The Visitor (#3 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (22 page)

He rubbed the cool bottle over his forehead. She was right, as usual. “How is Luce?”

“Lucia is fine...except for mad old boyfriend. He is stalking her!”

“What? Which one? Can’t Richard sort him out?” Richard was Lucia’s long-term boyfriend. A concert pianist who was away on tour.

“Ah, you see now...if you came ‘ome more you would know these things. We see more of you when you live in London.” They both laughed.

“OK. This is me, Mum. Leaving right now.” He thought of all the paper work that he should be doing, burying the thought quickly under her excitement.

“Excellente. We ‘ave Penne al' Arrabiata.”

“That’s great, but go easy on the garlic please. I’m on-call all weekend, and I have to work with non-Italians remember. Have some pity on them!”

He ended the call and turned his back determinedly on the mountain of paperwork in the corner, throwing his suit jacket deftly over it. It would wait until tomorrow. Julia wasn’t arriving until lunchtime, so he could make headway on it in the morning. He pulled off his tie and grabbed a worn leather jacket, and a box of chocolates he’d bought in France the month before. Then he pulled the front door hard behind him, relaxing already.

The block’s communal hall light flickered on, just long enough to brighten his four flights to the car park, and he held the door open for one of his homecoming neighbours as he left. She was carrying a pile of books. He wasn’t the only one working at the weekend then. Strangely it didn’t make him feel any better.

As he drove the six miles to Holywood deliberately slowly, he could feel himself starting to relax. Flicking-on the CD player to what he thought was ‘Snow Patrol’s ‘I’m Ready’ he was surprised at the song that crooned out instead. Annette... She’d been changing the stations again.

Instead of the CD or his usual Radio One it was an overly sentimental ballad. It seemed familiar and for a moment he tried to place it, then he suddenly did and fell down the rabbit hole back to 1992. It was ‘I will always love you’, a song he really hated. The original by Dolly Parton was bad enough, but he’d wanted to hang himself every time Whitney Houston’s version had come on. And it had come on in every bar and restaurant in London between ’92 and ‘94.

It reminded him of his long-term ex, Camille. But not in a bad way anymore. They’d made their peace in London before Christmas and moved on. He’d been seeing Julia McNulty for four months now and it was going well. Although she worked at headquarters in Limavady, and the travelling distance was wearing them both down. Limavady was Terry Harrison’s part-time base, soon to be permanent. So Julia would soon have the joy of his company full-time.

Craig pulled into the driveway of the 1940s house he’d grown up in and sat in the car for a moment, his forehead resting tiredly against the cool steering-wheel. He thought of Julia’s cherubic face and smiled, wishing that she could have come up tonight. But it was a long drive after a tiring week.

Just then, the light went on in the porch, as Murphy his elderly Labrador ran out, recognising the car. He knew that his mother would be next and he didn’t want her to see his fatigue - she worried enough about her children.

Lifting the chocolates quickly he headed through the open porch-door, holding them high above Murphy’s barking mouth. Then he turned into his mother’s old-fashioned kitchen, its rustic atmosphere a world away from the violence he worked with.

It was warm and brightly-lit, with weathered wooden floors and overhead beams. Dean Martin sang soulfully in the background. The décor exactly mimicked her family’s house outside Rome. Craig thought of the courtroom he’d been in that afternoon - how could six miles create two such different worlds? It was a silly question when two miles took you from the Shankill Road to the Falls in Belfast. And from Blair’s Islington to the day-light drug dealing of Hackney.

Mirella Craig was standing at her Aga stirring a pot. Craig hugged her warmly, wrapping his arms around her increasingly ample waist. “Marco pet – it so good to see you,” burst out in her hybrid Belfast-Italian accent. She greeted him so enthusiastically that anyone would have thought she hadn’t just seen him a week ago.

“Have some bread and wine. Your father he gone for Lucia and her friends. Her car is broken again. Please have look at it - your father is hopeless with practical things. How that man ever run a laboratory?”

