The Visitor (#3 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (2 page)

He crossed the floor of the bluntly named Murder Squad, heading straight for his glass walled office. Nicky’s dark head was bent over her desk outside.

“Morning again, Nicky. Could you get me Dr Winter please?”

Craig smiled warmly at her, but he was in his office and across to the window before she could nab him with any queries. He stared through the ten-foot wall of glass at the river below. It was at its best in the morning, with its fresh tonal mixture of seagulls and boat-horns. And it reflected the weather far better than any radio report.

“Dr Winter for you, sir.”

He nodded his thanks and mimed coffee hopefully, knowing she’d already have the percolator on. “Hi John. What’s this all about?”

“Can you get the crime scene investigators to St Marys to secure a scene, Marc? It’s the Maternity, Paediatric and Endocrine complex on Elmwood Avenue. The M.P.E.”

“Definitely the Trust then?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” John sighed. He hated hospital cases too. He took them as a personal insult.

“We didn’t get called to a murder. When did it happen?”

“About four hours ago in Maternity.”

“Oh, God. A Mum?”

“Yes. Unfortunately so.”

Craig hesitated, dreading the answer to his next question.

“What happened to the baby?”

“A little girl - she’s fine.” Good news. The words seem to relax them both.

“Excellent. Go on.”

“The mother was dead when they found her, so they did a Caesarean section at four-twenty this morning. You didn’t get called because they labeled it natural death. But I’ve had a look, Marc, and there’s nothing natural about it.”

“You’re sure?”

Craig knew how stupid the question was as soon as he asked. John was completely brilliant. Not brilliant in the Belfast, “God mate, you’re brilliant” way. Although he was, and they’d been friends since school. But he was intellectually brilliant. At forty-three he had a world class reputation in his field, and was the youngest ever Director of Forensic Pathology for Northern Ireland.

“You know what St Marys is like, so expect the usual self-protective crap. I had to argue with the Sister just to get the room sealed off!”

St Marys’ shiny new Trust was one of the biggest in Belfast, and never out of the news. Some said that its size wasn’t necessarily a good thing – monopolies. But the politicians at Stormont argued that it saved money - less duplication, economies of scale. Management bollocks. Whatever the reason, they’d certainly become impressed with themselves lately. Or maybe they always had been, just a bit quieter about it before.

“I’ll send Liam and Annette over with a team. They’ll call you to find out what you need. Give me some more details.”

“The deceased’s name is Mrs Evie Murray-Hill. She was on the Maternity Unit. Her Consultant Obstetrician was Nigel Murdock and her midwife was called Beth Walker. She found the body. Just ask Liam to secure everything he can find. Needles, drips, everything. And all the medicine cupboards and drug-trollies. Annette’s nursing background will be a good help on this one.”

Yes it would.

“OK. Thanks for the heads-up, John. I’ll see you at eleven.”

He let the phone fall quietly, closing the desk-to-door distance like the winger he’d been. Annette McElroy heard the door swing open, shrinking down into her cubicle. She knew what was coming next and that it meant more work. But she was still excited. Excited by more work. There was something seriously wrong with her.

Craig stood in front of her desk, smiling at the top of her head. She stubbornly refused to look at him, willing him to disappear. But she knew that he wouldn’t, not until he had what he wanted. They’d played this little game before.

“Annette, Liam, a word in my office, please.”

Craig’s deep voice was firm, but his soft, mixed accent eased the brisk words. Annette glanced up at his tired smile, knowing that he worked harder than any of them. She felt instantly guilty, but decided to have a brief huff anyway.

“I suppose this means I won’t get my paperwork done today?”

He smiled ruefully and nodded and she gave in, following him into his office. They were sitting at his desk when Liam came lumbering in.

Liam Cullen’s extreme height and blue-white pallor would have looked more at home on a basketball court. In Norway. It was certainly the only place that he could have gone undercover. When he opened his mouth, his words boomed out in a mangled Belfast/Crossgar accent. The Loyd Grossman of the force.

“Grab a seat, Liam.”

