The Sixth Estate (The Craig Crime Series) (2 page)

“He’s covering. The usual northwest guy’s off ski-ing.”

Liam snorted. “Nice for some. The rest of us have nappies to buy.”

“If you will keep having babies…”

Craig brought them briskly back to the case. “OK, so Ms Ross arrived at eight-thirty to find the house empty.” He scanned the file, selecting the highlights. “The family are rich. Home is a thousand acre estate called Rocksbury. Oliver Bwye made millions in the newspaper world; he owned The Belfast Chronicle from 1985 until 2012. Now he mostly manages his assets and chairs committees.”

Liam pictured the committees’ members; the great and not so good.

“Ms Ross worked as Bwye’s P.A. at the paper for six years and when he retired he took her with him-”

Liam cut in. “So she knows the wife and daughter as well?”

Craig nodded and kept reading. “Diana Bwye is well liked locally; she’s involved with the church and does a lot of charity work. The daughter, Jane, sounds like a typical spoilt rich kid. Too many shoes and far too much time to get bored.”

His tone said that Jane Bwye had been up to no good.

“What did her boredom lead to?”

“Minor stuff. One caution for cannabis, a few call-outs to noisy parties. There was a speeding fine last year as well. Nothing more than that.”

“Yet.”

Liam gazed out at the Lagan prompting Craig to ask a question.

“What are you thinking?”

The D.C.I. answered without breaking his gaze. “I’m trying to work out how many people would want to kidnap the Bwyes for their money, and how many because The Chronicle printed something to piss them off.”

“We don’t know it’s a kidnapping yet. There’s been no ransom demand.”

But he was right; The Belfast Chronicle was an unscrupulous rag. Their potential suspect pool could be enormous. Liam hadn’t finished.

“Any sign of bodies?”

Craig shook his head. “None. They’ve had search teams scouring a one mile perimeter for days, plus the local patrols keeping their eyes peeled.”

Liam shook his head grimly; the chances of a happy ending were slim. “What does Gerry think?”

Gerry Shaw was the long suffering detective sergeant who’d had to deal with Julia McNulty’s moods throughout the years. He’d dealt with them adeptly; it wasn’t for nothing that Liam had christened him Gerry the Peacemaker when he’d trained him as a young P.C. But along with Gerry’s charm went a cynical view of the world, so Craig’s answer didn’t surprise Liam at all.

“I spoke to him last night. He thinks they’re all dead, says it would take a miracle for them not to be. But we can’t go there, not until we find the bodies.” Craig paused. “We don’t have to work this. We could just advise the locals from here.”

Liam heard the reticence in his voice and wondered what it was about. They weren’t busy. They hadn’t had a case since a domestic killing two weeks earlier and that had been open and shut; the husband had answered the door to them with the knife still in his hand. The next surge in murder would be at Christmas, when happy family gatherings became major bust-ups and people started killing each other over the turkey and mistletoe. They had at least a week free, so why wasn’t Craig more excited about the case? Even seeing Julia wouldn’t be enough to put him off such a juicy one.

He was right. The real reason Craig couldn’t get excited was the same reason he’d been shouting at everyone for weeks. Caleb Pitt, the eighty-four-year-old serial killer that he’d shot and killed in October. It had been a clean shoot to save both their lives, but it had been gnawing at Craig’s gut since and pretty soon it was going to eat its way through.

Craig made up him mind, silencing his uncertainty in a heavy tone.

“OK. We’ll take it. Give me an hour to clear it with the Chief Constable and then we’ll leave. Meanwhile, tell Gerry to widen the search to two miles in every direction, and see if Mike has put a name on the blood.”

As he walked to the lift, Liam shook his head. Craig should be getting help about Pitt’s shooting, not taking on another case. He’d feel bad too if he’d shot an old man, but years of death during The Troubles had hardened his heart; plus he had a lot less fire in his belly than Craig. Fire and post-traumatic stress was a combustible mix. He just hoped that he wasn’t around when it finally blew.

C
hapter Two

Derry City. Sunday, 14th December. 11 a.m.

Derry-stroke-Londonderry was known colloquially as ‘Stroke City’. A local radio host, Gerry Anderson, had espoused the term years earlier and it had stuck. Although since the city had won the UK City of Culture award in 2013, Legenderry was used almost as frequently now. Derry or Londonderry, in theory your choice depended upon which side of the political divide you hailed from; in reality human beings were lazy so the shorter option was usually used.

Derry had been the capital of the northwest since the sixth century and was the
only completely walled city in the British Isles. It was a pretty place; full of easy charm and surrounded by beautiful countryside, and as they drove swiftly through the streets on the way to its frost tinged hinterland, Craig smiled at the small metropolis’ warmth, even on a winter’s day.

People in Derry nodded to strangers as if they were friends, which, of course, they then became. He tried to picture the same thing happening in Belfast but it didn’t scan somehow. Belfast was a cool Victorian lady, keeping her distance and scrutinising each new occupant to see if they deserved to be there. By contrast Derry had a happy urchin feel that had nothing to do with status or age.

