paper in his hand, as if the words might have changed since they’d left the jury room one minute before. He nodded, reassured. “It is.”

The judge waved the clerk to bring her the note. She read it quickly then passed it back for him to announce. Craig stared straight ahead and he knew Yemi was doing the same in the seat behind. He heard the two words “appeal rejected” then he exhaled loudly and glanced across the courtroom at Joanne Greer. Her face confirmed his worse fear. Instead of dismay or anger at losing her case the sly smile that had haunted them for weeks was still there. He would love to have said it was just bravado but he knew that something far murkier was at play.

Craig sensed someone taking the seat beside him and gazing anxiously at his face, but who it was he couldn’t have said. His attention was focused on Greer and the smiles of her legal team, then at her barrister crossing to the prosecution table and beckoning their lead advocate to join him outside. As they left Craig noticed the victims’ relatives smiling happily because they naively believed that Greer would be serving the remainder of her term. He only wished that he could believe it too.

Annette and Yemi had taken the seats beside him and eventually the court cleared, apart from the three detectives, the legal teams and an almost laughing Joanne Greer. Ten minutes later Craig’s worst fears came true. The legal teams shook hands and muttered that Greer’s sentence would be commuted to time served, once she’d fulfilled her side of the bargain and the necessary papers were all signed. As she left with the officer to return to prison Joanne Greer paused and gave them a little wave. Craig fought the urge to throw up, turning to Annette instead.

“All your hard work, Annette, and she’s still going to get out. I’m sorry.”

She patted his arm comfortingly. “It’s not done yet, sir. And remember that the original conviction was upheld. You and Yemi were vindicated.”

“But a killer’s going to get off scot free.”

She surprised him with a small smile. “Greer will get hers someday. God pays debts without money.”

Yemi laughed loudly. “That’s a cockney expression. Where did you learn it?”

“Maghera. My granny used to say it all the time.”

None of them could recall who’d heard the noise first, or exactly what they’d heard; a scream or a bang, or the sound of a police radio summoning help. Whatever it was Craig had his gun out and was racing towards the sound in seconds, with the others in close pursuit. He already knew what would greet them; someone lying dead on the ground. He prayed fervently that it was Joanne Greer and not some other poor sod that’d just got in the way.

As they were running another man was proceeding at a much slower pace, on the rooftop of a building in May Street from where he’d had a perfect view of Greer entering the prison van. Stevan Mitic’s plans had run smoothly but he’d been shocked at how easily he’d taken the shot after years of not firing a gun. He shrugged it off quickly. He felt no remorse at the kill; this was for Kaisa and Dejan and Greer had been nothing but scum ready to trade them for a return to her greedy life.

He took the Sodium Hydroxide from his bag and quickly stripped the SAKO down to its parts, then he poured the liquid carefully, changing his clothes as he waited for everything to dissolve. The noise of sirens faded as the metal fizzed and bubbled and he pondered how he’d ended up back in Belfast after leaving it almost three years before. He felt almost nostalgic; his life as a Belfast barman hadn’t been without its charms.

Now his killing days were over. Greer had been one last exception and it was her own stupid fault. If she’d just served her time she would still be breathing, but he’d known if her appeal failed she would barter them for a pardon and that he could never have allowed.

As the sirens came back into focus and the final fizzing bubble collapsed, Stevan walked slowly down the fire escape, climbed into his car and headed for a private airstrip. At the same time Craig was kneeling by the corpse of the woman who waved at them smugly just minutes before, relieved that her escort was safe and feeling guilty that he really didn’t care that Joanne Greer was dead.

The guilt only lasted a moment then he headed for his car, beckoning the others to keep up. They might not have liked Greer but they had to work her murder and he knew that if they didn’t get a move on her killer would soon be out of reach.

THE END

Core Characters in the Craig Crime Novels

Superintendent Marc (Marco) Craig: Craig is a sophisticated, single, forty-four-year-old. Born in Northern Ireland, he is of Northern Irish/Italian extraction, from a mixed religious background but agnostic. An ex-grammar schoolboy and Queen’s University Law graduate, he went to London to join The Met (The Metropolitan Police) at 22, rising in rank through its High Potential Development Training Scheme. He returned to Belfast in 2008 after fifteen years away.

He is a driven, very compassionate, workaholic, with an unfortunate temper that he struggles to control and a tendency to respond with his fists. His girlfriend of one year, Katy Stevens, is a consultant physician at the local St Mary’s Healthcare Trust.

He lives alone in a modern apartment block in Stranmillis, near the university area of Belfast. His parents, his extrovert mother Mirella (an Italian pianist) and his quiet father Tom (an ex-university lecturer in Physics) live in Holywood town, six miles away. His rebellious ten years younger sister, Lucia, works as the manager of a local charity and also lives in Belfast.

Craig is now a Superintendent heading up Belfast’s Murder Squad, based in the thirteen storey Co-ordinated Crime Unit (C.C.U.) in Pilot Street, in the Sailortown area of Belfast’s Docklands. He loves the sea, sails when he has the time and is generally very sporty. He loves music by Snow Patrol and follows Manchester United and Northern Ireland’s football team, and Ulster Rugby.

D.C.I. Liam Cullen: Craig’s Detective Chief Inspector. Liam is a forty-nine-year-old former RUC officer from Crossgar in Northern Ireland, who transferred into the PSNI in 2001 following the Patton Reforms. He has lived and worked in Northern Ireland all his life and has spent thirty years in the police force, twenty of them policing Belfast, including during The Troubles.

He is married to the forty-year-old, long suffering Danielle (Danni), a part-time nursery nurse, and they have a four-year-old daughter Erin and a two-year-old son called Rory. Liam is unsophisticated, indiscreet and hopelessly non-PC, but he’s a hard worker with a great knowledge of the streets and has a sense of humour that makes everyone, even the Chief Constable, laugh at times.