He declined just as Craig knew he would, propping himself against the back wall with his neck bent. He lived with a permanent headache, complaining that the world was designed for pygmies. But John said he enjoyed the martyrdom.

“Right...” Craig hesitated for a moment, and then started.

“There’s been a suspicious death at St Marys Trust, so I need you both over there now. Secure the scene, leave the C.S.I.s to do their thing, and then meet me at the lab at eleven. We’ll go back after we’ve met with John. The deceased’s name is Mrs Evie Murray-Hill, and…” He braced himself for Annette’s reaction. “She was on the Maternity Unit.”

Annette didn’t disappoint them, giving a loud gasp. Craig nodded, answering her silent query.

“The Mum died. But thankfully the baby survived. John will tell us more later. But it’s very emotional over there, so be sensitive please.” He paused, looking pointedly at Liam. He wasn’t known for his tact.

“Seal off what you can, without interfering with the ward-running. You both know the drill. Liam, ask for some uniformed assistance. Jack Harris at High Street can help with that. Start taking the statements - I’ll need a list later. But wait until I get there for the main interviews please. And if anyone insists on seeing me or wants a solicitor, I’ll take them personally. Nicky can set up a Rota.”

Liam winked at Nicky through the open door. “You know the Docs will insist on seeing you, boss. Especially the lay-deez.”

Craig nodded resignedly. He knew Liam was right about the doctors, if not about the female ones. Position meant everything to Northern Ireland’s middle classes. Even interrogation had a social status.

“The deceased’s surgeon was Nigel Murdock, and her midwife was called Beth Walker.”

Annette’s eyes rolled at the mention of Murdock’s name.

“Anything you’d like to share with us, Cutty?” Liam’s loud bass boomed at her. For all its volume it had a curiously soft quality, enhanced by his affectionate country language.

“All I’m going to say is that Murdock deserves his reputation for arrogance. Ask Dr Winter.”

“Thanks Annette, I will. It might be relevant.”

“Or it might just be part of a surgeon’s job requirement.”

Liam laughed at his own joke and Craig half-smiled, raising a warning eyebrow.

“You may be right Liam, but don’t say that at the Trust. Annette, keep him right for God’s sake. And remember. Don’t speak to the media. Hospital cases are P.R. dynamite.”

Annette nodded. Her nursing background might come in useful on this one. Public relations weren’t Liam’s forte. He longed for the ‘good old days’ when he could say anything he liked. He got a lot of flak for it and he took it well, unless it came from ‘arrestees’. Then all the coffee-house bonhomie was seen for the politically correct bullshit that he really thought it was. And “What part of, ‘we cops-you scrotes’ do they not understand?” rumbled from his desk.

But his local knowledge couldn’t be bought, after twenty-odd years policing during ‘The Troubles’. While Craig had been at Uni and The Met, and Annette was nursing in Maghera. Plus, he made everyone laugh, even when they knew they definitely shouldn’t.

“Liam, do you have a try-out next week?”

“Aye, for the football team.”

Nicky popped her head around the corner and Liam was suddenly bashful. “What’s that for?”

Annette was surprised she didn’t know the World Police and Fire Games were coming in August. Then she realised she was feigning ignorance just to see Liam blush, confirming their office flirtation. Craig caught Liam’s colour and gave them a wry look.

“OK, that’ll do. Right, before we go. Is everyone up to speed for Warwick tomorrow?”

“As long as Doyle doesn’t do his usual, and try to chuck the confession out.”

“Which he will, you can bet on it. He’ll say we obtained it under duress.”

“But Ewing confessed in front of his solicitor, sir.”

“That’s never stopped a barrister trying before, Annette. Don’t worry, just stick to the facts and we’ll be fine.”

“Aye. That the bastard killed her ‘cos she wouldn’t do what she was told.”

“I’d bring back the death penalty for this one, and happily push the button myself.”

“Between us we’d have the prison’s cleared out, Cutty.”

Craig smiled, interrupting. “When did we move to Texas?”

Annette laughed.

“Look, God knows we’re all angry about Ewing, but stick to the point in court. I’m not handing Doyle an acquittal because someone loses their temper.” They nodded at him, agreeing.

“But Dr Winter would just love Texas, sir. Just think of all those serial killers.” John’s obsession with American crime shows was legendary.

Craig smiled and stood up, ready to leave. “Right, I’m off to see D.C.S. Harrison. I’ll meet you at the lab at eleven. By the way Liam, John says the ward Sister is a bit difficult, so bear that in mind please. Nicky, can you set me up an appointment with the Trust’s Chief Executive today? Don’t take no for an answer. And ask their press person to join us at the end. Thanks.”

Then he left the floor quickly, disappearing into the lift.

Annette wandered back to her desk and slumped down in her chair, looking mournfully at the pile of unfinished files. She’d needed today to polish them for the prosecution service. And to type up her 14 font crib-cards for the trial. Doyle was a cocky bugger who’d teased her before for squinting at her notes. He’d even offered her his glasses once, and she wasn’t letting that little party-trick happen again. There was nothing else for it. She’d have to do them tonight.

Pete wouldn’t be happy. The kids were staying at friends and she knew that he had a romantic interlude planned. She was dragged out of her thoughts rudely, by Liam booming in her ear.

“What’re you doing, still sitting on your backside? Come on girl...”

Annette jumped and the whole squad laughed. So she grabbed her handbag and swung it at him, rewarding their hummed Cagney and Lacey theme tune with a bow. The place became more like school every day.

Chapter Three

D.C.S. Terry Harrison was one of five superintendents at Dockland’s C.C.U. He ruled the Drugs and Murder Squads from his twelfth-floor office, keeping an iron fist on every case with his name on it. He wasn’t a bad boss, as long as things went well. But he was a political animal, and they didn’t call him ‘Teflon Terry’ for nothing.

Craig had earned a reputation in The Met. So when the Chief Constable heard, in 2008, that he was coming back, he’d pursued him for superintendent. Craig had railed hard against the promotion. The superintendents he knew in London were buried in budgets and community-policing meetings. Always accounting for the five things wrong, instead of the ninety-five right. Some of them never saw a crime scene. Paper-pushers and mouthpieces. He couldn’t think of anything worse.

But he’d wanted to come home. His parents were getting older and London had lost some of its charm. Plus, John wanted his best friend back. And spent hours pointing out the benefits of 21
^st
Century Belfast, like a tour-guide on speed.

Craig knew that he couldn’t dodge rank forever, so they’d finally struck the only deal that he could accept. He’d come back in 2008 as a D.C.I. and make superintendent in a few years. Providing he could still get on the street doing the job, and keep his team. The clincher had been getting Nicky as his P.A. She’d been Harrison’s for years and he never let Craig forget that she was his gift. He still borrowed her occasionally for meetings, just to prove it.

He’d done it once too often lately and Craig had finally been persuaded. Having Harrison as a boss was beginning to wear, so he’d agreed to take rank in July. Then Harrison would leave Docklands- he knew what was coming and he wasn’t a happy man.

Harrison was sitting at his standard-issue veneer desk, writing, when Craig knocked. His slicked-back hair always made Craig think of an RAF officer from a World War Two movie. Christopher Plummer. It was probably exactly what he wanted. Image was everything. After a long wait while he kept writing, he finally beckoned Craig in.

“Come in Craig, and tell me about the Warwick case tomorrow. Reassure me we’re on top of it.”

Craig sat down in the indicated chair and was suddenly surprised - it was a good six inches lower than the last time he’d visited! For a split-second he considered standing again to balance things up. Then he decided that he couldn’t be bothered and relaxed down even further, making Harrison lean forward to make eye contact.

“We’ll be OK, sir. We have all the statements and witnesses in, and we have Ewing’s confession. We’ve definitely tied the murder weapon to Laura Warwick’s wounds. And, although the forensics putting it in Ewing’s hands are weak, the close circuit TV pictures are useful. They were poor quality but the lab cleaned them up. And the witnesses are excellent.”