She didn’t pause for breath once, and the musical way she said lab-or-at-or-y clearly revealed English as her second language. When they were kids John had deliberately asked her to say long words, just to enjoy the melody of her accent.

“OK, Mum, I promise. I’ll take a look over the weekend. Here are some of those chocolates you like. I forgot to give them to you last week.”

“Oh Bella, Bella. Thank you, thank you.” She kissed him quickly on both cheeks, excited and happy. If he’d given her a cup of tea she’d have been just as excited. Anything from her children was gold to Mirella. Then she launched into her next tirade and he laughed - his mother could talk for Ireland
and
Italy.

***

The Visitor watched the young man return to his car. They’d exchanged greetings and commented on the evenings getting brighter, then the package had been signed for and he’d left. The Visitor closed the door and walked back into the empty storeroom. Everywhere felt empty nowadays, but there would be peace soon, once the father made his move.

The boxes were opened, and their contents scrutinised. Each item stroked lovingly, never to be used. But Evie had been the last time they’d needed to kill. Soon the father would act and that would suffice. Should suffice.

A wave of regret rose at the thought that they would view justice at arm’s length, as a mere spectator. But that was how it was, and as long as the father played his part, that was how it would stay.

***

Tommy shivered in the cold living-room. He made up his mind to fix the draughts soon, once he’d fixed the people who had killed Evie. He flicked on the electric fire and sat down, pulling his leather jacket round him. His thoughts went straight to Evie. He could almost feel her long hair tickling his cheek, the way it had done when she’d hugged him. She’d hugged him a lot in the last two years, her strangeness with him finally wearing off. He closed his eyes tight, picturing her face - soft and round, with huge dark eyes like her mother. Regret overwhelmed him at the way that he’d hurt them both. Miriam had loved him since they were kids, and he’d taken that love and ripped it in two, leaving her alone with their baby daughter. Tears pricked at his eyes as he thought of Evie’s little girl, left now, just as he’d left her. He was going to kill whoever had done this. They’d destroyed his family.

As Tommy sat shivering and thinking, feeling sad about his life, he didn’t spare one thought for the four families he’d left feeling the same.

***

“And please move Lucia from that place she live – it really not safe.”

Mirella was setting out the plates for dinner, still talking. She’d hardly paused for breath since Craig had arrived twenty minutes before. He laughed to himself. His mother should have been a politician instead of a pianist; the opposition wouldn’t have stood a chance.

His sister Lucia lived in an area of Belfast that was politely called ‘distressed’, although she told everyone it was ‘up and coming’. His mother’s response had been scathing. “It may be up and coming, but it still too low for you.”

Lucia had ignored the jibe. The Georgian house she’d bought would have cost a fortune anywhere but an historical trouble spot. She was stubborn and independent and Craig could remember her being the same when she was three.

A car pulled into the driveway and a dark-blonde head appeared at the kitchen window, smiling. Lucia ran into the kitchen and hugged him. Then “Hi Marco, great to see you. What’s for dinner Mum, I’m starving. Dad tried, but he said he can’t fix the car, so will you fix it?” flew out in one breath.

Craig smiled down at her fondly. He was always surprised at how pretty she was, and how determined. She would march to ban the war, save the whale and even the disenfranchised ducks if they needed it. He admired her for it, but he dreaded every march - Tactical Support ribbed him about her for days afterwards.

They all knew her. She was too noisy to miss. And, as they never failed to tell him, ’we don’t fancy you half as much, sir’. Craig hoped she never dated a policeman, he’d find it hard not to interfere. But she’d date who she wanted to, regardless of what he thought – as the parade of Goths and Rockers over the years had proved. At least Richard played the piano - his mum would forgive him anything for that.

Lucia threw a bread-stick across the table at him interrupting his thoughts, and they sat down at the scarred wooden trestle, lapsing into in-jokes. His father entered the room, much more sedately. He looked paler than Craig had ever seen him. They needed a trip to Italy.

