The Visitor (#3 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (30 page)

Craig drove away from the house, looking around Owenville Park. It was a world of flowers and trees; its quietness whispering money. No one would ever know what was happening behind those elegant front doors.

***

By the time Craig arrived at the station Tommy had been picked up again and cautioned. But he wasn’t talking. He was still pissed off about the Beth fiasco, and even angrier that his whole crew had been lifted, so he stonewalled Craig. His burly, crew-cutted solicitor was equally uncooperative.

“Either charge my client with something or release him, Detective Chief Inspector. You have nothing on him, and you know it. This is verging on the harassment of a grieving father.”

“Please don’t exaggerate, Mr Toner. You know we can hold your client for twenty-four hours, and we have more than sufficient grounds. Mr Hill assaulted and threatened Mr Murdock in front of witnesses on an open ward. He was caught following him on Saturday night, and he has plenty of motives to cause him harm. Plus, his known associates were caught tailing other members of the Maternity Unit’s staff. Not to mention the failed abduction attempt on Ms Walker. So Mr Hill is going nowhere.”

Tommy shrugged and lounged back in his chair.

“D.C. Karl Rimmins of the Drugs Squad is outside waiting for a word as well. So you’ll be here for quite a while, Mr Hill. I suggest that you co-operate.”

“Suggest what you like, Craig. I’ve all the time in the world. I’ve no-one to rush home to, now have I? I didn’t touch that slime-ball Murdock, but good luck to whoever has done for him - I’ll buy them a drink.” He waved his arm at the room.

“All this is nothin’ but you pissin’ in the wind, an’ you know it. You’re just tryin’ to show your boss what a busy wee boy you are. Now fuck away off an’ get me a coffee.”

He lifted a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and tapped one out. He was just reaching for his lighter when Craig tore them from his hand in one clean, hard movement, fighting the urge to rip him and them apart. His voice sounded cold, even to him. “I told you once before, Mr Hill. There’s no smoking in here.”

“Fuck you.”

Craig handed the cigarettes to the constable and left the room quickly, before he did something he would regret. He could hear Hill’s thuggish solicitor calming his client, immediately angry with himself for reacting to the obvious wind-up.

He stood in the corridor for a moment, rubbing his eyes and knowing that Hill was right. They could hold him but they couldn’t make him talk, their only hope was finding Murdock.

Karl wouldn’t do much except rattle his cage a bit. The Drug Squad was working on a much bigger bust on the Demesne and they wouldn’t blow it for a small fish like Tommy. But where the hell was Nigel Murdock?

***

9pm.

There was no way of knowing which day it was, but Murdock knew from the dark and cold that it was late evening. His hands and feet felt numb and he shivered violently through his light wool suit. The dust and blood in his mouth made a dry combination. Even swallowing his own saliva didn’t help. So he spat it out in front of him, trying hard to turn his face out of the mix. His whole body felt like one giant hangover, without the joy of having earned it.

He tried to look up and then realised that his wrists and ankles were tied behind his back, limiting his movement. They were roped together in the mid-line - he was trussed like a beached turtle. The only movement possible was a laboured rocking motion, each arc thrusting his face further into broken gravel and dust.

Why was this happening to him? He tried to think of who hated him enough to do this. Probably too many; he was a pragmatist. He cleared his throat several times and tried to shout, the dry sound that emerged only half its usual volume.

“Is anyone here? Can you help me? Please, please help me.” The words echoed back to him once for company, then there was silence.

There was something familiar above him, just out of his line of sight. He chased the image hard, but he couldn’t place it. He didn’t even know how he’d got here, wherever here was. There was just a dull memory of being hit...in his office. Yes, on Sunday night.

Was this still Sunday night? Hunger answered and told him it was unlikely. Monday then? Murdock speculated for a long time, until the deepening darkness told him that it was the wee small hours.

The darkness shifted suddenly, and a sixth sense made him realise he was no longer alone. Fear overwhelmed him, spreading through his mind and then onwards to his heart, speeding and strengthening its pulse. He struggled pitifully against his restraints, tightening them with every twist. Then something sharp pressed through the light cloth of his pinstripe, and a stinging pain seared through his left thigh, shocking him into high alert. He had a few second’s thought that some bugger was ruining his expensive suit, and then it suddenly ceased to be important.

The rope’s tension increased quickly, his back arching upwards as his legs fell, suddenly relaxed. The rocking it produced pushed his slumped head forward, into his own spit, and the gravel tore at his skin, new grazes streaking fast and bloody across his cheeks. He couldn’t move, every sinew frozen, but he could
feel everything that happened next.

The Visitor gazed down at Nigel Murdock, brimming with disgust. He was revolting, this...thing. His skin crawled, repulsed by the need to be in his presence. To have to touch him. This man with so much power and arrogance, who took risks with other people’s lives. Not from any drive to help them, no, never that mitigation. Risks from his own avarice, his own egotistical needs.

He had to act. The father should have exposed them for the greater good, but instead he was driven by his own petty vengeance. And once again no one would understand.

The police were no better. They would only hunt for the woman’s killer, missing her unimportance and letting the truly guilty walk free. He’d tried for months to make them see. Now, once again, it was left to him to seek justice. It was always left to him. And that meant being in the presence of this disgusting thing.

And yet, through the revulsion there was some small enjoyment. Some anticipation, now that the thing was helpless, this man’s all too frequent view of others. Such power without compassion, it was almost sexual.

The Visitor’s pulses throbbed and quickened with confusion at the thoughts. Punishing the guilty was a duty, but could it also be a source of joy? Yes, yes. So many months of expectation, so many foretastes, all gathering now in his throat. Spewing forward, until he roared at Nigel Murdock, roared at the sky, roared with righteousness.

The plan had been cool patience and restraint. Public justice through the father. But that hope had gone now, replaced by fevered need and a sharp surgical approach. Surgical justice, it seemed fitting. The scalpel was smooth, one metal sliver from handle to blade, a special gift to himself. Theatre gloves and speed without pleasure were still the plan, but indulgent lust welled up in him and flooded past it. There would be no gloves, no control, and no speed. Just pleasure and desire.

Heat spread through his groin and need overwhelmed him, allowing a frenzied personal gift to be taken urgently. The release of hot seeping blood was almost orgasmic. Ahhhh...there now...there now. Some faint control returned with the release, just as the thing’s eyes opened, in time to watch his bare flesh yield to the blade. Cutting through the pale lax skin, the corpulent fat, then forcing, forcing, forcing down. Into the muscles, scything through, with all resistance gone.

Nigel Murdock stared up wretchedly into his killer’s wild, cold eyes, recognising them, and their intent. He couldn’t speak, his thick, drugged lips failing him. And for a moment he remembered other pairs of eyes, past eyes, looking up at him,
pleading and begging when their loved ones died.

He’d been deaf to them then. He’d wielded power and walked away unfeeling. He couldn’t feel their pain and he hadn’t even tried. He didn’t understand remorse. He’d tried to mimic his peers, but no feeling ever came for the vulnerable. But now
he
felt fear and hurt and pain. So much of it, but still only for himself...

The blood flowed out, warm, clear and metallic, over the man’s large hands, etching out each joint and ridge and pore. He smiled at the colour, washing his hands in it, rubbing it in like cream. Inhaling the sharp scent and holding it up to the light like a prism. Until it washed away some of his own dull pain, and the life of the thing at his feet finally ceased its ebb and flow.

All gone. Punished guilt. Blissful peace now for a while. Sitting with the creature, smiling at the dead thing, pleased by the work. Time sliding gently past. Until the next one...

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Visitor’s anger was still there. It was always there. No matter how just the kill, there was no peace from it. It would always be there, until the whole task was done.