D.I. Annette McElroy: Annette is Craig’s Detective Inspector who has lived and worked in Northern Ireland all her life. She is a forty-seven-year-old ex-nurse who, after her nursing degree, worked as a nurse for thirteen years and then, after a career break, retrained and has now been in the police for an equal length of time. She’s in the process of divorcing her husband Pete, a P.E teacher at a state secondary school, because of his infidelity and violence. They have two children, a boy and a girl (Jordan and Amy), both teenagers. Annette is kind and conscientious with an especially good eye for detail. She also has very good people skills but is a bit of goody-two-shoes. Since her marriage broke down, she’s acquired a newly glamorous image and is seeing Mike Augustus, a pathologist who works with Dr John Winter.

Nicky Morris: Nicky Morris is Craig’s thirty-nine-year-old personal assistant. She used to be PA to Detective Chief Superintendent (D.C.S.) Terry ‘Teflon’ Harrison. Nicky is a glamorous Belfast mum, married to Gary, who owns a small garage, and is the mother of a teenage son, Jonny. She comes from a solidly working class area in East Belfast, just ten minutes’ drive from Docklands.

She is bossy, motherly and street-wise and manages to organise a reluctantly-organised Craig very effectively. She has a very eclectic fashion sense, and there is an ongoing innocent office flirtation between her and Liam.

Davy Walsh: The Murder Squad’s twenty-eight-year-old computer analyst. A brilliant but shy EMO, Davy’s confidence has grown during his time on the team, making his lifelong stutter on ‘s’ and ‘w’ diminish, unless he’s under stress.

His father is deceased and Davy lives at home in Belfast with his mother and grandmother. He has an older sister, Emmie, who studied English at university. His girlfriend of two years, Maggie Clarke, is a journalist at The Belfast Chronicle.

Dr John Winter: John is the forty-four-year-old Director of Pathology for Northern Ireland, one of the youngest ever appointed. He’s brilliant, eccentric, gentlemanly, and really likes the ladies, but he met his match in Natalie Winter, a surgeon at St Mary’s Trust, and has now been happily married for seven months.

He was Craig’s best friend at school and university and remained in Northern Ireland to build his medical career. He is now internationally respected in his field. John persuaded Craig that the newly peaceful Northern Ireland was a good place to return to and assists Craig’s team with cases whenever he can. He is obsessed with crime in general and US police shows in particular.

D.C.S. Terry (Teflon) Harrison: Craig’s old boss. The fifty-six-year-old Detective Chief Superintendent is based at the Headquarters building in Limavady in the northwest Irish countryside. He lives in a converted farm house at Toomebridge with his homemaker wife Mandy and their thirty-year-old daughter Sian, a marketing consultant. He has also had a trail of mistresses, often younger than his daughter.

Harrison is tolerable as a boss as long as everything’s going well, but he is acutely politically aware and a bit of a snob, and very quick to pass on any blame to his subordinates (hence the Teflon nickname). He sees Craig as a rival and resents his friendship with John Winter, who wields a great deal of power in Northern Ireland.

Key Background Locations

The majority of locations referenced in the book are real, with some exceptions.

Northern Ireland (real): Set in the northeast of the island of Ireland, Northern Ireland was created in 1921 by an act of British parliament. It forms part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and shares a border to the south and west with the Republic of Ireland. The Northern Ireland Assembly holds responsibility for a range of devolved policy matters. It was established by the Northern Ireland Act 1998 as part of the Good Friday Agreement.

Belfast (real): Belfast is the capital and largest city of Northern Ireland, set on the flood plain of the River Lagan. The seventeenth largest city in the United Kingdom and the second largest in Ireland, it is the seat of the Northern Ireland Assembly.

The Dockland’s Co-ordinated Crime Unit (The C.C.U. - fictitious): The modern thirteen storey headquarters building is situated in Pilot Street in Sailortown, a section of Belfast between the M1 and M2 undergoing massive investment and re-development. The C.C.U. hosts the police murder, gang crimes, vice and drug squad offices, amongst others.

Sailortown (real): An historic area of Belfast on the River Lagan that was a thriving area between the 16th -20th centuries. Many large businesses grew in the area, ships docked for loading and unloading and their crews from far flung places such as China and Russia mixed with a local Belfast population of ship’s captains, chandlers, seamen and their families.

Sailortown was a lively area where churches and bars fought for the souls and attendance of the residents and where many languages were spoken each day. The basement of the Rotterdam Bar, at the bottom of Clarendon Dock, acted as the overnight lock-up to prisoners being deported to the Antipodes on boats the next morning, and the stocks which held the prisoners could still be seen until the 1990s.

During the years of World War Two the area was the most bombed area of the UK outside Central London, as the Germans tried to destroy Belfast’s ship building capacity. Sadly the area fell into disrepair in the 1970s/1980s when the motorway extension led to compulsory purchases of many homes and businesses, and decimated the Sailortown community. The rebuilding of the community has now begun, with new families moving into starter homes and professionals into expensive dockside flats.

The Pathology Labs (fictitious): The labs, set on Belfast’s Saintfield Road as part of a large Science Park, are where Dr John Winter, Northern Ireland’s Head of Pathology, and his co-worker, Dr Des Marsham, Head of Forensic Science, carry out the post-mortem and forensic examinations that help Craig’s team solve their cases.

St Mary’s Healthcare Trust (fictitious): St Mary’s is one of the largest hospital trusts in the UK. It is spread over hospital sites across Belfast, including the main Royal St Mary’s Hospital site and the Maternity, Paediatric and Endocrine (M.P.E.) unit, a stand- alone site on Belfast’s Lisburn Road, in the University sector of the city.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen