The Careless Word (#8 - The Craig Crime Series) (20 page)

“Greer had a lot of enemies, so did her husband.”

“You have to look at the possibility. Surely your sources can help?”

“Well, we know Delaney was one of the bombers, so we can start from there. If he had terrorist connections we could follow the trail.”

“Maybe that’s why Delaney was killed? To stop him leading you back to whoever ordered the killing.”

Craig drained his mug and poured a refill. “Maybe, except so far we can’t find any gang connections for Delaney or his family. Maybe Barry McGovern will suddenly turn out to be something. Davy’s digging into all the backgrounds now.” Craig paused, lost in thought for a moment, then he shook his head. “I know your idea’s logical, John, and we’ll follow up all the leads, but I still can’t shake this feeling that there’s something more to this.”

John smiled. “Well, your instinct has been right before, even when the evidence led elsewhere.” He raised his cup. “Here’s to logic and instinct, at least one of them will turn out to be right.”

Chapter Seventeen

Paris. 5.30 p.m. local time

Berger topped up his red wine from a carafe and waited patiently while Claude Augustin took payment from his last lunch customer and wished them ‘Bon Chance’, then closed the café’s door until he had to re-open for the evening rush. Augustin lifted a fresh glass from behind the counter and brought it to Berger’s small table. The two men drank in silence for a moment, Augustin watching the wax melting on a candle and Berger carefully watching his host. Finally Alain Berger could wait no longer.

“Well? What did they say?”

Augustin didn’t answer, merely swilled some wine around his mouth before swallowing it in a gulp. Berger repeated the question impatiently, as Augustin stared at him through the flickering candle flame like he could read his mind. Eventually, when whatever he’d read there had satisfied him, he spoke, for the first time since Berger had entered an hour before.

“They would like to know more.”

Berger smiled. It was the wrong move. Augustin’s voice, normally a mid-tenor, became a growl.

“Do you think this is a game?”

The smaller man recoiled, knowing a threat when he heard one. His shock gave the café owner a frisson of satisfaction, but he knew that to show he was pleased would temper the other man’s response. He growled again. “Well?”

“No, no. T…There is no game; I know it is no game. I was smiling because I was pleased they wish to know more.”

Augustin gave a dismissive wave. “It means nothing. They often wish to know more, but seldom buy.”

His satisfaction grew as Berger’s face fell.

“What do they need?”

“Sight of the item.”

Berger shook his head firmly. “That cannot be until the exchange.”

Augustin stood immediately and lifted the carafe. “Then it cannot be and we are done. “

Berger’s voice was desperate. “No, we cannot be done. It is real, it is what they want.”

“Then they must see it.”

Augustin’s tone left no room for compromise and Berger nodded in defeat. The volume of his voice dropped with his confidence.

“I cannot bring it here; it is secure. They must come to see it where it is.”

Augustin set the carafe on the café’s counter and started to wash his glass. After a moment’s ritual he said.

“Very well. One of them will come and if they wish it we will arrange the exchange.” He nodded sharply at the door. “Now, go. I must rest.” He waved dismissively. “Remain close by; I will be in touch.”

***

High Street Station. 6 p.m.

Questioning Zac Greer about UKUF’s protection rackets was like interviewing someone from a silent religious order. James Trimble, on the other hand, wouldn’t shut up, citing this legal right or that. Liam sighed heavily. He needed to know if Zac was culpable in Sharpy’s death before he broke the bad news, so he asked his question again.

“Do you know where your mother is, Mr Greer?”

Liam thought that he saw a minuscule shrug, a shrug that in any other teenage boy would have said ‘Who am I? Her keeper?’ but in a kid brought up around killing could have meant ‘she’s six feet under and you’ll never find her’. James Trimble interrupted the exchange.

“You’ve already asked my client that question…oh, five times. Why don’t you just speak to Mrs Greer yourself?”

Liam squinted at the dodgy solicitor, testing his bullshit detector, but as far as he could tell Trimble’s question was sincere.

“I’m directing the question at your client, Mr Trimble, not you.”

“Yes, for the sixth time!”

Trimble leaned forward and stared Liam straight in the eye. “There’s something fishy going on here and I’m going to find out what. Either tell me or I’ll start digging.”

Liam sighed again, this time in semi-defeat. He had to tell the boy about his mother, but he’d wanted to rule him out as a suspect first. It looked like that wasn’t going to be possible. Not only was Zac not talking and Trimble beginning to smell a rat, but any minute now a woman from social services was going to bang on the door and tell him that he had to let Zac go.

Liam pictured a virago and the lecture that he was going to get from her. He nodded James Trimble to accompany him outside. When they were far enough away for Zac not to hear when he inevitably pressed his ear against the interview room door, Liam stared down at the faintly grubby man.

“I have some bad news for your client, but…” Liam searched for a reasonable explanation why he hadn’t already told Zac about his mother’s death. “We’ve only been sure for a short time and social services have to be present when I tell him.”

Trimble’s eyes widened slightly then he caught himself, knowing that the gesture looked naïve. He squinted meaningfully. “What have you done?”

Now it was Liam’s eyes that widened. “Done? We haven’t done anything. I think you’re confusing us with the crooks you defend, Mr Trimble. We’re the good guys; remember?”

Trimble snorted then realised that a pissing contest wasn’t what Zac needed from his brief so he nodded Liam on. In less than a minute Liam had outlined the explosion at Jules Robinson’s bookshop and the people who had died, finishing with Sharon Greer’s I.D.

“It took forensics days to I.D. her.”

Trimble shook his head, genuinely stunned. “You’re sure?”

Liam nodded. “Informants have told us about UKUF’s protection racket in Smithfield and we know Sharpy was working with SNI to pressure the bookshop’s owner to sell, so the explosion was pretty convenient.”

Trimble’s expression altered with each word Liam said and the effect of the words ‘protection racket’ and ‘pressure’ were particularly telling. Liam gawped at the solicitor. The crooked bastard had known all about what SNI and Sharpy were up to! The officer of the court was as bent as a nine-bob-note! He roared in outrage.

“You knew what Sharpy was doing! It’s written all over your face.”

“Sharon. Her name was Sharon.”

Trimble’s sad expression and even sadder tone of voice told Liam something completely new. Trimble had fancied Sharpy Greer! Whether he’d done anything about it was another thing, but given the fact her husband had been one of the biggest thugs in Northern Ireland and he wasn’t long in his grave, he somehow doubted it. The wimpy solicitor wouldn’t have lasted five minutes with Davy Greer. Liam’s sympathy didn’t run to bent solicitors so he allowed a note of sarcasm to slip in.

“Sharon or Sharpy, she’s dead and the boy needs to be told.”

Trimble gathered himself quickly and nodded, turning back towards the room. Liam stopped him with a loud whisper. “Not until the social worker gets here. He’s underage.”

Trimble turned sharply. “They’ll take him away from everyone that he knows.”

“If there’s no relative to care for him then that’s their call.” Liam smiled coldly. “I can’t see them declaring any of you lot a suitable guardian.”

“It’ll destroy the boy! The gang is all he’s ever known.”

“Then he needs to get out more. He deserves a chance at a decent life, not one spent running drug dealers and pimps!”

It was on the tip of Trimble’s tongue to say “prove it” when Jack Harris appeared, escorting a young woman dressed in T-shirt and jeans.

“I could hear you two in reception. Pipe down, will you? You’re disturbing my customers.”

Jack remembered the manners that he kept for special occasions and turned towards the girl.

“This is Ms Penny Murphy. She’s the social worker here to see Zac Greer.”

Liam gazed down at the woman, surprised by her perky prettiness. He sat firmly on the attraction that threatened to appear; he had enough problems with his secretary and nurse fantasies, he didn’t need to add social workers to the list.

He nodded hello, “D.C.I. Cullen”, then gestured dismissively at Trimble. “And this is James Trimble, Zac’s family solicitor. I’ve just told him about Mrs Greer’s death.”

Murphy scanned the two men’s faces astutely, turning back to Liam with narrowed eyes. She could sense they didn’t like each other, and that something had happened before she’d arrived, but unless it affected the boy she didn’t care.

“Does Zac have any idea that his mother’s dead?”

Liam and Trimble shook their heads in unison.

“Are there any living relatives?”

Another shake then Trimble reconsidered. “There might be an uncle in Glasgow.”

Murphy nodded. “Right, I’ll check that out. I’ll go in with Mr Trimble and break the news, skimming over the matter of his mother’s I.D.”

Liam was about to ask how she knew when Jack leapt in. “I explained about the remains and the thumbprint being the only means of identification.”

Liam nodded gratefully; always glad when he didn’t have to deal with emotional things. Penny Murphy was still talking.

“If you could wait for me, D.C.I. Cullen, I’d like to have a quick word afterwards.”

Liam nodded. Annette was interviewing Hilary Stenson in the other room. Stenson had waved her right to a solicitor, probably knowing Trimble would inform the SNI Board that she was telling Annette everything she knew. He’d go and watch that for a while.