***

Tuesday morning started far too early for everyone. Craig had called another eight o’clock briefing and everyone was groggy, except for him. He seemed to have found new energy from somewhere.

“Here boss, I’ll have whatever you’re on.”

“No sleep and anger – still want it?”

Annette handed round the coffees. And everyone gave their drowsy updates between mouthfuls of Danish pastry, looking like a middle-aged ‘Breakfast Club’.

Craig updated them on Evie’s cause of death, alerting them to look for possible martial arts links. The spark with the record, Michael Randle,
was
the one who’d been in Evie’s room with Greenwood. Liam was tasked to dig a bit deeper on his background. The C.S.I.s hadn’t found anything out-of-place at either of Murdock’s homes. And neither Murdock’s wife nor girlfriend had heard from him since Sunday.

Both were being comforted. The wife totally ignorant of the girlfriend’s existence, and the girlfriend defensive as hell. Craig understood. It couldn’t be easy knowing what people were thinking about you, especially when you’d have to meet them all in court. But she obviously loved Murdock. ‘I plead guilty to poor taste in men, M’Lord.’

The trawl of Murdock’s usual haunts had produced nothing. The Irish police had checked his cottage in Wicklow, but it was empty. Just another part of his investment portfolio.

There was nothing new since the night before so Craig closed the meeting quickly. Everyone had plenty to do. Liam had McAllister and Greenwood’s girlfriend scheduled for interview at High Street, and Craig had Harrison’s press conference later. They all took one message away from the room. ‘Find Nigel Murdock... fast’.

***

High Street station was scheduled for a quiet Tuesday. So when Liam arrived at nine o’clock, raring to go, it provided Jack Harris with a welcome diversion. And a chance for some sorely missed craic.

The station could be a bit boring at times. With it being beside the Passport Office people often confused the two, so some days they dealt with nothing but tourists, shouting questions in broken English. Jack had offered to sell street-maps as a side-line, but for some reason the Chief Constable had taken a dim view of that idea. So instead they offered rooms to the C.C.U. for interviews, and Craig’s investigations provided them with some rare excitement.

Liam loped in and pressed the desk buzzer, deliberately ignoring the two people sitting on the bench. There’d be time enough for them in a minute and he didn’t want to be too friendly. Especially to Charles McAllister. Liam was sure that he’d lied to them already. Jack opened the door cheerfully, grinning at his old classmate.

“Well, well, Inspector Cullen. You honour us with your presence, sir.”

“Ach, away on with you.” He glanced behind him towards the kitchen.

“Where’s the tea then? I’ve a fair thirst on me, and it’ll be a long morning.”

“Come on, on, in.”

Sandi had tea and biscuits already laid out and she headed back to her paperwork quickly. They’d be cracking on about the ‘good old days’ for ages, and the Antiques Roadshow bored her. She gave them ten minutes for banter and then interrupted.

“Sir - would you like Ms Murphy or Mr McAllister first? Mr McAllister’s solicitor’s just arrived.”

“Solicitor. That’s interesting - he didn’t say he was bringing one.”

Liam nodded to himself. He should have guessed that a C.E.O. wouldn’t come near a police station without legal advice. It didn’t matter. He’d dealt with bigger fish than McAllister. And he’d have to answer their questions, unless he wanted them digging even further into his life.

“In that case, Sandi, I’ll take Ms Murphy first. Give me five more minutes to consult with my esteemed colleague here, and then take her through.”

“Esteemed now, am I? Does that mean you’ll finally give me that twenty quid you owe me?”

She left them to their craic, closing the door in case reception’s occupants heard them laughing. It wouldn’t do to ruin the police’s image of gravitas entirely.

Moya Murphy was already in the interview room when Liam entered. She’d reversed the wooden chair and was leaning forward over its back, fiddling with the ends of her long brown hair. She glanced up indifferently as he sat down, looking like the picture of bohemian boredom, trapped by the fascist police state. Liam was certain he’d seen her at a few protest marches.