Liam flicked through the radio channels in Craig’s Audi until he hit on one playing music that he liked. The Dubliners, an Irish folk band that hailed from exactly where it said on the tin. He tapped the dashboard in time as he thought about their case.

“Going traditional, Liam?”

“I have family outside Dublin. They farm in Fingal. We used to visit as kids; climbing trees and the rest. It was great craic.”

Craig pictured the rapidly growing Liam clambering to the top of a tree. He wondered at what age his height had made it an unnecessary trip.

“Andy’s meeting us at the house.”

Liam smiled. Andy White was a favourite of his. He hailed from Dungiven, just twenty miles down the road, and he’d been trying to get a job back there for years, transferring from Belfast to Portstewart en route.

“You requested him, didn’t you?”

Craig nodded. “The more cases he does here the more likely he’ll get a transfer home if one comes up. Besides, he’ll cheer everybody up and this case looks like it could do with it.”

As he ended his sentence he pulled over to check the GPS and then gazed around them.

“Apparently we’re here.”

They scanned their surroundings. They were on a narrow side road with no houses, just a low gate through a hedge on one side and the vague sense of someone’s presence other than theirs.

“Where’s the house?”

Liam pointed to the gate. “Must be up there. I’ll nip out and take a look.”

As he pushed through the gate, Craig checked the map. All it showed was a series of fields and the ruins of an old farm. A moment later Liam raced back, rubbing his hands together in the cold. He leapt in, gesturing Craig to crank up the heater and holding his blueing hands to the warm air vent.

“It would skin a fairy out there.”

“Wear gloves then.” Not that he ever did. “Did you see a house?”

“Nope. But there are blue lights in the distance so we’re obviously in the right place.”

A minute later he was proved right. A mile up the lane the track became a clearing that hosted the most unusual house that Craig had ever seen. Instead of the stone farmhouses and Georgian mansions common in the local countryside, a modern building rose in front of them, four storeys high. Its stone foundations proclaimed its origins as old, but every other surface, including the roof, was glass. Solar panels to be exact, with only the barest amount of pale wood in between to prevent their collapse. As Craig perused the structure admiringly, Liam gazed at it, confused.

“What’s your problem?”

He didn’t reply, just clambered out of the car and walked through the crime scene tape waving his badge. As he pressed his face against the mansion’s glass wall, attempting to peer inside, Craig introduced himself to the senior uniform, smiling as he realised what was perturbing Liam so much.

“It’s smart-glass. They can change the opacity.”

Liam screwed up his face. “How does that work?”

Before Craig could explain, a man with a Dungiven accent did it for him.

“Science. We’re wild clever up here, hey.”

Liam recognised the conversational quirk of saying ‘hey’ at the end of almost every sentence and swung round, smiling as he was greeted by the blue-eyed, blue-shirted Andy White. Andy’s blue shirt had been a constant feature since his wife had mentioned how it matched his eyes; the possible romantic benefits were too potent to ignore.

“Ach, it’s the boul Andy. How’s it going?”

“Far better before you got here, Cullen. Look at the state of that window; you’ve left fingerprints all over it!”

“You can clean it when you’re doing your weekend round.”

Craig let the banter run for a moment before returning to the case.

“Is Inspector McNulty here?”

Andy shook his head. “Teflon’s got her chasing some burglary suspect. She asked me to fill you in.”

Teflon. Non-stick. The nickname explained the behaviour and could belong to only one man on the force; Craig’s erstwhile boss and opponent, the political and extremely slippery D.C.S. Terry Harrison. It was the first time Harrison had darkened their doorstep since Craig’s promotion the year before and Harrison’s subsequent transfer to Limavady. It would be interesting to see how he coped now that Craig was a superintendent as well.

“I suppose he’s giving her hell about these disappearances?”

Andy made a face that said it all, then he rubbed his hands eagerly.

“Now. What do you need to know?”

Craig nodded at the glass, not trusting himself to find the front door. “Can we go inside?” He gestured towards a stone building they’d passed coming up the track. “If this is the Bwyes’ house what’s that?”

“Staff quarters. Some people, like the cook, live in.”

It figured with such a large estate. Andy led the way through what looked like a wall but turned out to be a door that retracted automatically as he approached.

Liam snorted. “I bet that was handy for the kidnappers.”

“It’s coded. We disabled the lock so that we could work.”

He led the way through the hall into a room that occupied almost the whole ground floor. It was warm and bright, with control panels that worked everything from the heat and lighting, through to the TV and burglar alarm. Craig had never seen anything like it.

“Mrs Bwye is a real ecologist; a recycling geek. Everything in the house works on solar power.”

Liam guffawed. “At least we know Friends of the Earth didn’t kill them.”

Craig gazed at their surroundings, frowning. The file said there’d been blood all over the floor, so where was it? Andy read his mind.

“This way. They re-modelled the old Georgian house so the only original bit is old man Bwye’s study. It looks like that’s where the family was taken from.”

He unlocked a door into a room where none of the walls were glass and all of the furnishings were decidedly male.

“Oliver Bwye’s study.”

“This is where the P.A. found the blood and signs of intrusion?”

Andy nodded.

“Anything missing?”

“Not so far as she could tell.”

“Was the room locked when she arrived?”

“No. But she said that wasn’t unusual at eight-thirty in the morning. Bwye would normally have been in here by then and he usually only locked it when he wasn’t inside.”

“Usually? Find out what the exceptions were, please.”

Andy nodded and as Liam skirted the room, searching for the best vantage point, Craig stared at the blood streaks on the floor. What was visible was bad enough but he knew that Luminol would reveal far more.

They perused the scene for a moment; Andy with the calm gaze that said he’d seen it earlier and Liam with a frown and paces towards the window that said he was marking out the space. Craig stood quietly, peering occasionally at the edge of the desk and bloodied rear door, where finger shaped stains showed that at least one member of the Bwye family had desperately tried to halt their egress. Finally he broke the silence.

“Where does that door lead?”

“The fields behind the house. I can open it if you like?”

Craig shook his head. “Later. I need to see the crime scene photos, and ask a C.S.I. to bring the lamp to show us the true extent of the blood.”

His second request was fulfilled first and even the battle hardened Liam gasped as the lights dimmed and glowing blue stains completely covered the floor. Not just the floor; the desk, wainscoted walls and door leading to the fields were all covered with blood. Smears, splatters and thicker, heavier clots. Droplets that had fallen vertically and spray that indicated an arterial cut; at least one of their victims had been close to death when they’d left the house.

Craig pointed towards a small window and the C.S.I. obediently shone the lamp at the sill. There was no mistaking the imprints there; two hands gripping frantically in resistance as their attackers had dragged them away.

“They look like a woman’s prints.”

The C.S.I. nodded. “The wife or daughter; we’re running them now. The ones on the back door are male, size -wise.”

Craig signalled his thanks and turned on the overhead light, shrinking the visible blood back to a manageable amount. He motioned the others to join him in the main room.

“There was no blood in here?”

Andy shook his head. “None apparently. Julia thinks that whoever took them gathered everyone in the study, then they left by the back door.”

“They threatened them, or injured one to make the others capitulate…”

Liam cut in. “Probably brought a weapon with them, boss. The women would have caved quickly, but unless they’d had a weapon Bwye might have fought back.”

“Judging by the prints on the door, he fought anyway.” Craig had a sudden thought. “Did Oliver Bwye keep a weapon?”

Andy nodded. “There’s a point 22 rifle registered to him; Ruger. He cited rabbit shooting but he probably kept it for protection; they’re pretty remote out here.”

Craig tensed. “Where is it? If Bwye had had one he’d have tried to fire it. So either the perps took it or it’s still in the study somewhere.”

Andy went to shake his head, then he thought again and dashed through the automatic door to a uniformed sergeant outside. It looked to Liam like he was going to head butt the glass wall.

After a muttered exchange, Andy returned. “Nothing found in the grounds, but the gun cabinet was open when they arrived.”

“Good.”

Liam waited for Craig to explain; a missing rifle didn’t seem good to him. Craig gestured towards a low settee and everyone sat.

“OK. We have an uber modern house, yet Oliver Bwye’s study is as old fashioned as a vicarage. The downstairs is completely open, no locks anywhere, yet he has two on his doors, front and back. I don’t doubt if we dig deeper we’ll find a safe and other things hidden in there. Liam, get the uniforms onto that. Check with the C.S.I.s, and when they’ve finished tear the place apart. I want every panel of wainscot off those walls and every floorboard up. Andy, I want to know if the gun cabinet was opened with a key or jemmied, and if there was any blood or prints on it. Julia can interview Bernadette Ross––”

Andy cut in. “She’s already done it.”

“Then get a fresh pair of eyes. See what Annette can get from her.”

Liam interrupted. “What are you thinking? And what was that ‘good’ about earlier?”

Craig shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. Let’s just see what we find.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll check in with the office then I’m off to Limavady to see Julia. Liam, you’re with me. Andy, make a start and we’ll be back in an hour.”

As they made to leave, Andy shot them a pathetic look. Craig nodded.

“Don’t worry. We’ll pick up lunch on the way back.”

****

Docklands. 11.30 a.m.

Nicky Morris brushed down her vintage seventies dress and scanned the open-plan squad-room, smiling happily. It was only ten days till Christmas and it was lovely and quiet; just how she liked things at this time of year. She didn’t even mind that they had to work on a Sunday; they were on-call all week and once Craig had taken a case they all knew what to expect.

The P.A. strolled over to their young analyst, Davy Walsh’s, desk, peering nosily at the image on his computer screen. It was a picture of the night sky, with blue, yellow and silver lights sprinkled prettily against the dense black. Just then Davy loped across the floor, carrying a plastic cup from the vending machine.

She gestured at the drink. “If you’d wanted a coffee I’d have made you one.”

He smiled and edged his slim shape past her into his chair.

“I wanted hot chocolate. It’s Christmas.”