“I’ll be in interview room two when you need me.”

He headed down the corridor and knocked the door, entering on Annette’s “come in.” She looked surprised to see him but not as surprised as Hilary Stenson, who’d probably never met someone else as pale as her. Liam beckoned Annette outside.

As soon as she entered the corridor Annette hissed. “I was on a roll. Why are you interrupting?”

“Oh that’s lovely, when I came to lend a hand.”

“I’ve already got two.”

Liam laughed at the retort and parked it for future use then he updated her on Zac Greer and the social worker who’d just arrived. He nodded at the door.

“Is she singing?”

“Like a bird. She’s willing to give us details of everything; every corrupt deal and back-hander that SNI have ever done. That’s why she didn’t want Trimble there; he would have tried to gag her.”

“Aye, I’m sure he would. So might UKUF and not metaphorically either. She’ll need to be guarded.”

Annette’s face fell. She’d been so excited about the information Hilary Stenson was giving her that she’d forgotten she was a human being who might get hurt. Liam knew what she was thinking; that she’d started behaving like him. It was a blow for a woman who prided herself on her caring side. Annette’s shame made her go on the attack.

“You were supposed to call me when you were telling Zac about his Mum. The chief said I was to be included.”

Liam raised his hands in mock defence. “Whoa, girl. I didn’t tell him. I was just about to call you when the social worker arrived. She’s telling him now.” His tone hardened slightly. “And don’t go lashing out at me ’cos you forgot about Stenson’s human rights. It’s not my fault.”

Annette went to retort then decided to be practical instead. “Who can we get to protect her and for how long?”

Liam furrowed his brow. “It’ll have to be close protection and until this gets to trial. UKUF won’t want her giving evidence on their protection racket, and SNI won’t want her shopping their company Board.”

Annette nodded then gave Liam a thoughtful look. “You know what this means, of course. If Zac knew nothing about his Mum’s death, then either UKUF did it without his knowledge or someone else did, and Stenson’s saying it definitely wasn’t SNI.”

“Then let’s hope forensics comes up with something soon that points the way.”

***

Pakistan. Tuesday 9 a.m. local time

The parched grass crunched beneath Jenny’s boots as she walked and she grabbed for her near empty water bottle, gulping down its remaining few drops. The sand stretched endlessly ahead and she stared at it, until its yellow glare burnt her pale western eyes and not even the tears she was crying could cool them. A cough at her back made her turn, her finger reaching for the trigger of her Steyr. The man standing there smiled and cast an admiring glance at her curves, barely concealed by the fatigues she wore.

“I am not the enemy, Jenny.” The way he said her name made it sound sensuous. The ‘J’ became a soft ‘Jhush’ and the ‘y’ an ‘i’ that made the syllables sound like poetry. “You are home now.”

As Fareed said it Jenny questioned his words. How could a white-bread blond from Newtownards have ended up here, five hundred miles from the nearest city, and even then not one where anyone spoke the way she did? She answered her own question. Ideology; religion to be more precise. Five years ago she’d been a normal student, studying by day and partying at night. The theory of religion had been just that; theory. It hadn’t meant anything in her modern western world, except as a topic to be debated at dinner parties or intellectualised during summer tutorials on the grass. And then she’d met Fareed. Dark-eyed Fareed, genius IQ Fareed, Fareed who could debate and deal with every query with good humour, his sensual voice and liquid eyes making even the most radical of ideas seem true.

When had she fallen in love with him? At the first lecture; the first debate? Or was it when he’d quoted the poetry of Nizar Qabbani and likened her blue eyes to a clear desert sky? Whenever it was it had swept her along like a river; no, like a storm, too strong to fight and no way to go but ahead. In his hands she’d become a woman and a warrior for Islam. She’d recruited others like Fintan and she’d killed brutally, yet still Fareed’s arms felt like home.

Yes, she was home now. Jenny dropped her gun by her side and caressed the smooth olive skin of the man she was addicted to, knowing that his love would kill her someday and totally powerless to save them both.

***

Tuesday. 9 a.m.

“Thanks for seeing me at short notice, Geoff.”

Geoff Hamill smiled graciously and continued pouring Craig’s coffee. Not, as usually happened in C.C.U. offices, from a glass percolator whose brown-stained base contained weeks’ old dregs of never washed out and continually topped up caffeine, but from a spotless stainless-steel cafetière that Craig knew he probably sterilised each night before he went home. When Hamill was satisfied that the perfect bone-china cup was filled not too high and not too low, he moved the milk and sugar towards Craig and took his seat.