“Hi Dad, how are you? Do you fancy a Northern Ireland match soon?”

“Ah, hello son. That would be grand. But...I’m a bit tired at the moment. Maybe in a few weeks.”

His voice was quiet and he eased himself gingerly into a chair, loosening the tie that he always wore, even though he was retired. Craig could barely hear his words against the background music and asked him to repeat himself. When he spoke again, Tom Craig’s voice was frail, a shadow of its normal cheerful tone. “How’s work going, son?”

Mirella spun round and frowned at him. “No, no, Tom. NOT the work talks this evening, he need a rest. Look at him, he’s exhausted. He needs to eat and drink, and forget about dead people.”

The words flew from her mouth in a sharp staccato, until she realised what she’d said and smiled sheepishly. “For few hours...please.” Her pleading made Lucia play an imaginary violin, until Mirella threw a dishcloth at her.

Craig said nothing, just watched intensely as his father sat silent in the chair, not joining in the fun. It wasn’t like him. Suddenly Murphy’s cheerful barking stopped and he sat down beside the chair, whimpering. Craig’s father sat back ashen-faced and silent, closing his eyes.

“Dad? Are you all right?”

Tom Craig didn’t answer the anxious words, just waved his hand weakly towards his chest. Craig moved quickly to his side, recognising the signs. “Are you having chest pain?” Mirella turned instantly from her cooking and rushed across the kitchen, a look of fear on her face. His father nodded and Craig pulled out his mobile, dialling 999 and nodding Lucia to calm their mother down.

“Hello, emergency? I think my father’s having a heart attack. The address is 300, My Lady’s Mile, Holywood… Yes, yes. OK.”

Craig dropped the phone and whipped into the bathroom, searching for his father’s nitrate spray. It wasn’t there! He ran back to the kitchen and his father indicated his jacket. Craig searched it urgently, finding the spray and squirting it twice under his tongue. His colour heightened slightly and his breathing slowed to normal, just as the ambulance arrived to take him to St Marys’.

All thoughts of food were forgotten as they readied their mother for the trip. Then they followed the sirens signalling Tom Craig’s journey, into the world where his son had just spent his week.

Chapter Eighteen

2am.

Saturday morning started earlier than planned for Craig. He sipped a vending machine coffee, and stared exhausted through the window of the cardiac unit. Where the man he loved most in the world lay attached to machines blinking his vital rhythms. Tom Craig opened his eyes slowly, sensing his son’s gaze. He beckoned him in with a single weak finger.

Craig cast a look back at the waiting room, where Lucia sat with her arm around their mother, and smiled at them both reassuringly. Then he pushed open the door and entered his father’s room.

Tom Craig went to remove his oxygen mask and Craig stilled his thin hand with his own. He sat down, holding his father’s hand in his, and started to speak reassuringly.

“You’re OK, Dad.”

His father opened his mouth to talk and Craig shook his head, restarting.

“The doctor said it was severe angina, not a heart attack.” His father nodded, looking suddenly old. Craig stared at him, wondering when he’d aged. He’d always seemed so invincible.

“It was a godsend, Dad. A warning of what will happen if you don’t get treatment.” Craig gazed directly into his eyes to make sure that he was taking him seriously. “They say that the arteries in your heart might be narrowed. They want to check tomorrow by injecting dye.”

Tom Craig nodded, understanding. “If they are, then they’re going to widen them. It’s called angioplasty - they do it all the time. You’ll be home in a few days.”

His father gave a small smile and Craig knew that the scientist in him was admiring the medical advance.

Craig stood up. “I’ll explain to Mum and then bring her in for a minute. Then I’ll take her and Lucia home. I’ll come back in an hour. They’re putting up a bed in here for me.”

His father shook his head weakly and Craig smiled, nodding his own in return. Then he brought in his mother and made the arrangements, temporarily becoming head of the family.

***

Julia brushed her hair hard then threw the brush on the floor, sinking her face into her hands and starting to cry. Oh God, why was life so hard? Was it this hard for everyone?